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THE JOURNAL
OF
' SPECULATIVE PHILOSOPHY.
Vol. £
~
18 6 7.
■
No. 1.
TO THE READER.
For the reason that a journal devoted
exclusively to the interests of Speculative
Philosophy is a rare phenomenon in the
English language, some words may reason
ably be expected from the Editors upon
the scope and design of the present under
taking.
There is no need, it is presumed, to
speak of the immense religious movements
now going on in this country and in Eng
land. The tendency to break with the
traditional, and to accept only what bears
for the soul its own justification, is widely
active, and can end only in the demand
that Reason shall find and establish a phil
osophical basis for all those great ideas
which are taught as religious dogmas. Thus
it is that side by side with the naturalism of
such men as Renan, a school of mystics is
beginning to spring up who prefer to ignore
utterly all historical wrappages, and cleave
only to the speculative kernel itself. The
vortex between the traditional faith and the
intellectual conviction cannot be closed by
renouncing the latter, but only by deepen
ing it to speculative insight.
Likewise it will be acknowledged that
the national consciousness has moved for
ward on to a new platform during the last
few years. The idea underlying our form
of government had hitherto developed
only one of its essential phases—that of
brittle individualism—in which national
unity seemed an external mechanism,
soon to be entirely dispensed with, and
the enterprise of the private man or of the
corporation substituted for it. Now we
have arrived at the consciousness of the
other essential phase, and each individual
recognizes his substantial side to be the
State as such. The freedom of the citizen
does not consist in the mere Arbitrary, but
in the realization of the rational convic
tion tvhich finds expression in established
law. That this new phase of national life
demands to be digested and comprehended,
is a further occasion for the cultivation of
the Speculative.
More ’significant still is the scientific
revolution, working out especially in the
domain of physics. The day of simple
empiricism is past, and with the doctrine
of “ Correlation of forces ” there has arisen
a stage of reflection that deepens rapidly
into the purely speculative. For the fur
ther elucidation of this important point the
two following articles have been prepared.
It is hoped that the first one will answer
more definitely the question now arising in
the mind of the reader, “ What is this
Speculative Knowing of which you speak ?”
and that the second one will show whither
Natural Science is fast hastening.
With regard to the pretensions of this
Journal, its editors know well how much
its literary conduct will deserve censure
and need apology. They hope that the
substance will make up in some degree for
deficiencies in form; and, moreover, they
expect to improve in this respect through
experience and the kind criticisms of
friends.
�2
The Speculative.
THE SPECULATIVE.
“ We need what Genius is unconsciously seeking, and, by some daring generalization of the
universe, shall assuredly discover, a spiritual calculus, a Novum Organon, whereby nature shall
be divined in the soul, the soul in God, matter in spirit, polarity resolved into unity; and that
power which pulsates in all life, animates and builds all organizations, shall manifest itself as
one universal deific energy, present alike at the outskirts and centre of the universe, whose
centre ana circumference are one; omniscient, omnipotent, self-subsisting, uncontained, yet
containing all things in the unbroken synthesis of its being.”—(“Calculus,” one of Alcott’s
“Orphic Sayings.”)
At the end of the sixth book of Plato’s
Republic, after a characterization of the
two grades of sensuous knowing and the
grade of the understanding, (i which is
obliged to set out from hypotheses, for the
reason that it does not deal with principles
but only with results,” we find the specu
lative grade of knowing characterized as
<£ that in which the soul, setting out from
an hypothesis, proceeds to an unhypothetical principle, and makes its way without
the aid of [sensuous] images, but solely
through ideas themselves.” The mathe
matical procedure which begins by hy
pothecating definitions, axioms, postulates,
and the like, which it never examines nor
attempts to deduce or prove, is the exam
ple given by Plato of the method of theUnderstanding, while he makes the specula
tive Reason “ to posit hypotheses by the
Dialectic, not as fixed principles, but only
as starting points, in order that, by remov
ing them, it may arrive at the unhypothetical—the principle of the universe.”
This most admirable description is fully
endorsed by Aristotle, and firmly estab
lished in a two-fold manner :
1. In the Metaphysics (xi. 7) he shows
ontologically, starting with motion as an
hypothesis, that the self-moved is the first
principle ; and this he identifies with the
speculative, and the being of God.
2. In the De Anima (iii. 5-8) he dis
tinguishes psychologically the “ active in
tellect” as the highest form of knowing,
as that which is its own object, (subject
and object,) and hence as containing its
own end and aim in itself—as being infin
ite. He identifies this with the Specula
tive result, which he found ontologically
as the Absolute.
Spinoza in his Ethics (Prop. xl. Scbol.
ii., and Prop, xliv., Cor. ii. of Part II.)
has well described the Speculative, which
he names C{ Scienlia intuiliva,” as the
thinking of things under the form of eter
nity, (De natura rationis est res sub quadam specie ceternitatis percipere.)
Though great diversity is found in re
spect to form and systematic exposition
among the great philosophers, yet there is
the most complete unanimity, not only
with respect to the transcendency of the
Speculative, but also with reference to the
content of its knowing. If the reader of
different systems of Philosophy has in
himself achieved some degree of Specula
tive culture, he will at every step be de
lighted and confirmed at the agreement of
what, to the ordinary reader, seem irrecon
cilable statements.
Not only do speculative writers agree
among themselves as to the nature of
things, and the destiny of man and the
world, but their results furnish us in the
form of pure thought what the artist has
wrought out in the form of beauty.
Whether one tests architecture, sculpture,
painting, music or poetry, it is all the
same. Goethe has said:
“As all Nature’s thousand changes
But one changeless God proclaim ;
So in Art’s wide kingdoms ranges
One sole meaning, still the same:
This is Truth, eternal Reason,
Which from Beautj' takes its dress,
And serene, through time and season,
Stands for aye in loveliness.”
While Art presents this content to the
senses, Religion offers it to the conception
in the form of a dogma to be held by faith ;
the deepest Speculative truth is allegori
cally typified in a historical form, so that
it acts upon the mind partly through fan
tasy and partly through the understand
ing. Thus Religion presents the same
content as Art and Philosophy, but stands
between them, and forms a kind of middle
�The Speculative.
ground upon which the purification takes
place. “ It is the purgatory between the
Inferno of Sense and the Paradise of Rea
son.” Its function is mediation ; a contin
ual degrading of the sensuous and exter
nal, and an elevation to the supersensual
and internal. The transition of Religion
into Speculative Philosophy is found in
the mystics. Filled with the profound
significance of religious symbolism, and
seeing in it the explanation of the uni
verse, they essay to communicate their in
sights. But the form of Science is not
yet attained by them. They express
themselves, not in those universal catego
ries that the Spirit of the Race has formed
in language for its utterance, but they
<have recourse to symbols more or less in
adequate because ambiguous, and of insuf
ficient universality to stand for the arche
types themselves. Thus “ Becoming ” is
the most pure germinal archetype, and be
longs therefore to logic, or the system of
pure thought, and it has correspondences
on concrete planes, as e. g., time, motion,
life, fyc. Now if one o^. these concrete
terms is used for the pure logical category,
we have mysticism. The alchemists, as
shown by a genial writer of our day, use
the technique of their craft to express the
profound mysteries of spirit and its regen
eration. The Eleusinian and other mys
teries do the like.
While it is one of the most inspiring
things connected with Speculative Philo
sophy to discover that the “ Open Secret
of the Universe” has been read by so
many, and to see, under various expres
sions, the same meaning ; yet it is the
highest problem of Speculative Philoso
phy to seize a method that is adequate to
the expression of the “ Secret;” for its
(the content’s) own method of genetic de
velopment must be the only adequate one.
Hence it is that we can classify philosophic
systems by their success in seizing the
content which is common to Art and Re
ligion, as well as to Philosophy, in such a
manner as to allow its free evolution ; to
have as little in the method that is merely
formal or extraneous to the idea itself.
The rigid formalism of Spinoza—though
manipulated by a clear speculative spirit—
3
is inadequate to the unfolding of its con
tent ; for how could the mathematical
method, which is that of quantity or ex
ternal determinations alone, ever suffice to
unfold those first principles which attain
to the quantitative only in their result?
In this, the profoundest of subjects, we
always find in Plato light for the way. Al
though he has not given us complete ex
amples, yet he has pointed out the road of
the true Speculative method in a way not
to be mistaken. Instead of setting out
with first principles presupposed as true,
by which all is to be established, (as math
ematics and 6uch sciences do), he asserts
that the first starting points must be re
moved as inadequate. We begin with the
immediate, which is utterly insufficient,
and exhibits itself as such. We ascend to
a more adequate, by removing the first
hypothesis ; and this process repeats itself
until we come to the first principle, which
of course bears its own evidence in this,
that it is absolutely universal and abso
lutely determined at the same time; in
other words it is the self-determining, the
“self-moved,” as Plato and Aristotle call
it. It is its own other, and hence it is the
true infinite, for it is not limited but con
tinued by its other.
From this peculiarity results the difficul
ty of Speculative Philosophy. The unused
mind, accepting with naivete' the first pro
position as settled, finds itself brought,
into confusion when this is contradicted,
and condemns the whole procedure. The
irony of Socrates, that always begins by
positing the ground of his adversary, and
reducing it through its own inadequateness
to contradict itself, is of this character,
and the unsophisticated might say, and do
say: “ See how illogical is Socrates, for
he sets out to establish something, and ar
rives rather at the destruction of it.” The
reductio ad absardum is a faint imita
tion of the same method. It is not suffi
cient to prove your own system by itself,
for each of the opposing systems can do
that; but you must show that any and all
counter-hypotheses result in your own.
God makes the wrath of men to praise
Him, and all imperfect things must con
tinually demonstrate the perfect, for the
�4
The. Speculative.
reason that they do not exist by reason of
their defects, but through what of truth
there is in them, and the imperfection is
continually manifesting the want of the
perfect. ££ Spirit,” says Hegel, ££ is selfcontained being. But matter, which is
spirit outside of itself, [turned inside out,]
continually manifests this, its inadequacy,
through gravity—attraction to a central
point beyond each particle. (If it could
get at this central point, it would have no
extension, and hence would be anni
hilated.)”
The soul of this method lies in the com
prehension of the negative. In that won
derful expose of the importance of the
negative, which Plato gives in the Par
menides and Sophist, we see how justly
he appreciated its true place in Philoso
phic Method. Spinoza’s “ omnis determinatio est negatio ” is the most famous
of modern statements respecting the nega
tive, and has been very fruitful in re
sults.
One would greatly misunderstand the
Speculative view of the negative should
he take it to mean, as some have done,
ee that the negative is as essential as the
positive.” For if they are two indepen
dent somewhats over against each other,
having equal validity, then all unity of
system is absolutely impossible—we can
have only the Persian Ahriman and Ormuzd ; nay, not even these—for unless
there is a primal unity, a “ Zeruane-Akerene”—the uncreated one, these are im
possible as opposites, for there can be no
tension from which the strife should pro
ceed.
The Speculative has insight into the
constitution of the positive out of the
negative. “ That which has the form of
Being,” says Hegel, £‘ is the self-related ;”
but relation of all kinds is negation, and
hence whatever has the form of being and
is a positive somewhat, is a self-related
negative. Those three stages of culture in
knowing, talked of by Plato and Spinoza,
may be characterized in a new way by
their relation to this concept.
The first stage of consciousness—that of
immediate or sensuous knowing—seizes
objects by themselves—isolatedly—without
their relations ; each seems to have valid
ity in and for itself, and to be wholly pos
itive and real. The negative is the mere
absence of the real thing ; and it utterly
ignores it in its scientific activity.
But the second stage traces relations,
and finds that things do not exist in imme
diate independence, but that each is re
lated to others, and it comes to say that
££ Were a grain of sand to be destroyed,
the universe would collapse.” It is a
necessary consequent to the previous stage,
for the reason that so soon as the first
stage gets over its childish engrossment
with the novelty of variety, and attempts
to seize the individual thing, it finds its
characteristic marks or properties. But
these consist invariably of relations to
other things, and it learns that these prop
erties, without which the thing could
have no distinct existence, are the very
destruction of its independence, since
they are its complications with other
things.
In this stage the negative has entered
and has full sway. For all that was before
firm and fixed, is now seen to be, not
through itself, but through others, and
hence the being of everything is its nega
tion. For if this stone exists only through
its relations to the sun, which is not the
stone but something else, then the being
of this stone is its own negation. But the
second stage only reduces all to depend
ence and finitude, and does net show us
how any real, true, or independent being
can be found to exist. It holds fast to the
stage of mediation alone, just as the first
stage held by the immediate. But the
dialectic of this position forces it over
into the third.
If things exist only in their relations,
and relations are the negatives of things,
then all that appears positive—all being—
must rest upon negation. How is this?
The negative is essentially a relative, but
since it is the only substrate (for all is
relative), it can relate only to itself. But
self-relation is always identity, and here
we have the solution of the previous diffi
culty. All positive forms, all forms of im
mediateness or being, all forms of identity,
are self-relatiops, consisting of a negative
�The Speculative,
or relative, relating to itself. But the
most wonderful side of this, is the fact that
since this relation is that of the negative,
it negates itself in its very relation, and
hence its identity is a producing of non
identity. Identity and distinction are
produced by the self-same process, and
thus self-determination is the origin of all
identity and distinction likewise. This
is the speculative stand-point in its com
pleteness. It not only possesses specula
tive content, but is able to evolve a spec
ulative system likewise. It is not only
conscious of the principles, but of their
method, and thus all is transparent.
To suppose that this may be made so
plain that one shall see it at first sight,
would be the height of absurdity. Doubt
less far clearer expositions can be made
of this than those found in Plato or
Proclus, or even in Fichte and Ilegel; but
any and every exposition must incur the
same difficulty, viz : The one who masters
it must undergo a thorough change in his
innermost. The í( Palingenesia” of the
intellect is as essential as the “ regenera
tion of the heart,” and is at bottom the
same thing, as the mystics teach us.
But this great difference is obvious su
perficially : In religious regeneration it
seems the yielding up of the self to an
alien, though beneficent, power, while in
philosophy it seems the complete identifi
cation of one’s self with it.
He, then, who would ascend into the
thought of the best thinkers the world has
seen, must spare no pains to elevate his
thinking to the plane of pure thought.
•The completest discipline for this may be
found in Hegel’s Logic. Let one not de
spair, though he seem to be baffled seventy
and seven times; his earnest and vigorous
assault is repaid by surprisingly increased
strength of mental acumen which he will
be assured of, if he tries his powers on
lower planes after his attack has failed on
the highest thought.
These desultory remarks on the Specu
lative, may be closed with a few illustra
tions of whSt has been said of the negative.
I. Everything must have limits that
mark it off from other things, and these
limits are its negations, in which it ceases.
5
II. It must likewise have qualities which
distinguish it from others, but these
likewise are negatives in the sense that
they exclude it from them. Its determin
ing by means of qualities is the making
it not this and not that, but exactly what
it is. Thus the affirmation of anything is
at the same time the negation of others.
III. Not only is the negative manifest
in the above general and abstract form,
but its penetration is more specific. Ev
erything has distinctions from others in
general, but also from its other. Sweet is
opposed not only to other properties in
general, as white, round, soft, etc.,s but
to its other, or sour. So, too, white is
opposed to black, soft to hard, heat to
cold, etc., and in general a positive thing
to a negative thing. In this kind of rela
tive, the negative is more essential, for it
seems to constitute the intimate nature of
the opposites, so that each is reflected in
the other.
IV. More remarkable are the appear
ances of the negative in nature. The elementyire is a negative which destroys the
form of the combustible. It reduces or
ganic substances to inorganic elements,
and is that which negates the organic.
Air is another negative element. It acts
upon all terrestrial elements ; upon water,
converting it into invisible vapor; upon
metals, reducing them to earths through
corrosion—eating up iron to form rust,
rotting wood into mould—destructive
or negative alike to the mineral
and vegetable world, like fire, to which
it has a speculative affinity. The grand
type of all negatives in nature, such as
air and fire, is Time, the great devourer, and archetype of all changes and
movements in nature.
Attraction is
another appearance of the negative. It
is a manifestation in some body of an es
sential connection with another which is
not it; or rather it is an embodied selfcontradiction : “that other (the sun)
which is not me (the earth) is my true
being.” Of course its own being is its
own negation, then.
Thus, too, the plant is negative to the
inorganic—it assimilates it; the animal is
negative to the vegetable world.
�6
Herbert Spencer.
As we approach these higher forms of
negation, we see the negative acting
against itself, and this constitutes a pro
cess. The food that life requires, which
it negates in the process of digestion, and
assimilates, is, in the life process, again
negated, eliminated from the organism,
and replaced by new elements. A nega
tion is made, and this is again negated.
But the higher form of negation appears
in the generic ; “ The species lives and the
individual dies.” The generic continually
transcends the individual—going forth to
new individuals and deserting the old—
a process of birth and decay, both nega
HERBERT
CHAPTER I.
THE CRISIS IN NATURAL SCIENCE.
During the past twenty years a revolu
tion has been working in physical science.
Within the last ten it has come to the sur
face, and is now rapidly spreading into
all departments of mental activity.
Although its centre is to be found in the
doctrine of the £-'Correlation of Forces,” it
would be a narrow view that counted only
the expounders of this doctrine, numerous
as they are; the spirit of this movement
inspires a heterogeneous multitude—Car
penter, Grove, Mayer, Faraday, Thompson,
Tyndall and Helmholtz ; Herbert Spencer,
Stuart Mill, Buckle, Draper, Lewes, Lecky,
Max Muller, Marsh, Liebig, Darwin and
Agassiz ; these names, selected at random,
are suggested on account of the extensive
circulation of their books. Every day the
press announces some new name in this
field of research.
What is the character of the old which
is displaced, and of the new which gets
established ?
By way of preliminary, it must be re
marked that there are observable in mod
ern times three general phases of culture,
more or less historic.
The first phase is thoroughly dogmatic:
it accepts as of like validity metaphysical
tive processes. In conscious Spirit both
are united in one movement. The generic
here enters the individual as pure ego—
the undetermined possibility of all deter
minations. Since it is. undetermined,
it is negative to all special deter
minations. But this ego not only exists as
subject, but also as objeet—a process of
self-determination or self-negation. And
this negation or particularization contin
ually proceeds from one object to another,
and remains conscious under the whole,
not dying, as the mere animal does, in the
transition from individual to individual.
This is the aperçu of Immortality.
SPENCER.
abstractions, and empirical observations.
It has not arrived at such a degree of
clearness as to perceive contradictions be
tween form and content. For the most
part, it is characterized by a reverence for
external authority. With the revival of
learning commences the protest of spirit
against this phase. Descartes and Lord
Bacon begin the contest, and are followed
by the many — Locke, Newton, Leibnitz,
Clark, and the rest. All are animated with
the spirit of that time — to come to the
matter in hand without so much mediation.
Thought wishes to rid itself of its fetterB ;
religious sentiment, to get rid of forms.
This reaction against the former stage,
which has been called by Hegel the meta
physical, finds a kind of climax in the in
tellectual movement just preceding the
French revolution. Thought no longer is
contented to say “ Cogito, ergo sum,” ab
stractly, but applies the doctrine in all di
rections, “I think; in that deed, I am.”
“ I am a man only in so far as I think. In
so far as I think, I am an essence. What I
get from others is not mine. What I can
comprehend, or dissolve in my reason, that
is mine.” It looks around and spies insti
tutions—“ clothes of spirit,” as Herr Tcufelsdroeck calls them. “ What are you
doing here, you sniveling priest ?” says
Voltaire: “you are imposing delusions
�Herbert Spencer.
upon society for your own aggrandizement.
I had no part or lot in making the church ;
cogito, ergo sum; I will only have over me
what I put there !”
“ I see that all these complications of
society are artificial,” adds Rousseau;
“man has made them ; they are not good,
and let us tear them down and make
anew.” These utterances echo all over
France and Europe. “ The state is merely
a machine by which the few exploiter the
many”—“ off with crowns !” Thereupon
they snatch off the crown of poor Louis,
and his head follows with it. “Reason”
is enthroned and dethroned. Thirty years
of war satiates at length this negative sec
ond period, and the third phase begins.
Its characteristic is to be constructive, not
to accept the heritage of the past with pas
sivity, noi’ wantonly to destroy, but to
realize itself in the world of objectivity—
the world of laws and institutions.
The first appearance of the second phase
of consciousness is characterized by the
grossest inconsistencies. It says in gene
ral, (see D’Holbach’s “ Systeme de la Na
ture”: “The immediate, only, is true;
what we know by our senses, alone has
reality ; all is matter and force.” But in
this utterance it is unconscious that matter
and force are purely general concepts, and
not objects of immediate consciousness.
What we see and feel is not matter or
force in general, but only some special
form. The self-refutation of this phase
may be exhibited as follows :
I. “What is known is known through
the senses : it is matter and force.”
II. But by the senses, the particular only
is perceived, and this can never be matter,
but merely a form. The general is a medi
ated result, and not an object of the senses.
III. Hence, in positing matter and force
as the content of sensuous knowing, they
unwittingly assert mediation to be the
content of immediateness.
The decline of this period of science re
sults from the perception of the contradic
tion involved. Kant was the first to show
this; his labors in this field may be
summed up thus;
The universal and necessary is not an
empirical result. (General laws cannot be
7
sensuously perceived.) The constitution
of the mind itself, furnishes the ground for
it :—first, we have an a priori basis (time
and space) necessarily presupposed as the
condition of all sensuous perception ; and
then we have categories presupposed as the
basis of every generalization whatever.
Utter any general proposition : for example
the one above quoted—“ all is matter and
force”—and you merely posit two cate
gories— Inherence and Causality — as ob
jectively valid. In all universal and neces
sary propositions we announce only the
subjective conditions of experience, and
not anything in and for itself true (i. e.
applicable to things in themselves).
At once the popular side of this doctrine
began to take effect. il We know only phe
nomena; the true object in itself we do
not know.”
This doctrine of phenomenal knowing
was outgrown in Germany at the com
mencement of the present century. In
1791—ten years after the publication of
the Critique of Pure Reason—the deep
spirit of Fichte began to generalize Kant’s
labors, and soon he announced the legiti
mate results of the doctrine. Schelling
and Hegel completed the work of trans
forming what Kant had left in a negative
state, into an affirmative system of truth.
The following is an outline of the refuta
tion of Kantian scepticism :
I. Kant reduces all objective knowledge
to phenomenal : we furnish the form of
knowing, and hence whatever we announce
in general concerning it—and all that we
call science has, of course, the form of
generality—is merely our subjective forms,
and does not belong to the thing in itself.
II. This granted, say the later philoso
phers, it follows that the subjective swal
lows up all and becomes itself the univer
sal (subject and object of itself), and
hence Reason is the true substance of the
universe. Spinoza’s substance is thus seen
to become subject. We partake of God as
intellectually seeing, and we see only God
as object, which Malebranche and Berkeley
held with other Platonists.
1. The categories (e. g. Unity, Reality,
Causality, Existence, etc.) being merely
subjective, or given by the constitution of
�8
Herbert Spencer.
the mind itself—for such universals are
presupposed by all experience, and hence
not derived from it—it follows :
2. If we abstract what we know to be
subjective, that we abstract all possibility
of a thing in itself, too. For “ existence”
is a category, and hence if subjective, we
may reasonably conclude that nothing ob
jective can have existence.
3. Hence, since one category has no pre
ference over another, and we cannot give
one of them objectivity without granting it
to all others, it follows that there can be
no talk of noumena, or of things in them
selves, existing beyond the reach of the
mind, for such talk merely applies what it
pronounces to be subjective categories,
(existence) while at the same time it de
nies the validity of their application.
III. But since we remove the supposed
“ noumena,” the so-called phenomena are
not opposed any longer to a correlate be
yond the intelligence, and the noumenon
proves to be mind itself.
An obvious corollary from this is, that by
the self-determination of mind in pure
thinking we shall find the fundamental
laws of all phenomena.
Though the Kantian doctrine soon gave
place in Germany to deeper insights, it
found its way slowly to other countries.
Comte and Sir Wm. Hamilton have made
the negative results very widely known—
the former, in natural science ; the latter,
in literature and philosophy. Most of the
writers named at the beginning are more or
less imbued with Comte’s doctrines, while
a few follow Hamilton. For rhetorical
purposes, the Hamiltonian statement is far
superior to all others; for practical pur
poses, the Comtian. The physicist wishing
to give his undivided attention to empiri
cal observation, desires an excuse for neg
lecting pure thinking ; he therefore refers
to the well-known result of philosophy,
that we cannot know anything of ultimate
causes—we are limited to phenomena and
laws. Although it must be conceded that
this consolation is somewhat similar to
that of the ostrich, who cunningly con
ceals his head in the sand when annoyed
by the hunters, yet great benefit has
thereby accrued to science through the
undivided zeal of the investigators thus
consoled.
When, however, a sufficiently large col
lection has been made, and the laws are
sought for in the chaotic mass of observa
tions, then thought must be had. Thought
is the only crucible capable of dissolving
“ the many into the one.” Tycho Brahe
served a good purpose in collecting obser
vations, but a Kepler was required to dis
cern the celestial harmony involved therein.
This discovery of laws and relations, or
of relative unities, proceeds to the final
stage of science, which is that of the abso
lute comprehension.
Thus modern science, commencing with
the close of the metaphysical epoch, has
three stages or phases :
I. The first rests on mere isolated facts
of experience ; accepts the first phase of
things, or that which comes directly before
it, and hence may be termed the Btage of
immediateness.
II. The second relates its thoughts to
one another and compares them ; it developes inequalities; tests one through an
other, and discovers dependencies every
where ; since it learns that the first phase
of objects is phenomenal, and depends up
on somewhat lying beyond it; since it de
nies truth to the immediate, it may be
termed the stage of mediation.
III. A final stage which considers a phe
nomenon in its totality, and thus seizes it
in its noumenon, and is the stage of the
comprehension.
To resume: the first is that of sensuous
knowing; the second, that of reflection (the
understanding); the third, that of the rea
son (or the speculative stage).
In the sensuous knowing, we have crude,
undigested masses all co-ordinated; each
is in and for itself, and perfectly valid
without the others. But as soon as re
flection enters, dissolution is at work.
Each is thought in sharp contrast with the
rest; contradictions arise on every hand.
The third stage finds its way out of these
quarrelsome abstractions, and arrives at a
synthetic unity, at a system, wherein the
antagonisms are seen to form an organism.
The first stage of the development closes
with attempts on all hands to put the re
�9
Herbert Spencer.
suits in an encyclopaediacal form. Hum
boldt’s Cosmos is a good example of this
tendency, manifested so ■widely. Matter,
masses, and functions are the subjects of
investigation.
Reflection investigates functions and
seizes the abstract category of force, and
straightway we are in the second stage.
Matter, as such, loses its interest, and “cor
relation of forces” absorbs all attention.
Force is an arrogant category and will
not be co-ordinated with matter; if ad
mitted, we are led to a pure dynamism.
This will become evident as follows :
I. Force implies confinement (to give it
direction) ; it demands, likewise, an “ oc
casion,” or soliciting force to call it into
activity.
II. But it cannot be confined except by
force; its occasion must be a force like
wise.
III. Thus, since its confinement and “oc
casion” are forces, force can only act upon
forces—upon matter only in so far as that
is a force. Its nature requires confinement
in order to manifest it, and hence it can
not act or exist except in unity with other
forces which likewise have the same de
pendence upon it that it has upon them.
Hence a force has no independent subsist
ence, but is only an element of a combination
of opposed forces, which combination is a
unity existing in an opposed manner (or
composed of forces in a Btate of tension).
This deeper unity which we come upon as
the ground of force is properly named law.
From this, two corollaries are to be
drawn : (I.) That matter is merely a name
for various forces, as resistance, attraction
and repulsion, etc. (2.) That force is no
ultimate category, but, upon reflection, is
seen to rest upon law as a deeper category
(not law as a mere similarity of phe
nomena, but as a true unity underlying
phenomenal multiplicity).
From the nature of the category of force
we see that whoever adopts it as the ulti
mate, embarks on an ocean of dualism, and
instead of “ seeing everywhere the one and
all” as did Xenophanes, he will see every
where the self opposed, the contradictory.
The crisis which science has now reached
is of this nature. The second stage is at
its commencement with the great bulk of
scientific men.
To illustrate the self-nugatory character
ascribed to this stage we shall adduce
some of the most prominent positions of
Herbert Spencer, whom we regard as the
ablest exponent of this movement. These
contradictions are not to be deprecated, as
though they indicated a decline of thought ;
on the contrary, they show an increased ac
tivity, (though in the stage of mere reflec
tion,) and give us good omens for the future.
The era of .stupid mechanical thinkers is
over, and we have entered upon the active,
chemical stage of thought, wherein the
thinker is trained to consciousness con
cerning his abstract categories, which, as
Hegel says, “ drive him around in their
whirling circle.”
Now that the body of scientific men are
turned in this direction, we behold a vast
upheaval towards philosophic thought ; and
this is entirely unlike the isolated pheno
menon (hitherto observed in history) of a
single group of men lifted above the sur
rounding darkness of their age into clear
ness. We do not have such a phenomenon
in our time ; it is the spirit of the nine
teenth century to move by masses.
CHAPTER II.
THE “ FIRST PRINCIPLES5’ OF THE “UNKNOW
ABLE.”
The British Quarterly speaking of Spen
cer, says : “ These i First Principles ’ are
merely the foundation of a system of Phil
osophy, bolder, more elaborate and com
prehensive, perhaps, than any other which
has been hitherto designed in England.”
The persistence and sincerity, so gener
allyprevailing among these correlationists,
we have occasion to admire in Herbert
Spencer. He seems to be always ready to
sacrifice his individual interest for truth,
and is bold and fearless in uttering what
he believes it to be.
For critical consideration no better divi
sion can be found than that adopted in the
“ First Principles” by Mr. Spencer himself,
to wit: 1st, the unknowable, 2nd, the know
�10
Herbert Spencer.
able. Accordingly, let us examine first his
theory of
for the scepticism can only legitimately
conclude that the objective which we do
THE UNKNOWABLE.
know is of a nature kindred with reason:
When Mr. Spencer announces the con and that by an a priori necessity we can
tent of the “ unknowable” to be(e ultimate affirm that not only all knowable must
religious and scientific ideas,” we are re have this nature, but also all possible ex
minded at once of the old adage in juris istence must.
prudence—“ Ornnis definitio in jure civili
In this we discover that the mistake on
est periculosa
the definition is liable to the part of the sceptic consists in taking
prove self-contradictory in practice. So self-conscious intelligence as something
when we have a content assigned to the one-sided or subjective, whereas it must
unknowable we at once inquire, whence be, according to its very definition, subject
come the distinctions in the unknowable? and object in one, and thus universal.
If unknown they are not distinct to us.
The difficulty underlying this stage of
When we are told that Time, Space, Force, consciousness is that the mind has not
Matter, God, Creation, etc., are unknow- been cultivated to a clear separation of
ables, we must regard these words as cor the imagination from the thinking. As
responding to no distinct objects, but Sir Wm. Hamilton remarks, (Metaphysics,
rather as all of the same import to us. It p. 487,) “Vagueness and confusion are
should be always borne in mind that all produced by the confounding of objects so
universal negatives are self-contradictory. different as the images of sense and the
Moreover, since all judgments are made by unpicturable notions of intelligence.”
subjective intelligences, it follows that all
Indeed the great “law of the condition
general assertions concerning the nature ed” so much boasted of by that philoso
of the intellect affect the judgment itself. pher himself and his disciples, vanishes at
The naïveté with which certain writers once when the mentioned confusion is
wield these double-edged weapons is a avoided. Applied to space it results as
source of solicitude to the spectator.
follows :
When one says that he knows that he
I.— Thought, of Space.
knows nothing, he asserts knowledge and
1. Space, if finite, must be limited from
denies it in the same sentence. If one without;
says il all knowledge is relative,” as Spen
2. But such external limitations would
cer does, (p. 68, et seq., of First Principles,) require space to exist in ;
he of course asserts that his knowledge of
3. And hence the supposed limits of
the fact is relative and not absolute. If a space that were to make it finite do in fact
distinct content is asserted of ignorance, continue it.
the same contradiction occurs.
It appears, therefore, that space is of
The perception of this principle by the such a nature that it can only end in, or be
later German philosophers at once led limited by itself, and thus is universally
them out of the Kantian nightmare, into continuous or infinite.
positive truth. The principle may be ap
II.—Imagination of Space.
plied in general to any subjective scepti
cism. The following is a general scheme
If the result attained by pure thought is
that will apply to all particular instances : correct, space is infinite, and if so, it can
I. “We cannot know things in them not be imagined. If, however, it should
selves; all our knowledge is subjective ; it be found possible to compass it by imagi
is confined to our own states and changes.” nation, it must be conceded that there
II. If this is so, then still more is what really is a contradiction in the intelligence.
we name the ‘objective” only a state or That the result of such an attempt coin
change of us as subjective; it is a mere cides with our anticipations we have Ham
fiction of the mind so far as it is regarded ilton’s testimony—“ imagination sinks ex
as a “beyond” or thing in itself.
hausted.”
III. Hence we do know the objective ;
Therefore, instead of this result contra
�Herbert Spencer.
dieting the first, as Hamilton supposes, it
really confirms it.
In fact if the mind is disciplined to
separate pure thinking from mere imagin
ing, the infinite is not difficult to think.
Spinoza saw and expressed this by making
a distinction between “ infinitum actu
(or rationis),” and “infinitum imaginationis,” and his first and second axioms
are the immediate results of thought ele
vated to this clearness. This distinction
and his “ omnis determinatio est negatio,”
together with the development of the third
stage of thinking (according to reason),
(e sub quadam specie ceternitatis,”—these
distinctions are the priceless legacy of the
clearest-minded thinker of modern times;
and it behooves the critic of “human
knowing” to consider well the results that
the “human mind” has produced through
those great masters — Plato and Aristotle,
Spinoza and Hegel.
Herbert Spencer, however, not only be
trays unconsciousness of this distinction,
but employs it in far grosser and self
destructive applications.
On page 25,
(“ First Principles,”) he says : When on
the sea shore we note how the hulls of dis
tant vessels are hidden below the horizon,
and how of still remoter vessels only the
uppermost sails are visible, we realize with
tolerable clearness the slight curvature of
that portion of the sea’s surface which lies
before us. But when we seek in imagina
tion to follow out this curved surface as it
actually exists, slowly bending round until
all its meridians meet in a point eight
thousand miles below our feet, we find
ourselves utterly baffled. We cannot con
ceive in its real form and magnitude even
that small segment of our globe which ex
tends a hundred miles on every side of us,
much less the globe as a whole. The piece
of rock on which we stand can be mentally
represented with something like complete
ness ; we find ourselves able to think of
its top,"its sides, and its under surface at
the same time, or so nearly at the same
time that they seem all present in con
sciousness together; and so we can form
what we call a conception of the rock, but
to do the like with the earth we find im
possible.” “We form of the earth not a
11
conception properly so-called, but only a
symbolic conception.”
Conception here is held to be adequate
when it is formed of an object of a given
size; when the object is above that size the
conception thereof becomes symbolical.
Here we do not have the exact limit stated,
though we have an example given (a rock)
which is conceivable, and another (the
earth) which is not.
“ We must predicate nothing of objects
too great or too multitudinous to be men
tally represented, or we must make our
predications by means of extremely inade
quate representations of such objects, mere
symbols of them.” (27 page.)
But not only is the earth an indefinitely
multiple object, but so is the rock; nay,
even the smallest grain of sand. Suppose
the rock to be a rod in diameter; a micro
scope magnifying two and a half millions
of diameters would make its apparent mag
nitude as large as the earth. It is thus
only a question of relative distance from
the person conceiving, and this reduces it
to the mere sensuous image of the retina.
Remove the earth to the distance of the
moon, and our conception of it would, upon
these principles, become quite adequate.
But if our conception of the moon be held
inadequate, then must that of the rock or
the grain of sand be equally inadequate.
Whatever occupies space is continuous
and discrete ; i. e., may be divided into
parts. It is hence a question of relativity
whether the image or picture of it corre
spond to it.
The legitimate conclusion is that all our
conceptions are symbolic, and if that pro
perty invalidates their reliability, it fol
lows that we have no reliable knowledge
of things perceived, whether great or small.
Mathematical knowledge is conversant
with pure lines, points, and surfaces ; hence
it must rest on inconceivables.
But Mr. Spencer would by no means con
cede that we do not know the shape of the
earth, its size, and many other inconceiv
able things about it. Conception is thus
no criterion of knowledge, and all built
upon this doctrine (i. e. depending upon
the conceivability of a somewhat) falls to
the ground.
�12
Herbert Spencer.
But he applies it to the questions of the says : “ no other result would happen if I
divisibility of matter (page 50): “ If we went on forever.’")
say that matter is infinitely divisible, we
III. Pure thought, however, grasps this
commit ourselves to a supposition not process as a totality, and sees that it only
realizable in thought. We can bisect and arises through a self-relation. The “ pro
rebisect a body, and continually repeating gress ” is nothing but a return to itself,
the act until we reduce its parts to a size the same monotonous round. It would be
no longer physically divisible, may then a similar attempt to seek the end of a cir
mentally continue the process without cle by travelling round it, and one might
limit.”
make the profound remark : “ If mv pow
Setting aside conceivability as indiffer ers were equal to the task, I should doubt
ent to our knowledge or thinking, we have less come to the end.” This difficulty
the following solution of this point:
vanishes as soon as the experience is made
I. That which is extended may be bi that the line returns into itself. “ It is the
sected (i. e. has two halves).
same thing whether said once or repeated
II. Thus two extensions arise, which, in forever,” says Simplicius, treating of this
turn, have the same property of divisibil paradox.
ity that the first one had.
The “Infinite Progress” is the most
III. Since, then, bisection is a process stubborn fortress of Scepticism. By it
entirely indifferent to the nature of exten our negative writers establish the imposion (i. e. does not change an extension tency of Reason for various ulterior pur
into two non-extendeds), it follows that poses. Some wish to use it as a lubrica
body is infinitely divisible.
ting fluid upon certain religious dogmas
We do not have to test this in imagina that cannot otherwise be swallowed. Oth
tion to verify it; and this very truth must ers wish to save themselves the trouble of
be evident to him who says that the pro thinking out the solutions to the Problem
gress must be Ci continued without limit.” of Life. But the Sphinx devours him who
For if we examine the general conditions does not faithfully grapple with, and solve
under which any such “ infinite progress ” her enigmas.
is possible, we find them to rest upon the
Mephistopheles (a good authority on this
presupposition of a real infinite, thus :
subject) says of Faust, whom he finds
grumbling at the littleness of man’s mind:
Infinite Progress.
“ Verachte nur Vernunft und Wissenchaft,
I. Certain attributes are found to be
Des Menschen allerhöchste Kraft!
long to an object, and are not affected by
Und hätt’ er sich auch nicht dem Teufel übergehen,
Er müsste doch zu Grunde gehen.”
a certain process. (For example, divisi
bility as a process in space does not affect
Only prove that there is a large field of
the continuity of space, which makes that the unknowable and one has at once the
process possible. Or again, the process of vade mecum for stupidity. Crude reflec
limiting space does not interfere with its tion can pour in its distinctions into a sub
continuity, for space will not permit any ject, and save itself from the consequences
limit except space itself.)
by pronouncing the basis incomprehensi
II. When the untutored reflection en ble. It also removes all possibility of
deavors to apprehend a relation of this Theology, or of the Piety of the Intellect,
nature, it seizes one side of the dualism and leaves a very narrow margin for re
and is hurled to the other. (It bisects ligious sentiment, or the Piety of the
space, and then finds itself before two ob Heart.
jects identical in nature with the first; it
The stage of Science represented by the
has effected nothing; it repeats the pro French Encyclopaedists was immediately
cess, and, by and by getting exhausted, hostile to each and every form of religion.
wonders whether it could meet a different This second stage, however, has a choice.
result if its powers of endurance were It can, like Hamilton or Mansel, let re
greater. Or else suspecting the true case, ligious belief alone, as pertaining to the
�Herbert Spencer.
unknown and unknowable—which may be
believed in as much as one likes ; or it may
44 strip off,” as Spencer does, u determina
tions from a religion,” by which it is dis
tinguished from other religions, and show
their truth to consist in a common doc
trine held by all, to-wit : 41 The truth of
things is unknowable.”
Thus the scientific man can baffle all at
tacks from the religious standpoint ; nay,
he can even elicit the most unbounded ap
proval, while he saps the entire structure
of Christianity.
Says Spencer (p. 4G) : 44 Science and Re
ligion agree in this, that the power which
the Universe manifests to us is utterly in
scrutable.” He goes on to show that
though this harmony exists, yet it is
broken by the inconsistency of Religion :
44 For every religion, setting out with the
tacit assertion of a mystery, forthwith
proceeds to give some solution of this
mystery, and so asserts that it is not a
mystery passing human comprehension.”
In this confession he admits that all relig
ions agree in professing to reveal the solu
tion of the Mystery of the Universe to man ;
and they agree, moreover, that man, as
simply a being of sense and reflection, can
not comprehend the revelation ; but that
he must first pass through a profound me
diation—be regenerated, not merely in his
heart, but in intellect also. The misty
limitations (4<vagueness and confusion”)
of the imagination must give way to the
purifying dialectic of pure thought before
one can see the Eternal Verities.
These revelations profess to make known
the nature of the Absolute. They call the
Absolute 44 Him,” 44 Infinite,” 44 Self-cre
ated,” 44 Self-existent,” 44 Personal,” and
ascribe to this 44 Him” attributes implying
profound mediation. All definite forms
of religion, all definite theology, must at
once be discarded according to Spencer’s
principle. Self-consciousness, even, is re
garded as impossible by him (p. 65) :
44 Clearly a true cognition of self implies a
state in which the knowing and known are
one, in which subject and object are iden
tified ; and this Mr. Mansel rightly holds
to be the annihilation of both.” He con
siders it a degradation (p. 109) to apply
13
personality to God: 44 Is it not possible
that there is a mode of being as much
transcending intelligence and will as these
transcend mechanical motion ?” And
again (p. 112) he holds that the mere
44 negation of absolute knowing contains
more religion than all dogmatic theology.”
(P. 121,) 4<A11 religions-are envelopes of
truth, which reveal to the lower and con
ceal to the higher.” (P. 66,) 44 Objective
and subjective things are alike inscrutable
in their substance and genesis.” 44 Ulti
mate religious and scientific ideas (p. 68)
alike turn out to be mere symbols of the
actual, and not cognitions of it.” (P. 69,)
44 We come to the negative result that the
reality existing behind all appearances
must ever be unknown.”
In these passages we see a dualism pos
ited in this form : “ Everything immediate
is phenomenal, a manifestation of the hid
den and inscrutable essence.” This es
sence is the unknown and unknowable ;
yet it manifests itself in the immediate or
phenomenal.
The first stage of thought was uncon
scious that it dealt all the time with a
mediated result (a dualism) while it as
sumed an immediate ; that it asserted all
truth to lie in the sensuous object, while it
named at the same time “matter and/orce,”
categories of reflection.
The second stage has got over that dif
ficulty, but has fallen into another. For
if the phenomenon manifested the essence,
it could not be said to be 44 unknowable,
hidden, and inscrutable.” But if the es
sence is not manifested by the phenome
non, then we have the so-called phenome
non as a self-existent, and therefore inde
pendent of the so-called essence, which
stands coordinated to it as another exist
ent, which cannot be known because it
does not manifest itself to us. Hence the
44 phenomenon ” is no phenomenon, or
manifestation of aught but itself, and the
44 essence” is simply a fiction of the phil
osopher.
Hence his talk about essence is purely
gratuitous, for there is not shown the need
of one.
A dialectical consideration of essence
and phenomenon will result as follows :
�14
Herbert Spencer.
Essence and PhenomenonI. If essence is seized as independent
or absolute being, it may be taken in two
senses:
a. As entirely unaffected by “ other
ness” (or limitation) and entirely unde
termined ; and this would be pure nothing,
for it cannot distinguish itself or be dis
tinguished from pure nothing.
b. As relating to itself, and hence
making itself a duality—becoming its own
other; in this case the “other” is a van
ishing one, for it is at the same time iden
tical and non-identical — a process in
which the essence may be said to appear
or become phenomenal. The entire pro
cess is the absolute or self-related (and
hence independent). It is determined, but
by itself, and hence not in a finite man
ner.
II. The Phenomenon is thus seen to
arise through the self-determination of
essence, and has obviously the following
characteristics:
a. It is the “ other ” of the essence, and
yet the own self of the essence existing in
this opposed manner, and thus self-nuga
tory; and this non-abiding character gives
it the name of phenomenon (or that which
merely appears, but is no permanent es
sence).
b. If this were simply another to the
essence, and not the eelf-opposition of the
same, then it would be through itself, and
itself the essence in its first (or immediate)
phase. But this is the essence only as ne
gated, or as returned from the otherness.
c. This self-nugatoriness is seen to arise
from the contradiction involved in its be
ing other to itself, i. e. outside of its true
being. Without this self-nugatoriness it
would be an abiding, an essence itself, and
hence no phenomenon ; with this self-nu
gatoriness the phenomenon simply exhib
its or “ manifests ” the essence ; in fact,
with the appearance and its negation taken
together, we have before us a totality of
essence and phenomenon.
III. Therefore : a. The phenomenal is
such because it is not an abiding some
what. It is dependent upon other or es
sence. b. Whatever it posesses belongs
to that upon which it depends, i. e. be
longs to essence, c. In the self-nugatoriness of the phenomenal we have the entire
essence manifested.
This latter point is the important result,
and may be stated in a less strict and more
popular form thus : The real world (socalled) is said to be in a state of change
origination and decay. Things pass away
and others come in their places. Under
this change, however, there is a permanent
called Essence.
The imaginative thinking finds it impos
sible to realize such an abiding as exists
through the decay of all external form,
and hence pronounces it unknowable. But
pure thought seizes it, and finds it a pure
self-relation or process of return to itself,
which accordingly has duality, thus:
a. The positing or producing of a some
what or an immediate, and, b. The cancel
ling of the same. In this duality of be
ginning and ceasing, this self-relation
completes its circle, and is thus, c. the en
tire movement.
All categories of the understanding
(cause and effect, matter and form, possi
bility, etc.) are found to contain this
movement when dissolved. And hence
they have self-determination for their pre
supposition and explanation. It is un
necessary to add that unless one gives up
trying to imagine truth, that this is all
very absurd reasoning. (At the end of the
sixth book of Plato’s Republic, ch. xxi.,
and in the seventh book, ch.xiii., one may
see how clearly this matter was understood
two thousand, and more, years ago.)
To manifest or reveal is to make known ;
and hence to speak of the “manifestation
of a hidden and inscrutable essence” is to
speak of the making known of an unknow
able.
Mr. Spencer goes on; no hypothesis of
the universe is possible—creation not con
ceivable, for that would be something out
of nothing—self-existence not conceivable,
for that involves unlimited past time.
He holds that “all knowledge is rela
tive,'” for all explanation is the reducing
of a cognition to a more general. He says,
(p. G9,) “ Of necessity, therefore, explana
tion must eventually bring us down to the
inexplicable—the deepest truth which we
�Herbert Spencer.
15
can get at must be unaccountable.” This will prove a confused affair; especially
much valued insight has a positive side as since to the above-mentioned “inscruta
well as the negative one usually developed : bility” of the absolute, he adds the doc
I. (a.) To explain something we sub trine of an “ obscure consciousness of it,”
holding, in fact, that the knowable is only
sume it under a more general.
(6.) The ee summum genus” cannot be a relative, and that it cannot be known
without at the same time possessing a
subsumed, and
knowledge of the unknowable.
(c.) Hence is inexplicable.
(P. 82) he says : “ A thought involves
II. But those who conclude from this
that we base our knowledge ultimately relation, difference and likeness; what
upon faiih (from the supposed fact that we ever does not present each of them does
not admit of cognition. And hence we
cannot prove our premises) forget that—
(a.) If the subsuming process ends in an may say that the unconditioned as present
unknown, then all the subsuming has re ing none of these, is trebly unthinkable.”
sulted in nothing; for to subsume some And yet he says, (p. 96): “ The relative is
thing under an unknown does not explain itself inconceivable except as related to a
it. (Plato’s Republic, Book VII, chap, xiii.) real non-relative.”
We will leave this infinite self-contradic
(&.) The more general, however, is the
more simple, and hence the summum tion thus developed, and turn to the posi
genus” is the purely simple—it is Being. tions established concerning the knowable.
But the simpler the clearer, and the pure They concern the nature of Force, Matter
and Motion, and the predicates set up are
simple is the absolutely clear.
(c.) At the i( summum genus” subsump “persistence,” “indestructibility” and
tion becomes the principle of identity— similar.
THE KNOWABLE.
being is being; and thus stated we have
Although in the first part “ conceivabil
simple self-relation as the origin of all
ity” was shown to be utterly inadequate
clearness and knowing whatsoever.
III. Hence it is seen that it is not the as a test of truth ; that with it we could not
mere fact of subsumption that makes some even establish that the earth is round, or
thing clear, but rather it is the reduction that space is infinitely continuous, yet here
Mr. Spencer finds that inconceivability is
of it to identity.
In pure being as the summum genus, the the most convenient of all positive proofs.
The first example to be noticed is his
mind contemplates the pure form of know
ing—“ a is a,” or “ a subject is a predi proof of the compressibility of matter (p.
cate”—(a is b). The pure “is” is the 51): “It is an established mechanical
empty form of mental affirmation, the pure truth that if a body moving at a given ve
copula; and thus in the summum genus locity, strikes an equal body at rest in
the mind recognizes the pure form of itself. such wise that the two move on together,
All objectivity is at this point dissolved their joint velocity will be but half that of
into the thinking, and hence the subsump the striking body. Now it is a law of
tion becomes identity—(being=e</o, or “co- which the negative is inconceivable, that
gito, ergo sum” the process turns round in passing from any one degree of magni
and becomes synthetic, (“dialectic” or tude to another all intermediate degrees
‘‘genetic,” as called by some). From this must be passed through. Or in the case
it is evident that self-consciousness is the before us, a body moving at velocity 4,
cannot, by collision, be reduced-to velocity
basis of all knowledge.
2, without passing through all velocities
between 4 and 2. But were matter truly
CHAPTER III.
solid — were its units absolutely incom
THE “ FIRST PRINCIPLES” OF THE “ KNOWpressible fand in unbroken contact — this
ABLE.”
“ law of continuity,” as it is called, would
As might be expected from Spencer’s be broken in every case of collision. For
treatment of the unknowable, the knowable when, of two such units, one moving at ve
�16
Herbert Spencer.
locity 4 strikes another at rest, the striking
unit must have its velocity 4 instantane
ously reduced to velocity 2; must pass
from velocity 4 tq velocity 2 without any
lapse of time, and without passing through
intermediate velocities; must be moving
with velocities 4 and 2 at the same instant,
which is impossible.” On page 57 he ac
knowledges that any transition from one
rate of motion to another is inconceivable ;
hence it does not help the matter to “pass
through intermediate velocities.” It is
just as great a contradiction and just as
inconceivable that velocity 4 should be
come velocity 3.9999-f-, as it is that it
should become velocity 2; for no change
whatever of the motion can be thought (as
he cofifesses) without having two motions
in one time. Motion, in fact, is the syn
thesis of place and time, and cannot be
comprehended except as their unity. The
argument here quoted is only adduced by
Mr. S. for the purpose of antithesis to other
arguments on the other side as weak as
itself.
On page 241, Mr. Spencer deals with the
question of the destructibility of matter:
“The annihilation of matter is unthink
able for the same reason that the creation
of matter is unthinkable.” (P. 54): “ Mat
ter in its ultimate nature is as absolutely
incomprehensible as space and time.” The
nature of matter is unthinkable, its crea
tion or destructibility is unthinkable, and
in this style of reasoning we can add that
its indestructibility is likewise unthinkable;
in fact the argument concerning self-exis
tence will apply here. (P. 31) : “ Self
existence necessarily means existence with
out a beginning; and to form a conception
of self-existence is to form a conception of
existence without a beginning. Now by
no mental effort can we do this. To con
ceive existence through infinite past time,
implies the conception of infinite past time,
which is an impossibility.” Thus, too,
we might argue in a strain identical; in
destructibility implies existence through
infinite future time, but by no mental effort
can infinite time be conceived. ^And thus,
too, we prove and disprove the persistence
of force and motion. When occasion re
quires, the cver-convenient argument of
££ inconceivability” enters. It reminds
one of Sir Wm. Hamilton’s “imbecility”
upon which are based “ sundry of the most
important phenomena of intelligence,”
among which he mentions the category of
causality. If causality is founded upon
imbecility, and all experience upon it, it
follows that all empirical knowledge rests
upon imbecility.
On page 247, our author asserts that the
first law of motion “ is in our flay being
merged in the more general one, that mo
tion, like matter, is indestructible.” It is
interesting t<5 observe that this so-called
“ First law of motion” rests on no better
basis than very crude reflection.
“When not influenced by external forces,
a moving body will go on in a straight
line with a uniform velocity,” is Spencer’s
statement of it.
This abstract, supposed law has neces
sitated much scaffolding in Natural Phil
osophy that is otherwise entirely unneces
sary; it contradicts the idea of momen
tum, and is thus refuted :
I. A body set in motion continues in
motion after the impulse’ has ceased from
without, for the reason that it retains mo
mentum.
II. Momentum is the product of weight
by velocity, and weight is the attraction of
the body in question to another body exter
nal to it. If all bodies external to the
moving body were entirely removed, the
latter would have no weight, and hence
the product of weight by velocity would
be zero.
III. The “ external influences” referred
to in the so-called “ law,” mean chiefly
attraction. Since no body could have mo
mentum except through weight, another
name for attraction, it follows that all free
motion has reference to another body, and
hence is curvilinear; thus we are rid of
that embarrassing ££ straight line motion”
which gives so much trouble in mechanics.
It has all to be reduced back again through
various processes to curvilinear movement.
We come, finally, to consider the central
point of this system ;
THE CORRELATION OF FORCES.
Speaking of persistence of force, Mr.
Spencer concedes (p. 252) that this doc
�Herbert Spencer.
trine is not demonstrable from experience.
He says (p. 254): “Clearly the persistence
of force is an ultimate truth of which no
inductive proof is possible.” (P. 255) :
“By the persistence of force we really
mean the persistence of some power which
transcends our knowledge and conception.”
(P. 257): “The indestructibility of matter
and the continuity of motion we saw to be
really .corollaries from the impossibility of
establishing in thought a relation between
something and nothing.” (Thus what
was established as a mental impotence is
now made to have objective validity.)
“Our inability to conceive matter and
motion destroyed is our inability to sup
press consciousness itself.” (P. 258) :
“ Whoever alleges that the inability to con
ceive a beginning or end of the universe
is a negative result of our mental struc
ture, cannot deny that our consciousness
of the universe as persistent is a positive
result of our mental structure. And this
persistence of the universe is the persist
ence of that unknown cause, power, or
force, which is manifested to us through
all phenomena.” This “ positive result of
our mental structure” is said to rest on
our ££ inability to conceive the limitation
of consciousness” which is ££ simply the
obverse of our inability to put an end to
the thinking subject while still continuing
to think.” (P. 257) : “To think of some
thing becoming nothing, would involve
that this substance of consciousness having
just existed under a given form, should
next assume no form, or should cease to
be consciousness.”
It will be observed here that he is en
deavoring te solve the First Antinomy of
Kant, and that his argument in this place
differs from Kant’s proof of the “ Antithe
sis” in this, that while Kant proves that
“The world [or universe] has no begin
ning,” etc., by the impossibility of the
origination of anything in a ££ void time,”
that Mr. Spencer proves the same thing by
asserting it to be a “positive result of our
mental structure,” and then proceeds to
show that this is a sort of “inability”
which has a subjective explanation ; it is,
according to him, merely the “ substance
17
of consciousness” objectified and regarded
as the law of reality.
But how is it with the “Thesis” to that
Antinomy, “The world has a beginning
in time ?” Kant proves this apagogically by showing the absurdity of an “ in
finite series already elapsed.” That our
author did not escape the contradiction
has already been shown in our remarks
upon the “indestructibility of matter.”
While he was treating of the unknowable
it was his special province to prove that
self-existence is unthinkable. (P. 31) : He
says it means ££ existence without a begin
ning,” and “to conceive existence through
infinite past time, implies the conception
of infinite past time, which is an impos
sibility.” Thus we have the Thesis of the
Antinomy supported in his doctrine of the
“ unknowable,” and the antithesis of the
same proved in the doctrine of the know
able.
We shall next find him involved with
Kant’s Third Antinomy.
The doctrine of the correlation is stated
in the following passages :
(P. 280): “ Those modes of the un
knowable, which we call motion, heat,
light, chemical affinity, etc., are alike
transformable into each other, and into
those modes of the unknowable which we
distinguish as sensation, emotion, thought:
these, in their turns, being directly or in
directly re-transformable into the original
shapes. That no idea or feeling arises,
save as a result of some physical force ex
pended in producing it, is fast becoming a
common-place of science; and whoever
duly weighs the evidence, will see that
nothing but an overwhelming bias in favor
of a preconceived theory can explain its
non-acceptance. How this metamorphosis
takes place—how a force existing as mo
tion, heat, or light, can become a mode of
consciousness—how it is possible for aerial
vibrations to generate the sensation we
call sound, or for the forces liberated by
chemical changes in the brain to give rise
to emotion—these are mysteries which it
is impossible to fathom.” (P. 284): “Each
manifestation of force can be interpreted
only as the effect of some antecedent force ;
�18
Herbert Spencer.
no matter whether it be an inorganic ac
tion, an animal movement, a thought, or a
feeling. Either this must be conceded, or
else it must be asserted that our successive
states of consciousness are self-created.”
“ Either mental energies as well as bodily
ones are quantitatively correlated to cer
tain energies expended in their production,
and to certain other energies they initiate ;
or else nothing must become something
and something, nothing. Since persistence
of force, being a datum of consciousness,
cannot be denied, its unavoidable corol
lary must be accepted.”
On p. 294 he supports the doctrine that
“ motion takes the direction of the least
resistance,” mentally as well as physically.
Here are some of the inferences to be
drawn from the passages quoted :
1. Every act is determined from with
out, and hence does not belong to the sub
ject in which it manifests itself. "
2. To change the course of a force, is to
make another direction “ that of the least
resistance,” or to remove or diminish a
resistance.
3. But to change a resistance requires
force, which (in motion) must act in “ the
direction of the least resistance,” and
hence it is entirely determined from with
out, and governed by the disposition of
the forces it meets.
4. Hence, of will, it is an absurdity to
talk; freedom or moral agency is an im
possible phantom.
5. That there is self-determination in
self-consciousness—that it is “self-cre
ated ”—is to Mr. Spencer the absurd al
ternative which at once turns the scale in
favor of the doctrine that mental phenom
ena are the productions of external
forces.
After this, what are we to Bay of the
following ? (P. 501): “ Notwithstanding
all evidence to the contrary, there will
probably have arisen in not a few minds
the conviction that the solutions which
have been given, along with those to be
derived from them, are essentially mate
rialistic. Let none persist in these mis
conceptions.” (P. 502): “Their implica
tions are no more materialistic than they
are spiritualistic, and no more spiritual
istic than they are materialistic.”
If we hold these positions by the side of
Kant’s Third Antinomy, we shall see that
they all belong to the proof of the “ Anti
thesis,” viz : “ There is no freedom, but
everything in the world happens accord
ing to the laws of nature.” The “Thesis,”
viz : “ That a causality of freedom is nec
essary to account fully for the phenomena
of the world,” he has not anywhere sup
ported. We find, in fact, only those
thinkers who have in some measure mas
tered the third phase of culture in thought,
standing upon the basis presented by
Kant in the Thesis. The chief point in
the Thesis maybe stated as follows: 1.
If everything that happens presupposes a
previous condition, (which the law of
causality states,) 2. This previous condi
tion cannot be a permanent (or have been
always in existence); for, if so, its conse
quence, or the effect, would have always
existed. Thus the previous condition must
be a thing which has happened. 3. With
this the whole law of causality collapses';
for (a) since each cause is an effect, (5) its
determining power escapes into a higher
member of the series, and, (c) unless the
law changes, wholly vanishes ; there result
an indefinite series of effects with no
cause ; each member of the series is a de
pendent, has its being in another, which
again has its being in another, and hence
cannot support the subsequent term.
Hence it is evident that this Antinomy
consists, first: in the setting up of the law
of causality as having absolute validity,
which is the antithesis. Secondly, the
experience is made that such absolute law
of causality is a self-nugatory one, and thus
it is to be inferred that causality, to be at
all, presupposes an origination in a “ self
moved.” as Plato calls it. Aristotle (Meta
physics, xi. 6-7, and ix. 8) exhibits this ul
timate as the “ self-active,” and the Schol
astics take the same, under the designation
<( actus purus,” for the definition of God.
The Antinomy thus reduced gives :
I. Thesis : Self-determination must lie
at the basis of all causality, otherwise
causality cannot be at all.
�Herbert Spencer.
II. Antithesis : If there is self-determin
ation, “ the unity of experience (which
leads us to look for a cause) is destroyed,
and hence no such case could arise in ex
perience.”
In comparing the two proofs it is at once
seen that they are of different degrees of
universality. The argument of the Thesis is
based upon the nature of the thing itself,
i. e. a pure thought; while that of the
Antithesis loses sight of the idea of
“ efficient ” cause, and seeks mere contin
uity in the sequence of time, and thus ex
hibits itself as the second stage of thought,
which leans on the staff of fancy, i. e. mere
representative thinking. This “ unity of
experience,” as Kant calls it, is the same
thing, stated in other words, that Spencer
refers to as the “ positive result of our
mental structure.” In one sense those are
true antinomies—those of Kant, Hamilton,
et al.—viz. in this : that the “ representa
tive” stage of thinking finds itself unable
to shake off the sensuouB picture, and think
“ sub quadani specie ceternitatis.” To the
mind disciplined to the third stage of
thought, these are no antinomies; Spinoza,
Leibnitz, Plato and Aristotle are not con
fused by them. The Thesis, properly
stated, is a true universal, and exhibits its
own truth, as that upon which the law of
causality rests; and hence the antithesis
itself—less universal—resting upon the
law of causality, is based upon the Thesis.
Moreover, the Thesis does not deny an in
finite succession in time and space, it only
states that there must be an efficient cause
—-just what the law of causalty states, but
shows, in addition, that this efficient cause
must be a “ self-determined.”
On page 282 we learn that, “The solar
heat is the final source of the force mani
fested by society.” “ It (the force of so
ciety) is based on animal and vegetable
products, and these in turn are dependent
on the light and heat of the sun.”
As an episode in this somewhat abstract
discussion, it may be diverting to notice
the question of priority of discovery,
touched upon in the following note (p.
454): “Until I recently consulted his
‘ Outlines of Astronomy’ on another ques
tion, I was not aware that, so far back as
19
1833, Sir John Herschel had enunciated
the doctrine that ‘ the sun’s rays are the
ultimate source of almost every motion
which takes place on the surface of the
earth.’ He expressly includes all geologic,
meteorologic, and vital actions; as also
those which we produce by the combus
tion of coal. The late George Stephenson
appears to have been wrongly credited
with this last idea.”
In order to add to the thorough discus
sion of this important question, we wish
to suggest the claims of Thomas Carlyle,
who, as far back as 1830, wrote the foling passage in his Sartor Resartus (Am.
ed. pp. 55-6): “ Well sang the Hebrew
Psalmist: ‘If I take the wings of the
morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts
of the Universe, God is there.’ Thou, too,
0 cultivated reader, who too probably art
no psalmist, but a prosaist, knowing God
only by tradition, knowest thou any corner
of the world where at least force is not ?
The drop which thou shakest from thy wet
hand, rests not where it falls, but to-mor
row thou findest it swept away ; already,
on the wings of the north wind, it is near
ing the tropic of Cancer. How it came to
evaporate and not lie motionless ? Thinkest thou there is aught motionless, without
force, and dead ?
“ As I rode through the Schwartzwald,
I said to myself: That little fire which
glows starlike across the dark-growing
(nachtende) moor, where the sooty smith
bends over his anvil, and thou hopest to
replace thy lost horseshoe—is it a detach
ed, separated speck, cut off from the whole
universe, or indissolubly joined to the
whole ? Thou fool, that smithy-fire was
primarily kindled at the sun ; is fed by air
that circulates from beyond Noah’s deluge,
from beyond the Dog star; it is a little
ganglion, or nervous centre in the great
vital system of immensity.”
We have, finally, to consider the correl
ation theory in connection with equilib
rium.
I. Motion results from destroyed equi
librium. The whole totality does not cor
respond to itself, its ideal and real contra
dict each other. The movement is the re
storing of the equilibrium, or the bringing
�20
Herbert Spencer.
into unity of the ideal and real. To illus
trate : a spring (made of steel, rubber, or
any elastic material) has a certain form in
which it may exist without tension ; this
may be called the ideal shape, or simply
the ideal. If the spring is forced to as
sume another shape, its real shape becomes
different from the ideal; its equilibrium
is destroyed, and force is manifested as a
tendency to restore the equilibrium (or
unity of the ideal and real). Generalize
this : all forces have the same nature;
(a) expansive forces arise from the ideal
existing without—a gas, steam, for ex
ample, ideally takes up a more extended
space than it has really; it expands to fill
it. Or (6) contractive forces : the multi
plicity ideally exists within; e. g. attrac
tion of gravitation; matter trying to find
the centre of the earth, its ideal. The will
acts in this way: The ideal is changed
first, and draws the real after it. I first
destroy, in thought and will, the identity
of ideal and real; the tension resulting is
force. Thinking, since it deals with the
universal (or the potential and the actual)
is an original source of force, and, as will
result in the sequel from a reverse analysis
(see below, V. 3, c) the only source of force.
II. Persistence of force requires an unrestorable equilibrium ; in moving to re
store one equilibrium, it must destroy
another—its equivalent.
III. But this contradicts the above de
veloped conception of force as follows :
(a) Since force results from destroyed
equilibrium, it follows (Z>) that it requires
as much force to destroy the equilibrium
as is developed in the restoring of it (and
this notion is the basis of the correlation
theory). But (c) if the first equilibrium
(already destroyed) can only be restored
by the destroying of another equal to the
same, it has already formed an equilibrium
with the second, and the occasion of the
motion is removed.
If two forces are equal and opposed,
which will give way ?
By this dialectic consideration of force,
we learn the insufficiency of the theory of
correlation as the ultimate truth. Instead
of being “ the sole truth, which transcends
experience by underlying it ” (p. 258), we
are obliged to confess that this “ persist
ence of force” rests on the category of
causality; its thin disguise consists in the
substitution of other words for the meta
physical expression, “Every effect must
be equal to its cause.” And this, when
tortured in the crucible, confesses that
the only efficient cause is “ causi sui
hence the effect is equal to its cause, be
cause it is the cause.
And the correlation theory results in
showing that force cannot be, unless self
originated.
That self-determination is the inevitable
result, no matter what hypothesis be as
sumed, is also evident. Taking all counter
hypotheses and generalizing them, we have
this analysis:
I. Any and every being is determined
from without through another. (This theo
rem includes all anti-self-determination
doctrines.)
II. It results from this that any and
every being is dependent upon another and
is a finite one ; it cannot be isolated with
out destroying it. Hence it results that
every being is an element of a whole that
includes it as a subordinate moment.
III. Dependent being, as a subordinate
element, cannot be said to support any
thing attached to it, for its own support is
not in itself but in another, namely, the
whole that includes it. From this it re
sults that no dependent being can depend
upon another dependent being, but rather
upon the including whole.
The including whole is therefore not a
dependent; since it is for itself, and each
element is determined through it, and for
it, it may be called the negative unity (or
the unity which negates the independence
of the elements).
Remark.—A chain of dependent beings
collapses into one dependent being. De
pendence is not converted into independ
ence by simple multiplication. All de
pendence is thus an element of an inde
pendent whole.
IV. What is the character of this inde
pendent w’hole, this negative “unity I “Char
acter” means determination, and we are
prepared to sav that its determination can
not be through another, for then it would
�Herbert Spencer.
be a dependent, and we should be referred
again to the whole, including it. Its de
termination by which the multiplicity of
elements arises is hence its own self-deter
mination. Thus all finitude and depend
ence presupposes as its condition, selfdetermination.
V. Self-determination more closely ex
amined exhibits some remarkable results,
(which -will throw light on the discussion
of “ Essence and Phenomena” above):
(1.) It is “causa sui;” active and pas
sive; existing dually as determining and
determined ; this self-diremption produces
a distinction in itself which is again can
celled.
(2.) As determiner (or active, or cause),
it is the pure universal—the possibility of
any determinations. But as determined
(passive or effect) it is the special, the par
ticular, the one-sided reality that enters
into change.
(3.) But it is “ negative unity” of these
two sides, and hence an individual. The
pure universal w’hose negative relation to
itself as determiner makes the particular,
completes itself to individuality through
this act.
(a.) Since its pure universality is the
substrate of its determination, and at the
same time a self-related activity (or nega
tivity), it at once becomes its own object.
(6.) Its activity (limiting or determin
ing)— a pure negativity — turned to itself
as object, dissolves the particular in the
universal, and thus continually realizes
its subjectivity.
(c.) Hence these two sides of the nega
tive unity are more properly subject and
object, and since they are identical (causa
sui} we may name the result “ self-con
sciousness.”
The absolute truth of all truths, then, is
that self-consciousness is the form of the
Total. God is a Person, or rather the
Person. Through His self-consciousness
(thought of Himself) he makes Himself
an object to Himself (Nature), and in the
same act cancels it again into Ilis own
image (finite spirit), and thus comprehends
Himself in this self-revelation.
Two remarks must be made here: (1.)
This is not “Pantheism;” for it results
21
that God is a Person; and secondly Nature
is a self-cancelling side in the process;
thirdly, the so-called “finite spirit,” or
man, is immortal, since otherwise he would
not be the last link of the chain; but such
he is, because he can develop out of his
sensuous life to pure thought, uncondition
ed by time and space, and hence he can
surpass any fixed “higher intelligence,”
no matter how high created.
(2.) It is the result that all profound
thinkers have arrived at.
Aristotle (Metaphysics XI. 6 & 7) car
ries this whole question of motion back to
its presupposition in a mode of treatment,
“ sub quadam specie aternitatis” He
concludes thus : “ The thinking, however,
of that which is purely for itself, is a think
ing'of that which is most excellent in and
for itself.
“ The thinking thinks itself, however,
through participation in that which is
thought by it; it becomes this object in
its own activity, in such a manner that the
subject and object are identical. For the
apprehending of thought and essence is
what constitutes reason. The activity of
thinking produces that which is perceived ;
so that the activity is rather that which
Beason seems to have of a divine nature;
speculation [pure thinking] is the most ex
cellent employment; if, then, God is al
ways engaged in this, as we are at times,
lie is admirable, and if in a higher degree,
more admirable. But He is in this pure
thinking, and life too belongs to Him; for
the activity of thought is life. He is this
activity. The activity, returning into it
self, is the most excellent and eternal life.
We say, therefore, that God is an eternal
and the best living being. So that life and
duration are uninterrupted and eternal;
for this is God.”
When one gets rid of those “images of
sense” called by Spencer “ conceivables,”
and arrives at the “ unpicturable notions
of intelligence,” he will find it easy to re
duce the vexed antinomies of force, matter,
motion, time, space and causality; arriv
ing at the fundamental principle — selfdetermination—he will be able to make a
science of Biology. The organic realm
will not yield to dualistic Reflection.
�22
Herbert Spencer.
Goethe is the great pioneer of the school of
physicists that will spring out of the pre
sent activity of Reflection when it shall
have arrived at a perception of its method.
Résumé'.—Mr. Spencer’s results, so far
as philosophy is concerned, may be briefly
summed up under four general heads : I.
Psychology. 2. Ontology. 3. Theology.
4. Cosmology.
PSYCHOLOGY.
(1.) Conception is a mere picture in the
mind; therefore what cannot be pictured
cannot be conceived; therefore the Infinite,
the Absolute, God, Essence,Matter, Motion,
Force—anything, in short, that involves
mediation—cannot be conceived ; hence
they are unknowable.
(2.) Consciousness is self-knowing; but
that subject and object are one, is impos
sible. We can neither know ourselves nor
any real being.
(3.) All reasoning or explaining is the
subsuming of a somewhat under a more
general category; hence the highest cate
gory is unsubsumed, and hence inexpli
cable.
(4.) Our intellectual faculties may be
improved to a certain extent, and beyond
this, no amount of training can avail any
thing. (Biology, vol. I, p. 188.)
(5.) The ££ substance of consciousness”
is the basis of our ideas of persistence of
Force, Matter, etc.
(6.) All knowing is relative ; our knowl
edge of this fact, however, is not relative
but absolute.
the hidden and inscrutable essence of the
correlate of our knowledge of phenomena.
We know that it exists.
(3.) Though what is inconceivable is for
that reason unknowable, yet we know that
persistence belongs to force, motion and
matter ; it is a positive result of our “ men
tal structure,” although we cannot con
ceive either destructibility or indestructi
bility.
(4.) Though self-consciousness is an
impossibility, yet it sometimes occurs,since
the ££ substance of consciousness” is the
object of consciousness when it decides
upon the persistence of the Universe, and
of Force, Matter, etc.
THEOLOGY.
ONTOLOGY.
The Supreme Being is unknown and un
knowable ; unrevealed and unrevealable,
either naturally or supernaturally : for to
reveal, requires that some one shall com
prehend what is revealed. The sole doc
trine of Religion of great value is the doc
trine that God transcends the human intel
lect. When Religion professes to reveal
Him to man and declare His attributes,
then it is irreligious. Though God is the
unknown, yet personality, reason, con
sciousness, etc., are degrading when ap
plied to Him. The t£ Thirty-nine Arti
cles” should be condensed into one, thus :
There is an Unknown which I know that I
cannot know.”
££ Religions are envelopes of truth which
reveal to the lower, and conceal to the
higher.” “They are modes of manifesta
tion of the unknowable.”
(1.) All that we know is phenomenal.
The reality passes all understanding. In
the phenomenon the essence is “ manifest
ed,” but still it is not revealed thereby;
it remains hidden behind it, inscrutable to
our perception,
(2.) And yet, since all our knowledge is
relative, we have an obscure knowledge of
“ Evolution is a change from an indefi
nite, incoherent homogeneity, to a definite,
coherent heterogeneity ; through continu
ous differentiations and integrations.”
This is the law of the Universe. All pro
gresses to an equilibration—to a moving
equilibrium.
COSMOLOGY.
�23
Fichtes Science of Knowledge.
INTRODUCTION TO FICHTE’S SCIENCE OF KNOWLEDGE.
TRANSLATED BY A. E. KROEGER.
[Note.—Tn presenting this "Introduction” to the readers of the Journal of Speculative
Philosophy, we believe we afford them the easiest means of gaining an insight into Fichte’s great
work on the Science of Knowledge. The present introduction was written by Fichte in 1797,
three years after the first publication of his full system. It is certainly written in a remarkably
clear and vigorous style, so as to be likely to arrest the attention even of those who have but
little acquaintance with the rudiments of the Science of Philosophy. This led us to give it
the preference over other essays, also written by Fichte, as Introductions to his Science of
Knowledge. A translation of the Science of Knowledge, by Mr. Kroeger, is at present in course
of publication in New York. This article is, moreover, interesting as being a more complete un
folding of the doctrine of Plato upon Method, heretofore announced.—Ed.]
PRELIMINARY REMARKS.
Do re, quae agitur, petimus, ut homines, earn non
opinionem, sed opus esse, cogitent ac pro certo habeant,
non sectae nos alicujus, ant placiti, sed utilitatis
et amplitudinis humanae fundamenta moliri. Deinde,
ut, suis commodis aequi, in commune consulant, et ipsi
in partem veniant.—Baco de Verulamio.
The author of the Science of Knowledge
was soon convinced, through a slight ac
quaintance with the philosophical literature
since the appearance of Kant’s Critiques,
that the object of this great man—to ef
fect a total reform in the study of philoso
phy, and hence of all science—had result
ed in a failure, Bince not one of his
numerous successors appeared to under
stand what he had really spoken of. The
author believed that he had understood
the latter; he resolved 'to devote his
life to a representation—totally independ
ent from Kant’s—of that great discovery,
and he will not give up this resolve.
Whether he will succeed better in making
himself understood to his age, time alone
can show. At all events, he knows that
nothing true and useful, which has once
been given to mankind, is lost, though only
remote posterity should learn how to use it.
Determined by my academical vocation,
I wrote, in the first instance, for my hear
ers, with whom it was in my power to ex
plain myself in words until I was under
stood.
This is not the place to testify how
much cause I have to be satisfied with my
efforts, and to entertain, of some of my
students, the best hopes for science. That
book of mine has also become known else
where, and there are various opinions
afloat concerning it amongst the learned.
A judgment, which even pretended to bring
forth arguments, I have neither read nor
heard, except from my students; but I
have both heard and read a vast amount of
derision, denunciation, and the general
assurance that everybody is heartily op
posed to this doctrine, and the confession
that no one can understand it. As far as
the latter is concerned, I will cheerfully
assume all the blame, until others shall rep
resent it so as to make it comprehensible,
when students will doubtless discover that
my representation was not so very bad
after all; or I will assume it altogether
and unconditionally, if the reader thereby
should be encouraged to study the present
representation, in which I shall endeavor
to be as clear as possible. I shall con
tinue these representations so long as I am
convinced that I do not write altogether in
vain. But I write in vain when nobody
examines my argument.
I still owe my readers the following ex
planations : I have always said, and say
again, that my system is the same ag
Kant’s. That is to say, it contains the
same view of the subject, but is totally in
dependent of Kant’s mode of representa
tion. I have said this, not to cover myself
by a great authority, or to support my
doctrine except by itself, but in order to
say the truth and to be just.
Perhaps it may be proven after twenty
years. Kant is as yet a sealed book, and
what he has been understood to teach, is
exactly what he intended to eradicate.
My writings are neither to explain Kant,
nor to be explained by his ; they must
stand by themselves, and Kant must not be
counted in the game at all. My object is—
I
/
�24
Fichtes Science of Knowledge,
let me say it frankly—not to correct or
amplify such philosophical reflections as
may be current, be they called anti
Kant or Kant, but to totally eradicate
them, and to effect a complete revolution
in the mode of thinking regarding these
subjects, so that hereafter the Object will
be posited and determined by Knowledge
(Reason), and not vice versa-, and this
seriously, not merely in words.
Let no one object: “If this system is
true, certain axioms cannot be upheld,”
for I do not intend that anything should
be upheld which this system refutes.
Again : “Ido not understand this book,”
is to me a very uninteresting and insignifi
cant confession. No one can and shall
understand my writings, without having
studied them ; for they do not contain a
lesson heretofore taught, but something—
since Kant has not been understood—alto
gether new to the age.
Censure without argument tells me
simply that my doctrine does not please ;
and this confession is again very unim
portant; for the question is not at all,
whether it pleases you or not, but whether
it has been proven. In the present sketch
I write only for those, in whom there
still dwells an inner sense of love for
truth; who still value science and con
viction, and who are impelled by a lively
zeal to seek truth. With those, who, by
long spiritual slavery, have lost with the
faith in their own conviction their faith
in the conviction of others; who consider
it folly if anybody attempts to seek truth
for himself ; who see nothing in sci
ence but a comfortable mode of subsist
ence ; who are horrified at every proposi
tion to enlarge its boundaries involving as
a new labor, and who consider no means
disgraceful by which they can hope to sup
press him who makes such a proposition,—
with those I have nothing to do.
I should be sorry if they understood me.
Hitherto this wish of mine has been real
ized; and I hope, even now, that these
present lines will so confuse them that they
can perceive nothing more in them than
mere words, while that which represents
their mind is torn hither and thither by
their ill-concealed rage.
INTRODUCTION.
I. Attend to thyself; turn thine eye away
from all that surrounds thee and into thine
own inner self! Such is the first task im
posed upon the student by Philosophy.
We speak of nothing that is without thee,
but merely of thyself.
The slightest self-observation must show
every one a remarkable difference between
the various immediate conditions of his
consciousness, which we may also call
representations. For some of them appear
altogether dependent upon our freedom,
and we cannot possibly believe that there
is without us anything corresponding to
them. Our imagination, our will, appears
to us as free. Others, however, we refer to
a Truth as their model, which is held to be
firmly fixed, independent of us; and in
determining such representations, we find
ourselves conditioned by the necessity of
their harmony with this Truth. In the
knowledge of them we do not consider
ourselves free, as far as their contents are
concerned. In short: while some of our
representations are accompanied by the
feeling of freedom, others are accompanied
by the feeling of necessity.
Reasonably the question cannot arise—
why are the representations dependent
upon our freedom determined in precisely
this manner, and not otherwise? For in
supposing them to be dependent upon our
freedom, all application of the conception
of a ground is rejected; they are thus, be
cause I so fashioned them, and if I had
fashioned them differently, they would be
otherwise.
But it is certainly a question worthy of
reflection—what is the ground of the sys
tem of those representations which are ac
companied by the feeling of necessity and
of that feeling of necessity itself? To
answer this question is the object of phil
osophy ; and, in my opinion, nothing is
philosophy but the Science which solves
this problem. The system of those repre
sentations, which are accompanied by the
feeling of necessity, is also called Experi
ence—internal as well as external experi
ence. Philosophy, therefore, to say the
same thing in other words, has to find the
ground of all Experience.
�Fichte’s Science of Knowledge.
Only three objections can be raised
against this. Somebody might deny that
representations, accompanied by the feel
ing of necessity, and referred to a Truth
determined without any action of ours, do
ever occur in our consciousness. Such a
person would either deny his own know
ledge, or be altogether differently con
structed from other men ; in which latter
case his denial would be of no concern to
us. Or somebody might say : the question
is completely unanswerable, we are in ir
removable ignorance concerning it, and
must remain so. To enter into argument
with such a person is altogether superflu
ous. The best reply he can receive is an
actual answer to the question, and then
all he can do is to examine our answer,
and tell us why and in what matters it does
not appear satisfactory to him. Finally,
somebody might quarrel about the desig
nation, and assert: “Philosophy is some
thing else than what you have stated
above, or at least something else besides.”
It might be easily shown to such a one,
that scholars have at all times designated
exactly what we have just stated to be
Philosophy, and that whatever else he
might assert to be Philosophy, has already
another name, and that if this word signi
fies anything at all, it must mean exactly
this Science. But as we are not inclined
to enter upon any dispute about words,
we, for our part, have already given up
the name of Philosophy, and have called
the Science which has the solution of this
problem for its object, the Science of
Knowledge.
II. Only when speaking of something,
which we’consider accidental, i. e. which
we suppose might also have been other
wise, though it was not determined by free
dom, can we ask for its ground ; and by
this very asking for its ground does it be
come accidental to the questioner. To
find the ground of anything accidental
means, to find something else, from the
determinedness of which it can be seen
why the accidental, amongst the various
conditions it might have assumed, assumed
precisely the one it did. The ground lies
—by the very thinking of a ground—be
yond its Grounded, and both are, in so far
25
as they are Ground and Grounded, opposed
to each other, related to each other, and
thus the latter is explained from the former.
Now Philosophy is to discover the
ground of all experience; hence its object
lies necessarily beyond all Experience.
This sentence applies to all Philosophy,
and has been so applied always heretofore,
if we except these latter days of Kant’s
miconstruers and their facts of conscious
ness, i. e. of inner experience.
No objection can be raised to this para
graph ; for the premise of our conclusion
is a mere analysis of the above-stated con
ception of Philosophy, and from the prem
ise the conclusion is drawn. If some
body should wish to remind us that the
conception of a ground must be differently
explained, we can, to be sure, not prevent
him from forming another conception of
it, if he so chooses ; but we declare, on
the strength of our good right, that we, in
the above description of Philosophy, wish
to have nothing else understood by that
word. Hence, if it is not to be so under
stood, the possibility of Philosophy, as we
have described it, must be altogether de
nied, and such a denial we have replied to
in our first section.
III. The finite intelligence has nothing
beyond experience ; experience contains
the whole substance of its thinking. The
philosopher stands necessarily under thé
same conditions, and hence it seems impos
sible that he can elevate himself beyond
experience.
But he can abstract; i. e. he can separate
by the freedom of thinking what in experi
ence is united. In Experience, the Thing
—that which is to be determined in itself
independent of our freedom, and in ac
cordance with which our knowledge is to
shape itself—and the Intelligence—which
is to obtain a knowledge of it—are in
separably united. The philosopher may
abstract from both, and if he does, he bas
abstracted from Experience and elevated,
himself above it. If he abstracts from the
first, he retains an intelligence in itself,
i. e. abstracted from its relation to experi
ence ; if he abstract from the latter, he re
tains the Thing in itself, i. e. abstracted
from the fact that it occurs in experience;
�26
Fichte's Science of Knowledge.
and thus retains the Intelligence in it
self, or the “Thing in itself,” as the
explanatory ground of Experience. The
former mode of proceeding is called Ideal
ism, the latter Dogmatism.
Only these two philosophical systems—
and of that these remarks should convince
everybody—are possible. According to
the first system the representations, which
are accompanied by the feeling of neces
sity, are productions of the Intelligence,
which must be presupposed in their ex
planation ; according to the latter system
they are the productions of a thing in itself
which must be presupposed to explain
them. If anybody desired to deny this,
he would have to prove that there is still
another way to go beyond experience than
the one by means of abstraction, or that
the consciousness of experience contains
more than the two components just men
tioned.
Now in regard to the first, it will appear
below, it is true, that what we have here
called Intelligence does, indeed, occur in
consciousness under another name, and
hence is not altogether produced by ab
straction ; but it will at the same time be
shown that the consciousness of it is con
ditioned by an abstraction, which, how
ever, occurs naturally to mankind.
We do not at all deny that it is possible
to compose a whole system from fragments
of these incongruous systems, and that
this illogical labor has often been under
taken ; but we do deny that more than
these two systems are possible in a logical
course of proceeding.
IV. Between the object—(we shall call
the explanatory ground of experience,
which a philosophy asserts, the object of
that philosophy, since it appears to be only
through and for such philosophy) — be
tween the object of Idealism and that of
Dogmatism there is a remarkable distinc
tion in regard to their relation to con
sciousness generally. All whereof I am con
scious is called object of consciousness.
There are three ways in which the object
can be related to consciousness. Either
it appears to have been produced by the
representation, or as existing without any
action of ours; and in the latter case, as
either also determined in regard to its
qualitativeness, or as existing merely in
regard to its existence, while determinable
in regard to its qualitativeness by the free
intelligence.
The first relation applies merely to an
imaginary object; the second merely to an
object of Experience; the third applies
only to an object, which we shall at once
proceed to describe.
I can determine myself by freedom to
think, for instance, the Thing in itself of
the Dogmatists. Now if I am to abstract
from the thought and look simply upon
myself, I myself become the object of a
particular representation. That I appear to
myself as determined in precisely this
manner, and none other, e. g. as thinking,
and as thinking of all possible thoughts—
precisely this Thing in itself, is to depend
exclusively upon my own freedom of selfdetermination ; I have made myself such a
particular object out of my own free will.
1 have not made myself; on the contrary, I
am forced to think myself in advance as
determinable through this self-determina
tion. Hence I am myself my own object,
the determinateness of which, under cer
tain conditions, depends altogether upon
the intelligence, but the existence of which
must always be presupposed. Now this
very “I” is the object of Idealism. The
object of this system does not occur actu
ally as something real in consciousness, not
as a Thing in itself—for then Idealism
would cease to be what it is, and become
Dogmatism—but as “Z” in itself-, not as
an object of Experience—for it is not de
termined, but is exclusively determinable
through my freedom, and without this de
termination it would be nothing, and is
really not at all—but as something beyond
all Experience.
The object of Dogmatism, on the con
trary, belongs to the objects of the first
class, which are produced solely by free
Thinking. The Thing in itself is a mere
invention, and has no reality at all. It
does not occur in Experience, for the sys
tem of Experience is nothing else than
Thinking accompanied by the feeling of
necessity, and can not even be said to be
anything else by the dogmatist, who, like
�Fichte's Science of Knowledge.
every philosopher, has to explain its cause.
True, the dogmatist wants to obtain re
ality for it through the necessity of think
ing it as ground of all experience, and
would succeed, if he could prove that ex
perience can be, and can be explained only
by means of it. But this is the very thing
in dispute, and he cannot presuppose what
must first be proven.
Hence the object of Idealism has this
advantage over the object of Dogmatism,
that it is not to be deduced as the explana
tory ground of Experience—which would
be a contradiction, and change this system
itself into a part of Experience—but that
it is, nevertheless, to be pointed out as a
part of consciousness ; whereas, the object
of Dogmatism can pass for nothing but a
mere invention, which obtains validity
only through the success of the system.
This we have said merely to promote a
clearer insight into the distinction between
the two systems, but not to draw from it
conclusions against the latter system.
That the object of every philosophy, as
explanatory ground of Experience, must
lie beyond all experience, is required by
the very nature of Philosophy, and is far
from being derogotary to a system. But
we have as yet discovered no reasons why
that object should also occur in a particu
lar manner within consciousness.
If anybody should not be able to convince
himself of the truth of what we have just
said, this would not make his conviction
of the truth of the whole system an impos
sibility, since what we have just said was
only intended as a passing remark. Still
in conformity to our plan we will also here
take possible objections into consideration.
Somebody might deny the asserted im
mediate self-consciousness in a free act of
the mind. Such a one we should refer to
the conditions stated above. This selfconsciousness does not obtrude itself upon
us, and comes not of its own accord; it is
necessary first to act free, and next to ab
stract from the object, and attend to one’s
self. Nobody can be forced to do this,
and though he may say he has done it, it
is impossible to say whether he has done
it correctly. In one word, this conscious
ness cannot be proven to any one, but
27
everybody must freely produce it within
himself. Against the second assertion,
that the “Thing in itself” is a mere in
vention, an objection could only be raised,
because it were misunderstood.
V. Neither of these two systems can di
rectly refute the other ; for their dispute is
a dispute about the first principle; each
system—if you only admit its first axiom—
proves the other one wrong; each denies
all to the opposite, and these« two systems
have no point in common from which they
might bring about a mutual understanding
and reconciliation. Though they may agree
on the words of a sentence, they will sure
ly attach a different meaning to the words.
(Hence the reason why Kant has not
been understood and why the Science of
Knowledge can find no friends. The sys
tems of Kant and of the Science of Knowl
edge are idealistic—not in the general in
definite, but in the just described definite
sense of the word; but the modern phil
osophers are all of them dogmatists, and
are firmly resolved to remain so. Kant
was merely tolerated, because it was possi
ble to make a dogmatist out of him; but
the Science of Knowledge, which cannot
be thus construed, is insupportable to these
wise men. The rapid extension of Kant’s
philosophy—when it'was thus misunder
stood— is not a proof of the profundity,
but rather of the shallowness of the age.
For in this shape it is the most wonderful
abortion ever created by human imagina
tion, and it does little honor to its defend
ers that they do not perceive this. It
can also be shown that this philosophy was
accepted so greedily only because people
thought it would put a stop to all serious
speculation, and continue the era of shal
low Empiricism.)
First. Idealism cannot refute Dogma
tism. True, the former system has the ad
vantage, as we have already said, of being
enabled to point out its explanatory ground
of all experience—the free acting intelli
gence—as a fact of consciousness. This
fact the dogmatist must also admit, for
otherwise he would render himself incapa
ble of maintaining the argument with his
opponent; but he at the same time, by a cor
rect conclusion from his principle, changes
�2S
Fichte's Science of Knowledge.
this explanatory ground into a deception
and appearance, and thus renders it inca
pable of being the explanatory ground of
anything else, since it cannot maintain its
own existence in its own philosophy. Ac
cording to the Dogmatist, all phenomena
of our consciousness are productions of a
Thing in itself, even our pretended deter
minations by freedom, and the belief that
we are free. This belief is produced by
the effect of the Thing upon ourselves, and
the determinations, which we deduced from
freedom, are also produced by it. The only
difference is, that we are not aware of it in
these cases, and hence ascribe it to no
cause, i. e. to our freed-om. Every logical
dogmatist is necsssarily a Fatalist; he does
not deny the fact of consciousness, that we
consider ourselves free—for this would be
against reason ;—but he proves from his
principle that this is a false view. He de
nies the independence of the Ego, which is
the basis of the Idealist, in toto, makes it
merely a production of the Thing, an acci
dence of the World; and hence the logical
dogmatist is necessarily also materialist.
He can only be refuted from the postulate
of the freedom and independence of the
Ego ; but this is precisely what he denies.
Neither can the dogmatist refute the Ideal
ist.
The principle of the former, the Thing
in itself, is nothing, and has no reality, as
its defenders themselves must admit, ex
cept that which it is to receive from the
fact that experience can only be explained
by it. But this proof the Idealist annihi
lates by explaining experience in another
manner, hence by denying precisely what
dogmatism assumes. Thus the Thing in
itself becomes a complete Chimera; there
is no further reason why it should be as
sumed; and with it the whole edifice of
dogmatism tumbles down.
♦
From what we have just stated, is more
over evident the complete irreconcilability
of both systems; since the results of the
one destroy those of the other. Wherever
their union has been attempted the mem
bers would not fit together, and somewhere
an immense gulf appeared which could not
be spanned.
If any one were to deny this he would
have to prove the possibility of such a
union—of a union which consists in an
everlasting composition of Matter and
Spirit, or, which is the same, of Necessity
and Liberty.
Now since, as far as we can see at pres
ent, both systems appear to have the same
speculative value, but since both cannot
stand together, nor yet either convince the
other, it occurs as a very interesting ques
tion : What can possibly tempt persons who
comprehend this—and to comprehend it is
so very easy a matter—to prefer the one
over the other ; and why skepticism, as the
total renunciation of an answer to this
problem, does not become universal?
The dispute between the Idealist and the
Dogmatist is, in reality, the question,
whether the independence of the Ego is
to be sacrificed to that of the Thing, or vice
versa? What, then, is it, which induces
sensible men to decide in favor of the one
or the other ?
The philosopher discovers from this point
of view—in which he must necessarily place
himself, if he wants to pass for a philos
opher, and which, in the progress of Think
ing, every man necessarily occupies sooner
or later, — nothing farther than that he
is forced to represent to himself both:
that he is free, and that there are de
termined things outside of him. But it
is impossible for man to stop at this
thought; the thought of a representation
is but a half-thought, a broken off frag
ment of a thought; something must be
thought and added to it, as corresponding
with the representation independent of it.
In other words : the representation cannot
exist alone by itself, it is only something
in connection with something else, and in
itself it is nothing. This necessity of think
ing it is, which forces one from that point
of view to the question : What is the ground
of the representations ? or, which is exact
ly the same, What is that which corresponds
with them ?
Now the representation of the independ
ence of the Ego and that of the Thing can
very well exist together; but not the inde
pendence itself of both. Only one can be
the first, the beginning, the independent;
the second, by the very fact of being the
�Fichte's Science of Knowledge.
second, becomes necessarily dependent
upon the first, with which it is to be con
nected—now, which of the two is to be
made the first ? Reason furnishes no ground
for a decision ; since the question concerns
not the connecting of one link with an
other, but the commencement of the first
link, which as an absolute first act is al
together conditional upon the freedom of
Thinking. Hence the decision is arbitra
ry ; and since this arbitrariness is never
theless to have a cause, the decision is de
pendent upon inclination and interest.
The last ground, therefore, of the differ
ence between the Dogmatist and the Ideal
ist is the difference of their interest.
The highest interest, and hence the
ground of all other interest, is that which
we feel for ourselves. Thus with the Phil
osopher. Not to lose his Self in his argu
mentation, but to retain and assert it, this
is the interest which unconsciously guides
all his Thinking. Now, there are two
grades of mankind ; and in the progress
of our race, before the last grade has been
universally attained, two chief kinds of
men. The one kind is composed of those
who have not yet elevated themselves to
the full feeling of their freedom and abso
lute independence, who are merely con
scious of themselves in the representation
of outward things. These men have only
a desultory consciousness, linked together
with the outward objects, and put together
out of their manifoldness. They receive a
picture of their Self only from the Things,
as from a mirror; for their own sake they
cannot renounce their faith in the inde
pendence of those things, since they exist
only together with these things. What
ever they are they have become through
the outer World. Whosoever is only a
production of the Things will never view
himself in any other manner; and he is
perfectly correct, so long as he speaks
merely for himself and for those like him.
The principle of the dogmatist is : Faith
in the things, for their own sake ; hence,
mediated Faith in their own desultory self,
as simply the result of the Things.
But whosoever becomes conscious of his
self-existence and independence from all
outward things—and this men can only be
29
come by making something of themselves,
through their own Self, independently of
all outward things—needs no longer the
Things as supports of his Self, and cannot
use them, because they annihilate his inde
pendence and turn it into an empty appear
ance. The Ego which he possesses, and
which interests him, destroys that Faith in
the Things; he believes in his independ
ence, from inclination, and seizes it with
affection. His Faith in himself is imme
diate.
From this interest the various passions
are explicable, which mix generally with
the defence of these philosophical systems.
The dogmatist is in danger of losing his
Self when his system is attacked ; and yet
he is not armed against this attack, because
there is something within him which takes
part with the aggressor ; hence, he defends
himself with bitterness and heat. The ideal
ist, on the contrary, cannot well refrain
from looking down upon his opponent with
a certain carelessness, since the latter can
tell him nothing which he has not known
long ago and has cast away as useless. The
dogmatist gets angry, misconstrues, and
would persecute, if he had the power; the
idealist is cold and in danger of ridiculing
his antagonist.
Hence, what philosophy a man chooses
depends entirely upon what kind of man
he is; for a philosophical system is not a
piece of dead household furniture, which
you may use or not use, but is animated
by the soul of the man who has it. Men
of a naturally weak-minded character, or
who have become weak-minded and crooked
through intellectual slavery, scholarly lux
ury and vanity, will never elevate them
selves to idealism.
You can show the dogmatist the insuffi
ciency and inconsequence of bis system, of
which we shall speak directly; you can
confuse and terrify him from all sides ; but
you cannot convince him, because he is un
able to listen to and examine with calm
ness what he cannot tolerate. If Idealism
should prove to be the only real Philosophy,
it will also appear that a man must be born
a philosopher, be educated to be one, and
educate himself to be one; but that no
human art (no external force) can make a
�30
Fichte’s Science of Knowledge.
philosopher out of him. Hence, this Sci
ence expects few proselytes from men who
have already formed their character; if
our Philosophy has any hopes at all, it en
tertains them rather from the young gene
ration, the natural vigor of which has not
yet been submerged in the weak-mindednessof the age.
VI. But dogmatism is totally incapable
of explaining what it should explain, and
this is decisive in regard to its insufficien
cy. It is to explain the representation of
things, and proposes to explain them as an
effect of the Things. Now, the dogmatist
cannot deny what immediate conscious
ness asserts of this representation. What,
then, does it assert thereof? It is not my
purpose here to put in a conception what
can only be gathered in immediate contem
plation, nor to exhaust that which forms a
great portion of the Science of Knowledge.
I will merely recall to memory what every
one, who has but firmly looked within him
self, must long since have discovered.
The Intelligence, as such, sees itself, and
this seeing of its self is immediately con
nected with all that appertains to the Intel
ligence ; and in this immediate uniting of
Being and Seeing the nature of the Intel
ligence consists. Whatever is in the In
telligence, whatever the Intelligence is
itself, the Intelligence is for itself, and
only in so far as it is this for itself is it
this, as Intelligence.
I think this or that object! Now what
does this mean, and how do I appear to
myself in this Thinking ? Not otherwise
than thus : I produce certain conditions
within myself, if the object is a mere in
vention ; but if the objects are real and
exist without my invention, I simply con
template, as a spectator, the production of
those conditions within me. They are
within me only in so far as I contemplate
them; my contemplation and their Being
are inseparably united.
A Thing, on the contrary, is to be this
or that; but as soon as the question is put:
For whom is it this? Nobody, who but
comprehends the word, will reply : For
itself! But he will have to add the
thought of an Intelligence, for which the
Thing is to be; while, on the contrary, the
Intelligence is self-sufficient and requires
no additional thought. By thinking it as
the Intelligence you include already that
for which it is to be. Hence, there is in
the Intelligence, to express myself figura
tively, a twofold—Being and Seeing, the
Real and the Ideal; and in the inseparabil
ity of th is twofold the nature of the Intelli
gence consists, while the Thing is simply
a unit—the Real. Hence Intelligence and
Thing are directly opposed to each other;
they move in two worlds, between which
there is no bridge.
The nature of the Intelligence and its
particular determinations Dogmatism en
deavors to explain by the principle of
Causality ; the Intelligence is to be a pro
duction, the second link in a series.
But the principle of causality applies to
a real series, and not to a double one. The
power of the cause goes over into an Other
opposed to it, and produces therein a Be
ing, and nothing further; a Being for a
possible outside Intelligence, but not for
the thing itself. You may give this Other
even a mechanical power, and it will trans
fer the received impression to the next
link, and thus the movement proceeding
from the first may be transferred through
as long a series as you choose to make;
but nowhere will you find a link which re
acts back upon itself. Or give the Other
the highest quality which you can give a
thing—Sensibility—whereby it will follow
the laws of its own inner nature, and not
the law given to it by the cause—and it
will, to be sure, react upon the outward
cause ; but it will, nevertheless, remain a
mere simple Being, a Being for a possible
intelligence outside of it. The Intelligence
you will not get, unless you add it in think
ing as the primary and absolute, the con
nection of which, with this your independ
ent Being, you will find it very difficult to
explain.
The series is and remains a simple one;
and you have not at all explained what was
to be explained. You were to prove the
connection betweeen Being and Represen
tation ; but this you do not, nor can you
do it; for your principle contains merely
the ground of a Being, and not of a Repre ■
sentation, totally opposed to Being. You
�Fichtes Science of Knowledge.
take an immense leap into a world, totally
removed from your principle. This leap
they seek to hide in various ways. Rig
orously— and this is the course of con
sistent dogmatism, which thus becomes
materialism ;—the soul is to them no Thing
at all, and indeed nothing at all, but merely
a production, the result of the reciprocal ac
tion of Things amongst themselves. But
this reciprocal action produces merely a
change in the Things, and by no means
anything apart from the Things, unless you
add an observing intelligence. The similes
which they adduce to make their system
comprehensible, for instance, that of the
harmony resulting from sounds of different
instruments, make its irrationality only
more apparent. For the harmony is not in
the instruments, but merely in the mind of
the hearer, who combines within himself
the manifold into One; and unless you
have such a hearer there is no harmony at
all.
But who can prevent Dogmatism from
assuming the Soul as one of the Things,
per se? The soul would thus belong to
what it has postulated for the solution of
its problem, and, indeed, would thereby
be made the category of cause and effect
applicable to the Soul and the Things—
materialism only permitting a reciprocal
action of the Things amongst themselves—
and thoughts might now be produced. To
make the Unthinkable thinkable, Dogma
tism has, indeed, attempted to presuppose
Thing or the Soul, or both, in such a man
ner, that the effect of the Thing was to
produce a representation. The Thing, as
influencing the Soul, is to be such, as to
make its influences representations; God,
for instance, in Berkley’s system, was such
a thing. (Ilis system is dogmatic, not
idealistic.) But this does not better mat
ters ; we understand only mechanical
effects, and it is impossible for us to under
stand any other kind of effects. Hence,
that presupposition contains merely words,
but there is no sense in it. Or the soul
is to be of such a nature that every effect
upon the Soul turns into a representation.
But this also we find it impossible to
understand.
In this manner Dogmatism proceeds
31
everywhere, whatever phase it may assume.
In the immense gulf, which in that system
remains always open between Things and
Representations, it places a few empty
words instead of an explanation, which
words may certainly be committed to mem
ory, but in saying which nobody has ever
yet thought, nor ever will think, anything.
For whenever one attempts to think the
manner in which is accomplished what
Dogmatism asserts to be accomplished, the
whole idea vanishes into empty foam.
Hence Dogmatism can only repeat its
principle, and repeat it in different forms;
can only assert and re-assert the same
thing; but it cannot proceed from what it
asserts to what is to be explained, nor ever
deduce the one from the other. But in
this deduction Philosophy consists. Hence
Dogmatism, even when viewed from a
speculative stand-point, is no Philosophy
at all, but merely an impotent assertion.
Idealism iB the only possible remaining
Philosophy. What we have here said can
meet with no objection ; but it may -well
meet with incapability of understanding
it. That all influences are of a mechanical
nature, and that no mechanism can pro
duce a representation, nobody will deny,
who but understands the words. But this
is the very difficulty. It requires a certain
degree of independence and freedom of
spirit to comprehend the nature of the in
telligence, which we have described, and
upon which our whole refutation of Dog
matism is founded. Many persons have
not advanced further with their Thinking
than to comprehend the simple chain of na
tural mechanism; and very naturally,there
fore, the Representation, if they choose
to think it at all, belongs, in their eyes, to
the same chain of-which alone they have
any knowledge. The Representation thus
becomes to them a sort of Thing of which
we have divers examples in some of the
most celebrated philosophical writers. For
such persons Dogmatism is sufficient; for
them there is no gulf,since the opposite does
not exist for them at all. Hence you can
not convince the Dogmatist by the proof
just stated, however clear it may be, for you
cannot bring the proof to his knowledge,
since he lacks the power to comprehend it.
�32
Fichte’s Science of Knovdedge.
Moreover, the manner in which Dogma
tism is treated here, is opposed to the mild
way of thinking which characterizes our
age, and which, though it has been exten
sively accepted in all ages, has never been
converted to an express principle except in
ours; i. e. that philosophers must not be
so strict in their logic; in philosophy one
should not be so particular as, for instance,
in Mathematics. If persons of this mode
of thinking see but a few links of the
chain and the rule, according to which
conclusions are drawn, they at once fill up
the remaining part through their imagina
tion, never investigating further of what
they may consist. If, for instance, an
Alexander Von loch tells them: “All
things are determined by natural neces
sity ; now our representations depend
upon the condition of Things, and our
will depends upon our representations :
hence all our will is determined by natural
necessity, and our opinion of a free will is
mere deception !”—then these people think
it mightily comprehensible and clear, al
though there is no sense in it; and they go
away convinced and satisfied at the strin
gency of this his demonstration.
I must call to mind, that the Science of
Knowledge does not proceed from this
mild way of thinking, nor calculate upon
it. If only a single link in the long chain
it has to draw does not fit closely to the
following, this Science does not pretend to
have established anything.
VII. Idealism, as we have said above?
explains the determinations of conscious
ness from the activity of the Intelligence,
which, in its view, is only active and abso
lute, not passive ; since it is postulated
as the first and highest, preceded by noth
ing, which might explain its passivity.
From the same reason actual Existence can
not well be ascribed to the Intelligence,
since such Existence is the result of re
ciprocal causality, but there is nothing
wherewith the Intelligence might be placed
in reciprocal causality. From the view of
Idealism, the Intelligence is a Doing, and
absolutely nothing else; it is even wrong
to call it an Active, since this expression
points to something existing, in which the
activity is inherent.
But to assume anything of this kind is
against the principle of Idealism, which
proposes to deduce all other things from
the Intelligence. Now certain determined
representations—as, for instance, of a
world, of a material world in space, exist
ing without any work of our own—are to
be deduced from the action of the Intelli
gence; but you cannot deduce anything
determined from an undetermined; the
form of all deductions, the category of
ground and sequence, is not applicable
here. Hence the action of the Intelligence,
which is made the ground, must be a de
termined action, and since the action of
the Intelligence itself is the highest ground
of explanation, that action must be so de
termined by the Intelligence itself, and not
by anything foreign to it. Hence the pre
supposition of Idealism will be this : the In
telligence acts, but by its very essence it
can only act in a certain manner. If this
necessary manner of its action is considered
apart from the action, it may properly be
called Laws of Action. Hence, there are
necessary laws of the Intelligence.
This explains also, at the same time, the
feeling of necessity which accompanies
the determined representations ; the Intel
ligence experiences in those cases, not an
impression from without, but feels in its
action the limits of its own Essence. In
so far as Idealism makes this only reason
able and really explanatory presupposition
of necessary laws of the Intelligence, it is
called Critical or Transcendental Idealism.
A transcendent Idealism would be a sys
tem w’hich were to undertake a deduction
of determined representations from the
free and perfectly lawless action of the
Intelligence: an altogether contradictory
presupposition, since, as we have said
above, the category of ground and sequence
is not applicable in that case.
The laws of action of the Intelligence,
as sure as they are to be founded in the
one nature of the Intelligence, constitute
in themselves a system ; that is to say, the
fact that the Intelligence acts in this par
ticular manner under this particular condition is explainable, and explainable be
cause under a condition it has always a
determined mode of action, which again is
�Fichte's Science of Knowledge.
explainable from one highest fundamental
law. In the course of its action the Intel
ligence gives itself its own laws ; and this
legislation itself is done by virtue of a
higher necessary action or Representation.
For instance : the law of Causality is not a
first original law, but only one of the many
modes of combining the manifold, and to
be deduced from the fundamental law of
this combination ; this law of combining
the manifold is again, like the manifold
itself, to be deduced from higher laws.
Hence, even Critical Idealism can pro
ceed in a twofold manner. Either it de
duces this system of necessary modes of
action, and together with it the objective
representations arising therefrom, really
from the fundamental laws of the Intelli
gence, and thus causes gradually to arise
under the very eyes of the reader or hearer
the whole extent of our representations ; or
it gathers these laws—perhaps as they are
already immediately applied to objects ;
Hence, in a lower condition, and then they
are called categories—gathers these laws
somewhere, and now asserts, that the ob
jects are determined and regulated by
them.
I ask the critic who follows the l&stmentioned method, and who does not de
duce the assumed laws of the Intelligence
from the Essence of the Intelligence,
where he gets the material knowledge of
these laws, the knowledge that they are
just these very same laws ; for instance,
that of Substantiality or Causality ? For
I do not want to trouble him yet with the
question, how he knows that they are mere
immanent laws of the Intelligence. They
are the laws which are immediately applied
to objects, and he can only have obtained
them by abstraction from these objects,
i. e. from Experience. It is of no avail if
he takes them, by a roundabout way, from
logic, for logic is to him only the result
of abstraction from the objects, and hence
he would do indirectly, what directly might
appear too clearly in its true nature.
Hence he can prove by nothing that his
postulated Laws of Thinking are really
Laws of Thinking, are really nothing but
immanent laws of the Intelligence. The
Dogmatist asserts in opposition, that they
3
33
are not, but that they are general quali
ties of Things, founded on the nature of
Things, and there is no reason why we
should place more faith in the unproved
assertion of the one than in the unproved
assertion of the other. This course of pro
ceeding, indeed, furnishes no understand
ing that and why the Intelligence should act
just in this particular manner. To produce
such an understanding, it would be neces
sary to premise something which can only
appertain to the Intelligence, and from
those premises to deduce before our eyes
the laws of Thinking.
By such a course of proceeding it is
above all incomprehensible how the object
itself is obtained: for although you may
admit the unproved postulates of the critic,
they explain nothing further than the
qualities and relations of the Thing : (that
it is, for instance, in space, manifested in
time, with accidences which must be re
ferred to a substance, &c.) But whence
that which has these relations and quali
ties ? whence then the substance which
is clothed in these forms ? This substance
Dogmatism takes refuge in, and you have
but increased the evil.
We know very well: the Thing arises only
from an act done in accordance with these
laws, and is, indeed, nothing else than
all th°se relations gathered together by the
power of imagination; and all these rela
tions together are the Thing. The Object
is the original Synthesis of all these con
ceptions. Form and Substance are not
separates ; the whole formness is the sub
stance, and only in the analysis do we ar
rive at separate forms.
But this the critic, who follows the above
method, can only assert, and it is even a
secret whence he knows it, if he does know
it. Until you cause the whole Thing to
arise before the eyes of the thinker, you
have not pursued Dogmatism into its last
hiding places. But this is only possible
by letting the Intelligence act in its whole,
and not in its partial, lawfulness.
Hence, an Idealism of this character is
unproven and unprovable. Against Dog
matism it has no other weapon than the
assertion that it is in the right; and against
the more perfected criticism no other wea
�31
Fichte's Science of Knowledge,
pon than impotent anger, and the assu
rance that you can go no further than itself
goes.
Finally a system of this character puts
forth only those laws, according to which
the objects of external experience are de
termined. But these constitute by far the
smallest portion of the laws of the Intelli
gence. Hence, on the field of Practical Rea
son and of Reflective Judgment, this half
criticism, lacking the insight into the
whole procedure of reason, gropes about
as in total darkness.
The method of complete transcendental
Idealism, which the Science of Knowledge
pursues, I have explained once before in
my Essay, On the conception of the Science
of Knowledge. I cannot understand why
that Essay has not been understood; but
suffice it to say, that I am assured it has
not been understood. I am therefore com
pelled to repeat what I have said, and to
recall to mind that everything depends
upon the correct understanding thereof.
This Idealism proceeds from a single
fundamental Law of Reason, which is im
mediately shown as contained in con
sciousness. This is done in the following
manner : The teacher of that Science re
quests his reader or hearer to think freely
a certain conception. If he does so, he will
find himself forced to proceed in a partic
ular manner. Two things are to be distin
guished here : the act of Thinking,which is
required—the realization of which depends
upon each individual’s freedom,—and un
less he realizes it thus, he will not under
stand anything which the Science of
Knowledge teaches; and the necessary
manner in which it alone can be realized,
which manner is grounded in the Essence
of the Intelligence, and does not depend
upon freedom; it is something necessary,
but which is only discovered in and to
gether with a free action; it is something
discovered, but the discovery of which de
pends upon an act of freedom.
So far as this goes, the teacher of Ideal
ism shows his assertion to be contained in
immediate consciousness, But that this
necessary manner is the fundamental law
of all reason, that from it the whole sys
tem of our necessary representations, not
only of a world and the determinedness and
relations of objects, but also of ourselves,
as free and practical beings acting under
laws, can be deduced. All this is a mere
presupposition, which can only be proven
by the actual deduction, which deduction is
therefore the real business of the teacher.
In realizing this deduction, he proceeds
as follows : He shows that the first funda
mental law which was discovered in im
mediate consciousness, is not possible, unless
a second action is combined with it, which
again is not possible without a third action;
and so on, until the conditions of the First
are completely exhausted, and itself is now
made perfectly comprehensible in its possi
bility. The teacher’s method is a contin
ual progression from the conditioned to
the condition. The condition becomes
again conditioned, and its condition is next
to be discovered.
If the presupposition of Idealism is cor
rect, and if no errors have been made in the
deduction, the last result, as containing all
the conditions of the first act, must con
tain the system of all necessary representa
tions, or the total experience;—a compari
son, however, which is not instituted in
Philosophy itself, but only after that sci
ence has finished its work.
For Idealism has not kept this experi
ence in sight, as the preknown object and
result, which it should arrive at; in its
course of proceeding it knows nothing at
all of experience, and does not look upon
it; it proceeds from its starting point ac
cording to its rules, careless as to what the
result of its investigations might turn out
to be. The right angle, from which it has
to draw its straight line, is given to it; is
there any need of another point to which
the line should be drawn ? Surely not; for
all the points of its line arc already given
to it with the angle. A certain number is
given to you. You suppose that it is
the product of certain factors. All you
have to do is to search for the product of
these factors according to the well-known
rules. Whether that product will agree
with the given number, you will find out,
without any difficulty, as soon as you have
obtained it. The given number is the total
experience ; those factors are : the part of
�Fichte’s Science of Knowledge.
immediate consciousness which was dis
covered, and the laws of Thinking; the
multiplication is the Philosophizing. Those
who advise you, while philosophizing,
also to keep an eye upon experience, advise
you to change the factors a little, and to
multiply falsely, so as to obtain by all
means corresponding numbers ; a course of
proceeding as dishonest as it is shallow.
In so far as those final results of Idealism
are viewed as such, as consequences of our
reasoning, they are what is called the a
priori of the human mind ; and in so far
as they are viewed, also—if they should
agree with experience—as given in expe
rience, they are called a posteriori. Hence
the a priori and the a posteriori are, in a
true Philosophy, not two, but one and the
same, only viewed in two different ways,
and distinguished only by the manner in
which they are obtained. Philosophy an
ticipates the whole experience, thinks it
only as necessary ; and, in so far, Philoso
phy is, in comparison with real experience,
a priori. The number is a posteriori, if re
garded as given ; the same number is a
priori, if regarded as product of the fac
tors. Whosoever says otherwise knows
not what he talks about.
If the results of a Philosophy do not
agree with experience, that Philosophy is
surely wrong; for it has not fulfilled its
promise of deducing the whole experience
from the necessary action of the intelli
gence. In that case, either the presuppo
sition of transcendental Idealism is alto
gether incorrect, or it has merely been in
correctly treated in the particular repre
sentation of that science. Now, since the
problem, to explain experience from its
ground, is a problem contained in human
reason, and as no rational man will ad
mit that human reason contains any prob
lem the solution of which is altogether im
possible; and since, moreover, there are
only two ways of solving it, the dogmatic
system (which, as we have shown, cannot
accomplish what it promises) and the Ideal
istic system, every resolute Thinker will
always declare that the latter has been the
case; that the presupposition in itself is
correct enough, and that no failure in at
tempts to represent it should deter men
85
from attempting it again until finally it
must succeed. The course of this Ideal
ism proceeds, as we have seen, from a fact
of consciousness—but which is only obtain
ed by a free act of Thinking—to the total
experience. Its peculiar ground is be
tween these two. It is not a fact of con
sciousness and does not belong within the
sphere of experience; and, indeed, how
could it be called Philosophy if it did, since
Philosophy has to discover the ground of
experience, and since the ground lies, of
course, beyond the sequence. It is the
production of free Thinking, but proceed
ing according to laws. This will be at once
clear, if we look a little closer at the funda
mental assertion of Idealism. It proves
that the Postulated is not possible without
a second, this not without a third, &c., &c.;
hence none of all its conditions is possible
alone and by itself, but each one is only
possible in its union with all the rest.
Hence, according to its own assertion, only
the Whole is found in consciousness, and
this Whole is the experience. You want
to obtain a better knowledge of it; hence
you must analyze it, not by blindly groping
about, but according to the fixed rule of
composition, so that it arises under your
eyes as a Whole. You are enabled to do
this because you have the power of ab
straction ; because in free Thinking you can
certainly take hold of each single condi
tion. For consciousness contains not only
necessity of Representations, but also free
dom thereof ; and this freedom again may
proceed according to rules. The Whole is
given to you from the point of view of ne
cessary consciousness ; you find it just as
you find yourself. But the composition of
this Whole, the order of its arrangement,
is produced by freedom. Whosoever un
dertakes this act of freedom, becomes con
scious of freedom, and thus establishes, as
it were, a new field within his conscious
ness ; whosoever does not undertake it, for
him this new field, dependent thereupon,
does not exist. The chemist composes a
body, a metal for instance, from its ele
ments. The common beholder sees the
metal well known to him ; the chemist be
holds, moreover, the composition thereof
and the elements which it comprises. Do
�36
Hegel's Philosophy of Art.
both now see different objects? I should
think not! Both see the same, only in a
different manner. The chemist’s sight is
a priori; he sees the separates ; the ordi
nary beholder’s sight is a posteriori; he
sees the Whole. The only distinction is
this : the chemist must first analyze the
Whole before he can compose it, because
he works upon an object of which he can
not know the rule of composition before
he has analyzed it ; while the philosopher
can compose without a foregoing analysis,
because he knows already the rule of his
object, of reason.
Hence the content of Philosophy can
claim no other reality than that of neces
sary Thinking, on the condition that you
desire to think of the ground of Expe
rience. The Intelligence can only be
thought as active, and can only be thought
active in this particular manner ! Such is
the assertion of Philosophy. And this
reality is perfectly sufficient for Philosophy,
since it is evident from the development of
that science that there is no other reality.
This now described complete critical
Idealism, the Science of Kn owledge intends
to establish. What I have said just now
contains the conception of that science, and
I shall listen to no objections which may
touch this conception, since no one can
know better than myself what I intend to
accomplish, and to demonstrate the impos
sibility of a thing which is already rea
lized, is ridiculous.
Objections, to be legitimate, should only
be raised against the elaboration of that
conception, and should only consider
whether it has fulfilled what it promised to
accomplish or not.
ANALYTICAL AND CRITICAL ESSAY UPON THE ÆSTHETICS
OF HEGEL.
[Translated from the French of M. Ch. Bénard by J. A. Martling.j
of architecture, sculpture, painting, music,
ANALYSIS.
Having undertaken to translate into our and poetry.
language the ./Esthetics of Hegel, we hope
PART I.
to render a new service to our readers, by
OF THE BEAUTIFUL IN ART.
presenting, in an analysis at once cursory
In an extended introduction, Hegel lays
and detailed the outline of the ideas which
form the basis of that vast work. The the foundations of the science of the Beau
thought of the author will appear shorn of tiful : he defines its object, demonstrates
its rich developments ; but it will be more its legitimacy, and indicates its method;
easy to seize the general spirit, the connec he then undertakes to determine the nature
tion of the various parts of the work, and and the end of art. Upon each of these
to appreciate their value. In order not to points let us endeavor to state, in a brief
mar the clearness of our work, we shall manner, his thought, and, if it is neces
abstain from mingling criticism with expo sary, explain it.
Aesthetics is the science of the Beautiful.
sition; but reserve for the conclusion a
general judgment upon this book, which The Beautiful manifests itself in nature and
represents even to-day the state of the in art; but the variety and multiplicity
of forms under which beauty presents
philosophy of art in Germany.
The work is divided into three parts ; itself in the real world, does not permit
the first treats of the beautiful in art in their description and systematic classifi
general; the second, of the general forms of cation. The science of the Beautiful has
art in its historic development; the third then as its principal object, art and its
Contains the system of the arts—the theory works; it is the philosophy oj the fine arts.
�Hegel's Philosophy of Jiri.
Is art a proper object of science? No,
undoubtedly, if we consider it only as an
amusement or a frivolous relaxation. But
it has a nobler purpose. It will even be a
misconception of its true aim to regard it
simply as an auxiliary of morals and re
ligion. Although it often serves as inter
preter of moral and religious ideas, it pre
serves its independence. Its proper object
is to reveal truth under sensuous forms.
Nor is it allowable to say that it pro
duces its effects by illusion. Appearance,
here, is truer than reality. The images
which it places under our eyes are more
ideal, more transparent, and also more du
rable than the mobile and fugitive existen
ces of the real world. The world of art is
truer than that of nature and of history.
Can science subject to its formulas the
free creations of the imagination ? Art
and science, it is true, differ in their meth
ods ; but imagination, also, has its laws;
though free, it has not the right to be law
less. In art, nothing is arbitrary.; its
ground is the essence of things', its form is
borrowed from the real world, and the
Beautiful is the accord, the harmony of
the two terms. Philosophy recognizes in
works of art the eternal content of its
meditations, the lofty conceptions of in
telligence, the passions of man, and the
motives of his volition. Philosophy does
not pretend to furnish prescriptions to art,
but is able to give useful advice; it fol
lows it in its procedures, it points out to
it the paths whereon it may go astray; it
alone can furnish to criticism a solid basis
and fixed principles.
As to the method to be followed, two
exclusive and opposite courses present
themselves. The one, empiric and historic,
seeks to draw from the study of the master
pieces of art, the laws of criticism and the
principles of taste. The other, rational
and a priori, rises immediately to the idea
of the beautiful, and deduces from it cer
tain general rules. Aristotle and Plato re
present these two methods. The first
reaches only a narrow theory, incapable of
comprehending art in its universality ; the
other, isolating itself on the heights of
metaphysics, knows not how to descend
therefrom to apply itself to particular arts,
37
and to appreciate their works. The true
method consists in the union of these two
methods, in their reconciliation and simul
taneous employment. To a positive ac
quaintance with works of art, to the dis
crimination and delicacy of taste neces
sary to appreciate them, there should be
joined philosophic reflection, and the ca
pacity of seizing the Beautiful in itself,
and of comprehending its characteristics
and immutable laws.
What is the nature of art? The answer
to this question can only be the philosophy
of art itself ; and, furthermore, this again
can be perfectly understood only in its con
nection with the other philosophic sciences.
One is here compelled to limit himself to
general reflections, and to the discussion
of received opinions.
In the first place, art is a product of hu
man activity, a creation of the mind. What
distinguishes it from science is this, that
it is the fruit of inspiration, not of reflec
tion. On this account it can not be learned
or transmitted; it is a gift of genius.
Nothing can possibly supply a lack of tal
ent in the arts.
Let us guard ourselves meanwhile from
supposing that, like the blind forces of
nature, the artist does not know what he
does, that reflection has no part in his
works. There is, in the first place, in the
arts a technical part which must be learned,
and a skill which is acquired by practice.
Furthermore, the more elevated art be
comes, the more it demands an extended
and varied culture, a study of the objects
of nature, and a profound knowledge of
the human heart. This is eminently true
of the higher spheres of art, especially in
Poetry.
If works of art are creations of the hu
man spirit, they are not on that account
inferior to those of nature. They are, it
is true, living, only in appearance ; but the
aim of art is not to create living beings;
it seeks to offer to the spirit an image of
life clearer than the reality. In this, it
surpasses nature. There is also something
divine in man, and God derives no less
honor from the works of human intelligence
than from the works of nature.
Now what is the cause which incites mai
�38
Hegel’s Philosophy of Jlrt.
to the production of such works ? Is it a
caprice, a freak, or an earnest, fundamen
tal inclination of his nature ?
It is the same principle which causes
him to seek in science food for his mind,
in public life a theatre for his activity. In
science he endeavors to cognize the truth,
pure and unveiled; in art, truth appears
to him not in its pure form, but expressed
by images which strike his sense at the same
time that they speak to his intelligence.
This is the principle in which art originates,
and which assigns to it a rank so high
among the creations of the human mind.
Although art is addressed to the sensi
bility, nevertheless its direct aim is not to
excite sensation, and to give birth to pleas
ure. Sensation is changeful, varied, con
tradictory. It represents only the various
states or modifications of the soul. If then
we consider only the impressions which
art produces upon us, we make abstrac
tion of the truth which it reveals to us. It
becomes even impossible to comprehend
its grand effects ; for the sentiments which
it excites in us, are explicable only through
the ideas which attach to them.
The sensuous element, nevertheless, oc
cupies a large place in art. What part
must be assigned to it? There are two
modes of considering sensuous objects in
their connection with our mind. The first
is that of simple perception of objects by
the senses. The mind then knows only
their individual side, their particular and
concrete form; the essence, the law, the
substance of things escapes it. At the
same time the desire which is awakened
in us, is a desire to appropriate them to our
use, to consume them, to destroy them.
The soul, in the presence of these objects,
feels its dependence; it cannot contem
plate them with a free and disinterested
eye.
Another relation of sensuous objects
with spirit, is that of speculative thought
or science. Here the intelligence is not
content to perceive the object in its con
crete form and its individuality; it dis
cards the individual side in order to ab
stract and disengage from it the law, the
universal, the essence. Reason thus lifts
itself above the individual form perceived
by sense, in order to conceive the pure
idea in its universality.
Art differs both from the one and from
the other of these modes; it holds the
mean between sensuous perception and
rational abstraction. It is distinguished
from the first in that it does not attach
itself to the real but to the appearance, to
the form of the object, and in that it does
not feel any selfish longing to consume it,
to cause it to serve a purpose, to utilize it.
It differs from science in that it is interest
ed in this particular object, and in its sen
suous form. What it loves to see in it, is
neither its materiality, nor the pure idea
in its generality, but an appearance, an
image of the truth, something ideal which
appears in it; it seizes the connective of
the two terms, their accord and their inner
harmony. Thus the want which it feels
is wholly contemplative. In the presence
of this vision the soul feels itself freed
from all selfish desire.
In a word, art purposely creates images,
appearances, designed to represent ideas,
to show to us the truth under sensuous
forms. Thereby it has the power of stir
ring the soul in its profoundest depths, of
causing it to experience the pure delight
springing from the sight and contempla
tion of the Beautiful.
The two principles are found equally
combined in the artist. The sensuous side
is included in the faculty which creates—
the imagination. It is not by mechanical
toil, directed by rules learned by heart
that he executes his works; nor is it by a
process of reflection like that of the philos
opher who is seeking the truth. The mind
has a consciousness of itself, but it cannot
seize in an abstract manner the idea which
it conceives; it can represent it only under
sensuous forms. The image and the idea
coexist in thought, and cannot be separat
ed. Thus the imagination is itself a
gift of nature. Scientific genius is rather
a general capacity than an innate and spe
cial talent. To succeed in the arts, there
is necessary a determinate talent which
reveals itself early under the form of
an active and irresistible longing, and
a certain facility in the manipulation
of the materials of art. It is this which
�Hegel's Philosophy of Jlrt.
makes the painter, th§ sculptor, the musi
cian.
Such is the nature of art. If it be asked,
what is its end, here we encounter the most
diverse opinions. The most common is
that which gives imitation as its object.
This is the foundation of nearly all the
theories upon art. Now of what use to re
produce that which nature already offers
to our view? This puerile talk, unworthy
of spirit to which it is addressed, unworthy
of man who produces it, would only end
in the revelation of its impotency and
the vanity of its efforts ; for the copy will
always remain inferior to the original.
Besides, the more exact the imitation, the
less vivid is the pleasure. That which
pleases us is not imitation, but creation.
The very least invention surpasses all the
masterpieces of imitation.
In vain is it said that art ought to imi
tate beautiful Nature. To select is no
longer to imitate. Perfection in imitation
is exactness ; moreover, choice supposes a
rule; where find the criterion ? What
signifies, in fine, imitation in architecture,
in music, and even in poetry ? At most,
one can thus explain descriptive poetry,
that is to say, the most prosaic kind. We
must conclude, therefore, that if, in its
compositions, art employs the forms of
Nature, and must study them, its aim iB
not to copy and to reproduce them. Its mis
sion is higher—its procedure freer. Ri
val of nature, it represents ideas as well as
she, and even better ; it uses her forms as
symbols to express them ; and it fashions
even these, remodels them upon a type
more perfect and more pure. It is not
without significance that its works are
styled the creations of the genius of man.
A second system substitutes expression
for imitation. Art accordingly has for its
aim, not to represent the external form of
things, but their internal and living prin
ciple, particularly the ideas, sentiments,
passions, and conditions of the soul.
Less gross than the preceding, this
theory is no less false and dangerous.
Let us here distinguish two things: the
idea and the expression—the content and
the form. Now, if Art is designed for ex
pression solely—if expression is its essen
39
tial object—its content is indifferent.
Provided that the picture be faithful, the
expression lively and animated, the good
and the bad, the vicious, the hideous, the
ugly, have the same right to figure here as
the Beautiful. Immoral, licentious, impi
ous, the artist will have fulfilled his obli
gation and reached perfection, when he
has succeeded in faithfully rendering a
situation, a passion, an idea, be it true or
false. It is clear that if in this system
the object of imitation is changed, the
procedure is the same. Art would be only
an echo, a harmonious language; a liv
ing mirror, where all sentiments and all
passions would find themselves reflected,
the base part and the noble part of the soul
contending here for the same place. The
true, here, would be the real, would include
objects the most diverse and the most con
tradictory. Indifferent as to the content,
the artist seeks only to represent it well. He
troubles himself little concerning truth in
itself. Skeptic or enthusiast indifferently,
he makes us partake of the delirium of
the Bacchanals, or the unconcern of the
Sophist. Such is the system which takes
for a motto the maxim, Art is for art; that
is to say, mere expression for its own sake.
Its consequences, and the fatal tendency
which it has at all times pressed upon the
arts, are well known.
A third system sets up moral perfection
as the aim of art. It cannot be denied
that one of the effects of art is to soften
and purify manners (emollit mores'). In
mirroring man to himself, it tempers the
rudeness of his appetites and his passions ;
it disposes him to contemplation and re
flection ; it elevates his thought and sen
timents, by leading them to an ideal which
it suggests,—to ideas of a superior order.
Art has, from all time, been regarded as
a powerful instrument of civilization, as
an auxiliary of religion. It is, together
with religion, the earliest instructor of
nations ; it is besides a means of instruc
tion for minds incapable of comprehending
truth otherwise than under the veil of a
symbol, and by images that address them
selves to the sense as well as to the spirit.
But this theory, although much superior
to the preceding, is no more exact. Its
�40
Hegel's Philosophy of Art.
defect consists in confounding the moral
effect of art with its real aim. This con
fusion has inconveniences which do not
appear at the first glance. Let care be
taken, meanwhile, lest, in thus assigning
to aft a foreign aim, it be not robbed of
its liberty, which is its essence, and with
out which it has no inspiration—that
thereby it be not prevented from produ
cing the effects which are to be expected
from it. Between religion, morals and
art, there exists an eternal and intimate
harmony; but they are, none the less, es
sentially diverse forms of truth, and,
while preserving entire the bonds which
unite them, they claim a complete inde
pendence. Art has its peculiar laws,
methods and jurisdiction; though it ought
not to wound the moral sense, yet it is the
sense of the Beautiful to which it is ad
dressed. When its works are pure, its
effect on the soul is salutary, but its direct
and immediate aim is not this result.
Seeking it, it risks losing it, and does lose
its own end. Suppose, indeed, that the
aim of art should be to instruct, under the
veil of allegory; the idea, the abstract
and general thought, must be present in
the spirit of the artist at the very moment
of composition. It seeks, then, a form
which is adapted to that idea, and furn
ishes drapery for it. Who does not see
that this procedure is the very opposite of
inspiration ? There can be born of it only
frigid and lifeless works; its effect will
thus be neither moral nor religious ; it
will produce only ennui.
Another consequence of the opinion
which makes moral perfection the object
of art and its creations, is that this end is
imposed so completely upon art, and con
trols it to such a degree, that it has no
longer even a choice of subjects. The severe
moralist would have it represent moral
subjects alone. Art is then undone. This
system led Plato to banish poets from his
republic. If, then, it is necessary to
maintain the agreement of morality and
art, and the harmony of their laws, their
distinct bases and independence must also
be recognized. In order to understand
thoroughly this distinction between morals
and art, it is necessary to have solved the
moral problem. Morality is the realiza
tion of the. <c ought” by the free will; it
is the conflict between passion and'reason,
inclination and law, the flesh and the
spirit. It hinges upon an opposition.
Antagonism is, indeed, the very law of
the physical and moral universe. But this
opposition ought to be cancelled. This is
the destiny of beings who by their devel
opment and progress continually realize
themselves.
Now, in morals, this harmony of the
powers of our being, which should restore
peace and happiness, does not exist.
Morality proposes it as an end to the free
will. The aim and the realization are dis
tinct. Duty consists in an incessant striv
ing. Thus, in one respect, morals and
art have the same principle and the same
aim; the harmony of rectitude, and hap
piness of actions and law. But that
wherein they differ is, that in morals the
end is never wholly attained. It appears
separated from the means ; the con
sequence is equally separated from the
principle. The harmony of rectitude and
happiness ought to be the result of the
efforts of virtue. In order to conceive
the identity of the two terms, it is neces
sary to elevate one’s self to a superior
point of view, which is not that of morals.
In empirical science equally, the law ap
pears distinct from the phenomenon, the
essence separated from its form. In order
that this distinction may be cancelled,
there is necessary a mode of thinking
which is superior to that of reflection, or
of empirical science.
Art, on the contrary, offers to us in a
visible image, the realized harmony of the
two terms of existence, of the law of be
ings and their manifestation, of essence
and form, of rectitude and happiness.
The beautiful is essence realized, ac
tivity in conformity with its end, and
identified with it; it is the force which iB
harmoniously developed under our eyes,
in the innermost of existences, and
which cancels the contradictions of its
nature : happy, free, full of serenity in
the very midst of suffering and of sorrow.
The problem of art is then distinct from
the moral problem. The good is harmony
�Hegel's Philosophy of Jiri.
sought for; beauty is harmony realized.
So must we understand the thought of
Hegel; he here only intimates it, but it
will be fully developed in the sequel.
The true aim of art is then to represent
the Beautiful, to reveal this harmony. This
is its only purpose. Every other aim,
purification, moral amelioration, edifica
tion, are accessories or consequences. The
effect of the contemplation of the Beautiful
is to produce in us a calm and pure joy, in
compatible with the gross pleasures of
sense ; it lifts the soul above the ordinary
sphere of its thoughts ; it disposes to noble
resolutions and generous actions by the
close affinity which exists between the three
sentiments and the three ideas of the Good,
the Beautiful, and the Divine.
Such are the principal ideas which this
remarkable introduction contains. The re
mainder, devoted to the examination of
works which have marked the development
of aesthetic science in Germany since
Kant, is scarcely susceptible of analysis,
and does not so much deserve our atten
tion.
The first part of the science of aesthetics,
which might be called the Metaphysics of
the Beautiful, contains, together with the
analysis of the idea of the Beautiful, the
general principles common to all the arts.
Thus Hegel here treats : First, of the ab
stract idea of the Beautiful; second, of the
Beautiful in nature; third, of the Beautiful
in art, or of the ideal. He concludes with
an examination of the qualities of the art
ist. But before entering upon these ques
tions, he thought it necessary to point out
the place of art in human life, and espe
cially its connections with religion and
philosophy.
The destination of man, the law of his
nature, is to develop himself incessantly,
to stretch unceasingly towards the infinite.
He ought, at the same time, to put an end
to the opposition which he finds in himself
between the elements and powers of his be
ing ; to place them in accord by realizing
and developing them externally. Physical
life is a struggle between opposing forces,
and the living being can sustain itself only
through the conflict and the triumph of the
force which constitutes it. With man, and
41
in the moral sphere, this conflict and pro
gressive enfranchisement are manifested
under the form of freedom, which is the
highest destination of spirit. Freedom
consists in surmounting the obstacles which
it encounters within and without, in re
moving the limits, in effacing all contra
diction, in vanquishing evil and sorrow, in
order to attain to harmony with the world
and with itself. In actual life, man seeks
to destroy that opposition by the satisfac
tion of his physical wants. He calls to his
aid, industry and the useful arts ; but he
obtains thus only limited, relative, and
transient enjoyments. He finds a nobler
pleasure in science, which furnishes food
for his ardent curiosity, and piomises to
reveal to h’m the laws of nature and to
unveil the secrets of the universe. Civil
life opens another channel to his activity;
he burns to realize his conceptions ; he
marches to the conquest of the right, and
pursues the ideal of justice which he bears
within him. He endeavors to realize in
civil society his instinct of sociability,
which is also the law of his being, and one
of the fundamental inclinations of his mor
al nature.
But here, again, he attains an imperfect
felicity ; he encounters limits and obstacles
which he cannot surmount, and against
which, his will is broken. He cannot ob
tain the perfect realization of his ideas,
nor attain the ideal which his spirit con
ceives and toward which it aspires. He
then feels the necessity of elevating him
self to a higher sphere where all contradic
tions are cancelled ; where the idea of the
good and of happiness in their perfect ac
cord and their enduring harmony is real
ized. This profound want of the soul is
satisfied in three ways : in art, in religion,
and in philosophy. The function of art is
to lead us to the contemplation of the true,
the infinite, under sensuous forms ; for the
beautiful is the unity, the realized harmo
ny of two principles of existence, of the
idea and the form, of the infinite and the
finite. This is the principle and the hid
den essence of things, beaming through
their visible form. Art presents us, in its
works, the image of this happy accord
where all opposition ceases, and where all
�42
Hegel's Philosophy of Art.
contradiction is Cancelled. Such is the
aim of art: to represent the divine, the in
finite, under sensuous forms. This is its
mission; it has no other and this it alone
can fulfil. By this title it takes its place
by the side of religion, and preserves its
independence. It takes its rank also with
philosophy, whose object is the knowledge
of the true, of absolute truth.
Alike then as to their general ground
and aims, these three spheres are distin
guished by the form under which they be
come revealed to the spirit and conscious
ness of man. Art is addressed to sensuous
perception and to the imagination; reli
gion is addressed to the soul, to the con
science, and to sentiment; philosophy is
addressed to pure thought or to the reason,
which conceives the truth in an abstract
manner.
Art, which offers us truth under sensu
ous forms, does not, however, respond to
the profoundest needs of the soul. The
spirit is possessed of the desire of entering
into itself, of contemplating the truth in
the inner recesses of consciousness. Above
the domain of art, then, religion is placed,
which reveals the infinite, and by medita
tion conveys to the depths of the heart, to
the centre of the soul, that which in art we
contemplate externally. As to philosophy,
its peculiar aim is to conceive and to com
prehend, by the intellect alone, under an
abstract form, that which is given as sen
timent or as sensuous representation.
I. Of the Idea of the Beautiful.
After these preliminaries, Ilegel enters
upon the questions which form the object
of this first part. He treats, in the first
place, of the idea of the beautiful in itself,
in its abstract nature. Freeing his thought
from the metaphysical forms which render
it difficult of comprehension to minds not
familiar with his system, we arrive at this
definition, already contained in the fore
going : the Beautiful is the true, that is to
say, the essence, the inmost substance of
things ; the true, not such as the mind con
ceives it in its abstract and pure nature,
but as manifested to the senses under visi
ble forms. It is the sensuous manifesta
tion of the idea, which is the soul and
principle of things. This definition recalls
that of Plato : the Beautiful is the splendor
of the true.
What are the characteristics of the beau
tiful ? First, it is infinite in this sense,
that it is the divine principle itself which
is revealed and manifested, and that the
form which expresses it, in place of limit
ing it, realizes it and confounds itself with
it; second, it is free, for true freedom is
not the absence of rule and measure, it is
force which develops itself easily and har
moniously. It appears in the bosom of
the existences of the sensuous world, as
their principle of life, of unity, and of
harmony, whether free from all obstacle,
or victorious and triumphant in conflict,
always calm and serene.
The spectator who contemplates beauty
feels himself equally free, and has a con
sciousness of his infinite nature. He tastes
a pure pleasure, resulting from the felt ac
cord of the powers of his being ; a celestial
and divine joy, which has nothing in com
mon with material pleasures, and does not
suffer to exist in the soul a single impure
or gross desire.
The contemplation of the Beautiful
awakens no such craving; it is self-suf
ficing, and is not accompanied by any re
turn of the me upon itself. It suffers the
object to preserve its independence for its
own sake. The soul experiences some
thing analogous to divine felicity; it is
transported into a sphere foreign to the
miseries of life and terrestrial existence.
This theory, it is apparent, would need
only to be developed to return wholly to the
Platonic theory. Hegel limits himself to
referring to it. We recognize here, also,
the results of the Kantian analysis.
II. Of the Beautiful in Nature.
Although science cannot pause to de
scribe the beauties of nature, it ought,
nevertheless, to study, in a general man
ner, the characteristics of the Beautiful,
as it appears to us in the physical world
and in the beings which it contains. This is
the subject of a somewhat extended chap
ter, with the following title : Of the Beau
tiful in Nature. Hegel herein considers
the question from the particular point of
�Hegel's Philosophy of Jiri.
view of his philosophy, and he applies his
theory of the Idea. Nevertheless, the re
sults at which he arrives, and the manner
in which he describes the forms of physical
beauty, can be comprehended and accepted
independently of his system, little adapt
ed, it must be confessed, to cast light upon
this subject.
The Beautiful in nature is the first mani
festation of the Idea. The successive de
grees of beauty correspond to the develop
ment of life and organization in beings.
Unity is an essential characteristic of it.
Thus, in the mineral, beauty consists in the
arrangement or disposition of the parts,
in the force which resides in them, and
which reveals itself in this unity. The so
lar system offers us a more perfect unity
and a higher beauty. The bodies in that
system, while preserving entire their indi
vidual existence, co-ordinate themselves
into a whole, the parts of which are inde
pendent, although attached to a common
centre, the sun. Beauty of this order
strikes us by the regularity of the move
ments of the celestial bodies. A unity
more real and true is that which is mani
fested in organized and living beings. The
unity here consists in a relation of re-*
ciprocity and of mutual dependence be
tween the organs, so that each of them
loses its independent existence in order to
give place to a wholly ideal unity which
reveals itself as the principle of life ani
mating them.
Life is beautiful in nature : for it is es
sence, force, the idea realized under its
firs'- form. Nevertheless, beauty in nature
is still wholly external; it has no conscious
ness of itself; it is beautiful solely for an
intelligence which sees and contem
plates it.
How do we perceive beauty in natural
beings? Beauty, with living and animate
beings, is neither accidental and capricious
movements, nor simple conformity of those
movements to an end—the uniform and
mutual connection of parts. This point of
view is that of the naturalist, of the man
of science ; it is not that of the Beautiful.
Beauty is total form in so far as it reveals
the force which animates it; it is this
force itself, manifested by a totality of
43
forms, of independent and free move
ments ; it is the internal harmony which
reveals itself in this secret accord of mem
bers, and which betrays itself outwardly,
without the eye’s pausing to consider the
relation of the parts to the whole, and their
functions or reciprocal connection, as sci
ence does. The unity exhibits itself mere
ly externally as the principle which binds
the members together. It manifests itself
especially through the sensibility. The
point of view of beauty is then that of pure
contemplation, not that of reflection,
which analyzes, compares and seizes the
connection of parts and their destination.
This internal and visible unity, this ac
cord, and this harmony, are not distinct
from the material element; they are its
very form. This is the principle which «
serves to determine beauty in its inferior
grades, the beauty of the crystal with its
regular forms, forms produced by an in
ternal and free force. A similar activity
is developed in a more perfect manner in
the living organism, its outlines, the dispo
sition of its members, the movements, and
the expression of sensibility.
Such is beauty in individual beings. It
is otherwise with it when we consider na
ture in its totality, the beauty of a land
scape, for example. There is no longer
question here about an organic disposition
of parts and of the life which animates
them ; we have under our eyes a rich mul
tiplicity of objects which form a whole,
mountains, trees, rivers, etc. In this di
versity there appears an external unity
which interests us by its agreeable or im
posing character. To this aspect there is
added that property of the objects of na
ture through which they awaken in us,
sympathetically, certain sentiments, by the
secret analogy which exists between them
and the situations of the human soul.
Such is the effect produced by the silence
of the night, the calm of a still valley, the
sublime aspect of a vast sea in tumult,
and the imposing grandeur of the starry
heavens. The significance of these objects
is not in themselves ; they are only sym
bols of the sentiments of the soul which
they excite. It is thus we attribute to an
imals the qualities which belong only to
�44
Hegel's Philosophy of Art.
man, courage, fortitude, cunning. Physi consists in a totality of elements essen
cal beauty is a reflex of moral beauty.
tially distinct, but whose opposition is
To recapitulate, physical beauty, viewed destroyed and reduced to unity by a secret
in its ground or essence, consists in the accord, a reciprocal adaptation. Such is
manifestation of the concealed principle, the harmony of forms and colors, that of
of the force which is developed in the bo sounds and movements, Here the unity is
som of matter. This force reveals itself stronger, more prononce, precisely be
in a manner more or less perfect, by unity cause the differences and the oppositions
in inert matter, and in living beings by the are more marked. Harmony, however, is
different modes of organization.
not as yet true unity, spiritual unity,
Hegel then devotes a special examination that of the soul, although the latter pos
to the external side, or to beauty of form sesses within it a principle of harmony.
in natural objects. Physical beauty, con Harmony alone, as yet, reveals neither the
sidered externally, presents itself succes soul nor the spirit, as one may see in music
sively under the aspects of regularity and and dancing.
symmetry, of conformity to law and of har
Beauty exists also in matter itself,
mony ; lastly, of purity and simplicity of abstraction being made of its form; it
matter.
consists, then, in the unity and simplicity
1. Regularity, which is only the repeti which constitutes purity. Such is the
tion of a form equal to itself, is the most purity of the sky and of the atmosphere,
elementary and simple form. In symmetry the purity of colors and of sounds ; that of
there already appears a diversity which certain substances—of precious stones, of
breaks the uniformity. These two forms gold, and of the diamond. Pure and sim
of beauty pertain to quantity, and consti ple colors are also the most agreeable.
tute mathematical beauty ; they are found
After having described the beautiful in
in organic and inorganic bodies, minerals nature, in order that the necessity of a
and crystals. In plants are presented less beauty more exalted and more ideal, shall
regular, and freer forms. In the organiza- be comprehended, Hegel sets forth the im
ation of animals, this regular and sym perfections of real beauty. He begins with
metrical disposition becomes more and animal life, which is the most elevated
more subordinated in proportion as we as point we have reached, and he dwells upon
cend to higher degrees of the animal scale. the characteristics and causes of that im
2. Conformity to a law marks a degree perfection.
still more elevated, and serves as a transi
Thus, first in the animal, although the
tion to freer forms. Here there appears organism is more perfect than that of the
an accord more real and more profound, plant, what we see is not the central point
which begins to transcend mathematical of life; the special seat of the operations
rigor. It is no longer a simple numerical of the force which animates the whole, re
relation, where quantity plays the princi mains concealed from us. We see only
pal role ; we discover a relation of quality the outlines of the external form, covered
between different terms. A law rules with hairs, scales, feathers, skin; second
the whole, but it cannot be calcu ly, the human body, it is true, exhibits
lated; it remains a hidden bond, which more beautiful proportions, and a more
reveals itself to the spectator. Such is perfect form, because in it, life and sensi
the oval line, and above all, the undulating bility are everywhere manifested—in the
line, which Hogarth has given as the line color, the flesh, the freer movements,
of beauty. These lines determine, in fact, nobler attitudes, &c. Yet here, besides
the beautiful forms of organic nature in the imperfections in details, the sensibil
living beings of a high order, and, above ity does not appear equally distributed.
all, the beautiful forms of the human body, Certain parts are appropriated to animal
of man and of woman.
functions, and exhibit their destination in
3. Harmony is a degree still superior’to their form. Further, individuals in nature,
the preceding, and it includes them. It placed as they are under a dependence
�Hegels Philosophy of Jiri.
upon external causes, and under the in
fluence of the elements, are under the
dominion of necessity and want. Under
the continual action of these causes, phy
sical being is exposed to losing the fulness
of its forms and the flower of its beauty;
rarely do these causes permit it to attain
to its complete, free and regular develop
ment. The human body is placed under a
like dependence upon external agents. If
we pass from the physical to the moral
world, that dependence appears still more
clearly.
Everywhere there is manifested diver
sity, and opposition of tendencies and
interests. The individual, in the pleni
tude of his life and beauty, cannot pre
serve the appearance of a free force. Each
individual being is limited and particular
ized in his excellence. His life flows in a
narrow circle of space and time; he be
longs to a determinate species ; his type
is given, his form defined, and the condi
tions of his development fixed. The hu
man body itself offers, in respect to beauty,
a progression of forms dependent on the
diversity of races. Then come hereditary
qualities, the peculiarities which are due
to temperament, profession, age, and sex.
All these causes alter and disfigure the
purest and most perfect primitive type.
All these imperfections are summed up
in a word: the finite. Human life and
animal life realize their idea only imper
fectly. Moreover, spirit—not being able
to find, in the limits of the real, the sight
and the enjoyment of its proper freedom—
seeks to satisfy itself in a region more ele
vated, that of ari, or of the ideal.
III. Of the beautiful in Art or of the Ideal.
Art has as its end and aim the repre
sentation of the ideal. Now what is the
ideal7. It is beauty in a degree of perfec
tion superior to real beauty. It is force,
life, spirit, the essence of things, develop
ing themselves harmoniously in a sensu
ous reality, which is its resplendent image,
its faithful expression ; it is beauty dis
engaged and purified from the accidents
which veil and disfigure it, and which alter
its purity in the real world.
The ideal, in art, is not then the con
45
trary of the real, but the real idealized,
purified, rendered conformable to its
idea, and perfectly expressing it. In a
word, it is the perfect accord of the idea
and the sensuous form.
On the other hand, the true ideal is not
life in its inferior degrees—blind, unde
veloped force—but the soul arrived at the
consciousness of itself, free, and in the
full enjoyment of its faculties; it is life,
but spiritual life—in a word, spirit. The
representation of the spiritual principle, in
the plenitude of its life and freedom, with
its high conceptions, its profound and no
ble sentiments, its joys and its sufferings :
this is the true aim of art, the true ideal.
Finally, the ideal is not a lifeless ab
straction, a frigid generality; it is the
spiritual principle under the form of the
living individual, freed from the bonds of
the finite, and developing itself in its per
fect harmony with its inmost nature and
essence.
We see, thus, what are the characteris
tics of the ideal. It is evident that in all
its degrees it is calmness, serenity, felici
ty, happy existence, freed from the mis
eries and wants of life. This serenity
does not exclude earnestness ; for the ideal
appears in the midst of the conflicts of
life ; but even in the roughest experiences,
in the midst of intense suffering, the soul
preserves an evident calmness as a funda
mental trait. It is felicity in suffering,
the glorification of sorrow, smiling in
tears. The echo of this felicity resounds
in all the spheres of the ideal.
It is important to determine, with still
more precision, the relations of the ideal
and the real.
The opposition of the ideal and the real
has given rise to two conflicting opinions.
Some conceive of the ideal as something
vague, an abstract, lifeless generality,
without individuality. Others extol the
natural, the imitation of the real in the
most minute and prosaic details. Equal
exaggeration I The truth lies between the
two extremes.
In the first place, the ideal may be, in
fact, something external and accidental,
an insignificant form or appearance, a
common existence. But that which con
�4G
Hegel's Philosophy of Art.
stitutes the ideal, in this inferior degree,
is the fact that this reality, imitated by
art, is a creation of spirit, and becomes
then something artificial, not real. It is
an image and a metamorphosis. This
image, moreover, is more permanent than
its model, more durable than the real ob
ject. In fixing that which is mobile and
transient, in eternizing that which is mo
mentary and fugitive—a flower, a smile—
art surpasses nature and idealizes it.
But it does not stop here. Instead of
simply reproducing these objects, while
preserving their natural form, it seizeB
their internal and deepest character, it
extends their signification, and gives to
them a more elevated and .more general
significance; for it must manifest the uni
versal in the individual, and render visible
the idea which they represent, their eter
nal and fixed type. It allows this charac
ter of generality to penetrate everywhere,
without reducing it to an abstraction.
Thus the artist does not slavishly repro
duce all the features of the object, and its
accidents, but only the true traits, those
conformable to its idea. If, then, he takes
nature as a model, he still surpasses and
idealizes it. Naturalness, faithfulness,
truth, these are not exact imitation, but
the perfect conformity of the form to the
idea; they are the creation of a more
perfect form, whose essential traits repre
sent the idea more faithfully and more
clearly than it is expressed in nature itself.
To know how to disengage the operative,
energetic, essential and significant ele
ments in objects,—this is the task of the
artist. The ideal, then, is not the real; the
latter contains many elements insignifi
cant, useless, confused and foreign, or op
posed to the idea. The natural here loses
its vulgar significance. By this word must
be understood the more exalted expression
of spirit. The ideal is a transfigured, glo
rified nature.
As to vulgar and common nature, if art
takes it also for its object, it is not for its
own sake, but because of what in it is
true, excellent, interesting, ingenuous or
gay, as in genre painting, in Dutch paint
ing particularly. It occupies, neverthe
less, an inferior rank, and cannot make
pretensions to a place beside the grand
compositions of art.
But there are other subjects—a nature
more elevated and more ideal. Art, at its
culminating stage, represents the develop
ment of the internal powers of the soul,
its grand passions, profound sentiments,
and lofty destinies. Now, it is clear that
the artist does not find in the real world,
forms so pure and ideal that he may safely
confine himself to imitating and copying.
Moreover, if the form itself be given, ex
pression must be added. Besides, he
ought to secure, in a just measure, the
union of the individual and the universal,
of the form and the idea; to create a
living ideal, penetrated with the idea, and
in which it animates the sensuous form
and appearance throughout, so that there
shall be nothing in it empty or insig
nificant, nothing that is not alive with ex
pression itself. Where shall he find in
the real world, this just measure, this
animation, and this exact correspondence
of all the parts and of all the details con
spiring to the same end, to the same effect ?
To say that he will succeed in conceiving
and realizing the ideal, by making a feli
citous selection of ideas and forms, is to
ignore the secret of artistic composition ;
it is to misconceive the entirely sponta
neous method of genius,—inspiration which
creates at a single effort,—to replace it by a
reflective drudgery, which only results in
the production of frigid and lifeless
works.
It does not suffice to define the ideal in
an abstract manner; the ideal is exhibited
to us in the works of art under very va
rious and diverse forms. Thus sculpture
represents it under the motionless features
of its figures. In the other arts it assumes
the form of movement and of action ; in
poetry, particularly, it manifests itself in
the midst of most varied situations and
events, of conflicts between persons ani
mated by diverse passions. IIow, and
under what conditions, is each art in par
ticular’ called upon to represent thus the
ideal ? This will be the object of the
theory of the arts. In the general expo
sition of the principles of art, we may,
nevertheless, attempt to define the degrees
�Hegel's Philosophy of Art.
of this development, to study the princi
pal aspects under which it manifests it
self. Such is the object of those con
siderations, the title of which is, Of
the Determination of the Ideal, and
which the author develops iu this first
part of the work. We can trace only
summarily the principal ideas, devoting
ourselves to marking their order and con
nection.
The gradation which the author estab
lishes between the progressively determ
ined forms of the ideal is as follows :
1. The ideal, under the most elevated
form, is the divine idea, the divine such
as the imagination can represent it under
sensuous forms; such is the Greek ideal
of the divinities of Polytheism ; such the
Christian ideal in its highest purity, under
the form of God the Father, of Christ, of
the Virgin, of the Apostles, etc. It is
given above all to sculpture and painting,
to present us the image of it. Its essen
tial characteristics are calmness, majesty,
serenity.
2. In a degree less elevated, but more
determined, in the circle of human life,
the ideal appears to us, with man, as the
victory of the eternal principles which fill
the human heart, the triumph of the noble
part of the soul over the inferior and
passionate. The noble, the excellent,
the perfect, in the human soul, is the
moral and divine principle which is mani
fested in it, which governs its will, and
causes it to accomplish grand actions;
this is the true source of self-sacrifice and
of heroism.
3. But the idea, when it is manifested
in the real world, can be developed only
under the form of action. Now, action
itself has for its condition a conflict be
tween principles and persons, divided as
to interests, ideas, passions, and charac
ters. It is this especially that is repre
sented by poetry—the art par excellence,
the only art which can reproduce an action
in its successive phases, with its complica
tions, its sudden turns of fortune, its
catastrophe and its denouement.
Action, if one considers it more closely,
includes the following conditions : 1st. A
world which serves it as a basis and thea
47
tre, a form of society which renders it pos
sible, and is favorable to the development
of ideal figures. 2d. A determinate situa
tion, in which the personages are placed
who render necessary the conflict between
opposing interests and passions, whence
a collision may arise. 3d. An action, prop
erly so called, which develops itself in
its essential moments, which has a begin
ning, a middle, and an end. This action,
in order to afford a high interest, should
revolve upon ideas of an elevated order,
which inspire and sustain the personages,
ennobling their passions, and farming the
basis of their character.
Hegel treats, in a general manner, each
of these points, which will appear anew,
under a more special form, in the study of
poetry, and particularly of epic and dra
matic poetry.
1. The state of society most favorable
to the ideal is that which allows the char
acters to act with most freedom, to reveal
a lofty and powerful personality. This
cannot be a social order, where all is fixed
and regulated by laws and a constitution.
Nor can it be the savage state, where all
is subject to caprice and violence, and
where man is dependent upon a thousand
external causes, which render his existence
precarious. Now the state intermediate
between the barbarous state and an ad
vanced civilization, is the heroic age, that
in which the epic poets locate their action,
and from which the tragic poets them
selves have often borrowed their subjects
and their personages. That which char
acterizes heroes in this epoch is, above all,
the independence which is manifested in
their characters and acts. On the other
hand, the hero is all of a piece; he as
sumes not only the responsibility of his
acts and their consequences, but the re
sults of actions he has not perpetrated,
of the faults or crimes of his race; he
bears in his person an entire race.
Another reason why the ideal existences
of art belong to the mythologic ages, and
to remote epochs of history, is that the
artist or the poet, in representing or re
counting events, has a freer scope in his
ideal creations. Art, also, for the same
reason, has a predilection for the higher
�48
Hegel's Philosophy of Jiri.
conditions of society, those of princes par
ticularly, because of the perfect indepen
dence of will and action which character
izes them. In this respect, our actual
society, with its civil and political organi
zation, its manners, administration,police,
etc., is prosaic. The sphere of activity of
the individual is too restricted ; he en
counters everywhere limits and shackles
to his will. Our monarchs themselves are
subject to these conditions ; their power is
limited by institutions, laws and customs.
War, peace, and treaties are determined
by political relations independent of their
will.
The greatest poets have not been able
to escape these conditions ; and when they
have desired to represent personages
nearer to us, as Charles Moor, or Wallen
stein, they have been obliged to place
them in revolt against society or against
their sovereign. Moreover, these heroes
rush on to an inevitable ruin, or they fall
into the ridiculous situation, of which the
Don Quixote of Cervantes gives us the
most striking example.
2. To represent the ideal in personages
or in an action, there is necessary not only
a favorable world from which the subject
is to be borrowed, but a situation. This
situation can be either indeterminate, like
that of many of the immobile personages
of antique or religious sculpture, or de
terminate, but yet of little earnestness.
Such are also the greater number of the
situations of the personages of antique
sculpture. Finally, it may be earnest, and
furnish material for a veritable action. It
supposes, then, an opposition, an action and
a reaction, a conflict, a collision. The
beauty of the ideal consists in absolute
serenity and perfection. Now, collision
destroys this harmony. The problem of
art consists, then, in so managing that the
harmony reappears in the denouement. Po
etry alone is capable of developing this op
position upon which the interest, particu
larly, of tragic art turns.
Without examining here the nature of
the different collisions, the study of which
belongs to the theory of dramatic art, we
must already have remarked that the collis
ions of the highest order are those in
which the conflict takes place between
moral forces, as in the ancient tragedies.
This is the subject of true classic tragedy,
moral as well as religious, as will be seen
from what follows.
Thus the ideal, in this superior degree,
is the manifestation of moral powers and
of the ideas of spirit, of the grand move
ments of the soul, and of the characters
which appear and are revealed in the de
velopment of the representation.
3. In action, properly so-called, three
things are to be considered which consti
tute its ideal object: 1. The general inter
ests, the ideas, the universal principles,
whose opposition forms the very foundation
of the action ; 2. The personages; 3. Their
character and their passions, or the mo
tives which impel them to act.
In the first place, the eternal principles
of religion, of morality, of the family, of
the state—the grand sentiments of the
soul, love, honor, etc.—these constitute the
basis, the true interest of the action.
These are the grand and true motives of
art, the eternal theme of exalted poetry.
To these legitimate and true powers oth
ers are, without doubt, added ; the powers
of evil; but they ought not to be repre
sented as forming the real foundation and
end of the action. ciIf the idea, the end
and aim, be something false in itself, the
hideousness of the ground will allow still
less beauty of form. The sophistry of the
passions may, indeed, by a true picture,
attempt to represent the false under the
colors of the true, but it places under our
eyes only a whited sepulchre. Cruelty and
the violent employment of force can be en
dured in representation, but only when
they are relieved by the grandeur of the
character and ennobled by the aim which
is pursued by the dramatis personae. Per
versity, envy, cowardice, baseness, are only
repulsive.
“ Evil, in itself, is stripped of real in
terest, because nothing but the false can
spring from what is false ; it produces on
ly misfortune, while art should present to
us order and harmony. The great artists,
the great poets of antiquity, never give us
the spectacle of pure wickedness and per
versity.”
�Hegel's Philosophy of Jlrt.
We cite this passage because it exhibits
the character and high moral tone which
prevails in the entire work, as we shall
have occasion to observe more than once
hereafter.
If the ideas and interests of human life
form the ground of the action, the latter is
accomplished by the characters upon whom
the interest is fastened. General ideas
may, indeed, be personated by beings su
perior to man, by certain divinities like
those which figure in ancient epic poetry
and tragedy. But it is to man that action,
properly so-called, returns; it is he who
occupies the scene. Now, how reconcile
divine action and human action, the will
of the gods and that of man ? Such is the
problem which has made shipwreck of so
many poets and artists. To maintain a
proper equipoise it is necessary that the
gods have supreme direction, and that man
preserve his freedom and his independence
without which he is no more than the pas
sive instrument of the will of the gods; fa
tality weighs upon all his acts. The true
solution consists in maintaining the ident
ity of the two terms, in spite of their dif
ference ; in so acting that what is attributed
to the gods shall appear at the same time
to emanate from the inner nature of the
dramatis personce and from their character.
The talent of the artist must reconcile the
two aspects’. “ The heart of man must be
revealed in his gods, personifications of
the grand motives which allure him and
govern him within.” This is the problem
resolved by the great poets of antiquity,
Homer, .¿Eschylus, and Sophocles.
The general principles, those grand mo
tives which are the basis of the action, by
the fact that they are living in the soul of
the characters, form, also, the very ground
of the passions; this is the essence of true
pathos. Passion, here, in the elevated ideal
sense, is, in fact, not an arbitrary, capri
cious, irregular movement of the soul ; it is
a noble principle, which blends itself with
a great idea, with^ne of the eternal veri
ties of moral or religious order. Such is
the passion of Antigone, the holy love for
her brother ; such, the vengeance of Orestes.
It is an essentially legitimate power of the
soul which contains one of the eternal
4
49
principles of the reason and the will. This
is still the ideal, the true ideal, although it
appears under the form of a passion. It
relieves, ennobles and purifies it; it thus
gives to the action a serious and profound
interest.
It is in this sense that passion consti
tutes the centre and true domain of art ; it
is the principle of emotion, the source of
true pathos.
Now, this moral verity, this eternal
principle which descends into the heart of
man and there takes the form of great and
noble passion, identifying itself with the
will of ^ie dramatis persona., constitutes,
also, their character. Without this high
idea which serves as support and as basis
to passion, there is no true character.
Character is the culminating point of ideal
representation. It is the embodiment of
all that precedes. It is in the creation
of the characters, that the genius of the art
ist or of the poet is displayed.
Three principal elements must be united
to form the ideal character, richness, vital
ity, and stability. Richness consists in not
being limited to a single quality, which
would make of the person an abstraction,
an allegoric being. To a single dominant
quality there should be added all those
which make of the personage or hero
a real and complete man, capable of be
ing developed in diverse situations and
under varying aspects. Such a multiplici
ty alone can give vitality to the character.
This is not sufficient, however; it is neces
sary that the qualities be moulded together
in such a manner as to form not a simple
assemblage and a complex whole, but one
and the same individual, having peculiar
and original physiognomy. This is the
case when a particular sentiment, a ruling
passion, presents the salient trait of the
character of a person, and gives to him a
fixed aim, to which all his resolutions and
his acts, refer. Unity and variety, sim
plicity and completeness of detail, these
are presented to us in the characters of
Sophocles, Shakspeare, and others.
Lastly, what constitutes essentially the
ideal in character is consistency and stabil
ity. An inconsistent, undecided, irresolute
character, is the utter want of character.
�50
Hegel's Philosophy of Jlrt.
Contradictions, without doubt, exist in hu
man nature, but unity should be maintain
ed in spite of these fluctuations. Some
thing identical ought to be found through
out, as a fundamental trait. To be self-de
termining, to follow a design, to embrace a
resolution and persist in it, constitute the
very foundation of personality; to suffer
one’s self to be determined by another, to
hesitate, to vacillate, this is to surrender
one’s will, to cease to be one's self, to lack
character; this is, in all cases, the oppo
site of the ideal character.
Hegel on this subject strongly protests
against the characters which figure in mod
ern pieces and romances, and of which
Werthcr is the type.
These pretended characters, says he, rep
resent only unhealthiness of spirit, and
feebleness of soul. Now true and healthy
art does not represent what is false and
sickly, what lacks consistency and de
cision, but that which is true, healthy and
strong. The ideal, in a word, is the idea
realized ; man can realize it only as a free
person, that is to say, by displaying all
the energy and constancy which can make
it triumph.
We shall find more than once, in the
course of the work, the same ideas de
veloped with the same force and precision.
That which constitutes the very ground
of the ideal is the inmost essence of things,
especially the lofty conceptions of the
spirit, and the development of the powers
of the soul. These ideas are manifest in
an action in which are placed upon the
scene the grand interests of life, the pas
sions of the human heart, the will and the
character of actors. But this action is
itself developed in the midst of an external
nature which, moreover, lends to the ideal,
colors and a determinate form. These
external surroundings must also be con
ceived and fashioned in the meaning of the
ideal, according to the laws of regularity,
symmetry, and harmony, of which mention
has been made above. How-ought man to be
represented in his relations with external
nature ? How ought this prose of life to be
idealized? If art, in fact, frees man from
the wants of material life, it cannot, how
ever, elevate him above the conditions of
human existence, and suppress these con
nections.
Hegel devotes a special examination to
this new phase of the question of the ideal,
which he designates by this title—Of the
external determination of the ideal.
In our days we have given an exaggerated
importance to this external side, which
we have made the principal object. We
are too unmindful that art should repre
sent the ideas and sentiments of the hu
man soul, that this is the true ground of
its works. Hence all these minute de
scriptions, this external care given to the
picturesque element or to the local color,
to furniture, to costumes, to all those arti
ficial means employed to disguise the
emptiness and insignificance of the sub
ject, the absence of ideas, the falsity of
the situations, the feebleness of the char
acters, and the improbability of the
action.
Nevertheless, this side has its place in
art, and should not be neglected. It gives
clearness, truthfulness, life, and interest
to its works, by the secret sympathy which
exists between man and nature. It is
Characteristic of the great masters to rep
resent nature with perfect truthfulness.
Homer is an example of this. Without
forgetting the content for the form, pic
ture for the frame, he presents to us a
faultless and precise image of the theatre
of action. The arts differ much in this
respect. Sculpture limits itself to certain
symbolic indications ; painting, which has
at its disposal means more extended, en
riches with these objects the content of its
pictures. Among the varieties of poetry, the
epic is more circumstantial in its descrip
tions than the drama or lyric poetry. But
this external fidelity should not, in any
art, extend to the representation of insig
nificant details, to the making of them an
object of predeliction, and to subordinat
ing to them the developments which the
subject itself claims. The grand point in
these descriptions is that we perceive a
secret harmony between man and nature,
between the action and the theatre on
which it occurs.
Another species of accord is established
between man and the objects of physical
�Hegel's Philosophy of Art.
nature, when, through his free activity, he
impresses upon them his intelligence and
will, and appropriates them to his own
use; the ideal consists in causing misery
and necessity to disappear from the do
main of art, in revealing the freedom
which develops itself without effort under
our eyes, and easily surmounts obstacles.
Such is the ideal considered under this
aspect. Thus the gods of polytheism
themselves have garments and arms ; they
drink nectar and are nourished by ambro
sia. The garment is an ornament designed
to heighten the glory of the features, to
give nobleness to the countenance, to fa
cilitate movement, or to indicate force and
agility. The most brilliant objects, the
metals, precious stones, purple and ivory,
are employed for the same end. All con
cur to produce the effect of grace and
beauty.
In the satisfaction of physical wants the
ideal consists, above all, in the simplicity
of the means. Instead of being artificial,
factitious, complex, the latter emanate
directly from the activity of man, and free
dom. The heroes of Homer themselves
slay the oxen which are to serve for the
feast, and roast them; they forge their
arms, and prepare their couches. This is
not, as one might think, a relic of barbar
ous manners, something prosaic; but we
see, penetrating everywhere the delight of
invention, the pleasure of easy toil and
free activity exercised on material objects.
Everything is peculiar to and inherent in
his character, and a means for the hero
of revealing the force of his arm and the
skill of his hand ; while, in civilized so
ciety, these objects depend on a thousand
foreign causes, on a complex adjustment
in which man is converted into a machine
subordinated to other machines. Things
have lost their freshness and vitality;
they remain inanimate, and are no longer
proper, direct creations of the human per
son, in which the man loves to solace and
contemplate himself.
A final point relative to the external
form of the ideal is that which concerns
the relation of works of art to the public,
that is to say, to the nation and epoch for
which the artist or the poet composes his
51
works. Ought the artist, when he treats a
subject, to consult, above all, the spirit,
taste and manners of the people whom he
addresses, and conform himself to their
ideas ? This is the means of exciting in
terest in fabulous and imaginary or even
historic persons. But then there is a lia
bility to distort history and tradition.
Ought he, on the other hand, to repro
duce with scrupulous exactness the man
ners and customs of another time, to give
to the facts and the characters their proper
coloring and their original and primitive
costume? This is the problem. Hence
arise two schools and two opposite modes
of representation. In the age of Louis
XIV., for example, the Greeks and Romans
are conceived in the likeness of French
men. Since then, by a natural reaction,
the contrary tendency has prevailed. • To
day the poet must have the knowledge of
an archeologist, and possess his scrupu
lous exactness, and pay close attention,
above all, to local color, and historic verity
has become the principal and essential
aim of art.
Truth here, as always, lies between the
two extremes. It is necessary to maintain,
at the same time, the rights of art and
those of the public, to have a proper re
gard for the spirit of the epoch, and to
satisfy the exigencies of the subject
treated. These are the very judicious
rules which the author states upon this
delicate point.
The subject should be intelligible and
interesting to the public to which it is ad
dressed. But this end the poet or the
artist will attain only so far as, by his
general spirit, his work responds to some
one of the essential ideas of the human
spirit and to the general interests of hu
manity. The particularities of an epoch
are not of true and enduring interest
to us.
If, then, the subject is borrowed from re
mote epochs of history, or from some faroff tradition, it is necessary that, by our
general culture, we should be familiarized
with it. It is thus only that we can sym
pathize with an epoch and with manners
that are no more. Hence the two essen
tial conditions ; that the subject present
�52
Hegel's Philosophy of Art.
the general human character, then that it
be in relation with our ideas.
Art is not designed for a small number
of scholars and men of science; it is ad
dressed to the entire nation. Its works
should be comprehended and relished of
themselves, and not after a course of diffi
cult research. Thus national subjects are
the most favorable. All great poems are
national poems. The Bible histories have
for us a particular charm, because we are
familiar with them from our infancy. Nev
ertheless, in the measure that relations are
multiplied between peoples, art can bor
row its subjects from all latitudes and from
all epochs. It should, indeed, as to the
principal features, preserve, to the tradi
tions, events, and personages, to manners
and institutions, their historic or tradi
tional character ; but the duty of the artist,
above all, is to place the idea which consti
tutes its content in harmony with the
spirit of his own age, and the peculiar
genius of his nation.
In this necessity lies the reason and ex
cuse for what is called anachronism in art.
When the anachronism bears only upon
external circumstances it is unimportant.
It becomes a matter of more moment if
we attribute to the characters, the ideas,
and sentiments of another epoch. Re
spect must be paid to historic truth, but
regard must also be had to the manners
and intellectual culture of one’s own time.
The heroes of Homer themselves are more
than were the real personages of the epoch
which he presents ; and the characters of
Sophocles are brought still nearer to us.
To violate thus the rules of historic reali
ty, is a necessary anachronism in art. Fi
nally, another form of anachronism, which
the utmost moderation and genius can
alone make pardonable, is that which
transfers the religious or moral ideas of a
more advanced civilization to an anterior
epoch; when one attributes, for example,
to the ancients the ideas of the mod
erns. Some great poets have ventured up
on this intentionally ; few have been suc
cessful in it.
The general conclusion is this: “ The
artist should be required to make himself
the cotemporary of past ages, and become
penetrated himself with their spirit. For if
the substance of those ideas be true, it re
mains clear for all time. But to undertake
to reproduce with a scrupulous exactness
the external element of history, with all its
details and particulars,—in a word, all the
rust of antiquity, is the work of a puerile
erudition, which attaches itself only to a
superficial aim. We should not wrest from
art the right which it has to float between
reality and fiction.”
This first part concludes with an exam
ination of the qualities necessary to an
artist, such as imagination, genius, inspi
ration, originality, etc. The author does
not deem it obligatory to treat at much
length this subject, which appears to him
to allow only a small number of general
rules or psychological observations. The
manner in which he treats of many points,
and particularly of the imagination, causes
us to regret that he has not thought it
worth while to give a larger space to these
questions, which occupy the principal
place in the majority of aesthetical treati
ses; we shall find them again under an
other form in the theory of the arts.
[The next number will continue this trans
lation through the treatment of the Sym
bolic, Classic, and Romantic forms of art.]
�Raphael's Transfiguration.
53
NOTES ON RAPHAEL’S “ TRANSFIGURATION.”
[Bead before the St. Louis Art Society in November, 1866.]
I. THE ENGRAVING.
He who studies the ei Transfiguration ”
of Raphael is fortunate if he has access to
the engraving of it by Raphael Morghen.
This engraver, as one learns from the En
cyclopaedia, was a Florentine, and executed
this—his most elaborate work—in 1795,
from a drawing of Tofanelli, after having
discovered that a copy he had partly fin
ished from another drawing, was very in
adequate when compared with the origi
nal.
Upon comparison with engravings by
other artists, it seems to me that this en
graving has not received all the praise it
deserves ; I refer especially to the seizing of
the “motives” of the picture, which are so
essential in a work of great scope, to give it
the requisite unity. What the engraver has
achieved in the present instance, I hope to
be able to show in some degree. But one
will not be able to verify my results if he
takes up an engraving by a less fortunate
artist; e. g. : one by Pavoni, of recent
origin.
IL HISTORICAL.
It is currently reported that Raphael
painted the “ Transfiguration ” at the in
stance of Cardinal Giulio de Medici, and
that in honor of the latter he introduced
the two saints—Julian and Lawrence—on
the mount; St. Julian suggesting the illfated Giuliano de Medici, the Cardinal’s
father, and St. Lawrence representing his
uncle, “Lorenzo the Magnificent,” the
greatest of the Medici line, and greatest
man of his time in Italy. (( The haughty
Michael Angelo refused to enter the lists
in person against Raphael, but put forward
as a fitting rival Sebastian del Piombo, a
Venetian.” Raphael painted, as his mas
terpiece, the “ Transfiguration,” and Se
bastian, with the help of Michael Angelo,
painted the “ Raising of Lazarus.” In
1520, before the picture was quite finished,
Raphael died. His favorite disciple, Giu
lio Romano, finished the lower part of the
picture (especially the demoniac) in the
spirit of Raphael, who had completed the
upper portion and most of the lower.
III. LEGEND.
The Legend portrayed here—slightly va
rying from the one in the New Testament,
but not contradicting it—is as follows :
Christ goes out with his twelve disciples to
Mount Tabor, (?) and, leaving the nine
others at the foot, ascends with the favor
ed three to the summit, where the scene of
the Transfiguration takes place. While
this transpires, the family group approach
with the demoniac, seeking help from a
miraculous source.
Raphael has added to this legend the
circumstance that two sympathetic strang
ers, passing that way up the mount, carry
to the Beatified One the intelligence of the
event below, and solicit his immediate and
gracious interference.
The Testament account leads us to sup
pose the scene to be Mount Tabor, south
east of Nazareth, at whose base he had
healed many, a few days before, and
where he had held many conversations
with his disciples. “ On the following
day, when they were come down, they met
the family,” says Luke ; but Matthew and
Mark do not fix so precisely the day.
IV. CHARACTERIZATION.
It may be safely affirmed that there is
scarcely a picture in existence in which
the individualities are more strongly mark
ed by internal essential characteristics.
Above, there is no figure to be mistaken :
Christ floats toward the source of light—
the Invisible Father, by whom all is made
visible that is visible. On the right, Moses
appears in strong contrast to Elias on the
left—the former the law-giver, and the
latter the spontaneous, fiery, eagle-eyed
prophet.
On the mountain top—prostrate beneath,
are the three disciples—one recognizes on
the right hand, John, gracefully bending
his face down from the overpowering light,
while on the left James buries his face in
�54
Raphaels Transfiguration.
his humility. But Peter, the bold one, is
fain to gaze directly on the splendor. He
turns his face up in the act, but is, as on
another occasion, mistaken in his estimate
of his own endurance, and is obliged to
cover his eyes, involuntarily, with his hand.
Below the mount, are two opposed groups.
On the right, coming from the hamlet in
the distance, is the family group, of which
a demoniac boy forms the centre. They,
without doubt, saw Christ pass on his way
to this solitude, and, at length, concluded
to follow him and test his might which had
been c£ noised abroad” in that region. It
is easy to see the relationship of the whole
group. First the boy, actually “ possess
ed,” or a maniac ; then his father—a man
evidently predisposed to insanity—support
ing and restraining him. Kneeling at the
right of the boy is his mother, whose fair
Grecian face has become haggard with the
trials she has endured from her son. Just
beyond her is her brother, and in the shade
of the mountain, is her father. In the fore
ground is her sister. Back of the father,
to the right, is seen an uncle (on the fa
ther’s side) of the demoniac boy, whose
features and gestures show him to be a sim
pleton, and near him is seen the face of the
father’s sister, also a weak-minded person.
The parents of the father are not to be
seen, for the obvious reason that old age
is not a characteristic of persons predis
posed to insanity. Again, it is marked
that in a family thus predisposed, some
will be brilliant to a degree resembling ge
nius, and others will be simpletons. The
whole group at the right are supplicating
the nine disciples, in the most earnest
manner, for relief. The disciples, group
ed on the left, are full of sympathy, but
their looks tell plainly that they can do
nothing. One, at the left and near the
front, holds the books of the Law in his
right hand, but the letter needs the spirit
to give life, and the mere Law of Moses
does not help the demoniac, and only ex
cites the sorrowful indignation of the
beautiful sister in the foreground.
The curious student of the New Testa
ment may succeed in identifying the differ
ent disciples : Andrew, holding the books
of the Law, is Peter’s brother, and bears a
family resemblance. Judas, at the extreme
left, cannot be mistaken. Matthew looks
over the shoulder of Bartholomew, who is
pointing to the demoniac ; while Thomas—
distinguished by his youthful appearance—
bends over toward the boy with a look of
intense interest. Simon (?), kneeling be
tween Thomas and Bartholomew, is indi
cating to the mother, by the gesture with
his left hand, the absence of the Master.
Philip, whose face is turned towards Ju
das, is pointing to the scene on the mount,
and apparently suggesting the propriety of
going for the absent one. James, the son
of Alpheus, resembles Christ in features,
and stands behind Jude, his brother, who
points up to the mount while looking at
the father.
V. ORGANIC UNITY.
(а) Doubtless every true work of art
should have what is called an ‘‘organic uni
ty.” That is to say, all the parts of the work
should be related to each other in such a
way that a harmony of design arises. Two
entirely unrelated things brought into the
piece would form two centres of attraction
and hence divide the work into two differ
ent works. It should be so constituted
that the study of one part leads to all the
other parts as being necessarily implied in
it. This common life of the whole work
is the central idea which necessitates all
the parts, and hence makes the work an or
ganism instead of a mare conglomerate or
mechanical aggregate,—a fortuitous con
course of atoms which would make a chaos
only.
(б) This central idea, however, cannot
be represented in a work of art without
contrasts, and hence there must be antithe
ses present.
(c) And these antitheses must be again
reduced to unity by the manifest depend
ence of each side upon the central idea.
What is the central idea of this picture 2
(a) Almost every thoughtful person that
has examined it, has said : “ Here is the
Divine in contrast with the Human, and
the dependence of the latter upon the
former.” This may be stated in a variety
of ways. The Infinite is there above, and
the Finite here below seeking it.
(Z>) The grandest antithesis iB that be
�Raphael's Transfiguration,
tween the two parts of the Picture, the
above and the below. The transfigured
Christ, there,dazzling with light; below, the
shadow of mortal life, only illuminated by
such rays as come from above. There, se
renity ; and here, rending calamity.
Then there are minor antitheses.
(1) Above we have a Twofold. The
three celestial light-seekers who soar rap
turously to the invisible source of light,
and below them, the three disciples swoon
ing beneath the power of the celestial vis
ion. (2) Then below the mountain we
have a similar contrast in the two groups ;
the one broken in spirit by the calamity
that “ pierces their own souls,” and the
other group powerfully affected by sympa
thy, and feeling keenly their impotence
during the absence of their Lord.
Again even, there appear other anti
theses. So completely does the idea pen
etrate the material in this work of art, that
everywhere we see the mirror of the whole.
In the highest and most celestial we have
the antithesis of Christ and the twain ;
Moses the law or letter, Elias the spirit or
the prophet, and Christ the living unity.
Even Christ himself, though comparative
ly the point of repose of the whole picture,
is a contrast of soul striving against the
visible body. So, too, the antitheses of
the three disciples, John, Peter, James,—
grace, strength, and humility. Everywhere
the subject is exhaustively treated; the
family in its different members, the disci
ples with the different shades of sympa
thy and concern. (The maniac boy is a
perfect picture of a being, torn asunder by
violent internal contradiction.)
(c) The unity is no less remarkable.
First, the absolute unity of the piece, is the
transfigured Christ. To it, mediately or
immediately, everything refers. All the
light in the picture streams thence. All the
action in the piece has its motive power in
Him;—first, the two celestials soar to gaze
in his light ; then the three disciples are
expressing, by the posture of every limb,
the intense effect of the same light. On
the left, the mediating strangers stand im
ploring Christ to descend and be merciful
to the miserable of this life. Below, the
disciples are painfully reminded of Him
55
absent, by the present need of his all-heal
ing power, and their gestures refer to his
stay on the mountain top ; while the group
at the right, are frantic in supplications for
his assistance.
Besides the central unity, we find minor
unities that do not contradict the higher
unity, for the reason that they are only re
flections of it, and each one carries us, of
its own accord, to the higher unity, and
loses itself in it. Toillustrate: Below, the
immediate unity of all (centre of interest)
is the maniac boy, and yet he convulsively
points to the miraculous scene above, and
the perfect unrest exhibited in his attitude
repels the soul irresistibly to seek another
unity. The Christ above, gives^us a com
paratively serene point of repose, while
the unity of the Below or finite side of the
picture is an absolute antagonism, hurling
us beyond to the higher unity.
Before the approach of the distressed
family, the others were intently listening
to the grave and elderly disciple, Andrew,
who was reading and expounding the
Scriptures to them. This was a different
unity, and would have clashed with the
organic unity of the piece; the approach of
the boy brings in a new unity, which im
mediately reflects all to the higher unity.
VI.
SENSE AND REASON VS. UNDERSTANDING.
At this point a few reflections are sug
gested to render more obvious, certain
higher phases in the unity of this work of
art, which must now be considered.
A work of art, it will be conceded, must,
first of all, appeal to the senses. Equally,
too, its content must be an idea of the Rea
son, and this is not so readily granted by
every one. But if there were no idea of
the Reason in it, there would be no unity
to the work, and it could not be distin
guished from any other work not a work
of art. Between the Reason and the Senses
there lies a broad realm, called the “ Un
derstanding” by modern speculative wri
ters. It was formerly called the ‘‘discur
sive intellect.” The Understanding applies
the criterion “use.” It does not know
beauty, or, indeed, anything which is
for itself-, it knows only what is good for
something else. In a work of art, after it
�56
Raphael's Transfiguration.
has asked what it is good for, it proceeds
to construe it all into prose, for it is the
prose faculty. It must have the picture
tell us what is the external fact in nature,
and not trouble us with any transcendental
imaginative products. It wants imitation
of nature merely.
But the artist frequently neglects this
faculty, and shocks it to the uttermost by
such things as the abridged mountain in
this picture, or the shadow cast toward the
sun, that Eckermann tells of.
The artist must never violate the sensu
ous harmony, nor fail to have*the deeper
unity of the Idea. It is evident that the
sensuous side is always cared for by Ra
phael.
Here are some of the effects in the pic
ture that are purely sensuous and yet
of such a kind that they immediately call
up the idea. The source of light in the
picture is Christ’s form; below, it is re
flected in the garments of the conspicuous
figure in the foreground. Above, is Christ;
opposite and below, a female that suggests
the Madonna. In the same manner Elias,
or the inspired prophet, is the opposite to
the maniac boy ; the former inspired by the
celestial', the latter, by the demonic. So
Moses, the law-giver, is antithetic to the
old disciple that has the roll of the Law in
his hand. So, too, in the posture, Elias
floats freely, while Moses is brought against
the tree, and mars the impression of free
self-support. The heavy tables of the Law
seem to draw him down, while Elias seems
to have difficulty in descending sufficiently
to place himself in subordination to
Christ.
Even the contradiction that the under
standing finds in the abridgment of the
mountain, is corrected sensuously by the
perspective at the right, and the shade that
the edge of the rock casts which isolates
the above so completely from the below.
We see that Raphael has brought them
to a secluded spot just near the top of the
mountain. The view of the distant vale
tells us as effectually that this is ar moun
tain top as could be done by a full length
painting of it. Hence the criticism rests
upon a misunderstanding of the fact Ra
phael has portrayed.
VII. ROMANTIC VS. CLASSIC.
Finally, we must recur to those distinc
tions so much talked of, in order to intro
duce the consideration of the grandest
strokes of genius which Raphael has dis
played in this work.
The distinction of Classic and Romantic
Art, of Greek Art from Christian : the form
er is characterized by a complete repose, or
equilibrium between the Sense and Rea
son—or between matter and form. The
idea seems completely expressed, and the
expression completely adequate to the idea.
But in Christian Art we do not find this
equilibrium; but everywhere we find an
intimation that the idea is too transcend
ent for the matter to express. Hence, Ro
mantic Art is self contradictory—it ex
presses the inadequacy of expression.
“ I have that within which passeth show;
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.”
In Gothic Architecture, all strives up
ward and seems to derive its support from
above (i. e. the Spiritual, light). All Ro
mantic Art points to a beyond. The Ma
donnas seem to say : "'lama beyond which
cannot be represented in a sensuous form;”
“a saintly contempt for the flesh hovers
about their features.” as some one has ex
pressed it.
But in this picture, Christ himself, no
more a child in the Madonna’s arms, but
even in his meridian glory, looks beyond,
and expresses dependence on a Being who
is not and cannot be represented. His face
is serene, beatific ; he is at unity with this
Absolute Being, but the unity is an inter
nal one, and his upraised gaze towards the
source of light is a plain statement that the
True which supports him is not a sensuous
one. <£ God dwelleth not in temples made
with hands; but those who would ap
proach Him must do it in spirit and in
truth.”
This is the idea which belongs to the
method of all modern Art; but Raphael
has not left this as the general spirit of
the picture merely, but has emphasized it
in a way that exhibits the happy temper of
his genius in dealing with refractory sub
jects. And this last point has proved too
much for his critics. Reference is made
�Introduction to Philosophy.
to the two saints painted at the left. How
fine it would be, thought the Cardinal de
Medici, to have St. Lawrence and St. Ju
lian painted in there, to commemorate my
father and uncle! They can represent
mediators, and thereby connect the two
parts of the picture more closely !
Of course, Raphael put them in there !
“Alas 1” say his critics, “ what a fatal mis
take ! What have those two figures to
do there but to mar the work! All for
the gratification of a selfish pride!”
Always trust an Artist to dispose of the
Finite ; he, of all men, knows how to digest
it and subordinate it to the idea.
Raphael wanted just such figures in just
that place. Of course, the most natural
thing in the world that could happen, would
be the ascent of some one to bear the mes
sage to Christ that there was need of him
below. But what is the effect of that upon
the work as a piece of Romantic Art? It
would destroy that characteristic- if per
mitted in certain forms. Raphael, how
ever, seizes upon this incident to show the
entire spiritual character of the upper part
of the picture. The disciples are dazzled
so, that even the firm Peter cannot endure
the light at all. Is this a physical light?
Look at the messengers that have come up
the mountain ! Do their eyes indicate any
thing bright, not to say dazzling? They
stand there with supplicating looks and
gestures, but see no transfiguration. It
must be confessed, Cardinal de Medici,
57
that your uncle and father are not much
complimented, after all; they are merely
natural men, and have no inner sense by
which to see the Eternal Verities that il
lume the mystery of existence! Even if
you are Cardinal, and they were Popes’
counselors, they never saw anything higher
in Religion than what should add comfort
to us here below!
No! The transfiguration, as Raphael
clearly tells us, was a Spiritual one : Christ,
on the mountain with his favored three
disciples, opened up such celestial clear
ness in his exposition of the truth, that
they saw Moses and Elias, as it were, com
bined in one Person, and a new Heaven
and a new Earth arose before them, and
they were lost in that revelation of infinite
splendor.
In closing, a remark forces itself upon
us with reference to the comparative mer
its of Raphael and Michael Angelo.
Raphael is the perfection of Romantic
Art. Michael Angelo is almost a Greek.
His paintings all seem to bei pictures of
statuary. In his grandest—The Last Judg
ment—we have the visible presence as the
highest. Art with him could represent the
Absolute. With Raphael it could only, in
its loftiest flights, express its own impo
tence.
Whether we are to consider Raphael or
Michael Angelo as the higher artist, must
be decided by an investigation of the mer
its of the “Last Judgment.”
INTRODUCTION TO PHILOSOPHY.
CHAPTER I.
The object of this series is to furnish,
in as popular a form as possible, a course
of discipline for those who are beginning
the study of philosophy. Strictly popular,
in the sense the word is used—i. e. sig
nifying that which holds fast to the ordi
nary consciousness of men, and does not
take flights beyond—I am well aware, no
philosophy can be. The nearest approach
to it that can be made, consists in starting
from the common external views, and
1
drawing them into the speculative, stepbv
step. For this purpose the method of defi
nitions and axioms, with deductions there
from, as employed by Spinoza, is more ap
propriate at first, and afterwards a gradual
approach to the Dialectic, or true philoso
phic method. In the mathematical method
(that of Spinoza just alluded to) the con
tent may be speculative, but its form,
never. Hence the student of philosophy
needs only to turn his attention to the
content at first ; when that becomes in a
�58
Introduction to Philosophy.
measure familiar, he can then the more others put into ordinary phrases. He
readily pass over to the true form of the does not seem to think that the concepts
speculative content, and thus achieve com likewise are new. It is just as though an
plete insight. A course of discipline in Indian were to say to the carpenter, “I
the speculative content, though under an could make as good work as you, if I only
inadequate form, would make a grand had the secret of using my finger-nails and
preparation for the study of Hegel or teeth as you do the plane and saw.” Spec
Plato; while a study of these, or, in short, ulative philosophy—it cannot be too early
of any writers who employ speculative inculcated—does not “ conceal under cum
methods in treating speculative content— brous terminology views which men ordin
a study of these without previous ac arily hold.” The ordinary reflection would
quaintance with the content is well nigh say that Being is the ground of thought,
fruitless. One needs only to read the while speculative philosophy would say
comments of translators of Plato upon his that thought is the ground of Being;
speculative passages, or the prevailing whether of other being, or of itself as
verdicts upon Hegel, to be satisfied on this being—for it is causa sui.
point.
Let us now address ourselves to the task
The course that I shall here present will of elaborating our technique—the tools of
embody my own experience, to a great ex thought—and see what new worlds become
tent, in the chronological order of its de accessible through our mental telescopes
velopment. Each lesson will endeavor to and microscopes, our analytical scalpels
present an aperçu derived from some great and psychological plummets.
philosopher. Those coming later will pre
I.---- A PRIORI AND A POSTERIORI.
suppose the earlier ones, and frequently
throw new light upon them.
A priori, as applied to knowledge, signi
As one who undertakes the manufacture fies that which belongs to the nature of' the
of an elegant piece of furniture needs mind itself. Knowledge which is before
carefully elaborated tools for that end, so experience, or not dependent on it, is a
must the thinker who wishes to compre priori.
hend the universe be equipped with the
A posteriori or empirical knowledge is
tools of thought, or else he will come off derived from experience.
as poorly as he who should undertake to
A criterion to be applied in order to test
make a carved mahogany chair with no the application of these categories to any
tools except his teeth and finger nails. knowledge in question, is to be found in
What complicated machinery is required universality and necessity. If the truth ex
to transmute the rough ores into an Ameri pressed has universal and necessary valid
can watch! And yet how common is the ity it must be a priori, for it could not have
delusion that no elaboration of tools of been derived from experience. Of empir
thought is required to enable the common ical knowledge we can only say: “ It is
est mind to manipulate the highest sub true so far as experience has extended.”
jects of investigation. The alchemy that Of a priori knowledge, on the contrary, we
turned base metal into gold is only a sym affirm: “ It is universally and necessarily
bol of that cunning alchemy of thought true and no experience of its opposite can
that by means of the philosopher’s stone possibly occur; from the very nature of
(scientific method) dissolves the base/ac/s things it must be so.”
of experience into universal truths.
II.---- ANALYTICAL AND SYNTHETICAL.
The uninitiated regards the philosophic
treatment of a theme as difficult solely by
A judgment which, in the predicate,
reason of its technical terms. “If I only adds nothing new to the subject, is said to
understood your use of words, I think I be analytical, as e. g. “ Horse is an ani
should find no difficulty in your thought.” mal;”—the concept “animal” is already
He supposes that under those bizarre terms contained in that of “horse.”
there lurks only the meaning that he and
Synthetical judgments, on the contrary,
�59
Introduction to Philosophy.
add in the predicate something new to the
conception of the subject, as e. g. “This
rose is red,” or “ The shortest distance
between two points is a straight line ;”—in
the first judgment we have “red” added
to the general concept “rose;” while in
the second example we have straightness,
which is quality, added to shortest, which
is quantity.
III.—APODEICTICAL.
Omitting the consideration of aposteriori
knowledge for the present, let us investi
gate the a priori in order to learn some
thing of the constitution of the intelligence
which knows—always a proper subject for
philosophy. Since, moreover, the a priori
analytical (“ A horse is an animal ”) adds
nothing to our knowledge, we may con
fine ourselves, as Kant does, to a priori
synthetical knowledge. The axioms of
mathematics are of this character. They
are universal and necessary in their appli
cation, and we know this without milking
a single practical experiment. “Only one
straight line can be drawn between two
points,” or the proposition : “The sum of
the three angles of a triangle is equal to
two right angles,”—these are true in all
possible experiences, and hence transcend
any actual experience. Take any a poste
riori judgment, e. g. “All bodies are
heavy,” and we see at once that it im
plies the restriction, “ So far as we have
experienced,” or else is a mere analytical
judgment. The universal and necessary is
sometimes called the apodeictical. The
conception of the apodeictical lies at the
basis of all true philosophical thinking.
He who does not distinguish between apodeictic and contingent judgments must
pause here until he can do so.
IV. SPACE AND TIME.
In order to give a more exhaustive appli
cation to our technique, let us seek the
universal conditions of experience. The
mathematical truths that we quoted re
late to Space, and similar ones relate to
Time. No experience would be possible
without presupposing Time and Space as
its logical condition. Indeed, we should
never conceive our sensations to have an
origin outside of ourselves and in distinct
objects, unless we had the conception of
Space a priori by which to render it pos
sible. Instead, therefore, of our being
able to generalize particular experiences,
and collect therefrom the idea of Space
and Time in general, we must have added
the idea of Space and Time to our sensa
tion before it could possibly become an
experience at all. This becomes more clear
when we recur to the apodeictic nature of
Space and Time. Time and Space are
thought as infinites, i. e. they can only be
limited by themselves, and hence are uni
versally continuous. But no 6uch concep
tion as infinite can be derived analytically
from an object of experience, for it does
not contain it. All objects of experience
must be within Time and Space, and not
vice versa. All that is limited in extent
and duration presupposes Time and Space
as its logical condition, and this we know,
not from the senses but from the constitu
tion of Reason itself. “ The third side of a
triangle is less than the sum of the two
other sides.” This we never measured, and
yet we are certain that we cannot be mis
taken about it. It is so in all triangles,
present, past, future, actual, or possible.
If this was an inference a posteriori, we
could only say : “ It has been found to be
so in all cases that have been measured
and reported to us.”
v. MIND.
Mind has a certain a priori constitution ;
this is our inference. It must be so, or
else we could never have any experience
whatever. It is the only way in which the
possibility of apodeictic knowledge can be
accounted for. What I do not get from
without I must get from within, if I have
it at all. Mind, it would seem from this,
cannot be, according to its nature, a finite
affair—a thing with properties. Were it
limited in Time or Space, it could never
(without transcending itself) conceive Time
and Space as universally continuous or in
finite. Mind is not within Time and Space,
it is as universal and necessary as the
apodeictic judgments it forms, and hence
it is the substantial essence of all that ex
ists. Time and Space are the logical con
ditions of finite existences, and Mind is
�60
Seed Life.
the logical condition of Time and Space.
Hence it is ridiculous to speak of my mind
and your mind, for mind is rather the uni
versal substrate of all individuality than
owned by any particular individual.
These results are so startling to the one
who first begins to think, that he is tempt
ed to reject the whole. If he does not do
this, but scrutinizes the whole fabric keen
ly, he will discover wThat he supposes to be
fallacies. We cannot anticipate the an
swer to his objections here, for his objec
tions arise from his inability to distinguish
between his imagination and his thinking
and this must be treated of in the next
chapter. Here, we can only interpose an
earnest request to the reader to persevere
and thoroughly refute the whole argument
before he leaves it. But this is only one
and the most elementary position from
which the philosophic traveller sees the
Eternal Verities. Every perfect analysis
—no matter what the subject be—will bring
us to the same result, though the degrees
of concreteness will vary,—some leaving
the solution in an abstract and vague form,
—others again arriving at a complete and
satisfactory view of the matter in detail.
SEED LIFE.
BY E. V.
Ah ! woe for the endless stirring,
The hunger for air and light,
The fire of the blazing noonday
Wrapped round in a chilling night!
The muffled throb of an instinct
That is kin to the mystic To Be ;
Strong muscles, cut with their fetters,
As they writhe with claim to be free.
A voice that cries out in the silence,
And is choked in a stifling air;
Arms full of an endless reaching,
While the “Nay” stands everywhere.
The burning of conscious selfhood,
That fights with pitiless fate !
God grant that deliverance stay not,
Till it come at last too late ;
Till the crushed out instinct waver,
And fainter and fainter grow,
And by suicide, through unusing,
Seek freedom from its woe.
Oh ! despair of constant losing
The life that is clutched in vain!
Is it death or a joyous growing
That shall put an end to pain ?
�Dialogue on Immortality.
61
A DIALOGUE ON IMMORTALITY.
BY ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER.
(Translated from the German, by Chas. L. Bernays.)
Philalethes.—I could tell you that, after
your death, you will be what you were pre
vious to your birth; I could tell you that
we are never born, and that we only seem
to die—that we have always been precisely
the same that we are now, and that we
shall always remain the same—that Time
is the apparatus which prevents us from
being aware of all this; I could tell you
that our consciousness stands always in
the centre of Time — never on one of its
termini; and that any one among us,
therefore, has the immovable centre of
the whole infinite Time in himself. I then
could tell you that those who, by that
knowledge, are assured that the present
time always originates in ourselves, can
never doubt the indestructibility of their
own essence.
Thrasymachus.—All of that is too long
and too ambiguous for me. Tell me,
briefly, what I shall be after death.
Phil.—All and nothing.
Thras.—There we are ! Instead of a so
lution to the problem you give me a con
tradiction ; that is an old trick.
Phil.—To answer transcendental ques
tions in language that is only made for
immanent perceptions, may in fact lead us
into contradictions.
Thras.—What do you mean by “ trans
cendental” and “immanent” perceptions?
Phil.—Well! Transcendental perception
is rather the knowledge, which, by exceed
ing any possibility of experience, tends to
discover the essence of things as they are
by themselves ; immanent perception it is,
if it keeps inside of the limits of experi
ence. In this case, it can only speak of
appearances. You, as an individual, end
with your death. Yet individuality is not
your true and final essence, but only a
mere appearance of it. It is not the thing
in itself, but only its appearance, estab
lished in the form of time, thereby having
a beginning and an end. That which is es
sential in you, knows neither of beginning
nor ending, nor of Time itself; it knows
no limits such as belong to a given indi
viduality, but exists in all and in each. In
the first sense, therefore, you will become
nothing after your death; in the second
sense, you are and remain all. For that
reason I said you would be all and nothing.
You desired a short answer, and I believe
that hardly a more correct answer could be
given briefly. No wonder, too, that it con
tains a contradiction; for your life is in
Time, while your immortality is in Eter
nity.
Thras. — Without the continuation of
my individuality, I would not give a far
thing for all youi- “immortality/’
Phil.—Perhaps you could have it even
cheaper. Suppose that I warrant to you
the continuation of your individuality, but
under the condition that a perfectly un
conscious slumber of death for three
months should precede its resuscitation.
Thras.—Well, I accept the condition.
Phil. — Now, in an absolutely uncon
scious condition, we have no measure of
time; hence it is perfectly indifferent
whether, whilst we lie asleep in death in
the unconscious world, three months or
ten thousand years are passing away. We
do not know either of the one or of the
other, and have to accept some one’s word
with regard to the duration of our sleep,
when we awake. Hence it is indifferent
to you whether your individuality is given
back to you after three months or after
ten thousand years.
Thras.—That I cannot deny.
Phil. — Now, suppose that after ten
thousand years, one had' forgotten to
awake you at all, then I believe that the
long, long state of non-being would be
come so habitual to you that your mis
fortune could hardly be very great. Cer
tain it is, any way, that you would know
nothing of it; nay, you would even console
yourself very easily, if you were aware
that the secret mechanism which now keeps
�62
Dialogue on Immortality.
your actual appearance in motion, had not
ceased during all the ten thousand years
for a single moment to establish and to
move other beings of the same kind.
Thras.—In that manner you mean to
cheat me out of my individuality, do you?
I will not be fooled in that way. I have
bargained for the continuation of my in
dividuality, and none of your motives can
console me for the loss of that; I have it
at heart, and I never will abandon it.
Phil.—It seems that you hold individu
ality to be so noble, so perfect, so incom
parable, that there can be nothing superior
to it; you therefore would not like to ex
change it for another one, though in that,
you could live with greater ease and per
fection.
Thras.—Let my individuality be as it'
may, it is always myself. It is I—I my
self—who want to be. That is the indi
viduality which I insist upon, and not such
a one as needs argument to convince me
that it may be my own or a better one.
Phil. — Only look about you! That
which cries out—{CI, I myself, wish to ex
ist”—that is not yourself alone, but all
that has the least vestige of consciousness.
Hence this desire of yours, is just that
which is not individual, but common
rather to all without exception; it does
not originate in individuality, but in the
very nature of existence itself; it is es
sential to anybody who lives, nay, it is
that through which it is at all; it seems
to belong only to the individual because
it can become conscious only in the indi
vidual. What cries in us so loud for ex
istence, does so only through the media
tion of the individual; immediately and
essentially it is the will to exist or to live,
and this will is one and the same in all of
us. Our existence being only the free
work of the will, existence can never fail
to belong to it, as far, at least, as that
eternally dissatisfied will, can be satisfied.
The individualities are indifferent to the
will; it never speaks of them; though it
seems to the individual, who, in himself is
the immediate percipient of it, as if it
spoke only of his own individuality. The
consequence is, that the individual cares
for his own existence with so great
anxiety, and that he thereby secures the
preservation of his kind. Hence it fol
lows that individuality is no perfection,
but rather a restriction or imperfection ;
to get rid of it is not a loss but a gain.
Hence, if you would not appeal at once
childish and ridiculous, you should aban
don that care for mere individuality; for
childish and ridiculous it will appear
when you perceive your own essence to be
the universal will to live.
Thras.—You yourself and all philoso
phers are childish and ridiculous, and in
fact it is only for a momentary diversion
that a man of good common sense ever
consents to squander away an idle hour
with the like of you. I leave your talk for
weightier matters.
[The reader will perceive by the posi
tions here assumed that Schopenhauer has
a truly speculative stand-point; that he
holds self-determination to be the only
substantial (or abiding) reality. But
while Aristotle and those like him have
seized this more definitely as the selfconscious thinking, it is evident that
Schopenhauer seizes it only from its im
mediate side, i. e. as the will. On this
account he meets with some difficulty in
solving the problem of immortality, and
leaves the question of conscious identity
hereafter, not a little obscure. Ilegel, on
the contrary, for whom Schopenhauer
everywhere evinces a hearty contempt,
does not leave the individual in any doubt
as to his destiny, but shows how individu
ality and universality coincide in self-con
sciousness, so that the desire for eternal
existence is fully satisfied. This is the
legitimate result that Philalethes arrives
at in his last speech, when he makes the
individuality a product of the will; for if
the will is the essential that he holds it to
be, and the product of its activity is indi
viduality, of course individuality belongs
eternally to it. At the close of his Philos
ophy of Nature, (Encyclopaedia, vol. II.,)
Ilegel shows how death which follows life
in the mere animal—and in man as mere
animal—enters consciousness as one of its
necessary elements, and hence does not
stand opposed to it as it does to animal
life. Conscious being (Spirit or Mind as
it may be called,) is therefore immortal
because it contains already, within itself,
its limits or determinations, and thus can
not, like finite things, encounter dissolu
tion through external ones.—Ed.]
�Goethes Theory oj Colors.
63
GOETHE’S THEORY OF COLORS.
Krom an exposition given before the St. Louis Philosophical Society, Nov. 2nd, 1866.
I. —Color arises through the reciprocal
action of light and darkness.
(a.) When a light object is seen through
a medium that dims it, it appears of differ
ent degrees of yellow; if the medium is
dark or dense, the color is orange, or ap
proaches red. Examples : the sun seen in
the morning through a slightly hazy atmos
phere appears yellow, but if the air is
thick with mist or smoke the sun looks red.
(&.) On the other hand a dark object,
seen through a medium slightly illuminat
ed, looks blue. If the medium is very
strongly illuminated, the blue approaches
a light blue; if less so, then indigo; if
still less, the deep violet appears. Ex
amples: a mountain situated at a great
distance, from which very few rays of light
come, looks blue, because we see it through
a light medium, the air illuminated by the
sun. The sky at high altitudes appears of
a deep violet; at still higher ones, almost
perfectly black; at lower ones, of a faint
blue. Smoke—an illuminated medium—
appears blue against a dark ground, but
yellow or fiery against a light ground.
(c.) The process of bluing steel is a
fine illustration of Goethe’s theory. The
steel is polished so that it reflects light
like a mirror. On placing it in the char
coal furnace a film of oxydization begins to
form so that the light is reflected through
this dimming medium; this gives a straw
color. Then, as the film thickens, the
color deepens, passing through red to blue
and indigo.
(d.) The prism is the grand instrument
in the experimental field of research into
light. The current theory that light, when
pure, is composed of seven colors, is de
rived from supposed actual verifications
with this instrument. The Goethean ex
planation is by far the simplest, and, in
the end, it propounds a question which
the Newtonian theory cannot answer with
out admitting the truth of Goethe’s theory.
II. —The phenomenon of refraction is
produced by interposing different trans
parent media between the luminous object
and the illuminated one, in such a manner
that there arises an apparent displacement
of one of the objects as viewed from the
other. By means of a prism the displace
ment is caused to lack uniformity; one
part of the light image is displaced more
than another part; several images, as it
were, being formed with different de
grees of displacement, so that they to
gether make an image whose edges are
blurred in the line of displacement. If
the displacement were perfectly uniform,
no color would arise, as is’demonstrated
by the achromatic prism or lens. The
difference of degrees of refraction causes
the elongation of the image into a spec
trum, and hence a mingling of the edges
of the image with the outlying dark sur
face of the wall, (which dark surface is
essential to the production of the ordinary
spectrum). Its rationale is the following :
(a) The light image refracted by the
prism is extended over the dark on one
side, while the dark on the other side is
extended over it.
(Z>) The bright over the dark produces
the blue in different degrees. The side
nearest the dark being the deepest or vio
let, and the side nearest the light image
being the lightest blue.
(c) On the other side, the dark over light
produces yellow in different degrees; near
est the dark we have the deepest color,
(orange approaching to red) and on the
side nearest the light, the light yellow or
saffron tint.
(d) If the image is large and but little
refracted (as with a water prism) there will
appear between the two opposite colored
edges a colorless image, proving that the
colors arise from the mingling of the light
and dark edges, and not from any peculiar
property of the prism which should “ de
compose the ray of light,” as the current
theory expresses it. If the latter theory
�64
Goethe's Theory of Colors.
were correct the decomposition would be
throughout, and the whole image be col
ored.
fe) If the image is a small one, or it is
very strongly refracted, the colored edges
come together in the middle, and the ming
ling of the light yellow with the light blue
produces green—a new color which did
not appear so long as the light ground
appeared in the middle.
(/) If the refraction is still stronger,
the edges of the opposite colors lap still
more, and the green vanishes. The New
tonian theory cannot explain this, but it is
to be expected according to Goethe’s the
ory.
(<7) According to Goethe’s theory, if the
object were a dark one instead of a light
one, and were refracted on a light surface,
the order of colors would be reversed on
each edge of the image. This is the same
experiment as one makes by looking
through a prism at the bar of a window
appearing against the sky. Where in the
light image we had the yellow colors we
should now expect the blue, for now it is
dark over light where before it was light
over dark. So, also, where we had blue
we should now have yellow. This experi
ment may be so conducted that the cur
rent doctrine that violet is refracted the
most, and red the least, shall be refuted^
(h) This constitutes the experimentum
crucis. If the prism be a large water prism,
and a black strip be pasted across the mid
dle of it, parallel with its axis, so that in
the midst of the image a dark shadow in
tervenes, the spectrum appears inverted in
the middle, so that the red is seen where
the green would otherwise appear, and
those rays supposed to be the least re
frangible are found refracted the most.
(i) When the two colored edges do not
meet in this latter experiment, we have
blue, indigo, violet, as the ordQf on one
side; and on the other, orange, yellow,
saffron ; the deeper colors being next to
the dark image. If the two colored edges
come together the union of the orange with
the violet produces the perfect red (called
by Goethe (f purpur
(J) The best method of making experi
ments is not the one that Newton employ
ed—that of a dark room and a pencil of
light—but it is better to look at dark and
bright stripes on grounds of the opposite
hue, or at the bars of a window, the prism
being held in the hand of the investigator.
In the Newtonian form of the experiment
one is apt to forget the importance of the
dark edge where it meets the light.
[For further information on this inter
esting subject the English reader is refer
red to Eastlake’s translation of Goethe’s
Philosophy of Colors, published in Lon
don.]
�
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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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The Journal of Speculative Philosophy. Vol. 1, No. 1, 1867
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Place of publication: [St. Louis, Miss.]
Collation: [1]-64 p. ; 25 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Journal edited by William Torrey Harris. Printed in double columns. Complete issue: Contents include an article on Herbert Spencer -- Introduction to Fichte's science of knowledge / trans. A.E. Kroeger -- Analytical and critical essay upon the aesthetics of Hegel / M. Ch. Bebards, trans. J.A. Martling -- Notes on Raphael's 'Transfiguration' -- A dialogue on immortality / Arthur Schopenhauer -- Goethe's theory of colours.
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[Pennsylvania State University Press]
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Conway Tracts
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Text
THE
POPULAR SCIENCE
MONTHLY.
OCTOBER, 1873.
SILK-WORMS AND SERICULTURE.1
By A. DE QUATBEFAGES.
TRANSLATED
BY
ELIZA
A.
YOUMANS.
ENTLEMEN : When your honorable director invited me to
speak before you, I felt much embarrassed. I desired both to
interest and instruct you, but the subjects with which I am occupied
are of too abstract a nature to offer you much interest. In entering
upon them I run the risk of tiring you, and, as people who are tired
are little instructed, my aim would be doubly missed.
However, among the animals I have studied, there is one which, I
think, will awaken your attention. I mean the silk-worm. Its history
is full of serious instruction. It teaches us not to despise a being be
cause, at first, it seems useless ; it proves that creatures, in ap
pearance the most humble, may play a part of great importance to the
world ; it shows us that the most useful things are often slow to attract
public attention, but that sooner or later their day of justice arrives.
It teaches us, consequently, not to despair when valuable ideas or
practical inventions are not at first welcomed as they should be, for,
though their triumph is delayed, it is not less sure.
Perhaps, also, in choosing this subject, I have yielded a little to
national egotism. I was born in that province which was the first in
France to understand the importance of the silk-worm ; which owes to
this industry, fertilized by study and management, a prosperity rarely
equalled, and which, of late cruelly smitten, bears its misfortunes with
a firmness worthy of imitation.
We are to speak, then, of industry, of studious care, of perseverance,
of courage ; I am certain that you will be interested.
Pemit me, at first, to make a supposition—what we call an hypoth
esis : what would you say if a traveller, coming from some distant
G
1 A lecture delivered at the Imperial Asylum at Vincennes.
vol. hi.—42
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
country, or a philosopher, who had found in some old book forgotten
facts, should tell you, “ There exists, in a country three or four thou
sand leagues from here, in the south of Asia, a tree and a caterpillar.
The tree produces nothing but leaves which nourish the caterpillar.”
To a certainty, most of you would say at first, “What of it?”
If the traveller or the man of learning should go on to say: “ But
this caterpillar is good for something; it produces a species of cocoon,
which the inhabitants know how to spin, and which they weave into
beautiful and durable fabrics. Would you not like to enter upon the
manufacture?” You would infallibly reply: “Have we not wool
from which to weave our winter vestments, and hemp, flax, and cotton,
for our summer clothing? Why should we cultivate this caterpillar'
and its cocoons ? ”
But suppose that the traveller or philosopher, insisting, should add:
“We should have to acclimate this tree and this caterpillar. The
tree, it is true, bears no fruit, and we must plant thousands of them,
for their leaves are to nourish the caterpillar, and it is necessary to
raise these caterpillars by the millions. To this end we must build
houses expressly for them, enlist and pay men to take care of them—
to feed them, watch them, and gather by hand the leaves on which
they live. The rooms where these insects are kept must be warmed
and ventilated with the greatest care. Well-paid laborers will pre
pare and serve their repasts, at regular hours. When the moment
arrives for the animal to spin his cocoon, he must have a sort of bower
of heather (Fig. 1), or branches of some other kind, properly prepared.
Sprigs of Heather
arranged so that the
Silk-worm
may mount into them.
And then, at the last day of its life, we must, with the minutest care
and the greatest pains, assure its reproduction.” Would you not
shrug your shoulders and say, “ Who, then, is such a madman as to
spend so much care and money to raise—what ?—some caterpillars ! ”
Finally, if your interlocutor should add—“ We will gather the co
coons spun by these caterpillars, and then the manufacture which spins
them will arise, which will call out all the resources of mechanics.
Still another new industry would employ this thread in fabricating
stuffs. The value of this thread, of these tissues, would be counted by
hundreds of millions for France alone; millions that would benefit
�SILK-WORMS AND SERICULTURE.
659
agriculture, industry, commerce; the producer and the artisan, the
laborer in the fields, and the laborer in towns. Our caterpillar and
its products will find a place in the elaborate treatises of states
men; and a time will come when France will think herself happy
that the sovereign of a distant empire, some four thousand leagues
away, had been pleased to permit her to buy in his states, and pay
very dear for, the eggs of this caterpillar ”—you would abruptly
turn your back and say, “ This man is a fool.” And you would
not be alone: agriculturists, manufacturers, bankers, and officials,
could not find sarcasms enough for this poor dreamer.
And yet it is the dreamer who is in the right. He has not
traced a picture of fancy. The caterpillar exists, and I do not ex
aggerate the importance of this humble insect, which plays a part
so superior to what seemed to have fallen to it. It is this of which
I wish to give you the history.
Let us first rapidly observe this animal, within and without. We
call it a silk-worm, but I have told you it was a caterpillar. (Fig. 7.)
I add that it has nothing marked in its appearance. It is larger
than the caterpillars that habitually prey upon our fruit-trees, but
smaller than the magnificent pearl-blue caterpillar so easy to find in
the potato-field. Like all caterpillars, it is is transformed into a but
terfly. To know the history of this species is to know the history of
all others.
Here in these bottles are some adult silk-worms, but here also
are some large pictures, where you will more easily follow the de
tails that I shall point out, beginning with the exterior.
At one of the extremities of its long, almost cylindrical body
(Fig. 7), we find the small head, provided with two jaws. These jaws
do not move up and down, as in man and most animals that surround
us, but laterally. All insects present the same arrangement.
The body is divided into rings, and you see some little black points
placed on the side of each of these rings ; these are the orifices of res
piration. The air enters by these openings, and penetrates the canals
that we shall presently find.
The silk-worm has ten pairs of feet. The three first pairs are
called the true feet, or scaly feet; the five last, placed behind, are the
false feet, or the membranous feet. These are destined to disappear
at length.
Let us pass to the interior of the body. Here we find, at first, the
digestive tube, which extends from one extremity to the other. It
commences at the oesophagus, that which you call the throat. Below
you remark an enormous cylindrical sac; it is the stomach, which is
followed by the very short intestine. These canals, slendei* and tor
tuous, placed on the side, represent, at the same time, the liver and
kidneys. This great yellow cord is the very important organ in which
is secreted the silky material (Fig. 2). In proportion as the animal
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
grows, this organ is filled with a liquid which, in passing through
the spinners, the orifice of which you see, dries in the air, and forms
a thread. This thread constitutes the silk.
The nervous system of the animal, placed below the digestive tube,
is with insects, as with all animals, of the highest importance. It is
the nervous system which seems to animate all the other organs, and
particularly the muscles. The latter are what we call flesh or meat.
They are in reality the organs of movement, with our caterpillar as
with man himself. Each of them is formed of elementary fibres that
have the property of contracting and relaxing; that is to say, of
shortening and lengthening under the influence of the will and of the
nervous system. Upon this property depend all the movements exe
cuted by any animal whatever.
Fig. 3.
Silk-secreting Apparatus of One Side of a Silk-worm. A, B, C, the part nearest the tail of
the worm.where the silk-matter is formed. D, E, enlarged portion—reservoir of silky matter.
E. F. capillary tubes proceeding from the two glands, and uniting in one single short canal F,
which opens in the mouth of the worm, at its under lip. Two silk threads are therefore
united together, and come out through the orifice with the appearance of a single thread.
I wish you to remark, d propos of the caterpillar—of this insect
that when crushed seems to be only a formless pulp—that its muscular
system is admirably organized. It is superior to that of man himself,
at least, in relation to the multiplicity of organs. We count in man
529 muscles; the caterpillar has 1,647, without counting those of the
feet and head, which give 1,118 more.
In us, as in most animals, there exists a nourishing liquid par ex
cellence that we know under the name of blood. This liquid, set in mo
tion by a heart, is carried into all parts of the body by arteries, and
�SILK-WORMS AND SERICULTURE.
661
comes back to the heart by veins. In making this circuit it finds on
its route the lungs filled with air by means of respiration.
In our caterpillar we also find blood and a species of heart, but it
has neither arteries nor veins. The blood is diffused throughout the
body and bathes the organs in all directions. However, it ought to
respire. Here step in the openings of which I have spoken. They
lead to a system of ramified canals, of which the last divisions pene
trate everywhere, and carry everywhere the air—that fluid essential
to the existence of all living beings. In our bodies the air and blood
are brought together. In insects the air seeks the blood in all parts
of the body.
I have sketched for you a caterpillar when it is full grown. But
you well know that living beings are not born in this state. The
general law is, small at birth, growth, and death. The caterpillar
passes through all these phases.
Fig. 3.
Fig. 4.
Egg and First Age, lasting five days. (An
age is the interval between two moultings.)
Second Age, lasting six days.
I pass around among you some samples of what we call seeds of
the silk-worm. These so-called seeds are in reality eggs. The cater
pillar comes out of the egg very small ; its length at birth is about
one-twentieth of an inch. Look at these samples, and you will see how
Fig. 6.
Fourth Age, lasting six days.
Fig. 7.
Fifth Age, lasting nine days. The mature worm near the end of its career, and at the time of
its greatest voracity.
great is the difference of size between the worm at birth and the fullgrown specimens I have shown you. This difference is much greater
than in man. A man weighs about forty times as much as the new
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
born infant; the caterpillar, when perfectly developed, is 72,000 times
heavier than when it first came from the egg.
In every thing that relates to the body, there is between men and
animals more resemblance than is ordinarily believed. We also come
from an egg which essentially resembles all others. That this egg
may become a man, it must undergo very great changes, many meta
morphoses. But all these changes, all these metamorphoses occur in
the bosom of the mother, as they are accomplished within the shell for
the chicken. For insects in general, and consequently for the silk-worm
a part of these metamorphoses occur in the open day. Hence they
have drawn the attention, excited the curiosity, and provoked for a
long time the study of naturalists. Let us say a few words about them.
Scarcely is the caterpillar born than it begins to eat. It has no
time to lose in gaining a volume 72,000 times greater than it had at
first; so it acquits itself conscientiously of its task, and does nothing
but eat, diges|, and sleep. At the end of some days this devouring
appetite ceases ; the little worm becomes almost motionless, hangs
itself by the hind-feet, raising and holding a little inclined the ante
rior of its body.
This repose lasts 24, 36, and even 48 hours, according to the tem
perature ; then the dried-up skin splits open behind the head, and
soon along the length of the body. The caterpillar comes out with a
new skin, which is formed during this species of sleep.
This singular crisis, during which the animal changes his skin as
we change our shirt, is called moulting, when it is a question of cater
pillars in general. For the silk-worm, we designate it under the name
of sickness. It is, in fact, for the silk-worm, a grave period, during
which it often succumbs, if its health is not perfect.
Fig. 8.
Head of Silk-worm during Moulting ;
swollen, and skin wrinkled.
Fig. 9.
Position of Silk-worm while Moulting.—It
remains at rest for from 12 to 24 hours, fast
ing, but begins to eat an hour after the crisis
in which it escapes from the old skin.
The silk-worms change their skin four times. After the fourth
moulting comes a redoubled appetite, which permits them to attain
their full size in a few days. Then other phenomena appear. The
caterpillar ceases to eat, and empties itself entirely ; it seems uneasy,
wanders here and there, and seeks to climb. Warned by these symp
toms, the breeder constructs for it with branches a cradle or bower, into
which it mounts. It chooses a convenient place, hangs itself by the hind
feet, and soon, through the spinner of which I have spoken (Fig. 2),
�SILK-WORMS AND SERICULTURE.
663
we see come out a thread of silk. This is at first cast out in any di
rection, and forms a collection of cords destined to fix the cocoon that
is to be spun. Soon the work becomes regular, and the form of the
cocoon is outlined. For some hours we can see the worker performing
his task across the transparent gauze with which he surrounds him
self. By little and little, this gauze thickens, and grows opaque and
firm; finally it becomes a cocoon like these I place before you. At
the end of about 72 hours the work is done.
Once it has given out its first bit of silk, a worm in good health
never stops, and the thread continues without interruption from one
end to the other. You see that the cocoon is in reality a ball wound
from the outside inward. The thread which forms this ball is 11 miles
in length; its thickness is only
of an inch. It is so light that 28
miles of it weigh only 15^ grains. So that 2| lbs. of silk is more
than 2,700 miles long.
Let me insist a moment on the prodigious activity of the silk-worm
while weaving his cocoon. To dispose of its silk when spinning, it
moves its head in all directions, and each movement is about one-sixth
of an inch. As we know the length of the thread, we can calculate
how many movements are made in disposing of the silk in 72 hours.
We find in this way that a silk-worm makes nearly 300,000 motions
in 24 hours, or 4,166 an hour, or 69 per minute. You see that our in
sect yields not in activity to any weaver ; but we must add that it is
beaten by the marvellous machines that the industry of our day has
produced.
Fig. 10.
Spherical Cocoon or Bombyx Mori.
Fig. 11.
Cocoon drawn in toward the Middle.
All cocoons are not alike. There exist, in fact, different races of
silk-worms, as we have different races of dogs. These differences are
less obvious in the animals themselves ; they are best seen in the co
coons, which may be either white, yellow, green, or gray; some are
round, others oval or depressed in the middle (Figs. 10 and 11).
The silk of one is very fine and very strong, that of others is coarse
and easily broken. Hence their very different values.
All I have said applies to the silk-worm properly so called—to the
silk-worm which feeds on the leaves of the mulberry-tree, the Bombyx
mori of naturalists. But, some years since, there were introduced
into France new species of caterpillars that produce cocoons, and
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
that live upon other leaves than the mulberry. Among these new im
portations, the two principal ones are the yama-mai worm, which
comes from Japan, and feeds upon the leaves of the oak, and the
ailanthus worm. The first gives a very beautiful and very fine silk,
while that of the second is dull and coarse. But the ailanthus grows
very well in unproductive soils, and hence the caterpillar which it
nourishes renders an important service.
But let us return to our mulberry caterpillar, or the silk-worm
properly so called. We left it at the moment when it disappeared
from our eyes enveloped in its cocoon. There, in its 'mysterious re
treat, it becomes torpid once more. It now shortens itself, changes
form, and submits to a fifth moulting. But the animal which emerges
from the old skin is no longer a caterpillar. It is in some sort a new
being; it is what we call a chrysalis. This chrysalis scarcely reminds
us of the silk-worm. The body is entirely swaddled ; we no longer
see either head or feet (Fig. 14). The color is changed, and has be
come a golden yellow. Only by certain obscure movements of the
posterior part do we know that it is not a dead body.
This apparent torpor in reality conceals a strange activity in all
the organs and all the tissues, which ends in the transformation of the
entire being.
In fifteen or seventeen days, according to the temperature, this
work is accomplished, and the last crisis arrives. The skin splits on
the back; the animal moults for the last time, but the creature that
now appears is no longer a caterpillar or a chrysalis ; it is a butterfly
(Fig. 12).
Fig. 12.
Silk-worm Moth (Male).
Is it needful to explain the details of this wonderful metamorpho
sis ? The body, before almost all alike, presents now three distinct
regions: the head, the chest (thorax)^ the belly (abdomen). Wings,
of which there was not the least vestige, are now developed. In com
pensation, the hind-feet have disappeared. The fore-feet persist, but
you would not know them, they have become so slender, and a fine
down covers all the parts.
In the interior, the transformation is also complete. The oesopha
gus (throat) is no longer a simple reversed funnel ; it is a narrow,
lengthened tube, with an aerial vessel attached, of which the caterpil
lar offers no trace. The stomach is strangely shortened. The intes
�SILK-WORMS AND SERICULTURE.
665
tine is elongated, and its different parts, that we found so difficult to
distinguish, are very much changed. If we examine in detail all the
organs just now indicated, even to the nervous system, we shall find
modifications not less striking.
But these are not the strangest changes that have occurred. There
are others which still more arrest our attention; they are those which
relate to the production of a new generation.
All caterpillars are neuters—that is to say, there are no males orfe
males among them. They have no apparatus of reproduction. These
organs are developed during the period that follows the formation of
the chrysalis while the animal is motionless, and seemingly dead.
Marriages occur at the coming out from the cocoon, and, immediately
after, the female lays her eggs, averaging about 500 (Fig. 13). This
Fig. 13.
done, she dies, the male ordinarily dying first. It is a general law for
insects; the butterfly of the silk-worm does not escape it. It is even
more rigorous for him than for his brethren that we see flying from
flower to flower. From the moment of entering the cocoon, the silk
worm takes no nourishment. When it becomes a butterfly, and has
assured the perpetuity of the species, its task is accomplished; there
is nothing more but to die.
Such, briefly, is the natural history of the silk-worm. It remains
to trace rapidly its industrial history.
Whence came this insect ? What is its country and that of the
mulberry for the tree and the animal seem to have always travelled
side by side? Every thing seems to indicate that China—Northern
China is its point of departure. Chinese annals establish the exist
ence of industries connected with it from those remote and semifabulous times when the emperors of the Celestial Empire had, it is
said, the head of a tiger, the body of a dragon, and the horns of
cattle. They attribute to the Emperor Fo-IIi, 3,400 years before our
era, the merit of employing silk in a musical instrument of his own
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TIIE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
invention. This date carries us back 5,265 years. They are said to
have employed the silk of wild caterpillars, and to have spun a sort
of floss. At that time they knew nothing of raising the worm or of
winding the cocoon into skeins.
This double industry appears to have arisen 2,650 years before our
era, or 4,515 years ago, through the efforts of an empress named Siling-Chi. To her is attributed the invention of silk stuffs. You will
not be surprised to see that the fabrication of silks should have a
woman as its inventor.
Si-ling-Chi, in creating this industry, which was to be so immense
ly developed, enriched her country. Her countrymen seem to have
understood the extent of the benefit, and to have been not ungrateful.
They placed her among their deities, under the name of Sein-Thsan,
two words that, according to M. Stanislas Julien, signify the first who
raised the silk-worm. And still, in our time, the empresses of China,
with their maids-of-honor, on an appointed day, offer solemn sacrifices
to Sien-Thsan. They lay aside their brilliant dress, renounce their
sewing, their embroidery, and their habitual work, and devote them
selves to raising the silk-worm. In their sphere they imitate the Em
peror of China, who, on his part, descends once a year from his throne
to trace a furrow with the plough.
The Chinese are an eminently practical race. No sooner did they
understand that silk would be to them a source of wealth, than they
strove to obtain a monopoly of it. They established guards along
their frontier—true custom-house officers—with orders to prevent the
going qut of seeds of the mulberry or of the silk-worm. Death was
pronounced against him who attempted to transport from the country
these precious elements which enriched the empire. So, during more
than twenty centuries, we were completely ignorant of the source of
these marvellous goods—the brilliant tissues manufactured from silk.
For a long time we believed them to be a sort of cotton; some sup
posed even that they were gathered in the fields, and were the webs
of certain gigantic spiders. The price of silk continued so high that
the Emperor Aurelian, after his victories in the Orient, refused his
jvife a silken robe, as being an object of immoderate luxury, even for
a Roman empress.
A monopoly founded on a secret ought necessarily to come to an
end, particularly when the secret is known by several millions of men.
But, to export the industry of Si-ling-Chi, it was needful to risk life in
deceiving the custom-house officer. It was a woman who undertook
this fine contraband stroke. Toward the year* 140 before our era, a
princess of the dynasty of Han, affianced to a King of Khokan,
learned that the country in which she was destined to live had neither
the mulberry nor the silk-worm. To renounce the worship of SeinThsan, and doubtless also to do without the beautiful stuffs, so dear to
the coquette, appeared to hei' impossible. So she did not hesitate to use
�SILK-WORMS AND SERICULTURE.
66?
the privileges of her rank to violate the laws of the empire. On ap
proaching the frontier, the princess concealed in her hair some mul
berry-seed and eggs of the butterfly. The guards dared not put their
hands on the head of a “ Princess of Heaven ; ” eggs and seeds passed
the officer without disturbance, and prospered well in Khokan, situated
near the middle of Asia.
And so commenced that journey which was not to be arrested till
the entire world possessed the mulberry and the silk-worm ; but it
was accomplished slowly and with long halts. That which had oc
curred in China occurred everywhere, each new state that obtained
the precious seeds attempting prohibition.
The silk-worm and mulberry got to Europe in 552, under Justinian.
At this time two monks of the order of St. Basil delivered to this em.peror the seeds, said to have come from the heart of Asia. To smug
gle them, they had taken still greater precautions than the Chinese
princess, for they hollowed out their walking-sticks, and filled the in
terior with the precious material. The Emperor Justinian did not
imitate the Asiatic potentates, but sought to propagate and extend
the silk-manufacture. Morea, Sicily, and Italy, were the first Euro
pean countries that accepted and cultivated the new products.
It was not till the twelfth or thirteenth century that the silk-worm
penetrated into France. Louis XI. planted mulberry-trees around his
Château of Plessis les-Tours. Besides, he called a Calabrian named
Francis to initiate the neighboring population in raising this precious
insect, and developing the several industries that are connected with it.
Under Henry IV., sericulture received a great impulse, thanks chiefly,
perhaps, to a simple gardener of Nîmes named François Traucat. It
is always said that this nurseryman distributed throughout the neigh
boring country more than four million mulberry-sprouts. In enrich
ing the country, Traucat acquired a considerable fortune ; but he lost
it foolishly. He had heard of treasures buried near a great castle
which commanded the town of Nîmes, and which is called the Castle
of Magne. He wished to increase the money he had nobly and use
fully gained, by this imaginary gold ; he bought the great castle and
neighboring ground, and dug the earth, which brought him nothing,
till he ruined himself.
The minister of Louis XIV., Colbert, sought also to propagate the
mulberry. Sully with reluctance had done the same, and sent trees
to various parts of the kingdom, some of which were still living when
I was a child. They were called by the name of this minister, and I
remember to have seen two of them in my father’s grounds, which no
longer bore leaves, but were piously preserved as souvenirs of their
origin.
To lead in the development of sericulture, a man was needed who
would not hesitate to set an example, and to make considerable sacri
fices. This man, I am proud to say, was a modest officer, Captain
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
François de Carles, my grandfather. Returning from a campaign in
Italy, where he had seen how much the culture of the mulberry en.
nched the population, he resolved to transplant this industry into the
heart of Cévennes, where were his estates. He proceeded in this way :
He made plantations, and, in order to extend them, he did not hesitate
to uproot the chestnuts, those old nourishers of the ancient Cévennols.
Fig. 14.
Larva, Pupa, Cocoon,
and
Moth, of Silk-worm.
To water the mulberries, he constructed ditches and aqueducts ; then
efoiced, so to say, the peasants to take these improved lands at
their own price and on their own conditions. In this way he alienated
almost all his land, and singularly diminished his fortune ; but he en
riched the country. The results speak too distinctly to be misunder
stood. You shall judge by the figures.
�SILK-WORMS AND SERICULTURE.
66g
The little valley where Captain Carles made his experiments, and
where I was born, belongs to the Commune of Valleraugue. At the
time of which I speak, they harvested scarcely 4,400 lbs. of very poor
cocoons, that sold for very little. Recently there were produced, before
the malady of which I shall presently speak, 440,000 lbs. of excellent
quality, valued on an average at 2| or 2| francs per pound. At this
price, a million of silver money found its way each year into this little
commune of not more than 4,000 inhabitants.
Let me remark that this money went not alone to the rich. The
small proprietors, the day-laborers, those even who owned not the
least land, had the greatest part. In fact, most of the easy proprie
tors did not raise their own silk-worms; they contracted for them in
this way: The laborer received a certain quantity of eggs of the silk
worm on the condition of giving a fifth of the cocoons for an ounce
of eggs ; they received, besides, enough mulberry-leaves to nourish
all the worms from these eggs, plus a certain quantity to boot. All
the cocoons above this constituted the wages or gain of the raiser.
You see, we had resolved in our mountains this problem, so often
encountered and still unsettled, of the association of capital and labor;
and resolved it in the best possible way for both. The interest of the
proprietor was, in this case, identical with that of the rearer, and re
ciprocally ; for the success of a good workman would equally benefit
both parties, and the poor workman could profit only according to his
work.
Now, this labor was in reality of little account. Until after the
fourth moulting, when the silk-worm is preparing to make his cocoon,
the rearing of the worms can be performed by the women and chil
dren while the father pursues his ordinary occupation. Only after the
fourth moult is he obliged to interrupt his work, and occupy himself,
in his turn, in the gathering of leaves. The rearing ended, an indus
trious family—and such are not rare with us—will have, on an average,
from 250 to 500 francs of profit. This bright silver, added to the re
sources of the year, this profit obtained without the investment of
capital, seconded by the wise conduct of our mountaineer Cevennols,
leads rapidly to competency. At the end of a few years, the laborer,
who had nothing, possesses a little capital to buy some corner of rock,
which, by his intelligent industry, he quickly transforms into fertile
soil, and in his turn becomes a proprietor.
What I am telling you is not fancy. I speak of facts that have
occurred under my own eyes, and that I well know. In the country,
and particularly on the soil of our old mountains, people are not
strangers to each other, as in our great cities. Between the gentle
man and the peasant there are not the same barriers as between the
citizen and the laborer in towns. When a child, I played with all my
little neighbors; I knew the most secret nooks of the eight or ten
houses composing the modest hamlet which bordered the place where
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
I was born; I saluted by their names the members of all the families
of the valley. And now, when I go to the country, it is always a
great pleasure to visit these houses, one by one, and take by the hand
those from whom I have been so long separated. But this happiness
is always mingled with sorrow; the number of those I knew dimin
ishes with each visit, and those who have come since cannot replace
them for me.
Permit me to give you the history of one of these families. It
occurs to me first, as it contrasted with all the others by its miserable
dwelling. This was a little thatch-built cottage, standing by itself at
the foot of an irregular slope of perfectly bare rocks. It consisted of
a single story, with only one room, scarcely larger than one of our
bedrooms ; the wall, built without mortar, was any thing but regular;
the roof consisted of flags of stone, retaining, as well as they were
able, a mass of straw and branches. Between the rocks that sup
ported this house and the wall, there was a little place where was
kept a pig, the ordinary resource of all Cevennol house-keeping.
This cottage was occupied, when I was eleven or twelve years old,
by a man with his wife and four children. The father and mother
worked in the field ; the eldest child, scarcely of my age, had begun to
be useful, particularly in the time of gathering the mulberry-leaves ;
the smaller ones drove the pig along the road, where it grew and fat
tened, the best it could, without any expense.
After an absence of ten years, I returned to my mountains, and the
first thing was to call upon my old neighbors, those of whom I have
spoken among the rest. In approaching, I scarcely knew the place. The
rocks that supported the house had disappeared to make way for those
traversiers of which I shall tell you presently; the house had been re
built, it had gained a story, and was of double its former extent; its
walls were laid in mortar; its roof covered with beautiful slate. The
master of the house was absent, but his wife welcomed me with a glass
of wine from a neat walnut table. Then she showed me, with proper
pride, a room with two beds at the farther end, the first portion being
devoted to the rearing of silk-worms; and, above all, the favorite ar
ticle of furniture of all good Cevennol housekeeping—an immense
cupboard of walnut, crammed with clothing, dresses, and raiment
of all sorts. At the same time she gave me news of all the family :
the eldest son was a soldier; a daughter was married ; the eldest re
maining children attended to the business, and, as of old, the younger
ones ran about watching the pig. I clasped with pleasure the hand
of this brave woman, because this competence was the fruit of good
conduct, of industry, of perseverance, and of economy. And what
the silk-worm did in ten years for one family it has been doing for
nearly a century for the whole region of Cevennes, because among
them you generally find the same elements of success.
That you may better understand me, I wish to give you some idea
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SILK-WORMS AND SERICULTURE.
of these valleys. Let me sketch for you the one I know best, the one
in which I was born. It is composed of ascents so steep that, when
two neighboring houses are placed one above the other, the cellar of
the upper one is on the same level as the garret of the lower one.
There is not much earth on these declivities, and the rocks stick out
everywhere. But it is, as it were, from the rocks themselves that
our mountaineers make their mulberry-plantations. They proceed
in this way: They first break up the rocks, and with the larger
Fig. 15.
Sheets of Papeb, with Rows
of
Cocoons
prepared for the
fob laying Eggs.
Exit
of the
Moths
designed
stones so obtained they raise a wall; then, with the smaller pieces,
they fill up the interval between the wall and the mountain. This
done, they bring upon their backs, from the bottom of the valley, soil
and manure enough entirely to fill the space. This is what is called
a traversier, and it is in this soil that most of the mulberry-trees are
planted. I have seen a bridge built across a mountain-stream ex
pressly to give foothold for two or three of these precious trees. To
pay for all this preparation the produce should be very great. The
following figures give the average value of ground planted to mulber
ries for 20 years:
Traversiers not watered
Fields watered
Meadows planted with mulberries
1 acre,
1 acre,
1 acre,
9,800 francs.
12,000 “
12,400 “
and even then the money yielded five per cent. This price, which
some would not believe when I told them, has been officially confirmed
by M. de Lavergne, in his remarkable writings upon French agricul
ture. This value of land, and the way it has been obtained, explain
the nature of our country’s wealth. With the exception of some fami
lies recently enriched by the silk-manufacture and the silk-trade, the
level of this wealth, although very high, is more of the nature of gen
eral competence than of great fortunes. Industry and economy have
�672
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
produced general well-being, without the growth of offensive differ
ences. I cannot say how it is now, but in my childhood there were
no paupers in our commune, except two infirm people who were sup
ported in their misfortunes by voluntary aid.
Fig. 16.
These striking results could not fail to affect the neighboring
country. This example of the culture of the mulberry was imitated
throughout the south of France, and adopted more or less in other
departments. You can judge of the progress made in this culture by
the following figures, giving the quantity of cocoons produced an
nually :
From 1821 to 1830
44
1831 44 1840
44
1841 44 1845
44
1846 44 1852
44
1853
.
.
.
.
22,000,000 pounds.
44
31,000,000
37,000,000 44
46,000,000 44
56,000,000 44
These 56,000,000 lbs. of cocoons sold at from 2^ to 2$ francs per
lb., representing a value of about 130,000,000 francs. Now, these
millions all went to agriculture, to the first producer; and so they
added to the national wealth at its most vital source. If this progress
had continued, in a few years we should have been able to supply our own
manufactures, and relieve ourselves of the tribute of 60 or 65,000,000
francs that we pay to foreign countries. But, unhappily, at the moment
when this culture was most prosperous, when mulberry-plantations
were springing up on all sides, fed by the nurseries which were each
day more numerous, all this prosperity disappeared before the terrible
scourge to which I alluded in the beginning of my discourse.
Like all our domestic animals, the silk-worm is subject to various
maladies. One, called the muscardlne, that for a long time was the
terror of breeders, is caused by a species of mould or microscopic
mushroom. This mushroom invades the interior of the body of the
insect. After affecting all the tissues, this vegetal parasite sometimes
�SILK-WORMS AND SERICULTURE.
&73
suddenly appears upon the outside of the body in the form of a white
powder. Each grain of this powder, falling upon a silk-worm, plants
the seed of this formidable mushroom, the ravages of which will
destroy all the worms of a rearing-chamber in a few hours. Happily,
science has found the means of killing these seeds, and of completely
disinfecting the locality. At the very moment when this victory was
announced, another yet more terrible scourge, the pebrine, appeared.
The muscardine caused isolated disaster; it had never been so wide
spread as seriously to injure the general business. Not so this other
malady. It is a true epidemic, which attacks life at its very source in
an inexplicable fashion. It is a pestilence like the cholera. Under
the influence of this scourge, the chambers of the silk-worm no longer
thrive; most of the worms die without producing silk. Those that
survive as butterflies give infected eggs, and the next generation is
worse than the first. To get healthy eggs, we had to go to the neigh
boring countries; but other countries have been invaded in their turn.
To-day we have to get them in Japan. Even when the egg is healthy,
the epidemic bears equally on its product; a great part of the worms
always succumb, and when the breeder gets half a crop he is very
happy. Upon the whole, the great majority of breeders have worked
at a loss since the invasion of this disease.
You understand the consequences of such a state of things, con
tinued since 1849. The people make nothing ; they lose, and yet
VOL. III.—43
�674
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
they have to live and cultivate their ground. In this business the
profits melt away rapidly, and particularly where the mulberry was
the only crop, as at Cevennes, misery has taken the place of comfort.
Those who once called themselves rich are to-day scarcely able to get
food to eat. Those who used to hire day-laborers to gather their har
vest have become day-laborers, and the laborers of former times have
emigrated. This will give you an idea of the extremities to which
they are reduced, for to uproot a mountaineer of Cevennes he must be
dying of hunger.
To escape a fatality so heavy, these people have displayed perse
verance and courage of the highest kind. . They have undertaken dis
tant journeys to get non-infected eggs. More than one has not come
back from these journeys, where it was needful to struggle against
great fatigue in inhospitable countries. Although they fell not on a
field of battle, struck by ball or bullet, they were true soldiers; and,
although they did not carry arms, they died in the service of the
country.
Fig. 18.
Fig. 19.
Square Net.
Lozenge-shaped Net.
Nets used to separate the worms from their faded and withered leaves. Fresh leaves are spread
on these nets, and the worms leave the old food to get on to the new leaves.
During seventeen years this exhaustion has been most aggravated
in places chiefly devoted to sericulture. But, if these local sufferings
merit all our sympathy, their general consequences still more demand
our attention. Confidence in the culture of the silk-worm has dimin
ished wherever it was not the exclusive occupation. Where other
crops could replace it, that of the mulberry was easily discouraged.
In many countries they have destroyed the tree so lately known as
the tree of gold.
As the foregoing interesting discourse was delivered in 1866, the
following statement of Prof. Huxley regarding the p'ebrine malady,
made in 1870, in his address before the British Association, will be in
teresting.—[Editor.
�SILK-WORMS AND SERICULTURE.
12122110
675
�676
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY,
“ The Italian naturalist, Filippi, discovered, in the blood of silk
worms affected by this strange disease, p'ebrine, a multitude of cylin
drical corpuscles, each of about -g-gVtr of an inch long. These have been
carefully studied by Lebert, and named by him Panhistophyton ; for
the reason that", in subjects in which the disease is strongly developed,
the corpuscles swarm in every tissue and organ of the body, and even
pass into the undeveloped eggs of the female moth. The French Gov
ernment, alarmed by the continued ravages of the malady and the in
efficiency of the remedies which had been suggested, dispatched M.
Pasteur to study it, and the question has received its final settlement.
It is now certain that this devastating, cholera-like p'ebrine is the effect
of the growth and multiplication of the Panhistophyton in the silk
worm. It is contagious and infectious, because the corpuscles of the
Panhistophyton pass away from the bodies of the diseased caterpillars,
directly or indirectly, to the alimentary canal of healthy silk-worms in
their neighborhood; it is hereditary, because the corpuscles enter into
the egg. There is not a single one of all the apparently capricious
and unaccountable phenomena presented by the plbrine, but has re
ceived its explanation from the fact that the disease is the result of the
presence of the microscopic organism Panhistophyton. M. Pasteur
has devised a method of extirpating the disease, which has proved to
be completely successful when properly carried out.”
MENTAL SCIENCE AND SOCIOLOGY.
By HERBERT SPENCER.
ROBABLY astonishment would make the reporters drop their
pencils, were any member of Parliament to enunciate a psycho
logical principle as justifying his opposition to a proposed measure.
That some law of association of ideas, or some trait in emotional de
velopment, should be deliberately set forth as a sufficient ground for
saying “ ay” or “no” to a motion for second reading, would doubt
less be too much for the gravity of legislators. And along with
laughter from many there would come from a few cries of “ question: ”
the entire irrelevancy to the matter in hand being conspicuous. It is
true that during debates the possible behavior of citizens under the
suggested arrangements is described. Evasions of this or that pro
vision, difficulties in carrying it out, probabilities of resistance, con
nivance, corruption, etc., are urged; and these tacitly assert that the
mind of man has certain characters, and under the conditions named
is likely to act in certain ways. In other words, there is an implied
recognition of the truth that the effects of a law will depend on the
-L
�MENTAL SCIENCE AND SOCIOLOGY.
677
manner in which human intelligence and human feeling are influenced
by it. Experiences of men’s conduct which the legislator has gath
ered, and which lie partially sorted in his memory, furnish him with
empirical notions that guide his judgment on each question raised;
and he would think it folly to ignore all this unsystematized knowl
edge about people’s characters and actions. But, at the same time,
he regards as foolish the proposal to proceed, not on vaguely-gen
eralized facts, but on facts accurately generalized; and, as still more
foolish, the proposal to merge these minor definite generalizations in
generalizations expressing the ultimate laws of Mind. Guidance by
intuition seems to him much more rational.
Of course, I do not mean to say that his intuition is of small
value. How should I say this, remembering the immense accumula
tion of experiences by which his thoughts have been moulded into
harmony with things ? We all know that when the successful man of
business is urged by wife and daughters to get into Parliament, that
they may attain a higher social standing, he always replies that his
occupations through life have left him no leisure to prepare himself,
by collecting and digesting the voluminous evidence respecting the
effects of institutions and policies, and that he fears he might do mis
chief. If the heir to some large estate, or scion of a noble house
powerful in the locality, receives a deputation asking him to stand for
the county, we constantly read that he pleads inadequate knowledge
as a reason for declining : perhaps hinting that, after ten years spent
in the needful studies, he may have courage to undertake the heavy
responsibilities proposed to him. So, too, we have the familiar fact
that, when, at length, men who have gathered vast stores of political
information gain the confidence of voters who know how carefully
they have thus fitted themselves, it still perpetually happens that after
election they find they have entered on their work prematurely. It is
true that beforehand they had sought anxiously through the records
of the past, that they might avoid legislative errors of multitudinous
kinds, like those committed in early times. Nevertheless, when acts
are proposed referring to matters dealt with in past generations by
acts long since cancelled or obsolete, immense inquiries open before
them. Even limiting themselves to the 1,126 acts repealed in 1823-’29,
and the further 770 repealed in 1861, they find that to learn what
these aimed at, how they worked, why they failed, and whence^ arose
the mischiefs they wrought, is an arduous task, which yet they feel
bound to undertake lest they should reinflict these mischiefs; and
hence the reason why so many break down under the effort, and retire
with health destroyed. Nay, more—on those with constitutions vig
orous enough to carry them through such inquiries, there continually
presses the duty of making yet further inquiries. Besides tracing the
results of abandoned laws in other societies, there is at home, year by
year, more futile law-making to be investigated and lessons to be
�678
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
drawn from it; as, for example, from the 134 public acts passed in
1856-’57, of which all but 68 are wholly or partially repealed. And
thus it happens that, as every autumn shows us, even the strongest
men, finding their lives during the recess overtaxed with the needful
study, are obliged so to locate themselves that by an occasional day’s
hard riding after the hounds, or a long walk over the moors with gun
in hand, they may be enabled to bear the excessive strain on their ner
vous systems. Of course, therefore, I am not so unreasonable as to
deny that judgments, even empirical, which are guided by such care
fully-amassed experiences, must be of much worth.
But, fully recognizing the vast amount of information which the
legislator has laboriously gathered from the accounts of institutions
and laws, past and present, here and elsewhere, and admitting that,
before thus instructing himself, he would no more think of enforcing a
new law than would a medical student think of plunging an operating
knife into the human body before learning where the arteries ran, the
remarkable anomaly here demanding our attention is, that he objects
to any thing like analysis of these phenomena he has so diligently
collected, and has no faith in conclusions drawn from the ensemble of
them. Not discriminating very correctly between the word “gen
eral ” and the word “ abstract,” and regarding as abstract principles
what are in nearly all cases general principles, he speaks contemptu
ously of these as belonging to the region of theory, and as not con
cerning the law-maker. Any wide truth that is insisted upon as being
implied in many narrow truths, seems to him remote from reality and
unimportant for guidance. The results of recent experiments in legis
lation he thinks worth attending to; and, if any one reminds him of
the experiments he has read so much about, that were made in other
times and other places, he regards these also, separately taken, as de
serving of consideration. But, if, instead of studying special classes
of legislative experiments, some one compares many classes together,
generalizes the results, and proposes to be guided by the generaliza
tion, he shakes his head skeptically. And his skepticism passes into
ridicule if it is proposed to affiliate such generalized results on the
laws of Mind. To prescribe for society on the strength of countless
unclassified observations, appears to him a sensible course ; but, to
colligate and systematize the observations so as to educe tendencies
of human behavior displayed throughout cases of numerous kinds, to
trace these tendencies to their sources in the mental natures of men,
and thence to draw conclusions for guidance, appears to him a vision
ary course.
Let us look at some of the fundamental facts he ignores, and at
the results of ignoring them.
Rational legislation, based as it can only be on a true theory of
conduct, which is derivable only from a true theory of mind, must
�MENTAL SCIENCE AND SOCIOLOGY.
679
recognize as a datum the direct connection of action with feeling.
That feeling and action bear a constant ratio, is a statement needing
qualification ; for at the one extreme there are automatic actions which
take place without feeling, and at the other extreme there are feelings so
intense that, by deranging the vital functions, they impede or arrest
action. But, speaking of those activities which life in general pre
sents, it is a law tacitly recognized by all, though not distinctly formu
lated, that action and feeling vary together in their amounts. Pas
sivity and absence of facial expression, both implying rest of the mus
cles, are held to show that there is being experienced neither much
sensation nor much emotion, while the degree of external demon
stration, be it in movements that rise finally to spasms and contor
tions, or be it in sounds that end in laughter, and shrieks, and groans,
is habitually accepted as a measure of the pleasure or pain, sensa
tional or emotional. And so, too, where continued expenditure of
energy is seen, be it in a violent struggle to escape, or be it in the
persevering pursuit of an object, the quantity of effort is held to show
the quantity of feeling.
This truth, undeniable in its generality, whatever qualifications
secondary truths make in it, must be joined with the truth that cog
nition does not produce action. If I tread on a pin, or unawares dip
my hand into very hot water, I start: the strong sensation produces
motion without any thought intervening. Conversely, the proposition
that a pin pricks, or that hot water scalds, leaves me quite unmoved.
True, if to one of these propositions is joined the idea that a pin is
about to pierce my skin, or to the other the idea that some hot water
will fall on it, there results a tendency, more or less decided, to shrink.
But that which causes shrinking is the ideal pain. The statement that
the pin will hurt or the water scald produces no effect, so long as there
is nothing beyond a recognition of its meaning : it produces an effect
only when the pain verbally asserted becomes a pain actually con
ceived as impending—only when there rises in consciousness a repre
sentation of the pain, which is a faint form of the pain as before felt.
That is to say, the cause of movement here, as in other cases, is a feel
ing and not a cognition. What we see even in these simplest actions,
runs through actions of all degrees of complexity. It is never the
knowledge which is the moving agent in conduct, but it is always the
feeling which goes along with that knowledge, or is excited by it.
Though the drunkard knows that after to-day’s debauch will come to
morrow’s headache, yet he is not deterred by consciousness of this
truth, unless the penalty is distinctly represented—unless there rises
in his consciousness a vivid idea of the misery to be borne—unless
there is excited in him an adequate amount of feeling antagonistic to
his desire for drink. Similarly with improvidence in general. If com
ing evils are imagined with clearness and the threatened sufferings
ideally felt, there is a due check on the tendency to take immediate
*
�68o
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
gratifications without stint; but, in the absence of that consciousness
of future ills which is constituted by the ideas of pains, distinct or
vague, the passing desire is not opposed effectually. The truth that
recklessness brings distress, fully acknowledged though it may be, re
mains inoperative. The mere cognition does not affect conduct—con
duct is affected only when the cognition passes out of that intellectual
form in which the idea of distress is little more than verbal, into a form
in which this term of the proposition is developed into a vivid imagi
nation of distress—a mass of painful feeling. It is thus with conduct
of every kind. See this group of persons clustered at the river-side.
A boat has upset, and some one is in danger of drowning. The fact,
that, in the absence of aid, the youth in the water will shortly die, is
known to them all. That by swimming to his assistance his life may
be saved, is a proposition denied by none of them. The duty of help
ing fellow-creatures who are in difficulties, they have been taught all
their lives ; and they will severally admit that running a risk to pre
vent a death is praiseworthy. Nevertheless, though sundry of them
can swim, they do nothing beyond shouting for assistance or giving
advice. But now here comes one who, tearing off his coat, plunges in
to the rescue. In what does he differ from the others ? Not in knowl
edge. Their cognitions are equally clear with his. They know as
well as he does that death is impending, and know, too, how it
may be prevented. In him, however, these cognitions arouse certain
correlative emotions more strongly than they are aroused in the
rest. Groups of feelings are excited in all; but, whereas in the
others the deterrent feelings of fear, etc., preponderate, in him
there is a surplus of the feelings excited by sympathy, joined, it
may be, with others not of so high a kind. In each case, however,
the behavior is not determined by knowledge, but by emotion. Ob
viously, change in the actions of these passive spectators is not to be
effected by making their cognitions clearer, but by making their higher
feelings stronger.
Have we not here, then, a cardinal psychological truth, to which
any rational system of human discipline must conform ? Is it not mani
fest that a legislation which ignores it and tacitly assumes its opposite
will inevitably fail ? Yet much of our legislation does this ; and we
are at present, legislature and nation together, eagerly pushing for
ward schemes which proceed on the postulate that conduct is deter
mined not by feelings, but by cognitions.
For what else is the assumption underlying this anxious urging-on
of organizations for teaching ? What is the root-notion common to
Secularists and Denominational!sts, but the notion that spread of
knowledge is the one thing needful for bettering behavior ? Having
both swallowed certain statistical fallacies, there has grown up in them
the belief that State-education will check ill-doing. In newspapers,
�MENTAL SCIENCE ANN SOCIOLOGY.
681
they have often met with comparisons between the numbers of crimi
nals who can read and write and the numbers who cannot; and, find
ing the numbers who cannot greatly exceed the numbers who can,
they accept the inference that ignorance is the cause of crime. It does
not occur to them to ask whether other statistics, similarly drawn up,
would not prove with like conclusiveness that crime is caused by ab
sence of ablutions, or by lack of clean linen, or by bad ventilation, or
by want of a separate bedroom. Go through any jail, and ascertain
how many prisoners had been in the habit of taking a morning bath,
and you would find that criminality habitually went with dirtiness of
skin. Count up those who had possessed a second suit of clothes, and
a comparison of the figures would show you that but a small percent
age of criminals were habitually able to change their garments. In
quire whether they had lived in main streets or down courts, and you
would discover that nearly all urban crime comes from holes and
corners. Similarly, a fanatical advocate of total abstinence or of sani
tary improvement could get equally strong statistical justifications
for his belief. But, if, not accepting the random inference presented
to you, that ignorance and crime are cause and effect, you consider, as
above, whether crime may not with equal reason be ascribed to various
other causes, you are led to see that it is really connected with an in
ferior mode of life, itself usually consequent on original inferiority of
nature ; and you are led to see that ignorance is simply one of the
concomitants, no more to be held the cause of crime than various
other concomitants.
But this obvious criticism, and the obvious counter-conclusion it
implies, are not simply overlooked, but, when insisted on, seem pow
erless to affect the belief which has taken possession of men. Disap
pointment alone will now affect it. A wave of opinion, reaching a cer
tain height, cannot be changed by any evidence or argument, but has
to spend itself in the gradual course of things before a reaction of
opinion can arise. Otherwise it would be incomprehensible that this
confidence in the curative effects of teaching, which men have care
lessly allowed to be generated in them by the reiterations of doctrinaire
politicians, should survive the direct disproofs yielded by daily ex
perience. Is it not the trouble of every mother and every governess,
that perpetual insisting on the right and denouncing the wrong do not
suffice ? Is it not the constant complaint that on many natures reason
ing and explanation and the clear demonstration of consequences are
scarcely at all operative; that where they are operative there is a more
or less marked difference of emotional nature ; and that where, having
before failed, they begin to succeed, change of feeling rather than differ
ence of apprehension is the cause ? Do we not similarly hear from
every house-keeper that servants usually pay but little attention to re
proofs ; that they go on perversely in old habits, regardless of clear
evidence of their foolishness; and that their actions are to be altered
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
not by explanations and reasonings, but by either the fear of penalties
or the experience of penalties—that is, by the emotions awakened in
them ? When we turn from domestic life to the life of the outer world,
do not like disproofs everywhere meet us ? Are not fraudulent bank
rupts educated people, and getters-up of bubble-companies, and makers
of adulterated goods, and users of false trade-marks, and retailers who
have light weights, and owners of unseaworthy ships, and those who
cheat insurance-companies, and those who carry on turf-chicaneries,
and the great majority of gamblers ? Or, to take a more extreme
form of turpitude—is there not, among those who have committed
murder by poison within our memories, a considerable number of the
educated—a number bearing as large a ratio to the educated classes
as does the total number of murderers to the total population ?
This belief in the moralizing effects of intellectual culture, flatly
contradicted by facts, is absurd a priori. What imaginable connection
is there between the learning that certain clusters of marks on paper
stand for certain words and the getting a higher sense of duty ? What
possible effect can acquirement of facility in making written signs of
sounds have in strengthening the desire to do right? How does
knowledge of the multiplication-table, or quickness in adding and
dividing, so increase the sympathies as to restrain the tendency to
trespass against fellow-creatures ? In what way can th? attainment
of accuracy in spelling and parsing, etc., make the sentiment of justice
more powerful than it was; or why from stores of geographical in
formation, perseveringly gained, is there likely to come increased re
gard for truth ? The irrelation between such causes and such effects
is almost as great as that between exercise of the fingers and strength
ening of the legs. One who should by lessons in Latin hope to give
a knowledge of geometry, or one who should expect practice in draw
ing to be followed by expressive rendering of a sonata, would be
thought fit for an asylum; and yet he would be scarcely more irra
tional than are those who by discipline of the intellectual faculties ex
pect to produce better feelings.
This faith in lesson-books and readings is one of the superstitions
of the age. Even as appliances to intellectual culture, books are
greatly over-estimated. Instead of second-hand knowledge being re
garded as of less value than first-hand knowledge, and as a knowledge
to be sought only where first-hand knowledge cannot be had, it is
actually regarded as of greater value. Something gathered from
printed pages is supposed to enter into a course of education; but,
if gathered by observation of Life and Nature, is supposed not thus
to enter. Reading is seeing by proxy—is learning indirectly through
another man’s faculties, instead of directly through one’s own facul
ties ; and such is the prevailing bias that the indirect learning is
thought preferable to the direct learning, and usurps the name of
cultivation! We smile when told that savages consider writing as
�MENTAL SCIENCE AND SOCIOLOGY.
683
a kind of magic: and we laugh at the story of the negro who hid a
letter under a stone, that it might not inform against him when he
devoured the fruit he was sent with. Yet the current notions about
printed information betray a kindred delusion: a kind of magical
efficacy is ascribed to ideas gained through artificial appliances, as
compared with ideas otherwise gained. And this delusion, injurious
in its effects even on intellectual culture, produces effects still more
injurious on moral culture, by generating the assumption that this,
too, can be got by reading and the repeating of lessons.
It will, I know, be said that not from intellectual teaching, but
from moral teaching, are improvement of conduct and diminution of
crime looked for. While, unquestionably, many of those who urge on
educational schemes believe in the moralizing effects of knowledge
in general, it must be admitted that some hold general knowledge to
be inadequate, and contend that rules of right conduct must be
taught. Already, however, reasons have been given why the expec
tations even of these are illusory; proceeding, as they do, on the as
sumption that the intellectual acceptance of moral precepts will pro
duce conformity to them. Plenty more reasons are forthcoming. I
will not dwell on the contradictions to this assumption furnished by
the Chinese, to all of whom the high ethical maxims of Confucius are
taught, and who yet fail to show us a conduct proportionately exem
plary. Nor will I enlarge on the lesson to be derived from the United
States, the school-system of which brings up the whole population
under the daily influence of chapters which set forth principles of right
conduct, and which nevertheless in its political life, and by many of
its social occurrences, shows us that conformity to these principles is
any thing but complete. It will suffice if I limit myself to evidence
supplied by our own society, past and present, which negatives, very
decisively, these sanguine expectations. For, what have we been do
ing all these many centuries by our religious agencies, but preaching
right principles to old and young? What has been the aim of ser
vices in our ten thousand churches, week after week, but to enforce a
code of good conduct by promised rewards and threatened penalties ?
—the whole population having been for many generations compelled
to listen. What have Dissenting chapels, more numerous still, been
used for, unless as places where pursuance of right and desistance from
wrong have been unceasingly commended to all from childhood up
ward ? And if now it is held that something more must be done—
if, notwithstanding perpetual explanations and denunciations and ex
hortations, the misconduct is so great that society is endangered,
why, after all this insistance has failed, is it expected that more insistance will succeed ? See here the proposals and the implied beliefs.
Teaching by clergymen not having had the desired effect, let us try
teaching by school-masters. Bible-reading from a pulpit, with the ac
companiment of imposing architecture, painted windows, tombs, and
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“ dim religious light,” having proved inadequate, suppose we try bible
reading in rooms with bare walls, relieved only by maps and drawings
of animals. Commands and interdicts, uttered by a surpliced priest
to minds prepared by chant and organ-peal, not having been obeyed,
let us see whether they will be obeyed when mechanically repeated
in school-boy sing-song to a threadbare usher, amid the buzz of lesson
learning and clatter of slates. No very hopeful proposals, one would
say; proceeding, as they do, upon one or other of the beliefs, that a
moral precept will be effective in proportion as it is received without
emotional accompaniment, and that its effectiveness will increase in
proportion to the number of times it is repeated. Both these beliefs
are directly at variance with the results of psychological analysis and
of daily experience. Certainly, such influence as may be gained by
addressing moral truths to the intellect, is made greater if the ac
companiments arouse an appropriate emotional excitement, as a re
ligious service does; while, conversely, there can be no more effectual
way of divesting such moral truths of their impressiveness, than as
sociating them with the prosaic and vulgarizing sounds and sights
and smells coming from crowded children. And no less certain is it
that precepts, often heard and little regarded, lose by repetition the
small influence they had. What do public-schools show us ?—are
the boys rendered merciful to one another by listening to religious
injunctions every morning? What do universities show us?—have
perpetual chapels habitually made undergraduates behave better than
the average of young men ? What do cathedral-towns show us ?—
is there in them a moral tone above that of other towns, or must we
from the common saying, “ the nearer the church,” etc., infer a per
vading impression to the contrary ? What do clergymen’s sons show
us?—has constant insistance on right conduct made them conspicu
ously superior, or do we not rather hear it whispered that something
like an opposite effect seems produced. Or, to take one more case,
what do religious newspapers show us ?—is it that the precepts of
Christianity, more familiar to their writers than to other writers, are
more clearly to be traced in their articles, or has there not ever been
displayed a want of charity in their dealings with opponents, and is
it not still displayed? Nowhere do we find that repetition of rules
of right, already known but disregarded, produces regard for them;
but we find that, contrariwise, it makes the regard for them less than
before.
The prevailing assumption is, indeed, as much disproved by analy
sis as it is contradicted by familiar facts. Already we have seen that
the connection is between action and feeling ; and hence the corollary,
that only by a frequent passing of feeling into action is the tendency
to such action strengthened. Just as two ideas often repeated in a
certain'order become coherent in that order; and just as muscular
motions, at first difficult to combine properly with one another and
�MENTAL SCIENCE AND SOCIOLOGY.
685
with guiding perceptions, become by practice facile, and at length au
tomatic ; so the recurring production of any conduct by its prompting
emotion makes that conduct relatively easy. Not by precept, though
heard daily; not by example, unless it is followed; but only by action,
often caused by the related feeling, can a moral habit be formed. And
yet this truth, which Mental Science clearly teaches, and which is in
harmony with familiar sayings, is a truth wholly ignored in current
educational fanaticisms.
There is ignored, too, the correlative truth; and ignoring it threat
ens results still more disastrous. While we see an expectation of ben
efits which the means used cannot achieve, we see no consciousness of
injuries which will be entailed by these means. As usually happens
with those absorbed in the eager pursuit of some good by govern
mental action, there is a blindness to the evil reaction on the natures
of citizens. Already the natures of citizens have suffered from kin
dred reactions, due to actions set up centuries ago ; and now the mis
chievous effects are to be increased by further such reactions.
The English people are complained of as improvident. Very few
of them lay by in anticipation of times when work is slack; and the
general testimony is that higher wages commonly result only in more
extravagant living or in drinking to greater excess. As we saw a
while since, they neglect opportunities of becoming shareholders in
the companies they are engaged under; and those who are most anx
ious for their welfare despair on finding how little they do to raise
themselves when they have the means. This tendency to seize imme
diate gratification regardless of future penalty is commented on as
characteristic of the English people ; and, contrasts between them and
their Continental neighbors having been drawn, surprise is expressed
that such contrasts should exist. Improvidence is spoken of as an in
explicable trait of the race—no regard being paid to the fact that
races with which it is compared are allied in blood. The people of
Norway are economical and extremely prudent. The Danes, too, are
thrifty; and Defoe, commenting on the extravagance of his countrymen,
says that a Dutchman gets rich on wages out of which an Englishman
but just lives. So, too, if we take the modern Germans. Alike by
the complaints of the Americans, that the Germans are ousting them
from their own businesses by working hard and living cheaply, and by
the success here of German traders and the preference shown for Ger
man waiters, we are taught that in other divisions of the Teutonic race
there is nothing like this lack of self-control. Nor can we ascribe to
such portion of Norman blood as exists among us this peculiar trait: de
scendants of the Normans in France are industrious and saving. Why,
then, should the English people be improvident ? If we seek explana
tion in their remote lineage, we find none; but, if we seek it in the
social conditions to which they have been subject, we find a sufficient
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explanation. The English are improvident because they have been
for ages disciplined in improvidence. Extravagance has been made
habitual by shielding them from the sharp penalties extravagance
brings. Carefulness has been discouraged by continually showing to
the careful that those who were careless did as well as, or better than,
themselves. Nay, there have been positive penalties on carefulness.
Laborers working hard and paying their way have constantly found
themselves called on to help in supporting the idle around them ; have
had their goods taken under distress-warrants that paupers might be
fed; and eventually have found themselves and their children reduced
also to pauperism. Well-conducted poor women, supporting them
selves without aid or encouragement, have seen the ill-conducted re
ceiving parish-pay for their illegitimate children. Nay, to such ex
tremes has the process gone, that women with many illegitimate
children, getting from the rates a weekly sum for each, have been
chosen as wives by men who wanted the sums thus derived ! Genera
tion after generation the honest and independent, not marrying till
they had means, and striving to bring up their families without assist
ance, have been saddled with extra burdens, and hindered from leav
ing a desirable posterity; while the dissolute and the idle, especially
when given to that lying and servility by which those in authority are
deluded, have been helped to produce and to rear progeny, charac
terized, like themselves, by absence of the mental traits needed for
good citizenship. And then, after centuries during which we have
been breeding the race as much as possible from the improvident, and
repressing the multiplication of the provident, we lift our hands and
exclaim at the recklessness our people exhibit! If men, who, for a
score of generations, had by preference bred from their worst-tem
pered horses and their least-sagacious dogs, were then to wonder be
cause their horses were vicious and their dogs stupid, we should think
the absurdity of their policy paralleled only by the absurdity of their
astonishment; but human beings instead of inferior animals being in
question, no absurdity is seen either in the policy or in the astonish
ment.
