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�r-»
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�blese the men this night at sea.”
“SHIP AHOY!
A Yarn in Thirty-six Cable Lengths.
BEING THE
NNUÄL
HRISTMÄS
OF
Once
a
Wee k.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE,
19, TAVISTOCK STREET,
COVENT GARDEN.
1873[All rights reserved.}
�liimM
LONDON:
SWEETING AND CO., PRINTERS,
80, gray's inn road.
�FIRST CABLE
LENGTH.
HOW THE “MERRY MAY
CAME IN.
“ Now, my sons, all toge
ther!”
“ Yo-ho!—hoy-y!”
“ Now another!”
“ Yo-ho!—a-hoy-y!”
“Now all together, my
lads!”
“Ahoy!—hoy! hoy! —
yer-hup! ”
“Now a good one!”
“ Y oy-hoy!—yer-hup!—
hoop!”
“ Another pull, my sons! ”
“ Hoy!—yoho!—yo-ho!
—hup!”
“Well pulled. Now your
song.”
“Ho! haulyyo! hoy-y!
Cheerly, men, ho !—yo-hoy-y!”
Pull, stamp, and haul together, and
the good ship, the Merry May, work
ing into dock, with her foretopmast
gone at the cross-trees, her maintop
�4
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
gallant badly sprung, a splice in her
spanker-boom, and her sides battered
' and denuded of paint. Two boats swept
away, and a big piece of her bulwarks
patched up in a sorry fashion after that
great wave pooped her, and cut its way
out of the port side as though the bul
warks had been made of bandbox.
Worse than all, too, there is about as
strange a makeshift of a rudder as was
ever seen; for, after a fair voyage from
Colombo, in rounding the Cape the sea
rose, and the wind blew what old Basalt
called a “snorer,” and he swore a dozen
times—pooh! a thousand times in oaths,
but a dozen times in his assertion-—that
the May would go to the bottom.
But she did not; for Captain John
Anderson knew his duty as well as any
sailor in the merchant service, and fought
the storm like a good man and true—■
beat it like a Briton, when a score of
other men would have given up, and
gone down on their knees in despair,
and prayed to God to save them.
“Like a set of lubbers!” said old
Basalt when telling the story at the
Jolly Sailors afterwards, over a glass of
Mrs. Gurnett’s best rum and water.
“ But there, Lord bless you! I taught
the boy to make his first knot—I made
a sailor of him; and a sailor he is, every
inch, God bless him!”
Here old Jeremiah Basalt wiped either
a tear or a drop of rum and water out
of his eye.
“Sink? Not she. We was knocking
about for a fortnight, and he never once
left the deck. Sails were blown outer
the bolt ropes, bulwarks swept away,
boats went, and the fellows was ready
to give up; but d’ye think he would ?
Not he. Why, bless yer, he’s that much
of a true Briton, that if Davy Jones his
self was to come and say to him, ‘ You’re
dead, now, as a copper fastener,’ he
wouldn’t believe him. Not he. He
says to me, just about the worst of it,
when it was blowing the greatest guns
as ever did blow, ‘Jerry,’ he says, ‘I
undertook to sail this here ship for Mr.
Halley,’ he says ; ‘and she’s got a cargo
in her of tea and silks as is worth a hun
[Christmas, 1873.
dred thousand pound,’ he says ; ‘ and I
mean to run her safe into London Dock
afore I’ve done.’
“He roared them there words—a bit
shorter, you know—into my ear as we
was holding on to the spokes of the
wheel, just in the werry worst on it;
for, bless you, he wouldn’t trust no one
else then. Drenched we was to the
skin, and puffing to get a breath now
and then—with the wind shrieking in
your ears, and the sea spitting in your
face, and cutting your very eyes out.
‘No, Jerry,’ he says, ‘while I’ve breath
in my body,’ he says, ‘I’ll never give
up.’ And then—bang!”
“What?” said Mrs. Gurnett, breath
lessly, as, in his excitement, old Basalt
swept his half drunk glass of grog on to
the floor.
“What? Why — bang!” cried old
Basalt, again bringing his fist down
upon the table with a blow that made
every glass in the snug bar parlour ring
again. “Bang! Mrs. Gurnett, bang!
The wheel spun round, and sent the
cap’n to leeward and me to windward,
half stunned, under the bulwarks; and
when we come to again, we found the
rudder swep’ away, and the poor old
ship wallering in the trough o’ the sea,
like a blown porpus in a tideway.
“ Ship seas ? Ah, we did ship seas ;
and anybody else ’ud a gone quietly to
the bottom ’cep John Anderson my Jo ;
and if he didn’t rig up a rudder out of
a boom, and work it with ropes and
blocks, and get her afore the wind again,
why I ain’t here without a drop o’ rum
and water to wet my throat, dry with all
this talking.”
But to go back to .the dock. There
was the good ship Merry May in sore
plight as to her outward appearance ;
but tight, and free from water. Her
whole cargo was safe, and in port; her
captain proud, and talking to his owner,
as the men, under old Basalt’s orders,
cheered, and hauled, and helped the
dock men till the vessel was through the
great flood-gates, and being warped in
amongst the tier of shipping in the inner
basin.
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873 ]
An hour after, the riggers were Oil
board, and up aloft, unbending sails;
while John Anderson was shaking hands
with Mr. Halley, a florid old gentle
man, at the gangway.
“ At one o’clock, then, to-morrow,
Anderson, at Canonbury. Lunch and
a glass of wine. And God bless you,
my boy, and thank you!”
"Don't say any more, sir, pray.”
“ But I must say more, Anderson,”
said the owner. “I don’t believe there’s
another captain who would have brought
her into port; and no insurance would
JSecond
have ever recompensed me for her loss.
Good-bye—God bless you!”
“ And you too, sir. Good-bye.”
“ At one to-morrow,” from the wharf.
“ At one to-morrow, sir,” from the
gangway.
Mr. Halley passed out of the dock
gates, and took a cab to his offices in
Shipping-street; and Captain John An
derson, aged twenty-nine, fair, sunburnt,
grey-eyed, and frankly handsome, went
home like a good son, as she said he
was, to think of some one else, and to
kiss his mother.
J3able
J^ENGTH.
HOW MRS. ANDERSON TALKED TO HER
you can
imagi ne
Mary, Queen
of Scots, at
the age of
seventy-two,
and wearing
a black silk
dress, you
have before
you Mrs.
A n d e r son,
standing
with her
c r o ss-handled stick in
one hand,
while with
the other she
caresses the crisp, brown, Saxon curls of
her son’s hair. Her fair old face stands
out from her stiffly starched ruff-like
collar and crimped cap. Her grey hair
is suitably arranged over her temples,
and every feature seems to speak and
say—“ This is my son! ”
It is a quaint old room where they
are; well furnished, but there is a nau
tical smack about it. You can even
smell the sea—the odour being fur
nished by some bunches of bladder
l’
5
SON.
wrack hanging from the nail that sup
ports the painting of “The Flying
Betsy barque passing the Nab Light”—
a finely executed work of art, wherein
you have every sail set, a series of
dots along the deck to represent cap
tain and crew, and the foaming billows
rising foam-capped with a regularity that suggests their all having been
formed in the same mould. Over the
chimney-piece hangs the portrait of the
late Captain Anderson père, who ap
pears to have run a good deal to fat.
Beneath it is suspended his spy-glass,
bearing upon its long tube the flags of
all nations. There are cabinets of
walnut, too, with curiosities from all
parts. A chest from China, a screen
from Japan, some New Zealand wad
dies, and bird skins and feathers from
the Cape—collections commenced by
the father and continued by the son.
“So, you’re going up to Mr. Halley’s,
John, are you?”
“Yes, to lunch, mother.”
“ I don’t think you ought to go, John
—the first day you’re home with your
poor old mother.”
“ But it’s business, dear—I could not
refuse,” said Anderson, gently, as he
passed his arm round the slight old
figure, and kissed the handsome old face.
�6
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“May be,’* said the old lady, enjoy
ing the embrace, but evidently only
half satisfied.
“ I’ll soon be back to you,” said the
son, smiling; “ they won’t want me
there long.”
“I don’t know, John, I don’t know.
I should not so much mind you going,
but Mr. Halley has a daughter.”
“Yes, of course he has,” said John
Anderson, starting, and with the blood
mounting to his forehead.
“ And I do not want her to be lay
ing traps for my boy.”
“Why, you dear old goose,” cried
John, laughing outright, “what a fine
fellow this son of yours is, isn’t he?”
The old lady bridled up, and knitted
her brows.
“Do you think it would be safe
for either of the Queen’s unmarried
daughters to see me?” laughed John.
“ They might have marriageable ideas.”
“They might do worse, John,” said
the old lady, stiffly, but stroking his hair
the while.
“Why, my dear old darling,” said
John, huskily, as he drew her down
upon his sturdy knee, and laid his fore
head against her shoulder, “ do you for
a moment think it possible that a rich
shipowner’s daughter could ever lower
herself to look with the eyes of favour
upon a poor ignorant merchant sailor,
who has only one idea in his head, and
that is the working of a ship?”
“ If you don’t wish to break your poor
old mother’s heart, John, say no more,”
said the old lady, sobbing angrily. “As
if there was a nobler, a finer, a hand
somer, a cleverer man anywhere in the
whole world than—”
“Phew—w—w—w! ” whistled Captain
Anderson, softly, as he drew the frail
old figure closer to him, and kissed the
wrinkled forehead reverently, saying to
himself—
“Thank God for making mothers!”
And then aloud—“ There, there, dear,
when I am about to sail a fresh ship and
want a character, I’ll send the owners
to you.”
“ Such nonsense,. John ! As if it were
[Christmas, 1873.
ever likely you would want a better
ship than the Merry May'' „
“Well spoke, Mrs. Anderson—-well
spoke,” said Jeremiah Basalt, entering
the room with two sways and a lurch;
“as if it was likely that the captain
would ever want to sail any other ship.
No, indeed. By the mark seven, as we
say, Master Halley knows good biscuit
when he sees it, and it’ll be a long
time afore he parts company with our
cap’.”
“ Mr. Basalt, will you take a glass of
strong waters?” said Mrs. Anderson,
primly, but all the same looking graj
ciously at the rough old salt.
“Thanky, Mrs. Anderson, I will,!
said Basalt. “Alius water when you
has a chance, and then your casks won’t
run dry.”
The old lady trudged softly across
the room to a corner cupboard; then
after searching amongst the folds of her
stiff silk dress she found a pocket-hole,
into which she plunged her arm almost
to the elbow and brought out a great
pincushion, then a housewife, next a
bodkin case, a piece of orris root, a pen
knife, and lastly, though not by any
means the bottom of her cargo, a shin
ing bunch of keys—one and all rubbed
bright and worn with many years of
friction. Selecting one key, she opened
the quaint cupboard and lifted out a
curious old leather-covered case, which
her son hastened to take from her hands
and place upon the table, while she
smiled her thanks, and then brought out
two old-fashioned glasses, in the stems
of which were quaint opal-lined spirals.
Then another key had to be brought
into requisition to open the case, from
which three square bottles were drawn.
“Your poor father’s own case, John,”
said the old lady, as she took out a
stopper and filled one of the glasses for
old Basalt. “ Hollands, Mr. Basalt,
that he brought himself from Flushing,
twenty years ago.”
“Is it really?” said the old mate,
holding up the greeny fluid to the light,
and squinting through the glass before
smelling it. “Took a good fire to ’stil
�Christmas, 1873.]
»SHIP AHOY!”
it, anyhow. Why, you can sniff the
smoke now.”
» Taste it, Mr. Basalt—taste it, and
drink my John’s health.”
• “ God bless him! that I will,” cried
the old fellow, rising glass in one hand
to slap his other into his captain’s open
palm, and shake it heartily. “John
Anderson, God bless you!”
The grasp was as heartily returned;
and then, shutting one eye, Jeremiah
Basalt poured the glass of Hollands
down his throat; and, grog-hardened
even as he was, gave a slight gasp
as he put down the glass, and turning
to Mrs. Anderson, said solemnly—
“Lor! I wish I’d been a Dutchman.”
Mrs. Anderson smiled graciously, and
held out her hand to take the emptied
glass and refill it, a movement half
resented in a sham bashful manner by
the old man, who pretended to draw
back the glass; but all the same drew it
softly to him as soon as it was refilled,
to take a sniff at its contents, and then
exhale a long breath, after the fashion
of a connoisseur learned in the bouquet
of wines.
John Anderson drained his glass,
filled for him by the old lady, who
even then could not resist the tempta
tion to have another stroke at her son’s
hair. The next minute he rose, saying—
“ I am going up to Mr. Halley’s now,
Basalt, and will come down to the docks
afterwards.”
“ Not much good your coming there,”
grumbled the old man. “The ship’s
mucked up with lubbers, and will be till
we get her loaded again; and the sooner
the better, say I. Mrs. Anderson, my
service to you, I drink your very good
health this time.”
And he poured the second glass of
Hollands down his throat, such is the
force of education, without so much as
a wink.
The next minute, he and his captain
were standing side by side in the
street.
».No news about the ship, I suppose ?”
said Anderson, more for the sake of con
versation than anything else.
7
»No,”said the mate, »only, as I said,
she’s full of lubbers—lubbers up aloft,
lubbers down below, lubbers hanging
over her sides, and lubbers on the wharf
taking her cargo.”
»Wait a bit—wait a bit,” said Ander
son, smiling, » and we’ll be off again to
sea.”
» Sooner the better,” said Basalt ; » for
if I stay ashore long, I shall never get
away at all. I shall be married and
done for, as sure as a gun.”
» Stuff!” said Anderson, laughing, and
holding out his hand to shake the mate’s
and part.
“ Stop a bit,” said Basalt ; » there’s
news of one of Rutherby’s ships.”
, »Good?”
» Damn bad !”
“ Not lost ?”
» Gone to the bottom of the sea—‘ the
sea, the sea, and she’s gone to the
bottom of the sea,’ as the old song
says.”
»Bad job that, Basalt.”
» Not it,” growled the old fellow.
» Heav’ly insured—rotten old hulk—
sent out apurpose. Halfthemen drowned,
and the owner turns his eyes up like
a gull in thunder, wipes the corners,
and then rubs his hands and goes to
church. There’s lots o’ them games
carried on, and owners makes fortunes
out of it. They say Rutherby’s does,
Langford and Co.’s does, and some more
of’em.”
» Basalt,” said Anderson, flushing up,
and speaking hotly, »you’re a prejudiced
old humbug. Do you mean to say that
in your heart you believe a shipowner
would be such a cold-blooded, hellish
scoundrel as to send a crew to sea in a
vessel that he knew to be unsafe, and
that he had heavily insured ?”
»Yes I do—swear to it!” said the
old fellow, stoutly.
“ It’s all confounded rubbish ! ” was the
reply. » Why, a demon would think
twice before he did such a thing. Why,
it’s rank murder.”
“To be sure it is,” said the old fellow.
» Why, I’ve known it done over and over
again. I could show you the men who
�8
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
[Christmas, 1873.
have done it, and made money by it. I demons. So put that in your next quid,
don’t say as their crews was always my boy.’i
Here the old fellow went growling
drowned; but they were sometimes. As
to demons, and them sort of chaps, I off, and Captain Anderson made his
never know’d one as was in the shipping way to the corner by the Bank, to get a
trade, and don’t know whether they Canonbury ’bus, muttering to himself
make good shippers; but I’ll tell you as he went—
“ As good an old fellow as ever
this, and swear to it too, my lad, I’ve
known shippers, and have sailed for ’em, stepped, but as prejudiced and obstinate
as would have made out-an’-out good as a wooden mule.”
J" HIRD
IIOW JOHN
ANDERSON
ANONBURY
is not fashion
able, but it is
comfo rtable.
The old red
brick houses
look snug
and prosper
ous. There is
an air of
wealth about the dis
trict, and oldf a s h i o n ed
ease. The
red walls
indicate
warmth; and
once beyond
them and
their coating
of ivy and
over-shadowing trees, you expect to
find solid furniture, good plate, and fine
linen.
You are quite right in your expecta
tions—they are all there; and as to ve
neering, it is not known in the older
parts. There are cellars to the houses
in Canonbury: none of your West-end
cellars, under the pavement, with an
iron disc in the centre for the admission
of coals, but rare old cellars of a hun
dred years and more, with fine fungous
MADE
LOVE.
growths amongst the brickwork, and a
glorious smell of damp sawdust. Tlat!
you know in a moment that there are
bins there with rare dry natural sherry
that has been lying for years, and rich,
tawny old port next door, whose bees
wing breeds glorious fancies in the mind
of him who sips it over the dark, glossy
mahogany of its owner. And that is
not all, for here and there, too, in Ca
nonbury are bins of that rare, priceless
old wine, of glistening topaz hue, rich
Madeira, treasured up as a store that
can never be replenished.
Your citizens have long favoured Ca
nonbury as a convenient abode; and
those who have never cared to migrate
westward cling to the old place still, to
look down with solid respectability upon
the new, semi-detached villa people, who
have hemmed them in on every side,
but have still left Canonbury in statu
quo.
It was at a quarter to one'that Cap
tain John Anderson, with his cheek
flushed and heart palpitating, pulled at
the bell by the old iron gateway of
Brunswick House—that great, red-brick,
ivy-covered mansion that faces you as
you go down from Upper-street towards
the Tower.
He had meant to ring gently; but
the bell sent forth a clamorous peal
which brought a formal-looking foot
man in drab to the door, where he stood
�Chris®®®, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY ! ”
for a moment, and then condescended
to come down to the iron gate.
“ Why didn’t you come in—the gate
was open ?*’ said the footman, looking
his visitor over superciliously—for Sa
muel had a most profound contempt
for Shipping-street, and the bluff, hand
some captain savoured to him of the
shop.
But Captain Anderson was distrait;
and merely saying, “Tell your master
I’m here,” passed on into the hall, from
whence he was shown into the drawing
room, where, as the door closed behind
him, he stood with palpitating heart—
trembling and nerveless, and with a
stifling sensation at his throat in the
presence of his fate.
You don’t believe it, perhaps, you !
Maybe you are not strong, and big, and
sturdy, and desperately in love with a
sweet-faced, loveable girl, in the first
flush of her beauty. You do not be
lieve, perhaps, in a huge Hercules be
coming slave to a beautiful Omphale ?
I am sorry for you: I do; and, what is
more, I have history on my side, with
hundreds of cases where the strong are
really the weak. It is a pity, but all
the same it is so; and the bigger, and
stronger, and more muscular you are,
the greater shall be your thraldom when
you are led captive by some such a fair
maiden as was May Halley.
Shall I try to paint her ? I will,
though I have but white paper and
black ink. No; upon second thoughts,
I will not, lest I fail; and therefore let
me say that, without the aid of classic
features, she was all that could be de
sired in a sweet English maiden, whose
eyes were grey, cheeks peachy, forehead
white, and who upon occasion could
flash up into a very Juno.
As Captain Anderson was announced,
he became aware of the fact that a tall,
fair young man was in the act of bid
ding a lady good-bye, and bending with
great empressement over her hand.
Then it seemed that the door was closed,
and that the room was all clouds; and
he, John Anderson, below them on earth,
and May Halley above them in heaven.
9
Then she spoke—words simple and
commonplace, but sufficient to thrill
him through and through.
“ I am glad to see you safely back,
Captain Anderson., Take a seat. Papa
will be disengaged very soon.”
John Anderson did not make any re
sponse, but stood, hat in hand, gazing
at the fair girl before him till she flushed
scarlet, and half turned away with re
sentment in her bright eyes.
He could not have spoken then to
have saved his life, for a great struggle
was going on within him. For a few
moments the room seemed to spin
round, and he saw Mary Halley through
a fiery mist; then two red anger spots
began to burn on his cheeks; a dull,
dead, aching sense of pain fell upon his
heart; and he stood with his hands
clenching till the great veins stood out,
swollen and knotted, while the dew
stood upon his forehead in big drops.
For John Anderson had awakened to
the fact that the idol he had worshipped
now for years, without ever thinking of
speaking of his love, was also the idol
of another. He had seen that tall, fair
young man—smooth, gentlemanly, with
the world’s own polish, fashionable of
exterior—bending over May’s hand,
and saying words that must have been
of a complimentary nature; for she
had smiled pleasantly as she bade him
adieu.
Yes, and he had taken that hand in his
—his, such a soft, white, well-cared-for
hand; while the hand J ohn Anderson
clenched, till the nails pressed savagely
into his flesh, was brown, hardened, and
rugged with toil. There was a great
tar mark, too, that had refused to be
washed off; and as for a moment the
young man’s eyes fell, it was to see that
black stain there.
That black mark! It was a brand
of his toil-spent life; and he shivered
as he thought of the house of cards he
had been rearing—dreaming, as he had
been, of May in the long watches of
many a night in the far-off seas, when
he had leaned over the bulwarks think
ing of home, and the fair girl whom he
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
*
had seen at each turn, growing more
and more in a beautiful woman.
Yes, he knew it all now: that he had
been dreaming; that he was but a
rough, coarse sailor, fit only to battle
with the sea; while this fair pearl was
to be worn upon the heart of a polished
gallant, and——John Anderson started, for May Hal
ley was standing before him with out
stretched hand.
“ I am very glad to see you back,”
she said.
In a moment John Anderson had the
soft little hand between both his, and in
another he would have raised it to his
lips, but the thought of what he had
witnessed came at that instant like a
chill; and, dropping her hand, he half
staggered back, and sank into a chair.
“CaptainAnderson!—is anything the
matter ? Are you unwell ? Shall I ring
for a glass of wine?” exclaimed May,
in tones full of concern, every word
thrilling the strong man’s heart, and
making every fibre vibrate.
“Yes—yes!” he exclaimed, half be
side himself, as he caught her hand in
his—■“ there is much the matter. I—I
—there—I must speak—I am half mad,
May—darling, I know I am but a rough
sailor—but—since a child—loved you
—Oh! for God’s sake, don’t turn away
from me! Tell me—tell me that I am
not right—that you do not love that—
that man I saw here ! I—”
He stopped, for May stood before
him with reddened cheek and flashing
eye. He heard but three words, but
they burned into his brain as she turned
away—
“ How dare you! ”
The next moment she was sobbing
in her father’s arms, for Mr. Halley had
entered unperceived with the visitor of
a short time before.
“What does all this mean ?”
“ Oh, papa,” sobbed the girl, “ Cap
tain Anderson has insulted me!”
[Christmas, 1873.
“A confounded cad!” exclaimed the
young man, facing Anderson, and laying
his hand upon his collar, as if to turn
him out of the room; but the next in
stant-—it was like a flash more than
anything else—he was lying on the
carpet, having crushed in his fall a frail,
spider-legged table, and carried with
him a vase of flowers, which pleasantly
ornamented his white visage as he lay.
The next minute John Anderson was
hurrying down the street on his way
back to town, seeing nothing, hearing
nothing, only feeling that he was mad—that he had acted like a madman—that
he had, in one wild moment, demolished
the idol that had been his sole thought
for years, and that now life was one
great burden, and the sooner he was
away again at sea the better.
“At sea!”
He said those two words aloud, and
stopped short so suddenly that he was
rudely jostled by a passer-by.
At sea! Why, after what had passed
this morning, he would lose the com
mand of the Merry May. Mr. Halley
would never allow the presumptuous
man who had insulted his daughter with
his impertinent pretensions to sail his
ship; and he would be without a com
mand !
It was horrible to think of; but the
thought would come, and John Ander
son gave a groan as he called himself a
maniac, and staggered along, feeling
that he had lost his love, his ship, selfesteem, and the confidence of his em
ployer. And all for what?
All for love: the love of as sweet a
woman as ever was made to give hap
piness to sinful, erring man.
“Yes,” said John Anderson, “I have
lost all. And all for what? All for
love! What shall I do now?”
He stood again for a moment or two
thinking; and then, with a half-mocking, half-tearful smile, he said, simply—
“ I’ll go home.”
»1«
Bg------- ----------------------------------------------------
�Christmas, 1873.]
«SHIP AHOY!
11
HOW JEREMIAH BASALT WENT TO SEE THE WIDOW.
NEVER
drinks but
one glass
of grog a
day at
sea,” said
old Basalt
—“ n eve r
but one,
Mrs. Gurnett. For
w h y ?
’Cause
there’s
dooty to
be done,
and may
be a watch
to keep;
and if your sooperior officers takes more
than’s good for them, what’s to be ex
pected of your men ? But now I’m
ashore, with nothing to do but amuse
myself, I don’t care if I do take
another.”
“And it’s welcome you are here to as
many as you like, and when you like, Mr.
Basalt,” said Mrs. Gurnett, rising with
alacrity from her side of the fire in her
snug bar to mix a fresh glass of steam
ing compound for her visitor, who took
it with a grunt of satisfaction and silently
drank the donor’s health before setting
the glass down, smoking slowly and
thoughtfully at his pipe as he stared at
the glowing fire and the bright black
bars.
A quarter of an hour passed, during
which Mrs. Gurnett, who was pleasant
and comely in spite of her fifty years,
knitted away at a pair of thick grey
worsted stockings; and then Jeremiah
Basalt spoke, saying, in a surly voice—
“I know I am!”
Mrs. Gurnett, landlady of the com
fortable old hostelry known as the Jolly
Sailors, gave a start.
“Know you are what, Mr. Basalt?”
“Know as I’m welcome, and have
been this ten year, or else I shouldn’t
come.”
Mrs. Gurnett sighed, drew at the grey
worsted ball far down in her pocket,
changed one of her knitting pins, and
began a fresh row.
“Who’s them for?” said Basalt, point
ing at the stocking with the stem of his
pipe.
“ I was thinking of asking you to
accept them before you go on your next
voyage, Mr. Basalt—that is, if you are
going to sea again.”
There was another pause, of quite ten
minutes’ duration, before Basalt again
spoke.
“What should I do ashore?”
“ I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Mrs.
Gurnett; “only it seems to me very
dangerous going to sea, and you are not
so young as you used to be, Mr. Basalt.
We none of us are.”
“Pooh!” said Basalt. “Fifty-seven
—nobbut a boy yet. And as to danger,
why, it’s a deal safer at sea than it is
here, I do know that. Why, if I was
to give up the sea, what ’ud become of
me? I should always be hanging about
here, and then you’d get tired of me.”
Mrs. Gurnett sighed, and continued
her knitting.
“You’re a good soul, though, and I
like you, Mrs. Gurnett, better than any
other woman I ever see in my life; and
if I was a marrying man, instead of
a chock of old salt junk, soaked and
hardened, and good for nowt but to
knock about aboard ship, I’m blessed if
I don’t think I should say to you some
fine day, ‘ Mrs. Gurnett, will you have
me?”’
Mrs. Gurnett sighed again, and looked
more attentively at her knitting, whilf
�12
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
Basalt smoked himself into the centre
of a cloud.
“ I think I’d make ’em a little more
slack in the leg this time,” he said at
last. “ Them others was so tight that
they opened in the back seams, and you
can’t werry well caulk when you’re out
at sea.”
“ You have very fine legs, Mr. Basalt,”
remarked Mrs. Gurnett, glancing at
her visitor’s lower extremities approv
ingly, as she gave another tug at her
worsted.
“ They do right enough,” said the old
fellow, disparagingly; “ and as long as
they keep me going I’m satisfied. But
what do you think of our cap’s choice
—speaking as a woman, now?”
“I did not know that he had made a
choice,” said Mrs. Gurnett, indifferently;
for the conversation was taking a turn
in which she felt no interest.
“He has, though,” said Basalt; “and
as nice a little craft as a man would wish
to own—clean run, pretty counter, all
taut alow and aloft, and I should say
as good a lass as the ship we sail in, and
as bears her name.”
Mrs. Gurnett dropped her knitting,
and gazed in her visitor’s face.
“You don’t mean to say—
“Don’t I? but I just do; and what is
there surprising in that? Here’s Cap.
John Anderson, as smart a sailor and
as handsome a young fellow as ever
stepped, and here’s Miss May Halley, as
pretty a gal; and if they wouldn’t make
a nice pair to consort together, and sail
these here stormy seas o’ life in com
pany, why tell me.”
Here old Basalt took a hasty sip of
his grog, and stooped to pick up the
knitting, which had glided to the floor,
as Mrs. Gurnett sat dreamily smoothing
one of her pleasant old cheeks with her
knitting needle.
“That’s dropping stitches wholesale
and for export,” said Basalt, with a grim
smile, as he laid the work upon its
owner’s lap; but the remark drew forth
no response, only Mrs. Gurnett said, in
a low, sad tone—
“ Dear—dear—dear—dear—dear!”
[Christmas, 1873.
“What’s dear, dear?” said Basalt,
gruffly.
“ Oh, Mr. Basalt, I’m very, very, very
sorry to hear all this.”
“What, about the cap?”
“Yes, very grieved indeed.”
“Gammon!” said the old sailor.
“Why, he loves the very ground she
walks on; thinks about her all day and
all night too. Many’s the time he’s
walked the deck with me in a dark
watch and talked about that gal—wdien
she was a gal, you know, of ten and
twelve and fourteen; but since she’s
been growed a woman, ‘No,’ says he to
hisself—I know just as plain as if he’d
told me—‘she’s too good and beautiful
to be talked about to a rough old sailor.’
For true love’s a thing to be kep’ snug
in the locker of yer heart like a precious
jewel. Look here, Betsy—”
Mrs. Gurney started; for Jeremiah
Basalt, in all the years she had known
him, had never before addressed her by
her Christian name.
“ Look here, Betsy,” he said, drawing
his chair closer, so that he could lay
one great horny paw upon the hostess’s
plump white hand.
“ Don’t, Mr. Basalt,” she said, with a
sob, “the customers might see you.”
“Blame the customers!” said Basalt,
sturdily; “what is it to them if I like to
speak out my mind like a man? Look
here, my lass, I’m rough but I’m ready;
and I aint known you fifteen year come
this Christmas without knowing as I’d
got a heart in my buzzum. ‘That’s a
good woman, Jerry,’ I’ve said to myself
hundreds o’ times, ‘and if ever you
marries, marry she, if she’ll have you.’
‘ I will,’ I says, ‘ I’ll ask her some day.’
But I aint going to be such a brute to
a woman as to ask her to have me, and
then keep going away to sea.’ There,
swab up those tears, my lass,” he con
tinued, for the great drops were chasing
one another down Mrs. Gurnett’s cheeks.
“‘No,’ I says, ‘I aint a-going to be
such a brute to a woman as I loves, as
to be always a-leaving her; and I aint
a-going to be such a brute to myself—as
is a man for whom I has a great respect
��14
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
—as to have to be leaving her. No. My
’pinion is that when you tie yourself
tight to a woman, you oughtn’t to be
parting the strands. ‘No,’ I says, ‘’taint
time yet, but there’s the port you hope
to reach, Jerry;’ and to reach that port
I’ve got eight ’undred and twenty
seven pun’ sixteen and sixpence saved
up, and it’s all safe in a pair o’ them
stockings as you knitted for me, my lass,
one put inside the other so as to be
strong. And I says to myself, I says,
‘There, Jerry Basalt, there’s your cap’n
as loves true, and there’s you as loves
true; and when he asks she to have he,
and she marries he, why you shall go
and empty that there pair o’ stockings
in Betsy Gurnett’s lap, and you says to
her, says you, My lass, you says, I brings
this here, not as you cares a ball o’ spun
yarn about money, but just so as no
spiteful ’longshore-going warmint should
say as Jerry Basalt wanted to marry
you for the sake of the snug business
and the few pounds as your master—
God rest him!—left you when he give in
the number of his mess; and then you
says, says you—-’ ”
“Oh, Mr. Basalt, Mr. Basalt!” cried
the hostess, clapping her apron to her
eyes, and sobbing loudly, as she rocked
herself to and fro, “then it won’t never
—never be ; for Miss May’s promised
to be married to somebody else.”
. “ Stow that! ” cried the old fellow,
excitedly, as he started from his chair,
and then stood looking down at the
weeping woman.
“ Don’t come no
woman’s games with a poor fellow as is
as innocent as a babby of all ’longshore
things, and has spoke out his mind free
and handsome.”
“ Oh, Mr. Basalt, I wouldn’t deceive
you for the world,” said Mrs. Gurnett,
turning up her wet eyes to look full in
his.
“That you wouldn’t,” he cried, taking
her hand in both his, and sawing it up
and down. “You’re deep water right
away, and there aint a rock or a shoal
in you from top to bottom, I’ll swear;
but I’m took aback, my lass, as much for
John Anderson’s sake as I am for my
[Christmas, 1B73.
own. Avast there a minute, and let me
give a look out ahead.”
He walked to the red-curtained win
dow, and stood looking out for a few
moments, as if into the stormy night;
but really into the dark, empty parlour
of the Jolly Sailors. Then he came
back to speak seriously, as he stood with
one hand resting on the table.
“It looks squally,” he said—“very
squally, my lass. And,” he continued,
giving a tug at his collar, “ it seems to
me weather as may be the wrecking of
a fine handsome teak-built, ship, A I at
Lloyd’s, and called the John Anderson
my Jo; and likewise of a weather-beaten
old craft that meant to come well into
port, and her name—his name I mean”
he added, correcting himself—“his
name I won’t say nothing about. But,
anyhow, you know the bearings of the
coast better than I do, so heave ahead.
I’ll have another glass the whiles, for
I’m for all the world as if I’d shipped a
heavy sea.”
“ I’ve known Miss May from a baby,
and nursed her when I was in Mr. HaL
ley’s service,” said Mrs. Gurnett. “ It
was from the old house in Canonbury
there that James Gurnett married me—
being coachman, and having saved a
little money.”
“ I think I remember,” said Basalt,
huskily.
“ And it’s been going on now some
time,”continued Mrs. Gurnett. “There’s
a gentleman there constant now, and he
wants Miss May, and they tell me at
the house that she has him there to see
her; and they do say that he has some
hold on poor old master, which I won’t
believe, for he’s too rich and too highspirited to be trampled on by any one.
Anyhow, he’s in the shipping trade, and
partner in a big house; and I do think
that they are to be married soon.”
Jeremiah Basalt filled his pipe slowly,
evidently thinking hard the while; then,
although there were splints in a holder
upon the chimney-piece, he stooped
down, picked a glowing cinder from be
tween the bottom' bars with his casehardened finger and thumb, and laid it
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, if? 73.]
upon the pipe bowl, and then sat suck
ing at it for a few minutes before
he spoke—Mrs. Gurnett now sitting
drying her eyes and smoothing her
hair.
“ It ’ll about break that poor chap’s
’art,” said Basalt, at last.
Mrs. Gurnett sighed, and then there
was another pause. Then Basalt
said—
“What’s the gent’s name?”
“ Merritt—Mr. Philip Merritt.”
“ Never heard it afore,” said Basalt,
gruffly; “and I wish as I hadn’t heard
it now. He’s got a Co., I s’pose—
HOW THE
WIDOW
RS. GUR
NETT was
sitting quite
alone, with
her eyes still
red, and at
times swimming with
moisture,
though no
tears now es
caped to roll
down her
cheeks. She
had resumed
her knitting
— that is to
say, she had
taken it up
—and had
drawn more
and more
grey worsted from the great ball which
revolved in her pocket; but the work
did not progress. She had drawn the
leg out to see how wide it was, and sighed
heavily; she had counted the stitches,
and made up her mind to increase them
in the coming rows; she had stabbed
the stocking through and through with
i5
all shippers has—Merritt and Co., I
s’pose—blame ’em!”
“ No,” said Mrs. Gurnett, “he belongs
to a big house, and his name don’t ap
pear. I think he’s a Co. himself, instead
of having one; for the name up is Rutherby and Co.”
“The devil!”
Jeremiah Basalt let fall the glass he
was about to raise to his lips, and it was
smashed to atoms upon the white hearth
stone. Then he started to his feet, for
the outer door opened quickly, and a
well-known voice said at the bar—“ Is Mr. Basalt here?”
WAS
IN
TROUBLE.
her knitting needle, as if it were an old
charm to win its future wearer’s love;—
but still the work did not progress. She
had to lay it down too frequently to
wait on customers, who spoke- about
the weather, and to give change to Tom
the potboy, who was busily attending
upon a part of the crew of the Merry
May, sitting in the tap-room enjoy
ing themselves; and again she sighed
heavily, for as the tap-room door opened
there came the sound of a jovial voice
trolling out the words of 011S of the
finest of our old sea songs, and the tears
gathered again as she heard—
“And three times round went our gallant ship,
And three times round” went she.”
%
Then the door closed, and Mrs Gur
nett sighed again. The next minute
she gave quite a sob; for the door was
once more opened, and the same voice
trolled out, in the peculiar, half-mourn
ful tones of the old song—
“And she sank to the bottom of the sea, the
sea, the sea,
And she sank to the bottom of the sea.”
Then she held her breath as the cho
rus came rolling through the house,
lustily sung by a dozen voices—
�i6
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ While the raging seas did roar, and the
stormy winds did blow,
And we jolly sailor boys were up, up, up
aloft;
And the land lubbers lying down below, below,
below,
And the land lubbers lying down below.”
Poor Mrs. Gurnett heard not the rat
tling of pots and glasses upon the table,
nor the stamping of feet upon the floor;
for she had crossed softly to a corner
cupboard of old oak, upon whose top
were three goodly china punchbowls,
and within various glasses, ladles,
spoons, and sugar stirrers. But resting
upon the feet of the reversed glasses
were two books.
She took out one, the thicker of the
two, and it opened naturally at one
well-thumbed place; and then, taking
out a pair of spectacles, Mrs. Gurnett
did not put them on, but held them up
reversed to her eyes, and read softly,
but inan audible tone—
"And there came down a storm of
wind on the lake; and they were filled
with water, and were in jeopardy;
“And they came to him, and awoke
him, saying Master, Master, we perish.
Then he arose, and rebuked the wind
and the raging of the water; and they
ceased, and there was a calm.
"And he said unto them, Where is
your faith?”
Here Mrs. Gurnett closed the Book,
and, reverently replacing it, took up the
other; and it too fell open at another
well-thumbed place, where, if you had
been looking over her shoulder, you
might have read the words— .
“ Form of prayer to be used at sea.”
From this, too, she stood reading for
a time, and then replaced it, closing
the door softly, just as a hasty step
sounded on the passage floor, and a
voice said—
“ Mrs. Gurnett.”
It was only the postman; but Mrs.
Gurnett had so few correspondents that
a letter was a novelty; and she held it
for a few minutes, wondering who might
be the sender.
Then she sat down with it still un
opened, but lying upon the table before
[Christmas, 1873.
her; as she this time'took out her spec
tacles, carefully wiped them, and put
them on, wondering now what business
had brought Captain Anderson to her
house for Jeremiah Basalt, and whether
the latter had told him about May
Halley.
“ I suppose I am very foolish-—at my
time of life, too; but I suppose it comes
natural to a woman to want to have
something—somebody, I mean—to cling
to; and I’ve been all alone for a many,
many years now.
“Heigho!” she sighed again as she
looked dreamily before her over the
table. “ He’s a very good man, though;
and if I wasn’t so old I’d say I loved
him very dearly.
“Poor Captain Anderson!” she sighed
soon after. “ Such a proper man, too,
and so brave! It must be the salt in
the water that makes them so, for there’s
no men anywhere like sailors. But even
they aint perfect; but, poor fellows,
who would grudge them a glass when
they get ashore ?
“ Heigho! I wish people wouldn’t
write letters to me,” she said at last, tak
ing up her missive. “ Why, it must be
from Miss May.”
She turned it over again, and held
the neat, ladylike direction up to the
light.
Then a customer came in, and she
started, hoping it might be old Basalt
come back; but no, he was with John
Anderson; so she returned to the
light, opened the envelope, and ex
claimed—
“ Why, God bless the child, it is from
Miss May!”
Then she read the few lines slowly:
“My dear Nurse—-I’m in great
trouble. Come and see your poor little
girl to-morrow afternoon, when I shall
be alone. I have plenty of friends, but
no mother, and no one to whom I care
to turn more than to the kind old nurse
who so often kissed me as a child.—
Yours very affectionately,
“ May Halley.”
Mrs. Gurnett was very easily moved
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873.]
to tears that night, and her handker
chief grew rather moist with frequent
usage.
“ I knew she wouldn’t forget me,
17
though it’s little indeed I’ve seen of her
of late. And she grown such a bright,
handsome young lady. I wish it was
to-morrow.
pXTH
HOW JOHN
ANDERSON
WANT to have
a few words
with you, Ba
salt,” said John
Anderson, as
he entered Mrs.
Gurnett’s bar;
and evidently,
to use his own
words, “ taken
aback,” the old
mate left his
seat, broke his
pipe as he tried
to set it up on
end in the cor
ner, took his
old tarpaulin
hat and set it
on wrong way,
had quite a struggle to get into his pea
jacket, and lurched about as if his pota
tions had been too strong for him. But
this was not the case, for Jeremiah Ba
salt was as sober as a judge; and at last
he turned, gave a solemn nod to Mrs.
Gurnett, and walked out with his cap
tain.
The streets were wet and muddy, and
glistened in the light which streamed
from window and gas-lamp. It was
getting late now, and wayfarers were
few, so that the streets they passed
through they had pretty well to them
selves. It did not seem as if they were
going to any particular place, for in utter
silence John Anderson led, or rather
indicated, the way, as they passed from
street to street, sometimes crossing, some
times almost returning on their track.
SOLD
HIMSELF.
It was nothing, though, to Basalt.
The captain wanted him, and here he
was. He might have wanted his help
in keeping a watch ashore—in fact
it seemed so, when at last the aimless
tramping over the pavement had ended
in a short walk up and down beneath a
lamp-post, in a very quiet street.
They must have paced up and down
for quite half an hour in silence; for,
knowing what he did, Basalt would
hardly have spoken first to save his
life. It was very evident that his young
captain was in trouble, and he respected
it.
“ When he wants my advice he’ll ask
for it,” said Basalt to himself. “ Poor
chap, he’s found it out, safe! And now
what’s it all coming to?”
At last John Anderson stopped short
beneath the lamp-post, and said, hoarsely,
“ Basalt, J’ve given up my ship.
There, no—stop: I won’t be a humbug.
Jerry, I’ve tost my ship.”
“Lost be blessed,” said Basalt; “why
she’s safe in dock! But you said you’d
give her up. Don’t do that, my lad—
don’t do that. If it’s a bit of a tiff with
Master Halley, wink at it; don’t give
up a fine craft like the May for the
sake of a few hard words. Just think
of what we’ve done in her!—off the
Cape, you know; and when we ran
side by side with that man-o’-war that
thought she could overhaul us. Oh,
Master John, don’t give up the May'.'
“She’s given me up, Jerry,” said
Captain Anderson, bitterly. “ Look
here, if you care to read it. Here is
Mr. Halley’s dismissal.”
“Good Lord!” ejaculated Basalt,
�>
•
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
leaning against the lamp-post, and
staring at the paper his captain held in
his hand, but without attempting to read
it.
“I thought I’d see you, and tell you;
for I may not see much more of you, old
fellow, before I start.”
“Now, just look here, my lad. You’re
nobbut a boy to me, so I say ‘my lad,’
though you are my captain. I’m as
thick to-night as a Deal haze; so if you
want to make me understand, just
speak out, and then perhaps we can
get on.”
“Well, Basalt,” said John Anderson,
smiling, “ I’ve got in disgrace with Mr.
Halley, and am no longer in his ser
vice.”
The old man uttered a low, soft
whistle.
“ It’s a bad job, and I’m sorry to give
up so fine a ship; but there she is, and
some one else will command her. As
for me, I wanted to be off again some
where at once, and----- ■”
“Why, we’ve only just got back.”
“True,” said Anderson; “but all the
same I can’t stop; so I’ve lost no time,
but made an engagement with another
firm, and am off next week.”
“ Where ? ”
“China.”
“All right! It’s all the same to me.”
“ What do you mean ? ”
“ Why, what I say—it’s all the same
to me.”
“ But you have received no dismissal,
Basalt.”
“ Oh, yes. Took it myself.”
“ What do you mean ? ”
“ BGW do I mean? Why, after sail
ing together all these years, do you
think that I’m going to let you go afloat
like a helpless babby, without me to
take care of you ? No, my lad. I taught
you first to make a running bowline,
and to coil down a rope, and made you
box the compass afore you was fourteen
years old; and if you think I’m going to
leave you now, why, you’re mistaken,
that’s all.”
“ But, really, Basalt, I can’t think of
letting you give up for such reasons.”
--------------- i------------------------------------------------- .------- -
[Christmas, 1S73.
“ I’m ashore now, and won’t take no
notice of what you say; so I tell you this,
that as long as I sail the sea it shall be
in your wake, and if you won’t have me
as mate, I’ll go afore the mast along
with the lads, who’ll ship with you, every
man Jack of ’em.”
John Anderson, bitter and reckless an
hour before, was now too much moved to
speak; and after a few final attempts
to dismiss his old friend, he wrung his
hand tightly, and they walked on again
in silence.
“Good craft?” said Basalt at last, to
break the silence.
“ I’ve not seen her,” was the reply.
“What size?”
“ Thousand tons.”
“ And you want men ? ”
“ Badly.”
“ They shall come—every man Jack
of’em. But when’s she down to sail?”
“ Wednesday next.”
“We’ll be aboard, never fear,” said
Basalt, with a chuckle, which he instantly
suppressed, lest he should seem gay
while his captain was steeped in trouble.
“ But look here. What’s the name of
the ship?”
“ Victrix—lying in the south basin,
East India Dock.”
“Good!” said Basalt. “Owners?”
“ Rutherby and Co.”
“Who?” cried Basalt, hoarsely.
“ Rutherby and Co.”
“My God!”
John Anderson stood and gazed at
his companion’s chapfallen aspect for a
few moments; then, thinking he had
divined the reason for Basalt’s looks, he
said—“ There, you can draw back from your
promise. You are thinking of the bad
character they have had for coffin ships;
but, believe me, Basalt, I honestly think
these tales are a cruel libel on a firm of
gentlemen. No man would be such a
cowardly, cruel scoundrel as to risk the
lives of his sailors by sending them to
sea in an ill-found ship. Here’s proof
that I don’t believe it.”
“’Taint that,” said Basalt, hoarsely.
“What is it, then? I’ve told you
�«SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873.]
that you are free to stay, glad as I
Should have been to have you. Stick
to the dear old—stick to the May, and
keep the men. They won’t want to go
to sea again till they’ve spent all their
coin. Good night, Basalt—come and
see me off.”
“ ’Taint that,” said Basalt, more
'huskily still.
“What is it, then?” said Anderson,
bitterly.
“ God help me,” groaned the old man
to himself. “ Shall I tell him, or sha’n’t
I tell him? It’s cruel to tell him, and
it’s cruel to let him go wi’out. Here,
don’t go yet-—stop a moment.”
“Good night, old fellow,” said John
Anderson, moving off.
“ I will tell him—it’s like murder not
to, and him half broken-hearted. Here,
just a moment. You must give up that
ship.”
19
“ Jerry Basalt,” said Anderson, “you
must give up going to the Jolly Sailors.
There, shake hands; good night."
“ I’m drunk, am I? P’raps I am; but
it’s with hard words and dizzy thoughts
—not with strong waters. There, I •
must tell you. John, my boy, I’ve
looked upon you as a son all these
years, and this news, put to what I know,
’most swamps me. You must give up
this ship, come what may.”
“ When I’ve signed and promised to
sail?” said Anderson, mockingly.
“ Yes, my lad, even if you was aboard
with your pilot, and the tow-boat casting
off to leave you free.”
“And why?” asked Anderson, half
startled at the other’s solemn earnest
ness.
“ Because, my boy,” cried Basalt,
gripping him tightly by the arm, “you’ve
been and sold yourself to the Devil!”
EYENTH
HOW MR. LONGDALE GAVE PHILIP MERRITT A HINT.
T was about ten
o’clock the next
morning that John
Anderson, closely
followed by Jere
miah Basalt,
walked slowly
down Shipping
street, and turning
up one of the nar
row courts, entered
the offices of Rutherby and Co.
They stood first
waiting in the outer
office, whose walls
were decorated
with coloured en
gravings of various
clipper ships in full
sail, and with cards
bearing the names
of vessels about to
journey half round the world. There,
too, were Shipping Gazettes, telegrams
of inward and outward bound craft, at
one and all of which Jeremiah Basalt
looked with a sidewise, supercilious
scrutiny.
At last the pair were shown in to Mr.
Longdale, one of the partners, who re
ceived them with a most bland smile,
and then discoursed with Anderson
upon business matters connected with
the ship, upon the wish of Basalt to join
■as second mate, and the necessity for an
early start.
“And so you think you can bring
ten or a dozen men, do you?” said Mr.
Longdale, looking at Basalt “with a
smile like a shark”—so the old man
expressed it afterwards.
“ Can’t say yet, sir,” replied Basalt.
“ I aint seen the ship. I’m going my
self—’cause why? my old captain’s
going. That’s quite enough for me;
but it won’t be enough for the men.”
�20
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Pooh—pooh! my dear sir, the men
are too dense — too animal to care
much about what ship they go in. It’s
all a matter of sentiment with the poor
fellows. Tell them a ship’s a bad one
—ill-found, and not a man will go in
her; tell them the ship’s a lucky one,
and all that could be wished for, or alter
her name, and they go in her like a
flock of sheep through a gap. Eh?
You made some remark?”
“ I said the more fools they,” said
Basalt, gruffly.
“Just so—exactly,” said Mr. Long
dale, smiling again. “ So, of course, you
must treat them accordingly. Get a
dozen men if you can; and you can
speak from authority when I tell you
our ships are famous for their qualities.
We never spare for anything in expense.
You’ll find the Victrix a perfect clipper
in every respect, A i, and a ship that
you may be proud of; well-found,
gentlemen, in everything.”
“ Glad to hear it,” said Basalt, gruffly
as ever.
“ Exactly. I knew you would be. So
now, gentlemen, you will take a run
down to the basin, and have a look at
her—see how matters are going on, you
know, and hurry everything possible, so
as to be off. Good morning, Captain
Anderson. Good morning, Mr. Basalt.”
Anderson had said but little, wearing
a dull, stunned aspect, save when he was
spoken to, when his face lit up for a few
moments, but only to subside again into
its heavy, listless expression. But as he
passed into the outer office his whole ap
pearance changed—his eyes flashed, his
nostrils dilated, and he seemed to grow
taller, as he stopped short, one foot ad
vanced and hands clenching; for at that
moment a fashionably dressed young
man alighted from a cab, and stepped
daintily into the office, holding an aro
matic cigar between two of the fingers
of his light kid-gloved hand.
In his turn, he started and turned pale
as he confronted Anderson, his eyelids
lowered till they were half closed, and
slightly turning his head away, he looked
swiftly at the young sailor, while a
[Christmas, 1873-
bitter, mocking smile played round his
thin lips, and half hid itself in the fair
moustache.
Snuffing mischief, though, Basalt
caught John Anderson’s arm in his grip,
and led him through the glass door out
into the fresh air; while—after glancing
spitefully after the retreating pair—
Philip Merritt’s whole aspect changed
to one of cruel animosity, and hurrying
into Mr. Longdale’s room, he exclaimed,
in excited tones—
“ There’s a man named Anderson just
gone out from here; do you know who
he is ? ”
“ Last captain of your future papa’s
clipper, the Merry Muy',' said Mr. Long
dale, laying down the paper.
“Yes, yes, I know that; but what
does he do here ? ”
“ He is one of the best captains in
the mercantile navy,” replied Longdale.
“ Well ? ”
“And his name is sufficient to give
confidence to half the consignors in the
port of London. We want cargo, my
dear boy. Now do you see ? ”
“But surely,”exclaimed Merritt,dash
ing down his cigar, “ you don’t mean to
say—”
“ Now, listen, my dear Merritt, and
don’t be excitable. You are young
yet with us, and you might have a little
confidence in your senior partners.
Rutherby gives way to my opinion in
such matters, for he has tried me for
many years—you may do the same.”
“ Look here, Longdale,” said Merritt,
savagely; “ I’ve brought money into
this firm, which you wanted badly; and
though I’m young, I don’t mean to be
treated as a nonentity. Just please
leave off beating about the bush, and
tell me why that scoundrel was here.”
Mr. Longdale slightly knit his brows,
and then said, calmly—
“ My dear boy, no one wants to make
you a nonentity, and I can assure you
that we shall always make a point of
consulting you on all important matters.
But this piece of business was done
while you were away—at Canonbury, I
think.”
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
Philip Merritt’s hand went uncon
sciously to his mouth, where he began
to move a loose front tooth backwards
and forwards, to see if there was any
risk of its coming out. The twinge of
pain that accompanied the operation
brought strongly back John Anderson’s
blow, and he said—
“ Well, go on; why is that fellow
here?”
“ Because he wanted a ship, and we
wanted a captain and a cargo. He
could offer us the captain with a good
name for trustworthiness, and we could
offer him the ship. The bargain was
struck, and the cargo comes as a matter
of course. In fact, it bpgan to pour in
directly I had the announcements made.
We shall get men, too, with ease. A
good name, my dear boy, is a most
valuable commodity in this wicked
world. Look here, have a glass of
sherry and a biscuit. I have a glass of
very fine dry wine here.”
He went to a cupboard, and brought
out a decanter and glass; while Merritt,
who was white with rage, strode up and
down the room till a clerk opened the
door, and upon him Merritt turned to
vent his spleen.
“If you please, sir—” began the clerk.
“Curse you! Don’t you see we are
engaged? How dare you intrude like
this?”
The clerk glanced at the sherry
decanter, and was gone in an instant.
“Now, my dear boy,” said Longdale,
suavely.
“Don’t ‘dear boy’ me, Longdale,”
cried Merritt, dashing his hand upon
the table.
Then, dragging up a chair, he seated
himself in front of his partner, who
was calmly pouring out a glass of
the amber fluid.
“Look here, I came into your firm
when your name stank so that you
could get neither cargo nor men. I
came in, and brought money.”
“Very true, my dear boy—your
sherry—but you need not raise your
voice so that the clerks can hear.”
“I came into-the firm with money,
21
and it was a stipulation that, though
junior, I should have full voice in all
matters.”
“Quite true, my dear boy; and so you
have. You are deferred to in every
thing—really senior partner.”
“What do youcall that,then,engaging
that fellow?”
“My dear boy, taste your wine; it
really is excellent.”
“D—■—11 the wine!” roared Merritt,
and he swept the glass off the table in
his rage. “I tell you I won’t have it. I
won’t put up with it. The scoundrel’s
papers shall be cancelled if it costs a
thousand pounds.”
“Now, my dear Merritt, how was it
possible that I could know you had any
animus against this man? For aught
I knew, you had never even seen him.”
“Animus?” shrieked Merritt, white
with rage, and tearing off his gloves—
literally tearing them off in shreds, and
casting them about the room—“ I tell
you I hate him—curse him! I hate him,
I tell you. If I saw him starving—
dying—drowning — burning, and by
raising a finger I could save his life, I
wouldn’t do it. I’d snatch away the
morsel that his soul craved; drag from
him the consolation of religion; take
from him the lifebuoy his fingers tried
to hold; force him back into the flames.
Curse him! curse him!” he hissed, be
tween his teeth. “ If I only had him
here!”
He stamped the heel of his patent
leather boot down upon the floor as he
spoke, and made as if he were grinding
his enemy’s face beneath it.
“Has he dared, then—?” said Long
dale, coolly sipping his sherry, and
crumbling a biscuit between his fingers,
as he curiously watched the working of
his partner’s face.
“ Never mind what he has dared, and
what he has not. The scoundrel struck
me—curse him!—and I could not strike
him again. I don’t care, I’ll own it,”
he cried, stammering in his speech, in his
rage and excitement. “ I was afraid of
him; but I’ll be even with him yet.”
Longdale did not speak, but rose from
�■MKi
a»»
22
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
his chair, obtained a fresh glass, filled
it, pushed it to his partner, and then re
seated himself, just as Merritt snatched
up the glass, poured its contents down
his throat, and thrust it forward to be
refilled.
“That’s better,” said Longdale, pour
ing out a fresh glassful.
“ I’ll have this stopped at once,” said
Merritt, suddenly changing from his
furious excitement to a hard, bitter,
business tone of voice. “ Ring for one
of the clerks.”
As he spoke he reached out his hand
for the table gong, but Longdale coolly
drew it back.
“ Stop a minute, Merritt,” he said,
quietly—“ don’t be rash.”
“ Rash? I tell you, I’ll have the whole
affair cancelled.”
“Listen to me. You are a business
man—a shrewd man. Have you thought
this over?”
“No; it wants no thinking over,”
“ Yes, it does—quietly. You are with
us now, Merritt, and I can speak plainly
as to Rutherby. Though I did not know
it, it seems that I have been working
in your interest.”
“ Now, look here,” cried Merritt,
fiercely, “ I’m not to be cajoled. Pass
me that bell.”
“ But you are to be spoken to, and
shown where you are wrong, when you
are wrong. Stop a moment,” he said,
for Merritt was about to interrupt.
“You will own it yourself. You hate
this Anderson ?”
Merritt sat silent and glaring; his
face of a leaden pallor, and his forehead
contracted.
“ Well, he was engaged to go for us
to China.”
Merritt did not speak; he was con
taining himself by a tremendous effort
of will.
“ It is sometimes a very dangerous
voyage, Merritt.”
Longdale spoke very slowly, and in
a cold, subdued voice: such an utter
ance as must have come from the ser
pent when he spoke to our first mother
in Paradise. He leaned forward, too,
-----------------------------
[Christmas, 1873.
as he spoke, with his elbows on the
table, and his fingers touching his tem
ples, and framing, as it were, his face,
which was now in shadow.
Merritt gave a sort of gasp, and sat
bolt upright in his chair, staring at his
partner.
“You are with me, Merritt?”
The younger man nodded; and a
faint smile flickered for a moment round
Longdale’s lips, as he saw the change
from passion to earnest attention come
over his partner’s face.
“ Yes,” he said again, more slowly and
calmly, “it is sometimes a dangerous
voyage to the eastern seas.”
_ Then Philip Merritt sat stiffly up
right in his chair, holding on by the
arms on either side, the jewelled rings
upon his white fingers twinkling and
scintillating, showing the nervous tre
mor that was agitating the man. For
fully a minute neither spoke, each try
ing to read the other’s thoughts; but
at last Merritt essayed to say some
thing. It was but an essay, though,
for only a husky sound came from his
throat.
He coughed, though, and cleared his
voice; and then said, in a strange tone,
that could not be recognized as his
own—
“What—what ship does he sail in ?”
“ The Victrix"
“The Victrix?”
“ Yes. The vessel that has been done
up.”
There was another pause, for what
might have been five minutes, during
which the ticking of the clock was
plainly audible. But though no word
was spoken, the two men sat still, read
ing each other’s thoughts, the pallor of
Merritt’s face being now painful to wit
ness.
At last he seized the decanter, and
filled and emptied his glass three times
running, before saying, in husky, sub
dued tones—“ You changed her name ?”
Longdale nodded, without removing
his hands.
“What was she before ?”
�“SHIP AHOY!
Christmas, 1873.]
“The Maid of Greece!” said Long
dale, almost inaudibly.
* Philip Merritt sank back in his chair
aS If nerve, strength, all had passed from
him. His lips parted, and his breath
Came painfully. Then he rose, and felt
23
about the table for his hat, never re
moving his eyes from Longdale’s till he
had half staggered to the door, through
which he passed hastily, and out into
the street like one walking in his
sleep.
jïlGHTH
HOW JOHN ANDERSON WENT TO SEE A COFFIN SHIP.
T was for
all the
world like
a dog agoing to
shake a
cat,” said
old Basalt
as he still
held by
John An
ders on’s
arm, and
walked
him down
the street.
“I don’t
know
which that
c h ap’s
most like,
a cat or a
shark; but he’d do for either. But
look here, my lad—you must give it
up. Now, promise me you will. You
can’t go on, you know.”
John Anderson turned round, and
gazed in the old fellow’s face before
speaking.
“ You must give it up, Jerry,” he said,
quietly. “I have undertaken the job,
and I will not turn back.”
Jeremiah Basalt let go of his compa
nion’s arm; spat savagely at a passing
dog, which snarled at him in reply; and
then, thrusting his hands into the bot
tom of his pockets, he drew from one a
knife, and from the other a cake of tobacco, off which he hacked a small
square of about an inch across, thrust it
into his cheek, and then walked forward
towards the station by his captain’s
side, as stubborn an old sea dog as
ever stepped a plank.
The railway soon took them within
easy reach of the dock, through whose
gates they passed in silence; for John
Anderson’s mood was anything but a
conversational one, He glanced to left
and right, at the tiers of shipping lading
and discharging cargo, as if in search of
the vessel he was to command ; but his
thoughts were far away. He seemed
to avoid by instinct the various obstacles
in his path, till he was roused to him
self by Basalt exclaiming—
“ Wictrix—there she lies.”
Anderson stood and looked across
the basin to where the long three-masted
vessel lay close to the wharf, glistening
with paint, and looking new, smart, and
perfectly seaworthy. A white, statu
esque figure of Fame stood out from
beneath her bowsprit, holding to its lips
a gilded trumpet; and at the stern, de
corated with scroll-work and conven
tional carving, was the name in gold
letters.
Men were very busy aloft unbending
sails ; and wheels and pulleys were
creaking as the stevedores busily hoisted
in bale, box, and cask, to lower them
into the gaping hold.
“Well, what do you think of her?”
said Anderson, after a nearer scrutiny.
Basalt stood gazing hard at the ship,
and did not answer.
“ What do you think of her ? ” said
Anderson again.
�24
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Don’t know,” was the rough re
sponse. “ Let’s go aboard.”
They walked round the end of the
basin, and crossed the gangway on to
the littered decks, where, in a quiet,
methodical manner, the two experienced
men looked over the vessel, inspecting
her from stem to stern, went up aloft to
see the standing and running rigging,
climbed over into the chains, went down
below, and ended by going ashore and
returning to Mrs. Gurnett’s without say
ing a word.
They found the old lady with her
bonnet on, apparently about to go out;
but she hurried away, and returned to
wait upon them in the little parlour,
where Basalt was soon busy with a pipe
and glass, Anderson refusing all refresh
ment.
They sat for quite ten minutes alone,
each watching the other. The silence
was broken by Anderson, who said—
“ Well?”
“ Ill, you mean,” was the reply.
“I’m afraid so, Jerry.”
“ ’Fraid so ? Why, the poor old
thing seems to me to groan through her
paint and patchery. They’ve stuffed
up the wrinkles ; but if ever rottenness
grinned out of an old vessel, there it is.
Why, it’s a dressed-up skeleton. You’ve
done wrong, cap’n, you’ve done wrong.
Give it up.”
Anderson half turned away his head,
and remained silent for a few minutes
before he spoke.
“No, Basalt,” he said; “I’ve under
taken to sail her to China and back,
and, please God, I’ll do it, though it will
be a hard task. You shall not go,
though.”
“ Sha’n’t I ?” said Basalt, gruffly.
“ No. It would not be fair to you.
You shall give it up.”
“What’s fair for you’s fair for me;
and if you go, I go. She’s a rotten old
hulk, patched up and painted to the
nines. But though I say it as shouldn’t
say it, I will say one thing, and that is,
that if a cap’n and a mate as knows
their business can sail that there wessel
to the Chinee seas, and back, that there
[Christmas, 1873.
cap’n and mate’s a-sitting now in the
parlour of the Jolly Sailors, the one
drinking his grog and smoking his pipe
like a Christian, and the tother a-looking at him. Give it up, and I sails with
you in another ship. Stick to your
lines, and I goes with you in the Wictrix ; but before I’ll ask one of my poor
lads as I’ve had afloat with me to go in
her, may I be----- well, I won’t say what
in this here house, with a plaster ceiling
over my head ; but if I was afloat, with
plenty of room aloft, I’d say something
stiff, and no mistake.”
Further conversation was stayed by
the entrance of Mrs. Gurnett with a
very troubled face.
“ If you please, Captain Anderson,
here’s some of the men want to see
you.”
John Anderson, from being heavy
and dejected, was in a moment all ani
mation now; and, turning to Basalt, he
said—“ Mind, not a man of them ships with
us.”
“ No, not with my consent,” said the
old fellow. “ I did think of getting the
lot, but not now. They may find their
own crew, and good luck to ’em, and
bad luck to us.”
“ Is it really true, then, Captain An
derson,” said the old lady, “ that you
are going directly in one of Rutherby’s
ships ?”
“Yes, it’s true enough,” said Basalt,
speaking for his superior; “ and I’m
a-going with him.”
“ Oh, Captain Anderson, don’t go—
don’t go—and don’t take him ! There
are such tales afloat about those ships,
and only just now one was lost. Pray,
pray don’t take him with you.”
“ Softly, my lass—softly,” cried Ba
salt, crossing to her side, and leading
her to the other end of the room.
“ Don’t you know,” he whispered, “ what
the song says—‘ There’s a sweet little cherub as sits up aloft,
To keep watch for the life of poor Jack’?”
“ Basalt,” said Anderson, quietly, “ I’ll
go into the tap-room and speak to the
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!
25
boys. I’ll come back here before I ferent altogether to your long-shore lub
bers. A sailor’s got his dooty to do,
go”
He went softly out of the room, leav while your long-shore lubber aint got
ing Mrs. Gurnett with Basalt, whose no dooty at all. Here we are, then.
arm, for the very first time, now stole My dooty says, ‘ Stand by your cap
round the widow’s waist—a movement tain like a man!’ and I must stand by
so far from resented that Mrs. Gurnett’s him. Why, don’t it say in the Book
head sank upon his shoulder as she as a sparrer sha’n’t fall to the ground,
clung to him sobbing.
and aint I something more than a
“ Betsy, my dear lass,” he whispered, sparrer ?”
“ they say as sailors aint religious, and
“ Oh, yes—yes ; but—”
I suppose they aint; for, as far as I’m
“There you are again with your
consarned, I never goes to church ashore, ‘ buts.’ Now, be my own true blue wo
and I always growls about going afloat man, and say, ‘ Go, Jerry, and God bless
when the cap’n has sarvice on the main you ; and when you come back—’ ”
deck. I don’t think as I’ve read my
“ Oh, but I can’t say all that,” sobbed
Bible, either, these forty year ; but I do Mrs. Gurnett—“ only God bless you ! ”
believe this, as God looks after them
“Then think the rest,” said Basalt;
poor chaps as puts their trust in Him ; “ and when I come back— There,
and I think I do this, after a fashion, there’s the cap’n coming.”
along with my dooty.”
He kissed the sobbing woman softly
“ Oh, but you musn’t, musn’t think of and reverently; then he gently un
going in that ship.”
clasped her clinging hands from round
“But, my lass, I must. Now, belay his neck, and seated her in a chair, just
there a minute, and I’ll put it to you. as John Anderson entered' the room.
Would it be right—would you like me
“ I’ve said good-bye to them, Basalt,
to let that poor chap, as has got his and promised that they shall sail with
heart half broke, go afloat by himself; me in my next ship, if ever I com
or would you have me stand by him mand another ; for I could not let them
faithful—true blue right through ?”
go in this.”
Mrs. Gurnett could not answer—she
“ They volunteered, then?” said Ba
only sobbed bitterly.
salt.
“Avast heaving, there!” cried the
“To a man,” said Anderson, huskily.
old man, softly smoothing her grey
“Oh, and don’t let him go neither,
sprinkled hair, and holding her more Captain Anderson,” sobbed Mrs. Gur
tightly to him. “ If you’re the woman nett, running forward to catch John
I take you to be, you’ll say ‘Go with Anderson’s hand in hers.
him, and God bless you !’ For it stands
“My lass!” said Basalt, reproach
to reason that you couldn’t care to con fully.
sort with a thundering sneak.”
“ Oh, I didn’t know what I was say
“ Oh, I can’t say it—I can’t say it— ing,” sobbed the poor woman; “ only
indeed I can’t!” sobbed Mrs. Gurnett. bring him back to me safe—oh, please,
“ I should know no rest, night or day, please do, or it will break my heart! ”
if you went.”
“ Hooray!” cried Basalt, excitedly—
“ Oh, I say, now, cheer up and be “hooray! There’s for you, cap’n_
hearty. Away with melancholy, and that’s all for love of this here old bat
be spry! Why should you go on like tered salt! Bring me back, my lass ?_
that ? Now look here—wouldn’t you why, of course he will; for, as I said
like me to be true and hearty to John afore, if there s any two men as knows
Anderson ?”
how to sail a ship—a boat—there, a
“Ah, yes ; but—” .
plank, if you like—the name o’ them two
“There aint no ‘buts’ in it, my lass. men’s Jerry—I mean Cap’n John Ander
A sailor’s a picked-out sorter, man, dif son and Jeremiah Basalt. Cap’n, I’m
B
�KBhMhBÍHM
26
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
in your wake—helm hard up—haul on
your main sheet, and away we go! ”
“Yes, Jerry, go, and God bless you ;
and I’ll pray for you night and day,”
sobbed Mrs. Gurnett.
“Go it is!” cried Basalt, excitedly;
“and come back safe and sound it is,
my lass; and then—”
HMMi
[Christmas, 1873.
“Yes,” sobbed Mrs. Gurnett; “and
then—”
“Then it is,” cried Basalt; “and
blame me if ever I go afloat again!”
The next minute John Anderson and
his mate were in the street, and Mrs.
Gurnett was upon her knees.
¡ABLE
J^ENGTH.
HOW MAY HALLEY KNEW SHE HAD A HEART.
twenty years before. She rose from
her knees at the end of five minutes,
went upstairs and bathed her face,
put on her bonnet and shawl, and
set off for Canonbury, where she was
received with great dignity by the
drab footman, who condescended to
let the plump old lady wait in the hall
while he finished arranging some part
of his work in the dining-room, after
which he sent word up by the lady’smaid, that “a person” wanted to see
Miss May; and was horribly scanda
lised at the maid fetching the stout,
common woman up to Miss May’s bed
room.
Such a nest! It was more like a
boudoir than a bed-room, with its light
paper of white and gold, floral chintz
hangings, and water-colour paintings,
the work of her own hand. There was
a bird too in the window, that rippled
forth the sweetest trills of song, as it
held its head from side to side, ruffled
the feathers, of its throat, and sang at
its mistress. It was into this room that
Mrs. Gurnett was shown, to. stand just
inside the door, and drop a formal
curtsey to the tall, handsome girl who
advanced to meet her.
“Oh, nurse, dear, I’m so glad you’re
come!” said May, taking her hands, and
kissing her on both cheeks. “ What a
time it is since I’ve seen you! Why
have you not been to me ?”
“Because, my dear,” said Mrs. Gur
nett, rather stiffly, “it was a little, tiny
girl I used to know, and not a young
lady.”
“But,” said May, softly, as she drew
the old lady, very prim and demure
now, to a sofa, where she sat down by
her side, and held one hand—“but,
nurse, do you know that sometimes,
though I know that I am grown into a
woman, and that people ”—here she
glanced at the tall cheval glass opposite
to her—“that people say all sorts of
nonsense about me—”
“They say, I suppose,” said Mrs.
Gurnett, who had seen the glance, “that
you are very handsome?”
“Oh! all sorts of nonsense,” said
May, blushing ; “but I don’t take any
�J
j
Christmas, 1873,]
((SHIP AHOY!”
I notice of it; for what does it matter ?
I After all, I sometimes feel just as I
j did years and years ago, nurse, when
you used to lay my head upon my little
pillow, and kiss me, and say ‘ Good
night—’ ”
“‘God bless you!”’ interpolated Mrs.
Gurnett, softly.
“Yes, to be sure,” said May, smiling.
“And oh, nurse, it seems such a little
while ago; and sometimes, as I lie down
to sleep, I get thinking of all the old
times, and almost wish that—that I was
as young as I was when you were with
me.”
“Ah, my dear,” said Mrs. Gurnett,
“it’s growing old enough you are to
find out that there are greater troubles
in life than a broken doll or a dirty
pinafore.”
And then, in spite of all her efforts,
the poor old lady broke down, took out
her handkerchief, and began to sob bit
terly.
“Why, nurse, nurse, what is it?” said
May, anxiously, as she drew nearer to
the weeping woman. “Are you in
trouble?”
“Oh, yes, yes, my dear,” she said, at
last, after choking again and again in
the effort to speak.
“ But I sent for you to get you to try
and comfort me,” said May, softly.
“ What is the matter?”
Oh, my dear!” sobbed Mrs. Gurnett,
“ I’m finding out that after fighting for
life years and years, and thinking I was
strong, and steady, and sensible, I’m
only a silly, weak old woman, with a
heart as soft as that of a girl of eighteen.”
May blushed, looked at her wonderingly, and more wonderingly as,
thoroughly wound up to give vent to her
feelings, and, womanlike, glad to have
a sympathetic woman’s breast into which
she could empty the urn of her affliction,
Mrs. Gurnett told all her trouble from
beginning to end, stopping now and then
to upbraid herself as “a silly old woman
who ought to know better;” but, made
selfish in the extreme by her distress
forgetting all but her own affairs as she
proceeded with her tale.
£__ _ _____ _ _
__ ______
27
May flushed . scarlet .as Anderson’s
name was mentioned. Then she turned
deadly pale as the narrative went on.
Then she flushed again; but only for the '
blush to give place to a greater pallor,
as step by step Mrs. Gurnett told of her
dread—of the bad name owned by the
firm of Rutherby, and her horror that
Basalt should sail in one of their vessels.
And I ve told him he might go,”
sobbed the poor woman; “and I’ve sent
him to his death; for sail he will in the
floating coffin, and I shall never see him
more.”
She sat sobbing for a time, and then
went on, heedless of May Halley’s
plainly displayed emotion—
And him so faithful and true to
Captain Anderson—as brave, and true,
and handsome a man as ever stepped ■
and, oh, Miss May—”
Mrs. Gurnett stopped short, for it had
just flashed across her mind that in her
utter selfishness she had absolutely for
gotten that which she knew concerning
the young captain and his employer’s
daughter.
She sat up, handkerchief in hand,
gazing at May, who was as white as
marble, but who did not flinch from the
old lady’s look, only returned her gaze
with one that was stony and dull, ft
“ They are going to sail in the Victrix” said Mrs. Gurnett.
There was no reply.
“ They are going to sail directly, and
I can’t believe that they will ever
return.”
Still May made no response; and
Mrs. Gurnett, wiping her eyes, said,
apologetically—
My dear, you sent for me because .
you were in trouble, and I’ve been
telling you all of mine. It was very
thoughtless of me; but I seldom see any
one to whom I care to talk, and when
you seemed so gentle with me I was
obliged to speak.”
I am very, very glad to see you,
nurse, and to talk with you,” said Mffy,
in a strange, cold voice.
“ But, my dear, you wanted to tell me
all your troubles.”
------ --------------- —----- ■—
--------- «s?
�28
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Did I, nurse ? Oh, it was nothing!
I was a little upset. I had nothing
much to say. It was a mere trifle,
and I did not know you were so worried,
or I would not have sent.”
“ But, my dear, it was very silly and
childish of me, and I’m sure that you
will laugh at me when I am gone.”
“ Oh, no, no, nurse ; don’t think that,”
said May, lapsing for an instant from
her cold, stern demeanour. No woman
could despise another for displaying that
which is waiting to bud in her own
breast.
(Christmas, 1873.
“ But what was the matter, my dear?
Was it anything I could talk to you
about ? I should have been here sooner,
but for my own trouble.”
“ It was nothing, nurse—nothing at
all—only I—”
She made a brave effort to curb down
the feelings that were struggling for
exit, but they proved too strong for
her. They burst forth like a flood, as
she exclaimed—“Oh, nurse, nurse! I’ve sent him
away like that, and—and — indeed—
indeed, I did not know!”
JT ENTH
HOW MR. HALLEY TALKED TO HIS DAUGHTER.
EOPLE as a
rule used to
respect Mr.
Halley, the
shipowner, of
Quarterdeck
court— Hal
ley, Edwards,
and Company
was the name
of the firm;
but Edwards
had been dead
twenty years,
and the Comp a n y had
been bought
out one by
one by Mr.
Halley, till he
was the sole
owner of the line of ships trading to the
East, and managed his business per
Mr. Tudge, of whom anon. People
used to say that Mr. Halley would cut
up well when he died; and City men
would make calculations as to his
warmth, of course alluding to the ruddy
glow of his gold.
He was a quaint, old-fashioned looking
man, who always persisted in ignoring
customs of the present day.
“Fashion !” he would say; “what has
fashion to do with me ? Fashion ought
to be what I choose-to wear.”
The consequence was that he wore
the garments that had been in vogue
forty years before—to wit, a blue coat,
with a stiff velvet collar and treble gilt
buttons, nankeen trousers, and a buff
waistcoat. He did not powder his hair,
for he could not have made it more white
if he had ; but he did wear it gathered
together, and tied behind with a piece
of black ribbon; which used to bob
about the collar of his coat, to the
great amusement of the street boys
who saw him pass.
Of course, he had a right to dress as
he pleased; but it was a source of great
unpleasantry to his footman, who looked
upon the left-off garments with ineffable
.contempt.
Mr. Halley had just finished his
breakfast, laid down his paper, and was
playing with his gold eyeglasses, while
May, who sat behind the urn, looked
pale and distraite.
Mr. Halley coughed—a short, forced
cough—and looked disturbed.
May started.
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
This was the opening for which Mr.
Halley had been waiting. He was fond
of authority and ruling, but he was
fonder of his child; and of late a feeling
had been creeping over him that he
was not satisfied with the course that
domestic matters had taken.
" “What’s the matter, my dear?” he
said.
“ Nothing, papa.”
“Yes — ahem — yes, there is, my
dear. I have noticed—er—er—noticed
lately—”
Here Mr. Halley’s voice grew husky,
and he had to cough two or three times
to clear it, while May’s face became
scarlet.
“ There—er—er—is something the
matter, and I have noticed lately that
you have been very strange and—er—er
—not what you should be. Merritt
came to me yesterday.”
He paused, as if expecting May to
speak; but she sat perfectly silent.
“I said Merritt came to me yesterday,
my dear; and he wanted to know if he
had given any offence.”
May still silent.
“ I told him no—nothing of the kind.
He said he was afraid somebody had
been trying to poison your ears against
him, and he hoped that you did not take
any notice of the absurd reports spread
about the shipping house to which he
belongs.”
“ Do you think, papa, that those re
ports are absurd ?” said May, so sud
denly that the old man started.
“Absurd ? Of course, my dear; un
less you think that the gentleman to
whom you are.engaged is about as black
a scoundrel and murderer as ever stepped.
May, I’m angry with you ; I am, indeed.
I can’t think what has come over you
of late. It is really too bad—it is,
indeed. I’ve been wanting to talk to
you about it; and really, you know, the
way in which you treated his partner,
Mr. Longdale, last night, was quite in
sulting.”
“Papa!” cried May, passionately, “I
can’t make friends with a slimy snake.”
“Now, my dear child,” cried the old
29.
man, petulantly, “this—this is absurd;
it’s—it’s—it’s cruel; it’s—it’s so like
your poor mother—bursting out in the
most unreasonable way against a man
whom you do not fancy.”
“ Fancy ? Oh, papa ! ” cried May,
“did you ever shake hands with him?”
“Why, of course, my dear. Shake
hands, indeed! ”
“ It was dreadful; so cold and dank,
and—and—and fishy,” said May.
“ Now, my darling child, I must beg of
you not to be absurd. Longdale is a man
of position, and Merritt’s partner. Long
dale and Merritt are really the men, for
pcfor old Rutherby is quite a nonentity.
And here, last night, you treated Long
dale as if he were—were—were—”
“ A nasty, cold, twining, slimy snake,”
said May, impetuously. “Ugh!”
“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated the old
man, peevishly ; “really, May!”
“Do you think, papa, there is any
truth in what has been said about
Rutherby’s ships ?”
“ Why—why—why—what do you
know about Rutherby’s ships, child?”
cried the old man, uneasily.
“ I’ve heard the reports, papa, about
their unseaworthy state,” said May, ex-'
citedly; “and it seems to me so dread
ful, so horrible, that it makes me
shudder.”
“ It’s all a cruel, atrocious lie. I’m
sure of it, my dear,” said the old man,
dabbing his forehead as he spoke. “ If
I—I—I for a moment thought that they
could be such—There, it’s nonsense—
absurd ! Men couldn’t do it.”
“ But people say they do, papa,” said
May.
“ People say any cruel thing of others
who are more prosperous than them
selves. Why they even say that—that
I—but there, I am not prosperous, my
dear, only comfortably off. But there,
don’t you take any notice of what people
say.”
“ But it sounds so horrible, papa.”
“ What, that they send men to sea in
rotten ships ? Yes, of course it sounds
horrible; but it isn’t true—it can’t be
true. Why, my dear, I should have
�30
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
been a very, very rich man now if it had
not been for the expense I’ve been put
to in keeping my ships in good con
dition ; and as to what they say of
Rutherby’s—pooh !”
The door opened, and the footman
appeared.
“ Lady wants to see you, sir, on busi
ness,” said the man.