And now something more serious happens than the overlooking of
these evils wrought on men’s natures by centuries of demoralizing in
fluences. We are deliberately establishing further such influences.
Having, as much as we could, suspended the civilizing discipline of
an industrial life so carried on as to achieve self-maintenance without in
jury to others, we now proceed to suspend that civilizing discipline in
another direction. Having in successive generations done our best to
diminish the sense of responsibility, by warding off evils which disre
gard of responsibility brings, we now carry the policy further by re
lieving parents from certain other responsibilities which, in the order
of Nature, fall on them. By way of checking recklessness, and dis
couraging improvident marriages, and raising the conception of duty,
�MENTAL SCIENCE AND SOCIOLOGY.
687
we are diffusing the belief that it is not the concern of parents to fit
their children for the business of life; but that the nation is bound to
do this. Everywhere there is a tacit enunciation of the marvellous
doctrine that citizens are not responsible individually for the bringing
up each of his own children, but that these same citizens, incorporated
into a society, are each of them responsible for the bringing up of
everybody else’s children I The obligation does not fall upon A in
his capacity of father to rear the minds as well as the bodies of his
offspring; but in his capacity of citizen there does fall on him the ob
ligation of mentally rearing the offspring of B, C, D, and the rest, who
similarly have their direct parental obligations made secondary to
their indirect obligations to children not their own ! Already it is
estimated that, as matters are now being arranged, parents will soon
pay in school-fees for their own children only one-sixth of the amount
which is paid by them through taxes, rates, and voluntary contribu
tions, for children at large: in terms of money, the claims of children
at large to their care will be taken as six times the claim of their own
children 1 And, if, looking back forty years, we observe the growth
of the public claim versus the private claim, we may infer that the
private claim will presently be absorbed wholly. Already the correl
ative theory is becoming so definite and positive that you meet with
the notion, uttered as though it were an unquestionable truth, that
criminals are “ society’s failures.” Presently it will be seen that, since
good bodily development, as well as good mental development, is a
prerequisite to good citizenship (for without it the citizen cannot main
tain himself, and so avoid wrong-doing), society is responsible also for
the proper feeding and clothing of children : indeed, in school-board
discussions, there is already an occasional admission that no logicallydefensible halting-place can be found between the two. And so we
are progressing toward the wonderful notion, here and there finding
tacit expression, that people are to marry when they feel inclined, and
other people are to take the consequences !
And this is thought to be the policy conducive to improvement of
behavior. Men who have been made improvident by shielding them
from many of the evil results of improvidence are now to be made
more provident by further shielding them from the evil results of im
providence. Having had their self-control decreased by social ar
rangements which lessened the need for self-control, other social ar
rangements are devised which will make self-control still less needful:
and it is hoped so to make self-control greater. This expectation is
absolutely at variance with the whole order of things. Life of every
kind, human included, proceeds on an exactly-opposite principle. All
lower types of beings show us that the rearing of offspring affords the
highest discipline for the faculties. The. parental instinct is every
where that which calls out the energies most persistently, and in the
greatest degree exercises the intelligence. The self-sacrifice and the
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sagacity which inferior creatures display in the care of their young
are often commented upon; and every one may see that parenthood
produces a mental exaltation not otherwise producible. That it is so
among mankind is daily proved. Continually we remark that men
who were random grow steady when they have children to provide
for; and vain, thoughtless girls, becoming mothers, begin to show
higher feelings, and capacities that were not before drawn out. In
both there is a daily discipline in unselfishness, in industry, in fore
sight. The parental relation strengthens from hour to hour the habit
of postponing immediate ease and egoistic pleasure to the altruistic
pleasure obtained by furthering the welfare of offspring. There is a
frequent subordination of the claims of self to the claims of fellow
beings ; and by no other agency can the practice of this subordination
be so effectually secured. Not, then, by a decreased, but by an in
creased, sense of parental responsibility is self-control to be made
greater and recklessness to be checked. And yet the policy now so
earnestly and undoubtingly pursued is one which will inevitably di
minish the sense of parental responsibility. This all-important dis
cipline of parents’ emotions is to be weakened that children may get
reading, and grammar, and geography, more generally than they would
otherwise do. A superficial intellectualization is to be secured at the
cost of a deep-seated demoralization.
Few, I suppose, will deliberately assert that information is impor
tant and character relatively unimportant. Every one observes from
time to time how much more valuable to himself and others is the
workman who, though unable to read, is diligent, sober, and honest,
than is the well-taught workman who breaks his engagements, spends
days in drinking, and neglects his family. And, comparing members
of the upper classes, no one doubts that the spendthrift or the gam
bler, however good his intellectual training, is inferior as a social unit
to the man who, not having passed through the approved curriculum,
nevertheless prospers by performing well the work he undertakes, and
provides for his children instead of leaving them in poverty to the
care of relatives. That is to say, looking at the matter in the con
crete, all see that, for social welfare, good character is more important
than much knowledge. And yet the manifest corollary is not drawn.
What effect will be produced on character by artificial appliances for
spreading knowledge is not asked. Of the ends to be kept in view by
the legislator, all are unimportant compared with the end of char
acter-making; and yet character-making is an end wholly unrecog
nized.
Let it be seen that the future of a nation depends on the natures
of its units ; that their natures are inevitably modified in adaptation
to the conditions in which they are placed; that the feelings called
into play by these conditions will strengthen, while those which have
diminished demands on them will dwindle; and it will be seen that
�A NATIONAL UNIVERSITY.
689
the bettering of conduct can be effected, not by insisting on maxims
of good conduct, still less by mere intellectual culture, but only by
that daily exercise of the higher sentiments and repression of the
lower, which results from keeping men subordinate to the requirements
of orderly social life—letting them suffer the inevitable penalties of
breaking these requirements, and reap the benefits of conforming to
them. This alone is national education.
A NATIONAL UNIVERSITY.1
By CHARLES W. ELIOT,
PRESIDENT OF HARVARD
COLLEGE.
TURN next to my third topic, the true policy of our government
as regards university instruction. In almost all the writings about
a nation’s university, and of course in the two Senate bills now under
discussion, there will be found the implication, if not the express as
sertion, that it is somehow the duty of our government to maintain a
magnificent university. This assumption is the foundation upon which
rest the ambitious projects before us, and many similar schemes. Let
me try to demonstrate that the foundation is itself unsound.
The general notion that a beneficent government should provide
and control an elaborate organization for teaching, just as it maintains
an army, a navy, or a post-office, is of European origin, being a legiti
mate corollary to the theory of government by divine right. It is
said that the state is a person having a conscience and a moral respon
sibility ; that the government is the visible representative of a peo
ple’s civilization, and the guardian of its honor and its morals, and
should be the embodiment of all that is high and good in the people’s
character and aspirations. This moral person, this corporate repre
sentative of a Christian nation, has high duties and functions com
mensurate with its great powers, and none more imperative than that
of diffusing knowledge and advancing science.
I desire to state this argument for the conduct of high educational
institutions by government, as a matter of abstract duty, with all the
force which belongs to it; for, under an endless variety of thin dis
guises, and with all sorts of amplifications and dilutions, it is a staple
commodity with writers upon the relation of government to educa
tion. The conception of government upon which this argument is
I
1 Closing argument of a report by President Eliot to the National Educational Asso
ciation at its recent session in Elmira. The first part of the report gives an account of
what had been done by the Association about the project of a national university since
1869 ; and the second part examines the two bills on the subject which were brought
before Congress in 1872.
vol. hi.—44
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
based is obsolescent everywhere. In a free community the govern
ment does not hold this parental, or patriarchal—I should better say
godlike—position. Our government is a group of servants appointed
to do certain difficult and important work. It is not the guardian of
the nation’s morals ; it does not necessarily represent the best virtue
of the republic, and is not responsible for the national character, being
itself one of the products of that character. The doctrine of state
personality and conscience, and the whole argument of the dignity
and moral elevation of a Christian nation’s government as the basis
of government duties, are natural enough under grace-of-God gov
ernments, but they find no ground of practical application to modern
republican confederations; they have no bearing on governments con
sidered as purely human agencies with defined powers and limited re
sponsibilities. Moreover, for most Americans these arguments prove
a great deal too much ; for, if they have the least tendency to persuade
us that government should direct any part of secular education, with
how much greater force do they apply to the conduct by government
of the religious education of the people ! These propositions are, in
deed, the main arguments for an established church. Religion is the
supreme human interest, government is the supreme human organiza
tion ; therefore, government ought to take care for religion, and a
Christian government should maintain distinctively Christian religious
institutions. This is not theory alone ; it is the practice of all Christen
dom, except in America and Switzerland. Now, we do not admit it
to be our duty to establish a national church. We believe not only
that our people are more religious than many nations which have es
tablished churches, but also that they are far more religious under
their own voluntary system than they would be under any government
establishment of religion. We do not admit for a moment that estab
lishment or no establishment is synonymous with national piety or
impiety. Now, if a beneficent Christian government may rightly
leave the jfeople to provide themselves with religious institutions,
surely it may leave them to provide suitable universities for the edu
cation of their youth. And here again the question of national uni
versity or no national university is by no means synonymous with the
question, Shall the country have good university education or not?
The only question is, Shall we have a university supported and con
trolled by government, or shall we continue to rely upon universities
supported and controlled by other agencies ?
There is, then, no foundation whatever for the assumption that it
is the duty of our government to establish a national university. I
venture to state one broad reason why our government should not es
tablish and maintain a university. If the people of the United States
have any special destiny, any peculiar function in the world, it is to
try to work out under extraordinarily favorable circumstances the
problem of free institutions for a heterogeneous, rich, multitudinous
�A NATIONAL UNIVERSITY.
691
population, spread over a vast territory. We, indeed, want to breed
scholars, artists, poets, historians, novelists, engineers, physicians,
jurists, theologians, and orators; but, first of all, we want to breed a
race of independent, self-reliant freemen, capable of helping, guiding,
and governing themselves. Now, the habit of being helped by the
government, even if it be to things good in themselves—to churches,
universities, and railroads—is a most insidious and irresistible enemy
of republicanism ; for the very essence of republicanism is self-reliance.
With the Continental nations of Europe it is an axiom that the gov
ernment is to do every thing, and is responsible for every thing. The
French have no word for “ public spirit,” for the reason that the sen
timent is unknown to them. This abject dependence on the govern
ment is an accursed inheritance from the days of the divine right of
kings. Americans, on the contrary, maintain precisely the opposite
theory—namely, that government is to do nothing not expressly as
signed it to do, that it is to perform no function which any private
agency can perform as well, and that it is not to do a public good
even, unless that good be otherwise unattainable. It is hardly too
much to say that this doctrine is the foundation of our public liberty.
So long as the people are really free they will maintain it in theory
and in practice. During the war of the rebellion we got accustomed
to seeing the government spend vast sums of money and put forth
vast efforts, and we asked ourselves, Why should not some of these
great resources and powers be applied to works of peace, to creation
as well as to destruction? So we subsidized railroads and steamship
companies, and agricultural colleges, and now it is proposed to sub
sidize a university. The fatal objection to this subsidizing process is
that it saps the foundations of public liberty. The only adequate se
curities of public liberty are the national habits, traditions, and char
acter, acquired and accumulated in the practice of liberty and self
control. Interrupt these traditions, break up these habits or cultivate
the opposite ones, or poison that national character, and public liberty
will suddenly be found defenceless. We deceive ourselves danger
ously when we think or speak as if education, whether primary or
university, could guarantee republican institutions. Education can
do no such thing. A republican people should, indeed, be educated
and intelligent; but it by no means follows that an educated and in
telligent people will be republican. Do I seem to conjure up imaginary
evils to follow from this beneficent establishment of a superb national
university? We teachers should be the last people to forget the
sound advice—obsta principiis. A drop of water will put out a spark
which otherwise would have kindled a conflagration that rivers could
not quench.
Let us cling fast to the genuine American method—the old Massachu
setts method—in the matter of public instruction. The essential feat
ures of that system are local taxes for universal elementary education
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voted by the citizens themselves, local elective boards to spend the money
raised by taxation and control the schools, and for the higher grades
of instruction permanent endowments administered by incorporated
bodies of trustees. This is the American voluntary system, in sharp
contrast with the military, despotic organization of public instruction
which prevails in Prussia and most other states of Continental Europe.
Both systems have peculiar advantages, the crowning advantage of
the American method being that it breeds freemen. Our ancestors
well understood the principle that, to make a people free and self-re
liant, it is necessary to let them take care of themselves, even if they
do not take quite as good care of themselves as some superior power
might.
And now, finally, let us ask what should make a university at the
capital of the United States, established and supported by the Gen
eral Government, more national than any other American university.
It might be larger and richer than any other, and it might not be;
but certainly it could not have a monopoly of patriotism or of catho
licity, or of literary or scientific enthusiasm. There are an attractive
comprehensiveness and a suggestion of public spirit and love of coun
try in the term “ national; ” but, after all, the adjective only narrows
and belittles the noble conception contained in the word “ university.”
Letters, science, art, philosophy, medicine, law, and theology, are
larger and more enduring than nations. There is something childish
in this uneasy hankering for a big university in America, as there is
also in that impatient longing for a distinctive American literature
which we so often hear expressed. As American life grows more
various and richer in sentiment, passion, thought, and accumulated ex
perience, American literature will become richer and more abounding,
and in that better day let us hope that there will be found several
universities in America, though by no means one in each State, as free,
liberal, rich, national, and glorious, as the warmest advocate of a
single crowning university at the national capital could imagine his
desired institution to become.
AGASSIZ AND DARWINISM.
By JOHN FISKE,
BEOENTLY LECTITBER ON PHILOSOPHY AT HABVABD UNIVERSITY.
NE Friday morning, a few weeks ago, as I was looking over the
Nation, my eye fell upon an advertisement, inserted by the
proprietors of the New-York Tribune, announcing the final destruc
tion of Darwinism. What especially riveted my attention was the pe
culiar style of the announcement: “ The Darwinian Theory utterly de
O
�AGASSIZ AND DARWINISM.
693
molished ” (or words to that effect) “ by Agassiz Himself ! ” Whether
from accident or design, the type-setter’s choice of Roman capitals
was very happy. Upon many readers the effect must have been tre
mendous ; and quite possibly there may be some who, without further
investigation, will carry to their dying day the opinion that it is all
over with the Darwinian theory, since “ Agassiz Himself” has re
futed it.
Upon me the effect was such as to make me lay down my paper
and ask myself: Can it be that we have, after all, a sort of scientific
pope among us ? Has it come to this, that the dicta of some one
“servant and interpreter of Nature” are to be accepted as final, even
against the better judgment of the majority of his compeers ? In
short, who is Agassiz himself, that he should thus single-handed
have demolished the stoutest edifice which observation and deduc
tion have reared since the day when Newton built to such good pur
pose ?
Prof. Agassiz is a naturalist who is justly world-renowned for his
achievements. His contributions to geology, to paleontology, and to
systematic zoology, have been such as to place him in a very high rank
among contemporary naturalists. Not quite in the highest place, I
should say; for, apart from all questions of theory, it is probable that
Mr. Darwin’s gigantic industry, his wonderful thoroughness and ac
curacy as an observer, and his unrivalled fertility of suggestion, will
cause him in the future to be ranked along with Aristotle, Linnaeus,
and Cuvier; and upon this high level we cannot place Prof. Agassiz.
Leaving Mr. Darwin out of the account, we may say that Prof. Agas
siz stands in the first rank of contemporary naturalists. But any ex
ceptional supremacy in this first rank can by no means be claimed for
him. Both for learning and for sagacity, the names of Gray, Wyman,
Huxley, Hooker, Wallace, Lubbock, Lyell, Vogt, Haeckel, and Gegenbaur, are quite as illustrious as the name of Agassiz; and we may
note, in passing, that these are the names of men who openly indorse
and defend the Darwinian theory.
Possibly, however, there are some who will not be inclined to ac
cept the estimates made in the foregoing paragraph. No doubt there
are many people in this country who have long accustomed themselves
to regard Prof. Agassiz not simply as one among a dozen or twenty
living naturalists of the highest rank, but as occupying a solitary po
sition as the greatest of all living naturalists—as a kind of second
Cuvier, for example. There is, to the popular eye, a halo about the
name of Agassiz which there is not about the name of Gray; though,
if there is any man now living in America, of whom America might,
justly boast as her chief ornament and pride, so far as science is con
cerned, that man is unquestionably Prof. Asa Gray. Now, this
greater popular fame of Agassiz is due to the fact that he is a Euro
pean who cast in his lot with us at a time when we were wont to over-
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
rate foreign importations of whatever sort. As a European, there
fore, he outshines such men as Profs. Gray and Wyman, and, as a man
whom we know, he outshines other Europeans, like Haeckel and Gegenbaur, whose acquaintance we happen not to have made; just as
Rubinstein, whose fame has filled the American newspapers, outshines
Bulow (probably his equal as a pianist), who has not yet visited this
country. In this way Prof. Agassiz has acquired a reputation in
America which is greater than his reputation in Europe, and which is
greater than his achievements—admirable as they are—would be able,
on trial, to sustain.
And now I come to my first point. Admitting for Prof. Agassiz
all the wonderful greatness as a naturalist with which the vague
sentiments of the uneducated multitude in this country would accredit
him ; admitting, in other words, that he is the greatest of naturalists,
and not one among a dozen or twenty equals; it must still be asked,
why should his rejection of Darwinism be regarded as conclusively
fatal to the Darwinian theory ? The history of science supplies us
with many an instance in which a new and unpopular theory has been
vehemently opposed by those whom one would at first suppose most
competent to judge of its merits, and has nevertheless gained the vic
tory. Dr. Draper brings a terrible indictment against Bacon for re
jecting the Copernican theory, and refusing to profit by the discov
eries of Gilbert in magnetism. This should not be allowed to detract
from Bacon’s real greatness, any more than the rejection of Darwinism
should be allowed to detract from the real merit of Agassiz. Great men
must be measured by their positive achievements rather than by their
negative shortcomings, otherwise they might all have to step down from
their pedestals. Leibnitz rejected Newton’s law of gravitation ; Harvey
saw nothing but foolishness in Aselli’s discovery of the lacteals ; Magen
die ridiculed the great work in which the younger Geoffroy Saint-IIilaire
began to investigate the conditions of nutrition which determine the
birth of monsters ; and when Young, Fresnel, and Malus, completed
the demonstration of that undulatory theory of light which has made
their names immortal, Laplace, nevertheless, the greatest mathemati
cian of the age, persisted until his dying day in heaping contumely
upon these eminent men and upon their arguments. Nay, even Cu
vier—the teacher whom Prof. Agassiz so justly reveres—did not Cuvier
adhere to the last to the grotesque theory of “ pre-formation,” and reject
the true theory of “ epigenesis,” which C. F. Wolff, even before Baer,
had placed upon a scientific basis ? Supposing, then, that the Dar
winian theory is rejected by Agassiz, this fact is no more decisive
against the Darwinian theory than the rejection of Fresnel’s theory
by Laplace was decisive against Fresnel’s theory.
For the facts just cited show that even the wisest and most learned
men are not infallible, and that it will not do to have a papacy where
scientific questions are concerned. Strange as it may at first seem,
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695
nothing is more certain than that a man’s opinion may be eminently
fallible, even with reference to matters which might appear to come
directly within the range of his own specialty. Many people, I pre
sume, think that, because Prof. Agassiz has made a specialty of the
study of extinct and living organisms, because he has devoted a long
and industrious life to this study, therefore his opinion with reference
to the relations of present life upon the globe to past life ought to be
at once conclusive. The fallacy of this inference becomes apparent as
soon as we recollect that Profs. Gray, Wyman, Huxley, and Haeckel,
who are equally well qualified to have an opinion on such matters, have
agreed in forming an opinion diametrically opposite to that of Prof.
Agassiz. But the fallacy may be shown independently of any such com
parison. Even if all the foundations of certainty seem to be shaking
beneath us when we say that an expert is not always the best judge of
matters pertaining to his own specialty, we must still say it, for facts
will bear us out in saying it. I have known excellent mathematicians
and astronomers who had not the first word to say about the Nebular
Hypothesis : they had never felt interested in it, had never studied it,
and consequently did not understand it, and could hardly state it cor
rectly. After a while one ceases to be surprised at such things. It is
quite possible for one to study the structure of echinoderms and fishes
during a long life, and yet remain unable to offer a satisfactory opin
ion upon any subject connected with zoology, for the proper treatment
of which there are required some power of generalization and some fa
miliarity with large considerations. Indeed, there are many admirable
experts in natural history, as well as in other studies, who never pay
the slightest heed to questions involving wide-reaching considera
tions ; and who, with all their amazing minuteness of memory con
cerning the metamorphoses of insects and the changes which the em
bryo of a white-fish undergoes from fecundation to maturity, are nev
ertheless unable to see the evidentiary value of the great general facts
of geological succession and geographical distribution, even when it
is thrust directly before their eyes. To such persons, “ science ” means
the collecting of polyps, the dissecting of mollusks, the vivisection of
frogs, the registration of innumerable facts of detail, without regard
to the connected story which all these facts, when put together, have
it in their powei’ to tell. And all putting together of facts, with a
view to elicit this connected story, they are too apt to brand as unsci
entific speculation; forgetting that if Newton had merely occupied
himself with taking observations and measuring celestial distances, in
stead of propounding an audacious hypothesis, and then patiently
verifying it, the law of gravitation might never have been discovered.
Herein lies the explanation of the twice-repeated rejection of Mr.
Darwin’s name by the French Academy of Sciences. The lamentable
decline of science in France since the beginning of the Second Empire
has been most conspicuously marked by the tendency of scientific
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inquirers to occupy themselves exclusively with matters of detail, to
the neglect of wide-reaching generalizations. And the rejection of
Mr. Darwin’s name was justified upon the ground, not that he had
made unscientific generalizations, but that he had been a mere (!) generalizer, instead of a collector of facts. The allegation was, indeed,
incorrect; since Mr. Darwin is as eminent for his industry in collect
ing facts as for his boldness in generalizing. But the form of the
allegation well illustrates the truth of what I have been seeking to
show—that familiarity with the details of a subject does not enable
one to deal with it in the grand style, and elicit new truth from old
facts, unless one also possesses some faculty for penetrating into the
hidden implications of the facts ; or, in other words, some faculty for
philosophizing.
Now, I am far from saying of Prof. Agassiz that he is a mere col
lector of echinoderms and dissector of fishes, with no tact whatever
in philosophizing. He does not stand in the position of those who
think that the end of scientific research is attained when we have
carefully ticketed a few thousand specimens of corals and butterflies,
in much the same spirit as that in which a school-girl collects and clas
sifies autographs or postage-stamps. Along with his indefatigable in
dustry as a collector and observer, Prof. Agassiz has a decided inclina
tion toward general views. However lamentably deficient we may
think him in his ability to discern the hidden implications of facts,
there can be no question that his facts are of little importance to him
save as items in a philosophic scheme. He knows very well—perhaps
almost too well—that the value of facts lies in the conclusions to which
they point. And, accordingly, lack of philosophizing is the last short
coming with which, as a scientific writer, he can be charged. If he
errs on a great scientific question, lying within his own range of inves
tigation, it is not because he refrains steadfastly from all general con
siderations, but because he philosophizes—and philosophizes on un
sound principles. It is because his philosophizing is not a natural
outgrowth from the facts of Nature which lie at his disposal, but is
made up out of sundry traditions of his youth, which, by dint of play
ing upon the associations of ideas which are grouped around certain
combinations of words, have come to usurp the place of observed facts
as a basis for forming conclusions. It is not because he abstains from
generalizing that Prof. Agassiz is unable to appreciate the arguments
by which Mr. Darwin has established his theory, but it is because he
long ago brought his mind to acquiesce in various generalizations, of a
thoroughly unscientific or non-scientific character, with the further
maintenance of which the acceptance of the Darwinian theory is (or
seems to Prof. Agassiz to be) incompatible.
The generalizations which have thus preoccupied Prof. Agassiz’s
mind are purely theological or mythological in their nature. In esti
mating the probable soundness of his opinion upon any scientific ques-
�AGASSIZ AND DARWINISM.
697
tion, it must always be remembered that he is, above all things, a dev
otee of what J's called “ natural theology.” In his discussions concern
ing the character of the relationships between the various members of
the animal kingdom, the foreground of his consciousness is always
completely occupied by theological considerations, to such an extent
that the evidentiary value of scientific facts cannot always get a foot
ing there, and is, consequently, pushed away into the background.
One feels, in reading his writings, that, except when he is narrating
facts with the pure joyfulness of a specialist exulting in the exposition
of his subject (and, when in this mood, he often narrates facts with
which his inferences are wholly incompatible), he never makes a point
without some regard to its bearings upon theological propositions which
his early training has led him to place paramount to all facts of obser
vation whatever. In virtue of this peculiarity of disposition, Prof.
Agassiz has become the welcome ally of those zealous but narrow
minded theologians, in whom the rapid progress of the Darwinian
theory has awakened the easily explicable but totally groundless fear
that the necessary foundations of true religion, or true Christianity,
are imperilled. It is not many years since these very persons re
garded Prof. Agassiz with dread and abhorrence, because of his flat
contradiction of the Bible in his theory of the multiple origin of the
human race. But, now that the doctrine of Evolution has come to be
the unclean thing above all others to be dreaded and abhorred, this
comparatively slight iniquity of Prof. Agassiz has been condoned or
forgotten, and, as the great antagonist of Evolution, he is welcomed
as the defender of the true Church against her foes.
This preference of theological over scientific considerations once
led Prof. Agassiz (if my memory serves me rightly) to use language
very unbecoming in a professed student of Nature. Some seven years
ago he delivered a course of lectures at the Cooper Union, and in one
of these lectures he observed that he preferred the theory which makes
man out a fallen angel to the theory which makes him out an improved
monkey—a remark which was quite naturally greeted with laughter
and applause. But the applause was ill-bestowed, for the remark was
one of the most degrading which a scientific lecturer could make. A
scientific inquirer has no business to have “ preferences.” Such things
are fit only for silly women of society, or for young children who play
with facts, instead of making sober use of them. What matters it
whether we are pleased with the notion of a monkey-ancestry or not ?
The end of scientific research is the discovery of truth, and not the
satisfaction of our whims or fancies, or even of what we are pleased to
call our finer feelings. The proper reason for refusing to accept any
doctrine is, that it is inconsistent with observed facts, or with some
other doctrine which has been firmly established on a basis of fact.
The refusal to entertain a theory because it seems disagreeable or de
grading, is a mark of intellectual cowardice and insincerity. In mat
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
ters of scientific inquiry, it is as grave an offence as the letting one’s
note go to protest is in matters of business. In saying these things, I
do not mean to charge Prof. Agassiz with intellectual cowardice and
insincerity, for the remark which I criticise so sharply was not worthy
of him, it did not comport with his real character as a student of sci
ence, and to judge of him by this utterance alone would be to do him
injustice.
It was with the hope of finding some more legitimate objections to
the Darwinian theory that I procured the Tribune's lecture-sheet con
taining Prof. Agassiz’s twelve lectures on the natural foundations of
organic affinity, and diligently searched it from beginning to end. I
believe I am truthful in saying that a good staggering objection would
have been quite welcome to me, just for the sake of the intellectual
stimulus implied in dealing with it, for on this subject my mind was
so thoroughly made up thirteen years ago, that the discussion of it,
as ordinarily conducted, has long since ceased to have any interest for
me. I am just as firmly convinced that the human race is descended
from lower animal forms, as I am that the earth revolves in an elliptical
orbit about the sun. So completely, indeed, is this proposition wrought
in with my whole mental structure, that the negation of it seems to me
utterly nonsensical and void of meaning, and I doubt if my mind is ca
pable of shaping such a negation into a proposition which I could intel
ligently state. To have such deeply-rooted convictions shaken once in
a while is, I believe, a very useful and wdiolesome experiment in men
tal hygiene. That rigidity of mind which prevents the thorough re
vising of our opinions is sure, sooner or later, to come upon all of us ;
but we ought to dread it, as we dread the stagnation of old age or
death. For some such reasons as these, I am sure that I should have
been glad to find, in the course of Prof. Agassiz’s lectures, at least one
powerful argument against the interpretation of organic affinities
which Mr. Darwin has done so much to establish. I should have
been still more glad to find some alternative interpretation proposed
which could deserve to be entertained as scientific in character. I am
sure no task could be more delightful, or more quickening to one’s
energies, than that of comparing two alternative theories upon this
subject, upon which, thus far, only one has ever been propounded
which possesses the marks of a scientific hypothesis. But no such
pleasure or profit is in store for any one who studies these twelve lect
ures of Prof. Agassiz. In all these lectures, there is not a single al
lusion to Mr. Darwin’s name, save once in a citation from another
author; there is not the remotest allusion to any of the arguments by
which Mr. Darwin has contributed most largely to tlie establishment
of the development theory; nay, there is not a single sentence from
which one could learn that Mr. Darwin’s books had ever been written,
or that the theories which they expound had ever taken shape in the
mind of any thinking man. I do not doubt that Prof. Agassiz has, at
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699
some time read, or looked over, the “ Origin of Species
but there is
not a word in these lectures which might not have been written by
one who had never heard of that book, or of the arguments which
made the publication of it the beginning of a new epoch in the history
of science.
Not only is it that Prof. Agassiz does not attack the Darwinian
theory in these lectures; it is also that, until the ninth lecture, he does
not allude to the doctrine of Evolution in any way. TIis first eight
lectures consist mostly in an account of the development of the embryo
in various animals; and in this we have a pure description of facts
with which no one certainly will feel like quarrelling, so far as theories
are concerned. He goes to work, very much as Max Müller does, in
lecturing about the science of language, when he gives you a maximum
of interesting etymologies and a minimum of real philosophizing which
goes to the bottom of things. But Prof. Agassiz is not so interesting
or so stimulating in his discourse as Max, Müller. He does not lead us
into pleasant fields of illustration, where we would fain tarry longer,
forgetting the main purpose of the discussion in our delight at the un
essential matters which occupy our attention. On the contrary, it
seems to me that Prof. Agassiz’s explanation of the development of
eggs is rather tedious and dry, and by no means richly fraught with
novel suggestions. The exposition is a commonplace one, such as is
good for students in the Museum of Comparative Zoology, who are
beginning to study embryology, but there are no features which make
it especially interesting or instructive to any one who has already
served an apprenticeship in these matters.
In his ninth lecture, Prof. Agassiz begins to make some allusion
to the development theory—not to the development theory as it now
stands since the publication of the “ Origin of Species,” but to the de
velopment theory as it stood in the days when Prof. Agassiz was a
young student, when Cuvier and the elder Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire
waged fierce warfare in the French Academy, and when the aged
Goethe, sanest and wisest of men, foresaw in the issue of that battle
the speedy triumph of the development theory. Beyond this point, I
will venture to say, Prof. Agassiz has never travelled. The doctrine
of Evolution is still, to him, what it was in those early days ; and all
the discoveries and reasonings of Mr. Darwin have passed by him un
heeded and unnoticed. He arrived too early at that rigidity of mind
which prevents us from properly comprehending new theories, and
which we should all of us dread.
What, now, is the doctrine which Prof. Agassiz begins to attack,
in his ninth lecture, and what is the doctrine which he would propose
as a substitute ? The doctrine which he attacks is simply this—that
all organic beings have come into existence through some natural pro
cess of causation ; and the doctrine which he defends is just this—that
all organic beings, as classed in species, have come into existence at
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
the outset by means of some act of which our ordinary notions of cause
and effect can give no account whatever. For every one of the indi
viduals of which a species is made up, he will admit the adequacy of
the ordinary process of generation ; but for the species as a whole, this
process seems to him inadequate, and he flies at once to that refuge
of inconsequent and timid minds—miracle !
This is really just what Prof. Agassiz’s theory of the origin of spe
cific forms amounts to, and this is the reason why, in spite of grave
heresy on minor points, he is now regarded by the evangelical Church
as one of its chief champions. Instead of the natural process of gen
eration—which is the only process by which we have ever known or
ganic beings to be produced—he would fain set up some unknown mys
terious process, the nature of which he is careful not to define, but for
which he endeavors to persuade us that we have a fair equivalent in
sonorous phrases concerning “ creative will,” “ free action of an intel
ligent mind,” and so on. In thus postponing considerations of pure
science to considerations of “ natural theology,” I have no doubt Prof.
Agassiz is actuated by a praiseworthy desire to do something for the
glory of that Power of which the phenomenal universe is the perpetual
but ever-changing manifestation. But how futile is such an attempt
as this I How contrary to common-sense it is to say that a species is
produced, not by the action of blind natural forces, but by an intelli
gent will! For, although this most prominent of all facts seems to be
oftenest overlooked by theologians and others whom it most especially
concerns, we are all the time, day by day and year by year, in each
and every event of our lives, having experience of the workings of
that Divine Power which, whether we attribute to it “ intelligent will ”
or not, is unquestionably the one active agent in all the dynamic phe
nomena of Nature. Little as we know of the intrinsic nature of this
Omnipresent Power, which, in our poor human talk, we call God,
we do at least know, by daily and hourly experience, what is the char
acter of its working. The whole experience of our lives teaches us
that this Power works after a method which, in our scholastic expression,
we call the method of cause and effect, or the method of natural law.
Traditions of a barbarous and uncultivated age, in which mere gro
tesque associations of thoughts were mistaken for facts, have told us
that this Power has, at various times in the past, worked in a different
way—causing effects to appear without cognizable antecedents, even
as Aladdin’s palace rose in all its wondrous magnificence, without
sound of carpenter’s hammer or mason’s chisel, in a single night. But
about such modes of divine action we know nothing whatever from
experience; and the awakening of literary criticism, in modern times,
has taught us to distrust all such accounts of divine action which con
flict with the lessons we learn from what is ever going on round
about us. So far as we know aught concerning the works of God,
which are being performed in us, through us, and around us, during
�AGASSIZ AND DARWINISM.
701
every moment of that conscious intelligence which enables us to bear
witness to them, we know they are works from which the essential re
lation of a given effect to its adequate cause is never absent. And for
this reason, if we view the matter in pure accordance with experience,
we are led to maintain that the antagonism or contrariety which seems
to exist in Prof. Agassiz’s mind between the action of God and the
action of natural forces is nothing but a figment of that ancestral im
agination from which the lessons which shaped Prof. Agassiz’s ways
of thinking were derived. So far as experience can tell us any thing,
it tells us that divine action is the action of natural forces; for, if we
refuse to accept this conclusion, what have we to do but retreat to the
confession that we have no experience of divine action whatever, and
that the works of God have been made manifest only to those who
lived in that unknown time when Aladdin’s palaces were built, and
when species were created, in a single night, without the intervention
of any natural process ?
Trusting, then, in this universal teaching of experience, let us for
a moment face fairly the problem which the existence of men upon the
earth presents to us. Here is actually existing a group of organisms,
which we call the human race. Either it has existed eternally, or
some combination of circumstances has determined its coming into
existence. The first alternative is maintained by no one, and our
astronomical knowledge of the past career of our planet is sufficient
decisively to exclude it. There is no doubt that at some time in the
past the human race did not exist, and that its gradual or sudden
coming into existence was determined by some combination of circum
stances. Now, when Prof. Agassiz asks us to see, in this origination
of mankind, the working of a Divine Power, we acquiesce in all rever
ence. But when he asks us to see in this origination of mankind the
working of a Divine Power, instead of the working of natural causes,
we do not acquiesce, because, so far as experience has taught us any
thing, it has taught us that Divine Power never works except by the
way of natural causation. Experience tells us that God causes Alad
din’s palaces to come into existence gradually, through the coopera
tion of countless minute antecedents. And it tells us, most emphati
cally, that such structures do not come into existence without an
adequate array of antecedents, no matter what the Arabian Nights
may tell us to the contrary.
Now, when Prof. Agassiz asks us to believe that species have come
into existence by means of a special creative fiat, and not through
the operation of what are called natural causes, we reply that his
request is mere inanity and nonsense. We have no reason to suppose
that any creature like a man, or any other vertebrate, or articulate, or
mollusk, ever came into existence by any other process than the
familar process of physical generation. To ask us to believe in any
other process is to ask us to abandon the experience which we have
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for the chimeras which we had best not seek to acquire. But Prof.
Agassiz does not even suggest any other process for our acceptance.
He simply retreats upon his empty phrases, “ creative will,” the “ free
workings of an intelligent mind,” and so on. Now, in his second
course of lectures, I hope he will proceed to tell us, not necessarily how
“ creative will ” actually operated in bringing forth a new species, but
how it may conceivably have operated, save through the process of
physical generation, which we know. In his “ Essay on Classifica
tion,” I remember a passage in which he rightly rejects the notion that
any species has arisen from a single pair of parents, and propounds the
formula : “ Pines have originated in forests, heaths in heather, grasses
in prairies, bees in hives, herrings in shoals, buffaloes in herds, men in
nations.” Now, when Prof. Agassiz asserts that men originated in
nations, by some other process than that of physical generation, what
does he mean ? Does he mean that men dropped down from the sky ?
Does he mean that the untold millions of organic particles which make
up a man all rushed together from the four quarters of the compass,
and proceeded, spontaneously or by virtue of some divine sorcery, to
aggregate themselves into the infinitely complex organs and tissues
of the human body, with all their wondrous and well-defined apti
tudes ? It is time that this question should be faced, by Prof. Agassiz
and those who agree with him, without further shirking. Instead of
grandiloquent phrases about the “ free action of an intelligent mind,”
let us have something like a candid suggestion of some process, other
than that of physical generation, by which a creature like man can
even be imagined to have come into existence. When the time comes
for answering this question, we shall find that even Prof. Agassiz
is utterly dumb and helpless. The sonorous phrase “ special creation,”
in which he has so long taken refuge, is nothing but a synthesis of
vocal sounds which covers and, to some minds, conceals a thoroughly
idiotic absence of sense or significance. To say that “ Abracadabra
is not a genial corkscrew,” is to make a statement quite as full of mean
ing as the statement that species have originated by “ special crea
tion.”
The purely theological (or theologico-metaphysical and at all
events unscientific) character of Prof. Agassiz’s objections to the de
velopment theory is sufficiently shown by the fact that, in the fore
going paragraphs, I have considered whatever of any account there is
in his lectures which can be regarded as an objection. Arguments
against the development theory such objections cannot be called : they
are, at their very best, nothing but expressions of fear and dislike.
The only remark which I have been able to find, worthy of being
dignified as an argument, is the following: “We see that fishes are
lowest, that reptiles are higher, that birds have a superior organization
to both, and that mammals, with man at their head, are highest. The
phases of development which a quadruped undergoes, in his embryonic
�AGASSIZ AND DARWINISM.
7°3
growth, recall this gradation. He has a fish-like, a reptile-like stage
before he shows unmistakable mammal-like features. We do not on
this account suppose a quadruped grows out of a fish in our time, for
this simple reason, that we live among quadrupeds and fishes, and we
know that no such thing takes place. But resemblances of the same
kind, separated by geological ages, allow play for the imagination, and
for inference unchecked by observation.”
I do not believe that Prof. Agassiz’s worst enemy—if he ever had
an enemy—could have been so hard-hearted as to wish for* him the
direful catastrophe into which this wonderful piece of argument has
plunged him irretrievably. For the question must at once suggest
itself to every reader at all familiar with the subject, If Prof. Agassiz
supposes that the development theory, as held nowadays, implies that
a quadruped was ever the direct issue of a fish, of what possible value
can his opinion be as regards the development theory in any way ?
If I may speak frankly, as I have indeed been doing from the out
set, I will say that, as regards the Darwinian theory, Prof. Agassiz
seems to me to be hopelessly behind the age. I have never yet come
across the first indication that he knows what the Darwinian theory is.
Against the development theory, as it was taught him by the discus
sions of forty years ago, he is fond of uttering, I will not say argu
ments, but expressions of dislike. With the modern development
theory, with the circumstances of variation, heredity, and natural se
lection, he never, in any of his writings, betrays the slightest acquaint
ance. Against a mere man of straw of his own devising, he indus
triously hurls anathemas of a quasi-theological character. But any
thing like a scientific examination of the character and limits of the
agency of natural selection in modifying the appearance and structure
of a species, any thing like such an examination as is to be found in
the interesting work of Mr. St. George Mivart, he has never yet
brought forth.
Now, when Prof. Agassiz fairly comes to an issue, if he ever does, and
undertakes to refute the Darwinian theory, these are some of the ques
tions which he will have to answer: 1. If all organisms are not asso
ciated through the bonds of common descent, why is it that the facts
of classification are just such as they would have been had they been
due to such a common descent ? 2. Why does a mammal always
begin to develop as if it were going to become a fish, and then, chang
ing its tactics, proceed as if it were going to become a reptile or bird,
and only after great delay and circumlocution take the direct road
toward mammality ? In answer to this, we do not care to be told that
a mammal never was the son of a fish, because we know that already ;
nor do we care to hear any more about the “ free manifestations of an
intelligent mind,” because we have had quite enough of metaphysical
phrases which do not contain a description of some actual or imagi
nable process. We want to know how this state of things can be sci-
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
entifically interpreted save on the hypothesis of a common ultimate
origin for mammals, birds, reptiles, and fishes. 3. What is the mean
ing of such facts as the homologies which exist between corresponding
parts of organisms constructed on the same type ? Why does the
black salamander retain fully-developed gills which he never uses, and
what is the significance of rudimentary and aborted organs in gen
eral ? Again I say, we do not want to hear about “ uniformity of de
sign ” and “ reminiscences of a plan,” and so on, but we wish to know
how this* state of things was physically brought about, save by com
munity of descent. 4. Why is it that the facts of geological succes
sion and geographical distribution so clearly indicate community of
descent, unless there has actually been community of descent? Why
have marsupials in Australia followed after other marsupials, and
edentata in South America followed after other edentata, with such
remarkable regularity, unless the bond which unites present with past
ages be the well-known, the only known, and the only imaginable bond
of physical generation ? Why are the fauna and flora of each geologic
epoch in general intermediate in character between the flora and fauna
of the epochs immediately preceding and succeeding? And, 5. What
are we to do with the great fact of extinction if we reject Mr. Dar
win’s explanations ? When a race is extinguished, is it because of a
universal deluge, or because of the “ free manifestations of an intelli
gent mind ? ” For surely Prof. Agassiz will not attribute such a sol
emn result to such ignoble causes as insufficiency of food or any other
of the thousand causes, “ blindly mechanical,” which conspire to make
a species succumb in the struggle for life.
And here the phrase, “ struggle for life,” reminds me of yet an
other difficult task which Prof. Agassiz will have before him when he
comes to undertake the refutation of Darwinism in earnest. He will
have to explain away the enormous multitude of facts which show that
there is a struggle for life in which the fittest survive ; or he will at
any rate have to show in what imaginable way an organic type can
remain constant in all its features through countless ages under the
influence of such circumstances, unless by taking into the account the
Darwinian interpretation of persistent types offered by Prof. Huxley.
But I will desist from further enumeration of the difficulties which
surround this task which Prof. Agassiz has not undertaken, and is
not likely ever to undertake. For the direct grappling with that com
plicated array of theorems which the genius of such men as Darwin
and Spencer and their companions has established on a firm basis of
observation and deduction, Prof. Agassiz seems in these lectures hardly
better qualified than a child is qualified for improving the methods of
the integral calculus. These questions have begun to occupy earnest
thinkers since the period when his mind acquired that rigidity which
prevents the revising of one’s opinions. The marvellous flexibility of
thought with which Sir Charles Lyell so gracefully abandoned his an-
�PRIMARY CONCEPTS OF MODERN SCIENCE.
705
tiquated position, Prof. Agassiz is never likely to show. This is
largely because Lyell has always been a thinker of purely scientific
habit, while Agassiz has long been accustomed to making profoundly
dark metaphysical phrases do the work which properly belongs to
observation and deduction. But, however we may best account for
these idiosyncrasies, it remains most probable among those facts which
are still future, that Prof. Agassiz will never advance any more crush
ing refutation of the Darwinian theory than the simple expression of
his personal dislike for “ mechanical agencies,” and his belief in the
“ free manifestations of an intelligent mind.” Were he only to be left
to himself, such expressions of personal preference could not mar the
pleasure with which we often read his exposition of purely scientific
truths. But when he is brought before the public as the destroyer of
a theory, the elements of which he has never yet given any sign of
having mastered, he is placed in a false position, which would be lu
dicrous could he be supposed to have sought it, and which is, at all
events, unworthy of his eminent fame.
m-n-TT. nuTWAuv nnYPPPTR OF MODERN PHYSICAL
ERRATUM.
Page 710, line 32, for “impenetrability,” read “ compenetrability.”
Lierman
ULuraxinvn au«
j.
t. j
--------- . .
x
_
Du Bois-Reymond, one of the most noted physicists of the age.
“Natural science,” says Du Bois-Reymond,1 “is a reduction of the
changes in the material world to motions of atoms caused by central
forces independent of time, or a resolution of the phenomena of Na
ture into atomic mechanics. . . . The resolution of all changes in the
material world into motions of atoms caused by their constant central
forces would be the completion of natural science.”
Obviously, the proposition thus enounced assigns to physical sci1 “ Ueber die Grenzen des Naturerkennens. Ein Vortrag in der zweiten öffentlichen
Sitzung der 45. Versammlung deutscher Naturforscher und Aerzte zu Leipzig am 14.
August 1872, gehalten von Emil Du Bois-Reymond.” Leipzig, Veit & Comp., 1872.
VOL. in.—45
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•
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
enee limits so narrow that all attempts to bring the characteristic
phenomena of organic life (not to speak of mental action) within them
are utterly hopeless. Nevertheless, it is asserted that organic phe
nomena are the product of ordinary physical forces alone, and that
the assumption of vital agencies, as distinct from the forces of inor
ganic Nature, is wholly inadmissible. In view of this, it seems strange
that the validity of the proposition above referred to has never, so far
as I know, been questioned, except in the interest of some metaphysi
cal or theological system. It is my purpose in the following essays
to offer a few suggestions in this behalf, in order to ascertain, if pos
sible, whether the prevailing primary notions of physical science can
stand, or are in need of revision.
One of the prime postulates of the mechanical theory is the atomic
constitution of matter. A discussion of this theory, therefore, at
once leads to an examination of the grounds upon which the assump
tion of atoms, as the ultimate constituents of the physical world,
rests.
The doctrine that an exhaustive analysis of a material body into
its real elements, if it could be practically effected, would yield an ag
gregate of indivisible and indestructible particles, is almost coeval
with human speculation, and has held its ground more persistently
than any other tenet of science or philosophy. It is true that the
atomic theory, since its first promulgation by the early Greek philoso
phers, and its elaborate statement by Lucretius, has been modified and
refined. There is probably no one, at this day, who invests the atoms
with hooks and loops, or (Lucretius, De Rerum Natura, ii., 398, et seq.)
accounts for the bitter taste of wormwood by the raggedness, and for
the sweetness of honey by the smooth roundness of the constituent
atoms. But the “ atom ” of modern science is still of determinate
weight, if not of determinate figure, and stands for something more
than an abstract unit, even in the view of those who, like Boscovich,
Faraday, Ampère, or Fechner, profess to regard it as a mere centre of
force. And there is no difficulty in stating the atomic doctrine in
terms applicable alike to all the acceptations in which it is now held by
scientific men. Whatever diversity of opinion may prevail as to the
form, size, etc., of the atoms, all who advance the atomic hypothesis,
in any of its varieties, as a physical theory, agree in three propositions,
which may be stated as follows :
1. Atoms are absolutely simple, unchangeable, indestructible ; they
are physically, if not mathematically, indivisible.
2. Matter consists of discrete parts, the constituent atoms being
separated by void interstitial spaces. In contrast to the continuity of
space stands the discontinuity of matter. The expansion of a body
is simply an increase, its contraction a lessening of the spatial inter
vals between the atoms.
3. The atoms composing the different chemical elements are of de-
�PRIMARY CONCEPTS OF MODERN SCIENCE.
7q7
terminate specific weights, corresponding to their equivalents of com
bination.1
Confessedly the atomic theory is hut an hypothesis. This in itself
is not decisive against its value; all physical theories properly so
called are hypotheses whose eventual recognition as truths depends
upon their consistency with themselves, upon their agreement with
the canons of logic, upon their congruence with the facts which they
serve to connect and explain, upon their conformity with the ascer
tained order of Nature, upon the extent to which they approve them
selves as reliable anticipations or previsions of facts verified by subse
quent observation or experiment, and finally upon their simplicity, or
rather their reducing power. The merits of the atomic theory, too,
are to be determined by seeing whether or not it satisfactorily and
simply accounts for the phenomena as the explanation of which it is
propounded, and whether or not it is in harmony with itself and with
the known laws of Reason and of Nature.
For what facts, then, is the atomic hypothesis meant to account,
and to what degree is the account it offers satisfactory?
It is claimed that the first of the three propositions above enu
merated (the proposition which asserts the persistent integrity of
atoms, or their unchangeability both in weight and volume) accounts
for the indestructibility and impenetrability of matter; that the sec
ond of these propositions (relating to the discontinuity of matter) is
an indispensable postulate for the explanation of certain physical phe
nomena, such as the dispersion and polarization of light; and that the
third proposition (according to which the atoms composing the chem
ical elements are of determinate specific gravities) is the necessary
general expression of the laws of definite constitution, equivalent pro
portion, and multiple combination, in chemistry.
In discussing these claims, it is important, first, to verify the facts
and to reduce the statements of these facts to exact expression, and
then to see how far they are fused by the theory:
1. The indestructibility of matter is an unquestionable truth. But
in what sense, and upon what grounds, is this indestructibility predi
cated of matter ? The unanimous answer of the atomists is: Expe
rience teaches that all the changes to which matter is subject are but
variations of form, and that amid these variations there is an unvary
ing constant—the mass or quantity of matter. The constancy of the
mass is attested by the balance, which shows that neither fusion nor
sublimation, neither generation nor corruption, can add to or detract
from the weight of a body subjected to experiment. When a pound
of carbon is burned, the balance demonstrates the continuing exist1 To avoid confusion, I purposely ignore the distinction between molecules as the ulti
mate products of the physical division of matter, and atoms as the ultimate products of
its chemical decomposition, preferring to use the word atoms in the sense of the least
particles into which bodies are divisible or reducible by any means.
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
ence of this pound in the carbonic acid, which is the product of com
bustion, and from which the original weight of carbon may be re
covered. The quantity of matter is measured by its weight, and this
weight is unchangeable.
Such is the fact, familiar to every one, and its interpretation, equally
familiar. To test the correctness of this interpretation, we may be
permitted slightly to vary the method of verifying it. Instead of
burning the pound of carbon, let us simply carry it to the summit of a
mountain, or remove it to a lower latitude; is its weight still the same ?
Relatively it is; it will still balance the original counterpoise. But
the absolute weight is no longer the same. This appears at once, if
we give to the balance another form, taking a pendulum instead of a
pair of scales. The pendulum on the mountain or near the equator
vibrates more slowly than at the foot of the mountain or near the
pole, for the reason that it has become specifically lighter by being
farther removed from the centre of the earth’s attraction, in conformity
to the law that the attractions of bodies vary inversely as the squares
of their distances.
It is thus evident that the constancy, upon the observation of which
the assertion of the indestructibility of matter is based, is simply the
constancy of a relation, and that the ordinary statement of the fact is
crude and inadequate. Indeed, while it is true that the weight of a
body is a measure of its mass, this is but a single case of the more
general fact that the masses of bodies are inversely as the velocities
imparted to them by the action of the same force, or, more generally
still, inversely as the accelerations produced in them by the same force.
In the case of gravity, the forces of attraction are directly propor
tional to the masses, so that the action of the forces (weight) is the
simplest measure of the relation between any two masses as such;
but, in any inquiry relating to the validity of the atomic theory, it is
necessary to bear in mind that this weight is not the equivalent, or
rather presentation, of an absolute substantive entity in one of the
bodies (the body weighed), but the mere expression of a relation be
tween two bodies mutually attracting each other. And it is further
necessary to remember that this weight may be indefinitely reduced,
without any diminution in the mass of the body weighed, by a mere
change of its position in reference to the body between which and the
body weighed the relation subsists.1
1 The thoughtlessness with which it is assumed by some of the most eminent mathe
maticians and physicists that matter is composed of particles which have an absolute
primordial weight persisting in all positions, and under all circumstances, is one of the
most remarkable facts in the history of science. To cite but one instance : Prof. Rettenbacher, one of the ablest analysts of his day, in his “ Dynamidensystem ” (Mannheim,
Bassermann, 1857), p. 14, says, “The absolute weight of atoms is unknown”—his
meaning being, as is evident from the context and from the whole tenor of his discus
sion, that our ignorance of this absolute weight is due solely to the practical impossi
bility of insulating an atom, and of contriving instruments delicate enough to weigh it.
�PRIMARY CONCEPTS OF MODERN SCIENCE.
709
Masses find their true and only measure in the action of forces, and
the quantitative persistence of the effect of this action is the simple
and accurate expression of the fact which is ordinarily described as
the indestructibility of matter. It is obvious that this persistence is
in no sense explained or accounted for by the atomic hypothesis. It
may be that such persistence is an attribute of the minute, insensible
particles which are supposed to constitute matter, as well as of sen
sible masses ; but, surely, the hypothetical recurrence of a fact in the
atom is no explanation of the actual occurrence of the same fact in
the conglomerate mass. Whatever mystery is involved in the phe
nomenon is as great in the case of the atom as in that of a solar or
planetary sphere. Breaking a magnet into fragments, and showing
that each fragment is endowed with the magnetic polarity of the in
teger magnet, is no explanation of the phenomenon of magnetism. A
phenomenon is not explained by being dwarfed. A fact is not trans
formed into a theory by being looked at through an inverted telescope.
The hypothesis of ultimate indestructible atoms is not a necessary im
plication of the persistence of weight, and can at best account for the
indestructibility of matter if it can be shown that there is an absolute
limit to the compressibility of matter—in other words, that there is
an absolutely least volume for every determinate mass. This brings
us to the consideration of that general property of matter which prob
ably, in the minds of most men, most urgently requires the assump
tion of atoms—its impenetrability.
“ Two bodies cannot occupy the same space ”—such is the familiar
statement of the fact in question. Like the indestructibility of matter,
it is claimed to be a datum of experience. “ Corpora omnia impenotrabilla esse” says Sir Isaac Newton (Phil. Nat. Prine. Math., lib.
iii., reg. 3), “ non ratione sed sensu colligimus.” Let us see in what
sense and to what extent this claim is legitimate.
The proposition, according to which a space occupied by one body
cannot be occupied by another, implies the assumption that space is
an absolute, self-measuring entity—an assumption which I may have
occasion to examine hereafter—and the further assumption that there
is a least space which a given body will absolutely fill so as to exclude
any other body. A verification of this proposition by experience,
therefore, must amount to proof that there is an absolute limit to the
compressibility of all matter whatsoever. Now, does experience au
thorize us to assign such a limit ? Assuredly not. It is true that in
the case of solids and liquids there are practical limits beyond which
compression by the mechanical means at our command is impossible ;
but even here we are met by the fact that the volumes of fluids, which
effectually resist all efforts at further reduction by external pressure,
are readily reduced by mere mixture. Thus, sulphuric acid and water
at ordinary temperatures do not sensibly yield to pressure; but, when
they are mixed, the resulting volume is materially less than the aggre
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
gate volumes of the liquids mixed. But, waiving this, as well as the
phenomena which emerge in the processes of solution and chemical ac
tion, it must be said that experience does not in any manner vouch
for the impenetrability of matter as such in all its states of aggrega
tion. When gases are subjected to pressure, the result is simply an
increase of the expansive force in proportion to the pressure exerted,
according to the law of Boyle and Mariotte (the modifications of and
apparent exceptions to which, as exhibited in the experimental results
obtained by Regnault and others, need not here be stated, because
they do not affect the argument). A definite experimental limit, is
reached in the case of those gases only in which the pressure produces
liquefaction or solidification. The most significant phenomenon, how
ever, which experience contributes to the testimony on this subject is
the diffusion of gases. Whenever two or more gases which do not act
upon each other chemically are introduced into a given space, each gas
diffuses itself in this space as though it were alone present there; or,
as Dalton, the reputed father of the modern atomic theory, expresses
it, “ Gases are mutually passive, and pass into each other as into
vacua.”
Whatever reality may correspond to the notion of the impenetra
bility of matter, this impenetrability is not, in the sense of the atomists, a datum of experience.
Upon the whole, it would seem that the validity of the first propo
sition of the atomic theory is not sustained by the facts. Even if the
assumed unchangeability of the supposed ultimate constituent particles
of matter presented itself, upon its own showing, as more than a bare
reproduction of an observed fact in the form of an hypothesis, and
could be dignified with the name of a generalization or of a theory,
it would still be obnoxious to the criticism that it is a generalization
from facts crudely observed and imperfectly apprehended.
In this connection it may be observed that the atomic theory has
become next to valueless as an explanation of the impenetrability
of matter, since it has been pressed into the service of the undulatory
theory of light, heat, etc., and assumed the form in which it is now
held by the majority of physicists, as we shall presently see. Ac
cording to this form of the theory, the atoms are either mere points,
wholly without extension, or their dimensions are infinitely small as
compared with the distances between them, whatever be the state
aggregation of the substances into which they enter. In this view
the resistance which a body, i. e., a system of atoms, offers to the in
trusion of another body is due, not to the rigidity or unchangeability
of volume of the individual atoms, but to the relation between the
attractive and repulsive forces with which they are supposed to be
endowed. There are physicists holding this view who are of opinion
that the atomic constitution of matter is consistent with its impene
trability among them M. Cauchy, who, in his Sept Lemons de Phy-
�PRIMARY CONCEPTS OF MODERN SCIENCE.
7n
sique Genérale (ed. Moigno, Paris, 1868, p. 38), after defining atoms
as “ material points without extension,” uses this language: “ Thus,
this property of matter which we call impenetrability is explained,
when we consider the atoms as material points exerting on each other
attractions and repulsions which vary with the distances that separate
them. . . . From this it follows that, if it pleased the author of Na
ture simply to modify the laws according to which the atoms attract
or repel each other, we might instantly see the hardest bodies pene
trate each other ” (that we might see), “ the smallest particles of matter
occupy immense spaces, or the largest masses reduce themselves to
the smallest volumes, the entire universe concentrating itself, as it
were, in a single point.”
2. The second fundamental proposition of the modern atomic
theory avouches the essential discontinuity of matter. The advocates
of the theory affirm that there is a series of physical phenomena
which are inexplicable, unless we assume that the constituent par
ticles of matter are separated by void interspaces. The most notable
among these phenomena are the dispersion and polarization of light.
The grounds upon which the assumption of a discrete molecular
structure of matter is deemed indispensable for the explanation of
these phenomena may be stated in a few words.
According to the undulatory theory, the dispersion of light, or its
separation into spectral colors, by means of refraction, is a conse
quence of the unequal retardation experienced by the different waves,
which produce the different colors, in their transmission through the
refracting medium. This unequal retardation presupposes differences
in the velocities with which the various-colored rays are transmitted
through any medium whatever, and a dependence of these velocities
upon the lengths of the waves. But, according to a well-established
mechanical theorem, the velocities with which undulations are prop
agated through a continuous medium depend solely upon the elasticity
of the medium as compared with its inertia, and are wholly indepen
dent of the length and form of the waves. The correctness of this the
orem is attested by experience in the case of sound. Sounds of every
pitch travel with the same velocity. If it were otherwise, music heard
at a distance would evidently become chaotic; differences of velocity
in the propagation of sound would entail a distortion of the rhythm,
and, in many cases, a reversal of the order of succession. Now, differ
ences of color are analogous to differences of pitch in sound, both re
ducing themselves to differences of wave-length. The lengths of the
waves increase as we descend the scale of sounds from those of a higher
to those of a lower pitch; and similarly, the length of a luminar undu
lation increases as we descend the spectral scale, from violet to red. It
follows, then, that the rays of different color, like the sounds of differ
ent pitch, should be propagated with equal velocities, and be equally
refracted; that, therefore, no dispersion of light should take place.
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
This theoretical impossibility of dispersion has always been recog
nized as one of the most formidable difficulties of the undulatory
theory. In order to obviate it, Cauchy, at the suggestion of his friend
Coriolis, entered upon a series of analytical investigations, in which he
succeeded in showing that the velocities with which the various colored
rays are propagated may vary according to the wave-lengths, if it be
assumed that the ethereal medium of propagation, instead of being
continuous, consists of particles separated by sensible distances.
By means of a similar assumption, Fresnel has sought to remove
the difficulties presented by the phenomena of polarization. In ordi
nary light, the different undulations are supposed to take place in dif
ferent directions, all transverse to the course or line of propagation,
while in polarized light the vibrations, though still transverse to the
ray, are parallelized, so as to occur in the same plane. Soon after this
hypothesis had been expanded into an elaborate theory of polarization,
Poisson observed that, at any considerable distance from the source
of the light, all transverse vibrations in a continuous elastic medium
must become longitudinal. As in the case of dispersion, this objection
was met by the hypothesis of the existence of “definite intervals”
between the ethereal particles.
These are the considerations, succinctly stated, which theoretical
physics are supposed to bring to the support of the atomic theory. In
reference to the cogency of the argument founded upon them, it is to
be said, generally, that evidence of the discrete molecular arrangement
of matter is by no means proof of the alternation of unchangeable and
indivisible atoms with absolute spatial voids. But it is to be feared
that the argument in question is not only formally, but also materially,
fallacious. It is very questionable whether the assumption of definite
intervals between the particles of the luminiferous ether is competent
to relieve the undulatory theory of light from its embarrassments.
This subject, in one of its aspects, has been thoroughly discussed by E.
B. Hunt, in an article on the dispersion of light (SiUimari8 Journal,
vol. vii., 2d series, p. 364, et seq.), and the suggestions there made ap
pear to me worthy of serious attention. They are briefly these:
M. Cauchy brings the phenomena of dispersion within the do
minion of the undulatory theory, by deducing the differences in the
velocities of the several chromatic rays from the differences in the cor
responding wave-lengths by means of the hypothesis of definite inter
vals between the particles of the light-bearing medium. He takes it
for granted, therefore, that these chromatic rays are propagated with
different velocities. But is this the fact ? Astronomy affords the
means to answer this question.
We experience the sensation of white light, when all the chromatic
rays of which it is composed strike the eye simultaneously. The light
proceeding from a luminous body will appear colorless, even if the
component rays move with unequal velocities, provided all the colored
�PRIMARY CONCEPTS OF MODERN SCIENCE.
713
rays, which together make up white light, concur in their action on
the retina at a given moment; in ordinary cases it is immaterial
whether these rays have left the luminous body successively or together.
But it is otherwise when a luminous body becomes visible suddenly,
as in the case of the satellites of Jupiter, or Saturn, after their eclipses.
At certain periods, more than 49 minutes are requisite for the trans
mission of light from Jupiter to the earth. Now, at the moment when
one of Jupiter’s satellites, which has been eclipsed by that planet,
emerges from the shadow, the red rays, if their velocity were the great
est, would evidently reach the eye first, the orange next, and so on
through the chromatic scale, until finally the complement of colors
would be filled by the arrival of the violet ray, whose velocity is
supposed to be the least. The satellite, immediately after its emersion,
would appear red, and gradually, in proportion to the arrival of the
other rays, pass into white. Conversely, at the beginning of the
eclipse, the violet rays would continue to arrive after the red and
other intervening rays, and the satellite, up to the moment of its total
disappearance, will gradually shade into violet.
Unfortunately for Cauchy’s hypothesis, the most careful observation
of the eclipses in question has failed to reveal any such variations of
color, either before immersion, or after emersion, the transition between
light and darkness taking place instantaneously, and without chro
matic gradations.
If it be said that these chromatic gradations escape our vision by
reason of the inappreciability of the differences under discussion, as
tronomy points to other phenomena no less subversive of the doctrine
of unequal velocities in the movements of the chromatic undulations.
Fixed stars beyond the parallactic limit, whose light must travel more
than three years before it reaches us, are subject to great periodical
variations of splendor; and yet these variations are unaccompanied
by variations of color. Again, the assumption of different velocities
for the different chromatic rays is discountenanced by the theory of
aberration. Aberration is due to the fact that, in all cases where the
orbit of the planet, on which the observer is stationed, forms an angle
with the direction of the luminar ray, a composition takes place be
tween the motion of the light and the motion of the planet, so that
the direction in which the light meets the eye is a resultant of the two
component directions—the direction of the ray and that of the ob
server’s motion. If the several rays of color moved with different
velocities there would evidently be several resultants, and each star
would appear as a colored spectrum longitudinally parallel to the
direction of the earth’s motion.
The alleged dependence of the velocity of the undulatory move
ments, which correspond to, or produce, the different colors, upon the
length of the waves, is thus at variance with observed fact. The
hypothesis of definite intervals is unavailable as a supplement to the
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
undulatory theory ; other methods will have to be resorted to in order
to free this theory from its difficulties.1
3. The third proposition of the atomic hypothesis assigns to the
atoms, which are said to compose the different chemical elements, de
terminate weights corresponding to their equivalents of combination,
and is supposed to be necessary to account for the facts whose enumeration and theory constitute the science of chemistry. The proper
verification of these facts is of great difficulty, because they have gen
erally been observed through the lenses of the atomic theory, and
stated in its doctrinal terms. Thus the differentiation and integration
of bodies are invariably described as decomposition and composition ;
the equivalents of combination are designated as atomic weights or
volumes, and the greater part of chemical nomenclature is a system
atic reproduction of the assumptions of atomism. Nearly all the facts
to be verified are in need of preparatory enucleation from the envelops
of this theory.
The phenomena usually described as chemical composition and de
composition present themselves to observation thus: A number of
heterogeneous bodies concur in definite proportions of weight or vol
ume; they interact; they disappear, and give rise to a new body pos
sessing properties which are neither the sum nor the mean of the prop
erties of the bodies concurring and interacting (excepting the weight
which is the aggregate of the weights of the interacting bodies), and
this conversion of several bodies into one is accompanied, in most
cases, by changes of volume, and in all cases by the evolution or in
volution of heat, or light, or of both. Conversely, a single homogeneous
body gives rise to heterogeneous bodies, between which and the body
out of which they originate the persistence of weight is the only re
lation of identity.
For the sake of convenience, these phenomena may be distributed
into three classes, of which the first embraces the persistence of weight
and the combination in definite proportions ; the second, the changes
of volume and the evolution of light and heat; and the third, the
emergence of a wholly new complement of chemical properties.
Obviously, the atomic hypothesis is in no sense an explanation of
the phenomena of the second class. It is clearly and confessedly in
1 Cauchy’s theory of dispersion is subject to another difficulty, of which no note is
taken by Hunt: it does not account for the different refracting powers of different, sub
stances. Indeed, according to Cauchy’s formula) (whose terms are expressive simply of
the distances between the ethereal particles and their hypothetical forces of attraction
and repulsion), the refracting powers of all substances whatever must be the same, un
less each substance is provided with a peculiar ether of its own. If this be the case, the
assemblage of atoms in a given body is certainly a very motley affair, especially if it be
true, as W. A. Norton and several other physicists assert, that there is an electric ether
distinct from the luminiferous ether. Rettenbacher (“Dynamidensystem,” p. 130, et seq.)
attempts to overcome the difficulty by the hypothesis of mutual action between the cor
puscular and ethereal atoms.
�PRIMARY CONCEPTS OF MODERN SCIENCE.
715
competent to account for changes of volume or of temperature. And,
with the phenomena of the third class, it is apparently incompatible.
For, in the light of the atomic hypothesis, chemical compositions and
decompositions are in their nature nothing more than aggregations
and segregations of masses whose integrity remains inviolate. But
the radical change of chemical properties, which is the result of all
true chemical action, and serves to distinguish it from mere mechani
cal mixture or separation, evinces a thorough destruction of that in
tegrity. It may be that the appearance of this incompatibility can be
obliterated by the device of ancillary hypotheses; but that leads to
an abandonment of the simplicity of the atomic hypothesis itself, and
thus to a surrender of its claims to merit as a theory.
At best, then, the hypothesis of atoms of definite and different
weights can be offered as an explanation of the phenomena of the first
class. Does it explain them in the sense of generalizing them, of re
ducing many facts to one? Not at all; it accounts for them, as it
professed to account for the indestructibility and impenetrability of
matter, by simply iterating the observed fact in the form of an hy
pothesis. It is another case (to borrow a scholastic phrase) of illus
trating idem per idem. It says: The large masses combine in definitely-proportionate weights because the small masses, the atoms of
which they are multiples, are of definitely-proportionate weight. It
pulverizes the fact, and claims thereby to have sublimated it into a
theory.
Upon closer examination, moreover, the assumption of atoms of
different specific gravities proves to be, not only futile, but absurd.
Its manifest theoretical ineptitude is found to mask the most fatal
inconsistencies. According to the mechanical conception which un
derlies the whole atomic hypothesis, differences of weight are differ
ences of density; and differences of density are differences of distance
between the particles contained in a given space. Now, in the atom
there is no multiplicity of particles, and no void space; hence dif
ferences of density or weight Are impossible in the case of atoms.
It is to be observed that the attribution of different weights to dif
ferent atoms is an indispensable feature of the atomic theory in chem
istry, especially in view of the combination of gases in simple ratios
of volume, so as to give rise to gaseous products bearing a simple
ratio to the volumes of its constituents, and in view of the law of
Ampere and Clausius, according to which all gases, of whatever nature
or weight, contain equal numbers of molecules in equal volumes.
The inadequacy of the atomic hypothesis as a theory of chemical
changes has been repeatedly pointed out by men of the highest scien
tific authority, such as Grove (Correlation of Physical Forces, in
Youmans’s “Correlation and Conservation of Forces,” p. 164, et seqf
and is becoming more apparent from day to day. I shall have occa
sion to inquire, hereafter, what promise there is, in the present state
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
of chemical science, of a true generalization of the phenomena of com
bination in definite proportions, both of weight and volume, which is
independent of the atomic doctrine, and will serve to connect a num
ber of concomitant facts for which this doctrine is utterly incompetent
to account.
It is not infrequently asserted by the advocates of the atomic
theory that there is a number of other phenomena, in addition to
those of combination in definite proportions, which are strongly indica
tive of the truth of the atomic theory. Among these phenomena are
isomerism, polymerism, and allotropy. But it is very doubtful whether
this theory is countenanced by the phenomena in question. The exist
ence of different allotropic states, in an elementary body said to con
sist of but one kind of atoms, is explicable by the atomic hypothesis
in no other way than by deducing these different states from diversi
ties in the grouping of the different atoms. But this explanation ap
plies to solids only, and fails in the cases of liquids and gases. The
same remark applies to isomerism and polymerism.
From the foregoing considerations, I take it to be clear that the
atomic hypothesis mistakes many of the facts which it seeks to ex
plain ; that it accounts imperfectly or not at all for a number of other
facts which are correctly apprehended; and that there are cases in
which it appears to be in irreconcilable conflict with the data of expe
rience. As a physical theory, it is barren and useless, inasmuch as it
lacks the first requisite of a true theory—that of being a generaliza
tion, a reduction of several facts to one; it is essentially one of those
spurious figments of the brain, based upon an ever-increasing multiplicatio ent turn praeter necessitatem, which are characteristic of the prescientific epochs of human intelligence, and against which the whole
spirit of modern science is an emphatic protest. Moreover, in its
logical and psychological aspect, as we shall hereafter see more
clearly, it is the clumsiest attempt ever made to transcend the sphere
of relations in which all objective reality, as well as all thought,
has its being, and to grasp the absolute “ ens per sese, jinitum, reale,
totumP
I do not speak here of a number of other difficulties which emerge
upon a minute examination of the atomic hypothesis in its two prin
cipal varieties, the atoms being regarded by some physicists as ex
tended and figured masses, and by others as mere centres of force.
In the former case the assumption of physical indivisibility becomes
gratuitous, and that of mathematical indivisibility absurd; while in
the latter case the whole basis of the relation between force and mass,
or rather force and inertia, without which the conception of either
term of the relation is impossible, is destroyed. Some of these diffi
culties are frankly admitted by leading men of science—for instance,
by Du Bois-Reymond, in the lecture above cited. Nevertheless, it is
asserted that the atomic, or at least molecular, constitution of matter
�FINDING THE WAY AT SEA.
7*7
is the only form of material existence which can be realized in thought.
In what sense, and to what extent, this assertion is well founded, will
be my next subject of examination.
FINDING THE WAY AT SEA.
By E. A. PEOCTOE.
IHE wreck of the Atlantic, followed closely by that of the City of
JL Washington nearly on the same spot, has led many to inquire
into the circumstances on which depends a captain’s knowledge of the
position of his ship. In each case, though not in the same way, the
ship was supposed to be far from land, when in reality quite close to
it. In each case, in fact, the ship had oversailed her reckoning. A
slight exaggeration of what travellers so much desire—a rapid pas
sage—proved the destruction of the ship, and in one case occasioned
a fearful loss of life. And, although such events are fortunately infre
quent in Atlantic voyages, yet the bare possibility that, besides or
dinary sea-risks, a ship is exposed to danger from simply losing her
way, suggests unpleasant apprehensions as to the general reliability
of the methods in use for determining where a ship is, and her prog
ress from day to day.
I propose to give a brief sketch of the methods in use for finding
the way at sea, in order that the general principles on which safety
depends may be recognized by the general reader.
It is known, of course, to every one, that a ship’s course and rate
of sailing are carefully noted throughout her voyage. Every change
of her course is taken account of, as well as every change in her rate
of advance, whether under sail or steam, or both combined. If all
this could be quite accurately managed, the position of the ship at
any hour could be known, because it would be easy to mark down on
a chart the successive stages of her journey, from the moment when
she left port. But a variety of circumstances renders this impossible.
To begin with: the exact course of a ship cannot be known, be
cause there is only the ship’s compass to determine her course by, and
a ship’s compass is not an instrument affording perfectly exact indica
tions. Let any one on a sea-voyage observe the compass for a short
time, being careful not to break the good old rule which forbids speech
to the “ man at the wheel,” and he will presently become aware of
the fact that the ship is not kept rigidly to one course, even for a short
time. The steersman keeps her as near as he can to a particular
course, but she is continually deviating, now a little on one side, now
a little on the other, of the intended direction; and even the general
accuracy with which that course is followed is a matter of estimation,
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
and depends on the skill of the individual steersman. Looking at
the compass-card, in steady weather, a course may seem very closely
followed; perhaps the needle’s end may not be a hundredth part of
an inch (on the average) from the position it should have. But a hun
dredth part of an inch on the circumference of the compass-card
would correspond to a considerable deviation in the course of a run
of twenty or thirty knots ; and there is nothing to prevent the errors
so arising from accumulating in a long journey until a ship might be
thirty or forty miles from her estimated place. To this may be added
the circumstance that the direction of the needle is different in differ
ent parts of the earth. In some places it points to the east of the
north, in others to the west. And, although the actual “ variation of
the compass,” as this peculiarity is called, is known in a general way
for all parts of the earth, yet such knowledge has no claim to actual
exactness. There is also an important danger, as recent instances
have shown, in the possible change of the position of the ship’s com
pass, on account of iron in her cargo.
But a far more important cause of error, in determinations merely
depending on the log-book, is that arising from uncertainty as to the
ship’s rate of progress. The log-line gives only a rough idea of the
4 ship’s rate at the time when the log is cast;1 and, of course, a ship’s
rate does not remain constant, even when she is under steam alone.
Then, again, currents carry the ship along sometimes with consider
able rapidity; and the log-line affords no indication of their action:
while no reliance can be placed on the estimated rates, even of known
currents. Thus the distance made on any course may differ consider
ably from the estimated distance; and, when several days’ sailing are
dealt with, an error of large amount may readily accumulate.
For these and other reasons, a ship’s captain places little reliance
on what is called “ the day’s work ”—that is, the change in the ship’s
position from noon to noon as estimated from the compass-courses en
tered in the log-book, and the distances supposed to be run on these
courses. It is absolutely essential that such estimates should be careful
ly made, because, under favorable conditions of weather, there may be
no other means of guessing at the ship’s position. But the only really
reliable way of determining a ship’s place is- by astronomical observa
tions. It is on this account that the almanac published by the Ad
miralty, in which the position and apparent motions of the celestial
bodies are indicated, four or five years in advance, is called, par excel1 The log is a flat piece of wood of quadrantal shape, so loaded at the rim as to float
with the point (that is, the centre of the quadrant) uppermost. To this a line about
300 yards long is fastened. The log is thrown overboard, and comes almost immediately
to rest on the surface of the sea, the line being suffered to run freely out. By marks on
the log-line divided into equal spaces, called knots, of known length, and by observing
how many of these run out, while the sand in a half-minute hour-glass is running, the
ship’s rate of motion is roughly inferred. The whole process is necessarily rough, since
the line cannot even be straightened.
�FINDING THE WAY AT SEA.
719
fence, the Nautical Almanac. The astronomer, in his fixed observa
tory, finds this almanac essential to the prosecution of his observa
tions ; the student of theoretical astronomy has continual occasion to
refer to it; but, to the sea-captain, the Nautical Almanac has a far
more important use. The lives of sailors and passengers are depend
ent upon its accuracy. It is, again, chiefly for the sailor that our
great nautical observatories have been erected, and that our astron
omer-royal and his officers are engaged. What other work they
may do is subsidiary, and, as it were, incidental. Their chief work is
to time this great clock, our earth, and so to trace the motions of
those celestial indices, which afford our fundamental time-measures,
as to insure as far as possible the safety of our navy, royal and mer
cantile.1
Let us see how this is brought about, not, indeed, by inquiring into
the processes by which, at the Greenwich Observatory, the elements
of safety are obtained, but by considering the method by which a sea
man makes use of these elements.
In the measures heretofore considered, the captain of a ship in
reality relies on terrestrial measurements. He reasons that, being on
such and such a day in a given place, and having in the interval sailed
so many miles in such and such directions, he must at the time being
be in such and such a place. This is called “ navigation.” In the
processes next to be considered, which constitute a part of the science
of nautical astronomy, the seaman trusts to celestial observations in
dependently of all terrestrial measurements.
The points to be determined by the voyager are his latitude and
longitude. The latitude is the distance north or south of the equa
tor, and is measured always from the equator in degrees, the distance
from equator to pole being divided into ninety equal parts, each of
which is a degree.3 The longitude is the distance east or west of
Greenwich (in English usage, but other nations employ a different
starting-point for measuring longitudes from). Longitude is not meas
ured in miles, but in degrees. The way of measuring is not very
1 This consideration has been altogether lost sight of in certain recent propositions
for extending government aid to astronomical inquiries of another sort. It may be a
most desirable thing that government should find means for inquiring into the physical
condition of sun and moon, planets and comets, stars and all the various orders of star
clusters. But, if such matters are to be studied at government expense, it should be un
derstood that the inquiry is undertaken with the sole purpose of advancing our knowl
edge of these interesting subjects, and should not be brought into comparison with the
utilitarian labors for which our Royal Observatory was founded.
2 Throughout this explanation all minuter details are neglected. In reality, in conse
quence of the flattening of the earth’s globe, the degrees of latitude are not equal, being
larger the farther we go from the equator. Moreover, strictly speaking, it is incorrect
to speak of distances being divided into degrees, or to say that a degree of latitude or
longitude contains so many miles ; yet it is so exceedingly inconvenient to employ any
other way of speaking in popular description, that I trust any astronomers or mathema
ticians who may read this article will forgive the solecism.
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
readily explained without a globe or diagrams, but may be thus indi
cated : Suppose a circle to run completely round the earth, through
Greenwich and both the poles; now, if this circle be supposed free to
turn upon the polar axis, or on the poles as pivots, and the half which
crosses Greenwich be carried (the nearest way round) till it crosses
some other station, then the arc through which it is carried is called
the longitude of the station, and the longitude is easterly or westerly
according as this half-circle has to be shifted toward the east or west.
A complete half-turn is 180°, and, by taking such a half-turn either
eastwardly or westwardly, the whole surface of the earth is included.
Points which are 180° east of Greenwich are thus also 180° west of
Greenwich.
So much is premised in the way of explanation to make the present
paper complete ; but ten minutes’ inspection of an ordinary terrestrial
globe will show the true meaning of latitude and longitude more
clearly (to those who happen to have forgotten what they learned at
school on these points) than any verbal description.
Now, it is sufficiently easy for a sea-captain in fine weather to de
termine his latitude. For places in different latitudes have different
celestial scenery, if one may so describe the aspect of the stellar heav
ens by night and the course traversed by the sun by day. The height
of the pole-star above the horizon, for instance, at once indicates the
latitude very closely, and would indicate the latitude exactly if the
pole-star were exactly at the pole instead of being merely close to it.
But the height of any known star when due south also gives the lati
tude. For, at every place in a given latitude, a star rises to a given
greatest height when due south; if we travel farther south, the star
will be higher when due south ; if we travel farther north, it will be
lower; and thus its observed height shows just how far north of the
equator any northerly station is, while, if the traveller is in the South
ern Hemisphere, corresponding observations show how far to the south
of the equator he is.
But commonly the seaman trusts to observation of the sun to give
him his latitude. The observation is made at noon, when the sun is
highest above the horizon. The actual height is determined by means
of the instrument called the sextant. This instrument need not be
here described; but thus much may be mentioned to explain that pro
cess of taking the sun’s meridian altitude which, no doubt, every one
has witnessed who has taken a long sea-journey. The sextant is so
devised that the observer can see two objects at once, one directly and
the other after reflection of its light; and the amount by which he has
to move a certain bar carrying the reflecting arrangement, in order to
bring the two objects into view in the same direction, shows him the
real divergence of lines drawn from his eye to the two objects. To
take the sun’s altitude, then, with this instrument, the observer takes
the sun as one object and the horizon directly below the sun as the
�FINDING THE WAY AT SEA.
721
other: he brings them into view together, and then, looking at the
sextant to see how much he has had to move the swinging arm which
carries the reflecting glasses, he learns how high the sun is. This being
done at noon, with proper arrangements to insure that the greatest
height then reached by the sun is observed, at once indicates the lati
tude of the observer. Suppose, for example, he finds the sun to be
40° above the horizon, and the Nautical Almanac tells him that, at
the time the sun is 10° north of the celestial equator, then he knows
that the celestial equator is 30° above the southern horizon. The pole
of the heavens is, therefore, 60° above the northern horizon, and the
voyager is in 60° north latitude. Of course, in all ordinary cases, the
number of degrees is not exact, as I have here for simplicity sup
posed, and there are some niceties of observation which would have
to be taken into account in real work. But the principle of the method
is sufficiently indicated by what has been said, and no useful purpose
could be served by considering minutiae.
Unfortunately, the longitude is not determined so readily. The
very circumstance which makes the determination of the latitude so
simple introduces the great difficulty which exists in finding the lon
gitude. I have said that all places in the same latitude have the same
celestial scenery; and precisely for this reason it is difficult to dis
tinguish one such place from another, that is, to find on what part of
its particular latitude-circle any place may lie.
If we consider, however, how longitude is measured, and what it
really means, we shall readily see where a solution of the difficulty is
to be sought. The latitude of a station means how far toward either
pole the station is; its longitude means how far round the station is
from some fixed longitude. But it is by turning round on her axis
that the earth causes the changes which we call day and night; and
therefore these must happen at different times in places at different
distances round. For example, it is clear that, if it is noon at one sta
tion, it must be midnight at a station half-way round from the former.
And if any one at one station could telegraph to a person at another,
“ It is exactly noon here,” while this latter person knew from his clock
or watch that it was exactly midnight where he was, then he would
know that he was half-way round exactly. He would, in fact, know
his longitude from the other station. And so with smaller differences.
The earth turns, we know, from west to east—that is, a place lying due
west of another is so carried as presently to occupy the place which*
its easterly neighbor had before occupied, while this last place has
gone farther east yet. Let us suppose an hour is the time required to
carry a westerly station to the position which had been occupied by a
station to the east of it. Then manifestly every celestial phenomenon
depending on the earth’s turning will occur an hour later at the west
erly station. Sunrise and sunset are phenomena of this kind. If I
telegraph to a friend at some station far to the west, but in the same
vol. ni.—46
�722
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
latitude, “ The sun is rising here,” and he finds that he has to wait ex
actly an hour before the sun rises there, then he knows that he is one
hour west of me in longitude, a most inexact yet very convenient and
unmistakable way of speaking. As there are twenty-four hours in the
day, while a complete circle running through my station and his (and
everywhere in the same latitude) is supposed to be divided into 360°,
he is 15° (a 24th part of 360) west of me; and, if my station is Green
wich, he is in what we, in England, call 15° west longitude.1
But what is true of sunrise and sunset in the same latitudes and
different longitudes, is true of noon whatever the latitude may be.
And of course it is true of the southing of any known star. Only un
fortunately one cannot tell the exact instant when either the sun or a
star is due south or at its highest above the horizon. Still, speaking
generally, and for the moment limiting our attention to noon, every
station toward the west has noon later, while every station toward
the east has noon earlier, than Greenwich (or whatever reference sta
tion is employed).
I shall presently return to the question how the longitude is to be
determined with sufficient exactness for safety in sea-voyages. But
I may digress here to note what happens in sea-voyages where the
longitude changes. If a voyage is made toward the west, as from
England to America, it is manifest that a watch set to Greenwich
time will be in advance of the local time as the ship proceeds west
ward, and will be more and more in advance the farther the ship trav
els in that direction. For instance, suppose a watch shows Greenwich
time ; then when it is noon at Greenwich the watch will point to
twelve, but it will be an hour before noon at a place 15° west of
Greenwich, two hours before noon at a place 30° west, and so on :
that is, the watch will point to twelve when it is only eleven
o’clock, ten o’clock, and so on, of local time. On arrival at New
York, the traveller would find that his watch was nearly five
hours fast. Of course the reverse happens in a voyage toward the
east. For instance, a watch set to New-York time would be found
to be nearly five hours slow, for Greenwich time, when the traveller
arrived in England.
In the following passage these effects are humorously illustrated
by Mark Twain:
“ Young Mr. Blucher, who is from the Far West, and on his first
yoyage” (from New York to Europe) “was a good deal worried by
the constantly-changing ‘ ship-time.’ He was proud of his new watch
at first, and used to drag it out promptly when eight bells struck at
noon, but he came to look after a while as if he were losing confi1 In this case, he is “ at sea ” (which, I trust, will not be the case with the reader),
and, we may suppose, connected with Greenwich by submarine telegraph in course of
being laid. In fact, the position of the Great Eastern throughout her cable-laying jour
neys, was determined by a method analogous to that sketched above.
�FINDING THE WAY AT SEA.
723
dence in it. Seven days out from New York he came on deck, and
said with great decision, ‘This thing’s a swindle ! ’ ‘ What’s a swin
dle?’ ‘Why, this watch. I bought her out in Illinois—gave $150
for her, and I thought she was good. And, by George, she is good
on shore, but somehow she don’t keep up her lick here on the water—
gets sea-sick, may be. She skips ; she runs along regular enough, till
half-past eleven, and then all of a sudden she lets down. I’ve set that
old regulator up faster and faster, till I’ve shoved it clear round, but
it don’t do any good; she just distances every watch in the ship,1 and
clatters along in a way that’s astonishing till it’s noon, but them “ eight
bells ” always gets in about ten minutes ahead of her any way. I don’t
know what to do with her now. She’s doing all she can; she’s going
her best gait, but it won’t save her. Now, don’t you know there ain’t
a watch in the ship that’s making better time than she is ; but what
does it signify ? When you hear them “ eight bells,” you’ll find her
just ten minutes short of her score—sure.’ The ship was gaining a
full hour every three days, and this fellow was trying to make his
watch go fast enough to keep up to her. But, as he had said, he had
pushed the regulator up as far as it would go, and the watch was
‘ on its best gait,’ and so nothing was left him but to fold his hands
and see the ship beat in the race. We sent him to the captain, and
he explained to him the mystery of ‘ ship-time,’ and set his troubled
mind at rest. This young man,” proceeds Mr. Clemens, d propos
des bottes, “ had asked a great many questions about sea-sickness be
fore we left, and wanted to know what its characteristics were, and how
he was to tell when he had it. He found out.”
I cannot leave Mark Twain’s narrative, however, without gently
criticising a passage in which he has allowed his imagination to invent
effects of longitude which assuredly were never perceived in any voy
age since the ship Argo set out after the Golden Fleece. “We had
the phenomenon of a full moon,” he says, “ located just in the same
spot in the heavens, at the same hour every night. The reason of this
singular conduct on the part of the moon did not occur to us at first,
but it did afterward, when we reflected that we were gaining about
twenty minutes every day ; because we were going east so fast, we
gained just about enough every day to keep along with the moon. It
was becoming an old moon to the friends we had left behind us, but
to us Joshuas it stood still in the same place, and remained always the
same.” O Mr. Clemens, Mr. Clemens! In a work of imagination
(as the “Innocents Abroad” must, I suppose, be to a great extent
considered), a mistake such as that here made is perhaps not a very
serious matter; but, suppose some unfortunate compiler of astronomi
cal works should happen to remember this passage, and to state (as a
1 Because set to go “ fast.” Of course, the other watches on board would be left to
go at their usual rate, and simply put forward at noon each day by so many minutes as
corresponded to the run eastward since the preceding noon.
�724
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
compiler would be tolerably sure to do, unless he had a mathematical
friend at his elbow) that, by voyaging eastward at such and such a
rate, a traveller can always have the moon “ full ” at night, in what an
unpleasant predicament would the mistake have placed him ’ Such
things happen, unfortunately ; nay, I have even seen works, in which
precisely such mistakes have been made, in use positively as text-books
for examinations. On this account, our fiction writers must be careful
in introducing science details, lest peradventure science-teachers (save
the mark !) be led astray.
It need scarcely be said that no amount of eastwardly voyaging
would cause the moon to remain always “ full ” as seen by the voyager.
The moon’s phase is the same from whatever part of the earth she may
be seen, and she will become “ new,” that is, pass between the earth
and the sun, no matter what voyages may be undertaken by the in
habitants of earth. Mr. Clemens has confounded the monthly motion
of the moon with her daily motion. A traveller who could only go
fast enough eastward might keep the moon always due south. To do
this he would have to travel completely round the earth in a day and
(roughly) about 50| minutes. If he continued this for a whole month,
the moon would never leave the southern heavens ; but she would not
continue “ full.” In fact, we see that the hour of the day (local time)
would be continually changing—since the traveller would not go round
once in twenty-four hours (which would be following the sun, and
would cause the hour of the day to remain always the same), but in
twenty-four hours and the best part of another hour; so that the day
would seem to pass on, though very slowly, lasting a lunar month in
stead of a common day.
Every one who makes a long sea-voyage must have noted the im
portance attached to moon observations; and many are misled into
the supposition that these observations are directly intended for the
determination of the longitude (or, which is the same thing in effect,
for determining true ship-time). This, however, is a mistake. The
latitude can be determined at noon, as we have seen. A rough ap
proximation to the local time can be obtained also, and is commonly
obtained, by noting when the sun begins to dip after reaching the
highest part of his course above the horizon. But this is necessarily
only a rough approximation, and quite unsuited for determining the
ship’s longitude. For the sun’s elevation changes very slowly at
noon, and no dip can be certainly recognized, even from terrafirrna, far
less from a ship, within a few minutes of true noon. A determination
of time effected in this way serves very well for the ship’s “ watches,”
and accordingly when the sun, so observed, begins to dip, they strike
“ eight bells ” and “ make it noon.” But it would be a serious matter
for the crew if that was made the noon for working the ship’s place;
for an error of many miles would be inevitable.
The following passage from “Foul Play” illustrates the way in
�FINDING THE WAY AT SEA.
725
which mistakes have arisen on this point: The hero, who, being a cler
gyman and a university man, is, of course, a master of every branch
of science, is about to distinguish himself before the heroine by work
ing out the position of the ship Proserpine, whose captain is senseless
ly drunk. After ten days’ murky weather, “ the sky suddenly cleared,
and a rare opportunity occurred to take an observation. Hazel sug
gested to Wylie, the mate, the propriety of taking advantage of the
moment, as the fog-bank out of which they had just emerged would
soon envelop them again, and they had not more than an hour or so
of such observation available. The man gave a shuffling answer.
So he sought the captain in his cabin. He found him in bed. He
was dead drunk. On a shelf lay the instruments. These Hazel
took, and then looked round for the chronometers. They were safely
locked in their cases. He carried the instruments on deck, together
with a book of tables, and quietly began to make preparations, at
which Wylie, arresting his walk, gazed with utter astonishment ” (as
well he might).
“ ‘ Now, Mr. Wylie, I want the key of the chronometer-cases.’
“ ‘ Here is a chronometer, Mr. Hazel,’ said Helen, very innocently,
‘ if that is all you want.’
“ Hazel smiled, and explained that a ship’s clock is made to keep
the most exact time; that he did not require the time of the spot
where they were, but Greenwich time. He took the watch, however.
It was a large one for a lady to carry; but it was one of Frodsham’s
masterpieces.
“ ‘ Why, Miss Rolleston,’ said he, ‘ this watch must be two hours
slow. It marks ten o’clock; it is now nearly mid-day. Ah, I see,’ he
added, with a smile, ‘you have wound it regularly every day, but you
have forgotten to set it daily. Indeed, you may be right; it would be
a useless trouble, since we change our longitude hourly. Well, let us
suppose that this watch shows the exact time at Sydney, as I presume
it does, I can work the ship’s reckoning from that meridian, instead of
that of Greenwich.’ And he set about doing it.” Wylie, after some
angry words with Hazel, brings the chronometers and the charts.
Hazel “ verified Miss Rolleston’s chronometer, and, allowing for differ
ence of time, found it to be accurate. He returned it to her, and pro
ceeded to work on the chart. The men looked on; so did Wylie.
After a few moments, Hazel read as follows: ‘West longitude 146°
53' 18”. South latitude 35° 24'. The island of Oparo 1 and the Four
Crowns distant 420 miles on the N. N. E.,’ ” and so on. And, of course,
“ Miss Rolleston fixed her large, soft eyes on the young clergyman
with the undisguised admiration a woman is apt to feel for what she
does not understand.”
1 The island fixes the longitude at about It?0, otherwise I should have thought the 4
was a misprint for 7. In longitude 177° west, Sydney time would be about 2 hours slow,
but about 4 hours slow in longitude 147° west.
�726
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
The scene here described corresponds pretty closely, I have little
doubt, with one actually witnessed by the novelist, except only that
the captain or chief officer made the observations, and that either
there had not been ten days’ murky weather, or else that in the fore
noon, several hours at least before noon, an observation of the sun had
been made. The noon observation would give the latitude, and com
bined with a forenoon observation, would give the longitude, but
alone would be practically useless for that purpose. It is curious that
the novelist sets the longitude as assigned much more closely than the
latitude, and the value given would imply that the ship’s time was
known within less than a second. This would in any case be imprac
ticable ; but, from noon observations, the time could not be learned
within a minute at the least. The real fact is, that, to determine true
time, the seaman selects, not noon, as is commonly supposed, but a
time when the sun is nearly due east or due west. For then the sun’s
elevation changes most rapidly, and so gives the surest means of de
termining the time. The reader can easily see the rationale of this by
considering the case of an ordinary clock-hand. Suppose our only
means of telling the time was by noting how high the end of the min
ute-hand was: then, clearly, we should be apt to make a greater mistake in estimating the time, when the hand was near XII., than at any
other time, because then its end changes very slowly in height, and a
minute more or less makes very little difference. On the contrary,
when the hand was near III. and IX., we could in a very few seconds
note any change of the height of its extremity. In one case we could
not tell the time within a minute or two; in the other, we could tell it
within a few seconds.
But the noon observation would be wanted to complete the deter
mination of the longitude ; for, until the latitude was known, the cap
tain would not be aware what apparent path the sun was describing
in the heavens, and therefore would not know the time corresponding
to any particular solar observation. So that a passenger, curious in
watching the captain’s work, would be apt to infer that the noon ob
servations gave the longitude, since he would perceive that from them
the captain worked out both the longitude and the latitude.
It is curious that another and critical portion of the same enter
taining novel is affected by the mistake of the novelist on this subject.
After the scuttling of the Proserpine, and other events, Hazel and Miss
Rolleston are alone on an island in the Pacific. Hazel seeks to deter
mine their position, as one step toward escape. Now, “ you must
know that Hazel, as he lay on his back in the boat, had often, in a
half-drowsy way, watched the effect of the sun upon the boat’s mast:
it now stood, a bare pole, and at certain hours acted like the needle of
a dial by casting a shadow on the sands. Above all, he could see
pretty well, by means of this pole and its shadow, when the sun at
tained its greatest elevation. He now asked Miss Rolleston to assist
�FINDING THE WAY AT SEA.
7*7
him in making this observation exactly. She obeyed his instructions,
and, the moment the shadow reached its highest angle and showed the
minutest symptom of declension, she said ‘Now,’ and Hazel called out
in a loud voice ” (why did he do that ?) “ ‘ Noon ! ’ ‘ And forty nine
minutes past eight at Sydney,’ said Helen, holding out her chronome
ter ; for she had been sharp enough to get it ready of her own accord.
Hazel looked at her and at the watch with amazement and incredulity.
‘ What ? ’ said he. ‘ Impossible 1 You can’t have kept Sydney time
all this while.’ ‘ And pray why not ? ’ said Helen. ‘ Have you forgot
ten that some one praised me for keeping Sydney time ? it helped you
somehow or other to know where we were.’ ” After some discussion,
in which she shows how natural it was that she should have wound up
her watch every night, even when “ neither of them expected to see
the morning,” she asks to be praised. “ ‘ Praised ! ’ cried Hazel, ex
citedly, ‘ worshipped, you mean. Why, we have got the longitude by
means of your chronometer. It is wonderful ! It is providential. It
is the finger of Heaven. Pen and ink, and let me work it out.’ ” He
was “ soon busy calculating the longitude of Godsend Island.” What
follows is even more curiously erroneous. “ ‘ There,’ said he. ‘Now,
the latitude I must guess at by certain combinations. In the first
place the slight variation in the length of the days. Then I must try
and make a rough calculation of the sun’s parallax.’ ” (It would have
been equally to the purpose to have calculated how many cows’ tails
would reach to the moon.) “ ‘ And then my botany will help me a
little ; spices furnish a clew ; there are one or two that will not grow
outside the tropic,’ ” and so on. He finally sets the latitude between
the 26th and 33d parallels, a range of nearly 500 miles. The longi
tude, however, which is much more closely assigned, is wrong alto
gether, being set at 3 O3-J-0 west, as the rest of the story requires. For
Godsend Island is within not many days’ sail of Valparaiso. The
mistake has probably arisen from setting Sydney in west longitude in
stead of east longitude, 151° 14' ; for the difference of time, 3h. 11m.,
corresponds within a minute to the difference of longitude between
151° 14' west and 103-£° west.
Mere mistakes of calculation, however, matter little in such cases.
They do not affect the interest of a story even in such extreme cases
as in “Ivanhoe,” where a full century is dropped in such sort that
one of Richard I.’s knights holds converse with a contemporary of
the Conqueror, who, if my memory deceives me not, was Cœur de
Lion’s great-great-grandfather. It is a pity, however, that a nov
elist or indeed any writer should attempt to sketch scientific methods
with which he is not familiar. No discredit can attach to any per
son, not an astronomer, who does not understand the astronomical
processes for determining latitude and longitude, any more than to
one who, not being a lawyer, is unfamiliar with the rules of convey
ancing. But, when an attempt is made by a writer of fiction to give
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an exact description of any technical matter, it is as well to secure
correctness by submitting the description to some friend acquainted
with the principles of the subject. For, singularly enough, people pay
much more attention to these descriptions when met with in novels,
than when given in text-books of science, and they thus come to re
member thoroughly well precisely what they ought to forget. I think
for instance, that it may not improbably have been some recollection
of “ Foul Play” which led Mr. Lockyer to make the surprising state
ment that longitude is determined at sea by comparing chronometer
time with local time, which is found “ at noon by observing, with the
aid of a sextant, when the sun is at the highest point of its path.”
Our novelists really must not lead the students of astronomy astray in
this manner.
It will be clear to the reader, by this time, that the great point
in determining the longitude is, to have the true time of Greenwich
or some other reference station, in order that, by comparing this time
with ship-time, the longitude east or west of the reference station may
be ascertained. Ship-time can always be determined by a morning
or afternoon observation of the sun, or by observing a known star
when toward the east or west, at which time the diurnal motion
raises or depresses it most rapidly. The latitude being known, the
time of day (any given day) at which the sun or a star should have
any particular altitude is known also, and, therefore, conversely, when
the altitude of the sun or a star has been noted, the seaman has learned
the time of day. But to find Greenwich time is another matter;
and, without Greenwich time, ship-time teaches nothing as to the lon
gitude. How is the voyager at sea or in desert places to know the
exact time at Greenwich or some other fixed station? We have seen
that chronometers are used for this purpose; and chronometers are
now made so marvellously perfect in construction that they can be
trusted to show true time within a few seconds, under ordinary con
ditions. But it must not be overlooked that in long voyages a chro
nometer, however perfect its construction, is more liable to get wrong
than at a fixed station. That it is continually tossed and shaken is
something, but is not the chief trial to which it is exposed. The
great changes of temperature endured, when a ship passes from the
temperate latitudes across the torrid zone to the temperate zone
again, try a chronometer far more severely than any ordinary form of
motion. And then it is to be noted that a very insignificant time
error corresponds to a difference of longitude quite sufficient to occa
sion a serious error in the ship’s estimated position. For this reason
and for others, it is desirable to have some means of determining
Greenwich time independently of chronometers.
This, in fact, is the famous problem for the solution of which such
high rewards were offered and have been given.1 It was to solve this
1 For invention of the chronometer, Harrison (a Yorkshire carpenter, and the son of
�FINDING THE WAY AT SEA.
77D
problem that Whiston, the same who fondly imagined Newton was
afraid of him,1 suggested the use of bombs and mortars ; for which
Hogarth pilloried him in the celebrated mad-house scene of the Rake’s
Progress. Of course Whiston had perceived the essential feature of
all methods intended for determining the longitude. Any signal
which is recognizable, no matter by eye or ear, or in whatsoever way,
at both stations, the reference station and the station whose longitude
is required, must necessarily suffice to convey the time of one station
to the other. The absurdity of Whiston’s scheme lay in the implied
supposition that any form of ordnance could propel rocket-signals far
enough to be seen or heard in mid-ocean. Manifestly the only signals
available, when telegraphic communication is impossible, are signals
in the celestial spaces, for these alone can be discerned simultaneously
from widely-distant parts of the earth. It has been to such signals,
then, that men of science have turned for the required means of de
termining longitude.
Galileo was the first to point out that the satellites of Jupiter sup
ply a series of signals which might serve to determine the longitude.
When one of these bodies is eclipsed in Jupiter’s shadow, or passes
out of sight behind Jupiter’s disk, or reappears from eclipse or occul
tation, the phenomenon is one which can be seen from a whole hemi
sphere of the earth’s surface. It is as truly a signal as the appear
ance or disappearance of a light in ordinary night-signalling. If it
can be calculated beforehand that one of these events will take place
at any given hour of Greenwich time, then, from whatever spot the
phenomenon is observed, it is known there that the Greenwich hour
is that indicated. Theoretically, this is a solution of the famous
problem ; and Galileo, the discoverer of Jupiter’s four satellites,
thought he had found the means of determining the longitude with
great accuracy. Unfortunately, these hopes have not been realized.
At sea, indeed, except in the calmest weather, it is impossible to ob
serve the phenomena of Jupiter’s satellites, simply because the tele
scope cannot be directed steadily upon the planet. But even on land
Jupiter’s satellites afford but imperfect means of guessing at the
longitude. For, at present, their motions have not been thoroughly
mastered by astronomers, and though the Nautical Almanac gives
the estimated epochs for the various phenomena of the four satellites,
a carpenter) received £20,000. This sum had been offered for a marine chronometer
which would stand the test of two voyages of assigned length. Harrison labored fifty
years before he succeeded in meeting the required condition.
1 Newton, for excellent reasons, had opposed Whiston’s election to the Royal Society.
Like most small men, Whiston was eager to secure a distinction which, unless sponta
neously offered to him, could have conferred no real honor. Accordingly he was amusingly
indignant with Newton for opposing him. “ Newton perceived,” he wrote, “ that I could
not do as his other darling friends did, that is, learn of him without contradicting him
when I differed in opinion from him : he could not in his old age bear such contradiction,
and so he was afraid of me the last thirteen years of his life.”
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yet, owing to the imperfection of the tables, these epochs are often
found to be appreciably in error. There is yet another difficulty.
The satellites are not mere points, but, being in reality also as large
as or larger than our moon, they have disks of appreciable though
small dimensions. Accordingly, they do not vanish or reappear in
stantaneously, but gradually, the process lasting in reality several
seconds (a longer or shorter time, according to the particular satellites
considered), and the estimated moment of the phenomenon thus comes
to depend on the power of the telescope employed, or the skill or the
visual powers of the observer, or the condition of the atmosphere, and
so on. Accordingly, very little reliance could be placed on such ob
servations as a mean for determining the longitude with any consid
erable degree of exactness.
No other celestial phenomena present themselves except those
depending on the moon’s motions.1 All the planets, as well as the
sun and moon, traverse at various rates and in different paths the
sphere of the fixed stars. But the moon alone moves with sufficient
1 If but one star or a few would periodically (and quite regularly) “ go out ” for a few
moments, the intervals between such vanishings being long enough to insure that one
would not be mistaken in point of time for the next or following one, then it would be pos
sible to determine Greenwich or other reference time with great exactness. And here
one cannot but recognize an argument against the singular theory that the stars were in
tended simply as lights to adorn our heavens and to be of use to mankind. The ideolo
gists who have adopted this strange view can hardly show how the theory is consistent
with the fact that quite readily the stars (or a few of them) might have been so contrived
as to give man the means of travelling with much more security over the length and
breadth of his domain than is at present possible. In this connection I venture to quote
a passage in which Sir John Herschel has touched on the usefulness of the stars, in terms
which, were they not corrected by other and better-known passages in his writings,
might suggest that he had adopted the theory I have just mentioned: “The stars,” he
said, in an address to the Astronomical Society, in 1827, “ are landmarks of the universe;
and, amid the endless and complicated fluctuations of our system, seem placed by its
Creator as guides and records, not merely to elevate our minds by the contemplation
of what is vast, but to teach us to direct our actions by reference to what is immutable
in his works. It is indeed hardly possible to over-appreciate their value in this point
of view. Every well-determined star, from the moment its place is registered, becomes
to the astronomer, the geographer, the navigator, the surveyor, a point of departure
which can never deceive or fail him—the same forever and in all places, of a delicacy
so extreme as to be a test for every instrument yet invented by man, yet equally adapted
for the most ordinary purposes; as available for regulating a town-clock as for con
ducting a navy to the Indies; as effective for mapping down the intricacies of a petty
barony as for adjusting the boundaries of transatlantic empires. When once its place
has been thoroughly ascertained, and carefblly recorded, the brazen circle with which
the useful work was done may moulder, the marble pillar may totter on its base, and
the astronomer himself survive only in the gratitude of posterity; but the record remains,
and transfuses all its own exactness into every determination which takes it for a
groundwork, giving to inferior instruments, nay, even to temporary contrivances, and
to the observations of a few weeks or days, all the precision attained originally at the
cost of so much time, labor, and expense.” It is only necessary, as a corrective to the
erroneous ideas which might otherwise be suggested by this somewhat high-flown pas
sage, to quote the following remarks from the work which represented Sir John Her-
�FINDING THE WAY AT SEA.
731
rapidity to act as a time indicator for terrestrial voyagers. It is hardly
necessary to explain why rapidity of motion is important; but the
following illustration may be given for the purpose. The hour-hand
of a clock does in reality indicate the minute as well as the hour;
yet, owing to the slowness of its motion, we regard the hour-hand as
an unsatisfactory time-indicator, and only consider it as showing what
hour is in progress. So with the more slowly-moving celestial bodies.
They would serve well enough, at least some among them would, to
show the day of the year, if we could only imagine that such informa
tion were ever required from celestial bodies. But it would be hope
less to attempt to ascertain the true time with any degree of accuracy
from their motions. Now, the moon really moves with considerable
rapidity among the stars.1 She completes the circuit of the celestial
sphere in 27£ days (a period less than the common lunation), so that
in one day she traverses about 13°, or her own diameter (which is
rather more than half a degree), in about an hour. This, astronomi
cally speaking, is very rapid motion; and, as it can be detected in a
few seconds by telescopic comparison of the moon’s place with that
of some fixed star, it serves to show the time within a few seconds,
which is precisely what is required by the seaman. Theoretically, all
he has to do is, to take the moon’s apparent distance from a known
star, and also her height and the star’s height above the horizon.
Thence he can calculate what would be the moon’s distance from the
star at the moment of observation, if the observer were at the earth’s
centre. But the Nautical Almanac informs him of the precise instant
of Greenwich time corresponding to this calculated distance. So he
has, what he requires, the true Greenwich time.
It will be manifest that all methods of finding the way at sea,
except the rough processes depending on the log and compass, re
quire that the celestial bodies, or some of them, should be seen.
Hence it is that cloudy weather, for any considerable length of time,
occasions danger, and sometimes leads to shipwreck and loss of life.
Of course the captain of a ship proceeds with extreme caution when
the weather has long been cloudy, especially if, according to his reck
oning, he is drawing near shore. Then the lead comes into play, that
by soundings, if possible, the approach to shore may be indicated,
schel’s more matured views, his well-known “ Outlines of Astronomy:” “For what
purpose are we to suppose such magnificent bodies scattered through the abyss of
space ? Surely not to illuminate our nights, which an additional moon of the thousandth
part of the size of our own world would do much better; nor to sparkle as a pageant
void of meaning and reality, and bewilder us among vain conjectures. Useful, it is
true, they are to man as points of exact and permanent reference, but he must have
studied astronomy to little purpose, who can suppose man to be the only object of his
Creator’s care; or who does not see, in the vast and wonderful apparatus around us,
provision for other races of animated beings.”
1 It was this doubtless which led to the distinction recognized in the book of Job,
where the moon is described as “ walking in brightness.”
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Then, also, by day and night, a careful watch is kept for the signs of
land. But it sometimes happens that, despite all such precautions, a
ship is lost; for there are conditions of weather which, occurring when
a ship is nearing shore, render the most careful lookout futile. These
conditions may be regarded as included among ordinary sea-risks, by
which term are understood all such dangers as would leave a captain
blameless if shipwreck occurred. It would be well if no ships were
ever lost save from ordinary sea-risks; but, unfortunately, ships are
sometimes cast ashore for want of care ; either in maintaining due
watch as the shore is approached, or taking advantage of oppor
tunities, which may be few and far between, for observing sun, or
moon, or stars, as the voyage proceeds. It may safely be said that
the greater number of avoidable shipwrecks have been occasioned by
the neglect of due care in finding the way at sea.
SECULAR PROPHECY.
LTHOUGH prophecy is usually supposed to be the special gift
of inspiration, nothing comes more glibly from secular pens.
Half of the leading articles in the daily newspapers are more or less
disguised predictions. The prophecies of the Times are more numer
ous, more confident, and more explicit, than those of Jeremiah or Isaiah.
“ Secular Prophecy fulfilled” would be a good title for a book written
after the model of those old and half-educated divines who zealously
looked through Isaiah, Jeremiah, Daniel, and the Apocalypse, for
shadowy hints that Hildebrand would enforce celibacy on the clergy
of the Latin Church ; that Luther would cut up the Christianity of the
West into two sections; that Cromwell would sign the death-warrant
of Charles I.; and that the Stuarts would become wanderers over the
face of the earth. There are still, we believe, devout, mystical, and
studious sectaries, who find such events as the disestablishment of
the Irish Church and the meeting of the Vatican Council plainly fore
told in the book of Revelation. They also find Mr. Gladstone’s name
written in letters of fire by inspired pens that left their record while
the captivity of Babylon was a recent memory, or while Nero was the
scourge of the Church. Nay, Dr. Cumming, who is as different from
those mystical interpreters as a smart Yankee trader is from Parson
Adams, sees that the Prophet Daniel and St. John had a still more
minute acquaintance with the home and Continental politics of these
latter days. But “ Secular Prophecy fulfilled ” would show a much
more wonderful series of glimpses into the future than we find in the
interpretations of Dr. Cumming, and it would certainly bring together
a strange set of soothsayers.
�SECULAR PROPHECY.
733
Arthur Young, Lord Chesterfield, and William Cobbett, are not
exactly the kind of men whom we should expect to find among the
prophets. Arthur Young was a shrewd traveller, with a keen eye for
leading facts, and a remarkable power of describing what he saw in
plain, homely words. Chesterfield was a literary and philosophical
dandy, who, richly furnished with the small coin of wisdom, and fear
ing nothing so much as indecorum, would have been a great teacher
if the earth had been a drawing-room. Cobbett was a coarse, rough
English farmer, with an extraordinary power of reasoning at the dic
tate of his prejudices, and with such a faculty of writing racy, vigorous
English as excites the admiration and the despair of scholars. It seems
almost ludicrous to speak of such men as prophets. And yet Arthur
Young foretold the coming of the French Revolution at a time when
the foremost men of France did not dream that the greatest of political
convulsions was soon to lay low the proudest of monarchies. And the
dandified morality of Lord Chesterfield did not prevent him from
making a similar prediction. Cobbett made a guess which was still
more notable ; for, at the beginning of the present century, he foretold
the secession of the Southern States. But the most remarkable of all
the secular prophets who have spoken to our time is Heine. He might
seem indeed to have been a living irony on the very name of prophet,
for he read backward all the sanctities of religion and all the com
mands of the moral law. Essentially a humorist, to whom life seemed
now the saddest of mysteries, and now the most laughable of jokes, he
made sport of every thing that he touched. His most fervid English
devotee, Mr. Matthew Arnold, is forced to admit that he was pro
foundly disrespectable. He quarrelled with his best friends for frivo
lously petty reasons, and he repaid their kindness by writing lampoons
which are masterpieces at once of literary skill and of malignity.
Neither Voltaire nor Pope scattered calumnies with such a lack of scru
ple, and Byron himself was not a more persistent or more systematic
voluptuary. Yet Heine was so true a prophet that his predictions
might have been accounted the work of inspiration if he had been as
famed for piety or purity as he was notorious for irreligion and profli
gacy. He predicted that Germany and France would fight, and that
France would be utterly put down. He predicted that the line of for
tifications which M. Thiers was then building round Paris would draw
to the capital a great hostile army, and that they would crush the
city as if they were a contracting iron shroud. He predicted that the
Communists would some day get the upper hand in Paris, that they
would strike in a spirit of fiendish rage at the statues, the beautiful
buildings, and all the other tangible marks of the civilization which
they sought to destroy; that they would throw down the Vendome
Column in their hate of the man who had made France the foe of
every other people ; and that they would further show their execration
for his memory by taking his ashes from the Invalides and flinging
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
them into the Seine. All these predictions, save the last, have been
fulfilled to the letter, and it would need a bolder prophet than even
Heine himself to say that the last will not be verified also. For
nothing is more remarkable in France than the success with which the
International is teaching the artisans that the first as well as the third
Napoleon was the worst enemy of their class. Although they still
regard his achievements with pride, they fervently believe that he was
the foe of their order, and the acts of the Commune showed their
eagerness to insult his name. And there may be another Commune.
Intrepid prophets would say that there certainly will be another. If
that should happen, it is quite possible that the fanatics of the In
ternational may fling the ashes of the great soldier into the Seine to
mark their abhorrence of military glory.
Prevost-Paradol was as different from Heine as a gifted voluptuary
can be from a polished, fastidious, and decorous gentleman. Yet the
refined, reserved, satirical Orleanist, who seemed to be uncomfortable
when his hands were not encased in kid gloves, and who was a mas
ter of all the literary resources of innuendo, would be as much out of
place among the Hebrew prophets as Heine himself. He would find
a place, nevertheless, in “ Secular Prophecy fulfilled,” by reason of
the startling exactness with which he foretold the outbreak of the
war between his own country and Germany. In a passage which
promises to become classic, he said that the two nations were like
two trains which, starting from opposite points, and placed on the
same line of rails, were driven toward each other at full speed.
There must be a collision. The only doubt was, where it would
happen, and when, and with what results. De Tocqueville better
fulfilled the traditionary idea of a prophet, and there is a startling
accuracy in some of the predictions as to the future of France which
he flung forth in talking with his friends, and of which we find a
partial record in the journal of Mr. Nassau Senior. Eighteen years
before the fall of the empire, he predicted that it would wreck itself
“ in some extravagant foreign enterprise.” “ War,” he added, “ would
assuredly be its death, but its death would perhaps cost dear.” M.
Renan also aspires to a place among the prophets, and he has made
a prediction which may be a subject of some curiosity when the next
pope shall be elected. The Church of Rome will not, he says, be
split up by disputes about doctrine. But he does look for a schism,
and it will come, he thinks, when some papal election shall be deemed
invalid; when there shall be two competing pontiffs, and Europe
shall see a renewal of the strife between Rome and Avignon.
It may be said, no doubt, that the verified predictions which we
have cited are only stray hits; that the oracles make still more re
markable misses; and that, since guesses about the future are shot off
every hour of the day, it would be a marvel if the bull’s-eye were not
struck sometimes. Such a theory might suffice to account for the hits,
�SECULAR PROPHECY.
735
if the prophecies were let off in the dark and at random ; but that is
not the case. It is easy to trace the path along which the mind of
Heine or De Tocqueville travelled to the results of the future, and.
their predictions betray nothing more wonderful than a rare power of
drawing correct inferences from confused facts. A set of general rules
might be laid down as a guide to prophecy. In the first place, we
might give the negative caution that the analogy of past events is mis
leading, because the same set of conditions does not appear at two
different times, and an almost unseen element might suffice to deter
mine an all-important event. Forgetting this fact, Archbishop Man
ning has ventured into the field of prophecy with the argument that
Catholics should not be made uneasy because the pope has lost his
temporal power, for they should remember that he has again and
again suffered worse calamities, and has then won back all his old au
thority. Between 1378 and 1418 the Church witnessed the scandal of
a schism, in which there were rival popes, and in which Rome and
Avignon competed for the mastery. That calamity is worse than any
which has come to the Church in our days, yet the Papacy regained
its old power and glory. So late as within the present century the
temporal power was reduced to nullity by the first Napoleon, and
Pius TX. himself had to flee from Rome in the beginning of his reign.
Why, then, should not the robber-band of Victor Emmanuel be
paralyzed in turn, and the Papacy once more regain its old splendor ?
Not being ambitious to play the part of prophets, we do not undertake
to say whether the Papacy will or will not again climb or be flung into
its ancient place, but it is not the less certain that Archbishop Man
ning’s prophecy is a conspicuous example of a false inference. When
he argues that a pope in the nineteenth century will again be the tem
poral ruler of Rome because a pope triumphed over the schism of
Avignon in the fifteenth, he forgets that the lapse of centuries has
wrought a vast change of conditions. At the end of the fourteenth
century a keen onlooker, a Heine or a De Tocqueville, might have con
fidently foretold that a pope of unquestioned authority would soon
govern the historic city of the Papacy, because the political and the
social interests of Europe, no less than the piety or superstition of the
times, required that the pope should be powerful and free. The cur
rent of the age, if we may use the philosophical slang, was running
from Avignon to Rome in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, and
now the current of the age is not less distinctly running against the
temporal power. The very reasons which would have led a prophet
in 1400 to predict that Rome would again be the unquestioned seat of
the Papacy would lead the same soothsayer to affirm in 1873 that the
temporal power has been shattered forever.
It is in general causes that we find the guide of prophecy. Mr.
Buckle attached so much importance to the physical conditions of a
country, the food of a people, the air they breathe, the occupations
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which they are forced to follow, and the habits of thought which they
display, that he undertook to tell the end of a nation from the begin
ning. Spain was no mystery to him when he remembered that it had
originally been a country of volcanoes ; that the people had conse
quently been filled with a dread of the unseen and inscrutable power
which reveals itself in convulsions of the earth; that their diseased
fear of shadowy influences made them resent the teachings of science,
and hence left them an easy prey to the Holy Office and Ignatius
Loyola when Luther, Calvin, and Zwingle, drew away from sacerdotal
ism all the Christianity of Northern Europe. There can be no doubt
that Buckle’s theory did rest on a basis of truth, and that it erred
simply by trying to account for every thing. In fact, it is not spe
cially his doctrine, but simply the rigid and systematized application
of a principle which is as old as speculative curiosity. We apply it
every day of our lives. If a family go into a badly-drained house,
we say the chances are that they will have typhus, diarrhoea, or chol
era. If a rich and foolish young man bets largely on the turf, the prob
ability is that he will be ruined. And the statistician comes to help
us with a set of tables which throw uncomfortable light on the me
chanical character of those mental and moral processes which might
seem to be determined by the unprompted bidding of our own wills.
Mr. Buckle was no doubt beguiled by a mere dream when he fancied
that we could account for every turn and winding in the history of a
country if we had only a large knowledge of its general conditions,
such as the temperature of the land, the qualities of the soil, the food
of the people, and their relations to their neighbors. He paid too
little heed to subtle qualities of race, and he did not make sufficient
allowance for the disturbing force of men gifted with extraordinary
power of brain and will. Still it is a mere truism that the more cor
rectly and fully we know the general condition of a country, the more
does mystery vanish from its history, and the successive events tend
to take their place in orderly sequence.
It is impossible, however, to prophesy by rule, and such system
mongers as Mr. Buckle would be the most treacherous of all ora<?les.
Their hard and fast canons will not bend into the subtle crevices of
human life. Men who are so ostentatiously logical that they cannot
do a bit of thinking without the aid of a huge apparatus of sharplycut principles always lack a keen scent for truth. They blunder by
rule when less showy people find their way by mother-wit. Hence
they are the worst of all prophets. It was not by counting up how
many things tell in one way, and how many tell in another, that Heine
and De Tocqueville were able to guess correctly what was coming, but
by watching the chief currents of the age, or, as more homely folk
would say, by finding out which way the wind was blowing. They
had to decide which among many social, religious, or political forces
were the strongest, and which would be the most lasting. They had
�SYMPATHETIC VIBRATIONS IN MACHINERY. 737
to give a correct decision as to the stability of particular institutions
and the strength of popular passions. General rules could not be of
much avail, and they had to rely on their knowledge of human nature,
their acquaintance with the forces which have been at work in history,
and their own sagacity. Most likely Heine could not have given such
an explanation of the grounds on which he made his predictions as
would have satisfied any average jury of historical students. But he
could have said that he knew the working-men of Paris; that his
power of poetic sympathy enabled him to see how their minds veered
toward socialism, and he also knew what forces were on the side of
order; and that a mental comparison of the two made him look with
certainty to a ferocious outbreak of democratic passion. Being thus
sure that the storm would come, he had next to ask himself which
points the lightning would strike, and he looked for the most promi
nent symbols of kingship, wealth, refinement, and military glory. The
Tuileries would be a mark for the fury of the mob, because that was
the palace of the man who had destroyed the populace. The public
offices must go, because they represented what the bourgeois called order
and the workmen called tyranny. The Louvre must go, for the mere
sake of maddening rich people who took a delight in art. And the
Vendóme Column must go, because it glorified a man who was the in
carnation of the w ar-spirit, and who was consequently the w’orst foe
of the working-classes. To a select committee of the House of Com
mons such reasons would have seemed the dreams of a moon-struck
visionary, and they certainly did not admit of being logically defended.
No prophecy does. The power of predicting events is the power of
guessing, and those guess best who are least dependent on rules, and
most gifted with the mother-wit which works with the quietude and
unconsciousness of instinct.—Saturday Review.
4«»
SYMPATHETIC VIBRATIONS IN MACHINERY.*
By Pbof. J. LOVEEING,
.
OF HARVARD COLLEGE.
T the meeting of this Association in Burlington, I showed some
experiments in illustration of the optical method of making sen
sible the vibrations of the column of air in an organ-pipe. At the
Chicago meeting I demonstrated the way in which the vibrations of
strings could be studied by the eye in place of the ear, when these
strings were attached to tuning-forks with which they could vibrate in
sympathy; substituting for the small forks, originally used by Melde,
A
1 From the Proceedings of the Twenty-first Meeting of the American Association for
the Advancement of Science.
—47
vol. hi.
�738
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
a colossal tuning-fork, the prongs of which were placed between the
poles of a powerful electro-magnet. This fork, which interrupted
the battery current, at the proper time, by its own motion, was
able to put a heavy cord, thirty feet in length, in the most ener
getic vibration, and for an indefinite time. I propose, at the present
time, to speak of those sympathetic vibrations which are pitched so
low as not to come within the limits of human ears, but which are
felt rather than heard, and to show how they may be seen as well
as felt.
All structures, large or small, simple or complex, have a definite
rate of vibration, depending on their materials, size, and shape, and as
fixed as the fundamental note of a musical cord. They may also vi
brate in parts, as the cord does, and thus be capable of various increas
ing rates of vibration, which constitute their harmonics. If one body
vibrates, all others in the neighborhood will respond, if the rate of
vibration in the first agrees with their own principal or secondary
rates of vibration, even when no more substantial bond than the air
unites a body with its neighbors. In this way, mechanical disturb
ances, harmless in their origin, assume a troublesome and perhaps a
dangerous character, when they enter bodies all too ready to move at
the required rate, and sometimes beyond the sphere of their stability.
When the bridge at Colebrooke Dale (the first iron bridge in the
world) was building, a fiddler came along and said to the workmen
that he could fiddle their bridge down. The builders thought this
boast a fiddle-de-dee, and invited the itinerant musician to fiddle away
to his heart’s content. One note after another was struck upon the
strings until one was found with which the bridge was in sympathy.
When the bridge began to shake violently, the incredulous workmen
were alarmed at the unexpected result, and ordered the fiddler to stop.
At one time, considerable annoyance was experienced in one of
the mills in Lowell, because the walls of the building and the floors
were violently shaken by the machinery: so much so that, on certain
days, a pail of water would be nearly emptied of its contents, while on
other days all was quiet. Upon investigation it appeared that the
building shook in response to the motion of the machinery only when
that moved at a particular rate, coinciding with one of the harmoriics
of the structure ; and the simple remedy for the trouble consisted in
making the machinery move at a little more or a little less speed, so
as to put it out of time with the building.
We can easily believe that, in many cases, these violent vibrations
will loosen the cement and derange the parts of a building, so that it
may afterward fall under the pressure of a weight which otherwise
it was fully able to bear, and at a time, possibly, when the machinery
is not in motion; and this may have something to do with such acci
dents as that which happened to the Pemberton Mills in Lawrence.
Large trees are uprooted in powerful gales, because the wind comes in
�SYMPATHETIC VIBRATIONS IN MACHINERY,
gusts; and, if these gusts happen to be timed in accordance with the
natural swing of the tree, the effect is irresistible. The slow vibra
tions which proceed from the largest pipes of a large organ, and
which are below the range of musical sounds, are able to shake the
walls and floors of a building so as to be felt, if not heard, thereby
furnishing a background of noise on which the true musical sounds
may be projected.
We have here the reason of the rule observed by marching ar
mies when they cross a bridge; viz., to stop the music, break step,
and open column, lest the measured cadence of a condensed mass of
men should urge the bridge to vibrate beyond its sphere of cohesion.
A neglect of this rule has led to serious accidents. The Broughton
bridge, near Manchester, gave way beneath the measured tread of
only sixty men who were marching over it. The celebrated engineer,
Robert Stephenson, has remarked 1 that there is not so much danger
to a bridge, when it is crowded with men or cattle, or if cavalry are
passing over it, as when men go over it in marching order. A
chain-bridge crosses the river Dordogne on the road to Bordeaux.
One of the Stephensons passed over it in 1845, and was so much struck
with its defects, although it had been recently erected, that he noti
fied the authorities in regard to them. A few years afterward it
gave way when troops were marching over it.’
A few years ago, a terrible disaster befell a battalion of French
infantry, while crossing the suspension-bridge at Angers, in France.
Reiterated warnings were given to the troops to break into sections,
as is usually done. But the rain was falling heavily, and, in the hurry
of the moment, the orders were disregarded. The bridge, which was
only twelve years old, and which had been repaired the year before at
a cost of $7,000, fell, and 280 dead bodies were found, besides many
who were wounded. Among the killed or drowned were the chief of
battalion and four other officers. Many of the guns were bent double,
and one musket pierced completely through the body of a soldier.
The wholesale slaughter at the bridge of Beresina, in Russia, when
Napoleon was retreating from Moscow, in 1812, and his troops crowded
upon the bridge and broke it, furnishes a fitting parallel to this great
calamity.
When Galileo set a pendulum in strong vibration by blowing on it
whenever it was moving away from his mouth, he gave a good illus
tration of the way in which small but regularly-repeated disturbances
grow into consequence. Tyndall tells us that the Swiss muleteers tie
up the bells of the mules, for fear that the tinkle should bring an
avalanche down. The breaking of a drinking-glass by the human
voice, when its fundamental note is sounded, is a well-authenticated
feat; and Chladni mentions an innkeeper who frequently repeated the
1 Edinburgh Philosophical Journal, vol. v., p. 255.
• Smiles’s “ Life of Stephenson,” p. 390.
�740
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
experiment for the entertainment of his guests and his own profit.
The nightingale is said to kill by the power of its notes. The bark of
a dog is able to call forth a response from certain strings of the piano.
And a curious passage has been pointed out in the Talmud, which dis
cusses the indemnity to be claimed when a vessel is broken by the
voice of a domestic animal. If we enter the domain of music, there
is no end to the illustrations which might be given of these sympathetic
vibrations. They play a conspicuous part in most musical instru
ments, and the sounds which these instruments produce would be
meagre and ineffective without them.
In the case of vibrations which are simply mechanical, without
being audible, or at any rate musical, the following ocular demonstra
tion may be given: A train of wheels, set in motion by a strong
spring wound up in a drum, causes an horizontal spindle to revolve
with great velocity. Two pieces of apparatus like this are placed at
the opposite sides of a room. On the ends of the spindles which face
one another are attached buttons about an inch in diameter, The two
ends of a piece of white tape are fastened to the rims of these buttons.
When the spindles, with the attached buttons, revolve, the two ends of
the tape revolve, and in such directions as to prevent the tape from twistunless the velocities are different. Even if the two trains of wheels
move with unequal velocities, when independent of each other, the
motions tend to uniformity when the two spindles are connected by
the tape. Now, by moving slightly the apparatus at one end of the
room, the tape may be tightened or loosened. If the tape is tight
ened, its rate of vibration is increased, and, at the same time, the ve
locity of the spindles is diminished on account of the greater resist
ance. If the tape is slackened, its rate of vibration is less, and the
velocity of the spindles is greater. By this change we can readily
bring the fundamental vibi’ation of the tape into unison with the machinery, and then the tape responds by a vibration of great amplitude,
visible to all beholders. If we begin gradually to loosen the tape, it
soon ceases to respond, on account of the twofold effect already de
scribed, until the time comes when the velocity of the machinery ac
cords with the first harmonic of the tape, and the latter divides beau
tifully into two vibrating segments with a node at the middle. As
the tension slowly diminishes, the different harmonics are successively
developed, until finally the tape is broken up into numerous segments
only an inch or two in length. The eye is as much delighted by this
visible music as the ear could be if the vibrations were audible; and
the optical demonstration has this advantage, that all may see, while
few have musical ears. A tape is preferred to a cord in this experi
ment, because it is better seen, and any accidental twist it may ac
quire is less troublesome.
�SPECULATION IN SCIENCE.
741
SPECULATION IN SCIENCE.1
By Pbof. J. LAWRENCE SMITH.
NOW pass to the second part of my discourse. It is in reference
to the methods of modern science—the caution to be observed in
pursuing it, if we do not wish to pervert its end by too confident as
sertions and deductions.
It is a very common attempt, nowadays, for scientists to transcend
the limits of their legitimate studies, and in doing this they run into
speculations apparently the most unphilosophical, wild, and absurd;
quitting the true basis of inductive philosophy, and building up the
most curious theories on little else than assertion; speculating upon
the merest analogy; adopting the curious views of some metaphysi
cians, as Edward von Hartmann; striving to work out speculative
results by the inductive method of natural science.
And such an example as this is of great value to the reflective
mind, teaching caution, and demonstrating the fact that, while the
rules by which we are guided in scientific research are far in advance
of those of ancient days, we must not conclude that they are perfect
by any means. In our modern method of investigation how many
conspicuous examples of deception we have had in pursuing even the
best method of investigation ! Take, for instance, the science of ge
ology, from the time of Werner to the present day. While we always
thought we had the true interpretation of the structural phenomena
of the globe, as we progressed from year to year, yet how vastly dif
ferent are our interpretations of the present day from what they were
in the time of Werner! In chemistry, the same thing is true. How
clearly were all things explained to the chemist of the last century by
Phlogiston, which, in the present century, receive no credence, and
chemical phenomena are now viewed in an entirely different light!
Lavoisier, in the latter part of the last century, elucidated the phe
nomena of respiration and the production of animal heat by one of the
most beautiful theories, based, to all appearances, upon well-observed
facts; yet, at the present day, more delicate observations, and the
discovery of the want of balance between the inhaled oxygen and ex
haled carbonic acid, subverted that beautiful theory, and we are left
entirely without one. It is true we have collated a number of facts
in regard to respiration, molecular changes in the tissues, etc., all of
which are recognized as having something to do with animal heat;
still it is acknowledged that we are incapable of giving any concrete
expression to the phenomena of respiration and animal heat as La
voisier did eighty or ninety years ago.
I
1 Abstract of the address before the American Association for the Advancement of
Science, at its late meeting in Portland, Me., by the retiring president.
�742
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
Electricity is the same now as it has ever been, yet it was once
spoken of as a fluid, then as a force, now as an energy readily con
vertible into caloric or mechanical energy; and in what light it will
be considered fifty years hence no one can predict.
Now, what I desire to enforce here is, that amid all these changes
and revolutions of theories, so called, it is simply man, the inter
preter, that has erred, and not Nature; her laws are the same; we
simply have not been able to read them correctly, and perhaps never
will be.
AVhat, it may be asked, are we to do, then ? Must we cease
theorizing ? Not at all. The lesson to be learned from this is to be
more modest in our generalizations; to generalize as far as our carefully-made-out facts will permit us, and no further; check the imagina
tion, and let it not run riot and shipwreck us upon some metaphysical
quicksand.
The fact is, it becomes a question whether there is such a thing as
pure theory in science. No true scientific theory deserves the name
that is not based on verified hypothesis; in fact, it is but a concise in
terpretation of the deductions of scientific facts. Dumas has well said
that theories are like crutches, the strength of them is, to be tested
by attempting to walk with them. And I might further add, that very
often scientists, who are without sure-footed facts to carry them along,
take to these crutches.
It is common to speak of the theory of gravitation, when there is
nothing purely hypothetical in connection with the manner in which it
was studied; in it we only see a clear generalization of observed laws
which govern the mutual attraction of bodies. If at any time New
ton did assume an hypothesis, it was only for the purpose of facilitat
ing his calculations: “Newton’s passage from the falling of an apple
to the falling of a moon was at the outset a leap of the imagination; ”
but it was this hypothesis, verified by mathematics, which gave to the
so-called theory of gravitation its present status.
In regard to light, we are in the habit of connecting with it a pure
hypothesis, viz., the impressions of light being produced by emission
from luminous bodies, or by the undulation of an all-pervading, at
tenuated medium; and these hypotheses are to be regarded as probable
so long as the phenomena of light are explained by them, and no
longer. The failure to explain one single well-observed fact is suffi
cient to cast doubt upon or subvert any pure hypothesis, as has been
the case with the emission theory of light, and may be the fate of the
undulatory theory, which, however, up to the present time, serves in
all cases.
It is not my object to criticise the speculations of any one or more
of the modern scientists who have carried their investigations into
the world of the imagination; in fact, it could not be done in a dis
course so limited as this, and one only intended as a prologue to the
�SPECULATION IN SCIENCE.
743
present meeting. But, in order to illustrate this subject of method
more fully, I will refer to Darwin, whose name has become synonymous
with progressive development and natural selection, which we had
thought had died out with Lamarck fifty years ago. In Darwin we
have one of those philosophers whose great knowledge of animal and
vegetable life is only transcended by his imagination. In fact, he is
to be regarded more as a metaphysician with a highly-wrought im
agination than as a scientist, although a man having a most wonderful
knowledge of the facts of natural history. In England and America
we find scientific men of the profoundest intellects differing completely
in regard to his logic, analogies, and deductions; and in Germany and
France the same thing—in the former of these countries some specu
lators saying that “his theory is our starting-point,” and in France
many of her best scientific men not ranking the labors of Darwin with
those of pure science. Darwin takes up the law of life, and runs it
into progressive development. In doing this, he seems to me to in
crease the embarrassment which surrounds us on looking into the mys
teries of creation. He is not satisfied to leave the laws of life where
he finds them, or to pursue their study by logical and inductive rea
soning. His method of reasoning will not allow him to remain at
rest; he must be moving onward in his unification of the universe.
He started with the lower order of animals, and brought them through
their various stages of progressive development until he supposed he
had touched the confines of man ; he then seems to have recoiled, and
hesitated to pass the boundary which separated man from the lower
order of animals ; but he saw that all his previous logic was bad if he
stopped there, so man was made from the ape (with which no one can
find fault, if the descent be legitimate). This stubborn logic pushes
him still further, and he must find some connecting link between that
most remarkable property of the human face called expression; so his
ingenuity has given us a very curious and readable treatise on that
subject. Yet still another step must be taken in this linking together
man and the lower order of animals ; it is in connection with language;
and before long it is not unreasonable to expect another production
from that most wonderful and ingenious intellect on the connection be
tween the language of man and the brute creation.
Let us see for a moment what this reasoning from analogy would
lead us to. The chemist has as much right to revel in the imaginary
formation of sodium from potassium, or iodine and bromine from
chlorine, by a process of development, and call it science, as for the
naturalist to revel in many of his wild speculations, or for the physicist
who studies the stellar space to imagine it permeated by mind as well
as light—mind such as has formed the poet, the statesman, or the
philosopher. Yet any chemist who would quit his method of investi
gation, of marking every foot of his advance by some indelible im
print, and go back to the speculations of Albertus Magnus, Roger
�744
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
Bacon, and other alchemists of former ages, would soon he dropped
from the list of chemists and ranked with dreamers and speculators.
What I have said is, in my humble opinion, warranted by the de
parture Darwin and others have made from true science in their purely
speculative studies; and neither he nor any other searcher after truth
expects to hazard great and startling opinions without at the same
time courting and desiring criticism; yet dissension from his views in
no way proves him wrong—it only shows how his ideas impress the
minds of other men. And just here let me contrast the daring of
Darwin with the position assumed by one of the great French natural
ists of the present day, Prof. Quatrefages, in a recent discourse of his
on the physical character of the human race. In referring to the ques
tion of the first origin of man, he says distinctly that, in his opinion,
it is one that belongs not to science; these questions are treated
by theologians and philosophers: “Neither here nor at the Museum
am I, nor do I wish to be, either a theologian or a philosopher. I
am simply a man of science; and it is in the name of comparative
physiology, of botanical and zoological geography, of geology and
paleontology, in the name of the laws which govern man as well as
animals and plants, that I have always spoken.” And, studying man
as a scientist, he goes on to say: “ It is established that man has two
grand faculties, of which we find not even a trace among animals. He
alone has the moral sentiment of good and evil; he alone believes in
a future existence succeeding this natural life; he alone believes in
beings superior to himself, that he has never seen, and that are capable
of influencing his life for good or evil; in other words, man alone is
endowed with morality and religion.” Our own distinguished nat
uralist and associate, Prof. Agassiz, reverts to this theory of evolution
in the same positive manner, and with such earnestness and warmth
as to call forth severe editorial criticisms, by his speaking of it as a
“ mere mine of assertions,” and the “ danger of stretching inferences
from a few observations to a wide field; ” and he is called upon to col
lect 11 real observations to disprove the evolution hypothesis.” I
would here remark, in defence of my distinguished friend, that scien
tific investigation will assume a curious phase when its votaries are
required to occupy time in looking up facts, and seriously attempting
to disprove any and every hypothesis based upon proof, some of it
not even rising to the dignity of circumstantial evidence.
I now come to the last point to which I wish to call the attention
of the members of the Association in the pursuit of their investiga
tions, and the speculations that these give rise to in their minds. Ref
erence has already been made to the tendency of quitting the physical
to revel in the metaphysical, which, however, is not peculiar to this
age, for it belonged as well to the times of Plato and Aristotle as it
does to ours. More special reference will be made here to the pro
clivity of the present epoch among philosophers and theologians to be
�SPECULATION IN SCIENCE.
745
parading science and religion side by side, talking of reconciling sci
ence and religion, as if they have ever been unreconciled. Scientists
and theologians may have quarrelled, but never science and religion.
At dinners they are toasted in the same breath, and calls made on cler
gymen to respond, who, for fear of giving offence, or lacking the fire
and firmness of St. Paul, utter a vast amount of platitudes about the
beauty of science and the truth of religion, trembling in theii* shoes
all the time, fearing that science falsely so called may take away their
professional calling, instead of uttering in a voice of thunder, like the
Boanerges of the Gospel, that the “ world by wisdom knew not God.”
And it never will. Our religion is made so plain by the light of faith
that the wayfaring man, though a fool, cannot err therein.
No, gentlemen, I firmly believe that there is less connection be
tween science and religion than there is between jurisprudence and
astronomy, and the sooner this is understood the better it will be for
both. Religion is based upon revelations as given to us in a book, the
contents of which are never changed, and of which there have been no
revised or corrected editions since it was first given, except so far as
man has interpolated; a book more or less perfectly understood by
mankind, but clear and unequivocal in all essential points concerning
the relation of man to his Creator; a book that affords practical di
rections, but no theory; a book of facts, and not of arguments ; a book
that has been damaged more by theologians than by all the panthe
ists and atheists that have ever lived and turned their invectives
against it—and no one source of mischief on the part of theologians is
greater than that of admitting the profound mystery of many parts
of it, and almost in the next breath attempting some sort of explana
tion of these mysteries. The book is just what Richard Whately says
it is, viz., “ Not the philosophy of the human mind, nor yet the philos
ophy of the divine nature in itself, but (that which is properly religion)
the relation and connection of the two beings—what God is to us,
what he has done and will do for us, and what we are to be in regard
to him.” . . . Let us stick to science, pure, unadulterated science, and
leave to religion things which pertain to it; for science and religion
are like two mighty rivers flowing toward the same ocean, and, before
reaching it, they will meet and mingle their pure streams, and flow
together into that vast ocean of truth which encircles the throne
of the great Author of all truth, whether pertaining to science or
to religion. And I will here, in defence of science, assert that there
is a greater proportion of its votaries who now revere and honor re
ligion in its broadest sense, as understood by the Christian world, than
that of any other of the learned secular pursuits.
But, before concluding, I cannot refrain from referring to one great
event in the history of American science during the past year, as it
will doubtless mark an epoch in the development of science in this
country. I refer to the noble gift of a noble foreigner to encourage
�746
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
the pool* but worthy student of pure science in this country. It is
needless for me to insist on the estimation in which Prof. John Tyndall
is held among us. We know him to be a man whose heart is as large
as his head, both contributing to the cause of science. We regard
him as one of the ablest physicists of the time, and one of the most
level-headed philosophers that England has ever produced—a man
whose intellect is as symmetrical as the circle, with its every point
equidistant from the centre. We have been the recipient of former
endowments from that land which, we thank God, was our mother
country, for from it we have drawn our language, our liberty, our
laws, our literature, our science, and our energy, and without whose
wealth our material development would not be what it is at the pres
ent day. Count Rumford, the founder of the Royal Society of Lon
don, in earlier years endowed a scientific chair in one of our larger
universities, and Smithson transferred his fortune to our shores to
promote the diffusion of science. Now, while these are noble gifts,
yet Count Rumford was giving to his own countrymen—for he was
an American—and they were posthumous gifts from men of large for
tune. But the one I now refer to was from a man who ranks not with
the wealthy, and he laid his offering upon the altar of science in this
country with his own hands; and it has been both consecrated and
blest by noble words from his own lips; all of which makes the gift a
rich treasure to American science; and I think we can assure him that,
as the same Anglo-Saxon blood flows in our veins as does in his (tem
pered, ’tis true, with the Celtic, Teutonic, Latin, etc.), he may expect
much from the American student in pure science as the offspring of his
gift and his example.
THE GLACIERS AND THEIR INVESTIGATORS.
By Prof. JOHN TYNDALL.
OON after my return from America, I learned with great concern
that a little book of mine, published prior to my departure, had
given grave offence to some of the friends and relatives of the late
Principal Forbes; and I was specially grieved when informed that the
chastisement considered due to this offence was to be administered by
gentlemen between whom and myself I had hoped mutual respect and
amity would forever reign. We had, it is true, met in conflict on an
other field; but hostilities had honorably ceased, old wounds had, to
all appearance, been healed, and I had no misgiving as to the per
manence of the peace established between us.
The genesis of the book referred to is this: At Christmas, 1871, it
fell to my lot to give the brief course of “ Juvenile Lectures ” to which
S
�THE GLACIERS AND THEIR INVESTIGATORS.
Faraday for many years before his death lent such an inexpressible
charm. The subject of glaciers, which I had never previously treated
in a course of lectures, might, it was thought, be rendered pleasant
and profitable to a youthful audience. The sight of young people
wandering over the glaciers of the Alps with closed eyes, desiring
knowledge, but not always finding it, had been a familiar one to me,
and I thought it no unworthy task to respond to this desire, and to
give such of my young hearers as might visit the Alps an intelligent
interest in glacier phenomena.
The course was, therefore, resolved upon; and, to render its value
more permanent, I wrote out copious “Notes,” had them bound to
gether, and distributed among the boys and girls. Knowing the
damage which elementary books, wearily and confusedly written, had
done to my own young mind, I tried, to the best of my ability, to
confer upon these “ Notes ” clearness, thoroughness, and life. It was
my particular desire that the imaginary pupil chosen for my com
panion in the Alps, and for whom, odd as it may sound, I entertained
a real affection, should rise from the study of the “ Notes ” with no
other feeling than one of attachment and respect for those who had
worked upon the glaciers. I therefore avoided all allusion to those
sore personal dissensions which, to the detriment of science and of
men, had begun fifteen years prior to my connection with the glaciers,
and which have been unhappily continued to the present time.
Prof. Youmans, of New York, was then in London, organizing the
“ International Scientific Series,” with which his name and energy are
identified. To prove my sympathy for his work, I had given him per
mission to use my name as one of his probable contributors, the date
of my contribution being understood to belong to the distant, and in
deed indefinite, future. He, however, read the “ Notes,” liked them,
urged me to expand them a little, and to permit him to publish them
as the first volume of his series. His request was aided by that of an
other friend, and I acceded to it—hence the little book, entitled the
“Forms of Water,” which the friends and relatives of Principal
Forbes have read with so much discontent.
That modest volume has, we are informed, caused an uncontem
plated addition to be made to the Life of Principal Forbes, lately
published under the triple auspices of Principal Shairp, the successor
of Principal Forbes in the College of St. Andrew’s, Mr. AdamsReilly, and Prof. Tait. “ It had been our hope,” says Principal Shairp,
in his preface, “ that we might have been allowed to tell our story
without reverting to controversies which, we had thought, had been
long since extinguished. But, after most of these sheets were in press,
a book appeared, in which many of the old charges against Principal
Forbes in the matter of the glaciers were, if not openly repeated, not
obscurely indicated. Neither the interests of truth, nor justice to the
dead, could suffer such remarks to pass unchallenged. How it has
�748
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
been thought best for the present to meet them, I must leave my friend
and fellow-laborer, Prof. Tait, to tell.”
The book here referred to is the unpretending volume whose blame
less advent I have just described.
I have not the honor of knowing Principal Shairp personally, but
he will, I trust, permit me to assure him of two things : Firstly, that,
in writing my book, I had no notion of rekindling an extinct fire, or
of treating with any thing but tenderness the memory of his friend.
Secondly, that, had such been my intention, the negative attribute,
“ not obscure,” is hardly the one which he would have chosen to de
scribe the words that I should have employed. But the fact is, the fire
was not extinct : the anger of former combats, which I thought spent,
was still potential, and my little book was but the finger which pulled
the trigger of an already-loaded gun.
Let the book speak for itself. I reproduce here in extenso the ref
erences to Principal Forbes, which have been translated into “ charges ”
against him by Principal Shairp. Having, in section 20, mentioned
the early measurements of glaciers made by Hugi and Agassiz, I con
tinue thus :
“ We now approach an epoch in the scientific history of glaciers. Had the
first observers been practically acquainted with the instruments of precision
used in surveying, accurate measurements of the motion of glaciers would
probably have been earlier executed. We are now on the point of seeing such
instruments introduced almost simultaneously by Al. Agassiz on the glacier of
the Unteraar, and by Prof. Forbes on the Aler de Glace. Attempts had been
made by Af. Escher de la Linth to determine the motion of a series of wooden
stakes driven into the Aletsch Glacier, but the melting was so rapid that the
stakes soon fell. To remedy this, Af. Agassiz, in 1841, undertook the great
labor of carrying boring-tools to his ‘hotel,’ and piercing the Unteraar Glacier
at six different places to a depth of ten feet, in a straight line across the glacier.
Into the holes six piles were so firmly driven that they remained in the glacier
for a year, and, in 1842, the displacements of all six were determined. They
were found to be 160 feet, 225 feet, 269 feet, 245 feet, 210 feet, and 125 feet, re
spectively.
“ A great step is here gained. You notice that the middle numbers are the
largest. They correspond to the central portion of the glacier. Hence, these
measurements conclusively establish, not only the fact of glacier motion, but
that the centre of the glacier, like that of a river, moves more rapidly than the
sides.
“ With the aid of trained engineers, AT. Agassiz followed up these measure
ments in subsequent years. His researches are recorded in a work entitled
‘ Système Glaciaire,’ which is accompanied by a very noble Atlas of the Glacier
of the Unteraar, published in 1847.
“ These determinations were made by means of a theodolite, of which I will
give you some notion immediately. The same instrument was employed the
same year by the late Principal Forbes upon the Afer de Glace. He established
independently the greater central motion. He showed, moreover, that it is not
necessary to wait a year, or even a week, to determine the motion of a glacier ;
with a correctly-adjusted theodolite he was able to determine the motion of va
rious points of the Afer de Glace from day to day. He affirmed, and with truth,
that the motion of the glacier might be determined from hour to hour. We
shall prove this farther on. Prof. Forbes also triangulated the Afer de Glace,
and laid down an excellent map of it. His first observations and his survey
are recorded in a celebrated book published in 1843, and entitled ‘ Travels in
the Alps.’
�THE GLACIERS AND THEIR INVESTIGATORS.
“ These observations were also followed up in subsequent years, the results
being recorded in a series of detached letters and essays of great interest. These
were subsequently collected in a volume entitled ‘ Occasional Papers on the
Theory of Glaciers,’ published in 1859. The labors of Agassiz and Forbes are
the two chief sources of our knowledge of glacier phenomena.”
It would be difficult for an unbiassed person to find in these words
any semblance of a “ charge ” against Principal Forbes. His friends
and relatives may be dissatisfied to see the name of M. Agassiz placed
first in relation to the question of the quicker central flow of glaciers ;
but in giving it this position I was guided by the printed data which
are open to any writer upon this subject.
I have checked this brief historic statement by consulting again
the proper authorities, and this is the result: In 1841 Principal Forbes
became the guest of M. Agassiz on the glacier of the Aar; and in a
very able article, published some time subsequently in the Edinburgh
Review, he speaks of “ the noble ardor, the generous friendship, the
unvarying good temper, the true hospitality ” of his host. In order
to explain the subsequent action of Principal Forbes, it is necessary to
say that the kindly feeling implied in the foregoing words did not
continue long to subsist between him and M. Agassiz. I am dealing,
however, for the moment with scientific facts, not with personal dif
ferences ; and, as a matter of indisputable fact, M. Agassiz did, in
1841, incur the labor of boring six holes in a straight line across the
glacier of the Aar, of fixing in these holes a series of piles, and of
measuring, in 1842, the distance through which the motion of the
glacier had carried them. This measurement was made on July 20th ;
some results of it were communicated to the Academy of Science in
Paris on August 1st, and they stand in the “ Comptes Rendus ” of the
Academy as an unquestionable record, from which date can be taken.
But the friends quarrelled. Who was to blame I will not venture
here to intimate; but the assumption that M. Agassiz was wholly in
the wrong would, I am bound to say, be required to justify the sub
sequent conduct of Principal Forbes. He was, I gather from the Life,
acquainted with the use of surveying instruments; and knowing
roughly the annual rate of glacier-motion, he would also know that
through the precision attainable with a theodolite, a single day’s—
probably a single hour’s motion—especially in summer, must be dis
cernible. With such knowledge in his possession, as early as June,
1842, and without deeming it necessary to give his host of the Aar
any notice of his intention, Principal Forbes repaired to the Mer de
Glace, made in the first instance a few rapid measurements at the
Montanvert, and in a letter dated from Courmayeur, on July 4th, com
municated them to the editor of the Edinburgh New Philosophical
Journal.
He did not at that time give any numbers expressing the ratio of
the side to the central motion of the glacier, but contented himself
with announcing the result in these terms: “ The central portion of
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
the Mer de Glace moves past the edges in a very considerable pro
portion, quite contrary to the opinion generally entertained.” This
communication, as I have said, bears the date of July 4th; but it was
first published in the October number of the journal to which it was
addressed. My reason, therefore, for mentioning Agassiz first in the
“Forms of Water” is, that, apart from all personal complications,
his experiment was begun ten months prior to that of his rival, and
that he had also two months’ priority of publication.
Neither in his “ Travels in the Alps,” nor in his “ Occasional Pa
pers,” does Principal Forbes, to my knowledge, make any reference
to this communication of Agassiz. I am far from charging him with
conscious wrong, or doubting that he justified this reticence to his
own mind. But my duty at present lies with objective facts, and not
with subjective judgments. And the fact is that, for eighteen years
subsequent to this campaign of 1842, Agassiz, as far as the glaciers
are concerned, was practically extinguished in England. The labors
of the following years failed to gain for him any recognition. His
early mistake regarding the quicker motion of the sides of a glacier,
and other weaknesses, were duly kept in view; but his positive meas
urements, and his Atlas, which prove the observations upon the glacier
of the Aar to be far more complete than those made upon any other
glacier, were never permitted to yield the slightest credit to their au
thor. I am no partisan of Agassiz, but I desire to be just.
Here, then, my case ends as regards the first reference to Principal
Forbes, in section 20 of the “Forms of Water.”
In section 48 I describe the dirt-bands of the Mer de Glace, and
ascribe the discovery of them to Principal Forbes. There can be no
thought of a “ charge ” here.
The next reference that has any bearing upon this discussion oc
curs in sections 59 and 60 of the “ Forms of Water.” I quote it fully:
By none of these writers is the property of viscosity or plasticity ascribed
to glacier-ice; the appearances of many glaciers are, however, so suggestive of
this idea that we may be sure it would have found more frequent expression
were it not in such apparent contradiction with our every-day experience of ice.
“ Still the idea found its advocates. In a little book, published in 1773, and
entitled ‘Picturesque Journey to the Glaciers of Savoy,’Bordier, of Geneva,
wrote thus: ‘ It is now time to look at all these objects with the eyes of reason;
to study, in the first place, the position and the progression of glaciers, and to
seek the solution of their principal phenomena. At the first aspect of the ice
mountains an observation presents itself, which appears sufficient to explain all.
It is that the entire mass of ice is connected together, and presses from above
downward after the manner of fluids. Let us, then, regard the ice, not as a
mass entirely rigid and immobile, but as a heap of coagulated matter, or as
softened wax, flexible and ductile to a certain point.’ Here probably for the
hrst^time the quality of plasticity is ascribed to the ice of glaciers.
To us, familiar with the aspect of the glaciers, it must seem strange that
this idea once expressed did not at once receive recognition and development,
those early days explorers were few, and the ‘Picturesque Journey’
Pr°t>ably but little known, so that the notion of plasticity lay dormant for more
t an half a century. But Bordier was at length succeeded by a man of far
greater scientific grasp and insight than himself. This was Rendu, a Catholic
�THE GLACIERS AND THEIR INVESTIGATORS. 751
priest and canon when he wrote, and afterward Bishop of Annecy. In 1841
Rendu laid before the Academy of Sciences of Savoy his 4 Theory of the Gla
ciers of Savoy,’ a contribution forever memorable in relation to this subject.
“Rendu seized the idea of glacier plasticity with great power and clearness,
and followed it resolutely to its consequences. It is not known that he had
ever seen the work of Bordier; probably not, as he never mentions it. Let me
quote for you some of Rendu’s expressions, which, however, fail to give an ade
quate idea of his insight and precision of thought: 4 Between the Mer de Glace
and a river there is a resemblance so complete that it is impossible to find in
the glacier a circumstance which does not exist in the river. In currents of
water the motion is not uniform, either throughout their width or throughout
their depth. The friction of the bottom and of the sides, with the action of
local hindrances, causes the motion to vary, and only toward the middle of the
surface do we obtain the full motion.’
“ This reads like a prediction of what has since been established by meas
urement. Looking at the glacier of Mont Dolent, which resembles a sheaf in
form, wide at both ends and narrow in the middle, and reflecting that the upper
wide part had become narrow, and the narrow middle part again wide, Rendu
observes: 4 There is a multitude of facts which seem to necessitate the belief
that glacier-ice enjoys a kind of ductility, which enables it to mould itself to its
locality, to thin out, to swell, and to contract, as if it were a soft paste.’
“ To fully test his conclusions, Rendu required the accurate measurement
of glacier motion. Had he added to his other endowments the practical skill
of a land-surveyor, he would now be regarded as the prince of glacialists. As
it was, he was obliged to be content with imperfect measurements. In one of
his excursions he examined the guides regarding the successive positions of a
vast rock which he found upon the ice close to the side of the glacier. The
mean of five years gave him a motion for this block of forty feet a year.
44 Another block, the transport of which he subsequently measured more
accurately, gave him a velocity of 400 feet a year. Note his explanation of this
discrepancy: 4 The enormous difference of these two observations arises from
the fact that one block stood near the centre of the glacier, which moves most
rapidly, while the other stood near the side, where the ice is held back by fric
tion.’ So clear and definite were Rendu’s ideas of the plastic motion of gla
ciers, that, had the question of curvature occurred to him, I entertain no doubt
that he would have enunciated beforehand the shifting of the point of maximum
motion from side to side across the axis of the glacier (§ 25).
44 It is right that you should know that scientific men do not always agree
in their estimates of the comparative value of facts and ideas ; and it is espe
cially right that you should know that your present tutor attaches a very high
value to ideas when they spring from the profound and persistent pondering of
superior minds, and are not, as is too often the case, thrown out without the
warrant of either deep thought or natural capacity. It is because I believe
Rendu’s labors fulfil this condition that I ascribe to them so high a value. But,
when you become older and better informed, you may differ from me; and I
write these words lest you should too readily accept my opinion of Rendu.
Judge me, if you care to do so, when your knowledge is matured. I certainly
shall not fear your verdict.
44 But, much as I prize the prompting idea, and thoroughly as I believe that
often in it the force of genius mainly lies, it would, in my opinion, be an error
of omission of the gravest kind, and which, if habitual, would insure the ulti
mate decay of natural knowledge, to neglect verifying our ideas, and giving them
outward reality and substance when the means of doing so are at hand. In
science, thought, as far as possible, ought to be wedded to fact. This was at
tempted by Rendu, and in great part accomplished by Agassiz and Forbes.
“ Here, indeed, the merits of the distinguished glacialist last named rise con
spicuously to view. From the able and earnest advocacy of Prof. Forbes, the
public knowledge of this doctrine of glacial plasticity is almost wholly derived.
He gave the doctrine a more distinctive form ; he first applied the term viscous
to glacier-ice, and sought to found upon precise measurements a ‘viscous
theory ’ of glacier-motion.
44 I am here obliged to state facts in their historic sequence. Prof. Forbes,
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
when he began his investigations, was acquainted with the labors of Rendu. In
his earliest works upon the Alps he refers to those labors in terms of flattering
recognition. But, though, as a matter of fact, Rendu’s ideas were there to
prompt him, it would be too much to say that he needed their inspiration.
Had Rendu not preceded him, he might none the less have grasped the idea of
viscosity, executing his measurements, and applying his knowledge to maintain
it. Be that as it may, the appearance of Prof. Forbes on the Unteraar Glacier
in 1841, and on the Her de Glace in 1842, and his labors then and subse
quently, have given him a name not to be forgotten in the scientific history of
glaciers.”
Here, again, I have to declare that, in writing thus, I had no no
tion of “raking up” an old controversy. My object was to render
my account historically continuous, and there is not a single word to
intimate that I took exception to Principal Forbes’s treatment of
Rendu. Nay, while placing the bishop in the position he merited, I
went out of my way to point out that, in all probability, Principal
Forbes required no such antecedent. So desirous was I that no un
kind or disparaging word should escape me regarding Principal Forbes,
that, had a reasonable objection to the phraseology here used been
communicated to me by his friends, I should have altered the whole
edition of the work sooner than allow the objectionable matter to ap
pear in it............
My final reference to Principal Forbes was in § 67 of the “ Forms
of Water,” where the veined structure of glacier-ice is dealt with. Its
description by Guyot, who first observed it, is so brief and appropriate
that I quoted his account of it. But this was certainly not with a
view of damaging the originality of Principal Forbes. In paragraph
474 of my book the observation of the structure upon the glacier of
the Aar is thus spoken of: “The blue veins were observed indepen
dently three years after M. Guyot had first described them. I say in
dependently, because M. Guyot’s description, though written in 1838,
remained unprinted, and was unknown in 1841 to the observers on the
Aar. These were M. Agassiz and Prof. Forbes. To the question of
structure, Prof. Forbes subsequently devoted much attention, and it
was mainly his observations and reasonings that gave it the important
position now assigned to it in glacier phenomena.”
This is the account of Guyot’s observation given by Principal
Forbes himself. But it may be objected that I am not correct in class
ing him and Agassiz thus together, and that to Principal Forbes alone
belongs the credit of observing the veined structure upon the Aar
Glacier. This may be true, but would an impartial writer be justified
in ignoring the indignant protests of M. Agassiz and his companions ?
With regard to the development of the subject, I felt perfectly sure
of the merits of Principal Forbes, and did not hesitate to give him
the benefit of my conviction.
Such, then, are the grounds of Principal Shairp’s complaint quoted
at the outset—such the “charges ” that I have made “against Prin
cipal Forbes,” and which the “ interests of truth” and “justice to the
�THE GLACIERS AND THEIR INVESTIGATORS. 753
dead” could not “suffer to pass unchallenged. ” There is, I submit,
no color of reason in such a complaint, and it would never, I am per
suaded, have been made had not Principal Shairp and his colleagues
found themselves in possession of a document which, though pub
lished a dozen years ago by Principal Forbes, was never answered by
me, and which, in the belief that I am unable to answer it, is now re
produced for my confutation.
The document here referred to appeared soon after the publication
of the “ Glaciers of the Alps ” in 1860. It is entitled “ Reply to Pro
fessor Tyndall’s Remarks in his Work on the ‘ Glaciers of the Alps,
relating to Rendu’s ‘ Theorie des Glaciers.’ ” It was obviously written
under feelings of great irritation, and, longing for peace, the only
public notice I took of it at the time was to say that “ I have ab
stained from answering my distinguished censor, not from inability to
do so, but because I thought, and think, that within the limits of the
case it is better to submit to misconception than to make science the
arena of personal controversy.” My critics, however, do not seem to
understand that, for the sake of higher occupations, statements may
be allowed to pass unchallenged which, were their refutation worth
the necessary time, might be blown in shreds to the winds. Of this
precise character, I apprehend, are the accusations contained in the
republished essay of Principal Forbes, which his friends, professing to
know what he would have done were he alive, now challenge me to
meet. I accept the challenge, and throw upon them the responsibility
of my answer, . . ?
Having thus disposed of the two really serious allegations in the
reply, I am unwilling to follow it through its minor details, or to spend
time in refuting the various intimations of littleness on my part con
tained in it. The whole reply betrays a state of mental exacerbation
which I willingly left to the softening influence of time, and to which,
unless forced to it, I shall not recur.
The biographer who has revived this subject speaks of “ the numer
ous controversies into which he” (Principal Forbes) “was dragged.”
I hardly think the passive verb the appropriate one here. The fol
lowing momentary glimpse of Principal Forbes’s character points to a
truer theory of his controversies than that which would refer them to
a “ drag ” external to himself :
“ The hasty glance,” says this biographer, “ which I have been able
to bestow upon his less scientific letters has shown me that Forbes at
tached great importance to mere honorary distinctions, as well as the
opinion of others regarding the value of his discoveries. It has opened
up a view of a, to me, totally unexpected feature of his character.”
This is honest, but that the revelation should be “unexpected” is to
me surprising. The “ love of approbation ” here glanced at was in
Principal Forbes so strong that he could not bear the least criticism
1 We omit this portion of the discussion, for lack of space.—Editor.
vol. hi.—4S
�754
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
of his work without resenting it as personal. I well remember the
late excellent William Hopkins describing to me his astonishment
when, at the meeting of the British Association at York, a purely sci
entific remark of his on Forbes’s glacier theory was turned, with sud
den acerbity, into a personal matter. It is of a discussion arising out
of this remark that Principal Forbes writes thus : “We had a post
poned discussion on glaciers on Saturday morning, when Hopkins and
I did battle, and I am sorry to say I felt it exceedingly; it discomposed
my nerves and made me very uncomfortable indeed, until I was soothed
by the minster-service yesterday.” 1
But no amount of “ minster-service ” could cope with so strong a
natural bias, and many a bitter drop fell from the pen of Principal
Forbes into the lives of those whom he opposed subsequent to this
service at York. On hearing of the paper presented by Mr. Huxley
and myself to the Royal Society, he at once jumped to the conclusion
that the glaciers were to be made a “ regular party question.” “ All
I can do,” he says, “ is to sit still till the indictment is made out; and
I cordially wish my enemy to write a book and print it speedily, as
any thing is better than innuendo and suspense.”9 What he meant
by “ indictment ” I do not know; and, with regard to “ innuendo,”
neither of the writers of the paper would be likely to resort to it in
preference to plain speaking. The words of a witty philosopher at
the time here referred to are significant: “ Tyndall,” he said, “ is be
ginning with ice, but he will end in hot water.” He knew the circum
stances, and was able to predict the course of events with the cer
tainty of physical prevision.
The quality referred to by his biographer, and the tendency arising
from it to look at things in a personal light, caused his intellect to run
rapidly into hypotheses of moral action which had no counterpart in
real life. I read with simple amazement his explanation to his friend
Mr. Wills of the postponement of the publication of the “ Glaciers of
the Alps.” Some of his supporters in the Council of the Royal So
ciety had proposed him for the Copley Medal, but without success.
Had the rules of good taste been observed, he would have known
nothing of these discussions ; and, knowing them, he ought to have
ignored them. But he writes to his friend : “ I believe the effect of
the struggle, though unsuccessful in its immediate object, will be to
render Tyndall and Huxley and their friends more cautious in their
further proceedings. For instance, Tyndall’s book, again withdrawn
from Murray’s ‘ immediate ’ list, will probably be infinitely more care
fully worded relative to Rendu than he first intended.” 8
I should be exceedingly sorry to apply to Principal Forbes the
noun-substantive which Byron, in “ Childe Harold,” applied to Rous
seau, but the adjective “ self-torturing” is, I fear, only too applicable.
His quick imagination suggested chimerical causes for events, but
1 Life, p. 165.
9 Ibid., p. 369.
8 Ibid., p. 387.
�THE GLACIERS AND THEIR INVESTIGATORS. 755
never any thing more chimerical than that here assigned for the post
ponement of my book and its probable improvement. The “ struggle ”
in the council had no influence upon me, for this good reason, if for
no other, that I knew absolutely nothing of the character of the strug
gle. In Naiure, for May 22, 1873, Prof. Huxley has effectually dis
posed of this hypothesis ;1 and those who care to look at the opening
sentences of a paper of mine in Mr. Francis Galton’s “ Vacation Tour
ists for 1860,” will find there indicated another reason for the delay.
I may add, that the only part I ever took in relation to Principal
Forbes and a medal was to go on one occasion to the Royal Society
with the express intention of recommending that he should have one.
The features of character partly revealed by his biographer also
explain that tendency on the part of Principal Forbes to bring his
own labors into relief, to the manifest danger of toning down the
labors of others. This is illustrated by the foot-note appended to page
419. It is also illustrated by his references to Rendu, which, frequent
and flattering as they are, left no abiding impression upon the reader’s
mind. By some qualifying phrase the quotation in each case is de
prived of weight; while practical extinction for eighteen years was,
as already intimated, the fate of the “ generous ” and “ hospitable ”
Agassiz.
Toward the close of the “ Life ” his biographer, while admitting
that “ to say that Forbes thoroughly explained the behavior of gla
ciers would be an exaggeration,” claims for him that he must “ ever
stand forward in the history of the question as one of its most effective
and scientific promoters.” This meed of praise I should be the last
to deny him, for I believe it to be perfectly just. To secure it, how
ever, no bitterness of controversy, no depreciation of the services of
others, was necessary. One point here needs a moment’s clearing up.
The word.“ theory,” as regards glaciers, slides incessantly, and with
out warning, from one into the other of two different senses. It means
sometimes the purely physical theory of their formation, structure, and
motion, with which the name of Principal Forbes is so largely iden
tified. But it has a wider sense where it embraces the geological
action of glaciers on the surface of the globe. For a long time “ gla
cier theory ” had reference mainly to the geological phenomena ; it was
in this sense that the words were employed by Principal Forbes in his
article in the Edinburgh Review, published in 1842. It is in this
sense that they are now habitually applied by M. Agassiz, and in rela
tion to the theory thus defined it is no more than natural for his sup
porters to assign to M. Agassiz the highest place. I mention this to
abolish the mystification which threatens to surround a question which
this simple statement will render clear.
I trust I may be permitted to end here. Strong reasons may cause
1 The words “ drift of ray statement,” employed in Prof. Huxley’6 letter, ought to
be draft of my statement.
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THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
me to revert to this question, but they must be very strong. I would
only warn my readers against the assumption that, if I do not reply
to further attack, I am unable to reply to it. The present rejoinder
furnishes sufficient proof of the doubtfulness of such a conclusion.
There is one darkly-expressed passage in the “Life of Principal
Forbes” which may cover something requiring notice. We are in
formed that he preserved and carefully docketed all letters written to
him, and that he retained copies of all his own. It is with regard to
this correspondence that his biographer writes thus : “ Many extracts,
and even entire letters, may be selected which are free from contro
versy, yet in general these would give but an imperfect notion of the
import of the whole. Others again cannot be published at present, be
cause the writers supply him with details of that mysterious wire
pulling which seems to be inseparable from every transaction involving
honors (scientific, in common with all others, it is humiliating to con
fess). The value of this unique series is, however, so great, and its
preservation so complete, that it is to be hoped it may be safely de
posited (under seal) in the care of some scientific society or institution,
to be opened only when all the actors have passed from the scene.”
These undignified allusions to “ wire-pulling ” are perfectly dark
to me; but if the letter addressed to Mr. Wills may be taken as a
specimen of the entire “series,” here referred to, then I agree with the
biographer in pronouncing it “ unique.” Would it not, however, be a
manlier course, and a fairer one to those who, writing without arrièrepensée, retain no copies of what they write, to let them know, while
they are here to take care of themselves, how their reputations are
affected by these letters of Principal Forbes ? For my own personal
part I am prepared to challenge the production of this correspondence
now.— Contemporary Review.
THE MOON.
JJR satellite holds a somewhat anomalous position in the liter.
ature of astronomy. The most beautiful object in the heavens,
the orb which telescopists study under the most favorable conditions,
and the planet—for a planet she is—which has afforded the most im
portant information respecting the economy of the universe, she never
theless has not received that attention from descriptive writers which
she really merits. The cause is, perhaps, not far to seek. The beauty
of the moon can scarcely be described in words, and cannot be pict1 “ The Moon : her Motions, Aspect, Scenery, and Physical Condition.” By Richard
A. Pïoctor, B. A., Cambridge (England), Honorary Secretary of the Royal Astronomical
Society of London ; author of the “ Sun,” “ Saturn,” “ Other Worlds,” etc. New York :
D. Appleton & Co. Price, $4.50.
�THE HO ON.
757
ured by the most skilful artist; the information conveyed by the
telescope is too definite to permit of speculation as with the other
planets, yet not definite enough to solve the questions about which
the students of astronomical works take most interest; and the infor
mation which astronomers have obtained from the moon’s motions can
only be appreciated when those motions are thoroughly analyzed, and
it has not been found easy to simplify this analysis, that the general
reader might fairly be expected to take interest in the matter.
The work before us is intended to remove this long-recognized
want in the literature of astronomy. The time has come when this is
practicable. The splendid photographs of Rutherford, of New York,
and De La Rue, in England, supply the means of exhibiting truthfully
the real nature of our satellite’s surface. Mr. Proctor has been for
tunate in obtaining from Mr. Rutherford permission to use three of his
most effective photographs of the moon to illustrate the present work.
Recent researches, ¿gain, into the processes which are going on withiu
the solar system (so long mistakenly supposed to be unchanging in
condition), suggest considerations respecting the past condition of
the moon, at once bringing her within the range of speculation and
theory. Telescopic observations, also more scrutinizing than those
made of yore, and applied more persistently, begin to indicate the
possibility at least of recognizing the signs of change, and perhaps of
showing that our moon is not the dead and arid waste which astron
omers have hitherto supposed her to be. The heat measurements of
Lord Rosse also throw important light on the question of her present
condition. And then, as respects those points which constitute the
main scientific interest of our satellite, her motions under the varying
influences to which she is subjected, Mr. Proctor has devoted here his
full energies and the results of a long experience, to the endeavor to
make clear, even to those who are not mathematicians, the consider
ations which, weighed and analyzed in the wonderful brain of Newton,
supplied the means of demonstrating the theory of the universe.
On this important department of his subject, Mr. Proctor makes
the following remarks in his preface : “In Chapter II. I have given a
very full account of the peculiarities of the moon’s motions ; and, not
withstanding the acknowledged difficulty of the subject, I think my
account is sufficiently clear and simple to be understood by any one,
even though not acquainted with the elements of mathematics, who
will be at the pains to read it attentively through. I have sought to
make the subject clear to a far wider range of readers than the class
for which Sir G. Airy’s treatise on ‘ Gravitation ’ was written, while
yet not omitting any essential points in the argument. In order to
combine independence of treatment with exactness and completeness,
I first wrote the chapter without consulting any other work. Then I
went through it afresh, carefully comparing each section with the cor
responding part of Sir G. Airy’s ‘Gravitation,’ and Sir J. Herschel’s
�758
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
chapters on the lunar motions in his ‘ Outlines of Astronomy.’ I was
thus able to correct any errors in my own work, while in turn I de
tected a few (mentioned in the notes) in the works referred to. I have
adopted a much more complete and exact system of illustration in
dealing with the moon’s motions than either of my predecessors in
the explanation of this subject. I attach great importance to this feat
ure of my explanation, experience having satisfied me not only that
such matters should be very freely illustrated, but that the illustra
tions should aim at correctness of detail, and (wherevei- practicable) of
scale also. Some features, as the advance of the perigee and the retreat
of the nodes, have, I believe, never before been illustrated at all.”
In Chapter III. Mr. Proctor gives, among other matters, a full
explanation of the effects due to the strange balancing motion called
the lunar librations. He says: “ I have been surprised to find how
imperfectly this interesting and important subject has been dealt with
hitherto. In fact, I have sought in vain for any discussion of the
subject with which to compare my own results. I have, however, in
various ways sufficiently tested these results.”
But probably, to the greater number of readers, the main interest
of the book will be found in the chapters relating to the condition of
the moon’s surface—the mountains, craters, hills, valleys, which diver
sify its strange varieties of brightness, color, and tone, and the changes
of appearance which are noted as the illumination varies, and as the
lunar librations change the position of different regions. It is, bythe-way, to be noted that the moon, which we regard as of silvery
whiteness, is in reality more nearly black than white, a fact which will
recall to many of our readers a remark of Prof. Tyndall’s in the first
lecture of the course recently delivered here.
“ The moon appears to us,” he said, “ as if
‘ Clothed in white samite, mystic, beautiful,’1
but, were she covered with the blackest velvet, she would still hang in
the heavens as a white orb, shining upon the world substantially as
she does now.”
Mr. Proctor discusses also the phenomena presented to lunarians,
if such there be. The extreme rarity of the lunar atmosphere ren
ders the idea of existence on the moon rather strange to our concep
tions, but, as Sir J. Herschel has said in a similar case, “ we should do
wrong to judge of the fitness or unfitness of” the condition of luna
rians “ from what we see around us, when perhaps the very combina
tions which convey to our minds only images of horror may be, in
reality, theatres of the most striking and glorious displays of benefi
cent contrivance.” Speaking of the appearances presented by lunar
landscapes, two of which we borrow from his work, Mr. Proctor remarks
1 We quote Tyndall.
Tennyson wrote :
“ Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.”
�THE MO OX.
739
that “ we know far too little respecting the real details of lunar scenery
to form any satisfactory opinion on the subject. If a landscape-painter
were invited to draw a picture presenting his conceptions of the
scenery of a region which he had only viewed from a distance of a hun
dred miles, he would be under no greater difficulties than the astrono
mer who undertakes to draw a lunar landscape, as it would actually
appear to any one placed on the surface of the moon. We know cer
tain facts—we know that there are striking forms of irregularity, that
the shadows must be much darker as well during the lunar day as
during an earth-lit lunar light, than on our own earth in sunlight or
moonlight, and we know that, whatever features of our own land
scapes are certainly due to the action of water in river, rain, or flood,
to the action of wind and weather, or to the growth of forms of vege
tation with which we are familiar, ought assuredly not to be shown in
any lunar landscape. But a multitude of details absolutely necessary
for the due presentation of lunar scenery are absolutely unknown to
us. Nor is it so easy as many imagine to draw a landscape which
shall be correct even as respects the circumstances known to us. For
instance, though I have seen many pictures called lunar landscapes, I
have never seen one in which there have not been features manifestly
due to weathering and to the action of running water. The shadows,
again, are never shown as they would be actually seen if regions of the
indicated configuration were illuminated by a sun, but not by a sky
of light. Again, aerial perspective is never totally abandoned, as it
ought to be in any delineation of lunar scenery. I do not profess to
have done better myself in the accompanying lunar landscapes. I
have, in fact, cared rather to indicate the celestial than the lunarian
features shown in these drawings. Still, I have selected a class of
lunar objects which may be regarded as, on the whole, more charac
teristic than the mountain-scenery usually exhibited. And, by pictu
ring the greater part of the landscape as at a considerable distance, I
have been freer to reproduce what the telescope actually reveals. In
looking at one of these views, the observer must suppose himself sta
tioned at the summit of some very lofty peak, and that the view shows
only a very small portion of what would really be seen under such cir
cumstances in any particular direction. The portion of the sky shown
in either picture extends only a few degrees from the horizon, as is
manifest from the dimensions of the earth’s disk; and thus it is shown
that only a few degrees of the horizon are included in the landscape.
Our author then pictures the aspect of the lunar heavens by night
and by day. We have space but for a few passages from this descrip
tion : • “ To an observer stationed upon a summit of the lunar Apen
nines on the evening of November 1, 1872, a scene was presented un
like any known to the inhabitants of earth. It was near the middle
of the long lunar night. On a sky of inky blackness stars innu
merable were spread, among which the orbs forming our constella-
�760
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
tions could be recognized by their superior lustre, but yet were almost
lost amid myriads of stars unseen by the inhabitants of earth.
Nearly overhead shone the Pleiades, closely girt round by hundreds
of lesser lights. From them toward Aldebaran and the clustering
Hyades, and onward to the belted Orion, streams and convolutions of
stars, interwoven as in fantastic garlands, marked the presence of that
mysterious branch-like extension of the Milky-Way which the ob
server on earth can, with unaided vision, trace no farther than the
winged foot of Perseus. High overhead, and toward the north, the
Milky-Way shone resplendent, like a vast inclined arch, full ‘ thick in
laid with patines of bright gold.’ Instead of that faint, cloud-like
zone known to terrestrial astronomers, the galaxy presented itself as
an infinitely complicated star-region—
‘ With isles of light and silvery streams,
And gloomy griefs of mystic shade.’
“ On all sides, this mighty star-belt spread its outlying bands of
stars, far away on the one hand toward Lyra and Bobtes, where on
earth we see no traces of milky lustre, and on the other toward the
Twins and the clustering glories of Cancer—the ‘ dark constellation ’
of the ancients, but full of telescopic splendors. Most marvellous,
too, appeared the great dark gap which lies between the Milky-Way
and Taurus ; here, in the very heart of the richest region of the heavens—with Orion and the Hyades and Pleiades blazing on one side, and
on the other the splendid stream laving the feet of the Twins—there
lay a deep, black gulf which seemed like an opening through our star
system into starless depths beyond.
Yet, though the sky was thus aglow with starlight, though stars
far fainter than the least we see on the clearest and darkest night were
shining in countless myriads, an orb was above the horizon whose
light would pale the lustre of our brightest stars. This orb occupied
a space on the heavens more than twelve times larger than is occupied
by the full moon as we see her. Its light, unlike the moon’s, was
tinted with beautiful and well-marked colors. . . .
“ The globe which thus adorned the lunar sky, and illuminated the
lunar lands with a light far exceeding that of the full moon, was our
earth. The scene was not unlike that shown to Satan when Uriel—
* One of the seven
Who in God’s presence, nearest to the throne,
Stand ready at command ”—
pointing earthward from his station amid the splendor of the sun,
said to the arch-fiend:
‘ Look downward on that globe whose hither side
AX ith light from hence, though but reflected, shines:
That place is earth, the seat of man ; that light
His day, which else, as th’ other hemisphere,
Night would invade.’
�THE MOON.
761
“ In all other respects the scene presented to the spectator on the
moon was similar; but, as seen from the lunar Apennines, the glorious
orb of earth shone high in the heavens; and the sun, source of the
light then bathing her oceans and continents, lay far down below the
level of the lunar horizon. . . .
“ Infinitely more wonderful, however, and transcending in sublimity
all that the heavens display to the contemplation of the inhabitants
of earth, was the scene presented when the sun himself had risen. I
shall venture here to borrow some passages from an essay entitled ‘ A
Voyage to the Sun,’ in which a friend of mine has described the aspect
of the sun as seen from a station outside that atmosphere of ours
which veils the chief glories of the luminary of day: ‘ The sun’s
orb was more brilliantly white than when seen through the air, but
close scrutiny revealed a diminution of brilliancy toward the edge of
the disk, which, when fully recognized, presented him at once as the
globe he really is. On this globe could be distinguished the spots
and the bright streaks called faculse. This globe was surrounded with
the most amazingly complex halo of glory. Close around the bright
whiteness of the disk, and shining far more beautiful by contrast with
that whiteness than as seen against the black disk of the moon in
total eclipses, stood the colored region called the chromatosphere, not
red, as it appears during eclipses, but gleaming with a mixed lustre
of pink and green, through which, from time to time, passed the most
startlingly brilliant coruscations of orange and golden yellow light.
Above this delicate circle of color towered tall prominences and mul
titudes of smaller ones. These, like the chromatosphere, were not red,
but beautifully variegated. . . .’
“Much more might be said on this inviting subject, only that the
requirements of space forbid, obliging me to remember that the
moon and not the sun is the subject of this treatise. The reader,
therefore, must picture to himself the advance of the sun with his
splendid and complicated surroundings toward the earth, suspended
almost unchangingly in the heavens, but assuming gradually the cres
cent form as the sun drew slowly near, lie must imagine also how,
in the mean time, the star-sphere was slowly moving westward, the
constellations of the ecliptic in orderly succession passing behind the
earth at a rate slightly exceeding that of the 6un’s approach, so that
he, like the earth, only more slowly, was moving eastward, so far as
the star-sphere was concerned, even while the moon’s slow diurnal ro
tation was carrying him westward toward the earth.”
In the last chapter the physical condition of the moon’s surface is
treated, and the processes by which she probably reached her present
condition are discussed at considerable length.
�THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY,
EDITOR’S TABLE.
ing many excellent suggestions, was not
conformed to the better type of such
HE twenty-second meeting of the productions. It is the custom of the
American Association for the Ad eminent scientific men who are honored
vancement of Science, which com with the office but once in their lives
menced at Portland, Me., August 20th, to devote the occasion, either to a gen
was fairly attended by the members, eral review of recent scientific work,
and presented very good results in the or to some special subject with which
way of scientific work. In estimating they are most familiar, and upon which
its contributions, we must not over they can speak with the force of au
look the fact that, while the numbers thority. Dr. Smith has been favorably
of those in this country who are at known in the world of science as a
liberty to pursue original investigations chemist who has made valuable con
untrammelled, is not large, on the other tributions in its inorganic department.
hand we have two national associations, The great activity in chemical inquiries
through which the moderate amount of at the present time, and the impor
original research that takes place is pub tant transition through which chemical
lished to the world. While the Ameri theory is now passing, would certainly
can Association was the only organiza have afforded the president a most per
tion of national scope for the publication tinent and instructive theme, but he
of new scientific results, its papers were preferred to employ the occasion in
creditable both in number and quality, considering certain aspects of science
and it compared favorably with its pro that are now prominent in public atten
totype, the British Association for the tion, and upon which the scientific
Advancement of Science. But, when, world is in much disagreement. The
a few years ago, a considerable number leading feature of the address was an
of its ablest members joined in the or attack on the Darwinians, and this
ganization of the National Academy portion of it we publish; and, as the
of Sciences, having substantially the question is thus reopened officially, it
same object in view as the American becomes a proper subject of comment.
The predecessor of President Smith,
Association, but exclusive in its mem
bership, and under government patron Dr. Asa Gray, of Harvard College, had
age, the necessary effect was greatly to followed the better usage of presid
weaken the older organization. The ing officers in his address at Dubuque
National Academy meets twice a year, last year, and discussed some of the
and draws closely upon the original larger problems of botany in the light
work of its associates. If, therefore, of the derivation theory. The most
the numbers in attendance upon the eminent of American botanists, an old
Association and the grade of scientific and untiring student of the subject, a
contributions might seem to indicate a man of philosophic grasp, and with a
decline in American science, the cir candor and sincerity of conviction that
cumstances here referred to will suffi commanded the highest respect, after
long and thorough study of the ques
ciently qualify the conclusion.
tion, Prof. Gray did not hesitate to
The address of the retiring presi give the weight of his authority to that
dent, J. Lawrence Smith, while contain view of the origin and diversities of
AMERICAN SCIENTIFIC ASSOCIATION—
PRESIDENT SMITH'S ADDRESS.
�EDITOR'S TADLE.
living forms of which Mr. Darwin is
now the leading representative. And
although in the field of biology large
numbers of its most eminent students,
who are of all men most competent to
decide upon it, have accepted that doc
trine as representing the truth of Na
ture more perfectly than any other, and
as of immense value in their researches
into the laws of life, yet Dr. Smith, as
our readers will see, denounces it as a
groundless hypothesis due to a riotous
imagination, and, in the language of
Agassiz, a “mere mire of assertions.”
His declarations have called forth the
applause of the press—always so can
did, and intelligent, and independent,
on such matters—who seize the occa
sion to preach new sermons on the “ va
garies of science,” and declare that they
“take sides with the angels against the
monkeys,” and are “ with the Creator
against Darwin.”
The course of the president was
not commended even by his own
party. Dr. Newberry, an eminent
student of biology and geology, is re
ported as having spoken in the follow
ing decided way : “ Prof. Newberry,
after a handsome allusion to the re
tiring president, Prof. J. Lawrence
Smith, protested against the opposition
to the development theory as ex
pounded in that gentleman's address.
Prof. Newberry said he was not him
self a Darwinian, but he recognized
the value of the evolution theory in
science. You cannot measure its value
as you can the work of an astronomer,
measured by definite ratios of space
and time; but he considered the hy
pothesis one of the most important con
tributions ever made to a knowledge
of Nature. Most men and women are
partisans, and some are willing to sup
pose that the hypothesis is sufficient to
account for all the phenomena of the
animal kingdom, while, on the other
hand, there are those who see in it
nothing but failure and deficiency. Let
us assume a judicial position, and al
763
low the tests of time and truth to settle
the questions involved. Go, however,
in whatever direction the facts may lead,
and throw prejudice to the winds. Rec
ollect that all truth is consistent with
itself.”
Dr. Smith can hardly be said to
have argued the question of Darwinism.
He gave us his own opinion of it, and
quoted, to sustain it, two distinguished
authorities in natural history. But he
gave the influence of his name and po
sition to the charge that it transcends
the legitimate limits of inductive in
quiry, and is only a wild and absurd
speculation. While the technical and
difficult questions of natural history by
which the truth or falsity of the doc
trine must be determined are beyond
the reach of unscientific readers, and
belong to the biologists to decide, the
question here raised as to whether
the investigation, as conducted, is le
gitimately scientific or not, is one of
which all intelligent persons ought to
be capable of forming a judgment.
We have repeatedly considered thi3
point in the pages of The Populae Sci
ence Monthly, and have endeavored
to show that the present attitude of
the doctrine of evolution is precisely
the attitude which all the great es
tablished theories and laws of science
had to take at their first promulgation.
It is familiar to all who know any thing
of the progress of science, that astrono
my and geology, in their early stages,
passed through precisely the same or
deal that biology is passing through
now; their leading doctrines were rep
robated as false science, and the wild
dreams of distempered imaginations.
Let us now take another case, in the
department of pure physics, and see
how scientific history repeats itself:
The undulatory theory of light is
now a firmly established principle in
physics. Dr. Smith says that “the
failure to explain one single well-ob
served fact is sufficient to cast doubt
upon, or subvert, any pure hypothesis,”
�764
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
and, he adds, in reference to the undulatory theory, that, “ op to the present
time, it serves in all cases.” In order
that this theory, now so perfect, should
be adopted, it had, of course, to be first
propounded. The conception of an
ethereal medium to explain the phe
nomena of light was suggested by Huyghens and Euler, but they did not ex
perimentally demonstrate it, and their
authority was overborne by that of
Newton,who maintained the emission or
corpuscular theory. The true founder
of the undulatory hypothesis of light
was Dr. Thomas Young, Professor of
Natural Philosophy in the Royal Insti
tution of Great Britain, and whom
Prof. Tyndall regards as the greatest
physicist who has appeared since New
ton. Dr. Young is thus estimated by
the German Helmholtz: “ His was one
of the most profound minds that the
world has ever seen; but he had the
misfortune to be in advance of his age.
He excited the wonder of his contem
poraries, who, however, were unable
to follow him to the heights at which
his daring intellect was accustomed to
soar. His most important ideas lay,
therefore, buried and forgotten in the
folios of the Royal Society, until a new
generation gradually and painfully
made the same discoveries, and proved
the exactness of his assertions, and the
truth of his demonstrations.”
Now, in this case, there was no
monkey in the question, and no capital
of public prejudice that could be made
available in the discussion, to repress
obnoxious opinions. The hypothesis
was certainly innocent enough, and its
truth or falsehood was a matter of sim
ple determination by experiment. Dr.
Young made the experiments which es
tablished it—the Royal Society recog
nized the value of the experiments,
and, in 1801, assigned to their author
the distinguished honor of delivering
the Bakerian lecture, in which his ex
periments were described, and their con
clusions demonstrated. Yet, with the
Royal Society to back him, and with
his views capable of proof before all
men, Dr. Young was crushed, and that
by outside influences appealing to the
public, on the ground that his hypothe
sis was spurious science—mere wild ab
surdity of the imagination.
We ask attention to the similarity of
the present ground of attack upon Dar
win, and the ground of attack upon Dr.
Young three-quarters of a century ago.
Dr. Smith prefaces his strictures upon
Darwinism with the following declara
tion : “It is a very common attempt
nowadays for scientists to transcend the
limits of their legitimate studies, and,
in doing this, they run into speculations
apparently the most unphilosophical,
wild, and absurd; quitting the true
basis of inductive philosophy, and
building up the most curious theories
on little else than assertion.”
Henry Brougham, afterward LordChancellor of England, writing in the
second number of the Edinburgh Re
view concerning Young’s Bakerian lect
ure, said: “We have of late observed
in the physical world a most unac
countable predilection for vague hy
potheses daily gaining ground ; and we
are mortified to see that the Royal So
ciety, forgetful of those improvements
in science to which it owes its origin,
and neglecting the precepts of its most
illustrious members, is now, by the pub
lication of such papers, giving the
countenance of its highest authority to
dangerous relaxations in the principles
of physical logic. We wish to raise
our feeble voice against innovations
that can have no other effect than to
check the progress of science, and re
new all those wild phantoms of the
imagination which Bacon and Newton
put to flight from her temple. . . .
Has the Royal Society degraded its
publications into bulletins of new and
fashionable theories for the ladies of
the Royal Institution ? Prohpudor ! 1
Let the professor continue to amuse his
audience with an endless variety of
For shame!
�EDITOR'S TABLE.
such harmless trifles, but, in the name
of science, let them not find admittance
into that venerable repository which
contains the works of Newton and
Boyle. . . . The making of an hy
pothesis is not the discovery of a truth.
It is a mere sporting with the subject ;
it is a sham-fight which may amuse in
the moment of idleness and relaxation,
but will neither gain victories over pre
judice and error, nor extend the em
pire of science. A mere theory is in
truth destitute of merit of every kind,
except that of a warm and misguided
imagination.” Dr. Young’s theory
“ teaches no truth, reconciles no con
tradictions, arranges no anomalous
facts, suggests no new experiments,
and leads to no new inquiries. It has
not even the pitiful merit of affording
an agreeable play to the fancy. It is
infinitely more useless, and less ingen
ious, than the Indian theory of the
elephant and tortoise. It may be
ranked in the same class with that
stupid invention of metaphysical the
ology. ... We cannot conclude our
review of these articles without en
treating for a moment the attention
of that illustrious body which has ad
mitted of late years so many paltry
and unsubstantial papers into its trans
actions. ... We implore the coun
cil, if they will deign to cast their
eyes upon our humble page, to prevent
a degradation of the institution which
has so long held the first rank among
scientific bodies.”
For the second time Dr. Young was
selected by the Royal Society to give
the Bakerian lecture, and he again
chose for its subject “Experiments and
Calculations relative to Physical Op
tics,” and again the Edinburgh Review
came down upon him as follows : “ The
paper which stands first is another Ba
kerian lecture, containing more fan
cies, more blunders, more unfounded
hypotheses, more gratuitous fictions,
all upon the same field on which New
ton trode, and all from the fertile yet
7^5
fruitless brain of the same eternal Dr.
Young.” The reviewer thus winds up
the controversy: “We now dismiss, for
the present, the feeble lucubrations of
this author, in which we have searched
without success for some traces of
learning, acuteness, and ingenuity, that
might compensate his evident defi
ciency in the powers of solid thinking,
calm and patient investigation, and
successful development of the laws of
Nature, by steady and modest observa
tion of her operations. We came to
the examination with no other preju
dice than the very allowable prepos
session against vague hypothesis, by
which all true lovers of science have
for above a century and a half been
swayed. We pursued it, both on the
present and on a former occasion, with
out any feelings except those of regret
at the abuse of that time and oppor
tunity which no greater share of tal
ents than Dr. Young’s are sufficient to
render fruitful by mere diligence and
moderation. From us, however, he
cannot claim any portion of respect,
until he shall alter his mode of pro
ceeding, or change the subject of his
lucubrations; and we feel ourselves
more particularly called upon to ex
press our disapprobation, because, as
distinction has been unwarily bestowed
on his labors by the most illustrious
of scientific bodies, it is the more ne
cessary that a free protest should be
recorded before the more humble tri
bunals of literature.”
The reader will perceive that this
strain is not unfamiliar. Young was
denounced as Darwin is now de
nounced, professedly in the interest
of science; but the pretext was as
false then as it is now. In the former
case the animus of the assault was
mere personal spite: Brougham’s in
ordinate vanity having been wounded
by some very moderate criticisms of
Dr. Young upon his mathematical
works. But a man who did not un
derstand the subject, appealing to a
�766
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
tribunal which knew nothing about it,
against wild speculations degrading to
science, was able to depreciate and
suppress for a quarter of a century one
of the most solid and perfect theories
of natural phenomena that modern re
search has produced. And, strange as
it may seem, the work was effectually
done; for, although Young made a
masterly reply, but a single copy was
sold, and, as Tyndall remarks, “for
twenty years this man of genius was
quenched—hidden from the apprecia
tive intellect of his countrymen —
deemed, in fact, a dreamer through
the vigorous sarcasm of a writer who
had then possession of the public ear.”
Happily, the time is past when the
investigators of Nature can be thus
crushed out; but still the old tactics
are imitated, and not without evil
effect for the time. The men of sci
ence, to whom the question belongs,
are not left to pursue it in peace. The
press and the pulpit, with such scientific
help as it is not difficult to get, stir up
such a clamor of popular opprobrium
that biological students who hold to
evolution as the fact and law of Na
ture, and guide their researches by
its light, do not choose to have it pub
licly known that they are adherents
of the doctrine. We are behind Eng
land in fair and tolerant treatment
of the Darwinian question, but may
expect the same improvement in this
respect that Huxley tells us has taken
place with the English. In a recent
article he remarks: “The gradual lapse
of time has now separated us by more
than a decade from the date of the pub
lication of the ‘ Origin of Species; ’ and
whatever may be thought or said about
Mr. Darwin’s doctrines, or the manner
in which he has propounded them, this
much is certain, that, in a dozen years,
the ‘ Origin of Species’ has worked as
complete a revolution in biological sci
ence as the ‘ Principia ’ did in astrono
my—and it has done so, because, in
the words of Helmholtz, it contains
‘ an essentially new creative thought.’
And, as time has slipped by, a happy
change has come over Mr. Darwin’s
critics. The mixture of ignorance and
insolence which, at first, characterized
a large proportion of the attacks with
which he was assailed, is no longer the
sad distinction of anti-Darwinian criti
cism. Instead of abusive nonsense,
which merely discredited its writers,
we read essays, which are, at worst,
more or less intelligent and apprecia
tive ; while, sometimes, like that which
appeared in the North British Review
for 1867, they have a real and perma
nent value.”
THE EDUCATIONAL CONVENTION AT
ELIIIRA.
The national educational associa
tion recently held at Elmira, N. Y.,
was of unusual interest, and evinced a
marked progress in the public method
of dealing with educational subjects.
We have for some years refrained from
attendance upon teachers’ conventions,
having been wearied ■with the narrow
technical range and pedantic pettiness
of the discussions. But the recent
meeting showed that educators are be
ginning to outgrow their old profes
sional limitations, and to consider the
various questions that come before them
in the light of broad principles, and in
the spirit of radical and rational im
provement. Many men of ability, presi
dents of leading colleges, eminent pro
fessors, principals of high-schools, and
State and city superintendents, were
present, contributing valuable papers,
and giving strength and character to
the debates which followed them.
President McCosh delivered an able
address on the higher education, and
maintained that the national Govern
ment should not give the balance of its
lands to the agricultural colleges, nor
yet to other collegiate institutions, but
should appropriate them for the benefit
of high-schools and academies through
�EDITOR'S TABLE.
767
out the country. Dr. McCosh thus old scholastic culture which took its
stated his main position :
shape at a period when popular educa
“ I don’t propose that any portion of this tion was not thought of, and culture
$90,000,000 should be given to colleges. We was confined to the professional classes.
cannot aid all, and to select a few would be These institutions are not holding their
injurious. In regard to elementary educa own at the present time. Their stu
tion, the Northern, the Middle, and the dents are falling off, for the reason that
Western States, are able and willing to do there is a decline in the academies by
their duty. I venture to propose that in
these the unappropriated lands be devoted which the colleges are fed; that is, as
to the encouragement of secondary schools. Dr. McCosh says, “ the grand difficulty
Let each State obtain its share, and the which colleges have to contend against
money handed over to it under certain rigid arises from there being so few schools
rules and restrictions to prevent the abuse fitted to prepare young men for them.”
of the public money. In particular, to se
But the cause of the decline of the
cure that upper schools be endowed only
where needed, I suggest that money be allo academies is the rivalry of the newlycated only when a district, or, it may be, a instituted high-schools, and these are
combination of two or more districts, has the outgrowth and now an essential
raised a certain portion, say one-half, of the part of the common - school system.
necessary funds. By this means the money
The modern idea of universal educa
may be made to stimulate the erection
of high-schools all over America. These tion has become organized in such a
schools would aid colleges far more power way as to antagonize the old college
fully than a direct grant to them, as, in fact, system. The common schools are not
the grand difficulty which colleges have to constructed upon the scholastic pattern;
contend against ariseB from there being so they aim to give to all a useful practical
few schools fitted to prepare young men for
education, that shall be available in
them with their rising standard of excellence.
the common work of life. It was
But I plead for these schools, not merely as
a means of feeding colleges, but as compe found that they did not go far enough
tent to give a high education in varied in this direction for the wants of many,
branches, literary and scientific, to a far and so high-schools were organized in
greater number who do not go on to any thing which the pupils of the common schools
higher. These schools, like the elementary
schools, should be open to all children, of might graduate into the working world
the poor as well as the rich. They should with a better preparation than the
be set up, like the German gymnasium, in lower schools can furnish. It was stated
convenient localities, so that all the popula in the discussion that but one in fif
tion may have access to them. They should teen hundred of the population passes
embrace every useful branch suited to young through college, while it is left for
men and women under sixteen and eighteen
years of age—English composition, English the common and high schools to edu
language, history, classics, modern language, cate the rest of the people. As the
and elementary science. The best scholars old academies disappear, therefore,
in our primary schools would be drafted up the colleges seek to get control of
to these higher schools, and thus the young the high-schools, to be used as feeders
talent of the country would be turned to
for themselves; and this, of course, ne
good account, while the teachers in the com
mon schools would be encouraged by seeing cessitates a high-school curriculum fit
ted to prepare young men for college.
their best pupils advance.” «
This is the point at which the two sys
The discussion that followed this tems are unconformable, and is to be
speech brought out difficulties which the point of conflict in the future.
the doctor had not considered, and, in What shall be the course of study in
fact, opened the way to the most vital the high-schools? Shall it be a sequel
problem of American education. The to the common schools, or a prelude to
colleges of the country represent the the colleges, for these are different
�768
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
things? Already in some of them we
have two distinct systems of education.
A principal of one of these institutions
in the West said to the writer: “We
are working under the disadvantages
of a double curriculum. We have a
scheme of studies, scientific and practi
cal, drawn with reference to the larger
number of our pupils who come from
the common schools, and who close their
studies with us. We take them through
an English course, with mathematics,
book-keeping, political economy, phys
ics, chemistry, botany, and physiology.
And we have also a classical course for
a small number of students who are
preparing for college. But the exac
tions of Latin and Greek are so great
upon these that they get hardly a smat
tering of the subjects pursued by the
other students.” The tactics of Dr.
McCosh were admirable. To keep the
proceeds of the public lands from going
to the agricultural colleges and scien
tific institutions, he is willing to resign
all claim upon them for the benefit of
the classical colleges ; at the same time,
if the money is expended for the ex
tension of high-schools, as the doctor
says, “ these schools would aid colleges
far more powerfully than a direct grant
to them.” Yet, as long as the two sys
tems of education remain so diverse that
the regular high-school graduation is
not accepted as preparation for college,
there will be conflict for the control of
these establishments. Only as the col
lege curriculum becomes more broad,
modern, and scientific, and the classical
studies are restricted to the special
classes who have need of them, can
American education become harmon
ized in its elements and unified in its
system.
Tne report of President Eliot, of
Harvard, on a national university, was
a strong document. We publish the
last portion of it, which deals with the
main question, and ask attention to the
high grounds on which he bases his de
mand for the non-interference of gov
ernment with the system of higher edu
cation. His paper started a warm
debate on the broad and important
question of the proper relations of gov
ernment to the work of instruction,
and, of course, his views met with
vigorous opposition. It was maintained
that there is no break in the logic by
which government action is prescribed;
and that, admitting the propriety of
state action in primary education, there
is no halting-place until the govern
ment takes charge of the entire school
machinery of the country. And such
is the overshadowing influence of poli
tics, and so profound the superstition
regarding government omnipotence,
that this view found its urgent advo
cates, who seem blind to the conse
quences that are certain to follow when
the people shirk the responsibilities of
attending directly to the education of
the young, and shoulder it off upon a
mass of politicians holding the offices
of government. The friends of state
education certainly pressed their case
to its extreme conclusions. Govern
ment contributes money to support
common schools, and appoints officers
to regulate them; therefore let it
appropriate $20,000,000 to establish
a national university at Washington,
with $1,000,000 a year to be divided
among the congressional appointees,
who will hold the professorships. Dr.
McCosh suggested that recent congres
sional experiences were hardly calcu
lated to inspire confidence in the action
of that body, and asked what guarantee
we should have against a university
ring and systematic educational job
bing ; and it was objected by others
that the class of men who congregate
in the capital, and the whole spirit of
the place, would make it more unfit
than any other in the country for such
an institution. Prof. Eichards, of
Washington, came to the rescue of the
reputation of his town, and asked, em
�EDITOR'S TABLE.
phatically, “Where do its knaves and
rascals come from? We do not make
them; you send them to us from all
parts of the nation.” But the argu
ment was not helped by the retort, for
it is quite immaterial whether Wash
ington breeds its scoundrels or imports
them. If our republican system is one
that sifts out its most venal and un
scrupulous intriguers and sharpers, and
gathers them into one place, it is ques
tionable whether that place had better
not be avoided as the seat of a great
model university—especially if said in
triguers and sharpers are to have the
management of it.
769
for 1872-’73, and presents the statistics
which bear upon the subject. The
“ elections ” of subjects of study or
choices of the students are shown in a
succession of tables, the last of which
divides the college studies into “dis
ciplinary” and “practical,” and ex
hibits the results as follows:
DISCIPLINARY STUDIES.
Ancient languages
. 100
History.....................................
8T
Mathematics
....
. 21
Philosophy..............................
15
Political science ....
. 12
185
PRACTICAL STUDIES.
Modern languages
Physics and chemistry
Natural history ....
.
.
80
87
28
145
ELECTIVE STUDIES AT HARVARD.
In an instructive article upon this
subject, the Nation says : “ There was
a vague but very general impression,
a few years ago, that, if the elective
system were introduced into the older
American colleges, the practical sci
ences, as they are called, especially
physics, chemistry, and natural his
tory, would crowd out the study of
the ancient languages. There was also
a feeling that the obvious utility of the
modern languages, and particularly of
French and of German, would help to
throw the “ dead languages ” into the
background. A great many enthusiasts
fancied that the good time a-coming
was at hand, when books would be
thrown aside, and all intellectual ac
tivity would be narrowed down to the
study of physical Nature; and so much
noise has been made about the natural
sciences that a great many people un
doubtedly think this is the principal if
not the only subject taught where an
elective system prevails.”
To submit this matter to a test, and
“ ascertain what it is that the mass of
students feel the need of most and flock
to most when the choice is left entirely
to themselves,” the Nation overhauls
the university catalogue of Harvard
vol. hi.—49
“By this arrangement the disci
plinary studies preponderate over the
practical in the ratio of 185:145 or
100: 78.”
Upon this the Nation proceeds to
remark: “ The figures show conclusive
ly that, in spite of the crusade which
has been carried on against the ancient
languages, they are still full of vitality,
still a power, still a popular study, and,
in fact, the greatest interest in the
little college world. As our inquiry is
purely numerical and statistical, we do
not ask why the students make the
selections they do. Doubtless, the
reasons are not very obvious; still, one
fact is plain, that they are not guided
wholly by utilitarian views.”
Now, if the Nation had looked a
little into the “ why ” of this matter,
we are sure it would have found the
reasons for this state of things obvious
enough, and, although it might have
somewhat qualified its conclusion, it
would have made the statement more
valuable. The number of votes cast
at an election is usually an expression
of public opinion, but, if in any case
there happen to have been military
interference and dictation, the numeri
cal report of ballots cast, if taken alone,
would be misleading. We are told that
�770
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
the working of the option system at Har
vard affords an indication of the prefer
ences and tendencies of the students in
regard to the studies they incline to pur
sue ; but is not entrance to Harvard a
part of its policy, and what about the
option there? Is there not at the door
of the university a big winnowingmachine which delivers the “ discipli
nary ” studies as acceptable wheat, and
blows the “ utilitarian ” studies to the
winds as the veriest chaff? All the
preparation exacted of students for
entrance to college is in the “ discipli
nary ” studies, and mainly in the Latin
and Greek languages. Besides being
incessantly told in the preparatory
schools that the very poles of the intel
lectual world are two dead languages,
and that a classical education is the
only real broad liberal education, they
are kept for years drilling at Latin
and Greek as the only condition upon
which they can get to college at all.
The standard is here kept as high as it
was twenty years ago, and President
Eliot stated at the late Elmira conven
tion that, in the estimation of the pre
paratory teachers in New England, Har
vard requires a year more study of
Latin and Greek than the other col
leges. The student thus enters college
warped and biassed by his preparation
for it. Of the sciences he knows noth
ing, and he is prejudiced against them
as mere utilitarian studies to be con
trasted on all occasions with liberal
mental pursuits. When these facts are
remembered, it is certainly no matter
of surprise that Latin and Greek lead
in the collegiate elections of study; it
is rather surprising that they lead by
so small a number. It is very far from
being a fair or open choice when a
pupil has to repudiate his past acquisi
tions, and stem the tide of opinion
which has forced them upon him, to
take up studies under the grave dis
advantage of no early preparation. We
think the lesson of the Harvard statis
tics is not altogether exhilarating to
the partisans of the classics. When
Harvard will accept a scientific prep
aration for college as of equal value
with the classical, we shall be better
prepared to estimate the strength of
the tendencies in the two directions.
LIFE OF PRINCIPAL FORBES.
biographer of Sir Walter Scott
alludes to a “ first love ” which ended
unfortunately for the great romancer.
It is related that, rain happening to fall
one Sunday after church-time, Scott
offered his umbrella to a young lady,
and, the tender having been accepted,
he escorted her to her home. The ac
quaintance was continued, and ripened
into a strong attachment on the part
of Scott; but he was doomed to
disappointment, and Lockhart states
that it produced a profound effect upon
his character. “Keble, in a beautiful
essay on Scott, more than hints a .be
lief that it was this imaginary regret
haunting Scott all his life long which
became the true well-spring of his in
spiration in all his minstrelsy and ro
mance.” Be that as it may, the lady,
whose name was Williamina Belches,
instead of marrying Scott, chose his
friend, Sir William Forbes. They had
a family, of which the youngest, James
David, was born in 1809. When the
son was nineteen years old his father
died, and, under the immediate influ
ence of the bereavement, he drew up
a set of brief resolutions for the regu
lation of his life, one of which was “ to
curb pride and over-anxiety in the
pursuit of worldly objects, especially
fame.” Young Forbes became a fa
mous man. He took to science, and mas
tered it rapidly under the guidance of
his intimate friend Sir David Brewster,
choosing physics as his department.
At the death of Sir John Leslie, Pro
fessor of Natural Philosophy in the
University of Edinburgh, he offered
himself as a candidate for the chair, in
The
�EDITOR'S TABLE.
opposition to his old friend Brewster
and others, and was elected to the po
sition at the age of twenty-four. He
was an original investigator in a wide
field of physics, contributed to the ex
tension of knowledge in many direc
tions, and was an able writer. His
health failing, he resigned his chair in
the Edinburgh University, and accept
ed the principalship of St. Andrew’s,
and is therefore known as Principal
Forbes. He died the last day of 1868,
and an elaborate biography, by three
of his Scotch friends, has just been pub
lished by Macmillan, which is an ex
tremely interesting book.
Among other subjects of his inves
tigation were the glaciers, upon which
he published an important volume. He
met Agassiz in the Alps, while that
gentleman was experimenting upon
glacial motions, and they made obser
vations together, but subsequently fell
out with each other about the division
of the honors of discovery. The com
plication extended, involving the claims
of Bishop Rendu, Prof. Guyot, and
others. In his “ Glaciers of the Alps,”
published in 1860, Prof. Tyndall under
took to do justice to the claims of all
parties. Prof. Forbes was not satisfied
with the awards, and replied to Prof.
Tyndall’s work, vindicating his own
claims to a larger share of the investi
gation than had been accorded him. To
this Prof. Tyndall at the time made no
rejoinder; but in his recently-published
“Forms of Water” he restated the
case in a way that was not satisfactory
to Forbes’s biographers, who have met
it by an appendix to the volume. In
the Contemporary Review for August,
Prof. Tyndall returns to the question
in an elaborate paper, entitled “ Prin
cipal Forbes and his Biographers,” of
which we publish the first and last
portions, that are of most general
interest. We have not space for the
whole article, which is long, and omit
ted the extended extracts from Rendu’s
work in French, and that portion of
771
the argument which will mainly con
cern the special students of glacial lit
erature. In an introductory note to
the article, Prof. Tyndall briefly states
the origin and cause of the controversy,
and earnestly deprecates its present re
vival. He says, speaking of the biogra
phers : “I am challenged to meet their
criticisms, which, I find, are considered
to be conclusive by some able public
journals and magazines. Thus the at
titude of a controversialist is once more
forced upon me. Since the death of
Principal Forbes no one has heard me
utter a word inconsistent with tender
ness for his memory; and it is with an'
unwillingness amounting to repugnance
that I now defend myself across his
grave. His biographers profess to
know what he would have done were
he alive, and hold themselves to be the
simple executors of his will. I cannot
act entirely upon this assumption, or
deal with the dead as I should with
the living. Hence, though these pages
may appear to some to be sufficiently
full, they lack the completeness, and
still more the strength, which I ’should
have sought to confer upon them had
my present position been forced upon
me by Principal Forbes himself instead
of by his friends.”
It is to be feared that Prof. Forbes
did not sufficiently abide by the rule
of life which was formed under the
solemn circumstances of his father’s
death.
We commend to the attention of
our scientific readers, with philosophi
cal inclinations, the series of articles
on “The Primary Concepts of Modern
Physical Science,” the first of which
appears this month, on “The Theory
of the Atomic Constitution of Matter.”
The depth and force of the criticism are
only equalled by the clearness of the
conceptions, and the precision and
felicity of the statement. The interest
of the discussion will not be lessened
�772
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
when we say that ;t is by an Ohio law
yer-formerly a judge of Cincinnati.
It has been held as one of the redeem
ing features of the English bar, that
the author of the able and admirable
essay on “The Correlation of Forces ”
belongs to it; and it is certainly to the
credit of the legal profession in this
country that a member of it has culti
vated physical philosophy to such ex
cellent purpose as is evinced by the
article we now publish.
• LITERARY NOTICES.
A
Popular Introduction to the Study of
the Forces of Nature. From the French
of M. Emile Saigey. With an Intro
duction and Notes by Thomas Freeman
Moses, A. M., M. D. Boston : Estes &
Laureat. Price $1.50. 253 pages.
Although this neat and attractive little
volume claims to be a popular introduction
to the study of the forces of Nature, we
think it should rather be regarded as a
book for those who have been previously
introduced to the subject. It is rather
devoted to an exposition of the author’s
speculative views than to a simplified and
elementary statement for those who are
beginning to study. The author holds to a
universal ether, and maintains besides that
matter is constituted from it, and consists
of it, and he aims to build up the universe
of ethereal atoms and motion. The work
is written from the modem point of view
of the correlation of forces, and contains
much interesting information upon this
subject, but the author is less concerned
merely to interpret the phenomena of inter
action among the forces than to get below
them to what he regards as the causes of
their unity. “The atom and motion, be
hold the universe! ” is a somewhat Frenchy
and fantastic cosmology. To readers of a
speculative turn of mind the book will prove
interesting.
The Unity of Natural Phenomena.
Sanitary Engineering : a Guide to the
Construction of Works of Sewerage and
House-Drainage. By Baldwin Latham,
C. E. 352 pages. Price $12. New
York : E. & F. N. Spon.
This work is in all respects a contrast
to that of M. Saigey. Instead of transcen
dental ether, it treats of descendental sew
erage, and, instead of remote imaginative
speculations, it is occupied with the most
immediate and practical of the interests of
daily life. Of the importance of the sub
ject treated, the preservation of life and
health by the thorough construction of
sanitary works, there can be no question,
and the author claims that it is the first
book exclusively devoted to subjects re
lating to sanitary engineering. He has
gathered his material from official reports,
periodical papers, and various works which
touch the subject incidentally, and, adding
to them the results of his own practice, has
produced a most valuable treatise. As
science unravels the complicated conditions
of life, it becomes more and more apparent
that health can only be maintained by the
destruction or thorough removal of those
deleterious products which are engendered
in dwellings. The necessity of drainage is
well understood, and the art has been long
practised in all civilized countries; but, like
all other arts, its intelligent and efficient
practice depends upon scientific principles,
and therefore progresses with a growing
knowledge of the subject. The questions
involved in the proper sewerage of a district
are numerous. Its geological character and
physical features have to be considered;
the meteorological element of rainfall is
important; the constitution of the soil and
subsoil must be taken into account; the
sources and extent of artificial water-supply
are of moment; and the area of the district
to be sewered, and its present and pro
spective population, cannot be overlooked.
Much information of this kind requires also
to be called into requisition in the construc
tion of separate country-residences. The
physical circumstances being given, there
then arise numerous questions in regard to
drainage, construction, household contriv
ances, the materials employed, and the cost,
efficiency, and permanency of works. Mr.
Latham’s volume treats this whole series
of topics in a systematic and exhaustive
way. It is profusely illustrated with wood
cuts and maps, and contains numerous
tables which are indispensable for the
guidance of constructors. It is not re
printed, but is supplied by the New-York
branch of the London house, who hold it
at an exorbitant pice.
�LITERARY NOTICES.
773
and Myth-Makers: Old Tales and attractiveness, due to a certain subtle tact
Superstitions interpreted by Compara or refinement hard to analyze, but quite
tive Mythology. By John Fiske. Price, sensibly felt, which marks the best Ameri
$2.00. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co.,
can essay-writing; and his manner of deal
1873.
ing with his subject is well fitted to reassure
Travellers to the United States, and those who have been deterred from seeking
American authors themselves, have often any acquaintance with comparative my
remarked on the affectionate veneration thology, either by the formidable appearance
shown by Americans for the oldest things of philological apparatus and Vedic proper
in Europe, and for all the associations con names, or by the aggressive boldness of
necting their present life with the life of one or two champions of the new learning.
their forefathers in the old country. Not It is very natural to feel a rebellious impulse
long ago, it may be remembered, the build at being told that half the gods and heroes
ers of a new meeting-house at Boston of the classical epics, or even the nursery
(United States), sent for a brick from the tales, which have delighted us from our
prototype still standing at our Boston in youth up, are sun and sky, light and dark
England. We now find an officer of Har ness, summer and winter, in various dis
vard University putting forth labor which guises.
is evidently a labor of love, and the literary
The myth is in its origin neither an al
skill and taste in which the best American legory—as Bacon and many others have
writers set an example worth commending thought—nor a metaphor—as seems now
to many of ours ; and the things he speaks and then to be implied in the language of
of belong to the Old World; to a world, modern comparative mythologists—but a
indeed, so far off that for centuries we had genuinely-accepted explanation of facts, a
lost its meaning, and have only just learned “ theorem of primitive Aryan science,” as
to spell it out again. His theme takes Mr. Fiske happily expresses it. This view
him back from the New World, not only to is brought out in the last essay of the vol
England, not only to Europe, but to the ume, entitled “ The Primeval Ghost World,”
ancient home of the Aryan race, a world where the genesis of mythology is held not
still full of wonders for the dwellers in it, to be explicable by the science of language
whose changes of days' and seasons, inter alone, and is rather ascribed to the complete
preted by the analogy of human will and absence of distinction between animate and
action, were instinct with manifold life; inanimate Nature, which is now known to
where the imagination of our fathers shaped be common to all tribes of men in a primi
the splendid and gracious forms which have tive condition, and to which Mr. Tylor has
gone forth over the earth, as their children given the name of Animism. We are
went forth, and prevailed in many lands, pleased to find Mr. Fiske praising Mr. Tyand have lived on through all the diverse lor’s work warmly, and even enthusiasti
fates of the kindred peoples in India, in cally : here is another of the many proofs
Greece, in Iceland, to bear witness in the that the ties of common language and cult
latter days to the unity of the parent stock. ure are in the long-run stronger than diplo
This book, which Mr. Fiske modestly intro macy and Indirect Claims. We find men
duces as a “ somewhat rambling and unsys tioned, among other instances of animism,
tematic series of papers,” seems to us to the belief that a man’s shadow is a sort of
give the leading results of comparative my ghost or other self. This belief has, in
thology in a happier manner and with comparatively-recent times, made its mark
greater success than has yet been attained even in so civilized a tongue as the Greek,
in so small a compass. It is the work of
in Romaic is a ghost, or rather a
a student who follows in the steps of the personified object generally, and seems to
great leaders with right-minded apprecia correspond exactly to the other self attrib
tion, and who, though he does not make uted by primitive man to all creatures, liv
any claim to originality, is no ordinary ing or not living, indiscriminately. Mr.
compiler. He is enthusiastic in his pursuit, Geldart, in a note to his book on Modem
without being a fanatic; his style has the Greek (Oxford, 1870), which well deserves
Myths
�774
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
the attention of students of language and
mythology, traces this as well as older al
lied meanings from the original meaning of
aroi-xYiov in classical Greek, as the shadow
on the sun-dial, acutely observing that the
moving shadow would seem to the natural
man far more alive and mysterious than the
fixed rod.
There are several matters dealt with in
special chapters by Mr. Fiske which we
must put off with little more than allusion:
the book is indeed a small one, but so full
of interest that choice among its contents
is not easy. An essay on “ The Descent of
Fire ” treats of the divining-rod and other
talismans endowed with the faculty of rend
ing open rocks and revealing hidden treas
ure, which all appear to be symbols, some
times obvious, sometimes remotely and fan
cifully derived, of the lightning which breaks
the cloud and lets loose the treasures of the
rain. There is also a chapter on the my
thology of non-Aryan tribes, showing the
difference between the vague resemblance
of these to Aryan myths and to one another,
and the close family likeness which leads to
the certain conclusion that the great mass
of Aryan mythology came from a common
stock.—Spectator.
and School : A Journal of Popular
Education. Morton & Co., Louisville.
In a late number of this journal is an
excellent article by Prof. Alexander Hogg,
of the Alabama Agricultural and Mechani
cal College, entitled “ More Geometry—
less Arithmetic,” that contains various sug
gestions worthy the thoughtful attention of
teachers. It was a favorite idea of the
late Josiah Holbrook, which he enforced
upon educators on all occasions, that rudi
mentary geometry should be introduced
into all primary schools; but he insisted
with equal earnestness upon his theory of
their order, which was embodied in his
aphorism, “ Drawing before writing, and
geometry before arithmetic.” The priority
of geometrical or arithmetical conception
in the unfolding mind is a subtle psycho
logical question, into which it is not neces
sary for the teacher to go, the practical
question being to get a recognition of the
larger claims of geometry, and this is the
point to which Prof. Hogg wisely directs
Home
the discussion. The fact is, mental devel
opment has been too much considered in
its linear and successive aspects, and the
theories that are laid down concerning the
true order of studies have been hitherto
too much confined to this idea. Starting
with inherited aptitudes, mental develop
ment begins in the intercourse of the infant
mind with the environment, and, while it is
true that there is a sequence of mental ex
perience in each increasing complexity, it is
equally true that many kinds of mental ac
tion are unfolded together. Ideas of form
are certainly among the earliest, and there
fore should have an early cultivation. To
all that Prof. Hogg says about the need of
increasing the amount of geometry in edu
cation we cordially subscribe, and we think
he is equally right in condemning the excess
of attention that is given to arithmetic,
which is mainly due to its supposed prac
tical character as a preparation for business.
But neither is geometry without its impor
tant practical uses. The professor says :
“ Let us see, then, what a pupil with
enough arithmetic and the plane geometry
can perform. He can measure heights and
distances; determine areas; knows that,
having enclosed one acre with a certain
amount of fencing, to enclose four acres
he only has to double the amount of fencing;
that the same is true of his buildings. In
circles, in round plats, or in cylindrical ves
sels, he will see a beautiful, universal law
pervading the whole—the increase of the
circumference is proportional to the in
crease of the diameter, while the increase
of the circle is as the square of the diam
eter. . . .
“ Thousands of boys are stuffed to re
pletion with ‘interest,’ ‘discount,’ and
‘ partnership,’ in which they have experi
enced much ‘ loss ’ but no ‘ profit; ’ have
mastered as many as five arithmetics, and
yet, upon being sent into the surveyor’s of
fice, machine-shop, and carpenter-shop,
could not erect a perpendicular to a
straight line, or find the centre of a circle
already described, if their lives depended
upon it. Many eminent teachers think that
young persons are incapable of reasoning,
and that the truths of geometry are too ab
struse to be comprehended by them. . . .
“ Children are taught to read, not for
�LITERARY NOTICES.
what is contained in the reading-books, but
that they may be able to read through life;
so, let enough of the leading branches be
taught, if no more, to enable the pupil to
pursue whatever he may need most in after
life. Let, then, an amount of geometry
commensurate with its importance be
taught even in the common schools; let it
be taught at the same time with arithmetic;
let as much time be given to it, and we shall
find thousands who, instead of closing their
mathematical books on leaving school, will
be led to pursue the higher mathematics in
their maturer years.”
The Mystery of Matter and Other Es
says. By J. Allanson Picton. 12mo,
pp. 482. Price $3.50. Macmillan & Co.
The purpose of this work is to reconcile
the essential principles of religious faith with
the present tendencies of thought in the
sphere of positive and physical science. Mr.
Picton is not a votary of modem skepti
cism, although he recognizes the fact of its
existence, and its bearing on vital questions.
Nor is he a partisan of any of the current
systems of philosophy or science, but dis
cusses their various pretensions in the spirit
of intelligent and impartial criticism. He
has no fear of their progress or influence;
he accepts many of their conclusions; he
honors the earnestness and ability of their
expounders ; while he believes that their re
sults are in harmony with the essential ideas
of religion. It is possible, he affirms, that
all forms of finite existence may be reduced
to modes of motion. But this is of no con
sequence in a religious point of view, for
motion itself is only the visible manifesta
tion of the energy of an infinite life. “ To
me,” he says, “ the doctrine of an eternal
continuity of development has no terrors ;
for, believing matter to be in its ultimate
essence spiritual, I see in every cosmic revo
lution a ‘ change from glory to glory, as by
the Spirit of the Lord.’ I can look down
the uncreated, unbeginning past, without
the sickness of bewildered faith. I want no
silent dark eternity in which no world was ;
for I am a disciple of One who said, * My
Father worketh hitherto.’ My sense of
eternal order is no longer jarred by the sud
den appearance in the universe of a dead,
inane substance, foreign to God and spiritual
775
being. And if, with a true insight, I could
stand so high above the world as to take
any comprehensive survey of its unceasing
evolutions—here a nebula dawning at the
silent fiat ‘ be light,’ there the populous
globe, where the communion of the many
with the One brings the creature back to
the Creator—I am sure that the oneness of
the vision, so far from degrading, would un
speakably elevate my sense of the dignity
and blessedness of created being. I have
no temptation, therefore, to join in cursing
the discoverer who tracks the chain of divine
forces by which finite consciousness has
been brought to take its present form ; be
cause I know he can never find more than
that which was in the beginning, and is, and
ever shall be—the ‘ power of an endless
life.’ ”
With regard to the speculations of Prof.
Huxley, the author, so far from bewailing
their effects, pronounces them decidedly
favorable to the interests of religion. They
present a formidable barrier to the encroach
ments of materialism. In this respect, he
thinks that Prof. Huxley has rendered ser
vices to the Church, if less signal, not less
valuable, than those which he has rendered
to science. He has brought the religious
world face to face with facts with a vigor
and a clearness peculiar to himself. Not
only so. In the opinion of the author, he
has made suggestions concerning those facts
of vast importance to the future of religion.
He has defined the only terms on which
harmony is possible between spiritual re
ligion and physical science. Equalling
Berkeley in transparent distinctness of
statement, while he far surpasses him in
knowledge of physical phenomena, Mr. Hux
ley has shown that, whether we start with
materialism or idealism, we are brought at
length to the same point. He has thus
proved himself one of the most powerful op
ponents that materialism ever had. All
that he did in his celebrated discourse on
the “ Physical Basis of Life ” was, to call
attention to certain indisputable facts.
“And perhaps it was the impossibility of
denying these facts which was a main cause
of the uneasiness that most of us felt.
Thus he told us that all organizations, from
the lichen up to the man, are all composed
mainly of one sort of matter, which in all
�776
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
cases, even those at the extremity of the deed follow that materialism, in a fair sense
scale, is almost identical in composition. of the word, is impossible, still the conclu
And the one other fact on which he insisted sion cannot be avoided that materialism
was, that every living action, from the vi and spiritualism would then exhibit only
brations of cilia by the foraminifer to the different aspects of the same everlasting
imagination of Hamlet or the composition fact, and physical research might henceforth
of the Messiah, is accompanied by, and in a unfold to us only the energies of Infinite
sense finds an equivalent expression in, a Life self-governed by eternal law.
definite waste or disintegration of material
But, admitting the universal action of
tissue. Thus it is no less certain that the molecular mechanics, the author adduces
muscles of a horse are strained by a heavy numerous instances which show that the
load, than it is that the brain of a Shake explanation they offer of the phenomena of
speare undergoes molecular agitation, pro sensation cannot be realized in conscious
ducing definite chemical results, in the sub ness. Nothing is really an explanation
lime effort of imagination.”
which cannot be reproduced in conscious
But, at first blush, such statements pro ness as such. We demand a cause from
duce a shock in the minds of most readers. which the effect can rationally be educed.
They are reluctant to be told that the soul The perception of distance, for example, is
never acts by itself apart from some excite explained by the action of the muscular
ment of bodily tissue. It seems monstrous sense and the experience of touch. This is
that thought and love, which in one direc an adequate explanation, for it can be re
tion find their expression in the majesty of alized in consciousness. But the case is far
eloquence, should in another direction find otherwise with the explanation of sensation
their expression in evolving carbonic acid by molecular mechanics. Physical research
and water. Such a union between soul and lands us in a dead inert substance called
body seemed to amount to identity. And matter, which, though without soul or mean
yet the soul was conscious that, whatever ing in itself, produces by its vibrations the
might be said, it was not one of the chemi most beautiful visions and sublime emotions
cal elements, nor all of them put together.
in our consciousness. But the external phe
The mental anxiety referred to has been nomena, inseparable from our consciousness
aggravated by the hold which has been of sight or sound, cannot be rationally con
taken on most inquiring minds, by the doc nected with the consciousness that gives
trine of development. Whether natural them all their interest. No one to whom
selection is or is not sufficient to account the Hallelujah Chorus utters the joy of
for the origin of species, the idea of suc heaven, or for whom a sonata of Beethoven
cessive acts of creation out of nothing has gives a voice to the unutterable, can make
been virtually abandoned by all whose ob it seem real to himself that his mind is in
servations of Nature have been on such a vaded by mere waves of vibrating air. At
scale as to entitle their opinions to any no point in the chain of vibrations, not even
weight. What was once the property of a the point most deeply buried in the brain,
few isolated thinkers has been made com can we conceive that molecular action is
pletely accessible to minds of common in converted into any thing besides material
telligence. But the terrors which have movement, or resistance to movement. But
been awakened by the popular reception of this does not exhaust the consciousness.
novel scientific theories are entirely founded The emotional, imaginative, and moral
on the assumption that matter and spirit wealth of human life opens a world of re
are fundamentally distinct in their nature. ality immeasurably greater than can be con
It has been the general belief that matter tained in mere mechanical movement.
was something heavy, lifeless, inert, some
Assuming, then, the fact of a nature in
thing that forms the hidden basis of the man, of which the molecular laws are not
ethereal vision of the world. But, argues the substance, but the condition, the author
the author, if that assumption be the mere takes up the inquiry as to the essential
creature of false analogy, and is wholly in nature of religion. This he defines to be
congruous and unthinkable, it does not in the endeavor after a practical expression of
�LITERARY NOTICES.
man’s conscious relation to the Infinite.
The savage who wonders at the unseen but
mighty wind that streams from unknown
realms of power has already the germ of
the feeling which inspires religion. But the
conscious relation to the Infinite includes
every stage in this consciousness, just as
the name of a plant includes the blade as
well as the fruit. If the evolution of reli
gion be a normal phase in the development
of mankind, there must be at the root of it
that grand and measureless Power which is
the inevitable complement of the conception
of evolution. All evolution implies a divine
Power, but religious evolution has to do
with the dim apprehension of that Power in
consciousness. Mr. Herbert Spencer, to
continue the reasoning of the author, has
been much blamed, by many religious think
ers, for making the reconciliation between
science and religion to lie in the recognition
on both sides that “ the Power which the
universe manifests to us is utterly inscru
table.” Yet the very persons who most
strenuously object to this suggestion are in
the habit of quoting the words of Scripture
which declare the unsearchable mystery of
the Divine Nature. Those words are used
to rebuke the arrogance of philosophy. But,
when philosophy learns the lesson, its hu
mility is condemned as wilful blindness.
The true philosophy of ignorance, however,
retains as an indestructible element of hu
man consciousness an apprehension of
something beyond all fragmentary existence,
the Absolute Being, at once the only true
substance, and the One that constitutes a
universe from the phenomenal world. It
is inevitable that attempts should be made
to give practical expression to this feeling.
And in such efforts we find the first germs
of religion.
With the imperfect summary which we
have given of the views maintained in this
volume, it will be perceived that its position
in literature is that of a commentary on
new developments of thought, rather than
of a complete exposition of any system of
philosophy or science. Accepting the con
sequences of modem physical research, it
aims to establish their consistency with the
principles of a high religious faith, and thus
to remove the vague alarms which their
prevalence has called forth in certain por
711
tions of the community. The author is
evidently a man of an ardent poetical tem
perament, of a reverent and tender spirit,
and an aptitude for illustration rather than
for demonstration.—N. Y. Tribune.
Chimneys for Furnaces, Fireplaces, and
Steam-Boilers. By R. Armstrong, C.
E., 12mo, 76 pages. Price, 50 cents.
This is number one of Van Nostrand’s
science series, and is a technological mono
graph that will be useful to engineers and
builders. The author says : “ Furnaces or
closed fireplaces, which it is the main de
sign of this essay to treat upon, are essen
tially different in principle and construction
to the ordinary open fireplaces of dwelling
houses, as they are exceedingly different in
their general scope and object, and in the
vast variety of their applications; ” and he
then proceeds to expound the general phi
losophy of special chimneys for furnaces
and steam-boilers.
Steam-Boiler Explosions. By Zerah Col
burn. 12mo, 98 pages.
New York :
D. Van Nostrand.
This is number two of the same series,
and is a most instructive and readable essay.
The editor states that, although published
ten years ago, later experiences would add
but little if any thing to the knowledge it
affords. The various observed scientific
questions in regard to the causes of steamboiler explosions, such as over-heating, elec
tricity, the spheroidal state, decomposed
steam, etc., are considered, but Mr. Colburn
maintains that, whether these are valid
causes of explosion or not, they are colleotively as nothing compared with the one
great cause—defective boilers. The style
in which this essay is written is a model of
simplicity and clearness.
Bulletin
ural
of the Buffalo Society of Nat
Sciences. Vol. I., Nos. 1 and 2.
Buffalo, 1873.
The Buffalo Society of Natural Sciences
commences this year the publication of their
Bulletin, which it is proposed to continue,
four numbers to be issued annually. The
two numbers before us contain seven papers,
six of which are devoted to the describing
and cataloguing of American moths, and
one gives descriptions of new species of
�778
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
fungi. The author of the latter paper is
Charles H. Peck ; all the others are by Au
gustus R. Grote. Mr. Grote is well known
to entomologists as an authority on the sub
jects which he discusses, and the Buffalo
society is to be congratulated for being the
medium through which the laborious and
valuable researches of so able a naturalist
are published to the world. The papers are
strictly scientific and technical, being in
tended solely for those who pursue method
ically the special branches of science to
which they refer. They are not popular
expositions, but rather brief notes on cer
tain departments of natural science, to be
understood and valued only by the initiated.
The Bulletin is handsomely printed on good
paper, in octavo form. Subscription price,
$2.50 per volume.
Scientific and Industrial Education. A
Lecture. By G. B. Stebbins. Detroit, 1873,
pp. 24.
The Railroads of the United States. By
Henry V. Poor. New York : H. V. & H. W.
Poor, 68 Broadway, pp. 29.
Cosmical and Molecular Harmonics, No.
II. By Pliny Earle Chase, M. A. Philadel
phia, 1873, pp. 16.
Nickel.
pp. 19.
By Dr. Lewis Feuchtwanger,
Diminution of Water on the Earth, and
its Permament Conversion into Solid Forms.
By Mrs. George W. Houk. Dayton, 0., 1873,
pp. 39.
Sixth Annual Report of the Trustees of
the Peabody Museum of American Archaeol
ogy and Ethnology. Cambridge, 1873, pp.
Atmospheric Theory of the Open Polar 27. Mr. Gillman’s report of his explora
Sea : with Remarks on the Present State tions of the ancient mounds on the St. Clair
of the Question. By William W. Wheil- River is an important contribution to ar
don. First Paper. Boston, 1872.
chaeology. The museum is in a flourishing
This paper was read at the meeting of the state, and growing steadily. The Niccolucci
American Association for the Advancement collection of ancient crania and implements
of Science, held at Newport, R. I., in 1860, was the most important addition made
and was published in the volume of proceed during the past year.
ings of the Association for that year. The ex
traordinary interest taken in Arctic affairs
during the past two years has led to its re
MISCELLANY.
issue in pamphlet form, with brief introduc
Utilization of Waste Coal.—The English
tory observations on the present state of the
problem. Accepting the view, now quite gen Mechanic gives an historical sketch of the
erally held, that an open sea, or at least a various processes suggested for the utiliza
much ameliorated climate, exists in the vi tion of the waste of coal-mines. From this
cinity of the pole, the author, in this paper, account it would appear that so early as the
aims to show that such a condition of things close of the sixteenth century the waste of
“ is largely if not entirely <Me to the cur small coal attracted notice. About the year
rents of the air from the equatorial regions 1594 one Sir Hugh Platt proposed a mixture
which move in the higher strata of the of coal-dust and loam, together with such
earth’s atmosphere, bearing heat and moist combustible materials as sawdust and tan
ure with them.” How well he succeeds in ners’ bark: the loam being the cement
this undertaking, we leave the readers of which was to hold the other ingredients to
gether. But Sir Hugh’s suggestions did not
the argument to judge.
receive much attention in those early times,
when coal was but little, used, wood being
the staple fuel of England.
BOOKS RECEIVED.
It was only at the beginning of the
Washington Catalogue of Stars. By or present century that this question began to
der of Rear-Admiral Sands, U. S. N. Wash receive serious attention. A patent was
ington, 1873.
then granted for a mixture of refuse coal
First Annual Report of the Minnesota with charcoal, wood, breeze, tan, peat, saw
State Board of Health. St. Paul, 1873, dust, cork-cuttings, and other inflammable
pp. 102.
ingredients. A capital objection to such a
�MISCELLANY.
scheme is its expense. The product would
necessarily cost about as much per ton as
good coal, without being at all as service
able. The next attempt was the production
of “gaseous coke.” Here the object was to
convert small coal, by the addition of coaltar, either pure, or mixed with naphtha, into
a well-mixed mass. It was then to be put
into an oven and coked ; afterward it was
to be broken into suitable blocks for use.
There were several modifications of this
process, but as they all more or less involved
the previous manufacture of their most es
sential ingredient, coal-tar, the anticipations
of the projectors were not realized.
In 1823 a step was taken in the right
direction by the combination of bituminous
and anthracite coals, and converting them,
by partial carbonization in an oven, into a
kind of soft coke. In 1845 Frederick Ran
some introduced a plan for cementing to
gether small coal by means of a solution of
silica dissolved in caustic soda, the small
refuse coal so treated to be then compressed
into blocks suitable for use. In 1849 Henry
Bessemer proposed simply to heat small
coal sufficient to soften it, and thus render
it capable of being easily pressed into
moulds and formed into solid blocks. The
coal, according to this plan, might be soft
ened either by the action of steam or in
suitable ovens. Coal alone was used, no
extraneous matter of any kind being em
ployed. In 1856 F. Ransome brought for
ward one of the best plans yet offered. He
placed the small coal in suitable moulds,
which were then passed into an oven, and
there heated just sufficiently to cause the
mass to agglomerate.
Though the writer in the Mechanic com
mends highly the Ransome and the Besse
mer plans, it is clear that they do not fully
solve the problem, for inventors are still
busy on both sides of the Atlantic devising
other and better methods. Perhaps, how
ever, the successful working of the Crans
ton “Automatic Reverberatory Furnace,”
which is adapted for the consumption of
powdered coal, will cause such a demand
for small coal as will leave these utilizing
processes without material to work on.
779
nia of the Human Races,” and recently
laid before the Paris Academy of Sciences
a synopsis of the results which he there
proposes to establish. The materials he
has at hand for this investigation are
abundant—no less than 4,000 skulls; and
he acknowledges the valuable assistance
rendered to him by the most eminent sa
vants both of France and of the rest of
Europe. He holds that the fossil races are
not extinct, but that, on the contrary, they
have yet living representatives. He regards
the skull discovered in 1700 at Canstadt,
near Stuttgart, as the type of the most an
cient human race of which we have ac
knowledge. This skull is dolichocephalous
—that is, having a length greater than its
breadth. With the Canstadt skull he
classes those of Enghisheim, Brux, Nean
derthal, La Denise, Staengenaes, Olmo, and
Clichy—the last-named three being the
skulls of females. Among the representa
tives, in historical times, of the dolichoceph
alous race, M. Quatrefages reckons Kay
Lykke, a Danish statesman of the seven
teenth century, whose skull is portrayed in
the forthcoming work; Saint Mansuy, Bishop
of Toul in the fourth century, whose skull is
also figured ; and Robert Bruce. Whether
the cranium is long or short—dolichoceph
alous or brachycephalous—is a question
which has nothing to do with the intel
lectual status of the man, according to M.
Quatrefages.
Heart-Disease and Overwork.—The ear
ly break-down of health observed among
Cornish miners, and commonly regarded
as an affection of the lungs —“ miners’
phthisis ”—is declared, by competent au
thority, to proceed rather from disturbed
action of the heart; and this, according to
Dr. Houghton, the distinguished Dublin
physiologist, is caused by the great and
sudden strain put upon the system by the
ascent from the pits, at a time when the
body is not sufficiently fortified with food.
In his valuable address on the “ Relation
of Food to Work,” Dr. Houghton says:
“ The labor of the miner is peculiar, and his
food appears to me badly suited to meet its
requirements. At the close of a hard day’s
Qnatrefages on Human Crania.—Quatre- toil the weary miner has to climb, by verti
fages is engaged on a work entitled “ Cra cal ladders, through a height of from 600 to
�780
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
1,200 feet, before he can reach his cottage,
where he naturally looks for his food and
sleep. This climbing of the ladders is per
formed hastily, almost as a gymnastic feat,
and throws a heavy strain (amounting to
from one-eighth to one-quarter of the whole
day’s work) upon the muscles of the tired
miner, during the half-hour or hour that con
cludes his daily toil. A flesh-fed man (as a
red Indian) would run up the ladders like a
cat, using the stores of force already in re
serve in his blood ; but the Cornish miner,
who is fed chiefly upon dough and fat, finds
himself greatly distressed by the climbing of
the ladders—more so, indeed, than by the
slower labor of quarrying in the mine. His
heart, over-stimulated by the rapid exer
tion of muscular work, beats more and
more quickly in its efforts to oxidate the
blood in the lungs, and so supply the force
required. Local congestion of the lung it
self frequently follows, and lays the founda
tion for the affection so graphically though
sadly described by the miner at forty years
of age, who tells you that his other works
are very good, but that he is ‘ beginning to
leak in the valves ’ Were I a Cornish miner,
and able to afford the luxury, I should train
myself for the ‘ ladder-feat ’ by dining on
half a pound of rare beefsteak and a glass
of ale from one to two hours before com
mencing the ascent,”
San Jorge. In 1866, for instance, the vol
cano of Santorin emitted smoke charged
with acid, which produced on plants effects
similar to those observed at San Jorge in
1808.
A writer in the Revue Scientijique is of
the opinion that the facts above stated
give the solution of some of the problems
raised by the exhumations at Pompeii. The
strange posture of skeletons found in the
streets of that town is very difficult to ac
count for, if we insist on finding analogies
with phenomena observed in modem erup
tions of Vesuvius. A shower of ashes, how
ever heavy, however charged with humidity,
could never have thrown down and choked
a strong man like the one who met his
death while making his escape, in company
with his two daughters, along one of the
public roads. They must have inhaled a
poisonous gas of some kind, which caused
them to perish in fearful agony. This gas
would not lie in a layer of equal thickness :
in some places it might have a greater depth
than in others. Hence, while some of the
inhabitants would perish, the remainder
would escape.
It is very probable that the eruption in
the year 79 was accompanied with local
emissions of carbonic acid, springing from
points remote from the crater. In all vol
canic regions, says the author, there are
localities where, even when the volcano is
inactive, carbonic acid exists in the atmos
phere, in quantities sufficient to produce
asphyxia: and the neighborhood of Vesu
vius is particularly noted for the number of
6uch localities. During an eruption, the
amount of the gas given out is usually in
creased, and wells, ditches, quarries, etc.,
are filled with carbonic acid. It is some
times dangerous to enter cavities in the
rocks on the coast when a fresh breeze does
not keep them free of the poisonous gas.
In 1861 Ste.-Claire Deville came near meet
ing his death by entering one of these cavi
ties for a few moments. The following
week he and the author barely escaped
being asphyxiated in the bed of a great
quarry, which they had previously visited
many a time with impunity.
Poisonous Volcanie Gases. — During a
volcanic eruption on the little island of San
Jorge, one of the Azores, in the year 1808,
vaporous clouds were seen to roll down the
sides of the mountain, and to move along
the valley. Wherever they passed, plants
and animals wilted and perished instanta
neously. From this asphyxiating action,
as also from their downward movement on
the mountain-side and toward the sea, we
may conclude that they consisted chiefly of
some dense, deleterious gas, most probably
carbonic acid. Their opacity is to be at
tributed to the presence of watery vapor,
and their reddish color to the presence of
tine volcanic dust. Finally, their injurious
action on plants was doubtless owing to the
presence of chlorhydric and sulphurous acid.
Similar phenomena have been observed
on occasion of other volcanic outbreaks,
A Relie of Ancient Etrurian Art. — An
but nowhere so marked as in the case of antiquarian discovery of very considerable
�MISCELLANY.
interest was recently made at Cervetri,
Italy, being a terra-cotta sarcophagus of
native Etruscan production. The ancient
Etrurians were noted for the honor they
bestowed upon their dead, and their custom
of paying homage to ancestors by placing
their effigies upon their tombs seems to
have been peculiar to themselves, and un
known among the Greeks. The recentlydiscovered sarcophagus is now in the British
Museum. It measures internally four feet
ten inches in length, and two feet in width.
The floor is hollowed out, or rather marked
by a raised border, which takes the form
of a human figure. It rests upon four claw
feet projecting beyond the angles, and ter
minating above in the head and breasts of
a winged siren. The lid of the sarcophagus
represents an upholstered couch upon which
recline two human figures, male and female.
There are inscriptions on the four sides of
the couch. The panel at the foot has the
figures of two warriors in panoply, and the
front panel exhibits the same pair of war
riors engaged in mortal combat. Several
accessory figures are also to be seen. On
the panel at the head of the couch are rep
resented four sitting figures in opposing
pairs, plunged in deep sorrow. The monu
ment has no counterpart among those of its
kind hitherto discovered, the only one at
all resembling it being that of the Campana
Collection in the Louvre. The latter is,
however, of a much more recent date than
the former, nor is it adorned with either
reliefs or inscriptions. The Cervetri sar
cophagus probably dates from the period of
Etruscan ascendency in Italy.
Audible and Inaudible Sounds.—The
phenomenon of color-blindness is a familiar
fact; but an analogous phenomenon, what
might be called pitch-deafness, though not
uncommon, is not so generally known. By
•Ditch-deafness is meant insensibility to cer
tain sound-vibrations. Prof. Donaldson, of
the University of Edinburgh, used to illus
trate the different grades of sensibility to
sound by a very simple experiment, namely,
by sounding a set of small organ-pipes of
great acuteness of tone. The gravest note
would be sounded first, and this would be
heard by the entire class. Soon some one
would remark, “ There, ’tis silent,” whereas
781
all the rest, perhaps, would distinctly hear
the shrill piping continued. As the tone
rose, one after another of the students
would lose sensation of the acute sounds,
until finally they became inaudible to all.
There is reason for supposing that per
sons whose ear is sensitive to very acute
sounds are least able to hear very grave
notes, and vice versa. Probably the hear
ing capacity of the human ear ranges over
no more than 12 octaves. The gravest
note audible to the human ear is supposed
to represent about 15 vibrations per second,
and the sharpest 48,000 per second.
The auditory range of animals is doubt
less very different from that of man; they
hear sounds which are insensible to us, and
vice versa. Many persons are insensible to
the scream of the bat—it is too acute. But
to the bat itself that sound must be in all
cases perfectly sensible. If, then, we sup
pose the bat to have an auditory range of
12 octaves, and its scream or cry to stand
midway in that range, the animal would
hear tones some six octaves higher than
those audible to the human ear—two and a
half million vibrations per second.
Scoresby and other arctic voyagers and
whale-hunters have observed that whales
have some means of communicating with
one another at great distances. It is prob
able that the animals bellow in a tone too
grave for the human ear, but quite within
the range of the cetacean ear.
The Motions of the Heart.—According
to the generally-accepted teachings of phys
iologists, the heart rests after each pulsa
tion ; that is, each complete contraction
during which the auricles are emptied into
the ventricles, and the ventricles into the
vessels, is followed by a moment’s repose,
when the organ is entirely at rest. Dr. J.
Bell Pettigrew, in his recently-published
lectures on the “ Physiology of the Circula
tion,” takes a different view, affirming that
the normal action of the heart is a con
tinuous one, and that as a whole it never
ceases to act until it comes to a final stop.
He says : “ When the heart is beating nor
mally, one or other part of it is always mov
ing. When the veins cease to close, and
the auricles to open, the auricles begin to
close and the ventricles to open ; and so on
�782
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
in endless succession. In order to admit
of these changes, the auriculo-ventricular
valves, as has been stated, rise and fall like
the diaphragm in respiration; the valves
protruding, now into the auricular cavities,
now into the ventricular ones. There is in
reality no pause in the heart’s action. The
one movement glides into the other as a
snake glides into the grass. All that the
eye can detect is a quickening of the gliding
movements, at stated and very short inter
vals. A careful examination of the sounds
of the heart shows that the sounds, like the
movements, glide into each other. There
is no actual cessation of sound when the
heart is in action. There are periods when
the sounds are very faint, and when only a
sharp or an educated ear can detect them,
and there are other periods when the sounds
are so distinct that even a dull person must
hear; but the sounds—and this is the point
to be attended to—merge into each other
by slow or sudden transitions. It would
be more accurate, when speaking of the
movements and sounds of the heart, to say
they are only faintly indicated at one time,
and strongly emphasized at another, but that
neither ever altogether ceases. If, however,
the heart is acting more or less vigorously
as a whole, the question which naturally
presents itself is, How is the heart rested ?
There can be little doubt it rests, as it acts,
viz., in parts. The centripetal and centrif
ugal wave-movements pass through the
sarcous elements of the different portions
of the heart very much as the wind passes
through the leaves : its particles are stirred
in rapid succession, but never at exactly the
same instant; the heart is moving as a
whole, but its particles are only moving at
regular and stated intervals ; the periods
of repose, there is every reason to believe,
greatly exceeding the periods of activity.
The nourishment, life, and movements of
the heart are, in this sense, synonymous.”
phere being represented as 100), he found
the birds seized with violent convulsions.
The same result followed when sparrows
were confined in common air under a press
ure of 17 atmospheres. In oxygen, at 3|
atmospheres’ pressure, or in air at 22 at
mospheres, the convulsions were extremely
violent and quickly fatal. The symptoms
in the latter case were these: Convulsions
set in after four or five minutes: in moving
about, the bird hobbles on its feet, as
though walking on hot coals. It then flut
ters its wings, falls on its back, and spins
about, the claws doubled up. Death super
venes after a few such spasms.
The toxic dose of oxygen for a dog was
found to require, for convulsions, a pressure
of 350 in oxygen; and a pressure of 500 is
fatal. The amount of oxygen in the arterial
blood of a dog in convulsions was found to
be considerably less than twice the normal
quantity. Hence the author’s startling con
clusion, that oxygen is the mostfearful poison
known.
Taking a dog in full convulsion out of
the receiver, M. Bert found the paws rigid,
the body bent backward in the shape of an
arch, the eyes protruding, pupil dilated,
jaws clinched. Soon there is relaxation,
followed by another crisis, combining the
symptoms of strychnine-poisoning and of
lockjaw. The convulsionary periods, at
first recurring every five or six minutes, be
come gradually less violent and less fre
quent.
The author sums up his conclusions as
follows : 1. Oxygen behaves like a rapidlyfatal poison, when its amount in the arte
rial blood is about 35 cubic centimetres per
cent, of the liquid; 2. The poisoning is
characterized by convulsions which repre
sent, according to the intensity of the symp
toms, the various types of tetanus, epilepsy,
poisoning by phrenic acid and strychnine,
etc.; 3. These symptoms, which are allayed
by chloroform, are due to an exaggeration
of the excito-motor power of the spinal cord;
4. They are accompanied by a considerable
and constant diminution of the internal tem
perature of the animal.
Poisoning by Oxygen.—M. Paul Bert,
whose observations upon the physiological
effects of high atmospheric pressure we have
already noted in the Monthly, communi
cates to the Paris Academy of Sciences the
Infant Mortality.—During the year 1868,
results of his observations on the toxic ac
tion of oxygen. Placing sparrows in oxygen 23,198 children under one year of age,
under a pressure of 850 (that of the atmos died by convulsions in England, the num
�NOTES.
ber of births being 786,858—one in 34.
In the same year the births in Scotland
were 115,514, and only.312 infants under
one year—one in 370—fell victims to con
vulsions. This striking difference in the
mortality statistics of the two countries is
accounted for in a report of the Scottish
Registrar-General by the difference between
the English and the Scottish modes of rear
ing infants. “ The English,” he writes,
“ are in the habit of stuffing their babies
with spoon-meat almost from birth, while
the Scotch, excepting in cases where the
mother is delicate, or the child is out nurs
ing, w isely give nothing but the mother’s
milk till the child begins to cut its teeth.”
The statistics of infantile deaths from
diarrhoea may also be adduced as an argu
ment in favor of the Scottish system. In
England more than twice as many infants
die of this disorder than in Scotland.
On comparing these statistics with those
of the last United States census, it will be
seen that the chances of life for infants in
their first year are far more favorable in
this country than in England, though not so
favorable as in Scotland. In the year end
ing May 31, 1870, there were born in the
United States 1,100,475 children. Of these
there died, during the same year 4,863 by
convulsions, and 1,534 by diarrhoea, or one
in 236 from the former cause, and one in
724 from the latter. In England the deaths
from diarrhoea amounted to 138 in 100,000
infants, and in Scotland to 66 in the same
number. It will be seen, on computation,
that the proportion of deaths from this
cause are by a very small fraction less in
the United States than in Scotland. But
now are we to attribute these very credita
ble results to our more rational system of
rearing children, or to the better social con
dition of the population here ?
783
He has the testimony of fifty-six witnesses
who saw the young enter the parent’s
mouth. Of these fifty-six, nineteen testify
that they heard the parent snake warning
her young of danger by a loud whistle.
Two of the witnesses waited to see the young
emerge again from their refuge, after the
danger was past; and one of them went
again and again to the snake’s haunt, ob
serving the same act on several successive
days. Four saw the young rush out when
the parent was struck ; eighteen saw the
young shaken out by dogs, or escaping from
the mouth of their dead parent. These tes
timonies are confirmed by the observations
of scientific men, such as Prof. Smith, of
Yale College, Dr. Palmer, of the Smithsonian
Institution, and others.
NOTES.
The year 1759, which witnessed the
completion of the Eddystone Lighthouse,
closed with tremendous storms, and the
courage of the light-keepers was tested to
the utmost. A biography of John Smeaton,
the builder of the Eddystone, states that
for twelve days the sea ran over them so
much that they could not open the door of
the lantern, or any other door. “The
house did shake,” said one of the keepers,
“ as if we had been up a great tree. The
old men were frightened out of their lives,
wishing they had never seen the place.
The fear seized them in the back, but rub
bing them with oil of turpentine gave them
relief!”
Sir Charles Lyell, in his “ Geology,”
speaking of Madagascar, says that, with two
or three small islands in its immediate vicin
ity, it forms a zoological sub-province, in
which all the species except one, and nearly
all the genera, are peculiar. He singles out
for special remark the lemurs of Madagas
car, comprising seven genera, only one of
which has any representatives on the nearest
main-land of Africa. Hitherto no fossil re
mains of these Madagascar species have
Snakes swallowing their Young.—The been known to exist, but M. Delfortrie, of
question, “ Do snakes swallow their young ?” the French Academy of Sciences, announces
that he has found, in the phosphorite of
that is, give them shelter in the maternal the department of Lot, an almost complete
stomach when danger threatens, was dis skull of an individual belonging to this lecussed in a paper presented to the Ameri murine family.
can Association by G. Brown Goode. The
Of the 35,170,294 passengers carried
author some time since asked, through the over the railroads of Pennsylvania last year,
public press, for testimony bearing on this only thirty-three were killed, less than one
subject, and he now comes forward with in a million. But the English lines make a
far more favorable showing, the number
what appears to be perfectly satisfactory killed in the year 1871 being only twelve—■
evidence in favor of the affirmative side. or one in 31,000,000.
�784
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
In the “ History of the Fishes of the Brit
ish Islands,” Giraldus Cambrensis, a writer
of the twelfth century, is quoted for the•
observation that in the Lyn y Cwn, or Pool1
of Dogs, in Wales, the trout, the perch, andI
the eel, were deficient of the left eye. A
recent work on “ Trout and Salmon Fishing;
in Wales,” strangely enough, confirms in
part this observation, asserting that one-•
eyed trout are still caught in the same
waters.
Professor Smee recently, at the Berlin
Chemical Society, proposed a method for
detecting organic matters contained in the
air, and for effecting at the same time a
kind of distillation by cold. A glass fun
nel, closed at its narrow end, is held sus
pended in the air and filled with ice. The
moisture of the air is condensed, in contact
with the exterior surface; it trickles to the
bottom of the apparatus, and falls into a
small basin placed for its reception. The
liquid obtained in a given time is weighed.
It generally contains ammonia, which is de
termined by known methods. Distillation
by cold may be employed for separating
volatile substances which might be injured
by heat. Thus, if flowers are placed under
a large bell-glass along with the refrigerat
ing funnel, a liquid is obtained in the basin
saturated with the odorous principles of
the flowers.
At various points on the river Thames,
between Woolwich and Erith, there are
visible at low water the remains of a sub
merged forest, over which the river now
flows. This fact, taken in connection with
other local phenomena, has led geologists
to conclude that the present outlet of the
Thames to the North Sea is of quite recent
origin, the waters having formerly passed
southward into the Weald by channels
which still remain. Excavations in the
marshes expose to view a deep stratum of
twigs, leaves, seed-vessels, and stools of
trees, chiefly of the yew, alder, and oak
kinds.
A traveller in Zanzibar describes the
red and black ants as one of the greatest
scourges with which Eastern Africa is af
flicted. These insects, he says, move along
the roads in masses so dense that beasts of
burden refuse to step among them. If the
traveller should fail to see them coming, in
time to make his escape, he soon finds them
swarming about his person. Sometimes,
too, they ascend the trees and drop upon
the wayfarer. The natives call them madinodo, that is, boiling water, to signify the
scalding sensation produced by their bite.
These ants are of great size, and burrow so
deep into the flesh that it is not easy to
pick them out. In certain forests they are
said to exist in such numbers as to be able
to destroy rats and lizards.
An eccentric and methodical man is Dr.
Rudolf, Danish governor of Upernavik,
Greenland. Dr. Rudolf is a scientist of some
distinction, and has contributed his share
to the scientific literature of his own coun
try, yet it is his choice to live in a region
where darkness prevails four months in the
year, and where he can have no communication with civilized life beyond the annual
visit from the government storeship, and the
casual arrival of whalers. By the storeship
the governor receives annually a file of
Danish newspapers; but instead of glan
cing through them hastily, he takes a fresh
journal every morning, reading the Dagblad
of Jan. 1, 1872, on Jan. 1, 1873. He thus
follows, day for day, the changes in the mind
of Denmark: is glad in the order in which
Copenhagen is glad, and vice versa, but al
ways precisely twelve months after the event.
If the white of an egg be immersed for
some 12 hours in cold water, it undergoes a
chemico-molecular change, becoming solid
and insoluble. The hitherto transparent
albumen assumes an opaque and snow-white
appearance, far surpassing that of the ordi
nary egg. Dr. John Goodman, writing in
the Chemical News, recommends this mate
rial for diet in cases where a patient’s blood
lacks fibrine. The substance being light and
easily digested, it is not rejected even by a
feeble stomach; and as it creates a feeling
of want rather than of repletion, it pro
motes, rather than decreases, the appetite
for food. After the fibrine has been pro
duced in the manner described above, it
must be submitted to the action of a boil
ing heat, and is then ready for use.
One of the great dangers attending the
use of the various sedatives employed in
the nursery is that they tend to produce
the opium-habit. These quack medicines
owe their soothing and quieting effects to
the action of opium, and the infant is by
them given a morbid appetite for narcotic
stimulants. The offering for sale of such
nostrums should be prohibited, as tending
to the physical and moral deterioration of
the race. In India mothers give to their
infants sugar-pills containing opium, and
the result is a languid, sensual race of hope
less debauchees. In the United States the
poisonous dose is administered under an
other name ; but the consequences will prob
ably be the same.
During last autumn, says the Journal of
ithe Society of Arts, there were no less than
1
seventeen companies engaged in extracting
j
gold from the auriferous sand of Finland.
'The alluvial deposits at Toalo are said to be
<extremely rich in gold, the total production
1last season being estimated at about $50,000.
<One of the companies returned a dividend
<of 70 per cent The largest nugget weighed
t40 grammes.
�
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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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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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The Popular Science Monthly, Vol. 3, October 1873
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Place of publication: [Harlan, Iowa]
Collation: [657]-784 p. : ill. ; 24 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Complete issue. Contents: Silk-worms and sericulture / A. de Quatrefages -- Mental science and sociology / Herbert Spencer -- A national university / Charles Eliot -- Agassiz and Darwinism / John Fiske -- The primary concepts of modern physical science / J.B. Stallo -- Finding the way at sea / R.A. Proctor -- Secular prophecy [from Saturday Review] -- Sympathetic vibrations in machinery / Prof. J. Lovering -- Speculation in science / Prof. J. Lawrence Smith -- The glaciers and their investigation / Prof. John Tyndall -- The Moon / Richard A. Proctor. The Popular Science is an American bi-monthly magazine carrying popular science content, which refers to articles for the general reader on science and technology subjects; edited by Joe Brown.
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1873
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D. Appleton and Company
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Science
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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 (The Popular Science Monthly, Vol. 3, October 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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Conway Tracts
Science
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�LA GRECE ET LA TURQUIE
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i
A
Les grands dvenemens accomplis dans ces derniferes annees ont eu
leur echo en Orient! ils y^ont change a bien des egards le courant
des idees et y ont introduit des influences nouvelles qui cherchent'
a s’y rendre preponderates. Des faits locaux, d’une importance
europeenne secondaire, mais dont il
absolumentindispensable
de tenir compte, se sont produits. Je vais essayer de resumer dans
pages suivantes l’etat des choses en placat le point de vue du
•ft&jpur. dans A thanes, c’est-a^dire' au lieum&ne d’od il m’a ete
’Miwe de faire mes propres observation^ pendant huit annees con
nectives. Je passerai en revue les questions qui sont comprises
dans ce qu’on appelle d’ordinaire « la question d’Orient, » et, si le
lecteur veut se reporter & une e(ude du meme genre pubfiee ici—
meme en 1869 (1|, > se repdra aisement compte du chenain que
chacun des probfemes pendans a pu faire vers une solution.
"X
1
Il n’y aurait pas en Grfece de question religiewe, si ce pays n’etait le centre de rindependance helMnique^tt de cette nationalite
i .• .1
dispersee qui se donne A elle-m^me le nom de panhellenium. En
effet, depuis l’epoque de Photius, reglise grecque ne s’est pas sensibfement modifiee-: a partir.des temps byzantins, elle n’a plus eu
fi^.^ucun role politique a jouer; ce role, elle ne l’a point repris de nos
*W'W^rs’ et» ce
est Pour
un bien inappreciable, le clerge
FW’a pas meme eu la pens6e d’entrer en antagonusme avec l’etat. La
dg^^’Grece ne paie point ses cures et ne donne a ses nombreux eyek^-ques qu’un faible traitement. Elle renferme quelques monastfere?
I’
(1) Voyez la Revue du 15 d^cembre 1869.
\mMM
'V;
v•
cA •
V
-X
v
KSr
r
Ja
�30
\
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
d’hommes, uri ouldeux de femmes, mais, que l’etat pent toujours
supprimer quand’il lui plaitWlors des couvensr, elle n’a point de
ces congregations en grande partie composes de laiques et s’insi■Huant dans les affaires des families comme dans celles de l’etat, as
sociations presque entitlement clandestines qui sont le prtncipe
destructeur et le veritable fleau des peuples latins. On pent <lonc
dire qu’il n’y a On Gr£ce aucun probl&me religieux de quelque im
portance et qu’en cela elle peut marcher sans obstacle dans la voie
de la civilisation; mais, comme pays libre, elle n’est pas seulement
le modele qu’ont toujours devant eux les autres peuples helleniques
encore soumis a l’etranger, elle est aussi le centre politique et re
ligieux auquel ils s’efforcent de se rattacher. Tout probl&me religieux J
qui s’agite dans les pays occupes par les Ottomans devient un probltbme pour ainsi dire athenien; toute solution facheuse y est une
atteinte portee a la Grece independante. Les lois relatives aux ma
nages et aux naissances, et qui exigent que dans un mariage mixte
les enfans soient de religion grecque, sont une preuve de l’importance que 1’on attache a la conservation de 1’unite religieuse du I
Hflk, panhellenium. Tant qu’il existera des Hellenes soumis & la domina-'I
tion musulmane, cette importance demeurera la meme, car la qll I
1’unite politique fait defaut, ou les principes des gouvernemens et
des legislations sont en contradiction formelle, le seul lien et;
seule force qui reste a une race dispersde, c’est l’unite religieusq^,
Dans le monde hellenique, on ne voit jamais se produire urid .
question de doctrine : les dogmes sont fixes depuis des siecles;r|
personne ne songe a les examiner, a les discuter, a les modifier ou
& en introduire de nouveaux. Quand l’eglise romaine souleva dans
ces derniers temps la question de l’infaillibilite du pape, les Grecs
furent comme stupefaits; ils ne virent la qu’une affaire politique et
un dernier effort pour retenir un pouvoir usurpe qui echappait.
Si par impossible l’idee d’un pared article de foi venait a quelques eveques ou a quelque patriarche de 1’eglise d’Orient, ce serait
dans tout le monde hellenique un immense eclat de rire, et Ton se
dirait les uns aux autres, comme Virgile & Dante : guarda e passafl
Les questions de hierarchie ont au contraire le premier rang chez 1
les peuples grecs et intdressent au meme degre tous les membres, I
libres ou esclaves, de la famille, car c’est avec la race le seul lien I
qui les tienne unis.
•.’ ;
Nous avons assiste dans ces demises annees & l’un des plusR
■K.'f grands dechiremens qu’ait soufferts depuis plusieurs siecles l’eglise
d’Orient. Les lecteurs savent que les eglises grecques sont gouvernees par des synodes locaux qui choisissent et que president les
Gveques metropolitains. Ges conseils sont independans chacun dans
�i
MfeHh8afeaa8^a_^ atj„
mmgg
-r'
BwBece et la turquie en p.875l
31
son ressort, maislils dependent tous hi erarchiquement du paJ
triarcbe, qui n’a suqeux qu’urie supr£ matte d’honneur. Cette superiorite, qui ne constitue pas une obedience et qui n’enifaine
que quelques privileges purement ecclesiastiques, comme celui de
fabriquer et de distribuer aux eglises le myre employe dans le bap-'
tAme, maintient entre les communautes du rite hellenique cette
unite qui se confond avec celle de la race et qui suppose un avenir
poursuivi en comrnun, Get avenir est ce que Ton a appele « la
grande idee. » Cette idee existe toujours. Je n’examine pas en ce
moment les transformations qu’elle a subies dans ces derniers
temps; mais il est certain que la pensee d’echapper le plus tot
possible a la domination musulmane reside au fond de tout coeur
belittle, et que le point du Monle oil 1’on aspire est Sainte-Sophie.
Athhnes est la capitale des erudits et le centre Jfes antiques souve
nirs, Athdnes est lepasse lointain; Sainte-Sephie est la Jerusalem
de ces nouveaux Hebreux, captifs lelong des fleuves de l’Asie et de
1’Europe orientale. Se separer de cette eglise centrale, que le patriarche de Constantinople personnifie, c’est rompre avec 1’avenir
de la nation hellhne, c’est l’amoindrir, l’affaiblir, lui dier un de ses
secours dans les luttes que I’avenir reserve.
La presse et tes politiques de l’Occident n’ont peufe- etre pas
apprecie a sa valeur la querelle sprolongee qui a dans ces der
niers temps separe l’eglis^ bulgare du patriarcat de Byzance et fait
perdre a l’hellenisme, du cbte du nord, autant de terrain qu’il en
aurait gagne vers le sud, si, dans 1’affaire de Cr&te,le gouvernement
du second empire ne l’avait pas impotitiquement abandonnb. Les
Grecs ont ressenti avec une tristesse profonde cette double blessure,
et nous, qui avons assiste aux peripeties de ces deux combats, nous
avons ete affliges du pen de souci qu’en a eu notre diplomatie :
,1’ignorance des hommes et des choses est encore ce qui la caracterise, en Orient plus que partout ailteurs. La propagande panslaviste
fut 1’origine de l’affaire bulgare. Le gouvernement du tsar ne se melait pas ostensiblement a ces intrigues, dent il savait devoir profiter,
de sorte qu’il n’Htait jamais compromis. On connait ceprocede, mis
egalement en pratique par les Itaftens lorsque le general Garibaldi
faisait pour son compte personnel ces expeditions dont la maison
de Savoie devait wweillar le fruit. Les expeditionsipanslavistes n’avaient aucun caracthre militaire, mais le clergh bulgare, le peuple
des villes et des? campagnes etaient depuis longtemps gagnes par
des theories, par des presens et par des promesses, lorsque eclata
la rupture entre 1’eveque de Widdin, Anthinaos, et le patriarche byzantin qui portait le meme nom, Je n’ai pas a retracer ici les de
tails de cette querelle, dont tons les journaux de 1’OrieiiJt ont retenti;
�32
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
je rappellerai seuremen "que les 6glises de rite grec furent consultees et que toutes donSefyiTFtort^a l’eveque bulgare et deplore rent
cette rupture, ou elles voyaient avec raison une trahiso" de la cause
hellemque. Seuls les theologiens de Russie repondirent dffine mantere evasive ou ne repondirentpas, preuve evidente que RFschisme
se faisait au profit de cette puissance. Quand tout espoir de’retour
se fut evanoui, le patriarche n’eut plus qu’a lancer contre les
schismatiques les formules ordinaires de l’excommunication. Gependant le mal etait fait : le panhellenium avait recu la plus
cruelle blessure qu’il put alors recevoir. Aujourd’hui, grace a 1’ele
ment slave qui domine dans les pays bulgares et & l’idee fausse,
repandue dans ces contrees par la propagande, que les Bulgares sont
des Slaves, la Russie y developpe librement son action au detri
ment de la Turquie et de l’hellenisme a la fois.