“Who is it? What business? Why
doesn’t she go to the offices ?”
“ Said I wasn’t to say, sir,” said the
man, reluctantly. “She’s in the library.”
The old gentleman fixed him with
his eye, and the footman, with a shilling
in his mind, half whimpered—
“ If you please, sir, I couldn’t help it.
She says, sir, please, sir, ‘ Show me into
a private room, and tell your master a
lady wants to see him on business.’ ”
“Who is the lady?” said Mr. Halley.
“Mrs. Anderson, sir—Captain An
derson’s mother.”
May gave vent to a little cry, half
sob, half catch of the breath ; and'then
sat silent and intent upon what followed.
jlLEVENTH
“Tell her, I can’t see her,” cried the
old man, angrily; “tell her I won’t see
her; tell her—there, what the devil
does she want here ? She’s come to beg
that I will reinstate her son. It’s too
bad, May—it really is too bad ; and I
won’t be bothered like this. I won’t
see her. Here, stop, sir. How dare you
go away without orders?”
“ Please, sir, you said—”
“ Confound you, sir ! I didn’t said at
all,” cried the old man, angrily. “Here,
stop, I’ll—I’ll—yes, I’ll see her in the
library.”
“Yes, sir, she is there,” said the foot
man, hurrying to open the door obse
quiously for Mr. Halley, nervous and
evidently dreading the interview ; while
May sat with her face changing colour
each moment, and listening attentively
till she heard the library door closed,
when she hurried up to her own room,
to throw herself into a chair, and place
one hand upon her side, as if to stay
with it the heavy throbbings of her
heart.
JCaBLE
HOW MRS. ANDERSON CAME
T might
have been
thought
by any
one who
had been
a witness
of the
scene that
Mrs. An
derson, as
she sat in
the library
of the old
house at
Canonbury, was Queen paramount there,
and that Mr. Halley, the old shipowner,
approached her as a suppliant; for she
remained sitting—a stiff old figure, in
[Christmas, 1873.
J_vENGTH.
TO SPEAK ABOUT HER SON.
her rustling, great folded silk—while he
stood before her, evidently ill at ease.
“Mr. Halley,” she said, sternly, “I
have come to speak to you about my
son.”
“ I must beg, madam—” he ’ began,
nervously.
“Have the goodness to-listen to me
first, Mr. Halley.”
The old gentleman coughed/glanced
at the door, and then remained silent;
while his visitor drew off a black kid
glove, held up a thin white finger
threateningly at him, and said, slowly—
“Mr. Halley, you have murdered my
son! ”
The old gentleman started at the
tremendous charge, and was about to
speak; but Mrs. Anderson interrupted
him. ,
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“Yes—murdered him; for you have
deprived him of the command of the
ship he loved, and sent him afloat in
one that bears an ill name.”
“ I—I—I did nothing of the sort,
Mrs. Anderson ; I—I—really, this is a
most scandalous charge.”
“But it is quite true, Mr. Halley, and
you know it. And why was this ? ”
“Why, ma’am, why?” cried the old
gentleman, angrily, glad to have an
opportunity to speak, “ because he was
presumptuous ; but, stop—mind this, I
am only speaking of my breaking con
nection with him. I have nothing to do
with his shipping with another firm.”
“Yes, you have,” said Mrs. Anderson,
sternly.
“Nonsense! — absurd! 'I will not
have it,” cried the old man. “ Do you
know how this man, your son, behaved
here—here in my house, madam ? ”
“No, not quite,”said Mrs. Andersorf,
quietly; “but I am quite sure that my
son would behave like a gentleman.”
“A gentleman!” said Mr. Halley.
“ Why, he struck one of my visitors, and
insulted my daughter.”
“ If he struck one of your guests, Mr.
Halley,” said the old lady, speaking
haughtily as a tragedy queen, “he must
have been a villain and deserved it.
But my son would never insult your
daughter.”
“ But—but I tell you, ma’am, he did
—he did. Forgot his position altogether
as one of my servants, and—and—there,
it is too absurd! He actually had the
impertinence to propose—to—to make
love to her.”
“And pray, Mr. Halley, was that in
sulting her ?”
“ Of course.”
Mrs. Anderson rose from her chair, '
and stood menacingly before the old
gentleman.
“ Insult—proposed ! Mr. Halley, I
consider that my son conferred an
honour upon her.”
“ Honour ?”
“Yes, sir, an honour. I won’t say
anything about his birth, only that the
Andersons have been Scotch gentlemen
31
for many generations, while the Hal
leys— Do you remember coming to
borrow a sovereign of my husband, Mr.
Halley, when you were a struggling
man ?”
“I—I—I—there!—No; yes, yes, I
won’t deny it, Mrs. Anderson. I did
bor—but I paid it again!”
“Yes, you paid it again,” said the old
lady. “You always were an honest
man, James Halley; but because you
have made money in shipowning, I
can’t see that my son would be offering
any insult to your child.”
“ Mrs. Anderson, I am not going to—I can’t argue with you about that
matter. Your son is not connected with
me now, and I had nothing to do with
his engaging himself to other owners.”
“ But it was through you, Mr. Halley,
it was through you that the poor lad
went; and if evil come to him you are
to blame.”
“Mrs. Anderson, if you were not—
but I won’t be angry. I won’t say hard
things to you. You are an old lady,
and in troirble about your son, and
therefore speak more plainly than you
should.”
“No, Mr.' Halley, not more plainly
than I should. It is true that it is
about my poor boy; but I would speak
as plainly if it were about any other
woman’s son, for it is the duty of every
one to speak when evil is being done,
and no steps taken to avert it. James
Halley, you know the kind of ship my
son has gone in, and what they say
about it.”
“ I know what they say about it, Mrs.
Anderson,” said Mr. Halley, angrily;
“ but I don’t believe it—I won’t believe
it’s true.”
“No, that’s it—you won’t believe it’s
true.”
“ I can’t, I tell you,” said Mr. Halley.
“ Why, I never sent a ship to sea until it
had been thoroughly overhauled and
made trim.”
“That makes me believe you, James
Halley,” said the old lady, eagerly; and
she caught his hand and pressed it
between her own. “ I know you never
�g
32
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
did—my John has told me so a dozen
times; and I see now that you can’t
believe it in others. I did think though,
when I came here, that you knew of it
all, and winked at it that you might get
well rid of my son.”
“ If .1 thought—no, if I found out,
and could believe that Rutherbys could
be such scoundrels, they should never
darken my doors again; and as for—”
He stopped short, and looked
curiously at the old lady, who leaned
forward, and peered searchingly in his
eyes.
“Say what you were going to say to
me, James Halley. Don’t triumph over
me because I come as a suitor now.
You came as a suitor to me once—forty
years ago now, James Halley—and I
would not listen to you; but you are
too much of a man to bear me malice
for that.”
“Bear malice!” said the old gentleman, warmly ; “ not I. Well, I’ll say
it. No, I won’t.”
“ Then I’ll say it for you,” said Mrs.
Anderson. “You were gcing to say
that if you found out that Philip
Merritt knew of the state of the ship in
which my son sailed, he should never
wed daughter of yours. Say it, James
Halley, and I shall go away hap
pier.”
“No,” said the old gentleman, shak
[Christmas, 1873.
ing his head, angrily, and striding up
and down the room—“ no, I won’t say
it. There’s no need. It isn’t true. And
you’ve come here, on your son’s behalf,
to try and set me against that young
man, and I’ll hear no more of it. As
for the young man, I like him, and May
likes him, and—but there, I won’t—I
won’t enter any more into the matter.
Mrs. Anderson, good morning.”
“ Stop one moment, Mr. Halley,”
cried the old lady. “ We are very old •
acquaintances. You love your girl,
perhaps, as well as I love my boy.
That he hoped to have won May
Halley was his misfortune and mine.
But I don’t come on his behalf; for, poor
lad, he will never return—I know it
well. I should like, though, to know
that this engagement was broken off;
for I tell you it will bring with
it misery. The money Philip Merritt
brings to his home will be fouled with
the despairing curses of the dying
sailors he has sent to their grave ; and
every jewel he gives his wife will be
glistening with the tears of the wives
and mothers whose loved ones have
sailed in his rotten ships. I tell you,
James Halley, that you will go to your
grave a wretched and despairing man if
you marry your child to—”
“ Mr. Philip Merritt,” said the foot
man, suddenly opening the door.
�Ctóstmas, 187-3.]
“SHIP AHOY!
33
J^WELFTH
HOW PHILIP MERRITT ASKED IF HE LOOKED LIKE A SCOUNDREL.
OR a few mo
ments no one
spoke, during
which short
space the clos
ing of the door
* by the foot
man and his
retreating
steps across
the hall were
plainly heard.
Then Merritt
somewhat re
covered from
his surprise;
for he had ex
pected May to
be with her
father, and in
stead he found
himself confronted by the threatening,
angry countenance of Mrs. Anderson.
“ I—I beg pardon,” he stammered,
changing colour in spite of himself.
“ I’ll go into the next room.”
“No!” cried the old lady, fiercely, as
she took a step forward ; then, pointing
at him with her stick, she turned to Mr.
Halley. “ Look at him, James Halley
—look at him, and think of what I said.
It will bring a curse, I tell you—a curse! ”
She went slowly towards the door,
and turned once more as she took the
handle, to gaze sternly upon Merritt.
“The tears of mothers and sweet
hearts, the bitter wails of wives and
children, and the stifled curses and cries
to Heaven for vengeance of drowning
sailors, will be the dowry you bring to
your wife, Philip Merritt. I, as the
mother of one whom you have sent to
his death, will not add my curse. I will
not spit upon the ground where you
stand, and call down maledictions from
the Almighty to crush you ere your
misdoings become more. I only say,
for John Anderson and myself, may
God forgive you!”
Before Philip Merritt could recover
himself from the shock her words had
occasioned, the door had closed, and he
was alone with Mr. Halley, his face
blanched, and the perspiration standing
in beads upon his temples.
“ Why, what a dreadful old woman ! ”
he exclaimed at last, using his scented
handkerchief freely upon his forehead
and damp hands. “ I declare she has
made me feel quite uncomfortable.
And who is the strange old being ?”
“John Anderson’s mother,” said Mr.
Halley, sinking back into a seat, with
clouded brow.
“ Well, do you know, I half guessed it.
But is she—a little—touched ?”
He tapped his forehead significantly.
“Sane as you or I,” said Mr. Halley,
shortly.
“Oh!” said Merritt.
And there was an uncomfortable
silence for a few moments.
“Look here, Merritt,” exclaimed Mr.
Halley, suddenly; “ I’m a plain-spoken
old man, and very frank. I take to
myself the credit of being honest and
straightforward, so I will speak what is
on my mind at once. There are strange
reports afloat.”
“ Indeed,” said Merritt, calmly; “what
about ?”
“ About you, Merritt—about you.”
“About me?” said Merritt, with an
amused smile. “Why, what have I
been doing? Has a little bird whispered
that I was seen at the Casino last night;
or tipsy in the Haymarket, knocking off
policemen’s hats; and is my future papa
angry about it, and going to give me a
lecture?”
“Just listen to me seriously, Philip,”
�34
.ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
said Mr. Halley, leaning forward, and
speaking very earnestly. “ I keep hear
ing on all sides evil whisperings about
Rutherby’s vessels.”
“ Of course, yes—evil whisperings,”
said Merritt, with a contemptuous
“Pish!”
“ They say your ships go out unsea
worthy and heavily insured.”
“ Our ships ? Well, yes, they are ours
now; but I am a very young partner,
you know.”
“And if this is the case, Philip Mer
ritt, it is wholesale murder.”
Merritt grew a trifle paler, but the
amused smile never left his lips.
“A firm—a man who would counte
nance such things ought to be hung as
high as Haman,” said the old man,
excitedly. “ He ought to be—there,
there, I don’t know a punishment hard
enough for such a demon. It makes
my blood boil to think of it.”
“ Then why think of it ? ” said Mer
ritt, who was, however, blessed with
a face that was as tell-tale as a girl’s,
and now showed of a deathly pallor—
“why think of it?” he said coolly. “You
must know that it is all pure invention.”
“ But I don’t know,” cried the old
man. “ I want to know—want you to
tell me.”
“Want me to tell you!” said Merritt.
“Well, really, my dear sir, if it were any
one else I should rise and leave the
room. You ask me, so to speak, if it is
true that I am, according to your own
showing, as great a ruffian, scoundrel,
and murderer as ever stepped—that I,
the accepted suitor of your daughter,
am a wholesale destroyer of life, and
make money by swindling the marine
insurance companies. Mr, Halley, it is
monstrous!”
“ It is—it is, Merritt,” exclaimed the
old man.
“ I ask you a question,” continued
Merritt, rising with an aspect of injured
innocence; “do I look like the scoun
drel you have painted?”
“No, my boy—no,” cried the old man,
catching Merritt’s hands in his, and
shaking them heartily. “ It is mon
.-------------- -------------------------------- ------- ------- -------------------------
[Christmas, 36873.
strous. Indeed, I don’t believe a word
of it—not a word.”
“Thank you, sir—thank you,” said
Merritt, warmly returning the shake.
“ It is one of the evils of prosperity
that it must be backbitten by every
slandering scoundrel who has not been
fortunate.”
,
“Quite true, Merritt—quite true.”
“And because we have lost a ship or
two, they set it down to our own fault;
when I can assure you, Mr. Halley,
that no expense is spared to make our
vessels all that, could be wished.”
“ I am sure of it, Merritt—quite sure.
Depend upon it, some jealous scoundrel
is at the bottom of all this, for his own
ends.”
“ I fancy it comes from the under
writing fraternity,” said Merritt; “and
I’m glad you take my view, that it is
set afloat by some interested party;
for that is really what I feel about it.
An underwriter’s dodge to set a certain
number against our ships, so that they
may arrange per centage just as they
please.”
“Very likely—very likely,” said Mr.
Halley. “ There’s a deal of wickedness
in this world, my boy.”
“ Depend upon it, sir,” said Jderritt,
“that any roguery or false dealing in
commerce is sure to come upon the head
of its inventor.”
“ I am sure of it, my boy—quite sure
of it.”
“Why, even you know, Mr. Halley,
how hard it is to go on, even carrying
things along in the even, straightforward
way in which you have done business.”
“ True, my boy—quite true. I have
had very heavy losses in my time, though
none so bad that I have not been able
to stand against them.”
“ Then, I think we may change the
conversation, sir,” said Merritt.
“Ye-e-es,” said the old man, “we
will directly; but I will say this—I don’t
suspect you now, my boy, not at all—
but I’ll say this all the same. If I felt
that any one who wanted -to be related
to me—wanted to have that little pearl
of mine to wear for his own through
�Christmas, 1873 ]
“SHIP AHOY!'-’
life—if I had the slightest suspicion
that he was in any way connected with
such goings on, I’d turn my back upon
him at once.”
“But, my dear sir,” exclaimed Mer
ritt, “ that looks as if you were not quite
satisfied even yet.”
“Not at all, my boy, not at all—so
there, shake hands upon it. Are you
coming into the City with me, or are you
going to see May? Oh, of course—well,
you must excuse me. Give me a look
in as you go by the office.”
The old gentleman left the room, after
a very warm shake of the hand; and
Philip Merritt, after waiting for a few
minutes, made his way into the drawing
room, where he expected to find May.
The room, however, was empty; and
after looking at a few books, he rang
the bell.
“Tell Miss May I am here,” he said
to the man.
“ I’ll send word up, sir,” said the man;
“ she’s in her own room.”
Merritt waited a few minutes, full of
impatience; and then he heard the
closing of a door, and May’s voice on
the stairs. A minute later, and listen
ing attentively, he heard a step in the
hall, when, throwing open the door, he
stepped hastily out, open-handed, but
35
found himself confronting the stiff, stern
old figure of Mrs. Anderson.
For a few moments he stood as if
paralyzed, with the old lady’s flashing
eyes gazing straight into his, till he
cowered and blenched, and fell back a
step. Then relief came; for the footman
approached, and the old lady pointed
with her stick to the door.
So fixed was her stern look, that Philip
Merritt shivered as he obeyed her sign
and slowly opened the door, through
which she passed, gazing at him to the
last.
“What an idiot I am!” he said to
himself, as the door was closed ; “ and
before that fellow, too! Here,” he cried,
wiping his damp hands, “ did you send
word to Miss May that I was here ?”
“Yes, sir,” said the footman.
“And what did she say?”
“ I—oh, here’s her maid, sir,” was the
reply.
At this moment a smart little domes
tic came tripping down the stairs.
“If you please, sir, Miss May’s com
pliments, and she’s too poorly to leave
her room.”
“ D----- n,” muttered Merritt, catching
up his hat and stick. Then as soon as he
was outside, “This is all the doing of
that cursed woman.”
�36
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
■J" HIRTEENTH
pABEE
[Christmas, 1873.
J_ÆNGTH..
HOW MRS. ANDERSON WENT TO CURSE MAY HALLEY.
HALLEY had
no idea that he
left Mrs. An
derson closelycloseted with
his daughter
when he
started for the
City; for, in
place of going
1 iKg
away, she had
desired the ser
vant to tell
Ism®
Miss May that
she wished to
see her.
May, think
To
ing it was Mrs.
Gurnett, eager
ly sent word
down for her to be shown up, running
forward to meet her as the door was
opened, and then stopping short, sur
prised and confused, as she found her
self confronted by the prim old dame,
who was frowning at her from beneath
her grey eyebrows.
“You don’t know me,” the old lady
said, after a pause, during which May
stood blushing beneath the stern gaze.
“ No,”saidMay; and then the thought
flashed across her mind that this might
be Mrs. Anderson, of whom she had
heard, but whom she had never before
seen.
“Yes,” said the old lady, taking her
hand, and leading her to the window to
scrutinize her more narrowly. “ I am
not surprised—you are very pretty.”
She said this half to herself; but May
heard every word, and looked more than
ever conscious, with the ruddy hue suf
fusing neck and temples.
“Yes,” continued the old lady, “you
are very pretty, and I am not sur
prised.”
“ If you please,” said May, quaintly,
and with a half-amused smile upon her
face. “ I can’t help it.”
“ No,” said the old lady, more to her
self than May, “ you can’t help it; and
yet what misery and wretchedness a
pretty face can cause! Why should
your pretty doll’s face come between
me and my son, to wean his heart—
no, I won’t say that—but to make his
life a burden to him : so great a one
that he has thrown it away ?”
“No, no—not so bad as that,” cried
May.
“ Not so bad !” retorted the old lady.
“ It is worse. Did you know he loved
you ?”
May’s colour rose once more at this
sharp questioning, and she drew herself
up.
“Pride!” exclaimed the old lady.
“ Pride and coquetry ! Shame on you,
girl. I can see it all, as plainly as if I
had watched it throughout. To gratify
your girlish love of admiration, you have
led on and wrecked the heart of as true
a man as ever stepped. You ! Are you
listening ? Do you know how unworthy
of him you are—how brave and good
he is ? Why, a queen might have been
proud to own his love; while you—
what do you do, girl ? You spurn him
—send him away maddened; to throw
away his life—to let himself be trapped
into taking charge of a wretched, rotten
ship, that will hold together till the first
rough sea, and then sink, to help pave
the bottom of the sea with good men’s
bones.”
“ Oh, but tell me,” cried May—“ you
are exaggerating. It is not so bad as
this?”
“ So bad, girl!” cried the old lady, ex
citedly—“ it is worse ; for do you know
��ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
in whose ship he has gone ? No. I’ll
tell you. In his rival’s.”
“You are speaking without reason,
Mrs. Anderson. Your son had no rival,
for he was not acknowledged.”
“No,” said the old lady—“he was
not acknowledged, my son was not. He
'was but a poor merchant captain, and
no meet mate for his owner’s daughter.
Oh, that a few pounds of gold should
make so wide a gap between people.
But there—he could not see it, poor
boy! You are to marry, I suppose, that
man below—the man who has murdered
my son?”
“ Mrs. Anderson!”
“ Well, girl, what do you call it, if not
murder ? He owns a ship, and engages
men to sail it to some far distant land.
What ought he to do ? Ought he not'
to make that vessel safe ? ”
“ Oh, yes,” exclaimed May. “ Papa—”
“Your father is an obstinate, proud
man, May Halley; but he is honest and
true, and always did his duty by his
men.”
“ I am sure he did,” said May, with
animation.
“Yes, my son has told me so a score
of times. But this firm—these Rutherbys—what - do they do ? I’ll tell
you, girl—but come and sit down here
by this window, for I am an old. woman,
and weak.”
May hesitated for a 'moment, then
suffered herself to be led to a chair, as
if she were the visitor, and the old lady
mistress of the place.
“There,” said the latter, on seeing
the hesitation, “ you need not be afraid,
child—hard words break no bones; and
I have a right to speak to you—the
right of age—the right of an old woman
to a motherless girl.”
May glanced up at her quickly, for
the old lady’s face had wonderfully sof
tened, and she leaned forward to softly
stroke the girl’s peachy cheek.
“Yes, May Halley, I ought to be
very bitter and angry with you ; but I
cannot, for when I think, it seems to me
that I might perhaps have been your
mother.”
[Christmas, 1873.
“ My mother!”
“Yes, your »mother, child ; for in the
days gone by your father would have
made me his wife. But that matters
nothing now. I came to tell you of
your cruelty to my poor boy, who has
gone to his death.”
“ But, Mrs. Anderson,” exclaimed
May, “ it cannot be as bad as you say.”
“ Child, it is worse, I tell you. These
men buy wretched old ships, patch and
paint them up, engage good sailors to
man them, and send them to sea—to
their death.”
“ Oh, impossible I ” cried May.
“Impossible? It is done, I tell you,
and known to many, but no one inter
feres; and when one more bold than
the cowardly people who look on at the
wholesale murder interferes, and cries
boldly to the country, ‘ This should
not be,’ he is told that it is im
possible ; he is cried down as an
enthusiast, charged with interference
with that which he does not under
stand, and kept back when he calls for
proper inquiry.”
“But are you sure that this is true?”
cried. May, earnestly.
“ My son has told me, and he never
lied,” said the old lady, in a stately
way.
“It is too dreadful!”
“Too dreadful, child, perhaps; but,
none the less, true. I give you my son’s
words—the words of the dead, for he
will never return. I read his thoughts
when he said good-bye. He knew only
too well the character of the ship in
which he had madly engaged to sail.”
“ But why did he go?” cried May.
“ Because you drove him to it,” cried
the old lady; “because you made him
mad by your coldness. But he did not
know when he engaged himself that it
was in one of Mr. Philip Merritt’s ships
that he was to sail unto his death.”
“But, stop a moment,” said May;
“are you sure of this?”
“Did I not tell you that my son told
me?” retorted the old lady. “Sure?
What became of three of Rutherby’s
.ships last year? You never heard?
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
No, nor any one else : they sailed from
port, and were never heard of more.
And do you know what that means, child?
No, you could never have painted it
in its right colours, or you would not
have engaged yourself to a man who
could join in such atrocities. Yes, you
may we lk cry,” she continued, as May
half-turned away her streaming eyes—
“ you weep at the thought of it; but
what must have been the agony of
those watching mothers and wives who
saw those they loved set sail? Poor
common people, my child; but they
have the same feelings as you have, and
perhaps suffer more sharply, for they
have not the wealth that plasters so
many sores. They watch and wait,
and watch and wait, till every hope is
crushed out; and then at last their
poor few shillings go in what might
have been bought at first—a piece of
crape.”
There was silence for a few minutes,
broken only by a sob from May.
“See here, my child,” continued the
old lady, more gently, as she held
one of May’s hands in hers, and
softly stroked it, after pointing to her
weeds—“see here, I have no need to
go buy mourning, for I wear it now.
This was for my poor husband, who
sailed away, happy and light-hearted,
to battle with the treacherous sea. He
had all that good owners could supply—
a stout, new vessel, and good crew; but
he never came back. What then can I
expect for my son, who has gone with
all as bad as bad can be? Oh, my
child, my child, you’ve broken his
mother’s heart!”
In a moment, the cold, almost harsh,
- dignity of the old lady had passed
away, and she was on her knees by
May, sobbing over the hand she tightly
clasped.
The tears fell fast, too, now from
May’s eyes, as she rested her other hand
upon the thin, bent shoulders of her
visitor, whom she raised at last and led
to a couch, seating herself beside her,
and trying to whisper comfort; as with
hot, wet cheek bearing witness to her
:-----------------_-------------------------------
39
emotion, she whispered, in broken
words—
“ Indeed, you wrong me. I never
treated Captain Anderson as you seem
to think. I always met him as a friend
and visitor. He took me by surprise—I
did not know—”
Mrs. Anderson sat up, and pushed
back the loose white hair that had
escaped from beneath her cap.
“ My child,” she said, “ I came here
ready to curse you for your cruelty to
my poor boy, and you make me feel as
if I could do nought but bless. I was
angry and very bitter against you ; but
think how a mother must have felt. I
do not wonder now at his despair. But,
tell me, child,” she half whispered, as
she drew May towards her, and kissed
her cheek — “ do you think, if it were
possible that my boy could come back,
you could—”
May started from her, the colour once
more flashing to her forehead.
“ Mrs. Anderson, you must not ask
me that. Only believe this of me, that
I never intentionally hurt the feelings
of—of your son. Please leave me now,
for I am—I am not well. You have
told me much that I did not know.
Papa could not know-it either.”
“ He knows it, child; but he will not
believe it. But I’ll go now—back to
my lonely home, to pray for his safe
return ; or if he come not back, that
He may take me where I may see him
once again, for I shall have nought to
live for then.”
She rose to go, then stooped to pick
up a bow of crape which had become
detached from her breast. May stooped
first, and held it in her hand, while the
old lady gazed searchingly in her face.
“ Good-bye, child,” she said at last, as
she laid her hands upon May’s shoulders.
“ Had he lived, I do not think, after all,
you would have been half good enough
for John ; but I’ll kiss you, and say God
bless you!”
The' tears sprang to May Halley’s
eyes; and, putting her arms round the
old lady’s neck, she warmly returned
the kiss.
�dfiQ3SaS¿BÉKB)
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
40
Mrs. Anderson trembled as she turned
to go, saying once more—
“ I’ll go and pray for his return; and
if, child—if you could—”
“Yes,” said May, simply, as she di
vined the wish but half expressed—
“ yes, I’ll join my prayers to yours.”
“ For him ?” said the old lady.
“ For him and all his crew—for all
poor sailors on the sea; and pray that
God may bring them safely home. No,”
she added, sadly, as Mrs. Anderson held
out her hand for the bow of crape—
“no, not now. I’ll keep this, and
send it to you when your son comes
back.”
“And if he should not?”
“If he should not!” repeated May.
[Christmas, 1873.
“Yes, child; and if he come not
back?”
The colour once more suffused May
Halley’s cheeks, as her eyelids drooped,
and she whispered, softly—
“ I’ll wear it for his sake!”
The next minute Mrs. Anderson was
descending the stairs, muttering to her
self—
“And I came to curse her with a
mother’s curse!”
Her worn old face looked very soft
and sweet, years seemed to have rolled
away as the soft light of love suffused it;
but the next minute it was bitter, hard,
and stern, and her eyes, yet wet with
emotion, flashed fiercely as she slowly
swept by Philip Merritt in the hall.
j^OURTEENTH
HOW JEREMIAH
BASALT
TALKED
ASN’T it Shakspeare as said
‘ Ignorance is
bliss,’ Master
John? But,
there, it don’t
matter who
said it, igno
rance A bliss.
Just look at
our chaps, as
rough a scratch
crew as was
ever got toge
ther, sailing in
this old tub
without so
much as a
grumble!”
“ D o n’t
speak ill of the bridge that carries you
well over, Jerry,” said John Anderson,
smiling. “We’ve walked over it safely
into Hong Kong here, and landed our
cargo dry and sound—what more would
you have?”
OF
WALKING
HOME.
“What’ more’d I have? A good
deal. I’d like to go to my hammock
feeling safe. If |you was ashore now,
would you take lodgings over a powder
magazine? Not you! And by the same
token, I don’t like sailing in a ship that
may go down at any moment.”
“There, don’t croak, Jerry,” said An
derson, trying to assume a cheerful
aspect; but it was a failure, for disap
pointment and the anxiety of his voy
age had made him age so, that thin
threads of white were beginning to ap
pear at his temples. “ Don’t croak, old
fellow—we’ve got here safely.”
“ Got here safely! Why, we couldn’t
help getting here safely. Look at the
weather we’ve had. Why, I could ha’
sailed one o’ them old Thames barges
here, with a boy for crew. Yes, we’ve
got here safe, and no thanks to nobody
but the clerk of the weather.”
“ And we shall get back safely, Jerry,”
said John Anderson, leaning over the
taffrail, and looking down into the water
of the harbour.
“ I don’t know so much about that,”
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!
growled the old man. “ If it wafn’t for
you, burn me if I wouldn’t buy a good,
stout bamboo stick, tuck up my trousers
and walk home.”
“ Do what?”
“Walk home! There, you needn’t
laugh; ’taint such a very long way, if
you make up your mind to do it; and
what’s more, the country chaps—the
Chinees and Tartarees, and others, would
give you a lift now and then. I’d find
my way, if I made up my mind.”
John Anderson, for the first time for
months, laughed aloud, to his male’s
great annoyance.
“ I don’t care,” he growled; “all you’ve
got to do is to steer doo west, and you
must come right sooner or later.”
“ There, never mind thinking about
that,” said Anderson. “ All being well,
we’ll sail the Victrix up the Thames a
few months hence.”
He turned round, and went down be
low; while Basalt, to show his disgust,
spat about the deck in all directions.
“ An old beast!” he growled. “ She’s
too bad for a breaker’s yard. Look at
that,” he grunted, “ and that, and that.”
As he spoke, he gave a kick here and
a kick there, at cordage, anchor, chains,
bulwarks—anything that came within
his reach.
“As for them Rutherbys, hanging’s
too good for ’em. I know what I’d do
with the beggars, I’d set ’em afloat in
their own ships, and if they came back
safe I’d forgive ’em.”
It was as Basalt had said, the weather
had been glorious; and from the time
that the Victrix had left the Downs till
she entered Hong Kong harbour they
had had nothing but favourable breezes
to waft them to their destination. Cer
tainly the vessel did not look so spick
and span as when they left the Thames;
for the sun and wind had played havoc
with the bright paint, which had peeled
off, leaving the old ship in a state which
exposed the patching and plastering
she had received.
A week passed, during which much
had been done, and John Anderson was
looking anxiously forward to the time
41
when he could start again, and get well
on his return voyage; for somehow of
late the old despairing feeling had grown
weaker, and hope had done something
towards restoring the tone of his mind.
“ It was my own fault,” he told him
self, again and again. “Here am I
admitted into the presence of a gently
born and nurtured girl, and I behave—
how ? Like a savage,” he said, bitterly.
“Well, and how are things your
way ?” said Anderson, one day, after a
general overhaul of rigging, standing
and running, previous to the start for
the voyage home.
Jeremiah Basalt thrust his hands
deeply into his pockets, walked to the
side of the vessel, and began to sprinkle
the water with tobacco juice. After,
which he walked, or rather rolled, slowly
back to his commander, stared him in
the face, and began to whistle.
Anderson waited for him to speak;
but as no answer came, he repeated his
question.
Basalt stared all the harder, if it were
possible, and whistled a little louder.
At last he spoke—
“ How’s things your way ?”
John Anderson looked at the dry,
screwed-up visage before him for a few
moments; and then he, too, began to
whistle softly, turned on his heel, and
walked away.
He glanced round once, though, to
see what caused a sudden fioise; but it
was only Basalt, heavily slapping his
thigh, as he muttered to himself—
“ Had him there ! Hadn’t a word to
say for himself. How’s things, indeed!
Why, they couldn’t be worse. There
aint a bit of new rope that aint spliced
on to a bit of old; and what’s the con
sequences? why—as the Scripter says
about the new wine in the old bottles—
it ’ll all go to smash. My stars, I wish
I was safe home alongside the missus.”
John Anderson had expected no good
news; but he had found everything he
had examined so bad that one word
of encouragement would have been a
blessing.
♦
�42
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
J^IFTEENTH
pABLE
[Christmas, 1873.
J^ENGTH.
HOW MR. HALLEY WAS BULLIED.
TUDGE sat
on the hol
lowed top of
his stool in
Halley’s office,
with his mouth
pursed up and
his face look
ing very fierce.
He was a little
round man was
Mr. T u d g e,
and as he sat
upon the top
3
of his high stool, it re
quired very little
stretch of the imagina
tion to fancy that na
ture had just been
playing atcup-and-ball
with his little round
body and had caught
him in the cup. He
was a very estimable
little fellow ; but his grizzly hair would
stick up like bristles on the top of his
head, and he would have himself shaved
so dreadfully clean all over the sides
of his face and under his chin, that,
every evening regularly, he looked as
if he had had the lights and shadows
of his countenance stippled in with
little dots by an engraver.
Mr. Tudge had been clerk at Halley’s
from the very commencement of that
business, and had grown clerkly in the
extreme. He was very wise in busi
ness matters, but most ignorant respect
ing himself. For instance, if unable—
being only five feet two inches high—to
reach a paper or book from a shelf, he
would salute a six-feet clerk with, “ Are
you any taller than I am ? If so,- try
and reach that down.” He hardly
seemed to conceive, either, that he was
any older than he had bSen forty years
before; and certainly never for a mo
ment doubted that when he grew old
he should retire from his duties and
take to gardening at Barnes. Being so
clerkly, the interest Mr. Tudge took in
other people was either compound or
shipping interest, and he always spoke
of matters from a shipping point of
view.
Mr. Tudge was sitting at his desk,
frowning and angry, awaiting the com
ing of his principal. He held a heavy
ruler in onehand, as if prepared to knock
some one down, and with the other he
stabbed the desk with a penknife. He
evidently felt that such a thing was
possible, for he had curbed himself by
sticking a pen across his mouth. But
he flushed very angrily as he glanced
from clerk to clerk, one and all of whom
scribbled away furiously.
He had not long to wait before Mr.
Halley came in,looking rather worn and
anxious; and his coming was greeted
with a stab of the penknife in the desk,
and an imaginary blow given with the
ruler at some person or persons un
known.
In a few minutes there was the sound
of a bell. A clerk answered it, and
then came to summon Mr. Tudge to his
principal’s room.
“Well,” said Mr. Halley, “whatnews
this morning?”
“ Bad.”
“How bad?”
“ You ought to have been here yester
day.”
“ Well, I know that,” said Mr. Halley,
peevishly; “ but I am poorly and wor
ried, Tudge, and I stayed at home.”
“ You heard about the Victrix, I suppose ?
“What, Rutherby’s ship? No; good
God!—what?”
“ Gone where she was expected to
go,” said Tudge, quietly.
�Christinas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“ Ah, to China,” said Mr. Halley, ap
parently relieved. “Arrival noted, or
spoken?”
“Gone to the bottom,” said Mr. Tudge,
bringing his ruler.down bang upon the
table.
Mr. Halley sat looking at his clerk
for a few moments in silence—a cold,
clammy dew making itself felt the while
upon his forehead.
“ It’s—it’s very dreadful, Tudge.”
“It’s—it’s damnable, sir!” said Tudge,
angrily. “ And do you know who’s
gone down in her? Why, of course you
do—Jack Anderson, the lad I loved like
a son, sir; and it’s all your doing, for
letting him go.”
Mr. Tudge made no scruple about
rubbing a tear out of each eye, as
he snatched a chair forward and sat
down.
“Don’t talk like that, Tudge,” said
Mr. Halley, huskily. “ It was a bad
job, certainly; but the young man was
presumptuous, and worked his own
ruin.”
“I’m not goingto quarrel about that,”
said Mr. Tudge, hotly; “but I know
what I know, poor lad! But hark here
—here it is per telegram: ‘ Queen steam
ship—picked up boat’s crew of Victrix
of London—men in the last stage of
starvation—left captain and mate on
board—ship couldn’t float an hour.”
“ Then, she may not have gone down,
Tudge,” cried Mr. Halley, anxiously.
“Not gone down!” echoed his clerk.
“ Hark here, sir. ‘ Loss of the ship Vic
trix. The White Swan, Bombay to
Alexandria, reports passing a quantity
of loose spars and timber, with portions
of the cargo floating, in long. — lat. —
many of the bales being marked Vic
trix. The next day a boat was picked
up stove in, with ‘ Victrix, London ’ on
her stern.’ There you are—there’s no
doubt about it. Three thousand pounds’
worth of teas consigned to you. You
would give the order.”
“Yes,Tudge,”said Mr. Halley, mildly,
“ I would give the order.”
“ But, I told you.”
“And I wouldn’t believe it.”
43
“ And you don’t now.”
“And I don’t now.”
“ But it’s true, I tell you, sir,” in
sisted Tudge; “it’s the common talk
everywhere.”
“ I won’t listen to common talk,
Tudge. Common talk is slander, and
I won’t hear people’s characters taken
away. The goods are lost; but they
were well insured, and it will be paid.”
“Yes,” said Tudge, “it will be paid ;
but I tell you what, sir, if you don’t
drop all connection with those people
your name will smell as bad as theirs.
The underwriters are setting dead
against you.”
“ Let them,” said Mr. Halley.
“They won’t look at the Emperor
and the Laura?
“Nexy well,” said Mr. Halley; “they
can do as they please.”
“And you’ll have to underwrite them
yourself, same as you did the Merry
May?
“Very good,” said Mr. Halley, smiling,
in an awkward fashion; “then I’ll insure
my own ships.”
“And send ’em to sea with poor cap
tains, same as you did the Merry May?
“Mr. Simmons is a very good sea
man,” said Mr. Halley.
“Bah!” exclaimed Tudge; “he’llsink
her or run her ashore. She’ll never come
back. I dreamed she wouldn’t, last
night.”
“Hold your tongue, Tudge! I won’t
be bullied this morning. I’m not well.”
“If I hadn’t bullied you any time
these thirty years, James Halley, you’d
have ruined yourself, and so I tell
you.”
“Well, well, Tudge—we won’t argue
that. What else is there?”
“ Isn’t that enough for one morn
ing?” said the old clerk, plaintively.
“Three thousand pounds lost in those
people’s ship! ”
“But well insured.”
“Yes,” said Tudge; “and that fellow
Longdale advised me to insure for four
thousand. He knew she’d go down, I’ll
swear.”
“Don’t say any more about it. We
�44
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
insured for the proper value, did we
not ? ”
“Yes, of course,” said Tudge, stoutly,
“and always have. But poor Anderson
wasn’t insured, and you can’t replace
him. He wasn’t Manchester goods, nor
Brummagem neither, poor lad. If ever
there was a bit of true steel, it was he.”
Mr. Halley turned uneasily in his
chair.
“You never ought to have parted
from him, Mr. Halley—never. He’d
have sailed the Merry May to good
fortune; while now, now—I know it as
well as if it was all over—she’ll never
come back.
A hundred thousand
pounds, that means, of our hard-scrapedtogether money, and all, James Halley,
because you will be proud, and obsti
nate, and won’t listen to those who know
what things are.”
“Tudge, you’ll make me angry di
rectly,” exclaimed Mr. Halley,peevishly.
“ I can’t help it, Master James, I must
talk this morning; and who’s a better
right to talk to you, when he sees things
going wrong, than your old clerk, who
has helped you for forty years to build
up your house ? Mark my words, James
Halley, if the Merry May is lost—as
I’m sure she will be—we’re ruined, ab
solutely ruined; for your credit will be
gone, and how can we get on without a
good name?”
“Tudge, you’ll drive me mad,” ex
claimed his exasperated employer.
“No, I won’t; but I will give you the
spur,” said Tudge. “ I don’t want to
drive you mad—I want to bring you
to your senses. Only fancy our house
ruined, and all through connection with
the Rutherbys. Oh, Master James, do
—pray do be warned in time! They’ve
got a bad name; but they won’t stick
at trifles, and so make money.”
“ It’s all a lie, Tudge.”
“It’s all true, Master James; but
people daren’t speak for fear of being
called up for libel. You can’t get on
with a bad name—it’s ruin to you;
because we’re a good, upright house,
and wouldn’t do a shabby thing or
send out a ship short-handed. A good,
[Christmas, 1873.
honourable house like ours, with its
great expenses for good things, can only
live with its name brightly polished. If
there’s a speck of mud thrown at it, it’s
all loss.”
“ But there is no speck of mud on it,
Tudge.”
“ I tell you there is, sir,” said Tudge;
“ and not a speck, but a big dab of mud;
and the underwriters see it, and they
hold back—all but the speculative ones,
and they want great premiums. I tell
you, sir, the brokers are beginning to
whisper; and if you don’t mind, that
whisper will become a shout, a yell, a
howl, a chorus of shrieks that will kill
us.”
“ Don’t, don’t, don’t,Tudge!” cried the
old man. “ What is the good of running
half-way to meet troubles that may
never come?”
“Run half-way, indeed! why, they’re
all close here,” exclaimed Tudge, bring
ing down his ruler upon the table.
“ It’ll be ruin, James Halley—ruin; and
if it does come to it, there’s my five
thousand pounds I’ve got in houses at
Barnes—you can have that; but it will
only be like a drop of water in a pail,
compared to what you want.”
“My dear Tudge,” exclaimed Mr.
Halley, reaching across the table to
shake his clerk’s hand warmly, “ I know
what a good old friend you are; but
you are imagining all sorts of unneces
sary troubles this morning.”
“Not I,” said Tudge, sadly. “All
my hopes have been in this house, and
I feel as strongly about it as if it were
my own. It aint the money I care for
—what’s money, after all ? It don’t
matter how much you have, you can’t
wear more clothes at once, nor eat more
mutton, nor drink more sherry than if
you have just enough to live on. Having
money don’t keep the doctor away.”
“ No, Tudge, nor yet trouble.”
“ No, nor yet trouble,” said the old
clerk, gloomily. “ Mr. Halley, sir, if
that ship, the Merry May, don’t come
back again, I shall—”
“What, Tudge?” said Mr. Halley,
smiling.
�Christmas, 1873 ]
“SHIP AHOY!
“I shall go home per cab,” said Mr.
Tudge, solemnly, “make out an invoice
of my effects, which will be disposed of
and the money given to the poor;
then I shall have a last glass of grog,
and smoke .a last pipe.”
“Last ones, Tudge?” said Mr. Halley,
smiling.
“Yes, last ones,” said Tudge, wiping
his eyes; “for I shall have nothing to
live for. Jack Anderson’s dead, and the
business ruined; and there ’ll be nothing
more for me to do but say my prayers,
and hang myself with my braces.”
“ Don’t talk in that way, Tudge,” said
Mr. Halley; “it is wrong, even in
jest.”
“But I’m not jesting,” said Tudge.
“What do you think May would say
to you, if she heard you?”
“Ah, what indeed!” said Tudge; “but
I should be obliged to do it. But I say,
sir, surely you never mean to marry
that dear girl to that young scoundrel,
Merritt ?”
“Tudge!” exclaimed Mr. Halley, an
grily, “ I will not have Mr. Merritt
spoken of like that. Why, confound it,
sir, may not I marry my daughter to
whom I like?”
“No,” said Tudge, stoutly, “you
mayn’t. You’ve no right to let her be
made miserable for life.”
“Pish!” ejaculated Mr. Halley.
“ ’Taint pish ! nor pshaw ! nor pooh !
nor tut! nor any of them,” exclaimed
Tudge.
“ Have you nearly done bullying,
Tudge ?”
“No, sir, I have not; though per
haps I shall never bully you again.
Look here, you know, sir. You’re such
a fine, honest, upright man that you
won’t believe any one you know to be
a scoundrel.”
“No, of course not,” said Mr. Halley,
good-humouredly. “Now, look here,
Tudge. Suppose some one was to come
forward and to say to me, ‘Look here,
Mr. Halley, there’s that fellow, Tudge,
feathering his nest at your expense.
He’s embezzling thousands.’ What
should you think of that?”
45
“Well—well—’’said Tudge, taken
aback, “I don’t know.”
“You wouldn’t like me to believe
it?”
“No, of course not.”
“ Then why should I believe ill of
somebody else ?”
“Ah, come now, look here,” cried
Tudge, recovering himself; “you’re an
eel, that’s what you are—a slimy, slippery
eel. You’re trying to wriggle yourself
out of a difficulty; but you see, I just
give you one crack over the tail, and
there you are done for.” And he brought
down the ruler again, bang. “Suppose
somebody did say I was swindling you.
What would you do, or what ought you
to do, eh ? Why, come and examine
my books thoroughly; and when you’d
done, you’d say, ‘ That man’s a liar and
a scoundrel. That man ought to be
transported who tries to take away an
other man’s character. Why, the books
are square to a farthing.’ ”
“ To be sure,” said Mr. Halley. “Then
how about Mr. Merritt’s character and
Rutherby’s ? You’re condemning your
self out of your own mouth.”
“Mr. Halley, you’re eeling again,”
said Tudge. “You’re coming the slip
pery, slimy eel, and you’ve got over
that crack on the tail I gave you; but
it won’t do. Here’s another for you.”
Bang went the ruler. “ There’s some
one—ah, a lot of some ones tell you
that Rutherbys are rotten, and that
Philip Merritt is a scoundrel.”
“Tudge, I won’t have it!” said Mr.
Halley, angrily.
“ They say—Rutherby’s—is—rotten,
and—Philip—Merritt—-a—scoundrel,”
said Tudge again, in measured tones,
and enforcing each word with a bang
from the ruler upon the table; “and
what do you do ?”
“ Say they’re a set of slanderous
rascals,” cried Mr. Halley, excitedly.
“To be sure you do,” acquiesced
Tudge; “instead of going and meta
phorically examining their books—see
ing into their characters ! James Hal
ley, you’re a blind mole, and a deaf
beetle, and an obstinate mule, as well as
�vjNCE a week annual.
46
an eel; and I won’t stand by and see
you ruin the finest old shipping trade
in the port of London—the trade we
made; and I won’t stand by and see
that dear girl thrown away, without
raising a voice against it. I don’t care,
I will speak—I’m up now; and I’d talk
now to anybody, because I’ve got right
on my side. I know I should have liked
to see John Anderson have her, and I’d
have left them my bit of money; but
that’s all over now. You’ll want that,
and you shall have it when you like;
but speak I will, and tell you to your
face that you’ve murdered a lad that I
looked upon almost as my own boy;
and now you’re'going to ruin the busi
ness, sell your own child into slavery,
and make me hang myself in my
braces!”
During the first part of this speech
Mr. Halley had been angry; next he
grew puzzled ; and lastly his face wore
^Sixteenth
HOW
THE
[Christmas, 1873.
a half-amused expression, as he rose,
with, a sigh and a weary look upon his
face to say—
“There, there, Tudge, let it rest now;
we’ve had enough for one day. I’m
not angry.”
“But I am,” said Tudge, sticking the
ruler under his arm, and making the
most of his height.
“Well, perhaps so; but we are too
old friends to quarrel. Hush, here’s
one of the clerks!”
“ Mr. Longdale and Mr. Merritt wish
to see you, sir,” said the man.
“ In a minute, Smith,” and the man
disappeared.
“Take care—pray take care, Mr.
Halley, sir. The wolf and the fox
come together—pray—”
“ Tudge, you’re going too far,” said
the old man, angrily, and he rang the
bell for the admission of the two mem
bers of Rutherby’s ship-owning firm.
J
“VICTRIX
C O MPLETE,
crew aboard,
the last coolie
out of the
ship, and the
sound ’o f
Pigeon - Eng
lish heard no
more.
“ Confound
their jabber!”
cried old Ba
salt, “I’m sick
of it. It’s for
all the world as if you took a bucketful
of English and a bucketful of Chinese,
and poured ’em into a cask, stirred
’em up with a capstan bar, and then
BEHAVED
IN
A
GALE.
swallowed it by spoonfuls. I gets that
savage when I hear them jabbering and
chattering, and smiling out of their
crooked eyes at you, that I could cut
their tails off, and stuff ’em down their
throats. And yet, I dunno, they’re
about the innocentest-looking chaps I
ever see. I don’t think I could hit one
on ’em werry hard.”
John Anderson’s spirits rose as the
soft winds wafted them homewards,
with studding sails set alow and aloft.
Hope was evidently very busy with
him, and Despair, with her lowering,
black wings, farther and farther away.
When he reasoned with himself, and
told himself that his aspirations were
mad, and that which he wished im
possible—that he had had his final
dismissal, he owned that it was so, that
there was not the most faint prospect
in life for the realization of his desires;
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
but he hoped all the same, and walked
his deck with a step daily growing more
elastic.
“There, Jerry,” he said, one evening,
after they had made a tremendous run
through the bright, creamy waves, that
softly foamed under the favouring gale
_ “ there, Jerry ! what do you think of
things now ? Will you come for another
voyage in the Victrix?"
Basalt screwed his face round, so as
to look at his captain, without moving
his body.
“,We aint finished this here yet.”
“No; but see how we are getting
on.”
“.Now, look here,” said Basalt, slowly.
“Do you for a moment think as this
here sort o’ weather’s going to con
tinue?”
“ Well, no,” said Anderson, smiling,
“ I can’t say I do.”
“ Nor I, my lad; and when the foul
comes, then look out.”
Another week passed, and still the
winds favoured their return; and the
Victrix, heavily laden though she was,
rose over the long swells, and forced her
way homeward, like some huge bird
eager to gain its nest.
“Home, home, sweet—sweet home,”
hummed Anderson, as he leaned over
the side, and thought of the parlour
where that pleasant old face would be
bending over some piece of work, to be
every now. and then raised in a far-off
look, as its owner wondered where “my
son” might be, and breathed a prayer
for his safety.
A smile played round John Ander
son’s lips, but there was a moisture in
his eye. Soon,-though, a troubled look
swept over his frank face, like a cloud ;
for the memory of the scene at Canonbury came back, and with it the re
collection of whose was the ship he
sailed, and its state.
“And if I do get back in safety,” he
muttered, “ if I don’t expose this scan
dalous state of affairs, I’m no true man.
I wouldn’t have believed it, that human
beings who call themselves men —
gentlemen, would send their fellow
47
creatures afloat in such a sieve as this,
just to make money. Good God ! it’s
frightful!”
He took a few steps up and down,
and then went on. So engrossed was
he with his feelings, that he did not
notice Basalt, who was peering anxiously
ahead.
“I can hardly believe it, at times,”
continued Anderson; “and if it were
not that we are having weather in
which the frailest craft might live—”
“Below there! Pipe up, boatswain,”
roared Basalt through his hands; and,
directly after, the shrill whistle was
heard.
“We’ll have a bit of this canvas off
her at once,” continued Basalt, coming
up to the captain. “Look there, and
there.”
John Anderson saw immediately the
necessity for executing the order; and,
all hands being called up, the stun
sails were had in, then the royals were
lowered, and by the time they were
taken in a complete change had come
over the sea, which, from being bright
and glorious, now looked leaden and
murky. Instead of the pleasant, full
breeze, the wind came in puffs—hot, as
if from a furnace door.
Orders were given quickly, and the
top-gallant sails were soon down; but
before the mainsail could be taken off
the ship, a squall struck her, and split it
to ribbons, while the vessel heeled over,
and her fate seemed sealed.
It was but for a minute, though; the
squall passed over, and an ominous calm
ensued. The ship righted; and now,
for the first time, Anderson felt how
short-handed he was. He knew that
at any minute now, another and a fiercer
squall might strike them; and, if so, what
would become of the ship? Sending
Basalt to the helm, though, he seized a
speaking-trumpet, and shouted his com
mands to such effect that, ere the next
squall came, topsails and stormjib only
were set, the former reefed; and the sails
left unfurled were let go,to flap and beat
about in the wind.
“Look out, there!” roared Basalt.
�48
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Send me another man here to the
wheel.”
Before Anderson—who ran himself
—could reach him, down came the storm
with a shriek and a roar, laying the Victrix on her beam-ends. The wheel flew
round, hurling Basalt to one side; but
he was up again in an instant, and cling
ing to the spokes. Anderson reached
him, too; and as the ship righted, she
answered her helm, and, paying off,
literally flew before the wind, with her
loose sails splitting into ribbons.
“ There’s too much on her by a
mile,” roared Basalt in Anderson’s
ear; but the words had hardly passed
his lips before the main-topsail split with
a crash, heard above the din of the
tempest, and two minutes after was
literally ripped from the yards, and
blown away.
It relieved the vessel, though, which
had been running, nose down, shipping
sea after sea, which swept the decks,
carrying all before them.
The noise was deafening; but, more
by signs than by voice, Anderson issued
one or two more orders, whose effect
was to throw reefs into the other sails,
beneath which the vessel forced her way
through the murky sea.
Half an hour before it was broad day
light—now they seemed sailing through
[Christmas, 1873.
a thick fog of spray, swept from the sum
mits of the boiling waves; while as far
as the eye could reach, all was one field
of lurid foam.
Crash! A wave leapt over the quarter,
swept along the deck, and cut its way
out through the rotten bulwarks, fol
lowed by another and another: casks,
hencoops, and the jolly boat went with
them, while on the vessel flew.
“Stick to her!” shouted Basalt to
Anderson, as they fought with the sea
for who should maintain the mastery of
the helm. “We shall soon know what
she’s made of now.”
It was a struggle for life—men cling
ing to belaying pins, or lashing them
selves under the shelter of the bulwarks,
that might at any moment be swept
away. As to the sail, any anxiety that
the young captain might have felt about
that, the storm relieved him of, ripping
one-half the canvas away as if it had
been tinder.
Shriek—roar—howl! how the tem
pest raged ! There was no time for fear
in the excitement, the men seeming for
the most part to be stunned.
But the storm was brief as it was
violent—sweeping, as it were, over the
vessel; and in an hour a dead calm
had fallen upon them, with the Victrix
almost a wreck.
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!
EVENTEENTH
49
JSable
HOW JOHN ANDERSON USED HIS REVOLVER.
where Anderson was anxiously waiting
him, and whispered hastily—“Ten foot
o’ water—gaining fast—-leaking, like a
sieve.”
The words were hardly out of his lips
before the man who had overheard
Anderson’s order, and had been be
low on his own account, came on deck
and shouted, in a panic-breeding yell—
“ Boats out, lads—she’s sinking fast!”
Then a half-smothered cry of terror
ran through the men, as from all parts
T was a change that was they made for the deck, running down,
almost startling—drama sliding down stay and sheet, and each
tic even; for it was as aiming for one or other of the boats.
though so much canvas, Some saw to the oars, some sought for
storm-painted, had been drawn aside to some, again, made for the
water; and
display a calm. But though the to get biscuit and spirits.
cabin, foam
had to a great extent disappeared, there
“Stop, there!” cried John Anderson,
was a heavy swell on the water; and in a voice of thunder. “ Every man
the state of the ship, as the men crept stand aside!”
from their shelter, was pitiable: sails
There was a low, ominous growl; but
in rags, cordage hanging broken from not a man ceased his busy work about
mast and yard, and bulwarks splintered. the boats.
“ Now, my lads, up aloft! ” cried
“Do you hear?” cried Anderson,
Anderson, cheerily. “ Knot and splice furiously. “ Leave those boats, and
there, while we get up the spare sails.” all hands to the pumps!”
About half the men, with their knives
Not a man stirred; and, in his rage,
ready, ran at once up the shrouds, where Anderson seized the nearest, and dashed
they began to cut adrift the ragged him against his fellows. But it had no
canvas; while the others set to knotting effect: a panic had seized the men, and
snapped cord age, and arranging the deck they still busied themselves about the
lumber that had broken loose.
boats.
“ Go below yourself, and sound the
“ Basalt, my revolver,” cried Ander
well,” whispered Anderson to Basalt.
son, fiercely. “ Am I captain of the
The words were meant for his ear ship, or not ?”
alone; but they were heard by one of
“ To be sure you are, so long as she is
the sailors, who followed him closely, a ship,” cried a man, tauntingly; “ but
with a strange, suspicious look.
there won’t be a plank soon.”
Basalt was not gone many minutes.
The next moment he was rolling on
He came back very slowly and quietly; the deck, struck down by one tremen
and before he was half-way to Ander dous blow. Anderson forced himself to
son he stopped short, and putting his the nearest davit, and seized the tackle.
hands to his mouth he shouted—“Back, men—to the pumps!” he
“Ahoy! there, you at the maintop-gal cried. “The ship shall not be forsaken.”
lant. We’ll have that spar down and
“ Go and pump yourself,” cried an
fish it. I can see it’s sprung from down other man. “Come on, lads. She’s sink
here.” Thea he continued his way to ing, and our only chance is the boats.”
B
c
�--------------------- -—g
S3
50
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
The men uttered a howl of rage, and
pressed on Anderson, so that in another
minute he would have been helpless,
when, with a blow from a marlinspike,
right and left, Jeremiah Basalt opened
a way for himself, and the next moment
John Anderson was facing the men, with
a revolver presented at the nearest
mutineer’s head.
The men involuntarily fell back, leav
ing captain and mate side by side by
the ragged bulwarks.
“ Look here, my lads,” said Ander
son ; “ I am captain here. I have charge
of this ship and her valuable cargo, and
she shall be stuck to as long as a couple
of planks hold together. So every man
to his post. There is a-lot of water in
the hold; but we’ll pump her dry, and
then go on again.”
“ She’ll sink in half an hour,” cried a
voice—that of the man who had sounded
the well on his own account.
“ Cowards!” cried Anderson. “ Can
you not trust your captain ?”
“ No,” cried the same voice. “ Down
with him, lads ; he trapped us into this
old sieve.”
“ Get out the boats,” cried another.
“ Stand aside,” cried others.
And the men pressed upon the pair;
but with a flourish of his marlinspike
Basalt drove them back.
“Look here, my lads,” cried Ander
son, “we’re wasting time. Get to the
pumps and work; and I tell you once
[ for all that as soon as there’s danger
we’ll take to the boats: but like men, not
like a set of cowardly, beaten hounds!”
“ The boats—the boats!” shouted the
men.
“Back, scoundrels!” roared Ander
son. “ I tell you there is no danger
yet. Do you think we don’t value our
lives as well as you do yours? This
ship, with a valuable cargo, is in my
charge, and I will not have her left
without an effort to save her.”
“The boats—the boats—rush him!”
shrieked the men, half insane with their
coward fears.
Basalt made an effort to beat them
back; but they knocked him down, and
g--------------------------- -----
------------
[Christmas, 1873.
'
were rushing at Anderson, when, by an
adroit leap, he reached the boat swing
ing from the iron davits, and presented
his revolver.
“Back, you scoundrels!” he roared.
“ Every man to his duty. By the God
who made me, I’ll send a bullet through
the first man who touches the falls!”
“ Come on, lads—he daren’t,” cried
the sailor. “He helped to decoy us
into the rotten old tub, and he don’t
stay us now.”
The man stepped forward.
“ Another'step, and I fire!” cried An
derson.
“ He daren’t. Come on, lads; it’s for
life!” cried the sailor.
He dashed at the ropes, and the others
gave a cheer, and followed his example.
Crash!
There was a flash of flame from John
Anderson’s pistol, as he stood there in
the boat; a wild shriek; the sailor who
had been ringleader in the mutiny
leaped up in the air, and fell with a
groan upon the deck, where he lay mo
tionless, with his comrades looking on
aghast.
“ One shot! ” said Anderson. “ I have
five more, and they shall all tell!”
The men shrank back shivering from
the deadly weapon without a word, and
Anderson leaped from the boat.
“Now to the pumps, every man!” he
cried.
And the fellows cheered, and ran to
the handles, which were the next minute
clanking furiously, and flooding the deck
with water, which streamed down the
scuppers.
“Is he much hurt?” said Anderson,
anxiously.
“ Thigh broke,” said Basalt, quietly.
Then he ran down to the cabin, and
brought up a pillow, which he laid under
the man’s head. After which, Anderson
and Basalt bound and bandaged the
poor wretch’s leg, before superintending
the pumping, now going on briskly.
Keeping watch on deck, Anderson
now sent Basalt below again, but he
returned with the ominous words—
“Eleven foot. Making water fast!”
Ms
�Christmas. 1873 )
“SHIP AHOYP
pGHTEENTH
Pable
5i
^Length.
HOW THE BOATS WERE PUT OUT.
AKING water
fast!”
J eremiah Ba
salt said the
words in a low
tone of voice,
but without
moving a mus
cle. As far as
fhis face was
concerned, the
news might
have been of
the simplest
nature.
John Ander
son did not
speak for a moment, he only stooped
and held a flask to the wounded man’s
lips, for the poor wretch was faint.
Then he rose, and said—
“ Go down again, and see if you can
make anything out—whether a plank
has started, or the seams opened.”
Basalt was busy hewing a piece of
tobacco from his cake; this he finished,
before nodding and going again below.
He was not down long, and returned
to the deck to find Anderson, with
sleeves rolled up, pumping with the
men, and cheering them on.
He crossed to where Basalt stood.
“ Well ? ”
“Plank started, and you can hear
the water pouring in.”
“Two men here!” cried Anderson.
“ Now, Basalt, look alive with that spare
mainsail.”
In less time than could have been
supposed, the four men had hauled on
deck the great spare canvas—not to
find it of new, clean material, but old,
patched, and rotten.
Anderson’s brow knit more closely
as, dragging at the sail, the rotten
canvas gave way, making a large rent
at the side; but there were no other
holes, and it bade fair to answer the
purpose for which it was intended.
“ Pump away there !” shouted Ander
son. “ We’ll soon ease you.”
The men cheered again, and the
water poured faster than ever from the
scuppers, as captain and mate fastened
on ropes to the four corners, and made
ready for what seemed their only hope.
At first the men had looked on wonderingly ; but now they saw the object
in view, they cheered more heartily than
ever, for John Anderson, climbing over
the side and making his way forward,
passed the ropes that held the lower
corners of the sail under the bobstay,
and then, partly aided by the ship’s pro
gress through the water, they hauled
and hauled till the great sheet of can
vas was drawn down below the water,
and applied like a great plaster to the
ship’s side where the plank was started
—the pressure of the water holding it
against the hull.
“ Now,” said Anderson, as he stood
making fast the last rope, “ down below,
and see how matters are.”
Basalt was gone longer this time, to
return and say, in a loud voice—
“ Can’t hear it pouring in now.” Then
he added, in a tone only meant to reach
the captain, “Making water fast as ever.”
“ Pump away, my lads,” cried Ander
son, cheerily, and he handed the revolver,
to Basalt—“ I ’ll bring you some grog.”
The men cheered again; and in a few
minutes Anderson returned with some
spirits, which he made one of the men
serve out while he took his place at the
pump. Then, while the men were pump
ing away with full energy, he went down
below himself, to find that, though the
sail had to some extent checked the in
rush of the water, yet it was still stea
dily rising, flowing in through the seams
�---52
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
which had opened with the heavy work
ing of the vessel; and before he had
been below five minutes he knew that
it was impossible to save her.
“ Well,” said Basalt, drily, as he re
turned the revolver, “what do you think
now of Rutherby’s ?”
“Don’t speak to me now, please,”
said Anderson, in a choking voice. “I’ve
joined in as murderous and cruel a deed
as ever was perpetrated, and look at
that poor fellow there.”
“ Deserved it,” said Basalt, laconi
cally. “ Served him right. I only wish
it had been one of the partners.”
“ Basalt,” said Anderson, in a low
voice, “ if it comes to the worst you
must forgive me for this.”
“ There, get out; don’t talk like that.
It aint come to the worst yet.”
The momentary gloom that had come
over Anderson now seemed to have
passed away, and he was all life again,
as he shouted to the men, so as to be
heard over the clanking of the pumps—
“ Look here, my lads; while there’s a
chance of saving the ship we ’ll stick to
her like men.”
“ Hear, hear!” roared some of the fel
lows who had been most forward in try
ing to get away.
“ While the weather holds good we
can keep the water down, and we are
right in the track of ships to get help.”
“ Hooray!” roared the men again.
“ But, look here,” continued Ander
son, “ I want you to act like men, and
do your duty by your owners ; but I
don’t want you to run any risks; so
while you stick to the pumps, we two
will get water, compass, and stores in
the boats, so that we can go at a mo
ment’s notice.”
“Hooray!” cheered the men again,
and the water bubbled and flashed from
the ship’s sides; though all the same it
rose darkly, silently, and surely in the
hold, as Basalt found when he once more
sounded the well.
Anderson was down on one knee, ar
ranging the pillow of the wounded man,
when Basalt whispered his bad news.
The moment before the sailor had
[Christmas, 1873.
lain still, with eyes closed and pallid face,
apparently insensible, while Anderson
wore an aspect of sad commiseration;
but the man heard Basalt’s announce
ment, and opening his eyes wide, with
horror in every feature, he uttered a
wild yell, and shrieked out—
“ Run for the boats, lads—she’s going
down!”
At the same moment, he turned on
one side, and struck at Anderson with
an open knife, which he had held ready
in his jersey sleeve.
Anderson’s quick action saved him ;
for leaping up to meet the effect that
he knew the words would produce upon
the men, the knife, instead of being
buried to the haft in his side, made a
long, ugly gash down his leg, from which
the blood spurted to stream down upon
the white deck at every step he took.
“Curse you! If you warn’t hurt—”
roared Basalt, as he wrested the knife
from the treacherous scoundrel’s hand,
hurling it overboard almost with the
same movement, and making as if to
dash his closed fist in the man’s face.
“Why, it oughter ha’ been eighteen
inches higher with you, that it ought.”
Then he turned to help Anderson,
who had started forward to confront the
men, pistol in hand, once more. For
at the cry of the wounded man they
had left the pumps, and rushed once
more for the boats, but only to back
slowly, as Anderson literally drove them
to their work with the pointed revolver.
“ I told you, when there was danger
of her going down we’d take to the
boats,” he said, sternly, through his
clenched teeth; and he pressed them
back, leaving a track in blood upon
the deck as he did so, till once more
“ clank — clank, clank — clank ! ” the
pumps were going again, and the water
foaming and flashing down into the sea.
“ Quick—tie my handkerchief tightly
round there,” said Anderson; and Basalt
bound up the'wound, but with his own
handkerchief, which he held ready.
“ Now for some biscuit, and a breaker
of water in each boat.”
Basalt worked with a will; but of the
�Christinas, 1873. ]
“SHIP AHOY!”
two boats left, one was so hopelessly
stove in that it was useless to think of
getting her afloat. He directed all his
efforts, then, to the other, and worked
alone; for John Anderson stood sentry
with his revolver, pale as ashes, and
evidently faint with his wound.
’ Water, biscuit, compass, some pork,
the sail, a coil of small rope, and, lastly,
some fishing lines—all were stowed in a
quiet, methodical way in the boat by Ba
salt, who stood thinking for a moment.
“More water,” he said, gruffly; and
proceeded to get another small breaker,
which he stowed forward before coming
back to think again.
INETEENTH
53
“Chart,” he said next, in the same
tone; and fetched one from the cabin, to
roll it tightly, and place it in a tin case.
Then he had another thoughtful sur
vey of his preparations.
“’Mother bag o’ biscuit,” he said; and
this he stowed away.
At last all seemed ready, and he stood
slowly counting the men pumping, and
then making calculations apparently
about the boat.
“What is it, Basalt?” said Anderson,
at last; for the old man stood growling
and grumbling at his side.
“ Why, I’ve reckoned up every way I
can, and two ’ll have to stop aboard!”
JCable
HOW JOHN ANDERSON WAS LEFT BEHIND.
WA S no
m istaking
the effect
of the sail
hauled
down be
neath the
vessel’s
bows, but
that only
stayed one
place.
“Lor’
bless you!” said Ba
salt, “ she’s pitted all
over with a regular
small-pox of holes,
and the water’s coming in at every seam.
It’s no more’n I ’spected, my lad. She
only wanted a bit of a shaking, same as
our storm give us, to make her open all
over like a sieve, fill and sink; and
that’s just what the owners wanted.”
w No, no, Basalt,” said Anderson, sadly.
“Ah! you may say no, no, my lad ;
but you think yes, yes. Yah! it’s all
plain enough. If they’d wanted her to
be anything better than a coffin for the
poor helpless sailors as navigated her,
■s.
why didn’t they see that she had ropes
that weren’t rotten, sails that weren’t
tinder, seams that weren’t like doors, and
timbers that weren’t worm-eaten ? Why,
she’s as full of devils as them there pigs
that ran down the steep place into the
sea, and perished in the waters. Why,
my lad, half the bolts in her hull are
sham ones—devils, as the shipbuilders
call ’em—just running an inch or two
into the plank, instead of right through
to hold her together. Copper-fastened,
A 1 at Lloyd’s! Lord’s truth! I wouldn’t
mind a pin if it warn’t for one thing.”
“ What’s that ? ” said Anderson.
“Why, them there beautiful owners
aint aboard,” said Basalt, savagely.
“ There, my lad, I do think, if that
smooth-tongued vagabond who wanted
me to get our old Merry May lads
aboard the rotten old hulk, cuss him!
was only here, I could just take a fresh
bit of’bacco and go to the bottom like
a man. No, I couldn’t,” he added,
quickly—“ I could a time back; but now,
my lad, there’s a something that seems
to draw me towards where there’s the
best woman in all the world, down on
her knees in her own room a-praying of
God to bring some one safe back again,
and that some one’s me. Now, my
�> ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
lad, it’s a nice thing to feel—that some
body wants you back home again; it
curls round your heart and makes you
say, ‘No, blame me if I do, I won’t die
a bit.’ ”
And all this time the pumps went on
“ clank, clank, clank,” till it seemed that
they had obtained the mastery over the
water. The vessel was low down; but
the water did not rise now, and Ander
son let half the men lie down, and eat
and drink, while the others pumped on.
It was a weary time, though. They
had to watch, Anderson and Basalt, re
volver ready; for they could not trust
the men, and they knew that if they
could once get the upper hand, disci
pline was gone for ever.
One, two, three weary days passed,
with the sea a dead calm. Not a breath
of air ruffled the surface of the long, low
swell that softly heaved and lowered the
Victrix; and all that time John Ander
son knew that he had done his best,
and that the case of the ship was hope
less. But still he clung to her: she was
entrusted to him as captain, and he had
his duty to do. That the owners were
scoundrels, and held in no more account
the lives of her crew than that of the
rats that swarmed in the hold, was no
thing to him: he had engaged to navi
gate the ship, and do it he would to the
very end.
At last a breeze sprang up, and John
Anderson felt that the end had come.
The men were wearied out with pump
ing, and could do no more. There was
no more sail on the vessel than was ab
solutely necessary for making her obey
her helm; and yet as she heaved, and
began to roll, the water rose rapidly,
and the men dropped the pump handles
in despair.
“ It aint no good, sir,” they said, in
chorus; “we’ve done our best now, and
it’s time to take to the boat.”
“Yes, she’s going down now,” cried
one of the men. Then in an agony of
dread, he shrieked out, “No, no—don’t
shoot, sir, don’t shoot!”
“I’m not going to shoot, my lad,”
said Anderson, quietly. “I wanted you
[Christmas, 1873.
all to do your duty to the owners, and
I’ve made you do it. Now the game’s
up, and we must save ourselves.”
“Hooray! yes, the boat!” shouted
the men, with a cheer.
“Stop!” roared Anderson. “Don’t
spoil all now. She ’ll float for an hour
yet; so don’t rush in that mad fashion.”
The men had been running to secure
places, with poor fallen man’s selfishness
uppermost; but, though no pistol was
displayed, they listened to the voice
that had so often enforced discipline,
and quietly took their posts in the boat
as it was lowered, Basalt going first
on being told, and ordering each man
to his place till the boat was full, and
there was no one left on deck but John
Anderson and the wounded sailor.
It was just sunset as the last man
passed over the side, and the boat, kept
off by a hitcher, rose and fell with the
increasing sea.
As the last man slid down a rope
and dropped in, he was greeted with a
murmur, for the boat was already over
loaded to danger pitch.
“We can’t take no more,” growled
the men. “ Come on, captain.”
“ Stop, make room there,” shouted
Anderson; “here’s Morris.”
And he made ready to haul on the
rope which was to lower the wounded
man into the boat.
“No, no, no, no!” roared the crew.
“We can’t have him; he’s sure to die.
Come on, captain, and leave him.”
John Anderson’s answer was to haul
at the rope, and the next moment he
was lowering down, by means of a block
and fall, the man who had made an
attempt upon his life.
“ Well,” roared one of the men, “you
can see for yourself. If you lower him
down there won’t be room for you too.”
“ I know it,” said Anderson softly to
himself.
“ Look here, my lads,” said the same
voice; “ we can’t leave the cap. He’s a
tartar; but he didn’t do more than his
dooty.”
“ But we can’t take him and this chap
too,” cried the others.
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873.]
The sun set as if at one bound, and
night was already stealing fast over the
waters. Great soft puffs of wind came,
as if to announce, like stragglers that
they were, that a breeze was coming on
in force, and the sea began to leap and
foam beneath the ship’s counter.
“Lookhere, cap’n,”shouted the same
voice again—“ haul on again, and have
him out, and come down. We can’t
hold on much longer.”
John Anderson did not answer; but
it was a bitter struggle. Spite of all,
the love of life was strong within him,
and it required a tremendous effort to
Stay himself from leaping down into
the boat- barely seen in the fast gather
J" WENTIETH
HOW JEREMIAH
55
ing darkness ; for in spite of the diffi
culty one man still held on to the chains
with a boat-hook.
It was evident that there were two
parties in the boat—one for pulling
off as they were, and the other for
getting the captain aboard; and at last
the dispute rose high. Then darkness
fell; the breeze sprang up as if by
magic, and as the Victrix rolled heavily,
and then surged through the water,
the boat fell off, and John Anderson
felt that he was in the midst of the
wide sea, standing upon a floating coffin,
that before long—perhaps in a minute’s
time—would sink beneath his feet: and
then ?
ENGTH
BASALT TURNED UP A TRUMP.
ANIGHT
7 had fallen
y black as
\ pitch, and
the wind
sang through
the cordage,
as John An
derson stood
listening at
tentively, and
trying to
pierce the obscurity for
one more last
look at the
boat* but though he peered through
his hands, held telescope fashion, he
could see nothing, and he turned away
at last, to utter aloud the one word—
“Gone!”
“Well, and what could you expect?”
said a gruff voice at his elbow.
“Basalt!”
“My lad!”
Choking with emotion, John Ander
son caught the rugged old salt by both
hands, too much moved to speak.
“ I know what you thought,” growled
the old fellow, but very huskily; “you
thought I’d gone wi’ ’em. Just like you!
But I hadn’t.”
John Anderson could not speak, for
he was weak with loss of blood and
anxiety. He sank down on the deck,
and sat there in silence, holding Basalt’s
hand in his; while the wind sang above
them, the water hissed and gurgled, and
washed round the vessel’s bows, and at
last the stars peeped out one by one, as
if looking down upon the perils of those
two true-hearted men, brave as any of
the heroes of old, sitting upon the deck
and waiting for the hour when their last
hold on life should sink from beneath
their feet.
The breeze blew freshly as the night
advanced, and at times a wave leaped
over the sides, to deluge the deck; for
the ship was very low now, and as she
heeled over, the water could be heard
rushing from side to side, and threaten
ing each moment to burst up the deck.
Quite two hours must have passed,
and still the two occupants of the ship
sat as if stunned with their misfortune.
At last a fair-sized wave rose slowly
by the side of the rolling vessel, and,
�I
56
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
without effort, seemed to heave itself
aboard, sweeping coops, ropes, all before
it, till it rushed out of the opening in
the bulwarks left by the storm.
This was too much for Basalt, and
seemed to rouse him from his lethargy.
“ Look ye here,” he growled; “ if we
are to die, we may as well die ship
shape, with the wind well abeam, and
not go down yawing about, and rolling
in the hollow of the sea, without a man
at the wheel.”
Anderson did not speak; but rose
slowly and painfully, to lean with one
arm upon the bulwark.
“ Let’s have a look at that wownd,”
said Basalt. “ Ugly cut!” he muttered,
as, in the dim starlight, he stooped down
and rebound it—tenderly as might a
woman—before helping his companion
up by the wheel, where he spread a
tarpaulin for him to lie upon, before
taking hold of the spokes in a quiet,
matter-of-fact way, and bringing the
rudder to bear with such effect that in a
few moments, water-logged as she was,
the ship slowly answered her helm, the
rolling motion ceased, and heeling over
a little under the three sails set, she
moved gently through the water.
“ You see,” said Basalt, after a pause,
“ I thought we should have been at the
bottom before this, or else I should have
been here sooner. Anyhow, we’ll go
down now like sailors, and that will be
some relief.”
Another hour passed almost in silence,
with the vessel slowly making way.
Basalt managed the helm so that, low
as the Victrix was in the water, the
waves ceased to leap aboard, and only
seemed to lick the sides as if in antici
pation of the coming feast.
“Well, you know,” cried Basalt at
last, in a pettish, impatient voice, “ I
can’t stand much more of this, for it’s
neither one thing nor the other. If
we’re going down, let’s go down ; and if
not, let’s float.”
“Don’t murmur, Jerry,” said Ander»
son, quietly. “We ought to be thank
ful that we have been spared so long.”
“ But I hate being humbugged,” cried
[Christmas, 1873.
the old man. “ Here, I come aboard
thinking we were going to sink with all
colours flying—romantic-like, after the
fashion as you reads of in books. I
thought we were going down directly,
and that’s hours ago. Only that I
thought as it was all over, I should have
tried to dodge something to get us clear.
I waited patiently like a man; but now
I sha’n’t wait no longer, for it’s just
come to me like, that one aint no call
to die till one’s reg’lar obliged. So here
goes.”
These words seemed to rouse Ander
son.
“ Let me try to hold the wheel,” he
said, getting up and taking the spokes.
“ Good for you,” cried Basalt. “That’s
cheery. Keep her just steady like that,
and she may hold out till morning.”
Then, with the greatest of alacrity, the
old fellow set to work.
First he brought some biscuit and
rum to Anderson, and stood over him,
holding the wheel while he took some
refreshment.
“ That’s right,” he said, “ you’ll hold
out better. Keep her steady; for if an
other sea comes aboard, it ’ll be the last.”
The next minute he was gone; and
soon Anderson saw him moving about
with a lantern, which he set down now
here, now there, in different parts of the
deck. Then there was the rolling about
of casks, the dragging here and there of
hencoops and gratings. Then Basalt
would trot to the wheel, to have a few
words with Anderson, begging him every
time to “handle her softly;” for as each
hour glided slowly by, the desire for life
grew stronger in both men, stunned and
ready for death as they had been the
evening before.
At last there was a broad belt of
light in the east, then a flash of orange
shafts, and a few minutes after the sun
rolled up above the purple water, turn
ing the vessel into gold, and showing
Jeremiah Basalt, with the sweat pouring
off his face, lashing and binding spars
and coops to four empty casks, and im
provising a raft that bade fair to float
I for an unlimited time in any calm sea.
�Christmas, 1S73.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“ Handle her softly!” he cried to An
derson. “ If she’ll only keep up another
hour I’ll be ready for her.”
He spoke as he ran to and fro—his
last effort being to drag a couple of
gratings on to the top of his raft, and
secure them there with lashings.
There were oars and a spare boat
hook, mast and sail, coils of small sheets
already on the raft; and, by almost super
human efforts, he had built up in the
centre an edifice composed of a couple
of breakers, or small fresh-water casks,
a pork cask, and some bags of biscuit.
The next hour was spent in adding
security to the rough affair by means
of fresh lashings, which Basalt added
wherever he thought they would have
good effect.
“There!” he cried, at last. “That’s
as rough an attempt at a craft as ever
Robinson Crusoe made; and if I could
have three wishes now, the first would
be for his uninhabited island to heave
in sight.”
As he spoke he shaded his eyes with
his rough hand, and swept the offing.
Then, as if he had not ceased speaking,
he continued—
“But,.as it don’t seem disposed so to
do, why, here goes for a launch.”
Armed with a bit of rope, he ran to
Anderson, and then, with a few dex
terous twists, he lashed the helm fast,
and then handed the rum bottle.
“Take one swig, my lad—it’ll give
you strength. That’s right. Now a
taste for Number One. And now come
and haul a pound with me.”
A few strokes from an axe cleared
away the rough projecting fragments of
the bulwark, where the sea had beaten
them out, leaving a broad opening just
opposite the raft, and the water was not
above five feet below.
“Now then, with a will,” said Basalt,
handing a capstan bar to Anderson to
use for a lever.
And between them they prised and
prised, till they had the raft partly
hanging over the side.
“ Let’s make fast a painter,” said
Basalt.
57
This he did, and then stood thinking
a moment.
“’Bacco and grog!” he cried, and ran
down to the captain’s cabin, to return
in a minute with a case of spirits and a
couple of boxes of cigars.
These he had no sooner stowed in a
cask than he seized the capstan bar again.
“ Quick, my lad—quick—heave.”
It was time, for a loud hissing sound
of escaping air told them that the water
was rushing faster into the vessel.
“Heave—-heave!” cried Basalt again.
And they forced the raft a few inches
farther over the side, where it seemed
to catch against something and stick.
“My God,we shall go down with her! ”
Another heave, and another, and then
Anderson’s bar snapped in two, just as
the ship gave a lurch, and the confined
air below shrieked again. But Ander
son stooped down, thrust his hands be
low the raft, and lifted with what little
remaining strength he had.
That little lift did it; and the un
wieldy mass overbalanced, and fell into
the sea with a heavy splash; was half
submerged, but righted again; and at
one and the same moment the confined
air, forced into a smaller and smaller
compass below by the rushing water,
literally blew up the deck of the vessel
with a loud crash.
“Over with you!” roared Basalt.
“ Jump.”
And together the men leaped on
to the frail raft, which rocked and
threatened to capsize with the sudden
weight thrown upon it. But it righted
slowly, and floated bravely, although
those who freighted it thought not of
this, but of their peril; for, though
launched upon their raft, they were close
alongside of the sinking ship, and Basalt
had let fall his knife between the spars
beneath his feet.
A few seconds would have decided
their fate; but John Anderson saw the
danger. His knife was out in an in
stant, and the rope that held them to
the ship was divided. The cut had also
set free a couple of oars lashed to the
side for safety; and with these they
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
paddled and rowed with all their might
to get the raft beyond the vortex of the
sinking ship.
“ Pull—for God’s sake, pull!” shrieked
Basalt. “ We can’t die now—we can’t
die now!”
But all seemed vain; for the great
"J" WENTY-J^IRST
f Christmas, i?73-
vessel, close to which they lay, now
seemed to give a shudder as she rolled
over, first on one side and then on the
other, preparatory to making a plunge
which would cause such a whirlpool as
must suck down the raft beyond all
possibility of redemption.
JCable
ENGTH.
HOW SERPENTS CRAWL.
iilip
Merritt
came regularly
to sit and talk,
nominally with
Mr. Halley; but
necessarily his
encounters with
May were very
frequent, and he
probably, from
reasons of po
licy, forbore to
make any osten
tatious display
of his claims. It
was an understood thing that he was
engaged to her, otherwise he might have
been an ordinary visitor.
“Wait a bit, my scornful beauty,” he
muttered to himself more than once, as
he left the house—“ I’ll bring you to
your senses yet.”
For he found poor May very bad
company; in fact, she had hard work to
keep from broaching the subject that
lay next her heart. Young and gene
rous, she found it hard to believe the
tales she had heard of her betrothed’s
dealings, for they seemed more asso
ciated with the character of the ruffian
than with that of the polished gentle
man.
It was the evening of the long dis
cussion between Mr. Halley and his
clerk, and the former had returned to
Canonbury, looking pale and anxious.
He had had a long business interview
with Merritt and Mr. Longdale, and had
invited the two gentlemen to dine with
him, sending up word by a messenger.
May was dressed and waiting when
he came, ready to question him about
his troubled aspect; but he put aside
her queries, went up to dress, and on
descending gave a slight start as he
caught sight of his child’s attire. For
May was dressed in white, and in place
of flowers wore at her breast a black
crape bow, which stood out marked and
singular.
For a moment the eyes of father and
daughter met, and a slight shiver passed
through the former as he placed his own
interpretation upon the mark; but no
word was uttered, and a moment after
Philip Merritt was announced, to come
forward subdued and gentlemanly. He
saluted May in a quiet,unobtrusive way;
started visibly as he caught sight of the
crape; and then, after a few remarks on
current topics, turned to talk with Mr.
Halley, just as Mr. Longdale was an
nounced, to enter bland and smiling,
exhibiting so much smooth surface that
it seemed as if all the genuine man had
been polished away.
The dinner was announced, and Mr.
Longdale took down May. He, too,
glanced at the crape bow; and, urged
at length by curiosity beyond his custo
mary caution, he hazarded the question—
“ I trust, Miss Halley, that you have
sustained no family bereavement ? I
had not heard—”
Merritt and Mr. Halley, who were
deep in conversation, paused on the
instant, and there was utter silence for
�Christmas, if73-3
“SHIP AHOY!"
a few moments, till May said, in a low,
deep voice—
“ I wear it, Mr. Longdale, according
to promise, in memory of a brave man.”
Longdale bowed and was silent; while
Merritt, white almost as the cloth before
him, hurriedly resumed the conversation
with Mr. Halley, but in an inconsequent
manner that was so broken as to enable
him to jealously listen for each utterance
of the others.
Longdale, though, talked upon indif
ferent topics for- a while. Then he said
suddenly, with a deep sigh—“Yes, Miss Halley, there are awful
changes in this life. Did you read the
announcement of our sad loss?”
“ I did,” said May, coldly.
“Is it not awful?” said Longdale,
ignoring a kick which he received from
Merritt below the table. “‘ They who
go down to the sea in ships,’ you know
the rest.”
May bowed her head; but Longdale
could not read the disgust written in her
countenance, and went on—
“So sad! A fine ship—one of the
finest in the service; a valuable cargo
and some of her best men lost, swal
lowed up.”
May had not meant to reply, but the
words escaped in spite of her—
“ You seem to place the losses in
order according to their value,” she said,
satirically, but with a heavy sense of
pain at her heart; and as Merritt looked,
he saw, with jealous rage, her hand
pressed upon the crape bow—all uncon
sciously, though, for she was only seek
ing to control the heaving of her breast.
“ Exactly,” said Longdale, who was
too cunning of verbal fence to be hit
by such a barbed lunge—“exactly so,
Miss Halley. I place our poor ship
first and least; then the cargo of our
merchants; and last and best, the brave
men who have been snatched away from
us. It is one of the great drawbacks
to a shipowner’s profession, having these
awful losses: they cause many a sleep
less night.”
May was checked. In her guileless
heart, much as she disliked the speaker,
59
she could not believe that he could
assume so much. It would have been a
blasphemous hypocrisy, she reasoned;
and after vainly trying to fathom the
depths of his cold grey eyes, she said—
“And is it certain to be true, Mr.
Longdale ? Is there no hope of the
others being saved ?”
“I will not say that,” he said, sadly.
“ It is too much to hope for, I fear; but
who can despair when rescues that are
almost miraculous continually meet our
notice?”
May Halley was confounded, and sat
in silence during the remaining few
minutes that she stayed at the table.
What did it mean? What was she to
think ? Were people wild, bitter, and
extravagant in their charges against
these men ? It must be so; for it was
impossible, utterly impossible, that this
quiet, courtly gentleman could sit and
talk to her so sadly of a loss that he
had almost, if not quite, helped to com-'
pass for his own vile ends.
It was cruel work, and her breast was
torn by a dozen contending emotions.
To whom could she fly for advice in
such a strait? She knew not; though
she felt that she could not trust herself.
Thought after thought, how they flashed
through her mind!—till she rose at last
to leave the party to their wine.
Philip Merritt hurried to open the
door for her; and as she swept by, there
was such an appealing look in his eyes
as they met hers—such a look of honesty
and love—-that in spite of all she had
heard, her pulses quickened, and the
look she gave him in return was softer
and less full of doubt; while he returned
to his chair, smiling and triumphant,
knowing that Longdale had helped his
suit more than a month’s wooing of his
own.
As he returned to his seat, it was to
find that his partner had at once re
sumed the subject of the business upon
which they had been to Mr. Halley’s
offices in the morning.
“You see, Mr. Halley,” he was say
ing, “Merritt has placed all his avail
able capital in our hands; but it is not,
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
as I explained, sufficient for the exten
sion we propose. Certainly the insur
ance money for that wretched Victrix
will help; but we should have another
thirty thousand, which I hope you will
determine to advance.”
Mr. Halley sat tapping the table with
his fingers as Longdale filled his glass and
pushed the claret jug towards Merritt.
“And, by the way,” he continued,
“you must not give Philip here the
. credit of proposing you as our banker;
; for certainly it would, I must own, have
been in bad taste. It was my sugges
tion. Merritt, try this claret, it is ex
quisite.”
The two partners exchanged glances,
for Mr. Halley still sat thoughtful and
silent.
“ That was very sad news about the
Victrix, gentlemen,” he said at last.
“Frightful!” replied Merritt; while
Longdale merely bowed and raised
his eyebrows slightly.
“ They have been talking over it a
great deal in the City to-day.”
“ Yes, I suppose so,” said Longdale,
calmly; while Merritt shifted uneasily
in his chair. “ It hits the underwriters
a little; but then they calculate for these
contingencies, and make money all the
same. Where would be their use if they
did not meet with losses?”
“Where, indeed!” said Merritt, un
easily.
“ The loss is looked upon very
seriously,” continued Mr. Halley.
“Of course,” said Longdale, applying
himself once more to the claret jug.
“ It is a very, very serious loss. I am
afraid, though,that we made a great mis
take in entrusting her to that Anderson;
but there, poor fellow, he’s no more!
You cast him off for some incompe
tency, I believe?”
“No, by Heaven!” exclaimed Mr.
Halley, impetuously, “ for a finer sailor
never trod a deck. Gentlemen, you
know the old proverb, ‘ De mortuis nil
nisi bonum’? I can use it here, and say
it with all sincerity; for a braver, truerhearted man was never trusted with the
care of property and the lives of men.”
$--------------------------------------------------
[Christmas, 1873.
“ I am very glad to hear your advo
cacy,” said Longdale, who was ever ready
to catch each current as it set; “you
relieve me of one anxiety which preyed
upon my mind. You can hardly tell,
Mr. Halley, how these responsibilities
tell on me. I was really afraid that we
had made a false step in engaging with
poor Anderson, and had not done our
duty to the crew.”
“ If seamanship could have saved
your vessel, it would have been now
afloat,” said Mr. Halley. “I grieve
much for the loss of John Anderson;
and would gladly give half I possess to
shake him once more by the hand.”
“ But we arc bearing away from our
subject,” said Merritt, who was anxious
to go to the drawing-room and join May.
“Yes,” said Mr. Halley, “ I was talk
ing about the loss of the Victrixi'
Longdale’s face gave an angry twitch,
for this was not the subject he wished
to discuss.
“ They have been saying very ugly'
things about her loss,” said Mr. Halley,
slowly.
“ Ugly things ? About her loss ?
Good heavens, Mr. Halley, what do you
mean?” exclaimed Longdale, turning
in his chair.
“ They say that Rutherby’s sent out
the ship ill-found, and heavily insured,
and did not expect to see her back.”
Crash!
Longdale’s clenched hand came down
upon the table with a heavy blow that
made every glass dance.
“ Some cursed, contemptible rascal of
an underwriter, who has fifty or a hun
dred pounds in the insurance! But who
is it, Mr. Halley, who is it?”
“Yes, sir,” exclaimed Merritt, “who
is it? If we could find out the villain,
we’d ruin him. We would, wouldn’t wre,
Longdale?”
“We would, as sure as there’s a law
for libel. Some anonymous, skulking
scoundrel, who is never happy without
he is blacking some one’s character.
Who was it ? Give us his name, Mr.
Halley.”
“ That I canr.ot do, gentlemen,” said
��ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
Mr. Halley, quietly. ft It would be dis
honourable in me. I should be betray
ing a trust. But these losses are very
awful, and, I must say, incomprehensible
to me. I never had them.”
“ Mr. Halley,” said Longdale, rising
stiffly, “your language is rather strange.
Surely, sir, you, as a shipowner, must
know enough of the risks of ocean
traffic to see that we have been rather
more unfortunate than is common. You
J'wENTY-JSeCOND
[Christmas, 1873.
do not, surely, for a moment, impute to
us, your guests, any—”
“ If you please, sir, here’s an old lady
—one of those who came to see Miss
May—-wants to see Mr. Longdale and
Mr. Merritt, and won’t take no for an
answer.”
“ It’s only me, gentlemen,” exclaimed
a pitiful voice; and before she could be
prevented, Mrs. Gurnett had forced her
way into the dining room.
J2aBLE
J_zENGTH.
HOW MR. LOiJGDALE WAS CALLED TO ACCOUNT.
YOUR
pardon,
gentlem e n,”
said Mrs.
Gurnett;
know it’s
I e and
ig of me,
b’s life and
h to me,
II e men,
I’ve been
to both
■ houses,
and found you were here ; and I knew
that my dear old master there wouldn’t
be so cruel as to stand in my way, and
keep me from seeing you, so I came—
Mrs. Gurnett, gentlemen, landlady of the
Jolly Sailors, gentlemen, and Mr. Basalt,
Jeremiah Basalt, sailed in your ship
mate in the Victrix—Captain John
Anderson—and I saw only an hour ago,
in the evening papers, that—Oh, oh,
it can’t be, it can’t be! Pray, pray tell
me it isn’t true !”
The poor woman had been speaking
with an effort, and now she staggered and
would have fallen, had not Mr. Halley
caught her and helped her to a chair.
“Wine here, Merritt,” he said; and
then angrily, to the gaping footman,
“ Go, and shut that door.”
“ No, no—no wine—water,” gasped
Mrs. Gurnett, pushing back the glass,
and looking appealingly at Mr. Halley
as she spoke to the two partners.
“We are old people, gentlemen; but
we loved each other in our poor simple
way, and we were to marry when he
came back. I felt he would be lost, and
begged him to stay.”
“ But, my good woman,” interposed
Longdale, in deprecatory tones.
“ It’s too bad, you know,” said
Merritt.
“ Let her speak,” said Mr. Halley,
sternly.
“ Thank you, dear master,” said the
poor woman, simply. “ I begged him to
stay; for I knew what Rutherby’s ships
were.”
“Confusion!” exclaimed Merritt. “I
cannot stand this.”
“ Be quiet, my dear boy,” said Long
dale, blandly; “you have nothing to
fear.”
“But—but,” sobbed Mrs. Gurnett, “he
was that loyal and true to his captain,
that go he would; and he made me—for
he had such influence over me that I
could have died for him if he had told
me—he made me—say—‘Go, and God
bless you;’ and I said it, and sent him
to his death.”
“But we are not sure yet, Mrs.
Gurnett,” said Mr. Halley, soothingly.
“ Sure, dear master ? oh, yes, we are
sure ! Why did you send him away from
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!
his own old ship, that he seemed to be
a part of, and while I knew he was with
it I felt almost that he was safe? But,
oh, gentlemen, it was you I came to see.
How could you—oh, how could you send
those poor brave men in that rotten
ship?’’
“ Confound it, woman, how dare you
makesuch a charge?’’exclaimed Merritt,
savagely; “you’re mad—a lunatic—you
ought to be put in an asy----- ”
He stopped short; for he suddenly
became aware that, with face white as
her dress, May Halley was standing in
the doorway. How long she had been
there he could not tell.
Longdale saw her at the same,
moment, and speaking blandly, he said,
in his soft, kid-gloved tones—
“ My dear Merritt, do not be hard
upon the poor woman, who is half beside
herself with grief. Think of what she
suffers, and make allowances.”
“What is it, nurse?” said May, ad
vancing into the room.
“ Oh, Miss May, my own darling, are
you there?” cried the weeping woman,
starting up to fling herself at the young
girl’s feet. “ Oh, my darling, they’ve
drowned him—they’ve murdered him !
Oh, no, no, no—what am I saying?
Please don’t notice me,” she cried, ap
pealingly. “ I say more than I mean ;
for it is so hard to bear. Mr. Halley,
sir—dear old master—you were always
kind to me; ask them for me—speak
to them for me; they’ll answer you.
But pray, pray don’t deceive me—don’t
say cruel falsehoods to comfort me and
get me away quietly, as if I was a
child. Only tell me, gentlemen, please,
is what I have read in the paper true,
that the ship, the Victrix went down, and
that my poor Basalt and the captain
went down with her ?”
“ It’s as true as that their murderers
stand there,” said a harsh voice from the
doorway; and all started to see the stern
old face of Mrs. Anderson at the door.
“Yes, you may shrink back and
cower, you gentlemen” she cried, bit
terly. “And you, James Halley, how
dare you consort with such villains ?”
63
“ My good woman,” exclaimed Long
dale — ”
“Good woman!” exclaimed the stern
old dame, pointing at him with her
stick. “ How dare you speak to me, you
cringing, smooth-tongued hypocrite?
Do you think I do not know you,
Reuben Longdale ? Yes. You have
crawled up and up the ladder of life
to be a shipowner, and every step has
been the dead body of a better man.
Yes, you will deny it, and quote Scrip
ture, and subscribe to missions, and give
to new churches; but when at the last
day the great God who made us all of
one blood shall say to you—1 What of
those men I trusted to your care?’
what then, coward-—murderer—unpro
fitable servant—what then ?”
“ This is too much,” exclaimed Mer
ritt; while May bent shivering over the
kneeling form of Mrs. Gurnett.
“Silence, boy!” exclaimed Mrs. An
derson. “You are young yet in such
villainy. Run from it while you have
time—run ere hell gapes for you more
widely. How dare you speak, when I
ask that man what he has to say that
I should not impeach him of the murder
of my son—of my son, a man so brave
and true that it seems horrible to me
that God could have let him be the
slave of that cringing reptile. Yes;
wipe your wet brow, and shiver, mur
derer ! Where is my son ? Where is
the crew of the Tiber? Drowned!
Where is the crew of the Great Planet?
Drowned! Where is the crew of the
Grey Dawn? Drowned! Where are
the crews of twenty other ships of which
you have been part owner—ships that
were rotten—ships that were bought
and patched—ships that were made by
cheap contractors with bad materials—
ships built to sink? James Halley, if.
you in your career had lost a tithe of
them, you would have been a beggar;
while this man—look at the well-fed,
smooth, sleek serpent, and see how he
has thriven !
“ But it will not last,” continued the
old woman, fiercely, in her denuncia
tion, and seeming, as she stood there,
�64
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
like some prophetess of old—“ it will not
last! The Lord shall hear the cries of
the widow, the fatherless, the bereft;
and a day of vengeance shall arrive for
such as you.”
•She stopped, and turned to May, and
laid a trembling hand upon her fair
head.
“ Be very pitiful to me, my child.
God bless you. You knew it, then ?”
she cried, as she saw the crape bow.
And now her voice was weak and feeble,
as she clung to the trembling girl.
“Yes,” she said, gently; “be very piti
ful to me, and think of me in your
prayers. Ah, my child, he loved you
with all a strong man’s love—my son,
my dear first-born, whom I worshipped
so, that God has taken him away as a
punishment for my vain idolatry. But
he loved you, my child; and if I see
you no more, think of me gently; for
though once I felt hard and cruel, and
jealous of you, I could have loved you
dearly, with all a mother’s love. And
now—now he is gone! He died for you
—for your sake, in his despair!
“ Come,” she added, after a few mo
ments, and she laid her hand upon the
younger woman—“ come, Mrs. Gurnett, let us go ; we have no place here.
Mr. Halley,” she said, with a sweet, calm
dignity, “forgive me this. I'f it had
been your ship that had been lost, with
my poor boy on board, I could have
come and wept pitifully at your feet,
and asked for comfort; but as for these
men—”
She said no more; but holding Mrs.
Gurnett’s hand, and looking fixedly at
Longdale, led her to the door, where
she was followed by May and Mr. Hal
ley to the cab that was in waiting.
Then, without comment, Mr. Halley
[Christmas, 1873.
led May, weeping bitterly and quite un
strung, to her room.
When he returned to the dining-room
it was empty.
“ Where is Mr. Merritt ? Has Mr.
Longdale gone ?”
“ They said, sir, as they thought they
would not stop, but would see you to
morrow,” said Samuel.
“Thank God!” muttered Mr. Halley,
throwing himself into a chair, while the
partners were walking slowly back to
wards town, heedless of the rain that
was falling heavily, and that they were
in evening dress.
“ I’ve had enough of this,” said Mer
ritt at last.
“Don’t be a fool!” was the abrupt
reply.
“ No, I won’t,” said Merritt, angrily;
“ I ’ll drop it at once. That old woman
made my blood run cold. It is worse
than D.T. Another such scene as that,
and I shall lose May Halley.”
“ Nonsense!” said Longdale, abruptly.
“ Nonsense! I tell you I couldn’t
stand it; but I’ll have’no more of
it.”
“No more of what?” said Longdale,
in a fierce tone that made his companion
start, and stand listening beneath the
wall of an old house.
“This ship-owning—I can’t stand
it.”
“What! now that all has gone as you
wished—now that success has attended
the plans at which you connived—now
that your rival is removed from your
path? Philip Merritt, you are in with
us, and must stay.”
“ Must ?” said Merritt, roused to in
dignation by his partner’s language.
“Yes, must; or leave with us every
penny you possess.”
�Christmas, 1873-)
6S
“SHIP AHOY!”
J" WENTY-J" HIRD
JCabee
J^ength
HOW THE “VICTRIX” SANK.
BREEZE
saved
them —
the brisk
breeze,
coming
down in a
brief cat’spaw for a
few m oments, did
it. For as
the poor
ship shud
dered and
rolled from side to side, as if struggling
hard to keep afloat, the well-filled sails
bore her on a few yards farther from
the raft.
John Anderson, too, had answered
Basalt’s appeal, and tugged at his oar
with all his might.
But it was cruel work; for the un
shapely raft hardly answered to their
efforts, and seemed to hang back, as if
drawn by some horrible magnetic at
traction to the ship. To the men strug
gling for dear life, it was like some fear
ful nightmare, as they tugged and gazed
with starting eyeballs at their fate. A
few hours before, they could have gone
down without a struggle; but the efforts
for safety had begotten new hopes, and
death would have been hardly met now.
Drag, drag, drag—till the ash blades
bent and threatened to snap, and still
they scarcely moved away; while the
ship seemed animated with life, which
burst forth from her tortured bowels in
strange shrieks and cries. Rats by the
hundred swarmed up on to the bulwarks
and climbed about on to the shrouds;
and again and again there were sharp,
crashing reports, as other parts of the
deck blew up.
Such a few yards distant, even now;
and there was a strange creeping sensa
tion in Basalt’s hair, as if a cold skeleton
hand were stirring it. His face was
ghastly; but he did not for an instant
cease his efforts, dragging furiously at
his oar, though a shiver passed through
him that almost seemed to rob him of
all nerve when the Victrix—Victrix no
longer—sank back for an instant, throw
ing up her bows, and then gave one
slow, solemn plunge head first, and dis
appeared in a vast eddy of hissing,
foaming water.
It was an awful sight; and in spite
of themselves, Anderson and Basalt
ceased rowing as the hull disappeared,
and the masts and rigging slowly fol
lowed—the sails seeming to hang for a
moment on the waves as they filled with
air, and then split with a loud report.
But before the maintop-gallant yard
had sunk below the surface, they were
rowing hard against the dreadful cur
rent that sucked them towards where
floated a quantity of deck lumber, whirl
ing round and round before disappear
ing after the ship.
“ For dear life!” cried Basalt, huskily,
—“pull, my lad, pull!”
Words were not needed; but in spite
of every effort the raft floated slowly
towards where the water foamed and
boiled, and their fate seemed sealed.
Another drag, though, and another;
and either the rate of progress was
checked by their efforts, or the whirl
pool had less 'force. They saw it, and
dragged again and again, throwing their
last remaining strength into the efforts.
And not without avail; for a minute
after John Anderson had fallen back
exhausted upon the raft, while Basalt
half lay half sat upon the cask, with
the raft slowly rising and falling amid
the waves of the great Indian Ocean,
�----66
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
alone and helpless, a thousand miles
from land!
It was a long time before either
spoke, and then it was Basalt, who said,
as if to himself—
“That’s about the nighest touch yet.
Talk of Davy Jones’s locker!—one al
most heard the lid snap down.”
Then turning his back to Anderson,
he went down softly on his knees, and
remained so for some time, to rise up,
though, at last, muttering the only words
which reached his companion’s ears,
and they were—
“World without end, amen!”
The next minute he was bright and
cheery. Thoughts of their possible fate
did not seem to trouble him, as, in a
rough, fatherly way, he leaned over An
derson, placing spirit and biscuit to his
lips, and then proceeded to rebandage
the wound upon his leg.
“Cheer up, my lad,” he said; “it’ll
all come right. We have got a craft
under us as won’t sink; but as for that
Wictrix—”
His sentence was more forcible in its
incompleteness than ever it could have
been had he said all he thought; but
he mentally uttered no blessing on the
heads of Rutherby and Co.
“ First thing to be done is for half
the watch to go below,” he said; “and
that’s your half, cap’n. There aint
much stowage room, but get a sleep if
you can.”
John Anderson was too much ex
hausted to do more than thank the old
man with a grateful look, as his head
fell back upon a tarpaulin; and in
another minute he was sleeping heavily.
“ And that’s what I could do,” mut
tered Basalt, “ only I can’t yet. I’ll do
the next best thing, though; for it’s
been short commons lately.”
Then, in a cool, matter-of-fact way,
just as if the narrow escape from a terri
[Christmas, 1873.
ble death had not been shared by him,he
filled a tin pannikin with water, gave it
a good dash of rum, and then fished
out a couple of biscuits and a lump of
pork, which he set to, knife in hand, to
devour, sitting the while cross-legged
upon one of the gratings which formed
the quarter-deck of the raft, and think
ing sadly of Mrs. Gurnett and the snug
bar parlour at the Jolly Sailors.
The sun had risen to the meridian,
and slowly sunk to within an hour of
his setting, before John Anderson
awoke, to find that a rough awning of
sail cloth had been stretched between
him and the ardent heat. A pleasant
breeze rippled the water, and filled out
the little lug sail that Basalt had ma
naged to hoist.
For a few minutes the young man
lay thinking—wondering whether this
were the end of a horrible dream that
he had had. He felt rested and re
freshed ; the breeze, too, played plea
santly in his, hair; a soft languor
seemed to pervade his every sense; and
it was only by an effort that he pre
vented himself from lying there silently
thinking—always of home, of the perils
he had passed through, and of May.
Fie roused himself with a sigh; and
looking up, a pleasant smile irradiated
the rugged face of old Basalt, as he
shouted—
“Ship ahoy! What cheer?”
“ Better, much better,” was the reply.
“ Now let me take the watch, and you
lie down.”
“ That will I, with a will,” said Basalt.
“You’ll find the stores there, ready to
hand. Eat well, my lad ; for it ’ll give
you strength to weather the next gale.”
A minute after, while Anderson was
making a frugal meal off biscuit and
water, Basalt, heedless of all perils and
dangers, was sleeping soundly upon the
raft.
�Christmas, 1873]
“SHIP AHOY!
J-'WENTY-J^OURTH
JSaBLE
67
J_^ENGTH.
HOW THEY FARED ON THE RAFT.
AN you imag i n e for
yourselve s
the position ?
Far away
from land,
upon a few
rough spars,
lashed with
ropes to a
cask or two;
with the
whole fabric rising slowly up the side
of each wave to plunge down the other
into the deep trough of the sea, groan
ing and creaking as the loose fragments
rub and grind against each other, fray
ing the ropes that hold them together,
and threatening to fall asunder at any
moment. John Anderson sat thinking,
with his head upon his hand; while his
rough old companion in misfortune
slept heavily. One by one the stars
came out, till the whole heavens were
one blaze of splendour, reflected a thou
sandfold from the glassy surface of the
long swell. The breeze had almost
died away as darkness set in, and the
little sail flapped idly against the mast.
If the weather kept calm, they might
exist for weeks, for they had food
and water enough; but he knew well
that, strive to strengthen it as they
might, the first rough sea must knock
the raft to pieces or wash them off.
Educated by his long sea-going to
wake at certain hours, Basalt rose up
about midnight; and there was some
thing almost comical in the manner in
which he treated their frail platform,
which was half submerged at every step
on the side, even as if it were a wellfound ship, with full crew.
“Anything to report, sir?” he said.
“ No, all is just as you left it, Jerry.”
“And a good state -of things, too,”
said the old man, beginning to whistle.
“ I suppose we must drift now till the
wind rises again.”
Drift was the word—drift, hour after
hour, in the same monotonous fashion.
Drift, the next day and the next, with
the sun growing each hour more power
ful, till it seemed to scorch the very
brains within their heads; and, in spite
of their thirst, every drop of water
having to be measured out to the exact
allowance upon which they had placed
themselves, so as to hold out as long as
possible. The afternoon sun at times
seemed unbearable, in spite of the awn
ing they contrived with a small sail;
and more than once the question oc
curred to each—was it worth while to
live and endure such tortures?
Four days, a week, a fortnight
passed slowly on, during which time
there had been nothing more than the
faintest breezes, and the raft had held
together still.
For the first few days Basalt fought
hard to keep up a cheerful aspect, and
succeeded well; but the awful lone
liness told at last upon him, so that
hours and hours would pass, during
which neither spoke, but sat wrapped
in thought apparently, though really
with their energies paralyzed — every
aspiration frozen into dull apathy.
It was on the fifteenth day that, early
in the morning, while serving out the
provisions, Basalt dropped his biscuit to
exclaim, with a hysterical sob—“ Ship
ahoy!”
And then turned/with outstretched
hands, gazing at a white speck glisten
ing in the sun upon the far-off horizon.
It was a sail, sure enough; and, with
straining eyes, Anderson stood by his
side, watching, and reading, as it were,
written upon that white speck—life,
hope, love, home.
�68
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Hoist a signal,” he cried, and at the
same moment went himself to the mast,
where he cast loose the sheet that held
the little sail, hauled it to the top, and
let it fly in the soft morning breeze.
“ They’ll see us, sir—they’ll see us,”
cried Basalt, cheerfully, the whole man
changing with the hope within him.
“ Cheerily, cheerily, my lad! That means
home, sweet home; and confound all
bad shipowners! How’s the wownd,
my lad—how’s the wownd ?”
The wound was fast on the way to
heal, and had ceased to trouble Ander
son, who did not reply, so interested
was he in the distant sail.
“Isn’t she lower down, Basalt?” he said.
“ Not she,” cried the old man, gazing
through his hands. “She’ll see us, safe!”
The old man stooped down and
slapped his knees, a broad smile coming
over his face, as he said to himself—“Hurray for the old stocking, and
success to the Jolly Sailors!”
John Anderson did not speak, but
stood intently gazing at the sail, till his
experience told him that there could be
no questionaboutit—they were not seen,
and the vessel was certainly more distant
than when they had first sighted her.
Another half-hour passed, and then
it became plain to Basalt, though he
"J"WENTY-j^IFTH
[Christmas, 1873.
would not own it as yet, but stood up
on the top of one of the water-casks,
cheering and waving his hat.
At last he stopped short, and re
mained gazing after the departing ship,
which sank lower and lower, till she was
the merest speck, when he descended
slowly, and proceeded to serve out the
biscuit and water — a process inter
rupted by the sight of the ship.
“ A bit and sup, my lad,” he said to
Anderson. “Never despair! Better
luck coming. It’s a bit of a disap
pointment; but I don’t mind it a bit,
for my part. In fact, it’s good; for it
shows us as we’re in the track of ships.”
Another day, and another, and an
other; and now the water began to run
short. They had drunk as sparingly as
they could; but the intense heat had at
last begotten a thirst that would not be
denied, and they had been compelled
to drink. There were symptoms, too,
of a change in the weather; the breeze
grew stronger, and the sail forced the
raft through the water. But though
they pressed on, it was so slowly that
it could do them no good. The nearest
land was the Cape; but at their rate of
progress, with favouringbreezes,it would
take them months to reach port, and they
knew that their only hope was a sail.
CABLE
HOW MR. TUDGE WAS TEMPTED.
TUDGE,
miss.”
“Show
him in,
Samuel,”
said May.
There was a
great deal of
shoe rubbing on
the mat out
side, and then
entered Mr.
T ud ge, very
spruce, his hair
curled—he had
spent an hour at a hairdresser’s on his
way; his tail-coat, of peculiar cut, but
toned very tightly across his chest; and
a general gala aspect about him, largely
increased by his carrying an immense
bouquet in his hand.
“How are you, Mr. Tudge?” said
May, advancing, with a sad smile, to
shake hands.
“ Like a man coming into sunshine,
my darling,” said Tudge, taking her
hand and kissing it. “Ah, my dear,
once upon a time, when you were little,
it usen’t to be your hand.”
“And it need not now, dear Mr.
�Christinas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
Tudge,” said May, offering her cheek
to the old man, who kissed it fondly,
and then sat down on the couch beside
her, retaining her hand, and, after lay
ing down the bouquet carefully by his
side, patting and stroking it tenderly.
“ Bless you, my dear,” he said, with
tears in his eyes—“God bless you!
And you grown such a beautiful young
woman, too. But I always said you
would; didn’t I now, my dear—didn’t
I always say you would?”
“You always spoiled me, Mr. Tudge,”
said May, laughing.
“ Not I, ” said Tudge, stoutly. “ But
May, my dear, what feasts we used to
have! Don’t you remember the cheese
cakes, the almond-rock, and the plums ?”
“ Oh, yes,” said May, smiling sadly.
“ I remember it all, Mr. Tudge.”
“To be sure you do, my sweet; and
I always said you’d grow up a beauty.
But, you see, I’m a rum old fogey of a
fellow; but I know what’s what. See
here—there’s a posy for you!”
May took the flowers he held out
with such pride—for he had gone to get
a simple bunch of roses, and ended by
purchasing the choicest bouquet of
exotics he could find.
“ It was very kind of you, Mr. Tudge,
and they are very sweet.”
“Not so sweet as her they’re meant
for,” said Tudge, beaming all over his
plump face. “And look how I’ve ne
glected to send you anything lately, my
dear! All business, though,” he added,
gloomily—“all business!”
“ That’s what I asked you to come for,
dear Mr. Tudge. You’ve often told me
you looked upon me as a daughter.”
“To be sure — to be sure. Why,
didn’t you use to laugh and call me
old Uncle Tudge in the old days, eh?
To be sure you did; and ah! what fun
we used to have?” His face was all
smiles; and leaning over her, he softly
stroked down, on each side, her bright
glossy hair. “ But stop,” he said, se
riously—“business. Why did you send
for me?”
“To talk to you about papa and the
business, Mr. Tudge.”
69
The old man faced round, serious as
a judge, with his mouth pursed, and one
finger held up impressively.
“I never bring the business outside
the office.”
“ But it is for poor papa’s good I
want to know,” said May; “and you
are in his confidence?”
“Confidence, my darling,”said Tudge,
“ why, he’s offered me to be partner six
times—six times, think of that! Said
I’d made half the business, and deserved
to be.”
“And why were you not, Mr. Tudge?”
“ Why not, my dear? Why should I
have been? I was right where I was.
Who was to have taken my place if I
had been partner? No; so long as I
could save a few hundreds, and go on
my own way, I didn’t want to change.
But if I’d known what I know now, I
would have been.”
“Why?” said May, anxiously.
“Why? To skid the wheel going
downhill—to act as a check and stop
him. Where is he to-night?”
“ Gone to dine at Mr. Longdale’s.”
“Damn Mr. Longdale!” cried the
old man, starting up, and stamping
about the room—forgetting, too, in his
wrath, his reticence about the office.
“I beg your pardon, my child—I know
it’s very wicked; but as soon as I hear
his name or—his name,” he exclaimed,
checking himself, “I get mad about the
way the business is going to the dev—
old Harry.”
“Then, things are very wrong, Mr.
Tudge?” exclaimed May.
“ Wrong, my darling, they’re—”
Slap!
Mr. Tudge administered a smart tap
to his mouth to close it, and then took
a good sniff at May’s bouquet.
“ If you only knew how anxious I am
about poor papa,” said May, pleadingly,
“ I’m sure you’d tell me.”
“ Can’t,” said Tudge. “ No business
out of the office.”
“But I’m so anxious,” said May.
“So am I,” said Tudge.
“And I do so long to know.”
“ Can’t help it, my dear.”
\
�7°
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
______—
“ Do tell me,” said May, tearfully.
“Would if I could—if I can’t, how
can I?” said Tudge, sternly.
“Do tell—for dear papa’s sake!”
“Now, don’t tempt me, my dear,”
“Pray tell me, dear Uncle Tudge,”
said May, laying her cheek against his
shiny bald forehead.
“ I never believed about saints being
tempted before now,” said the old man,
addressing the coal-scuttle; “ but I do
believe it, and give in. What do you
want to know?”
“ About dear papa’s affairs, and why
he is so dispirited.”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” he said, tenderly,
as May nestled up to him—“I’ll tell you,
darling, for you’re his own flesh and
blood, and I don’t know that I’m doing
wrong, after all.”
“ Are things so bad, then?” said May,
alarmed at his serious aspect.
“Very, very, very bad, my darling,”
said the old man, sadly. “ But don’t you
be alarmed, my pretty. You sha’n’t
hurt. I’ve saved five thousand pounds
—nearly six—and it’s all for you now,
though I did mean it to help him.
You sha’n’t come to poverty, my darling,
while Tudge has a pound to the good.”
“ But why, why would you not let
papa have it if he wanted it ?” said May.
“ Why, my dear?—because he’s losing
himself. He’s forsaking my advice,
which never failed him, and going by
what that Longdale says.”
“ But Mr. Longdale advises him well.”
“To lose every penny he has, and to
make his name stink like carrion!” cried
Tudge, angrily. “Mr. Longdale ought
to ,be hung—I—I—I—there, I believe
I’d do it myself—I’d hang him.”
“ Oh, Mr. Tudge.”
“Well, don’t he deserve it? And as
for his partner—that Merritt—”
“Oh!”
“Just like me. I might have known
that I should do it. Serve me right,
for talking of business matters before
people, and out of office.”
“ It was nothing,” said May, recover
ing herself; “but please, Mr. Tudge,
don’t say anything about Mr. Merritt.
[Christmas, 1873.
You forget that I am engaged to be
married to him.”
“ Oh, no, no, my precious, don’t—don’t
say that. I did hope that was all off.”
“ Papa wishes it,” said May, sadly.
“ But you—you never fell in love with
him,” said Tudge, earnestly.
May shook her head sadly.
“ Then you sha’n’t marry him,” said
Tudge.
“ Papa wishes it,” said May; “ and he
tells me these reports are false about
Mr. Merritt.”
“Ah, my child,” said the old man,
“ I did hope things would have turned
out different to this. I did hope to have
lived to see you and John Anderson
man and wife, and to have kissed and
blessed your little ones before I cast
up my last accounts, and gave in my
balance-sheet to the God who made
me, and said, ‘ That’s the best I could
make of it, and I wish the returns were
better.’ But now all seems to be going
wrong; and if you marry that Merritt—
There, my pretty one, don’t,” he cried,
excitedly. “ I’ll go down on my knees
and beg you not to, if you like—don’t
marry him; be an old bachelor like me
—no, I don’t mean that, I mean an old,
old—dear, dear, the account’s muddled
—I mean be an old maid—anything
but Philip Merritt’s wife.”
“Dear Mr. Tudge,” said May, sadly,
“papa believes in Mr. Merritt. He has
promised him, and we have been long
engaged. I must marry him. And, be
sides, he assures me that there is no
truth in those reports.”
“And Mr. Longdale backs him up,”
said Tudge.
“ Yes,” said May, simply.
“God help you, my child! ” said Tudge,
fervently; and without any attempt at
concealment, he drew out a great ban
danna and wiped his eyes. “I don’t
know, though,” he added, “ that I need
much mind; for there was but one man
in the world, and he’s”—gulp—“dead.”
There was a pause of a few moments’
duration, and then May said, softly—
“Are papa’s affairs in a very bad state?”
“Horrible!” said Tudge, ruefully.
�Christmas, 1873.J
“SHIP AHOY!”
“ It’s heart-breaking, my dear. Loss
after loss. The poor May gone—your
namesake; and he so infatuated that
he’s making advances to these people,
Rutherbys. And he won’t see that the
money loss isn’t all, but his name is
being so mixed up with Rutherby’s that
he’s gone—blown on with Lloyd’s. Our
house was the finest name in the City
last year, and now—It’s very weak of me,
my child,” said the old man, wiping his
eyes; “ but it’s heart - breaking to see
one’s life’s labour spoiled by villains.”
J"wENTY-jSlXTH
7i
“And—if it is true—has Mr. Longdale
much influence with papa?”
“ My dear, it’s come to this : he’s
twined himself slowly round him like a
snake, and fascinated him; and your
poor father can’t shake him off. There,
I won’t say no more.”
May pressed him to- stay and have
some tea, but he refused; and though
she asked him other questions, the old
man would not break his word—he
would say no more, and soon after he
took his leave.
JCaBLE
J^ENGTH.
HOW MAY HALLEY PROMISED TO SAY “YES.”
DO you
really wish it,
papa?” said
May, laying
her hand on
his arm.
“Yes—yes,
my dear, I
do indeed.
Poor Philip
has been
begging very
hard, and I
promised
him that I
would do all
I could.”
“ Do you think it possible that the Victrix or the other men have been saved ?”
“ Now, my dear child, why rake that
up ? You know she was lost, and poor
Anderson with her. It’s too bad of
you,” he added, weakly—“ it is, indeed,
knowing as you do how I am mixed up
now with Rutherby’s, to go raking up
those wretched stories about the ships.”
“I was not raking up old stories,
papa,” said May. “I only wanted to feel
sure that—that the Victrix had sunk.”
“Sunk, yes,” said the old man, bit
terly; “and so did the Merry May.
It’s horrible how unlucky I’ve been of
late! But we are going to do wonders,
my dear—wonders. You shall have such
a fortune, my child. Mr. Longdale tells
me that we shall.”
“ Dear papa, do you think Mr. Long
dale is to be trusted ?”
“ Now, my dear child, how can you
be so wilful, so absurd ? What can be
more nonsensical than for you to meddle
with shipping matters—with City affairs!
It’s childish in the extreme.”
May Was silent.
“ But about this wedding. Merritt
wants it to come off at Christmas.
What do you say?”
May sat silent and dreamy.
“My dear, this wedding. What do
you say?”
Again there was a pause, and then
May laid her hands upon the old man’s
shoulders, and looked into his dim eyes,
his livid face; and shivered as she saw
the alteration made in a few months.
“ Papa, dear,” she said, “ suppose I
were to tell Mr. Merritt that I would
not marry him ?”
“What?”
“ Suppose,” repeated May, in a clear,
cold, cutting voice, “ I were to tell Mr.
Merritt that I would not marry him—
what then!”
x
“May—May!” gasped the old man,
trembling with anxiety and passion,
“you’ve been plotting with somebody.
That scoundrel Tudge has been here, I
�I2
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
know he has. I heard so, and he has
urged you to this disobedience. I—”
“No one has had any influence on
me, papa, in this,” said May, calmly.
“ I only ask you, before I give my con
sent to marry Mr. Merritt, what effect it
would have upon you if I were to refuse.”
“ I should be bankrupt.”
“ Bankrupt ?”
“Yes, ruined. I can’t help it, my
child, but I’ve gone wrong somehow;
and this will set me right. In spite of
all that has been said, I believe Merritt
and Longdale to be honourable gentle
men, and I would not believe to the con
trary unless some one came back from
the dead to tell me they were not.”
“ Do you say, papa,” said May, in a
hard, cold voice, “ that my wedding
would save you from ruin ?”
“Yes, my child. It must be you or
the other May. But one is lost, and the
other remains. May, my darling, would
you see your old father dishonoured ?”
“ No,” said May, kissing him gently
on the forehead.
“And I may tell Philip that he may
come?
“Yes,” said May, sadly; and she laid
her hand upon a bow of crajft at her
bosom.
“And it shall be at Christmas ?”
“Yes, father,” said May, in a cold,
stony way.
“Bless you, my child—bless you!”
mumbled the old man, folding her in
his arms, and kissing her tenderly.
“Stop,” said May, suddenly. “No!
I will give you my answer to-morrow.”
“ But, my child—”
“I will give you my answer to-morrow,
papa. I ask only for twenty-four hours’
grace.”
[Christmas, 1873.
The old man muttered some objec
tion, and then left for the City; while
May, as soon as he was gone, had a cab
fetched, and went to Mrs. Gurnett’s.
She stayed with her an hour, and then
went on to Mrs. Anderson, to find the
old lady sitting, very calm and stern, in
a corner of her room; and here too she
stayed an hour.
Dinner was just over at Canonbury,
and May had risen to go to the drawing
room.
“ May, my child,” said Mr. Halley,
“you will not trifle with me? I have
told Mr. Merritt that he shall have your
answer to-morrow.”
“ Mr. Merritt could have had it to
night, papa,” she said, sadly, as she bent
down and kissed his forehead.
“ And—and—”
“ And the answer would be this—I
have no one to care for now.”
“My child-—May — what are you
thinking of?”
“ Of Captain John Anderson, father—
of the brave, true man whom I have
learned to love with my whole heart—
of the dead, father. And now Mr. Philip
Merritt shall have his wish. Father, you
tell me that it is necessary for your peace
of mind that I should marry this man?”
“Yes, my darling—yes, indeed it is.
I may tell him, then? He will make
you a good, loving husband.”
May recalled the denunciation of Mrs.
Anderson, and shuddered.
“Oh, papa, papa! is there no hope?”
“For me, none,” said the old man,
sadly. “ And Merritt is to be here to
morrow. What shall I say?”
“ Say?” said May, mournfully. “ Say?
—say yes.”
�Christmas, 1873 ]
J"
“SHIP AHOY!”
WENTY-JSeVENTH
JCaBLE
73
J^ENGTH
HOW MR. TUDGE JUMPED ON HIS MASTER.
D I D
you pro
mise,my
dear?”
said Tudge, who
had come up to
Canonbury with
a private ledger
in a black bag.
“Ye s,” said
May, sadly.
“Then you
shall have your
promise back, or
1’11 know the
reason why. But
tell me this, little
one—do you care for him at all?”
May shook her head.
“That’s enough,” said Tudge. “I
see my way clearly enough now.”
“ But about papa’s affairs,” said May
—“how are they now?”
“Bad as bad,” said Tudge, bitterly;
“going to rack and ruin. Loss after
loss. Two ships gone to the bad since
the May, and the insurance nowhere ;
for since he’s been mixed up with
Rutherbys,the underwriters have fought
shy of him; and he’s so proud, that he
won’t stir an inch to meet people.”
“Yes, poor papa is proud,” said May.
“Why, my dear, if he’d only do as
other men would, he’d set to and clear
himself of these people, and start fair
again with a clean bill of lading.”
“ But, papa would not do that.”
“ Not he; he says he’s promised these
people, and he never breaks his word.
But stop a bit—let me have my innings,
and something may turn up yet.”
Tudge kissed May affectionately,
looked at her as he held her at arm’s
length; and then, catching up his black
bag, he hurried up to Mr. Halley’s room,
that gentleman having been too unwell
to rise and go to the office, and having
sent for his confidential clerk.
Tudge was shocked to see the expres
sion of anxiety and care in his old em
ployer’s face. As soon as Tudge entered
the room, Mr. Halley pointed to a chair
and table by the bedside.
“Come and sit down, Tudge. You
have brought the private ledger?”
“Yes.”
“ And made up to the last entries ?”
“ Up to last night at closing.”
“Well, and how do we stand ?”
“ Bad as we can.”
Mr. Halley uttered a sigh that was
almost a groan, as he lay back helplessly,
and gazed at his clerk in dismay.
“ Here, let me look,” he said at last;
and sitting up in bed once more, he
eagerly scanned the open page of the
little ledger held out to him by Tudge,
tried to cast up the columns, to check
the amounts, and failed, closed his eyes
for a few minutes, and then gazed once
more at the array of figures. “ And all
this change within a few months,” he
murmured, sadly.
“Yes, all in a few months,” said
Tudge, sternly.
“ Don’t jump on me, Tudge, when I’m
down,” said Mr. Halley, feebly. “Every
thing has gone wrong with me so far—
don’t you go wrong with me too.”
“Wrong sort,” said Tudge, stoutly.
“ I’m like poor Jack Anderson—I stick
to my ship to the last.”
“ Don’t talk about last, Tudge,” said
Mr. Halley, pettishly. “ We shall be all
right in a few weeks. Wait till the
Emperor has done her voyage.”
Tudge remained perfectly silent; but
with one hand in the tail pocket of his
coat, he gently rustled a piece of paper.
“Tudge—Tudge!” gasped the old
man, rising on one arm, and looking
aghast at his clerk. “ What do you
mean ? Why did you rustle that news
paper in your pocket ?”
�------------------ --------------- -
—--------------------------------------- - --------------------
74--------------------------------- ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.------------------- [Christmas,^.
Still Tudge remained silent.
“Don’t tell me that the Emperor has
gone, Tudge,” he. gasped, pitifully.
Tudge remained silent.
“ Give—give me the paper,” gasped
the old man. “Oh, it’s killing work!”
The old clerk handed him the readyfolded newspaper; and Mr. Halley,
whose hands quivered, took the sheet
and tried to read.
“Where—where is it?” he cried.
And Tudge pointed out the spot.
Then the old man had to get his glasses
from beneath the pillow, though he
had done without them over the ledger.
But no glasses would enable him to
see clearly in his present state of ex
citement; and after a minute he handed
the paper back to Tudge.
“ Read it—read it,” he said, hurriedly.
And the old clerk read, in a trem
bling voice, one of the too familiar para
graphs of loss at sea.
“1 Supposed to have foundered in the
late gales,’ ” said Mr. Halley, in quiver
ing tones, as he repeated the last words
that his clerk had read. “ The poor
Emperor! Ruin, ruin, ruin!”
“ Cheer up. Don’t be cast down,”
said Tudge, laying his hand tenderly on
his master’s.
“Oh, Tudge, I’m broken,” groaned
the old man, pitifully; “ and they’ll say
things of me—cursed things! But, so
help me God, Tudge, there wasn’t a
thing left undone in that ship. Every
thing that money could do was got for
her to make her perfect, and she was
nearly new from truck to keel.”
“ What the devil are you going on
like that for?” cried Tudge, indignantly.
“ Whoever said she wasn’t a well-found
ship?”
“ Oh, nobody, Tudge—but they will.”
“Yes, I s’pose they will,” said Tudge,
sternly. “They’ll say, safe enough, now
that you’re so linked in with Rutherby’s,
that you’re trying their games.”
“ Don’t hit me, Tudge, pray,” said
Mr. Halley, pitifully—“ don’t hit me
when I’m down.”
“ I must,” said Tudge,“ I can’t help it.
It’s all for your good, too; for you would
j
1
do it. Didn’t I advise you—beg of you
—pray of you not?”
“Yes, yes, Tudge—you did,” said Mr. ' j
Halley, humbly.
“ And you would do it,” cried Tudge.
■
“ Ah, I wish I had my ruler here.”
It was merely to bang down on the
bed, not to punish the old shipowner;
and Tudge rolled up the newspaper, and
gesticulated and struck the bed with that.
“Yes, Tudge,” sighed the old man,
with a last despairing glance for comfort
at the figures in the ledger, but finding
none—“yes, Tudge, I was very obstinate;
and now I am more cursed than Job.”
“No, you’re not,” said Tudge. “Job
had his children killed, while you are
trying to kill your one.”
“Silence, Tudge!” cried Mr. Halley,
angrily; and Tudge turned to the book.
“ I will not, though I am down, have
my domestic arrangements called into
question. Let people talk: all the
same Merritt is a fine young fellow, and
Longdale a gentleman. And now about
meeting those engagements for them.
When are they due?”
“ Eighteenth and twentieth,” said
Tudge, shortly.
“Let them be met,” said Mr. Halley.
“ But it will leave us without a hun
dred pounds to go on with.”
“Never mind,” said Mr. Halley, “let
them be met. I promised, and I’ll
keep my word.”
Tudge grumbled as he made an entry
in a memorandum-book, and then sat
back in his chair.
“ Anything more ?•” he said.
“ There’s no hope, I suppose, about
the poor Emperor, Tudge ?”
Tudge shook his head sadly.
“Good heavens! how dreadful!”
groaned the old man. “ Tudge,” he
exclaimed, “ I can’t bear to see any one
belonging to the crew. I couldn’t bear
it, in my present state.”
“You used to face it out like.a man,
Mr. Halley,” said Tudge. “Think what
people will say if you don’t.”
“ But four vessels in nine months,
Tudge—it’s fearful! It will make them
think horrible things.”
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“ You never used to have such fancies
as that, Mr. Halley,” said Tudge. “ See
what comes of mixing with Rutherby’s.”
“ But I don’t believe anything of
the kind of them,” cried Mr. Halley,
sharply. “You’re turning against me,
Tudge, in my trouble. I didn’t think
it of you. But, there—go, and let me
be ruined.”
“ There, I won’t be savage with you,”
said Tudge. “ You don’t mean what
you say.”
“Yes, yes, I do,” cried Mr. Halley,
passionately as a child.
“ No, you don’t,” said Tudge ; “ so I
won’t hit out at you. Just as if I should
leave you when you’re like this! ”
“ No, you won’t, Tudge, will you ?”
cried the old man, pitifully.
“ But I shall make stipulations,” said
Tudge, stoutly.
“Oh,” groaned Mr. Halley.
“You shall give me full powers to
pull you through.”
“Yes, yes; only I will have all en
gagements met.”
“Well, yes, that’s right. Rutherby’s
bills shall be met—we must do that.
HOW
MR. TUDGE
Halley’s always meets its engage
ments,” said Tudge, proudly.
Mr. Halley groaned.
“ Then I’ll be off,” said Tudge, “ and
do the best I can; but, old friend, you’ll
come out of this a very poor man.”
“ Tudge,” said Mr. Halley, clinging to
his old clerk’s hand, with the tears run
ning down his cheeks, “I’m ill and weak,
and this affair is killing me. Pay every
body, and if I have a pittance I shall
be satisfied. May is provided for. Mer
ritt will take care of her, and I believe
in him. But I’ve done wrong, Tudge, in
listening to Longdale; and the slanders
that attach to him have come on me
too. I didn’t see that before.”
“ Always told you,” said Tudge.
“You’re hitting me again, now I’m
down,” said Mr. Halley, pitifully.
“ Well, I won’t say any more,” said
Tudge.
“ Don’t,” replied Mr. Halley, shaking
hands with him earnestly; “and come
up often.”
Tudge nodded shortly, gathered up
his papers, closed his bag with a snap,
and went off without a word.
SOLILOQUIZED, AND
N hour after,Mr. Tudge
was in his
private room
flourishing his
ruler as he
thought over
matters.
“Merritt
will take care
of May, will
he ? — of my
darling!” he
said to hims e 1 f. . “He
won’t—no, he
won’t! That
will work by
75
HAD TWO VISITORS.
itself, Pll swear, without a word from me.
But if it don’t, I think I can manage it.
Let me see: trumps led. Master Phil
Merritt, Jack; my darling, queen—my
partner, you know. Mr. Halley—Mer
ritt’s partner—plays the king. Last
player—name of Tudge, cunning old fox
in his way—holds the ace. Where are
we now?”
Bang went the ruler on the desk.
“ Now about money matters. Awful,
four fine vessels going like that. It
would cripple any house if the loss fell
on them as it does on us; but things
will cut up better than he expects, even
when those scoundrels have got their
bills met. Of course they’ll pay up
again! Don’t we wish we'may get it!”
Bang went the ruler again.
�---76
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“No; I won’t give him a true state of
the affairs—nor anybody else, not yet.
Not honest ? Yes, it is. He’s not fit to
attend to his affairs, and he’s deputed
them to me, and I’m working for him
and my darling. Shady? Perhaps it
is; but if you’ve got shady customers
to deal with, why you must fight ’em
with their own weapons.
“ Now, let me see; what comes next?
Well, it strikes me that Rutherby’s
comes next; and if they aint here soon,
I’ll hang myself in my braces.”
Mr. Tudge’s face became all over lines
now, as he plunged into a tangle of
accounts, and looked as if it had been
ruled in every possible direction; but he
had not been at work ten minutes be
fore a clerk announced Mr. Longdale.
“Ah, Mr. Tudge,” he said, smiling, as
he took a chair—“ hard at work as usual.
I wish we had you, Mr. Tudge, or some
one like you.”
“Ah!” said Tudge, nodding, “I wish
you had.”
“ Thought I’d drop in as I came by,
to ask about Mr. Halley. We heard a
rumour that he was poorly. Merritt
said he’d send up and ask at Canonbury;
but as I was passing I thought I’d call.”
“ Well, yes, he is out of sorts a bit,”
said Tudge; “nothing much, though.”
“ Weather?”
“Well, yes,” said Tudge, eating the
end of his quill—“ I suppose weather
has something to do with it.” *
“ Well, I won’t detain you, Mr.
Tudge,” said Mr. Longdale, smiling.
• “ Glad to hear it’s nothing serious.”
And he rose to go, shaking hands most
affectionately with the old clerk. “Oh,
by the way,” he said, “of course I
shouldn’t mention this to you if you were
not entirely in Mr. Halley’s confidence;
but there are two little matters of bills
that fall due directly. We drew on Mr.
Halley. The first batch come-to twenty
thou’, the second to ten thou’. I suppose
they will have been provided for?”
“ Halley’s always meets its payments,
Mr. Longdale, sir,” said Tudge, stiffly.
\
“ Oh, of course, of course,” said Long
dale. “And that rumour—I didn’t like
[Christmas, 1873.
to mention it before—about the Em
peror; false, of course?”
“True, Mr. Longdale, sir, as far as I
can hear, every word of it.”
“Bless my soul! How sad!” ex
claimed Longdale. “ How things do
vary, to be sure. Four vessels in nine
months! Why, Mr. Tudge, you’ll have
those cowardly slanderers attacking your
house next—same as they have ours—
about ill-found ships, and that sort of
thing.”
“Yes,” said Tudge, shortly. “No
doubt.”
“ Pray tell Mr. Halley how sorry I
am, if you see him before I do ; but I
shall call directly. By the way, Tudge,
come and dine with me some evening—
friendly, you know—-just ourselves. I’ve
a glass of a curious old wine I should
like you to taste. And, by the way,
don’t say I was little enough to say
anything about those bills. Good-bye,
Tudge, good-bye. We shall be having
you with us one of these days.”
Mr. Longdale had no sooner been
shown out than the clerks started, for
Mr. Tudge’s ruler came down upon his
table with the fiercest bang ever heard
by his subordinates.
“ My word, the old chap’s in a wax!”
said one.
“Yes,” said another, “and well he
may be.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Longdale walked
hurriedly into Cornhill, and made his
way into one of the chop-houses, where
Merritt was waiting his arrival.
“Well?” said Merritt.
_ “Game’s up there, I think,” said
Longdale. “ Baited for the old fellow
with a half-promise that we should be
glad to have his services, and he rose
at the fly.”
“ But about those bills ? ”
“ They’ll be met. The old fellow
will pay every one to the last shilling;
and when that is done, I should think—”
He stopped short, and sat tapping
the table, without a word.
“Well, why the deuce don’t you go
on? What are you thinking about?”
“ Oh, I beg your pardon!” said Long-
�53
.
Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
dale, with a fictitious start of surprise.
“ I was thinking.”
“Well, I know you were; but what
about?”
“ Miss May Halley.”
“ I’m much obliged, but perhaps you’ll
let me do all the thinking about her!”
“ I was wondering whether, under her
altered circumstances, her swain will
prove constant; and if he does not,
whether she would smile on an adorer
who does not want her money.”
Philip Merritt leaped up angrily,
scowled at his partner for a moment,
and then hurried into the street, and
made his way to where he was expected
—namely, to Mr. Tudge’s private room;
for he was this day ignoring his ordi
nary desk.
“ Mr. Merritt, sir,” said the clerk.
“ Show him in,” said Tudge; and the
next minute the old and the young
man were face to face.
“ How do, Tudge?” said Merritt,with
out offering to shake hands or remove
his hat, as he sat down upon some loose
papers at one corner of the table, where
he began to swing about one leg.
“S’pose I move those papers?” said
Tudge, gruffly.
“ Oh, not in my way in the least,”
said Merritt; “ I want—-”
“ Let me move those papers,” said
Tudge, and he dragged them from be
neath the sitter.
“Bother the papers!” exclaimed
Merritt. “ Look here, Tudge. About
this Emperor?"
Tudge made a poke with the ruler
indicative of the vessel having gone
into the waste-paper basket.
“That makes four, then, in nine
months. I say, Tudge, you’re going it!
How much shall you sack by all these
transactions ?”
“How much shall we sack?” said
Tudge, impassively, though there was
a hitching in one leg as if he wanted to
kick, and had hard work to keep down
the inclination. “ How much shall we
sack ? Well, Mr. Merritt, sir, I tell you,
you know, because you’re like Mr. Hal
ley’s son—though, of course, it’s in
77
complete confidence—we shall pay
twenty shillings in the pound, sir.”
“Yes, of course,” said Merritt, un
easily; “but after that?”
“Workus!”
“What!” said Merritt.
“Workus, sir, workus! General clear
up—eligible mansion, superior house
hold, furniture, plate, and wine—going,
going, gone!”
Bang went the ruler.
“Phew!” whistled Philip Merritt.
“ Why, I thought—
“ Thought the governor was rich ? Of
course you did, and so he was ; but
you come to have four pulls of eighty
or ninety thousand on you in nine
months, and see where you would be.”
Mr. Merritt whistled, and looked very
blank; while Tudge sat stern as a judge,
but with his eyes twinkling merrily.
“ It’s very odd, sir; but do you know
I was thinking of you just before you
came in,” said Tudge, after a pause,
during which Merritt sat scowling at the
pattern of the carpet. “ I was just think
ing that, oneway and another, things in
this world are regularly balanced.”
Here Mr. Tudge held out the office
penknife in one hand and balanced his
ruler upon its keen edge, adjusting it
till it was exact.
“Yes, sir, balanced,” said Tudge.
“Here’s Mr. Halley been laying up riches
all his life for the sake of Miss May.”
Merritt pricked up his ears and
became attentive; though Tudge did
not appear to notice it.
“Well, sir, everything’s swept away
by misfortune, except the thirty thou
sand as goes to meet your bills, and
which of course comes back again. Well,
all that loss is the evil on one side of
the balance; while on the other, just at
the time of misfortune, here’s poor Mr.
Halley has the pleasure of thinking that
his dear child’s provided for, with a rich,
dashing young spark for a husband,
who will take her and- provide for her,
and make her happy. As for what I
said about workus, that was metapho
rical, you know, for master will have that
thirty thousand; while Miss May-—”
�78
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
“ Yes,” said Merritt, anxiously, “ Miss
May’s fortune?”
“ Miss May’s fortune, Mr. Merritt,
sir, was the Merry May-soad, the Emperor,
and they’ve gone—”
Here the ruler was taken from
the edge of the penknife and pointed
down once more at the waste-paper
basket.
“ But do you mean to tell me, Tudge,
that all—everything will be swept
away?” said Merritt, in a confidential
whisper.
“Every penny, sir,” said Tudge, in
the same tone; “but never you mind
that, sir—you’re well off. You marry
Miss May at once. She’s a treasure,
sir, that girl is, without a penny. You
take her, and provide for the old man,
too. Lord bless you, think what a fine
thing it will be in after-life to feel that
you did it! See how independent you
will be! Ah, Mr. Merritt, sir, you’ll be
a happy man.”
Philip Merritt sat in silence for an
other five minutes, tapping one of his pa
tent leather boots with his cane—brows
knit, hat pushed back over his ears.
Then he drew out his cigar case, lit a
vesuvian, puffed slowly at his cigar, and
rose to go.
“ Bye-bye, Tudge,” he said, nodding
to him condescendingly; and then he
lounged lazily through the outer offices,
smoking the while.
“Told you so,” said one of the clerks
to the other. “ The game’s up. Fancy
that fellow lighting a cigar in old Tudge’s
private room, and then smoking all
through our offices! Why, a month ago
it would have been high treason.”
“What’s he up to now?” said his
fellow-clerk. “Listen! Tudgeis going
mad!”
They did listen, and heard five or
six heavy blows, given evidently with
the ruler. For no sooner had Merritt
left Quarterdeck-court than Mr. Tudge
hopped from his seat, and began lunging
and cutting about furiously with his
ruler, every now and then striking some
piece of furniture as if it were an inimi
cal head.
[Christmas, 18-73.
“You cowardly—(lunge)—sneaking—
(bang) — hypocritical — (bang) — infa
mous — (bang) — scoundrel—(lunge) —
cold-blooded — (bang) —villain -— (bang)
mean — (lunge) — dirty — (bang) —
wretched—heartless—lump of dirt_
(bang).”
Mr. Tudge threw himself perspiring
into a chair, and panted and blew out
his cheeks, as he tucked his ruler under
his arm, and mopped his face with his
bandanna.
“ Marry my darling to you—you piece
of thin tissue paper—you plaster image
—you—you beast!” he puffed. And
then, evidently relieved, he sat back
and chuckled.
“Ha,ha!—ha,ha!—to see him! Wor
ships her, don’t he ? Worship the
golden calf, that’s what he’d have done
if he’d been born a Jew; and he’d have
boned it and melted it down first chance.
No, my pretty, you’re safe enough there.
The money’s gone, but it would take a
deal more than we’ve lost to balance
your happiness.”
Ruler on the penknife edge again,
where if refused to keep itself in equi
poise.
“You’re safe enough, my pretty.
He’ll back out of it all now, as sure as
my name’s T.udge; and I’m as hungry
as a hunter.”
Bang went the ruler on the table, and
“ting” the gong, when the clerk who
entered found Mr. Tudge, far from
being in low spirits, in high glee.
“ Here, Smith—quick. I sha’n’t go
out to-day. Run round the corner, and
tell ’em to send me a juicy steak, just
pink inside, and half a pint of the old
brown sherry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“No; stop a minute, my lad. Not
half a pint to-day—I’ll have a pint.”
And he did, and smacked his old lips
over it half a dozen times as he said,
with a smile on those lips, but a dewy
look of love in his eye—
“ May, my darling, your health! ”
Then he drank, put down the glass,
drew a long breath, and added—
“And happiness!”
�“SHIP AHOY!”
Christmas, 1873.]
J"WENTY-
INTH
79
j^ABEE
HOW THE SHIPWRECKED MEN MADE A FIND.
MORE
did hope
seem to
come to the
despairing
men cling
ing to that
raft, and
twice over
did the sails
that bore in
sight fade
slowly away
from their
aching eyes.
Utter list
lessness had
come upon
them; and,
reduced now
to a b e ggarly pittance of water, they Jay upon
the raft with parched lips, waiting once
more for death.
It had been a scorching day, without
a breath of air stirring; and as evening
came on the two men lay prone, with
out attempting to stir, till, as if mecha
nically, Anderson moved slowly to the
cask, and soaked up the few remaining
drops of water with a piece of canvas.
This he squeezed into the pannikin,
and held it to Basalt, who seized it
greedily—staying, though, at half, and
handing the pannikin back to Ander
son, covering his eyes the while that he
might not see him drink, lest he should
be tempted to snatch the vessel back
and drain it to the last drop. The
very sound of it gurgling down an
other’s throat was maddening, and at last
the two men gazed in each other’s blood
shot eyes, as if to ask, “ What next ?”
“ It was the last,” said Anderson,
solemnly.
“ Then we should have saved it,” was
the hoarse reply.
“To be licked up by the sun ?” said
Anderson. “ There would not have been
a drop left by another day.”
Then he took the piece of wet can
vas with which he had soaked up the
drops in the cask, and divided it in two
with his knife, handing half to Basalt
and retaining the other.
These two wet fragments they sat
and chewed till they seemed to turn hot
and dry in their parched mouths.
Suddenly Basalt raised his eyes, and
gave the signal he had given thrice be
fore—
“ Ship ahoy! ”
The evening was nearing fast, and in
a very short time darkness would fall;
but there, plainly to be seen, about three
miles to windward, was a full-rigged
ship, evidently sailing directly for them.
The two men staggered to their feet,
and as long as the light lasted frantically
made signals by waving jackets and
handkerchiefs. This was not for long,
though. Very soon the ship seemed to
fade away, for the darkness set in like
a black pall, covering sea and sky; but
no blacker than was the cloud of despair
that again came upon the two sufferers.
“ She’ll pass us in the night,” groaned
Anderson.
“ And we without a light for a signal
—not even a barrel to make a flare,”
said Basalt.
And then, with starting eyeballs, they
stood there watching in the direction
where they had last seen the ship, and
discussing in husky tones the probabili
ties of the look-out on board the vessel
having seen them.
“ If so, they’ll lie-to, or make a
signal,” said Anderson, sadly; for he
hoped nothing now—expected nothing
but death. And soon they found that
they had not been seen ; for no signal
lamp was hung out by the vessel. In
fact, they felt that she never came near
enough for them to see her sailing lights
�So
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
during the night; and at last, worn out
with watching, they sank upop the raft,
nerveless now, and stunned into the
acceptance of their fate.
How that night passed neither could
have afterwards told, save that it was
like one long nightmare of hideous
dreams. Morning came, though, at last;
and, in a dull, despairing way, Aliderson rose to see if the ship were still
visible.
His cry of joy roused Basalt, who
was on his knees by his side directly
after, gazing at the ship, still in sight.
She had passed them, indeed, during the
night; but only to drift about a mile to
leeward, where she lay, with her sails
hanging motionless from the yards.
Not a soul was to be seen on deck to
whom they could signal. There was
no wind, fortunately, for it would have
wafted the ship away. So, weak as
they were, they put out two oars, and
rowed with all their might for the vessel.
Enfeebled by privation, though,
they could hardly move the cumber
some raft, and it was fully two hours
HIRTIETH
HOW
JEREMIAH
[Cliristmas, 1873.
before they were close alongside of the
great ship, and shouting for help—-to get,
however, no response; and they soon
awakened to the fact that the vessel was
deserted.
“Ship ahoy!” shouted Basalt,’again
and again; but it brought no answer,
even when they forced the raft against
the vessel, and looked aloft, along her
side, and then at each other—for the
same thought had struck them both.
New life seemed to have come to
John Anderson; for he forced the raft,
now aft, right under her stern.
But they came not there to look at
rudder or cabin window, but to set aside
a doubt that their thoughts might not
be true.
They were true, though, inexplicable
as it seemed to them; and the next
minute they had both climbed to the
deck, and were looking round for the
boats—all missing but one. For the
name they had read from the raft,
painted upon the vessel’s stern, was one
known to them both so well, and that
name was the Merry May.
JCable
BASALT
DON’T care.
You may say
what you
like, my lad;
but I sha’n’t
believe you
none the
more for it.
I says this,
and what I
says I sticks
to, as the fel
low said : it
ainttrue. It’s
all a sorter
solid dream,
come of ly
ing out there
in the sun so
FOUND
HIS
FATE.
long, till your brain’s got turned. JYzzcan
see it, of course, just the same as I do.”
“See it?” cried Anderson, excitedly.
“ Yes.”
“Toe be sure you can. Same raft,
same food, same water, same sufferings,
same fright brings same dreams; and
here we are both a-dreaming as we’re
aboard our old ship, the May."
“And so we are,” said Anderson,
smiling.
“We aint, I tell you,” cried the old
man, testily; “it’s all a dream, and we
shall wake again directly, to find it’s all
a fog. Perhaps we sha’n’t wake at all
any more-—’cause why? Maybe, though
we don’t know it, we’re dead ; and this
here’s our fate, being seafaring men, to
find a phantom ship like our old one
that we was so fond on; and our to be
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
81
—to be, you know—is to go on for ever
“Yes, I think we should,” said Ander
and ever, amen, so be it, sailing over son, gazing thoughtfully round.
the wide seas of eternity, like Flying
“ I have it,” said the old man, bright
Dutchmen. That’s it, safe! I aint a ening up. “ Didn’t you never hear about
bit surprised ; and all I’ve got to say, the ancients being rowed across a river by
my lad, is—take your fate like a true an old chap in a boat when they died ?”
British sailor, and sail away. Might
“What, Charon and the Styx?”
have been a deal worse, you know.”
“ Styx ? that warn’t the name of the
“ Come and have a look below, Jerry,” craft; but, anyhow, let that be. Their
said Anderson, quietly; “perhaps we world was little, and they were land
may find some tea.”
lubbers; so it was a boat and a river
“ Tea!” said the old fellow, “what do for them. We’re sailors, and accus
we want with tea now, in this here t’other tomed to big things; so it’s a ship with
world? You see it’s all just as I’ve us, and the ocean.”
wondered about often when I was alive.
“Well,” said Anderson, “dead or
It didn’t seem nat’ral to me, that if ever, alive, let’s overhaul the craft.”
when I died, I should get up aloft, I
“ Overhaul it is,” said Basalt; “ and
should set to singing, you know, or make dead it is. Don’t be a-clinging so to
anything of an angel, not having the the world, my lad, now you’ve gone
stuff in me for that sort o’ thing. You out of it. What’s the good of holding
see, this looks a deal more like what I out ? There, if you will keep doubting
should expect. It’s all right, my lad ; as we’re dead, hit me a buster here.”
here we are passed into the t’other life
As he held forward his chest, Ander
quietly, and going to navigate the great son struck him a sharp, back-handed
ocean. There’s one thing as puzzles me.” blow which made him stagger.
“What’s that, Jerry?” said Anderson.
“Now, then, are you dead ?” he said,
“Why, it’s this here, my lad. Seeing laughing at the old man’s perplexed
as we’re dead and condemned—no, I face.
won’t say that, but set—set to sail this
“ Dead as dead lights,” was the reply.
here ship as aforesaid, I want to know
“ But, you felt that ?”
what good it’s going to do? Frighten
“Oh, yes,” growled the old fellow;
ing people, and so on?”
“I felt it; but, after all, that don’t
“ What good ? ” inquired Anderson, prove nothing. Sensations and all
smiling.
them sorto’ things is just the same here
“Don’t you be irrev’rent, my lad,” as they was there, and why not? Any
said Basalt, solemnly, helping himself how, we’ll overhaul the craft.”
to a bit more pig-tail. “ I aint a reli
Going first round the deck, they
gious man—I mean I warn't a religious found that the ship had evidently been
man when I was alive;—but this here in a gale; for she was a bit knocked
aint nothing to laugh at. I want to about, though there was no material
know what good it’s going to be. You damage.
see it can’t be a punishment, or else we
“And she’s as tight as tight, I’ll
should have been left to go about on swear,” said Basalt. “ See how high she
that raft, instead of being set on this floats.”
here fine ship; and by the same token,
The boats, as they had seen before,
it can’t be a pleasure—”
were all gone but one; and that, on
.“Why?” said Anderson, humouring examination, proved to have been stove
his conceit, for the old man had stopped. in. Then, after a glance aloft, they
“ Why, my lad ? ’Cause so. If we walked slowly to the captain’s cabin
go on sailing this ship short-handed for so familiar to Andeison.
ever and ever, amen, so be it, without
Here there were manifestations of
fetching port, it stands to reason that haste—papers, bottles, and tins tossed
we must get a bit tired of it some day.” about; but no sign of life. The cot
�82
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
was empty, and it was the same in all
the other cabins—traces of a hasty
desertion, nothing more.
“ Don’t look much like death,” said
Anderson, drily.
“ Don’t look much like life,” growled
Basalt, “ does it ? Why, there aint so
much as a tom-cat aboard.”
They walked forward, and descended
to the quarters of the crew, and found
matters there precisely the same. The
men had evidently snatched up a few
things, and hurried away to the boats,
urged by some panic.
“ It’s a mystery,” said Anderson,
when they stood once more on the deck.
“Yes, my lad—death is a solemn
mystery,” said Basalt.
“A deep mystery,” said Anderson
again, thoughtfully. “ Look here, Jerry;
what’s your opinion ?”
“What about?” said the old fellow.
“ Death ? ”
“ No, life. What made them desert
the ship ?”
“ It warn’t never deserted.”
“Jerry, your brain’s turned. Come,
old fellow, it’s plain enough—the ship
was forsaken, you can see that.”
The old man shook his head.
“ Look here, my lad,” he said, laying
his hand affectionately on Anderson’s
shoulder, “ why can’t you take it like a
man? This here looks and feels like a
derelick, and is to us like the old May;
but, bless you, it aint no ship at all, no
more than we’re living corpusses. If a
real craft was to come along, she’d go
right through us, and never do us no
harm.”
“Very well, old fellow,” said Ander
son, smiling; “then let’s go below, and
seem to eat, and have what I’ve longed
for—a good wash in soft water.”
When they came once more on
deck, refreshed and revived to a won
derful extent, Anderson was smoking
a cigar, and Basalt hewing a chump off
a fresh cake of tobacco.
“ I should like to fathom it if I
could,” Anderson said, looking round
in search of something to indicate the
cause for the ship’s desertion. “ I can’t
[Christinas, 1873.
make it out at all, why so good a ship,
in such capital trim, was forsaken.”
“She wasn’t forsaken,” growled Jerry;
but he did not speak in quite such tones
of conviction—perhaps the glass of grog
below had placed body as well as spirit
in him.
“ Well, what we have to do is to make
the nearest port if we can, and get men
and take her home. Jerry, old fellow,
if ever two poor wretches had cause to
thank God, we are those men.”
Jerry nodded shortly, and seemed ob
stinate enough to be alive.
“There’s a little wind coming,” said
Anderson, after another look round.
“We’re a small crew, Jerry, but we
must make the best of it,” he continued,
smiling. “ Let’s try and make the Cape;
what do you say ?”
The old man nodded shortly, and
felt his legs slowly all down; after which
he began to peel a bit of ragged skin,
the remains of a sun-blister, from his
nose, but in doing so he continued the
decorticating process with the sound
skin, and made his nose smart and
bleed to such an extent that he stamped
his foot upon the deck, and rapped out
a fine, full-bodied, salt-water oath.
Anderson burst out laughing.
“ I don’t care, ” growled the old fel
low, who divined the cause of the other’s
mirth. “ I said before, and I stick to it,
were both dead, and this here’s a phan
tom ship. Because I feel a bit o’ pain
when I bark my nose, does that prove
otherwise? Notit. Feeling is the same
in the world or out of it.”
“Never mind,” said Anderson. “Do
you think we can set the fore-topsail?”
“To be sure we can ; but lash the
wheel first.”
They went together to the wheel—
Anderson to the spokes, and Basalt
ready with a piece of rope.
At the first touch the spokes flew
round, and the mystery of the ship’s
desertion was explained—the rudder
had been swept away by the waves,
leaving the vessel helpless for the time.
“Punishment it is!” cried Basalt,
triumphantly.
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“What?” exclaimed Anderson, star
tled at his companion’s earnestness.
“ Punishment!” roared the old fellow,
slapping his thigh. “ What we’ve got
to do is this—go on sailing a ship with
out a helm for ever and ever, amen, so
be it.”
“ Perhaps, ” said Anderson. “ But first
of all, we’ll set to and contrive a rudder
to help us into port.”
“Should we?” said Basalt, rather
discomfited.
“Yes,” said Anderson, smartly; for
rest, refreshment, and the knowledge
that he had a good ship beneath his
feet had wrought wonders in an incre
dibly short time.
“What, and go in for salvage?” said
Basalt, manifesting a disposition to come
back to life.
“ Yes, ” said Anderson, brightening up
as he thought what form he should like
his salvage to take.
“I wonder how Betsy is,” said Basalt
to himself.
“Jerry, my boy, bear-a hand,” said
Anderson, with flashing eyes ; “ we are
83
only two Zzw men; but we have the
spirit of fifty such curs as deserted the
dear old May. Let’s ask God’s help
on our undertaking, and sail the dear
old vessel safely home with her cargo,
which I’ll vow is a valuable one.
Let’s do it, my lad, and show these ras
cally shipowners that British sailors
are made of too good stuff to be
drowned like rats in their cursed rotten
hulks. Bear a hand there with the axe,
and cast loose those spare spars—-if
you’ve life enough left in you,”he added,
looking him through and through.
The old fellow’s face" assumed a
comical expression of hesitation ; and
then, hauling at his waistband, and
giving a kick out behind, he slapped
his thigh, sent a jet of tobacco juice
over the side, and shouted—
“Ship ahoy, there! Jolly Sailors,
ahoy! Bear a hand there, you lub
bers, and- we’ll make port before you
know where you are. The Flying
Dutchman s come back from his cruise,
and Jeremiah Basalt’s alive and kick
ing.
ENGTH.
“MERRY
T was not the
easiest task in
the world to
undertake
this naviga
ting of a rud
derless vessel,
deserted by
her full crew,
to a haven of
safety; and
more than
once John
Anderson felt
disposed to
give up in de
spair. But the
spirit in him
forbade that,
M A Y.”
and, well seconded by Basalt, he worked
on.
“ Lord love you ! There’s some plea
sure in working now,” said the old man,
who had thoroughly set aside his ideas
of the future time. “ Pl ere we have
stout timbers, and the rigging of a wellfound ship. Cape!—sail to the Cape?
Why, I’d undertake to navigate her
right round the world.”
“Without a rudder?” said Ander
son, quietly.
The old man’s answer was to hail a
shower of blows down upon the spar
with the hatchet he held, making the
chips fly in all directions.
For this was the first task to achieve,
if they hoped to reach port— the
scheming of something in the shape of
steering apparatus before the wind rose,
�84
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
otherwise they would be at its mercy,
rolling in the trough of the sea.
It was a strange machine they con
trived, by lashing short pieces of spar
together, and then bolting stays on to
the sides to keep them in their places;
and, as Basalt said, the waves would
have to handle it very gently if it was
to help them to port. And when it
was made, there was still another diffi
culty—that of getting it over the side.