Les pays habites exclusivement ou principalement par des Hel
lenes sont une citadelle toujours ferm6e aux influences religieuses
du dehors, de quelque nature qu’elles soient. L’affaire de l’eglise
bulgare a brouille pour longtemps les Grecs avec la Russie, mais
ne les a pas pour cela rejetes du cote des Latins. Lorsque Rome
imagina de reunir un concile pour y traiter de l’infaillibilite, le
pape envoya aux patriarches et aux eveques d’Orient l’invitation de
s’y rendre. Les eveques repondirent par un refus, motive sur la sta
bility des croyances conservees dans leurs yglises et sur 1’impossi
bility oti ils etaient d’assister & une reunion dans laquelle ils ne
paraitraient pas comme les egaux de l’eveque de Rome. Un peu
plus tard, les « vieux-catholiques, » par la plume eloquente du
pyre Hyacinthe, invityrent l’eglise grecque & se ryunir a eux. Dans
une ryponse parfaitement redigee, le synode d’Athynes leu^ fit ob
server que, s’ils voulaient remonter jusqu’au vme siyde, comme ils
l’annongaient, rien n’etait plus aise qu’une telle reunion, puisque,1
l’eglise grecque n’ayant pas varie depuis cette epoque, il suflisait,
pour se reunir a elle, d’adopter ses dogmes et ses rites et de rentrer dans son sein. L’affaire n’eut pas d’autres suites.
C’est done une entreprise bien chimerique que de vouloir convertir les Heliynes soit au catholicisme romain, soit au catholicisme
ypury; c’est une chimere aussi que l’union des Grecs et des protestans rdvee par quelques theologiens et par des politiques a courte
vue, — car les Grecs n’abandonneront pas plus leurs croyances re
ligieuses et leur hierarchie sacerdotale que leur nationality, avec la
quelle elles sont pour ainsi dire confondues. G’est encore ici l’une
des nombreuses erreurs ou persiste notre diplomatie. Il y eut ua
temps ou le roi de France etait dans le Levant le protecteur des
chretiens : il y avait & cette epoque de nombreux catholiques sujets
�LA. GKEGEr ETJLA TURQUIEKN1
33
des TurcS}avait pas^n seuPHellene quisle fut raia. Le roi
defendait & la fois les uns et les autres contre l’oppression du crois
sant. Charles X etait dans son rdle quand il aida les Grecs a conqueifrleur in dependance; mais ce role a cesse depuis le jour oil la
Grdce a ete libre. La chute rapide de l’autorite du sultan et les rap
ports quotidiens que l’Europe entretient avec son empire suffisent
en temps ordinaire pour proteger ses sujets ehretiens contre les
vexations des pachas*, En Grfece, a quoi pent tendre la protection
accordee aux catholiques, sinon a la violation des lois d’un pays ou
regnent l’egalite et la tolerance? Si les propagandistes latins sont
aid6s par nous dans leurs entreprises ill6gales, que faisons-nous
sinon de nous aliener un pays & qui nous avons donn6 son indepen
dance , de trailer les Grecs comme nous traitions autrefois et avec
raison les Tures, et de-defaire notre propre ouvrage? Comment se
fait-il queues traditions diplomatiques de la France n’aient pas
change lorsqu’elle a de ses propres mains opere dans le Levant un
changement total dans Tetat des choses en creant le royaume de
GrSce? Cela ne s’explique pas seulement par l’insuffisancede nos
representans, dont lies unim& connaissent pas le pays oB on les
envoie, tandis que les autres arriyent avec&des idees syst&matiques
issues de tradition’s surannBes.; 3i l’on suit les phases de notre histoire a partir de i821, on voit que la France a ete presque constamment dominee elle-meme par des influences romaines. Il n’y a eu
d’eclaircie qu’au temps de Louis-Philippe,’ pendant quelques annees, et dans les temps qui ont immediatement suivi la derniere
guerre. Elie n’a ete consequemment representee que deux fois selon le gout des Hellenes et de manure a exercej? chez eux Faction
hienfaisante a laquelle elle a droit. Ces deux hommes sont les seuls
qui aient laisse dans la societe hellenfcue de bobs souvenirs; ce
furent, sous Louis-Philippe, M. Piscatory, et, sous la presidence de
M. Thiers, M. Jules Ferry; mais ces deux hommes ont ete ceux de
nos ministres qui se sont fe moins’ meles des questions de propagande, et qui en etudiant s^rieusem'ent l’etat du pays ont montrd le
plus de philhellenisme.
Tandis que la Grece defend contre les attaques du dehors son
etat religieux .et s’efforce de le m’aintenir tel qu’elle 1’a recu des
siecles passes JBelle plpense aU contraire une grande partie de son
activite a transformer son4tat politique.. L’Europe ne se rend en ge
neral qu’un compte tr&s imparfait de ce qui se passe dans ce pays :
on ne lit gufer^sfes^jotirnaux a cause de la langue oil ils sont Merits;
les voyageurs n’y sesjournent que peu de temps, et s’eri^tiennent le
plus sou vent aux antiquites et a la belle nature. Les rapports des
agens europeens he sont pas publics, heureux quand il leur arrive
home xi. — 1875.
3
�34
REVUE] DES DEUX MONDESI
d’etre lus. On apprend seulement de temps 4 autr^Fqu’un nTuTistfire
est tombe pour faire place & un autre qui etait lui-memetombqpeu
auparavant et qui tombera bientot une autre fois. Un jour, on apprit
tout a coup et sans preparation que le roi Othon venait d’etre ex
pulse, et cette annee on a cru pendant un temps que le roi George
allait avoir le mfime sort; on parlait mAme de je ne sais quel due de
Nassau que l’Allemagne tenait tout prfit a lui succeder. On conclut
de tous ces faits succinctement connus que les Grecs sont un peuple
changeant, indocile et « ingouvernable. »
Si l’on y regarde de plus prfis, les Grecs sont simplement un peuple
qui cherche sa voie et qui ne l’a pas encore trouvee; mais, comme ils
sont gens avises et comprenant fort bien leurs interfits, il est vraisemblable qu’ils la trouveront, et que, l’ayant trouv^e, ils y resteront. Ils furent d’abord regis par le gouverneur Capo d’Istria, homme
intelligent et plein de z&le, qui n’aurait peut-fitre pas fait de la
Grece une r^publique, mais qui, je crois, n’eut pas non plus cree
un royaume au profit d’une dynastie etrangfcre, eut-elle ete russe,
car il etait Hellene avant tout,* Quand un assassinat l’eut tire de
l’embarras oil il eut fitfi bientbt infailliblement, on donna pour roi a
ce pays, qui avail besoin d’un chef experimente comme Capo d’Is
tria, un jeune prince bavarois qui, paratt-il, se preparait a la pretrise. Une fois v$tu de l’habit de palicare, il devint roi presque absolu, et quelque temps aprfis roi constitutionnel. C’etait la mode
d’alors. On ne se rendit pas compte que cette forme de gouverne-’ment est la plus savante, la plus artificielle et la plus malaisee A
pratiquer de toutes celles que l’on pent concevoir, car le prince y
est comme un acrobate sur la corde raide, toujours expose A tombeq
A droite dans l’absolutisme ou a gauche dans une democratie ou son
autorite royale disparait.
Les Grecs d’aujourd’hui fretendent que, s’il fut renverse du trone,
c’est parce qu’il tombait deja sporitanement dans l’absolutisme,
etat de choses que les Grecs d’alors, nagu&re sujets du sultan, connaissaient de longue date et.redoutaient par-dessus tout. Aprfis une
annee d’interrfigne et de recherches infructueuses, les Grecs, qui
avaient dfisire pour roi le due d’Aumale, homme instruit, ferme,
experimente, mais qui avaient etfi repousses par le gouvernement
imperial, regurent enfin des puissances protectrices un enfant que
le roi son pere destinai|-A vivre sur mer, qui n’avait encore rien
appris, et qui se trouva fort fitonne de se voir une couronne sur la
tfite et de s’entendre appeler majeste. Get enfant, fils du roi de Danemark, est aujourd’hui le roi George Ier. Pendant de longues an
nees aprfis sa majorite, il demeura presque etranger aux affaires,
laissant aux ministres et A la chambre le soin de faire des lois et de
�LA GRECE ET LA TURQUIE^EN 1875.
35
les appliquer, et se contentant de donner sa signature quand son
gouvernement la lui demandait. Ainsi le trone semblait incliner &
gauche vers la democratie, et, quoique la couronne fut hereditaire,
la Grece ressemblait A une republique. Il n’en etait rien au fond, car
la republique n’est 'pas un gouvernement moins ddfini, ni moins
stable que la monarchie, quand une nation sait la comprendre et
qu’elle la pratique bonn^tement; mais dans un etat constitutionnel l’unite est represented par le rbi, dont la main doit se faire
sentir dans toutes les affaires, sans empieter sur les droits que la
loi ne lui a point conferes. Quand le roi se Tetire et s’efface, c’est
1’unite qui se retire, et, meme avec les meilleurs ministres, l’etat
marche inevitablement vers sa dissolution. G’est ce dost nous avons
ete tbmoins en Grdce dans ces dernieres annees, un peu avant et
un peu aprbs la malheureuse insurrection de la Crbte.
Pendant ce temps, la composition de la societe hellenique se modifiait, et de nouveaux elemens s’introduisaient dans la politique. Au
sortir- de la guerre de l’independance, il y a environ quarante-cinq
ans, la_Grbce etait entibremeht ruinee. Geux qui, sous le joug de la
Turquie, avaient par leur commerce amasse quelque argent, l’afvaient consacre A la liberation de leur patrie. Pendant une lutte de
Sept annbes les villes, les villages, les maisons isolees avaient disparu; la terre demeurait inculte, et les arbres avaient ete pour la
plupart detruits. Apres la guerre, & la faveiir d’une administration
telle quelle, commen^a ce travail de refection dont nous voyons
aujourd’hui les etonnans effets. La France, qui n’a pas cesse d’etre
fort riche et que les exigences prussiennes n’ont guere appauvrie,
a pu sans de grands efforts reparer les maux d’une courte guerre;
la promptitude qu’elle y a mise a cependant dtonnh le monde entier. La Grbcej apres 1830, eut & refaire non-seulement ses villes,
ses ports, ses plantationsases cultures et ses navires, mais encore
ses capitaux. J’ai vu en il8A7 fa Grece dans un etat de pauvrete
extreme. Revenu vingt ans aprbs dans ce pays, j’y ai trouve des
villes bien baties, des ports creushs et garnis de quais, une marine
nombreuse^me grande compagnie de bateaux a vapeur, de belles
vignes, des champs bien cultives, une indiistrie naissante, et, ce
qui est plus concluant peut-etre, des gens rkhes, des capitalistes.
Il s’etait doge forme une> classe de gens que leur commerce ou four
industrie avait enrichis, et qui tendaient A prendre dans la politique
la place occupee d’abord par les beros de la guerre. En m&me
temps s’etaient fondes des etabiissemens? d’instruction publique ou
privee, parmi lesquels 1’univerSite d’Athbnes occupait .le premier
rang. QuoiqUe, par son organisation ,' elle rappelat les universites
allemandes, elle <ttait plutot fran^aise par ses doctrines et par ses
�REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
36
tendances. Elie crAait dans la societe grecque une classe de plus en
plus nombreuse de jeunes gens qui, n’ayant pas pris dans leur enfance le gout du commerce ou de l’agriculture, et ne trouvant pasM
dans le barreau ou dans l’exercice de la medecine des moyens de
vivre suffisans, ambitionnaient les fonctions de l’etat et se jetaient
dans la politique. Ils devenaient thAoriciens et journalistes, depu
tes, hauts fonctionnaires et quelquefois ministres du roi. On comptait parmi eux un grand nombre de personnes persuadees de la
« vArite de la charte. » Je ne sais si l’on y eut trouve un seul absolutiste : il semblait que la mesaventure du roi Othon et le laisser-1
aller de son successeur eussent fait disparaitre de la GrAce toute
tendance vers le gouvernement personnel*
Toutefois les puissances protectrices avaient reconnu l’exiguite
du royaume de GrAce, et l’Angleterre ne trouvait plus d’pvantage
militaire A conserver lWe de Corfou et les autres ties ioniennes dont
les traites lui aVaient donne le protectorat. En les rend ant & la
* GrAce, elle accrut subitement de prAs de moitie sa population, qui
se trouva portee a 1 million 1/2 d’habitans. La protection anglaise
avait accoutume les sept ties & un regime qui ressemblait beaucoup &
l’absolutisme : au moyen d’une autorite presque arbitraire, desressources que fournissaient les lies et de celles qu’y ajoutait l’Angleterre, les residens anglais avaient introduit dans ces pays un ordre
et une prosperite materielle que ne connaissait guAre la GrAce. Les
plus riches des Ioniens eurent plus A perdre qu’A gagner au chan
gement de regime. L’administration hellAnique, fort empAchee dans
le royaume, se sentait presque impuissante dans les sept lies, et
derniArement encore un depute de Corfou se plaignait a la chambre
de ce que le pouvoir du roi ne s’etendait pas jusqu’a son pays. La
haute society septinsulaire prit A la cour, dans ces derniAres annAes,
une importance que facilitaient les longs sejours du roi dans File
de Corfou et la souplesse que quelques-uns avaient acquise A la
cour du resident anglais. Il se forma dans le voisinage mAme du roi
un parti absolutiste oik s’enrolArent quelques Grecs ambitieux auxquels leur capacite ou un avancement rAgulier n’eut pas permis
d’atteindre le pouvoir. Ge parti s’arma de toutes pieces; il eut des
affides dans l’armee, dans la magistrature, parmi les proprietaires
et dans la societe politique proprement dite.
Les derniers AvAnemens semblent prouver que fe roi n’Atait pas
personnellement engage dans ce parti, et qu’il se reservait de le
laisser tomber le jour oul le danger menacerait le trdne. G’est en
effet ce qui est arrivA. Le parti absolutiste, qui le poussait et qui
agissait peut-Atre A son insu, n’avait pas de racines dans la nation
hellAnique; mais rien en GrAcA ne peut Atre longtemps cache : la
;
/„•
�LA GRECE ET LA TURQUIE EN
1875.
37
presse et plusieurs deputes devoil&rent la trame qui s’ourdissait
dans le palais, et ces decouvertes, comme il arrive toujours, mirent
choses au pis. Le moment d’agir en vue d’une revolution absolutiste devenait urgent. On obtint que le roi jenvoyat son minis
tere, ministSre de parti, mais constitutionnel, et appelat aux affaires
les hommes que, Ton croyait les pins capables de<preparer et d’accomplir un changement dans la constitution de l’etat.- Je ne puis
nommer ici, quoique je les connaisse, les instigateurs de ce coup
d’etat, que la voix publique accusait,. mais dont Faction, restait cachee. La prochaineenquete d6voilera peut-etre leursnoms. Quoi
qu’il en soit, on vit arriver aux affaires un ministfcre compost en
partie d’hommes nouveaux sous la presidence du vieux politique
nydriote Bulgaris, le meme qui avait contribue 4 la chute du roi
Othon. Durant Fete de Ifannee dernidre, ce ministfcre, gagne au
parti de la revolution absolutiste, proceda A de. nouvelles elections,
On n’avait jamais vu en Grfece les scrutins falsifies avec une telle
audace : des soldats renversaieut les urnes et dispersaient les suf
frages, des candidats etaient arr&tes, des citoyens emprisonnes
chez eux, sans compter ce qui est le cortege ordinaire des mauvais
gouvernemens et de ceux qpjjse preparent A trahir, un renouvellement total des administrations et une mise h Fecart systGmatique
de tous les hommes liberaux.
Le resultat des elections ne fut pas tel quele minist&re Fesperait,
car il ne lui donna dans la chambre qu’une majorite tr6s petite. La
verification des pouvoirs permit aux rivolutionnaires de se compter,
et de reconnaitre que Fopposition formerait le petit nombre, s’ils se
Itenaient unis et s’ils validaient les elections m&ne les plus evidemment falsifiees; mais il arriva que la minority, se sentant soutenue
par la masse de la nation , sortit de la salle des seances et n’y reparut plus. Nous n’avons pas a examiner si cette mani&re d’agir
etait regulifere et si elle meritait le blame que la presse allemande
lui aKnflig^. Il est certain que la constitution etait plus que menacee, que la loi de l’etat et la morale publique etaient profondement
alteintes, et peut-^tre dans de telles circonstances y a-t-ril wn
^devoir supSrieur qui oblige les representans d’une nation a la sauyer de l’abime. Quoi qu’il en soit, la majorite ne fut plus en nombre
pour voter les lois et ne put constituer une chambrepeu de jours
apres la session fut close.
,
Apr$s une absence de trois mois, la session de 1875 fut ouverte,.
et le probl&me n’avait pas fait un pas. Les partisans de la rdvolu- ,
tion se reunirent dans la salle des stances et ne purent realiser la
moitie plus un, nombre exige par la constitution hellenique pour :
constituer la chambre : les plus grands efforts furent faits pour ob-
�■
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
tenir ce nombre, de longs jours se pass&rent en vain. La presse
soutenait les defenseurs de la loi et blamait 6nergiquemenr(lds autres. Enfin, sous l’impulsion d’une puissance etrang&re, dont nous
avons connu les demarches, cette minorite siegea, fit des lois,vota
deux budgets en quatre heures, approuva la convention greco-prussienne relative aux fouilles d’Olympie, convention dont la Societe
archeologique avail signale les perils et que (’opinion publique
desapprouvait.
Cette usurpation de quelques deputes elus sous une pression
coupable, et qui en tout cas creait une oligarchie et aneantissait
la constitution, sou-leva (’indignation de la Grece entiere. Les con
sultations de juristes’, les protestations des deputes, les adressesau roi, des ecrits sans nombre annoncant dans ,1a presse les derniers malheurs,sortirent de toutes les parties de la Grece, les ups
froids et calmes, les autres menacans.^Personne toutefois ne des
cends dans la rue : (’insurrection, etait imminente, un seul coup de
fusil 1’eutj fait certainement eclater Imais 1’exemple du peuple
francais, dans des circonstances A la yerite moins tragiquesr,
etranges toutefois, conduisant par la raison et le calme ses propres
affaires, et forcant par son attitude une assemblee monarchiste A
voter la republique, parait avoir soutenu et encourage le peuple
grec dans la plus redoutable crise qu’il ait eu jusqu’A ce jour & tra
verser. Le-roi cdda. Le ministere Bulgaris fut congedie, et la chambre
fut dissolute. One reunion d’hommes honorables composa le ministfcre nouveau, qui depuis son avenement s’applique a guerir les
naaux que ses predecesseurs avaieni faits. Une chambre nouvelle
va venir; nous ne pouvons prevoir ce qu’elle apportera.
Du moins les evenemens de ces derni&res annees avaient eu un
resultat heureux. Depuis que la Grece dtait r&gie par une charte,
les elections n’amenaientigu&re au pouvoir que des partis qui s’y
succ&daient indefiniment les uns aux autres sans grand profit pour
la nation. Les chefs de ces partis paraissaient tour a tour au minist&re et s’y trouvaient dans I’impossibilitd de faire autre chose
que de satisfaire les exigences personnelles de leurs cominettansjf
On voyait A 1’arrivee de chaque ministfere disparaitre, iion-seule-^'
ment les pr&fets du ministAre precedent, mats toute la s^rie des
employes jusqu’au garde champ^tre; il en}r6sultait deux maux a la
fois, la transformation eti agens gblitiques de fonctionnaires naturellement etrangers a la politique, et (’impossibilite de creer de$
traditions administratives et. de continuer sous tin ministSre leg*
oeuvres utiles entreprises par ses preddcesseurs. Au fond, les doctrinesjjolitiques de ces gouvernemens 6taient les memes ou a peu
pr6s; il ne s’agissait 1A que de questions de personnes, questions
�i
39
auxquelles les intdrets de l’etat se trouvaie-nt subordonnds etpres»:■„
que toujours sacrifi&s. Les derniers evenemens ont change l’etat des
■V esprits et notablement contribue a l’&ducation politique du peuple
BL . grec, .On a vu des partis jusque-la hostiles se grouper contre une
tentative qui les compromettait tous dgalement, et l’on a compris
qu’au-dessus des questions de personnes il y a des doctrines g£|
nerales et des systdmes d’ou depend la vie ou la mort des peuples
libres. Durant les longs mois qu’a dure le ministdre Bulgaris, nous
avons vu le langage de la presse entierement metamorphose : au
lieu de remplir leurs colonnes de louanges ou de reproches a l’adresse des chefs die parti, les journaux traitaient les questions re- .
latives a la forme^du gouvernement, a la constitution du pouvoir,
auX privileges du monarque. Commela presse jouitenGrdce d’une
liberie absolve, on discuta meme l’utilitc qtfi! y avait pour le pays
a garder un roi et celle qu’il pourrait trouver a se mettre en republique. Plusieurs concluaient que ce dernier parti etait le meilleur,
que la democratie pure.et simple etait meins couteuse que la monarchie; ils donnaient comme preuve de leur opinion l’exemple de
la Gr^ce antique Sjqtia a produit taut dechefs-d’eetivre tant qti^lle
'
s’est regie elte-meme, et qui est tombee en decadence des que le
1 syst&me monarchique a prdvalu chez elle.
On peut done dire que la tentative absolutiste de cette ann£e,
qui pendant plusieuirs mois a tenu la Grfece dans la terreur, lui a
servi a eclairer son chemin et lui a prepare de meilleurs gouverne' flhens. En meinm temps, elle a fait sentir autx populatprB^dcem*anent annexees et a celles qui pourrontd’^tre dans la suite que leur
adjonction ne doit pas detourner la nation hellOnique du but qu'eHe
poursuit, e’est-a-dire de 1’independance de la race entiere et du
self-government La Grfcce sent tr£s bi'en aujourd’hui qu’e ces deux
choses sont pour ell’e indissolublemei^^iriies : a qudi servirait que
nous eussions arraclre la Grdce au Joirg des Ottomans et cree un
6tat in dependant au milieu de la MdHiWrranee, si cetzetat dev&ft
par sa faute retomberflhns tine monarchie absottie plus insuppor\ ' '■*- table peut-etre que le joug des Ottomans? La Grdce n’a de raison
d’etre que si elle realise dans son sein la liberte, qur la conduira a
la prosperity miaterielle et au developpement scientifique dont elle
, est capable. G’est aussi A cette condition qu’elle peut continuer
; d’attirer vers elle, comme vers leur centre, les autres membres du
■' corps hellenique que la diplomatie en tient encore separes. Les plus
' mauvais conseils que Ton put donner a la nation grecque sont ceux
que durant ceWe crise la presse allemande lui prodiguait et que
4 des Allemands sent venus apporter jusque dans le palais du roi.
, Pendant que toute la pre^se etiropeetine desapprouvaitua tentative
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WtVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
absolutiste, la presse cle l’Allemagne la louait unanimement et comme
^Hyertu d’un mot d’ordre, et elle encourageait le roi a la resis
tance. Il est vrai qu’elle avait besoin de faire voter par un groupe
illegitime de deputes sa convention olympique, qu’une chambre
reguli&re eut repoussee.
II.
Get exposS des faits historiques etait necessaire pour qui attache
quelque importance a suivre le mouvement des esprits dans le
monde hell6niq.ue. Au sortir de la guerre de l’ind^pendance, quand
on crut remarquer des tendances absolutistes chez le presid$ll
Capo d’lstria, on 1’assassina. Cette fois une tentative proIongee et
manifeste dans* ce sens n’a fait tuer personne; (’attitude ferme et
d6cid£e du peuple a suffi pour la dejoueraLe progr&s a done ete
grand pendant ces quarante annees. A cette m£me dpoque ou peu
aprds, on inaugura en Grbce l’usage d’employer les compagnies de
brigands comme instrumens politiques dans les elections. Laghecousse imprim&e A l’opinion publique par le meurtre des voyageura
anglais, il y a quelques annGes, a ouvert les yeux a tout le monde:
tous les chefs de parti ont depuis lots egalement poursuivi le bri
gandage. Nous l’avons vu refoule peu a peu vers la fronti&re du
nord, oil il s’est maintenu quelque temps, grace au voisinage de la
Turquie. Enfin cette dernifere, comprenant qu’il fallait en finir sous
peine d’etre blam&e par 1’Europe entire, a su agir de son cot6.
Aujourd’hui le sol de la Grbce jouit dans toUte son etendue d’unq
sScurite profonde. La soci&te hellenique a done su rhaliser en peu
de temps ce que le gouvernement italien n’a pas encore pu faire
pour le sud de la peninsule et pour la Sicile.
Toutefois, si nous devons des 61oges au peuple grec pour la
promptitude avec laquelle il se met au courant de la civilisation^
nous ne devons pas fermer les yeux sur les facheux elfets de ses
divisions politiques et de sa mauvaise administration. Le desordre,
malheureusement trop connu, qui rdgne dans ses affaires, lui a fait
perdre la confiance de l’Europe. Au temps ou il luttait pour son in
dependance, les esprits chez nous s’exalt&rent outre mesure surj
son heroisme : depuis lors on a passe au’sentiment contraire, quand
on a cru .queues fils de ces hefos ne tiendraient pas ce que leurs
pAres avaient promis. Il y avait quelque ip|ustice dans cette mau
vaise opinion, puisque le pays a employe ces quarante-cinq annees
a se refaire, et qu’en definitive il s’est refait; pourtant il est certain
aussi que les ressources de l’etat, faibles, rnais croissantes, ont ete
generalement mal employees et n’ont laissd sur le sol de la Grbce que
�LA GRECE ET LA TURQUIE EN 1875.
Al
de bien petits resultats. PresqudB^us les etablissemens utiles ont
ESSIfSWdes et doits avec Pargent des paf^iculiers au moyen de legs
et de donations. L’etat n’a presque rien fait; ses deniers ont toujours passe entre les mains des gens qui, par leur voix ou leur in^ilence, ont tour a tour porte au pouvoir les ministres qui se sont
Wccede. La royaute coute cher, puisqu’en comptant la liste civile
et ses accessoires, elle absorbe plus de 2 millions sur. les AO que
percoit le tresor. Warinee coute ffus cher encore eCdevore plus du
quart de la recette. Elle est cependant d’une utilite contestable, car
elle ne pourrait ni porter la guerre au dehors,mi l’arrSter ala frontiere. Il est question de la supprimer et d’armer sans frais la na
tion entire; mais rien encore n’a ete realise en ce sens. Enfm l’administration, ayant pris une couleur politique grace a l’antagonisme
des partis, ne rend pas des services proportionnes a ce «?elle
Rftte. Les voyageurs europeens qui visitenffia Grfece et lejs rapports
des agens salaries constatent ce mauvais etat des choses. Le credit
du pays en souffre, et, s’il se produit quelque projet utile, -on ne
jtrouve pas en Europe les capitaux necessaires pour l’executer.
Nous en avons eu recemment plusieurs exemples. Une compagnie
franco-beige, comprenant les capitalistes les plus serieux,s’etait
formee pour execu ter un chemin de fer du Piree a la frontifere de
Jurquie. De la*cette ligne devait gagner d’une part Salonique et
Constantinople, de 1’autre TAdfiatique et Trieste. Ge dernier trace
abr^geait la route de l’Orieftt et mettait topte 1’Europe centfale et
septentrionale en communication avec Suez par la voie la plus
courte. Les etudes furent faites, la concession fut accordee; puis,
les fonds tardant a venif, un mmis't&re houyeau se hata de prononcer la decheance d’tine societe formee sous le minist&re precedent.
Des spCculateurs grecs de’ Constantinople ont essaye de refaire Cette
compagnie et ont obtenu une concession nouvelle, mais ils ont
moins de. chance encore de trouver les capitaux europeens dont ils
ont besoin : personne ne veut employer son argent sur le sol hellenique, parce que le pays n’est pas assez bien administr^. Quand on
voit un gouvernement defaire ce qu’un-autre avail commence et
Eon tester des drbits que 1’onlcroyait aCquisJIe capital, chose timidfe,
fait un pas en arriere et disparait.
Une autre affaire a dans ces dernieres annees attire 1’attention de
toute l’Europe et mis un instant aux abois la diplomatie. C’est celle
du Laurium. Tout le monde sait que l’ancienne Athenes tirait une
partie de ses revehAs^dfes montagnes de l’Attiqud qui portent ce
nom. Son exploitation du plomb argentifere a laisscBdesmonticules
de scories assezi riches encore pour 6tre* tfaitees parties procedes
modernes. .Une compagnie franco-italienniise forma et en obtint la
�A2
REVU^DE^ DEUXjsOfW&l
concession A ues conditions que^Son habilete sut rendre avantageuses. En peu d’ann&es, elle crea vers Fextr&mite de l’Attique une
ville industrielle, la premiere que la Gr&ce eut vue depuis l’antiquite, et des usines occupant plusieurs milliers d’ouvriers. G’est de
1A que semblait devoir partir un mouvement industriel auquel la
Grece devrait en partie sa regeneration; mais du jour ou les politique^
s’avisdrent de transformer cette affaire en instrument electoral, elle
periclita. Il y avait en effet, outre les scories, des terres rejetees.
des puits par les anciens et considerees par eux comme trop pauvres
pour etre exploit^es. L’acte de concession ne les indiquait que par
un mot vague et discutable. G’est sur ce mot que les politiques ba4
tirent un ec^afaudage surprenant d’intrigues, de discussions, de
consultations juridiques, de proces, d’articles de journaux, qui ont
occupe la Grepe enti&re pendant plus d’une annee. Les uns soutenaient le bon droit de la compagnie, les autres la traitaient d’usur-1
patrice ^on seduisit 1’opinion en presentant au public ignorant des
analyses chimiques insensees qui portaient la richesse de ces terres
a une somme capable d’enrichir toute la Grece apres avoir paye ses
dettes. Les electeuo ^se partag&rent en amis et en ennemis de la
compagnie m^tallurgique. La diplomatie frangaise et italienne dutj
intervenir, et les relations de l’Italie et de la France avec la Grfece
allaient etre interrompues lorsque Constantinople envoya a la Grbce
« son sauveur. »
Il existe dans cette ville un groupe de speculateurs qui a l’habitude de se. reunir en un lieu nomm6 le Kaviarokhan, c’est-a-dire le
Marchb-au-Caviar. C’est de la que vint un banquier, desormais ce^l
lebre dans le monde hellenique et qui apparut comme un dieu tu
telage, mais dont nos lecteurs ne tiennent pas sans doute a savoir
le nom. Au moment ou 1’exaltation du peuple pour les richesses du
Laurium etait A son comble, il acheta pour 12 millions 1/2 la pro
priety entire de la compagnie, et la revendit quelques jours apres
au public sous la forme d’actions pour une somme totale de 20 mil
lions. Les Grecs, qui n’avaient point encore fait l’apprentissage de
ces coups de bourse, se jelerent avec une .fureur indescriptible sur
ces morceaux de papier qui leur promettaient une fortune facile. La
realite les detrompa bientot. Les actions du Laurium tomb£renll
quand on vit qu’elles n’avaienj^enrichi que les premiers detenteursl
Il y eut beaucoup de ruineS, on passa d’une confiance extreme A
l’incredulite. Aujourd’hui la nouvelle compagnie, accablee de charge^
et mal administree, menace de faire faillite’, et l’esprit d’association 1
industrielle est mort pour longtemps dans le pays.
Qu’il noussoit permis de faire remarquer A ce propos que l’on
voit depuis quelques annees se developper en Grece une tendance
�"A ■„■.
", ■' <«
■ 'A ■ ;'.
”
...
turquten
■
Zi3
a exclure les Grangers et A vouloiruomiaire par sopmeme. Cette
tendance surannee n’est jamais bonne en aucun pays; 1’Italie, qui
en avait fait une maxime, la paya cher & Novare. Nos premiers
chemins de fer ont ete faits par des Anglais; nous-memes en avons
construit plus tard beaucoup d’autres en Italie, en Espagne, en
Russie; nous avons coupe Fisthme de Saez et fait un travail que
l’^gypte n’eut jamais ph entreprendr^ La Gr£ce,j plus que toute
autre nation peut-etre, a besom du concours des. etrangers, qui
seuls peuvent apporter chez elle les deux elemens die l’industrie, les
’ capitaux et Fexperience. Un premier ministre du roi George, a pro
pos d’une ecole de sciences appliquees qu’il s’agissait de creer, disait recemment que la France n’avait plus rien A apprendre a la
Grece. C’etait F expression excessive'de la tendance dont je parle,
et, comme il etait au pouvoir lorsque 1’affaire du LauriumjleGut sa
malheureuse solution, il a pu voir depuis lors que la Grece a encore
quelque chose A apprendre, meme de nous;s ’
Il y a d’ail tears tellies entreprises que la Grdce est absolumeht
hors d’etat di’executer. J’en citerai deux dont il est precisemient
question depuis quelque temp^ le dessechemeht^du Copals ?etr le
canal de Corinthe. Le premiemexige le c.oncours non-seulement de
capitaux import,ans, mais d’ham mes sachant percer economiquement des tunnels, creuser des canaux ,*distribuer des irrigations,
installer et diriger des cultures intensives et creep tout A cote des
industries agricoles. De tels homines se rencontrentails dans un
pays oil aucun travail de cette nature h’a ete fait, et qui en est en
core au systeme des jacheres? Cependant rien n’test plus desirable
que le dessechement du Nopal’s, qui doit enrichir la GrAce de
2A,000 hectares de terre incomparable. Queues Grecs y consacrent
des capitaux^mais qu’ils forment, s’ife veulent reussir, une society
mixte ou des etrangers savans et exp6rimentes soient admisu N’est' ce pas toujours A leur pays que reviendfa le meilleur profit? Quant
. au canal de Corinthe, projete tant de'fois et commence vainement
sous Neronjil exige w plus savans ingenieurs et des Capitaux plus
desinteressds. Il abregera de douze heures environ, representant
la longueur nordfhud du Peioponese, le trajet de tous les na vires a
vapeur doublant les caps et de vingt-quatre heures le trajet de
l’Adriatique A^Cofistantinople.' La Grece en tirera quelque profit pour
son cabotage; mais le plus grand benefice sera pour FAutriche, l’ltalie, la France, et nteme la Russie, la Turquie et FAngleterre. La
Grece n’est pas plus obligee A F execution de ce canal que F^gypte
ne l’etait A faire celui de Suez; pourtant elle a inteitet non-seidement
A le permettre, mais encore A le provoquer, puisqu’elle augmente
par 1A dans une proportion assez grande le mouvement de ses ports.
�n
re,v®J des deuWmondes.
D’un autre cote1, il lui sera difficile de trdfeetluSe compagnie qui
veuille sans une subventionlconsiderable Tentreprenare pour son
compte, car pendant longtemps le capital ne serait pas remunere,
et la GrAce n’est point obligee A payer une telle subventions G’est
done, comme me le disait un des ministres de M. Thiers, une de ces
entreprises qui ne peuvent etre executees qu’A frais communs par
les gouvernemens interesses, et dans ce cas ils s’en partagent la dApense au prorata de leur navigation. C’est pour eux un placement
de fonds dont l’accroissement duproduit des douanes paie 1’interetJ
Ainsi le canal de Corin the ne sera pas et ne doit pas etre entrepris
par les Grecs; mais c’est au gouvernement du roi George de soulever la question, de la proposer aux gouvernemens etrangers, de la
discuter avec eux et d’en faciliter la solution. C’est par de telles
choses que la diplomatie pourrait demontrer qu’elle n’est pas
inutile.
La GrAce parait arrivAe au moment oil les grandes industries
doivent, avec le concours des Strangers, s’Atablir chez elle et recevoir le trop-plein de son universite. Les expositions industrielles et
agricoles qu’elle a organisees sous le nom de Jeux olympiques,
quoiqu’elles se tiennent dans AthenesAtemoignent d’un mouvement
des esprits en ce sens; ce progrAs eAt constate d’une autre maJ
niere par les transports maritimes : la seule compagnie de naviga-l
tion A vapeur de MM. Fraissinet, de Marseille, a importe dans le
pays pendant la derniere annee plus de machines de tout genre que
pendant les dix annees prAcedentes. Le Piree possAde plus de trente
usines A vapeur, moulins, fonderie; scierie, filatures, et surprend
le voyageurflion prAvenu en lui presentant l’aspect d’une ville industrielle. Le port de Syra ne construit plus seulement des caiques
et de petits bateaux A voiles pour le cabotage, il construit aussi de
toutes pieces des navires A vapeur. Si d’une part l’esprit de parti,
qui a jusqu’A ce jour reduit 1’etat A l’impuissance et paralyse les
administrations, fait place A une conception plus haute des devoirs
de l’homme politique, et si d’autre part l’esprit d’exclusion qui
ecarte les etrangers vient A s’effacer, la GrAce verra s’exAcuter sur
son sol classique les grands travaux qui le rendront productif et
feront de lui le PiAmont de cette autre Italie qu’on appelle le panhellenium; mais elle aura, pour atteindre ce but, quelque chose A re=J
former, non-seulement dans son esprit et dans ses habitudes J
mais aussi dans ses lois. Sa loi' electorate est particuliArement
mauvaise et cause A elle seule une grande partie des maux dont
soulfre le pays. On n’est pas depute de la GrAce, on Test de tel ou
tel lieu determine. On ne peut se porter candidat A la deputation
que dans son propre canton, dans le lieu trAs circonscrit ou l’on a
�■KfflWKECE EO LA gWwl I1SF 3.
55
I Son domicile et sa propriet” L’homme le plus distingue du monde,
qui a rendu 5 son pays les plus grands services, ne pourra se prel
senter que la; s’il a en concurrence avec lui quelque riche igno*
r rant et ambitieux , qui par son argent exerce plus d’influence sur
les electeurs de cette petite circonscription, c’est ce riche qui sera
elu, et l’homme capable ne parviendra jamais b. representer son
pays. En outre h chaque election on voit une lutte fort peu recommandable s’etablir entreles concurrens: comme la fortune des uns
et des autres ne suffirait pas pour gagner tons les suffrages, on se
declare partisan de tel on tel chef de parti qui a besoin d’etre appuye
a la chambre pour rester ministre ou pour le devenir. On obtient de
lui des promesses que l’on transmet aux electeurs pour les s&duire.
Une fois elu., le depute en exige l’accomplissement et tient le mi
nistre dans une servitude inevitable. Au fond; desinWetsprives
ont fait elire le- depute; la chambre ne represente que des groupes
d’inter£ts privds, et ce sont ces interets prives qui gouverhent sous
le nom des minfetres. Or c’est une erreur de croife que des'inte
rets personnels en se groupant soient identiques a I’interdt general.
Toute la legislation Glectorale de la Gr6ce repose sur cette erreur.
Du jour ou? sans condition de domicile ou de propriete, tout citoy en
pourra se porter candidat dans toute partie de la Gr&ce, on verra
disparaitre de la conduite de l’Atat cette cohue de' gens qui viennent y faire feurs affaires et celles de leurs amis sans souci des intSrets generaux* du pays. G’est alors aussi seulement que le credit
pourra naitre et que les etrangers ne craindront plus d’appprter
dans la society grecque leur savoir et feurs capitaux.
G’est done sur leur propre legislation que les Hellenes doivent
porter leur attention,-S’ils veulent guerir leur patriedes blessures
qu’un mauvais regime lui a faites. Il s’est forme durant la demfere
crise un parti republican! assez fort, et la tendance des esprits en
ce sens s’est visiblement accusee. En realite|ce n’est pas la forme
monarchique du gouvernement qui perpetue le malaise dont souffre
le pays. L’existence’ d’une seule chambre dte a la royaute une
grande partie dd? ses privileges et fait que le dernier mot peuLtoujours rester a la natioii| Toutefois il faut pour^cela que la nation
soit sinc&rement et compfetement representee; or personne ne peut
pretendre que la nation grecque le soit par sa chambre. Le minis
tere qui vient de succeder a M, Bulgaris a iaisse une liberty entfere
aux elections et n’a manifesto sa presence que pour y maintenir
i’ordre; mais avec les meilleures intentions et la plus parfaite
equite un ministere he fera pas que l’interet national domine 15
ou les electeurs n’apportent que leurs convoitises personnelles.
Nous ne pouvons done pas attendre une amelioration trte prochaine
�*
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
dans la conduit© politique du pays, a moins que la premiere amelioration ne porte sur le recruiement meme de l’assemblee.
niJ’ai maintenant a examiner la situation de la Grece vis-a-vis des
puissances etrangeres. Si Ton ne consid&re que les relations exterieures du royaume qui a pour capitale Athenes, ce petit etat de
1 million 1/2 d’habitans est en bons termes avec ses voisins. De
puis la guerre de Crete, qui avait failli le mettre aux prises avec la
Turquie, ses rapports avec le sultan ont fait plus que s’ameliorer
ils sont devenus officiellement amicaux, et les souverains des deux
pays ont echange des decorations. Le parti que nous pourrions appeler celui de « la vieille Grece » n’est pas satisfait de cet etat de
choses, et ne comprend pas qu’un gouvernement hell&nique puisse
etre l’ami des Tures. On rappelle avec regrets les projets formes
par le celebre ministre Colettis et morts avec lui. Son plan etait de
tenir la Grfece militairement prete et d’employer la meilleure partie
de ses soldats a former les cadres d’une forte armee. Les Grecs des
provinces turques devaient etre secretement tenus dans l’attente
et mis en etat d’entrer en campagne au premier signal sous la con-4
duite des officiers venus du royaume. Tout etant prepare, Colettis,
qui jouissait d’une haute consideration auprfes des cours de l’Europe, devait en parcourir tous les etats, s’assurer de leur neutra
lity, de leur approbation et meme de leur concours financier. Ason
retour, le signal devait 6tre donne, et l’insurrection aurait eclate
sur tous les points de la Turquie. Tel est je plan caresse comme
un regret par ceux qui survivent encore de la « guerre sacree. » Ils
ajoutent avec plus de verite qu’un tel projet ne saurait plus dtre
execute, parce que, disent-ils, il n’y a plus en Grfece que de « petits hommes » en comparaison des grands hommes qui ne sont
plUS.
, r. *
Il est certain que depuis 1830 tout a change en Europe, en Grdce
et meme en Turquie. Colettis aurait peut-Atre recueill-i quelques
sympathies pour une insurrection gen£rale contre les Tures, parde
qu’il restait encore de son temps quelque chose de l’ancien enthousiasme pour sa patrie et les heros helldnes. Cette chaleur de senti
ment s’est eteinte, elle a fait place a une disposition contraire;
e’est & peine si 1’opinion en Europe commence a mieux apprecier la
Grece emancipee, sans cependant lui dtre encore favorable. Elle le
deviendra^ mais il faut pour cela que du temps se passe et que les
Grecs montrent aux yeux des etrangers un etat sage, bien ordonne,
�LA GRECE ET LA TURQUIE EN
1875.
£ 7,
ou la chose publique soit geree avec patriotisme et desinteressement. Quant a la Turquie, elle est plus forte a certains egards
qu’elle ne l’etait en 1825; ses armies sont mieux organisees, mieux
commandoes, les armes nouvelles lui ont profite com me aux autres
nations; les brulots de Canaris feraient peu d’effet sur des navires
blindes, et il ne faudrait pas un grand nombre de canons rayes pour
aneantir les petites acropoles de 1’^pire ou de la Thessalie. Il n’est
done pas probable que les hommes d’aujourd’hui soient mferieurs
a ceux de la periode precOdente, mais, les conditions de la guerre
ayant change, les moyens d’action ne peuvent plus Otre les memes.
En realites, la question d’Orient, qui est au fond la question de
Turquie, est resolue en principe dans l’esprit des Grecs depuis la
creation dulroyaume, comme celle d’Italie i’etait dans i’esprit des
politiques italiens depuis les temps de Charles-Albertet de Manin.
Tous s’attendant, dans un avenir tndetermine, a voir les Grecs de
Turquie rendus a l’independance, et Constantinople redevenue la
capitale d’un empire b’yzantin restaure dans de nouvelles condi
tions. Cela revient a dire que, dans leurs croyances nationales, le
sultan repassera en Asie, abandonnant le sol de l’Europe aux races
qui le possedaient avant la conquete, qu’une zone le long des
rivages de 1’Asie-Mineure se detachera de lui et que toutes les ties
de la mer EgOe et du Levant rentreront en possession de leur autonomie. Laissons pour ce qu’il vaut le rAve d’une restauration de
l’empire de Byzance et de l’installation du roi d’Athenes sur le trdne
de Constantin. Avant qu’un pareil evenement fut possible, les choses
auraient change dans toute l’Europe? et dans le monde grec luimeme, ou l’idee de la monarchie aurait peut-btre fait son temps. Ge
qui semble donner quelque fondement a la « grande idee »*des Hel
lenes et ce qui certainement soutient leurs esperances, e’est^histoire
elle-meme. Ne voient-ils pas le vaste empire du sultan reduit de
proche en proche dans son.etendue par une sorte de mouvement
concentrique partant de ses extremites? Tunis etl’^gypte, la Servie,
laBulgarie, la Valachie, ne tiennent au sultan que par de faibles
liens dont les fils se brisent de jour en jour. Le Montenegro, 1’Herzegovine, se Eemuent sans cesse pour secouer le joug. qui pdse en
core sur eux|»la Cr&te s’est soulevee il y a peu de temps, et a tenu
en echec avec quelques palikares des corps d’armee musulmans;
elle triomphait, si la diplomatie europeenne ne 1’avait forcee A faire
rentrer dans son coeur son patriotisme exalte.. Les provinces euro-'
peennes de la Turquie forment comme une enclave entre le royaume
libre et les pays du nord deja presque Wnancipes, et cette enclave
n’est presque entierement occupbe que par des populations ennemies des Tures et dbsireuses de 1’independance. On concoit done
�A8
’
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
;
que la « grande idee » d’obtemrun jour l’autonomie et Constants!
nople continue de hanter la pensee des Hellenes. Elle y est entretenue par les croyances religieuses, par les traditions de l’antiquife et
du moyen age et par la chute de 1’empire ottoman, qui leur semble
prochaine et inevitable. Tel est l’etat des esprits dans le monde
grec : ce serait une grande faute a la politique europeenne de n’en
pas tenir compte, car, si l’empire turc doit un jour se disloquerq
comme le pretendait le tsar Nicolas, les populations helleniques rempliront necessairement un des premiers roles de ce drame.
La question serait done de savoir si la succession du sultan est aussi
prds de s’ouvrir que l’annoncait le tsar Nicolas. Depuis quelques annees, I’empire ottoman a sans contredit fait, pour ameliorer sa si
tuation, des efforts dont quelques-uns ont ete heureux. Il ouvre des
routes, il trace des chemins de fer, il a concede plusieurs exploita
tions a des compagnies/il a tehte des reformes militaires, il s’est
procurd une marine qui peut servir; cependant l’administration interieure, la justice et surtout les finances n’o'nt fait, parait-il, aucun
progrds. En matidre de justice,d’arbitraire envers les raias est toujours le meme : comme le Coran est pour les Tures la loi religieuse
et la loi civile & la fois, et que, sur les principes essentiels que nos
legislations tirent de la philosophie, le Coran est en opposition avec
les doctrines de l’Occident, il n’y a pas de transaction possible. IL
faudrait que les chretiens abandonnassent leurs doctrines les mieux
6tablies et admissent sur le sol musulman le contraire de ce qu’ils
admettent chez eux, ce qui ne parait pas probable, ou que les musulmans avouassent qu’il y a dans leur livre saint des principes
errones, ce qui est plus impossible encore. Il en ^eshlte que, de
toutes les ameliorations promises et decretees par des halts depuis
1855, aucune ne s’est realisde. Le gouvernement de Constantinople
deerdte des mesures et les proclame dans les provinces; mais il est
impuissant <lles faire executer : il rencontre partout des pachas et
des cadis qui ne peuvent, sans s’exposer aux plus grands perils, se
mettre en lutte avec les populations musulmanes qui les entourent.
Ils promettent d’obeir et n’obeissent pas; la promesse est generale
et abstraite, et dans les realitds de chaque jour les affaires continuent de se traiter selon les anciens us et abus. Les raias savent^
bien qu’il n’en peut dtre autrement; ils n’attendent rien du gouver
nement central^ dont ils constatent l’impuissance, ni de Faction des ■
puissances etrangdres, qui est necessairement locale et de courte
duree. Tout leur espoir est dans; la foi qu’ils ont en l’avenir de leur
race.
L’instruction ne fait aucun progrds parmi les musulmans. Les
hommes de cette religion ne fournissent au sultan qu’un nombre
�LA GRECE ET LA TURQUIE EN
1875.
A9
minime de gens "apables soit pour les camdres industnelles, soit
pour 1’administration et la justice, soit pour l’armee et la marine.
Quand on a voulu en finir avec l’insurrection cretoise, il a fallu
met^re & la tdte de la flotte un Americain nomme Hobbart-Pacha,
et recemment, pour aneantir le brigandage sur la frontidre hellenique, le gouvernement turc/a, eu recoups A un Hongrois, qui a
pris le nom de Mehemet. Tandis que les chefs nausulmans s’endormaient dans leur serail ou se faisaient accuser de complicity avec
les bandits, cet habile homme a*su rendre la vie impossible dans
la montagne et forcer les chefs de hand© A venir jusque chez lui
offrir leur soumission. Les ;commandans des nayires de guerre ou '
de commerce, les ingenieurs et les conducteurs de travaux des
chemins de fer et des routes, les chefs d’usines et d’exploitations
industrielleS',J sent presque t@iu® des^Europeens ? les telegraphes
sont entre leurs mains, le directeur-general des lignes est un ancien prix d’honneur de notre concours general. La diplomatie de
l’empire est en majeure partie confide non A des etrangefs, mais A
des Grecs, sujets du sultan* Au temps de; Napoleon III, le gouver
nement francais essaya d’infuser dans ce corps endormi des musulmans quelqUes notions de sciences'ei de lettres qui le reveillassent; il crea le lyeee de Galata-Serai, auquel il donna des chefs
et des professeurs francais ainsi> qu’une ■adnainistyafen|||®,ee de nos
dtablissemens. Cette maison devait servir de type A d’autres, que
le gouvernement turc, aide au besoin par nous, creerait dans ses
principals^ villes d’Europe et d’Asiej elle devait eh outre se fattacher A notre Ecole d’Athenes - j^avais moi-meme ete mis au7courant
du projet grandiose concu par un ministre habile, trop liberal pour
1’empire, inaiscapable, s’il n’eut dte empdche par une influence
superieure, de realiser les plus grands projets. On inaugura le
lycee avec pompe ail eut beaucoupd’eWes, les musulmans du
plus haut rang y envoydrent leurs fils; malheureusement tout ce
qui ressembleB l’Oirdre, A l’economie, A la science, repugne a l’es
prit mahometan. Le gouvernement turc ne tarda pas A desorganiser cette maison-modele et A rendre la place inhabitable pour ses
administrateurs et ses maitres. Le lycee tomba entre les mains de
Tures incapables^ aucun audre etablissement analogue ne fut cree,
et les enfans de Mahomet continue rent A ressembler aux sednite^
descendant d’Ismael, ploot qu’A des gens civilisds (1).
Pendant ce temps, les races chretiennes ont organise entre elles l’instruction publique sous les diflerentes formes que leur etat so(1) Voyez, dans la Revue du15 octobre 1874, l’^tude de M. de Salve sur le Lycee
de Galata-Serai.
—
tomb xi. — 1875.
4
�50
BEVUEjDES DEUX MONDES.
cial autorise. Les communautes grecque"ontfonde des ecoles dans
[un grand nombre de villes et de villages; elles ont cree, sur un
module analogue a ce que nous appelons chez nous « conferences, I
des reunions ou des hommes instruits apportent a jour fixe les reIsultats de leurs recherches ou de leurs meditations. On y. disserte
sur l’histoire, sur 1’archeologie, sur des sujets de science, de mo
rale, de politique, d’economie, d’art mfime et quelquefois d’indus-5
trie. Ainsi les connaissances de chacun sont mises dans le domaine
de tous. Le syllogue philologique de Constantinople sert de module
et de centre a ceux qui existent A Smyrne et dans beaucoup d’autres endroits. Ces societes se cr&ent un revenu par des dons, des
cotisations et des legs; elles ont des bibliothAques, elles organisent
des musees et des collections. Les Grecs disperses dans le monde
entier et enrichis par le commerce se font une gloire et un devoir
de leur envoyer des secours, parfois tres considerables.
Enfm le royaume grec est devenu le centre le plus important
d’instruction pour la race hellenique dans tout l’Orient. L’universite d’AthAnes, qui est comme la Sorbonne de cette ville, r6unit un
nombre dletudians qui n’est pas loin de 2,000 et parmi lesquels
se trouvent beaucoup de jeunes gens venus des pays musulmans.
Chaque annee, un certain nombre d’entre eux vont en France, en
Alle.magne, en Autriche, completer leur education, et en reviennent
medecins, juristes, negocians, professeurs, quelquefois industriels,
et penetres des principes qui font la force de notre civilisation. A
cote de ce grand etablissement, qui a des revenus et une heureuse
autonomie, s’eleve la grande maison de jeunes filles, YArsakion.
Depuis*' 1869, ou j’eus occasion d’en parler ici meme (1), elle a
prospere de plus eq plus : organisee comme nos lycees, elle ne
renferme pas aujourd’hui moins de treize cents jeunes filles de tout
age, partagees en classes et recevant l’instruction des professeurs
memes de 1’universite et du gymnase. Ainsi la Gr&ce, ou le clerge
ne lutte pas contre 1’etat et ne cherche nullement a s’emparer des
femmes pour etre par elles maitre des affaires publiques et privees,
a realise ce que le second empire, francais n’a pu faire malgre la
force de son organisation. En dehors de l’enseignement regulier,
des Grecs d’Athdnes, aides par leurs compatriotes etrangers, ont
f«nde il y a quelques annees un syllogue pour la propagation des
lettres grecques; cette societe, sans faire de bruit, a rayonne dans
le monde hellenique, particuliArement vers le nord; elle cree et entretient des ecoles, fournit des maitres et des materiaux pour l’enseignement populaire et contribue puissamment aujourd’hui a elever
(1) Voyez la Revue du 15 mai I860.
�LA
ET LA TURQUIE EN ^.875?
;53
ce qu’il a coute. Il n’est pas douteux que les voies de commumiation, en d&veloppant Tagriculture et 1’industrie, accroitront les revenus du trGsor; mais c’est la une question de temps, un probl^me
analogue a celui « des courriers. » La Turquie sera sauvOe, si son
d6veloppement agricole et commercial est assez rapide pour accroitre ces revenus dans la proportion,des emprunts, car alors elle
pourra payer sans emprunts nouveaux les intdrets de ce qu’elle devra, et si par supposition les rentrees venaient & depasser le total
des arrerages exigibles, le surplus pourrait servir a 1’amortissement graduel de la dette. Ge serait lA/un etat de prosp6rit6 oh les
plus florissantes nations de l’Europe. ne sent pas encore parvenues.
Si au contraire les produits de 1’agriculture et de l’industrie, obtenus par les travaux en voie d’execution, ne suffisent pas pour payer
les interets des emprunts, il faudra emprunter encore, et la vache
maigre dOvorera la vache grasse. G’est ce.qu’a senti le sultan, puisqu’il fait execu ter a ses frais, c’est-h-dire sans intOrets ni commis
sion, le chemin de fer. central de l’Asie-Mineure; seulement il ne
peut l’executer que par petits tron^ons, & grands frais et en beaucoup de temps, et c’est pour cela que l’Angleterre lui offrait tout
rOcemment a 6 pour 100 l’argent dont il a besoin; l’offre Atait ac
ceptable et l’int6r£t fort moderS pour la Turquie, mais il parait que
le pret 6tait accompagnO de conditions politiques inadmissibles.
Quoi qu’il en soit, il est Evident qu’a l’heure prdsente le centre
financier de 1’empire ottoman n’est deja plus a Constantinople. Les
banquiers de cette ville, auxquels le sultan s’adresse quelquefois,
sont ou etrangers ou associes a des banques 6trang6res dont le cre
dit soutient le leur. L’es Grecs ont en general assez mal reussi dans
la banquet il n’en est pas de, meme des Armdniens et des Juifs,
dont les etabfissemens, avec une apparence d’autonomie, sont
etroitement liOs a ceux de Londres et de Paris. Le banquier grec
est timide et personnel: souvent il est commercant et ne pj‘6te a interet que les fonds.laiss&s libres par son commerce; d’autres fois il
est propri&taire ou agriculteur, .et il fait; par un travail deybanque,
produire uh intdret accessoire A$l’argent dont jl dispose. L’Armdnien et le Juif sont purement et simplement banquiers, et c’est eux
qui sont A Constantinople les principaux intermediaifes par lesquels
le gouvernement turc doit passer.pour obtenir de 1’argent anglais'ou
frantjais. Il en reste quelque chose entre leurs mains, puisqu’ils sont
commissionnaires; mais la meilleure partie des sommes retenues
est pour les grands banquiers de l’Europe. G’est; done ici qu’il faut
chercher en jealit6 le centre/financier de l’empire ottoman : ce
centre est compose des maisons qui ont coutuine de se concerter
pour la souscription des*, emprunts ottomans; la principale est la
�54
'\
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
maison Rothschild, dont le capital"dit-on, atteint aujourd’hui dixsept milliards de francs. Si ces maisons tenaient leu*main1 fermee
le jour ou la Turquie aura de nouveau besoin d’argent, la Turquie
serait d6claree en faillite; un grand nombre de detenteurs europ6ens des emprunts ottomans seraient menaces de ruine, et les etats
se trouveraient dans 1’obligation de faire valoir les garanties accordees par le sultan. Or ces garanties ne sont rien moins que des
douanes d’etat et des reVenus de provinces et de villes maritimes;
on occuperait done militairement ces villes et ces provinces, et e’en
serait fait de la domination musulmane dans ces contr^es, car, pour
entreprendre unediutte militaire quelconque, la Turquie aurait be
soin de conttacter eh Europe un emprunt qui ne lui serait pas
fourni. Quant & la banqueroute, un 6tat peut user de ce moyen
envers ses propres sujets, s’il est assez bien arme contre eux; mais
on ne fait pas banqueroute a plus fort que soi.’C’est done & une
faillite pure et simple que la Turquie pourra succomberi et cette
faillite sera necessairement suivie de l’occupation, militaire et du
dbmembrement de l’empire.
Si ce jour devait bientot venir, >nous aurions un grand interdt,
nous Europ6ens, a savoir d’avance, du moins avec une certaine
probability, a qui pourrait 6choirla succession et quels seraient les
syndics de la faillite. Les Grecs sont persuades qu’ils y tiendront
une grande place et en retireront de grands avantages. « La faillite
est inevitable a court delai, » ecrivait des 1869 un riche negotiant
grec de Marseille, verse dans les affaires de la Turquie; puis il
ajoutait : « Ce sera peut-Gtre l’yv6nement auquel les races chretiennes en Orient devront leur liberation (1). » 11 est certain que les
raias ne peuvent rien perdre en echappant a une domination qu’ils
subissent depuis plus de quatre si&cles; ids ne trouveront dans un
nouvel etat de choses, quel qu’il soit, ni des impots plus lourds,
ni plus d’arbitraire dans la justice^ ni une administration plus op
pressive, ni moins de liberte dans l’exercice de leur religion; mais
deviendront-ils du m£me coup matures. de Constantinople et verront-ils se realiser la « grande idee? » Si, au jour de l’echeance,
les nations europ6ennes avaient assez de bon sens pour Tester chez
elles et ne pas poursuivre b. travers des champs de bataille la pos
session de con trees sur lesquelles elles n’ont aucun droit, toute
personne connaissant l’Orient affirmera que cette a grande id&e »
se realiserait d’elle-mdme, que les populations chretiennes se constitueraient en un etat politique r^gulier et que ce nouvel etat endosserait sans h6siter la dette laissee par la Turquie. A la verite, le
(1)
Tu'rquie et la Grdce contemporaine, Paris I860.
�1875.
51
le niveau des esprits dans les provinces de la Turquie d’Europe oil
illy a des Grecs.
En resume, si Ton omet le petit nombre d’etrangers etablis en
Turquie, il y a dans cet empire, principalement dans ses parties
occidentales et dans les lies, deux populations en etat d’hostilite
cachee et permanente, ayant un sang different, des religions contraires, des histoires et des tendan^ds opposees. Cpae des deux,
qui est la maitresse aujeurd’hui, reste dans L ignorance eid’inertie;
l’autre s’instruit et travaille.KLa premiere a 'son centre aux conlins
de l’Europeldattw lieu ou. jfonvergent toutes les. aspirations de
l’autre race. Celle-ci, dispersee autour de la mer et meme dans
des pays lointains ou elle s’enrichit, possede, par notre fait, un
centre d’activit^et de mouvement intellectuel dont le wayonnement
va croissant. Ledecteur tirera lui.-m^me les consequences.
Le dephcement du centre geographique de l’empire ottoman
semble desormais une necessity historique assez procbaine. Les
efforts memes qu’il fait depuis quelques annees pour se transformer
le mettront bientot dans le plus grand p&ril en l’amenant t&.hne si
tuation financi&re d’ou il lui sera bien difficile de sortir. Le gouvernement du sultan, surtout a la suite de Lexposition uniyerselle de
1867, comprit que, si la Turquie demeurait dans son etat d’immobilite, elleldeyiendrait la proie du- pips- fori en mesne temps»que la
plus indigente def, nations pauvres. Aprhs le retour du sultan, on
commenca. A se preoccuper avant tout des voies de c®imunication,
routes et cbemins de fer,sans lesquelles la rich esse ne gfeut plus
aujourd’hui prendre Lessor. La Turquie ne pouvait fournir aucun
des moyens-. d’exeCutfbn itgke reclament ces entreprises, ni les
hommes, ni les machines, ni le reste du materiel^ bi lescapitaux.
L’esprit d’association y etait chose enticement ignoree; on eut
cherche vaiiiemeM dans* l’empi^® des actionnaires prCant l’argent que de s>n cote le tresorodu sultan nd pouvaft found®. Jadis,
quand le grand-seigneur avait besoin d’tine somme que les fermiers
n’etaient pas obliges a lui donner, il avait un moyen expeditif: il
faisait mourir &elque»he et conffsquait son avoir. Gefe, b’eat plus
possible aujourd’hui, soit parce que le progres ses mceurs et l’impuissance des sultans ne le permettent plus, soit parce que les
riches de l’em^re ont place leurs fonYls sur des^valeuFs euiropOennes
insaisissables. D’ailleurs la fortune de quelques particuliers pouvait
suffire autrefois a des besoins qui ne depassaient gudre le serail;
mais pour const.ruire un chemin de fer il faut plus d’argent qu’un
ou deux particuliers n’en sauraient fournir. Enfin le systhme finan
cier de laiwirquie pest pas de nature a pouvoir fouraw de telles
sommes a un moment donn&: oh en est encore, pour la rentree des
�52 /'’’T’T"' ’■
’
REVUE des' deux mondes.
impots, aux fermiers-generaux qui ont precede chez nou^ll'e grand
mouvement industriel du si&cle present, Les extracteurs doivent
fournir au sultan chaque annee une somme fixee d’avance et equitablement repartie entre les provinces de l’empire. Le pacha qqija
paye sa part d’impdt est tenu pour quitte; c’est a lui de se la pro
curer. Rien ne l’empGche d’en enfler le chiffre quand il le repartit
entre ses subordonnes et de beneficier de la difference. Geux-ci font
de meme, et ce chiffre tombe, demesurement grossi, sur 1’agriculJ
ture, le Commerce et l’industrie, qui parent l’impdt. Quelques cen-|
taines de millions ajoutes au budget ordinaire tariraient en fort peu
d’annees la source m6me off s’alimente le tresor, et mettraient le
pays dans la mis&re.
Il a done fallu recourir aux emprunts, selon l’usage des nations
europeennes|mais chez nous, quand un emprunt est 6mis, c’est
nous-memes qui le souscrivons et qui le soldons avec nos econo
mies. Chez les Tures, les emprunts sont dmis sur les marches Stran
gers et se classent principalement en France et en Angleterre; recemment encore celle-ci offrait au sultan les fonds necessaires pour
le chemin de fer de Constantinople a Bassora. Les emprunts se
sont faits ff des conditions de plus en plus onereuses pour la Tur
quie : non-seulement le taux de l’interdt et la commission des banquiers sont devenus Snormes, mais en outre la plupart des sources
du revenu ont Ate hypothdquees comme garantie des prets effectues. On a paye tres exactement les arrerages de ces sortes de
rentes, mais le plus souvent c’est un nouvel emprunt qui a servi a
les payer. Il rdsulte de la que la dette du sultan a ete en grossissant
d’annee en annee. En 1854, 1’empire ottoman n’avait pas de dettes.
En 1869, le chiffre nominal de la dette s’elevait deja a 3 milliards,
si Ton compte le revenu a 5 pour 100. A ce total se sont ajoutes depuis lots les emprunts de 1860, 1863, 1865, 1869 et 1873. Un em-l
prunt nouveau ne tardera pas a etre necessaire* Si derriere ces
appels consecutifs faits au credit europeen on apercevait une popu
lation laborieuse^ econome et une administration fmanciere bien
organisee, la dette ottomanene serait pas plus effrayante que celles
de l’Angleterre ou de la France, - qui la depassent; mais en realitG
la production est en Europe et la consommation en Turquie.
Il est juste de dire qu’une bonne partie des fonds empruntes est
employee en travaux utiles et doht l’effet doit etre le developpement de l’industrie et de l’agriculture dans 1’empire. La meme
pourtant il y a des mecomptesj beaucoup d’argent reste entre les
mains des intermediaires Sjle kilometre de chemin de fer, au lieu
de couter 200,000 francs, comtne il le pourrait, en coute 400,000
et ne peutpar ses produits payer, liidme a 5 pour 100, l’interet de
�' EN 187 5.
55
royaume de Gr&ce ua pas jusqu’a present su prendre le role\uii
deyait Atre lelien et creer ce petit etat modele que l’on avait r&ve
et qui serait le noyau du grand etat futur; mais la Gr&ce a joue de
malheur dans le choix de ses chefs, trop mal pourvus d’instruction
et de pr^voyance; elle a 6te faite trop etroite pour etre riche; elle
a 6te en naissant grevee d’une dette ecrasante don.t les etrangers
ont seuls profit^; elle a ete devor&e par les Bavarois; enfin, au mi
lieu de ces difficultes, elle a eu a se re/faire. Si elle sait faire un
intelligent et genereux effort sur elle-meme, il lui reste peut-etre
assez de temps ehcore pour GtreprAte audour voulu.
Pourtant ne sera-t-ello. pas eile-m6me absorbee par une puis
sance etrang&re? G’e&t ce qui nous reste & examiner.,,« Il y aurait,
dit 1’auteur de la brochure deja citee, avantage Evident a cerque le
gouvernemBit fut transmis a la nationalite chr&ienne, qui forme
dans chaqul pays la. majority de la population;... mais il importe
que sur aucun point une minorite chretienne ne vienne se substituer, au detriment de la majority veritable, a la minority ottomane
expuls6e:.|Diverses races se partagent la vaste 6tendue de fa Tur
quie : que chacune d’elles l’emporte U oil reellement elle ferme le
noyau de la population; qu’elles se groupent librement suivant leurs
affinites, leur histoire, leurs besoins, et que ni la violence, ni la
surprise ne yiennent jeter de nouveaux fermens de desordre dans
cette organisation, de laquelle depend la paix de l’avenir<» Telle
est certainement la pensee de tous les politiquesheWnes; telle est
aussi la solution la plus simple et la plus recommandable de la
question d’Orient. L’avenirl’amenerait de lui-meme, si les nations
europeen nes finissaient par croire que leur int&ret est de la laisser
venir. Malheureusement |tles se partagent aujourd’hui encore en
deux groupes, celles qui croient utile de conserver ce que l’on appelle « Tintegrite de 1’empire ottoman » e,t celleS qui croient de
voir profiter de sa dissolution; il y a en outre les indifferentes. Les
premieres sont la France et surtout l’Angleterre; les secondes sont
la Russie et l’A&smagiae. L’Angleterre, qui se irouve mainienant
en contact avec la Russie sue les mers orientales et a Fentree nordouest de son' empire indien, se sentirait entierement /compromise
dans ses relations avec l’lnde, si les flottes russes pouvaient sur la
Mediterranee Iwcouper le chemin de l’isthme de Suez. Cette ma
nure de voir ne semble pas contestable. La i|rance pent avoir un
interet du imieme genre, mais moindre, puisqu’une puissance militaire russe naviguant entre l’ltalie et Tunis pourrait suspendre et,
en cas de malheur, an&antirfflf commerce de Marseille. Et si la
Russie agissait d’accord avec l’Allemagne, celle-ci, en attaquant la
France partterre, comme en 1870, pourrait la mettre & deux'doigts
�U
REVUE! DES DEUX MONDES.
de sa perte.Jl semble done raisonnable de mettre obstacle aux*
Brogrds de la Russie vers le sud, de Fecarter de Constantinople, de
FAsie-Mineure et du Golfe-Persique. De son cote, l’immense empire
de Russie, en realisant peu & peu le testament apocryphe, mais judicieusement machiavelique de Pierre le Grand, aurait sur la Mediterranee des debouches qu’elle peut croire nGcessaire de se pre-|
parer; ses principaux ports seraient, outre Constantinople, ceux
de Salonique, du PirGe et d’Avlona, joints A ses capitales par des
chemins de fer, A FOrient et A F Occident par des compagnies de na
vigation.
Il ne semble pas douteux qu’elle pbursuit un but de ce genre,
moins lointain peut-etre, mais liG au plan general de ses conquGtes
a venir. Le panslavisme marche lentement vers le sud; s’appuyant
sur les Rulgares et les rameaux slaves qu’il projette dans la peninsule hellGnique, il assiege l’Athos, il detache du patriarcat l’eglise
bulgare, il a une niGce du tsar sur le trone de GrGce; il s’insinue
par la religion et le clerge dans FintimitG du monde grec. Aujourd’hui a la verite le role trop ostensible qu’il a joue dans Faffaire
de l’Gglise bulgare l’a mis en etat de suspicion et d’hostilite aux
yeux des HellGnes mais en fait il suit, pour assieger et isoler
Constantinople, la meme methode que suivirent les Ottomans avant
1A53, occupant d’abord les con treesenv-ironnantes, de telle sorte
qu’un seul et dernier assaut devait suffire pour prendre la capitale
et •consommerToeuvre.de la conquete. Je suppose que 1’Angleterre
et la France ont 1’ceil ouvert sur ces menees du panslavisme, et que
leurs agens les tiennent au courant des faits.
Sur un autre point, l’Allemagne est devenue un danger formi-j
dable pour la Turquie. Toute l’Europe se souvient des declarations
quelque peu imprudentes faites, il y a quelques anhees, au parlement prussien^L’Allemagne s’y peignait comme Gtouffant dans ses
frontiGres continentales et y exprimait son besoin d’avoir des de
bouches sur la mer, au nord et au sud. Ceux du nord, les dernieres
conquetes les lui ont donnGespde ce cote, elle sera satisfaite quand
elle possedera ce que l’on nomme « les provinces allemandes de la
Russie » et peut-etre, en tout ou en partie, la Hollande et la Bel
gique. Au sud, elle ne peut avoir en vue que l’Adriatique et Trieste;
le tunnel du Gothard lui ouvrira un chemin vers la mer TyrrhGnienne, mais ce chemin traversera deux etats etrangers, la
Suisse et l’ltalie. Si dans une complication europGenne les 7 mil
lions d’Allemands qui sont en Autriche venaient & se declarer pour
Berlin, il neserait pas impossible de detacher du royaume austrohongrois sa partie occidentale, y compris Trieste. Ainsi FAllemagne
s’etendrait de la Mer du Nord a 1’Adriatique et croiserait dans la
�eWlA
TURQUIE' EN 1875W
*
>
: 57
Mediterranee. Si la France’exe "ait a cette epoque nnflffence'que
les indifferens d’il y a quatre ans desirent A present lui voir re-|
prendre dans les conseils de l’Europe, cette extension redoutable
de l’Allemagne n’aurait pas lieu. Cela dependra de sa perseve
rance & l’interieur et de son habilete diplomatique, de sorte que
Best encore sur ces deux choses que reposent pour les peuples me*Hdionaux le salut et l’avenir; mais si, entrainee par les reactions
monarchiste et clericale, la France venait a perdre le role auquel
elle a droit, rien n’empEcherait l’Allemagne de dechirer l’empire
ottoman, d’en jeter un lambeau a la Russie et un autre & l’AustroHongrie, devenue, selon la theorie allemande, un royaurne orien
tal, un empire danubien. On desinteresserait la France en la rendant a son intEgrite, l’Autriche en l’Gtendant vers Fest, la Russie en
lui laissant prendre le Bas-Danube et la pEninsule hellEnique.
Il y a longtemps dejA que l’Allemagne se prepare a des evenemens
de cette nature. Elle a commence A diriger vers le Levant tine partie
de son Emigration, que le Nouveau-Monde absorbait auparavant.
Elle a en Syrie des groupes d’emigrans dont la totalite doit depasser
aujourd’hui 15,000 hommes, si nos informations sent exactes.La
creation d’urie ecole alletnande A AthAnes ne semble pas^Atre purement archeologique, puisqu’on a mis d’abord A la tete un diplomate qui, parait-il, va etre remplace par un general; on pe manque
pourtant pas de savans qui seraient aptes A diriger cette institu
tion. Les Grecs voient dans la convention relative A Olympie autre
chose qu’un traite d’une nature scientifique un rapport adresse
par la Societe archEologique au gouvernement dechu signalait des
perils prochains, qu’il est difficile A; present de conjurer. bArticles
de cette convention relatifs aux ouvriers' aux conddcteurs des
fouilles, A l’achat des terrains, livrent absolument A l’Allemagne le
sol d’Olympie; rien ne l’empechera, si elle veut, d’installer une colonie en plein PEloponAse, de la mettre en communication facile
avec le port de Gatacolon, d’avoir 1A des navires de guerre et des
soldats au moyen desquels elle agim selon ses besoins. Enfin la
lutte incessante que les Allemands ont entreprise sur tous les points
du Levant pour y ruiner l’influence francaise n’est pas non plus
sans signification ni portee. Avoir des amis, des allies et des points
de ralliement est une chose toujours-utile^ pour ceux surtout que
tourmente 1’ambition des conquetes et qui ne reculent pas devant
l’idee de se partager les peuples commo des troupeaux.
La solution.naturelle de la question d’Orient peut'Monc Atre re
tards par la France et l’Angleterre, surtout par cette dernifcre
puissance; mais elle nesera pas empdchee, parce que les faits demontreront et demontrenf dejA que les interets de ces deux etats
�58
HEVUE TUES DEUX MONDES'.
fsaccommoderaient mieux cle cette solution que de toute autre/Au
contraire, il ne peut convenir ni a la Russie ni h l’Allemagne qu’i
se fonde autour de la mer £gee un grand etat hellenique, tant quel
l’une et l’autre seront animees de l’esprit de conquete. Si, en consi-^
deration des bouleverseipens que cet esprit promet a l’Europe ou
par un progrbs dp
civilisation, qui tend de plus en plus A re
server le droit des nations, la Russie trouvait que la Mer-Noire avec
l’ouverture des detroits et la neutralisation de Constantinople suffit
a ses relations dans la Mediterran.ee,des projets*de l|Allemagne sur
les provinces allemandes de la RuSsie et sur Trieste seraient neu
tralises; 1’Europe entrerait dans une pPriode de calme, et la solution
naturelie de la question d’Orient se realiserait peu k pen, spontanPment et sans secousse.
Dans les pages qu’on vient de lire, j’ai essay6 de faire comprendre, commeie les comprends moi-piPme et comme beaucoup
d’Hellbnesvi^s pomprennent, les .changemens que la gue^e francoallemande et les evenemens Bocaux de ces dernieres annees ont
apportes dans ce qu’on appelle. <j.la question d’Orient. » Il est clair
que rien dans ces problfemes n’est absolu. Les.relations des grandes
puissances de l’Europe peuvent se modifier de jour en jour. Le
statu quo peut etre abandonnb par quelqu’une d’entre elles; telle
autre pent renoncer definitivemeni a une .conquete qui ne lui est
pas d’une^utilite evidente et qui pourrait produire dans son propre
sein de terribles ruptures. L’experience de la Pologne, de la Vene
tie et aujourd’hui de .1’Alsace-Lorraine demontre qu’il y a toujours
peril a ret-enir sous le j.oug<une population qui le repousse. La Po
logne a plus affaibli que fortifie les trois btats qui se la sont partagee; la Venetie a fait perdue a 1’Autriche la bataille de Sadowa et sa
position dans 1’empire; les diplomates de quelque valeur avouent
aujourd’hui qu’une desiplus grandes fautes oh M. de Molfke ait en
trainer son souverain a etp le demembrement de la France. Il y a
des alimens qui ne se .digPrent pas et qui etouffent ceux qui les
prennent. Le conquerant, quel qu’il spit, qui chercherait a dominer
la nation hellbne, aurait dans le panhellienium, aujourd’hui presque unifie, preSque constitue, un ennemi interieur qufil ne dompterait jamais pt quiTepuiserait comme une hydre aux tetes eternellement renaissantes. Nous croyuns done et nous esperons queja
grande affaire de 1’Orient se reglera d’elle-mbme quand le moment
de la liquidation sera venu, et que les populations rentreront dans
leurs droits selon la justice.
�LES ORIGINES
DE LA POESIE CHRETIENNE
L’fiGLISE ET L’ART antique
i
A. Ebert, Geschichte der christlich-lateinischen Literatur, Leipzig 1874.
1
I
Tous les elemens donMa poesie chtretienne devait se composer
un jour ont 6te crees pendant les deux premiers slides de l’eglise;
on rencontre dej& dans les ouvrages de ce temps ces legendes naerveilleuses, ces symboles gracieux,- ces discussions passionnees, ces
croyances riantes ou terribles qui on-t- inspire jusqu’ici les pontes
Chretiens (1). Il ne restait plus qu’&Meur trouver une forme qui leur
convint, et c’est ce qui ne futpas aise. La forme et le fond, 1’ex
pression et la pepsee, sont des choses & la fois inseparables et tres
differentes, qu’il n’es^pas toujoUrs facile de faire marcher ensemble,
quoiqu’elles ne pufesent pas aller l’une sans 1’autre.* La perfection
consiste a les mettre d’accord, et les grands sifecles li-tteraires sont
ceux oh la pensee ^arvient a s’exprimer dans u® style qui lui est
tout a fait approprie. Ce qui rend cette harmonie assez rare, c’est
que la loi d’apr&s laquelle ces deux elemens se dCveloppent n’est
pas tout & fait ,la^eme.^L’'histoire de la poesie chrejiCnne le fait
(1) Voyez la Revue du ler juillet 1875.
�REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
bien voir : le fond y fut cree tout d’abord, comme d’un jet, et l’on
mit plusieurs si&cles & trouver la forme.
Il semblait naturel que la doctrine nouvelle se produisit sous une
forme qui fut nouvelle aussi. Puisqu’elle affectait de se separer
avec eclat du monde ancien, ne devait-elle pas rompre aussi avec
l’art antique? L’Evangile avait dit : « Le vin nouveau sera mis dans
des outres neuves, et le v^tement neuf sera raccommode avec un
morceau de drap neuf. » N’etait-ce pas une invitation a chercher
pour cet art naissant une forme qui' n’empruntat rien au passe?
C’est aussi ce qu’on essaya de faire d’abord. Le plus ancien de tous
les pontes chretiens, tin litterateur mediocre, mais un homme de
foi sincere et d’ardente piete, eut l’idee hardie de chercher & faire
des vers en dehors de toutes lesYfegles revues et contrairement aux
habitudes de tous les lettres de son temps.
Il s’appelait Commodien. Son nom n’est pas reste cel&bre, et il
est probable que beaucoup de nos lecteurs 1’entendent pour la pre
miere fois. On ne sait s’il etait tr^s connu de son vivant; mais,
comme sa tentative ne reussit gufere, il tomba dans un oubli profond aprfcs sa mort. C’est a peine s’il se trouve mentionne chez un
biographe du ve siede, qui ne lui accorde en passant que quelques mots fort dedaigneux. Cependant, par une fortune assez remarquable, tandis que tant de chefs-d’oeuvre d’ecrivains illustres se
perdaient, les ouvrages de ce po&te ignore ont survdcu. Un savant
du xvne siecle publia d’abord un poeme compose de petites pieces
en acrostiches, qui contenaient des preceptes de morale et des enseignemens religieux. L’auteur de ces bizarres productions, quoiqu’il pr^che partout l’humilite, avait tenu h se faire connattre, et
l’un de ses derniers acrostiches renfermait son nom-, il s’appelle
lui-mdme Commodien^ mendiant du Christ [Commodianus, mendicus Christi). Un nouvel ouvrage, plus important que le premier,
a ete recemment decouVert en Angleter?e dans la riche biblioth^que
de sir Thomas Phillipps a Middle-Hill. Cette fois l’auteur n’avait pas
pris la precaution de Se nommer ; le manuscrit, fort gate vers les
derniSres pages, se terminait par ces mots^qu’avait ajoutes le co
piste : « ici finit le traite du saint ev6que.^;» Le nom ne pouvait
plus se lire (1), mais il etait aise de le deviner & la versification et
au style : c’etait encore Commodien.
Ces deux poSmes nous donnent sur ce personnage quelques de
tails qu’il est bon de recueillir : il etait ne dans une ville de Pales
tine, a Gaza; cette origine, on le Verra, n’a pas 6te sans influence
(1) Depuis, avec plus de patience, on est parvenu & decouvrir sur Ie manuscrit les
premieres syllabes du nom de Commodien. L’ouvrage a et6 publie pour la premiere
fois dans le premier volume du Spicilegium solesmense de dom Pitra.
�LES ORIGINES DE LA BQESIE CHRETIENNE.
61
sur ses opinions, et nous retrouverons chez lui l’ardeur de sentimens et la vigueur de haine de ses compatriotes les pontes sibyllins.
Est-ce en Orient qu’il a vecu? L’auteur d’une savante histoire de la
litterature chretienne, M. Ebert, le suppose, mais il me semble dif
ficile de le croire t co-mme il voulait etre populaire et qu’il ecrivait
en latin, il a du vivre dans un pays pule latin etait la langup com
mune. On a meme canijecture qu’il habitait l’Afrique, oik cette forme
de vers sans me surequ’il a choisie etait fort repandue. 11 avait et&
61 eve dans la religion ancienne,.et,-Ammme i^utait dans sa nature
de ne rien fair#, a demi, ij' est probable qu’il fut paien ardent avant
de devenir chr^iet^passionn^ Il dut sa conversion au^hasard ou
plutot a la grace : un jour que l’Evangile lui etait tombe sous la
main, il y jeta U&euM||« aussitot, ditA; h ®mi6re mU^laira. »
Engage d6s lors dans la doctrine nouvelle, il^t’oublia jamais et ne
chercha pas a cacher le smivei^r de ses anciennes erreurs; au contraire il semble prendre plais-i? & s’humilier en les rappelanth« Ne
me prenez pas pour un
sans cesse a ceux
©nseigne,
je suis sorti de logout. » On nous dit qu’il essayg.it surtout de leur
apprendre 1’amour des pauvres. C’6tait pour lui la vertu supreme;
il la prechait a tout le monde, et, pour rendre ses conseils plus efficaces, il s’etait fait fpauvre .lui-mernen c’est au meins, ainsi que
j’explique cenom de « mendiant du Christ » qu’il s’etait doline. Il
devint pourtamst ev6que, on ne sa-it comment ni dans quel pays, et
l’on ne sait pas non plus ce qu’il a fait pendant son episcopat.^Les
renseignenaensqu’on a sur lui sont, comme on le voit, fort in compl ets ; ils laissent pourtant de viner une figure origin ale,; com me il
devait s’en trouver davantage dams G'es temps primitifs, ou les
croyances etaient plifs^ibA, B fo| plus vivante et meins regime.
Le caractkre des oeuvres repond a celui de 1’auteur : c’est d’or
dinaire un apotre un peu ruele etquf traite sans, management ceux
qu’il veut convertir. 11 est vif, ironique, emporte. Sa plaisanterie ne
se pique pas d’etre delicate|dl a le rire bwyant et populaire. Par
exemple il s’amuse beaucoup de la facon dont les paiens represen
tent Mercure, avec son caducee a la main et sa sacoche au cou:
« Courez vite,. bonnes gens;,-fflt-il A ses adorateurs, et tendez la
main pour qu’il y verse son petit sac. Soyez surs qu’il va vous jeter
quelque 6cu, et dansez d’avance de bonheur, comme si vous l’aviez
deja recu. » Iwmesaventure d’Apollon avec DapWe le comble de
Joie; il ne comprend pas qu’un dieu n’arrive pas a triompher d’une
mortelle. « Le sot! dit-il il aime pour rien, gratis amat stullus! n
Il se demande comment
fait qu^iane divinize quia des ailes se
laisse ainsi vaincre a la course. « Si c’etait un dieu veritable, il aurait pris le chemin des airs et serait arrive le premier. Au contraire,
�62
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
c’est elle qui rentre chez elle avant lui, et le dieu reste a la porte. »
Avec les Juifs, il discute, il cite ses autorites, il allegue pour les conJ
vaincre les premiers chapitres de la Genfcse « et le psaume quaran
tine de David,» ce qui produit un effet assez etrange en vers;
mais tout en discu taint il se fache. Il appelle ses adversaires des
vaniteux, des entAtespet pretend que « Dieu leur a rendu le sens
epais. » Quant aux chretiens j-udaisans, il les adjure de ne pas
rester indGcis, comme ils le sont, entre.les deux doctrines, et leur
montre qu’il leur sera impossible de les accorder ensemble et de les
pratiquer toutes les deux: « Deux routes s’ouvrent devant toi; choisis
celle que tu veux suivre. Tu ne peux pas te fendre par le milieu,
pour que chacun de tes pieds prenne un des deux chemins. »
On ne sera pas surpris qu’avec ces sentimens il soit tr£s severe
aux gens du monde.IlHse moque des avocatSy il maltraite les gens
riches, dont il dit « qu’ils se nourrissent du’-sang des autres et
qu’ils ne sont heureux que s’ils peuvent vivrecom me des pores &
l’engrais. Sa verve s’exerce aussi aux depens des femmes, qu’il
accuse de trop aimer la toilette. « Ta te pares devant un miroir,
difc-il a l’une d’elles; tu frises ta chevelure et la fais retomber en
boucles sur ton front ; tu te mets des onguens sur les joues pour
avoir des couleurs fausseS; tu teins tes eheveux de facon a couvrir
ta t£te entiere d’une crinikre noire : crois-moi, tout cela n’est pas
necessaire A une femme honnete. & Elies ont des complices que
Gommodien n’epargne pas. Il nous apprend qu’il y avait deja au
me siAcle, dans cette jeunesse deB’eglise, des directeurs accommodans qu’on attendrissait par de petits cadeaux, qui avaient
peUr de blesserjies personnel du monde en leur pr6sentant un
christianisme trop rigoureux, qui leur permettaient d’aller au
theatre-jld’applaudir « leurs chers histrions, » d’ecouter et de re*
temp des airs de musique. On pense bien que cette morale relachee
ne lui convient paswll ne cherche a manager personne, et presente
volontiers la doctrine qu’il preche du cote le plus rebutant. Il ne
veut pas qu’on tienne aux affections de la terre, mdme les plus
legitimes, et defend de pleurer ses enfans quand on Jesaperdus;
dans une societe ou la preoccupation generale etait de se preparer
d’avance uli tombeau, il se moque de ceux qui songent trop a leurs
funerailles, qui se consolent de mourir en pensant a la foule qui
suivra leur convoi et viendra diner sur leur tombe.!Il lui plait de
se mettre en hostilite avec .Fopinion generale, de blamer ce qu elle
prefere, et-d’approuver ce qu’elle condamne. « Soyez fous pour le
monde, et ne vous occupez d’etre sages que pour Dieu. » G est sa
maxime ordinaire et le resume de son enseignement. Ceux qui se
conformeront a ces preceptes sont stirs d’arriver au ciel; ceux qui
�LES ORIGINES DE LA POESIE CHRETIENNE.
63
s’en fecartent « s’en iront dans le lieu oh il y a des gfemissemens
feternels. » Dans toutes ses discussions, l’enfer est sa grande me
nace et son dernier argument. Aux infidfeles, aux chretiens douteux
et tildes, aux mondains, aux mauvais riches, il repfete sans cesse:
It Prenez garde de ne pas bruler un jour dans la fournaise de feu! »
C’est le mfeme sentiment qui lui inspira I’une des parties les plus
Emportantes et les plus eurieuses de son etrange pofeme. Pendant
qu’il 1’fecrivait, vers l’an OBO, une persecution*, A lafois plus cruelle
et plus habile que les autres*feclata cohtr^l’e^ise. L’empereur Dfece,
pour avoir enfrn raison de la cdmmunautfe chrfetienne, qui avait si
obstinfement resist'fe a ses prfedacess^rs, eut 1’idfee de la feapper
systfematiquement dans rses chefs et'de Fatteindre Ala fois dans
tout l’empire. L’attaque, venant aprfeswne longue^aix, fut terrible.
Devant ces brutalitfes de la force, la feule des fidlies tremblait et
se cachait; les fenergiques, les violens, comme Commodien, se
prfeparaient A souffrir, et, pour se donner du coeur par 1’ espoir de la
^vengeance, ils refaisaient 1’Apocalypse. C’etait assez son habitude,
on vient de le voir, de menace^ ses ennemis du feu fetemel; il est
Uaturel qu’en ces circonstances il ait pris plaisir A predire que la
fin du monde fetait prochei' et que Dieu ne tarderai$ pas A punir
Rome de ses injustices. Il nym gufere de pei^aition qui-n’ait
donnfe naissance A quelque apocalypse.nouvelle : celle de Commo
dien ne difffere des autres que parce qu’il imagine deux antechrists
au lieu d’un ; c’etait une manifere d’aceorder ensemble deux tradi
tions diffferentes (I); L’un d’eux est Mempereur Nferon, c’est-a-dire
l’antechrist merhe desAit Jean, res^sMte^ar la colfere de Dieu, et
auquel tout 1’Occident est abandotonfeqH’autre est le 'wieux Belial des
Juifs, qui doit ravager l’Orient, vaincre Nferon lui-meme et dfetruire
Rome; mais il sera dfefait A son’tour par Vl-e peuple des justes, »
reste des tribus ficlfeles que Dieu tient en reserve par-dela l’Euphrate, aux extrfernitfes du monde, pour le ramener aux derniers
jours. Dans un beau passage, le pofete decrit leur retour triomphal: « Tout verdit devant leurs pas, tout se rejouit de leur prfesence. Toute creature est heureuse de Jeur faire un bon ac'eueil. Des
fontaines jaillissmt partout, prates A les dfesaltferei|| les nuees leur
font de 1’ombre de peur qu’ils ne soient genfes par le soleil, et, pour
leur fepargner la fatigue , les montagnes felles-memes e’abaissent
devant eux. » Ils sonf vainque®^deHI’antechrist;san^ cbmbattre, et
.
(1) Cette apocalypse a etd etudiee avec beaucoup de soin par M. Edmend Scherer,
dans ses Melanges de critique re/igmtse. Depuis M. Ebert a publie un travail important sur le mSme ouvrage dans les Memoires de I’academie de Saxe. 11 y arrive aux
m6mes conclusions que M. Scherer, qu’il ne parait pas avoir connu, ou du moins qu’il
n’a pas citd.
�64
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES^
leur victoire commence une fere de prosperity qui doit durer mille
ans. Selon l’usage’ de ces sortes d’ouvrages, Rome est fort durement traitee. Les temps etaient alors mauvais pour elle et pouvaient
donner quelque espoir a ses ennemis que sa ruine approchait. Au
nord les Goths, sous lesquels elle devait un jour succomber, se prfel
paraient a passer le Danube; a l’est, le roi des Perses, Sapor, attaquait l’Armenie. Commodien ne doute pas que cette double menace
n’annonce la fin de la domination romaine, et il y applaudit d’avance. « Qu’il disparaisse a jamais, dit-il, cet empire ou regnait
l’iniquite, qui, par les tributs qu’il levait partout sans pitie, avait
fait maigrir le monde,» et il ajoute d’un air de triomphe: « elle
pleure pendant l’feternite, elle qui se vantait d’fetre eternelle! »
\ v a j ■ •■
••
ki a
; S
Luget in seternum, quse se jactabat asternal
C’est assurement un beau vers, si l’on ne regarde que la vigueur
de la pensee; mais en rfealite est-ce un vers? La quantite, comme
on voit, n’y est gufere respectee, et ce n’est point par hasard qu’elle
est violee, c’est par systfeme : Commodien fait profession de n’en pas
tenir compte. Pour nous, dont 1’oreille est habituee h la metrique
savante de Virgile et d’Horace, cet oubli des rfegles elementaires
de la versification latine nous choque, et nous sommes d’abord
tentes de n’y voir que l’ignorance d’un ecolier ou le caprice d’un
barbare. C’est pourtant autre chose, et ces fautes grossiferes, dont
notre gout s’indigne, ont plus d’importance et meritent plus d’at-i
tention qu’il ne le semble. Elies sont sans doute l’indice d’un art
qui finit, mais elles annoncent aussi un art qui commence. Je voudrais montrer en quelques mots A quel travail serieux et profond se
rattachait cette tentative etrange de Commodien et ce qu’elle faisait prevoir pour l’avenir.
Qhand on dit que le vers est une musique, on ne fait pas seule- *
ment une metaphore, on donne une definition exacte’de la poesie.
Dans tous les pays, la musique du langage provient de l’alternance
des sons, et les sons different entre eux parce qu’ils sont plus longs
ou plus courts, plus aigus ou plus graves : de 14 deux principes
d’harmonie dans les langues, la quantite et l’accent. Les Grecs
n’etaient gufere sensibles qu’4 la quantite; leurs vers se mesuraient
par une succession de syllabes brfeves ou longues : aussi sont-ils
plus varies et plus musicaux que les ndtres, les longues et les brfeves
pouvarit se mfeler ensemble de beaucoup de fa^ons et former des
combinaisons d’une richesse infinie. Chez les peuples modernes,
c’est d’ordinaire l’accent qui i’emporte* La revolution qui, dans la
pofesie, a substitue l’un de ces principes 4 l’autre ne s’est definiti-
�BSwWINESWWI^
m
poesie CHRETIENNE.
65
accomplie qu’au debut du moyen age, mais dfesn’antiquitfe
tnreme ils etaient quelquefois en lutte. Chez les Romains, la domina
tion de la quantite ne fut jamais acceptee sans quelque resistance 1
tandis que les ouvrages composes pour les lettres, VEntitle de Virgile et les Epitres d’Horace, reproduisent les metres grecs avec
une aisance merveilleuse ,et une^irreprochable fidelite, le peuple
faisait des vers boiteuxjtaA l’influence de, Faccent contrarie a
chaque instant celle Sla guan^S. ®|l.
fi^nt,tp|w compte
des finales, ou la syllab’e accgntuee^tepd A^|yew|laallafe longue.
On remarque naturellement que ces fautes augmentent avec le
temps, A mesure que le gout se perd, que les anciens usages s’effacent, que les strangers et les provinciaux prennent plus d’impor
tance dans 1’empire; elles deviennent pour ainsi dire la regie dans
certains pays comme l’Afrique, eloignes du centre, ou la litterature
echappe plus aiwrSt, aux traditions du passe et se developpe dans
des conditions nouvelfe. |
On n’est pas surpris, quand on connait Commodien, que cette
manifere libre et populaire? de versifier lui ait bMufiom) pmnvenu.
Ses gouts ne le p or taient pas a pratiquer les grands ecrivains et a
respecter les traditions classiques. 11 s’emporte quelque part contre
ceux qui perdent leui? temjpsa lire Thence, Wgile ou Ciceron;
quant a lui, ses inspirations et ses maitres sont ailleurs. « Je ne
suis point un pofete, disait-il, je n’ai pas recu la mission d’etre un
docteur, je me> contente de livrer A tous les vents les predictions
des prophetes. » Ces propheties, qu’il veut reproduce et repandre,
ce sont celles des sibyl les : on a fait voir comment, de l’Egypte et
de l’Asie, elles avaient penfetre dans les pavsgMjonMarltit latin;
la, comme on ne pouvait pas les comprendre dans l’original, on en
avait fait des traductions grossiferes, tout A fait^n.ecummode.es aux
gouts de la foule. C’est saint Augustin qui nous l’apprend; il raconte qu’un jour qu’il avait manif^tfe lade les lire, on les
fui apporta ^traduitejpar je ne sail quel pofete ignorant, dans un
latin barbare et en vers qui ne
tenaient ^QjQfeggs pieds. »
Ges vers irreguliws et inegaux, ces Bquasi-verstBl ootome on les
appelait, ont probablement servi de modfele a Commodien. Ainsi
pour la forme comme pour le fond c’est des chants sibyllins que sa
poesie procfede. Il n’a pas plus de souci de la quantite que ces
« pofetes ignorans » dont se moquait saint Augustin, ,gtprend avec
elle des libertfes incroya-bles. La fin du w ressemble seule d’un
peu loin au vieil hexamfetre (1); niais dans le reste la fantaisie du
(1) Une des particularitydu vers hexamctrc, c’est qu’en general, dans les deux derniers pieds, l’accent et la quantite se confondent. Dans les deux mots tegmine fagi,
1’accent est sur la premiere syllabe aussi bien que le temps fort. C’est pour cela que
tome xi, — 1875.
5
�X56
REVUE DES DRUX,MONDES.
poSte a distribue a son gr6 les longues et les braves, sans tenir
compte d’aucune autre rdgle que d’arriver a une longueur de lignes
a peu pr&s egale a celles qu’il avail lues chez Horace et Virgile.
L’interSt que presente pour nous cette versification barbare, c’est
qu’elle contient deja quelques-uns des procedes qui seront employes
plus tard. La rime elle-mdme, qui etait reservee & une si grande
fortune, s’y rencontre quelquefois. Commodien est un precurseur
du moyen age; il l’annonce et'Fintroduit pr6s de trois si&cles avant
qu’il n’ait Commence d’exister. Il y a des genies qui sont en avance
sur leur temps et pressentent les progres de 1’avenir; lui au contraire semble prevoir la decadence et travaille & 1’amener. Il est
aise d’imaginer, bien que personne ne nous l’ait dit, de quelle facon
ses vers ont du dtre accueillis de ses contemporains. Quoique fort
inferieure & celle ’qui 1’avait prScedee, la societe du ine si^cle con
tinual & aimer avec passion les lettres et les arts. Elie ne produisait plus gu$re d’oeuvres originales, ay ant perdu le don charmant
de creer, mais elle admirait et imitait j|ans se lasser les chefsd’oeuvre antiques. Ne tenir aucun compte des grands modules
quand on ecrivait, negliger les regies lesplus elementaires de la
poesie, faire des vers sans quantite et sans mesure, c’etait donner i
ses habitudes et S, ses admirations le plus insolent dementi. Elie y
arriva plus tard elle-m6me, mais seulement apres plusieurs si&cles
d’effroyables calamites et quand elle eut subi l’invasion des barbares. C’etait vraiment trop exiger d’elle que de vouloir qu’elle devancat volontairement ces temps malheureux, et que de son plein gre
elle renoncat & toutes ces d^licatesses d’un art dont elle 6tait Cprise.
Le sacrifice etait au-desstts de ses forces, et il est probable que cette
apparition pre mature e de la barbarie n’exCita chez elle qu’un senti
ment profond de colure ou de mepris.
■
II.
L’exemple de Commodien et le peu de succ&s de sa tentative
semblaient prouver qu’il n’etait pas possible de rehoncer tout a fait
a l’art antique; il fallait done essayer de s’accommoder avec lui. Le
christianisme pouvait le faire. sans se dementir. Il ne s’etait pas
les dedx derniers pieds des vers de Commodien ressemblent souvent 5, ceux de 1’hexamfetre rdgulier. En rSalitd, il ne tient compte que de 1’acceiit, c’est-&,-dire d’un seul des
deux elemens qui sent rdunis la fin du vers classique. Pour lui, facti de ligno sonne
tout h fait comme primus ab oris, et dominus dixit comme tegmine fagi. Voyez sur
es questions si importantes et si mal connues le Traits d'accentuation latine de
MM. Weill et Benloew, et 1’dtude sur le R6le de I’accent latin dans la langue frangaise^
de M. Gaston Paris.
�LES 0RIG1NES DE LA POTSIE
CHRETIENNeW
67
presente au monde ancien comme un ennemi qui vient tout renverser"au contraire il avait proclam6 bien haut qu’il se tenait en de
hors des interets de la terre et n’entendait rien changer & l’ordre
etabli. « Que chacun de vous, disait saint Paul, demeure en l’Gtat
oil il etait quand Dieu l’a appele. » C’etait une conduite habile et
qui dut beaucoup aider a ses progres, Cette vieille civilisation lui
aurait oppose plus de resistance, s’il avait affiche la pretention de
la detruire; mais il se contenta de la transformer, Il en a garde
tous les elemens qui pouyaient se conserver et les a transmis au
monde moderae.
11 n’y .avait rien alors que cette soci^t-e mit au-dessus des plaisirs de l’esprit, Le gout en etait ne en Grece, il y avait quelque
sept ou huit siecles, et les armees d’Alexandre Wavaient repandu
dans tout l’Orient; l’Qccident le tenait de la conquete romaine : on
nous dit que les rhdteurs et les grammairiens, marchant b, la suite
des legions, s’etaient etablis dans lescontEeesles plus barbares (1).
Aucune nation, si rebelle qu’elle fut par sa nature ou ses prejuges
a la civilisation hellenique, n’a pu tout A fait lui echapper. Les
Juifs eux-memes, quand ils quittaient leur petite Palestine pour
trafiquer en J^gypte ou en Syrie, se mettaient A lire Homare et Pla
ton et etaient tout surpris de S’y plaice. Dans tonte 1’Atendue du
monde greco-romain, c’est-a-dire dans presque tout 4’ univers, on
admirait les memes chefs-d’oeuvre et 1’on essayait de les imiter. Il
y avait pour penser et pour ecrire une sorte de type accepts qui
faisait que la literature etait presque partout semblable, Le christianisme hii-meme, l’eut-il voulu, n’aurait pas pu tout b fait se
soustraire a cette uniformite. Nous en avons une preuve curieuse ;
dans l’epitre der-saint Clement, le plus ancien des ecrits chretiens
que nous ayons conserves aprfes ceux des apotres, 1?influence de
la rhetorique grecque se fait deja sentir. La facon dont Clement
expose ses idees n’est plus celle de saint Paul, et 4’on trouve chez
lui de ces larges developpemeris comme en contenaient les discours
des rheteurs a la mode (2), Le christianisme se resigna done A souffrir A ses cotes cette puissance qu’il lid £tait malaise de vaincre;
comme lui, elle a survecu a toutes les revolutions, elle a partage
avec lui et partage encore le gouvernement des esprits. Quan
nous observons autour de nous notre monde occidental et les merveilles qu’il est en train d’accomplir, quand nous voulons .savoir de
(1)
Gallia causidicos docuit facunda Britannos;
De conduceado loquitur jam rhetore Thule.
(2) Voyez surtout aux chapitres 20 et 33 le tableau des bienfaits de Dieu envers les
homines.
■ • G;';
�REVUE DES DEUX MONDES?
quels elemens principaux se compose cette civilisation dont nous!
sommes si fiers, nous trouvons, comme base et fondement de tout
le reste, deux legs du passe sans lesquels il nous est impossible de
comprendre le present et qui nous ont fait ce que nous sommes, le
christianisme et les lettres anciennes.
Si ces deux el6mens'ne sont pas parvbnus a s’exclure, ils ont eu
grand’peine a s’accorder. Jamais ils n’ont pu ni s’eliminer tout &
fait l’un l’autre, ni s’unir parfaitement entre eux, et Ton peut dire
que leur lutte compose depuis dix-huit sidcles l’histoire morale de
l’humanite. Tantot c’est 1’element religieux qui 1’emporte, comme
au moyen age; tantdt lestettres anciennes reprennent le dessus,
comme a la renaissance; quelquefois aussi Eon cherche une combinaison savante qui les reunisse ensemble etfasse a chacun sa part,
comme dans hotre xvrie sifecle, iriais jamais ni les ddfaitcs ni les
victoires ne sont decisives. La lutte dure encore^ et'nous l’avons
vue de nos jours se ranimer avec plus d’ardeur. Elie est aussi ancienne que le christianisme m&he; dds les premiers temps, il y a eu
dans la societe chretienne deux courans faciles a distinguer qui
l’entrainaient en sens inverse. Tan dis que les uns se sentaient plus
attir&s vers l’art antique e*t ,^uoiqu’-il eut"et6 si longtemps la parure du inensonge, cherchaient d s’en servir pour la defense de la
verite, les autres s’en eioignaient avec horreur, et ne voulaient pas
souffrir que la doctrine nouvelle empruntat rien a la civilisation
ancienne?<Precisemen:t ®es deux tendances contraires se retrouvent
comme personnifiees pour nous dans les deux plus anciens 6crivains
qu’ait produits la litteratUr® chretienne en Occident; en etudiant
ensemble, en opposant l’un & l’autre Minucius Felix et Tertullien, il
nous sera facile de reconnaitre combien, sur ces questions, les
Chretiens etaient alors divfehs.
Nous ne savons de Minucius Felix que ce qu’il nous en dit luimeme', et il parle fortpeu de lui. Il 6tait un avocat distingue de
Rome et vi-vait probablement vers la fin des Antonins; Nous n’avons
conserve de lui qu’un trfes court ouvrage, YOctavius, oil il defend
la religion chretienne, qu’il avait embrassee. Get ecrit est fait pour
les gens du monde et de nature A'*leur plaire. L’apologie n’y est
pas presentee sous une forme froide et dialectique; c’est un petit
drame, plein de details agreables et vivans. Minucius et l’un de
ses plus chers Jamis, Octavius,.’don gtemps separ6s, se retrouvent a
Rome; apres deux jours passes dans des conversations infinies, ils
vont se promener sur la plage d’Ostie en compagnie d’un ami com- <
mun, Gaecilius, qui e§i reste paien?Pendant qu’au lever du jour ils
suivent le bord de la mer « caress6e par Fair frais du matin qui
ranime leurs forces, et joyeux de fouler le sable humide qui cede
�LES ORIGIN ES DE LA P0E SIE CHRETIEN NE.
69
sous leurs pas, » Caecilius, ayant apercu une statue cle S&rapis, la
salue, selon l’usage, en approchant sa main de ses livres et lui enl
Boyant un baiser. Octavius, qui le voit faire, se retourne vers Minucius et lui dit : « Vraiment ce n’est pas bien, mon cher ami,
d’abandonner un homme qui vous aime et ne vous quitte jamais
dans les egaremens d’une vulgaire ignorance, de lui permettre, en
un si beau jour, d’adresserLses hommages & des pierres, surtout
quand vous savez que vous n’etes pas moing* responsable que lui
de sa honteuse erreur^n La promenade..continue ensuite sur ces
bords charmans; on va-ef 1’on vient entre tous ces vaisseaux tires
sur le sable qui font un spectacle anime, on ygarde -;lea| enfans qui
s’amusent & faire ricochet desBiUoUx sui^les fllotsSmais Gaecilius
ne prend plus part a Fentretien.Sreste ser^gx et preoccupe, il n’a
plus de plaisir & entendre, ni de>,g.0]mai®ardeiffi Essie. dei& la
grace qui penetre son cceur en silence, ou eprouve-t-il seulement
quelque tristesse de ne plus se sentir^accmjd avec ses amis? Il
veut enfin qu’on s’explique; il
qu’il leur dise toutes l^raisons
qui l’attachent a ses anciennes. croyanges et qu’il sache d’eux pourquoi ils les ont quittee^ Arriw au bout du mole. on^Iassfed sur les
grosses pierres qui protegent le port, et la discdssionBommence.
Elle est aimable et grave A la fois : ce sont .des amis qui causent
et non des theologiem qui discutmL. Ils ecoutent sans colure, meme
quand ils ne se menagent pas, et respondent sans aig^reur. Quoique
paien trfcs decide, Caecilius n’est point un l^^tique^Il a moins de
passions que de prejug&s, et raisonne pjutot en homna&^lu monde
et en politique qu’en d6va| Son grand motif de d;|fenjlre 1’ancien
culte, c’est qu’il existe et qu’il est depuis longtepips accepte de tout
le monde. Il en veut surtout aux chretiens. de renoncer aux opi
nions recues et de deran ger., lei habitudes prises. Quel ^pnui, vers
|e milieu de la vie, d’avoir & changer de cfoyances et d’etre force
d’agiter de nouveau des questionsFqu’qn croyait, vnBesl, Pourquoi
prendre plaisir a poser ces problerheg redoutables qu’il est si doux
de laisser dormir en paix ou tout au moinsR cantomer dans l’ecole? Les chretiens les font descendre dans la rue, its lKmettent
A la portee de tout le monde, ils les livrent aux plus violentes dis
cussions. Toute cette agitation, tous ces bruits gen ent ce.sage mon
Bain et troublent son repos; mais, s’il repugne d’aboWB la verite
par cette paresse d’espriSqui nous attache aux opinions anciennes,
on sent qu’il ne lui opposera pBljah.e resistance invincible. A la
fin de l’entretien, il est gagne; il nous dit bien qu’il lui reste quelques objections a faire qu’on remet ail-, lendemain; mais la victoire d’Octavius n’en est pas moins certaine, ou plutot, suivant la
remarque de 1’auteur, qui veut manager tous les amours-propres,
�l.-xJMMB
70
DhR
;
»
■ 7-..-
'
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
ils sont vainqueurs tous les deux, car, si Octavius a triomphe de
Caecilius, Caecilius a son tour a triomphe de l’erreur.
Dans ce petit livre, qui a du passer par tant de mains, l’cxposi-q
tion de la foi nouvelle est faite avec beaucoup d’art. On sent que Mi
nucius a toujours devant les yeux le public lettre auquel il s’adresse. Il tient avant tout A lui plaire. Il a grand soin d’eviter
non-seulement ce qui pent le choquer, mais ce qui risque de le sur-1
prendre. Jamais il ne cite les livres sacrCs, il glisse sur les dogmes
qui ne sont propres qu’au christiariisme, tandis qu’au contraire il
insiste sur les croyances qui lui sont communes avec d’autres doc
trines. Il developpe avec complaisance ces grandes idees de la Pro*
vidence, de la fraterriite universelie, de la vie future, de 1’unitC
de l)ieu, sur lesquelles 'les sages de toutes les eooles etaient alors
bien prds de s’entendre; on dirait qu’il cherche une sorte de terrain
commun oupourront se reunir tous les gens senses. Volontiers il
reduirait le christianisme a n’^tre qu’une morale plus parfaite :
« Chez nous, dit-il, c’est le plus juste qui passe pour le plus reli
gieux. » Il dirige bien encore quelques attaques contre la philoso-t
phie, il rai'lle en passant Socrate, qu’il nomme « le bouffon d’Athhnes. d 11 rappelle que ceux qui prechent la vertu ne sont pas
toujours exacts & la pratiquer, et que, lorsqu’ils tonnent contre les
vices, ils ont l’d-ir d’exercer leur eloquence contre eux-memes, adversus vitia sua facundos. Ge soht U des reproches si repetes qu’ils
sont deverius inoffensifs et qu’on he les redit plus sans sourire : en
realite, Minucius estime beaucoup la philosophic, et cherche a la
mettre de son cdte. Il lui semble que par momens les anciens philosophes s’accordent si bien avec les chretiens qu’on pourrait pre*|
tendre « ou que les Chretiens d’aujourd’hui sont des philosophes,
ou que les philosophes d’autrefois etaient des chretiens. » Il tient
surtout a convaincre ceux qui le lisent que le christianisme n’est
point I’irrCconciliable ennemi du monde, et qu’on n’est pas contraint, quand on 1’embrasse, de renoncer aux sentimens de la na
ture et aux devoirs de la societe. Son Octavius, ce chretien modele
qu’il a choisi pouf exposer la nouvelle doctrine, est le plus tendre
des amis, si uni a ceux qu’il aime qu’il ne fait qu’un avec eux»1
« Vous diriez une mdme ame divisee en plusieurs corps. » G’est
aussi un fort bon mari, un excellent pCre, qui ne quitte sa maison
qu’a regret,4 qui a grand’peine a se separer de ses petits enfans.
Enfin pour montrer que le christianisme ne force pas a rompre avec
le metier qu’bn exercait, 1’auteur a soin de faire observer que l’entretien se passe pendant les vacances d’automne. C’est seulement
« quand l’approche des vendanges donne quelque relache aux tribunaux » que I’avocat hhretien se permet de s’eloigner de Rome et
�LES ORIGINES DE LA. POESIE CHRETIENNE.
71
d’aller chercher au bord de la mer un pep de repos et de sante.
Voila comment il repond & ceux qui reprochaient aux disciples du
Christ de s’isoler du reste des hommes, d’etre insociables et inutiles, et de se mettre eux-memes en dehors de l’humanite 1
Il est aise de voir ce qu’il pense de la litterature de son pays,
quoiqu’il n’ait pastpris la peine de le dire* Il en est nourri et ne
cherche pas a le dissimuleiy-je’est un Albve des anciens qui se fait
honneur de ses maitres; loin qtfil ressemble jamais a ces littera
teurs honteux, qui affectent de paraiire des ignorans, on voit qu’il
est heureux de bien pari er, peut-elire memeJefeisse-t-il un peu
trop voir. Sa phrase est brillante et quelquefoisr hrillanie?; il ba
lance sa periode avec trop de soi®, iT a trop*d’esprit dans ses epithetes, il ne se At pas a-ssezen garde contre le precieux et le
maniere. En un mot, c’est Un contemporain cFApulee et de Fronton,
qui professe deg doctrines trfes differentes, mais qui, pour le style,
est de leur ecole. Pent-few® n’yavait-il pas autre »oyen de plaire
a cette societe de beaux esprits pretentieux : Minucius a parle leur
langue pour se faire ecouter d’eux. Il a beaucoup lu Sesneq^h etl’imite volontiers. Son petit livre est plein de passages qui nous font
penser aux plus beaux endroits des lettres a Lucilius. ]\ est grand
admirateur de Cicero®, auquel il emprunte le plan m&ne de son
ouvrage (1). Comme lui, il veut rendre la ve^te attray&te et se
plait & esquisser un chagmant paysage pouig y placer son entretien.
Le grand seigneur r^publlcain aimait a se represeateir avec ses no
bles amis dMcutant des* questions de morale sous les majestueux
ombrages de ses belles villas de Tusculum ou de &rmies|le petit
avocat de RomOchoisi les bords de la mer eriws larges horizons
d’Ostie qui devaient fournin plus tard A saint Augustin^ Tune des
plus belles scenes de ses Confessions. Quand on lit ce charmant ou
vrage, qui par leflwwlstm^remonte jusqu’au Phbdre, et semble
6claire d’un rayon de la Grice, o#voit bien que 1’auteur imaginait
une sorte de christianisme souriant efe sympathique, qui devait p6netrer dans Rome sans faire de- bruit et la rwwuVeler sans secousse,
qui serait heureux de garder de cette sociefe Will ante ce qui meritait d’en survivre, qui n’eprouverait pas le besoin de proscrire les
lettres et les arts,, mais les emploierait a son usagegM les sanctifierait en s’en servant, qui respecterait enfin les dehors de cette
vieille civilisatio®ien faisant circuler en elle la seye de Resprit nou
veau. Tel etait sans doute le reve que formait Minucius, et avec
lui tous ces lettres incorrigibles qui s’eiwent laisse* toucher par la
(1) M. Ebert a montre. que VOctavius etait compose sur le module du De Natura
deorum de Cicdron. Voyez Geschichte dier ^nstlich-lateinischen Literatur, p. 27.
�72
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
doctrine du Christ, mais conservaient au fond de leur ame les sou
venirs et les admirations de leur studieuse jeunesse, qui, tout enlisant avec ferveur l’l^vangile, ne pouvaient enti&rement oublier qu’ils
avaient commence par lire Homare et Ciceron.
Ces sentimens n’etaient pas ceux de Tertullien : jamais deux conJ
temporains ne se sont moins ressembles que Minucius et lui. Ils
n’ont rien de commun que l’ardeur et la sincerite de leur foi; pour
tout le reste, ils different. Cette religion, dont ils souhaitent tous
les deux le triomphe avec une egale passion, ils veulent la repandre
par des moyens contraires. L’un conseille une sorte d’entente et
d’accord avec la’ sOciete paienne, l’autre exige qu’on rompe avec
elle sans pitie, et tient tous ces accommodcmens pour des crimes.
.. Tertullien pourtant, comme Minucius, avait ete 61eve dans le
respect et la pratique des lettres anciennes. Il commenca par fre
quenter les ecoles des rheteurs et des philosophes et ne dut pas
s’y deplaire, car nous voyons que plus tard, devenu jurisconsulte
renoramd, i‘l ne renoncait pas tout a fait aux jeux d’esprit de sa jeunesse. 11 vivait i Carthage, sorte de colonie greco-romaine au mi
lieu de l’Afrique, tres futile a la fois et tr£s lettree, ou la foule passait son temps dans les theatres, a regarder les pantomimes ou a
entendre discourir de beaux parleurs. Parmi cette jeunesse spirituelle et indolente, & laquelle il disait un jour : « C’est votre af
faire la plus importance quede n’avoir rien A faire, » et qui occupait
ses loisirs a composer ou A lire de petits vers manieres (1), il s’etait
fait un nom par de spirituelles boutades. On avait conserve de lui,
nous dit saint J&rdme, un ouvrage adresse a un philosophe de ses
amis centre les femmes et* le mariage, *'« qui etait plein de rheto-i
rique et de lieux-communs. » Il devint natur ell emen t plus serieux
quand Uueut embrasse la foi hbuvelle, mais il n’alla pas du premier
coup a 1’extreme; on a lieu de penser que dans les premiers temps
il goutait assez ce christianisme philosophique qui plaisait tant a
Minucius : c’est au moins ce qu’on peut conclure de ce curieux
traite du Manteau^ qu’il a sans doute compose peu de temps apies
sa conversion. Voici A quelle occasion il fut ecrit : en devenant
chretien, Tertdllien avait renonce A porter la toge pour prendre le
le manteau grec, que portaient d ordinaiie les
philo^Opb^M C’6tait; tih usage assez frequent parmi les nouveaux
convertis, et qui prouve que, dans .ces temps recul&s, le chiistianisme et la philosophie se menageaient encore. Ce changement de
costume fit ’du bruit a ’Carthage; Beaucoup de ceux que le fougueux
(1) Conroe sont par exemplc d'e's* pells vers d’Apulee sur la poudre dentifrice, de
Dentil'ricio.
�LES ORIGINES DE LA PdESIEvTHRETIENNE•
’
73
jeune homme avait blesses de ses railleries affectdrent de s’indigne£
N’etait-ce pas un scandale de voir un jurisconsulte, un Romain, le
fils d’un centurion consulaire, remplacer la noble toge par le petit
manteau des Grecs? A ces attaques, qui durent dtre violentes, Tertullien rdpondit par un traite spirituel et piquant, mais « pl ein de
Irhetorique et de lieux-communs
comme le premier. Il y accumule, pour se defendr^les souvenirsd’fee erudition feds profane,
et alldgue par exemple, a propos deson^hangement dlhabit, l’histoire peu edifiante d’Hercule et d’Omphale. Quand on lui reproche
le dessein qu’il a forme de s’eloigner des affaires publiques, il se
contente de re^bonidfre « Epicure et Zenon, ces deux grands maitres,
ont fait profession de vivre comme moi. Quel diroit avez-vous de reprendre chez moi ce que vous liouez chez eux? » Voila des autorites
dont il n’aurait gudre airne a se servir quelques agrees plus tard, Un
peu plus loin, il ajoute que , .quoiqu’iffl pe preWe point par® aux
affaires de son pays, il n’en est pas moins utile a ses concitoyens.
<( Toutes les fois, dit-ffl, £jue je me rencontre en un endroi^pn peu
plus eleve, prds d’un autel, je monte quelques marches et ne
manque pas cl’ouvrir la bouche. Mes discours ne chatouillent pas
les oreilles, ils n’eveillent pas la curiosite et ne font pas rire les auditeurs : c’est affaire aux orateurs et e® charlatans;. Je montre a
ceux qui m’ecoutent leurs defauts et leur apprends comme il faut
vivre. » Il a tort de pretendre qu’il ne fait rien pour plaire aux curieux; sa predication, dont il nous trace une esquisse, se compose
de petits tableaux egayes par des anecdotes piquantesJa gourmandise l’amdne d, parler d’Hortensius, qui fit servir le premier un paon
d, son diner pontifical,, la debaucheOe fait souvenir d’Antoine et de
ses orgies chez Cleopatre, la cruaute lui rappelle ce Vedius Pollion
qui nourrissait ses poissonsufe chair humaMe. G’est tout & fai^ la
maniere dont s’expriment les moralistes paiens; nous reconnaissons
leurs argumens, leurs exemples, et jusqu’a le'ur
auteur ne
dedaigne pas d’employer souvent ce tour epigrammatique et subtil
dont on se servait depuis Sendque pour faire des lecons aux gens du
Inonde. Le chreiien ne se montre entldrement que dans Ids deiuaidres
lignes du traite. « Manteau, dit 1’auteur, c’est a toi que je parle
maintenant. Tu pensais seulement couvrir les sectateurs de Zenon
et d’Epicure, sache que tu couvres les chretiens, qui sont les dis
ciples du fils de Dieu. La philosophie que cetmcomparable maitre
leur a enseignee est toute divine, et celle de Zenon et d’Epicure pufcement humaine, c’esFa-dire defectueuse et pleine d’eriWrs^ Si tu es
Susceptible de quelque sorte de joie etj|allegfesse, en voili le plus
grand sujet que tu pmsses avoir. FaiS'doncip^raffre ra»joie au dehors
et montre a tes ennemis leurs injustices. Ils nont plus rien a te re-
�. 7
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7i
■ •
~j
;-x
''A-'
/
‘
revW des
Deux mondes.
procher depuis que tu couvres les epaules d’un chretien, c’est-Adire d’un disciple de Jesus-Christ, qui est la verity meme et le proJ
tecteur de l’innocence. Taht que je trouverai grace devant lui, je
me moquerai des attaques de tous les autres. »
Ce curieux traite nous indique le point d’ou Tertullien est parti :
on peut croire qu’au moment ou il l’6crivait il n’etait pas loin des
opinions de MinucH^'.mais il ne devait pas s’en tenir la. Nous avons
la plus grande partie de son oeuvre, et il nous est aise de mesurer le
chemin qu-i'l a fait en quelques annees. G’etait une de ces natures
opiniatres.et -obstinees, qui marchent toujours en droite ligne jus-i
qu’aux consequences extremes de leurs principes, et qui ne s’arrdtent que lorsqu’elles sont arrivbes au terme, un de ces hommesi
dont Saint-Simon disait « qu’ife sont d’une suite enragee. » A mesure qu’ib-se penetre davantage du christianisme, il devient plus
etranger & tout le reste; Enferme de plus en plus dans une docrtrine inflexible, il la raffine; il Fepure, il l’exagere, il l’isole, il
creuse tons des jours le fosse qui la separe. des autres opinions, il
se plait a lub faire des abords impraticables et a la placer a des
hauteursanaccessibles. A la fin, il devient si rigoureux et si pointilleux da®$ sa foi que le christianismerordinaire, celui de la foule
et desjgens senses, ne lui suffit plus; il faut qu’il se retire dans
une eglise etroite et jalouse ou des fan atiques passent leur temps
& s’approuver eux-mdmes et a excommunier les autres, parmi des
illumines et des prophetesses qui devinent la pensee des gens qui
les consul tent ou leur suggerent des remedes pour leurs maladies!
dui^roient converser avec lesanges et voir dans les nuages la Je
rusalem Geleste toute prete a descendre du ciel sur la terre (1).
1 La raison qui poussa Tertullien a la plus grande partie de ses
exagerations'est aisee A compren-dre :al avait horreur de 1’idolatriel
et la societe au milieu de laquelle il vivait en etait impregnee; de
1A la haine implacable .qu’il ressentit pour elle. Dans le monde an
cien, la religion se naelait a tout ^[ious les actes de la vie privee,
toutes les fo notions de la vie publique etaient sous la protection de
quelque divfeite et donnaient lieu A des prieres et a des sacrifices.
Ge fut assurement un des plus cruete supplices des chretiens de ce
temps d’etre toujours partages entre leurs croyances nouvelles et
ies obligations que leur imposait la famille ou la cite, de ne pas
voir clairement la limite ou devaient s’arreter leurs concessions, ce
qu’ils pouvaient faire et ce qu’ils devaient refuser. « Parmi ces rochers et .ces bas-fonds, leur disait Tertullien, au milieu de ces*
(1) Les lccteurs de la Revue n’ont pas oubliS l’etude si solide et si int^ressanta de
M. Rcv'ille ^ur 'iertullien montaniste {Revue du ler novembre 1864); j’y renvoie ceux
qui voudront bien connaitre ce curieux personnage.
�LES ORIGINES DELA POESIE GHRETIENNE.
75
ecuoils caches Tt de ces vagucsiTTenacantes, que la foi navigue en
ouvrant ses voiles a l’esprit de Dieu. » Mais il ne fut pas toujours
aussi sage. Il finit par declarer que le seul moyen d’eviter le naufrage, e’etait de se tenir loin de la mer. Pour echapper a la conta
gion de l’idolatrie, il ne trouva rien de mieux que d’exiger qu’on
s’isolat de la society civile et qu’on n’eut presque aucun rapport
avec elle. — 11 restait a savoir si e’etait possiblejjX,
Tertullien lui-meme semble en comprendre toute la difficult^,
puisqu’il commence par faire une concession grave. La vie civile se
composait, chez les Romains, de devoirs publics et prices (officia.
publica et privatd); il accorde qu’un chr&tien peut accomplir ces
derniers sans etre infidele A sa foi. Il assistera done aux fiancailles
et aux noces d’un de ses amis, il se rendra chez lui le neuvieme
jour apres la naissance de son enfant, lorsqu’en presence de la
famille on le purifie et on lui donne le nom.qu’il doit porter, il
prendra part aux fetes qu’on celebre dans la maison quand if .revet
la robe virile. Ce sont pourtant des ceremonies auxquelles la reli
gion est meke et quise celebrent avec des sacrifices et desprkres'
mais Tertullien met beaucoup de complaisance A trouver une raison
qui justifie ceux qui y assistent. « Apres tout, dit-il, on n’est pas
venu tout expres pour tie sacrifice; e’est tout A fait par hasard et
sans le vouloir qu’onen est temoinlSi 1’qn ne s?eh ,va pas, e’est
par egard pour let amis et non pour l’idole. » La raison est un peu
futile pour un auss| grave theologien et pourrait a la rigueur s’appliquer a tout; mais il ne veut pas qu’on l’applique aux « devoirs
d publics. )> Geux-IA lui sembleni, plus entaches d’idolatrie que les
autres, et il ne peut admettre qu’un chretien les accomplisse sans
renier sa foi. Il se tiendra done loin de ces rejouissances bruyantes
0; « ou la joie publique s’exprime par le deshonneur public. » Il ne
s’assiera pas a ees festins « qui changent Rome en taverne et dont
,
les suites font respirer un air infecte, curns et decuriis rucicintibus
acessit aer. » Quand toute la mil e se precipix^ au thhatre, il restera
(/, chez lai. G’etait demander beaucoup A des\gens epris de spec
tacles (1); aussi, pour leur donner le courage de supporter cette pri
vation, insiste-t-il sur les dedommagemens que Dieu leur reserve :
qu’ils songent A ce grand jour du jugement supreme oh tout 1’univers sera consume du meme feu. « G?,est alors qu’il fera bon
d’entendre les acteurs de tragSdie; ils poussc/ront dans leur propre
malheur des cris plus lamentables et plus platans que ceux dont
ils faisaient autrefois retentir le theatre. G’e^t aloife qu il sera facile
■ (1) Les paiens, ne pouvant comprendre comment ids Chretiens consentaient a. se
■ privet- des jeux publics, supposaient qu’ils voulaient renidre leur vie plus triste afin de
braver plus ais&nent le martyre.
J
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
cTadmirer l’agilite des histrions se demenant dans les flammes,
alors qu’il faudra voir les cochers du cirque tout cramoisis et entoures de feu dans la route ardente, les gladiateurs percds, non de
javelots, mais de traits enflammbs qui les penetreront de toutes
parts. » Que sont les spectacles que l’empereur donne a ses sujets
devant ceux que Dieu prepare a ses elus! Quand on se represente
ces joies en esprit, qu’on souffre facilement d’etre prive des autresl
Ce qui est plus - grave encoife, c’estlw’il ne veut pas qu’& 1’annM
versaire dbs feteS de Cesar ou quand on annonce une victoire de
ses armees on allume des lampes, on couronne sa porte de festons:
n’aurait-oti pas Fair, enlle faisant, de rendre hommage & la deesse
Cardea et au dieU’J^>ze$h?m< oM d’adorer Id vieux Janus, sous la
protectron duquel toutes les portes btaient placees? D’ordinaire les
chretiens, qui se savaient suspects d’etre tihdes pour l’empereur et
pour l’empire, ne hianquaient pas cette occasion de prouver qu’ils
htaient des sujets fiddles; ate allhmaidnt plus de lampes et plagaient
devaht leurs maisons plus de-fleuTS qtte tout le monde pour imposer
silence & la calomnie. Tertullien blame severement cette faiblessej
Loin de chercher a dhsarmer par sa complaisance les ennemis de sa
foi, il parait tenir a leur deplaire, et il semble qu’il lui soit agreable
d’etre accuse. « 0 calomnie, dit-il, soeur du iriartyre, qui prouves et
attestes que je’suischr^tien, ce quetu dis de moi est a ma louange'n
Il etait grave pourtant de braver ainsi l’opinion. La nouvelle doc
trine avait ete accueillie par beaucoup de defiances et de preven-j
tions : on accusait partout les chretiens d’etre des revolutionnaires,
des « ennemis du genre humain, » qui detestaient tout ce qu’on
aime, qui fuyaient tout ce qu’on recherche, qui aspiraient a tout
changer, des destructeurs de la famille et de la cite. Tertullien
comprena.it la gravity de ces reproches, puiSqu’il y repondit dans
son Apologie. Il rappelait que les chretiens ne vivent pas loin des
homines, comme les brahmanes ou les gymnosophistes de l’lnde (on
ne prevoyait pas encore 1’institutioB des moines et la fondation des
couvens), qu’ils n’habitent pas les forets et t< ne s’exilent pas de la
vie. » Malheureusement, apres avoir detruit ces accusations dans
un de ses livres/il les justilie dans les autres. Presque tous contiennent des delis et5des menaces au monde’ancien. Il n’y avait rien
que l’antiquite honorat plus que le mariage et 'la fecondite. Comme
la cith reposait spr la famille, c’etait le plus saint des devoirs de
se marier; 1’epoux saps "enfant passait pour dtre hai des dieux, et
le cdlibataire etait puni comme un enhemi public. Tertullien, au
contraire, n’a d’estime q£ue pour le celibat. Cette preference, qui se
retrouve, chez tops .les pdres de l’hglise, est exprimee chez lui avec
d’incroyables exagdratipns. « L’ancienne loi disait : Croissez et
�LES ORIGINES DE LA POESIE CIIRETIENNE.
77
Ermpipiiez; laTiouvelle^Bt"La fin des temps approche, comenezvous. » Be mariage n’est pour lui qu’une concession humiliante qu’on
a faite a la faiblesse de la chair. II consent & le tolerer, mais apr&s
1’avoir accable d’outrages. Il fait un devoir de le restreindre. On se
mariera une fois, si l’on ne peut j^jre autr^ment, mais les secondes
noces sont un adult^re. Quan$ a,ux enfans, il$M mieux de n’en pas
avoir; on a bien assez a faire de veiller a son propre salut. « Pourquoi le Seigneur a-t-il dit : Malheur au sein qui a concu et aux
mamelles qui ontq|OT0i? ^egfcq.u’au jour j^&gement les enfans
seront un grand embarrasy* Qu.and on n’en a pas, « on est bien
plus prdt&a rlpnaaieto^ajgompltite de 1’ange. » Iin]Mgjw)t.p,s pa
roles, que Minucius se serait bien garde de prononcer (1), et qui
pouvaient sembler une insulte a toutes les traditions de la vieille
Piome! Ailleurs il fait la revue cles diverses professions ou la foi du
chretien lui parait courir quelque clanger; il y en a tres peu qui
trouvent grace devant sa severite. On ne peut etreni maltre d’6cole, il faudrait. faire lire et admirer les ouvrages des paiens, ni
appariteur des magistrats, on serait force de les accompagner aux
temples, ni serviteur d’un paien zele, il pourrait nous commander
quelque acte coupable; quant it etre negociant, Tertullien y repugne
beaucoup : que de risques ne court pas la vertu dans ces boutiques
ou, selon le mot de Bossuet, il se debite plus de mensonges que
de marchandises! Alors comment le pauvre fera-t-il pour gagner
sa vie? G’est ce qui occupe mediocrement Tertullien. A tous ceux
qui s’en mettent trop en peine, il adlesse cette foudjmnt^ reponse : « Que dites-vous? — Je serai pauvre? — Mais le Seigneur
a dit : Bienheureux les pauvres! — Je n’aurai pas de quoi vivre.
— Mais il est ecrit : Ne vous in quiet ez pas des alimens. — Il faut
que j’etablisse mes enfans, que je pense a ma posterite. — Quiconque met la main a la charrue et regarde en arrifere est un mauvais travailleur. — Mais j’avais dans le monde un certain rang. —
On ne peut servir deux maitres. Tu veux etre le disciple du Sei
gneur, prends ta croix et suis le Seigneur. Parens, epouse, enfans,
il faut tout quitter pour Dieu. Quand Jacques et Jean furent emmenes par Jesus-ChWt^et qu’ls^lakgbren^la leur p^re et leur barque,
lorsque Matthieu se leva de son comptoir de percepteur et trouva
que meme la sepulture de son p^re le retarderait trop, aucun <eux
a-t-il repondu a Jesus, qui les appelait : Je n’aurai pas de quoi
vivre? »
Beaucoup de ces^bpiniojns etaienl&diie nature a inuwter les Hommes
(1) Minucius au contraireavait pris plaisir it decrire, dans un des passages les plus
travailles de son livre, la joie qu’un pbreeprouve it entendre les premiers mots begaySs par son enfant.
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES®
d’etat; mais voici ce qui devait leur causer encore plus d’alarmes et
de colfere. Tertullien se demande s’il convient qu’un chretien s’occupe des affaires publiques : peut-il par exemple etre magistrate II
ne repond qu’en enumdrant avec complaisance les dangers qui menacent la foi dans ces postes pGrilleux et les dementis qu’on sera
force de donner tons les jours a ses croyances; puis il conclut en
disant: « (Test & vous’'maintenant de voir si vous pouvez devenir
magistrat et rester chretien. » Ailleurs il s’exprime d’une maniere
plus nette et plus expressive encore r « II n’y a rien qui nous soit
plus etranger que les affaires de 1’etat; nous ne reconnaissons
qu’une republique, qui est cede de tout le monde, 1’univers. » De
pareils principes etaient pleins de danger. G’etait le temps ou l’on
commencait a trbuver bien lourdes les charges de la vie publique
et ou l’on cherchait h, s'y soustraire. La desertion des dignites municipales :et politiques devenait tons les jours plus generale, si bien
que, pour 1’arreter, le legislateur fut contraint de punir d’amendes
et de confiscations ceux qui les refusaient, et qu’on. en vint & in
venter un nOuveau genre de supplice s- on condamna certaines
classes de citoyens aux honneurs forces. Une question plus grave
encore par ses consequences etait celle qui concernait le service
militaife. Ulf chretien pouva’it-il etre soldat? Les plus rigoureux,
c’est-ci-dire alors les plus ecoutSs^ne le croyaient pas, et leurs
opinions ] etaient dans les ames des inquietudes et des scrupules
qui devnient nuire au service. Du temps de Tertullien, apr£s une
victoire de 1’empereur, desrecompenses ayant etb distribuees a son
armee, chaque loldat etait venu les recevoir a son tour avec une
couronne sUr la tete1; un seul! se presenta tenant la couronne a la
main. Il etait chretien et n’avait pas voulu se vetir comme les pretres des idoles qua'nd ils allaient faire un sacrifice. Beaucoup le bl&merent de cette bravade imprudente’: n’allait-elle pas reveiller la
coiere de Tempereur et ranimer les persecutions? Tertullien n’hesita pas A prendre SA defense dans un petit ecrit, oil il disait en
propres termes^ « La meme vie ne peut appartenrr a Dieu et & Ce
sar. En otant a Pierre son 6pee, Jesus a desarme pour jamais tous
les soldatS. » C’est ce que 1’empereur et les politiques ne pouvaient
pas supporter!Ils1’auraient souffert peut-Atre d’une secte obscure
qui n’aurait compte que quelques rares adherens $ mais depuis un
sifecle le christianisme s’etendait A tout 1’empire. Il se vantait luimeme de ses progr^s et en tirait volontiers la preuve que sa mis
sion etait divine]|« Nous sommes d’hier, disait Tertullien dans un
passage celhbre, et deja nous remplissons vos cites, vos lies, vos
chateaux-forts,vos municipes,vos hameaux,vos camps eux-memes,
vos tribus, vos decuries, le palais de vos princes, le senat, le fo-
�' LES 0R1GINES DE LA POESIE CHRETIENNE.
79
rum : nous ne vous laissons que vos temples. » C’etait done plus
de la moitie de 1’empire qui ^chappait a l’empereur et refusait de
s’enroler dans les legions, quand on n’avait pas assez de l’empire
entilr pour arrdter les barbares.
C’est ainsi que Tertullien en etait venu, en haine de l’idolatrie,
jusqu’a vouloir rompre avec la societe civile; on comprend quels
sentimens il devait eprouver pour la litterature et Fart antique,
dont la mythologie avait ete longtemps 1’unique inspiration. La
aussi il se fait uii plaisir de braverj'FopinionH,?il condamne tout ce
qu’elle approuve, il deteste ce qu’elle aime avec passion. Comme
pour faire violence ace gout du beau qui etait Fame des societes
anciennes, il veut decouvrir dans les livres saints que le Christ
■etait laid et triomphe de cette decouverte. Il defend d’abord aux
artistes de representer des sujets mythodogiques; puis, s’appuyant
■sur ces mots de l’^criture: «tu ne fabriqueras pas d’idole ni aucune
ressemblance de ce qui est au ciel, sur la terre ou dans la mer, » il
arrive a leur d^fendre tout a fait de reproduire la forme humaine.
Ils en seront quittes pour faire de leur talent un.autre usage qui leur
demandera moins de soin et de peine'. « Gelui qtd'.d’unwteul a su
liter le dieu Mars ne*sera pas embarrasse pour faine une armoire. »Le statuaire sculptera des chapiteaux et des. £u<ts de cofonnes, le
peintre badigeonnera les murailles. Voila Favenir qu’il reserve aux
beaux-arts I Quant aux lettres, iWy parait pas terimclavantage. La
vieille poesie, dont tant de gens etaient ^Jaarm6s, ne ldi semble qu’un
(t ramas de strophes ampoulees. » Il ne devait pas mieux^gouter les
grands prosateurs; en tout caserne les imite gubre. 11 n’a aucun
souci de cette elegance si chere & Minuqius. Son style est puissant,
mais vulgaire; il aime les metaphores hardies, les images Cr.ig.es, les
mots grossiers; il emploie plusvvolon.tiers le langage du peuple que
celui de la bonne compagnie (1). Il nous annonce dui-meme qu’il
ne s’aclresse pasn aux ,lettr6s, aux savans,. « a ceux.qtlMviennent
rejeter en public les restes mal digeres d’une science acquise sous
les portiques. set dans les academies; » il veutplntot convaincre les
ames simples, naiveSj ignorantes, « quMn’ont rien .appris que ce
qu’on sait dans les rues et dans les boutiques. » Il se^mpfie de tout
ce qui vient des ecoles et des bibliothfeques. Ces philosophes, dont
il citait volontiers le nom dans sa jeunesse pendant qu’il Gcrivait
son traite du Mante(iuy ne lui paraissent plus que des marchands
de sagesse, sapientice, cauponesy il en iveu^ morteliement & « ce
malheureux Aristote » d’avoir invente la dialectique, science per(1) M. Ebert affirme que les mots Stranges, employes' si souvent par Tertullien, et
qu’on croyait Ctre des africanism^ e’est-i-dire des termes qu’il aurait pris au dialecte de son pays, ont 6te simpleinent empruntes par lui Ma langue populaire.
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REVUE DES DEUX
MONDEsF^Im
fide, aussi bonne a dCtruire qu’& Cdifier; il est plein de colCre
contre ceux qui cherchent quelque biais pour accommoder l’ancienne philosophie avec l’Evangile, et qui arrivent ainsi & creer
« un christianisme platonicien et aristotelicien. » Tous ces compromis lui sont suspects, et on peut Ctre assure qu’il etait aussi contraire que possible aux gens qui voulaient unir de quelque facon
la doctrine nouvelle avec l’art antique.
•
III., '
’
r-
Cette union devait pourtant se faire en depit de Tertullien et de
ses adeptes. Des deux courans que j’ai signalCs et entre lesquels se
divisait la soci’ete chrCtienne, c’est celui qui portait vers l’entente et
la conciliation qui devaitCtre a la fin le plus fort. L’etat de l’eglise
au iii6 siCcle explique cette ViCt'oire. Les reves des millenaires commen caientalorsa se dissiper; on se lassait d’attendre ce dernier
jour qui n’arrivait pas. Tatftt qu’on avait cru que la fin des temps
etait ptoche et que le rCgne du Christ asliait coinmencer, on n’avait
guCre le gout de s’attacher a la terre et d’y faire un Ctablissement
solide; mais, puisqu’on ne pouV&itpas mourir, il fallait bien songer
a vivre. Or on ne vit, on fie dure, on ne devient d’ordinaire fort et
puissant que par des Concessions et des compromis, en s’appropriant
tous les ejfmens de force et de dure’e qui se trouvent epars sur le
sol ou l’on s’etablit.
Il fallait d’abord que le christianisme attirat a lui les classes ele
vees qui gouveriiaient l’efiip^e. Ses conquetes a l’origine avaient
ete plus humbles, et ses adversaires lui reprbchaient volontiers de ne
s’adresser qu’auxignorans et qii’aux pauvres. DCs le ne siecle, nous
le voyons occupe d’atteindre aussi la societe distinguee, les gens
d’Ccole Ot d’aciidenfie^ c’esf ii eux qu’il s’adresse surtout par ses
apologistes; mais pour avoir les lettreS, il ne fallait pas afficher le
mepris des lettres. On ne pouvait esperOr d’etre ecoute d’eux qu’en
leur parlant urfe langue soignee et thatiee qui n’*offensat pas leurs
oreilles. Lebo® gout eSt un maitre trCs tyrannique, qui ne souffre
pas d’insulte, et la verite meme le choque quand elle n’est pas
bien presentCe. Saint Augustin raconte que ce qui l’eloigna longtemps du christiaWisme, c’est qu’il ttouvait les livres sacres trop mal
ecrits. ll etait bon aussi, pour plisiire a-ces esprits dClicats eleves
dans 1’etude et 1’admiration de Platon et d’Aristote, de montrer les
rapports qu’on pouvait decouyrir entre les anciennes ecoles et la
nouvelle doctrine. Tertullien nous dit qu’on le faisait beaucoup de
son temps. Il y avait aldrs des theologiens, et en grand nombre,
�la
81
occupes h etudier les ecrits des philosophes pour prouver aux
paiens « que le christianisme n’inventait rien de nouveau et d’ex
traordinaire , et que toutes les verites qu’il proclamait pouvaient se
mettre sous le patronage de la sagesse antique (1). » Il importait
enfin par-dessus tout que l’eglise ne parut pas etre une ennemie
irreconciliable de l’empire, qui ne pouvait pas vivre avec lui et qui
en souhaitait la ruine. Les gens qui composaient cette society distinguee etaient d’ordinaire conservateurs et patriotes, trfes fiers
d’etre Romains, et fort effrayes de ce qui pouvait arriver, si quelque
malheur emportait un jour le pouvoir imperial. Ges menaces dont
les oracles siby Ilins Sont remplis, cette haine furieuse contre Rome,
ces descriptiommompfe^Ws dre son dernier jour, devaient les indigner; mais il s’en fallait de beaucoup que les sentimens qu’ex
prime avec tant de vivacite cette po^sWpopulaire fuss ent partages
par tous les chretiens. L’episcopat surtout, quiprenait tous les jours
plus d’importance, manifestait des dispositions contraires. Les 6veques, hommeBde gouvernement et d’autO«e, ’ ont songe de tr6s
bonne heure a t|ndre la main au pouvoir civil, a 1’aider de leur in
fluence, et a lui demancH Jmh-ange sa protection. Ils l’ont euxmemes introduit dans leurs discordes interieures; ils n’ont pas
attendu que rempereur^^^chotie’n pour invoquer son appui dans
leurs difierends. Quand il s’agit die deposer Pairf de Samosate et de
l’eloigner de^nOrlisei les eveques d’Asie n’hesitSrent pas a reclarner l’aide d’Aurelien', quoiqu’il.fM paien zele et qu’il eut perse
cute les fiddles. Te^^ffien affirme quelque part avec une incroyable
intrepidite « que les cesars ne poiffront jamais etre chretiens.» Les
eveques esperaient Men Bs le ne siecle qu’ils le Sera^nt un jour.
Meliton de Sardes, Bun de^ws anciens apologistes, s’adressant A
Marc-Aur61e, lui faisait remarquer que la « philosophie chretienne »
est n£e en mdmeStemps que l’empird^),H^® a-g^andi avec lui,
que la bonne harmonie n’a ete troublee entre eux que sous un N6ron
et un Domitien, que les bons princes l’ont protegee, et qu’ils en
ont ete recompenses par la victoire et les Conquetes. Ne peut-on pas
voir dans ces paroles engageantes comme une fbauche et une annonce lointaine de cette alliance du trone et de l’autel qui a ete si
souvent le reve de ^bglise?*
(1) De Test, animae, I. Per quw recognosci possit nihil nos aut novum aut portentosum suscepisse, de quo non etiam communes et public celitterce nobis patrocinentur.
— N’est-il pas etrange que ce precede dont se servent aujourd’hui les ennemis du
christianisme fut alors employe par ceux qui voulaient le defendre?
(2) Remarquons cotte fa<;on df6nt l’cVSque de Sardes d^signe le christianisme: on
dirait qu’il veut faire croire que ce n’est qu’une ecole philosophique comme une autre.
Il etait fort habile de s’exprimer airtsi en s’adressant St Marc-Aur&e, l’empereur philosophe.
TOME XI. — 1875.
6
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES,
C’est a Rome surtout que ces transactions et cette alliance devaient trouver beaucoup de partisans. Le christianisme oriental participe du genie des Grecs, il est subtil et raffine, plus libre dans son
allure, plus audacieux et plus original dans ses recherches; en OcciJ
dent, la nouvelle doctrine a pris les qualites de la race romaine I
elle est devenue plus amie de l’ordre, de la discipline, de l’autorite. La premiere fois que Feglise de Rome prend la parole, dans
l’&pitre de saint Clement, elle fait entendre un appel pressant a la
concorde et h l’unite. « Pourquoi, dit-elle, les discussions, les luttes,
les schismes Aclatent-ils entre nous? N’avonsT-nous pas le mdme
Christ et le meme Dieu?-Pourquoi partager et dechirer les membres
du Christ?*, Gonsiderez les soldats qui sont ranges sous les dra-l
paux, avec quel ordre, quelle obeissance, quelle soumlssion ils accomplissent ce qu’on leur commandel Gomme chacun reste a son
rang et ecoute la voix de ses chefs! » Voila l’ideal que cette eglise
aura toujours devant les yeux (1). De plus, la communaute romaine
a 6te de bonne^heure riche et puissante* Elle possedait de grandes
reserves d’argent, d’immenses sepultures qu’il fallait entretenir et
accroitre, tout un personnel de pretres et de diacres k diriger. Aussi
demandait-elle surtout auk deques qu’elle choisissait des qualit&s
d’administration et de gouvernement. Ne la voyons-nous pas, dans
des circonstances graves, a la veille d’une persecution, elever sur
la chaire de saint Pierre un ancien banquier, 1’affranchi Galliste?
C’est ce qui fait que cette grande eglise n’a peut-etre pas compte
parmi ses evGques autant d’ecrivains illustres et de savans theologiens qu’Antioche et Alexandria; en revanche, elle a eu plus de veritables^t pasteurs de peuple » qui ont jete moins d’eclat, mais ont
rendu plus de services. Ces gens sages, moderes, habiles, e latent
disposes a tout faire pour ne pas inquieter le pouvoir civil. M. de
Rossi a montH. que, pour conserver la propriety de leurs cimeti&res,
ils se soumirent aux exigences, de la loi, qu’ils consentirent a etre
inscrits sur les registres de la police, comme toutes les associations
(1) Le besoin d’union et de disciplifie etait si fort chez les Romains, que mfime dans
la. philosophic, qui vit de discussions," oil la vigueur et la vie se manifestent precisement par la multiplicity des sectes diffdrentes, ils ne pouvaient pas souffrir cette diver
site d’opinions. Quand ils venaient it Athenes, oil toutes les doctrines se disputaient
plaisir, ils etaient affliges de voir qu’elles ne pouvaient pas s’entendre. Ciceron raconte
qu’un proconsul eut l’idee de faire cesser cet dtat facheux^ Il reunit les chefs des
diverses dcoles et leur offrit naivement ses bons offices pour les mettre d’accord. Ce
moyen administratif de retablir l’unitd fat employe plus tard par 1’empereur Con
stance. Fachd de voir que les peres du concile de Rimini n’arrivaient pas i s’entendre,
il envoya l’ordre a. son prefet Taurus de ne pas les laisser partir qu’ils ne se fussent
accordes, et lui promit le consulat s’il y rdussissait. Le plus curieux, c’est qu’il y
rdussit.
�LES ORIGINES DE LA POESIE CHRETIENNE.
83
autorisees, et qu ils en subirent la surveillance. On sait aussi que
les exagerations de Tertullien y obtinrent peu de credit, et que ses
doctrines y furent si mal recues, qu’on.accusa plus tard les tracasFseries du clerge romain de l’avoir jete dans l’heresie. — G’est de
cette disposition d’esprit que devait naitre 1’alliance de la doctrine
nouvelle avec l’art ancien.
Pour la sculpture et la peinture, 1’accord s’61 ait fait de bonne
heure et sans soulever, & ce qu^Ksemble, beaucoup de resistances.
Le soin qu’on avait des sepultures eft;le desir de les orner rendit
les chr^tiens moins difficiles. On est fortsurpris de trouver dans les
catacombes de grands sarcophages de marbre d^cores de motifs
profanes et de scenes mythologiques^Il est vrai qu’ils ne pouvaient
pas 6tre travailles sur place, et 1’on a fait remarquer que, comme
tout le monde pouvait les voir dans les ateliers de Rome ou on les
sculptait, il 6tait plus difficile d’y trailer des sujets religieux; mais
les fresques ellesHnemes, quoique executees dans lesgaleries intdrieures, loin des yeuxinfidhles, ne sonfrpas toujours entierement
chretiennes. Les artistes ne repugnaient pas a emprunter a l’art
paien quelques-uns de ses types les plus’.purs qui pouvaient allegoriquement s’appliquer & la religion nouvelle, efc personne n’en
etait choque. On sait que.le bon pasteur est imitei du Mercure Criophore, ce qui ne Ta pas empdche de devenir Tune des figures sous
fiesquelles l’imagination chrGtienne aim ait le plus &i<se representer
le Christ (1). Dans le cimetibre de Domitilla, on trouve u>ne admi
rable peinture d’Orphee jouant de la lyre, qui est evidemment Limi
tation d’une oeuvre antique! c’est encore une image du Christ qui,4
par sa predication, attire les ames a sa doctrine. Ges ouvrages, qui
sont paiens par leur origine, le son® aussi tr&s souvent par les de
tails et l’execution; tout y revele une main exercdpf ils ont pour au
teurs des artistes eleves dans 1’etude des chefs-d’oeuvre antiques,
et qui avaient passe leur jeunesse a les admirer et a les copier.
teevenus chretienss- ils les admiraient encore, et ils continuaient
ineme quelquefois & les reproduce. Apres avoir peint pour les ca
tacombes l’image du bon pasteur ou ces bellesvfigures & orantesy si
nobles et si pures, ils ne croyaient pas commettre un grand crime
en dessinant les scenes gracieuses de ira mythologie|jqui avaient
(1) Dans les actes du martyre de saintd-PerpetueTiTest dit qu’elle eut une vision,
qu’elle vit un jardin immense, et dans ce jardin un liomme en habit de pasteur.
C’etaient le Christ et le paradis. M. de Rossi, dans sa Rome souterraine, a traite en
detail toutes les questions qui coneernent lesnrigines de l'art chretien. Ceux qui ne
pourront pas recourir & l’owragemfime de M. de Rossi peuvent consulter l’abrege qui
en a etd fait par MM. Nortlfcote et Brownlow: Cet ouvrage a dtdtraduit eh fran^ais
par M. Allard, et la seconde Edition en a paru cette annde mdme.
‘
I
�84
>
/
RI1VUE- des deux mondest
d’abord inspire leur pinceau, ou ces beaux types de dieux antiques
qui leur rappelaient les merveilles de leurs maitres. Tertullien s’eij
indigne, et quand l’artiste coupable allegue pour se ddfendre que,
s’il peint des idoles, au moins il ne les adore pas, le severe docteur lui repond : « Je soutiens que tu les adores, toi par qui seul
elles existent pour Ctre ador&es. Tu es pour les faux dieux bien plus
qu’un pretre, puisque c’est par toi qu’ils trouvent des prCtres; c’est
ton travail qui fait leur gloire. Tu pretends ne pas adorer les dieux
que tu fate, mate ils te reconnaissent pour leur adorateur, eux a
qui tu immoles la plus riche, 4a plus grasse des Victimes, en leur
sacrifiant ton salut.'» II ne parait pas que cette violente indigna
tion fut partagCe par la communaute chretienne, puisque Tertullien
nous 4it lui-meme que quelques-uns de ces artistes furent eleves
ausacerdoce, sans renoncer 4 leur metier. G’est la preuve que dans
les arts du dessin et dans la sculpture ce melange du sacre et du
profane ne causait plus beaucoup de scandale,’ et que les croyances
nouvelles consentaient a s’aider des souvenirs de l’art antique.
Il en fat bientot de meme dans les lettres. L’ecole africaine, qui
avait donnS Tertullien au christianisme, ne tarda pas a s’eloigner
des doctrines de ce maltre rigoureux. Quoique saint Gyprien se
glorifie d’etre son e!4ve, il ne 1’imitepas dans ses exagSrations. 11
est en toute chose pour les opinions moyennes. 11 tient a bien
6crire, et montre qu’il a pratique Seneque et Giceron. Dans un de
ses traites les plus agreables, la Lettre ci Donatus, il s’est plu,
comme Minucius, a imaginer un entretien, et n’oublie pas non plus
de nous depeindre le lieu de la scdne. G’est un beau jardin d ou la
vue s’etend sur un horizon quirejouit les yeux {oblectante obtutu
oculosamosnamus'), et les personnages ont soin de se placer sous un
berceau « oil la vigne forme un portique verdoyant avec un toit de
feuilles. » Les successeurs de saint Gyprien, Arnobe et Lactance,
vont plus loin encore. Ge sont tous les deux des professeurs qui ont
longtemps enseigne la rhetorique et qui s’en souviennent. Ils appartiennent a cette ecole de theologiens complaisans dont j ai parle,
qui Voulaient montrer que la philosophie ne devait pas etre 1 ennemie du christianisme, qu’elle l’avait pressenti et prepare et qu il
fallait trouver quelque moyen de les unit ensemble. Lactance surtout est pret a lui faire toute sorte d’avances et de concessions. On
salt que dans l’antiquite les sectes philosophiques differaient surtout entre elles par leur maniere de definir le souverain bien. Lac
tance reprend ces definitions diverses, montrant qu’elles sont toutes
inexactes et incompletes; puis il arrive acelie qu’a donnee le chris
tianisme, qui consiste a dire que le souverain bien est la contem
plation de Dieu, et prouve qu’elle est la seule veritable. De cette
�MeIwriwe^de la. poesie
chretienne.
8^
< faRm , il semblait faire rentrer la religion nouvelle dan"le cadre
|K* des philosophies antiques; elle n’&tait plus, pour ainsi dire, qu’une
derniere secte qui corrigeait ou completait les autres. Le paien qui
l’embrassait n’avaitrien a desapprendre, et l’enseignement nouveau
devenait pour lui le couronnement des etudes qu’il avait faites
dans sa jeunesse. En meme temps Lactance est fort occupe de bien
ecrire; c’est un disciple, de Giceron qui ve^ faire honneur a son
maitre. Du reste ce souci dwtyte
general dans l’eglise depuis
le milieu du hi® sifccle. Nous avons une lettre adressee par les clercs
de Rome & saint Gyprien J la forme en est remarquablement soi
gnee, et nous y trouvons deja cette elegance et cette harmonie qui
ont ete jusqu’ici une trjfctiMpans lafphansellwm romaine.
Il etait naturel que la po^sie, qui est plus particulierement faite
pour le plaisir d^ delicats, fut encore moins difficile que l’elo.1
quence. Les poetes se livr^reM (fcnB/wnMe le|| o^ateurs, sans
/
scrupule et sans reserv^ a Limitation des Meux model es; plus
qu’eux encore, ils essaykrent d< trouver dans 1’art antique une ex
pression pour les idd|s nouvelles. Le Phenix de Lactance est le
plus ancien poerne chretien que nous ayt@s conserve aprfes ceux
de Gommodien (1
est w petit o wraige qia$ n’aurait qu’assez peu
d’importance, s^lne nous indiquait quel chemin on avait fait en un
demi-si&cle. Les vers du « mendiant du Christ» sont d’un barbare,
ceux de Lactance d’un elevefiddle des poftes classiques. Il a suivi
1’exemple que lui donnaient les sculpteurs et les peiritres de son
temps; comme eux,, il a choisi parmiKes fables antiques celle qui
pouvait le plus aisemept s’accommoder aux croyances chretiennes.
Cette legende du phenix qui renait de ses cendres, apres avoir ete
probablement al’engine un my the astronomique, une all&gorie du
temps qui ne finit pas, de l’annee qui recommence aussitot que sa
course est achevg®;,. devmt plus tard, comme lOayes Bathes. une
de ces charmantes histoires que lesppo&tes aihiaient & mettre en
vers et dont s’amusaient les curieux : Ovide la raconte sans y attacher plus d’importance qu’a la metamorphose de Daphne en laurier
ou de Biblis en fontaine^es chrvetiens> virent une image de fame
humaine qui survit a la mort,-et pour qui la mort est un rajeunissement et une renaissance, G’est la lecoihque Lactance veut tirer de
|j' cette histoire. Il rep^fsente 1 e phenix quand tol®^ au terme de
sa longue vie, qui^ant la foret qui<hai serf de demeure; de 1’extreme
/•; Orient, il arrive dans le pays « ou il doit perir pour renaitre. » La
(1) Je n’hdsite pas & croire, avec M. Ebert, que le P/ientr est ®en de Lactance.
Les manuscrits le lui attribuent. Gregoire de Tours l’en reconnmt l’auteur. Nous savons
de plus que Lactance aimait la poesie, et il nous dit lui-ifene qu’il avait composd
d’autres vers.
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
il se construit avec les parfums les plus precieux, la myrrhe, Ie
baume, le cinname, ce qui doit 6tre a la fois sa tombe et son
berceau. Il se place sur ce bucher odorant qu’enflamme un rayon
de soleil, et de ses depouilles consumees renait un phenix nouveau,
semblable a l’ancien, mais plus beau et plus brillant de jeunesse ’
& peine ne, il s’elance dans le ciel, et tons les oiseaux lui font
cortege, comme & leur roi, lorsque prenant son vol il s’en retourne
vers la foret sacree. Lactance termine son recit en felicitant le phe
nix de sa destinee : « II est heureux, cLit-il, il ne connait pas l’hy-J
men. C’est la mort qui est l’hymen pour lui, la mort qui lui tient
lieu des plaisirs impurs de 'i’amour. Pour pouvoir renaitre, il souhaite de mourir, et c’est & la mort qu’il doit le bienfait d’une eternelle vie; » Dans ce passage,-le chretien se laisse voir, mais partout
ailleurs il semble qu’il ait tenu & se cacher. On peut dire que rien
ou presque rieW ne l’y trahit: cette pensee m£me, que de la mort
doit sortir la vie, n’apparti-ent pas uniquement au christianisme; les
neoplatoniciens la developpaient avec complaisance dans leurs ouvrages, et on la retrouve exprim^e dans les inscriptions et les
fresques d’une catacombe mithriaque. Lactance, il faut l’avouer, ne
l’a pas presentee de telle tnani&re qu’on reconnaisse du premier
coup en le lisant quelle religion l’inspirait. Des doutes ont pu s’elever sur le culte aUquel appartenait 1’auteur- d‘e ce petit ouvrage. La
recherche de& pensees et l’Wgance des vers indiquent un imitateur des ancieiis poAtes; les allusions qui sont faites aux divinites
de la fable et aux legendes de la mythologie pourraient nous laisser
croire que nous avons affaire & quelque adorateur des dieux anti
ques. G’est un chretien pourtant, mais un Chretien si rempli des
souvenirs' du passe, si charme de l’ancienne literature, et qui en
imite si fidSfement les formes, que ses opinions personnelles s’effacent quelquefois Sous ces imitations et ces*Souvenirs. N’est-il pas
etrange que, bien que croyant sincere, 11 tie soitpas arrive, dans
un sujet qui touche & la religion, A affirmer plus nettement sa foi ?
Ainsi les violences de Tertullien ont ete inutiles; l’alliance s’est
faite malgrd.lui ehtre l’eglise et l’art antique. Au commencement
du ive siecle, au moment ou le christianisme monte sur le trone des
cesars avec Constantin, ilparait ceder au charme de ce vieux monde,
dont il Va prendre la direction. PSfat-Atre meme y cdde-t-il un peu
trop au debut. La prose ef la poesie ne semblent pas d’abord se
soucier assez^ rester chretiennes. II. y a Crop de Ciceroh dans Lac
tance, trop de Virgile dans Juvencus; mais cet excds fut vite corrige. Ce fut le, rdle du grand! sitele de Theod'ose de trouver en tout
la mesure et de faire A chacun des el emens sa part. L’originalite
du grand podte de ce temps, de Prudence, est d’etre a la fois clas-
�LES ORIGINES DE LA POESIE CURETIENNE.
87
sique et chretien, et deTtwe avec aisance,n!ans effortfcomtne ffa||
BumWihent, d’unir des quality qui semblaient s’exclurej de faite
Mes vers antiques sur des sujets nouveaux, sans que l’idee gene le
fetyle ou que le style altfere l’idee. Le jour ou, voulant consacrer ses
'derni&res annees a chanter la gloire de Dieu, il donna au public le
ffecueil de ses oeuvres, on peut dire que la poesie chretienne, apres
plusieurs si&cles d’hesitations et d’erreursS!avait enfin trouve la forme
qui lui convenait; mak ^ouvenons-nous qu’eJbLn’y est arrivee que
par une transaction et pn compromk. C’est^ce qufon opblie trop
d’ordinaire. NousFavltes vu de|aos jours des exageres condamner
toute la poesie depuis la renaissance, sans except er nos ecrivains du
xvne skcle, pare©; qu’ils se permettaient de-meler^iuh idees chretiennes les souvenirs et les proc6d6s deTart paien.|i?0pr etre juste,
il faut comprendre dans l’anatheme les pontes de l’epoque de Theodose. Ils sont coupables du1 memea (ampE^mgpiEatot de l’ancienne litterature de Rome, ik en imitaient .W propides, et c’est
du melange de cette vieille litterature avec les croyances nouvelles
qu’est nee la poesie Ihretienle. On se ^gardait,, bien, au me et au
ive siecle, de rompre enfiferement avec le passe. On ne mettait pas
toute une portion dpThumanite hors de la raison et de la sagesse.
On ne se donnait pas la peinp.de tout detruire pour jouir du plaisir
insolent de touSjrenouveler. On aimait mieux, dans cette antiquite,
attirer a soi ce qui n’etait pas decidem entcontraire. Saint Justin
considerait Socrate' comme Eme sorte de da0<tien ayant le Christ.
Lactance disait de Sen&que : « Il est des notres.» Sans alter jusqu’a mettre Ciceron dans le G,iel||comme pg letfist b la renaissance,
on le rangeait avec Socrate parmi les precurseurs : n’etait-ce pas
la lecture d’un de ses livres qui avait pommence la conversion de
saint Augustin-? Quant a Virgile, on allait bientoi en faire.^n prophete. G’est ainsi qu’au Meu de creuserla distance qui separait la
religion nouvelle <du monde antpen, on cherchai|; a lesjreunir, et
ce travail n’a pasuefee-inutile, puisque,cl est du melange de la civi
lisation antique avec le christianisme que noire societe moderne
s’est formee.
.
A r
.-Gaston ^Botssier.'
--d
�ALSACIENSLORRAINS
«
EN ALGISR1E
MS
'Z‘ ff 'X*
I.
Qui ne se souvie'nt de les avoir vus^ au sortir de la gare, passer
par nos rues en'longues files f les hommes,'la demarche lourde, les
bras ballans, Fair embarrasse et bon enfant tout ensemble, les
femmes, recoifflaissables i leurs grands $heveux blonds, avec leur
large coiffure noire en forme de papillon et la1 petite jupe courte du
pays, trainant par la main toute une troupe de baihbins joufflus?
La foule s’arretait sur leur passage, saisie d’un attendrissement
respectueux. Des emigrans! murmurait-on, et c’etait & qui leur
ferait f&t<leur ouvrirait sa bourse nt sa main, Pauvres et braves
gens! on deur avait dit que-toiitetait fini, que FAlsace, que la Lor
raine,W^taient plus francaises, que pour elles desormais l’invasion
durerait-toujours, qu’il fallait en toute hate fuir, emigrer, quitter
le vieux foyer, le clocher, le village, tons ces lieux pleins de souve
nirs, ou se resigner a Otre Prussien, et,simplement, etouffant leurs
regrets, ils etaient partis. Beaucoup avaient 6te mines par la guerre,
ne possedaient -plus rien; d’autres, la paix signee, s’etaient empres
ses de vendre A tout prix la petite maison oh ils avaient vecu, le
coin de terre que de pOre en fils ils cultivaient de leurs mains :
c’Otaient 1A les heureuX; ceux qui restaiOnt, ceux que la necessite
tenait attaches au sobpies regardaient partir avec un ceil d’envie.
Et pourtant qu’allaient-ils faire, qu’allaient-ils devenir li-bas au
loin, au-delA des Vosges? Trouveraient-ils seulement du travail et
du pain? Mais quoi! nul parmi eux ne songeait a cela, ou, pour
mieux dire, nul ne doutait; ils aimaient la France, leur pays, ils
comptaient sur elle, et leur imprevoyance avait la foi pour excuse.
�LES ALSACIENS-LORRAINS
EnITi’ESrIE.
89
Gertes les circonstances etaient douloureuses : c’etait au lendemain de nos desastres; aucune des blessures de la guerre n’etait
feklncore fermee, on eut pu croire que tant de pertes publiques et
privdes arreteraient longtemps encore l’essor de la charite ; il n’en
fut rien. A la voix des Alsaciens-Lorrains demandant un asile, le
pays tout entiey s’emuffl Ge fJune explosion sublime Lun de ces
elans de generosite ou se retrouve le grand coeur de la France. Des
comites se fornferen^, des sousm^ptions s’ouvrirent; 1’argent, les
dons en nature, affluferent de |butes;>arts| l’un prit sur sa fortune,
l’autre sur son salaire, et le plus pauvre fut un jour au moins assez riche pour donner. Dans les villes de Test, le long de la frontiere, et du nord au midi, a Luneville, & Naujjfy & Belfort; a Dijon,
a Saint-Etienne, a Lyon, les emigrans 6taient accueillis, habilles,
nourris; leg municipalites elles-mAmes votaient des fonds de
secours. Il semblait que la France mutilee voulut protester ainsi
contre le traite que lui umposait la victoire et monger que pour
elle ceux qu’on lat^yai-t. ravis
encore ses enfans. <
Dans cette lutte de charite et deBatriotisme, Paris resta fiddle a
son role d^capitale, A, ses traditions; la grande ville| si cruellement eprouvee par la guerre etrangere et la guerre civile, sut,
malgrC sa gdne, s’imposer de nouveaux sacrifices; nulle part les
offrandes ne furent plus richies et plus abondantes^ds les premiers
jours qui suivireat la signature du traite de paix, plusieiq’s societes
s’etaient charges de centraliser les subscriptions et de disteibuer
les secours : Y Association generale d’Alsace-Lorraine, la Societe
Lcatholigue des Alsdciem^orrair^ -ane troisidme enfin qui prit
le nom de Society de protection desA^lsaciens-Lorrains demeur&s
Francais : c’est de beaucoup la plus importante. Degagee de toute
K' consideration politiquefpu religieuse, poursuivant J’intdrdt de nos
malheureux compaltiptes, saps distinction de classe ni de parti, elle
repondait le mieux aux intentions genereuses de l’immense majo
rity des souscripteurs. Pour prdsident, elle
comte d’Haussonville. Sorti d’une de ces quatre.-Vieilles families qui portent
dans les annales du fpays lie titre siriguFiea; de grands^chevcmc de
Lorraine, M. d’Haussonville a raconte les evenemens ou furent
meles ses a'ieux- et-ajoute la glotre littdraire au prestige d’un nom
deja illustre par le temps et les services. A bien des titres differens, l’historien de la Lorraine* s’etait acquis dans la societe' parisienne une influence incontestee, et c’est cette influence que depuis
quatre ans, avec umdevoumentfsans bornesril consacre & venir
en aide aux Alsaciens-Lorrains demeur’es Francais.
Disons d’ailleuB que, pour Sider Hans sdSoeuvre, les collaborateurs ne lui ont pas manque-. Atitour de lui etsHent venus se
grouper nombre d’hommes"des plus liStingues : artistes, finan
�90
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
ciers, magistrats ou administrateurs dont la presence a la tete de
la societe nouvelle 6tait comme la garantie du succfes, et en effet
pour une entreprise de ce genre, ou se trouvent engages des interets materiels considerables, il ne suffit pas chez ceux qui dirigent
de bon vouloir et d’excellentes intentions, il faut encore une expe
rience approfondie des affaires. La premifere difficulte etait de
creer de toutes pieces une administration complete capable de
repondre sur-le-champ avec l’argent recueilli & des besoins aussi
multiples que pressans. A force d’activite, on y reussit; au bout
de quelques jours, la societe fonctionnait. Elie avait etabli son
siege rue de Provence, dans une maison qui fut bientdt connue
de tout Paris ;c’est| la que se rencontraient h la mfeme porte, sur
le meme palier, le souscripteur' apportant san offrande et l’indigent sortant console. Les plus hautes dames de la ville avaient
tenu a honneur de se faire inscrire parmi les dames patronnesses;
elles etaient specialement chargees des visites a domicile : dans
les greniers et les mansardes, au fond des quartiers perdus, elles
allaient chercher la misfere, porter des paroles d’espoir et de con
solation, puis, tous-'les mardis, rfeunies en comite, aprfes lecture
d’un rapport sur chaque famille visitee, elles decidaient de l’importance et de l’opportunite des secours. Au travailleur on procurait de 1’ouvrage, a da femme une"occupation, & l’enfant malade
des medicamens, a. tous un peu d’argent, des vetemens, des bons
de nourriture. En moins de deux ans, plus de AO,000 personnes
furent ainsi secourues. Jusqu’a ce qu’ils fussent places, les emigrans sans famille etaient loges et nourris aux frais de la societe;
ceux qui pouvaient justifier d’un travail assure en province recevaierit des billets & prix reduits pour les differentes lignes de che
mins de fer. Chaque semaine avaient lieuia distribution des effets
d’habillement ou de lingeriehet les consultations du medecin. Une
somme importante etait employee a payer les frais d’education d’un
certain nombre cle jeunes enfans, une autre encore a soulager directement les misferes seerfetes, les plus douloureuses & coup sur et
les plus profondesi Ehfin de fortes subventions etaient allouees aux
comites locaux etablis en province, et par l’ihtermediaire de ces
comitfes, Faction bienfaisante de la societe s’etendait jusque sur les
Alsaciens-Lorrains qui, bien que demeures en pays annexes, avaient
droit encore a sa protection.
Cependantle gouvernement ne restait pas inactif, et s’efforcait de
son cote, au prix de reels sacrifices, de faire rentrer dans la condi
tion commune les malheureuses victimes des derniers evenemens.
Tous‘les fonctionnaires publics devaient fetre successivement repla
ces : c’fetait justice; quant aux autres, dans sa seance du 45 septembre 1871, l’assemblee nationale avait decide d’un vote unanime
�LES ALSACIENS-LORRAINS EN ALGERIE.
91
que 100,000 hectares de terre seraient specialement affectes en All
gerie & doter de concessions les Alsaciens-Lorrains expatries. En
mAme temps une somme de A00,000 francs etait mise & la disposi-H
tion du gouvernement colonial pour faire face aux depenses de toute
nature occasionnees par 1’immigration. Le vice-amiral comte de
Gueydon commandait alors A Alger : homme actif,, energique, ha
bitue comme marinau calme et Ala prdspArite de nos possessions
des Antilles, il s’etonnait et s’irritait A la fois del’&tat precaire oil,
apres quarante-cinq annees d’occupation, se trouve encore notre
colonie africaine, du caractAre inquiet et remuant des Arabes, de
1’inferiorite des colons francais, A peine egaux en nombre aux co
lons etrangers eux-mAmes.; il avait pris A coeur de meriter ce titre
de gouverneur civil, dont il avait etA le premier revetu, et, rom
pant net avec certaines pratiques du|Agime militaire suivi jusqu’a,lors, voulait attirer de la mere-patrie par l’attrait de la propriete,
et plus encore par une protection efficace, toute une population
-de travailleurs qui seule lui semblait capable de consolider notre
conquete et de lui faire porter ses fruits.
enquete venait d’etre
ouverte contre les tribes indigenes qui avaient pris part A la ter
rible insurrection, de 1871 ; il se montra sevAre, inflexible, et exigea des rebelles ce dont la France et la coloiioje avaient besoin : des
terres et de 1’argent, 600,000 hectares eth ZiO millions. Bien des
gens pretendaient que les Arabes ne paieraient pas; tant bien que
mal, faisant de necessitA vertu et deterrant les vieux Acus noircis
qui leur eussent servi plus tard a acheter contre nous de la J)oudre
et du plomb, ils payArent. G’est sur le produit de cette contribution
de guerre quale 25 octobre 1872 un nouveau credit extraordinaire
de 600,000 francs etaitouvert au gouvernement de 1’AlgArie pour
suppleer A l’absence ‘de ressources personnelles des immigrans alsaciens-lorrains, et lew fournir, A raison de 1,500 fr. par famille,
le materiel et les vivres indispensabtes.
En effet, a la nouvelle que des concessions de tei-ses allaient Atre
accordees, sans tenir compte des 5,000 francs exiges comme pre
miere mise de fonds par la lei du 15 septembre 1871,, plusieurs
centaines de families Ataient parties pour lWgeMe.*EHes se trouvaient A leur arrivAe dans le plus complet document, et rien
n’avait etA prepare pour les recevote. hes-. renvoyer n’etait pas pos
sible; de concert avec le gouvernement, les comitAs locaux s’occupArent d’abord de loger ces malheureux^ et de les nourrir, puis
peu A peu, au moyen.de prolunges d’artillerie, on les dirigea sur les
terres qu’on leur destinait. LA encore tout manquait; en attendant
que 1’administration militaire leur eut construit des habitations suffisantes, on les abrita comme on put, les uns sous la tente, les
autres dans des gourbis naguAre occupes par les Arabes. Des vAte-
�92
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
mens reformes, capotes de mobiles ou autres, dont pa"bonheur
aprhs la guerre il existait une enorme quantity dans les magasins
de l’armee, leur furent distribuOs, et successivement des terres^
des semences, des boeufs, des instrumens aratoires : ils touchaient
regulibrement des rations de vivres comme les soldats. Encore s’ils
avaient pu s’ aider eux-m Arnes, profiter de tout ce qu’on faisait en
leur faveur; mais, une fois maitres d’une concession et libres de
l’exploiter, ils, se trouvaient fort embarrasses : ces immigrans pour
la plupart n’etaient pas des cultivateurs, simples ouvriers des villes
ou habitan's des con trees forestieres, ijs n.’ avaient de leur vie con
duit une charrue; plus d’ufte fois on dut s’adresser aux indigenes
eux-memes pour les tirer de peine et leur apprendre a labourer.
Tant de depCnses'de toute nature devaient a la longue creer de
graves embarras au gouvernement colonial. Si efficace que fut l’intervention des com'ites locaux aides par les comites de la metro
pole, c’est ehcore W^Fadpaimsstration que retombait la plus grande
partie des charges*, et ces charges etaient lourdes. Les fonds in
serts au budget ,et destines a la colonisation en general avec les
deux credits successivement voids par la chambre en faveur des
Alsaciens-Lorrains avaient etd bien vite: absorbes; ie gouvernement
de l’Algerie se vit alors entraine a prelever sur ses ressources ordinaires 'une I < sofome environ 700,000 "francs. pour subvenir aux
besoins toujours croissansbde l’immigration. De la un1 certain ma
laise qui s’est fait sentir dans les finances de la .colonie pendant
plusieurs annee's. Etant donnees les circonstances, il eut hte sans
doute bien difficile d’y: echapper; le plus penible encore en tout
cela, c’ethit-'Te sort des nouveaux colons. Dans la-precipitation du
premiet/inoment, rbn les avait disseminds un pen au hasard, par
group^Shplus ouunoins nombreux, sur toute l’dtendue de la colonie, k ou des terres etaient disponibles; plusieurs centres meme
avaient et^creds dans des endroits depburvus de routes ou imparfaitement a-ssainis. Adeurincapacite, A leur denument, s’ajoutaient
pour ces hommes du nordles dangers trop reels' du changement de
climate mal defendus par une installation hative etincomplete contre les variations de la temperature,Ugnorans des plus simples
precautions A prendre sous le ciel brulant de FAfrique, ils n’avaient
pas tarde A payer leur tribut aux fiOvres et aux maladies, une assez
forte mortality • s’etait declaree parmi eux, chez les petits enfans
surtoutple decouragement bientot avait.su.ivi. Plusieurs dejA quit
taient leurs concessions', retournaient A Alger, ei’raient sur les places
publiques 'et dans les rues, faisant etalage de leur mis&re et laissant
echapper mille critiques passionnees contre les autorites du pays.
A peine infotB0e*de ces tristes Avenemens, la societe de protec
tion des Alsaciens-Lorrains se hata de voter une premiere allocation
�LES ALSACIENS-LORRAINS EN ALGERIE.
93
de 100,000 francs pour venir en aide aux immigres, et, voulant se
rendre un compte exact de leurs besoins, elle chargea un de ses
Finembres, M. Guynemer, ancien sous-prefet de Saverne, d’aller
verifier sur place ce qui avait ete fait, ce qui restait encore & faire.
C’etait la une mission des plus delicates, car pour la bien remplir
on devait etre amen6 fatalement a des curiosites, & des recherches
qui peut-etre en haut lieu paraitraient indiscrete^? L’administration
est omnipotente en Algerieft n’admet gMre d^ conti?©!®: du moins
on le pretend. En ce cas particulier, elle avait tout ordonne, tout
conduit; & bien voir, il est vrai, elle n’avait eu peRsonne pour concourir h son oeuvre, d’ailfiurs elle avjilfait de se^. mieux, et il y
aurait eu mauvaise- grace, apres tant de&ine et d’argent depenses,
& lui reprocher quelques e^reurs ou quelques imperfections de de
tail Gependant 1’interet de nos malheur&iM compatriotes n’4en exigeait pas moins qu’on etfiidiat de pres, resdiiment, cette question si
complexe de la colonisation. Nul miBux qu® M. Guynemer ne pouvait s’acquitter de ce soin; de son passage.dans ^administration, il
avait garde l’habitude des homines et Texperience desg&iaires, il
connaissait a fond, comme on digues rouages de la machine. Sans
aucun-titre officiel, n’usant du bon vouloir des autorites locales que
dans la mesure qui lui permettait de coaaserver .toute sa liberte
d’action et de jugement ,wi<l passa pres dedrois mois en Algerie,
parcourut l’une apres l’aifere les trois provinces d’Oran, d’Alger et
Ee Constantine, visita tous les villages ©h ’se trouvemt des families
d’Alsace-Lorraine, et & son retour redigea pour la societe un rapport
detaille ou etaient consignees, avec le rest de son voyage^ ses ob
servations et les resultats pratiques qu’dnen pouvaiMrer.
Or, au meme moment, Venait d’etre instituee pr£s le ministere
de l’interieur la commissiod&des Apresidee par
M. Wolowski. On n’est pas sans se rappeler la « souscription des
dames de France » et 1’awdacieu.se tentative qui devait, sans oberer
l’etat et rien que par l’initiative privee, obtenir la liberation du
jterritoire. Quoi qu’il en soitf plusieurs millions de francs avaient
ete reunis en quelques jours; demeures Sans emploi par suite du
succfes de l’emprunt des trois miliards, ils etaient toujours deposes
au tresor; la chambre decida que toutes les sommes* qui, apr£s un
certain delai n’auraient pas ete redamees par les souscripteurs
peraient, sous la surveillance d’une commission, affiectees a 1’assis
tance des Alsaciens-Lorrains. Aussitot nommte, La commission se
sh^divisa elle-meme en trois comites : comite de instruction, co
mite des secours directs aux families, enfin comite de colonisation,
jspecialement charge d’ameiiorer le sort des Alsaciens- Lorrains
emigres en Algerie. Un certain nombre des membres de la societe
de protection furent appeies a faire partie de la commission Wo-
�94
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
'
f
lowski: ainsi M. d’Haussonville fut elu president du comite des se
cours; quant 4 M. Guynemer, une place lui Atait assignee d’avance
dans le comite d’AlgArie, et c’est lui en effet qui, mettant au service
de la commission ses connaissances en la matiere, lui a permis de
tirer le plus avantageux parti des fonds qu’elle destinait au soulagement des colons.
L’installation d’une famille de colons et la mise en valeur d’une
concession de terre,exigent beaucoup de fraiset de travail: il en est
ainsi en Australie, en AmArique, mais en Algerie plus que partout
ailleurs; la difficult A sera bien plus grande encore, si cette famille
est denude de ressources personnelles et n’a aucune notion, aucune
habitude de l’agricultuFe, be sol de 1’Algerie, d’une fertility incom
parable , est generalement dAboisA: aussi l’immigrant pauvre ne
saurait-il s’y construire A peude frais un logement provisoire; pour
le meme motif, la chaux, la brique, la tuile, ne peuvent la plupart du
temps Atre fabriquees sur place, et la construction d’une habitation
definitive, si modeste qu’on la suppose,jast Agalement couteuse. De
plus la nature du terrain, sauf dans quelques endroits privilegies
A proximity d’Alger, convient bien mieux A la,culture des cereales
qu’aux cultures indiiistrielles ou maraicheres, et les concessions de
terres doivent avoir certaine Atendue, 25 ou SO hectares au moins,
pour une famille de cinq personnes: il.s’agit done d’tune petite ferme
a monter, avec ses animaux et tout son materiel d’exploitation. Enfin
la premiere annee d’une installation ne donne qu’une recolte insuffisante, et ce n’est qu’aprAs la deuxiAme annee, quelquefois meme
aprAs la troisiAmA, si les circonstances Dni Ate defavorables, qu’une
famille pent reellement subvenir A tous ses besoins avec les produits de sa concession. A partir de ce moment, il est vrai, avec du
travail et de la bonne ■conduite, son avenir est assure, et rien ne
suppose plus A ce qu’elle arrive promptement A l’aisance ou meme
A la fortune*En resume, on ne saurait evaluer A moins de 6,000 fr.,
non compris les travaux publics A la charge de l’etat, la somme que
doit depenser une famille ou qu’on doit depenser pour elle avant
qu’elle soit definitivement etablie et en mesure de reussir. Les essais anterieurs de colonisation, entrepris tant par les particuliers
que par le gouvernement lui-mAme, ayaient dejA prouve 1’exacti
tude de ce chiffre, et 1’experience des trois dernieres annees n’aura
servi qu’A le confirmer,
Le total des sommes provenant de la « souscription des dames de
France » et versees A differentes fois par le tresor dans les m ains de la
commission s’est trouve en definitive fixA A 6,254,000 francs, dont
un tiers et plus ont Ate consacres A1’Algerie. Consuhe sur la situation
des Amigrans au moment oil le comite de colonisa tion commencait
ses travaux, M. le directeur de 1’Algerie au ministAre de l’interieur
�ALSACIENS^ffiORRAINS EN ALGERIE.
95
avait declare que 1’administratioiEevaluait A six cents environ le
nombre des families deja debarquees en Algerie, que sur ce nombre
la moitih pouvait 6tre consideree comme pourvue d’habitations construites ou en construction (trois cents restaient & pourvoir), que,
toutes les ressources qu’elle pouva^t consacrer & la colonisation en
general et les deux credit votes par 1’assemble© etant epuises,
elle avait du prelever 'Sur son budget ordinaire une somme de
687,0Q0 francs pour continuer A venir en aide aux immigrans,
que toutefois, dans sa pensfee, ce n’etaitda qu’une simple avance et
qu’elle en attendait la restitution sur les premiers foods votes par
le comite. Gelui-^l ne fut pas du mettle ravis^: Largent qui-tui avait
ete confie devaiftj selon It®, servir non pas & combler des d^couverts,
si legitime qu’eri put etre la cause Jmais & procurer ?Wx families
qu’il avait a sedburir un soulagement nouveau et effect®® En con
sequence, il se contenta d’allouer a radministration 600,000 francs
pour construire trois cents maisons & raison de 2^000 francs chacune, 30,000 francs1 pour completer les credits affectes aux habita
tions deja en construction darisla province d’Alger, 350,000 francs
enfin pour assister directement les families aux besoins desquelles
n’avait pas pourvu le credit du lf5 octobre 1872. *
Le present etant ainsi regie, il fallait s’occuper de 1’avenir; beaucDup de families nouvelles continuaient, sans y btre appelees, A se
diriger vers 1’Algerie, et de promptes mesures btaient indispensables, si l’on ne voulait avant peu se trouver aux prices avec les
memes difficultes qui avaient signale le deb.ut de ^immigration.
, fvidemment il ne pouvait Gtre question d’attribuer A chacun des
arrivans la totality de la somme necessaire a son dtablissement. Si,
grace au sequestre, les terres ne manquaient pas, le comity devait
tenir compte tout a la fete de ses ressources restreintes et du nombre
m&me des families A secourir* par coritre, son assistance ne pouvait
produire tin rbsultat vraiment u<le qu’autant qu’elle foufnirait a
chaque colon au moins le strict necessaire pour son installation
premiere, en d’autres termes un logement salubre, les moyens
de cultiver sa concession, des vivres’ jusqu’A la premiere recolte.
Plus d’un million restait encore eir caisse; prenant alors pour base
une moyenne de 3,500 francs'par famille (2,000 fratics pour la mai
son, 1,500 francs pour le materiel et les vivres), le comite fixa A
330 le nombre des installations nouvelles pour lesquellesil allouerait des credits, Ve qui, joint* aux chiffres donnes precedemment,
devait porter A"900 environ le nombre total des families d’AlsaceLorraine etablies en Algerie. En attendant qu'e les habitations fus
sent construites, l’administration prit soin d’arre ter provisoirement
le depart des emigrans et la delivrance deS passages gratuits sur les
paquebots.
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REVUK DES: DEUX MONDES.
En somme, l’etat et la commission elle-meme, debordes par les
circonstances et tenus & l’economie la plus rigoureuse, avaient songe
bien moins & faire de la colonisation en rOgle qu’A parer du mieux
possible aux necessites premieres des immigrans; mais peut-6tre
une personne morale comme la societe de protection, suffisamment
riche et libre de ses antes, pouvait-elle sur un theatre plus restreint
essayer davantage. Certaines precautions semblaient s’imposer
d’elles-m^mes : qu’avant toute chose on fit choix d’emplacemens
salubres, pourvus de routes et d’eau potable, qu’on prit soin d’y
construire des habitations definitives;, qu’on reunit le mobilier, le
materiel et les sentences nOcessaires, et qu’alors seulement on fit
venir les colons, — que tous ces colons scrupuleusement choisis
fussent de vrais, cultivateurs, laborieux et honnetes, que le nou
veau centre fut exclusivement compose , d’Alsaciens - Lorrains parlant la m^me langue, ayant les m£mes moeurs, afin que la trans
plantation en devint plus facile, qu’on surveillat leur installation,
qu’on leur continual, aussi largement qu’il serait.utile, les avances?
et les secours; on auTait ainsi des villages modules ou toutes les
conditions de succOs se trouveraient reunies et dont la prosperity
rapide ne manquei’ait pas- d’avoir sur la colonisation la plus heureuse influence. Quilempechait en effet que l’exemple donne par
quelques-uns, dans un dessein d’humanite et de patriotisms, ne fut
suivi par d’autres,. dans des vues de speculation moins elevees sans
doute, mats profitables encore aux inter e is gen er aux du pays?
Tel est le plan que la societe de protection fut unanime a adopter,
Elle y voyait en effet, tout en restant fiddle A son role et en rendant
service & nos malheureux compatriotes, un moyen de hater le peu**
plement si desiry«de 1’AlgOrie. M. le comte d’Haussonville n’etait pas
le moins enthousiaste de cette idee. Sans souci du poids des ans ni
des fatigues,.du voyage, il partit aussltot pour Alger en compa-y
gnie de M. Guynemer; il se mit en rapport avec les autorites de
la colonie, rencontra partout Taccueil le plus favorable, et, aprOs
avoir visite en pefsdnne les divers territoires qui lui avaient ete
indiques, fixa sen choix sur trois points : Azib-Zamoun et le Camp-rj
du-Marechal dans la province d’Alger, Ain-Tinn dans celle de Gon- *
stantine. Deux conventions & ce sujet furent conclues entre la i
sooMte et le gouyernement de l’Algerie^, elles portaient que les ter
ritoires en question seraient mis A la disposition de la societe de
protection pour yin staffer a ses frais des colons alsaciens-lorrainsjfl
le peuplement devait etre effectue avant deux ans, A partir du
ler octobre 1873, en ce qui concerne Ain-Tinn et Azib-Zamoun, —
pour le Camp-du-Marechal, off certains travaux d’assainissementjl
etaient necessaires, A partir du J our seulement off ces travaux auraient ete terminOs. La societe s’engageait A contribuer pour un
�LES ALSACIENS-LORRAINS EN ALGERIE.
97
quart aux expenses qu’entrainerait l’assainissement, mais se reservait a titre de compensation la jouissance immediate du territoire.—
t)ans la creation des villages, le lotissement, le nivellement et tous
les travaux d’interdt public, tels que rues, fontaine, lavoir, planta
tions, Gcole, eglise et mairie, restaient & la charge de l’administration. Les ingenieurs de l’etat, civils ou militaires, etaient autorises
& diriger et surveiller les travaux particuliers de la societe; enfin
les immigrans destines a peupler les nouveaux centres auraient
droit au passage gratuit sur mer aux frais du budget colonial.
Suivant la legislation' qui regit notre. colonie, les conventions si
gnees ou approuvees par le gouverneur, engagent officiellement
l’etat. Lorsque le general Chanzy eutjete appele a commander
1’AlgSrie, soucieqXj lui aussi, des interdts de la colonisation, il
tint, non moins que son vaillant predecesseur,, 5. faciliter it la
societe l’accomplissement de la tache patfiotique qu’elle avait en
treprise, et un deuxi&me traite plus regulier yint ratifier les con
ditions convenues par lettres avec l’amiiral de Gueydon. Dans l’intervalle, par un decret du 23 a@i|t 1873., la societe avait ete
ireconnue etabldssement d’utilitd publique :cette mesure, qui lui
donnait un caractfcre durable, finvestissait en meme temps de nou
velles et precieuses prerogatives,; comme de pouvojr ester en jus
tice, recevoir des donations et des legs, acquerir des biens meubles
et immeubles. Ce n’est pas tout, On sait le s|^t6me de concessions
Gtabli depuis 1871 en AlgGrie : les concessions dites au titre ler
sont accordees avec propriety immediate et complete de
terre;
la loi du 15 septembre les reserve aux immigrans des pays an
nexes en exigeant qu’ils iustifieMd’un capital d’au moins 5,000 fr,
Au contraire les concessions au titre £ soiit. accordees a toils les
Francais immigrans ou anciens habitans de 1’Algerie, mais elles
sont subordonnees au fait de la prise de possession effective par le
titulaire et a sa residence sur la ter^ la propriete ne j|eyient com
plete qu’apres neuf ans, toutefois au bout de deux ans le concessionnaire peut ceder son droit a un tiers. Ces conditions etaient
celles souscrites par M. d’lfaussonville. Depuis lors le terrne de
imeuf ans, considere^Gomme trop long, a 6te reduit A cinq; mats la
societe n’aura pas m&me eu besoin d’attendre le delai fixe. Un ancien decret de 1860 autorise en effet, au profit des etablissemens
crees en vue de la colonisation et declares d’utilite publique, l’alienation sans reserve par vote',de concession des terrains .domaniaux
disponibles; e’est en ver® de ce decreL quelle m,ois dernier a ete
consacr^e 1’attribution immediate, definitive et a titre gratuit a la
societe des trois territoires quLlui avaient ete primitivement conce
des; elle peut des aujourd’hui en disposer a sa guise, et transferer
7
TOME XI. — 1875,
,
'
t '
�98
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
& ses colons, quand ils auront rempli les conditions Voulues, avec
la plenitude de ses droits, 1’entiAre propriete du sol.
II.
Le territoire d’Azib-Zamoun est situe k 82 kilometres A l’est
d’Alger, & l’embranchement des routes d’Alger & Dellys et d’Alger a
Tizi-Ouzoti et a Fort-National; les routes qui le traversent dans
toute son Atendue sont excellentes, bien entretenues, et desservies
journellement par des voitures publiques; c’est un lieu de bivouac
pour les troupes et un point strategique- important. Le gouvernement y avait autrefois fait construire un caravanserail pouvant servir
& la fois d’abri pour les Voyageurs et de refuge en cas d’attaque.
Autour du caravanserail s’etaient groupies quelques fermes; les
eaux sont abondantes et de bonne quality le pays a toujours passe
pour extremement salubre. Les terres qui proviennent du sequestre
operA sur les indigenes sont toutes defrichees et pour la plupart tres
fertiles;'elles produisent surtout des cereales, et embrassent une
superficie de plus de 2,000 hectares. Quant au village lui-meme,
l’emplacement choisi domtine tout le territoire, et offre ainsi pour
les habitans une nouvelle garantie de salubrity. Avant de quitter
Alger, M. le comte d’Haussonville s’etait entendu avec l’ingenieur
des ponts et chaussees charge des travaux publics du futur centre,
et avait obtenu de lui qu’il voulht bien dresser aussi le plan des
maisons A construire et en surveiller ensuite I’execution. On se mit
A l’oeuvre, et en quatre mois quarante habitations se trouvaient
prates; ce chiffre a AtA augmente plus tard d’une vingtaine jusqu’A
permettre Tinstallation totale de soixante families : c’est tout ce
que comporte l’etendue du territoire d’Azib-Zamoun. Les maisons
sont baties solidement, en bonne ma^onnerie, avec couverture en
tuile; le type en est unique, comprenant cave souterraine, rez-dechau^see de deux piAces,. grenier 'et appends pour le betail; elles
sont carrelees et plafonnees., 1’intArieur est blanchi A la chaux.
Quelques-unes^occupees parses families les plus nombreuses,
possAdent un etage avec une ou deiix pieces de plus; les autres
peuvent en cas de besoin Atre agrandies de iriAme fagon, et l’Apaisseur et la soliditA des murs orrt etc* calculees en consequence. Le
prix moyen de.revient', assez elevA encore, est de 2,500 francs pour
les maisons A deux piAces, de 3,000 pour les maisons a trois piAces,
et de 3,500 pour les maisons A etage cotnplet. En effet, si l’installa-J
tion est des plus modestes, si, en ceci comme en tout le reste, la
sociAtA s’est fait un devoir d’agir avec une sage Aconomie, on a prissoin qu*une famille de travailleurs' etablie dans son nouveau domi- i
�B^^O.LSACIENS^foRRAINS EN ALUERIe"
99
jcile put s’y plaire et s’y bien porter, deux conditions qui font en
somme pour une bonne part l’energie et la moralite du colon.
Toutes les maisons sont r6unies sur un m£me point et presque
se touchant les unes les autres; il serait facile au moindre danger
de les entourer d’un mur unique qui suffir^it & tenir en echec les
■forces insurrectionnelles des indigAn^.- Dans certains tillages crees
par le gouvernement, les habitations sont placees a',S metres de la
rue, qui elle-meme a 16 metres deKargeur; cette disposition per
met a chaque colon d’avoir son jardin pr6s.de sa maison, avantage
a considerer, mais il enpesulte un isolement qui, rendra plus faciles les vols de nuit, pour fesquels les Arabes son^ d’une habilete
et d’une audace sans pareilles. Ne vonfr-ils pas;?r dans les fermes
detachees, jusqu’a percer les mprs avec un couteau potir y faire
passer une vache ou un cheval*? Il nei fapdrait pas oublier d’ailleurs
» que la province d’Alger fia$$le prfecipal foyer de l’insurrection de
1871. Les tribus les plus insoumises ont ete, par acte de l’autorite,
depossed6es de leurs ierres, les 2,000 hectares du territoire IfAzib- •
Zamoun notamment appartenaient a la tribu rebelle des BeniAmran; mais il n’a pas toujours dte loisible au gouvernement de
trouver A l’interihur d’emplacement convenable pour etablir les in
digenes punis du sequestre; aujourd’hui encore, en plus d’un
fendroit, ils occupent' leurs anciens douails. Plusieurs aussi conservaient des droits auxquels op ne pouvait toucher sans injustice;
tel est le cas d’Omar-ben-Zamoun, amin des Beni-Amran et repre
sentant d’une vieille famille qui..a 'donn6 son nom au pays^ Son
p6re fut jadis dans ces con trees, le chef redoutable des .ennemis
de la domination francaise; le fils,’qui jouit encore Jj’une autorite
considerable parmi ses compatriotes ,|n’est point w/t tow de
poudre, cooime dise®t les Arabes, et, bien qu’on puisse dottier de
sa sympathie pour nous$ il Gherche A demeurer en boas rapports
avec les vainqueurs. Sa tribi cependant a pris en 1871 une part
active, avec les Beni-ABha, les Beni-Khalfoun, les Ammals, au pil—
I lage et A l’incendie des villages- voisins de l’Alma et de Palestro. Il
fut de ce chef, apres lgnsurrection, traduit devant^I’autoriB judiciaire; l’instruction ne put r6unir contre lui des charges suffisantes; il aurait mehne, A l’approche de la colonne dfe general ®erez, protege efficacement la vie d’une quarantaine de malheureux
Europeens, et, par son inftaence personnele, aide A 1^ soumission
des insurges. Il .ecfiappa ainsi a® sequestre infligeA ceux de sa
tribu. Or precisement son doma’ine seprouvaiwenclav5'dans le Jerritoire concede a la > somite; la-dessus Omar consentait bien a
abandonner une centaine d’hectares, sauf A recevoiir en ^change
une quantite equivalents de terresssur un autrepoint; mais il vouI lait conserver A tout prix 1’ancienne ferme de ses ancetres avec
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
un lot de terres environnant. Il ecrivit & ce sujet une longue lettre
a M. d’Haussonville, ou il exposait en style oriental ses droits et sa
demande. Fallait-il done voir cet indigene etabli au milieu des
nouveaux colons? A sa suite allaient veriir tous les Arabes des enS
virons cherchant a vivre, eux et leurs bestiaux, aux depens d’autrui. N’etait-ce pas se manager pour l’avenir une source de discus
sions, de conflits, peut-dtre mGme de dangers? On dut pourtant en
passer par la :-la ferme d’Omar ne se trouve pas sur l’emplacementl
meme du village, et ne saurait par consequent etre expropriee; du
moins le lot de terrain qu’on lui laisse ne depasse-t-il gu&re la
contenance d’un hectare; ce n’est plus qu’un jardin; il reste en
outre bien entendu qu’Omar-ben-Zamoun n’aura jamais aucun droit
de parcours on de vaine pature pour ses troupeaux, soit sur les
terres des colons, soit sur les communaux.
Pendant que s’achevaient les maisons, 1’administration avec une
egale activite faisait ex6cuter ceux des travaux a sa charge qui etaient
indiques comme les plus urgens : les rues, les fontaines et l’abreuvoir; en m^ttie temps on plantait des deux edtes, au long des chaus
sees, un grand nombre d’arbres a haute tige choisis parmi les es-]
sences les plus diverses, et tout autour du village, sur une epaisseur
de 50 metres, une vaste ceinture d’eucalyptus. Ce syst&me de foret
artificielle a ete mis en pratique aux environs de Bougie et a fort bien
reussiioutre que le feuillage de l’arbre possfcde des propriet&s febri
fuges, Teucalyptus grandit aVec une rapidity merveilleuse; il donne
un Bois tres dur, tres solide, et convient a tous les usages; aussi
est-il appel6 a rendre les plus grands services en Algerie, mais nulle
part plus qti’a Azib-Zamoun, oti jusqu’ici Ton pouvait faire plusieurs
kilometres sans rencontrer la moindre broussaille. On avait songe un
moment a etablir dans le caravanserail tout ou partie des services
publics: ecole, eglise, presbytere, ce qui eut fait pour le tresor
une reelle economie; mais cet edifice avait ete vendu depuis quel
ques annees par Fetal & un particulier, et le nouveau proprietaire
refusait de s’en dessaisir; devant son obstination, on dut se resi
gner a elever les batimens necessaires au fur et & mesure que le
permettaient les ressources limitees du budget colonial : il fut de
cide cependant qu’on commencerait par l’ecole, de peur que les enfans des nouveaux colons ne fussent exposes a. demeurer trop longtemps inactifs, et & oublier dans la pareSse et le vagabondage le
peu qu’ils pouvaient avoir appris dejL II fallait aussi^ pour eviter
toute complication, proceder & l’allotissement des terres avant l’arrivee des immigrans. Void? la methode qu’on a suivie : la zone la
plus rapprochee du village a ete divisee en lots d’une contenance
moyenne de 10 hectares qui leur ont ete distribues tout d’abord;
apres Installation, un second lot plus eloigne a complete pour
�LES ALSACIENS-LORRAINS EN ALGERIE.
101
chaque famille une con ce "ion d’environ 25 hectares. Le territoire
W’Azib-Zamoun n’est pas concentrique autour du village, lequel,
dans l’interet de la sante generale, a et& bati A un point extreme;
si tous les lots eussent ete compactes, les uns se fussent trouves a
proximity des habitations et les autres a une distance relativement
considerable, au grand dGsavantage de leurs possesseurs. Outre ces
25 hectares, qui forment A^peu pres l’etendue n6cessaire A la subsistance d’une famille ordinaire, chacune d’elles a re<ju auprAs du
villagel hectare de vignes, aujourd’hui plante, et 30 ares de jar
din, sans compter le lot urbain, sur lequel est batie la maison. La
I societe se reserve de donner ulterieurement aux families nombreuses
et laborieuses un supplement de terre. /Le surplus du territoire,
comprenant les cretes impropres a, la culture, sera laisse comme
communaux en pAturage pour le betail.
Jusque-IA, pour la construction des maisons et l’h|»Te direction
des travaux, la society avait pu s’en remettre presque enti&rement
& l’intelligence et au bon vouloir de l’administration coloniale.Toutefois, a mesure que l’entreprise prenait plus de developpemens,
un agent particulier lui devenait necessaire, qui residat sur les
Ijeux, decidat par lui-meme des questions de detail, prit enfin les
dernibres mesures indispensables a l’installation des colons. On
fit choix d’un homine acti'f et intelligent, ancien souS-officier du
genie, qui avait longtenips vecu enlAlg^rie et connaissait A merveille le pays et les moeurs des habitanS, Par ses sbfos; des mar
ches furent passes avec des fournisseurs d’Alger, qui s’engageaient
a livrer a 6poque fixe, d’apres des types acceptes par une commis
sion locale et A un prix determine d’ayance, le materiel complet des
tine aux families : Objetsde literie, mobilier, ustensiles de menage,
herses, charrues et autres pistrumens de culture. Tout cela fut pris
neuf et de bonne quality; du reste it devait etre permis aux immigrans d’apporter avec eux le pMs d’ustens'iles et de mobilier pos
sible, et la society leur en assurait W transport gratuit : on aurait
ainsi l’avantage moral d’acclittiater plus vite les nouveau-venus en
les entourant d’objets auxquels ils attachentune yaleur d’affection.
D’Alger egalement on fit venirStes Plantes maraich&res et les arbres
fruitiers qui conyenaient le mieux A la nature du sol et promettaient
de reussir dans les jardins; oii reunit de' fortes provisions de semences en ble, seigle, orge, sorgho et pommes de terre; enfin
I’agent de la societe. s’occupa d’acheter stir les marches voisins un
grand nombre de boeufs de labour dont une paire devait etre donnee d£s l’arrivee A chacun des colons am qu’ils pussent se mettre
au travail sans tarder et ensemencer leurs terres.
Quatre mois avaient suffi pour tous ces preparatifs; comme d’un
I coup de baguette, par la volonte de quelques hommes de coeur, en
�002
REVUE DES DEUX "MONDES?
plein pays arabe, un grand village etait sorti de terre avec ses mai
sons, ses rues, ses allees d’arbres, ses jardins et jusqu’A ses troupeaux. Il n’y manquait plus que les habitans. Des l’origine, la so
ciete avait recu tant des dApartemens fronti&res que de l’Algerie un
nombre considerable de demanded d’admission dans ses villages^
soit par elle-m&me, soit par l’intermediaire des comites de Nancy,
de Luneville et de Belfort, elle examina scrupuleusement ces de-i
mandes. Inutile de dire que.la premiere condition exigee etait un
certificat d’option eri favour de la France; quant aux ressources
personnelles dont pouvaient disposer les impetrans, peu importait
en somme $ ils n’avaient pour reussir qu’a profiter des moyens que
la gAnerosite de la societe allait leur mettre dans les mains; ce qu’il
fallait avant tout, c’Ataient des families de cultivateurs, habitues
au travail des champs et presentant des.garanties serieuses d’ordre
et de moralitA; ainsi disparaissait une des principal es causes qui
jusqu’a ce jour ont fait 1’insuccAs de la colonisation en Algerie.
Peut-Atre Atait-il bon d’envoyer aussi quelques artisans; on eut
done soin de prendre a choix egal telle famille de cultivateurs
oil 1’un des membres etait capable d’exercer une profession utile
a tous lies villages,.; cel le de boulanger par example, de forgeron,
ou de cordonnier. M. d’Haussonville avait: eu egalement l’intention d’admettre parmi les colons un certain nombre de militaires
alsaciens-lorrains liberes du service, et il s’etait adresse dans cette
intention aux generaux commandant les trois divisions de l’Algerie
pour obtenir avec leur concours les renseignemens necessaires. Les
anciens soldats qui accepteraient le patronage de la .societe devaient prendre 1’ engagement de se marier au plus tdt ou d’amen er
leur famille sur leur concession. 11 faut 1’avouer, cette Apreuve n’a
pas completement rAussi; bien qu’ils eussent ete choisis de prAs
et principalement dans les corps du genie et du train militaire,
comme ayant garde davantage des habitudes de travail et d’activite,
la plupart de ces hommes n’ont pas su repondre A 1’interAt qu’on
leur temoignaif; quelques-uns mAme, pour cause d’inconduite ou
d’insubordination, ont du Atre expulses, et il ne semble pas que
jusqu’A nouvel ordre, en depit de ce qu’avait-pensA le marAchal
Bugeaud avec ses colonies de Veterans, FAlAment-militaire puisse
fournir un appoint bien serieux a la colonisation. Peut-Atre la
cluree du service de plus era plus restreinte, en retenant le soldat
moins longtemps eloignA de la vie de famille et des habitudes reguliAres, permettra-t-elle de revenir sur ce qu’un tel jugement offre
de pAnible et d’inquietant.
Le choix des families une fois arrete, celles qui avaient AtA desi
gnees furent, avec 1’assistance des comites de Nancy et de Belfort,
dirigees sur Marseille par groupes de douze ou quinze; le comitd
�LES ALSACIENS-LORBAINS EN ALGERIE.
103
de Marseille prit soin de les acCueilfflr e"de les embarquer sur le
paquebotZdesmeskageries, eine transport gratuit leur etait accorde
par 1’etat. A Alger, an debarqul, Les attendant l’agent de la society
assiste d’un mernbre du comite algerien, et aprls quelques heures
de repos, elles etaient le jour meme dirigees sw Azib-Zamoun.
Betait agir sagement;. on evitait par la de les voir errer par les
rues de la ville et; se meler a la foul© de ces mewntens trop nombreux dont les conseils et i’exemple auraient pufeemer parmi elles
des germes.de decouragement.. Au village, tout, etait pret pour les
recevoir: chaque maison garaie de ses meubles avait recu un numero auquel etait adjoint un lot de terre. On proceda an tirage, et
les colons, sur 1’heure, purent prendre possession de leur domicile;
le soir ils couchaientsous un toit. On approchaitalors du mois de
novembre, le moment lie plus favorable paw eBreprendre les la
bours. D’ordinaire en Kabylie les pluies commencent vers la fin
d’octobre et durent. sept ou huit jours,: aprls lesquelsle beau temps
se rltablit; ces premieres pluies en lev ent aux marais Lews in
fluences malsaines, detrempent le sol et permettent de commencer
immediatement a labourer. Vers la fin de novembrej^les pluies
reprennent avec plus d’intensite et continent a tomber pendant
un mois ent-ier; c’est alors que les labours s’awlvent. Aiasssi, ar
rives en octobre, la plupart des colons d’Azib-Zamou® avaient-ils
pu, dis la fin de 1’biverpcultiver et ensemencer eux-memes une
bonne partie de leur concession.
Geux qui sont venus par la suite out ete recus,. instalies, traites
de la meme facon; c’etait pen pourtant de leur donner une maison
et unlot de terre; il failait encore les nowrir, eux et leurs bestiaux, jusqu’i ce qu’ils fussent en etat de se suffire reelfement.
Pendant les premiers mois, des vivres en nature leur ent dtefournis; plus tard, chaque^famille a recu une allocation en argent,
calculee a raison de 75- centimes pour^les adultes, et de 30 centimes
pour les enfans, somme plus que suffisante dans le pays.. On avait
compte pouvoir, en tout etat de cause, Eimiterhces secotjES a la date
de la premiere reunite; mats les pluies., les sawterelles, out nui tour
A tour aux travaux des champs; pour la meme raison,; bn a du continuer a plusieurs families les distributions de sentences qu’on leur
avait faites. IL n’y a rien b qui doiveabtonner, et le fait reste bien
etabli desormais : les cultivateurs. nouvellement installb^en Algerie
ne sauraient se tirer d’affaire que dans: la Woisilme annee de leur
seiour, autrement dit apres la seconde ^ecolte. Du moins les colons
de la society ont-ils> eu cet avantage, querienpe leur a manque
comme secoure materiels, encouragemens ou conseils. On ne peut
imaginer tout ce qu’une. semblable entreprise soullve pour les
promoteurs de difficultes* d’embarras, de complications de tout
�10A
REVUE DES; DEUXFMONDESH
genre. Tantot c’est un des colons qui, trop vite imitA par d’autres,
vend les boeufs et les meubles & lui confies, et qu’il faut chasser
du village; tantot c’est un retard survenu dans 1’exAcution des travaux de voirie et qui pourrait compromettre la sante des habitans.l
Interesser tout le monde & son but, maintenir entiere 1’autoritA mo
rale dont il importe que 1’administration supArieure demeure ini
vestie, defendre ses droits sans blesser personne, savoir obtenir
sans rien exiger, tel est le problAme de chaque jour.
G ependant le bienveillant interAt portA aux families des Alsaciens-Lorrains Emigres en AlgArie ne pouvait dAgenArer en faiblesse
et faire oublier A la societe les rAgles de 1’AquitA. Elie se doit A
elle-mAme, elle doit A ses souscripteurs de soulager egalement
toutes les misAres et de tirer le plus large parti possible de l’argent
dont elle dispose. Aussi, quand elle a fourni A ses colons d’Azib-Zamoun tous les objets necessaires A leur installation, elle n’a point
pretendu les traiter avec une faveur particuliAre, leur faire un don
gratuit: ainsi que le porte un traite sous forme de bail consenti par
les colons avant leur depart, ce sont 1A de simples avances, sans intArAts, il est vrai, mais remboursables en un temps donnA sur le
produit des rAcoltes. Il a done AtA fait un relevA exact de toutes les
choses fournies A chaque colon, y compris la maison, les vivres,
les semences, et celui-ci en retour s’est engagA A rembourser A la sociAtA par annuitAs, en 1’espace de six ans, A partir de la troisiAme rAcolte, le montant complet des avances, aprAs quoi il restera seul et
lAgitime propriAtaire de sa concession. Cette combinaison est des
plus heureuses en ce qu’elle sauvegarde tout A la fois la dignite du
colon, qui devra pour une bonne part A son travail le bien-Atre de
sa famille, et aussi les intArAts de la sociAtA, qui pourra faire servir
A d’autres besoins ses fonds redevenus disponibles. Un moment
mAme, pour hater ce remboursement et permettre A ses protAges
d’entrer plus tot en possession de leur terres sans qu’ils courussent
le risque d’Atre exploitAs par les Juifs indigAnes, M. d’Haussonville
avait voulu leur faciliter le moyen de recourir A quelque Atablissement de crAdit. A sa priAre, le GrAdit foncier s’est chargA d’estimer
la valeur qu’il attribue dAs A prAsent A chacun des lots des colons,
et, quoique l’estimation, suivant I’usage, ait AtA faite A un taux bien
infArieur au prix vAnal des terrains, elle s’est trouvAe dApasser dejA,
aprAs moins de deux ans, le montant des sommes avancAes. NAanmoins, aprAs rAflexion, M. d’Haussonville n’a pas jugA bon de donner
suite pour le prAsent A son projet d’emprunt hypothAcaire; comme
le gAnAral Chanzy, qui s’est prAoccupA de la question, il eut craint
que plusieurs d’entre les colons ne profitassent de ces facilitAs de
crAdit pour liquider leur avoir et vider le pays; il faut attendre qu’ils
soient mieux fixAs encore et plus attach As au sol.
�LES ALSACtENS-LORRAINS EN ALGERIE.
105
®ubWuiT enW®, Installation et le peuplement du village
^RpnUacliwes; cinquante-quatre families s’y trouvent deja Gtablies,’ quelques autfes y seront envoyees au mois d’octobre prochain
pour occuper les dernidres maisons vacantes. La grande majority
des colons est active et laborieuse; ils se montaent tr£s satisfaits de
leur sort, ils elevent des pores des vcw&es, e^owentUeurs jardins de clotures et se construisent des granges de leurs propres
mains; chacun d’eux a recu, toujjours a ‘titre d’avarice, une.seconde
paire de bceufs, et, Lien que les pluies, qui ont caus6 tant de desastres en France, aient la aussi gravement compromis la prochaine
r^colte, on peut dbs ^aintomint tenir leur. succfcs p.pur certain.
Tandis que les Arabes se contentent de gratter la surface du sol, la
charrue europeenne, enfoncant de 20 a |5 een®feti^ aide, a obtenir de cette terre viefge, admirablement feconde, 4es resultats
prodigieux. Les arbres plantes en bbrdure le long des rmsjent fort
bien reussi. Azib-Zam®un- dispose d’une quantite d’eau potable sufsante en toute saison aux besoins de sa population et de ses bestiaux; quelques nravaux permettraient; de capterencore deux ou
trois belles sources et d’irriguer teius tes-.jardins dans le voisinage
des habitations^Uetat/ganitaire de la petite colonie n’a pas cesse
d’etre excellent, mdme pendant la periode d’acajiftatation des fa
milies : toutes recommandations d’ailleurs avaient ete faites et renouvelees aux colons de vivije^sobrement-, de.prendre garde aux ' '*»
changemens de temperature et d’eyiterblCsfci'nsolations. Le mSdecin
de colonisation fixe au centre voisin de Bordj-Menaiel est tenu de
venir a Azib-Zamoun une*fois au moins par semaine. Deja la maison
d’ecole est achevee, et un instituteur laique originaire des pays an
nexes vient d’entrer en fonctions. Des soeurs dirigeront Ppcole des
filles; elles auront la garde d\tfne£ petite pharmacie pour donner,
le cas dcheant, les premiers soins aux malades? La construction de
l’eglise, dejt commencee, sera terminee dans le courant de cette
ann6e meme; jusqu&i le cure de^Bordj-Menaiel se rendait tons fes
dimanches au village, et l’office religieux Gtait celebre dans la mai' son d’un des colons; un desservant du culte catholique est aujourd’liui specialement attache a Azib-Zamoun. Dans tout le pays, la se
curity est parfaite. Cependant les moeurs et le caractere bien connu
des indigenes exigeaient encore certaines mesures de prudence : les J
uns, soit insouciance, soit malignite, coupaient les jeunes arbres
nouvellement plants pour s’en faire des manlaes dte fouet; les autres avec leurs troupearax venaneni^ague^sur¥lesiterres des colons.
Pour remedier acet etat de cboses$un garde champetRe a £ty nomine
par la sociyte qui veilleasur les recoltes et empeche toute dypreda- M
tion. Du reste il est probable qu’une brigade de gendarmerie sera
avant peu installs & Azib-Zamoun; la question a ete d£j& agitee
�106
REVUEDES DEUX MONDES.
dans le conseil-genbral de la province; il suffirait pour retatd^B
proprier le caravanserail, que la nature m£me de ses constructions
et sa position strategique rendent trbs propre a servir de caserne.
En resume, la societe a tout fait pour assurer avec la reussite
de son entreprise l’avenir de ses proteges; elle n’a pas craint de b
descendre jusqu’aux details les plus intimes; elle a voulu surveiller
leurs depenses, «lle s’est inquietbe m&rne de leur conduite, de leur .
moralite. G’est ainsi qia*il estdefendu A tout colon, sous peine
d’expulsion immediate, d’ouvrir un d£bit de boi’ssons sans l’autorisation expresse et par ecrit du president de la societe, alors my me
qu’il eut obtenu celle des autorites locales. Sans parler du tort que
peut faire A la bourse et a la sante des habitants l’existence dans
un village.d’un ytablissement de ce genre, les cafes maures sont
reputes a juste titre en Algerie comine les lieux de reunion de tous ;
les voleiirs, recetews et autres mauvaas sujets de la race indigene.
Gependant il ne sawrait Atre dans les ideesou les obligations de la
societe de continuer bien longtemps cette surveillance; aujourd’hui
que ses colons sont en bonne voie, elle entend les emanciper et
leur laisser suivre leur propre initiative. Par sa situation, par la fer
tility de son territoire, par les elemens memes qui le composent, le
nouveau village est destine a devenir un centre important. Le marche Le plus voisin est celui des' Issers, >6loigne pourtant de 16 kilo
metres : l’Arabe, lui, ne compte pour rien son temps, sa peine et
celle de ses betes, et vend toujours au meme prix; mais pour 1’Eu- 1
ropeen, qui raisonne differemment, la distance est fort d considerer.
Tout porte done a croire qu’Azib-Zamoun aura bientot, comme les
principaux centres de la contree, son jour de anarch e, qui ne sera
certes pas le moins suivi; c’est aux habitans qu’il appartiendra alors
de fa ire tourpercet wantage au plus grand profit de la commune
et des pariiculiers. Deja des dispositions sont prises pour que le vil- *
lage d’Azib-Zatttoun suit appele le plustbt possible al’existence ci
vile; mais ici une difficulte se presente : en fera-t-on une commune
de plein errr/vr une commune mixte ou une section de commune?
La commune de piein exerefee est regie par unmaire et un conseil
municipal, absolument comme les communes de France; les princi
paux centres europeens sont dans ce cas. La commune mixte ou
circonscription cantonale engl obe une localite europeenne, c’estA-dire peuplee d’Europeens, a laquelle est joint un certain nombre
de douars at abes qui constitueraient proprement la commune in
digene; elle est regie par un maire que nomme le gouverneur, et
qui exeitce 4 1’Agard des indigenes pLusieurs des fonctions de l’ancien ofiicier des bureaux arabes; un conseil municipal, compose
generalement de cinq Europeens et de quatre indigenes, a, comme
les conseils mumcipaux ordinaires., mission de sauvegarder les in-
�LES ALSACIENS—LORRAINS EN ALGERIE.
107
! terets generaux de HP commune en meme temps que les interets
'■ prives des populations. Ge fcysfeme a cela de bon, qu’aussitbt fon’ debwa nouvelle commune trouve chez les indigenes des ressources
de fends relativement considerables auxquelles il faut ajouter Les
■gestations en nature, dont elle peut tirer un tres grand parti.
tAinsi au cas ou Azib-Zamoun serait, comme il en a et& parle, erige
en commune mixte, on lui adjoindraibtwimmense territoire au
sud et au nord, au sud depuis la^chaine des> Flissas, aunordjusqu’a la mer; cette commune serait un e de,s plus puissantes parce
qu’elle engloberait un pays trhs pbiaipld, et se trauverait le centre
de rayonnement d’unefoule de villages, indigenes. Voicp par contre
■’inconvenient : la presence des Arabes daris le conseil et sustout
le droit pour tous les Mdig^ws du territoir.e d’avoir leurs trou- L
peaux sur les communaux mbritent reflexion; iflky a la dans tous
les cas une source evidente de difficultes pour les colons a peine
linstalfes et qui, dans un pays nouveauout besoin d’une
• situation nettement definie. Si done il n’est pas possible de faire
d’Azib-Zamoun, comme trop peu important.encore, une commune de
plein exercice, du meins peug-on le rattadher & une commune voisine, Bordj-Menaiel' par exemple, tout en lui conservant une exis
tence et des inferos dislibcts, d’en faire en un mot une section de
commune avec un adjoinSja sa tete, G’est lA-desSUs que le gouverneur-general aura bientdt a se prononcer, et, le jour venu, la societe s’empressera d’abdiquer entre les mains des magistrats du
nouveau municipe 1’autorite etdes pbuvoirs qu’elle detfent jusqu’ici.
.
III.
!
, '
Le meme trait© qui avait concbd||A la societ&ie territoire d’AzibZamoun, dan<la province d’ Alger^mettait A Sa deposition le ter' ritoire d’Ain-Tinn, dans la province, de Gonsfaritinej a Touest de
cette ville, et'ffis le coura-nt de l’annee 1873 des mesures avaient
, - ete prises pour wcevoir 1A aussi avant 1’fever un certain nombre
de colons. Plusieurs raisons militaient en faveur de cette region :
le climat en est froid relativemew et parait tout, particulierement
•favorable aux Europeens;■ les Areft, —Wires domaniales pour la
plupart, — y sont tres fertiles et tres recherchees par les indigenes,
qui depuis un temps immemorial les cultivent a bail; des sources
chaudes, d’un debig considerable, pourraient etre utilisees pour
Tirrigation;Par malheur, la natwC'm^m^des'?Heux|lcoupieslle montagpes et de ravins, et l’absencc de routes* en bon etat rendaient
l’execution des travaux publics a la charge du tresor tout a la
feis trop lente et trop couteuse. D’autre part des maladies s’etaient
| declarees parmi les ouvriers qui travaillaient au compte de la so-
�108
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
ciAtA; la construction des maisons n’avanca" pas. On s’est alors
demande a Paris s’il ne valait pas mieux pour le succes de 1’oeuvre
concentrer les efforts de la societe dans la province d’Alger, qui
presente de plus grandes facilites de communications et d’acces;
on y trouvait cet autre avantage de reduire notablement les frais
generaux en confiant tous les details du service A un seul et mAme
agent. En consequence, proposition fut faite au gouvernement de
l’Algerie de lui retroceder le territoire d’Ain-Tinn. Celui-ci accepta
sans difficulte; il prit A sa charge les maisons commencees et en
remboursa le prix integral, se chargeant d’y Atablir lui-meme des
colons. De plus, en echange d’Ain-Tinn, le gouverneur-general s’est
engagA A procurer A la societe d’autres terrains dAfrichAs d’une
Atendue equivalente, a proximity du village d’Azib-Zamoun.
D’ailleurs au moment meme oti la societe se retirait de la pro
vince de Constantine, une premiere compensation s’offrait a elle
dans la province d’Alger. Aussitot aprAs la guerre,, M. Dollfus, le
genereux patriote, l’ancien maire de Mulhouse, le grand indus
triel si connu pour ses institutions philanthropiques, avait entrepris de fonder A ses frais en Algerie un village pour les emigrans
alsaciens-lorraans."!! avait demande et obtenu du gouvernement
colonial la concession du territoire de Boukhalfa, d’une contenance
de 1,300 hectares environ, sur la route d’Alger A Tizi-Ouzou, A
A kilometres A peuprAs de ce dernier point. Un certain nombre de
maisons etaient dejA construites, les families mAme installees,
quand la mort de l’agent qu’il. avait choisi pour le remplacer sur J
les lieux vint contrarier ses Jesseins; en outre son age avance, la
multiplicite des questions que soulAve la creation d’un village entier, la difficult^, ou pour mieux dire 1’impossibilitA materielle qu’il
y a pour un homme seul A les regler par lui-mAme, tout cela ne
lui laissait plus espArer le succAs. DAsireux cependant de voir utiliser les depenses et les travaux dAjA faits, il s’informa aupres de
M. le comte d’Haussonville si la societe ne voudrait point se charger
de sa concession et continuer A sa place 1’oeuvre de colonisation
commencAe. Le territoire de Boukhalfa n’est situ A qu’a une faible
distance d’Azib-Zamoun et du Camp-du-MarAchal, dont il forme en
quelque sorte le prolongement. Il repondait tout A fait aux vues
et aux besoins de la society. On n’eut pas de. peine A s’entendre,
et le 15 juin 1874 le gouverneur-general attribuait A la societe de
protection le territoire de Boukhalfa, rAtrocAdA par M. Dollfus, en
prenant comme bases de la convention les mAmes conditions qui
avaient Ate Atablies dAjA pour Azib-ZamoUn.
Le nouveau village est assis sur un plateau au pied du massif de
Bellona, non loin de la grand’route qui va d’Alger A Tizi-Ouzou.
ElevA de 200 metres environ au-dessus du niveau de la mer, il do- f
�mine les mamelons qui forment la pluSgrande partie de son territoire; plus haut encore dans la montagne se trouve le village in diJ
g£ne des Beni-Boukhalfa avec ses plantations de figuiers et d’oliviers
ombrageant les flancs du Bellona. Les terres de cette region sont
trhs fertiles, bien qu’un peu fortes; plusieurs endroits en sont bois&s,
et cependant la salubrite n’en etait pas parfaite. Ge reproche, il est
vrai, est applicable a toute la vallee du Sebaou, ou les marais formes
par la stagnation des eaux de pluie ©the debortfement du fleuve de
gagent, a l’epoque des grandes t^alewSi, des miasmgs pgrnicieux.
Toutefois, en Afrique, dire d’une region qu’elle est peu salubre ne
signifie pas qu’on ne puisse l’assainir. Les bords du lac Halloula,
dans l’ouest de la Mitidja, etaient autrefois reputes mortels; le des
sechement et les plantations ont fait disparaitre les fievres comme
par enchantement; on citerajt cent examples semblables. Tout arbre
de cinq ans sauve la vie d’un homme, c’est la-bas un adage. Penetree de ce principe, a/peffie en pfeessfe® d> telrttoire, la societe
s’est empressee de mener a bonne fin1’oeuvre de M. Dollfus, poursuivant les travaux de dessechement des parties basses et mareca
geuses, multipfiant partout les plantations en debors dOBles qui
incombaient a l’administration du genie, si bien qu’on ne peut douter aujourd’hui qu’avant trois ans Boukhalfa ne soit un des villages
les plus sains et les plus rians de la Kabylie.
Au reste en toute chose la socihte a suivi pour l’installation de
ce centre la meme methode qu’elle avait adoptee et qui lui avait si
bien rSussi a Azib-Zamoun. Quand elle succeda a M. Dollfus, l’assiette du village, les chemins d’acc&s ainsi que les autres travaux
preliminaires etaient termines. Elle prit aussitot des mesures pour
ajouter vingt mais@0 nouydfesOa-ux dix deja baties et occupies;
quelques retards dans la construction n’ont pas permis d’y envoy er
des colons des l’automne dernier, d’autant qu’il importait d’assurer
avant leur arrivMg l’assainissediifflut'duvpags^n attendant, les terres
laissees libres ont ete louees aux indigenes moyennant un quart des
recoltes; les grains ou fourrages ainsi obtenus sont distribues h titre
d’avance aux families deja sur les lieux; la societe en effet a voulu
faire participer les colons de M. Dollfus a tous les avantages en
fournitures de vivres, de meubles ou de cheptels dont doivent jouir
les siens; encore ces families avaient-elles recu au debut leurs
maisons en toute propriete| elles n’auront done rien a rembourser
de ce chef. Vu la nature des terres, assezSMures h travailler, le lot
de chaque concession a ete fixe &30 hectares en moyenne; une por
tion non allotie est tenue en reserve et servira de communal. Sur
les pentes, la vigne promet de venir fort bien; plusieurs milliers de
ceps sont deji plantes, et parmi les colons qui vont etre envoyes
on aura soin qu’aux laboureui^ s@ient meles quelques vignerons.
�'110
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
D’un autre cote, quoique M. Dollfus ait du renoncera continuer par
lui-meme l’oeuvre qu’il avait entreprise, il n’a pas pretendu s’en
d6sint6resser completement, et, devenu membre honoraire de la
soctete de protection, il s’occupe encore de Boukbalfa pour aug-1
menter le bien-dtre de la colonie. C’est ainsi qu’il songe & faire
construire un four banal, qui rendrait grand service a tout le
village. N’est-il pas triste qu’A Tizi-Ouzou, dans ce pays de ble,
le pain se paie plus cher qu’en France? M. Dollfus voudrait aussi
r6pandre parmi les colons un manuel ecrit, en allemand ou se trouveraient les notions les plus utiles d’agriculture. Il est d’ailleurs
convenu que sur les vingt maisons nouvelles, aujourd’hui pretes et
meublees, cinq ou six lui seront reservees pour y etablir, aux con
ditions de la societe, des colons de son cboix. Toutes les autres,
avec celles qui restent encore vacantes A Azib-Zamoun, seront egalement occupees avant la fin de l’annee. Plus de quatre-vingts
families ont adresse des demandes de concession A la societe; plusieurs sont alliees a des families dejA 6tablies,.d’autres aussi, ayant
une certaine aisance et qui avant de se decider avaient pris soip
d’envoyer un de leurs membres pour visiter les lieux, offrent spontan6ment de verser,. A titre de garantie, une somrae equivalente au
prix de la maison qui leur sera affectee. Ce fait en dit plus que tout
le reste sur le succ&s obtenu par la society et la con fiance legitime
qu’elle a su partout irispirer.
Le troisi&me territoire compris dans le traits primitif avec AinTinn et Azib-Zamoun tire son nom du marechai Bugeaud, qui aux pre
miers jours de la conqudte y campa quelque temps avec ses troupes.
Il est pour ainsi dire l’annexe de celui d’Azib-Zamoun, auquel il
confine A l’opest, et n’est separe A l’est que par une faible distance
de celui de Boukhalfa; il ne contient pas moins de 1,800 hectares
de terres dont la fertilite est proverbiale dans le pays; mais 1’6tat marecageux de certaines parties en rendait jusqu’ici le sejour
peu salubre, et s’opposait A ce qu’on tentat aussitot le peuplement. Aussi des clauses speciales lui sont-elles appliquees dans
le traite : l’etat s’est engage A faire tous les iravaux d’assainisse-j
ment necessaires, comme canaux et plantations;; laysoci6te contribuera pour un quart aux d6penses|’estimees environ 40,000 francs,
et a titre de dedommagement recevra la jouissance immediate du
territoire pour en user au mieux de ses interets; les travaux ter
mines, une expertise decidera s’ils sont reellemeritt suffisans pour
assurer la securite des colons, et alors seulement la societe sera
tenue de peupler sa concession dans les delais pr6vus par la loi.
Comme pour Boukhalfa, l’insalubrit6 du pays n’est rien moins
qu’irremediable f qu’on se figure un fond de vallee, de nature argileuse, encaiss6e par des montagnes .elevees; les marais y sont
�LES ALSACIENS-LORRAINS EN ALGERIE.
Ill
formes non par des eaux souterraines sortant sur place, mais pac
” des eaux pluviates qui s’accumulent en hiver dans des cuvettbs naturelles, d’ou elles ne peuvent s’Echapper et atteindre le thalweg
de la vallEe, c’est-a-dire le lit du Sebaou; il suffisait d’ouvrir a
ces eaux un debouche pour faire disparaitre l’unique cause du
'»• mal. Dans le courant de l’annee derniEred l’administration des
pohts et chausseeOgmt exEcuter unjjvaste reseau de canaux de
dessEchement qui cemprend plus de 16 kilometres et a donne deja
les meilleurs resaLftats, En meme temps, et de concert avec la so
ciety, elle a aclopte pour les plantations un projet d’ensemble dont
1’execution assurera des maintenant l’assainissement complet du
territoire, et plus tard aussi rapprovisionnement des colons.en bois
de construction et de chauflage. Les talus des canau-x o® EtE garnis
d’un grand nombre de jeunes arbres de toute espEce et en parti
fl culier d’eucalyptus; le directeur du jardin d’essai du Hamma Etait
venu d’Alger pour reconnBWw l’Etat des lieux etchoisir par luimeme les essences repondant le mieux a la nature et A l’exposition
du sol: sauleS, trembles j^iera. p^upliers, pour les parties basses
et humides, fjrEnes, muriers, micocpuliers, platanes, pour les endroits plus secs, ailantes et, robiniers pour les pentes rapides et
argileuses, improprEa la culture. On a muLtipli6 aussi les semis
de ricin : cetie plante est en- Algerie d’une vegetation, vigoureuse
et dure plusieurs annees; la surface trbsdeveloppee des feuilles
. contribue efficacement a annibiler rinflueiice. des- Emanations paludeennes; en outre la graine se vend jusqu’a 30 et 40 francs les
100 kilogrammes, et peilt deapnir la sou® d’un revenu important.
DEs que rpmise lui a Ete mite de sa concession, la sodiEtE s’est
empresses d’en tirer parti: les terres anciennement defrichEes ont
Ete louEes aux Arabes suit a prix d’argent, soit contre un quart de
la recolte pris’ffir pied. Depiiis lors, eri raisop^mEme des travaux
de dessEchement, on a pu labourer aussi pour 1’ep.semeihce^ de sor
gho une superficie considerable de terrain sil Iequel de temps
immEmorial la charrue n’avaiSpoiht passe; un garde A cheval aux
frais de la societe veille a ce que la rentrEe du prix de location
se fasse exactemqnt. Les. 20,000 figiiafers et les oliviers qui avoisinaient les fermes de§ indigenes depossedes par la lot du sequestre
ont ete egalement loues sur encheres, et le revenu tout entier consacrE aux travaux de plantation et d’asSechement; ces arbres,
repartis plus tard ehtre les l$tsf qes: colons ou rEservEs sei on le
cas a la commune, Bonstituerontpour le futur village une veri
table rich esse. Il en est de Ina Erne de I’orangerie au pied du village indigene de Tad mein : plan tEe, comme toutes les orangeries
arabes, dans une sorwde ravin a l’abri des vents du nord-est, re
mar quable par la grosseur et l’abondahce de ses fruits, elle n’aurait
�112
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
besoin que d’etre regularisee par le placement de quelques pieds
nouveaux. A la verite, elle se trouve encore aux mains dim chef
arabe trAs influent, president du douar Ghenacha, qui a AtA exempte!
du sequestre et qui tient fort a la conserver. Bien que le gouverJ
neur-general ait prononce dAs le 21 avril dernier l’expropriation
definitive avec prise de possession d’urgence des enclaves du territoire, cette mesure tarde un peu & s’exAcuter. Gomme a Azib-Zamoun, comme A Boiikhalfa, les indigenes sAquestrAs ou non tiennent toujours le pays; il faudra Avidemment que 1’administration
s’occupe de leur assignor de nouveaux cantonnemens, et mette fin &
unetat de choses qui pourrait en se prolongeant porter entrave & la
colonisation.
Une autre mesure de precaution indispensable est celle qui re
garde les empiAtemens du Sebaou. Ge cours d’eau assez conside
rable, et dont le lit se deplace frAquemment, s’est depuis quelques
annees violemment rejetA sur sa rive gauche; chacune de ses crues
entraine et fait disparaitre des quantites de terre considerables.
Deja par suite de ces erosions la route qui longeait le fleuve a du
Atre A trois reprises reportee de plusieurs centaines de metres dans
1’interieur; tout derniArement encore les eaux, gonflees par les
pluies, ont cause sur tout leur parcoUrs de nombreux degats; il est
d’autant plus regrettable que 1’administration ait cru devoir ajour- i
ner jusqu’ici les travaux reclaipes par la societe. De quelle sorte
seront ces travauxT Que vaut-il mieux d’une digue ou d’un Aperon
qui rejetterait le Sebaou dans son ancien lit, c’est-i-dire vers sa
rive droite, dont la nature rocheuse pent davantage resister A ses
attaques? Aux ingenieurs de decider. Ge qui importe surtout, c’est
d’opposer & la marche du fleuve un obstacle prompt et eflicace sous
peine de le voir entrainer lambeau par lambeau tout ce fertile territoird, et arriver en peu d’annees au pied mAme de la montagne.
Gela fait, on n’aura plus qu’a commenced la construction du futur
village, dont l’emplacement est deja fixe sur la rampe d’une petite
colline, au-dessus du village arabe actuel.
Quant aux autres terrains que doit recevoir la societe dans la
province d’Alger en Achange d’Ain-Tinn retrocAdA, le choix lui a AtA
laissA par le gAnAral Ghanzy entre plusieurs emplacemens : Ghabet-el-Ameur d’un cotA, Taourga et Dra-ben-Kedda de 1’autre, prAsentant tous de reels avantages. Ghabet-el-Ameur, sur l’ancienne
route des fflssers a Dra-el-Mizan, est dans une position trAs saine,
grace aux vents de mer qui le visitent constamment; les terres y
sont d’excellente qualitA, les eaux n’y manquent pas, on y trouverait de la pierre h batir et de la pierre A, chaux; dans le voisinage
est une for At de;chenes-lieges exploitAe depuis dix ans; par malheur
lepays ofire encore peu de sAcurite; les Beni-Khalfoun, sur lesquels
�' -
113
LES ALSAGIENS-LORRAINS EN ALGERIE. "
✓
Isffl^s^randFpSnW de ce territoire a ete confisquee, se sont fait
remarquer par leur achamemerit dans la derni&re insurrection.
Taoiirga, au point central d’un plateau qui domine le Sebaou, jouit]
egSlement d’une position salubre et d’eaux abondantes, on y trouva
des bois d’orangers et d’oliviers, des figuiers nombreux; mais la
route est encore & faire qui, partant de Dellys et aboutissant au
[Pont-Neuf du Sebaou, pr&s de Kouannin, mettrait le futur village
en communication avec Dellys et la region comprise entre Azib-Zamoun et Tizi-Ouzou; la aussi les indigenes se montrent assez hostiles. Resterait le te^riWarie deDra-ben-Kedda,.trav(fi^par la route
de Tizi-Ouzou et reliant le Camp-du-Mb^chal & Boukhalfa; c’est le
meilleur choix que puisse faire la society, dont tous les territoires
seraient ainsi reunis en un meme groupe; le sol, moitie plaines,
moitie collines, se prete & toutes le§ duBures; il faudra seulement,
pour rendre les lieux habitables, y e^pputer, alnsi qji’on l’a fait au
Gamp-du-Marechal, de grands travaux de canalisation et de boisement.
Comme on le voit, la societe ne manquera point de terres pour
ses colons a venir; cependant, tauten rdservaiit ses droits, elle a
cru plus sage de se borner aux trois e^lacemMis qu’elle occupe
aujourd’hui et de ne point disperser A l’infmi ses ressources et ses
efforts. D’ailleurs le soin de ses proteges d’Algerie ne pouvait lui
faire oublier ceux qui, place<folus pies cfe iious, ont droit encore a
son assistance. Elle a done, avec le mdme zfele que par le passe,
continue a venir en aide par tous les nlws »x Alsaciens-Lorrains refugies en France : les sommes depensees fpar elle en
Subventions aujlcomitds provinciaux, spins medicaw,. secours en
argent, frais de placemens ou de transports, distributions de vote
mens, de logement oiijde nourrituafe, n’ont pas ce^M d’atteindre
depuis trois ans un chiffre considerable. Toutefois, comme il est naturel, le mouvement de 1’emigSaon s’est fort ralenti : 41 ne se
compose plus guOre que de jeunes Alsajciens qui,Mrrives & l’age du
service militaire, se refusent A res^er Pr&ssiens et passent la frontiOre; or, si trop de raisons nous font un devoir de ne les point atti—
ter en France, du moins est-il permi^de les accueillir; souvent
aussi leurs families les suivent ou les rejoignent^; et cette charge
nouvelle retombe sur la‘s4ociete; il n’y a LA malgre tout rien de
comparable avec Ta 111 u once deS premiers jours. Quant aux families
emigrees depuis longtemS de mofiis en moins elles auront besoiri
d’assistance. Jamais il n’a e|| dans’les intentions des fondateurs de
la societe de creer en France une classe^pecifele de Francais : leurs
efforts ont toujours tendu au contraire a amen^r la fusion la plus
Eompldte entre les Alsaciens-Lorrains obliges de quitter leur pays
tome xi. — 1875.
8
�ffli
REVUE’ DES DEUX MONDES.
natal et leurs compatflotes du reste de la France. (Jette fusion est
chose accomplie; lamajeure partie des emigres qui avaient eu cl’abord
jlrecours a la societe ont maintenant acquis droit de cit6 dans les
lieux ou ils ont fixe leur residence, et, accueillis de tous avec bienveillance, y jouissent, en cas de detresse momentanee, des ressources offertes & l’universalite des citoyens. Pour toutes ces rai
sons, l’oeuvre de la societe est destinee & se transformer peu & peu.
Jusqu’ici les besoins nombreux auxquels elle avait eu & subvenir
l’avaient empechee de faire pour les enfans de sbs'protCges tout ce
qu’elle eut(V6ulu*; 1’instruction tiendra desormais une large place
dans son budget. En 1874, sans parler des allocations a plusieurs
etablissemens laiquds ou religieux qui ont recueilli et qui elhvent de
jeunes Alsaciens-Eorrains/la societe a pourvu, tant a Paris qu’en
province, a ^education et a I’instruction de pres d’tine centaine
d’enfans des divers cultes|fidCle!a; son esprit de tolerance et d’im
partial^^ elle laisse aiix parens eux-m£mes le choix des maisons
oti seraient elev&S leurs fils.
M. de Naurois, un des membres fondateurs, avait offert a la socidte une propriele batie et environ 8,000 metres de terrain boise
qu’il posSedait au Vesinet ftdii etait' alors convent! de creer un orpheliiiat pour leS: enfans alsaciens-lorrains; c’e^t encore M. de Naurois qui a Voulu se charger‘des depenses'de construction et d’amenagerflent n^06ssaire's et qui a fait a cette intention tin nouveau don
de 50,000 francs. Grace a sa g&nArosite, les batimens seront prets
a recevoif avant l’automne 25 jeunes filles d’Alsace-Lorraine, et ce
nombre pOurrait 6tre plus que doubly. Deja plusieurs personnes de
la haute societe^parisierine ont declare leur intention de fonder a
leurs frais des life ou places g-ratuites dans l’etablissement; cet
exemple ne tardera pas sans doute a etre suivi et permettra de donner a Hnstitiition tout le developpement qu’elle comporte. Il semble
superflu de dire que la meme sollicitude, lemSme soin du detail qui
avait assure le succ&s du Village d’Azib-Zamoun a preside 4. l’installation du riouvel orphelihat.'Vraiment infatigables, avant de rien
entreprendre,Jles membres dirigeans de la societe ont voulu visi
ter par eux-m^mes les meilleurs etablissemens en ce genre, aussi
bien publics que privCs; ils se sont rendu compte des Economies pos
sibles et des perfectionnemens desirables,tils ont comparh les me
thodes; juge des r&Sultats. Il ne sufiit pas en effet de faire oeuvre
de Charite enverS les enfans orphelins, il faut encore les rendre le
plus tot possible utiles a eux-m6mes et A leufs semblables. G’est
d’aprfes cfitte idle essentiellement pratique que la maison du Vesi
net vient d’etre organise®.
Nous avonS suivi la society dans le detail de ses operations, nous
l’avons vue etendaht partout son action secourable sur la famille
�v
LES ALSACIENS-LORRAINS EN ALGERIE.
HHH
115
sans travail et sur 1’enfant sans pAre, de la front.iAre des Vosges au
fond de la Kabylie. Si elle a pu tant faire et faire si bien, ce n’est
pas settlement par le devoument de son president, le zAle intelli
gent de ses membres, c’est grace encore a la sympathie du publidl
francais. Des la premiere annee, le total des souscriptions s’est elevA
au chiffre enorme de 2,500,000 francs; depuis lors les offrandes
n’ont cessA d’affluer de tous les cotes ejksous toutes les formes. Un
jour c’est le vice-amiral Gloue, alors gouverneur de la Martinique,
qui envoie, au nom de la colonie, 50,000 francs, produb; net d’une
loterie destinee d’abord A la liberation du territoire; une autre fois
c’est Mme la marechaie de Mac - Mahon: qui, attpibue & la societe
10,000 francs sur l^enJSe d’une jFew^SentatibiM^fitrale en faveur des Alsaciens-Lorrains. En beaucoup d’endroits egalement, on
a organise au profit de l’eeuvre de^bals, des concerts),* des represen
tations dramatiques. Plusieurs conseils-gAneraux, ceux du Gard, du
Morbihan, de la Cote-d’Or, ont votedel subventions A* la societe.
Ili’Universite surtout sip3 fait rem-arquer par', la frequence et l’importance de ses dons; il y a quelques^'ours A peine, lefeice-recteur
de l’Academie de Paris faisait effectuer a la caisse de la society un
nouveau verser&nt de plus^de WyOOO fmncs. Atoute|ces sommes
de provenances diverges, gil fauUajouter le produit dw’exposition
install^e l’an# dernjeiLdan|j lSlsaJons de la prBidence de l’ancien
corps lAgislatif. Personne n’a oubliA l’eclatant succAs qu’elle obtint.
A certains joursle nombre des entrees atteignit 5,000 et 6,000.
Aussi, quand tout fut terminA, que chaque objet intact eut ete
Liendu A son possesseur, que tous les frais d’installation, de surveil
lance, d’emballage, eurent ete payi|s, il restait encore A la societe
186,000 francs nets qu|ont pu Atre appliques A la creation de vil
lages en Algerie.
VoilA comment la societe a pu dBnement -soutenir son role et
suffire jusqu’i^Jaux depenses multiples qui lui incombaient; dans
une des derniAres sAanees du comi^lqle budget de l’annee prochaine vient d’etre arrete; malgrA^^mplartajftfost^Aductions,
il monte encore A 300,000 francs, sur lesquels plusjde 100,000
sont destines A l’assistance sous toutes ses formes,:.30,000 A l’instruction, 20,000 A l’asile du VAsinet, 120,000 enfm A l’Algerie.
Cependant ce dernier effort aura ^Esqudh completement vide la
caisse de la society Depuis ygtempMHj^cWnitAs de province
ont du limiter leur action et ne plus distribuer que, de rares secours; d’autre part, le sous-comite de la- commission Wolowski,
specialement charge de 1’AlgArie, a termine son oeuwe, les fonds
qui lui avaient AtA confies sont Apuises; il n’y a plus guAre que la
pociete de protection qui fo||ctionne encore et puisse venir en aide
aux Alsaciens-Lorrains sans ressources. Il lui faudra Avidemment
�416
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
avant peu faire appel une fois de plus a la gen6rosit6 du public; cet
appel ne saurait manquer d’etre entendu. On peut d’ailleurs s’en
remettre & l’intelligence et au bon gout des organisateurs de l’ex-l
position derni4re pour etre sur qu’avec eux l’espoir des plus curieux
ne sera point decu.
Nous savons comment tout d’abord le premier credit de 1 mill
lion dont disposait le comite de colonisation avait ete consacre par
lui a completer l’installatioja de toutes, les families debarquees en
Algerie avant son intervention; Les credits qui suivirent, s’elevant
& 1,300,000 francs environ, devaient surtout parer & l’avenir. Ainsi
500,000 francs ont 6te delegues en diff&rentes fois par le comite
au gouvernement de 1’Algerie pour batir des maisons nouvelles;
400,000 ont servi 4 l’assistance personnelle des families, c’esta-dire aux dGpenses en cheptels, instrumens, vivres ou semences;
90,000 francs ont ete alioues, 4 raison de 30,000 par province, aux
trois ev^ques d’Algerj de Constantine et d’Oran, pour la construc
tion dans les nouveaux villages de maisons de soeurs destinees
a servir d’ecoles ou salles d’asile pour les jeunes enfans; enfin une
centaine de mille francs ont ete remis, partie aux deux comites
d’Alger et de Constantine, partie 4 divers etablissemens de charite
qui avaient secouru les immigrans; 200,000 francs, restaient en
core disponibles: sur/la proposition de son rapporteur, le comite
les a consaeres A venir en aide 4 toutes les families reellement installees a la fin du mois de mars dernier, et qui, par suite de pertes
de bestiaux,', de mauvaises recoltes ou d’autres accidens, avaient
besoin d’une assistance.proIongee; cet argent a ete reparti entre les
differens villages d’apres des listes ipdividuelles fournies egalement par les comites prives et les autorites locales.
Bref, a la date du 4er mars 1875, ainsi que le constate M. Guynemer dans son rapport officiel (4), il y avait sur toute l’etendue de
la colonie 863 families d’Alsaciens-Lorrains installes au titre 2
comme colons du gouvernement et dq comite de colonisation. Ces
families■■ etaient ainsi reparties 272 dans la province d’Alger,
397 dans la province de Constantine, 494 dans la province d’Oran,
formant ensemble un total de 4,445 personnes; Le nombre des ha
bitations construites pour les loger S’elkve 4 909, distribuees dans
56 villages; une quarantaine etaient encore vacantes, mais doivent
etre occupees sous peu par des families nouvelles dont l’etablissement incombera au gouvernement colonial, puisque les fonds du
comite sont entierement epuises.'f
Si maintenant on cherche 4 se rendre compte des depenses faites
(1) Rapport presents le 31 jjtallet 1874 & la commission gendrale des AIsaciens-Lorrains au nom du sous-coittite de Colonisation par M. Guynemer, membre de la com
mission.
/
\
.
�11
117
*tam paiqle^puyernemenE cmTAlgene que parle coTfi* ue 4cOTum5
gaxroS^ si l’on y joint 125,000 francs fournis par la sociere de
gproiWljon en dehors de ce qu’elle a fait pour ses villages, plus
700,000 francs depenses par les divers comites de France et d’Algerie en secours de toute espCce, on trouve qu’en definitive l’etablissement des 909 families en question n’aura pas coute moins de
A,800,000 francs, rieij.que pour les maisons et l’a^sistance, soit en
moyenne 5,300 francs par famille; encore faut-il observer que ces
installations, modestes en elles-memes, ont etC singulierement
facilities par la presence et l’activite des nombreux agens civils et
militaires dont disposele gouvernement. Dans les chiffres precedens ne sont pa® Emprises les depenses d’interet collectif nicessaires pour la creation meme des village!, telles qfe travaux d’eau,
rues, edifices publcs, etc.; ces dtpewi< p®>W©nt, etre ivaluies a
150,000 francs pour un centre de 50 feux, et de ce chef la part
proportionnelle des Alsaciens-Lorrains monterait encore a plus d’un
million. Assurem||nt ee sont la, dit le rapporteur, des chiffres eleves, et l’on ne peut se dissimuler que la colonisation, qui doit etre
en somme le but de notre occupation lointaine, serait reellement
impossible, si elle devait etre faite uniquement par l’etat et A ses
frais. L’importance du role de la sociite de protection en Algerie,
son utilite, sa grandeur, c’est qu’elle y a precisementrepresents
la part de 1’initiative privee. Elle avait sur l’etat ce double avan
tage que son cercle d’action Stait circonscrit, qu’elle jouissait dans
ses depenses de t.sute latitude : ainsi le chiffre .de 6,000 francs, fixe
d’abord comme limite extreme des avanefes qu|elle devait faire aux
colons, a ete porta pour certaines fanawesnombreuses jusqu’a
8,000 et meme 8,500 francs. Rien non plus n’a ete neglige de ce
qui devait servir au succCs defmitif: choix d’un emplacement com
mode et suffisamment Oubre, construction prealabli et amenagement des maisons, achat complet du mobilier, des animaux, du
materiel agricole, multiplicity des plantations, capacity des fa
milies, surveillance attentive, minutieuse, infatigable, jusqu’au
jour ou le colon peut se tirei? d’affaireilaiataut de precautions commandees par 1’experience ou le bon sens, que la societe s’est
fait un principe . d’appKquer sur ses con-c©s!img?1edonMerie s’est
bien trouvee, et qu’elle a eu le plaisir de voir en plus d’un cas
appliquCes aprCs elle par le gpMfrneWaM.lj^M6me jwter le plus
grand bien de la colonie et desj immigrans. A un autre point
de vue, son exemple pourra etre profitable : quels que soient en
effet les sacrifices que necessite la mise en valeur d’une concession
de terres, il y a, nous l’avons vu, dans l’ttiBlis^ement de tout nou
veau centre une veritable creation de capital qui compense largement les premieres avances indispensables; on ne saurait done trop
�118
REVUE DES DEWlMONDESl
encourager l’existence d’entreprises ou de soci&tes particulieres qui,
tout en poursuivant dans la colonisation leurs interets propres, contribueront & accroitre les forces vives du pays.
Trois causes principales se sont opposees jusqu’ici au developpement de la colonisation francaise en Algerie : le manque de routes,
le manque de bois, enfm, il faut bien le dire, l’inferiorite morale
ou le colon s’est toujours trouve vis-A-vis de l’Arabe. Les Tures et
les indigenes n’avaient pas besoin de routes, vivant et commercant d’une facon toute primitive; mais notre civilisation ne peut
s’en passer. Il suffirait lA-bas de quelques voies de communication
bien tracbes pour rendre la vie A d’immenses territoires, jusqu’A ce
jour p'resque improductifs : par malheur, la penurie du budget co
lonial ne permet pas de faire la moindre partie de ce qui serait
utile; mais pourquoi done ne pas employer 1’armee, comme on 1’a
propose’dejA, Ada construction des routes et A la creation des vil
lages? N’6tait-ce paslA 1’idee du marechal Bugeaud, celui des gouverneurs qui a le plus fait peut-Atre pour TAlgerie? N’etait-ce pas
bien avant lui l’habitude des Romains, ces maitres en colonisation,^
dont les traces se retrouvent A chaque pasjusqu’atifond du desert?
CerteS nos braves soldats ne p urraient en temps de paix rendre au
pays de plus grands services.
Depuis des sixties,»1’Arabe s’acharne A ddtruire le bois; passant prbs d’und fordt/par pur caprice il y met le feu^ ses troupeaux
<
font le rested La chevrb suttout est terrible t le mouton coupe, la
chbvre saccage, detruit; elle se plait A aller chercher sa nourriture
partout ou la vegetation tente ses premiers essais; elle broute les
pousses dds? jeunes arbres et Ks maintient perpetuellement A l’etat
de buissonS. Les consequences sent fables A deduire: ou manque
le bois, tout manque egalemeMit, l’eau, les prairiei, les materiaux
pour conStruire ?>W terre seuld'Feste, aride et dtsolOe. Ici des me-J
sures sevAres de repf^Ssion coritre ces stspides destructeurs des
forAts arrAteront le mal dans son principe; il s’agira ensuite de
le repairer; par des reboisemens successifs, par des plantations
multipliees, ainsi que l’a pratique la sociAte dans ses villages, l’administration d’une part? les colons de l’autre5, peuvent faire beaucoup pour l’assainissementefla rfehesse de Ja contrde.
Quant aux indigenes eux-mAmes, dl n’y a point d’illusion a se
faire sur les ^sentimens qu’ils nourrissent A notre egard. Comme
chretiens, comtne conquerans, nous leur’sbmmes odieux, et malgre
le peu de succAs des insurrections pree'edentes, ils conservent encore
l’espoir de nods jeter A la mer. Le Coran ne leur dit-il pas : « Que
la maiddiction de Dieu atteigne les infidbles, les juifs et les chretiens.
— Tuez-les partout ou vous les trouverez, et chassez-les d’ou ils
vous ont chasses? » Jamais ils n’ont accepte notre domination, ils se
�MH ALSACIENS-LORRAINS EN ALGERIE.
119
contfflentde la subir. C’etait lors du second voyage de MM. d’Haussonville et Guynemer en Algerie
Omar-Zamoun etait ve-nu
trouver le chef de cette societe qui le remplacait sur son terriitoire.
Grand, beau, l’ceil profond, le visage encadre d’une Apaisse barbe
noire, vAtu de sa grande toge de soie d une blancheur immaculee,
il avait Fair d’un personnage antique. Sans rien perdre de sa di
gnite, il avail pris selon l’usage un pan de Ffaabitdu puissant etran-J
ger et l’avait baise*, puis, toujours fier, corame d’egal & egal, il
avait expose sa requAte: qu’allaient devenir tous ces malheureux
qui l’entouraient et qui Ataient ses clieris? comment pourraient-ils
vivre, depossedes de-, leurs terres? ne voukit-on pas avoir pitie
d’eux? Il ne parlait que pour les siens, semblait s’oublier lui-meme.
En revanche, le lendemab, 200 Arabes etaient accroupis a la porte
des deux visiteurs9 graves, silencieux, sordides, les membres a
peine couverts de burnous en lapibeaux .Ils demeurArent deux jours
entiers dans cette attitude de supplication muette, cherchant a ex
citer la compassion.. Gomme une des personnes qui sq trouvaient la
K’adressait a l’un d’eux: — Tu dis qu’onj’a pris tes figuiers,Hes oliviers, tes terres? Il est vraipmais pourquoi doncalkis-tu l’autre an
nee couper des tAtes a Palestro?— Bahfque veux-tu? repondit 1 in
digene dans ce patois mAle d’arabe et de francak qui est la langue
sabir, que veux-tu? c’Atait la guerre. — G’etait la guerre, A merveille; aussi tu vois oiicela t’a conduit. —Eh bien! oui, poursuivit-il sans plus s’emouvoir, que veux-tu? Je sais; fais ce.que tu
voudras; tu, es le plus fort maintenantj
ckmiia, c’est bien,
c’est bien. — Et il garda le silence. Voila ou il s en sont tons; ils se
rAsignent... en attendant mieux,. Getype aristoeratique; cette pu
rely de traits, ces maniAres distinguAes,; chevaleresquesHpius apparentes que reelles et sous lesquelles fsecache trop solvent a l’egard
des roumis une insigne mauvaise foi, ce titre mltae de vaincu, qui
chez nous est une protection, leur ont valu de i)|re part One sympathie qu’ils ne nous ont point rendue. Que longtempMs colons,
arrivant en AlgArie^ aient At© le rebut des nations de F,Europe, gens
peu estimablesk tous Agards et plus dangereux qu’uiiles a. leur
nouvelle patrik cela ne peut etre mis en doute. Quoi qu’iil en soit,
m’administration elle-meme s’est trouvee portee plus d’unefwfe a sacrifier les vAritabtes interAts de la colonisation aux . reclamations
plus ou moins fondles de la population ihdiigAne. 11 senit temps de
revenir sur cette trop longue erreur par la condescend ance et la
douceur, on n’a rien a gagner auprAs des indigenes^Finsurrection
de 1871 Fa bien prouvA. D’utj autre ®dte| les noWeaux colons
qu’amAne le flot croissant de ihemigration offrent des garanties sArieuses de moralitA: c’est eux evidemment que doivent aller chercher les faveurs de F autorite; pour les Arabes, toujours hostiles,
�REVUE DESIDL UJMHH jNDL!>IM
toujours malveillans, ils n’ont droit desormais qu’A la stride justice
et doivent £tre maintenus prudemment, & Tencontre de ce quasi!
pratiquait jusqu’ici, dans la dependance morale de FEurop£en.
Tous ceux qui se sont occup6s de l’Algerie, tous ceux qui Font
connue, sont unanimes sur ce point: il importe de placer comme
contre-poids en face de la race vaincue une population europeenne
vaillante, laborieuse et aussi nombreuse que possible. Or l’yiement
indigene domine encore en Alg6rie dans la proportion de dix contre
un. Cette anomalie ne saurait durer : 909 families d’Alsaciens-Lorrains viennent d’etre installees par le gouvernement; qu’on en ajoute
une trentaine qui possedaient des ressources suffisantes et qui ont
regu des concessions au litre ler, une centaine enfin installees par
la societe ou M. Dollfus a Aztb-Zambun et A Boukhalfa, cela fait un
chiffre total de plus de mille families/5,000 personnes environ,
dont l’etablissement est constate aujqurd’hui et dont les deux tiers au
moins feront souche de colonstles immigrans, mariesou non, etablis
dans les villes, fourniraient bien un millier de plus. En outre cette
affluence del victimes de la guerre et l’interet patriotique dont elles
etaient l’objet n’ont paS'pep confribu6 A attirer sur notre colonie
africaine Fattention g’eiierale. teDepuis les derniers evenemens, dit
M. Guynemer, il s’jesst pro&uit un pourant d’immigration venant de
nos departeihens du midi, dont Fimportance egale, s’il ne le surpasse, le coutant alsacien-lorrain, qui en a ete la cause premiere.
L’administration admet pijourd’hui qu’en trois ans la population
francaise de FAlgerie s’est augmentee de plus de 10,000 personnes.»
L’impulsion est donnee, il n’y a plus qu’A ppursuivre. Par une
coincidence heureuse pour la colonie, le sequestre op ere sur les tri
bus rebelles a mis entre les mains de l’etat des quantites de terres
considerables. Qu’on fasse appel A l’initiative privee, qu’on la pro-1
tege et l’encburage par tous les moyens. Le general Chanzy vient
d’etablir A Alger un bureau special de renseignemens pour les immigrans; ils y pourfont connaitre la quantite et la situation des
terres immediatement disponibles; c’est une mesure excellente.
Plus de ces formalins ruineuses, plus de .ces lenteurs administratives qui trop souvent precedaient la delivfance d’une concession
et qui lassaieni le bon vouloir le plus energique. Les travailleurs
alors accourront en foule, et FAlgerie deviendra vraiment ce qu’elle
doit etre, uhe province de la France. Sans doute l’muvre de coloni
sation est toujours difficile < coftteuse. 11.'fautj aux debuts surtout,
de Fargent, beaucoup d’argent, du d^voument aussi sans compter.
Qu’A cela ne tienne : la society de protection a voulu prouver pour
sa part que, dds qu’il s’agit de la grandeur et de la prosperity de la
France, ni Fun ni l’autre ne feront defaut.
L. Louis-Lande.
I
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a
�LES ORIGINES
A
Lorsqu’une invention est arrivee au dernier degr£ de perfection
et de simplicity, la penSee ne se reprysente pasfacilement la marche
qu’on a suivie pour atteindr.e si hauM Veut-on retrouver la voie qui
a conduit l’homme, de procedes en procedes, aux oeuvres qu’on a
sous les yeux, il faut souvent depenser .presque autant de pen6trae
tion qu’en a demande la creation de ces procedes memes. Nous
sommes si loin des moyens grossiers qui Constituent le .point de
depart de l’invention que nous ne discernons pas tout cl’abord le
fil qui les rattache a la conception derditere. Tel est le cas pour
Tecriture, cette merveilleuse decouverte qui nous semble aujourd’hui si simple, familiarises que nous sommes avec elle d£s notre
enfance. Elle a exige pour devenir ce qu’elle est des siecles de tatonnemens et d’efforts^ el'le a une longue histoire dont les debuts
remontent a la nuit des ages, et que le vulgaire ne soupconne pas.
G’est au reste ce qui eut lieu dans l’antiquite pour les inventions
les plus utiles, tout aU moins les plus usuelles. On en connait moins
l’origine que celle de eertaines conceptions bizarres et d’un emploi
parfois sterile. Gependant quelle histoire qffre plus d’interet que
celle du procede qui a permis d’etendre efede completer la parole,
qui a donne la-»vie & la science en lui fownissant desmoyens de
retenir et de transmettre les notions acquises par l’ohsewation et
l’exp6rience, et qui est ainsi devenu le vehicle de toutes les autres
inventions? L’histoire de l’ecriture esti une des pagesiles plus cu
rieuses des annales de l’esprit humain/ elle nous fait :.to;ucher du
doigt les premiers expediens a l’aide^desquels l’diomme est parvenu
non-seulement a fixer sa pensee, mais a l^eclaircir etia la particulariser. Que de notions acquises seraient sans l’ecriture demeurees
rVagues et incompletes ! Cette histoire nous apporte la preuve de
la marche progressive de l’intelligence chez l’homme et de la puis
\
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
sance de propagation qu’ont eue les oeuvres dtt genie humain.
Comme l’histoire de toutes les inventions, elle a l’avantage de
nous montrer la fagon dont on s’y est pris dans le principe pour
rendre ce qui semblait impossible & rendre, pour accomplir ce
qui paraissait inex&cutable; elle nous donne done une lecon de
m&thode qui trouvera son application en bien d’autres choses!
Pourtant Fhistofre de Fecriture, on n’aurait pas reussi, il y||
seulement trois quarts de sikcle, & l’esquisser. On ne savait alors
sur l’origine des Sttres que les fables qui nous furenl transmises
par les Grecs; on ne possedait aucun des monumens propres a nous
faire remonter au berceau de FinVention, et, les eut-on possedes,
on eut ete incapable de les.interpreter. Il a fallu les recens travaux
de Far heotogie ygyptienne, orientale, mexicaine, les recherches
des voyageurs et des philologues, pour reconstituer les materiaux
qui permettent d’ecrire 1’histoire des transformations de Fecriture..
C’est lacomparaison des phynomynes que presentent-les divers sys*
t&mes graphiquesv des metamorphoses de leurssignes aux differens ages, qui a rendu possible un apercu tel que celui qui va
suivre. Ge qui avaitpu etre taxe d’abord soit d’ihvraisemblable, soit
de purement caajectural, a pris, grace aux monumens, le caractere
de l’dyidence. E-ecriturer aussi bien quede langage, nous apparalt
comme le produit de Faction patient© des siecles, et ce qui affect©
aujourd’hui uri remarquable aspect dhinite et de regularity, loin
d’avoir ete la cr6ation spontanee et; metho dique du genie d’un individu, ne fut que le resultat lent d’artifices divers plus ou moins
ingenieux qui se sont succede souvent en se inPlant, et qui trahissaient a leur debut I’insuffisance des conceptions qui les firent naitre.
L’homme n’eut pas plus tPt acquis les premiers elemens des connaissances indispensables & son developpemetft intellectuel et mo
ral. qu’il dut sentir la necessity d’aider sa memoire a conserver les
notions qu’elle s’etait appropriees. Il recourut d’abord a des pro
cedes tree imparfaits, propres seulement a eVeifler la pensee du fait
dont il voulait perpetuer le souvenir; il en associa Fidee a des objets physiques observes ou fabriques par lui. Quand l’homme eut
quelque peu grandfepn intelligence, Fun des moyens mnymoniques
les plus naturels qui s’offrit &4ui fut d’exyeuter une image plus ou
moins exacte de ce qu’il avait vu Ou pensd, et cette representation
figuree fl taillee dans une substance suffisamment resistante ou
tracee sur une surface qui se pretait au dessin, Servit non-seulement a se rappeler ee qu’on craignait d’oublier, mais encore a en
communiquer la connaissance a autrui. Toutefois, dans l’enfance
�HISTOIRE DE L’ECRITURE.
123
de I’Wmamte, la main etait encore maladroite et inexpbrimentee.
'Souvent elle ne pouvait meme pas s’essayer a des ebauches gros-J
Bibles; certaines races semblent avoir etb totalement incapables d’un
pareil travail. Bien des populations sauvages se bornbrent A entailler une matibre dure, h y faire des marques de diverses formes auxquelles elles attachaient les notions qnGL^agUsa'it de transmettre.
On incisait 1’eco.rce des arbres&la pierre, on gravait, surges planchettes, on dcssinait sur des peaux ou de larges feuilles iseches les
signes conventionnels qu’on avait adoptes; ces signes etaient genbralement peu compliqies. On employs aussi des fences, des cordes
auxquelles on faisait des noeuds a la facon de ces ge-ns qui font &
leur mouchoir une come pour se rappeler une chose qu?il|' craignent d’oublier Ife lendemain. Suivant la tradition* chinoise , les
premiers hahitans des bowb du Bfoang-Ho se servaient de cordelettes nouees a des batons en guise d’ecriture* Oe proobde est encore
Usite chez le$ Miao, barbares? des inontagnes du sud-ouest de la
Chine; il ne semble guere propre & consigner des idees bien com
plexes, ii relate® des evbnemens etendusss Pourtant. au Ilerou il
donna naissance a un systbme tres perfectionne de notations, les
quipos, ou, pa® l’associatiora de cordelettes de differentescouleurs
diversement agencees, on etait parvenu a exprimer une foule de
choses, en sorte que- dansl’emplire des Incas les quipos suppleaient
assez heureusement a IZignorance de>d’ecriture.XLes batons noueux
attaches it des cordes paralssent en Chine avoir ete le point de de
part de ces-mysterieux diagrammes dont on f|fcaitE,em@<tbr 1’in
vention au roi Fou-Hi et dont il est traite dans XY-King,un des
livres sacres du Celeste-Empire. Avant que l’alphabet ouigour,
d’origine syriaque, eut ete adopte chez les Tartares, les chefs sb
servaient pour transmettre leurs ordres des khe-mou ou batonnets
entailles. Quand les populations germaniques recurent la connaissance des lettres Fatines, elles leur donnbrent le noWde buch-staberi) dont le sens primitif eSt celp. de batons^ parce que deibatonnets entailles avaient d’abord servi A ces populations do; moyens
pour se communiquer leurs idees. L’Expression correspondante de
bok-stafir dbsigne encore chez les Scandinaves les baguettes sur
lesquelles on grave des signes mysterieux: cela rappelle ce que nous
rapporte Tacite des anciens Germains, lesquels faisaient des marques
aux fragmens d’une branche d’arbre fruitier qu’ils avaient coupee,
et se servaient (W morceaftW^w marques pour la divination.
La representation figuree des objets se pretait plus que ces gros
siers procedes a traduire aux yeux la pensee; elle en assurait mieux
la transmission. tfe»ia plupart des tribus sauvages donees de
quelque aptitude a dessiner y^ont-elles eu recoin?/ G”est de la
qu’est sortie l’ecriture propremeht Me. On A rencontre chez une
�12A
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
foule de tribus sauvages ou quasi sauvages de ces images quf’dAe^S!
lent plus ou moins le sentiment des formes; elles n’ont pointulte
simplement le produit de l’instinct d’imitation qui caracterise notre
espAce; l’objet en etait surtout de relater certains evAnemens et.
certaines idees. Il n’y a pas un siAcle que la plupart des Indiens
de l’Amerique du Nord avaient Ifhabitude d’exAcuter des peintures
representant d’une facon plus.ou moins abrAgAe leurs expeditions
guerriAres, leurs chasses, leurs peches, leurs migrations, et a l’aide
desquelles ils se rappelaient les phAnomAnes qui les avaient frap
pes, les aVentures ou ils avaient AtA engages. Les Peaux-Rouges
consignaient aussi dans ces grossiers tableaux leur science et leur
mythologie, des prescriptions medicales et des formules magiques.
Ils se servaient d’un pareil moyen pour transmettre des ordres et
envoyer des propositions A leurs ennemis et A leurs allies. L’on a
public quelques-unes de ces peintures, qui ressemblent, A s’y meprendre, aux dessins que nous barbouillons dans notre enfance. Les
progrAs de ce mode d’expression de la pensee se sont confondus
avec ceux de l’art; mais les races qui n’ont point connu d’autre
Acriture ne poussArent pas bien loin Limitation des formes de la
nature. Quelques populations atteignirent pourtant a un degre assez
remarquable d’habilete dans ce qu’on pourrait appeler la peinture
ideographique. Entre les races de l’Amerique septentrionale, dont
les langues etaient si variees, quoiqu’elles se rattachent A une meme
souche, celles qui peuplArent le Mexique possAdArent un art veri
table, et A la fin du xve siAcle elles etaient arrivees A un emploi
reellement Atonnant des representations ideographiques.
Lorsqu’en 1519, le jour de Paques, Fernand Cortez eut pour la
premiere fois une entrevue avec un envoye du roi de Mexico, il
trouva celui-ci accompagnA d’indigAnes qui, reunis en sa presence,
se mirent immediatement A peindre sur des bandes d’Atoffe de co
ton ou d’agavA tout ce qui frappait pour la premiere fois leurs re
gards, les navires, les soldats armes d’arquebuses, les chevaux, etc.
Des images qu’ils en firent, les artistes mexicains composArent des
tableaux qui Atonnaient et charmaient l’aventurier espagnol. Et
comme celui-ci leur demandait dans quelle intention ils executaient
ces peintures, ils lui expliquArent que c’Atait pour porter A Monte
zuma et lui faire connaitre les strangers qui avaient aborde dans
ses Atats. Alors, en vue de donner au monarque mexicain une plus
haute idAe des forces des conquistadores, Fernand Cortez fit manoeuvrer ses fantassins et ses cavaliers, decharger sa mousqueterie
et tirer ses canons, et les peintres de reprendre leur pinceau et de
tracer sur leurs bandes d’Atoffe les exercices si nouveaux pour eux
dont ils etaient temoins. Ils s’acquittArent de leur tache avec une
telle fidAlitA de reproduction que les Espagnols s’en AmerveillArent.
�^HISOTIRE DE L’ECRITURE.
125
M5us les peuples qui se contentent de representations figurees pour
rendre graphiquement la parole ne nous offrent pas un usage aussi
avancd des peintures ideographiques. L’observation d’une grande
exactitude dans les details, d’une precision rigoureuse dans la re
production de la rdalite, aurait nui le plus souvent & la rapidite
de f execution, et, dans leplus grand nombre des-teas, aurait ete
tout a fait impossible^ Comme e’etait uniquement en vue de parler
a 1 esprit et d’aider la memoire que l’on recourait & de semblables
dessins, on prit l’habitude d’abreger le tracd, de reduire les figures
a ce qui etait strictement necessaire pour en comprendre le sens.
On adopta des indications con ven tionnelles qui dispensdrent de
beaucoup de details. Dans ®eMe peintuire ideogKaphique, on recourut aux mdmes tropes,< aux mdmes figures de pe^de? dont nous
nous servons dans le disCoUrs, la synecdoche, la metonymie, la
metaphore. On representa la partie pour le tout, la cause pour
l’effet, l’effet pour la cause, l’instrument pour l’ouvrage produit,
l’attribut pour la chose meme. Ce qu’une image matdrielle n’aurait
pu peindre directement, on l’exprima au moyen d,e> figures qui en
suggeraient la notion par vote de comparaison ou d’analogie.
Tels sont les procedes que nous offre l’ecriture figurative des fgyptiens, des Mexicains. Les premiers voulaient-ils,par exemple, rendre
l’idee de combat, ils dfeSsinaie^t deux bras numaihs dont fun tient
un bouclier et 1’autre une sorte de hache d’arme; les seconds voulaient-ils exprimer l’iden^e courir,dls representaient deux jambes*
dans faction de se mouvoir rapidement. Ainsi se constitua le symbolisme qui envahit de bonne heure l’ebriture ideographique, comme
il avait envahi la religidn.jEn outre les images afieetdrent une si
gnification particulidre par le fait de leur association; la meta
phore, l’embldme, le trope,: valurent & certains groupes? figures un
sens qui naissait du rapprochement des diverse's images.‘dont ces
groupes etaient composes. C’est surtout de la sorte qu’on rendit
ideographiquement des conceptions qui ne se pretaient pas ou se
prdtaient mal & une simple reproduction iconographique. Les jSgyptiens employaient trd's frequemment cette methode, et on ia t»uve
dgalement appliquM dandles peintures mexicaine^. On’ en saisit
la trace dans l’ecriture chinoise, donfe les caracteres graphiques ne
sont que les alterations des images grossidres des objets qu’ils dessinaient d’abord enmanidre d’ecriture. Ces figures reunies de fagon
a rendre une idee constituent ce que les Chinois appellent hoei-i,
c’est-a-dire sens combines; par exemple la figure d’une bouche
humaine tracee A cote de fimage d’un oiseau signifia chant, celle
d’une oreille dntre les deux battans d’une porte exprima l’idee
d’entendre; le symbole de l’eaiffiaccole A la figure d’un ceil eut le
sens de larmes. Il n’est pas jusqu’aux Peaux-Rouges qui n’aient use
*
: Sd
�T26
revuiT des deux mondes..
de pareils emblbmes, tant l’emploi s’en offre naturellement ATesprit.
L’ecriture ideographique ne demeura done pas longtemps une
simple representation iconographique; elle forma bientot un me
lange d’images de significations tres di verses, une suite de repre
sentations prises tour a tour au sens propre et au sens tropique,
d’emblbmes, de veritable® Onigmes dont l’intelligence demandait
souvent une penetration particuliere. A cet Otat, l’ecriture ideogra
phique etait un art difficile, parfois mbme un secret,qui devait Tes
ter le privilege d’un peft nombre, de ceux qui Ifemportaient par
l’adresse de la main et par les lumieres, consequemment des pretres
ou des magiciens, des sorciers,. qui en tiennent lieu chez les popu
lations les plus barbares et les plus ignorantes. Le nona d’hieroglyphes a done ete justement applique A ces systOmes graphiques.
Dans le symbolisme qui y etait etroitement lie se donnaient necessairement rendez-vous toutes les sciences* toutesles, croyances du
pcuple qui faisait Usage de tels .procedes* De la l’impossibilite de
dechiffrer ces sortes d’ecritures/si l’on ne s’est familiarise avec les
idees de ceux dont elles eminent. On peut bien dans les hierogly
ph es Ogyptiens reconnaitre du premier coup telle ou telle image,
par exemple celle d’un homffie qul-est? He A un poteau, qui a les
coudes attaches, qui fait une offrande ou porte une massue; mais
comment pourrait-on deviner que Fimage d’un vautour traduit
l’idee de rnatermte, si l’On ignorait que du temps des pharaons les
Lgyptiens supposaient que cette espbee d’oiseau ne renferme que
des femelies pouvant produire sans; le contours des males? Com
ment attacherait-on le sens de fils A la figure d’une oie, si l’on ne
savait que 1’Oie du Nil passait pour un modble de piete filiale?
Comment la figure d’un ep&rvier sur un perchoir suggererait-elle
l’idee de Dieu, si Ton n’etait point informe que F'epervier etait tenu
pour Fembfeme du solei!, le dieu par excellence ?
L’ecriture figurative ne fut pas seulement tracee sur les rochers
ou le tronc des arbres; elle ne fut point uniquement employee A la
composition de quelques courtes inscriptions;-elle servit, comme
l’attestent les monumens de l’^gypte et de l’Amerique centrale, A
decorer les edifices qu’elle faisait ainsi parler A la posterity; mais
il fallait pouvoir transporter partout oil il etait necessaire ces images
ecrites* L’homme avait besoin d’emporter avec lui sa mnemonique;
il prepara des peaux, des etoffes, des substances legeres et faciles
A se procurer^ sur lesquelles il gravagil peignit des successions de
figures, et il eut de la sorte de veritables livres. La pensee put des
lors circuler ou se yarder comme un tresor; certaines tribus sau
vages, pour la rendre plus expressiverallbrent jusqu’A se servir de
leur propre corps comme de papier, et chez diverses populations
polynesiennes les dessins du tatouage, qui s’enrichissait A chaque
�HISTOIRE DE l’eGRITURE.
127
epoque principals de la vie, etaient une veritable ecriture. On lisait
sur la peau du sauvage sa biographie, ses exploits, parfois m&ne les
obligations qu’il avait contractees. Aussi un savant allemand, M. H.
Wuttke, a qui on doit une interessante Histoire de VScriture, a-t-il
consacre tout un chapitre au tatouage. N’avons-nous pas pendant
bien longtemps ecrit en quelques lettres avec le fer chaud sur l’epaule du criminel l’histoire abregee de son crime?
Les populations les moins avancees entre celles qui us&rent de
l’6criture figurative n’ont pas depassG le procede qui consiste a
rendre la pensee par de simples images d’hommes, d’animaux, de
plantes, d’ustensiles, etc.; mais celles qui s’elevSrent a une veritable
civilisation n’en sont pas generalement restees la. A force d’etre
tracees rapidement et abregees, les figures s’altererent dans leurs
formes et finirent par ne plus offrir que des signes ou il etait souvent
bien difficile de reconnaitre le type originel. Le fait s’observe deja
quelquefois dans les peintures mexicaines, mais il se produisit sur
une bien plus grande echelle en ^gypte, ou l’ecriture hieroglyphique etait usitee depuis un temps immemorial. On y substitua pour le
besoin journalier une veritable tachygraphie qu’on trouve employee
sp^cialement sur les papyrus, et que les egyptologues nomment
ecriture hieratique. Plus tard m6me on en imagina une plus cur
sive encore, reposant sur un systAme A certains egards plus avance;
c’est celle qu’on appelle d&motique, parce qu’elle fut en usage aux
derniers temps des pharaons et sous les Ptolemees chez presque
toute la population egyptienne. En Chine, les images grossi&rement
tracees furent aussi promptement defigurees, et elles ne presen
tment plus qu’un ensemble de traits que le scribe executa avec le
pinceau, et dont 1’assemblage ne garde aucune ressemblance avec
les figures dont elles sont cependant l’alteration. Dans les ecritures
cursives employees en Chine, les signes se sont corrompus davantage, et n’ont affecte que des formes toutes conventionnelles.
Arrivee A ce point, l’ecriture figurative cesse d’etre une peinture
pour devenir une sem&iographie, c’est?-A-dire un assemblage de
caractdres representant des idees et constituant ce queues archeologues appellent des ideogrammes. L’ecriture cun^iforme, qui comprend divers systAmes, contient une foule de signer de cette nature.
Les traits offrant l’aspect de filches ou de clous y forment par leur
groupement, varie A l’infini, de veritables caraGtdres. Ces groupes
cuneiformes, comme les plus anciens caracteres chinois, reproduisaient grossiArement a l’origine la configuration des objets; mais
les images se sont ensuite si fort alterees, qu’a de rares exceptions
pres on ne peut plus remonter aux prototypes iconographiques. On
n’est en presence que de signes ayant une valeur purement mnemonique et dont un grand nombre affectent une val'eur phonetique.
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REVUE DES* DEUX MONDES’!!
Il n’y a pas au reste lieu de s’etonner de cette disparition complete
des images, vu la longue duree qu’il faut attribuer & revolution de
ce systeme graphique remontant a plus de quinze siecles au-dela
de l’Gpoque oil il cessa d’etre en usage, et dont les premiers monu-l
mens datent encore de plus loin. Il est d’ailleurs a noter que les
groupes cun6iformes ont notablement varie de configurations suivant les temps et suivant les lieux, et cela au sein d’un meme syst6me.
Les Nahuas, qui constituaient la population dominante du Mexi-.
que central a l’arrivee des Espagnols, et dont j’ai mentionne tout &
l’heure l’ecriture ideographique, ne semblent pas s’6tre autant
eloignes dans la pratique du dessin des objets reels, car dans leurs
anciens manuscrits la figure des symboles est presque toujours reconnaissable. Je ne,parle pas de l’ecriture qu’on a qualifiee de cal—j
culiforme, les katouns, employes sur les monumens du Yucatan;
on n’a point encore reussi it les dechiffrer.
La methode s&m&ographique n’evinca pas les symboles, les embl&mes, les images combinees; elle ne fit qu’en altSrer d’une ma
nure & peu pres complete l’aspect. On retrouve done dans l’hi&ratique egyptien comme dans l’ecriture chinoise actuelle, comme
dans le cuneiforme assyrien, des caract&res vGritablement ideographiques; ils existaient de meme dans l’ecriture cuneiforme des
Anariens ou Touraniens de l’Assyrie, du peuple qui parait avoir
forme la population primitive de la Babylonie et des tribus de meme
race habitant la MAdie. Les ^inscriptions dites accadiennes et le
texte qualify de m6do-scythique des monumens de l’epoque des
rois de Perse achemenides nous en montrent l’usage. Les caracteres
ideographiques se denommaient necessairement par les mots qui,
dans la langue du peuple qui s’en servait, repondaient aux idees
ainsi exprimees. De la sorte, les signes composes ou groupes de
plusieurs images arrivaient, comme en temoigne l’Gcriture chi
noise, a representer des mots simples; ce qui conduisit & prendre
ces caractdres pour les signes m^mes des sons 6mis lorsqu’on les
lisait. Les signes - images et les ideogrammes, qui n’en etaient
qu’une corruption, devinrent done graduellement de veritables caract&res vocaux, et cela dut avoir lieu surtout dans des ecritures
telles que celle des Ghinois et le cuneiforme, oil le signe, ayant
perdu l’apparence d’une representation d’objets reels, ne pouvait
plus eveiller que l’idee du mot qu’on y avait attache. Ainsi naquit
le phon6tisme, e’est-a-dire l’usage de caracteres repondant non a
des idees, mais a des sons.
Images et ideogrammes constituSrent done des signes de sons,
et ces sons, monosyllabiques en chinois, le devinrent aussi dans les
langues polysyllabiques par suite de l’habitude qui prevalut peu
�HISTOIRE DiO'EtRITUREj
129
a peu, comme nous le montrent l’egyptien et le nahuatl, de tenir ce
Rigne *pour’ I’expression du son initial ou dominant du mot. G’est
ce qu’on a appeU la methode acrologique. On arrivait des lors a
ecrire phonetiquement par le procede du rebus; cependant l’objet
figure repr6sentait, non 1’ensemble des sons compris dans le nom
qu’il portait, mais seulement lfeson principal. Les Mahuas voulaientils par exemple ecrire le nom du roi Itzcoatl, ils dessinaient des
filches a pointe d’obsidienne,«piern© qui se feate dansfeur idiome
itzli, h l’entour de la figure
anfmal appele dans le
meme idiome cohuatl. Le phonetisme acrologique faisait lire la
figure de la fleche z’B pour /#>^(^|on avait^alors^a-1 Wde d’un
veritable rebus, le nom, d’Itzcoatl.Les| images prises pour des ex
pressions de Isons chez les anciens'Mexicains finirent de la sorte
par representer des syllabes, meffi^de simples voyelles, et on les
combinait pour ecrire les mots- poifysyllabiquesg G’etaitw comme on
voit, un phon6tisme 1®ls imparfaat, fonde souvent sur une sorte
de calembours par approximation , Baqui devait donner lieu b,
de frequentes erreurs, une pile determine correspondant a celui de la syllabe dans le
chaque caractSre. Les figures hieroglyphiques des Mexicains, tout en etant
quelquefois employees avec leur sens ideographique, fournissaient
aux derniers temps de la litttra^ur^wah^al de veritables (fettres
ou plutot des signes syllabiques. Ain si l’image de l’eau to$), par
suite de l’extension de la methode acrologique, representait le
son a, celle de la five (e/Z) le son e, celle de la main (maitl)
le son ma, celle d’un autel (en nahuafl momoztli) \a syllabe
moz, etc. Quand plus tard on essaya de traduire en hieroglyphes mexicains des mots espagnols ou lellatin des prieres de 1’6glise, on sentit l’imperfection H™ tel syllabaire, car les signes
faisaient defaut pour representer une foule de sons strangers au
nahuatl. Il fallut se contenter de tr6s grossiers ^peu-pi$s. Voulaiton par exemple 6crire amen, on associait l’hieroglyphe de l’eau (en
mexicain all), prononce a, a l’image de la plant© agave, qui s’appelait metl dans le meme|mdiome, et 1W avait de la sorte le mot
ametl, vocable approchant de 1’eMlamati’on hObraique adoptee dans
la liturgie chretienne. Pour rendre pater nosier, on recourait a
des assimilations de sons analogues, et au moyen d’hieroglyphes
phonetiques correspondans on ecrivait pan-tetl-noch-tetl. Le pro
cede acrologique a et6 appKqud par les ligyptiens a pWprls de la
meme facon que le faisai’dnt les Nahuas, comme le remarque M. F. *
Lenorm ant dans sod' livre sur
de la propagation de Val
phabet pMnicien.
L’emploi des images a valeur phonetiquc n’amena pas, je l’ai
tomb xi. — 4875.
9
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dit, l’abandon des ideogrammes, des image "simples ou prises dans
- un sens tropique; les unes et les autres concoururent a fournir les
elemens de l’ecriture, mais, comme rien ne les distinguait exterieurement, comme un mdme signe pouvait tour a tour repondre a une
idee ou a un son, il en serait resulte une extreme confusion, si l’u
sage n’avait consacre pour de certaines images une valeur presque
exclusivement phonetique;celles-ci, en perdant leur role ideogra-1
- phique, devenaient de simples lettres. Les Ghinois ne firent pas
subir h leurs ideogrammes uri pareil changement d’attribution; ils
se contenterent d’ajouter A la plupart de leurs groupes composes, enr’
lui assignant generalement une place fixe, un caractere indicatif du
son: celui-ci marquait la prononciation du groupe dont la valeur
ideographique Atait plus ou moins clairement annoncee par un autre
des caracieres qui le composaient, appele clfy ces cles, au nombre
de 21A, etaient rdputees representer les ideogrammes simples.
Dans 1’ecriture egyptienne, ou les signes etaient d’origine plus va-^
riee qu’en chinois, on ne s’arreta pas a un systeme si regulier, on
recourut & des hieroglyphes complementaires qui aidaient a fixer
le sens. G’est ce qu’on a appele des determinatifs > ils se placent
ordinairement apres la partie phonetique du groupe, mais ils n’affec
tent pas tous une dgale precision. Tantot ils n’ont qu’une acception
generique, en sorte qu’ils sont susceptibles d’etre employes apres
une foule de racines n’ayant entre elles qu’un rapport de sens assez
eloigne; tantot ils ne conviennent qu’a une categorie speciale de
mots que lie une idee commune; parfois ils sont I’image meme de
la chose que le groupe enonce phonetiquement, et alors se produit
ce que nous presentent tant de caracteres chinois, qui sont a la fois
phonetiques et ideographiques. Get expedient meme ne suffisait pas
pour faire disparaitre toute obscurite, certains de ces determinatifs
pouvant eux-memes etre confondus avec des signes phonetiques
servant a la composition du mot. Quelquefois on les multipliait, et
dans ce cas c’est ordinairement le dernier qui fournit le veritable
sens de la racine.
/ La maniere dont le phonetisme avait pris naissance' engendra ce
qu’on a appele la polyphome, c’est-a-dire que les caracteres ideo
graphiques devenus des signes de syllabes furent aptes a represen
ter indifferemment telle ou telle syllabe, car les sons attaches aux
signes procedaient des mots par lesquels on avait designe les images,
et ces mots pouvaient etre divers pour une seule et meme repre« sentation. Afm de noter la veritable prononciation d’un caractere
polyphone employe dans un groupe donne, on recourait a un pu
plusieurs complemens phonetiques, c’est-a-dire a un ou plusieurs
des signes qui marquaient le son qu’on voulait indiquer. Tel hieroglyphe par exemple repondait-il aux articulations ab et mer,
�HISTOIRE DE L’ECRITURE.
131
lorsqu’il devait avoir la prononciation ab> on le faisait suivre d’un
hieroglyphe ayant la valeur du b, et lorsqu’il devait se prononcer
mer, on le faisait suivre des deux hieroglyphes ayant les valeurs
respectives de m et r. Gtetaient 1A sans doute des moyens bien grossiers; mais, avant d’arriver & des proced&s simples, on n’en concut
que d’imparfaits. Le signe coitplementaire comportait parfois luimeme plusieurs valeuM phoneliques, et il fallaitalors deviner celle
qui etait A choisir, et le caractere A expliquer aidait & son tour a la
determination. Les Assyrtens et leuts devan Giers, auxquels on donne
le nom encore contes^d’Aceadienspfirent dgalement- usage de complemens phonetiques, qu’ils plagaient apres-la derntere syllabe du
mot, Ils ont eu pareilwment de’ veritables determinatifs, car dans
le systeme cuneiform© certains signes particuliers precedent les
noms de dieux , d’hommes, de pays, et servent ainsi A reconnaitre
que le mot n’est point un substantif generime. De plus^quand le
scribe assyrien employait un ideqgrAmme ambigu, il y joignait au
besoin une glose danFlaquelle etait donnee, en plus petite carac
teres, la lecture assyrienne du signe en question. Tout cela n’empechait pas que le systeme graphique des I^gyptiens, comme celui des
Assyriens, ne fut d’uh usage fort incommode et n’exigeat une grande
pratique; mais le dedale ou ces ecritures j etai ent parfois Mdecteur
devint bien autre pour le systeme idwgraphico-phonetique quand
celui-ci passait $ft^peiuple qui Tavait cree a un peuple qui n’en parlaitpas l’idiome ei>dont la langue, d’un genie different, ne possedait pas les ntemes articulations. G’est de qui eut liet|;pltecisement
pour le cuneiforme. Les Assyrien^, qui recurent les ideogrammes
cuneiformes des Touraniens, appliquftrent tour A tour A ces carac
teres des lectures nouvelles tirdes de leur propre langue et de nouvelles valeurs phonetiquesfc qui$B firentpas pour ce& abandonner
celles que leurs devanciers y avaient attacheesl Se servant ainsi
simultanement et Jouvent Bans Un meme mot de caracteres syllabiques et de caracteres puremenwueographiques , ils firent de
leur ecriture un|; marqueterieBttes lcompffip^|el oft il etait fa
cile de s’egarer. Tandis que les ideogrammes c$pinuaient A etre
employes surtout pour dcriB^^hfwnes- des mots, le pBoftetisme
servait exclusivemenOwj wire les formes des ctHrdes* temps, des
personnes, toutesjjes flewns qu’il etait Indispensable de noter
avec quelque precision. Ainsi en passant des Tdtiraniens aux Se
mites de l’Assyrie, le systeme SfeifiMte sf encombra d’Une foule
de valeurs nouvelles pour les groupes ecrits A l’aide de clous.
Les Assyriens imagntereiw A leur tdur des groupes concus d’aprds le
meme principe qu% les pfdcedens, et W' dqttivalens se multiplterent indefiniment. La polyphonib, encore tr&s peu developpee dans
I’ecriture dite accadienne, prit d’enormes proportions chez les As-
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
syriens. Un mGme caractfcre y compte quelquefois dix ou douze
valeurs differentes. Sans doute les signes cuneiformes sont loin
d’offrir tous une telle cacophonie; mais chez la plupart on observe
quelques-unes des transitions de 1’idSogramme au son et reciproquement. Des metamorphoses nouvelles dans la valeur des signes
s’opererent pareillement quand Fecriture passa aux Medo-Scythes
ou Touraniens de la Medie, aux Alarodiens de l’Armenie, qui s’approprierent de leur cote l’ecriture cun6iforme et en reQurent cons6- ;i
quemment les caracteres avec les sons que leur avaient pretes ceux qui en faisaient usage avant eux. Bon nombre de groupes subirent "
ainsi un accroissement d’acceptions.
La comparaison des textes n’aurait pas suffi pour constater des
mutations si multipliees| on ne se serait pas reconnu dans un tel 1
labyrinthe sans la decouverte de guides qu’on ne pouvait pas dans
le prihcipe esperer. Jeveux pari er de ces tablettes de terre cuite ,
qui se sont rencontrees dans les ruines du palais de Ninive et qui
paraissent provenir de la bibliothSque de cette demeure royale. On
y voit graves’de veritables tableaux de concordances graphiques, et
le texte nous apprend que le roi assyrien Assourbanipal les avait J
fait executer pour l’usage des scribes; elles n’etaient vraisemblablement que la repetition de documens analogues usites en Babylonie
et dont M. George Smith a rapporte de son recent voyage un precieux fragment. Ces tablettes, appelees d’abord improprement syllabaires par les assyriologues, contiennent trois colonnes paralleles:
celle du milieu donne le caractfere cuneiforme h expliquer, celle de
gauche en fournit la lecture phonetique, celle de droite en prSsente
la signification rendue par le mot assyrien.L’examen de ces ta
blettes apporte la preuve que les caract&res qui y sont expliques
n’appartenaient point dans le principe A la langue des Assyriens,
qu’ils etaient pour ceux-ci de purs ideogrammes. En effet, la trans
cription phonetique de la colonne de gauche n’offre jamais de mots
assyriens; elle nous transporte dans un tout autre idiome, bien
que la transcription effectuee syllabiquement soit parfaitement conforme aux valeurs phonetiques que I’Gtude des textes bilingues
(assyrien et perse) a etablies pour les caract&res assyriens. Si l’on
ne reconnait pas la la langue de l’Assyrie, on en retrouve bien le
syllabaire. La conclusion est que les Assyriens tenaient leur syllabaire du peuple dont l’idiome se trouve sur les tablettes d’Assour
banipal epel& A la colonne de gauche. Les signes inscrits a la co
lonne mediane montrent qu’en assyrien tel signe ou groupe pouvait
avoir des valeurs diverses. Les tablettes enregistrent souvent des
lectures differentes pour un meme caractdre et repondant chacune
A une signification speciale. Quelquefois, il est vrai, plusieurs sens
sont attribues en assyrien A un seul et meme ideogramme, quoique
�HISTOIRE DE ESCRITUReRV
133
I la transcription phonetique demeure la meme, mais il est alors &
noter que ces sens s’eloignent peu les uns des autres. Remarquons
enfin que, la transcription phonetique de la colonne de gauche nous
•*"$onnant a. chaque instant des mots de plusieurs syllabes, on ne saurait admettre que les tablettes soient de simples syllabaires assy
riens, puisque le systeme graphique de 1’Assyrie n’a pas de signes
ayant une valeur polysyllabique. Tous les caracteres phonetiques
, de ce systeme representent des monosyllabes soit simples, c’est-Adire formes d’une voyelle et d’une consonne ou vice versa, soit
complexes, c’est-a-dire formes d’une voyelle et de plu^ieurs consonnes. Par un procede plus analytique, on rendait quelquefois la
syllabe complexe en la decomposant en deux syllabes simples, la
seconde commen^ant toujours par la voyelle qui finissait' la pre
miere; ainsi pour ecrire nap-satf on mettait na-ap sa-at. Les ta
blettes de concordance ne sont pas les seuls documens lexicographiques qu’aient decouverts les assyriologues; ils ont en©or| retrouve
des listes comparatives de mots assyriens et accadiens qui nous
fournissent de veritables glossaires, car le mot accadien est presque toujours rendu en assyrien par un mot ecrit phonetiquement;
d’autre part des gloses analogues A celles dont j’ai parle aident dans
le dechiffrement de quelques-uns des signes les plu>s obscurs. G’est
done sur les monumens memes de l’Assyrie, comme l’ont inontre
MM. J. Oppert et F. Lenormant, que la science constate les singuliers echanges de significations subis par les caracteres cunei
formes, metamorphoses qui aboutirent a faire de ce mode d’ecriture
une sorte de chaos. Les Assyriens ne surent pas s’en degager; sans
doute ils 6taient arrives A posseder un syllabair^ qui leur permettait
d’ecrire phonetiquement tous les mots, mais ils ne parvinrent pas
A introduire dans ce syllabaire l’ordre et la simplicite. En Assyrie
comme en Egypt e, on ne puttse resoudre a repudiqr une foule de
signes inutiles de facon A ne plus se trouver en presence que d’un
syllabaire uniforme; les Medo-Scythes, en s’appropriant le sys
teme anarien, le debarrasserent de la plupart de ses ideogrammes
et ne conserverent guere que des caracteres phonetiques.
Les ^gyptiens, tout en etant sur la voie de la methode alphabetique, qu’ils appliquaient en certains cas^demeuraient attaches aux
procedes ideographiques par leurs habitudes et leurs croyances.
Renoncer aux ideogrammes, qui etaient jgsouvent des symboles di
ving, des allusions A son culte ou A ses usages*, e’etait pour ce
peuple aneantir son histoire, biffer les inscriptions quiBhargeaient
ses edifices, dechirer les manuscrits oil etaient consignees ses
prieres, rejeter en un mot ce qui faisait l’objet de sa veneration.
I Les hieroglyphes n’etaient-ils pas pour eux la revelation du dieu
Thoth? De meme en Chine il y avait trop longtemps qu’on em-
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
ployait les ideogrammes pour qu’on les put condamner. L’abandon
absolu de tels caracferes n’etait possible que chez un peuple qui n’y
etait pas enchaine par la tradition, qui, ayant recu de l’etranger la
connaissance de l’art d’ecrire, pouvait faire un choix entre les si
gnes qu’on lui apportait, se contenter d’un certain nombre de ca
racteres phonetiques representant les monosy llabes, voire de pures
articulations. Les choses se passerent ainsi a I’extrOmite orientale
de l’Asie, chez les Japonais. Ils avaient recu-, au plus tard vers la
fin du in® sfecle de notre ere, les livres chinois; ils s’etaient peu a
peu familiarises avec cette literature. La connaissance de l’idiome
du Celeste-Empire se repandit done au Japon, et l’on y prit ainsi
l’habitude d’en employer les caracteres; mais la prononciation et
la grammaireqaponaises different profondement de la prononcia
tion et de la grammaire chinoises,.' Afin de pouvoir lire ces signes,
auxquels s’attachaient de certains sons monosyllabiques, il fallut
introduire dans leur valeur phonetique des changemens qui en per
missent 1’artiGulation 4 des bouches japonaises. De 14 pour bon
nombre de caracferes chinois , notamment pour ceux qui impliquaient des lettres que l’idiome japonais ne possedait pas, des mo
difications de prononciation assez considerables. Les signes ,empruntes aux Chinois re^urent done souvent de nouvelles valeurs
phonetiques; en nfeme temps les Japonais, dont l’intelligence pou
vait etre mise en defaut par la difference que l’ordre des mots offre
en chinois, compare a leur propre langue, introduisaient dans l’eeriture de Tempire du Milieu certains signes destines 4 retablir
l’ordre syntactique tel que 1’exige leur idiome national et notaient
certaines flexions. On le voit, 41s en usOrent avec le systeme graphique qui leur £tait apporte comme les Assyriens en avaient use
4 l’egard du sysfeme graphique des Accadiens. Au Japon comme en
Assyrie, l’ecriture ideogrammatique etait passee d’un idiome 4 un
autre idiome d’un genie tout opposO. On a aussi observe un fait
analogue pour l’ecriture pehlevi lorsque des populations d’idiome
iranien en faisaient usage. , Les Japonais s’habituOrent a designer les signes monosyllabiques
qu’ils tenaient de leurs voisins p^r les sons qui y rGpondaient dans
leur sysfeme de lecture, soit que ces caracferes eussent garde le
monosyllabe- chinois, soit qu’on lui eftt substitue une syllabe japonaise, soit que, s’attachant au sens ideographique, on eut denomme
le signe par le nom japonais de l’objet qu’il reprOsentait. Ce peuple
se trouva ainsi posseder un syllabaire qu’il adapta 4 sa langue;
mais, celle-ci etant polysyllabique, les Japonais rendirent les
mots de plus d’une syllabe par autant de caracferes qu’il y avait
de syllabes composantes, recourant d’ailleurs pour le trace des
caracferes 4 la forme cursive chinoise; e’est ce qui constitua l’Ocri-
�
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HISTOIRE DE L’ECRITURE.
135
ture dite
ou l’on observa d’abord ce genre d’obscurite qu’implique l’ecriture cuneiforme, et qui tenait aux memes
causes. « En effet, dit Abel Remusat, le nombre des syllabes
japonaises etant peu considerable,-il aurait suffi d’un petit nombre
de caracttres pour les representer touteSj mais l’usage introduisit
une confusion trts grande en faisant prlndre tantbt un caractere
et tantot un autre pour signe de la meme syllabe et plus encore
en appliquant un meme caractdre b la representation de syllabes
differentes. » Nods retrouvons done U le mefte phenomdne de polyphonie qu’offre Ptcriture assyrienne. Il etait egatemeht du a l’emploi d’un systeme dldeogrammes par un peuple parlant une langue
differente de celle des inventeurs de ce systdme, Quant auk signes
rdpondant a des monosyllabes differens,;ils Jl’expliquent par ce fait
que la prononciation des caraqtferes chinois avait yatie avec le
temps, qu’elle dfferait^dansicertaines provinces, et que le signe
chinois avait <ta*ntdt e|e denommt par le monosyllabe originel qu’il
traduisait aux yeux en Chine, tantot par le motJaponais exprimant
l’idee que ce caractere Bveillait. Be syllabaire man-yd-kana ne
comprenait done pas un nombre de signes determine, et tous les
groupes chindhi prd^phonetiquement pouvaient a la rigueur y entrer; mais peu a peu le nombre des signes en usage se reduisit a
celui qui etait suffisant pour representer les diverses syllabes de la
vocalisation japonaise, e’est-d-dire a~ A7 signes. Par la un grand
progres fut accomplisB’ecriture etait arrivee au syllabisme, et le
man-yo-kana, dont on s’est servi,pouar ecrirelesvieuxmonumens
de la poesie japonalse compose® dans la langue elite de Yamalo,
malgre son nom signifiant caraed^^deis dim mille feuilles^ ne renferme que ces A7 signes empruntes tous au chinois. Plus tard, au
milieu du vme sidele de noire dre, un bonze japonais, appelej^imoMitsin-Mabi, qui avait longtemps reside' engfflhine, ou ses compatriotes allaient s’iiistruire aux ecoles bouddhiques-, iinagina un
syllabaire de A7 <garacttres?! tous derives egalement de caracteres
chinois, mais abreges^ar dans ©e syllabaire, ou, pour prendre le
mot indigene, dans cet zro/kg quatr^ signes seulement conservent
integralement la forme du caractere chinois quileur a donne naissance. Ainsi fut constitute l’bc-riture dite kata-kana ou dcriture de
fragmensde forme infmiment plus simple et plus facile a tracer
au pinceau que le vieux man-yd-kana. Il semble meme que ce soit
Simo-Mitsin-Mabi qui ait eu leWernle#' l’idee de reduire a A7 les
caracteres de 1’ecritMre, chiffre qui fut ensuite adopts pour le manyd-kana. Le bonze?'japonais ayant du avoir sous les yeux- des livres
Merits en caracteres hindous,; la connaissance de cet alphabet put
lui suggerer l’idee de ne se server que de ce petit nombre de signes.
[Toutefois les syllabes du kata-kana depassent en realite de beau-
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REVUIs DES DEUX MONDES?
coup ce chiffre, car & 1’aide d’un syst&me de points ou de petits
traits indiquant un adoucissement dans la prononciation de la coni
sonne initiale, on opSre dans la syllabe un veritable changement de
lettre. Si les caractyres kata-kana, de forme carree, lourde et de
petite dimension, offraient des avantages pour la clarty, ils ne se
pr£taient guere & la rapidity du trace, et cela lit imaginer au Japon
une autre sorte d’eCriture, le fira-kana^ fondee sur le meme syllabaire, mais imitee de cette ecriture cursive chinoise dite tsao-cho,
cest-a-dire Venture des plantes, et ou I’on tend constamment a
abreger les elemens du groupe constituant le signe. Dans le firakana, les formes s’arrondirent, des ligatures reunirent les traits
entre eux, Si I’on obtint ainsi un dessin infiniment moins elegant et
moins clair, on eut en revanche une ecriture d’une execution beaucoup plus rapide. Telle futl’reuvre de deux bonzes qui vivaient au
ixe siScle de notre bre, et depuis cette fepoque le fira-kana a prevalu
dans la grande majority des livres japonais; mais le progrfcs amene
par l’invention de ces deux genres d’ecriture fut entrave par la persistance de l’usage des caractyres chinois. La langue du CelesteEmpire continuant a etre fort repandue au Japon, elle exerca sur la
litterature de ce pays une influence analogue & celle que l’arabe a
exercGe sur le perSan et ie turc. Une foule de Mots chinois pass&rent
dans le style japonais-, et en les ecrivant on leur laissa la forme graphique qu’ils avaient originairement. De la le melange qui s’observe
sans cesse dans les livres japonais de caractyres de l’irofa et de
signes chinois, melange qui ne contribue pas pen a la difficulty
qu eprouvent les Europeens & apprendre & lire ces livres.
Les Japonais s’en tinrent 1& et ne d6pass£rent pas le procede syllabique; ils l’bnt toutefois rdduit a sa plus grande simplicity. Il y a
loin fen effet du petit hombre de signes du kit&-kana au syllabaire
si,riche des Assyriens. Malgre leur intelligence, les hommes de
l’empire des Da’iris n’ont pas su distinguer dans 1’articulation ce
qui constitue la consonne et la voyelle, et affecter k chacune de ces
lettres un caractfcre separe, susceptible de s’emboiter pour ainsi
dire avec un autre, comme dans la voix la consonne s’emboite sur
la voyelle. Ce progrhs etait reserved un peuple habitant 1’autre
extr£mite de l’Asie; c’ytait & lui tout au'moins que devait appartenir la gloire de faire de l’alphabetisme la base meme de l’ecriturej
L’invention de l’alphabet n’a point yte, a ce qu’il semble, une
creation spontanye, comme celle des bonzes japonais dont il vient
d’ytre parly; elle fut le produit d’un long travail ou plutot d’une
longue pratique graphique, qui eut l’^gypte pour theatre et ou le
peuple de Chanaan alia cherc-her les elettiens qu’il devait mettre en
oeuvre, ,
�IIISTOIRE DT'T'ECRITURE?
131
II.
Les Mexicains, les Chinois, les Assyriens, se sont arretes & di
vers etages du phonetisme; ils ne se sont point eleves au-dessus de
1’idSe d’une image de la syllabe. Les ^gypiien® etaient arrives au '
meme point, et cela dbsla plus haute antiquite; mais bien anciennement aussi ils avaient fait un pas en avant et con^u la notion
de lettres representant non-seulement 1A voyelle, mais encore la
consonne, abstraction faite du son vocal qui permet d’articuler
celle-ci plus clairement, et lui sert, comme disent les grammairiens, de motimfy La nature meme de la Langue egypMmne put
conduire ceux qui la parlaient a cette dissection de la syllabe.
L’idiome repandu sur les bords du Nil, et dont le copte est la derniere transformawn, avait cela de commun avec les langues sdmitiques, que les voyelles n’y offraient pas la plenitude et la sono
rite qu’elles ©nt dans nos langues enrop6ete^e^ eWes affectaient
un son sourd qui se pretait plus facilement a des changemens
dans leur prononciation, variable suivant le role grammatical du
mot, le nombre, le temps, etc.; bref, elles etaient ce qu’on appelle vagues. Une telle prononciation dut, dans la lecture des signes
syllabiques, attenuer l’importance de la voyelle et faire insister davantage sur 1’articulation de la consonne. G’est done celle-ci que tendit de plus en plis & exprimer le caractbis® phonetique, qui peignait
d’abord la syllabe,<bt A la fin, pour beaucoup decaracteres, le signe
ne repondit plus en realite quA la consonne, tandis que, dans les
caractbres representa^t une syllabe formee uniqueMnt d’une voyelle
ou d’une diphthongue, oh arrivait a afflgr des lignes representa tifs
de voyelles. Ges deux genifes d’images du son fournissaient tous les
elemens de 1’alphabet; de veritables feettres s’etaient degagees par
voie de reduction, d elimination, de ce vaste appareil ideographique
qu’on nomme les hierogl’phes egyptiens.Sfts sigaes avaient passe
de l’etat de figures A l’etat d’idWrammes, de^elui d’ideogrammes
& celui de svllabes; ils en etaient venus a exprimer l’articulat.ion
initiate de la syllabe, Sfm'>byelle,/Mt consWne. Alors se produisit le phenomene dont j’ai parle & propos de l’ecriture japonaise : plusieursfegnes rljpondirhnt & la m^TOlett^^arce qu’ils
proeddaient de mots com men cant par la meme articulation.
L’ecriture egyptienne se peupla done d’une foule de caractbres
homophones dont l’emploi voilait|pour a^gpfer.Blbhab^sme:
mais le principe de celui-ci ra’en avait pas moinsje^teWe’couverf. Il fut
applique sur les bords du Nil MW la plul haute antiquite concurremment avec le procede ideographique. Les Phenieiens sbparerent
les deux mGthbdes, rejetant Pune et adoplant PautJe. Les anciens
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REVUE DE? DEUX MONDESH
' s’accordent en effet & leur faire honneur de l’invention de l’alphabet; toutefois plusieurs auteurs, tels que Platon, Diodore de
Sicile, Plutarque, Tacite, ajoutent que ce peuple la tira de 1’^gypte.
Les travaux des egyptologues ont pleinement confirme le fait, et
dans un memoire remarquable M. Emmanuel de Rouge etablit l’origine egyptienne de l’alphabetphenicien. Il en retrouva le prototype
dans les caracteres alphabetiques de l’ecriture hiGratique usitee
au temps de l’ancien empire, plus de deux mille ans avant notre
ere, notamment dans ceux du papyrus Prisse. Sur les vingt-dc’ux
lettres de l’alphabet phenicien, une douzaine environ se reconnaissent pour des imitations legerement alterees des anciens signes
hieratiques correspondant aux memes articulations. Peut-etre pour
d’autres caracteres p^niciens les prototypes sont-ils fournis par
les caracteres hieroglyphiques memes. Quoi qu’il en soit, les Chananeens etaient voisins de la terre des pharaons, ou ils s’etablirent
plus d’une fois; ils ont du emprunter a l’ecriture egyptienne, et cela
des une epoque fort anterieure a l’invasion«des pasteurs, les carac
teres dont ils firent usage pour rendre les sons. Ils n’eurent pas les
monies raisons que les l^gyptiens de respecter la valeur ideographique de ces antiques ideogrammes, et ils prirent simplement ceux
qui pouvaient peindre les articulations de leur propre idiome, imaginant quelques nouveaux signes pour representer les sons que la
langue egyptienne ne possedait pas. L’alphabet ainsi constitue fut
range dans un certain ordre dont Torigine nous est inconnue, mais
qui date certainement de bien des siecles avant notre ere, car .cet
ordre se retrouve dans, 1’alphabet grec; il est cOnsequemment anterieur a l’introduction des lettres en Grdce. Non-seulement l’ordre
et les noms des lettres pheniciennes que 1’hebreu nous a conserves
ne se retrouvent pas en Egypte, mais il sont en desaccord avec la
signification ideographique primitive des caracteres. Les noms semitiques des lettres, aleph, beth, ghimel, daleth, etc., ont un sens
en phenicien et en hebreu qui ne repond nullement aux figures que
rappelaient les signes hieratiques. Ainsi la premiere lettre de l’al
phabet phenicien, dont est derive l’J des Grecs et des Latins, n’est
que l’alteration du signe representant un >aigle dans le systeme
hieroglyphique; Or ce nom d’aleph, qui est devenu alpha en grec,
veut dire boeuf en hebreu. Evidemment les Pheniciens n’ont pu
attribuer de pareils noms a leurs caracteres que lorsqu’ils avaient
oublie la signification des figures emprunt6es par eux a 1’Egvpte.
Il devait. done s’etre 6coule un assez grand laps de temps entre
l’invention premiere et l’adoption de ces denominations, deji ellesmdmes fort anciennes, ce qui confirme la haute antiquite de l’alpha
bet phenicien.
Tous les alphabets modernes, sauf peut-etre celui dont se servent
�IIISTOIRE DE L’ECRITURE.
139
les Goreens, qui ont tire le leur des caracteres chinois, mais enr core sous'Tinfluence de la connaissance d’un systSme alphabGtique
derive du phenicien, proc&dent de la creation chananeenne. Les
recherches poursuivies depuis plus d’un demi-siecle sur l’histoire
de l’alphabet ont etabli que l’alphabet phenicien est l’anc^tre de
tous ceux qui existent en Europe et en Asie. Il s’est echappe de la
source premiere de ceite grande conception divers courans qui se
sont avances en differences directions? et ont constitue des embranchemens multiplies. Des modifications gra^uellement apportees a
la configuration des carac^teres, I’^ddition de nouveaux signes des
tines a representer des articulations que l’alphabet-type. ne traduisait pas, ont don®4 naissance A une foule d’alphabets particuliers.
Les Grecs, qui designaient sous le nom de litres:ph&niciennes les
formes les plus archaiques de leur alphabet et qui eqffaisaient remonter l’invention a un personnagpfabuleux. nomme Cadmus, les
avaient manifestement recues de la Phenicie. Le nom meme et
l’ordre qu’ils attribuaient aux le&res le prouventn mais en se l’appropriant, ils assigndrent certaines de ces lettres une valeur
vocale bien plus accusee qu’elleidfeait chez les peuples de la Pales
tine, ou en usant de caracteres jS-peciaux pour les jettres onhegligeait, comme on le fait encore aujourd’hfi en arabe, d’indiquer les
voyelles intirieures|lh mots. Lactation graphique n’ofirait que la
charpente stable et plus arrlttee des consonne&i la voyelle demeurait done, dans une certaine mesure, unie a la consonne ecrite,
bien que le son de cette voyelle put se modifier dans le mot. Aussi
plus tard, quand on ent pris l’habjitude di|!fioterja-y;oyen<et que le
souvenir de celle qu’ilffallait suppleep tendait. Ase perdre, dut-on
recourir a un ensemble de signes places au-dessus Sawlessous ou
au dedans desflettres, pour marquer les* voyelles. Te^es^le systeme dont on attribute a tort 1’invention aux Massortetes, et qui avait
ete precede par des systemes plus simples, mais moins precis, dont
l’accentuation de l’arabe et du syriaque peut donner une idee,
Le plus anSen alphabet grelqui nuulsoit parvenu esffcelui que
fournissent des inscriptions de l’le de ^era,remoi|t^it, sewn toute s
apparence, au ixeou vMtJwcle avant Jesus-Christ. Les lettres y
ont un aspect tout a fait pluffiicien. Aux siecle.s suivans, la configu
ration des caracteres se modifia, et la direction adoptee dans le
trace de ces caracteres changea tQtalement. Les Grecs avaient d’ahord, a l’instar des Pheniciens, ecrit,dg drofeA gauche^ |habitude
ou ils etaient d’insewre a I’entounades figures le nom des personnages, de disposer cii^uIairementlQ^ajun vase @u qumque autre
objet 1’inscription qui faisait connaitre le nom de l’artiste o,u du consecrateur, generalisa i’habitude do ces traces dits boustrophidon et
dans lesquels les lignes alternaient de sens, de sorie que, la premitere
.<
#
' ji
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDE^ ^
ayant ete ecrite de droite a gauche selon la methode semitique, la
seconde l’etait de gauche a droite. Cette derni&re direction finit par
prevaloir; elle est celle qu’avaient adoptee bien anterieurement les
Assyriens. Les changemens que subirent dans leurs formes les caractfcres grecs engendrerent differens alphabets, qui se distinguent
a la fois par la physionomie et le nombre des lettres. Les inscrip
tions de Thera sont Kerites avec un alphabet de vingt-trois lettres.
M. Kirchhoff, a qui on doit un tres interessant travail sur l’histoire
de l’alphabet grec, admet qu’a une epoque dej5 reculee une division
s’opera dans le mode d’ecriture entre les peuples grecs, les uns res- x
tant fideles aux types de l’Orient, et les autres, ceux qui etaient etablis 4 l’Occident, alterant notablement ces formes. De la deux al
phabets archaiques : Talphabet oriental, bul’on compte 26 lettres,
et l’alphabet occidental, qui n’en a que 25; mais les archeologues
reconnaissent plus ordinairement pour la Grfece antique quatre al
phabets ayant des formes nettement distinctes, offrant chacun certaines lettres particulares et renfermant uh nombre different de
caractferes s' Talphabet eolo-dorien, comprenant diverses varietes et oik 1’on rencontre 28 lettres, 2° 1’alphabet attique, qui n’en a
que 21; 3° 1’alphabet ionien, qui en a 24, et 4° l’alphabet des lies,
qui en offre 27. Le premier de ces alphabets, usite dans la Thessalie, la Beotie;* 1’Eubee et tine grande partie du Peloponbse, fut
porte en Italie par les colonies helleniques de la Sicile et de la
Campanie; il y donna naissance: 1° A-l’alphabet etrusque, dont des
varietes apparaissent dans celui dont firent usage pour leur idiome
d’autres populations du centre de 1’Italie, les Ombriens, les Osques, les tribus. dites sabelliques, 2° A Talphabet latin, auquel il
etait reserve de devenir le prototype des alphabets de l’Europe occidentale. Des quatre alphabets grecs, celui des lies eut l’aire la
moins etendue; quant A 1’alphabet athenien, il ne resta en usage en
Attique que jusqu’A la fin du ve sihcle avant notreAre. Sous l’archontat d’Euclide, les Athbniens l’abandonndrent pour l’alphabet ionien
de vingt-quatre lettresi, et leur exemple fut bientot suivi par tous
les peuples de la Grbce prbprement dite, qui ne connurent plus
desormais qu’un seul alphabet, celui dont on se sert encore pour
ecrire le grec. Nous ne Savons que peu de choses de l’histoire de
l’ecriture en Asie-Mineure. Le petit nombre d’inscriptions lyciennes,
phrygiennes et carienhes qu’on a recueillies nous offrent des lettres
assez distinctes de celles des Hellenes. Les Lyciens notamment faisaient usage de certains caractferes etrangers i l’alphabet grec, bien
que la forme de la plupart de leurs lettres rappelle beaucoup celui-ci. A en juger par la physionomie exterieure des caractdres, les
peuples des provinces occidentales de 1’Asie-Mineure doivent plutot
avoir recu des Grecs que des Chananeens le bienfait de l’ecriture.
�I
*
HISTOIRE DE L’ECRITURE.
Ul
Les nations qui parlaient des langues appartenant & la mfeme
L ^amille que le phenicien n’eurent point & faire subir & la valeur des
caractferes primitifs les changemens qui etaient indispensables pour
E "Tadapter & certains autres idiomes, car la prononciation se rapprochait chez eux de celle de la Phfenicie. On comprend done que dans
les alphabets de la plupart d^alangues sfemitiques le type phe
nicien se soit moins altere. Dans- tous ces idiomes, les voyelles
i
ayant un caractere vague, il n’a point ete ^fCessaife de les repre
senter comme chez les Grecs par des lettres
ce qui
K n’etait chez les Phfenicie® que des gutturales douces ou des aspiB rations; mais, toutes les langU'eaBemitiaues ne comptant pas le
meme nombre d’articulations, il a fallu pour F alphabet de plusieurs
d’entre elles recourir a dies signes nouveaux. Les configurations ne
sont pas d’ailleurs demeurees- ednstantes, et chaque alphabet a
passe comme F alphabet phenicien par diverses formes.
La chronologie des1 monumens ecrits dans Fidiome des Phfeniciens
prfesente encore quelques obscuritCs qui ne permettent pas d’etablir avec une entire certitude la succession des formes qu’ont
traversee les caracterwphHkiens. On possfede du Weins de fort
* anciens textes de la langue des Chananeens, tels que la grande
inscription de Mesa ou Mescha, roi de Moab, celle des poids de
bronze en forme d!e lion trouves dans les fouiltles lie Nimroud,
celles de Malte, deNbra et de plusieurs pierres gravees, enfm l’in*
scription du celfebre sarcophage d’Eschmou^asar, actuellement au
Louvre. Cette dernifere presente un type graphique jugfe plus moderne par diverOpigraphistes, et qui parait se rattacher a celui
des monumens beaucoup plus nombre« et moins anciens decouverts taut en Phenicie qu’a Chypre eiailieWM C’esWu-ss^ 1’ecriture
de ces derniewmonumens que s'® lient les caractferes employes
dans les lfegendes des monnajres et des pierres gravfees. La stfele de
Mesa et les poids de Nimrow no^Wrent l’etat de 1’alphabet se
mitique au ixe sifecle environ avant notre fere® fau dr ait tout un
livre pour derouler la genealogie des divers alphabets asiatiques
qui sont sortis du frond plfljpen soit dirMtement, soffit par l’intermediaire d’autres alphabets, et je dois me borMeO ihdiquer les
grandes lignes de cette longue migration 'graphiqueFl^alphabet hfebreu est incontestablement l’un des premiers qui se soient detaches
de cette souche feconde; mais cet alphabet n’W’pas l’hfebreu carre
dont nos bibles hebimiques nou® WhrniseMl^w^e M wr la date
originelle duquel on a beaucoup discute dans ©Ss^derniers temps,
i
L’hebreu carre se rencontre en PaBstine suBdfes monumens tels
que le tombeau dit de Saint-Jacques et celui dit des'Rois, dont la
date a ete egalement fort debattue y mais qui sont gfneralement
regardes comme appartenant au i* sifecle de now fere. Les Juifs
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
ddsignent cette ecriture sous le nom tfassyrmnne, parce quelra
peuple d’Israel l’avait, dit-on, apportee des bords deTlJuphrate
au retour de la captivitd. La tradition talmudique s’accorde avec
le temoignage de plusieurs pdres de l’eglise pour la representer
comme ayant etd introduite en Palestine par Esdras. Il est certain
que 1’hdbreU carre n’appartient pas 4 la mdme branche que l’ecri*
ture primitive des Juifs; il se rattache a un rameau qui poussa de
bien plus nombreux rejetons, le rameau arameen ou syrien, dont
j’indiquerai plus loin la posterity L’ecriture hebraique primitive,
on en retrouve les formes, bien que legdrement alterees, sur les
monnaies juives datant de la dynastie asmoneenne. Grace a des
monumens decouverts en Assyrie et a Ghypre, a des pierres gra
vies portant d’anciens caractdres pheniciens, on a pu remonter au
plus ancien type des lettres dans cette partie de l’Asie, ce qui a
permis de saisir le lien existant entre la premiere ecriture des Is
raelites et les vieux caractdres pheniciens. L’alphabet hebreu primitif reproduit la physionomie generale de ces caracteres. Seulernent les traits se sont arrondis et simplifies; les hastes ou jambages
depassant superieurement le corps de la lettre, propres au phenicien
archaique, s’y recourbent et s’y infldchissent. Cette vieille ecriture
juive, dont les formes se sont conservees a de ldgdres alterations
pres dans l’alphabet employe par les Samaritains, rentre dans la
categorie des ecritures dites onciale^ Elie etait manifestement des
tinde a etre tracde avec le roseau sur le papyrus ou sur les peaux
que l’on preparait pour ecrire, tandis que les caracteres pheniciens
archaiques que nous connaissons semblent plutot concus pour etre
graves sur des stales. Cela ne veut pas dire que les marchands
chananeens n’aient point fait usage, des le principe, d’une ecriture
cursive dont leurs habitudes mercantiles durent assurement eprOli
ver le besoin; mais les monumens de cette ecriture ne nous sont
pas parvenus. Tous les autres alphabets qu’on peut qualifier de
semitiques, aussi bien que ceux de diverses Jangues auxquelles.
cette epithete ne saurait convenir, sont nds d’une branche dif
ferent© qui bourgeonna de bonne heure sur la souche primitive;
c’est la branche aramdenne, qui, une fois implantee dans des pays
tels que l’Assyrie, la Babylonie, que leur situation centrale mettait
en rapport avec une foule de peoples, se propagea rapidement.
Elie projeta des rameaux dans toutes les directions^ L’ecriture ara
mdenne dtait ddja constituee au vri* sidcle avant notre drd. Les plus
anciennes formes nous en sont fournies par des monumens decou
verts en Assyrie, des suscriptions qui se lisent dans des contrats
ecrits sur des* terres cuites en caracteres cuneiformes, sur des bri- '
ques, des gemmes, des intailles, des monnaies.
Il suffit de comparer les plus anciennes lettres arameennes au
�DE l’ecriture.
'1H
vieil alphabet ph^nicien pour se convaincre qu’elles s’en sont tterivees a lfopoque ou cet alphabet commencait a passer & un second
'type; mais les caractbres arameens eux-memes se modifierent graIduellement, comme le prouvent des monnaies de Cilicie, de Cappadoce, d’Hierapolis de Syrie et diverges inscriptions; il en resulta
(une ecriture que 1’on a appelee X’aramien secondaire, et cette ecri
ture sur les papyrus sublune autre modification qui se retrouve
dans certaines inscriptions. G’est pendant cetie seco.nde phase de
1’ecriture arameenne que se manifeste pour la premiere ibis une
tendance & laquelle se reconnaissent la plupart des ecritures nees
des derivations .posterieures, la tendance a lier les lettres entre
■elles. « Gette disposition, remarque M. Francois’ Lenormant, tient
ala nature essentiellement cursive de 1’Briturepetj avant de devenir une r&gle d’enj olivemens calligraphiques* ele est d’abord
le resultat de la facilite avec laquelle 1© pinceau ou le calame,
glissant sur le papyrus, passe sans que le scribe ait besoin de
-s’y reprendre & chaque fois du trace d’une lettre a celui d’une
autre. » La troisibme phase de l’alphabet arameen nous estfcofferte
par un alphabet A traits epais etcarres' que l’on trouve employe
sur les monument de Palmyre.
U le nona dp palmyr^i^i qui
lui a ete donne. Compare a l’arameen precedent, cet alphabet s’en
distingue surtou® par certainPJwpiitures. certamos formes finales.
Les monnaies de la vilfe de Side en Pamphylie nous presentent
encore une autre variefo d’alphabet q(Uf? doit etre rattachee au type
arameen par le palmyrenien, et qui prend la tete d’un ensemble de
generations ayant pour ancetre I’arameen sous sa tnoisiefoe ma
nure. A cette posterity appartient ^alphabet auranitique, que nous
fournissent des inscriptions decouvertes dans le Haouran par deux
savans voyageurs:, devenus aujourd’hul deux hommes politiques
distingubs, M. H. Waddington et M. le cbmte Melchior de Vogifo.
L’une de ces inscriptions, cellie du tombeau de Soueideh, ou la
traduction grecque accompagne te. texte] doit gtre, rapportee, si
l’on en juge par le style, a l’epoque dgfeode iei Grand! Elie a
donne la cle de l’al^habet, qui n’est qu’une degenei’escence du
palmyrenien. Dans la meme categoric que rauranitique .se clas
sent 1’alphabet sabien sfl’alphabet estranghelo, le plus ancien de
ceux qu’offrent fe manuscrits syriaquesbL’aurawlqte engendra
le nabateen, dont les caractbres out send a composer fe nombreuses inscriptions decouvertes au »®ina^ eO’est de cet alphabet
nabateen que paraif^W sort ftaiphabe® arabe, dont M existe deux
■varietes : l’une, encore aujourd’hui en usage dans les manuscrits,
est dite neskhy ou tcriture des copistes, 1’airtM se wmme koufy,
d’une ville de I’lrak appelee Koufe ou, sufcant latradition, on
commenca a s’en servir. Sous La forme lapidaire, oik les traits :af-
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
fectent plus de raideur et se terminent par une espOce de cro
chet, le koufique a ete utilise des les premiers siOcles de 1’hegire
a la decoration des mosaiques, & celle des mosquees et des palaiH
Par l’agencement, les lettres koufiques constituent de veritables
dessins, des figures de mille sortes, ce que nous appelons des ara
besques, du nom mOme du peuple qui en a fait usage. On distingue
en Orient divers genres de neskhy plus ou moins elOgans. L’ecriture arabe a dft aux progrOs de l’islamisme une grande force d’ex
pansion. Tandis que ’le koufique enfafitait au nord de l’Afrique le
maghreby, le neskhy donnait naissance a l’ecriture des Persans,
qui ont ajoute certaines lettres a l’alphabet arabe afin de rendre
des sons, tels que lep, le g, que la langue arabe n’a pas, et a l’e
criture dont font usage les Madecasses de Madagascar convertis A
l’islartiisme. Vecriture persane a engendre A son tour l’ecriture tur-*
que et celle de l’ourdou, l’idiome des musulmans de l’Hindoustan,
ou des modifications furent introduites pour rendre moins imparfaitementda vocalisation propre aux langues auxquelles cet alphabet
etait applique. De son cote, le vieil estranghelo, aprOs avoir passe
par diffOrentes formes, poussait deux rejetons. Il engendrait l’alpha
bet syriaque proprement dit wipeschito, et, porte aux populations
tartares, auxquelles41 communiquait la science de l’ecriture, il don
nait naissance Chez les Ouigours ou Tures occidentaux A un alpha
bet particulier qui fut longtemps ignore des Europeens, et que Pon
ne connait que par un fort petit nombre de manuscrits et quelques
monnaies. G’Otaient des missionnaires nestoriens qui en avaient dote
les Ouigours. Ges apotres de la foi chretienne, qui s’avancaient jus
que dans la Chine aux vne et vnie siecles de notre Ore, firent penetrer au Coeur de l’Asie les lumiOres de l’^vangile. La fBtion que
recurent ces contrees de Talphabet syrien est attestee par la fa
meuseinscription syro-chinoise de Si-’ngan-fou, dont 1’authenticite,
longtemps cOntestee, a ete definitivement etablie par M. G. Pauthier*
On a vu que leS Tartares se servaient anterieurement des khe-mou
ou batonnets entailles.
Les Ouigours, dont 1’tcriture ne fit subir A Celle des nestoriens
que des modifications peu prononcees, changOrent toutefois la di
rection du trace des caract Ores. Les Syriens ecrivaient estranghelo,
comme on ecrivit le peschito, de droite A gauche selon 1 usage semitiquef les Tartares preferOrent la disposition vertical e, qui est
celle de l’&cfiture chinoise. Telle est la mahiOre dont est ecrite 1 in
scription de Si-’ngan-fou. De l’ecriture ouigoure sont sorties les ecritures mongole, kalmouke et mandchoue. L’alphabet d’origin earameenne est done celui qui a valu A l’Asie centraie le bienfait de
l’ecriture. Get alphabet, en pOnetrant dans les contrees ou l’on
continuait A se servir, pour ecrire sur le rocher ou la brique, du sys-
�HIST0IRE DE l’eGRITURE.
H5
FOle^uneiforme, devint 1’eciHure cursive des habitans, et^onna
naissance A une ecriture nouvelle qui finit par deposseder completement l’antique cuneiforme. C’est 1’ecriture pehlevi, ainsi appelee
du nom de la langue A laquelle elle fut adaptee, langue qui predominait a la cour des rois parthes arsacides. L’ecriture pehlevi continua & etre employee en Assyrie et en Perse durant plusieurs sifecles;
elle survGcut m£me a la chute des Sassanides| car on la trouve en
core usitee sous les premier^califes et 'sous les regens ou ispehabeds du Taberistan.
Les formes de 1’alphabet pehlMiidbBt ^Ivwre de Sacy a etabli l’origine arameennp, ont varie suivant les epoques; elles ne
sont pas les mdmes^aaus les inscriptions et sur les monnaies sassanides, on ensjetrouve un autre type/ dans les inanuscrits. De
l’alphabet pehlevi est derive, selon toute apparenci^l’alphabet
zend, a l’aide duquel sont ecrits plusieurs des livres de Zoroastre,
que conservent les parsis. Il avait remplace, ainsi que le pehlevi,
une ecriture qui prevamp chez les Peases au temps f^Ja dynastie
des Achemenides et qu’on voit employee dans les inscriptions de
Persepolis d’Hamadan et sur l’untjdes trois colonnes de la celAbre
inscription trilingue de Bisoutoun;c’est>celle dont on doit le dechiffrement aux recherches d’E. Burnout de-IL.RawlinMin^de J. Oppert et
d’autres orientalistes; elle est alphabetize, bien que les caract6res en
soient composes A 1’aide d’elemens cuneiformes. Peut-6tre a-t-elle
pris naissance sous l’infliience de l’ecriture aram&enne de l’Assyrie,
mais son alphabetisme garde encore des traces du syllabisme anarien et meme de l’usage des ideogrammes. Otte 6<foture, nee dans
la Susiane, disparut aprfes la chute ^es AchenBnide.s, et l’i|fluence
des conquetes d’Alexandre^lit p6netrer jusqu’aux bords de l’Euphrate l’alphabet grec en m6nae temps que la langue hellenique
devenait la langue officielle de rempire,des Seleucides. Quant A
l’antique cuneiforme assyrien, depositaire de laBctence chaldeenne,
il resista plus longtemps, et il etait encore parfois applique A 1’6poque des Arsacides. Les conquetes de l’islajn durent en amener le
complet aneanfeemeht. Il ne laissa d’autre souvenir A Mossoul
que celui d’une ecrit^^ou chauue caractere pouvait avoir plu
sieurs sens differens. Les populations musulmane^le tinrent, dans
leur ignorance, pour un assemblage de signes^inagiques, tandis
qu’en Perse les inscriptions persepolitaines* passaient pour l’oeuvre
des heros fabuleux du pays de Djemschid ou de Feridoun. Si l’al
phabet zend vecuiRpeuLjil eut en revanche.une lignee qui a fait
preuve de plus de longevite, car cet alphabet parait avoir donne
naissance A celui qui rempla^a en Armenie le systAme cuneiforme
particulier dont nous trouvons quelques monumens. Au commencetome xi, — 1875.
10
�1/16
' REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
ment du ve siecle de notre Are, un prelat armenien nomme Mesrob,
en prenant pour mo deles les lettres zend, inventa, si I’on en croit
la tradition, les alphabets armenien et georgien.
Ce n’est pas seulement au nord et & I’est de la Syrie que l’alphabet phenicien rayonna pour appeler a la vie une quantite d’ecrH
tures; il se propagea encore au sud, en Arabie, ou se forma un
alphabet d’une physionomie particuliAre qui devait faire souche A
son tour et laisser uhe puissante posterity. Cet alphabet est l’hi-|
myaritique, que nous ont fait connaitre de nombreuses inscrip
tions dont ^interpretation exerce depuis plus d’un quart de siecle
la sagacity des philologues.. La langue A laquelle elles appartiennent, bien que semitique, est assez differente de 1’arabe, qui l’a
aujourd’hui ’remplac6e; elle se rapproche par certains points de
l’hebreu, et des vestiges sembtent s’en etre conserves dans le dialecte ehkili. L’ecriture himyaritique est, selon toute apparence, celle
que les historiens arabes mentionnent sous le nom de musnad.
Nous ignorons A quelle date il faut rapporter ^institution de cet al
phabet, certainement anterieur A Tislamisme, et dont la forme archaique parait remonter A une epoque trAs reculee. « Peut-etre,
ecrit M. E. Renari dans son Histoire g&n&rale des langues sAmitiques,
la tradition du sejour des Pheniciens en Arabie, sur les bords de la
Mer-Rouge, trouverait-elle en c^sa' confirmation. » Esperons que
les etudes comparatives auxquelles ne manquera pas.de donner
lieu le corpus descriptions sAmitiques que prepare l’Academie des
Inscriptions ,’et qui a dejA provoque d’importantes decouvertes,
eclaireront uh jour be problAme. L’alphabet himyaritique usite
dans l’Yemen s’eloigne dejA notablement- de son prototype phe
nicien; mais ses derives s’en ecartent encore davantage, car de
l’alphabet himyaritique est sorti 1’alphabet ghez oU ethiopien, plus
riche en lettres que son pAre; la voyelle s’y joint A la consonne
sous forme d’ufa signe particulier ou est indiquee par la modifica
tion lAgAre qu’eprouve la configuration de la consonne meme; de
sorte que l’alphabet ethiopien garde le caractere d’un veritable syllabaire. Quand la langue amharique prit en Abyssinie la place du
vieil ethiopien, il en adopta l’alphabet en y ajoutant sept lettres
nouvelles pour exprimer des articulations qui lui etaient propres.
Par quelintermediairel’antique alphabet de l’Yemen, qui fournissait A 1’^thiopie son ecriture, ofi les lettres se disposArent comme
chez les Grecs, de gauche A droite, fut-il porte A l’extremite de
l’Afrique Septentrionale, en Libye et jusqu’en Numidie? Nous l’ignorons. Tout ce qu’on a pu constater, c’est une parente entre les
lettres himyaritiques et celles de 1’eAriture dite tifinag, dont on a
trouve des monumens en Algerie et au pays des Touareg. Le dechiffrement de ces inscriptions exerce encore la sagacite des erudits. Ge
�histoire de l’ecriture.
147
f®W en tout cas un rejeton sterile, car l’invasion de l’alphabet
arabe irappa de mort le ufinag.
On ne fait pas non plus d’une manure precise comment l’alpha
bet himyaritique alia s’implapter dans l’Hindoustan septentrional.
EL’ecriture magadhi, que nous connaissons par d’antiques inscrip
tions encore subsistantes au nord de la presqu’ile gangetique, a 6t6
reconnue dans ces derniers temps pour Un i&ive de la vieille ecriture de 1’Yemen; ces caractferes; qui doivent leurKiom a la province
de Magadha, dont les rois etendirent, au ive spclie? avant notre ere,
leur puissance au nord del’Inde, affectent dans leur forme quelque
chose de raide etifle. lourd qui nous reporte tout a fait a l’himyaritique. Ils sont au nombre de trente-six et.se lisent de gauche a
droite. L’ecriture magadhi,est la souche de tous les syst^mes graphiques employes posteriewement dans I’lnde; ceux qui en sont
issus par voie de modifications peuvent se diviser en deux groupes
principaux. Le premier affecte de.s formes carrees ou rondes et ayant
plus de largeur que de hauteur; tels sont T alphabet tamoul et 1’alphabet birman. Le second presente des caracteres off la hauteur
l’emporte sur la largeur;. C’est i, ce second groupe qu’appartient
1’Venture devanagari, autrement dite Ytcriture divine des villes',
c’est celle par excellence des livres sanscrits. Elleme date gu&re, au
moins sous sa forme reguliere actuelle, que du
au xe siecle de
notre &re; elle est elegante et nette, toutes' les tettres etant surmontees d’une barre horizontale qui lesgncadre et permet de les aligner
exactement par- le haiit. On dirait’que les lettres sont disposes sur
une portee de musique; mais il en existe une forme plus, cursive
off la barre horizontale a disparu et dont le trace est moins ele
gant. L’alphabet dev-anagari a etd distribue par les grammairiens
hindous par categories de lettres , suivant* leur prononciation, de
facon a fournir toute une echelle m)caie. Le devanagari comme
le magadhi, comme le persepolitain, offre- une dern-iffre®race du «
syllabisme primitif, Ya bref se prononcant ave.c toute consonne
simple qui ne se lie pas directement & une autre voyelle.
Je n’enumererai pas ici tous les' alphabets qui sont sortislimmediatement ou mediatement du magadhi, il me faudrait dresser, une
trop longue genealogie; cette lign6e;s’est ayapcee jusqu’4 Macassar.
L’alphabet serait remonte peut-dtremusqu’au Japon, s’il n’tvait ete
arrete en Gochinchine par l’ecri®® chinoise dont fes Annamites
faisaient usage et qui se dressa devant fui comme une autre muraille
de la Chine. Le flot de l’invasion alphabetique vint mourir la; plus
tard le meme vent devait pousser uh second flot parti du hkme rivage, mais dont la nappe ne s’etendit pas sur un si vaste espace.
L’islamisme apporta avec lui l’&criture arabe Jqui s’introduisit ainsi
dans l’Hindoustan et s’empara ensuite de l’idiome mala®,
�1Z|8
REVtJE DES DEUX MONDES.
A l’occident de l’Europe, un autre courant, dont nous suivons mal
la direction dans les profondeurs chronologiques ou il s’est opere^
transporta jusqu’en Iberie l’alphabet phenicien, y donna naissance
a une ecrittire speciale que nous connaissons par les monnaies et
les inscriptions, et qui dota ainsi l’Espagne de ses premiers monumens ecrits. G’etait 1A sans doute le resultat des colonies pheniciennes et carthaginoises; se sont-elles avancees plus loin, et, ne
se bornant pas a s’aventurer dans F Ocean pour aller chercher l’etain
aux lies CassitGrides, ceS deux peuples congenAres ont-ils porte en
de lointains parages la merveilleuse invention de l’ecriture? Il est
certain que les runes,; representees par la tradition des peuples
du nord comme une revelation d’Odin .et qui etaient en usage chez
les Germains et dans la Scandinavie ayant I’introduetion du christianisme, presentent certains caractferes qui rappellent plusieurs
lettres pheniciepnes du type sidonien, Peut-etre ces analogies ne
sont-elleS que trompeuses, Quoi qu’il en soit, les runes dites allemandes,mentionnSes deja au vie siAcle par le pofcte Fortunat et que
l’on tragait sur des planchettes ou stir l’ecorce des arbres, trouvent
leurs prototypes dans les runes scandinaves, qui n’etaient peut-etre
a l’origine que des signes purement magiques, tout au moins de
simples dessins commemoratifs. Il en faut dire autant des anciens
caracteres oghamiques de l’lrlande, dont au moyen age on attribua
1’invention A Un pretendu Ogma, fils d’Elathan. Ges caracteres oghamiques se sont transformes en un alphabet dont l’origine latine est
diflicilement meconnaissable, quoique l’ordre de ces lettres ne soit
pas celui de l’alphabet latin. Les Anglo-Saxons, auxquels les Irlandais demanderent plus tard leur alphabet, avaiept aussi des runes,
qui precedent desrunesscan dinaves, et dont les formes associees
aux lettres latines out fourni les el6mens de l’alphabet anglo-saxon.
Il y a done eu au nord de l’Europe entre des branches diverses de la
souche graphique des esp^ces d’anastomoses. G’est ainsi qu’en com
binant les runes germaniques avec les lettres grecques, Ulphilas,
6veque des Goths de Moesie, dans la seconde moitie du iv* siede,
formait 1’alphabet dit moeso-gothique, qu’on troUve employe dans
le fameux codex Argenteus, contenant la version des quatre Fvangiles en langue gothique. Les Vindes ou Slaves septentrionaux
avaient egalement des runes qu’ils tenaient sans doute des Scandi
naves, et41 n’est point impossible que quelques-uns de ces signes
aient fourni A l’apdtre des Slaves, Cyrille, les lettres qu’il ajouta
aux caract&res grecs pour composer l’alphabet qui a pris son nom
et qui date du ix® Si6cle. Tous les Slaves du rite grec adoptArent
l’alphabet cyrillien, dont de nombreux manuscrits nous ont con
serve la configuration primitive; les alphabets russe et serbe n’en
sont que des’modifications. Vers le xne sifecle, les Slaves de la Dal-
�■ (
■IJ.
gnmmn^DE l’ecriture.
1A9
matie q’Tulsuivaient'la liturgie latine recurent d’un de leurs pretres
un autre alphabet imite en partie des lettres cyrilliennes et en par
tie des lettres latines. On a voulu en faire remonter l’origine jusqu’A
I saint Jerome. Get alphabet est connu sous le nom de bukvitzien ou
' filagolitique de l’appellation que recoivent dans l’alphabet slave les
lettres B et G. Les formes de wt alphabete.s,61oignent assez sensi! blement des figures cyrilliennes, la disposition rectangulaire ou cir
culate y est plus habituelle : aussi saisit-on moins au premier coup
d’oeil l’origine grecque de plusieurs de ces lettres.
Tel est, rapidement esquisse, 1’ensemble des dcritures ayant
pour ancetre commun 1’alphabet qu’ayaien|.Magifte les Pheniciens
sous l’influence de l’£gypte. Ces alphabets constituent comme une
suite de generations qui se repartissent par families,, par branches
| ''et par rameaux, qui, s’etant detaches a des hauteurs differentes
d’une meme souche, ont projete sur des espaces plus ou moins
|; etendus leur feuillage destine non A empecher la lumi6re de p6ner trer, mais A en assurer la diffusion.
it
|
Les alphabets queyftous venons de passer en r^nae ne ...different
pas seulement, cofflApares les uns aux autres, par la nature et le
nombre des lettres, oft1 Wit encore varied pour un ftidift© alphabet
la configuration des caracteres selonles epoques et-le genre d’ecrits
auxquels ils sont appliques; Ghaque alphabet a eu son histoir&et a
passe par des transformations ici legAres
fortementVaGGUsees.
Les lettres ont eu les destinies les plus diverses, 1’existence de ces
signes s’etant trouvee liee aux habitudes-d&s scribes et^aux proce
des employes pour le tract. Tan dis que certains alphabets n’ont
fourni qu’une cou®te carrier e, d’autre'S' teidure •flendaot des sitc&es,
ont opere d’incessantes conquetes, car la nation qui exercait sur
ses voisines la preponderance iwOecitwlfe imposait sa langue et
sa litterature et en meme temps son ecriture. Aussi peut-on dire
avec quelque verite que le degre* d’extenow dSMisvsttmfti graphique est proportionnel a la puissance du peuple auquel il appartient. Les religions ont ete aussi de grands moyens de propagation
graphique; en repandant leur enseignement, elles ont repan du 1’6criture de leurs livres. De m6me que la preponderance Sme'nation
ou d’une religion a fait place A celle d’une autre, tel mode d’ecrif ture d’abord fort usite a ete depossede par un mode different qu’apportait un peuple conqu6rant ou un culte nouveau. Ainsi ce sont les
etablissemens phoceels dans la Gaule om v ont^aitnmaetre" la connaissance et 1’usage des caracftres grecs que devaiT pBs tard sup
planter l’alphabet latin, apporte par les Romain"; LesGrecs depos
V
1
V/".\
“'V' ; r
/
©
I
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
secterent sur les bords du Nil l’antique ecriture sacree quand la
predication de l’^vangile eut fait proscrire les hieroglyphes, si
profondement empreints du vieux paganisme pharaonique. Ge qui
devait arriver pour les Slaves convertis par Cyrille et Methodius
se produisit pour les ^gyptiens eclaires des lumieres de l’^varfgile. L’alphabet grec, augmente de quelques lettres fournies par
l’ecriture hiSratique, remplaca les hieroglyphes, et desormais les
livres ne furent plus Merits que dans cet alphabet que nous appelons l’alphabet copte. De meme qu’il n’est aucune nation de 1’anti
quity qui ait etendu plus loin ses conquetes que les Romains, il n’est
aucun alphabet dont la propagation ait ete plus grande que l’alphabel latin. II penetra partout oti les apotres de la foi catholique
allaient porter la liturgie latine^se faisant ainsi accepter par des
peuples d’idiomes d’une tout autre famille que le latin; mais, si
l’empire de cet alphabet fut vaste, il flit aussi le plus expose a
des variations suivant les pays et suivant les ages, en sorte qu’il
finit, tout en gardant la meme composition, par se partager en une
foule de trices qu*con§titubrent ‘ des varietes graphiques particu-4
litres. Les lettres latines furent done, comme les oeuvres litteraires
des Romains, plutdt des modules qu’on imita de loin que des types
qu’on reproduisit servilement.*L’ignorance des uns, le caprice des
autres, des convenances particulieres, des predilections locales, modifibrent peu a pen la forme des lettres et la mani£re de les unir.
L’ecriture prit graduellement dans chaque contree principale une
physionomie originale, et qui donna naisSance, quand se multiplifcrent les monumens des langues nationales, a des configurations
tout.i fait distinctes. L’alphabet latin. a- passe par des transforma
tions presqueaussi nombreuses que celles que traverse le vieil al
phabet phenicien pour atriver aux belles capitales qu’on trouve gravees sur les, edifices du regne d’Auguste.
La connaissance de i’histoire de cette ecriture est l’objet d une
science speciale qu’on nomme la paleographies chaque pays a la
sienne, et en France, grace aux travaux des benedictins, completes
par ceux de plusieurs erudits contemporains, par ceux surtout qui
fonderent ou qui ont continue l’enseignement de l’licole des chartes,
la paleographic, comme sa soeur la diplomatique, est devenue, une
connaissance des plus sures et des plus positives; elle rend a 1 his
toire d’inappreciables services. La succession des formes, je serais
tente de dire des modes qu’on a adoptees pour les lettres est elle—
meme une histoire des plus interessantes qu’on peut lire dans des
traites tels que ceux de MM. Natalis de Wailly, W. WattenbachJ
G. Lupi. Le mus6e des Archives nationales offre au public une cu
rieuse collection de documens de tout genre s’ytendant du vne siecle
jusqu’au commencement du ndtre, et qui donne une idee complete
�HISTOIRE DE f'EC1TtCRe!|F
, ’
151
des innombrablesSansformations deTecriture latine. Une telle variete dans le tracP rend difficile une classification quelque peu ri-<
goureuse, d’autant plus que dans ces metamorphoses l’homme a
procede comme la nature, non’par changemens brusques, mais par
modifications insensibles. Onpeut cependantdistinguer trois grandes
Ppoques, et dans chacune un certain nombre de nuances. La pre
miere epoque s’etend de 1’etablissement des barbareis au xine sfecle;
la Seconde va du xine au commencement du xvie; la troisieme arrive
jusqu’a nos jours^
Pour les deux premieres, les dimensions et la forme des lettres
nous fournissent trois classes assez nettement defines : les majus
cules, usitees dans les inscriptions; sur les’monnafes, pour certains
titres, certaines initiales,—les minuscules,'generalement employees
pour les oeuvres litferaires, et les cursives, adoptees pour les actes;
toutefois on reconnait plusieurs varfefes de chacune de ces espfeces d’ecritures. Durant la premiere periode du moyen age, 1’Peri
Eure capitale, hPritiPre directe de l’ancien alphabet latin, n’a plus
ces formes majestueuses efregulibres que nous admirons au fronton
des temples, au socle des statues, sur les bornes milliaires elevees par
les Romains aux premiers sfecles de 1’empire. Les capitales ont perdu
beaucoup de leur Plegance; elles fmissent par n’btre plus que maladroitement dessinees et par constituer ce qu’on a appele les capilales rustiques. Dans les manusetits surtout, on prefera des caractPres dont le trace exigeat moins de soin et de surete de main, dont
les traits affectassent moins de legPrete et de souplesse; les scribes
adoptPrent des majuscules d’une forme plus lourde qui n’etait pour
ainsi dire qu’une sorte de cursive dont on avait force les dimen
sions, grossi les caracferes, au point de lent ’donner un pouce de
longueur, ou, comme disaient les Romains, une onCe (zznew), car
l’once etait la douzibme partie de leur pied; de 15 le nom ft&criture
onciale impose a cette sorte de majuscules qui n’a pourtant pas
toujours, a beaucoup prPs, une once de haut. Gomme c’etait particuliPrement le tracP des lignes droites, la regularite des angles qui
demandaient dans la capitale du temps et de l’adresse, on arrondit
dans l’onciale les lignes; les hastes et les jambages se recourbPrent, on allongea souvent les queues. L’onciale fut, comme l’appelle judicieusement Schonemann, la cursive de ’la capitale. Les
anciens Romains avaient employe pour l’usage journalier des caracferes plus faciles a tracer et moins detaches les uns des autres que
' nel le sont les lettres capitales; ce type cursif s’etaijjmodifie graduellement sous l’influence de diverses causes erftre llesquelles il
faut mentionner la substitution de la plume d’oie, de grue ou d’autre
oleau au calame ou roseau dont on s’etaiit jusqu’alors servi de
preference, substitution qui s’opera du ve au vne sfecle, Les bar-
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDESI
bares recurent la cursive romaine sous sa dernifere Rormel mffl
celle-ci ne pouvait manquer de subir chez eux de nouvelles altera
tions, car c’est le propre des ecritures cursives d’etre exposees & devier davantage du type dont elles procfcdent. Plus on voulait tracer
rapidement les caract&res, plus on etait amene & multiplier les liga
tures afin d’avoir de moins en moins & lever la main. Aussi dans la
cursive que nous office la premiere periode du moyen age voit-on
les lettres s’enlacer souvent Tune avec T autre au point qu’on ne
peut plus gudre les distinguer. La nettete, les formes arretees que
presente l’pnciale ont disparu, et la cursive mdrovingienne ne nous
office parfois qu’un Strange griffonnage, dont les lettres crochues et
contournees ne remedient pais par leurs fortes dimensions a l’obscurite qui resulte de leur deformatipn, C’est bien autre chose dans
l’espece de tachygraphie employee souvent dans les diplomes merovingiens et carolingipns par les referendaires, les notes tironiennes, ainsi appelees parce qu’on en faisait remonter l’invention
& un affranchi . de Ciceron, Tullius Tiron. On recourait a cette ste
nographic pour proteger les actes contre 1’habiletS des faussaires.
L’ecriture dite minuscule, intermediate entre la majuscule et la
cursive, est nAe de celle-?ci, A laquelle elle a emprunte plusieurs de
ses formes et de ses traitss' tout en suivant encore les procedPs de
la majuscule. Les lettres y. sont plus arrondies que dans l’onciale
et de moindre dimension; on,y vise surtout & gagner de 1’espace, &
abreger le trace en le rendant plus rapide; on supprime des panses,
des traverses, parfois de simples ^raits so substituent a des lignes
plus accusSes, les barres et les queues se recourbent; mais, tout,
en simplifiant dans cettp minusculeJles formes de l’onciale, on en
garde sans changemens les caractferes les moins compliques. Cette
facon de proceder n’exclut pas une certaine elegance, m&ne ce
qu’on pourrait des fantaisies ou des fioritures qui s’observent sur
tout dans l’espece de minuscule dite diplomatique, dont l’apparition date du. xi® si^cle. L& les hastes et les queues se prolongent
souvent si demesur6meht qu’on dirait que le scribe n’a pu arreter
l’dlan de sa main! CetteAminuscule diplomatique, qui emprunte A
la cursive plusieurs de ses lettres, finit au declin de la premiere
Spoque par la remplacer presque completement. On voit aussi em
ployee anterieurement une autre ecriture ou les hastes acqui&rent
des dimensions; encore plus exagSrees. C’est la demi-onciale ou
ecriture mixte< dorit les lettres appartiennent tantot k la majuscule,
tantdt A la minuscule ; elle disparait des dipldmes au ixe si^cle.
Les modifications graduelles que l’Scriture subit dans les derniers si^cles de la premi&re epoque , en s’accumulant pour ainsi
parler, aboutirent 5, un style graphique veritablement nouveau,
l’ecriture qu’on a fort improprement appelee gothique, que quely-
�HISTOIRE DE^ETTRITUREI!
153
ques-uns nomment ludovicienm parce qu’elle date surtout de l’epotque de saint Louis, et pour laquelle on a propose assez heureusement 1’epithfete de scolastique. Les formes qu’elle fit prevaloir
operferent une veritable revolution dans le tracfe graphique. L’Italie
abandonna son fecriture dite lombardique^ qui a ete usitee jusqu’au
commencement du xnie sifecle, pour cette nouvelle mode dont elle
ne se degouta qu’au xve, laissant encore la cour de Rome y recourir souvent pour la transcription^ de ses brefg.Xwrs la meme
epoque, l’Espagne en agissait de meme b. Regard de son ecriture
dont une des formes persistaj-usqu’a la fin du xvie sife
cle. On peut distinguer dans l’ecriture gothique les mfemes quatre
varietes que j’ai signalees fe la periode precedents :1a majuscule,
la minuscule, la cursive et la mixte; mais il y a des subdivisions
essentielles A fetablir suivant qu’on prend l’ecriture des manuscrits,
des diplomes, des sceaux,desmonnaies. Outre 10s caractferes generaux qu’offrent les diverses espfeces de gothique aux differentes
epoques, chaque province a, dans sa facon d’ecriref’un caractfere
propre qui est un peu a I’ecriture ce que l’accent est b. la langue.
Dans le midi, le$ lettres sont plus carrees,' dans les provinces de
l’ouest plus aigufes, en Champagne plus arrondi'es, en Flandre
plus fines, etc. Pour l’ltalie, les differences sont plus accusees en
core sei on les provinces.
La calligraphic des manuscrits, qui etait arrivee au xve sifecle A
constituer un art veritable et dont l’emploi etait releve par le me
lange des couleurs, l’encadrement des miniatures, des fleurs et des
enjolivemens de mille sortes, regut un coup mortel dell dfecouverte
de l’imprimerie, qui date du milieu du xve sifecle^ Les faiseurs de
manuscrits, en disparaissant, laissferent sans pritrcipes et sans
guides les scribes des chartes et des actespublics, et la tradition
gothique se perdit graduellement. Toutefois- les caracrfere'srtypographiques apportferent les loodfeles que les, chefs-d’oauvr’e Chirographiques ne fouriwssaient plus. Les premieres impressions sur bois
avaient d’abord imitfe 1’ecritur^, plus tard on saisit souvent chez
celle-ci une imitation de rimpression-'' en caractferes mobiles. Les
lettres, qui dans les actes publics tout A la fin du xve sifecle reviennent un peu aux formes deWonciale-, se rapprochent sous Louis XII
des caractferes dits romainsldont les presses de Venise avaient
donne de parfaits modfeles. Mais ce n’est pas seulement l’invention
de Gutenberg qui entrain a la decadence de l’art d’feefire calligraphiquement; e’est encore la multiplicitfe des fecritures, e’est ce
qu’on pourrait appeler le progffes de la paperasserie, car ce^progrfes
date surtout du temps ou le papiertse substituatau parchemin.
Une des causes qui confflribufere^t A faire abandonn'er la minuscule
pour l’ecriture mixte gothiqUe, c?est que les actes fetaient devenus
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bien plus nombreux, c’est qu’on n’avait plus le temps, comme par le
passd, de peindre les mots. Aussi la calligraphic des dipldmes desxne
et xme si&cles, d’une encre restee si etonnamment noire, s’est-elle
perdue au si&cle suivant. La rapidity de 1’expedition, voila a quoi
visaient les notaires, les procureurs et les greffiers. Il n’y avait que
les moines qui, dans leur vie paisible, ne comptassent pas avec le
temps; voila pourquoi au xvie siecle on ne trouve les belles formes
gothiques de l’6poque precedente que dans les ecrits emanes de
quelques communautes, de quelques etablissemens religieux; mais
ce n’est pips la qu’un archaisme. Toutefois l’ecriture des actes pu
blics garda davantage les traditions; elle revint m&ne pour la mi
nuscule aux habitudes du ixe siecle. Gomme la connaissance de la
lecture se generalisait, comme les actes s’adressaient d6s lors &
un plus grand nombre, on s’attachait davantage a la clarte. Les
abreviations incessantes a l’epoque precedente deviennent rares au
xvie sidcle, et port ent. presque exclusivement sur la fin des mots.
Plus tard dans les actes publics de notre pays, rinfluence des chan
celleries italiennes se fait sentir; les caractdres se redressent,
s’amaigrissent, jls rappel! ent cette ecriture dite italique que dans
son Virgile imprime en 1500 Aide avait, disait-on, imitee de l’ecriture de Petrarque et qu’on appela Xaldino. Toutefois la cursive,
taniot carrde, tantdt arrondie, a continue d’etre en usage. G’est dans
cette cursive que 1’alteration des anciennes formes s’accuse davan
tage; elle s’individualise parce que chacun ecrit et suit un peu son
caprice etsa commodite. Le besoin d’ecrire rapidement en modifie
successivement la physionomie, et fait que l’ecriture courante, en
core presque gothique soup Louis XIJ, carree ou arrondie sous
Francois Ier, se penche ou s’allonge a mesurejju’on approche de la
fin du xvie sidcle. Les principes de la bonne calligraphic sont de
plus en plus abandonnes.
Au temps d’Henri IV, la cursive est devenue presque seule usitee; mais les lettres, tres rapprochees les unes des autres et generalement assez regulidres, conservaient souvent des restes des
formes anguleuses de la gothique.. Gelles-ci ne tardent pas & disparaitre completement sous Louis XIII, alors que les lettres prennent de plus fortes dimensions; quand elles affectent des formes
Elegantes, c’est la ronde, ce n’est plus la gothique qu’on a sous
les yeux; mais la ou Ton vise avant tout a la rapidite de l’expedition, loin de devenir plus claire et plus .nette, l’ecriture semble
rencherir sur le griffonnage le moins lisible des plus anciennes
epoques. Dans les minutes des notaires, dans les actes de greffe,
les mots s’enchevetrent les uns dans les autres et laissent a peine
discerner les lettres. Des abreviations sans nombre et excessives
ajoutent encore a l’obscurite, et ce qui se produisait deja au com-
�HISTOIREDE L’ECRITURE.
155
mencement’W'’xvi® sifecle se continue dans les cours "ouveraines et
dans’les tribunaux au sifecle suivant.
| C’uniformite disparut de plus en plus aux xvne et xvme sifecles.
Quand on parcourt une collection d’autographes de cette epoque,
on s’apercoit qu’il n’y rfegne pas un style susceptible d’etre nettement dfefini, bien que certaines configurations de lettres affec
tent encore a telle ou telle periode une physionomie qui peut servir
ci les dater. L’ecriture varie assez sensibiement d’une personne a
1’autre; elle a chez les individus de tel fetat un autre aspect que
chez les individus de tel autre. Tandis qu’elle garde-generalement
sous les doigts des gens de qualite ses caractferes allonges, elle se
fapetisse, devient plus ramassfee ou plus menue dans l’ecriture de
la bourgeoisie. Leslfecrivains de profession, les erudits, les cuistres, qui ont besom d’fecrire beaucoup et vite, ne donnent plus
atix lettres ces grands airs de gentilhomme qu’elles conservent
dans l’fecriture d’un Bossuet^ d’un Racine ou d’un Ffenelon. Dfejfe
au sifecle precedent l’ecriture avait subi chez quelques-uns cette
modification par les causes qui devaient agir plus puissamment
au xvnie sifecle,'L’fecriture du celfebre ferudit Du| Cange, qui fecrivait au milieu du xvne sifecle, est presque menue; celle de Col
bert, moins rfegulifere, ne l’est gufere moins. G’est que le grand ministre avait fete d’abord simple commis et qu’il ecrivait & chaque
instant. Comparez son ecriture a celle du marquis de Torcy, son
fcieveu, voyez comme les let^es s’allongent, comme les jambages
ont gagnfe en hauteur: -c?est que le marquis de Torcy se sent
dfeja de noble race. Il a pris les habitudes des gentilshommes, qui
donnent a leurs caractferes plus d’ampleur; mais au voisinage de la
involution, meme chez les gens de qualitfe, l’fecrittre tend a se rac- ,
courcir : elle est bien l’image de ce qui se passe et nous montre
l’abaissement des grands. Rapprochez w ecriture de Louis XVI de
celle de Louis XIV, et vous pourrez vous dire, rieh qu’a la vue de
Xies caractferes, que |anfortunfe monarque ne devail fetre que l’hferitier bien amoindri du grand roi. Il semble mfeme que son fecriture se soit encore rapetissfee aprfes Inprise de la Bastille; il ecrit
alors presque comme un bourgeois. G’est que les fevenemens l’obligent a fecrire plus souvpnt, & annoter a la marge une foule de
pifeces, a ecrire men™ la hate, tandis que les^ois ses ancetres et
les anciens gentilshommes fecrivaient peu et prenaient leur temps.
A dater de la seconde moitife du xvnie sifecle, il n’y a plus de
discipline dans la main; on a secoufe la tradition, on est en pleine
anarchie ou, pour mieux dire, en pleine individualhfe. Chacun fecrit
& sa guise, l’un gardant plus ou moins les vieilleK formes, l’autre „
iuivant dans le trace sa commodite personnelle, et cette diver
gence croissante dans les styles 'graphiques ne fait que s’accu-
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ser davantage a la periode subsequente. Aussi c’est moins la date
que la physionomie du personnage mdme que decele la configura
tion des lettres. Le caractbre de celui qui ecrit s’empreint telle-]
ment sur l’ecriture que certaines gens pretendent alors reconnaitre
le temperament de l’homme & sa main, et leur pretention ne sera
pas toujours chimerique; dans bien des Ventures, on discerne
quelque chose qui repond au caractere du personnage. Jetez par
exemple les yeux surde registre des proebs-verbaux de l’assemblee
nationale, oh sont couches les noms de ceux qui souscrivirent dans
la stance du 20 juin'1789 au fameux serment du jeu de paume;
rapprochez ces signatures du caractbre de ceux qui les ont tracees. Que de curieuses conformites confirmees pour des autographes
plus btendus, d’autres pieces, emanees de personnages non moins
connuis dans notre histoire contemporairie! Robespierre n’apparait-il
pas lh tel que la revolution l’a montre, dans cette ecriture petite,
s6che et sans liaisons? Son nom est inscrit dans le procfes-verbal de
la seance du 20 juin, tout prbs de celui de Boissy-d’Anglas, dont
l’ecriture grande et franche epntraste avec la sienne. Non loin de
li est la signature lourdement pr^tentieuse du fondateur de la secte
des thiophilanthropes, l’un des directeurs de la r^publique fran^aise,
L.-M. De la Revelliere de Lepeaux, comme il 1’ecrit. Le caractere
resolu et tenace de Lanjuinais se lit bien dans ces lettres ecrasees
tracees d’une main pesante. Aussi hardie, l’ecriture de Rabaut-Saintlitienne est moins ferme. Celle de Talleyrand est tortueuse, et l’e
criture de Mirabeau rappelle la grande ecriture des gentilshommes
du xvne sifecle. C’est une sorte d’onciale? mais plus serree, ou la
fierte se mhle a l’impatience. La signature de Barnave trahit 1’6motion, celle de Merlin de Douai l’obstination. Comparez 1’ecriture
de Fouquier-Tinville a celle de l’executeur Sansbn, quelle analogie
dans la brutalite du trace! Enfin pour mentionner les victimes aprds
les bourreaux, n’est-on pas frapp6 de la noble fermete que pre
sente l’ecriture de Marie-Antoinette ecrivant a Mme Elisabeth aprbs
sa condamnation a mort? La main n’a pas tremble, les caractbres
sont demeures pour 1’aspect ce qu’ils etaient quand la femme etait
reine; onn’y apercoit ni affectation ni coI ere. Cette ecriture-la est
tout a fait de la mbme famille que celle de Charlotte Gorday allant
comparaitre devant ses juges; elle se rattache, bien que de plus
loin, a celle de Mme Roland.
En fait d’ecriture, on ne vise plus h la calligraphic, on se contente de copies nettes et lisibles. Le metier de scribe, qui etaitun art
quand il fallait faire transcrire autant de fois un livre qu’on en voulait posshder d’exemplaires, et quand e’etait la mode d ajouter aux
lettres initiales de gracieux ou bizarres ornemens pour en rehausser la forme, n’est plus a cette heure qu’un miserable metier. Plus
�mHInREyDEOEtRITUKE!
157
nous avancons, plus nous remettons & des procedes mScaniques le
soin des transcriptions. Quand on n’imprime pas, on autographie.
R photographie, la photogravure sont aujourd’hui pr6ferees aux
meilleurs copistes, parce qu’elles sont plus exactes. Il n’est pas jusqu’A la tekgraphie electrique qui ne charge elle-meme un appareil
d’ecrire la depeche que l’on re$oit. Toutefois, si l’on vise 5, la rapidite, le besoin de clarte qui se faisait deja sentir au xvie sidcle
se manifeste de plus en plus. Dans l’ecriture cursive, l’imperfection
et l’arbitraire du trace mettent parfois assez notre sagacite & 1’6preuve pour qu’on n’y ajoute pas la difficulte des abreviations, et,.
sauf un petit nombre, on les a totalemendbannies* Cependant malgre les alterations que jusque de nos jours le caprice ou la maladresse fait subir a l’ecriture usuelle, la cursive garde en France
plus de clarte que chez les Allemands, qui ont conserve des liga
tures abr^viatives, que nous rejetons, et allonge les panses de let
tres de facon a en faire presque de simples jambages. Plus atta
ches que nous aux traditions du moyen age, nos voisins ont persiste
pour l’impression dans l’emploi des caract^res gothiques dont ils
ont toutefois adouci les angles depuis deux siAcles; auparavant
ils se servaient encore d’une gothique que l’Angleterre et la France
avaient depuis longtemps abandonnee. Chez plusieurs peuples oh
I’influence germanique s’est fait sentir, l’ecriture allemande a pr6valu au moins en typographic; mais la clarte, la nettete, et, comme
diraient les typographes, le bel ail de notre alphabet romain et de
notre italique, tels qu’ils sont sortis des progrAs de l’art, le font de
plus en plus pr6f£rer a l’alphabet allemand. D6ja, pour un grand
nombre de livres imprimes en langue allemande, on a adopte les
lettres latines, et les Roumains, qui sous une influence slave s’etaient servis dans le principe des lettres cyrilliennes, qu’ils abandonnferent ensuite pour un alphabet forme de l’alphabet russe enrichi de quelques lettres, ont fini par y substituer l’alphabet latin,
dont les droits sur leur; idiome sont’ assurSment tres fondes, cet
idiome appartenanwa la famille des langues romanes.
L’invention de l’imprimerie a eu l’avantag^ de rendre l’Gcriture
moins variable qu’elle ne l’etait quand tout se tra^ait A la main;
elle a fait pour l’ecriture un peu ce que celle-ci avait fait pour le
langage. En uniformisant les styles, elle a donne plus d’unit£ A la
’facon de figurer les lettres et a facility par 1A les communications
intellectuelles. Doit-on croire qu’elle ait pour cela rendu A tout ja
mais impossibles de nouvelles et profondes modifications dans l’ecriVture, qu’elle ait irrevocablement fixe l’alphabet et impose un tracy
cursif dont il sera impossible de nous detacher? A considerer la generalite de l’emploi de l’ecriture, la multiplicity des correspondances, la necessity pour les peuples civilises de se mettre de plus
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en plus en relation ecrite les uns avec les autres, on sera assurement tente d’admettre que tous les peuples adopteront un jour uh
seul et meme alphabet, consequemment un procede uniforme d’ecriture. Cette unification graphique, dont on pourrait voir l’avantcoureur dans l’unificationdes poids et mesures et des monnaies,
presente toutefois de grandes difficultes. Si elle est desirable, si elle
n’est pas impossible, elle demande au moins.la solution prealable
de bien d’autres problAmes du. meme genre et fort embarrassans 5.
resoudre. Un alphabet unique, c’est deja la moitie du chemin fait
pour arriver A une, langue universelie, car une telde unification en-‘
trainerait dans chaque idiome des changemens d’orthographes et par
suite de prononciations qui auraient pour effet d’effacer bien des
differences entre les diverses langues. On peut juger de la difficulte
par celle qu’offre un probldme assurement moins complexe, l’adop-*i
tion d’un meme systAme de transcription pour rendre les mots appartenant aux langues orientales. Chaque peuple., presque chaque
auteur, a pris l’habitudte de representer a sa guise, et selon l’orthographe de sa langue, les sons que traduit tel ou teihmot de l’un de
ces idiomes, de representer telle lettre de l’alphabet arabe ou tibetain, tel son chinois ou japonais par une lettre ou un assemblage de
lettres. Il rAgne A cet Agard une singuliere confusion qui a pour effet
de denaturer les noms orientaux lorsque ceux-ci passent d’une po
pulation europeenne a l’autre. C’est ce qui arrive notamment pour
tous ces noms geographiques que nous-fournissent les Anglais et les
Anglo-Americains, qu’ils apportent de l’lnde ou du far-west sous le
deguisement de leur propre prononciation; nous adoptons leur orthographe, et nous nous faisons alors souvent de ce que ces mots
sorit reellement la plus fausse idee. Le problAme de la transcription
des noms a fort occupe certains savans. Le celAbre voyageur Volney,
qui, aprAs Maimieux et de Brosses, tenta de composer un alphabet
harmonique propre & representer tous les elemens possibles de la
parole, echoua. La solution du problAme'exigerait qu’on se fut prealablement mis d’accord sur le nombre de ces el emens mdmes, et on
ne l’a point encore fait. Ainsi, tandis que, suivAnt un philologue
francais recemment enlevA A la science, M. Eichhoff, le nombre des
articulations simples se rAduit A 50, Biittner en compte plus de 300* J
Le desaccord qui rAgne A cet Agard a fini meme par faire abandonner 1’etude de la question, si bien que le prix fonde A l’Institut par
Volney en faveur de celui qui la resoudrait a du etre transforme en
un prix de philologie comparee dont l’etablissement a porte de bien
meilleurs fruits. On s’est pourtant entendu pour diverses natures
de son; quelques-uns des systAmes proposes repondent dans une
certaine mesure au but A atteindre. Je citerai celui d’un celAbre
egyptologue allemand, M. Lepsius, auquel plusieurs philologues con-
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159
tinuent de se conformer, et celui d’un oircntaliSte' francais, M. Lfeon
de Rosny, aifte&r d’un savant travail sur les alphabets. Ainsi on est
parvenu pour la transcription de l’alphabet dfevanagari a un certain
accord, grace auquel on peut reproduire assez fidfelement des’ textes
sanserifs sans avoir recours aux caractferes originaux. L’unification
des ecritures cursives offre encore plus de difiicultes que celle des
caractferes typographiques, et Ton en serait rfeduit, pour une ecri
ture universelle, a des moyens artificiels et passablement arbitrages;
plusieurs impliquent 1’adoption d’un systfeme de transmission pho
nfetique commun qui n’est pas moins embarraSsant que J’unification
des signes graphiqueS< et pour* lequel on en arrive mfeme, comme
cela a lieu dans ,le procede de M. Su$re, A faire intervenir l’felfement musical/L’unitfe de notations pour la musique semble en effet
nous fournir la preuve qu’un systfeme commun de notations phonologiques n’est point une chimfere; mais la generalisation d’une
methode exigeant une education delicate de l’oreille est plus difficile encore que celle d’uri precede'tel que la stenographic, qui demande une grande dexteritfe de main. La stenographic A laquelle
nous recourons pour reproduire le^ debats de nos assemblies dfelibferantes est d’ailleurs fort loin des’adapter a toutes les langues.
Precisfement parce que la rapiditfe du trade veut que Ton s’affranchisse de l’orthographe, qu’on se borne a rendre strietement le
son, 1’accord doit etre bien arrete en ce qui touche la prononciation des lettres, et cela n’est pas possible entre idiomes de gfenie
phonfetique trfes different. Assurfement.notre stfepographie est fort
supferieure A certaines tachygraphies usitees dans/I’antiquitfe et au
moyen age. On pourra notablement simplifier les moyens d’exfecution, parvenir A remplacer, comme on l’a ijecemment proposfe, la
main armfee de la plume par le toucher d’up clavier ou des pedales
qui fecriront pour le stfenographe, et permettront de reproduire un
discours aussi vite qu’on execute un morceau de musique; mais il
est fort A craindre qu’on ne perde alors en clarte ce qu’on aura gagnfe en rapiditfe, etj quoi qu’on fasSe, on. se heurtera toujours A la
difficult d’inventer un systfeme de? signes qui puisse etre adopte par
toutes les langues et toutes les prononciations, Ji semble que, pour
rfesoudre le problfeme d’une ecriture commune, on dut revenir A ce
qu’fetait l’fecriture dans le principe, up assemblage d’idfeOgrafhmes
dont le sens serait indfependant de la valeur phonfetique qui peut s’y
attacher; mais l’emploi de ces signes universels d’ideesbeonduirait
les hommes A ne plus se servir que d’un langage aussi enfantin,
apssi grossier que celui que nousjjappelops le langage nfegre, et au
quel nous ramfene un peu, il faut en convenir, la redaction des tfelfegrammes. Un pareil systfeme serait tout surplus applicable A cer
taines correspondances fort felfementaires, A certains fechanges trfes
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limits d’id6es; il ne saurait se prefer a la composition des oeuvres
litteraires, 6tre acceptable partout ou il importe d’exprimer, les
nuances de la pensee avec nettete, precision, elegance.
On le voit, nous sommes bien loin d’une ecriture universelie,
aussi loin peut-etre que d’une langue unique; mais, si l’on ne peut
opGrer a cette heure d’unification entre des alphabets radicalement
differens et depuis longtemps en usage, on peut au moins reduire le
nombre de ceux qui existent. Il se produira sans aucun doute pour
les systfemes graphiques ce qui s’est deji produit & l’Sgard des
langues. Bien des idiomes tendent A disparaitre pour ne plus laisser
& la surface du globe que quelques idiomes qui finiront par s’en
partager seuls la possession. Les alphabets particuliers A certaines
langues mourront avec ces langues mdmes; etl’on ne comptera plus
sur la terre qu’un nombre fort restreint d’^critures. L’alphabet latin
a d6jA pris la place de plusieurs alphabets par la substitution de
l’emploi d’une langue europeenne & un vieil idiome national.
L’histoire de l’Scriture souleve encore une question. Le systAme
alphabGtique est-il le dernier mot des procddes graphiques? Fera-t-il
un jour place A un systAme plus simple? Je ne le pense pas,et voici les
motifs de mon opinion. Toutes les inventions humaines ne sont pas
susceptibles d’un progrAs ind&fini; elles trouvent des bornes dans
l’essence m6me de nos facultes, dont elles facilitent l’exercice, 6tendent l’application, mais ne sauraient changer la nature. Une fois
qu’une invention a fait produire A l’id6e sur laquelle elle repose
tout ce que cell e-ci peut renfermer, elle. doit s’arrdter, absolument
comme en geometrie, lorsqu’on a Une fois decouvert le mode deva
luation d’une surface ou de la contenance d’un volume, on nepeut
plus imaginer un moyen tout & fait different. Assurement nous
avons beaucoup perfectionne nos- proc6des : l’industrie humaine a
fait de nos jours des prodiges, mais il y a des arts qui epuisent
leurs ressburces<; pass6 un certain terme, leur domaine ne s’agrandit.plus, bien qu’il puisse etre de mieux en mieux cultivG. Plus
un procdde, plus un art est simple de sa nature, plus il est pr&s du
teripe qu’il ne saurait dGpasser. Aussi pour nombre de ces choses
qui ne demandent ni grandes combinaisons, ni une d^pense toujours nouvelle d’intelligence, en sommes-nous restes au point oil
en 6taient nos aieux, oh en 6tait m£me d6j£t l’antiquite. Les beauxarts n’avaient-ils pas atteint chez les Grecs plus haut que nous ne
nous sommes encore sieves? Dans d’autres ordres de travaux, ne
voyons-nous pas Le meme fait se produire? La fabrication d’une
foule d’objets tres simples n’a pas depuis des siAcles plus varie que
la maniere de faire les quatre regies. L’esprit d’invention se porte
sur des actes plus complexes. Gela nous explique pourquoi les societes dont les besoins*intellectuels et physiques demeurent peu
�HISTOIRE DE L’ECRITURE.
v
16T
dSvelopp^s, qui ne connaissent gu&re que des methodes 616mentaires, s’arretent de bonne heure dans la voie du progr^s, car il
ifaut que les besoins de l’homme s’Stendent, se diversifient, se raffi
nent, pour que son invention s’aiguise et s’exerce. Cette remarque,
soit dit en passant, nous fait comprendre pourquoi les animaux paraissent stationnaires dans leurs habitudes, que l’on a longtemps
regardees, non comme le resultat de connaissances acquises et
transmises par l’education, mais comme l’effet d’un instinct spontane, quoiqu’il suffise de les observer dans 1’exercice de leur industrie pour se convaincre qdnls y apportent de l’invention et de
^intelligence, qu’ilg modifient. certains petits details de leurs prece
des suivant la necessity du moment, fibs besoms des animaux dtant,
comme leurs facultes, beaucoup plus restraints que les notres,
leur intelligence a promptement trouve ses bornes, et il n’a pas
fallu de bien nombreuses generations pour les amefter au point ou
nous les observons aujourd’hui; ils ne peuvent plus gufere le de
passer, et c’est & tort que nous voyons la une preuve.de la spontaneite de leurs aptitudes.
L’homme est arrive deja pour certaines choses a cotte limite infranchissable, mais pour une foule d’autres il a encore une longue
voie a parcourir. Comme la variete infinie des formes d’activite de
notre etre intellectuel et moral engendre sans .cesse desliesoins
nouveaux, notre genie inventeur trouve sans cesse de nouveaux
mobiles. La parole dans ses differens modes d’expression, l’ecriture
qui en est la manifestation visiMe, doivent, dans letir Evolution,
atteindre un terme final, un 6tat au-dela duquel.il ne sera plus possible d’avancer, de meme qu’il viendra urn temps ofi il ne nous sera
plus permis de decoiivrir sur notre globe des contrees inconnues. Ces
grandes inventions, fruits pr6coces et printaniers de-, not%e intelli
gence, sont arrivees de bonne heure A se constituer avec ce qu’elles
avaient de plus essentiel; elles n’ont plus subi ensuite que de lentes
modifications, qui ne sent que des ameliorations de details, des perfectionnemens secondaires-, tenant plus aux instrumens employes
qu’au fond meme du precede. L’ewiture a deja traverst les grandes
phases de son existence; il ne lui est plus possible d’operer des me
tamorphoses aussi profondes que celles qui ont marque le passage
de l’ideogramme au syllabisme, du syllabisme & lalphab&tisme, et
les faibles progrfes qu’elle peut comporter encore semblent n’en
devoir changer ni les el emens, ni le systfeme.
•
,r
Alfred Maury.
•
TOMB XI. — 1875.
11
«
�L’AVENIR
Mt
-Mk
COMMERCE EXTERIEUR EN FRANCE
H'H ’'s' ’•
Annales da commerce extArieur. — Situation ^conomique et commerciale de la France en
1875. — Rapports a la commission pour le developpement du commerce extdrieur. —
■’ Questionnaire adressd aux chambresdecommerce et rdponses des chambres.
Quelle que soit l’insouciauce d’un peuple pour ses interdts mat6riels, l’etat de la civilisation ne cesse d’etendre le cercle de son
commerce.^!! suffit qu’il entre dans le^concert des nations modernes
pour voir grossir le chiffre ue ses ^changes sans aucun effort de ge
nie; mais il ne recueillera les Veritables fruits de cette activite que
s’il devance le courant au lieu d’y ceder movement. La France a
toujours occupe un rang distingueparmi les nations commercantes:
Ce qui lui restart d’etablissemens a 1’etranger, la reputation de son
sol et de son Industrie, ont entretenu au dehors une activite salutaire. Cependant, aprfes les efforts remarquables qui ont ete tenths
& la fin du sifecle dernier, elle s’etait montree plus jalouse de defendr-e son propre marche que curieuse d’explorer celui des autres:
idee fausse qui a longtemps peso sur la liberte et la grandeur de
son commerce’
C’est eh 1838 que, sollicitees par les bateaux & vapeur, les
grandes maisons de commission etablies. & Paris pousserent leurs
entreprises dabs les diverses parties du monde. Nos moeurs comg|
merciales etaient deja bien changeefe quand les reformes de 1860
abaisskrent les barrieres de douane. Presentees sous une forme populaire, soutenues au nom des principes economiques, sans cesse
�LE COMMERCE EXTERIEUR W FrSJ® ? "16<f
compromises par les regrets cle la grande industrie, qui se trduvait
prtwe de protection, on peut dire que ces reformes ont ete souventl
mal comprises. Les uns croyaient qu’elles devaient inaugurer Page
d’HIdu bon marche; les autres tenioignaient une confiance imper
turbable dans la vertu des principes et montrerent trop de dedain
pour les plaintes legitimes des fabricans, En J^ali^ les promoteurs
de la reforme n’ouvraient pas a jindustrie francaise une carridre
facile et paisible j, ils lui demandaient un surcroit d’activite^ afin de
arracher a la contemplation du marche interieur, qui avait jusque-la borne son howzon, ils lui montraient un empire A conquerir,
paais ils se taisaientrgur lei difficulth.de la compete. Depuis cette
epoque, des complications inopinees ont surgi » le regime qui avait
operd les reformes et qui devait eiUseconder la marche est tombe
avant d’avoir donnd a l’industrie les compensations promises; les
affaires ont ete suspendue^ aneantiespar la guerre : au lieu d’exo
neration et de trav$u&publics, on a eu des charges nouvelles A sup
porter. Pourtant la guerre dtait & peine terminee, que les .affaires
reprenaient avec une activite fievreuse, etese tournaient vers^l’exterieur en vertu de cet instinct aveugle qui pousse la nature hupiaine
& reparer ses pertes. Il fallut bien||iouver des debouches pour l’excedant d’une production menee A toute vapeur. On envoya en masse
a l’etranger, meme sans benefice reel; on s’accoutumai a consigner
ses marchandises, c’est-A-dire a les offrir dan® les entrepots lointains avant d’avoir trouvei acheteur,, procede peu familier A nos
negocians. Ainsi, par un etrange revers de fortune, l’appauvrissejnent du marche i^terieur rejetai?UFindustgie sur les relations lointaines, et nos madheurs contrihuaient peut-^tre au developpement
du grand commerce plus que n’avait fait notre prosperite\
Aujourd hui il n’est plus temps de regarder en; arri^re. Sans
doute, le renouvellement prochain des traites va ranimer leq dis
cussions eteintes; mais Fopinion publique est acquise A l’esprit des
reformes. Les plus grands centres ont adhere au syst&me de la
liberte, et les resistances^ sent circonscrites dans quelqqes villes
que 1 on connait bien,. Quand on aura enfin renonce A la possession
exclusive du marches frangais^l’attention desrjdconomistes se portera dun autre cote : quel les son t nos forces I l’dgard.du marche
universel? et, puisqu’on nous contraint de sortir de chez nous, quelle
est la route a suivre? Gette question d’avenir prdoccupait vivement
un ministre qui n’a fait que traverseible pouvoir,, et qu’une mort
prematuree vient d’enlever : M. Desseillignya legu4;le>),soin*de la
Fresoudre A une commission composee par lui de hauts fonctionnatres et de negocians. Connaitre A fond nos ressources et nos
faiblesses, indiquer des remddes qu’on n’a pas la pretention d’imposer, mais avant tout eclairer 1’opinion publique, la premunir
�REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
contre la defiance extreme de soi-mfeme, l’inviter h etudie* des
problfemes dont la solution definitive lui appartient, telle est la
tache que la commission s’est tracee; point de panacee a decouvrir,
point de systfeme bati d’avance par quelques habits brodes, mais
une meditation feconde a laquelle on convie tous les hommes de
bon conseil, toutes les -corporations qui s’occupent en France d’economie publique. Les commissions passent, les enquetes subsis
tent. En nous aidant de ces recherches, nous tacherons de determi
ner d’une part le rang que la France tient dans le monde par son
commerce exterieur, de 1’autre 1’esprit de nos negocians et les
obstacles qu’ils rencontrent, soit dans notre regime economique,
soit en eux-mfemes, c’est-A-dire dans les moeurs et les institutions.
I.
Nous avons, pour mesurer le trafic international, un compteur
place a nos portes : la longue ligne des douanes, cette frontifere vivante a cote de la frontifere naturelie, retient un moment
au passage tout ce qui entre et tout ce qui sort. En dfepit de la
fraude qui se glisse entre les mailles du filet, malgre la legferete
des negocians ou leur dissimulation, les chiffres recueillis par la
douane ont une valeur comparative trfes reelle, et nous fournissent
d’excellentes armes contre les objections les plus repandues. Vous
contestez la valeur des reformes de 1860? Depuis cette epoque, le
mouvement general des entrees et des sorties a doublfe : il fetait
de 5 milliards l/2,en 1859, il dfepasse aujourd’hui 9 milliards. Vous
craignez le contre-coup de la guerre, les suites d’une perturbation
profonde? De 1869 a 1873, rien que pour la France, le commerce
exterieur a monte d’un milliard, au grand avantage de notre expor
tation. Direz-vous que nous ne tenons pas notre place parmi les
grands peuples commer^ans? L’Angleterre, il est vrai, nous depasse
du double, et fait 15 oul6 milliards avec 1’etranger; mais deux
nations seulement sont en etat de nous disputer la seconde place :
l’Allemagne et les ^tats-Unis. Gederons-nous a1’Allemagne sur ce
nouveau champ de bataille? Elie nous bat d’un milliard en 1873;
mais elle a pour elle 1’indemnite de guerre, qui lui permet de mul
tiplier ses achats sans etendre ses forces productives : aussi ses
entfees dfepassent de beaucoup son exportation, qui est encore inferieure a la notre de 600 millions*'Quant aux l^tats-Unis, ils ne tiennent que le quatrifeme rang, avec un commerce exterieur de 6 mil
liards 1/2 : bon argument enfaveur du libre echange, car 1’Union
cherche aujourd’hui a se passer de l’Europe, et multiplie des barriferes de douanes qui ralentissent son activite proverbiale.
On dit encore : Vous fetes en France de grands consommateursJ
�LE COMMERCE EXTERIEUR EN FRANCE.
165
votre sol est riche, et vous donne de quoi depenser beaucoup; mais
vous n’avez pas le g6nie commercial, qui est avant tout le genie de
la production. Vos chiffres tSmoignent de votre prosperity, non de
votre energie; ce sont des resultats, non des promesses, de la richesse acquise, non des sources intarissables de richesse. — Les
chiffres repondent que nos entrees et nos sorties se balancent, et
que les exportations surtout sont en progrAs. Ils montrent encore
que la Grande-Bretagne, cette immense fabrique, consomme plus
qu’elle ne vend. Serait-ce par hasard affaiblissement chez elle, di-?
minution des moyens producteurs? — Enfin, dit-on, vous ne lutterez jamais avec l’Angleterre, vous etes des utopistes, le libre
echange vous tuera. — Nous retournons au tableau des douanes,
et nous constatons que la France est le plus grand pourvoyeur
de l’Europe : elle lui fournit tout juste pour 2 milliards 682 mil
lions de produits; e’est 2 millions de plus que la Grande-Bretagne.
Que repondre a cela? Que nos marchandises sont toutes'meiiues,
et ne tiennent guere de place sur un navire? que la houille au contraire est un fret magnifique? La delicatesse de la fabrication n’exclut
done pas un grand commerce. — Soit, mais vous Ates parfaitement
nuls dans les contrees lointaines. — Nuls, e’est beaucoup dire. Les
£tats-Unis se defendent contre nous a coups de tarifs, et pourtant
notre ancien chiffre d’affaires dans ce pays, s’il n’augmente guAre, ne
dycroit pas non plus. En Afrique, notre situation est tres supportable;
ce n’est pas encoreun grosrevenu; mais quelle nation, y compris l’Angleterre, peut se vanter d’exploiter a fond 1’Afrique? Quoi qu’on en
dise, nous ne sommes pas trop battus dans la Mediterranee, et les
progrAs de l’Italie en Egypte n’ont pas de quoi nous effrayer. En
Asie et en Oceanie, e’est vrai, notre desavantage est extreme, et
l’Angleterre fait plus d’affaires avec la Chine que nous n’en faisons
avec tout cet hemisphere. C’est 1A notre point le plus faible: reconnaissons en Oceanie la superiority d’un petit peuple comme la
Hollande. Admettons qu’il y a des peuples plus hardis, plus entreprenans quenous, plus penetres de l’esprit commercial, que, meme
en Europe, nous avons trop neglige les pays du nord, et qu’il faut
deploy er nos voiles pour aller plus loin; mais bornons 1A nos con
cessions, et tachons de demAler les symptomes d’un meilleur avenir.
Presque partout une nouvelle impulsion coincide avec les re
formes de 1860. Ainsi les transactions avec la Russie, de 82 mil
lions en 1859, s’elAvent A 266 millions en 1871. Les affaires avec
la Suede passent de 19 millions A 50, avec la Norvege, de 28 mil
lions A A A, et l’on peut dire que ces pays font vers nous les pre
miers pas, car leurs envois depassent de beaucoup nos expeditions.
Dans nos rapports avec nos voisins les plus proches, les Beiges
et les Anglais, voici des faits significatifs : les entrepots de ces
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
pays nous avaient toujours dfefrayes largement, c’est-a-dire qu’au
lieu d’aller chercher trfes loin les choses dont nous avons besoin,
nous trouvions plus commode de les prendre a nos portes, dut-il
nous en couter davantage. Vainement les hommes d’etat ont
lutte par des surtaxes contre ces habitudes indolentes; que de
combinaisons n’a^t-on pas imaginees pour nous donner le gout
des approvisionnemens directs, jusqu’a etablir un tarif different
pour les marchandises qui avaient passe un certain cap et celles
qui n’en venaient point! Inutiles efforts I Liverpool et Anvers ne nods
ont pas moins> fourni; une grande partie des produits exotiques.
Or le mouvement des entrepots est entre dans une pferiode de decroissance. L’exemple Io plus frappant est celui des soies, parce
que les envois de Londres sont presque nuls aujourd’hui, et que
cette branche de notre Industrie n’a pas cesse de se developper. Les
graines olfeagineuses, le cacao, le cafe, les sucres Strangers, nous
arrivent aussi plus directement; nous commencons a jeter les yeux
au-dela de notre ancien horizon, et nous remontons les courans
jusqu’& leur source, au grand avantage de notre bourse et de notre
energie. Lorsque nous voyons figurer a 1’importation de Belgique
certains produits que le sol flamand serait bien fetonne de porter,
lorsque la Grande-Bretagne nous envoie comme provenance directe
des fruits que les brouillards de la Tamise n?auraient jamais re
chauffes, il est clair qu’il faut dteduire de notre commerce avec
l’Europe un grand nombre de transactions oh celle-ci joue le role
d’un simple intermediaire, et que nous mous affranchirons tot ou
tard'des entrepots voisins, pour#puiser a pleines mains dans les
reservoirs naturete qui les ont alimentes jusqu’ici. Reciproquement
combien de produits qui portent la marque evidente du gout fran-J
cais sont expfedies en Angleterre, et de la dans le monde entier !
combien de nos fabricans choisissent volontairement cette voie, qui
est pour eux le grand clieminbattu,' et se reposent sur ces voisins
trop complaisant fiu soin de dfecouvrir les dfebouches, de nouer
les relations, d’organiser le credit! Tel peuple qui nous connait
a peine tire d’Angleterre et consomme nos meilleurs produits. Done
il ne faut pas se hater de mettre en balance, en face de notre com
merce europeen, le chiffre-relativement faible de nos affaires avec
les pays d’outre-mer; l’adresse de nos envois est souvent trom-^
peuse, et le traite passe avec un negotiant anglais masque souvent
une operation de longue portee dont il nous appartient de recouvrer
la conduite.
Au-dela des mers , 1’opinion commune nous attribue peu d’ini
tiative; des relations trfes anciennes seraient seules capables de
nous arracher & nos gouts sfedentaires. Cependant ou voit-on que
nous ayons fait les plus grands progrfes? Serait-ce dans nos an-
�LE COMMERCE EXTERIEUR EN FRANCE.
167
ciennes’ colonies i Mais pour la Reunion, la Martinique et la
Guadeloupe les chiffres n’ont gu&re varie depuis 1859; ils sont
meme tombes, A La Reunion, de 60 a 29 millions, et cet affaissement commence en 1864. Au Senegal, meme situation : nos
echanges, en quinze ans, ont varie de 16 A 15 millions. G’est
au contraire dans les etablissemens nouveaux que l’augmentation
estrapide; le plus considerable d’entre eux, 1’Algerie, pendant la
m^me periode, passe de 18t millions A 288. Les plus petits, SainteMarie de Madagascar, Nossi-be, etc., sortent pei^A peu du neant.
En Gochinchine, avanfc 1868, on ne notait m£me pas les chiffres :
cette annee-lA, on inscrivit 5 millions d’affaires; en 1872, il y en
avait pour 10 millions. La somme n’est point forte, mais la propor
tion est satisfaisante^Pajtout ailleurs nos progr&s ont et6 soutenus
et font un contraste avec la routine qui subsiste sur les voies de
notre ancien commerce. Avant 1860, nos affaires avec l’extreme
Orient ne depassent pas 6 millions^ en 1867, elles atteignent
64 millions. A partasr de cette epoque, on wmmrtee A decomposer
les chiffres : 55 millions pour la Chine, 46 pour le Japon. Il est vrai
que les importations dominent de beaucoup; mais l’habitude des
approvisionnemens directs suscitera d’autres affaires. La meilleure
maniere de trouver des cliens, disait un n&gociant spirituali c’est
d’acheter soi-meme : si vous offrez votre marchandise, on vous
econduit poliment; comme chaland, on vous accueiile, on vous retient5 et alors vous pouvez changer de role^ la glace est rompue.
En ce sens, nous sommes encore les cliens des Indes anglaises, oil
■iotre commerce a passe de 70 millions 4 105 pendant la p&riode
des traitSs, et ceux de 1’Afrique occidentale, qui nous- eirvoie de
plus en plus ses riches productions, tandis qu’elle restate 4 nos
offres, grace 4 la simplicite de ses gouts et de son costume. Tout
autre est notre attitude dans les echelfes du die van t et dans l’Amerique du Sud; la, nous luttons A armes egales sur un sol favo
rable. Nos relations avec l’l<igypte ont pris un vif essor depuis 1863;
d’une trentaine de millions,vies ^changes ont passe A 100 millions,
dont une bonne moitie revient A-nos exportateurs. Avec les etats
barbaresques, nos affaires ont double. L’influence franfaise a son
centre naturel sur les^bords de la Mediterranee; si notre pays n’affiche plus la pretention peu moderne d’en faire un lac francais, il
a le droit de profiter de ses avantages, et il em profit©; le percement de l’isthme de Suez et le developpement de l’Algerie nous valent des aujourd’hui de grands resultats commerciaux. Enfin, si Ton
veut se convaincre que ni l’eloignement, ni la diversite des races,
ni l’etat precaire de la civilisation ne sunt um obstacle au d^veloppement de nos affaires, il faut aller dans l’Amerique du Sud. Ger.tainement notre commerce n’est pas en rapport avec l’etendue de
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REVUE DES DEtJX MONDES.
cet immense continent, ni m£me avec sa population presente; mais
il ne tient qu’a nous de prendre, dans les transactions, une place
que l’Espagne affaiblie laisse inoccupee, et ou la concurrence anglaise, toujours redoutable, est cependant moins pressanteT De
puis la Nouvelle-Grenade jusqu’au Chili, nous sommes en progr&s,
presque partout nos chiffres ont double, et l’equilibre se maintient
entre les deux operations inverses, le depart et le retour. Notre si
tuation est particuli&rement favorable & la Plata; pendant la periode
des traites, notre commerce avec cette republique est mont6 de
57 millions a 230, c’est-a-dire qu’il aura bientot quintuple. En
1872, les chiffres ont ete tout a coup doubles, grace & une exporta
tion de plus de 100 millions. L’empire du Bresil et ses vastes forets
ne nous offrent pas un debouch^ aussi sur; mais il n’y a deperdition
reelle qu’a l’egard .des possessions espagnoles, moins par notre
faute que par celle des Espagnols eux-memes, qui se dechirent a
Cuba. Ge coup d’oeil jete sur l’ensemble de notre commerce doit
nous rassurer.|jSi, presses de jouir, nous nous bornions au gain
immGdiat, assurement ces faibles nioissons, recoltees ca et U dans
le vaste champ du monde, pe seraient peu en comparaison de nos
facultes et de nos appetits; mais, si nous mesurons le progr&s du
lendemain & celui de la veille, il semble que les resultats les plus
minces soient des premieres conquetes, et que les rej etons vigoureux de notre commerce, inegalement repartis sur la surface du
globe, peuvent en grandissant prendre racine dans ces terres ou ils
ne manquent ni d’espace ni d’aliment.
Cet espoir est-il justifie par la nature de nos ressources? Nous
avons d’abord.un fonds qui s’est enrichi Ifentement par le travail
des siecles, et que personne ne songe a nous contester : la terre.
Les produits que la consommation reclame le plus imperieusement,
comme leble et la viande, ne cessent de traverser nos fronti&res,
soit pour entrer, soit pour sortir, et changent de direction suivant
l’^tat de la recolte. D’ailleurs l’inUr^t d-u consommateur prime ici
tous les autres, et l’ardeur de la demande force la main a la spe
culation. Si indolent qu’on soit, quand il faut manger, on sait bien
decouvrir ou sont les greniers pleins. Moins ndcessaires a la vie,
mais non moins recherch&s, les produits de ferme, fruits, volailles,
oeufs, gibier, etc., prennent de plus en plus le chemin de la-fronti&re. Rien de plus curieux que cette exportation au petit pied, qui
remonte de village en village dans l’interieur des terres. Les d6partemens du nord et les cotes de Normandie se sont fait depuis longtemps une clientele en Angleterre. De Calais, Dunkerque, Dieppe,
Fecamp, Honfleur, de petits voiliefs se detachent tous les jours,
bondes de b6tes & cornes, de poulets et de fromages. Le paysan en
sabots, l’homme de la glebe, tente la fortune du grand commerce^
�COMMERCE EXTERIEUREN FRANCE.
169
BlwMpTfesfondans & Londres, en Belgique, en Hollande.Bien
plSK! devient armateur. A Honfleur, & Saint-Malo, a Cherbourg,
les marchands d’oeufs frCtent le navire qui doit porter leur fragile
cargaison. Rien n’Cgaie les petits ports normands comme cet attirail
de ferme; puis le gout de la speculation gagne de proche en proche,
Honfleur regoit des expeditions du centre, et les brises de mer penetrent jusqu’a Orleans. C’est le plancher des vaches qui se met a
naviguer. A mesure qu’on suit la cote, les produits ehangent suivant le climat, mais le mouvemenfi ne; s’arr^te pas I* la Bretagne envoie des beurres sales, la Provence des amandes, du mi-el, de la
cire et des citrons. Certainement W nature des produits limite le
rayon des affaires; mais c’est une animation utile1 et durable, tout
a fait contraire a l’immobStes des champs; D’-ailleurs1 ces dons du
climat prennent souvent une forme moins epheHigre : dans Test, la
pomme de terre decent fetule; a Nice et en Corse, les fruits deviennent confiserie; du fond des Cevennes< la riche Limagne envoie des pates alimentaires; il n’est pas jusqui’S 1’anMque Blrry qui
ne fournisse des orges pour la fabrication de la biOre, et tons ces
produits peuvent supporter une assez longue traversee. On les retrouve a New-York et dan® le nord de l’Eutope-.
A Bordeaux, il faut saluer de plus gr'os personnages : nous entrons dans le royaume du vin. L’Angleterre a la houAe’", l’Italie les
soufres,' le Perou les guanos; nous, nous avons le vin. C’est le plus
grand present que nous afefait la nature. Encore est-il probable
que nous savons 1’aider, puisque depuis 1859 no® exportations ont
plus que double. Les vins de la Gironde entre ztTtoWes augmentent
avec une rapidite effrayant'e. C’est qu’ife absorbent ou cnrrigent
tous les gros vins du midi, dont le titre d’alcooi est trhp eleve;
ils prennent sous lent patronage un grand WmWe de Crus energiques qui auraient vOgett sans elegance et sans distinction au
fond de leur province, En Roussilfo®, le cotfpage des vins se fait
Sous l’ceil paternel de la douane; mais passer A Bordeaux, c’est
Hcore sortir par la grande port®, et les vitas qui descendent ce
;beau et large fleuve de la Gironde march ent vers Un horizon
Bans limite. On les rencontre dan® 1-e monde entier, et surtout
pans les deux Ameriques, en Australie, aux lndes. fee commerce
de Bordeaux, qui appuie sa prosperitO sur un monopole Ce’culaire,
^Est pourtant point endormi, mais il a le caltne de la force; il est
a la fois liberal et aristocratique, chose tare en France'. Bordeaux
Ht le pays de la vie large, egale et faCife; le negotiant et le propriOtaire se touchent, se confondent solvent dans la meme per^onjje, et cette double vie, a la fois sCdentaire et active, met de la
prudence dans leur audace et du mouvement dans leur securite. A
cote des tranquilles possesseurs du sol et de leurs courtiers s’agite
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES?
un autre commerce, plus remuant a la surface, non moms prudent
au fond : celui qui travaille depuis dix ans, non sans sucfes, a faire
de Bordeaux un grand entrepdt de matures premieres et de denrees
coloniales.
Bordeaux fournit un peu plus de la moitie de l’exportation totale
des vins fran^ais; les provinces moins bien partagees, et meme la
Bourgogne, malgre la susceptibility de ses vins, commencent & regarder plus souvent du cote des frontieres. G’est que le gout des
vins francais p’est plus seulement A 1’etranger la marque d’une
haute education: la roture en Angleterre apprdcie le claret’ mais
,
elle a le palais moins delicat, et ne distingue plus le Bordeaux re
tour des Indes d’un petit vin campagnard. Quant aux vins de Cham
pagne, ils continuent a se repandre dans le monde entier sur les
pas de lasciyilisation, et, comme on porte des toasts A Shanghai et
a leddo, la Chine et le Japon ont leur part de ces envois. Des pays
tristes comme l’Espagne , ou fatalistes comme la Turquie, sont
seuls re;£ractaires a la gaite communicative du vin de champagne.
Cette exportation de produits agricoles a-t-elle atteint ses limites? peut-elle devenir un instrument de conquyte lointaine? La
nature a mis des bornes a la fecondite du sol, et, dussions-nous
defricher encore plus d’un coin de^terre aride,-simplifier nos cul
tures, ameliorer notre outillage,4’augmentation ne saurait etre que
lente et graduelle. Quant A la direction imprimee au commerce,
elle suit aussi certaines lois ijJ&S bles obeiront toujours au marche
interieur, les fruits qui se corrompent ne depasseront guere l’autre
cote de la Manche; les denrees alimentaires ne,sont pas le meilleur
moyen de s’ouvrir Un pays neuf, car en-toute contree le mode de
nourriture est personnel A 1’habitant; e’est son premier soin ou plutot sa raison d’etre dans le milieu ou il vit* et suttee chapitre il ne
peut gukre vivre d’emprunvNos vans eux-mAmes ne conviennent
pas A toutes les races du monde; le sauvage, qui aime l’eau de feu,
trouverait notre vin de Bordeaux insapide; dans beaucoup de lieux,
la religion ou les moeurs en proscrivent l’usage; mais partout ou un<
Europeen pose le pied on peut vendre une bouteille de vin, et notre
commerce agricole epuisera le sol avant d’avoir atteint les limites de
la civilisation..
Interrogeons A son tour l’industrie, —non pas qu’il soit possible
de faire une nomenclature,’car oh commence, ou finit l’exportation?,
Toutes les industries ont 1’ambition legitime d’exporter; mais il en
est qu’un mouvement vigoureux pousse au dehors ou qu’une longue
habitude y retient. Voici d’abord un groupe fort connu du public,
celui des raflineurs de sucre, groupe isoie, car lesfabricans de sucre
indigene ont des interets differens. L’industrie du sucre en France,
comme element d’exportation, presente ce trait singulier, qu’elle a
�I^^fMERCEFEXTwSuR EN FRANCE.
171
ses ccwentionwffternationales; sa diplomatie, ses archives a elle,
v*te chaos dont deux ou trois hommes sont A peu prfes seuls a posseder la cle. Quatre pays rivaux, l’Angleterre, la Belgique, la Hol
lande et la France, ont fait en 1864 ce rare projet de detruire entre
eux toute cause de noise et d’inegalite, d’abaisser les barriferes de
douane, de renoncer aux primes, et de reunir en quelque sorte leurs
Kerritoires en un seul grand marche pour la fabrication du sucre :
ils se rfeservaient feeulement le droit d’asseoir a four gre l’impot inRerieur; mais l’esprit dfe discorde est rentre par cette^porte, et l’impot est encore si difficile a combiner que personne, ou peu s’en faut,
n’a tenu ses engagemens. Cette industrie, qui a de beaux debouches
en Europe, est-elle un instrument pouHnotre commerce lointain?
Tant de peuples ne font point entrer le sucre daps leur consommation, ou se contentenfijde poudres grossiferes qulnous dqnneraient
des nausees! Les raffineurs n’etendent gufere la main au-del& des
mers que pour choisir les plus belles'-qualitfes de sucre colonial.
C’est a Paris que le sucre fait les plus grands. seigneurs. Nantes,
antique entrepot de predicts exotiques, a longtemps tenu la tete;
aujourd’hui cette ville, bien que depassee, se defend avec une remarquable tenacite. Entouree de regions agricoTes, mal servie par
un fleuve infegal, menacee a la fois par Bordeaux et Le Havre, ja'louse de Saint-Nazaire, mais soutenue par un immense marche
d’approvisionnement, il reste a son commerce un air de grandeur
et le fonds trfes solide de la ^affmeoe.
Si vous voulez transformer un sauvage, habillez-le; c’est par le
^etement que la civilisation se communique d’abord. Entre la nourriture trop simple et les arts mecaniques, trop compliques, les
tissus- se trouvent prdeisement au point qu’il faut z pour seduire les
appetits des peuples primitifs. D’ailfeur^ nulle*fabrication n’offre
plus de souplesse et de variete, de sorte qu’il est facile de s’accommoder aux besoins,, au ©lirnat, aux moeurs des cliens les plus
bizarres. G’est ainsi que FEurope, et surtout l’Angleterre., ,habille
une grande partie du monde,. Les fabricans, nos voisins, ne se las$ent pas de filer, tordre et tisser, depuis le chaud vehement de
1’habitant du nord jusqu’aux legferes colonnades des tropiques. Peu
leur importe de reproduire A l’infini le irifeme dessin : sous la. zone
toiride, on n’a point de ces dfelicatesses. Les tisseurs anglais consiliferent leur clientele comme un betail; ils vontftusqu’au bout de
Sieur rouleau, ch argent les navires, consignent en attendant la
chance, et continuent de vfetir l’humanitebon gre mal gre. Nos fa
bricans, helas I ne sont point si impertutbables. Ils ont le malheur
d’avoir du gout, beaucoup de nonchalance et peu de penchant A travailler pour les troupeaux d’hommes. Bouen a presque abandonne
la fabrication des guinees qu’elle envoyait jadis en Afrique et dans
/
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
l’Inde. Filateurs et tisseurs seraient parfaitement satisfaits d’approvisionner leur pays; hors de nos frontibres, l’Algerie seule et les co
lonies leur semblent un marche digne d’eux. A l’ombre des cloche*
de Rouen se sont refugiees les dernibres resistances du monopole 4
1’Anglais y est encore traith d’ennemi, ou peu s’en faut. Le Havre,,
grand marche du coton, est un allie suspect. Rouen lui envie son
port, qui empfiche les navires de remonter la Rasse-Seine, et lui reproche ses doctrines, car Le Havre accepte tous les pavilions et d£teste les barribresdedouane a l-’egal des chaines ou des ensablemens. Ainsi se prolonge d’antagonisme entre deux places si bien
faites pour s’appuyer mutuellement; les uns regrettant le passe, les
autres appelant Pavenir, A quelques lieues de distance on se tourne
le dos. Et pourtant, quand on voit cette admirable ville de Rouen,
cette large vallee, toute herissee d’usines, non pas triste et repoussante, mais debordant de seve industrielle sur un sol ghnereux,
quand un peu plus loin Le Havre apparait avec sa situation sans
egale, ce cap, ce golfe immense, ce fleuve toujours pret a former des
bassins dont un rang de collines semble marquer la place, on ne
peut s’empecher de rever, pour la grande ville et pour le port, des
destinees anglaises. Avant la guerre, Le Havre esperait devenir le
premier port du continent; pretention legitime, si, comme Livei^
pool,' il avait eu derriere lui un Manchester, un grand foyer produisant sans cesse en vue des pays lointains, assurant l’&coulement
regulier deis entrepots, le chargement complet des navires. On comp-]
tait bien sur les filatures de Lille et d’fipinal; mais toute la region
du nord et de l’est subit la seduction d’Anvers. Ge port, place sous
la main de cinq nations commer^antes, et prefer^, sinon convoite
par l’Allemagne, doit A la derniere guerre un dbveloppement imprevu : on 1’a debarrasse! d’une ceinture de fortifications, on elargit les bassins; le melange de tous les pavilions lui donne un aspect
international, etle mouvement de la vie moderne penbtre dans les
quartiers antiques. G’est 1A que l’Europe et la France vont sou
vent chercher le coton americain. Du reste, nos filateurs de l’ouest
pbchent par entdtement plus que par impuissance; on voit des
centres moins importans, comme Yvetot ou Falaise, entrer en rap
port avec l’Amerique ou I’Asie, transformer leur fabrication, jeter
des couleurs plus vives sur leurs cotonnades, et deployer, sous le
ciel brumeux de la Normandie, des turbans et des moustiquaires.
Si notre industrie du coton est legbrement atteinte, en revanche
celle de la laine deyient de jour en jour plus prospere : ressource
feconde, car, des qu’on s’ecarte des tropiques, la laine peut trbs
bien 1 utter avec le coton; mais on rencontre ici la meme diversite
dans les dispositions des~ fabricans. Les uns ne detournent gubre
les yeux du marche interieur; quand ils n’ont pu vendre A des
�LE COMMERCE EXTERIEUR EN FRANCE.
173
ErfflByQiB prennent aT^TTdLp> le chemin aelTironttoreTComifT®
pls n’ont au dehors que des cliens de hasard, et qu’ils n’adoptent
ni leurs modes nlleur metrage favori, la vente leur est contrairej|
ou bien Us attendent paisiblement que 1’etranger, plein d’admira
tion pour les specialties francaises, leur apporte & domicile des
commandes et la fortune. Tel est | peu pres le sort de nos plus
belles draperies, celles d’Elbeuf par exemple. Les autres ont renouvele leur outillage et leurs precedes, remue de fond ®n comble la
fabrication, tente les genres les plus dWerens et les marches les
plus lointains : ainsi Roubajx passe sans effort des tissus milang&s
a la Jaine pure, comprend qu’il fait froid en Russie et qu’il ne fait
pas toujours chaud en Chine, noue des relations avec Le nord de
l’Europe, les pays slaves, l’extrdme Orient, et se demande jusqu’a
quel point 1’Oceanie §e montrerai| rebelle au merinos. Quel est le
resultat de cette activity? L’exportation de n,6s tissus de laine s’eleve en quatorze ans (1859-18)73) de 180 millions de francs 5, 325;
celle des tissus au cotan varie entre 67 millions et 77.
Nous avons en Fnance notre pays de la soie. Cette region s’etend
tout autour de Lyon, au nord jusqu’aux limites de Saone-et-Loire,
5, l’ouest jusqu’a la Corrfeze, au sud et, a l’est jusqu’a la fronttere.
Lyon est le pivot de toute la fabrication, bien que le departement
du Rhone ne soit pas le plus riche en filatures (1). Voila une In
dustrie bien franchise,, mais aigssi elle semble Circon^rire le genie
de notre race; la soie sera toujours l’accompagnement ou le semblant du luxe; en expedier dans 1’extreme Orient serait envoyer de
l’eau a la riviere; en offrir aux peuples qui se contentent d’une ceinture de feuilles serait mttoonnaitre la necessity de®.transitions.
aMontrons-nous satisfaits de defrayer l’Europe et Jos Etats-Lnis;
faisons quelques tentative® partout ou de l’argent oisif s'e joint a
des gouts europeen^, et consiclerons ia soie comme une des ressources les plus larges et les plus productives du commerce de luxe,
car l’exportation de la soie nous rapporte un demi-milliar d. A mesure que nous avancons, le caractore, non pas unique, mais saillant
de notre industrie se dessine plus nettement. Negligeons dans ces
grandes lignes le chiffre relativemenl faible de notre exportation
metallurgique, bien qu’elle soit une ressource croissante pour les
ddpartemens du centre, et qu’elle tire une grande valeur de nos
aptitudes mecaniques. Altons droit a Paris, qui,. memefen fait d’in■idustrie et de commerce, est toujourb plus fraffcais que la France.
Tout le monde a remarque, dans les quartierss marchands, ces ton
gues files de solliciteufl qui, generale>ent munis d’une boite car(1) Voyez les representations graphiques des industries dans un volume publid par
le ministere du commerce sous ce titre : SiMtistique sommaire des industries principales en^873; pour la soie, cartes n06 13, 14 et 15.
t
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
ree, stationnent le matin devant certaines portes. Ce sont les petits
fabricans en qu6te de commandes pour l’exportation; ils vont offrir
leur marchandise Aun commissionnaire, fort gros personnage, qui les
attend tranquillement chez lui. Gelui-ci court les risques, expedie
& l’etranger, dispose des ordres. Il se rapproche du general-mer
chant, qui m6ne les grandes affaires de f autre cote de la Manche,
et il parait A l’etroit dans son role de commissionnaire, car le code,
ne prCvoyant pas qu’un jour les rdles .seraient renverses, fait
peser sur lui de lourdes responsabilit6s A l’Sgard de ces petits
industriels qu’il connalt & peine de vue. Il a bien d’autres fournisseurs : Anglais, Suisses, Beiges, Allemands, lui envoient des Cchantillons de tous les produits analogues A ceux qu’il exporte, et Paris
devient ainsi 1’intermediaire recherche^ le patron de l’exportation
etrangbre pour tousles articles de gout. Qui pourraitembrasser l’ensemble de ce commerce ne, verrait d’abord qu’un amas incoherent
des objets les plus divers, depuis le bronze d’art jusqu’aux jouets
d’enfans, des meubles de chisine avec des fleurs artificielles; ici un
carrosse, la une pibce de toile toute simple, puis un melange prodigieux de grave et de grotesquej unHnstrument de precision auprbs des babioles les plus extravagantes. On a trouve une categorie
commode oft loger tous les objets dont la destination paraissait problematique : c’est l’article-Paris. Pour le reste, on s’imagine facilement qu’on a sous fes yeux des produits de la France entiere, et
l’on a raison; seulement Paris appelle Adui,-<dans ;ohaque branche
d’industrie,/fes fabrications les plus fines, les superfluites, les accessoires du luxe, de la science et des arts, en un mot tout l’appareil d’une civilisation avancbe, et, comme *s’il avait une vertu spe-<
ciale pour murir ces fruits-lA, les caisses qui partent A l’etranger
frappbes de son estampille ont double de valeur.
II.
VoilA un apercu rapide de nos ressources; peut-on les caracteriser? L’opinion la plus repandue, c’est que la France n’est reellement supArieure qu’en fait d’art, de science et de gout. L’Anglais,
dit-on,, fabrique pour 1’homme qui entre dans la civilisation, le
Francais pour celui qui commence A la comprendre. Done nous
n’aurons jamais assez de souplesse pour nous plier aux moeurs des
vieux peuples de 1’Orient, ni assez de clairvoyance pour discerner
les apphtits des socihtes primitives. On en conclut que notre marche
est nCcessairement restreint.
Gependant, si notre influence croit en raison directe de la civi
lisation europeenne, comme celle-ci gagne tous les jours du terrain,
notre horizon s’etend aussi de jour en jour. D’autre part, nos apti-
�LE COMMERCE EXTERIEUR EN FRANCE.
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175
* tildes industrielles sont-ell.es aussi bontees qu’on le dit? Faut-il
■croireque les qualites de notre race determinent d’avance le cercle
de notre activity, ou bien ce tour d’esprit n’est-il pas la conse
quence moins respectable de notre regime economique, de nos in
stitutions seculaires? Montesquieu disait deja que le commerce de
luxe est particulier aux <6tats monarchiques : nous aurons done aussi
. un commerce republican!. Sans appeter la politique a notre aide,
voyons les faits. Dans touies les branches d’industtip,
surtout
dans les Laines, ceux qui ont tente d’exporter les objets de grosse
fabrication reu9sissent,quoique Franqais. La metallurgic elle-meme,
malgre le desavantage du sol, cherche et .trouve des debouches au
dehors. Si la moyenne de nos profits se tire des articles de luxe,
les moyennes ne sont pas des lois en industrie : on a tort de rai-sonner toujours comme s’il s’agissait de lois fatales, du rendenaent
de la terre par exemple. Les faits in dustriels .sont plus humains,
plus Libres; ils reinvent plus directemeht de l’imtiatives ce que l’un
a pu faire, 1’autre le fera. Enfin les sp^cialites franqaises dans tesqueiles nous serions parques par la nature se transforment avec le
regime economique; a chaque instant, des fabrications fines s’effacent devant des objets de premiere necessiter, les petits precedes,
d’ou naissent les petits succes, swentent bien. vite, et cependant
notre mouvement d’affairesfoe cesse de erdiitre.
Une objection beaucoup plus grave estfondeesurles dispositions
morales de nos n&gotians. Tout ce qui rest© d’originalite provinciate
se manifeste aujourd’hui dans la scute carrtere active qui n’ait point
ete centraLisee soit par les loiSs,' soit par tes moeurs, C’est-a-dire dans
les affaires : entre Marseille et Bordeaux, (Nantes ett Le Havre, Elbeuf
■d'Roubaix, 1’esprit et les dispositions different- One partie de ces di
vergences resultent de la revolution economique, que les uns et tes
auitres ont embrassPe ou repoussee avec plus ou moins. d’ardeur.
Meme dans le camp du libre ^change, quelle difference -entre te Marjseillais, qui compt-e avant tout sur sa propre eniergie,<et le proprielaire vinicole, qui accepte la liberte parce qu’elle ne peut entamer
son monopole nature! 1 Laconifiance de ceux-ci,latimiditedeceux-te,
Pont evidernment le rSsuibtat des habitudes prises.Iti la sbeurite, plus
loin te haut patronage industriel, accompagne soiuvent d’un grand
role politique, ont ahsdrbe ou refroidi I’ambition du negotiant et
detourne son esprit des entnepnses a .tongue portee. sGelui^ti ;a vecu
de son usine, celui-la de son commerce, oomme fes grands sei
gneurs vivent de tear terre, et lesnegocians les imieux faits pour
la liberte ont gravite naturellement autour des premiers, dont ils
©taient tes pourvoyeurs.
V-oici un autre resultat de nos traditions economiques : la pru
dence exageitee et la defiance a lfegard du credit. Sur ce point, les
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
. moeurs americaines offrent avec les notres le contraste le plus saisissant : un Americain vit de credit; dfes qu’il a un mouton, il cherche
a en dedoubler la valeur par un emprunt; il escompte mfeme l’espferance d’un mouton, et trouve des capitalistes confians qui lui pre-1'
tent sur sa bonne mine. Ainsi tous les biens qu’il acquiert comptent
double, tous ceux qu’il espfere devancent la realite, & la condition
de ne point suspendre un seul instant le mouvement producteur :
s’il s’arrfete, les esperances s’evanouissent en fumee, les valeurs
empruntees s’avilissent, comme l’or se change en feuilles mortes
dans la main du reveur qui s’eveille.' Voil& un peuple tout entier
tourne vers 1’avenir; il pousse a 1’extreme I’ardeur et la confiance,
mais du moins il comprend qu’un capital, une marchandise, une
idee, ne doivent jamais rester oisifs un seul instant, taut qu’il y a
des banquiers dans le monde. Ghez nous au contraire, que de temps
et de capital perdu I Que de minces operations prolongees de mois
en mois et qui aboutissent & un denoument vulgaire sans avoir profite de la vitesse acquise! Les Anglais, avec un systfeme de credit
mieux fequilibre que celui des Americains, sont cependant beaucoup
plus hardis que nous: chez eux, toute operation de commerce exte
rieur a Une double face; le general-merchant achfete pour importer
avant mfeme d’avoir < ecoule son stock d’exportation. G’est qu’il
trouve des banques toujours disposees a lui faire des avances sur la
marchandise consignee. Il dispose ainsi de son crfedit pour s’enga
ger dans une speculation tout & fait dilferente; les deux phases de
1’entreprise se liquident au retour par un double profit sans depla
cement et sans perte de temps. Chez nous, rien de semblable. Le
commissionnaire lui-mfeme, malgre ses vastes relations, ne peut, a
l’exemple des marchands anglais, ajourner le benefice de l’opera-^
tion en 1’agrandisSant. Il est prudent et ne s’aventure pas volontiers au-delfe. de ses ordres; il ne rencontre a 1’etranger qu’un petit
nombre de banques francaises fondees par le Gomptoir d’escompte;
enfin sa clientfele est rfecente, il craint de la perdre et dispose en
faveur de ses commettans du credit qu’il pourrait employer dans
une operation de retour, en leur accordant des delais pour payer.
Qu’en resulte-t-il? Presque toujours. le remboursement des expor
tations se fait en France par traites Ou lettres de change, dont la
plupart sont tirees sur la place de Londres! Le credit est done tout
A l’avantage des Anglais, puisqu’il faut user de leur intermediate
pour se faire payer. Quand les Fran^ais se feront-ils directement
rembourser en marchandises d’importation puisees dans le pays
mfeme oil ils exportent? Deja Marseille, Bordeaux, Le Havre, Saintfitienne, Paris, appliquent timidement cette methode, et cumulent
quelquefois la qualite d’acheteur avec celle de vendeur, non sans
scrupule.
�177
■Noua avons'Ilg la peme & jouer grand jeu; chacun se can tonne
dans sa pelite province et prefdre exercer separement soit l’importation, soit l’exportation. Or en same economie les deux faits sont
inseparables; ils reagissent perpetuellement l’un sur l’autre, et les
chiffres prouvent que dans un pays bien portant ils tendent tou
jours & se compenser, de meme que la respiration d’un etre vivant
exige deux mouvemens alternatifs. Si on neglige de les pratiquer
simultanement, il faut attendre, aprfes avoir exporte, qu’une nation
voisine importe pour notre compte, et cet intermediate veut etre
paye; ce n’est pas pour la gloire que les Anglais se font nos rouliers
et nos entrepositaires. On pourrait determiner ixactement la perte
nationale qui resulte de ce ddtour; ce que nous abandonnons a l’intermediaire, e’est le prix de la vitesse, les speculations que l’on
peut faire sur la connaissance du marche, la hausse ou la baisse
qu’il faut saisir au passage. Nous ressembloris A un capitaliste qui
vend au cours le plus bas et qui abandonne la difference a son agent
de change.
‘
$
Quant au dommage moral, il est incalculable : la speculation
directe avec les pays lointains est uh aiguillon d’activite. Nous restons a moitie chemin, semant partout des relations A peine ebauchees, mais nous ne fondons rien nulle part. De plus, n’ayant pas
besoin de connaitre l’etat du marche, nous repugnons A nous expatrier; qu’importe le gain que nous r£aiisons chez nous, si nous
negligeons tout le benefice de la lutte, l’experience qu’on acquiert
sur les grands chemins, les dangers braves, la science acquise, en
un mot tous ces accessoires du grand commerce, plus importans
que le commerce meme? Tirer un meilleur parti de nos ressources
actuelles, pratiquer largement les entreprises lointaines, et ne rien
laisser perdre des germes qu’elles ont seme, nous preparer au loin
des correspondans qui connaissent parfaitement le double mecanisme des operations, voiliA ce qui doit, d’un commerce prospkre,
mais un peu passif, faire une propagande active et nationale.
’
III.
Une fois d’accord sur le but, les chambres de commerce interro
gees vont nous sugg&rer les moyens de l’atteindre. D’abord le ton
de leurs reponses est tr&s frappant : on n’y trouve aucune trace
d’abattement, mais elles revMent un certain esprit d’initiative qui
repousse la tutelle gouvernementale. Les retours vers le passe sont
tr£s rares, les reformes sont en general vaillamment acceptees,
l’ancienne routine combattue, et l’intervention de l’etat reclamee
seulement dans les cas indispensables. A l’etat, on ne demande pas
tome xi. — 1875.
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REVUE DES DEUXMONDES,
de vaste plan qui change d’un seul coup la face de notre commerce,
point de grand homme, mais aussi pas de brouillons ni de finan
ciers maladroits : que le gouvernement s’abstienne, s’il veut, mais
qu’il ne gene point, et, s’il a le gout d’intervenir, qu’il execute
simplement ce qu’il a promis.
La premiere condition pour marcher, c’est de n’avoir pas d’en
traves aux pieds. Aussi l’heritage de la guerre p6se lourdement sur
notre commerce, ce sont des charges inevitables; mais les negocians
reprochent & nos ministres de les avoir aggravSes par une repartition
defectueuse. La plupart des chambres de commerce considerent
comme funeste le procede qui consiste a reprendre en detail toutes
les matures utilisees par le commerce et l’industrie. Elles ne pretendent pas s’affranchir des devoirs qui incombent A tous les ci
toy ens; mais elles preferent un impot sur le revenu, sur les profits.
Voici leur raisonnement i il y a deux especes de mature imposable,
la richesse en formation et la richesse ddfinitivement acquise. Par
exemple, .uii produit qui est encore dans l’usine et qui n’a pas recu
la derniere forme, c’est de la richesse en formation; au contraire
le benefice net encaisse par l’industriel, de meme que le revenu
du proprietaire et du rentier, c’est de la richesse acquise; selon 1’expression consacree, elle entre en jouissance. Quand on frappe le pro
duit encore imparfait, d’abord on risque d’appauvrir le pays, parce
que l’impbt vient se mettre en travers de la production; ensuite on
frappe aveuglement, sans savoir quel est le veritable contribuable:
est-ce le consommateur, coftime le soutiennent les 6conomistes?
Mais, s’il restreint ses besoins, tout le fardeau retombe sur l’indus
triel. Celui-ci est-il toujours atteint? Mais, quand la consommation
ne peut 6tre eludee, il tire un pretexte de l’impdt pour augmenter
ses benefices. Ainsi, quand on multiplie outre mesure les impots in
directs, inegalite,• incertituderalentissement des affaires: triste
charge qui augmente, non pas en proportion du produit net, mais
en proportion des efforts et de l’activite depens&s. Pourquoi les
fabricans seraient-ils en quelque sorte les tresoriers du public,
charges de faired’avance des contributions qui seront plus tard re
parties sur un nombre infini d’acheteurs? Est-il conforme & la jus
tice de leur enlever momentanement un capital productif, et surtout
de laisser dans le vague ce qu’ils auront & supporter pour euxmdmes par suite des chances de la vente? Aucun de ces inconve
niens n’est a craindre quand l’impdt porte directement sur la ri
chesse acquise : U, l’effort est fait, le travail consomme, l’operation
close; on ne saurait se tromper sur la personne du contribuable, car
la richesse imposable est desormais classee dans les compartimens
de la propriete privee. Quand les industriels sauront qu’au bout de
l’annee l’etat doit prelever tant sur leurs benefices, surs desormais
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179
de leurpart contnbutiv" ils n’eniravailleront qu’avec plus d’ardeun
pour accroitre la portion fibre d’impotS En fait d’exportatimF, malgre les’combinaisons les plus ingenieuses, tant de taxes, pelites ou'
grandes, qui atteignent le produit depuis 1’entree de 1’usine jusqu’&
la sortie du territoire ne sauraient etre integralement remboursees.
— Tout le monde avouera que les impots adoptes par Tassemble
nationale sentent l’exp^dient; il ne s’est pas* trouve de regard assez
ferme pour en saisir l’ensemble et en suivre les consequences. Les
financiers n’ont qu’une seule preoccupation : eviter les plaintes des
contribuables, les frapper presqu’a leur insu,*— en bon francais plu
nder la poule sans la faire crier. Ils ont traite, leurs j&ompatriotes
comme des enfans1 s pour ne point imte^tout le monde & la fois, on
a saigne chacun separement et successivement, en tachant de faire
croire aux autres qu’il leur en couterait moins>; puis on a emis une
theorie deplorable, & savoir que 1’eWanger doit payer une* part de
nos desastres; on a oublB que cet Stranger est un consommateur
qui se derobe a volonte. En un mot| I’oeuvre de 1’aSsemblee natio
nale, aux yeux du commerce, a le grave defaut d’atteindre sous
toutes les formes les instrumens de notre prosperite: future en vue
d’obtenir un soulagement passatger.
Que dire par exemple de rifinpofc’sur 1® petite vitesse? il a ete
signals d&s sa naissanw comme une des plus graines aberrations
fmanci&res, et n’a ‘eu pour lui que 1’entStement de l’inventeur.
Quel etrange procede, pour favoriser la renaissance industrielle et
commerciale, que de frapper l’instrument jlecessaire du commerce,
les transports! Pas d’illusion possible, ce sont bien les grosses
marchandises que l’on veut atteindre, c’est la petite vitesse que
Ton rend onereuse : or qui ne sait que le principal^ le seul avantage de la petite vitesse, c’est le bon marche? Le commerce se
heurte partout & la fiscalite : le morceau de carton qui sert aux
emballages paie separement, et ce mince accessoire va devenir
un poids trfes lourd. On met un impdt sur les effets de commerce,
et l’on ne prSvoit pas que la plupart dJB leWes de change seront
tirees sur la place de LondrdS, avec peril® pour le credit francais.
Le fisc n’est jamais si gSnant que lorsq^’il s’erige en bienfaiteur
et pretend savoir mieux que les nSgocian^ce qui leur convient.
G’est ainsi que l’etat impose sa gara-ntie et son poincon aux objets
d’or et d’argent qui doivent etre vendus a l’&trangifer : en vain le
commerce se fatigue & r&peter qu’il connaitbien sa clientele,*qu’une
fois sorti de France il ne subit d’autre loi que celle de la con
currence. « Si mes cliens veulent du clinquant, laissez-moi leur en
donner. » Vaine pretention : faire du clinquant, ce serait deshonorer la fabrication francaise, et il faut passer par le poingon, coute
que coute! Quand il s’agit des fromens Strangers, convertis en fa-
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
Jrine pour 1’exportation, l’administration tutelaire limite fe, un seul
bureau de douane la faculty de compensation des entrees et des
sorties. En un mot, si le regime protecteur est mort, certaines theo
ries condamnees revivent
et la sous le couvert du fisc. Gelui-ci
croit encore avoir un droit anterieur et superieur qui lui permet de
traiter comme pays conquis la matibre imposable.
La question des transports est bien grave pour un commerce
dont la moindre operation depasse toujours la frontifere. Les chambres de commerce envisagent la carte des chemins de fer sous un
aspect trfes particulier; elles ne s’occupent pas de savoir si les
grandes compagnies ont tort ou raison contre les petites; elles ne
s’inquifetent ni de 1’ancien, ni du nouveau reseau, ni du deversoir,
ni de la garantie; ce qu’elles veulent, ce sont des tarifs uniformes
et commodes. Cette belle regularite, qui est l’honneur des chemins
de fer francais et qui a trouve ici meme des dfefenseurs bien in
formes, cette regularite s’evanouit quand on entre dans les com
plications du tarif: classement des marchandises, tarifs ^expor
tation^ de transit, tarifs speciaux, e’est un dedale oh le plus habile
negotiant se perd quelquefois. La plupart de ces inegalitfes sont
presentees comme des faveurs, et rfeellement elles sont un progrfes
relatif, car les tarifs inscrits au cahier des charges des compagnies
seraient aujourd’hui absolument inapplicables; mais un maximum
fixe par l’etat lorsqu’il etait impossible de pre voir le rdle que les
chemins de fer devaient jouer dans notre feconomie commerciale
peut-il justifier l’existence d’un systfeme complique et bizarre? Les
pretendues exceptions au tarif general sont devenues la rfegle;
nfeanmoins elles sont abandonnees a l’arbitraire des compagnies.
Gelles-ci font avec le commerce un singulier marche: « Je vous
accorde, disent-elles, un tarif special ; seulementje rfeglerai la vitesse comme il me plaira. G’est & prendre ou a laisser; autrement le
tarif general est U... » Un tarif abaisse n’est, dit-on, jamais relevfe;
mais compte-t-on pour rien la menace toujours suspendue sur
le negotiant, le temps perdu h force de delais, et surtout l’inegalite des concessions sur deux ou trois reseaux qu’une marchandise emprunte pour gagner la frontifere? Les tarifs des compagnies
du Nord et d’Orleans sont plus favorables que ceux des autres lignes.
Sur la ligne du Midi, l’exportation paie plus cher que le transit. On
ne sait pourquoi certaines marchandises ne peuvent obtenir de tarif
special,: par exemple, les glaces de Montlucjon, le charbon d’anthra
cite de Chambery. Si l’on dressait une carte des tarifs, comme on a
fait pour le reseau, on verrait partout des lacunes, des interrup
tions, deux ou trois changemens sur un trajet trfes court. Il suffit de
la resistance isolee d’un directeur pour faire manquer l’occasion ou
le profit de la plus belle affaire. Les vitesses ou, pour parler plus
Fl
�LE COMMERCE EXTERIEUR EN FRANCE.
181
t'SMWmtQj^lentemre ne sont pas moins inegales. Il faut a une
16 jours pour aller de Reims a Marseille, 19 jours de
Dijon au Havre, 20 jours de Dijon a Bordeaux, 48 ou 2A jours de
Dijon & la frontifere beige, tandis qu’il faut seulement 9 jours pour
aller de Rouen a Marseille, et 9 jours aussi de Rouen a Saint-Nazaire.
Sur beaucoup de points, les chambres affirment que les dfelais actuels
ne sont pas inferieurs a ceux de l’ancien roulage. D’ailleurs les delais reglementaires depassent die beaucoup la vitesse reelle; la marchandise sejourne en gare, bien inutilement pour les compagnies,
fort mal a propos p®w*-les negoeians. Plusieurs chambres deman
dent la suppression complete de la. petite vitesse pour les marchan
dises de valeur, ou retablissemenAd’un^ vi^esse moyenne comme
en Angleterre, et sWorcent de demontrer que la c&lferitfe des expe
ditions egale en impoptane^te bon marche desttransports. Quel que
soit le regime ds^chemins defer, ces griefs se recommanderont de
plus en plus a l’attention pubBque: si les grandes compagnies sont
fibres, qu’elles organisent une entente, eornme elles savent trfes
bieu le faire quand leurs» interets asont en'feu, — si la concurrence
l’emporte, qu’on lui laissb le soin de ramen® le 4arif au taux le
plus bas possible; mais, si l’fetat exesWe un controle, que cette inter
vention soit efficace, et que le gouve
mt impose aux compagnies
le programme suivant : deve!opponent des tarifs d’exportation,
uniformitfe de ces tarifs entre eu$j, egalite avec les tarifs de transit, revision de-tous les tarifs speciaux emvue d’etablir une legisla
tion homogfene, et reforme do delais de petfete vitesse.
Dans les contrees lointaines ou nous dev«s pousser notre propagande commerciale, en quoi le gouvernement pewt-il appuyer ces
missionnaires d’un nouveau genre? Il a sous la main une armee de
consuls rfepartis dans le Maronde entier et le plus souvent grassement
payes. L’honneur du nom francais le® maintient encotee dans des lieux
d’ou notre trafic est absent, et, faute de mieux, ils sent reduits a
faire de la politique. Ne'sont-ce point des eseadrons ^out prepares
pour nous deblayer le terrain? n’esWe point un advantage que d’avoir
dans tous les deserts quelques hommes (Mltivis auxquels s’adresser
d’abord? Dependant les rapports entre nos constals et le com
merce sont singiaJiferement froids. On diFait que les premiers craignent de se commettre avec les nfegocians;? ceux-ci s’adressent de
preference aux consuls etrangers pour les informations; les cham
bres de commerce , comme corps constitues, n’ont aucun rap
port avec nos agens. Rouen a demande pendant six mois des renseignemens sur les tissus de coton consommfes au Brfesil, et n’a pu
■es obtenir. Chalon-sur-Sadne, aprfes une tentative du meme genre,
a recu cette reponse : les consuls ne donnent pas de renseigne-l
mens. Lyon regoit dans ses murs la plupart des ministres plfenipo-
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REVUE iWAEtJX MONDES. ,
■Rehtiaires qui partent pour le Japon; ces dignitaires mettent le plus
louable empressement a s’informer de l’industrie sericole, ils promettent des montagnes de documens, puis, une fois partis, ilsne
donnent plus signe de vie. A qui la faute? Au public d’abord, qui
ne lit pas les travaux des consuls dans les Annales du commerce
exterieur, peut-etre aussi A da forme de cette publication savante.
etcompassee qui, pour etre mieux murie, manque souvent d’op
portunite. Les recueils consulates d’Angleterre et de Belgique
offrent le module de publications plus courantes, plus personnelles,
plus rapideSi Chez nous, les qualites propres des consuls disparaissent dans la grande machine administrate, qui absorbe leurs tra
vaux, les dig&re, les transforme, les fait passer par une serie de
laminoirs, et restitue enfin au public une poussifere impalpable, depourvue de saveur et d’originality. Pourtant rien n’est plus franc,
plus ouvert, plus abordable, plus degage des pr^juges nationaux,
qu’un consul intelligent qui a quelques annees de residence. Que
les consuls et les commercansn’apportent pas les memes vues sur
le sol etranger^l c’est inevitable et c’est fort heureux; mais ils sont
destines a s’appuyer mutuellement, et il faut dissiper tout malentendu soiten groupanbles negocians autour des.consuls, soit en
simplifiant la filiSre administrative qui met ces derniers en rapport
avec le commerce de la mptropole.
L’essentiel est de changer l’espritde cette petite armee repandue
sur le monde. Gyneralement ceux qui en pari ent ne la connaissent
gu&re. L’etat-nrajor.se compose de consuls proprement dits ou con
suls de carriere, formes avec soin par la metropole, tenus prudemment A 1’ecart dedoute operation lucrative s: s’ils mettaient la main
A la pate, leur function, leur dignity leur influence, passeraient au
compte des profits et pertes. Au lieu de protege^ vis combattraient
pour leur compte.. Les pays voisins ont trouve la r&gle si bonne
qu’ils Font adoptee. Nous avonsseuiement cent vingt postes de con
suls dans le monde entier. Ceux^-ci d^signent et dirigent une legion
d’agens consulates d’importance et d’origine diverses. Non-seulement les fonctions subalternes ne sont pas interdites aux n^gocians,
mais on choisit de preference comme agens, dans les petites places,
des n&gocians du pays. Ces consuls au petit pied, tout fiers de leurs
maigres attributions^ usUrpent volontiers un titre qui n’appartient
qu’A leurs chefs. De la plus d’un reproche injustement adresse au
corps tout entier, et reellement ntrite par un agent inferieur. Le
veritable inconvenient du syst^me git dansde.mode de recrutement
de l’etat-major. Use forme d’abord A Paris, au minist^re des affaires
etrangferes, ce qui n’e&t pas la meilleure manure de connaitre les
debouches commerciauxrCe departement fournit a lui seul le cadre
des eleves consuls, precieuse pepini^re qu’on transplante du quai (
�LE COMMERCE EXTERIEUR EN FRANCE.
183
d’Orsay A l’etranger; elle compte quinze tetes seulement.west peu ‘
pour defray efcent vingt postes de consult sans compter les^iceconsulats les plus importans, et cependant e’est encore trop, parce
que’le syst&me, en raison mdme de son insuffisance, comporte beau-l
coup de passe-droits et d’exceptions. Si 1’entree de la carriere etait
plus large, le cours en serait moins dispute par des agens improvises. Il suffirait pour cela de demander aux aspiraps des preuves
d’aptitude, plutot que de beaux etats de service comme surnumeraires. 11 faudrait qu’une education diplomatique ne leur inspirat
pas le plus profond dedain pour le poivre et la cannelle. DejA le
temps du surnumerariat ^s^ abreg6;-?les 6preuves quisle precedent
deviennent plus s^rieuses; l!es chancelleries et les vice-consulats,
c’est-a-dire la pratique etl’experience^fournissei^ leur contingent.
L’opinion aidant, on peut esperer que les defenseurs naturels de
nos interests lointains regarderont comme le plus beau privilege de
leiir charge de nous preparer des conquetes pacifiques.
Ge ne sont pas seulementkles conseils qufe le commerce francais
trouve a l’etranger : le pavilion francais flotte encore sur bien des
tefres eloign6es, sans parler de l’Algerie. Op a beau nous refuser
l’esprit colonisateur ; en fait die. colonies agricoles, ®ous n’avons
gu&re de superieurs que le$ Anglais, d’egaux que les Hollandais.
Seulement ces deux peuples ont choisi deuXj systemes? bien tran
ches : les premiers ont des coloniq^ libres, gran.dissantes, traitant
d’egal a egal avec la metropole; ,|es see^pnds se cententent d’une
bonne ferine administrative, qu’ils exploit©®^ sur le plus beau territoire de l’Oceanie. La France Msite encore ifitre le passe et
l’avenir. Elle a deux ou trois regimes -different pour ses posses
sions d’outre-mer. Les anciennes, Martinique^ Guadeloupe, Reu
nion, languissent dans 1’incertitude. On a voulu les rendre libres
sans les detacher de la metropolg, ce qui est ^mtradictoiire. Passe
pour l’Algerie, qui, placee & nos portes, peut etre gouvernee comme
un prolongement du territoire-; mais pour nos ©Monies lointaines,
est-ce assez de leur donner une place dans nos assemblees? Y a-t-il
equilibre, analogie, entr<e nos besoms et les leurs J Un s^patus-consulte de 1866, assez ambigu dans les termes, accqrdait h leurs conseils-g6neraux une certain© latitude en naiatiere de douane et d’octroi:
elles se sont elancees avec ardeur da«| cette voie, elles ont cru
pouvoir disposer de leur tarif, mettre Francais et etrangers sur le
meme pied. Aussitot grand emoi dans le commerce de la mdtropole;
oubliant son liberalisme de fraiche date, il rename 1’execution des
anciens engagemens, c’est-A-dire cette reciprocity imperieuse qui
impose a nos colonies des relations francaises. Le conseil superieur
du commerce a condamne la decision dies conseils-generaux comme
illegale. Les argumens ne manquent point pour demontrer A nos
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES*
colonies qu’elles ne sauraient se suffire 4 elles-m^mes. En attend
dant, on ne leur permet pas d’ essay er; on les retient sous la tutelle
enervante d’une majority qui decide selon ses interets immediats.
La mesure pouvait etre mauvaise : elle eut cependant porte les
fruits de l’exp6rience. Triste penchant de l’esprit national, qui ne
sait point affronter les chances diverses de la liberty, et qui, pour
conserver des cliens mecontens* perd des auxiliaires utiles 1
Le commerce francais juge plus sainement de l’avenir des colo
nies nouvelles. Celles-ci n’ont point 4 se debattre contre des tradi
tions facheuses; settlement la necessite les maintient encore sous
le gouvernement militaireFUne seule chambre, celle de Rouen,
propose d’appliquer & la Cochinchine ou 4 la Nouvelle-Caledonie
des procedesd’un autre aged « Quoi! dit-elle* pas le moindre pri
vilege, point de favours a nous, contribuables francais, qui avons
fait tant de* sacrifices pour ces etablissemens ? Pousserait-on la folie
jusqu’a penser qu’ils se gouverneront eux-m6mes? — Oui, repon
dent Paris, Bordeaux et les autres villes; ils se gouverneront un
jour, et jusque-l& nous demandons que 1’element civil soit admis
dans 1’administration;’qu’on vende a prix tres bas des terres aux
emigrans de tous les pays, qu’on ne cherche pas 4 etendre le territoire occupe, mais qu’on l’organise, que les etrangers soient traites
sur le meme pied que les nationaux, et la liberte commerciale appliquee partout. » Les chambres rappellent enfin que Part de l’ingenieur a fort 4 faire dans ces contrees plus qu’a demi barbares,
et qu’apres tout, dans un pays libre, le gouvernement ne peut
s’employer plus utilement qu’4 construire des routes, organiser des
stations sanitaires, opOrer des releves topographiques, elever des
grues 4 vapeur, et faire des experiences interessantes dans des jar
dins bdtaniques. Voila la tache paisible qu’on assigne 4 l’etat : les
comihercans se chargent du reste.
IV.
Cela revient 4 dire qu’il faut avant tout des hommes hardis, perseverans, instruits, capables de s’expatrier ?■ rien ne sert d’aplanir
la route, si personne ne marche; et d’autre part les plus gros ob
stacle's ne resistent pas a la puissance de la volonte. Celle-ci est 4 la
fois l’instrumerit et le prix du commerce exterieur. Singuliere fa
culty que l’energie : necesSaire pour agir, developpee par Taction,
elle se fortifie 4 mesure qu’dn la depense; un peuple est trop paye
de sa peine quand il a reussi a faire des hommes. La commission
et les chambres consumes ont egalement cherche dans les moeurs,
l’educatiori et les lois le principe de notre fortune commerciale. Il
regne dans les reponses des chambres’ de commerce une certaine
�LE COMMERCE EXTERIEUR EN FRANCE.
185
fierte qui prouve quelle haute idee les negocians se font de leur
profession, avec.quelle ardeur sincere ils appellent & eux les re
crues. L’experience et’ta situation personnelle des hommes qui attaquent si vivement les prejuges nationaux et qui paraissent si condens de leur sort doivent faire impression sur la jeunesse. Il se
forme dans les hautes regions du commerce une majority ferme,
reflechie, sensee, qui a sa place marquee dans la politique, et qui
en toute question exercera une influence legitime sur l’opinion pu
blique. A plus forte raison commande-t-elle l’attention quand elle
se prononce sur ses propres affaires.
Gardez-vous de croire, disent ces negocians> que l’emigration
proprement dite soit l’auxiliaire indispensable ct’un grand com
merce (1). Sans doute, elle lui est utile : E ouvriers habiles, les
artistes que la France envoie aux Etats-Unis repandent le goflt des
produits francais. A Buenos-Ayres, les Basques ont attire nos vins et
nos tissus, et, pour le dire en passant, nptre emigration n’est pas
si insignifiante que l’on dit : le seul port de Bordeaux en 1873 recevait 1,724 emigrans francais, sans compter les passagers des Messageries maritimes; la plupart allaient dans l’Amerique du Sud, 195 &
la Nouvelle-Orleans, 294 4 la Nouvelle-Galedonie* — Mais nous
sommes un peuple s6dentaire; soit, nous aimons notre pays. Eh!
croyez-vous que les Anglais, les Allemandl, les Suisses, n’aiment
pas aussi le leur? Ils sortent pour acquerir, ils rentrent pour jouir
tie leur acquis. De 1861 a 1871, il est rentre Mans la Grande-Bre
tagne 252,000 Anglais. Distinguons une fois pour toute^ce que l’on
confond & tort: l’emigration definitive des travailleurs, bonne pour
coloniser, et l’emigration temporaire des jeunes negocians sortis de
la classe bourgeoise (2). Gelle-ci, pour le moment,Jaute de mieux,
nous suffit. N’allez pas vous eerier que les Anglais vous chassent de
partout, qu’il est impossible de lutter avec la race saxonne. Les
Anglais ne chassent personne,$et la theorie des races n’a rien a faire
ici. Voici des Allemands, des Suisses, des Italiens, aussi habiles
qu’eux, plus habiles m£me, parce qu’ils sont plus savans. Vous
jjravez, dites-vous, ni relations, ni credit, ni correspondans, ni cette
atmosphere commerciale que le jeune Anglais respire des le berceau? Ignorez-vous done que le telegraphe a change la face du
monde, qu’il vous donnera en deux heures plus de credit et de renseignemens que le meilleur correspondant?,.Groyez-vous qu’on puisse
se contenter, par le temps qui court, de ce frottement des affaires
que vous enviez a vos voisins? que cela dispense de connaissances
(1) Les faits relatifs h Immigration, sont empruntds au tr&s remarquable rapport de
la chambre de Bordeaux. Sur l’education commerciale, M. Jacques Siegfried, dont la
competence est bien connue, a remis une note & la commission.
(2) Rapport de M. J. Siegfried, p. 3.
; ; <• , - .
■_
.
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
6tendues, d’aptitudes variees? La science et le caract&re ne mettent-ils pas tout le monde sur le meme pied? Souplesse d’esprrt,
promptitude de decision, etude approfondie de presque tous les
pays, voila qui vaut tout un heritage de relations et qui abr&ge la
routine de 1’appren tiesage.
Geux qui pensent ainsi n’ont pas manque d’emprunter aux Allemands leur moyen de succ^s^ils ont fonde des ecoles de commerce.
Nous n’avons pas a etudier ces belles institutions, auxquelles on a
consacre tantot de gros fewest, tantdt des pages vigoureuses. Indiquons seulement l’esprit qui domine parmi les chambres de com
merce en mati&re d’education : quelques-unes se defient encore de
l’enseignement theorique; mais «le temps n’est plus, dit Bordeaux,
ou les jeunes gens pouvaient passer de dix a douze ans dans un
comptoir pour apprendre, en tatonnant, une partie de ce qu’ils acqui&rent en deux ans dans les ecoles de commerce. » D’ailleurs peu
ou point d’intervention de l’etat; les ecolesee fondent toutes seules,
avec Largent des particuliers, chose inouie et qui s’est vue pourtant a Lyon, Marseille, Le Havre, Rouen et Bordeaux; pas de pro
gramme officiel et fixe, la plus grande liberte sur le rSglement interieur; des bourses de voyage distribuees a titre de recompenses,
quelquefois .mdme les frail de premier ^tablissement offerts par la
chambre de commerce aux sujets les plus distingues. A l’etat, on
demande sa Sanction pour l’octroi du dipldme que les ecoles delivrent, et la presence aux examens d’un personnage plus ou moins
officiel; itfaut bien faire'quelque chose pour ces pauvres p&res de
famille qui aiment tant l’administration. On ach&vera de les seduire, si le gouvernement vent bien ouvrir aux elhves des 6coles de
commerce les consulats, les ports, les douanes, etc. Rassurez-vous,
honnetes gens, vos fils ainsi prepares, s’ils font de pietres n£gocian®, pourront encore conserver la noble ambition d’etre douanierssi
ou gendarmes. Ge qui est plus important, le diplome, selon le voeu
des chambres de commerce, donnerait des droits au volontariat
d’un an, et les efeves des ecoles profiteraient du sursis d appel dont
il est question dans 1’article 57 de la loi militaire du 27 juillet 1872.
On demande a l’^tat quelque chose de plus difficile : e’est d inviter
l’universite a tenir la balance egale entre Ldducation classique et
l’enseignement special fonde par M. Duruy. Gertainement, si les
proviseurs songeaient moins aux concours generaux, s’ils ne denigraient pas, mAme a leur insu, cet enseignement pratique place
sous leur egide, si le discours latin ne passait pas pour la nourriture des forts et la geographie pour le pis-aller des incapables, nos
affaires n’en iraient pas plus mat
A force de remonter la chaine des causes qui exercent leur in
fluence sur le commerce exterieur, les chambres de commerce ont
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LE COMMERCE EXTERIEUR EN FRANCE.
187
I pousse jusqu’aux mceurs. Elles onHrafewIfeducAtioIFen general,
I;.Me notre preference pour certaines* arrieres, du fonctionnarisme,
If que dis-je? de la liberte de tester. M. Le Play a trouve en elles des
j. auxiliaires inattendus; les unes ont presente la liberte testamen-1
taire, avec application du droit d’ainesse, comme une des princi-1
. pales causes qui contraignent les Anglais A chercher fortune hors
He leur pays, et elles ont raison; les. au-tres y voient le mobile de
[^’emigration allemande, ou meme l’origine de nosigrands etablissemens d’avant 1789, en quoi elles se trompent* car la faculte de
tester est trds limitee en Allemagna, et>chez nous, avant la revolu
tion, les restrictions, sauf pour les biens nobtes, etaient plus severes qu’a present. Assurement, des qile l'e^nigocians. sortent de
' leur domaine, leurs informations sont moins Mures, leurs attaques
plus passionnees; mais coname ces critiques de notre catactere con| tiennent une bonne part de verity, et qu’ellessont dans toutes les
bouches, il est necessaire de les examiner posement, afin de vider
une fois pour toutes cette V-ieille querelle.
D’abord les reproches s’adressent, no® pas a toute la nation, mais
A une classe de la nation, a la bourgeoisie aisee. S’expatrier, braver
les dangers et affronter les climafis, tout chia n’est pas incompa
tible avec la hardiesse et le courage de la race francaise; mais la
bourgeoisie, tres soucieuse des in ferdtss< materiels, a une facon particulfere de les traiter qui tient A son education et A son histoire.
Comment efeve-t-on les jeunet gens qui, par situation, seraient
aptes au grand commerce? On leur donne les idees les plus vastes
et les plus generales qu’il soit possible^ dans Wtteuniversite oti
0,’on vient pour ainsi dire chercher le droit de bourgeoisie, la forme
de l’enseignement est democratique, lefond est ausMwistocratique
qu’avant la revolution. Ce sont les habitudes d’eSp^lt, les gouts
■ litferaires de l’ancienne aristocratic, avec l’esprit de logique des
anciens legistes. VoilA Mfeal : exprimer de beau® sentimens dans
un beau langage, ou bien raisonner a priori. Il nels’agit pas de
savoir si le systdme e^t bon ou mauvais; mais encore est-il que la
bourgeoisie francaise, qui, en politique^, a fait table rase du passe,
I vitjpar l’esprit dans le passe, avec le d$sir insatiable de s’egaler au
I type qu’elle a concu. Il en resutte que Ins hommes de valeur, chez
nous, sont tr&s superieurs A leur condition, et queles hommes mediocres s’y croient superieurs. Ch-acun, ram end violenament vers les
preoccupations dela vie, garde toujours un coin de soi-meme piein
de regrets, d’amertume et d’eSperances trompees. Quels sont les
caracferes que nos romanciers, nos? ecrivains tracent de preference?
Des ames ou le developpement interieur est pousse A ses dernferes
Oimites; tantdt elles se renferment dans une fierte solitaire et le
mepris du monde, tantdt elles sont en revolte ouverte contre la
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
societe. Rien de pareil chez les Anglo-Saxons. Le grand" nombre
recoit une education ou les mobiles d’energie sont avant tout devei
lopp^s. Une morale simple, beaucoup de faits, quelques croyances
solides, voiU le bagage scolaire que les jeunes Anglais recoivent &
1’entree de la vie. Ils ne sentent pas de disproportion insurmon
table entre ce qu’ils font et ce qu’ils revent; ils appartiennent tout
entiers au present. S’ils ont de l’ambition aristocratique, elle peut
6tre satisfaite par 1’acquisition de larichesse; on recherche la vie
large, l’influence, le cote solide de Maristocratie.
Nous venons de voir quel est notre iddal: descendons de cette
hauteur vers les faits. Gombien de nous retombent pesamment sur
eux-m^mes! L’oisivete est encore chez nous une tradition aristocrat
tique qui s’affaiblit de jour en jour. Ge sont les souvenirs de la no
blesse qui fournissent des modules au fils de famille oisif et ele
gant. Parmi les peuples vraiment laborieux, nous sommes encore
celui ou il est le mieux porte de ne rien faire. Bien des hommes
intelligens sont ainsi ddtournes des grandes entreprises par la faci
lity de la jouissance, et de vastes capitaux restent inactifs entre leurs
mains. Le-type, il est vrai, -a degendre; ce n’est plus l’homme &
grands sentimens de 1830, le mysterieux seducteur, l’epouvantail
des menages bourgeois> c’est un avorton qui perirapar le ridicule.
De plus en plus, la necessity du travail se fait sentir pour tous.
Un ideal de meilleur aloi pousse la bourgeoisie vers les occupa-1
tions qu’elle estime les plus nobles. Ge n’est pas le desir de sortir
de sa condition qui est particulier aux Francais, ce sont les moyens
qu’ils emploient. La distinction des professions dites lib&rales, l’une
des plus attaquees et des moins comprises* est une idee toute frangaise et tr&s historique; elle remonte au temps ou le tiers-etat ne
disposaitque de deux ou trois carriyres pour acquerir l’influence et
la consideration. De myme Tocqueville a demontre que le gout pour
les fonctions publiques n’etait pas ne d’hier, et qu’il est un heri
tage de l’ancien regime. Il est en accord kavec notre education,
parce qu’il comporte une assez grande somme d’idees generales et
flatte notre esprit speculatif. Rien ne plait mieux & un Francais
de race que de s’oublier dans la contemplation de quelque chose
de plus grand que soi, en meprisant les soucis vulgaires de la vie.
Cependant ces carriyres, si recherchees de la bourgeoisie intelligente, sont encombrees; elles n’accordent que tard les bienfaits
qu’elles promettent; elles deviennent souvent un pretexte, quelquefois meme une cause d’oisivety. Les ambitions tr6s hautes, quand
elles se multiplient, supposent beaucoup d’avortemens. G’est ainsi
que les fonctions publiques, qui forment tant d’hommes distingues,
servent aussi de manteau & l’inertie, et que beaucoup s’endorment
a 1’ombre du grand arbre.
�LE COMMERCE EXTERIEUR EN FRANCE.
189
, QuEnS] & ceux qui prennenvle parti de gagner leur^ie par le
poWieree ou quf sont assez sages pour y diriger leurs enfansjun
trait les distingue de leurs competiteurs etrangers et prouve qu’au
fond ils partagent les idees de leur classe. Ce trait, c’est l’espriffl
d’economie oppose & l’esprit d’aventure et de speculation. Cette
economie, nous en sommes fiers, non sans raison; mais elle ne
temoigne pas seulement en faveur de notre sagesse et de notre preroyance, comme on ne eesse de le repeter : pouss©e a ce point,
elle u exprime plus le besoin d’ameliorer sa condition, elle trahit
l’espoir de s’en affranchir. Le Fran^ais s’occupe a©tivem©nt des in
terests materiels, mais il vise plus loin. A quoit Souvent il ne le
sait pas lui-meme; il reve toujours un moment oh. sa fortune sera
le point de depart d’une autre carrifere, peut-etre l’occasion de loi—
sirs intelligens, et quand enffin il s’apercoit que le pli est pris, que
son travail absorbe toutes ses facultes, c’est pour ses enfans qu’il
reve un avenir. Cette disposition ne chde qufaux avantages d’une
situation flatteuse et preponderante, comme on en voit dans la haute
Industrie. Or il est clair qu’une ambition de pareille. etoffe ne depasse gu©re les bornes de la mere-patrie; elle brigue te suffrage
d’une societe, intelligent© sans doute, mais* un peu restreinte; elle
a des idees de salon plutdt que des opinions de place publique.
Pour s’en convaincre, il suffit de voir l’htonnement d’un Fran^ais
quand il entre en contact avec des etrangers s non qu’il se croie
sup&rieur & eux, mais il est accoutume a considerer certains prejuges nationaux comme des v©rites indiscutables.
Le grand commerce demande un autre genre d’ambition. Il sup
pose qu’on aime l’activite commerciale pour elle-m^me. Il prend
loute la journ©e d’un homme et n© lui permet pas de ©onsiderer
son metier comme l’accessoit© d© sa V-ie. Il exig© encore que les
capitaux n’aillent pas^ dormir dans des placemens stirs, mais retournent sans cesse a Faction. Un Anglais ou un Amerfeain desire
aussi faire sa fortune, mais il emploie d’autres moyens: son ar
gent travaille toujours; un desastre ne tire pas a consequence et se
repare aisement. Le Francads edifie pihce i piece l©s fondemens
laborieux de son bien-etre; il ©tafelit dessus tout tin ©ohafaudage
d’esperances.Pour de louables motifs, son ceeur ©st avec son tresor,
mais il n’est pas h la bataille. Aussi ce qu’il craint le plus, c’est un
revers. On voit que ce penchant & 1’econOmie n»’est pas precisement
un don de la sagesse; pas plus qu’il n’est le signe d’une apathie in
vincible : il montre simplement que nos ambitions sont ailleurs.
*Les consequences, on pent les deduire a l’dgard des enfans : as
surer leur sort, expression bien franchise, c’est, pour les parens les
plus intelligens, leur preparer la liberte d’esprit grace & laquelle ils
pourront satisfaire les ambitions du per©. Que de deceptions, helas!
I
t, ■- t
i-
a
<?
.
e
z*.
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
pour ces tendresses de peres qui veulent continuer chez autrui une
destinee incomplete 1 Le premier soin des parens est de limiter le
nombre de leur progeniture. D’autre part, dans un pays oh l’on est
plus curieux de conserver que d’acquerir, et ou les enfans aiment
mieux la mediocrite toute faite que la richesse a faire, ceux-ci s’attribuent une esp&ce de droitinalienable sur les fruits du travail de
leur p&re; les exh&reder, ce serait leur refuser 1’element necessaire de leur elevation, qui devieht souvent le jouet de leur caprice.
La loi, d’accord avec les moeurs, a reserve leur part. Les peuples
commercans au contraire pensent moins A faire des lettres que des
hommes, moins a leur transmettre la richesse que les moyens de
l’acquerir. Ajoutons qu’en France, Dieu merci, un homme n’est pas
absolument mesure a 1’aune de ses 6cus, que la mediocrite y est
supportable, et que 1’estime qu’on obtient dans d’autres carridres
refroidit la passion commerQante.
Nous voila tels que l’histoire et non la nature nous a faits. Il
serait absurde de nier que les idees de la bourgeoisie n’aient un
cote noble et eleve. Rarement on voit repandus de la sorte le gout
des plaisirs de l’intelligence, le besoin d’embellir sa vie par les arts
ou la science. Rien ne merite plus de respect que ces carri&res lib6rales oil le talenSest presque toujours une condition de l’activite.
L’erreur consiste A croire qu’elles fournissent les seuls grands emplois intellectuels. Ne nous y trompons pas : elles ont, comme tout
autre metier, pour but immediat le gain£ « Dans un pays democrat
tique, dit Tocqueville, toutes les professions ont un air de famille.»
L’honneur veritable qu’on en tire consiste dans l’etendue et le rang
des facultes qu’elles mettent en jeu. S’il en est ainsi, toute occupa
tion n’est-elle pas liberale, .au sens vrai du mot, quand elle exige
et d^veloppe des facultes considerables? On se figure trop chez
nous qu’entre les differentes sortes de commerce il n’y a qu’une
difference de degre et de profit. Beaucoup de gens ne preffirent le
marchand en gros au detaillant que parce qu’il gagne plus. C est
exactement comme si l’on mettait un saute-ruisseau sur ie meme
rang qu’un notaire. Non-seulemeiit il faut pour le grand commerce
des connaissances etendues et precises, les longues previsions de
l’economie politique, un vaste horizon intellectuel, mais encore une
esp^ce de science de gouvernement, l’art de manier les hommes,
chose plus difficile cent fois que de diriger des machines, enfin
1’etude attentive des peuples les plus divers : ce qui est bien aussi
beau que d’interpreter des textes de loi.
Lorsque les Francais auront compris cela, ils tourneront vers le
commerce exterieur leur ambition, qui se ronge et se devore elle—
mhme. Personne ne les empechera de revenir dans leur pays, ils
n’abdiqueront aucune de leurs aspirations legitimes; mais au lieu de
�LE COMMERCE EXTERIEUR E&- FRANCE.
191
chercher en dehors du cercie des occupations quotidienhes un ali P meat a leur ‘acti^He, ils regarderont h leurs pieds : ramenes sans
i cesse paries necessites de la vie au souci des interets materiels, ils
verront qu’on peut faire un trfcs beau chemin en appliquant son in
telligence & ce qu’on fait. Ils ne seront plus entrain^s malgre eux
dans une foule de petits compromis, de demarches serviles, de si
tuations dependantes, a la remorque d’une ambition demesuree qui
s’appuie sur des moyens trop faibles, et cet avenir sortira naturellement des consequences de la democratic, de la necessity du tra
vail, de la diffusion des sciences naturelies, de la curiosite salutaire
qu’elles inspirent. L’education y contribuera sans doute en repandant les connaissances utiles; mais ilfflaudra d’abord que le prejuge
soit exclu de I’instruction donnGe par l’etat. Malheureusement il se
retranche dans 1’universite eomme dans son fort; les hommes reroarquables dont elle est people®, tiers de leu^desinteressement, en
! sont encore aux Romains pour l’dconomie politique. Gertes, qu’ils
continuent de nous faire des savans, des artistes, des lettres; il
vaut mieux avoir une ame et en souffrir, que de se contenter d’uni
venire; mais, dans les plus bautes spheres de l’enseignement, au. cune grandeur d’imagination ne les dispense d’inspirer a tous, gens
d’etude ou de pratique, le sentiment le plus rare en France, le
respect et le gout des. faits contemporains. En attendant, les nego; cians ont raison de vouloir des ecoles separees, seule manfee d’obtenir l’egalite. Pour la liberte de tester, la question perdra de son
importance lorsque la richesse, sans cesse renouvelee, remplira
: plus rapidement les reservoirs de la propriete privee.
Enumerer les motifs qui doiven$ porter la jeunesse vers le com
merce exterieur, e’est deja en indiquer les bienfaits. IFest cependant un avantage sur lequel il canvient dSnsister, parce qu’il doit
modifier tout particulierement 1’etat de nos mceurs. Nous ne parions
ni de la prosperite publique ni d’un surcroit de bien-^tre qui, pour
les classes laborieuses, est la premiere condition de morality, ni de
la conqu^te pacifique d’une grande influence au dehors; cette oeuvre .
nationale se recommande d’elle-m^me. Ce que le grand commerce
peut nous rendre du jour au lendemain, ce sont les.qualites d’ac
tion, les seules peut-etre qui manquent a notre bourgeoisie. On a
/ trop dedaigne ce facteur indispensable de la civilisation. L’action
se presente d’abord sous la forme d’un mobile simple, souvent bru
tal, mais puise a la source m£me de nos instincts, facile a com, prendre, accessible a tous, et qui met l’homme aux prises avec
les realites. G’est un instrument qui pent; dans desrnains barbares,
se changer en energie destructive, mais e’est un instrument neceslid
3 saire. Bien dirige, il enfante la hauteur de coeur, la bravoure, la
fi
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REVUE DES
DEOTTmONDEST
perseverance, la connaissance des homines, l’habilete. Onpeut le
comparer & l’alliage solide qui donne sa valeur au metal le plus
precieux. G’est ainsi que la guerre, malgre ses funestes conse
quences, a du moins le merite de mettre l’homme tout entier en
mouvement, developpe chez lui des qualites extraordinaires, fait
du sacrifice une vertu commune, un devoir journalier. L’homme
est bati de telle sorte qu’il n’atteint le plus haut point de ses fa
culty que par le mepris de la vie. Moins desinteresse, mais plus
conforme a nos veritables destinees, le commerce offre une forme
d’action populaire, s’inspire dp motifs palpables, et non de sentimens abstraits; il arrache & leur inertie la masse des esprits
flottans, qui, dans un temps de controverse et de doute, seraient
paralyses par l’indifference, et, une- fois l’impulsion donnee, le
mouvement de la vie rentre avec son cortege d’emotions dans les
ames languissantes. Quel est le defaut du mobile lucratif? Il rabaisse l’ideal. Les hommes sont moins fous, mais moins heroiques.
Ils pourront etre & la fois senses et mediocres, soit : cela est inevi
table, c’est une des suites de la democratic; mais ne voit-on pas
precisement que ce mobile s’el^ve et s’epure quand on l’applique
aux grandes operations du commerce international ? On y brave des
dangers, tan tot celui de la speculation, tantot le ptiil immediat de
la mer ou du climat. Il faut dSployer une autre espfece de courage
qu’a la guerre, mais il n’en faut pas moins. Il n’y a plus d’honneur
a braver le danger sans necessity, mais il y eh a beaucoup a l’affronter, h le reduire, a l’enchainer pour ainsi dire. Ce n’est plus
un jeu de hasard, c’est une lutte savante contre les obstacles, une
sorte de guerre livree & la nature. Le combattant est brave et reste
prudent: est-il une plus belle forme du courage? Autre bienfait : le
commerce qui se meut dans un cercle etroit a pour effet de retrecir
l’ame; il fait de la concurrence une lutte entre concitoyens. Le
grand commerce change le theatre de Faction; il met en cause
l’honneur du pavilion, rappelle au negotiant isole des siens les merites de la solidarity nationale, et lui restitue ainsi les mobiles patriotiques. Celui-ci est her de mettre sur sa marchandise l’estampille de son pays.
Dans une civilisation deji ancienne, cette energie feconde, expan
sive, est le bien le plus desirable. Nous sommes precis£ment a la
period# critique : la famille, l’education, les moeurs nous prodiguent
des dons infiniment rares; on n’oublie que la faculte maitresse,
l’ynergie. L’histoire montre que chez un peuple les qualites d’es
prit naturelies ou acquises ne s’effacent que lentement, elles dege
nerent plutot; les qualites d’action se perdent les premieres. Lessing
parle d’un bel arc d’ebfcne, lequel, etant rude et grossier, unissait
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193
la souples^eetTa’'fbTc€fTarcher en fut si tier, qu’il le fit sctilpter
curieusement; mais & l’usage,Tarc, trop orne, se rompit. G’etaitW
nous, Fran^ais, que s’adressait l’apologue. Faisons-le mentir; sachons quitter les douceurs du sol natal, nous detacher des jupes.1
A ce prix, l’arc nerveux pourra encore lancer la fteche.
Dans la vie publique, le haut commerce fait deja pressentir son
role. M. Guizot, trop Francais en ceci, faisait deux parts de notre
viej l’une, la meilleure, que nous gardons pour nous, 1’autre que
nous mettons en commun sous ^Impulsion de l’autorite centrale.
Le probteme en France est de trouver un principe d’association qui
depasse les bornes etroites de la famille et qui n’embrasse pas du
premier coup le cercle trop vaste des ipterem generaux. Le com
merce r&sout tous les jours ce probteme. Il dispose les hommes a
mettre spontanement en commun une partje de leurs actes et de
leurs facultes en vue d’un r^sultat determine. Non-seulement les
^apitaux, mais les bonnes volont^s s’unissent. Les fondations privees
se multiplient; des groupes independans, societes industrielles,
chambres syndicales, etc., se forment pour la discussion des inte
rns commerciaux et donnent a chacun le gout de s’occuper de ses
propres affaires, — disposition nouvelle chez nous^que le despotisme a favorisee dans sod aveuglement, et qui dejouera toujours en
France les calculs du despotisme'J Les ames ne se divisent pas, et
quand elles prennent gout a l’independance, elles tin mettent tot
ou tard dans la politique.
On peut regretter que l’individulse depensei davantage au dehors
et neglige son for interieur, on peut avoirs des preferences pour
l’esprit de sacrifice, meme quand il est commands par une injonction de l’autorite; mais il y aura dMormais quelque chose entre
les petites demarches de la vie privee et le jeu^trop vaste des
interets generaux; c’est un principe d’action bien humble an debut,
s’adaptant merveilleusement a toute&les situations et pouvant servir’les plus larges dessems : il prendra le citoyen chez lui et l’antenera sur la place publique par le chemin des affaire^il lui enseignera le droit de controle, non plus departi a quelquei' elus ou
exerce theoriquement par la presse, mais applique chaque jour par
les hommes laborieux dans le cercle d’une association plus restreinte. Que ces verites se repandent, et la cause du commerce exterieur est gagnee : des prejuges de race ou de <|asse entravent
seuls l’essor commercial d’un pays dont les ressources sont infmies
et les institutions liberates.
Rene Millet. ’vB
TOME XI. — 1875.
�4
UNE VISITE
EGLISES RATIONALISTES DE LONDRES
Le dimanche de Londres effraie generalement quiconque se pro
pose de sejourner pour ses affaires ou pour ses plaisirs dans la capitale de' la Grande-Bretagne. Aussi etonnerais-je peut-etre en racontant que, dans mes dernieres visites a Londres, j’ai toujours fait
en sorte d’y passer le plus de dimanches possible. G’est que la lec
ture du curieux ouvrage public l’an dernier sur 1’ Unorthodox Lon
don par le reverend Maurice Davies m’avait amene A ce raisonnement
des plus simples 5 pourquoi 1’Angleterre du dimancbe desorientet-elle l’etranger? Farce qu’elle s’absorbe dans sa vie religieuse. Qu’il
la suive done dans les diverses, phases de cette evolution, et, pourvu
qu’il soit sUffisamment au courant de la langue, il verra se transfor
mer en une source d’tapressions nouvelles les longues heures dont
la seule perspective le faisait bailler d’ennui.
Comme le fait observer M. Davies, nulle part, depuis l’epoque off
les ecoles de philosophie et de religion encombraient les rues
d’Alexandrie, la vie religieuse ne s’est affirmee sous des formes plus
exuberantes et plus diversifiees que dans la m6tropole de l’empire
britannique. En consultant le London Post-office directory, j’ai
trouve la mention d’une trentaine de cultes differens, et, comme ce
recueil se borne A donner les adresses des congregations qui ont
pignon sur rue, il faut y ajouter les innombrables sectes qui se r6unissent dans des habitations particulteres, dans des salles de con
cert et jusque sous les viaducs des chemins de fer. On devine quel
champ d’etudes s’ouvre ici A l’investigateur des phenom&nes reli-.
gieux. Quelques-unes de ces sectes sont aussi Stranges dans leurs
pratiques que dans leurs denominations. Je me bornerai A citer les
�LES EGLISES RATIONALISTES DE LONDRES.
'
195
swedenborg tens, qui a^eptent comme xl’origine celeste les revela
tion! Tuuiameux mystique suedois, — les irvingites, qui, sowrle
nohl d’Cglise catholique et- apostolique, se sont bati dans Gordon
square une veritable catbedrale pour y proclamer a 1’aise le retour
de l’age prophedque, — les baplistes du septieme jour, qui cekbrent
le sabbat au lieu du dimanche, — les christadelphiens, qui nient
1’immortalite de Fame et qui ont ressuscite la theorie du millenium,
Hies joannistes, qui s’attendent a la seconde incarnation du Christ,
— les sandemanniens ou glossites, qui admettent le paradis, mais
qui repoussent l’enfer comme le purgatoire et qui communient en
s’einbrassant les uns les autres, — les gem- apart{peculiar people},
dont on connait les demeles avec la justice pour leur obstination a
repousser medecins et rem&des dans les maladies de leurs enfans,
— enfin ce§ congregations que la voix populaire a surnommees les
trembleurs {shakers}, les sauteurs {jumpers}, les hurleurs {taber
nacle ranters}, k cote de ces excroissances parasites du protestantisme se montre un mouvement d’idees qui repr&sente au contraire
le couronnement logique et inevitable de la reforme : je veux parler des eglises rationalistes.
Chez les nations protestantes, la multiplicite des sectes laisse
le champ libre a une serie de croyarices graduees entre la foi la plus
aveugle et le scepticisme le plus absolu. Si nous prenons les termes
extremes de cette serie, entre ritualistes et debates la distance est
a peu pres aussi grande qu’entre catholiques
libres penseurs;
mais cette distance est comblee paOoute une echelle de sectes qui
nous montre les partisans de la^lHad church se rapprochant des
unitaires dans les limites- de la liturgie anglicane, Ires unitaires
avances se transformant & leur tour en purs th&stes par une simple
suppression d’etiquette, les theistes passant ensuite aux deistes ou
« theistes libres » par la negation de la personnalite divine, enfin les
deistes eux-memes confinant au scepticisme positiviste.En Angleterre,
il existe d’ailleurs une autre raison encore pour expliquer le developpement des&glises rationalistes. G’est l’idee essentiellement anglaise,
— le prejuge si l’on veut, — qu’il n’est pas respectable de ne pas
assTster le dimanche a un office religieux. Comme l’opinion ne s’inquikte pas si cet office est anglican, catholique, dissident ou mdme
rationaliste, pourvu qu’il soit celebre devant une « congregation »
par un « ministre » d’une denomination quelconque, on congoit
que les esprits avances aient accueilli le seul moyen de concilier
Findependance de leurs convictions avec les exigences de l’usage.
Et qu’on ne se hate pas de crier a l’hypocrisie d’une part, a l’intolerance de Fautre! Une fois qu’il s’agit simplement de consacrer
quelques quarts d’heure par semaine a ecouter un sermon, voire
une « lecture » debitee entre deux points d’orgue par un orateur
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
de notre choix, au milieu d’un auditoire sympathique, cette pression de l’opinion publique est-elle plus regrettable que mille petits
empietemens des conventions soeiales sur notre liberte individuelle
de chaque jour? Sans doute 1’Angleterre religieuse a ses extrava
gances et ses absurdites; mais, pour juger d’un etat social, il faut
1 embrasser sous toutes ses faces, et A cote de ce puritanisme archaique, qui d ailleurs cAde peu A peu devant l’invasion des moeuraj
modernes, il faut envisager l’extension de cette activity intellectuelle et morale que 1 habitude de discuter ou tout au moins d’exa
miner les problAmes les plus sieves de la nature humaine a tant
concourU A repandre dans tous les rangs de la nation anglaise.
I. — CHRISTIANISME RATIONALISTE. — LES UNITA1RES.
— LES FREE CHRISTIANS.
Parmi les Gglises que nous n’hesitons pas A ranger sous la de
nomination de rationalistes, la plus connue, la plus ancienne, la
plus nombreuse, e’est sans contredit l’eglise unitaire. Dans ses frac
tions les plus avancees, elle merite encore le nom de chretienne,
puisqu’elle reste en communaute d’origines, de traditions et de sentimens avec toutes les autres subdivisions du christianisme; mais
elle n’a pas moins de droits au titre de ratiorialiste, aujourd’hui sur
tout que son caractere distinctif est de n’imposer a ses membres aucun dogme reprouve par leur raison ihdividuelle. Les anciens unitairesj- soit qu’A l’instar des sociniens ils reconnussent au Christ une
nature semi-divine, soit qu’ils en Assent simplement le plus parfait
des hommes, avaient encore, comme toutes les sectes, un certain
corps de doctrines positives qui formaient le patrimoine commun de
leurs adeptes; mais, A force de rejeter individuellement tous les
dogmes essentiels de la theologie chretienne,—tels que le peche originel, la vertu des sacremens, la resurrection de la chair, la possibilite des miracles, l’infaillibilite des livres saints, — ils fmirent par
n’avoir plus d’autre lien religieux que leur denomination de chresB
tiens, leur veneration pour le personnage du Christ et leur adhesion
aux principes generaux de la morale evangelique. Sur ce terrain, ils
se sont rencontres avec les nombreuses congregations de methodistes, de presbyteriens, d’independans, etc., qu’un travail simultane d’6mancipation int^rieure avait egalement amends a rejeter
toute la partie dogmatique du christianisme. Aussi l’organisation
officielle de l’eglise unitaire embrasse-t-elle aujourd’hui, non plus
seulement les descendans religieux des anciens sociniens, mais
toutes les congregations de denominations di verses qui, sans re
jeter le titre de chretiens, n’imposent plus A leurs membres aucune • j
formule d’adhesion A une profession de foi determinee.
�LES EGLISES RATIONALISTES DE TUNDREST
197
Desired de sanClioiiher cette fusion en abandonnanrtout ce qui
■fappelait leur ancienne condition de secte particuliere, quelques
unitaires ont mfime propose la suppression de leur denomination
traditionnelle, et dans le courant de 1872 ils ont fonde, sous le
nom de chretiens libres (free Christians), une association religieuse
ouverte « a tous ceux qui croient l’homme tenu, non de posseder
la verite religieuse, mais simplement de la poursuivre serieusement, et qui demandent la satisfaction de leurs besoins religieux
aux sentimens de pi6te filiale et de charite fraternelle, avec ou sans
accord dans les matures de theologie doctrinale. » Un an plus tard,
les chretiens libres celebraient solennellement leur premier anni-’
versaire dans le grand temple maconnique de Queen’s street. Parmi
les ministres qui participArent A cette ceremonie religieuse, on
voyait figurer M. Athanase Goquerel, de l’eglise rGformee fran^aise,
et meme un membre de l’eglise anglicane, le reverend G. Kegan
Paul. Les free Christians n’auraient pu mieux affirmer leur preten
tion d’embrasser toutes les sectes du christianisme dans une eglise
universelie fondee non plus sur ce que Channing appelait une « degradante uniformite de dogmes, » mais sur cette communaute de
sentimens qui permet de concilier l’independance de la pensee in
dividuelle avec les liens de l’association religieuse.
Les diverses congregations comprises sous le nom d’unitaires sont
actuellement, d’apr&s Y Unitarian Almanac, au nombre de 365 dans
la Grande-Bretagne. La capitale seule en compte 25, instances un
peu partout dans des chapelles de fer ou de briques, dans des mu
sic halls, dans des temples grecs et des eglises gothiques. Ma pre
miere visite fut pour la chapelle de LittlerPortland street, qui doit
une certaine celebrite A son ancien ministre, le reverend J. Marti
neau (1), aujourd’hui retire dans la direction d’un college unitaire,
le New Manchester College. Lorsque je m’y rendis un dimanche
matin, je trouvai aux abords une file d’equipages qui indiquaient
une assistance assez relevee. En effet les unitaires, comme le demontrent les listes publiees par la British and foreign Unitarian
Association, se recrutent surtout dans les classes superieures de la
bourgeoisie, bien que certaines de leurs congregations, dans les
quartiers pauvres, soient exclusivement formees par les classes inf&rieures. La chapelle, dont le fronton en style grec s’encastre
dans l’alignement general de la rue, n’offre aucune particularite
qui la distingue de la plupart des temples evangeliques. L’autel ne
supportait d’autres ornemens qu’une image sculptSe du Christ; il
etait du reste A demi masque par une chaire fort elev6e qui occupait le milieu du choeur, cote A cote avec le pupitre du desservant.
11 (1) Voyez l’etude de M. Charles de Remusat sur les Controverses religieuses en Angleterre dans la Revue du ler janvier 1859.
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES,
La congregation me parut assez clair-semee. Un detail qui me
frappa, c’est qu’elle comptait bien quatre femmes pour un homme.
Serait-ce qu’en Angleterre le beau sexe a une preference pour l’unitarisme? ou bien le sexe fort ne renfermerait-il, comme chez les
nations catholiques, que des orthodoxes et des indifferens? Il ne
faut pas se hater de conclure, car dans les autres chapelles que j’ai
visitees cette disproportion m’a pa-ru s’effacer, et meme, au sein
des eglises les plus avancees, se/renverser en faveur de 1’element
masculin. Vers onze heures, un orgue assez puissant se mit aronfler, et le ministre he tarda pas A gagner son pupitre. G’etait un
vrai type de mini&tre reforme, — chevelure bouclee et grisonnante, favoris cendres encadrant une figure fine, taille haute et
droite, drap£e dans la robe noire A larges manches qui faisait
ressortir la blanchetir de son linge;
AprAs un instant de meditation intime, il annonca qu’il allait celebrer le dixiAme service de la littirgie unitaire. Je n’eus, pour me
tenir au courant de la cAremonie, qu’A. ottyrir un des petits vo*
lumes laissAs sur les bancs a la disposition de chaque assistant. Ce
formulaire, intitule Book of common prayer for Christian worshipy
comprend dix services et de nombreuses priAres, le tout plus ou
moins caique §ur la liturgie de l’Aglise anglicane, sauf dans tout ce
qui comporterait uhe interpretation trinitaire ou meme une signi
fication dogmatique, comme le credo d'Anastase, le symbole des
apotres, etc. Cette liturgie est An vigueur dans deux cent vingtneuf chapelles de la Gran de-Bretagne.
Je ne m’etendrai pas suf les details de la cArAmonie, puisqu’elle
est Apeu de chose prAS une simple reduction de l’oflice anglican.
La congregation se levait et s’asseyait avec une regiilarite exemplaire aux hiomens indiques dans le rituel; mais elle ne me sembla
se joindre que du bout des lAvres au chant des hymnes, execute
d’ailleurs avec beaucoup d’ensemble par un choeur des mieux com
poses. Le sermon qui suivit avait pour objet de montrer qu’au dire
meme de la Bible le Christ s*etait adressAiion a l’intelligence, mais
au coeur de l’homme, qu’il n’avait pas voulti enseigner une theologie ou une mAtaphysique nouvelle, mais qu’il avait simplement
cherche a dAvelopper les sdiitimens de morality et de charite inherens a Fame humaine. — C’etait, comme on voit, une veritable apologie de la position prise par les unitaires actuels vis-a-vis des au
tres ecoles chretiennes. J’eus toutefois beaucoup de peine a suivre
l’orateur dans le developpement de cette these, soit qu’il parlat
avec une volhbilite exceptionnelle, soit que l’acoustique de la salle
fut ddsorganisAe par les vides de l’auditoire. La retraite du reverend I
Martineau a du porter un coup sensible A cette congregation, na-1
guere la plus frequentAe des eglises unitaires dans la capitale*
�LES EGLISES RATlbNALISLES DE LONDRESl
Le temple de Little-Portland street s’dlbve pr£s de Regent’s circus, au. seuil du West-End. J’eus plus de difficulte a atteindre, un
dimanche soir, l’eglise des free Christians, situee le long de Gla4
rence-Road, dans cet ancien bourg de Kentish-Town, aujourd’hui
rejoint et englobe par les accroissemens continus de la metropole*’ jj
-Gomme le dimanche la loi interdit aux restaurateurs de servir, avant
six heures du soir, tout consommateur qui ne reside pas a plus de
| A milles de distance, j’avais a peine une heure pour diner, trouver
un vehicule et franchir les 5 ou 6 kilometres qui separent de Glarence-Road les quartiers du centre : on voit comment une legisla
tion abusive peut aller & 1’enconW de;son objet! Je m’arrangeai
.nependant pour prendre a Piccadilly Circus, unpeuayant six heures
et demie, l’omnibus de Gamden-Town, d^a bonde de couples endimanchCs avec
prayer book sur les genou^ Le sombre aspect
des magasins rigoureusement ferm^s contfastait ave'c la foUle qui
L circulait sur les trottoirs. Peu A peu Ids cloche^ qui rdsonnaient de
' tous cotes, cesserent de lancer leurs tintemens argentins, et les
passans se reduisirent a quelques retardataires Mcelerant le pas
dans la direction du temple voisin. Il etait pfbs de sept heures dix
quand je franchis le seuil de ma clMpelle, charmante petite hglise
de style neo-gothique batie au fond d’un jardin. L’interieur, avec
pa large nef flanqude d’un bas cote, son orgu^place a cote de 1’en
tree, ses vitraux colories et ses inscriptions ttiurales en lettres go, thiques, parlait cent fois plus a l’ame que l’austerite rigide de
| maint temple evangdlique. J’aurais meme pu me croire egare dans
fcquelque chapelle ritualiste sans la simplicity de l’autel en pierre
nue qui, pour tout ornement, exhibait une croix placde en dessous
I .-de l’entablement. A la gauche du choeur se trouvait une chaire asI sez basse, & droite le pupitre eclaird par deux bougies. Les pews,
I qui pouvaient contenir 200 ou 300 perSonnes, etaient assez bien
l. remplies. Cependant le bedeau, reconnaisSaWa mon hesitation un
I Ivisiteur de passage, me trouva encore une place a l’extremitd d’un
I banc vers le centre de l’dglise. Machinalement je cherchai un rij tuel autour de moi; mais tous les exemplaires du banc etaient deja
I accapards par mes voisins. Je m’appretais done A suivre platoniqued ment le service quand une gracieuse jeune dame franchit le pasJ sage qui me separait de son banc pour m’apporter un prayer book
Hlexeserve et poussa la complaisance jusqu’a me l’ouvrir a la page
voulue.
'
k G’etait encore la liturgie du reverend J. Martineau. J’observai
Aseulement qu’ici la congregation presque entiere unit sa voix a celle
•du chceur. Les hymnes, comme du reste a la chapelle de Little7 Portland street, sont tires d’un petit recueil egalement compile par
M. Martineau. Le prddicateur que j’entendis en cette occasion n’a-
I
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vait peut-ytre pas un extSrieur aussi typique que le minWe.de
la chapelle de Portland street; mais il parlait avec clarte, chaleur et onction. Apres avoir cit6 un texte de saint Paul relatif aux
dissensions des premiers chretiens, il fit observer que beaucoup de
ces anciennes disputes theologiques nous semblent aujourd’hui rU
dicules et absurdes, d’ou il conclut qu’il en serait de meme dans
quelques si&cles au sujet de nos propres querelles dogmatiques.
Malheureusement nous ne pouvons en juger nous-m^mes avec les
yeux de la posterity. Il est done; sage de nous borner a suivre le
conseil que saint Paul donnait aux controversistes de son temps J
<( Suivez J6SUS. et vivez la verite. » Ge qui fait la superiority du
Christ, e’est qu’il a enseigne la loi d’amour, e’est qu’il a mis l’es
prit au-dessus de la lettre. Aussi se trompe-t-on en faisant de la foi
aux miracles, un ylement necessaire de la religion chretienne ou
en se refusant A admettre le christianisme sans la croyance & la di
vinity de son fondateur.
0n voit qu’ici encore le sermon etait en
quelque sorte le resume des vues adoptees par la congregation.
Cependant le predicateur ne relevant pas lui-meme de l’unitarisme. G:’etait le reverend Picton, de l’eglise independante. Les mdependans sont une branche detachee de l’eglise anglicane, qui en
different simplement parce qu’ils repoussent toute attache officielle.
On peut juger?, par l’exemple du reverend Picton, de ce qui se passerait au sein de l’anglicanisme, s’il venait a perdre le caractfcre
d’eglise etablie, ou m£me s’il renoncait un jour a la barriere dogmatique .des 39 articles* S’il faut en croire une anecdote qui m’a
ete rapportee, la premiere fois que le reverend Picton s’entendit
avec un ministre unitaire pour un de ces « eehanges de chaires >1
assez fr£quens parmi. les eglises dissidentes, il etonna sa nouvelle
congregation par la hardiesse de son langage, alors que son col-*
legue surprenait au contraire ses auditeurs independans par la timidite de son argumentation. Sans doute celui-ci avait cru devoir
choisir le plus orthodoxe et celui-la le plus hardi de ses sermons,
dans la pensee de se mettre respectivement au niveau de leur pu
blic,; mais il n’en ressort pas moins la difficulty d’etablir une dis
tinction bien nette entre les elymens les plus rapproches des differentes eglises qui en Angleterre vont graduellement du ritualisme
semi-catholique aux derniferes limites du rationalisme religieux.
En sortant de la Free Christian church, je pris un omnibus que
je quittai a la station de Portland-Road, pour regagner pedestrement mon domicile. De toutes parts les innombrables chapelles du
quartier degorgeaient leurs congregations sur la voie publique. Une
foule nombreuse et melangee, mais decente et tranquille, emplissait la grande, artere de Portland street, qu’eclairait a peine la longue
file de ses reverbyres.
et la des debits de boisson et des bou-
�LES EGLISES RATIONALISTES DE LONDRES.
201
tiques de comestibles laissaient passer un jet de lumifcre^F travers
|H|ur porte entr’ouverte. Le long des trottoirs circulaient des char. retwis a’bras ou les maraichers vendaient leurs produits a la clarte
d’une chandelle vacillante, qui jetait sur le visage des acheteurs
des reflets a la Rembrandt. A chaque coin de rue, des groupes stationnaient autour de quelques orateurs en plein vent. Ici c’etait un
?pEedicateur methodiste, a la longue barbe et aux grands gestes,
s’efforcant de surexciter les sentimens religieux de ses auditeurs
par des tirades pathetiques agrementees d’historiettes edifiantes;
la, deux repr&sentans de sectes rivales s’ecrasaient tour & tour a
coups d’argumens bibliques avec un ordre et un calme qu’il faudrait
souhaiter a toutes les controverses parlementaires. Parfois toute
1’assistance entonnait un hymne dont les paroles modulees couvraient les bruits de la foule. Et dire que je me trouvais au centre
de Londres, en plein xixe si&cle 1
, ' t
:
Un dimanche soir, M. Moncure Conway, sur qui j’aurai & revenir plus loin, me conduisit, pr6s de la station de Gower street, a
■’entree d’un caveau ou se reunissait une congregation advanced
Unitarians. Les unitaires avances presentent cette particularite qu’apres le service la chapelle \se transforme en salle de discussions et
que le sermon du ministre est abandons aux commentaires successifs des fiddles : on devine ce que deviennent les recits et m6me
les prgceptes de la- Bible livres aux hasards d’une pareille controverse; mais il n’y a rien la que de tres conforme au temperament
Bminemment theologique de la nation anglaise.
D’ailleurs une eglise,'constituee sur une base aussi large que
n’unitarisme actuel, doit necessairement comprendre des opinions
jre!igi®ses fort Sloignees les unes des autres, — et a nos yeux e’est
mSme 1A son principal titre. — Ainsi il est certain qu’on trouve en
core parmi ses fiddles des esprits disposes a reconnaitre le miracle
et la revelation. Au temple de Little-Portland street, une partie de
la congregation s’agenouille a certains passages du service et l’on
y chlfebre regulifcrement le sacreftient de la communion, non pas,
bien entendu, avec sa portee mystique, mais du moins a titre de
J^anquet fraternel et comm6moratif. D’autre part on rencontre cer
taines congregations d’unitaires n’ayant plus de chretien que le
nom. Telle semble, entre autres, l’eglise de Clerkenwell, du moins
a en juger par la predication de son ministre, le reverend Peter
Dean. Gelui-ci declare en effet prendre, pour toute theologie, « la
foi en un Dieu infiniment parfait, » —pour revelation «l’univers, »
— pour Bible « les manifestations de la nature, ainsi que la litthrature sacree de tous les temps et de tous les pays, » — pour Christ
« le bien incarne dans 1 humanite, » -— enfin pour seuls sacremens
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
#4
« l’amour de Dieu et l’amour des hommes,
pibte et moralite. »
On voit qu’ici nous naviguons deja en plein theisme.
II. — THISISME. — LE REVEREND CHARLES VOYSEY.
LE3
independent religious reformers.
Quelques logicierts ont reproche aux unitaires de ne pas pousser
assez loin leurs tentative^ de synthbse religieuse. A les en croire,
conserver le nom de chretien et repousser en meme temps l’origine surnaturelle du christianisme, c’est se complaire dans 1*6quivoque et exclure inutilement de la communaute religieuse les
juifs, les mahometans, les bouddhistes, les 'theistes meme, qui
se refusent'A reconn attre la superiority morale de la Bible. Pourquoi d’ailleurs eriger en dogme des precepted, m£me purement
moraux, une fois qu’on declare fonder l’association religieuse non
sur l’identity des croyances ^mais sur la simple conformity du
sentiment religieux? L’eglise universelle^'ce n’est pas une eglise
chretienne libre, c’est une eglise libre, ouverte a tous ceux qui
admettent l’existence de Dieu , et-qui eprouvent le besoin de lui
rendre hommage en communt DejA’ dans les dernibres annees
de la revolution frahcaise la societe des theophilanthropes avait
etabli AParis m&ne un culte fonde sur ce qu’elle appelait les vbrites de la religion natiirelle, ^Ost-A-dire sur les principes. admis
par toutes les nations, et capables en consequence de reunir toutes
les sectes dans une commune aspiration vers la Divinite. C’est sur
un raisonnement analogue que reposent A Londres deux congrega
tions purement theistes, l’une dirigee par le reverend Ch. Voysey,
l’autre^ beaucoup moins importante; par le docteur Perfitt.
Le reverend Charles Voysey etait un clergyman fort distingue de
l’eglise anglicahe qui, dM Sort entree dans les ordres, s’etait fait
rematquer par Textrenleindependance de ses opinions religieuses.
La publication d’un recueil intituleSling and the Stone (la
Fronde et la Pierre}, ou il mettait en question la divinite du Christ
et le dogme du peche Originel, excita une telle indignation dans les
rangs des orthodoxe.S, que deux associations clericales, 1’English
Church Union et la Church Association, offrifent chacune 500 livres
sterling (42,500 francs) pour Couvrir les frais d’un procbs devant
l’autoritb competentei’Bref, M. Voysey fut privb de son benefice, et,
sans rribme traverser l’btape deTufiitarisme, fonda A Saint-George’s
hall, le l6r octobre 1871, la congregation theiste qu’il dirige en
core aujouf’d’hui.
Saint-George’s hall, situee dans le prolongement de Regent street,
est une petite salle de theatre dont l’amenagement reprOduit
�LES®EGLISES RATIONALISTES BE JDONDRES.
fQ03
Tinaage exact© de nos cafe’-concerts. Lar scene est fermee par
| unWlera deWap rouge destine a, masquer lc choeur. Pas d’autel,
t ni de chaire; mais au-dessus de la rampe une espece de tribune
egalement recouverte en etoffe rouge. Quand je penetrai dans la
salH je trouvai sur les dix premiers bancs, reserves aux membres
reguliers de Ma congregation, un public de cent vingt-cinq ou cent
cinquante personnes d’apparence assez distinguee. Les huit dej*J
niers bancs, reserves aux « visiteurs d’occasion); »' etaient plus garnis encore. Les loges d’avant- scene, probablement loupes a des
prix assez eleves, renfermaient quelques families qui 6taient sans
doute la fine fleur des fidelest Enfin une quarantaine de personnes
nvaient pris place dans la galerie qui faisait a mi-hauteur le tour
interieur de l’edifice.
Un petit imprime, repandu a profusion sur les bancs, m’apprit
\que la congregation est en train d’amasser des fends pour se batir
un temple. Les travaux ne doivent commencer qu’au jour ou les
souscriptions auront atteint 1,000 livres.sterling. Au. commence
ment d’avrilv elles s’elevaient deja a 613 livres 16, shillings, soit
environ 15,332 fr, 50 c., et il faut ajouter que prb$ de 37,000 fr.
ont deja ete promis pour l’epoque ou le building fund aurait atteint
ses premieres mille livres. Un seul individu figure; dans cette derniere catGgorie de souscripteurs pour la somme de 12,500 francs.
Plusieurs anonymes ont donne jusqu’a 100 livres chacun. Je re
marque sur la liste des officiers, des baronnets, beaucoup d’hommes
de science comme feu sir Charles Lyell et sir John.Bowring, etc.
Le reverend Ch. Voysey reproduit egalement un type de clergy
man assez repandu en Angleterre: petite taille, avec une legbre ten
dance a 1’embonpoint, cheveux noirs et aplatis,. visage soigneuse,ment rase. Comme dans les eglises unitaires, je tpouvai sur le banc
ou l’on m’installa un rituel specialement compose pour la congrega
tion. Denneme que le rituel du reverend Martineau offre un resume
de la liturgie anglicane corrigee par l’exolusion de toute formule
trinitaire, le Revised prayer book du revirbnd Charles Voysey
semble un resume de la liturgie unitaire soigneusernent depouillee
de toute formule chretienne. Pour la premiere fois je vis apparaitre dans une liturgie des rites destines a la cremation des morts;
je regrette de n’avoir pas demande a l’auteur s’il avait deja eu
occasion de les appliquer.
Quand le reverend Charles Voysey monta au bruit de l’orgue dans
I’espece de tribune qui lui sert a la fois de pupitre et de chaire,
je rgmarquai qu’il avait conserve le surplis et l’etole de l’eglise
anglicane. Au premier abord, on ne peut se defendre d’une certaine
surprise, quand sous ce costume de pretre chretien, apr^s un ser
vice rejigieux caique sur la liturgie des eglises chretiennes et entre-
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
m£le de lectures tiroes de la Bible, on entend proferer les attaques
les plus audacieuses contre les pratiques de certaines sectes, et les
doctrines, les traditions du Christ lui-mdine; ainsi, dans son sermon
imprime, Christianity versus universal Brotherhood (Christianisme
contre Fraternite universelie), apres avoir denie aux unitaires le
droit d’etablir une distinction entre la partie dogmatique et la partie
morale de leur religion; 1’orateur reproche au christianisme de n’avoir accepte qu’a son corps defendant les grands principes de charity
et de tolerance si sOuvent invoques par ses dissidens et par ses adversaires. Cette’ contradiction apparente s’explique toutefois par la
conviction de M. Voysey qu’en matitre de culte surtout on doit]
s’efforcer d’introduire les idees nouvelles sous les formes anciennes.
« Puisqu’il nous faut une forme de culte, dit-il dans la preface de
son rituel, la plus acceptable sera encore une forme deja familiere
a des oreilles britan'niques, et dependant d6poui!16e de tout ce qui
est suranne ou endesaccord avec un pur theisme. »
Le sermOri qu’il prononga le jour de ma visite etait une refuta
tion de r«/onem6«?, c’est-a-dire de i’expiation soufferte par le Christ
pour le rathat de Thiimanite. Ce sermon, — qui aurait pu etre
prononce par tout prtdicateur unitaire, — ne m’apprit rien sur les
particularites doctrihales d’urie eglise qui soutient Ctre « unique en
son genre. » Heureusement je m’etais procure a la porte de la sacristie, pour la modique sOmme de pence, le sermon prononce par
M. Voysey
la ceremonie d’inauguration, le ler octobre 1871.
« Notre premier objet, dit41 dans ce veritable manifeste, est de
miner,J d’assaillir, et,
possible; de detruire la portion des
croyances religieuses que nous tenons pour fausses, » c’est-a-dire,
comme il nous l’explique en detail, preSque toutes les doctrines du
christianisme. «Toutefois, ajoute-t-il, lane s’arrStepas notre tache.
Nous serions A la fois tristes et confus, si notre oeuvre etait purement destructive. Bien au contraire, nous ne demolissons que pour
rebatir; nous ne de&irons extirper des croyances fausses que pour
les remplacer par des croyances vraies.Il exposera done en pre
mier lieu sa foi en 1’existence d’un etre suptrieur, infiniment bon
et juste, que, faute d’un meilleur terme, il appellera Dieu. Viendra
ensuite l’affirmation d’une vie future qu’iL considere comme inseparablement lite & la croyance en Dieu. « Les deux doivent rester
ou tomber ensemble. » Enfm il cherchera it developper l’esprit de
verite, de morality, de purete et de fraternity qui lui representent
les vraies conditions du sentiment religieux. — C’est sur ces bases un
peu vagues que l’eglise de M. Voysey a victorieusement traverse les
Cpreuves inh£rentes aux debuts de toute eglise nouvelle. Si, comme
on peut le prevoirdtsormais, il reussit a trouver les fonds nCcessaires pour se batir un temple, cette experience sera une reponse
�LES EGLISES RATIONALISTES DE LONDRES.
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sans replique A ceux qui ont contest^ de tout temps* la possibilite
d’etablir un cultes&rieux sur les simples formules du theisme.
'S
Je ne pdfs pas temoigner autant de confiance dans l’avenir de la
congregation dirigee par le docteur P. W. Perfitt. M. Perfitt olficie
dans la free church de Newman street. G’est un fait assez curieux
que la chapelle unitaire de Little-Portland street, la congregation du
reverend Charles Voysey et celle du docteur Perfitt se trouvent
toutes trois a quelques minutes l’une de l’autre. Toutefois l’epigraphe pompeuse « d’eglise libre » ne decore egalement qu’un
music hall, de forme rectangulaire, avec une sc&ne, un parterre et
line galerie. Cette salle appartient, ainsi que l’etage superieur, a
la Societe des r&ormateurs religieux independans (Society of
independent religious reformers), qui patronne specialement le
culte du docteur Perfitt. Un imprime, qu’on me remit A 1’entree,
portait d’un cote le titre des sermons annonces pour chaque di
manche du mois, de l’autre les statuts fondamentaux des reformateurs* religieux independans. 11s s’y donnent pour objet: « 1° de
HBiir les personnes desireuses de cultiver le sentiment religieux
dans une forme depouillee de tout esprit dogm^tique, de taute in
tolerance sectaire, de tout ferment sacerdotal; 2° de d&couvrir et
de formuler les verites en relations avec les lois de la nature, les
progres des intelligences et les vies des hommes de bien dans tous
les camps et dans tous les pays; 3° de remplir notre devoir reli
gieux envers la regeneration de la society en cooperant aux efforts
de toute association organisee en vue d’abolir la superstition, l’ignoSance, l’intemperance, l’inegalite politiqu^ ou tout autre des maux
jfcombreux qui affligent actuellement la societe. » Toute personne,
male ou femelie, » desireuse de concourir ifeces divers objets,
peut faire partie de la societe sans avoir & signer aucune profession
de foi, pourvu qu’elle s’engage a payer une cotisation d’au moins
1 livre sterling par an.
,
Le service etait annonce pour onze heures et quart. A onze
heures vingt, il y avait peut-etre une douzaine de personnes dans
la salle; mais les fideles, si je puis employer ce terme, continuA• rent d’arriver isolement pendant l’office, si bien qu’a la fin de la
rcer6monie je pus compter 57 assistans; c’etait peu neanmoins
pour une salle capable de contenir 300 ouAOO personnes. Ce public
Be parut exclusivement fourni par la classe moyenne; cette fois
Maient les femmes qui Staient en infime minorite; A peine en
BLptais-je 6 ou 7. L’effet scGnique n’etait pourtant pas negligS.
Ba tribune de l’officiant occupait le centre de la rampe. Le choeur,
— a full choir, comme annoncait l’affiche, — reduit pour la cir- :
Constance A 3 femmes et A 2 hommes, loin de se dissimuler
idanr,le jube, comme Ala chapelle de Little-Portland street, ou
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de se derober derriere le rideau, comme a Sain^George’s hall,
elait assis en evidence sur des bancs places aux deux cdt6s de
la scOne (et, ma foi, Ton n’y perdait rien, car les chanteuses me
parurent fort jolies). Aussitot que le docteur Perfitt eut pris sa
place, les choristes se leverent pour se ranger en ligne, derriere
son pupitre, et entonner avec beaucoup d’ensemble un hymne
qu’accompagnait un- orgue sohore aux tuyaux dores. Quand ils
eurent repris Ieursr sieges, le docteur Perfitt formula en termes
assez chaleureux tine pridre improvisee « au Dieu qui voit dans
nos coeurs, »et, apres le chant d’un nouvel hymne, lut tout un
chapitre de la Bible pris dans le livre des1 rois, qu’il se mit en
suite a commenter d’aprOs les proctdes -de la critique moderne. Un
autre hymne termin a le premier acte de la ceremonie. Le rideau
ne descentlit pas suf la Scene-; mais le choeur rentra dans la cou
lisse, a 1’exception d’une jeutie et jolie chanteuse qui vint faire le
tour des bancs Une sebile en main. G?est la deule congregation ou
j’ai vu qufeter de la snrte. Dans la plupaft deS'eglises dissidentes,
les frais du culte, y compris le traitement du ministre, sont con
verts par les* sOiiscriptions des membres, qui en echange ont le
droit de thoisir leurs places pouf toute la duree del’annee; quant
aux Visiteurs de passage ^occasional l^sitor^, qui m’ont toujours
paru assez nombreux, on se Conteifte de les inviter par un avertissement plafcarde en evidence & deposer une offrande quelconque
dans un tronc place pres de la porte; mais, & en juger par l’apparence, l’auditoife du docteur Perfitt ne constituait pas de congre
gation reguliere.^Au rested c’est seulement & l’office du matin que
l’entree est gratuite. De soir; d’apfgs l’affiche, les places coutent
respdctiVement 1 shilling, 6 et 3 pence; il est vrai qu’alors la cere
monie n’est pas consideree commrun service religieux; ce n’est
plus qu’un topic suivi d’une lecture.
Le sermon ou discourse qui termina l’office auquel j’assistai avait
pour titre « les moyens et la gloire de rftpandfe la connaissance de
la religion. » L’ofateur y parla uh peu de tout, et insista parti-culiOrement suf l’erreur des missionnaireS Chretiens qui traitent
en idolatres, sinon en sauvages, des peoples fort avances dans
la connaissancd de Dieu, au lied de Se presenter, comme saint Paul
aux AthOrfens, avec la Simple pretention de completer leurs no
tions de l’£tre Supreme et de Fame Immortelle. Le docteur Perfitt,
qui ofiicie en habit noir et enCravate blanche, se rattache par ses
traits' A ce typefort repan du en Angleterre qui fait songer a une tete
de bouledogue; seulement il y joint un large front qui lui donne
un air d’iriielligehce, et'une longue barbe gfisonnante qu’envierait
un patriarche d’Orient. Son ton reste malheureusement un peu
monotone et doctoral, sans compter que sa predication ne s’el Ove
�■FES' EGLISES RATIONALISTES DE U.ONDRESW'"
207
guCre au-dessus d’une crmque historique. Malgre les intermedes
de chant et de pnere, je me serais cru & un cours d’exegese,, a une
conference sur l’histoire des religions, plutot qu’& la celebration
d’un culte, meme purement deiste. J’ajouterai que l’assistance ne.
pnend aucune part a l’office, qu’elle reste continuellement assise,
qu’elle ne se joint pas m£me au chceur du bout des livres, et.
qu’elle n’a recours & aucun rituel pour suivre les differentes phases
Ke la ceremonie. Ainsi s’explique l’insuccfes pelatif de cette eglise,
qui par ses principes se rattache evidemment. de si pr&s & la con
gregation du reverend Charles Voysey; mais il faut observer aussi
que M. Voysey est arrive a ^organisation de son culte par le developpement continu et logique de- sa vocation spitituelle, tandis que
1’eglise libre des reformateurs religieux independans m’a paru ac- ,
cuser l’inertie et la raideur inevitables des cultes imagines a froid.
X III. —•• nihSME. — LES FREE THEISTS D> M. MONCURE D. CONWAY.
La simple croyance en Dieu est encore un dogme, pour peu qu’on
definisse les attributs de l’Atre divin, et qu’on fasSe de cettedefinition
le credo d’une eglise quelconque. Or, si'Wn admet que le culte est
une pure affaire de sentiment, non de raison ni de foi, il faudra le
.degager de toute formule positive, si simple qu’elle puisse etre. .s
Partant de ce principe, un Americain de talent, M. Moncure D. Con
way, a fonde, il y a une dizaine d’annAe®, une eglise ouverte a tous
ceux qui veulent satisfaire leurs aspirations religieuses sans dis
tinction de croyances theologiques ou metaphysiques, — a cette
seule Condition qu’ils n’erigent pas en dogme la non-existence de
Dieu. Une pareille conception embrasse non-seulement les theistes
de toutes les ecoles, &ais encore les panth^istes,. les positivistes a
la facon de John Stuart Mill, et tous les sceptiques qui refusent de
se prononcer sur la reality d’un etre superieur. Nous n’oserions
affirmer que m£me des materialistes ne sauraient y trouver place,
car il n’y a d’exclus que les athees proprement dits. >; \ .
M. Conway, qui ne prend le titre ni de reverend ni meme de
docteur, est un gentleman entre deux ages, grand, maigre, d’as
pect robuste, a la barbe grisonnante, a 1’oeil vif et mobile, decelant son origine americaine par 1’ensemble de sa physionomie,
Comme peut-etre aussi par la persistance d’un leger accent. Il ap- >
partenait & une de ces families methodistes qui chaque printemps
se reunissent pour former les camps religieux si bien decrits par
Bfet Harte dans ses recits du far-west. Lui-mdme d’ailleurs nous
retrace dans un de ses sermons recemment imprimes, Revivalism,
un tableau emouvant des scenes religieuses qui environnerent son
enfance et des efforts inutiles qu’il tenta pour partager la surexci-
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REVUE DES DEUX ^ONDES.
tation spirituelle de son premier entourage. G’est en 1864 qu’il a
Isuccede au fameux predicateur theiste J. W. Fox, dans la chapelle
de South-Place, 4 Finsbury square, et depuis l’an dernier il dirige
une seconde congregation dans une chapelle de Saint-Paul’s road,
4 Gamden-Town.
La chapelle de South-Place a laquelle M. Conway consacre sa
matinee estsituee en plein centre de Londres, a quelques minutes
de Moorgate station, que je gagnai un beau dimanche d’avril par le
chemin de fer souterrain. Comme un grand nombre de temples dissidens, elle s’annonce par un fronton de style grec. L’interieur,
dont 1 aisance faisait plaisir a voir, consistait en une salle capable de
contenir 400 ou 500 personnes, avec un orgue au-dessus de l’entree.
Aux deux cdtes, l’inevitable galerie soutenue par des piliers fluets,
dans le fond, une large estrade avec une sorte de tribune ornee de
deux candelabres a gaz. Partout des bancs garnis de livres et ornes
decoussins rouges. Quandj’entrais, un peuavant onze heures etun
quart, la chapelle etait preSque vide, mais 4 peine la vieille femme
qui faisait l’office de sacristain m’eut-elle assign e un siege dans un
des bas cotes que je vis les banes se remplir comme par enchantement: beaucoup de femmes, quelques-unes elegantes et fort jolies,
diversifiaient agreablement cet auditoire d’aspect intelligent et serieux. J’appris dans la suite que cette congregation se recrutait sur-’
tout dans le monde des savans et des professeurs, dans les carrieres
liberates, enfin parmi .quelques riches families de la cite. M. Con
way m’a nomme entre autres un aiderman, un ancien lord-maire,
des medecins, des graduds d’Oxford, le president actuel de la So
ciety royale de philologie, etc. Je ferai cependant observer que, par
ses tendances, le public de M. D. Conway-represente l’extrdme
gauche des dissenters en politique aussi bien qu’en religion. Cette
alliance d’un element religieux avec la petite ecole des radicaux
extremes, qui se rapprochent du socialisme francais, conduit meme
parfois a des resultats assez bizarres. Ainsi j’ai moi-mdme entendu
recommander au prone de cette chapelle th&iste une prochaine con
ference de ce M. Bradlaughe, qui non-seulement figure en Angleterre un des rares apdtres du republicanisme rouge, mais qui, trouvant le terme d’atheisme trop modern, s’est pose sur le terrain
religieux comme le champion de Yarttith&isme. L’unitarisme au
contraife, et m£me la congregation de Saint-George’s hall sont,
sous le rapport politique, d’une orthodoxie tout 4 fait fashionable | |
ainsi la liturgie de M. Voysey, comme celle de M. Martineau, ont
conserve les prteres de l’eglise anglicane pour la reine, le prince
de Galles, les deux chambres du parlement, etc.
Peu aprds l’entree de la congregation, M. Moncure Conway, en I
costume de ville, monta sur son estrade, tourna hourgeoisement le 1
�LES EGLISES RATIOM^eF^E^LONDRES1
209
robinet de"es candelabres pour actiVer le gaz, bien qulrfit grand
jour^d^ ayant ouvert un gros livre, designa par un numero d’ordre
l’hymne qui allait commencer le service. La liturgie de M. Conway
ne renferme que des hymnes recueillis au nombre de cinq cent cinl
quante dans un petit livre, Hymns and Anthems, fort el&gamment
imprime. Les cent cinquante premiers ont ete compiles par Fox, les
autres par M. Conway lui-meme. On con^oit qu’il n’y ait pas de
pirayer book dans un culte qui repousse la prifere. M. Conway a
remplace ce dernier element par des « meditations, » sorte d’al
locutions morales ou religieuses, qui tendent h elever Fame sans
faire d’appel direct & la Divinite. Le reste de son service consiste
dans une alternance d’hymries — chant.es, sans intervention des
fiddles, par un choeur qui me parut fort bien compose, — avec des
lectures choisies par l’officiant dans un de ses ouvrages, Sacred An
thology, ou il a reuni avec beaucoup de sagacite plus de sept cents
passages tires d’auteurs anciens et modernes, sacres et profanes : la
Bible y figure a cote du Coran et des Vedas; Confucius y donne la
main a saint Paul et & M. Renan. Cette anthologie, m’a dit M. Conway
lui-meme, est admise dans dix congregations d’Angleterre, — probablement des unitaires arrives aux confins du theisme.
Quand M. Moncure Conway eut termine sa seconde « meditationjt » l’orgue joua quelque temps en sourdine pour laisser aux
• fideies le temps de rentrer en eux-memes et de reflechir aux pa
roles de leur ministre; puis le choeur edata tout & coup dans un
antemne fort bien execute sur la musique de je ne sais plus quel
maestro. Alors vint le tour du sermon ou plutot du discourse.
M. Conway avait choisi ce jour-la un texte des plus laiques, la sante
publique [public health}', cependant, tout en restant sur le terrain
pratique, il sut habilement developper les rapports qui unissent la
sante du corps & la saintete de l’ame, conformement au dicton pro
testant que cleanliness is next to godliness (proprete est voisine dedivinite). C’est d’ailleurs un de ses principesfondamentaux que faire
de la science, c’est faire de la religion, et l’on doit reconnaitre qu’il
s’y prend lui-meme de manifere a justifier cette pretention.
M. Conway pr£te quelquefois sa chaire a des predicateurs etrangers. Parmi les personnages qui s’y sont fait- entendre dans les
derniers temps, nous citerons un colonel americain, M. Wentworth
Higginson, un pasteur unitaire de Manchester, le reverend S. Far
rington, et un theiste indien, actuellement membre du conseil
royal dans File de Ceylan. — Tous les jeudis soir les membres
de la congregation se reunissent dans la chapelle, transformee en
salle de discussions et pour y traiter quelque question morale ou
politique, comme dans la plupart des congregations dissidentes qui
TOME XI, — 1875.
j
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REVUE DES'DEUX MONDES.
se recrutent parmi les memes categories de la sociltG, les fiddles de
M. Conway organisent periodiquement entre eux des soirees de
conversation et de musique, des parties de campagne, des prome
nades sur la Tamise, etc. Ainsi la congregation devient un centre
de ralliement, non-seulement pour les manifestations religieuses,
mais encore pour les relations sociales de ses membres. GOneralement ces fetes sont annoncees au, prone, et les cartes d’admission
se vendent dans la sacristie.
La congregation de Saint-Paul’s road, oik M. Moncure Conway
celebre 1’office du soir, est installee, non loin de la Free Christian
church, dans une petite chapelle de fer qui, par la simplicity de son
architecture, m a rappele les Aglises en bois de la peninsule scan—
dinave. Cette congregation est une ancienne colonie de free Chris
tians qui avaient emigre de Clarence-Road A la suite d’un desaccord
sur le choix duministre. Depths lors M. Conway, qu’ils appelerent
A la direction de leur nouveau temple, est si bien parvenu & les penetrer graduellement de ses propres vues, qu’aujourd’hui ils pratiquent uniquement le culte de South-Place chapel, et qu’ils ont
meme renonce a leur denomination de « chretiens libres. » Il y a
1A un exemple frappant des facilites qu’offre leprotestantisme pour
passer, par une transition graduelle et presque insensible, a des
formes de culte plus en harmonie avec le developpement continu de
la raison individuelle. L’eglise romaine a des limites nettement circonscrites, et l’on n’en sort,qu’au prix d’un brusque et souvent penible dechirement, pour atteindre du coup aux derni&res limiies de
l’incredulite ou tout au moins de rindifference religieuse; mais hors
du catholicisme des eglises d’aujourd’hui, malgre les bornes dogmatiques oh elles essaient parfois d’enfermer la variation de leurs doc
trines, ne sont plus que des points de repbre destines h marquer
les etapes de la pensee religieuse dans son Evolution vers un ideal
sans cesse plus large et plus libre. De la pour chacun la possibility
de.s’arreter aux points precis de cette Evolution qui correspondent
a Son propre degre de culture intellectuelle et morale.
J’ai assiste a deux offices dans la chapelle de Saint-Paul’s road.
La ceremonie y est exactement conduite de la meme facon qu’h
l’autre chapelle de M. Conway, sauf l’absence d’orgue et partant la
suppression de l’antemne. Le choeur m’y a paru moins remarquable,
mais en revanche la congregation entiere entonnait a haute voix les
versets de l’hymne. Chaque foisje me trouvais devant une assis
tance de deux cents A deux cent cinquante personnes, qui, d’apres
leur mise, me parurent recrutees dans des rangs moins elevGs,
quoique appartenant encore a la classe moyenne. En revanche,
elles me semblbrent participer a la ceremonie avec plus d’interet et
�WesKMcSBS
RA'HONALISTESJDE LONDRES.
1 211
meme dejerveur qu’a South-Place chapel" Ainsi presque toutes
avalent leiffVituel en main, et personne ne restait assis pendant la
recitation deihymnes* Cette difference tient sans doute, ici encore,
I ce que la congregation de Saint-Paul’s road est sortie tout entire
d’une 6glise regulikre et traditionnelle, devenue trop etroite pour
leurs vues religieuses, tandis que la congregation de South-Place
chapel m’a paru se composer surtout de dilettanti religieux, pratiquant — par raison plus encore que par conviction — le culte le
moins complique et le moins exigeant qu’ils aient pu trouver.
Un des sermons que j’ai entendus dans la chapelle de CamdenTown ferait dresser les cheveux sur la tAte A toute l’dcole de Man
chester. Sous pretexte d’enseigner fart de faire' son testament,
Iww to make a will, M. Moncure Conway fit un veritable proofs A
1’epargne, en ce sens qu’il recommandait a ses auditeurs de depenser
de leur vivant, — bien entendu d’une facOn raisoniiable et utile, —
tout ce qu’ils seraient en etat d’acquerirFort souvent les richesses accumulees par un p£re devierment pour ses fils un fleau
plutot qu’une benediction (more a curse than a bliss}, et si l’on veut
consacrer son argent a des oeuvres fecondes, il faut songer qu’on
est soi-meme le meilleur executeur de ses volont^s. » — Je dois
avouer que ce petit cours de socialisme pratique parut fort gout6
des assistans; il r&pondait du reste A uiie tendance nationale des
Anglais, qui, surtout dans les classes moyennes, depensent generalement la totalite de leurs revenus, et qui se'&ontentent de fournir
A leurs enfans les moyens de se creer eux-m6mes une situation independante. — L’autre sermon me parut toutefois plus interessant
en ce qu’il caracterisait mieux les vues religieuses de l’orateur.
G’etait A l’occasion du premier mai, qui est encore celebre dans les
• campagnes anglaises par certaines pratiques traditiontoelies. M. Con
way exposa l’antique mythe solaire, dont ces traditions semblent
Stre le dernier echo, et il fit ressortir A $e sujet que toute religion
estMntimement li£e A une certaine cosmogonie. Il montra ensuite
que ohaque modification des idees courantes sur le systeme de l’univers a provoque une revolution parall&te dans les theories reli
gieuses de l’humanitS. « Ainsi aux conceptions astronomiques formees dans la vallee du Nil correspondaient les mythes sur la
renaissance periodique du soleil, qui joueiithm si grand rdle dans
le paganisme. Ainsi encore le developpement du christianisme a
suivi le remplacement de la cosmogonie paienne par les lois de Ptolemee et par la theorie des cycles; mais depuis Copernic et Gali
lee on a reconnu que la terre n’est pas le centre du monde et qu’A
cote du mouvement circulaire la ramenant sans cesse vers son point
I de depart, une seconde impulsion l’entraine continuellement, avec
I son orbite, vers un point plus avance de l’espace. De la la thSorie
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
de Fepicycle, ou plutot du progrfcs indefini, qu|en religion comme
en astronomie, doit remplacer les anciennes conceptions fondees
sur l’immutabilite du monde physique et moral. G’est a ce but qu’il
veut travailler en enseignant une religion fondee sur les donnees
de la science moderne, la religion du progrfes et de l’avenir! »
M. Moncure Conway, autant que nous avons pu saisir ses doc
trines, pait de ce fait, qu un instinct nous force a rendre hommage
au prmcipe superieur generalement compris dans la notion de Dieu;
mais il croit en m6me temps qu on ne doit pas d&finir cette notion,
ni lui prater des attributs determines par peur de l’enfermer dans
quelque formule demain peut-^tre en desaccord avec les nouvelles
constatations de la science. Il repousse egalement la priSre, d’abord
parce qu il y voit une invitation illogique & changer le cours des
lois naturelles, en second lieu, parce qu’en invoquant la Divinity,
on semble lui attribuer des organes ou tout au moins des sentimens analogues aux notres.'Aussi, dans ses meditations, s’il parle
souvent de Dieu, jamais il ne 1’interpelle directement pour l’adorer
ou le b£nir, et, parmi les Hymnes et Antiennes qui forment tout
son rituel, il m a declare lui-m6me choisir de preference les com
positions qui evitent de mettre en scene un Dieu personnel et conscient.
II semble qu’il y ait la des scrupules exager&s. M. Conway con-1
fond la personnalite avec l’indiyidualite divine. Qui done ira s’ima-1
giner Dieu pourvu d’yeux et d’oreilles, d’un cerveau et d’un coeur,
en un mot d’une organisation taillee sur la notre, parce que, dans
un elan d emotion religieuse, on aurait fait appel & la souveraine
intelligence ou A la supreme bonte de l’&tre divin? Le reverend
Charles Voysey ne peut etre suspect sous ce rapport, car il m’a
affirme A moi-mAme qu’il cesserait de prior, s’il croyait.Dieu capable
de se rendre A ses pridres. Cependant M. Voysey, comme le doc
teur Perfitt, comme les unitaires et les free Christians, a maintenu
la priAre dans sa liturgie, parce qu’il y voit une satisfaction donnee
a une inspiration instinctive et partant rationnelle de Fame, une
sorte de communion intime entre la nature divine et la nature humaine. Comme le dit un des plus fiddles disciples de ce Krause
qu’on a pourtant accuse de panth^isme, M. J. Tiberghien, dans sa
Psychologie exp£rimentale, « A quelque syst&me philosophique
qu on s’arrete, il faut reconnaitre avec les theologiens de tous les
temps que le sentiment religieux s’adresse non A une vague sub
stance, mais a un etre doue de la conscience et du sentiment de
soi. Si l’on fait abstraction de la personnalite divine, l’amour de
Dieu, est sans objet. » Aussi peut-on se demander si, en supprimant
la priAre de sa liturgie, M. Conway, malgre la vague religiosite de j
?ses hymmes et de ses meditations, ne franchit pas la derntere bar-
�LES EGLISES RATIONALISTES DE LONDRES.
213
rfere qui separe d’une societe de ^conferences ou d’une ecoTe de
morale un culte rationnel reduit & sa plus simple expression.
Et cependant, si vague et si large que soit la theodicee de
M. Moncure D. Conway, on ne peut contester que sa predication!
ne reponde aa-sentiment religieux de ses nombreux auditeurs; mais
ce succls tient peut-etre plus & la forme qu’au fond de sa doctrine.
Nfetait l’absence de toute invocation & la Divinife, nous aurions
meme trouve dans ses pratiques, s’il faut le dire, encore plus de
chaleur et de vie, non-seulement que dans la petite Iglise libre du
docteur Perfitt, mais mime que dans le dlisme formaliste du reverend Charles Voysey. C’est que, fiddle A son principe, M. Conway,
au lieu de s’adresser au raisonnement pour1 provoquer l’emotion
religieuse, se contente de faire vibrer ces cordes lyriques du coeur
humain qui sont les plus puissans auxiliaires, sinon les sources
principales du sentiment religieux. Ajoutons que, comme orateur,
M. Conway, sans viser a l’eloquence, possede une voix fort claire et
surtout fort onctueuse. Il excelle principalement dans le choix des
images comme des apologues qu’il slme A traytrs ses discours, et
si sa pensee se derobe parfois sous les voiles d’un naturalisme nuageux, il sait faire jaillir dl-cette obscurite mime un certain feflet
de mysfere et de grandeur qui satisfait les elans religieux de son
auditoire, du reste facile A satisfaire.
t?
i
IV. — LES COMTISTES. — LES HUMANITAIRES.
On pourrait croire que les « theistes libres » de M. Moncure D.
Conway ont atteint le dernier terme d’une religion fondee sur l’elimination progressive du surnaturel;; au-dela, il semblerait qu’il n’y
a plus de culte possible, puisqu’il n’y a plus de place que pour l’atheisme, c’est-A-dire pour la negation dogmatique de Dieu. Cepen
dant Londres posslde encore une eglise, si eglise il y a, qui merited’etre signalee ici. Je veux parler-du positivisme ou plutot du com
tisme, qui pretend substituer au culte de Dieu la religion de l’humanite. On connait la scission qui Iclata dans le positivisme, du vivant meme de son fondateur. L’ecole qui a prevalu en France
rejette completement les vues politiques et religieuses d’Auguste
Comte, pour s’en tenir A son sysfeme philosophique; mais en An-j
gleterre un petit groupe, constitul par des hommes de reputation
et de talent, a accept! dans son ensemble la doctrine du maitre.
Leurs reunions se tiennent non loin du British Museum, dans une
salle de Chapel street, rehaussee par les bustes en platre des treize
grands hommes que Comte a donnes pour patrons aux mois de son
fameux calendrier. Les adeptes sont longtemps restes en petit
|o|^e, d’autant plus que les comtistes se sont toujours dlfendus
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
de faire de la propagande populaire. Il y a quelques annees, on raconte qu’un membre fort connu de la broad church avait voulu assister a une de leurs reunions; comme & son retour un unitaire de
ses amis lui demandait en plaisantant s’il y avait vu un Dieu en
trois personnes, il repondit sur le meme ton qu’il y avait vu trois;
personnes et pas de Dieu. — Aujourd*hui, d’apres un de leurs
membres les plus distingues, M. le professeur Beesly, qui a bien
voulu me renseigner personnellement, leur congregation compterait dans Londres une centaine de membres actifs. Chaque di
manche, ils se reumissent pour ecouter une ^t&tasdebitee par leur
« directeur, » le docteur Congreve. Jusqu’A present, ils n’ont guere
applique les minutieux details du rituel comtiste que dans la cele
bration des manages et dans la « presentation » des enfans; mais,
— toujours d’apres M. Beesly, — iJs ri’attendent, pour organiser
completement leur culte, qu’une augmentation spontande dans le
nombre de leurs adherens. Ajoutons ce detail, qu’ils ont organise
une instruction primaire conforme a leur systeme, et qu’a l’instar
des clericaux, ils proclament l’incompetence absolue de 1’etat en
mature d’enseignement.
Le comtisme n’est pas la seule religion qui, enfantee par un
cerveau francais, ait jete racine sur l’autre rive de la Manche.
J’avais lu le dernier samedi d*avril dans les annonces du Daily
News que la Humanitarian Society devait donner le lendemain, dans
son local de Claremont hall, une conference sur la religion de Dieu.
Je n’y attachais pas grande importance, croyant avoir affaire a une
de ces societes radicates qui s’efforcent de repandre leurs negations
politiques et religieuses au moyen de meetings et de conferences
specialement denudes le dimanche. Ce fut settlement un mois apres,
comme je gravissais la pent© de Pentonviile avee l’intention de visi
ter a Islington la charmante chapelle neo-gothique d’ Unity church?
que l’idee me vint de faire un detour par Penton street pour jeter
au moins un coup d’oeil sur le public de la Societe humanitaire. Une
affiche placardee a la porte de Claremont hall m’apprit qu’un des
societaires devait trailer ce soir-la de « la condition sociale des
aveugles. » A eotejse'. trouvait la liste des autres conferenciers qui
avaient parle dans le courant du mois; j’y remarquai trois ou quatre
noms qui ddnotaient dvidemment des origines slaves et germaniques.
M’engageant dans un couloir obscur A la suite de deux jeunes
gens qui conversaient en allemand^ je finis par trouver un escalier
qui debouchait sur une large salle remplie de bancs, ou une vingtaine de personnes se trouvaient assises fort A J’aise. A cote de l’estrade destinde A l’orateur se voyait un piano qui fremissait dejA
sous les doigts agiles ,d’une jeune personne vetue de noir. Un se
cond air succeda au premier, puis un troisifeme, sans que rien dd-
�LES EGLISES RATIONALISTES DE LONDRES.
215
celat l’approche du .cfTOKncier. En ce moment passart entre les
bancs un I’fespectable vielllard qui tenait en main un. ydlumiiieux
paquet de brochures; si tot qu’il m’apercut, il devina sans doute un
profane et s’elanca vers moi, non pour m’expulser, mais pour me
tendre un exemplaire, que je pris. avec gratitude. Le titre me fit
voir immediatement que je n’etais pas tombe sur une variete de la
National Sunday League-, par malheur, il faisait tellement sombre
dans la salle que je pus h peine lire ces en-tetes allechans : « l’age
de la lumi&re, — le Dieu de la nature,les mariages humanitaires, — quinze points de la religion de Dieu. » Cependant, comme
la jeune pianiste venait de commencer son quatrieme morceau, je
perdis patience et resolus de battre en retraite avec mon butin, sans
chercher davantage A savoir quelle ietait, au point de vue « humanitaire, » la condition sociale des aveugles. J’emportai au reste de
quoi m’eclairer suffisamment sur le but et les iravaux de la LL/w/J
nitdrian Society-, mais quel nefui pas mon etonnement en retrouvant,, sous les theories prechdes dans ce music hall de Penton ville,
le systeme de Pierre Leroux, qui, comme on sail, pcetendait dega
ger de la philosophic paienne et meme chretienne la croyance a
une transmigration des ames dans les limites de Fhumanite? terrestre! Les humanitaires touchent peut^etre dayantage au pantfrSisme, en ce qu’ils definissent Dieu -a un etre eternel et indivi
sible, dont l’essence pdn&tre tout 1’univers sous la double forme de
mature'et d’esprit; » mais leur thdorie sur 1’ame reproduit exactement les hypotheses du reformateur franGais.
Outre 1’expose de la « religion de Dieu, » la brochure contenait des dissertations et des controverses assez curieuses, — une
profession de foi qu’il suffisait de signer « consciencieusement, »
pour acquerir « le titre et les droits d’humanitaire, » — quelques
paroles de gratitude envers le « Dieu de la nature, » intitulees la
Priire des Humamtaires, — des extraits de lectures en plein air,
:« surpassant et remplagant les quatre premiers chapitres du Nou
veau-Testament, ainsi que le Sermon sur la montagne, » — enfin
des rites pour la « solennisation humanitaire du mariage. » 11 parait que ces rites ont 4td appliques pour la premifere fois, il y a
deux ans, a l’union de M. Kaspary, le principal apotre, sinon le
fondateur de l’humanitarisme, .avec la fille d’un de ses coreligionnaires. Seulement, comme la legislation civile, qui n’est pas encore
B humanitarisee, » ne reconnait pas les mariages celebres dans le
temple musical de Claremont hall, force fut aux conjoints d’emprunter pour la circonstance la chapelle deiste de Finsbury square^
oh M. Moncure D. Conway a su se mettre en r&gle avec la loi.
Le phenomene le plus etrange, ce n’est pas qu’un individu in
vents ou formule des systdmes hypothetiques cosme l’humanita-
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
risme, mais qu’il frouve des gens pour le eroire, le suivre et le
seconder. La societe humanitaire ne se borne m£me pas & ses conJ
ferences hebdomadaires « precedSes et suivies de musiques, »
comme disent les annonces; mais chaque dimanche elle envoie
encore de vrais missionnaires precher ses doctrines sous l’arche du
Midland railway et au pont de Chelsea. Jusqu’ici, & vrai dire, —
sauf pour le mariage des adeptes, — cette predication a constitue
l’unique manifestation de sa foi; mais nul doute qu’A l’instar du
comtisme elle ne dSveloppe son rituel & mesure que le besoin
s en fera sentir. On ne peut nier que nous n’assistions la au veritable
enfantement d’une religion nouvelle. Si'elle ne succombe pas dans
cette periode embryonnaire qu’on pourrait appeler sa phase mSta-'
physique, on peut mSme prevoir, d’apres sa tendance a dogmatiser,
qu elle ne tardera pas & se transformer en un culte positif, avec un
cortege obligatoire de pratiques spontanees ou reflechies, sinon
avec toute une theologie basSe sur quelque pretendue revelation.i
En attendant toutefois, l’humanitarisme constitue une doctrine
assez inoffensive, parfaitement morale dans ses prSceptes comme
dans ses consequences, et completement renfermee dans cette
sphere suprasensible ou toutes les speculations religieuses sont permises, en tant qu’elles sont de bonne foi, par cela mSme que les
procedes de la methode scientifique ne sauraient en dSmontrer ni
la rectitude, ni la faussete, C’est pourquoi nous n’avons pas hesite
& le comprendre parmi les ecoles religieuses de la metropole britannique qui, sans avoir leur place et leur role dans 1’emancipa
tion graduSe de la pens^e religieuse, mSritent cependant le titre de
rationalistes, en ce sens que, dans le domaine du raisonnement,
elles respectent 1’autoritS de la raison.
C’est presque uniquement comme distraction que j’avais com
mence cette course a travers certaines yglises de Londres. Sans
doute je me heurtai, chemin faishnt, h plus d’une inconsequence,
& plus d’une excentricite; mais le sourire qui pouvait me rester
aux lSvres s’effaca bien vite sous une impression generate de res
pect et de sympathie pour les efforts des esprits sSrieux et sincfcres
qui ont entrepris de concilier la liberty intellectuelle et le sentiment
religieux, ces deux Siemens necessaires de toute civilisation harmonique. Je leur dois notamment d’avoir compris pour la premiere
fois toute la portee de la grande reforme, qui, inauguree par Lu
ther, est encore inachevSe aujourd’hui. L’impossibilite d’enfermer
dans des bornes dogmatiques une croyance religieuse qui a pour
fondement une protestation contre 1’autoritS du dogme, — 1’extrSme
flexibility de ce christianisme protestant, qui va du sacerdotalisme
ritualiste au theisme des unitaires avances,— la difficulty de tracer
�LES EGLISES RATIONALISTES DE TS^DRES.
& K
\ij K
I
kB
217
uneT&elHaTcalion, sur le terraid des doctrines, entre les nuancesles
plus rapprochees des eglises les plus voisines, — ces trois faits, qur
m’ont surtout frappe, ne sont-ils pas d’heureux augure pour ceux
qui invent la paix religieuse en ce monde?