But they accomplished this, and floated
it astern, while the sea was as calm as
a mill-pond.
Yet again another difficulty—to get it
shipped after a fashion, and rigged with
ropes that would enable them to steer.
“ It took a deal of trying,” Basalt
said; but they meant to do it, and do it
they did; so that, clumsy as the con
struction was, it roughly answered the
purpose.
“ Only think of the salvage,” said
Basalt, “ let alone the saving of one’s
precious life! I’ve been down below,
and had a look — tea, my lad, and
cochineal, and silk. Only get her home,
and we’re made men for good.”
“ It would be ruin to Mr. Halley to
lose such a ship,” said Anderson.
“ I don’t know about that,” was the
next remark. “ What with insuring and
underwriting, it strikes me as owners
don’t want their cargoes run.”
“ Don’t speak in that way of Mr.
Halley,” said Anderson, sternly. “He,
at least, is an honourable man.”
“ So you said of Rutherby and Co.,”
said Basalt, gruffly. “ It strikes me that
they’re all tarred with the same brush.”
Anderson did not answer, but went
aloft to hoist a staysail, with the effect
of making the fine ship yield softly to
the breeze, and begin to forge slowly
through the water.
For awhile all went well with them.
They had provisions in plenty, and fine
weather; so calm, indeed, that they were
able to rest in turn, and thoroughly re
coup their exhausted strength.
Anderson’s wound was pretty well
healed, and every day saw them a little
nearer to port.
[Christmas, 1873.
But neither Anderson nor Basalt felt
unmixed satisfaction; for their thoughts
kept recurring to the missing crew and
their probable fate.
“Can’t say much for their chance,”
said Basalt, shaking his head. “ I won’t
say serve them right; but I do say as
they ought to have stuck to their ship.”
“ When she was sinking ?” said An
derson, quietly.
“Well, no, I won’t say that,” said the
old man. “But we aint no time for
talking. Here’s a breeze springing
up, and no hands to shorten sail. I
thought things was too bright to last.”
Basalt was right; a stiff breeze was
coming up, and a glance in the wind’s
eye appeared to threaten something
worse. Lulled to something like a
sense of security by the soft gales that
had wafted them along, they had, by
degrees, shaken out sail after sail, till
they now had more upon the ship than
it seemed likely they could get in be
fore the wind was too much for them.
There was no time for consideration.
John Anderson’s orders were short and
sharp. The wheel was lashed, the
sheets of the topsails cast loose, and
the canvas left to flap and fly, while the
two men set to work to try and get in
the foresail.
The wind, though, increased rapidly ;
and before many minutes had elapsed,
Basalt aloft on one side of the yard
looked along at Anderson on the other.
“Yes,” said Anderson’s eyes, in an
swer to the interrogation; and Basalt
hurried along the stirrup to his side,
when, heaving with all their might, the
two men strove to gather in the stiff,
flapping folds of the great sail. Now
they mastered it a little, and made some
way; but the next minute, puff! the
canvas bellied out like a balloon, and
was dragged from their hands.
“Try again,” said Basalt; and they
tried again and again, but always with
the same result. Two men could not
perform the work of seven or eight; and
as they grew weaker with their exer
tions, so did the sail become more mas
terful; flapping, snapping, and beating
��■mmbméimmmi
86
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
about in the wind, till it threatened to
tear them from the yard.
“ Never say die! ” shouted Basalt,
cheerily; and then, “ heave, my lad.
Now then, with a will.”
The great sail flew up, curled over,
and enveloped Basalt; and, as breath
lessly, Anderson clung to the yard for
his life, his companion was snatched
from his side; then, as the vessel heeled
over, thrown into the sea to leeward,
with the ship dashing fast through the
water.
For a few horrified moments, Ander
son clung there, aghast and desponding;
but the sight of Basalt’s face turned ap
pealingly up, as it rapidly glided astern,
roused him to make an effort.
In an instant more he had seized one
of the sheets, swung himself clear, and
slid to the deck. In another instant, he
was running to the poop, opening his
clasp-knife as he did so, and with two
cuts he had set free the life-buoy, which
he held aloft in both hands for a moment
or two, that Basalt might see what he
was about, and then he hurled it astern
with all his might.
He groaned as he did so; for the vessel
was flying ahead with the sail she still
had on, and it seemed to him that he
was to be robbed of the companionship
of his faithful old friend.
It was no time, though, for groaning;
and running to the wheel, he cast loose
the lashings, put the helm hard up, and
then looked anxiously for the result.
Bad as were his appliances, though,
[Christmas, 18.73.
the ship slowly answered to the call
made upon her, rounding to and making
head in the opposite direction to that in
which she had been going.
It was a forlorn hope; and on this
tack, for want of proper sail trim
ming, the ship sailed horribly, labouring
against the seas that seemed to resent
her approach.
Lashing the helm once more, Ander
son now ran to the side to see if he
could make out Basalt; and for an in
stant he sighted him, as he rose far away
upon a wave, but only to disappear the
next moment.
Anderson ran back to the wheel, un
lashed it, and tried to send the ship’s
head in the direction of the drowning
man.
For a minute he was successful, and
the ship seemed to make a leap in the
required course—the waves foaming
by her as she leaped to meet them. It
was but a minute, though, and then
Anderson knew that he had been over
tasking his work; for suddenly, just as
he felt most hopeful, and knew that he
was nearing Basalt, the wheel suddenly
gave way, sending him heavily upon
the deck; the ship heeled over gra
dually, settled into the trough of the
sea, and, as Anderson slowly gathered
himself up, half stunned by his fall, a
great hill of water seemed to rise slowly,
to make a bound, and deluge the deck
fore and aft.
The temporary rudder had given
way.
�Christmas, 1873.
“SHIP AHOY!”
J" HIRTY-pECOND
pABLE
pENGTH.
HOW JOHN ANDERSON SWAM FOR TWO LIVES.
A N D E RSON knew
that a sailor
must never
despair;
even though
stood by
ling him, and
ag that his
had come,
life was one
struggle with
grim shade;
and had he been
of a cowardly, weak nature, he might,
again and again, have given way to
despair. But certainly, now, matters
seemed at their blackest. Basalt was
drowning; the ship was rudderless, and
lay helpless and rolling, with the waves
breaking over her.
What could he do ?
The answer came at once: he must
risk all, and lower down the boat, if he
could, trusting to Providence for the
chance of regaining the ship.
Fortunately they had patched up the
hole stove in her, and she now hung at
the davits ready for use.
Jumping into her, and holding the
falls in his hands, he lowered away till
she kissed the wave that rose to meet
her. Another instant, and as she lifted
he had cast off one fall, and almost by
a miracle the other unhooked itself.
To seize an oar was the work of
another moment; and, pushing off, he
had it directly over the stern, and was
sculling away in the direction in which
he hoped Basalt to be.
He knew that the old man was a
good swimmer, and there was just a
chance that he might have reached the
life-buoy. It was a thread-like chance
to cling to, though; and as he rose
upon each wave, and looked around, his
heart sank lower minute by minute;
for he was receding fast from the ship’
the sea was getting higher, and not a
glimpse of the swimmer could be seen.
He altered his course, sculling with
all his might-—his standing position
giving him a chance of seeing in all
directions, as the frail boat rose to the
crests of the waves.
Again he changed his course, sculling
almost at random; for the minutes sped
on, and not a sign of the drowning man
could be seen. Then, suddenly, Ander
son uttered a cry of joy, loosed his hold
of the oar, darted forward, and, as the
boat slid down the side of a hill of
green water, he leaned over and caught
the life-buoy.
He sank back, mute and despairing;
for he had drawn the light cork ring
into the boat, and it had no despairing,
dying clutch upon it.
But what was that?—faint almost as
a whisper.
A weak, gurgling, appealing cry,
borne on the wind to reach his ears—
“ My God!”
The dying, appealing cry of a drown
ing wretch to his Maker; and, as it
passed away, Anderson was again at
the stern of the boat, sculling away with
all his might in the direction from which
the sound had seemed to come.
Water—water!—great, green waves,
with silvery, foaming crests; but no
Basalt, no agonized face, no outstretched
hands. Good heavens! had he been so
near to him, and yet not been able to
save ?
In his agony, John Anderson so plied,
his oar that the stout ash blade bent
again, while with starting eyes he gazed
here, there; and then, uttering a cry
of joy, gave a leap that sent the boat
rocking back through the water as he
parted the waves, disappeared for a few
moments, and then reappeared, swim
ming boldly and bravely towards that
which had caught his eye for an instant
---------------------------------------------------
»
r
�■HHBSH99B
88
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
amid the foam of a breaking wave—
one crook-fingered hand making its last
despairing catch at life.
It was a bold dash, and one that
needed nerve and strength; for as he
swam on, with the salt spray at his lips,
it was with the waves seeking to buffet
him back, and bear him helplessly away
to his death. No help at hand—nothing
to depend on but his own stout arms,
and his trust in God.
And what had he set himself to do,
there in mid-ocean, with miles of water
below him ? To save the drowning
man, to bear him to the boat, to get
him on board, and then once more to
reach the ship!
For an instant, as the thought of all
this flashed through John Anderson’s
brain, a cold feeling of despair, like the
hand of Death clutching him, seemed
to pass through his veins, unnerving
him, and making him for the instant
helpless. His limbs felt numbed, and
a wave broke in his face so that the
briny water gurgled, strangling in his
nostrils. But with a cry that was al
most a shriek, he uttered the words—
“May, dear May!”
And on the instant his strength came
back as the strength of a lion. He rose
in the water, shaking the salt spray from
his eyes and hair, and struck out again
bravely; rose again on the summit of a
wave, and then bending over, he turned,
and, as he descended, plunged down
head first beneath the coming wave,
driving through it, to make the next
moment a superhuman effort, and clutch,
when it was almost too late, the rough
hair of Jeremiah Basalt.
There was no danger, no risk of being
grappled by the drowning man; for as
Anderson clutched the hair, he drew
towards him a stiff, apparently inani
mate body, which yielded to his motions
as he turned and struck out for the
boat.
Twice came the cold chill upon An
derson again as he swam on, like two
whispers from the unseen world. First,
it was as if to tell him that he had come
too late; and next, that he would never
[Christmas, 1873.
regain the boat. It was cruel work then,
for the thoughts seemed to paralyze him;
but, fighting against them, he swam on,
sighting the boat as he rose on the
waves, losing it as he descended into
the hollows.
Slow — slow — slow !—a heavy, long
drag, with the boat always, as he rose,
seeming to be the same distance off.
And now it seemed to the swimmer that
he was being encased in a suit of lead,
which was making his limbs cold and
heavy, so that he swam as he had never
swum before—with a slow, heavy, and
weary stroke, which did not raise his
chin above the water. That inert mass
too, that he had turned over, and was
dragging by one hand—how it kept him
back!
For one brief instant he felt that he
could not reach the boat, and drag Ba
salt there as well; and the temptation
came upon him strongly to leave him.
It was but to open that one left hand.
The body would sink; and it was but a
dead body, something seemed to whis
per him. But John Anderson’s life had
been one of struggles against tempta
tions; and this was but one more of a
long list to conquer. He set his teeth,
and drove the cowardly thought behind
him, as, giving another glance in the
direction of the boat, he threw himself
upon his back, and striking out fiercely
with his feet, he changed hands, and,
holding Basalt’s hair with his right, he
brought the half-numbed left into play,
and with it forced the water behind
him.
It was no simple floating in calm
water, but a dire struggle for life; and,
in spite of his brave efforts, Anderson
felt that he was nearly spent. The
water was bubbling about his nostrils,
singing in his ears, and foaming over his
eyes as he struck out; and that boat,
like a phantom, seemed to elude him,
for he could not reach its side.
“All over! May! Mother!” Was
he to die like this ? The boat!—where
was it? “Thank God!”
It was time, for he had not another
stroke in his enfeebled arms, when one
�Christmas, 1873.]
89
“SHIP AHOY!”
hand struck her side, and with a de
spairing effort he got one arm over—
hooking himself on to the gunwale, as
it were—and hung there panting, when,
to his intense delight, Basalt made a
feeble effort to clutch the side as An
derson held his head above water.
The feeble hand glided over the side;
but after waiting for a few moments,
Anderson made an effort to raise him,
and the old man also got an arm over
and hung there, with his head back and
eyes dull and filmy, insensible appa
rently, but clinging instinctively for life
to the tilted boat.
The rest and sense of security brought
strength back in great strides to John
Anderson ; and after a while he made
an effort, and hoisted himself over the
stern into the boat. Then, after another
five minutes’ rest, he placed his arms
under those of Basalt, and dragged him
in, to lie helpless at the bottom of the
J"HIRTY- J HIRD
boat, with his head upon one of the
thwarts.
Then, weak and panting still, with
his breath coming slowly and hoarsely
from his chest, he picked up the oar,
and put it over the stern, to turn the
boat’s head; and a cold chill fell upon
him as he saw how distant they were
from the ship.
“ We shall never reach her,” he
groaned aloud.
“ Three cheers for the Merry May!"
said a faint voice, and Anderson started
with joy.
“ Thank Heaven, Basalt, you are
saved!”
The old man’s eyes rolled slowly to
wards him, and seemed to fix his for a
1 moment, but in a dull, sleepy fashion,
which seemed to indicate that he did
not realize his position. Then he closed
' his eyes, heaved a heavy sigh, and said,
softly—“ Never say die!”
pABLE
JLeNGTH.
HOW MR. TUDGE TOLD AN UNPLEASANT TALE.
T was
a busy
time
for Mr.
Tudge.
He was
always
b a c kw ard s
and
for
wards
at Cano nbury;
for Mr.
H alley
kept seriously ill, and leaned on him
more and more for help, while May
nursed her father night and day.
The dates came, and Rutherby’s first
bills were met.
“ Thank goodness,” sighed Mr. Hal
ley that evening, when Tudge pointed
out the entry. “ Mr. Longdale has been
very kind in his inquiries about my
health.”
“And Mr. Merritt?” said Tudge.
“ Most attentive—here every day, ”
said Mr. Halley.
Tudge looked anxious; but only mut
tered to himself, “ Wait a bit,” and went
on with his statements of payments.
Time went on, and Rutherby’s other
bills came due, and were met.
“Thank goodness!” said Mr. Halley,
“that’s done, Tudge.”
“Yes,” said Tudge, “that’s done.”
And he wanted to ask a question, but
he forbore.
The next day he was up again at
Canonbury, and May was in the room,
looking very pale, but perfectly calm.
“Ah, Tudge!” said Mr. Halley; “the
doctor says I’m better to-day, and I
feel that I am.”
“Thank God forthat!” said Tudge,
�---§O
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
fervently; and May’s soft, white hand
glided into his.
“ Hasn’t Longdale sent to-day either,
May?’’ said the invalid, pettishly.
“Not yet, papa,” said May, quietly;
and she glanced wonderingly at Tudge,
who, hidden behind the curtain, was
looking radiant. .
“ Ah ! he sent yesterday morning, but
he always sent in the evening too. What
had Philip to say last night ? ”
“ He did not come last night, papa,”
said May, quietly.
“Not come last night? Well, this
morning, then?”
“ Perhaps he is out of town, papa,”
said May, rising to leave the room.
“Ah, perhaps so,” said Mr. Plalley;
and then he lay back muttering to him
self. After this he sat up, and the ac
counts were gone into.
The next day Tudge had better news,
but he was very sparing of it. Mr.
Halley was to be a few hundreds to the
good, instead of to the bad; but Mr.
Halley was very much out of temper:
Longdale had not sent to ask after his
health, and Philip Merritt had not been
near the house for some days.
“ And I can get no explanation from
May, Tudge,” said Mr. Halley. “Pm
so anxious about it, for her sake.”
“Ah, let it rest now till you get
stronger,” said Tudge, quietly. “ Lovers’
tiff, perhaps.”
“ Ah, perhaps so,” said Mr. Halley;
“but she must be careful. I’ll tell
her so; for it’s important now that
she should not trifle with so good a
match.”
A month glided by, and Mr. Halley
was able to leave his bed, and had made
up his mind to seek out and have an
explanation with Merritt; for he could
learn nothing from May—only that she
had parted from him kindly upon the
last evening of his visit.
“ But she don’t seem to mind it a bit,
Tudge—not a bit,” said Mr. Halley ;
“ in fact, poor girl, I half think she would
like to give the matter up.”
“ Do you, really?” said Tudge, look
ing up innocently.
[Christmas, 1873-
“Yes, for she looks so well and happy
now.”
“So she does,” said Tudge, wiping
his glasses, and looking comically at his
employer.
“Well, Tudge, I think that will do
for to-day,” said Mr. Halley, at last.
Then, with a sigh—“ I think we must
now begin to think of a sale, and to
take a smaller house.”
“Time enough for that in a month,”
said Tudge. “ I wouldn’t hurry about
that till affairs are square at the office;
we must have time, and you need not
worry yourself till I tell you.”
“Tudge,” said Mr. Halley, as that
gentleman rose to go, and he spoke
with tears in his eyes—“ you’ve been
like a brother to me.”
“ Nonsense,” said Tudge, shaking
the proffered hand very, very warmly.
“ Nothing 1*0 what I mean to be, James
Halley. Men were meant to be
brothers, and to help one another—
God made us on purpose; only the
devil’s always coaxing us to fall out.
There, there, there—you often offered
to take me in as partner. Now I’ll
come, and we’ll start fair and clean
again in a small way; that we will,
and all shall go well.”
“ God bless you, Tudge—God bless
you!” said Mr. Halley, in a broken
voice; and he clung still to the other’s
hand. “ One doesn’t know one’s best
friends till tribulation comes.”
“Then hooray for tribulation!” said
Tudge, with the tears trickling down
his nose—leastwise, a little of it. And
now, my dear friend—partner, eh?”
“Ah, Tudge, Tudge, I should be
taking a mean advantage of you,” saidMr. Halley. “I am a beggar, and I
shall never be a business man again.”
“ Partners it is,” said Tudge. “ You
trust me for taking care of myself, and
driving a bargain. I’m all right—got
the best of you. But I bring in six
thousand, mind, all but ten pounds, and
that I’ll make up afterwards.”
Mr. Halley did not sp Lk, but sat
down, and covered his eyes with one
hand.
�Christmas, i<873-]
“SHIP AHOY!”
“Now, my dear old friend and part
ner, I think you have every trust and
confidence in me and my words—
brains, if you like?”
“Yes, yes, Tudge; and if I had lis
tened to you sooner—”
“ There, there — never mind that.
But, look here; yo.u must be prepared
for what you will call a disappointment,
but which is for some one a blessing in
disguise.”
“What do you mean, Tudge ?” said
Mr. Halley, wearily.
J" HIRTY-p'oURTH
91
“You wanted to know why you
have heard nothing of certain people
lately.”
“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Halley, anx
iously.
“ Shall I tell you why ?”
Mr. Halley knew what was coming,
and his eyes alone said “Yes.”
“You remember the last time they
sent or called ?”
“ Yes.”
“ It was the day that the last bill
was met.”
ABLE
J-/ENGTH.
HOW MR. TUDGE TALKED TO THE PARTNERS.
SEE
Philip
Mer
ritt,
my
d ear,”
said Mr. Hal
ley, as soon
as his doctor
had given him
leave to go out,
“and demand
an explanation.
I—I’m afraid
it’s as Tudge
says; but, after
all, it’s only the same old story that
we’ve had ever since the world began.
But for your sake, my dear, I’ll see
him, and try to bring him to his
senses.”
“ Papa dear,” said May, clinging to
his arm, and looking up in his face,
“ I could never marry a man who could
treat us like this.”
“ But, my darling, think of your posi
tion—see what you are giving up. You
know we shall have to leave this house
—soon, too, now. I shall be almost a
beggar, my darling.”
“ Well, papa, and do you think I wish
to be well off while you are poor ? I’m
afraid'you don’t love me so very much,
after all,” she said, archly.
“ And why?” he said, patting her soft
cheek.
“ Because you are in such a hurry to
get me away from you—married, and
belonging to somebody else.”
“ Now, my darling—”
“ Hear me first, papa dear,” whispered
May; and she coloured up, and her
eyes flashed as she spoke. “ Mr. Philip
Merritt persevered here till he gained
my consent; then he heard of our mis
fortunes, and left me as coolly as if
I had been a cast-off glove. Do you
think, papa, I could ever listen to him
again? No; treat him with the con
tempt he deserves, and let us be thank
ful that we have found out- his true
character before it was too late.”
“ It was for your sake, my darling,”
said the old man, querulously.
“ I know, dear,” she said, fondly and
sadly; “ but let matters be as they are.
I would rather stay by your side.”
“He deserves an action to be brought
against him,” said the old man; “and
I don’t like giving it up, my dear; but
he’ll repent it yet—he’ll repent it yet.
Why, here he is!—that’s his voice in the
hall. I knew he’d come again.”
“ Let me go, papa,” exclaimed May,
turning pallid.
But it was too late; the door was
�92
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
thrown open, and Philip Merritt, eager
and bright-eyed, hurried into the room.
“My dear Mr. Halley, so glad to see
you up again. Haven’t you wondered
where I was? Ah, May, my love, I’ve
been half mad at being detained. Why,
what’s this?”
He had possessed himself of Mr.
Halley’s hand, and shaken it most cor
dially, taking the old gentleman quite
by surprise; then, turning to May with
outstretched arms, he had made as
though to embrace her, but stopped
half-way, as she encountered him with
a look that would have chilled a braver
man than he.
“ Will you allow me to pass, sir, if
you please?” she said, coldly, all her
outraged womanhood flashing from her
eyes.
She was white almost to her lips ;
but her eyes never flinched for an instant
as she swept by him, and passed from
the room.
“Whatever does all this mean, Mr.
Halley?” exclaimed Merritt, pitifully.
“ Surely I am not to be punished for
what I cannot help? Where’s Long
dale? He promised to meet me here
this morning, and help me explain.
Been to Liverpool, and only came back
last night.”
“ Then it must have been your
ghost I saw in Quarterdeck-street yes
terday morning,” said Mr. Tudge, who
had entered unperceived. “ I thought
you wouldn’t be long before you turned
up now, Mr. Merritt.”
“ If you’ll allow me to tell you so,
Mr. Tudge” said Merritt, pronouncing
the word with an aspect of extreme
disgust, “ you are a most impertinent
fellow.”
“ Then, Mr. Philip Merritt, I won't
allow you to tell me so, nor any other
man, sir, without my pulling his nose,
sir,” and the little man swelled up, and
came ominously near the elaborately
got-up swell.
“ Do you allow such insolence as this
from a clerk, Mr. Halley ?” said Mer
ritt, scornfully.
“ No, sir, he don’t,” said Tudge; “but
[Christmas, 1873.
he allows his old friend and partner,
Mr. Samuel Tudge—Halley, Edwards,
Tudge, and Company—to speak up for
him, when he is-just recovering from his
illness, and an impertinent jackanapes
has forced his way into the house on
the strength of some news he has
heard.”
“ My dear Tudge, pray,” exclaimed
Mr. Halley—“pray be calm.”
“I won’t,” said Tudge—“I can’t
afford to be. This fellow raises my
bile. Do you know why he’s here to
day ? No, of course you don’t. Ah,
Mr. Longdale, you here too. Delighted
to see you again, I’m sure. Mr. Halley
is better, sir—much better, sir,” ex
claimed Tudge to the sleek partner of
the Rutherby firm who now came
smiling into the room.
“Glad of it, I’m sure,” said Mr.
Longdale, glancing from one to the
other, smiling but uneasy.
“ Where the deuce is my ruler ? ”
muttered Tudge, picking up a piece of
music from May’s stand, and rolling it
up. “Ah, that’s better,” he said, giving
the roll a flourish, and then bringing it
down bang upon the table.
“Is he mad?” said Merritt, in an
audible undertone to Longdale, who
raised his eyebrows and shrugged his
shoulders.
“ Not a bit of it,” said Tudge, with
another flourish of his make-shift ruler.
“ Sane as you are, wide awake as either
of you. So you’ve come to congratu
late Mr. Halley—-us, I ought to say—
about this morning’s news ?”
“ News, my good sir?—I don’t know
what you mean.”
“ He’s drunk,” said Merritt, savagely.
“Am I?” said Tudge. “Well, it
would be excusable if I was, when a
hundred thousand pounds turns up into
one’s firm unexpectedly.”
“Good heavens, Tudge!” exclaimed
Mr. Halley, trembling with agitation,
“what does it mean ?”
“What does it mean ?” cried Tudge,
exultingly. “ Of course they did not
know, either of ’em: been to Liver
pool- -in London; never read shipping
�Christmas, 1873.]
“SHIP AHOY!”
news, nc. ' saw the telegrams posted
this morning at Lloyd’s and through
the City. Come here innocent as two
doves. Bless you, Mr. Halley, they
didn’t know, bless you, that the Merry
May was telegraphed up as having
passed the Lizard this morning, and is
on her way up the Channel.”
“ Thank—”
The poor old man said no more. He
was weak yet with his long illness, and
he tottered into a chair, and fainted
away.
“Too much for him,” said Tudge, run
ning to his side. “ Here, you, ring that
bell,” he cried to Longdale.
“Mr. Tudge, I’m sure I congratulate
you,” said Longdale, smiling, with one
hand on the bell.
Samuel was in the room in a very
short space of time, just as Merritt was
about to offer assistance.
“Stand back, sir,” said Tudge, with
dignity, “ you are not wanted here;
your game’s up as far as this house is
concerned. Hold his head up, my dear,
and order some wine,” he added, aside
to May, who ran affrighted into the
room, alarmed by the loud ringing of
the bell. - “ That’s it; we’ll give him
some wine directly we’ve got rid of
these two scoundrels.”
“ Sir,” snarled Longdale, showing his
teeth like a cat.
“May, as your father is prostrate,”
exclaimed Merritt, furiously, “do you
allow this man to insult us like that?”
“ How dare you, sir,” cried Tudge,
bouncing at him—“how dare you insult
that lady by calling her by her Chris
tian name ? Samuel, show these fellows
out, and never admit them again, on
any pretence. And look here, you two,
93
recollect this: you don’t owe Mr. James
Halley thirty thousand pounds, but you
owe it to us—to me and Mr. Halley,
and by Jove we’ll have it paid!”
“This is insufferable—the fellow is
mad or drunk,” said Longdale.
“ Both—a beast! ” cried Merritt.
Mr. Tudge faced them, at the other
end of the room, in a moment.
“If it wasn’t for the lady, I’d— There,
I won’t quarrel with you. Samuel, show
these men out.”
Samuel evidently enjoyed it, and felt
a most profound respect for the man who
was his master’s confidant and manager;
and without doubt he would have as
sisted the visitors’ steps, had they not
made a dignified show of going. And
Canonbury knew them no more.
“ Is this true, Tudge ?” said Mr. Hal
ley, who was sitting up, with his head
supported on May’s breast.
“True as telegrams,” said Tudge;
“ but I don’t think there’s a doubt about
it. Mind you; it’s a case of salvage—
derelict picked up, and so on; but it will
set you upon your legs again, James
Halley, and we’ll dissolve partnership
to-morrow.”
“No,” exclaimed Mr. Halley, “never
as long as I live.”
“ Nonsense—absurd !” said Tudge ;
“ you’re all right again, and I’ll go back
to my old style, and good luck to us !
But I think I ought to stop in till those
fellows have paid up—confound ’em!
But you won’t believe in them again,
eh?”
Mr. Tudge read his answer in the eyes
of both; and promising more news as
soon as he could get it, he hurried back
to the City.
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
|
MES
SAGES that
evening and
all the next
day were
c onfirmatory
of the good
news; and
the bright
ness c a me
back to Mr.
Halley’s eyes
as he felt
how he could
hold up his
head once more in the City. On the
following morning, May was pouring
out the coffee, when there was the noise
of wheels, the shuffling of feet, then the
door flew open, and Mr. Tudge danced
in, waving his hat frantically. He ran
at May and hugged her, shook hands
with Mr. Halley, and then stood in the
middle of the room, and putting his
hands to his mouth, he shouted out, in
stentorian tones—“ Ship ahoy!”
“In dock?” exclaimed Mr. Halley,
almost as excited.
“ In dock, and her captain’s in the
hall—captain and mate that picked her
up, floating in mid ocean, and brought
her home.”
“Not Simmons?”
“Simmons!” cried Tudge, in a tone
of disgust. “There was only one
man who could have done it, and his
name’s—”
“Anderson!” cried May, half hysteri
cally, as she started forward.
Her voice did it; for as she uttered
his name, John Anderson — brown,
flushed and excited, rugged and worn,
with his long beard rusty with exposure
—half rushed into the room, and clasped
May’s hands in his; till, trembling, with
her face burning, she shrank away, to
[Christmas, 1873«
give place to her father, who took
Anderson’s hand eagerly, and spoke in
broken accents—
“ It’s coals of fire on my head, John
Anderson ; but I’m humbled now—the
old pride’s gone, and you’ve rewarded
me with good for my evil. To think,
though, that you should save my
ship; and we had mourned you for
dead!”
“ Mourned, sir ? ” said Anderson,
huskily, and his eyes rested upon the
crape bow which May still wore at her
breast.
It was but for a moment, though; for
the colour mounted to the girl’s temples
as she snatched it off, and threw it upon
the floor.
“May I take this, sir?” said Ander
son, stooping and picking up the bow,
while May turned away panting.
“Take it—take what you will, An
derson,” cried Mr. Halley; “only tell
me first that you’ve forgiven me my
insults.”
“Another word, sir, and you drive
me away,” said Anderson. “ I did say
that I’d never darken your door again ;
but man proposes—”
“And God disposes,” said a gruff
voice, which drew attention to Basalt,
with whom Mr. Halley and May shook
hands most heartily.
“ It’s all right, sir—don’t say anything
about it; only that you didn’t oughter
have separated the May from the on’y
cap’n as could sail her.”
“ I do say it, my man, most heartily,”
said Mr. Halley; and he shook hands
once more.
“ And not to come to me first, John! ”
said a piping old voice, as Mrs. Anderson
entered directly after, and was clasped
in the strong man’s arms.
“ I wouldn’t let him till he’d done
his business,” cried Tudge; “but, you
wicked old woman, didn’t I send a cab
for you to come here, where he’s only
I
�»
Christmas, >§73.]
X
1I
“SHIP AHOY!”
95
been five n,.,mtes ? And for you, too, about half a crew, and slowly sailed the
Mrs. Gurnett ?”
vessel home.
“ For which thankye, I says,” said old
“ Which not another man in England
Basalt, smiling down upon the comely could have done,” cried Tudge, as he
face streaming with tears. “ Didn’t waved an extemporized ruler round his
I tell you, my lass, as it would be head, and brought it down bang upon
all right ? Sweet little cherub up the table.
aloft, eh? And here we are, safe back
“ But what’s the good of a cap’n with
again.”
out a well-found craft?” cried Basalt.
“ And what ought to be done to the
Did Desdemona listen with such glow scoundrels who would send men help
ing cheek to the battle tales of the lessly to drown?” cried Tudge.
Moor as did May Halley that day,
“They need no punishment,” said
when in plain, unvarnished Saxon J ohn Mr. Halley; “for sooner or later it
Anderson told to all of their perils by returns upon themselves.”
sea, speaking often, with solemn voice,
There was silence then, and John
of how they had been preserved time Anderson spoke with all eyes fixed
after time from what seemed imminent upon him, as upon one who had returned
death ? Surely not. But it was a hard from the dead.
task; for Jeremiah Basalt would keep
“ Mr. Halley has spoken rightly,” he
interrupting with choice bits of his own said. “No punishment that man could
that Anderson would have left out; and invent could equal those conscience
these bits were always of some piece of cries that must at times be felt by the
seamanship or daring, while the trium most hardened of those who have to
phant bit of all was that when Basalt answer for the lives of men. I tell you
sprang up and waved his arm about this,” he said, and his eyes flashed as
like a semaphore, and told of how he looked round—“ I who have stood
Anderson had saved his life.
again and again face to face with death
“ Saved my life—not as it was mine, —I tell you that at the most awful of
but belonging to Mrs. Gurnett here,” he those moments, when I was standing
said; “for which, my dear, you ought to ready to meet Him who sent me upon
give him thanks.”
this earth, I swear to you, by His holy
Basalt nodded approvingly, as he saw name, that I would not have changed
Mrs. Gurnett go tearfully up to Ander places with one of those men at home
son, and kiss the hands he held out to at ease who have to answer for the life
her; and then he started up, and John of the father, the lover, and the son who
Anderson started too, as May Halley have sailed in their rotten hulks. Punish
stood by Basalt’s side, and thanked him, ment! My God! they have the cry of
for her father’s sake, she said, for what the bereaved maiden, the widow’s moan,
he had done.
and the bitter wailings of the starving
It was an uneventful narrative, that child of him whose bones lie fathoms
latter part, which told of how, nearly by low in the great deep. They need no
a miracle, John Anderson got his boat punishment—they make their own.”
back, with its almost lifeless burden, to
And a sweet voice said, below its
the Merry May; and then of how they breath, heard by its utterer alone—
reached the Mauritius, refitted, engaged
“Amen!”
I
r
b) *
r
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
J^HIRTY-pIXTH
£aBLE
[Christmas, 1873.
J_TENGTH.
THE LAST KNOTS, AND HOW JEREMIAH BASALT CRIED “SHIP AHOY!|
COLD day for a wedding— j
Christmas? That is a matter
of opinion. But, there, what
need is there to tell? Of course
it followed—they followed; for John
Anderson and Basalt were married
upon the same day, and Tudge gave
away the widow, grudgingly, he said;
for if it hadn’t been for Basalt----Then, too, he half threatened to hang
himself in his braces.
But only half; for he made the punch
a month later at Canonbury, and helped
to drink it, sipping slowly while Mrs.
Anderson related to him John Ander
son’s adventures from the age of six
weeks, including his battle with the
croup, fight with the measles, and dire
encounter with the thrush.
“But after all,” she said, “fine man
as John was, he would never be equal
to his father.”
The Basalts wanted to get out of com
ing to that dinner, but Mr. Halley would
not hear of it, for he said that Jeremiah
was one of his best friends; and Basalt
blushed, really and rosily, as did his wife,
who sat and worshipped him with all
her might.
It was a bright and manly speech
that Mr. Halley made, and so was the
response of John Anderson as he rose
from beside his blushing wife.
It was a happy party that night, even
though it was what Philip Merritt called
“disgustingly low;” but then, the pre
vious day, he had taken a receipt from
Mr. Tudge for a heavy sum of money
borrowed fourteen months before, and
which he had been compelled to refund.
But low or not, there was happiness
within those walls, and mirth and bright
ness, till John Anderson, captain, gave
a toast, drunk by all standing and in
silence—a toast that we will drink with
all our hearts—“ God bless the men this night at sea! ”
And then came the parting.
Mr. Basalt was only merry when he
shouted along the hall to his captain, as
he stood with his wife upon his arm—
“What cheer there with the Merry
May?"
And again, as he was ensconced
within the cab, and Samuel had closed
the door, grinning with all his might,
Basalt thrust out his head, and with
lusty lungs roared out, as the cab was
moving off—“Ship
aiioy!”
�APPENDIX.
r
N case you should think that the state of things indicated in this story is
at all overdrawn, the following two or three cases, well established by
J competent witnesses, are added for your information.
J
The following is from the finding of the Court of Inquiry, held in Aberd! deen, in October, 1873, into the loss of the Benachie (steamer), which foundered,
d as the Court says, in “ comparatively calm weather, in August last.” . . .
1
“ The evidence of the manager of the firm which built the vessel is to the effect that
I
d| had she been intended for the carriage of iron ore (the article which she was only employed
£ to bring home), she should have been especially strengthened for that purpose; and the capJ tain of the vessel represented to one of the superintendents employed by the owners, after
il the ship had made a few voyages, that if she were .to be continued in the iron ore trade,
ia| she would require to be strengthened................... After an anxious and careful review of the
whole evidence, we can arrive at no other“ conclusion than that the ship had been, generally
(9 on her homeward voyages, overladen. The cargoes of iron ore were much in excess of the
¡'' cargoes which she took out, and being stowed as they were, must have brought great strain
on every part of the ship. The result of our investigation is to leave no doubt upon our
minds that the cause of the vessel foundering was .... the excessive weight of cargo
which the ship had to carry...................
“ Some of the witnesses declared that they observed the boiler moving, although they differed
as to the amount of the movement. Others observed the forecastle head twisting, and the
} master stated that there was more vibration in the Benachie than in any other steamer in
I which he had sailed. The carpenter told us that he and a former chief officer often spoke
of the straining of the vessel, attributing it to the heavy cargo, and deposed that it was
matter of common conversation among the crew...................
“ The firemen, on rough nights, were frightened to go from the engine-room to their berths in
the forecastle, and preferred to stay in the engine-room during the time they were entitled to be
in bed; while the owners’ superintendent admits that he on several occasions heard the crew,
after the return of the vessel to this country, talking to each other about the straining of the
ship, in a manner which seemed to him intended to attract his attention...................
“ It is proper to say that .... to sail with so low a freeboard as 2 ft. 9 in. was unques
tionably hazardous. The owners have been at pains to prove that such a freeboard, is common in
the trade. That is probably quite true; but it only makes it the more imperative upon us to give
no uncertain sound on the subject, but to declare emphatically that .... to sail a vessel
�2
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
which we desire, with the perfect concurrence of the assessors, to express our unqualified con
demnation. The sum of the whole matter is this—the Benachie was run to death by carrying too I
heavy cargoes at too high a rate of speed.”
The Court consisted of the Sheriff, Comrie Thomson, Esq., and Colonel '
Cadenhead, assisted by two nautical assessors.
The crew would all have been lost had not one of H.M. ships oi war picked
them up.
Another Court of Inquiry into the loss oi a steamer, held at Newcastle, con
clude their finding by saying, “ That they could not dismiss this painful case i
without respectfully urging upon the Government the necessity of instituting ,
some inspection to prevent a system of overloading, which had become so notorious j
in vessels leaving the Tyne;" and
Mr. Stephenson, the Secretary to Lloyd’s, read before the Royal Commis
sioners the following letter from the mate of a ship to his sweetheart (see
Minutes of Evidence, p. 249):—
(Copy.)
“ Dear Lizzie—We sail to-night, and I wish she was going without me; for I don’t like
the look of her, she is so deep in the water. But I won’t .show the white feather to any one. I
she can carry a captain, she can carry a mate too. But it’s a great pity that the Board of Trade
doesn’t appoint some universal load water-mark, and surveyors to see that ships are not sent to
sea to become coffins for their crews. But don’t torment yourself about me. I dare say I shall
get through it as well as anybody else. Hoping that you may continue well—I remain, yours
fondly,
“ Tom.”
The ship went to the bottom with all hands. “ That,” said the witness, “ was
an instance of a vessel going to sea with competent persons on board, who knew
she was going to the bottom. He had received many letters of this kind.”
So far as to overloading. Cases might be added indefinitely; indeed, in at
least two cases known to the writer (one a young man of twenty, and one the
second mate of a ship), both men went home and put on old suits of clothing,
that the sister in one case, and the wife in the other, might have the better
clothing to sell in case they were lost, which they knew to be inevitable unless
they had calm weather all the way. In both cases, the ships and all the men
were lost.
UNSEAWORTHINESS.
Many good people find it hard to believe that men can be found so wicked
as knowingly to send a ship to sea in an unseaworthy state. They not only do
so, but, if the men show any reluctance to be drowned for their profit, they try
and too often succeed in sending them to gaof for their reluctance.
In September last, five seamen were brought before the magistrates at Dover
for refusing to go to sea. By desire of the bench, a surveyor was directed to
examine the vessel (let us be thankful for that now, it was not always so); and
his report stated that there was a great insufficiency of ropes, spare sails, and the
necessary gear, and the vessel was unseaworthy.
In the same month (September, 1873), four men were brought before the Hull
magistrates on a similar charge. A survey was ordered, and Mr. Snowden, sur
veyor, reported “that there was sufficient to justify the prisoners in not proceed
ing in the vessel. The deck wants caulking, and certain timbers are rotten; and it
is quite possible that the masts might roll out of her, and make her at the mercy
�APPENDIX.
3
of the sea. Water also came through the deck on to the men in the forecastle.”
Asked, if he were a sailor would he go to sea in her, he answered, “ I would
not do so.”
In the same month it was attempted to send six seamen to gaol for refusing
to go to sea in a ship of which (a survey having been ordered) two surveyors
reported:—“We find as follows :—Bobstay slack, jib and flying jibstay decayed, hawse pipes both dan
gerously started, jib and flying jibguys look bad, part of cutwater started; fid of maintopmast
rotten, and topmast sagged two or three inches, and slung with chains from lower masthead;
lower deck beams rotten, many lodging knees also rotten, breast hooks rent and rotten, ceiling
rotten in several places, riders started and bolts loose and apparently broken; cathead beam very
rotten, and breast beams rotten. Certainly, in her present state, we consider that she is unfit to
proceed to sea.”
In the evidence given before the Royal Commissioners (see Minutes of
Evidence, p. 207), a Liverpool shipowner, called William James Fernie, says, in
reply to questions, that he gave ¿3,500 for a ship registered at 2,800 tons. The
same witness, in answer to a question as to what a good ship would cost per
ton, answered, “¿13 or ¿14;” and he was also asked by another Commis
sioner—
* “ Do you think you have a right to expect to obtain a perfectly sound vessel
at ¿1 per ton ?”
As to the sort of ship she really was, another Commissioner, as it happened,
was able to tell his fellow-Commissioners that he himself had surveyed her, and
had reported to the Salvage Association as follows—inter alia:—
“ She was trussed with transverse bars of iron, screwed up amidships, like an
old barn or church, before she started on this last voyage. That is to say, that
the whole of the fastenings at the beam ends and knees were so rotten, that there
was no junction on the sides of the ship, and this , mode of fastening was intro
duced, and the only way of fastening the ship together was to introduce these
enormous amounts of iron.” (Inventive genius of the British shipbuilder!)
(Report of Royal Commissioners, p. 3.) This, bear in mind, is the evidence of
one of the Commissioners themselves. This man also admitted that he had lost
nineteen ships in the last ten years only (he has been a shipowner twenty-five
years), with the following ascertained loss of life:—
In the General Simpson
...
Eight lives lost.
Dawn of Hope
...
Twenty-eight.
Royal Victoria
...
Fourteen.
Royal Albert ...
...
All hands, number not known.
Great Northern
...
Sixteen lives lost.
Windsor Castle
...
Twenty.
Golden Fleece ...
...
One.
Royal Adelaide
...
Seven.
Florine...
...
...
All hands lost.
Malvern
...
...
Not stated.
Denmark
...
...
Not stated.
Henry Fernie ...
...
Not stated.
Dunkcld
...
...
Not stated.
(See Minutes of Evidence, p. 207./
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
4
This witness stated that in 1866 he formed the Meichants’ Trading
Company, to which his ships were transferred, and of which he is the managing
director; and he admitted that nine thousand nine hundred and ninety shares
out of the ten thousand) were held by his brother-in-lav/, in trust for his wife
and family, and the other ten shares were held by himself and his dependents.
(See idl)
The Board of Trade have issued their Annual Report for 1872, arid say in it
that “ forty ships have foundered from unseaworthiness in that year.”
Extract of a letter from David Maclver, Esq., one of the managing partners
in the firm which owns the Cunard steamers at Liverpool, published in the Liver
pool Mercury:—
“ Wanlass How, Ambleside, Oct. 20, 1873.
“ Dear Sir—
-5?#
“ Far more vessels are lost than ought to be, and many oi these have been new, or nearly new
steamers. I do not say Liverpool steamers; but I do say that their loss is as easily accounted for
as the loss of a few 56 lb. weights- would be it you put them into an old basket, or sent them afloat
in a tin pan of inferior material or workmanship.—Yours very sincerely,
“David MacIver.”
Extract from a letter, written by Mr. R. Knight, Secretary of the Iron Ship
builders’ (operatives) Society, and published in the Liverpool Daily Courier,
Oct., 1873:—
*#$*#*#»
“The facts of the case are as follows—viz., the screw steamer Brighton, built in 1872, by
Blumer and Co., of Sunderland, for the Commercial Steamship Company, London, registered
number 68,364, went only one voyage to Gibraltar, and when she returned to this port the owners
or agents were compelled to put her in the Herculaneum Dock about February last for repairs,
and she remained there nearly seven weeks. The keel rivets were all loose, and had to be taken
out, and others put in; also a large number in the stem and stern. I went and examined the
vessel, and saw that she was very badly built; any one could pass a mechanic’s rule between the
frames and the shell plates in many places, also between the strips, as the work was never
properly closed. As the men put in the new rivets and closed the work, the old rivets projected
about 3-i6ths of an inch; and had the men continued to close the work as it should have been
done when the vessel was built, they would have been compelled to rivet hex- all over. The fore
man and inspectors seeing this, requested the men to use light hammers, about 2 lbs. (the usual
hammers for that kind of work are about 5 lbs.), so as to nobble the end of the rivet in the hole,
and not close the plates to the frames. This was'done, and she was made watertight; but she
would not keep so very long, as the straining of the vessel would very soon loosen the rivets,
through the work not being closed; and where the plates met, the joints were so open that they
had caulked her with oakum.”
• Are men sent to gaol for refusing to go to sea in such ships ? Let the
following tables reply.
Particulars of seamen committed to gaol for refusing to go to sea in vessels
alleged by them to be unseaworthy, so far as has been ascertained
England ...
Wales
Scotland ...
Ireland ...
<44
...
...
...
...
...
55
281
90
41
79
479
491
294
107
23
1872.
187L
1870.
...
...
...
..............
..............
..............
420
I5Ö
45
43
658
�APPENDIX.
5
ENGLAND.
Men Committed.
Prison.
County.
Chester
..............
Cornwall ..............
Devonshire
Dorsetshire
Durham
..............
Essex
..............
Gloucester
Kent.........................
99
99
99
Lancashire
99
Lincolnshire
Middlesex..............
99
••*
•••
Monmouthshire ...
Norfolk
..............
N orthumberland ...
99
...
Southampton '
Suffolk
..............
Yorkshire..............
J?
99
•••
• ••
99
z
County Prison
Bodmin
Exeter
..............
Plymouth ...
Dorchester
Durham
Springfield..............
Bristol
Maidstone..............
Canterbury...
Dover
Sandwich ...
Preston
Liverpool ...
Lindsey - ...
Coldbath Fields ...
Holloway ...
Usk..........................
Great Yarmouth ...
Morpeth
Newcastle ...
Winchester
Southampton
Ipswich
...
... •
Northallerton
Wakefield ...
Kingston-upon-Hull
Scarborough
1870.
1871.
1872.
Total.
8
32
17
5
2
5
24
4
3
6
—
32
13
88
26
48
6
56
2
—
—
9
7
7
7
■—
26
—
82
—
—
i
I
40
—
52
—
—
5
22
2
i
i
24
—
4
8
—
—
—
294
5
i
9
59
51
71
i
175
9
15
33
21
15
17
7
4
45
2
68
5
hi
2
202
13
7
11
13
7
'
7
6
5
5
—
—
18
4
i
6
6
281
5
14
5
i
—
16
2
16
II
2
'
40
2
38
4
5
23
3
10
11
420
995
ABSTRACT.
Men Committed in 1870
..............
294
„
1071
...........................................................
281
„
1872
...........................................................
420
Total
43
13
7
6
995
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
6
WALES.
County.
Men Committed.
Town.
..............
Total.
3
2
—.
20
77
26
—
51
32
2
13
5
i
80
90
• 7
I
208
150
347
U
n
i
27
24
co
Pembroke
1872.
4
—
—
Beaumaris ...
Carmarthen
Carnarvon ...
Cardiff
Swansea
Haverfordwest
1871.
107
Anglesey ...
Carmarthen
Carnarvon ..............
Glamorgan
1870.
26
ABSTRACT.
Men Committed in 1870
„
»
...
1871
1872
107
................................................
90
................................................
150
Total
347
-
SCOTLAND.
Cases Tried.
County.
Aberdeen
Ayr
Town.
...
..............
Aberdeen ...
Fraserburgh
Ardrossan ...
Troon
Alloa
Leith
Granton
Dundee
Glasgow
Greenock ...
StornoWay ...
Lerwick
I
I
—
1871.
1872.
i
—
i
i
—
1870.
Men Committed.
Number
of Men
Committed.
i
i
—
2
i
1870.
3
2
I
i
—
16
I
n
Forfar
Lanark
Renfrew
Ross.............
Shetland
...
i
i
4
—
i
7
—
—
—
—
5
2
i
i
20
20
7
—
—
5
4
3
—
9
Clackmannan
Edinburgh ...
16
16
109
I
—
—
—
—
5
—
i
3
6
i
25
8
1871.
i
—
i
i
■—■
6
—
—
6
10
16
1872. Total.
i
i
—
3
2
8
16
3
3
6
4
i
4
20
20
109
7
—
—
23
!
7
10
2
8
41
45
I
i
25
8
ABSTRACT.
...
1870
9
„
...
1871
16
„
...
1872
16
Number of Cases
Total
41
Men Committed
•
5J
23
41
45
Total
IC9
�APPENDIX.
7
IRELAND.
Men Committed.
1872.
Total.
'
1870.
00
Town.
County.
Antrim
..............
Cork.........................
Donegal ..............
Louth
..............
Sligo.........................
Waterford..............
Belfast
Cork
. Lifford
Dundalk
Sligo
...
Waterford 1.............
II
21
17
4
2
—
55
29
Il8
5
70
—
—
—
13
27
—
. —
—
17
4
2
4
3
7
79
43
177
ABSTRACT.
Number of Men Committed
1870
55
1871
79
1872
43
Total
52
177
A statement sent to me by certain seamen, showing the treatment of sailors
charged with refusing to go to sea.
Sometimes (very rarely) they escape, and this is how they fare:—
I
(Copy.)
“To Samuel Plimsoll, Esq., M.P.
“Hull, ist October, 1873.
“ SIR—We, the undersigned, beg to hand you the following statement, being an account 01
the treatment which we (together with a seaman named John Williams) have experienced on
‘ our refusal to go to sea in an unseaworthy ship.
“On the nth day of September, 1873, we shipped on board the brig Expert, belonging to
Mr. Stephen Heaton Lennard, of Hull, which was bound in ballast for Norway, to fetch a
cargo of ice.
“ On proceeding on board with our clothes the same evening, we saw that the ship was unsea
worthy, and refused to sail in her. On the following morning (12th September) we were given
into the custody of the Board of Trade constable (by Mr, Lennard, the owner), and taken by
him before the magistrates, sitting at the police court of this borough, and charged with refusing
to proceed to sea.
“We were asked by the magistrates why we refused to do so, and we told them that the
vessel was unseaworthy, and requested that a survey might be held on the vessel by the proper
authorities.
[The power to demand a survey was only confirmed last year, and few
seamen know of it. They also have to pay all expenses if it is shown that they
are mistaken.—S. P.J
In answer to this request we were told that we should have to deposit the sum of two
guinea? for the survey. This sum we could not at the time deposit; but we stated that we would
be all jointly answerable for the amount, if, on survey, she was found to be in a fit state to go to sea.
“We were, however, then remanded to the gaol of this borough, not being able to find bail,
and were taken there in the prison van.
One of us (namely, Mundy) being in a very delicate state of health, suffering from a severe
�8
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
cold and affection of the chest, for which he had remained on shore for about five months; and he
had with him some medicine, and also an extra flannel on his chest as a protection.
“ On arriving at the gaol, we were marched in single file by a warder to the remand part ot
the prison, when we were at once placed in separate, small, dark cells, and ordered to strip off
the whole of our clothes for a bath.
“ We did so, and waited for upwards of twenty minutes «in these cold cells without a particle
of clothing upon us, expecting every minute to be called out for a bath.
“ Mundy was shaking with cold, owing to his bad health and the removal of his warm cloth
ing, and we were all more or less affected by the cold by taking off all our flannel garments
which we, as mariners, usually wear. After waiting for about twenty minutes we were removed
from these cells, but not taken to a bath as previously ordered, but were marched a distance of
about forty yards entirely naked, through a cold, stone passage, to the clothing room, where i
prison raiment was given to us, consisting only of a rough cotton shirt, a rough singlet, with a
pair of stockings; and with only this clothing on we were marched back again through the;
passage, along which we had previously gone naked, and were then placed in separate cells, and
ordered to bed.
“ A short time afterwards we were supplied with a tin containing skilly, and a piece of black
bread, which we refused to eat.
“ What few provisions we. had taken in with us we were refused permission to eat, they being
all taken away from us, as well as the medicine and breast flannel belonging to Mundy. We
remained in these cold cells until the following morning, when we were again offered the same
kind of skilly and black bread for breakfast as had been supplied to us the previous night, and
which we again refused to eat. We were then ordered to the bath-room, and were taken along
the cold stone passage in the cotton shirt, singlet, and stockings, and placed into a warm bath;
and after having a bath, we were taken back naked through this stone passage to be measured,
and when this was done we were taken to the cells where we had been confined for the night, and
our own clothes were then given to us, which we put on.
“ About ten o’clock the same morning we were removed in the prison van to the cells of the
police court, and in the afternoon we were taken before the magistrates (Messrs. Jameson, Foun
tain, and Palmer), who, upon hearing the evidence of Mr. Snowden, senior surveyor to the Board
of Trade (who proved that the ship was unseaworthy), we were discharged, and the following
remarks were at the same time made by Mr. Palmer—namely, ‘ That he considered that the
Board of Trade surveyor had given his evidence in a clear, straightforward manner, and was the
right man in the right place, and that he should never dream of punishing us. That we had
exercised a sound judgment in not going to sea in this vessel, and advised us in future to look at
vessels before signing articles to go to sea in them, especially if they were to have ice in them.
“ We were, however, discharged without any recompense for our false imprisonment, and the
indignities we suffered during our incarceration, and through which Mundy considers his life was
endangered.
“We therefore wish you to lav this matter before the proper authorities, so that we may obtain
iustice and reparation, and that the seamen of England may not be treated in the gaols of this
country in the way we have described (before being convicted of an offence), for simply refusingto risk their lives in rotten ships.-— We are, Sir, yours obediently,
“ (Signed)
(Signed)
(Signed)
William Mundy.
William Rivis (his X mark).
Gabriel (his X mark) Guslaf.
“ P.S.—Mundy.is still under medical care, and is now much worse from the imprisonment.
“ Signed in the presence of Geo. Barker, Clerk to Messrs. Oliver and Botterell, Solicitors
Sunderland.”
letter from the governor of one of her majesty’s prisons.
“ Sir—I beg to enclose you an account of a representative case just given me by the writer
it, who, with another of his shipmates, is a prisoner here. They are both, to all appearances,
honest sailors and most respectable young men. It thus appears that there is no alternative for
the unsuspicious seaman who, in good faith, enters on board a spongy-bottomed vessel, between
drowning and imprisonment. Their late ship has gone to sea with their clothes and certificate^
�APPENDIX.
9
anOE® young man is writing in the greatest grief to his parents, dreading the shock upon them
when they hear that he is in prison. Sandwich Island kidnapping is not more iniquitous than
a case such as this.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
I may’add, in confidence, that one oi the committing magistrates is a merchant, and that the
merchants are much interested in supporting shipowners against their seamen; for if they do not
do so, and if they allow shipowners to think that their crews are not well looked after by the
im authorities, it is feared that shipowners will not allow their vessels to touch at ----- , and
'!J0 consequently business will decline.
********
If.
“They (the seamen) state that they were engaged at Liverpool, upon the assertion that the
ship was going on 1 a nice little voyage to----- only,’ and that it was only on their arrival at
|----- that they were informed that the old, leaky vessel was to go round the Horn to Callao.
ah 'Also, that when they were had up before the magistrates, they pointed out that they had taken
Pio ‘ advance,’ which showed clearly that, when they shipped, it was their own bond fide intention
to go to sea in the ship, according to their engagement, if she had been seaworthy.
*
******
*
“The two prisoners have, of course, neither seen nor spoken to one another since they have
been here. I have examined them separately, and there is not the shadow of a doubt about the
■4. absolute truth of their story—only, as the ship has sailed, there seems no probability of proving
it. Seamen are the worst men possible to make out a good case for themselves when had up in
court. They look upon themselves as doomed at once—that ‘ it’s no use saying anything.’ The
prosecutor makes an audacious harangue, the seamen chew their quids with energy, and look as
though they would like to chew him. Sentence is pronounced by a magistrate whom they know
ip knows no more about ships than they do of the mysteries of marine insurance. They feel that
they have been infamously hocussed, but that ‘it’s all a muddle,’ and that it’s better to go to
prison than to be drowned, and so they are hustled out of the dock. Other dupes, half-drunk,
perhaps, are shipped in their place; the manager or agent remains until the ship is out of sight,
and returns to his owners to expatiate on his success. We have a splendid specimen of a
9< seaman here now, who has been wrecked three times in the last few months, with the loss of
everything on each occasion. I could not help thinking ot them and of you yesterday, when in
'f the morning’s Psalms we read, 1 Let the sorrowful sighing of the prisoner come before Thee
and thought that you were the instrument of the Lord, raised up to do His work, to show that
theie is a God tnat judgeth the eaith, chat in this God-governed world there is no such thing as
1 permanently-successful villainy either for Napoleons or Gradgrinds; and I pray that those who
have been grinding the face of the poor with such impunity hitherto, may find that ‘ the day of
the Lord ’ is not merely 1 at hand,’ which they have disbelieved, but that it has come upon them
and upon their evil houses.
********
£I discharged yesterday, two prisoners on expiry of sentence, whose case was somewhat simi
lar to the present one —joining a ship out in a roadstead upon glowing representations—on get
ting out to her finding her to be a rotten corfin, and on demand to be put on shore again, sent to
prison on a summary conviction. They served out their imprisonment with the patience or
oxen ;> and until the law is framed to protect them as it does children and minors, they will, with
the simplicity of children, fall again into the first trap that is laid for them.”
THE WRECK REGISTER AND CHART FOR
1872,
“Of the 439 total losses from causes other than collisions, on and near the coasts of the
United Kingdom, in 1872, 56 arose from defects in the ship or in her equipments, and of these 56
no less than 40 appear to have foundered from unseaworthiness.”
LETTER FROM THE FRENCH CONSUL AT IRISH PORT.
“Dear Sir—-Every humane person must wish you success in the courageous campaign you
have begun against an infernal set of scoundrels; and I think every one, whatever is his nationality
8 oound to give all assistance in his power. You will be glad to hear from me that so far you
have been successful, that some of the notorious shipowners are trying to put their rotten ships
�IO
ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
under foreign flags, keeping the ownership of them at the same time, and being in hope, by so B
doing, of evading whatever law Parliament might enact. Yesterday, one of those notorious ship- U
owners applied to me to authorise a French subject to purchase one of his ships, and to request p
me to give a provisional French nationality to this ship. Knowing the party by reputation, and if
the character of his ships, I was doubly on my guard; and, after inquiry, was satisfied that this |!f
was not a bonci fide transaction, and was made to evade the British law, and, I strongly suspect, ffi
to avoid an examination by the surveyor of the Board of Trade. I formally refused to grant the I.'
request made to me in this instance, and have officially informed my Government of my reasons
for giving such refusal. I must say I am rather afraid of your law of libel: this is my reason for 1?
putting ‘ private’ on the top of this letter, and giving no name for the present. However, if you J
thought the name might keep your case, if it is asked from me by the Commissioners, I shall give |
it willingly. I have not yet had time to read your book, but I saw a number of extracts from it i
and, after having seen them, all I say is, God help you in your good work.”
|
LETTER FROM THE SOLICITOR TO THE BOARD OF TRADE.
“Custom House, February 24th, 1873.
j
|
“My DEAR Sir—You have made a move in the cause of humanity for which you deserve 1
immortal credit. I have not seen your book; but I read a review of it in the Times with the -I
deepest interest. When you, some years ago, referred to me as having, on the occasion of a i
Board of Trade inquiry, described the conduct of a shipowner as ‘homicidal,’ you were well |
iustified in doing so. I might have used the more felonious term, because cases have occurred
where delinquents have been executed for murder who deserved the gallows less than the moneyed
barbarians who have sent overladen ships to sea. I send you enclosed an illustration of the
justice of my statement. But, to judge accurately of the disgraceful case, you should read the
evidence on the inquiry. It was proved that the decks were so laden with bales ot cotton that j
the crew had to stand and walk on the top of them so as to manage the ship; and Mr. Pearson, |
a shipowner, examined for the defence, swore that the higher the bales were piled the more it |
conduced to the safety of the ship, as, if the ship went down, the crew and passengers would I
have a better chance of escaping.
“ I am, my dear Sir, &c.,
■
“James O’Dowd.”
*
LETTER FROM A LONDON MERCHANT.
“ Great Tower-street, London, February 26, 1873.
'
“ Dear Sir—I have read, with very great interest, of your efforts to better the position of the 1
mercantile marine ; and believing that every little information is of use to you, I have taken the j
liberty of addressing you. I was brought up at a seaport town, and was twelve years in a ship- a
building and repairing yard; six years of the time I acted as outside superintendent, so that I had •
abundant opportunity of noticing the sort of ‘ coffins ’ in which sailors are often sent to sea. Bel- I
fast being a depot for the north of Ireland, there are two important trades carried on—viz., coal I
and wood. The coal trade—at least, three years ago (when I left)—was principally carried on by I
small merchants. They employed schooners, brigantines, and brigs to carry coal from the Scotch '
and English ports. Very few of these vessels were classed, and the majority were equipped in the |
most miserable way. One merchant whom I could name lost two or three vessels every year, ana '
generally all hands with the vessels. He has often been known to send his vessels to sea without 1
proper ground-gear, in order that the captain would have to beat a passage, and not take an inter- "
mediate port. I have seen dozens of such vessels that could not be properly caulked, the planks
being so rotten that pieces of wood had to be driven in the seams; and if a piece of plank was
taken out, no timber or frames could be found to fasten it to, a plate of iron having to be laid
on the ceiling, or inside skin, for this purpose. Then, again, the running gear, as a rule
was perfectly rotten—rotten masts, spars, and sails—and miserable cabins and forecastles. 1
These vessels would make a passage across the Channel in the middle of winter, with perhaps
18 inches of side above water. The timber ships are employed running to North America 5 1
many of these vessels have no character or class, and their hulls are just as bad as the coal
schooners. I have been told that all over the seaports of Ireland such vessels are employed. The
timber ships have generally to bring home heavy deck-loads, and you are well aware of the
�APPENDIX.
ir
number of such vessels that are lost annually. Belfast being a very handy place for wind-bound
and distressed vessels, I had many chances of seeing vessels which had put into the port leaky
carrying all sorts of cargoes—salt, pig-iron, rails, &c. These cargoes are very severe on old
ships. Often the crew have mutinied, or, more properly speaking, refused to proceed in the ships?
having regard for their own safety ; very often they were imprisoned for doing so. I may adcl
that I have no interest, at least pecuniary, in this matter now, as I am in quite a different trade ;
but I know that you are right, although you may encounter a great deal of opposition. I am sure
my old master, Mr. ——-, of Belfast, who is still a ship-builder and repairer, would give you
every information he could in a private way. I have written this letter on the impulse of the
moment.”
SCHEDULE OF SHIPS
POSTED AT LLOYD’S ' TO JUNE 30TH THIS YEAR AS
missing! ! NEVER HEARD OF MORE!
WRECKS AND CASUALTIES.)
Jan.
5
17
Year.
1872
1873
...
...
Feb.
15
18
(EXCLUDING ALL OTHER FATAL
Mar.
G
27
...
Apr.
6
23
May
9
24
June
5
19
Though desirous to avoid all comments in compiling this Appendix, I think
it right to say here, that this terrible increase of loss was foreseen by me—and
by me alone. One correspondent at Liverpool, in February last, expressed great
fear that unless the Government helped me promptly with a temporary measure,
that whilst the prospect of overhauling would cause a great deal of repairing of
ships and care in loading amongst many, in some it would create so great anxiety in
certain quarters to get rid of ships anyhow—which would not bear examination—■
that a large temporary increase of losses was greatly to be feared. This was why I
was so anxious—almost frantically anxious—to get a temporary measure passed.
My firm conviction is, that had the Government helped me, instead of doing
their utmost to thwart my efforts, many, many hundreds of brave men now at the
bottom of the sea would have been alive at this moment.
The total number of lives lost in 92 of these ships—where the number of the
crews is known—is 1,328. Supposing the remaining 36 to have carried a similar
number of men, then the total is 1,747 in six months!—although this year has
been unusually free from stormy weather, and the year 1872 was an “unusually
disastrous year!” What will the whole year give? and what will other weeks
add to this number? These are missing ships only. May God forgive us for our
murderous neglect of our fellow-men at sea!
I deeply regret that the time available to me to write this Appendix is too
limited to enable me to take proper pains with it. I only heard by accident
of the intention to dedicate the Christmas number of Once a Week to this
subject; and instantly asked for permission to write this Appendix, to enable me
to do which, the publication was suspended. Editors of newspapers are earnestly
entreated to copy this Appendix or such parts of it as they may deem suitable to
their columns.
GRAIN-LADEN SHIPS MISSING TO SEPTEMBER 3OTH IN EACH OF THE
FOLLOWING YEARS:—
1872
...
26
.....................................
1873
...
50
t
/
�ONCE A WEEK ANNUAL.
12
COAL-LADEN SHIPS MISSING TO SEPTEMBER 30TH IN EACH OF THE
FOLLOWING YEARS:—
1872
...
ii
...................................................
1873
•••
4°
TIMBER-LADEN SHIPS MISSING TO SEPTEMBER 30TII IN EACH OF THE
1872
...
6
FOLLOWING YEARS:—
...................................................
1873
...
17
FRAGMENTS OF EVIDENCE GIVEN BEFORE THE ROYAL COMMISSIONERS.
Mr. M. Wawn, examined by the Chairman: “You are a surveyor under the Board of
Trade?”—“ Yes.”
“ Have you known many ships broken up on account of their age; because we have been told
that in the case of colliers they are hardly ever broken up, but that they go on till they sink ?”—
“ I cannot say that I know of any cases where they have been broken up.”
“What becomes of these old vessels—do they go on till they are lost?”—“I suppose Sa
(Minutes of Evidence, p. 123.)
Mr. S. Robins, examined by the Chairman (Minutes of Evidence, p. 117): “Are you a
licensed shipping agent under the Board oi Trade?”—“ I have been so up to the present year.
For between eleven years and twelve years I was a licensed agent under the Board of Trade.”
“ Can you state to whom the Satellite belonged?”—“ I cannot say. She belonged to a Liver
pool firm.”
“Was she laden with coal?”—“Yes.”
*
“What was her destination?”—“ I believe it was Rio.”
“ Did you consider that ship not seaworthy?”—“.I did.”
Then, in the first instance, when you got a part of the crew for her, did you consider her to
be a safe and seaworthy vessel? (Minutes of Evidence, p. 118.)—“Noj I considered her a
very old vessel, and I had heard reports concerning her from shipmasters, and I considered in
some respects that she was a bad class of vessel, and not fit for the voyage upon which she was
%oing. ... I considered her an old trap.”
“ Did the sailors object?”—“ I had a great deal of trouble in getting them aboard.”
When you considered the vessel to be a bad vessel, did you still endeavour to get them on
board?”—“Yes; it was more than I dared do to attempt to back a man out.” '
“ You considered that the sailors, having engaged themselves to go, were obliged to?”—“ Yes,
01 else refuse on the pier to go in her; and if they refused, there were police officers to take them
in charged . .
“What happened to this ship?”—“She was lost!”
“ I thought that you engaged for her?” “ A part of them on the first occasion. I had not
then seen the vessel; and, after engaging the men, it was my duty to see them again aboard at
the time of sailing, and that was when I first saw the vessel.”
If these facts do not stir the hearts of my fellow-countrymen, no words of
mine will; but, in that case, England will have become false to all her history,
and all faith in her destiny will have died out of my heart.
I leave it to God.,
SAMUEL PLIMSOLL.
�
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Title
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"Ship ahoy!": a yarn in thirty-six cable lengths being the Christmas annual of Once a Week
Creator
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Waddy, Frederick [1848-1901]
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 95, 12 p. : ill. (including frontispiece) ; 24 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
Publisher
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[Bradbury and Evans]
Date
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1873
Identifier
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G5452
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Macay, Wallis [1852-1907] (ill)
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Literature
Periodicals
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application/pdf
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Text
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English
Fiction in English
-
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d0344e73ecdfe9fbb59b09950cf35ea9
PDF Text
Text
ct
AN ADDRESS
TO
ALL
EARNEST CHRISTIANS.
BY
T. LUMISDEN STRANGE,
LATE JUDGE OF THE HIGH COURT OF MADRAS.
AUTHOR OF “THE BIBLE, IS IT 4 THE WORD OF GOD, * ” “THE SPEAKER’S
COMMENTARY. REVISED,” “ A CRITICAL CATECHISM,” ETC.
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS SCOTT,
NO. 11, THE TERRACE, FARQUHAR ROAD,
UPPER NORWOOD, LONDON, S.E.
�AN ADDRESS
TO ALL
EARNEST CHRISTIANS.
The Christian Evidence Society maintain their posi
tion, such as it is, in seeming composure. They have
a world of their own, and abstract themselves from
what is outside their circle. They are at sea, aware
of the storm blowing around them, but prefer the
shelter of their cabins to facing the troublesome
elements. They have nailed their colours to the
masthead ; the old vessel tumbles about sadly, and
creaks in all its timbers; but it still floats, and they
trust will continue to do so. They wish not to
alarm the crew with the revelation of what is assailing
them. They keep them, therefore, battened down
under the hatches. Mr Scott and his writers habit
ually knock at their doors, but they are not to be
disturbed. His personal appeal to them, made two
years ago, has met with no attention. Mine, of April
last, remains similarly unnoticed. We appear to have
been addressing “watchmen,” such as those of old,
who are “ all dumb dogs,” and “cannot bark
and
are allowed to roam about, unscathed, like the relent
less Philistines, when the chosen people, in the time
of their first king, hid themselves in holes, conscious
�3
that they had not a weapon among them wherewith
to face the enemy.
The Christian Evidence Society are not the only
persons guilty of evading their opponents. There are
multitudes bound up in the same cause, provided also
with a host of professional standard bearers. Many
of these are continually appealed to, and in vain.
It ’ is sad, but true, that those professing to have
divine truth on their side hesitate to have it examined
by the light of the present day. With indifference
we cannot charge them. Many of them abound in
zeal, doubtless; but it is a zeal so tempered with
caution, as to be practically, on such occasions as I
speak of, inoperative. We doubt not that they would
match themselves with us were they reasonably con
fident of the results. It is just, we must conclude,
the apprehension that the issue might be otherwise
than favourable that deters them from incurring the
venture. This is neither manly nor honest. Nor
can it avert the threatening danger. In the confid
ence of the power of insubvertible truth, we advance
openly and boldly, fearing no adversaries. The day
is our own, but as yet only in the distance. We
earnestly desire to hasten the march of that enlighten
ment which has visited ourselves. We have a duty
to perform towards those still shrouded in darkness.
We should be untrue to them, as well as to ourselves,
were we to be guilty of retaining in silence the sense
we have of the prevailing error. We know its
potency, and how it enslaves the understanding and
debases the thoughts and sentiments. We know of
the miserable dominion of fear it establishes, and of
the forbidding nature of the representation it makes
to mankind at large of the author of their beings. To
be silent would be to leave the erroi' to free currency.
�4
We should be maintaining a forced indifference to its
prevalence such as we do not feel. We therefore
speak out with what power of expression we can
command. We are called destructors, and. should be
so had we no better thing to offer than the scheme
we denounce.
I have personally had considerable experience of
both elements. I lived for years upon the food
presented by the religious system I have turned from.
I thought its records came from the source of all
truth, had been uttered by instruments divinely
inspired, and contained all that was to govern me in
this life, and fit me for the life that has to come. I
fervently and undoubtingly believed, and strove to
conform myself in all respects to what was thus put
before me. And when facts and considerations, too
plain to be misunderstood, presented themselves to
disturb my faith in the sources of my dependence, I
struggled for years before the strands were severed
which bound me to my past convictions. Now I am
willing to be tested in every way by those remaining
in the position I have left, and for whom I have in
truth the deepest sympathies. If any one of them
will open a correspondence with me, he has my per
mission to probe my present faith to the utmost. I
should be glad, at the same time, if not too painful to
his feelings, to be allowed to make some searching
inquiries connected with the foundations of his frith.
Either side should be at liberty at the close of the
correspondence to publish the results.
T. L. STRANGE.
. Great Malvern,
September 1873.
�
Dublin Core
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Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
Publisher
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
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Original Format
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Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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An address to all earnest Christians
Creator
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Strange, Thomas Lumisden
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 4 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
Publisher
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Thomas Scott
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1873
Identifier
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CT97
Subject
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Christianity
Rights
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (An address to all earnest Christians), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Christianity-Controversial Literature
Christians
Conway Tracts
-
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01371de3b53f050abccf235a070d5fac
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Text
“AN IDEAL PARISH.’’
y A SERMON,
PREACHED AT ST. GEORGE’S HALL, LANGHAM PLACE,
MAY 4th, 1873, BY THE
REV. CHARLES VOYSEY.
[From tho Eastern Post, May 10th, 1873.]
On Sunday (May 4th) at St. George’s Hall, the Rev. C.
Voysey took his text from 1 Peter, iv., 11, “If any man minister,
let him do it as of the ability which God giveth.”
He said—At the request of some of the congregation, I will
resume my discourses on the subject of the Church. In order to
form a correct idea of what a Church should be, we must first
consider what are the proper relations between a minister and the
people to whom he ministers.
The first thing that strikes one as eminently desirable is that
those relations should be made as close and as permanent as
possible, short of absolute irrevocability. The parochial system,
as it is called, furnishes the opportunity for such a relation better
than any other which has yet been tried. A minister ought to be
resident among the people to whom he ministers, and should make
it his paramount duty to become personally acquainted with them,
and if possible, to become their constant friend. He can do very
little indeed for their advantage in the pulpit, unless he is tolerably
familiar with their daily lives. Unless he knows their thoughts
and sentiments by friendly converse, more than half of what he
may say is like beating the air, and is sheer waste. Unless he
hears their arguments against his own opinions, he and they will
diverge further and further, till his influence is entirely destroyed
—to say nothing of the constant strain upon his ingenuity as a
preacher in selecting subjects for the pulpit, week after week,
without having any clue as to what is most expedient or timely
�2
for his hearers. Acquaintance and converse with the people is a
perpetual mine of wealth for the preacher’s thoughts, not only
giving him a large choice of topics, but directing him to the best
selection that could be made.
Important, however, as is the work in the pulpit, it is not nearly
so important as the work in the parish. And if the minister's
function be to build up the temple of religion and morality, and
to help in raising to a higher platform the less advanced souls of his
flock, that function can never be adequately fulfilled by mere preach
ing. He must live amongst his people, and learn to understand their
feelings and sympathise with their views, and have compassion on
those who are are ignorant. Personal contact is the only power
that one can depend upon to obtain a legitimate influence over the
minds of others. We see it too often resorted to for most
unworthy ends. It is an old complaint that priests have been
wont to “devour widows’ houses,” and to “lead captive silly
women laden with sins.” Of such influence we can only think
with indignation and shame, but what I would advocate is the
use, instead of the abuse, of a power which, when wielded aright,
is pregnant with beneficial results. What the minister has to do
is to serve his people—to lay out his days in such help of head, or
heart, or hand, as may be within his power to render. If he
knows his duty and privilge, it will delight him to make friends
of all his parishioners, so that in time of trouble they will send
for him, as a matter of course, knowing how faithfully and
efficiently he will stand by them. Such help is something infinitely
more than almsgiving. That, of course, is unhappily needful at
times, but the help of which I speak may be extended to persons
of all ranks and conditions, till almsgiving sinks into one of the
most occasional and unimportant services he has to render.
There may be places where such services are quite superfluous,
but I believe I am right in saying that in nine-tenths of the
parishes in England, the presence of a resident clergyman and his
family is an unmixed blessing, for the loss of which not even
liberation from superstition would entirely compensate. I have
known clergymen who have spent the greatest part of their days
in visiting their parishioners and in teaching in the village school.
During their rounds, they have not only consoled the sick, and
�3
raised the spirits of the depressed, but they have saved their
parishioners from, serious losses by that counsel which could only
be supplied by a man of culture. How often they have to write
letters for their people and explain legal documents and supply legal
information. How often they have sufficient knowledge of medi
cine to be of invaluable service, and to win from the doctor, who
had been summoned from a great distance, the welcome ejaculation
l< You have saved the poor fellow’s life.” Every day brings up
some fresh want which only a minister thus placed could supply.
But then to do this, he must first be known and felt to be a friend,
a friend in need, a willing friend, one who does not look for any
return in Easter offerings; no, nor for any return in compli
mentary attendance at Church■ nor for any other kind of quid
pro quo. If a man has it in him, he will soon show that he works
only for love, for the sake of being useful, and not even to be well
spoken of, though that is a great boon in such a position. And
so when he fails, as he surely must fail sometimes, in the pulpit,
to satisfy his hearers, or to come up to the standard of his own
ideal, he has at least the satisfaction that his whole life is spent in
their service, and one good deed is better than a thousand ser
mons. In spite of all the misuse that has been made of this
relation of minister and people, it can assuredly be made the
purest instrument of good that can be imagined. But you can
only get this relation in the parochial system. Draw a line round
a given area and let all the inhabitants of that area know that
they have a property in the gentleman who resides among them as
their minister; and? let him also know that he is placed there to
be their common servant; let Jews and Christians, let Catholics
and Protestants, Churchmen and Dissenters, Believers and Infidels
alike claim his faithful friendship and service. Let him know
that it is his business not to convert them, but to be of use to
them in mind, body, and estate; to help them all whenever and
howsoever he can; and then, if this condition be fulfilled, you have
your ideal parish, in which peace will reign, in which sectarianism
and religious strife become paralysed, and in which the minister of
religion is recognised as the type of perfect toleration and the best
of peacemakers. Do not think this is Utopian; it has been done
already and done under more eyes than mine.
�4
It is, however, essential to the clergyman’s fidelity and selfrespect that he be entirely independent of his parishioners for his
income. He cannot possibly preserve a strict impartiality if he be
supported by the voluntary subscriptions of his flock. Those who
give more money for his support would claim more of his service
and concession than those who gave less. He would become the
rich man’s minister and the rich man’s tool. The poor could not
feel, as they do under the endowment system, that he was par„
ticularly their property—more their servant because their needs for
his culture were greater. No man, however high-minded, could
bear such a restraint upon his conduct as that which is involved
in being the protege of a wealthy parishioner who practically had
the power of dismissing him.
Still there is something in the objection : What is a parish to
do with an incompetent or unworthy minister ? How is he to be
got rid of ? Well. He ought to be got rid of; and parishioners
ought to have the power of preventing a well-known obnoxious
clergyman being forced upon them ; and after one year’s trial of
any minister a majority of three-fifths or three-fourths of the
parishioners ought to have power to remove him. This power in
reserve would be enough wholesome restraint upon lax-minded or
indolent men, while it would do no injury to the self-respect of
those who were good and capable.
The subject of patronage I do not here touch upon. I will now
endeavour to represent what the minister and people ought to do
in reference to the public ministrations of religion. Supposing
them to be in the harmony which I have described, and which is
much easier to achieve than is generally supposed, the minister,
still keeping in mind that he is the servant of the people, will set
his mind on having a service such as they, or the large majority of
them, will approve. He may well be entrusted and expected to
draw up the service in accordance with what he knows or guesses
to be popular and within the limits of the resources of the district.
He does not say, “You shall have this service whether you like it
or notbut says, “ Try it for a little while, and if then you do
not like it, we will alter it to meet vour objections, or prepare
another.” If the loudest and most influential voices are inclined
to be over-bearing and dictatorial, it will be his duty to plead foi'
�5
minorities, and to retain or insert occasionally such forms as may
be only pleasing to the few. But, if he have a grain of wisdom,
he will regard the service in the Church as for the people and not for
himself. He must waive his own prejudices so long as it does not
involve the sacrifice of principle ; and he will remember that he is
their spokesman, and not necessarily pledged to every word or
sentiment that his parishioners desire him to read on their behalf.
Here, instead of a new bone of contention, would be found a
new bond of friendship and mutual esteem. A minister so acting
would thereby recommend his own proposals far more eloquently
than by any reasoning. It would be enough for the people to
know that not only they eould have their own way about the
service, but that that was the minister’s sole desire. Say not, this
could not be done in a parish, when it has been done where not one
single parochial advantage exists. It has been done here, where
our congregation meets from the four winds, and many members of
it travel long distances, few knowing each other, and the minister
labouring under the overwhelming disadvantage of only meeting
them in the pulpit, and exercising not one ministerial function for
them during the week. If it be both possible and easy under our
circumstances, it would be infinitely more so, were we all living
together in one parish.