Le jour ou la societe comprendra que l’unite religieuse doit se
chetGner non dans une chimerique uniformite de dogmes, mais
’dans 1’union des sentimens provoques ©hex les hommes par leur
perception individuelle de l’infini et de l’ideal, ce jour-ld il pourra
y avoir encore des confcoverses theologiques, des differences d’ecoles, des congregations variees dans leurs pratiques comme dans
leuru^nomination; mais il n’y aura plus de sectes, il n’y aura plus
d’eglises, ou, pour mieux dire, il n’y en aura plus qu’une : la communaute des fiddles groupes dans lours temples respectifs pour
adorer Dieu suivant des formules diverses. Deja aujourd’hui ne
iVoyons-nous point, par ce tableau m6me des &g Lises rationalistes,
I’que la tolerance dans les, dogmes n’exclut pas la variete dans les
rites? Les unes, comme l’unitarisme, tiennent plus compte de la
tradition; les autres, comme le theisme du reverend Charles Voysey,
se fondent davantage sur lo raisonnement; d’autres enfin, comme
le deisme de M. Moncure D. Conway, tachent dene se baser que sur
!e sentiment, — et ainsi chacune repond a une face particuli&re de
notre nature religieuse; mais toutes se trouvent reliees par cette
conviction commune, d’abord qu’en cas de conflit entre la raison et
la foi, c’est la premiere qu’on pent et qu’on doit suivre, — ensuite
mue l’homme est moralement tenu,rsui<vant la definition des free
Kristians, « non de posseder la verito religieuse, mais simplement
de la chercher avec conscience. » G’esf settlement & la condition de
prendre ces deux principes pour point de depart. qu’onf .pourra utilement travailler a la solution de ce qu’tin savant,, peu suspect de
fpartialite spiritualiste, M. le professeur J. Tyndall, appelait « ce pro>bWne des probl&mes, la satisfaction rationnelle des sentimens relifejeux.ro
Tout laisse prevoir que, parmi les nations du vieux continent,
1’ Angleterre sera la premiere a approcher de ce but. Sans doute les
congregations dont nous^ avons esquisse le tableau ne comptent encore qu’un nombre restreint de fideles; mais oh; ne peut meconnaitre qu’elles ne representent une tendance de plus ea.plus repandue dans la societe anglaise, chez les hommes de science, comme
che? les hommes de religion : le desir sincere et seciproque de trouver leg conditions d’une entente definitive entre la religion et la
science. Meme l’6glise 6tablie n’echappe pas a ce mouvement :
conyne le demontrait nagu&re M. Albert Reville, entre les ritualistes et les revivalistes, qui, dans des voies diff&rentes, personnifientjmc supreme reaction de l’esprit theologique contre les en-
�218
■
revue des deux mondes*
vahissemens du rationalisme, on voit grossir chaque jour ce parti
de la broad church qui, aux theories rivales de la justification,
soit par la foi, soit par les pratiques, pretend substituer la doc
trine plus elev6e du salut par la sinc^rite des croyances et par
la valeur des oeuvres. Mais c’est surtout chez les sectes dissidentes
comme les methodistes, les presbyteriens, les independans, qu’on
peut observer l’affaiblissement des anciens dogmes, la meme ou
l’on a conserve la liturgie primitive. Ainsi que naguisre dans I’eglise reform de de France, ce sont en general les ministres eux—
mdmes,. qui, gagnes par l’esprit du siecle, font graduellement
1 education ratlonaliste de leur entourage’. Ghez quelques congre
gations, la transformation est complete ;■ chez d’autres, on peut en
quelque sorte la prendre sur le fait. Ainsi l’on m’a cite une congre^gation presbyterienne de Notting-Hill' oil chaque dimanche le mi—
nistre celebre l’office du soir d’apres lerituelpresbyterien, et 1’office
du matin d’apres!t'la liturgie unitaire du reverend J. Martineau,
(( Nous ne faisons pas beaucoup de proselytes, me disait d’autre
part un unitaire que j’interrogeais sur. la situation de son eglise;
mais, ce qui est plus important encore, nous voyons nos idees conquerir peu h pen les autres communions du pays. »
G’est ainsi que procedera sans doute la renovation religieuse de
notre societe, — non par la creation d’une foi nouvelle, ni meme
par un mouvement general de conversion aux doctrines des eglises
rationalistes, mais par une sorte de transfusion qui fera penetrer la.
seve des idees modemes dans les veines des eglises a la fois assez
vigoureuses et assez flexibles pour subir impunement une pareille
metamorphose. Assurement les vieilles conceptions theologiques ne
disparaitront pas du jour au lendemain; elles resteront longtemps;
encore le lot des intelligences incapables d’atteindre & une percep
tion plus generale des verity religieuses; mais l’essentiel, ce n’est
pas tant d’inculquer cette perception aux esprits satisfaits d’une foi'
moins large que de leur fournir les moyens de s’emanciper, — au.
jour oil ifs en sentiront le besoin,—sans rompre la continuite de leur
developpement religieux. Toutefois, pourrdaliser cette organisation
superieure d’une eglise ouverte et progressive, susceptible de donner entire satisfaction aux besoins moraux et intellectuels de notre
nature et seule capable d’introduire dans les moeurs la tolerance
inscrite dans les lois, une grande partie de la society moderne aura
h se debarrasser des ecoles religieuses qui non-seulement refusent
aux autres eglises toute part de verity, mais qui contestent encore (
jusqu’a leur droit a l’existence.
Gte Goblet d’Alviella.
�UN
NOUVEAU CULTE EN ALLEMAGNE
LA F&TE B’ARMLNIUS,
Les mois d’ete sent la saison morte de la politique, et les peuples ne
*
sauraient mieux les employer qfu’a fOter Jeurs saints, car il est bon de
ne pas oublier ses saints, on peut avoir besoin d’eux un jour on l’autre. "<.<9
Encore impor.te-t-il de les bien choisir; ils ne .sont pas tons ^galement S
venerables. Il en est d’inutiieS;, qui ne gudrissent de .ricn, oomme dit le W
proverbe; il en est meme de nuisibles et de pervers., av-ec lesquels il
faut rompre tout commerce. Un voyageur anglais^ le capitaine Thomas
Smith, rapporte qu’un roi de Nepaul, ■Rum-Bahadur, qui aimait tendrement l’une de ses femmes, eut le chagrin de la voir defigurer par la
petite verole. Dans sa juste fureur, il maudit .ses medfecins et ses dieux,
et se promit d’en tirer une vengeance exemplaire. Il commen^a par
fouetter les medecins, leur fit CDuper le nez et 1’oreille droite. Les dieux
eurent leur tour. Le vindicatif -souverain les accabla d’injures, leur reprocha de lui avoir extorque sous de faux prdtextes 12,000 chevres,
.2,000 gallons de lait et plusieurs quintaux de confitures. Puis il fit S
amener devant le palais toute son artillerie, les pieces furent chargees
jusqu’a la gueule, et au bout de six heures d’une canonnade bien nour- 9
rie le Nepaul n’avait plus de dieux. Ge precede peut sembler un pew J
brutal, nous ne le proposons point en exemple. Il n’en est pas moins 9
vrai que les peuples, comme les rois, sont bien Gonseilles quand ils
mettent a pied les faux saints, quand ils reservent leurs hommages pour
ceux de leurs patrons qui furent dignes de l’etre, pour ceux qui eurent
|
de bonnes intentions et l’humeur debonnaire, pour ceux qui guerissent
les hommes non-seulcment de la variole, .mais des mauvaises pensees,
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
des funestes ambitions, des haines inutile^ de l’esprit de contention et
de chicane. Par malheur, je ne sais quel vent souffle sur l’Europe depuis quelques annees, mais ce sont precisement les saints acariatres,
querelleurs et pernicieux qui sont aujourd’hui le plus chomes. On leur
prodigue les honneurs et l’encens. Il en resulte que les fetes pacifiques
sont devenues une exception. On se rejouit bruyamment, non pour se
faire plaisir, mais pour faire piece au prochain; sous pretexte de se
donner a soi-mSme une serenade, on donne a son voisin le petit regal
d’un charivari. Il y a bien paru dans plusieurs des fetes qui ont ete c6j
lebrees tout r^cemment.
Certes ce n’est point a la seule fin d’honorer la memoire d’un elo
quent orateur qu’on vient de feter avec tant de tapage a Dublin le centieme anniversaire de, la naissance d’O’Gonnell. Ce grand virtuose de la
parole merite de D’etre pas oublie, et il est bon de se souvenir que
pendant de longues anndesil a combattu sans relache pour cette grande
cause de l’dmancipation des catholiques, a laquelle se sont rallies tous
les liberaux anglais. Les victoires que remporte la justice dans ce
monde sont dignes d’etre commemorees; mais ce n’est point le defenseur de l’egalite des cultes devant la loi dont le souvenir est demeure
cher au clerge irlandais. Cette Agalite a ete mainte fois condamnee par
la curie romaine; c’est une de ces propositions heretiques, malsonnantes et temeraires dont la revolution frangaise a infecte le monde,
car il n’est pas une seule heresie qu’elle n’ait prise sous son patronage,
elle a commis tous les crimes de l’esprit. Les archeveques et les 6veques d’lrlande consentent a oublier qu’O’Gonnell fut un liberal, ils
passent obligeamment l’eponge sur cette tache. Ils ne voient plus dans
Tiberius Gracchus que le fils pieux et soumis de l’6glise, l’implacable
adversaire des prerogatives anglicanes. En honorant sa memoire, ils en-|
tendaient se donner le plaisir d’offrir a leurs invites un banquet ou 1’on
porterait d’abord la sante du pape, la santd de la reine d’Angleterre ne
venant qu’apres. Ils avaient compte sans un hote indiscret qui est venu
les deranger dans leurs ebats. Le parti des democrates irlandais et des
home rulers fait passer la religion aprfcs la politique, et sa politique est
revolutionnaire. S’ils reconnaissent O’Connell pour leur patron, c’est
qu’apres avoir obtenu l’emancipation des catholiques, le grand agitateur
a employe les dernieres annees de sa vie a precher le rappel de l’edit
d’union et 1’independance de la verte Erin. Or les prelats irlandais, qui
entendent fort bien leurs interets, se soucient fort peu de voir la verte
Erin devenir independante; ils auraient beaucoup plus de peine a s’accommoder d’une republique feniane que d’une monarchic h6retique a
la verite, mais tolerante et meme bienveillante. Comme le remarquait
une revue anglaise, il est heureux pour son eminence le cardinal Cullen
que la plupart des prelats Strangers qu’il avait convies aux fetes de Du
blin n’aient pu se rendre a son appel; il voulait leur donner le spectacle
�•... 1 / -/
*
tUNlNbuVEMJ Ct8gf' 'EN ALLEMAGNE.
221
de son tnompheTpS auTaieffi al&ifete It sa melancolique deconHfiire. Ddmocrates eDcatholiques se sont dispute avec acharnement le cadavre^uM
A'
HHH comme jadis se battirent les Grecs et les Troyens autour du corps
de Patrocle. Les democrates sont restes les maitres du champ de bataijle;
ils avaient a leur disposition les plus robustes poumons de l’lrlande.
kj’Angleterre, a qui on voulait causer du chagrin, n’a pu s’empecher de
Be en voyant les conspirateurs se prendre aux cheveux, faire echange
de quolibets et d’injures.
Compterons-nous au nombre des fetes du mois d’aout l’etrange con
ference theologique ou, pour mieux dire, le concile d’herdtiques qui a
dte tenu ces jours-ci a Bohn sous la presidence de l’eminent docteur
Dollinger? En apparence, cd concile etaitUne oeuvre de paix; on se pro
posal d’y etablir une sort© d’union dogmatique entre toutes les eglises
orthodoxes detached^ de Rome; Il parait qu’obr y a rdussi, qu’on est par
venu, non sans peine, a rassembler deux centstetes sous un bonnet, et
.
c’est d’autant plus remarquable quece bonnet est un bonnet de docteur.
Chacun prend son plaisir oil il le trouve; au plus fort’ des ardeurs de la
canicule, des theologiens, accourus du fond de fAllemagne, de la Russie et de l’Angleterre, ont passe de longues jdurndes a disputer sur la
procession du Saint-Esprit. On a pu craindre que cette discussion ne
tournat mal, qu’on ne finit par se manger le blanc des yeux. Un soir,
tout semblait perdu, les theoldgiens de*1’eglise grecque persistaient a
soutenir que le Saint-Esprit ne proc^de que du pdre, que le comble de
l’impidte est d’avancer, comme les Latins, qu’il procede et du pere et
du fils, palre filioque. De leur cote, les Latins prouvaient leur dire, s’obsjtinaient, se butaient, et deja Faffreuse Discorde faisait Sillier ses ser
pens. Heureusement dans la nuit qui sUivit cet orageux debat, le docteur
Dollinger eut une soudaine illumination. Il s’ecria comme Archimede :
I’ai trouve! — et le lendemain il annonqait aux peres du concile, a la
fois etonnes et charmes, que le Saint-Esprit ne proc&de a la vdritd que
du pere, mais qu’il en procede en passant par1 le fils. Cette ingenieuse
solution reconcilia comme par un charme tons les cceurs aigris, elle fut
^votee avec enthousiasme, on s’embrassa, et on est parti de Bonn en
chant e de l’heureux emploi qu’on y avait fait de son temps et en se
promettant bien de recommencer en automne. ■
Cette petite agape theologique, qui a laissi de1 si bons souvenirs a
tous les convives, a ete beaucoup moins agreabl'e a l’archeveque de Co
logne, aux eveques de Mayence et de Munster, Sussi bien qu’a leurs
nombreuses ouailles. Aussi les Qltramontains allemands des bords du
! Rhin se promettent de prendre leur revanche en cdldbrant a leur tour
une ceremonie de leur gout, et, chose bizarre, en la cdlebranten France;
hs*
- iff 1 Ils se proposent de faire dans les premiers joiirs de septembre un pfeleO^'^inage a Lourdes. Ils commenceraient par se rendre a Paris et par depoj&B- ser un ex-voto dans la chapelle de Notre-Dame-des-Victoires. De quelles
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victoires remercieront-ils le ciel, ces pelerins allemands?Ge point serait
curieux a eclaircir. De Paris, ils iraient porter a Notre-Dame-de-Lourdes
une superbe banni&re brodee, representant le patron de l’Allemagne
catholique, un beau saint Boniface tout neuf, de grandeur naturellej
Qu’ont-ils a dire de si pariiculier A Notre-Dame-de-Lourdes qu’ils ne
puissent le dire tout aussi bien a Notre-Dame-du-GapitoIe a Cologne?
Ge qui ne peut se dire a Cologne, il serait facheux pour la France qu’on
vint le dire chez elle : ce n’est pas d’hier que M. de Bismarck s’est
fait fort d’apprendre a 1’Europe ce qu’il faut entendre par une querelle
d’Allemand; saint Boniface est trop bon, la France n’est point jalouse
d’avoir part a ses dangereuses confidences. En verite, jusqu’a des temps
meilleurs, elle peut ires bien se passer de sa visite. Elle n’a guere a se
louer de lui; quel service lui a-t-il rendu? Si nous jugeons de sa conduite par celle qu’il a dictee a ses fideles de Munich et de Westphalie,
apres avoir marmottG pour la forme quelques vaines protestations,
l’odeur de la poudre l’a grise, il a pris plaisir aux hurlemens du canon
de Sedan, il n’a eu garde d’interceder pour que les vaincus obtinssent
de meilleures conditions, la carte a payer lui a paru fort raisonnable,
l’Alsace annex6e l’a mis en joie, il a ete le premier a offrir au conquerant le diademe imperial. Non, il n’y a pas de raison pour que la France
se felicite de recevoir chez elle ce saint equivoque. Lui-meme, a peine
aura-t-il atteint les bords d.e la Seine, il aura le mal du pays, il se
prendra a soupirer apres sa crypte de Fulda.
Si saint Boniface a conqu le bizarre projet de faire en France un pelerinage, banniere d^ployee, il se pourrait que cette fantaisie lui eut ete
inspirde par le chagrin et le depit qu’il a ressentis dernierement en
voyant inaugurer sur le sommet de la Grotenburg le culte d’un nouveau
saint fort rebarbatif, jadis prince des Gherusques et qui l’an 9 de l’ere
chretienne massacra dans la foret lippoise trois legions romaines com- ■
mandees par Quintilius Varus. L’Allemagne n’avait jamais entierement
oublie son Arminius ou son Hermann; il avait ete chante par quelquesuns de ses poetes, par Klopstock en particulier, qui profita d’une si
belle occasion pour faire un chef-d’oeuvre de plus dans le genre ennuyeux, ou il etait maitre. Gependant Arminius ne jouissait pas encore
dans son pays de ce qu’on peut appeler une grande situation; il n’avait
pas requ les honneurs divins ou du moins il ne figurait que parmi les
petits dieux. La gloire de reparer cette injustice etait reservee a un sculpteur bavarois, M. Joseph Ernst von Bandel, ne a Ansbach le 17 mai 1800.
Redoutables, a-t-on dit, sont les hommes qui n’ont lu qu’un livre, plus
redoutables encore ceux qui n’ont qu’une idee. M. de Bandel est un de
ces hommes qui ne se permettraient pour rien au monde d’avoir deux
idees, ni a lai fois, ni l’une apr&s l’autre. 11 avait resolu d’elever a la
gloire d’Arminius un monument immortel et colossal; a cette pensee il a
consacre toute sa vie, tout ce qu’il avait de forces et de talent. On ra-
�- UN NOUVEAU CULTE EN ALLEMAGNE.
£23
.conte que dans ™ flinanc^u s’affligeait en secret de Pingratitude.de
ses ;compatriotes envers le heros cherusque qui les a delivres du joug
des Romains. Il sentit qu’une destinee pesait sur lui, qu’il avait requ du
ciel la mission d’acquitter la dette nationale, y compris les arrerages et
les intbrets des interets. Dbs 1819, il avait presque arrete son plan et I
fait son devis. Il lui a fallu plus d’un demi-siecle pour mener son ceuvre
a bonne fin. Ce qu’il a depen$e a cet effet de patience, de volonte,
d’obstination germanique, aurait suffi pour decouvrir les sources du Nil,
pour percer deux isthmes, pour creuser trois tunnels internationaux.
Ge fut en 1837 que M. de Bandel parcourut dans tous les sens la foretde Teutoburg, theatre des exploits d’Arminius, pour y chercher 1’em
placement le plus convenable a la batisse ifieale et gothique qu’il revait. 11 fixa son choix sur la Grotenburg, sommite voisine de Detmold;
il s’y construisit une cabane ou il passait des saisons entieres. Les
vieux chenes de la fordt, les Corneilles et les ehoucas btaient les seuls
confidens de ses longs entretiens avec la grande* ombre cherusque, des
declarations passionnees qu’il'lui adressait, des sermens qu’il lui faisait
de la sauver a jamais des injurieux oublis des hommes. De temps a
autre, il redescendait de son Sinar pour .organiser une nouvelle qubte,
et a peine avait-il recueilli quelques thalers, il1 ajoutait une pierre a son
edifice. Hblas! les coeurs etaient tibdes, les thalers btaient rares. L’avare I
Allemagne serrait les cordons de sa bourse, elle estimait qu’Hermann
pouvait attendre, qu’il etait un veritable bourreau d’argent; elk reservait sa faveur pour d’autres saints p#&s ditcrets, qui se contentaient
d’un culte plus modeste et fdisaient des appel’s moins frequens a ses
liberalites. C’etait le temps ou le plus irreverencieux des poetes decourageait toutes les grandes pensees et toutes les nobles entreprises par ses
Icriminels persiflages. « Void, disait-il, la foret de Teutoburg, dont Tacite a fait la description. G’est la le marais classique ou Varus est reste.
-G’est la que se battit le prince des Cherusques, Hermann, la noble
epee; la nationalite allemande a vaincU sur ee terrain boueux, dans
cette crotte ou s’enfoncbrent les legions de Rome. Si Hermann n’efit pas
gagne la bataille avec ses hordes blondes, il n’y aurait plus de liberte
I allemande, nous serions devenus Romains. Dans notre patrie regneSaient maintenant la langue et les cofttumeS de Rome. Les Souabes
fc’appelleraient Quirites, il y aurait des vestales mSrne a Munich... Dieu
soit loue! Hermann a gagne la bataille, les Romains furent defaits,
Varus perit avec ses legions, et noirs sommes restes Allemands. Nous
sommes restes Allemands et nous parions allemand. L’ane s’appelle esbl
et non asinus; les Souabes sont rest&s Souabes. 0 Hermann! voila ce
que nous te devons; c’est pourquoi, comme bien tu le mdrites, on t’eleve
ft un monument a Detmold; j’ai souscrit moi-meme pour cinq centimes.»
L -Hermann a triomphe des railleries de l’Aristophane allemand. Le
17 juin 1846, il ne manquait plus une pierre au soubassement cyclo
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BEVUE DES! DEUX MONDES.
peen qui devait porter sa statue. Depuis lors il s’est passS des Avenemens qui ont dispose I’Allemagne & regarder d’un oeil plus com
plaisant le vainqueur de Varus; ses entrailles se sont dilatees, et les
gros sous ont commence de pleuvoir dans la sebile de M. de Bandel ou
« du vieux de la montagne, » comme l’appellent les Lippois.Le Reichs
tag a vote 10,000 thalers, l’empereur en a donne 11,000. Aujourd’huila
statue a pris possession de son socle. Hermann est debout sur sa mon
tagne', coiffe de son casque, la main gauche posee sur son bouclier, ele
vant de la main droite jusqu’au ciel sa redoutable epee. On ne lui a
plaint ni les pierres ni le cuivre. L’epee mesure 24 pieds, la statue en a
55, le soubassement 93. Les destinees se sont accomplies, le sculpteur
bavarois et providentiel a eu raison des coupables indifferences de ses
compatriotes. Le 16 aout, 40,000 Allemands, disent les uns, 15,000, di
sent les autres, se sont rassembles a Detmold, et une procession triom-J
phale a inaugure a la Grotenburg le nouveau culte.
A vrai dire, dans,cette grande journee il a etd beaucoup parle d’Ar
minius, beaucoup moins du monument que lui a consacre son infatigable adorateur.La premiere difficulte serieuse qu’aient rencontree les
Allemands depuis leurs triomphes de 1870 est l’embarras qu’ils eprou- j
vent en parlant du monument d’Hermann. Ils sont obliges, pour ex
primer leur pens£e, de recourir a toutes les circonlocutions, a tous
les circuits de paroles, a toutes les ambages d’une rhdtorique en detresse. Ils vantent « la grandiosity monumentale » de la statue; ils
ajoutent que la premiere impression qu’elle produit est celle d'un vif
etonnement, ils ne disent pas quelle est la seconde. Gela nous rappelle
l’ingenieuse delicatesse avec laquelle l’auteur allemand d’un Guide en
Suisse dit, en decrivant la vallee de Samaden, ou il n’y a pas deux
arbres: « Au premier abord, cette vallee semble un peu nue. » Les aubergistes de Samaden lui ont su gre d’avoir donne i sa pensee un tour
si discret; mais M; de Bandel sait-il gre a ses admirateurs de declarer
que son oeuvre est si grande, « qu’il faut du temps avant que le sens
esthetique parvienne a s’en emparer critiquement? » Nous deman
dons grzice pour cette traduction; on ne traduit pas l’intraduisible,
et notre pauvre langue n’a jamais eu le talent de pecher dans l’eair i
trouble. M. de Bandel serait encore moins content, s’il savait tout ce
que disent les malins, car il y en avait parmi les pelerins de la Groten
burg, et ils ont donne leur coup de langue en passant. Ils ont glose sans
misericorde et sur la statue et sur le socle qui la porte. Les uns ont
pretendu que ce socle decoupe en arceaux et couronne d’une coupole representait visiblement uhe chapelle, mais que l’artiste avait mal pris ses
mesures, qu’au dernier moment il lui avait ete impossible d’introduire
la statue du saint dans sa niche, qu’il en avait ete reduit a la jucher
sur le toit, ou elle se tient en equilibre tant bien que mal. D’autres ont
avance que cette chapelle n’est pas une chapelle, qu’elle ressemble plu-
�unJnouveau cueteKn "lemagne?^
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. tota une echauguetl^rh ^e compte, Arminius serait un factionnaire
somnambule qui, au lieu ft’entrer dans sa guerite, a eu la fantaiSie de
grimper dessus. Dieu le garde de se reveiller! Il ferait une chute biendangereuSel ’D’autres ont dit que cette guerite n’est pas une gueritel
I qu’llle ressemblait comme deux gouttes d’eau a un calorifere, que le
prince des Cherusques devait etre reconnaissant a M. de Bandel pour
1Tattention delicate qu’il avait eue de lui tenir les pieds chauds pendant
les longs hivers de la Westphalie. D’autres enfin affirment que le monument tout entier, y compris le socle-, la statue et cette interminable
epee qui semble percer les nues, represente dans la pensee de l’artiste
un gigantesque epouvantail a cheneviere. Quelle est la eheneviere que
garde Arminius? G’est l’Allemagne. Qua sont les moineaux effrontes
qu’II%’occupe de tenir en respect? Il a le visage tourne au sud-ouest, les
moineaux sont les Welches qui se permirent jadis- d’aller a la picoree
au dela du Rhin. Il etait urgent de planter gur la Grotenburg un grand
mannequin en metal battu pour leur oter a jamais 1/envie de recommencer. Quel qu’ait ete precisement le but, de M. de Bandel, on peut
etre certain que ses. intentions etaient excel lentes,- et une bonne inten
tion a toujours droit au respect, surtout quand elle as 183 pieds de haut.
Au surplus, il peut se. consoler des lazzis que , lui decochent les mauvais plaisans. Le bon vieillard etait si heureux pendant la ceremonie du 16 aout qu’il a failli se trouver mal, et, ce qui n’a point rabattu
les elans de sa joie, il a requ l’ordre de la couronne de troisieme classe,
la croix d’honneur de premiere classe de la principaute de Lippe et une
pension viagfere de 12,000 marcs.
La fete d’Arminius avait ete annoricee longtemps d’avance, et pendant
les semaines qui Font precedee on s’etait donne de Ja peine pour chauf
fer l’enthousiasme populaire, pour rappele®. a L’Allemagne les titres qu’a
le prince des Gherusques a sa gratitude. Les feuttes ©fficieuses avaient
tire de son etui d’or leur plume des grands jours, elles avaient deploye
toutes les ressources de cette eloquence majestueuse et pontificate dont
elles ont le secret pour exhorter tous leurs, paroissiens a s’associer au
moins par le coeur a la grande manifestation national© qu’on preparait.
Geg exhortations ont eu moins de succes qu’on ne s’y attendait, beaucoup d’Allemands sont demeures tiedes. — Pouvons-nous, disaient-ils,
nous passionner pour un personnage a demi legendaire et si peu connu
qu’il est impossible de savoir s’il faut l’appeler Arminius, Hermann ou*
Armin, et si sa femme se nommait Thusnelda, ou Thurschilda, ou Thursinhilda, sans compter qu’on n’a pas encore decouvert ou s’est livree
cette bataille dont vous dites qu’elle fut « la premiere reponse alle—
mande dcrite par l’epee des Gherusques sur le crane des Romains? »
To&t porte a croire d’ailleurs qu’Arminius etait un barbare a tous crins
qui detestait la civilisation beaucoup plus que le despotisme. En veTOME XI, — 1875.
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
rite, nous avons plus d’obligation a Rome qu’au vainqueur de Varus.
Elie a degrossi notre rudesse naturelie, elle a fait entrer dans nos cerveaux de loups des idees qui ont fini par y prendre racine, elle nous a
donne ses lois, quelques-unes de ses institutions, et si aujourd’hui en
core nous avons un cesar, n’est-ce pas d’elle que nous avons heritA
cette gloire? — A ces objections, les journaux officieux repondaient qu’il
ne s’agissait pas de cela, qu’Hermann avait ete « une de ces ames geniales et solides qui ne naissent que dans l’Allemagne du nord, natures
fraiches et saines jusque dans leur moelle la plus intime, » qu’il etait
le symbole « des aspirations ideales de sa nation, des idealen schwungs,»
qu’il avait possede toutes les qualites germaniques, le patriotisme, l’amour religieux du devoir, l’integritd du caractere, sans oublier la modestie. — Mais, repliquaient les ergoteurs, les historiens latins et grecs,
par qui seuls nous le connaissons, sont unanimes & declarer que ce re
presentant de 1’idealite germanique dtait d’une bonne foi douteuse,
insignis perfidia, a dit Tacite. La victoire qu’il remporta sur les Romains
fut un veritable guet-apens. Il avait su capter leur confiance, les per
suader de son devoument, et it profita de la crddulite de Varus pour le
conduire a Fabattoir, lui et ses legions. Ce haut fait a ete cause que
pendant longtemps la sincerite germaine fut en mauvaise odeur, et que
Strabon s’est permis d’avancer « qu’il est fort utile de se defier des Allemands, que quiconque s’en remet a leur bonne foi finit par s’en trouver mal. » Qu’Arminius repose en paix dans sa foret de Teutoburg! Il
fut un brave capitaine, un ambitieux, car il paya de sa vie la fantaisie
qui lui etait venue d’etre roi. Il a eu la gloire d’arracher a Auguste un
cri qui a traverse les siecles, et Tacite lui a eleve dans une de ses pages
immortelles un mausolee en belle prose latine. Pourquoi vouloir lui en
Clever un second en style cherusque ou marcoman ?
Si la fete du 16 aout n’a pas eu un succes d’enthousiasme, on ne
peut nier en bonne foi qu’elle n’ait honndtement reussi. Tout s’est passe
de la maniere la plus convenable. On a beaucoup parle, beaucoup
chante; on a mange des gateaux a la Randel et des fromages a la Thusnelda. M. de Bismarck n’avait point fait au prince des Cherusques l’honneur d’assister a l’inauguration de son culte; il s’en est excuse par une
lettre courte, mais gracieuse, —-eloquentia brevis, disait Quintilien, ciwn
animi jucunditale. En somme, que manquait-il a la fete? L’empereur
d’Allemagne l’a honorde de sa presence, il a preside a ces rites sacr^s
avec sa bonne grace accoutumee. Il avait demande en arrivant a Goslar
qu’on le considered comme un simple invitd. On ne l’a pas pris au mot,
on l’a fait passer, sous des arcs de triomphe, des jeunes lilies coiffees
de bluets lui ont offert des couronnes. Certains discours lui ont paru un
peu longs; pourquoi atrssi M. le surintendant Koppen s’est-il cru oblige
d’etablir dans un sermon en trois points qu’Arminius etait le parfait
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modele non-seulement de toutes les vertus civiles et domestiques, mais
encore de toutes les vertus chrStiennes? Seance tenante, l’eloquent predicateur a fait faire a l’illustre palen sa premiere communion. Qren
ont pense Odin et ses deux corbeaux, ainsi que la belle Freya, qui
pleurait des larmes d’or? Qu’en a pense le farouche dieu Thor dans
son palais de Troudouangour, ou il trone sur un char attele de deux
boucs? Ils se sont indignes qu’on leur ravit effrontement le plus beau
coq de leur paroisse. Ge qu’a dit l’empereur n’| pu desobliger per
sonae, pas meme un dieu mort. Il a repondu aux dengues de la ville
de Munster, qui etaient venus lui apporter leurs hommages, que, si
chacun faisait son devoir, l’Allemagne n’aurait rien a redouter de ses
ennemis interieurs et exterieurs. A une autre deputation, il a dit qu’Ar
minius n’avait rien perdu aux ajournemens qu’avait essuyes sa fete, que
les grandes choses qui s’eWent faites dans ces dernieres annees donnaient a cette fete son veritable sens. Le soir,qa la fin d’fin banquet,
on a fait la lecture publique de tous les telegrammes qu’avait regus
dans la journ^e le comite du monumdfit. La depeche qu’avaient expediee
les Allemands de Richmonden Virginie efait breve, mais eloquente;
elle etait ainsi congue : « le monde appartient aux Germains. »
Qui pourrait s’y tromper? la bataille dont on vient do solenniser le
souvenir sur le sommet de la Grotenburg n’a pas ete, livree Pan 9 de
Fere chretienne, elle est beaucoup plus rdcente. Elle a ete gagnee non
par des fram^es et des javelots, mais par des canons Krupp, et ce n’est
pas Quintilius Varus qua commandait les vaincus. Dans laquatrieme
niche du fameux socle a arceaux sur lequel M. de Bandel a hisse son
Hermann se trouve le portrait en bronze • de l’empereur Guillaume;
on lit au-dessous cette inscription : « Celui qui a reuni sous sa forte
main des races longtemps divisees^celui qui a triomphe glorieusement
de la puissance et de la perfidie welches, celui qui a ramene au bercail
de 1’empire allemand des fils depuis longtemps perdus, celui-la est semblable a Armin le sauveur! » A quelques pas de la, on trouve une autre
niche ef une autre inscription daDS laquelle il est question de l’insoUence frangaise humiliee e^confondue* Gombien de temps encore les
monotones litanies de la haine seront-elles 1’accompagnement necessaire
de toutes les fetes que celebre la blonde et pacifique Allemagne? Il faut
■Croire que les haines blondes sont les plus tenaces de toutes, — bien
rosser et garder rancune, disait Figaro, est en verite par trop feminin.
Si jamais nous passions a la;Grotenburg, nous voudrions graver sur
^1’une des pierres si laborieusement rassemblees par Mlfde Bandel ce
I,mot de l’un des plus grands poetes de FAUemagne : « le patriotisme
de PAllemand consiste en ce que son coeur se retrecit comme le cuir
[ par la gelee, qu’il cesse d’etre un Europden pour n’etre plus qu’un etroit
Allemandfj) La nation qui a produit tant de citoyens du monde, taut
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES,
d’esprits libres, tant d’^mes Glev^es et vraiment europeennes, ne renoncera-t-elle jamais aux pu£rilit£s de l’orgueil de race, qui est le plus
sot des orgueils et la plus orgueilleuse des sottises? Le jour ne viendra-t-il
pas ou elle se sentira le coeur affadi par l’encens un peu grossier qu’on
lui prodigue, ou elle se lassera d’entendre eternellement parler de ses
vertus et de la corruption latine? Ne finira-t-elle pas dans un acces de
genereuse humeur par briser la cassolette des thuriferaires, par imposer
silence aux chanteurs d’antiennes et par rendre la parole aux gens d’esprit? Ce jour viendra, il en sera de l’Allemagne comme d’lrax, itimadoulet de Medie. C’dtait, rapporte la chronique, un grand seigneur, dont
le fond n’etait pas mauvais, mais il etait vain comme un paon. Zadig entreprit de le corriger; il lui envoya un maitre de musique, vingt-quatre
violons et douze voix qui avaient l’ordre de lui chanter tout le long du
jour une cantate dont le refrain dtait:
Que son m^rite est extreme!
Que de graces, que de grandeur!
Ah! combien monseigneur
Doit 6tre content de lui-mftme!
La premiere journee lui parut d&icieuse, la seconde fut moins agrdable,
et bientdt il dcrivait en cour pour supplier Zadig de rappeler ses violons
et ses chanteurs. Il promit d’etre ddsormais moins content de lui, « il
se fit moins encenser, eut moins de fetes et fut plus heureux, car,
comme dit le sage, toujours du plaisir n’est pas du plaisir. »
Parmi les figures oratoires, classiques ou romantiques, que la fete du
16 aout a inspirees aux journalistes officieux, il en est une qui nous parait digne d’etre relevee, parce qu’elle a non-seulement plus de merite
litteraire, mais plus de sens que les autres. On se rappelle la celebre
chanson du vieil Arndt. Quelle est la patrie de l’Allemand? se demandait le pofete, et il rdpondait qu’elle est partout ou resonne la langue
allemande, partout ou le coeur est chaud et le regard loyal, partout ou
le Fran^ais est tenu pour un ennemi. Un recueil de Berlin, la Semaine
militaire, vient d’executer des variations nouvelles sur le theme traite
jadis par le poete de Schoritz. — « La patrie de l’Allemand, a-t-il dit,
c’est la victoire, car la victoire a reuni ceux qui etaient separes, et
c’est pour cela qu’on voit rayonner au sommet du monument de la
Grotenburg, comme un signe de ralliement pour tous les regards et
pour tous les coeurs, le glaive d’Armin, la pointe de l’ep£e allemande.»
Cette metaphore hardie, ou l’on reconnait toute la grandiloquence
berlinoise, renferme une verife, agreable ou desagreable pour les Allemands, c’est a eux d’en juger, mais a coup sur inquietante pour leurs
voisins. Les descendans d’Arminius ont vaincu ensemble, et voila pourquoi, oubliant leurs divisions sdculaires, ils se sont reunis en un seul
�tJNrNOUV.EAU CULTE EN ALLEMA.GNE7
220
corps de peuple.^EiT 1870 ,‘la vrcfoire a fait l’empire, faut-il admettre
qu’il suffirait d’utrmalheur pourle defaire? Doit-on penser aussi qu’une
paix proIongee rendrait les Allemands a Seurs dissensions naturelies,
et que, pour rester toujours unis, ils sont obliges de vaincre toujour^?
Les*r6dacteurs de la Semaine militaire sont des gens qui pesent leurs
paroles, et qui savent tr&s bien ce qu’ils veulent dire. Nous nous souvenons d’avoir rencontre un jour en voyage un Prussien assez origi
nal a qui son medecin avait enjoint de se secouer, de se remuer beaucoup, pour conjurer l’excessif embonpoint dont il etait menace. A
peine etait-il descendu dans une auberge, il entamait une violente dis
cussion avec le premier venu, et peu s’en fallait qu’il ne prit son homme
au collet. On aurait pu croire qu’il se fachait; point, il se donnait du
monvement. La nuit, sans trop se soucier du repos de ses voisins, il se
relevaiBpour faire des armes et tirait a la muraille pendant deux
heures, — au demeurant le meilleur fils du monde. Quand les aubergistes se plaignaient, il leur repliquait avec le plus grand flegme qu’il
suivait les ordonnances de son mSdecin, que ces exercices nocturnes
etaient necessaires a sa santd. Il serait facheux que les mddecins poli—
tiques et militaires de l’Allemagne lui prescrivissent un traitement du
meme genre, et qu’elle en vint a se persuader que le repos ne convient
pas a son temperament, qu’elle risquerait de contracter dans une paix
prolong^e quelque maladie mortelle, que pour se bien porter et se te
nir en haleine, elle doit se livrer tous les quatre ou cinq ans a cet exercice violent qu’on appelle la guerre. M. Mommsen vient de declarer
solennellement, urbi et orbi, que ses compatriotes ne feraient jamais
que des guerres ndcessaires; comprenait-il dans le nembre les guerres
hygieniques? A ce compte, notre pauvre Europe est mal en point, elle
finira par devenir absolument inhabitable#’
Esperons qu’il n’enserarien, et que ce n’est pas en vain que dans un
discour-srchaudement applaud! le prince imperial d’Allemagne evoquait
l’autre jour a Cologne « l’image de la paix doree. » Puissent les AllemandSi se defier des recommandations de leurs m^decins casques qui
pcrivent dans la Semaine militaire; puissent-ils leur repondre comme
Hamlet: « Crois-tu qu’il soit aussi facile de jouer de moi que de la flute?»
Il est a souhaiter que la France ne croie pas trop a leur sagesse, et puisque aujourd’hui tous les peuples se complaisent a feter leurs saints et
leurgheros, elle fera bien de se placer sous ^invocation de son veritable
<saint national, de celui qu’ont adore tous ses grands hemmes, de l’dlernel bon sens, « lequel est ne fran^ais. » Elle lui a fait trop d’infidelites; qu’il soit desormais son unique conseil I II la gardera de la longue
epee de saint Arminius, et il lui apprendra aussi a ne pas faire trop de
fond sur les bonnes paroles, sur les sourires agreables, sur les complimens fflandreux de saint Boniface et de ses acolytes.
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Pendant que les Allemands font de 1’histoire selon les reves de leur
orgueila propos de la fonSt de Teutobowrg, d’Arminius le Germain et
des Welches, pendant que la diplomatie europeenne tourne autour de
l’Herzegovineet de i’Orient trouble, la France se laisse alter volontiers
a ce courant de paix int6rieure qui repond a ses goffts comme a ses interets. La session des conseils-generaux a occupe quelques jours sans
provoquer de bien vives emotions. M. le ministre de la guerre, qui
etait r&cemment a Contrexeviile. profite de l’automne pour experimen
ter la lol militaire, pour appeler les reservistes de farmee sous le drapeau pendant quelques semaines, sans avoir pour cela le projet d’aller
de sitot venger les legions de Varus. M. le president de la republique va
ouvrir la chasse dans ses terres du Loiret apres avoir requ de son mieux
les princes de PEurope qui n’ont pas oublie le cbemin de Paris, qui sont
venus visiter l’exposition geographique. M.le ministre des affaires etrang&res, qui vient de Bretagne, va partir pour le Bordelais. M. le vice-pre
sident du conseii se propose de se rendre dans les Vosges, et M. le garde
des sceaux n’est point encore revenu de la Saintonge. Le gouvernement
prend ses distractions ou refait sa sante comme Passemblee. C’est tout
au plus si la solitude du palais de Versailles est frantee de temps a autre
par une commission de permanence stevertuant achercher des sujets de
conversation qu'elle ne trouve pas toujours, C’est ce qu’on pourrait
appeler une politique de vacances, politique assez peu accidentee a
vrai dire, sll n’y avait les di scours de banquets, les polemiques de
journaux, les manifestes de fantaisie et les congres de toute sorte pro
longeant ou ravivant des questions qui etaient la preoccupation d’hier,
qui seront la preoccupation de demain.
On a beau faire, les vacances sont pour tout le monde, excepte pour
l’esprit de parti, qui ne prend jamais de conge, meme lorsqu’il va en vil-
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legiature, qui est twjours pret a saisir .toutes les occasions de bruit et
de pOlemiqWEU risque d’etre importun. L’esprit de parti de toutes les
cpuleurs, de toutes les n.u’ances;acela de caracteristique et d’in variable,
qu’il ne s’inquiete de rien, ni des besoins du pays, ni de la verity ni
des lois, ni de l’interet public, ni des necessites les plus pressantes. 11.
pdupfiit imperturbablement son ceuvre, ne se refusant ni le steffle
plaisir des vaines represailles et des agressions trop faciles, ni la satis- 3
fampn de reveiller les questions irritantes et les divisions dont il croit
pouvoir profiter. Pour lui, rien n’existe que ce qui flatte ses passions on
ses prejuges, et tout son art consiste a mettre perpetuellement en doute ce qu’il n’a pas pu empecher, a decrier des* transactions qui restent
jggfout la derniere garantie de la paix publique. Assurement, s’il y aaujeurd’hui pour la France un besoin imperieux, c’est celui de se repo
se^ ne fut-ce que quelques annees, dans des conditions regulieres, de*
s’attacher a la loi votee, par cela meme qu’elle est la loi, de voir toutes'
lesopinions mod6rees appliquer et defendre ensemble l’oeuvre qu’elles
opt^anctionnee en commun. Eh bien! non, c’est a* qui profitera des
<vacances po-ur persuader au pays que rien'n’est fait, qu’il est plus que
jamais livre aux jeux du hasard et de la force, qu’il s’agit tout au plus
4’attendre un moment favorable pour dechain er de nouveau toutes l'es
■passions de parti sur la France.
Les bonapartistes auraient certainement mieux aime qu’on ne fit rien, I j
qu’on leur laissat toute liberte d’inquieter le pays, de l’abuser en lui
pepeignant chaque jour sous les plus sombres couleurs les dangers du
pr^rasoire; c’etait un theme facile e,t commode au bout duquel etait
l’inevitable et invariable solution de l’appel au peuple. Puisqu’on les
a deranges dans leur strategic, puisqu’on a vote une constitution sans
eux, qu’a cela ne tienne, ils ont de merveilleuses ressources de tactique, et avant meme que Ie regime nouveau soit une realite, ils sont
camPaSne pour 1® diffamer, pour le proclamer impossible, sous
pretexte de demontrer la necessite de la revision. A leurs yeux, le
meilleur article de la constitution est celui qui permet de la detruire, et «
tees edifians conservateurs mettent leur derniere esperance dans les
incertitudes qu’ils s’efforcent d’entretenir, dans l’echec d’une organi
sation qu’ils commencent par deconsiderer. Les legitimistes, a leur tour,
sont peut-etre moins habiles, ils ne sent pas moins violens dans leur
hostilite. Ils parlent vraiment comme si rien ne s’etait passe, comme
s’il n’y avait pas eu un vote souverain. Pour eux, la republique, les Ibis
jconst&utionnelles n’existent pas, elles disparaissent devant le droit du I
roi* et nous voici tous transformes en rebelles de compagnie avec la
fence, qui est aussi la grande rebelle! M. le marquis de Franclieu
pr^este solennellement devant l’assemblee, et M. le comte de Ghambord fait ecrire officiellement de Marienbad a M. de Franclieu pour
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approiiver ses protestations. Ainsi doncJvoila qui est clair : un de
pute, parce qu’il est depute, se croit autorise a protester contre uh
acte souverain de l’assemblee et contre la politique qui en est la con-^
sequence, il se couvre publiquement de « l’approbation royalejln les
journaux enregistrent gravement ces actes, ces lettres, ces manifesta| tions, et, a ce qu’il parait, tout cela est parfaitement regulier dans un
pays ou il y a des lois, un regime etabli, un gouvernement constitue I
Et il est sans doute aussi parfaitement regulier qu’un gouvernement ait
Fair de rester impassible devant ces menees de toute sorte contre des
lois et un regime qu’il est charge de d^fendre! Les legitimistes, ceux
qui ont bien le droit aujourd’hui de s’appeler des irreconciliables, of-1
frent, il faut en convenir, un etrange spectacle. Depuis que par leur,
faute, surtout par leur faute, ils ont echoue dans la restauration de
la monarchie, ils se sont perdus dans une politique de ressentiment
et de mauvaise humeur contre tout le monde, contre leurs allies de
la veille, et ils en sont venus a se mettre en dehors de tout, a ne pouvoir plus meme offrir au gouvernement qu’un appui compromettant. Ils
fmissent par se rencontrer avec les bonapartistes dans la guerre contre
la republique, qu’ils n’ont pas pu empScher, contre ces lois constitutionnelles qui ont maintenant a triompher non-seulement de ceux qui
persistent a les combattre apres avoir refuse de les voter, mais encore
de ceux qui les ont votees et qui commencent a s’en repentir.
L’esprit de transaction, qui a dte le seul merite et la vraie cause du succes de ces lois, est precisement ce qui devait les exposer a l’hostilite des
partis extremes. Les legitimistes, les bonapartistes, les combattent parce
qu’elles sont trop la republique; une fraction du radicalisme, qui s’estf
laiss6 aller a les voter, les renie aujourd’hui parce qu’elles ne sont pas
assez la republique. Bref, la scission est au camp de la gauche comme
au camp de-la droite, la guerre est d6claree, et,.par un singulier retour
des choses, M. Gambetta lui-meme devient un reactionnaire pour M. Ma—
quet! Au fond, cette scission ne laisse pas d’etre serieuse sans doute,
puisqu’elle est un signe des divisions de la gauche et des impatiences
d^mocratiques; mais, par la maniere dont elle se produit, par la figure
sous laquelle elle apparait, il faut bien avouer aussi qu’elle est faite
pour egayer un peu les vacances. M. Naquet, chef de parti, candidat
aux honneurs meme dans la republique radicale, voila une des bizarreries du jour! M. Naquet est visiblement plein de son importance, il
ecrit des manifestes, il visite ses electeurs d’Arles et de Cavaillon, il
prononce des discours en mettant la main sur sa poitrine, en remer-j
ciant de « l’accueil qu’on fait non a sa personne, mais a ses idees, » en
parlant d’un ton serieux de l’impression que ses lettres produisent en
France! Ge qu’il y a de plus clair, c’est que M. Naquet n’est pas con
tent du tout; il pretend avoir ete abuse dans sa candeur par M. Gam-
�fr
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233
betla ^fes|6j!liBipiiii5^i}t!qfHyOirra|W®s^^R^^ueje^ote de
la constiWtiftn’W 25 fevrier etait tout simplemen" un moyen ingel
nieux&ourv s’emparer du pouvoirO que le nouveau minist&re allait
etonner le monde par son republicanisme; on lui a tout pr.omisJIev
il n’a rien requ. Avoir vote la loi sur les pouvoirs publics, la loi
sur le sdnat* le droit de dissolution pour le president, et ne recevoir
"iijephange que la reconnaissance de la rdpublique par l’assemblee,
c’est la ce qui s’appelle « une marchandise achetee au-dessus de sa
valeur. | M. Naquet confesse ses fautes devant les democrates d’Arles
et de Gavaillon : il a fait des concessions, il s’est laisse aller a la
moderation; mais il se releve de la belle mani^ril Qu’on ne lui parle
pas des divisions qu’il peut provoquer dans la gauche, dont la masse
a fait la majorite du 25 fevrier; d’abord la gauche ne peut manquer de le suivre, et si elle ne le suivait' pas, c’est elle qui provoquerait les divisions. M. Naquet ne s’arrete pas pour si peu dans son
impatience de secouer «les energies affaissees; » il va remettre la republique dans son vrai chemin, regenererla France, creer « un de ces
grands courans d’opinion auxquels rien ne rdsiste, » prdparer les elec
tions, et avec tout cela oil ira-t-ilT I? ne s’en doute probablement pas,
il ne se rend pas parfaitement compte de l’effet que produirait la repuI blique apparaissant dans sa personne; il pourrait le soupqonner rien
f qii’a voir l’accueil empresse qu’il reqoitparmi les legitimiste’s et les boI napartistes.
Assurement, que M. Naquet reste dans la gauche constitutionnelle ou
qu’il n’y soit plus, ce n’est point une affaire considerable, et, pour tout
dire, il ne laisserait pas un grand vide en s’en allant. Une question un
pep plus serieuse, c’est de savoir jusqu’ou vont reellement ces divi| sions, quelle influence elies peuvent avoir sur les combinaisons de par| tis dans l’assemblee et dans les Elections. Il n’est point dowteux que, si
L WEUParUb de la gauche, craignant de perdre sa popularity, se laissait
entrainer, la situation changerait singulierement; Wen ne pourrait mieux
la reconstitution d’une majorite qui ne serait plus cel'le du 25 fevrier, et la republique ne s’en trouverait peut-etre pas mieux. Ce ne
i serait pas la premiere fois que les radicaux, pousSes par* in fanatisme
j de parti, gagneraient des victoires de ce genre. Ils sont accoutumes &
vaincre en preparant des reactions ou les institutions liberates dispaI iwssent quelquefois avec la republique, et ceux qui ont un peu de prdpsvoyance n’ont qu’a se demander quelle serait aujourd’hui la reaction
■ qui serait infailliblement au bout de nouvelles aventures revolutionIjWiresJ
:
Fort heureusement le radicalisme n’en est pas a faire tout ce qu’il
| vpudrait, a disposer de la France, et ces scissions de partis, ces queli relies tapageuses, ne sont qu’une expression tres artificielle de la rea-
, /
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�REVUE" DES DEUX MONDES.
lite des ehoses. Il n’y a qu’a le vouloir un pew energiquement poutf
que, les opinions sensees gardent 1’ascendant, pour qu’elles aient 13.
force de rallier le pays, de maintenir dans les assemblies, dans le gou4
vernement, dans toute la politique, ce caractere de moderation qui seu|
pent garantir la France des oscillations violentes. G’est en definitive lav
pensee qu’un des representans de ces opinions, M. Waddington, exprimait
recemment dans une reunion des conseillers-generaux du departement
de l’Aisne. M. Waddington n’a pas prononce son discours dans le conseil-general, evitant ainsi une illegalite qui a’est point sans doute d’une
importance demesuree, mais qui est toujours' une illegalite. G’est dans
un banquet, devant le prefet lui-meme, qu’ii a exprime des vues'1 par
faitem ent sages. Rapprocher dans une action commune ceux qui ont
accueilli les lots constitutionnelles avec confiance et ceux qui les ont
votees on qui les acceptent avec resignation, les hommes d’origine et
d’opinion diverses entre lesquels peut se former une alliance patriotique sur le terrain meme de la eonstitation,c’est la un programme tout
pratique et qui n’en est que meil-leur, qui a surtout l’avantage d’etre
approprie a une situation precise. C’est le programme d’un esprit sense
appelant les concours au lieu de les exelure, parlant de la republique
que les circonstances nous ont faite en liberal qui sent les grandeurs
de la monarchie constitutionnelle, et qui les avoue. M. le president du
conseil-general de 'l’Aisne, qui a eu la fortune d’etre un ministre de
quelques jours avant le 24 mai 1873r a su rencontrer cette mesure ou
1’esprit de parti n’.est pas un trouble-fete. M. Waddington a parle de
l’histoire politique de l’assembiee sans ameriume, de M. le president
de la republique sans affectation et avec bon gout; il n’a point du tout
elude le nom de M. ,le marechai de Mac-Mahon.
Que de peine a du se donner de son cote M. le due de Broglie pour
eviter le nom de M. Thiers dans un banquet du departement de 1’Eure!
M. le due de Broglie .a voulu complimenter le president du conseil-ge
neral de l’Eure, M. Pouyer-Quertier, e-t il lui a fait honneur de la libe
ration du territoire; puis il a <fini par dire que personne n’a delivre la
France, que la France s’est delivree toute seule, — et tout cela pour arriver a omettre le nom de 1’ancien president de la republique 1 Ge qu’il y
a de plus singulier, c’est que M. Pouyer-Quertier a reQu le compliment
a brule-pourpoint et sans faire observer que, s’il a ete ministre des
finances au commencement de la liberation du. territoire, il y avait un
chef de gouvernement qui a conqu 1’ceuvre patriotique,, qui l’a conduite
jusqu’au bout at, l’a laissee achevee a ses successeurs. G’est done entendu,
la France s’est sauvee toute seule, et M. Pouyer-Quertier l’a tout au plus
un peu aidee. Quant a M. Thiers, il n’existe pas, il n’a jamais existe; son
nom est bifife de 1’histoire des partis, — il reste, il est vrai, dans la me
moirs affectueuse du pays. Est-ce la peine d’avoir une position eminente, 1
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235
un nom respecte, et d’etre *un liberal durdernier empire pour se montrer plus oublieux quene l’a ete foutrecemment un ancien ministre die
Fempire, M. Magne, qui, parlant, lui aussi^dans un banquet de la Dor
dogne, n’a pas craint de rappeler 1’oeuvre nationale de M. Thiers? Esi-il
done si difficile d’etre simple et equitable, de se rendre quelque justice
les uns aux autres, tout au moins de ne pas s’offenser mutuellement, et
de sedire qua nous sommes dans un temps ou la France n’a pas trop
de tous ceux qui peuvent la servir et 1’honorer? Quand on fera l’histoire
intime et vraie des dernibres annees, on saura la part desolante que les
souvenirs mal eteints, les incompatibility; d’humeur, les vivacites personnelles, ont eue dans Les crises les plus gravestL.es hommes qui se laissent aller a ces jeux de la politique ne s’aperqoivent pas que la France; a
bien un peu le droit de se plaindre de ces'Bivisions, qui n’ont d’autre
effet que d’affaiblir 1’action collective des opinions moderees et de livrer
quel-quefois les interets les. plus serieux dn pays a I’esprit de parti, aux
impatiences de domination toujours prates a prfbfiiter da tout.
Esprit de parti, esprit de domination, c’est le grand ennemi qui me
nace taut,, qui peut compromettre; jusqu’a ceite experience inauguree
par une, loi recente. Que resuLtera-t-il. en effet. de cette liberte de Fenwseignement superieur sanctionneepar l’assemblee aux derniers jours de
■ la session ? C’est la justement ^question qui commence a s’agiter un peu
partout, qui entre dans ce qufon pourrait appeler la phase pratique, et
autour de laquelle les opinions, les passions', les defiances, se donnent
plus que jamais rendez-vous, Le fait est qm,r. dans cette pacifique li
berte des vacances, a cote des discouES et des manifestations de toute
nature qui se succedent, les reunions d’un caractere -religieux se multiplient dlepuis quelques jours. Congres des oeuvres catholiques a Poitiers,
congres des cercles catholiques d’ouvriers a Reims,, conferences ^piscopales a PaEis ou a Angers, homeles, pastorales, tout se mele. Au fond,
dans touted ces reunions s.emi-ecclesiastiques, semi-laiques, la vraie ques
tion, c’est toujours l’enseignement superienr. NatureUement ceux qui
ont vu dans, la loi nouvelle une victoire de leurs idees et un moyen de
propagande se hatent de mettre leur succes a. profit. Ils veulent montrer qu’ils sont en mesure de se servir de cette liberty qu’ils comprennent a leur maniere. On evalue ses forces, on ouvre des souscriptions,
bn cherche des professeurs et on redige des programmes. Fort bien,
e’etait facile a prevoir, et il ne faut pas s’en etonner. A vrai dire, calculs
etprojets ne sont point exempts d’illusions; l’imagination des fonda(teurs d’ universites et des regenerateurs de la France par l’enseigne
ment clerical va un peu vite. On fera beaucoup de bruit, on tiendra des
conferences, on agitera toute sorte de questions d’organisation, de dis
cipline^ qt de tout ce mouvement il restera peut-etre en definitive moins
rquion ne croit. Quand on en viendra au fait, on s’apercevra bien vite
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REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
qu’il n’est pas si aise d’ouvrir des chaires, d’avoir des professeurs instruits, de rassembler un nombre suffisant d’eleves, d’egaler les ressources a toutes les necessites de fondations serieuses et multipliees. On
le reconnait d6j& pour les facultes de medecine, devant lesquelles on
semble s’arreter pour le moment, et les facultes de droit, des sciences,des lettres, ne sont point elles-memes des creations faciles a improvi
ser. M. l’eveque d’Angers, qui s’est montre le plus empresse a entrer
dans cette carriere, parait se borner pour aujourd’hui a ouvrir des cours
de droit et des lettres. Le principal effort sera sans doute concentre a
Paris. Hors de la, il y aura peut-etre quelques facultes a Lille ou a Tou
louse, et au bout du compte il n’est point impossible que la realite ne
reprenne promptement ses droits.
Ce qu’il y a de plus grave et de plus dangereux peut-etre, c’est que ce
mouvement, sans etre jusqu’ici suffisamment muri et coordonne, a l’in-.
convenient de devoiler un esprit qui en viendrait facilement a depasser
les limites de la loi sur l’enseignement et meme de toute loi. On ne le
cache pas, on le dit tout haut avec une naivete redoutable. Les univer
sites nouvelles doivent etre des institutions exclusivement catholiques,
rattachdes par leurs statuts, par toute leur existence, au saint-siege. Ge
qu’on entend par la liberte de Fenseignement, un auditeur de Rote,
Mgr Nardi, est alle le dire a Poitiers. L’enseignement libre, c’est un
mot qui donne le frisson a Mgr Nardi, il n’y a de liberte legitime que
la libertd d’enseigner le bien et le vrai definis par l’autorite religieuse.
Ce qu’on entend par l’enseignement du droit, un membre de la compagnie de Jdsus, le pere Sambin, l’a dit aussi a Poitiers. Le droit moderne
est la cause de toutes les perturbations sociales. Tout le mal vient du
principe de la souverainetd de la nation, de ce fait que « la loi n’est
plus que 1’expression de la [volonte gdndrale. » C’est la mission des
universites catholiques de renouveler les etudes du droit. Bref, ce serait
une campagne en regie engagee contre la society moderne et son es
prit, contre les lois civiles et politiques. On ne voit pas qu’on creerait
ainsi une situation toute particuli&re, ou il s’agirait de savoir si, sous
le voile de ,1a libertd, des associations investies en certains cas du caractdre de la personnalitd civile pourraient enseigner le mepris des
lois sur lesquelles repose la socidte fran^aise. Toujours est-il qu’il en
rdsulte necessairement pour l’etat un devoir nouveau d’activite et de
vigilance. Que l’enseignement soit libre, puisque la loi a cree cette li
berty, il n’y a rien a dire; mais l’dtat a desormais deux obligations imperieuses. Il doit s’occuper sans plus de retard de tout ce qui peut for
tifier son enseignement, cette universite a laquelle on en vient a disputer le titre d’universite de France, et il est tenu de maintenir dans ses
actes, dans la direction qu’il donne aux affaires, son caractere de repre
sentant de la societd moderne; il ne doit pas surtout avoir toujours Fair
�REVUE.
CHRONIQUE,
237
d’etre le complaisant timide des entreprises ouvertement dirigees contre
lui. S’il faut tout dire, M. l*ministre de 1’instruction publique semble
jusqu’ici comprendre mediocrement ce role nouveau et agrandi de chef
de 1’enSeignement. Proteger le grand age des vieux professeurs, eternises dan|’leur chaire au detriment des generations nouvelles, et faire
des circulaires sur le eumul des fonctions d’instituteur et de secretaire
des communes, c’est fort bien, c’est d’un chef de bureau prevoyant;
mais il faut aujourd’hui un autre esprit et une autre fermete d’action.
Sur tous les points, a l’esprit de secte ou de parti envahissant, il faudrait opposer l’attitude d’un gouvernement resolu montrant au pays
qu’il peut compter sur une protection et une direction. Ce n’est pas ce
que nous avons encore; il est vrai que bien d’autres choses nous manquent. On ferait beaucoup mieux de s’occuper serieusement de ces
choses serieuses, au lieu de se livrer quelquefois a.de lourdes et bavardes divagations de journaux. Nous les connaissons, pour notre part,
ces diatribes monotones que la Revue a le privilege de recevoir sans
emotion, et qu’un ecrivain de talent s’est donne recemment la peine de
felever avec autant d’esprit que de svmpathie. Il y a bien quarante ans
qu’on dit les memes balivernes dans les memes termes, le plus souvent
pour les memes motifs auxquels le public ne s’int^resse guere, et
que ces injures sont l’escorte obligee de la bonne renommee de la Revue.
Il faudrait avoir du temps a perdre pour s?y arreter.
L’Europe pourrait-elle aujourd’hui etre entrainee dans des complica
tions nouvelles par l’insurrection de l’Herzegovine ? L’Europe, a vrai
dire, ne semble pas plus disposee a rester impassible devant ces luttes
sanglantes qu’a se laisser remettre sur les bras cette dternelle question
d’OrienqFUne intervention en. Orient est toujours grave sans contredit,
parCe qu’elle peut s’etendre et parce qu’elle remet aussitot en doute
1’existence de l’empire turc. Elle ne devient cependant un danger pres
sant que lorsque les puissances europeennes suivent des politiques
differentes.UGe n’est point le cas aujourd’hui. S’il y a eu au premier
moment des ambitions cachees, des velleites ou des craintes, toutes ces
dispositions sont venues se confondre dans une certaine action commune
qui s’exerce dans la province insurgee elle-meme comnie a Constanti
nople. Des consuls europeens sont charges d’une mission conciliatrice
dans l’Herzegovine, et la Porte a son tour envoie un commissaire-general
en meme temps qu’elle semble se mettre en mesure de dominer l’insurrection par les armes. Dans quelle proportion se lient ces deux actions,
l’une njilitaire, l’autre diplomatique ? reussira-t-on a desarmer les insurges en obtenant d’un autre cote des concessions de reformes administratives^du sultan? On ne peut nier que toutes ces questions ne soient
singulierement delicates. Dans tous les cas, pour le moment, le gage
Je plus plausible de la paix europeenne, c’est l’entente des cabinets, et
�238
REVUE DES DEUX MONDES.
la meilleure garantie de la sincerity de cette entente, c’est que personne n’est vraiment interesse aujourd’hui a voir s’ouvrir une crise qui
serait un embarras pour toutes les politiques.
Les guerres civiles de l’Espagne ont cela de commun avec les guerres
civiles de l’Orient, qu’elles sont toujours plus pres de commencer ou de
recommencer que de finir. Lorsqu’il y a plus de six mois la restauration du jeune roi Alphonse XII s’est accomplie avec une facility qui etait
tout au moins un signe de la lassitude du pays, de l’epuisement des
passions revolutionnaires, on a pu un moment se laisser alter a cette
illusion, que la monarchie retablie a Madrid devait porter le dernier
coup a l’insurrection carliste et ramener promptement la paix au-dela
des Pyrenees. C’etait alter un peu vite et ne point tenir compte des ressources d’une insurrection fortement organisee, de la difficulty des
operations militaires dans les provinces occupees par le pretendant, de
tous les embarras d’un jeune regne succMant a la decomposition poli
tique et administrative des dernieres annees. Les choses marchent plus
lentement au-dela des Pyrenees, mais enfin elles marchent, et depuis
quelque temps surtout ii est visible que le gouvernement de Madrid
prend de plus en plus l’avantage. L’armee liberate s’avance avec pru
dence, mais avec surete, gagnant pas a pas du terrain, et les carlistes
reculent, allant d’echec en echec, perdant leurs positions et leurs places
d’armes, rejetes par degres dans leurs demiers retranchemens. La campagne engagee, il y a quelques semaines, par le ministre de la guerre
lui-meme, le general Jovellar, a eu pour’premier resultat de degager
Valence, le Maestrazgo, les regions de l’Elbre, de reprendre Cantavieja
et de refouler dans le Haut-Aragon, jusque vers les frontieres franQaises, les forces commandees par Dorregaray. Aujourd’hui les carlistes
viennent d’essuyer un nouveau coup en Catalogne; ils ont perdu la Seu
d’Urgel apres un siege de quelques jours dirige par le general Martinez
Campos. Jusqu’au dernier moment, ils paraissent avoir compte sur des
diversions tentees par Dorregaray et Saballs pour degager les assieges;
mais les tentatives des deux chefs ont ete dejouees par les colonnes alphonsistes, et la place, livree a elle-meme, privee d’eau, accabtee de feu,
est tombee devant les armes de Martinez Campos. La citadelle a capitule
sans conditions, sauf les honneurs de la guerre qui ont ete accordes aux
defenseurs. La garnison est prisonniere avec un des chefs les plus energiques, Lizarraga; parmi les prisonniers est l’dveque de la Seu d’Urgei,
qui est l’aumonier du pretendant et qui joue dans ces malheureuses
affaires un role assez peu pastoral. G’est evidemment pour les carlistes
un coup moral et materiel des plus graves qui marque le declin de la
cause, en meme temps que la reprise de la Seu d’Urgel temoigne de la
surete et de 1’efficacite des operations poursuivies par l’armee alphonsiste. L’insurrection n’est point sans doute par cela meme completement
�REVUEl .—fCIIRONIQUE.
231
vaincue en Catalogne; elle est du mdimTsefieusement aTttgnte, elleme
peut plus etre qu’une gueffe de bandes avec laquelle on ewfinira par
une poursuite un peu active, fet pendant ce temps Itine partie des forces
employees de ce cote pourra fitre envoyee vers le nord pour concouriq
:aux operations du general Quesada. Serree de toutes parts, en Aragon
et en Catalogne, cernee par l’Alava et la Biscaye, ^insurrection carliste
semble desormais devoir etre rejetee avant l’hiver dans son dernier
asile des montagnes de la Navarre.
I Toujours est—il que cette guerre civile espagnole entre visiblement
aujourd’hui dans une phase nouvelle, une phase decisive. Plus que ja
mais on peut dire que c’est simplement une affaire de temps, peut-etre
de quelques mois. Que 1’insurrection resiste fncore, e’est possible; elle
ne peut plus qu’aggraver la situation du pays et exposer ces malheureuses provinces a toutes les consequences de la guerre, sans aucune
chance de succes. De quoi peut se prevaloir ce pretendant qui ne fait
qifiensanglanter et ravager une partie de l’Espagne depuis trois ans? La
Ugitimite dynastique, elle ne lui appartientpas. L’interet religieux, il
ne le represente pas; sa cause n’est meme pas avouee par le pape, qui
au contraire a reconnu le roi Alphonse. Si don Carlos, a compte sur la
victoire pour reconquerir ce qu’il appelle son royaume, il doit y renoncer. Ce qu’il n’a pas pu fair© devant un pays en dissolution, devant
une anarchie impuissante, il ne ig^fera sfirement pas maintenant qu’il a
devant lui un gouvernement organise, accepte par la nation, reconnu
parM’Europe, representant pour KEspagne les idees conservatrices et
liberales. En revanche, il y a un r^sultat auquel son obstination peut
conduire. Jusqu’ici le gouvernement dp* Madrid ^est montre tres re
serve dans son laiigage, il n’a nullement temoigne (’intention d’abolir
les privileges traditionnels d’autonomic des provinces) insurgees; il a
plutot promis de respecter ces droits si on se soumettaiL Si on lui re
pond par la guerre jusquMu bout, les provinces basquejS sont fat&lement
condamnees a toutes les suites d’une occupation de viveforce; elles perdront des droits que la reine Isabelle avait respectes une premiere fois
aprAs la guerre de sept ans. Le gouvernement de Madrid ne peut pas
etre moralement oblige a respecter des privileges dont: on se sert contre
lui.
De toute fa^on, le pretendant Carlisle n’est done plus qu’un ambitieux fanatique sacrifiant a un interet personnel, sans espoir de succes,
et le sang qu’il peut faire couler encore, et la prosperite dos provinces
qu’il entraine a sa suite, dont il epuise les ressources et exploite le
^evoument. Le pretendant a pu tromper les Basques tant qu’il y avait
a Madrid un roi qu’on pouvait appeler du nom d’etranger ou une repu*
blique qui ne se manifestait que par une violente anarchie. Cette confusion n’est plus possible, et si les Basques ne. deposent pas volontak
�r rement les armes, ils subiront les consequences d’une lutte qui ne les j'
interesse pas, qui n’est plus qu’une affaire d’ambition personnelle pour ‘
don Carlos, et dont Tissue ne peut plus etre douteuse. C’est la aujourI d’hui en effet toute la situation en Espagne. La cause carliste est a bout •,
de ressources, et malgre les fanfaronnades des bulletins que les journaux legitimistes franqais reproduisent avec complaisance, le pretendant semble reduit a douter de quelques-uns de ses principaux lieutenans, qu’il aurait meme, dit-on, emprisonnSs. Le gouvernement de
Madrid au contraire n’a fait depuis quelques mois que s’affermir en reconstituant ses forces, en etendant ses moyens d’action. Il ne s’est point
hate, il ne s’est point mepris sur les difficultes de toute sorte qu’il avait
a vaincre, et aujourd’hui encore il parait se defendre de toute illusion,
puisque, pour en finir, il sent la necessite d’augmenter Farmee, de faire
une nouvelle levee de 100,000 hommesl C’est assurement beaucoup pour
l’Espagne, mais ce sacrifice momentane ne semblera pas trop lourd, si, ?
par ce deploiement de forces, on peut arriver a une paix prochaine qui
sera tout a la fois une victoire militaire et une attestation de l’ascendant moral de la monarchic constitutionnelle restauree.
C’est done un dernier effort a faire pour terminer cette guerre civile
aussi desasfreuse pour les provinces basques elles-memes que pour la
Peninsulte tout entiere. Les genSraux espagnols ont repris Tavantage,
ils n’ont qu’a poursuivre leur victoire, a montrer de 1’activite dans les
operations qu’ils ont a mener jusqu’au bout. Ils se sentent soutenus pa
un gouvernement regulier, par un chef de ministere qui n’a cesse de
montrer la plus prevoyante habilete dans toutes ces affaires de la restauration espagnole. Par toute sa politique, par son activite vigilante au
milieu des’Sdifficultds, par sa moderation entre les partis, M. Canovas
del Castillo s’est r£vete comme le vrai ministre de la monarchic consti
tutionnelle, secOndant les chefs militaires, contenant les impatiences de
reaction, sauvegardant les principes de tolerance religieuse, et prepa^rant tous les elemehs d’une reorganisation politique du pays. C’est la
fortune de l’Espagne que la prochaine defaite des carlistes ne puisse
etre d^sormais que le signal du retablissement definitif des institutions
liberates avec un roi dorit la jeunesse intelligente semble un gage
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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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Revue des Deux Mondes. Vol. 40, 3rd Quarter, No. 11
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: Paris
Collation: 1 vol.
Notes: The Revue des deux Mondes (Review of the Two Worlds) is a French language monthly literary and cultural affairs magazine that has been published in Paris since 1829. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Contents: Le Grece et la Turquie en 1875 / Emile Burnouf -- Les Origines de la Poesie Chretienne. 2 : L'Eglise et l'Art Antique / Gaston Bossier -- Les Alsaciens-Lorrains en Algerie -- L. Louis-Land -- Les Origines de l'Ecriture / Alfred Maury -- L'Avenir du Commerce Exterieur en France / Rene Millet -- Une Visite aux Eglises Rationalistes de Londres / Goblet d'Alviella [includes a section on Conway and South Place p. 207-13] -- Un nouveau Culte en Allemagne: la Fete d'Arminius [unsigned] -- Chronique de la Quinzaine / Ch. de Mazada.
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Emile Burnouf
Gaston Bossier
Alfred Maury
Rene Millet
Goblet d'Alviella
Ch. de Mazada
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1875
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Bureau de la Revue des Deux Mondes
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Periodicals
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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 (Revue des Deux Mondes. Vol. 40, 3rd Quarter, No. 11), 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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G5675
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application/pdf
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Text
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French
Conway Tracts
Moncure Conway
South Place Ethical Society
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I
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’ll'
f OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE
REVIEW.
APRIL, 1846.
&
j
Memoirs of the Reign of King
Walpole, Youngest Son of
Orford.
Now first published
Edited, with Notes, by Sir Denis
8vo. London, 1845.
George III.y by Horace
Robert Walpole, Earl of
from the Original MSS.
Le Marchant, Bart. 4 vols.
‘ The administration of the first William Pitt was a period of unanimity unparalleled in our annals. Popular and anti-popular parties
had gone to sleep together ; the great minister wielded the energies of
the whole united nation. France and Spain were trampled in the dust
—Protestant Germany saved—all North America was the dominion of
the British crown—the vast foundation was laid of our empire in
India. Of almost instantaneous growth, the birth of two or three years
of astonishing successes, the plant of our power spread its broad and
flourishing leaves East and West, and half the globe rested beneath its
shade. Yet the worm at its root was not wanting. Parties awoke
again, one hardly knows how or why. Their struggle during the early
part of George III.’s reign was of such a character that after studying
it attentively, we turn from it as from a period equally anomalous and
disagreeable.’
Such is Dr. Arnold’s account of the great changes that took
place in those years of George III.’s reign, that are included in
the present publication. Before we proceed to consider them,
and to seek for a thread which may lead us through the
cabals and intrigues in which they so plentifully abound, we
must say a few words of the volumes before us.
Their pretensions to authenticity ought to be very great.
Walpole, the son of a Prime Minister, universally received in
the polished and educated circles of the day, sat down in the
year 1782, being then sixty-five years of age, to record the
personal history of a period which, however barren of great
VOL. II.
p
�202
Horace Walpole's Memoirs.— George III.
national events, is for that very reason well capable of illus
tration by the kind of knowledge which Walpole was most in
clined to gather. The time which had elapsed might have
been supposed to sober and correct his prejudices. The greau
actors he wrote of were the very men in whose society he had?
been brought up, and his whole life passed. With some of
them, from personal and family ties, he had been intimately
connected. The ministry, at the opening of these volumes,
consisted of the remnant of his own father’s cabinet, recruited
by some of the greatest names of the opposition that had first
overthrown him, and then with a tardy compassion shielded
their victim from the unpopularity they had so unscrupulously
roused. Bolingbroke, indeed, was dead ; and Henry Pelham;
andPulteney, to use Walpole’s own words, had long since ‘ sunk
into insignificance and an earldom but Newcastle, the former
Secretary of State, was First Lord of the Treasury. Pitt,
Lyttelton, and the Grenvilles, the ‘Boys’ of the ‘ Walpolean
battle,’ were high in office, and the first was the most powerful
man, and the greatest, but one, in Europe. Henry Fox, Sir
Robert’s too teachable pupil, was Paymaster of the Forces.
Granville presided over the council with a lazy decorum that
contrasted whimsically with his restless intrigue and capricious
vivacity in the days of the ‘drunken administration.’ Anson,
whom Walpole had appointed to the command in which he
effected his memorable voyage round the globe, was at the head of
the Admiralty. Few writers have ever enjoyed such advantages
for giving us a full and accurate account of transactions, which,
if not themselves history, are at least its materials, and for
combining a picture, which if less generalised and impartial
than might have been hoped for at a more distant day, would
be at least lively and interesting.
But we believe that, in truth, this publication has very ge
nerally disappointed the world. We are sure that it ought
very much to detract from the deserved reputation which
Horace Walpole acquired for his Letters. The materials of
both works are identical. In the Memoirs, written fifteen or
twenty years after the events described, we meet with no single
deeper view, no explanation that seems to have cost the author
a moment s more careful consideration, no judgment pro
nounced with any thought of a graver responsibility, than was
demanded by the gossippy sketches in which he hastily dashed
off the last night’s debate, or the drawing-room of the week
before, for the amusement of Sir Horace Mann or Lord Hert
ford. . His utter lack of any idea of proportion becomes
amusingly flagrant in the new form of these volumes. We
can smile at the unaffected interest with which he discusses
General Conway’s prospects of promotkon, and at the sagacity
�Horace Walpole s Memoirs.— George III.
203
with which he speculates on the chances that the Methodists
will turn out to be concealed Papists; but a history becomes
worthless when side by side with the European interest of the
Peace of Paris, and the repeal of the Stamp Act, we find de
tailed narratives of the gossip of St. James’s, and the scandal
of fashionable society,—how George III. would not suffei’ the
Duchesses of Ancaster and Richmond to speak to Queen
Charlotte in private—how Lady Sarah Lennox stood at the
gates of Holland House in the fancy-dress of a haymaker; with
a thousand trivialities of this kind.
But Walpole’s own personal character was the main impe
diment to his doing the work of an honest and fair historian.
Measuring, as was his wont, all things, if not by the sordid
standard of their value in money, at least by that of their im
portance in the scale of society, he was habitually prone to
depreciate all things of higher purity or nobleness than the
common,—to look upon self-denial as self-interest, only more
cunningly or impudently concealed, — upon all loftiness of
feeling as sordid and theatrical imposture. We are convinced
that the temper which accustoms itself to paint continually
in dark colours, is in itself infinitely false, that it tends to make
its possessor the dupe of his own strained and exaggerated
suspicions, and positively to lead him into errors more frequent
than any to which the unsuspecting credulity of a great mind
is liable. But such a disposition is especially prejudicial in an
estimate of public men, and for this reason : History cannot go
into the details of private life, and so of necessity misses much
that may possibly relieve the most repulsive characters, with
something of individual tenderness and affection. We hear of
a statesman punishing great delinquents, planning destructive
wars, imposing severe taxes, acting in much that renders him
an object if not of violent execration, at least of dislike and
fear, to whole communities. These proceedings, and they
make up the staple of History, mark a man’s character in lines,
perhaps occasionally bright, but at all events severe and hard.
If we judge of Csesar or Napoleon by the blood shed in their
wars, or of Burke by the terrible fierceness of his attacks on
Warren Hastings, we should form estimates of them, not only
unfavourable, but positively untrue ; and yet History cannot
give the separate instances in which Caesar’s sternest ene
mies were melted by his unspeakable mildness and gene
rosity. It cannot go into the details of Madam D’Abrantes’
Memoirs, and tell us of the gentleness in word and deed, which
made Napoleon as much the idol of his family as of his army.
It cannot dwell upon the heartbroken sorrow with which
Burke lamented his son Richard. A historian who should
aim at such particularity, would resemble a Dutch painter who
�204
Horace Walpole's Memoirs —George. III.
*
wasted days in elaborating a jar or a chair in the corner of his
picture, to the total destruction of the general effect. The
only way to keep the balance even, and to give upon the whole
a faithful picture, is to atone in some degree for the harshness
of the lines by the softness of the colouring. The want of
this detracts in some degree from our pleasure even in Dr.
Arnold’s portraits. The intensity of his moral feelings induces
him at times, we think, to overcharge his colours; especially
when he seems led, from his antipathy to Caesar, to varnish
over the faults of Antony and Pompey. We are convinced
that Mr. Carlyle’s is the true extreme, when in the midst of
the horrors of the Reign of Terror, he reminds us that there
lay at the root of Danton’s heart the elements of a human and
heroic nature. ‘ The great heart of Danton is weary of it:
He is gone to native Arcis. The great Titan walks silent by
the banks of the murmuring Aube, in green native haunts
that knew him when a boy.’ But if this extreme severity be
a defect, even when great crimes of ambitious and blood
*
thirsty men are condemned by a virtuous and impartial mind,
how infinitely more blameable is it when the characters of his
tory are brought under the scalpel of Horace Walpole’s mean,
ungenerous, mischief-loving nature. His harsh judgments
have none of the compensating qualities that palliate those of
Dr. Arnold or Mr. Hallam. He is never moved with pity, or
contempt, or anger : his impulses are of the paltriest and
meanest kind. The motives he attributes most plentifully to
great statesmen, are not those which we are accustomed to
connect with the archangel ruined,—of revenge, ambition,
remorseless cruelty: they are simply the ordinary motives of
selfish, spiteful men, of pickpockets and swindlers. To give one
or two examples. Burke alluded to George Grenville in n, wellknown passage of the ‘ Thoughts on a late State of a Nation.’
It was written at a time of great party heat, and was most
generously corrected in the broad and animated panegyric in
the speech on American Taxation. The original censure can
scarcely be quite warranted, but at all events, it has more of
historical probability than the malicious libel in which Wal
pole parades his impartiality. Lord Chatham, again, we know
to have been of a great and soaring spirit, a man, in Macaulay’s
words, ‘ who might, under some strong excitement, have been
tempted to ruin his country, but who never would have stooped
to pilfer her.’ An adverse witness might have applied to him
in Sallust’s famous description of Catiline, ‘ Vastus animus
immoderata, incredibilia, nimis alta semper cupiebat.’ It was
reserved for Horace Walpole to deduce the irregular animosity
of his. later opposition to George III., as originating in his
pecuniary liabilities to Mr. Calcraft. Happily no one is likely
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205
to be deceived by these caricatures. If the author’s dislike for
his contemporaries had been somewhat more moderated,
we might possibly have put faith in his descriptions. But the
daubing is too gross. The invention is too grotesque. Such
Lyarious and discordant evil principles never co-existed but
in his own fancy. No real living men and women are like the
characters of these memoirs, any more than real birds and beasts
i resemble the heraldic varieties of those animals. But we pass
from the Memoirs to their subject matter.
If we were to select an aristocratic government, flourishing
in its highest splendour, we should point to the situation of
England in the middle of the Seven Years’ War. Nearly every
one of the great families of the day were represented in high
official station. The splendour too was of the purest kind,
and one which promised the most lasting vigour. It did not rest,
like that of Venice or Sparta, on the grinding predominance
of a tyrannical caste: nor did the English nobility resemble
the butterfly retainers of the French court, who exhausted
every faculty and corrupted every generous sentiment in watch
ing the smiles of a Louis, in threading the tortuous intrigues
of Versailles, in rising to power by the caprices of a Pompadour
or a Du Barri. It recalled rather the position of the Roman
aristocracy in the healthy period that followed the Punic wars.
The English, like the Roman, statesmen were the hereditary
leaders of a free people, mixing eagerly in popular debate,
their exertions constantly stimulated by the rise of new men,
and wielding successfully the whole energies of the united
Commonwealth. The middle classes were gratified by the
presence of Pitt and Camden in the cabinet. The church was
silent, in the disciplined Erastianism of the eighteenth century.
The great mass of the people, supported by the rapid growth
of commerce and manufactures, with no pressing hardships to
divert them from the pursuits of industry, with no leisure
for theories of political reform, nor any ears for deciaimers and
trading demagogues, reposed in contented reliance on the in
tellectual and brilliant aristocracy at their head.
We touched very hastily in a late article on some of the
b causes which, in the great revolution that followed the fall of
the Feudal and Catholic system throughoutEurope, constituted
the English aristocracy and the French crown, the depositories
of power in their respective countries. The difference was
fundamentally rooted in the character of the two nations; for
when the direction which.society was to take was as yet uncer
tain, there lacked neither ambitious sovereigns in England, nor
the elements of a haughty and turbulent aristocracy in France.
But Henry VIII. had scarcely closed his eyes, when the nobi
lity he had founded began to threaten the peaceful descent of
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his authority. The rare sagacity of Elizabeth was nowhere
more apparent than in her dexterous refusal to bring disputed
questions to an issue, and her readiness to part with a portion
of her power, rather than risk its principle in the chances of a
discussion. It was the course most suited to her natural cons-stitution. For with much in her private life of the littleness
of a vain and irritable woman, whenever the public interests
were at stake, she acted throughout in the spirit of a sensible
and far-sighted man. She was never blind to the movement
which was sifting every doctrine, and undermining every
throne in Europe; but instead of striving to arrest, she was
content to guide it. . She was content to be practically the
most absolute sovereign in Christendom, to receive from the
free love of her people an authority undreamt of by the Philips
and Catherines of the continent, without caring to raise in
quiries into her title, by boasting of its soundness. Her suc-^
cessor was of a character directly opposite. Much as James I.
loved the substance of power, he loved the show still more. It
was not enough actually to rule England by his single will,
unless he affronted his subjects by dogmatising about his divine
right.. He seemed to think he was never sure of their obedi
ence till he had actually beaten them in argument. Discussion
produced irritation, and this soon soured into a habit of chronic
opposition. 1 hence arose the formal division of the nation
into Cavaliers and Puritans, or, as we should prefer to term
them, the Royalist and Republican parties. There can be no
greater mistake than to identify them respectively with our
own Conservatives and Liberals. The Cavaliers were acci
dentally conservative, because the aristocratic system which
they opposed sought to raise itself on the ruins of the existing
monarchy. But they, at least the wisest of their party, showed
no objection to change or progress, as being in themselves bad;
on the contrary, the continental monarchies, the great types of
their imitation, had been, and then actually were, eminently
progressive. The aristocratic or republican party still less
resembled the Reformers; nay, it is another instance of the
contrast between Elizabeth’s prudence and the folly of the
Stuart princes, that the great parliamentary questions all
turned, ostensibly at least, on alleged encroachments by the
King. If these had been avoided, theoretical improvements
might have slept for ever. The constant complaint was that
their ancient Franchises had been invaded. Their Great Charter
was not a Reform Bill, but a Petition of Right. Much less was
their s a popular or democratic party. The highest blood of
England was on the Parliamentary side. Carre, Lord Somer
set, and Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, the chosen favourites
of successive monarchs, owed their rise from very humble sta-
�Horace Walpole's Memoirs.— George III.
207
lions to nothing hut the favour of the Crown. We state it not
as matter of praise or reproach; but it is the simple fact that
the great aim of the Parliamentary party was not to extend
popular rights, but to reduce the monarch to a cypher, and to
make England virtually a republic. Charles I. was at one
time on the point of submitting to this, when, in his anxiety to
save Strafford’s life, he named of the privy council, Hertford,
Bedford, Essex, Bristol, Say, Savile, Kimbolton, and Warwick,
and projected the memorable ministry in which Hampden
hoped to have held the part of tutor to the Prince of Wales.
But the spirit the nobility had raised proved far too powerful
for them, and then was seen the difference between the Parlia
mentary party of Charles I.’s reign and one really popular.
The King was beheaded. Ireton’s Reform Bill was introduced.
There was no longer any thought of an oligarchical govern
ment, but, with the instincts of a true democracy, the country
threw supreme power into the hands of the first man of genius
that arose. The Restoration followed ; and after twenty years
of further quarrelling, this great controversy was at last decided.
The opposition had still been purely aristocratic. A Sydney
and a Russell were the great martyrs of the age. At length
James II. pushed the dispensing power to its full length, and
men who would have stood by him in any parliamentary strug
gle on an abstract question, thought of nothing but keeping
the power of legislation in their hands. The great problem of
Charles I.’s reign was to be settled, whether the King or the
aristocracy should make the laws. Whigs and Tories united
to bring in a King who would be a puppet in their hands. The
genius of the first of the new line nearly frustrated the attempt,
Success was again doubtful, when Anne formed the short mi
nistry of Harley and Bolingbroke. But when a foreigner by
birth, unable to speak English, of mean abilities, and un
attractive manners, was seated on the throne, the royal power
was crushed, as it proved, for ever. We can only recollect
three instances when either of the two first Georges showed ‘ a
will of their own’ in any matter of domestic government. At
his accession, George II., mindful of old differences with Wal
pole, named Sir Stephen Compton, then Speaker of the House
of Commons, as his first minister; but he was obliged to resign
his office in three days, and the head of the great Whig con
nexion returned to power. In 1745 the King was suspected
of listening to the secret influence of Lord Carteret and Lord
Bath. The Pelham administration at once threw up their
offices. Half the kingdom was in open insurrection. No one
would undertake the government. The only choice lay be
tween the Pelhams and Prince Charles Edward, and so the
King was compelled to surrender at discretion.
Again,
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George II. long opposed the coalition of Newcastle and Pitt
in 1757. But he yielded at length, and could only grumble
that his great nobility were content to be the footmen of the
Duke of Newcastle. It is not too much to say, that the Pre
tender often exercised greater personal influence in England
than was permitted to George I. and II. during the whole
duration of their reigns.
It is curious to contrast the course of events in France. It
is the fashion to doubt the stability of the present French
throne, now that it is no longer surrounded by a powerful and
independent peerage. The distrust in question would scarcely
have approved itself to Louis XIV., not usually thought a
novice in monarchical government. In fact, from the day
when Louis IX. gave a patent of nobility to his goldsmith, to
the day when Louis Philippe consented to abolish the heredi
tary peerage, the constant aim of all French Kings has been to
lower the pretensions and cramp the power of the aristocracy.
Richelieu crushed them with martial law and on the scaffold ;
Louis XIV. more fatally attacked their influence by debasing
them into mere court puppets. Some of our readers who are
familiar only with the cant phrases about the brilliancy and
exclusiveness of the French nobility, would be surprised at
their actual genealogical pretensions. We have seen a curious
memorial, composed in the opening of the eighteenth century,
which must have caused as great a commotion at Versailles, as
was excited six or seven years ago by Prince Dolgoroucki’s
pamphlet among the officials at St. Petersburgh.
It was
drawn up by the famous Duchesse de Maine, herself a daughter
of the royal house of Conde, the soul of the Catholic opposition
to the Regent’s government. The claims of the dukes and
peers to high blood and lineage are there dissected with critical
research, and a truly feminine industry of malice. There we
may see how the Dues de Luynes, descended from the family of
an obscure advocate in Mornas, named Honore Albert, and how
they afterwards claimed kindred with the Italian Albertis;
how the De Grammont’s were for a long time without any ar
morial bearings; how the brilliant Richelieu’s sprang from a
musician in the service of the great Cardinal, who gave his
sister in marriage to his dependant, and procured for him the
reversion of his dukedom. The monarchy, with all its prolific
branches, rose firm and strong in the midst of this mushroom
nobility. From the earliest period the King appears as the
great central figure of the nation, round whom was grouped
everything for which Frenchmen felt most pride and love.
Writing of Philip VI., in the fourteenth century, Mi
chelet uses words that would have been applicable to Louis
XIV.
�Horace Walpole's Memoirs.— George III.
209
‘ C’^tait certainement alors un grand roi que le Roi de France. Il
venait de replacer la Flandre dans sa dependance. Il avait re<pu l’homrnage du Roi d’Angleterre pour ses provinces Franqaises. Ses cousins
regnaient a Naples, et en Hongrie. Il protegeait le Roi d’Ecosse, Il
avait autour de lui comme une Cour de Rois, ceux de Navarre, de Boheme, de Majorque, souvent le Roi d’Ecosse. Il avait la. une fete eternelle, toujours des joutes, des tournois, la realisation des romans de
chevalerie, le Roi Arthur, et sa Table Ronde.’—Michelet, Histoire de
France, vol. iii. p. 283.
In the affection of the community the Crown occupied the
precise position of the English aristocracy, as the authority
which had stood between the people and oppression, which was
identified with all former struggles for equal laws and fran
chises, and all successful efforts of national defence. One King,
Philip Augustus, had wrested Normandy from the craven
John. Another had driven the English out of Guyenne.
When the great feudatories were recklessly calling in the
English to advance their own selfish intrigues, it was to a King,
Charles VII., that Joan of Arc appealed to prevent the dismem
berment of the kingdom by the Dukes of Berri and Burgundy.
The Huguenot nobles gave up Harfleur in the sixteenth cen
tury to Elizabeth, and their descendants in the eighteenth were
perpetually intriguing with the English Whigs ; but it was a
King, Louis XIV., to whom the nation had rallied, when he
broke off the conferences of Gertruydenburg, and declared he
would rather make war upon his enemies than upon his chil
dren. Nor was the majesty of the French Court one of mere
outward show ; excepting in the case of weak princes, like
Louis XIII. ; or of minors, as during the power of Mazarin,
the French King took on himself the real task-work of a prime
minister. Louis XVI., for instance, as we may see by his
published diaries, rose before day-break, and was deep in
reports and calculations, while Marie Antoinette was shining
as the centre of all the beauty and rank of France. Napoleon’s
comparison of a constitutional King to a cochon a I'engrain, was
really applicable to George I. or II. But the whole direction
of French affairs has constantly varied with the personal health
and temper of the sovereign. France was at repose from
foreign war during the minority of Louis XIV. In the prime
of his life her ambition destroyed the balance of European
power. During the minority of his successor, ensued the long
Peace at the commencement of Walpole’s ministry. As he
advanced in manhood there came the wars of the Polish and
Austrian successions. The King was as much exhausted as the
nation at the close of the Seven Years’ War. Look too at the
way in which French and English greatness have respectively
developed themselves. England has grown great by the efforts
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of individual orators in Parliament; of individual merchants^
on the seas ; of individual colonists before whom the forest has
gone down, and the morass has been dried up, and the cross
has been planted in barbarous lands ; of independent compa
nies who have overturned thrones, and levied taxes, and com
manded armies, and pushed English commerce to the utter
most ends of the earth. We have had abundance of fire and
energy, with something too little of order and regularity. But
France has always been superior wherever the presence of one
presiding mind was visible. She has been the country of
great public works, undertaken by the central government; of
colonisation begun on a magnificent scale, though never sup
ported by sufficient perseverance ; the country of great minis
ters, great generals, and above all, of great diplomatists. If
the English came to be the great nation, it is certain that the
French Sovereign was always the great King.
So France always gained by the family alliances between
royal houses, which so much occupied the Bourbon princes in
the eighteenth century. By a family alliance Louis XIV. laid
the foundation of the French and Spanish league. Another
family alliance was on the point of destroying it, when, for the
chance of attaining by the Polish match, a preponderance in
Eastern Europe, the Infanta, betrothed to Louis XV., was sent
back to the Spanish court. For the sake of securing Bourbon
thrones to guard the Mediterranean in Naples, Sicily, Parma,
Modena, as well as in France and Spain, Louis XV. sacrificed
everything to family alliances at the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle.
Finally, a family alliance cemented the coalition against Eng
land in the Seven Years’ War, and the famous Family Compact
united the two first naval powers, but our own, in assisting the
American rebels. Now Frederic the Great was nephew to our
George II., but the English ministry opposed him in the war
of the Austrian succession, and joined him in that of the Seven
Years, without the least regard for his relationship to their
master.
These then were the two great classes into which European
government divided themselves; the aristocratic, of which Eng
land was the'great type, the monarchical, which, after transiently
developing itself in the houses of Spain and Austria, finally
reached its greatest splendour under Louis XIV. and his suc
cessors. Bound these two centres there gradually grouped
themselves, two distinct and opposed systems of foreign policy,
where, speaking generally, and making allowance for accidental
exceptions, the Protestant and aristocratic states attached
themselves to the English alliance, the Catholics looked to the
King of France as their natural head. This was the normal
condition of English politics during th« seventeenth and
�Horace Walpole's Memoirs.—George III.
211
eighteenth centuries, and furnished the regular channels in
which the currents of national feeling firmly and uniformly
flowed. Elizabeth threw herself into the popular cause of a
vigorous Spanish war, and her less sagacious successors com
promised themselves fatally by the resolution, not only to make
England monarchical, but to force it into the train of conti
nental Absolutism. James I. was obstinately bent on a French
or Spanish match for his son Charles. Nothing disgusted the
popular party so much as the coldness of his support to his
daughter, the Electress Palatine.
The French court and
Italian priests of Queen Henrietta were a standing grievance
to the Parliament. Charles II. again married a Catholic, but
in spite of his reluctance was forced into the triple alliance with
Sweden and the United Provinces. After the fall of the illstarred Stuarts, their partisans showed the same hankering for
a French alliance. Bolingbroke and Harley made the Peace
of Utrecht, and there were few more striking instances of the
former statesman’s acuteness than his habit of appealing to the
anti-Austrian feeling which had prevailed in England when
the Austrians held the place in which Louis XIV. then stood
at the head of the Catholic league. Many circumstances con
curred to force Walpole to a peace with France; the insecu
rity of the new dynasty, the readiness of Cardinal Fleury to
purchase repose by banishing the Stuarts from France; but the
opposition that at last overthrew Sir H. Walpole appealed suc
cessfully to the old Whig antipathy to France and Spain.
With singular shamelessness, the Tpries and Bolingbroke, the
authors of the Peace of Utrecht, swelled the cry for the destruc
tion of the minister they hated; but the war was a Whig war,
and though entered upon needlessly and with a guilty eager
ness, it was still a war for the truest English policy, and Eng
lish interests. In the Seven Years’War the struggle recom
menced with greater fury than ever. Each side put out its
whole force. The Bourbon princes had composed their long
quarrel with Austria. Mr. Pitt had revived the spirit of the
grand alliance, and organised the great Anglo-Prussian league
to which England clung as her traditionary policy.
This, then, was the state of the English government at the
accession of George III. The nation had never stood before
foreigners in an attitude so prosperous and commanding. The
aristocracy had never been so firmly rooted, nor its sway so
contentedly submitted to. But the figure of the monarch,
elsewhere so stately, was overtopped and lost among the pha
lanx of Whig magnates, and relegated to an obscurity most
distasteful to a king, with keen appetite for arbitrary power,
and indisposed to abate a jot of his personal prominence for the
glory of his country.
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George III. had both these qualities, but he added to them
others which made it at the opening of his reign very doubtful
whether he would be the idol or the execration of his subjects,
He was haughtily sensitive to any encroachment on his autho
rity, and his readiness to take offence contrasted disagreeably
with the unforgetting rancour of his resentments. In any strong
temptation, he could mask his dislike with a treacherous calm
ness, and the overacted smoothness of his demeanour finally
cajoled Mr. Pitt into his separation from the Rockinghams.
But though he sometimes temporized, he never forgave ; and
when the burden of restraint had become intolerable, he
clung to his antagonist with a blind, bull-dog fury that spurned
at all considerations of prudence, policy, or decency. He per
sisted, for instance, in pouring troops and money into America,
long after his minister had declared the attempt to reduce
them hopeless. Even when he submitted, the words addressed to
Mr. Adams at St. James’s, and so often quoted by the court
parasites, were rather those of a man who deeply resented and
conscientiously overlooked a severe personal affront, than of a
constitutional King who obeyed the voice of bis people in
desisting from the prosecution of an ineffectual contest. Again
his payment from the privy purse of Lord Halifax’s damages,
when the King’s Bench had decided in favour of Wilkes against
that nobleman, was an impropriety in the guardian of the laws
almost as lamentable as the reckless inhumanity with which he
speculated on Lord Chatham’s removal ‘ by decrepitude or
death.’ But on the other .hand, he had a large share of those
household virtues which we are wont to associate with the
sober German type, and which formed the best feature in the
character of his great uncle Frederic William I. of Prussia.
When the decencies of civilized life were outraged at Medmenham Abbey and the Duke of Grafton, as Prime Minister,
led Anne Parsons across the Opera-house under the very eyes
of the Queen of England, the respectful attachment of the
people was sure after a season to be conciliated by the stiff and
somewhat ostentatious purity of the new court, by the revival,
in the king’s life, of a well-nigh antiquated piety, and even by
the retired life which at first exposed the royal couple to the
charge of penurious economy. And if all this was not enough,
it was impossible for the English mind to resist its attractions,
when united to the welcome narrowness of George III.’s com
prehension, and his congenial aversion to all theoretical improve
ment ; to the unoffending dullness of that vulgar intellect,
which did not so much reject, as utterly fail to conceive, truths
beyond the wonted range of its vision. This is the literal his
tory of his popularity and of its growth. Before he had sate
on the throne three years, he had become more generally hated
�Horace Walpole’s Memoir’s.—George III.
213
than any English King since the days when, ‘ To your tents,
O Israel,’ had rang round the Guildhall in the ears of Charles
L Gradually the exasperation subsided into an acquiescence
in his authority, and then into admiration of his domestic life,
perhaps enhanced by a generous sympathy for the sturdy fight
he had maintained against the great Whig nobles, till, by the
end of the eighteenth century, George III. had become the
worshipped representative of that great mass of Englishmen,
whose creed was summed up in an undoubting and impartial
hatred to Catholics, Americans, Frenchmen, and Philosophers.
To George III. then, the whole Whig system, its persons and
principles, was naturally gall and wormwood. He disliked the
arrogant pretension with which the nobility claimed a birth
right in the prerogative of fashion, as well as in the govern
ment of the empire. He disliked the prevalent license of
their private life. He disliked the general intelligence that
pervaded the better minds of their party, their almost sceptical
freedom from prejudice, their readiness to canvass and admit
new views. But above all, he disliked, with a feeling which
none but Englishmen can understand, the irreligious tone that
had pervaded their councils ever since the church of the
Stuarts threw her whole weight into the royalist scale. His
religious feelings were strong and deep, he loved the church of
England as Southampton and Clarendon had loved it, with a
love of true English growth. It had none of the half-poetical
expansiveness which makes the bitterest of Protestants relent
in condemning even the most repulsive parts of Catholicism,
for admiration of its daring unity and magnificent consis
tency of purpose. It was equally free from a spark of the
fervid enthusiasm which blazed as fiercely in the hearts of
Cromwell’s soldiers, as in the old Hebrew prophets ; which
impelled 2000 Presbyterians to quit their benefices on the new
St. Bartholemew, and which the Free Church of Scotland proves
is not even yet extinct. Perhaps the nearest parallel out of
England for the turn of George III.’s feeling is to be found in
the sour and unamiable Jansenism of the French parliaments.
They were generally more intolerant than their adversaries,
the Jesuits, and rivalled Archbishop de Beaumont of Paris in
their denunciations of Rousseau’s Emile, George III.’s reli
gion was of this kind, and operating as it did, chiefly in the
way of hatred and all uncharitableness, it materially affected
the general character of his reign. He began it by hurrying
on the Peace of Paris, out of dislike to Frederic the Great.
When he was removed from the actual administration of affairs,
he left the empire on the brink of a civil war, from his antipathy
to the Irish Catholics.
Unfortunately for the party which he so much disliked, it
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was scarcely at harmony with itself. It has been the traditional
curse of the Whigs ever habitually to oscillate between the
extremes of oligarchical morgue and of democratical license.
Yesterday, shaking hands with Wilkes, and yet excluding
Burke from the cabinet; to-day, making Lichfield House com
pacts with O’Connell, yet looking shyly on the Anti-corn-law
League, and breaking up cabinets from the quarrel of two noble
men ; its history presents a chequered and varied aspect, per
haps not uncharacteristic of a republican system, in which an
aristocracy constantly tended to expand, and by degrees to
dissolve into a more popular form. The Whig party was acci
dentally aristocratic, but its real antithesis was not in demo
cracy but in monarchy. Mr. Pitt had long been marked out
as an unwelcome intruder into the ranks of the hereditary Re
volution party. He sprang from a simple country family, and
the prompt assertion of his independence, which first drove him
into opposition, contributed to his unpopularity with his fellow
seceders and malcontents. He was long looked upon with
dislike and timorous suspicion. He was a political Ishmaelite,
with his voice against every man in authority, gradually attract
ing a little band of followers around him, and idolized by the
multitudes out of doors. To Carteret, and Newcastle, and
Henry Fox, he was still the same ‘ terrible cornet of horse ’
who had thundered against Walpole. After the fall of the short
Devonshire ministry, he had been obliged to lean on the sup
port of the great families whom he had before disdained to
conciliate. But the old wound was only scarred over, and
might soon be easily inflamed. Pitt’s colleagues had scarcely
shared his zeal for the war. An opinion was set on foot
that he wilfully prolonged it. He was even charged with
planning expeditions for no other object than to delay the
Peace which might put a stop to the career of his own glory.
He resigned in 1761. The immediate consequences of his
fall admirably soothed the irritated vanity which intoxicated
his whole nature. The cheers bestowed on the King became
insulting when compared with the roars of applause that greeted
Mr. Pitt when he appeared in public. The City of London
declared in favour of the fallen minister. After all the con
cessions of his colleagues, the Spanish war which he had fallen
in an attempt to anticipate, proved unavoidable, and the public
persisted in ascribing all the successes that followed to the
lingering influence of their darling statesman. But it may be
doubted, whether, in spite of all those vexations, George III.
ever made a more successful move. The very first political
effort placed him far on the road to absolute power.
For the strong confederacy that fettered his independent action
was now crippled and divided. He no longer appeared in the
6
�Horace Walpole's Memoirs.—George III. -
215
odious light of a King, grasping to wrest power from the hands
of a party headed by the richest blood, and the most powerful
name in England, with its roots deeply fixed in the bosom of
the greatest manufacturing and commercial nation in the world.
That party was now broken, and between its two sections, there
was fixed an insurmountable gulf: on one side was a group of
haughty noblemen, vainly trusting to the magic of their fami
lies and escutcheons; on the other, was a great statesman,
furious at being arrested in the flood-tide of his triumphs, and
retaining out of office the encroaching lust of domination which
had provoked and irritated his colleagues; Already the young
King stood in the graceful position of arbiter between two
angry factions, desperately bent on ruining each other, even
though they should destroy the empire in doing so.
Then began the wretched days when all the narrow instincts
of the King’s nature had uninterrupted and congenial exercise,
when his passion for low intrigue had ample room and verge
for its developement, when all parties were played off against
each other, till their dislikes, and jealousies, and misapprehen
sions were so fomented, that they were one and all actually
powerless from mere aggravation of their spleen.
‘ It was no difficult matter,’ says professor Smyth, ‘ for the king to
drive Mr. Pitt from office ; then the Duke of Newcastle ; then Lord
Rockingham, who came in as a Whig minister without Mr. Pitt; then
Mr. Pitt, who came in as a Whig minister without Lord Rockingham ;
and so to manage the mistakes, the feelings, and the virtues of all con
cerned, as to destroy the confidence of all parties in each other, and in
themselves, and by the aid of such men of talents as were ambitious,
and of such men of property and connexion as were inclined to the
court, to continue for ten or twelve years a sort of running fight with
the Whigs and their principles.’—Lectures on Modern History, vol. 2,
p. 336.
Lord Bute was the first person selected to carry out this
scheme. ‘ He formed the plan (we quote from Mr. j^dolphus)
of breaking the phalanx which constituted and supported the
ministry, and of securing the independence of the Crown, by
a moderate use of the royal prerogative.’ He was not ill chosen
for the task. His family indeed, though noble and ancient,
was of very different illustration from the Bedfords and Devonshires that supported the ministry. The English peers indeed
looked upon the Scotch premier as an intrusive alien; much, in
short, as their successors would look on a Secretary of State from
Conciliation Hall in Dublin. He was totally unused to public
affairs. But his permanent success would have been a far
greater triumph to the Crown than that of North or the
younger Pitt. For he would have owed nothing to himself, to
his character, to the public; nothing, in short, to any human
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beings but George III. and the Princess Dowager. The king’s
personal predilection would have been the great moving power
of the state ; and the policy which made Farinelli chief favou
rite to Charles III., and in our own days has promoted a pipe
boy to be Prime Minister of Turkey, would at once and trium
phantly have planted itself in England. But it was destined
to encounter far severer trials than this.
The Grenville ministry followed. Mr. Macaulay has drawn
George Grenville’s portrait in very unflattering, though, as we
are inclined to think, in very true and just colours. It is curi
ous to observe the points and the principle on which he agreed
with George III. The ministry began with perfect harmony.
They both disliked the war,theKing from dislike of Frederic the
Great, and Grenville from dislike of the expense. The love of
arbitrary power was equally strong in both ; they indicted
Wilkes, and proceeded to attack America. But while George
III. loved arbitrary power as a monarch, George Grenville
was swelling with all the delegated authority of the House of
Commons, and struck at the King as recklessly as he struck at
Wilkes. The quarrel on the Regency Bill was too much for
George III.’s patience, and down went the Grenvilles.
We may pass over the short interlude of the Rockinghams.
Their government was strong in good intentions, in purity of
character, in the prudery of abstaining from official emolu
ments, which is so favourite and easy a virtue with rich men.
They passed several good measures; they repealed the Stamp
Act, they provided for the security of our commerce in the
West Indies, and reversed the tyrannical resolutions against
Wilkes. But the alienation of Mr. Pitt, which their humblest
submission was too weak to overcome, paralysed all their
movements; and their subsequent treatment of Burke makes
their connexion with him only noticeable as a memorial that
neither genius, nor philosophy, nor eloquence, nor the most
austere apd self-denying patriotism, could save their possessor
from the insolence of which Sheridan and Brougham were
afterwards the victims.
Three ministers had succeeded each other in four years. At
length a permanent one was established. The cabinet which,
under the successive Presidency of Lord Chatham, the Duke of
Grafton, and Lord North, continued in power for sixteen years,
from 1766 to 1782, was really a decisive proof of George III.’s
rather unkingly talent for sowing jealousies and dissolving
friendships. The younger Pitt’s government was more suc
cessful, but the gronnd had been prepared for that by the un
popularity of the coalition, and by the talents and hereditary
claims of the young minister. But this government was for
the most part composed of men of little ability, and no charac
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ter p it succeeded a tolerably popular administration, and
retained office long, through the most disastrous war in all
English history. This was all done by the craft and address of
the King. We must here quote Mr. Burke’s famous descrip
tion of the work of which Lord Chatham was the ostensible
artificer:—
e He made an administration so chequered and speckled; he put
together a piece of joinery, so crossly indented and whimsically dove
tailed ; a cabinet so variously inlaid; such a piece of diversified mosaic;
such a tesselated pavement, without cement; here a bit of black stone,
and there a bit of white; patriots and courtiers, king’s friends and
republicans ; Whigs and Tories ; treacherous friends and open enemies;
that it was indeed a very curious show; but utterly unsafe to touch and
unsure to stand upon. The colleagues whom he had assorted at the
same boards stared at each other, and were obliged to ask, “ Sir, your
name ? Sir, you have the advantage of me. Mr. Such-a-one, I beg a
thousand pardons.” ’—Speech on American Taxation. Works, vol. ii.
p. 420.
From Lord Camden down to Robinson, the Bribe-master to
the House of Commons, we believe that this government
scarcely contained an individual who had not attached himself
to it from some personal motive.
We begin with Lord Chatham. Ever since his resignation
he had kept aloof from the Whigs. He was reconciled with
George Grenville, and the King dexterously attacked his
weakest part, in appealing for his help to rescue him from the
Rockinghams. We think that it is Lord Jeffrey who some
where says of Charles Fox, that if he disliked Kings, he was
rather partial to princes. And so may we say of Lord Chatham,!
that his dislike to noblemen was only moderated by his par
tiality to Kings. Even on leaving office, in 1761, his behaviour
to George III. had been humble and resigned to an almost
slavish degree. And now the young King appealed to him, as
the one man in all the nation who could reconcile parties and
preside over harmonious councils. He could draw round him
the chief men of every connexion, and form a government
strong in great names and royal favour, and in the early popu
larity of William Pitt, which had survived the pension and
Lady Hester’s peerage.
Next came Augustus Duke of Grafton, First Lord of the
Treasury. He had been rocked and dandled into a legislator,
and very reluctantly left Newmarket for Downing Street. No
single difference on any public question separated him from the
Rockinghams. He had agreed with them on the repeal of the
Stamp Act. He had agreed with them on the Declaratory
Bill, on the establishment of Free Ports in Dominica and
Jamaica, on the Russian treaty, and on the resolution upon
VOL. II.
Q
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General Warrants. He was now joined to men with whom he
knew himself to be at variance on many points; with Lord
Chatham and Lord Camden, who differed with him on the
Declaratory Bill; with Lord North and Charles Townsend,
who disapproved of the repeal of the Stamp Act. But he was
engrossed by an admiration for Lord Chatham, after whose re
tirement his position at the head of the Treasury was an hourly
torment, till, outvoted in his own cabinet on the American
question, and well nigh driven mad by Junius, he quitted office
in 1770.
‘ That prodigy, Charles Townsend’ was to lead the House of
Commons, and though no one will credit the spiteful epigram
upon him with which Walpole regaled himself, enough remains
to show that his weak point was in lack of independent charac
ter. The fatal love of compliance, which Burke noticed, gives
us a clue to the mastery which George III. obtained over him.
He hastily pledged himself to draw a revenue from America,
and the court kept him to his word; and it is said that the
revival of that miserable dispute was owing to the fickle vanity
of this gifted personage.
It is tedious to go through the remaining members of the
government. Scarcely one of them had joined it from any
motive which could with decency be publicly acknowledged.
Lord Camden had been brought in from his personal friendship
to Mr. Pitt. Lord Northington was rewarded with the Presi
*
dency of the Council for his share in the intrigues that had
upset the Rockinghams. The official rank and file was made
up of men to whom the countenance of the court was literally
a witness to character, a stamp to give some kind of general
currency to their exceeding worthlessness and unpopularity.
There was Rigby, a hanger-on of the Duke of Bedford’s; there
was Lord George Germaine, with the brand of the Minden
court-martial on him ; there was Lord Sandwich, the Jemmy
Twitcher of the Beggars Opera, who had played king’s evidence
against Wilkes; there was Lord Barrington, c who is always
set down as a fixture in the inventory of the discarded minis
ter’s effects.’* They had, one and all, been seduced by the
prospect of patronage, or by the gratification of their jealousies,
to desert their old party connexions; and now, tossed over
from the Butes to the Grenvilles, and from the Grenvilles to
the Graftons, they stood before the world with their political
morality debauched, and their reputations battered, with no
earthly support but the personal favour of the King.
The fall of the North ministry in the days of its final igno
miny, was hailed joyfully by the whole nation. Outside Par* Junius.
�Horace Walpole’s Memoirs.— George III.
219
liament, little was thought of the principles at issue.
The struggle was simply viewed as one between a corrupt
minister and an able and increasing minority. But in-doors
it was very different. The opposition scarcely concealed the
bitterness of their temper towards the King. They did not,
indeed, know the signal marks of favour he had bestowed on
Lord George Germaine, perhaps the most unpopular man in
all the kingdom ; nor did they know that he was already tam
pering with the fidelity of their own body; nor yet that he had
forced Lord North to remain in office, in despite of his own
convictions. But they felt the sovereign’s influence crippling
them in all directions, and every nerve was strained to over
throw it. At length the ministry fell, and the King saw the
work of twenty years’ toil at once destroyed. The go
vernment was again in the same hands in which George
II. had left it. The two sections of the Whig party were
again in power; the Rockinghams, with purer characters
and fresh leaders, strong in the genius of Burke, Fox, and
Sheridan ; the Pitt section had lost their leader’s great name,
but was supported by the varied talents of Shelburne, Camden,
Dunning, and Barre. George III., though, was not disheart
ened. He looked on the Whigs as he had looked on Wilkes
and the Americans, as acknowledged personal enemies, whom
he might perhaps subdue, but whom at all events, with some
private risk, he might severely injure. His tactics were the
same as of old.
The last time that he had suffered the misfortune of a Whig
ministry, he had appealed to Mr. Pitt. He now appealed to
that part of the cabinet who inherited his views and feelings,
and who, with a not uncommon waywardness, affected to in
demnify themselves for the arrogant exclusiveness of Devon
shire House and the Rockinghams, by comparative submission
to the King. For a time the schism was glossed over, and a
kind ofpaix armee subsisted between the two divisions. Every
movement of the King’s was scanned and scrutinized by the
suspicious Rockinghams.
Every favour granted to Lord
Shelburne was made a pretext for demanding some compen
sating boon to themselves. The minutest arrangements of
precedence and etiquette at the levees were made matters of
serious discussion by Fox and Burke. At length Lord Rock
ingham’s death gave the King an opportunity of provoking
Fox into resignation, and the famous coalition was the conse
quence.
A coalition which Burke advised can scarcely have been a
crime, but beyond a doubt it was one of the very gravest blun
ders. Its inconsistency was of that open and flagrant kind
which rouses the whole nation in disgust at any shameless
Q2
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Horace Walpoles Memoirs.—George III.
abandonment of principle in public men. The tide, too, had
for some time been turning in favour of the King, and the cry
soon rose loud throughout the land in support of him and his
young minister. The coalition cabinet saw themselves utterly
destitute of that out-doors applause which is the very heart’s]
blood to a Whig ministry, and in its stead they were exposed
to deep and lasting unpopularity. The general election con
demned Fox to an apparently perpetual exclusion from office
*
and the King’s system, which had seemed to fall for ever, was
now really rooted on a firm foundation.
In this cursory view of George III.’s early ministries, we
have aimed merely at illustrating the operation of a principle
which affords, as we are persuaded, the only satisfactory ex
planation for the inconsequent and anomalous positions of the
men, the parties, and the cabals of the day,—a principle which
the King himself very early conceived, and developed with sin
gular determination,—and one, the realization of which might
have powerfully affected the future history of England. We
have endeavoured to reject all embarrassing details, and to
present, in its naked simplicity, the results of the problem,
whether England was to continue an aristocratic republic, or
become an actual living monarchy. But as we have seen
that at earlier periods of our history, the decision of this
question was materially affected by considerations of foreign
policy, and the state of our continental alliances ; so now the
picture of the present struggle would be very incomplete did
we not notice how George III. attempted to modify the foreign
policy of his predecessors.
Like the Stuart princes, whose steps he followed at home, he
threw himself at once into the French and Absolutist alliance.
The Seven Years’war had never found favour in his eyes; and
there is no doubt that his personal influence mainly protracted
M. Bussy’s conferences in 1761, and at last forced on the Peace
of Paris. It has been the fashion to decry the loud denuntiations of this peace made at the time, and to charge its op
ponents with factious folly, merely because France considered
the actual arrangements as humiliating. This argument would
justify any imaginary concessions, for surely it would be im
possible to devise any terms, short of surrendering every single
advantage, which would not appear intolerable to a highspirited and vanquished rival. But we condemn the Peace of
Paris for the same reason that we condemn that of Utrecht,
not that it was void of wise provisions, nor wholly unfruitful of
benefit to the country, but because the statesmen that effected
it lost sight of the national interest in their zeal to support
their own abstract views of domestic politics, and bartered the
conquests bought by English blood and gold, for the theoretical
�Horace Walpole's Memoirs.— George III.
221
triumph of their own party traditions. The consequences
were immediate and durable. The Anglo-German alliance,
the great Protestant league, which with many vicissitudes and
modifications, but always with honour and success to England,
had now subsisted for two hundred years, which had triumphed
over the Armada under Effingham, under Blake at Santa
Cruz, under Marlborough at Blenheim, and under Wolfe at
Quebec, was now broken up and scattered. Like the allies at
Denain, Frederic the Great was left exposed to the hostility of
the formidable confederacy that had threatened him ever since
his accession. But he never forgave or forgot the desertion.
He continued wavering between the Russian and the French
alliance; a share in the partition of Poland was the price de
manded for the .first, and the second materially contributed to
the success of the Choiseuil policy, which aimed at pacifying
the continent, and leaving France at leisure to concentrate her
self on the task of coping with us by sea. As to the the latter
power, many difficulties were in the way of George III.’s
sudden change of system—for though questions of principle
are often at the root of international dissentions, yet they are
gradually lost sight of in the growing habit of conflict, and
wars which might never have arisen but from differences of
political constitution and national modes of thought, continue
to be furiously persecuted from mere exasperation and spite.
France lay before us, crushed and bleeding at every pore,
and her statesmen no more thought of cultivating English
interests, from regard to George III. than Americans would
cease to consider the occupation of Oregon a creditable attack
upon aristocratic England, if a Chartist ministry was at the
Hielm. The Due de Choiseuil was as active in undermining
English influence and aggrandizing the Bourbon confederacy,
as if Mr. Pitt’s system had been in full and formidable vigour.
But the French alliance was favoured by the court, and every
thing was sacrificed to maintain it.
The first symptoms
of reviving discontent appeared in the distant stations where
much is necessarily left to individual responsibility, and the
authority of the home government is always comparatively
weak. Differences were hourly springing up, which testified
the profound alienation and hostility of the twro nations. First
came the attack of Tortuga, which was disavowed by the
French cabinet. Then (1764) came the insults offered by
Spanish xebecques to English merchantmen, and the ex
pulsion of the settlers from Honduras by Don Ramirez. Then
payment of the Manilla ransom was refused, and the Gren
villes shrunk from pressing their just claims to the alternative
of war. But the short Whig interregnum under Lord Rock
ingham, in 1766, made an effort at retracing these steps: pay-
�2'12
Horace Walpole's Memoirs.—George III.
ment was obtained from Spain, and, as. it proved, without a
war; and the Russian treaty laid a basis for renewing the
alliance with the northern courts. Mr. Pitt returned to powerj
and again there was one subject on which all cajolery would
have been ineffectual to change his purpose. In the midst of
sickness and seclusion, his heart was set upon repairing the
work which had been broken in upon at the Peace of Paris,
and continuing what the Rockinghams had begun.
*
Mr.
Stanley was in consequence dispatched to St. Petersburg!], with
the scheme of a great confederacy, to be headed by England,
Russia, and Prussia, which was to include Denmark,
Sweden, Holland, and some of the German powers, and
might present a bold front to the Bourbon alliance, now
strengthened by the accession of Austria. But while Frederic
professed all admiration for Lord Chatham, he did not conceal
his thorough disbelief of George III.’s good faith, and so the
country was again left to an insecure dependence on the good
will of exasperated France. Then came the annexation of
Corsica, without a single word of protest from the English
Government. In the East, the French settlement at Pon
dicherry sent experienced officers and eager volunteers to the
assistance of Hyder Ali. Next, news arrived from the Falk
lands, of the outrage perpetrated on English subjects by the
Governor of Buenos Ayres. The mistrust of the two nations
was at its height. Choiseuil prepared for war; it is even said
(on the very doubtful authority of Wraxall) that he sent for
the Pretender to Paris, and only gave up the idea of invading
England, in support of that prince’s claims, on seeing the de
graded intoxication in which he was habitually plunged. Lord
Chatham fiercely inveighed against, the delay that attended a
settlement of the question, the English ministry tottered, but
the French one fell, and Louis XV. wrote his famous letter to
Charles III. ‘ My ministers would have war, but I will not.’—
At length the time came for the flame to burst forth, and to
prove the folly of our multiplied concessions. The French
diplomatists had outwitted George III. in everv single point.
Their navy was completed. Their ports were fortified. Eng
land was engaged in a desperate struggle with her own
children, and her loving ally had diligently fomented every
difference, and fostered every continental jealousy. Half
Europe was leagued for our destruction, commercial jealousies
seduced the other half into the Armed Neutrality. Even
Holland refused to fulfil the stipulations of the treaties of
1678 and 1716, and we were at length reduced to the most
unfavourable Peace that English Plenipotentiaries ever signed
* Ellis’s Original Letters. Second Series. Vol. iv. page 496. (Quoted by Hughes.)
�Horace Walpoles Memoirs.—George III.
223
since the Revolution. But exhausted as we were, France was
scarcely less so, and made peace from a necessity almost as
imperious as our own. Again her intrigues recommenced, and
at the breaking out of the Revolution, Mr. Pitt had been
finally forced to recur to his father’s ideas, and re-construct the
Anglo-Prussian league.
The Congress of Reichenbach, in 1790, was the point of
demarcation between two distinct epochs. The French Re
volution had arrived, to agitate and confuse the usual routine of
diplomacy and international communications. It broke at once
through all the ordinary habits of European life. The old
historical monarchies disappeared ; to be revived sometimes
under new and fantastic denominations; sometimes, as re
publics. New combinations took place, unknown to the tra
ditions of the preceding age. We saw France and Russia
united against England. We saw Austria and Prussia united
against France. England lavished her resources to replace
the parties to the Family Compact on the thrones of France,
and Spain, and Naples. The Tories had learnt to act vigor
ously against France. The Whigs, pupils of Fox and Chat
ham, had learnt to talk of the natural sympathies between two
free nations, and to distrust the absolutist alliances of the
North. But when the whirlwind of the Revolution had swept
over Europe, like a whirlwind it passed away. The old forms
reappeared. The scattered fragments readjusted themselves to
the old unities : and now, after sixty years, European interests
are gradually reassuming their old aspect, and gravitating back
to their old centres. New actors are on the scenes, but the
old ones are there also, with their former position and resent
ments. Still, France retains her magnificent diplomatic system,
and still her ambassadors are rivalling and out-generalling ours
in every quarter of the globe. Still, the resources of English
diplomatists are being tasked to prevent a renewal of the
Family Compact. Still, after the Goddess of Reason, and the
feast of the Supreme Being, France is negotiating, as the first
Catholic power, with the Pope; and still she arrogates the
Protectorate of the Syrian Catholics, as haughtily as when,
alone of all European flags, that of her consulate was known
and respected in the Levant. And still we have the mockery
of an entente cordiale to cripple and dishonour both of us.
Finally, in his domestic aims, we may say, that George
III. succeeded rather in modifying the constitution of parties,
than in seriously impairing parliamentary government. We
leave him on the fall of the coalition, with his cherished
schemes accomplished; his policy apparently successful; his
opponents curbed and overthrown in the full career of their
triumph ; his favourite minister dictating to the legislature, and
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Horace Walpole's Memoirs.— George III.
backed by the enthusiastic support of the nation. His subjects
had answered his appeal by investing him with powers prac
tically greater than the boldest of his predecessors had claimed,
Elizabeth at Tilbury, Charles on the Restoration, had scarcely
been the objects of more devoted homage than George III. on
the opening of the new Parliament in 1784. The cautious and
intrepid Pitt had actually realized Strafford’s fiery boast, that
he would make his master the greatest King in Christendom.
It is difficult to calculate how long, under any circumstances,
such a supremacy could have endured ; whether, with one or
two successors of determination equal io that of George III.
the people would have permanently consented to be played off
against the Parliament, till (as, after two Revolutions, is yet the
case in France) the Throne appeared the only stable institution
in the whirl of feeble ministries, and dishonest parties. Our
own opinion is unfavourable to the probability of such a result.
The spirit of spontaneous cohesion, (an essential element of
aristocracy,) the disposition to hereditary attachment, the rough
vigour of the Saxons, the knightly impatience of control which
the Normans left among us, would sooner or later have arrested
the dissolution of the English Parliament into an assemblage
of separate and helpless units. But the king’s insanity, and
consequent removal from public sight, anticipated the solution
of this problem, and from that time to the present, the royal
power, after its temporary elevation, has been always on the
decline. As at the Revolution, so in this century, Whigs and
Tories, differing in all else, have agreed in this, that the country
should be ruled by the body which they jointly compose. No
elective monarch could, no American President does, compete
for the government of the country more undisguisedly than do
Sir Robert Peel and Lord John Russell at the present day.
It is curious to contrast language found, for instance, in Lord
Eldon’s correspondence on the King’s personal objections to
Catholic emancipation, with the deafening cheers that rang
from the Tory benches, when Lord Stanley denounced ‘ the
deep guilt of the minister, who should dare to use the Queen’s
name, to overawe the deliberations of the free Commons of
England.’ The last attempt, which with most dishonourable
inconsistency the Whigs made in 1839, to revive the language
of absolutism only proved the entire absence of any corres
ponding sentiment in the nation.
But George III.’s influence was nevertheless profound and
lasting. The present Tory or Conservative party owes its ex
istence mainly to him. We have seen how the party which
supported Lord North, and finally placed Mr. Pitt in power,
was originally made up of deserters from the old Whig and
Tory parties, drawn together by no public sentiment, and
�Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches.
225
merely reflecting the opinion of the sovereign. For some time
the services of these ‘ King’s friends’ were only required on
behalf of the Minister of the day, while no question that in
volved a recurrence to first principles came under discussion.
But round the standard which George III. thus erected, there
rapidly grouped themselves all timid, and indolent, and selfish
natures ; and while the French Revolution encouraged the
Whigs to imprudent and embarrassing declarations, it drove
many over to the party of resistance. The confederacy grew
and grew, gradually confirming itself into sympathy with the
lowest English prejudices, till the enlightened Pitt found him
self at the head of a party, whose only profession, we may
seriously say, was to obstruct all that legislation, which the
voice of contemporary statesmen has stamped as wise and
good. He vainly trusted to his own genius,'to school his
followers into something like generosity and common sense.
On Parliamentary Reform, on Negro Slavery,on Catholic Eman
cipation, they perpetually thwarted and held back their leader,
and after his death, they threw overboard even the Free-Trade
principles, which in the Irish Propositions, and the French
Treaty, had laid the basis of his commercial reputation. This is
not the place to speak of their subsequent history; but we may
be permitted to say, that of all the singularities of our time,
we know none which will appear more marvellous to future
generations than the fact, that a party recruited from the people
in avowed opposition to the Whig nobility, with full half of
the wealth, and a fair share of the learning, eloquence, and
official aptitude of their day, should have preferred George
III, to William Pitt as the Apostle of their school.
Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches, with elucidations. By
Thomas Carlyle. In two volumes. London: Chapman
and Hall, 1845.
The attention of the reading public, still more of that smaller
section, the thinking public, has of late years been much
attracted to the times of ‘ the Great Rebellion,’ and the com
monwealth that arose out of its successful issue. That an in
creased desire should have arisen to know something about
the history of the country in which we live, and for which we
profess a patriotic pride that has become proverbial, is but a
natural corollary of the increased desire for historical research
6
�226
Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches.
generally which, first roused by Niebuhr, has been further stimu
lated by such writers as Guizot, as Sismondi, as Arnold and Thirlwall. Not less natural is it that the eye of the historical
inquirer should be attracted to the most striking point in the
whole picture of our English state ; that which is to English
history what the main subject of Raphael’s paintings is to the
whole picture, where all the back-ground is a succession of
details either originated by, or themselves originating, the
foremost object. But it is more than the mere scenic promi
nence of ‘ the Great Rebellion ’ that thus rivets modern gazers
with an interest of more than modern curiosity. It has so long
been the fashion to ascribe all the depraved and profligate tone
of manners of the eighteenth century to this event and its im
mediate consequences; nay, it is so much the fashion of the
present day to believe in a confused sort of parallel between
our own times and those of the first Charles, that we need not
search further for causes sufficient to call forth all the attention
that can be given to the subject.
Fortunately too, it is not merely to the dilettante student or
unpractical antiquarian, that the interest has been confined.
We have had volume after volume put forth, such as may go
far to satisfy any healthy appetite for real information, not only
by our own countrymen, but even by foreign writers who have
shared the epidemic interest of the day. And we may con
gratulate ourselves that we have no cause to blush for our
countrymen in the comparison. It is no disparagement to any
of the party to name together Mr. Forster, Mr. Macaulay,
M. Guizot, and Mr. Carlyle. To this last named w'riter, how
ever we confess we consider our obligations greater than to
any of the preceding. The sketch of Oliver Cromwell in
‘ Heroes and Hero worship,’ has, we honestly believe, done
more to clear the way for a dispassionate view of his character
and his times, than any thing else that has been written. The
canon which Mr. Carlyle there laid down in his clear, forcible,
graphic manner, (and w’hicli the historical student should
carry about with him, if not in letters of gold, yet in more
enduring characters, ‘ dypd</>otg ScXtchs <hpevG>v"), is so singularly
applicable to this period of history that we cannot forbear
quoting it here.
‘ There are two errors widely prevalent, which pervert to the very basis
our judgments formed about such men as Cromwell, about their ambition,
falsity, and such like. The first is what I might call substituting the goal
of their career for the course and starting point of it. The vulgar histo
rian of a Cromwell fancies that he had determined on being protector of
England at the time when he was ploughing the marsh lands of Cam
bridgeshire. His career lay all mapped out, a program of the whole
drama; which he then, step by step, dramatically unfolded, with all
5
�Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches.
227
manner of cunning, deceptive dramaturgy, as he went on—the hollow,
scheming ‘Y/coKpt-njs, or play-actor that he was ! This is a radical per
version, all but universal in such cases. And think for an instant how
different the fact is I How much does one of us foresee of his own
life ? Short way ahead of us it is all dim, an unwound skein of possi
bilities, of apprehensions,, attemptabilities, vague-looming hopes. This
Cromwell had not his life lying all in that fashion of program which
he needed then, with that unfathomable cunning of his, only to enact
dramatically, scene after scene I Not so. We see it so ; but to him it
was in no measure so. What absurdities would fall away of themselves,
were this one undeniable fact kept honestly in view by history ! Historians indeed will tell you that they do keep it in view; but look
whether such is practically the fact! Vulgar history, as in this, Crom
well’s case, omits it altogether; even the best kinds of history only
remember it now and then. To remember it duly, with vigorous per
fection, as in the fact it stood, requires indeed a rare faculty; rare, nay
impossible. A very Shakspeare for faculty, or more than Shakspeare;
who could enact a brother man’s biography, see with the brother man’s
eyes at all points of his course what things he saw; in short, know his
course and him, as few " historians ” are like to do. Half or more of
all the thick-plied perversions which distort our image of Cromwell,
will disappear if we honestly so much as try to represent them so, in
sequence, as they were; not in the lump as they are thrown down before
us.’—Heroes and Hero Worship, pp. 347-9.
On this canon the best possible commentary will be found in
the Letters and Speeches of Cromwell in the two volumes now
before us, which (if we may guess from an occasional hint
scattered here and there over their pages) are not to complete
the sum of our obligations to Mr. Carlyle in this matter.
Meanwhile we must not underrate our gratitude for what has
been already done, and for the manner in which it has been
done. To say indeed, generally, that these Letters and
Speeches have been collected carefully, and edited faithfully,
with unflinching honesty of purpose, and unwearying exertion
of diligence,—this is only (and we do not say it by way of
Rhetorical flourish, but in simple, respectful sincerity) to repeat
that of which the heading of our article will have already
advertised the reader, that the task has been performed by
Mr. Carlyle. But more particular eulogy is needed here.
There is in the volumes before us such an earnest, genuine,
prophetic truth—such a loving zeal in collecting details—such
a minute faithfulness, itself springing out of love, in setting
them forth in clear, perspicuous sequence—such exact identi
fication of places and times; above all, such a keen sagacity in
discriminating between truth and falsehood, and such resolute,
sustained diligence in forcing a path through the latter to get
at the former, that we feel ashamed to offer Mr. Carlyle so
faint an acknowledgment as thanks for what he has done.
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Before, however, proceeding to the actual examination of
the books themselves, we wish to notice two points of differ
ence that has occurred to us in comparing the Essays of Mr.
Macaulay on these times with w’hat we have had from Mr,
Carlyle on the same period. It is worth while to see how the
subject is viewed by the two ablest English writers of our own
day, who have attempted to treat of it. Mr. Macaulay’s hero
is John Hampden; Mr. Carlyle’s, Oliver Cromwell. Mr.
Macaulay says:—
‘ In Hampden, and in Hampden alone, were united all the qualities
which, at such a crisis, were necessary to save the state, the valour, and
energy of Cromwell, the discernment and eloquence of Vane, the
humanity and moderation of Manchester, the stern integrity of Hale»
the ardent public spirit of Sydney. Others might possess the qualities
which were necessary to save the popular party in the crisis of danger ;
he alone had both the power and the inclination to restrain its excesses
in the hour of triumph. Others could conquer ; he alone could recon
cile. A heart as bold as his brought up the cuirassiers who turned the
tide of battle on Marston Moor. As skilful an eye as his watched the
Scotch army descending from the heights over Dunbar. But it was
when, to the sullen tyranny of Laud and Charles, had succeeded the
fierce conflict of sects and factions, ambitious of ascendency and burn
ing for revenge, it was when the vices and ignorance which the old
tyranny had generated threatened the new freedom with destruction,,
that England missed the sobriety, the self-command, the perfect sound
*
ness of judgment, the perfect rectitude of intention, to which the history
of revolutions furnishes no parallel, or furnishes a parallel in Washing
ton alone.’—Essays, vol. i. pp. 489-90.
Mr. Carlyle, on the other hand :—
‘ For my own share, far be it from me to say or insinuate a word of
disparagement against such characters as Hampden, Ehot, Pym; whom
I believe to have been right worthy and useful men. I have read dili
gently what books and documents about them I could come at, with
the honestest wish to admire, to love, and worship them like heroes;
but 1 am sorry to say, if the real truth must be told, with very indiffer
ent success ! At bottom I found that it would not do.’............. ‘ One
leaves all these nobilities standing in their niches of honour; the rugged
outcast Cromwell, he is the man of them all, in whom one still finds hu
man stuff.’—Hero Worship, pp. 336-7.
Again, in speaking of the whole Puritan movement, there is
a marked difference observable, which may perhaps be referred
to the different avocations of the writers. Mr. Macaulay,
besides his literary occupations, has been engaged at the bar,
and in the House of Commons. Mr. Carlyle has led altogether
a practical literary life, if we may be allowed an expression
apparently so paradoxical. And we detect in Mr. Macaulay’s
position something of the tone acquired elsewhere ; the tone of
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229
a debater, rather than of a philosophical historian. He draws
a parallel between ‘ the great Rebellion’ and ‘ the glorious
Revolution,’ and is continually arguing the comparative merits
of the cases. He is ‘ at a loss to conceive how the same per
sons who, on the 5th of November, thank God for wonderfully
conducting his servant William, and for making all opposition
fall before him, until he became our king and governor, can,
on the 30th of January, contrive to be afraid that the blood of
the royal martyr may be visited on themselves and their chil
dren.’ Not that he is not bold to uphold the justice of the
cause in which the Puritans drew their sword, apart from any
relation of comparison (as witness his impassioned description
of the whole Puritan character); but it seems more natural to
take the course of a debater arguing against a party. ‘ You
approve of this; what then have you to disapprove in the
other ?’ But if the prosyllogism on which the major premise
rests be not conceded ?—
Mr. Carlyle, on the other hand, speaks from the first and
throughout absolutely, with the tone of a writer anxious to have
those of whom he writes tried on their own merits only, and
their position in the times in which they lived ; not referred to
any other standard of comparison by which they may be ele
vated or depressed. A more difficult, perhaps, but we believe
also a more valuable style of history, and, in Mr. Carlyle’s
hands, not losing in point what it gains in gravity. But to
proceed to the volumes themselves.
Their object is, as Mr. Carlyle says, ‘The collecting the let
ters and speeches of Oliver Cromwell, and presenting them in
natural sequence, with the still possible elucidation, to inge
nuous readers.’ This is their object. As to the formal mode
in which it has been fulfilled:—
‘ I have corrected the spelling of these Letters : I have punctuated
and divided them into paragraphs, in the modern manner. The
originals, so far as I have seen such, have in general no paragraphs :
if the letter is short, it is usually found written on the first leaf of the
sheet; often with the conclusion, or some postscript, subjoined cross
wise on the margin, indicating that there was no blotting-paper in
those days ; that the hasty writer was loath to turn the leaf. Oliver’s
spelling and pointing are of the sort common to educated persons in his
time; and readers that wish it may have specimens of him in abun
dance, and in all due dimness, in many printed books : but to us,
intent here to have the Letters read and understood, it seemed very pro
per at once and altogether to get nd of that encumbrance. Would the
rest were as easily got rid of! Here and there, to bring out the strug
gling sense, I have added or rectified a word,—but taken care to point
out the same; what words in the Text of the Letters are mine, the
reader will find marked off by single commas : it was1 of course my
supreme duty to avoid altering, in any respect, not only the sense, but
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the smallest feature in the physiognomy, of the original. And so ‘a
minimum of annotation’ having been added, what minimum would serve
the purpose,—here are the Letters and Speeches of Oliver Cromwell"—
Vol. i. pp. 116, 17.
In this last remark we find a sufficient answer to complaints
that we have heard made, ‘ Mr. Carlyle does not clear up this,’
—‘ Mr. Carlyle passes over that.’ Of course Mr. Carlyle does.
He tells his readers at starting he is going to add only ‘a
minimum of annotation,’ (a principle of editing to which he
continually refers throughout the book), and he is a man of his
word. So we have only an incidental notice of Strafford,
hardly so much of Laud, and the trial and execution of Charles
himself passed over with but very few words, though those are
of the most touching, thrilling interest. But wherever anno
tation was called for, we believe no reader will be disappointed.
To a graphic pow’er of describing scenery unequalled by any
English writer, except Dr. Arnold, Mr. Carlyle adds that
remarkable faculty ascribed by Dr. Arnold to Niebuhr, that
‘rare instinct’ which leads him ‘to seize on some particular
ipassage of a careless and ill-informed writer, and to perceive
n it the marks of most important truth ; while on other occa
sions be has set aside the statements of this same writer, with
no deference to his authority whatever.’—(Hist, of Rome, Vol.
I. p. 221). He sees too exactly what has real weight in the
history, and what has not ; and we profit accordingly. How
necessary this ‘instinctive power of discerning truth,’ and this
latter instinctive sagacity which results from it, must have been
in his present task; how impossible the performance of the
task must have been without it, we may gather pretty well
from what is said at the commencement of the first volume:—
“ The documents and records of it, (the Revolution), scattered waste
as a shoreless chaos, are not legible. They lie there, printed, written, to
the extent of tons and square miles, as shot-rubbish ; unedited, un
sorted, not so much as indexed ; full of every conceivable confusion ;—
yielding light to very few; yielding darkness, in several sorts, to very many.
Dull pedantry, conceited idle dilettantism,—prurient stupidity in what
shape soever,—is darkness, and not light! There are from thirty to
fifty thousand unread pamphlets of the Civil War in the British Museum
alone : huge piles of mouldering wreck, wherein, at the rate of perhaps
one pennyweight per ton, lie things memorable. They lie preserved
there, waiting happier days; under present conditions they cannot, ex
cept for idle purposes, for dilettante excerpts and such like, be got ex
amined. The Rushworths, Whitlockes, Nelsons, Thurloes; enormous
folios, these and many others, they have been printed, and some of them
again printed, but never yet edited,—edited as you edit waggon-loads of
broken bricks and dry mortar, simply by tumbling up the waggon! ”—
„ Vol. i. pp. 4, 5.
Mr. Carlyle may well say ‘ Such a job of buck-washing as I do
�Owner Cromwell's Letters and Speeches.
231
not Wish to repeat;” needing all the encouragement that the
authentic utterances’ of Cromwell himself could yield to
make it even tolerable.
It is to this ‘shoreless chaos,’ in which all documents relating
to the times lie, that Mr. Carlyle attributes in part our igno
rance of the times themselves. To this in part, but also to an
intrinsic cause existing in us, that their ‘ spiritual purport has
become inconceivable, incredible to the modern mind.’ And,
more than all to a third cause, with which both these are (as
it seems to us) connected ; out of which, indeed, by a natural
order, they do in some sort spring, and to which they contribute
in their turn.
‘What is it, all this Rushworthian inarticulate rubbish-continent,
in its ghastly dim twilight, with its haggard wrecks, and pale shadows ;
what is it, but the common kingdom of death ? This is what we call
death, this mouldering dumb wilderness of things once alive. Behold
here the final evanescence of formed human things ; they had form,
but they are changed into sheer formlessness ;—ancient human speech
itself has sunk into unintelligible maundering. This is the collapse,—
the etiolation of human features into mouldy blank; dissolution;
progress towards utter silence and disappearance; disastrous ever-deaf
ening dusk of gods and men I Why has the living ventured thither,
down from the cheerful light, across the Lethe-swamps and Tartarean
Phlegethons, onwards to these baleful halls of Dis and the three-headed
dog? Some destiny drives him. It is his sins, I suppose :—perhaps
it is his love, strong as that of Orpheus for the lost Eurydice, and
likely to have no better issue!’—Vol. i. pp. 16, 17.
But let the Letters speak for themselves.
The first we shall select was written when Cromwell was in
his fortieth year. How that he w'as born of a fair lineage,
son of Robert Cromwell, grandson of Sir Henry, the Golden
Knight of Hinchinbrook, and great-grandson of Sir Richard,
who was either nephew (as he signs himself) or some other
near relation of Cromwell, Earl of Essex; how, when he was
four years old, his childish imagination was stirred by the
stately reception of King James at uncle Oliver’s house of
Hinchinbrook ; how he went to Dr. Beard’s School at Hunt
ingdon, and in his eighteenth year was entered at Sydney-Sussex
College under the auspices of worthy Master Richard Howlet;
how, in the next year his father died, and Oliver, now become
the representative of that branch of the house, exchanged
college-studies for the conduct of a family at home ; how, in
1617 he went to London and entered at a Benchers Chambers,
to gain some knowledge of Law, and in 1620 was married at
the church of St. Giles, Cripplegate, to Elizabeth Bourchier,
daughter of Sir James Bourchier, Knight, and with her lived
on at Huntingdon ‘ for almost ten years: farming lands; most
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probably attending quarter-sessions ; doing the civic, indus-l
trial, and social duties, in the common way;’ in the
course of which years, Dr. Simcott, physician in Huntingdon!
had often to be ‘ sent for at midnight ’ to allay his fits or
hypochondria ; how, in 1628, he sat in Parliament as member
for Huntingdon, and did his part in the Petition of Right, and
in 1629 brought before the house poor Dr. Alablaster for
preaching ‘ flat Popery at Paul’s Cross,’ and his Diocesan,
Neile, Bishop of Winchester, for encouraging him; how, in
1630 he was named one of the Justices of the Peace for Hunt
ingdon, and in the next year left Huntingdon for a grazing
farm at St. Ives; whence, in 1636, he wrote ‘ to Mr. Storie at
the sign of the Dog in the Royal Exchange, London,’ in sup
port of 1 the Lecture in our County;’ how, in the same year
he moved to Ely to take possession of the estate of his de
ceased uncle, Sir Thomas Steward, whose principal heir he
was, and is there during the ecclesiastical agitation in Scot
land, and the trial of ‘ Cousin Hampden ’ in London for re
fusing his payment of Ship Money;—all this is told by Mr.
Carlyle in the form of brief annals of singular terseness and
interest. And this brings us to the letter itself:
c To my beloved Cousin Mrs. St. John, at Sir William Masharn his
House called Otes, in Essex : Present these.
‘Ely, 13th October, 1638.
‘ Dear Cousin,
‘ I thankfully acknowledge your love in your kind remembrance of me
upon this opportunity. Alas, you do too highly prize my lines, and
my company. I may be ashamed to own your expressions, considering
how unprofitable I am, and the mean improvement of my talent.
‘ Yet to honour my God by declaring what He hath done for my
soul, in this I am confident, and I will be so. Truly, then, this I find:
That He giveth springs in a dry barren wilderness where no water is.
I live, you know where,—in Meshec, which they say signifies Prolong
ing ; in Kedar, which signifies Blackness : yet the Lord forsaketh me
not. Though He do prolong, yet He will I trust bring me to His
Tabernacle, to His resting-place. My soul is with the Congregation
of the Firstborn, my body rests in hope : and if here I may honour my
God either by doing or by suffering, I shall be most glad.
‘ Truly no poor creature hath more cause to put himself forth in the
cause of his God than I. I have had plentiful wages beforehand ; and
I am sure I shall never earn the least mite. The Lord accept me in
His Son, and give me to walk in the light,—and give us to walk in the
light, as He is the light! He it is that enlighteneth our blackness,
our darkness. I dare not say, He hideth His face from me. He giveth
me to see light in His light. One beam in a dark place hath exceeding
much refreshment in it:—blessed be His Name for shining upon so
dark a heart as mine ! You know what my manner of life hath been.
Oh, I lived in and loved darkness, and hated light; I was a chief, the
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chief of sinners. This is true : I hated godliness, yet God had mercy
on me. O the riches of His mercy! Praise Him for me;—pray for
me, that He who hath begun a good work would perfect it in the day
of Christ.
‘ Salute all my friends in that Family whereof you are yet a member.
I am much bound unto them for their love. I bless the Lord for
them ; and that my Son, by their procurement, is so well. Let him
have your prayers, your counsel; let me have them.
‘ Salute your Husband and Sister from me :—He is not a man of his
word! He promised to write about Mr. Wrath of Epping ; but as yet
I receive no letters :—put him in mind to do what with conveniency
may be done for the poor cousin I did solicit him about.
‘ Once more farewell. The Lord be with you : so prayeth
‘ Your truly loving Cousin,
‘ Oliver Cromwell.’*
In 1640 Oliver sits in the Short Parliament as Member for
Cambridge, and in the November of the same year as Member
for Cambridge again in the New Parliament. Here he pre
sents a petition from John Lilburn, Prynne’s amanuensis,
shocks dainty Sir Philip Warwick by his ‘ plain cloth suit,
which seemed to have been made by an ill country-tailor,’ and
his ‘ plain, and not very clean ’ linen, and tries courteous Mr.
Hyde’s patience in Committee. Here too in the following
November of 1641 he takes part In ‘ the Grand Petition and
Remonstrance,’ and then, remonstrating and petitioning
being at an end, comes forward in 1642 to lend money ‘ for
the service of the Commonwealth, sends down arms into
Cambridgeshire, and at last takes the field at Edge-Hill.
Then, in the winter, he is mainly instrumental in organizing
the Eastern Association for mutual defence among the counties
of Norfolk, Suffolk, Essex, Cambridge, and Herts. In 1643
we have Newbury, the first battle, and Winceby fight, a fight
nearly fatal to Oliver; in 1644 the Treaty of Uxbridge and
Marston Moor, and in June 1645 came Naseby. We extract
the letter in which Cromwell announces this victory to the
Speaker of the House of Commons, not as being better than
others announcing similar events, but as more suitable to our
limits than any other which is the messenger of news equally
important.
e For the Honourable William Lenthall, Speaker of the Commons
House of Parliament: These.
‘ Harborough, 14th June, 1645,
‘ Sir,
‘ Being commanded by you to this service, I think myself bound to
acquaint you with the good hand of God towards you and us.
‘ We marched yesterday after the King, who went before us from
* ‘ Tburloe’s State Papers (London 1742), i. 1.’ »
VOL. II.
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Dav entry to Harborough ; and quartered about six miles from him.
This day we marched towards him. He drew out to meet us; both
armies engaged. We, after three hours fight very doubtful, at last
routed his army ; killed and took about 5000,—very many officers, but
of what quality we yet know not. We took also about 200 carriages,
all he had ; and all his guns, being 12 in number, whereof two were
demi-cannon, two demi-culverins, and I think the rest sackers. We
pursued the enemy from three miles short of Harborough to nine beyond,
even to the sight of Leicester, whither the King fled.
‘ Sir, this is none other but the hand of God ; and to Him alone
belongs the glory, wherein none are to share with Him. The General
served you with all faithfulness and honour : and the best commenda
tion I can give him is, That I daresay he attributes all to God, and
would rather perish than assume to himself. Which is an honest and
a thriving way :—and yet as much for bravery may be given to him, in
this action, as to a man. Honest men served you faithfully in this
action. Sir, they are trusty; I beseech, you, in the name of God, not
to discourage them. I wish this action may beget thankfulness and
humility in all that are concerned in it. He that ventures his life for
the liberty of his country, I wish he trust God for the liberty of his
conscience, and you for the liberty he fights for. In this he rests,
who is
‘ Your most humble servant,
•
‘ Oliver Cromwell.’*
In September of this same year 1645, Bristol surrenders to
the Parliamentary forces, and we must make one short quota
tion from the letter in which Oliver reports this new success,
in order to illustrate a phrase occurring in the Letter just
extracted, which might puzzle a reader not furnished with any
commentary on the passage. The expression to which we
refer is, ‘ Honest men served you faithfully in this action.’
Oliver is generally his own best interpreter, if we will only
take the trouble to study his expressions and compare them.
But to our quotation.
‘ Thus I have given you a true, but not a full account of this great
business; wherein he that runs may read, That all this is none other
than the work of God. He must be a very Atheist that doth not
acknowledge it.
‘ It may be thought that some praises are due to those gallant men,
of whose valour so much mention is made :—their humble suit to you
and all that have an interest in this blessing, is, That in the remem
brance of God’s praises they be forgotten. It’s their joy that they are
instruments of God’s glory, and their country’s good. It’s their honour
that God vouchsafes to use them. Sir, they that have been employed
in this sendee know, that faith and prayer obtained this City for you :
I do not say ours only, but of the people of God with you and all Eng
land over, who have wrestled with God for a blessing in this very thing.
* ‘ Harl. mss. no. 7502, art. 5, p. 7; Rush worth, vi. 45.1
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Our desires are that God may be glorified by the same spirit of faith by
which we ask all our sufficiency, and have received it. It is meet that
He have all the praise. Presbyterians, Independents, all have here the
same spirit of faith and prayer ; the same presence and answer ; they
agree here, have no names of difference: pity it is it should be other
wise anywhere ! All that believe, have the real unity, which is most
glorious; because inward and spiritual, in the Body, and to the Head.
*
For being united in forms, commonly called Uniformity, every Chris
tian will for peacesake study and do, as far as conscience will permit.
And for brethren, in things of the mind we look for no compulsion, but
that of fight and reason. In other things, God hath put the sword in the
Parliament’s hands,—for the terror of evil-doers, and the praise of them
that do well If any plead exemption from that,—he knows not the
Gospel: if any would wring that out of your hands, or steal it from you
under what pretence soever, I hope they shall do it without effect.
That God may maintain it in your hands, and direct you in the use
thereof, is the prayer of
‘ Your humble servant,
‘ Oliver Cromwell.’!
*
In March 1646 the first Civil War is ended by the surrender
of the Royalist Generals, Sir Ralph Hopton in Cornwall, and
Sir Jacob Astley ‘ at Stow among the Wolds of Glocestershire.’ The King goes from Oxford to the Scots Army, and
having refused to accede to the ‘ Propositions ’ of the parlia
mentary Commissioners, (for this mainly, and also for other
Uses which an intelligent reader may perhaps discover for
himself,) has to retire in February 1647 ‘ to Holmby House, in
Northamptonshire, to continue in strict though very stately
seclusion, “ on fifty pound a day.” and await the destinies there.’
With great reluctance we must pass over the history of the
period between this date and November 1648; a period of
intense interest, with its Presbyterian and Independent differ
ences, Army Manifestoes, and feats of arms. But we have a
long letter to quote here, and we must quote it entire, for it is
the completest illustration the whole collection of letters affords
of the character of the writer; his warm and tender affection
ateness, his deep earnest sense of religion, and complete prac
tical devotion to it, his strong and clear reason, and his stern
severity of resolution. This last trait of the man is indeed
familiar enough to those who know little else of his portraits.
The rugged features have caught the eye of the most thought
less passer by, but it needs a longer and more careful inspec
tion to detect the softer and finer lineaments. The letter of
which we speak is addressed to Colonel Robert Hammond,
Governor of the Isle of Wight, in whose custody the King
now is, and ‘ who seems to be in much straits about’ him.
* * “ Head ” means Christ; “ Body” is True Church of Christ.'
t ‘ Rushworth, vi. 85.’
R 2
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‘ To Colonel Robert Hammond : These.
, ‘ Knottingly, near Pontefract,
25th November, 1648.’
‘ Dear Robin,
‘ No man rejoiceth more to see a line from thee than myself. I
know thou hast long been under trial. Thou shalt be no loser by it.
All “ things ” must work for the best.
‘ Thou desirest to hear of my experiences. I can tell thee : I am
such a one as thou didst formerly know, having a body of sin and
death; but I thank God, through Jesus Christ our Lord, there is no
condemnation, though much infirmity; and I wait for the redemption.
And in this poor condition I obtain mercy, and sweet consolation through
the Spirit. And find abundant cause every day to exalt the Lord, and
abase flesh,—and herein * I have some exercise.
‘ As to outward dispensations, if we may so call them : we have not
been without our share of beholding some remarkable providences, and
appearances of the Lord. His presence hath been amongst us, and by
the light of His countenance we have prevailed.')' We are sure, the
goodwill of Him who dwelt in the Bush has shined upon us ; and we
can humbly say, We know in whom we have believed ; who can and
will perfect what remaineth, and us also in doing what is well-pleasing
in His eye-sight.
‘ I find some trouble in your spirit; occasioned first, not only by the
continuance of your sad and heavy burden, as you call it, but also
by the dissatisfaction you take at the ways of some good men whom
you love with your heart, who through this principle, That it is lawful
for a lesser part, if in the right, to force " a numerical majority ” &c.
‘ To the first: Call not your burden sad or heavy. If your Father
laid it upon you, He intended neither. He is the Father of fights,
from whom comes every good and perfect gift; who of His own will
begot us, and bade us count it all joy when such things befal us ; they
being for the exercise of faith and patience, whereby in the end (James,
i.) we shall be made perfect.
‘ Dear Robin, our fleshly reasonings ensnare us. These make us
say, “ heavy,” “ sad,” “ pleasant,” “ easy.” Was there not a little
of this when Robert Hammond, through dissatisfaction too, desired re
tirement from the Army, and thought of quiet in the Isle of Wight ?J
Did not God find him out there? I believe he will never forget this.
—And now I perceive he is to seek again; partly through his sad and
heavy burden, and partly through his dissatisfaction with friends’
actings.
‘ Dear Robin, thou and I were never worthy to be door-keepers in this
Service. If thou wilt seek, seek to know the mind of God in all that
chain of Providence, whereby God brought thee thither, and that Person
to thee ; how, before and since, God has ordered him, and affairs con
cerning him: and then tell me, Whether there be not some glorious
and high meaning in all this, above what thou hast yet attained ? And,
laying aside thy fleshly reason, seek of the Lord to teach thee what that
* ‘ And in the latter respect at least.’
f ‘ At Preston, &c.’
‘ 6th September of the foregoing year.’
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is ; and He will do it. I dare be positive to say, It is not that the
wicked should be exalted that God should so appear as indeed He hath
*
done.
For there is no peace to them. No, it is set upon the hearts
of such as fear the Lord, and we have witness upon witness, That it
_ shall go ill with them and their partakers. I say again, seek that
spirit to teach thee; which is the spirit of knowledge and understand
ing, the spirit of council and might, of wisdom and of the fear of the
Lord. That spirit will close thine eyes and stop thine ears, so that
thou shalt not judge by them ; but thou shalt judge for the meek of
the Earth, and thou shalt be made able to do accordingly. The Lord
direct thee to that which is well-pleasing in His eve-sight.
‘ As to thy dissatisfaction with friends’ actings upon that supposed
principle, I wonder not at that. If a man take not his own burden
well, he shall hardly others; especially if involved by so near a relation
of love and Christian brotherhood as thou art. I shall not take upon
me to satisfy ; but I hold myself bound to lay my thoughts before so
dear a friend. The Lord do His own will.
‘ You say : “ God hath appointed authorities among the nations, to
which active or passive obedience is to be yielded. This resides in
England in the Parliament. Therefore active or passive resistance,”
&c.
‘ Authorities and powers are the ordinance of God. This or that
species is of human institution, and limited, some with larger, others
with stricter bands, each one according to its constitution. “ But” I
do not therefore think the Authorities may do anything,^ and yet such
obedience be due. All agree that there are cases in which it is lawful
to resist. If so, your ground fails, and so likewise the inference.
Indeed, dear Robin, not to multiply words, the query is, Whether ours
be such a case ? This ingenuously is the true question.
c To this I shall say nothing, though I could say very much ; but
only desire thee to see what thou findest in thy own heart to two or
three plain considerations : First, Whether Salus Populi be a sound
position?J Secondly, Whether in the way in hand,§ really and before
the Lord, before whom conscience has to stand this be provided for ;—
or if the whole fruit of the War is not like to be frustrated, and all most
like to turn to it was, and worse ? And this, contrary to Engagements,
explicit Covenants with those || who ventured their lives upon those
Covenants and Engagements, without whom perhaps, in equity, relaxa
tion ought not to be ? Thirdly, Whether this Army be not a lawful
Power, called by God to oppose and fight against the King upon some
stated grounds ; and being in power to such ends, may not oppose one
Name of Authority, for those ends, as well as another Name,—since it
was not the outward Authority summoning them that by its power made
the quarrel lawful, but the quarrel was lawful in itself? If so, it may
be, acting will be justified in foro humano.—But truly this kind of
* ‘ For other purposes that God has so manifested Himself as, in these transactions
of ours, He has done.’
f ‘ Whatsoever they like.’
+ ‘ The safety of the people the supreme law : is that a true doctiine or a false
one ?’
§ ‘ By this Parliamentary Treaty with the King.’
|| ‘ Us soldiers,’
�238
Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches*
reasonings may be but fleshly, either with or against: only it is good
to try what truth may be in them. And the Lord teach us.
‘ My dear Friend, let us look into providences ; surely they mean
somewhat. They hang so together ; have been so- constant, so clear,
unclouded. Malice, swoln malice against God’s people, now called
“ Saints,” to root out their name ;—and yet they, “ these poor Saints,”
getting arms, and therein blessed with defence and more !—I desire, he
that is for a principle of suffering * would not too much slight this. I
slight not him who is so minded : hut let us beware lest fleshly reason
ing see more safety in making use of this principle than in acting!
Who acts, if he resolve not through God to be willing to part with all ?
Our hearts are very deceitful, on the right and on the left.
‘ What think you of Providence disposing the hearts of so many of
God’s people this way,—especially in this poor Army, wherein the
great God has vouchsafed to appear I I know not one Officer among
us but is on the increasing hand. j~ And let me say, it is after much
patience,—here in the north. We trust, the same Lord who hath
framed our minds in our actings is with us in this also. And all con
trary to a natural tendency, and to those comforts our hearts could
wish to enjoy as well as others. And the difficulties probably to be
encountered with, and the enemies :—not few ; even all that is glorious
in this world. Appearance of united names, titles and authorities
“ all against us —and yet not terrified “ we
only desiring to fear
our great God, that we do nothing against His will. Truly this is our
condition .J
1 And to conclude. We in this Northern Army were in a waiting
posture; desiring to see what the Lord would lead us to. And a
Declaration § is put out, at which many are shaken :—although we
could perhaps have wished the stay of it till after the Treaty, yet see
ing it is come out, we trust to rejoice in the will of the Lord, waiting
His farther pleasure.—Dear Robin, beware of men ; look up to the
Lord. Let Him be free to speak and command in thy heart. Take
heed of the things I fear thou hast reasoned thyself into; and thou
shalt be able through Him, without consulting flesh and blood, to do
valiantly for Him and His people.
‘ Thou mentionest somewhat as if, by acting against such opposition
as is like to be, there will be a tempting of God. Dear Robin, tempting
of God ordinarily is either by acting presumptuously in carnal confi
dence, or in unbelief through diffidence: both these ways Israel tempted
God in the wilderness, and He was grieved by them. Not the en
countering of difficulties, therefore, makes us to tempt God; but the
* ‘ Passive obedience.’
f ‘ Come or coming over to this opinion.’
J ‘ The incorrect original, rushing on in an eager ungrammatical manner, were it
not that common readers might miss the meaning of it, would please me better; at
any rate I subjoin it here as somewhat characteristic : “ And let me say it is here
in the N orth after much patience, we trust the same Lord who hath framed our
minds in our actings is with us in this also. And this contrary to a natural tendency,
and to those comforts our hearts could wish to enjoy with others. And the difficul
ties probably to be encountered with, and the enemies, not few, even all that is
glorious in this world, with appearance of united names, titles and authorities, and
yet not terrified, only,” &c.’
§ ' Remofistrance of the Army, presented by Ewer on Monday last.’
�Omjei^Cromweirs Letters and Speeches.
239
acting before and without faith.
*
If the Lord have in any measure
persuaded His people, as generally He hath, of the lawfulness, nay of
the duty,—this persuasion prevailing upon the heart is faith; and
acting thereupon is acting in faith; and the more the difficulties are, the
more the faith. And it is most sweet that he who is not persuaded
have patience towards them that are, and judge not: and this will free
thee from the trouble of others’ actings, which, thou sayest, adds to
thy grief. Only let me offer two or three things, and I have done.
‘Dost thou not think this fear of the Levellers (of whom there is no
fear) “ that they would destroy Nobility,” &c. has caused some to take
up corruption, and find it lawful to make this ruining hypocritical
Agreement, on one part?j~ Hath not this biassed even some good
men ? I will not say, the thing they fear will come upon them; but if
it do, they will themselves, bring it upon themselves. Have not some
of our friends, by their passive principle (which I judge not, only I
think it liable to temptation as well as the active, and neither of them
good but as we are led into them of God, and neither of them to be
reasoned into, because the heart is deceitful),—been occasioned to over
look what is just and honest, and to think the people of God may have
as much or more good the one way than the other ? Good by this
Man,—against whom the Lord hath witnessed; and whom thou
knowest! Is this so in their hearts ; or is it reasoned, forced in ? J
‘ Robin, I have done. Ask we our hearts, Whether, after all, these
dispensations, the like to which many generations cannot afford,—should
end in so corrupt reasonings of good men ; and should so hit the
designings of bad? Thinkest thou in thy heart that the glorious dis
pensations of God point out to this ? Or to teach His people to trust
in Him, and to wait for better things,—when, it may be, better are
sealed to many of their spirits ?§ And I, as a poor looker on, I had
rather live in the hope of that spirit “ which believes that God doth so
teach us,” and take my share with them, expecting a good issue, than
be led away with the others.
‘ This trouble I have been at, because my soul loves thee, and I
would not have thee swerve, or lose any glorious opportunity the Lord
puts into thy hand. The Lord be thy counsellor. Dear RobiD, I rest
thine,
‘ Oliver Cromwell.’||
But we must have done. In the space to which we are
limited, we cannot hope to do more than give a critical notice
of the work before us, hardly even that, and our object has
been therefore to make such a selection of letters as may
induce our readers to turn to the book itself for completer*
§
* ‘ Very true, my Lord General,—then, now, and always!’
‘ Hollow Treaty at Newport.’
j 6 I think it is reasoned in, and by bad arguments too, my Lord General ! The
inner heart of the men in real contact with the inner heart of the matter had little to
do with all that
alas, was there ever any such contact with the real truth of any
matter, on the part of such men, your Excellency !’
§ ‘ Already indubitably sure to many of them.’
|| ‘Birch, p. 101 ; ends the Volume.’
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Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches.
information. We have wished to bring before them such
different points in the character of Oliver Cromwell as his own
letters offer to our view, and so help them in some sort to com
bine a whole for themselves, (if they will be at no more trouble
in the matter than this,) that may at any rate be something of
a likeness, not a distorted caricature. One or two more ex
tracts only and we have done. The first from a letter written
after the siege of Tredah, or Drogheda in 1649, a siege, as we
have no need to inform our readers, in which Cromwell re
fused quarter. Hear what he has to say for himself about it.
sI am persuaded that this is a righteous judgement of God upon
these barbarous wretches, who have imbrued their hands in so much
innocent blood, and that it will tend to prevent the effusion of blood
for the future. Which are the satisfactory grounds to such actions,
which otherwise cannot but work remorse and regret.’
At Ross the Governor is anxious for certain conditions,
‘ liberty of conscience ’ among others. Oliver has a notable
answer for him, notable for the modern politician in many
ways.
‘ For the Governor of Ross : These.
‘ 19th October, 1649.
‘ Sir,
‘To what I formerly offered, I shall make good. As for your
*
carrying away any artillery or ammunition, that you brought not with
you, or that hath not come to you since you had the command of that
place,—I must deny you that; expecting you to leave it as you found
it.
‘ As for that which you mention concerning liberty of conscience,
I meddle not with any man’s conscience. But if by liberty of con
science, you mean a liberty to exercise the Mass, I judge it best to use
plain dealing, and to let you know, Where the Parliament of England
have power, that will not be allowed of. As for such of the Townsmen
who desire to depart, and carry away themselves and goods (as you
express), I engage myself they shall have three months time so to do ;
and in the mean time shall be protected from violence in their persons
and goods, as others under the obedience of the Parhament.
‘ If you accept of this offer, I engage my honour for a punctual per
formance hereof. I rest,
‘Your servant,
‘ Oliver Cromwell.’-)-
And now, space for one letter more, written from the Army
at Dunbar, and beaming pleasantly upon us from among details
of battle and hurly-burly, as a glimpse of cheerful sunshine
between black thunder-showers.
‘ To, sic.’
+ ‘ Newspapers (in Cromwelliana, p. 68).’
�A Chapter of Roman History.
241
* For my beloved Wife, Elizabeth Cromwell, at the Cockpit: These.
‘ Dunbar, 4th September, 1650.
‘ My Dearest,
‘ I have not leisure to write much. But I could chide thee that in
many of thy letters thou writest to me, That I should not be unmindful
of thee and thy little ones. Truly, if I love you not too well, I think
I err not on the other hand much. Thou art dearer to me than any
creature ; let that suffice.
‘ The Lord hath shewed us an exceeding mercy :—who can tell how
great it is! My weak faith hath been upheld. I have been in my
inward man marvellously supported ;—though I assure thee, I grow an
pld man, and feel infirmities of age marvellously stealing upon me.
Would my corruptions did as fast decrease! Pray on my behalf in the
latter respect. The particulars of our late success Harry Vane or Gil
bert Pickering will impart to thee. My love to all dear friends. I
rest thine,
‘Oliver Cromwell.’ *
Of the speeches we have not said a word. Elsewhere, if
opportunity be afforded, we may speak of these and some
other things in the two volumes we have professed to notice
here. For the present we can only repeat our thanks to Mr.
Carlyle for having, at such cost of thought and labour to him
self, furnished us with an authentic collection of Cromwell’s
‘ utterances,’ to which, in point of historical merit, we know no
parallel.
A CHAPTER OF ROMAN HISTORY.
av 7twto$ etvai Trpoayayeiv Kai ScapOpwaac ra KaXw$ e^ovra ry
irepiypac/xrj.—ARISTOT.
Early Roman History in its outline is beginning to be
generally understood. The darkness which for ages rested
upon it, first pierced by the solitary ray of light which M. de
Beaufort darted into its thick obscurity, has been within the
last quarter of a century almost entirely dispelled by the won
derful sagacity and acumen of the mighty Niebuhr. Reluctant
as the English mind ever is to receive new impressions upon
any subject, in this respect it has been compelled to give way.
A light blazed forth from that transcendent genius, against
* ‘ Copied from the Original by John Hare, Esq., Rosemount Cottage, Clifton.
Collated with the old Copy in British Museum, Cole mss. no. 5834, p. 38. The'
Original was purchased at Strawberry-Hill Sale (Horace Walpole’s), 30th April
1842, for Twenty-one guineas.’
’
�242
A Chapter of Roman History.
which it was in vain to close the eyes. Accordingly we have
yielded, and the submission has been complete. Our books of
reference on the subject have been all re-written ; our old
authorities for the period discarded. Keightley is now the
school text-book in lieu of Ferguson or Goldsmith ; Arnold
the general reader’s authority in the place of Hooke. Thus
the reading world has been leavened, while for the volatile
mass, who merely skim the surface of our lighter literature,
Useful Knowledge Tracts, Quarterly Reviews, and Penny
Magazines, have effected almost without their knowledge a
similar change of sentiment. Niebuhr, reflected, diluted, anato
mised, popularised, expanded, has been for the last ten years
continually placed before the public, till now at length they
discern Roman History in the form, more or less made out,
which it received from him.
But while thus much has been gained to us by means of his
wonderful ability, and through his influence so vast a stride in
knowledge has been taken by the age, in one respect we may
seem to have suffered from his very greatness and unapproach
able excellence. Men have not only thought it presumption
to differ from any of his views, but vanity even to imagine it
possible to add to his discoveries. Yet this is really to misun
derstand and misappreciate thenature of genius, of which itis the
special characteristic that it hits on grand leading principles, which
are capable of a vast extent of application, and strikes out bold
outlines without stopping to elaborate them in detail, while it
leaves to inferior minds the carrying out of those principles to
their results, and the filling up of the details of that outline.
Certainly very little appears to have been effected in this way
by any of those writers to whom allusion has been made. Some,
as Keightly, selecting from the somewhat irregular and con
fused mass of materials supplied by Niebuhr, the most important
facts, set before us accurately enough, but most drily and unpleasingly, the bare ground-plan of his system. Others, as
Arnold, build up a magnificent palace out of the same materials,
yet still add nothing of their own but ornamental fret-work.
Nothing like real progress is made, not a single step seems to
have been gained; our authors do but tread and re-tread one
and the same spot of ground.
These preliminary remarks will have enabled the sagacious
reader to anticipate the general line taken in the ensuing pages.
An attempt is made in them to throw new light upon one of
the obscurest portions of ancient Roman History by applying
to it in detail Niebuhr’s principles. No claim is laid to origi
nality in the mode of conducting the inquiry, but results entirely
new, it is believed, are obtained by pursuing his method. Thus
an example is set which it is hoped others more competent than
�A Chapter of Roman History.
243
the writer will be led to follow, whereby the Aristotelian pre
cept, placed at the head of this article may be observed,
and the science of Roman History reach by degrees its full
development.
The period which it is proposed to consider, is that which is
contained between the years of Rome 389 (384), and 413 (408);
in other words, that which extends from the passing of the
Licinian to the enactment of the Genucian laws. It corre
sponds therefore with the latter part of the fifteenth and almost
the whole of the sixteenth book of Diodorus, and is exactly
comprised in the seventh book of Livy. Niebuhr treats of it
in the third and fourth sections of his third volume, and Arnold
in the twenty-seventh and twenty-eighth chapters of his history.
It occupies the space of exactly a quarter of a century, and is
familiarly known to the student of Roman History as the
transition period between the times of the fierce contention and
the cordial agreement of the patrician and plebeian orders.
Of this period, the most remarkable fact, according to the
universal consent of all writers, is the partial recovery of the
consulate by the patricians. In the year of Rome 400, within
twelve years of the passing of the Licinian law, two patricians
were seen again at the helm of the republic. During the re
maining portion of the period, that is, for the space of thirteen
years, similar violations of the law frequently recurred. The
Consulate was engrossed by the patricians almost as often as it
was shared between the orders. Meantime all continued
peaceful: there was no outbreak, no secession, not even any
organised agitation. Such was the confidence of the rulers in
the continuance of domestic tranquillity, that a war with the
most powerful nation of Southern Italy was provoked and
entered on. Campania was encouraged to throw off her alle
giance, and hostilities were commenced with Samnium. Then,
according to the history, there came an accidental revolt, which
without cause or even pretext, grew into a rebellion, brought
the state to the verge of ruin, and at last was pacified by the
concession of a few insignificant demands, together with the
enactment of a few laws wholly unconnected with the demands,
and of which it is very difficult to discern the bearing or the
benefit. An end however was put at this very time to patri
cian usurpation, and henceforward the Licinian law is not
violated, even in a single instance, so long as the distinction
between patrician and plebeian continues.
Now, considering the unprecedented length and fierceness
of the struggle by which the division of the Consulate had
been extorted, and the absence of all assignable cause for the
declension of the plebeian power, it certainly does appear a most
extraordinary fact that within so short a time the plebians should
�244
A Chapter of Roman History.
have lost the fruit of their victory to such an extent as is in
volved in the suspension of the Licinian law even in a single
instance. And that the suspension should have been perse
vered in, repeated five or six times, that it should have become
as usual as the observance of the law, does seem so very strange
a phenomenon, if we realize the fact, that, unless some very
special circumstances can be found explanatory of it, we must
look upon history as altogether a riddle and a perplexity. And
when to this is added the unusual apathy on this occasion of
the plebeian order and their strange submission for so long a
time to so grossly iniquitous a usurpation, and finally the
sudden discontinuance of the practice at once and for ever
without cause assigned or even mention made of the circum
stance,—when all this is taken into their account, the marvel
lousness of the whole passage of history reaches a point
beyond which imagination has scarcely gone in the mythical
legends of remote antiquity.
When we look narrowly into the record of these events in
the hope of obtaining some clue to the real rationale of them,
there are two circumstances that appear chiefly noticeable.
In the first place, it will be found (though the fact appears
hitherto to have escaped even the penetrating eyes of German
investigators) that, at least as a general rule, the patrician
usurpations took place in alternate years.
From the first setting aside of the Licinian law to its com
plete and final re-establishment, there were at the most two
departures from this practice; the first in the year 401, the
second in 408. Even, therefore, if it be taken for granted that
the Fasti followed by Livy were correct in these two instances,
still a degree of uniformity remains which is exceedingly re
markable. It could not be mere chance which produced in all
the even years but one, a departure from the Licinian law, in
all the odd years but one, an observance of it. W hen Niebuhr
had noticed the prevalence of a certain routine in the military
tribunate during the five years preceding the fall of Veii, his
sagacity at once seized upon the fact as valuable, and on con
sideration he was led to attribute the regularity to an agree
ment between the orders.
*
Here we have a routine which
lasted undoubtedly for six consecutive years, (from 402 to 407,)
and then, after perhaps a single interruption for five years
more, (from 409 to 413). Of this regularity there must be
some account to be given, and from it alone we should almost
be justified in presuming the existence during the period in
question of an arrangement or compact between the orders on the
subject of the Consulate.
* Vol. ii. p. 496.
�A Chapter of Roman History.
245
Hitherto the correctness of Livy’s Fasti has been assumed.
There is, however, room for doubting his accuracy in both
those cases, which are apparent exceptions to the established
*
order
With regard to the year 401, he himself records the
fact, that certain annalists gave the name of the plebeian
Marcus Popillius Loenas in the room of the patrician Titus
Quinctius. (vii. 8.)
*
And hence he does not venture to speak
of Quinctius’s consulate in 404 as his second consulate, which
he would scarcely have failed to do, had he not himself
been doubtful concerning the alleged consulate of 402. And in
the other instance, although he mentions no discrepancy among
the authorities, there is still more reason for suspecting a mistake.
For in the first place, since C. Plautius had undoubtedly
been consul in 397, as Livy himself states, and the Capitoline
Fasti also mention, he would, if he held the office in 408, have
then been consul for the second time, in which case the year
414 would have witnessed his third consulate; whereas Livy
expressly states that he was then consul ‘ secundum.’ One of
his two former consulates must therefore, of necessity, be can
celled ; and as that which has the sanction of the Capitoline
Fasti should assuredly be retained, the consulate of 408 is to
be discredited. And if it be objected to this that the consul of
397 may have been a different C. Plautius, from the individual
of that name who held office in 408 and 414, let it be considered
whether there be not an extreme improbability in imagining
that there were two persons of the same family, and that ple
beian within so short a period (eleven years) of competent age
and of sufficient distinction to obtain the consulate, and that they
both bore the same praenomen, without being habitually dis
tinguished from each other by agnomina. To such a case it
will certainly not be easy to find a parallel.
Again, if C. Plautius were consul in 408 and also in 414,
then the Genucian law, which forbade such re-appointments
excepting after an interval of ten years, was set aside within a
few months of its enactment; although, so strong was the feel
ing in its favour, that no infraction of it (unless this be one) is
found until the year 433, (twenty years afterwards,) and then
only under the pressure of the defeat at Caudium, and by
special bill brought forward and carried for the purpose. (Liv.
ix. 7.) Further, it appears from the Capitoline Fasti, that the
consuls of 408 were elected under the superintendence of a
dictator appointed specially for the purpose, which appoint
ment can only have taken place in order to secure the nomina
tion of two patricians. On the' whole, therefore, it may be
doubted whether the regular alternation of the exclusively
* With this account agreed the authorities followed by Diodorus (xvi. 32) and the
Fasti Siculi.
7
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A Chapter of Roman History.
patrician with the semi-plebeian consulate did not prevail
daring the entire period in question, i. e. from the year of
Rome 400, or even from the year 399 to 413; when a final
return was made to the constitution of Licinius.
But whether that more perfect regularity for which it has
been here contended, or that lesser degree of it which Livy’s
Fasti bear upon their face, be taken as the true representation
of the real facts of the case, on either view a compact or under
standing is to be presumed, because it is inconceivable that
mere chance should have produced such uniformity, and nearly
*
impossible that it should have become the established practice
in any other way. On this it follows to inquire whether any
traces are discoverable of the nature of the understanding or
agreement entered into—of the parties to it on the one side and
the other, the circumstances under which it came into opera
tion, the means whereby it was upheld, and the causes of its
final disanulment.
It was mentioned above, that, besides the principle of alter
nation on which so much has been said, another very remark
able phenomenon is met with in the records of these years.
This is the system which then prevailed of accumulating high
honours and dignities upon the same individuals, which has
been noticed by Niebuhr and Arnold, in connexion with the
Genucian laws, but not observed by them to have obtained,
especially in the case of the plebeians. Yet certainly there are
no instances among the patricians at all comparable to the two
cases of C. Marcius Rutilus and M. Popillius Loenas, the former
of whom was, within the space of sixteen years, consul four
times, dictator once, and once censor; the latter, within the
term of twelve years, either four or more probably five times
consul. And, again, among the patricians the practice was not
more common at this period than at any other era either prior
or subsequent, neither was it the rule, but only the exception,
in their case : whereas, among the plebeians, it is now and
now only that the system prevails to any great extent, and with
them it obtains more or less in every instance. During the
whole time that elapsed, from the first violation of the Licinian
law to its final re-establishment, and even for a longer period,
all the offices of high repute were partitioned out among four
plebeians. From 395 to 413 only C. Marcius, M. Popillius,
C. Poetelius, and C. Plautius, filled offices of dignity, and all
were instances of the accumulation in question. This is cer
tainly a most strange phenomenon, and may well be expected
to afford us important assistance towards the elucidation of the
period of history which we are considering.
Ov iravv awSva^erai ra Kara
Eth. Nic. viii. 5.
�A Chapter of Roman History.
247
Can we then at all discover on what account, and by what
influence, these favoured individuals obtained that enormous
share of state honours which was awarded them ? Can we
explain the sudden growth of a plebeian oligarchy within ten
years of the legal recognition of the full citizenship of the ple
beian order ? Can we above all discern any common feature
in the character or conduct of these persons, from which it may
be concluded that they were not unlikely to have agreed to
betray their order by consenting to a compact which, while it
secured advantages to themselves, robbed that order of near a
moiety of its legal rights ?
Now, it is very certain that the accumulation of honours on
these persons cannot be accounted for, either as the natural
result of their own eminent qualities, or as the consequence of
the favour of their order on account of services rendered it.
None of them, either as generals or statesmen, were possessed
of talents more than respectable. M. Popillius Loenas repelled
(it is said) an invasion of the Gauls and quieted a popular
commotion, and C. Marcius Rutilus gained some trifling ad
vantages over the Etruscans and the Privernatians; but neither
to them, nor to the other plebeians who held office at this
period, was the state indebted for any signal victory, or for any
masterly stroke of statesmanship. Much less can it be said
that they owed their advancement to a grateful sense on the
part of their order of services rendered it. None of them ad
vocated plebeian rights, or vindicated plebeian liberties. None
will be found to have brought forward a single measure having
for its object the benefit of their order. Their measures, we
shall see shortly, were characterised by exactly the opposite
tendency.
C. Marcius Rutilus was plebeian consul at the time when
Manlius made the attempt, which, unless resisted, must have
proved fatal to plebeian liberty, to introduce the practice of
holding popular assemblies away from Rome by converting
the army into comitia. As the task of offering resistance de
volved upon the Tribunes, it is not too much to assume his
connivance at the attempt made by his colleague.
M. Popillius Leenas is known to posterity especially by one
act. He prosecuted the great plebeian leader and benefactor
C. Licinius Stolo, on the charge of evading the operation of his
own agrarian law, and obtained his condemnation.
C. Poetelius was the author of that law against canvassing, of
which Dr, Arnold has well shown the anti-plebeian tendency.
Finally, C. Plautius was the successful negociator of the re
newal of the great league of Spurius Cassius, the league of the
three nations, Rome, Latium, and the Hernici, the effect of
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which, in strengthening the patricians’ hands, has been repeat
edly pointed out and explained by Niebuhr.
Thus there is evidence that all the favoured plebeians of this
period had a patrician bias—all deserved well of that orderall had benefited it by what they had done or what they had
left undone. None were agitators—none clamourers for the
rights of the commons—none even zealous protectors of them.
Their strength in the Centuries must have lain rather in the
patrician than the plebeian votes; and their multiplied honours
must be ascribed to the exertion on their behalf of the patri
cian influence. Here, then, we have in all probability the
parties to that compact which we saw reason to believe must
have existed; and these are the patrician body on the one side,
and on the other certain plebeians of rank and consequence,
who were content to sacrifice the rights of their order to their
own personal aggrandisement.
But what likelihood was there that any plebeians should
desert their order almost at the moment of victory ? and how
was it that the patricians should have been unable to detach
any considerable section of the plebeians from the common
cause during the whole period of the Licinian struggle, and
have met with such success in this respect so shortly after
wards ? This, too, admits of ready explanation.
During the struggle all would have common hopes; the
plebeian nobles would all equally anticipate advantages to
themselves from the elevation of their order. At any rate
each family of eminence would expect in turn to enjoy the
chief magistracy; but when the law came into operation there
were sure to be disappointed candidates, families who thought
their claims slighted and their merits overlooked. And this
must have been especially the case if it appeared that a few of
those families to which the gratitude of the plebeians might
seem peculiarly due, were likely to engross the entire benefit of
the new privilege. Yet so it was. At the first six elections the
plebeians conferred the dignity upon members of those families
only whom they reckoned among their special benefactors.
First, Sextius was rewarded for his strenuous exertions in
seconding the efforts of Licinius ; then for five years in suc
cession the consulate alternated between the Genucii and the
Licinii. Each of these elections was probably a disappoint
ment to many plebeian families, members of which had offered
themselves on the several occasions as candidates only to be
rejected. When these rejections were repeated year after
year, and two families alone seemed to have profited by the
new arrangement, what wonder if jealousies arose, and a spirit
of rivalry succeeded to that pleasing unanimity of plan and
action which wrung from the patricians the concession of the
�A ^Chapter of Roman History.
249
of the Bbhstitution of Licinius? What wonder, if, discontented
with their position, certain families of eminence began to look
out for some counterpoise to the popularity of their antagonists,
and smarting under the slings of wounded pride, disappointed
ambition, and unsuccessful rivalry, even threw themselves into
the arms of their ancient enemies, and preferred a league with
them against their own order, which secured them the traitor’s
pay, to a barren and unprofitable fidelity ? And if such a party
of plebeian malcontents arose, we can easily conceive with what
joy the patricians would hail its appearance, with what dili
gence and skill they would foster, its growth, and bow readily
they would listen to its proposals. The complete recovery of
the consulate being conceived or found to be impracticable,;
they would willingly have consented to a compromise. To
recover one half of what they had lost by the Licinian law was
a great thing; and when by the same arrangement they could
vent their spleen upon those plebeian families which were most
obnoxious to them, and secure themselves complaisant col
leagues in that high office to which they were now forced to>
admit the other order, the gain must have seemed doubled.
Under these feelings on the one side and the other a com-,
pact in all probability was made between the patrician order
and certain plebeian families of rank and consequence, whereby
it was guaranteed, on the one hand, that the patricians should
be allowed each alternate year to disregard the Licinian law,
and occupy both places in the consulate,—on the other, that
when the time for appointing a plebeian arrived, the whole
weight of the patrician influence should be given to a candidate
From one of the families who were parties to the compact, and,
further, that to them all the other high offices should be thrown
open. By this latter promise the plebeians may have blinded
themselves to the infamy of their conduct, and have half be
lieved that they were obtaining sufficient advantages for theii;
order by the new arrangement in other respects to counter
balance the single loss in the matter of the consulate. At any
rate the arrangement was made; and the terms of it observed
for years. The plebeian parties to it could not indeed prevent
tnurmuring and opposition to the commission every year of a
flagrant illegality, but they were able to render murmuring
futile and opposition unavailing. Time was having its usual
effect in calming indignation and deadening hostility : it was
no longer necessary to appoint a dictator every year to preside
at the comitia; in a few more years perhaps custom and pre
scription would have legalized what had been begun in usur
pation and iniquity ; and the alternation of the exclusively
patrician with the semi-plebeian cousulate would have been
looked upon as much as the regular and legitimate routine, as
VOL. n.
s
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the nomination by the Curies of one consul was, during the
thirty years which preceded the decernvirate. But this time fraud
was not to have such success ; the divine Nemesis came more
speedily. Taking advantage of a revolt of the soldiery, possibly
accidental, the natural leaders of the plebeians effected a coun
ter-revolution. A Genucius appeared to lead the commons
on to victory. In the year 413, the operation of the Licinian
law was completely and finally re-established: from that time
forward we do not meet with a single infringement of it. At
the same time steps were taken to prevent the recurrence of
such a calamity as the illegal compact of these years by the
enactment of the laws commonly known under the name of
the Genucian.
Before proceeding, however, to consider further the bearing of
these laws, and the circumstances of the revolution of 413, it
seems worth while to endeavour to trace with greater accuracy the
progress of events during the years which we have been con
sidering. Hitherto attention has been directed to the broad
outline of the proceedings only ; to the motives of the parties,
and the general tenor of the arrangement entered into. The
details are not without their interest, and though, of course,
they present many difficulties, and are very open to doubt,
conjecture, and diversity of interpretation, yet, upon the whole,
they tell a tolerably plain tale, and bear out remarkably in its
general outlines the view of this period which has been here
put forth and advocated.
The operation of the Licinian law was from the first viewed
by the patricians with extreme dislike. In the fourth year after
it came into force, an attempt was made to abrogate it alto
gether by the dictatorship; but the united opposition of the
*
tribunes saved the plebeians from this catastrophe. Foiled in
this attempt, and despairing perhaps of the recovery of their
old pre-eminence, the patricians, in the course of the next two
years, changed their tactics, and entered into an understanding
with a section of the plebeian body which they found disposed
from jealousy and disappointment to form an alliance with them,
promising them their influence in the centuries on condition
that they would devote themselves wholly to the patrician
interest. At the comitia of 394, the confederates were suc
cessful, and their united efforts rescued the plebeian consulate
from the families which had hitherto engrossed it, and secured
it to one of the clique, C. Poetelius. At the ensuing election
a candidate was again put forward by them in the person of
M. Popillius, whom also they succeeded in returning. Here
upon the opposite party and their supporters appear to have
* See Niebuhr, vol, iii, p. 46.
�A Chapter of Roman History.
251
exhibited unequivocal symptoms of dissatisfaction. A popular
outbreak might have been the result, had not a timely attack
from without shown the necessity of internal union, and
Popillius promptly taken advantage of the occurrence to still
the rising discontent. * Tranquillity being by these means
restored, the same machinery was set in motion at the comitia
of 396 and C. Plautius, another of the clique, obtained the
consulate.
Now, perhaps, it was that the patricians first conceived the
idea of turning to more account their position with regard to
the plebeian malcontents. Hitherto they had gained nothing
but the exclusion from the consulate of those persons whose
advocacy of the rights of their order was likely to be trouble
some, or whose very name was a reproach to them. Now they
were emboldened to aim at more important changes. They
perceived that the hold which they had on their plebeian con
federates might be pressed to mightier results than any hitherto
contemplated. The sedition of the previous year, so soon and
easily quelled, had shown them the weakness of the opposing
order now that it was disunited. The uniform success of their
candidates in the comitia, manifesting as it did the power
of the patrician order to reward its adherents, must have,
deepened the devotion of its plebeian allies, and disposed them
to make important concessions rather than break with a body
which seemed to possess the entire disposal of state dignities.
Matters were evidently ripe for a blow to be struck at the con
stitution of Licinius. Boldness and prudence alone were want
ing, and the patricians never failed in either of these two
requisites. Accordingly they set themselves at once to put
matters into train for the stroke which they contemplated.
In the first place it seemed advisable to secure that important
aid against insurrections of the commonalty which in their
aneient contests had stood them in such good stead, and for
want of which, as Niebuhr observes, t they had nine years
before been compelled to yield the Licinian laws without daring
seriously to contest them. This was the help of the Latin and
Hernican levies, which invariably sided with the patricians in
civil contests, probably because they looked upon them as con
stituting the real Roman people with whom they were in
alliance. It happened opportunely enough that Rome and
Latium were exposed to a common danger from abroad, the
attacks, namely, of large bodies of Gaulish immigrants who
at this time were wandering over the whole of central and
southern Italy. This danger probably disposed the Latins to
renew the ancient league of amity first negotiated by Sp.
* -Compare Cic. in Brut. xiv. with Liv. vii. 12
f Vol. in. p. 48.
s 2
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A Chapter of 'Roman History.
Cassius, in the year of Rome 261, which though it had long
fallen into abeyance, had only been formally disannulled for
thirty years, having been given up at the time that Rome fell
before the Gauls. Since that period the eternal city had risen
from her ashes more magnificent that ever, and shown herself,
by successes on every side, still the most powerful state of cen
tral Italy. It is even possible that under these circumstances
the Latins may have proposed the renewal of the alliance, and
so Livj’s expression not be on this occasion an idle boast.
*
If they did, the proposal must have been caught at by the
senate as most timely, and acceded to with all readiness. In
any case the ancient alliance was, we know, renewed, and
placed upon its former footing,
With regard to the Hernicans the case was different. The peculiar situation of their
country, accessible on the north only through the pass of Prae
neste, sheltered them from the Gaulish invasions, and they
had been too lately engaged in a fierce war with Rome J readily
to become her confederates. It was thought advisable, how
ever, to obtain their aid, and, if other means failed, to compel
their adherence. To C. Plautius, the plebeian consul of the
year, was entrusted the task of managing this affair. He
marched an army into the territory of the Hernici, defeated
them in the field, and succeeded in bringing them over to the
confederacy. §
Thus all was prepared in this respect. Meanwhile a mea
sure was being forwarded at Rome of great importance towards
the success of the conspiracy. C. Poetelius, at that time tri
bune of the people, and two years earlier consul, proposed in
the assembly of the tribes his celebrated ‘ Lex de Ambitu.’
The law is expressly said to have been directed against the
ambition of upstarts, ‘ novi homines,’ that is, plebeians ; and to
have been brought forward with the sanction, if not at the
suggestion, of the patrician body. || Its whole scope is not
clearly evident. Advantage was, perhaps, taken of the ambi
guity of the word ‘ambitus,’ to give a popular colour to the
measure, which might be spoken of as directed against the
practice of corrupting the electors by bribery, while in reality
the clauses were made to extend to all systematic canvassing
of the electors. The abolition of this was the true object of the
law. It was framed to put a stop to the practice of going round*
§
* “Eodem anno pax Latinis peientibus data.”—vii. 12. The apology of course
does not extend to the phrase, “■ pax data.”
f Compare the expression “ ex foedere vetusto,” (Liv. vii. 12,) with Polybius’s
words, “ 'Paifj.oLOi ra Kara robs karlvovs auGis irpdypara avvear-fjcravTO.’'—ii. 18.
J See Livy, vii. 8, 11.
§ “ Hernici a C. Plautio devicti subactique sunt.” He triumphed on account of
his successes. Cap. Fast. Anno cccxcv.
|| Auctoribus Patribus. Liv. vii. 15.
�A Chapter of Roman History.
253
to the various markets and holding public meetings for elec
tioneering purposes * This practice had been commenced by
plebeians for the purpose of making themselves, their
-claims, and their intention of standing for the consulate, known
.to the electors generally. It supplied in some measure the
want of organization among them. By its abolition, not only
‘Would individual plebeians be prevented from making them
selves known generally to the electors, but even all knowledge
of who were and who were not candidates would be precluded.
The consequeuce would be that the plebeian electors generally,
uucanvassed and left to themselves, would name for consul
some individual of their order from their own immediate neigh
bourhood, and thus a multitude of candidates would be brought
forward, none of whom would be likely to obtain the legal
-amount of votes. The patricians, on the other hand, always°an
organised body, would settle among themselves their own can
didates, make their wishes known to their clients, and, the
plebeian interest being split up among so many, easily carry
their men.
“
Such was the nature of the Poetelian law, which a tribune of
the plebs was found capable of bringing forward before the
-assembly of the commons. As, however, in spite of all glossing
over of the measure which the term ‘ ambitus ’ made possible
,
*
it was not improbable that the plebeians would see through
the fraud attempted to be foisted on them, and, if their votes
were fairly taken on the subject, defeat the patrician projects
by rejecting the bill, the dictator Sulpicius and the two consuls
were instructed to detain their armies in the field as long as
possible,t that so the measure might be voted on in the ab
sence of the soldiers of three armies, and be carried in thin
•meetings by the votes of the patricians themselves and of their
clientry. The plan succeeded, and before the close of this
memorable year the Poetelian rogation became law.£
Meanwhile the patricians had again triumphed in the con
sular comitia, the plebeian consul elected being once more one
-of the clique devoted to them. C. Marcius Rut.ilus, whatever
•appearances may be found in Livy to the contrary, was most
certainly a patrician favourite. His selection by the senate in
the ensuing year for the high honour of the dictatorship, never
before conferred on a plebeian, is proof sufficient of this, even
if it stood alone. The duty required of him this year appears
* Nundinas et conciliabula obire. Liv. vii. 15.
+ So at least the dictator’s soldiers suspected. ‘ Sin autem non tuum istuc, sed
publicum consilium, et consensus aliquis Patrum, non Gallicum bellum nos ab urbe,
ab penatibus nostris, ablegatos tenet.’ Liv. vii. 13. The consuls had probably similar
. instructions.
, J Liv. vii. 15.
�254
A Chapter of Roman History.
to have been the keeping of the plebeians in good humour by
military largesses, while he tacitly acquiesced in a bold stroke
to be made by his colleague. Cn. Manlius was to attempt the
execution of the old project of Cincinnatus, the conversion of
*
an army under the military oath into a legislative assembly.
By the artful manoeuvre of passing first in this way an inno
cent and even beneficial enactment, it was hoped that opposi-®
tion would be escaped and the precedent established quietly.
But the faithfulness and vigilance of the tribunes effectually
foiled this enterprise. Had they imitated the example set by
the consul, and allowed the innovation, in a little time, un
doubtedly, a similar assembly would have been called upon to
rescind the Licinian law, establishing in lieu of it either that
system of alternation which afterwards prevailed, or perhaps;
the general right of the patricians to fill both places if elected
to them.
On the failure of this manoeuvre the compact was probably
made. Still any open display was avoided for a year by com
mencing with a consulate divided between the orders. M,
Popillius Loenas, who had just conducted to a prosperous
issue his prosecution of the great Licinius, received as his
reward the consular insignia. Presently a dictator was re
quired, and the senate named the plebeian C. Marcius. He
gave the mastership of the horse to C Plautius. Then, it may
be, some attempts were made to mystify the plebeians as to the
state of feeling between the confederates by an affectation of
throwing obstacles in the dictator’s way: or possibly an ultra
patrician party, repudiating all admission of plebeians, already
existed and was dominant in the Curiae. At the close of the
year the mask was at length thrown off. Two patricians were
declared by the interrex duly elected. In vain the tribunes
interposed ; they could only delay the evil; every interrex was
stanch ; they were compelled to give way; and the two pa
*
tncians entered on their office.
Further than this it does not seem worth while to trace the
course of events year by year. The arguments for the con
tinuity of the alternation system up to the time of the revoluton of 413, have been already adduced, j- The rest may be
• See Liv. iii. 20.
+ Even if these arguments be deemed insufficient, very little modification of the
view maintained in the text will be necessary. We shall only have to suppose that
the original compact was made in 399 instead of 398, and went the length of the
entire subversion of the Licinian law ; that in 402 the patricians, feeling themselves
unable to maintain their position, agreed to compromise the matter by the establish
ment of the alternation system ;1 and finally, with regard to the other case, that
their plebeian confederates had by the year 408 become so identified with them, that
they did not care to press the compact in every instance, or else that the prospect of
a Volscian war inclined them to be more than ordinarily conciliatory.
1 In this case the appointment of the mixed board would have been a part of the
compromise.
�A Chapter of Roman History.
255
briefly stated. The policy of the rulers was to keep matters
quiet by conciliating at home and making peace abroad. The
pressure of debt was great at this period; they, therefore, in
order to conciliate the mass of the people, consented in the year
| 398, the year of the arrangement, to have the legal rate of
interest fixed at its ancient maximum of ten per cent. Five
years afterwards they took further steps with the same object.
They appointed a mixed board of patricians and plebeians to
adopt measures for the general liquidation of the outstanding
debts. The arrangements then effected having only partially
removed the evil, new remedies were adopted in 408. At the
same time the legal rate of interest was lowered to the very
moderate standard of five per cent: and when it was found, in
the year 411, that persons evaded this law, they were publicly
prosecuted and punished. It is observable also that during
the whole of this period the patrician magistrates appointed
were almost entirely from the more humane and moderate sec
tion of that body ; from the Valerii especially, the Sulpicii, the
Manlii, the Fabii, the Cornelii.
*
Meanwhile abroad they began by cultivating amity. The
two wars which were in progress, that with the Etruscans and
that with the cities of Tibur and Praeneste, they brought to a
close as speedily as possible, consenting to make peace with the
Latin towns in 401, f and granting long truces to the Etruscan
cities in 402 and 404: and they carefully refrained from enter
ing upon hostilities with any other state. With the Samnites,
from whom alone aggression could be feared, they concluded a
formal treaty. J At length, in 407, at the instance probably of
their Latin allies, they recommenced hostilities against the
Volscians of Antium. This led to a war with the Aurunci also.
Perhaps it was impossible to have avoided these contests with
out dissolving the league with Latium ; otherwise, one would
think, the patricians would have declined to engage in them.
The result, however, appeared to prove that war might now
be adventured on with impunity. All remained quiet both at
home and in the camp ; no resistance was made to the levies,
no violence attempted by the soldiery. The very tribunes
themselves appear to have ceased their opposition to the viola
tion of the Licinian law; and it seemed as if time had already
legalised the existing order. Accordingly the patricians, deem
ing themselves quite secure, resumed their ancient plans and
projects for the subjugation of Italy, and deliberately went to
war with the Samnites. This led to the catastrophe.
* Out of thirty-three patrician consuls, dictators, and masters of the horse, whose
names we know, twenty-four (three-fourths) are from these families. Six times we
find a Valerius.
+ Diod. xvi. 45. Livy mentions Tibur only, vii. 19. * In 401. Liv. vii. 19.
�256
A Chapter of Roman History.
The benevolent legislation on the subject of the debts which
had recently taken place, had failed altogether to reach to the
root of the evil. Rome had never recovered from the poverty
occasioned by the invasion of the Gauls. Thousands of ple
beians even now worked as slaves on the lands of their creditors,
and a still larger number expected the same fate. This pro
bably occasioned the first outbreak. Whether the revolt of
413 commenced abroad or at home, among the soldiers before
Capua or the citizens in the Forum, it is impossible to deter
mine ; but in either case the origin of the disturbance would
seem to have been the pressure of poverty. Wearied beyond
endurance by their constant and hopeless struggle against the
incubus of debt, a large section of the commonalty rushed into
insurrection. But then another and deeper discontent began
to show itself. Indignation at the established violation of the
Licinian law, and bitter hatred of the apostates who had
betrayed them, were feelings which had long rankled in the
breasts of many, and only wanted an opportunity to break
forth. The opportunity had now arrived. On witnessing the
revolt of the debtors, those in whom these feelings worked,
resolved to make common cause with them, and by their aid
effect a counter-revolution. L. Genucius, tribune of the peo
*
ple, headed the movement, which in the absence of the Latins,
who were carrying on the war with Samnium, was sure to be
irresistible. The patricians lay at his mercy. Some, perhaps,
conscious of the wrong that had been committed, came over in
person to the insurgents.-f The rest, after a vain attempt to
offer an armed opposition by means of their clients, gave way
and submitted themselves. The terms required of them were
the following. In the first place, some trivial demands of the
soldiery were to be conceded: secondly, all existing debts were
to be cancelled : thirdly, the Licinian law concerning the con
sulate was to be re-established, with a yet further proviso, that
both consuls might be plebeians : fourthly, it was to be enacted
that no plebeian J should be allowed to bold the same magis
tracy a second time within the space of ten years, or two
magistracies together. The demands of the soldiery and the
cancelling of the debts were urged to secure the support of the
poorer plebeians, who would have felt little interested in the
other rogations
the two remaining enactments were aimed
* The Genucii, it should be borne in mind, had been especial sufferers by the
coalition. Previous to it, they had obtained the Consulate three times.
t This may probably have been the truth concealed beneath the pretended
seizures of T. Quinctius, and C. Manlius.
f. i This limitation is not expressed, but the prohibition never extended to the
■patrician order. Note the elections of 415, 424, 425, &c.
§ Compare their conduct at the time of the Licinian rogations, when they would
have willingly given up the one which concerned the consulate. Liv. vi. 39 ; Dio
C. Fragm. 33.
�A Chapter of Roman History.
257
at the confederacy. Of these the one deprived the patricians
in a great measure of the power of corrupting plebeian
nobles, by forbidding that accumulation of honours upon indi
viduals which had proved so strong a temptation in the case of
Marcius and Popillius ; the other was enacted as a punishment
for the patrician usurpations of these years, and secured to the
electors the power of retaliation if they felt disposed to exer
cise it.
Seven times had the patrician order contravened
that equality which the Licinian constitution guaranteed;
seven times had they robbed the commonalty of its dearest
privilege. Should such iniquity be passed over? or if passed
over, should it walk triumphant, as beyond the power of law
to punish? No! The law should declare that the patricians
had forfeited their right to the possession of an exact moiety
of the civil power; and if retaliation were not exercised, they
Should know that they escaped through the forbearance of
the commons, not through their inability.
So perished the coalition, and so commenced a new era in
Roman History. Henceforward it was never the orders that
were arrayed one against the other. Real union, real unani
mity, subsisted between the great mass of the patricians and
the plebeian body; there were no more contests between the
senate and the tribes. With wise moderation the plebeians
refrained from all measures of retaliation or revenge; no pro
secutions were set on foot on account of the recent illegalities;
no attempt was made to enforce their new right with regard to
the consulate. Perhaps their hearts were softened by the
consideration of the great sacrifice which the patricians had
made in remitting to them the whole amount of their debts.
One circumstance alone made it evident that the past was still
remembered. The generation that had witnessed the offence
could not pardon the chief offenders. M. Popillius Leenas,
and C. Marcius Rutilus sank at once into obscurity, and their
families were involved in their punishment. The Fasti show
the name of no Popillius for the space of four-and-twenty years,
of no Marcius for thirty years. So long the anger of the Plebs
endured against the traitors to their order. .
�258
Pomfret.
Pomfret; or Public Opinion and Private Judgment.
By
Henry F. Chorley. 3 vols. Colburn. London, 1845.
A few years ago the fashionable world of London was excited
by the announcement that the greatest living actress would
appear before them at the Queen’s Theatre. Her fame was
European ; and yet she had scarce numbered twenty summers.
The omnipotent journals of another capital had pronounced in
her favour ; men of talent, and men of high degree, had echoed
their applause. She came among us with great credentials
indeed, and great, and glad, and glorious was her reception.
She was publicly welcomed with an Italian enthusiasm, and
privately with an English hospitality. The mansions of the
noble were opened to her ; in the palace were her claims
acknowledged. The Sovereign condescended to honour her with
personal and marked countenance. Every representation was a
triumph. Her success was as brilliant as it deserved to be,
and she left our island shores with a promise speedily to
return.
Months passed on, and the fair young actress was again
heard of. Slander, and envy, and disappointed love, were
busy with her good name. Her lowly birth was made the
subject of injurious and impertinent remark by those who had
risen from equal obscurity by means less holy. A base, bad
man—a man of some talent, and more wickedness—who
had early discovered her rich genius, and had educated,
and brought her into notice, now, when she indignantly
refused to pay the price of such selfish favours, denounced
her in language only degrading to the utterer, and which
should have found no listener wherever honour reigned, or
dignity in man was respected. He read the confidential letters
of an inexperienced and trusting girl in public, and added his
own foul commentary. He translated them into English, and
suborned his own venal press, that had before so eloquently
praised her at his bidding, now as earnestly to condemn.
She came once more among us: but the slander had pre
ceded her arrival. One of our journals alone did her justice.
The facts are in every one’s recollection : night after night did
she waste her energies on tenantless stalls and vacant boxes ;
*
none waited to ask the truth of the accusation—none paused
to think whether, if the charges were true, the crime was one
not admitting of repentance. No ; scarce one of her former
illustrious and noble patronesses, and few indeed among those
brilliant admirers who had most courted her smile, ever thought
of justice, or permitted mercy to interfere with their cruel will.
She left England a changed and altered woman ; but if her
spirit was broken, if her heart was wrung, the world never saw
�Pomfret.
259
it; her fine eye and her noble bearing, only told of scornful
indignation, only bore witness to her conscious rectitude.
A few hours, and she was again in the scene of her first
success—of her present triumph. Enter her salon on a recep
tion night; look around at the drapery of point lace, the rich
and glittering furniture ; mark the queenly bearing, the
gorgeous dress of its mistress; cast your eye over that crowded
room, the rank of the Faubourg St. Germain is there, the
flower of the New Court are there; a prince of the blood-royal
is at her feet, and even the philosophical Guizot is speaking in
the language of compliment. But what avails all this homage?
She is wronged and despised by her own sex, and this cannot
minister to a mind so diseased ; her woman’s heart must be
sympathised with—be loved !
There is a deep moral in this brief history. Let those who
presume on light and unanswered accusation, to bar the door
of society against woman, or, when she has unhappily been
seduced into error by temptations too strong for humanity
to war against—cruel and continued insult—cold, chilling
poverty,—refuse her all hope from repentance, let such bear
the full responsibility of their deeds. We would not share their
conscience here, or the retribution of their hereafter.
These remarks have been called forth by a perusal of the
work we have placed at the head of this notice. Mr. Chorley,
in his ‘ Helena Porzheim,’ has drawn just such a character.
Very truthfully has he depicted the generous pride of a
talented, high-souled woman, struggling with adverse fortune
and hard circumstance ; and it is the lot of too many—of the
great majority of that profession to which Helena Porzheim
belonged. How much of this is attributable to men holding a
rank in society which they would seem to think exempts them
from censure—how much to the cold neglect of their own sex,
is we fear a question seldom, if ever, satisfactorily answered.
Mr. Chorley, indeed, appears to us to have well considered the
subject, but to hesitate in the frank expression of his opinion;
and it is to be regretted, for we know no one who would be
listened to more patiently. We have not now space for the
discussion ; and there is very much of worldly prejudice to
contend with in such an essay. Fenced around with the bar
riers of custom and the restraints of regulated virtue—well
and religiously educated—rich and respected, not obnoxious
to contempt, there are those who will not heed the tale of
misfortune—who turn with deaf ear from the wail of erring
^(stress, and, either ignorant or insolent, spurn repentance,
mock the bitterness of despair, and reject the Testament
of their God. They are unschooled in the mercy of the
Saviour, and read no lesson in the parables of Holy Writ.
�260
Pomfret.
In such a contest we must declare war against the world
and the world’s laws; but, even with these odds, we will
not, at some future time, shrink from the encounter. If
we fail, we shall retire in the companionship of the great and
the good; but, if we can be humbly instrumental in awaken
*
ing the public mind—in crushing slander and shielding repent
ant error—right cheerfully will we welcome that obloquy
which waits close on the heels of every righteous effort.
But we have, we fear, too long neglected the work we must
now very concisely comment on. As a novel ‘ Pomfret’ is ex
posed to several serious objections; the manner of relation is
singularly unhappy, the language ostentatiously simple, the
interest ill-sustained. Of the characters, excepting Helena
Porzheim, Grace Pomfret only deserves particular notice. She
is a sweet representation of meek and modest loveliness, nursed
in the country, educated in calm, even, tranquil obscurity, and
then, by the force of ill-fortune and domestic calamity,
thrown all defenceless on a world the wickedness of which she
knows not. In the after struggle, the triumph of virtue and
true affection are admirably painted, and wo are left little to
desire when the picture is complete; its truthfulness to
nature, its willingness, being perhaps its greatest charm. We
wish we could say as much for Walter Carew, but in good
truth, saving always that imbecile puppy, Mrs. Trollope has
made the hero of ‘ Young Love,’ we know no more character
less character in the wide realms of fiction. The Porzheim is,
however, likely to interest the reader and enhance t'ie reputa
tion of the author more than any other personage introduced
in these volumes. Some passages in her troubled career are
intensely interesting, and indeed, the whole history is related
in such a manner as to ensure unceasing attention. The
misfortune is, that the other parts of the novel appear even in
a less favourable aspect by reason of the brilliancy of this
episode.
Altogether, and notwithstanding those defects at which we
have but glanced, we very heartily congratulate Mr. Chorley
on the production of a work that will outlive many a contem
porary publication now more popular. ‘ Pomfret’ requires to
be read twice before it can be entirely understood or appre
ciated ; it is more adapted for the study than the circulating
library.
�261
NOTES ON GERMAN POLITICAL POETS.
‘EiN politisches Lied—ein garstiges Lied. ‘Apolitical song
a nasty song,’ says Gothe; and this is a hard saying from one,
who,iabove all other men, appreciated and enjoyed every form
Of Art, and has left on record fewer general or special censures
than any great critic of any time. But it is not improbable that
the’wise veteran foresaw that, if this style of writing became
popular in Germany, it would have the most injurious effect on
the aesthetic cultivation of the people, and that the Satirist and
the Pamphleteer would soon supersede the Philosopher and the
Poet. And this is indeed the present result; the most ideal of
literatures is becoming the most rudely practical—the most
imaginative of modes of thought is turned exclusively to imme
diate and positive purposes. In fact, none but political poetry
will now sell in Germany, and of that there is an abundance pro
portionate to the energy and fertility of the German mind. A
great deal of it is uninteresting to the foreigner, referring, as it
does, to details hardly known beyond the walls of the cities; but
there is much which applies to the large principles of social
freedom, and even to those still deeper questions, which, under
the names of Communism and Socialism, are much more prac
tical matters on the Continent than the fixed prudence of public
opinion permits them to be here. It is frequently an object of
wonder to Englishmen, how so absolute a freedom of thought and
speculation, as we find in Northern Germany, can co-exist with
arbitrary power ; but it is not unlikely that the very stringency,
of political authority is deeply connected with this intellectual
liberty, and that an advance in constitutional forms of government
will be accompanied by limitations that have been unknown, as
long as the constant presence of the public force prevented the
least attempt to realise the speculations so profusely indulged in.
The prospect of freer institutions in Prussia has already
produced something of this effect. The right of full religious
discussion is checked and disputed, and the radical Poets, who,
in the dilletante days of Frederic and Catherine, would have
been cherished, are now remorselessly exiled to Brussels or
Paris, by literary Sovereigns and learned Statesmen. Some of
Herwegh’s poems found so much favour with the King of
Prussia, that a meeting between them was arranged by the
court-physician, where the parties separated mutually pleased,
but this did not prevent the Monarch from soon after banishing
the Poet, and the Poet from replying in this strain :—
“ If my Pegasus must bow
To some yoke at your approach,
He would rather draw the Plough
•
Than your heavy gilded Coach :
- ■*
�262
Notes on German Political Poets.
He would rather make his hay
In some Peasant’s poor resort,
Than in marble mangers stay,
With the cattle of a Court.
’“ Eppur si muore ’ be our motto :
It moves—for all your hope or fear—
For all your paintings after Giotto,
For all your thick Bavarian beer.”
‘Tell us, when will it appear—that splendid edition of “Deutschland”—
That one for which long ago all our fathers subscribed ?
Long has it been advertised as about to be published at Frankfurt?
Long has it been in the press—but will it ever be seen ?
Hist! it is out—but they’ve sent for some beautiful leather from Russia,
So that our children will get copies delightfully bound 1”
‘ Call me Quixote, if you please, Journal-writers I—it is true ;
For I once mistook for Knights Donkey-drivers such as you.’
All prohibited books in Germany sell so well that Von
Colta, the great bookseller, is supposed to say,—
‘ Why should the Press be set free ? What’s the use of a bird in the
garden ?
All my songsters at least only in cages are sold.’
One of the peculiarities of ‘ Young Germany’ is the predo
minance of Jewish writers; Borne, Heine, Gutzkoff, Beck,
are prominent names, and there are many others of less cele
brity. The following poem by Beck on the death of Borne
was much admired, and certainly leaves a just impression
of that stern honest republican, a hero of the old dispensation,
without Christian hopes or Christian sympathies. These men,
as Jews, have naturally rather cosmopolitan than German in
terests, and have attempted to throw great ridicule on that
ultra-national party, against which the suspicions and violences
of the governments have been directed, ever since the War of
Independence.—This has caused so great a division in the
Liberal party in Germany, as materially to diminish their
strength, and the long-delayed hopes of the enthusiastic advo
cates of old German feelings and institutions are fast yielding
before a general democratic influence, whose centre is rather at
Paris than in any part of Germany.
* Forbidden Fortune’s gifts to touch,
He murmured not, content to lean
On Poverty’s ennobled crutch,
Till in the darkness no more seen :—
10
�Notes fin German Political Poets.
The Dove may dote on caged rest
And ask not what or where it be,
The Bird of passage leaves the nest,—
The Air is his and he is free!
As the old Greek Themistocles
Consumed the safely-harboured fleet.
That no one might escape with ease,
But victory be their sole retreat:
So He, when cast on alien land,
Amid a wondering world to roam,
Lit with his Word the fatal brand,
And closed the path that led to Home.
He murmured not, that Love past by,
And left his heart the sorry fate,
In loneliness to live and die
Or beg for warmth from niggard Hate:
The Ship may rock in peaceful trance,
Under the coast’s protecting lea,
But in the midnight’s stormy dance,
The Sea is her’s and she is free.
He only murmured that to Him
’Twas granted not, in open fight,
Bravely to venture life and limb
Till Freedom won triumphant Right:
He said—“ The Poet’s bolt is weak—
The lightning of the Pen is vain,—
It may make blush the slavish cheek,
It will not break the slavish chain I
Whether, beneath yon grassy knoll,
In apathy at last he lies,
Or his now unencumbered soul
Aspires to light and sweeps the skies :
Whatever scenes of glory burst
Upon his sense—where’er he be,
This thought, this question will be first,
In Heaven, O Father 1 am I free !
R. M. M.
(To be continued.)
263
�264.
Margaret Capel.
Margaret Capel. A Novel, by the Author of “ The Clandestine
Marriage.” Bentley.
It has often been our task to wade through volumes of
maudlin sentiment, and the unreasonable efforts of would-be
authors, but we had not looked for the possibility of assigning
to ourselves one so deplorably deficient in the common attri
butes of novel writers as that which now lies before us. The
author of this production must surely have encouraged an
unhappy contempt of the state of the literature of the present
era, if he can indulge the hope that such a tissue of flimsy
fustian can please the readers of a Bulwer and a Disraeli.
This class of novel is not even calculated to entertain
that portion of our fair readers, who, having just emerged
from the precincts of a classical establishment, are eagerly
desirous to acquaint themselves with the painful delights
and the pleasing troubles of that passion which is to con
stitute the business of their future life. They are, we opine,
seldom gifted with the instinct, or blessed with the pre
cocity ascribed to the heroine of this tale ; it is too much
to imagine that, however the boarding-school ‘ iniquities,’
on which the author so eloquently, and in our opinion,
somewhat unfairly descants, should operate to the convic
tion that a girl of fourteen could be so initiated as to
regard love with the feelings of an experienced and finished
courtesan ; for as such, the passage page 27, would convey her
to the mind’s eye of the reader. ‘ She regarded love as a
mysterious agency, which swept into its vortex all those who
suffered themselves to approach its enchanted confines. She
imagined that the first steps to this delusion might be avoided,
but that once entranced, the helpless victim followed the steps
of the blind leader, without the will or the power to shake off
its deadly influence? Without animadverting on the tautologous
inanity of this sentiment, we shall only observe, that with this
introduction we are deluded into a perusal of the bookin order
to find the prudence, the caution, nay, the artifice that should
direct the career of Margaret Capel. But although the author
has evidently flattered himself into the belief that he has made
her all that the most strenuous advocate for the display of a
true and unmixed passion would desire, he has deplorably failed
to elicit interest, sympathy, or admiration. The common-place
events of every-day life are here portrayed with most un
common infelicity, and the most unskilful ingenuity, unless,
indeed, vulgarity and total absence of the courtesies of society,
are the characteristics of the better classes. The business of
an author is, either to teach what is not known, or to recom-
�Margaret Capel.
265
mend recognised probabilities by his own manner of adorning
them, so to let in new light to the mind, and open new scenes;
so to vary the dress and situation of common objects, as to give
them fresh grace and more powerful attractions ;—their best
eflforts should ever be directed to raise the general tone of re
finement in those, whose habits of observation, and opportuni
ties of improvement, have rendered capable and competent, to
appreciate good taste and high intellectual attainment. He
should qualify his readers for an equal and generous inter
course with the refined intelligences of the age. We are no
advocates for the hysterical school of lackadaisical foolery; but
we must always endeavour to fix unqualified censure on the
writings of those, who introduce for any other purpose but
disapproval, the levity, frivolity, and we might fairly add, the
vulgarity of such a character as Harriet Conway, a lady who
bets upon Rory O’More, smokes cigars, and can hit, with a
pistol, a wine-glass at sixteen paces !
The only attempt in these volumes to get up anything like
a rational conversation, page 104, is the discussion betwixt
Miss Gage and Mr. Haveloc, the presumed hero of the work ;
we say presumed, for it is difficult to discover who is intended
for this personation, each displaying an equal amount of un
interesting action and sentiment. We will, however, call
him the hero until enlightened on the point. This person
is made to declare, that he sees ‘ nothing to respect in
a successful painter.’ He beneficently allows him c a highly
trained eye ’—‘ the mastery of a very difficult and laborious
process’—and ‘ certainly a perception of the most ingenious
arrangement of his subject.’ ‘ But good Heavens 1 at what an
immeasurable distance are these from the gifts that constitute
a poet! Where is the requisite atmosphere of music that
suggests to him his delicious rhyme ? Where the invisible and
majestic shadows that invite him to weave his tissue of unreal
scenes?’ .... To dilate on the insufferable egotism,
false theory, and bad style, of this specimen of Mr Haveloc’s
acquaintance with the arts, or his estimate of his ideas of the
Ideal and Real, we consider a waste of time, and only agree with
the remark of the caustic Casement, who declares ‘ It is all sheer
nonsense, every word of it.’ ‘ Mr. Haveloc did not deign to
utter a word in reply, but Elizabeth smiled, and moved to the
table.’ When this animated and learned argument was re
sumed by the question, ‘ Is not the ideal in art worthy of as
much veneration as the highest efforts of the poet ?’ when Mr.
Haveloc thinks proper to declare that ‘ he does not think the
purely ideal either elevates or instructs,'—startling as this
opinion may seem to our readers, we agree with the author in
his idea of ideal characters, and only regret he did not here
VOL. II.
t
�266
Margaret Capel.
give us another of Mr. Casement’s brusqueries; we should be
rescued from the necessity to which we are reduced in the
re-echo of his words—It is sheer nonsense.’
The liberal opinions of this writer are scattered over the
work, like soot from a smoky chimney, defacing and blacken
ing what had before passed for whiteness. He declares ‘ acts
of disinterested kindness are not so frequent as some good
people imagine. The pitiful phrase of nothing for nothing
being increasingly used by those sorry persons who give nothing,
it is true, but who invariably tahe all they can pillage, from
every human being they approach.’ The term pillage is here
not only vulgarly but most injudiciously used, unless we are to
understand he is speaking of those gentry who visit fairs and
executions more for the purpose of appropriation than to express
their gaiety or their sympathy. In the second volume we have
a sprightly effort, for the reputation of the author, in the cha
racters of Mrs. Fitzpatrick and her dying daughter Aveline.
The interest which the fading of so fair a flower must ever
excite, is merely kept up to excuse the unwarrantable conduct
of the heroine, who is made to play the spy on her lover, and
cast him off without affording the slightest opening for expla
nation; this interest is alive until the termination of Aveline’s
brief career; and this is really the only event discoverable in
the whole of the three volumes.
We are somewhat at a loss to imagine, how a writer can
expect such a work to be received either as a fiction exhibiting
life in its true state, or as an effort of art to imitate nature, it is
neither diversified by incident, nor influenced by passions or
qualities found in our intercourse with mankind. Is it not
necessary to distinguish those parts of nature which are most
proper for imitation ? Is no care necessary in the representa
tion of an existence which is so often disgraced by passion, and
deformed by wickedness? If life be promiscuously described,
we would ask where is the use of retracing the picture ? It
is not sufficient vindication to say, that it is drawn as it appears.
The purpose of writing is to teach the means of avoiding the
snares laid by evil for innocence, without producing a wish
for that superiority of dissimulation with which the betrayer
flatters his vanity; to give the power of counteracting, without
the temptation to practise; to initiate youth in the science
of a necessary defence, against the arts of designing and
cruel men ; to increase prudence without impairing virtue.
In narrative, where no historical veracity has place, there
should be exhibited the most perfect idea of virtue ; not virtue
above humanity or probability, but the purest that humanity
can reach ; virtue exercised in such trials as the various revo
lutions of an ever-changing scene can bring upon it, conquer-
�The Adieu.
267
ing calamity, enduring misfortune, and teaching us what we
may hope and what we may perform. Such a character is not
Margaret Capel; she is a child of nature without her purity ;
a faithful woman without woman’s trusting heart. To reconcile
these incongruous combinations we are treated with the usual
termination of novels of the seventeenth century, whose con
tents were made up of births, marriages, and deaths, with all
the common-place varieties of common domestic life. Truisms
and twaddle are the only novelties readers may expect to find
in the pages of Margaret Capel.
THE ADIEU.
Then be it so ! since we must part,
And all our happy dreams are o’er!
I go to teach my woman’s heart
To speak—to think of thee no more—
To hide my bosom’s heavy fears—
To smile when most my heart may ache—
To mate with misery for years.—
Oh heart! forget thy wrongs and break I
Hours—perished hours,—still fancy brings
Your early gladness, light, and bloom ;
Ere grief had droop’d my spirit’s wings,
And robed Love’s own sweet heaven in gloom.
Memory, like some dim ruin’d land,
Shows traces yet of beauty past,
Fallen idols ! rear’d by young Hope’s hand,
Too bright; and oh, too loved to last.
Yet broken, desolate, deprest,
Their sun of glory past away !
Still memory five in this worn breast,
Till death shall yield it to decay.
Oh when the spirit’s light is fled,
And wither’d all the flowers love gave,
When fond hopes, cherish’d long, lie dead—
The heart knows but one home—the grave !
C. S.
t
2
�268
The Catholic Man of Letters in London.
The Catholic Man of Letters in London; a History of Nowa-days. Inscribed to the New Generation. By Miles Gerald
Keon, Esq. Dolman’s Magazine, Nos. 12, 13.
Mr. Keon was sometime one of our contributors; and we
believe his first, certainly his most successful, essays in litera
ture have appeared in the pages of this Review. We have no
wish to recur to the circumstances which terminated in our
separation, and only mention the fact, to prove that the task
we are now undertaking is one of peculiar difficulty. This
serial novel is, however, so particularly addressed to the
party with whom we are identified, that, did we shrink from
noticing it, we should be exposed to a charge of timidity we
will not willingly incur.
Our limits do not permit us here to show the course which
some authors take to establish a character of ‘ writing for the
million,’ or the means others employ to disparage and subvert
all systems that differ from those received or professed opinions
which they promulgate, to instil an unholy hatred in the minds
of men against their fellows: we must, however, ask the ‘ Ca
tholic Man of Letters in London,’ to enlighten us on the real
state of his religious opinions ; for there is about this writer an
apparent air of satisfied apostacy that reminds us of an excom
municated Romanist who has not forgotten his flagellations,
and has somewhere published an account of his sufferings in
the cloisters of the Jesuits. He is as intolerant and indifferent
to the opinions of his readers, as he is seemingly careless of his
own literary reputation.
The exordium is a piece of ferocious audacity—a rich mix
ture of folly and fustian :—*
‘ I will not deny that the incidents I am about to relate,—the sketches
I shall present,—the scenes, the manners, and the characters I shall
reveal for public contemplation, may possibly appear to some to be no
fictions, but faithful delineations of an existing reality. I will disabuse
no man of this impression. If my canvas be so vivid as to convey the
most life-like conviction into every mind,—if my words shall seem in
stinct with internal evidence of truth,—then let each reader remain in
that belief, for all I care to say to the contrary; let him stretch his
slippered feet on his hearth-rug, as he peruses, in full enjoyment of its
minute fidelity, this history of social grievance, and of jealous illiberality.
Or if perchance a lady reads these pages, then I doubt not but that
much matter for her indignation, her sympathy, her curiosity, her in
terest, will be afforded by the story. Nor are there wanting those now
in London whom the mere title of these chapters will inspire with a
slight and amiable nervous trepidation. One word more, before I let
�The Catholic Man of Letters in London.
269
slip the grey-hounds; the frame-work of this history is as studiously
romantic, as the history itself is studiously matter-of-fact.’
k He then commences his story with an account of conversa
tions, the tendency of which is not very easy to understand
even with these fortuitous advantages; he treats his readers
with an amalgamation of miscellaneous memoranda, mixed up
with theological discussions out of time, place, and keeping.
And Mr. Keon ingeniously selects for these his orthodoxical
expoundings, auditors from the fairest of nature’s creations ;
thus urging the licence of idealism, and taking the liberty of
seeming sublime, in order to raise and purify wandering
thoughts—by fixing them on himself. Take one, of very many
instances:—
‘ Reginald sat down beside a pretty and intelligent girl, Scottish by
family, with whom he often loved to converse ; for she was utterly un
affected, and seemed to take exceeding pleasure in a-Rupert’s whimsical
and fitful style of observation.
‘ “ Do you know, Mr. a-Rupert,” said she, with a sweet smile which
took from her words all the rudeness and harm that seemed of right to
belong to them, “ I have this night, for the first time, heard a shocking
piece of intelligence about you,—that you are a Catholic !”
‘ “ Ah I” saith a-Rupert; “ murders will out.”
‘ “ Pray tell me,” continued she, “ what is your opinion on the sub
ject of persecution ?”
‘ “ A Catholic can have but one opinion on the subject,” said Regi
nald ; our church has been constantly the object of persecution.”
‘ “ But has it not often persecuted ?” asked Miss Heywood.
t« Never,” quietly replied Reginald. “ Princes and Governments call
ing themselves Catholic have persecuted; but the Church never sanctioned
their blind and most witless barbarity. Governments and Princes call
ing themselves Catholic have even employed Catholic ecclesiastics to
examine persons in their religious tenets, and to pronounce whether
those tenets were, or were not consonant to the doctrines of the Church.
These examinations were called inquisitions, and the examiners were
styled inquisitors or the court of inquisition; they did no more than
their duty. Ecclesiastics are clearly bound to obey the secular authority,
when it commands them to pronounce whether such and such doctrines
held by such and such persons be or be not orthodox ; this is part of
the business and of the calling of ecclesiastics. They cannot refuse to
make this examination or to pronounce this decision. For the sub
sequent proceedings of the lay authorities when the ecclesiastical
tribunal had pronounced any one heterodox; that tribunal could not
be held responsible, unless it had the power and the right to stay the
doings of the secular arm. This power and this right were not pro
vided for ecclesiastics by the laws of the countries, where the inquisition
was practised.
£ <w Even in Oxford and Cambridge, you Protestants have an inquisition
on precisely the same principles. There are certain posts which cannot
�270
The Catholic Man of Letters in London.
be held except by orthodox Protestants, (if I may use that term)®
None but ecclesiastics are competent to pronounce on that orthodoxy®
those ecclesiastics form your court of inquisition. A man may be de
prived of his living by virtue of their decision, and his family may
starve; but it is not they who starve his family. They evidently do
but their duty ; they do what they could not refuse to do. Such was
our inquisition. But whatever it was,—Catholics have suffered infinitely more persecution than they have inflicted ; look, for instance, at
our nuns of Poland !”
‘“Then in fact,” said Miss Heywood, “you think of persecution—”
‘ “That it is a very bad as well as a very impolitic practice,” returned
a-Rupert. ‘ I would persecute no men, no creed. Jews, Mahomedans,
Infidels, all should, if I were supreme, pursue in safety from perse
cution the unmolested tenor of their way ; especially the poor Jews, on
whom the hand of Providence is already heavy. I so deeply abhor
persecution, that I would sooner myself, by God’s help, endure the
rack, than inflict the bastinado on another; I would sooner be much
persecuted than persecute a little.”
‘ “ And you are—”
‘ “ A genuine Catholic. I am of that Church to which belong the
poor nuns of Minsk, and which, both in ancient and in modern times,
enduring most awful persecutions, and producing a noble army of
martyrs, immortal martyrs,—has sometimes beheld, to the great grief
and scandal of her heart, some of her own children so far forsake the
spirit and the letter of her code, as to persecute in their turn. But it
was the deed of men, not of the Church; it was the frailty and the
guilt of individuals, not the fault of the very laws of gentleness, charity,
forbearance, which those individuals transgressed. Our religion had no
more to do with the tyrannical policy of certain Princes who professed
it, than the authority of a mother has to do with the transgressions of
a son who disobeys her.” ’
We could pardon this no very uncommon subtlety in writers
of this stamp, could we convince him how much more pleasing
it is to see smoke brightening into flame than flame sinking
into smoke. Plutarch has enumerated various occasions on
which a man may, without offence, proclaim his own excellen
cies ; but he has only in a general position shown that a man
may safely praise himself for those labours which could never
be appreciated by any but himself. The case of this writer is
parallel in its egotism : he wantons in common topics, flatter
ing himself that uncommon ones will prove equally facile and
smooth to his peculiar faculty of analysing what he cannot
understand. We surmise that if he finds anyroad to the repu
tation he is seeking, he will not be indebted to his prudence,
his pedantry, or his wit.
Mr. Keon’s puny effort to analyse the character or personal
feelings of Mr. Disraeli is one of the most contemptible, though
convincing signs of the poverty of his resources ; and, if the
author of ‘ Coningsby ’ could be brought to value any given
�The Catholic Man of Letters in London.
271
t of flesh or substance, corporeal or ethereal, belonging
to ‘ The Catholic Man of Letters in London,’ he would make
njfecemeat enough of it to satisfy the most inordinate consumer
of Christmas dainties for generations to come. Here is a
sample of this exotic impertinence.
( What if Mr. Disraeli be a man of strong personal feelings, who is
determined to have Sir Robert Peel’s pound of flesh at any cost? Still
his is a clever, plausible, subtle, and brilliant mind ; his hand has been
against every man,—and in the end, every man’s hand will be against
him ; he is a genuine Arab, lithe and supple, rather than strong or
weighty; whom nobody can overtake, and who, beaten often, harasses
lor ever: his temper and his mind are hardly European; he finesses
like a Red Indian, and, like him too, is implacable in his resentments ;
he has great conceptions, but they are devious; he is dark as jet, but
jet is not more brilliant. He will make a sensation as long as he lives,
and may even evade oblivion for twenty or thirty years after he has been
gathered to the Patriarchs.’
Mr. Keon can only be compared to the Tarantula; but let
us in all kindly feeling suggest the policy of avoiding edge
tools; he may, for a brief reason, dilate his fanciful imagina
tion by dealing ‘ gentle aspersions’ against Lord John Man
ners, Mr. Smythe, and others of ‘ the congenial little band,’
who now, like the passengers in Noah’s Ark, are passing over
the turbid sea of a political era : the Raven was sent forth, but
returned not; the Dove was hailed with her olive branch, and
Noah knew that the waters were abated. Let this metaphor
stand good.
Mr. Keon is truly a novice in the art of novel writing, fail
ing to support the interest of his story even through one chap
ter, and displaying great ignorance of the commonest forms
and observances of good society. We must give a specimen
of his hero’s conversation in corroboration of this assertion.
* At length, the count, who had rather asked questions than broaehed
opinions, said calmly: “ In thirty years, the old religion will once more
reign in England, I ween!”
* “ Thirty years 1” exclaimed Reginald a-Rupert, breaking silence
for the first time, “ I will bet you any reasonable bet you please, on
even terms, that in ten years you find as many Catholics as Protestants
in England.”
‘ “ A hundred pounds, then,” replied the Frenchman. The bet was
formally booked and witnessed.
‘ “ Aha!” remarked the Frenchman, " you have great confidence,
then, in the destinies of the Church in this country.”
‘ “ Ay, I have!” cried the other with fire, “ and what is more,
jhumble as I am, I will not remain supine, while so good and glorious a
work is being done; I am fully resolved to wield a stout sickle in that
harvest.”
* “ Really I” cried the count, with a smile, “ And pray what do you
mean to do ?”
�212
The Catholic Man of Letters in London.
* “ Ah!” said Reginald, “ that requires reflection ; let me think.”
‘ And so he fell into a reverie. The Frenchman remained watching
him for a few moments, and then said :
‘ “ Well! have you thought sufficiently ?”
‘ “ Noreplied a-Rupert coolly, “ I will take two years to think.
* Shortly after this conversation, Mr. Doucewell remembered the
solicitude to which Mrs. Sandon was all that time a prey, and, rising
softly, retired to the drawing-room.
‘ “ You must not go too fast, however,” remarked the count in a
half-musing, half-argumentative tone to young ^. Rupert.
‘ “ To the ladies, or to Catholicity?” demanded Reginald, smiling;
and then, without waiting for an answer to what indeed required none,
he continued: “ As a proof of the justice of your remark, I may adduce
what happened to myself in conversation with that very Mrs. Sandon,
who seems to enjoy the peculiar favour of our friend Doucewell. She
was praising the various rites which are now being revived by the young
world at Oxford, and in other places. I ventured to express how warmly
I agreed with her. She was charmed. I proceeded. She was enchanted. I resumed with the remark that I even went further than she
did,—but in the same direction.
‘ " Ah !” quoth she, with much interest, and evidently delighted,
“ you go further!”
‘ “ Yes,” rejoined I, “ for I am a Catholic !”
‘ “ What! a Catholic !” said she, with a look of horror ; “ Do you
mean that these tender and beautiful opinions tend towards the papis
tical superstition ?”
‘ “ There,” continued ^.-Rupert, “ you perceive that the unspeakable
beauty and the immortal truth of our sweet and holy religion produce
their due effects on many minds by a kind of stealth,—by unawares.
Once they make their approaches unmasked, inveterate prejudice against
their mere names, indisposes twenty persons out of thirty from enter
taining the least parley with such doctrines. And yet, you know,” he
added, “ how very far Puseyism is from being Catholicity.”
‘“ What can you do against prejudices so blind ?” asked the count.
‘ “ I have great faith in the prayers of all Catholic Europe for this
noble and mighty England,” said a-Rupert. “ I have great faith in the
very mutability of earthly and humanly-created creeds; I have great
faith in the ultimate success of reason; as well as in the poetry, the
beauty, the tenderness of our ancient and heaven-protected Church ; I
have great faith in the wants of our nature, in our need of spiritual
consolations, such as are afforded nowhere but in that one only religion,
which alone professes and enjoins, avows and enforces, the uniformity
of Christian belief, and the anti-dilettante nature of Christian duty: I
have, also, some little faith in the rapturous pride and joy with which,
in these unsettled and stormy times, we Catholics proclaim our Church
and confess our adhesion to its pale :—these, and many other principles
of triumph, are too many and too mighty for any prejudice, however
inveterate, ultimately to withstand.”
‘As a-Rupert spoke the last words, he seemed to grow suddenly tired
of the subject. With a grave and somewhat abstracted look, he pushed
back his chair from the table and withdrew.’
�Think of Me.
273
We hardly know whether most to admire the abrupt offer of
a hundred pound bet, or the Tipperary eloquence of the con
cluding- speech. And yet this arrogant author presumes to
talk about Mr. Carlyle’s 1 rugged nonsense,’ and ‘ illogical
ratiocination!’
For the present we must take leave of Mr. Keon ; we regret
his indiscretion, we are willing to think kindly of his faults ; we
can afford to smile at his anger, but let him remember that the
high and noble scions of a real Catholic aristocracy are not to
be defrauded out of their respect and good feeling towards
their Protestant contemporaries, or into a contempt of the reli
gious government of that country in which they enjoy the
liberty of free opinion, by the sycophantic, absurd inventions of
an itinerant writer.
THINK OF ME!
Think of me!
When pleasure’s cup oft sparkles bright,
In blooming day, or sweet moonlight;
For we have met both day and night.
Think of me!
Shed a tear!
For all those sweet and fleeting hours,
We traversed joyful sunny bowers,
To gather nought but fading flowers.
Shed a tear!
Smile ! love, smile !
When o’er the dark and rolling main,
You hear some wild harp’s plaintive strain,
Bring back a cheerful thought again,
Smile! love, smile!
Fare thee well!
Waves on waves us now divide,
Care with sorrow at my side,
Burning tears this cheek deride,
Oh! fare thee well!
�Hood’s Poems.
274
Poems.
By the late Thomas Hood.
Moxon.
Hood, the witty and the humane—the friend of the friend
less—the poet of the people, is no more ! He is gone ; but
his memory will live long in the recollection of the many he
instructed and amused. His last present is now before us, and
we cannot better employ the little space our limits will afford,
than by extracting a few gems from these volumes—they
require no other commendation.
‘ SERENADE.
‘ Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how
I wake and passionate watches keep ;
And yet, while I address thee now,
Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep.
’Tis sweet enough to make me weep,
That tender thought of love and thee,
That while the world is hush’d so deep
Thy soul’s perhaps awake to me !
4
‘ Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep !
With golden visions for thy dower,
While I this midnight vigil keep,
And bless thee in thy silent bower;
To me ’tis sweeter than the power
Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurl’d,
That I alone at this still hour,
In patient love outwatch the world.’
‘ THE DEATH-BED
‘We watch’d her breathing thro’ the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
‘ So silently we seem’d to speak,
So slowly mov’d about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.
‘ Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied—
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
�275
Hood's Poems.
‘ For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids clos’d—she had
Another morn than ours.’
‘to -----------
‘ I love thee—I love thee I
’Tis all that I can say :—
It is my vision in the night,
My dreaming in the day ;
The very echo of my heart,
The blessing when I pray :
I love thee—1 love thee !
Is all that I can say.
‘ I love thee—I love thee !
Is ever on my tongue :
In all my proudest poesy,
That chorus still is sung :
It is the verdict of my eyes,
Amidst the gay and young.
I love thee—I love thee I
A thousand maids among.
i
‘ I love thee—I love thee !
Thy bright and hazel glance,
The mellow lute upon those lips,
Whose tender tones entrance ;
But most dear heart of hearts, thy proofs
That still these words enhance,
I love thee—I love thee !
Whatever be thy chance.’
With one more extract we must conclude:—
‘ Love, dearest lady, such as I would speak,
Lives not within the humour of the eye ;—
Not being but an outward fantasy,
That skims the surface of a tinted cheek,—
Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weak,
,
As if the rose made summer,—and so lie
Amongst the perishable things that die,
Unlike the love which I would give and seek :
Whose health is of no hue—to feel decay
With cheeks decay that have a rosy prime.
Love is its own great loveliness alway,
And takes new lustre from the touch of time ;
Its bough owns no December and no May,
But wears its blossom into winter’s clime.’
�276
The just Relation between
Every one will place these Poems in his library—all who
read them will acknowledge that they well sustain the reputa
tion of Thomas Hood.
Lord Ashley s Address to the Electors of Dorsetshire, Jan.
31, 1846.
The Earl of Lincoln to the Electors of the Southern Division
of the County of Nottingham, Feb. 1, 1846.
Lord John Russell's Speech in the House of Commons, March
2, 1846.
Time, in its progress, has witnessed many and strange vari
ations of the political compass ; but in no period within our
recollection have the variations been exceeded, either in num
ber or strangeness, by those of the present moment. The pilot
of the state-vessel is displaying and exercising his prowess in a
way the most perilous and extraordinary ; and, to gratify his
bold propensities, his crew are content to lend their aid, and to
bow to his absolute command. Whether the pilot provides
this state of things, in order to further his ulterior views, as
some persons suppose; or whether he is merely ignorant of the
coast near which he is sailing, and besotted with the temporary
honours of his new situation, it is of little use, in the present
momentous crisis, stopping to inquire. It is sufficient to call
forth other energies, and energies of no ordinary kind, to stay
the impending ruin, that the vessel of the state may be steered
from the brink of the abyss which leads to instant and absolute
destruction.
In plain language, the existing state of political parties is
the result of ‘ conversions ’ as singular as they were sudden
and rapid, as numerous as they were marvellously beyond the
utmost reach of calculation or conjecture 1 On a vital question of
our social economy, parliamentary conduct has been pursued in
violation of all that the honour of public men should hold sacred.
The cause of political morality, as well as of sound policy and
constitutional principle, is truly concerned, at this time, in a
struggle between the representative and constituent bodies.
We witness the anomaly of the latter protesting ineffectually
against the measures of the former,—maintaining a losing con
test with their own appointed advocates, who were supposed to
be dedicated to their service, to give utterance to their com
*
�Representatives and their Constituents.
277
plaints, and to redress their wrongs! Who that has ever felt
an enthusiasm for representative government has not had that
enthusiasm chilled by the unblushing tergiversation and
the callous disregard of former vows, recently evinced by
so many members of the House of Commons ? Their notions
of the representative’s office has, in verity, given to the mind
of every honourable man a shock, the severity of which is not
understood by those who either cannot or will not feel any
degradation in defending inconsistency, or in lauding treachery.
In other days, the chief of these political offenders was not so
unconscious of the evil we deplore. ‘ The very first objection,’
said he, ‘ which I would always take to the conduct of any in
dividual or any party, was where it evinced any want of manly
candour or sincerity’ * Upon what principle, then, does Sir
Robert Peel overlook that ‘objection’ now? Are ‘ candour
and sincerity ’ to be viewed differently in different years ?
Was honour one thing in 1827, and is it another thing in
1846? Does it, in fact, keep a particular code for the use of
Sir Robert Peel? Why is he, and those who act with him, to
be allowed to confound the rules of right and wrong,—to call
treachery, ‘sincerity,’ and shameless effrontery, ‘candour?’
Is he, or are they, able to set up a valid claim to be allowed,
with impunity, to sport with their political commission, trans
gress the bounds of their moral engagements, and deprive
their constituents of the very privileges for the guardianship
of which they were returned to the House of Commons?
They possess no such claim ; and, when plain words are used
to express plain meaning, they will be told, that they have
betrayed their trust, shamelessly abused the reliance placed in
their principles, and forfeited their public character for ever 1
But the more serious and obvious mischief of this affair is
national, not individual. Nearly all public men’s motives and
actions are now mistrusted. The consequences are palpable
and extensive. They embrace a sphere beyond the present hour,
and will diffuse their pernicious influence as far as the astound
ing treachery is known : they take a range that no human
mind can foresee, or calculate, or grasp, even in idea! The
destruction of public confidence in public men is an evil that
may traverse the country, debasing and corrupting the adhe
rents of every party, disseminating the most vicious principles,
and blighting all that is fair and comely in political life. It
may even corrupt generations yet unborn, and be doing in
creasing mischief in society till time shall be no more. When
men in public trust, and that of the highest description, set at
naught their vows, their vicious example is apt to become a
* Sir Robert Peel, in the House of Commons, March 6, 1827.
�278
The just Rela tion between
precedent, which is repeated with every transcript and copy in
circulation, giving a moral stab at the virtuous propensities of
man. It is a crime which no recantation can cure, which no
penitence can recal, which volumes of a contrary evidence will
never mitigate. If such be the guilt of violating public faith,
of spreading the pestilence of moral and political depravity
over the kingdom, we will not ask the authors of the evil,
‘ What mischief have you done ?’ The more searching inquiry
ought to be instituted, ‘ What evil have they not done ? ’ They
must, if they have a particle of public virtue left, shrink within
themselves at the idea of the awful responsibility which such
a question supposes !
Many of these remarks are not intended to be applied to
those members of the House of Commons who, when changing
their opinions, appealed to their constituents for a renewal
of their confidence.
In this respect, the ‘ Address to the
Electors of Dorsetshire,’ by Lord Ashley, is deserving of com
mendation ; and, amongst men who fix any value upon prin
ciple, it must have been received with high satisfaction. His
lordship, though he had become contaminated by the prevalent
apostacy, disdained to avail himself of any dishonourable pre
text for the retention of his seat in parliament. He felt, and
felt justly, that it would be as derogatory to his political dig
nity as disreputable to his elevated rank and high moral cha
racter, to follow such a course; and, abhorring dishonesty, and
scorning meanness, he thus frankly sought the verdict of his
constituents upon the new policy :
‘ The appeal to the country in 1841 was, whatever the ostensible
purpose, an appeal on the question of the Corn Laws. I maintained
at that time, that protection was indispensable, though I reserved a dis
cretion on all details, and obtained your support accordingly.
‘ I am now of opinion, that it is no longer expedient to maintain such
protection.
1 Although no pledges were asked or given, I should be acting in
contravention of an honourable understanding between myself and the
electors on this special matter, were I to retain my seat, and vote for
the Ministerial measure.
‘I have, therefore, requested the grant of the Chiltern Hundreds,
that you may have an opportunity of proceeding to another election.’
We have no inclination to speak otherwise than with respect
of Lord Ashley ; nor have we either reason or right to doubt
his perfect sincerity in the cause he now espouses. Still, we
cannot overlook his own implied want of wisdom, in so long
supporting a system of protection to the British farmer; and,
though a deficiency in understanding is widely different from
a deficiency in probity, it is our opinion that a senator, having
become a late convert to a policy which he has long opposed,
�Representatives and their Constituents. '
279
does not exhibit the most desirable recommendation for his high
^office, Sincerity is desirable in the convert; but it says nothing
for the truth of an opinion, that the man who holds it is sincere.
In this age of political excitement and change, it is to be sup
posed that some honourable and conscientious persons have
been inveigled into becoming supporters of the new order of
things, by representations artfully made, that free trade is the
remedy for every social and political evil. It is to be regretted,
however, that one of Lord Ashley’s great usefulness should have
(embraced the prevalent error ; the more so, as free trade cannot
but prove grievously injurious to those classes for whose benefit
his lordship has devoted the greater part of his public life.
The Earl of Lincoln seems to have forgotten the maxim,
that where great trust is reposed, great justice is expected. His
lordship’s letter is an attempt to confuse the just relation
between himself and his constituents, while it repudiates
the moral view taken by Lord Ashley, and all who followed
his noble example. In holding an office against the judgment
of those who conferred it, there is a degree of hardihood pre
cisely commensurate with its meanness. It is the retention of
tan ‘ honour’ by the surrender of every thing that could render
it honourable ! But so wide is the difference between indi
vidual ideas, that Lord Lincoln tells the electors of Notting
hamshire,
‘ When, a few days ago, I received the formal announcement of a
"esolution passed unanimously at a meeting of the Nottinghamshire
Agricultural Protection Association, calling upon me to resign my seat,
—a resolution in which my “honour” was openly assailed,—my first
impulse was to comply with the demand, and instantly appeal from that
meeting to the whole constituency by a new election. Reflection, how
ever, and a deep sense of constitutional obligation, forbade that course,
k * he constitution does not recognise the right of a Member of
T
Parliament to divest himself of the trust confided to him. It has not
even given him the power to do so. The resignation of his seat can
only be accomplished by a fiction,—by a request for a nominal office at
the hands of the Crown. The principle of delegation is at variance
with the spirit of our institutions, and those who demur to the exIpediency of annual Parliaments are bound to resist such a call as that
which has been made upon me, come from whom it may.
‘ I know that others, situated like myself, have lately yielded to a
keen sensibility of what was due to their honour, called in question as
mine has been. I honour and respect their motives, whilst I deprecate
the step they have taken, and fear that they hardly foresee the conse
quence of their example.
F * Neither they nor I were sent to Parliament as agents or advocates
of one interest in preference to others ; but as members of a deliberative
assembly bound to legislate for the good of all,—for the interest of the
Ration as a whole. Of that whole, you form an important part; and,
�•280
The just Relation between
in my conscience, I believe that neither have I heretofore done, nor am
I now doing, that of which in calmer times you will have reason to
complain.’
These high-sounding words show, at least, that there is
a limit to some men’s discernment, and a very narrow one,
though there may be none to their arrogance!
Does the
Earl of Lincoln • deprecate the step which others have taken,’
because that ‘ step ’ operates as a direct censure upon his own
want of alacrity in following it? And is he so intent upon
‘ the consequence of their example,’ as to be hopelessly blind
to his own ? The question which remains for his lordship to
answer is simply this : When a member of parliament was
elected by his constituents to maintain certain principles, and
support a certain line of policy, is it competent for him to im
pugn those principles, and seek the destruction of that policy ?
Just in that predicament stood Lord Lincoln, when his ‘first
impulse was to comply with the demand of the Nottingham
shire Agricultural Protection Society.’ Surely his constituents
‘had reason to complain,’ however impervious to that reason
his lordship might be, when their representative, charged, as
he was, with the guardianship of their rights, dignified with
their supremacy, and clothed with their power, persisted in a
policy which they believed would be not merely injurious to
themselves, but destructive to the general weal. Was there
nothing in that circumstance ‘ at variance with the spirit of
our institutions?’ Was there nothing in it of what the noble
sire of Lord Lincoln calls ‘ the hideous treachery of public
men, which burst forth in the full blaze of its triumphant
deformity, supported by a shameless effrontery, unexampled in
the annals of well-regulated states?’* These are questions
which every observer of recent events can answer, but questions
which cannot be answered without casting disgrace upon the
faithless representative, and exciting indignation in his dupes!
When the Earl of Lincoln extols the duties of‘members of
a deliberative assembly,’ he seems to overlook a most import
ant one, that of identifying themselves with their constituents.
The freedom of such ‘ members’ may extend too far. It may,
as it has done, render them independent of those whom they
profess to represent, and dependant on the Minister of the day.
The dispenser of patronage and power generally understands
both the use and the abuse of a ‘ deep sense of constitutional
obligation and he will find a hundred opportunities to turn it
to his convenience, especially when its possessor is not remark
able for ‘ yielding to a keen sensibility of what is due to his
honour.’ The insidious science of political corruption is the
The Duke of Newcastle’s ‘Letter to his Countrymen,’ March, 1846.
�Representatives and their Constituents.
281
grand axis on which political degradation has often turned.
In fft'ivate life, it may be considered amongst the blackest of
offences; but, in a political point of view, it is more or less
dangerous, in proportion to the stations in which corrupt men
are placed. When a private man receives any advantage to
betray a trust, one or few persons may suffer. If a judge be
corrupted, the oppression is extended to greater numbers. But
when legislators are bribed into a servile support of a vascillating Minister, or, which is all one, are under any particular
engagement that may influence them in their legislative capa
city, the evil is incalculable.
When a majority of Parliament is brought under these cir
cumstances, then it is that we may expect to see injustice
established by law, whilst the outward form only of a liberal
constitution remains to give it authority. We have often been
astonished at the folly and simplicity of those whose 4 keen
sensibility’ would be naturally aroused at the idea of men be
traying a private trust, or a judge accepting a bribe to influence
his conduct upon the bench, and yet, at the same time, coolly
allow those who have legislative and ministerial authority to
4 resist the call ’ of their deceived constituents !
Morality
teaches a different doctrine, and her dictates are to be impar
tially applied.
Representatives, fully possessed with the
general sentiments of those who sent them to Parliament,
are at full liberty to reduce those general sentiments to prac
tice by a wise use of their own. No reasonable man desires to
obstruct the free exercise of their mental powers, or expects
them to support measures repugnant to their own convictions.
There is a moral freedom of action open to them, which is thus
set forth by one whose opinions the Earl of Lincoln, at least,
ought to treat with respect:
4 Ought’ not the representation to reflect the opinions of its consti
tuents, especially so, it may be supposed, since its imagined purification
by the Reform Bill ? The fact, however, is otherwise. I would not
object, neither, I am convinced, would honour, that a man should vote
according to his conscience; but if he knows that he is so doing, in
opposition to the declared sentiments of his constituents, he is bound
to resign the trust into their hands. This would be honour
able.’—The Duke of Newcastle’s Address to the Nation,’ May 19, 1845.
In this rule of conduct for an honourable representative, the
ambiguity of words is avoided, and misconception rendered
next to impossible. And it is a correct impression which now
■prevails in the public mind, that honour and justice are, in
such instances, precisely the same thing... Honour demands,
that when a representative ceases to be true to his constituents,
he should also cease to be their representative; and Justice
vol. ii.
v
�The just Relation between
282
claims the sacrifice, on the ground that members of Parliament
are not truly representatives, merely because they were fork
merly chosen, and approved at the time of their election, but
should be such as the electors, at the present time, would choose,
and have to represent them.
That this is the fundamental principle of political repre
sentation will be evident, if we inquire into its origin. The
ancient letter of the constitution sets forth, that ‘ Laws, to bind
all, must be assented to by all
or, as Sir W. Jones expresses
the same idea:
‘ Power’s limpid stream
Must have its source within a people’s heart:
What flows not thence is turbid tyranny.’
To effect this object, political representation was had re
course to in this country. It originated simply in convenience,
as a reference to history will show. The people, being too
numerous to meet for the transaction of business of any kind,
selected a few to speak the public voice on the all-import
ant matter of furnishing the necessary funds for carrying on
the government. It was as old as Chancellor Fortescue, that
none should be taxed without previous consent; that is, at the
will of themselves, through their representatives. They were
the constituted guardians of the public purse, the people’s
trustees for the disposal of their money ; and to whatever taxes
they consented, such consent was never given but with the
sanction of those whose representatives they were. Means
were adopted to preserve a unity of will and opinion between
the representative and constituent bodies. ‘ At first, the repre
sentatives felt themselves completely identified with their constituents.’-f Lord Coke says,
‘ It is the law and custom of the Parliament, that when any new device
is moved on the king’s behalf in Parliament for his aid, or the like, the
Commons may answer, that they tendered the king’s estate, and are
ready to aid the same, only in this new device they dare not agree,
without conference with their countries; whereby it appeareth, that such
conference is warrantable by the law and custom of Parliament.’—Fourth
Part of the Institutes of the Laws of England, p. 14. London, 1644.
A writer of the past century has clearly shown, that
‘ It hath been the ancient custom, continued usage, and undoubted
right of the freeholders, and all the good people that are electors in all
the boroughs and cities in England, to deliver to their delegates, whom
they have constituted by their choice their trustees, such charges, and
* The earliest writs of Edward I. show, that all the people had a constitutional
right to the elective franchise.
t ‘ The Rationale of Political Representation,’ p. 4. London, 1835
7
�Representatives and their Constituents.
283
instruction, and heads of advice, as at all times they judged most neces
sary and proper, and to tell them that they expect they should declare
them in Parliament. And the delegates formerly have acknowledged a
right in their superiors that chose them, either by word of mouth or in
writing, to let them know in what manner they would be represented in
| Parham ent, and to declare to them what they would have done there ;
and they thought themselves obliged to acquaint the House with their
several charges, and strictly to observe and prosecute such their direc~
tions, or else they could not answer it to their countries.’—The Electors
Eight Asserted. London, 1701.
We are aware, of course, that this strict union of representa
tives and constituents would avail nothing, because it is ancient,
if it were undeserving of support, and destitute of political use
fulness, in the present times. On the other hand, if the practice
of ‘ strictly observing the directions of constituents ’ be good in
itself, as we contend it is, its antiquity certainly diminishes
none of its value, while it adds to the interest of the inquiry.
Where the voice of the constituents is unheeded by their
representatives, the end and purpose for which the representa
tive system was adopted are entirely frustrated. Political
representation is only another phrase for self-government;
and, in a constitutional point of view, the House of Commons
is an emblem of the electors in miniature, the living symbol of
their will. They there assemble in the persons of their repre
sentatives, with whom they deposit their legislative authority.
That authority is still the privilege of the electors. They
place it in trust, but they do not surrender it; and it never
ceases to be theirs in any admissible sense of the phrase.
There is nothing in the nature and just extent of the power of
a representative which authorizes him to defy his constituents.
He is their chosen citizen, the selected depositary of their will;
and, as such, he is bound in honour to act. He possesses no
authority, in equity and morality, to exempt himself from the
performance of those duties, and the support of those princi
ples, which were the object of their trust, and the primary
motive of their choice.
Much has been said of the ‘ omnipotence of Parliament
but if the members of the House of Commons refuse to obey
their constituents,—if they are not in reality the organ of the
popular will,—the constitution, far from clothing them with
‘omnipotence,’ or with any power whatever, does not even
acknowledge them. Mr. Burke once said, with equal point
and truth, that the House of Commons ought to be a control
for the people, not upon the people.’ If Mr. Burke thought it
right afterwards to hold an opposite opinion, his apostacy inter
feres not with the correctness of the opinion itself. We hold
that opinion to be equally agreeable to reason and to the spirit
u 2
�284
The just Relation between
of the British constitution.
By what article of our Great
Charter, or of the Bill of Bights, is the House of Commons renJ
deredindependent of the electors? The truth is, there is no
such independence; and protesting against its assumption is
the exercise of a constitutional right. When members enter
that House they carry into it such powers, and only such
powers, as they are invested with by their constituents; and
their powers are, virtually, the powers of those whose repre
sentatives they are, or are supposed to be. By the electors
those members are deputed, for the electors those members
assemble and consult, and their own authority is required and
obtained. But how are the electors benefited by the assumption of a power to defeat their will ? What kind of repre
sentation is that which requires the electors to bow to the
arbitrary mandate of a power of their own creation ? What
kind of representatives are they who may, with impunity, violate
the principles and the policy committed to their care and
guardianship ? If such violation be suffered, the liberal pur
pose of the Third Estate is effectually defeated, the municipal
equilibrium is destroyed, and the great object of the three-fold
form of our free constitution is thrown out of sight, and all its
supposed advantages over despotic governments are either
evaded or annihilated. Unless the House of Commons echo
the voice of the electors, it is defective in the very functions
for which a House of Commons was instituted. It is the form,
of representation without its essence. It is practice directly at
variance with theory,—the exercise of the constitution at war
with its spirit. It is, in fact, the constitution divided
against itself. That constitution erects a Throne for the
prosecution of its executive movements, provides a Peerage to
equipoise the regal and democratic powers, and a Representa
tive Assembly to be the organ of the popular will, and the de
fence of the popular rights. The preservation of their several
functions entire is, as it were, the very heart and core of our
constitution, the vivifying and inspiring principle of our liberal
form of government. It was never intended that either should
accumulate in itself the triple power of Queen, Lords, and
Commons.
If, however, the opinions of the constituencies
of the kingdom be disregarded by their own House, they are
in as positive a state of vassalage as the subjects of the most
absolute monarch. They are, in truth, at the mercy of an
irresponsible legislature. It is of little consequence to them
that the Crown cannot substitute its will for law, if a Parlia
ment can violate all its engagements, and, by ruling them with
a mace, instead of a sceptre, forcibly obtain its despotic ends!
Real freedom is real representation. When Voltaire said,
that ‘once, and only once, in seven years, the English people
�Representatives and their Constituents.
285
are free,’ he paid our countrymen an unmerited compliment.
They are never free, if they are only to have the privilege of
appointing a Parliament, and never to operate upon it so as to
lender the laws they obey really and truly laws of their own
choice. ‘ Laws they are not,’ says Hooker, « which public ap
probation hath not made so.’ * Even the law of God, as pro
posed by Moses, was submitted to the judgment of the people
before it was adopted by them. Thus, the Supreme Lawgiver,
in so instructing Moses, virtually condemns those legislators
who refuse to follow His high example.
Lord John Russell, when spontaneously rushing to the assist
ance of his new political allies, entirely overlooked the rights
of their abused constituents. In the fertility of an active mind,
his lordship seemed to imagine that the representatives of the
people were the constituted masters of the people’s minds,
bodies, and estates ; and that, far from possessing the privileo’e
of interfering with Parliament, the very notion was ‘ founded
in ignorance and misrepresentation of the constitution.’ Here
are his lordship’s words :
‘ I think that all the statements which have been made, that this
House of Commons is not competent to decide the question of the corn
laws, are founded in ignorance and misrepresentation of the constitution.
................ I speak of the general powers of the House of Commons ; I
speak of them as regards the question most debated, namely, that oc
curring immediately after the accession of the House of Hanover,__the
power of a House of Commons, elected for three years, to extend its
sittings to seven, for the purpose of saving the country from anarchy
and rebellion. If that was right, will any man say that a House of
Commons competent to prolong its existence, and thus to exceed its
powers, is not able to settle a question regarding the duty on foreign
com V—Speech in the House of Commons, March 2, 1846.
°
Lord John Russell has long been a great theoriser on popular
rights ; but the above furnishes an illustration of the fact that
magnificent talkers on such matters are frequently great tyrants
at heart His lordship’s ideas ‘ of the general powers of the
House ot Commons are somewhat oddly expressed ; but if we
understand them correctly, he proves too much. He confesses
that, in the example he cites, the House of Commons ‘exceeded
its powers,’ and yet founds upon that excess the right of the
present House of Commons to ‘ settle the corn-laws —thereby
admitting, by inference, that such ‘ settlement ’ is also ‘ ex
CEEDING ITS powers.’ ‘ If that was right; he leaves us to
conclude, so is this. But we reply, that it was not right for ea
House of Commons, elected for three years, to extend its sit
tings to seven.’ If it might so far protract its existence, why
* Ecclesiastical Polity, Book i., Sect. 10.
�286
The just Relation between, fyc.
not farther ? If for seven, why not, by a parity of reasoning,
to fourteen, twenty-one, or twice twenty-one, years? The
first step made, and the right admitted, what argument could
stay the course of a Parliament resolved to render its sittings
perpetual ? 2/ might legally invade one iota of the electoral
it
*
privilege, why not another, and another, till not a vestige of it
remained ? If it might set at defiance its constituents in one
case, why not in all cases, till it arrived at the last stage of the
political drama, and, proclaiming its total irresponsibility,
avow its determination to acknowledge no master save its own
absolute will I Those who oppose the call of the- constituen
cies for a general election,—those who aim at supporting all the
corruptions which have crept into the representative system,—
may do so because it furthers their own invasions ; but truth is
not to be sacrificed at their faithless shrine, nor are thehallucil
nations of their distempered imaginations to be taken for the
lights of reason.
It is well known, that when the bill for extending the sit
tings of Parliament to seven years was introduced, it met
with a very formidable opposition. Strenuous efforts were
made to prevent its becoming law, on the all-sufficient ground
of its being subversive of the constitutional rights of the electors.
The Earls of Nottingham, Abingdon, and Paulet contended,
that ‘ frequent Parliaments were required by the fundamental
constitution of the kingdom ; but, by Parliament’s protracting
its own authority, the electors would be deprived of the only
remedy which they had against those who, through ignorance or
corruption, betrayed the trust reposed in them' So conscious,
indeed, were the ministers who proposed the bill of the solidity
of this objection to it, that they allowed, that nothing but the
pressing existing necessity of the times could possibly justify
it. Moreover, they distinctly stated, that it ought to be re
pealed as soon as the danger from a Popish Pretender was
over, and that it ought not to be made a precedent for the coni
tinuance of the act to future times !
Certainly, no force of precedent can sanction a breach of
trust, or obviate its immoral and mischievous consequences.
One act of treachery cannot atone for another, any more than
a weak defence can shield moral turpitude from animadversion
and responsibility. The most execrable power of the mind is
evinced in ‘ making the worse appear the better cause but it
is an egregious error to assume, that majorities in Parliament
can turn wrong into right. Constituents are not called upon to
surrender their judgments and agree to a measure, purely upon
the credit of a numerical superiority of the House of Commons,,
notoriously obtained by means that cancels all respect for it.
It is not consistent with their rights, that those whom they
�New Music.
287
have elected for a very different purpose should usurp an unlimited authority over them,—an authority rendered peculiarly
moxious and disgusting by the meanness with which it is
bought to be inflicted. There never existed a sounder philo
sopher or a more profound politician than John Locke; and
we have his high authority for arriving at this conclusion :
‘Though the legislative is the supreme power, yet the legislative
being only a fiduciary power to act for certain ends, there remains still
in the people a supreme power to remove or alter the legislative, when
find the legislative act contrary to the trust reposed in them ; for
all power given with trust for the attaining an end, being limited by
that end, whenever that end is manifestly neglected or opposed, the
TRUST MUST NECESSARILY BE FORFEITED, AND THE POWER DEVOLVE
into the hands of those that gave it.’—Treatise on Govern
ment, Chap. XIII., Sect. 149.
London, 1764.
This is one of those truths which possesses all the certainty
of mathematical demonstration. It is the great basis of British
freedom, the foundation of our laws,—the very law of our laws.
If brought to the severest test, its validity will not fail. It rests
upon the rock of Public Right ; and Right is still Right,
WHETHER ITS EXERCISE BE ALLOWED OR NOT 1
NEW MUSIC.
Lady ! ’tis not that thine eye is bright! Composed by A Lady,
the Poetry by Lord John Manners, M.P. Cramer, Beale,
and Co.
We are favoured with an early copy of this new song, and
have very great pleasure in expressing our sincere and hearty
approbation of as sweet a melody as we have ever listened to.
The name of the fair Composer has not been permitted to
transpire, but this, we believe her first publication, may bear
favourable comparison with the productions of our most cele
brated professionals ; and will, we doubt not, enjoy a long and
fashionable popularity. As a musical composition it is classi
cally correct; but the perfect adaptation to the soft and impas-
�288
New Music.
sioned words of the Noble Poet is, perhaps, its greatest beauty.
It is instinct with sentiment.
The distinguished patronage which this song has already
received, is, we are sure, only a presage of its future and welldeserved success.
���
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The Oxford and Cambridge Review. Vol. II, No. II, April 1846
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Collation: [201]-288 p.
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Text
THE
WEST OF ENGLAND MISCELLANY.
Vol. I.]
FEBRUARY, 1845.
[No. 4.
THE SOCIAL CONDITION OF THE EMPIRE.
“ The Rich and Poor meet together, but somehow both forget that God has made
them all. *
*
* Heaven help us ! were there but a community of feeling,
as honest as that which necessity has at last nearly made the community of metallic
interests—and the value even of gold lies in the feelings which it can buy—how
happy we might make many now, whose bruised hearts will be cold when ours are
so, and to what blessed returns might thousands put their dormant virtues, if they
would but believe that God’s image lingered in the world. *
*
* Your
fathers had their superstitions, but they were never so gross as yours, for they were
fed and clothed while they followed them, and spoke of the powers of the old
Church at their warm firesides; but you, in spite of the cries of nature, bend in
reverence to oppression when it comes in a majestic shape, and receive the law of
outrage with meekness, because disguised by a respected form of words.”—The
Young Widow.
Perhaps it is not one of the least extraordinary of the signs of the times
that while statesmen and philosophers are daily enunciating some new
utilitarian sentiment, and merchants and manufacturers are counting
from deep money-bags their gold, the Poet and the Novelist are, with
a fervour and energy till now unknown in the “ world of letters,” de
voting their time and their talent to the cause of the poor man, seeking
to enforce his rights, and make his misery heard, by all the impassioned
eloquence they can command. The delightful work from which we
have quoted the above brilliant passages, and many others written in a
kindred spirit—the novels of D’Israeli, Dickens, and Sue—the
poetry of Talfourd, Smythe, and Lamartine—have done more
towards directing public attention to the social condition of mankind
than all the speeches of a Peel, a Russell, or a Palmerston, for
they have addressed themselves to the holier feelings,—in the inmost,
chambers of the heart whispered bitter truths: and while the bold
denunciation of the Times has spoken in a voice of thunder throughout
the length and breadth of the land, the pages of Coningsby and The
Young Widow have been read in the boudoir, and have enlisted on the
side of humanity woman’s mighty influence, woman’s true and earnest
sympathy. And it is meet and right that it should be so. Who will
Vol. 1.
H
�98
THE SOCIAL CONDITION OF THE EMPIRE.
not rejoice to see in the moral desert this spring of life and hope ? And
yet is the fact strange—melancholy—the duties of Government, even
the sacred offices of the Church, are virtually administered by a power
unrecognized by either, but which now, in the hour of necessity, has
gathered up the straggling reins, and is holding them with a will and a
determination at which their lukewarmness and expediency recoil. Yes,
by the necessities of the times that power has been again called into
being, or rather, awoke from dormancy, for it is deathless, before which
ere now the proud Autocrat has grown pale with fear, and the infallibi
lity of the Vatican confessed to error; that power which has hurried
princely monarchs, founders of dynasties, heirs of a long line of ennobled
ancestry, to an untimely and a cruel end, and which has raised from the
lowest abyss of grimy penury an obscure and nameless being to occupy
the vacant throne ; that power which achieved the English Reformation,
and which in later times has freed the Catholic from the bondage then
imposed • that power which speaks but once in centuries, and then in a
voice which makes the nations tremble, is again around and about us ;
the warning blast of its trumpet is becoming fearfully shrill and distinct.
Public Opinion is guided by the Press more than Acts of Parliament,
and the influence of Woman is greater than the power of a Cabinet
Minister. A Windsor uniform may dazzle the eye, but it cannot move
the mind. Opinion expresses itself in the literature of the day; the
novelist and the poet are its most efficient representatives, and we
repeat that it is most cheering in the dearth of good feeling, and cordial
reciprocation of kindly offices, to see the man of letters heartily espousing
the cause of the suffering poor, and striving for a moral regeneration of
those social relations which are the support and the glory of a nation.
The evils of our Social Condition are now pretty generally allowed by
all who think upon the subject; few have sufficient hardihood to defend
things as they are; but many are yet careless, more refuse to look beyond
the surface, and it is to these we woidd particularly address our remarks.
The careless man most commonly seeks to excuse his criminality by
shifting the blame to other shoulders than his own, or alleging that he
is not responsible for the misconduct of another; but in the present
instance we submit either plea is inadmissible. The fact is not dis
puted ; the man must be blind, not careless, who will venture to deny
the existence of a frightful, wide-spread, spreading, and fatally contagi
ous misery, destitution, and wretchedness in this beautiful land, over-
�THE SOCIAL CONDITION OF THE EMPIRE.
flowing with riches, bringing forth plenty, and abounding in the good
tilings of the earth. He must be blind, not careless, who, in traversing
Etc streets and squares of our cities, has not seen squalid, homeless
wretches, courting a moment’s shelter beneath the lofty portico of
some spacious mansion, and supplicating in speechless agony a morsel
of bread to prolong a life of woe,—or, when the curtain of night has
fallen over the earth, and a still more squalid poverty creeps forth from
its hiding place, when keen hunger and the freezing air make the cries
of the houseless beggar truly heart-rending, when the gin-shop is full,
the pawnbroker’s passage crowded, the poor courtezan covering a broken
heart with hued garments, and the thief creeping warily along,—who
that has seen these things will dare to put the fact in issue ? Who that
thinks of these things can continue careless ? No, the fact is not dis
puted—the hardest face-grinder must admit it; imposture there may
be, and doubtless is, but the pretenders are very few indeed compared
with the real sufferers, and to refuse all sympathy on such a miserable
pretext is as wicked as it is hypocritical. The careless, and those who
affect a carelessness which they think well-bred and fashionable, take a
line of defence requiring a little more consideration, because, although
it is equally untenable, it is more specious and sophistical. They con
stantly remind us that there is a “ State provision for the poor,” that the
Government of the country cares for its poor, that every poor man and
poor woman has a refuge where to fly in distress, where their wants will
be attended to and their interests watched over, and for which there is
a regular assessment made throughout the land. This, and the like of
this, we have heard over and over again, but, Heaven help our igno
rance ! we can see no sound argument in it. We will not say one word
on the New Poor Law, or make a single remark on the barbarous and
complicated machinery by which its unchristian enactments are carried
into operation, but will at once attempt to show these superficial reasoners how exceedingly vague and unsatisfactory are their premises, how
very illogical the conclusions they wish to draw, or rather leave us to
infer therefrom, That the prevention of an acknowledged evil is better
than any temporary alleviation of its sequences, is an observation so
hackneyed as to require no enforcement here; still, notwithstanding the
common and ready acquiescence in this great truth, many—and especi
ally the class we are now addressing—neglect to follow in their practice
the precept which their lips are not slow to preach for the benefit of
H 2
�100
THE SOCIAL CONDITION OF THE EMPIRE.
others : and though it be (as we admit it is) a common failing of huma
nity, such conduct merits reproof, and deserves unceasing reprobation;
and in no instance is this inconsistency more clearly to be recognised
than in the answer of a careless man when the condition of the poor is
urged upon his consideration. As we have already said, he talks much
of the laws for their relief, the money he contributes to the rates,
invites us to inspect the Union House Con a visiting dayJ, and intro
duces us to the guardians, the nurses, and the matrons. He is eloquent
on these topics, for he is not only talking to another but is also
addressing his own conscience—is seeking to convince himself that he
has done all that is required of him ; but if we venture to suggest that
the parochial refuge will, in all probability, soon require very considerable
enlargement—that it is already, in our opinion, too crowded for the
health of its inmates—our indolent friend is suddenly seized with an
unapproachable taciturnity; or, if at last compelled to give an opinion or
suggest a remedy, he will refer us to a volume of Malthus, rail much at
early marriages, and descant on the unknown beauties of some hitherto
unexplored island in the Pacific. Such are the contents of his medicine
chest, and they are invariably crammed down oui- throats whenever we
ask disagreeable questions. These men must have read history to little
purpose, or they would have discovered that the policy they advocate, or
by their silence approve, does inevitably lead to irretrievable ruin in
the State by which it is adopted. The pages of the past are full of
instructive lessons, are rich in that learning which makes politicians
wise, but they must be perused by a free and unbiassed mind, and such
we fear these cannot bring to the study. They have been too accustomed
to regard the peasantry as mere ministers to their necessities or their
gratifications, and they refuse to look into the rottenness of the core if
they can heal for a time the broken skin. They treat poverty as a
crime, and not as a misfortune, forgetting that in the decrees of Provi
dence there is no wrong, and not remembering that the meanest serf,
the veriest Lazarus that craves a crumb from their table, is a man and
a brother. It may be that this class will temporarily appease the upbraidings of their consciences by the constant repetition of these falla
cious arguments, but it is impossible that the impression can last, or
will have the effect of convincing any well disposed to investigation. It
is not sufficient that we build up large mansions for the poor, or provide
them with food to hold body and soul together; we should remember
�THE SOCIAL CONDITION OF THE EMPIRE.
101
fflHwhey have the same feelings as ourselves—that the same blood
circulates in their veins as flows in our own—and that if the feelings are
torpid, or the blood frozen, it is the rigour of our laws which has
plunged the iron into the soul, and the wintry customs we respect
which have congealed the waters of life. It is not enough that we
support the body while we starve the mind; we may subscribe to one
charity, preach sermons for another, and make soup and buy coals for a
third—all will not absolve us from blame, or even free us from some
self-censure, if we forget the commands of Heaven, or neglect the small
still admonitions of Divinity within our own bosoms; all this, and much
more, will not regenerate our social system, or restore the peasantry of
our beloved country to their ancient and legitimate rank.
Oh ! no ; the day in which paltry measures of expediency might have
availed is past. We must now strike with the axe, not trim with the
pruning-knife; schemes of reform must be commensurate with the
demands of the times, and they must be framed with a regard to what
is just rather than what is necessary. They must be tried by the
standard of a Catholic religion, and not by the loose morality of erring
man. Legal wrong must yield to holy right, and Scriptural command
ment supersede philosophical erudition. We must now, to effect a cure,
eradicate the seeds of disease, and purge the body of every particle of
that perilous stuff which preys upon our vitality. No; the hour in
which temporizing might have sufficed can never be recalled ; the deeds
of that hour are registered, and it is now a record of the past. The
hypocrisy and the double dealing, the open violence and the secret injury
of that time, are gone by, but not forgotten. The ravages of the storm
are oft more terribly apparent when the angry waves have subsided,
and the blustering winds are hushed. Their memory lives after them;
they are forced upon the recollection by the results they have already
brought forth, and the yet more fearful ones with which these seem
pregnant. Oh 1 no; if we would avert the calamities which threaten our
very existence as a nation—for deprived of her peasantry England
would soon vanish from the map of civilization—if we would ward off
the coming blow—if we would be prepared to chastise the insolence of
a foreign foe, or crush the rebel in our own bosom—let us unite as one
man, animated with one purpose, and desiring but one end, diligently
and religiously to promote that kindly and generous feeling between
every class of society, the absence of which is a primary cause of the
�102
LETTER OPENING IN LADIES’ SCHOOLS.
manifold evils we all agree to deplore. Let us above all things cherish
a charity free, extended, universal,—a charity which knows not the
rivalry of sect, is a stranger to the contentions of party, which hopeth
all things, and, in doubt, refers to the arbitration of Heaven what
Omniscience can alone decide. Let us follow the plain commands of
Holy Writ rather than dispute on doctrinal theology, feed the poor and
clothe the naked before we study the oreed of Calvin, and humbly con
fess our own sins ere we decide on the forms and ceremonies which
others adopt as symbols of their faith. Let us, regardless of the sneer
of ignorance, the taunt of vulgar minds, or the abuse of the interested
and the unworthy, listen to the monitions of the heart, and receive its
language as the oracles of inspiration, as the whisperings of Nature, and
the still voice of Nature’s God. Let us abide by this as the rule of
life, and the influence of good example ■will soon become contagious.
We shall reap a full harvest from the seeds we scatter around us, cull
sweet flowers in the wilderness, and rejoice that we have, by the exer
cise of the virtues of humanity, saved the land of our birth from that
fiery ordeal which in other countries must have purified and regenerated
THE SOCIAL CONDITION OF THE EMPIRE.
LETTER OPENING IN LADIES’ SCHOOLS.
As promised in our last number, we proceed to offer a few remarks
upon the espionage very generally practised in Ladies’ Schools in this
country. A correspondent has favoured us with a letter written by a
well-known school-mistress in one of the western cities, from which we
fairly extract the following very plain, and, had it been printed in the
circulars which announce the merits of this establishment, we should
have been bound to add, very honest, paragraph. Here it is; we pledge
ourselves to its accuracy, for the letter is now before us:—
“ I seal and read the direction of every letter going out of my house, and I break
the seal and read the signature of every letter coming into my house. Those from
parents I do not read • all others are subject to my choice of inspection, and if I see
anything which I do not approve, a letter is more likely to go into the fire than into
the hands of the intended recipient.”
This, then, shall be our text. At all events none can charge us with
exaggeration, for we have given Madame’s own words; she cannot feel
�LETTER OPENING IN LADIES* SCHOOLS.
103
aggrieved, for we see the letter is deliberately and cautiously written—
written on this subject in reply to a complaint preferred, and is not a
private letter ; moreover it is a subject upon which we may legitimately
comment, for it is one in which all are interested. We believe the
assumed right to be indefensible—to be an engine of tyranny and
capricious oppression—and we have a right to denounce it. Print this
condition with your terms, Madame; tell every parent and guardian
what you do before they commit their daughter or their ward to your
keeping: and, as regards you we are silent; but we are informed you
do not do so; we are told you do not state this in the preliminary
interview; we cannot find it among the extras in your card. If you
tell a father, a mother, or a guardian, that if you do not like a letter
which a sister, a brother, or a friend, may write to their daughter you
will burn it, we can say no more; we grant you may bum it, or may
paste it in your scrap-book, or do any other thing with it seeming right
unto yourself; the fault then rests with those who gave you that power,
without which such conduct would be criminally punishable, and with
this hint we will leave you, Madame, and address ourselves to those
who are, or ought to be, more deeply interested in the welfare, happi
ness, and comfort of their children, than any paid governess, however
upright and honest.
We do not wish to say one word personally offensive to any school
mistress ; we can readily conceive that these individuals have much to
encounter, but truth compels us to add that we fear they too often
provoke the vexations to which they are subject, and of which they
make such loud complaint. It is not so generally known as it should
be that the mistresses of establishments for the education of ladies are
very often, indeed, persons uneducated and vulgar. They have a little
money, and are what is termed “ good managers,” but the instruction
of their pupils is necessarily confided to subordinate governesses, poorly
paid, and more poorly treated, but who are not unfrequently ladies by
birth, education, manners, and feelings, whose poverty compels a
reluctant submission to the whims and insults of those who are unable
to appreciate their worth, or understand the movings of their generous
hearts. How much do the daughters of our aristocracy owe to these
poor despised governesses ! But these ladies are exposed to many and
sore temptations—temptations which few can resist, which few can
entirely master. They must be toadeys to their mistress, spies on her
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pupils, say this and do that at her bidding ; or, by becoming friends of
the ladies it is their duty to instruct, declare open war against Madame,
who pays their wages, and add miseries a hundred-fold to those they
already endure. If a young governess is seen to enter her pupils’ cham
ber, be sure a servant will be directed to listen at the key-hole. Truth
and feeling are interdicted in Ladies’ Schools ; duplicity and hypocrisy
daily encouraged.
We wish to confine our remarks to such an establishment as that
brought under our especial notice by a veritable correspondent—to a
school where most of the pupils are ladies from sixteen to twenty years
of age—and we ask any one whether such should not be treated as
reasonable and thinking beings ? If their letters are to be opened, why
not still make them wear a fool’s cap ? You tell them to behave like
women, as they are, and treat them like babies, which they are not. We
ask, why permit such a mortifying system of espionage to be practised
on your daughters ? Why delegate to another a power which you never
exercise yourself? You would hesitate to alienate the affections of your
grown-up daughters by pursuing a course which you permit a hireling
to practise with impunity, even if you do not yield your express sanc
tion. We will give the school-mistress the benefit of any doubt, and
admit, for the argument, that she has your permission or direction to
pry into every letter entering or leaving her establishment, which is
addressed to or by your daughter; we ■will suppose that this is so, and
we must at once frankly and most unequivocally assert that if mothers
have at all properly and diligently attended to the education of their
children—if they have acted towards them as becomes a mother—if
they have taken care to check evil, and to inculcate good—when they
arrive at the advanced age at which they enter an establishment such as
we have now in our eye, this degrading espionage is not only not neces
sary, but positively demoralizing. It is almost fearful to contemplate
the possible sequences of such mingled suspicion and severity. How
many of the sins of after-life may be traced to the treatment received in
establishments like these, at this the most interesting and most important
era in female existence. Bright hopes are there nipped in the bud—
ardent expectations cruelly blasted by petty and prudish restrictions.
How many a faithless wife, “ more sinned against than sinning,” does
in the drear hours of a bitter repentance curse this blighting and with
ering policy. Oh 1 talk not of the evils of romance and feeling 1
�LETTER OPENING IN LADIES* SCHOOLS.
105
Preach no more against the influences of the Drama, or the dangers of
the Theatre ! Out upon the hypocrisy which dictates such pharisaical
and senseless abuse I Out upon the cold philosophy which knows not
friendship, and shrinks from the embrace of love ! And yet it is the
object, the avowed object of this system, to prevent any correspondence
above the frigid temperature of the school-room; and an unsympathizing
mistress—and we grant a better instrument could not be found—is
directed sedulously to watch the growth of the holiest and most hea
venly feelings of which humanity is capable, and in a girl of eighteen
years of age to crush them with the unsanctified but strong arm of
authority. Need we say that any contravention of Nature’s laws must
infallibly tend to immorality; or is it necessary to refer to France,where this mode of female education has attained its perfection—where
Mademoiselle passes at once from the dark recesses of the Pension to
the marriage-bed ? Do the matrons of England wish to assimilate the
morality of the two nations ? It is a trite observation, but one which
cannot be too often repeated, that where confidence is freely and unre
servedly reposed it is very rarely betrayed; and we do think that if at
any period of a woman’s life it is expedient to place reliance on her
honour, to appeal to her heart and to her understanding, it is at that
critical moment when she is ripening into maturity ; when for good or
for evil her destiny must soon be fixed; when every expression is trea
sured up in the mind, every action recorded; when nothing escapes the
intense observation of a searching eye, or fails to make a lasting impres
sion on a fervid and awakening imagination. This is the moment to
form the character of a life, to call into action all those charms and vir
tues which make woman not only an ornament to society, but the great
essential to human happiness. Let mothers consider whether this is
best accomplished by imputing to their daughters a criminality of which
their pure hearts had never dreamt, till harsh restraints and hireling
spies suggested its possibility.
Our correspondent has also furnished us with some details of the
school particularly, but we hope not invidiously, alluded to in this
article, which will bear comparison with any Parisian Pension. It is a
common complaint of Protestant bigotry that the Roman Catholic is
always seeking unduly and by improper means to make proselytes, and
the priests of this religion are unscrupulously charged with intruding
into the seminaries of youth—and especially among Protestant ladies of
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BOODHISM.
the upper and middle classes—searching converts to their faith—and it
may be so; but we think we can prove that some at least in the
Church of England are equally and mistakenly zealous. We are told
of this school that it is expressly stated that religious creed will not be
interfered with, but that free toleration will be permitted, encouraged,
and enjoined. These are the professions ; what has been the practice ?
A distinguished “ Evangelical ” Doctor of Divinity has weekly visited
this establishment, and, with the consent of the Mistress, talked and
lectured on controversial theology in the school-room, and in so public
a manner as to prevent those young ladies who were Dissenters leaving
the room without incurring the censure of Madame, who presided. In
this same establishment, we are informed, a young Drench governess, a
Catholic, was insulted and mocked in the exercise of her religious duties
in the presence of the Mistress, who sanctioned it by her silence—and
her sneer.
Observation is unnecessary; the simple facts speak trumpet-tongued
and we guarantee that they are facts.
BOODHISM.
FROM A CORRESPONDENT.
Mr. Barrow, the great astronomer, says that “ the Boodhist supersti
tion (erroneously termed ‘ religion ’) had spread over the whole earth at
one period; that Stonehenge, in Wiltshire, is one of the temples of
Boodh; and that astronomy, astrology, arithmetic, holy-days, games,
&c., may be referred to the same original.” Even at present, says a
late English visitor at China, “ the Chinese priests of Boodh live in
monasteries, practise celibacy, fast, pray for the souls of the dead, use
holy water, burn incense, worship relics, pray (to and with the people)
in a strange tongue, and represent Boodh with rays of glory round his
head. In saying their prayers, they count the ‘ Soo choo’ (the name of
their beads or rosary) as the Boman Catholics do their Pater-noster.
The principal creed among the untutored or ignorant, consequently
among the majority of the people, is Boodliism. Boodh (the founder)
flourished 1500 years before Christ, and had several incarnations. His
priests worship daily in temples, and have a Pontifex Maximus, as a
High Priest or Pope. Boodhism or Buddhism, as it is oft written, is
not though supported (only tolerated) by the Emperor, who, -with his
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107
family and the nobility, and their literati, or men of letters, are all pure
T/tetsis, worshipping solely the true and great Creator of the Universe,
as taught by their worthy lawgiver, Confucius.* In the religious tem
ples erected to Boodh is their triad or trinity of Buddhor ('San, Paon
Full) like the magnificent piece of sculpture in the cavern of Elephant or,
in India, representing the Hindoo or Indian triune deity, to indicate
the Creator, the Preserver or Regenerator, and the Destroyer of mankind. There is a smaller sect likewise (thus forming three sects among
them) who are followers of Laon-Heuntze. These last are partly Budhists, partly Epicureans.” Apropos, this Greek philosopher (Epicurus)
has been sadly maligned and misunderstood. It is generally inferred that
he was a man whose whole soul was devoted to the enjoyments of the
table—that he was the beau-ideal of a bon-vivant; in short, a sensual
man in every respect. Epicurus, on the contrary, was a model of self
denial; but he has been thus introduced by the priests, because he
recommended cheerfulness in opposition to their ascetic and gloomy
dogmas. As a proof, over the door of his house at Athens he had
inscribed the following words :—
“ A great house, but no cheer,
Bread and cheese, small beer;
Epicurus lives here.”
He was not the patron of voluptuousness ; his philosophy was more
of a self-denying philosophy; his doctrines inculcated self-control, and
were directly opposed to all excess. He was truly the advocate of
pleasure, and innocent and rational enjoyments, for he recommended
temperance in everything, and the harmonious exercise of all our facul
ties (like Gall and Spurzheimt), under the belief or assured conviction
that without that discipline (and which could not begin to be practised
too early in life) neither the body nor the mind could be kept in a sound
state of health. Let us bear in mind, too, Horace’s maxim, “ Mens
sana in corpore sano.”
* The moral doctrines of Confucius resemble closely those of the Christians.
■j- Phrenology is the natural history of the incarnate mind ; “ riosce te ipsum” is
the most useful of injunctions, and the “proper study of mankind assuredly is man.”
Man is made for society, not for solitude, like beasts of prey, he being a gregarious
animal, and is made for joy, not for mourning his life away. It is but misconception
of our destiny, barbarism, ignorance, superstition, and insanity itself, that may prefer
suffering to enjoyment (aye, “to enjoy is to obey”), or a less sum of happiness to
a greater one. The greatest sum of earthly happiness is to be found in social and
friendly life, and in the discharge of all our relative duties. Let us then be laugh
ing philosophers.
�THE MONK AND THE STUDENT.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “ CHARLES ARNOLD.”
CHAPTER I.
“ Mourn not thy mother fading,
It is the common lot,
That those we love should come and go,
And leave us in this world of woe,
So murmur not.
No pangs or passionate grief,
N or anger raging hot;
No ills can ever harm her more;
She goes unto that silent shore,
Where pain is not.”
It was a calm and gentle evening in Italy as an invalid lay reclining on
a sofa, to all appearance rapidly hastening into eternity. The sufferer
was in the prime of life, and possessed a loveliness which, though almost,
destroyed by the inroads of disease, retained still a beauty which death
only could finally battle with and destroy. By her side stood her
daughter, a young and lovely girl, who was watching with deep earnest
ness and affection her only parent. Tears fell fast, and her whole frame
exhibited marks of the toil and anxiety she had undergone in painful
watching. The sufferer opened her eyes, but she appeared not to recog
nise her child, and she again relapsed into her former state of lethargy.
In a few minutes a priest entered, for the purpose of giving religious
consolation to the dying woman. He was a young man, of commanding
figure and appearance, and his words were bland, and his manner con
ciliatory. His countenance, although highly intellectual and striking,
had an air of deep and repulsive cunning, and his fine dark eye an
aspect startling and disagreeable. He was a man whom one might fear
rather than respect. People said his sanctity was feigned, that his
religion was not the religion of the heart, and that it was assumed to
gratify a dark and haughty ambition. There he stood seemingly gazing
on the patient before him, yet one could not observe him long without
perceiving that his glances were often wandering towards the daughter
with a deep and sinister expression.
Margaret, for that was the daughter’s name, stood as mute as a statue
beside her mother. The presence of Claude, the priest, was forgotten.
Soon, however, his voice was heard addressing the young girl. His
tones were not hushed as the solemnity of the scene would naturally
have demanded, but were uttered with coarseness and unconcern. His
words awoke the dying woman, and she gazed on him long and intensely,
her large black eyes shining with a deep and unearthly lustre.
�THE MONK AND THE STUDENT.
109
“ Madam,” said Claude, 11 you wait to receive the last rites of the
Church.: there is little time. Is your daughter to enter the holy sister
hood of Saint Margaret’s ? ” He turned and looked on Margaret.
“ No,” cried Margaret, with deep vehemence, “ never. Mother, let
me go with thee to the grave.”
“ Silence, girl,” said the priest, “ obey the Church.”
“Daughter,” faintly ejaculated the mother, “ all that I have possessed,
all that you have regarded as your inheritance is yours no longer. To
the Church have I given it. Margaret, give yourself as an offering to
God, or my soul’s pangs will be sharper and more severe as the moment
of my departure comes.”
“Mother, mother, spare me; I am young,” said the maiden, meekly.
Claude looked on her with an almost fiendish aspect as he exclaimed,
“ Methinks thou art a heretic who would thus talk to a dying parent.
Madam,” he continued, addressing the sufferer, “ speak not to your
daughter again. The Church has power to make her obey your
request.”
“ The Church will never commit such an unholy wrong as this,” said
Margaret.
“ Daughter, I have vowed before this man of God that thou should’st
enter the Church. I have cherished thee from childhood; till now
Dever hast thou refused my lawful commands. ’Tis not I who bid thee
enter the cloister ; ’tis the voice of God. Margaret, forsake the world
and all its vanities.”
“ Do not let thy mother curse thee as her soul is about to leave the
body,” said Claude; “ if she curseth thee, the curse will follow unto
death. Beware, I say ; a parent’s dying curse is a fearful thing.”
Margaret caught the words. “ No, mother,” she exclaimed fran
tically, “ thou shalt not curse me. Bid me die, bid me go to the con
vent, but curse me not. ’Tis that base man who stands before thee,
mother, who hath induced thee thus to vow. A righteous God will
mete him with a deep punishment.” Turning to Claude, she fastened
her keen indignant eye on him, and exclaimed, “ Mark me, sir, for all
this baseness punishment will come, slowly but surely.”
Claude looked confounded. He attempted to speak ; the words died
on his lips. He remained silent for some moments, when an involuntary
expression of agony escaped from the lips of the dying woman. By
much effort she whispered feebly, yet intelligibly, “ Margaret, it is the
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THE MONK AND THE STUDENT.
pastor wlio hath besought me thus. All thy wealth goes to the Church;
thyself will be consecrated to its service. I feel myself failing; the
last struggle is rapidly hastening. My child, trust in God.” This was
the last sentence she uttered, and Margaret and the priest stood by the
bed-side watching the gradual approach of death. It came speedily.
As the physical organs failed, the mind’s powers seemed to grow more
vivid. The voice was almost too weak for articulation, still frequent
exclamations of “ Margaret,” burst from her lips; but these gradually
ceased, and the sufferer was soon released from pain. Margaret flung
herself on the dead body of her parent, weeping, and calling on God
mercifully to grant her prayer that she might die with her mother. It
was a sorrowful sight to see a young girl, in the prime and beauty of
existence, calling on the Almighty to number her with the dead. The
priest left the room, and summoned a domestic, who bore Margaret from
the scene of death to her own apartment. In an hour afterwards
Claude again made his appearance, and forcing his way into the room
of the maiden, he demanded to know if she could go to the convent
that evening.
“ To the grave,” said Margaret.
“ I am sorry you feel not the position in which you are placed,”
returned the priest .
“ By whom, sir, but yourself, who have robbed me of all. Your
black hand of villainy and fraud has done this during my absence from
mv mother’s side, when, faint and ill, she could not contend against your
foul machinations. Away man, your presence insults the memory of the
dead. There is an eye,” continued Margaret, “which neither slumbers
nor sleeps, which will punish you according to your deserts. You have
falsely induced my departed mother to assign to the Chru’ch all the
property she possessed; and to carry out your own dark schemes would
compel me to become the inmate of a convent. Oh! man, thy sin will
find thee out.”
“Hereis the -will,” said Claude; “read it.”
“ I will not; thy baseness is the author of it.”
“ Enough,” he said, “ I will pray for you.”
“ Pray for me,” exclaimed Margaret, passionately. “ Oh 1 if the
wishes of those dead to honesty, virtue, and every holy sentiment, can
be called prayers, then may you pray. But take not my name in your
polluted lips when you would approach your Maker.”
�THE MONK AND THE STUDENT.
Ill
Claude listened no more, so sharply , was he stung, but hastily re
treated from the room, and was soon on his way to his dwelling; whilst
Margaret, prostrate and spirit-broken, knew not how to act. She had
pledged her word to her dying parent that she would enter the con
vent. Could she break it ? She was now alone in the world, with no
relative, and not a farthing to call her own; how should she proceed ?
She sat down and wrote the following note, and at once dispatched it
by a messenger :—
“ Dear Pierre,—Come tome directly. My mother has just breathed her last. I
am pennyless, wretched, and miserable. Claude, the priest, has practised fraud
and villainy of the deepest dye. By a series of artful contrivances, known only to
himself, he first alienated my mother’s affection from me, and finally persuaded her
to make over all her property to the Church, leaving me completely destitute.
About an hour before my mother died she took me to her arms and blessed me.
The fearful wrong she had done seemed to oppress her mind. Claude visited her
during the last few moments of her existence. He persuaded her to tell me that
the remainder of my life must be passed in a convent I refused, implored, and
entreated that I might not thus be dealt with. My dying mother urged me, and
told me, in the dark sepulchral tones of the grave, that no rest could her soul know
until I had consented to her request Again I expostulated, wept, and prayed. At
the instigation of Claude a mother’s dying curse would have sounded in my ears.
That could not be. I said no more. I fear I must go as a prisoner to the convent
Haste to me, Pierre; I know not what to do. They would urge me to enter the
hated cloister ere my mother’s corpse is yet cold. They would part us, Pierre, for
ever« Margaret D’Seal.”
The domestic had been absent on the errand bnt a short time when
a billet was placed in the hands of Margaret. She tore it open with
evident anxiety. It was in the hand-writing of her lover, and read
thus ;—
“ My dear Margaret,—I have just received a summons to attend my unhappy
brother in Bordeaux, who is on the point of death. I would have seen you before I
left, but the packet sails immediately. In the meanwhile rest assured of the eternal
love of Pierre Guillard. I know not how long I may be detained, but will write
every day,”
Margaret read the letter once, twice, and then again.
A sickness
ci ept over her as the full import of the words flashed across her brain,
It was her last chance, and that, too, had failed her. Pierre Guillard
was a young, handsome, and intelligent student, who resided about
three leagues from Myan. His circumstances were easy, having a
small competency, which, though barely enough for a livelihood, yet,
joined with the proceeds of his literary labours, was sufficient to afford
him all the necessaries, and perhaps a few of the luxuries, of life. Pierre
was of an amiable disposition, and his habits were retired and unosten
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THE MONK AND THE STUDENT.
tatious. He had met Margaret but a few weeks before her mother’s
death. An acquaintance had sprung up which ended in love, and thenpassion was marked by a singular intensity and devotion. Pierre had
seen many, many troubles during his short life, and these had tinged his
habits and train of thought with a deep melancholy. His parents had
died while he was an infant; all his relatives were dead and gone with
the exception of a brother, whose latter years had been marked by
unblushing profligacy and vice.
On the fortunes of Pierre, Margaret, and Claude, does our narra
tive turn.
CHAPTER II.
“ Methought the biUows spoke and told me of it;
The winds did sing it to me, and the thunder.”
Tempest.
Vexed and dispirited, Claude hastened to pour out his troubles to
Garana, a priest, who resided in an adjoining hamlet. What this man’s
character was the conversation that ensued will tell.
“ It is finished,” said Claude ; “ she is dead.”
A joyous emotion came across the countenance of Garana as he
exclaimed, “It is well; the dead tell no tales. How now, Claude, you
seem out of humour, man. You have done a good thing for us both;
money we have secured, which we can use as we list. Besides, Claude,
there is Margaret; when did ever a maiden refuse a handsome monk?
Try her, brother ; taste love’s draughts; you deserve them. A skilful
intriguer upon my word. . We’ll drink to night: what still silent,
Claude ?
“ We have robbed the living,” returned Claude; “ we have destroyed
the dead. Guilt and blood hang on our hands. Can’st say drink, when
the spectre form of the departed would flit about the goblet, and choke
him who drinketh.”
“ Tush man,” replied Garana, “ why thou art like a silly wench
giving thyself to doleful fancies. What care I for these things ? I
have had enough of them since I entered life; many things have I done
that a craven heart would fear; vast sums of money wrung from igno
rance and superstition have passed my hands ; I have rioted in wealth,
money has been mine in countless hoards, and—”
“ Where is it now ? ” said the other. “ Would these menial vestm-es,
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113
these homely things about thee, be here if thy wealth had not departed
as swiftly as it came. Money it is that has cursed, ruined, and trampled
on. human nature and on Giod’s laws. Its curse clings around the path
way of frail humanity. Dost think that hell would be so stocked with
fiends—that the groans, curses, and cries of despair would ascend from
that pit, as they do, if money had been wanting ? No; it is the living
destroyer in every man’s hand ; it is every man’s tempter.”
“ A moralist, forsooth,” said Garana, and his sneering eye caught that
of his companion.
“ I was a moralist,” said Claude, bitterly, “ until you knew me. I
was happy and good till your form crossed my path, and since then sin
and hell have been my companions.”
“ Go on,” said Garana, and he bit his lip.
“ I will go on, thou man of guilt. I was innocent till you bade me
sin; I was a mother’s pride, a father’s joy, till thy machinations de
stroyed my hopes of eternal salvation.”
“ Do not let us quarrel,” said Garana, calmly; “ there are things
which may bring you to the gallows.”
“ With thee,” said Claude, scornfully.
“ Without me,” said Garana. “ I can bring witnesses to prove that
you plundered Madame D’Seal of her jewels—that her death, which
thou know’st was sudden, was the work of thine own hand.”
“ The jewels were got by thy cursed persuasion; we shared them
together. Oh! thou false lying reprobate.”
“ Another word,” said Garana, “ and I denounce you to the officers
of justice;” and as he spoke his countenance bore the marks of demo
niacal hate and madness.
Claude moved not, but sobs burst from his lips, Garana, with his
eyes fastened on the ground, kept his former position, and a silence
of some moments ensued.
“ Claude,” said Garana, “ we must not quarrel. We shall dig a pit
into which both may fall. I have seen in my long life many hurled to
destruction, gone for ever,—and why ? Because in all then- schemes they
have adopted companions who have betrayed them, snared them, and
they have lost life, lost all. I have trusted thee, Claude ; it is too late
now to talk of repentance. I, too, feel anguish, sorrow, and misery,
when I look back. I can’t retrace a step in the path of virtue. You
cannot; it is idle to talk.”
Vol. 1.
i
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THE MONK AND THE STUDENT.
“ Garana, said Claude, “ I feel it; thy weaknesses are not confined
to thy mortal frame, old as thou art, grey as are thy locks; but what
pain can equal that of a young heart, knowing character is gone, virtue is
gone ; that Satan is here ruling all.” He stopped, and then with a voice
almost hushed to a whisper, continued, “ Society laid the first stroke on
my character. I joined in the gaiety of youth; I mingled with those
around me as a man. Months passed in innocence, peace, and happi
ness. I was a pastor; my heart was pure ; my hope and trust were in
Heaven. Calumny laid her hand on me. I noticed it. I scorned the
ruthless gang of petty slanderers, but I had no peace ; afterwards I lost
my flock; Host my all; and, Garana, I met with thee, alas ! alas !”
“ ’Tis in vain,” said the priest, “ these regrets are useless; they only
tear open the wound. Here is liquor, Claude : drink, drink ”
Claude, like a man perishing from thirst, seized the goblet. He
drank again and again ; it was no sooner emptied than Garana re-filled
it. That, too, was soon gone, and then his deep and cautious compa
nion began to draw him gradually into conversation.
“ What do youthink of Margaret, now?” said Garana.
“ That she hates me.”
“ So all the girls say when you first make love to them.”
“ Garana, I have begged Margaret to view me only as a friend.”
" And she did ? ”
“Nay, she told me that hell was the colour of my heart—that I was
a bad, base man.”
“ You talked with her gently ? ”
“ I did. She told me she despised me, spurned me, nay, she defied
me. You know, Garana, her mother was always under the power of the
Church. She thought a priest was but an angel on earth—that his
words and his acts We as true as God’s own love. I saw her in an
agony of soul for some sin which she fancied she had committed. I
told her the price of absolution would be 4000 pistoles, to be given to
thee for purposes of charity—that thou wert a man whose life and con
duct were just and holy—that not the smallest part of it would be
misapplied. She gave me the money for thee to distribute amongst the
poor; thou hadst it all. Margaret, her daughter, won my heart. I
loved her with madness ; I met her; I told her what I felt; I entreated
her to pity me, to love me in return. Beaten back in all my endeavours
I vowed revenge on her—a revenge which few heads would plan or
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115
I live but for that one purpose : I shall yet triumph over
girl. Thou hast taught me to hate, Garana, too well. I spoke to
the mother of her daughter; I pointed out that she was living in sin,
and that she loved a heretic, and that eternal death would be the
result of such a connexion being formed. I pointed out to the sick
woman that she might lose her own soul if she took not some steps tp
cut the link asunder. The poor credulous being believed all; at thy
instigation I prevailed on her to execute a deed known only to hersel
and me, wherein she left houses, lands, all she possessed, to the Church.
I thought her end was approaching, but it came not so soon as I wished.
Margaret was at her bedside serving her faithfully and lovingly; the
mother would not speak to her. She begged her parent on her knees
to tell her in what she had offended. My false lies had laid a silence
on her tongue, and though the sufferer panted to embrace a child whose
deep affection was apparent in all she said and did, my voice hushed
those throbbings of love. It could not long remain thus; nature could
not be kept pent within a mother’s breast. I arrived one morning, and
Margaret was. in her mother’s arms weeping. The voice of love and
tenderness which dwell in that loving heart could be staid no longer. I
saw it; I felt it; I knew that I must take a bold step, or I should be
ruined. I did so. In an adjoining cabinet was placed a number of
rich and valuable jewels that had belonged to Margaret’s father. I
watched my opportunity, and stole them; they are even now, Garana,
in thy coffers. I then went to a woman, and by means of my priestly
office' and a heavy bribe induced her to accompany me to the chamber
of the invalid. Margaret was not there; she had retired to rest for a
few hours, to recruit nature after long watching. I left this creature
with the dying woman, and she told her that Margaret, her child, had
given the jewels to her lover. She told. more. That head never again
raised itself from the pillow. I spoke to the mother ; I recommended,
as a safe means of securing the wealth which she had left behind to the
Church, that the maiden should be sent to the convent. She assented,
fearful of the disgrace that might be brought on her name. I saw she
was dying ; she could scarcely speak. I left her for an horn; when I
returned Margaret was by her bedside, watching the fleeting pulses of
her parent. Madame D’Seal awoke from her slumber, and a few mo
ments before she died she spoke to her daughter. Margaret even before
•her dying parent accused me of crime and fraud. Life passed away.
carry out.
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REVIEWS.
That girl is now a beggar; she enters the sisterhood to night. She
still accuses me of poisoning the mind of her parent, and doing a deep
and grievous wrong.”
Claude finished this recital, seized the goblet, and hastily draining its
contents, bade good night to Garana, and started for his home. When
he reached his house the first thing he did was to write to the Arch
bishop, informing him of Madame D’Seal’s death, and that she had
left a large property to the Church; that her only daughter, who was
quite young, was of heretical opinions; and her mother, before her
death, had, by great persuasion, induced her to consent to enter the
convent, so that if her life and conduct were consistent she might ulti
mately become one of the nuns. The letter concluded by stating no
steps could by any possibility be taken to set aside the will, as there
were no friends to interest themselves in the matter. When this was
done he went to the convent and informed the Abbess of what had taken
place, and that Margaret would enter that night.
Taunton.
[to be continued.]
Goblin Story. By Charles Dickens. Chapman
and Hall, London.
Although a month has passed since the publication of this book we
are inclined to think that a short notice of it will even now be interest
ing to oui leadeis, and particularly so to those who are by their inabi
lity to purchase or procure a loan of it from a circulating library
deprived of the gratification and instruction which its perusal must,
afford. Such we advise to club together a sufficient sum, and at once
ordei The Chimes, and that they may be induced so to do we will rive
one or two extracts, only premising that to commend any work written
by Mr. Dickens would be almost an insult to that public who rightly
receive in his magic name a guarantee of worth and merit.,
Heie is a scene between Trotty Veck, a poor old porter, and his
daughter Meg, which should be read again and again by every cold
hearted and unfeeling Malthusian. Meg has brought her father unex
pectedly a tripe dinner, which he is eating on the door-step of a rich
man s mansion, and while thus employed Meg broaches the subject of
her long talked-of marriage :—
The Chimes :
a
p.“.‘ A?d R1C^ard, >Say,’
V-’ Meg resumed 5 then stopped.—' What does
Richard say, Meg ? ’ asked Toby.-' Richard says, father-’ Another stoppage.Richard s a long time saying it,’ said Toby.—' He says then, father,’ Meg continued,
itting up her eyes at last, and speaking in a tremble, but quite plainly,' another year
nearly gone, and where is the use of waiting on from year to year, when it is so
�REVIEWS.
117
unlikely we shall evei be better off than we are now ? He says we are poor now,
father, and we shall be poor then; but we are young now, and years will make us old
before we know it. He says that if we wait—people in our condition—until we
see our way quite clearly, the way will be a narrow one indeed—the common way—
the grave, father. —A bolder man than Trotty Veck must needs have drawn upon
his boldness largely to deny it. Trotty held his peace.
“ ‘ And how hard, father, to grow old and die, and think we might have cheered
and helped each other! How hard in all our lives to love each other, and to grieve,
apart, to see each other working, changing, growing old and grey. Even if I got
the better of it, and forgot him (which I never could), oh, father dear, how hard to
have a heart so full as mine is now, and live to have it slowly drained out every drop,
without the recollection of one happy moment of a woman’s life to stay behind and
comfort me, and make me better! ’
“ Trotty sat quite still. Meg dried her eyes, and said more gaily—that is to say,
with here a laugh, and there a sob, and here a laugh and sob together :—‘ So Richard
says, father, as his work was yesterday made certain for some time to come, and as
I love him, and have loved him full three years—ah! longer than that if he knew
it!—will I marry him on New Year’s Day? the best and happiest day, he says, in
the whole year, and one that is almost sure to bring good fortune with it. It’s a
short notice, father—isn’t it?—but I haven’t my fortune to be settled, or my wedding
dresses to be made, like the great ladies, father—have I ? And he said so much,
and said it in his way—so strong and earnest, and all the time so kind and gentle—
that I said I’d come and talk to you, father. And as they paid me the money for
that work of mine this morning (unexpectedly, I am sure), and as you have fared
very poorly fora whole week, and as I couldn’t help wishing there should be some
thing to make this day a sort of holiday to you as well as a dear and happy day to
me, father, I made a little treat and brought it to surprise you.’ ”
We have only space for a part of Will Fern’s speech; we trust every
landlord, magistrate, and clergyman, will read and inwardly digest it;
“ *
* ‘ Gentlefolks, I’ve lived many a year in this place. You may see
the cottage from the sunk fence over yonder. I’ve seen the ladies draw it in thenbooks a hundred times. It looks well in a picter I’ve heerd say; but there an’t
weather in picters, and maybe ’tis fitter for that than for a place to live in. Well!
I lived there. How hard—how bitter hard I lived there, I won’t say. Any day in
the year, and every day, you can judge for your own selves
*
*
* ’Tis
harder than you think for, gentlefolks, to grow up. decent, commonly decent, in such
a place. That I growed up a man, and not a brute, says something for me—as I
was then. As I am now, there’s nothing can be said for me or done for me. I’m
past, *
* I dragged on somehow. Neither me nor any other man knows how,
but so heavy that I couldn’t put a cheerful face upon it, or make believe that I
was anything but what I was. Now, gentlemen—you gentlemen that sits at
Sessions—when you see a man with discontent writ on his face you say to one ano
ther, ‘He’s suspicious. I has my doubts,’says you, ‘about Will Fern. Watch that
fellow ! ’ I don’t say, gentlemen, it ain’t quite nat’ral, but I say ’tis so; and from
that hour whatever Will Fern does, or lets alone—all one—it goes against him.
*
* Now, gentlemen, see how your laws are made to trap and hunt us when
we’re brought to this. I tries to live elsewhere. And I’m a vagabond. To jail
with him! I comes back here; I goes a nutting in your woods, and breaks—who
don’t ?—alimber branch or two. To jail with him! One of your keepers sees me
in the broad day, near my own patch of garden, with a gun. To jail with him! I
has a nat’ral angry word with that man when I’m free again. To jail with him !
I cuts a stick. To jail with him! I eats a rotten apple or a turnip. To jail with
him ! It’s twenty mile away, and coming back I begs a trifle on the road. To jail
with him! At last the constable, the keeper—any body—finds me anywhere, a
doing anything. To jail with him, for he’s a vagrant, and a jail-bird known; and
j il’s the only home he’s got. *
* Do I say this to serve my cause ? Who
can give me back my liberty, who can give me back my good name, who can give
me back my innocent niece ? Not all the lords and ladies in wide England. But,
gentlemen, gentlemen, dealing with other men like me begin at the right end. Give
us, in mercy, better homes when we’re a lying in our cradles; give us better food
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when we’re a working for our lives; give us kinder laws to bring us back when we’re
a going wrong; and don’t set jail, jail, jail, afore us everywhere we turn. There
an’t a condescension you can show the labourer, then, that he won’t take, as ready
and as grateful as a man can be; for he has a patient, peaceful, willing- heart. But
you must put his rightful spirit in him first; for whether he’s a wreck and ruin such
as me, or like one of them that stand here now, his spirit is divided from you at this
time. Bring it back, gentlefolks, bring it back 1 Bring it back afore the day comes
when even his Bible changes in his altered mind, and the words seem to him to read,
as they have sometimes read in my own eyes—in jail: Whither thou goest, I can
Not go; where thou lodgest, I do Not lodge; thy people are Not my people; Nor
thy God my God! * ”
One extract more, and we must close a book, almost every line of
which speaks eloquent truth :—
“ The voice of Time cries to man, Advance ! Time is for liis advancem'ent and
improvement; for his greater worth, his greater happiness, his better life ; his pro
gress onward to that goal within its knowledge and its view, and set there, in the
period when Time and He began. Ages of darkness, wickedness, and violence, have
come and gone ; millions unaccountable have suffered, lived, and died, to point the
way Before him. Who seeks to turn him back, or stay him on his course, arrests a
mighty engine which will strike the meddler dead; and be the fiercer and the wilder
ever for its momentary check I ”
Young Love.
By Mrs. Trollope.
Henry Colburn, London.
These volumes are rich both in the beauties and the imperfections which
so strongly mark all the writings of Mrs. Trollope. There is the usual
quantity of truthful and keen satire, and the usual extreme exaggeration;
the same ridicule of the Americans, the same bitterness against Dissent,
which are so conspicuous in all the former works of this lady. The
advice of Hamlet to the players may, indeed, be very appropriately
addressed to many Novel writers of the present day, and among the rest
to the authoress of Young Love, for anything which exceeds the modesty
of Nature must grate upon the ear, and weaken the interest; and mora
lity is not served by representing vice in darker clothing, or folly in a
more ridiculous garb than that in which they are commonly attired.
The plot is tame and meagre. Colonel and Mrs. Dermont are the
occupants of a pretty country house called the Mount, then- family con
sisting of an only child, Alfred (the hero), and Julia Drummond, a
ward of the Colonel’s. In the third chapter we find Alfred twenty
years of age, a spoiled child grown into a wilful, conceited young man,
and Julia, at sixteen and half, “ a queer looking little creature still.”
The business of the novel opens with a dejeuner d lafourchette, which
introduces us to all the neighbourhood, and particularly to Miss Thorwold, its acknowledged belle. Beautiful, very fascinating, and with the
experience of twenty-nine summers, it would not be surprising if a better
trained youth than Alfred Dermont became deeply enamoured of the
highly connected and penniless Amelia Thorwold. He falls most out
rageously in love, of course, and insists that the fair one be invited to
his father’s house to be wooed at his leisure; this a clever mother
easily manages for him, and the ardent admiration and fervid passion of
the boy are laughably contrasted with the accomplished artifice and
shrewd policy of the maturer lady, who will not give him an opportu
nity of speaking explicitly until she has satisfied herself that she has no
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119
hope in another quarter, where she loves “ not Wisely, but too well.”
Lord William Hammond, a man upon town, and “ dreadfully involved,”
is the object of her adoration, and he is easily induced to visit the house
of Mrs. Knight, where she is residing, and there proposes to Ameba a
secret marriage, which, after a little hesitation, she agrees to, leaves her
home on the plea of visiting a sick friend, repairs to the abode of a cer
tain Mrs. Stedworth, in London, who is a dealer in ladies’ left-off wear
ing apparel, a letter of furnished apartments, a bill discounter, with two
or tln-ee more et ceteras, from whence she is married, and becomes Lady
William Hammond. After the ceremony, which is performed in some
suburban church, the noble pair make a short excursion in the country,
and then return to “ dear kind Stedworth,” where, after a few prelimi
nary jars, Lord William pens a note to his wife, commencing “ My dear
Miss Thorwold,” assuring her that the marriage was only “ a farce,” and
earnestly advising her immediate return to Alfred Dermont, and real
matrimony. This she does with as little delay as possible, and with
excuses so plausible, that she is received with every demonstration of
joy, and no exertion is spared to expedite the union now so ardently
desired by both parties. Julia Drummond, who has ever loved the son
of her guardian, views the preparations for the approaching wedding
with much dismay, but with the most patient submission. Her present
maid, however, happens very unfortunately to be the very same Abigail,
“who” (in the feminine language which Mrs. Trollope makes Miss
Thorwold write to “ dear Stedworth,”) used to have the honour of
waiting upon my Ladyship, when my Ladyship was preparing for her
downy pillow, in expectation of my Lord,” and in spite of an offer of
ten guineas, large promises, and many threats, honest Susan tells the
Colonel her story,—and is turned out of the house for her pains. The
happy morning at length arrives, and when all are on then- road to the
church the old Colonel receives a note from Mrs. Stedworth, who
having fixed her heart upon a trip to Paris, in company with Lord
William Hammond, is greatly exasperated at that nobleman declining
the proposed honour, and in the excess of her spleen writes this letter,
proving that Miss Thorwold is Lady William Hammond, the marriage
having been perfectly legal, and inclosing a certificate thereof from the
officiating clergyman. Mr. Alfred Dermont receives this astounding
information with extraordinary nonchalance, and with much prompti
tude offers his hand and fortune to Miss Julia Drummond, who kindly
but decisively refuses her consent to such an arrangement. He then
leaves England, and she visits a relative in Scotland; but at the expi
ration of four years they meet again in the salons of London; the
refusal is not repeated, and from a few concluding fines we are led to
infer that Julia Drummond becomes Mrs. Alfred Dermont. Lord and
Lady William Hammond live together for a short time, but he at length
discovers a wealthy lover, gets damages to the amount of twenty pounds,
and a divorce.
Such is a hasty outline of this story: there are, however, two
personages whom we have not had occasion to mention, but who,
nevertheless, occupy a considerable number of pages in Young Love
—Miss Celestina Marsh, a lady of middle age, much attached to men
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REVIEWS.
in general, and the military in particular; and Mrs. Stephens, a liter" y
lady, and a Unitarian.
We care not to speculate whether Mrs. Trollope has drawn some of
her dramatis persona from real life—whether “ recent events ” in
fashionable circles have furnished her with materials—this is foreign to
our intention ; but we cannot refrain from observing on a few of those
exaggerations which we alluded to in the commencement of this notice,
and which, coming as they do from a female pen, we consider very
reprehensible. We will say nothing on the deep, unrepeatable oath,
which a young lover of nineteen is made to swear in the ear of his mistress at a crowded breakfast table ! But we must protest against very
many of the sayings and doings of Miss Amelia Thorwold—protest
against them as libels upon womanhood; and really we are unable to
reconcile the entire portrait of this lady with either truth or probability.
Read her letters to Stedworth ; hear her own account of that woman,
given to a man when proposing marriage to her,—“ a person who gains
her living by being considered as trustworthy.” Mark how ready she
is to defraud any one, from her Uncle to Juba Tlrnmmond. There is
not one good trait in her character as painted by Mrs. Trollope, and yet
she is bold enough to ask her countrywomen to accept this as a faithful
delineation of one of the educated and high bom of their own sex 1
Modest authoress!
Then there is poor Celestina Marsh, who is made to outrage, and
habitually outrage, all female delicacy or decorum in almost every word
and action of her recorded life ; and Mrs. Stephens, also a broad carica
ture, but less offensive. We do not deny that these are all forcibly
sketched, but we think sketched from the prejudiced creations of a sinister
fancy, rather than nature, and such is, we regret to say, a rommon fail
ing in the works of this authoress. Any moral which the story may be
intended to convey is lost sight of in the repulsiveness of its details;
and even supposing that there are a few such creatures as Amelia. Thor
wold and Celestina Marsh, still is Mrs. Trollope as inexcusable in hold
ing them forth as representatives of a class, We admire the vigorous
language in which Mi's. Trollope ever arrays her ideas, but we can
bestow no more particular praise on this novel.
Vacation Rambles and Thoughts ; comprising the Recollec
tions of Three Continental Tours, &c. By T. N. Talfourd,
D.C.L. Two Vols. Moxon, London.
Let none, however wearied with the sameness and insipidity of ordinary
Books of Travel, be deterred from perusing these volumes, for we assure
them that the talented author of “ Ion” has invested a subject long
deemed exhausted with a freshness and originality very delightful.
He has enveloped it in his own rich eloquence, and adorned it with
" thoughts ” speaking in their every syllable the good and the accom
plished man. It is a book extremely entertaining, and, what is more,
permanently interesting.
To the many who, Eke ourselves, are devoted admirers of the poetry,
the enthusiasm, and the brilliant abilities of the learned Seijeant, lus
name will be a sufficient passport for these “Rambles;” and to those
�WANDERINGS OF A FAY.
121
(if such there be) who are not intimate with his writings, or acquainted
with his fame, we would say lose no time in overcoming an ignorance
which does you discredit as inhabitants of a nation rightly claiming him
as her first dramatic poet.
ORIGINAL POETRY.
WANDERINGS OF A FAY.
PART II.
In sadden’d mood he takes his flight,
And now he chances to alight
Within a room of ample space,
Adorn’d by many a form of grace ;
And one fair girl all silently
Hath seiz’d the Postman’s mystery,
And reads in earnest guise.
Is it the Spirit’s breezy wings
That to her cheek such deep flush brings,
And brightens up her eyes
Ah no! but passing well he knew
’Twas Love his own bright radiance threw
From his triumphal throne; For, after many a peril past,
Her lover seeks his home at last,
And wooes her for his own.
Each sister looks with kindly eye,
And a young brother standing by
Speaks of a bridal near.
At length is raised her beauteous head,
Her hasty glance around is sped;
Veil’d in a misty tear;
She gazes on her father’s face,
Where anxious love her heart can trace,
And then her hurried eye hath met
Her mother’s look of fond regret,
And round that cherish’d form fast clinging,
Her gushing tears are wildly springing,
And other dear ones come ;
And hearts their earnest hopes are breathing,
Around her head a halo wreathing,
Shed from the shrine of home.
The Spirit’s eye again was bright,
He wav’d his wings in rich delight,
And felt an inward joy to know
Our world was not one scene of woe,
Unlighten’d and uncheer’d';
For sure the Everlasting Love
Must smile from his bright sphere above
On love by love endear’d.
And now again he soar’d away,
And paus’d where some poor sufferer lay
Upon her bed of sad despair,
O’ercome with grief, and pain, and care.
Her sailor boy had cherish’d still
His mother’s age through ev’ry ill,
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i
THE ENGLISH CATHEDRALS.
But oh! his good ship now was lost,
And age, and want, and sickness crost
Her pathway to the grave ;
When lo ! that radiant beam of light
Brought once again before her sight
His missive o’er the wave.
He Was not lost, but soon would come
To cheer once more her humble home.
And oh ! in that entrancing thought
Her pain and sickness seem’d forgot,
Hope shone so warmly in her breast,
Her path appear’d too brightly blest ■
For poor-may be the lowly cell
Where feelings exquisite may dwell,
And from a mother’s yearning heart
Love for her child will never part.
Then lightly the Spirit floated along,
Trilling his joy in a murmuring song,
That in its gentle and musical swell
Seem’d the sweet tones of some far distant bell,
In echoes of melody borne on the wind,
Waking old mem’ries of love in the mind;
Or like the soft sopg of some love-stricken bird,
,
In the shadows of twilight so gracefully heard.
(To be continued.)
FLORENCE.
THE ENGLISH CATHEDRALS.
The old Cathedral Churches,
In their majesty they stand;
The temples of a holy faith,
In this our favoured land.
Within their sacred precincts
Low falls the voice of mirth;
Race after race have worshipped here
The God of heaven and earth.
I love their solemn grandeur,
Meet to raise the soul on high;
The vaulted roof, the cloisters dim,
Grown dark with years gone by.
Around are shadowy' forms,
Silent and soft we tread;
Alone—amid a voiceless crowd,
Alone—with the slumbering dead.
Alone with the perishing dead,
Returned to their native dust,—
Mitred abbot and scepfc®gd king
Have yielded their earthly trust.
The knight from the bold crusade
Lies down in a dreamless rest;
The hands that wielded sword and spear
Are folded upon his breast.
Fie hears not the clarion’s blast,
The thrilling trumpet’s sound;
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MONTHLY GOSSIP.
The pealing organ’s melody
Lulls him in sleep profound.
And hark! from the ancient tower
Sounds forth the deep-toned bell—
A faithful servant Time has had,
One who did his bidding well.
Joined to the peal of mirth
When it bade the heart rejoice,
And tolled to the passing crowd
A loud and warning voice.
Will ye hear that solemn voice,
Frail dwellers of the sod?
Let it pierce to your inmost souls,
“ Prepare to meet your God 1 ”
Filled with pleasure, with care,
How will ye meet the day
When the flaming earth to its centre shakes,
And the heavens shall pass away ?
And ye hear the unearthly blast,
Thrilling all hearts with dread;
The voice that shall break the iron sleep,
And arouse the slumbering dead ?
Oh! let us all so live
That we may not fear to die;
Lifting up our heads when God appears,
And feel our redemption nigh.
ADA.
MONTHLY GOSSIP.
r
The Bath Theatre.—Mr. and Mrs. C. Kean.—This Theatre has opened for
the season, with Sir Bulwer Lytton’s comedy of Money; Evelyn by Mr. Kean, and
Clara by his talented wife. Those who, like ourselves, have again and again
listened whilst the classic genius and the kindly heart of Mr. Macready have
invested the part of Evelyn with that truthful reality which in such a character can
not be simulated; and seen Miss Helen Faucit even raise the creation of the poet,
and render her Clara a sweet and touching representation of feminine delicacy, will
not be surprised at our failing to appreciate the acting of Mr. and Mrs. Kean in this
play, for while regarding their Evelyn and Clara we can never divest ourselves of
the idea that it is acting ; the trick of the stage is ever visible, and Nature is often
sacrificed to produce a momentary and most worthless sensation. Mr. Kean is quite
competent to give the requisite effect to the last scene in Macbeth, and to make some
acts in Romeo and Juliet attractive; but he is utterly unable to do justice to the
high mysticism of Hamlet, the impassioned gloom of the Stranger, or the proud mind
of Evelyn. It is not his fault, but his misfortune. Heaven has not blessed him with
the talent which can alone make a great actor, and which is not to be acquired in
schools. It is the presumption of his friends and admirers which provoke compa
risons that to Mr. Kean must be especially odious. To Mrs. Kean we bow with
willing homage. Miss Ellen Tree in Ion it is impossible to forget; but we must
confess that even her sweet elocution cannot give to Clara that secret charm by
which Miss Faucit has made this character, as well as the Pauline of the same
author, essentially her own. We have no space to notice the characters in which
Mr. Kean has subsequently appeared; but we cannot refrain from observing that the
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MONTHLY HOSSIP.
plays of the immortal bard require more than the meretricious ornaments of the stage
—fine dresses and gaudy scenery—can ever give. They require that right concep
tion of the poet, in which (although he is certainly improved) we deem Mr. Charles
Kean lamentably deficient.
The late Miss Clara Webster.—The following remarks on “the spirit of
the age,” as exemplified in the disgusting apathy of the audience assembled at
Drury Lane Theatre, on the evening of the melancholy accident which caused the
death of this talented young lady, are from a very eloquent letter in the Times,
subscribed S. G. O., and which is generally understood to be written by a respected
gentleman in our own district, eminently distinguished for his Christian virtues and
exalted philanthrophy
“A ballet, called, I believe, The Revolt of the Harem,
was in course of representation at one of our largest theatres. One of its scenes
represented women bathing. An actress in this scene accidentally set fire to the very
light drapery in which, in such a scene, she was necessarily clothed. She rushes
screaming about the stage, and is at last rescued from the flames around her by a
carpenter courageously throwing her down and rolling on her. She is taken home;
and, in. spite of all that skill and attention could do, in a few days she dies. The
audience’ who had looked on her in flames and heard her screams, remained in their
seats, saw the performance of the ballet out, and went home at the usual hour. And
now for a developement of the spirit of the age. An inquest is held, a verdict
returned of ‘ Accidental Death,’ and then the Coroner tells the jury and the public
—nay, it is said he sent for a candle and proved the fact—that an ingenious chemist
has invented a starch which will make even the light drapery of the ballet-dancer
fire proof; there is a funeral, and the scene closes. The cruel, heartless indecency
of the spectators of such a scene, who could remain one moment longer than neces
sary at the theatre that night, receives no reproof; the nature of the scene exhibited
passes without comment. Public decency has been outraged—a mother has lost her
child by a shocking, cruel death. The public and the profession have gained a
knowledge of fire-proofing starch. Henceforward the tender feelings of the play
goers need undergo no apprehension, though the ‘ pet of the ballet ’ should, in one
of her most fascinating pirouettes, spin her scanty drapery over the very foot-lamps
of the stage.”
We learn from a respectable provincial journal that the Reverend Vicar of
Seaton, in Devonshire, is now most busily occupied in denouncing the Theatre. Why
do not these clerical orators vent a little of their bile on the degrading Poor Law
system and the murderous Game Laws ?
The Fine Arts.—We are much gratified to find that a Society of Arts is about
to be established in Bristol. We shall watch this projected institution with great
interest.
We extract the following remarks from an extremely interesting paper in the
Athena om, on Sacred and Legendary Art, by Mrs. Jameson:—“In the old times
the painters of these legendary pictures could always reckon securely on certain
associations and certain sympathies in the minds of the spectators. We have out
grown these associations; we repudiate these sympathies. We have taken these
beautiful works from the consecrated localities in which they once held each their
dedicated place, and we have hung them in our drawing-rooms and our dressing
rooms, over our pianos and our sideboards; and what do they say to us ? That
Magdalen, weeping amid her hair, who once spoke comfort to the soul of the fallen
sinner—that Sebastian, arrow-pierced, whose upward ardent glance spoke of courage
and hope to the tyrant-ridden serf,—that poor tortured slave, to whose aid St. Mark
comes sweeping down from above—can they speak to us of nothing save flowing
lines, and correct drawing, and gorgeous colour ? Must we be told that one is a
Titian, the other a Guido, the third a Tintoret, before we dare to melt in compassion
or admiration ? or the moment we refer to their ancient religious signification and
influence, must it be with disdain or with pity ? This, as it appears to me, is to take
not a rational, but rather a most irrational, as well as a most irreverent, view of the
question. It is to confine the pleasure and improvement to be derived from works
of art within very narrow bounds. It is to seal up a fountain of the richest poetry,
and to shut out a thousand ennobling and inspiring thoughts : and such was the opi
nion of the late Dr. Arnold, whom no one, I imagine, will suspect of a leaning to
Puseyism. In speaking of the pictures in the church of San Stefano at Rome, he
remarks:—‘No doubt many of the particular stories thus painted will not bear a
�GLEANINGS.
125
criticakexamination. It is likely enough, too, that Gibbon has truly accused the
general statements of exaggeration. Divide the sum total of reported martyrs by
twenty, by fifty if you will, but after all you have a number of persons, of all ages
and sexes, suffering cruel torments and death itself for conscience sake and for
Christ’s; and therefore,’ he adds, ‘pictures of this kind I think very wholesome,
not to be sneered at, nor looked at as a mere excitement, but as a sober reminder to
us of what Satan can do to hurt, and what Christ’s grace may enable us to bear;
neither should we forget those who, by their sufferings, were more than conquerors,
not for themselves only, but for us.’ ”
The Taunton Institute.—We have received a number of letters from various
correspondents in Taunton, five or six of whom describe themselves as members of
this Institute, and all complaining of the annoyance which is occasioned to them and
their fellow members by the narrow minded and canting, but vain attempt, which is
annually made to obtain the closing of the News-room on the Sunday. It appears
that for several years past an individual has attended the yearly meetings of the
Institute for the purpose of renewing a futile debate on this question. His elo
quence is described to us in language not the most complimentary, and it seems (hat
although constantly defeated in argument and numbers, this valiant Sabbatarian
intends to persevere until his pet motion is carried. Although feeling that the Sab
bath is a day which entitles it to a sacred observance, apart from other days, we
cannot see the objection to the perusal of a newspaper on that day. Where can be
the sin ? With what law of the Bible does it interfere ? We believe that a news
paper has a useful tendency; it prevents the childish, the unprofitable, and often
times exaggerated conversation on men and things, which so constantly ensues on
that day; and to the poor man especially the possession of a newspaper on a Sunday
—for on that day alone has he time to read it—affords a rich mental treat, gives a
humanizing turn to his mind and inclinations, which he could never obtain in a pot
house. But we fear in the present instance we are wasting words. A man whose
notions are so bigotted—so replete with intolerance; who can hardly walk on the
same side of the street with a Catholic or Unitarian; who would have no politics
unless they were based on spurious Evangelism; who wages a more than mortal
warfare with the innocent amusements of life, and would have no social feeling
aroused unless created at the missionary or tea meeting, is not amenable to the laws
of common sense, is deaf to the remonstrance of reason, and is blind to his own
insignificance.
GLEANINGS.
At school friendship is a passion. It entrances the being; it tears the soul. All
loves of after life can never bring its rapture, or its wretchedness; no bliss so absorb
ing, no pangs of jealousy or despair so crushing and so keen! What tenderness
and what devotion; what illimitable confidence; infinite revelations of inmost
thoughts; what ecstatic present and romantic future; what bitter estrangementsand
what melting reconciliations; what scenes of wild recriminations, agitating explana
tions, passionate correspondence; what insane sensitiveness, and what frantic
sensibility; what earthquakes of the heart and whirlwinds of the soul are confined
in that simple phrase a schoolboy s friendship ! ’Tis some indefinite recollection
of these mystic passages of their young emotion that makes grey-haired men mourn
over the memory of their school-boy days. It is a spell which can soften the acerbity of political warfare, and with its witchery can call forth a sigh even amid the
callous bustle of fashionable saloons.—Coningsby.
Good breeding is the result of nature, and not of education; for it may be found
in a cottage, and may be missed in a palace. ’Tis a genial regard for the feelings of
others that springs from an absence of selfishness.—Ibid.
Conservativism is an attempt to carry on affairs by substituting the fulfilment of
the duties of office for the performance of the functions of government; and to
maintain this negative system by the mere influence of property, reputable’ private
conduct, and what are called good connexions. Conservativism discards Prescription,
shrinks from Principle, disavows Progress; having rejected all respect for Anti
�126
GLEANINGS.
quity, it offers no redress for the Present, and mikes no preparation for the Future.
It is obvious that for a time, under favourable circumstances, such a confederation
may succeed ; but it is equally clear that on the arrival of one of those critical con
junctures that will periodically occur in all states, and which such an unimpassioned
system is even calculated ultimately to create, all power of resistance will be
wanting; the barren curse of political infidelity will paralyze all action; and the
Conservative Constitution will be discoverad to be a Caput Mortuum.—Ibid.
Fame and power are the objects of all men. Even their partial fruition is gained
by very few; and that, too, at the expense of social pleasure, health, conscience,
life. Yet what power of manhood in passionate intenseness, appealing at the same
time to the subjeet and the votary, can rival that which is exercised by the idolized
chieftain of a great public school ? What fame of after days equals the rapture of
celebrity that thrills the youthful poet, as in tones of rare emotion he recites his
triumphant verses amid the devoted plaudits of the flower of England ? That’s
fame, that,s power—real, unquestioned, undoubted, catholic. Alas! the school-boy
when he becomes a man finds that power, even fame, like everything else, is an affair
of party.—Ibid.
There are some books when we close them—one or two in the Course of our life
—difficult as it may be to analyze or ascertain the cause,—our minds seem to have
made a great leap. A thousand obscure things receive light; a multitude of inde
finite feelings are determined. Our intellect grasps and grapples with all subjects
with a capacity, a flexibility, and a vigour, before unknown to us. It masters ques
tions hitherto perplexing, which are not even touched or referred to in the volume
just closed. What is this magic ? It is the spirit of the Supreme Author, that, by
a magnetic influence, blends with our sympathizing intelligence, directs and inspires
it. By that mysterious sensibility we extend to questions, which he has not treated,
the same intellectual force which he has exercised over those he has expounded. His
genius for a time remains in us, ’Tis the same with human beings as with books.
All of us encounter, at least once in our life, some individual who utters words that
make us think for ever. There are men whose phrases are oracles ; who condense
in a sentence the secrets of a life ; who blurt out an aphorism that forms a character,
or illustrates an existence. A great thing is a great book ; but greater than all is
the talk of a great man! And what is a great man ? Is it a Minister of State ? Is
it a victorious General? A gentleman in the Windsor uniform ? A Field Marshal
covered with stars ? Is it a Prelate, or a Prince ? A King, even an Emperor ? It
may be all these; yet these, as we must all daily feel, are not necessarily great men.
A great man is one who affects the mind of his generation ; whether he be a monk
in his cloister agitating Christendom, or a monarch crossing the Granicus, and
giving a new character to the Pagan world.—Ibid.
A coquette is a being who wishes to please. Amiable being! If you do not like
her you will have no difficulty in finding a female companion of a different mood.
Alas! coquettes are but too rare. ’Tis a career that requires great abilities,
infinite pains, a gay and airy spirit. ’Tis the coquette that provides all amusement,
suggests the riding party, plans the pic-nic, gives and guesses charades, acts them.
She is the steering element amid the heavy congeries of social atoms ; the soul of the
house, the salt of the banquet, Let any one pass a very agreeable week, or it may
be ten days, under any roof, and. analyze the cause of his satisfaction, and we might
safely make a gentle wager that his solution would present him with the frolick
phantom of a coquette.—Ibid.
We are too apt to believe that the character of a boy is easily read. ’Tis a mys
tery the most profound. Mark what blunders parents constantly make as to the
nature of their own offspring, bred too under their eyes, and displaying every hour
their characteristics. How often in the nursery does the genius count as a dunce
because he is pensive ; while a rattling urohin is invested with almost supernatural
qualities because his animal spirits make him impudent and flippant! The school
boy, above all others, is not the simple being the world imagines. In that young
bosom are often stirring passions as strong as our own, desires not less violent, a
volition not less supreme. In that young bosom what burning love, what intense
ambition, what avarice, what lust of power; envy that fiends might emulate, hate
that man might fear !—Ibid.
Music.—Oh, Music! miraculous art, that makes the poet’s skill a jest; revealing
to the soul inexpressible feelings, by the aid of inexplicable sounds! A blast of thy
�GLEANINGS.
127
trumpet, and millions rush forward to die: a peal of thy organ, and uncounted
nations gink down to pray. Mighty is thy three-fold power ! First, thou canst call
up elemental sounds, and scenes, and subjects, with the definiteness of reality.
Lo ■ the voice of the winds—the flash of the lightning—the swell
Then thou canst speak to the secrets of a
man s heart as if by inspiration. Strike the lyre! Lo! our early love—our
treasured hate—-our withered joy—our flattering hope ! And, lastly, by thy myste
rious melodies thou canst recall man from all thought of this world and of himself—
bringing back to his soul’s memory dark but delightful recollections of the glorious
heritage which he has lost, but which he may win again. Strike the lyre ! Lo 1
Paradise, with its palaces of inconceivable splendour, and its gates of unimaginable
glory!—Vivian Grey.
The Unfortunate.—The wretched wanderer of the night, whose only “home”
is the noisome stew, reeking with the foul breath of infamy; whose emaciated,
squalid, and care-worn features are bedaubed with the mockery of health; whose
diseased and attenuated frame is decked in the gaudy rags of bygone pleasure; whose
heart is sapped, whose memory is blighted, qnd whose breast is hopeless—none
regard her with compassion—most with profound loathing and contempt. Few think
of the hidden rock on which the fair vessel struck. The effect is seen and con
demned, but the fatal cause escapes mole-eyed censure. Who thinks upon the
probable treachery, falsehood, and villainy that have been exerted to corrupt the
unbefriended, weak, and too confiding woman? Who inquires if the depravity,
which glares in every expression, was drawn in with the first breath of life, and the
blood tainted in the veins by the authoress of her being ? Not one among the mil
lion that spurn the poor outcast, and, by adding to her misery, think to increase the
moral observance on which they plume themselves. The creature of unhappy des
tiny—she who drew her first nourishment from the bosom of crime and ignorance—
whose first lisp of infancy was the instructed curse—is thought of only as a wretch
fitted for the cell and the felon’s brand. The victim to fraud and perjury, whose
every comfort, every joy, every hope is shattered and annihilated—whose once ten
der heart is made callous by sorrow—is remembered only to be despised. Meek-eyed
mercy seldom sits in judgment on either.—Old English Gentleman.
Mesmerism.—There being nothing palpably absurd on the face of the subject,—
only strange, unthought of, and overwhelming, to minds unaccustomed to the great
ideas of Nature and Philosophy—the claims of Mesmerism to a calm and philo
sophical investigation are imperative. No philosopher can gainsay this; and if I
were to speak as a moralist on the responsibility of the savans of society to the mul
titude—if I were to unveil the scenes which are going forward in every town in
England from the wanton, sportive, curious, or mischievous use of this awful
agency by the ignorant, we should hear no more levity in high places about Mesme
rism—no more wrangling about the old or new names by which the influence is to
be called, while the influence itself is so popularly used with such fearful reckless
ness.—Miss Martineau.
If you contend at all let it be for Truth; for truth throws a lustre on the combat
ant which error cannot do.
Names are but the arbitrary marks of conceptions. Sound honest principles
possess a charm worth all other talismans.
Tobe deceived is not always a sign of weakness; for he that never deceives
readily believes that others are as honest as himself.
Insolence is the offspring of ignorance and cowardice, and the mark of meanness.
Sin and punishment are like the shadow and the body, never apart.
We should use a book as the bee does the flower.
Native Cats of New South Wales.—Several of the mischievous little
animals, commonly called native cats, were destroyed by our dogs. They seem to
occupy the same place in Australia that the weasel and ferret 'family do at home,
being terribly destructive if they can get into the hen-house, not only killing to eat,
but continuing to kill as many fowls or turkeys as they have time for, leaving a sad
spectacle of mangled corses behind them. They are pretty, but have a sharp,
vicious countenance, very different to the deer-like expression of the herbivorous
animals here. Their common colour is grey, finely spotted with white; the tail
thin, covered with rather long, wiry hair, which forms a sort of tassel at the end.
They are about the size of a lean, half-grown domestic cat, very agile, fierce, and
^yre •
of the wave—the solitude of the valley !
�128
GLEANINGS, ETC.
4,
strong, and extremely tenacious of life. Dogs seem to have a natural propensity
to destroy them, but sometimes find the engagement rather more equal than they
might wish.—Meredith’s Sketches of New South Wales.
The Egyptian Pyramids.—I went to see and to explore the pyramids. Familiar
to one from the days of early childhood are the forms of the Egyptian Pyramids;
and now, as I approached them from the banks of the Nile, I had no print, no pic
ture before me, and yet the old shapes were there; there was no change ; they
were just as I had always known them. I straightened myself in my stirrups, and
strived to persuade my understanding that this was real Egypt, and that those angles
which stood up between me and the west were of harder stuff, and more ancient,
than the paper pyramids of the green portfolio. Yet it was not till I came to the
base of the Great Pyramid that reality began to weigh upon my mind. Strange to
say, the bigness of the distinct blocks of stone was the first sign by which I attained
to feel the immensity of the whole pile. When I came, and trod, and touched with
my hands, and climbed, in order that by climbing I might come to the top of one
single stone, then, and almost suddenly, a cold sense and understanding of the Pyra
mid’s enormity came down overcasting my brain,—Eothen.
The Ages of Mountains.—There is no part of geological science more clear
than that which refers to the ages of mountains. It is as certain that the Grampian
mountains of Scotland are older than the Alps and Appenines, as it is that civili
zation had visited Italy, and had enabled her to subdue the world, while Scotland
was the residence of “ roving barbarians.” The Pyrenees, Carpathians, and other
ranges of continental Europe, are all younger than the Grampians, or even the
insignificant Mendip hill of Southern England. Stratification tells this tale as
plainly as Livy tells the history of the Roman republic. It tells us, to use the
words of Professor Phillips, that, at the time when the Grampians sent streams
and detritus to straits where now the valleys of the Forth and Clyde meet, the
greater part of Europe was a wild ocean.—Vestiges of the Natural History of
Creation.
LIST OF NEW BOOKS.
Passages in the Life of a Radical, by S. Bamford, 2 vols., 10s.—Zoe, the History
of Two Lives, by Geraldine E. Jewsbury, 3 vols., post 8vo.—Valentine M’Clutchy,
the Irish Agent, by W. Carleton, esq., 3 vols., post 8vo., £1 : 11s. 6d.—Eothen,
2d edition, 1 vol., demy 8vo., 12s.—May Morn, and other Poems, by Swynfen
Jervis, 2s. 6d.—Revelations of Russia, by an English Resident, 2 vols., 24s.—St.
Etienne, a Tale of the First Revolution, by Miss Martin, 3 vols., post 8vo.—The
Ward of the Crown, by the author of “ Seymour of Sudley,” 3 vols., post 8vo.—
Lady Willoughby’s Diary, so much as relates to her Domestic History, 2d edition,
foolscap 8vo., 8s. cloth, 18s. morocco.—Letters of a German Countess, written during
her Travels in Turkey, Egypt, &c., in 1843 and 1844, by Ida, Countess of HahnHahn, 3 vols., post 8vo., £1: Us. 6d.—Lady Cecilia Farrencourt, by Henry Mil
ton, esq., 3 vols., post 8vo., £1 :1 Is. 6d.—Beauties of Jeremy Taylor, 1 vol., post
8vo., 7s. 6d.—Arthur O’Leary, edited by Harry Lorrequer, new edition, 1 vol. 12s.
TO CORRESPONDENTS.
“ A,” (Yeovil) in our next number.
The lines sent by “ C. A.,” (Exeter) cannot be inserted. We know more than “ C. A.”
was pleased to communicate to us.
If “ M. B.” (Gay-street, Bath,) will favour us with her name in confidence, we will
reply to the “ private ” letter.
We are extremely sorry to be obliged to postpone the publication of the poem with
which we have been favoured by Captain Belle w.
t
It will be more convenient if our correspondents write only on one side of their paper.
“ M.” We are very much obliged.
All communications for the Editor are requested to be addressed to him at Mr. Cus
tard’s, Library, Yeovil.
Errata in our last nvmber.—Tn. the note to “The Poet’s Love,” for “ Ricciardo,” read
Ricciarda, In “Wanderings of a Fay,” line 30, for “ the,” read his.
John and James Keene, Printers, Bath.
�
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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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The West of England Miscellany. Vol. 1, No. 4, February 1845
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THE
OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE
REVIEW.
JANUARY, 1846.
|| .
j'”'
I
--------Art. I.—Faustus. A Dramatic Mystery. Translated from
the German of Goethe, and illustrated with Notes, by John
Anster, LL.D., of Trinity College, Dublin. London, 1835.
How many translations of Faust have appeared during the last
fifteen years, it would not perhaps be any more useful than it
would be easy to ascertain. As it is the first ambition of every
young player to act Hamlet, so it seems every student of Ger
man, as soon as he has mastered his grammar and can spell out
a sentence without too much help from a dictionary, thinks he
must make use of his new acquirement in giving the public one
more version of Faust in good or bad English verse. We have
no intention of examining their respective merits,—we have only
seen a few of them, and those we have only serve to convince
us, that like a metrical version of the Psalms, what they are
attempting is, strictly speaking, an impossibility. Not that the
English language is unfit to represent shades of thought so
deep and intricate, but that full-grown thought, like full-grown
trees, does not admit of transplanting without a sacrifice of at
least all such growth of leaves and flowers as may be bloomingon it when it is moved. Faust may take root in any human mind
as Plato’s Dialogues may, and reappear under a metamorphosis
with such form and foliage as suits its new climate; but of beingrendered literally, verse for verse and line for line, it admits as
little as the Iliad or the Agamemnon. A prose translation which
would be content to sacrifice form to a close adherence to the
letter of the original, would be a real benefit to us; but till such
appear, whoever wishes to understand anything of Goethe must
be content to study him in the original. Of the translations,
however, such as they are, Dr. Anster’s is certainly very much
VOL. II.
B
�2
Goethe; Faust.
the best. Aiming so little as he does at ornament, he has pre
served far the largest share of the meaning, and his careful and
voluminous notes have gained him the respectful attention even
of the fastidious critics of Germany. It is with the poem itself,
however, rather than with its translators, that we have to do,
and here we take leave of them, with all gratitude for what they
have done and what they have tried to do ; saying, at the same
time, that they indicate at least this, a growing feeling in men’s
minds, that somehow or other, whatever it mean, Faust is the
poem of this century—the mirror which all thinking men in
all countries just at present will receive good from looking into,
as likely to give them more insight than they will get elsewhere
into what is going on inside their own breasts. Dr. Anster will
kindly permit us to avail ourselves of his translation for such
extracts as we shall have to make; yet, before we leave him,
will he as kindly allow us to ask him one question, and take
some opportunity in his future writings to give us something like
an answer to it. Why did he translate the poem at all ? What
does he understand by it? He has examined all the commenta
ries, he has tried all the solutions, and in the end he is obliged
to acknowledge that either he has missed the meaning alto
gether, or if his conjecture is right, so far from having any light
of God’s truth about it, it is all devilish falsehood.
‘ I remember,’ he says, ‘ but one passage in which it can be antici
pated how the difficulties of this drama can be solved, rendered so
complicated as they are by the hero falling the victim of every artifice
of the tempter. In that passage it seems to be obscurely intimated
that the victim will finally escape from the toils; that while the desire
for good continues, man cannot utterly fall; that sin is but the error
of our wandering in permitted darkness; that evil, known as evil, will
cease to be; that increase of light is in fact all that man wants to
release him from error and perplexity, for if I understand my author
rightly, it cannot properly be called sin. If this be Goethe’s creed, I
have little hesitation in describing it as “ vain wisdom all and false
philosophy.” The increasing light and knowledge may be easily ima
gined without any corresponding effect on character, and the most
fearful enigma of our mysterious nature, is the possibility of sinning
against light. If what Goethe means is this, that while the principle
of conscience still survives, there is hope for man; that every undi
rected aspiration is evidence not alone of his fitness for something
better, but also of this, that what we call moral evil is only the evil of
surrounding circumstances, and that the ultimate rescue for which
man is to hope, is not a change of nature and of heart, but a removal
of all that is inconvenient in his circumstances, and the provision of a
heaven fitted for his unchanged nature; and if the poem is to be re
garded as seriously teaching this doctrine, or any doctrine that in
volves the admission of these principles, I have nothing more to say,
than that among the shapings of the unregenerate heart no wilder
�Goethe; Faust.
3
theory has been before suggested; that in my view, the most dreary
infidelity would be better than such a hopeless faith. A belief that
regards as indifferent everything but vague sentiment, is worse than
any scepticism.’
Now, if this was all that Dr. Anster made of Goethe’s phi
losophy, or if he made this at all of it, we can find no excuse
for or explanation of his publishing either this poem, or the
many others of Goethe’s which he has done at various intervals
since. We cannot flatter him (as we cannot believe that he
himself can persuade himself) that ‘ after all a poem will be
judged as a poem; that the Faust of Goethe will have as little
effect on morality or theology, as the Faustus of Marlowe.’
From what he says we should think he has never seen the
second part, or if he has, he has assumed with many other
worthy critics, that it has no connexion, except in the accident
of the name, with anything that has occurred before. We can
not see how, studying Goethe as he has done, he can have failed
to learn that of ail the philosophic teachers who have appeared
on this earth since Shakspeare, he is by far the most remark
able; and that as such, what he has written must not only in
fluence but will more or less have the entire forming of the
coming world. Goethe’s writings, if we study them in con
nexion with the history of his life, are all pictures of conditions
through which his mind passed, and which as he rose through
them he crystallized into form, and so delivered himself of them ;
Werter, Prometheus, Epimenides, last of all this great life
drama of Faust
‘ Hurrying with speed more swift than words can tell,
Rapid as thought, from heaven, through earth, to hell,’
are but the history of his mind, (the type in this matter, and
completest exhibition of all minds at this age,) struggling with
the obscurest and deepest questions of human nature. Faust
for sixty years incessantly present in his thoughts, as a whole,
must be supposed to contain such answers to these questionings
as the full powers of his truly most awful mind were able at
last to give; and therefore we believe that as the world grows
older, and more and more grows up to him, this poem will
exercise more influence over the entire scheme of thought, in
time to come, than any other book, poem, treatise or philosophy
whatsoever; and we cannot agree with Dr. Anster, and we
cannot excuse him for having given so much of his precious
time and labour to the making accessible to persons, who
might have been saved from it, what he considers to be deadly
poison.
Perhaps this may be the best opportunity to notice a question
n 2
�4
Goethe; Faust.
often asked, whether Faust is a moral poem, to warn people
against such questions, and to say, once for all, that in no work
of art whatsoever of a higher kind than the Edgeworth novels, is
any didactic sentiment capable of being expressed in proposi
tions ever to be looked for: for all art is imitation ; dramatic
art imitation of human life, thought, and action.
If, as the
Miss Edgeworth school of writers would have us believe, a
poem must contain a moral sentiment; one simple and incom
plex, and nothing more; then the lives and actions of human
beings, would be equally reducible to such simple formula, which
we cannot think is true: if it were, the world would be a far
simpler business to manage than it is. It is not true, in any
sense at all, even of the most common-place character, and there
fore the very simplest stories that have got such moral to them,
are exactly, in so far as they have this moral, untrue to nature.
Faust, like Hamlet and Othello, must be read as human nature
in a case of crystal, where we may learn to read the anatomy
of our own hearts in that which is the epitome of all hearts,
and know ourselves, and govern ourselves, and that is all;
perhaps enough, if we go to work as we may do. In this lies
the true difficulty of the poem: because the hero, as being not
only an individual, but a representative of the Universal, has to
assume such Protean forms. He is Prometheus over again :
now a person thinking, working, suffering, rising, and falling:
now the human race: now a part of it at a particular time. In
the second part it is yet worse. Modern politics, romantic art,
each are represented in the person of Faust, and at last he falls
again into the individual soul to be saved. But to all this we
shall return hereafter.
We have said we believe Goethe to be the most remarkable
person the world has seen for centuries. And this is the reason
we believe so. It is said by certain not very wise philosophers,
that men never know the value of faith till they have passed
through a state of doubt. It would be nearer the truth to say
that a man who had once doubted never could believe—the ob
jects of faith are not like the objects of pure reason, self-con
vincing to all persons under all circumstances; if it were so,
how could believing rightly be a part of our trial: nor would it
be right to say they are so (that the creeds are so, for instance)
to fair minds, to unprejudiced minds, who will weigh evidence,
and so on. Evidence (meaning external evidence of certain
facts) has very little to do with it. It is with the heart man
believeth; to the prepared heart only the objects of the Christian
faith are the proper correlative; and, as a general rule, almost
without exception, it is only by the antecedent presence of faith
in the heart that it can be so prepared. To this rule an exception
�Goethe; Faust.
5
is Goethe; and Goethe’s spiritual history is embodied (we may
see it from first to last, see the cotyledons bursting from the
acorn, see the young tree at each and every one of its succeeding
stages, see it at its sixty years’ growth towering up the monarch
of the forest) in this drama of Faust. When we meet him first,
the faith of his childhood is still ringing with heart-touching
melody in his weary heart, like distant church-bells, but they
call him to prayer no longer: doubting every thing, doubt has
taken the place of faith so entirely, that, in the same way as the
real believer is not conscious of his belief but through his belief
lives in love and peace, here he is not conscious that he doubts,
but only is by his doubts made miserable:—
‘ Scruples, perplexities of doubt,
Torment me not, nor fears of hell or devil;
But I have lost all peace of mind.’
Through the entire first tragedy, making shipwreck of all
hope and fear in this world and the world to come, he plunges
deeper and deeper down into the abyss of sin. The second
part is the regeneration, where we shall hereafter see him reas
cending, inch by inch, fighting, struggling, at last conquering,
having won his way to final triumph, like gold purged in the
fire, in the calmness and serenity of faith. A picture it is, where
we may see these secret things in all their depth and bitterness,
without learning them ourselves by our own bitter experience: sha
dows of such thoughts at dark hours may have passed like mut
tered thunder over many of us ; ‘ Who is there,’ says Hooker,
‘that of awfullest truths at times doubteth not;’ but here
we see them in all their terrors; we see them for a time triumph
ing, we see them too destroyed ; every power of good and evil
battling in fiercest confusion, and through it all at last the
victor, soaring up on angel’s wings, till at last we lose him in the
glory of the opening heavens. I say it is a picture at which we
must be content to look; gaze on the tree of knowledge, but
taste not its fruit; woe to the miserable wretch who thinks to
follow Goethe to the depths into which he plunged. Better had
he gone down among the sea-monsters in Charybdis; it is with
awe and fear we look on him; but as an example, God forbid
we should think to follow him ! he is so far away from us that
we can scarcely sympathize with him, save where here and there
his orbit crosses our fixed points.
And yet in this mysterious world of ours we do find that
faith ebbs and flows, and the believing age alternates with the
sceptical as light with darkness, day with night, summer with
winter, waking w'ith sleep; and our lot, alas, seems cast in a twi
light of gathering darkness, where all old things seem passing
away, and as yet no sign, or scarce a sign, of the new which is
�6
Goethe; Faust.
to come: a time seems coming when thinking men, many of
them, will in some way be obliged to experience what Goethe
experienced, and as they fall deeper down, they will learn more
and more to value what he has done for them. Is it not so ? Is
not this an age wThen men are acting one way and professing to
believe another ? Is there not then, must there not be, a hollow
somewhere which v/e may soon look to see fall in ? On the
whole, we take this to be true with nations as well as indivi
duals, that the way men are acting is a statement in hierogly
phic of the way they will by-and-by believe. What are in
general the principles of a dissipated young man when he
grows to manhood? Nature will not be mocked: we cannot
go on working upon contradictions. Consistency of some kind
all men at all times are tending towards. Look at the state of
the Christian wmrld. Look what Lutheranism has developed
into. Look at Young Germany, with its ‘ Friends of Light,’
‘ Friends of Darkness/ and ‘ Friends of Twilight.’ Look at
France, with its Napoleon Concordat Catholicism; there was
some meaning in that old Republican bitter bit of irony in the
nave of Notre Dame; ‘ It only wants the half million men that
have lost their lives to get rid of all this, to make it perfect.’ The
fiats of a First Consul Napoleon will hardly determine the minds
of human beings into believing either this or that. Above all,
look at the Acts of our own Parliament, most members of which
would say that they were Christians, and as Christianity is an
exclusive religion, one would think exclusionists. Yet let a
question bearing on the religious relations of the soul be brought
forward, and immediately it appears to be impossible to act
with any fixed principle on such a question at all;—Toleration
Bills, Jews Disabilities’ Bills, Repeals of Test Act, Irish Educa
tion Bills; the problem of modern English legislators is to find
the greatest common measure of opinion on these matters, and
establish that. Significant enough of where things at present
are all tending.
Oi, to look at a more awful question by far; on the whole
men seem to agree in the reception of the articles of the
Christian Faith; yet how far can they be brought to agree
on the grounds on wrhich they receive them ? Thirty years ago
men were Christians because Locke and Lardner and Paley had
proved Christianity to be reasonable; then a Church feeling rose,
and in the strength of our new position we looked on with the
gieatest pleasure at the demolition of all that ground as utterly
weak and untenable. Now Church principles seem to lead to
Rome; and there, at all hazards, we will not go; every thing is
slipping from us; where men’s faith is firm, we see it is°so
because it has become by habit and teaching a part of their
minds, not for this or that reason that they assign. This will
�Goethe; Faust.
1
not last long, more particularly with us English; i. e., we are
all, more or less, rapidly developing into the condition of which
the German Faust is the type and representation.
In healthy times men believe what they are taught because it
is taught them; asking no question of why or wherefore, and
never challenging the authority that imposes it. Faith grows up
and forms the nerve and sinew of a man’s mind, as the food he
eats does of his body. His actions will be simple and straight
forward, because he has no misgivings about his being right;
and his reason is confined to the comparatively easy process of
developing the successive formulae virtually contained in the pre
mises to which he has submitted, as surely and certainly as the
successive theorems of Euclid are developed out of the primary
axioms of the mind. Hence the healthy, vigorous harmony in the
writings of the Catholic Fathers. Butin this unhealthy modern
time, when all is re-examined, researched into, questioned, and,
therefore, supposed possibly to be false, how is all jar, discord,
and uncertainty ! With hearts aching, with misgivings and per
plexities, our poor seekers find all answers from without and from
within alike hollow and unsatisfying; eager to do something, yet
not knowing what to do; craving for knowledge, yet, from all
their seeking, finding only nothing can be known; if they can
not force their minds into a surrender to the supreme law that
faith, not knowledge, is the root of man’s happiness and man’s
activity, in despair of life they are like enough with Faust to fly
to poison as their best deliverer from a system for which they
have deliberately unfitted themselves, and seek the peace they
cannot find here, either in a higher brighter life—or in silence.
How far in the working out so vast a scheme as the develop
ment of humanity there must not be whole eras of doubt and
scepticism, as there are trial eras in the life of each several in
dividual when the simpler faith of childhood is remodelled with
the expanding of his mind; how far amidst the growing light
(we use the word ‘ light ’ advisedly) of these modern times, some
such transition state of perplexity on matters of deepest moment
it were possible to have avoided,—is a question which can be
answered only by those who have thought long and deeply on
the great problem of the history of the world. Perhaps the
same law holds in the history of truth, which we find for certain
in the social and moral life of mankind; that corrupt practice
brings suffering; that sin and its punishment grow out of one
stem; that institutions and practices which were healthy, when
worked by healthy men for healthy ends, become poisonous as
soon as these ends are lost sight of, and they are supposed, to
have an inherent divinity of their own; that all human fabrics,
as they begin in time, so in time must come to an end, that
when the channels of truth become overgrown and polluted, she
�8
Goethe ; Faust.
herself may contract pollution in passing through them ; and
they must be re-fused and purified in the fire before they are
fit for the transmission of so divine an element, unless the end
of all things be indeed come, and the sun is to give his light no
longer. The minds of men are like steel reflectors, which must
be kept bright by polishing. When they are eaten up with rust,
they must be hard ground and scoured in an element dirty
enough before they can do their work again. We can suppose
there may be entire generations when all real thought is scepti
cal, and all the thinkers for their earthly time at least shut out
from all light and all pure faith, and even love, from every thing
but hope. Nevertheless, if by their suffering there be purchased
long ages of light and peace to the great world, if they are true
men they will not repine, nay, will think it high honour that they
are thought worthy to be made anathema in a cause so glorious.
Anyhow we have the hard fact between our teeth, digest it
how we can, that this age is an age of questioning and trouble and
perplexity. That the Reformation split asunder the framework
that bound Christianity together; and as soon as men arrived
at the point where what had been the nearest and dearest por
tions of it to simpler ages as well as the surest evidence of its
truth, its positive exclusive form and its miraculous narrative,
became themselves the greatest sources of difficulty—it began to
dissolve and fall away, first the mysteries, then the dogmatism,
now, last of all, the history itself. Where before every thing
was received without doubt, now every thing is doubted.
°
We must beg particular attention to the following dialogue,
which, at the risk of disturbing the natural structure of the play’
we extract from the Second Act. It is introduced to show by a
most terrible example how wThat was once thought to be purest
medicine may be discovered to be a deadly poison; and Faust
is haunted by a terror that growing knowledge may make the
same awful discovery with respect to all other body and soul
medicines whatsoever. It is the Easter morning, and Faust,
and Wagner his pupil, are out among the peasantry before the
gate of the city, who press round Faust with every token of
reverence and admiration.
It seems there had been a dreadful pestilence in the city,
and the peasants express their thankfulness for Faust’s activity
and help.
‘ Wagner.
With what a sense of pure delight,
Master, must thou enjoy the sight'
Of this vast crowd.....................
The caps flung up on high.
lhey almost worship thee—almost
Would bend the knee as to the host.
�Goethe; Faust.
9
Faust.
A few steps farther, and we reach yon stone;
Here sit we down, and rest us from our walk.
Here have I often sat in thoughtful mood
Alone, and here in agonies of prayer,
And fast, and vigil—rich in hope, in faith,
Unwavering sought, w’ith tears, and sighs, and hands
Wringing in supplication, to extort
From Him in Heaven that he would stay that plague.
These praises come upon my ear like scorn.
Oh ! could you read the secrets of this heart,
You then wnuld see how little I deserved them.’
His father was an alchemist, who conceived he had discovered
a sovereign remedy for all sickness.
‘ This was our medicine. They who took it died;
None asked, or thought of asking, who recovered.
I have myself to thousands given the poison;
They withered and are dead. And I must live—
I, who have been their death, must live to hear
This lavish praise on their rash murderers.
Wagner.
How can this be so painful ? Can a man
Do more than practise what his own day knows ?
All that thy father taught must have been heard
By thee, as by a young man learning then—
Heard in the docile spirit of belief.
When thy time came to teach, thou didst enlarge
Our field of science; and thy son, who learns from thee,
........................... If this be so, why grieve ?
Faust.
Oh! he indeed is happy, who still feels
And cherishes within his heart the hope
To lift himself above the sea of errors—
Of things we know not each day do we find
The want of knowledge—all we know is useless.’
This is very stern and very dreadful, and gives reason for some
very serious reflections. But we return to the beginning of the
poem.
It is introduced with a double preface; the first, a dialogue
at the theatre between the manager, poet, and other caterers
for the public amusement: the earthly or natural side of what
is to come. The second, the much canvassed and questioned
prologue in Heaven. In the first, the manager and a dilettante
critic are represented as instructing the poet how best to pur-
�10
Goethe ; Faust.
vey for the existing European public. They direct him on the
whole right; though, as we are admitted to see, not know
ing really what they say. Speaking merely as men of the
world, they tell him he must come down from his dreams
and visions ; something solid, strong, practical is wanted to
go down in times like these; common life—the common life
that common people lead, he is to take a good picture of this •
hold up a looking-glass to the world, and let it see itself. If
the opportunity can be taken to throw in a dash of instruction all
the better.
’
In strange, awful contrast to this very common scene, we
pass abruptly into the open court of Heaven, and listen to’ the
choral hymn of the archangels before the throne of the Eternal.
It is a not uncommon objection brought against Faust, that so
little comes out of such vast machinery; something ’grander
surely ought to be expected from a written compact0 with the
power of darkness than a mere village tale of seduction. Whe
ther it ought or not abstractedly, it certainly ought not from
Goethe, for to teach the extraordmarmess of the ordinary every
day life, one might say is the whole object of all he ever wrote or
said; the infinitely pregnant meaning that underlies the meanest
action of the meanest man. Accordingly, he has not scrupled to
avail himself of the entire gigantic machinery of the IMystery plays
of the middle ages to array this so simple story in the darkness
and ten 01 of the most tremendous tragedy. You want a pictuie. of common life. First, then, let us see what this common
life is, let us begin with having a strong impression of what it
is stamped upon us, so that we shall nofforget it; and the ever
lasting doors of heaven are flung back, and something of this
mystery shall be unfolded to us. The prologue is too° long to
extract entire, and we cannot venture to mutilate it. ft is
enough that the evil spirit appears before the throne of God, and
asks and obtains permission to exhaust his malice so long as he
shall live on the person of Faust, of whom thus much is told us,
that he is an unsatisfied seeker after truth and goodness, per
plexed and in darkness, because he serves in a perplexing scene,
but witn his ‘ will in the right place still; and we have this
comforting hope (only a hope, but still a hope) held out to us,
that the tempter, however he may seem to succeed, will in the end
fail, and baffled and in shame be forced to admit that a good man,
clouded though his senses be by error, is no willing slave to it.
The language of Mephistopheles is shocking enough. He would
not be the evil spirit it he could speak otherwise. But people say he
is so shocking. He is the truer devil; he has nothing of the arch
angel fallen; not one ray of trailing glory about him; there is no
thing in which people can sympathize, and so they are offended;
as fl it were necessary to make evil in a way attractive before
�Goethe; Faust.
11
they can get up the proper kind of loving hate they like to feel
for it. . The preternatural machinery of Faust, we must never
forget, is machinery only. He, that individual Faust, is not to
be supposed to be introduced into a new element, a new sort of
influence different from what surrounds the rest of mankind; if
it were so he would be beyond our sympathy, and could serve
only for a beautiful image containing neither example nor in
struction. The forms that appear to Faust are about and in
every one of us, only in his case the figure assumes a definite
outline, by being brought as it were into focus; as he is in his
own naked essence, the evil spirit is not and cannot be painted,
(for who can know what he is,) but as he is to us; Mephistopheles is the devil of this age of intellect, and as such, if
he speak at all he must speak in heaven. Many people are
shocked at him who can manage a throb of admiration for Mil
ton’s Satan or Byron’s Lucifer; the gloomy magnificence of the
defeated and defying rebel has claims on their regard; at any
rate, they can feel for him, and would not much mind pur
chasing a share of his grandeur with the sacrifice of a little of
their own mean uninteresting goodness, provided they could be
sure of their bargain; which seems to show that they are angry
at Goethe for spoiling their imagination and destroying their
idol; and perhaps it would be better if, instead of throwing
stones at him, they would submit to learn a little from him what
this evil really is.
Mephistopheles speaks as the cool, polished, gentlemanlike,
scientific disbeliever in the very existence of anything good, or
true, or holy; he is a scoffer, who contents himself with denying,
and does deny and does disbelieve even in the very presence of the
Supreme object of all belief. Perfectly cool and perfectly con
tented, there is no heroism, no scorn, no defiance about him, to
show that in his heart he believes what he professes to abjure. But
we are wasting words in explaining what is itself its best ex
planation and surest apology; and we will pass on to the high
arched narrow Gothic chamber, where, amidst a profusion of
old books, papers, parchments, instruments, glasses, cylinders,
retorts, skeletons, and all the furniture of the laboratory, is
sitting the restless, unhappy object of this strange conference. It
is Easter even, and the full moon is streaming in through the
stained casement, on his head.
‘ I have explored
Philosophy, and law, and medicine ;
Alas ! and o’er theology have pored.
And here I am at last, a very fool,
With useless learning cursed.’
He, the boast and wonder of the school, the lawgiver of opi
�12
Goethe; Faust.
nion, winding all hearts and thoughts which way he will ; he,
with all his knowings and learnings, finds at last that he has
learnt nothing but that nothing can be known. He has been
inoie acute than all their doctors, their philosophic theologians;
he has probed the depths of every science; neither scruple, nor
perplexities, he thinks, torment him, nor fear of hell and devil.
‘ But I have lost all peace of mind.
Whate’er I knew, or thought I knew,
Seems now unmeaning and untrue.
Unhappy, ignorant and blind,
I cannot hope to teach mankind.
Thus robbed of learning’s only pleasure,
Without dominion, rank or treasure,
Without one joy that earth can give,
Could dog, were I a dog, so live.’
What by lawful means he cannot wring out of nature, he
he will try if he cannot get at by unlawful, and there
fore he has given himself to magic. Alas! what need has
he of such strange instructors; is not the full calm moon chid
ing his restless spirit into peace with her sweet and melancholy
smile. ‘ I think,’ writes a very wise critic on this poem, ‘ it was
one of the noblest conceptions that ever entered into the mind
of a poet, which made Goethe open his Faustus with a scene of
moonlight.’ The restlessness of an intellect wearied with the
vanity of knowledge and tormented with the sleepless agonies
of doubt; the sickness of a heart bruised and buffeted by all
the demons of presumption, the wild and wandering throbs of a
soul parched among plenty by the blind cruelty of its own dead
affections; these dark and depressing mysteries all maddeningin the biain of the hermit student, might have suggested other
accompaniments to one who had looked less deeply into the
nature of man, who had felt less in his own person of that which
he might have been ambitious to describe. But this great
mastei of the intellect was well aware to what thoughts and
feelings the perplexed and bewildered are most anxious to return;
he well knew where it is that nature has placed the only balm
for the wounds of the spirit; by what indissoluble links she
has twined her own eternal influence around the dry, chafed
heaitstiings that have most neglected her tenderness. It is
thus in his weary melancholy Faustus speaks
‘ Beautiful moon—all! would that now
For the last time, thy lovely beams
Shone on my troubled brow !
Oft by this desk, at middle night,
I have sat gazing for thy light,
�Goëthe ; Faust.
13
Wearied with search through volumes endless,
’Mongst parchments, papers, crowded books,
Alone, when thou, friend of the friendless,
Camest smiling in with soothing looks—
Oh! that upon some headland height
I now were wandering in thy light;
Floating, with spirits like a shadow,
Round mountain cave—o’er twilight meadow ;
And from the toil of thought relieved,
No longer sickened and deceived,
In thy soft dew could bathe, and find
Tranquillity and health of mind.’
But no ! this may not be. He is still in the dungeon of his
student chamber, he has wilfully cut himself off from nature’s
teaching and sought his instructors elsewhere; he has fled from
living nature to pore over the skeleton of the departed, and the
hollow spectre has at last gathered life enough to tell him that
it is dead and shall never live again. Nature speaks to him, but
the long forgotten tone makes mournful music in his ear;
enough to be but the dirge of the departed. Magic must help
him now, or he is past helping; yet will the voice from the
other world be any more clear to him ?
‘ Away, away, and far away.
This book, whose secret spells are scann’d,
Traced by Nostradam’s own hand,
Shall be thy strength and stay.
The thoughts of nature thou canst seek,
As spirits with their brothers speak.
It is, it is, the sunrise hour
Of thine own being..........................
Ye that I feel floating near me,
Spirits answer, ye who hear me.’
He opens the book, and lights on the sign of Macrocosmos,
the Spirit of the Universe, the great Anima Mundi weaving into
everlasting harmony the endless discord of its parts.
‘ Ha! what new life divine, intense,
Floods in a moment every sense !
Am I a god—can mortal sight
Enjoy, endure, this burst of light;
All nature present to my view.
And is the glorious vision true ?
The wise man's words at length are plain,
Whose sense so long I sought in vain.
�14
Goethe; Faust.
The world of spirits no clouds conceal;
Man’s eye is dim, it cannot see;
Man’s heart is dead, it cannot feel.
Thou who wouldst know the things that be,
Bathe thy heart in the sunrise red
Till the stains of earthly dross are fled.’
He looks over the sign attentively. Nature’s hidden ways
appear to start out and unrobe themselves to him; all things for
ever blending into each other, interweaving their wondrous
fibres.
‘ Rising, sinking, and receiving
Each from each, while each is giving
On to each, and each relieving
Each, the pails of gold, the living
Current through the air is heaving.
Alas f it is but a vision.
Oh what a vision—but a vision—only! ’
Glad enough would be the seared, jaded heart of man to rest in
that glorious presence: but it is not to be so; the harmony of
the great Universe may be felt by spirits that are themselves in
harmony, not by fallen man.
Poor Sopia, the exile from the
all infected as she
was by passion, struggled up to the guarded door of heaven,
and was driven sternly back by the inexorable ofoj. She could
but weep a few tears of pearl, and leave them there the offering
of her sorrow, and go back and generate a world of light and
darkness, and joy and sorrow, where the clouds are her robe
of mourning; and the sunshine her happy smiles, when she thinks
of the undying glories of her lost home.
The heart of man cannot embrace illimitable nature. The
solace he seeks for, the Great Spirit may not impart; the food
he hungers for it will not give.
Faust turns over the leaves of the book impatiently, till his
eye rests on the sign of the spirit of the earth. Of heaven he
asked its highest stars, and heaven has refused him. Earth
then shall yield him hers.
Here he has found a spirit kindred with his own.
‘ Eearlessly I read the sign,
And feel even now new powers are mine,
While my brain bums as though with wine.
Give me the agitated strife,
The madness of the world of life;
I feel within my soul the birth
Of strength, enabling me to bear,
And thought, impelling me to share
The fortunes, good or evil, of the earth;
�Goethe; Faust.
15
To battle with the tempest’s breath,
Or plunge where shipwreck grinds his teeth.
All around grows cold and cloudy,
The moon withdraws her ray.
Spirit, to my sight appear,
How my heart is torn in sunder,
All my thoughts convulsed with wonder,
Every faculty and feeling
Strained to welcome thy revealing.
Spirit, my heart, my heart is given to thee;
Though death may be the price, I cannot choose but see.’
He grasps the book, and pronounces the sign of the spirit,
mysteriously; a red flame is seen playing about, and in the
flame the spirit.
‘ Spirit.
Who calls me ?
Faust (hiding his face).
Form of horrors, hence !
Spirit.
Hither, from my distant sphere,
Thou hast compelled me to appear,
Hast sucked me down, and dragged me thence
With importuning violence;
And now.....................
Faust.
I shudder, overpowered with fear ’
But the scorn of the spirit rouses him at last,—he masters
his terror.
‘ Creature of flame, shall I grow pale before thee ?
’Twas I that called tliee, Faustus—I, thine equal.
Spirit.
In the strife of life,
In actions’ thunder,
Weave I hither, and weave I thither;
Wend I over, wend I under
Grave and the womb.
A glowing life, a winding woof,
An ocean of eternity,
As I work at the ages roaring loom,
And weave the breathing mantle of God.
�16
Goetlie; Faust.
Faust.
Spirit, whose presence circles the wide earth,
How near akin to thine I feel my nature.
Spirit.
Man thou, and like those beings which thy mind
Can image : not like me.
[Vanishes.
Faust.
Not like thee ?
Made in the image of the Deity,
And yet unmeet to be compared with thee.’
A knock is heard announcing the presence of his pupil Wag
ner, who presently enters, and we may take advantage of
the interruption to wait a few lines over the awful scene which
it closes. There is no need of dwelling on its magnificence;
the choral hymn of the earth spirit it would not be easy to
match out of JEschylus; but it may not be out of place to attempt
something like a sketch of its meaning, perhaps we should say,
of one among many meanings which it may have.
Faustus has been represented as in utter and entire despair
at the hollowness and shallowness, as it seems to him, of all
existing systems, sciences, creeds, opinions; indeed, of the whole
objective form of his faith.
Everything is floating, nothing is fixed, abiding, certain, any
longer; and with dizzy head and reeling brain he dares raise
up his eyes and stand face to face with the great God of the
Universe, and ask Him what He is. To which miserable pre
sumption, what other answer can be given than to fling him
back, crushed and helpless, upon a sense of his own littleness ?
If heaven will not help him, then, perhaps earth may. But
what help can earth give to one who has wilfully withdrawn
himself from all the ways and roads of earth, and chosen one
which is neither of earth nor heaven, for himself. The lessons
of earth, as he will learn by-and-by, can be taught only by
experience. Looked at merely by the intellect from without,
without faith in its Maker nor participation in its sufferings, with
all its sins and errors, its crimes, wars, pestilences, religious hatred,
selfishness and sensualities, with its
‘ Folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captive ill,’
what can this earth look like but the penal settlement of the
Universe? It was by taking her own road without her con
sort Will, by seeking to know, without doing jor suffering, that
�Goethe; Faust.
17
Valentinus’s
first fell from lier place in heaven, which, as
far as it went, was not so wrong in Valentinus. To Athanasius
in the African desert, or Luther before the Diet at Worms,
this spirit of the earth may have very many things to say; all
perhaps they can want to hear. Such men as these, heated as
they are red hot in the furnace of suffering, and hammered till
their thoughts fly out like sparks from the iron on the anvil, are
beaten into hard steel that will cut through anything; but the
man who wilfully leaves life and nature, shrinks from action, and
would solve the enigma of the Universe by thinking, let him—
if he can.
But Wagner is waiting at the door; Wagner is also a thinker;
such a thinker as Faust was, and is no longer; Faust is the
modern, Wagner the scholastic thinker, the eager devourer of
books and treatises, and his master’s oracular dicta, as if they were
words of inspiration, his faith is yet unshaken in the infallibility
of a manuscript. The pleasures of the mind are what Wagner
delights in;
‘ Leading from book to book, from leaf to leaf:
These make the nights of winter bright and cheerful;
They spread a sense of pleasure through the frame ;
And when you see some old and treasured parchment,
All heaven descends on your delighted senses.’
His road is straight, without a winding or chance of error: he
has but one desire, and that is easily satisfied. As yet he is but
a pupil; by-and-by we shall see him the grown philosopher,
out of whom in the end is to be made something; a certain
young Homunculus in a glass phial, the most frisky, humorous
sort of youth, who treats his governour (Vaterchen) with most
unbecoming disrespect, and after a strange course is left career
ing round the world on the car of Nereus. But of him more
hereafter.
In the meantime Wagner has come in, as usual,
to gather crumbs of learning that fall from his master’s tabic.
He has heard voices, supposes he may be declaiming a Greek
play, and begs to be admitted to get a hint or two on elocution.
Faust is still reeling from the awful presence he is but just re
leased from, but his pupil’s presence compels him to master
himself. Indeed, his entrance at this moment is most skilfully
contrived, to enable, him to prepare himself for the collected
desperation of what is to follow. In the meantime such thoughts
as he treats Wagner to are bitter enough : for knowledge, this
time—he gets only principles, which, if there was any chance of
his understanding them, strike at the possibility of any know
ledge, and will produce a most disastrous effect in his common
place book. Listen to this, the concluding part of their dialogue:—
vol. II.
c
�18
Goethe ; Faust.
‘ Wagner.
Pardon me ; but you will at least confess
That ’tis delightful to transpose yourself
Into the spirit of the ages past,
To see how wise men thought in olden time,
And how fai we outstrip their march in knowledge.
Oh, yes ! as far as from the earth to heaven.
To us, my friend, the times that are gone by
Aie a mysterious book, sealed with seven seals.
That which you call the spirit of ages past
Is but, in truth, the spirit of some few authors,
In which those ages are beheld reflected,
With what distortion heaven only knows.
•••••_.......................... History!
Facts dramatized, say rather. Action, plot,
Sentiment, every thing the writer’s own,
As. it best fits the web-work of his story,
With here and there a solitary fact
Of consequence, by those grave chroniclers
Pointed with many a moral apophthegm,
And wise old saws learned at the puppet shows.
Wagner.
But then flie world: man’s heart and mind are things
Of which ’twere well that each man had some knowledge.
Faust.
Why yes, they call it knowledge. Who may dare
To name things by their real names ? the few
Who did know something, and were weak enough
To expose their hearts unguarded—to expose °
Their views and feelings to the eyes of men;
They have been nailed to crosses, thrown to flames.
Pardon me, but ’tis very late, my friend,’ &c. &c.
And Wagner gathers up this view of human life and matters
and stows it away delightedly as a fresh fact in one of his mind’s’
pigeon-holes, and retires. Faust has now collected himself.
Dreary and desolate, he can now look round him in the lower
deep into which he has been hurled down. Like Manfred,__
‘ The spirits he had raised abandon him,
The remedies he recked of torture him.’
The Evil Spiiit is at his elbow, watching his despair and
anguish ; coldly and curiously watching the issue of the coming
struggle: whether by his own act, he will now make him
self over to him, soul and body, by breaking the prison he can
not escape from; or whether, by-and-by, he must appear in
�Goethe; Faust.
19
his proper person, and steep the poor soul yet deeper in sin of
body as well as confusion of spirit. Hitherto we have seen
Faust, in spite of all, still hoping, struggling, thirsting; now we
shall hear him pouring out his passionate despair of himself, of
life, of truth, of God, of every thing. He, vain worm, had be
lieved himself made in the image of God; now he finds he may
not mete himself with the earth spirit:—
‘ Image of God! I thought that I had been
Sublimed from earth, no more a child of clay;
That shining gloriously with heaven one day
I had beheld Truth’s countenance serene,
High above cherubs ;..........................
Then did I in creation of my own
(Oh ! is not man in every thing divine ?)
Build worlds—or bidding them no longer be,
Exert, enjoy a sense of deity—
Doomed for such dreams presumptuous to atone,
All by one word of thunder overthrown !
Spirit, I may not mete myself with thee.
True I compelled thee to appear,
But had no power to keep thee here.
Oh ! at that glorious moment how I felt —
How little and how great!
Thy presence flung me shuddering back
Into man’s abject trance
Of utter hopeless ignorance.’
Then he turns away to the active life of the world, to find
that too only teaching him the same lessons. Clogged and
dragged down by the sordid cares of earth to be forced to ac
knowledge,—
‘ Man’s better riches a delusion vain,
The mockery of an empty shadow all.’
Or if he has no real crosses to bear, his self-torturing nature
will forge ideal ones no less fatal,—
* Fretting the mind with house affairs,
Suggesting doubts of wife and heirs,
Hinting dark fancies to the soul,
Of fire and flood—of dirk and bowl.’
The whole race of man chasing a mirage in a Sahara desert,
to perish there soul and body. He looks round his narrow
chamber; the dusty volumes mock at him, each only teaching
in its thousand pages,—
‘ That careworn man has in all ages
Sown vanity to reap despair.’
In the spectral smile of a hollow skull he seems to feel it tell
ing him, that it too, once, like him, loved and sought the beauti
ful, and followed truth for truth’s own sake, and like him at last
c 2
�20
Goëthe; Faust.
sank shipwrecked in unsatisfying thought. Then physical science,
the last fact in which unbelievers of all kinds have at all times
sought to dissipate themselves, as whatever else it is, it is at least
a fact; this too surrounds itself with adamantine walls, and baffles
him again. His keys of science, his lathes, his retorts, his cylinders,
he calls in vain upon to aid him. He stands before the door of
nature, but it bids defiance to lock and ward, the strong bolts
will not move.
c
In the next touch there is something almost tragically pathetic.
His poor miserable property, the wretched furniture of a student’s
chamber, his sole inheritance from his father, he looks round at
that, and asks it why it is still there; why had he not made the
most of life, and enjoyed such pittance of pleasure as he could
have bought with that, as better worth than all he has gained
yet. God help him now ! Enough and to spare of such plea
sure Mephistopheles will take care to supply him with by-andby ! _ But that he should have sunk to believe'all else so entirely
nothing, that it would have been better to have secured at least
a taste of something and in such a way ! As Tieck’s old witch
says to Antonio, i Fool, there is no higher and no better life.
The man that does not skim the fat oft the broth here is a dupe
and a gull.’ This is the lowest—he can sink no further: —
‘ He only knows—who rightly estimates
That which the moment can employ;
What it requires, and can enjoy,
The moment for itself creates.'
Now then what will he do ?—
‘ What can it be that thither draws
The eye, and holds it there, as though
The flask a very magnet were ?
And whence, O whence this lavish glow,
This lustre of enchanted light,
Poured down at once and everywhere—
Birth of the moment—like the flood
Of splendour round us, when at night
Breathes moonlight over a rich wood ?
0 phial—happy phial! Here
Hope is—I greet thee, I revere
Thee as art’s best result; in thee
Science and mind triumphant see.
Essence of all sweet slumber dews,
Spirit of all most delicate,
Yet deadliest powers ! be thou my friend,
A true friend. Thou wilt not refuse
Thy own old master this ! I gaze
On thee—the pain subsides—the weight
That pressed me down less heavy lies.
�Goethe; Faust.
21
I grasp thee, faithful friend art thou.
Already do I feel the strife
That preyed upon my powers of life
Calmed into peace. And now—and now
The swell that troubled the clear spring
Of my vext spirit, ebbs away,
Outspread like ocean—life and day
Shines with a glow of welcoming.
Calm at my feet the glorious mirror lies,
And tempts to far-off shores with smiles from other skies.
Worm that thou art, and can it be
Such joy is thine, is given to thee ?
Determine only—’tis thine own;
Say thy firm farewell to the sun,
The kindly sun, its smiling earth—
One moment—one, and all is done;
One prayer. Then comes the second birth.
Find life where others fear to die.
Shew by man’s acts man’s spirit durst
Meet God’s own eye, and wax not dim,
Stand fearless face to face with Him.'
He raises the goblet ; the old friends, old customs, old faces,
and family festivities; all the happy scenes of his boy days,
when he remembers that goblet, rush back into his memory, and
light his thoughts with soft and melancholy beauty. He fills it
now :—
‘ Fill thee, old cup, now with the dark brown flood.
It is my choice. I mixed it, and will drink.
My last draught this, on earth, I dedicate
(And with it be my heart and spirit borne !)
A festal offering to the rising morn.’
The full moon shines in. It is the dawn of the Easter morn
ing. The Evil Spirit stands watching to spring upon his prey.
Fond fool, that thinks in escaping life to escape himself; and
find a brighter, nobler being in a higher world. He is drawn back
to earth by sounds which speak to him of the one condition on
which it can be other than eternal death. Two voices from the
world of spirits had spoken at his bidding, to hurl him in wild
scorn into a deeper abyss of misery than that from which he had
called them to save him. Now comes a third unbidden. As
he places the goblet to his mouth, bells are heard and voices in
chorus :—
�22
Goethe; Faust.
* EASTER HYMN.
Chorus of Angels.
Christ is arisen,3
Joy to the earth;
He has broken the prison
Of sin and death.
Joy to the mortals ! He’s broken the chain
That bound them to eaith, and that bound them to pain.
Chorus of Women.
We laid him for burial
’Mong aloes and myrrh;
His children and friends
Laid their dead Master here.
All wrapt in his grave dress,
We left him in fear;
Ah! where shall we seek him ?
Our Lord is not here.
Chorus of Angels.
The Lord hath arisen,
Sorrow no longer;
Temptation hath tried him,
But he was the stronger.
Happy, happy victory!
Love, submission, self denial,
Marked the strengthening agony,
Marked the purifying trial.
The grave is no prison,
The Lord hath arisen.
Faust.
Soft sounds that breathe of heaven, most mild, most powerful
What seek ye here ? Why will ye come to me
In dusty gloom immersed ? Oh rather speak
To hearts of soft and penetrable mould !
I hear your message ; but I have not faith,
And miracle is faith’s beloved offspring:
I cannot force myself into the spheres'3
Where these good tidings of great joy are heard;
And yet from youth familiar with the sound,
Even now they call me back again to life.
Oh! once in boyhood, once the love of heaven
Came down upon me with mysterious kiss,
Hallowing the stillness of the Sabbath day !
Then did the voice of these bells melodious
Mingle with hopes and feelings mystical;
And prayer was then, indeed, a burning joy.
Dr. A. has entirely mistaken the meaning in his version of this passage.
�Goethe; Faust.
23
Feelings resistless, incommunicable,
Drove me a wanderer through fields and woods ;
Then tears rushed hot and fast—then was the birth
Of a new life and'a new world for me.
These bells announced the merry sports of youth,
This music welcomed in the happy spring;
And nowr am I once more a little child,
And old remembrance twining round my heart,
Forbids this act and checks my daring steps.
Then sing ye forth sweet songs that breathe of heaven ;
Tears come, and earth hath won her child again.’
Excepting Shakspeare, no poet ever showed a deeper insight
into the impulses of the human heart than Goethe has done in
this passage. Similar touches in other poets will suggest them
selves to readers of Wordsworth, Lamb, and Tennyson; but
none so curiously, so exquisitely wrought up as this. We are
fond of believing Wordsworth was thinking of Faust, when he
called on the power of music to
‘ Stay
The uplifted arm of suicide.’
Alas 1 if his heart were no truer to him than his intellect, how
soon lost were man. When he recovers himself, and is left
again to the dominion of his natural powers, Faust can look
back with scorn at his miserable weakness. A rich old chaunt,
old remembered words, old music, like a spell recalling faded
remembrance, this is all, by-and-by, he will make of it; one
more of the wretched phantoms that haunt and mock our senses.
In the bitterness of his soul he will curse it, and curse himself,
that was again duped and fooled by it. But, for the present,
we must here stop. We have already far outrun our limits, and
we have many demands to make on the patience of our readers,
from the long extracts we have found it impossible to avoid
making. For unhappily, we are obliged to assume that Faust is
not known among us; not known, that is, in a way that would
justify us in alluding to passages merely instead of extracting
them. In a second article we hope to conclude the first part,
as what is commonly known by the name of the tragedy of
Faust; and again, at a future time, if we can encourage our
selves to venture on ground so intricate, and as yet so unbroken,
to attempt to follow the fallen spirit through its rise. For the
present we leave him—for the present saved.
�24
Medical Stade ais.
Art. II.—Religio Medici, Letter to a Friend, and Christian
Morals. By Sir Thomas Browne, Kt., M.D. Edited by
Henry Gardiner, M.A., of Exeter College, Oxford.
London. 1845.
It is not our intention to review Sir Thomas Browne. His
merits as a writer have long been generally appreciated. The
union of extensive learning, profound thought, great originality
of mind, and a peculiar quaintness and felicity of expression,
which characterises his works, has secured him readers in every
generation since his own, and a reputation the lustre of which
has never at any time been wholly dimmed. The Religio Me
dici is undoubtedly his masterpiece. Some notion of the esti
mation in which it has been held, may be gathered from the
number of times that it has been reprinted, and the variety of
languages into which translations of it have been made. Be
tween the date of its publication (1643) and the revolution of
1688, it passed through no less than twenty editions. Of these
eleven were English, six Latin, two Dutch, and one French. After the Revolution, it shared the fate of all our deeper and
sounder literature; and in the space of a century and a half was
but reprinted twice in this country. In the interval, however, it
was not forgotten on the continent ; a German and a French
edition belong undoubtedly to this period. At length, in that
awakening of thought which our own times have witnessed, it
resumed its old position in public estimation ; and the edition
which it is our present purpose to notice, is the fifth which has
appeared since 1830.
_ This edition bears in its title-page the name of Henry Gar
diner, M.A., of Exeter College. Vv'e do not know from what
feeling or principle it is, whether from bashfulness or on the no
tion of its being a wise reserve, that Mr. Gardiner has omitted
to place after his name the letters M.R.C.S., to which he is, we
believe, entitled. We trust he will, in any case, forgive our re
vealing this secret, a knowledge of it being absolutely necessary
towards a right understanding' of his motives in undertaking the
work of editing, and towards a just appreciation of the mode in
which he has performed his task.
Brethren, my heart s desire for Israel is, that they might be
saved.
We conceive this to have been the feeling which first
moved Mr. Gardiner to his undertaking, 'which has animated
hiin^througnout it, and which continues to occupy his mind. He
has mmself passed through the ordinary course of education of
a medical student; he knows the temptations, the trials, the dif
ficulties to which that class of persons is exposed; he laments
the prevalence of immorality and irreligion among them; he
�Medical Students.
25
attributes it to the cruel neglect of their best interests which has
been, till of late, so generally manifested; he looks upon them as
far moie sinned against than sinning—as less guilty than unfor
tunate ; and he would fain be doing something towards improv
ing and benefiting them. This most excellent and praiseworthy
motive would suffice to cover many worse defects of execution
than will be found in this very unpretending volume. There are
indeed certain evidences of ‘ youngness’ in authorship about the
work, especially the introduction at the foot of the page of ex
planations properly belonging to the glossary, and tne want of
letters or brackets to distinguish his own notes from those of Sir
Thomas Browne'; and these notes of his own are occasionally
superfluous, (pp. 10, 14, 40, 50, 79, 100, &c.,) irrelevant, (pp.
131, 184, 202,) or mistaken, (pp. 8, 61, 109;) now and then
dangerous, (pp. 87, 89). But still, upon the whole, there is far
more to praise than to blame about that part of the work which
proceeds from the present editor.
The analysis at the side is
admirable for its terseness and its accuracy; the notes are in
general very good, and neither too lengthy nor too numerous;
and the text is corrected most judiciously. Further, an ex
tremely sound judgment has for the most part been shown in the
selection of authors from whom to illustrate Browne’s meaning.
Labouring chiefly for the benefit of young persons of his own
profession, Mr. Gardiner has wished to call their attention to
those authors, the reading of whom will be most likely to benefit
them ; as Butler, Keble, Wordsworth, Hooker, Coleridge, &c.
Choice passages, opening deep veins of thought, are thrust upon
them, which may probably beget a desire of a better acquaint
ance with the books from wnich they are taken; and. thus the
medical student, by the perusal of a single work which comes
recommended to him by tne prestige of a gieat medical name,
is introduced into a whole library of wholesome authors,, whom,
from the specimens given him, he cannot fail to admire, and
whom it is hoped lie will be induced by such admiration to make
the companions of his leisure hours.
Such is the account which we have to give our readers of this
volume. In whose mind has it not raised a host of painful and
perplexing thoughts ? The moral condition of our medical and
surgical students,—our brethren, our own flesh and blood, the
little care we have had forthem, the complacency with which we
have looked on while they sank into a state of immorality and
irreligión, v/hich has become proverbial; the next to nothing
which has been done to Christianize them, while thousands upon
thousands of pounds have been spent, and scores upon scores
of lives sacrificed in futile attempts to make nominal converts of
the distant heathen ; the apparent hopelessness of then- present
state ; the fearful nature of those temptations which must always
�26
Medical Students.
assail them ; the terrible power of a 1 bad name’ once affixed to
a profession to perpetuate itself by inducing those who cannot
escape it to think little of deserving it; the impotency of such
puny means as essays, editions, articles, to grapple with so gi
gantic a form of evil;—all this flashes upon the man of thought
ful mind, and well nigh fills him with despair. He knows not
at first whither to turn him for relief or remedy. ‘What Her
cules,’ he asks, ‘ shall arise to cleanse this Augean stable ? What
prophet shall stand up to cure this moral leprosy ?’
God be praised, it is never too late to attack the moral evil
w Inch mhei es in a class or a community. It is an individual
only who can be ‘ reprobate;’ a class can always be reclaimed.
Especially must a class which consists almost exclusively of
young and unformed minds, and is in a state of constant’flux
and change, be capable oi receiving benefit from judicious and
energetic efforts, if they be only made hopefully and per
se verin gly.
Let us consider what are the circumstances that have pro
duced the extreme corruption against which somethin^ like a
popular outcry is beginning to be raised.
°
. The student in medicine or surgery, at the age of fifteen or
sixteen is separated from his family and friends, and bound ap
prentice for a period of five years to some practitioner in a pro
vincial town. There he becomes at once, in almost all respects,
his own master. He has his own lodgings, where he breakfasts,
dines, and sleeps'—he attends the infirmary or hospital at stated
hours, and perhaps accompanies his instructor occasionally in
certain of his professional rounds—but the greater part of his
time, and /?/$ whole evening, is at his own disposal. He is
bi ought in contact with a body of youths similarly circum
stanced with himself, among whom immorality is considered as
a matter of course, and by whom, if he were” to ‘ keep himself
pure,’ he would be ridiculed and persecuted. He finds himself
released from all family restraints, and under no clerical super
intendance. His master considers that he has but one duty
towards him, to teach him his profession, and provided he
attends to that, neither admonishes nor rebukes him. The in
firmary chaplain is directed not to look upon any besides the
patients as constituting his cure, and is allowed no opportunity
of influencing the students’ minds. To the student himself is
left the entire direction of his conduct in respect of all moral
and religious duties. No one even suggests to him that he
should be careful to attend public worship on the Lord’s day.
In his attendance upon the patients at the infirmary he neces
sarily becomes acquainted with those unhappy women, whom
want, or bad example, or it may be their own strong passions,
lave caused to fall; and in the private practice assigned to
�Medical Students.
him, he frequently finds persons, in a class considerably re
moved from the lowest, who are equally inclined to corrupt
him, and whom it is far more difficult to withstand. How shall
he resist this array of evil influences ? The ridicule of comrades,
who in their heartless derision term him ‘ milk-sop ’ and
‘ saint,’—familiarity with the language and the looks of vice,
—daily intercourse, under circumstances of the utmost tempta
tion, with those who do their best to lead him astray,—idle
time hanging on his hands,—long evenings to pass he knows
not how,—no parent near to encourage or to warn him,—no
sister to elevate and purify,—no pastor to sustain and guide;—
as a matter of necessity he falls, not at once into the grossness
of vulgar debauchery, but into a more dangerous because more
specious form of the same sin. He forms a liaison, and then
follow in rapid succession, debt, difficulties, gambling to obtain
means, drinking to drown thought, all the usual concomitants of
that one sin, which in this age and country seems to be, even
more than covetousness, the ‘ root of all evil.’ Vulgar tastes,
coarse habits of speech and thought, profaneness, open scoffing
at religion, for the most part succeed; and when after three
years the student removes to the metropolis to complete his
studies, there is little left for him to learn of vice beyond the
scale upon which it may be practised.
If, however, it should have happened by a combination of
favourable circumstances that the student has not been corrupted
in the provincial town where he has been studying, on his
arrival in London severer trials await him. It may be that
hitherto he has lived under the eye, nay, in the house of friends,
that he has had his own father for teacher, or some conscientious
and Christian practitioner, who has received him into his house,
and charged himself with his moral no less than his professional
education. He may have been introduced by him to one
exclusive set of the students, living under similar restrictions
with himself, who keep aloof from the general body, holding
themselves higher in a measure, and declining anything beyond
the merest acquaintanceship with them. He may have lived in
a family, attended night and morning family prayer, been
constant in his private devotions, gone regularly to the house of
God, breathed always, except during the hours of his pro
fessional avocations, an atmosphere of purity, felt himself con
tinually under the watchful guardianship of a strict yet kindhearted friend. Now all is altered. The trial which others
underwent at the commencement of their students’ life comes
now to him; and it comes with an increased severity fully
sufficient to counterbalance any advantage which he may seem
to derive from his more formed character and more settled
habits of life and thought. He is still (be it remembered) but
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Medical Studcuts.
eighteen or nineteen; still ductile, easily impressible,—i cereus
in vitium flecti,’—nay, he is at the very most trying point in
life, the point where boyhood has just ended and manhood
scarce begun ; when former amusements begin to appear tame,
and a craving after excitement to be felt ; when the affections
expand, and the desires acquire fresh strength ; when the re
straints of religion appear most irksome, and the pleasures of sin
most witching. And at this conjuncture he is set down in the
midst of the great metropolis, without perhaps a friend or an
acquaintance among its busy myriads, completely his own master.
He has at hap-hazard to choose himself a lodging-house in the
vicinity of his hospital. He fixes himself at one kept probably
by persons accustomed to wink at vice, if not to be aiders and
abettors in it. He picks up acquaintances among his fellow
pupils, no longer persons chosen for him as desirable com
panions, but the first that chance throws in his way—society he
must have—he cannot live alone in that vast, populous London
—he must join himself at once to some set, and they who are
ready to receive him are not the élite of the body ;—still he
cannot pause—anything is preferable to solitude in that awful
crowd—and so he joins himself to some knot of vicious students,
and by degrees, and after many a struggle, he becomes thoroughly
one of them. Every external check is wholly removed; the
surgeons and physicians of the hospital do not so much as
know the pupils by name,—it is not their business to guide
them or give them advice, and indeed they have no time for it ;
much less has the chaplain any acquaintance with them ; the
youths are thrown together without an atom of superintendance
from any one older than themselves, and with abundance of
idle time upon their hands ; unprotected for the most part by
any good previous training, unsupported by any sense of having
a name or a character to keep up, unaided by the advice or
countenance of superiors,—at a time when their passions are
the hottest, their spirits the highest, their liability to be led away
by bad example the greatest,—and this in such a place as
London, where every temptation and allurement to vice surrounds
them, and where there is no one whom they respect or fear
even to observe their conduct. Truly it is a marvel that any
escape unscathed ; an equal marvel that so many fall away
indeed, and live in the continual practice of what they know to
be 1 deadly sin,’ and associate month after month with those
whose delight it is to boast themselves of their evil deeds in foul
and obscene language, and yet come not away wholly depraved,
but retain within them a germ of good, which in after life ex
pands under more genial influences and ripens into excellent
fruit. Assuredly the seeds of goodness lie deeper within men
than we think, and it is a shallow morality which deems that all
�Medical Students.
29
is lost because the first crop has been destroyed by blight, and
the field to our eye looks bare, and bleak, and is overspread with
corruption, which left to itself would breed pestilence. A little
patience—a little loving labour—a little turning of the soil—
and lo ! that which was corrupt and might have been noxious is
gone, and green leaves spring up from seeds that lay buried
before, and" needed a friendly hand to bring them within the
reach of sun and shower.
But we have digressed. The whole extent of the evil requires
to be stated before we can with propriety enter upon the con
sideration of the remedy. There are two perils incident to the
study of physic and surgery on which we have not as yet
touched; first, the tendency’of a familiarity with those scenes
which students must witness, especially in the operating theatre
and the dissecting room, to deaden the feelings, and produce a
dull, callous indifference to the woes of others, and altogether a
hard and unsympathizing tone of mind; secondly, the power of
material studies, unless counterbalanced by others of a different
nature, to warp the mind to materialism, and so to infidelity.
On the former point it is not necessary to dwell,—it is sufficient
to have mentioned it. Southey well observes on this head :—
<■ That the practice of physic, and still more of surgery, should
have an effect like war upon the persons engaged in it, is what
those who are well acquainted with human nature might expect,
and would be at no loss to account for. It is apparent that in
all these professions coarse minds must be rendered coarser, and
hard hearts still further indurated.’ *
The other point has been more questioned. 1 Ubi ires niedici,
duo athei,’ was an ancient proverb in Browne’s day, and ‘ irreligion,’ he says himself, (p. 1,) ‘ was the general scandal of his
profession.’ ‘Rabelais, too, is quoted by Southey to the same
effect f. On the other hand, physicians are able to bring for
ward a goodly array of persons of eminence amongst them who
have been decidedly religious men. The names of Galen, Bocrhaave, Haller, and Zimmerman will at once occur to every one..
But we have seen a list containing, besides these, the names of
one hundred and twelve Christian physicians, of whom twentynine were, according to Bzovius, samts and martyrs. In our
own country alone, since the Reformation, there have not been
fewer than fifteen or sixteen who have attained some consider
able reputation as writers upon religious or moral subjects. We
may mention especially, besides Browne, Woodward, Freind,
Gregory, Mason Good, Mapletoft, Sir R. Blackmore, Percival,
Pearson, and Sir Henry Halford; while a very much larger
* The Doctor, chap, cxx., vol. iv. p. 18.5.
f Ibid., chap, cxix., vol. iv. p 181.
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Medical Students.
number have been noted for combining great professional emi
nence with a spirit of genuine Christianity. Nor have there
been wanting authors to maintain that the whole course of me
dical study is decidedly favourable to the production of a re
verent and pious tone of thought. This was the opinion of
Old Adam Littleton, whom. Southey Quotes as arguing that
‘his character of physician gave St. Luke no mean ^advantage
towards the understanding of Christian truths, and apprehend
ing the mysteries of faith.’* And a similar view seems to be
taken at the present day by Mr. Maurice, who tells the stu
dents at Guy’s Idospital that their studies ‘ lead them into
depths they cannot fathom, and bring them at last into contact
with the Christian mysteries.’ f Undoubtedly there is some
thing of truth in these latter representations; religious-minded
men will find the study of the human frame, its° mechanism,
structure, functions, diseases, and derangements, open a wide
field for the profoundest and most solemn thought; they will
find their religious feelings deepened and intensified by their
researches into these matters, and from the excellence of the
creature will mount up to the contemplation of the might of the
Cieatoi, and to the realization to themselves of His wondrous
power and perfectness.
But with such as are not religious-minded at the outset,
the case will be very different. It is an old remark, that the
investigation of second causes has a tendency to induce men to
rest in them, and to forget that they are secondary; and hence
the danger of being exclusively occupied with physical science,
which was noted as early as the time of Socrates +. Browne
includes ‘the natural course of his studies’ among those grounds
which would be likely to make the world think him destitute of
religion—and certainly there seems to be a peculiar temptation
to such as are employed in examining the material frame of
man, and in tracing the connexion of the vital principle with
his structure, to slide gradually into a belief that life is but a
quality of matter, the result of a certain conformation and ar
rangement of its atoms. The connexion of life with matter is
traced so far, and the dependence of mental phenomena on the
physical condition is seen to be so close, that it seems but a
little step onward in the same direction to conclude that soul
and body are absolutely one, and death the final end of both.
This is that ‘ tendency to materialism ’ which medical students
themselves complain of as ‘pervading all their studies,’§ and*
§
* The Doctor, chap, cxix., vol. iv. p. 182.
J- Sermon preached at Guy’s Hospital, March 4, 1838, and dedicated to the me
dical students of the metropolis.
| Platon. Phaed. § 47. De Leg. Lib. X.
§ Letter from a Medical Student to the Rev. J. H. North. London, 184L
�Medical Students,
31
constituting one of the most ‘fearful’ of their dangers. Ter
rible enough at all times, when it assails a mind corrupted by
habits of vice against which the conscience rebels, and hard
ened by the dread ordeal of the operating theatre and the dis
secting room, its force is almost irresistible. The hard heart
readily accepts the dry and heartless creed,—the vexed con
science gladly catches at it as a relief from all its fears. Hence,
great numbers of the students become secret infidels, and the
last restraints are removed against a career of reckless immo
rality.
We have painted these evils faintly—we have not dared to do
otherwise;—we could have told of scenes in the dissecting-room
—1 the irreverent treatment of the pale corpse, the ribald jest,
the impure gibe, the hardened jeer.’ * We could have told of
the encouragement of such things by operators and lecturers—
we could have told of their leading the students to entertain
doubts upon religion—we could have spoken of their coarse
jests and ribaldry. Again, we could have told of scenes in lodg
ing-houses, of the innocent entrapped and then corrupted. Or
we could have described minutely the progress of corruption
from the first fall to the final taking refuge in infidelity. But
we have thought it best to spare our readers these horrors—
barely have we alluded to them—what we have put forward is a
mere indication of the several sorts of perils which must beset
the medical student under the existing system. We have con
fined ourselves to heads of evil—we have kept back the sicken
ing details.
Turn we to the remedy. Faint hearts may deem that the dis
ease is past cure. Shame on them to think so meanly of the
power of human energy ! Shame on them to forget the might
of that Divine blessing which attends all zealous efforts made in
a righteous cause ! We are not of their number—may we
never be of their company !
Shall we then essay to cure the evil by the printing-press?
Shall we, with Dr. Greenhill, publish the lives of Christian phy
sicians, write ‘Addresses to Medical Students,’ and ‘ Prayers for
the Use of the Profession?’ Shall we, with Sir II. Halford,
give the students our essays in an octavo volume, or with
Mr. Gardiner, reprint for their edification the religious writings
of old and famous authors of their own body ? These are good
and praiseworthy efforts on the part of individuals. All honour
to them for their noble striving in the cause of moral improve
ment ! But what is likely to come of such petty isolated attempts
to stem so vast an evil ? What can books do ? Let them be
read, and even then how slight an effect do they in general proSir Francis Palgrave (Merchant and Friar).
�32
Medical Students.
ducc ! But how are we to get them read ? Unheard of by many,
bought but unopened by others, tossed aside as dull or canting
after the perusal of a few pages, by a third set—they will only
be read by a select few, whom they may aid indeed, but whom
they can never, by themselves, sustain. Here and there an in
dividual may be preserved by means of a good book, when it is
backed with other influences, and this is the utmost that such
men as Dr. Greenhill and Mr. Gardiner propose to themselves ;
if through their labours two or three be saved who otherwise
would have fallen, it is all they ask or expect—they have therein
an ample reward.
While, therefore, we are far from wishing to discourage such
efforts on the part of individuals, we cannot blind ourselves to
the fact, that they are ■wholly inadequate to meet the present
exigency. Ihe plain state of the case is this :—We have an ave
rage of 1,200 medical students in London, and a much larger
number over the country, constantly in course of education,
and of these all but two or three hundred are exposed to the
whole of those evil influences which we have enumerated.
Through these evil influences and our total neglect of their moral
and religious welfare, the body has become depraved, is saddled
with an ill name, and thought quite irrecoverable. We, the na
tion,have sat by and seen this, and yet done nothing—attempted
nothing. Schemes of ‘ Medical Reform ’ we have had, indeed,
enough and to spare, but in none of them has it even been pro
posed to do anything for the poor student. The poor student,
the Pariah of our land’s inhabitants, receiving abuse on all sides,
assistance on none, is given over to the enemy of mankind as
his natural prey, and rightful property.
‘ But how is the nation concerned ? ’ How, indeed ? Is it
nothing to the nation that one of its liberal professions lies under
an opprobrium ? Is it nothing to the nation, that they to whom
the lives of its citizens, and the honour and domestic peace of
all families, are to be committed, have, as a general rule, immo
rality and irreligion engrained into them during the whole course
of their professional education ? Is this nothing to the nation ?
Husbands, fathers, brothers, bethink you, is it nothing ? or is it
not everything ?
‘But what can the nation do?’ We believe it lies in the
power of the nation, at a small outlay, and with very little
trouble, to effect within the space of a few years, an extensive, if
not a complete reform. There is one very sufficient remedy for
almost all the evils of which we have spoken—the Collegiate
System. Every Hospital or Infirmary in the kingdom should
have,, as a matter of course, its College for students attached to
it. These should be as nearly as possible modelled on the col
leges or rather the halls at our Universities. They should be
�33
Medical Students.
each of them under a Principal, who should be a Master of Arts
and a priest of the Church of England. In most provincial
towns the chaplain would naturally receive the appointment.
Strict discipline should be enforced with regard to attendance at
the daily service, and at certain lectures to be given by the Prin
cipal, and with respect to hours. No medical man attached to
the hospital or infirmary should be allowed to have any pupils
who did not reside within the college walls or his own house.
Expulsion from the college should involve the forfeiture of the
indentures. Considering the youth of students at the time ot
their apprenticeship, we see no difficulty in the enforcement of
a system of discipline even stricter than that which prevails at
*
the Universities. With regard to gates, for instance, earlier
hours might be fixed. The only point on which we should an
ticipate any difficulty is the matter of attendance at divine ser
vice : persons not members of the Church of England could not,
of course, be required to attend the church services. In all
other respects, however, they might be made to conform to the
same regulations as the other students.
In this matter a beginning was made some few years since at
Birmingham. An institution was formed, not indeed on an
adequate scale, and defective in many of its regulations, but still
a college for students, under a clerical warden, with a chapel at
tached, daily service, lectures, hall dinners, an academic dress,
&c. This we had hoped might have expanded into fuller propor
tions, and eventually have become a model for other large towns
to work after. The reports, however, which we receive of it are,
to our extreme disappointment, very unfavourable. The disci
pline is said to be lax, the accommodation very poor, and the
economical arrangements bad. We fear that unless vigorous efforts be made to remedy these evils, the Birmingham Medical
College will fail, and so prejudice instead of furthering the cause
we had hoped it might subserve, the application, namely, of the
collegiate system to medical schools throughout the country.
But however this maybe, whether the Queen’s College at Bir
mingham come to be looked upon as a pattern for imitation or
a beacon for avoidance, still the movement cannot be expected
to commence generally with the provincial towns. London must
set the example. ‘ Cui Lono ? ’ men will say, to train up their
students strictly during three years of their professional educa
tion, if during the remaining two they are to be exposed to that
fearful array of temptation in the metropolis which was faintly
pictured above. And certainly, if the collegiate system is any
where imperatively required, it is in London, where the peril is
so greatly augmented, and restraint from friends so wholly with
drawn. London, therefore, must begin, and that not in the
poor, paltry fashion in which efforts have hitherto been made
VOL. II.
d
�34
Medical Students.
there, but on a scale commensurate with the vastness of the evil
and the superabundance of her store of wealth.
There are two modes in which the collegiate system mioht be
applied to the great hospitals. Either a single building might
be attached to each, capable of accommodating the whole numbei of students, and a considerable body of Fellows or Pro
fessors be appointed to superintend and to'instruct them; or the
students might be separated into detachments, and distributed
among several buildings resembling the halls of the Universities,
each under its own Head or Principal. The advantage of eco
nomy would of course be on the side of the former plan. The
many small buildings would undoubtedly cost more than the one
large one. A less sum annually might suflice for the same num
ber of clergymen collected into a body than would lie requisite
*
for them if each had his own establishment and his dignity of
Principal to support. And the cost of living to the students
might be so reduced within narrower limits. But every other
consideration is in favour of the opposite plan.
Our experience is altogether against large colleges. Men are
worst when congregated ; detection is more difficult, vice finds
more encouragement, discipline is enforced less easily. The dif
ficulty of superintendence increases with increased numbers in
far more than a mere regular ascending scale. If three men can
sufficiently superintend one hundred students, to superintend two
hundred, not six, but eight or nine will be required. Otherwise
breaches of discipline will be sure to escape detection and to go
unpunished. Again, in very large colleges there is more chance
of a spirit of insubordination arising, and when it arises it is
more formidable. And we should anticipate greater difficulty in
procuring the governing body in the case of a single college
than in that of many independent halls. Further, the sim
plicity of the hall system is in its favour; one can more
clearly see how it would work. And it is not quite an experi
ment, for it may be considered as having been tried to some ex
tent at Queen’s College, Birmingham, and at St. Bartholomew’s,
the latter of which admits but twenty-four, the former but twenty
students. We are therefore strongly of opinion that the plan of
several halls, each under its own Principal, would be found far
more efficacious towards the ends we have in view than the form
ation of a single college on an extended scale. This, therefore,
is the course we recommend. Let several distinct buildings on
tile plan of our University halls be erected in the vicinity of the
great hospitals, each with its one gate, its chapel, hall, 'buttery,
kitenen, Principal s lodgings, &c., capable of accommodating 30
oi 40 men. Let the students on entering make a promise to
obey the statutes. Let. these require attendance at morning
pmyeis and at certain lectures to be given by the Principal or
�Medical Student1?.
35
Vice-Principal; forbid absence from the walls between the hour
of 9 or 10 in the evening and morning chapel, unless with leave,
and make such other regulations as are. usual in colleges. Let
special care be taken with regard to the comforts of the students
—let their rooms be airy and neatly furnished, the food supplied
them good, the terms moderate ; let them have facilities for pro
curing from the hall kitchen and buttery the materials for such
entertainments as befit their rank in life ; let the introduction of
anything from without for this purpose be strictly prohibited. The
lectures should be upon moral philosophy, Christian evidences, or
physical science treated in a religious wav. Such works as But
ler’s Analogy, the Bridgwater Treatises, Paley’s Natural Theology,
and Browne’s Religio Medici, would be fitting text-books.
Each student should attend a lecture on one of these books
twice or thrice a week. At the end of every term there should
be an examination in each hall, and once a year an examination
of all the students of the several balls attached to any one hos
pital. At these the students should be classed, or placed in order
of merit. Prizes also should be given for theological and moral
essays, and the prizemen should wear a different dress from the
rest. Scholarships, too, would be of great utility
.
*
The Prin
cipals should be appointed by the governors, with the consent of
the Bishop of London, and should be ii removeable except by the
Bishop, who should be e.v officio visitor. To the principals should
be committed absolute authority with respect to the government
of the halls. All punishments, confinement to the walls, rustica
tion, expulsion, should be fixed by them without appeal. Ex
pulsion (which of course should only be resorted to in the ex tremest cases) should be an absolute bar to the obtaining of a
diploma. The scheme should embrace the whole number of pu
pils attending any hospital, who should all be required to be
members of some hall or other.
In conjunction with it a rule should be made, and promul
gated through the provinces, that no medical student would be
received into any such hall who had not lived during the whole
term of his apprenticeship either in his instructor’s or in a rela
tion’s house, or else in a collegiate establishment.
We know but of two objections that can be made to this plan,
so far as its general features are concerned. The first, of course,
in this money-loving age will be the expense. ‘What!’ it wiil
be said, ‘ do we call on each of the great hospitals to build five
or six of these halls, and to furnish permanent stipends to five or
six clergymen of name and talent ? Do we recollect the price of
sites in such vicinities ? Do we bear in mind that each building
* See a pamphlet on the Foundation of Scholarships in St. Bartholomew’s Hos
pital. Printed (for private circulation) by Wilson and Ogilvy, London, 1845.
D 2
�36
Medicai Students,
would cost several thousand pounds ? Do we recollect that men
fit to be the Principals must receive at least 350Z. or 400Z. a year ?
Can we have thought of all this? Reminded of it, can we still
urge our project?’ Yes, truly; we both can and do. Let the
expense be what it may, we say the thing must be done. Till
it be done, a foul blot rests upon our fair fame as a nation. A
case of frightful moral evil has been clearly made out, and one
only remedy seems capable of adequately coping with it. All
those who have the real well-being of the medical profession at
heart appear to agree in recommending some such plan as that
which we have here advocated
.
*
As yet no fair trial has been
made of any such system. In the metropolis especially the
single attempt which has been made is on a miserably small
scale ; and is fundamentally wrong in some of the most import
ant requisites f. Still, even with all its drawbacks, it has met
with a degree of success which is encouraging.
For the sum of money required it has been proposed to go,
in part at least, to Parliament J. To such a project we are
strongly opposed. When it is considered that Parliamentary
grants are made out of the taxes, and that the taxes are almost
entirely wrung from the indigent and the necessitous,—when
again it is borne in mind that governments will always require a
quid pro quo, a controlling power in return for pecuniary aid,—
when, finally, it is remembered how surely the applying to Par
liament would be the signal for sectarian objections,—we think
there are few of those who desire the application of the collegiate
system to the hospitals, but would shrink from seeking to raise
any part of the sum required in this way. No ! Individual
exertion, as we have more than once declared in this periodical,
—individual exertion must here as elsewhere be the saving
power. Let a simultaneous effort be made on the part of the
proper ecclesiastical authorities and the heads of the medical pro* In 1839, the managers of Guy’s Hospital put out the heads of a scheme for
giving to medical students ‘ the opportunity of placing themselves in an establishment
resembling in its arrangement and discipline the Colleges of Oxford and Cambridge.’
In 1811 the Rev. J. II. North, Chaplain of St. George’s Hospital, addressed a ‘Letter
to Sir Benjamin Brodie, on the application of the Collegiate System to the Medical
Schools of the Metropolis.’ In the same year appeared a ‘ Letter from a Medical
Student to the Rev. J. II. North,’ urging the adoption by the Government of a similar
scheme. In 1843 a collegiate establishment on a small scale was actually opened by
the authorities of St. Bartholomew’s. About the same time the Queen’s College at
Birmingham was opened.
f We hare the highest respect for Mr. Paget, whom we believe to be a most ex
cellent man. Still we must, say that the warden of such an establishment should be a
clergyman. The following passage from Mr. Paget’s first Report is pregnant with in
struction on this head :—‘ I feel that the reverend the vicar has not received so much
encouragement from the Collegiate Establishment as I hoped he would, and har e con
stantly tried to bring him. It is not for me to say more than that I believe all exer
tions tor the welfare of the establishment will be unavailing, unless he continues to
afford both his personal encouragement and the aid of his sacred office.’
+ See the ‘ Letter of a Medical Student to the Rev. J. H. North,’ pp. 26—28.
�Medical Students.
37
fession—let them make their appeal to the public at large, espe
cially to the influential and wealthy of the metropolis. Looking
to the success of such appeals in the case of Scotch, and Irish,
and missionary colleges, and to the great opulence of those most
interested in the matter, we cannot think that there would be the
least difficulty in raising funds fully sufficient for the purchase of
the sites, the erection of the buildings, and even the founding of
prizes and scholarships. This once done, we believe no perma
nent annual outlay would be necessary. The institutions would
pay themselves. Let the halls be built by the donations of in
dividuals, and then the room-rents alone would furnish an ade
quate salary to the several Principals. Moderate entrance and
lecture fees (the latter wo«i necessary, since gratuitous instruc
tion is never valued) might easily be made to raise the annual
proceeds to a sum which would even enable the Principals to en
gage the services of Vice-Principals, as is done in the Halls of
the Universities. Meanwhile the cost of living would, we be
lieve, be reduced to the students from its present average, by the
lower rent which they would pay for their rooms compared with
what they now pay for lodgings, and the more moderate price at
which their meals could be supplied in such an establishment.
The other objection for which we are prepared, is the rfZfficulty of introducing the change. The students, we shall be
told, will not submit to it. This, we fake the liberty of saying,
is mere nonsense. The students must submit, buch an objec
tion will only be raised by those who have no wish for any im
provement in the moral and religious condition of the students,
and yet do not dare to say so. It is evident that the heads of
the medical profession, the directors of the several hospitals, and
the authorities at the College of Surgeons, have all in their own
hands. Let them make their own rules, be they as stringent as
they may, and the students must conform, or fail of obtaining
their diplomas. At any rate, there can be no difficulty with the
new pupils, and in three years all are new. This objection,
therefore, we put aside as puerile.
A joint effort is needed. The Lord Bishop of London, ever
forward in the cause of moral reform, would surely take the
lead in this work, if it were rightly represented to him. Four
years ago it was stated that there was ‘ reason to believe that the
highest ecclesiastical authorities were neither ignorant of the
wants of the students, nor unwilling to assist them.’* The
several chaplains of the hospitals, and the incumbents of the
parishes in which they are situated, should be the first to stir.
Let Mr. North make a fresh effort, and let the other clergy in
terested second him. Let us see the vigorous pen of the chap* ‘ Letter from a Medical Student,’ p. 7, note
�38
Lingard's History of England.
lain of Guy’s engaged in this holy cause. Let his influence,
which we believe to be very great, be used with the heads of the
Church on the students’ behalf. We have little doubt that the
raanageis of the several hospitals, and the medical profession
generally, would join with readiness in such a scheme as we
have put forth, if it were only pressed on their consideration by
the pi opci ecclesiastical authorities. And they, how can they
pause I A time is come when the position of the Church is in a
measure recognised, when the clergy are expected to be up and
doing, when a large section of the laity is anxious to act under
them, to second their efforts, to carryout their plans for the
amehoiation of the existing state of things—when men are pre
pared to make large sacrifices of money for objects clearly good
and piactical, if they aie undertaken by the Church in a truly
Church spirit. There is everything, therefore, to encourage the
effort we would have made—there is everything to indicate that
it would be crowned with complete success.° How can they,
whose duty it is to make the effort,—they who ‘have to give
account for the souls that are being lost,—how can they be
justified in still sitting by, with folded hands, listless and motion
less ? We fear our voice is feeble—we fear more that it may
never reach those whom we would fain rouse to act in this
mattei, still it will be a satisfaction to us that we have done
what we could; we have called attention, so far as lay in our
powei, to one of the most frightful evils of our social system__
we have spoken for a class on which men hitherto have been
content to shower abuse, without so much as moving a fiimer to
give assistance to it—we have cried on behalf of the poor hospi
tal student, heretofore reckoned, almost universally, irreclaimable
and reprobate. The issue is in higher hands than ours. We
have done all we could. We have freed our own souls.’
*
Art III.—The History of England, from ¡he Invasion of the
Romans to the Commencement of the Reign of William the
Third. By John Lingard, D.D. A new Edition, 13 vols.
London, 1845.
I he history of England is yet to be written,’ is the dictum
of an intellectual Magnate of the present day. The literary
world is now expecting with impatience the produce of the
labours of our great Essayist, the luminary, who, enrich
ing- the light of his predecessors by his own, shall throw the
lustre of his genius athwart the expanse of our country’s annals,
�LingarcVs History of England.
39
to illumine what is yet dark, and correct what is yet fallióle»
He is indeed fortunate in possessing so invaluable a predecessor
as Dr. Lingard: by a work so impartial, so searching, so praise
worthy, as a whole, and so admirable in detail, as the volumes
before us, his labours will be materially lightened, in subjecting
our history to the refining crucible of his powerful intellect. An
elaborate or lengthened critique on a work so well known, and
so generally valued, as Dr. Lingard s, would be misplaced, we
shall content ourselves, therefore, with the endeavour to do
justice to its various excellences in limits that will not draw too
largely on the patience of our readers.
hi strinping our history of the fallacies with which the philo
sophical vagaries of Hume, wdio was betrayed into numerous
errors by the speculative tendency of his mind, had previously
encumbered it, Dr. Lingard has performed a service which must
ever entitle him alike to the approbation of his cotemporaries and
the gratitude of posterity. He has completely cast down his
visionary predecessor from his pedestal. Hume, as a wiitei of
romance, or as a philosophical disquisitionist, may.yet continue
to please, but as an authority he is obsolete.. In his preface to.
the present edition, our author, after an admirable delineation of
the essentials of an historian, demonstrates with great truth the
dangers to which a chronicler of historical events possessing a
mental disposition such as Hume s is inevitably exposed. He
says,—
‘ It is the privilege of the novelist to be always acquainted with the
secret motives of those whose conduct and character he delineates , but
the writer of history can know no more than his authorities have dis
closed or the facts themselves necessarily suggest. If he indulge his
imagination, if lie pretend to detect the hidden springs of every action,
the real origin of every event, he may embellish Ins narrative, but he
will impose upon his readers, and probably upon himself. Much
research and experience may perhaps have entitled me to form an
opinion; and I have little hesitation in saying tnat few writers have
done more to pervert the truth of history Ilian philosophical historians.
They may display great acuteness of investigation, a profound know
ledge of the human heart; but little reliance can be placed on the
fidelity of their statements. In their eagerness to establish some
favourite theory, they are apt to overlook every troublesome or adverse
mdCity to distort’ facts in order to form a foundation for thensystem, and to borrow from their own fancy whatever may be wanting
for its support and embellishment.’
Dr. Lingard is as free from the perils of metaphysical flights,
which he thus condemns, as he is uninfluenced by a religious 01
political bias. He never evinces partiality; he may be accused
of it by those whose eyes are distorted by the blemish tl ey
deprecate, but by none others. He never perverts facts, and
�40
tingaras History of England.
the arguments with which he supports the opinions which he
draws from his narration of events are ever cogent and perspi
cuous. With a keen, searching, undeviating truthfulness, he
has rescued our annals from much of the misrepresentation
which the exaggerations of partizanship have created, from much
of the obscurity which the fantastic ingenuity of antiquaries has
caused, and from many of the sophistical conclusions of specu
lative theoiists. Ibis is no slight boon to have conferred both
on the present and the future, but the task has been well and
ably performed.
. Hume has disposed of the Anglo-Saxon period of our annals
in ?Aie half-volume: Dr. Lingard, however,—his labours greatly
facilitated by the previous industry of Mr. Turner,—has devoted
the whole of the first volume to this era, and the light which he
lias shed upon it must ever remain a lasting trophy of eminent
talent, sagacity, and indefatigable research. It is to this epoch
that he refers the primeval institution of the feudal system re
jecting the supposition that it was a Norman importation cotemporary with , the Conquest. He demonstrates with arguments
based upon indisputable evidence, both actual and presumptive
that the relations of suzerain and vassal were not unknown to
our ©axon forefathers prior to the incursions of our Gallican in
vaders; and that the fealty implied in the one term, and the
piotection attributed to the other, were recognised amono’ them
at least in a degree. In corroboration of this assertion, he
adduces an instance of eighty-four vassals who sustained death
rather than abandon the fealty they had sworn to a lawless
homicide. The Norman Conquest achieved the introduction of
the more tyrannous and oppressive form of feudalism, but the
ieseaiches of our historian show, fully and convincinoly, that its
piimal establishment was anterior to the Invasion. He quotes
a coeval authority to prove that the term vassal was in use in
the time of Alfred.
Dr. Lingard agrees with Hume in maintaining that the Witenagemot was not a representative assembly, and the extent of
Vi j
P°wer both allow to be extremely vague and un
defined. I he Cyning, or Rive, was compelled to obtain the
acquiescence of the Witan ere he could carry any enactment
into efiect; and its members sometimes appear as the coun
cilors of royalty, at others as legislating in conjunction with
But, although Dr. Lingard has thus invested the history of
this primitive period with an interest which refutes the aspersive
contumely of Milton, in depicting their juridical customs and
political observances, he would have added, we think, to the
attractions of his history had he delineated their social charac
teristics. Ifie progress of a nation in refinement, the march of
�Lingard's History of England.
41
intellect, the mutations of manners, the condition of the arts
and sciences, are not less compatible with the province of the
historian than a description of its polity. Notwithstanding this
omission, however, our Anglo-Saxon annals can now no longer
compare ‘ with the engagements of hawks and kites,’ but may
vie, if they do not excel, in interest with any portion of our
chronicles.
The stirring scenes that England witnessed under the Norman
dynasty, the rude usages, the turbulent contentions, that she
exhibited during those troublous times, the superstitions of a
semi-civilized age, the lofty influence of chivalric feeling mingling
with the barbarous excesses of the most savage cruelty, are all
depicted with great fidelity and force. In many scenes Dr.
Lingard displays the highest dramatic ability ; in his description
of the internal commotions of those days, in his knowledge of
the different social relations, in his piercing scrutiny of the intri
cacy of the national system, he is as skilful and profound as he
is penetrating in analysis of motive, and in combination of
cause with effect;—an union of essentials which is sustained
throughout his history. We may differ from him occasionally
in his estimate of individual character, as, for instance, we do in
his judgment of Charles the First ; yet we cannot accuse him of
having misstated facts, or of wilfully distorting the foibles and
follies of the objects of his censure. His convictions in every
case are evidently sincere, and appear the emanations of a calm
unbiassed deliberation.
It is in questions connected with religion that Dr. Lingard
has been attacked, most unjustifiably and unfairly in our esti
mation, with the impeachment of partiality. In our country
the feeling against Romanism prevails so strongly, that an his
torian who, more moderate than his predecessors, attempts to
rescue a Faith abjured with so much fanaticism from the accu
mulated attacks of previous writers, or deprecate the harsh con
structions of his opponents, is regarded with jealous eyes. If he
adopt views not exactly coincident with their own, his preten
sion to impartiality is disputed ; so true it is that men cannot
read without prejudice when their passions are interested. Dr.
Lingard’s description of the Reformation, and of the causes that
led to it, is, to our thinking, so faithful in narrative, so candid
in confession, so liberal in spirit, so free from party feeling, so
discriminating in perception, and so just in review, that we
cannot sufficiently wonder at the charge which is preferred
against him. What can be more fair and tolerant than the fol
lowing passage, in which he records the main causes which con
tributed to the success of the Lutheran agitation.
‘There existed in Germany a very prevalent feeling of disaffection
to the see of Rome. The violent contests between the popes and the
�42
Lingard's History of England.
emperors in former times had left a germ of discontent which required
but little aid to shoot into open hostility ; and the minds of men had
oi late years been embittered by frequent but useless complaints of the
expedients deviseci by the papal court to fill its treasury at the expense
of the natives.'
‘ 2nd. The chief of the German prelates were at the same time sccuJai piinces , and as they had been promoted more on account of their
birth than of their merit—they frequently seemed to merge their spi
ritual in their temporal character. Hence they neglected the episco
pal functions : the clergy, almost free from restraint, became illiterate
and immoral ; and the people, ceasing to respect those whom they could
not esteem, inveighed against the riches of the church, complained of
the severity with which the clerical dues wore exacted, and loudly called
for the removal of many real or imaginary grievances which arose from
the demands of the popes and the exercise of the episcopal jurisdiction,
and which for years had been the subject of consultations, of remon
strances, and even of menaces. These attempts had indeed failed ;
but the success of Luther revived the hopes of the discontented, and
thousands ranged themselves under the banner of the innovator with
out any idea of trenching on the ancient faith, and led solely by the
hope of reforming abuses.
‘ 3rd. The recent invention of printing, by multiplying the copies of
books and the number of readers, had given a new and extraordinary
impulse to the powers and passions of men, who began to conceive that
their ancestors had been kept not only in intellectual but also in civil
thraldom. Works, descriptive of their rights, were circulated and read
with avidity; the oppression exercised by their rulers, and the redress
of their grievances, became the ordinary topics of conversation; and
the inferior nobles in each state laboured to emancipate themselves
from the control of their princes and to establish their dependence
on the empire alone. All Germany was in a ferment; and Luther
converted the general feeling to his own purpose with admirable ad
dress. They contended for civil, he for religious liberty. Both had a
similar object in view ; both ought to support each other. The titles
which lie gave to his works aided his purpose. He wrote of“ Christian
Freedom, and against the “Bondage of Babylon;” liberty was con
stantly in his.mouth and in his writings ; and he solemnly protested
that his only object was to free mankind from the intolerable despot
ism of the church of Rome. These arts wrought the desired effect;
and though at first few of the princes became proselytes, the great
body of the German nobles applauded and seconded his attempts.’
This is very much our own view of the revolution of that
eia. Political change was so identified and associated with re
ligious reform, that we are at a loss to decide which of the two
feelings the more preponderated. To bow the power of the Va
tican, and 1 epi ess the secular influence of the Pope, was as much
the object of the movement as to amend the errors of the Roman
hierarchy. Had not this feeling mingled itself so strongly with
the religious enthusiasm of the Reformers, it is to be doubted whethei the Protestant ascendancy would have been achieved at all,
*
�The Cricket on the Hearth.—Mr. Dickens.
43
at all events its establishment would have been deferred to a far
later period. It is even probable that, but for the operation of
this sentiment, the visible unity of the Church might have been
preserved.
The history is brought down to the proclamation-day of Wil
liam and Mary. Dr. Lingard’s picture of the character of the
last Stuart is just and accurate; it neither disguises his errors
nor his blindness on the subject of prerogative, but it at the same
time rescues him from the odium of the extravagant bigotry and
tyranny with which some writers have invested him. We could
have wished the work continued until the commencement of the
present reign.
The defects of this history are the absence of description as to
manners, arts, and the social progress, and the want of those fa
miliar and lighter touches which redeem the dryness of historical
narrative. It is a work, however, which must ever please from
its solid and sterling qualities, which must ever be commended
for the elaborate research it displays, and must ever be admired
for the genius which has combined this latter with the most pro
found acuteness and searching penetration. The present edition
contains a portrait of the author, and is embellished with very
beautiful vignettes.
Art. IV.—The Cricket on the Hearth,: a Fairy Tale of Home.
By Charles Dickens. London, 1845.
Mr. Dickens’s reputation as a writer, some tune since on the
decline, will gain nothing by this little book. Its annual prede
cessors, ‘ The Chimes ’ and ‘ The Christmas Carol,’ hold no very
exalted position ; but i The Cricket ’ is, to our mind, inferior even
to them. It is Dickenism diluted, or, to borrow a metaphor from
the 1 delicacies of the season,’ a mince pie with more puffy paste
than savoury mincemeat. As to the story, its plot is common
place enough, and its details are equally unsatisfactory. As most
persons will have read it by this time, we shall spare ourselves
an analysis. The most striking feature of the characters is their
want of originality—not, however, that they have been copied by
the author from another, but that they are weak reproductions
of his own previous creations; thus, in Caleb Plummer and his
blind daughter, surrounded by their baby houses, Noah’s arks,
dolls, and rocking-horses, we seem to recognise a faint shadow
of Nelly and the old man seated amongst the lumbering wares
and dusty quaintnesses of the ‘ Old Curiosity Shop : ’ in the
�44
The Cricket on the Hearth.—Mr. Dickens.
principal of the firm, Gruff and Tackleton, are united the mental
and personal accomplishments of MM. Scrooge and Squeers;
whilst his fancy for a pretty wife, if it cannot recall the memory
of Arthur Gride of Nickleby celebrity, has about it a dash of
Quilpishncss not to be mistaken. The cares bestowed and ho
nours lavished on her baby by Mrs. Peerybingle, may carry us
back to the interesting family of Air. Kenwigs. In the matronly
mother of May Fielding, with her regrets and surmises concern
ing the 'indigo trade’ and its fluctuations, none will fail to see
a feeble image of the excellent ‘ Nickleby mere;’ nor will any
dispute that in the graceless person of Miss Tilly Slowboy is dis
played a complete and unmistakeable portraiture of Dick Swivelier’s Marchioness.
We might push the parallel much farther if inclined, but have
said enough, we think, to convince any painful and accurate pe
ruser of the 'Boz chronicles. With this short notice we would
in all probability have taken our leave of Air. Dickens and his
Christmas book, contenting ourselves with adding some general
expression of distaste for the vulgar style of the writer’s wit,
though that is a complaint to be more readily preferred against
his weightier productions; and of tediousness at the elaborate
and affected minuteness by which he seeks to give force or cha
racter to his descriptions. But in this little volume, as in others,
he has touched upon two subjects which we cannot so easily dis
miss. _ The one is a serious matter, and involves the highest
principles—we mean human affections,—the other, apparently
less important, seems at first sight matter of mere taste. And
with this second one we will begin.
Mr. Dickens is fond of meddling with fairies; no man, per
haps, of lively imagination is not so. But Mr. Dickens (he
must pardon our presumption) has had no true glimpses into fairy
land; at least not upon this occasion. It is hard to define the
fairy life, and by rule and measure to test the merits of pretended
visitants from that bright sphere—their credentials, if they be
true, are not to be mistaken; but the initiated alone can read
them. It may seem bold enough to bring a charge of uninitia
tion against a writer on whose page the fairies appear not now
for the first time; still we do so, and to the true dreamers of
fairy dreams, to the constant lovers of the fairies, we submit the
charge. We are content to appeal to Mr. Maclise’s illustration;
we accept this as a genuine embodiment of the author’s idea; it
can hardly be unfair to do so ; we point to the naked urchins
grouped round the carrier’s hearth, in the frontispiece, and ask
if these be genuine fairies—these wretched little muscular flesh
and blood caricatures of men ? Far be it from us to hold or to
asseit the doctrine that all fairies must needs be of aetherial form
and life. Are we then wholly ignorant of Puck and Robin
�The Cricket on the Hearth.—Mr. Dickens.
45
Goodfellow ? Can we forget the Brownie of the ‘ land o’ cakes,’
the Leprechaun of the ‘ emerald isle ? ’ Shall we deny the Elf,
the Gnome, the Kobbold, or the Troll I Far, far from us be the
unworthy thought! These live in legends and in legendary hearts
—in the pages of a Grimm, a Croker, a Scott, and a Musseus,
nay, of 1 glorious Will ’ himself. But none of these—again to
the initiated we appeal—none of these would deign to recog
nise a brother in the vulgar imps of Maclise’s frontispiece and
title-page, or the humdrum fairies of Mr. Peerybingle’s vision;
for they, too, have an ideal form and substance, and to miss the
true spirit thereof is to lose the secret of their being’. We say,
then, that the domestic fairy has lost, in this new fairy tale, its
own unearthly stamp; but were this not the case, still we should
be inclined to quarrel with the book even as a fairy tale.
‘ Homely men have homely wits,’ it may be said, and honest
John’s dreams of fairy beings must needs be homely as himself.
Ah, cold and cruel falsehood ! Iiow different was the fairy of
our early childhood—how bright and beautiful, how awful and
mysterious, even when appearing on the woodman s hearth, to
teach the lesson of content by the humble means of the yardlong black pudding ! She was a graceful and majestic being in
the rudest cottage, as in the king’s banquet hall; even when she
came old and wrinkled, leaning on a crooked staff, and clothed
in raws; her rags soon turned to glittering robes, her crooked
staff to a brilliant star-tipped wand ; like radiant Iris, she left a
glow of beauty and a track of gorgeous hues behind her. And
why should it not be so now ? Why should not as fair and mys
tical a form visit gentle Dot by her baby’s cradle, as she that
came to poor despised Cinderella by the kitchen grate ? Why
must we vulgarize our fairies ?
Some persons may think us too fastidious, and fail to recog
nise in the fairies of Mr. Dickens a savour of the Pickwick
and a dash of the Oliver Twist school; toplease them, therefore,
and not to be out of humour with any individual at this happy
season, we will leave the specific fairies in question, and hazard
a few brief remarks on fairy literature in general.
In this England of ours,—once the noted haunt of these mys
tic beings,—in England, where a Spenser saw the brightest vision
of their enchanted realm, their chronicles are now no more, at
least we arc unacquainted with them. Many will tell you that
the railway and the spinning-jenny, that Chambers’s and the
Penny Magazine have put the beings themselves to flight.
Seldom was saying more untrue; their life is not as that of mor
tal savao-e tribes, yielding and decaying before the advance of
noisy turbulent civilization. To hold this were to join the silly
farmer-lad, who sought with noise and shouts to drive them
from his master’s house, or to share the error of the rude
�46
The Cricket on the Hearth.—Mr. Dickens.
northern peasantry, who can believe their emigration and deser
tion of their well-beloved haunts. This error our author,-and
we honour him for his knowledge of so much fairy truth_ this
error he has most wisely eschewed. There is many a o-reen and
pleasant spot, there is many a gnarled oak tree, which yet we
may not doubt it, witnesseth their nightly sports and gambols •
and then there are—again our author is in the right—the manifold
and graceful troop of fairies of the fireside. But the fact is we
have lost, not their presence but the seers of it, and this loss we
are right in attributing to the ‘ Spirit of the Age.’
Now this consideration lies deep, deeper far than fairy tales or
Christmas story-books; to prove the view that we would fain
advance of it, would lead us through the history of many times and
many men. But this our paper and our time at once forbid. Let
it suffice to say that we conceive the falling off, even in this lio-ht
and trivial matter of fairy lore, may be traced back with certainty to the cold and cowardly faith of our own days. Little
wonder is it that when a man’s perception of the deep and real
mysteries of his own wondrous being js heartless, dull, and slow
that then the play of his more childish fancy, the pleasant trick
eries of his less stern imaginings, should partake of the heavi
ness and clay of his more noble aspirations. The best fairy tales
we have are legendary, descend to us from trustful ao-es (let
them sneer at this who will,) and only those of the present time
whose study and imagination have been well versed in the past
they only who have lived in spirit once more in the olden
time, or have in this same spirit quailed the poetry of the
pregnant age themselves do live in, they only have spoken
in our ears heart-stirring talcs of faery. Such an one as the for
mer was Walter Scott amongst ourselves, as the latter amongst
the dreamy Germans, that strange i Tieck,’ who, to use his own
expression, ‘ by slow degrees won back his lost youth,’ the vi
gour and the startling truth of whose fairy tales leave’ behind
them far the polished grace and ^1 '
1 ' ’
cy of Lamotte-Fouque. Tieck’s indeed «, „vnmuus mstory, and a no
less wondrous mind ; and to find a man cast in so large and yet
so gi aceful a mould, one so terrible in his philosophy and gentle
m his loving mysticism—to find, we say, a man like him find
ing in fairy tales the fit expression of the workings of intellect
and fancy alike, startles not a little the doubting unimpassioned
Englishman, who first reads with an astonishment he is scarcely
conscious of, and then, perchance, with an unmeaning—pish !
throws aside the little volume he disdains because he cannot un
derstand. In this school, in the school who form themselves on
deep and painful writers of many tongues and ages,—amongst
them we find no vulgarism and no common-place, they build
their very fairy bowers on deep and strong foundations, and
�The Cricket on the Hearth.—Mr. Dickens.
47
therefore can we recognise in their fairies the worthy, nay the
worthier successors of those bright airy essences that first
we heard of at our nurse’s knee. Moreover, imagination, like
our other higher qualities, when spent and frittered away on
meaner things, loses its best and brightest powers. Accustom
it to loiter about stable-yards and coach-houses, to lurk in thiev
ish dens and haunts of the disreputable; soil its wings in the
dust and mud of crowded streets and noisy alleys; you will have
checked undoubtedly, though perchance unwittingly, its bolder
flights. Not that it may not walk, like innocence at times will
do, unsullied and unscathed through all; but let it dwell too
long in such abodes, see their sights, and utter their sounds, and
defilement will and must in time ensue. This censure is more
fitted, perhaps, for foreign writers and a foreign public than
our own ; that is, the latter heavier portion of it is. But the
mews and stable-yard school is, we fear, peculiarly our own,
and our present author has, despite his other and his better
qualities, (and we are not those who would question their exist
ence,) he, we say, has much to answer for as regards the vitiat
ed taste of our reading public on this score. In this, we think,
may be descried the secret of his failure as a chronicler of fairy
doings. There is neither the ease nor flow of style when he
treats on these matters, as when the sackcloth-coat of Caleb
Plummer, the vagaries of the carrier’s bull-dog, or the slip-shod
attire of the little baby’s nurse, call on the powers of his graphic
pen. Queen Mab would scarce consent to have her sylph-like
form designed by the same pencil which has given so truly to the
world the features of a ‘ Sairey Gamp.’ Falstaff and Queen
Mab, it is true, had but one artist that drew them both,—true ;
but many may not dare what he has dared and done. And
then, forgive us the comparison, Sir John! what hast thou to
do with ought smacking of vulgarity ?
Now come we to another ground of discontent with Mr.
Dickens. Here, too, we find him ranked amongst a numerous
school; but here he holds no longer the same distinguished
post as must be conceded to him amongst the poets of the
tavern and the stable-yard. We would speak of him in a dif
ferent and more noble character, as a poet of the heart. How far
he may deserve that name we will not here determine, but it
would be injustice to deny his partial claim to such a title.
There is much of kindliness and warmth, much even of deep
feeling, of true pathos, in his writings, despite the many faults
with which they abound; and therefore our causes of complaint
are not so much against himself as the whole modern school of
novelists (shall we call them ?) and tale-writers amongst whom
he may be classed. The passions and affections are their
ground, as they have been the ground of all their brotherhood
�48
The Cricket on the Hearth.—Mr. Dickens.
in all times and all places ; but of the higher principles which
should control the one and regulate the other, they ever seem to
us to entertain a strange forgetfulness. Consequently, as there
is but little moral beauty in the characters they pourtray, so of
sublimity it is not too much to say that there is none. That
which ennobles man, though it goes forth from within, is exter
nal to himself; and deep as the human heart may seem, it is
but a shallow well after all. And as the ancients, dramatists
and other poets, well knew this truth, and made continual appli
cation to and of it, so the first writers of romance, the scribes of
early lays and legends, were wont to imitate closely their ex
ample; and where religion was not made the mainspring of
their heroes’ words and deeds, they formed a substitute in that
strange blending of Christian fortitude and human valour, of
heavenly devotion and of earthly love, of which we are wont to
speak as the spirit of Chivalry. And here it is that all the maoic
lies, the subtle magic of those old heart-stirring tales; a magic
which serves to grace the memory of yeoman, forester, and bold
outlaw, as well as gild the tale of lofty noble and of valiant
knight. These writers were not copyists f they were true, indeed
to nature, but above her as it were. The manly bearing of the
yeoman is somewhat more than yeomanly with them; the noble
bearing of the baron is somewhat more than knightly. Where
are we to look for this in the Albert Smiths, the Charles
Dickenses, or even the Douglas Jerrolds, of our own later day?
True, the heart of man is a microcosm in itself; but in the
microcosm, as in the universal uo<rij.og, strict account is to be
kept of the external agencies of good and evil alike. However
trivial or however vast the subject be, a creed is necessary to read
the myth and understand : and however careful or reverent econo
my may be lest it offend against the rule that even Horace gives—
‘ Nec Deus intersit nisi dignus vindico nodus,’
still the great ruling principle will show, and will at times an
nounce, its own existence, and reveal its guiding influence.
It is the seeming absence of this that we deplore : it is this
which gives a cold unreal tone to so much writing in the present
day, which cramps the true play of the fancy, whilst apparently
setting it most free; which stamps a character of common
place, and even harshness, on what might else be striking, ex
quisite, and refined. And as the tales of fairy life amr4iryland, so too the o er true tales of daily life and human kind lose
depth and tone and colouring,—oftentimes, we will allow
against the will and purpose of the writer; and the mistrustful’
faithless ‘ Spirit of the Age’ may be thanked in a great measure
for it all.
And yet, to speak in this way is to speak but loosely and
�The Cricket on the Hearth.—Mr. Dickens.
49
unsatisfactorily; for, after all, what is the ‘ Spirit of the Age,’
but the spirit and the character of the men whose beino- con
stitutes it ? Material differences may, and do, doubtless,°afiect
the minds of men; but then the mind of a writer, of one who
would be more than a servile copyist of what his outward glance
reveals to him; his mind must overleap the common barriers of
material differences and unessential changes; and it is not the
outward, but the inner life of man that should teach him all:
observation may correct, but cannot create the ideal. Now
here, again, is a grievous fault and delinquency of that class of
writers to which we allude. Sharp and quick-witted, they soon
catch the characteristics that distinguish the men or things that
come under their observation; and these they will reproduce
with all the fidelity and tiresome accuracy of a Daguerreotype.
Like Paul Veronese, or the modern Hay ter, fhey are perfect at
the fold of a brocade, or the fashion of a lady’s slipper—still
more excellent at a ‘ gent’s’ pantaloons, or the ‘highlows’ of an
omnibus cad—but the higher walk of art they cannot, or they
will not, tread. Where is the bold design of a Rubens, the
gorgeous tinting of a Titian, the chastened graces of a Raphael ?
Even in their chosen favourite line of the grotesque, they fall as
far behind the real masters of the art—say, for instance, such
an one as wild, fantastic, fitful Hoffman—as far as Caleb Plum
mer’s grim dolls and spring-heeled Jacks behind the quaint and
awful devices of an old Gothic choir, or as Maclise’s imps
behind the far-famed drolls of the inimitable Callot.
With much pretence of unmasking what is hollow and unreal,
they themselves are often more hollow and unreal than that
which they denounce. Backed by the superficial many, with
whose present humour they now chance to jump, this school of
writers have invaded newspapers and magazines, till truly they
begin to nauseate; their spurious wit, and sneering ‘ anti-hum
bug ’ (as they would express it) morality meets one at every
turn. . ‘ Liberalism’ is of course the banner under which they
fight, and if we are to believe themselves, they seriously consider
that they are in a kind of holy alliance waging war against the
giant Ignorance, defeating it, as their most eloquent, and certainly
clever representative has lately said, ‘ as Luther did the Evil One,
by pelting it with inkstands.’ A goodly boast, forsooth, the de
feat of ignorance, in days when the first principles of all deep
realities seem either forgotten or unknown ! There was a time,
when from their talent, activity and apparent heartiness, we had
good hopes of some of these, nor will we deny that much that
we can sympathize with remains amongst the best of them. But
the bitterness and pertness, the self-sufficiency and flippancy
withal, displayed by them of late, seem to warrant strong suspi
cions of the real worth and firmness of their principles. We
VOL. II.
E
�50
The Cricket on the Hearth.—Mr. Dickens.
have already alluded to their vulgarity, and let no one esteem
this a light thing or an unimportant index. It is no overstrained
fastidiousness on our part that would make us urge this ob
jection, but a conviction gradually acquiring strength,! that they
are exercising a real and injurious influence upon the literature of
the day. Their style and subjects are for the most part popular,
and their works assume some popular shape to meet the public
eye. Now it is of great importance, especially in such days as
these, when (and we confess we are all well pleased to see it)
the rights and interests, the feelings and the wishes of the many
are on all points consulted ; in such days, we repeat, it is of
great importance that the tastes formed by the advancing
masses be severe, correct, and pure. In religion and morals, in
literature and art, this is equally necessary, and is in all equally
neglected, or nearly so. We have, then, reason to complain of
all that does not approve itself as deep, reverent, and true; to all
which qualities, a vulgar flippancy, whilst it is most opposed, is
most dangerous and fatal; and the first, perhaps, and plainest
symptom of its evil effects is the adoption, which in time be
comes almost universal, of cant expressions and a slang phraseo
logy. That much of this evil has already been effected, few
persons, we imagine, will be inclined to deny, though many may
be found to treat it as a matter of very secondary importance.
For us, we cannot agree in this view; cast a shallow and vulgar
mould ready to hand, and the thoughts of vulgar, shallow brains
soon fill it up; and even the more earnest deeper thinkers are
too apt in time to fall into the received formulae, and accommo
date their better capacity to the prevalent conceit.
We do not wish, of course, to charge these and similar enor
mities upon the little Christmas gift of Mr. Dickens, nor even
upon the author of it himself, though we will not flinch from re
peating what we have before asserted, that he is responsible for
much in this matter. We see no bugbear in the ‘ Cricket on the
Hearth,’ and though its chirps are feeble, they are by no means
unmelodious, with which negative approbation—it is all we can
fairly bestow—we lay down our pen, not without heartily wishing
to our readers, one and all, ‘ the compliments of the season, a
merry Christmas and a happy New Year!’
�The Recent Secessions—Mr. Oakeley.
51
Art. V.— 1. Letter to a Friend on submitting to the Catholic
Church. By the Rev. F. Oakeley. London, 1845.
2. The Schism of certain Priests and others lately in
Communion with the Church: a Sermon. By the Rev.
W. J. E. Bennett, M.A., late Student of Christ Church,
Oxford, and Perpetual Curate of St. Paul’s, Knightsbridge.
London, 1845.
There can be little doubt that all members of the Church in
England will agree in considering the departure from among us
of the distinguished persons who have recently joined the Church
of Rome, a subject of the deepest regret. We speak not of worldly
admirers of things that be, whose idea of a church is that of
nothing higher than a useful bond of society, and who would
rejoice to reduce it to the level of their own notion, by the re
moval of its higher elements, and the expulsion from it of the
men who advocate them; we speak not of the yell of savage
delight which puritanical sectarians have raised, when they saw
their powerful opponents separated from the Anglican Church.
These, and all who in any way or degree partake of their spirit,
will, either openly or secretly, rejoice that men who would not
fall in with their views have gone elsewhere, and that their
departure has given them fresh occasion to reiterate the cry,
that to hold what are called High-Church views is inconsistent
with the profession of the tenets, and continuance in the com
munion of the Church of England.
Now, not only do we most bitterly sorrow over the loss we
have sustained, but many of us, we trust, may be led to look to
the position we are in: we have gone on trusting to those
around us, and assured, since all the chief marks of a true
church were undoubtedly to be found in the body to which we
belong, we -were therefore quite safe. Now, we are far from
saying or supposing that such is at all either a wrong mode of
proceeding, or one unlikely to be attended with the highest spi
ritual blessings. Convinced that by a valid baptism we have
been made members of Christ’s holy Church, that in this sacra
ment, and the other holy administrations made by a priesthood in
apostolic succession, we have the means of grace necessary for
the health of our souls, we may shun all strife, as tending rather
to disturb than to edify, and seek in our common and daily
round of duties and religious worship a remedy for passing
doubts, or hesitations, which a view of the divided state of
Christendom might occasion.
Perhaps no one has more contributed to assist those who
have been living in this (as we esteem) most holy path than one
of those whose departure we have now to deplore. The rich
e 2
�52
The Recent Secessions—Mr. Oakeley.
mine of devotion and practical religion contained in his printed
sermons has furnished many a jewel for the eternal crown of
humble and lowly followers of Jesus; and we trust, also, each
one thus improved and strengthened, with those who may yet
be so, (for we thank God, though we have lost the writer the
writings remain to us,) shall be among the materials of his own
crown of rejoicing at the last day. But since we have been
thus accustomed to look up with respect and deference to the
gifted wu’iter and the holy man, how do we feel the ground
shaken under us as by an earthquake, when we find that he has
come to the deliberate conclusion that the Church for wdfich
he has done so much, in whose behalf he has toiled, and for
whose sake he has patiently endured suffering, and taunts, and
harsh speeches, has no longer the marks of a true apostolic
church, and that it is his duty to leave her and join another, as
lie and we had before been accustomed to esteem it, in some
respects a less pure communion, and, in this country, a schismatic
body. Our confidence seems cruelly and deeply wounded; we
are led to say, ‘ Surely if one so gifted, so meek, so learned,
so pious, can be led to join the Church of Rome, there must be
at least some doubt whether the corruptions existing in that
body are so great or so many as -we have been led to suppose;
perhaps they were never sufficient to justify any measures wdiich
could cause a breach with her, and their abandonment was
dearly and unjustifiably purchased by the loss of the union of
Western Christendom; so much so that no course remains but
to retrace our steps, and, like him, seek admission to her.
Surely, again, if he can leave the Church he has so loved, the
Church of his baptism, the home of his lonely life, the dwelling
place of his dearest friends,—there must be at least some suspi
cion that all is not well; that some deep corruption has been
spreading and extending, unseen and uncared for by the many,
which his eye has discerned, and the view of which has driven
him from his home.’
Now, without saying or supposing that these thoughts are not
to be met and answered by other, and far sounder and better
views, by a reference, not to the opinions or leading of any one
man, however esteemed, but to the whole host of British wor
thies, who have given the testimony of their learning, their ex
perience, and their prayerful holiness to the Catholicity of the
doctrines, and the sufficiency of the means of grace contained in
the Anglican communion, 'it cannot be denied, that thoughts
such as are above sketched have passed through the minds of
many with painful acuteness, yet without awakening any further
idea, ■without leading them to meditate taking the same course,
but rather awakening them to the necessity of strengthening the
cords and more firmly fixing the stakes which bind them to
�The Recent Secessions—Mr. Oakeley.
53
their present position, and devoting renewed and increased ener
gies to the service of their spiritual mother, thus deprived of the
services of some of her ablest children.
It were wholly beyond the purpose of this article to attempt
any notice of the work in which his reasons for his de
parture have been given to the world, but may we not, with
out presumption, suggest a cause of change, which may
have had much greater effect on the decision, and more in
fluenced the tone of thought which has led to it, than even
he himself may be aware of. The severance of the ties which
bound him to his parish, and the cessation of all the close
relationships which exist between a pastor and his flock, where
the one is anxious to teach and the others to be instructed
in the path of salvation, unlike as they are to any othei’ which
can exist. We have often heard it said of late, that the holiness
to which its members, in some instances, have attained, is one
distinct proof that the blessing of God rests on the Church in
England. Now, without giving the argument any more weight
or force than it deserves, for at certain times a Church may
have sunk into a state of lethargy in which this proof of external
and visible holiness could not be plainly exhibited, and yet, by
the mercy and grace of God, the seeds may yet again spring
forth with new vigour; without insisting too much on this note
of favour, we may be sure it is one of great value and power,
and more especially when the fruits of it are to be seen under
our own eye. And probably there are none who have tried,
however feebly yet honestly, to teach the truth and the whole
truth as the people are abie to bear it, who have not seen at
least some instances of this blessed working of the Spirit of
God ; some, perhaps, among those the world calls ignorant, and
who are least endowed with its gifts, who have grown up under
the Church’s system, and perpetually sought in her divine ordi
nances a renewal of the union with their Saviour which by her
means was first begun in them; who, fed by heavenly food,
have attained a strength of trusting faith which excites our ad
miration and love, and widowed, childless, and afflicted, have
departed in peace with the hope and trust of saints. One such
scene as this will tend, more than many arguments, to convince
us that we live and move in no unreal system, but that, however
feebly our light may be burning, it is not extinguished. Sever
us from this, and when we look at a distance at the strife of
tongues, and the practical defects, we can in no case, save by
blind indifference or prejudice, shut our eyes to how different
becomes the scene, how prominently the evils come forward, and
how faintly burns the light.
The same remark will apply in a certain measure to Mr.
Oakeley, whose letter lies before us. But his course of conduct
�5'1
The Recent Secessions—Mr. Oakeley.
has been somewhat different, for he seems, from his own ac
count, to have been thoroughly impressed with the superior
claim on his obedience possessed by the Church of Rome over
that of the Church of England, supposing their directions to be
different and yet, with this conviction, to have remained with
some hope that a gradual change in the body of Anglican
Churchmen might bring them into union with the Roman see.
i For a time I was led to hope that the systems in question
were not antagonist, but congenial; and I accounted it a chief
duty to appropriate, as far as might be, the more remote with a
view to the amendment of the nearer. Thus I sought to model
the services of Margaret Chapel upon a type to which assuredly
I found in the Church of England no living counterpart.’ Now
assuredly such an attempt as this carried with it its own ele
ments or failure. Were we in ever such close communion, re
taining the independence of a national Church, and admitting
not the unasked interference or dictation of a foreign bishop,
the attempt to model the services of one nation into the form of
those of another, even granting that the differences were in
minor and unessential matters alone, could never succeed, would
naturally excite jealousy, and provoke opposition in the body
where the introduction was attempted. We speak, of course,
only of such attempts being made by individuals; if made by the
governing body they would stand on very different ground.
Again, ‘ That Rome must be restored to us, sooner or later, many
of us have long seen and felt; and the hope we cherished was
that the force of transition might be broken, and the eventual
substitution come about through a gradual process of absorp
tion. But others would not have it so, and perhaps they were
right. Catholic Rome has long lifted up her voice against the
attempt to receive her by halves; and what she failed for a time,
through the dogged loyalty of a few churchmen, to achieve, Pro
testant England has effected for her. Rome has long advocated
individual reconciliations instead of a corporate union; and
most wonderfully have the acts of the Church of England at
once accredited her judgment and promoted her great object.’
With such views as these, we cannot wonder that Mr. Oakeley
should have left us. To remain in one body while all a man’s
sympathies and attachments are so firmly fixed on another as
to be determined to take part with it against his own, whenever
they shall differ, is to do that which no honest man can long do,
and we doubt not that he would not have remained with us,
even had not his chivalrous defence of Mr. Ward, and claim to
be included in the same fate, hurried on the decision. Certainly,
if there is no honest way in which a man can reconcile his views
of Catholic truth with the formularies of the Church of England,
or if he has not such fixed confidence in her authority as to
�The Recent Secessions—Mr. Oakeley.
ob
submit his judgment to hers, so far as is given in authorized
standards, we cannot see how he can continue to minister at
her altars; and we cannot fail to admire the honesty which
prompts an unpopular avowal, and in some cases makes great
personal sacrifices. It is needless to examine the reasons given
by Mr. Oakeley in his letter, if such indeed they can be called,
for the step which he has taken. He declares his letter ‘not
meant by way of argument or apology.’ Certainly it contains
very little of either, and is merely an explanation of his reasons
for permitting certain convictions to lead him to one course of
conduct at one time, another at a subsequent one • and we wish
not to enter on a criticism which he says would be simply an
unfair one.
In opposition to these melancholy events, and to endeavour
to check the spreading of the principles which have caused
them, Mr. Bennett has printed a sermon deprecating criticism
almost as much as Mr. Oakeley. ‘ The pressure of the moment
in the particular subject of which it treats, has rendered it im
possible to do much in correcting it for the press. It is, of
course, evident that its usefulness (if any) will be immediate,
while our grief is fresh. I send it, therefore, to the printer in
haste, with all its imperfections.’ Prepared as his own congre
gation, no doubt, are to hear such things as are here brought
forward, and instructed in the fundamental matters here taken
for granted, we doubt not it would be both acceptable and use
ful ; but, certainly, taken alone, it furnishes no solid ground of
argument.
< The point at issue is not whether those who do so join it
are schismatic, but whether we ourselves are not schismatic in
not being in the communion of Rome ? This, of course, opens
a question far too wide for a sermon of this kind; but, shortly,
it may be said, that the very meaning of Saint Cyprian in the
passages quoted, and of the others, is strictly this, the setting up
of a rival worship.’ This point, thus taken for granted, is the
very one on which the whole argument must rest ; for surely the
words of Saint Cyprian, or any other Father, can never be made
to mean that the Catholic Church is guilty of a schismatic act
in sending missionaries to teach the truth to a nation which has
not at all, or only partly, learned it; which is heathen or
schismatic, and not a branch of the one Catholic Church. We
cannot possibly esteem the Church in Scotland to be a schisma
tic body, because the sect called Presbyterians are spread over
the land they dwell in. We deny not, nay, we earnestly main
tain, that the Church to which we belong is a true branch of the
holy Catholic Church. So long as we can establish this, the
schismatic act will belong to those who set up rival altars ; if we
fail in the proof, and those sent among us are sent by a Catho-
�56
The Recent Secessions—Mr. Oakeley.
lie body, they are no longer schismatic teachers, but Catholic
missionaries.
Again p. 5 : ‘Three hundred years ago many superstitious
lites in the Church were cleared away. Many usages which
were not edifying were changed and restored to their primitive
purity, lhat which a foreign Church had introduced, contrary
to ancient times, was purged out. There was a circumcision■ real,
puie, and spiritual. But then came the concision. All cere
monies were pronounced superstitious. Contests arose about
vestments, ornamental work in churches was destroyed, altars
thrown down, &c. Now is not this statement at variance with
he plain lessons of history ? Was there ever a time when the
Reformation had so far advanced as to purge out all that the
Church of England holds objectionable, and retain all that she
esteems essential ? Was there ever a time when the worship
had been purified, from what we esteem Roman corruptions, and
no contest had arisen about vestments, no destruction of orna
mental work, no pulling down of altars ? Does the destruction
ano plunder of the monasteries, the sacrilegious spoliation of the
especial property of God Himself; the alienation of tithes: do
these.things come under the head of real, pure, and spiritual cir
cumcision
And if not, when was the time, when that circum
cision had been effected, and the concision had not begun its
work i Agreeing, as we do most cordially, with Mr. Bennett
m the fundamental principles which he advocates, we regret that
he should nave built up, upon foundations we deem unproven, a
conclusion to which we cannot follow him. ‘ Let it not be
thought that these are good men who withdraw from the Church,
ihe wind never carries away the wheat, nor the storms overtlnow the tree which has a solid root to rest on. It is the empty
straw which the tempest tosses ; it is the sapless tree that the
blast overthrows.’ Surely there are few who would agree in the
general application of these words of Saint Cyprian to those who
lave lecently left our communion. We stand in a middle posi
tion between the Roman Church and the mere Protestant secta
rians • and however we may be satisfied with our own state, we
haidly can help seeing that those who stand on the extreme
units allowed by the Prayer Book may easily become dissatisfied
with then position, and overstep the line, on one side, in search of
even greater latitude of opinion than is allowed within it; on the
other, m search after more definite standards, and more of, what
they esteem, Catholic and edifying usages. Now, whether we
lave strength enough to visit with punishment all who deviate
on either side or not, sure we may be that nobody in the world
could ever endure a one-sided persecution, and that we are in
flicting this if either by public acts, or private writings, we se
verely censure those who approach or join the Church of Rome,
�The Recent Secessions—Mr. Oakeley.
57
while we suffer others, almost without notice, to join bodies of
dissenters in which no marks of a true Church are to be found;
or openly, while outwardly continuing with us, to hold commu
nion with the excommunicants of a Church with which we are in
full communion; or be present in Presbyterian assemblies.
Surely, too, our grief and anger should be less, and expressed
in more measured terms, when those of our brethren we have
loved and valued unite themselves with another branch of the
Catholic Church, however wye may esteem it less pure than our
own, than when they are guilty of a departure from the Church
altogether.
There is one statement on which Mr. Bennett and Mr. Oake
ley are agreed ; which the former by the plainest implication,
and the latter directly asserts. We quote Mr. Oakeley:—‘The
Anglican Church is an organized, acting body—a system it is,
and a definite and distinct system too. It has its bishops, who,
on the whole, speak pretty much the same language; it has its
formularies, which, whatever their varieties, receive, on the part
of those in authority, pretty much one uniform interpretation.’
Now surely this is a statement which is hardly borne out by
facts. For good or for ill, we can but admit that the Church of
England has now no audible and authoritative voice. There are
no means of obtaining any decision, which shall be binding on
the consciences of the most submissive of her children, on any
question of the interpretation of the Prayer-book. To this state
of things must be attributed the great laxity and diversity of
opinion which prevail among us, and from the want of habit of
hearing, and submitting to the Church’s voice, has arisen, we
fear, a spirit of wilful deafness, which, did she speak never so
wisely, would stop the ears and refuse to hearken. We say not
that this silence has been, in our position, an unmixed evil. Ra
ther may we not trace in it the directing hand of an allwise Pro
vidence, who has left us such decisions as were given when we
were fit to make them, and withdrawn the power when we were
no longer fit to use it aright. Had the Anglican body, during the
last century, spoken with authority, being such as it was, should
we have had the power of holding within the communion those
true and ancient doctrines which are our glory and our consola
tion ? We can hardly say that there is any fixed and definite
voice in the body which retains within it, even in the same dio
cese, Mr. Oakeley; the unreproved preacher in the assemblies of
Scotch Presbyterians; and the supporter by his presence and
ministrations of the excommunicate rebel of Aberdeen: which
numbers, even in high places, the high churchman, the sympa
thiser with the puritan, and the latitudinarian. That we may
be what Mr. Oakeley says we are, ‘ an organized body, a definite
and distinct system, it must be essential that we should be able
�58
The Recent Secessions—Mr. Oakeley.
to speak with the voice of authority. Certain it is that such
voice, whenever it speaks, will have the effect of separating from
us some of those who hold views in opposition to each other,
and who would not be content to submit their private judo-ment
to the voice of the Church. This we may look for; but con
vinced as we are of the elements of life being still within us, we
may humbly trust that God who has so far protected us will
still overrule for good the time of the restoration of distinct
speech, and the effect which it shall have.
We doubt not that, however diminished in numbers, we shall
still exist. If, as we hope, we have hitherto, through great dan
gers and difficulties, been watched over by Divine Providence,
and the seeds of truth kept alive within us,‘the touch of difficulty
and persecution will cause them to grow and bring forth fruit.
Low indeed had our sister Church of Scotland fallen, and a com
promising spirit with the evil genius of Puritanism threatened
her very existence, when the Almighty took away her wealth,
and subjected her members to hard trials ; and she came forth
as gold from the fire, and remains to this day a pure and Catholic
body. So may she be kept and preserved from all encroach
ment on her ancient inheritance of holy services.
For ourselves, a trial may arise sooner than we look for, and
from a quarter which we are not guarding. We mean from the
acts of the civil rulers in their administration of Church matters.
We have but little confidence in the Churchmanship of the
governing body which has unchurched itself by the admission to
it of sectarians; we have but little confidence in the man whose
temporizing policy caused his rejection from the object of his
ambition, the representation of Oxford; and whose wound still
rankles as if but newly received, and makes him look with little
favour on the body which inflicted it. What is the real meaning
and object of the Ecclesiastical Commission ? We ever, from
past and bitter experience, look with distrust at the tender mer
cies of the State towards the Church. Is this one bright ex
ception, where, by the State’s fostering care, the Church is to be
protected and assisted ? Let their acts give the answer. The
time-honoured limits of ancient dioceses broken up, not for the
purpose of subdivision, but in the vain attempt to bring a vastly
multiplied population under the direction of the ancient number
of bishops; inducements held out to curates to accept new
churches under pledges of assistance from them, which are
violated and their dupes left in difficulties; the appropriation,
not of Government funds, but of the revenues of the Church
itself, laid up, as this had been, against a time of need; and last,
not least, the direct act of sacrilege committed in the operation
necessary for the virtual extinction of the See of Rochester: the
ancient residence of a bishop for 1100 years, with its consecrated
�The Recent Secessions—Mr. Oakeley.
59
chapel still standing on its ancient site; and though now forming
a part of the house, with its old walls still there, all this merci
lessly sold to the highest bidder, a trafficking speculator. And
not only the house and grounds, with all their dear memories,
have been thus devoted to ruin, and no hand outstretched to
save them ; but with them has been sold the prospective ad
vantage of the various leases; and the property of the See of
Rochester thus for ever alienated from the Church. If this be
not an act of plain and direct sacrilege, surely our fathers have
strangely mistaken what constituted the sin. It is not alone in
these higher matters that sacrilege, or what we esteem so, is at
least attempted; but a short time ago a bequest of a small
amount of property was made to a living: hardly had the fact
become known, than a proposition was made that possession of
the property should be transferred to one of the funds under the
actual or possible control of Government, and the estimated net
annual value charged on a neighbouring living. Now, in more
than one respect, we seem to be following the example of the
French nation. We have already seen colleges on the model
of the infidel institutions of France attempted in Ireland. Have
not we reason to fear that the Ecclesiastical Commission (inno
cently as far as many of the members of it are concerned) is but
the beginning of a deep-laid scheme for’ getting possession of
the whole revenues of the Church ; and paying, and thus endea
vouring to make subservient to the Government, the whole of
the Clergy. Already, with one fell swoop, and without any
violent opposition, have the revenues of the bishopricks and
cathedrals been grasped ; and instead of their ancient rights,
the bishops are paid by quarterly sums from the Treasury. How
long will it be before the same plan is at least attempted with
the whole of the tithes, and other property, at present devoted
to the maintenance of the inferior clergy ? Let us not be caught
unaware, and the enemy advance while we are sleeping. It
may be that we can offer no resistance; it may be that God has
decided thus to try our steadfastness; but come what may, and
when it may, let us endeavour to be prepared with that which is
the true strength of a Church; full of prayers, of good works,
of holiness, steadfastly maintaining the truths committed to our
guardianship, yet maintaining them, as far as may be, with
meekness and peace to all, particularly to those who are of the
household of faith, members of our own or any other branch of
the Church Catholic. In Mr. Bennett’s beautiful words, ‘ Let
us gird up our loins afresh. As soldiers in a battle, who lose
first one and then another of their chosen men, as brave soldiers,
let us so much the rather draw in and collect the closer, so that
our phalanx, though smaller, may yet present the same un
wearied, steady, and determined face to the enemy. As seamen
�60
The Recent Secessions—Mr. Faber.
in the storm which rudely blows around, we may indeed be com
pelled to part with some of the choicest part of the ship in which
we sail: the masts may go; the cabins; the instruments of
warfare; much of our store, even our provisions, may be cast
out, but if tne hull remains, we may still be safe in the mercy
of God, only if, as St. Paul’s mariners, we abide in the "ship.
Therefore let us be of good cheer even yet. The more other
men desert our holy Mother, so much rather let us cling in close
affection round her; so much the rather let the tenacity of our
hold be tightened, and our service to her, henceforward, be more
faithful.’
Since the foregoing pages were in type, we have been requested
to notice the following correspondence between the Rev. F. W.
Faber and the Rev. Sir G. S. Robinson, Bart. Mr. Faber is
as well known by the beauty of his fervid and elegant poetry,
as he is universally esteemed and venerated for his deep and
humble piety. We were ignorant of the existence of the Rev.
Sir G. S. Robinson, Bart., until we read his name in the
Morning Post of the 30th instant. Mr. Faber’s letters are in
e' ery i espect worthy of him, and we could not better express
our approbation. The first, especially, is replete with Christian
charity and heavenly zeal. All sincere friends of our Church
must 1 egret the loss of such a man as Mr. Faber: very few are
there who can supply his place. We will only refer to one
passage in the last letter of the Rev. Sir G. S. Robinson: he
says,, bubsequently to my letter to the Northampton Mercury^
and in consequence of that letter, I received a communication
fiom.a person of high standing and character in the county, infoiming me of what was said to have occurred during your visit
to Florence, and expressing a firm belief in the truth of the
reports. I replied that I might perhaps make use of the infoimation, if authenticated; but could not do so unless sanc
tioned by the parties on whom the truth of it depended, to give
their names, if required. I was told, in answer, that 44 the au
thorities, if necessary, shall be forthcoming.” ’ Now, we be»leave to suggest to this 4 person of high standing and character
in the county’ that the time has arrived when, if he wishes to pre
set ve.that character untarnished, and not to disgrace his ‘high
standing, he must give up the authority on which he uttered a
malignant libel, which has been subsequently repeated on his
taie assertion that this should be done 4 if necessary.’ We
venture to say that it is 4 necessary’—that the Rev. Sir G. S.
Robinson is bound to require this at the hands of his in
formant—that he is bound to publish these 4 authorities,’ or, at
�The Recent Secessions—Mr. Faber.
61
all events, supply their names to Mr. Faber. Mr. Faber, con
scious of the utter falsehood of the report which was intended to
injure his reputation, may be content, having given it the ex
plicit denial which he has done. His word is a sufficient
assurance of the truth of any statement he makes. But this will
not satisfy us : the Rev. Sir G. S. Robinson must say a little
more in ‘ self-justification,’ or suffer by his silence.
The following is the correspondence referred to :—
‘St. Chad’s, Birmingham, Dec. 9, 1345.
‘ Rev. Sir,—A friend has forwarded to me a copy of a Northampton
paper containing a letter from yourself, relative to my late secession
,
*
from the English Church, and requesting me to answer it, which I de
clined to do. My friend Mr. Spencer has, however, begged me to
write a few lines to yourself privately, speaking of you as one to whom
silence might seem like a discourtesy, and that your character is such
that he should be pained at even the appearance of it towards you.
In compliance with this request, I venture upon what would otherwise
seem an unwarrantable intrusion upon one of whose name even I was
quite ignorant till yesterday. You will then, perhaps, allow me to
state that it is not true, that all the seven who joined the Church with
me were “ in my pay,” or had been under my “ training,” further than
that, in some sense, all parishioners may be said to be under the
training of their pastors. And further, one of those, who teas in my
* The following is an extract from the Rev. Sir G. S. Robinson’s letter to the
Northampton Mercury:—
‘ Bnt what are the facts connected with the secession of Mr. Faber and his seven
parishioners? Mr. Faber preached his farewell sermon at Elton, and went the next
day to make his recantation of Protestantism, under Dr. Warning's auspices, at
Northampton. Is it credible—is it possible—that he not only fully resolved upon his
Monday’s errand when he was delivering his Sunday’s message in the guise, or rather
disguise, of a Minister of the Protestant Church of England? Nay, if the step which
he has taken be the result (as I suppose he would have us believe) of calm and
patient deliberation, of long forethought, of much and earnest prayer for Divine
guidance, must he not have been for at least several weeks in a state of mind which
totally disqualified him, as an upright man, for preaching the doctrines or administering
the ordinances of the English Church ? Will even the miserable Jesuitical shuffling
of Tract 90, or Mr. Oakeley’s disgraceful sophistry of subscribing to the Articles in a
“ non-natural sense,” avail to justify his representing himself as a bona fide Minister
of a Protestant Church up to the very moment of his becoming a member of the
Church of Rome?
‘ Then, again, as regards the “seven parishioners” said to have seceded with him.
I confidently ask whether, in the judgment of common honesty, this fact, so
triumphantly recorded by Dr. Wareing, does not stamp the whole transaction with a
most suspicious character ? Does it not prove beyond a doubt, what, indeed, his own
conduct already referred to is sufficient evidence of, that he had made use of his as
sumed character as a clergyman, and of the opportunities for private instruction a3
well as public teaching which that character gave him, in order to betray her interests
and draw away her members? The transaction, however, assumes a still more serious
and censurable aspect when it is known who the converts alluded to were. A friend to
whom I wrote to make particular inquiries for me respecting the truth of the current
reports, says, “ Those who have gone over with him (Mr. Faber) are his secretary,
his footman and maid-servant, another young man, and two called boys, about sixteen
or seventeen years old, all young people, who had been under his training and in his
pay,” ’
�62
The Recent Secessions—Mr. Faber.
pay, made a considerable pecuniary sacrifice to come and live with me,
and so can hardly be supposed to have been actuated by pecuniary
motives. On.the whole, such a charge as that may now be best re
futed by the six fresh converts from Elton, five of whom derived no
assistance, pecuniary or other, from me, while three of them were
vehemently opposed to Roman doctrine and to the other converts after
I had left the parish : and only came to me last Tuesday in conse
quence of Mr. Claugliton, the new rector of Elton, stopping them from
coming to bid me good.bye in person, and desiring them to hear “the
other side of the question.They heard his two sermons, and then
said among themselves, as they described it to me, “Well, w’e have
only heard one side, not both ; Mr. Faber never told us anything about
Roman doctrines, or gave us any reasons for his going.” So they came
three m number, to see me at Benefield, and the result of the con
ference was their conversion. I do not adduce this for any further
end than to show that it is hardly a kindly or merciful construction to
put upon the act of my poor converts, that it was effected through
mercenary considerations. Indeed, nearly all the thirteen involve
themselves m no inconsiderable temporal unhappiness by their act.
With regard to preaching a farewell sermon on Sunday, and seeking
reconciliation with the Roman Church the next day, I am well aware
that two very opposite judgments may be formed, neither am I at all
sure that my way of viewing it was right. I can only say that the
motives which actuated me to what I very much disliked were, not only a
wish to do what was right, but a wish to do what would seem least cavalier
to the community which I was leaving. That the doctrines I taught
at Elton, which were what is vulgarly called Puseyism, were Roman I
entertain no doubt; but I was not aware of it myself. I acted bond
fide, tally believing that what I taught was more in accordance with
the Prayer-book than the opinions of any other Anglican party, and
was for the good of the English Church, which I sincerely loved, and
for which I worked to the best of my ability. I was certainly wrong.
Cther parties, who condemned Puseyism as Roman, were more clear
sig ited , but I do not think they could be more conscientious. When
doubts came into my mind, it would appear from your letter that you
think 1 ought to have given up ministering in the Church; but allow
me respectfully to ask you whether that would not have been in effect
settling the question ? A change of religion is a grave matter; and one
should be sure that a conviction is not an impulse before one acts It
would surely be monstrous to say that a man should back out of any
sphere of duty because of an impulse which he has not yet ascertained
i-n n c°nvi°tl0n of conscience. On this view the Evil One could
shift all of us from our posts of duty at his wayward will. During this
interval of doubt I preached almost exclusively old sermons written in
the yeais 1837 and 18o8, visited less sedulously in the parish, and to
some who. were m the habit of confessing to me, I openly stated my
I m Sl
hont- however, entering into reasons for them, and on the
e plicit giound of my having great influence over their minds, I sug
gested to them that they should confess to me no more. By so doiim °I
conceived that I was doing as much as I could to strip myself of in
fluence over others without going so far as really to prejudge the
�The Recent Secessions—Mr. Faber.
63
question. Certain circumstances on tlie Monday before I was reconciled
satisfied me that my position in the English Church was not honestly
tenable. On the Tuesday, in very great misery, I left home to seek coun
sel, and, finding the step inevitable, 1 did not return to my parish till
Saturday evening, when I desired the clerk to let the people know
that there would be no communion next day. Several of my peo
ple came to confession that night, and I refused to see any of them.
I told my own household and another young man (two of which num
ber had desired to join the Roman Church some months ago, when
I was not in doubt myself, but whom I prevented) what I intended
to do ; eight persons at once decided to follow me, and feeling myself
(on my convictions) in a place unsafe for my soul, I did not feel jus
tified in holding them back; yet to one of them I did think it right
to recommend delay; and that person, though now in the Roman
Church, at the time remained behind. I should have much more con
sulted my own feelings in not reading prayers and preaching on the
Sunday, especially as in an English church I felt myself bound to ab
stain, which I did, both from alluding to the step I was about to take,
and from giving my reasons for it; it wTas simply a brief, hastily writ
ten expression of deep personal love and sorrow. I thought then, and
think still, that, not knowing whence to get help for that day’s duty, it
would have been more abrupt and cavalier not to have officiated, than
to do so. But I dare say you are a much better judge of what would
have been most proper in that matter than I was, especially as I was
in deep affliction and disturbance of mind. I only ask to have a kindly
construction put upon my conduct, where an unkindly one is not ac
tually inevitable. I do not feel myself in any condition to sit in judg
ment on others; and, though I think not for this particular act, I am
sure in all other ways the very severe language you use about me is far
more suited to my merits, and, I assure you, far less painful to my
feelings, than the ill-deserved panegyric which Dr. Wareing in his
affection has pronounced upon me. I know from my own past expe
rience that it is so natural, so almost necessary, for persons in your po
sition to misunderstand the process of thought and conduct which
places men in my position, that the grief of finding one’s self considered
false and dishonest by much holier men than one’s self, was quite an
ticipated by me as a burden which I trusted God would give me grace
to bear as meekly as might be. It would, perhaps, then be too much
to ask you to think that I have acted rightly, or to withdraw some of
those severe imputations upon my moral character which seem so
cruel to me, yet were but expressions of an honest indignation in you :
yet I am sure you will allow me to ask so much of you as this—to try
to think that in an act which has involved me in clearly foreseen dis
tress and suffering, so far as things temporal and fleshly affections are
concerned, I have endeavoured for myself and others to follow my con
science and the apparent beckonings of God’s will, and where you
think (as possibly from the necessity of your position, as an English
clergyman, you mtist think) that I have acted wrongly, to pray God
to forgive me, and out of my mistakes to bring a blessing to our poor
distracted country. I am sure all earnest men must be agreed that
the less we call each other hard names, and the more we pray for each
�64
The Recent Secessions—Mr. Faber.
other, the sooner shall we attain to that unity after which, I doubt not,
you yearn quite as anxiously and quite as honestly as myself. Once
more I must request you kindly to forgive this intrusion on the part of
one who is quite unworthy to occupyyour time and trouble ; yet may par
donably ask for a mention in your prayers.
‘ I remain, Rev. Sir,
‘ Very humbly and respectfully yours,
‘Fred. Wm. Faber.’
‘ Cranford, Dec. 18.
. ‘ Reverend Sir,—I wish to acknowledge, with as little delay as pos
sible, the receipt of your letter, and more especially the Christian
courtesy and kindness with which it is written. It would indeed show
a callousness of feeling of which, I trust, I am not capable, if I were
insensible to the evidence which every line of your letter gives of a
heart sincere (though, of course, in my judgment, mistaken) in all its
movements, and earnestly intent upon doing that which is rioht in the
sight of God. I wish in the outset to make this admission as fully
and unreservedly as possible, and thus to comply with the request you
make, that I will try to “ withdraw some of those severe imputations
upon your moral character” contained in my letter to the Northampton
fleiciny. I wish it to be distinctly understood that my remarks apply
to the system, and not to the unhappy victim to that system; to the
loose and sophistical views of moral honesty inculcated by the Romish
Church, and not to the unfortunate dupe, led away by the ignis fatuus
of a visible Unity which that Church professes to afford. I should
never have thought of making you the subject of public observation, if
Dr. Wareing s specious letter had not trumpeted forth your character
and conduct as worthy of so great praise. Seeing the use which he
designed to make of your name, I thought myself justified in in
quiring what grounds there were for his eulogium, and in publishing
the result of those inquiries. I regret exceedingly your resolution to
reply to my letter privately, rather than make the circumstance of
your secession public. I regret this on two grounds: first, because,
from your own statement, it appears that my allegations (with one
trifling and immaterial exception) were correct. You deny nothing of
what I stated, except that
the seven converts were in your pay. It
appears that only some of them were. And though you also deny that
they were under your training “ further than that 'in some sense all
parishioners may be said to be under the training of their pastors,” you
allow that they had been in the habit of coming frequently to you for
confession, and few persons, I apprehend, will think that I used too
strong a term in calling such practices training for Popery. I regret
your resolution, secondly, because if I have done you any personal in
justice by my published letter, your own statement of your case would
have been the most complete refutation of any injurious impression
respecting your character which my words may have conveyed, and
would moreover have furthered the only legitimate object which I have,
or ought to have, in view, viz., that of showing how baneful and dele
terious is the effect, even upon the most amiable and well-intentioned
�The Recent Secessions—Mr. Faber.
65
mind, of holding communication -with Romish doctrines and Romish
practices. Two years ago I was informed that you were at Florence,
and that while there you attended mass, crossing yourself with holy
water, and joining in other ceremonies of the Roman Catholic Church.
I was assured, upon unquestionable authority, that your conduct, even
so long ago as that, was the subject of general remarks among both
Protestants and Romanists. Here then let me answer a question
which you have put to me in your letter. “Allow me (you say) re
spectfully to ask, whether, when these doubts came into my mind, I
ought to have given up ministering in the English Church, and whe
ther this would not have been in effect settling the question?” With
out the slightest hesitation, I answer that you ought to have done so.
I cannot myself see that temporarily giving up the ministrations of the
Church for the purpose of coming to a decision upon the momentous
points at issue between the Anglican and Roman Catholic communions,
would have been in any degree “ settling the question.” But even if
it had been so, can there be a rational doubt on this subject? Your
authority to preach and officiate in our Church was given on the express
and declared condition that you subscribed ex animo to her Articles.
You were bound by solemn oatli. to that condition, and the very instant
a grave suspicion crossed your mind that her creeds and rites are not
the creeds and rites of a true Church of Christ, from that very moment
you could no longer aver that you were ex animo her minister, from
that very moment you retracted the profession of faith on which alone
you were entitled to minister at her altars. If there was ever a case
showing how Tridentine morality affects a naturally amiable and simple
mind, it is that of the late Rector of Elton. Your friend and fel
low seceder, Mr. Watts Russell, did, I am told, the very same thing
with yourself—that is, he received the pay, and w’ore the garb, and mi
nistered at the altars of the Church of England, up to the very hour of
his assuming an attitude of bitter hostility to her, denying the efficacy
of her sacraments, excommunicating one and all within her pale, and
counting it a sin even to kneel down in private prayer with her mem
bers. It is under circumstances such as these that I felt it needful to
take notice (if it were not done by some abler pen and higher authority)
of the system resorted to long since in other parts of the country by
those who have gone over to Rome, but only recently adopted in tiffs
neighbourhood. It is time now that our people should be reminded to
look upon the Church of England as a Church not protesting only
against the vagaries and irregularities of Protestant Sectarianism, but
against the delusions and dangers of the Romish schism. You are one
of those who have forced this obligation upon us. By infusing suspi
cions and apprehensions into the minds of those who are under our
care, you have justified them in demanding of us “ are you real and
¿o??d fide Protestant Episcopalians, or are you Romish emissaries in
disguise ? ” Thus, while professing to yearn (as you say in your letter,
and say, I am sure, most sincerely) after unity, you are encouraging the
very worst species of schism. Your means, I think, I have already
shown to be schismatical, and your end is not less so, for you have left
a communion blest with episcopal orders and episcopal government, for
one which, in this country at least, has neither bishop nor diocese.
VOL. II.
F
�66
Tice Recent Secessions—Mr. Faber.
In conclusion, I would wish to assure you that the last request in
your letter shall not be forgotten. I should be indeed unworthy of
having such .a iequest made, and little would my prayers avail, if I
could entertain any other feelings towards you personally than respect
fox the motives which have induced you to wake such painful sacrifices
and regret that you should have left the Church of your fathers to
league yourself with that motley crowd of Dissenters, who have no one
object in common but that of her downfall and destruction.
‘ I am, Reverend Sir,
‘ Yours faithfully and respectfully,
‘ George S. Robinson.’
‘ 77, Caroline Street, Birmingham, Dec. 20, 1845.
Rev. Sii, Allow me to tliank you for your last letter, which lays the
burden of your reproof upon the Catholic system rather than upon my
self or any other,.individual convert. I quite think that you are only
domg what is your duty (in your position) by laying open what you
considei the manifestly immoral workings of an erroneous system; and
though it is veiy painful to me to have Michael Watts Russell’s name
coupled with mine, because of the affectionate esteem with which I regaid one so far above me as he is, nevertheless I presume I may infer
from y°ur lettei, that in his case also it is more the system than the
victim which you would hold up to reprobation. If it should seem
well to you to publish your letter to me, then I 'will ask yrou to send also
with it my lettei to you, and likewise this note, as I may thus have an
opportunity of publicly saying to others why 1 have refused to answer
the attacks they have made upon me :—I do not think it is modest
in me as a neophite to answer charges which have reference to the
Chuicli and not to me, and I think it still less becoming in me, from
my own knowledge of myself, to try to clear my personal character of
any accusation whatever. I am not now in any situation of responsi
bility, and am therefore entitled to the very grateful privilege of beino1
unjustly accused, and of being silent under it. With regard to the cor
rectness of the facts in your first letter, your word “ immaterial” shows
that 1 wrongly put a harsher construction than I need have done upon
y our language. I really^ thought your meaning was to throw a com
plete slur upon the conversions which accompanied mine, by implying
that they were all mercenary. With regard to the facts of your last
letter—I was at Florence two Sundays only; on both of them I offi
ciated in the English chapel. I most solemnly declare that I never
remember to have attended mass in Florence, and I positively believe that
I nevei did. I may have entered a church on a week day, when mass was
going on, but not to my knowledge. Tourists go in and out, and it
may liaic been so with me. I never remember either crossing myself
or using holy water there, and I positively believe that I never did. I
was known at Florence as a “ Puseyite, and as such, what I did and
said was canvassed, while, in common with others of the party, I was
the object of all such inventions as fear and distrust, not always unmmgled with ill-nature, could suggest. I did not then, what I do now
most fully confess, that, in myT judgment, submission to the Roman
Church is the legitimate and only consistent end of Puseyism; I do
�The Recent Secessions—Mr. Faber.
67
not say the only honest one, because I blinded myself, and others may
do the same, and in so doing both of us may injure the sensitiveness
of our moral perceptions, without being aware of it. Once again allow
me to thank you for the very great frankness of your letter, for frank
ness on such matters is the only solid courtesy; and still more let me
thank you for the promise you make of giving a mention in your prayers
to one who has only become known to you in so unpleasing a way.
‘ I remain, Reverend Sir,
‘ With much respect,
‘ Very humbly yours,
‘ Feed. W. Faber.’
.* P.S.—I have kept no copy of this my last letter to you; I feel no
sort of objection to their being printed with your letter, and in your
hands am not afraid of the correctness of the press.’
‘ Cranford, Dec. 32, 1845.
‘Rev. Sir,—Your explicit denial of the statement made with respect
to your conduct at Florence renders it necessary for me in self-justifi
cation to detail the circumstances under which I made it. Subse
quently to my letter to the Northampton Mercury, and in consequence
of that letter, I received a communication from a person of hio-h
standing and character in the county, informing me of what was said
to have occurred during your visit to Florence, and expressing a firm
belief in the truth of the reports. I replied, that I might perhaps
make use of the information, if authenticated, but could not do so
unless sanctioned by the parties on whom the truth of it depended, to
give their names, if required. I was told, in answer, that the “ autho
rities, if necessary, shall be forthcoming.”
‘ One other ground only I wish to refer to. You speak in your first
letter of my being influenced in forming my opinion of your conduct
by my “position as an English clergyman,” and the same idea is re
peated in your second letter, in nearly the same words. I should be
sorry to leave you under such a mistake as this, because, though I
cannot entertain any very sanguine hope that, while you are in your
present “ position,” you will give much weight to my opinion, yet,
I am desirous for your own sake, as well as that of others, that you
should give it fair play in your mind, and not set it down at once as
the result of clerical prejudice. I beg, therefore, to assure you, that
my “position as a clergyman” has nothing whatever to do with the
question. It is a simple question of right and wrong, of truth and
falsehood, a question that any man, woman, or child in the country of
ordinary understanding, whose judgment has not been obscured and
perverted by the dust of Romish casuistry, will form the same opinion
of. It is a question, moreover, in which the laity are as deeply in
terested as the clergy, and one in which I trust they will take care to
show their interest.
‘ I am, Reverend Sir,
‘ Faithfully yours,
‘ George S. Robinson.’
�68
New Novels.
Art. VI.—1. The Young Baronet. A Novel, in 3 vols. By the
Author of‘The Scottish Heiress,’ &c. London, 1845.
2. The Lady of Milan; or, Fidelity unto Death. Edited
by Mrs. Thomson. 3 vols. London, 1845.
3. The Eventful Epoch. By Nicholas Michell. 3 vols.
London, 1845.
4. Contarini Fleming; and Alroy. By B. Disraeli, M.P.
3 vols. London, 1845.
We were hesitating in the selection of a ‘light article’—an ar
ticle which, as Sir Walter Scott has somewhere said, might be
read by ladies whilst their hair was papering—when, looking
over our table, we happily discovered four recently-published
Novels which we considered worthy of commendation. We se
lect those only which are deserving of praise; otherwise should
we soon be compelled to coin new words of censure. We are in
undated with worthless trash : works of merit are scarce, and
must be valued accordingly. And, upon reflection, we doubt if
we could have made a better choice. Mrs. Trollope, it is true,
has written ‘ a new novel,’ but we are right glad her publisher
has not imposed upon us the ungracious, yet all-necessary, task
of criticizing coarse taste and miserable sentiment, albeit unfor
tunately allied with much ability and vigour. Mr. Hewlett, too,
has given us three volumes neither better nor worse than those
he was wont to supply. Mrs. Gore has edited much nonsense;
and Mr. Cooper has presumed upon the reputation he has
gained. We cannot afford space to notice all these works, and
will therefore confine ourselves to those we deem most worthy
of commendation—to those which will live beyond a first edi
tion.
Among these we have no hesitation in assigning precedence
to The Young Baronet. We have expected the publication of
this novel with much anxiety,—and we are not disappointed.
It is worthy, in every respect, of the reputation of its author.
Who that author is, it matters not for the present, at least, to
inquire; and we will hazard no vain surmise. It is sufficient to
say, that from his pen nothing trashy proceeds : every new
work only adds to a reputation now deservedly exalted. The
highest praise we can give this novel—and it is no mean com
pliment—is to say that it is not inferior to The Young Widow.
H ow different are the sentiments which such a tale excites, to
those which are originated by one of Mr. James’s spun-out nar
ratives, which weary more and more at every page. Here we
have true genius, eloquence, and deep feeling, all harmoniously
combined. Of the novels of 1845, only excepting Sybil, we
know of none which can compare with this.
�New Novels.
69
We will give one extract; it will be sufficient in itself to
justify our commendation :—
‘ Ancl June came—for the weeks ran on too fast to be counted well
—and the largest trees were green to their airiest summits ; and vistas,
lately dark enough for wood spirits to hold orgies in, were now leafy
and fit for love-bowers, and the wild bird’s limpid ringings were pouring
from them all; and roses gave elegance to the poor man’s cottage-garden,
and the summer odour of honeysuckle welcomed him at his door, when
the long day of toil was past; and though he was weary it bade him be
glad, and may be sent gentleness into his heart to make its silent bless
ing heartier to the dear ones who welcomed him to his home again—
it was June, the month which is summer’s own, with no bleakness to
begin it, and nothing arid to parch up the freshness of its sunniest
days—the very churchyards were bonny, and the old yews and willows
hung their green branches protectingly over the forgotten graves ; and
the erect sycamores ruffled their dark leaves in the churchwall breezes,
and sweet birds sang there, making the forsaken place their own, and
in the joyousness of a melody more true to sacred hopes than the re
quiem of the dirge, told gladly and aloud that the dead should rise
again—and June came, and Renault was at Cuikglen on one of its fair
est days, and he was sitting with Gertrude under the old acacia tree,
when a post-chaise rolled along the drive at a short distance from the
place. Gertrude started to her feet; a lady that sat in the carriage
pulled the check-string, and called to the postillions to stop, and no
sooner was this done, than a small gloved hand appeared outside the
carriage-door, and threw it open, and without waiting for assistance,
Alice Lennoy sprang out upon the turf, and in an instant was clasped
in her sister’s arms ! “ Dear, dear Gertrude !” exclaimed Alice, kiss
ing her on both cheeks, and then for the first time seeing Renault,
blushing slightly and turning a questioning look to her sister's beam
ing face. “ It is Renault Falconer,” she said, in a low and anxious
tone. “ Oh, it is Woodlie !” said Alice, with the instinctive grace of
prompt courtesy to a guest of her father’s house, holding out her hand,
which Renault with strange embarrassment took respectfully. Few
could have thus met that dazzling being with tranquil pulses for the
time. To say that Alice Lennoy was beautiful is not saying enough ;
flushed now, and her dark eyes sparkling with the pure intensity of
emotion at seeing her sister again—the sister who had always doated
on her, who had saved her life on the lake, and who had in all cases
sacrificed her wishes to hers, if they jarred or but seemed to jar—there
was something in the extreme beauty of Alice too vivid for acknow
ledgment, and too subduing for admiration—like exquisite music it
seized at once upon heart and soul, and held them in such sweet thral
dom that they wished not to be free—she was one of those glorious
beings who have to be seen but once, to live with us in our youth and
manhood, and be remembered even in the dark nights of our ancient
days ; one of those lovely ones who give the imagination a warmer pas
sion for the painter’s visions, and the heart a readier echo to the poet’s
song ; she was only seventeen, yet Milton’s creative Eve, in all her
blandishments of frailty, is less beautiful in her blank verse ideality
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than was this proud patrician girl in the reality of her guise ; for the
classic sense of heathen notions of woman in a state of degradation by
which John Mil ton was inspired, has given to his Eve a weakness
which makes her but the mother of the unfortunate; solemn and ob
scure is the record from which he has cast the frailty of wantonness
over the sweetest attributes of woman; Mil ton’s Eve is but a beautiful
personification of a goddess of profligacy, put in a situation where there
was nothing but curiosity and creeping things to beguile her to her
bent. But no frailty sat on Alice's open forehead; the mouth was
proud and joyous, and the eyes were frank and true; the countenance
was like a happy memory, like a vision of loveliness that might be;
the roundest figure had the grace of dignity, and the gentle bust had
the charm of love; bright and beautiful she stood there, with her
small, delicate foot on the turfy soil, with the elastic firmness of a
daughter of its lord, and with the old ancestral elms around her, rust
ling freshness into the sunny languor of the summer day; there might
rarely be found a finer subject for a picture of the poetry of woman’s
loveliuesss, than this dark-eyed daughter of Lennoy, as she stood there
in the glen.’
This is only one of those numerous beautiful passages with
which these volumes are radiant; it will, however, suffice to call
attention to one of the most charming novels it has ever been
our fate dreamingly to muse over.
The Lady of Milan seems to be the production of an Italian,
we presume a lady, and is edited by Mrs. Thomson, known as the
authoi of sevei al woiks of fiction, who, we hope, will forgive
our saying, that a few words by way of introduction would^not
have been amiss; it was almost due to the writer. They
appear to us to be the^/W effort of authorship, at least in this
line, foi the development of the story, and the introduction of
historical details, are bristling with the errors of literary juvenescence: the former replete with puzzling episode, and the
lattei often wearisome and prolix. And this is the more to be
regretted, because the reader who has the patience to peruse
these dry pages, and who does not forget the narrative, will find
an abundance of rich and even compensating beauties.
For the reasons just stated, it will be obvious that to give any
piopei idea of the plot would be difficult: its very simplicity is
made subseivient to our bewilderment. The time chosen is
when Luchino Visconti was ruler of Lombardy’s proud capital •
and the lovely and high-souled Margaret Pusterla, his cousin, is
the Lady of Milan ; whom, in the first chapter, we find the wed
ded wife of Franciscolo Pusterla, a noble and distinguished
cavahei ; in the next chapter, however, we are introduced to her
first love, Buonvicino, a ‘ scion of the house of Landi, one of the
most illustrious families in Placentia,’ and who, by the fate
of war, was sent a deputy and honourable hostage to the court
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of Milan; and there, lodged in the house of her father, Uberto
Visconti, he met Margaret. Buonvicino was knightly and ac
complished, polished in manner, and a cultivator of the ‘ belles
lettres.’
‘ It was not surprising that so accomplished a knight should inspire
the heart of Margaret with a feeling of interest Buonvicino was in
his thirtieth year; the lady had scarcely attained fifteen. The un
remitting attentions of the knight awakened in her mind, as yet inex
perienced and ignorant of itself, no sentiment but that of chaste and
tranquil pleasure. When this incipient affection had deepened into a
mutual passion, it yet remained secret; nor had the lovers themselves
revealed it to each other. Those simple words, “ I love you,” had
never, in their mutual intercourse, escaped the lips of the knight; but
passion, in a silent language of its own, revealed itself in a hundred
various ways. And Margaret hardly knew that she loved; she had
never confessed so much to him; she had never avowed it to herself—
although conscious that her heart beat more rapidly at the approach of
Buonvicino, and that she felt lonely and dejected during his absence;
as if he had relinquished something peculiarly his own, and as if she
had been deprived of a part of herself. When quitting them he never
said he would return, much less that he would return at such an hour,
yet Margaret would remain during the whole period of his absence in
a continual fever of expectation. At any unusual delay she was seized
with an agony of anxiety; but no sooner did she see him again, than
she was filled with a joy that seemed to expand her very existence—
an existence whose fulness of happiness might well be compared
to a tree blossoming amid the vernal breezes of May, or a vine loaded
with September fruit.’
Such was their mutual position when Buonvicino is dis
possessed of his estates, and banished for ever from Placentia;
his every hope is blighted, he is suddenly reduced to poverty.
Under these circumstances prudence admonishes him that Mar
garet is beyond his aspirations, that it would be allied to sin to
seek such an union; and, with a poor knowledge of his own
heart, he aids the suit of Franciscolo Pusterla. They are wedded ;
and now, for the first time, Buonvicino discovers that ‘ He had
made an unfortunate mistake in supposing his passion to be ex
tinct, when it is merely quiescent.’ In vain does he struggle to
repress this guilty love; he is necessarily much in her society;
even her husband’s praises only add fuel to the flame. He
dared not to express these feelings in words, but, with the na
tural cowardice of immorality, he conveyed to her his sentiments
in a letter. No answer was returned, and, to end all suspense,
the knight sought the presence of the lady; he was admitted,
kindly received, and silently, but most impressively rebuked.
Before leaving the apartment he said, ‘ Margaret, this, lesson
shall not be lost; but never, while I have the breath of life, can
your remembrance be effaced from my heart!
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Buonvicino left tlie palace in a state of insensibility to external
objects; he perceived neither the stairs, the servants, the gate, nor the
road, but wandered about like a somnambulist, unconscious where he
was. It was doubtful, indeed, whether he was aware that it was Holy
Thursday, a day of universal devotion, on which (and the custom lias
continued even to the present time) all the people assemble and walk
in procession, to kneel before the sepulchre of the Lord. They
to
adore the holy place, in commemoration of that glorious tomb in which
were deposited the remains of Him who is both God and man, when
He consummated the redemption of the human race. Vast multitudes
of men, women, and children, were now collected in the streets. Here
were the poor, half naked and in rags; there the villagers, in doublets
and cloth hoods; farther on came a procession of knights, in regular
files, arrayed in a rich but not showy costume, without plumes^ and
without arms. A crowd of people pressed on in great disorder after a
man bearing a cross, to which, as a convenient substitute for an image
of the Saviour, was affixed a winding-sheet, which he waved in the air
like a banner. He walked barefooted, and some of those about him
were clothed in sackcloth. One of them recited the rosary in a loud
tone, to which a chorus of discordant voices responded. Others
chanted the Stabat Mater, or the psalms of the penitential king, or
struck themselves over the shoulders with whips of knotted cords,
as they muttered a miserere in a doleful strain. Another, with still
deeper self-abasement, having his head enveloped in large folds of
linen and covered with ashes, marched between two brothers, who from
time to time lashed him violently on the back. Numerous societies
of men and women paraded the streets, so closely clad and hooded that
neither their limbs nor features could be discerned. Troops of bro
thers, and of monks who were not bound to the cloister, walked hand
in hand, with their eyes fixed on the ground, telling their beads,
chanting and groaning. In this manner they proceeded to one or
other of the seven principal churches, which, at that time, were all
outside the walls. When they arrived there, they renewed this mock
celebration of that great mystery of love and expiation, by redoubling
their prayers, chantings, groans, and flagellations. Public societies
*
in long processions, attended by crowds of citizens, were continually
arriving from every quarter of the city. Each party was headed by a
man, intended to represent the Saviour, bearing a heavy cross on his
shoulders, and accompanied with a group of women in the characters
of Mary Magdalene and tlie Virgin, together with saints of every a<m
and nation, all uttering loud lamentations. Others assumed the cos
tume of Palestine, and represented the Jews, Pilate, Herod, and
Simon the Cyrenean. In keeping with their outlandish dress,’ they
also attempted to speak in some foreign tongue, and this jargon mingled strangely with the cries and lamentations of the crowd. As an
accompaniment to this melody, there was a continual din of rattles and
sticks stiuck against the gates and railings ; these implements were
used by crowds of children, to manifest their turbulent devotion A
blind man mounted on a stage, chanted, with a dolorous and monoto
nous voice, a composition as gross as can well be imagined; which,
though at this day it would only excite laughter and disgust, extorted
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from the bystanders tears of pious compassion. The attentive multi
tude eagerly threw their quattrini into the money-box of this blind
beggar. Some of these men of iron, bred up in war and slaughter,
who had never sympathized in the real and present sufferings of their
fellow creatures, now wept like children at the recital of the voluntary
sufferings of the Divine A ictim. Some of them, clapping their hands
on their sword-hilts, exclaimed, “ Oh ! if we had been there, we would
soon have delivered Him ! ” A group of pilgrim-friars, perceiving this
excitement, endeavoured to turn it to the most profitable account by
beginning a moving recital of the barbarities they had seen inflicted on
their Christian brethren in the Holy Land ; and attempted to induce
on the faithful a desire to deliver these Christians by force of arms, or,
at least, to lighten their afflictions by present contributions of money.
It was an imposing spectacle to see an entire nation weeping in
sympathy with the sufferings endured so many years ago, as if it were
but an event of yesterday ; the effect, however, was diminished by the
uncouth mixture of the solemn and burlesque which characterized the
middle ages. Buonvicino was in the midst of the motley crowd;
sometimes permitting himself to be carried along by the stream of the
populace, at others forcing his way in a contrary direction, with down
cast eyes, as though he dreaded an accuser in every person he
encountered!’
We have extracted the whole of this description, not only
because we believe it will be read with much interest, but also as
affording- an instance of the fault we have complained against:
the historical part of the novel is too laboured; and, as here, is
not introduced with discretion. We are obliged to read six or
seven pages, not quite as agreeable and elegant as those of
Gibbon, before we can ascertain whither poor Buonvicino bent
his steps ; and when at length we discover him standing before
the church of the Umiliati of Brera, we must again restrain
our impatience until we have learnt the history of the Order of
the Umiliati—-five pages more; then, we are informed that he
has passed over the threshold of the monastery, greeted with the
pious benediction, ‘The blessing of the Lord be upon thee.’
‘ Around, an atmosphere of confidence and peace seemed to breathe ;
multitudes of sparrows chattered on the roofs, and the summer swallow
sought again the nest from which she had never been disturbed. The
numerous pieces of cloth on which the inmates had been at work, hung
up in the spacious chambers, not to disturb the quiet of a day sacred tc
meditation. Here and there appeared one of the brothers, in a white
cowl and tunic, his loins girded about with a cord, and wearing sandals
on his feet; and his countenance sad and grave, in harmony with that
solemn day. They were accustomed to the sight of strangers, incited
by curiosity to inspect their abode; but they made no remarks on its
beauties, they sought no conversation, they asked for nothing, they
feared nothing. The religion they had embraced was a sufficient safe
guard to the riches they had collected, and it seemed to impress a
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sacred, awe on those whom misfortune or curiosity had attracted to their
dwelling. Each brother, as he passed Buonvicino, accosted him with
the “ Pax vobis", and, without another word, passed on. The soothin«
effect of this scene on the mind of Buonvicino was like the trannuilliz°ing zephyr of returning peace on the waters of a stormy lake. He
wandered about at random, deeply absorbed in liis own reflections.
His steps, at fiist hasty and uncertain, after a while became more
sedate, and revealed the benign peace which, though slowly, was be«inmg to penetrate his soul. Now a concert of voices’, feeble,'distant, and
which seemed to proceed from a subterraneous cavern, arrested his
attention with a kind of lugubrious melody ; and, following the sound,
Buonvicino was conducted to the church. The dim light of this
secluded aisle, barely sufficient to make the various objects visible,
induced a feeling of profound solemnity. No lamp hung from the roof’
no wax-light glimmered on the dismantled altar; a murmur of prayer’
as it arose Irom the lips of the faithful, whose forms were indistinguish
able in the surrounding gloom, resembled those spirits who, though
invisible to mortal eyes, were heard on that day lamenting in the
temple of Jerusalem, when the last sufferings of the Saviour had con
summated the fall of the Jewish persuasion, and established the per
fection of the Christian worship. In the confessions, or, as they were
called in the dialect of Lombardy, the scuruolo, the brothers repeated
the Lamentations of Jeremiah, together with the touching and single
narrative of our Lord’s Crucifixion. Buonvicino groped his way till he
approached one of the sixteen columns which divided the area into three
naves ; here he stumbled on something which, by the touch, he dis
covered to be a tomb, supporting the recumbent effigy of the body
enclosed therein. He kneeled before this tomb, which, in fact, was
the sepulchre of Bertramo, first grand master of the Umiliati,’ who
imposed the original rules of the order, and who died, in the odour of
sanctity, in the year 1257. Buonvicino supported his forehead on the
cold stone of this monument, while tears fell from his eyes, and tender
emotions of piety penetrated his breast. The thought of God, of the
end of all things, of the sufferings of Him who died and expiated the
sins of fallen man—who testified, in short, a participation in the grief
of all men, for a moment made him forget the anguish of his own heart;
for a while obliterated the idea of liis past sufferings and his recent
error, of his country, of Margaret, of all which in the world had ever
occasioned him either joy or sorrow. “ What earthly felicity,” said he,
“ does not end in grief, vexation, or weariness ? Here, on the contrary’
are privations which terminate in peace, and penitence which produces
happiness. To the austerities of Lent will succeed triumphant
hallelujahs. To-morrow they will meet, and salute each other with the
cry—He is risen !
A salutary self-denial, which resolves itself into
holy exultation ! ” ’
And Buonvicino joined that holy brotherhood. He was
ordained a priest, and became a faithful and an eloquent preacher.
Then, when by the daily practice of devotional exercises his
heart had become pure, he again sought the presence of
Margaret, and
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‘ Having detached from his girdle a rosary composed of cedar heads
with facettes, on each side of which was inlaid a star of mother-of-pearl,
whilst from the chain was suspended a cross of the same material—a
laborious work, which had been the production of his patient and
solitary leisure hours,—he presented it to Margaret, saying, “Accept
this rosary, and keep it in remembrance of me : it may one day be
your consolation. When you recite your prayers, do not forget to im
plore God’s mercy for a sinner.” ’
But why have we thus lingered over this somewhat serious
passage, in a novel where so much is suitable for quotation?
A few will ask this question, but our friends will readily
divine the motive, and we will frankly avow it : we think it
good in these days of reviving bigotry and speculating insanity,
when the iron on which we travel is infecting the heart with its
frigidity—to improve every occasion where we may legitimately
contend with this debasing intolerance; and especially, because
in reviewing a novel we attack the enemy in his stronghold—we
carry the war into the chambers of the mothers and daughters
of England, and administer the antidote where the poison is
most fatally infectious. The Evangelicals are not scrupulous as
to the means they employ to attain their end ; if they can bar
the door against Tractarianism, or make believe that ‘ Puseyism
is R omanism, and that Romanism is of the Devil,’ they care not
very much how they accomplish this feat of Christian charity :
they do not scruple to admit Eugène Sue to the school-room, or
to place the eloquent libels of M. Michelet in the hands of a
young wife ! And yet these men preached sermons against
Byron, and even now, whilst they are tacitly commending the
pestilential ephemera we have named, are denouncing the works
of Bulwer, We are anxious, then, when the opportunity offers,
to call attention to the sublime religion and surpassing devo
tion of that Sister Church, which, however much we may deplore
hei' errors, however much we may lament her superstitions,
must be ever held dear by the Christian. The Ultra-Protestants
will run beyond the goal, and lose the prize they are striving
for; they may conciliate Dissenters, who will hereafter rule
them, but they will force but too many of the true friends of the
Church to cry out with the inspired Prophet, ‘ In returning and
rest shall we be saved.’
We must now resume our narrative. Her husband having
accepted a foreign embassy, Margaret retires during his absence
to the palace of Montabello; and here Luchino, taking ad
vantage of this absence of her lord, and instigated by a
Ramengo, a servile courtier and a base villain, seeks to seduce
her virtue. Franciscolo, apprised of this treacherous conduct of
his Prince, returns hastily to Milan, and calling together his
friends, they enter into a conspiracy to avenge the foul outrage,
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and free their city. This scheme, by the imprudence of Alpinolo, a devoted page, who is a principal character in the story,
is subsequently discovered. But now our author introduces us
to the past life of Ramengo, in an episode of commanding
intelest: it is the gem of the book,- and we have rarely met
with a more powerfully wrought picture. Rosalia, the beautiful
daughtei of the house of Gualdo della JVIaddalena, becomes the
wife of this wretch, Ramengo; it is an alliance repugnant to
her feelings, and on which they were not consulted. Her
husband soon suspects her good faith, and believes Franciscolo,
who loved her in youth, to be the seducer; but not being able
to wreak his vengence on him, determines to make poor Rosalia
the victim; and the heartless cruelty with which he carries this
into effect is truly appalling. He first essays to stab his own
child, almost before the eyes of its suffering mother, in the very
hour of its birth; in this he is frustrated, and then, whilst his
thoughts were of revenge and murder, ‘ his conduct towards his
wufe seemed so calm, so peaceful and affectionate, that Rosalia
took comfort and frankly forgave his former outrage.’ He
played the hypocrite well. We cannot afford space for more
than a brief extract from this horrible scene; that, will, however,
be amply sufficient to justify our remarks.
‘ It was at the close of one of the finest days in May, a short time
after her restoration to health,—the season most propitious, the sky
serene and cloudless, while the increasing heat gave a double charm to
the fresh nocturnal breeze,—that Ramengo said to his wife, “ What a
lovely evening !—Suppose we take a walk together in the environs of
the citadel; methinksit would greatly benefit your health.” “Most
willingly!” exclaimed Rosalia, overjoyed at this proof of her husband’s
affection, feeling as if she might again love him. “And the infant,”
added she ; “ I will run and take him to his cradle, shall I not ? Only
wait awhile till I have put him to sleep.” “ Why may we not take him
with us?” replied Ramengo, “ art thou tired of him already?” “ Tired
of him ! ’she repeated, in a tone of maternal affection: “Little dost
thou know how delightful to a mother is the burthen of her child!”
Thus saying, she folded her infant in his clothes, and carried him by
the side of her husband. They descended the declivity leading from
the citadel to the border of the lake. It was the first time since her con
finement that she had walked beneath that serene and cloudless sky.
She felt like a prisoner just restored to liberty: the glassy lake, the
far blue mountains, thrilled her with rapture, as her breast dilated with
the sweet and life-giving vernal air. The waters of the lake, though
greatly increased by the melting of the mountain snows and the recent
rains, were breaking in little billows on the shore with a soothing,
gentle murmur. They sat down on a low parapet, to survey this wide
expanse of crystal waves, unbroken by a sail or even the dashing oar,—
for during the late war, all the vessels on that lake had been captured
and sunk. Rosalia gazed awhile on the summit of the Resegone,
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whose indented ridges the sun was steeping in his richest dyes ; and
then on the opening vale of Valmadrera, where his parting rays
seemed to linger and renew their strength, as the life-blood rallies
round the heart of the dying. Then, turning from this matchless scene
to gaze on living beauty, she began to prattle to her babe, as though he
were able to comprehend and to reply. “ Open his eyes, my love !
open them, to behold this lovely scene ! Does he see those hills ?
He will hereafter know them well! Up those mountain sides, high as
their summits, will he one day pursue the bounding goats, with step as
light as theirs, rejoicing in the pure air, the laughing sun, and liberty.
And when, after long absence, he shall revisit his native land, he will
mount some hillock, some tower, to catch the first glimpse of those
mountain peaks, the sweet memorials of his childhood. And does he
not see this lake ? It hides beneath its waves an infant fair as himself.
The day may come when he will swim through these transparent
waters, or gaily glide over them in a boat.” “And why should not we,”
interrupted Ramengo, “indulge ourselves with a sail in a boat this
evening?” “Oh yes!—let us do so!” she exclaimed, “provided the
working of the oars will not weary you too much.” “ On the contrary,
they will prove a most salutary exercise.” About a stone’s throw distant
was a pier, at which the only two boats that remained in all the lake and
river, were preserved for the service of the citadel. Ramengo, seating
Rosalia and her babe at the stern, removed one of them, and, taking
a pair of oars, pulled away along the shore on which at this day stands
the populous town of Lecco. They passed under the arch of Azone’s
bridge, erected by that lord but a few years before, and, gliding beside
Pescate and Pescarenico, they pushed their course to where the waters
expand into a wide basin. In the meantime the twilight wore away;,
the outline of the surrounding mountains grew more and more in
distinct, and blended with the deepening azure of a cloudless Italian
sky. When they reached the middle of the lake the objects on the
shore had become almost invisible,—except the curling smoke of a few
scattered cottages, whose inmates were cooking their meagre supper of
fish. All these lovely scenes corresponded with the peaceful joy that
filled the heart of Rosalia, as she pressed her lips on the dewy forehead
of her slumbering babe. Ramengo suddenly sprang from his seat, and
began to stamp violently at the bottom of the boat, till he made it tremble
violently, terrified the mother, and awakened the child. “Vile
adulteress !” he exclaimed, “ didst thou hope to hide from me thy base
treachery? Thou art deceived—I know it all! Behold the hour of
thy punishment has arrived. Wretch! thou shalt die now.” Pale with
terror, she gazed wildly around, clasped her infant closely to her breast
with one arm, and extending the other toward Ramengo in an in
stinctive attitude of supplication, she was about to answer—to demand
an explanation—to beseech. But the villain would not give her a
moment’s grace; he threw away the oars, and plunging into the lake,
began to swim towards the shore. Rosalia covered her eyes as he sprang
from the boat, and uttered a wild scream of despair. She watched him
swim away, and with the last gleam of twilight she saw him gain the
bank.’
�Neiv Novels.
Here follow more than twenty pages of really harrowing misei y and despair; the painful interest is never permitted to fla»and altogether the scene would add to the reputation of our molt
established novelists. We can only give the concluding lines,
and they disclose the unhappy fate of the beautiful and confiding
Kosaha.
°
"
*
*
‘In the midst of so many sufferings of anxiety,
&nef, hungei , and hopes excited only to deceive, the force of maternal
love alone had sustained her strength. But now the conflict was at an
T” 1 des1pair at last Prevailed- Her senses grew dim, she saw no more,
she heaid no more; she had no further concern with earthly things.
^et as PoPe that, ni her last moments, her spirit was united to tho°se
laithiul friends piously kneeling on the rock, who had implored the
-Lord to grant her that mercy in heaven, which she had so vainly sought
We would gladly prolong our extracts, but that we have alleady exceeded the space we can fairly accord. A very brief
^mmary must therefore suffice. Margaret, Franciscolo, their
child, and the faithful Alpmolo, are arrested, tried, and con
demned, to death. Luchino knows not mercy. Every succeed
ing act m this black tragedy is pourtrayed with the pencil of a
master, and the catastrophe is wrought up with great and vio-orous ability. Let us instance the visit of Buonvicino to adminis
ter the last consolations of religion to Margaret; it must draw a
tear from the most callous :—
/ At the exact hour of noon on the following day, Margaret heard her
prison door open, and lifted up her eyes. Oh, no ! this is not the brui ,ja- ,.Lher eyes do not meet> as they were wont, a look of insult or
cold indifference Ao! she sees—oh .' she sees a well-known friend
» A“U“1V1C1UO •
drst she could scarcely believe her senses : a loud
Ah au expansion of the eyes, a stretching forth the arms, alone re
vealed her astonishment; then she rose from her little stool, and ap
proached the brother. Moments like these have no words, and the
touching silence alone shows that the depth of the affections hinders
their expression.
*
*
*
*
*
Here
touched upon the sweet remembrance of their serene, youthful hours'then she resumed, “ But what is the use of thus afflicting us ; alas '
why do not they reflect how much they make us suffer ?—Ah ' we think
of it too much !” She sighed deeply, and a fresh cloud of sadness came
ox ei her brow. Then, forcing away her attention from her persecutors,
she went on to say-“ And the sun ! 0 Buonvicino ! how glorious was
the sun the sun shining m Ins strength, on those hills where we roamed
about at freedom! Here, deprived of his cheerful beams, I have felt
nothing all tins summer but the stifling heat; and now, still in darkoT’i1 a re]Xdy spuddei’ w^h cold. And yet it is but the beginning of
October; oh what will become of me in December and January 9”
Here an involuntary groan from the brother brought the dreadful truth
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clearly to the mind of Margaret; and throwing himself on his knees,
he exclaimed,—“Air, yes! then you will be with us no more!”
*
*
*
* . *
“Let me see my husband.” The monk
had foreseen this request, and hardly restraining his tears, replied,
“ God alone can grant you this desire!” “ Is he dead?” she screamed,
drawing back in terror, and extending her rigid hands. The look of the
brother, and a sigh as he shook his head, gave her a terrible confirma
tion. “ And my child?” said she, with increasing anguish. “Waits
for you in paradise.”
*
*
*
*
*
*
And the
Umiliato, placing the crucifix before her eyes, exclaimed, “ He died
forgiving his murderers!” Margaret fixed her eyes for a moment on
the pious symbol, and then, raising them to heaven, appeared recom
forted, and her countenance beamed with a presentiment of immortal
ity, as she placed her foot on the scaffold. In a few moments the exe
cutioner, grasping the long black hair, presented to the sight of the peo
ple the severed head that seemed to be still gasping for breath.
*
*
*
*
*
*
When Margaret laid down her neck to
the axe, Buonvicino knelt down, and, for the few minutes that remained
to her, murmured in her ears his last consoling words ; then with a re
solute act, as one who suddenly escapes from a painful position, he
grasped the crucifix, raised it towards heaven between his clasped hands,
then cast it to the floor and fell with his face upon it. The blood of
the victim sprinkled him ; all was over, yet he did not move from that
attitude. They shook him ; raised him ; he was dead !’
We by no means coincide with every opinion of this writer,
more particularly in the estimate of the Feudal System, but
we see much to approve in the general sentiments enunciated,
and though there are faults numerous and all obvious, yet is
there far more to commend than to condemn.
The Eventful Epoch; or, the Fortunes of Archer Clive, is
a novel of very respectable merit. It will be read with un
flagging interest even to the last page. The characters are for
the most part well delineated; the incidents of the stirring times
in which they move—the first French Revolution—are vigor
ously drawn. We shall attempt no analysis of the story; we
have been compelled to read it hastily. Minda Clive is a very
fine, and indeed an original creation; Lady Eltbam, a most re
pulsive specimen of titled pride and ignorance; Hector, her son,
is a true portrait; we could, if we mistake not, find a Lady
Gertrude Kenmure living and breathing within the precincts of
May Fair; but, to our mind, 'Walter Pellew, the foster-brother
of Archer Clive, and a fierce revolutionist, and his young wife,
Camilla, are the best drawn characters. They give the chief
interest to the tale; and from that part of the book we will make
one extract.
‘ Walter Pellew occupied lodgings in an obscure court in Fleet Street;
the house was a narrow lofty building, very antique, and very dilapi-
�80
New Novels.
dated ; there were four floors, each of which was appropriated to a set
of lodgers ; Pellew and his wife occupied the third. Their two apart
ments were small, and scantily furnished; while, owing to the narrow
ness of the court, and the dingy liorn-like substance, an apology for
glass, in the windows, very little light was admitted even at mid-day.
lire small patch of carpet beneath the stained Pembroke table the
coarse blue moreen-covered sofa, and the cane-bottomed chairs, all
denoted poverty ; yet there was a neatness in the arrangement of every
little thing an air almost of comfort in the whole appearance of the
room, which spoke eloquently of the industrious qualities of Camilla •
and yet perhaps she was but a type of her sex—never despairing, ever
active, patient woman pouring light on the thickest gloom in which
late may involve the scenes of life; and placing a flower even on the
wintry brow of despair. And here she was, that gentle one, the
c eigyman s'too fond discarded daughter. Oh! what a contrast—the
rectory, with its venerable ivied walls; the cawing rooks; the green
lawn ; and, rising above the ancient elms, the grey church spire. Oh !
what a contrast between these scenes where passed her happy childhood, and the dark heavy walls of the squalid courts and alleys now
around her! Yet Camilla sighed not for all she had lost in flying
from her home; she had fled to love. The ties which bound her to he?
birthplace were sweet, and the attachment to her parents was stroim •
but what are such feelings to the all-engrossing affection which burns
m the heart of the .woman devoted to her husband ? And for Walter
Pellew, Camilla patiently bore the anger of her father and the scorn of
her fnends ; his smile, his look of fondness, repaid her for the bright
things she had forfeited for ever. Privation, poverty, hunger_ Oh
yes! every ill in the catalogue of human sorrows she could bear with
smiles, so he felt them not. To minister to his washes, to soothe and
encourage him beneath his disappointments, to share his little successes,
but never to droop, however adverse circumstances might be—this was
her province, and this formed the end and aim of her existence ! Two
yeais had now passed over this young couple ; they remained alienated
from their families, to. whom their residence was unknown. Pellew
supported himself by his pen, and experienced all those alternations of
hope and depression incidental to the literary character; those feverish
feelings which attend partial success, and that bitter gnawing of the
heart-strings. which results from disappointment. He laid his pen
aside; his thin features were lit up with an expression of pleasure ;
ns eyes, ever brilliant, flashed as though they were diamonds suddenly
instinct with life; his chest was expanded, and he breathed out lii's
words low, but in atone of intense exultation.—“ Camilla I have com
pleted my task—would that to these papers I dared append my name!
but they shall go forth to the world. Oppressed people claim your
rights! slaves, shake off your fetters! tyrants, tremble!” The poor
ivife took liis hand, and kissed his damp forehead. His enthusiasm,
at one period, she had shared; but now' it was the cause of all her
soiiow. “Walter, she said, drawing him quietly away from his desk,
since you have finished your paper, I hope you will write no more
o-mght. Now talk to me calmly; tell me, even if vour new pamphlet
meet great success, what will it do for you ?” “ Not much for me,
�New Novels.
81
Camilla, but I trust it will benefit the world, it may assist in opening
the eyes of the degraded masses. The crisis of a national regeneration
has arrived in France, and I hope a similar glory is beginning to dawn
over this country.” “ A day of anarchy—a day of rebellion—a day of
blood !” “ Camilla ?” “ Forgive me, dear Walter; you know my heart;
I am only anxious that you should not by any act, though justified
by your own conscience, endanger your safety. Religion lias had its
martyrs, but surely no one is called on to sacrifice himself for that
which relates only to the affairs of this perishing world.” “ Camilla,”
said the revolutionist, with deep solemnity in his manner, “you do
not attach sufficient importance to this question ; it is whether the
majority of mankind shall still move through life in degradation,
wronged, insulted, and tyrannized over by the few; or whether they
shall assume their natural rights, as men springing originally from one
stock;—whether the immortal soul of one being shall not be con
sidered of as much value as the immortal soul of another, and emerging
from the darkness of accumulated ages, enjoy the light of moral as
well as physical freedom: one vast family bound together by an har
monious feeling of equal privileges, equal rank, and looking to God
only as a Sovereign Lord of all.—A Martyr ?—persecuted for advocating
such an order of things?—Oh! Camilla, gladly would I mount the
scaffold, and pour out my blood, if my poor single life might but one
step advance this glorious cause !”’
In this style is much of the novel written. It is earnest, elo
quent, accurate in description of life, and generally correct in
sentiment.
We have reserved a few lines to notice the republication of
two of Mr. Disraeli’s romances, ‘ Contarini Fleming ’ and
‘ Alroy.’ They are given to the New Generation, and will, we
are certain, be accepted in the spirit in which they are offered.
We owe very much to the author of ‘ Coningsby ’ and ‘ Sybil.’
His eloquence has moved the heart of a nation, and planted the
standard of Ancient Faith and Ancient Loyalty in many a desert
place. He has appealed to a New Generation : let there be no
feeble answer, and we have full confidence in the issue. These
two beautiful tales will be read now with renewed interest; they
are poetically eloquent, and full of Mr. Disraeli’s bold, generous
.
*
enthusiasm
* We have been requested to notice a criticism on ‘ Coningsby,’ which appeared
some little time ago in the columns of the ‘ Morning Post.’ The respectability of that
able journal will always command attention for any thing which it may publish ; and
had not Mr. Disraeli himself so triumphantly replied to his assailants, we intended to
have attempted his defence. Even now, should these attacks be repeated, as they
have been indirectly in the pages of a Magazine of last month, we may investigate the
charge, and deal with it as it merits.
VOL. II.
�82
The Corn Laws and the Aristocracy.
Art. VII.—Lord John Russell's Letter to the Electors of the
City of London. London, 1845.
Let us not deceive ourselves : the country is in a great crisis :
not one of those agreeably agitating conjunctures, when red
tape officials tremble for their places, and the waiters upon Pro
vidence are in doubt whither to direct their interested devotions:
but a crisis that may decide not only the future industrial policy
of England, but the fate of its peerage, and form of its constitution.
We cannot, entertaining such a conviction, shrink from record
ing our judgment, and offering our advice to those, whose con
duct mainly interests us at present—the territorial aristocracy of
the country. With pseudo-Conservative statesmen, Free-trade
orators, Whig converts, wre have now nothing to do; but for the
course pursued by the natural leaders of the people that it
should be worthy of them, and equal to this grave emergency,
we are painfully anxious. Solemn deliberation, to be followed
it may be by bold and energetic action, is their first and para
mount duty. Nothing, we know, is easier, nothing more grate
ful in some ways, to the feelings of high-couraged men, than on
such an occasion as this to stop ears and eyes, and shouting
‘ No surrender,’ rush blindly on to victory—or defeat. Such a
course exacts but little painful thought, demands no anxious
deliberation; would that it were sanctioned by true honour,
wisdom, or patriotism ! But no, we call upon the aristocracy
to resist the temptation, and to apply all their energies to the
solution of the terrible problem submitted to them. To under
stand it fully, to unravel all its perplexities, to fathom all its
depths, to meet all its dangers, to discharge all its duties, to do
all this may well seem beyond mortal capacity; and yet unless
the effort at any rate is made, we see no peace for the present,
no hope for the future. Let us then stand excused if we give
what help we can to a right appreciation of the crisis. To
understand clearly the present, and to master the future, we
must refer to the past.
In 1841 the country was divided into three great parties: the
then government, who, favourable to free trade, yet not alto
gether hostile to protection, proposed to the country a fixed
duty of eight shillings; the Protection Party, who, under the
guidance of Sir Robert Peel, the Duke of Wellington, and
Lord Stanley, combated alike the fixed duty of the Whigs, and
the total repeal of the Free-traders; the pure Free-traders, then
a compact body, indeed, but of no influence in the' country at
large. At the election which followed the announcement of the
Whig budget, there was no doubt, no hesitation in the protec
tion ranks : the younger men of the Tory party who aspired to
�The Corn Laws and the Aristocracy.
83
public life, received with implicit faith the statements and deduc
tions of the great Protection leaders, and so did the vast
majority of the constituencies; a fixed duty of eight shillings
was regarded as tantamount to the return of one-half of the
English soil to barrenness, and the ruin of one-half of her rural
population. Where is the intelligent farmer now who would
not gladly accept the offer he then rejected, or who still believes
it would inflict on the country the evils he then anticipated from
it? The fixed duty was rejected, and with a triumphant ma
jority of 100, Sir Robert Peel came into office. That was the
first act of the drama. The second opened with the introduc
tion of the new Corn Law and Tariff,- great doubts were enter
tained whether those measures were in accordance with the
policy indicated, and the promises made or implied at the elec
tion of 1841 ; but, in spite of recent events, in spite of all the
obloquy and abuse now showered upon their author, we feel a
pleasure in giving a retrospective approval of those measures,
which met with the support, we believe unanimous, of the New
Generation. In the discussions, however, that arose on those
questions, and subsequently, it was impossible not to remark a
growing divergence of language and opinions between the
minister and that great section of his supporters to whom we
are now more immediately addressing ourselves ; and early in
1843 Sir James Graham announced that as to the abstract prin
ciples of free trade there was no difference of opinion between
him and the economists. It became also evident that as the
probabilities of a fixed duty compromise decreased, so did the
ranks of the repealers swell; while we are not aware of any
instance of an admirer of a fixed duty, in despair of obtaining
that, transferring his support to the sliding-scale. The eloquence,
energy, and success of the League were becoming more appa
rent day after day, and contrasted strikingly with the feeble
utterance, languor, and want of unity and confidence of its
chief opponents. The debates on the Canada Corn Bill showed
on which side was, at any rate, determination. Many Protec
tion opponents of that measure, rather than incur the risk of
turning it and the ministry out together, by a junction with the
Whigs, refused to vote, and the obnoxious Bill was carried by a
majority of 100. Here then ended the second act; the New
Corn Lawr, the Tariff, the Canadian Corn Law, were passed ;
the League was in full and energetic operation; Lord Spencer
and a few other practical farmers had declared they did not fear
the effect of a free trade in corn ; the chiefs of the'Government,
Sir Robert Peel, Sir James Graham, Mr. Gladstone, had pro
claimed their theoretic adherence to the philosophy of "the
League; and hesitation and irritability, that knew not where or
how to strike, marked the bearing of the pure Protection Party.
g 2
�84
The Corn Laws and the Aristocracy.
We now come to the third and (for the present) last act.
Alarmed at the conduct and progress of the League, startled at
the language and demeanour of the ministry, the country party,
headed by the sturdy yeomanry of Essex, at last organized
itself, and set about to stem the advancing flood. By meetin cs
and pamphlets, by speeches and tracts, the onward march of
the League was attempted to be stayed. We say attempted,
because we think it is now evident, that while the Protection
Society afforded a rallying point to the disbanding soldiers of
the ministerial army, and revived a more hopeful and energetic
spirit in the counties, and published many able and well-reasoned
works, still it failed to regain any of the lost ground, or even
materially to retard the enemy’s march. Above all, it made no
converts ; and all experience tells us, that a cause which, fiercely
attacked, makes no converts, will fail in the long-run to hold its
own. 1 kings then were in this state when the rumour of a pos
sible famine, most wickedly and maliciously exaggerated we
admit, decided the wavering adherents of the rejected fixed duty,
and they passed over with hardly an exception to the Free-trade
ranks, thus rendering, according to an opinion of Sir Robert
Peel, formed, we have reason to think, soon after his accession
to office, the maintenance of the Corn Laws impossible, and
causing, after a short delay, the resignation of the once power
ful Conservative administration.
We have thus briefly sketched the preceding events ; and what
light, let us proceed to inquire, do they throw on the present
crisis ? What course do they indicate as the right one for the
aristocracy to pursue ? The first impression we derive from thus
reviewing the progress of the Corn Law question since 1841 is__
that, whether owing to a misplaced confidence in the Government,
or an equally misplaced want of confidence in themselves, the great
agricultural party took no steps to meet the great and growing
danger that was threatening them, until it had assumed a mag”
nitude and power that rendered a protracted and fearful struggle
certain, an ultimate conquest over it, to say the least, doubtful.
And when the counter agitation was commenced, and the en
listment of the sympathies and support of the working classes
throughout the country became as desirable as it was practicable,
a selfish fear paralyzed the leaders of the agriculturists, and the
Ten-hours’ Bill was rejected to maintain the Corn Laws. Short
sighted and wretched policy 1 The Ten-hours’ Bill granted to
the operatives of the North by the agriculturists of England,
would have encircled the laws protective of English industry
with a support and defence far more potent than that of minis
ters or societies—the affections of a long-endurin«’ and grateful
people.
But that golden opportunity was allowed to slip by : the word
�The Corn Laics and the Aristocracy.
85
of Peel prevailed more with the gentlemen of England than the
prayers of their lowly fellow-countrymen, and now we read of
the Preston operatives unanimously asking for a repeal of the
Corn Laws, while the ‘ Morning Post,’ the only journal that
with equal ability and consistency has advocated a highly pro
tective policy, feels it right to assert that the present system of
protection to agriculture is defective and inefficient, and must, in
order to its just maintenance, be enlarged so as to cover the
whole surface of English industry : such, too, is the opinion of
many wise and patriotic men of eminence in our periodical lite
rature. Is there, however, among the Protection Party generally,
any desire thus to carry out their grand principle, or does the
cry of ‘ Protection to English Industry ’ mean, in nine cases
out of ten, anything more than a retention of the present slid
ing-scale? And is not, therefore, the enterprize to maintain the
Corn Laws an attempt to keep one portion, great and important
no doubt, but still one portion, of an otherwise abandoned sys
tem, and that portion the one which, from the necessity of the case,
is most exposed to the exciting abuse of demagogues, and the
unreasoning enmity of mobs? No one could, or did complain,
of the protection afforded to the cork-cutters of London, or the
straw-plait makers of Hertford; a cry of ‘ cheap corks from
Spain,’ or ‘cheap bonnets from Tuscany,’ would never have
aroused the passions or excited the hopes of any class of Eng
lishmen — and yet, hardly with a struggle, their protection was
destroyed ; so likewise it fared with neaily ail the other products
of English industry, until the industry of agriculture remains well
nigh the only one of English industries that is adequately protected
against foreign competition. We do not say that this is wrong,
or even practically unjust: but we assert that the fact being
so, places the Corn Laws on an eminence, as it were, by them
selves, exposed to the darts of an infuriated enemy, and un
guarded and undefended by the other numerous smaller protective
duties that heretofore were auxiliary to them. This, we think, is
a very important consideration, and one that should not be lost
sight of by the leaders of the aristocracy at this crisis. If the
Dukes of Richmond and Buckingham, and those energetic men
among the farmers by whom they are supported, intend determinately to carry on the struggle, we must submit to them that
they should widen the base of the Protection Society, so as to
comprise the hand-loom weavers of Lancashire, the framework
knitters of the midland counties, and all who live by English
industry, in one great national league, such as at this moment
is omnipotent without organization in France. But are they
sure that now those various trades wish for a return of that pro
tection which they were at the time unwilling to lose ? If they
do, if they know, from bitter experience, that owing to the want
�The Corn Laws and the Aristocracy.
of that protection which they have lost, the foreigner is earning
the wages that might have been theirs, then such an attempt
will not only be right, but successful; and ‘ Protection to English
Industry will be a cry as animating and powerful in the cellars
of Stockport and Bolton, of Nottingham and Leicester, as it is
in the fens of Cambridgeshire, or tlie corn-fields of Essex. If
however, the reverse is the fact, and the thousands who live by
the other branches of English industry cannot be won back
again to the standard of protection, then let our leaders carefully
review our present position, reckon their forces, count up the
certain cost of the struggle, and estimate its probable result.