I do not know how my brother clergymen would like what I
have next to propose ? But I cannot forget that half-a-dozen per
sons in my late parish, who still remained my sincere friends, felt
conscientiously unable to attend the parish church while I
preached in it. Such a case might happen anywhere, and in some
places the scruples might be very numerous ; yet it always seemed
to me a hardship that even six people were kept away from the
church on such grounds. Now in my ideal parish, if I were
minister, I would advocate the opening of the church once at least
on a Sunday to the few who could not agree with the majority,
and they might have as their minister for the occasion whomsoever
they would, provided always that the man chosen were blameless
in moral character, and that the services were decently conducted,
and not made occasions for irreverent mirth. Next to subscribinoto Dissenters to enable them to build their chapels in one’s own
parish, I' think, such a step would be highly beneficial. A man
�6
only increases tenfold his influence by toleration. He diminishes
it in like proportion by every act of exclusiveness and bigotry. I
once saw a whole settlement of Baptists go over to the Church
because the clergyman gracefully gave way in a matter of disputed
right of occupation.
I have now only to speak of the minister’s function in the
pulpit. I take it for granted that he is a man of ordinary
tact, and possessing what is infinitely more than tact, an honest
and kind heart. I have assumed that every minister should
have some culture, and be morally of blameless life. These are
the only conditions with which the State ought to concern itself.
As to his religious views and opinions, they are exclusively his
own, to hold or relinquish at pleasure. His sole claim to appoint
ment is that he is duly qualified from a literary point of view, and
that he seeks to be a minister of religion. He goes to his parish
perfectly untrammelled by religious tests, 39 Articles, 3 Creeds, or
Acts of Uniformity. He is not bound to take any man, or any
number of men, as his guide or model. He is perfectly free. All
that is expected of him is that he will be faithful—true to himself,
and to his own convictions. Being a man among men, it will be
only natural for him to be tentative at first, and not shock and
alienate the strangers who gather round to hear his earliest
discourses. He will find out by gentle means how much the
people agree with him and how far they differ, so that he may give
attention to those points where reconciliation is attainable by
persuasion or amplification. He will soon discover whether he
can lead them on, or whether he is altogether unfit for their present
stage of thought. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, such a
minister’s work will be easy from the first, and crowned at last by
the hearty concurrence of his parishioners. But this is the only
limitation he will put upon his own perfect freedom; the only
ground on which he will tolerate in himself the slightest reticenee.
His grand aim will be to declare unto them “ the whole Counsel
of God,” as it appears to him ; and not to keep back “ one word of
God’s truth from the great congregation.” He has no excuse now
for evasion or subtlety, or that most miserable and fashionable of
expedients, the knocking to pieces of some orthodox doctrine, and
then saying, “I believe in it for all that.” He has no ground for
�■ i'*~- ■ t * •■ &fp?j 'ffi v> > z?*?b >?'■'■'';*■'?<* om ‘^yi >.,<r'>
5f’' ''.*'? *"•
7
hesitation. The people expect honesty from his lips, not things
merely smooth and agreeable. They only bind him by tacit
agreement to be true to himself, and not to deceive them by
ambiguous speech, or hide his honest thought under a cloud of
controversial dust. This, of itself, would be a great attraction. I
know of the preaching of a heretic that was attended by some of
his parishioners who could not bear his doctrine, and when asked
why they continued to go to church to hear him, said, “ Well, he
always speaks his mind, and says we are not obliged to think as
he does.” Indeed it would be life from the dead in our English
churches and chapels if the word were to go forth that everywhere
on a certain Sunday, the ministers, without fear of pains, penalties,
or social stigma, would really preach what they honestly believed.
It would be such a day of Pentecost for thought and religious
earnestness as the world has never yet seen.
I know I am speaking the sober truth when I affirm that
though there are many earnest and true-hearted men of every
shade of religious opinion, who invariably say what they think to
be true, are yet undistinguishable from the mass around them,
who preach doctrines cut and dried for them, and shun original
thought or speech as they would the plague. How can you tell
whether a man be true to himself or not, if all are tethered with
the same length of rope and must not transgress certain limits.
Go to St. Pauls, or to Westminster, or to our Chapels Royal, or
anywhere you please, and distinguish the honest men from the
dishonest if you can. They are there sure enough, but you cannot
test them. They are bound up in one bundle with the insincere
and the indifferent. In the interest of all religious opinions what
ever, it is absolutely needful to have no prohibition on the ex
pression of honest opinion. Without that liberty you cannot be
sure that the Protestant is not a Catholic, the Catholic an Infidel,
the Evangelical a Rationalist. It is in the power of any Sunday
School boy to say of every preacher thus tied and bound—“ Ah !
he did not dare say what he believes.”
While we are yet ignorant, we need the fullest variety of opinion.
Such differences are blessings, not curses, till the true science of
God shall come. And we ought to welcome honest speech, how
ever distasteful its arguments and conclusions, however seemingly
f
�8
dangerous to order and morality, simply because it is honest, and
is the deeply rooted conviction o£ another man’s mind. More
than this, 1 believe the honest utterance of opinions one does not
like, does a great deal more good than the flattering repetition of
sentiments already adopted.
For the present I-close with this remark. The ideal parish which
I have endeavoured to draw, is based upon the principles of Love,
Liberty, and Truth. In sad contrast to these, the churches, as
history tells us, are worked by hatred, intolerence, slavery, and
falsehood—falsehood clung to after it had been detected and
exposed. Shall not the Church of the Future learn a lesson by the
shame brought upon the Church of the past, and cast away her idols
of Dogma, Sacerdotalism, and so-called Uniformity to the moles
and to the bats'?
Eastern POST Steam Printing Works, 89, Worship Street Finsbury, E.C,
�
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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An ideal parish: a sermon, preached at St George's Hall, Langham Place, May 4th, 1873
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Voysey, Charles [1828-1912]
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Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 8 p. ; 19 cm.
Notes: Published by Earstern Post, May 10th 1873. Part of Morris Miscellaneous Tracts 6.
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Eastern Post
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1873
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G4330
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Clergy
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English
Church-Going
Clergy
Morris Tracts
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Text
J45
^gSOCTEVi
**
No ! I am a lady gay,
It is very well known I may
Have men cf renown
In country or town ;
So, Roger, without delay,
Court Bridget or Sue,
Kate, Nancy, or Prue;
Their loves will soon be won ;
But don’t you dare
To speak me fair
As if I were
Ax try last prayer
To marry a farmer’s son.
“
A fig for your cattle and corn !
Your proffered love I scorn.
’T is known very well
Myname it is Nell,
And you ’re but a bumpkin born.
He. Well, since it is so,
Away I will go,
And I hope no harm is done.
Farewell 1 Adieu 1
I hope to woo
As good as you
And win her too,
Though I’m but a farmer’s son.
"He. My father has riches in store,
Two hundred a year, and mor®;
Besides sheep and cows,
Carts, harrows, and ploughs ;
His age is above threescore ;
And when he does die,
Then merrily I
Shall have what he has won.
Both land and kine,
All shall be thine,
If thou ’It incline
C And wilt be mine,
E And marry a farmer’s son.
“ She. Be not in such haste, quoth she,
Perhaps we may still agree ;
For, man, I protest
I was but in jest :
Come, prythee, sit down by me :
For thou art the man
That verily can
Win me, if e’er I’m won.
Therefore I shall
Be at your call,
To marry a farmer’s son.”
J. V. Blake.
BEYOND.
HAVE a friend, I cannot tell just where,
I For out of sight and hearing he has gone ;
Yet now, as once, I breathe for him a prayer,
Although his name is carved upon a stone.
O blessed habit of the lips and heart!
Not to be broken by the might of Death.
A soul beyond seems how less far apart,
If daily named to God with fervid breath.
If one doth rest in God, we well may think
He overhears the prayer we pray for him :
Our Father, let us keep the sacred link;
The hand of Prayer Love’s holy lamp doth trim.
Were the dear dead once heedless of God’s will,
Needing our prayer that he might be forgiven ;
Against all creeds, that prayer uprises still,
With the dim trust of pardon and of heaven.
Charlotte F. Bates.
vol. xxxi.—no. 184.
IO
�146
Boy^B^a in a, Scottish Co^ntry^S&A,
[February,
BOY-LIFE IN A SCOTTISH COUNTRY-SEAT.
A CHAPTER OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY.
MUST have been, from my earliest
I years, a very self-willed youngster,
I recollect my mother telling me of
some of her troubles, dating from the
time when I was still unable to walk ;
the old story of the baby screaming per
sistently, if refused anything he had set
his little heart on. Very gentle though
she was, the doctrine of innate deprav
ity, in which she had been bred, urged
her to slap me into quiet. But my
father — an advocate of system, and an
undoubting believer in his favorite ten
et that “ man’s character is formed for
him, not by him”—stoutly opposed
that. Yet the screams, whenever my
mother objected to having her lace
collar torn, or a teacup, of some old
china-set, snatched from the table and
flung to the floor, remained a stubborn
reality which no theory could get over ;
and it seriously disturbed my father as
well as the rest of the house. Some
thing must be done.
“ When the child screams from tem
per, my dear Caroline” (my father
thought my mother’s middle name more
romantic than the plain Ann ; but I
think I should have called her Annie),
— il when the child screams, set him in
the middle of the nursery floor, and be
sure you don’t take him up till he stops
crying.”
“ But, my dear, he ’ll go on crying
by the hour.”
“ Then let him cry.”
“It may hurt his little lungs, and
perhaps throw him into spasms.”
I think not. At all events it will
hurt him more if he grows up art tongovernable boy. Man is the creature
of circumstances.”
My mother, who had been a dutiful
daughter, was also an obedient wife,
and she had a great respect for my
father’s judgment —in temporal mat
ters. So the next time I insisted on
trying innocent ^piwlments on teacup
or collar, I was carried off to the nur
sery and set down, screaming lustily,
on mid-floor.
My mother must have suffered dread
fully for the next hour; but soon after
that the fury of disappotatmgtoB wore
itself out, and I dropped asleep on the
pillow behind me.
This punishment had to be repeated
five or six times. My jnotfcftf was be
ginning to despair when she found,, one
day, to her great relief, that baby could
be crossed in his wishes and Blade to
give up, with just a Tittle frettifi^
After a time even the fretting ceased.
The infant culprit had learned a great
lesson in life, —submission to the in
evitable.
This was all very well; but the tem
per remained, and culminated, six or
seven years after the nursery experi
ments, in a fit of indignant rage, aider
this wise.
Braxfield House was situated about
half-way between the village of New
Lanark and the ancient shire-town of
Lanark. The latter is famed in Scottish
history; and on “the Moor” near to
it wappin-schaws used to be held in
the olden time. There was no post
office in the village, and one of the sup
plementary workmen there, a ■certaift
James Dunn, an old spinner who had
lost an arm by an accident in the mills,
was our letter-carrier, — the bearer
of a handsome leather bag with gay
brags padlock, which gave him a sort
of official dignity to the eyes of the ris
ing generation; and by this time there
were some three or four young vine
shoots growing up around the Owen
family table.
If James Dunn had lost one arm, he
made excellent use of the other; con
structing bows and arrows and fifty
other nice things, for pur delectation,
�i873-]
V
y '
Boy-Life in & Scottish Cotmtry-Seat.
and thus coming into distinguished
favor. One day he gave me a clay pipe,
showed me how to mix soap-water in
due proportion, and then, for the first
ift ottr'we chUdren witee^ged
the marvellous rise, from the pipe-bowl,
of the brightly variegated bubble ; its
slow, graceful ascent into upper air ;
and, alas! its sudden disappearance,
at the very climax of our wonder. My
delight was, beyond all bounds ; and so
was my gratitude to the one-armed
magician. I take credit for this last
sentiment, in extenuation @f the crime
which was to follow.
We had in the house a sort of odd
job boy, who ran errands, helped
occasionally in the stables, carried
coals to the fires, and whose earlymorning duty it was to clean the boots
and shoes of the household. His par
ents had named him, at the fount, after
the Macedonian conqueror; but their
son, unlike King Philip’s, suffered
nicknaming, or at least contraction
of his baptismal title into Sandy.
Sandy, according to my recollection
of him, was the worst of bad boys.
His chief pleasure seemed to consist
in inventing modes of vexing and en
raging us ; and he was quite ingenious
in his Wicks of petty torture. Add to
this that he was most unreasonably
jealous of James Dunn’s popularity ;
especially when we told him> as we
often did, that we hated him.
One day my brother William, a year
younger than myself, and I had been
out blowing soap-bubbles (“all by ourselves,” as we were wont to boast, in
proof of our proficiency), and had re
turned triumphant In the court-yard
*
we met Sandy, to whom, forgetting, for
the moment, by-gone squabbles, we
joyfully related our exploits, and broke
out into praises of the pipe-giver as
the nicest man that ever was. That
nettled the young scamp, and he began
to abuse our well-beloved post-carrier
as a “lazy loun that hadna’ but yin
arm, and could do naething with the
tither but cowp letters into the postoffice and mak up bairns’ trashtrie.”
TbU incensed me^ and I suppose I
147
Wist have made some bittear reply
*
whereupon Sandy snatched the richly
prized pipe from my hand,, deliberately
broke off its stem close to the bowl,
and threw the fragments into what
we used to call the “ shoe-hole ” ; that
contemptuous appellation designating
a small outhouse, hard by, where our
tormentor discharged his duties as
shoeblack.
Unwilling to be set down as telltales,
we said not a word about this to father
or mother. But when, an hour later, I
burst into tears at the sight of JamesDunn, I had to tell him our story. He
made light of it, wisely remarking that
there were more pipes in the world ;
and, shouldering his post-bag, went off
to the “auld town.” If my readers
can look back far enough into their
early years, they may imagine my joy
ful surprise when, on his return, he
presented me with another pipet
I took it up to an attic room of which
I had the run when I wished to be
alone ; locked the door, with a vague
feeling as if Sandy were at my heels ;
sat down and gazed on the regenerated
treasure. The very ditto of the pipe I
had tearfully mourned ! brand new,
just from the shop. But the delight
its first sight had given me faded when I
thought of the sacrifices that dear, good
man had been making for my sake. It
was so generous of him to give me the
first pipe 1 I had no idea whatever of
its money value ; to me it was beyond
price. Then here his generosity had
been taxed a second time. Again he
had been spending for me out of his
wages, which I supposed must be small,
since he had only one arm to work with.
And who had been the cause of all this
woful self-immolation ? That vile, cruel,
rascally Sandy ! To him it was due
that James Dunn had felt compelled to
make a second purchase, — to the stint
ing, perhaps, of his poor wife and chil
dren I And — who could tell ? — the
same malignant ill-turn might be re
peated again and again. Ah ! then
my indignation rose, till I could hear
the heart-beats.
I remember distinctly that no plans
�148
Boy-Lift in a Scottish Cowitry-Ssat.
of revenge had arise® in my mind
caused by the destruction of my first
pipe, however enraged I was at the per
petrator of that outrage. It was only
when I found one of my dearest friends
thus plundered, on my account, that
my wrath, roused to white heat, gave
forth vapors of vengeance.
' I brooded over the matter all day, so
that I must needs plead guilty to malice
aforethought. Toward evening my
plans took shapes and, ere I slept,
which was long after I went to bed,
every detail had been arranged. My
adversary was a large, stout, lubberly
fellow, more than twice my age ; and I
had to make up in stratagem for my
great inferiority in strength.
Next morning, before the nursery
maid awoke, I crept furtively from bed,
dressed in silence, descended to the
court-yard, and armed myself with a
broom : not one of your light, modern,
broom-corn affairs, but a downright
heavy implement, with a stout handle
and heavy wooden cross-head attached,
set with bristles. It was as much as I
could do to wield it.
Then I reconnoitred the enemy’s
camp. No Sandy yet fa the “shoe
hole
I went in, set the door ajar, and
took post, with uplifted weapon, behind
it.
I had long to wait, Sandy being late
that morning ; but my wrath only boiled
the more hotly fof the delay. At last
there was a step, and the door moved^
Down with all the might of concen
trated rage came the broom — the
hard end of the cross-piece foremost —
on the devoted head that entered. The
foe sank on the ground. I sprang for
ward — but what was this ? The head
I had struck had on a faultlessly white
lace cap ! It flashed on me in a mo
ment. Not the abhorred Sandy, but
our worthy housekeeper, Miss Wil
son 1
Miss Wilson was one of a class com
mon in Great Britain, but rare in this
country,— a notable, orderly, pains
taking, neatly dressed maiden of thirtyfive or forty summers ; deeply read in
all the mysteries of household-craft;
[February,
but kindly withal, and mucb disposed
to make pets of the children around
her. With the exception of James
Dunn, she was one of our greatest fa
vorites. I am afraid one element fa.
our affection for this good woman was
of a selfish nature. She had obtained
fro® my mother permission to have
us all to tea with her every Sunday
evening, on condition of a two thirds
dilution with warm water, but with
out any sumptuary regulation as to the
contingent of sugar.
Now, in that country and fa those
days, young folks, both gentle and sim-'
pie, were restricted to very frugal fam
For breakfast, porridge and milk I
*
for supper, bread and milk only. At
dinner we were helped once sparingly
to animal food and once only to pie of
pudding ; but we had vegetables and
oatmeal cake ad libitum. Scottish
children under the age of fourteen were
rarely allowed either tea or coffee ; and
such was the rule in our house. Till
we were eight or ten years old we were
not admitted to the evening meal in
the parlor. Mis? Wilson’s tea-table
furnished the only peep we had of the
Chinese luxury.
■ Thus the Sunday evening in the.
housekeeper’s parlor (for Miss Wilson
had her own nicely appointed parlor
between the kitchen and the servants’
dining-hall) was something to which
we looked eagerly forward. On that
occasion we had toast as well as tea;
and the banquet sometimes culminated
with a well-filled plate of sugar-biscuit,
a luxury doubly prized because its vis
its were rare as those of angels.
* It may or may not be necessary here to say that
porridge is a sort of mush, or hasty-pudding, made by
gradually dropping oatmeal into boiling water, sea
*
soned with salt. The cake spoken of was composed
of oatmeal and water, rolled out thin, and browned
before the fire.
In the Scottish dialect oatmeal porridge is called
frirritch; and there is a story illustrating the ridicu
lous extent to which early promotion, even of mere
children, in the British army is, or was, obtained by
family influence ; and marking also the customary
breakfast-fare in the nursery. A gentleman, visiting
a family of distinction in the Highlands and coming
down stairs in the morning, beard a loud bawling,
Meeting a servant, he asked him what was the mat
ter. “ O sir,” said the man, “it’s naething but the
Major, greetin’ for his parritch.”
�Boy-Life in a Saltish Country-Seat.
These hebdomadal symposia gave
rise, among us, to a peculiar definition
of the first day of the week. We took
this, not from the sermons we heard,
or the catechism we learned, on that
day, but from the delicacies on Miss
Wilson’s table, somewhat irrever
ently falling Sunday the toast-biscuittea-day. I am not certain whether this
'Jtwgnile paraphase ever reached my
WOtha^fe ears j for Miss Wilson was
too discreet to retail the confidential
.jokes which we permitted ourselves in
the privacy of \\ex petits soupers.
Under the circumstances one may
judge of my horror when I saw on whom
the broom-head had fallen. The sight
stunned me almost as much as my
blow had stunned the poor woman who
lay before me. I have a dim recollec
tion of people, called in by my screams,
raising Miss Wilson and helping her
to her room | and then I remember
Slothing more till I found myself, many
hours later, in the library ; my mother
standing by with her eyes red, and
my father looking at me more in sor
row than in anger.
“Wouldn’t you be very sorry, Rob
ert,” he said at last, “if you were
blind ? ”
I assented, as well as my sobs would
allow.
Well, when a boy or man is in such
a rage as you were, he is little better
than blind, or half mad. He does n’t
Stop to think, or to look at anything.
You did n’t know Miss ’Wilson from
Sandy.”
My conscience told me that was true.
I had struck without waiting to look.
“ Yola may be very thankful,” my
father went on, “ that it was n’t Sandy.
You might have killed the boy.”
I thought it would have been no
{great harm if I had, but I did n’t say
so.
| “Are you sorry for what you have
done?”
I said that I was very, very sorry
that I had hurt Miss Wilson ; and that
, I wanted to tell her so. My father
feng the bell and sent to inquire how
she was. '
149
“ I am going to take you to ask her
pardon. But it’s of no use to be sorry,
unless you do better. Remember this I
Z have never struck you. You must
never strike anybody.”
It was true. I cannot call to mind
that I ever, either before or since that
time, received a blow from any human
being ; most thankful ana I that I have
been spared the knowledge of how one
feels under such an insult. Nor, from
that day forth, so far as I remember,
did I ever myself give a blow in anger
again.
The servant returned. “ She has a
sair head yet, sir; but she’s muckle
better? She’s sittin’ up in her chair,
and would be fain to see the bairn.”
Then, in an undertone, looking at me :
“It was a fell crunt, yon. I didna
*
think the bit callan could hit sae
snell.”
When I saw Miss Wilson in her
arm-chair, with pale cheeks and ban
daged head, I could not say a single
word. She held out her arms ; I flung
mine round her neck, kissed her again
and again, and then fell to crying, long
and bitterly. The good soul’s eyes
were wet as she took me on her knee
and soothed me. When my father
offered to take me away, I clung to her
so closely that she begged to have me
stay.
I think the next half-hour, in her
arms, had crowded into it more sincere
repentance and more good resolves for
the future than any other in my life.
Then, at last, my sobs subsided, so
that I could pour into her patient ear
the whole story of my grievous wrongs :
Sandy’s unexampled wickedness in
breaking the first pipe ; James Dunn’s
unheard-of generosity in buying the
second ; the little chance I had if I
did n’t take the broom to such a big
boy ; and then —
“ But, Miss Wilson,” I said when I
came to that point, “what made you
come to the shoe-hole, and not
Sandy ? ”
* Crunt, to be interpreted in English, must be
paraphased. It means a blow on the head with a
cudgel.
�150
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
“I wanted to see if the boy was
attending to his work.”
I then told her I would love her as
long as she lived, and that she must n’t
be angry with me ; and when she had
promised to love me too, we parted.
It only remains to be said, that about
a month afterwards, Bandy was quietly
dismissed. We all breathed more freely
when he was gone.
If I deserved more punishment for
this outbreak than my father’s reproof
and the sight of Miss Wilson’s suffer
ings, I came very near receiving it, iaj
a fatal shape, a few months afterwards.
The estate of Braxfield is beautifully
situated on the banks of the Clyde.
The house stands on a bit of undulating table-land, then set in blue-grass,
containing some thirty or forty acres ;
and the slope thence to the river was
covered with thick woods through
which gravel-paths wound back and
forth till they reached the Clyde, a quar
ter of a mile below the mills. What
charming nutting we used to have
th ere !
At low-water there was a foot-path,
under the rocks, by which these woods
could be reached from the village ; and
*
of c&urse, there was great temptation,
on Sundays, for the young people —
.pairs of lovers especially — to encroach
o® this forbidden ground, f to say noth?
*
ing of the hazelnut temptation, when
autumn came. Nothing could be more
romantic and inviting.
Of course it would not have done to
give two thousand people the, range of
the woods : so trespassing therein was
stricfly forbidden. Yet I remember,
one Sunday afternoon when my father
had taken me out to walk, seeing,
through the underwood in a path below us and to which our road led, a
lad and lass evidently so intent in Con
versation; that they were not alive to
anything else ; ff they had known who
was near, they would have taken to
flight at once. My father stopped and
looked at them, calling to mind, I dare
say, his own walks in the Green with
Miss Ann Caroline. “ They don’t see
us,” he said to me ; “ let us turn back.
[February,
If I meet them, I must order them off
the place ; and they have so few pleas
*
ures and so much work I It’s
So we took another path; and the
lovers pursued their way, unconscious
of the danger that had approach^
them.
Besides thisAWfeded M ferae w in front
of She mansion, there wa%@#otee side,,
a steep declivity into a deep, bushy
dingle, with large, old trees inter
spersed, and, rising on>, the other side,
a precipitous bank of similar character,
on the summit of which was perched
the house of our next neighbor. This
could not be reached, by vehicle, with
out making a circuit of a mile and a
half; but a slanting foot-path led, from
our stable-yard, down •into the glen,
and a rough, scrambling way ascended
thence the opposite bank, conducting
the pedestrian, by a short cut, to the
old town. This rude pass Was know®)'
*
far and near, by the euphonious name
of Gullietoodelum. a
All this afforded good cover for
foxes ; and one of these midnight
prowlers had carried off certain fowls
and ducks belonging to James Shaw,
a burly farmer who tilled the arable
portion of the Braxfield estate, and
whose cottage we were wont to fre
quent, attracted bythe excellent mashed
potatoes, prepared with milk, with which
Mrs,, Shaw secretly treated, us. They;
turned a penny by supplying our fami
ly, from time to time, with poultry ; and
now the “ gudeman ” took arms in
defence of his live stock. Having
loaded a _ fowling-piece heavily with
slugs, he deposited it in a dark cor
ner of the coach-house, which, with
stables attached, stood on the edge of 1
the wooded dingle where Reynard had
been seen.
There, during a morning ramble, my
brother William and I canM upon the
gun. It was a flint-lock, of course ; for
the days of pg rCB®s,ion-g&ps were yet
afar off. Having brought it out to the
light, for inspection, my brother amused
himself by pointing it at me and at
tempting to draw the trigger I re
*
minded him that our mother had for
�i873-J
Boy-Life
a Scottish Country-Seat.
bidden W ever to point gnus at one
another.
“ But it’s not loaded,” remonstrated
William.
“I know that,” was my reply (though
how I came to that hasty conclusion
I am quite enable to explain), “ I
know it isn’t loaded, but mamma said
WO were new to pretend to shoot one
pother, whether the gun was loaded or
not.”
Whereupon he submitted, and I furfer informed him that the flint of a gun
O0®fld not be snapped without draw
ing back the cock, which I showed him
how to do, having once snapped a gun
before. With my aid he then hugged
the stock of the weapon under his
ttglrt arm, pointing the barrel in the
air, and pulled the trigger; this time
so effectually that the recoil threw him
flat on his back.
He struggled to his feet and we
looked at each other. Not a word was
Spokem I seized the gun, flung it back
i»to the coach-house, not quite certain
Whether that was the end of the explosion, and, by a common impulse, we
both took to our heels, fled down the
glen-path, nor stopped till at the foot
of Gullietoodelum. There we paused
to take breath.
do befieve, Robert,” my brother
ejaculated at last, — “ I do believe that
gun was loaded ! ”
I had gradually been coming to the
same conclusion ; so I did not dispute
the point. Slowly and silently we re
ascended from that dark glen to the
upper world again, sadder and wiser
boys.
I have often thought since how
fejtjng America would have laughed us
to scorn as Molly-caudles, for our green
ignorance, at seven or eight, touching
fire-arms and their use. Half a year
later, however, I obtained leave to go
fen a shooting expedition with a young
man who had a salary from the New
Lanark Company as surgeon of the
village, and who attended the sick
there gratuitously. We proceeded to
a weiglibesring rookery where sportsfcen were admitted on certain condi
*
t
tions. I carried a light fowling-piece,
and w® then and there initiated into
the mysteries of loading and firing.
Though at heart mortally afraid, J
stood stoutly to my gun, and brought
down two confiding young crows who
were yet inexperienced in the wiles
and murderous propensities of men
and boys.
As we were returning home in the
dusk I overheard a brief conversation,
not intended for my ears, between the
surgeon and a comrade of his who
had accompanied us. They had been
pleased, it seems, with the spirit I had
shown; and the mention of my name
attracted me.
“ He’s a fine, manly boy, that,” said
the comrade.
“ He’s a noble little fellow,” rejoined
the surgeon.
Most children, I think, accustomed
to hear themselves commended, would
have forgotten the words within twen
ty-four hours ; but they sunk into my
heart, and I could swear, to-day, that I
have textually repeated them here. This
wineglass full of praise intoxicated
me; for I think it was the first I had
ever tasted. My father’s creed was
that “man is not the proper subject of
praise or blame ” ; being but what
circumstances, acting on his original
organization, make him. So his ap
proval, when I deserved approval, was
testified only by a pleased smile oar a
caress.
The words haunted me all the way
home and for days afterwards. Their
effect was similar to that sometimes
produced during the excitement of
such camp-meetings as I have wit
nessed in our Western forests. They
woke in me what, in revival-language,
is called “ a change of heart.” I sol
emnly resolved that I would be what
these men had said I was.
Next morning, accordingly, I not
only myself submitted, with exemplary
forbearance, to the various matutinal
inflictions of cold bathing, scrubbing,
hair-combing, and the like, but I ex
horted my younger brother and sisters
to similar good conduct. The nursery-
�152
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
maid was amazed, not knowing what to
make of it; no doubt I had been re
bellious enough in the past.
“ What’s come over the bairn ? ”
she exclaimed. “ Where has he been ?
I think he must hae gotten religion.”
Then, looking at my sober face, she
asked me, “ Were you at the kirk
yestreen, Robert ? ”
No,” said I, “ I was shooting
crows.”
“ Shootin’ craws ! ” I remember to
this day that look of blank perplexity.
The girl was actually alarmed when
she missed my wonted wilfulness. “ It
passes me,” she said at last; “ the
callan must hae gane daft. He’s no
the same bairn ava.”
This fit of meekness lasted, in its
extreme phase, so far as I remember,
about ten days. Yet — strange if it
seem — I think it left its impress on
my character for years.
The powerful influence which seem
ing trifles exerted over my conduct
in those days — now stirring to re
venge, now prompting to reformation
— may in part be traced to the recluse
lives we led in that isolated country
seat ; a seclusion the more complete
because of the unquestioning obedience
to the strictest rules (especially as to
metes and bounds) in which we were
trained. The Clyde, though the largest
river in Scotland, was not, at its usual
stage and where we were wont to
bathe, over thirty or forty yards wide ;
and we were pretty good swimmers.
The enterprise of any urchin, ten years
old, in our own day and country, would
undoubtedly have suggested the con
struction of a small raft on which to
convey our clothes across, and then
an exploration of the unknown regions
beyond. But we were forbidden to
trespass there ; and it did not enter
into our heads to break bounds.
There was a bridge over the river,
but little more than a mile below our
house ; but, during the first decade,
my mother was unwilling to trust us
so far from home, and we had never
crossed this bridge except in our car
riage and on the turnpike road. I had
[February,
passed my tenth bfehday- when my
father t&ld William and myself, one
day, that he was going to take us a
walk across the bridge and on the
other side of the river. Our blissful
anticipations of this remote expedition
were enhanced by knowing that tjye&d!
was to be found, close to the bridge, a
far-famed baker’s shop, of Which the
parleys (that is, thin, crisp ginger
cakes) were celebrated all over the,
county ; and when my mother put into
our pockets sixpence apiece, to be
there expended as we pleased, our joy
was full.
But if, as regards pedestrian excur
sions, we were held under strict tale,,
in other matters we were free :a®tjd
privileged. We had the unrestricted
range of my father’s library, which, was
®, pretty extensive one.
I have no recollection as to when
and how I learned my letters. All I
remember is that, at seven or eight
years of age, I was an omnivorous
reader. “ Robinson Crusoe,” pored over
with implicit faith, made the first deep
impression. Then, one after another
in succession, came Miss Edgeworth’s
winning stories, —household words
they were in our family/ “ Sandford
and Merton” came next into favor;
succeeded by “ Thaddeus of War
saw ” and the “Arabian Nights.” Af
ter these I devoured Miss Porter’s
“Scottish Chiefs”; not g, doubt ob
truding itself as to whether the gallant
and romantic military gentleman —the
courteous Knight of Ellerslie, whom
the lady’s pencil’has depicted in rosy
colors — was the veritable champion
of Scotland,— the same hot-blooded
and doughty warrior, sung by Blind
Harry, who, while yet a stripling,
stabbed, in a Scottish castle, the son
of its governor, in requital of a few in
sulting words. My indignation, origi
nally roused by nursery legends,. was
rekindled, and my national prejudices
confirmed, by this more modern ver
sion of Monteith’s treachery and his
noble victim’s cruel fate. These feel
ings were intensified during a visit to
Cartland Crags (or Craigs, as we pro
�1873-]
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
nounced th© word), — a deep, narrow
gulch a little way beyond the town of
Lanark^- walled by precipitous rocks
gome two hundred feet high, and form
*
jng the water-cou-rse of a small stream
Called the Mouse. From the bed of
that stream we climbed thirty or forty
feet up the fee© of the rocks to a deep
cleft known to all; Scotland as “Wal
lace’s Ctve,” and to which, when in
peril of his life, that sturdy chieftain
was wont to retreat. No Fourth-ofJuly oration, no visit to Plymouth
rock, ever produced, on young scion
of Puritan, a deeper impression than
did the sight of this narrow, secluded
cell upon me, — its pavement worn by
the feet of patriotic pilgrims. I think,
if 1 had but been stirred by a Hamilcar
of a father prompting me, I might have
sworn, then and there, eternal enmity
against the English. But, in my case,
the paternal sentiment was, “ Love to
the whole human race ”; so that, out
growing hate-bearing prejudices in the
genial atmosphere of home, I have re
formed, and can say, as Webster said
of himself on a well-known occasion,
am very little like Hannibal”;
having come to eschew strife of all
kinds, and' devoutly believing that
“love is the fulfilling of the law.”
My mother, a devout Presbyterian,
though too gentle to be bigoted, was
thoroughly imbued with the belief that
the most orthodox form of Protestant
ism is essential to happiness, if not to
virtue. Upon this conviction she acted
with persistent conscientiousness. It
colored her daily conduct. Was any
one among us sick ? She sat, hour
after hour, by his bedside ; and admin
istered, by turns, temporal comforts
and spiritual consolation. Had we lost
a pious friend ? His death was spoken
of as a translation to a world of bliss.
Did any of us ask for a pretty story ?
It was selected out of the Scriptural
pages. We were told of the place
above for good boys and girls, and of
the fire below for the wicked ; and
when we asked who were good and
who were wicked, we were taught that
all boys and girls and men and women
i53
were wicked unless they believed, in
the first place, that Jesus Christ was
the only Son of God, and, in the sec
ond place, that nobody could escape
from hell except by vicarious atone
ment through his death and sufferings.
My mother added that all who believed
that, and who read the Bible every
morning, and said prayers every night,
and went to church twice every Sun
day, became good people, and would
be saved and go to heaven ; while all
who disbelieved it were lost souls, who
would be punished forever with the
Devil and his angels.
My father, a Deist, or free-thinking
Unitarian, was tender of my mother’s
religious sentiments, and did not, in
those days, interfere with her instruc
tions or seek to undermine our belief.
I recollect, one day when he had been
explaining to me how seeds produced
plants and trees, that I asked him
where the very, very first seeds came
from, and that his answer did not go to
shake my faith in the Mosaic account
of the creation.
Thus left to orthodox teaching, I
Soon became an apt and zealous schol
ar ; often prejudiced, I was never in
different ; still more often mistaken, I
was sincere in my errors, and I always
sought to act out what I believed.
Very peculiar was my state of mind
in those early years. Breathing an
orthodox atmosphere, I never doubted
that it extended over the whole earth.
I had just heard of pagans and Ro
manists and infidels ; but I thought
of all such dissenters from the creed I
had learned as a handful of blinded
wretches, to be met with in some small
remote quarter of this vast world, —a
world that bowed to Christ alone as its
God and Saviour. To set up my own
opinion against all the pious — that is,
against all good men, or rather against
all men except a few who were des
perately wicked— was an acme of ar
rogance that did not once crass my
thoughts.
My good mother — more amiable
than logical — did not perceive the
perilous insecurity of a creed so nar-
�154
Boy-Life in a Scottish
row in a character like that of her
eldest son. In a chart given tome, in
the year 1827, by Spurzheim, causality
and conscientiousness are marked as
predominant organs, and self-esteem
as a large one, If that diagnostic may
be trusted, the danger to my orthodoxy
was the greater, The first doubts as
to the religious belief of my infancy
were suggested when I was about
eleven years old.
By this time the New Lanark estab
lishment had obtained considerable
Celebrity, and was frequented by visit
ors of some distinction. Among these
a bishop of the Anglican Church, hav
ing brought a letter of introduction to
my father, was invited to his table, and
I sat next to him. During dinner
conversation turned on the original
depravity of man, which, to my utter
astonishment, my father called in ques
tion. J the bishop, of course, stoutly
affirming it. I listened, with greedy
ears, to the discussion ; and, during a
pause, I put in my word.
“ Papa,” said I, “ I think you’d find
it a very difficult thing to make a bad
heart a good one.” ,,
The bishop, amused and astonished
to find so youthful an auxiliary, patted
me, laughingly, on the back and said,
“You’re in the right, my little fellow.
God only can do that.” Then he en
couraged me to proceed, to the no
small increase of my vanity and self
importance. My father, instead of
checking me,, replied patiently to my
argument ; and his replies left me
much tq think about.
Next day I had a lecture from my
mother on the sin of self-sufficiency,
and was told that little boys must listen,
and not join in grown people’s conver
sation. But this did not quiet me.
When I pressed my mother closely
about my father’s opinions, she con
fessed, to my horror, her doubts whether
he firmly believed that Christ was the
Son of God.
I remember, to this day, the terrible
shock this was to me, and the utter
confusion of ideas that ensued. My
state of mind was pitiable. J knew
[February,
there were wicked unbfiftev®®Ss among
the Hottentots and New - Zealanders
. whom I had read about; and my moth
er had once confessed to me that, even
in England and Scotland, Were were a
few low, ignorant people whoi
the
books of an infidel called Tom Paine 1
but my own father ! — kind, indulgent
to; us B’ll, and loved and respected by
everybody, — was he widggd ? was he
as bad as the pagans ? I took to
watching his benevolent fac© ; but he:
talked and smiled ®s usual. There
was no cloven foot to be seen, nor
any sinister inference to be drawn from
his quiet, pleasant demeanor.
In fear and trembling I laid my per
plexities before my mother. Excel
lent woman ! I know well now in wteja
a strait she must have found herself,
between her creed as a Calvinist and
her love as a wife. Somewhat at ex
pense of conscience, perhaps, she com
promised matters. Swayed by her
great affection for my father, and doubt
less also by her fears that the disclosure
of his heresies might weaken the pa®
ternal authority# she sought to soften
their enormity by declaring that, but
for these, he was everything that was
good and estimable. “ Pray to God,
my child,” she would say, “ that be
will tarn your dear father’s heart froffl
the error of his way and make him
pious like your grandfather.” Then,
with tears in het eyes, “ O, if he could
*
only be converted, he would- be every
thing my heart could desire ; and
when we die he would be an heaven
with us all.”
“If he could only be converted!”
These words sank deep. “ My father
is too good a man,” J said to myself,
“ to sin on purpose Perhaps nobody
*
ever explained holy things to him as
my mother did to me. If I could only
save his soul ! ”
The more I pondered upon this, the
more it seemed possible, probable, at
last unquestionable. I called to mind
some texts my mother had read to I
us about the mouths of sucklings, and
what they might do ; also what Jesus
Christ had said about little children as
�1873.]
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
*55
being of the kingdom of Heaw®. I the class of sins to which I was prone
did not, indeed, conceal from myself differed somewhat from those of the
®ay father was a wise and prudent French monarch, they weighed heavily
man : I saw that men listened to him upon me, nevertheless. A hundred
with respect and treated him, on all oc times my mother had told me that I
casions, with consideration. But my was a miserable sinner ; and conscience
mother, whose habit it was to read a brought up before me many proofs of
chapter from the Bible to us every this.
My activity being great, and my
evening, happened, about that time, to
select one from the Gospel of Matthew, spirits of a restless order, the breach
in which Christ returns thanks to of the fourth commandment was my
God that things hidden from the wise besetting sin. Though I had success
and prudent are revealed to babes. It fully resisted a great temptation to play
occurred to me that perhaps God had at foot-ball on Sundays, yet when James
caused my mother to read that chapter Dunn, one Saturday evening, brought
me a new hoop of his own manufac
for my especial encouragement.
Thea again, I had great faith in ture, I hid it in the woods, stole away
th© efficacy of prayer. Several years in the afternoon of the next day, and
before, while we were staying, for a “ broke the Sabbath ” by trundling
time, in my grandfather’s town-house, it for an hour, stung with compunc
I had been shooting with bow and tion the while. Then there was that
arrow in the same garden where Da- conspiracy against Sandy, with its aw
vid Dale found that honest man. I had ful result! Add to this that I was
lost my best arrow, and sought for it terribly given to yawning in church,
a long time in vain. Then, instead of and that, on two different occasions, I
had fallen sound asleep during evening
following Bassanio’s plan,—»
prayers. Worse still, there was a ro
“ When I had lost one shaft,
mance (entitled “ Anne of Brittany,” I
I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
The self-same way, with more advised watch,
remember) in which, when I was sum
To find the other forth,” —
moned to bed one Saturday evening, I
I dropped on my knees behind a goose had left the heroine in a most interest
berry-bush and prayed to God that he ing and perilous situation, and next
would show me where my missing ar morning, when my mother came quiet
row was. Rising and turning round, ly into the library to tell me it was
fo 1 there it stood, deep sunk in the time to prepare for church, so absorbed
ground close to another bush. My was I in Anne’s imminent danger, that
mother, when I told her of this, had, I was detected — flagrante delicto —
indeed, expressed doubt as t© the pro in the very act of reading a novel on
priety of prayer for a thing so trifling ; the Lord’s day ! Could there be a
but I retained the conviction that God doubt as to my innate depravity ? And
had answered my supplication : and was it strange that, while Louis sought
every night, on my knees, I prayed, as salvation by coercing millions of Hu
fervently, I think, as any young creature guenots to flee or to embrace Catholi
ever did, that He would help me also cism, I should strive to have my fa
ther’s redemption placed to my credit
to convert my father.
But, as commonly happens to propa on that great book that was to be
gandists, more selfish motives super opened on the Day of Judgment ?
But aside from religious convictions
vene^, to enkindle my zeal. We learn
from history that Louis XIV. was and the desire to atone for my sins
prompted to repeal that charter of re urging me on, there was that organ of
ligious freedom, the edict of Nantes, self-esteem, hereditary perhaps, the
by the desire to save an abject soul, size of which in my brain the great
loaded down with the debaucheries of phrenologist had detected. Under its
a lifetime, from perdition. And though influence I could not get away from
�z56
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat.
the resolve to convert my father. I
say the resolve to convert him, not to
attempt his conversion ; for so I put it
to myself, nothing doubting.
I don’t think I had any clear con
ception what a mission is. Yet I had
a vagu.e idea that God had chosen me
to be the instrument of my father’s
salvation, so that he might not be sent
to hell when he died.
I was mightily pleased with myself
when this idea suggested itself, and I
set about preparing for the task before
me. Summoning to my recollection
all my mother’s strongest arguments, I
arranged them in the order in which I
proposed to bring them forward. Then
I imagined my father’s replies ; already
anticipating my own triumph and my
mother’s joy, when I should have
brought my father to confess his errors
and repent. But I said not a word of
my intentions to her or to any one.
The joyful surprise was to be complete.
I recollect, to this day, the spot on
which I commenced my long-projected
undertaking. It was on a path which
skirted, on the farther side, the lawn in
front of our house and led to the gar
den. I could point out the very tree
we were passing when — with some
misgivings, now that it was to be put
to the test — I sounded my father by
first asking him what he thought about
Jesus Christ. His reply was to the
effect that I would do well to heed
his teachings, especially those relating
to charity and to our loving one an
other.
This was well enough, as far as it
went; but it did, not at all satisfy me.
So,, with some trepidation, I put the
question direct, whether my father dis
believed that Christ was the Son of
God?
He looked a little surprised and
did not answer immediately. * Why
■
do you ask that question, my son ? ”
he said at last.
“ Because I am sure — ” I began
eagerly.
“ That he is God’s Son ? ” asked
my father, smiling.
“ Yes, I am.”
[February,
“Did yfflttever hear of the Mahome
tans ? ” said my father,while I had
paused to collect my proofs.
• I replied that I had heard of such a
people who lived somewhere, far off.
“ Do you know what their religion
is ? ”
“ No?
*
“ They believe that Christ is not the
Son of God, but that another person,,
called Mahomet, was God’s chosen
prophet.”
“Do they not believe the Bible?”
asked I, somewhat aghast.
“ No., Mahomet wrote a book called
the Koran ; and Mahometans believe
it to be the word of God. That book
tells them that God sent Mahomet to
preach the gospel to them^ and to save
their souls.”
Wonders crowded fast upon me. A
rival Bible and a rival Saviour 1 Could
it be ? I asked, “ Are you quite sure
this is true, papa ?®
“ Yes, my dear, I am quite sure.
*
“ But I suppose there are very few
Mahometans : not near — near so many
of them as of Christians.”
“ Do you call Catholics Christians,
Robert ? ”
“ O no, papa. The Pope is Anti
christ.”
My father smiled. “ Then by Chris
tians you mean Protestants ? ”
“ Yes.’*
“Well, there are many more Ma
hometans than Protestants in the
world : about a hundred and forty mil
lion Mahometans, and less than a hun
dred million Protestants.”
“ I thought almost everybody be
lieved in Christ, as mamma does.”
“ There are probably twelve hundred
millions of people in the world. So,
out of every twelve persons one only is
a Protestant. Are you quite sure that
the one is right and the eleven
wrong ? ”
My ereed, based on authority, was
toppling. I had no answer ready. Dur
ing the rest of the walk I remained al
most silent, engrossed with new ideas,
and replying chiefly in monosyllables
when spoken to.
�1873.]
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Se&tt,
And w ended this notable scheme
of mine for my father’s cooversfo®.
My mother had claimed too much.
Over-zealous, she had not given her own
opinions fair play. Even taking the
most favorable view of the Calvinistic
creed, still what she had taught me
was prejudice only. For if looking to
the etymology of that word, we inter
pret it to mean a judgment formed be
fore examination, then must we regard
as prejudices his opinions, however
true, who has neglected to weigh them
against their opposites, however false.
Thus ©ven a just prejudice is always
vulnerable.
Had my mother been satisfied to
teach me that the Old Testament was
a most interesting and valuable contribution to ancient history, filled with
important lessons ; had she encouraged
me to compare the ethical and spiritual
teachings of Christ with those of the
Koran, or of Seneca, or Socrates, or
Confucius (all of which were to be
found in our library) ; and had she bid
me observe how immeasurably superior
they were in spirit and i© civilizing ten
dency to all that had gone before,—
she would, I think, have saved me
from sundry extreme opinions that
lasted through middle life.
But she was not content without
getting up the Bible, as Caliph Omar
did the Koran, not only as the infallible
but also as the solitary source of all
religious knowledge whatever. The
days of Max Muller were not yet. My
mother had no doubt heard of compar
ative anatomy, but never of comparative religion. Lowell’s lines had not
then been written :—•
“ Each form of worship that hath swayed
The life of man and given it to grasp
The master-key of knowledge, reverence,
Enfolds some germs of goodness and of right.”
The immediate effect, however, of
my mishap in the attempt to make a
Calvinist of my father was good. My
failure served as a practical lesson in
humility. I listened and thought and
doubted more than had been my wont,
and I spoke less.
157
Nor did I give up fee creed of my
childhood without a long and painful
struggle.
I daily searched the Scriptures as
diligently, I think I may say, as any
child of my age could be expected to do ;
coming upon many seeming incongrui
ties and contradictions, which were sad
stumbling-blocks. The frequent dis
cussions between my father and his
visitors, to which I eagerly listened,
still increased my doubts. After a
time I lost faith in my mother’s favor
ite doctrine of the infallible. The axe
had been laid at the root of my ortho
doxy.
For more than a year, however, I lis
tened with exemplary patience — even
with more attention, indeed, than for
merly — to my mother’s pious homilies,
and was seldom deficient when called
up to repeat my catechism-task. I did
not say anything, during all that time,
to betray my growing scepticism ; but
neither did I, as I formerly had done,
profess zeal for religion, or implicit
faith in the Bible. I do not recollect
ever to have deceived a human being
on a matter of conscience ; and this I
owe to my parents.
On one point the teachings of my
father and mother strictly harmonized.
My father sought to impress it upon
me that I could never become a gentle
man unless 1 spoke, on all occasions,
the exact truth ; while my mother’s
teaching on that subject was that the
Devil is the father of lies; and that,
if I told falsehoods, God would reckon
me among the Devil’s children. The
organ of conscientiousness, if Spurzheim had made no mistake, may have
aided these lessons. At all events, I
grew up to regard a lie as of all sins
the most heinous.
To this sentiment it was due that, in
the end, my conscience sharply re
proached me for a deceptive silence,
and I determined to tell my mother
that my faith was changed. Once or
twice I had resolved to do so after
our evening devotions ; but her sad
face — for she had begun to surmise
that all was not right — deterred me,
�158
Boy-Life in a Scottish Country-Seat*
Finally I stated the facts, plainly and
succinctly, in a letter which I in
trusted, one evening just before going
to bed, to an aunt who was staying
with us.
Had I known the effect my missive
was to produce, I do not think I should
have sent it.. My mother did not ap
pear next morning at breakfast, and I
afterwards found out that she had spent
the night in tears. She had always
Considered me, as she told me after
wards, the most devout among her
children, —the most careful for the fu
ture welfare of my soul, the most ear
nest in my zeal for the things of an
other world, her most attentive listener
too; and her disappointment, when
she found me a. backslider, was the
greater because of the hopes she had
cherished.
Unwilling to add to her sorrow by
engaging with her in any religious de
bate, I fell back, for a solution of some
of my difficulties, on a good-natured
private tutor, named Manson, who,
for a year or two, had been doing his
best to teach my brother and myself
Greek and Latin, after the tedious,
old-fashioned manner. He had stud-,
ied to qualify himself as a minister
of the Scottish Kirk, was orthodox,
but mild and tolerant also, and did
not meddle with my spiritual educa
tion.
The old, old enigma, unsolved through
past ages and but dimly guessed at to
day, came up of course, — the enigma
of evil and its punishment.
“ Mr. Manson,” said I one day,
“ does God send all unbelievers to
hell, and are they tormented there in
the flames forever ? ”
[February,
“ Certainly. Have n’t you read that
in the Bible ? ”
“Yes. Does not God love all men,
and wish them to be happy ? ”
“ He .surely does. His tender mer
cies are over all his works.’®
“ Yes ; I know the Biblg says that
too. Then I don’t understand aboutthe unbelievers. God need not have
created them, unless he chose ; and hg
must have known, before they were
*
born, that they would sin and that they
would soon have to be burned to all
eternity.’9'
“ But you know that God puts it in
our power to save ourselves ; and if
we neglect to do so, it is our fault, no|
his.”
“ But yet,” persisted I„ “ God was
not obliged to create a man that was
sure to be an unbeliever. Nobody!
said he must. He might have pre
vented him from being born, and that
would have prevented him from being
wicked, and prevented him from going
to hell. Would n’t it have been much
better for such men not to be born,
than to live a few years here and then
be tormented for ever and ever ? ”
I took my tutor’s silent hesitation
for consent, and added, “ Well, then,
if it would have been better, why did n’t
God do it ? ”
“ I cannot tell you,” Mr. Manson
said at last; “ and I advise you not to
think of such things as these. It seems
better to our human reason ; but it
cannot be better, or else God would
have done so.”
As may be supposed, this putting
aside of the question was unsatisfac
tory ; and from that day I became a
Universalist.
Robert Dale Owen.
�1S73-]
The Bride of Torrisdell.
159
THE BRIDE OF TORRISDELL.
ONG ago while yet the Saga’s dream-red haze
L Lay o’er Norway’s dales and fjords unbroken ;
Ere \vith Olaf’s * cross men saw her steeples blaze,
Ere their mighty iron tongues had spoken ;
Thea the Neck, the Hulder, elves, and fairies gay
Wooed the summer moon with airy dance and play.
But alas ! they fled,
As with flaming head
O’er the valley shone St. Olaf’s token.
Thorstein Aasen was forsooth the boldest swain
Ever church-road trod on Sabbath morning ;
As a boy he fought the savage bear full fain,
Spite of mother’s tears and father’s warning ;
Never yet was rafter for his heel too high, f
Haughtiest mien he fronted with unquailing eye;
And the rumor’s tide
Bore his glory wide,
Still with virtues new his name adorning.
Like a ling’ring echo from the olden time,
Wondrous legends still the twilight haunted,
And o’er Brage’s goblet still heroic rhymes
In the merry Yule-tide oft were chanted,
How of Thorstein’s race had one at Necken’sJ will
Stayed the whirl and roar of many a noisy mill;
How in wild delight
At the fall of night
He would seek the river’s gloom undaunted.
Late one autumn night, as wild November storms
Whirled the withered leaves in frantic dances,
And half-moonlit clouds of huge fantastic forms
Swift to horror-dreams from rapturous trances
Plunged the restless earth, anon in sudden fear
E’en the raging storm-wind held its breath to hear:
* St. Olaf was the king who finally Christianized Norway. The Pope, after his death, made him the
patron saint of the country.
t To be able to kick the rafter is regarded as a great proof of manliness in Norway.
+ Necken or the Neck is the spirit of the water. He is usually represented as an old man, who plays his
harp or (according to others) his violin in the roaring cataracts. His music is said to consist of eleven chords,
which are the very essence of all music, and all music appeals to the human heart in the same degree as it
pawtakes of the inherent qualities of “ Necken’s chords.” The legends tell of mortals who have attempted to
Jearn these chords, and have succeeded. Some have learned two, others three, but few more than six. He
who is taught to strike the eleventh chord, it is said, must give his own soul in exchange. At the ninth, life
less objects begin to dance, and when the tenth is struck, the player is seized with such a rapture that he can
never sleep, but plays on forever.
�The Bride of Torrisdell.
l6o
[February,
From the river’s lair
Rose a tremulous air,—
Rose and fell in sweetly flowing stanzas.
•
But as morning came forth with frosty splendor keen
Where the birch-trees o’er the waters quiver,
Found the grooms their lord with bow and violin,
Ghastly staring down the brawling river.
To his instrument was closely pressed his ear,
,
As if there some charmed melody to hear;
In his sunken sight
Shone a weird delight;
But life’s mystery had flown forever I
From that time the secret sorcery of the tone,
Passed from sire to son by sure transmission,
Had full oft a witching web of music thrown
O’er the lonely forests of tradition ;
And full oft the son with pride and secret dole
Heard those strange vibrations in his inmost soul,
Like the muffled knell
Of a distant bell
Fraught with dark and bodeful admonition.
Where the river hurls its foam-crests to the fjord,
There lies Torrisdell in sunshine gleaming;
Oft its valiant lord ’gainst Aasen drew his sword,
And the red cock crew while blood was streaming.
*
But his daughter Birgit, — by the holy rood
Ne’er a fairer maid on church or dance-croft stood I«—
Like the glacier’s gaze
In the sun’s embrace
Shone her eye with tender brightness beaming.
And when Thorstein Aasen saw that lily maid
On her palfrey white on church-road riding,
Aye his heart beat loud, and fierce defiance bade
To ancestral feuds their hearts dividing,
And young Birgit, the fair maid of Torrisdell,
Little cared or strove that rising flame to quell;
For, ere spring new-born
Did the fields adorn,
Him she pledged her word and faith abiding.
Loud then swore her angry sire with mead aglow,
(Deadly hate was in his visage painted,)
, Rather would he see his daughter’s red blood flow,
Than with shame his ancient scutcheon tainted.
In her lonesome bower then fair Birgit lay,
Wept and prayed by night and prayed and wept by day ;
* “ The red cock crew” is the expression used in the old Norse Sagas for a nightly attack with fire and
sword.
�
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Boy-life in a Scottish country-seat : a chapter of autobiography
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Owen, Robert Dale [1801-1877]
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Collation: 145-160 p. ; 22 cm.
Notes: Pp. 146-158 apparently extracted from Owen's autobiography, published in an unidentified periodical (The Atlantic), Vol. 31, No. 184 (February 1873). Printed in double columns. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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Text
DEDICATORY SERVICES
OF THE
, PARKER MEMORIAL 2
E ETING
HOUS
BY THE
TWENTY-EIGHTH CONGREGATIONAL SOCIETY,
OF BOSTON,
Sunday, Sept. 81, 187’3.
BOSTON:
COCHRANE & SAMPSON, PRINTERS,
—
9 BROMFIELD STREET.
1873.
��SERVICES.
I. DEDICATION HYMN.
BY SAMUEL JOHNSON.
(SungMuiChoir^
To Light, that shines in stars and souls ;
To Law, that round* the world with calm ;
To Love, whose equal triumph rolls
Through martyr’s prayer and angel’s psalm, —
We wed these walls with unseen bands,
In holier shrines not built with hands.
May purer sacrament be here
Than ever dwelt in rite or creed, —
Hallowed the hour with vow sincere
To serve the time’s all-pressing need,
And rear, its heaving sea&above,
Strongholds of Freedom, folds of Love.
Here be the wanderer homeward led ;
Here living streams in fullness "flow;
And every hungering soul be fed,
That yearns the Eternal Will to know;
Here conscience hurl her stern reply
To mammon’s lust and slavery’s lie.
Speak, Living God, thy full command
Through prayer of faith and word of power,
That we with girded loins may stand
To do thy work and wait thine hour,
And sow, ’mid patient toils and tears,
For harvests in serener years.
�4
II. REMARKS OF JOHN C. HAYNES,
CHAIRMAN OF THE STANDING COMMITTEE OF THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CON
GREGATIONAL SOCIETY, OF BOSTON.
As your representative here to-day in the dedicatory services
of this Memorial to Theodore Parker, the first minister and
founder of our Society, what I have to say will consist mainly
of a brief review of the history of the Society.
On January 22d, 1845, a meeting was held at Marlboro’ Chapel
by several friends of free thought, at which the following reso
lution was passed: —
'•'•Resolved, That the Rev. Theodore Parker shall have a chance to be
heard in Boston.”
At that time he was preaching at West Roxbury. The
Melodeon was hired for Sunday mornings, and Mr. Parker
preached his first sermon there February 16th, 1845, on “The
Importance of Religion.” In November of that year the Society
was regularly organized as a “ body for religious worship ” under
the laws of Massachusetts, the name “Twenty-eighth Congre
gational Society of Boston ” was adopted, and Mr Parker, on
January 4th, 1846, was regularly installed as its minister. The
Society remained at the Melodeon until the fall of 1852, when,
for the sake of a larger audience-room for the great number
who flocked to hear Mr. Parker, it removed to the Music Hall,
then recently erected. There Mr. Parker preached from Sun
day to Sunday until his illness on January 9th, 1859. His last
discourse was on the Sunday previous. He continued, however,
to be the minister of the Society untill his death, which oc
curred May 10th, i860. From the time of the illness of Mr.
Parker to bis death, the Society continued its meetings, in the
hope at least of his partial recovery. After his death, the
Society, seeing the continued need of an unfettered platform
for free thought, and for the maintenance and diffusion of just
ideas in regard to theology, morality and religion, and whatever
else concerns the public welfare, of course maintained its organ
ization and continued its meetings, engaging as preachers the
best expounders of religious thought and feeling within its
reach, laymen as well as clergymen, women as well as men..
�The meetings have been held, without any interruptions except
those of the usual summer vacations, up to the present time,
a period of more than thirteen years since Mr. Parker’s death.
We have had financial and other discouragements, but the
enthusiasm of the Society for the cause of “ absolute religion,”
— the feeling that a pulpit like ours was needed, in which earnest
men'and women could freely express their views upon religious,
social and political questions, — have kept us united and in
action.
Our first serious misfortune, after the death of Mr. Parker,
occurred in April, 1863, when, in consequence of the several
months needful for the putting up of the Great Organ, we were
obliged to vacate the Music Hall and go back to the Melodeon.
Our second principal misfortune took plpce in September,
1866, when, in consequence of the Melodeon being required for
business purposes, we were compelled to remove to the Parker
Fraternity Rooms, No 5 54/Washington Street.
In each case, the removal from a larger to a smaller hall re
duced our numbers.
In May, 1865, ’Rev. David A. Wasson was settled as the
minister of the Society, which position he held until his resigna
tion in July, 1866. Previous to Mr. Wasson’s settlement, Rev.
Samuel R. Calthrop, now of Syracuse, N.Y., occupied the pul
pit continuously for several months.
During 1867 and 1868, for more than a year, Rev. Samuel
Longfellow preached for the Society on successive Sundays.
Mr. Longfellow has continued to preach for us occasionally
ever since.
On December 13th, 1868, Rev. James Vila Blake was installed
by the Society as its minister, and remained our pastor nearly
three years, until his resignation in November, 1871.
Aside from these, we have had the occasional pulpit service of
many men and women, noble in character, and eminent in abil
ity. Among them are Ralph Waldo Emerson, William Lloyd
Garrison, Wendell Phillips, William R. Alger, John Weiss,
Samuel Johnson, O. B. Frothingham, John W. Chadwick,
Francis E. Abbot, Ednah D. Cheney, William J. Potter, Celia
Burleigh, William H. Spencer, and W. C. Gannett.
�6
The Parker Fraternity, which is an offshoot of the Twenty
eight Congregational Society, representing particularly its social
element, was organized in 1858, and has been a valuable adjunct
to the Society. Through its public lectures it has largely in
fluenced public opinion, particularly in the days of the anti
slavery reform and the momentous years of the rebellion. It
naturally recognized the rights of woman, and year after year
placed women among its lecturers.
The Twenty-eighth Congregational Society has always, from
the start, had its seats free. All who chose to come to its meet
ings have been welcome. The contributions for payment of
expenses have always been voluntary. The Society has never
had a creed, and has never used those observances with water,
bread and wine which the sects call “ sacraments.” Through
the twenty-eight years of its existence, the feeling against these
has been constant and universal, so that no question in regard
to them has ever arisen.
Now, for the first time, we have a building we can call our
own. We have erected it as a memorial to our first great
teacher and standard-bearer, Theodore Parker. We dedicate it
to the ideas he represented: namely, to truth, to humanity, to
the free expression of free thought, to duty, to mental, moral
and social progress, and to the diffusion of-religion without
superstition.
III.
SCRIPTURE READING.
[A part of the following selection from the Scriptures of different nations was read.]
Let us meditate on the adorable light of the Divine Creator; may He
quicken our minds.
What .1 may now utter, longing for Thee, do Thou accept it: make me
possessed of God !
Preserver, Refuge 1 leave us not in the power of the evil: be with us when
afar, be with us when near; so sustained, we shall not fear. We have no
other Friend but Thee, no other blessedness, no other Father. There is
none like Thee in heaven or earth, O Mighty One: give us understanding
as a father his sons. Thine we are ; we go on our way upheld by Thee.
Day after day we approach Thee with reverence : take us into Thy pro- l
tection as a father his sons. Thou art as water in the desert to him who I
longs for Thee.
�f
7
. •
Presence us by knowledge from sin, and lift us up, for our work and for
' oumife. Deliver us from evil!
Spirit alone is this All. Him know ye as the One Soul alone; dismiss
all other words.
The Eternal One is without form, without beginning, self-existent Spirit.
The Supreme Spirit, whose creation is the universe, always dwelling in
the heart of all beings, is revealed by the heart. They who know Him
become immortal. With the eye can no man see Him. They who know
him as dwelling within become immortal.
He is the Soul in all beings, the best in each, the inmost nature of
all; their beginning, middle, end: the all-watching Preserver, Father and
Mother of the universe; Supporter, Witness, Habitation, Refuge, Friend:
the knowledge of the wise, the silence of mystery, the splendor of light.
He, the One, moveth not, yet is swifter than thought. He is far, he is
near. He is within all, he is beyond all. He it is who giveth to his crea
tures according to their needs. He is the Eternal among things transitory,
the Life of all that lives, and being One fumlleth we desires of many. The
wise who see Him within themselves, theirs is everlasting peace.
Dearer than son, dearer than wealth, dearer than all* other beings, is He
who dwelleth deepest within.
. They who worship me, He saith, dwell in me and I in them. They who
worship me shall never die. By him who seeks me, I am easily found. To
such as seek me with constant love, I give the power to come to me. I will
deliver thee from all thy transgressions.
He who seeth all in God, and God in all, despiseth not any.
Hear the secret of the wise. Be not anxious ’ for Subsistence : it is pro
vided by the Maker. He who hath clothed the birds with their bright plu
mage will also feed thee. How should riches bring thee joy. He has all
good things whose soul is constant.
If one considers the whole universe as' existing in the Supreme Spirit,
how can he give his soul to sin ?
He leadeth men to righteousness that they may find unsullied peace.
. Who can be glorious without virtue ?
He who lives'pure in thought, free from malice, holy in life, feeling ten
derness toward all creatures, humble and sincere, has God ever in his heart.
The Eternal makes not his abode within the heart of that man who covets
another’s wealth, who injures any living thing, who speaks harshness or
untruth.
. The good have mercy on all as on themselves. He who is kind to those
who are kind to him does nothing great. To be good to the evil-doer is
what the wise call good. It is the duty of the good man, even in the mo
ment of his destruction, not only to forgive, but to seek to bless his de
stroyer.
By truth is the universe upheld.
Speak the truth : he drieth to the very roots who speaketh falsehood.
�8
Do righteousness : than righteousness there is nothing greater.
Honor thy father and thy mother. Live in peace with others. Speak ill
of none. Deceive not even thy enemy. Forgiveness is sweeter than
revenge. Speak kindly to the poor.
Whatever thou.dost, do as offering to the Supreme.
Lead me forth, O God, from unrighteousness into righteousness; from
darkness into light; from death into immortality 1
There is an invisible, eternal existence beyond this visible, which does
not perish when all things perish, even when all that exists in form returns
unto God from whom it came.
—Hindu {Brahminic) Scriptures*
O Thou in whom all creatures trust, perfect amidst the revolutions of
worlds, compassionate toward all, and their eternal salvation, bend down
into this our sphere, with all thy society of perfected ones. Thou Law of
all creatures, brighter than the sun, in faith we humble ourselves before
Thee. Thou, who dwellest in the world of rest, before whom all is but tran
sient, descend by thine almighty power and bless us !
Forsake ail evil, bring forth goo4, rule thy own thought: such is the path
to end all .pain.
My law is a law of mercy for all.
As a mother, so long as she lives, watches over her child, so among all
beings let boundless good-will prevail.
Overcome the evil with good, the avaricious with generosity, the false with
truth.
Earnestness is the way of immortality.
Be true and thou ahalt be free*. Ta be true belongs to thee, thy success,
to the Creator.
Not by meditation can the truth be reached, though I keep up continual
devotion. The. wall of error, is. broken by walking in the commandments of
God.
—Buddhist Scriptures.
In the name of God, the Giver, the Forgiver, the Rich in Love 1 Praise
be to the God, whose name is He who always was, always is, always shall be.
He is the Ruler, the Mighty, the Wise : Creator, Sustainer, Refuge, De
fender.
May Thy kingdom, come, O'Lord, wherein Thou makest good to the right
eous poor.
He through whose deed the world increaseth in purity shall come into Thy
kingdom.
This I ask of Thee, tell me the right, O Lord, teach me : Thou Ruler over
all, the Heavenly, the Friend for both worlds!
I pray Thee, the Best, for the best.
1 Teach Thou me out of Thyself.
The Lord has the decision: may it happen to us as He wills.
�9
“Which is the one prayer,” asked Zarathrusta, “that in greatness, good
ness and beauty is worth all that is between heaven and earth ? ” And the
Lord answered him, That one wherein one renounces all evil thoughts, evil
words, and evil works.
Praise to the Lord, who rewards those who perform good deeds accord
ing to His wijl, who purifies the obedient at last, and redeems even the
wicked out of hell.
—- Parsee Scriptures.
Hear, O Israel, the Lord thy God is one.
What doth the Lord thy God require of thee, but to reverence the Lord
thy God, to walk in all his ways: to love him and to serve him with all thy
heart and with all thy soul 1
For the Lord your God is a great God, a mighty and a terrible, which regardeth not persons, neither taketh gifts. He executeth justice for the
fatherless and the widow and loveth the stranger.* Love ye therefore the
stranger. Ye are the children of the Lord your God.
Ye shall not steal, neither deal falsely, neither lie one to another. Neither
shall thou profane the name of thy God. Thou shalt no,t defraud thy neigh
bor, but in righteousness shalt thou judge him,
Thou shalt not hate thy brother in thy heart.
But thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.
If thine enemy hunger feed him, iMie thirst give him drink. So shalt
thou heap coals of fire upon his head.
Bring no more vain oblations. Wash you, make you clean; cease to do
evil, learn to do good ; seek justice, relieve the oppressed.
Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow, though they
be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.
Justice will I lay to the line and righteousness to the plummet.
When Thy justice is in the earth, the inhabitants of the world will learn
righteousness.
The Lord will teach us his ways and we will walk in his paths. And he
shall judge the nations. And they shall beat their swords into plough
shares, and their spears into pruning-hooks : nation shall not lift up sword
against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.
For behold, I create a new heavens and a new earth. The wilderness and
the solitary place shall be glad, and the desert shall blossom as the rose.
The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down
in green pastures, he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my
life, He leadeth me in the right paths. Yea, though I walkthrough the val
ley of the deadly shadow, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me: Thy
rod and thy staff they comfort me. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow
me all the days of my life.
—Jewish ^Canonical) Scriptures.
2
�IO
Wisdom is glorious, and never fadeth away. And love is the keeping of
her laws : and the giving heed unto her laws is the assurance of incorruptionj
And incorruption maketh us near unto God.
For wisdom, which is the worker of all things, taught me. In her is an
understanding spirit: holy, one only, yet manifold ; subtle, living, undefiled,
loving the thing that is good, ready to do good; kind to man, steadfast,
sure, having all power ; overseeing all things, and going through all mind ;
pure and most subtle spirit. For wisdom is more moving than any motion,
She passeth and goeth through all things by reason of her pureness. For
she is the breath of the power of God, and a pure influence flowing from the
glory of the Almighty. She is the brightness of the everlasting light, the. un
spotted mirror of the power of God and the image of his goodness. And be
ing one, she can do all things: and remaining in herself, she maketh all
things new; and in all ages entering into holy souls, she maketh them friends
of God and prophets.
Thou lovest all things that are ; thou savest all: for they are Thine, O
Lord, thou lover of souls. For Thine incorruptible spirit is in all things.
To know Thee is perfect righteousness ; yea, to know Thy power is the
root of immortality.
For righteousness is immortal.
— Jewish (Apocryphal} Scriptures.
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed
are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for
they shall inherit the earth. Blessed are they who do hunger and thirst af
ter righteousness, for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they
shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is
the kingdom of heaven.
Love your enemies ; bless them who curse you; pray for them who despitefully use you and persecute you, that ye may be the children of your
Father who is in heaven. Be ye therefore perfect as your Father in heaven
is perfect.
God is Spirit, and they who worship him must worship him in spirit.
The Father who dwelleth in me doeth the works. My Father worketh
hitherto and I work.
God is Love ; and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in
him.
If we love one another, God dwelleth in us. And he that keepeth his
commandments dwelleth in Him, and He in him.
Behold what manner of love the Father has bestowed upon us that we
should be called the sons of God.
And every man that hath this hope in him purifieth himself as He is pure.
As many as are led by the spirit of God, they are the sons of God.
�11
Unto us there is but one God, the Father.
One God, and Father of all, who is above all, and through all, and in you
all.
He hath made us ministers of the new covenant, not of the letter, but of
the spirit: for the letter killeth, but the spirit giveth life.
Now the Lord is that spirit: and where the spirit of the Lord is there is
liberty.
For, brethren, ye have been called unto liberty. Only use not your liberty
as an occasion for the flesh, but that by love ye may serve one another.
And now abide faith, hope, love : but the greatest of these is love.
Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are
honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever
things are lovely: if there be any virtue *and any praise, think on these
things. The things which ye have learned and received and heard, do :
and the God of peace shall be with you.
— Christian Scriptures.
IV.
PRAYER.
BY SAMUEL LONGFELLOW.
V.
DEDICATION HYMN.
WRITTEN FOR THE OCCASION BY W. C. GANNETT.
(Sung by Choir and Congregation?)
O Heart-of all the shining day,
The green earth’s still Delight,
Thou Freshness in the morning wind,
Thou Silence of the night;
Thou Beauty of our temple-walls,
Thou Strength within the stone, —
What is it we can offer thee
Save what is first thine own ?
Old memories throng: we think of one —
Awhile with us he trod —
Whose gospel words yet bloom and burn;
We called him, — Gift of God.
Thy gift again; we bring thine own,
This memory, this hope;
This faith that still one Temple holds
Him, us, within its cope.
-•
�12
Not that we see, but sureness comes
When such as he have passed ;
The freshness thrills, the silence fills,
Life lives then in the vast;
They pour their goodness into it,
It reaches to the star;
The Gift of God becomes himself,
More real, more near, so far !
VI. DISCOURSE.
BY SAMUEL LONGFELLOW.
I greet you upon your gathering in this new and fair home.
It is but a change of place, — not of mind or purpose. You lay
no new foundations of the .spirit. What foundation can any man
lay deeper, broader, more eternal than those you have always
had, — faith in man and faith in God, whom man reveals ? You
build no new walls of spiritual shelter: what other can you ever
need than you have always had, — the sense of the encompass
ing, protecting, and perfect laws, the encircling God ? What
better roof could overarch your souls than the reverential, trust
ful sense of the Heavenly Power and Love; the Truth, Justice,
and Beauty that are above us all; the Perfect which lifts us to
heaven, and opens heaven to us and in us, even as in Rome’s
Pantheon — temple of all the Gods, or of the All-God — the
arching dome leaves in its centre an open circle, through
which the infinite depths of sky are seen that tempt the spirit
to soar and soar, without a bound, farther than any bird hath
ever lifted wing or floating air-ship of man’s building can ever
rise! What spires and pinnacles could you raise that would
point upward better than that ideal within us, that haunting
sense of Perfection which forever calls us to a better manhood,
and toward which in all our best moments we long and aspire ?
What breadth of enlarged space could you open, with hospita
ble welcome of free place for all who would come, beyond that
entire freedom of thinking, of speaking, of hearing, which have
been yours, and your offering to others, for so many years ?
Eyer since, indeed, you gathered together, resolved that “ Theo-
�13
dore Parker should have a chance to be heard in Boston,” and
forrwsd the Twenty-eighth Congregational Society. Founded
in the ecclesiastical independence of that name, you, in coming
here, have not to break away from any ecclesiastical organization. Nor do you need now or ever to ask leave of bishop, or
approbation of consistory or council, — or fear the censure of
either, — for anything that you may do here, for any one whom
Bou may invite here, for anything that may be said here, for any
rite or form or ceremonial that you here may establish or may
omit. Springing from such root of sympathy with fair play and
freedom of speech, — and especially of thought and speech that
were under some ban. of heresy, — you have not in coming here
had to break away from any traditions of orthodoxy or spiritual
constraint. The traditions you bring here, are all the other way.
It is to no experiment of liberty that you \bpen this place of
meeting; to no untried ideas and principles, but to well-tested
ones, which you see no ground to give up or to abate. For
ideas and principles you have, — though you are bound by no
Breed. Bound by no creed, I. say, — refusing to proclaim any.
Not, however, without individual beliefs, and doubtless with
Substantial agreement amid your varieties of opinion ; but not
imposing your beliefs upon each other, as conditions of fellow
ship, still less upon any as condition® of salvation. You do not
impose them upon yourselves as fiscal; but hope that they will
grow out into something larger, fuller, deeper. You may be
afloat; but you are not adrift. You may not know what new
worlds of Truth lie before you ; but you know where you are,
and in what direction you are going. Beneath you is the deep
of God; over you, his eternal stars; within you, the magnet
which, with all its variations, is yet a trustworthy guide. Your
hand is on the helm. The sacred forces and laws of nature
encompass you. While you obey them you will not be lost.
“If your bark sink, ’tis to another sea.” You cannot go beyond
God.
This great principle of Freedom of Inquiry, Liberty of
^Thought, you bring with you. And may I not say for you
that you re-affirm it here ? In using it, it has not failed you or
betrayed you or harmed you. You have not found it fatal or
�14
'
dangerous. It has not led you into indifference, or into license
or moral delinquency. It may have led you to deny some old
beliefs, but it has not left you in denial or unbelief. Its free
atmosphere has been a tonic to your faith. It has brought you
to convictions, —the more trustworthy and precious because
freely reached by your own thought,, and tested by your own
experience, and fitted to your own state of mind. No longer a
report, but something you have seen for yourselves. The story
is told of a well-known hater of shams, that, a new minister
coming into his neighborhood, he sought an opportunity of talk
with him : he wanted to learn, he said, whether this man knew]
himself, anything of God, or only believed that eighteen hunj
dred years ago there lived one who knew something of him. Is
not our faith that in which we have settled confidence, — what
we trust our wills to in action ? It is that to which we gravi
tate, and in which we rest when all disturbing influences are
withdrawn. It is that to which we find ourselves recurring
from all aberrations of questioning and doubt, as to a practical
certainty. We may not be able to answer all arguments against
it, but nevertheless it commends itself to us as true. There is
to us more reason for holding to it than there are reasons for
rejecting it. So, while belief may be called an act of the
understanding, faith is rather a consent of the whole natureJ
It is, therefore, more instinctive than argumentative, though
reasoning forms an element in it. And it is the mighty power
which it is, removing mountains, and the secret of victory,
because it is this consensus of thought, feeling, and will, —• a
deposit of their long experiences, an act of the whole man. It
is structural and organic. But it need not be blind or irrational.
If we must differentiate it from knowledge, I would say that,
while we may define knowledge to be assurance upon outward
grounds, faith is assurance upon real but interior grounds. I
repeat this because many people seem to think that faith is
assurance without any ground. Now that our faith may be
really such as I have described, it must be a personal convic
tion, from our own thought and experience. And that it may
be this, we must have liberty of thinking without external con
straint.
�You do not find that this liberty of yours isolates you. Others,
who count it dangerous, or who dislike the use you make of it,
may cut you off from their fellowship. But the liberty which
frees you from artificial restraints leaves you open to the natural
attractions, and over and through all walls and lines you find a
large fellowship of sympathy in thought and feeling. The elec
tric instincts of spiritual brotherhood overleap all barriers of
-,creed and organization, even of excommunication. Above all
are you bound by such invisible, deep ties with all the noble
company of the heretics and pioneers of thought: and a noble
company it is. For the line of so-called heresy is nearly as
ancient, and quite as honorable, i J that of orthodoxy. Think
of the names that belong to it!
Let me say further thatfthis liberty of yours — your birth
right and sacred charge — is not lawlessn<Ss. You have never
felt it to be so. In a universe of law no true liberty can be
that. It is not that which has made the soul of man thrill as
when a trumpet sounds ; not that to which the noblest men and
women have sacrificed popularity, fortuneBand life. How fool
ishly Mr. Ruskin talks about liberty, misusing his eloquent pen ;
saying that we need none of it; and taking for its symbol the
capricious vagaries of a house-fly ! Is it a Bouse-fl^baprice that
has made the hearts of true menOleap high and willingly bleed
into stillness ; which has been dearer than friend or lover, than
ease or life ? Your liberty, I say, is not lawlessness, — it is not
whim and caprice. It is simply thelthrowing off all bondage of
tradition and conformity and prescription and ecclesiasticism,—
every external compulsion and imposition in behalf of the free,
natural action of the mind and heart. It rejects outward rule
in behalf of inward law. It refuses obedience to outward dicta
tion in behalf of its allegiance to the Truth which is within.
Thus it rejects bonds, but accepts bounds ; for all law is force
acting within bounds, — that is, under fixed and orderly condi
tions. Your liberty is order, not disorder.
Your liberty, again, is not rude or defiant. You do not flout
authority: you give due weight to the natural authority of supe
rior knowledge, wisdom, conscientiousness, holiness. But you
acknowledge no human authority which claims to be infallible, or
�i6
to impose itself upon you as absolute; none which would deny to
you the right — or seek to release you from the duty — of thinking
for yourself what is true to you, of judging for yourself what is
right for you. The opinion of the wisest you will not accept,
in any matter that interests you, unless it commends itself to
your thought, to your conscience, is justified by your experi
ence. You will not take your religious opinions ready made
from pope or synod or apostle. God has given you power—•
and therefore laid upon you the duty — of forming your own.
In that work you will gladly accept all help, willingly listen to
the words of the wise and good ; but their real authority is in
their power to convince your mind ; and the final appeal is to
your own soul. Is inspiration claimed for any, its proof must
be in its power to inspire you. Till it does it is no word of God
to you.
Yet once more, this liberty — won by pain of those gone
before, and by your own fidelity—-is yours not for its own sake
chiefly, not as an end. It is yours as opportunity. It will be a
barren liberty if it be not used. What good will the right of
free inquiry do to a man who never inquires ? Of what advan
tage freedom of thought to one who never thinks ? Of what
value the right of private judgment to. one who never exercises
it ? Freedom, I say, is but opportunity. It is an atmosphere in
which the 'mind should expand unhindered in its inbreathing of
Truth; in which all virtues should grow in strength, all sweet
and loving and devout feelings flower into beauty and fra
grance ; in which the character, unconstrained by artificial
bondages, should grow into the full statue of manhood, the full
possession and free play of faculty. It is in vain that you have
put away infallible church and infallible Bible and official media
tor, and priesthood and ritual, from between you and God, if
you never avail yourself of that immediate access ; if your soul
never springs into the arms of the Eternal Love, nor rests itself
trustfully on the Eternal Strength, nor listens reverently to the
whispers of the Eternal Word, nor enters into the peace of
communion with the Immutable.