Noi let them be deterred from doing this theirduty by the charge
of cowardice, or the taunt of indecision. It is one thing for a
garrison, ably officered, well provisioned, and plentifully sup
plied with all the munitions and resources of war, to surrender
at the first hostile summons; and altogether another, for that
garrison, deserted by its officers, with crippled means, and un
dermined walls, to enter into terms, and effect an honourable
capitulation, lhe conduct we might blamelessly and wisely
pursue in 1841, may now be far from wise and right. Let us
then enter upon this part of our task. We see a law which has
worked fairly, which admits foreign corn to supply the deficiency
of. the home pioduce, before the price reaches an oppressive
height, which gives, according to his belief at any rate, a secu
rity to the English farmer that his capital shall not be sacrificed,
and promotes the extended cultivation of the English soil, at
tacked with a vigour, pertinacity, and an eloquence, as extraor
dinary as they seem to us uncalled for. We see the ranks of
the opponents of that law increasing every day in number and
influence; prime ministers, past, present, and to come, either
openly joining that array, or desisting from opposing it; we hear
oi many conveits to, of none, as we said before, from its ranks;
and we behold an organized agitation at work throughout the
length and breadth of the land to carry out its object, fraught
with the gravest moral evils to the peace and stability of the
empire. That is the picture on one side of the shield. Reverse
it; what do we behold? Confidence? Unity of thought and
action ? A well-founded hope of an ultimate and lasting triumph
to be followed by internal repose and harmony restored ? Alas !
none of these ; but angry recriminations, just suspicions, the led
mistrusting their leaders, the leaders deserting their followers,
while no one ventures to say what no one is foolish enough to
think, that permanent victory and tranquillity can result from
a further protraction of the contest.
What, under other circumstances, had another line of con
duct been pursued by the late government, or by the great
country-party since 1841, might have been our present position,
�The Corn Laws and the Aristocracy.
87
it is now useless to inquire; but for England’s sake let us not
visit the faults of those who might have trusted us more fairly,
or led us more wisely, on her, and on ourselves. We ask the
leaders of the aristocracy, have we truly stated the present as
pect of affairs ? Have we over-estimated the strength of the Free
traders, underrated that of Protection ? If we have, well : if we
have not, can they hope, without some great change in their
battle such as we have alluded to, some great alteration in their
method of warfare, to fight the fight to a successful issue? And
are they prepared to adopt that change, and plunge the yeo
manry of England into that career of ceaseless agitation, and
turmoil, and war, without which the struggle cannot be main
tained, and with which, as the Duke of Richmond truly said,
must come a total revolution of all those habits, thoughts, ac
tions, occupations, which have hitherto given to the English
farmer so happy and so deserved a reputation. Every squire
must become a platform-orator, every yeoman an itinerant lec
turer, the country tradesman must desert his counter, the tenantfarmer leave his fields, to carry the war of words, and, if neces
sary, of acts into the enemy’s nearest camp. The country must
be turned into one universal battle-field, and all those gentle vir
tues, and modest graces, that still we love to think linger among
the green fields and pleasant valleys of rural England, must be
bid depart, never perhaps to return. Henceforward this fight
must be
‘ No delicate and dainty trouble ;
A ruffle in a ewer of milk of roses,
Made by a nobles finger,’
but a stern, unsparing, uncompromising death-struggle, in which
the land shall teach manufacture to know its master, or manu
facture triumph over the land.
We do not say, that under such circumstances the struggle
may not be fearfully prolonged, may not even ultimately end
in the triumph of the land; but what must the cost and what
the effects of such a triumph be ? A protracted moral, if not
physical, civil war, during which all confidence must be de
stroyed, the land relapsing into bad cultivation, or absolute
barrenness, trade and agriculture both paralyzed, and each re
acting unfavourably on the other, panics only not said to be
ever recurring because in truth they would never intermit, and
all the benefit the Corn Laws were intended to procure, steadi
ness of price, and security, absolutely lost, thus realizing the
old moralist’s definition of folly, ‘ propter vitam vivendi perdere
causas.’ At this cost must the triumph, if at all, be won—
and the effects of it?................
Doubtlessly these considerations must have presented them-
�The Corn Laws ancl the Aristocracy.
selves to those who take the lead at the Central Protection
Society; but we speak to the whole country-party; we would
uige on each noble in his castle, each squire in his old hall
each yeoman m his farm-house, to ponder on them well, and
then resolve boldly. It may be right, it may be for the eventual
prosperity and g'lory of England, that all these dangers should
be oraved, and ‘ No Surrender ’ be the cry: but let that deci
sion at any rate be formed only after earnest deliberation, and
on grounds very different from “those upon which Mr. Ellman
held up Mr. Sidney Herbert to the farmers of Sussex as their
rutui e leader, and the Yeovil Protection Society promised the
men of Somersetshire the i clarum et venerabile nomen ’ of the
hei o of "Waterloo to lead them on to victory.
Let us now, having thus shortly sketched the past history of
this conflict, and adverted to the means by which alone, accord
ing to oui view, it can be hopefully carried on by the country
party, ana the probable cost of its prosecution, place in con
clusion before our readers the courses it is open for that still
powerful though partially broken party to pursue.
First, they may abandon at once and altogether the struggle,
and adopting frankly and boldly their new position, with all its
dangers, auties and responsibilities, offer the Corn Laws as a
peace-offering to the genius of their country, and thus prove
to the world alike, the disinterestedness of their past resistance,
and the magnanimity and courage of their present assent.
Ihis couise, we believe, has found recommenders at protection
heaa-quaiteis, ana has the merit of settling the question for
evei. It is either a bold and wise resolve, or a cowardly and
stupid concession.
Believing, as we do with the late Lord
'■pencei, with Lord Lyttelton, with Judge Coleridge, and
Dr. Chalmers, that the land of England would not cease to be
piofitably cultivated, although individual cases of distress and
hardship mignt. occur, were the Corn Laws to be repealed—we
shall not upbraid the leaders of the country-party with treason
or cowardice, if they adopt this course. Great dangers require
great ventures, and the moral effect of the gentlemen of England
coming forward, and doing of themselves what neither Russell,
nor Peel, nor Cobden could do without them, could not fail
to be immense and salutary. But this step, if taken, must be
taken with unblanched cheek and gallant bearing. It is the
oiave venture of men who, uncompelled, for their country’s sake,
leap, Curtius-like, into the gulf: there must be no murmuring,
no complaining, no voting against the first reading of a bill,
staying away on the second, and voting for the third : no un
necessary abuse of others, no petulant attempts to render the
sacrifice, if it be one, as little gracious as may be. If carried
out in this magnanimous spirit, the aristocracy and gentlemen
�The Corn Laws and the Aristocracy.
89
of England rnay rely on their resolve being appreciated by the
people. No doubt the fatal concessions of the French aristo
cracy will be urged in bar of such a line of conduct, and the
day that witnesses it will be designated i the day of dupes; ’
but are the cases really parallel ? Are the Corn Laws truly part
and parcel of the venerable remains of the old English consti
tution that have survived the rebellion, the restoration, and the
pious revolution? Or are they not rather what Mr. Disraeli,
we think, once called them, ‘ an accident/ beneficial and wise
at one time, the reverse at another; and to identify the exist
ence or even the splendour of the English aristocracy with the
Corn Laws is as insulting to that order as it is in fact untrue.
Count Carli, the famous Italian political economist, in reviewing
the many changes which, even up to his time, had taken place
in English Corn Laws, awarded the meed of his approbation
to every change that had occurred, asserting that whether the
English government encouraged foreign importation or pro
hibited it, wisdom had ever directed the choice. To suppose,
then, that under all circumstances a highly protective policy is
the right policy, is to fall into almost as great a mistake as
lunatics of the League have on their side fallen into. Of course
this does not prove that now it would be wise to abolish all pro
tection ; but we submit it does justify the aristocracy in recon
sidering, impartially and without fear, the question of the Corn
Laws, and even incurring some risks, to restore social order and
harmony to their distracted country. Let them, at any rate,
believe that these few sentences come from no enemy of their
order, nor from one who is indifferent to the welfare of their
rural dependents.
The second course that the agriculturists may take, is that
which a year ago Lord Grey, with all his impressive eloquence,
urged upon them—a low fixed duty compromise. Then it was
feasible ; is it so now ? Probably there are still some among
the Free-trade Conservatives and Whigs who, alarmed at the lan
guage of the League orators, and pained at the further continu
ance of the contest, would gladly meet the Protection Society on
the neutral ground of a 5s. fixed duty, and so terminate peace
ably this conflict: but we cannot cherish a hope that they would
be found many or influential; nor is there any reason to expect
that the League would now desist from their enterprize for such
an arrangement. It is the old story over again—claims en
tirely rejected until they are entirely conceded: and such we
believe to be a very general belief among the farmers; they see
that such a compromise would afford no security to them, and
would not satisfy the demands of their opponents; and, there
fore, though over many a market table during the last month a
sigh has been breathed for the rejected fixed duty of 1841, few
�90
Tlie Corn Laws and the Aristocracy.
aspirations have been uttered for another of 1846. Speaking,
however, without reference to the chances of success, we will
say that could a fixed duty of 5s. be maintained for ten or even
five years longer, the perils attending a repeal of the Corn Laws
would be greatly diminished, and the agricultural classes gene
rally would be enabled to see their way through the mists of
doubt and panic that now oppress them, to an intelligent and
successful adaptation of their resources to their new position:
while the march of agricultural improvement would be hastened
rather than impeded by the anticipated change. But for the
reasons above stated, we cannot think that this course is to be
adopted with any success, and therefore dismiss the considera
tion of it to arrive at the remaining alternative, which enlists
many of our sympathies and some little of our reason on its
side, and is the obvious one for the country party, without deli
beration, to adopt.
Should the aristocracy call upon the yeomanry and the rural
population at large to maintain at all risks, and through all pos
sible convulsions, the present Corn Laws, and govern the country
on that basis ? For this we apprehend to be the true statement
of this alternative. A simply obstructive maintenance of the
Corn Laws is no longer possible: it must be active, adminis
trative. To turn one administration out after another, and not
to find an efficient substitute for it, is not patriotism, but faction;
inviting the attacks of foreign foes, and fostering the machina
tions of insincere allies. If Sir Robert Peel’s government pro
poses such an alteration in the Corn Laws as necessitates, ac
cording to the convictions of the country party, the overthrow
by them of that administration, they must be prepared to step
into the vacant seat of the stricken Phaeton, and conduct the
car of government through all the dangers and obstacles of the
way. An obstructive policy, we beg Lord Stanley’s pardon for
reminding him of it, seldom benefits the country, nor redounds
to the credit of those who pursue it, under any the most favour
able circumstances. But applied to such a question as the Corn
Laws, it is little short of insanity; and whatever truth there
might be in the Duke of Richmond’s famous boast, ‘As we have
made this government, so can we unmake it,’ we are too secure
of that nobleman’s patriotism to fear he would act upon it, ex
cept under the above condition.
We have already pointed to some of the disasters which we
deem well nigh inevitable from a further protraction of the con
test ; let us now for a few moments consider the prospects of an
administration pledged to maintain the present protection. To
talk of it as some journalists and mob orators have done, as a
Tyrrell-Sibthorp cabinet, is a vulgar stupidity. Such an admi
nistration, powerful from the position, habits of business, and ta
�The Corn Laws and the Aristocracy.
91
lents of its members, might, we well know, be formed to-morrow :
the names of Richmond, Buckingham, Colquhoun, Shaw, Maclean, O’Brien, Malmesbury, Barrington, G. Bentinck, occur to
us as we are writing, and by themselves are sufficient to prove
our assertion. Nor is it to be doubted that they would, if vio
lently assailed, be also enthusiastically supported ; many mis
takes, many short-comings would be overlooked in them, which
in ‘ Sir Robert,’ (who enjoys in the counties the favour and re
putation which Sir Robert Walpole did during the last year of his
rule,) would be freely commented upon ; and as the public gene
rally would not anticipate any marvels of statecraft from them,thev
would be spared the mortification and peril of not realizing un
reasonable hopes, while the different departments of ordinary
administration would be well and popularly conducted. Sir Ro
bert Peel and his immediate followers would, it is evident, be
debarred from opposing such a government save on the question
of the Corn Laws, and perhaps one or two other less important
matters. That is the most favourable view that can in reason
be taken of a Protection government: the perils that would sur
round it are manifest, and may well make even Lord George Ben
tinck, whom we regard as the most daring, and perhaps the
ablest, of the personages we have mentioned, pause yet longer
than did Lord John Russell, before he ventured upon so tem
pestuous a sea.
But short of this consummation, we repeat, opposition to Free
trade cannot stop, if intended bona fide. Mr. Christopher, nor
Mr. Miles, can never again look to Sir Robert Peel or Sir
James Graham to reply to Mr. Villiers or Mr. Cobden. They
must trust to the independent country party alone for arguments
and for votes. The whole personnel of the present Government is
severed for ever from them: let us understand what this loss is:
Sir Robert Peel, Sir James Graham, Mr. Sidney Herbert, Mr.
Gladstone, Lord Lincoln, Mr. Cardwell, in the House of
Commons; of the House of Lords we need not speak, as it is
clear the battle will be chiefly if not altogether in the Lower
House. All those, so far as we know, without an exception, who
have been trained up in Sir Robert Peel’s government, are now,
whatever they were five years ago, friendly to free trade; and
hence the grossness of the delusion which would animate the
farmers to the struggle by promising them effective support
from the Sidney Herbert section of the government. No! if
they are determined to
‘ Stand back to back in God’s name, and fight it to the last,’
they must trust to no present statesman’s aid, whatever may be
the case hereafter. Their own energy, their own courage, their
own eloquence, their own statesmanship, must conduct them
through the storm; and if all these should fail, after a few years,
�92
The Corn Laws and the Aristocracy.
to win for them the victory, a recollection of the odds that were
against them, and a consciousness of having done their duty
according to their convictions, may console them in defeat. But
once again must we implore their leaders to review with all im
partiality and care the certain concomitants and probable results
of adopting this last alternative.
We have thus, to the best of our ability, and with an honest en
deavour to represent faithfully the political prospects with which
the agricultural newyear opens, presumed to offer these remarks to
the consideration of the agricultural leaders. If they seem to be
written in too desponding a spirit, and to recommend too yielding
a line of conduct, it is because, on the one hand, we are oppressed
by the saddest forebodings of the evil results that must follow
the impending internecine contest; and on the other, have too
great a confidence in English energy, English skill, English soil,
and English climate, to look with equal dread at a competition
with foreign farmers. We see little to be gained by a repeal of the
Corn Laws, we see much to be hazarded by their retention • and
under this impression, as junior officers at a council of war, we
have ventured to speak our opinion, in no spirit of presumption,
or fancied superior clearness of view beyond our elders and bet
ters, but with an anxious desire of uniting once more the rapidly
dissolving elements ol English society, and combining in one
league of loyalty and love under our youthful Queen, the peer
and the millowner, the peasant and the manufacturing operative.
Should our attempt fail, as we fear it will, and this country—that
might be so powerful in its internal concord, and must be so
weak in its divisions—be separated into two hostile factions;—
should i Delenda est Carthago,’ be the cry from one camp, an
swered by ‘No surrender,’ from the other, then we trust, that
all those who think with us that now by a bold wisdom on the
part of the aristocracy the country may be spared the miseries of
that strife, will then, their counsel having been rejected, and
their generals determined upon war, share with them the dan
gers of this campaign, and fight with a good courage, though,
like ‘blameless Falkland,’ with a dejected spirit and a troubled
mind. If there be differences of opinion at the council, let
there be none in the action. It is to aid those deliberations
that these pages are written; not to throw difficulties in the
way of their accomplishment.
But, ‘ the time flies fast on:
let us resolve either for peace or war; and let it not be said of
us in future days, that six thousand Scottish men in arms had
neither the courage to stand their ground and fight it out, nor
prudence to treat for peace, nor even the coward’s wisdom to
retreat in good time and safety.’ *
Old Mortality»
�Eastern Europe and the Emperor Nicholas.
93
SHORT REVIEWS
OF RECENT PUBLICATIONS.
Eastern Europe and the Emperor Nicholas. By the Author of ‘ Reve
lations of Russia; ’ ‘ The White Slave. ’ London, 1846. Newby.
We are enabled to state, on what we consider unquestionable authority,
that Mr. Smythe is not the author of this book. It might not be
difficult, were we so disposed, to name the writer; indeed we are much
mistaken if in his first work—the ‘ Revelations of Russia ’—he has not,
inadvertently, given the well-informed a clue whereby to detect him.
However, we are content to deal with him in his present very pruden
tial mystery; and- it is, we opine, as much for his publisher’s interest
as his own that the cloak should not be removed. Be he then a Travel
ling Physician, or the correspondent of a Morning Journal, we will
not seek to penetrate his becoming concealment.
But we must firmly insist that such a book as this should not be
given to the world anonymously. It contains grave statements, and,
as they appear to us, over-bold assertions, imperatively requiring the
writer’s name as a guarantee of their truth. There can be no legiti
mate excuse for longer withholding from the public this information;
and an anonymous re-assertion in the columns of a newspaper (which
looks very like a gratuitous and clever advertisement) is, we submit,
poor evidence of veracity.
The ‘ Revelations ’ was apparently a first effort of authorship, and
there might be good reasons why the writer’s name should be for a
time concealed; his next production being a novel, did not as such
require to be vouched by its parent; but when he follows up these
successful publications by another serious work on Russia, in -which he
relates what he alleges to be facts, and indirectly promises a few more
tomes dedicated to the same subject, then does it become necessary to
demand some better security than the name of a fashionable publisher,
an unbridled tongue, or a letter to the Times.
As it is, we must place these volumes in the same niche with the
“ Memoirs of Lady Hester Stanhope,” and similar unscrupulous books ;
they must be read as libels until their accuracy is made manifest.
The personal acrimony, the evident exaggeration, the high colouring,
all lead to this conclusion: and the writer can only escape the attend
ant censure by avowing his authority, and thereby substantiating ex
traordinary statements. He is at present doing injustice to himself,
and dealing most unfairly with his readers ; and this avowal is the
more necessary, as his vehemence of language and bitterness of hate
are calculated, not unnaturally, to create a suspicion of his honesty.
We need not say we are no advocates of despotism. We are no ad
mirers of the Russian government or institutions ; we only desire fair
play. What we so earnestly protest against—and it is this that mili
tates against the whole book—is the personal and vindictive attack on
�94
A Pilgrim s Reliquary.
tlie Emperor. He is always dragged forward for severest censure : the
cruelties of a savage and licentious soldiery, the very usages of the
country, are all charged against him with most persevering and inces
sant industry. And this virulence and rancorous enmity is so con
stantly and intensely manifested in almost every page, that it prejudices
the mind against much which would otherwise be deeply interesting.
The talent displayed in all these works—which led many of our con
temporaries to attribute their authorship to the honourable member for
Canterbury—furnishes only another argument against them. It is the
ability of the writer which makes it necessary for us thus emphatically
to protest against very many of his sentiments.
The second volume is principally occupied with some account of the
literature of Eastern Europe, and will well repay an attentive perusal.
The style of this writer is earnest, popular, and eloquent.
A Pilgrim's Reliquary.
London, 1845.
Pickering.
Since Eothen we have not read a more charming book ; and it has an
advantage over that celebrated work—the sentiment is as correct as the
language is elegant. We can only make room for one short extract,
and select the following description of Lavater :—
‘ His face is pale and penetrating, like Sterne’s monk, but not mild ; keen
and eager attention and observation hurry about his thin lips, and in his
eyes, which search you to the soul, and are yet tempered with so much
benevolence, that you are not afraid of their fire. Every motion, every look,
every gesture, and almost every word, marks enthusiasm engendered by
glowing fancy, active knowledge, and exquisite sensibility.
Intense
thought has forestalled time in furrowing his cheeks, and the fervours of an
ardent imagination, continually kindled by new and deep researches, seem
to have consumed his flesh, and burned up his colour to ashes. His man
ners are at once open, vivacious, and simple, with the information of a firstrate understanding, and the captivating cordiality of a warm and good
heart, disdainful of little forms, but from right feeling never neglecting
those more essential points that win your confidence and respect. You will
not laugh at me for Being earnest to hear this extraordinary genius preach,
though wholly ignorant of the German language. Do the voice, the air, the
eyes, the gestures, of such a man say nothing '? yes ! they speak always in
the most forcible, and often in the most intelligible language. Mr. Lavater
was born an orator—he seems to move the passions at his pleasure. His tones
are finely varied according to his feelings, and when turned to the pathetic
are irresistible. His action is equally animated and graceful ; so far from
being affected and studied, to set off his own eloquence, and work upon the
feelings of others, it apparently proceeds from the impulse of the moment,
and his natural fire and sensibility. As he preached without notes, his hands
were at full liberty ; he used them just enough and no more, without flourish
of false pathos, or one wild gesture of flaming enthusiasm. How did I re
gret that I could not comprehend his words ; But I have been well informed
that his style is what I suppose it, eloquent, energetic, and full of fire. In
short, of ail the preachers 1 ever saw in the pulpit, he came the nearest in
my idea of apostolic dignity and inspiration. He has been a voluminous
writer, but his favourite, most extraordinary, and most celebrated work',
is that on physiognomy, which he has reduced almost to a system.’
On some future occasion we hope to renew our acquaintance with
Mr. White, when our space may permit us to do him more justice.
�Rambles in the United States.
Poems and Pictures.
London, 1846.
95
Burns.
This splendid volume reflects great credit on its very spirited pub
lisher. It is a work which will outlive all the annuals ; for while it
rivals them in the beauty of its illustrations, the literary portion of the
pages is infinitely superior to any that we have yet seen. It is the
best presentation book of the season.
The O'Donoghue ; a Tale of Ireland, Fifty Years ago.
By Charles
Lever, Esq. Dublin, 1845. Wm. Curry and Co.
Mr. Lever has been called the Irish Dickens.
Let his friends
decide if this be a honourable distinction or no. The O'Donoghue is, as
we think, the best of Mr. Lever's novels : it is essentially Irish, full
of genuine humour, and the interest is well supported. The volume
is profusely adorned with illustrations, which, for the most part, well
embody the spirit of the text.
Rambles in the United States and Canada, during the year 1845, with
a Short Account of Oregon. By Rubio. London, 1845. S. Clarke.
The author of this volume is not a sweet-tempered individual. We
are no admirers of the Yankees; we will join heartily in a laugh at
their impudence, and are free to denounce their dishonesty wherever
it is made evident, but we are opposed to all vituperative and sweeping
accusation. ‘ Rubio ' is determined to rival Mrs. Trollope. He
speaks of Jonathan with a plainness and a freedom, which will, we
opine, be far from acceptable in that ‘ home of Liberty.' After doing
justice to the natural beauties of the country, and describing the feel
ings they are calculated to inspire in the spectator, he thus proceeds:—
‘ But, on the other hand, it is not so with the inhabitants ; the men inspire
us with very different feelings, from their vulgarity, hypocrisy, ignorance,
and dishonesty, together with their constant sordid and grovelling pursuit
of dollars and cents, and in obtaining which they do not appear to be par
ticularly successful, as there is scarcely a dollar to be seen in circulation
through the whole country.’
To say truth of this book, we must call it a very agreeable and
exceedingly amusing collection of exaggerations; not written down
from splenetic motives, but with the comparatively harmless desire of
affording enteitainment. We do not say this is right. We are however
ill-disposed seriously to quarrel in the present instance ; much of our
author's censure is well bestowed, well merited, and very well ex
pressed. There is much curious information, moreover, to be gathered
from these rambles, quite sufficient, indeed, to justify our cordially
recommending an attentive perusal. Amusement is often coupled with
instruction.
The account of Oregon deserves a more serious consideration than
we can at present bestow; it has the merit of being concise and explicit.
�96
Trials of the Heart.
Adventures in the Pacific. By John Coulter, M.D. Dublin, 1845.
W. Curry, Jun., and Co.
The islands of tlie Pacific, and the ‘ sufferings’ of Queen Pomare,
have obtained a transient notoriety. The crooked policy of the present
ruler of France, and the nasal eloquence of a few missionary poli
ticians, equally contributed to this miserable result. We can afford to
smile at the intrigues of the one, and denounce the impertinence of
the other.
This volume is the account of a four years’ voyage ; and combines
much valuable information with a series of romantic incidents not
unworthy of being related by De Foe.
Dr. Coulter possessed ample opportunities of observation, and he has
communicated what he saw in a pleasing and unassuming manner.
We have not space for quotation, and besides, it would be hardly fair
to cull from so short a book passages which should be read with the
entire narrative to be correctly understood or appreciated.
Trials of the Heart. By Mrs. Bray. Being the Sth volume of the
new and illustrated edition of her Novels and Romances. London,
1845. Longman and Co.
We confess that, whenever we can do so, we like to gain an insight
into the author’s mind in respect to the mode and manner of treating
his work. We like to be indulged with a view of his materials, his
first ideas, the hints he may have derived from casual circumstances ;
the sketches, as it were, from which he combines the subject of his
picture, and its progress till its ultimate finish be achieved. An in
sight of this nature can seldom, if ever, be obtained, unless an author
takes the trouble to leave us, or to give us, what is not the least interest
ing part of his personal history—that of his work. When he gives us
that, we seem to become in a great measure known to himself, we
seem to talk with him about his pursuits, to have our curiosity gratified,
and we enter with a higher degree of relish on his labours.
We have been led to offer these remarks by the gratification we have
derived in respect to every one of these novels and romances, from the
preface Mrs. Bray has prefixed to the first volume of her series,
wherein she gives much information of such a nature as we have
pointed out; it is indeed most desirable. Of the various tales which
compose the present work, Trials of the Heart, she says, ‘ These tales
were principally written with a view to develop the passions and feel
ings of the human heart, under some of the most trying circumstances
to which it can be subjected in the pilgrimage of this world. Many
real characters, incidents, and events of deep interest in themselves
were introduced, but so disguised by change of name, locality, and pe
riod, as to avoid giving offence to any one.’ Our authoress then pro
ceeds to state that the first of these tales, Prediction, was founded on
a circumstance related to her in her youth by a clergyman at Swansea,
in Wales. He stated that a friend of his at college, who was a visionary
young man, was weak enough to consult a very celebrated wizard during
his visit to Oxford, and received from his hand a prediction, which,
�Trials of tiie Heart.
97
some years after, was unhappily and literally fulfilled.
On her
recollection of the leading facts, more than twenty years after, Mrs.
Bray founded the story of Prediction ; yet not with a purpose to keep
alive the follies of astrology. Quite the reverse ; for she adds, in her
preface, ‘ I endeavoured to show in the course of that narrative how
a foolish attempt to penetrate beyond the veil with which an all
wise Providence has invested the future, by seeking information from
the cunning pretenders to forbidden arts, may be the means of bringing
about those very evils that have been predicted.’
The next, The Orphans of La Vendée, is, also, a beautiful tale.
The period chosen is that of the French Revolution. Some of the
heroic characters of the time, who played so distinguished a part
as royalists in the wars of the Bocage, are introduced ; but the main
interest of the story rests with two beings, orphans, brother and sister,
who, from infancy to their maturer years, have been all the world to
each other, and -whose affection, unchanged by suffering, trial, or sepa
ration, leads to those heart-moving events which we can only hint at,
as we must not forestall them with the reader. It appears this
tale had its origin in truth : Madame de la Rochejacquelin mentions
in her Memoirs an amiable but daring girl,' Jeanne Robin, of Courlay,
who joined the Vendean army, disguised as a soldier, and after dis
playing great heroism, perished nobly in the battle of Doué. This
girl, Mrs. Bray tells us, suggested to her the Jeanne of her story. She
is admirably drawn, and has been almost invariably selected by critics,
as one of the very best of Mrs. Bray’s female characters. Making
Jeanne, as our authoress has done, when young, to be deeply impressed
with the heroism of Joan of Arc, by reading her history, and act under
the influence of those enthusiastic impressions in the hour of hei’ be
loved brother’s danger, is finely conceived, and perfectly natural. We
think the scene where Jeanne reveals her early impressions and resolu
tions to the good curé and bids him farewell at night, as he lies con
cealed, to save his life from the pursuit of his enemies, in the wood,
one of the most touching and, ennobling, in relation to its sentiments
and feelings, we have ever read. The catastrophe of this story is
tragedy of the highest order of writing.
The next tale, The Little Doctor, has a double power to interest us ;
as Mrs. Bray tells us the characters therein introduced, such as the
little Doctor himself, his wife and family, were all the familiar friends
of her youth ; that the birth of the infant, described as taking place on
Christmas Day, narrates the very curious circumstances which she had
heard from her mother attended her own birth ; that the nurse Judy,
with all her eccentricities, her fidelity, and her superstitions, was Mrs.
Bray’s own nurse ; and with many other personages and events, the
most curious were actually drawn from real life. The tale of The Little
Doctor, though deeply pathetic, more especially at the close, is in the
early part replete with fancy and humour. The story is simple and
well told ; and the character of his elder daughter, Elizabeth, with her
beautiful face, her accomplishments, and her superior mind, who, in the
tale, refuses the man she loves, and by whom she is beloved, solely on
account of an over sensitiveness about the deformity of her person, is
very charmingly drawn. The affection, the tenderness, the mutual
VOL. II.
H
�98
Croesus, King of Lydia.
confidence, and the relative sense of protection on the one hand, and
duty on the other, subsisting between father and daughter, is also very
beautifully developed in the tale.
The next is Pwzssitudes. This is likewise founded on fact; and, in
its class, is as unique as Robinson Crusoe. The heroine, like Crusoe,
was also born at Hull, and the narration of her life is thrown into
the form of autobiography. It appears from the preface, that in
the Spring of 1835, a lady of great worth, then advanced in life, who
had been known to Mrs. Bray for many years, and who in her youth
had been very beautiful, related to our authoress (with permission to
avail herself of what was related in any way she pleased) the extraor
dinary vicissitudes of her past life. At one time she was honoured with
the notice of that amiable king of Sweden who afterwards fell by the
blow of an assassin ; she was caressed by many of his court. At a later
period, when a widow with three children, she was actually wanting
bread, whilst at the same time she was entitled to property of no small
value in Yorkshire, that had belonged to her deceased father, and which
had been sold after his death, in consequence of a false report having
reached England, that the vessel in which she had been exposed to a
storm had been seen to founder in the Cattegat, and all souls on board
to perish. Her subsequent efforts to support herself and her children
when in dire distress, her reliance on a good Providence to bless these
efforts, and their ultimate success, are all drawn with a truth and feel
ing that appeals to every heart, and cannot be too highly praised.
The Adopted is the last of these tales in Trials of the Heart. The
length, intricacy, and fulness of the story, render it impossible that we
should give even such a sketch of the facts on which it is founded
as we have already given respecting the others. This is also of the
time of the French Revolution ; and many of the characters of the day
are introduced with much effect. But the great interest on which the
story turns is domestic ; and of all Mrs. Bray’s tales of that class, whe
ther for character, incident, or description, The Adopted is one of her
best. It is such a tale as none but genius could conceive or exe
cute ; it is also of a highly moral tendency ; abundant in its reflections
on men and things, and displays all Mrs. Bray’s peculiar power in de
veloping the feelings of the human heart; it is indeed at once instruc
tive, delightful, and impressive.
Crcesus, King of Lydia; a Tragedy.
London, 1845.
Pickering.
In this age of Railroads, Church controversy, and burlesque, it becomes,
perhaps, a question to be asked, whether oi’ not a man should write
tragedies at all; or, if he give way to his inclination for so doing, whe
ther, at any rate, he can fairly expect to reap popularity, much less
profit and renown. If it were not that the merit, or rather demerit, of
modern works of imagination has lately appeared to suit itself to the
declining taste of the age, we might still be of the opinion of an ardent
German poet, who declares, in an exquisite little song, that the spirit
of poetry is and ever will be as strong in the world as ever. As it is,
we merely express a melancholy doubt on the subject. However, we
will, on this occasion at least, assume the propriety of dramatic author
�Croesus, King of Lydia.
99
ship, and proceed to notice the work before us, which is, indeed, of too
extraordinary, meritorious, and powerful a nature to be passed over in
silence.
e shall not stop to inquire if this be a tragedy formed on those
strict and severe principles which the classic muse is apt to claim for
her own. All we shall say on this point is, that we had rather some
tragedies of sterner construction resembled this, than that this should
be altered to suit the taste of those small but learned critics, who would
fain clip the wings of its daring originality. According to these gen
tlemen, it is so difficult a thing to execute a tragedy, that they con
demn it by anticipation ; and it often proves more arduous to struggle
against the petty universality of their knowledge, than it would be to shine
unextinguished through the ignorance of a semi-barbarous but less fas
tidious age. With these few remarks, let us at once proceed to our
task, in performing which we shall rather attempt to excite public at
tention by quotation from the work itself than by our own observations,
feeling confident that in this manner we shall best do justice to our
author ; and we shall reserve any adverse criticisms we may be inclined
to make till we have given some specimens of the talent and genius
we admire.
The plot, if plot it may be called, of this tragedy is simple enough.
Croesus, King of Lydia, had a son named Atys, who was all that his
father could desire. This young man, of whose death, by a point of
iron, Croesus was warned ineffectually in a vision, is slain, unwittingly,
by Adrastus, a fugitive prince, who had already, by accident, killed his
own brother, and had sought refuge at the court of Croesus, who puri
fied him from his crime, according to the rites of antiquity, and treated
him not only with hospitality but friendship. On the death of Atys,
Adrastus gives himself up to the enraged father, who, after a severe
mental struggle, magnanimously pardons him. But Adrastus, unwilling,
after so dreadful a calamity, to live, slays himself on the tomb of Atys ;
and Arienis, the beloved daughter of Croesus, between whom and
Adrastus there existed the most passionate regard, dies of grief. It
is then that Croesus, who, till now, had been vain-glorious, proud,
haughty, tyrannical, impatient, and selfish, humbled to the dust, feels
the vanity of human greatness, and, conscious of the overweening pride
and presumption of his conduct, acknowledges the justice of the gods.
These are the main incidents of the story, as taken from Herodotus.
The author has of course introduced some incidents and several cha
racters altogether fictitious ; these we shall not stay to point out, but
shall proceed to quote certain passages from the tragedy which, to us,
appeal- worthy of more particular notice. And first, the description of
Arienis, a most sweet feminine creation, from the mouth of Glaucus.
‘ Aye ! such a dream,
Endymion, in his longest, sweetest sleep
On Latmos’ top, where honeysuckles wav’d
Amid the silken tangles of his hair
Their spendthrift blossoms, and the green, cool turf
In the pale light with droplets ever wink’d
To the enamoured queen of that witch’d hour,
H 2
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Croesus, King of Lydia.
Smiling imagin’d never ! Such a face
Did ne’er make Paris heave a sobbing sigh,
As round him Heaven’s resplendent beauties all
Knitted their hands on Ida, by Love’s queen
Invited : her arch’d neck, her liquid eyes,
Like desert shy gazelle ; her virgin mien,
Eager, astonished, bold, and coy by turns :
Her glossy hair ; her fresh and coral lip,
Like sparkling sea-nymph’s, that on deep clear wave
By rocky islet sails, and, beck’ning, sings
A sweet monotony of charmed song,
Strange, old, and passionless. Her brow !
The shell-like convolutions of her ear,
Transparent, tiny portals to a heart
That never throbb’d to any lover’s plaint
Or selfish wiles—these ! these ! Her feet, too, prest
Upon the earth in pettish yet proud guise—
Iler swelling instep, rising softlier than
The lawny greens of Tmolus—her breast still
More undulating, snowy, feathery, fine,
Than dream of Cvtherea’s stately swans,
Waving beneath our half-closed lids at noon,
Warm’d by the kisses of a turquoise sky
From rapt Elysium stolen !—These !’—(Aci ii., /Stew 1.)
Again, in Act III. Scene V., lier cousin Lydis, speaking in answer
to the question, ‘ Is she anger’d gone ?’ says,—
‘ You know not Arienis ; anger she
Knows not ; but rather melancholy
Doth, rapt, sit by her side, soft-teaching her
The spells of patience and mild love of all.
The shyest creatures ever came to her,
The very birds her white hand hath set free
From prison home. Buoy’d on a limber twig,
Awhile they danc’d in small relief against
The cloudless summer sky ; but ere cold winds
Could make their little bodies tremble, they
Came back and sought her velvet hand again.’
In the second act we have the drunken Meles. The severity of the
ancient Greek drama would scarcely have permitted his catches and
drolleries, although nothing can be more admirably characteristic. The
author may, indeed, plead in his defence, the case of Hercules, in the
Alcestis, who enacts the votary of the jovial god with as genuine Bac
chanalian babble as any mortal or immortal whatever, when mortally
drunk. There is a fine soliloquy of Adrastus in this act, and also a
most spirited description of a review, and of the person of Croesus.
Perhaps the finest passage in the whole play is that in which Adras
tus, immediately preceding his death, says, ‘ Spirit of justice,
but we have not room for it.
The awaiting of Arienis to find her lover dead is striking. On find
ing Adrastus determined to die, she had fainted at the tomb of Atys,
and is found by her cousin and a band of Lydian girls, who visit the
tomb with flowers.
�Crees us, King of Lydia.
101
Arienis. 4 Who are ye, with frighten’d looks ?
lie will not do it ! Let me go, methought
Just now, his voice did call me to the tomb,
Less sad than ’t was before ; to pray with him
.
(Rushes to the tomb.)
What is that heap’d and ghastly form ? Whose blood
Bubbles to my numb feet 1—I dream not, see !
It is Adrastus, dead ! He would not live—
Why did’st thou tell me not, and then we might
Have died together ? now I linger but
A brief sad hour. Why hold the garlands, till
They grow to your wan fingers ? Strew around !
Ye have more need now. Strew around, I say !’
(Falls into the arms of Lydis.)
Tlie winding up, where the proud monarch is humbled by calamity
heaped upon calamity, is in harmonious keeping with the whole.
Croesus, after an ebullition of his accustomed haughtiness, is told of the
death of Adrastus, whom he had forgiven, and of his favourite
daughter Arienis. Then, under a sense of utter prostration, he gives
way ; and the play ends with the following beautiful lines.
Crasws.
4>Tis enough !
The wrath of Heaven, present, bends me low ;
Till my white hairs, escap’d from kingly crown,
Bo grovel in the dust. 0 pride ! 0 pomp !
Why are your silver voices dumb, that late
Did soothe my jealous ear ; but in your place
Steals a small cry from lowly roof, and chills
My conscience, telling me that all is just.
Rich, I forgot the poor—proud, thought the Gods
My equals ; grac’d with fortune, power, more
Than ever other mortal blest, I thought
It did become me. Selfish, opulent,
I gave not. Solon ! Solon ! Thou wast wise—
Saying, with accents calm, that greatness might
Desert the side of Croesus, leaving him
To link his arm with sorrow, pace by pace
Guiding his faltering footsteps to the tomb
He had forgotten.
4 Let all Sardis mourn,
That lov’d him well, the treble death that numbs
With stern reality my faded brow. Give alms,
That they may bless him dead and pray for me
Unwilling living. Hang out sable dumb
From darken’d windows. To my people sad
Proclaim two years of mourning. They will find
Fresh joys, their young hope wither’d ;—but I, I
Alone must weep for ever, hope no more—
Chamber’d with grief, death waiting at the door.”
{The curtain falls)
Before we conclude this notice we must give the Author our advice
to attend to two or three little points ; which, however trifling, are of
consequence, where success, particularly on the stage, is coveted. We
think him too redundant of figure; too exuberant of simile for a
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Bells and Pomegranates.
tragedy. We, also, think him, in parts (although, now they are
written, for their beauties, we would not alter them) too long and
Cato-like. We recommend, here and there, a more frequent use of the
article. The want of this gives sometimes a slight appearance of
mannerism. We are desirous too, although for once or twice it be
well, of seeing a tragedy of later date than the classical; which cannot
easily become popular with the million ;—albeit it may delight the
higher order of readers. We congratulate the author on the idea of
appearing illustrated. It is better than if he had made an attempt to
‘ soothe the jealous ears ’ of any of the managers of the present day.
Managers of all times, as Sir W. Scott remarked, are fonder of pressed
men than volunteers.
Bells and Pomegranates, No. VII. Dramatic Romances and Dyrics.
By Robert Browning. Loudon, 1845. Moxon.
We are much pleased with this number of Bells and Pomegranates;
Mr. Moxon has not favoured us with the six which have preceded it.
We wish every success to so cheap, and yet so good, a publication.
Mr. Browning has many faults which, were we disposed to be se
vere, might be mentioned with proper censure; but his beauties are
exceedingly more numerous, and on these we are better pleased to en
large. These short poems appear to us to happily combine many of
the characteristics of real poetry, and more especially its simplicity.
We give one extract, and very cordially recommend this, we suppose
we must call it a Serial, to our readers.
‘I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and He ;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all Three ;
“ Good speed !” cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew ;
“ Speed ! ” echoed the wall to us galloping through ;
Behind shut the postern, the light sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast.
4 Not a word to each other ; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride for stride, never changing our place ;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
4 Twas moonset at starting ; but while we drew near
Lockeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ;
At Duffeld, ’twas morning as plain as could be ;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,
So Joris broke silence with, “Yet there is time !”
‘ At Aeschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare thro’ the midst at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away
The haze as some bluff river headland its spray.’
�1945: a Vision.
1945: A Vision.
London, 1845.
103
Rivingtons.
We have heard many surmises respecting the parentage of this very
eloquent little book, but cannot pretend to decide whether the author
of ' Hawkstone,’ or a noble lady, scarcely less celebrated, is entitled to
the distinction; and be this as it may,—whether the writer is of Ox
ford, or a tenant of the drawing-room, matters little; this pamphlet,
tor it is nothing more, requires no distinguished name to recommend
it. It addresses itself to the heart and the better feelings ; is earnest
in its language ; Catholic in every sentiment. We would have it read
in every cottage in the land, for it speaks to the Peasantry in words of
unmistakeable import. The well-being of the poor, and the security
of the Church are identical.
The writer commences thus :—
‘ As I sat one summer evening in the solitude of my home, and gazed
upon the village church, a glorious relic of better times, thronging thoughts
came over me, and my mind went dreaming back into the days when holy
men reared the noble pile, and consecrated it to the glory of God, a monu
ment and a symbol of their piety. There it stood, in the centre of the vil
lage, with cottages clustering round it ; for the poor, whom Christ hath
called “ blessed, had been from time immemorial almost the only inhabit
ants ; and now the innocent voices of children in their play cheered my
spirit. It was a sweet scene, but something there was wanting to its per
fect harmony. In other days at this vesper hour, the doors of the sacred
building would have been open wide, and desolate and weary hearts might
have found within its sacred walls the communion and the solace of prayer.
Now tho doors were closed, and so from Sunday evening to Sunday morning
they would continue closed ; no prayer, no chant, to waken the echoes, no
invitation and no welcome to the toil-worn villager before his nightly rest,
to remind him of the rest of heaven. The Cross had once stood on high
upon the eastern gable ; now there was a broken shaft, standing as if in
mockery of Faith and hope departed. Once saintly forms, in hues of grace
and beauty, had shed a glory like a light from heaven on kneeling crowds
within ; now plain glass in mutilated stone-work glared coldly down upon
the empty chancel, in deadly concord with the white-washed walls, barren
of sacred text and pictured emblem. It seemed almost that one might hear
the sound of guardian spirits departing, and mysterious voices murmuring,
“Let us go hence.” Time was, and, by the blessing of God, time shall be
again, when men felt that to devote the whole day to worldly gain, was to
rob God of that which He had given to be used to His honour, and to peril
heavenly treasures ; and the poor have hearts to feel this. The blessingpronounced by llim who “for our sakes became poor,” is still upon them.
They are ready to receive Ilis word ; they yearn to accept His promises. It
is not the deadness of the poor to the doctrine and discipline of Christ which
has stolen from them the rich inheritance bequeathed to them by ancient
piety ; it is the cold and faithless spirit, the hateful, miserable worldli
ness of those who dare to call themselves their betters. There was no dan
ger of profanation, when men by holy communion within sacred walls, daily
learnt reverence by daily self-abasement. There was that which would
elevate the hope, and enlarge the charity, and keep in living energy the
Faith of Christians, in the daily exhibition of the spirit of prayer, the ever
open doors inviting worship, and silently proclaiming “ the glad tidings.”
And shall not those times return 1 If the clergy are faithful to their minis
try, they shall return, and the dream of that evening which crept so sooth
ingly over my fainting spirit shall be realized.
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1945: a Vision.
I dreamt: and the same Church and the same still village scene was be
fore me ; but I stood among men of another generation, and yet familiar
faces. It was the same vesper hour, but a bell was tolling, and'the Church
dool’S stood open, and there was a throng of little children, and grey-haired
men and women, and many a robust man and matron gathering there, to
the rest and the refreshment of prayer. I entered the Church among them,
and when the sounds of gently falling feet, and the whispers of secret aspir
ation were hushed, a priest, a venerable man, with calm benignant counte
nance, came forth, and in a grave and solemn voice began the service. I
could not but mark the intense devotion of the people ; all joined as if with
one heart in their due place and time. They listened to the words of Holy
Writ, as if it were indeed the word of life to their souls. In the psalms and
hymns of the Church they alternated the responsive verses in simple ca
dence ; all knelt in prayer, and at each conclusion there ascended from the
lips of all the loud Amen ; like a clear tone of music ringing through aisles
and arches, and seeming to blend with the song of angels. It was impossible
not to feel that He was present among that lowly kneeling crowd who hath
promised ever to be “ where two or three are gathered together in his name.”
There was a short silence, and then the congregation rose, and quietly and
reverently left the church, the smile of a heart at peace with God on every
countenance, and happy voices mingling as they passed along, and separated
each to his humble home. I lingered, as some few others did, waiting for
the venerable man, the pastor of that little flock. As he came forth from
the church, his whole appearance and demeanour marked the man of God.
He stopped once or twice before he came to the spot where I stood, to ad
dress a word of kindly greeting to an aged man, or to listen with a look of
inexpressible benignity to the confiding prattle of a little child who ran to
him with its offering of wild flowers, and to lay his hand in loving benedic
tion upon its head. He had won the hearts of young and old in his long
and faithful ministry. As he approached I accosted him, and he offered his
hand with the salutation of peace upon his lips. When I spoke of havingknown his village in times long gone by, and the delight I felt in the
altered scene before me ; let us sit down, he said, by the churchyard Cross,
and interchange our knowledge of the place and people. There are a few
here of my friends who will be glad to join our talk, and you, as well as I,
may learn many a lesson from the poor. As he spoke, some few gathered
round us. It was in the year 1845, I said (it did not seem strange to any
of us, that I spoke of a time a hundred years past by) ; it was in the year
1845 that I last gazed upon this church, and sadly I remember the deso
late feeling that came over me when at this very hour I longed to offer up
a thanksgiving for God’s mercies within its walls, and the doors were closed
against me. Then there was no Cross to throw its holy shade over the peace
ful graves, but bleak stones with heathen emblems sculptured, and wretched
legends, (ah ! some few I see still remain,) told a tale of human vanity !
How changed ! how happily changed is all this now !
‘ It is, indeed, he answered fervently. Thank God ! those days are over,
and I have perhaps as much to tell of the revival of better feelings as you
of those faithless days ; and yet I have read that even then there were
signs of better things ; and my people have a tradition, that about that
time the voice of prayer began to be heard more frequently in some of the
towns and villages of England. It was so, I answered. Here, at the time
I speak of, there was service on the saints’ days and other holidays of the
Church ; but few, very few, were found to assemble themselves together.’
The following portrait will be immediately recognised :—
‘Pastor. You remember that my friend Richard spoke of the memory, so
dearly cherished among us, of her who, under God, was a great instrument
of that restoration ? With the love of a mother, He caused to spring up in
�1945: a Vision.
105
the heart of the Queen a desire that her children should be nurtured in that
high and heavenly wisdom which can alone give true dignity to princes.
The increasing care, on all sides, to bring up children in the faith and obe
dience of Christ, extended to the court ; and one was chosen, a meek and
holy man, endowed with rare intellectual gifts, to whom the training of the
young princes was committed. The light of a heavenly conversation shone
ever around his path ; his solid learning commanded honour, and his gentle
manners and grave instruction secured him the unbounded confidence of
his royal pupils. They grew up in ever increasing reverence for his pre
cepts : and he had the skill to draw all his teaching to one point—the high
and angelical perfection of the Christian character. Whether it was philo
sophy that they studied, he would direct them to the deeper wisdom of the
doctrine of Christ : or history and the art of government, he would illus
trate both from the examples of Christian kings and statesmen, and place
the boasted instances of heathen virtue side by side with the brighter
instances of Christian grace. The heroic ages of Christendom furnished
him with acts of chivalrous honour, surpassing the illustrious deeds of
Greece and Rome : while he made them familiar with the epic and lyric
poetry of classic ages, he did not fail to point to the loftier thought and
diction of Hebrew prophecy, and the sweeter strains of Christian minstrelsy ;
while he trained their minds to admire the bold eloquence of Demosthenes,
he taught their hearts to glow with the fervid inspiration of St. Chrysos
tom. Thus he never lost sight of the one great object of their education—
the training the royal children to fitness for their high earthly destinies by
teaching them to know their more exalted station as citizens of heaven ;
their membership in Christ ; their participation of His Spirit ; their inhe
ritance in His kingdom. Very soon this example in high places acted with
reciprocal force upon the nation, and gave fresh impulse to the better prin
ciples of education among all classes of the people. Men saw, in the un
bridled licence which now and then burst forth, the fruits of their own neg
lect of children, and the Church awoke once more from her slumber to an
energetic life, and seized all opportunities of repairing the past ; and so
when, many years after, the eldest of the princes succeeded to the throne,
the humblest man in the broad realms of England, among many humble
men in high station and in low, was he who ruled the mightiest dominion
the world ever saw.’
Our author concludes with the following happy prophecy and pious
aspiration:—
‘ Stranger. And is the Church in England now in communion with other
Christian Churches ?
‘Pastor. Alas ! no. The old schism of the East and West continues, but
the violence of animosity is much abated ; and there is on all sides a great
increase of charity. The power of Catholic truth in doctrine and in disci
pline is manifested in the wide conversion of heathen nations to the faith of
Christ through the living energy of English missions. God’s hand is heavy
on His Church in Rome, and there seems a distant hope that His chastening
may bring her to repentance, and so Christendom may be as one again. Oh,
how blessed and joyful will be that day when Rome, purified from all things
that offend, is seen once more in holy fellowship with the faithful in all the
world ; other churches according to her the willing honour of pre-eminence
held due in early ages to her high gifts and world-wide fame, and she most
lowly in her dignity, labouring earnestly with them in one faith, and hope,
and love, to publish the Gospel of salvation ; when jealousies shall have
ceased for ever ! Till that may be, we rejoice to know that there are many
and increasing numbers of holy men within her communion who are not par
takers of error, humble souls whose loving prayers and devoted lives are
moving ever heavenwards to aid that consummation ; and yet it seems too
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1945: a Vision.
blessed an one ever to be again after so long and miserable a separation. I often
think it a more likely event that an unity of inward graces in the individual
members of the different Churches is all that we shall ever see in this world,
so deeply rooted the causes of alienation seem ; that we shall never know a
perfect outward unity until Christ shall gather His members at His coming
from all the world, and from all ages, and present the redeemed to His Fa
ther, a “ glorious Church, not having spot or wrinkle, or any such thing, but
holy and without blemish.” Yet the heart of a Christian must yearn for
fellowship, and make unceasing prayer to God for mercy on his suffering
Church ; and it may be His will to grant our prayers, for us He has purified,
and so why not others ? Till the Church of England was taught once more
to bow beneath the Cross, she never raised it up on high as the token of her
victory.
‘ Stranger. And tell me of the separatists of our own Church, whose state
I once so sadly used to dwell upon : are they restored ?
£ Pastor. Gradually, I thank God, the Church is gathering within her
arms her straying children : every year the ranks of dissent diminish, for
the high glory and blessing of communion with her are more and more ma
nifest. The light of holiness, in her true children, shines more brightly be
fore men, and they are forced to confess that God is in her of a truth, and
they are divinely moved to seek grace and consolation in her bosom. In
times of tribulation the ministers of those irregular communities had no sub
stantial comfort to supply, and men felt how meagre and unsatisfying was
their ever-shifting creed : the reed they leant upon pierced them through,
and they had recourse, by thousands, to the full and merciful provision for
their starving souls, which Christ had made for them in His Church.
‘ Stranger. Oh, happy consummation ! How blessed must it be to be a
fellow helper, together with God, in bringing back holy love and unity and
peace ! How must the sight of these things elevate and cheer you in your
ministry !
‘ Pastor. Humbly I thank God for His consolations. But we have our
trials, and it is good for us to have them. If it were not for His great mercy
in sending us trials, our hearts might be lifted up, and we tempted to
ascribe something to our own labour and deserving, and not give to Him all
the glory.
‘ Stranger. Yes, doubtless, Christian watchfulness is as needful now as it
ever was ; but to me, in contrast with those times of trouble and rebuke
which I so painfully call to mind, it seems as if nothing could be wanting
to your perfect earthly joy. The outward state of the building, dedicated to
God’s service, I see, too, harmonizes with the sanctity within.
‘ Pastor. Oh ! yes ; with the revival of inward reverence, care also for
outward decency revived. Men began then to understand their concord, and
to see that outward beauty as much betokens inward piety as outward neg
lect betokens inward irreligion. Sympathy then sprung to life with the
order and splendid ceremonial of ancient services. God has adorned His
glorious world with features of dignity and beauty, and thrown the harmony
of living light over this majestic fabric of the universe ; and He has clothed
His own image upon earth with the noble proportion and form of man ; and
we are but working in the direction of the Creator’s wisdom, and after the
pattern of His creation, when we give outward grace to structures erected
to His honour, and soften with tints of gorgeous colouring within, and adorn
His services with holy melody, to charm the eye which He has made to re
joice in beauty, and the ear which He has made to revel in the voice of
music.’
May that blissful dream be realized ! The land we love so well—
the land of our Fathers—will then once more be happy and merrie
England.
�University Intelligence.
107
UNIVERSITY INTELLIGENCE.
The Hulsean Prize Essay lias been adjudged to C. Babington, Esq.,
B.A. (1843) of St. John’s College, Cambridge.
REPORT OF THE CAMBRIDGE CAMDEN SOCIETY.
The Committee of the Cambridge Camden Society cannot allow
the Michaelmas Term to pass over without reporting to the members
the present state of the Society’s operations and prospects.
The Committee were elected at the Anniversary Meeting in May,
with instructions to revise the Laws of the Society on the basis of a
scheme then submitted to the members, and with an understanding
that the public meetings of the Society m Cambridge should be dis
continued until all necessary changes should have been satisfactorily
carried into effect. They have first to report that, at the first meeting
after the anniversary, Mr. Stokes, one of the six elected, resigned his
place on the Committee. The following gentlemen, of whom the two
last alone had not already served on the Committee, were added to the
number.
The Rev. J. M. Neale, M.A., Trinity College.
J. S. Forbes, Esq., M.A., Christ Church.
J. J. Bevan, Esq,, M.A., Trinity College.
Sir S. Glynn, Bart., M.P., M.A., ChristCliurch, Oxford.
F. H. Dickinson, Esq., M.P., M.A., Trinity College.
The Committee have appointed A. J. B. Hope, Esq., M.P., M.A.,
Trinity College, to be Chairman ; the Rev. F. W. Witts, M.A., King’s
College, to be Treasurer; and the Rev. B. Webb, M.A., the Rev. J.
M. Neale, M.A., of Trinity College, and F. A. Paley, Esq., M.A., St.
John’s College, to be Secretaries.
In the list of members provisionally elected, we find the Rev. E.
Coleridge, M.A., Eton College, and H. H. Smyth, Esq., B.A., Jesus
College. There is an accession of upwards of forty members, and
altogether we can congratulate the Society on the progress it is
making. We need not say how heartily we wish it all success.
THE UNIONS.
To several Correspondents who wish to see some report of the
Union debates given in our pages, we can onlyr reply that the Rules of
these Societies will not permit of such a publication of their proceed
ings. Whether this restriction is necessary or wise, we shall not pre
sume to say until we have had further communication with the prin
cipal members of both the Unions.
�POSTSCRIPT.
THE IRISH CHURCH.
To the Editor of the Oxford and Cambridye Review.
Sir, I am anxious to take advantage of your permission to correct
a statement made respecting me in your number for August. In page
125 it is stated, ‘ The Archdeacon of Meath receives 7207. (per annum!
without any duty to perform. In reply to this, I beg to say, that what
ever duties belong to the office of archdeacon in any diocese of England
01 Ii eland, belong to my office in this. I have the management of
01 dinations four times a year; the Ember season seldom passing with
out one. On each occasion I have to examine the candidates (with the
assistance of some of the clergy of the diocese) in a very long and diffi
cult course. The examination lasts five days, and I have besides to
make all needful inquiries respecting the candidates.
I have also to attend the bishop at confirmations and local visita
tions. This required a month’s close attendance last summer for one
half of the diocese, and an equal period will be required next year for
the other half. I have also to inspect personally a certain number of
lilial deaneries each year. I have to attend the bishop on other occa
sions, as he may require me ; and as there is no other dignitary in this
diocese but myself, such calls are necessarily more numerous than
elsewhere. I have also, from time to time, to visit parishes in which
local inquiry may be necessary, and these occasions are not few. I am
often called on to adjust questions between parties on occasion of
vacancies and promotions, &c.; and I have an extensive correspond
ence with the clergy on the affairs of their parishes, which last year
cost me above 107. in penny postage.
bo much for the duties of the office : I come now to its emoluments.
These you state at 7237. It is true the archdeaconry lands produce
this sum, but it is not true that the archdeacon receives it as his
income. Did you never hear of a tax on church income in Ireland ? I
pay 1087. 1.0s. tax on the 7237. ; and on account of holding this office,
I pay more tax on my benefice by 507. than I otherwise should. The
duties of this office oblige me also to keep a curate, to whom I pay
1007. Collection costs 367., and 307. goes to the poor-rates. Here
are deductions amounting to 3247., leaving 4007. a year for the only
dignitary of the largest diocese in Ireland.
I am aware how you have been led into the mistake. In the Report
of the Union Commissioners there is a return (made in error by my
predecessor) that there is not any duty attached to the office of arch
deacon. I presume he mistook the question to relate to ‘ parochial
duty; he could not have meant to say that there were no duties be
longing to the office, for he used to examine for orders and visit
parishes. However, this mistake was his, and it is but just to say so.
The circumstance may serve to show that Blue Books alone will not
qualify a person to write on the affairs of the Irish Church. In
1 eports more worthy of credit than those of the Union Commission,
�The Irish Church.
109
you may find my gross income, as Archdeacon and Rector of Kells,
stated above l,900Z., and the net income at 1,8007. But if you
apply to the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, they will give you an
actual valuation of the present income at 1,6411, gross, and 1,427Z.
net. But this is an Irish net income. From it must be deducted the
tax I pay these same Commissioners, 214Z. (on which sum I pay
the collection, poor-rates, and county rates); also to be deducted, poorrates, about 701.; county rates, 30Z.; schools, 1001.; agency, 82Z.;
besides numerous local subscriptions which must be forthcoming from
the rector. Here are deductions exceeding 500Z. a year from what is
called the net income of an Irish benefice; leaving about 900Z. a year
(half the net income in the Blue Book) for the dignity and parish
united, the latter having a charge of 1,100 souls in communion with
the Church.
Your statement of the affairs and income of the Irish Church is as
far from the reality as that relating to myself. In some points false
returns have misled you, in others want of the most ordinary know
ledge of the subject. In describing the present condition of the reduced
establishment, you say there are 895 parishes having less than fifty
Protestant Episcopalian inhabitants. Now did you not know that 140
of these came under suppression by the Temporalities Act passed ten
years ago? Of the remainder about 110 have no income; about 110
continue to exist, not on any church grounds, but solely on the grounds
of lay property. Here are 360 off the list! Of the remainder, numbers
(whose amount I cannot exactly tell) a great number are formed into
benefices; each such benefice being declared by Act of Council and
by Act of Parliament, to be (what in common sense they ought to be)
single parishes ; but to create parishes under the mark, these are ille
gally returned as separate parishes. Many more of these parishes do
not exist, and never did exist, except in a fraudulent return got up to
raise an unjust outcry against the Irish Church. To let you a little
into the way this was done :—in many cases an enumerator was given
a parish with parts of other parishes adjoining as his district. These
parts are returned as parishes having less than fifty Protestant inha
bitants. In other cases, where three or four segments have been
taken off several parishes to form a new parish, to meet the wants of
church accommodation, each segment is returned as a parish having
less than fifty Protestants ! Many parishes under the mark are twice
entered; in one division alone there are nineteen such cases. Town
lands are given as parishes. Names which have no districts are given
as parishes; and every mistake goes to swell the number of parishes
having less than fifty Protestant inhabitants.
In page 128. you profess to give ‘ the present condition of what we
think is rather facetiously called the reduced establishment.’ One item
is Archbishoprics and Bishoprics, 151,127Z. Do you mean to say that
the Archbishops and Bishops of the reduced establishment have thia
income ? I am sure every reader has put this construction on it. This
item is more than 91,000Z. too much! You make the income of the
reduced establishment of bishops about 35,000Z. more than the income
of the full establishment before any reduction was made. Another
item is ‘ Tithe Composition, 531,7817,’ Do you really not know that
�110
The Irish Church.
in the reduced establishment there is no tithe composition ? In lieu of
it is a rent-charge of about 378,800Z. You state the glebes at 92,000Z.
The actual value, as given by the commissioners, is 76,788?.
In these three items of the reduced establishment your statement is
about 259,300?. too much.
I fear I have trespassed too far: may I yet venture to ask, in reply
to all you say of the Irish clergy, and of their utter failure with the
Roman Catholic population, whether you have ever heard of the work
ing of the Irish Society under their management? As I have been
forced to write of myself, I may give an instance which I can personally
vouch for. Having been lately asked to preach in a town in my arch
deaconry, in which the Irish teachers were assembled, they all attended;
about 300 in number. These men are not to be considered merely as
individuals : each one is a teacher of others, a centre of intelligence in
his hamlet. AU had been Roman Catholics; perhaps one half are so
still; yet they all attended our service of their own accord. There
you might see the captain of a Ribbon Lodge, and his desperate com
rades, having now forsaken all agrarian and political societies to use
his native influence over his fellows, in that which soon becomes the
darling object, to promote the knowledge of the Word of God in the
Irish tongue.
After their departure to their homes, a paper was sent to me, signed
by 112, (of whom many are Roman Catholics,) requesting that the ser
mon should be printed for them. The great distances at which they
lived from each other alone prevented all their names being attached
to it, as I am informed on good authority. Does this look like an utter
failure? Is it a ‘ political nuisance,’ that of the tens of thousand of
Roman Catholics connected with this society, none have joined repeal?
They have learned to brave political as well as religious persecution ;—
for persecution they have to bear in every form.
I may boast of this, for it is none of my doing. It is the work of
the clergy around me, men who possess the respect and esteem of the
whole Roman Catholic population.
If you, Sir, are desirous of obtaining real knowledge of the state of
our Church, this is deserving of your attention. I shall always be
ready to receive on respectable introduction any clergyman or member
of the English Church, and to afford him every facility for judging of
its operation.
I remain, Sir, your obedient servant,
Edw. A. Stopford,
Archdeacon of Meath.
(No. VIII. will be published on the 1st February.)
�*** Books intended for Review and Insertion in this
List should be sent to the Editor before the 15th of
the Month.
LIST OF
RECENT
PUBLICATIONS.
Mr. Bentley.
A World of Wonders : with Anecdotes and Opinions
Popular Superstitions. Edited by Albany Poyntz. 1 vol.
concerning
8vo.
Edited by J. Fenimore
Elinor Wyllys : a Tale of American Life.
Cooper, Esq. 3 vols. post 8vo.
O. T.; and Only a Fiddler. Translated by Mrs. Howitt.
post 8vo.
Margaret Capel: a Novel. 3 vols. post 8vo.
3 vols.
Mr. Colburn.
The New Timon: a Romance of London. 8vo. Part 1.
Two Romances. By B. Disraeli, Esq., M.P. 1. Contarini Fleming.
2. Alroy. 3 vols., with a Portrait of the Author.
Sketches from Life. By the late Laman Blanchard. With a
Memoir of the Author. By Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, Bart.
3 vols.
The Citizen of Prague. Edited by Mary Howitt. 3 vols.
Mr. Churchill.
Explanations. By the Author of ‘ Vestiges of the Natural History
of Creation.’ Post 8vo.
Messrs. Longman and Co.
Over Population and its Remedy. By William Thomas Thornton.
1 vol. 8vo,
The Illuminated Calendar and Diary for 1846. 1 vol. imp. 8vo.
The Rural Life of Germany. Med. 8vo.
The Student Life of Germany. Med. 8vo.
The History of Civilization. By W. A. Mackinnon, Esq., M.P.,
F.R.S. 2 vols. 8vo.
�112
List of 'Recent Publications.
, The Natural History of Society in the Barbarous and Civilized
State. an Essay toward discovering the Oi’igin and Course of Human
Improvement. By W. Cooke Taylor, Esq., LL.D., M.R.A.S. 2 vols.
post 8vo.
The Second Edition of Petrie’s Round Towers of Ireland. Imp. 8vo.
Mb. Murray.
Lives of the Lord Chancellors. By Lord Campbell. 3 vols. 8vo.
Hawkstone. Second Edition. 2 vols. fcap. 8vo.
A New History of Greece. By George Grote, Esq. With Maps.
2 vols. post 8vo.
The Marlborough Despatches. Edited by Sir George Murray,
Vols. IV. and V. 8vo.
Messrs. Smith, Elder, and Co.
The Works of G. P. R. James, Esq. 7 vois.
Arrah Neil; or, Times of Old. By G. P. R. James, Esq.
post 8vo.
3 vols,
�
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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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The Oxford and Cambridge Review. Vol II, No. 1., January 1846
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Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 112 p.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
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1846
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Conway Tracts
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Text
OF
LITERATURE,
AMUSEMENT,
AND INSTRUCTION.
JANUARY.
No. 6.]
Qtye fHisn’s Will; or, Uobe anti abatice.
ENGLISH TALE.
no.
1351.
[1847.
�2
THE MIRROR.
I-Io was tall, tliin, and gentlemanly in ap
pearance, though his clothes, good in them
selves, had seen some days of hard and reck
less service, as if he had slept out in markets,
in night coffee-houses, or some other of the
haunts which London provides for vice and
crime, and which sometimes are used by the
unfortunate. His beard of about a week’s
growth, the sallowness of his linen, the un
washed and clammy state of his hands and
face, with the remnants of so much that was
refined and elegant about him, proclaimed
that his present condition had not been of
more than seven days’ duration, but in that
seven days much had been done.
He could not be poor.
A gold watch and appendages, a sparkling
diamond ring, with other signs of one well to
do in the world, marked that some sudden
blow had plunged him into his present posi
tion ; some affliction of mind, some grief, some
burning sorrow. It was written in the blood
shot eye, in the haggard cheek, in the vacant
stare, occasional, it is true, but existant, of a
really intellectual countenance; in the pre
mature stoop, in the glance of horror and
fear with which his stolen looks crept round,
and sought out each dark corner of street
and bye-way. Either that man had done
murder, or worse than murder had been done
upon him.
We have said he was not poor.
He could scarcely have been, for an event
had happened to him that showed him not to
know temptation, where a poor man might
have been excused for at least feeling it.
During his night-wanderings in search, it
appeared, of absence from thought, rather
than any abstract obj ect, he had somehow or
other reached the gate of St. John, Clerkenwell, that, on hospitable thoughts intent, in
cited all comers to enter within its colossal
dimensions. Pausing to think whether he
should go in or not, his foot kicked against
something on the ground.
It was a purse.
He raised it to the light which streamed
from the tavern window. It was a coarse
and common article; but though not very
heavy, full at both ends. A portion of its
contents were evidently paper; and in the
hope of finding an owner’s name, he opened
it. It contained two pounds, as many shil
lings, some half-pence, half a dozen pawn
brokers’ duplicates, the sum of whose value
amounted to a trifle more than the money
contained in the purse.
All the tickets were dated that very
day.
The man’s brow contracted, and he thrust
the whole angrily into his pocket, as if some
disagreeable but necessary duty had been
imposed upon him. This done, he leaned
back against the wall, somewhat in the shade,
as motionless and still as the ancient gate it
self. His ordinary scowl became still blacker
than it was wont, and he seemed impatiently
to await the course of events.
, Hundreds passed, and his eyes keenly fix
ed upon, studied then- countenances, with
an anxious though angry scrutiny, and yet
moved he not.
The hours waned, the earlier shops begun
to close then- doors and shutters; the tide of
population diminished, and all without be
came gradually as still, perhaps, as when in
1100 the priory whose ancient but desecrated
gate he leaned against, had been founded by
worthy Jordan Briset, and Muriel, his wife;
and still he moved not.
It was night. All the shops were closed ;
the rioters even from the taproom and par
lour had sallied forth in search of home and
slumber, and admonitory lectures, shrilly
administered; and still he moved not.
He seemed now in his element, for he was
alone, and his brow gradually unbent. It
was a dark and gloomy midnight, so that,
despite the lamps, which brilliantly illumined
some spots, leaving others more deeply and
markedly in the shade, he stood within a
black and unseen nook. Several drowsy
watchmen passed, and marked him not, for
they were upon other thoughts bent—upon
the end of their allotted duty, and upon the
hour when a warm and snug bed should re
ward then- toil.
And night, what is it? Twelve hours,
more or less, of veiled light on earth, fourteen
days within the lunar sphere, five in Jupiter?
No; it is a time when nature seeks for rest
from the heat, turmoil, and bustle of life, in
miniature and feigned death, and when men
should do the same, but which is made the
time for folly, sin, and iniquity, to have its
run. During the day the busy hum of man is-,
heard in his honester and more open-walks of
work; at night, forth comes another popula
tion, consisting in part of the same indivi
duals, but in search of another sphere of oc
cupation, pleasure, partly innocent, but oftener guilty.
"Who comes now, silent and sad along the
deserted streets?
�THE MIRROR.
It is a man and his wife. They are hand
■KT haiiu; they clutch one another’s fingers, as
if in agony. Then- steps are wavering an
uncertain, and as they come beneath the
arch their conversation is very distinctly
heard.
“Oh, Harry!” said the woman, “if you
Would but scold me, reproach me, I should be
glad. It was such a blow. Our babes starving at home.”
“ Hush, Editha,” replied the man, pausing
as if to obtain momentary shelter, and to
gaze upon her face by the light of the pub
lic-house lamp.
“ Yes, I will have you scold me. Your si
lent kindness goes to my heart, and I must
have you angry. Our children starving at
home, our goods threatened with seizure in
the morning, you gave up the very tools—
your brush, your easel, your canvas, to me
to pledge. I pledged them, and while you
are gone to seek work, in confidence that I
am ministering to the wants of your babes
at home, I lose all, and you return to find
me vainly weeping by my children, whom
hunger and cold had numbed to sleep. I
cbuld go mad.”
“ Editha, it was but your eagerness to re
join our innocents.”
™“ But how could Hose it, my God?”
“ It is not lost,” said the deep and hollow
voice of the stranger, flinging the purse upon
ghe ground at their feet. “ Be more careful
next time, for you have made me wait here
six hours.”
Stay!” cried the husband.
But he was gone; in their confusion and
joy, they scarce knew how.
“ Come, come, Harry. God is good; let
us hasten to our babes.”
“ But, child, this purse is full of gold."
Full of gold?”
“ Yes, Editha, as full as it can hold, and
the tickets are gone.”
“ Some rich good man must have found
them. But come, our babes are still a hun
gered.”
And thanking heaven and their unknown
benefactor, they hastened to an eating-house
near a hackney stand; and in a few minutes
more, in their humble lodging, surrounded
by their children, who ate ravenously, the
poor artist and his wife, full of thankfulness
Ewd joy, were eating the first food they had
tasted for many hours, for they had starved
themselves to feed their babes.
3
Next day they received, by a strange por
ter, the whole of the things they had pledged
on the previous night.
*
*
*
*
*
It was the very next day after this singular
adventure that in a certain region of the
Borough, narrow, of secondary character,
where good and bad houses, ancient mansions
and hucksters’ shops jostle each other with
impudent familiarity; where, between a ve
nerable but dilapidated building, full of asso
ciations of other days, and a half modern
erection, there starts you forth a prim and
cockney dwelling, with brass plate upon the
door.
With this house, brass plate and all, it is
that we now have business.
On the plate could be read in very distinct
and legible characters, the words, “ Mr. Theo
philus Smith, auctioneer and house agent.”
We will enter. In a small parlour, behind
which was his office, we shall find Mr. The
ophilus Smith indulging in the luxury of a
late and bachelor breakfast, for Mr. Theo
philus, though often thinking that he had
reached a period when matrimony might be
both convenient and desirable—he was fifty
—had never ventured any further on the
road than to indulge in this opinion.
His breakfast was ample and varied, while
a morning-paper of twenty years ago seemed
to take up the greater amount of his atten
tion.
He was a small man, a very small man—
perhaps this was the secret of his single bles
sedness—but if one might judge from the
merry twinkle of his little eye, and the
smirking smile that sat upon his face, he
thought himself something exceedingly huge,
something not to be measured by feet but
a mental yard at once.
He was wrapped in the study of the jour
nal, which 'in this country forms a necessary
portion—and the most pleasant portion of a
man’s breakfast—when there came a knock
at the door which made Mr. Theophilus
Smith start.
It was not an ordinary knock, and Mr.
Smith was puzzled, for he was knowing in
knocks; could tell by their intonation whe
ther to advance into the passage and greet
the new arrival, or whether to remain half
way, or standing careless with his coat-tails
raised behind. But this was not one so easily
analysed, it was short, but it was imperious ;
it lasted ’not, but it was given in no mild
�4
THE MIRROR.
tones, making the very house shake beneath
its influence.
“ Open the door, John,” he cried, and
see who it is."
He then listened.
« Is Mr. Smith at home?” 6aid a dry and
commanding voice.
“ Yes, sir.”
“ Show me to him."
“ This way, sir."
Mr. Theophilus remained seated at his
breakfast-table, and as this was a hint the
boy understood, he at once showed the
stranger in.
It was the wanderer already introduced.
“ In what can I serve you,” said Mr. Smith
rising, and slightly curling his lip as he viewed
the other’s costume.
“ There is a house over the way to be
let."
“ There is, but—”
“ No. 7."
“ Exactly, but—”
“ What is the rent?"
“ £40 a-year, but—"
“ When will it be ready?”
“Why that depends; it is rather out of
repair—”
“ No matter, I will take it as it is.”
“ Will you not go over it?”
“ No. Enough, I take it.”
“ But your references or securities?"
“ I have none.”
“ Then, sir, allow me to say—’
“I will allow you to say nothing, sir.
There is seven years’ rent,” replied the other,
throwing a roll of notes upon the table.
“ Give me a receipt.”
This was a new fashion in house-taking,
which Mr. Smith so highly approved of that
he remained lost in astonishment.
“ Are you satisfied?”
\
“ Quite, but—"
“ Then give me a receipt, and send me an
agreement.”
“ With pleasure; what name?"
“ It is no matter."
“ No name, sir, how am I to give you a
receipt?”
“ Then, No. 7.”
“ No. 7, sir?"
“ The key?”
Mr. Smith lost in a denser fog than ever
fills London streets, mechanically made out
the receipt, and handed it with the key to the
stranger.
No. 7, as he called himself, then left the
house, and, glancing his eye around, entered
a grocer’s or rather a general shop.
“ I want some tea, sugar, coffee—”
“ How much, sir?”
“ How much ?—how much would a man
reasonably consume in seven years?”
The worthy shopkeeper, opening his eyes
wide with astonishment, retreated slightly
without replying.
“ Do you decline serving me?” said the
stranger, fixing his eyes angrily on the puz
zled chapman.
“ No, sir, but—”
“ That is enough, make your calculation,
and I will pay you at once.”
The bewildered owner of the general store,
as rapidly as his suddenly congealed faculties
would allow him, made the required sum,
and having approximated as nearly as possi
ble to truth—in his state of moral petrifac
tion he never thought of giving him a four
teen years’ supply—received the amount,
with orders to send to No. 7, and then the
stranger retreated.
In this manner were several excellent trades
men in the neighbourhood startled from their
propriety, but the quick, imperious manner,
with the ample supply of means possessed by
the stranger, soon brought them to their
senses, and his orders were obeyed.
Furniture, grocery, crockery, everything
which would not spoil by keeping, was or
dered in and paid for, in ample profusion, for
a man’s consumption for seven years. The
stranger then made his last visit.
Near at hand, in a lane, or rather court, upon
which the back of No. 7 opened, the stranger,
during his day’s peregrinations, had noticed a
poor, forlorn widow, whose gaunt and ema
ciated features proclaimed her utter poverty.
This woman, left desolate and alone in her
old-age, he secured as a servant, and paying
her little debts in the house in which she
lodged, at once transfered her to his new resi
dence, where, well tutored by her new master,
she received all and 6aid nothing.
He then disappeared to return only late at
night with a large cartful of books, shelves,
and all the apparatus of a library. These
also were thrust into the interior, after which
the stranger entered, and locked the door be
hind him.
He was now fairly the lion of the neigh
bourhood, before Which all other lions, aye
and stars too, upon the public-house sign op
posite, faded forthwith into nought; for many
days nothing else was talked of but the s ud-
�THE MIRROR.
den apparition and as sudden disappearance
of the stranger.
For a few days this lasted, but then, after
thejjustle of arrangement was over inside, all
relapsed into its usual train’; the house,
which had not been inhabited for half a century, remained blocked up the same as ever;
a padlock still was seen upon the front en
trance. The few tradesmen—a butcher, baker,
and milk-girl—were all ever seen—alone ever
knocked at the door, and these were opened
to by the now contented old woman, who
never said a word, but paid all bills, and then
closed the door, giving vehement evidence of
5
her determination to keep out all comers, by
the loudness with which she made the
operation of bolting and barring heard.
If perchance any wanderer passed up or
down the street, at a late hour, he was sure
to see the chamber of the recluse, with a
light burning therein, and many said that
they had noticed that on certain occasions
more than one form could be recognised as
passing to and fro between the candle and
the blind.
But these were conjectures; for from the
day above recorded, no man or woman was
seen to leave or enter that house.
mg
aSti!
A MY8TEBY IN LONDON 8TBEETS.
T was again night, and the mighty city whence commerce
science, arts, learning, diffuse themselves over more than half
the globe, was clothed in a garb of crisp, cold, bleak, hoar
frost. The flags were slippery and unsafe; old gentlemen,
fearing contusions and broken bones, became even more
cautious than usual in their walk; servant-maids, with
arms and cheeks red_ as early summer cherries, spreading
ashes before their doors o'er trottoir and kennel, monopolised
a few yards of safety, which the fraternity properly consti-
�6
THE MIRROR.
tuting Young England were equally bent in
restoring to its pristine state, by means of
a persevering system of sliding, under the
very nose and authority of the watchman;
cabmen vowed more knowingly than ever
against macadamisation, expressing their de
cided opinion that the innovation was uncon
stitutional; great coats, boas, and comforters,
stood at a premium far beyond India bonds
and Bank stock; the ladies, like their east
ern compeers, looked all eyes and noses; lips,
chins, and foreheads, were rare articles amid
the visible members; husbands were heard
to express their high appreciation of fireside
comforts; and wives, nestling their pretty
feet amid the flossy and warm rug, were
while dispensing their home luxuries, unu
sually agreeable; elder brothers, presuming
upon the great English law of primogeniture,
sent the juveniles first to bed, to catch the
cold rough edge of the sheets; in fact, it was
a bracing, healthy, delightful, cosy winter
evening, in the only land—to be eminently
patriotic—where winter evenings are cosy,
delightful^healthy, or bracing.
The gas, that new luminary which, with
its myriad jets, rules the London night, had
long been lit, and, with the bright, tempting
shop-windows, gave a glimmer only second
to day in its clearness. In one street in par
ticular, to which we beg to transport the in
dulgent reader, a street known by the name
of a certain university, celebrated for the ec
centricity of its doctrines, the clear atmo
sphere which generally accompanies a dry
frost, combined with a brilliant moon and
the long interminable line of lamps to give
an artificial day. Few, however, took ad
vantage of this to enjoy the luxury of a
winter evening walk, when stepping rapidly
along, as if to leave cold behind, one sees in
every social comfort and domestic detail, that
presently is to be ours, a source of delicious
appreciation at no other time experienced.
It was the hour when one moiety of the
world is dressing for dinner, while another
portion is in the enjoyment of the hissing
urn’s contents, buttered toast, or [crumpets,
and all those other little indigestions of which
we English so highly approve. The home
less, the poor whose living is the streets, the
seekers of pleasure, the play-goers, and all
those vast hordes which make up the compli
cated machinery of London life, still, however,
poured forth busy thousands, which sprinkled
the highways, for London is never still. The
good and the bad, those on the errand of
mercy and the actor in crime and vice, equally'
make up the component parts of those masses
which crowd the thousand thoroughfares.
At the corner of one of those turnings
which lie between the Edgeware-road and
Regent-street, a poor woman, meanly clad,
and with a sickly baby in her arms, was
singing, in a low and not unmusical voice, a
song, which could scarcely have reached to
the ears of those on the ground floor of the
houses. Not a soul was listening to her,
and yet on she walked, stilling the child’s
cries with the breast, and never once raising
her eyes to discover if any effect were pro
duced by the touching appeals she made in
favour of the helpless innocent that greedily
sucked, and then, as if finding no nourish
ment, stopped and cried, and yet again re
turned to its profitless employment. A mo
ther alone, breathing the atmosphere that
shrouded wealth and luxury, singing, to earn
a morsel of food for her child, and not one
living being to listen or offer aid.
Presently a young man turned from Oxford
street into the bye street, whistling an air
from a popular opera; when, however, he
caught sight of the poor mother, he became
silent, and passed on quietly, his eyes studi
ously kept in an opposite direction to that of
the woman ; as, however, they came nearly
abreast, moving different ways, a slight cry
from the child caused him to turn his head,
and he found a meek, submissive, young and
wan face fixed on him half imploringly, half
reproachfully. Colouring to the eyes, and
mechanically feeling his pockets, he hurried
on, as if afraid she should ask him for cha
rity: her look was beseeching enough, and
he felt that her voice must be even more so I
Yet the poor woman went on singing; so
habituated to it, what was one little disap
pointment to her?
About ten yards beyond, the young man
stopped short, looked up the street, down the
street, across the street, at the windows, at
the numbers, at the name, and then, as if
fully persuaded that he had convinced the
beggar-woman he was waiting for somebody,
and that his stay had no connection whatever
with herself, leaned in deep meditation against
a lamp-post, despite the cold state of the at
mosphere. As this youth will play a very
prominent part in our history, we may as
well daguerrotype him at once.
About the middle height, certainly not
more than one-and-twenty in age, his fea
tures were naturally handsome, though the
�'HE MIRROR.
good effect of them was much marred, either
by the effects of dissipation or of poor and
unwholesome living. His eyes, in which
lurked a hidden fire, were somewhat sunken,
which with his hollow cheeks was almost
proof sufficient of his poverty, if indeed his
sudden interest in the beggar woman had not
made the supposition almost a matter of cer
tainty, for none sympathise with the poor so
readily as those who feel the most. His hair
was black, and fell in huge matted clusters
over his shoulders, while a shabby hat, re
joicing in a rim with no particular bias up or
down, but rising here and falling there ac
cording to fancy, was of very material as
sistance in rendering his naturally good looks
of little moment. A blue Taglioni of anti
quated fashion, in the pockets of which his
gloveless hands were thrust, plaid trousers,
boots with more holes than sole leather, com
pleted his attire, save only a shirt collar of
large dimensions and very yellow tinge, which
fell over a black silk handkerchief that encir
cled his neck.
Such was Frederick Wilson, student-atlaw, as he called himself, reporter as his
friends denominated him, while penny-a-liner
was the highest epithet which his enemies
could ever allow him. Whatever his profes
sion, however, he did but little credit to it;
his whole appearance was that of one whose
breakfast was rare, whose dinner was matter
of irregular occurrence, and who, if he ever
supped, did so at intervals of very great extent.
His reverie was broken short by the sound
of footsteps, and, turning, he beheld, coming
in the direction of the ballad-singer and himself, a girl and a man.
If in life we could always trace the mys
terious workings of events, if we could fol
low out even the important consequences of
a trifle, if we could see how clearly con
nected is the whole chain of circumstances
which compose our individual existence, we
should be less apt to give way to doubt and
fear. Wilson had stopped in the wilderness
of London streets to listen to a poof ballad
singer; not having a farthing in the world, he
could not gain courage to pass on until he
saw the woman receive a pittance from a
hand more able to minister to her wants.
The deed was simple and ordinary, and yet
to the young man this quiet act was the
hinge on which turned his whole future for
tunes. The plot and intrigues of years were
thus defeated.
7
The girl was about eighteen, pretty, neatlyclothed, with a laughing, merry eye; and as
she trotted along, drawing her woollen shawl
close about her, and bearing a small basket
on her arm, looked the very impersonification
of innocence and youthful beauty. Fair,
and inclined to embonpoint, rosy, and cherry
lipped, the cold only heightened her beauty,
which, though neither transcendant or rare,
was quite remarkable enough to catch the
notice of every passer. She trod the ground
as if afraid of no lurking danger in the
frosty surface of the flags, and rapidly ap
proached, Wilson making the above observa
tions as she neared him, on the same side of
the way.
The man was on the opposite pavement,
and was chiefly remarkable by the extreme
pallor of his countenance, the heavy charac
ter of his form, a pair of green spectacles,
and a superb cloak which shielded him from
the cold.
The man and the girl passed Wilson, and
on contrary sides came abreast of the poor
woman, who, creeping rather than walking,
was slowly advancing up the street. The
girl stopped short, the man slackened his
pace, and Wilson, curious to witness the re
sult, turned towards him, and as he came in
full view of the stranger, was startled by the
actually demoniacal expression which for a
moment flashed across his countenance, mingled with a look of unfeigned surprise. The
man, however, gave,him no time to make any
further observations, as he hurried away,
and Wilson was attracted once more to the
girl, then in the act of presenting a few half
pence to the singer. Giving himself no time
to think, the young man advanced closer.
“ Young lady,” said he, quickly, his face
becoming crimson as he spoke, “ excuse me,
but really I thank you as much as if you had
given it to myself.”
The girl look curiously at the young man,
without answering; for truth she was as con
fused as himself.
“ The fact is, miss, I haven’t a penny about
me—no, not so much as a farthing, and I vowed
I would not move until I saw this poor
woman relieved.”
“ Sir,” said the young girl, “I really do not
know you;” and pouting her pretty lip, as
much as to say, “ you shabby, impertinent
fellow, I will have nothing to say to you,”
made a slight inclination, and pursued her
walk.-
�8
THE MIRROR.
Wilson thrust his hands still deeper into
his capacious pockets and followed.
“A pretty decent figure I cut,’’ thought
he, “ to make an impression on a fair damsel.
Humph! more fit for a scarecrow than a
lover. Hang this London! it does wear out
more clothes than three country towns.
Here’s a blue coat, not above two years old,
as brown as a berry; a hat of Christmas
twelvemonth, without nap or rim; boots as
airy as my lodging; pantaloons which never
fitted! Good God! I hope she didn’t suppose
me a pickpocket.”
The girl had turned into Oxford-street,
and was quietly pursuing her way in the
direction of Regent-street, Wilson was follow
ing at a respectful distance, while across the
road walked the man in the cloak, occa
sionally turning as if to see whether the
youth still dogged the damsel’s footsteps.
Wilson could nothelp wondering at the perti
nacity with which this individual kept pace
with him, a little behind the girl and a little
in front of himself, freely discovering his
visage to the young man, but studiously
avoiding the glances of the other. Our hero—
we may as well at once introduce him—be
gan to feel uncomfortable, and naturally. To
be followed through London streets by a sus
picious-looking man is not the most pleasant
thing in the world; and when turning into a
bye-way to avoid the steady tramp of pur
suing footsteps, the matter becomes serious, as
we hear the sounds still behind. We do not
like it ourselves, and poor Wilson, who had
reasons for not doing so, was really uncom
fortable.
“ He’s too smart for a bailiff, or egad I’d cut it;
still it does look awkward, and for the life of me
I can’t tell what he’s after. Wheugh! I have it,
a papa, or uncle, a jealous guardian, perhaps,”
and Wilson, as if .quite relieved, stepped on
briskly in the track of the fair one. It never
struck him that it might be a jealous hus
band ; so little apt are we to think that which
would crush undefined and rising hopes; and
the seedy, shabby youth already felt a lively
interest in the young lady in the woollen
shawl, who had given to a beggar-woman,
when he could not.
The damsel crossed Regent-street and took
the left-hand side of Oxford-street. Wilson
did the same, and the man in the cloak drop
ped somewhat farther behind. Presently the
young girl turned towards Soho, through one
of the many dismal and shabby streets which
lead into that locality; scarcely had she done
so, when her progress was stopped by a trio
of youths who, arm-in-arm, occupied the
whole pavement. Under the influence of
Bacchus, these high-bred juveniles were sing
ing some verses strongly expressing their
wish, and indeed determination, to enjoy no
rest until dawn. At the sight of the girl
they unanimously stopped short and closed
round her—a manly practice as common as
it is creditable.
“ Where are you going, my dear, all alone
and solitary?”
“ Speak, damsel, and 1 this horror will
grow mild, this darkness light,’” exclaimed
the centre personage of the group, a tall and
ungainly youth.
“ Gentlemen, let me go, this is some mis
take.”
“ No mistake, I assure you, my pretty bird
of evening, none. But what have we here—
‘ spirit of hell or goblin damned?’”
As he spoke, Wilson dealt him a heavy
blow that, inebriated as he was, sent him
reeling against the wall; then seizing the
girl’s arm and passing it through his, harried
her from the scene of contest before the com
panions of the discomfited youth had reco
vered from their surprise. The whole was
the work of an instant, but our hero had still
time to see that the man in the cloak stood in
the shadow of a house on the opposite side,
watching the scene with apparently intense
interest, and even, as he crossed over to
avoid the pursuit of the trio of gentlemen,
could hear him mutter a heavy curse. He
at the time, however, paid no attention to
this fact, being oocupied in preference with
his fair friend.
“ Sir, I have very muoh to thank you,”
said the young girl, when at a short distance
from the scene of action; and then recognis
ing him as the youth who had spoken to her
when giving money to the pool- songster, she
added, “ But why have you followed me?”
“ Really I — the fact is — I — live in this
quarter.”
“ Oh,” replied the damsel, “ indeed. How
ever, I am much obliged for your kindness,
sir, in rescuing me from these foolish young
men;” and, curtseying, she seemed about to
leave him.
“ But, miss, they might follow you — you
might meet others; allow me just to walk by
your side until you reach home. It will be a
pleasure to me.”
The young girl hesitated, and then timidly
accepting his proffered arm, said, “ It would
�THE MIRROR.
be ungrateful to deny you, sir, what you re
quest co earnestly, since you have earned a
right to ask me something, and as'for a few
minutes we proceed the same way, explain to
me about that ballad-singer—why were you
so interested in her?”
“ I really cannot tell, miss; all I know is,
that her voice touched me, and not having
any change, I felt anxious to see that she
obtained some relief. But, as you have asked
me a question, miss, allow me to inquire if
you are aware that I have not been your only
follower?”
“ So you were following me, sir,” observed
she, looking up at him with a grave smile.
“ Excuse me, miss; I meant to say—going
the same way.”
Our hero’s new friend could not restrain a
laugh, and then she continued more demurely,
“ But this person, who also was going the
same way, what was he like?”
Wilson, who at once saw how innocent and
artless a creature he had charge of, was only
more respectful from the fact of the damsel’s
openness of manner; it was a tacit com
pliment, a reliance on him, which he appre
ciated highly, and he answered, “ Why, miss,
the man was stout, very pale—”
The girl started, and looked hastily round;
nothing remarkable appearing to strike her,
she continued her walk in a listening atti
tude.
“ — With green spectacles, and a very
handsome cloak.”
“ He never wears either spectacles or
cloak,” muttered rather than said the fair
one, “ and yet he is stout and pale.”
“ Who?” was on the verge of our hero's
tongue, but politeness overcame curiosity, and
he continued his remarks on what he had
noticed, his young friend listening in silence,
until both stopped before a house making tl e
corner of a street in the neighbourhood of
Newport Market. The grpund-floor was an
apothecary’s, and the rest evidently occupied
by lodgers. The large amount of bell-han
dles gave satisfactory evidence on this point.
The young girl was about to bow our hero
off, when as he turned his face towards the
shop she for the first time appeared to remark
the haggard pallor which distinguished his
countenance. Combining his poor habili
ments with his want of means to assist the
poor beggar-woman, and then glancing from
his figure to his face, the damsel at once con
cluded him hungry. Now to tender him as
sistance would of course have been out of
9
the question; a queen in the days of chivalry
would as soon have offered some Christian
knight, whose valour had released her from
dragon or pagan, a pecuniary alms, as she a
shilling to the youth who had rescued her
.from insult. Women are quick in their sen
sibilities, and equally quick in finding expe
dients.
“ If mother be at home, sir, she will be
glad to thank you for the service you have
rendered me. Excuse me one momentand
opening the door with a latch-key, the girl
disappeared.
Chapter III.
SHADOWS OF EVIL.
WO years and
four months
previous to the
date of the
event depicted
in our last
chapter, the
shades of even
ing were fall
ing over a
scene which
had so much
influence upon the
fortunes of all the
actors in this his
tory, that we at
once record it, pre
mising that it will,
if possible, be the
only retrospective
chapter in which
we shall indulge.
The dislike which
readers generally
entertain for ex
planation arises from a
very natural cause ;
man likes not to look
back; his views are ever
to the present or to the
future; and impatient
of all thought of the
past, consigns it too
readily to an oblivion
which it rarely deserves,
since what is gone by
is sometimes more valu
able than what is to come on earth.
2
�10
THE MIRROR.
Not many miles from a market town, itself'
at no great distance from London, stands a
house which, though neither vast in its di
mensions, nor in its existence giving any
signs of any very great wealth, had still
about it an air of quiet and English happi
ness, of seclusion and rural beauty, amply
sufficient to arrest the attention and com
mand the sympathies of every lover of na
ture. The house was neat, fanciful, and ap
peared the abode of ease. Near the high
road, its proprietor had shown his taste for
retirement by presenting to the dusty public
way what, by a species of hyperbole, may be
called a side front. The elegant portico
which admitted visitors to the interior of the
villa, was here; but not one window, though
several faint indications of that useful aper
ture were so displayed as to remove the ap
pearance of a dead wall.
Within, all was grace, elegance, and luxu
rious ease. Passing through a somewhat
lofty and spacious corridor, and opening a
massive and heavily carved door, you entered
a chamber, half library, half drawing-room,
with all the chaste classicality of the one,
combining the more ephemeral and feminine
beauty of the other. Perhaps in no country in
a woman’s retreat do we find an equal air of
comfort and elegance as in an Englishwoman’s
boudoir; and the same is true of every part
of the domesticity over which her hand pre
sides.
But the exigencies of our narrative call us
imperatively to action rather than reflection.
Beneath a perfectly Italian piazza, which
looked out upon the extensive garden and
grounds, sat two men, concealed from the
view of any one in the ^garden by a line of
railings covered with the thick growth of nu
merous odoriferous creepers. Both sat, evi
dently wishing to be out of view, in one cor
ner, on a seat of rude fashioning, which,
among other rural articles, served to orna
ment the place. In the position which they
occupied, both could see what passed in the
garden.
The grounds were surrounded by a high
wall, and were divided into shrubbery, fruit,
and kitchen garden—the two former portions
being alone visible from the hiding-place.
A lawn of deep green hue, speckled with the
russet tinge of the autumnal falling leaves,
sloped gently down to the very border of the
little wood that on the right divided the
grass-plot from the vegetable beds, while on
the left the fruits of our happy clime were
abundant, ripe, and tempting. The orange
tinged apple, the dark green pear, the deep
blushing peach, the glowing and tempting
plum, were exhaling a perfume only second
to that of the pinky rose, and all that flowery
and odoriferous galaxy which teems from the
fertile bosom of a soil rarely equalled, and
never surpassed in the world.
A gravel walk, well swept, rising midway
to cast off the wet, and bordered by dotted
turf and fancifully placed fragments of rock,
divided the bosquet from the orchard, while
at the edge of the lawn and the wood another
path led to a small door, serving the purpose
of what, in Spencerian parlance, would be
called a postem-gate. It is perhaps a mis
fortune that we have become so very matterof-fact in these days, but we do certainly
prove ourselves as far removed as possible
from aught poetical.
“ This suspense is damnable,” said one of
the men concealed in the piazza, in whose
open countenance, manly form, and fine in
tellectual head, was pictured one of the no
blest products of our land—a perfect English
gentleman. He was not very handsome, or
very young; but though passed forty, and
neither an Apollo Belvidere nor an Adonis,
had a certain something in his appearance,
which at once won confidence and admiration
from all. He was dark in countenance, and
curly locks of glossy black fell over his brow.
The second actor in the scene was stout,
pale, and somewhat repulsive in expression.
“It wants five minutes of six, my dear
Henry, and the letter says five minutes after.”
“Yes! yes! read me that villainous scrawl
over again. My God! there must be some
mistake; it cannot be, it shall not be.”
“ I said, Henry, it was a calumny from the
first, and a few moments will satisfy you.
But this is what the ill-written missive says,”
and the stout man read from a paper in his
hand.
“ Honered Sir: Missus is in habit of meetin
anover than master every even in back gar
den. This night at five minutes ater six he
will be at the little gate as is seen from patza.
“ A Friend.”
“ Habakkuk,” exclaimed the man addressed
•as Henry, “is not this most horrible. You
know how I have loved my wife during six
teen long years; and now, wiffi a daughter
needing her care, with our only remaining
child verging on to womanhood, she must
e’en play me false, and make assignations
with her paramour in my very garden.”
�THE MIRROR.
But, Henry, my dear friend, nothing is
proved; this letter—”
“Well, Habakkuk,” said Henry, seeing
that the other paused.
“ Why, you know, it might, there is just a
possibility of the fact—be a foul lie.”
“ Who, Habakkuk, would have done so foul
a deed? Is there in this world a being so con
temptible, so lost so utterly fearless of the
wrath of God and man as to put bn paper an
accusation so foul, and it not true. No! No!
Habakkuk, if I thought nature had produced
so vile a monstrosity, I would forswear her.1’
Habakkuk, while Henry spoke, watched
the gate intensely, now glancing at the time
piece in his hand, and now at the green and
motionless door. A slight tremour, a faint
colour alone betrayed the slightest emotion.
“ Habakkuk! you are silent, you are con
vinced; and yet,” exclaimed the wretched
man, “have you nothing to say in her favour.
Remember, she is my wife, the mother of my
child. I have loved her long, Habakkuk,
very long, and she has been a good wife,
a kind wife, a fond wife—and such a mother.
Habakkuk, God! God! can it be that all this
life of love and joy has but concealed such
base hypocrisy.’ ’
“Calm yourself, Henry; all will yet be
well, I have no doubt; be calm—the hour
has struck, and a few seconds will decide all.”
“ Be calm, you say, Habakkuk; be calm,
with all the fires of hell within me ; hate,
jealousy, despair, wounded honour—all hope
gone, life a blank; and you say be calm. My
life upon a hazard of a moment; the fibres
of my heart wrung to a tension which will
break it or sink it in apathy for ever; go to!
Habakkuk, you have no soul within you, or
you would not say, be calm.”
“Henry! Henry! yon are unjust, very
unjust ; if I feel myself so strongly that I
talk at random, is it to be imputed to me for
soullessness?”
“ Forgive me, my friend, my only friend,
my best friend, forgive me.”
“ Say not a word, Henry ; it will soon be
over, and you will find you have other friends
save me.”
“ Hu»h!” whispered Henry, turning deadly
pale, and pointing to the extremity of the
gravel walk, “Hush! hush! Habakkuk,what
is the time9”
“ Three minutes past six,” replied Habak
kuk, in a husky and constrained voice.
“ She keeps strictly to her hour,” replied
Henry, elenching his teeth and laughing
11
silently, a laugh which told more misery
than twenty sighs, “ if the lover be only as
punctual, we shall have rare sport anon.”
“ Compose yourself; one moment, and all
will be over. See, she has Mary with her—
bah!
Henry, women don’t take their
daughters to keep assignations.”
“ Habakkuk, you give mo hope!” replied
the miserable man, wringing his friend’s hand
violently.
When the anxious and agonised husband
first bade Habakkuk look towards the gravel
walk, two females had just appeared at the
further extremity, the one an elegant and
beautiful woman of about six and thirty,
the other a lovely girl of fifteen. Both were
evidently returned from a walk, and as they
advanced up the path, hand in hand, their
parasols negligently resting on their shoulders,
their veils thrown up, and giving their rosy
faces to the cool evening breeze, laughing,
joking, talking in full love and confidence,
they appeal ed rather two sisters, the eldest
and youngest of the flock, than mother and
daughter.
“ Habakkuk, is she not beautiful—and my
child—ah, God be thanked, ’tis a foul ca
lumny.”
“ I hope so, my friend,” replied the other
calmly and laconically.
The foot of the lawn was now reached,
when the mother suddenly stopped and looked
at her watch.
“ Just five minutes past six, I declare. Run
into the house, child, and dress for dinner,
don’t go through the study, you will disturb
your papa, I will follow you directly.”
“ Yes, ma!” and the lovely young creature
bounded over the grass like a fawn, ran round
the corner of the house, and entered it by
another door.
Had a serpent stung the unfortunate man,
the effect upon him could Dot have been
more fearful than was produced by these
words from the lips of his wife. His eyes
appeared ready to start from his head, his
cheeks grew even more deadly pale than be
fore, his teeth were clenched, he clutched
the arm of his friend convulsively as he
hissed rather than whispered in his ear; “You
heard that; the caution, too, not to disturb
me; hell and furies, what revenge is direst?”
The wife here advanced towards the door,
unbolted it, looked out, and motioned to
some one in the road.
“ Let me go, Habakkuk; let me go,” cried
the husband. “ I have seen enough.”
�12
THE MIRROR..
“ Stay!” ^.id the other, holding with the
power of a vice; “ see it out. Let'-her in
famy be evident, clear, undoubted; leave no
room for after-doubt, for fear of wrong-do
ing, for remorse. Henry, you must go
through with this.”
“I will! I will!” replied Henry, wiping
the heavy drops of cold perspiration from his
brow. “ Oh, this is most damnable. Six
teen years of love, to be thus rewarded.
Cockatrice, I disown you; I disavow my
child—what proof is there ’tis mine?”
A man here entered, and closed the doe
after him. He was a foreigner, plainly but
decently clad; his countenance was hand
some, though a trifle careworn; and a heavy
moustache gave a salient outline to features
sufficiently marked of themselves. Bowing
profoundly to his fair companion, who, glanc
ing uneasily up at the piazza, hurried him
away:
“ My husband, monsieur le comte,” said
she, and the remaining part of the sentence
was lost, as they passed down the g
walk.
“ Enough,” said Henry, trembling in every
limb, “ enough, enough! Habakkuk, this is
horrible, very horrible: but I will be calm,
very calm. Wait you here, Habakkuk; move
not, stir not, but tell me what passes;” and
giving his friend no time to reply, he hurried
into the house, njuttering, “ A foreigner too!
under my very nose! she that knows how I
hate them, how I detest then- smooth knavery.
A Pole, too—the nation of rascals! My God!
My God!”
Habakkuk leaned back on the seat and
shut his eyes. He was pale, very pale; it
was clear that his excitement was scarcely
less than that of his friend. He thrust his
hands into his pockets, took them out again,
folded his arms, and rising, leaned over the
balustrade, just as a voice over head in richly
musical tones sang out: “ ‘ The last rose of
summer is faded and gone.’ Ah me! why
do I feel so very sad this evening?”
“ Shadows of evil,” muttered Habakkuk,
“ are wrapping around her also.”
“Habakkuk, are they still there?” said
Henry, returning with a pistol in each hand,
and still more ghastly in his pallor than be
fore.
“ They have not passed," replied that per
sonage, somewhat alarmed at the sight of the
pistols; “ but what are you about to do? are
you mad?”
b»o, not mad, but wise, very wise—I
mean to shoot them both!” replied Henry,
with a grin so demoniacal that Habakkuk
s'tarted back in alarm.
“ Good God, Henry, you are losing your
senses; rally, man alive.”
“ Well, Habakkuk, my head is in a whirl,
but it will soon be over. Is that sound the
noise of their footsteps?”
“ Who is that talking under my window?
Is it you, papa?” inquired the daughter, lean
ing her pretty head out of window.
No answer was given, and she retired from
the casement.
“ They are coming up the walk, Henry,”
said the other in a whisper, “ now be a man,
and having seen what you have seen, prepare
to act like one. Retire into the house, and
when you are a little cooler, we will talk
over what is to be done.”
“ To be done! why, Habakkuk, I will turn
them out of doors, mother and daughter—
the dam and her offspring, cut them off from
every farthing, and leave my property to my
nephew.”
Habakkuk turned away his head, literally
dumb-founded.
“ His nephew,” muttered he; “ that never
struck me before.” And then he added,
“ Hush, man, they come.”
As he spoke, the lady and the Polish count
came upon the lawn; the stranger bowed se
veral times, then raising the young wife’s
hand to his lips, kissed it respectfully, and
turned to go.
The report of two pistols’were heard si
multaneously.
“ My husband!” cried the young woman,
falling either wounded or terrified to the
ground, while the Pole stood speechless with
astonishment, uncertain how to act.
Habakkuk seized the arm of his friend,
and led him from the scene perfectly help
less. For the moment his mind was un
nerved; the act of firing the pistols once
over, he was as a child in the hands of the
Tempter.
Chapter IV.
IN WHICH TWO PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS ARE
DESCRIBED.
The hero of our tale, left to himself, thrust
his hands deeply into the pockets of his Taglioni, shook his head, gazed by the light of a
gas-lamp at his boots, his pants, and the
whole material of his outer man, an exami-
�THE MIRROR.
,. 1ir
>-
wk
• I JLw
-J r
nation which appeared to produce no very
favourable result.
“ An adventure in London,” cried Frede
rick, “ but would to God these habiliments
were more juvenile, I should carry my head
a ti-ifle higher.”
At this moment, the man in the cloak
rounded the corner, and came face to face
with Wilson, but no 6ooner did he perceive
our hero, than muttering something quite
unintelligible, he hurried away. The young
man began to feel somewhat uneasy, he
could not tell why, but an undefined senti
ment of dread seemed to take possession of
him, and he watched the retreating figure
until it was lost in the distance, with a cer
tain anxiety, which afterwards appeared even
more inexplicable.
“ The fellow has certainly something to do
with the girl; that is a matter as plain as the
palm of my hand or the rule of three, but
what? Aye, ‘there is the rub,’ as my friend
Walters says.”
The fair companion of our hero now re
turned, and invited her defender to enter, as
her mamma was at home, and would be hap
py to see him, a statement which Wilson
regarded as a mere politesse, of which, how
ever, he was very ready to avail himself.
The unfortunate are too apt to misjudge the
motives of those with whom they come in
contact. But little used to active sympathy,
and less to really disinterested kindness, they
almost always regard an act, which perhaps
originated in true benevolence, and a keen
sense of your misfortunes, as an act of mere
pity—and none forgive those who lower them
by pity, when the sensitive soul seeks for
feelings more in unison with its own real
wants. Wilson was fully satisfied that his
charmer’s mamma thought him a bore, but then
she was his charmer’s mamma, and he was
resolved not to lose so excellent an opportu
nity of obtaining a footing in the family.
The threshold passed, Mr. Frederick became
nervous, for the passage was elegantly fitted
up, the stairs leading to the upper apartments
were heavily earpetted, and the youth felt
somewhat uneasy beneath the light of a
swinging lamp, when, turning toward the
descending flight, his guide marvellously
relieved his mind by leading him. towards
the kitchen, and, in another moment, intro
duced him to her mother as Mrs. Cartwright.
That lady Was between thirty and forty
years of age, and though plainly dressed, had
still about her an ah- of high-breeding and
13
elegance which, once attained, is never lost,
save in moral degradation. Very pale, and
slightly inclined to embonpoint, her black
and glossy hair was parted over a brow of
singular whiteness. Her face was more than
handsome, it was beautiful, but there was
a dreamy apathy of expression, a settled,
dogged, persevering melancholy in her eyes,
an impossibility of smiling in her glance,
which filled the mind with painful thoughts.
She was not long for this world, she was, as
it has been happily expressed, “ going ”; nei
ther fully awake to life, nor actually near
death, she hovered between the two.
Mrs. Cartwright received the young man
with cordiality, thanking him very earnestly
for the service rendered to her dear Mary,
“ for indeed,” said she, “ young men in Lon
don are too apt rather to insult an unpro
tected female, than to aid in preserving her
from injury.’’
“ My dear madam, no thanks, I beg,” said
Wilson, allowing Mary to take his hat, hand
him a chair, and perform sundry offices
which, but for his confusion, he would have
himself done. “ I am too proud, too happy,
that I have been able in the slightest degree
to make myself useful. I am afraid I gene
rally do more harm than good, and this will
atone, perhaps, for some indiscretion as slight
as the service.”
Wilson, who was rarely in the society of
ladies of any degree, was astonished at the
length of his own speech.
“ Those who own their faults, Mr. Wilson,”
said the mother, “ go half-way to mend them.
The worst are those who do evil with good
upon their lips; such men are demons upon
earth.”
Mrs. Cartwright spoke with deep feeling,
and was silent for a moment, giving our hero
leisure to remark that he was in a neatly
furnished front kitchen, evidently serving
the purpose of both sitting and sleeping
apartment to his new friends. A blazing
fire, various little cheap luxuries, a couple of
mould candles, by which the mother had
been sewing-, were indications that extreme
poverty was not the lot of the two females,
but the situation of their apartment suffi
ciently denoted that they occupied no very
elevated sphere in society. The suggestions
of his own vanity, and something in the
manners of both mother and daughter, satis
fied Wilson that they had descended, from a
loftier position.
It required no great exertion of eloquence
�14
THE MIRROR.
to induce our hero to join his new friends in eyes regained their lustre, his very cheeks,
a meal, half tea half supper, during the course seemed puffed out; his tongue had not been
of which he learned that Mary when he met so leisome for many a day, and his good hu
her was returning from a day’s work in the mour and happy state of feeling was such,
house of a lady, who gave her regular em that, had he not been restrained by notions
ployment with the needle, that her hour for of propriety, and by the promptings of his
leaving was usually six, and that Mrs. Cart better angel, he could, on the spot, have em
wright, owing to weakness in her feet, was braced both mother and daughter; in both
obliged on all occasions to allow her to re instances he would have shown his taste.
turn alone.
The daughter was eighteen, a sweet and
AU this was not learnt in a moment, but, lovely child; the mother, a beautiful woman
during the progress of -a meal, which to Wil of a little more than twice that age.
son was like the manna in the wilderness to
The better to comprehend the feelings
the Jews. Eating is certainly the least in which "roused so much happiness and enjoy
tellectual of human enjoyments, and yet, ment within our hero’s bosom, it may here be
from many causes, it is one of the most agree remarked that he was an orphan, without
able. A generous and ample diet is certainly one friend or known relative in the world to
productive of benefit even to the mind, which depend on, or from whom to receive advice or
while the body is pinched and starved, must assistance in any emergency.
By the interest of a guardian, since dead,
acquire a little of the same character from
constant association. Unfortunately, though he had been attached, as occasional reporter,
mind and body be so different, the one all to the corps of a weekly journal. On this
material, and the other all spirituality, yet precarious means, and paragraphs and police
are they so intimately connected that they reports furnished to the daily papers, Wilson’s
cannot at will dissolve partnership; when the sole subsistence depended. Alone, friendless,
corporeal nature of man suffereth and yearn- it was but natural that economy and provi
eth after the flesh-pots of Egypt, the mind sion were the last virtues practised by the
cannot take a flight and avoid the potent young man, who, therefore, despite some suc
influence of the gastric juices. No! it must cess in his peculiar walk, was scarcely ever
remain and endure the inconveniences of the any other than shabby and penniless.
Almost his sole experience, therefore, of
union. There is but one divorce between
the body of the soul, a divorce never sued the female sex was in the landlady line,
for but by the coward, who can no longer about the last division of the species to give,
brace his nerves to face the ills, which every an irregular single man lodger a favourable
opinion of the race. Hence had arisen in
being of woman born is heir to.
On the other hand, the mind is keenly his mind a kind of natural connection be
alive to the enjoyment of a good dinner. tween ladies and latch-keys, dames and dun
Few men are surly after hearty and whole ning, women and a week’s warning, which
some refection. It is your over-feeders, your was far from conducing to a very exalted
gourmands, who, post prandici, become opinion of the fair moiety of the universe.
“ Mr. Wilson, if I don’t see that little ac
testy and out of sorts. They have over-done
the thing. With no bridle on the bit of count settled afore Saturday, I am werry
appetite, they ride their stomachs to the goal sorry, but I have a large family a looking to
of gout and indigestion, and generally reach me, and you must go.”
“ Mr. Wilson, you promised me them five
it. The plate is one which can be won at a
canter. It is as easy as romancing, as sure as shillings, but I never seed them as yet.”
“ I’m blessed Mr. Wilsun if I stands this
a British bank-note. But keep a tight rein,
use the gifts of Providence in moderation, here nonsense any longer. Here have you
zand when a man has dined under these in been a promising, and a promising, and a
promising, and I never sees nuffin but pro
fluences he certainly is rarely disagreeable.
Now, Wilson had not sat down to so regu mises. It don’t stand to reason, Mr. Wilson,
lar and wholesome a meal for many a long that I’m a-going to furnish my apartments (a
flay. His manage was a bachelor one, and garret with a truckle-bed) and pay king’s
■consequently his meals were at any time and taxes, water-rates, gas-companies, to say nuf
composed of anything. On the present oc fin of my rent, which is due only to-day, for
casion, after a fast of some duration, he really a parcel of good-for-nuffin lodgers, what arn’t
enjoyed his tea. His pallor fled, the dim got no more feeling in their bosoms, that
�THE MIRROR.
never a tax-gatherer of ’em all. No, Mr.
Wilson, it don’t stand to reason, and you, if
you can’t pay rent, Td advise you, as a friend,
not to take lodgings.”
It has been said that we must eat a peck
of dirt in our lives, but woe be to the defaul
ter of rent; he must eat it at one meal. The
legal claim of the proprietor of a house, the
timid nature of a debtor, who feels himself
within the clutches of the law, emboldens
the one to shower taunt and sarcasm and
abuse on the unfortunate back of the owing
wight. No one understood the whole physi
ology of debt better than Wilson, and, as we
have above remarked, his ideas of the sex
being confined almost wholly to landladies
he was quite beside himself at finding ladies
so delightful as his new friends proved to be.
“ But, mamma,” said Mary, after supper
had been some time concluded, and the
three new friends had been in conversation
during a short period, “ I cannot keep the
secret any longer; I must tell you; and this
gentleman will excuse my entering on family
details.”
“Don't pay any attention to me,” said
young Wilson, with a smile. “ I beg you
will speak, as if I were nobody.”
“ Speak, child, what is it?” exclaimed Mrs.
Cartwright: “ it is something good, I am sure,
by the eagerness you show to tell it.”
“Well, you must know then, mamma,”
continued the fair and eager Mary, “that
Mrs. Jameson has added two shillings per
week to my salary, in consequence of my
great improvement, as she is pleased to
call it.”
“ It is little, child, but thankful have we to
be for what we have. Though, Mr. Wilson,
the day was when we seldom thought much
of ten pounds more or less in our week’s ex
penditure.”
“ I thought so, Mrs. Cartwright,” replied
our hero, “ indeed I was quite sure of it;”
he would gladly have added some question
in relation to the cause of the change, but
his joint timidity and good sense, governing
his impulses, he forbore.
Mary smiled, however, at his observa
tion, but neither she nor her mother at
tempted any explanation, and shortly af
terwards the young man took his leave,
having first obtained permission to renew
his visit.
15
CHAPTER V
NIGHT HAUNTS.
The door of the mansion, which yet, how
ever, contained the better part of our hero,
once closed against him, he turned round,
and taking good cognisance of the premises,
and the locality in which they were situated,
was about to turn his steps in the direction
of home, with his pockets as empty as ever,
but with his heart light and cheerful, when
a heavy hand laid upon his shoulder startled
him from his pleasant reverie.
Wilson turned round and confronted the
man in the cloak.
“ Very happy to make your acquain
tance, sir,” said the stranger, coolly ; “I
have to thank you for your gallantry in de
fending my friend, Miss Cartwright. Excel
lent worthy people the Cartwrights ?”
“ Sir,” replied Frederick Wilson, scarcely
recovered from Iris surprise, and bowing with
a very bad grace, “ I really did not think—”
“My dear sir,” continued the stranger,
taking our hero’s unresisting hand, “ no ce
remony between us, I beg. I was accidentally
passing, and I saw at once, by your action,
that you were a lad of spirit. I honour you
for it. Shall we drink a bottle to the health
of the lady, and to our better acquaintance.”
Wilson began to think that refection of
the inner man was plentiful that particular
evening, and, though he had just taken tea,
did not consider it at all wise to decline the
invitation, the more especially, as he hoped,
while imbibing, not the
“ cup of rich Canary wine,”
but something equally exhilirating, to learn
something in connection with his new friends.
“ Really, sir, your offer is so very polite,”
our hero replied, “that I cannot think of
refusing—at the same time—”
“ No apology—where shall we adjourn,
Mr. Wilson,” observed the apothecary, for
such he explained himself to be, “ I do not
generally frequent or patronise taverns, and
in my own back-room, why, you know, Mr.
Wilson, one is not at one’s ease.' I have two
assistants —”
“ Exactly,” continued Wilson, with a wink,
relapsing into his usual manner, which the
presence of the ladies had previously con
trolled, “ you don’t wish to set a bad exam
ple to the juveniles. Bnt I have it; a friend
of mine, that is to say, a person I know
something of, will be very happy to accom
�16
THE MIRROR.
modate us. I would take you to my own
THE NEW YEAR’S OMEN.
lodgings, but really, Mr. Smith, you know
“ We will never meet again,” said the veteran ;
we bachelors are so careless about appear '• this is new year’s night, and there are thirteen in
the room.”— Count De Therenez's Recollections of
ances—”
“ I know—exactly—-just so; we live in La Grande Armee.
any place we first happen upon; I am a
Comrades, the wine our vineyards poured
Is mantling high and bright;
bachelor myself, and can comprehend these
• With song and dance, and banquet board,
little eccentricities.”
We greet the year’s first night;
“ But, as I said, sir,” added Wilson, who
And many a year our feast hath hailed,
was now locked arm in arm with his new
With all the hopes it wore;
But the gathered number fate hath sealed,
acquaintance, “ I have a place of resort, a
For, friends, we meet no more.
kind of house of call, not a friend’s, exactly,
but still a mansion, kept by a very accom
I know not if the parting powers
Be fortune, war, or wane;
modating kind of individual, whither we can
I mark not whom these festal hours
repair.”
Are beckoning to the grave ;
Mr. H. Smith smiled, a kind of a queer
The young are here, whose souls have part
smile, too, it was—half of amusement, half of
Yet in the world of hope;
The tireless and the strong of heart,
satisfaction; he seemed, indeed, singularly
With time and toil to cope.
pleased with his acquisition, and looked as if
And there are those, like trees, that stand
he could really lend him a good round sum,
With autumn’s steps impressed,
on excellent security.
Who yet may see the fearless hand
In the somewhat free interchange of
And fiery heart at rest;
thought, especially on the part of Frederick
But on my soul what shadows fall,
From the dark faith of yore ;
Wilson, whose spirits were far above their
Long years may come to some, to all,
usual ratio, the short time required to reach
But, friends, we meet no more.
the locality designated, but not specified by
The faces round, we love them yet;
our hero, passed away ; and in the midst of
The hearts, we know them true ;
a dissertation on the merits of the last ballet,
And some, oh, how will they forget
then- critical observations were suddenly
The friends their winters knew ?
They who have shared their upward path,
brought to a close, by Wilson’s pausing, in a
When clouds grew dark and large;
very seedy street, before a dismal, dark-look
Who braved with them the tempest’s wrath.
ing tobacconist’s.
Or led the battle’s charge.
“ Why, where are we ?’’ said H. Smith,
We deem not that such lords as these
looking around him with much astonishment,
Could fade like summer blooms;
and something of a suspicious glance.
But there are thoughts that come like seas,
“ Do not ask questions, my dear sir,” re
And words that part like tombs ;
They will “ divide and conquer” too.
plied Wilson, who was evidently getting up a
Alas for memory’s store,
devil-may-care look and manner ere they
If it must hold such wrecks. Adieu,
entered the shop; “ St. Giles is the general
Dear friends, we meet no more.
term, but the street, we never mention it ;
Yet oh, the bright hours we have pass’d
suffice it, that a certain Duke, who wasn’t
O’er the dim years that part,
Charles the Second’s Queen’s son, may have
What radient memories’will it cast,
This sunset of the heart,
had some hand in nomenclature.”
To wake, in spite of change and strife,
Mr. Smith smiled, and motioning Wilson
The old love’s buried claims ;
to lead the way, they entered.
When those who may not meet in life,
“ Well, Jerry, anybody inside?”
Will meet each others’ names.
“ Well, your honour,” exclaimed the party
But from the bright wine of our land,
addressed, without replying to the latter
Free to the dawning year,
question.
The last hour of so blythe a hand
Wanes not in gloom and fear;
The person whom Wilson called by the
Drink to the hope, the love, the fame ;
name of Jerry, was a little shrivelled man, of
The graves that lie before;
about five-and-fifty, who stood behind the
And drink to many a brave heart’s dream,
counter serving half an ounce of tobacco to a
For, friends, we meet no more.
mechanic.
Stranorlar, 1847.
Frances Brown.
( To be continued.)
�17
THE MIRROR.
My father Cedric sent me
Beyond the billowy main,
By martial deeds in Flanders
My training to complete;
How little then thought either
We never more should meet.
Stout
anti tfje
Uahj) artfuik
*
BY ACLBTOS.
It was tile Lady Artfrud,
And at the feast sat she,
And round the board were marshalled
The guests in their degree ;
Oh, lovely was the lady !
Her sweet but noble face,
And her deportment stately,
Well suited with her place.
“ From banished men I heard it,
The tale of shame and woe;
My father slain, my mother
Left homeless by the foe,
Whom the spoils exulting
Made Cedric’s ancient halls,
By sweetest memories hallowed,
Scene for his drunken brawls !
The noble Wilfred’s heiress,
An orphan she was left,
Before unhappy England
Of freedom was bereft;
To every hapless exile
She was a ready aid,
And Normans e’en respected
The unprotected maid.
“ I came to England; need I tell thee
How my angry spirit burned,
To behold the once free Saxon
By the haughty Bastard spurned ?
But some gallant hearts were beating,
Ready still some fearless hands;
My friends and kinsmen straight I gathered,
And won back my father’s lands.
She turned her to the stranger,
Who sat at her right hand,
And said, “ Most valiant Hereward,
Stay of our hapless land,
Though every loyal Saxon
Thy matchless valour knows,
And every Saxon bosom
At thy achievements glows,
“ Now no peace gave the marauders,
Yet I stood the assailing tide,
Till worn out with grief and trouble,
Noble Edelgiva died;
By her husband’s side I laid her,
In the silence of the night,
Lest the horrid clang of battle
Should her gentle spirit blight.
“ Though every Saxon harper,
In thy deserved praise,
In every Saxon dwelling,
Attunes his rhymed lays,
Since thou hast condescended
To taste our Croyland cheer,
From thine own lips thy story
Most gladly would I hear.”
“ To the last abode of Saxons,
Ely’s island, then I sped;
Gallant hearts gave earnest welcome;
Lady, I became their head;
And so much the craven foemen
With our raids we did annoy,
That the loons believed that Satan
Was himself in our employ!
“ Lady,” replied the warrior,
“ Small cause have I to boast;
The Norman rides triumphant
Along our sea-girt coast;
Beneath his horse-hoofs trampled
The once free Saxons lie ;
They’d rather live his bond-slaves,
Than in staunch battle die !
“ And the wooden-paled Taille-bois,
Angry at his ill-success,
In a tower before his army
Placed an ugly sorceress,
Who with grizzly head protruding,
Mumbled o’er her filthy charms ;
From our refuge-camp we sallied,
And gave her to her Satan’s arms '.
“ Alas, for noble Harold,
And the true hearts that bled
Upon the deadly meadow,
With richest carnage fed ;
Yet more, alas, the fortune
That held me far away,
Beyond the seas in Flanders,
Epon that heavy day I”
“ Oh, a gallant bonfire made it,
When the wooden tower blazed high,
And to heart-dismayed Taille-bois
Came the dying wretch’s cry !
Then in wrath uprose the Bastard,
He himself would take the field,
He would show his puny generals
How to make the Saxons yield.
“ Nay, grieve not,” said the lady,
“ That one brave man was spared;
Had Hereward that day fallen,
How had his country fared ?”
The warrior, smiling, answered,
“ With Lady Artfrud near,
Craven must be the dastard
Who could be sad of cheer.
“ And he did, for treason helped him ;
Else----- but what avails to say
What we would have done, oh Lady ?
How could holy men betray ?
*
How could those who have forsaken
Sensual pleasures here below,
For the sake of fleshly dainties
Sell their country to the foe ?
“ ’Twas when the sainted Edward
Enjoyed his tranquil reign,
* For the general facts of this story, see Keightley’s “ History of England,” vol. i. p. 71.
NO. 1352.
* When the siege began to press sore, and com
mons grew very short, the monks, weary of priva
tion, admitted the Normans into the island.
3
VOL. ALIX.
�18
THE MIRROR.
“ Shame upon them, now and ever!
No sons of Holy Christ are they,
Children rather of Iscariot,
Born to gorge and to betray !
Haughty William, as they tell me,
When they came Ills state to meet,
Turned with loathing from the cravens,
Well nigh spurned them from his feet.”
“ Nay, nay,” the lady answered,
Her brow disturbed with care,
“ Let not our dauntless Hereward
Be conquered by despair.
In England still there breatlieth
Full many a Saxon true ;
And where shall be their safety,
If Hereward leaves them too
“ Truly,” quoth the Lady Artfrud,
“ William scorns such dastard deeds,
And deplores a friend destroyed,
When a noble Saxon bleeds.
But now tell us, gallant Hereward,
In the full what chanced to thee;
How, in such a fearful tempest,
Stood unscathed the tallest tree.”
“ Alas, sweet lady, vainly
Thou kindly dost essay,
With gentle art, my exile
From England to delay.
With few and scattered followers,
What, lady, could I do ?
Would’st have me for indulgence
The haughty Bastard sue ?”
“ Lady, in my tent reposing
From the troubles of the day,
In secure and dreamless slumber,
On that fatal night I lay ;
When a hand was on my shoulder,
And a voice hissed in my ear,
‘ Rouse thee, rouse thee, noble Hereward,
We’re betrayed, and William’s here.’
“ William,” quoth Lady Artfrud,
“ With sorrow I confess,
By heaven’s high permission,
Our country doth oppress ;
Yet is he noble, Hereward,
A little more should’st bend
To will of highest Heaven,
And deign to be his friend!
“ ’Twas my kinsman, gallant Wulfstane ;]
I in startled haste arose,
Soon the bravest gathered round us,
And we went to meet the foes.
Vain our efforts ; in each quarter
Countless hosts our path beset;
Where’er we went, tire ready Norman
Oui- despairing efforts met.
“ Nay, frown not, noble warrior,
Nor yet despise a maid,
If she should play the wooer;
For I have heard it said
That a well-nurtured freeman,
Whatever be his fate,
May with unstained honour
With any lady mate.
“ Then for a little moment
In deep dismay we stood ;
While round us hummed the hornets,
All thirsting for our blood ;
Till by our stillness heartened,
They ventured an attack ;
Aroused, we leapt among them,
And straightway drove them back.
“ My lands are broad, and yearly
Revenue large afford;
My serfs are many, but, alas,
They long have had no lord ;
And for myself, sweet Mary,
It cannot be a crime
That I desire a guardian
In such a troubled time.”
“ Then ‘ Onward!’ shouted Wulfstane,
Cleave we this rabble route ;
Yet once again for England
Raise we the battle-shout!
Then onward through the concourse
In thick array we prest,
And oft our brands were sheathed
In the false Norman’s breast.
The warrior in amazement
The blushing maiden eyed,
And answered, “ Lovely lady,
Since Edelgiva died,
My fainting heart has never
The love of woman known ;
And when I came to Croyland,
Unfollowed and unknown,
“ Where’er we came, the cravens
Gave way to right and left :
On every side our broadswords
A ready passage cleft!
Oh glorious clang of battle,
How leaps the heart in fight!
How strain the eager muscles,
■’Mid flashing falchions bright!
“ I only hoped a moment,
Before I took my flight,
By gazing on thy beauty
My spirit to delight;
But what avails it talking ?
Sweet lady, take this hand;
Though rough be its caresses,
It wields a well-tried brand.
“ But it is over, lady,
No refuge now have we,
But we must seek for freedom
Beyond the azure sea;
There in some grassy valley
I’ll lay my weary head,
Where never foot of Norman
Upon my tomb shall tread.”
“ While in his native country
There lives so fair a wife
Of Saxon blood, need Hereward
Be weary of his life ?
And if the Lady Artfrud
Takes pity on his pain,
What tongue shall dare to whisper
That he has lived in vain ?”
�THE MIRROR
CrtrucatioiR
I.—Education in Ancient Greece.
The subject of education is one of such
paramount importance, and one upon which
so much is now thought, and in regard to
which so vast a variety of opinions exist,
while our own is most decided, that we
purpose, preliminary to a full examination
of education in the present day, to give
some slight insight into the history of the
subject; to see what in ancient times was
thought and done, what in later ages was
its progress. With regard to antiquity,
Greece, Rome, and Persia will alone be
touched upon; we shall then inquire into
what is the state of education in the various
European states,and America, and then come
to the all important question, of what is to
be done in England, where the deficiency is
lamentable. With this view, between the
present time and the few months which must
elapse, before we reach our final article,
we invite every item of information on the
subject, and shall notice with pleasure all
pamphlets, &c., forwarded to us.
In regard to Ancient Greece, did we
devote ourselves to the careful study of
the question, we should simply go over the
ground trodden by Mr. James Augustus
St. John in his elaborate work on the
*
manners and customs of that country;
we shall therefore avail ourselves of the
facts and of the words of Mr. St. John.
In the outset it is remarked, that whether
on education the Greeks thought more
wisely or not than we do, they certainly
contemplated the subject from an elevated
point of view, and therefore commenc
ed operations from the very moment of
birth, being particularly careful in the
selection of teachers, a matter in which in
modern times we have not been so solici
tous to compete with antiquity as we
might be. We are told—
“ In Greece, as everywhere else, educa
tion commenced in the nursery; and
though time has very much obscured all
remaining traces of the instruction the
children there received, we are not left on
this point wholly withoutinformation. From
the very day of his birth man begins to be
acted upon by those causes that furnish his
mind with ideas. As his intelligence acquires
strength, the five sluices which let in all that
flood of knowledge which afterwards over
flows his mind, appear to be enlarged, and
education at first, and for some time, con
sists in watching over the nature and quality
of the ideas conveyed inward by those
channels. It is difficult to say when ac
* “ Manners and Customs of Ancient Greece,” by
James Augustus St. John, 3 vols., Bentley.
19
tual instruction commenced: but among
the earliest formal attempts at impressing
traditonary knowledge on the infant mind
was the repetition by mothers and nurses
of fables and stories, not always, if Plato,
may be credited, constructed with a reli
gious or ethical purpose.”
At the age of seven, the boys left their
mothers’ care for that ot the schoolmaster
to whom they were taken daily by a go
vernor, and mischievous no doubt the
boys of Hellas were, as boys will every
where be, “and many pranks would they
play in spite of the crabbed old slaves set
over them by their parents;” on which ac
count, probably, it is that Plato considers
boys of all wild beasts the most audacious,
plotting, fierce, and intractable. But the
urchins now found that it was one thing
to nestle under mamma’s wing at home, and
another to delve under the direction of a
didaskalos, and at school-hours, after the
bitter roots of knowledge. For the school
boys of Greece tasted very little of the
sweets of bed after dawn. “They rose
with the light, ” says Lucian, “ and with
pure water washed away the remains of
sleep which lingered on their eye-lids.”
Having breakfasted on bread and fruit, to
which through the allurements of their
pedagogues they sometimes added wine,
they sallied forth to the didaskaleion, or
schoolmaster’s lair, as the comic poet jocu
larly termed it, summer and winter, whe
ther the morning smelt of balm, or was de •
formed by sleet or snow, drifting like meal
from a sieve down the rocks of the Acro
polis.”
The Athenian idea of education was that
boys should be kept in one constant absti
nence from evil thoughts and habits, for
which reason there were no vacations,
while the schoolmaster was armed with the
savage power of the lash. In one particu
lar we might wisely follow the Athenian
principle, in appointing a governor, whose
“principal duty consisted in leading the
lad to and from school, in attending him to
the theatre, to the public games, to the
forum, and wherever else it was thought fit
he should go.”
With regard to the schools themselves,
the following is a very interesting and
pleasing account:—
“ It has sometimes been imagined that
in Greece separate edifices were not
erected as with us expressly for school
houses, but that both the didaskalos and
the philosopher taught their pupils in
fields, gardens, or shady groves. But
this was not the common practice, though
many schoolmasters appear to have had
no other place wherein to assemble their
pupils than the porch of a temple or some
sheltered corner in the street, where in spite
of the din of business and the throng of pas
�20
THE MIRROR.
sengers the worship of learning was publicly
performed. Here, too, the music-masters
frequently gave their lessons, whether in
singing or on the lyre, which practice ex
plains the anecdote of the musician, who
hearing the crowd applaud his scholars,
gave him a box on the ear, observing,
“Had you played well these blockheads
would not have praised you.” A custom
very similar prevails in the east, where,
in recesses open to the street, we often see
the turbanded schoolmaster with a crowd
of little Moslems about him, tracing let
ters on their large wooden tablets or en
gaged in the recitations of the Koran.
“ But these were the schools of the hum
bler classes. For the children of the noble
and the opulent spacious structures were
raised, and furnished with tables, desks,
forms, and whatsoever else their studies
required. Mention is made of a school at
Chios which contained one hundred and
twenty boys, all of whom save one were
killed by the falling in of the roof. From
another tragical story we learn that in
Astypalsea, one of the Cyclades, there was
a school which contained sixty boys. The
incidents connected with their death are
narrated in the romantic style of the
ancients.
Cleomedes, a native of this
island, having in boxing slain Iccos the
Epidaurian, was accused of unfairness and
refused the prize, upon which he became
mad and returned to his own country.
There, entering into the public school, he
approached the pillar that supported
the roof, and like another Sampson seized
it in an access of frenzy, and wresting it
from its basis brought down the whole
building upon the children. He himself
however escaped, but, being pursued with
stones by the inhabitants, took sanctuary
in the temple of Athena, where he con
cealed himself in the sacred chest. The
people paying no respect to the holy place
still pursued him and attempted to force
open the lid, whioh he held down with gi
gantic strength. At length when the cof
fer was broken in pieces Cleomedes was
nowhere to be found, dead or alive. Ter
rified at this prodigy they sent to consult
the oracle of Delphi, by which they were
commanded to pay divine honours to the
athlete as the last of the heroes.
“ In the interior of the schools there was
commonly an oratory adorned with sta
tues of the Muses, where probably in a
kind of front was kept a supply of pure
water for the boys. Pretending often,
when they were not, to be thirsty, they
would steal in knots to this oratory, and
there amuse themselves by splashing the
water over each other; on which account
legislators ordained that strict watch should
be kept over it. Every morning the forms
were spunged, the' schoolroom was cleanly
swept, the ink ground ready for use, and
all things were put in order for the busi
ness of the day.
“ The apparatus of an ancient school was
somewhat complicated: there were mtahematical instruments, globes, maps, and
charts of the heavens, together with boards
whereon to trace geometrical figures, tab
lets, large and small, of box-wood, fir, or
ivory triangular m form, some folding with
many leaves; books too and paper, skins
of parchment, wax for covering tablets,
which if we may believe Aristophanes,
people sometimes ate when they were
hungry.
“ To the above were added rulers, reed
pens, pen-cases, pen-knives, pencils, and
last, though not least, the rod which kept
them to the steady use of all these things.”
At Athens these schools were not pro
vided by the state. They were private
speculations,and each master was regulated
in his charges by the reputation he had
acquired and the fortunes of his pupils.
Some appear to have been extremely mode
rate in their demands.
“ There was for example a school-master
named Hippomachos, upon entering whose
establishment boys were required to pay
down one mina, after which they might
remain as long as they pleased. Didaskaloi were not however held in sufficient
respect, though as their scholars were
sometimes very numerous, as many for ex
ample as a hundred and twenty, it must
often have happened that they became
wealthy. From the life of Homer, attri
buted to Herodotus, we glean some few
particulars respecting the conditou of a
schoolmaster in remoter ages.”
The first thing taught was the Greek
alphabet, to spell and then to read. Herodes, the sophist, experienced much vexa
tion from the stupidity exhibited in achiev
ing this enterprise by his son Allicus,
whose memory was so sluggish, that he
could not even recollect the Christ-CrossRow. To overcome this extraordinary
dullness, he educated along with him twen
ty-four little slaves of his own age, upon
whom he bestowed the names of the ietters,
so that young Aliicus might be compelled
to learn his alphabet as he played with his
companions, now calling out for Omicoes,
now for Psi. Writing and various other
things calculated to improve the mind,
such as learning poetry followed, or then
came gymnastics. Arithmetic was an early,
and according to Plato, an important
branch of study, as also astronomy in rela
tion to its practical bearing, husbandry,
navigation, and military affairs. Music,
was with the Greeks, an important feature
jn education.
*
* Oil this point consult Mr. St. Jolm, p. 184.
�THE MIRROR.
Gymnastics too occupied a considerable
portion of their time, to counteract the pale
faces and emaciated frames too often the
lot of the student; horsemanship, swim
ming, &c., were simultaneously taught, with
dancing, the use of arms, wrestling, and
every athletic habit of the gymnasia, from
whence they went forth to the schools of
the philosophers. There were the finishing
acadamies of Greece, and here history,
philosophy, the fine arts were taught. We
pause to give Mr. St. John’s view of edu
cation in monarchies, regarchies, and free
states:—
“ In monarchies a spirit of exclusion,
something like that on which the system
of castes is built, must pervade the whole
business of education. The nobility must
have schools to themselves, or, if wealthy
plebeians be suffered to mingle with them,
superioi’ honour and consideration must be
yielded to the former. The masters must
look up to them and their families, and not to
the people for preferment and advance
ment; and the plebeians though superior in
number, must be weak in influence, and
be taught to borrow their tone from the
privileged students.
“In an oligarchy, properly so called,
there should be no mingling of the classes
at all. Schools must be established ex
pressly for the governors, and others for
the governed. The basis of education
should be the notion that some men were
born for rule and others for subjection;
that the happiness of individuals depends
on unrequiring submission to authority;
that their rulers are wise and they unwise;
that all they have to do with the laws is
to obey them; and all teachers must be
made to feel that their admission among
the great depends on the faithful advocacy
of such notions.
“In free states again, the contrary course
will best promote the ends of government;
the schools must be strictly public, and
not merely theoretically but practically
open to all. There should be no compul
sion to attend them, but ignorance of the
things there taught should involve a for
feiture of civil rights as much as being of
unsound mind; for in truth, an ignorant
man is not of sound mind, any more than
one unable to use all his limbs is of
sound body. Here the discipline must be
very severe. A spirit rigidly puritanical
must pervade the studies and preside over
nhe amusements. Every tendency irreli
gious, immoral, ungentlemanly, as un
worthy the dignity of freedom should be
nipped in the bud. The students must be
caught to despise all other distinctions but
diose of virtue and genius, in other words
ffie power to serve the community. They
should be taught to contemplate humanity
js in other respects wholly on the same
21
level, with nothing above it but the laws.
The teachers must be dependent on the
people alone, and owe their success to
their own abilities and popular manners.
And this last in a great measure was the
spirit of Athenian education.
“ The best proof that could be furnished
of the excellence of a system of education
would be its rendering a people almost in
dependent of a government, that is sway
ed more by their habits than by the laws.
This was preeminently the case with the
Athenians. They required to be very
little meddled with by their rulers. In
structed in their duties and the reason
which rendered them duties, accustomed
from childhood to perform them, they
lived as moral and educated men live still,
independent of the laws. ”
With regard to philosophy, history,
rhetoric, the fine-arts, such as painting,
statuary, and all the preliminaries of the
liberal professions, the Greeks provided
ample teachers, and these branches fully
learned, the young men went forth into the
world to fulfil their several destinies. Whe
ther or not, education should be national
or not, is now so vexed a question, that
without giving our own opinion as yet, we
quote that of Mr. James Augustus St.
John:—
“ The question which demands so much
attention in modern states, viz., whether
education should be national and uniform,
likewise much occupied the thoughts of
ancient statesmen, and it is known that in
most cases they decided in the affirmative.
It may however be laid down as an axiom,
thatamonga phlegmatic andpassive people,
where the government has not yet acquir
ed its proper form and development, the
establishment of a national system of edu
cation, complete in all its parts and extend
ing to the whole body of the citizens, must
be infallibly pernicious. For such as the
government is at the commencement such
very nearly will it continue, as was proved
by the example of Crete and Sparta. For the
Cretan legislators, arresting the progress
of society at a certain point by the esta
blishment of an iron system of education,
before the popular mind had acquired its
full growth and expansion, dwarfed the
Cretan people completely, and by prevent
ing their keeping pace with their country
men, rendered them in historical times in
ferior to all their neighbours. In Sparta,
again, the form of polity given to the state
by Lycurgus, wonderful for the age in
which it was framed, obtained perpetuity
solely by the operation of his psedonomieal
institutions. The imperfection, however,
of the system arose from this circumstance,
that the Spartan government was framed
too early in the career of civilisation. Had
its lawgiver lived a century or two later,
�22
THE MIRROR.
he would have established his institutions
on a broader and more elevated basis, so
that they would have remained longer
nearly on a level with the progressive in
stitutions of the neighbouring states. But
he fixed the form of the Spartan common
wealth when the general mind of Greece
had scarcely emerged from barbarism;
and as the rigid and unyielding nature of
his laws forbade any great improvement,
Sparta continued to bear about her in the
most refined ages of Greece innumerable
marks of the rude period in which she had
risen. From this circumstance flowed
many of her crimes and misfortunes. For
bidden to keep pace with her neighbours
in knowledge and refinement, which by
rendering them inventive, enterprising, and
experienced, elevated them to power, she
was compelled, in order to maintain her
ground, to have recourse to astuteness,
strategem, and often to perfidy.
“ The Spartan system, it is well known,
made at first, and for some ages, little or
no use of books. But this at certain stages
of society was scarcely an evil; for know
ledge can be imparted, virtues implanted
and cherished, and great minds ripened to
maturity without their aid. The teacher,
in this case, rendered wise by meditation
and experience, takes the place of a book,
and by oral communication, by precept,
and by example, instructs, and disciplines,
and moulds his pupil into what he would
have him be. By this progress both are
benefited. The preceptor’s mind, kept in
constant activity, acquires daily new force
and expansion; and the pupil’s in like
manner. In a state therefore like that of
Sparta, in the age of Lycurgus, it was pos
sible to acquire all necessary knowledge
without books, of which indeed very few
existed. But afterwards, when the Ionian
republics began to be refined and elevated
by philosophy and literature, Sparta, una
ble to accompany them, fell into the back
ground; still preserving, however, her
warlike habits, she was enabled on many
occasions to overawe and subdue them.
Among the Athenians, though knowledge
was universally diffused, there existed,
properly speaking, no system of national
education. The people, like their state,
were in perpetual progress, aiming at per
fection, and sometimes approaching it; but
precipitated by the excess of their intellec
tual and physical energies into numerous
and constantly recurring errors. While
Sparta, as we have seen, remained content
with the wisdom indigenous to her soil,
scanty and imperfect as it was, Athens
converted herself into one vast mart, whi
ther every man who had anything new to
communicate hastened eagerly, and found
the sure reward of his ingenuity. Philo
sophers, sophists, geometricians, astrono
mers, artists, musicians, actors, from all
parts of Greece and her most distant colo
nies, flocked to Athens to obtain from its
quick-sighted, versatile,impartial, and most
generous people, that approbation which in
the ancient world constituted fame. There
fore, although the laws regulated the maJ
terial circumstances of the schools and
gymnasia, prescribed the hours at which
they should be opened and closed, and
watched earnestly over the morals both of
preceptors and pupils, there was a constant
indraught of fresh science, a perpetually
increasing experience and knowledge of
the world, and, consequent thereupon, a
deep-rooted conviction of their superiority
over their neighbours, an impatience of
antiquated forms, and an audacious reli
ance on their own powers and resources,
which brought them into the most hazard
ous schemes of ambition. But, by pushing
their literary and philosophical studies, the
Athenians were induced at length to neg
lect the cultivation of the arts of war,
which they appeared to regard as a low
and servile drudgery. And this capital
error, in spite of all their acquirements and
achievements in eloquence and philosophy
—in spite of their lofty speculation and
“ style of gods,” brought their state to a
premature dissolution; while Sparta, with
inferior institutions, and ignorance, which
even the children of Athens w'ould have
laughed at, was enabled much longer to
preserve its existence, from its impas
sioned application to the use of arms, aided,
perhaps, by a stronger and more secluded
position. From this it appears that of all
sciences that of war is the chiefest, since,
where this is cultivated, a nation may main
tain its independence without the aid of
any other; whereas the most knowing,
refined, and cultivated men, if they neglect
the use of arms, will not be able to stand
their ground against a handful even of bar
barians. The mistake, too, who look upon
literature and the sciences as a kind of pal
ladium against barbarism, for a whole na
tion may read and write, like the inhabi
tants of the Birman empire, without being
either civilised or wise; and may possess
the best books and the power to read them,
without being able to profit by the lessons
of wisdom they contain, as is proved by the
example of the Greeks and Romans, who
perished rather from a surfeit of knowledge
than from any lack of instruction.”
But for a full and perfect account of
every branch of this, as of every other
subject connected with Ancient Greece, we
must now leave the reader to the work
itself. '
�THE MIRROR.
A Tale
of
Cracow.
[The following Ode or Masque for music is extracted
and arranged, with additional incident, from a
Drama, still in manuscript, written in the year
1837, entitled “ Poland, or the Expulsion of Con
stantine.” It was intended for representation (set
to music) for the sole benefit of the Polish exiles in
England, under the patronage of that disinterested
patroness of the Polish cause, her grace the
Duchess of Hamilton. The late highly scientific
professor Ernest Augustus Kellner, enthusiastic in
his attachment to the Poles, volunteered to supply
the music. Half the work was composed, and pro
nounced by Mr. Bennet, and other accomplished
professors and amateurs, as containing music of
first-rate order—sublime and pathetic. In the
midst of his task, he ruptured a blood-vessel, that
finally led to that rapid consumption which, on the
18th of July, 1839, deprived us for ever of his ta
lents and manly virtues.
The Prophet.—-The extraordinary events which
attended the career of Sobieski during his battles,
gave to his exploits almost a supernatural charac
ter; and, as recorded, every pulpit throughout
Europe resounded with his great name. The
clergy “ emulated each other in immortalising
‘ The Man sent from God,’ and the miracles
which have descended to him from heaven.” He
had “ conquered for religion and for all civilised
nations,” who, with one accord, decreed to him the
title of “ The Saviour of Christianity.” This sa
credness of character—the singular intervention of
the elements in favouring his warlike operations—
combined with the extraordinary coincidence of his
birth—his elevation to the throne, and his death,
being all on that day so revered throughout Catho
lic countries as the most holy of their fetes—offered
a powerful and mysterious picture to the imagina
tion of a being inspired by heaven with supernatu
ral power. I was thus induced to make this hero
my Prophet; and his shrine, for the Invocations of
the spectres, and for the supplications of the patriots
as to the future destinies of Poland.
Scene—The Interior of the Cathedral of Cracow.
Time—Midnight. Holy Hermit and Sworn Pa
triots.
hermit
(as entering)
Hist, brothers, hist! some footsteps near ?
FIRST PATRIOT.
None, holy father, none are here
Save those around their country’s bier,
Who at thy sacred side now stand,
To wake to life their murder’d land.
[Chimes suddenly sound.
Hark! self-moved, the chimes now sound,
Through the midnight darkness round.
[The organ suddenly plays solemn strain.
And now the mystic midnight hymn,
Through the lone aisles all still and dim ;
Where sleep, beneath the holy gloom,
Tlie dead who sanctify the tomb. (1)
23
Though dead, in immortality
And each beneath his effigy—
Twin images to tell life’s tale,
As cold, as moveless, and as pale.
Here rest we till again the chime
Shall lead us to the hallowed shrine,
With silent step, and silent rhyme!
There, imaged, sleeps the saint divine.
The diadem that clasps its brow
Bespeaks the shrouded king below.
So calm the visage ’neath the crown,
That the soul seems to speak in stone;
And lifted, as in pious rest,
The praying hands upon its breast,
There night by night the spirit dwells
In prophecies and mighty spells.
[The chimes sound, and a sudden
pale mystic light illumines the
cathedral, and at the same mo
ment the organ accompanies the
following chorus of spirits—the
spectres of Praga.
CHORUS IN REPOSE DIRGE.
THE SPECTRES OF PBAGA.
From Praga’s blood-stained plain
We come, the slaughter’d train;
But to no trophied tomb our shades belong!
Unshrouded comes each sprite,
From his dark and dismal night
A pale and shadowy throng.
’Neath slaughter’s crimson wings
Our bones unburied lie,
Where the foul raven sings,
And night-blasts cry.
Howl of wolf and vulture’s scream,
Our only funeral song, our only requiem !
We come, O Saviour King! to thee,
To mix our souls amidst the coming fray.
We cry for vengeance and for liberty.
[The organ sounds boldly with mar
tial strains and the light plays.
HOLY HERMIT.
Hail’d in anthem, clad in.light,
What glorious vision bursts upon my sight ?
In that awful brow sublime
I see the saviour of our clime !
Pallid spectres round him throng,
Valour in their funeral song.
See, the fight beckons from the shrine,
And leads us to the shade divine;
There to kneel before the tomb,
And wake the Prophet of our doom.
[A solemn organ music continues while the scene
changes to the shrine of Sobieski, which is illu
mined—at which the Hermit is kneeling.]
HERMIT.
Oh thou, all sainted in thy hallowed shrine!
Whose warrior hand divine
Drowned the pale crescent in barbarian blood,
Never more to rise ! (2)
Oh thou, whose saviour hands divine
Bade ev’ry altar shine ! (3)
�THE MIRROR.
24
And flxt th’ immortal cross for man’s immortal
good;
Oh hear thy nation’s cries !
Thou, whom the God-feast hailed at thy birth
A future king on earth ! (4)
Thou, whom the God-feast hail’d when thou wert
crown’d,
To spread thy glory round!
And thou, the God-feast mourn’d—yet hail’d in
death,
When soar’d from earth to heaven thy parting
breath ;
When Nature, like a mother in despair,1
Who sits in ashes, and who rends her hair,
In sudden darkness veil’d the skies,
And bade the tempest rise !
Wak’d the loud forest, and the louder sea,
As if in madd’ning melody to thee I
The mountain-oaks and pines, and ocean’s roar,
Like lamentations wild, that breath’d thou wert no
more!
Holy warrior ! thee I call
From beneath thy fun’ral pall!
Arise! arise! and round us bring
The shrouded heroes while we sing;
Hear thy bleeding country’s pray’r!
Lift us I lift us from despair I
Let thy holy spirit tell
Where our future hopes shall dwell.
[Celestial music sounds from the
tomb—which precedes, and occa
sionally accompanies, the speech
of the Prophet.]
PROPHET.
Battles lost and battles won,
To end in woe what hope begun—
Oft must be the mortal’s fate
Who struggles ’gainst a giant’s hate I
But shall the brave despair ?
Who perseveres shall conquest win!
Gird on thy sword, and swear—
Swear that thy sword shall never sheathed be
Until thy fettered land is free.
HERMIT AND PATRIOTS.
Before thy shrine, beneath thy care,
Hear us ! Oh, mighty spirit, hear!
We swear! we swear! we swear!
PROPHET.
Oh ! I have seen-----
[Music expressive of grief.—Pause.]
----- ’tis now before mine eyes—
Oh! grave it in your memories I—
Our ancient nobles bound in chains,
In deadly mines—or frozen plains 1
Seen the slow death the hero dies,
With not a friend to close his eyes ! (5)
And they—beneath the tyrant’s knife
Bleeding—scarce monuments of life— (6)
Heard, too, the voice that speaks a tyrant’s truth,
In fragments reeking from the cannon’s mouth 1 (7)
Seen—lisping children, drown’d in tears,
Torn clinging from their frantic mother’s knees,
Till, pale with horror, each, the other hears,
While each, the other, then, no longer sees,
And brutal stripes to still a mother’s agonies I (8)
All these have been,
And still again may be.
But, shall the brave despair ?
Who perseveres shall conquest win 1
Gird on thy sword and swear—
Swear that thy blade shall never sheathed be,
Until thy fettered land is free.
HOLY HERMIT AND PATRIOTS.
Before thy shrine, beneath thy care,
Hear us 1 oh mighty spirit, hear I
We swear 1 we swear 1 we swear 1
PROPHET.
We brand the robber for one little theft—
We slay the murd’rer for one little life—
Then what thy due, oh tyrant! that, bereft
Of mercy, pity, justice—all but strife—
Doth rob and murder millions whose sole crime,
The love of all that’s dear within their clime.
Though storm may bluster, and may rend the tree,
Yet the seed mounts upon his furious wing ;
Spite of his rage, the fbuitful still shall be !
Where each seed falls, a glorious plant shall
spring!
—’Tis thus blind tyrants sow their destiny,
And where they’d crush, they make but liberty!
CHORUS OP SPIRITS.
Though ye have wept, and years have slept,
Still burns th’ immortal ray
That feeds the flame of Poland’s name,
And points to brighter day I
[Symphony, sacred music, occasionally
accompanying the speech.]
PROPHET.
0 Thou, whose mighty hand hath launched on high
The glowing worlds that bum along the sky,
Say, didst thou beauteous make the human soul
To yield it to some tyrant’s base control ?
Oh, could that wisdom, stampt through nature’s
frame,
Where ev’ry star doth write thy glorious name,
Doom living millions, breathing through each land.
To sink, like brutes, beneath th’ oppressor’s hand ?
Could’st Thou,who shield’st each little seedling’s birth,
Behold, unmoved, the Scoubges of the earth ?
No! O’er each clime thine eye protective reigns,
And nations at Thy mandate break then- chains.
chorus of spirits
(celestial music).
Almighty freedom ! charter from our God!
By His hand giv’n to Nature at our birth !
From the green vaulter chirping o’er the sod,
To all of sea or air— to all of earth !
Oh, then shall Poland kiss th’ oppressor’s rod,
And smoking ruins cover all her worth?
Oh no ! Her millions with one voice reply,
Freedom or death ! Revenge or liberty!
�THE MIRROR.
SPIRIT OF SOBIESKI.
25
THE NATION.
Relentless tyrant! Muscovite I
What though thine eagle, dark as night,
Bear blood and rapine in its flight ?
Poland’s bird—like spotless day—
White with Freedom’s holy ray,
Shall pluck thy raven-plumes away!
What, though from the Gate of Storm
Rush thy hordes in black’ning swarin ?
Nature now asserts her laws !
Freedom, and thy guilty cause,
Shall like whirlwind on them pour,
And scatter them from shore to shore!
Oh! could thine impious blindness dare
To breath its blasphemies in prayer? (9)
In the record seal’d on high—
In thine incens’d God’s reply—
Tyrant 1 hear thy destiny:
CHORUS.
Revenge! Revenge!
No more despair!
Revenge! Revenge!
We swear I we swear!
Hands lock’d in hands, we swear to thee,
Revenge ! Revenge ! and Liberty !
SPIRIT OF KOSCIOUSKO.
Remember aU the groans
That burst from burning towns,
The old with weeping eyes,
And butcher’d infants’ cries 1
The mothers frantic stare,
With shrieks and rended hair;
While blood, in riv’lets fleet,
Ran, smoking through each street;
Our fields all stain’d with gore 1—
Ashes aU our store 1(10)
Plague and Famine seize thy realm I
Treasons dark thy throne o’erwhelm !
Thine the fate that stamps thy race !
In thy shield the dagger trace!
Kinsman’s blood for blood atone,
And the traitor fill thy throne!
THE NATION.
CHORUS.
Revenge! Revenge!
No more despair!
Revenge! Revenge!----- (11)
Hark ! what voice now wings the skies ?
SPIRIT OF KOSCIOUSKO.
SPIRIT OF KOSCIOUSKO.
All thy legions! Poland! rise!
Think on that dawn of day
Which show’d where scatter’d lay
Young mothers, ’mid the dead;
Who on their thresholds bled!
One arm then- infants round,
And one uplifted found—
Their eyes destended wide,
As they defending died 1
SPIRIT OF SOBIESKI.
’Tis Kosciousko’s spirit cries !
SPIRIT OF KOSCIOUSKO.
Poniatowsky’s soul with mine—
Shielded by the wing divine—
Shall hover o’er each patriot line I
By the graves Suwarroff’s hand
Reddened thro’ our dying land,
Swear your country’s chains to free!
Swear! Revenge and Liberty !
THE NATION.
CHORUS.
Revenge! Revenge!
No more despair !
Revenge! Revenge!
We swear! we swear!
To the battle now we fly 1
Revenge! revenge 1 and Liberty!
[Shouts.
SPIRIT OF SOBIESKI.
Hark the shouts that rend the sky !
’Tis the millions in reply.
The King of Kings the oath reveres,
And the mighty chorus hears.
THE PROPHET.
Oh, guilty England!—guiltier France!
Where, where your boasted name ?
Can Pilnitz in your memories live,
Nor stamp your brows with shame ?
THE NATION.
CHORUS.
By the graves of slain we swear!
Freedom or their fate to share ;
By their blood we swear to thee,
Revenge ! Revenge ! and Liberty !
Can you, unmoved, in guilt behold
The Northern Giant stand
Ferocious, with the reeking blade
And fetters in his hand ?
SPIRIT OF KOSCIOUSKO.
Can you, bereft of soul, behold
The work of hell begun,
And like two pallid cowards stand
And see the murder done ?
In the battle, bear with thee
AU my bleeding memory !
How the furious Muscovite—'
Red with murder from the fight—
Ev’ry sacred home despoil’d—
Wives and innocents defil’d—
Fire and slaughter, such as now
They’d write in blood on every brow!
’ What though no gen’rous arm will lift .
The lance to set thee free!
Oh! noble Poland ! Not alone !
Justice ! and God ! with thee !
4
�26
THE MIRROR.
I see ! I see, in all our evils good 1—
Our pastures stained with all our dearest blood—
Our desolated land—our trampled field—
Our cities burning—yet we will not yield !
For from the ashes shall the phoenix rise,
And on the wings of glory cleave the skies!
CHORUS OF THE WARRIORS OF ISRAEL.
See Praga’s flames ! and see the brands
Waving in her murd’rers’ hands ! (12)
Yet—a “ burnt-off’rhig,” see it rise,
Rolling its sacred volume to the skies,
Doom’d a mighty torch to be
To light from victory to victory I
Like to the pillar-fire that blazed on high
With hallow’d glory through the desert sky,
When the Almighty Voice bade Israel cast the yoke—
And the Almighty Hand the Egyptian bondage broke,
Unchained the liquid mountains from their graves,
And buried m the depths th’ oppressor and his slaves.
NOTES TO “ THE PROPHECY.” .
Note 1.—The Cathedral of Cracow is an
ancient and still magnificent building, con •
taining antiquities of historical character
belonging to the kingdom of Poland, the
monarchs of which were crowned in it. In
the same vault under it, are the coffins of
John Sobieski, Poniatowski, and of Kossiousko. Near the city, an enormous
conical mound has been raised in honour
of the latter hero.
Note 2.—The name of Sobieski resounded
throughout Europe previous to the deliver
ance of Vienna; but that immortal victory,
in the overthrow of the Ottoman power,
acquired for him a popularity which will
perpetuate itself for ages.
Note 3.—Ths news of this great event,
which fixed the destiny of the West, flew
from country to country; and everywhere it
was received with enthusiasm by the peo
ple. Protestant states—Catholic states—
all celebrated, in their public places, in their
palaces, in their temples, the victory of
John Sobieski.
At Mayence, as at Venice—in England,
as in Spain, every pulpit resounded with
his great name. It was an emulation be
tween them who should hold highest the
“ man sent from God, and the miracles which
had descended to him from the protection of
Heaven.’’
At Rome the fete continued for an entire
month. At the first report of the victory,
Pope Innocent XI, melting in tears, fell on
his knees at the foot of the cross. Mag
nificent illuminations took place, and the
dome built by Michael Angelo was con
verted into a temple of fire, suspended in
the air.
Sobieski had conquered for all civilised
nations, and they decreed to him, with one
common voice, the title of “ The Saviour
of Christianity.”—History of Poland, edited
by Leond. Chodzko. Paris.
Note 4.—
“ Thou whom the God-feast hailed at thy birth,
A future king on earth.”
'Ihe day of Fete Dieu, by a remarkable
coincidence, was the day of his birth, that
of his election to the throne, and that of
his death. On the 17th of June, 1696, he
was seized with apoplexy. On recovering
his senses, he called for his confessor, re
mained twenty minutes with him, and
received the sacrament, when another fit
struck him, and he expired between eight
and nine o’clock; at which time the sun
disappeared below the horizon, and a tempest
rose, so extraordinary and so frightful,
that, as an ocular witness expressed it,
there were no terms adequate to describe
the rapid revolutions of the heavens.—
History of Poland. Chodzko.
Note 5.—A nobleman of one of the most
distinguished families in Poland (himself
and brother both exiles in Paris) assured
me that those who were condemned to the
mines seldom survived their heart-breaking
suffering more than a year. One of the
most atrocious condemnations so charac
teristic of the nature of the present czar,
may be gathered from the following his
torical fact:—
After the unhappy termination of the
Polish revolution, Nicholas granted a still
more unbridled course to his inhuman pas
sions.
A young Pole (the Prince Roman Sangusko), who had been married two years,
and was the father of two children, was
amongst the prisoners of war. A Russian
tribunal condemned him to perpetual
slavery in the Siberian mines. His sen
tence directed that he should be trans
ported thither chained in a cart. His
mother resolved to fly to St. Petersburgh,
and pray for a remission of the punish
ment. She arrived on the birth-day of the
emperor, and presented her petition whilst
he was receiving the congratulations of
his family. He listened to her with atten
tion, and answered her with a smile, “ Yes,
madame,I will alter the sentence; your son,
instead of being conducted to Siberia in
the cart, shall he dragged there on foot.
This is all I can do for you.”—Extr. Con
tinental Europe.
This excellent and high-minded prince,
following the amended mercy of the barba
rian Nicholas, was transported. He had a
favourite dog which faithfully followed
him, and was a consolation to him on his
painful road, as he continued to be after
wards to him, as his companion in the
mines.
�THE MIRROR.
Nicholas wrote, with bis own hand, on
Ae margin of his condemnation, “ The
stflprit shall walk the whole way.” The
Brince was accordingly chained to a de■achment of galley-slaves, and marched
with them to the confines of Khamschatka,
His family, however, one of the wealthiest
md most powerful in the empire, having
nterceded in his behalf, the emperor granted
lis recal, on condition that he entered the
army of the Caucasus as a private soldier;
which he did. After serving some time in
he ranks, the prince, through the influ
ence of his family, was promoted to the
s»nk of ensign, or sub-lieutenant; but the
iitigue he had endured in his way to his
viace of banishment, soon brought on a dis
use which compelled him to retire from
iie army. He repaired to Moscow for the
•enefit of medical advice. His malady,
aowever, was pronounced incurable by the
petitioners of that city, who rccom’lended him change of climate, as the only
stance left for his recovery. The prince
arving made known his situation to prince
Jallitzen, the governor of Moscow, the latBr hastened to write to the emperor, to sojfiit for him leave to travel abroad during
jvo years. A peremptory refusal was the
iMswer returned, with a severe rebuke to
rince Gallitzen for his warm appeal in fa
vour of a revolutionist. Sangusko’s condion becoming daily worse and worse, his
•lends advised him to set out for St. Pe■rsburgh, in order to obtain an opinion
•om the medical men of that capital, and
jy it, and present himself, before the em’•ror. The latter, however, was inexora
ble, and a few days only had elapsed after
•s refusal, that Sangusko expired.—Ex
met of a letter from St. Petersburgh, dated
ane 19.
27
she threw her?elf on the carriage, and at
tempted to drag away the children by force.
Repulsed by the blows of the knout from
the Cossacks, she fell to the ground sense
less. When she recovered, she ran like a
maniac across the streets of Warsaw, ut
tering frightful cries, which were soon
stifled between the walls and under the
locks of a dungeon.”
In the debates of the Chamber of Depu
ties, the worthy General De la Fayette thus
expressed himself on the atrocity;
“ Eh bien ! au mepris des traites et des
engagemens les plus solennels, la Pologne
est devenue une simple province russe regie par des ukases — et quels ukases ?
C’est en vertu de l’un d’eux que les enfans
de sept a quinze ans, sont arrachSs des bras
de leurs m£res,qu’ils sent enlevespour toujours aleur patrie, transportespour toujours
dans un pays qui n’est plus le leur.”
Note 9.—See the manifestos of the em
peror Nicholas—the Te-Deums and mocke
ries of divine service for their just and
holy (?) cause.
Note 10.—On the 4th of November, Suwarroff ordered an assault, and the fortifi
cations were carried after some hours’hard
fighting. Suwarroff, the butcher of Ismail,
a fit general for an imperial assassin, was
at the head of the assailants, and his very
name announces a barbarous carnage.
Eight thousand Poles perished sword in
hand, and the Russians having set fire to
the bridge, cut off the retreat of the inha
bitants. Above twelve thousand towns
people, old men, women, and children, were
murdered in cold blood; and to fill the mea
sure of their iniquity aud barbarity, the
Russians fired the place in four different
parts, and in a few hours the whole of
Note 6.—An aged baron and his two Praga, inhabitants as well as houses, was
<ns underwent the punishment of having a heap of ashes.—Fletcher s History of Po
Meir noses slit and their ears cut off.
land, p. 342.
Note 7—Several Poles were blown»from
Note 11.—In adapting the music, the
*e mouth of the cannon by the Cossacks.
chorus is to be abruptly broken, as if by
the eagerness of the spirit to continue its
Note 8.—Extract of a letter from the exhortations.
inti ers of Poland, dated June 20, 1832 :
-“The conduct of the Russians with reNote 12.—See note 10.
jrd to Poland is more atrocious than ever,
sildren are dragged from their mothers’
Basts, even in the very streets.”—(jalig^abaftfctift ^allentiac^a;
•ni.
OB,
Extract of a letter, dated Berlin, July 5,
32:—“What has been said of carrying off THE MERCHANT of JERICHO.
b children is but too true. Lately, the
“ Auri sacra fames.”
■ther of three children (who had been
«ced in the house of orphans since the
Chapter I.
*th of their father) ran to the bridge of
Some spirits are made to buffet the
Mtga, where the waggon was passing, es«ted by Cossacks, in which her children waves of the world, and some to sit con
ve being carried away. In her despair tented on its wide shores. If the latter
�28
“HE mirror,.
have fewer active pleasures, they have less
pain; and the pain they do undergo is, for
tire most part, sorrow for the errors, and
failings, and misfortunes, of those upon
whom, as a man beholds vessels tossed by
a tempest at sea, they look abroad. Their
pleasures too are subdued, yet more con
stant; unexciting, yet thence more condu
cive to happiness. Indeed, for such na
tures happiness is not to be found in the
giddy whirl of amusement that the world
affords. To others it may be, nay, it is
necessary, to woo perpetual change, and
cling to the rolling wheel of fortune,
wherever it may go; but to those I speak
of, the lap of tranquillity" is the abode of
happiness; and, whether their lot be or be
not favourable, they learn to meet prospe
rity with a smile, adversity with resigna
tion, and attacks with the shield of forti
tude. Their joy is calm and sedate; their
sorrow, pensiveness; hope, the balm of
every wound; and death, either a deliver
ance from misfortune, or a passage from
an imperfect state of bliss to one everlast
ing. The solitude of nature, which is, to
the mere worldling, an aching void, is peo
pled with beings and existences that are
to them not mute companions, but full of
a language and an eloquence that bathes
the unsophisticated heart with a holy joy
and divine glow of enthusiasm. The soar
ing mountains, the sinking valleys, the
broad plains unrolled beneath a sunny
sky, the breathing forests, and the waters
that wander round the earth, the silent re
volving, the gentle influences of the sun,
and the jewelled coronet that binds the
brow of night, all join to ensure calmness
and gladness into the soul of one abstract
ed from the world, and holding commu
nion with the beauties that fill the face of
the earth with remembrances of their be
neficent Creator.
If the solitary were to choose one lonely
place more than another for his abode, he
would assuredly fix on a certain glen,
nestled in one of the sloping folds of Mount
Lebanon, where nature riots in her un
curbed luxuriance, and has, in the long
lapse of time, clothed its every recess with
a green underwood, even up to the brows
of the impending precipices. Here and
there too groups of tall trees fling their
branches abroad. The cedar waves over
the myrtle bowers, and the fir-tree on the
rocks above; the palm, the olive, and the
box-tree, all take root, and grow, and bud,
and put forth leaves, and blossom, and bear
fruit in their turns, and many flowers
shake their censers in the breeze, per
fuming the air; nor does the place lack a
stream to stray along its depths. Hills,
fresh with the morning dew, deeply green
beneath the noontide sun, burnished by its
setting beams, grey and solemn in the twi
light, or silvered in the light of the horned
moon, left their columns on every side tM
support the blue dome overhead. NaturjJ
in fact, has been there in her own pre
sence, and man has done little to alter her
work.
And that little has been done by men
such as I have described, awake to all that
was lovely there, and careful to mar no
thing that tends to adorn the scene around.
"They were indeed men for whom such a
scene was made. Quiet, unoffending souls,
who had not learned the affectation of en
deavouring to send nature to school, and
who saw in all around gifts given from the
immediate hand of God. Their food for
the most part was plucked from trees with
in sight of their own cell, for they were
hermits; the streams afforded them drink,
and the produce of a small but well-stock
ed garden wherewith to make up any defi
ciencies in their very circumscribed ward
robe. In brief, wearied with the world
and all its cares, its sorrows, its many ills,
seven holy men had retired to this se
questered spot to spend the remainder of
their days in the quiet enjoyment of inno
cence, in contemplation, and in prayer.
No misanthropic feeling drove them thi
ther; charity and good-will to all men
lodged in their hearts, not unaccompanied
perchance by the little failings and preju
dices to which even such men are liable;
but they felt, though for the most part
men in the prime of life when they first
bent their steps to this retirement, that the
world was not made for them, and accord
ingly, with hearts overflowing with tender
ness, they retired to a hermitage, a place
where only such meek natures could hope
to benefit their neighbours, by supplica
tions to heaven, and the example of a pure
and irreproachable life. Meeting for the
first time perhaps on this their retreat
from this world, their happily-constituted
minds easily blended, and in spite of the
necessary diversity in age, temper, and
previous habits, a certain harmony per
vaded the little society, that seemed to ani
mate all its members as with one principle
of action.
Now their names were these: Mustapha,
who was the eldest, and Sawab, and Ab
dallah, and Hussein Ibu Suleiman, and
Abd-el-Atif, and Yousouf, and Hussein Ibn
Achmed.
To recite the daily round of their devo
tional occupations, though probably of
much profit, would be but monotonous.
Some account, however, of their domestic
economy may be acceptable. Prayer then,
and converse, engaged their more serious
hours, from which they turned to the
agreeable task of weeding and watering
their garden, and tending the flowers and
trailing plants that adorned a narrow ter
�THE MIRROR.
race in front of their hermitage. They
were indeed, though rigid Moslems, yet not
ascetics, who strove to enjoy life in their
quiet way, and who had no other butt for
the small store of malice they possessed in
common with all mankind, but the Father
of Lies, who monopolised all their ill-will.
Their charity was universal, all pass
ers-by being welcome to a crust of bread,
a handful of dried fruits, and a shelter
from the weather. One old fellow, Mustapha, already far down the slopes of the
vale of years, presided at their table, the
patriarch of their society, whilst the rest
in turns performed the due offices of the
household, and thus their existence ran on,
and would probably have continued to
run, had not a circumstance, which I am
about to relate, occurred to break the even
tenor of their lives.
Chapter II.
The country around the glen I have
described was lovely in the extreme. The
opening turned towards the south, and it
was consequently protected from the bleak
north winds. On one hand, towards the
north, and in front, stretched a country
which, though not boasting much bold sce
nery, yet did not belie the epithet I have
bestowed upon it. Here rose a woody hill,
with its foliage waving, at the time of
which I speak, in all the beautiful luxuri
ance of southern climes, to the summer
breeze; there opened a lovely vale, with
perhaps some watercourse flowing down,
fertilising its green meadows as it went;
and ever and anon the burst of melody
that swelled away from the bloomy brakes,
or sank from above, like the voice of angels
singing in the stars, threw a kind of har
mony over the spirits of the dwellers in the
hermitage, and, as it floated along, un
broken by the voice of man, except when
the evening and the morning recitations of
prayers mingled therewith, it told that,
however deserted by human beings the
rest of the land might be, it was populous
in those blythe warblers that haunt the
lovely spots yet undisturbed by the noisy
throng of cities.
On the other hand, the crags shot up
with a bolder front, and aspired nearer
heaven; the valleys narrowed, and gave up
the sound, the roar of dashing torrents and
cataracts below, the ilex gave way to the
pine that tufted the summits of the cliffs,
in whose sides dusky recesses, where rob
bers might lurk, appeared and hung over
the paths that led travellers across the
mountains. Narrow clefts in the rock
opened, as though to let forth whole troops
of assassins; yet, in spite of the seeming
29-
desolateness of the scene, now that the sun
was fast sinking to the west, a sweet though
monotonous cadence rose on the freshening
breeze. The hermits having repeated the
last prayers of the day, were pouring forth
fervently their souls, as was their wont at
eventide, in song.
At that moment a form was seen ap
proaching the summit of one of the eastern
cliffs,, wending its way slowly, cautiously,
as if in search of a lodging for the night.
The traveller was mounted; but, at the
distance at which he moved when thejiermits arose from their knees, nothing'’ fur
ther rewarded their eager examination.
Besides, as he rode along a bold ridge of
rocks, his form, relieved against the red
setting of the sun, was magnified to a pre
ternatural size, and appeared like a black
shadow moving athwart the sky. The
place, the hour, the circumstances under
which he appeared, his solemn and delibe
rate movement, all tended to impress the
minds of the simple lookers-on in the glen
with the belief that they beheld an appa
rition from the world below; whether fore
boding good, or portending evil, they were
not capable to decide. A silent and awe
stricken air pervaded the countenances of
the seven holy men, as they watched his
progress, and superstition was fast peo-.
pling their imaginations with legends, tra
ditions, and tales of the olden time, when a
bold point of rock hid the stranger from
their view. Mustapha, now affecting to
smile at the fear which all were conscious
had been felt, proposed that, one of their
party should go and conduct the traveller,
whoever he might be, to their cell. This
proposition was met with very general
disapprobation—the more so, perhaps, as
Mustapha was, by the station he occupied,
exempted from such services. A mild dis
pute, or rather debate, ensued, which each
purposely protracted to such a length, that
just as it was about to be decided, almost
unanimously, that the youngest should ex
pose himself in behalf of the rest, the ob
ject of all this solicitude and speculation
came trotting down the glen.
lie was not, on a nearer examination, an
individual likely to attract, in all quarters,
the kind of attention that he had with these
simple hermits, though, to speak the truth,
he was of no ordinary appearance. He
sat across the lower part of the backbone
of a very lady-like mare, and, believe me,
so spare and gaunt was his figure, that,
like the phantom camel of the Arab tradi
tion, it might almost have been said to cast
no shadow. His long lank legs hung, like
pinions at rest, down his mare’s ribs near
ly to the ground, as he sat perfectly- erect,
so as to afford a full view of his whole ex
terior. He had a certain comical expres-
�30
THE MIRROR.
sion in his countenance, foi' which it was patriarch of this secluded glen, the tra
indebted nearly as much to the old turban veller appeared to be studying and looking
that crowned his head, and the long scanty him through and through. This beha
beard that concluded it at the other end, viour entirely disconcerted the hermits;
as to the sly leer that sat on the corner of they could neither advance nor recede, and
his eye. His costume, half European and accordingly they very logically stood still,
half Oriental, was such as would be likely awaiting the result of the examination they
to attract attention in whatever extremity were undergoing. That result increased
of the world. It consisted of a long blue their confusion, for after about a minute
coat, kept tight round his loins by a very he clapped his hands to his sides, very
ancient shawl, and surmounted by a gaudy dexterously allowing the bridle to slip up
jacket of Greek manufacture. Yellow lea his arm, and gave vent to an uproarious
ther boots, with huge ungainly spurs, half peal of laughter,
concealed by his loose trowsers. decked his
“Ha, ha, ha! ho, ho, ho! What a—
nether man, aud he bore in his hand a ha, ha, ha!—extraordinary, fat, funny, and
whip of hippopotamus’ hide.
frantic little residentary giant. Ha, ha!
All this was observed in seven times Mashallah!” he continued, laying his hand
less time than I have taken to record it; on his paunch. “ The Hakim Bashi of the
for as there is but one to record, so were Padisha will swear my next fit of indigna
there seven to observe. The traveller, tion is caused by this over excitement of
however, seemed scarcely to have perceived the animal spirits, but I cannot help it.
that he was the object of so much curio Ho, ho, ho!” And he shook his lean sides
sity, or even that there were any human with another burst of merriment.
beings near. On he jogged, with his eyes
It was now pretty evident to our hermits
half closed, and his hands resting on his that the stranger had been making too free
thighs, allowing the bridle to rest on the with the wine skins, and had probably lost
r .are’s neck, looking neither to the right his way across the mountains. This con
hand nor the left, and seemingly trusting jecture he penetrated, and exclaimed:
to the sagacity of the animal he bestrode
“What! you little eccentricities, you
for the safety of his bones.
think I’m one of Noah’s countrymen, who,
Our hermits advanced one and all to on a certain occasion, drank so much more
meet him; but he still pushed forward al than was good for them? But I’m scarcely
most into the midst of them, evidently as old as that—I’m not above a thousand
wrapped in his own meditations.
years old. What do you stand staring
“ Peace be on you, Effendi,” at length there for? Don’t you hear me trembling
quoth the chief hermit; “ this cell----- ”
with cold? This den is not too good for
At these words, life seemed to be res my old limbs. Take this mare to your
tored to the stranger, who started, threw best stables. Rub her down, crack her
back his bead, and fixing his nose in an in joints, smoothher coat, give her some corn,
clined position, looked at the speaker dip your reverend hands in this stream,
along it, and exclaimed: “Eh, old figure, and rub her down with them. ”
what are you talking about? Stay, JahWant of breath here put an end to a
ma, stay,” continued he, patting his mare’s speech which seemed to please the utterer,
neck, “ stay your paces, dearest; thou wilt for finding that he must stop, he smoothed
scarcely get to Jericho to-night, though his wrathful brow, and put on an air of
you try never so hard.”
marvellous satisfaction. One of the hermits,
The mare, although she probably was pitying his case, took the bridle out of his
not aware that had she lived a thousand hand, and was leading the mare away to a
years before, it would have required a narrow fissure in the rock which showed
month’s journey over the mountains to signs of a rural stable, when the owner
take her to the place be mentioned, instant shook his long finger at him, and said in a
ly obeyed his voice, and came to a stand.
solemn tone:
The demure expression of the worthy
“Remember, you horrible jackanapes,
hermits on hearing the words and contem that my mare is virtuous, that’s all.
plating the actions of the stranger, instant Wallah!” mutteredhe audibly, as he enter
ly changed to one of astonishment, and ed beneath the low door of the hermitage;
looks passed between them which he did “ how much happier I should have been,
not fail to observe, as was testified by the had I a gallon less of Greek wine in my
quick roll of his eye from one to another. inside! ”
Magnanimously abstaining from any re
mark, however, he very quietly swung his
right leg over the buttock of his mare, and
Chapter IH.
came to the ground with an agility that
did not seem to comport with his years.
By this time one or two of the more
Maintaining his hold of the bridle, and shrewd of his hosts had began to suspect
looking fixedly at the rotund figure of the that the traveller had put on drunkenness
�THE MIRROR.
as a mask, for neither in his step nor his
manner, was there anything to indicate
what would have appeared from his con
versation. At least, there was evidently
method in his madness, for he was wonder
fully solicitous about a small portmanteau,
that he held in his hand, and which ap •
peared to be of considerable weight, for
the sound it made as he set it down re
verberated through the rock in which the
hermitage was cut, and awoke two or three
bats that were clinging in the corners.
“’Tis money!” whispered Hussein Ibu
Suleiman/11 heard it chink, as it used to do
in my tilt before the beggars made their
round. ”
“ Beads from Mecca, and holy relics more
likely, ” replied Yousouf, with a glance of
respect mingledwith curiosity at the trunk.
This suggestion elicited a smile of pity,
perhaps of scorn, from an old fellow whose
usual benignant, devotional air nearly
shrouded, though not entirely, his former
martial occupation.
“ They are spear heads,” exclaimed he.
And, though by no means as fine a warrior
as Akbar, Abd-el-Atif was a mighty man
of war in the eyes of his simple companions.
“May heaven shield us from such murderous
tools! ’’ piously ejaculated Yousouf, which
Abd' el-Atif regarding as a disparagement
to his former profession, was about to re
mark upon, when Mustapha, who had
seated his sepulchre at the head of a rude
table that occupied the middle of the her
mitage, interrupted their bye-play by call
ing all to their posts, excepting Sawab,
who went to bring forth their repast.
This was soon spread upon the table. Black
bread, cheese, dates, cresses, and a few
other rural products formed the repast,
which after a short grace, with hunger for
a sauce, the whole eight began to transfer
from the table to their bowels. For the
stranger was by no means backward,
though frequent growls of dissatisfaction
showed that he had been by no means
accustomed to such hard fare.
The unthankfulness of this old piece of
iniquity, who never deigned to make the
least acknowledgment for what he re
ceived, soon perfectly disgusted his hosts,
who began heartily to wish for the morn
ing, especially as in about an hour the
stranger had quizzed them all round most
unmercifully. Not a feature, not a pimple
escaped him, not a thread of their thread
bare garments. Indeed, such was his volu
bility, that his meaning, as some men’s
meaning very often does, seemed to vanish
in the multiplicity of his words. At length,
however, when all around him began to
look exceedingly chapfallen, he changed
his note, and suddenly grew mysterious,
talked solemnly of treasures of hidden
gold, enlarged upon sumptuous palaces
31
and fine feeding, and told long stories of
his adventures in the courts of princes.
“ My name, ” quoth he, in an extra
ordinarily communicative humour, “ is
Habukkuk Sallenbacha. I am a mer
chant. I come from the great city of Je
richo. I am also a treasure seeker, and
supply half the princes of the earth with
their most costly jewels. The land I come
from teems with riches. Gold, ivory,
pearls, diamonds, emeralds, rubies, topazes,
carbuncles, are turned up by the plough,
and are gathered as pebbles are in this dismal desert country.”
The eyes of the hermits were all directed
to the open door of their cell. They saw
that the night was a dark one, that scarce
a star twinkled in the heavens, that dark
vapours hung around the earth, and they
shuddered at what now appeared to them
dreary and uncomfortable. How strange,
they thought, that we never noticed this
before!
The fact was, that the ridicule the travel
ler had poured upon them, their habitation,
and their mode of life, had taken such ef
fect upon them that what before had ap
peared charming and simple, seemed
now low and vile. They looked upon
themselves as beggars, their hermitage as
a hovel, the beautiful country around as a
wilderness scarcely fit for the habitation
of man, forgetting the arguments that had
reconciled them to it, namely, that where
God dwelt, there ought man never to dis
dain fixing his abode. So much more
powerful, however, is ridicule than reason,
that the old traveller, with his coarse and
pointed irony, had disturbed the peace of
mind of these poor hermits, perhaps for
ever.
Perceiving that he was attended to, the
merchant of Jericho, as he styled himself,
suddenly Seized his portmanteau, and, lift
ing it upon the table, began to open it.
They all looked attentively at his opera
tions. Each expected to see his own pre
diction verified; when, low and behold!
the lid was raised, and disclosed to their
astonished eyes—not gold—not holy beads
from Mecca—not sanctified relics, nor glit
tering spear- heads—but a profusion of pre
cious stones, arranged in costly jewel cases
with glass covers, sparkling and beaming
in the light of the rude lamp that hung
suspended from the roof. For a moment
a death-like stillness prevailed in the
rocky chamber; the seven hermits gazed
intently at the treasure before them; whilst
the owner of that treasure sat waiting pa
tiently until their examination should have
been concluded. Presently, wondering
glances passed round the board, but not a
word was spoken until Habakkuk closed
his trunk, and taking it from the table, sat
down upon it, in order to watch at his lei
�32
THE MIRROR.
sure the effect produced upon his enter
tainers. That effect was most extraordi
nary. The quiet, simple expression of con
tent had vanished from their countenances,
and, in its place, the strange, longing ex
pression of avarice sat there. Suddenly
their tongues were loosened, and, as though
with one accord, they all exclaimed—
“Where did you find them ?”
“I found them,” replied the traveller,
in measured accents, allowing each word
to distil from his lips like water dropping
from a rock; “ I found them, I think, in the
treasures of the Twelfth Imam, in—”
“Where? where?” eagerly vociferated
the whole troop.
“ In the moon, or somewhere there
abouts,’’ coolly rejoined Habakkuk, rais
ing his body deliberately from his seat, and
continuing, “Where am I to sleep? It
waxes late. To bed, sirs, to bed!”
But the avarice-stricken hermits were
not satisfied, but poured prayers and in
treaties upon him to tell them where the
treasures lay.
“ Go to Jericho!’’ said he. waving his
thin hand. “Where shall I sleep? Go
to Jericho!”
They showed him a nook in the wall,
where he instantly stretched his long limbs,
and was soon, to all appearance, fast asleep.
Not so our hermits. Not a wink did they
sleep for hours. The treasure of the
Twelfth Imam engrossed all their thoughts,
though not so entirely and undividedly but
that Abd-el-Atif once fancied that he spied
one of the stranger’s eyes looking intently
at them. A second glance, however, seemed
to convince him that he was mistaken, for
that long, lank, inanimate visage was evi
dently the property of a sleeper.
At length the gold-smitten hermits crept
one by one, each to his separate nook, and
leaving their speculations proceeded to
dream —but still of that infernal port
manteau. The sacred love of gold had
taken possession of their hearts, and there
sat dominant. Gold! gold! gold! nothing
but gold, gleamed before the eye of their
imagination, as their bodies lay entranced
in slumber. Their fancy, like Midas’s fin
gers, turned all into the Peruvian metal.
Avarice had completely mastered them.
Their hermitage, their coarse food, and
still coarser apparel, excited nought but
loathing in their minds; and it was with
heart-felt gladness that they turned from
the world of reality to the dreamy regions
of sleep, where, for a time, they revelled
in all the extravagances of easily acquired
wealth; doomed, however, on waking, to
experience an almost equal pang of sorrow
at the quitting of their imaginary treasures,
as a rich man feels when he is really leav
ing this world and all its vanities behind
him.
Such were their feelings when the golden
visions faded away. Reluctantly, and with
a sickly feeling of discontent it was, that
they rose and turned their eyes as if drawn
by some all-powerful attraction, to the
place where the stranger had lain the night
before. He was gone. Not a trace re
mained of him. They called—they search
ed—they shouted again and again; but in
vain. They proceeded to the little cave
where they kept their own aged horse, for
bearing their provisions from market once
a month. The mare was gone, and not a
hoof-mark was left on the path around the
hermitage to tell whither it or its owner
had departed.
Chapter IV.
I will not attempt—neither would it be
possible—to describe minutely how the re
solution which our hermits adopted gra
dually unfolded itself, and came to matu
rity. Suffice it to say, that every incentive
that avarice could use was exerted to de
termine them to quit their peaceful cell,
and enter upon the wide world in search of
a treasure, the existence of which even they
were not, and could not be, certain. But
the words and whole manner of the mer
chant of Jericho had so impressed the
minds of the simple inhabitants of the glen
with the idea that the treasure must exist,
that it never once entered their hearts to
doubt his veracity. Besides, they had seen
the jewels he bore with him; which, by the
bye, would have tempted any other set of
men to a breach of at least one of the ten
commandments.
Another circumstance also had mate
rially tended to dissipate any doubts they
might have entertained. The very next
morning after the unlucky visit of the
merchant, Yousouf, who was sweeping the
floor with rather less care than ordinary,
perceived something sparkling in a corner.
Having convinced himself by a second
glance of the value of what he had found,
he dropped down upon his knees with mar
vellous devotion, fell to kissing a little ruby
as though it had been a nail from Maho
met’s coffin. His companions soon crowded
around him, and each handled and exa
mined the gem with great care, until it was
deposited in Mustapha’s capacious pouch,
aud was never heard of more. This must
have been obtained somewhere (the obvi
ous inference being, that it had been
dropped by old Habakkuk in his hurry),
and from whence was it so probable that it,
along with the gorgeous array of still more
valuable stones they had seen, had been
procured, as from a hidden treasure?
This was perhaps the secret, though not
very cogent train of reasoning, that passed
through the minds of the new gold-lovers
�THE MIRBOB..
and Was probably what determined them to
enter upon the wild-goose chase I am about
to describe.
v
On one fine morning, then, not a month
after the above, incidents, Mustapha as
cended to the top of the ancient house be
fore mentioned, and, flanked by his holy
brothers, turned his back upon the roof
which had so long sheltered him, and be
gan a search whose result was entirely hid
den by the dark veil of futurity, and the
consequences of which, even if successful,
they had not calculated, nor even thought
of. One of them, as they left the place,
fixed a paper on the door-post inviting all
travellers to enter, and then all, with tears
in their eyes be it remembered, moved
away. For the place that had harboured
them for so long a space of time was not to
be quitted dry cheeked. No; the drops of
sorrow rolled down through furrows that
had been graven by the hand of Time since
they last shed a tear; and often did they
linger on their way until the closing hills
hid from their sight the place where they
had spent so many happy hours, breathed
so many prayers, and where they once
hoped their bones would have been laid to
gether.
Soon, however, the lust of gold, now the
dominant passion of their hearts, caused
them to dry their tears, and then these yet
but half sophisticated beings proceeded on
wards, they knew not whither, in joyful
expectation and good fellowship with one
another. They toiled slowly along the unfre
quented road. One hill after another was
crossed; the coming harvest waved around
them; all nature looked gay; and had not
their thoughts been contracted by the sel
fishness of avarice, their hearts would have
beat joyfully at the manifest goodness of
their God.
The passion of avarice, like most other
passions, often produces extremely con
trary effects. Some abandon great oppor
tunities for present and little advantages,
others sacrifice their present moderate but
certain happiness for doubtful and distant
hopes; not reflecting that riches teach not
to despise riches, but that commonly much
wealth imparts not half the happiness that
he can boast of who learns at first to des
pise it; to despise lucre being, perhaps, one
of the most exorable of moral qualities, and
consequently one of the most difficult to
inculcate. For I am afraid that many who
pass for philosophers have affected this
contempt for worldly things, merely to have
their revenge on fortune, by holding cheap
those good things of which she has de
prived them. Thisis the secret whereby we
may protect ourselves from the contempt
that falls upon poverty, the bye-road by
which to reach and secure that estimation
NO 1353.
33
which we cannot gain by means of the
riches we have not.
The seven pilgrims in search of the trea
sures of the Twelfth Imam, had wandered
on their way for several hours beneath a
scorching sun, when their spirits began to
flag. Tired were they, and sore oppressed
with heat, covered with dust, yet now re
joicing in the ample shade afforded by a
long avenue of over-reaching cedars, which
they reached about two hours after noon
tide. Slackening their pace by degrees to
a stroll, they at length stopped short, and
looked around them for a place of rest.
They stood in the skirts of a forest. Be
hind them lay many ridges of mountains,
rolling backwards to the place where their
hermitage was seated, over which they had
hitherto been toiling. Now, however, hav
ing turned to the left, they were about to
enter the woody passes of those mountains
leading towards the sources of the Arerzy,
and up through which the road, or rather
track, ran, until its termination became ob
scured by trees through which at intervals
fell some broad gleams of sunshine, gilding
the grass beneath,
“ Faith, brothers,” cried Mustapha, after
gazing wistfully around for some moments,
“ we shall scarcely find the treasure this
day, I begin to suspect; for I have been
looking about me for these three hours, and
have seen nothing like one.”
“ Nor I!—nor I!—nor I!” ejaculated se
veral of his weary companions.
“ Pretty treasure-seekers 1” cried Abd
el-Atif, who had acquired a certain ascen
dancy over his companions, due to his su
perior experience; “do youthink treasures
fall from the trees, like rotten dates; or
leap out of the hedges like grass-hoppers?
Besides,” he said, “ we must go to Jericho,
which I’ve a confused notion lies some
leagues to the south.”
“ This same treasure, then, will scarcely
fall to our lot, I fear,” quoth Mustapha,
who was interrupted in a rather disagreea
ble manner; for just as he spoke, four or
five horsemen emerged from the wood, and
after bestowing a cursory examination on
the holy conclave, were about to return
the way they came when the word “ trea
sure” struck their ears. This arrested
them, and they accordingly trotted out and
snrrounded the astonished hermits so
closely, that they kept them m bodily fear
of the hoofs of their horses.
“ Brethren,” began one of them, with a
half burlesque, half sanctified air, “ we en
tertain so much respect and reverence for
holy men, that we are resolved instantly to
remove temptation out of your way, by de
livering you from that same treasure.”
It instantly occurred to the somewhat
confused faculties of the hermits, that the
5
VOL. XLVHI.
�34
THE MIRROR.
merchant in passing that way must have
indulged his loquacious propensities with
these gentlemen, and that these were in all
likelihood to be sharers in the spoil. They
accordingly resolved with one accord to set
the others on a wrong scent, by exclaim
ing—
“ It isn’t in Jericho!”
This answer seemed to puzzle the honest
gentleman who had spoken, and he accord
ingly held his peace for a moment, and
then, assuming a stern air, cried—
“ Come now, holy dervishes, no pala
vering there! Out with the money! We
will take care of it, and build a khan with
it to spare.”
The hermits began now to have some
very unpleasant suspicions; and accord
ingly glances of great import passed be
tween them, but none ventured an answer,
unless a simultaneous “Wallah!” and an
equally general dropping of the lower jaw,
may be accounted as such. The spokesman
of the other party, which evidently enjoyed
their confusion, seemed now to wax angry,
and unpleasant consequences might have
ensued had not one of his companions ex
claimed—
“Yonder come the merchants of Ha
mah!”
And true enough, a small caravan was
seen crowning the plain in the distance.
The whole mounted party galloped off to
wards them, and having scoured the open
ground for a while, soon plunged into a
hollow way and disappeared, leaving the
hermits quit for their fright.
The treasure-seekers would have deemed
themselves happy in this occurrence had
not one of the robbers—for that was evi
dently their profession—indulged his mis
chievous disposition in parting, by inflict
ing on the buttocks of the staid old animal
that supported Mustapha, a worrying blow
with the shaft of his spear, which the ho
nest beast resented by rearing violently,
and using certain familiarities with the
hermits which were not very pleasant.
Not contented, however, with this, he set
off and deposited his burden on a slop
ing bank about a hundred yards in front.
The astonished travellers, at least such as
did not imagine themselves maimed for
life by the kicks they had received, bounded
forward in pursuit, and on reaching the
place where the lost rider lay, they found
him insensible, with the horse standing by
and hanging his ears, as though he knew
that he had not acted perfectly right. En
raged at his conduct, four of his owners,
for two were lagging behind holding their
hands on the parts that had been hoofassaulted, four reverend hermits, I say, in
order to avenge the wrongs of their supe
rior—whom they left to recover as he
might—four reverend hermits, fell upon
the poor animal with their staves, cursing
his beard and calling him son of a burntfather, and in three minutes brought his
unresisting carcase to the ground, where
they continued to belabour it until their
companions arrived. These, also, as if
animated by a legion of devils, fell upon
the miserable animal, and with such unex
ampled fury, that at length, without a kick
—though with many a sigh, and many an
imploring look in their faces—he laid his
head upon the ground and gave up the
ghost. Yet still did they continue to dance
upon his lank and hollow sides, and would
perhaps still continued drumming, had not
a deep groan drawn their attention to their
stunned and neglected brother on the
turf beside them. They crowded round
him. One seized his nose and wrung it
with most vehement kindness—one thump
ed his breast—a couple his hands—and the
two who had been kicked, danced round in
all the extremity of grief, rage, and des
pair.
One murder had just been committed,
and another seemed threatened, for the re
medies applied to poor Mustapha were
less likely to revive than to make a mum
my of him, when a violent fit of sneez
ing came upon him, as though brimstone
had been burned under his nose, and he
very shortly opened his eyes, and looked
wildly around.
“For God’s sake,” he cried, thinking,
perhaps, of his youthful days, or else ima
gining that he was under the discipline of
Moukir and Neller, “don’t beat me any
more. I’ll never do it again.”
His half distracted companions now
ceased, and raised his aching body to its
basis.
“ Oh, holy Prophet!” cried he, after some
pause, “I thought I was in Gehannan, for
I smelt brimstone, I’m certain. Oh! oh!
what will become of me! Oh my bones!
Oh! oh! oh dear!” His eye here rested on
the deceased horse beside him. “ What is
this?” cried he, his jaw dropping at the
sight.
“ Oh!” replied one of his friends, “ we
have merely been correcting old Wakif’s
hide; that s all. We’ll teach him to run
away again!”
He never ran away again. His eye was
closed—his limbs stiff—his sides flat—in
fact, he was dead; and of this misfortune
his former masters were convinced upon a
minute examination. Their old affection
for the animal revived, now it was useless;
and the forest resounded with their lamen
tations.
Those of the senior hermit
sounded the loudest, perhaps because he
now saw that the rest of his journey must
be performed on foot.
Whilst they were thus employed, a horse
man appeared slowly advancing along the
�THE MIRROR.
road. His monture seemed to be proceeding entirely without his guidance, for the
bridle was upon its neck, and its master’s
head was leaning upon his breast. One of
Mustapha’s eyes fell upon this figure, and
he stopped his exclamations to reconnoitre
it. His companions imitated his example,
and they were soon collected into a silent
group, occupied in an intense examina
tion of the traveller.
“ ’Tis that villainous merchant!”at length
roared he who »had first observed him,
shaking his fist and sneezing violently.
The adventures of the last two days now
passed swiftly in procession before the
minds of the seven hermits, and they be
held before them the first link in the chain
of misfortunes they had undergone. The
loss of their peace of mind, andjtheir new
born love'of riches—the half satisfaction he
had given them—his betrayal of the secret
to the robbers—their advent and the mis
fortunes consequent thereon, concluding
with the loss of their horse—all combined
to raise a certain malevolent feeling in
their hearts towards the quiet old gentle
man who now approached; and, raising his
eyes, saluted them, and wished them a
good day.,
This coolness was provoking.
“ You old scoundrel!”cried Abd-el-Atif,
in whom a love of the camp still remained,
“ you shall pay for this horse.”
“ I don’t deal in dead horses,’’ replied
Habakkuk, deliberately examining what
had been a very serviceable animal.
It was no departure from their philoso
phical meekness that induced the hermits
to do what they now did, but merely the
consideration that they were seven to one,
which would be enough to turn seven
quakers into heroes. Still I am loath t>
relate that the idea presented itself to their
minds to treat the merchant as they had
treated Wakif, and appropriate Fatima to
the purposes which he had previously
served. Mustapha, who had the greatest
interest in the matter, accordingly began
operations by stooping slily down and
seizing a huge stone that lay at his feet.
Not one such as men can now lift in these
degenerate days, but one which had for
merly been a boundary stone. This, pois
ing in both his hands, he let fly at Habak
kuk, who, seeing destruction approaching
in the shape of a fragment of rock, shrewdly
eluded it and escaped his intended fate;
not, however, without being denuded of his
turban, and left with his bare skull exposed
to the storm of blows that was now pre
paring to rain upon it. But, being not a
very valiant old fellow, he, quick as thought,
turned ;back, and trotted away under the
shady sycamores, in the direction of a
green woody valley that seemed to wind
among the mountains.
35
Not to be disappointed, the infuriated
hermits pursued. Away flew Habakkuk,
and away flew they down a road that nar
rowed and sloped as they went, intersected
in all directions by horrible ruts, and
shaded by lofty banks, crowned by still
loftier trees. On they went; on—on—in
creasing their irregular volubility to a
glide and a roll; pushing and shoving with
the most exemplary determination. I of
ten wonder how they could have run so
fast! Certain it is, that the speed of old
Mustapha was tremendous. He vowed, not
by a saint, to be in at the death, and yet
would have been left behind had he not
been every moment violently propelled by
the shoulders of his brother hermits, who
bounded along like antelopes around him.
At length all human shape and modes of
progression were lost, and as the merchant
coolly turned his skull round, and looked
over his shoulder, he beheld nothing but
seven black balls, rolling with irregular
gyrations, like burnt-out planets loosened
from the spheres, behind him.
“ My conscience!” no doubt exclaimed
he internally; “what agility! How spry
and active!
They had proceeded in this manner for
about a mile, when the road became so
sloping and precipitous, that even the na
ture of the ground precluded all attempts
at a halt. But nothing was farther from
the thoughts of the holy men than such a
design. They seemed, indeed, to have lost
all guidance over their own motions, but
each kept his eye fixed on the object of
their resentment, and continued the almost
inconceivable velocity of his progression—
he scarce knew how—still nourishing cer
tain unlawful intentions in their hearts.
Now, however, the old merchant evidently
gained upon them—the mare was putting
out her mettle—the hermits gnash their
teeth with rage, and redoubled their ex
ertions; glancing, and rolling, and jump
ing, and hopping; now in a group, and
now in a file; here spreading over the
glade, there crowding through a narrow
pass, higgledy-piggledy — on their feet,
their heads, their hands, their backs, their
bellies—but all in vain; old Habakkuk’s
spurs were buried rowel-deep into the
flanks of his mare, and he plunged still
downwards, and at length disappeared, not
before, however, he had waved his hand
and bowed to them as courteously as his
equestrian position would permit him to do
with his back turned. He disappeared, I
say, and his pursuers rolled into a thicket,
and down an almost perpendicular preci
pice, until they at length found themselves
in one huge wriggling heap of flesh bones,
hair, cloaks, shawls, red visage, and cud
gels, on a green and damp flat at the bot
tom of a valley.
�36
THE MIRROR.
The night had closed in, almost imper
ceptibly, around them. It was now dark,
though the surrounding slopes, and woods,
and crags might have been faintly seen
through the obscurity. But the pilgrims
had not leisure, neither had they in
clination to admire the picturesque. Afraid
for a considerable time to move, lest they
should be precipitated into some yawning
abyss, they lay as they had fallen, and be
gan to make piteous moan over their mis
fortunes. Doleful sighs, dismal murmurs,
desperate groans, devilish grimaces, dark
scowls, and some deep curses were emited
and made by these unfortunate beings.
And now comes the consummation of their
day’s disasters. Up to this time they had
gone on at least, wonderful to say, in the
most perfect harmony and good fellowship
together; but now, as was to be expected,
angry criminations and recriminations took
place; one accused and another retorted;
this bitterly complained, the other as bit
terly replied; until at length the quarrel
proceeded to such a height that Abd-el-Atif
assaulted his aged friend Mustapha with
such a blow on the stomach, that, had not
his ribs been covered with four inches of
good old Moslem fat, they would most as
suredly have given way. This was the
signal for active contention. The wrath of
the poor treasure-seekers boiled over with
redoubled fury, and each laid violent hands
on his next neighbour; while Mustapha, in
the centre, was a butt to all the chance
blows that were dealt in the scuffle. His
red faee, in fact, glared like the sun at
noon-day,and around him revolved his con
tending friends, animated and urged to the
strife by a kind of supernatural wrath; for
these formerly meek natures were now
wrought up to such a pitch of fury, that re
gardless of all consequences, heedless alike
of the past and the future, and thinking of
nought but glutting their present ven
geance, they flung around them a shower
of dead-doing blows, with a perseverance
“ worthy of a better cause.” Now were
added to the bruises already received (as
well from the hoofs of the late Wakef, as
from the inequalities of the ground over
which they had so swiftly perambulated),
now were added, I say, contusions and
bloody coxcombs without numbers. Their
superhuman efforts made the forest ring
with echoes, and yet the demon of contension within them was not appeased until,
wearied with their performances, they one
by one shrunk away, each to some ad
jacent bush, leaving the patriarch alone to
his glory. Nor was it long before sleep
had sealed their eyes, in spite of their bitter
temper of mind and aching bones—the ine
vitable consequences of so ferocious, indis
criminate, and hitherto unheard of fray.
(To be continued..')
Qtye
of
No history perhaps is more difficult to
write than that of philosophy, which un
dertakes correctly to represent all the re
markable endeavours made by man to ex
plain the intellectual, moral, and physical
phenomena of the universe. Accordingly,
none of the attempts yet made have com
pletely succeeded. The subject is much
too vast to be comprehended by a single
mind, on what point of view soever it may
take its stand. A particular class of mo
tives prevents contemporaries from judging
accurately of each other; and another class,
far more powerful, stands in the way of a
correct appreciation of the philosophers of
past ages. Men speculating in primitive
times, are necessarily distinguished by
many qualities from those who succeed
them after long intervals in the career of
thought. There is a ripening process
going on in the whole mass of society,
which, though it may not be designed to
terminate in perfection, necessarily confers
many advantages on those who enter late
on the field of philosophy, at least in forms
and modes of expression, which become
clearer and more precise in proportion as
language is subjected to a complete ana
lysis.
The older philosophers had for the most
part to deal with untried subjects, and were
comparatively new in the art of adapting
words to ideas. The vocabularies at their
command moreover were for a long time
very imperfect, and terms had constantly
to be translated from a popular into a re
condite dialect, in which they necessarily
assumed some novelty of signification.
Besides, the almost universal practice was
to employ highly figurative language, sym
bols, mythes, and allegories, which, stand
ing between the public and notions and
opinions in themselves imperfect and obs
cure, inevitably gave rise to continual mis
apprehension. Bor the modern historian
of philosophy, these difficulties are greatly
increased. A complete body of ancient
opinions and systems is far from having
come down to us, so that we are left to
form our judgment from fragments, which
often appear incoherent, simply because we
know not how to arrange them, or what
relation they originally bore to each other.
We put little faith, therefore, in any of
the current interpretations of the ancient
philosophies, which rather reflect the men
tal peculiarities of the interpreters, than
those of the ancient sages of whose ideas
they are said to be the exposition. The
obstacles are here insurmountable. We
know not, and never can know, what
Thales of Miletus, Anaximenes, or Anaxi
mander, believe or taught. Their systems
have been dragged with them into the gulf
�'HE MIRROR.
bf time, and are irrecoverably lost, though
much ingenuity may doubtless be displayed
in putting together the small fragments of
the wreck which have floated back to us,
and in endeavouring to conjecture from
them what the structure and capacity of
the whole fabric must have been.
E»jj<iis is a peculiarly unfortunate circum
stance, because it interferes materially with
the views we ought to take of the systems
of succeeding times, which sprung in a
great measure out of those very unknown
philosophies, the destruction of which we
have been alluding to. Still Plato and
Aristotle are not rendered unintelligible
because the works of their predecessors
have perished. We merely find from time
to time that they refer cursorily to specu
lations with which they suppose us to be
familiar, because people generally were so
in their day, and by this natural offhand
reference excite our curiosity only to dis
appoint it. With Plato the real history of
philosophy commences. He had a genius
which has never since been surpassed, and
an aptitude for abstruse speculation, which
no other philosopher with whose works
we are acquainted could attempt to rival.
More knowledge other men may possess,
and they may even excel him in the skill
with which they apply their knowledge to
the support of their systems; but for acute
ness, versatility, richness of illustration,
and the sublime and comprehensive range
of ideas, he stands preeminent among phi
losophers. In the art also of composition
he has never been approached. His dia
logues offer inimitable models, which,
while inspiring the desire to excel, are
soon felt to stand far beyond the reach of
rivalry. Shakspeare only, of all the per
sons who have since written in dialogue,
might, had his mission been that of a phi
losopher, have equalled Plato. Of his
system, which has been generally misun
derstood, we here say nothing, since a brief
exposition would be unsatisfactory, and a
lengthened one would require space which
we have not at present at our command.
It has happened to this writer, as to many
others, that one of the distinguishing attri
butes of his works has been seized on and
converted into a common-place, to be des
canted on as often as his name is men
tioned. Every body speaks of Plato’s sub
limity; few of his wit, or of those exqui
site graces of style for which he is by
many degrees more remarkable. He is
sublime only occasionally; he is refined,
polished, and sprightly, everywhere. _ The
mere reading of his works, therefore, inde
pendently of his doctrines, is a high intel
lectual enjoyment, which people who have
no pretensions to philosophy may relish
quite as much as the wise. Was there
ever, for instance, a more masterly display
87
of varied eloquence than the Symposion,
or a more natural and brilliant picture of
society than the Prolagoras? With res
pect to his opinions, it is difficult for even
the most diligent student to determine
what they were. We know what we find
in his works; but though the Socrates of
the dialogues may often be supposed to re
present Plato’s sentiments, it would be rash
in the extreme to affirm that Socrates and
Plato were one.
Aristotle, when he succeeded Plato, per
ceived, that, as an artist, he could make no
pretensions to contend with him. He there
fore struck outinto a new path for himself,
and by basing his speculations on prodigi
ous accumulations of knowledge, sought
to carry everything before him, as Orien
tal princes do, by the overwhelming amount
of his forces. In this ambition he resem
bled Lord Bacon, while Plato bears in his
manner more analogy to Locke; not that
the philosopher ofWarington had many of
the graces of style which excite our admi
ration in the Attic writer; but that, like
him, he depended more upon his genius
than his acquirements, and patiently fabri
cated his system out of the experience of
his own mind. Aristotle, in the pride of
genius, believed that no department of
knowledge, however obscure or remote
from ordinary apprehension, lay beyond
his reach; and he accordingly invaded
the whole domain of thought, metaphysics,
politics, poetry, rhetoric, ethics, and natu
ral history, and however paradoxical it may
seem, we are compelled to maintain, that
he succeeded in everything. He had pro
bably the only truly encyclopaedic mind ever
possessed by any member of the human fa
mily. It is mere puerility to compare Ba
con with him. Whatever merits or what
ever genius may have fallen to the share
of our countryman, it would be the grossest
partiality to attempt to elevate him to the
level of Aristotle. That he detected the
flaws existing in the Aristotelian philoso
phy of his time, and introduced a superior
method of phliosophising, we regard only
as proof that he felt the exigencies of his
age, and had the wisdom to provide for
them; not that he was above the Stagarite,
or took a wider survey of nature than he
did.
Mr. Lewis in his “ Biographical History
of Philosophy,” has been at much pains to
do justice to our two illustrious country
men—Bacon and Locke, the greatest mas
ters of thought in modern times. His
work, in character and construction, is
strictly popular, at least he generally es
chews that language which if applied to the
illustrations of any other subject, would be
deservedly denominated slang, and ex
presses himself like a man of the world.
Mr. Lewis understands the value of plain
�33
THE MIRROR..
speaking, and is fully aware of the impos
ture which seeks to conceal its emptiness
and weakness behind a breastwork of hard
words. Now and then, however, he ven
tures on the use of a philosophical slang
term, such as positivism, which harmonises
so little with the general cast of his lan
guage, that it is at once felt to be a defor
mity. We have no leisure just now for a
regular review of the work, which, from its
accessable character, ought to be in every
body’s hands who feels any interest in the
fortunes of philosophy, but shall make two
or three observations on the good service
he has rendered to the cause of truth, by
his exposure of the quackery exhibited by
Locke’s critics, and his ardent and iudicious
defence of that truly original philosopher.
Bacon has recently met with his full share
of praise, or to speak candidly, has been
elevated much higher than he deserves.
Several writers have vied with each other
in this pernicious undertaking; for perni
cious it must always be, to place a man on
an eminence which he has no right to oc
cupy; particularly when all the tendencies
of his mind and philosophy happen to be of
a worldly and unspiritual description. As
a scientific investigator and man of busi
ness, Bacon deservedly holds a very high
rank; but if ever an elaborate and just his
tory of modern philosophy should be writ
ten, a considerable portion would be em
ployed in lowering Bacon to his true place.
Wise he was, no doubt, in a certain sense,
and much benefit men derive from the study
of him. Nevertheless, he is not the writer
one would most solemnly recommend to
the study of youth. There was, it appears
to us, a fatal twist in his genius. Mam
mon had infected and spoiled him, and to
adopt his own pedantic phraseology, he had
set up idols in his heart to which he
burned incense more assiduously than ever
he did to truth. In saying this, we are
aware that we shall shock a very preva
lent superstition. But no matter^ Truth
is deserving of more reverence than Lord
Bacon; and it would be well if some writer,
capable of irradicating prejudice from the
public miud, would undertake the disenthronement of this idol. Let us, however,
not be misunderstood. Among the fore
most of those who yield Lord Bacon ra
tional admiration we reckon ourselves; be
cause, while we refuse to recognise him as
a despot in learning, or in philosophy, we
are perfectly ready to acknowledge his just
claims. He owes his exaggerated reputa
tion to the too common arts of rhetoric,
which have been sedulously employed for
nearly half a century in crying him up and
in crying down Locke, as if the depression
of the one were necessary to the elevation
of the other. We perceive no such neces
sity. They are not rivals in any point of
view. The genius of Locke was of a far
higher order. More inventive, subtle, pe
netrating; more divested of selfishness;
more alive to the beauty and perfection of
truth. In Bacon we find the spirit of the
world sublimated into a philosophical es
sence, and surrounded with all the circum
stances of grandeur which eloquence and
learning could bestow. But for truth in
the abstract he has no love. He was a liar
by habit and profession, and only spoke out
in matters where frankness could not in
jure his interests. He always appears to
us as the foe of philosophy, cultivating the
wisdom of the serpent, in order better to
conceal the poison of the serpent. He wrote
for himself, not for the world; that is, to
exercise our empire over men’s minds; and
he was not very scrupulous regarding the
means. He is continually borrowing from
Aristotle, and imitating him, yet never
loses an opportunity of injuring his repu
tation. He is the most envious and crafty
of all writers, and in his essays chronicles
the precepts upon which he acted. Mr.
Lewis, agreeing with Mr. Macaulay, rates
him too highly, but displays great indepen
dence of mind, when, in opposition to the
pedants and sophists of the day, he resolves
on doing justice to Locke. With this ex
cellent design he has really accomplished
all the nature of his work permitted, put
ting Victor Cousin and Professor Whewell to the right about in a manner worthy
of an independent thinker. With regard
to the French sophist, it may be truly said
that he knows little or nothing of the sys
tem which he treats so cavalierly. We
doubt whether he can understand an Eng
lish book, and think it highly probable
that he depends on some contemptible
translation, in which Locke’s meaning is
awkwardly travested, as Shakspeare’s is
by Guizot in “ Le Tourneur.” No repu
tation of the day is less deserved than that
of Victor Cousin. He is a bad reasoner
and a bad writer, a faithless translator,
and a disingenuous commentator. The
injustice he has done to Plato ought to
put every man upon his guard against his
misrepresentations. According to him,
Plato did not believe in the immortality of
the soul, and only put forward the doc
trine to delude his countrymen. After
this, no one, we fancy, will feel surprised
at the libels he has published against
Locke.
The Cambridge sophist, if less unscrupu
lous, is very little unfortunate, for as the
reader may see in Mr. Lewis’s history, he
thoroughly misapprehends Locke’s mean
ing, and then applies himself vigorously to
the refutation of his own mistake. We
greatly admire the spirit in which Mr.
Lewis has taken up the cudgels for Locke.
It is at once a proof of courage and saga
�THE MIRROR.
city, of supreme contempt for a philoso
phical fine and cry, and that vigorous and
clearness of mind, which enables a man to
mam a? deaf ear to clamour, and judge for
himself.
Some day or other the “ Essay on the
Human Understanding” will be looked into
again by the public, when they will per
ceive how much they have lost by the
neglect of it. There is no necessity for
supposing that Locke was right in all his
positions. But if not right he was always
Sincere. He had little secular ambition;
was not insatiable of place, and as regard
less perhaps of fortune, as one of the phi
losophers of the early world. Yet he pos
sessed a statesman’s knowledge, and a
statesman’s mind, and has written on go
vernment in a way which no man among
his contemporaries could have equalled.
Even Algernon Sydney handles the sub
ject in a less practical manner. The only
thing to be regretted is, that Sir Robert
Philmus Patriarcha should haie been then
popular, and seemed to deserve an answer,
for if ever Locke appeared tedious, it is
when refuting this obsolete sophist. We
have scarcely yet, on many points, equalled
the liberality and enlightenment of Locke,
whose charity and tolerance were un
bounded. He was, in fact, one of those
philosophers who really loved mankind,
and write for the express purpose of bene
fiting them.
Accordingly, throughout
his writings a generous philanthropy pre
vails, which wins so irresistably upon our
affections, that whether we adopt his doc
trines or not, we invariably end by loving
the man. This is felt and finely expressed
by Mr. Lewis, who is one of the very few
who have thought it necessary to read
Locke before criticising him. He has
been at the pains to understand the cha
racter of the man, and therefore admires
and loves him, because we hold it impossi
ble for any one but a sophist to read
Locke without becoming his friend, with
out desiring ardently to raise him again
from the grave, and converse with him,
and learn wisdom from his lips.
It would be highly advantageous to our
contemporaries were they, every one of
them, to vouchsafe Locke a reading, be
ginning with his conduct of the under
standing, which, from beginning to end, is
one continuous revelation of common sense.
We know in the language nothing like it.
The style is eloquent and persuasive, and
seconds ably the arguments of the philo
sophy. His controversy with Bishop Stil
lingfleet, though far too voluminous for
our present taste, is a model of exhaustive
refutation. He takes up his adversary
quietly, places him upon a pedestal before
him, turns him round and round, examines
his weak and vulnerable points, and then
39
pierces him like St. Sebastian with ar
rows, till they stick out on all sides like
“ Quills upon the fretful porcupine.”
He then lays the bishop tranquilly in his
shroud, and the controversy is thoroughly
closed. Even in his trifling dispute with
Sir Isaac Newton, his vast superiority im
mediately appears. Sir Isaac, though not
much addicted to the society of ladies, had
suffered his mind to be warped and preju
diced against Locke by their tattle and
scandal, and expressed his feelings in the
most petulant mannei'. Locke, who would
not be offended with an old friend, bore
meekly with his peevishness, and patiently
undertook to set him right. Newton felt
that he had been in error, and, with the
frankness of a truly ingenuous mind, con
fessed his fault, and implored the philoso
pher’s forgiveness. But Locke had already
forgiven him, and their kindly feelings
continued uninterrupted, we believe, till
death.
In this portrait we have a striking con
trast presented us with the unhappy
private character of Lord Bacon, who was
in every way as unestimable as Locke was
worthy. Many peculiarities of their wri
tings may be explained by this circum
stance, for the feelings of the heart will
invariably project themselves even into
the most abstruse speculations of the phi
losopher. Thus, in many pages of Aris
totle, we fancy we discover the influence
of his love of Pythias. It imparts, we
think, a tenderness to many exquisite pas
sages which they could not otherwise have
possessed. And Locke’s passion, which
was philanthropy, has left its impress
upon all his writings, a truth of which
Mr. Lewis is preeminently sensible. Even
the undeservedly great reputation of Leib
nitz could not influence his sense of jus
tice. He disregards the censure of that
distinguished dreamer, and with an un
common degree of good sense, stands up
for the originality and splendid services of
Locke. If, therefore, his history had no
other merits—and it has many, very many,
this alone ought to recommend it to the
permanent favour of the public.
Oe j®ea$ ®2£atc5,
A FANTASTIC TALE.
TRANSLATED EROM THE GERMAN OE
L. MUHLBACH.
By John Oxeneord.
Count Manfred knelt, deeply affected,
by the bed of his poor friend—now des
tined to be his death-bed. Silence and
gloom were in the narrow room, which
was only dimly lighted by a night-lamp.
�40
THE MIRROR.
The moon shone, large and cold, through
the one window, illuminating the wretched
couch of the invalid. Soon loud groaning
alone interrupted the melancholy stillness.
Manfred felt a chill shudder in all his
limbs, a sensation of horror came over
him, and the bed of his slowly expiring
friend, and he felt as if he must perforce
go out among mankind, hear the breath of
a living person instead of this death-rattle,
and press a warm hand instead of the cold
damp one of the dying man. He softly
raised himself from his knees, and crept to
the chimney to stir the almost extinct fire,
that something bright and cheering might
surround him. But the sick man raised
himself up, and looked at him with fixed
glassy eyes, while his heart rose higher
and quicker with a breathless groaning.
The flame crackled and flew upwards,
casting a harsh gleam through the room.
Suddenly a coal flew out with a loud noise,
and fell into the middle of the apartment
upon the wooden floor. At the same time
a terribly piercing cry arose from the bed,
and Manfred, who looked towards it with
alarm, saw that the invalid was sitting up,
and with eyes widely opened and out
stretched arms, was staring at the spot
where the coal was lying. It was a fright
ful spectacle that of the dying man, who
seemed to be struggling with a deep feel
ing of horror; on whose features death had
already imprinted his seal; and whose
short nightgown was insufficient to conceal
the dry and earth-gray arms and legs,
which had already assumed a deathlike
hue. Frightful was the loud rattle that
proceeded from the heart of one who could
scarcely be called alive or dead, and dull
as from the grave sounded the isolated
words which he uttered, still gazing upon
the coal on the floor. “ Away—away with
thee! why will thou remain there, spectre?
Leave me, I say.”
Manfred stood overpowered with horror,
his trembling feet refused to support him,
and he leaned against the wall contem
plating the actions of his friend, the sight
of whom created the deepest terror. The
voice of the invalid became louder and
more shrill: “Away with thee, I say! why
dost thou cleave so fast to my heart? I
say, leave me!’’
Then striking out with his arms he
sprung out of the bed with unnatural force,
and darting to the spot where the coal was
lying, stooped down, grasped it in his
hand, and flung it back upon the hearth.
He then burst into a loud, wild laugh,
which made poor Manfred’s heart quail
within him, and returned back to the bed.
But the coal had burned its very dross
into the floor, and had left a black mark.
The room was again quiet. Manfred
now breathed freely, and calmly crept to
the couch of his friend, whose quiet, re
gular breathing and closed eyes showed
that he had fallen into a reposing sleep.
Thus passed one hour, the slow progress
of which Manfred observed on his friend’s
large watch, which lay upon the bed, and
the regular ticking of which was the only
interruption of the stillness of the night,
except the still,quiet breathing of his friend.
The steeple clock in the vicinity an
nounced by its striking that another hour
had passed. Manfred counted the strokes
—it was twelve o’clock—midnight. He
involuntarily shuddered, the thoughts of
the legends and tales of his childhood
darted through him like lightning, and
he owned to himself that he had al
ways felt a mysterious terror at the mid
night hour. At the same moment, his
friend opened his eyes, and softly pro
nounced his name.
Manfred leant down to him, “Here I
am, Karl.”
“ I thank you,” said the sick man, in a
faint voice, “for remaining by me thus
faithfully. I am dying, Manfred.”
“ Do not speak so,” replied the other,
affectionately grasping the hand of his
friend.
“ I cease to see you,” said Karl, more
and more faintly and slowly; “ dark
clouds are before my eyes.”
Suddenly he raised himself, took the
watch which was lying by him, and placed
it in Manfred’s hand. “ I thank you,” he
said, “ for all the love you have shown me;
for all your kindness and consolation. Take
this watch, it is the only thing which now
belongs to me. Wear it in remembrance of
me. If it is permitted me, by this watch I
will give you warning when I am near.
Farewell!”
He sunk back—his breath stopped—he
was no more.
Manfred bent over him, called his name,
laid his hand on the forehead, which was
covered with perspiration; he felt it grow
colder and colder. Tears of the deepest
sympathy filled his eyes, and dropped upon
the pale face of the dead man.
“ Sleep softly,” whispered Manfred, “and
may the grave afford you that repose
which you sought in vain upon earth!”
Once more he pressed to his bosom the
hand of his deceased friend, wrapped him
self in his cloak, put up the watch which
Karl had bequeathed him, and retired to
his residence.
The sun was already high when he
awoke from an uneasy sleep. With feelings
of pain he thought of the past night, and of
his departed friend. In remembrance of
him he drew out the watch, which pointed
to the half hour, and held it to his ear. It
had stopped; he tried to wind it up, but
all in vain—it had not run down.
�THE MUIROR
41
Is it possible,” murmured Manfred to the floor. The whole frightful scene of the
himself, gjjMt there was really some spi- preceding day revived in his soul, and the
ritual connexion between the deceased and thought suddenly struck him, whether there
this ■h|iflgjavourite watch, which he con- might not be some connexion between that
s tan tly carvied ?”
particular spot and the strange excitement
He sunk down upon a chair, and strange of Karl. Fearful suspicions crossed his
thoughts and forebodings passed through mind; he thought how often conscience had
Bfip-^gXcited mind.
unmasked the criminal, in the hour of
Bu What is time?” he asked himself; death; he remembered the frequent mys
“whatis an hour? A machine artificially terious gloom of his friend; he remembered
produced by human hands determines it, the wife with whom he had long lived
regulates it, and gives to life its signifi unhappily, from whom he had been sepa
cance, and to the mind its warnings. The rated, and after whose residence Manfred
awe which accompanies the midnight hour had often inquired. On this subject Karl
does not affect us if the hand of our watch had always preserved silence, and often
goes wrong. The clock is the despot of broke out into an unusual warmth. He re
man; regulating the actions both of kings flected with what obstinacy Karl remained
and beggars. Nay, it is the ruler of time, in this room, although Manfred had often
which has subjected itself to its authority. and earnestly entreated him, as a friend
The clock determines the very thoughts as and near relative, to go into his house.
well as the actions of man; is the propel Nay, he now recollected quite clearly, that
ling wheel of the human species. The in the newspaper in which, years before,
maiden who reposes delighted in the arms he had read the arrival of Count Karl
of her lover trembles when the ruthless Manfred, it was stated that he had arrived
dock strikes the hour which tears him from with his wife. A few weeks after he had
her. Her grief, her entreaties, are all in read of the arrival of his relative, Manfred
vain. He must away, for the clock has or had gone to him, and found him alone; and
dered it. The murderer trembles in the when Karl had told him of his separation
full enjoyment of his fortune, for his eye from his wife, had inquired no further.
All this now passed before his mind. He
falls on the hands of the clock, and they
denote the hour when the already broken looked timidly back at the corpse, and it
eye of the man he murdered looked upon seemed to him as if this were scornfully
him for the last time. In vain he endea nodding at him confirmation of his thoughts.
“ I must have certainty,” he cried aloud,
voured to smile; it is beyond his power; for
the clock has spoken, and his conscience and stooped down to the floor. He now
awakes when he thinks of the horror of that plainly perceived that the middle boards,
hour. Shuddering with the feverish chill upon which was the burn, were looser
of mental anguish, the condemned cul than the others, and that the nails, which
prit looks upon the clock, the hand of must,have been there firmly, and the marks
which, slowly moving, brings nearer and of which were still plainly to be seen, were
nearer the hour of his death. It is not the wanting. He tried to raise the middle
rising and setting of the sun, it is not the board, which at first resisted, but at last
light of day, that determines destruction; gave way a little. With a piece of wood
but the clock. When the hand, with cruel he knocked the thick knife deeper into the
indifference, moves on and touches the fi floor; the nails became more and more un
gure of the hour which the j.udge has ap fastened, and he lifted and pulled with all
pointed for his death, the doors of the dun the might of anxiety and curiosity. With
geon open, and he has ceased to live. As a loud crack the board gave way entirely;
long as we live we are governed by the hour, he raised it, and—sight of horror!—saw
and death alone frees us from the hour and that a skeleton lay stretched out beneath.
the clock! Perhaps the whole of eternity, Manfred at first almost fainted; then feel
with its bliss, is nothing but an hourless, ing how necessary were calmness and pre
clockless existence; eternal, because with sence of mind, he collected himself with a
out measure; blissful, because not bound strong effort, and looked hard at the ske
leton. It held a paper between its teeth,
to a measured time.”
Manfred had once more entered the de which Manfred, with averted face, drew
solate residence of his deceased friend, and forth. Opening it, he soon recognised the
stood mourning by the corpse, the face of hand-writing of Karl. The words were as
which bore, in its stiffened features, the follow:
“ That no innocent person may be ex
peace which Karl had never known in life.
He thought of the life of the deceased— posed to suspicion, I hereby declare that I,
Karl Manfred, am the murderer of this
how poor it was in joy, and how, during
the four years he had known him, he had woman. This declaration can never injure
never seen him smile. Tears came into his me, as I am determined never to quit this
> eyes, and he|turned away from the corpse. room before my death. The small, wretch
Then his glance fell upon the black spot in ed house is my own property, and as I in
6
�42
THE MIRROR.
habit it alone, I am secure from discovery.
When I am no more the secret will be un
veiled, and for the finder of these lines I
add, for nearer explanation, a short portion
of the history of my life.
“ I am the son of a collateral branch of
the rich Count Manfred. My father was
tolerably rich, and loved me; but he was
haughty even to excess, and quite capable
of sacrificing the happiness of his child to
the pride he took in his ancestors. One
day I went to the shop of a clock-maker
to buy a watch. The clockmaker’s daugh
ter stood at the counter in the place of her
father; her beauty excited my admiration,
her innocent air attracted me: I talked
with her for a long time, and at last bought
a valuable watch set with brilliants. I
then departed, but returned in a few days,
and again, and again; in short, we were
enamoured of each other. I told my fa
ther that I had resolved to marry the
clockmaker’s daughter; he cursed me and
disinherited me. But I persuaded my be
loved to fly with me, and one night she
robbed her father of his money and jewels,
and effected her escape. We went far
enough to remain undiscovered, and sold
our brilliants, which, with the money we
had taken, was sufficient to afford a consi
derable, nay, rather abundant fortune.
As for the clock, which had been the cause
of my acquaintance with my beloved Ulri
ca, I kept that constantly by me.
“Ulrica told me that her father had made
it with his own hands. One day it stopSied; I tried to wind it up, but all in vain,
or it would not go. I laid it aside pee
vishly, and when, after some hours, I again
took it in hand, it went. With a feeling
of foreboding, inexplicable even to myself,
1 observed the hour, and some days after
wards read in the paper the announcement
that Ulrica’s father had died a beggar. We,
however, continued happy in our mutual
love. Years had passed away, when, one
evening, I received an invitation from one
of my friends. I was on the point of going,
when Ulrica asked me when I should re
turn. I named a time; ‘ Leave me your
watch then,’ said she, ‘ that I may know
exactly the hour at which I am to expect
you, and delight myself with the prospect
of your return.’ I gave her the waLh, and
departed. When the appointed hour had
arrived, I hastened back to my dwelling,
entered Ulrica’s chamber, and—found her
in the arms of one of my friends. She
screamed with fright, while I stood petri
fied, and consequently unable to prevent
the flight of the seducer. We remained
opposite to each other, perfectly silent.
‘ You must be more cautious,’ I said at
last, and tried to smile; ‘you could have
told by your watch when I was coming
back, and when it was time to dismiss your
other lover.’ At these words, I took the
watch, and pointed at it scornfully. ‘ It has
stopped,’ said Ulrica, turning away. The
watch had indeed stopped, and had thus
deceived the deceiver, and caused the dis
covery of her crime. With unspeakable
horror, I looked upon the watch, which I still
held, when the hands slowly moved, and
the watch was going. I swore to be re
venged on the faithless woman, but pre
served a bland exterior, and, with her, quit
ted the city. When, after a long journey,
we arrived here, I enquired, whether it
would be possible to purchase a small
house, in which my wife and I might dwell
alone. I soon found one, paid almost the
entire remains of my ready money, and en-|
tered it with Ulrica. At night, when she
was asleep, I tied a handkerchief about her
mouth, that her cries might not alarm the
neighbourhood, and called her by her
name. She awoke, and when she saw my
ferocious countenance, stooping over her,
knew my intention at once. She lay mo
tionless, and I whispered into her ear :
‘ I have awakened you, because I would
not murder you in your sleep, and because
I felt compelled to tell you why I kill you:
it is because you have betrayed me.’ It
is enough to say that I slew her. I had
already turned the board from the floor,
and now placed her in the cavity. I then
took out the watch, as if, having betrayed
the false one, it had a right to see how I
revenged my wrong. It stood still, the un
moved hand pointing to the half-hour after
midnight—the time when I murdered
Ulrica. I laughed aloud, and sat down to
write these lines. ‘ To-morrow morning I
shall lock up my house, and travel for a
time. When I return, the body will have
decayed.’
Manfred had read the manuscript, shud
dering, and having finished it, looked again
on the corpse of his friend. It had changed
frightfully. The features, which before had
been so calm and so clearly marked, now
bore an aspect of despair, and were dis
torted by convulsions. At this moment
the mysterious watch, which Count Man
fred had put into his breast pocket, began
its regular sound, but so very loudly, that
Manfred could hear plainly, without taking
it out, that the watch was going.
An irresistible feeling of horror came
over poor Manfred. He darted out of the
room, and hurried into his own residence,
in which he locked himself for the entire
day. He had laid the watch before him,
stared at it, and fearful thoughts crossed
his mind. On the following day he was
calm, but could not summon resolution to
see the corpse again. He caused it to be
quietly buried. The house he had already
bought of poor Karl for the sake of con
tributing something towards his support.
�THE MIRROR
Some nights after the burial, the stillness
of night was broken by an alarm of fire,
and at the very house in which Count
Karl had lived. At first, as the house
was uninhabited, the opinion prevailed that
it had been purposely set on fire, but, as it
had not been insured, this opinion gained
no credence. Count Manfred set out on
his travels, that with the various scenes of
a wanderer’s life he might get rid of the
gloomy mind that troubled him. The
watch he took with him. He fancied that
some great misfortune would befal him, if
he did not attend to it; he considered it as
a sort of demon, always wore it, and regulatfy wound it up. For years it went well.
Count Manfred had recovered his former
cheerfulness, and indeed was happier than
liver, for he loved and was beloved in retiirm Dreaming of a happy future, he
arose from his bed on the day appointed
for his wedding. “ I have slept long, per
haps too long” he said to himself. He
caught up his watch to see how late it was,
but—the watch had stopped. A loud cry
of anguish arose from his heart, he hur
ried on his clothes, and hastened to his
bride. She was well and cheerful, and
Manfred laughed at himself for his foolish
superstition. However, when the wedding
was over, he could not refrain from looking
atfchis watch once more. It was going.
After some weeks, Count Manfred disco
vered that the ill-omened watch had spoken
truly after all. He had been deceived in
his wife, and found that she would bring
him nothing but unhappiness. A melan
choly gloom took possession of the poor
Count. For whole days he would stare at
the watch, and grinning spectres seemed to
rise from the dial-plate and to dance round
him in derision. In the morning, when
he arose from his bed, he looked trembling
at his watch, always expecting that it
would stop, and thus indicate some new
calamity. He felt revived, and breathed
again, when the hands moved on, but yet,
from hour to hour, he would cast anxious
glances at the watch. His wife bore him a
son, and the feeling of parental joy seemed
to dissipate his gloom. In an unusually
cheerful mood he was seen to play with his
child, sitting for half the day at the cradle,
and by his own smile teaching the little
one to smile also. The very watch, which
had been the torment of his soul, must now
serve to amuse the child, who laughed when
it was held to his ear, and he could hear
the soft ticking. One day, however, as
Manfred approached the cradle, he found
the child uncommonly pale. His heart
trembled with anxiety, and following a
momentary impulse, he drew out the
watch—which stood still. With a fearful
cry Manfred flung it from him, so that it
sounded on the ground, and, scarcely in a
43
state of consciousness, buried his face in
his hands. The child fell into convulsions,
and died in a few hours. Manfred was, at
first, beside himself with grief; then he
became still, and walked calm and uncom
plaining around the room in which the
corpse lay. Having struck his fist against
something, he looked down, and saw that
it was his watch, which was still on the
floor. He picked it up and held it to his
ear;—it was going. Manfred laughed
aloud, till he made the silent room echo
frightfully with the sound. “Good! good!”
he cried, with an insane look, “Youwill
not leave me, devil! stop with me then!”
From this time, it was his serious convic
tion that the spirit of Karl the murderer,
whom he had called his friend, had found
no rest in the grave, but had been placed
in the watch, that it might hover round
him as a messenger of evil. He ceased to
think of, feel, hear anything but his watch;
he wound it up, trembling every evening,
he held it in his hand throughout the night,
and kept awake, gazing upon it. Some
months afterwards his wife bore him a
daughter, and died in childbed. The news
made no further impression upon Manfred
than that he looked at his watch, and
whispered, “It has not stopped.”
When his new-born daughter was brought
to him, he looked at her with indifference,
and glancing at the watch said, “ It will
stop soon!”
His bodily strength soon gave way un
der this ceaseless anguish of mind. He
fell into a violent fever, and, in a few weeks,
was buried by the side of his son.
CINDERELLA; or, THE LITTLE
GLASS SLIPPER.
A Fairy Tale.
BY FANNY E. LACY.
“ Oh, why are you weeping, my own pretty mold ?
I’m your fairy godmother—don’t he afraid;
For I love you, as viewing you meekly resigned
To your step-mother cross, and your sisters unkind ;
And no more by their taunts and their insolence
gall’d,
Shall you be Cinderella, the cinder-wench, called.”
The maiden look’d up, and beheld by her side,
The fairest of fairies, gay as a bride.
Now a handsome young prince, who was gracious to
all,
Had her two sisters ask’d to his very grand ball;
While poor Cinderella shed tears not a few,
Until said the fairy, “ And you shall go too ;
So fetch me a pumpkin.” Then, lo and behold,
A coach it became, that all glittered with gold !
“ Nay, be not astonish’d,” the fairy then said,
“ For grandeur oft springs from a mere mushroom
bed.”
�44
THE MIRROR.
Then tapping the tails of six little grey mice,
Six fine prancing horses they were in a trice!
Six lizards were footmen, behind up to skip ;
A rat became coachman, a most knowing whip ;
And the rags of the cinder-wench, dingy and old,
One tap of the wand—they were spangled with gold!
Oh, brave Cinderella! but who has not heard
The tale of “fine feathers” that “fine make the
bird ?”
So now when the royal resolve was made known,
What lady but sought the glass slipper to own!
What pinching of toes ! and what cramping of feet!
The little glass slipper’s dimensions to meet;
That declined, although lately presented at court,
With every new measure proposed to assort,
While the prince in a wife his own fancy to suit,
Seem’d resolved on first gaining “ the length of her
foot.”
Then the kind fairy added two slippers of glass,
And said, no misfortune would ere come to pass,
While the little glass slippers, so pretty and neat,
Remain’d firmly fitting her two pretty feet;
“ But pleasure, be sure, will bring nought but regret,”
Said she, “should you chance these my words to
forget;
So heed to remember my warning now given,
And see you return ere the clock strikes eleven.”
Though of taunting step-mother and sisters the jest,
Did poor Cinderella submit to the test;
And the slipper the courtly had tried all in vain,
Acknowledged its dear little owner again;
While her sisters, as viewing the bright wedding-ring,
Thought a “friend at court” having, was no such
bad thing;
And nuptials more splendid sure never were seen,
So give them three cheers, and sing God save the
Queen 1
’Twould be marvellous sure, and a most pleasant
thing,
If the wish of our hearts little fairies would bring;
And I know that if I had a fairy godmother,
I should always be wishing for something or other;
I’ve an excellent taste, and like everything gay,
And am always content when I have my own way;
I should much like the trick of this Miss Cinderella;
Should you know a kind fairy, perhaps you would
tell her.
How the maiden rejoiced, as she look’d in the glass!
For she thought she had ne’er seen a prettier lass,
As she nodded her feathers, and glided about,
Like a fine modern belle, who is just “ coming out.”
So she thank’d her godmother for being so'kind,
As she stepp’d in her coach, with her footmen behind;
While so well became coachee his dashing icock’d
hat,
You would never have guess’d he was only a rat.
And now, what delight! what a racket and rout 1
What piping, and jingling, and dancing about I
And who would have thought, at this very grand
ball,
Of a cinder-wench being the fairest of all!
And she danced with the prince, and the hours had
wings;
Till “ be not time slighting,” a little bird sings ;
And one pinching shoe had a hint gently given,
That the clock would be very soon striking eleven 1
But she linger’d long after that hour had struck,
And a quarter to twelve had much alter’d her luck;
For purring round coachman and horses, the cat
Made people suspect she was “ smelling a rat 1”
And when that they summon’d her footmen so tall,
They found but six lizards upon a damp wall;
While the fine gilded coach to a raw pumpkin grew,
And the lady hopp’d home again, minus one shoe.
Thus weeping the poor Cinderella return’d,
And ’tis hoped of late hours she a good lesson team’d’
Though one little comfort her heart still sustain’d,
In the one little slipper that still she retain’d;
And the very next day it was rumour’d around,
That the handsome young prince had the lost slipper
found;
And to wed the fair owner did boldly declare,
Of one single slipper thus making a pair.
Utfe Assurance (Affixes.
We have in a previous article expressed
our opinion on the value of life assurance.
We will now endeavour to lay before our
readers some account of the mode of effect
ing a life assurance. We will suppose the
case of a person in easy circumstances. He
must, in the first place, obtain a printed
form from the office in which he designs to
insure. This paper he fills up with his
name, residence, and occupation, the
amount and terms of assurance desired,
age, place and time of birth, and certain
particulars concerning his health, whether
he is subject to any particular malady, &c.
This form he must sign, and in general he
must also procure the signatures of two
persons who arc well acquainted with him,
one of whom should be his medical attend
ant. Sometimes other references are re
quired; and there is generally a physician
or surgeon employed by the office to
examine the party. It should be remem
bered, that if any false account be given
by the person assured in this printed form,
he forfeits the whole amount of the money
paid, and the policy becomes void.
A caution, however, given by Mr. Pocock
in his excellent work, should not be over
looked. He tells us that in the older
offices, the claimant on a policy is com
pellable, not only to satisfy the directors
as to the death and cause of death of the
assured, but also to prove that the age did
not exceed the age stated in the proposal.
But surely it is (to say the least) dealing
harshly with the assured, to allow a policy
to be completed on a mere declaration as
to age, when the party who is alive can so
readily prove it, or, at all events, can fur
nish the t'est possible evidence in regard
to it, and afterwards to require his execu
tors to prove a fact of which they may be
�THE MIRROR.
altogetherignorant, and which they must
comparatively have no inconsiderable difficulty in establishing. It is strongly retherefore, to every person
effecting IMrlnsurance, either on his own
life or- that of another, to have the age
admitted in the policy. Without such an
admission, a policy of assurance is an
incomplete instrument, and as such ought
not to be purchased (as it undoubtedly is,
by payment of the premium or annual pre
miums), either by way of provision for a
family, or of security for a creditor.
The deposit required by some of the
offices is good to a certain extent, we mean
when it does not exceed an amount equi
valent to a proper payment for the labour
JBestowed; for without such a regulation,
cases might frequently be stated to the
various assurance offices, and answers pro
cured from the very skilful professional
persons belonging to them, without any
recompense being made for the exercise of
their talents, and even without the slight
est intention of any real transaction.
At many of the offices it is necessary,
when the proposal has been completed, for
the person to appear before the board of
directors appointed to manage the concerns
of the company, when inquiries are made
as to the general state of his health, and a
memorandum of the information received
is entered upon the books. When the per
son cannot appear, his presence is dispensed
with, on the payment of a certain fine.
These preliminaries having been ’satisfac
torily concluded, the decision of the di
rectors is entered upon the minutes, and a
certain time is appointed for the payment
of the first premium; which, if not paid,
the treaty is completely at an end, and
the assurance cannot be effected without
again going through these forms. On the
payment of the first premium, the amount
of the stamp duty must also be paid, and,
in some offices, a small entrance fee—the
Amicable requiring ten shillings per cent.,
and the Equitable, the London Life Asso
ciation, and the Rock, five shillings per
cent, on the amount assured, as entrance
money.
A notice is generally sent to the holder,
apprising him when the next payment
comes due, and also informing him that if
the premium be not paid within a certain
time, the policy will become absolutely
void, and the money already paid forfeited.
The time allowed for the payment of re
newal premiums after they become due, in
different offices, varies generally from
fifteen to thirty days; if, however, the pre
mium be not paid within the limited time,
the forfeiture of the policy may still be
prevented at most offices, by paying it, to
gether with a fine (usually ten shillings or
one pound per cent, on the amount as
45
sured), and furnishing satisfactory evidence
that the assured is then in good health.
We may here observe that limits are set
to the distance from England to which a
person is allowed to travel. It is usually
one of the conditions of policies of assu
rance, that the person whose life is insured
must reside within the limits of Europe;
or that an additional premium shall be
paid, the amount of which varies according
to the circumstances of each particular case.
This regulation is founded upon the va
rious effects produced upon people, by a
change of climate. Most of the offices
allow the assured to go by sea, from one
part of Great Britain to another, without
any additional charge, providing the jour
ney be performed in decked vessels, es
tablished packets, &c. They also allow
them to extend their journeys to the dif
ferent parts of Europe.
These are the principal circumstances
connected with a policy of assurance during
the life of the assured. We must now con
sider what takes place after the decease of
the party. This event must be announced
to the office as quickly as possible, toge
ther with all the particulars, as the burial
of the deceased, evidences of his identity,
and references to and certificates from the
medical persons who attended him in his
illness, with the probate of his will, if the
policy were effected on his life, and a copy
of the assignment, if the policy had been
transferred to another person. The cause
of death must also be distinctly ascertain
ed, as the policy would be void, if the
decease took place by suicide, duelling, or
the hands of justice, or upon the high seas,
without license from the company, except
it occurred in travelling from one part of
the kingdom to another; all of which are
excepted in the policy, to prevent frauds on
the offices, and to remove causes of dis
pute. In some establishments, however,
it is the practice to make allowances in
cases where it is evident no fraud was con
templated, and where great injury might
be sustained; but this is dependant upon
the discretion of the directors, and is not
subject to any fixed rule.
In the interval between the decease of
the party, and the time appointed for the
payment of the claim, due investigation is
made into the truth of the various state
ments, and the whole having been satisfac
tory, at the expiration of that period, the
claimant takes with him his policy and the
receipt for the sum claimed, which is im
mediately paid him, the policy surrendered,
and the transaction ended. It is the rule
with most of the offices to pay the amount
of the policy at the end of three months
after satisfactory proof of death: several
of the offices require six months, and some
only one. In some offices, although all
�46
THE MIRROR.
claims may be payable in three or six Beneath thine all-protecting arm, oh, take them io
thy care,
months, they may be received immediately
after satisfactory proof of death, upon And let them all the blessings of thy holy goodness
share;
allowing the usual rate of discount for the
Let them not rest their weary head upon the cold
unexpired time.
bare ground,
But pillow’d be their sorrows, where thy goodness
may be found.
ODE ON WINTER.
BY CHABLBS MIDDLETON.
Old Winter now is come again, with slow and silent
tread,
To gaze upon the monuments of the slumbering and
the dead;
How sad and solemn is his march, how gloomy is his
frown,
And all beneath his sweeping arm is cast dejected
down.
Oh, he hath swept the desert wild, the mountain and
the main,
From Zembla’sicy regions to revisit us again ;
And flow’rets droop before his glance, and fade away
and die,
For nought can brave .the angry chill of his cold
freezing eye.
See nature’s loveliness is gone, nor is her face so fair;
The lily and the violet no more are blooming there;
The yellow leaf lies withering upon the cold bare
ground,
And desolation’s mighty pall is spreading far around.
And who will trace the dying of the dull and aged
year,
Nor wrap the thoughts of sadness in reflection’s holy
tear?
And who will trace the wither’d leaf, nor feel that he
must die,
When winter’s gath’ring clouds shall droop his cold
and languid eye ?
And while we sit by our fireside, to hear the cold
winds blow,
Will not the tear-drop start to hear the dismal notes
of woe,
When houseless wand’rers passing by some holy boon
shall crave,
To hold them on the narrow verge of an untimely
grave?
The grey old man with wither’d cheek, the poor and
orphan child,
The mother with her dying babe, that once to her
had smil’d;
The blighted frame of manhood in the prime and
pride of years,
Bow’d down with grief and misery, and sorrow’s
saddest tears.
Yes,~there are many that must brave the cold and
bitter blast,
And .each succeeding day must be more dreary than
the past;
But though they thus are doom’d to gain their .food
from door to door,
Oh, God defend the fatherless, the widow, and the
poor.
JMemotr of (general Benutrius
*
3£alerges»
This eminent man was born in 1805, in
the isle of Candia, of a noble family, and
before long followed his father to Taganrok,
on the borders of the sea of Azof, where
he had settled.
He was carefully educated at St. Petersburgh, Vienna, and Paris, but at the age of
eighteen years abandoned all to accompany
his two brothers Emanuel and Nicholas to
Greece, where the struggle against Turkey
had just commenced. These noble young
men, animated by the most generous patri
otism, carried along with them a large quan
tity of arms and ammunition, including
field-artillery and a complete band of mili
tary music, presented to their common
country by their uncle Emmanuel Kalerges, one of the first financiers of Russia.
Eew men have displayed more valour,
more coolness, or more early virtue, than
Demetrius Kalerges. In 1825, at the head
of ten thousand of his countrymen in
Greece, who elected him as their chief, he
undertook an expedition into the isle of
Candia, which he excited against the
Turks, after' having rendered himself mas
ter, by a dexterous coup-de-main, of Graboussa and of Kissanos. Fabvrier, admiring
his intrepidity, confided to him the com
mand of a little regular corps named staurophori (crusaders), with which he seconded
this brave Philhellene in several underta
kings.
In 1827, under the same chief in the
celebrated affair of the Piraeus, Demetrius
Kalerges, besieged, with 37O.Cretans, in an
entrenchment, on an open plain, there sus
tained bravely the united efforts of 20,000
Turks, conducted by Reschid Pasha. Succombing under numbers, after being dan
gerously wounded, he was made a prisoner,
and the Ottoman general gave orders that
he should be beheaded. But the Albanian
* The materials are taken from that excellent
work, the “ Annuaire historique et biographique des
souverains, des chefs et des membres des maisons
principieres et autres maisons nobles et des anciennes
families, et principalement des hommes d’etat, des
membres des chambres legislatives, du derge. des
hommes de guerre, des magistrats, et des hommes de
science, de toutes les nations.” Paris, 95, Rue Riche
lieu.
�THE MIRROR.
Bey, into whose hands he had fallen, hoping
to obtain a large ransom, opposed the deci
sion of the seraskier. He agreed with Kalerges for 5,000 piastres, which were gene
rously advanced by Leblanc, the captain
of a French frigate, who also took him out
of the hands of the Turks. The pacha
also exacted one of his ears, which he sent,
along with other similar trophies, to the
sultan. Emmanuel Kalerges’ brother fell
in the above-mentioned action.
On his arrival in Greece, in 1828, the
president, Count Jean Capo d’lstria, at
tached young Kalerges to him in quality
of aide-de-camp, with the simple rank of
lieutenant colonel, although he became a
general. A little after, he was named to
the chief command of the Greek cavalry.
Compelled to lead an inactive life when
royalty was established in Greece,Kalerges
resolved on a temporary absence from his
country, and went in December 1835, with
a regular permission from the king, to
St. Petersburg, where several of his rela
tives still resided. Here he was honourably
received by the emperor Nicholas, and
also by several of the first noblemen.
After about ten months of absence,
hoping at last to obtain justice from the
Greek government, he set out on his re
turn, crossing Germany, Switzerland, and
Italy. But while on his journey, a revolu
tion broke out in Messina, and the regency
accused Colonel Kalerges of having been
one of the most active partisans in the
attempt. Three days, therefore, after his
return to Argos, where he was resting to
recover from his fatigue, he was, at mid
night, arrested in his own house, and drag
ged from the conjugal bed by an officer of
gens-d’armes, in the name of the same king
who some hours before had admitted him
to his table and treated him with great
distinction. After remaining several weeks
in the fort of Ny Kole, at Nauplia, he was
removed and thrown into the obscure and
noisome dungeons of the castle of Nava
rino, which was the place appointed for L.e
trial of the insurgents of Messina. In bad
health, deprived of all the succours of art,
exposed to the insults of the soldiery, he
waited for two months the decision of his
fate. The court-martial acquitted him
honorably and he was at liberty. This
tribunal was presided over by that estima
ble English Philhellene, General Sir Tho
mas Gordon, to whose noble independence
of character it is just to give due praise.
Some years after, Colonel Kalerges was
reinstated in the command of the cavalry,
and exhibited under all circumstances as
much zeal as ability in this service. The
plans adopted by the ministers had excited
discontent which was now threatening a
crisis, and of which some bold and resolute
men resolved to take the direction. A
47
grand national manifestation appeared the
must imposing aud efficacious means of
attaining the object. It was arranged that
it should take place on the night of the 1st
or 2nd September, 1813. But the project
having been discovered, its execution was
put off, and the hesitation of some, the
pusillanimity, and perhaps the treachery of
others, would have rendered it completely
abortive had not a man gifted with energy
and patriotism above all fear or self-interest
presented himself at this critical juncture.
That man was Colonel Kalerges.
Soon initiated into the object of the
movement, he promised his sincere co-ope
ration, declaring continually that notwith
standing his just resentments he should
remain faithful to his monarchical princi
ples. The confidence and absolute devo
tedness of the military force to him was
counted on, although the employment of
this had not been deemed indispensable for
the general movement, which seemed to
promise a speedy success.
This noble officer, knowing that the ac
tion of the drama would take place in the
palace, and foreseeing the danger which
might accrue to the person of the king and
the existence of the throne, conceived that
the regiment in garrison, properly managed,
would be alone able to prevent all such
misfortunes. He then established a system
of espionage, in which a very small num
ber of tried probation were employed.
Being informed on the morning of the
14th, that a select tribunal menaced the
heads of the most influential conspirators,
and judging that he could not now with
draw without the imputation of cowardice,
he determined, of his own free will, to
exert himself that very evening. At half
an hour after midnight, therefore, he went
alone to the quarter occupied by the ca
valry and infantry, sent for the general,
and caused the troops to get under arms.
He then addressed them in a fiery oration,
expatiating on the state of ferment in
which all Greece was at that moment, and
concluded with these words: “Let us hasten,
then, to embrace the knees of our king,
and pray him to accede to the wishes of
his beloved people, and not to draw
on himself the misfortunes which a refusal
may entail both on himself and on his
throne.” Shouts, a thousand times re
peated, of “ Long live our country I Long
live the Constitution! We are ready!
Lead on!” resounded through and made
vibrate the marbles of Acropolis, which,
joined with the beautiful light of the moon,
caused a magical effect. Some few reports
of fire-arms were heard at intervals from
the summits of those sacred walls, which
seemed to nod consent to this appeal of
patriotism.
While this was going on, the com
�48
THE MIRROR.
mandant of the place arrived on the spot,
and demanded the cause of this assembly;
but prompt and energetic measures being
absolutely necessary for the success of the
enterprise, the commandant was arrested,
as. also all the king’s ministers, to whom
comfortable lodgings were, however, as
signed.
Nothing impeded the march to the pa
lace; the troops proceeded in the greatest
order, a band of music preceding them.
From one point where they expected op
position, there came the artillery, which
the king had ordered out for his protec
tion, which, however, the officers who had
charge of it, impelled by the irresistible in
fluence of the other troops, and of the im
mense multitude rising in all quarters
around them, soon turned against the
doors of the royal residence, which they
had been called on to defend.
Meanwhile, Kalerges convoked the se
nate, to which, when gathered together, in
solemn assembly, he proposed the mea
sures to be submitted to the king for ac
ceptation ; he thought it his duty to inform
the foreign ministers that he should gua
rantee, on his life, the existence of their
majesties, as well as the integrity of the
crown, and he sent to this effect to each of
them.
A little surprised by this, the diploma
tists presented themselves before the pa
lace, which they begged to have opened to
them. Kalerges expressed to them his
great regret at not being able to accede to
their wishes until the moment when the
king should address the senate. Those
gentlemen had too much experience not to
perceive the utter uselessness and also
danger of their insisting on this. One
alone among them, the representative of
Prussia, made some remonstrances. Ka
lerges answered with some warmth, “ You,
sir, you have already too often entered
this august sanctuary of royalty, to the
detriment of Greece; this day you shall
not cross the threshold, for it is with the
people alone that the king ought to deal,
for the common interest.” Surrounded
by a brilliant staff, whom the differe at, not
to say the motley uniforms, rendered as
original as picturesque, the valiant hero of
the 3d and 15th September, ran through,
incessantly, the ranks of the troops, and
the multitude which obstructed the ap
proaches to the palace, and filled the
immense space which, from this day, is
named La Place de la Constitution. He
praised the army for its patriotism ;
fortifying it in its resolution to preserve
its own discipline, as well as the public
peace. He recommended to the people
calmness, moderation, and confidence in
the men charged with the protection and
triumph of their rights. At all events, he
manifested an irresistible resolution to pre
serve the prerogatives and dignity of the
crown, that is to say, to identify them with
the necessities and independence of the
country. “ Avoid, my children,” cried he,
“ all shedding of blood, all violence, and
let the life of the inferior officer of gen
darmerie, the victim of an imprudent ag
gression, be the only human holocaust
offered, on this glorious day, on the altar
of our political regeneration.”
On the first intelligence of the tumult
without, the king appeared in a balcony,
the queen being at his side, and demanded,
in an agitated voice, the cause of these
gatherings, and the name of him who di
rected them. At the name of Kalerges,
his majesty reiterated the first question.
“ Sir,’’ was the answer, “ the people claim
the constitution: it behoves you not to re
sist the wishes which have been expressed
to you by rhe senate, their legitimate repre
sentative. I, for my own part, and as an
organ of public opinion, declare that your
majesty shall receive neither injury to your
person, nor to your prerogatives, which
command the respect and love of every
one.” “ I will answer to-morrow, with
my council, the wishes that you express to
me, expecting, though, that everyone shall
retire now,’ ’ replied the king. “ All delay,
sir, is inadmissible,”replied Kalerges; “ the
proposals of the senate have been made
known to your majesty. The people wait
your decision.” While this was going on,
the senate was introduced to the king, and,
after prolonged debate, they obtained his
sanction for different decrees, the convoca
tion of a constitutional convention, the
immediate return of the Bavarians, &c.
This news, announced about two hours
after mid-day, was received by demonstra
tions of joy and enthusiasm which it is
impossible to describe. Kalerges took mea
sures for the public security, persuaded
the multitude to retire to their homes, and
only allowed the garrison to relieve quar
ters after fourteen hours of fatigue, inquie
tude, and complete abstinence; and the
immense result obtained rendered them
well worthy of repose. He himself, with
a brother officer, retired to his lodgings,
and there deposited, with a sigh of relief
and gratitude, a pair of double-barrelled
pocket pistols, destined to save his head
from the swords of his enemies, should suc
cess not crown his great and hazardous
undertaking.
An incontestible proof that he had agi
tated without the least private ambition,
is his answer to the senate, when asked
his opinion of whom should the newlyprojected ministry consist. “ Go,” said
he to the interrogator, “ and report to the
�THE MIRBQR.
senate, that I am here to execute its orders
and decisions, and not to give it counsel.”
♦
*
♦
*
*
♦
#
*
■" Kalerges was afterwards military gover
nor of Athens, deputy to the national as
sembly, and commandant of the guard of
the national assembly. In each of these
employments he has shown the same ener
gy, wisdom, spirit, and fidelity to the mo
narchy. Thus, his great merit did not
consist in temerity of enterprise, or intre
pidity of exertion, and the power to restrain
at any time the popular torrent which,
when once overflowing, is so difficult to
reclaim its natural bed—that is to say,
to seize revolution by the neck, to preserve
it from all excess, and to consolidate, in a
word, incalculable benefits to come.
Kalerges’ merit was appreciated. He
had the thanks of the national assembly
voted to him, with the title and preroga
tives of the great citizen of Greece.
In the heart, therefore, of the assembly,
his majesty announced to him in the year
1830 (i844), that he should recompense his
brilliant services to the country, and named
him major-general, and, in token of his
gratitude for his devotedness to the throne,
had chosen him his aide-de-camp.
The particulars of the marriage of De
metrius Kalerges in 1828 are curious. A
celebrated beauty of Corinth was the object
of the rivalry of two chiefs, who disputed
her possession with arms. Kalerges was
out with a corps of - soldiers to reduce
them to order, and having an interview
with this new Helen, placed himself among
the ranks of her admirers, and carried her
off from the others. This definitive union
restored the city to peace, for the two
competitors dared not attack him.
Mrs.
BY PRANCES BROWN.
Astronomers tell us that every system
has its sun, round which the planets move
in periods proportioned to theii' distance:
that is the only sentence we can recollect
out of all the volumes which our early
teacher (great was his faith) believed to
have been read from Newton down to
Mrs. Sommerville.
Why it should have inhabited our me
mory alone, can be accounted for only by
the fact that the axiom was strikingly il
lustrated by the society of our native city,
which formed in itself more great and
small circles than ever were traced on
globe celestial or terrestrial, guarded with
a pugnacious exclusiveness, neither found
nor sought for in the statutes of the stars.
We have not forgotten the Athens of
no. 1354.
49
the North, though thou hadst another
name in the Doric of our earlier days,
strongly denoting the prevalence of smoke;
and Byron pictured thee under a Roman
designation, as trembling at the downfall
of Jefferys’ paternal garret, in the days
of English bards.
Many were—and are, for ought we
know, for seas and years have severed our
steps from the Calton—the castes of thine
inhabitants; but great among them as that
of the Brahmins in Hindostan, was the cir
cle in which we moved when the scarlet of
our uniform was new, and the sun and
centre thereof was Arabella Sutherland.
When our acquaintance commenced
with Arabella, we had hated titles ever
since our graudmother, whose ears had
failed before her lungs, introduced us to a
large company in topping tones as “ Mr.
Ensign Campbell, her grandson.” Well,
at the time specified, Arabella resided in
Murray-place with her mother, a widow
of the first magnitude, but beyond the sus
picion of matrimony; whose affections
seemed equally divided between her gold
snuff-box and her only daughter, as the
closing days of her pilgrimage were passed
in applications to the one, and praises of
the other.
But the temple of Arabella’s distinction
had, in the judgment of her acquaintances,
three more supporting pillars. She was
believed to be an heiress; her connections
bordered on nobility; and the lady had
succeeded in uniting in her own person
the opposite and somewhat discordant
characters of a blue and a belle.
We are aware that bluebells have been
found in other lands than Scotland, not
withstanding her appropriation of them in
the well-known song; but Arabella was,
to use a commercial phrase (we like the
words of a prospering party), “ the finest
specimen of the article we have ever seen.”
True, we can now remember that there
have been greater beauties; that her com
plexion was dark and pale, and there was
something like a cast in one of her eyes,
but for air and figure they would have
called her a fine woman anywhere; and
then her mind, oh what a world of accom
plishments was opened to us there! She
was an amateur in the fine arts, had read
metaphysics, understood the belles-lettres,
could talk politics, and positively wrote
poetry; besides, Arabella dressed like a
Parisian, played, sang, and danced divinely,
drew from nature, andhad been pronounced,
even by connoisseurs from London, ex
tremely lady-like when she pleased.
How often Arabella’s will and pleasure
took that peculiar direction, it is not in
our power to state, but we are above con
cealment, she was the sovereign lady of our
thoughts.
VOL. XL1X.
7
�50
THE MIRROR.
We had returned to Edinburgh for the
first time since the purchase of our com
mission with a complete stock of military
phrases and anecdotes collected at the
mess-table; we had learned to talk of what
was done in “ ours,” could relate adven
tures of country quarters, and never con
cealed our opinion that no civilian was a
gentleman.
Tell us, for ye have seen, denizens of the
New Town, how we have strutted among
you; did we not astonish the inhabitants of
Princes Street? was not our opera-glass
displayed in the boxes of the Theatre
Royal, and the smoke of our cigar beheld
even in George Square: but the chief
efforts of our powers were put forth in
Murray Place. Warmly were we welcomed
by its fashionable physicians, retired mer
chants, and far-tracing branches of provin
cial aristocracy with all their exclusive
ladies. Our expectations were known to
be good, and our family had resided in the
same mansion for two generations; let us
not linger to expatiate on the joy of our
maiden aunt and grandmother, she of the
introduction; the nearer stems of our exis
tence had been cut down early. Nor will
we enumerate, having declared against
vanity since the last of our hair grew grey,
the various balls and parties that celebrated
our arrival; but, short as the absence had
been, there were some faces missed, and
new ones found in their places, in that
circle among which number were those of
Arabella and her mother.
They had come in from the country
just when Arabella had laid aside her
sables for the death of her father, who had
been a landed proprietor, and liked rusti
cation ; yet we will confess that, in spite
of all the mess and march had taught us,
we felt our countenance emulate the hue
of our coat, and what an English com
panion in arms beautifully defined as a
kind of all-overishness at the first ball,
when Dr. M’Claren marshalled us forward.
Thank heaven, it was not our grand
mother, with—“ Miss Sutherland, permit
me to introduce to you Ensign Campbell,
the son of a very old and valued friend.”
We summoned back our assurance, and
said something for the honour of the ser
vice, but we are not certain what it was,
yet the clear, full tone is still in our recol
lection that answered, “ A thousand thanks,
Doctor, I am delighted to meet any friend
of yours, and especially Ensign Campbell.”
Arabella had seen our embarrassment,
and she was a gentlewoman to the heart;
but we were ourselves again, and having
contrived to secure a seat beside her, soon
became eloquent as usual on the exploits
of “ ours.”
Dr. M'Claren, thou hast bowed to life’s
great physician: patients no longer trem
ble at thy prescriptions, nor anxious friends
consult the oracle of thy countenance; yet
we bless the marble that records thy vir
tues and talents, albeit its statements
somewhat exceed the truth, for the me
mory of that evening, which still shines far
and clear through the waste of days that
are shaded into blackness, bright with the
festal gas and more brilliant glances of the
ball-room.
Oh! what stories we told, and what adventures we manufactured!
Arabella
certainly seemed interested, and, as our
courage increased, we asked her to dance.
The steps of that waltz are in our memory
yet, in spite of those of time; but dance
aftei’ dance succeeded, and still we kept
possession. We were her cavalier at sup
per. There was certainly a decided pre
ference. Arabella’s esteem of the mili
tary character was almost as high as our
own; and, after handing her to her car
riage, and exchanging cards with a young
advocate, who attempted to interfere, we
went home, firmly believing ourselves ad
mired and envied to the last degree, and
resolved to find some excuse for making
an incursion on the Sutherlands. Fortu
nately, our aunt, who never went to balls,
had a slight acquaintance of them, and we
discovering, with a dutiful concern for her
health, that there was nothing so good as
morning calls, squired her forth next day
in their direction, and, of course, became
regularly acquainted. Mr. B., the advocate,
also discovered that duelling was contrary
to his principles; but, day after day, and
evening after evening, we met Arabella,
and our acquaintance grew into intimacy.
We danced, walked, sang duets, and
sketched in company : in fact, I paid her
all kinds of delicate attentions; but she
had many friends, all longer known: but,
no—they could not be more valued, and
Arabella was not an ordinary young lady:
she always frowned or smiled decidedly—
never said, “ Oh, dear! what would mam
ma say?’’ and seemed to consider flirtation
beneath her dignity; still we had a fair
prospect of success, till another Richard
entered the field.
Calling one morning, as usual, on Ara
bella, we found her engaged in conversa
tion with a slender, well-dressed gentleman,
who looked as if he had been used to take
care of himself, and whom she introduced
as “ Mr. Hamilton, the distinguished author
of ‘ Caledonian Lays;’” at the same time
directing our attention to a remarkably
thin volume, bound in crimson silk, which
he had just presented.
Small had been our estimation of lays,
except in a mess-room chorus; but we soon
snuffed a rival. Arabella was bluish, and
the author had weapons which we could
not wield. His memory was a complete
�THE MIRROR.
edition of the British poets. He would
discuss the magazines wholesale; was
•versed in the private history, as well as the
contents, of the new publications, and de
clared himself acquainted with half the
literati of the age.
Desperate were the exertions we made
to maintain our position, and fearful, ac
cording to our aunt’s computation (she
had been brought up in Aberdeen), were
the quantities of gas consumed in our
nightly applications to Scott and Byron,
for the purpose of outspouting Mr. Hamil
ton, and we did succeed to a miracle; but
he beat us hollow in sentiment, for, unfor
tunately, we could coin nothing of the
kind, while Hamilton could hold forth
extemporary over a dead wild-cat. Yet,
there was an advantage still in our mili
tary experience, and we can safely aver,
that during the month of his stay, we di
rected more time to literature than in all
the rest of our natural life.
We have said that Arabella was neither
a flirt nor a coquette; but, in the midst of
our unwearied efforts to keep pace with
the new comer in her graces, we felt that
the penchant once so manifest to and for
ourselves, had changed slowly, but surely,
to the author of “ Caledonian Lays.”
It was at a fashionable party, given in
his honour—many were the admirers of
his authorship—and the glory of our re
turn had waned. He had seated himself
on one side of Arabella: but, our stars for
ever! we were on the other, descanting
most critically on a new periodical, which,
conscience be our witness, we had never
seen—when there came a sound of voices,
a shuffling of heavy feet, and then our
host entered, half-dragging in a stranger,
who seemed to require the application of
physical force to make him enter that bril
liant drawing-room: no wonder, for in the
words of the poet, he “ seemed something
that should not be there.”
The man was at least six feet high, with
a broad bony frame, a coarse expressionless
face and solid-looking head, crowned with
a stock of hair, having an invincible ten
dency to the erect position, whose flaming
redness strongly reminded us of the fiery
furnace of Shadrack, Meshak, and Abednego.
His dress was worthy of the wearer, it
consisted of a large blue coat, with brass
buttons, the breadth of half-a crown,
bundled over a red and blue plaid waist
coat, pants and boots rather the worse for
dust, and this individual was introduced to
the company by the appropriate name of
Mr. Mc‘Quilhen.
He was a wealthy sugar merchant of
Glasgow, distantly related to our enter
tainer, and being on business in our city,
had chosen to drop in just, we suspect,
51
when his presence could have been spared;
but the fellow was worth a plum, and such
people are always welcome. Tea, cards,
and quadrilles went on, but the sugar-mer
chant profited only by the first mentioned;
he could not dance, and he would not play
cards, being of the number of Scotland’s
many pious, yet his eyes followed Arabella
from the piano to the dance, though to do
him justice, he lent the lady his ears
oftener than his tongue.
Many an exchange of seats was made,
in order to approach her, till at length he
actually joined our group; the powers of
his conversation were bounded by Glas
gow politics, the state of trade, which
came in fine contrast to the poetical senti
ment of Mr. Hamilton, and our dashing
military style.