Our freedom is founded in faith, not in denial. It springs from
faith in man. The popular theology is founded upon the idea
�i7
of human incapacity : ours upon faith in human capacity. We
believe, not in the Fall of Man, but in the Rise of Man. We
believe, not in a chasm between man and God to be bridged
over only by the atoning death of a God, but in a chasm
between man’s attainment and his possibility, between his
lower and his higher nature, to be bridged over by growth,
government, and culture. We believe that there is more good
in man generally than evil. And the evil we believe to be, not
a native disability, but an imperfection or a misuse, an excess
or perversion, of faculties and instincts whose natural or right
use is good. We believe sin is not an infinite evil, but a finite
one, — incidental, not structural. Man is not helpless in its
toils ; but every man has the fiements of good in him which
may overcome it, and all 'fidefled helps. It is a disease, — some
times a dreadful one, — but notfebsolutely fatal, since there is a
healing power in his nature, and in the universe around and
above him; and the excess or ‘mlsmrection may be overcome by
the inward effort and outward influences which shall strengthen
into supremacy the higher faculties which rightfully control and
direct the lower. We believe iff! the existence of these higher
faculties as original in man’s constitution, — reason, conscience,
ideality, unselfish love. These are as much a part of his nature
as the senses and the animal mind. When rightly used they
are as valid, — not infallible, but trustworthy. They will not
necessarily lead, astray, as the popular theology teaches, but
probably lead aright. That theology, not having faith in human
nature, cannot believe that freedom of thinking is safe for men.
Protestantism proclaims indeed the “ right of private judgment,”
but it is merely the right to read the Jewish and Christian
Bible, and to accept unquestioning its declarations, bowing nat
ural reason, heart, and conscience to its texts, believed to be the
miraculously inspired and infallible Word of God, the “ perfect
rule of faith and practice.” The Roman Catholic Church, far
more logical, seeing that private judgment gets such a variety
of meaning out of this “ perfect rule,” declares that an infallible
Bible, to be such a rule, needs an infallible interpreter,—namely,
the church, or, latterly, the Pope speaking for the church. It,
therefore, logically denies freedom of individual thinking as
�18
dangerous. Father Newman, indeed, with amusing simplicity,
declares that nowhere is liberty of thought more encouraged
than in the Roman Church, since, he says, she allows a long
discussion of every tenet and dogma before it is definitely
defined and proclaimed. Yes: but after? We can only smile
at such a pretension. In London, a friend said to me, “ I do
not see but these Broad Churchmen have freedom to say every
thing that they want to say in their pulpits.” I answered, “ Per
haps so, but then they do not want to say all that you and I
should want to say.” But of what they wish to say or think
much must require an immense stretching of the articles to
which they have subscribed : I do not speak of conscience, for I
will not judge another’s. But what a trap to conscience, what
a temptation to at least mental dishonesty, must such subscrip
tion be! And the Liturgy, from which no word may be omitted,
though many a priest must say officially what he does not indi
vidually believe, — can that be good for a man ? I know what
may be said on the other side, but to us it will seem that all
advantages are dearly purchased at such cost. The Unitarians,
the Protestants of Protestants, in their revolt from Calvinism,
proclaimed the right of free inquiry. And, let it be remembered
to their credit, they have refused to announce an authoritative
creed. But they have not had full faith in their own principles
and ideas. They have hesitated and been timid in their appli
cation. They have been suspicious and unfriendly toward those
who went farther than they in the use of their freedom of think
ing. They have written up, “No Thoroughfare” and “Danger
ous Passing” on their own road. They have now organized
round the dogma of the Lordship and Leadership of Jesus ; and
invite to their fellowship, not all who would be “ followers of
God, as dear children,” but only those who “ wish to be follow
ers of Christ.”
I do not forget that in all churches, Romanist and Protestant,
there is a spirit of liberty, a leaven of free thought, which is
creating a movement in them all,—■ an inner fire which is break
ing the crust of tradition and creed and ecclesiasticism. It
shows itself in the Old Catholic movement in Romanism ; the
Broad Church in Anglicanism ; the Liberal wing in Orthodoxy ;
the Radicalism in “ Liberal Christianity.”
�19
But the freedom which in these is inconsistent, imperfect, or
rmwelcome, with you is organic and thorough. Our faith in it,
I said, springs out of our faith in man and God, to which indeed
our freedom has led us. We think that man can be trusted to
search for the truth without constraint or hindrance, because
we think that his mind was made for truth, as his eye for light;
and that to his mind, fairly used, the truth will reveal itself as
the light does to his eye. And we believe that in his sincere
search he is never unassisted by the Spirit of Truth. We do
not say that he will make no mistakes, or that he will know all
truth all at once. But if a man be earnest and sincere, his mis
takes will be his teachers : his errors wilHbi but his imperfect
apprehension of some truth. We believe that all truth that has
ever come to man, including religious truth, has come through
the use of his native faculties'^ that this is the condition of all
revelation, and ample to account for all revelations. We, therefore, utterly discard all distinction between natural and revealed
religion. We should as soon speak of natural and revealed
astronomy, or establish separate professorships for teaching
them. Newton revealed to men the facnfof the universe which
his natural faculties discovered, and which thequniverse revealed
to him using his faculties. Some of these facts were Unknown
before to the wisest men ; some were only dimly guessed. Did
that prove his knowledge superhuman ? Would it be a sensi
ble question to ask, Why, if human reason were Capable of dis
covering them, were they not 'known before ? Yet such ques
tions are asked in religion, as if unanswerable I We .believe
that the human faculties are adequate for their end. Among
them we recognize spiritual faculties, framed for the perception
of spiritual truths, — a religious capacity adequate to its end.
We find religion — a sense of deity — as universal and as natu
ral to man as society, government, language, science. You
know how the latest and completest investigations into the
ancient religions of the world confirm this belief. They show
that the great religious ideas and sentiments — of God, of Vir
tue, of Love, of Immortality — have been taught with remarka
ble unanimity in all these religions. These are mingled in all
with much that is mythological, unscientific, local, personal,
�20
temporary. But they have all contained that which elevated,
consoled, and redeemed the souls of men. Under all of them,
men have lived the truth they professed, and have suffered and
died in its behalf. Most of them have had their prophet, be
lieved to have been the chosen friend of God, sent to communi
cate His word to the world. He has been worshiped by his
followers, glorified with miracle, deified. In view of these facts,
it is impossible to regard any one of them as the only, the uni
versal, or the perfect religion. Christianity, therefore, cannot
any longer be regarded as other than one of the religions of the
world, sharing the qualities of them all. It has its bright cen
tral truths, eternal as the soul of man, elevating, comforting,
redeeming. It has its elements of mythology, its personal and
local traits, peculiar to itself. What is peculiar in it can never
become universal: what is universal in it cannot be claimed as
its peculiar property. The Christianity of the New Testament
centres in the idea that Jesus was the miraculously attested
Messiah, the King, long expected, of the Jews. “If ye believe
not that I am he ye shall perish in your sins.” “ Every spirit
that confesseth that Jesus, the Messiah, is come in the flesh, is
of God ; every spirit that confesseth not that Jesus is the Mes
siah come in the flesh, is not of God.” “ Whosoever shall con
fess that Jesus is the Son of God [that is, the Messiah], God
dwelleth in him.” “Whosoever believes that Jesus is the Mes
siah, is born of God.” This was the primitive Christian confes
sion,— the test of belief or unbelief, the test of discipleship,
the condition of salvation. Paul enlargecl the domain of the
Messiah’s kingdom to include all of the Gentiles who would
acknowledge him; declared that in his own life-time he should
see Jesus returning to take the Messianic throne, and looked to
see the time when “ every knee should bow, and every tongue
confess that Jesus was the Christ;” “whom God had raised
from the dead, and set at his own right hand, far above all prin
cipality and might and dominion and every name that is named.”
This was the primitive Christian confession. Seeing that it has
never come to pass, that it was a mistaken idea, some modern
Christians idealize the thought, and say that Jesus is morally
and. spiritually King among men. But that is not the New
/
�21
Testament idea, which is literal, not figurative. This Messianic
idea, in its most literal sense, colors the Christian scriptures
BRfrough and through. And with it, its correlative idea of an
immediately impending destruction and renovation of the wor Id,
vThich was to accompany the Messianic appearance. A great
many of the precepts of the New Testament have their ground
in this erroneous notion of the writers, and have no significance
or application apart from it. It is such things as these that
make it impossible for Christianity,- as it stands in the records,
to be the universal or absolute religion. Just as like things in
Brahminism, Buddhism, Judaism, prevent any one of these, as
it stands in its scriptures, from becoming the Religion of the
World. What is local, personal, peculiar, special in each, is of
its nature transient, — the temporary environment and wrappage
of the truth. What is universal in each, — the central spiritual
and moral ideas which re-appear in them all, — these cannot be
■called by the name of any one of them. These, it seems me,
are neither Judaism, Buddhism, nor Christianity,— they are
Religion.
Religion, — a name how often taken in vain, how often perKrerted ! but in its . true essence what a joy, what an emancipation, what a consolation, what an inspiration ! What a life it
has been in the world! Corrupted and betrayed, made the
cloak of iniquity, ambition, selfishness, uncharitableness, and
tyranny, it has never perished out of the human soul. A prod
uct of that soul, an original and ineradicable impulse, percep
tion, and sentiment, it has shared the fate of that soul in its
upward progress out of ignorance into knowledge, out of super
stition into rational faith, out of selfishness into humanity, out
of all imperfection on toward perfection. In every age, and in
every soul, it has been the saving salt. For by Religion, I need
not say, I do not mean any form or ceremonial whatever, any
organization or ecclesiasticism. I mean the Ideal in man, and
devotion to that Ideal. The sense of a Perfect above him, yet
akin to him, forever drawing him upward to union with itself.
The Moral Ideal, —or sense of a perfect Righteousness,— how
it has summoned men away from injustice and wrong-doing,
awakened them to a contest with evil within them, and led
�22
them on to victory of the conscience over passion and greed !
How it has nerved them to do battle with injustice in the
world, and kept them true to some cause of righting wrong,
patient and brave through indifference, opposition, suffering!
And it has always been a sense of a power and a law of right
eousness above themselves, which they did not create and dared
not disobey, and which, while it seemed to compel them, yet
exalted and freed them. The Intellectual Ideal, — the sense of
a Supreme Truth, a Reality in things, with the thirst to know it,
— how it has led men to “scorn delights and live laborious
days,” to outwatch the night, to traverse land and sea, in its
study and pursuit, to sacrifice for it fortune and society; this
al^o felt to be something above them, yet belonging to them ;
something worth living and dying for, and giving to its sharers
a sense of endless life! And the Ideal of Beauty, haunting,
quickening, exalting the imagination to feel, to see, to create, in
marble, on canvass, in tones, in words : itself its own great
reward. The Ideal of Use, leading to the creation and perfect
ing of the arts and instruments of human need and comfort and
luxury: every one of them at first only a. dream in the brain of
the inventor, a vision of a something better than existed haunt
ing his toilsome days and years of self-denial and poverty. The
Ideal of Patriotism or of Loyalty, the sense of social order, of a
rightful sovereignty, or of popular freedom, — how has it made
men into heroes and martyrs, giving up ease and facing death
with exulting hearts. The Ideal of Love or Benevolence, that
makes men devote themselves and consecrate their possessions
to the relieving of human suffering, and discovering and remov
ing its sources. The Ideal of Sanctity, of Holiness, the vision
and the consecration of the saint, the aspiration after goodness,
that by its inspiration gives power to overcome passion and con
trol desire and purify every thought of the mind and every feel
ing of the heart, and mold the spirit into the likeness of the
All-Holy.
All these ideals, differing so much in their manifestation and
direction, are alike in this, — that they all look to an unseen
Better, a Best, a Perfect; that this seems always above the
man who seeks it, yet at the same time within him, not of
�23
his own creation, but governing him by a law superior to his
own will, while attracting and invigorating it; that they all
demand a self-surrender and self-devotion, and sacrifice of
lower to higher, and give the power to make that sacrifice;
and that they are their own reward.
All these ideals — and if there be any others — I include in
the idea of Religion. Is my definition too broad ? I cannot
make it narrower. It will not seem too broad to you who are
accustomed to regard religion as covering all human life. What
ever in that life is an expression of^deal aspiration, is done in
unselfish devotion, and in obedience to the highest law we
know, is a religious act, is a worship and a prayer. It is a ser
vice of God ; for.it is a use of our faculties to their highest end,
which must be His will for us. It is a ^onitact «®fith things in
visible and eternal. For these ideals are of the mind, not of the
body : they are of the soulfland must go with it into all worlds.
They are thus an element, and a puoof, of immortality.
O friends, is there anything the world needs, is there any
thing every one of us needs, more than some high ideal, to be
kept bright and clear within
by sincere devotion ? Is there
anything we need more than a high standardKn character, in
aim, in spirit, in work ? We have it in our bestJwnoments. But
.How easily we let it get clouded in the press of cares. How
easily we yield to the temptation to lower it for immediate
Results I Is there anything we need more than the elevation
of spirit such an ideal gives, the power to rise above annoyance
and fret, above low and selfish thought, above unworthy deeds ?
How ashamed we stand before that, ideal when, because we have
not bee« obedient to its celestial vision, but have too easily let
it go, we are betrayed into the temp#?, the word, the act we had
Resolved should never betray us again ! What is needed in our
politics, in our business — do not daily events teach it to us
most impressively ? — but a higher ideal; a higher standard of
integrity; a high-minded sense of right, which would take no
Questionable dollar from the public purse ; a sensitive con
science, scrupulous of the rights of others given to its trust ?
[Then the haste to be rich would cease to be the root of evil
that it is, and embezzlements, defalcations, political jobs, and
�24
mercantile frauds no longer shock and grieve us with every
paper we take up. Oh, the anguish and self-reproach of the
man who has involved himself, little by little, in the toils and
excitements of temptation, and, accepting a lowering standard
of honesty, sinks, till he is startled to find himself fallen into
the pit!
What is more needed in all our work than a higher ideal of
excellence, a higher standard of truth and conscientiousness ?
How hard to get anything done thoroughly well, — precisely as
agreed upon, and at the time promised ! Most earnestly would
I insist that every right which the “ working-man ” can justly
claim should be secured to him ; his full share of the product
he helps create, and every opportunity for health, recreation,
and culture which he will use. But he should remember that
faithful performance of ditties on his part will be the best ground
for any claim of rights: he must be careful of the right of oth
ers to honest work and honest time in return for fair pay.
How great is our indebtedness to those great and true souls
who have kindled or kept alive within us a loftier ideal! What
an influence in that way has the image of Jesus been in the
Christian world! Many have not seen that what they wor
shiped or looked up to in him was often simply their own ideal
of human excellence, — really not so much derived from him as
projected upon him, with little regard to historic fact. But this
shows us, still, the power of a lofty ideal within us to lift up,
sustain, and redeem. Many, if they were willing to speak
frankly, would say that the human excellence of some noble,
pure-hearted, spiritually-winded friend, with whom they had
walked in the flesh, has been more to them than thenmage of
Jesus. And when we remember that these high ideals have
inspired millions who never heard his name, it is plain that he
cannot be regarded as their origin. There is one Supreme Ideal
of Goodness. “ Likeness to God ” was the aim of the Pythago
rean teaching. “ Be ye perfect, as your Father in heaven is per
fect.”
All these ideals of Truth, Righteousness, Beauty, Use, Love,
Holiness, of which I have spoken as constituting, in our devo
tion to them, true Religion, unite in the Idea of God. For He
�25
is the Perfect of them all, the Spirit or Essence of them all,—•
the Perfect Truth, the Perfect Righteousness, the Perfect Beau
ty, the Perfect Love, the Perfect Power, the Perfect Holiness.
That is what we mean by saying “ God,” — surely nothing less
than that. This sublime idea has always, in some shape, haunt
ed and possessed the mind of man. The moment the spiritual
faculties begin to germinate in a man or a race, at that moment
the thought of God springs up. From our far-off Aryan ances
tor, who, on those high plains of Central Asia, looked up to
the clear, transparent sky, and said thankfully and reverently,
“ Dyaus-pitar,” Heaven-father, — for he knew that the blessing
of sunshine and rain came thenc^to him, and must have felt a
mysterious sense of some being invisible in that visible, — down
to the child who to-day makes his prayer, “ Our Father, who art
in heaven,” all over the world the reverence of men’s hearts,
/and their sense of blessing and dependence, have uttered the
name of God, and joined with ^t the thought of Father. The
1 conceptions in which men’s thought and language have clothed
that idea have varied with knowledge and culture. But the
central idea of a Power and Beneficence superior to man, in
Nature and above Nature, has been ever present. Delusions
may have gathered about it: but is it a delusion ? Supersti
tions may have distorted it: but can you count it a supersti
tion ? I count it the greatest of realities. I accept the
well-nigh universal verdict of the soul of man. I accept the
experiences of my own soul. I accept the faith which, whether
it be original or an inheritance of accumulated thought, is now
an instinct and intuition within me. I accept the confirmation
of science to the divination of the soul, in its more and more
clear affirmation of a unity and perpetuity of Force in Nature,
and an omnipresence of Law. I accept the testimony of saints
who, through purity of heart, have seen God and felt him near,
— and more than near. Their highest statement is, “ God is
Spirit.” A distinguished preacher has said,— justifying his
declaration that Jesus Christ is his God, — that he believes
it impossible to form the conception of pure spirit. Of course
we cannot form any image or picture of it. But we ’can think
it, surely. For we know thought and feeling and will in our
4
�26
selves, and these have no shape, nor do we confound them with
the bodies in which they are manifested. Thought, feeling,
will, — these are our spirit, our essential life. God is the infi
nite Thought, Feeling, Will, — the infinite Spirit or essential
Life of the universe of matter and of soul. Our conception of
him must depend,’ I .said, upon our spiritual condition. But I
think with every advance in spiritual life and perception, we put
off more and more of physical and human limitation. Said one
to me, the other day, “ I think it will be no service* to men to
undermine their belief in a personal God.” Now, thought, feel
ing, and will are qualities of person, and not of thing, and there
fore we may speak of God as the infinite Person. But he
meant, as is usually meant, by personality, individuality. For
myself, I think it a great-gain to give up the conception of God
as an individual being, however majestic, sitting apart from the
universe, overseeing and governing it, and from time to time
intervening by special act. I count it a great gain to have
reached a conception of him as pure Spirit, the all-pervading
Life of the Universe, the present Power and present Love and
present Justice at every point of that universe, — perpetually
creating it by his present Energy of good. Present perpetually
in the affairs of men, invisibly, restraining evil, righting wrong,
leading on to the perfect society. Present really in the hearts
and minds and consciences and wills of men, not displacing
them, but re-enforcing them. “ If we love one another, God
dwelleth in us,” said the inspired writer of old, — surely inspired
when he said that. “If a man is at heart just,” said the inspired
modern, “ by so much he is God. The power of God and the
eternity of God do enter into that man with Justice.” How
could this be if God be a separate, individual being ? But con
ceive of him as Being, and the difficulty vanishes. It is no fig
ure of speech, but literally true, that He dwells in holy souls,
inspiring and working through him. “The Father who dwell
eth in me,” said Jesus. Yes, but in no special or miraculous
way: in the way of the universal law of spiritual action ; as he
dwells in all souls that aspire and obey. “Above all and
through all and in us all.”
Does this conception of God as Essential Life seem to any
�27
vague and unreal ? Oh, think again, how substantial are
thought, feeling, and will! The moving powers of the human
world setting all the material into action ! How many perplexi
ties of thought, which beset the common view of God as an in
dividual being, disappear under this conception of him as spirit!
How does it make possible the thought of his omniscience and
omnipresence and providence ! No longer the all-seeing eye,
watching us from afar, but the present spirit, knowing us from
within, involved in our thought and our thinking, — the law or
order by which we think and feel, the present power by which
we act. Spirit can thus encompass us, and flow through us,
without oppressing us, or hindering our freedom. Do the forces
of nature — of attraction, of gravitation, of chemical affinity —
oppress us ? We cannot get away from them, but do we not
move freely among them ? The air is around us and within us,
a mighty pressure, — do we feel the weight of it? In such
sweet, familiar, unconscious ways does God, the Spirit, encom
pass and dwell within our spirits. How can we flee from that
Spirit, or go where it will not uphold and keep us ? Our God
besets us behind and before. Our Father never leaves us alone.
Modern science, we are told, is rejecting all notion of volition
from the material world. The conception of God as Spirit has
already done that. For God’s will, in that conception, is no
separate jets of choice, but an all-filling, steadfast Energy, a Power living at every point. His will is no series of finite
volitions, but an infinite purpose in the constitution of things, —
the unchanging element in them which we call their law. God’s
will, therefore, is not in any sense 'arbitrary. A permanent
force, with its permanent laws, from constant conditions it pro
duces constant results. Wrought into the constitution of things
arid beings, it is there to be studied, known, and obeyed.
Friends of the Twenty-eighth Congregational Society: Com
ing at your call to speak to you on this occasion of the dedica
tion of your new house, I have not thought it unfitting to the
occasion, instead of trying to open to you some new topic,
rather to offer you this outline and review of principles and
ideas already somewhat familiar to you. We glance over what
�28
has been gained before beginning anew our quest. You build
here no House of God, but a house for men. A “ meeting
house” you call it,—.the good old New England name, — not a
church : for is not the church the men and women, not the
walls? You have most fittingly made it a memorial of your
first minister. And this in no slavish adulation, and in no slav
ish following of him. You are not bound to his thoughts. But
you can never forget or cease to be grateful to him, many of
you, for the emancipation of thought you owe to him ; for the
moral invigoration, for the quickening of devout feeling, always
to him so precious.
He was a thorough believer in the Liberty of which I have
spoken. He believed that it should have no bounds save such
as love of truth and good sense and feeling might set to it.
And he used the freedom he believed in. And when, in the use
of it, he was led to judge and reject some things around which
the reverence of the denomination to which he belonged clung,
they who had taught him the liberty which he used, with some
noble exceptions,— I am sorry to recall it,— to save their credit,
proved false to their principle. They lost a noble opportunity.
They had always insisted that the essential in Christianity was not
belief, but character and life : now they turned round, and asserted
that it was not a spirit and a life, but a belief in supernatural his
tory. He did not spare them, and hurled at them the arrows of
his wit and the smooth stones of his keen logic. He did battle for
the freedom which was denied. Men mistook his wit for malig
nity, and his moral indignation.for bitterness. But, though he
was capable of sarcasm, his heart was sweet and kind, and full
of genial sympathies, as those who knew him best best knew.
His services to Theology in this country were very great.
His work was partly destructive, clearing away errors and
superstitions, but mainly constructive. He built up a complete
system of theology, founded upon the native spiritual instincts
in man and the infinite perfection of God. Though a vigorous
practical understanding was the characteristic of his mind, he
accepted this ideal or transcendental theory of religion, and,
with his clear common sense and terse sentences, interpreted it
to the general mind. Though no mystic, he had much devout.
�2^
feeling, and loved to speak of Piety, and the soul’s normal de
light in God. You will never forget the deeply reverential tone
of his public prayers to the “Father and Mother of us all.” But
even more than in Piety he believed in and loved and enforced
Righteousness in every form ; and his great power was ethical.
.How clear and sure was his sense of right; .a conscience for the
nation : its guidance sought by how many, in public and private
duty ! Before its keen glance how many an idol fell! He liked
to be called a Teacher of Religion: and he made it cover all of
life. He applied its ideal to the nation, and, finding human slav
ery there, he threw all his energies into rousing the conscience
of the country to feel its falseness and ?ts iniquity, and to work
for its removal. In this cause he rendered you know what noble
and devoted service, gaining the sympathies of many who least
liked his theology. He gave the weight of his advocacy to every
cause of humane reform, pleading for the poor and the perishing
classes, for the rights of woman, for temperance and purity and
peace.
He has left you a powerful influence, and a heritage of prin
ciples and ideas, to whose charge you show yourselves faithful
in building this house, that the work he begun may be carried
on and fulfilled. The men and the women whom you call tospeak to you know that they will have full freedom of speech
and hospitable hearing to their most advanced thought. You
will expect them to speak to you,wot upon theological questions
alone, or on the experiences of devout feeling, or personal du-’
ties, but on all that deeply concerns the welfare of the commu
nity ; upon the vital questions of the da/, and its present needs ;
upon political and social topics; upon questions of moral reform
and humane effort, and rights of man and woman ; upon all the
practical applications of ideal thought. All these you will wish
discussed, in the utmost freedom, and from the highest point of
view.
But not for speech alone is this house to be used. I cannot
but hope that your enlarged space will be used as opportunity
for work .in various directions of help and good will. Why
should not this be a headquarters of action as well as thought ?
�30
And now, may I say for you, that you devote and dedicate
this house to Freedom and to Religion ; to Truth and to Vir
tue ; to Piety, to Righteousness, and to Humanity; to Knowl»
edge and to Culture ; to Duty, to Beauty, and to Joy ; to Faith
and Hope and Charity; to the memory of Saints, Reformers,
Heretics, and Martyrs ; to the Love and Service of God, in the
Love and Service of Man.
VII.
GOD IN HUMANITY.
BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.
{Sung by Choir and Congregation?)
O Beauty, old yet ever new,
Eternal Voice and Inward Word,
The Wisdom of the Greek and Jew,
Sphere-music which the Samian heard I
Truth which the sage and prophet saw,
Long sou®t without, but found within:
The Law of Love, beyond all law,
The Life o’erflooding death and sin !
O Love Divine, whose constant beam
Shines on the eyes that will not see,
And waits to bless us, while we dream
Thou leav’st us when we turn from thee !
All souls that struggle and aspire,
All hearts of prayer, by Thee are lit;
And, dim or clear, Thy tongues of fire
On dusky tribes and centuries sit.
Nor bounds, nor clime, nor creed Thou know’st,
Wide as our need Thy favors fall;
The white wings of the Holy Ghost
Stoop, unseen, o’er the heads of all.
�31
VIII. ADDRESS BY EDNAH D. CHENEY.
In looking over the congregation here assembled, and seeing some
of the old faces which greeted Mr. Parker on those first stormy Sun
days at the Melodeon, I have asked myself what it is which has kept
this society together through so many changes when friends advised
its dissolution, and enemies hoped for its failure. It seems to me it
was no doctrine of Mr. Parker’s, not even a sentiment; but, if I may
so call it, his method of trust in the truth. He never feared to utter
the whole truth, and never doubted that what was good food to his
soul was fit nourishment for others who hungered for it. This has
made the pulpit truly free, so that those who spoke here, and those who
listened, felt that they could speak and hear honest convictions. While
this society is true to this tradition, it will have a place to fill, and, I
trust, this new building is to give it a fresh lease of life, and greater
opportunity of usefulness.
This still seems to me the great need of the time, — loyalty to truth,
not attachment to a dogma. If we feel thftf any truth is dangerous to
our well-being as a society, it is time that Age disbanded, but as long as
we dare to trust the truth, we need not fear that any blast of a trumpet
can blow down our walls.
In a country town, where an independent society met in a hall, when
it was asked of what religion is such a man, it was answered, His is
the Hall Religion. I think there is some value in the phrase, and I
rejoice that this society has not builded a church to be open only on
Sunday, but a hall which on every day of the week may be consecrated
Blithe psalm of life, and dedicated to use or beauty. The echo of the
dancing feet of the children who gather at the festivals will not disturb our devotion, nor the remembrance of the good words of the lecturer mar our enjoyment of prayer or sermon. It is an emblem of the
Religion of Life, no longer divorced from every-day work and pleasure,
bw elevating and sanctifying it. It is said that the great Church of
St. Peter’s at Rome has never been ventilated since Michael Angelo
reared its lofty dome, Snd that the worshipers now breathe the foul and
lifeless air which has not been renewed for nearly four centuries. But
as I hope the physical ventilation of this hall will never be neglected,
but the pure air of heaven will be freely brought in, so we can never live
a true and vigorous spiritual life unless we keep our souls ever open to
the broad, free air and light of heaven, not confined by any creed or
dogma, but perpetually renewing itself by fresh inspiration.
�32
Such seems to me the great principle' of this society, which it is
bound to cherish and carry out, and to which in the worship of God
and the service of humanity we would dedicate this hall to-day.
IX.
ADDRESS BY JOHN WEISS.
Whenever a liberal thinker expresses his belief that the popular the
ologies are honeycombed by the climate of science and information,
and are falling apart beneath the surface, he is asked to observe that
there never was such a time for the laying of corner-stones for church
extension; never such an enthusiasm of temple-building; never before
so many seats filled by worshipers. It is undoubtedly a fact. The
competition between the sects is so great, and the national temper of
extravagance so confirmed, that church extension has become another
vice of the times; and people will run hopelessly in debt rather than
be without their sumptuous building, thus setting an example, to a
country which does not need it, of speculative immorality. For I can
see no difference between extending a railroad over illusory capital and
watering its stock, and watering a congregation with a meeting-house
too large and fine, watering it with a large per cent of empty pews,
which require in the pulpit a man with some of the virtues of an auc
tioneer.
But there is a real decay of the popular theology in spite of these
costly elegancies which seem to announce a revival of religion. Before
every dissolution a period of renaissance, or superficial revival, has
always set in, substituting sentiment for the old impetuous earnestness,
imitating faith by pretty form. We may safely predict extensive decay
when it has become such an important object to secure paying sitters
for the various sects. The old sincerity will be soon crushed beneath
their ornamental expenses.
Then let us have a new sincerity, to be nursed in humbler places,
and supported by honester means. Here let it be, for one place. Wel
come the plainness and freedom of these walls, sb solidly built, so sim
ply colored in their warm, brown tints. Here a real memorial to
Parker is yet to be erected by successive Sundays of free speech, and
week-days of fraternity. To-day you are only laying the corner-stone
of a structure of thought and feeling which will throw its door wide
open to the common, people, to every wayfaring fact and cause against
which so many churches shut their gates.
�33
It pleases my fancy to notice that you have put up this building next
to a grain elevator, for it constantly reminds me of Parker, of his frame,
even, of his manner and his mental style. Solidly laid, robustly built,
not excessively addicted to beauty; but framed for the sole purpose of
receiving aud distributing, with convenience and the least of waste, the
cereals of a thousand fields for which millions of hungers are waiting.
Such was the abundance and nutrition of his genius. He explored
many fields to collect his staples and the simple corn-flowers of his
fancy-: his keel furrowed many seas, but not to gather and bring home
luxuries, nor to hunt up a place where he might enjoy intellectual seclu
sion. .The delights of scholarship were subordinate to his humanity.
He was constantly tearing himself away from those books, the darlings
of his spirit, as if they imposed upon him, and were defrauding people
of his service. He let the exigency of the hour break without cere
mony into the sacred study, and he rose to meet the pauper and the
slave, to perform the great symbolic action of marrying two fugitives
with a Bible and a sword. The perishing classes, the neglected, the
unfortunate, always held a mortgage on his precious time. But life
never seemed so precious to him as when he was killing himself to help
emancipate America. What a homely sublimity there was in this giv
ing of bread to mouths that had munched the old political and sectarian
chaff and had swallowed indigestion 1
Now it is for you to honor him by imitating this action: not so
much to prolong a memory as to resuscitate, a life that was laid down
in the service of mankind; yes, to revivify that bust, poor, passionless
’ and rigid remembrancer of the nature you knew, that was so manifold,
so profuse, so virile with anger, love and friendship: to bid that white
ness mantle again with his florid cheek; to make those eyeballs beam
with a blessing or a threat, so that Theodore Parker shall be heard
again in Boston.
This shall be your service in this place, to reproduce his manliness;
if not with the same fertile and sturdy vitality, or with the same
warmth which lifted up so many beacons of indignation and warning,
which compelled the East to look at him, and the West to listen, and
the South to dread, still, at least, with the old sincerity, the old persis
tent purpose to be dedicated to the rights and wants of man.
5
�34
X.
ADDRESS BY FRANCIS E. ABBOT.
When, nearly thirty years ago, the founders of the Twenty-eighth
Congregational Society' rallied around the unpopular and ostracised
minister of West Roxbury, and, with a laconic brevity worthy of Sparta
in her best days, voted that “ Theodore Parker should have a chance to
be heard in Boston,” what was the real meaning of their act ? Did
they intend to rally about Parker as the disciples of old rallied about
Jesus, in order to proclaim a new personal gospel, to glorify a new per
sonal leader, and to sink their own individualities in that of a new “ Lord
and Master”? James Freeman Clark has said that, when the radicals
give up Jesus of Nazareth, it is only to attach themselves to some other
leader; that they only abandon Jesus in order to take up with Socrates,
or Emerson, or Parker. Was this the real purport of that now famous
and historic vote ?
If this had been your aim and spirit, we should not be here to-day.
When the eloquent voice was stilled, the stalwart form laid in its far
Florentine resting-place, and the man whose words had electrified two
hemispheres had passed away forever from human sight and hearing,
in vain would you have voted that “ Theodore Parker should have a
chance to be heard in Boston.” Small respect would Death have paid
to your resolutions. No ! If your vote had meant only that the pow
erful personality which had so impressed itself upon the times as to be
henceforth a part of American history should still utter itself from your
platform to a listening world, you would have disbanded; you would
have broken ranks, and scattered sadly and silently to your homes;
you would have discontinued your meetings, and surrendered your or
ganization. Parker had been heard; his message had been delivered.
Henceforth the book of revelation that all men read in his speech and
life was sealed forever, and no man could either add to or take away
from its fullness.
But you did not disband. Your meetings were continued. Your
platform was maintained. Other prophets were summoned to speak
in Music Hall, now chiefly known abroad for the work done there by
you and your great minister. They were summoned, not to echo Par
ker, but to speak themselves. They were no servile followers of a dead
leader, no blinded apostles of a vanished Christ. Far from it. They
were called by you to proclaim independently and fearlessly the secret
thought of their own hearts ; for this alone did they come before you.
And still your platform means this, and this only. True, in one sense
�35
Parker is still heard from it; for his ideas are not dead, but living. But
you have perpetuated your organization and your platform for a higher
object than to secure endless reverberations of any one voice, however
piercing, eloquent, or potent. You meant, and mean, that Truth shall
here speak for herself, not that Parker alone shall be heard, magnifi
cent spokesman of Truth though he was. And Truth has infinitely
more to say than has yet been said.
No, it was not so much Parker’s individual voice that you voted should
“ have a chance to be heard in Boston,” as it was the great, heroic, burn
ing purpose to which he had dedicated his all —the purpose to make hu
man life genuinely religious in spite of the churches. I repeat it—to make
human life genuinely religious in spite of the churches. Not ecclesi
astical, not theological, not formal or ritualistic; but religious in the
high sense in which he used the word, as signifying devotion to right
eousness, to noble service, to devout aspiration. This purpose of Par
ker’s soul was even grander than his thought. Thought must change;
it must move j it must advance. |£ven since Parker’s death we all
know that there has been a great onward movement of thought; and to
the best thought of the times, be it what it may, you mean always to
keep open ear and heart. But the purpose to make human life genu
inely religious must abide as the best and purest that can inspire a hu
man soul. This was Parker’s inspiration and power, obeyed under the
frown of all the churches of the land. To this sublime purpose of his
you first voted a hearing, and now ^dedicate these walls. That mar
ble bust before you, perpetuating Parker’s visible features to your sight,
is changeless, immobile, ungrowing; it will be the same a hundred
years hence as it is to-day. But Parker’s mind, could it still have
manifested itself to us, would have been in the very foremost ranks of
thought. This you will remember, and know that, in the best sense,
you hear Parker still in the noblest utterances of ever-developing
knoweledge and ever-deepening aspiration. His mighty purpose shall
still be ours; and all the churches of the land shall lack the power to
quench or cool it. This stately hall, built as a grateful memorial to
the singleness and power with which he put it into deed and word, shall
be a home for all who cherish it,— a place of comfort, enlightenment,
and inspiration to all who love it, a place of mutual spmpathy and en
couragement for all who would pursue it. You could have raised no
fitter monument to Parker, and rendered no better service to those
who would further Parker’s cause.
�36
XI. ADDRESS. BY CHARLES W. SLACK.
Mr. Chairman : The spirit that has erected this handsome build
ing was latent in the community, and needed only to be called into
activity to have ensured the same result before as now. I congratu
late you, and all this large and interested audience, at the splendid
conclusion of our labors in this direction.
You will remember, sir, that it was at the annual meeting of the
Twenty-eighth Congregational Society, on the first Sunday in April,
1871, — only two years and a half ago, — that I had the honor to sug
gest that it seemed to me that we, as a Society, were not doing our full
duty, either to the memory of our great teacher, or to the community
in which we dwelt; that we held great truths in matters of religion
which should have a more conspicuous enunciation; that if we were
willing to adopt the forms of worship in which we were educated,
erect a church edifice, and, in good time, as judgment should approve,
select a permanent minister, who should not only be a guide in thought,
but a visitor and counsellor in our families in the alternating incidents
of life and death; I should be only too happy to lend what energy and
influence I possessed to the consummation of that purpose. You will
remember, too, sir, that the suggestion was kindly received, and it was
felt that the plan of a meeting-house of our own was practicable, if
one-half of the amount of money deemed necessary for its ■ erection
could be secured before operations should commence. It was our
great pleasure, you will also remember, Mr. Chairman, to announce at
the next annual meeting, in April, 1872, that fully fifty thousand dol
lars, in money and work, had been pledged by our small band for the
new enterprise. Thence everything moved with alacrity ; friends were
found on every hand; plans were considered and adopted; and now,
in a little more than fifteen months from the commencement of opera
tions, we find ourselves in this completed and central edifice, with
every convenience and many elegances, ready to proceed to our neces
sary work and demonstrate our need in the community i» which we
dwell.
And there is reason that we should make this demonstration. We
had a leader who, while he lived, was acknowledged to be a power in
thought and personal influence. He uplifted every pulpit in the land,
giving freedom to the voice and thought of their occupants; he bade
the young men of his day accept independence of character and action ;
he taught the liberalizing of opinion, and urged resistance to those often
�brutal episodes of public clamor when the dominant majority sought to
crush out the honest, thinking minority; in a word, he made every man
with a soul within feel the better and the nobler for his ministration in
religion, politics, and morals. If his high aim and earnest endeavor
be not so potent and perceptible to-day as fifteen years ago, possibly it
is because we have not improved our opportunities in presenting his
example and teaching to the world. There is indeed need that we
dedicate ourselves anew to his service when we read, as we may in
the latest “ Biographical Dictionary ” published, bearing the imprint
of the great house of Macmillan & Co., London and New York, and
compiled by Thompson Cooper. F.S.A., this estimate of his public
position': —
“ He became a popular lecturer, and discussed the questions of slavery,
war, and social and moral reforms, with much acute analysis and occasional
effective satire ; but as a practical Teacher he was in the unfortunate posi
tion of a priest without a church and a politician without a state.”
And this is the best judgment of I® intelligent Englishman, so many
years remote from Theodore Parker’s activity among us 1 Surely the
editor is too far away to discern the influence of this great man on
the thought of the times. Possibly he may have been “ a priest ” with
out “ a church,” but he was a minister who made every denomination
in the land envious of his scholarship and eloquence, and more than
half the churches jealous of the throngs of his weekly disciples.
But why be surprised at the judgment of the Englishman, three thou
sand miles away, when we have on our own soil, near-by, a more depre
ciatory estimate by one belonging to the generally large-hearted and
catholic Methodist denomination ? The Reverend Professor George
Prentice, of the Wesleyan University, Middletown, Conn., can afford to
say in “The Methodist Quarterly Review,” for July, 1873, of Theodore
Parker, this: —
£< I am amazed at the daring of a man who never had fine culture and
high philosophic talent; whose chief gift was the gift of exaggeration ;
whose life was largely that of a peripatetic stump-orator, hot with perpetual
lecturing, agitating, denouncing and misrepresenting, when he tries to
mould the thought of the world on a matter profound and difficult.”
And this is the verdict of the Methodist collegiate instructor, and
of his denomination, fitfeen years after the death of Theodore Parker,
of that man’s transcendent abilities — is it? Let me, as the humblest
of the humble followers of Theodore Parker, fling back to its obscure
�38
utterer his flippant, his impudent, detraction of a man whose courage
of opinion has made it possible for his defamer to utter even his slan
der without public rebuke— whose claims to culture and scholarship
will live long after the occupant of the professor’s chair who now belit
tles him will be utterly forgotten, if not despised! The scholarship
of Theodore Parker questioned! — as soon ask if mind and character
are formative elements in New England character 1 Go to the scholars
of twenty-five years ago who measured weapons with Theodore Parker,
and this forward stripling will learn that he had a reputation for cul
ture and humanity that no later-day controversialist can question, anx
ious however he may be that the students under his charge shall never
hear to the contrary, and thus be led to examine for themselves into
his opinions and services.
Without “fine culture ”!•—a “peripatetic stump-orator”! — a “priest
without a church and a politician without a state” ! — this the conjoint
testimony to-day of England and America! Surely there is something
for us to do, friends, to show that there is at least one congegation,
still abiding at the home of this great man, which does not accept this
estimate. Nor are we alone in this. It was but yesterday I was con
versing with Vice-President Wilson in relation to the exercises of this
day, when he surprised as well as gratified me. by incidentally mention
ing that when he first entered the Senate Mr. Seward, the great Sena
tor of New York, a statesman as well as legislator, came to him one
day and said, “You have a wonderful man in Boston — Theodore
Parker. I know of no man in the country who so thoroughly appreci
ates the political situation, has such a comprehensive grasp of the
issues involved, and applies so faithfully the moral teachings that will
safely land us on solid ground.” Surely, friends, we can safely leave
the influence of Mr. Parker in morals and politics, letting alone schol
arship and religion, to those who knew him best and were brought
within the range of his acquaintance and co-operation!
Standing here to-day, then, in the capacity of representative of the
proprietors of this beautiful edifice, it remains only for me to bid all
welcome who find themselves drawn by sympathy or love to worship
with this congregation. May it be the home of helpful teaching and
quickening influence 1 May good-will and all sweet charities abound-!
Spacious in area and soft in coloring, may it typify breadth of affection
and the repose of settled conviction ! Thus used, and thus influencing
us, we shall come to believe that we have made a wise investment, and
�39
take satisfaction in the thought that the good work of the generation
now on the stage of affairs shall descend, developed and multiplied, to
their children for long years to follow.
XII.
GOD IN THE HUMAN SOUL.
BY SARAH F. ADAMS.
(Sung by Choir and Congregation?)
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee 1
E’en though it be a cross
That raiseth me ;
Still all my song shall be, —
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee 1
Though like the wanderer,
The sun gone down,
Darkness be over me,
My rest a stone ;
Yet.in my dreams I’d be
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee!
There let the way appear,
Steps unto heaven;
All that Thou sendest me,
In mercy given ;
Angels to beckon me
Nearer, my God, to Thee,.
Nearer to Thee !
Then, with my walking thoughts
Bright with Thy praise,
Out of my stony griefs
Bethel I’ll raise;
So by my woes to be
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee 1
�40
Or if, on joyful wing
Cleaving the sky,
Sun, moon, and stars forgot,
Upward I fly:
Still all my song shall be, —
Nearer, my God, to Thee,
Nearer to Thee 1
XIII. BENEDICTION.
BY SAMUEL LONGFELLOW.
�LETTERS.
The following letters were received, addressed to John C. Haynes,
Chairman of the Standing Committee of the Twenty-eighth Congrega
tional Society, in answer to invitations to be present at the dedication
of the Parker Memorial Meeting-House: —
Salem, Sept. 14, 1873.
I have been quite ill for a month, and, though now gradually gaining
strength, am too weak as yet for any effort; so that I shall hardly be able
to attend, even as a hearer only, the Memorial Hall services, next Sunday.
I need not say that my best sympathies will be with the occasion, and that
I am sorry to lose the opportunity to hear what will be so quickening to the
higher life as the word it promises to bring with it.
What omens can you ask, better than the house itself, and the secret
forces that impel Its whole movement, and its grand ideal duties, as inevi
table as the rights we claim ?
Sincerely yours,
Samuel Johnson.
New York, Sept. 17, 1873.
The completion of your new hall is an event to be congratulated on, an
achievement worthy of the Old Guard that bears the glorious banner and
preserves the glorious tradition of Theodore Parker. The thing that should
be done in New York, that must be done here before long, and in other
cities, too, you have done in Boston. There Radicalism has a rallying place
and a home. Here it is dependent on the good, must I say, rather, the ill
will, of proprietors who are so jealous for the reputation of their halls that
good, honest infidels cannot use them. With you now, the Young Men’s
Christian Association have not all the fine audience rooms. The devil has
not all the good tunes.
I wish I could be present at your dedication to the Spirit of Truth, the
Comforter. Your'speaker will say the right word. But many right words
need be said on such an occasion, and no speaker can say them all. May
the spirit of the great and good Theodore be with him and you !
You say your hall is commodious. I hope it is handsome, fair in propordon, beautiful in decoration, cheerful, airy, good for voice and ear; attrac-
6
�42
tive and inviting to strangers ; like the new faith itself, which would glorify
every spot it touches. Spare no pains to make it and keep it a centre of
happy influences; crowd into it as much intellect, sentiment, earnestness,
and aspiration as it will hold; and as these angels take up no room, a mill
ion of them standing on the point of a needle, you will have space enough ,
for a good many. Use the room for good purposes. If you have a preacher,
let him have a multitudinous voice, in the persons of truest spirit wherever
found, that a line of prophets may pass before you and deliver their word.
In this way you will best make a worthy succession, for the man who has,
and is likely to have, no successor.
To write these hurried lines, I turn my pen off the task of writing his
biography, which has been the refreshment of my summer. As it draws
near completion, I am conscious of a new indebtedness to the great soul I
admired and loved so deeply. If the readers of the book find what I have
tried to put there, they will confess that not one Memorial Hall, but many,
should be erected to the honor of that great leader.
Thanking you for your kind invitation to be present on Sunday next, re
gretting my inability to be present, because my own services are resumed on
that day, and wishing you the brightest of days and the sweetest of omens,
believe me,
x
Heartily yours,
O. B. Frothingham.
West Manchester, Sept. 20, 1873.
I have just got your note. It is impossible for me to be, as I gladly would,
at your Dedication, having to go -to Salem to-morrow. Were it my privilege
to speak, I should certainly say in what honor I hold Theodore Parker for
his honesty, courage, piety, and philanthropy ; and for the application he
made, beyond any other theologian or scholar of his day, of moral truth and
the results of study to the social condition and want. No such hero wore the
clerical gown. While poets and essayists were willing to leave their views and
visions in their treatises or musical lines, he insisted in putting every prin
ciple as a power in gear ; and, if any error or iniquity were hid beneath, he
would rend the veil of the temple in twain. But if he destroyed, it was to
rebuild, whatever hands beside his own might be required.
I may be allowed to express the early affection I had for him, and to re
member the friendly regard he cherished for me beyond my deserts, so that
I have a debt of gratitude to pay, should we meet again where the warrior’s
armor is laid aside. It was his wish that I should give him the Right Hand
of Fellowship in West Roxbury, but I was away in another State at the
time of his settlement in that town.
As so long indeed he has had it, may he, with you, accept it, in the spirit,
now!
Cordially yours,
C. A. Bartol.
�43
New York City, Sept. 17, 1873.
I have received your invitation to be with you at the dedication of your
new hall, next Sunday. I sympathize very deeply with the Society in this
new opening, but my obligations here make it impossible for me to be pres
ent.
•
After many years of doubt and trouble and hard efforts, you enter at last
upon cheering prospects. The climb has been difficult, but the hill-top is glorious. You will enter now and possess the land, spread out before all with
invitation, but to be possessed only by those who will work in it for the good
of man. No heart among you beats for you more exultingly or more hope
fully than mine.
*
I wish I could figure to my mind the interior of this goodly home which
you have erected. Sometime I shall see it. Meantime I shall think of it as
a worthy body for the soul of the Twenty-eighth Society; neat, clean, lovely,
and simple. It will be a place where the best may be uplifted, and the
worst be not repulsed.
I think I can imagine the joy and enthusiasm with which you take pos
session of your abode. An exquisite composition by William Blake depicts
the union, or reunion, of the soul and the body at “ the last great day,” as it
is called by those who forget that every day is great and is a judgment-day.
The body arises from the tomb, and the soul bursts rapturously from a cloud,
and with inconceivable force descends headlong upon the body, whose neck
it clasps, whose lips it seizes, in the ecstasy of reinvesting the animal frame
with life and joy from heaven. This has been in my mind as an image of
your advent to new life, when you, the soul, enter into your newly arisen
house, the body. I think it is your just reward for a past which has cer
tainly been very steadfast under many discouragements ; and I believe it in
volves for you the prophecy for the future which is so radiantly given in the
above-mentioned poet’s picture.
,
I am sincerely yours,
J. V. Blake.
Monday, Sept. 15, 1873.
We are still in the country, and this, with Mrs. Phillips’s health considered,
renders it impossible for me to be with you Sunday. I am very sorry. Ac
cept my heartiest wishes for your full success.
Wendell Phillips.
New Bedford, Sept. 15, 1873.
I am happy to learn that the “Parker Memorial Meeting-House ” is so
soon to be dedicated. It would give me great pleasure to accept your invi
tation to be present on the occasion; but as I have just resumed my pulpit
duties at home, after several months’ absence, I do not think that I ought to
be away so early as Sunday, the 21st, and must therefore deny myself the
gratification of joining with you in the interesting services. The name, “ Par
�44
ker Memorial Meeting-House,” has a pleasant sound, — not only as holding
the memory of Theodore Parker, but as recalling the primitive days of the
Puritans, of whom Mr. Parker was a genuine descendant, both by the pro
gressiveness of his thought and the robust heroism of his character.
Long may the new meeting-house stand to help keep alive in Bbston the
elements of such character, and so to promote the interests of pure and ra
tional religion.
Very truly yours,
Wm. J. Potter.
Brooklyn, Sept. 15, 1873.
It would give me sincere pleasure to be present at the dedication of your
new “Meeting-House.” I am glad you have named it as you have. I like
the sound of “ Meeting-House” much better than the sound of “Church.”
It is homely and solid, and so joins on well with Parker’s name — he was so
homely and solid. If it has a savor of Quakerism, that will not hurt. I
cannot be with you, because I am just back from my long vacation. I am
sure Longfellow will speak the right word to you,, and then you will have it
printed so that the poor fellows who cannot come to the feast will have a
sort of “ second table ” spread for them.
It seems to me much better that Parker should have a memorial hall
built for him thirteen years after his death than at any time before. A
great many men, who get imposing monuments soon after their death, would
go unmonumented if the world paused a little and considered. But every
year since Parker’s death has made him seem more worthy of remem
brance. In calling your building by his name, I know you do not mean to
make it any citadel of his opinions, but a home for his spirit, which was the
spirit of truth and love and righteousness. And I trust the new “ MeetingHouse ” will justify its name by being not merely a meeting-place for differ
ent people, but also a meeting-place for different opinions and ideas. Radi
calism is good, but still better is Liberality, and the faith that wrong opinions
may somehow represent a truth to those who cherish them. And so, “ with
malice towards none, and charity for all,” may you go forward, and may the
dear God prosper you, and comfort you, and build you up forever.
Yours faithfully,
J. W Chadwick.
Dansville, N.Y., Sept. 18th, 1873.
I thank you for the invitation to be present at the dedication of your new
“ Meeting-House,” and heartily wish it was in my power to accept it. But
I have been debarred from work by illness for some months past, and am
still an invalid, though I trust on the road to health.
I congratulate you on the completion of the Society’s new home, and shall
have pleasure in thinking of you in your commodious quarters. While I
�45
wish you all material prosperty, my desire is a thousand-fold greater that
you may be imbued with the spirit of him whose name you commemorate ;
that you may emulate his courage, his fidelity to the truth however unpopu
lar, his grand catholicity, that could be satisfied with nothing less than the
salvation, temporal and eternal, of a whole humanity. As he recognized the
motherly element in God, and made his religion vital with love as well as
luminous with thought, so may you. May you accord to women in the pul
pit, in the society, in all the walks of life, full equality with man; equal lib
erty to use the powers with which God has endowed her. May you consti
tute such a fraternity'of true-hearted men and women as the world has never
seen ; untramelled by any creed, limited by no boundaries of sect, the world
your field, the sorrowing and sinful your especial care ; may you go on from
strength to strength; and with no doubtful sound proclaim the dawning of
“ the near new day.”
Hoping sometime to be able to accept the invitation to preach for you
again, I am, with all best wishes,
Cordially yours,
Celia Burleigh.
Syracuse, N.Y., Sept. 19th, 1873.
I am glad to be able to congratulate you all on the completion of your
enterprise, which once more gives you a local habitation. The name you
have always had. It is a noble one, and binds you all by many grand mem
ories to the steady and persistent pursuit of Truth in Thought and Righteousmess in Life.
_ The bitter days when the prophets prophesied clothed in sackcloth are
over, thanks to God and their God-directed labors. It is the task of our
generation to help to bring in that Coming Time, which they foresaw and for
which they gave themselves, body and soul. May you all be inspired to do
your full share of the great work.
With kindest remembrances to all your Society, I remain,
Yours fraternally,
S. R. Calthrop.
Marshfield, Sept. 19, 1873.
I received to-day your kind invitation to attend the dedicatory services of
your Parker Memorial Hall, on Sunday. I should be glad to comply with it
and participate briefly in the exercises as you request. It is not easy for me
to leave home for two nights, as would be necessary in order to be in Boston
on that day of the week, and I see no way to do it.
The construction of your hall I look upon as a most auspicious event, as
well as an evidence of the faith and courage of those who, through doubt
and discouragement of no common magnitude, have held aloft the standard
of free thought and speech since your great hero was summoned from earth,
and his body laid to sleep in the Soil of the beautiful Italian city made fa-
�46
mous in history by the genius of Dante and the sublime piety and martyrdom
of Savonarola.
In this marvelous dream which we call life, there is nothing more won
derful and inspiring than the great moral and political revolution which has
been accomplished in this country since Mr. Parker came upon the stage of
manhood. I remember seeing him at the series of reform meetings, held
mostly in Chardon St. Chapel, in i839~4°> t° discuss the character and use
of “ the Sabbath, the Church, and the Ministry.” He was a young, modest,
and unassuming man ; but even then giving signs of the mighty force which
afterwards in the Melodeon and Music Hall exposed the rottenness of Church
and State, and gave such an impetus to the cause of freedom, both of body
and mind.
From him largely proceeded the impulse that has given new life to a na
tion, and emancipated the mind of the age from the thralldom of priestly rule.
His mantle rests upon you. His spirit and purpose are nourished by the
Society which bears his name. You do well to inscribe that name on the
building you have erected. Long may it continue, and be an instrument in
the hands of the Parker Fraternity for the more perfect education, eman
cipation, and elevation of the human race.
Yours, in the everlasting life,
N. H. Whiting.
I
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Dedicatory services of the Parker Memorial Meeting House by the twenty-eighth Congregational Society, of Boston, Sunday, Sept,21, 1873
Creator
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Conway, Moncure Daniel [1832-1907.]
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Place of publication: Boston
Collation: 46 p. ; 24 cm.
Notes: Dedication hymn / Samuel Johnson -- Remarks of John C. Haynes -- Scripture reading -- Prayer -- Dedication hymn / W.C. Gannett -- Discourse / Samuel Longfellow -- God in humanity (hymn) / John G. Whittier -- Address by Ednah D. Cheney -- Address by John Weiss -- Address by Francis E. Abbot-- Address by Charles W. Slack -- God in the human soul (hymn) / Sarah F. Adams - benediction / Samuel Longfellow. Contains letters (p.39-46) received by John C. Haynes, Chairman, in answer to invitations to be present at the dedication of the Parker Memorial Meeting House. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
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Cochrane & Sampson, printers
Date
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1873
Identifier
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G5365
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Dedicatory services of the Parker Memorial Meeting House by the twenty-eighth Congregational Society, of Boston, Sunday, Sept,21, 1873), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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application/pdf
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Text
Language
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English
Subject
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Sermons
Conway Tracts
Parker Memorial Meeting House (Boston)
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697
NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
vóilscroj TkirmaS^
• I
I
EVERLASTING PUNISHMENT
A LETTER
a
O
C)
TO
THOMAS
SCOTT.
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS
II THE TERRACE,
SCOTT,
FARQUHAR ROAD, UPPER NORWOOD,
LONDON, S.E.
1873.
Price Sixpence.
�On religion, in particular, the time appears to me to have come, when
it is the duty of all who, being qualified in point of knowledge, have on
mature consideration satisfied themselves that the current opinions are
not only false, but hurtful, to make their dissent known : at least, if
they are among those whose station or reputation gives their opinion a
chance of being attended to. Such an avowal would put an end, at
once and for ever, to the vulgar prejudice, that what is called, very
improperly, unbelief, is connected with any bad qualities either of mindt
or heart. The world would be astonished if it knew how great a pro
portion of its brightest ornaments—of those most distinguished even
in popular estimation for wisdom and virtue—are complete sceptics in
religion; many of them refraining from avowal, less from personal
considerations, than from a conscientious, though now, in my opinion
a most mistaken apprehension, lest by speaking out what would tend
to weaken existing beliefs, and by consequence (as they suppose) exist
ing restraints, they should do harm instead of good.
Autobiography by John Stuart Mill.
�EVERLASTING PUNISHMENT.
■>
DEAR FRIEND,—
ULD that the topic were more genial or
humane, to say nothing of divine, for,
assuredly, the odour of such a sulphurous thesis is
the reverse of that of “sanctity.” Yet I will decline
no subject on which you think that what I may have
to say can possibly serve the cause we both have at
heart,—for I am persuaded that the cause pleaded by
yourself and your distinguished coadjutors is mainly
the same as that to which my poor thoughts and
aspirations have been long directed. Many of us, I
have no doubt, see several of the questions at issue
from various points of view and through different
media, with glasses not adjusted to the same focus;
but we are all of the Human-Catholic Church, seeking
to realise a religion reasonable no less than aspira
tional, satisfying, that is, the sentimental or emotional
requirements of the spirit, no less than the logical
and intellectual demands of the understanding.
Ignoring neither, our endeavour is to conciliate and
unite the two, in common allegiance and devotion to
rhe one Power from which they both spring. Our
Faith is faith in “ Principles,” and that I believe is
true Christian Faith, as contradistinguished from
shallow assent and consent to opinions and conjec
tures of a quasi-historical or traditional sort, often
assuming the name of a sacred grace to which it is in
no degree entitled. “Faith ” is an inward confiding
temper of the soul Godward, and has nothing reli-
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giously in common with acceptance or rejection of
lo, here ! or lo, there! assertions of circumstantial
import, which have to be judged solely by laws of
evidence or antecedent probability—whether too cre
dulously received or too incredulously denied, affect
ing only the intelligence, and by no means the spiritual
depth or breadth of our being. Surely those who put
their trust, through calm and storm, in the abiding
principles of Faith, Hope, and Love are true mem
bers of the one indivisible and universal Church of
which Christ is the Spiritual High Priest. He came
to proclaim peace and goodwill among men—a gospel
only to be realised by unity of principle, but never
attainable by any attempt at an impossible and un
desirable uniformity of opinion. If community of
Churchmanship is to depend upon multitudes of free
and true men agreeing to numerous propositions,
physical and metaphysical, alike incapable of proof,
but each of which has adherents whose pertinacity is
usually in the inverse ratio of their knowledge, then
may we postpone such Christian fellowship to the
Greek Kalends or the Apocalyptic Millennium.
Thus much of preface as to a probable divergence
of views which, when truthfully and charitably enter
tained, I take to be more conducive to edification and
mutual esteem than any conformity of a stereotyped
sort. Why should not all be content to travel in the
same direction by different paths and at different
speeds ? Dean Swift used to say it mattered little
whether we journeyed Heavenward in a carriage-andfour or a donkey-cart, provided we did but get there ;
and the Emperor Constantine told a favourite bishop
of peculiarly pedantic orthodoxy, that he must climb
to Heaven on his own proper ladder, for nobody else
would mount it with him.
But now to our theme,—time was when I could
have written on the dismal dogma with more interest
and earnestness than it at present inspires me with.
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Not that I hold it, in its gross and literal accepta
tion, a whit less subversive of all religious and reason
able principles than I did years ago, when taking its
matter more au serieux and occasionally feeling its
dyspeptic incubus weighing upon my own faith and
trust in the goodness and mercy of God, the “Mercy
that is over all His Works,” and the “ Mercy that
endureth for ever ! ” Is it a real “ Article of Belief”
that we have to deal with ? Does it exist in men’s
minds and make them miserable and make them mad,
as it assuredly must, supremely miserable and despe
rately mad, if it exist at all as an earnest conviction
in their spirit or understanding ? My full persua
sion is that no man of sound mind in sound body is
nowadays ever seriously disquieted by the grisly phan
tom begotten of theologic hatred and conceived of
theologic fear, the fear that indeed “ has torment,”
the fear which Paith casts out as gibbering frantic
blasphemy against the Holy Ghost, by imputing hate
to the Supreme Spirit whose Being is Love, and endless
vengeance to the God whose nature and property is
ever to forgive. It is here, if anywhere, when turning
backto this mediaeval abortion of the odiumtlieologicum,
that one is reminded of Plutarch and Bacon in their
identical relative estimates of “ Superstition ” and
“ Atheism.” Who does not remember the manly and
honest simplicity with which the noble old Boeotian
tells us he would rather people said there was no
Plutarch, than that Plutarch was fickle, passionate,
and vindictive ! How many folios of so-called Chris
tian theology would kick the beam when weighed in
divine scales against that little treatise of a dozen
pages (vrepi Aeio-iSatpor/as) by a benighted heathen !
And then our Chancellor !—“ Better to have no opin
ion of God at all, than such an opinion as is unworthy
of Him; for the one is unbelief, the other is con
tumely ! ” Surely those two essays might be read
in Churches as lessons approved by apostles who
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denounce the beggarly elements of fanaticism, and
proclaim faith without charity as nothing worth !—•
approved by evangelists and prophets who preach
acceptable religion as “doingjustice,loving mercy,and
walking humbly with our God.” Well may our great
British regenerator of human thought talk of super
stition being to religion as a monkey is to a Man, for
never could any travesty by genus “Simia” exceed
the parody that superstition has put upon religion,
when trumpeting endless vindictive punishment for
punishment’s sake in the name of the Deity who has
proclaimed Himself as chastening whom He loveth,
and loving whom He chasteneth !
You will remind me, perhaps, that this is emphatic
language, and that I began by disclaiming any deep
feeling on the subject; and I am quite sensible of the
apparent inconsistency. The fact is, that one is prone
to oscillate on such a topic between extreme indig
nation and very thorough contempt. A healthy mind
will, no doubt, easily and at once shake itself free
from morbid and lurid imaginations, that would
deform and deface God’s beautiful universe by per
petuating misery and deifying evil as coequal and
coterminate with good. And while under the bracing
influence of such health and healthy surroundings,
one is apt to be ashamed of fighting as one that
beateth the air, with no adversary but the unwhole
some illusion of feverish weakness or designing
wickedness. The “hell-fire” of superstition is to
Religion and Reason but an ignis fatuus, flickering
among the dead bones and mouldering1 remains of
ages darker than our own ; and wise neighbours call
no. engines, and fill no buckets to put it out. From
this point of view we can look at such “ fire ” calmly
and talk about it composedly. But when again one
remembers that mental health and strength are bv
no means the inheritance of us all, and that for hypo"chondria, dyspepsia, and hysteria, the spectral finger
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n
that points to hell in another world, usually points
down the road to madness in this—why, then, indig
nation once more is likely to get the upper hand of
indifference. But even a less hideous and more
frequent consummation than absolute insanity in
trudes itself inevitably on attention, and is, to a
religious and reverential estimate, totally incom
patible with philosophic apathy. The doctrine, even
when not earnestly believed in, but only languidly
tolerated, as tending towards checking and alarming
gross and ignorant vice by false but portentously
horrible representations of distant penalties incurred
—this doctrine, I maintain, is still fraught with irre
ligious and immoral mischief — as, indeed, in a
universe under the ultimate sovereignty of Supreme
Truth, uZZ false teaching must be irreligiously and
immorally mischievous. Let us go into the heated
and feverish atmosphere that surrounds “ popular
preachers,” proclaiming, in the name of an Almighty,
Allwise, and Allgood Godhead, the final and per
petual plunging into the fiery lake of the devil and
his angels, with all the myriads of human sinners,
heretics, infidels, and others, that cannot present an
orthodox passport at heaven’s gate. Let us look round
upon the excited and excitable crowd that feels a
sensational thrill, almost allied to horrid pleasure, in
the stupendous, infernal drama depicted for their edifi
cation, and then let us inquire for a moment into the
nature of such edification. It assuredly is seldom of
that highest sort which prompted Moses and Paul to
reject their individual salvation unless that of their
brethren could be simultaneously secured : “ Blot me
also out of thy book !” and “ I could wish myself also
accursed for my Brethren’s sake !” It is hardly a
breach of charity to conclude that this is not quite
the feeling that actuates the anxious benches of
11 Tabernacles ” and “ Ebenezers,” as they listen to
fulminations of “ hell-fire” reserved for all but the
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elect few, to join whose exceptional ii glory” they are
naturally inclined to make a rush, under an impulse
and watchword not absolutely identical with that of
“ loving their neighbour as themselves.” Yet, with
out rising to the level of a Moses or a Paul, how often
do we find simple sailors and soldiers, who, in the
service of an earthly master, will scorn to hurry first
into the boats that can save but a fraction of their
company! How cheerfully will the noble fellows
hold back till at least the women and children are
made room for! But, it may be said, their threaten
ing danger is only of natural death; while the
religionists are in frantic terror of supernatural tor
ments, &c., &c. Strange, at any rate, that a religious
doctrine, preached in the name of Christ, should tend
towards so low a pitch of selfishness as to be satisfied
to be supremely happy with the knowledge of the
supreme contemporary misery of theirfellow-creatures!
How does such doctrine look, when tried by the
divine test of “ knowing them by their fruits ? ” Or
is this an exceptional case, in which the heavenly
vine produces such very earthly thorns ?
Turning from the human ethics consequent on the
dogma that lends such point and zest to the oratory
of popular pulpits, let us see how it stands with the
system of celestial government in accordance -with,
such theory. Those gentlemen who proclaim it would
no doubt be much surprised to hear that their gospel
of ultimate and infinite suffering is altogether incom
patible with their worship of one God, Almighty an cl
Allgood,—and that they are bound in logic and con
sistency to announce themselves henceforth as recog
nising two eternal principles, one of Good and the
other of Evil, like Persians of old, or later disciples
of the Heresiarch Manes. They are very possibly of
opinion that, having done such poetical justice upon
all fallen sinners, whether angelic or human, as cast
ing them into the perpetual lake of burning brimstone,
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nothing further can be required towards the vindica
tion of sole and supreme Good throughout the universe.
But surely this position cannot stand scrutiny. How
can supreme good reign triumphant in a universe
degraded and dishonoured by the infinite evil of end
less unrepenting and unamending angelic and human
misery ? Were the agonies announced as of a limited
or purgatorial kind, the case would of course be differ
ent, but it certainly does excite fair astonishment
that the advocates of eternal vindictive, non-curative,
and non-purifying punishments should not see that
they are thereby maintaining a coequal sovereignty
of evil with good, always, everywhere, and for ever.
The seeming ignorance of, or indifference to, this
inevitable sequitur, no doubt arises from such persons
using the metaphysical words “infinite,” “eternal,”
&c.,’in quite a limited and physical acceptation. But
it is time, in the present stage of mental cultivation
and era of exact science, that they should recast their
nomenclature. They must learn to see and acknow
ledge that no evil can be greater than that of the
endless sinful existence of spiritual beings, created in
the image of God—multitudinous beings of such high
origin, for ever unrepenting and unamending, of neces
sity cursing both the Creator that created them and
tlie Creation that their endless sinful suffering darkens,
deforms, and disgraces, to no purpose but that of
inflicting pain and perpetuating cruelty !
I ought now, perhaps, in reference to my signature
as a commissioned officer of our Established Church,
to say a word or two as to the Biblical and Litur
gical bearings of the dogma that I venture to condemn
as not only anti-Christian but absolutely inhuman,
and implying “contumely” to the God of Goodness.
I have no difficulty or scruple whatever in asserting
that, to the best of my judgment, the Bible not only
ignores, but would absolutely anathematise, such doc
trine as that which endeavours to brand Creation
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with indelible failure and deformity, while dethron
ing the one God and Lord of all, in favour of a
dualistic scheme of Ormuzd and Ahriman, projecting
through the universe the distorted semblance of a
“house divided against itself.” It ought not to be
required that we should descend to the examination
of mere Hebrew and Greek vocables to establish a
truth, the miscarriage of which would be fatal to all
claims of divine inspiration in the providential books
that have been so venerated for decades of centuries
by Jew and Gentile, Greek and Barbarian. Enough,
surely, that we can appeal to the “ Spirit ” of these
Scriptures that always quickens, without haggling
over . the “ letter ” that occasionally “kills.” Not
that in this case, as I apprehend, there can be any
difficulty in securing the witness of the “ letter ” as
well as that of the “ Spirit” to the honour and glory
of God. Yet who needs it who is already familiar
with the Scriptural attributes ascribed to Deity, as
ever culminating in goodness, and in mercy enduring
for ever, and enfolding all his works in the “ everlast
ing arms ” that are spread beneath them ? Why
should we be tasked to gild refined gold and paint
the lily white, by trying to strengthen, through itera
tion and variety of texts, such pandects of supreme
truth and holiness as are expressed in passages of
Old and New Testament, which every real lover of their
lore will bind as signs upon his hands and frontlets
between his eyes ?
Let us appeal at once to the fountain-head of our
Biblical allegiance, to the Teacher who has taught us
to approach our God as our Father which is in heaven,
ever ready to forgive us our trespasses as even we to
forgive them that trespass against us! Think we,
perchance, that any human malignity could ever reach
the pitch of relentless and endless unforgiveness to
its offspring, in whose behalf even a Roman dra
matist would write Propeccato magnopaululum supplicii
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satis est Patri. “ If ye, then,” says the Christ, “ being
evil, know how to give good gifts to your children,
how much more shall your Heavenly Father give to
them that ask Him.” Dare men, while worshipping
such a God through such a Mediator, still venture to
assert that He for bread gives us a stone, for fish a
serpent, for an egg a scorpion ! But away with
figures of serpents and scorpions — mere maudlin
metaphors to veil the ineffable monstrum liorrendum
informe, ingens cui lumen ademptum—“ monstrous,
hideous, blind, horrible, and huge,” which would
impute “ hell fire ” as the divine rejoinder to our poor
human prayers to the “Lord of all power and might,
declaring His Almighty rule most chiefly in mercy
and in pity.” Has the “contumely” of superstition,
our Baconian “Monkeyism of Manhood,” ever gone
further or descended lower in travesty and caricature
of a Godhead created in its own image ?
Really Samson’s riddle was easy reading compared
with the theologic enigma that, instead of weakness
out of strength, brings hatred out of love, and relent
less vengeance out of infinite mercy and compassion!
Many fantastic tricks have we sons of Adam played
before High Heaven to make the angels weep; but
here is surely a trick of Angry-Apism that would
petrify angelic tears in blank amazement, to say
nothing of classic philosophy, whether of the school
that laughs or the school that weeps at the aberrations
of our eccentric nature. We read of James and John
asking their Lord’s sanction for a mere momentary
flash of earthly fire to consume his enemies, and
how sternly does that Lord rebuke the spirit that
suggested the wish, as emphatically no spirit of his !
Yet there are those among us, neither few nor
always of the dullest, who would confidently, - in
the name of the same Master, invoke flames of
preternatural fire, to agonise perpetually, without
consuming, the disputants who vex the pragmatic
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zeal that found such, small countenance from him
in whose cause it bestirred itself. When one remem
bers, moreover, that Christ most unmistakably
endorses the really divine law of commensurate and
inevitable penalties of an instructive and chastening
sort, as awaiting all transgressions of the moral or
physical code of light and life, one feels that it is but
taking pains to little purpose to argue against fore
gone conclusions.
Would any advocate of “ infinite ” penalties await
ing the very “ finite ” difference, moral or spiritual,
between Messrs A and B, do us the favour to give
their note and commentary on the text of “ many
stripes ” due to the one, and “ few stripes ” due to
the other ? I would not willingly adopt a light tone in
reference to so dismal a theory, but it is a law of our
nature, that the “ sublime ” of unreason should stand
in close contiguity to its corresponding extreme.
Pardon me, then, for looking round on the counte
nances of the first dozen fellow travellers from Charing
Cross to St Paul’s, to conjecture, on available data,
their future destiny as eternal heavenly angels or
cooeval infernal dsemons ! 0 for the Egyptian sphynx
or Athenian owl, to cast the horoscope of Mr Br—gs !
Who does not at once recoil from conclusions too
grossly preposterous to abide for a moment, when
confronted with the barest sufficiency of sense and
soberness that distinguishes us from idiots ! The
dogma, as already said, is a psychological phenome
non that sets aside all religion and all reason; and
one cannot easily bring religious or reasonable
argument to bear upon that which can only exist by
strict denial of every elementary postulate of one or
the other. If it really had any root in the hearts or
heads of people outside an asylum, we should be in
imminent danger of a collapse in any human society
of which they were members. It would remove all
our moral landmarks and confound all our moral
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weights and measures, to a degree utterly incom
patible with any healthy and honest intercourse with
our kind; for what faith or hope could we have in
fair dealing on earth, while stupendous false scales
were hung up to our view in Heaven, in the name of
that Lord to whom Religion and Reason have hitherto
made them an abomination !
When the divine Head of Christendom dramatises
the great “ Judgment according to Works,” surely He
distinguishes the ethics of the gospel plainly enough
from the false reckoning that would allot an infinite
interval to the infi/nitessimal unknown X that repre
sents the surplus of A’s doings over those of his
brother B. Put the “ finite ” into one dish of the
balance and the “ infinite ” into the other, and we
have an inconceivably small fraction of a grain
weighed against a sum-total of tons, compared with
which a rule of arithmetic digits reaching from
London to Edinburgh would be as nothing ! One
has to talk in this way with the forlorn hope of fixing
the attention of the volubility that trifles so com
placently with words that stand for ideas unrealisable
by the human brain. Is it not, after all, this utter
unintelligibility of the questions mooted that can
alone account for the phenomenon of intense irri
tability proverbial as odium theologicum, appro
priating exclusively to itself the tprm “ polemics ” as
satirically characterising the temper of disputing
devotees, whose common principle and badge of
recognition was to be their “ Love of one another.”
Why do devotees of exact sciences indulge in no
such venomous polemics ? How hard it seems to our
human pretention to acknowledge that we cannot see
through the thick veil that it has pleased Providence
to let fall between things earthly and things unearthly.
How little we like to appropriate the lesson, “ What
is that to thee, follow thou me.” “ Do justice,” that
is, “ and love mercy,” leaving reverentially to God
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the things that are God’s, and as yet God’s only.
What should we say to monkeys bent on mathematics,
with infinite nuts pending on the issue, and tearing
one another to pieces over definitions and axioms of
Euclid. Rage unspeakable and irrepressible between
two sects, to one of which a triangle is assuredly
three right angles, and to the other as positively four !
(Itisum teneatis ! ” Fabula ta/men de nobis nct/rrcbtur—
the case is pretty much our own.
_ Enough, however, for the moment as to broad
views connected with the changeless principles of
religion and reason. Let us now turn for an instant
to that sort of argument that seeks, in the written
“ letter” of our sacred books, for ways and means of
invalidating its divine “spirit.” Do we not read
repeatedly of “ hell ” and “ everlasting fire ” in the
Old Testament and the New ? and dare we doubt or
reject such words on such pages ? To the latter
question the reply of Christ and his apostles is to
try all such words, representing what ideas they may,
and to hold fast to those alone of them that are good—
trying, that is, the inky words on paper by the living
words traced by the “ finger of God upon the tablets
of our heart ” or conscience. No mistake about the
revelations written there, and those that are wilting
to know them shall know of the doctrines whether
they be of God (Ear ns Qe\rj ■ynvuerai). True faith
in such revelations, “ saving us by the answer of a
good conscience,” would bravely and loyally renounce
both Old Testament and New, though they had fallen,
ready printed and bound, from heaven to earth,
rather than for a moment sin against the Holy Ghost
by imputing to it on their authority that which we
know by its inspiration to be of the nature of evil.
But here, happily, our faith is exposed to no such
trial, for neither does the Old Testament nor the New
say a word, to the best of iny knowledge, which,
fairly interpreted, can reduce us to choose between
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“ Bibliolatry ” on the one hand, and that “ liberty ”
of conscience on the other which always exists where
the spirit of the Lord is. The least learned English
reader can easily convince himself that the “ hell ” of
the Old Testament is simply the word
meaning a
“ hollow place,” and habitually used as equivalent to
11 grave ” or “ tomb.” Why our translators sometimes
render it as “ grave ” and sometimes as “ hell ” is by
no means clear. We should be surprised, for
example, to read of the patriarch’s “grey hairs being
brought down with sorrow unto hell,” or of Jacob
“ going down into hell unto his son mourning yet it
is precisely the same word which, in the Psalms, is
given as, “ Thou shalt not leave my soul in hell,”
where it evidently means “ grave,” no less than in
the other passages. When Jonah is represented as
“crying out of the belly of hell,” meaning the belly
of the fish, every one knows that he refers to his
living “tomb.” But there is an unjustifiable laxity in
substituting the one word for the other where
popular misapprehension is so likely to follow. So
much for the “hell” of the Old Testament, thus
reduced from its mythological and monstrous accepta
tion to one with which we are all familiarly
acquainted.
Next let us see how far the metaphysical idea of
endless duration of time, or Eternity, is represented
by the in i in of the Hebrew F It may be rightfully
maintained that in the early epochs of Jewish litera
ture, the idea of such transcendent duration had not
yet dawned upon human intelligence, and, therefore
that the words m and nift could never have repre
sented a thought not yet extant in its bewildering
vagueness. For many centuries the calculations of
mankind were pretty much limited to the sum total of
the digits at the extremities of hands and feet, and we
all know that the prophets take refuge in sacred and
indefinite numbers, seven, forty, seventy, &c., where
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precision might be embarrassing or needless. Certain
it is that no confidence can be placed in our modern
renderings of high numbers in the Pentateuch, and
equally sure that we have no right to attach our notion
of “ everlasting,” &c., to words which we find applied
to the hills of Judea and the possession of the pro
mised land, to the lives of kings, and so on. When
Juda so beautifully pleads with Israel for leave to take
Benjamin with him, and winds up with “ If I bring
him not back, let me bear the blame for ever,” who
is embarrassed with the cmvrbn that we translate as
“ for ever,” quietly accepting it, as every one does,
for “ all the days of my life.” Turning to the pages
of the New Testament on the same quest, what word
do we find for this theological representation of end
less fire, agonising irreclaimable sinners for duration
of time mathematically endless ? Simply the Syriac
term “Gehenna,” a corruption of “Valley of Hinnom,” where, outside the walls of Jerusalem, the offal
of the city and bones of malefactors were consumed ;
that is, “ Gehenna ” is a metaphorical expression for
the disgrace, desolation, and destruction awaiting
excommunicated sin and sinners, cast into outer lurid
darkness, where weeping and gnashing of teeth are in
full harmony with their surroundings.
When we read of Christ, that he pronounces cause
less anger worthy of judgment (magisterial), and
foul-mouthed abuse (para) liable to a higher court,
but “thou fool” (juwpe), that is, deliberate contempt
and scorn of arrogance, versus humility, liable to
“ heli-fire,”—can any disciple of Justice tempered by
Mercy suppose this “ Gehenna of Fire ” to mean what
popular superstition is taught to attach to the term,
instead of forming the natural climax, as it probably
does, to intramural penalties, culminating in being
cast out to the dreary and unclean valley of burning
bones F If Christ rebuked with such withering sar
casm the zeal of James and John, desiring fire to
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'
consume the adversaries of his preaching, what
cohesion or congruity can we find in a lesson that
would inculcate eierwaZ fire for the folly of inflated
self-conceit depreciating its neighbours ?
It is true, however, that this “ Hinnom-Valley ” is
not the only equivalent for our expression “ Hell
fire ” in the New Testament. There is another term,
the classical “ Hades,” meaning the invisible abode of
departed spirits, but no more resembling our theologic
Hell than a Greek statue is like a scare-crow. When
the “gates of Hell” (ivvXai a&ov) are said to be power
less against the Church, this has no reference what
ever to the “ Gehenna ” outside Jerusalem, but is the
expressive Syriac-Greek metaphor for powers of dark
ignorance, as opposed to the light, and life, and love
of truth, which constitute the real “ orthodoxy ” of
the Human Catholic Church. In the parable of
Dives and Lazarus there is certainly mention of fire
tormenting the rich man in Hades, but it must be a
very prosaic spirit indeed that attaches the notion of
material fire to the language of Allegory depicting
remorse burning into memory the reproachful regret
of gifts and opportunities wasted or abused.
All this may sound as minute and elementary cri
ticism to those acquainted with the ancient languages
of our two Testaments, but it cannot be quite super
fluous as long as the doctrine we are considering even
nominally defaces and defames the Gracious Gospel
of Faith, Hope, and Love; of which the last is alone
eternal, as being in itself the soul of the Godhead.
Let us look again for the Greek word which we make
to bear the weight of such portentous meaning (or
rather no meaning), and we find a comparatively
harmless aittvios and els tov aiiiva, signifying only
duration of a limited sort, equivalent to “ ages ” or
“ centuries ” with us. When the fig-tree is to bear
no more fruit “ for ever,” what has that to do with
endless time, when the life of the tree itself is but for
B
�18
Everlasting Punishment.
a few years ? No doubt these words are used for
indefinite or infinite duration, when the intention is
to convey the highest possible idea of such duration,
as of the word, or wisdom, or goodness of God ; but
they are equally used for temporary existence, and that
carries with it all the weight of argument we require.
When Jonah says, “The earth with her laws was
about him for ever,” he uses the Hebrew obv, just as
the New Testament uses e<s rov ativra for the duration
of the “ house of Jacob
as the prophets speak of
“ everlasting mountains,” &c. The only important
point is to save the credit of Scriptures otherwise
responsible for a doctrine fatal to their claims to
“ infallibility.” Enough that their language will bear
a good meaning, to make it incumbent on us not to
assign to it a bad one.
If the requirements of language had insisted on an
acceptation of “ everlasting,” &c., incompatible with
any limitation, we might have sought refuge perhaps
in the ingenious bit of sophistry which maintains
that all punishment is of necessity eternal; inasmuch
as it is an everlasting deduction from the sum total of
enjoyment. A magistrate, for example, fines us five
shillings, and we are for ever poorer by said five shil
lings, than we should have been without such penalty ;
so also with imprisonment and bodily suffering, so
much for ever substracted from our normal stock of
liberty and absence from pain. But we are not
driven to such casuistry, though of a sort justifiable
enough in self-defence against the unjustifiable
despotism of dominant stupidity.
It might also be a question to moot, were it wanted,
whether we can entertain any logical idea of an
“eternity” limited at one end; whether, that is,
any thing can be conceived as endless which has a
beginning. My own impression is that it cannot,
though I may be inadvertently running into “ heresy ”
by saying so.
�Everlasting Punishment.
i9
Between ourselves, as you are not going to turn
Grand Inquisitor, I could confess to something like
an Article of Belief, in the eternity of every thing that
IS, allowing for “ circulation,” with permutations,
combinations, and the like. Was there ever a time
when “matter” did not exist, or “time” either?
“ When Bishop Berkeley said there was no matter,
’twas no matter what he said,” &c., &c. Excuse my
trifling, to relieve for a moment the very heavy dis
quisition you have lured me into.
If I am right in saying that the literal Hell dogma
is not in the Bible, it would of course follow from
our Vlth Article, that it is in no degree incumbent
upon any one signing the XXXIX, maugre even
the “ Athanasian ” Creed, which our Parliament in
its wisdom still thinks fit to ratify and maintain.
Apropos to which Anglican symbol, I cannot say that
I, in my individual insignificance, have ever found it
the pre-eminent stumbling block that it seems to
many. In the first place, if I read it at all, it is in
obedience to Parliamentary Law in our Parliamentary
Church—and I consider myself free not to read it,
provided I am ready to submit to the Parliamentary
penalty for neglecting the rubric. Secondly, if I
individually demur to its logical meaning, I can avail
myself of the fact io which my attention was once
called by an excellent and distinguished Spiritual
Peer, viz., that the symbol is appointed to be either
‘ said or sung.'' Now, as “singing” was never yet
intended to be subjected to laws of strict reasoning,
it would be like seeking difficulties to apply rules of
dry logic to triumphant outbursts of “ orthodox ”
rhythm, hymning victorious pagans of JSomoousion vic
tory over discomfited partisans of JSomoiousion schism
in the hot areha of Byzantian polemics ! The argument
as to the meaning of words applies, moreover, as well
to the “ Creed,” whether prose or poetry, as to the
Bible, and the “ everlasting fire ” seems threatened
�20
Everlasting Punishment.
rather to “ doing evil ” than to involuntarily believing
correctly or incorrectly, which is at any rate some
comfort to common sense. There can be no harm,
however, in an obscure Presbyter echoing the wish of
a bygone Primate touching “ Quicunque yult,” to the
effect that “ we were well rid of it.”
The remark may not be worth much, but it is a
remark many of us have, perhaps, made in reference
to “ Athanasian Creeds ” and similar phenomena,
that the “ people,” so called, find little or no diffi
culty, and make little or no objection, to them. In
village congregations the “ Quicunque vult,” with its
magnificent rhythm, much more effective than
“ Reason,” is heard with great edification, and with
very little of the scrupulosity about “ damnatory
clauses ” that is apt to disturb more delicate and
refined constitutions. The fact seems to be that
dense and pachydermatous natures only experience
agreeable sensations under a currycomb that would
flay the skin of more susceptible subjects. The most
popular pulpits are known to be those which fulmi
nate the fiercest and loudest,—well illustrating Lord
Bacon’s apothegm, that the “ People is the master of
superstition, in which wise men follow fools, with
arguments fitted to facts in reversed order.” Arch
bishops and Bishops, and Presbyters, would be ready
to be rid of a personified Devil and his doings on
much easier terms than rustics would approve, and I
well remember the story as told by the wisest and
truest of living prophets and humourists, how the
little lassie came weeping back from a discourse where
“ the gentleman said there was na’ deil.”
If there is one Scriptural book more peculiarly pic
turesque in imagery of fiery-lake scenery than another
it is the Apocalypse, and that, as every one knows who
knows country cottages, is beyond comparison the
favourite village reading. Simple and uncritical, an
agricultural population will revel in the gorgeous
�Everlasting Punishment.
21
imagery and stupendous machinery of visions of
Patmos, impervious to doubts and difficulties which
could make such a divine as South exclaim, more
pointedly than decorously, that they “ either found a
man cracked or left him so.” The strongest imagin
ary appeals have little effect upon natures rendered
rugged and unimpressionable by constant contact with
hard and rough realities, but exemplify your figura
tive “ everlasting punishment” by showing such per
sons an old-fashioned “ cat-o’-nine-tail ” infliction,
and then ask them what they would think of a doctrine
teaching that such suffering was to be inflicted for
ever by heavenly power upon human sinners : not for
their amendment, but only for their punishment; not
for the sake of saving discipline, but only for per
petuating sin and unrepenting maledictions.
Those who, knowing better, would countenance
such horrid phantasmagoria, under the impression of
frightening people from crime, are as wrong practically
as they are morally and religiously. Practically such
threats have no effect at all beyond lending vigour to
the popular blasphemy that borrows their infernal
vocabulary. If, indeed, such terrors could avail prac
tically, we ought consistently to bring back the rack
and the wheel to supplement the prison and the gibbet.
We should be justified, for the general good, in pour
ing melted lead and boiling oil, as in good old times
they did upon the body and limbs of a Ravaillac or a
Damiens, approaching by human ingenuity, for an
hour or so, to the agonies reserved by Theologic
“ Divinity” for the majority of mankind “ for ever”
and a day!
But in this, as in every attempt to change divine
laws and improve them by human device, we inevita
bly go wrong. It will never answer to do evil that
good may come, and the course of truth can never be
forwarded by untruth. The Laws of Life are God’s
laws, and provide inevitable corresponding penalties
�22
Everlasting Punishment.
for all infraction of such laws, however they he dis
tinguished as physical or moral. The “Pama claudo
pede ” doctrine, teaching that the penalty is as insep
arable from the offence of commission or omission
as the shadow from its substance, is the only true
and effective penal code ; and till national education
teaches that, it is no religious education, least of all
a Christian, i.e., of Judgment according to works or
fruits. Every jurisconsult knows that the fear of
punishment is in the ratio of its certainty and propin
quity, and by no means in that of its enormity and
uncertainty. No man in his senses thinks himself
bad enough for the “ Hell-fire ” with which he occa
sionally may hear himself menaced in a very indefinite
way as to time, place, and circumstance. The worst
criminal, moreover, shrinks religiously from the per
sonification of Deity painted as infinite strength
wreaking insatiable vengeance upon infinite weakness.
It would be an apotheosis or consecration of iniquity,
like that of Lucifer’s “ Evil be thou my Good ! ”
Teach, only teach, in God’s name, that as surely as
fire, if we defy it, will burn us, and water drown us,
so surely will the defiance of any other law bring
inevitable and terrible penalty in its train, and that is
education for time and for eternity. Teach that poison
is poison, whether it poisons the body or the soul,
with the only difference that the moral poison of
untruth or injustice poisons our human, the other only
our animal constitution. Away with the unworthy
dream of God’s inflicting mere vindictive punishments,
as tormenting without instructing or improving.
Teach that His laws for body and soul are only in so
far inexorable as they are unchangeable, and that no
folly can equal that which flatters itself with hope of
escape from the inevitable. What should we say of
one who pitched himself from a precipice with the
hope of escaping or defying the “ law of gravitation ?”
JSx uno omnia discamus. What bird is that that buries
its head in the sand to escape observation ?
�Everlasting 'Punishment.
23
I had no notion of writing so much upon a subject
for which a dozen words might seem exhausting, and
must hasten to a full stop. I began by saying that
the “ Monstrum Horrendum,” we have been talking
about, was begotten of Theologic hatred out of
Theologic terror, but happily, by divine Providence
was, as it could only be, an “ abortion ” from the first.
I have not been attempting so much to argue against
belief in the hideous phantom, as against the more or
less prevalent disposition to “make believe” as
believing it. I do not suppose that any sane indi
vidual believes it, or can believe it, and remain sane;
but here, as elsewhere, the canker-worm of “ Sham ”
is eating, by Parliamentary sanction, into our National
entrails, and till Nationally, both in Church and State,
we speak truth, and think truth, we are but a weak
People, though we case our ships in iron a yard thick,
and hurl ton-weight shot across our Channel. If we
believe in God we must trust in truth and shame
the Devil, or ignore him, as either may tend to greater
edification.
We have no time to inquire as to the precise where
and when of the first apparition of the grim imagina
tion conjured up by human malice and fear to con
found all faith and hope,. as well as all sense and
soberness. Its latitude and longitude we, of course,
know to be Byzantine, and the date of its full
development in the wilderness of Scholastic-Theology
to have been that of the Nicene Synod about year
325 of our sera. Of that Council, so pregnant of
results theologic rather than evangelic, but little in
the way of circumstantial detail has been handed
down. We read that what most impressed the nearly
contemporary heathen historian Ammianus, was the
wonderful ferocity of party spirit that marked the
controversies of Hornoousions and Eomoiowsions—
Athanasians, that is, and Arians—tearing one another
to pieces for dialectic and philologic niceties that had
�24
Everlasting Punishment.
centuries before harmlessly puzzled the sublime brain
of a Plato in the cool groves of the Athenian
Academy,now, alas! destined to rouse inextinguishable
wrath and hatred in the hot arena of Byzantine
faction. Such faction, we must remember, was now
no longer mere speculative theorising on the Platonic,
Johannic, or Alexandrian Aoyos, but involving prac
tical _ results, carrying with them no less than the
distribution and possession of all the new and vast
Ecclesiastical patronage of the Roman Empire. We
may in some measure then, at least, comprehend the
breadth and. depth of the passions invoked among
crowds of ignorant burly monks, on either side,
assembled to back their leaders in debate on questions
which they understood, as peasants may be supposed
to have . understood Plato, but on the decision of
which hinged, as they might readily be persuaded,
their chances of preferment in this world and the
next. When such a head as that of Athanasius
reeled, by his own confession, over thoughts and
theorems the longer studied the less mastered, we
may imagine the effect they would work on the dull
brains of hundreds of coarse and ignorant partisans
summoned to the vote in numbers that the Historian
describes as fatal to the post-horses of the Imperial ser
vice. The Council of Nice is said to have been attended
by some 2,000 orthodox and heterodox zealots, whose
zeal was apparently not less furious and not less
sanguinary than that which afterwards, on more
worldly pretexts, deluged the new Roman capital with
frantic slaughter. Old Rome had seen the blood of
gladiators and wild beasts shed in torrents for the
pleasure of a brutal populace, but the walls of the
Coliseum had never witnessed our human nature so
demoniacally maddened as in the City of Constantine,
in behalf of a Cause whose badge and test is that we
“Love one another.”Nullce tarn infestoe hominibus bestice
guam sunt sibi ferales plengue Christianorum, is the
�Everlasting Punishment.
2$ '
commentary of a contemporary annalist. Gregory
Nazianzus, Arcljoishop of Constantinople, withdrew
from its fury to the Cappadocian desert, declaring
that the “ Kingdom of Heaven ” had been turned into
Hell and Chaos.
Such hell and chaos was the cradle of the “ Credo ”
that would still enthrone hell and chaos on the site
of the Church of Christ, against which it stands
recorded that the gates of hell shall not prevail.
Surely the cradle was worthy of the nursling. Is it
fair to charge the anathemas of the anonymous
Athanasian Creed to the credit of the Nicene which
contains no anathemas in its present form ?
Once deduct the “ clauses ” from the Athanasian
symbol, and even the most ardent votaries of popular
“fire and brimstone ” might be puzzled to find Bibli
cal or canonical footing for their favourite doctrine.
When Wesley held on strictly to “Witchcraft,”
because Witchcraft is Biblical, he was at least logi
cally true to his “ Bibliolatry,” though it unavoidably
led to a good man and able scholar linking himself to
an obsolete absurdity. Yet was the moral and reli
gious mischief of his superstition infinitesimal com
pared with that which results from ascribing perpetual
and infinite evil to the one omnipotent source of
supreme good. What disturbances in the divine
scheme of the universe consequent on the stupid
torturing of helpless and harmless old women, could
compare with that emanating from endless and useless
vindictive torment inflicted on the majority of our
race at the fiat of a power whom we are taught to
praise for mercy over all His works, or at worst, with
“ wrath enduring but as the twinkling of an eye ?”
The partisans of this “contumely ” cannot plead the
Biblical sanction that Wesley fairly urged for his
puerility. Oriental imagery picturing the worm never
dead, and the fire never quenched, neither would nor
could suggest the theologic “ Hell ” to any sane under-
�26
Everlasting Punishment.
standing, while studying words of Christian life and
truth, culminating in the charity tlmt thinketh no
evil.
Not in our Hebrew or Greek scriptures, whose
spirit is always ultimately that of doing justice and
loving mercy, but in hot fermentations of hate and
fear, seething in that Nicene Basilica, is to be found
the birth of the most portentous phantasm that ever
darkened mythology, whether of Jew or Gentile,
Greek or Barbarian. Yet if, as seems certain, this
dogma of divine vengeance (infinite power torment
ing infinite weakness) be by no means Biblical, how
comes it in any sort to be “ Anglican,” or why should
such a question in these later days be forced intru
sively on sensible and sober consideration ? This
deponent ventures the inquiry but not the answer,
unless by respectful glance, “ quousque tandem,"
towards Lords and Commons at Westminster. Suum
cuique; iw'iA them it rests that such “ things be so
ordered and settled by their endeavours upon the
best and surest foundations, that peace and happiness,
truth and justice. . . .” We can all complete the
quotation.
Depend upon it, as 11 witchcraft ” has so lately
found its way to limbo, it cannot be long before the
grimmer superstition follows in its wake, leaving no
trace but that of contrite amazement at the “ con
tumely ” that Christendom so long connived at. I
venture to maintain that the Bible has never sanc
tioned it, but it were only a halting allegiance to
truth to shirk the avowal that, had the Bible sanc
tioned it, in every book from Genesis to Apocalypse,
it would not be less the duty of every religious and
reasonable man to reject it with all his strength of
spirit and understanding as “ contumely ” to the
honour and glory of God. We must choose in such
case between tablets of pen and ink and those of our
own heart traced indelibly by the divine hand. It is
�Everlasting Punishment.
27
the refusal to do this that still constitutes our diffi
culty and our “.idolatry.” It is this idolising a book,
as a palladium fallen down from Jupiter, that still
shows us trammelled in the bonds of Feticliism. It
matters not how good the book, itsworship is not the use
but the degrading abuse of its goodness, and never
was stronger example of corruptio optimi pessima.
It is this “ Bibliolatry ” that is the bane and paralysis
of Protestantism, riveting on our necks a dead yoke
of “stereotype” more slavish and grievous than that
living yoke of a Roman hierarchy which the great
mental move of the 16th century lifted for a while
from our wrung withers. We must get rid of this
incubus, or our Protestantism will protest to little
purpose against the logic-disciplined legions of Rome
on the one hand, or the anarchic rabble of Babel
on the other. If “ Protestantism ” be less than a
protest against all authoritative unreason, it is but a
lame thing travelling neither on two legs nor
four. If we would hold our own we must read our
Providential book on its own terms, trying its con
clusions, whether of “letter ” or “spirit,” before the
tribunal of our own conscience and intelligence—a
defective tribunal, no doubt, but the only one we can
appeal to, and by God’s grace sufficient for the
nonce. We must typify Biblical wisdom by that of
the serpent sloughing skin after skin and scale after
scale to reappear again and again in renewed or
regenerate splendour. As it has sloughed . away
“witchcraft,” “Mosaic cosmogony,” and the like, so
assuredly will it slough away a local “ hell, a per
sonal “ devil,” and sundry other dead scales that dim.
and deform its vital and integral beauty. Our slavish
allegiance to the “ letter ” of a literature, however
sacred and providential, is as powerful a weapon in
the armoury of Antichrist as that of the “ scholasti
cism ” that dates its reign from the Council of
Nice, and to which, among other boons, we are
�28
Everlasting Punishment.
indebted for the minatory hell-fire still extant by
sanction of Church and State. , There is, no
doubt, a respectable halo of antiquity about such
Byzantine polemics that lends them a prestige
not intrinsically their own; but if we must lean
upon “ Councils ” of ancient date, why not go back
300 years further to another Council, where an
Ambassador of a Gospel other than Athanasian
reasoned also before Royalty, not indeed on meta
physical OUSION or OISION,but upon lowlier topics
of “ righteousness and temperance,” and judgment to
come (Acts xxiv. 25). This argument is addressed to
Felix. That at which King Agrippa was present is
subsequent (ch. 26), and before Festus, almost per
suading King Agrippa to be a Christian ! Would it
be very rash to conjecture the Athanasian clamour
of wrath and unreason, almost persuading the shrewd
Imperial Constantine, again to be a Pagan !
But let me conclude a much longer lucubration than
intended or needed, by “summing up ” to the effect
that the popular dogma of “Everlasting Hell-fire”
is a chaotic imagination totally subversive of all reli
gious and moral principle. So far is the doctrine
from being endorsed by Biblical authority, that it is
absolutely and diametrically opposed to the Pandects
of divine justice and mercy gradually unfolded in its
pages, till finding their climax in our Evangelic
“ Sonship ” to a Father which is in heaven. What
is not “Biblical” cannot (by Article VI.) be part or
parcel of Church-of-England doctrine, as legalised by
Parliament. Neither, independently of such Article,
is there anything in its liturgical or canonical teach
ing that, fairly interpreted, would countenance such
perversion of the gracious message of goodwill to man
as published by Christ. The ascription to “ paternal
deity ” of gratuitous and endless punishment inflicted
on His offspring is, moreover, while removing all our
landmarks of morality, most dangerously calculated to
�Everlasting Punishment.
29
distract our attention from the true, benevolent, and
instructive code that inevitably visits with inexorable
but reclaiming chastisement every violation of divine
law, whether material or mental. And so, my dear
Scott, having fulfilled an old promise, perhaps more
fully than you expected or desired, by vindicating a
plain truth with a lengthy development of “ truisms,”
Believe me,
With Faith in the Love that casts out Fear,
Yours truly,
Foreign Chaplain.
POSTSCRIPT.
Since the above was written, the following admi
rable “ Appeal to the Orthodox ” has appeared in
The Manchester Friend of Oct. 15, 1873. The writer
is so much in harmony with my friend the “ Foreign
Chaplain,” that I cannot resist the temptation of
giving to his article all the publicity in my power.
Thomas Scott..
“ APPEAL TO THE ORTHODOX.”
If there be a place of torment to which sinners are
consigned at the day of judgment, the existence of
such a place is by infinite degrees the most important
fact in the Universe. Compared with so vivid a
reality, the material world is an unsubstantial dream,
and Heaven itself a colourless abstraction. The one
surpassing object, which is alone worthy of our
anxious care, is the means of escape from so horrible
a destiny. And as God is a just and righteous
Being, who would not entrap His creatures blindfold
�30
Everlasting Punishment.
into so piteous a doom, He would not leave one of
those creatures in a state of doubt as to its reality.
If there fee a Hell, therefore, and if there be, as we
reverently trust, a righteous Ruler of the universe,
the existence of that hell must be a patent and
conspicuous fact, attested by a species and a mass of
evidence which no sane intellect could think of ques
tioning. And if no such evidence be producible, we
are bound by common sense, as well as fealty to our
Creator, to reject the fable of its existence as an
outrage on His righteous character.
Now, we do not complain that there are difficulties
connected with the doctrine of an everlasting hell, nor
yet that its evidences fall short of what we deem
desirable; our contention is that there is no sub
stantial warrant of any kind for its existence. During
the thousands of years throughout which, according
to the popular notion, men have been falling by
myriads into this place of torment, and that under
the ever-watchful eye of our Heavenly Parent, there
is not an authentic instance of any person who has
come back to forewarn his friends of the fate which
he is now realising, and which is supposed to await
every unconverted sinner. If there were any truth
in this ghastly superstition, and if it were the will of
God that we should believe in it, He has only to
throw open the prison-doors for one brief interval,
and millions of our forefathers, like Dives in the
parable, would rush back to earth to give us warning
of our danger. Or, if it were matter of vital moment
that we should believe in it, He has only to expand
our spiritual vision, and the mysteries of the unseen
world would be as plain to us as the material universe
now is to our bodily perceptions. There can be no
lack of means to Omnipotence ; if this doctrine were
not a figment of man’s invention, He would reveal it
to us in ways which would leave no room to suspect
its verity.
�Everlasting Punishment.
31
But if we have no Divine warrant for the truth of
this dogma, we have metaphysical sophistry which is
tendered us in lieu of it. In the first place it is
asserted that sin against an Infinite God must partake
of the infinite nature of the Being whose law it
violates ; that it is an infinite sin, in short, and must
receive an infinite punishment. That this is nothing
but a play upon words is evident from two considera
tions. If a sin committed against an Infinite Being
be infinite, a sin committed ly a finite being is finite;
and, therefore, sin is at the same time infinite and
finite, venial and unpardonable. And, again, if an
offence against an Infinite Being deserve an infinite
punishment, obedience to an Infinite Being will
deserve an infinite reward; and, therefore, every
sinner who complies with any of the Divine enact
ments is at once entitled both to everlasting torment
and to everlasting blessedness. All such reasoning
is the merest verbal sophistication; such terms as
“ infinite ” have no practical significance when applied
to human actions. They only amount to the very
obvious truism that the consequences of our deeds,
whether good or evil, are incalculable : in an abstract
sense they may be said to endure for ever; but
for the most part their effect is incalculably small,
and counts for nothing in the mighty play of con
flicting forces.
There is another argument which is intended to
supply the place of evidence upon this subject. We
are told that our conscience teaches us that sin merits
everlasting chastisement, and that our conscience is
the voice of God in this matter. This argument is
doubly delusive ; its assumed data are untrue, and its
conclusion does not follow from the premises. Our
conscience is the voice of God in this sense only : it
is the highest authority that He has given us for our
individual guidance : in no case can it be assumed as
the absolute expression of His will. And, as a
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Everlasting Punishment.
matter of fact, the teaching of our conscience varies
with each individual, and varies very much in accord
ance with the training which we have received. It
is not true that the conscience of mankind has pro
nounced in favour of eternal punishment. There
may be a few men of disordered minds, like the un
happy Cowper, who really believe that they deserve
an infinite measure of Divine wrath, and there are
millions of Christians who verbally assent to the
doctrine on the authority of others ; but this belief is
not shared by the most enlightened section of man
kind. Where the voice of conscience is not over
powered by some external authority, its teaching is
very different. When we knowingly sacrifice our
bodies through intemperance, it may suggest to us
that we deserve to lose our health, if not our life, in
consequence ; when we wilfully wrong our neighbour,
it will probably warn us that we deserve not only to
forfeit the goodwill of our fellow-men, but likewise
to suffer all such punishment as the loss of that good
will may carry in its train ; and so long as we refuse
to bow our heads in submission to our chastisement,
we shall probably experience a sense of alienation
from the Author of that chastisement; but of penalties
protracted through the cycles of eternity it gives us
no intimation. So little does the average conscience
speak about the heinousness of sin, that the majority
of mankind would seem to hold that there is scarcely
any offence for which some trifling penance will not
make atonement; and many excellent Christians are
of opinion that an instantaneous act of faith in the
sacrifice of Christ will blot out a life-time of iniquity.
‘‘ Believe in the Lord Jesus, and thou shalt be saved,”
is the accepted formula.
In truth, however, this sort of reasoning would
satisfy no one who was not already convinced upon
other grounds. It is the supposed authority of Jesus
which has persuaded Christendom of the reality of an
�Everlasting Punishment.
33
everlasting Hell. Now, while I have no wish to
detract from the sublime character of Jesus, in some
respects unique in human history, I am constrained
to observe that on such a subject his authority has no
validity for us. There is no proof that he possessed
omniscience. Assuming the truth of the record,
there is, on the contrary, ample evidence that his
knowledge was limited in extent. If we may so far
credit the Evangelists, he was a believer in all the
current legends of his time. The stories of the
Noachian Deluge, and the miraculous destruction of
Sodom and Gomorrah, and even the grotesque legend
of Jonah and the whale, were received without mis
giving as to their historic truth. He was impressed
with an intense conviction of the approaching ruin
of the world. “ This generation shall not pass till
all these things be fulfilled.” His belief in diabolical
possession was simple and unquestioning. . One of
the Evangelists expressly intimates that he increased
in wisdom; ” that is to say, his knowledge was sub
ject to the universal law of growth in accordance
with experience; and another represents him as
acknowledging his ignorance of the exact period at
which the world should be destroyed. In none of
the Gospels will the attentive reader discover the
least indication that upon any subject, scientific,
literary, or historical, he possessed greater knowledge
than his contemporaries. Indeed it is plain to any
critical insight that he was much less well informed
than the Apostle Paul, for example. There is no use
in shrinking from this admission; it is the truth, and
we cannot alter it. God is not honoured by the sup
pression of such facts.
But even in theological matters his language
shows that he had no definite knowledge beyond that
shared by his fellow-countrymen. “I beheld Satan as
lightning fall from Heaven is a vague declaration,
to which almost any meaning might be assigned.
�34
Everlasting Punishment,
“More than twelve legions of angels” is another
loose expression, which will not admit of rigid defini
tion. “ Where the worm dieth not, and the fire is
not quenched,” is figurative language, and cannot be
construed literally. “ These shall go away into
everlasting punishment, but the righteous into life
eternal,” evinces no perception of the important truth
that the great majority of mankind are neither
“ righteous ” nor “ wicked,” but more or less imper
fect strugglers after righteousness. Nearly all his
reported utterances upon this subject are hasty
generalisations which are incompatible with exact
knowledge, and have no validity for conscientious
thinkers in this nineteenth century.
Nor is it at all demonstrable that he was the
author of any of these utterances. Many of them, in
all probability, have been rightly ascribed to him; but
this is the most that can be affirmed respecting them.
It is tolerably certain that he left no written exposi
tion of his doctrine, and that none of our canonical
Gospels was committed to manuscript for years after
his crucifixion ; not until a mass of legendary matter
had time to grow up around his real biography.
None of these brief and inadequate sketches can be
traced directly to his disciples ; indeed there is not
one which is authenticated by any writer who had
personal knowledge of its author. In the second
century, and by such men as Papias and Ireneeus, they
were ascribed to our four reputed Evangelists; but
this is all that can be positively affirmed. I need
hardly remark that if hell were the greatest of
realities, affecting the everlasting welfare of a large
proportion of mankind, a just and righteous Father
would not leave us to extract our knowledge of it
from the opinions of Papias and Irenaeus, nor yet from
the legendary narratives of our four Evangelists.
When they are construed with a due regard for
the limitations of human knowledge, these reported
�Everlasting Punishment.
35
sayings of Jesus are invaluable proclamations of the
truth that sin is an enormous evil, and has momentous
consequences; a truth which all experience verifies;
but how far those consequences may extend into the
unseen world, God has not revealed, nor are we at
liberty to dogmatise. From our general experience
of His government, however, we may righteously
believe that in whatever sense our punishment pursues
us beyond the grave, that punishment will be remedial
in its object, and will result in our final restoration to
purity and peace.
Rationalist.
��INDEX
TO
THOMAS SCOTT’S PUBLICATIONS.
ALPHABETICALLY ARRANGED.
The following Pamphlets and Papers may be had on addressing
a letter enclosing the price in postage stamps to Mr Thomas
Scott, 11 The Terrace, Farquhar Road, Upper Norwood,
Rondon, S.EPrice.
Post-free.
s.
ABBOT, FRANCIS E., Editor of ‘Index,’ Toledo, Ohio, U.S.A.
d.
of Christianity. With Letters from Miss Frances
P. Cobbe and Professor F. W. Newman, giving their Reasons for not
calling themselves Christians
0 3
Truths for the Times
-03
The Impeachment
ANONYMOUS.
A.I. Conversations. Recorded by a Woman, for Women. Parts I., II.,
and III. 6d. each Part
- 1 6
A Few Self-Contradictions of the Bible
- 1 0
Modern Orthodoxy and Modern Liberalism
- 0 6
Modern Protestantism. By the Author of “The Philosophy of
Necessity”
-06
On Public Worship
- 0 3
Questions to which the Orthodox are Earnestly Requested to Give
Answers ------01
Sacred History as
a
Branch of
Elementary Education.
Part I.—Its Influence on the Intellect. Part II.—Its Influence on the
Development of the Conscience. 6d. each Part
- 1 0
The Church and its Reform. A Reprint - 1 0
The Church : the Pillar and Ground of the Truth
- 0 6
The Opinions of Professor David F. Strauss
- 0 6
Tiie Twelve Apostles
-06
Via Catholica; or, Passages from the Autobiography of a Country
Parson. Part I. -13
Woman’s Letter
-03
BARRISTER, A.
Notes on Bishop Magee’s Pleadings
BASTARD, THOMAS H0RL00K.
Scepticism
and
Social Justice
-
for
Christ
-
-
-
- 0 6
-
-
-0,3
�ii
Index to Ihomas Scoti s Publications.
Price.
Post-free.
BENEFICED CLERGYMAN OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND.
The Chronological Weakness of Prophetic Interpretation -11
The Evangelist and the Divine -10
The Gospel of the Kingdom
- 0 6
BENTHAM, JEREMY.
The Church
of
England Catechism Examined. A Reprint
- 1 0
BERNSTEIN, A.
Origin of the Legends
Critically Examined -
Abraham,
of
-
-
-
Isaac, and Jacob
-
-
-
-10
BROOK, W. 0. CARR.
Reason versus Authority -
- 0 3
BROWN, GAMALIEL.
An Appeal to the Preachers
Sunday Lyrics
The New Doxology
-
of all the
-
Creeds -
-
-
-
- 0 3
-03
- 0 3
CARROLL, Rev. W. G., Rector of St Bride’s, Dublin.
The Collapse
of the
by the Orthodox -
Faith; or, the Deity of Christ as now taught
-
-
-
-
-06
CLARK, W. G., M.A., Vice-Master of Trinity College, Cambridge.
A Review of a Pamphlet, entitled, “ The Present Dangers of the Church
of England ”.
-06
CLERGYMAN OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND.
An Examination of Canon Liddon’s Bampton Lectures
Letter and Spirit Rational Piety and Prayers for Fine Weather
The Analogy of Nature and Religion—Good and Evil The Question of Method, as affecting Religious Thought
-
- 0 6
-06
- 0 3
- 0 6
- 0 3
COBBE, Miss F. P.
Letter
on
Christian Name. (See Abbot)
CONWAY, MONCURE D.
The Spiritual Serfdom of
The Voysey Case -
the
Laity. With Portrait
-
-
-
-
- 0 6
-06
COUNTRY PARSON, A.
The Thirty-Nine Articles and the Creeds,—Their Sense and their
Non-Sense. Parts L, II., and III. 6d. each Part
-
-
- 1 6
COUNTRY VICAR, A.
Criticism the Restoration of Christianity, being a Review of a
-
Paper by Dr Lang
The Bible for Man,
not
-
-
Man for the Bible
-
-
CRANBROOK, The late Rev. JAMES.
On the Formation of Religious Opinions On the Hindrances to Progress' in Theology
The Tendencies of Modern Religious Thought
F. H. I.
Spiritual Pantheism
FOREIGN CHAPLAIN.
The Efficacy of Prayer.
-
-
-
A Letter to Thomas Scott
-
-
-06
- 0 6
-
- 0 3
- 0 3
- 0 3
-
-06
-
- 0 3
�Index to Thomas Scott's Publications.
iii
Price.Post-free,
s. d.
FORMER ELDER IN A SCOTCH CHURCH.
On Religion
-
-
-
-
-06
GELDART, Rev. E. M.
The Living God
- 0 3
GRAHAM, A. D., and F. H.
-------- 0 3
On Faith
HANSON, Sir R. D., Chief-Justice of South Australia.
Science and Theology
------ 0 4
HARE, The Right Rev. FRANCIS, D. D., formerly Lord Bishop of
Chichester.
The Difficulties and Discouragements which Attend the Study of
the Scriptures
-
-
-
-
-
_
_ 0 6
HINDS, SAMUEL, D.D., late Bishop of Norwich.
Annotations on the Lord’s Prayer. (See Scott’s Practical Remarks)
Another Reply to the Question, “What have we got to Rely
on, IF WE CANNOT Rely on the Bible ? ” (See Professor Newman’s
Reply)
A Reply to
the Question, “ Apart from Supernatural Revela
tion, what is the Prospect of Man’s Living after Death ’ ”
A Reply to the Question,. “ Shall I Seek Ordination in the
Church of England? ”
Free Discussion of Religious Topics. Part I., is. Part II Is 6d
The Nature and Origin of Evil. A Letter to a Friend
- ’
0 6
0 6
0 6
2 6
0 6
HOPPS, Rev. J. PAGE.
Thirty-Nine Questions
on
the
Thirty-Nine Articles
Portrait ------
With
0 3
JEVONS, WILLIAM.
The Book of Common Prayer Examined in the Light of the
Present Age. Parts I. and II. 6d. each Part
- 1 0
The Claims of Christianity to the Character of a Divine
Revelation Considered
. 0 6
The Prayer Book adapted to the Age _ 0 3
KALISCH, M., Ph.D.
of the Past and the Future. Reprinted from Part I. of
his Commentary on Leviticus. With Portrait
_
. 1 0
Theology
KIRKMAN, The Rev. THOMAS P., Rector of Croft, Warrington.
Church Cursing and Atheism
_
®
1
On Church Pedigrees. Parts I. and II. With Portrait. 6d. each Part 1
On the Infidelity of Orthodoxy. In Three Parts. 6d. each Part - 1
LAKE, J. W.
The Mythos
of the
Ark
0
0
6
0 6
LA TOUCHE, J. D., Vicar of Stokesay, Salop.
The Judgment of the Committee of Council in
Mr Voysey
_
.
_
the
LAYMAN, A, and M.A. of Trinity College, Dublin.
Case
of
_ 0
3
Law and the Creeds
------ 0 6
Thoughts on Religion and the Bible
0 6
M.A., Trinity College, Cambridge.
Pleas
for
Free Inquiry. Parts I. and II. 6d. each Part
1 0
�IV
Index to Homas Scott1 s Publieations.
Price.
Post-free.
MACFIE, MATT.
d’
Religion Viewed as Devout Obedience to the Laws of the
Universe
.
-06
MAITLAND, EDWARD.
Jewish Literature and Modern Education ; or, the Use and Abuse
of the Bible in the Schoolroom.
How to Complete the Reformation. With Portrait
The Utilisation
of the
Church Establishment
-
- 1 6
- 0 6
- 0 6
-
- 0 6
M.P., Letter by.
The Dean
of
Canterbury
on
Science and Revelation
NEALE, EDWARD VANSITTART.
Does Morality depend on Longevity ?
- 0 6
Genesis Critically Analysed, and continuously arranged; with Intro
ductory Remarks -
-
-
-
-
-
The Mythical Element in Christianity The New Bible Commentary and the Ten Commandments
-10
- 1 0
- 0 3
NEWMAN, Professor F. W.
Against Hero-Making in Religion
-06
James and Paul
-06
Letter on Name Christian. (See Abbot) On the Causes of Atheism. With Portrait
- 0 6
On the Relations of Theism to Pantheism; and On the Galla
Religion
-06
Reply to a Letter from an Evangelical Lay Preacher
- 0 3
The Bigot and the Sceptic
- 0 6
The Controversy about Prayer - 0 3
The Divergence of Calvinism from Pauline Doctrines
- 0 3
The Religious Weakness of Protestantism
- 0 7
The True Temptation of Jesus. With Portrait
- 0 6
Thoughts on the Existence of Evil
- 0 3
OLD GRADUATE.
Remarks on Paley’s Evidences
- 0
6
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
- 0 6
-
-
- 0 6
-
-
- 0 6
OXLEE, the Rev. JOHN.
A Confutation
of the
Diabolarchy
PADRE OF THE ESTABLISHED CHURCH.
The Unity of the Faith among all Nations
PARENT AND TEACHER, A.
Is Death
the end of all things for
PHYSICIAN, A.
Man ?
A Dialogue
by way of Catechism,—Religious, Moral, and
Philosophical. Parts I. and II. 6d. each Part The Pentateuch, in Contrast with the Science and Moral Sense of
our Age. Part I.—Genesis -
-
PRESBYTER ANGLICANUS.
-
-
1 0
- 1 6
Eternal Punishment. An Examination of the Doctrines held by the
Clergy of the Church of England
-
-
-
-
The Doctrine of Immortality in its Bearing on Education
ROBERTSON, JOHN, Ooupar-Angus.
Intellectual Liberty
The Finding of the Book -
ROW, A. JYRAM.
Christianity and Education
in
-
-
India.
St George’s Hall, London, Nov. 12, 1871
-
-
-
- 0 6
0 6
-06
- 2 0
A Lecture delivered at
- 0 6
�V
Price.
Post-free,
s. d.
Index to Thomas Scott's Publications.
SGOTT, THOMAS.
0 9
AS IS UP A. JAiJSYY
__
Commentators and Hierophants ; or, The Honesty of Christian
1 0
Commentators. In Two Parts. 6d. each Part
0 6
Miracles and Prophecies 0 6
Original Sin
*
0 6
Practical Remarks on “ The Lord s Prayer
The Dean of Ripon on the Physical Resurrection of Jesus, in
its Bearing on the Truth of Christianity
"51
The English Life of Jesus. A New Edition
- 4 i
The Tactics and Defeat of the Christian Evidence Society -00
STATHAM, F. REGINALD.
Rational Theology. A Lecture
-
-
-
-
- 0 3
STRANGE, T. LUMISDEN, late Judge of the High Court of Madras.
A Critical Catechism. Criticised by a Doctor
Defended by T. L. Strange
Clerical Integrity
. Communion with God
The Bennett Judgment
The Bible; Is it “The Word of God?”
The Speaker’s Commentary Reviewed
-
of
-
-
Divinity, and
’
-
-
SYMONDS, J. ADDINGTON.
The Renaissance
q
0 3
Modern Europe
of
a
" A «
- 0 3
"12
- 0 0
-26
TAYLOR, P. A., M.P.
Realities
-
VOYSEY, The Rev. CHARLES.
A Lecture
A Lecture
on Rationalism
on the Bible
An Episode in the History
On Moral Evil
W. E. B.
An Examination
of
of
Religious Liberty.
0 6
0 6
With Portrait 0 6
Some Recent Writings about Immortality - 0 6
WHEELWRIGHT, the Rev. GEORGE.
Three Letters on the Voysey Judgment
Evidence Society’s Lectures -
WILD, GEO. J., LL.D.
Sacerdotalism
-
-
-
and the
-
•
Christian
-
- 0 6
-
-06
WORTHINGTON, The Rev. W. R.
On the Efficacy of Opinion in Matters of Religion
- 0 6
Two Essays : On the Interpretation of the Language of The Old
Testament, and Believing without Understanding - 0 6
ZERFFI, G. G., Ph.D.,
Natural Phenomena and their Influence on Different Religious Systems 0 3
�Since printing the preceding List the following Pamphlets
have been published.
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Post-free.
& d.
BENEFIOED CLERGYMAN, WIFE OF A.
the Deity of Jesus of Nazareth. Parts I. and II. Price Six
pence each Part ----1
On
MACKAY, CHARLES, LL.D.
The Souls
of the
0
-
Children
NEWMAN, Professor F. W.
„TTHistorical Depravation of Christianity
0 3
PHYSICIAN, A.
The Pentateuch, in Contrast with the Science and Moral Sense of our
Age. Part II.—Exodus
STRANGE, r^' TUMISDEN, late Judge of the High Court of Madras.
The Christian Evidence Society
An Address to all Earnest Christians The Exercise of Prayer -
0 3
0 3
SUFFIELD, the Rev. ROBERT RODOLPH.
The Resurrection -----Is Jesus God?
-----Five Letters on a Roman Catholic Conversion -
W. E. B.
The Province
of
CANTAB, A.
0 3
2 0 3
0 3
Prayer -
0 6
Jesus versus Christianity
0 6
DUPUIS, from the French of.
Christianity a Form of the
BRAY, CHARLES.
Illusion and Delusion
-
Our First Century
Via Catholica. Part II.
great
Solar Myth
.
ANON.
MACLEOD, JOHN.
1 0
-
.
0 9
0
0 6
1 3
-
Religion : its Place in Human Culture -
0 6
The Story
0 3
STONE, WILLIAM.
of ti-ie
Garden of Eden
KIRKMAN, Rev. T. P.
Orthodoxy
from the
Hebrew Point
of
View
FROM “ THE INDEX,” published at Boston, U.S.A.
Talk Kindly,
MUIR, J., D.C.L.
but
Avoid Argument
Three Notices of “The Speaker’s Commentary,” Translated from
the Dutch of Dr A. Kuenen
MACFIE, MATT.
0 6
0 3
0 6
The Religious Faculty : Its Relation to the other Faculties, and its
Perils
------
FOREIGN CHAPLAIN.
Everlasting Punishment. A Letter to Thos. Scott -
C. W. REYNELL, PRINTER, LITTLE PliLTENEY-STREET, HAYMARKET, LONDON, W.
0 6
0
��SCOTT’S ‘ ENGLISH LIFE OF JESUS.’
In One Volume, 8vo, bound in cloth, post free, 4s. id.,
SECOND EDITION
OF
THE ENGLISH LIFE OF JESUS.
RECENTLY PUBLISHED BY THE AUTHOR,
THOMAS
SCOTT,
11 THE TERRACE, FARQUHAR ROAD, UPPER NORWOOD,
LONDON, S.E.
�
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Everlasting punishment : a letter to Thomas Scott
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Wilson, John [b.1811]
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 35, [6] p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Published anonymously. Author identified by earlier cataloguer as Thomas Wilson, b.1811, and in publisher's list as Foreign Chaplain. Signed at end of text (p.35): Rationalist. Index to (list of) Thomas Scott's publications at end (6 p.). Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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Future Punishment
Hell
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Text
C(
FIVE LETTERS
ON A
CONVERSION TO ROMAN CATHOLICISM
BY
ROBERT RODOLPH SUFFIELD.
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS SCOTT,
NO. 11, THE TERRACE, FARQUHAR ROAD,
UPPER NORWOOD, LONDON, S.E.
Price Threepence.
��ON
A
CONVERSION
TO
ROMAN
CATHOLICISM.
Alfred Villa, 2 Parson’s Mead,
Croydon, Surrey.
My Dear Sir,—Your niece is, with the best inten
tions, preparing for herself an almost irreparable
calamity. For a brief period, she can, without selfreproach, use those powers of reason and conscience
given to her by God, to be cultivated—not abrogated.
It would be a crime to destroy our own natural limbs,
our own natural eyes, and replace them with the
limbs of another or the docile eyes of a machine. But
it is also a crime (though perpetrated without malice)
to substitute for our individual reason, the conscience
and will of another. From the moment she has sworn
the soul’s servitude to an Italian nobleman, and to any
English or foreign gentleman appointed to represent
him in the confessional, she will deem herself bound
not to think “ what is right ? ” but to ask another,
“ Tell me what is right and I will be your slave and
do it, and if my thought or conscience suggest to me
that you are mistaken, I swear to banish such sugges
tions from my mind as a temptation ? ” She will reply,
“1 do not intend submitting to these men as men, but
as the chosen and infallible representatives and mouth
pieces of God.” Then to elect that infallibility, she
must use her own fallibility. Thus, the result can
�6
On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
never (logically) be to her more infallible than the
result of her own fallible investigations, but it will
become all that the man claiming that infallibility
chooses to make it, for that man will use his absolute
and irresponsible authority to forbid his mental and
moral slave from ever even interiorly questioning his
assumptions. Obeying an ex-officer, a nobleman’s
son, an Italian who received a very meagre education,
who is aged, benevolent, infirm, wayward, honest,
obstinate, and profoundly self-conscious that he is the
inspired representative and infallible vicegerent of the
god of the universe, your niece will imagine that she
is performing an heroic act, in prostrating before a
foreigner she has never seen, the conscience, the re
sponsibility, the judgment imparted to her by God.
She will reply “ God tells me thus to cast my mental
and moral nature at the feet of a stranger.” Where ?
How ? When ? Those are the tremendous questions
she is now preparing to solve. That investigation
must indeed be lengthened and profound, seeing how
stupendous, how unnatural is the result. A miracle of
miracles, indeed, is needed, to set aside the personal
responsibilities proclaimed by the creation of God.
Your niece is preparing to consign to eternal torture
every individual who does not recognise a Roman
nobleman as the infallible governor of mankind:
who does not accept as essential to eternal sal
vation, a dogma, which was an open question
amongst Roman Catholics until the last three
years. She is preparing to renounce the Universal
Father and to substitute for worship the God of a
privileged sect, who will appear on the altar like a
small biscuit. She is preparing to renounce the
brotherhood of mankind, to seek admission into a sect
anathematizing—not only her parents and friends, but
millions and millions of mankind. Profound, indeed,
must be the investigations, certain the convictions
which can enable her thus, innocently, to blaspheme
�On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
7
Gocl’s goodness, to limit His mercy, and to anathema
tize His children.
When I was a Roman Catholic I often discussed
with fervent and believing Roman Catholic priests, a
fact we all noticed, namely—that converts invariably
deteriorated—either mentally or morally ; we puzzled
ourselves over the solution. I am inclined to think
the solution is this—Converts are very sincere and
earnest; they work out the system thoroughly and
practically, and thus reap its gravest disadvantages.
For a few years your niece will be very fervent, very
eccentric, and very happy. Then if her former better
human nature begins to arise again, she will sadly feel
that she has made a mistake. She will probably
hardly dare, thoroughly, to own it to herself
and never to others, but will bear it as a silent
sorrow to her grave. She will say strong bitter
things against heretics, and wear scapulars, and confer
for hours with a “ director,” but a universal scepticism
will have possessed her heart—wearied, disappoint
ed, and fearful. I have witnessed this a thousand
times. She is worshipping a vision of beauty which
only exists in her imagination ; like many other gentle
and good souls, she will cling to the illusion and fancy
it a reality. Should she enter the Roman sect, I
could almost wish that the illusion should endure to
the end ; otherwise, when the disenchantment comes,
and she, awakening to the reality, sees not a vision of
beauty, a heavenly Jerusalem on earth, but an ecclesi
astical polity, striving by ignoble means for the
mastery j sickened, saddened, and deceived, she will
wish she had never been born.
You ask me what books would help her. The
question is to me a difficult one. I have read much
in defence of the Roman Catholic dogmas, but very
little on the other side. There are works which I
could commend for many facts and arguments, but
■disfigured by calumnious attacks upon the Roman
�8
On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
Catholic clergy and the Roman Catholic nuns, and
by misapprehensions as to some doctrines. Moreover,
the present Roman Catholic Church is only three years
old, and the antagonistic literature is therefore limited.
The controversy is limited now to the infallibility of
the Pope. If the Vatican dogma be accepted, all the
rest must follow. Upon that subject I might name
“ The Pope and the Council, by Janus.”—“ Papal
Infallibility and Persecution; ” a small brochure (Mac
millan, 1870), “ The Roman Catholic not the one true
religion ” (Triibner), and Whately’s “ Errors of
Romanism ” and “ Cautions for the Times,”
Blanco White’s works are invaluable, but unfortun
ately difficult to obtain ; they ought to be reprinted.
I name authors who assume as divinely authoritative
the Canonical Scriptures, and who believe that in our
little world the God of the Universe became an infant
and died; but I consider that she ought to study
deeper, and to ask herself “ Is the Bible infallible ? ”
“ Did God become a baby ? ” “Did God die?” In such
inquiries she would be helped by the works of FrancisNewman, Greg, Martineau, Hennell, Voysey, Vance
Smith, and Thomas Scott of Norwood.
Surely she ought to pause and examine before com
mitting herself to a position from which she would
not easily recede. She will become attached to priests
and nuns, and Roman Catholics, for she will find them,
in England and Ireland—kind, gentle, and affection
ate ; just the characters she would the least wish towound ; not in reality, more good than others, but, in
some respects, perhaps to her, more attractive. If I
exaggerate the virtues of English and Irish Roman
Catholics, you will pardon the partialities of affection,,
of gratitude, and of memory.
The more I love them, the more do I lament that
terrific dogma which compels them to reply to that
love with an anathema. These words of warning you
may use as you like—but I am not hopeful—many
�On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
9
are the slaves of the imagination, and they offer
themselves as holocausts to an illusion.—-Yours very
sincerely,
Robert Rodolph Sufeield.
Second Letter.
It is probable that your niece has made up her
mind to become a Roman Catholic; in that case, I
do not think that the most cogent arguments would
affect her. She has committed herself to a corpse,
and her whole existence will be occupied in an unceas
ing effort to galvanise it into life, and dreaming amidst
illusions to persuade herself that they are realities.
Once let a person with blinded eyes grasp a leader,t
and be persuaded that it would be criminal to doubt
his infallibility, the docile slave “knows” that all
arguments and facts opposed to his claims are wrong,
and only asks, “What are the best replies?”—and
there are plenty of replies—replies sufficiently plausible
to satisfy those who are determined to be convinced ;
sufficiently skilful, contradictory, and refined to em
barrass those who have good sense, an honest heart,
£nd not much learning.
All persons have their special moral weaknesses.
Men and women whose minds have been either
effeminated by the “nothingness” of what is with
cruel sarcasm called “ good society,” or at once wearied
and weakened in futile search after that absolute
certainty which all the sects insist on declaring to be
■essential for “ salvation,” plunge into the Roman
Church, much as the fevered forlorn will plunge into
the dark flowing river—one leap, and it is all over.
During the leap, what can you do ? After the leap,
the corpse floats along with the current; if eddies of
foam occasionally are seen, it is because there is still
a remnant of life, and amidst the pleasantly benumb
ing flood, the victim moves on restlessly to death.
�io
On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
No arguments can dispel a moral weakness which all
the churches have conspired to create, and to enforce
by creeds. All her life she has been praying against
“ heresy,” as if it were a foul moral crime, and profess
ing opinions over and over again, as if so to do were
the essential virtue. Correct opinions on abstruse and
intangible questions have been done up into amulets,,
which hung in chains over her mind as an Anglican ;—
she suddenly has been startled by perceiving that there
are difficulties she cannot solve;—morality would require
her to think—weakness makes it easier to submit
—and she submits to the most reckless asserter. A
mind weakened finds comfort in yielding to whatever is
the most positive. The Roman Church has no doubts,
can answer everything, and though the answers con
tain absolute contradictions, that is all so much the
better, because ‘it is all a mystery.’ Moreover, the mind
cannot easily embrace in its vision opposing difficul
ties, when each difficulty aggregates around a dogma,
set off with all the paraphernalia of poetry, legend,
and tradition.
In the Church of England she had a cultured and
zealous priesthood, confessors, absolution, sacraments,
baptismal regeneration, sodalities, creeds, superstitions,
prayers, anathemas against sectaries, apostolic succes
sion, submission enjoined to ecclesiastical authority—
she is frightened lest there should be a flaw in some
of these, so she resolves to seek them in the church
whence they flowed into the Church of England. If
we say to her, “ Perhaps there is a flaw in the Roman
Church,” she replies, “ Oh, but there must be certainty
and security somewhere, and where, if not in
Rome ? ” She is probably too much imbued with anglican orthodoxy to be able to accept the only reply,
“ There is not absolute certainty anywhere, but there
is security everywhere to the seeker who never utters
or acts a conscious lie in the name of religion.”
Nevertheless she may possibly be open to a warn-
�On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
11
ing; and you may, as you desire it, use my name in
conveying to her the following :—
My statements on this subject cannot be treated as
devoid of authority. For twenty years I was apos
tolic missionary, and discharged duties not unim
portant in many parts of England, Ireland, Scot
land, and France. I published a work (“ The
Crown of Jesus,”) which obtained the widest cir
culation, was publicly commended by all the arch
bishops, and received the papal blessing. I left
the Roman Catholic Church on the day on which
the Papal Infallibility was proclaimed. I never in
curred, even in the smallest matter, the censure of any
ecclesiastical super'or. I never even had a quarrel
with any Roman Catholic lay or ecclesiastic. There
fore I have none of the bi tterness which sometimes is
found as the result of con flict. I have the most per
fect and intimate acquaintance with all the minutest
workings of the system in all departments of the
Roman Church. All who have known me in public
or in private during the last three years, can testify
to the affectionate kindness of my feelings and speech
as -to all the Roman Catholics whom I have known at
any period of my life. From my father, who, like
all his predecessors and relatives, belonged to the
Roman Catholic Church, into which I was received
by lay baptism in infancy, I obtained those feelings of
respect and sympathy towards the old religion which
brought me to its sacraments in the midst of my uni
versity career. My father had privately ceased to be
lieve in any orthodox creed, and though during twothirds of his life he never practised the Roman Catholic
religion, he never opposed it. Sharing the liberal ideas
then so common amongst educated Romanists, he re
garded the Church of England as almost identical with
the Roman Catholic Church, but more beneficial in its
influence, less dangerous, less logical, less arrogant,
�12
On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
less consistent, more enlightened. His remembrance
of the first French Revolution retained him in a con
servatism at once religious and political, and family
traditions flung around Catholicism a halo of poetry,
and inspired, even to a sceptic, a chivalric affection
like that felt by Royalists towards the Pretender.
Reared thus amidst a union of Scepticism, Conservat
ism, Catholicism, and Anglicanism, and surrounded by
characters of singular beauty, just at the period when
Anglicanism was extolling Romanism, and returning
to it as a child to its mother, I gave myself to the
priestly life with an enthusiastic and undivided alle
giance. Unable to prove to my satisfaction any of
the dogmas of orthodoxy, I accepted them all “ on
the authority of the Church.” The “ authority of the
Church” I accepted because a revelation without a
distinct interpreter could be no revelation at all, and
taking the premise for granted, there was no alternative
for a Christian but to acknowledge either the Roman
Church or the Greek Church; but the Greek did not
claim a living infallibility. At that time the “ autho
rity of the Church” was left undefined—a faithful
Roman Catholic could change his stand-point accord
ing to the exigencies of historic or logical difficulties;
at one time he could mentally meet a difficulty by
remembering that the personal infallibility of the
Pope had never been defined; at another time he
could allow to the system its full logical development,
and deem the papal infallibility true, though modified
by restrictions mentally invented to meet difficulties
as they arose. Thus argumentatively the “ authority
of the Church” rested on its necessity, if dogmas be
essential. The Roman Church presented the creden
tials of supplying that condition now; and having
supplied it in times past, it possessed the logic of
success, a success by no means adequate to its claims,
but the success of having alone lived through genera
tions to realise the idea of a wide-spread theocracy.
�On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
13
Under that vague conception of “authority” vested in
a divine society, many could have died peacefully
without a doubt. But the present Pope was deter
mined to accomplish in his reign the wildest dreams
of mediaeval ambition. Encyclicals were issued to
anathematise liberty of conscience, the liberty of the
press, the liberty of the state, the liberty of science,
the liberty of association, the liberty of the episcopate;
to denounce civilisation, freedom, progress, and inves
tigation ; the world was to be divided between slaves
and the accursed. Honest men began to say the
Pope cannot be infallible, for these teachings are
obviously immoral, they renew in precept the very
enormities which we have all our life long been
indignantly repudiating. If these decrees are to be
deemed infallible, no Boman Catholic can without
hypocrisy engage in political life, or demand a single
political liberty. Then a few prelates like Dr Man
ning, urged on by laymen like Dr Ward and M.
Veuillot, and by a section of the Jesuits, flung them
selves into the papal schemes, and began to urge
on the definition of Papal Infallibility ; thus for two
or three years raged a domestic controversy which
touched the very foundation of the Roman Catholic
system, viz., “ Where does the infallibility exist 1”
The most learned Romanists proved that the con
templated dogma of papal infallibility was utterly
opposed to Scripture, reason, history, morality, reli
gion.. The infallibilists (or Neo-Catholics) argued
that it was the only logical development, and that it
obviously existed nowhere else. During this contro
versy doubts arose in numerous minds. Most Roman
Catholics determined to refuse to think, they drove
away doubts by the violence of their denunciations
and the loudness of their professions. Many priests
and laymen (to my certain knowledge) lost all faith,
but bound to the Church by the ties of interest,
affection, family, and pride, have remained in it, often
�14
On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
siding with the bitter outward profession of the party
of non-thought. Several of the learned refusing to
abdicate reason, virtue, and history, yet clinging to
sacramental and traditional Christianity, being men
of courage and sincerity, renounced papal allegiance,
and became “ Old Catholics.” Some (of whom I was
one) saw every atom of the fabric crumble away on
its foundation of mist. Such, from the religion of a
sect girding itself for the persecution and debasement
of humanity, passed, at first sadly (how sadly few can
tell), out of the associations of the past, into the reli
gion of the universe, the theism which, if undefined,
embraces all.
When the fearful interior conflict had ended, and
I found myself no longer a slave to Pope, bishop, supe
rior, confessor, and a sectarian God, it still seemed to
me almost wrong to think or to act independently.
It was only by degrees that I could realise the degrad
ing, soul-subduing bondage from which I had been
delivered; then great joy and peace possessed me, as
I felt myself rise from slave into man. Most docile
Roman Catholics are happy whilst they believe; slaves
are happy under prudent masters, but it is a happi
ness which degrades master and slave. This personal
history will explain the mixture of opposing feelings
with which I touch the Roman Catholic question, viz.,
tenderness, gratitude, and love towards the Roman
Catholics I have personally known, and heard of in
my family, along with an intense dislike and dread of
the system of Neo-Catholicism which is now identified
with Vatican Infallibility. Your niece, like many
others, has mistaken for palliation of the system, my
homage of affection rendered to persons who conscien
tiously are its victims. Moreover, I have no sympathy
with the vulgar, ignorant calumnies against Roman
Catholics, and therefore, even in the first sermon I
preached in London as a Unitarian or Theist, in a
Unitarian Chapel, hearing that some intended to come
�On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
15
expecting to hear an anti-Romanist oration, I selected
for my subject, a practice familiar to Roman Catholics
and many other religionists, but rejected by most Pro
testants. Thus, whilst I systematically deprived my
secession of every feature which could conciliate vul
gar support, I felt that I reserved to myself that power
which in the end belongs to those who, though they
occasionally with calmness warn, yet more frequently
■extenuate, and never calumniate.
Third Letter.
The English Romanism of to-day differs from that
•of Gother, Charles Butler, and Lingard, as much as
Pusey differs from Tillotson. The declarations made
by the Vicars Apostolic whereby Roman Catholic
emancipation was obtained, are now “ damnable
heresies.” For the modern Vatican religion teaches
that the Pope is, and always has been, infallible
whenever he in his own mind means to speak or
write authoritatively as Bishop of Rome and Vicar of
Christ. That decree elevates all former bulls, encycli
cals, pastorals, and pontifical teachings into inspired
and infallible documents. The Pope is by divine right
supreme (in all matters he deems important) over all
potentates and all individuals. He is an irresponsible
universal dictator. A Roman Catholic has to believe
with interior assent not only every statement in the
Old and New Testament and in the apocrypha, but
also everything in the bullarium. Almost every in
famy and absurdity possible has at some time or
other been thus proclaimed. Besides the dead weight
of the past, nothing remains for the future but a
leaden despotism. At any moment the Pope may,
at the instigation of an ignorant Italian monsignore,
send a telegram or letter which he may intend to be
official (ex Cathedra)—that document may contradict
�16
On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
science, fact, and the whole universe of God, but it
must be not only obeyed, but believed—intentionally
to doubt it would entail an eternal hell. Volumesare already filled with “ condemned propositions ”—
all these are now divine condemnations, and mercy,
justice, and toleration, will be found therein accursed.
To ordinary Roman Catholics, the papal authority
is publicly exercised through the Bishop, and privately
through the Confessor. If an ecclesiastical order is
given, and to a grave degree violated, it is a mortal
sin, such as excludes from heaven unless absolution has
been given to the penitent promising never to repeat
the disobedience. These orders regard innumerable
matters of ordinary secular, domestic, political, social,
educational, commercial, scientific, and social life—in
short everything a person cares about. Books, news
papers, societies, amusements, soldiers, magistrates,
peace, war, parents, husband and wife, children,
—all are minutely legislated for. It is a mortal sin
in any matter to obey the state, or parent, or con
science, in defiance of the Pope. Therefore all such
matters have to be treated of in the confessional, and
settled there.
However, still there remain a few things at the
choice of this papal slave. There is a machinery to
enslave even that feeble remnant of personal re
sponsibility. The system of the Jesuits has now
permeated the Roman Catholic Church, and operates
through the Bishops quite as much as through the
“ Society? Tl*e Jesuits annihilate the individual by
“'direction.” During the last few years they have
rapidly spread the system of direction throughout
this country, and the Anglicans are extensively
adopting it.
The theory of direction is this—besides the con
fession of sins—it is highly pleasing to God to ask
the advice of the confessor on all the minutest details
of life,—individual, domestic, political:—the direction
�On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
of the confessor is not infallible, “ but his very errors
will be overruled to the spiritual benefit of the docile
penitent.” Jesuit directors chiefly exercise their skill
on people of the higher and middle classes, or on
interesting penitents, but, to the disgust of many of
the older clergy and laity, this odious system of
espionage and arbitrary interference is rapidly per
vading all the confessionals. Frequently have I heard
good and experienced Priests deplore the fatal results—the character rendered morbid and weak, cast at the
feet of a man the least qualified to guide—-for it is
notorious that the Priests who chiefly strive to become
“ directors ” are the most self-sufficient, narrow, con
ceited, and egotistic, though under a mark of sanctity
which deceives no one more than themselves.
On incidental occasions the confessional has rendered
a service, but I fully concur in the conviction ex
pressed by several of the most thoughtful, excellent,
and believing Priests, that very frequent confession
is invariably an evil. Continually are Priests pain
fully puzzled by noticing that people never improve
by confession—that those who do the least required by
the ecclesiastical law, are nearly always superior in
character to those who do the most.
Knowing, as I do, the excellent intentions of most
of the priests and most of the lay people practising
that rite—knowing the many sacrifices entailed for
tis accomplishment—I do not make these remarks
with pleasure, but I tear them from my memory, with
grief of heart, in answer to your inquiries.
Fourth Letter.
Your niece says that whether the Eoman Catholic
religion be true or not, anyhow it is good for her—
of course it is right for her to do whatever she honestly
and thoughtfully deems right. Individual rectitude
�18
On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
depends on conscientious intention. In such cases
intentions are sometimes mixed and vague. Although
not agreeing with you in blaming the priests. I cannot
accept the statement as worded by your niece.
In the end, an illusion cannot be the best for any
sane person. The question is whether certain state
ments are true or not. If true, we ought all of us
to embrace them. If false, it is morally wrong knowingly to embrace or to encourage them.—it is injurious
to do so ignorantly,—e.g., Was Peter Pope at
Rome when Paul wrote to the Romans without
naming him? Was Peter Pope when Paul opposed
him?
Does ecclesiastical history show us the
Bishops of Rome claiming the infallible powers now
claimed by Pius IX? All the modern Roman Catho
lic religion rests on papal infallibility. What are the
overwhelming proofs to substantiate a dogma dis
believed by the most learned Roman Catholics only
three years since? Such matters do not rest on
internal consciousness, but on history. Can it be
God’s intention that all religion should rest upon a
complicated historical investigation ? Again, all past
papal teachings are now infallible, therefore the con
demnation of Copernicus and Galileo, should be ap
proved. The devout Roman Catholic ought to believe
that the sun moves round the earth, the earth being
stationary and flat.
Again, all the past decrees about purgatory, indul
gence, and the scapulary now bind as articles of faith.
Therefore any one who can contrive to die wearing
two bits of blessed brown cloth cannot go to hell,
and will be saved from purgatory by the Virgin Mary
on the Saturday after death. All miracles and visions
approved by the Pope, now are articles of Christian
Faith. These things are either facts or fables. Dr
Manning sometime after the death of his wife became
a Roman Catholic; almost immediately he was or
dained a Roman Catholic Priest, then he went to
�On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
19
begin the study of Theology at Rome. He main
tained the papal claims and became archbishop; a
young man kneels before him, gets his head touched
by him, and a little oil rubbed on his hand, whilst a
few words are muttered. The next morning that
young man takes hold of a little biscuit and a glass
of sherry, and when he has whispered four words over
these, the biscuit becomes a man, and the glass of
sherry becomes a man—any person must go to hell
for ever who should in his mind fail in his belief that
all the flesh, blood, and limbs of Jesus as man are in
each, as also his human soul, and his divinity—should
any crumbs drop from this divine man, who looks,
feels, tastes, like baked bread—each such crumb
contains the hands, feet, and entire body of that
same man.
A priest had taken this “ sacrament ” in a pyx in
a little bag in his waistcoat pocket to give it to a sick
person [for a Roman Catholic has to believe that he
eats a man, and swallows his God]; the sick person
died without the sacraments necessary for salva
tion, because the priest had on his way called on a
friend to fix a boating trip. The priest was grieved,
but as the man was dead, he went his boating trip,
having the “host” in his pocket—a shower of rain
came on, and the water got into the pyx in which
Jesus Christ was. The priest on his arrival at the
house, opened the pyx and could not decide whether
what he saw was Jesus Christ or dough—if the ap
pearance of bread remained, then it was Jesus Christ
-—if the appearance was that of dough, then Jesus
Christ was not there. Such is the theology binding
on all. The question is, are such things revealed
truths? if so, how tremendous must be the evidence
which can alone justify our accepting such statements
without the immorality of hypocrisy or conscious
illusion. What evidence did the Apostles adduce
that they possessed such powers ? Did they ever
�20
On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
claim, such powers ? Priests now only claim them by
a virtue handed down to them by the rite of ordina
tion. How would the evidence satisfy an English
court of law ?
When a Roman Catholic has swallowed the host,
he has within his stomach the limbs, feet, hands,
heart, blood of Jesus—the identical human body
which was once on the cross—that body continues
within his body as long as the qualities and appear
ances of bread remain, z'.e. until it is decomposed. The
appearances of bread are’ merely present in the host
miraculously. Surely such transcendent miracles ought
to have been propounded distinctly by Jesus and the
early disciples, if truly believed by them.
Fifth Letter.
Roman Catholics are strictly forbidden to dwell'on
any thought likely to produce doubts ;—but for that
crushing of the mind, no one could live in such un
ceasing uncertainty. Uncertainty accompanies every
act of his religious life, from its commencement to its
close. Nothing in his religion is valid unless the
minister of the sacrament means the miracle—the
outward act is not enough. Unless the Pope means
to speak officially, his utterances are not infallible;
his saying that he means it is not sufficient, he must
mean it; but the outward act binds others just as
much as if he did mean it. I would never do any
thing for the sake of wounding the feelings of Roman
Catholics ; but if I, though no longer a priest, (ex
cept by a Papal theory), chose to go into a baker’s
shop and say, Hoc est corpus meum, and meant to con
secrate ; all the quarterns, half quarterns, rolls and
biscuits made of pure flour and water would become
men—so many Jesus Christs ;—but those wherein the
ingredients were, to a considerable part, potatoe,
�On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
11
alum or rice, would not change. When I was at St
Sulpice, a devout priest of the Solitude at Issy, thus
thought he had accidentally consecrated all the French
rolls at dinner, and requested people to pause and
adore their God present on the table-cloth with his
human body. On another occasion, that same priest
forgot to say the words of consecration at mass, being
in ecstasy; so he communicated all the people with
bread instead of flesh, and only afterwards remem
bered his mistake. If I went into a wine merchant’s,
and whispered a short sentence over the bottles and
casks adequately open to my view,—the wine, if not
too much brandied, watered, or adulterated, would
all become God and man. If the wine on the altar
be not pure, there is no change produced at consecra
tion—no God—no human body—no blood. The
priest buys his altar breads of a bookseller; his house
keeper cuts them up and trims them with scissors,
and puts them out ready for consecration; if the
priest does not mean to consecrate when he says the
words, or if he says the words erroneously, no conse
cration takes place ; or if he means only to consecrate
the hosts in one particular vase’on the altar, whereas
other hosts are lying close by, these others continue
bread. The same doubts infest all the Sacraments.
The Roman Catholic abdicates his reason to a church'
which presents to him nothing but a complication of
uncertainties, to be acted upon without investigation.
As to the beauty of the services—it is all very well
for people who like tinsel, and haberdashery, and
genuflections, and plenty of wax candles ;—undoubt
edly, young children, and grown up children, are
pleased with such pretty baubles, but those who are
Behind the scenes are perfectly sick of them, and only
go through them as a duty. Before a high festival, a
vestry is like the green-room of a theatre ; and in the
month of May, the dressing up of the Madonna is
gone through with a feeling of shame by every man
�22.
On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
who is not a born woman. I think an exception
must be made for the bishops. I believe that when
a bishop is dressed up in all liis tawdry, crowned with
a mitre of gilt pasteboard, and genuflected to, and
addressed as my Lord, that it does rather please the
recipient—though I know that some of the bishops
are not beguiled by the adulation, but regard it all as
necessary nonsense to be gone through for the sake of
a good slice of absolute power. People who like a
show, can see it done better in a theatre—and it is
quite as religious ; for the instruction given to all the
performers of the solemn masses, and other grand func
tions, is not to pray, but to mind the ceremonies, so as
to perform them accurately. Dr Gentili used to say
—“ I have been all over Italy, and found once, in a
country village, a sacristan who was not an atheist; ”
reminding me thus of the repeated saying of an Eng
lish Roman Catholic bishop when he returned from
Rome: “There is one honest man there, and he
is weak, vain, and obstinate.” Every one understood
him to mean the Pope. The whole thing is rotten
where it is not an illusion; and these dear good Eng
lish and Irish Roman Catholics being not allowed to
think or to question, are the more easily surrounded
with the halo of their own gentleness, and tenderness,
and reverence. I do not mean that they are gentle
or tender towards heretics and unbelievers, for they
are not. They are bound to believe them morally
criminal; hateful to God, and deserving of all pun
ishment. To a believing Roman Catholic, persecu
tion is now de fide, and a virtue. The Vatican sect is
at enmity with the human race.
You are not correct in your opinion regarding
priests and nuns. I quite concur with your statement,
that if your niece gives herself up to them, and then
leaves them, she will have to endure much from them
even in this country. When Dr Newman and Dr
Manning left the Church of England, and joined the
�On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
■ 23
Church of Rome ; when —-—- (a Unitarian lady)
became a Roman Catholic, Unitarians expressed
surprise, but never calumniated, knowing how im
possible it is for all good and clever people to think
alike; but if your niece leaves the Roman Catholic
church, she must expect to be calumniated. The
Roman Catholics regard heresy as so foul a moral
crime, that to impute to a heretic one or two more
lesser crimes, cannot be regarded as a grave injury.
The kindest thing they will say of her will be—“ She
is mad;—she always was rather weak—she is not re
sponsible
or else it will be, “ She deceived us when
she joined us; she never really had faith, only opin
ion
she is proud and wayward.” Such sayings
whispered against her, will not be pleasant; espe
cially when, in all probability, accompanied with
more malignant insinuations ; she had much better
pause now, reflect more, read on both sides, weigh
real evidence. It will be terribly difficult and
painful to retract; particularly in countries like Eng
land or Ireland, where she will probably not get
shocked by scandals, but on the contrary, attracted by
many gentle virtues and pleasing child-like simplicities.
At one time I thought such virtues existed only amongst
Romanists, and those Anglicans who approximated to
them. I now perceive with gladness that all these
beautiful qualities are the appanage of human nature,
that where they exist, their existence is not the crea
tion of any dogma or sect-—that they are to be found
in all churches, sects, and creeds, united with all be
liefs and disbeliefs. When I left the Roman Catholic
Church, I expected never again to find some of the
attractive specialities of characters I had known and
loved. I have found them just the same—just the
same variations—I now believe in human nature.
�24
On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
You will thus perceive that I cannot endorse your
apprehensions regarding the Roman Catholic clergy in
•countries happily possessing numerous opposing sects.
Nothing would be so fatal to morality as what
anglicans call the union of the churches. You know
the admirable reputation of the anglican and noncon
formist clergy—the Roman Catholic clergy equal them.
The life of a Roman Catholic priest (especially if
belonging to a religious order) is a very comfortable
life ; he has no anxieties, no responsibilities, no future
to provide for; he may become somewhat egotistic,
self-indulgent, and pharisaical; he may attend sick
calls and the confessional much, as an ordinary minded
surgeon will visit cases j the high-flown things said
of him are in general moonshine ; but his life will be
as morally respectable as if he were a rector or a
minister. The differences will be merely external.
In most parts of South America no native ever goes
to confession—the “religion ” consists in wax madon
nas—and the madonnas are decidedly preferable to
the priests; also as to Spain, Portugal, and Italy, unim
aginative Roman Catholic travellers do not report
well. But in England, Ireland, and Scotland, it is
different—the priests vary as to birth, education, and
characteristics, but they are neither better or worse
than their fathers, brothers, and companions.
As to the nuns, most priests of experience are
agreed that they ought not to have parochial schools,
reformatories, or boarding schools; that secular teachers
succeed much better, with much less show; also, that
nuns after some years of convent life, nearly invari
ably deteriorate. But never in the way you suppose.
I do not mean that nuns do not even, very frequently,
■dote on their confessor with a morbid, sickly, and
intense personal attachment ; they very often do ; as
do also the girls injudiciously secluded in convent
boarding schools; but I assert, emphatically, that
•other accusations as applied to this country, are not
�On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
2 5-
true ; I have been “ extraordinary ” of different con
vents j if I knew of scandals through private confid
ences thus intrusted to me, I should of course, in
honour, be silent on the whole subject: but I unhesi
tatingly assert that, as to the popular rumours of
criminalities between nuns and their confessors, it is,
to the best of my English experience, absolutely false.
I the more willingly glance at real evils, that I may
be trusted when I deny unfounded charges. Many
nuns in convents are not happy, but then they deem
that unhappiness a sign that it is pleasing to God,
and if they were turned out by Mr Newdegate, they
would seek re-admission. But many more are very
happy—lead the life of harmless and rather supercil
ious, self-righteous children, and if they never become
superiors, retain their childish simplicity and sweet
ness much more than when they become “ representa
tives of God.” Nuns all regard Jesus Christ as their
husband, and cultivate towards him the conjugal feel
ing, especially in the most recluse communities.
And now I have answered all your questions. I
leave my letters at your disposal according to your
urgent request. You can unite with them the first
inclosure, changing in all the letters enough to conceal
the persons alluded to. The other parties agree to
their free circulation or publication.
For myself, under the circumstances I felt bound to
speak, but it has been with pain. When anglican
converts have left the English church—in which they
had passed so many happy and holy years, they
speedily published against it diatribes, in which
they seemed to delight, for they dipped their pen in
gall. I cannot say that it is with any approach to
such feelings that I write of Roman Catholics ; I know
that, theoretically, they cannot reciprocate my affec
tion and esteem ; but it has been always a delight to
me when I have been able to clear them from unjust
�16
On a Conversion to Roman Catholicism.
aspersions; it is with sadness that I warn against
that fearful despotism, under which they must, as
time advances, be prostrated more and more. May
some of those, dear to me by a thousand memories,
obtain courage to investigate, and then, conscientiously
shaking off the incubus, arise as the freed children of
the Universal Father.—Yours very sincerely,
Robert Rodolph Suffield.
TURNBULL AND SPEARS PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
�
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Five Letters on a conversion to Roman Catholicism
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Suffield, Robert Rudolph
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 26 p. ; 18 cm.
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Thomas Scott
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1873
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Catholic Church
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Conversion-Catholic Church
Conway Tracts
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Title
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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In memoriam. John Stuart Mill, ... South Place Chapel, Finsbury, Sunday, May 25th, 1873
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Place of publication: [s.l.]
Collation: [6 p.] ; 18 cm.
Notes: Hymn by W.J. Fox, music by E. Taylor; Readings; hymn adapted from Gaskell, music from Beethoven; Meditation; poem by George Herbert; Discourse; poem by Sarah F. Adams, music by Miss Flowers. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
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[s.n.]
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1873
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G5202
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South Place Religious Society
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
John Stuart Mill
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Conway Tracts
John Stuart Mill
Memorials
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Text
IS JESUS GOD?
A SERMON
PREACHED AT THE FREE CHRISTIAN CHURCH
CROYDON.
�G
/
IS JESUS GOD?
A SE RMON
PREACHED ON TRINITY SUNDAY,
AT the
FREE
CHRISTIAN
CHURCH,
CROYDON, NEAR LONDON.
BY
ROBERT RODOLPH SUFFIELD,
Minister of the Congregation.
PUBLISHED BY THOMAS
SCOTT,
NO. II THE TERRACE, FARQUHAR ROAD, UPPER NORWOOD,
LONDON, S.E.
1873.
Price Threepence.
�PRINTED BY C. W. REYNELL, LITTLE PULTENEY STREET,
HAYMARKET, . W.
�IS JESUS GOD?
--------<-------
“ The hour cometh, and now is, when the true worshippers
shall worship the Father in spirit and in truth : for the Father
seeketh such to worship Him.”— John iv. 23.
N increasing number of thoughtful men deem the
doctrine of the Deity of Jesus to be against God,
against reason, against progress, against results, against
history, against Jesus Christ, against the scriptures. Let
us briefly examine this doctrine.
In the Gospel of Luke, ch. ii., Mary, when chiding
Jesus, speaks of Joseph and herself as his parents:
“ Thy father and I have sought thee sorrowing.” The
question we consider this morning is whether, in spite
of her statement, he was in reality God, and not the son
of Joseph and Mary. This is not a question of theo
logical subtleties, as when people discuss the incompre
hensible nature and essence of the Supreme Being; it is
a question of fact; it is also a question of great practical
importance. If Jesus is God, we lose his example as
man; but, what is more important, we distance God,
worshipping Him, as Jesus, in a rebaote Heaven. More
over, we obtain a very peculiar and somewhat hopeless
idea of God, namely, as acting a part, as feeble, or
appearing as if feeble, as capable of being flogged by
His creatures, as needing food, as being educated like a
young boy; the Omnipotent in a cradle, the Eternal
A
�6
Is Jesus God?
dying, the author of life in a grave. God, so utterly
defeated, perhaps may be defeated again. God, once a
baby, once a corpse, may hereafter thus relapse.
If the universe was once guided from a cradle, presided
over from a grave, guided by one obedient to a Jewish
married couple, we ought to know it. If such state
ments are false, we ought to be disabused of them as
injurious and superstitious.
Is Jesus God ? I do not consider this morning
whether he was a specially appointed and miraculous
Messiah, whether he was supernaturally born, or whether
his soul had in some way pre-existed, but, was he
God ? is he God ? not in some fanciful, poetical, unreal
way, but according to the belief of the Churches of
Rome, of England, of Scotland, as expressed in formu
laries, articles, and creeds: “ God of God, Light of
Light, Very God of Very God, of one substance with the
Father• ” as expressed in the collect for Christmas Day,
“ Our Lord Jesus Christ who liveth and reigneth with
Thee, ever one God, world without end,” and in the last
prayer of the Morning and Evening service (prayer of
St Chrysostom), where Jesus is addressed as “Almighty
God ”—or, as in the Litany, where he is addressed as
“God the Son,” and then, throughout the whole Litany,
invoked, to the neglect of God the Father—for, ex
cepting a few sentences, all the Litany is addressed to
Jesus. It is not the God of the Universe we find ad
dressed—but a God who had an incarnation, a nativity,
a circumcision, a baptism, a temptation, and a death—
such as, “ the Good Lord ” is asked to deliver us from
all the interior sins of the soul; from murder, heresy,*
and sudden death; and as supreme over the earth and
skies, is asked to preserve to our use the kindly fruits
and the due seasons. Watts, in one of his hymns,
speaks of “ This infant is the Mighty God, Come to be
* How shocking to associate with crimes the honourable
variations of opinion upon difficult questions.
�Is Jesus God?
7
suckled and adored;” and in another hymn he speaks of
Jesus as the “Infant Deity,” the “Bleeding God.”
The great Church of England divine, South, in
his defence of the Deity of Jesus, condemns “ the
men who cannot (as he says) persuade themselves
that Deity and Infinity could lie in the contemptible
dimensions of a human body;” “that- omnipotence,
omniscience, and omnipresence should be wrapped in
swaddling clothes; that the glorious Artificer of the
Universe who spread out the Heavens like a curtain, and
laid the foundations of the earth, turned carpenter, and
exercised his trade in a small shop,” &c. &c. The cele
brated defence of the Church of England, entitled the
4 Characters of a Believing Christian,’ and commended
by Convocation, thus presents a summary of Christian
belief: “ He believes a virgin to be the mother of a son,
and that very son of hers to be her Maker. He believes
Him whom Heaven and Earth could not contain to
have been shut up in a narrow womb ; to have been born
in time; who was and is from everlasting; to have been
a weak child carried in arms, who is the Almighty, and
Him once to have died who only hath in Himself life
and immortality.” Such is the faith which, according
to all the so-called orthodox Churches, is necessary to
everlasting salvation.
Such is the orthodox dogma of the Deity of Jesus.
Is not the very statement of it enough to prove the first
two heads of my argument—that it is against God, his
greatness and unchangeableness, against reason, and all
the apprehensions of our mind ?
But some, who in recent days have embraced a new
dogmatic position, and who teach that Jesus was not
God in the orthodox sense, but only as a kind of mani
festation of God, argue against us, and say, “ By denying
such a divinity in the nature of Jesus you lower
humanity—it is good to admit that in one human body
and one human soul the divine soul of the Universe was
breathing, inspiring, dwelling.” We reply: “ Un
�8
Is Jesus God?
doubtedly; but such dogma, thus explained, is a
heresy according to the decision of all the Churches ;
you have borrowed the idea from us, and limited to
Jesus what we declare to be in various degrees the
appanage of all; we recognise the Divine Soul of the
Universe, breathing through all souls, and according to
the great word of Jesus, making all men “ one with him,
and one with his father.” The dogma of the Deity of
Jesus deprives us of the greatest idea of God, violates
the reason and consciousness of mankind, and, if
explained mystically, limits to one what belongs to all.”
It may be said, “What matter,—it pleases some,—others
could not part with the idea without pain.” We reply:
“ It impedes progress, it involves the perpetuation of all
abuses ; to protect this dogma of the deity of Jesus we
must have creeds, articles, complicated theologies,
anathemas, persecutions, and priesthoods; we must dis
courage astronomy because it reminds of God’s immen
sity, and reject geology because it proclaims this world’s
antiquity. The doctrine cannot be proved out of the
Scripture, therefore, sooner or later, its advocates must
fall back upon the Church. The orthodox divines argue
that the doctrine of the deity of Jesus is very consoling
and beneficial because it brings God nearer to us. The
Roman Catholic replies: “Not at all so, unless you
admit that he still dwells amongst us in the Host on the
altar.” The orthodox Protestants say: “ We cannot
believe that God is contained in a little gilt box, or
carried about in a clergyman’s waistcoat pocket.” The
Roman Catholic replies, “ How inconsistent, since you
already believe that He was once contained in a
manger in a stable and seated on Mary’s lap,
The orthodox say, “ There are some isolated passages
of Scripture which imply the Deity of Jesus.” The
Roman Catholic replies, “ There are as many passages
which insinuate the supremacy of the Pope, the Deity
of the Host, and the everlasting damnation of
unbelievers.” The Roman Catholic says, “We hold
�Is Jesus God?
9
■with you the Athanasian dogma; our Church is
the chief upholder of the Deity of Jesus; in the
Church of England you have bishops, priests, and very
many people who deny it; the Dissenters are not always
clearly and persistently orthodox on the subject, all the
advocates of free thought reject it, the German successors
of Luther either deny it or explain it away; in this
Church of the Pope it is guarded with a vigilance and
anxiety nowhere else to be found.” But the Roman
Church is also the avowed enemy of all progress, of all
liberty, of all science, of all mental and moral independ
ence. Thus the dogma of the Deity of Jesus stands
as a barrier against all the progress, the liberties and
the education of mankind.
4thly,—Results prove the falsity of the dogma. The
God of the Universe, 1,800 years ago, was born into a
Jewish family, lived amongst people who did not find
out that he was God, his mother ordered him about and
reproved him, his friends and disciples argued with
him, contradicted him, invited him, and went out to
dinner with him—but they knew not that he was
their Creator. In distress we fly to God ; the disciples
were in distress, but they fled away from Jesus.
And the results at the present time, what are they ?
The Jews are supposed to have possessed prophecies
to enable them to discern Jesus as their God. The
8,000,000 Jews still reject him as even a Messiah, and
as to the supposed prophecy of him in Isaiah as God,
they say that the English translation is so maliciously
distorted that an educated Hebrew boy scorns such
dishonest perversions of the sacred books of his nation.
In the East, when after six centuries the dogma of the
deity of Jesus got established, a new religion arose to
denounce it as an idolatry, and 120,000,000 of Mahommedans as a protest against such an idolatry, invoke
the one universal, all-pervading God, when, day by day,
His name is proclaimed from the minaret of a hundred
thousand mosques. One million Parsees still, as in the
�IO
Is Jesus God?
days of old, proclaim the One God. This God-Jesus,
created by Greek and Boman Bishops, has never won
belief amidst the 120,000,000 of the Brahminical
religion, or amongst the 189,000,000, of Pagans, or
amongst the 483,000,000 of Buddhists, His deity is
only partially admitted amidst the 171,000,000 of
Protestants, though strenuously maintained by the
182,000,000 of those who declare that, through the
Pope, this modern God alone commands. What a
success for a Deity !
But, 5thly,—What says History ? The orthodox
teachers tell us now, that the deity of Jesus is the one
great feature of Christianity, that on it rests the essen
tial dogmas of the atonement and of a vicarious re
demption from an eternal hell.
We turn to the first sermons of the first propagators
of Christianity. St Paul propounds Christianity at
Lystra, amidst a multitude prepared to offer sacrifice to
him, and he does not even name Jesus; but he warned
them to turn from such like vanities (man-worship),
“ to turn to the living God, who made heaven and earth
and the sea, and all things that are therein.” Such was
the teaching necessary for the salvation of Asia Minor—■
nothing about the deity of Jesus. Paul went to Athens,
and on the Hill of Mars, from the very throne of the
Greek philosophy, surrounded by the temples of the
deified men who had become gods of war, of beauty, of
love, of art, and of wisdom, he proclaimed the Chris
tianity deemed sufficient for the salvation of Greece—
but not one word about the deity of Jesus—but, inviting
them to turn from such superstitions, he says : “ Whom
ye ignorantly worship, him declare I unto you—God
that made the world and all things therein, seeing that
He is Lord of heaven and earth, dwelleth not in temples
made with hands, neither is worshipped with men’s
hands ; as though He needed anything, seeing He giveth
to all life, and breath, and all things ; and hath made
of one blood (life) all nations of men for to dwell on
�Is Jesus God?
II
all the face of the earth, and hath determined the times
before appointed and the bounds of their habitation ;
that they should seek the Lord if haply they might feel
after Him, and find Him, though He be not far from
every one of us: for in Him we live and move and have
our being; as certain also of your own poets have said,
For we are also His offspring. Forasmuch, then, as we
are the offspring of God, we ought not to think that
the Godhead is like unto gold, or silver, or stone, graven
by art and man’s device. He now commandeth all
men everywhere to repent (reform), because He hath
appointed a day in which He will judge the world in
righteousness by that man whom He hath ordained.”
What was the first sermon ever preached by a
disciple of Jesus ? On the day we now call Whit
Sunday, Peter lifted up his voice, and for the first
time proclaimed Christianity (Acts ii.) He therein
announced that all Christians would have the power of
working miracles, and proclaimed other portents and
prodigies, but uttered not one word as to the deity of
Jesus ; but he solemnly exclaims : “ Ye men of Israel,
hear these words, Jesus of Nazareth, a man approved
of God, by wicked hands crucified and slain,” &c., and
he ends by proclaiming Jesus to be the Master and the
Messiah, that is “Lord and Christ.” Thus Christianity
could be first solemnly announced to the world without
one word about the deity of Jesus or his atonement.
Any one now preaching that sermon of Peter would be
declared by all to be a Unitarian of the school of Chan
ning, and Priestley, and Belsham. Look at the address
of the first martyr, Stephen (Acts vii.), not one word
.about the deity of Jesus. In Acts ix. read the account
of the supposed miraculous conversion of St Paul.
Jesus is described as appearing to him, but he does not
announce himself as God. The converted Saul preached
to prove that Jesus is the Messiah, or to use the current
Jewish expression, the Son of God, or the Christ—e.g.,
ix. 22—“ Saul increased the more in strength, and
�12
Is Jesus God?
confounded the Jews which dwelt at Damascus, proving
that this is the Christ.” Why he ought to have proved
that Jesus is the Creator and Supreme God. On the
pages of history we can trace the gradual growth of this
dogma. Platonists, like Philo, had introduced the idea
of a Logos (i.e., Power, or Beason, or Word) dwelling in
the Supreme Being and emanating from Him. That
Platonic notion engrafted itself into Christianity, and
gradually produced the Nicene and Athanasian creeds.
How gradual was the corruption of Christianity we can
perceive by examining the works of Origen, that man of
profound and varied learning, who, after writing many
commentaries on the sacred Scriptures, died a.d. 254.
The Pagan superstition of praying to Jesus had already
spread amongst the ignorant multitude, for Origen, in
his treatise on prayer, says: “ Prayer is never to be
offered to any originated being, not to Christ himself,
but only to the God and Father of all.” For when his
disciples asked him, “ Teach us to pray,” he did not
teach them to pray to himself, but to the Father—con
formably to what he said: “ Why callest thou me good ?
there is none good but one, God the Father.” How
could he say otherwise than, “ Why dost thou pray to
me ? Prayer, as you learn from the Scriptures,is to be
offered to the Father only, to whom I myself pray.”
It is not consistent with reason for those to pray to a
brother who are esteemed worthy of one Father with
him. “You with me, and through me, are to address
your prayer to the Father alone.” Let us, then, at
tending to what was said by Jesus, pray to God with
out any division as to the mode of prayer. But are we
not divided if some pray to the Father and some to the
Son. Those who pray to the Son fall into a gross error
through want of judgment and examination.” Such
was the teaching of a man unrivalled among Christians
for his virtues and his wisdom, whose death was the
result of the tortures he endured for his faith. As
Christians deteriorated morally they became addicted to
�Is 'Jesus God?
T3
sophistry, superstition, and Pagan imitations ; the dogma
of the deity of Jesus gained ground till it was, at length,
formally established by Bishops who deemed their
deliberations inspired; once established with the help
of numerous cruel persecutions, and in defiance of
innumerable protests, it was received by the Gothic con
verts, and afterwards by the first Protestants on autho
rity ; but, whenever Protestants carry out their princi
ples, and inquire, we find the most illustrious rejecting
the deity of Jesus, witness, amongst so many others,
Milton,* John Locke, Sir Isaac Newton, and, at the
present time, almost all the leaders in science, in philo
sophy, in criticism, and in literature.
6thly,—The dogma is opposed to Jesus Christ; it is
a libel upon his moral character. If he was God, he
ought not to have said “ The Father is greater than I; ”
“ I go to my God and your God.” He ought not to
have prayed and to have said in his agony, “ Remove
from me this cup, nevertheless not what I will but what
Thou wilt; ” and, with his last breath, “ Father into
thy hands I commit my spirit ; ” “ My doctrine is not
mine but His that sent me; ” “ As my Father hath
taught me I speak these things ; ” “I seek not my own
glory, but I honour my Father; ” “To sit on my right
hand and on my left is not mine to give ; ” I come not
to do my own will but the will of Him that sent me—I
do nothing of myself.” He was tempted, he prayed to
God, he gave thanks to God: “ Father, I thank Thee
that Thou hast heard me.” He declared his ignorance
of important matters—“ Of that day knoweth no man,
not the angels, neither the son, but my Father only; ”
“ My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me ? ”
“In that day ye shall ask me nothing.” The life, the
conduct, the language of Jesus combine in showing him
to be man. The advocates of his deity adduce expres
sions which on other occasions he applies equally to all
his brethren.
* Milton’s last work is a scriptural argument to disprove
the Trinity, and the Deity of Jesus.
�14
Is Jesus God f
The Jesuits argue that it is lawful to* conceal the
greatest truths and the gravest matters, and to act as if
they were not—for, they say,—“Jesus was God, he
concealed his Deity, and by that concealment deceived
everybody—and we ought to imitate him.” Their argu
ment is logical; the immorality can only be censured by
those who deny the deity of Jesus. If it is replied he
was both God and man, whatever does not suit for one
nature must be applied to the other, we say “ Where is
that evasive doctrine of contradiction ever stated,”
when by Jesus ? by what apostle ? Nowhere; it was
the sophistical invention of subtle Greek bishops when
they had determined on the deification of Jesus, and
had to reconcile their superstition with the life and
words of Jesus.
7thly,—The dogma, if admitted, is destructive of the
character of all the New Testament writers. Even
were we to admit as genuine the passages now univer
sally admitted to be spurious, such as the three witnesses
in St John, even accepting the mistranslations of King
James’s version as if correct, accepting as of apostolic
age what is falsely entitled the Gospel of St John,—all
that can then be said in defence of the deity of Jesus is
that a few passages here and there exalt Jesus very
much, and are considered by many to point to his
divinity. But as such passages are deemed by others
no proof at all, and as the entire tenor and drift of each
writer is quite opposed to the deity, it would have been
most dishonest of a writer to have introduced so trans
cendently important a dogma only in a casual incidental
way, and never accompanied with statements calculated,
if not to convince of the truth of the dogma, at least to
show that it was held. The adorers of the God-Jesus
now do not thus convey their teaching, they do not
incidentally insinuate the dogma amidst entire pages of
an opposite tenor; but they insist on it as the one
essential feature of Christianity; they propound it in
the minutest mode ; they anathematise all who cannot
�Is Jesus God ?
*5
believe it; they address prayers and litanies to Jesus as
God ; they supplement the scriptures with explanations
and history with false statements; and by complicated
controversies they deem it possible to prove what is
declared to be essential to the salvation of all.
My brethren, the deifier and adorer of Jesus, the
deifier and adorer of Buddha, is doubtless, if sincere
and good, as pleasing to the Supreme Being as the
adorer of God. Salvation consists in truthfulness of
speech and act, in goodness, in earnestness, in selfdevotion to the highest thoughts we know.
The adorers of a deified Jew are doubtless as pleasing
to God as those who adore their Creator, so long as
their adoration is the truthful expression of their
thought; when it ceases to be such, their adoration is
an immorality.
But strive to hasten on the time when the poor souls
of our brethren shall no longer be lacerated with the
conscientious endeavour to accept as essential what they
cannot prove.
True religion needs no critical and learned arguments,
no gods who have to be proved by texts and supported
by arduous apologies; the living truth is in the con
science and the soul of man. Be true to yourself and
you will be true to God. Let worthy ecclesiastics prove
out their gods ; we will be content if we can love some
what better the God and Father of all, and in Him love
and serve all our brethren. This short life will soon be
over: ’ere it has passed away may we have helped for
ward some we love to thoughts more holy, more truthful,
more happy, more grand, more beautiful than super
stition.—Amen. So be it.
��NOTES.
.
(1) The aggregations which cluster around the memory of a
great character vary with the traditions and characteristics of
the people who are the grateful recipients of his benefits. If
Jesus had been born in Athens, Rome, Mexico, or India, the
mythological legends created by credulous affection to enshrine
his life, and embellish his teaching, would have taken their
character from some superstition or philosophy pervading in
the locality. Early biographies published in other countries
would, in all probability, combine their national conceptions
with those of the country of his birth. Thus in the three
earliest Gospels we find Jewish actions and teaching attributed
to Jesus, and genealogies tracing his descent from David and
Abraham. He is a Jew of Jewish origin, a miraculous Messiah,
a Theist teaching the pure monotheism which was the highest
development of Jewish religious thought. Those three Gos
pels, although varying in many important details, are similar
in general tone and scope. The Fourth Gospel not only intro
duces special variations and contradictions, but is essentially
different in its conception of the teaching and spirit of Jesus.
That Gospel, first named by Irenaeus, who died a.d. 203, was
probably compiled by a Christian of Ephesus, perhaps John
the Presbyter, with the help of traditions, and perhaps MSS.,
bearing the name of John the Evangelist. Ephesus was one
of the towns in which dominated the mystical Platonic Philo
sophy, as modified by Philo the Jew, about the time of the
birth of Jesus; therefore the writer surrounds Jesus with two
aggregations, the Judaic and the Platonic. Our Poets
personify “Fear,” “Hope,” “Charity,” “Envy,” “Melan
choly.” The Platonists not only personified, but considered
that all existing things had an original idea substantially
B
�18
Notes.
abiding in the mind of God, in whom was moreover a faculty
•or power whereby He arranged the ideas after which He
moulded all things. The “ Logos ” (i.e., “ Power,” “ Wisdom,”
-or “Word”) was this faculty existing in the Divine Soul, and
in different degrees manifesting itself in great and good men.
Thus Philo calls Moses “ the Divine Logos,” the “ law-giving
Logos,” the “ supplicating Logos (alluding to his intercession
for the Jews).” Aaron he calls the “Sacred Logos.” He
repeatedly calls the Jewish High Priest the “Logos.” He calls
good men the “ Logos.” The attribute in God which fills,
inspires, and manifests itself in men, he thus describes “The
Logos is the eldest creation of God, the Eternal Father,
eldest son, God’s image, mediator between God and the world,
the highest angel, the second God, the High Priest, the Recon
ciler, Intercessor for the world and men, whose manifestation is
especially visible in the history of the Jewish people.” And Philo
thus addresses his Jewish readers : “ If you are not yet worthy
to be denominated a Son of God, be earnest to put on the
graces of His First Begotten Logos, the most ancient . . .
for if we are not prepared to be esteemed children of
God, we may, at all events, be thus related to the most
Holy Logos . . . for the most ancient Logos is the image
of God.” Philo personifies “ Wisdom and Goodness,” but
he does not seem to regard them as real Persons, but only as
“ Ideas ” in the divine mind, which breathe forth into the soul
of men. Thus a Platonic Jew writing a memoir of Jesus
amongst the disciples of Philo in Ephesus, amongst people
familiar with the language regarding wisdom in “ Ecclesiasticus,” “ Wisdom,” &c. Writing, moreover, with a controversial
object, as he affirms (ch. xx. 31), instead of giving any genea
logy or nativity of Jesus, commences his narrative with the
verses we may perhaps best render thus: “ In the beginning was
the wisdom, and the wisdom was with God, and God was the
wisdom. This wasin the beginningwithGod. All things through
it rose into being, and without it arose not even one thing which
has arisen. In it is life, and the life was the light of men, and the
light shines on in the darkness, and the darkness did not
�Notes.
J9
apprehend it............................................ The true light which
enlightens every man, continued coming into the world. . .
. . It came to its own peculiar [home] and its own peculiar
[people] received it not................................... And the wisdom
became flesh [was manifested in a man], and tabernacled
amongst us.............................No one has ever seen God: the
only begotten son [i.e., Wisdom, the Logos], who is upon the
bosom of the Father, declared Him.”
How the language reminds us of Philo’s apostrophe to wis
dom or Logos, as “ the assessor of God prior to all creatures,
a needful companion of deity, joint originator with Him of all
things.” Origen, who died a.d. 253, and Eusebius, who died
A d. 340, notice that as there is no article in the Greek before
the word God, the signification is “ and the wisdom was a
God,” an epithet frequently applied in the Sacred' writings to
designate judges, authorised teachers, commissioned rulers,
angels, and those Beings adored by Gentile nations. (Ex.gr.~)
“ God judgeth amongst the gods,” “ I have said, ye are gods,”
“Thou shalt not revile the gods.” Again, Origen, although
maintaining the pre-existence of all souls, and that emanations
from the deity, like the rays of light from the sun penetrate
into the dark chambers of the human heart, to enlighten and
to abide, and believing that Jesus must have received such
divine in-dwelling light of wisdom, yet disclaims utterly the
superstition which was then rapidly advancing, and which pro
fessed to limit such to Jesus as exceptional and exclusive of
others. “ The great body of those who are considered as
believers, knowing nothing but Jesus Christ, thinking that the
Logos appearing in a man is the whole of the Logos, are
acquainted with Christ only according to the flesh.”
The Platonic idea of the Logos moulding the souls of good
men and dwelling in them, was often interwoven with the
Pythagorean doctrine of the pre-existence of souls, and in
that combination is attributed to Jesus in the Fourth Gospel
(though never in the earlier Gospels) ex. gr. John viii. 58.
.
(2) There are many passages adduced from the OldTestament
to confirm the popular idea of the deification of Jesus ; someB2
�1O
Notes.
times by adaptation, sometimes by referring to Jesus, passages
wherein the Jewish nation is personified and individualised.
Thus, in Isaiah, all the words applied by Trinitarian commen
tators to a suffering Messiah, regard the sufferings of “ God’s
servant Israel,” the Jewish nation’s sufferings “ expiating ” the
national sins, “ moving God to compassion,” and preluding an
immediate and triumphant restoration. In such sense those
passages were understood by the Jews at the tjme and since,
and it is only by artifices of mistranslation that the meaning is
perverted, ex. gr., “ a virgin shall conceive and bear a son,’*
should be “the young woman ” (probably Isaiah’s wife) “ will
conceive and bear a son.” The birth of his other sons, and
the names imparted to them, had signified events just to occur,
the birth of this one, named Emanuel, was to signify the
speedy deliverence of the Jews from the invading kings.
.
(3) A few detached and casual texts are relied on by Trini
tarians as the basis of their belief in the deity of Jesus, ex. gr.
Thomas the Apostle, who did not believe in the bodily resur
rection, is described as seeing Jesus alive, and, just as we ex
claim in surprise “ Good God,” so Thomas exclaimed “ My
Master! my God.” The Apostle who had, up to that moment,
supposed the statement of the resurrection to be a mere “ idle
woman’s tale,” cannot, by feeling the mangled side of Jesus,
have all at once arrived at a belief heretofore unexpected and
unasked, namely, that Jesus was not only the Messiah but the
God of the Universe. People acquainted with ecclesiastical
history do not attach much importance to the “ traditions ” of
the first six centuries, whereby the deity of Jesus was esta
blished—but Keble, in his Oxford Sermons, says most truly:
“ I need hardly remind you of the unquestioned historical fact
that the very Nicene Creed itself, to which, perhaps, of all
formulae we are most indebted for our sound belief in the proper
divinity of the Son of God—even this creed had its origin,
not from the Scriptures, but from tradition.”
We now derive our conceptions of God from the human soul.
God is to the universe what our soul is to our body; therefore the
higher our idea of man the higher our idea of God. But nations in
�Notes.
21
their infancy worshipped God piecemeal, or portions of nature
or a human form. Hence Paganism, Brahmahism, and Budd
hism had their incarnations, Judaism had no incarnation, but
Jehovah was regarded as a man who could talk, eat, walk
about, be angry and pleased, and take sides like a man.
When the Greek and Latin Bishops had, after some cen
turies, got the dogma into a definite form, the Scriptures
provided a few questionable passages which were useful for
the defence of a foregone conclusion. If we include amongst
such the passages interpolated, corrupted, and mistranslated,
the only subject for wonder is that so tremendous a dogma
should have so little to appeal to. Amongst the corrupted
texts, we would allude to 1 Tim. iii. 16, wherein the word
“ God ” is spurious. In Acts xx. 28, where the true reading is
“ Church of the Master ” and not Church of “ God.”
Amongst mistranslations, we might advert to Phil. ii. 5,
“ thought it not robbery to be equal with God.” This is
deemed by Trinitarians one of their very few decisive passages,
though even as it stands it is not worth much, for it would
be absurd to speak of “ God thinking it not robbery to be
equal with God.” The expression that Christ was “ in the
form of God,” or “ as God,” or the “ image of God,” does not
seem to imply anything more than when it is said to a child,
“ You must look on your parents as representing God to you.”
On the dogma of the deity of Jesus rests the Papacy, the
sacramental system, ecclesiastical exclusiveness, the denun
ciations of I Heresy,” the atonement, and all the numerous
doctrines which form one or other of the forms of orthodoxy ;
and yet that stupendous dogma rests upon only a few inci
dental texts.
(4) Prayer to Jesus is nowhere enjoined in the New Testa
ment ; and yet it could not, according to the orthodox theory,
be a matter of indifference. It was either to be done, or it
was not to be done. The introduction of a new object for
prayer was a vast change; it demanded special directions, so
that the two objects of prayer might retain what were proper
for each: no such explanations exist; no precept for its
�22
Notes,
observance. There are allusions to those blessings of which
Jesus Christ was deemed the minister to men—ex gr. “ Grace
through Jesus Christ,” “ the Grace of Jesus Christ.” There
are allusions to the interest which Jesus was supposed to
exhibit towards his disciples on earth, but nothing implying
prayer to him as God. There is no evidence that the' las t
words of Stephen, in which he prayed for his murderers, were
addressed to Christ.
But one portion of his speech was spoken to Jesus, who
(according to the narrative) was standing before him, and as
his friend and master could be asked therefore to receive his
dying breath.
(5) Suppose Jesus to have been miraculously born, to have
healed the sick, raised the dead, ascended into heaven, and
helped his followers from his heavenly abode—such miracles
would not prove him to be any greater than those men to
whom similar powers are attributed iu the Old Testament.
(6) All Religions surround their Infant Gods with similar
legends. Thus, in the sacred books of the Buddhists, we read
that, when Buddha, the God-man was born, “the Holy King,
the Grand Being, turning His eyes towards the East, regarded
the vast host of the angels, Brahmas and Devas, Asuras,
Granharvas, Repamas, and Garudas, and they rained flowers
and offerings upon him, and bowed in adoration, praising him
and crying, “ Behold the excellent Lord, to whom none can be
compared, to whom there is no superior; and the ten thousand
worlds quaked, and the Universe was illumined with an
exceeding bright light.” Of Confucius it is written, “ He may
be compared to heaven and earth in their supporting and
containing all things; he may be compared to the four seasons
in their alternating progress, to the sun and moon in their
successive shining. He is the Equal of Heaven. Call him an
Ideal man, how earnest is he! Call him an abyss, how deep I
Call him Heaven, how vast 1 ” When Mohammed was born, we
are told in the sacred legends of the Moslems “ that a bright
light issued from the breast of his mother, illumined all Arabia,
and then, penetrating into Paradise, caused 70,000 palaces of
�Notes.
23
pearls and rubies to spring into being; that, when he was
three years of age, two angels opened his side, took out his
heart, pressed from it the black drops of sin, replacing them
with the light of prophecy.” When Jesus was born, we are
told, in the sacred legends of the Christians, that “ a star left
its station in the heavens to indicate his birthplace, kings of
unknown lands travelled, with miraculous speed, to lay gifts
at his feet, angels filled the air with their songs, making the
mountain sides radiant with light. That child of Nazareth is
described, in the theological legends of later followers, as
eternal, omnipresent, omniscient, omnipotent, sinless, as
Creator and Preserver of the Universe, as the head of the
Spiritual World, forgiver of sins, final Judge and Rewarder,
in all things equal with God.” Thus does superstition com
press God into a man, and elevate a man into a God.
(7) Since men have learned the vastness of the Creation,
and the antiquity of the world, the dogma of the deity of
Jesus has become more incredible. Scholars admit that it
cannot be proved out of the Scriptures in any way calculated
to satisfy those who know the ignorance existing as to the
authorship of those Scriptures, their authority, originals, and
translations. Roman Catholics admit that it is impossible to
prove anything certain out of the Scriptures, therefore they
assert that the deity of Je3us, like all other dogmas, can be
only accepted on the authority of the Church ; but the autho
rity of the Church has declared that infallibility rests in the
mind of the Pope whenever he intends to use his infallibility.
But how is the infallibility of the Pope proved ? By the
words of Jesus Christ. And yet those very words can be
accepted by Greeks, Protestants, and Theists, who cannot see
in them any assertion of the modern Roman doctrine. Thus
infallibility rests upon disputed texts in books of uncertain
date and uncertain origin; therefore it can never become, to
any individual, anything more than a probable opinion liable
to error—an opinion which, only three years ago, was deemed
by all the most cultured Roman Catholics to be absurd,
unproved, dangerous, unhistoric, uncatholic.
�24
Notes.
(8) From the intuitions of the human mind ; from its
reasonings, feelings, and aspirations ; from its sense of right
and wrong; from all these combined in the experiences of
mankind, and presented to us in the history of humanity, we
can obtain a Religion of Life and of Hope, of discipline and
trustful repose; such, held with diffidence, with earnestness,
with reverence, with fortitude, and with tenderness, revealing
itself in harmony with science, and with our highest moral
and spiritual aspirations, gathering into itself from all
Churches, Sects, and Scriptures, whatever is of universal
application, will keep evolving itself to the soul of man, and
presenting to us as much of certainty as is obtainable in the
ordinary affairs of life, why demand for the future a certainty
of a kind essentially differing from what is adequate for our
daily actions and our daily hopes.
The only theory of God’s moral government which conforms
to our sense of justice in presence of the various opposing
beliefs held by men equally good, truth loving, and anxious,
is that what is really important is attainable by all—namely,
to be truthful in word and act to whatever we think, to strive
to think as correctly as we can, and to practise according to
our light and means, the best to which we see our way. Such
is the best and the happiest religion.
The Author of this sermon will be glad to communi
cate to inquirers, books adapted to aid their researches
into matters which could only be glanced at in these
pages.
The reader is earnestly advised to study the works
of James Martineau, Francis Newman, Theodore Parker,
Hennell, Frances Power Cobbe, Dr Vance Smith, and
those catalogued on the following pages, which can be
procured from the Publisher.
�INDEX
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ABBOT, FRANCIS E„ Editor of ‘Index,’ Toledo, Ohio, U.S.A.
The Impeachment
of Christianity. With Letters from Miss Frances
P. Cobbe and Professor F. W. Newman, giving their Reasons for not
calling themselves Christians
-OS
Truths for the Times
•
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ANONYMOUS.
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-16
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Modern Orthodoxy and Modern Liberalism
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-06
On Public Worship
-03
Questions to which the Orthodox are Earnestly Requested to Give
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The Twelve Apostles
-06
Via Catholica; or, Passages from the Autobiography of a Country
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Woman’s Letter -03
BARRISTER, A.
Notes
on
Bishop Magee’s Pleadings for Christ
-
-
- 0 6
-
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BASTARD, THOMAS H0RL00K.
Scepticism
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The Church
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BERNSTEIN, A.
Origin of the Legends of
Critically Examined -
Abraham, Isaac,
Jacob
-10
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BROOK, W. 0. CARR.
Beason versus Authority BROWN, GAMALIEL.
An Appeal to the Preachers
Sunday Lyrics
The New Doxology
•
and
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-
-03
Creeds -
-
- 0 3
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- 0 3
of all the
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CARROLL, Rev. W. G., Rector of St Bride’s, Dublin.
The Collapse
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by the Orthodox -
Faith; or, the Deity of Christ as now taught
-
-
-
-
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CLARK, W. G., M.A., Vice-Master of Trinity College, Cambridge.
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CLERGYMAN OF THE CHURCH OF ENGLAND.
An Examination of Canon Liddon’s Bampton Lectures
Letter and Spirit Rational Piety and Prayers for Fine Weather
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-
- 0 6
-06
- 0 3
- 0 6
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COBBE, Miss F. P.
Letter
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CONWAY, MONCURE D.
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Is Jesus God? a sermon preached on Trinity Sunday, at the Free Christian Church, Croydon, near London
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 24, v. [1] p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Part of Morris Miscellaneous Tracts 4 and the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Publisher's list on numbered pages at the end. Printed by G.W. Reynell, Little Pulteney Street, Haymarket, London. Includes 8 pages of notes.
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Jesus Christ
God
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Conway Tracts
Jesus Christ
Morris Tracts
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PDF Text
Text
VERS US
CHRISTIANITY.
BY
A CANTAB.
PUBLISHED
BY
THOMAS
SCOTT,
NO. 11 THE TERRACE, FARQUHAR ROAD, UPPER NORWOOD,
LONDON, S.E.
1873.
Pi ice Sixpence.
�LONDON!
rr.INTED BY C. W. REYNELL, 16 LITTLE 1TLTENEY STREET
HAYMARKET, IV.
�JESUS versus CHRISTIANITY.
---------♦---------
HE most notable feature in the present condition
of theology is, indubitably, the rapid multipli
cation of writings designed to point the contrast
between the character, real or supposed, of Jesus,
and the religion which bears his name and of which
he is commonly regarded as the founder. The revolt,
which every day but serves to intensify, is not against
Jesus as par excellence il the genius of righteousness,”
but against the dogmatic system which theologians
have substituted for him. The church, it is alleged,
has outdone Iscariot, in that it has committed a
twofold treachery : it has accepted the murder of its
founder as a sacrifice well-pleasing to the Deity, and
it has repudiated his simple heart-religion for meta
physical subtleties of its own invention. Thus, not
content with making itself a participator in the
murder of his body, the church has dealt a fatal
outrage upon his spirit.
Among the writings to which we have referred as
advocating the displacement of the regime of dogma
and belief by the substitution of one involving
character and conduct, we propose to note especially
‘ The True History of Joshua Davidson,’ reputed to
be the work of a lady well known for the vigour of
her thought and style ; ‘ Literature and Dogma,’ by
Matthew Arnold; ‘ The Eair Haven,’ by W. B.
Owen ; ‘ By and By,’ by Edward Maitland ; ‘ A Note
of Interrogation,’ by Miss Nightingale ; and ‘ Modern
Christianity a Civilised Heathenism.’ All these writ
ings, with the exception of the last, agree in rejecting
A 2
T
�4
'Jesus versus Christianity.
as unproved, unprovable, mistaken, or pernicious, at
least much of what has always been insisted upon by
the church, and in accepting the general character
and teaching of Jesus as the most valuable moral
possession of humanity.
We except the last one for this reason, though
using it to point our argument : It gives up the
state of society which has grown up under the sway
of dogma as utterly un-Christian in character and
conduct, but it does not give up the dogma. The
work of the clergyman who gained an undesirable
notoriety during the Franco-German war by his mis
chievous brochure entitled ‘ Dame Europa’s School,’
it manifests all the confusion of thought which dis
tinguished that production. It was scarcely to be
expected that the writer who could represent England
as placed at the head of the school of Europe to keep
the other nations from quarrelling, and declare that
“ neutral is another name for coward,” would
escape committing absurd inconsistencies when he
took to writing about modern Christianity. In a
dialogue with a Hindoo resident in London, he makes
the heathen discourse in this fashion :
“ How can you soberly believe and eloquently
preach that an overwhelming majority of your fellow
creatures will be burnt alive throughout all eternity
in the flames of hell, and yet can find time or inclina
tion at any moment of your life for any other work
than the work of rescuing the souls around you from
their appalling doom ? How contemplate even so
much as the distant possibility of being yourself
tortured with agonies insupportable, for ages and.
ages and millions of ages more, and all the while
laugh and joke, and talk of politics and business and
pleasure, as if you were the happiest fellow on
earth ? You parsons do actually stand in imminent
peril of being burnt alive for ever, or else you do
not. The souls committed to your teaching, or a
�Jesus versus Christianity.
5
certain proportion of them, are destined to spend a
whole eternity in torment, or else they are destined to
nothing of the kind. If they are so destined, and if
you, unless by precept and example you have done
all in your power to save them, shall have your part
in their unutterable woe, what can you do from morn
ing to night but pray for them, and weep for them,
and implore them earnestly to escape at any cost
from the horrors of an unquenchable flame ? Yet, in
the face of your alleged persuasions that you yourself
and all your flock are standing, for all you know,
upon the very brink of an everlasting hell, you have
deliberately chosen and cheerfully maintain a course
of occupations and a position in society which no
man could possibly endure for half a day who really
believed himself and those dear to him to be placed
in any such peril. What I say is that, if you are not
leading a downright ascetic life—the life of Christ
and nothing less—you waste words upon the air when
you preach the punishment of eternal flames. Would
you believe that my dearest friend upon earth was on
trial for his life, and would very probably be hanged,
if you met me somewhere at five o’clock tea, talking
nonsense to some young lady ? Whereas the average
minister delivers his most awful message, tells his
people plainly that they will be damned, knows for a
certainty that they will go on sinning all the same, and,
under a strong impression that several of his cherished
acquaintances and kindly neighbours will be devoured
by flames unquenchable, walks home to his vicarage,
jokes with his wife, romps with his children, chaffs
his friend, sits down comfortably to his luncheon, and
thoroughly enjoys his slice of cold roast beef and his
glass of bitter beer. Will any man, in his senses,
believe that he means what he has just been saying in
his sermon ? Of course he will believe nothing of the
sort; and therefore it has come to pass that England
is full of intelligent laymen who doubt and disbelieve.
�6
Jesus versus Christianity.
No; lei me see Christians imitating, not a Christ
whom I could fashion for myself out of heathen
materials, not the pattern philosopher, not the ideal
man—but a Christ who at every point is making him
self an intolerable offence to the un-Christ-like, a
thorn and scourge to every man who does not lie
stretched at the foot of his cross ! I know for certain
how Christ would be treated if he were here; I can
see the press deriding him, the fine lady picking her
way past him in the street, the poor flocking round
him as a friend, the magistrate committing him to
prison. Let me see his witnesses treated thus, and
I shall believe that he has sent them. But while I
see them claiming the right to live as other men,
glorying in the fact that they have no peculiarities,
smiling politely on sin, and caressed by those who
would have spat upon their Lord—so long as I see
them thus, they shall teach me if they please the
principles of Christ’s philosophy, but they shall not
dare to tell me that they are priests of a crucified
Christ.”
The conclusion shows that the heathen, having
found such a witness as he requires, accepts the life
—though whether for the sake of the life or through
fear of the hell, does not appear—while the parson
retains the dogma described as above, impervious
to any sense of its hideous immorality, “ and walks
slowly and sadly home, feeling more and more dis
satisfied with his own position.”
In ‘ Joshua Davidson ’ we have an attempt to
transfer the Jesus of the gospels, poor and untaught,
but enthusiast of noble ideas, to our own day, for the
purpose of showing from the inevitable failure of his
life and work, either that modern society is not
Christian, or that Christianity as a system will not
work. The hero of the tale, a carpenter by trade,
early gives up Christianity as a dogma or collection
of dogmas, and falls back upon the character and
�Jesus versus Christianity.
7
social teaching of Jesus as the essence of the gospel,
and alone possessing any real value for us. What
would Jesus be and do were he to live now ? This is
the question essayed to be answered in ‘ Joshua David
son,’ by representing him as a plain working-man,
attacking alike banker and bishop, advocating indis
criminate almsgiving, fraternising with the poor and
discontented, unorthodox in faith, an ultra-radical in
politics, exciting the bitter hostility of the whole
respectable press, denouncing shams, clutching
eagerly at any Utopian extravagance that had a
heart of good in it, a red republican in Trance, an
itinerant lecturer on the rights of man in England,
and finally trampled to death by conservative roughs,
hounded on by dignitaries of the Established Church.
Confident that such would be the career of
Jesus among us, the author is justified in asking of
us, why, if we should thus regard him, do we persist
in calling ourselves by his name and pretending to
be his followers. Surely a question not to be left
unanswered. “We ought,” says the preface to the
third edition, “to be brave enough in this day to dare
ask ourselves how much is practicable and how much
is impracticable in the creed we profess; and to
renounce that which is even the most imperatively
enjoined if we find that it is not wise or possible.
If our religion leads us to political chimeras, let us
abjure it: if it teaches us truth, let us obey it, no
matter what social growths we tear up by the roots.
There is no mean way for men. To slaves only
should the symbols of a myth be sacred, and our very
children are forbidden the weakness of knowing the
right and doing the wrong. If such a man as Joshua
Davidson was a mistake, then acted Christianity is to
blame. In which case, what becomes of the dogma ?
and how can we worship a life as divine, the practical
imitation of which is a moral blunder and an economic
crime ? ”
�8
"Jesus versus Christianity.
It is thus that the author makes the very humanity
of Jesus the proof of his divinity. He is extrahuman, not in any metaphysico-theological sense,
but in the intensity of the sympathy which impels
him to attempt to benefit his fellows. His very
failures are more divine than the successes of other
men. It is thus, too, that having at the start repu
diated the dogmatic system attached to his name, we
are called on to re-examine his ethical and social
teaching, and to avow honestly our rejection of such
parts of it as do not coincide with our notions of the
practicable and right. In short, the appeal is to be
neither to authority nor tradition, but to our own
intelligence and moral sense.
This, too, is the import of Miss Nightingale's
recent utterance (in Fraser's Magazine for May).
Rebuking the tendency of modern reformers to ignore
the character of God, as necessarily underlying the
phenomena which form the subject of their investi
gations, this ‘ Note of Interrogation ’ calls upon us to
regard the moral laws which govern men’s motives as
the real exponents of the divine nature. While thus
adopting the inductive method of Positivism, she
blames the Positivists “ for leaving out of considera
tion all the inspiring part of life,” and stopping short
at phenomena, instead of seeking to learn that of
which phenomena are but the manifestation, and.
to which, therefore, they must be the index. In
this view, she rejects the main points of the creeds
of Roman, Protestant, and Greek alike, and utterly
ignores what is called “ revelation ” as a guide
to the nature of God, and points to the character and
teaching of Christ as among the best indications to
that which ought to be the prime object of search.
In all this it appears clearly that by the term GW
Miss Nightingale really means a human ideal of
perfection, and that she would have us perfect our
ideal for the sake of the reflex influence it would
�Jesus -versus Christianity.
9
exercise upon ourselves. It is by the adoption of the
Christ-ideal of character, and rejection of Christian
dogma, and those on the question of their intrinsic
merits as estimated by her own mind and con
science, apart from tradition or authority, that Miss
Nightingale justifies us in ranking her among the
supporters of Jesus in the great cause of Jesus versus
Christianity.
‘ The Fair Haven ’ is an ironical defence of ortho
doxy at the expense of the whole mass of church
tenet and dogma, the character of Christ only
excepted. Such, at least, is our reading of it, though
critics of the Rock, and Record order have accepted
the book as a serious defence of Christianity, and
proclaimed it as a most valuable contribution in aid
of the faith. Affecting an orthodox standpoint, it
bitterly reproaches all previous apologists for the
lack of candour with which they have ignored or
explained away insuperable difficulties, and attached
undue value to coincidences real or imagined. One
and all they have, the author declares, been at best
but zealous “liars for God,” or what to them
was more than God, their own religious system.
This must go on no longer. We, as Christians,
having a sound cause, need not feai’ to let the truth be
known. He proceeds accordingly to set forth that
truth as he finds it in the New Testament; and, in
a masterly analysis of the accounts of the resurrection,
which he selects as the principal and crucial miracle,
involving all Other miracles, he shows how slender
is the foundation on which the whole fabric of super
natural theology has been reared. Rejecting the
hypothesis of hallucination by which Strauss attempts
to account for the belief of the disciples in the
resurrection, he shows that they had no real evidence
that Jesus had died upon the cross at all. It is true
that the disciples believed him dead ; so that we
need not charge them with fraud. That charge he
�io
Jesus versus Christianity.
reserves for the Paleys and Alfords, whose disingenuousness he scathingly exposes, using the
arguments of the latter to show the absence of anv
proof that Jesus died either of the cross or of the
spear-wound. All that the evangelists knew was
that the body was deposited in the tomb apparently
dead, and that at the end of some thirty hours it had
disappeared. Rejecting the statement in Matthew
as palpably untenable, he makes that in John the
basis of the true story, this being the simplest and
manifest source of the rest.
As told by our author, the whole affords an exquisite
example of the natural growth of a legend. First,
we have Mary Magdalene, who, finding the stone
removed, investigates no further, but runs back and
declares that the body has been taken away (not that
it has come to life). Then we have John and Peter
ascertaining for themselves, by looking in, that Jesus
was no longer there, but only the linen clothes lying
in two separate parts of the tomb. Then, these
having taken their departure, we have the warm,
impulsive Magdalene remaining behind to weep. At
length, mustering courage to look into the sepul
chre for herself, she sees, as she thinks, sitting at
opposite ends, two angels in white, who merely
ask her why she weeps. She makes no answer,
but turns to the outside, where she sees Jesus
himself, but so changed that she does not at first
recognise him.
How from this simple and natural story of the
white grave clothes, in the dark sepulchre, looking
like angels to the tear-blinded eyes of a woman who
was so liable to hysteria or insanity as to have had
“ seven devils ” cast out of her, grew, step by step, the
myth so freely amplified in the gospels, the reader
must find in the book itself.
If he can once fully grasp the intention of the
style and its affectation of the tone of indignant
�Jesus versus Christianity.
11
orthodoxy, and perceive also how utterly destructive
are its “ candid admissions ” to the whole fabric of
supernaturalism, he will enjoy a rare treat. It is not,
however, for the purpose of recommending what we,
at least, regard as a piece of exquisite humour that
we call attention to ‘ The Fair Haven,’ but in order
to show how, while rejecting popular Christianity, we
may still accept the “ Christ-ideal,” to use our author’s
phrase, and this with an enhanced sense of its beauty
and use to the world.
One of the most characteristic parts of the book is
that in which he argues in favour of the providential
character of the gospel narratives, notwithstanding
their inaccuracies. After stating that no ill effects
need follow from a rejection of the immaculate con
ception, the miracles, the resurrection, or the
ascension, because “ the Christ-ideal, which, after all,
is the soul and spirit of Christianity, would remain
precisely where it is, while its recognition would be
far more general, owing to the departure on the part
of the Apologists from certain lines of defence which
are irreconcilable with the ideal itself,” he says :
“ The old theory that God desired to test our faith,
and that there would be no merit in believing if the
evidence were such as to commend itself at once to
our understanding, is one which need only be stated
to be set aside. It is blasphemy against the goodness
of God to suppose that he has thus laid, as it were, an
ambuscade for man, and will only let him escape on
condition of his consenting to violate one of the very
most precious of God’s own gifts. There is an inge
nious cruelty about such conduct which it is revolting
even to imagine. Indeed, the whole theory reduces
our heavenly Father to a level of wisdom and goodness
far below our own, and this is sufficient answer to it.”
There is, however, a reason why we should be
■required to believe in the divinity of the Christ-ideal,
and regard it as exalted beyond all human comparison;
�I2
"Jesus versus Christianity.
namely, in order to exalt our sense of the paramount
importance of following and obeying the life and
commands of Christ. And this being so, “ it is
natural, also, to suppose that whatever may have
happened to the records of that life should have been
ordained with a view to the enhancing the precious
ness of the ideal.” Thus the very obscurity and
fragmentariness of the gospel narratives have added
to the value of the ideas they present, just as the
mutilations of ancient sculptures serve to enhance
their beauty to the imagination. Or, as “the gloom
and gleam of Rembrandt, or the golden twilight of
the Venetians, the losing and finding, and the infinite
liberty of shadow,” produce an effect infinitely beyond
that which would be gained by any hardness of
definition and tightness of outline. The suggestion
of the beautiful lineaments to the imagination is far
more effective than would be any minutely detailed
portrait. “ Those who relish definition, and definition
only, are indeed kept away from Christianity by the
present condition of the records ; but even if the life
of our Lord had been so definitely rendered as to
find a place in their system, would it have greatly
served their souls ? And would it not repel hun
dreds and thousands of others, who find in the
suggestiveness of the sketch a completeness of satis
faction which no photographic reproduction could
have given ?”
The fact is “ people misunderstand the aim and
scope of religion. Religion is only intended to guide
men in those matters upon which science is silent:
God illumines us by science as by a mechanical
draughtsman’s plan; he illumines us in the gospels
as by the drawing of a great artist. We cannot build
a ‘ Great Eastern ’ from the drawings of the artist,
but what poetical feeling, what true spiritual emotion
was ever kindled by a mechanical drawing ? How
cold and dead were science, unless supplemented by
�"Jesus versus Christianity.
13
art and religion! Not joined with them, for the
merest touch of these things impairs scientific value,
which depends essentially upon accuracy, and not upon
any feeling for the beautiful and loveable. In like
manner the merest touch of science chills the warmth
of sentiment—the spiritual life. The mechanical
drawing is spoilt by being made artistic, and the work
of the artist by becoming mechanical. The aim of
the one is to teach men how to construct; of the other,
how to feel. We ought not, therefore, to have ex
pected scientific accuracy from the gospel records.
Much less should we be required to believe that such
accuracy exists.” The finest picture, approached close
enough, becomes but blotches and daubs of paint, each
one of which, taken by itself, is absolutely untrue,
yet, at proper distance, forms an impression which is
quite truthful. “No combination of minute truths
in a picture will give so faithful a representation
of nature as a wisely-arranged tissue of untruths.”
Again, “ all ideals gain by vagueness and lose by defi
nition, inasmuch as more scope is left for the imagi
nation of the beholder, who can thus fill in the missing
detail according to his own spiritual needs. This is
how it comes that nothing which is recent, whether
animate or inanimate, can serve as an ideal unless it
is adorned by more than common mystery and uncer
tainty. A new cathedral is necessarily very ugly.
There is too much found and too little lost. Much
less would an absolutely perfect Being be of the
highest value as an ideal as long as he could be clearly
seen, for it is impossible that he could be known as
perfect by imperfect men, and his very perfections
must perforce appear as blemishes to any but perfect
critics. To give, therefore, an impression of perfec
tion, to create an absolutely unsurpassable ideal, it
became essential that the actual image of the original
should become blurred and lost, whereon the beholder
now supplies from his own imagination that which is,
�14
"Jesus versus Christianity.
to him, more perfect than the original, though objec
tively it must be infinitely less so.
“ It is probably to this cause that the incredulity of
the Apostles during our Lord’s lifetime must be
assigned. The ideal was too near them, and too far
above their comprehension; for it must always be
remembered that the convincing power of miracles in
the days of the Apostles must have been greatly
weakened by the current belief in their being events
of no very unusual occurrence, and in the existence
both of good and evil spirits who could take
possession of men and compel them to do their
bidding.
“ A beneficent and truly marvellous provision for
the greater complexity of man’s spiritual needs was
thus provided by a gradual loss of detail and gain of
breadth. Enough evidence was given in the first
instance to secure authoritative sanction for the ideal.
During the first thirty or forty years after the death
of our Lord, no one could be in want of evidence,
and the guilt of unbelief is, therefore, brought promi
nently forward. Then came the loss of detail which
was necessary in order to secure the universal accept
ability of the ideal. . . But there would, of course,
be limits to the gain caused by decay. Time came
when there would be danger of too much vagueness
in the ideal, and too little distinctness in the evidences.
It became necessary, therefore, to provide against this
danger.
“ Precisely at that epoch the gospels made their appear
ance.” Not simultaneously, and not in perfect harmony
with each other, but with such divergence of aim and
difference of authorship as would secure the necessary
breadth of effect when the accounts were viewed
together. “ As the roundness of the stereoscopic
image can only be attained by the combination of two
distinct pictures, neither of them in perfect harmony
with the other, so the highest possible conception of
�Jesus versus Christianity.
15
Christ cannot otherwise be produced than through the
discrepancies of the gospels.”
Now, however, “when there is a numerous and
increasing class of persons whose habits of mind unfit
them for appreciating the value of vagueness, but
who have each of them a soul which may be lost or
saved, the evidences should be restored to something
like their former sharpness.” To do this it demands
only “the recognition of the fact that time has made
incrustations upon some parts of the evidences, and
has destroyed others.” Nevertheless, as “ it is not belief
in the facts which constitutes the essence of Clvristianity,
but rather the being so impregnated with love at the
contemplation of Christ that imitation becomes almost
instinctive,” we may probably suppose “that certain
kinds of unbelief have become less hateful in the
sight of God, inasmuch as they are less dangerous to
the universal acceptance of our Lord as the one model
for the imitation of all men.”
To advocate conduct instead of belief, experience
instead of tradition, and intuition instead of conven
tionality, and to exhibit a model for the imitation of
all men, married as well as single, is at least one pur
pose manifest in the series of novels of which ‘ By
and By ’ is announced to be the completion :—novels
differing from the ordinary kind in that, while others
treat of man only in relation to man, and are, there
fore, merely moral, these bear reference to man in
relation to the Infinite, and are, therefore, essentially
religious.
It does not come within our design to treat of the
surface aspect of Mr Edward Maitland’s ‘ Historical
Romance of the Future,’ which represents the world
as it may be when a few more centuries have passed
over it, and the problems, social, political, and
religious, which now trouble it, shall have found
their solution, and people may, without detriment or
reproach, regulate their lives in accordance with their
�16
"Jesus versus Christianity.
own preferences. It is with the deeper design of the
book that we have now to do, the design which
reveals itself in the entire series to which, with ‘ The
Pilgrim and the Shrine ’ and 1 Higher Law,’ it belongs.
This design is the rehabilitation of nature, by showing
its capacity for producing of itself, if only its best be
allowed fail* play, the highest results in religion and
morals. Seeing that to rehabilitate nature is in
effect to rehabilitate the author of nature, and replace
both worker and work in the high place from which
they have been deposed by theologians, such a design
can be no other than an eminently religious one.
In the first of the series, ‘ The Pilgrim and the
Shrine,’ the wanderer in search of a faith that will
stand the test and fulfil the requirements of a
developed mind and conscience emerges from the
wilderness of doubt, through which he has been pain
fully toiling, to find that the best that we can com
prehend must ever be the Divine for us, and this by
the very constitution of our nature, inasmuch as we
can only interpret that which is without by that
which is within. And he bears testimony to the
value of the Bible as an agent in the development of
the religious faculty by noting the subjective character
of all that really appertains to religion in both the
Old and New Testaments. “ Constantly,” he says,
“ is the inner ideal dwelt upon without any reference
to corresponding external objects. Think you it was
the law as written in the books of Moses that was a
delight to the mind and a guide to the feet of the
Psalmist ? No, it was something that appealed much
more nearly to his inmost soul, even ‘ the law of God
in his heart.’ And what else was meant by ‘ Christ
in you the hope of glory?’ The idea of a perfect
standard is all that can be in us. The question
wbethei’ it has any external personal existence in
history does not affect the efficacy of the idea in
raising us up towards itself. God, the Absolute, is
�Jesus versus Christianity.
17
altogether past finding out. Wherefore we elevate
the best we can imagine into the Divine, and worship
that:—the perfect man or perfect woman. Surely
it is no matter which, since it is the character and not
the person that is adored. . . Christianity is a
worship of the divinest character, as exemplified in a
human form. . . The very ascription to Jesus of
supernatural attributes shows the incapacity of his
disciples to appreciate the grandeur and simplicity of
his character. . . . Here, then, is my answer to
the question, 1 What was the exact work of Christ ? ’
It was to give men a law for their government, tran
scending any previously generally recognised. Ignor
ing the military ruler, the priest, and the civil
magistrate, he virtually denounced physical force,
spiritual terror, and legal penalties as the compelling
motive for virtue. The system whereby he would
make men perfect, even as their Father in heaven is
perfect, was by developing the higher moral lawimplanted in every man’s breast, and so cultivating
the idea of God in the soul. The ‘ law of God in
the heart ’ was no original conception of his. It had
been recognised by many long before, and had raised
them to the dignity of prophets, saints, and martyrs.
Its sway, though incapable of gaining in intensity, is
wider now than ever, till the poet of our day must be
one who is deeply imbued with it; no mere surface
painter like his predecessors, however renowned, but
having a spiritual insight which makes him at once
poet and prophet. The founding of an organised
society, having various grades of ecclesiastical rank,
and definite rules of faith, does not seem to me to
have formed any part of Christ’s idea. His plan was
rather to scatter broadcast the beauty of his thought,
and let it take root and spring up where it could.
Recognising intensely, as he did, the all-winning
loveliness of his idea, he felt that it would never lack
ardent disciples to propagate it, and he left it to each
B
�Jesus versus Christianity.
age to devise such means as the varying character of
the times might suggest. The ‘ Christian Church,*
therefore, for me, consists of all who follow a Christian
ideal of character, no matter whether, or in whom,
they believe that ideal to have been personified.”
Such is the teaching of a book that is, to the Pall
Mall Gazette, foolishness, and to Mudie’s a stumblingblock and an abomination; yet which, in spite of
clerical denunciation and the expurgatorial indexes
of Protestant Nonconformist circulating-librarians,
has in a short space travelled to all lands where the
English tongue is spoken, and perceptibly influenced
the course that religious thought must henceforth
take. We shall have a proof of this when we come
to the last book on our list. In the meantime it
seemed to us well to digress for a moment in order
to denounce the obstacles which still are thrown in
the way of genuine religious thought by ecclesiastic
and layman, Churchman and Dissenter, alike in this
“ Christian ” land of ours.
As the ‘ Pilgrim and the Shrine ’ exhibited the
process of thinking and feeling out a religion, so its
successor, ‘ Higher Law,’ represented the natural
growth of a morality. Repudiating all conventional
methods, as the other repudiated theological and
traditional ones, the design here is to represent the
action of persons under the sole guidance of their
own perceptions and feelings under circumstances of
supreme temptation and difficulty.
It is by the steadfast adherence to the simple rule
of unselfishness, which forbids the commission of
aught that can injure or pain those whom we are
bound to respect, that the sufficiency of the intuitions
to constitute the higher, or rather highest, law of
morality is demonstrated.
It is not necessary to the perfection of nature that
all germs should reach the highest stages of growth,
whether in the vegetable or in the spiritual kingdom.
�"Jesus versus Christianity.
T9
The capacity to produce a single perfect result is
sufficient to redeem nature from the old reproach
cast upon it by theologians, “just as one magnificent
blossom suffices to redeem the plant, that lives a
hundred years and flowers but once, from the charge
of having wasted its existence.” Nay, more. “Even
if the experience of all past ages of apparent aim
lessness and sterility affords no plea in justification of
existence, the one fact that there is room for hope in
the future may well suffice to avert the sentence men
are too apt to pronounce,—that all is vanity and
vexation, and that the tree of humanity is fit only to
be cut down, that it cumber the ground no longer.”
Erom this point of view it is evident that at least
one object of the creation of the leading character in
1 By and By ’ is to show how an ideally perfect dis
position may be produced from purely natural cir
cumstances, and if in the present or future, why not
in the past ? The “ Christmas Carol ” of ‘ By and
By’ thus becomes for us a parallel to the “Joshua
Davidson” of the book already noticed; for it is an
attempt to transfer the Jesus of the gospels from
Judaea to our own country, only a Jesus wealthy in
stead of poor, educated instead of untaught, married
instead of single, having all the advantages of a
civilisation more advanced than any yet attained,
and with his intense religious enthusiasm kept from
surpassing the limits of the practical, by science,
wedlock, and work. In his liability to personify the
products of his own vivid and spiritual imagination,
and out of his idealisations of things terrestrial to
people the skies with “angels,” we see but a repro
duction of one of the characteristics by which all
the enthusiasts of old, to which the world owes its
religions, have been distinguished. By placing such
a character in his picture of the future, we under. stand the author to indicate his conviction that man
will always, no matter how rigidly scientific his
b 2
�20
Jesus ’versus Christianity.
training, have a religious side to his nature, a side
whereby he can rise on the wings of emotion far
beyond the regions of mere Sense. Of course such
an one must at some moment of his life feel himself
impelled to use his wealth and freedom for his own
selfish gratification (he would not otherwise be
human), but resisting such promptings of his own
lower nature, will fix himself upon some great
and useful work. It is almost as much of course that
he will in his earliest love be attracted by the
character that most nearly resembles pure unso
phisticated nature. But the love that is of the sexes
will not contain half his nature. He will be the
friend and servant of all men, and so provoke to
jealousy the small, intense disposition of her to whom
he has allied himself. Striving to inoculate her with
a sense of the ideal, their relations will aptly typify
the world-old conflict of Soul and Sense. He may
suffer greatly, but if she be true and genuine, and
loves him her best, so far as is in her, he will _ be
tender and kind and endure to the end. Losing
her, and after long interval wedding again, more for
his child’s sake than his own, he will naturally be
tempted to make trial of one less unsophisticated and
untrained. But mere conventionality will disgust
him. Its hollow artifices and insincerity will be
odious, and the ideal man will find a moral jar y
fitting plea for repudiation. Should his child—his
daughter—err, he will be tender and forgiving, pro
vided her fault be prompted by love. It will ever
be in his conduct that we shall find his faith.
Recognising himself as an individualised portion of
the divine whole, his intuitions are to him as the
voice of God in his soul, and to fail to live up to his
best would be to fall short of the duty due to his
divine ancestry.
So confident is he of the divinity of his own
intuitions, and so inexorable in his requirements of
�Jesus versus Christianity.
21
perfection in conduct up to the highest point of
individual ability, that he fails to be at ease until he
has established the character of God himself for perfect
righteousness in his dealings, even with the meanest
thing in his creation. We do not know whether or
not the argument is new. It certainly has not been
Suggested by any of the theologians who have busied
themselves in seeking solutions for the problem of
tile origin of evil. It is that all things are the pro
duct of their conditions, and that all conditions have
a right to exist, so that the products have a right
to exist also; and the maker of the conditions can
not in justice refuse to be satisfied with the products
©f conditions which he has permitted. “ The poor
Soil and the arid sky are as much a part of the
universal order as the rich garden, soft rain, and
Warm sunshine. It is just that one should yield a
©rop which the other would despise. It would be
unjust were both to yield alike.” Man’s highest
ftmction is to amend the conditions of his own
■Existence. Finding himself launched into the uni
verse, he must till it and keep it and fit it to produce
better and better men and women. It is by labouring
an this direction that he works out his own salva
tion. They are poor teachers who inculcate but
the patience of resignation, or look to another life to
compensate the evils of this. The ideal man of the
future appeals to the intuitive perceptions as the
divine guides of conduct while here, and to the physical
laws of nature for the means of subduing the world
to man’s highest needs. To his intensely sympathetic
nature “ good ” is necessarily that which assimilates
and harmonises to the greatest extent its surrounding
Conditions—not the immediately surrounding merely
s-«4hat which works in truest sympathy with the
fest, While that is evil which by its very selfishness
arraigns the rest against it, good needs no power
working from without to make it triumphant. It
�22
Jesus versus Christianity.
triumphs by winning the sympathies of all to work
with it.
What Mr Maitland has done in the form of fiction
Mr Matthew Arnold has done in the form of a
treatise. We look upon his ‘Literature and Dogma ’
as clinching the blow struck at the whole fabric of
dogmatic theology, and crowning the effort to restore
the intuitions as the sole court of appeal, not only
between man and man, but between man and God.
In his view the glory of the Bible consists in its
exhibition of Israel as a people with a special
faculty for righteousness, at least in conception. As
other races have their special faculties, the Greek for
sculpture, the Italian for painting, the German for
abstract thought, the French for sensuous art, &c.,
so the genius of Israel was for the righteousness
which consists in morality touched by emotion towards
something that is not ourselves, but . which makes for
righteousness. And it was in Christ that the national
genius of his race culminated, as genius for painting
in Raphael, for science in Newton, for the drama in
Shakespeare.
It was to God, not as “ an intelligent First Cause
and Moral Governor of the Universe,” but as the
influence from whence proceed the intuitions which
constitute the basis of conscience, that the higher
writers of the Old Testament appealed. And it was
in Jesus, not as the “ Eternal Son” of a personal
father, but as the restorer of the intuitions that the
disciples believed. No doubt they had extra beliefs,
and what we should term not so much superstition as
the poetry of religion, and it is very difficult to
separate the husks of this from the grain of the
other; but it is always the appeal to the intuitive
perceptions of right that excites their enthusiasm,
and thus they preach as the sole efficient cause of
man’s regeneration.
Entitling his work ‘ An Essay towards a Better
�Jesus versus Christianity.
23
Apprehension of the Bible,’ Mr Arnold maintains
that it is through the lack of literary culture that the
Bible has been utterly misunderstood, and that it is
through such misunderstanding that difficulties and
dogmas have arisen, and that conduct has come to
be ranked below belief as the effective agent of all
good. Of the Bible itself he says that, while it can
not possibly die, and its religion is all-important,
nevertheless to restore religion as the clergy under
stand it, and re-in throne the Bible as explained by
our current theology, whether learned or popular, is
absolutely and for ever impossible. Whatever is to
stand must rest upon something which is verifiable,
not unverifiable ; and the assumption with which all
churches and sects set out, that there is “ a great
Personal First Cause, the moral and intelligent Gover
nor of the Universe, and that from him the Bible
derives its authority, can never be verified.”
There is, however, something that can be verified ;
something that, after the deposition of the magnified
and non-natural man ordinarily set up by people as
their God, will for ever remain as the basis and object
of religious thought. This something is to be found
in the Bible, not there alone, but there in a greater
degree than in any other literature. It is the influence
wholly divine which is not ourselves, and makes for
righteousness. The instant we get beyond this in our
definitions of Deity we fall into anthropomorphism
and its attendant train of dogmas, Apostolic, Nicene,
or Athanasian, all of which are but - human meta
physics, and the product of minds untrained to dis
tinguish between things and ideas. “ Learned reli
gion ” is the pseudo-science of dogmatic theology; a
separable accretion which never had any business to
be attached to Christianity, never did it any good, and
now does it great harm. In the Apostles’ Creed we
have the popular science of that day. In the Nicene
Creed, the learned science. In the Athanasian Creed,
�24
"Jesus versus Christianity.
the learned science, with a strong dash of violent and
vindictive temper. And these three creeds, and with
them the whole of our so-called orthodox theology,
are founded upon words which Jesus, in all proba
bility, never uttered, inasmuch as they are inconsis
tent with the essential spirit of his teaching, and are
ascribed to him as spoken after his death.
Of the capacity of people at that time to compose
a form of belief for us, we may judge by their ideas
on cosmogony, geography, history, and physiology.
We know what those ideas were, and their faculty for
Bible criticism was on a par with their pther faculties.
To be worth anything, literary and scientific criticism
require the finest heads and the most sure tact. They
require, besides, that the world and the world’s experi
ence shall have come some considerable way. There
must be great and wide acquaintance with the history
of the human mind, knowledge of the manner in
which men have thought, their way of using words
and what they mean by them, delicacy of perception
and quick tact, and besides all these, an appreciation
of the spirit of the time. What is called orthodox
theology is, then, no other than an immense misunder
standing of the Bible, due to the junction of a talent
for abstruse reasoning with much literary inexperi
ence. The Athanasian Creed is a notion-work based
on a chimaera. It is the application of forms of Greek
logic to a chimaera, its own notion of the Trinity, a
notion un-established, not resting on observation and
experience, but assumed to be given in Scripture, yet
not really given there. Indeed, the very expression,
the Trinity, jars with the whole idea and character of
Bible-religion, just as does the Socinian expression, a>
great personal first cause.
What, then, is Christian faith and religion, and how
are we to get at them ? Jesus was above the heads
of his reporters, and to distinguish what Jesus said
and meant, it is necessary to investigate the spirit
�Jesus versus Christianity.
25
which prompted and is involved in the words attri
buted to him. This spirit is identical with that which
made Israel (as expressing himself through his most
highly spiritual writers) the most religious of peoples.
The utterance of Malachi, Righteousness tendeth to life,
life being salvation from moral death, was identical
with the assertion of Jesus that he was the way, the
truth, and the life, inasmuch as the Messiah’s function
was to Srwiy in everlasting righteousness, by exhibiting
it in perfection in his own conduct. Thus, the religion
he taught was personal religion, which consists in
the inward feeling and disposition of the individual
himself, rather than in the performance of outward
acts towards religion or society. The great means
whereby he renewed righteousness and religion were
self-examination, self-renouncement, and mildness.
He succeeded in his mission by virtue of the sweet
reasonableness which every one could recognise, par
ticularly those unsophisticated by the metaphysics of
dogmatic theology. He was thus in advance of the
Old Testament, for while that and its Law said, attend
to conduct, he said, attend to the feelings and dispositions
whence conduct proceeds. It was thus that man came
under a new dispensation, and made a new covenant
with God, or the something not ourselves which makes
for righteousness.
Thus the idea of God, as it is given in the Bible,
rests, not on a metaphysical conception of the
necessity of certain deductions from our ideas of
cause, existence, identity, and the like ; but on a moral
perception of a rule of conduct, not of our own
making, into which we are born, and which exists,
whether we will or no ; of awe at its grandeur and
necessity, and of gratitude at its beneficence. This
is the great original revelation made to Israel, this is
his “ Eternal.” The whole mistake comes from
■ regarding the language of the Bible as scientific
instead of literary, that is, the language of poetry and
�26
Jesus versus Christianity.
emotion, approximative language thrown out at
certain great objects of consciousness which it does
not pretend to define fully.
As the Old Testament speaks about the Eternal
and bears an invaluable witness to him, without ever
yet adequately in w’ords defining and expressing him,
so, and even yet more, do the New Testament writers
speak about Jesus and give a priceless record of him,
without adequately and accurately comprehending
him. They are altogether on another plane, and
their mistakes are not his. It is not Jesus himself
who relates his own miracles to us; who tells us of
his own apparitions after death; who alleges his
crucifixion and sufferings as a fulfilment of prophecy.
It is that his reporters were intellectually men of
their nation and time, and of its current beliefs ; and
the more they were so, the more certain they were to
impute miracles to a wonderful and half-understood
person. As is remarked in ‘The Pilgrim and the
Shrine,’ the real miracle would have been if there
were no miracles in the New Testament. The book
contains all we know of a wonderful spirit, far above
the heads of his reporters, still farther above the
head of our popular theology, which has added its
own misunderstandings of the reporters to their
misunderstanding of Jesus.
The word spirit, made so mechanical by popular
religion that it has come to mean a person without a
hody, is used by Jesus to signify influence. “ Except
a man be born of a new influence he cannot see the
kingdom of God.” Instead of proclaiming what
ecclesiastics of a metaphysical turn call “ the blessed
truth that the God of the universe is a Person,”
Jesus uttered a warning for all time against this un
profitable jargon, by saying: “ God is an influence,
and those who would serve him must serve him not
by any form of words or rites, but by inward motive
and in reality.”
�J
‘ esus versus Christianity.
27
The whole centre of gravity of the Christian
religion, in the popular as well as in the so-callecl
orthodox notion of it, is placed in Christ’s having,
by his death in satisfaction for man’s sins, performed
the contract originally passed in the council of the
Trinity, and having thus enabled the magnified and
non-natural man in heaven, who is the God of
theology and of the multitude alike, to consider his
justice satisfied, and to allow his mercy to go forth on
all who heartily believe that Christ has paid their
debt for them. But the whole structure of material
ising theology, in which this conception of the Atone
ment holds the central place, drops away and dis
appears as the Bible comes to be better known. The
true centre of gravity of the Christian religion is in
the method, and secret of Jesus, approximating, in
their application, even closer to the “ sweet reason
ableness” and unerring sureness of Jesus himself.
And as the method of Jesus led up to his secret, and
his secret was dying to “ the life in this world,” and
living to “ the eternal life,” both his method and his
secret, therefore, culminated in his “ perfecting on
the cross.”
A century has passed since it was said by Lessing,
“ Christianity has failed. Let us try Christ; ” and
the interval has not proved the utterance a fallacy.
Though there never was so much so-called Christian
teaching and preaching in school and church as now,
the progress of civilisation has been little else than
another name for progress in immorality, whether in
the form of trade dishonesty, social selfishness, or
any other. The reason is plain. It is not God as
righteousness and Jesus as the way thereto that is
inculcated, but systems of impossible metaphysics and
rituals that profit nothing. The spread of intelligence
is leading the masses daily more and more to reject
what is good in religion, because their intelligence
does not go far enough, and because their teachers
�e8
Jesus versus Christianity.
insist on substituting human inventions for eternal
truth. Alike within the Established Church and
without, it is the teaching vain and foolish. Even
politics are degraded by its influence. For, as Mr
Arnold asks, “ What is to be said for men, aspiring to
deal with the cause of religion, who either cannot see
that what the people now require is a religion of the
Bible quite different from that which any of the
churches or sects supply; or who, seeing this, spend
their energies in fiercely battling as to whether the
church shall be connected with the nation in its collec
tive and corporate character, or no ? The thing is to
recast religion. If this is done, the new religion will
be the national one. If it is not done, separating the
nation in its collective and corporate character from
religion will not do it. It is as if men’s minds were
much unsettled about mineralogy, and the teachers
of it were at variance, and no teacher was convincing,
and many people, therefore, were disposed to throw
the study of mineralogy overboard altogether. What
would naturally be the first business for every friend
of the study ? Surely to establish on sure grounds
the value of the study, and to put its claims in a new
light, where they could no longer be denied. But if
he acted as our Dissenters act in religion, what would
he do ? Give himself heart and soul to a furious
crusade against keeping the Government School of
Mines ! ”
This brings us to another aspect of the allegorical
romance already referred to. Mr Maitland repre
sents the church of the ‘ By and By ’ as a church at
once national and undogmatic. That is, it is not
only the crowning division of the educational depart
ment of the State; but it is untrammelled by any
dog ma that can exclude any citizen from a share in
its conduct and advantages. For none can own him
self a dissenter in regard to a church whose teaching
is restricted to the inculcation of righteousness, and
�Jesus versus Christianity.
29
follows Christ in the work of restoring the intuitions
to their proper supremacy over convention and tra
dition, and maintaining them there.
Archdeacon Denison has already uttered a lament
over even the remote prospect of such a “creedless
and sacramentless church ” finding a footing in this
country. But what may not the man who can
reconcile the pursuit of righteousness with reason,
say of the prospect afforded now? We take the
answer from ‘ The Fair Haven.’
“ Let a man travel over England, north, south,
east, and west, and in his whole journey he will
hardly find a single spot from which he cannot see
one or several churches. There is hardly a hamlet
which is not also the centre for the celebration of our
Redemption by the death and resurrection of Christ.
Not one of these churches, not one of the clergy who
minister therein, not one single village school in all
England, but must be regarded as a fountain of error,
if not of deliberate falsehood. Look where they may,
they cannot escape from the signs of a vital belief in
the resurrection. All these signs are signs of super
stition only; it is superstition which they celebrate
and would confirm; they are founded upon sheer
fanaticism, or at the best upon sheer delusion ; they
poison the fountain-heads of moral and intellectual
well-being, by teaching men to set human experience
on the one side, and to refer their conduct to the sup
posed will of a personal anthropomorphic God who
was actually once a baby—who was born of one of his
own creatures—and who is now locally and corporeally
in heaven, “of reasonable soul and human flesh sub
sisting.” Such an one as we are supposing cannot
even see a clergyman without saying to himself,
“ There goes one whose whole trade is the promotion
of error ; whose whole life is devoted to the upholding
of the untrue.”
How different it will be when the teaching in church
�"Jesus versus Christianity.
and school alike are built upon the axiom ascribed to
them in ‘ By and By,’ that “ As in the region of
Morals, the Divine Will can never conflict with
the Moral law; so, in the region of Physics, the
Divine Will can never conflict with the Natural
law.”
It must be so some day. “ It is not for man to live
for ever in the nursery. As in the history of an indi
vidual, so in that of a people, there is a period when
larger views must prevail and greater freedom of
action be accorded; when life will have many sides,
and hold relations with a vast range of facts and
interests, of which none can be left out of the account
without detriment to all concerned. Formerly, it
may be, men were able, or content, to recognise their
relations with the infinite on but a single side of their
nature. When a strongly marked line divided the
object of their religious emotions from all other ob
jects, when that alone was deemed divine, and all
else constituted the profane or secular, there may
have been excuse for their accordance of supremacy
to the one class of emotions, and of inferior respect,
or even contempt, to the other. But we have passed
out of that stage; we know no such distinction in
kind between the various classes of our emotions.
They all are human, and therefore all divine. They
all serve to connect us with the universe of which
we are a portion, the whole of which universe must
be equally divine for us, though we may rank some
of its uses above others in reference to our own
nature. Thus, if there is nothing that is specially
sacred for us, it is because there is nothing that is
really profane; but all is sacred, from the least to
the greatest. And this is the lesson that the churches
have yet to learn. Let us complete the Reformation
by freeing our own church from its ancient limita
tions, which are of the nursery. Let us release our
teachers from the corner in which they have so long
�Jesus versus Christianity.
31
been cramped, and they will soon learn to take greater
delight in exploring the many mansions which com
pose the whole glorious house of the universe, and
unfolding in turn to their hearers whatever they can
best tell, whether of science, philosophy, religion, art,
or morality, not necessarily neglecting those spiritual
metaphysics to which they have in great measure
hitherto been restricted, and the consequence of
which restriction has been but to distort them and
all else from their due proportion. In the church
thus reformed, all subjects that tend to edification
will be fitting ones for the preacher. But whatever
the subject, the method will have to be but one,
always the scientific, never the dogmatic method.
The appeal will be to the intellects, the hearts, and
the consciences of the living, never to mere authority,
living or dead. There will be no heresy, because no
orthodoxy; or rather, the question of heresy as against
orthodoxy will be a question of method, not of con
clusions. From the pulpits of such a church no genu
ine student or thinker will be excluded, but will find
welcome everywhere from congregations composed,
not of the women only and the weaker brethren, but
of men, men with brains and culture ! Who knows
what edifices of knowledge may be reared, what
reaches of spiritual perception may be attained, upon
a basis from which all the rubbish of ages has been
cleared away, and where all that is useful and true
in the past is built into the foundations of the future !
Who can tell how nearly we may attain to the per
fections of the blessed when, no longer strait
ened in heart and mind and spirit by a narrow
sectarianism, but with the scientific and the verifiable
everywhere substituted for the dogmatic and the
incomprehensible, the veil which has so long shrouded
the universe as with a thick mist shall be altogether
withdrawn, when the All is revealed without stint to
our gaze in such degree as each is able to bear, and
�32
Jesus versus Christianity.
Theology no longer serves but to paint and darken
the windows through which man gazes out into the
infinite!
Thus reformed, amended, and enlarged, the esta
blished churches of Great Britain will be no exclu
sive corporations, watched with jealous eyes of less
favoured sects. Nonconformity will disappear, for
there will be nothing to nonconform to : Fanaticism,
for there will be no Dogma; Intolerance and Bigotry,
for there will be no Infallibility. Comprehensive, as
all that claims to be national and human ought to be,
no conditions of membership, will be imposed to
entitle any to a share of its benefits: but every
variety of opinion will find expression and a home
precisely in the degree to which it may commend
itself to the general intelligence.
The bitterness of sectarian animosity thus extin
guished, and no place found for dogmatic assertion
or theological hatred, it will seem as if the first heaven
and the first earth had passed away, and a new heaven
and new earth had come, in which there was no more
sea of troubles or aught to set men against each other
and keep them from uniting in aid of their common
welfare. Lit by the clear light of the cultivated
intellect, and watered by the pure river of the deve
loped moral sense, the State will be free to grow
into a veritable city of God, where there shall be no
more curse of poverty or crime, no night of intole
rant stupidity, but all shall know that which is good
for all, from the least to the greatest.”*
“ What, then, becomes of the Revelation ? ” asks
one of the hero in ‘ By and By.’ “ My friend,” is
the reply, “ so long as there exist God and a Soul,
there will be a revelation ; but the sold must be a free
one.”
* ‘How to Complete the Reformation.’ By Edward Mait
land. Thomas Scott.
�
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Dublin Core
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Title
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Jesus versus Christianity
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 32 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: "By A Cantab," Includes bibliographical references. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Printed by C.W. Reynell, London.
Publisher
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Thomas Scott
Date
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1873
Identifier
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CT119
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[Unknown]
Subject
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Jesus Christ
Christianity
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Jesus versus Christianity), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Christianity-Controversial Literature
Conway Tracts
Jesus Christ