We know not how the rules of syntax
had escaped the man who had gathered so
many thousands, but so it was, and Ha
milton afterwards discovered he had been
meanly brought up. Yet Arabella con
versed with him; “ Oh what politeness was
there, my countrymen,” and next day it
was the pleasing task of both gentlemen
to draw her attention to Mr. Mc‘Quilhen’s
various deficiencies. We were particularly
brilliant on the occasion, and Arabella
laughed and said, “He had more sense
than one would imagine.” But Mc'Quilhen
stayed day after day, aye, and returned, we
thought, as quick as the Glasgow mail
could bring him, for the ruins of Linlith
gow had not heard the sounds of a railway
train; none could ever reveal to us how
he managed to get into the house, but we
met him there; Mrs. Sutherland seemed
to take a special interest in him; and we
heard he had been at tea. “Yet Arabella
must despise the fellow.” Such was our con
clusion while returning one lonely starlight
night, with the lady who had chosen to
walk from the theatre, while Mr. Hamil
ton escorted her mother, and whom should
we meet but the sugar-merchant himself,
coming with most mercantile haste from
some late office, ju,st as a sound of screams
and scuffling in our way attracted the at
tention of the party.
We neared the scene of action, and found
it was an unfortunate woman almost fran
tic between anger and intoxication, who
showered blows, threats, and curses upon
two policemen as they endeavoured to car
ry her to the station; a crowd of the now
liberated gods was gathering, and we, de
termined to let Arabella see the difference
between a military gentleman and the mere
civilian who accompanied her mother, com
manded them, at their peril, to make way
for the ladies. The fellows addressed
turned on us no very reverend looks, but
there was other game in view. Just at the
moment, the woman darted from the po
�52
THE MIRROR.
liceman, with both hands full of hair, and
rushed down the street, but gin had made
her feet uncertain, and stepping on the
flags, she fell on her face, evidently not
much to their dissatisfaction, as she was
immediately recaptured.
The unfortunate creature screamed and
struggled still, though the blood poured
from a long lacerated wound on her brow,
and the crowd drew closer round, but Me
Quilhen was in the midst of them. “ Let
her go,” said he, pushing the policeman,
while he slipped something into each man’s
hand.
“ Are you at me too,” screamed the now
maddened woman, flinging the hair which
she still held in his face, with an epithet
whose elegance does not merit repetition.
“ Glasgow, to the rescue,” said we, ex
pecting a scene, but Arabella did not smile.
“ You have got a severe cut my poor wo
man,” said Mc'Quilhen, attempting to secure
her, “ here is an apothecary’s shop, come
with me and get it dressed.”
The sight of her own blood, which she
had not till then observed, seemed to
frighten the woman into silence. Years of
degradation had left their marks on her.
“ Such are the consequences of vice,”
remarked the author of “ Caledonian Lays.”
We said something about acting the good
Samaritan, whilst he who was to us but a
mere vulgar man of business, gently raised
the bleeding woman from the ground and
supported her into the shop of a neighbour
ing apothecary.
Arabella looked long after him, but she
did not speak, and next morning, while
dressing to visit her, the postman brought
us a summons to rejoin our regiment.
We could not think of leaving the field
to Mr. Hamilton, all conquering though
he seemed, without one charge for victory,
but go we must, and therefore, after due
consideration of our personal merit, and
sundry encouraging advices from our aunt
and grandmother, who by the way had
been approving spectators of the pursuit,
for Arabella had a fortune, we resolved to
go immediately and pop the question,
thereby giving her a chance of becoming
Mrs. Ensign Campbell.
Out we sallied with all our hopes, not the
prudent wary expectations that gild our
after years with the colours caught from
gold ; but Arabella was the first of our
luves,and their name has since been legion.
The hour was early for visitors, but we
found Mc'Quilhen in the drawing-room,
well he did look beside Arabella, descant
ing on the value of “ clayed Muscovado,”
but scarce were our greetings over, when a
frightened-looking biped whom he called
his “ young man,” bolted into the room
with a letter, which he handed to his mas
ter, and vanished without a word. The
sugar-merchant glanced at the post-mark,
and then tore it open, but something was
wrong, for his face began to gather black
ness. “ No bad news, sir, I hope,” said
Arabella.”
“ Why, here its all,” said he, handing
her the letter, “just take a look at that.”
Arabella’s eye ran quickly over the lines,
and we talked on with Mrs. Sutherland,
though going mad with curiosity, but it
was with that glance of warm but gentle
approbation, cast at times upon her friends,
that she said in returning it:
“ Sir, fortune is always uncertain, and
often adverse, but she can neither make
nor mar an honourable man.”
“ There’s my opinions,” rejoined Me
Quilhen, with triumph in his large face
which we could never win.
Glory to English grammar, thought we,
he is done for at any rate; that letter has
brought some smash, and the mushroom
has not now even his fortune to recommend
him.
The sugar merchant took his leave, 'and
Mrs. Sutherland thought proper to accom
pany him, for the purpose of inquiry or
condolence. This was the moment for us,
but ask not the history of the half hour
which followed; suffice it to say, that be
fore its sands were run, the die was cast,
the “ question had been popped,” and
answered in the negative. Arabella was,
as usual in such cases, grateful for the ho
nour we intended her, and would even
esteem us a friend, but regretted that she
could not accept our proposal, and we went
home fully resolved to make ready our
pistols and shoot Mr. Hamilton.
But whether that literary Jacot had
stolen our blessing or not, he could not be
found in Edinburgh, having left town early
that morning, and as our summons was
peremptory, we could not await his return.
A month had passed away, and we were
safely quartered at Kilmarnock. Many
letters had passed between us and our
aunt, on whom we had laid a parting obli
gation to watch, the motions of the enemy.
Nothing could she tell of the author or
Arabella, and constantly asserted it was
all a fuss, but we knew better.
“ Here’s the paper, sir,” said Captain
Clarendon’s English servant, “ and master
says there is something in it as would
hentertain you.”
Thoughts of sabre and pistol rose in our
mind as we turned up the matrimonial
column; had Hamilton put on the copestone of his iniquity? but no, world of won
ders, Arabella was married! and the name
she had selected was Mrs. Mc'Quilhen.
We did not believe it, no we didn’t for
days; there must have been some error in
the types, but our aunt’s next letter left us
no room for doubt, and added, “ It will be
�THE MIRROR.
a consolation to you, my dear nephew, to
know that she has taken a half-ruined
man. I have it from the best authority, he
gMeeply involved by the failure of MacCann and Co.; be thankful to Providence
that you have escaped such an imprudent
girl-” n
Years have gone oVer, and we have never
seen the sugar-merchant or his bride; but
many of our friends and acquaintances
have been treated to a personal description
of the former; we have spent the most of
our solitary evenings in making all sorts
of portraits of him; which some indiscri
minating people have called caricatures,
and even insisted that he was a very res
pectable red-haired gentleman; yea, and
many a sleepless night have we consumed
in vain endeavours to surmise what charms
Arabella could find in him, when we were
in the question; a brother officer to whom
we related the story, in the confidence of
claret and half-past one, once assured us
it was “ the moral society, or whiteness of
the soul” (the fellow was very sentimental,
and rather plain himself), but we are
now certain, in common with all gentle
men similarly situated, that it arose from
a want of judgment peculiar to the sex.
The wretch has become a provost too,
for he is one of the world’s well-doing
and prosperous people, and we have voted
Glasgow low in all companies, and mer
cantile men abominable, without excep
tion, in which opinion we are always join
ed most cordially by the author of “ Ca
ledonian Lays.”
Stranorlar, 1847.
THE BELLS OF THE NEW YEAR.
BY FANNY B. LACY.
;
Mei-ry bells I mournful bells 1
For ye are both by turns ;
As on the ear thy music swells,
And the heart its lesson learns ;
The dirge ye are of days gone by,
And the song of days in store;
The old year’s last fond smile and sigh,
And the new year’s dawn of more :
.’For life is all one April day,
Of rainbow beams and showers ;
While sunshine lends its brightest ray
To wake but withering flowers.
Yet peace to thee, old year; farewell;
Faults had’st thou not a few;
But friends forget them in thy knell,
As friends should ever do -;
Of flowers that bloom and so depart,
With the transient summer sun;
Of the loving, trusting, breaking heart,
And the selfish, faithless one ;
Of joy, and grief, and fruitless strife,
Of hope and “ hope deferr’d,”
And all the littleness of life,
53
By human passions stirr’d.
Of these, old year, thou much hast seen,
All, all to die with thee;
And the leaves of life will again be green,
And the bells ring as merrily.
So, old year, lay thee weary down,
Thy last is almost breathed;
And the new year wakes in a garland crown,
That many a hand hath wreathed.
What bright resolves 1 what hopes new bom!
Rejoicing, we behold;
To be perchance of their poomise thorn,
When thou, new year, art old :
Yet still be mine the cheerful strain,
That welcomes new-born times ;
May we all oft “ see the like again,”
Oft list these merry chimes :
May friendship greet and hearts be gay
With mirth and generous cheer;
And the blessed, glorious Christmas Day,
Make happy the New Year.
(Ufjristmas Loofts anfc fleto
$ear tfta.
1. The Battle of Life. A Love Story. By
Charles Dickens.
2. The Fireside. A Domestic Tale. By
Percy B. St. John.
3. Partners for Life. By Camilla Toulmin,
4. Christmas in the Olden Times. By John
Mills.
5. The Musical Almanack.
6. Christmas Carols.
The above are all the Christmas volumes
which, having been forwarded to us in
time, we are able this month to give atten
tion to. Never before did so vast a shoal
of annuals pour from the press, all ele
gantly got up, almost all similar in appear
ance, but, oh! how dissimilar in matter!
The “ Battle of Life” we approached
with prejudged feelings. We had read
some half-dozen criticisms, all more or less
unfavourable, and we, therefore, felt it
rather a duty than a pleasure to peruse it.
We are of those who can appreciate a
book of this kind better if we read it out,
than if we skim over it with the eyes; and
on the 26th of the present cold and dreary
month, late in the evening, we commenced
its perusal. The result may be at once
explained. On we read through part the
first, and through the second, without pause
or breathing time; and so entranced were
we, that neither we nor our companions
noticed that we were seated by a cold
hearth—that our fire had burnt out without
our feeling the chilL But cold nor late
could make us leave off: and the book
was finished. And why were we thus de
lighted? Because, whatever some hard
and unscrutinising critics may say, it is an
exquisite—it is a most delightful book;
full of rich fancy, and actuated by a bright
�54
THE MlknOK.
and sunny spirit. There is not one cha
racter in its pages but what we admire
and sympathise with. Grace and Marion
are two bright creations. A certain wise
acre has observed, that ten words of com
mon-sense would have saved all the story;
did this caviller ever know, or pretend to
know, the wayward wilfulness of woman’s
love? and, that with delicate and gentle
minds,there are things to be felt, and not told.
Marion loved Alfred; but her gentle sister
Grace, almost unknown to herself, loved
him also, and Marion, the affianced, flies
from her father’s home, with every appear
ance of guilt, in order to give up to her
sister the heart she (Marion) would have
died to win from another. What more
noble, more sublime self-sacrifice than
this? Ten words of common-sense would
have proved ten words of nonsense. Ma
rion was affianced to and loved by Alfred
Heathfeld; and there was no hope for sis
ter Grace but in Marion being thought
hopelessly lost.
Again: It has been urged, why make a
six-year mystery of Marion’s real place of
shelter? Why? Because Marion knew
that she loved her sister’s husband, and
that her sister’s husband had loved her.
There is exquisite nature, then, in Marion’s
remaining absent, until time had mellowed
down all these feelings. What more fatal
to all parties than for Alfred and Marion
to have met with any lingering relic of
former passion? But it is idle to meet the
objections of partial critics, who, with won
derful unanimity, agree in condemning
Charles Dickens since his connection with
the Daily News. The public will not be
misled, and will still continue to read and
admire the greatest genius of the age in
fictitious composition—one whose power
ful and noble advocacy of the pure tenets
of morality will serve to counteract the
gross immoralities and vice of Eugene Sue
and Bulwer—and, since “ Lucretia,” Bulwer bears away the palm in immorality.
Clemency Newcombe, 'Little Britain,
Snitchey, and Craggs, are all perfect Bozzian characters, and in a word, the “ Battle
of Life” is quite equal to the immortal
“ Carol.” Its last scene is a gem of the
first water, and we quote it, premising, that
nobody will better spend a pound than in
procuring all four of the Christmas books
of Charles Dickens:—
“ ‘ When this was my dear home, Grace,
as it will be now, again, I loved him from
my soul. I loved him devotedly. I would
have died for him, though I was so young.
I never slighted his affection in my secret
breast, for one brief instant. It was far
beyond all price to me. Although it is so
long ago, and past and gone, and every
thing is wholly changed, I could not bear
to think that you, who love so well, should
think I did not truly love him once. I
never loved him better, Grace, than when
he left this very scene, upon this very day.
I never loved him better, dear one, than I
did that night when I left here.’ Her
sister, bending over her, could only look
into her face, and hold her fast. ‘ But he
had gained, unconsciously,’ said Marion,
with a gentle smile, ‘another heart, before
I knew that I had one to give him. That
heart—yours, my sister—was so yielded up,
in all its other tenderness, to me; was so
devoted, and so noble; that it plucked its
love away, and kept its secret from all eyes
but mine—Ah! what other eyes were
quickened by such tenderness and grati
tude!—and was content to sacrifice itself to
me. But I knew something of its depths.
I knew the struggle it had made, I knew its
high, inestimable worth to him, and I his
appreciation of it, let him, love me as he
would. I knew the debt I owed it. I had
its great example every day before me.
What you had done for me, I knew that I
could do, Grace, if I would, for you. I
never laid my head down on my pillow,
but I prayed with tears to do it. I never
laid my head down on my pillow, but I
thought of Alfred’s own words, on the
day of his departure, and how truly he
had said (for I knew that, by you) that
there were victories gained every day in
struggling hearts, to which these fields
of battle were as nothing. Thinking more
and more upon the great endurance cheer
fully sustained, and never known or cared
for, that there must be every day and hour,
in that great strife of which he spoke, my
trial seemed to grow more light and easy:
and He who knows our hearts, my dearest,
at this moment, and who knows there is
no drop of bitterness or grief—of anything
but unmixed happiness—in mind, enabled
me to make the resolution that I would
never be Alfred’s wife. That he should be
my brother, and your husband, if the course
I took could bring that happy end to pass;
but that I never would (Grace I then loved
him dearly, dearly!) be his wife!’ ‘Ob,
Marion! oh, Marion!’ ‘I had tried to
seem indifferent to him;’ and she pressed
her sister’s face against her own: ‘ but that
was hard, and you were always his true
advocate. I had tried to tell you of my
resolution, but you would never hear me;
you would never understand me. The
time was drawing near for his return. I
felt that I must act, before the daily inter
course between us was renewed. I knew
that one great pang, undergone at that
time, would save a lengthened agony to all
of us. I knew that if I went away then,
that end must follow which has followed,
and which has made us both so happy,
Grace! I wrote to good Aunt Martha, for
a refuge in her house: I did not then tell
�THE MIRROR.
her all, but something of my story, and
she freely promised it. While I was con
testing that step with myself, and with my
love of you, and home, Mr. Warden,
brought here by an accident, became for
some time our companion.’ ‘I have some
times feared of late years, that this might
have been,’ exclaimed her sister, and her
countenance was ashy-pale. ‘You never
loved him—and you married him in
your self sacrifice to me!’ ‘ He was
then,’ said Marion, drawing her sister
closer to her, ‘ on the eve of going
secretly away for a long time. He wrote
to me, after leaving here; told me what
his condition and prospects really were;
and offered me his hand. He told me he
had seen I was not happy in the prospect
of Alfred’s return. I believe he thought
my heart had no part in that contract;
perhaps thought I might have loved him
once, and did not then; perhaps thought
that when I tried to seem indifferent, I
tried to hide indifference I cannot tell.
But I wished that you should feel me
wholly lost to Alfred—hopeless to him —
dead. Do you understand me, love?’ Her
sister looked into her face attentively. She
seemed in doubt. ‘I saw Mr. Warden,
and confided in his honour; charging him
with my secret, on the eve of his and my
departure. He kept it. Do you under
stand me, dear?’ Grace looked confusedly
upon her. She scarcely seeemed to hear.
‘My love, my sister!’ said Marion, ‘recal
your thoughts a moment: listen to me.
Do not look so strangely on me. There
are countries, dearest, where those who
would abjure a misplaced passion, or
would strive against some cherished feeling
of their hearts, and conquer it, retire into
a hopeless solitude, and close the world
against themselves and worldly loves, and
hopes for ever. When women do so, they
assume that name which is so dear to you
and me, and call each other Sisters. But
there may be sisters, Grace, who in
the broad world out of doors, and under
neath its free sky, and in its crowded
places, and among its busy life, and trying
to assist and cheer it, and to do some good
—learn the same lesson; and, with hearts
still fresh and young, and open to all hap
piness and means of happiness, can say
the battle is long past, and the victory won.
And such a one am I! You understand me
now ?’ Still she looked fixedly upon her,
and made no reply. ‘ Oh Grace, dear
Grace,’ said Marion, clinging yet more
tenderly and fondly to that breast from
which she had been so long self-exiled,
* if you were not a happy wife and mother
—if [ had no little namesake here—if
Alfred, my kind brother, were not your
own fond husband—from whence could
I derive the ecstasy I feel to-night!
55
But as I left here so I have returned. My
heart has known no other love, my hand
has been bestowed apart fron it, I am still
your maiden sister, unmarried, unbe
trothed: your own old loving Marion, in
whose affection you exist alone, and have
no partner, Grace!’ She understood her
now. Her face relaxed; sobs came to
her relief; and falling on her neck, she
wept and wept, and fondled her as if she
were a child again.”
The “ Fireside,” by ourselves, we have,
of course, no opinion upon. We have
only to thank the artist, J. Wykeham
Archer, tor the exquisite illustrations with
which he has accompanied the tale, and
then quote a notice from our good-natured
contemporary, the Sunday Times :—
The Fireside. A Domestic Tale. By
Percy B. St. John.—Lewis.
This is a charming Christmas book, full
of beautiful passages and many exquisite
touches. The scene is not laid in England,
but, in accordance with the true bent of
the author’s mind, he carries us in imagi
nation over the sea, and sets us down close
by the snug fireside of the far West.
What matters this, however? Every na
tion’s “ home” possesses its associations,
its remembrances, its links with the past
and the present. Beside every hearth,
whether in our seabelted isle or in the
great transatlantic continent, a good and an
evil genius presides, and to delineate their
various struggles to obtain the mastery in
the domestic circle must necessarily be the
care of some author or another. We look
with interest on the internal workings of
the human heart, when faithfully pourtrayed, in any country whatsoever, and
therefore fell disposed to accord to Mr.
Percy St. John’s New York Fireside no
inconsiderable share of our attention. The
story is very simple. A wealthy highlygifted young man is introduced to our
notice, as Doctor Somers—of course single
—of course, also, the admiration of the
ladies, and the envy of the less-endowed
portion of the New York beaux. He lives
alone with his mother, and is depicted as
fulfilling with great tenderness the duties
of a son. For a time he is satisfied with
this course of life. The heaven of his
existence seems to be extending itself
around clear and unclouded, though mono
tonous and unvaried. At length a star
bursts forth and seems to shed renewed
light, while it kindles the fire of ambition
in the young man’s heart. Eugenia Law
rence is lovely, bewitching, good, and
amiable, with a few of woman’s failings
dashed in by the way, to make the whole
more piquante. They meet, and mutual
love is the consequence, and after a time
marriage, which promises fair to turn out
happily for both. But—Oh! that there
�5&
THE MIRROR.
should ever be a but to knock us down on
the very threshold of happiness—but, we
say, Eugenia has a mother—an artful,
scheming, extravagant mother—who begins
at once to lead the young bride into every
sort of expense and deception. The interest
at this point of the story becomes great—•
the brief lull in the course of events, the
intrigues of the mother, the explosion, at
length, are well described, and the catas
trophe it brings about is ably imagined.
We will not spoil our readers’ zest for the
tale by enumerating any more of the inci
dents, but we will observe that the chief
charm of the work lies in the many beau ■
tiful passages scattered throughout, and
which will invite the reader to pause and
dwell long and kindly on the page.
Where there is much to praise, it would
seem to some hypercritical to find fault,
but we contend that the opinion is a wrong
one, and affirm that when we are able to
speak in terms of laudation of a book, the
author can better bear to have certain faults
pointed out. In “ The Fireside” there is
one character to which we decidedly ob
ject. We allude to Colonel Devereux. He
is an excrescence which we could well have
dispensed with, the more especially as his
introduction is in no way necessary to the
proper working out of the story. An
author always possesses his materials in
his hands free to mould them as he pleases,
and the end which Mr. Percy St. John had
to answer would have been attained equally
well had the colonel been omitted. Or
even had he beeD suffered to remain, the
concluding paragraph, alluding to his mys
terious seclusion and death, should have
been left out. But this is what some, per
haps, would not object to; we shall there
fore not pause to dwell further on this
point, but proceed to extract the following
little passage, which is full of genuine
feeling:—
“ Alfred stood by the bed-side of the
dying Christian, of the crueller worldling;
he saw—what all his calling are bound in
their stern duty to see—the only beloved
child fade from the grasp of agonised pa
rents—left, Crusoe-like, upon the bank of
time, gazing for the friendly vessel which
is to waft them to that continent whither
has fled the cherished object of their love;
he saw the father and mother die, sur
rounded by little weeping things. All this
and more—the hourly picture which this
world presents to the physician—met his
eye; but he came home, dashing from him
the memory of his duty, and was by his
fireside ever the same quiet thoughtful
being which he has been already repre
sented.”
The few lines which we now extract will
secure our readers’ admiration:—
“ A smile is as the dew; whence it riseth
and how it cometh must be {known ere
its value can be appreciated. As the dew
of the bitumiuous swamps of the Amazons,
pregnant with rank vegetation, is infectious
and destructive to life, so is the smile of
the seared heart and guilty soul poison to
all around; but as the dew rising from
healthy soil is surcharged with qualities
favourable to life, so is the smile of the pure
and good delightful to the observer.”
The moral intended to be conveyed is
good, and the scene where the story is laid
permits one or two little incidents and
sketches which would appear improbable
in a story of the same domestic kind in
England. As it is, they do not appear out
of the way at all, and we read the whole
narrative with much delight. We feel
sure our readers will like the following ex
tract :
“ The room was tastefully and elabo
rately decorated; rich carpets covered the
floor, while a piano, harp, and other instru
ments, with books grave and gay, and every
peculiar species of female kill-time, amongst
which that most silly of all, fancy work—
which can be bought much better, and do
good by buying—was conspicuous, with its
frames and wool, showed that the presiding
genius of the place made it no hermitage.
“ Eugenia, who knew her mother-inlaw’s own tastes, felt all this kindness and
attention most keenly; in nothing, too,
more clearly shown, than in the comforta
ble apartment assigned the English lady’s
maid; and as she sat, almost bewildered in
the silent contemplation of her new position
and new duties, could not refrain from giv
ing her a silent and heartfelt blessing.
“ She was in a meditative mood; think
ing with fresh, naive, and innocent heart,
of how to deserve her husband’s and his
mother’s affection; she was wreathing mental
garlands, rich with odours, sweets, and ho
ney and bloom, for the fireside—garlands
which seemed to rise and encircle, not only
the sacred domestic hearth, but to entwine
all nature in their pleasant chains, and to
bind hearts, and souls, and hands in flowery
bondage; when the real world burst upon
her, and the fetters that bound her were
for the moment broken.
“ Mrs. Lawrence was announced.
“ ‘Well, my dear Euge,’ said that hard,
selfish, egotistical mother, ‘ how well you
look. But really that costume does not
become you. That morning dress, though
new, has grown out of fashion already.’
“ ‘ Why, mother dear, it is but a month
since it was the rage.’
“ ‘ A month, my dear, why that is an
age!’ exclaimed Mrs. Lawrence, sinking
into a cosy comfortable rocking-chair.
“ ‘ Have you breakfasted?’ said Eugenia,
with a smile; for it had been an age of
happiness to her.
�THE MIRROR.
“‘Yes, my dear, but really these English
servants are abominable.’
“ ‘ I think Jenny a good creature
enough?
“Sffiut so vulgar and with no sense. I
dined off roast chicken yesterday, and she
had the impudence to put one on my table
this morning. It certainly was untouched;
but I have told the girl fifty times I will
never see anything twice. Is it not pro
voking?’
“‘Very,’ replied Eugenia, but in a tone
which belied her words, for in one week
she had learned, not only to lose all sym
pathy with such thoughts; but her right
feeling, unchained, had shown her their
folly, littleness, and, in her former position,
their crime.
“ ‘ I have come this morning, my dear,
continued her mother, ‘ to take you a re
gular round of shopping—so order the car
riage.’
“Eugenia obeyed with some reluctance,
a link of the fireside garland yet entwined
her heart.
“ ‘ And now, my dear,’ still continued
Mrs. Lawrence—‘ for we must speak of
these vulgar things—the tradespeople are
all getting rather impatient, and I must pay
them something.’
“ ‘ What is the sum, mother?’
“ ‘ Why, it is rather heavy, dear, but I
have no doubt Dr. Somers will let you
have the amount, when he knows it was to
keep up your position in society, and to
prepare you fittingly to appear as a bride.’
“ ‘ How much is it, then, mother?’ said
Eugenia, quietly.
“‘Eight hundred dollars—it is really!
—and then I shall have some small things
to pay.’
“‘I will write you a cheque, mother, for
eight hundred and fifty.’
“ ‘ A what?’ exclaimed Mrs. Lawrence,
quite thunder-struck.
“ ‘ A cheque, mother?
“‘Why, Euge,’ continued her amazed
parent, a flush of pleasure and astonish
ment diffusing itself over her usually pale
countenance, ‘ You do not mean to say he
allows you to write cheques?'
“ ‘ This is the first I draw,’ replied Eu
genia, sitting down to an elegant desk;
‘ but my account is already five thousand
dollars.’
“‘Your whole fortune? Surely the man
is mad! Why in all the years we were
married,poor dear Lawrence never allowed
such a thing.’
“ ‘ If he had he would never have had
left even a remnant for his child.’
“ ‘ But Alfred, mother, is generosity it
self. His is a noble soul. He has married
me, mother, to put faith in, and trust me.
What is his is mine, and mine his.’ ”
Here we must take our leave of this
57
beautiful little book, which is admirably
adapted at the present season as a little
gift to the young, and as a means of pass
ing away a delightful hour at a corner of a
New York Fireside.
“ Partners for Life,” by Camilla Toulmin, is an admirable production. A con
temporary has described our authoress as
the greatest female genius of the age.
With the addition of ‘ one of,’ we cordially
coincide in this opinion, and are quite sure
the readers of this volume will warmly
second the motion. The tale—which is
exquisitely bound and neatly illustrated—
is built upon a most simple superstructure.
It is the marriage of an eldest son, to one
of inferior degree, on which the story is
founded ; this marriage causes an es
trangement and separation between father
and son. How this state of things is cor
rected, it boots not to tell. We can only
say, that for simple force, exquisite touches
of nature, grace and elegance of language,
added to interest in the story, “ Partners
for Life” is surpassed by no Christmas tale.
We are sorry we have no space for more
than one extract. We extract from a con
versation between Merrythorpe and Mr.
Hamilton:—
“ And you really are content,’’ exclaim
ed Mr. Hamilton, in a voice to which won
der gave the tone, “with two or three
hundred a year; for I am sure you cannot
have saved enough to bring you in more,
and this when in a few years you might
realise affluence.”
“ Content. And if ever a cheating dream
of the delights of wealth come over my
soul, I think of the days when as a half
clad errand boy, a few pence were to me a
lordly possession, when I taught myself
to write, as the first necessary step of an
industrious career, and picked up my know
ledge of books at the street stalls, lingering
over many a quaint old volume, where
quaint and perhaps hackneyed thoughts
came new and fresh to my eager inexpe
rienced heart. And then on the Sabbath,
or some rare holiday hours, I would wan
der away to the fields and hedge rows, and
basking in a soft sunshine, or stretched
upon the turf, and sheltered from the sum
mer heat, by a spreading tree, I watched
how the light clouds floated majestically
across the sky, or melted away into th e
blue sether, and thought while I listened to
the music of nature—the hum of insects,
the trill of birds, the r oil of the leaves as
they were swept togeth er by the breeze—
that all should be interpreted as a language
of joy, and that youth ought to be a sea
son of gladness, and old age a time of se
renity.
Oh! Mr. Hamilton, the boy’s
instinct was right, and the knowledge was
true which came to him through suffering.
Fortune robbed me of humanity’s inheri8
�THE MIRROR.
58
taHce—a careless childhood, but I have lived
over another in the gladness and radiance
of Lucy’s youth. My friend, my benefac
tor, it is for you to make real the rest, to
crown with fulfilment the hope of a life.
My old eyes ache as they rest on the pages
of the ledger, my very senses yearn for re
pose.'’
“ Christmas in the Olden Time,” by John
Mills, we have already noticed. We will
only add that its. success has been equal to
its merits.
“ The Illustrated Musical Almanac,” a
visiting table book and drawing-room an
nual, for 1847, edited and the songs written
by F. W. N. Bailey, is without exception
the cheapest and most showy and lavishly
illustrated production we have seen for
some time, lhe music is by Balfe, Wal
lace, Alexander Lee, Crouch, and Hatton,
while the illustrations are by Phiz, Mea
dows, Doyle, Weigall, Hine, Hammertin,
Warren, Crowquill, &c., and all this for
half-a-crown. The music is worth four
times the money.
“ Christmas, and Christmas Carols,” with
numerious elegant woodcuts, contains an
admirable collection of carols. The whole,
neatly got up, for one shilling, being the
cheapest Christmas present of the year,
and one most appropriate.
There are,
“ To us a child is born,” “ Adeste tides,”
and many others in its pages.
tJTfjc (Sagle’s jJlest; or, Qtyt
Hone jfctar of tfje ®Oest.
By the Editor.
Chapter XVII.
*
THE TOWACHANTE LAKE.
“ There was a frosty rime upon the trees, which,
in the faint light of the clouded moon, hung upon the
smaller branches like dead garlands. Withered leaves
crackled and snapped.”—Battle of Life.
The Leaping Panther and his six com
panions were unable to perform the whole
extent of the journey they had expected
to complete during the day, by reason of
the inferior character of their horses and
the many tangled thickets and muddy
streams which intervened, retarding their
progress; and it was dark night even when
they reached the proposed camping ground,
which was made the goal of their wishes
for that day, instead of the picturesque
and romantic village of the Comanche In
dians, pitched at the foot of Spanish Peak,
* Continued from page 347 of Vol. I, New Series.
and tenanted by thousands of the brave
Arabs of the American desert. As is
often the case in the northern provinces of
Texas, a warm day was succeeded by a
chill night, that made the whole party de
sirous of a warm shelter, which was the
more difficult to find as they were com
pelled to resort to a grove, at no great dis
tance from a position generally occupied
by a party of Towachanie Indians, who,
though friendly enough to the Comanches
generally, were by no means unlikely to
avail themselves of the smallness of a party,
in order to cut it off, and take the scalps
of its members.
About an hour after sunset, however,
the Leaping Panther, who rode at the
head of the party, drew rein and halted
by the edge of a pine grove, that offered
both fuel and shelter. Dismounting and
hoppling the wearied horses where they
could take proper nutriment after their
fatiguing and harassing journey, he led
his companions some twenty yards through
the thicket, until they stood upon the bor
ders of a tiny lake, whose dreamy waters
trembled beneath the moon’s pale light, and
whose tiny waves made hollow murmur on
the shores. It was one of those exquisite
bits of American scenery, where wood and
water, grove and lake, seem to vie with
each other in picturesque and scenic effect
—a spot, where silence, and peace, and
quietness appeared to brood over all.
“ Camp here,’’ said Chinchea, address
ing himself to the white man, the loqua
cious Benjamin Smith, introduced so un
ceremoniously to our readers.
“ First-chop,” replied Ben, with a huge
grin, “ it ave got jist all four wents; wood,
water, sky, and arth. Lug out somethin’
a feller can jist dig his teeth into, and I’ll
swar it immense.”
“ Look,” continued the Indian, pointing
with his outstretched arm to the other
side of the diminutive lake, where a black
mass of rock rose perpendicularly; “good
camp. No eyes see fire.”
This was true.
The trees formed a crescent round a
little bay, completely shutting out all ob
servation of the camp, except exactly on
the opposite side, and there, by the light
of the pallid moon, could be discovered a
perpendicular rock, rising from the water.
The Indian knew it well, and had selected
the position because least likely to attract
the wandering Towachanie on so cold a
night.
Every necessary disposition was rapidly
made, much to the satisfaction of Ben
Smith, who appeared once more in his
element, for camping out was as natural
to him as sleeping in a down bed to the
luxurious dweller in towns, who know not
the pleasure and delight which are expe
�THE MIRROR.
rienced by the Woodland fire, with no roof
save the heavens, no walls save the sur
rounding trees, no bed save mother earth,
and the green sward above her.
The fire was lit, the supper was being
prepared by the hands of the lovely Rose
of Day, and all proceeded eminently to
the satisfaction of the whole party.
“ This are pleasanter than outlying
with the Bloody Blackhawk,” remarked
the huge specimen of : nimated nature
who answered to the name of Smith; “ he’s
a varmint I don’t half like.”
“Then why did the white man join
bim?” said Chinchea, drily.
“Don’t rile me,” replied Ben, warmly,
“ifor I can’t jist say. I’m a real fevert
boy, I am, and no mistake; and, somehow
or another, I fell in with thim fellows—
but I have found ’em out in time.’’
“ Hugh!” said the Indian, laying his
finger on his lips.
All was still as death in an instant.
Ben listened with all his ears, but could
catch no sound.
“ What is it?” he whispered in cautious
tones.
The Indian made no reply, but pointed
to the lake with his raised finger.
Ben and Chinchea were seated some
yards in front of the fire, and near the
water’s edge, and could see, despite the
glare of light which rose from their fire.
“ I can see nothing,” observed Ben, still,
however, in a low whisper, for he knew
that the Comanche’s caution was the re
Sult of experience, and that it behoved
him, as a backwoodsman, to take the neces
sity of the motion for granted.
“ Did my brother ever see two moons?”
asked Chinchea, after another brief and
silent pause.
“ Never,” replied Ben, half indignantly;
" nor no other man.”
« But he will see twolights streaming on
the lake,” continued the Comanche, with
out noticing the indignation of the Yankee
at the lunar supposition.
Ben now clearly perceived the reason
of the Indian’s caution. The halo cast by
some blazing fire spread its influence on
the lake, and seemed to cross the rays of
the moon, which poured its light towards the
party, being high in the heavens, over the
rock before mentioned.
“ It moves,” said Ben, after some minutes
of careful observation. “ It’s thim Towachjjies fire-fishing.”
“ Good,” observed the Indian, approv
ingly. “ My white brother is quite right.”
“ Thin, we may expect rale warm work,”
said Ben,nodding; as much as to say, “ I’m
obliged for your good opinion.”
“Ugh!” replied the Comanche, sententiously.
59
The whole party, aware of the probable
proximity of an inimical force, now
moved silently away from the fire, and
concealed themselves within a few yards
of its glare, where they could see all with
out being seen themselves.
Chinchea, accompanied by Ben Smith,
skirted the edge of the little bay, and,
gaining one of its points, discovered She
exact position of the cause of alarm, at
the same time that they became aware of
its precise character.
“ Rale jam,” whispered Ben, but whether
he meant thereby to apostrophise his own
acuteness, or to praise the scenic effect of
their cause of alarm, will probably be never
known.
“ Towachanies!” said Chiuchea, after a
moment of quiet examination.
About two or three hundred yards dis
tant on the pellucid waters of the lake,
were congregated some dozen or more of
bark canoes, filled with Indians engaged in
the exciting and engrossing occupation of
fishing. In each boat were two women, one
seated at each oar, directing with their pad
dles the motions of the canoe, while twro or
three men stood up, with long spears in
their hands, ready to strike their scaly foes;
which, attracted by burning torches, pine
linet saturated with native pitch, rushed in
hundreds to the arms of death. The waving
torches making linked lignt upon the water,
and casting their fitful glare into the deep
and tranquil bosom of the lake, the naked
Indian, with excited mien and brandished
spears, the almost motionless canoes, and,
above all, the utter silence of the actors,
made the picture a striking one indeed, and
one which even Ben and the Comanche
gazed on with no little curiosity.
“ What is to be done, Ingine ?” said Ben,
after a few moments of hesitation.
“ Hist,” replied Chinchea, quickly, “ they
come this way.”
At the same moment, the tiny fleet, by
one impulse, was impelled forward to within
less than half their former distance.
A low and angry growl—that of the
panther—again made Ben start, but a mo
ment’s reflection made him aware where it
proceeded.
One by one, cautiously and stealthy, the
whole party collected round Chinchea.
“Must we fight?” said Ben, calmly, at
the same time cocking his long Tennessee
rifle.
“ Hugh!” replied Chinchea.
“ Jist pass the word then.”
“ Hist!” again said Chinchea, with a low
laugh; “Chinchea has lost his eyes—he
cannot see.”
And he said a few words to his com
panions.
A combined yell, fearful and horrible
�60
THE MIRROR.
beyond all hope of description, except it
were compared to the dying howl of a
hundred wolves, rent the air.
“ Heaven and ’arth;” cried the astounded
Ben, “ is hell broke loose?”
It was the awful Comanche war whoop.
The effect was magic.
The lights disappeared, every Indian
vanished, and the whole that remained
were the canoes, sleeping like logs of wood
upon the still waters.
Again did the party on shore raise their
voices, but in song, and the cadence they
sang was the war-cry of the Leaping
Panther.
Up rose the Indians all; cheerily burnt
the lights; on came the canoes, for the com
bined party of Comanche and Towachanie
fishers had recognised the presence of the
favourite warrior of the former tribe.
The Emigrant. By SirF. B. Head. London.
John Murray.
We do not remember to have risen from
the perusal of any new work more dis
appointed and more thoroughly wearied
than from “ The Emigrant,” most aptly
termed by its author a “ strange mixture
of grave matter with gay;” for without
exception it is the most confused mass of
dull and uninteresting detail that we re
member to have read. Truly it is inter
spersed with some indelicate egotistical
narrations, with a vast deal of unnecessary
matter about the British Lion, &c. Sir
Francis Head we have looked upon as
being in some sense of the word a clever
man, possessing some tact in writing his
travels and detailing to the world his ad
ventures; these thoughts are entirely dis
pelled when looking at the present volume.
Some men w’ho have travelled immediate
ly nourish the idea that their proceedings
must ultimately afford intense pleasure,
and circulate additional information. They
believe there is something new about their
wanderings, the which novelty will ensure
them unequivocal success; the matter com
pressed in the four hundred and forty two
pages through which we have been com
pelled to wade, may very possibly amuse
a fireside party in the new world, if dealt
out in a species of humourising anecdotes
for a few moments—on paper it is wretch
edly dry. Nothing with the exception of
the unbounded enthusiaism that welcomed
the author in his travels, bears the charm
of novelty, or is likely to convey any intelli
gence or disseminate the seeds of in
formation. Stay, we err, there is informa
tion in this extract!
“ I have often been amused at observing
how imperfectly the theory of ice is, prac
tically speaking, understood in England]
People talk of its being as hot as fire, and
as cold as ice, just as if the temperature of
each were a fixed quantity, whereas there
are as many temperatures of jfire, and as
many temperatures of ice, as there are
climates on the face of the globe.”
If any of our readers contemplate turn
ing philosophers and investigating the
properties of heat and cold, and should be
so ignorant as not to be conversant with
the truth of there being different tem
peratures of heat and alike different de
grees of cold, the above extract may pro
bably increase their somewhat scanty stock
of information, and add not a little to their
enlightenment.
Sixteen chapters form the component
parts of this volume, they are sketches
upon curious subjects, i.e. The Flare-up!
The Emigrant’s luck!! The British Flag!!!
Political Poison, &c. certainly not the most
interesting subjects to any who have been
intending to emigrate to the new’ world.
The first chapter is headed “ The new
sky,” that is to say the author starts with
the assumption, that in America the hea
vens appear infinitely higher, the sky is
bluer, the clouds are whiter, the air is
fresher, the cold is more intense, the moon
looks larger, the stars are brighter, the
thunder is louder, the lightning is vivider,
the wind is stronger, the rain is heavier,
the mountains are higher, the rivers larger,
the forests bigger, the plains broader, in
fact a second natural produce is as it were
brought into notice: then follows, after two
or three chapters, one wherein we cannot
speak much for the refined language of the
author, entitled “ The Flare-up,” and what,
reader, should you imagine the gist of this
chapter to be? a faithful relation of the
adventures of a few dissipated tricks of the
sons of Alma Mater? or the nocturnal
perambulations of some scions of aristo
cratic sires? Neither we assure you is its
contents, but the firing of a ouse!
h
*
Sir
Francis Head during his residence in Ca
nada was, as our readers are probably
aware, the representative of the British
sovereign. Perhaps during bis stay many
difficulties were to be encountered, and
many obstacles to be surmounted. A troop
sprung suddenly up to oppose the governor’s
power; he called them “ Nameless dema
gogues,” we prefer terming them rebels;
which they were, and who in us excite no
compassion or sympathy, the leader of
of whom was one Mackenzie. It appears
that Sir F. Head was intimately aware of
the whole of the proceedings of the in
surgents; troops were brought into re
quisition, garrisons strengthened, pro
clamations issued, law officers instruct
ed, and an attack commenced upon the
�THE MIRROR.
rebel quarters who were defeated. The
author then speaks.
“ It was however necessary that we
should march and record by some act of
stern vengeance, the important victory that
had been achieved; and I therefore deter
mined that in the presence of the assem
bled multitude, I would burn to the ground
Montgomery’s Tavern * * * * As we sat
on our horses the heat was intense; and
while the conflagration was the subject of
joy and triumph to the gallant spirits that
immediately surrounded it, it was a lurid
telegraph which intimated to many an
anxiously aching heart at Toronto, the joy
ful intelligence that the yeomen and far
mers of Upper Canada had triumphed
over their perfidious enemy, “ responsible
government.”
Reader! hast thou ever seen a mother
stricken of her first -born on whom she doated and whom she prized? nature has work
ed its course! Hast thou ever read of a
wife travelling fondly with her husband
across some lonely, unfrequented path,
where for months human footsteps have
feared to tread. Suddenly from amongst
the thick foliage has sprung the midnight
assassin, and with simultaneous blows,
given to death a victim and stolen a wife,
while the gnawing vulture gloating over
the mangled remains of what once was the
Almighty’s likeness, pleads supremacy, and
pecks the corpse. And hast thou ever
read of victors, conquerors, torching
the houses of the vanquished and furiously
waving over the heads of the people, the
destructive fire-brand, crying, “Down with
them, down with them, even to the ground.”
The author of this work may be one of
“ those souls of fire, and children of the
sun who deem revenge is virtue,” but he
may rest assured that to cultivate the taste
of the English people, he must not make
sacrifices and utter revengeful orations
over his victims. The burning even of a
rebel’s house must not be termed a “Flareup,” nor a triumph printed in letters of gold
where the error of the culprit was the
fault of the judge. Perhaps it may be as
well en passant, to notice the egotistical
style of the following passage; it may con
tribute to the amusement of the reader:
“ As soon as I landed I was accosted
by some of the principal chiefs; but from
that native good breeding which in every
situation in which they can be placed in
variably distinguishes the Indian tribes,
I was neither hustled nor hunted by a
crowd; on the contrary, during the three
days I remained on the island, and after
I was personally known to every indivi
dual upon it, I was enabled without diffi
culty or inconvenience, or without a single
person following or even stopping to stare
61
at me, to wander completely by myself
among all the wigwams.”
Sir F. B. Head then enters into volumi
nous statements, uttering pages of abuse
on any one who unfortunately happens to
differ from his way of thinking. Sir R.
Peel, Mr. Roebuck, cum multis aliis, are in
cluded in his condemnatory category.
In this world there are to be found excentric individuals who view the irristible
current of public opinion with disdain and
contempt, showering upon them epithets
of “nameless demagogues,” “responsible
governors,” and such like. We say there
are men who despair of ever gaining noto
riety,save by their own career of incon
sistencies. They see for miles the crowd
approaching, its numbers are large, its
forces strong, it comes closer, it presses,
they cling to a lamp-post or a railing,
waving their hats, crying, “here I am agreeing with nobody but myself, and differ
ing with every-body.” These specimens of
individual eccentricities are to be found,
we can assure our readers, in this age.
We forbear making farther allusion to
this book: the little we have said mayA
probably afford some insight into its merit,
if it have any, and convey some idea of
the character of the work. Political it is
not worthy to be called, as the curious
party opinions of the author appear strange
ly at difference with those of all thinking
men, and if carried into effect would tend
to overthrow the whole of our social
system, and disarrange that complex but
cleverly managed machinery which works
our international arrangements.
In a word “ The Emigrant” has nothing
to recommend it, except its very exorbitant
price, and if that can be construed to be an
advantage, that it certainly possesses.
Chronicles of the Fleet. From the papers of
the late Alfred Seedy. By Charles
Rowcroft. 3 vols. H. Hurst.
Mr. Rowcroft in his colonial tales has
proved himself an able and popular writer,
a character, which he preserves in tact in
the present romance. Not that the “Cronicles of the Fleet” in the least degree can be
compared to the “Tales of the Colonies.”
The subject is a hard and unpleasant one,
and will not bear the same handling; but
we can excuse the want of wild interest
in the philanthropic object of doing away
with the infamous and barbarous custom
of depriving a man who owes money of the
means of paying that money, by incarcera
ting him within four w'alls. The details
of the consequences of this relic of dark
ages, to the abolition of which lawyers
are alone opposed, are heartrending in
the extreme, and will be read with anxiety
mingled with horror, at the fact that in a
civilised country such things should be.
�62
THE MIRROR.
The opening touch, where the ruined
merchant enters the Fleet, is good, and
the tale is told with all Mr. Rowcroft’s
usual graphic power. We earnestly re
commend these graphic volumes, and ex
tract the description of the MSS. from
which the “ Chronicles of the Fleet” were
taken:—
“ My friend settled himself easy in his
chair, and prepared to read the manuscript
w'hich had inspired us with so much curi
osity; but handling the papers, in his haste
to begin, rather too carelessly, they slipped
from his fingers and fell on the floor; and
it was then we remarked the extraordinary
variety of pieces of paper on which the
story was written. Fly-leaves of books;
scraps of paper in which such things as
sugar, pepper, and pieces of butter evident
ly had been wrapped, formed the principal
part of them; intermingled with which
were sundry backs of letters, with the fre
quent address of “ Mr. Seedy,’’ and
occasionally “Alfred Seedy, Esquire,”
from which we were led to conjecture
that such was the name of the literary
-character referred to by the old man as
having penned these Chronicles of the
Fleet Prison. They were written in vari
ous coloured inks, generally black, but
sometimes red, and in some cases brown,
and seemingly manufactured extempore
from soot or blacking or some such mate
rial. The various slips of paper, how
ever, were regularly numbered, as if the
writer had been accustomed to compose
for the printer, and they were written in a
tolerably legible hand, so that excepting
W’hen from lapse of time the ink had be
come a little faded, or when a blot occured here and there, which my friend point
ed out to me as having been possibly oc
casioned by the tears of the writer, there
was no difficulty in reading the manu
scripts. Altogether there was an appear
ance of genuineness about them which
made us feel that we had in our hands the
records of real events,written by a person
who either had witnessed what he des
cribed, or had taken down his histories
which he related from the lips of those who
were the actual actors in them.”
The Great Oyer of Poisoning. By Andrew
Amos, Esq., late member of the Supreme
Council of India. London, Bentley and
Co.
When any writer brings before the public
a work professedly with the intention of
rendering clearer and more distinct a de
tached portion of history, he is on every
ground entitled to a fair field, to have his
book fully and minutely investigated, and
fairly criticised. Many historical works are
published with high sounding titles, bear
ing the names of authors of some repute,
which cannot be recommended as being
particularly remarkable for either erudition
or accuracy. A man is somewhat interested
from a diversity of causes with an occur
rence in history, immediately he conceives
that by a few months studious application
to the subject, he will be enabled to present
to the world an elaborate, though, at the
same time, perfectly futile research, com
posed of details entirely unconnected with
the matter under investigation, but which
may, in some measure, serve to allure the
partially ignorant into a belief that he has
effected some striking improvement upon
the records of history, handed down to the
present generation. It should be remarked,
at the commencement, that Mr. Amos has
not, in his opinion, been influenced by these
considerations. Possessing a thorough
knowledge of his subject, being a man of
sound classical and historical reading—one
who has filled most worthily a high and
honourable position in judicial affairs—the
sole end that apparently has prompted him
to enter upon his work is, the desire to
render more intelligible that extraordinary
event named by Sir Edward Coke, “ The
Great Oyer of Poisoning;” to throw a
light upon an affair which hitherto has
been regarded in a doubtful and, conse
quently, partially incorrect manner. Even
in this much vaunted day of enlightenment,
few are cognisant of the precise nature of
this deed, and still fewer can even point to any
book of note in which shall be found matter
that will atone for the deficiency. Historical
reading is a branch of literature much dis
regarded by all classes. To bear in mind a
few prominent and remarkable facts by way
of serving as illustrations, to enrich a
volume or adorn a speech, seems all for
which history is now read—an assertion as
perfectly true as it is unaccountable. Strange
that the most interesting and useful part of
the educational system should be so unac
countably and injudiciously neglected. One
cause more probably than any other is in
strumental in aiding this growing evil, the
embittered political sentiment indulged in
by historians, who, carried away by their
mis-placed reverence on the one side, and
ill-judged repugnance on the other, picture
in glowing and highly tinted colours, or
throw deeply and darkly into the shade,
matters of vital importance to a reading
community, and with which an honest
recorder of events (for such should
be the historian) is in no way con
cerned, than to chronicle faithfully a series
of events. How seldom is this done ?
There are some few in whom is centred a
noble and comparatively unerring mind,
who, unawed by contemporary opinions,
uninfluenced by the petty intrigues of
political sections, have written truly—these
are but few, and who form grand exceptions
�THE MIRROR
to the general class. With this rule it is
either to sketch a case as glaringly
and palpably guilty as human invention
can possibly make it, per fas et nefas,
and render other statements as in
nocent and harmless as a writer’s pen
is capable of making them. This may
be easily seen from the contradictory state
ments frequently found in the writings of
different historians. Swayed by a diffe
rent party, and when entering with any
degree of detail upon a matter of impor
tance, carried away either by their mis
placed admiration of an unwise political
sect, it is considered honest to abjure all
previously entertained opinions, and write
in connection with, as well as antagonistic
to, a party; so that it becomes a rare thing
to fall over an impartially written histori
cal chronicle. It is, nevertheless, we are
able to affirm with pleasure, that as far as
we are able to judge, from a careful read
ing of Mr. Amos’s work, that it is the
most elaborate, as well as clear, and, we
we have no compunction in adding, most
correct and carefully compiled record of
that tragedy to which we have alluded,
and the remarkable events by which it was
followed. Sometime in the reign of James
the First, the Earl of Essex, a boy of
fourteen, was married to the Lady Frances
Howard, a girl of equally tender years,
she being but thirteen; and upon the sub
sequent career of licentiousness and cri
minal enjoyment of the bride is the book
now under notice written. Seven years
after this juvenile bridal, by an official
investigation, a separation was effected,
and the Lady Frances Howard became
the wife of the Earl of Somerset, one of
the favourites of_“the king, and who, with
his countess, three years after, were the
chief actors in the Great Oyer of Poison
ing, and appeared to answer to the charges
recorded against them in Westminster
Hall, for the murder of Sir Thomas Over
bury. We do not purpose extracting, nor
entering into any legal dissertation with
reference to the validity of the different
portions of evidence received upon this
trial; but rather passingly to notice the
comments made by the author upon some
of the most important matters in connection
with this circumstance. Certainly, through
out the whole of historical annals there
are mentioned but few reigns in which the
sovereignty of England was so entirely
under the control of royal favourites as in
the time of the first James. When men
raised from the obscurest and meanest po
sitions in society, by an extraordinary
stroke of good fortune become admitted
into the sovereign’s confidence, and wielded
the mighty power in conformity with their
bigoted and prejudiced notions—for igno
rant men, as these courtly parasites were,
63
must necessarily be incapable of judging
fairly or reasoning justly—when in their
hands reposed the royal prerogative, it
cannot excite much wonderment in the
minds of thinking men, that misrule
should have been predominant; for, even
supposing that any one possessed in him
self the elements of being able rightly
to govern, his tenure of office and royal
conscience but depended upon the uncer
tainty of kingly will, at all times of short
duration, that the disorder consequent upon
the disgrace of these men could not be
guarded against before it was again thrown
into commotion. But scarcely had the
vessel of power righted herself from the
sudden havoc of the storm, than another
and equally destructive sea threatened with
increased fury to dash her against the rocks
of disquietude, but by new guidance the
state-vessel rode for a time under another
helmsman, combatting the wrath of pedantic
royalty, and striving to avoid the stormy
decrees of the council chamber; upon this
Mr. Amos remarks truly that “ the aliena
tion of the king’s affection from Somerset
and the ascendancy of Villiers are very
necessary to be borne in mind throughout
the legal proceedings, from the first collec
tion of the evidence to the verdict of the
peers. Of the influence of a reigning
favourite in directing and stimulating the
exertions of men of the most gifted intel
lects we have ample proofs in Lord Bacon’s
letters. There can be as little doubt on the
one hand that Villiers was most anxious that
the Earl of Somerset should be irrevocably
excluded from the royal favour as on the
other that the success of Bacon’s promotion
to chancellorship very much depended upon
the good word of Villiers.” Truly a pretty
state of things, exhibiting the blindness of
justice and influence of mercenary matters
upon legal tribunals. The conglomeration
of evidence that was brought to bear upon
this trial is of the most singular description.
The whole, or, at least, very nearly so, of
the people high in office, seemed desirous
of collecting information and accumulating
documents intentionally to nullify that
which the other strove to effect. For this
end the most dishonest practices were re
sorted to, the most unscrupulous means
brought into play to carry out their dia
bolical machinations; each most vigorously
maintaining that doctrine of instability,
that the end justified the means. It was a
farcical representation, in which king,
courtiers, and lawyers played the chief
characters. To dignify it with the name of
a legal tribunal, were but to cast insult
upon the English bar, for when it is found
that the instigators of the crime were par
doned, because sheltered by rank and title,
and that the less guilty — the hirelings,
were hanged, it produces no other effect
�64
THE MIRROR.
than to excite feelings of disgust and
contempt not easily allayed at the proceed
ings in the then called courts of justice in
the reign of James the First, and upon
which our author remarks that, “ The
course of proceeding in ancient times for
crushing an individual who had excited
fears or kindled hatred in the breast of a
sovereign was somewhat after the following
manner : — Written examinations were
taken in secret, and often wrung from pri
soners by the agonies of the rack. Such
parts of these documents, and such parts
only as were criminative, were read before
a judge, removeable at the will of the
crown, and a jury packed for the occasion,
who gave their verdict under the fear of
fine and imprisonment. Speedily the go
vernment published whatever accounts of
the trials suited their purposes. Subser
vient divines were next appointed to ‘ press
the consciences,’ as it was called, of the
condemned in their cells and on the scaffold,
and the transaction terminated with another
government brochure, full of dying contri
tion and eulogy by the criminal on all who
had been instrumental in bringing him to
the gallows.” With this extract we no w
leave this valuable work until a future
number. There is much upon which we
should wish to make a few remarks. The
book deserves notice, and cannot fail to
speak much for the energy with which Mr.
Amos has sought out the necessary and vo
luminous documents, with the view of giving
the true facts of this most mysterious and,
certainly, complicated case.
Don Quixote de la Mancha. London,
James Burns.
We are glad that this forms the subject
of the third volume of the Select Library;
for there are but few who have not read
the exploits of Don Quixote—his sallies
against windmills and wine skins—his
countless absurdities, and remember the
mathematical genius of Sancho Panza
when attempting the solution of a problem.
We must plead guilty to having in our ju
venile days joyously skipped over and
greedily devoured the myriads of extrava
gancies of the knight-errand with delight.
Cervantes was a great author, none of those
scribbling novelists writing to pander to
an immoral taste, but one who wrote sa
tires and romances that have neither been
equalled nor surpassed. A Spaniard once
said, that the publication of Don Quixote’s
history had ruined the Spanish monarchy,
for since that time men had grown ashamed
of honour and of love, and thought but of
satisfying their lust and pursuing their for
tune. With due regard for this opinion,
we, with the utmost deference, beg to differ
most materially from the assertion. It
was not from the birth of Cervantes’ writ
ings that Spain dates its fall, nor from the'
production of this romance, virtually a
satire upon the ridiculous monstrosities of
that dubious description of gentlemen luxurating in the equally doubtful nom de
guerie of knights-errand, but from the in
dividual assumption by each titled Spa
niard of aristocratical power. Every man
of wealth in Spain not only in the perfecti
bility of his own imagination, believed
himself a king, but tyrannically exercised
his arbitrary power, and to this cause alone
may be attributed the downfall of Spain.
Throughout the whole of Don Quixote,
manly courage is not ridiculed, butthat,
species of pomposity sometimes called
chivalry, without having amongst its ele
mentary parts one single iota of heroism,
and upon which we would quote the edi
tor’s words, when speaking of the genius
of Cervantes, in delineating the history of
the Spanish Don. He remarks; “In no
thing is his consummate skill perceived
more, than in the way in which he pre
vents us from confounding the follies of the
knights-errand, and of the debased books
of romance, with the generous heart and
actions of the true Christian gentleman.
In spite of his hallucination, who can help
respecting Don Quixote himself? We
laugh indeed at the ludicrous situations
into which his madness is for ever getting
him, but we must reverence the good
Christian cavalier, who amidst all, never
thinks less of anything than himself, than
of his own interest. What is his charac
ter? It is that of one possessing virtue,
imagination, genius, kind feeling, all that
can distinguish an elevated soul and an
affectionate heart.” Cervantes was the
originator of a description of romance writ
ing that has often been attempted to be
imitated, but never has been followed, and
whether we look upon his dramatic writings
or take up Don Quixote, there is that su
periority of genius so eminently displayed,
which renders his work so highly valuable.
It is with honest expressions we thank
this publisher for the track he is taking in
selecting works for publication. The three
that have already been issued, speak well
for the taste brought to bear upon the
matter—they are such as are suited to the
general mind, and Don Quixote, such as it
has been read, will be heartily welcomed.
Dyson's Drawing Book. No. I, 8,21, 24.
London, Dyson.
This work is exceedingly well got up,
but of its merits in more essential particu
lars, we are unable to judge by the de
tached specimens submitted to us.
The Poor Renewal Act. London, Dyson.
This is one of Mr. Dyson’s cheap re
prints of important statutes, and will be
�THE MIRROR.
found especially useful to guardians, over
seers, and other persons engaged in the
administration of the poor laws. In an
appendix, we find “ the opinion of her
majesty’s attorney and solicitor-generals
on the construction of the act,” a subject
upon which the legal profession are much
at variance.
What is Life Assurance ? By Jenkin
Sones. London, Longman and Co.
This excellent and clearly written pam
phlet is received at so late an hour, that we
must defer an extended notice of it until
next month. We shall only state, that to
the insurer, it will prove invaluable.
A Treatise on the Human Teeth and Gums.
By J. W. Merton, M. R. C. S. London,
J. G. Collins.
There are few persons who would not
profit by the perusal of this little work,
which contains the amplest information on
the subject of the teeth, their diseases, and
their remedies, and is written in a familiar
style, perfectly divested of all tech ical
phraseology.
Counsels to Young Men.
The Young Lady's Monitor and Married
Women’s Friend. By Mrs. Maxwell.
The Lady’s Guide to Epistolary Corres
pondence. By Mrs. Maxwell.
London, R. W. Winn; Edinburgh, Bowack.
The titles of these works sufficiently in
dicate their purpose and character; we
now therefore only say, they are got up
in a very elegant style, and would make
appropriate gifts at this season of the year.
Notes of tye IHontth
Progress of Public Education.
If there is any point on which public
opinion is assuming daily more reasonable
shape and consistency, it is that of educa
tion. Thirty or forty years ago is a suffi
ciently long vista to look through to bring
the dregs and dead carcase of the old sys
tem of education within our contempla
tion. After that date, there arose a heav
ing and excitement of the educational
chaotic system, and several scholars arose
who thought it advisable to remodel and
improve the modes of conveying instruc
tion both to the higher and lower classes
of society. The names of Dr. Valpy, of
Reading, and his brother, the Rev. E. Val
py, of Norwich, are cherished by many
as having, both by their publications and
their oral instructions, performed a mighty
service by the improvements they intro
duced. In accordance with their efforts,
no. 1355.
65
the old habit of reading everything in
Greek through a Latin medium—the use
of grammars and lexicons written in the
language of perfected scholars, instead of
the native tongue of such as wished to
make themselves acquainted with the an
cient languages—then arose; and editions
were no longer commented upon in notes
equally difficult to understand as the pas
sage they were meant to elucidate. The
plainest and simplest ways of conveying
illustration were now preferred to the old
scholastic method of the middle ages,
which had, doubtless, been useful in its
time, but was now superseded, in accor
dance with the greater enlightenment of
the age.
As to the humbler classes of the com
munity, until Drs. Bell and Lancaster
showed, in England, the possibility of edu
cating them, and Eellenberg and his col
leagues, on the continent, practically de
monstrated what mighty stores of talent
and intellect might be developed in them,
they were altogether regarded as a body
incapable of erudition and enlightenment.
These steps aroused the strongest preju
dices at the time, and there are even now
people living who have, apparently, some
misgivings whether teaching the lower
orders to read and write is not something
a kin with dealing in magic and the
black arts, and who have a spirit of fear
come over them when they contemplate
the fact of footmen being able to read,
and ladies’ maids decypher their lady’s
hand-writing (often no easy task).
Matters, however, have gone gradually
forward, and literary knowledge has no
longer remained confined to a caste of
literati. The gaping multitude no longer
are struck dumb at the exclusive acquire
ments of the scientific reeluse; nor can it
be said of them now in the language of
the poet—
“ And still he talked, and still the wonder grew
That one small head should carry all he knew.’
Year after year has witnessed further
improvements, and several bold and startl
ing theories have each had their day,
while there has still been something crude
and lame in the totality of education.
The university system was greatly re
modelled and improved, and a more ex
tensive and accurate investigation of clas
sic literature and its tributary streams of
knowledge was pursued at Oxford, and the
flame thus lit up soon kindled emulative
exertions at the sister university; but
Cambridge still continued to make mathe
matical science her distinctive boast and
characteristic. Eor a season, indeed, that
kind of knowledge was so pre-eminently
honoured, that it bore off the nncontesfed
palm of superiority,
9
vol. XL1X,
�6(>
THE MIRROR.
For several years, the material and ma
thematical sciences appeared to have the
exclusive preference in public estimation.
A tendency to materialism was apprehend
ed; and the public mind recovered itself
from the extreme devotion to these sciences
to a conviction that the theory of education
had not yet been fully developed.
A subsequent stage adding the sciences
conversant with matter and its modifica
tions, absorbed the public taste in such
branches of natural philosophy, until a
tendency to materialism, and a materialisa
tion of truth created alarm; and the intel
lect of the country became aware that
even this extreme devotion to the sciences
above alluded to did not fill up the idea of
a perfect culture of the man.
We next must glance at the movements
on the continent. Everywhere a convic
tion seems to have prevailed that their
ancient systems were deficient.
The
foreign universities increased their efforts
to advance with the advancing tide of pub
lic opinion. They pursued with increasing
ardour their course of instructions by the
professorial system, and great praise must
be accorded to what has been done in Ger
many, in Prussia, and in Holland, and to
their mighty efforts to embrace, by a na
tional system, all classes of the commu
nity.
There is, however, one grand defect in
the continental systems; they aim at the
accomplishment of particular objects—to
make a man a lawyer, a physician, or fit
him for any other special walk of life; but
it has been felt and regretted that they do
not mould and elevate his character and
information on a truly broad and liberal
scale,—they make the accomplished jurist,
or elegant linguist, but they do not culti
vate a high moral appreciation of his duties
and responsibilities as one of the great
human family. They prepare him for his
art, or his trade, or his profession, butthey
do not elevate either his natural sentiments
or his principles as a member of the vast
human fraternity. They own this abroad;
we are not displeased to find others feel
their deficiencies as well as ourselves.
Is there any hope, then, of amelioration?
We would not willingly incur reprehension
for a conceited, overweening appreciation
of the efforts of our own times, but we do
apprehend that a better order of things is
on the point of arising. A great deal has
already been done that will prove service
able. The efforts of previous years and
various systems are accurately recorded.
We ponder over their mistakes. We have
gone through the process of an extensive
induction, and it is no great praise that we
who have the benefits of the experiments
and experience of preceding ages, should
be able to define to ourselves an improved
course. We find in the records of the last
half century, various theories have been
shipwrecked, and the shoal or rock on
which they split is noted down in chartsfor our mental guidance.
But it is not only in the subjects to be
taught, and the balance to be preserved in
the various departments of knowledge, that
we have increased and daily improving in
formation, but the art of teaching itself has
fallen under the scrutinising gaze of
modern enlightenment. The didactic art—
the best method of conveying knowledge
and developing the intellect of the scholar
—in a word, the theory of education is
now beginning to be accurately defined,
and practically followed out.
In some countries this is sought to be
accomplished by forming schools to train
teachers, or, as they are termed, “Normal
Schools,” a good and praiseworthy effort,
and one which has, to a considerable ex
tent, been successful inHolland andPrussia;
but we really believe it has been reserved
for our own year to witness the rise of a still
better and more efficient system for carrying
onwards the march of civilisation. Weallude
to an institution which is now forming to
embody scholastics as a regular profession,
and to test the competency of such as are
entering upon the important business of
education. If we are rightly informed,
this new institution, “ The College of Pre
ceptors,” does not aim at any exclusive
prerogative to itself, but in a way similar
to the admission into the medical profession,
it holds out a diploma to such as shall be
found able to pass the examination it pro
poses as tests of their qualifications. While
this collegiate body will be able to act with
the power which collective intelligence
confers—to concentrate and embody the
improvements developed in our own country
and abroad, the public will, at the same
time, be enabled to secure themselves from
the delusive pretensions of ignorant men,
who, without any certificate of their ability,
assume the post of teacher; and the middle
classes of society will be especially bene
fited, for they have hitherto been the prey
of every pompous pretender who could
manage to secure spacious premises, and
the aid of a village painter to emblazon
some desperate word, “ seminary,” “ aca
demy,” or what not, to the admiration of
his simple-hearted neighbours. The higher
classes have already their protection in the
diplomas of the universities, which the
teachers of the higher order of society
must possess. The lower classes are gene
rally under the clergy, or great proprietors
in their neighbourhood. But the middle
classes, we repeat, needed some protection
of tbe kind, which this new institution
offers, and we altogether coincide in the
high eulogiums which in The Mirror, in
�THE MIRROR.
^Hood’s Magazine,” and in an extensive
portion of the periodical press, have been
’Expressed of this new collegiate institution.
May it prosper! May it be successful
in raising that highly praiseworthy class
of men into an honoured profession. For
the classes, upon which the defence of our
great social and political institutions de
pends, must imbibe through these instructors,
principles which will continue to sustain
and elevate their character—-or prejudices
inimical to the advancement of civilisation;
and the sentiments of those who are in
structed must always be tinged and in
fluenced by the dignity and abilities of their
preceptors.
€.7
competent, but even superior in their in
tellectual qualifications to the duties which
society demands of them, and this without
the necessity of engrafting any ill-suited
continental system on our cherished habits
and customs.”
At the same time that we most sincerely
approve of the exertions of the council and
their views, and that we place in them the
utmost confidence, as being men of prac
tice and not of theory only, we would
warn them that they have undertaken an
Herculean labour, and that they must pro
ceed. They are yet only on the threshold
of their undertaking, and they must enter
on their more practical department with
the utmost energy and perseverance. They
have the duty both of teaching parents
and children; they have to create teachers
and to remunerate their talents; they have
to contend against obsolete modes and ob
solete subjects; they have to untrammel
the minds of the nation, and to teach
them how to think, and consequently howto
act. But they begin with the foundation,
and if that be made sure, whatever is built
upon it will be sure. We can almost hail
the time when people will, everyone,
think for themselves—when common-sense
will be a common article, and mysticism
and superstition will be heard of only in
story. So, with what great ends may not
the way be paved! We are advocates for
peace, and wars would cease if the people
were more wise. We are anxious for
many and great social improvements, the
realisation of which we scarcely ever did
anticipate before this society came into ex
istence, and we only hope that they possess
mind and energy equal to their task. We
shall anxiously watch their proceedings on
the 30th of December, and at their forth
coming examination, and shall be glad to
find that they realise our wishes. Here
sies and fallacies have shrouded us, and
do shroud us, on every side, and the first
rays of truth and honest intentions break
upon us like the first rays of the morning
sun. We see not yet the full orb, but we
would anticipate its brightness. We would
see our country as great in learning and
knowledge as she is in war and commerce.
But when we inspect the examination tests
of the college, we find the council have
overlooked the necessity for establishing
an examination in moral courage. The
society have not, perhaps, felt the impor
tance of this subject, but we shall return
to it—with only stating at present, that its
extension is very requisite, and well worth
their attention.
College of Preceptors.
We present to our readers the follow
ing address:
“ The Council of the College of Pre
ceptors desires to address both the public
and the scholastic profession, and to invite
their most serious attention to the con
sideration of their plans, which have been
hitherto most favourably received and
universally recognised as well adapted for
effecting the objects proposed. The society
was established in the month of June last,
and already it has enrolled a large portion
of those private school-masters who are
most anxious to raise the standard of edu
cation. It wishes also especially to ad
dress those young men who are desirous of
entering the profession, because it offers
them the greatest and most important ad
vantages; it gives them at once, and at an
easy rate, the full opportunity of certifying
their acquirements by an undeniable au
thority; it gives them the power of placing
an impassable barrier between themselves
and the charlatans, and without limiting
their endeavours to one trial, it is prepared
to record their gradual acquirements as
they continue to ascend in the intellectual
scale. In its general plans, this society
proposes to obtain legislative authority for
the formation of a Faculty of Education
with all the rights and immunities that are .
granted to the existing Faculties of Law
and Medicine; to improve and extend the
knowledge of the ancient classics; to cul
tivate and encourage mathematical acquire
ments, an acquaintance with mixed sciences
and general literature; especially to intro
duce and promote a knowledge of the art
of teaching: to discountenance and dis
card all Illogical and empirical systems of
education; to encourage learning and
merit from every source - or, in other wo: ds,
it proposes to establish a National Insti
tution for the advancement and improve
ment of all the intellectual powers; and Birmingham Parliamentary Society.
from the exhaustless mines of native intel
We are glad to perceive that this insti
lect to draw out educators who will render tution is receiving the notice it deserves.
We copy the following from Douglas
our countrymen in every class not only
�6S
THE MIRROR.
Jerrold “ We hail with pleasure every
association which has an educational ob
ject in view, and this new movement in
Birmingham, original in its design, appears
to us of a very useful character. It is to
consist of 150 members, and, in one essen
tial point, to be constructed on the model
of the House of Commons. An individual
is to be elected premier by a majority of
suffrages, and, out of the members, he is to
choose his own cabinet. It is expected
that each member of the administration
will make himself master of all that may
appertain to his official department, and
thus that stores of useful information will be
poured forth in the debates. They who
aspire to office as the opposition, will be
compelled to qualify themselves for attacks
on their rivals, and by this plan of defence
and assault, it is expected that political
education may be materially promoted.
This novel scheme is likely to do much
good, if practically carried out with zeal
and energy.” The institution, however,
originated in London, and the Birmingham
is an offshoot from the parent society. A
soiree will be held early in January to cele
brate its establishment, and we purpose
going down to Birmingham to attend it.
Birmingham Polytechnic Institution.
For the information of our friends in
Birmingham, we beg to announce that we
shall lecture at the above institution on the
5th, 12th, 19th, and 26th of January; at
all events, four times in January and Feb
ruary, though the dates may be not quite
correct.
French Embroidery.
We are happy to inform our friends, but
more particularly our fair readers, whose
welfare and interest are more immediately
affected by it, of an establishment in this
metropolis which is carried on, not by the
artificial powers of machinery moved by
steam or water, but by the aid of superior
taste for the fine arts, requiring the appli
cation of thousands of hands, which can be
genteelly and profitably employed, in pro
ducing the various articles manufactured.
We refer to the manufactory of embroi
deries, which has lately been introduced
into this oountry by a gentleman wellknown to the literary world, as the author
of different statistical and commercial
works, F. 0. Hiibner, Esq., the English
correspondent of the Austrian Lloyd, who
has proved himself not a mere theoretical
man, but an experienced practical man of
business.
The manufactory produces embroideries,
on cambric and muslin, of the very best
quality, to whose accomplishment several
French and Swiss ladies had been induced
to accept engagements to assist the manu
facturer, not only by their own work, but
more particularly by instructing respecta
ble English females gratuitously, on condi
tion of a short apprenticeship. Several of
those learners have already made great
proficiency, and are able to earn sufficient
to support themselves, or to obtain in their
leisure hours, sufficient pocket-money to
be independent of their parents’ purse.
They work at home by their own fireside,
a system which recommends the work, par
ticularly to our well-educated, but not
opulent countrywomen.
Hitherto, we have been solely supplied
with these embroideries from France and
Switzerland, but our fashionable retailers
at the West-End had often a vexatious
competition through the custom-house
officers, whose ignorance of the wholesale
prices have repeatedly induced them to
seize the goods, under pretence of their
being undervalued, although it has been
proved they had been declared 10 and 20
per cent, above the original invoice prices,
and then retailed by them at their sales.
This shameful system, which sanctions the
speculations of public officers, made it
nearly impossible to import, the importer
being unable to declare and pay duties on
retail prices, when his object is only to
sell to the wholesale ; and had the effect
of prohibiting the article.
There is very little doubt that we are
chiefly indebted to smuggling for the beau
tiful handkerchiefs and collars which are
displayed by the fair ladies in our distin
guished circles; but as much as we like the
result, we never can approve of the princi
ple, and we are happy to see it altered by
the new establishment.
It produces any article as cheap as the
manufactories in France, and the goods
display in the original designs, as well as
in the execution, a high degree of perfec
tion, which reflects great honour on Mr.
Hiibner, and praise to our young English
ladies, who, in so short a time, have acquir
ed the art of making such a new use of
their needles.
In fairness to our Scotch friends, we
must observe that they have for many
years introduced the French needlework
into their country, and have supplied our
markets with large quantities; but im
portant as their manufactory may be in
regard to the national interest, their pro
ducts are of an inferior description to
those which we mentioned here, and are
not considered the same kind of goods.
In some towns of France, the embroide
ry work forms the principal employment of
the leisure hours of most of the young
ladies of respectability, and however diffi
cult it may appear to English ladies at first,
the tediousness to the beginner is soon
overcome by the interest that is created,
�THE MIRROR.
in being occupied with such elegant work,
and by the little exertion which is required
afterwards, so that on the continent, ladies
of 60 and 70 years, gain still their liveli
hood by it! When our fair countrywomen
have such inducements, we are fully per
suaded they will not be found wanting in
taste and perseverance in aiding, by their
ability, to accomplish the object of the in
troducer of these useful establishments, and
to secure themselves at once profitable em
ployment and tasteful recreation.
Whittington Club and Metbopolitan
Athen.®um.
A “general meeting of the members of
the Whittington Club, was held at the
Crown and Anchor Tavern, Strand, on
Monday, the 7th of December, 1846, for
the purpose of taking into consideration
a draft body of laws prepared by the coun
cil for the regulation and government of
the institution.
Upwards of 500 persons who had already
enrolled themselves as members of the club,
were assembled and took a very lively in
terest in the proceedings throughout the
evening.
It had been announced that Douglas
Jerrold, Esq., would preside on this occa
sion, but that gentleman being prevented
attending by indisposition, it was proposed
that Mr. Jenkin Jones should conduct the
business of the evening.
The Chaikman considered the proper
course would be for the secretary, in the
first instance, to read the draft of laws as
prepared by the council, and that afterwards
they should be proposed and discussed
seriatim, when it would be competent for
any member to suggest whatever altera
tions he might think fit.
A Member asked whether the laws would
take effect from that evening?
The Chairman said, that whatever laws
should be agreed upon on this occasion,
would at once come into operation, and re
main in force until the next general meet
ing in February, when it was intended they
should again undergo discussion and re
vision.
The Secretary then read the draft of
laws, after which each clause was taken
seriatim.
The preamble and the two first clauses,
which declared a determination to found
the institution and set forth the objects
thereof, having been agreed to,
The Secretary read the third clause,
which regulated the election of ladies to
be members, by which it was declared, that
no lady should be admitted a member of
the club without being previously intro
duced by two lady members, and approved
of by the ladies’ committee.
Mr. Lewis objected to the wording of
69
this law. It appeared to him to cast a re
flection on a class whom he was sure they
all held in the highest esteem. He saw no
reason why so great a check should be
placed in the way of ladies becoming mem
bers of the institution. The nomination
itself would be quite sufficient without the
subsequent approval of the ladies’ council.
The Chairman: The best reason that can
be given for the law, as it is framed, is that
it has been prepared in accordance with
the express wishes of the ladies themselves.
The law was then agreed to.
On the clause declaring that the annual
subscription should be one guinea for Lon
don members, and half-a-guinea for country
members, being read,
The Chairman said, this was a very im
portant clause, and he hoped therefore it
would be discussed in a calm and conside
rate spirit, for upon the amount of sub
scription depended the success of the un
dertaking altogether.
No gentleman, rising to make any ob
jection to the clause, the chairman was
about to put it to the vote, when,
Mr. Pebcy B. St. John said,—that as
he was happy to see no member was dis
posed to raise any objection, he should
offer but few words upon this clause ; it
could not, however, escape the notice of the
meeting that this was, as the chairman had
truly stated, the very pivot upon which the
whole of their proceedings turned; for if
they should make a mistake in the amount
of the subscription to be paid by each
member, either by fixing too high or too
low a figure, their project must entirely
fail. Now what was the first object they
sought to obtain? most undoubtedly that
of members. The very purpose for which
the Whittington Club was originated, was
to afford an opportunity to a very large
and meritorious class of persons in the me
tropolis and throughout all the populous
towns of the kingdom, to avail themselves
of the advantages which the system of
clubs and of literary societies that had of
late years been introduced was calculated
to confer. But this would be impossible, if
the terms of admission should exceed the
means of those for whose benefit the insti
tution was professed to be established. It
should be borne in mind, that the novel
ty of this institution consisted in the
combination of the club and Athenseum.
As yet, those individuals who it was to
be expected would form the vast majo
rity or a society like this, were at present
compelled to resort to taverns, chop-houses
and coffee shops, where they paid a high
rate for those refreshments whioh it was
intended to supply them with, by the means
of a club, at very moderate prices. And if
these young men wished to cultivate lite
rary habits, they were obliged to become
�70
THE MIRROR.
subscribers to institutions, at sums that
pressed heavily upon their resources, and
might be very fairly inferred that great
numbers of them were obliged to forego
the advantages of those institutions alto
gether. In bis opinion, one guinea would
be quite enough to ensure success to their
undertaking. He was the more inclined to
believe this from the very principle upon
Which it was based—that of cheapness—•
since cheapness was now the commercial
order of the day. Wherever that principle
had been introduced, it had been inva
riably successful; and in no department,
perhaps, had it been more conspicuously
so than in that of literature. Who could
estimate the vast amount of good which
cheap literature had conferred upon man
kind! and it was a very distinguisha
ble feature in the case of literature that
in proportion to the cheapness was the
excellence of the productions. Without
wishing to make any invidious observations,
he might boldly challenge a comparison
between a “Chambers,” and a “ Metropo
litan” journal—a three-half-penny and a
three-and-sixpenny work! But there would
be something like a breach of faith if they
were now to raise the subscriptions, for a
great number of young men had joined
them upon the distinct understanding that
the amount should be only a guinea. If,
however, it should ultimately be found that
one guinea was not equal to the expenses
they w'ould have to defray, it would be
quite competent for them, on a future oc
casion, to increase it. He however enter
tained no apprehension on this point, and
should therefore propose the adoption of
the original clause.
Mr. Lawrance was fearful that one
guinea would be found too low a rate of
subscription.—(Cries of “ No, no.”) Their
expenses at the outset would be very
heavy, and it was most desirable that the
institution should not be involved in debt.
It would be much better to subscribe a
larger sum in the beginning, so as to realise
an amount equal to their outlay, and then,
if it were found practicable, to reduce the
subscription hereafter.
Mr. Hebbert entertained similar views
to those of the last speaker.
Mr. Harper thought they ought not to
lose sight of the fact alluded to by Mr. St.
John, namely, that almost every person
who bad paid his entrance fee had done so
with the distinct understanding that the
subscription would be one guinea. There
appeared to him to be an unnecessary de
gree of alarm as to the large demands that
they would have to meet. These could
only be incurred gradually; and what, per
haps, would form one of their heaviest
items by-and-bye, when they should have
become fully established, would in the be
ginning be a mere nominal charge—he al
luded to the library.
A Member thought it would be most
beneficial to fix the sum as low as possible.
The increase of numbers would make up
for the lowness of the amount. It would
shake the institution to its foundation, if
they were, at the very commencement of
their proceedings, to double the subscrip
tion, as originally announced.
Mr. Peacock was in favour of the higher
subscription. He stated that the Mechanics’
Institution started at the rate of one
guinea a year, but the committee found it
impossible to carry out their objects, and
the numbers fell off. They then raised the
subscription four shillings a year, and the
institution had ever since been in a flourish
ing condition. As to the increased sum
operating as a prohibition of juvenile mem
bers, that he considered a mere phantom,
for the very gratuities which they now paid
to thewaiters at the coffee-houses, amounted
to more than the whole subscription to this
club would do.
Mr. Yapp, the secretary, could not help
observing that all the gentlemen who had
argued in favour of increasing the sub
scription, had proceeded upon an erroneous
assumption. They stated that a guinea
subscription would not be adequate to
meet the expenses of the institution, and
therefore it was necessary that the sub
scription should be raised to two guineas;
but this was altogether an erroneous view
of the case. The subscription money was
not intended to defray the preliminary
expenses: those expenses would be paid
out of the entrance fees. Now, although
at present the entrance was half a guinea,
yet it was intended, as soon as there should
be 1000 members, that the fee should then
be increased to one guinea. This would
afford an ample fund for houses, furniture,
and every other expense. Reference had
been made to the Mechanics’ Institution;
but the gentleman was incorrect in stating
that the falling off of that institution was
in consequence of the lowness of the sub
scription fee. The Mechanics’ Institution
went on prosperously enough for a little
time, and why only for a little time? Be
cause, scarcely had it been founded, than
other similar institutions sprang up, and
these drew away from the parent institu
tion all those who lived in their immediate
locality. The committee of the Mechanics’
Institution then tried the experiment of
raising the subscription. This answered
very well for a short time; but they soon
fell off again, and they were now in a
worse state than ever they were; so that
increasing their subscription did not pre
vent their gradual decline. The West
minster Literary Institution was at the
same time the lowest in charge and the
�THE MIRROR.
most flourish1 ng in numbers and utility.
The great failure of all these institutions
was in the selection of lectures and lecturers. They gave too many, and upon
subjects, oftentimes, too abstruse and un
interesting to attract an audience. He
had known a lecture delivered to not more
than twenty-five persons. The Aldersgate
Institution presented a model of good
management, and the result was a large
su-plus fund, after all the necessary outlay
had been made.
The clause fixing the subscription at
one guinea was then agreed to amid loud
cheers.
The Chairman said, that at present the
council was two unwieldy for working pur
poses, and he should suggest that a manag
ing committee should be appointed.
Mr. St. John — While regretting the
necessity of appointing such a committee,
acceded to the suggestion, and proposed
that fifteen should constitue the committee.
After a few observations the motion was
agreed to.
A vast majority of the meeting evinced
their desire by repeated acclamations that
the institution should be available on the
Sundays, but there appeared to be a select
few who were very strenuously opposed to
it, and they contrived to keep an uproarious
clamour for some time, but they at last
yielded the point, and the Sunday was car
ried, amidst loud applause. The whole of
the resolutions having been gone through,
it was then ordered that the same should
be printed as amended, and that copies be
delivered to each member. The laws to
take effect forthwith, but to be subject to
revision at the general meetingin February.
The meeting, which continued crowded
throughout the evening, and whose whole
proceedings were marked by great business
like tact, broke up at eleven o’clock.
Burial in Towns.
The invaluable and generous services of
Mr. Mackinnon, M. P. for Lymington, ap
pear'about to be crowned with success.
The public mind is thoroughly imbued
with the conviction, that a change must
take place; and when the enlightened au
thor of “Civilisation” introduces his mea
sure into Parliament in the ensuing session,
he will, we hope, be supported by the votes
of men of all parties. The subject is pla
ced in so clear a light, by the following
speech, (delivered April 8, 1845) that we
have no hesitation in transfering it to our
columns:—
- Three years are past since first I called
the attention of the House to the practice
of interments in large towns. My sugges
tions were in the outset little attended to,
even much laughter was excited: the idea
71
was by many deemed novel, if not vision
ary; but at length, with some reluctance, a
committee was granted by the House to
investigate the question. When the evi
dence of parties acquainted with the
practice of intramural interments was
brought before the committee; when the
evidence of medical men, the first in this
town, was given, the members of whom the
committee was composed were astonished
and shocked at the abominations disclosed;
and they came to the unanimous resolution
to recommend the abolition of interments
within large towns and populous districts.
Since that period petitions without number
have been presented, aud the shocking
practices prevalent in grave yards of the
metropolis have appeared in various forms
before the public, and have excited equal
indignation and disgust. It is neither my'
inclination nor my intention to enter into
any statement of the customs of ancient
times; 1 will only observe, that from the
time of our Saviour and of the early Chris
tians, until corruptions entered into the
Church, no interments in churches or in
towns took place. All the early Christians
were interred out of the precincts of the
living. Not to take up the time of the
House, I will at once proceed to the re
port of the ecclesiastical commission, which
is as follows:—
“ The practice of burial in the church or
chancel appears to us in many respects in
jurious, in some cases offensive, in some in
stances by weakening or deteriorating the
fabric of the church, and in others by its
tendency to affect the lives or health of the
inhabitants. We are of opinion, that in
future this practice should be discontinued,
so far as the same can be effected without
trenching on vested rights.”
Now, sir, by whom is this signed? Not by
any members of Parliament hostile to the
Church, or desirous of innovation; not by
any members of the Opposition, but by the
archbishop of Canterbury and the follow
ing names: Durham, London, Wynford,
Lincoln, Tenterden, C. N. Tindal. Now
let us see what say the committee of this
House when it gives its Report:—
“Resolved (1842)—That the practice of
interments within the precincts of large
townsis injurious to the health of the in
habitants thereof, and frequently offensive
to public decency.”
On what is this report founded but on the
most shocking evidence disclosed of the
manner in which the remains of the dead
are treated, and of the unhealthiness of the
practice of putting the dead amongst the
living. When Sir B. Brodie is asked, “ Do
you consider the state of the grave yards
in the metropolis as one cause of fever and
disease?” his answer is, “I have always
�72
THE MIRROR.
considered that as one cause.” What
states Dr. Chambers? “ I have no doubt,”
he answers, “ that fever called typhus, even
in the cleanly quarters of London, owe
their origin to the escape of putrid miasma.
I should presume that over-crowded bury
ing grounds would supply such effluvia
most abundantly.” When this last report
was alluded to by me in this place two
years ago, my right hon. friend the secre
tary for the home department declared he
was not yet satisfied; that he must require
further evidence; and a special commission
was issued to a very able and intelligent
gentleman, Mr. Chadwick, to investigate
the subject. What says his report?—
“ That all interments in towns where
bodies decompose, contribute to the mass
of atmospheric impurity injurious to the
public health.”
This able report is so well known, and has
been so generally perused, that I need not
comment on it any longer; but I will next
proceed to the last Commission on the
Health of Towns, whose report was pub
lished early this session, which says—
u Amongst other causes of the deteriora
tion of the atmosphere in towns, our atten
tion was called to the practice of interring
the dead in the midst of densely populated
districts. Instances have been brought
before the commissioners of the great evils
arising from the condition of the grave
yards in several large towns, Shields, Sun
derland, Coventry, Chester, York, &c., and
we deem it right to draw attention to the
existence of such complaints.”
Now, sir, it may seem that quite enough
has been said by the commissioners on the
health of towns, and by the committee, to
satisfy the most incredulous that the nui
sance exists; but my right hon. friend still
doubts, he is not yet satisfied: like St.
Thomas, he is still incredulous. I cannot
help thinking my right hon. friend does not
like to believe in the nuisance, because it
may be very difficult to remedy the same.
One of the Popes in days gone by, when
told the earth moved round the sun,—that
such was discovered by Copernicus, said,
■“ It may be true, and I believe it, but I
shall save much trouble to myself if I say
I do not believe it, and I will persist that
such is not the case.” Now the right hon.
gentleman says the people are still desirous
to continue the custom of interring the
dead in the midst of the living; but I con
fess I am at a loss to see what portion of
the community is so desirous. Not the
upper class. I am sure the middle classes
are not; and I see no appearance in the
lower class: on the contrary, I have pre
sented petitions signed by thousands against
interments in towns, and none have ap
peared except from a few interested per
sons, speculators in grave-yards in the
metropolis in its favour. What says the
gentleman who is Principal of Clement’s
Inn? I will just read his letter to the
House.
24, Surrey Street, Strand, 3rd March, 1845.
“ Sir— Observing that you intend to call
the attention of the House of Commons to
the necessity of promoting the health of
large towns by preventing interments
within their precincts; I beg, as the princi
pal of one of the minor Inns of Court (St.
Clement’s Inn), to furnish you with a few
facts of the most startling and disgusting
character, and which establish at once a
case of great injury to the health of a
thickly populated district, and of disgrace
to a civilised community. Within oneeight of a mile from Lincoln’s Inn, and
abutting on St. Clement’s Inn, is a building
known as Enon Chapel, now used by what
is called a temperance society in the morn
ing for an infant school, and at night as an
assembly room for dancing. The building
measures less than sixty by twenty-nine
feet, and the part occupied by the living is
separated from the place of interment (a
cellar) by an indifferently constructed
wooden floor, the rafters of which are not
even protected with lath and plaster.
From 1823 to 1840, it is stated and be
lieved, that upwards of ten thousand bodies
were deposited in the cellar, not onefiftieth part of which could have been
crammed into it in separate coffins, had
not a common sewer contiguous to the cel
lar afforded facility for removal of the old,
as new supplies arrived, In the cellar
there are now human remains, and the
stench which at times issues through the
floor is so intolerable as to render it ab
solutely necessary that the windows in the
lantern roof should be kept open. During
the summer months a peculiar insect
makes its appearance; and in the adjoining
very narrow thoroughfare, called St. Cle
ment’s Lane, densely inhabited by the
poor, I need scarcely inform you, that
fever, cholera, and other diseases, have
prevailed to a frightful extent. Over the
masses of putrefaction to which I have
alluded, are children varying in number
from cne to two hundred, huddled to
gether for hours at a time, and at night the
children are succeeded by persons, who
continue dancing over the dead till three
and four o’clock in the morning. A band
of music is in attendance during the whole
night, and cards are played in a room ad
joining this chapel-charnel house. The
police have declined to interfere, alleging
that the building does not come under the
description of a place of amusement, as de
fined by the act of 25 Geo. II, c. 36; and
as there is no probability of the inhabitants
in the immediate neighbourhood giving
evidence of their own amusements being a
�THE MIRROR.
nuisance, there is little prospect of the
saturnalia being discontinued, unless the
attention which you may be able to excite
shall lead to the adoptiou of some extra
ordinary means for removing the Enon
plague-spot from the centre of the metro
polis.—I have the honour to be, sir, your
very obedient humble servant,
“ George Brace.”
“ William Alex. Mackinnon, Esq., M.P.”
Now here is a highly respectable gentle
man, a lawyer, the head of Clement’s Inn,
who tells you of the evil, and openly gives
his name, and permits me to mention it to
the House. Before I sit down, allow me,
sir, to allude to the opinion of a very good
and able person, so early as the days of
Charles II, Evelyn, the author of the ‘ Sylva’
who says,—
“ The custom with the early Christian 3
was, ‘In urbe ne sepelito ne urito.’ If then
it was counted a thing so profane to bury
in cities, much less would they have per
mitted it in their temples. Now, after all
this, would it not raise our indignation to
suffer so many persons without merit, per
mitted to lay their carcasses, not in the
nave and body of the church only, but in
the very chancel, next the communion
table, ripping up the pavements and remov
ing the seats, &c., for some little gratifica
tion of those who should have more respect
for decency at least.”
Now, Sir, I will only add, that in this me
tropolis, the number interred in the midst
of the living, is one thousand in a week
nearly; in the whole of the kingdom that
number per day. What a hideous and dread
ful apprehension does not this number of
dead interred among the living create as to
the future consequences that may arise!
What will this House have to answer for,
if at the end of an uncertain period, a pesti
lence or some direful malady should arise
in the population, and spread universally
through the ranks of society! What
would, what will be said by Europe and
the world, if in the nineteenth century, the
disgraceful practice of interment of the
dead in the midst of the living, is not only
permitted, but practised, by the most civi
lised nation, in the most civilised metropo
lis, and amidst the most wealthy population
of the world? Sir, I hope the vote of this
night will at once declare the sense of this
House, and put an end to a disgraceful
abomination, of which the most barbarous
people in this globe would be ashamed. If
I succeed in moving my resolution, that in
the opinion of this House the interments
in the precincts of large towns and of po
pulous districts is injurious to the health of
the inhabitants, and contrary to public de
cency, I shall then proceed to bring in a
bill to that effect, not under a very san
guine hope that I can pass such a bill un
73
less supported by her majesty’s govern
ment, but to keep up the public feeling, and
to act as a pioneer in a work whioh I deem
not only absolutely necessary for the health
of the people, but required by public de
cency, and creditable to the legislature by
whom such sentiments are entertainer!,
which sooner or later will and must be
adopted. The hon. gentleman concluded
by moving—
“ That this House is of opinion, that the
practice of interment, in towns and crowded
districts is injurious to the public health,
and exposes the places of sepulture to de
secration, and the remains of the dead to
acts revolting to moral and religious feel
ings; and that such practice ought to be
abolished as early as it is practicable, con
sistently with the object of making due
and proper provision for interment, and for
the protection of vested interests in all ac
customed fees and emoluments.”
The Rock Building and Investment
Society.
Nothing, perhaps, shows to a greater
extent the progress we have made in civi
lisation, than the formation of companies
and societies. Thus, public works are
accomplished which would be beyond the
efforts and means of private individuals,
and persons of the lower classes are assisted
in the purchase of property, who, without
some such help, would be unable te do so.
If anyone would rapidly consider in detail
the immense machinery requisite to be set
on foot in the construction of a railway,
he would instantly discover the value of
the existence of such powerful corporate
bodies. Not but these may be subject to
abuse; but they will, no doubt, improve
and keep pace with the enlightenment of
the age. Among public bodies, building
societies deserve a prominent place. To
one of these our attention has been parti
cularly called—we refer to the Rock Build
ing and Investment Society. The object
of this society appears to be this:—By
the payments of its shareholders, to form
a fund, from which money may be advanced
to the members, to enable them to pur
chase freehold or leasehold property; and
for this purpose every shareholder shall be
entitled to receive an advancement of the
funds of the society on every share, and
so in proportion for every half and quarter
part of a share he may subscribe for, after
the rate stated in tables which may
be found in the little pamphlet published
by the society. The payment of the ad
vance to be secured to the society by a
mortgage of such freehold or leasehold
property. The object of this society is
excellent. Its provisions are framed with
a due regard to equity. Should any share
holder, having been a member not less
10
�74
THE MIRROR.
than one year, be desirous of withdrawing
any shares on which he has not received
an advance, he shall be allowed to do so,
on giving to the board one month’s notice.
Another excellent idea is, that the widows
and orphans of deceased members are
always to have the priority in the payment
of the money paid bj a shareholder.
In case of a member dying, no right or
benefit of survivorship shall be had or
claimed by the surviving shareholders;
but the shares and interest of the deceased
member shall belong to his executors, who
shall have as much benefit as the share
holder could have had in case he had been
living. What can be more fair or honest
than this? No advantage is taken of the
death; but, on the contrary, the money is
paid over to the heirs of the deceased
member, at or after the third monthly
meeting subsequent to the demise. The
subscription is ten shillings per month on
each share. Every shareholder shall,
from the date of his certificate, commence
paying his subscription money (ten shil
lings) for each share he may hold, and
shall afterwards continue paying the said
subscription money of ten shillings per
share, per month, with all fines that may
be due from him, at every succeeding
monthly meeting, until the termination of
the society; such payment to be made at
the office of the society, between the hours
of seven and nine o’clock in the evening,
or at such other times and places as may
be appointed for that purpose. The offices
are at present at No. 26, New Broad-street,
City.
The name of fine always conveys an
idea unpleasant to those who would join
societies. We, therefore, hasten to show
our readers that those in this society should
not deter persons from entering. Every
shareholder neglecting to pay his subscrip
tions at the time appointed, shall be fined
on each of his shares as follows:—sixpence
for the first month, sixpence for the second,
a shilling for the third and fourth, and two
shillings for every subsequent month. Any
shareholder (not having received an ad
vance) continuing to neglect the payment
of his monthly subscriptions, until the fines
increased thereby shall equal all the sums
actually paid by him, shall cease to be a
shareholder, and forfeit all his interest in
the society.
It would exceed our limits to enter into
any greater detail at present: we would
refer to the prospectus printed in the pre
sent number. Rightly to understand the
principles upon which this excellent insti
tution is founded, our readers should pro
cure the copy of the rules and regulations,
which are written in so clear a style, as to
be perfectly intelligible to all.
The Theatres.
There has been scarcely anything doing
at the theatres during the early part of last
month, with the exception of Drury Lane,
that is worthy of being recorded in our
pages, managers having, we presume, been
so much engrossed by the preparation of
the Christmas pantomimes and other sea
son-pieces.
Drury Lane.
Another new opera from the prolific pen
of Balfe was produced at this house on the
11th ult., the libretto being by Mr. Bunn.
The plot, which is derived from the French,
is as follows:—It turns upon the love of
Madame Corinne (Miss Romer), a young
widow, whose husband, a West Indian pro
prietor, dies, leaving her very rich; she
has long cherished an affection for a young
mulatto, Camille, but whom she has lost
sight of; she sees Ardenford (Mr. Harri
son), and thinks that he is Camille. The
Marquis de Vernon (Mr. Weiss), wishes,
however, to gain her hand for his son
Count Flor vile (Mr. Rafter), a young spend
thrift. The usual mistakes and contre
temps take place. Ardenford turns out to
be Camille, the marquis, his father, and the
young count his half-brother, with whom
he was about to fight a duel, when Madame
Corinne comes forward, explains the matter
to the count, and gives her hand to Arden
ford. The other characters introduced
were Viscount Morliere (Mr. Horncastle),
Malapropos, Ardenford’s valet (Mr. Har
ley), Jaloux, innkeeper (Mr. S. Jones),
Grisette, his wife (Miss R. Isaacs), and
Frivole, lady’s maid (Mrs. Hughes). In
the first act, the scene is laid at Raney;
in the second and third, at Paris.
The success of the opera has been most
triumphant, and Mr. Bunn has received his
reward for the great outlay incurred in its
production, and has had the rare felicity of
receiving the almost unanimous praises of
the critics.
The music is exceedingly beautiful;
among the choicest morceaux we may men
tion the following ballads—“ It is not form
it is not face,” * Go, memory, go,’’ and the
•
guitar song, “ Love in language,” which
were all exquisitely sung by Miss Romer;
a buffo air, “ There is nothing so perplex
ing,” sung by Mr. Weiss, and two songs
“ When fond remembrance,” and “ They
say there is some distant land,” which fell
to Mr. Harrison. A chorus and morceau
ensemble, which concludes the quartett, is
also very good, and the grand finale is well
worked up.
Of the performers it is our pleasing task
to speak favourably. Miss Romer acquitted
herself well in her part. Mr. Weiss has
dropped into the old men’s parts, as if they
were made for him; he has lately much im
�THE MlRROlL
proved, but more particularly in these cha
racters, Which suit him so well, that we
should hardly fancy him again in anything
juvenile. He sung the comic air we have
alluded to exceedingly well, and has always
been well received. Mr. Harley is an old
established favourite. His vocation is to
make people laugh, and he does it so suc
cessfully that his mere appearance generally
produces a risible effect. The subordinate
parts were also well sustained. Miss Isaacs,
as the grisette, acted nicely, and Mr. Jones,
as her husband, an innkeeper, played the
character well. We must not omit men
tioning that on the first night Miss
Romer, Messrs. Harrison and Weiss were
called for; next Mr. Balfe made his ap
pearance ; and lastly, Mr. Bunn, who
availed himself of the opportunity to ad
dress the house.
The Lyceum.
This popular theatre re-opened its doors
last Monday, and commenced another sea
son, under the Keeleys, with a version of
Dickens’ new Christmas tale, “ the Battle of
Life,” which was produced with the sanc
tion, and under the superintendence of ,its
author.
As the plot of the piece is, no doubt,
familiar to our readers, from having pe
rused the tale itself, we shall not inflict on
them the tedium of relating it, but pro
ceed at once to state the cast of characters,
&c. The character of Clemency Newcome
was sustained by Mrs. Keeley, and never
do we remember to have seen her to
greater advantage. Mr. Benjamin Britain
was played by Mr. Keeley, in his usual
droll manner, and as though he seemed to
appreciate to the fullest extent, the au
thor’s conception; and Frank Matthews
was peculiarly happy in his delineations of
the quaint old physician, Dr. Jeddler.
Miss Daly, as Grace, we much admired,
as we also did Miss May, as Marion; indeed
the entire round of characters were ably
supported, and the way in which the play
was put upon the stage must be allowed
to have materially influenced its success.
At the conclusion of the piece Albert
Smith appeared before the curtain, and
there was a loud call for Mr. Dickens, but
he was either not in the house, or did not
care to respond to the call for bim.
The Ethiopian Serenade rs.
These amusing singers, after a prospe
rous tour in the provinces, have again fa
voured the metropolis with their presence,
and with a success quite equal to their ex
pectations, we should imagine, for the
house was filled on Tuesday evening last.
Those who have not yet heard them, we
recommend to go, and they will not repent
it; they sing their harmonised airs with
75
much expression, indeed far superior to
anything of the kind we have lately heard.
Sacred Philharmonic Society.
The “ Messiah ” was performed last
Wednesday by this Society, to a full at
tendance, in the room of Exeter Hall. The
performance was anything but satisfactory
to our minds; the chorus and band require
a vast deal of drilling to make them
efficient.
Mr. and Mrs. Severn’s Concert.
This entertainment was given in the
Hanover-square Concert Rooms, on the 3d
ult. It was one of the richest treats it has
been our good fortune to enjoy for some
time past. The chief item in the pro
gramme was “ an operatic serenata,” com
posed by Mr. Severn—“ The Spirit of the
Shell.” It is a very elegant piece of musi
cal composition, and the libretto by Francis
Wyman, is far superior to librettos in
general, and, did our -space permit, we
should much like to make an extract or
two in proof. The solo parts were sus
tained by Miss Birch and Mr. Lockey,
and the subordinate parts by Messrs.
Shoubridge, Wetherbed, and Hawkins, and
Misses Cubitt and Solomon.
The second part consisted of a selection
chiefly of vocal music, by the vocalists
mentioned, and Mr. John Parry, who sang
his comic song, “The London Season,”
and was, of course, encored, and Mrs.
Severn herself.
The Pantomimes.
Drury Lane.—The introduction to the
pantomime of “ Harlequin St. George and
the Dragon” is not very conspicuous for
literary ability. The first scene is the
abode of Kalyba (Horncastle), the En
chantress, who summons her faithful
ministers, Earth, Fire, Air, and Water,
who have been, much to the satisfaction
of their mistress, effecting shipwrecks and
earthquakes, and burning down houses,
“ in spite of Mr. Braidwood and his new
Fire Brigade.” Intellect (Miss Payne),
arrives in a small parachute, to dispute
the magic power of Kalyba, and to tell
her what he has done, notwithstanding
the opposition of Ignorance and Supersti
tion; and, in fine, to bid defiance to her and
her crew. Kalyba laughs at the new comer;
and, to show him her power, orders Air
and Water to cause a shipwreck. Here ia
an illustration of a storm at sea—the life
boat saves the crew. Kalyba is not to be
baffled, and she commands an earthquake.
This is treated in a similar manner. The
Enchantress is not satisfied, so Intellect
gives her a month or two, to “ steal seven
little brats” the Champions of Christendom.
The scene is changed to an “Infant Sohool,”
�76
THE MIRROR.
in which intellect certainly does not make
much progress. “ The Exterior and Barbacan of Coventry Castle,” brings us to
St. George, who is feted on his birth-day.
This scene is full of the fun of pantomime.
The champions set out on their different
journeys, after St. George (W. H. Payne),
has emancipated himself, and enchanted
the Enchantress. Egypt is the country of
St. George’s exploits. Almanzor (T.
Matthews) is on the point of being mar
ried to the fair Princess, but, as the pan
tomime states, the lady “has a decided
objection to be bound in Morocco.”
Amongst the tricks there are some that
deserved and met with a hearty round of
applause. They were mostly of a political
character.
Haymarket.—“ The Invisible Prince; or,
The Island of Tranquil Delight,” is a happy
Christmas hit. The monarch of bombast,
Mr. Bland, struts about with inflated im
portance, to the no small amusement of his
audience. In this extavaganza he is the
rival of Leander (Miss P. Horton), who,
in his adventures, is assailed by the fairy
Gentilla, and she presents him, amongst
other gifts, with a cap, by means of which
he makes himself invisible. With such
advantages he entirely supersedes the In
fante Euribond, and easily gains the affec
tions of that exquisite Little Pet (Miss
Julia Bennett), to the tune of “ I’d rather
have a guinea,” “’Twas you that kissed
the pretty girl,” “ The poor soldier,” “ The
bold dragoon,” “ Prettj Polly, say,” and
“ Get along home, you yellow girls.” The
house was very full.
Princess’s.— “ The Enchanted Beauties
of the Golden Castle; or, Harlequin and
the One-eyed Ogre,” was produced at
this house. The scenery is very beautiful.
In the opening scene, the bird which car
ries Erizzlegit to the Golden Castle is of
immense size, and its introduction was
very cleverly managed.
The “ Isle of
Parrots” has called forth the taste of the
scene-painter. The distant figures climbing
the balsatic rocks has a curious effect.
There is also a very pretty idea in the
budding and expansion of a rose, when the
enchanted beauties suddenly appear; and
the scene where the Princess is discovered
through a trellis work, was in the best
style of the artist of the theatre. The
pantomime was highly successful.
Lyceum.—The pantomime produced at
this establishment is constructed on a some
what novel principle, being divided into two
acts. In the first part the poetical story
of the “Butterfly’s Ball” is developed, and
the second act is entirely devoted to the
harlequinade. Mr. Lauri made his first
attempt to play the part of Harlequin.
Collier fills the part of the Clown, and he
is a truly droll fellow. Some of the transfor
mations were made exceedingly clever, and
the machinery worked uncommonly well.
The scene of the Freemason's Hall afforded
some capital jokes, which told against the
“ craft.” The “ grand secret” was cleverly
worked. A huge sack was brought on the
stage, and after some extravagant jokes
between the Clown and Pantaloon, a tre
mendous red-hot poker was produced. The
attempted swindle at the Egyptian Hall of
“ What is it ?” was also burlesqued. Nor
were the railway bubbles and the Welling
ton statue forgotten. The music, by Alex
ander Lee, was performed by a first-rate
band. The pantomime is likely to have a
long run.
Adelphi.—A new piece in three acts,
entitled “ Columba; or,the Corsican Sister,”
was brought out at this theatre. Columba
(Madame Celeste) is the sister of a young
lieutenant, who has been in the French ser
vice, and has just returned to Corsica. Her
brother, Antonia Della Rebbia(Mr. Howe),
has been long absent from Corsica, and
during his absence his father has boen mur
dered by a rival family. According to the
custom of the country, Antonia is expected,
and urged by his sister to take blood for
blood, but having imbibed gentler feelings,
it is only when convinced by proofs of the
guilt of the accused that he consents to
avenge the murder of his parent. There is
an episodal portion of the piece which turns
on the love between Antonio and Miss Ne
ville (Mrs. Yates), but the play concludes
without giving any satisfactory account of
its termination. Wright, as the Colonel’s
servant, was very amusing, and Paul Bed
ford and O. Smith, as two bandits, made
the most of their parts. Miss Woolgar, as
Chilina, a mountain peasant girl, was
loudly applanded. Most of the actors were
called before the curtain at the conclusion.
Surrey.—The lessee of this establish
ment has spared no pains in the production
of the new pantomime. It is entitled—
“ The King of the Castle ; or Harlequin in
the Land of Dreams.”
Astley’s.—The pantomime of the “Forty
Thieves; or Harlequin Ali Baba and the
Robbers’ Cave,” was produced at this theatre.
It would be a needless work to go over the
plot of the “ Forty Thieves,” as we take it
for granted that every one has read or seen
it. Suffice it to say, that the plot was hu
morously written, and introduced “ the
animals ” to the satisfaction of a noisy and
well-filled house. The “ effects ” were
numerous.
�
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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement and Instruction. Vol. 49, No. 6. January 1847
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Text
THE EXAMINER:
A Monthly Review of Religious and Humane Questions,
and of Literattire.
Vol. I. — NOVEMBER,
1870. — No. 1.
aMjicago;
OR,
THE BACK STAIRS TO FORTUNE.
“ Thyself and thy belongings
Are not thine own so proper, as to waste
Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee.
Heaven doth with us as we with torches do.
Not light them for themselves : for if our virtues
Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike
As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touched
But to fine issues ; nor nature never lends
The smallest scruple of her excellence,
But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines
Herself the glory of a creditor,
Both thanks and use.”
Measurefor Measure.
CHAPTER I.—Introduction.
I WILL frankly say, that my object in writing this serial is. to
strike a succession of the hardest blows I can, at follies, vices, and
crimes, which I find around me, in the society, religion, and types of
character which are current among us.
It is now nearly twenty-eight years since I was walking home one
winter s night with my father, to our log cottage on the west bank of
the Fox river, some thirty-five miles from Chicago, when certain
questions he put to me about my soul and my future destiny,—we
were returning from a “ prayer and inquiry meeting,”—led me to
take the oaths, as it were, of awful fealty to God, and to set my heart
upon intense seeking after the invisible path by which human feet
find entrance to divine life. And for more than a quarter of a cen
tury, from extreme youth to manhood, I have not ceased to contend
with myself, and with all the forces of the world besetting me, for the
attainment of that ideal of a heart right with God, which was before
my young imagination when I first consecrated my powers to religion.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by Edward C. Towne, in the Office of the
Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
VOL. I.—NO. I.
�o
Crazy Chicago.
The lesson I have best learned is, that I am to myself, by many
varieties of ignorance and short-coming, fault and transgression, the
greatest hurt and hindrance; so that it were extreme stupidity and
wrong in me to attempt to cudgel mankind out of my path, as if the
world only stood between me and the gates of light; or to complain
of my earthly condition, as if but for cloud and storm, and the inces
sant turning of earth into her own shadow, I could get away easily
enough on the wings of my own endeavor to some place of eternal,
unclouded day. Out of the depths I confess that I am of the earth,
earthy, born of the dust and compact of common clay, and that for
me there is no problem more immediate and urgent than that of
detaining the incarnate spark in my own breast, and finding other
than the meanest cradle for that of God which is born into my own
life. These pages will bear constant witness, I trust, to my “ personal
conviction of sin,” even if I should not be found spitting out in the
presence of the public the husks I have been fain to eat, and should
hesitate, for decency’s sake, to do as the Pharisees, with their manners
mended in the school of Christ, now do, raise, with smitten breast,
the publican’s wail, to be seen and heard of men.
And it will always appear in what I write, unless I come greatly
short of my aim, that in no case do I propose that kind of judgment
which denies excuse and knows no arrest of the severities of justice.
I mean to comprehend, and to deal generous justice, even when I
strike the hardest and crush the most unsparingly ; believing that so
it is with the truth, and that in the final judgment of perfect wisdom
and absolute power, there is complete reconciliation of the criminal
and the court, and no such thing at last as the chains and prison of
uupitying penalty.
Very many good people on earth, appealing to God in heaven and
to the Devil in hell, are, indeed, still digesting the sour wrath against
wrong which comes of crudeness of faith and virtue, and are still
muttering, boldly or slyly, the foul curses of heathenism, in creeds
Catholic, Calvinist, and other, against the race of mortal men ; but I
no more propose to deem that sort of thing Christian, or decent, or
other than spiritually unclean and detestable, than I propose to accept
human sacrifice and the banquets of pious cannibalism.
The study of follies, faults, and crimes in men, is the study also of
human nature, and no delineation of the former can be true, or even
tolerable, to a just mind, which does not pick out the threads of the
original fabric, and show the work of the Creator under all the marred
�Crazy Chicago.
3
life of the creature. God forbid that I should forget, or fail to
indicate, in speaking of what goes sadly wrong in the details of human
life, that for every soul made in the divine image, there is adequate
discipline, causing a final tendency of character, and of the whole
course of being, to good, even the perfect and eternal good which is
the aim of God and the end of the kingdom of heaven. In the end,
therefore, whatever plainness and sharpness I may use, I hope to
speak kindly of men and of women, and permit my readers to see,
even on the back stairs to fortune, angels ascending and descending,
under whatever disguise and humiliation of soiled humanity.
But let it be understood that I do not mean to forbear criticism
and the exposure of facts, because of my personal consciousness of
deficiency and fault, and my unswerving faith in good in all and
divine good will to all. I shall analyze and portray life as I find it,
and shall take every suitable occasion to pierce the very core of our
doubtful and difficult questions, and to depict in their naked reality
the characters which swarm along the new paths of our new
civilization.
I have the blood of this new life in my own veins ; its great hopes
throb in my heart; I have closely observed and faithfully studied its
manifold, marvellous manifestations; and I feel wholly convinced of
the immeasurable course it is to run, and of the absolute necessity of
making haste to prepare the full success of that course, by culture
such as never before was needed, and never yet has been produced.
New elements of a new world are gathered in this great chaos which
we call The West, and the ever enduring spirit of truth, order,
beneficence, which has had so varied incarnations in human history,
seems destined to attempt here a new manifestation, to the interpre
tation of which new seers must be called. While greater masters of
prophecy prepare their burden, I propose to utter my word, in a
faithful picture of certain aspects of things about us, the criticism of
which, and reform of which, must precede any satisfactory establish
ment of a culture suited to our needs, which are the needs of
enterprise and liberty vastly greater and more radical than were ever
before ventured on.
It must not be thought, as my title may suggest, that I am about
to hold up the great city of the West to contempt. I use her name
to designate a type, a new expansion of energy and freedom, fully
believing that the event will show her to be one of the great centres
of the modern world. Incident to the progress which she represents,
�4
Crazy Chicago.
are insanities of enterprise and liberty, the aggregate of which I may
justly call Crazy Chicago. And in thus naming my picture, I leave
myself at liberty to introduce features brought from far, illustrations
of American insanity which I have gathered in other fields, and which
I am able to use to more advantage than the particular instances
nearer the scene of my tale. Crazy Chicago is an American product.
Some of the elements which mingle in the aggregate designated by
the term, are seen to best advantage in New York or Boston, though
doubtless the natural attraction of all is to the city whose name I use.
Here then, in my story, let them come, and let us behold in one
view the worst and the best of our new march of American energy
and freedom.
CHAPTER II.
It was impossible not to pity her. Only three days before a
bride, and a widow before the sun went down on her wedding-day,
she was journeying with her lover’s remains to lay them where the
new home for the new life had been prepared; and now an inexpli
cable event brought an additional and wholly unthought of shock.
The baggage car, in which was contained the casket of precious clay,
had taken fire, and was already enveloped in fierce, devouring flames.
Nobody could tell how it had happened, but the car, with all its
contents, was burning up. Had some careless person packed matches
in his trunk, along with something readily combustible, and so fur
nished the seed of this destruction ? Had a spark stolen in by an
accidental crack, and fallen on stuff easy to ignite ? Surmises were
abundant, but even the most plausible left the origin of the fire a
mystery. There were two baggage cars, and this one, entirely filled
with through-baggage, express matter and mails, had not been opened
since the train left P------ , ten hours before. The engineer was as
much at a loss as any one, as to how it had happened. He could
only say that he suddenly became aware that this closed and locked
car was bursting out in flames on all sides, and that to stop the train,
to uncouple and drag forward the burning mass, and to himself cut
loose from it, were barely possible for the tongues of flame which shot
fiercely out in every direction. A sense of awe stole over every one,
such as inexplicable manifestations of destroying power always excite,
when it was generally known that no one could tell how the confla
gration had originated.
�Crazy Chicago.
5
The utmost exertions of all hands did not suffice to break open a
door, or to get out even a single trunk, box, or mail-bag. Even the
attempt to lift one side of the car, by means of poles and rails, and
throw it over, and off the track, was of no avail. There was no
alternative but to let the fire rage until the chief weight of the
burning mass should be dissipated. It would not take a very long
time to make that heavy load almost as light as nothing, tossing its
elements back into the womb of air and chaos of dust whence they
came. Half a ton of letters, the business and love of New York and
New England written out by thousands of scribes, would become a
few pounds of ashes and lost cloudlets of elemental matter, within a
couple of hours. The huge pile of boxes and trunks, with the varied
belongings of a crowd of persons, things mean and things precious,
things gay and costly, and things cheap and vile ; the gentleman’s
apparel and keepsakes; the lady’s rich collection of necessities of
comfort, beauty, and pride; the student’s books, and love tokens, and
single best suit; and similar treasures of different classes of travelers,
were dissolving in that raging furnace, and their elements flying
away to the treasuries of nature. The full light of noon-day softened
the fire spectacle, extinguishing somewhat the white tips of the
tongues of flame, but still an intensely raging fire was evidently doing
its cruel work. And in the very heart of the fiery pile lay all that
death had left of Marion White’s husband.
Had there been no peculiar distress in the event, almost every one
would have watched the progress of the flames with bitter regret for
his or her own personal loss, but when it was known that those low
wails of irrepressible anguish in the second car were because of a
body burning up,— the last relic of one day of wedlock to a young
bride,— the single thought which pressed upon all hearts, was of
compassion for this unusual aggravation of a dreadful woe. Rough
men as well as gentle, and women commonly thoughtless of either
pleasure or pain not their own, as well as those not bereft by a false
life of the power of womanly sympathy, moved about or looked sadly
on, with that air of real compassion which always seems like a soft
outbreak in human flesh of the divine tenderness. Not a soul there
but sincerely pitied Marion White, for her great sorrow, and for this
strange after-blow of suffering. No one knew her; but her name,
which was distinctly marked on her traveling-bag, had been passed
from one to another in the crowd, as tenderly and reverently as
communion bread and wine are handed about when sacrament is
�6
Crazy Chicago.
administered. It was, indeed, one of the hours when the religion of
our common sympathy, and our common awe before invisible realities,
held its service of communion, and swayed all hearts with its gracious
power. There were bad men standing by, to whom greed was more
than grace, and women looking on who had grown sadly faithless to
womanhood through pride, or passion, or harshness of virtue and
heathenism in religion,— whom in this moment the kingdom of heaven
baptized, so that ever after they were under one memory at least of
sweet human nature, touched once at least with love towards the fellow
creature and natural trust towards the Providence which is behind all
our mysteries and all our woes. The lookers on had, indeed, been
less than human, if the quick tenderness of sympathy had not flushed
every face, and they had not thus tried dumbly to ease Marion White’s
load of pain. But it was only as the hour wore on, and when most
of the passengers were gone to watch the last work of the fire and to
prepare to throw the wreck from the track, that the terrible distress
of the doubly bereaved young wife began to abate a little.
Could she but have thought, there was nothing really dreadful in
this funeral pyre. But she did not think, not even as much as she
had begun to do before the suddenness and strangeness of this
experience came upon her.
The religion which tradition had taught her required a gloomy
contemplation of death. It barely offered its “professors” a candle
of hope for a passage through this valley of terrors, and neither she
nor her lover had ever consented to become “ professors.” There fell
no light, therefore, on the path of her bereavement, from any knowl
edge she had had of Christian faith. On the contrary, all her
instruction, every thing she was accustomed to hear, and even the
prayer in the dreary funeral service, had carefully excluded every
ray of light, and forced her desolate heart upon either blank despair
or desperate trust. The despair was too terrible for endurance, yet
she could not have trusted, if it had been for herself alone. On either
side of her way, as she strove to follow the departed spirit to which
they said “God had joined” her, she saw the Jesus of Christian
superstition,* clothed in blood and breathing fire, and the Devil of the
same dreadful tale, only less horrible than the Judging Christ, while
* A recent evangelical poem, “ Yesterday, To-day and Forever,” which has already had a very
wide circulation, describes the Lord Jesus as rising from the “ Bridal Supper of the Lamb ” to
say, “Now is the day of vengeance in my heart,” and going forth G Apparell’d in a vesture
dipped in blood,” while his angels cry,
“ Ride on and prosper! Thy right hand alone
Shall teach thee deeds of vengeance, and Thy shafts
Shall drink the life-blood of Thy vaunting foes,”
�far before yawned bottomless perdition, and over all was that Infinite
Horror, the presence of “ an angry God.” That it was a heathen
mythology which had created this picture, she could not be expected to
know, but she soon did know, by some better revelation than she had
been taught, that the angry God, the lake of fire, the nearly infinite
devil, and the Jesus of the judgment-throne, were shapes of fear
known only to p ious fiction.
The unreality of customary religion had strongly impressed her
ever since she had first had its lessons pressed upon her attention.
Without distinctly reflecting, she had gathered a strong impression,
and in fact reached a profound conviction, that the usual administra
tion of Christian dogma was formal only, and was wholly false to the
real faith both of ministers and peoples. It was her nursery experi
ence over again, only the tales of catechism, and creed, and church
worship, while solemn and grim as grown men could make them, were
less real than Blue Beard and Jack and the Bean Stalk,— mere
mummery kept up by decent custom and vague fear,— or by the
difficulty ministers found in extricating their real faith from this
customary, consecrated, and said to be Divine Form. She had so
clearly felt this, without distinctly expressing it even to herself, that
the general idea that pious fiction is as much a rule in the religion of
sects and churches, as pleasant fiction is in the nursery, was perfectly
familiar to her.
When, therefore, early impressions and the influences about her,
conjured up the usual dreadful picture of the gods of Christian
heathenism,— Jesus, Satan, and Jehovah,— it was inevitable that her
brave love should recur to the thought that these shapes of terror had
no sanction in any human or any Christian truth.
This, her own individual thought, which had had but a timid
existence in her mind, would have hardly served her needs when the
shadow of utter darkness fell on her life, but for the fact that love
and desperation nerved her spirit, and together drove her upon the
experiment of trust. And once that she dared brave the triune
Horror of her early creed, the conviction grew into dauntless vigof,
that the real truth would unmask and dethrone this image of complex
dread. Of Devil and angry Jehovah, in fact, she at once found the
fear entirely gone. The dreadful figure of the Judge alone remained
to plague her timid trust in God. Unhesitatingly, however, using
this simple liturgy of Old and New Testaments, ‘The Lord is my
Shepherd’ — ‘Our Father which art in Heaven,’ — she defied, for
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her lover’s sake, and trusting Love as true God and God as true Love,
the Messianic Lord of Vengeance, in whom she had wholly lost the
simple Christ of history.
A bitter feeling that some dreadful pretension, in parable or in
false report of parable, had done a most cruel thing to human hearts,
in affording a basis for the fiction of damnation, entirely separated her
from the thought of the teacher whose prayer she had on her lips,
and whose faith towards God her heart repeated. He was less than
nothing to her; he was wholly excluded from her sight; nor can one
wonder, who considers the extent to which Jesus, in the existing
records of his life, apparently lent himself to the idea of a Messianic
avenging deliverer.
“ I have hated Jesus ever since I was a little girl, and first read
about giving bad people to the devil to be put in hell fire,” were actual
words of a perfectly simple, perfectly just, and exceptionally Christian
experience, on the part of one, a very simple, earnest woman, who
could not be expected to discriminate the gross Judaism of some
things in the teaching of Jesus from the pure Christian truth of other
parts of his doctrine.
A resolute idealist, who sets out with the assumption that all the
bad words in the New Testament are to be read any way but simply,
in order to get a good meaning into them, may easily enough create
a Jesus all transcendent goodness and greatness, and think it very
strange that the millions do not see all colors white as he does, but
this is no exploit for common minds. And to many, who have
been diligently instructed in that orthodoxy, which says, as Ecce Deus
expresses it,— “ Christ must be more than a good man, or worse than
the worst man ; if he be not God, he is the Devil,” — it is impossible
to see the real teacher, as he speaks real truth, the attention is so taken
with the figure which he makes, or is represented as making, in some
scene which has no true revelation in it.
Women are commonly the sufferers who revolt finally against the
Jesus of pious fiction, and utterly, though secretly, turn away from
gospel and epistles, to the simple revelation which nature, and provi
dence, and inspiration, furnish to their own hearts. The young wife
of our story was such a sufferer and recusant. Instantly that her
mind became composed to reflection, she found herself a Christian
without Christ, an unfaltering believer in precious truths of God, and
eternal life, which had come to her under the Christian name, and
with that divine quality of mercy which the word “ Christian”
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seemed to most signify in the best Christian hearts, and yet a resolute,
defiant disbeliever in the whole form of creed and custom on which
had been enthroned so long the Judging Christ. The whole matter
had become divided, and a great gulf fixed between the one part and
the other, all the realities of God, and mercy, and heaven on one side,
and the fictions, the forms, and the black idols on the other. Defiance
of the latter was part, for the moment, of the faith with which she
regarded the former.
It was to this state of mind that Marion White had come, when the
sudden intelligence of the burning of her husband’s body threw her
from all self possession, and brought back upon her, with excess of
terror, the gloomiest impressions she had ever had. It seemed almost
as if the offended Judge had kindled those flames, to devour the dead
form, and give her a horrible symbol of the second death, to which
her lover had been received in hell torment. The event was so
unexpected and so inexplicable, and so harrowing at the best, even if
she could have remembered that it was no more than “ dust to dust,”
that, even with a more resolute mind, she must have been made
unusually susceptible, for the time, to dark impressions and depress
ing thoughts, such as early religious associations had always tended to
force upon her. Had her faith met at that moment with disastrous
overthrow, and fear recovered possession of her trembling spirit, it
would have been no more than usually happens. A plausible, tender
appeal to her sense of helplessness, to her feeling of ill desert, to her
natural terror in view of destruction, might have extinguished in her
heart the pure aspiration of the child towards the Father in Heaven,
and fastened on her some one of the forms of current Christian
heathenism. No such advocate was at hand, however, and with the
moving on of the train, and her final departure from the last relic of
her past, Marion White struggled out of the depths with a sad strength
of soul which she was destined never to lose.
CHAPTER III.
There were two persons in the car with Marion White, who each
had an impulse to offer her assistance, of the sort which sympathy
endeavors to render on such occasions. Both of them had the
clerical title, and both were ministers of religion, but they were every
way a singular contrast to each other ; they had in fact no more in
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common than the publican and the Pharisee in the temple. That one
of the two whose presence might have been of real service, we will
call, without his title, John Paul, a modest, earnest gentleman of
nearly fifty, whose countenance told a plain story of very profound,
and possibly very sad, experience. Him, however, we must defer
introducing, because he was anticipated by the Rev. Athanasius
Channing Blowman, a clergyman of national reputation, who was
en route to Chicago to deliver his celebrated lecture on Napoleon
Bonaparte and Modern History.
The Rev. Athanasius Channing Blowman was still a young man,—
thirty-three perhaps,— but he did not lack assurance, and he felt it
incumbent upon him to employ his pastoral, not to say his episcopal,
authority, with the sighs and tears of Marion White. Not that he
was a priest of ‘ The Church,’ much less a bishop, for he belonged to
a small denomination of heretics, and had only the standing which
excessive self-assertion gives; but he made a large and loud claim as
a “minister of Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,” and he held in
great esteem that prophecy, wherein the master assured the disciples,
“ He that believeth on me, the works that I do shall he do also; and
greater than these shall he do.” It was from the last clause of this
text that Athanasius Channing Blowman purposed to preach in the
Chicago Opera House, on the Sunday evening previous to his lecture,
which would be given on Monday night.
Nature had used inexplicable freedom in mixing characters in this
young apostle. There was a little of Pope Hildebrand, just enough
to warrant the sublime assurance with which he had demanded and
obtained ecclesiastical dignities, on the various boards engaged in
managing the machinery of the sect. Of Tom Paine, Voltaire, and
any nameless mountebank, there were about equal parts, giving a
considerable dash of irreverent common sense, of egotistic wit, and of
grand and lofty tumbling with figures of speech, epithets fit and unfit,
and the usual weapons of sensational oratory. It was, however, in
personal appearance, that Athanasius Channing Blowman believed
himself indubitably in the line of prophets and apostles, and of his
“ Lord and Master.” Probably he would never have been called a
handsome man; and he certainly was not interesting in appearance;
but he had quite unusual stature, an animated countenance, eyes that
habitually flashed, or were meant to flash, and locks, abundant and
dark, worthy of an Apollo. Two thoughts frequently came to him
through the smoke of his cigar, that the figures of “ the Lord Jesus,”
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in pictures by very old masters, strangely resembled tbe person he
appeared in what he called “ my glorified moments,” and that Apollo
Athanasius Channing would have been a name strikingly suitable for
one who had added to the substance of Greek wisdom and orthodox
inspiration, the advanced views of most reputable heresy, and whose
lofty aim it was to invite Moses and Elias, Catholic and Calvinist, to
abide with him on his mount of transfiguration, “ our elevated liberal
views.”
In the matter of actual religion, this Apollo Athanasius once
naively confessed that it was the unknown quantity in his problem of
life. At the very first of his ministry he had inclined wholly to the
most V radical” paths, and he never had had, or could have, any
other than “ radical ” private opinions. But preferment, such as it
could be had in his sect, did not lie in that direction, and really the
workings of his mind were not so positive as to compel him to minister
one set of opinions rather than another. He went over, therefore, to
the conservative side of the denominational conventicle, and shouted
the shibboleths of orthodox heresy at the head of the “ right wing.”
Here he thought it mighty clever to confute the “ radicals,” who said
much of “ intuition ” and “ inspiration,” by confessing, as if that of
course settled the matter, that his soul was as empty of “ inspiration ”
as a brass horn of the Holy Ghost; and that of “ intuition” he had
never known any more than a dutch cheese; propositions which
nobody felt able to dispute. The single passion of his nature seemed
to be, to raise his voice loudest of all among “ the chief speakers,” and
to persuade himself that he led the van of the Christian religion,
because he was a successful sensational preacher.
In fact, however, the Christian religion, with all its sins of error
and wrong upon it, would have been infinitely indebted to this fellow
if he had looked up some honest employment. There undoubtedly
ought to be a quasi-hell just at present, convenient to urgent mundane
necessities, into which all not honest teachers of religion might be
thrust, long enough to smoke out thejr pretension, and save their
souls, as by fire, from the worst break-down of character to which
man or woman can come. The emptying thereby of numerous
pulpits, which it costs from $7,000 to $12,000 a year to keep a star
performer in, would do no harm whatever to public virtue or popular
interest in religion, and would rid us of a prodigious amount of
humbug, besides turning over to modest and honest labor, and to
good character, quite a number of persons originally capable of a
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career much nobler than that of careless, reckless, sensational
administration of no-truths, half-truths, and lies, in the name of
religion.
It was a pet conceit of young Mr. Blowman, since he had taken
charge of the “ conservative liberal movement of the Christian mind,”
to constitute himself spokesman of the latest discovered true intent of
the only original gospel of “ Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,”
and invite the warring sects of Christendom to say after him this last
revised and finally genuine Christian confession of faith. It was not
that he really had any particular faith to confess himself, but he
imagined himself competent, as conductor of a metropolitan religious
theatre, drawing crowded houses every Sunday morning and evening,
to give a good guess at the average religious notions afloat in the
popular mind, and had no hesitation in assuming that a compend of
such notions would have prodigious popular success.
With his usual largeness and boldness of view, he purposed
obtaining what he called a “ Consensus,” or agreed-upon statement
of beliefs, endorsed by leading divines,— selected by himself from all
parts of Christendom, and addressed by a circular letter under his
own hand,— as an authoritative exposition of faith and practice. To
his mind it was plain that large numbers of the popular clergy of
various sects would welcome so good an opportunity to fall into line
under one banner, and behind a leader whose star was so undeniably
in the ascendant, wherever theatres and opera houses had opened
their doors. The “ liberal views” of his own sect rendered the bare
suggestion of a “ Creed ” dangerous, not because there was really any
indisposition to have a creed, in a small and sly way, by a sort of
ecclesiastical thimblerig, but from the average aversion of the sect to
call the distinctly proclaimed confession by the usual name, the
general impression seeming to be that clever sleight-of-hand infidelity
to the boasted principle of liberty, would escape detection, and
enable the body to save appearances.
In this peculiar exigency, our young apostle was very lucky to hit
on the Latin term, Consensus, which at once sounds neither definite
nor dangerous, and has an impressive suggestion of dignity and
divinity, as much as to say, reversing a scripture word, “ It seems
good to US and to the Holy Ghost.” This term he almost considered
a divine suggestion, only he was not sure that the assumptions of that
word “ divine,” such as the existence of God. inspiration, etc., were
not a little doubtful, useful but misty, while of his own cleverness he
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was certain beyond a doubt, and on the whole preferred to assume
that, in the absence or inattention of Divine Wisdom, and “the Lord
Jesus ” having left the excelsior opportunities to future disciples, he
had invented a kind of Nicholson pavement for religion, over which
ark and hearse, the hope and the terror of traditional faith, might
trundle, smoothly as never before, their glorious onward way.
He often said to himself, and to his numerous admiring confidants,
the quasi-religious clever fellows, of both sexes, who constituted the
voluntary vestry of his grand metropolitan conventicle, “ The Church
of Holy Enoch,” that he should never forget the hour and the
moment when the scheme of a “ Consensus ” occurred to him. It
was on his first visit to Chicago, when for the first time he was driven
down Wabash Avenue, by the Hon. Jupiter William. His calmness
of mind had been disturbed for a moment by the contrast between
his own elegant patent-leather “ Oxford ties ” and the “ heavy kip ”
of the Hon. Jupiter William’s unvarnished boots, resting conspicu
ously on the front seat of the carriage, when suddenly, as the vehicle
swept round into the Avenue, and rolled with soothing smoothness
along the block roadway, a kind of vision brought a recurrence of his
frequent thoughts on the momentous subject of a “ banner-statement
of belief,” and in a moment, as if a Latin Dictionary,— a sealed book
to his education,— had been let down between the scraggy and
smutty trees which line this “ superb drive,” he read this word of
words for his purpose, Consensus, and instantly imagined a grand
turn-out of ecclesiastical vehicles, rolling in noiseless majesty in the
wake of his suggestion, over the way his cleverness should lay down.
From that moment “Consensus” had been his banner in the sky.
Fie had had the word illuminated, and framed in velvet and gold, to
stand on his study table. And straightway he had proceeded to write
out fairly his compend of all known winds of doctrine, attaching thereto
his own bold, decisive, oecumenical signature, Athanasius Channing
Blowman, preparatory to receiving the concurrent attestation of elect
fathers and brethren to whom he would vouchsafe circular epistolary
application. This compend, which was meant to be to the original
materials of prophecy, gospels, and epistles, what an ordered and
elegantly served dinner would have been to the great sheet let down,
full of things clean and unclean, of Peter’s vision, had been printed
in gilt and colors, on a large, elegant broad-sheet, and also in a primer
executed in the richest style of the designer’s art.
It was the broad-sheet which had best pleased the eye and heart of
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the author, because the first words and the last, the title and the signa
ture, stood as he deemed they should, in one view, the Alpha and
the Omega of this last authoritative interpretation of revelation; and
then it suggested a new Luther, nailing theses of everlasting gospel on
the doors of “ Atheism, Free Religion, and Romanism,” with “ blows
heard in heaven.” “Consensus” and “ Blowman I ” Would not
numberless Simeons now say, “ Mine eyes have seen thy salvation,
which thou hast prepared before the face of all people ? ”
But the broad-sheet was less convenient than a primer to hand
about, and less durable in the frowsy pockets of unctious youths
who besieged the pulpit steps, at close of service on Sunday nights,
for more words of everlasting bunkum; and then report had it, on too
good ground, alas! that the Reverend Doctor Archangelicus Sanctus
Sanctorum, had made contemptuous reference to the “Consensus” as
“ Blowman’s Handbill,” and really threatened a split in the party of
“ us and the Holy Ghost,” unless “ us” used somewhat more reserve
in presence of the long time “ Liberal ” Vicar of the “ Lord Jesus.”
The primer, therefore, had finally engaged the ardent dogmatic and
aesthetic interest of the inventor of “Consensus.” and was already
privately published, while the large scheme of concurrent attestation
was delayed, until due attention could be afforded it. Some experi
ence which Mr. Blowman had had, with a richly printed and orna
mented insurance tract, which his popular pen had been engaged to
write, and which the enterprising managers, with plenty of other
people’s money to spend, had brought out regardless of expense, now
came in play. Suffice it to say that heavy tinted paper, border lines
which varied with each page through all the colors of the rainbow, a
text printed in old English black letter, with illuminated initial letters
in blue, scarlet, and gold, and an illuminated cover, done in chromo
lithograph, were the main features of the “ Consensus ” primer, the
striking effects of which had moved Blowman to soliloquize, “ Wonder
what J. C. would say to that,” these initials being his usual, strictly
private, familiar designation of the personage professionally spoken of
as “ our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.
It was with two or three of these gay picture books in his hand
that Mr. Blowman improved an opportunity to take the seat directly
in front of Marion White, soon after the train had left the scene of
the fire. It was not difficult for him to introduce conversation, as it
certainly would have been for John Paul, or for any other person of
quick sympathies.
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15
“ Permit me, dear Madame, to hand you a short statement of
religious beliefs,— liberal beliefs, Madame, which may afford you some
suggestions.”
“Thank you; you are very kind. It is not a Tract Society —
thing — is it ? ”
Great emotions are apt to induce extreme frankness, which Marion
White had certainly used in intimating the disgust she felt for the
“ blood of Jesus ” leaflets of heathenism which Tract distributors had
so frequently thrust upon her. Her Quaker uncle, good Thomas
White, had long ago shown her that the Tract Society had no moral
character, and her own sense of religious truth had led her to consider
such of its publications as had come in her way as very stupid illustra
tions of the sentimentalism of Christian superstition. The bare
thought of one of these vulgar appeals to fear, and selfishness, and
gross credulity, excited in her an intense desire to cover her grief and
her faith from every eye save that of the One, who was to her the
Lord our Shepherd, and the Father in heaven. However, she did
not wish to be impolite, and then Mr. Blowman’s primer certainly did
not bear the aspect,— generally mean and smutty,— of Tract Society
origin; she added therefore, with some hesitation :
“ I shall be happy to look at it at some time,” and handed it to her
traveling companion, a brother, a youth of eighteen perhaps, who had
found himself not good for much during these last hours of his sister’s
trouble.
Mr. Blowman responded, “ You hold some form, I presume, Madame,
of Christian faith, and are able to —;” exactly what, Mr. Blowman
did not himself know, and the clear, frank eyes of Marion White so
evidently spoke of knowledge, that he dared not make a random
reference; so he stopped, quite at his ease, however, letting a manner
of high self-assurance serve as a resting-place for his broken question,
until he should see what particular hope it might be which kindled
so pure a light in those saddened eyes.
It was painful for Marion White to speak at all just then; it was
torture almost to uncover her heart; but all the more because of the
pain did she reply from her deepest feeling and her most distinct
thought,—
“ I suppose I do not hold any form of what is called Christian faith,
but I believe very strongly indeed.”
That was a distinction quite beyond the Blowman mind, which, to
use a colloquial phrase, ‘took s'ock’ in certain forms and in the
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‘ Lord Jesus,’ as the impersonation of these forms, but of faith apart
from these knew no more than the unborn know of life. But it did
not become the author of the “ Consensus ” to be puzzled, or to betray
any desire for information on that to him, most remote of subjects,
real faith apart from assent to forms, faith without the touch or sight
of a symbol or idol. Accordingly, to set himself duly above this
young woman, who evidently had something like a ‘ radical ’ conception
of the nature of faith, or rather imagined herself having faith, such
as ‘ radicalism ’ represented it necessary to have, Mr. Blowman, with
his lofty oecumenical tone, said,—
“ Ah, indeed, Free Religion ? ”
The hardly veiled sneer of this question did not escape the notice
of Marion White. The evident skepticism of Mr. Blowman she
readily discovered. It was not the first time she had taken notice
that infidels and scoffers, by any real rule of genuine faith, are to be
found often enough under clerical profession of the popular creed.
Indeed, it had seemed the nearly universal rule, with the class of
ministers she had known, to contemptuously call in question the
natural and genuine experience of spiritual things which people
commonly had, in order to thrust upon everybody the orthodox tradi
tional preconceptions, and compel human hearts to come unto the
Father by the orthodox way. To her simple honesty, her fervent
moral integrity, and her always quick and direct faith in the divine
love and care, this clerical trick had come to seem as barefaced and
unworthy as any other form of false and faithless behavior. Mr.
Blowman, therefore, who apparently meant to intimate that her faith
was a delusion, she looked on with sad wonder, quite unable to
comprehend that any man, seeing her sorrow, and hearing her confes
sion of strong trust, should think it fit, or other than false and wicked,
to carelessly mock at her confidence, and by implication warn her of
the folly of trust such as hers. Exactly what the terms Mr. Blowman
had used, might mean, Marion White did not know, but she saw at
once what they might in truth mean, and she understood clearly that
Mr. Blowman intended to express decided disapproval of the confes
sion she had made. Her first impulse was to say no more, but her
eyes involuntarily turned directly to her questioner, with the frank,
quiet honesty in them which moved her to speak at all, and once that
her attention was taken by Mr. Blowman’s clerical cut and counte
nance, and she saw the unreality, the pretension, the ecclesiastical
frivolity even, of the man, a wholesome force of truth seized her, and
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(
17
she answered, with gentle firmness, and just enough brokenness of
feeling to make every tone of her voice pathetic, —
“ I do not know what you, Sir, may mean by free religion, and
therefore, cannot answer your question. But I confess that I do feel
entirely free to accept religion as my own experience has taught it to
me, and do believe that this freedom is justified by all really religious
truth. Your pamphlet has a very pretty cover, Sir, and your views
are doubtless very good if you believe them, but a Father in heaven
must have better ways of coming to our souls than by ministers and
tracts, or books and histories. I have not seen or heard anything,
since my trouble came, which did me any good, except the kind faces (
of people, and their loving words. All the religion which has come
to me has come of itself, in my heart, with my feelings which only
God knows; and that has kept coming almost all the time, so that I
feel almost as if I were God’s only child, and could not trust him
enough. I hope you do not consider such feeling wrong, because it
seems to me that ministers ought not to kill such religion, merely
because it is free and separate from their views. If God gives religion
to his children, so that it is a new life in their souls, like an angel
child born into a mother’s arms, it cannot be right for anybody to
meddle with it or injure it. I think I could not believe in anything
which would take away any of my faith in God’s being near to me
himself, and taking care of me himself.”
There was a pleading earnestness in Marion White’s concluding
words, which might have led an observer to suspect that she looked
on Mr. Blowman as no better than one of the servants of Herod, who
were sent to slay the infant Jesus, and that she was half afraid he
wished to murder the divine hope which was born in her heart, and
to which she clung with more than a mother’s passion. So many
ministers had seemed to her no better, towards the actual religious
experiences of people, than Herod’s purpose about Jesus, that uncon
sciously this fear did lend a tone to her manner. The Jesus of the
churches had become, so long since, a jealous king, to whom knees
must bend and heads bow, and his ministers had lent themselves so
completely to the Jesuit office of making his kingship the chief
interest, and had so unscrupulously used cruel violence against all
religion, springing up in human hearts, which turned to God directly,
without regard to the king-mediator’s claim, as sole keeper of access
to God, that Marion White, with her unusual possession of natural
and genuine direct faith in God, could not but feel distinct and strong
VOL. I.—NO. I.
2
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aversion, in the presence of any interference with her religious
experience.
For once in his life Mr. Blowman was nonplussed. He had
thought himself an Apollo of ministers to young women; indeed he
had, as near as his dry, wooden nature could, indulged in the spiritual
concupiscence which so commonly befouls the Protestant confessional;
he believed few females could remain unmoved to tender devotion
under the flash of his eye, and the shake of his locks ; to the best of his
belief, — and he kept a list. — not less than seventy young womeD, of
tolerable charms, worshipped through him, and closely associated the
bliss of heaven with his handsome person; while of unattractive
feminine devotees, who had languished under his flashing eye, he
imagined there must already be several meeting houses full in various
parts of the country, and that his retinue of houris, in the “ fields of living
green ” revealed in the hymn book, would perhaps astonish even the
angels, and go far to entitle him to high rank in the kingdom of “ the
Lord Jesus; ” but here was an instance quite contrary to his philos
ophy and practice of apostleship, a young and sweet woman, in special
need of consolation, who evidently saw neither charm nor help, either
in the Lord Jesus or in him, and who amazed him still further by the
clearness and earnestness of her direct, free confidence in God ! He
did not feel quite easy as he turned away, keeping the seat in front of
Marion White, but quite unable to carry on the interview, and gazing
fixedly out of the window to console his wounded vanity with a
pretence of important occupation for his mind. The thought really
plagued him, as the train sped over the prairie. ‘ What if one might
believe really in God, as he believed in himself, and feel the nearness
of Infinite Spirit, as he felt the visible and tangible fact of his own
person ! If that were so, what might not a man become as a minister,
not of historical recollections, but of actual divine inspiration!’ The
grandeur of the idea teased him, but not into faith, and he gradually
composed himself to abide in the old assumptions, and to go on in the
old way.
�Charles Dickens and his Christian Critics.
CHARLES DICKENS AND
19
HIS CHRISTIAN CRITICS.
The theological heathenism which still sticks to Christianity, has
few consistent, outspoken representatives. Total depravity, wrath of
God, blood atonement, and damnation, are rarely taught in the
orthodox pulpit, and still less rarely applied. It is commonly felt to
be brutal and infamous to rigidly apply them, and worse than useless
to honestly teach them. People do not want to hear of these dogmas,
and they are outraged by any direct application of them. To stand
over a human creature, in the presence of the loving and the weeping,
and argue of depravity, wrath, atoning blood, and damnation, with
intent to intimate that a soul has gone to hell, is commonly felt to
show a kind of cannibal appetite.
Undoubtedly “ Calvary,” as theologically understood, means human
sacrifice, or worse than that, and damnation certainly means that, but
average decent people want to forget it, even if they are not ready to
put it out of their creed. They feel the horrible heathenism of it,
although they have not yet definitely rejected it, and they no more
wish to recall the “ blood of Jesus,” and all it has implied, than they
wish to attempt appeasing God by drawing a butcher knife through
the throat of the eldest son. The sacrifice of Isaac, so often said to
be typical of Calvary, they do not more truly leave behind, than they
do the sacrifice of Jesus, justly assuming that the blood of Jesus has
no more to do with redemption than father Abraham’s knife. When,
therefore, a minister of religion flourishes the old heathen knife over
a dead man, and talks of hell and blood as if Moloch were his god,
and he wanted to cut somebody’s heart out for a sacrifice, the ortho
dox world is not less shocked than the heretic and secular world.
The Tremont Temple Baptist pulpit of Boston, is occupied by a
clergyman,— Fulton by name,— whose theology is that of Abraham’s
knife, and of what he calls the “ reeking cross.” He reads human
history, he tells us, “ in the light of burning Sodom and in the
presence of a reeking cross,” and advises us that “ the mighty tidal
wave of Almighty wrath approaches,” and that all of us who are not
“ clothed in the blood of Christ ” will go to “ hell, the prison-house
of the damned.” It would seem that this Fulton must burn brim
�20
Charles Dickens and hìs
stone, and keep a puddle of blood on his study table, and must, on
special occasions, visit slaughter-houses and hangings, to derive
inspiration and imagery for his gospel of Golgotha and GehennaHe has the fierce, “reeking” godliness of unadulterated heathenism,
and teaches that God hates us like hell, and only restrains his
vengeance a moment, to speedily roll in horrible destruction over us,
and be a hell of torment to us forever. The impatience of God to
drink our blood, is the striking feature of his theism; the necessity to
us of being all over blood,— dipped in the blood of Jesus,— if God is
to be kind to us, is the chief word of his gospel; and the certainty
that, if we reject this vile gospel of blood, God will damn — damn —
damn us, is his one prophetic utterance.
We are not surprised, therefore, to find that his humanity is on a
par with that of the pious cannibalism which enjoins the sacrificial
eating of aged relatives, or that of the Mormon Danite doctrine of
murder as a means of grace, killing people to save their souls. He
takes a great, and loving, and beloved soul, such as he confesses
Charles Dickens to have been, and “ eats him raw,” to use a Greek
metaphor,— damns him to hell, to use his own choice vocabulary,—
as a matter of mercy and truth to us who, vainly and villainously, as
he deems it, trust that God will be kind to our great brother, and
will lead him in the way of eternal life. Merely for appearance’s
sake, he professes not to pronounce “ an opinion as to the home of
his soul,” but he does this nevertheless, and in terms which add
blasphemy to brutality. He “ leaves him with God,” and expounds
“God” as meaning “hell.” And this disgusting Calcraft of
preachers, with his blood-reeking gospel of pious ferocity, asks us to
hear him as a minister of Christian grace and truth ! It is much as
if the slaughter-house offal should be brought us in place of butcher’s
meat; Mr. Fulton keeps the refuse of Christianity without its truth.
The truth of Christianity teaches us to implicitly trust the paternal
sovereignty of God, and to hope the best, and believe the best, and
have full assurance of the best, in any and every instance of the
offspring of God, simply on the ground that God’s care is perfectly
adequate to secure the best. The theological heathenism, which has
so long made part of Christianity, and which undoubtedly is
suggested, if not found, in Jesus and Paul, as part of the heathen
tradition which helped give an envelop, husk, or shell, to Christian
truth, denies the fact of this care of God, chiefly on these grounds, as
now explained, that God cannot consistently be a kind father to
�Christian Critics.
21
unworthy children, and that, even if he could be, the nature of the
freedom he ought to give his children forbids it. That is to say, if
God should effectually influence us, here or hereafter, to be good, and
thereby make us holy and blessed, he would violate our creature
freedom, and if he should concern himself to do this while we were
disobedient, he would fail to show due respect for good character,
which can be fitly shown only by penalty, and that not helpful and
redemptive 1
It is disgraceful, but it is true, that so-called theologians, supposed
to have had at least a common education, and entrusted with the
instruction of the community, unite in forbidding God Almighty to
train up his children in the way in which they should go, and, with
one accord, doubt whether the creatures would walk in that way, even
if the Creator were permitted to use all the powers of divine paternal
discipline. They assert the inconsistency of moral discipline with
human freedom I To persuade, even with the utmost care and
wisdom of God, is to violate the will! A human father may do this,
yea, must do this; but God must not do it I The human father is
derelict in duty if he do not aim to break the disobedient will, and
bring to repentance and perfect obedience; but it is God’s duty to
avoid doing this!
Is it possible to conceive a more absurd doctrine ? Here are the
moral offspring of Deity, made susceptible to moral influence, capable
of due development only under moral influence, and to be brought
under human good influence as much as possible, and yet we are
asked to believe that God must not use good influence, or at least
must avoid using this effectively, because he would thereby make his
children holy and happy forever, at the dreadfid cost of violated free
will! That will do to tell in Tremont Temple. Christian common
sense knows better.
The other point of the popular dogma about God, is no less absurd,
and, besides, it is wicked, if any dogma whatever can be said to be
wicked. This forbids God to make men good, lest thereby he should
not seem to love goodness and hate sin. It forbids God to be kind
and helpful, in divine moral and spiritual ways, lest by so doing he
get the reputation in the universe of a bad moral character. The
mere suspicion that the Father-Creator will deal so wisely with his
creature children as to redeem them finally every one, excites an
orthodox theologian as a red rag is said to do a wild bull. Universal
redemption, by the perfect fatherhood of God, is the abomination of
�22
*
Charles Dickens and his
desolation set up in the holy place of orthodoxy, because, if it is a
fact, then orthodoxy is heathen folly.
Dr. J. P. Thompson, of the Broadway Tabernacle Congregational
church, New York, wrote a book a few years since to prove the neces
sary damning effect of the love of God, on the ground that true love
must respect right, and that right forbids God to be a Father to
sinners. According to the orthodox idea, God must stand off from
the sinner and deal out every possible hurt and pain, by way of
proper penalty. That is the word, “penalty.” Dr. Thompson called
his book “ Love and Penalty.” A more exact title would have been
“ Damning Love.”
By “ penalty ” the orthodox dogmatist means punishment which will
hurt and will not help. This damning penalty, — hurting the sinner
and taking care /wi to help him, or in any way do him any good,—
this infernal, hellish, damnable infliction of unmitigated evil, — is said
by orthodoxy to be the only means by which God can show proper
regard for goodness and suitable dislike of sin. Orthodoxy is fiercely
anxious to have God show that he hates sin. Prophesy to it of God’s
showing that he loves goodness by making every soul good, and it will
retort that such a God is good for nothing, a mere sentimental driv
eller, a goody Being, whose “ throne ” is not worth an hour’s purchase.
Hatred of sin, “ burning to the lowest hell,” is the orthodox charac
teristic of Deity.
Now of this conception of divine law, pure Christian truth knows
nothing whatever. The justice of God is paternal and effective. Its
embodiment is perfect fatherhood. Such a thing as penalty intended
to do evil only, is unknown to Deity. Nothing more would be needed
to make God devilish than the adoption of such penalty. Divine
penalty is intended to do good only, and would not be divine if it
were not redemptive. All the judgment of God looks to reform, and
all divine execution of law causes repentance and obedience. It is
simply by want of faith in God, that the question is, or can be, raised,
whether a soul will fail of holiness and blessedness. Orthodoxy
assumes that God has no more wisdom than our human law embodies,
and that our miserable failure to deal with offenders is an example of
justice which Deity cannot surpass. It stubbornly, blindly, wickedly
almost, refuses to see that fatherhood is the better type, and that the
justice of God must appear, not in harsh, ineffective judgeship, but in
effective, paternal discipline.
�Christian Critics.
23
The “ Our Father,” then, is the true Christian word; the Judge
of the parable is a suggestion from heathenism. Away, therefore,
with the abominable doubt whether a great soul is on the way to
heaven. Away with the brutal and blasphemous suggestion that
Charles Dickens, “ in the hands of God,” is in hell.
Mr. Beecher said of Dickens, —
I
,
/
“ I think that his death produces more the feeling of personal loss than
any since the death of Walter Scott. His books are books of the household
— broad, tender, genial, humane. No man iu our day has so won his way
to the hearts of the people; he took hold of the great middle class of feeling
in human nature, Whether he was a Christian or not, in our acceptation of
the term, God knows. . . One class of men we feel to be Christians — they
are producers of spiritual influences ; another class produce malign influ
ences. . . I recollect hearing my father say of Bishop Heber, after having
read his life, that he doubted whether he was a Christian ; he thought he was
a moral man and had ‘nateral virtoos.’ I think none of us now would share
his doubts. . . All that Dickens wrote tended to brace up manhood; the
generic influences of his writings were to make men stronger, and to make
the household purer, and sweeter, and tenderer. . . I consider him as the
benefactor of his race. Providence did not call him to the spiritual element;
but it gave him no mean task, and equipped him with no mean skill for his
work. . . About the question of his spiritual work we cannot decide. But
we cannot help being grateful to God that he raised such a man up to do a
great work ; and he did his work well. . . I thank God for the life and works
of Charles Dickens.”
This was said in reply to the following remark, made by a Mr. Bell,
at one of Mr. Beecher’s Friday Evening Lectures,—
“There are very few men whose works have a more beneficial influence
in our homes, or of whom we have thought with more kindly interest. We
have all loved the man; but, when I ask myself whether or not Charles
Dickens was a Christian, I can’t help feeling sorry that such a man has passed
away and left us in doubt about his future.”
It was this doubt, whether Dickens would be found to have gone to
hell or to heaven, to which Mr. Beecher attempted to reply; and his
reply, after a sufficient summary of Mr. Dickens’ good and great work
in the world, was “ God knows — we cannot decide.” That is to say,
a good and great work in the world, is not evidence of hopeful Chris
tian character, and does not warrant faith that the doer of that work
will not be damned
Assuming no more than Mr. Bell and Mr. Beecher admit, in regard
to the good work of Dickens, we may say that he oW the Sermon on
�24
Charles Dickens and his
the Mount as thoroughly and largely as any man of his generation,
and that no man living when he did, was more bound to his fellows
by simple and true love than he was. Even the Tremont Temple
cannibal had to say, “all men loved him; he loved all men.” Yet
Mr. Beecher professes not to know whether we may believe that this
great and good man, who was so bound to his fellows by the covenaut
of love, a universally beloved benefactor of his race, has escaped hell,
and may be expected ultimately to reach heaven ! The Brooklyn
prophet thanks God for the life and works of Charles Dickens, and
yet pretends to be “ in doubt about his future.” He does not even
demand that his dead brother’s great and good life be considered
enough to give him a start towards heaven, just enough at least so
that one can feel sure that he has escaped hell! He concedes that, for
all we know or may believe, Dickens is damned !
Mr. Beecher knows better than this. He has a faith which is
utterly misrepresented by the doubt he here confesses. Why did not
the occasion bring out his real faith, and manifest his Christian
common sense ? Because he is, to use plain terms, a Time-Server.
He is afraid of the orthodox public, who buy Plymouth Pulpit and The
Christian Union, and are expected to buy the “ Life of Christ” which
he is writing. If ever hesitation, timidity, faithlessness, ought to be
lashed without mercy, it is when a minister of faith, such as Mr.
Beecher is, offers a stone for bread, a doubt in place of truth, in
answering, in any instance, the question under which so many hearts
are pressed down to the ground and crushed almost out of life,
whether a good life, without special faith in the atonement, is
ground for sure hope that God will be kind. If Mr. Beecher did
not trust, and could honestly say so, the case would be wholly altered.
He had the trust, but gave instead a doubt. He answered the most
serious and widely applicable question which could have been put to
him, by an evasion, the effect of which was a falsehood. He makes
us ask the question, whether to be a Christian, in his “ acceptation
of the term,” includes honesty and courage. And knowing that it
does, we wonder how much he lacks of being half as good a Christian
as Charles Dickens was.
There is a much braver man in the pulpit of Park Street Church,
Boston. He is less endowed with inspiration than Mr. Beecher, but
what he sees, and all that he believes, he dares to preach. We refer
to Mr. Murray. He said of Dickens, —
�Christian Critics.
25
“That the man loved his fellow-men, I know; that he loved his God, I
hope, and have faith to believe. In thought I stand uncovered beside the
tomb in which his body sleeps, in silent sadness, that so sweet and gentle a
spirit is taken from the earth. In reverent gratitude I thank the Lord that
he did bless mankind with the birth of such a mind. I thank him as for a
blessing vouchsafed to me personally. I feel that I am a better man than I
should have been had no Charles Dickens lived. . . Farewell, gentle spirit!
Thou wast not perfect until now! Thou didst have thy passions, and thy
share of human errors; but death has freed thee. Thou art no longer
trammeled. Thou art delivered out of bondage, and thy freed spirit walks
in glory.”
It was in reply to this that Mr. ‘ Believe-or-be-Damned ’ Fulton
said,—
“It is a more than mistake for any man who takes Christ’s gospel for
authority to intimate that death frees a man from human errors, delivers him
from the bondage of sin, or permits him to walk the realms of light. . . He
[Dickens] stands naked before God. . . With what is he clothed upon?
Nothing wrought by himself will answer. The blood of Christ alone cleanseth from all sin. . . Does love won from men insure eternal life? The
question confronts us. Is it or is it not a fearful thing to fall into the hands
of the Living God? . . Never, since I received my commission to preach,
have I seen such universal desire to push by the peril, and ignore the teach
ings, of the gospel. Jesus says, ‘Whosoever believeth, and is baptized,
shall be saved. Whosoever believeth not shall be damned’ . . . Now is
the time to bring the truth home. It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of
the living God.”
If a recent criminal, with the double infamy on his soul of marital
brutality and cowardly assassination, had been sentenced to be
hanged, and had summoned to his side, as a sympathizer on the
woman-and-marriage question, our Gehenna apostle of Tremont
Temple, and we had seen the Baptist minister on the scaffold, with
an execrable wretch in his hands, we should have beheld the former
unhesitatingly offering salvation to the latter, and confidently urging
it upon him, on the single condition of penitent faith in the atoning
blood of Jesus, if, indeed, the two were not already fellow-communi
cants. But when Charles Dickens dies without a moment’s warning,
and falls instantly into the hands of God, and is found not clothed
in the blood of Jesus, and a minister who preaches a gospel which
pushes by ‘ Believe or be damned,’ far enough to give the Almighty
a decent moral character, and to anticipate from the fatherhood of
God respectable care of human creatures, intimates that the hands of
God mean kindness, help, deliverance, redemption, and that a good
�26
Charles Dickens and his
and great soul gone to God has emerged from the valley and shadow
of mortal limitation, and failure and trouble, and has entered upon a
path which will grow brighter and brighter until it reach the perfect
light of heaven, then, behold ! we hear that “ It is a fearful thing to
fall into the hands of the living God ! ” The Baptist minister would
assume to administer redemption, and to send a murderer direct to
heaven, but not all the powers of the world to come, not even God
himself, may meet the soul of Charles Dickens and guide it to the
realms of light.
We beg some one to explain to Mr. Fulton that the world to come
has at least as ample an equipment for ministering to souls as this
world, and that it is highly probable, considering that God, the holy
angels, and the blessed saints, are neither fiends, fools, nor Fultons,
that our departed who arrive in that world, as babes born into a new
life, will be received with due care, and aided to find in the new
sphere the blessed way of eternal life. It seems to be according to
the gospel in Tremont Temple, that God’s hands in the world to
come, are much as the hands of what are known as “ baby-farmers ”
are in this world, and that most of us, as soon as God gets hold of us,
may expect to be spiritually put out of the way, murdered, and
thrown, not to the dogs, but worse, to the devils.
The tribute of Dr. Bellows to the genius and character of Charles
Dickens, was at once remarkably appreciative and strikingly signifi
cant. The gist of it was in these words :
“ Rarely have the genius and gifts of the individual soul been so empha
sized as in the world-wide interest and sorrow felt in the extinction of that
shining lamp suddenly dashed from the altar of literature—Charles Dickens.
The burning coal at which a million hearts ignited their dull fancies is
quenched. He that wrote more and better than any novelist of his time,
who had the dangerous field of the comic for his peculiar sphere, yet never
penned a line that dying he could wish to blot, can add nothing to the inex
haustible store of his creations. . . His aim was always pure and
generous and high ; to exalt integrity and truth, to abase falsehood, cruelty
and hypocrisy ; and to do it by stealing upon universal sympathies, and
leaguing all the fun-loving and pathetic sensibilities of the soul in the
service of a common humanity. He enlisted ordinary universal man in his
cause. Whom profound moralists, Christian preachers could not reach, he
touched and ruled. His spiritual knife was so sharp and so sheathed that
its edge was neither seen nor felt while it did its surgical work. He
wrought, doubtless, many a substantial conversion from the purposes of
crime, or folly, or cruelty, by a dose of laughter, whose tears are oftener
more purifying than those of sorrow. He made hypocrisy, selfishness, and
�Christian Critics.
27
sentimentality, absurd and contemptible, when it would have been of no
avail simply to prove them sinful and wrong. But, after all, what I envy
him most for is . . . the immeasurable sum of great, unadulterated
pleasure he has given the world ; the countless hours of amused and
absorbed gratification he has brought into all sorts of homes in both hemi
spheres. Ah ! what a godlike thing it is to Bhed so much self-forgetfulness
and balm into the sore and tired heart of humanity ! . . . As a vindicator
of the intrinsic worth of all human souls, Dickens, not a professed moralist,
has excelled all the professed moralists and preachers and teachers of his
day. If he was not a Christian, he was a glorious instrument of God’s
providence, and may shame, at the great account, many whose Christianity
is unquestioned, but whose usefulness and worth are taken on trust. Let us
be cautious how we raise questions about the Christianity of men like
Washington, Lincoln, or even Charles Dickens ; lest the profane should say,
‘What is the use of a Christianity which such men could live without ? ’
The sword of bigotry has two edges, and often cuts off the bigot’s own head
when aimed at the victim of his self-righteousness. We can well leave such
men to Christ’s own judgment seat, while we try to emulate their usefulness
and bounty of life and character.”
With these words before us, we are reminded of the evident fact,
that Nature, in the large, divine sense, the Substance and Soul of
all this universe of men and things, has very diverse modes of mani
festation. In other words, God speaks to us through varied special
organs of his presence, a Socrates, a Paul, a Spinoza, a Wesley, a
Parker, and the numerous other lights, greater and lesser, of our
race. It is made quite plain by the statement above given, that
Charles Dickens was, in a peculiar way, a remarkable servant of
Infinite Grace. In him dwelt a power to give innocent and whole
some pleasure which may well lead us to own that he was a true
apostle. Honestly toiling, as he did, to unseal the fountain of our
purer and happier sensibilities, and achieving his task, at once with
unexampled fidelity and unexampled success, he is as much entitled
to Christian gratitude and reverence as any master or prophet of all
the ages.
Undoubtedly we had this treasure in an earthen vessel, the excel
lency of the power being of God, as it has always been, and always
must be, but none the less is it evident that the God of all consolation
had shined marvellously into that simple, kindly, capacious heart,
with the true and blessed illumination of eternal wisdom, love, and
faith. There is more pure and undefiled religion in the writings of
Charles Dickens than in all that has been said by orthodox theologi
cal speculation since Paul began confusedly to inquire into the ways
�28
Charles Dickens and his
of God with man. These inspired pages, from the hand of a “ god
like ” genius, which glow with the pure light of a tender humanity,
and from which has been reflected so immeasurable a sum of unadul
terated pleasure, so vast and varied a consolation of human souls, just
as truly betoken the presence of God with man, and the love of God
freely shed abroad in the world, as do gospels and epistles, prophecies
and psalms, or anything whatever which has been called revelation.
The author was no better, perhaps, than Matthew the publican, or
Paul the preaching tent-maker, or Jesus the Nazarene carpenter and
Galilean enthusiast, but then God made him, and made him with
what he deemed sufficient pains, and he came into his generation, and
passed through it, as honest a lover of his fellow-men, as simple and
true and glorious a man, as ever human heart warmed to, or eye of
heaven looked upon with pleasure; and when his winning, heart
lightening, soul-cheering words ran like a river of heaven through
the common life of his fellow-men, his work was no mere human
meddling and making, but one of the eminent manifestations of the
divine mind.
If theological scoffers say nay to this, and angrily accuse us of
depreciating an old story of God with us some two thousand years
ago, we beg to say with emphasis that we know of nothing more
senseless and hurtful than the rank atheism which forever assumes
the absence of divine inspiration in the great and good of our own, or
indeed of any age, and that we should as soon think of maintaining
that Charles Dickens was an automaton, as that he spoke, in his
many brave and blessed words, without a flood-tide of motion in his
soul from the Holy Ghost.
Dr. Bellows acknowledges that Dickens touched and ruled those
whom Christian preachers and moralists could not reach; that he, as
a vindicator of the intrinsic worth of all human souls, excelled all the
professed moralists and preachers and teachers of his day; and that
he was a glorious instrument of God’s providence, and may shame
many whose Christianity is unquestioned. He deems it well to be
cautious about questioning the position of Dickens before God, and
advises, in case he is to be condemned and cast out, that unquestioned
Christians keep quiet about it, until Christ’s judgment seat shall be
set, and the matter can be attended to without danger of profane
interference. Such at least seems to be the implication of Dr.
Bellow’s statement. He does not venture to say that Dickens was a
Christian, and is sure to reach heaven. He implies that he was not
�Christian Critics.
29
a Christian, as he understands Christianity. He doubtless knew that
Mr. Dickens no more sympathized with dogmatic Christianity than
he did with dogmatic Mahometanism, and that it would be as dis
honest, as it was useless, to pretend that any other than natural
religion had any place in his life or played any part in his writings.
But he cannot avoid recognizing that such as he was, in his beneficent
genius and his providential mission, he stood above the usual Christian
level, and did a better than common Christian work. Thereby Dr.
Bellows shows conclusively how inadequate is his separation between
false and true in his appreciation of Christianity, and how much he
needs to revise his interpretation, in the light of such grace and truth
as he confesses to finding outside what he deems the Christian
confession. The superstition which made Jesus a Lord Messiah, and
erected for him a Messianic judgment seat, is found wanting in
presence of an example of inspiration such as Charles Dickens was.
It is in the Christianity of pure and simple faith in God our Father
in heaven, and of love towards the fellow-man, that a life such as the
beloved story-teller lived, finds its full explanation and its due recogni
tion. There was no sham in that life; can as much be said of any
life which still enshrines the dead superstition that Jesus was, or at
least was meant to represent, God ? There was no snuffle in the
simple, genuine religious experience of that man; can as much be
said of any intelligent man who still pretends to append ‘ for Christ’s
sake ’ to his prayers ? And when the marvellous play of Dickens’
peculiar faculties began, and the creations of his observation and
in agination filled the stage, we saw no false light, no beggarly display
of ecclesiastical old clothes, not a half page, not a line, devoted to
popular superstition, but an honest human spectacle, under the ample
natural light of infinite heaven. There was honest humanity in
Charles Dickens, in degree and quality unknown to the professional
confessors of religion, and very much truer to the Christian ideal
than anything these official and officious Christians can show.
�30
The Woman and the Trial.
THE WOMAN AND THE TRIAL.
When individual histories lead up to some Golgotha, where
“striving against sin” ends in some dreadful death and terrible
crushing of living hearts, and the conspicuous awful tragedy chal
lenges universal attention, an observer endued by his knowledge and
his faith with the power of prophetic anticipation, cannot fail to look
for some large and worthy significance of the scene, although, in
general, intelligence and virtue may barely keep timid watch afar off,
and the great world may sweep by in an undisturbed torrent of
condemnation and contempt. In such a spirit do we believe that a
prophet to-day would interpret the spectacle recently made by an
assassination, a marriage, a murder-trial, and the passing of one
crushed woman across the stage of public observation.
It was the foul assassination of as true, pure, and gallant a man as
honor ever crowned. It was as just and holy a marriage as religion
and law ever celebrated. It was as wicked a mockery in court as has
been perpetrated since Pilate sat, Peter evaded and equivocated, and
the mad rabble of Jerusalem yelled for the delivery of Barabbas and
the shedding of innocent blood. And the woman, who was condemned
when an assassin went out free, passed from the stage as true to holy
truth, as pure of stain or sin, and as sure to draw all pure hearts to
see the crime against her and to seek its remedy, as was ever holy
martyr in the furnace of dreadful trial. There is one sufficient use
of such scenes, to point great lessons of difficult revolution, and compel
adequate attention to wrong which lies embedded in some one of the
sacred traditions of mankind.
The first lie, to the races which inherit the ancient Hebrew tradi
tions, was that which charged upon woman the fault of human fall
from grace and truth. The deepest wrong of Hebrew barbarism, was
the law of fierce masculine assertion of prerogative, according to which
the wife was made “ one flesh ” with her husband, and put under his
absolute power, to be in subjection to him for things carnal and
earthly, as he to God for things moral and heavenly. The religious
instinct never erred more seriously and needlessly than in imagining
for a divine hero a birth outside of wedlock, nor ever guided belief
�The Woman and the Trial.
31
more completely astray than when it brought a god-man upon earth
by a way remote from the common path of ordinary human entrance
to life. Christian record and tradition, in asserting, as the great law
of marriage, “they twain shall be one flesh,” and doing little more
than to sanction and cover up the fleshly instincts of the ruder and
ruling sex, has remained at the level of barbarism only less than in
the perpetuation and consecration of heathen notions of God, of human
nature, and of the destiny of souls.
To a faithful thinker, who joins to thought deep and disciplined
emotions, such as make that rarest of gifts and most perfect of attain
ments for a man, a complete pure heart, it cannot but be plain that
marriage ought not to mean power, possession, or even opportunity
and liberty, on the part of the man, but consideration, care, protec
tion, the greatest, and tenderest and bravest possible. The vocation
of the wife to maternity is so significant, so wonderfully sacred, and
her part in the sacraments of a united life has so much of utter
surrender in it, so much pain and sorrow too, and so beautiful a charm
and blessing with it, that only as blind animals, hurried into heedless
liberty, with no just reflection and no proper consideration, do men
assert power, instead of affording protection.
Unhappily very many enter upon wedlock with no proper knowledge
of the wrong and the right of the relation. Love before marriage is
forced to be considerate, and naturally takes a noble tone. Love
after marriage is supposed to be quite another thing, as regards a
chief feature of the union, and too commonly sinks at once to a level
which is far more of the flesh than of ideal truth.
Possibly one party consents as much as the other, and neither may
be conscious, as the tone of mutual relations ceases to be divine, what
it is which is at fault. The man perhaps contents himself with such
gratification as his lower nature finds, and lets the hope of sacrament
go as a dream of his days of inexperience. In some of these instances,
possibly, — perhaps in many of them, — the woman also accepts the
low view, though we would fain believe that in most cases of the class
in point, the wife barely submits to the situation, even if she do not
revolt against it.
On the supposition that ignorance of the real laws of marriage is
the main occasion of this failure of wedlock to be nobly happy, and
that, while the woman is generally the greater sufferer, one party is
no more to blame than the other, the case is yet terribly bad ; bad for
the husband, who fails of true manly love and loses the blessing of
�32
The Woman and the Trial.
true response to such love; worse still for the wife, whose womanhood
is abased and degraded, if not outraged: and most of all bad for the
children, who are not born under influences of natural holiness and
genuine pure happiness, but come as incidents, if not as untoward
accidents, of the united life.
The lazy acquiescence of social and religious sentiment in this state
of things; the assumption that the animal aspects of human nature
must present some such picture at the best • and the rigor and fury
even with which formal marriage, the outward fact without the real,
is insisted on as a fit cloak to these uncomely doings, ought to cover
our civilization and our Christianity with overwhelming confusion and
shame. The fact is that even decent society is but half civilized, and
is very little Christianized, in this matter of marriage.
But the state of things just described is by no means the worst
which the student of society will find. Numbers of husbands in
every community stand at a much lower level than that we have been
considering; the level, we blush to say, of irresponsible brutalisin.
The masculine instinct for exclusive possession of the object of
affection is naturally very strong. It easily becomes fierce. And
when the husband’s interest in virtue is chiefly the result of this
instinct, and he erects his jealousy into absolute law, we behold a
very peculiar, and often very dreadful transformation of wedlock,
under which the only sacredness recognized is that of the husband’s
right to possession of the woman bound to him by marriage vows.
By this theory of marriage one woman is devoted to one man, made
his sacred property, and placed under absolute and awful obligations
to be his without reserve or remedy until death end the service. It
is assumed that a man may so have one woman, if he will get her and
keep her under the sanction of a marriage compact. It is even
claimed that this right of the man to the woman, of the male to the
female, is one of the most sacred rights of existence ; so that no fouler
crime can be than to interfere with the exercise of this right. A
perfectly savage virtue watches against the violation of this law of
the conjugal possessor’s right. No regard for the woman, not even
of a coarse and common sort, enters into it. She may be a crushed
victim of the most brutal abuse, but the “ laws of marriage ” are still
supposed to protect her tyrant’s right to have and to hold her as his
own. The worst forms of crime against woman outside of marriage,
are held of no account compared with touching a woman to the injury
of the man’s right to her. Numberless sad and dreadful incidents of
�The Woman and the Trial.
33
wicked undoing of woman will pass without notice, but report one
deliverance of an outraged, broken-hearted wife, out of the power of
a brutal master, and the whole herd of virtuous human brutes is
thrilled with righteous indignation.
It was this virtuous brutalism which lately delivered an assassin
from the deserved penalty of manifold infamous crime. The hesita
tion of wise and just representatives of public virtue and exponents
of public opinion, to lay bare the ingrained rascality of the virtue
fiercely paraded on this occasion, shows how little courage for the
just comprehension of the matter has been cultivated by our civiliza
tion. In the one man who had so cheerfully risked his life, and
more than his life, his good name,— and had lost one if not both,—
to render help to a helplessly outraged woman, there was more clear
insight and spotless courage, with one dash of^rashness, as the bravest
spirits almost always have it, than in a regiment of those who lent
the countenance of their concern for the laws of marriage to the brute
and assassin over whom a court of pretended justice made villainous
mockery of law.
It is possible to make excuses for the lamentable failure of wellmeaning members of society to be found on the side of justice, by the
side of a worse than murdered woman. It is also possible to give an
explanation of the mad concourse and mad clamor .of the virtuous
rabble, whose fierce rage blazed so hotly around the altars of unholy
brutalism, as if in real defence of some sacred right. These masters
of a servitude more dreadful than any other known to human
experience, with their deluded sympathizers among women, are
natural enough results of the lower tendencies of human nature, or of
extreme ignorance, and the prevalence of a tradition which lacks both
the doctrine and the spirit of adequate justice to woman. The
influence of Hebrew heathenism, coming through the channel which
also brought the best lessons of religion and humanity, has made
Christian society an easy refuge for the hideous wrong we are
contemplating. Ample explanation of this monstrous failure of
justice and departure from truth, will not be far to seek as long as
accredited Christianity, in the name of a half-heathen tradition, for
bids and resists free inquiry for the truth, and proceeds upon the
twofold assumption that man is by nature base, and his lower instincts
unclean at best, and that righteousness cannot come in mens’ lives
and character by actual discipline and culture, but must come as a
cloak of imputed merit. In like manner, excuses for timid inhumanvol. i.—no. i.
3
�34
The Woman and the Tidal.
ity, for total failure of comprehension, such as were pointed at by
Jesus in the priest and Levite who “ passed by on the other side,”
are close at hand. It is much easier and safer not to meddle with
wounded folk, of any of the classes against whom popular prejudice is
virulent. A wife left half dead, under the operation of a brutal
interpretation of the laws of marriage, will get little or no sympathy
from the ordinary administrators of religion and guardians of social
order.
The instances of Mrs. Stowe and Mr. Beecher may be cited,
particularly in view of their final judgments pronounced in The
Christian Union of June 18. If the latter yielded to a just request
and a generous sympathy, when he assisted at the death-bed mar
riage, he evidently came to regret afterwards that he did not pass
virtuously by on the other side. In “ The Meaning of the Verdict,”
the leading article of The Christian Union of June 18, he disa
vowed any Christianity he may have shown before, and summed up
the case for brutalism. We omit names, in quoting Mr. Beecher’s
cold, barbarous homily, because we cannot join in any unnecessary
rudeness to the persons on one side of the case, and will not pollute
our pages with the names on the other side. Mr. Beecher says,—
“Whether------ was worse or better than the average of his journal
istic friends—whether the unhappy woman who has assumed his name is a
pattern of all wifely virtues; whether------ was in the habit of drinking to
excess, and whether, being a drunkard, he was more or less an affliction to
his wife than drunken husbands generally are to their wives, are questions
which need not be agitated further. Higher and wider than all such debates
about persons is the question, What is the Meaning of the Verdict? ... It
was as clear a case of killing with deliberate intention and with no other
warrant than private vengeance, as ever was submitted to a jury. But the
verdict was ‘Not Guilty.’ What does that verdict mean? . . . Just
what was meant by that famous verdict in another case, often quoted but
not found in the books, ‘ Served him right.’ The phrase, ‘ Not Guilty,’ in
this case, means not that------ did not kill------- , but that he ought not to be
punished for that killing. The lesson of the verdict is that any man who
has as much reason as------ had to believe that his wife has been seduced
from her fidelity to him, has a right to do what------ did. .
. The law is
that an adulterer may be punished with death, at the discretion and by the hands
of the injured husband.”
We are not at a loss to characterize the assumptions and the sig
nificance of this statement
It means the sacred right of brutalism,
and it assumes the indifference of all other facts in comparison with
�The 'Woman and the Trial.
35
the crime of delivering a woman from a brute. No need to ask out
of what hell the woman fled, or from what fiend she was protected,
or with what heroism of sanctity that protection was given, the one
important fact being that a brutal man was deprived of his victim,
and the one sacred law being that such interference with marital brutalism may be punished by summary assassination.
Mr. Beecher
appears to dreadful disadvantage in this justification of horrible mani
fold crime. Had he been a vindicator of the New York negro riots,
and appealed to law in justification of Kuklux outrage, we might
have been prepared for the present lapse from manly mercy, consid
erate justice, large comprehension of principle, and fearless devotion
to holiness and truth.*
Mrs. Stowe went to no such extreme, in the judgment which she
pronounced. In fact she condemned with as little harshness, and as
much womanly sympathy and Christian charity, as possible. But she
condemned. In her article mentioned above, she brought in the case
under cover of an elaborate exposition of Christ’s treatment of a
woman “convicted of adultery.” From that she argued to this case
“of a woman not guilty of this offence,” and announced that she saw
“only evidence that a much tried woman in circumstances of great
hardship and perplexity has in certain respects lamentably erred in
judgment.” She then instantly turned away from the woman before
her, to loudly profess her concurrence with “ the sensitiveness of the
community in regard to the enduring sacredness of the marriage
bond,” and her opinion that the “ whole domain of marriage ought
to be guarded by laws as inflexible as those of nature,” and that indi
viduals on whom “they bear severely,” “must be content to suffer for
the good of the whole.” At most she only asked that the judges of
her sister consider, that under extreme tortures “principle often may
become bewildered, and even religious faith may give out,” and that
they temper judgment as Christ tempered the sentence of the woman
“convicted of adultery.”
The offensive association of her sister with the adulteress, the com
prehensive approval of the concern about marriage, which lent so
much support to an assassin, and even gave eclat to the last crime of
a human brute, and the rigorous demand for inflexible protection to
every species of conjugal right, suffer who may thereby, enabled Mrs.
* Mr. Parker said of Mr. Beecher, in connection with the John Brown affair, “Beecher
showed that part of him which is Jesuitical,—not so small a part as I could wish it was. How
ridiculous of Sharpe’s-rifle Beecher to be preaching such stuff at this time; but he can’t stand
up straight unless he have something as big as the Plymouth Church to lean against.”—
Parker’s Life and Correspondence. London Ed., Vol. II., p. 394.
�36
The Woman and the Trial.
Stowe to fully save her credit with the worst expouents of brutalisni,
and completely undo any purpose she may have had to speak a word
of justice, mercy, and holiness on behalf of her sister. Using threefourths of her two columns to come to the point that this woman
to-day was not an adulteress, and almost all the rest of her article to
protest her own desire that marriage should be chains and slavery to
all who find it unhappy, she barely gave a few lines to a half-plea for
the outraged sister on whose behalf she purported to speak.
Yet this same Mrs. Stowe lately served to two continents a nauseous
tale of horrible abomination, polluting men’s and women’s thoughts,
as far as our language is read, with needless mention of nameless
crime, and has not to this day betrayed the smallest regret for her
deed. Does it make so much difference on which side popular taste
and prejudice are ? The same Mrs. Stowe, in her “ Old Town Folks,”
gave the pure young girl of the story to a libertine, who had long
had an unwedded but devoted wife; and when this wronged woman
came upon the scene, within a few hours after her betrayer’s new mar
riage, and all the facts of her love and surrender and fidelity were
before the new bride, the latter saw no wrong whatever in taking
from her outcast sister her all, and felt no hesitation in consummating
wedlock with a convicted villain, because,—as Mrs. Stowe makes her
say,—“7 cazí7iu¿ help loving him; it is my duty to; I promised, you
know, before God, ‘for better for worse’; and what I promised I must
keep; I am his wife; there is no going back from that.” The young
lover of this second wife of a bigamist, took his lady’s fate patiently,
and at the end of four years received her, then a widow, as his bride.
Such admirable patience with bad men’s triumphs, and such con
sent of women to outrage under decent cover of regular marriage,
was the lesson with which Mrs. Stowe left us at the close of “ Old
Town Folks.” Her woman’s instincts made no plea for a creature
wronged as much as woman could be wronged. Testifying that this
rejected woman had shown “ all the single-hearted fervor of a true
wife”; that she had taken her position from “a full and conscientious
belief that the choice of the individuals alone constituted a true mar
riage”; that her betrayer had urged this view and ‘‘assumed and
acted with great success the part of the moral hero during their early
attachment”; that she ‘‘fell by her higher nature,” believing that
‘•she was acting heroically and virtuously in sacrificing her whole life
to her lover,” and that “ her connection had all the sacredness of mar
riage”; testifying these things, and making the new wife confess, “I
�The Woman and the Trial.
37
can see in all a noble woman, gone astray from noble motives; I can
see that she was grand and unselfish in her love, that she was per
fectly self-sacrificing”; Mrs. Stowe yet permitted no one to even
suggest that this woman had the smallest right to the man whom she
had so given herself to for years, and to whom she had borne what
was to her at least a child of pure love. Taking care to interpose a
marriage ceremony, that and nothing more, Mrs. Stowe showed us the
libertine of her tale, in the presence of the two wives, the one bound
to him by years of “ single-hearted fervor of a true wife,” and still
loving him with “full and conscientious belief” that theirs was a
“true marriage,” and the other bound to him only by the ceremony
of a few hours before; and made the former admit, and the other
claim, that the ceremony had created a relation compared with which
the relation based on actual wifehood of love and life need not be so
much as considered. And the new wife gave this reason first of all
for keeping the other woman’s husband, “ I cannot help loving him,”
and then supported herself by: “it is my duty to; I promised, you
know, before God.”
We have very small respect indeed for anything Mrs. Stowe may
say after choosing such a picture with which to conclude her tale of
Old New England. ^And until such leaders of opinion in ethics and
religion, as Henry Ward Beecher and Mrs. Stowe, learn to respect
realities of truth, at least as much as they do mere forms, and are
neither unable nor afraid to look at the real facts of tragic lives, and
to declare for justice and holiness, at any cost whatever to decent
shams, popular religion and popular ethics will be despicable. We
deem it shameful in Mr. Beecher that he dared cheer the heart of a
hel/ion with words of downright approval. We utterly refuse to Mrs.
Stowe the privilege of making any apology for a woman whose errors
of judgment do not do her a hundredth part of the discredit which
the author of the Byron scandal has justly earned. The theory
assumed in the closing scene of “Old Town Folks,” that wifehood is
nothing compared with legal marriage, that a woman may take her
sister woman’s actual husband, if that sister woman has had no legal
sanction of the marriage, and she can get the man under legal sanc
tion, is infinitely more immoral than any possible lack of respect for
formal marriage. The duty of holiness and fidelity in all actual
union, is the profound truth on this subject. Until Mrs. Stowe
appreciates it she had as well not meddle with any important aspects
of the woman question. We speak thus strongly with great regret.
�38
The Woman and the Trial.
because we would gladly see, and celebrate, in Mrs. Stowe, insight and
courage worthy of a woman of marked ability and character. But at
this juncture, we cannot forbear strong speech, remembering as we do
a spotless man dead, and a spotless woman living “at the sepulchre,”
while Mrs. Stowe only ventures to beg the brutalism of our time to
consider that these two did not commit adultery.
At present we do the persons just mentioned, one of whom is
beyond reach of either praise or blame, the honor to assume as self*
evident at this moment, to any decently informed person, that they
stand high above any judgment which their generation may pronounce
upon them, the one for heroic womanly endurance of brutalism, out of
far more than just respect for the supposed “laws of marriage,” and
the other for heroic manly obedience to simple dictates of mercy and
honor, with a most exact and noble sense of the sacredness of woman
hood and of the absolute sanctity of true marriage. It may be our
privilege at a future time to add some contribution to the evidence
which has already forced this verdict upon the purest and most
thoughtful of our contemporaries. We content ourselves now with
emphasizing, as fully as we can, our declaration, that brutalism ought
not to find shelter under the laws of marriage; that any decent
delivery of a woman from brutalism is just and right; and that the
instance now awaiting the decision of our social philosophy can not
possibly be brought under any other head than that of perfectly fit,
and strikingly noble, delivery of an exceptionally pure and true
woman from a brute. The question how far legal and conventional sup
ports of brutalism were rashly overleaped, in the crisis and catastrophe
of this drama, need not be answered, before pronouncing the actors in
the scene immaculate, and cannot be answered in any such way as to
raise any just doubt of their perfect purity of purpose. Further
more, it becomes all, who seek a wise solution of our social perplexi
ties, and hope for more truth of character and life in the most
important of human relations, to distinctly advise the undisguised
exponents of virtuous brutalism—the editor of the New York Sun,
for example; that they can only render themselves infamous by such
criticisms and reports as they were guilty of during the late trial.
�Dr. J. F. Clarke against Theism.
39
DR. J. F. CLARKE AGAINST THEISM.
The American Unitarian Association has recently published a small
book, from the pen of Dr. James Freeman Clarke, entitled, “Steps
of Belief, or, Rational Christianity maintained against Atheism, Free
Religion, and Romanism.” Like the previous theological work of the
same author, “Steps of Belief” is in some respects excellent, in
others very unsatisfactory. We forbear criticism of many points
which invite it, and merely consider Dr. Clarke’s attempt to elevate
his sort of Christianity at the expense of “ pure Theism,” which is to
us true Christianity.
It would not be unfair to ask, in view of the title above quoted,
whether Dr. Clarke objects to freedom or to religion itself, and if to
neither, as he would doubtless reply, why to the combination ? But
we may take him in hand quite as well from another point of view.
He identifies free religion and theism. “ The second step of belief,”
he says, “ is from theism to Christianity.” The advocates of free
religion, he tells us, “ deny that Christianity is any advance beyond
theism.” And in chapter third of this portion of his book he attempts
to “ show wherein Christianity is an advance on pure theism.” Of
course we may inquire what objection he makes to theism? Or to
put the matter more clearly, why does he deem faith in God through
Christ better than direct faith in God ? It must be because Christ
is more to him as a direct object of faith, than God. But he makes
Christ a mere man, at most “ a perfect man.” He must, therefore,
in his theism, make very little of God, as a direct object of faith, if he
goes upward from religion towards God directly, to religion towards
God through Christ. And since his “rational Christianity ” is only
religion towards God through a man, it must be regarded as a species
of idolatry, like the Romanist’s devotion to the Virgin Mary.
To show Dr. Clarke’s method of comparing theism and Christianity,
we may cite the following statement:
“ In all the dimensions of space [depth, height, breadth, length] we find
in Christianity something in advance of theism. It is deeper in its life,
higher in its aspiration, broader in its sweep, more far reaching in its per
petual advance.” P. 166.
This is arbitrary assertion. What is deeper than the life of God,
or higher than the thought of God, or broader than the love of God,
or more far-reaching than eternal union with God ?
�40
Dr. J. F. Clarke against Theism.
Another specimen of Dr. Clarke’s treatise will show from how low
a theism he steps up to the level which he deems the highest Chris
tian ground. Thus he says :
“Theism reasons about God; Christianity lives from him and to him.
Theism gives us speculations and probabilities ; Christianity, convictions
and realities. . . Theism says light is the life of men; Christianity declares
that life is the light of men.” Pp. 143, 144.
If this means anything, it is, that direct faith in God is mere
doubtful talk, by which a man cannot live, while faith in God through
the man, Christ, is a deep and real life for the soul. All which we
set down as Dr. Clarke’s opinion, and are sorry that he did not take
more of a step when he undertook to rise from atheism to theism.
Another bit of Dr. Clarke’s argument is as follows:
“ The apostles of free religion take more pleasure in standing apart, to
think; than in coming together, to live. . . If thought could ever become a
fountain of life, it would have done so in the case of Socrates. . . But, though
always seeking he seldom found.” Pp. 147, 148.
Doubtless Dr. Clarke tells us here what he supposes true, about the
thinkers and their Greek master, and believes that he has done them
justice. He seems to have known Socrates and free thought only by
vague heresay, and to have spoken out of the entire honesty of entire
ignorance. As, however, he is arguing down “ pure theism,” or pure
direct faith in God, he might have remembered, without knowing any
thing at all about the apostles of free religion and Socrates, that the
point to be made was, that simple direct faith in God makes men
lonely and barren thinkers, while faith in God through the man,
Christ, makes them sympathetic and fruitful believers. Will he
venture to assert this ?
Dr. Clarke appears to be profoundly ignorant of the true method
and matter of that pure direct faith in God, which constitutes the life
and power of pure theism. He gets hold of a sentence of Rev. Samuel
Johnson, or an affirmation of Rev. Mr. Abbot, and deals with it as if
in it he saw the necessary measure of pure theism, and limit of free
religion. He catches a mere glimpse of Socrates, and talks of the
master of Plato, and the most fruitful teacher of all time, as if he
would have been better for some instruction in a Sunday School. Of
the range, the richness, and the living power of true thought of God,
or indeed of thought at all, he seems to have no conception. With
him to think means to puzzle over dark enigmas; and to think of God
�Dr. J. F. Clarke against Theism.
41
to chop logic with the scholastics. His idea of religion by direct faith
in God, as in pure theism, is, that it is not religion, but a mere vain
attempt at religion.
In order to do Dr. Clarke’s Jesuism no injustice, we will now quote
at length several of his statements :
“ Christianity is an historic religion, with a Founder, a church or commun
ion, with its sacred books, its rites and ceremonies, its faith and its morality.
These doctrines, worship, books, church, and morals, all have the historic
person of Jesus for their centre and source. Theism, or Free Religion, on
the contrary, is a system of belief and method of life which grows up in the
human mind, independently of any such historic source, proceeding only
from the soul itself. P. 141. Christianity is essentially a stream of spiritual,
moral, and intellectual life, proceeding from Jesus of Nazareth. He did not
present it as an intellectual system, but it overflowed from his lips in his
da’’y intercourse with men. Hed'd not speak from his speculation, but from
his knowledge. He spoke what he knew, and testified what he had seen.
This living knowledge created like conviction in other minds. The truth
was its own evidence. Man needs this knowledge. We need to know God,
not merely to think it probable that he exists. We need to live in the light
of his truth and his love. We do Dot get this knowledge of God by reading
books of theology, but by communion with those who have it. If we have
any such faith in God, how did we first obtain it. We caught it as a blessed
contagion, from the eyes and lips, the words freighted with conviction, the
actions inspired by its force, of those who have been themselves filled with
its power. They too usually have received it from others; though after
wards it may have been fed by direct communion with God. It is a trans
mitted as well as an inspired life. . . The deeper, purer, loftier they [the
great modern prophets] are, the more do they love to trace back the great
master-impulse to Jesus of Nazareth. ‘ Of his fullness have we all received,’
say they, ‘and grace upon grace.’ . . Abandon this current, . . and God
becomes an opinion; duty, a social convenience; immortality, a perhaps.
Pp. 145, 146. The doctrines of the incarnation and the atonement have
always been the pivots of Christian theology. The incarnation means, God
descending into the soul of one man to make all humanity divine, to unite
earth with heaven, time with eternity, man with God. The elevation of the
human race, so justly dear to the modern theist, is made possible by this
great providential event in human history. By the law of mediated life,
God is lifting humanity to himself, and penetrating the boundless variety of
his creation with as pervasive a unity. . . Those who were afar off are made
nigh by the blood of Jesus. His death and resurrection have set the seal on
this great atoning work, which is as effective now to create love to God and
to man as it was in the beginning. Pp. 154, 155. God comes near to the
soul in Jesus Christ; through Jesus Christ our sense of sin is taken away;
through Christ, mortal fears are replaced by an immortal hope. . To adhere
to Jesus as the Christ of God, is the very root of Christian experience. Pp.
�42
Dr. J. F. Clarke against 1 heism.
156, 157. Love to Christ is the method of progress, the law of freedom, the
way to knowledge, and the unchecked impulse to God. P. 166. The one
great outward proof that Jesus was thus the Christ of humanity, the ordained
Leader of the human race to God and to each other, is found in his resurrec
tion. . When Jesus appeared to die, he did not die; he remained alive. When
he seemed to go down, he did not go down; he went up. When he seemed
to go away, he did not go away ; he remained. . . The objections to this view
are chiefly a priori and metaphysical. Pp. 114 and 115.
Dr. Clarke appears to believe in a strict external system of tradi
tion and belief, the only channel through which life can come from
God to human souls, and that system he sums up in the “Lord Jesus
Christ,” whom he yet regards as a mere man,* but “a perfect speci
men of the human race.”
Freedom dies in the presence of such a fact, if it be a fact, and
religion equally sinks into nothing with no other direct object of faith
than “ a perfect specimen of the human race.” And seeing the utter
absurdity of taking the historic Jesus as this “ perfect specimen,” the
thoughtful believer must find himself worshipping towards a very
poor idol if he attempt to follow the instruction of Dr. Clarke.
This conception of a historic religion, with the historic person of
Jesus for its centre and source, and distinguished from religion born
in the soul under influences not external and historic, logically points
to an infallible church,—to Romanism in fact. Dr. Clarke puts his
torical human transmission above providential divine instruction and
inspiration, and, therefore, leaves little room to question that the most
direct and largest historical human result of original Jesuism must
be the true faith.
Moral, intellectual and spiritual life comes to us, Dr. Clarke says,
from the man, Jesus, a contagion caught from his person and life by
the first disciples, and historically transmitted. The comprehensive
teaching of theism, that God himself, by perfectly adequate means,
instructs and inspires and disciplines his moral creatures, and so
directly conveys to them the gift of his own eternal life, Dr. Clarke
considers a baseless theory, the delusion of certain absurd people who
“ stand apart to think,” and who “ even prefer speculation to knowl
edge.” Instead of accepting the theistic doctrine of incarnation, the
universal saving presence of God in all souls, he asserts that God
descended “into the soul of one man,” and that “the elevation of
the human race is made possible by this great providential event.”
* “We agree with the Naturalists, that Christ was a pure man, and not superhuman.” P. 133.
�Dr. J. F. Clarke against Theism.
43
And not only does he thus deny the universal providence and
inspiration of God, and reduce the Almighty to dependence upon a
Galilean youth for effective communication with and control of the
human race, but he appears to adopt the wretched superstition that
“the blood of Jesus” is the agency through which God must reach
man.
Neither nature, whose suggestions are so varied, so quickening,
and so universal; nor the universal providence of human events,
which speaks so clearly, so fully, and so powerfully to the thoughtful
student of human life and human history; nor the unceasing inspi
ration which floods the understanding and heart of man, and
marvellously guides the seekers of all the world into one simple faith
in God, are anything to Dr. Clarke, so absorbed is he with worship
through his man-image of God. Omit to look on this image, he says,
and “God becomes an opinion; duty, a social convenience; immor
tality, a perhaps.”
That it is so to him, we do not doubt. We endeavor to accept his
assertion that he knows no other root of Christian experience than
adherence to Jesus; that the death and resurrection of Jesus, alone
or chiefly, induce him to love God and man; and that the proof to
him that this is the true way, he finds in the resurrection of Jesus.
Such external construction of religion, and such reference of its
power to human facts, are doubtless undertaken by Dr. Clarke in
good faith. He undoubtedly believes theological science need say no
more than that Jesus went up when he went down, and that the
objections to this view are chiefly a priori and metaphysical.
The Christianity which Dr. Clarke sets up against Theism, is not
Christian, but Jesuit. Christian religion knows no other object of
faith than God, the “ Our Father” of the prayer of Jesus. The
Jesuism which makes Jesus an object of religious faith is pseudo
Christian. That Jesuism which makes Jesus very God, has some
claims to be considered religion. But that which makes him, as Dr.
Clarke’s does, a mere “ perfect specimen of a man,” is no religion at
all; it is mere hero-worship. And that in fact Dr. Clarke labors to
establish, the worship of Jesus as a hero. For ourselves, we decline,
equally in the name of religion and of Christian teaching, to adopt
the confused sentimentalism of Dr. Clarke’s method, and the feeble
Jesuism of his conclusions. We believe in God.
�44
The Unitarian Situation.
THE UNITARIAN SITUATION.
I.—Mr. Hepworth Relieves Himself.
“There are times when one must relieve himself or die,” said Rev
Geo. II. Hepworth, in the meeting, last May, of the American Unitarian
Association. The Secretary of the Association, Rev. Charles Lowe,
had presented an admirable paper, justifying the general Unitarian
determination to do without a creed, and to depend on the spirit and
the life as a basis of union, when Mr. Hepworth came forward, regard
less of the general disapproval of his intention, to move for a committee
to prepare an “ as-nearly-as-may-be ” representative statement of faith
of the Unitarian denomination, and said, “ Your frequent applause (of
Mr. Lowe’s address) did not daunt my determination to speak because
there are times when one must relieve himself or die.” Of course Mr.
Hepworth could not be expected to assume that the Unitarian body
would prefer the other alternative ; so he proceeded to relieve himself.
The gist of his demand he thus expressed,—
“I want that there shall be a definite signification attached to the word
‘Unitarianism.’ . . The thing it seems to me is demanded; demanded now,
or else we, 1 honestly believe, as a denomination, go under. . . The next two
years will settle, I honestly believe, the fate of the Unitarian denomination.
. . I want a statement of the average views of the Unitarian denomination,
. . something with the endorsement of the Unitarian denomination upon
it.”
How this authoritative statement of faith should relieve Mr. ■
Hepworth, our readers may not quite understand. It seems, how
ever, that be expected it to be good for his back. “Give me,” he
said, “ a single Unitarian document, that I can put my back against.”
How desperate he considered his need of a document to put his back
against, may be judged from his concluding sentence, — “ It is a small
thing to ask for, yet I cannot get L, I suppose, but I waDt to give you
notice I am not exactly down, and I am going to keep this thing going
until I do get it.”
Theodore Parker said of Mr. Hepworth, — “ Hepworth would make
a powerful preacher, if he did not drown his thought in a Dead Sea of
words. What a pity ! You don’t want a drove of oxen to drag a
cart-load of potatoes on a smooth road.” This criticism was provoked
by the earliest failure of Mr. Hepworth’s back, when he withdrew
from an engagement to speak at a meeting held in Boston to express
�The Unitarian Situation.
45
sympathy with the family of John Brown, because he found it would
not be considered decent for him to take ‘ the other side.’ Mr.
Hepworth has needed something to put his back against ever since
John A. Andrew, in that great meeting, said that he had supposed
there was but one side to the question of sympathy with the family of
the Harper’s Ferry martyr.
It appears, from Mr. Hepworth’s speeches on the subject, that he
has made “a document” himself, and has found it useful in bringing
inquirers into the Unitarian fold. He tells us that a similar document,
endorsed by the denomination, would double the nifmber of Unitarians
in less than five years, and that without it Unitarianism will “ go
under” within two years.
The simple meaning of this is that Mr. Hepworth is a prodigious
egotist, who is of late ambitious to appear as the maker of the denom
inational creed. He has no idea whatever of accepting any statement
other than his own. His demand is that Unitarianism endorse his
document. This demand he presses with stupid insolence, imagining
that he will be sustained because his document is conservative.
Originally belonging to the radical wing of Unitarianism, and now a
self-appointed leader of the right wing, be has but one leading aim, to
push himself. This aim he follows with insane disregard of all the
decencies of the matter. We regret the necessity of speaking so
harshly, but feel that we ought to say more rather than less of this
ecclesiastical charlatan. The recent overturning of the Liberal Chris
tian vrds his work, done in a spirit and with a purpose which ought to
exclude h,im from the confidence of every honest and honorable
member of the Unitarian body.
II.—Robert Collyer’s “ Amen ” to Hepworth.
The concurrence of Rev. Robert Collyer with Mr. Hepworth’s
demand for an authoritative statement of faith, caused a great deal of
surprise. Mr. Collyer said, in support of Mr. Hepworth, —
“ His feeling about some statement that we could use when we stand up
and preach, has been my feeling too. . . I felt like saying, Amen, to the gist
of his proposition, and wanted to feel that I stood with him. . . My reason
for it is exactly the same as that which he has given as his primary reason.
. . Letters and requests in person come to me continually, like this, ‘Cannot
you give us something that bears the stamp of authority from your body?’
It should be no test of fellowship to bar any man out, . . and if next year
�46
The Unitarian Situation.
we find that it does not express the honest religious faith of our body, it
shall be altered, . . and made to express then what new light may have
come to us from above.”
This was again explained by Mr. Collyer, in one of the meetings of
the Western Conference in June, after some one had suggested that
his creed should be stamped, as railroad tickets are, “ good for this
day only.” Mr. Collyer then said, —
“ If we can present this thing to the inquiring mind as the statement of
five hundred intelligent Unitarians, it will have a good deal more weight
than the statement of any single individual, that is all I ever meant.”
It seems incredible that Mr. Collyer should not see that the stamp
of external authority must injure rather than help the force of truth.
Inquiry has developed no principle more important than this, that
truth stands best on its own evidence, and always loses when made to
rest on an authority outside of itself. If Mr. Collyer wants to employ,
in preaching, a statement bearing the stamp of authority, he wants to
use a purely and strictly orthodox method, in place of the liberal
method. The latter invariably says, ‘ examine and judge for your
selves what is true,’ and it scrupulously avoids introducing any pressure
of authority. The orthodox method appeals to authority, and largely
succeeds in preventing inquiry. It would be a bastard liberalism
which should admit the use of this appeal to authority. Any real
success in such appeal, would be an encroachment of mischief of the
most serious and dangerous sort. And not merely would actual free
inquiry be checked, but all freedom to inquire will be put in peril. It
is a purely chimerical expectation that possessors of authority would
use it for instruction of inquirers only, and not for judgment on doubt
and denial. At this moment the Unitarian body, as organized in the
National Conference, lends its authority to the dogma of the lordship
of Jesus, as thorough a superstition and yoke of heathenism as was
ever fastened upon men’s minds by religion, and this creed is used as
a test, a rule of judgment, and law of condemnation.
But if the idea of using authority without abusing it were not a
delusion and a snare, it would be worse than useless to attempt to
influence inquirers by means of an endorsed statement of faith. There
may be single instances now and then of inquirers foolish enough to
give weight to such a creed, but in general any such attempt to urge
doctrines on the ground that they had been endorsed by “ five hundred
intelligent Unitarians,” or by five hundred thousand even, would at
�The Unitarian Situation.
47
once raise suspicion and provoke contempt. The evidences for
important truths, apart from ordinary human endorsement, are so
significant and decisive, and the fact of ordinary human endorsement
is, in itself, so insignificant and inconclusive, that a religious teacher
could hardly do a worse thing than to confess that he depended at all
on the fact that his sect had voted the creed he urged. The power,
either for good or for evil, of such a vote, is over those who are
already within the connection. In general it is a power of tyranny
and outrage upon dissenting members of the fellowship. At least it
is not a power of persuasion with outside inquirers.
Granting, however, that there would be no tyranny in voting a
denominational creed, and that it might be possible to use such a
creed with good effect, it still remains, and always must remain, that
a Unitarian statement of faith is as impossible as a Unitarian Pope.
The fact which causes so many questions as to the beliefs of Unita
rians,— which occasions so many to ask, “What do Unitarians
believe ? ” — is a fact which ought to show Mr. Collyer the utter
absurdity of talking about a Unitarian statement of faith. Twenty
decidedly different and distinct statements would not represent Unitarianism. Unitarianism is like our national union; it is a union of
individuals, each independent and sovereign in respect to certain most
important matters, while owning allegiance to the common fellowship
for certain other matters. What Mr. Lowe, the Secretary of the Amer
ican Unitarian Associatian, calls “ the spirit and the life,” is the basis
of union in the Unitarian body. With reference to beliefs, the rule is
liberty and diversity, “ every man fully persuaded in his own mind,”
“every one of us give account of himself to God,” and “every man
receive his own reward according to his own labor.” The one great
principle, which has given life and honor to Unitarianism, has been
this recognition of the duty of individual persuasion, and the liberty
of individual difference, in the matter of beliefs. And he must be
exceedingly heedless of facts which are patent to every observer, who
forgets that the Unitarian body now embraces a great diversity of
beliefs, and can no more be represented by one statement of special
beliefs than the different states of our Union could be represented by
one political creed, except as to certain very general principles. The
representative statement of Unitarianism is its immortal declaration of
liberty and diversity. The demand for any other representative state
ment,— for any sort of statement of beliefs, — assumes that Unitari
anism, founded in liberty, has been so far a comprehensive error.
�48
The Unitarian Situation.
It is undeniable, however, thac the votes of the National Confer
ence, affirming the “ lordship of Jesus,” have created an official
Unitarianism, a Unitarian ecclesiasticism, not founded on the principle
of liberty and diversity, but based, as strictly as any sect in the world,
on a creed, and that creed a contemptible superstition. The lordship
of Jesus, in any Unitarian sense, is nondescript. It is anything but
religious and Christian. If it can be assumed that Jesus is very God,
the lordship of Jesus is religious. Deny that he is God, and the
assertion of his lordship drags that grand term The Lord from its only
true Christian significance, and makes it a cover for putting into
offices of Deity one who confessedly is not God. Taken alone, as the
one article of a creed, and the single foundation stone of an ecclesias
ticism, the lordship of Jesus, in any or all of the Unitarian senses, is
the most beggarly, the narrowest, and most barren creed ever devised.
The day when this creed, which has no iota of religion in it, but is
purely a partisan watchword, was adopted, and the other days on
which it was re-affirmed, each time against protest as distinct and
vigorous as outrage ever provoked, were days of shameful treason to
the genius of the Unitarian movement.
Many years since, the Rev. Dr. Eliot, of St. Louis, an excellent
man in his way, but something of a pope, and an apologist for slavery
during the days of Anti-Slavery excitement, seceded from the Western
Unitarian Conference, because that body adopted some resolution of
sympathy with the cause of the slave. Not only did he go out in
wrath, but he never returned? This Dr. Eliot was unfortunately
named on the original committee appointed to prepare a constitution
for the National Unitarian Conference, and he it was who demanded
the lordship-of-Jesus basis, against the judgment of the committee,
and who compelled its insertion by threatening secession I This playing
pope on the part of one man was the original occasion of giving to
the conference a dogmatic basis.
The wrong could not have been consummated, however, had not
Dr. Bellows espoused it, and carried it through in a spirit even worse
than that in which it was conceived, a spirit at once of treason and
of anger. Dr. Bellows had given pledges, as distinct and full as
could be asked, which required him to exclude dogma from the basis
of the Conference, and to respect without qualification the principle
of liberty and diversity. These pledges he disregarded, as recklessly
as if honor were but a name, when he consented to meet Dr. Eliot’s
demand, and to report a basis for the Conference, which asserted the
�The Unitarian Situation.
49
lordship of Jesus. And when he encountered resistance to his plan,
he took a high tone, the tone of a pope, and gave way to bad temper
besides, as if it were but right for him to visit the anger of an
offended pope on his radical brethren. These are the simple facts in
regard to the creed adopted by the National Conference. Drs. Eliot
and Bellows originally forced that creed upon the Conference, in a
way not one whit better than that of Pope Pius at Rome. Mr.
Hepworth brings forward his creed, because he thinks he can play
pope.
That Mr. Collyer should lend his support to so palpable an iniquity,
is as sad as it is surprising, whether we consider his own good name
as a teacher of religion, or the influence he can exert. It would
seem as if he must have seen enough of Unitarianism to show him
that wide diversities exist in it, such as will always make people ask,
“What do Unitarians believe?” and will forever render it impossible
to answer this inquiry by any one statement of faith. Does Mr.
Collyer mean to assume that it would be either honest or honorable,
or anything better than an outrage and a lie, to put forth his creed,
or any creed which he could endorse, and say of it, “ This is what
Unitarians believe”? The answer made him in the Western Confer
ence, by a lawyer of high character and sound judgment, “ This
proposition is a delusion and a humbug,” deservedly rebuked his
assumption that a creed could be made useful. Let him join in
getting one voted, and he will find that he has put his hand to a
business which can only end in mischief and shame.
III.—Rev. A. D. Mayo Settles the Question.
Rev. A. D. Mayo sustained Mr. Hepworth’s demand for a creed, in
a very characteristic way. He said:
“Sooner or later we must meet the issue which brother Hepworth has
presented; the whole Christian world is looking at us and expecting us to
meet it. If we are found skulking, I believe the modern world will just
drop us, and we shall be left a little association of independent churches to
do anything we have a mind to, but the world will lose all its interest in us.
and that will be the end of us ”
Mr. Mayo is the most positive and most dismal of Pharisees. Why
should a man skulk into a dark closet, he would say, when the universe
looks for his appearing at the corner of the street ? Why should he
forfeit the interest of mankind by sneaking to prayer with the publi
can, when justification so abundant awaits broad phylacteries and
VOL. I.—NO. I.
4
�50
The Unitarian Situation.
pompous self-assertion ? How absurd and contemptible to content
ourselves with devout doing of God’s will, when the rewards of
“Lord, Lord,” are so much more immediate and certain! Blow no
trumpet, and let the modern world just drop us? Do justice, love
mercy, and walk humbly with God, and that the end of us? Indulge
the enthusiasm of humanity and the passion of free communion
with God, when seventy sanhedrins of seventy sects already summon
us to judgment, and the whole menagerie of inquisitors thirsts to
extinguish us? Such, it would seem, is the appeal of Mr. Mayo.
This appeal Mr. Mayo took occasion to vindicate in the meeting of
the Western Conference, in an elaborate address on “The Vocation
of The Western Unitarian Church.” The gist of that address was
that Unitarianism has been governed by the rule of liberty long
enough, and that it ought now to go back to the old and universal
orthodox method, define and adopt an orthodoxy of its own, a fixed
correct creed, and work hereafter by means of, and on the basis of,
this definite and established creed, excluding further free-thinking,
and attempting no further progress.
“Hitherto,” he says, “we have had a creed of one article, spiritual
freedom, and all our loosely-jointed organization has revolved around that.
We have been rather a spiritual exploring expedition on the frontiers of the
church than a well defined branch of Christendom.” “Liberal Christianity
remains,” he tells us, “an undefined and diffused spirit of free-thinking,
irresponsible as the wind, and vast as the mind of man.” Unitarians, again
he says, are “an extended picket-line backed by no army,” in danger of
being “gobbled up and left to pursue their ‘scientific religious’ investigation
inside a spiritual Andersonville, with such comfort as may there be found,”
which he thinks would be “a sad coming down from our dreams of illimitable
and irresponsible individuality.”
“The Unitarian body,” Mr. Mayo
declares, “must soon decide this final question: Is it a Church and apart of
Christendom, or is it a dissolving view of spiritual pioneers on the border-land of
Christian civilization? We may indulge in spiritual vagrancy till we lose the
confidence of the country, and expectation no longer turns our way. Our
widely-roving Unitarian enterprise in the West must consolidate into a
number of Christian churches that agree substantially in their understand
ing of Christianity, their methods for its propagation, their relation to other
Christian churches, and their relation to other communities outside of
Christian belief. . . If we decide that we are not a Christian church ip
this sense, then let us go home, each to his own city or hamlet, and pursue
religion on his own account; for the Western people will no longer concern
themselves with our existence.”
�1 he Unitarian Situation.
51
The criticism here made upon the Unitarianism of Dr. Channing
and Theodore Parker, that it was indefinite, vagrant, irresponsible,
and outside Christian limits; the judgment pronounced upon the
historic Unitarian principle of spritual freedom, that it served well
enough to organize “spiritual vagrancy” and “general free-thinking”
upon, and should now be displaced by the opposite principle, that of
dogma and ecclesiasticism; the proposition to consolidate the Unita
rian movement into a body of orthodox Unitarian churches; and the
reason for doing this, to keep the confidence of the country and the
interest of the Western people, and to escape “a spiritual Anderson
ville,”— these are points of Mr. Mayo’s plea which are criticised the
moment they are stated.
The two great principles of pure Christian religion, loyalty to God
and love to man, are sneered at by Mr. Mayo in this fashion,—
“ Religion is not solely, or chiefly, an affair between one man and the
Power he may choose to call his ‘ Maker.’ . . A Christian church
cannot live long on the assertion, it is good to be good; it is lovely to
love.” Chinese, Hebrews, Mormons, Spiritualists, and Oneida Com
munists, he says, do as much as that. If we do no more, the Western
people will no longer concern themselves with our existence, and that
will be the end of us. Could there be a more lamentable infidelity
than this? If Mr. Mayo represents anybody but himself, we are sorry
for the communion which includes such an element.
IV.—Dr. Bellows Protests.
It is never possible to tell on which side of the Unitarian question
Dr. Bellows will be found. In the Hepworth debate last May, he
came out emphatically and eloquently for liberty and diversity. He
said that he would not submit his faith to “ any statement which the
Unitarian body, as such, is prepared to make, or can honestly make,
or make without deceiving itself and without deceiving everybody
else.” He declared that “the Christian religion at this present time
needs a body which will restrain itself, and not undertake to bind
itself by a positive statement which will strangle its growth. He
insisted that Unitarianism must continue to occupy a position of
“ absolute and perfect liberty.” He besought his brethren not to let
Robert Collyer’s “seductive voice,” “incline or seduce you into any
falsification of the fundamental principle of our body.” “ Let every
man,” he said, “ give the best statement he can make, and send it out
on its own authority.”
�52
History of the Devil.
Now let Dr. Bellows cdnsent to take the lordship-of-Jesus dogma
out of the basis of the National Conference, and Unitarianism may
again mean “ absolute and perfect liberty,” and he cease to be
universally known as Mr. Facing-Both-Ways.
HISTORY OF THE DEVIL.
His Rise, Greatness
and
Downfall.
[Translated from the Revue des Deux Mondes.]
Among the fallen monarchs whom time, yet more than sudden revolutions,
has slowly brought down from their thrones, few are there whose prestige
has been as imposing and as abiding as that of the king of hell, —Satan.
We can safely employ the expression fallen in speaking of him, for those of
our contemporaries who yet profess to believe in his existence and power,
live just as if they did not believe in them; and when faith and life no longer
impress each other, we have a right to say that the former is dead. I speak,
of course, of our educated cotemporaries; the others are no longer of account
in the history of the human mind. It has seemed to us, too, that it would be
interesting to bring together in one view, and to describe in their logical
genesis, the transformations and evolutions of belief in the devil. This is
almost a biography. An occasion has been furnished us by a recent and
remarkable work which we owe to a professor of theology in Vienna.*
Notwithstanding some tedious passages, the book of Professor Roskoff is an
encyclopaedia of everything relating to the matter, and the author will not
complain if we borrow freely from his rich erudition.
I.
The origin of belief in the devil is quite remote; and, like that of every
belief more or less dualistic, that is to say, based on the radical opposition of
two supreme principles, it must be sought in the human mind developing
itself in the bosom of a Nature which is sometimes favorable, sometimes
hostile, to it. There is a certain relative dualism, an antagonism of the I
and not-I, which revealsitself from the time of man’s birth. His first breath
is painful, for it makes him cry out. It is through struggles that he learns
to eat, to walk, to speak. Later, the effort indispensable to his preservation
will reproduce this perpetual struggle under other forms. When the religious
sentiment awakens in him and seeks first its object and support in visible
nature, he finds himself before phenomena which he personifies; some of
which are agreeable and loved, such as the aurora, the fruits of the earth,
and the refreshing and fertilizing rain; the others terrifying and dreaded,
• “ History of the Devil,” by Gustave Roskoff, Professor of the Imperial Faculty of Protestant
Theology in Vienna.
�History of the Deoil.
53
like the storm, the thunder, and the night. Hence good and evil deities. As
a general rule and by virtue of that simple egotism which characterizes
children and the childhood of peoples, the dreaded gods are more worshipped
than those worthy of affection, which always do good of themselves and
without being entreated. Such is at least the convergent result of the observa
tions of all the travelers who have a near view in either hemisphere of peoples
living in a savage state. It is needless to add that their divinities have no
moral character properly so called. They do good or evil because their
nature is thus, and for no other reason. In that, they only resemble their
worshippers. Indeed, man always projects his own ideal upon the divinity
which he adores, and, all things considered, it is in this very manner that
he comes into possession of all which he can comprehend of divine truth.
He always has the feeling that his god is perfect, and that is the essential
thing ; but the traits of this perfection are always more or less those of his
ideal. Some one once asked of two little swine-herds in some remote prov
ince of Austria: “ What would you do, if you were Napoleon?” “I,” said
the younger, “ would put a whole pot of butter on my bread every morning.”
“Andi,” said the other, “ would watch my hogs on horseback!” Thus,
too, a Bushman, when invited by a missionary, who had tried to give him
some notions of morality, to cite some examples showing that he knew how
to distinguish good from evil, said: “Evil is other people who come and
take my wives ; good is me when I take theirs.” The gods of savages are
necessarily savage gods. They usually have hideous forms, as their wor
shippers think themselves bound to become hideous to go to battle, or even
simply for adornment. To them, the beautiful is the odd and grotesque ; the
mysterious is the strange, and the strange is the frightful. To our European
ancestors, the stranger was at the same time the guest and the enemy. With
all due deference to poets, the religion of peoples of this class is tantamount
to the adoration of genii or demons of a bad character. When we pass from
savage peoples, who live only by hunting and fishing, to shepherds, and
especially to agricultural peoples, this adoration of evil deities is no longer
as exclusive. Il et we usually find among them the worship of dreaded gods
predominant. For example, let us cite only that simple prayer of the
Madecassians, who recognize, among many others, two creative divinities*
Zamhor, the author of good things, and Nyang, of the bad :
“ 0 Zamhor! we do not pray to thee. Good gods do not want prayers.
But we must pray to Nyang. We must appease Nyang. Nyang, wicked and
powerful spirit, do not make the thunder roll above our beads ! Bid the sea
keep its limits. Spare, Nyang, the ripening fruits. Wither not the rice in
its flower. Let there be no births in the evil days. Thou knowest the
wicked are thine already, and the number of the wicked, Nyang, is great.
Then torment no more the good.”
It would be easy to multiply facts attesting this characteristic of the
religion of primitive peoples, that terror has more to do with their piety than
veneration or love. Hence the great number of malevolent beings of the
second order which all inferior religions recognize and which are found in
the popular superstitions long clinging to religions of a more elevated spiritual
�51
History of the Devil.
level. In the great mythologies, like those of India, Egypt, or Greece, the
apparent dualism of nature is reflected in the distinction between the gods
of order and production and those of destruction and disorder. The feeling
that order always gains a decisive victory in the battles between the oppos
ing forces of nature, inspires myths like those of Indra the conqueror of the
storm-cloud, of Horus avenging his father Osiris, wickedly put to death by
Typhon. In developed Brahminism, it is Siva, the god of destruction who
concentrates and puts to work the disturbing elements of the universe. Siva
is besides the most adored of the Hindoo gods. In Semitic polytheism,
dualism becomes sexual, or rather, the sun being always the principal object
of adoration, the supreme god is conceived under two forms, the one smiling,
the other terrifying, Baal or Moloch.
This double character of the divinities worshipped is not less striking
when one studies the most "poetical and most serene of polytheisms, that of
Greece. Like all the others, its roots go down into the worship of the visible
world, but more than elsewhere, unless we should except Egypt, its gods join
to their physical nature a corresponding moral physiognomy. They have
conquered the agents of confusion which under the names of Titans, Giants,
Typhons, threatened established order. They are then the invincible preser
vers of the regular order of things; but, as, after all, this regular order is
far from always conforming itself to the physical and moral well-being of
man, the result is that the Greek gods have all, in varied proportion, their
amiable and their dark side. For instance, Phoebus Apollo is a god of light,
a civilizer, inspirer of arts, refiner of the soil and of souls, and yet he sends
the pestilence, is pitiless in his vengeance, and not very prudent in his
friendships. One may say as much of his sister Diana, or rather the moon,
who is personified now under the enchanting image of a beautiful and chaste
maiden, now under the gloomy physiognomy of a Hecate, a Brimo, or an
Empusa. The blue mists of the horizon of the sea are at first beautiful blue
birds, then daughters of the wave, admirably beautiful down to the waist,
who bewitch navigators with their sweet love songs; but alas for those who
allow themselves to be seduced! This physiognomy of mingled good and
evil is a common trait of the Hellenic pantheon, and is continuously manifest,
from the supreme pair, Jupiter and Hera (Juno) to the under-world couple,
zEdoneus or Pluto and his wife the beautiful Proserpine, the Strangler.
Latin mythology suggests the same class of reflections, and, in what is
peculiarly its own, is still more dualistic than Greek polytheism. It has its
Orcus, its Strigae, its Larvae, its Lemures, etc. Sclavonic mythology has its
white god and its black god. Our Gallic fathers had not very attractive
divinities, and the old Scandinavian-Germanic gods unite to valuable quali
ties defects which render intercourse with them at least difficult. Wherever
in our times one has kept a belief in hob-goblins, witches, fairies, sylphs,
water-nymphs, we find this same mingling of good and bad qualities. These
latter relics of the great army of divinities of the former times are at the
same time graceful, attractive, generous when they wish to be, but also
capricious, vindictive and dangerous. It is important to regard all these
facts in seeking the origin of the devil, for we shall see that he is of compos
�History of the Devil.
55
ite order, and that in several of his essential features he is connected with
the dark elements of all religions which have preceded Christianity.
There is nevertheless one of these religions, which, in this special point of
view, calls for a little more attention to its fundamental doctrines: it is the
Zend-Avesta, or, to employ the usual expression, that of the Persians. It is,
in fact, in this religion that the divine hierarchy and belief appear under the
influence of a systematic < ualism applying to the entire world, moral evil
included. The gods of light and the gods of darkness share time and space.
We do not speak here of Zerwan-Akerene, time without limit, who gave birth
to Ahuramazda or Ormuzd, the God of good, and to his brother Ahriman,
the God of evil. This is evidently a philosophical notion much more recent
than that primitive point of view originating with the Zend religion, which
recognizes only two powers equally eternal, continually at strife, meeting for
combat on the surface of the earth as well as in the heart of men. Wherever
Ormuzd plants the good, Ahriman sows the evil. The story of the moral fall
of the first men, due to the perfidy of Ahriman, who took the form of a serpent,
presents most striking analogies with the parallel account in Genesis. In
regard to that, it has often been alleged that the Bible story of the fall was
only borrowed from Persia. This opinion seems to me without good found
ation, for in the Iranian myth the genius of evil is considered disguised. In
the Hebrew story, on the contrary, it is plainly a serpent which speaks, acts,
and brings upon all his progeny the punishment he suffers. We must then
allow to this story the merit of superior antiquity, if not in its present, at
least in its primitive form. The substitution of a disguised god for a reason
ing and speaking animal, denotes reflection unknown to the ages of mythical
formation. It was reflection, too, which, in later times, led the Jews to see
their Satan under the traits of the serpent of Genesis, although the canon
ical text is as contrary as possible to that conception. I prefer, then, to
regard the two myths, the Hebrew and the Iranian, as two variations, differ
ing in antiquity, of one and the same primitive theme, originating perhaps
when the Iranians and the Semites were living together in the shadow of
Ararat.
However this may be, the fact yet remains that in the most seriously moral
polytheism of the old world, one meets a religious conception which
approaches very near to that which Semitic monotheism has bequeathed to
us under the name of the devil or Satan. Ahriman, like Satan, has his
legions of bad angels which only think of tormenting and destroying mortals.
Not alone physical evils, as storms, darkness, floods, diseases and death, are
attributed to them; but also evil desires and guilty acts. The good man is
consequently a soldier of Ormuzd, under his orders opposing the powers of
evil; the wicked is a servant of Ahriman and becomes his instrument. The
Zend doctrine taught that at last Ahriman would be conquered and even
transformed to good. This latter characteristic distinguishes him favorably
from his Judeo-Christian brother; but one may well ask himself here how
far this beautiful hope made a part of primitive religion.* Of one thing we
♦There have been also theological Christiane, like Origen, who believed in the final conversion
of Satan.
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History of the Devil.
are certain, that the connection between the Jewish Satan and the Persian
Ahriman is very close, and this is only very natural when we think that of
all the polytheistic peoples the Persians are the only ones with whom the
Jews, emancipated by them from Chaldean servitude, kept up prolonged
relations of friendship.
Nevertheless, we shall try to prove false the quite wide-spread opinion which
sees in Satan only a transplanting of the Persian Ahriman into the religious
soil of Semitism. True, the Jewish and the Christian devil owe much to
Ahriman. From the moment when the Jewish Satan makes his acquaintance,
he imitates him, he adopts his manners, his morals, his tactics, he establishes
his infernal court on the same pattern ; in a word, he becomes transformed
to his likeness; but he was already existing, though leading an obscure and
ill defined life. Let us endeavor to sum up his history in the Old Testament.
The Israelites, as we have shown in a previous article, believed for a long
time, with other Semitic peoples, in the plurality of the gods; and the
dualism which is found at the bottom of all polytheisms must consequently
have assumed among them forms peculiar to the religions of the ethnical
group of which they made a part. In proportion as the worship of Jehovah
excluded all others, this dualism must change its forms. Believing still in
the real existence of the neighboring divinities, such as Baal and Moloch,
the fervent adorer of Jehovah must consider these gods immoral, cruel and
hostile to the people of Israel, much as people looked upon demons of another
age. We may go farther, and surmise some relic of a primitive dualism, or
of an opposition between two gods formerly rivals, in that enigmatic being,
the despair of exegetes, which, under the name of Azazel, haunts the
wilderness, and to whom, on the day of expiation, the high-priest sends a
goat on whose head he has put all the sins of the people. Only we must add
that in historical times the meaning of this ceremony seems lost even to
those who observe it, and there is in reality nothing more opposed
to all dualism than the strictly Jehovist point of view. If we except the
books of Job, of Zachariah, and of the Chronicles, all three being among
the less ancient of the sacred collection, there is not one word said of Satan
in the Old Testament, not even,— we repeat it because almost everybody is
deceived thereupon, notwithstanding the evidence of the texts,— not even
in the book of Genesis. Jehovah, once adored as the only real God, has and
can have no competitor. He holds in his hand all the forces, all the energies
of the world. Nothing happens, and nothing is done, on the earth, but he
wills it; and more than one Hebrew author attributes to him directly,
without the least reserve, the inspiring of the errors or faults which were to
be attributed at a later period to Satan. Jehovah hardens those whom he
wishes to harden; Jehovah strikes down those whom he wishes to strike
down, and no one has a right to ask why; but, as he is also believed to be
supremely just, it is admitted that, if he hardens the heart of the wicked,
it is that they may dig their own graves, and that, if he distributes blessings
and evils according to his will, it is to recompense the just and punish the
unjust. The Hebrew could not always hold to this notion, too easy in theory, too
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often falsified by experience; but he held to it long, as is evident from the
class of ideas out of which we see Satan finally born.
Hebrew monotheism did not exclude a belief in celestial spirits, in sons of
God (bene Elohim), in angels, which were supposed to surround the throne of
the Eternal like a Heavenly army. Subject to his orders, executors of his
will, they were, so to speak, the functionaries of the divine government.
The administering of the punishment or favors of God devolved directly
upon them. Consequently there were some whose office inspired more fear
than confidence. For instance, it is a spirit sent by God which comes to
punish Saul for his misdeeds, by afflicting him with dark thoughts which the
harp of David alone succeeds in dissipating. It is an angel of the Eternal
that appears to Baalam, with a naked sword in his hand as if to slay him,
or which destroys in one night a whole Assyrian army. After a time they
distinguished especially an angel which might pass for the personification of
a guilty conscience, for he filled, in the celestial court, the special office of
accuser of men. Doubtless sovereign justice alone, and in the plenitude of
its sovereignty, made the decision, but it was after pleadings in presence of
the adverse parties. Now the one whose business it was to proceed against
men before the divine tribunal, was an angel whose name of Satan signifies
an adversary, in the judicial as well as the proper sense of this word. Such,
indeed, is the Satan of the book of Job, still a member of the celestial court,
being one of the sons of God, but having as his special office the ‘continual
accusation of men,’ and having become so suspicious by his practice as
public accuser that he believes in the virtue of no one, not even in that of
Job the just man, and always presupposes interested motives for the purest
manifestations of human piety. We see that the character of this angel is
becoming marred, and the history of Job shows that, when he wishes to
accomplish the humiliation of a just man, he spares nothing Satan
appears, too, as the accuser of Israel in the vision of Zachariah: (iii. 1.)
The result of this peculiar character, and the belief that angels intervene in
human affairs, is that Satan had no need of Ahriman in order to be dreaded
by the Israelites as the worst enemy of men. From that time, it was
common to suspect his artifices in private and national misfortunes. Conse
quently, the fatal inspirations which previous Jehovism had attributed
directly to Jehovah, were henceforth regarded as coming from Satan. We
find in the history of king David a curious example of this evolution of
religious belief. King David one day conceived the unlucky idea, considered
impious even from the theocratic-republican point of view of the prophets
of his time, of numbering the people. In regard to this, the second book of
Samuel (xxiv. 1) says that God, angry against Israel, incited David to give
the orders necessary fcr this work; on the contrary, the first of Chronicles
(xxi. 1), recounting the very same story, begins it in these terms: “Satan
stood up against Israel, and provoked David to number Israel.” Nothing
shows better than this comparison, the change that had taken place in the
interval between the preparation of the two books. Henceforth the mono
theist attributes to the Adversary the bad thoughts and the calamities which
he had formerly traced directly to God. It is even to be presumed that he
A
"
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History of the Devil.
finds some religious comfort in this solution of certain difficulties which must
begin to weigh upon him, for, as in proportion as the idea of God becomes
higher, people can no longer be contented with the simple theories which
could suffice for less reflecting ages.
So we see in the character of adversary of men, of an evil disposed being,
of the angel Satan, the origin, properly so called, of the Jewish and
Christian devil. We need not then rudely identify him with the more or
less wicked divinities of the polytheistic religions. That he has with them
affinities which become continually more close, we fully admit; but his
appearance is quite distinct, and even had the Jews never been in contact
with the Persians, we should have received from Jewish tradition a complete
Satan. Satan, then, is not the son, nor even the brother, of Ahriman; but
we may say that the time came when the resemblance was so great that it
was possible to confound them. Indeed, in the apocryphal books of the Old
Testament, which are distinguished from the canonical books of the same
collection, by the Alexandrian and Persian elements in them, we see Satan
increase in importance and prestige. The seventy, in translating his name
by diabolos, whence comes our word devil, also define exactly his primitive
character of accuser; but henceforth he is something quite different from
that. He is an exciting agent of the first class. He is a very high person
age, counted among the highest rank of angels, who, envious of a still
higher position, was banished from Heaven with those other angels who
were accomplices in his ambitious schemes. Now hatred of God is with him
added to hatred of men. Here begins the imitation of Ahriman. Like the
Persian god, Satan is at the head of an army of wicked beings, who execute
his orders. We know several of them by name; among others Asmodeus,
the demon of pleasure, who plays a great part in the book of Tobias, and
whose Persian origin, since the learned researches of M. Michel Brtial, can
no longer be doubted. In consequence of this increasing importance, and
his separation from the faithful angels, Satan has his kingdom apart, and
his residence in the subterranean hell. Like the Persian Ahriman, he
wished to harm the work of creation and attacked men, whose innocent
happiness was insupportable to him. From that time, it is represented that
it was he, who, like Ahriman, addressed the first woman under the form of
the serpent. Then it was he who introduced death and its horrors; conse
quently the adversaries that he dreads the most, are men capable by their
superior sanctity of fortifying their fellow men against his insidious attacks.
A host of diseases, above all those which, by their strangeness and absence
of exterior symptoms, defy natural explanation, such as idiocy, epilepsy,
Saint Guy’s dance, dumbness, certain kinds of blindness, etc., are attributed
to his agents. It is supposed that the thousands of demons who are under
his orders escape continually from the vents of hell, and,— like the demons
of the night in which people had always believed,— haunt from preference
waste lands and deserts; but there they tire, they become thirsty, whirl
giddily about without finding rest, and their great resource is to find lodg
ment in a human body, in order to consume its substance and be refreshed
by its blood. Sometimes even, they take up their abode in many. Hence,
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the demoniacs, or possessed, spoken of so many times in evangelical history.
Yet Jewish mythology wculd not carry to the extreme thi^ resemblance to
Ahriman. Satan, for example, would never dare to attack God directlyOrdinarily even certain formulas, in which the name of the Most High
occurred in the first line, sufficed to exorcise him, that is to say, to drive
him away. His power is strictly confined to the circle which it pleased
divine wisdom to trace for his dominion. Dualism, therefore, remains very
incomplete. On the other hand, the Jewish Satan is never to be converted.
A prince of incurable evil, knowing himself condemned by the divine
deerees to a final and irremediable defeat, he will always persist in evil, and
will serve as executioner to Supreme justice, to torment eternally those
whom he has drawn into his terrible nets.
Such was the state of mind on this point in which the first preaching of
the gospel found the Jewish people. The messianic ideas, too, on their side,
in developing themselves, had contributed much to this enrichment of the
popular belief. If the devil, in this order of ideas, did not dare to oppose
God, or even his angels of high rank, he did not fear to resist openly his
servants on the earth. Now the Messiah was to be especially the servant of
God. He was to appear in order to establish the kingdom of God in that
humanity which was almost entirely subject to the power of demons.
Consequently the devil would defend his possessions against him to the last
extremity, and the work of the expected Messiah might be summed up in a
bodily and victorious struggle with the “prince of this world.” This is a
point of view that one should never forget in reading the gospels. Satan
and the Messiah personified, each on his side, the power of evil and good
engaging in a desperate combat at every point of collision. Never would
Jesus, for example, have been able to pass for the Messiah in the eyes of his
countrymen, had he not had the reputation of being stronger than the
demons every time those possessed with them were brought to him.
It is a question which has greatly interested modern theologians, to know
if Jesus himself shared the beliefs of his contemporaries in regard to Satan.
To treat this question as we should, we should have to stop longer on other
points foreign to this history. Let us simply say that nothing authorizes us
to think that Jesus would, from compliance with popular superstitions, have
feigned beliefs which he did not share; but let us add that the principles of
his religion were not in themselves favorable to beliefs of this kind. No
where does Jesus make faith in the devil a condition of entrance into the
kingdom of God, and were the devil only an idea, a symbol, these conditions
would remain literally the same. Purity of heart, strong desire for justice,
love of God and of men, these are all demands completely independent of
the question of knowing whether Satan exists or not. Hence when Jesus
speaks in an abstract, general manner, without any prepossession from
circumstances of place or time, he regularly eliminates the person of Satan
from his field of instruction. For example, he declares that our bad thoughts
come from our heart; according to the Satanic theory, he should have
attributed them to the devil. Sometimes it is plain that he makes use of
popular beliefs as a form, an image, to which he attaches himself no positive
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reality; he finds material for parables in them; he addresses as Satan one
of his disciples who is endeavoring to persuade him to withdraw from the
sufferings which await him, and who by his very affection becomes for him
a momentary Tempter One may remark the same thing in studying the
theology of St. Paul, at least in his authentic epistles. St. Paul evidently
believes in the devil, and yet with him moral evil is incident to the mortal
nature of men, and not to the exterior and personal action of a demon. In
a word, the teaching of Jesus and of Paul nowhere combats the belief in the
devil, but it can do without it, and its tendency is to dispense with it. We
see this tendency in our days, when so many excellent Christians have not
the least anxiety about the king of hell; but it was one of those germs of
which the gospel contains many, which needed a different intellectual atmos
phere in order to grow. What I have related will explain why much more
is said of the devil in the New Testament than in the Old. The belief in
the devil and the expectation of the Messiah had grown up side by side.
Yet let us remark that if the New Testament speaks very often of Satan, of
his angels, of the spirits “who are in the air,” and of the devil seeking
whom he may devour, it is more than sober in the descriptions that it gives
of them. A certain spiritual reserve hovers still over all that order of
conceptions; the devils are invisible; no one attributes to them palpable
body, and a crowd of superstitions which arise later, from the idea that we
can see and touch them, are still unknown. Yet, at the commencement of
our era, we may consider the period of the origin of our Satan as concluded.
He represents the union of polytheistic dualism and that relative dualism
which Jewish monotheism could rigorously support. We shall see it grow
still and assume new forms; but, such as it already is, we shall not fail to
recognize it. It is indeed he, the old Satan, the bugbear of our fathers, in
whom is concentrated all impurity, all ugliness, all falsehood, in a word the
ideal of evil.
II.
The first centuries of Christianity, very far from developing that side of
the gospel by which the new doctrine tended logically to banish the devil
to regions of symbol and personal uselessness, on the contrary only increased
his domain, by multiplying his interventions in human life. He served as a
scape-goat to the horror of the primitive Christians for the institutions of
paganism. Even in the early days, Christians did not very clearly distin
guish the Roman empire from the empire of Satan. This too Jewish point
of view did not last, but the favorite theme of most of the apologists was to
attribute to the craft and pride of the devil, everything which polytheism
presented, either fine or disagreeable, bad or good. The beautiful and the
good which might be found mingled there, were in their eyes nothing else
than small portions of truth artfully mingled by the enemy of the human
race with frightful errors, in order better to retain power over men whom
the absolutely false could not have captivated so long. The Alexandrian
teachers alone showed themselves more reasonable, but they took no great
hold on the mass of the faithful. Then especially the idea spread abroad
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History of the Devil.
61
that Satan was a rival really contemptible, but long powerful, of God, alone
adorable. Having an eager desire for honors and dominion, he had imitated
divine perfection as well as he could and had succeeded only in
making an odious caricature of it, but, such as it was, that caricature had
blinded the nations. Tertullian found, even on this subject, one of those
characteristic words in which his mocking spirit excelled. “Satan,” said
he, “is God’s ape,” and the saying was handed down to posterity. Conse
quently the Graeco-Roman gods were, to Christians as to Jews, demons
who had usurped the divine rank. The licentiousness of pagan morals,
too often consecrated by the ceremonies of traditional religion, procured for
this prejudiced point of view a sort of popular justification, enhanced
besides by the moral superiority which the rising church was generally
able to oppose to the corruptions which surrounded it. Satan was then
more than ever “the prince of this world.”
Yet let us not forget one very important circumstance, that other currents,
outside of the Christian church, contributed to extend everywhere a belief
in evil demons. Polytheism, in its decline, obeyed its internal logic, that
is to say, it became continually more dualistic, its last forms, those for
example which are distinguished by what they have borrowed from Platon
ism and Pythagorism, are entirely permeated with dualism, and consequently
they open a large career to the imagination to create every kind of evil
spirits. At that epoch, asceticism, which consists in slowly killing the body
under pretext of developing the mind, was not alone in the most exalted parts
of the Christian church; it was everywhere where people practiced religious
morals. The dreamB of which fasting is the physiological generator, gave
to the imaginary beings which they evoked all the appearance of reality.
Apollonius of Tyana does not drive off fewer demons than a Christian saint.
As Prof. Roskoff very justly remarks, the doctrine of angels and demons,
offered to polytheism, and to Jewish and Christian monotheism, a sort of
neutral territory, on which they might meet to a certain extent.
The
religious movements known under the name of Gnostic sects, which represent
a mingling of pagan, Jewish and Christian views in varied proportions, have,
as a common feature, a belief in fallen spirits, tyrants of men and rivals of
God. The great successes of Manicheism, that union of Persian dualism and
Christianity, were due to the satisfaction which the popular faith took in
everything which resembled a systematic struggle of the geniuB of evil with
the spirit of good. The Talmud and the Cabala underwent the same influ
ence. We need not then impute to Christianity alone the great place which
Satan at that time took in the affairs of this world; it was a universal
tendency of the epoch, and it would be more correct to say that Christianity
suffered the influence of it, with all contemporary forms of religion.
The Jewish Messiah had become to Christianity the Saviour of guilty
humanity; therefore the radical antagonism of Satan and the Messiah was
reflected in the first teaching of redemption. It was represented, from
the end of the Becond century, in a grand drama, in which Christ and the
devil were the principal actors. The multitude satisfied themselves with
thinking that Christ, having descended into hell, had, in virtue of the right
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of the strongest, taken from Satan the souls that he was holding captive;
but this coarse idea was refined upon. Irenaeus taught that men, since the
fall, were Satan’s by right; that it would have been unjust on the part of
God to take away from him violently what was his; that consequently
Christ, in the character of a man perfect and independent of the devil, had
offered himself to him to purchase the human race, and that the devil had
accepted the bargain. Soon, however, it was perceived that the devil had
made a very foolish calculation, since Christ had not remained finally in his
power. Origen, whose ecclesiastical teachings we need not always take for
literally exact representations of his real views, took that view which
admitted without repugnance that, in the work of redemption, Christ and
Satan had played their parts most artfully, the latter thinking he should
keep in his power a prey which he preferred to all the human race, Christ
knowing well that he would not remain in his hands. This point of view,
which ended in making Satan the deceived party and Jesus the deceiving,
scandalous as it appears to us, nevertheless made its way, and was long
predominant in the church. We readily perceive that such a manner of
looking at redemption was not likely to diminish the prestige of the devil.
Nothing could increase fear of the enemy like the exaggerated descriptions
given of his power and of the dangers run by those exposed to his attacks;
especially when, by a singular contradiction which the old theology could
never escape, the devil, declared vanquished, overthrown, reduced to power
lessness by the victorious Christ, none the less continued to exercise his
infernal power over the great majority of men. The saints alone could
consider themselves protected from his snares, and even they, according to
the legends, which began to be circulated, how much prudence and energy
had they not used to escape them! Everything felt the influence of this
continual prepossession. Baptism had become an exorcism. To become a
Christian, was to declare that one renounced Satan, his pomps and his
works. To be driven from the church for moral unworthiness or for heter
odoxy, was to be “delivered over to Satan.” It was also during this period
that was developed the doctrine of the fall of the lost angels. On the one
hand, it was thought that demons were meant in that mythical verse in Genesis
which relates that the “sons of God” married the daughters of men, whom
they found beautiful; and, in this supposition, lust was considered as their
own original sin and their constant prompting; on the other hand, and
since this did not explain the previous presence of a bad angel in the
terrestrial paradise, the fall of the rebellious spirit was carried back to the
moment of creation. Augustine thought that, as an effect of the fall, their
bodies previously subtile and invisible, became less etherial. This was the
beginning of the belief in visible appearances of the devil. Then came that
other idea that demons, in order to satisfy their lust, take advantage of the
night to beguile young men and women during their sleep. Hence the
succubi and incubi, which played so great a part in the middle ages. St.
Victorinus, according to the legend, was conquered by the artifice of a
demon which had taken the form of a seductive young girl lost in the woods
in the night. The ordinances of the councils, from the fourth century,
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enjoin on bishops to watch closely those of their diocese who are addicted to
the practice of magic arts, invented by the devil; there is even talk about
vicious women who run about the fields in the night in the train of heathen
goddesses, Diana among others. As yet, however, there was seen in these
imaginary meetings nothing but dreams suggested by Satan to those who gave
him a hold on them by their guilty inclinations.
But soon everything becomes real and material. There is no saint who
does not see the devil appear to him at least once under human form; Saint
Martin even met him so disguised as to resemble Christ. Generally, however,
in his character of angel of darkness, he appears as a man eutirely black,
and it is under this color that he escapes from heathen temples and idols
which the zeal of neophytes has overthrown. At length the idea that one
can make a compact with the devil, to obtain for himself what he most desires,
in exchange for his soul, takes its rise in the sixth century, with the legend
of St. Theophilus. The latter, in a moment of wounded pride, gives Satan a
signed abjuration; but, devoured by remorse, he persuaded the Virgin Mary
to get back the fatal writing from the bad angel. This legendary story,
written especially with the design of spreading the worship of Mary, was
destined to have serious consequences. The devil, in fact, saw his prestige
increase much more when the conversion of the invaders of the empire, and
the missions sent to countries which had never made a part of it, had intro
duced into the bosom of the church a mass of people absolutely ignorant and
still full of polytheism. The church and state, united in the time of Con
stantine and still more in that of Charlemagne, did what they could to refine
the gross spirits under their tutorship; yet, to tell the truth, the temporal
and spiritual princes ought themselves to have been less under the influence
of the superstitions they wished to oppose. If some able popes could allow
their policy to include a certain toleration for customs and errors which it
seemed impossible to uproot, the great majority of bishops and missionaries
firmly believed they were fighting the devil and his host in trying to exterpate polytheism; they instilled the same belief into their converts and in
that way prolonged very much the existence of pagan divinities. The good
old spirits of rural nature were especially tenacious of life. The sacred
legends collect many of them, and comparative mythology recognizes a great
number of ancient Celtic and German gods in the patrons venerated by our
ancestors. For quite a long time, and without its being regarded as a renun
ciation of the Catholic faith, in England, France and Germany, offerings
were presented, either from gratitude or fear, to spirits of the fields and
forests ; the women were especially tenacious of these old customs. As,
nevertheless, the church did not cease to designate as demons and devils all
superhuman beings who were not saints or angels, and as the character of
the ancient gods had after all nothing angelic, a division took place. The
kingdom of the saints was enriched from the good part under new names ;
the kingdom of the demons had the rest. The belief in the devil, which, in
the first centuries, was still somewhat elevated, became decidedly coarse and
stupid. It was in the beginning of the middle ages that people began to
regard certain animals, such as the cat, the toad, the rat, the mouse, the
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History of the Devil.
black dog, and the wolf, as serving, in preference to all others, as symbols,
auxiliaries, and even as a momentary form, for the devil and his servants.
It has been recently shown that ordinarily these animals were consecrated
or sacrificed to the divinities whose places the demons had taken. Recollec
tions of human sacrifices in honor of the ancient gods must be at the base of
the idea that Satan and his slaves are partial to human flesh. The wehrwolf, man-wolf, which devours children, has been succe; sively a god, a devil,
and a sorcerer going to the wizard’s meeting under the form of a wolf, so as
not to be recognized. We all know that there has never been a sorceress
without a cat. A pest too frequent among a population destitute of all
acquaintance with cleanliness, viz., vermin, was also at that time put to the
account of the devil and his servants. It was also about the same time that
the corporeal form of the devil became a fixed idea; it was that of the old
fauns and satyrs, a horned forehead, blobber-lipped mouth, hairy skin, tail,
and the cloven foot of the goat or the hoof of a horse.
We might accumulate here the half-burlesque, half-tragic details ; but we
prefer to note the salient points of the development of the belief. At the
point we have reached, we must look at it under a new light. Among the
Jews of the time directly preceding our era, Satan had become the so-called
adversary of the Messiah, — among the first Christians, the direct antago
nist of the Saviour of men; but in the middle ages Christ is in Heaven, very
high and far away; the living, immediate organism which is to realize his
kingdom on the earth, is the church. Consequently, it is henceforth the
devil and the church which have to do with one another. The faith of the
collier consists in believing what the church believes, and when one asks the
collier what the church believes, the collier responds boldly: “What I
believe.” So, if one asked during that period : “ What does the devil do ? ”
one would have to respond : “What the church does not do.” “ And what
is it that the church does not do?” “ That which the devil does.” This
would tell the whole story. The nocturnal meetings of evil spirits, which
the old councils, called to consider them, dismissed as imaginary, have become
something very real. The Germanic idea of fealty, that is to say, the idea
that fidelity to the sovereign is the first of virtues, as the treason of the
vassal is the greatest of crimes, was introduced into the church, and con
tributed not a little to give to everything which approached infidelity to
Christ the colors of blackest depravity. The sorcerer, however, is as faithful
to his master Satan as the good Christian to his celestial sovereign, and just
as every year vassals come to render homage to their lord, so the liege-men
of the devil hasten to pay him a like honor, sometimes on a fixed day, some
times by special convocation. The flights through the air of sorcerers and
witches, with hair flying wildly, hastening to the nocturnal rendezvous, are
a transformation of the Celtic and German myth of the wild hunt or the great
hunter ; but the master who appointed this rendezvous is a sort of god, and
in the great assemblies of the diabolical tribe they honor him especially by
celebrating the opposite of the mass. They adore the spirit of evil by
changing the ceremonies which were employed to glorify the God of good. The
name itself of sabbath (a term applied to their nocturnal assemblies,) came
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from the confusion which arose between the worship of the devil and the
celebration of a non-catholic worship. The church put in absolutely the
same rank the Jew, the excommunicated, the heretic, and the sorcerer. One
circumstance contributed greatly to that coufusion. Most of the sects which
had revolted from the church, that especially which holds a grand and
wonderful place in our national history, called the heresy of the Albigenses,
were penetrated to a high degree with the old Gnostic and Manichean leaven.
Dualism was the principle of their theology. Hence came the idea that their
religious assemblies, rivals of the mass, were nothing other than the mass
said in hell, and that such is the kind of worship that Satan prefers. If now
we recall with what docility the state allowed itself to be persuaded by the
church that its first duty was to exterminate heretics, we shall no longer find
anything surprising in the rigor of the penal laws declared against the
pretended sorcerers. It is important that the absorbing character of the
belief in the devil during the middle ages be well understood; those who
believe in Satan now-a-days would have difficulty in conceiving what a sway
this belief had. It was the fixed idea of everybody, especially from the
thirteenth to the fifteenth centuries, a period which may be signalized as
having marked the apogee of that superstition. A fixed idea tends, among
those who are possessed with it, to bring over everything to itself. When, for
example, we follow somewhat closely those of our contemporaries who are
devoted to spiritism, we are astonished at the fertility of their imagination
in interpreting in favor of their belief events most insignificant and them
selves indifferent. A door not well closed which half opens, a fly which
describes arabesques in its flight, the falling of an object badly poised, the
cracking of a piece of furniture during the night, is all that is needed to send
them out of sight into space. Let us generalize such a state of mind by
substituting for the innocent illusion of our spiritists the continual interven
tions of the devil, and we shall have quite a good representation of what was
passing in the middle ages. Among the numberless facts and writings which
we could cite, we will mention the Revelations, quite forgotten now-a-days,
but formerly widely known, of the abbé Richeaume or Richalmus, who flour
ished about the year 1270, in Franconia, and who belonged to the order of
Citeaux. The abbé Richeaume attributed to himself a particular gift of
discernment for perceiving and understanding the satellites of Satan, who,
moreover, according to his account, always torment in preference churchmen
and good Christians. What do not these imps of hell make the poor abbé
endure ! From the distractions he may have during mass to the nausea
which too often troubles his digestion, from the false notes of the officiating
precentor to the fits of coughing which interrupt his discourses, all the
annoyances which happen to him are demoniac works. “For example,”
says he to the novice who gives him his cue, “ when I sit down for spiritual
reading, the devils make a desire to sleep seize me. Then it is my custom
to put my hands out of my sleeves so that they may become cold ; but they
bite me under the clothes like a flea, and attract my hand to the place bitten,
so that it becomes warm, and my reading grows careless again.” They like
to disfigure men. To one they give a wrinkled nose, to another hare-lips.
VOL. i.—no. i.
5
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If they perceive that a man likes to close his lips properly, they make his
lower lip hanging. “Stop,” says he to his novice “look at this lip ; for
twenty years a little ilevil has kept himself there, just to make it hang.”
And he goes on in that strain. When the novice asks him if there are many
demons who thus make war on men, abbé Richeaume replies that every one
of us is suriounded by as many demons as a man plunged in the sea has
drops of water around him. Happily the sign of the cross is generally
sufficient to foil their malice, but not always, for they know well the human
heart and know how to reach it through its weaknesses. One day when the
abbé was making his monks pick up stones to build a wall, he heard a young
devil, hidden under the wall, cry out very distinctly: “What distressing
labor!” And he said that only to inspire in the monks a disposition to
complain of the base service imposed on them. To the sign of the cross, it
is often useful to add the effect of holy water and salt. Demons cannot bear
salt. “ When I am at the table and the devil has taken away my appetite,
as soon as I have tasted a little salt, my appetite returns; a little after, it
disappears again, I again take salt, and I am hungry anew.” In the hundred
and thirty chapters of which his Revelations consist, the abbé Richeaume does
nothing but subject thus to his fixed idea the most trivial circumstances of
domestic life, and especially of convent life ; but the popularity which this
book, which appeared after his death, enjoyed, proves that he simply agreed
in opinion with his contemporaries. One might find innumerable parallels
in the literature of the time. The Golden Legend of Jacques de Voraigne,
one of the books most read in the middle ages, will give a sufficient idea
of it.
This continual preoccupation with the devil, had two consequences equally
logical, though of a very opposite character. It had at the same time its comical
and its dark side. By seeing Satan everywhere, people at last became familiar
with him, and by a sort of unconscious protest of mind against imaginary
monsters created by traditional doctrine, they became emboldened to the
point of being quite at ease with his horned majesty. The legends always
showed him so miserably taken in by the sagacity of saints and good priests,
that his reputation for astuteness slowly gave place to a quite contrary fame.
They had even reached the point of believing that it was not impossible to
speculate on the foolishness of the devil. For example, had he not had the
simplicity to furnish to architects in trouble magnificent plans for the con
struction of the cathedrals of Aix-la-Chapelle and Cologne ? It is true that
at Aix he had demanded in recompense the soul of the first person who
should enter t he church, and at Cologne that of the architect himself ; but
he had to do with those more cunning than he. At Aix, they drove with
pikes a she-wolf into the church then recently finished ; at Cologne, the
architect, already in possession of the promised plan, in the place of deliver
ing to Satan a conveyance of his soul in due form, draws suddenly from
beneath his gown a bone of the eleven thousand virgins and brandishes it in
the face of the devil, who decamps uttering a thousand imprecations. The
high part which is assigned to him in the religious theatricals of the middle
ages, is well known. Redemption, in the popular mind, still passed for a
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divine trick, piously played at the expense of the enemy of men. It was
then natural to imagine a host of other cases where Satan was taken in his
own snares. What laughs these discomfitures excited among the good people !
By a thousand indications, one would be tempted to believe that he had
become the character, in the mysteries, the most liked, if not the most
agreeable. The others had their part entirely marked out by tradition;
with him, one could anticipate something unexpected. We see him, too,
represent for a long time the comic element of the religious drama. In
France, where the people have always liked to subject the theatre to exact
rules, there was a class of popular pieces called deviltries, coarse and often
obscene masquerades in which at least four devils were to struggle together.
Hence comes, it appears, the expression, “faire le diable d quatre.” In
Germany, too, the devil becomes humorous on the stage. There is an old
Saxon mystery of the passion where Satan repeats, like a mocking echo, the
last words of Judas hanging himself; then, when, according to the sacred
tradition, the entrails of the traitor are burst out, he gathers them in a
basket, and, carrying them away, signs an article appropriate to the
circumstances.
This, however, did not prevent a general distressing fear of the devil. At
the theatre, during the middle ages, one was in a certain sense at church.
There, nothing hindered one from deriding at pleasure the detested being
whose artifices were powerless against the actors of the holy representations ;
but people could not pass their lives listening to mysteries, and the daily
realities were not slow in restoring to him all his prestige. Naturally, the
number of individuals suspected of some kind of intercourse with Satan must
have been enormous. This was the first idea that came into the mind of any
one who did not know how to explain the success of an adversary or the
prosperous issue of an audacious enterprise. Enguerrand de Marigny, the
templars, our poor Joan of Arc, and many other illustrious victims of polit
ical hatred, were convicted of sorcery. Popes themselves, such as John
XXII., Gregory VII., Clement V., incurred the same suspicion. At the same
time, we see appear the idea that the compacts concluded with the devil are
signed with the blood of the sorcerer, in order that it may be firmly cove
nanted that his person, his entire life, belongs henceforth to the infernal
master. At this time, also, an old Italian superstition was revived, the idea
of causing the death of those one hates by mutilating or piercing little
images of wax of the person designated, which had been bewitched. There
were councils purposely to proceed rigorously against sorcery, which was
thought to be spread in every direction. Pope John XXII., himself accused
of sorcery, declares, in a bull of 1317, the bitter grief caused him by the
compacts concluded with the devil by his physicians and courtiers, who draw
other men into the same impious relation. From the thirteenth century, they
proceeded against the crime of sorcery just as against the most henious
offences, and popular ignorance was only too well disposed to furnish food to
the zeal of the inquisitors. Toulouse saw the first sorceress burned. This
was Angela de Labarbte, a noble lady, fifty-six years of age, who took part in
that special character in the grand auto-da-fe in that city, in 1275. At
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Carcassone.from 1320 to 1350, more than four hundred executions for the crime
of sorcery are mentioned as having taken place. Nevertheless those bloody
horrors had even in the fourteenth century a local character; but in 1484
an act of Pope Innocent VIII. extended over all Christendom this terrible
procedure. Then began throughout all Catholic Europe that mournful
pursuit of sorcerers which marks the paroxysm of the belief in the devil,
which concentrates and condenses it for more than three cent uries, and which,
yielding at last under the reprobation of modern conscience, was to carry
away with it the faith of which it was the issue.
III.
In the fifteenth century, a momentary relaxing of orthodox fanaticism
rendered the task of inquisitors quite difficult in what concerned heresy
properly so called. It seems that on the banks of the Rhine, as in France,
people began to weary of the insatiable vampire which threatened everybody
and cured none of the evils of the church, which had employed it as an heroic
remedy. The faith in the church itself as a perfect and infallible institution,
was in peril, and the inquisitors complained to the Holy See of the increas
ing difficulties which the local powers and the local clergy opposed to them;
but those even who questioned the church and inclined to toleration of
religious opinion did not mean to give free course to the wiles of the devil
and his agents. Then appeared the famous bull Summis desiderantes, by
which Innocent VIII. added to the powers of the officers of the inquisition
that of prosecuting the authors of sorcery, and applying to them the rules
which until then had affected only depravatio heretica. Long is the list of
witchcrafts enumerated by the pontificial bull, from tempests and devasta
tion of crops to fates cast upon men and women to prevent them from
perpetuating the human species. Armed with this bull which fulminated
against the refractory the most severe penalties, which was strengthened by
other functions of the same origin and same tendency, the inquisitors Henry
Institoris and Jacob Sprenger, prepared that Hammer of sorceries, — Malleus
maleficarum, — which was a long time for all Europe the classical code of
procedure to be followed against individuals suspected of sorcery. This
book received the pontificial sanction, the approbation of the emperor
Maximilian, and that of the theological faculty of Cologne. The reading of
this dull and wearisome treatise cannot fail to cause a shudder. This pro
longed study of the false held for the true, these perpetual sophisms, the
pedantic simplicity with which the authors recall everything which can give
a shadow of appearance of truth to their bad dreams, the cold cruelty which
dictates their proceedings and their judgments, everything would fill the
modern reader with repulsion, if he had not the duty of indicting at the bar
of history one of the most lamentable aberrations which have falsified the
conscience of humanity. We find an answer to everything in this frightful
conjuring-book. We see there why the devil gives his servants the power to
change themselves reali transformatione et essentialiter to wolves and other
dreadful beasts, why it is a heresy to deny sorcery, how the incubi and
succubi manage to attain their ends, quomodo procreant, why one has never
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seen so many sorcerers as at the present time, why David drove the torment
ing demon from Saul by showing him his harp, which resembled a cross, etc.
If there are more sorceresses than sorcerers, it is because women believe
more in the promises of Satan than men do, it is because the fluidity of their
temperament renders them more fitted to receive revelations, it is in short
that women, being weaker, readily have recourse to supernatural means to
satisfy their vengeance or their sensuality. Recipes of every sort arc
recommended to wise persons to guard themselves from the spells that may
be thrown over them. The sign of the cross, the holy water, the judicious
use of salt, and of the name of the holy Trinity, constitute the principal
exorcisms. The sound of church bells is also regarded as a defence of great
power, and it is therefore well to have them rung during tempestuous storms,
for, by driving away the demons which cannot bear this sacred sound, they
prevent them from continuing their work of perturbation. This supersti
tious custom, which has been perpetuated to our times, clearly denotes a
confounding of the demons of the church and the ancient divinities of the
t hunder and of tempests.
What especially commands attention, is the criminal procedure developed
by the authors, and which beoome law everywhere. They are exactly imi
tated from those which the inquisition had instituted against heretics.
Sorcery, arising from a compact with the devil supposing the abjuration of
the baptismal vow, is a sort of apostacy, a heresy in the first degree.
Denunciations without proof are admitted. . . It is even sufficient that
public rumor call the attention of the judge to the matter. All who present
themselves, even the infamous, even the personal enemies of the sorceress,
are permitted to give evidence. The pleadings must be summary, and as
much as possible relieved from useless formalities. The accused must be
minutely questioned, until there are found in the details of her life some
thing to strengthen the suspicions which press upon her. The judge is not
obliged to name to her the informers against her. She can have one
defender, who must know no more of the matter than she, and who must
limit himself to the defence of the person incriminated, but not of her
criminal acts; otherwise the defender will be in his turn suspected. The
acknowledgment of the guilty person must be obtained by torture, as well
as the declaration of all the circumstances relating to her heinous crime.
Still one may promise her security of life, free not to keep that promise
(so the text says), on condition that confession is complete and prompt.
Torture is repeated every three days, and the judge is to take all suitable
precautions that the effect of it may not be neutralized by some charm
hidden in some secret part of the body of the accused. He must even avoid
looking her in the face, for sorceresses have been seen endowed, by the
devil, with a power such that the judge whose glance they were able to
catch no longer felt the strength to condemn them. When at length she is
well and duly convicted, she is given over to the secular arm, which is to
lead her off to death without farther parley.
It is easy to see from this cursory view that the unfortunate women who
fell into the clutches of this terrible tribunal, had only to abandon hope at
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the door of their prison. Nothing is more afflicting than a careful review
of the proceedings for sorcery. The women are always, as the inquisitors
learnedly explain, in the majority. Hatreds, jealousies, desires for revenge,
above all suspicions inspired by want and ignorance, could have free course
and did not allow the opportunity to escape them. Often, too, unfortunate
women were victims of their own imagination, over-excited by a hysterical
temperament, or by the terrors of eternal torment. Those in our times who
have been able to examine closely the cases of mania religiosa, know with
what readiness women especially believe themselves the objects of divine
reprobation, and fatally given over to the power of the devil. All those
unfortunates, who to-day are treated with extreme gentleness in special
institutions, then were obliged to pass for possessed or sorceresses, and
what is frightful is that many seriously supposed themselves to be so.
Many related that they had really been to the witches’ meeting, that they
had there given themselves up to the most degrading debauches. How many
like confessions aggravated afterwards the position of those who denied with
the firmness of innocence the disgraceful acts of which they were accused!
Torture was there to draw from them what they refused to tell, and thus the
conviction became rooted in the spirit of judges even relatively humane and
equitable, that besides crimes committed by natural means there was a
whole catalogue of heinous offences so much the more dreadful as their
origin was supernatural. How could one show too much rigor to such
criminals ?
In the single year 1485, and in the single district of Worms, eighty-five
witches were committed to the flames. At Geneva, at Basle, at Hamburg,
at Ratisbonne, at Vienna, and in a multitude of other cilies, there were
executions of the same kind. At Hamburg, among others, they burned
alive a physician who had saved a woman in confinement abandoned by the
midwife. In 1523, in Italy, and after a new bull against sorcery issued by
pope Adrian VI. the single diocese of Coma saw more than a hundred
witches burn. In Spain, it was still worse: in 1527, two little girls, from
nine to eleven years old, denounced a number of witches whom they pre
tended to recognize by a sign in the left eye. In England and Scotland,
government took part in the matter; Mary Stuart was particularly hostile
to witches. In France, the parliament of Paris in 1390, had the fortunate
idea of taking away that sort of business from the ecclesiastical tribunal,
and under Louis XI., Charles VIII., and Louis XII., there was scarcely any
condemnation under the head of sorcery; but from the time of Francis I.,
and especially of Henry II., the scourge re-appeared. A man of a real
merit in other respects, but literally a madman on the subject of sorcerers,
Jean Bodin, communicated his madness to all classes in the nation. His
contemporary and disciple, Boguet, communicates in a lengthy article the
fact that France is swarming with sorcerers and witches. “They multiply
in the land, said he, like caterpillars in our gardens. I wish they were all
put in one body to have them burned at once and by one single fire.”
Savoy, Flanders, the mountains of the Jura, Lorraine, Bfearn, Provence,
almost all our provinces witnessed frightful hecatombs. In the seventeenth
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century, the demoniac fever abated, but not without partial returns espe
cially among convents of hysterical nuns. Everybody is acquainted with
the frightful stories of the priests Ganfridy and Urbain Grandier. In
Germany, above all in the southern part, the punishment of sorcerers was
still more frequent. There is a certain insignificant principality in which
two hundred and forty-two persons at least were burned from the year 1640
to 1651. Tale to make one shudder! we find in the official accounts of these
tortures, that there were children from one to six years old among the
victims! In 1697, Nicolas Remy boasted having caused nine hundred persons
to be burned in fifteen years. It appears even that it was to the proceedings
against sorcerers that Germany owed the introduction of the torture as an
ordinary judicial means of discovering the truth.
Prof. Roskoff has
reproduced a catalogue of the executions of sorcerers and witches in the
episcopal city of Würzbourg, in Bavaria, until 1629, in all thirty-one execu
tions, without counting some others that the authors of the catalogue have
not regarded as sufficiently important to be mentioned. The number of
victims, at each of these executions, varies from two to seven. Many are
indicated only by a nick-name: ‘‘the big hunch-back,” “the Sweet-heart,”
“the Bridge-keeper,” “the old Pork-Butcheress,” etc. We find there all
professions and all ranks, actors, workmen, jugglers, city and country girls,
rich bourgeois, nobles, students, even magistrates, as well as quite a large
number of priests. Several are simply marked, “a foreigner,” “a foreign
woman.” Here and there the one who prepares the list adds to the name of
the person condemned his age and a short notice. Thus we notice among the
victims of the twentieth execution, “Babelin, the prettiest girl in Würz
bourg,” “a student who knew how to speak every language, who was an
excellent musician vocaliter et instrumentaliter,” and “the director of the alms
house, a very learned man.” We find also in this mournful catalogue the
heart-rending account of children burned as sorcerers ; here a little girl
from nine to ten years with her little sister still younger (their mother was
burned soon after), boys of from ten to twelve years, a young girl of fifteen,
two alms-house children, the little son of a judge. The pen refuses to
recount such monstrous excesses.
Will those who wish to admit
the correctness of the doctrine of the infallibility of the popes, before giving
in their vote, listen, in the presence of God and history to the cries of the
poor innocents cast into the fire by pontifical bulls?
The seventeenth century, nevertheless, saw the proceedings against sorcer
ers and especially their punishment gradually diminish. Louis XIV., in one of
his better moments, mitigated greatly, in 1675, the rigors of that special
legislation. Yet for that he was obliged to endure the unanimous remon
strance of the parliament of Rouen, which thought society would be ruined,
if the sorcerers were only condemned to perpetual solitary confinement.
The fact is that belief in sorcerers was still sufficiently general for single
executions to take place from time to time, even throughout the eighteenth
century. One of the last and most famous was that of the lady-superior of
the cloister of Unterzell, near Würzbourg, Renata Soenger, (1749.) At
Landshut, in Bavaria, in 1756, a young girl of thirteen years was put to
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History of the Devil.
death, having been convicted of having had impure intercourse with the
devil. Seville, in 1781, Glaris, in 1783, saw the last two examples known of
this fatal madness.
IV.
People have sometimes used as a weapon against Christianity, these bloody
horrors, ulteriorly due, they say, to a belief which Christianity alone had
instilled into persons who, without it, would never have entertained such a
belief. This point of view is superficial and not supported by history. The
blame lies primarily with the dualistic point of view, which is much anterior
to Christianity and has outlived it. Pagan antiquity had its necromancers,
its magicians, its old stryges, lamias et verifier, which were not dreaded less
than our witches. We have shown that dualism is inherent in all the relig
ions of nature; that, having attained their complete development, these
religions end, as in Persia, in India, and even in the last evolutions of
Graeco-Roman paganism, by an eminently dualistic conception of the forces
or divinities which direct the course of things ; that the Jewish Satan owes,
not his personal origin but his growth and entire degradation td his contact
with the Persiah Ahriman; that the Christian Satan and his demons have in
turn inherited the worst characteristics and most frightful symbolical formp
of the conquered divinities. In reality, the devil of the middle ages is at
once pagan, Jewish and Christian. He is Christian, because his peculiar
domain is moral evil, the physical ills of which he is the author arising only
in consequence of his passionate desire to corrupt souls, and these
giving themselves up to him only with guilty intent. He is Jewish in
this sense that his power, however great it might be, could not pass the
limits it pleased divine omnipotence to mark out for it. Finally, it is Pagan
by everything which it preserves of ancient polytheistic beliefs. We have a
right to regard the faith in demons, as it came out in the middle ages, as
the retribution of paganism, or, if we please, as the unabsorbed residue of
the old polytheism perpetuating itself under other forms.
That which prolonged the reign of Satan and his demons, was not. alone
the authority of the church, it was above all the state of mind which the
labors pretending to be scientific, of all the period anterior to Bacon and
Descartes, reveal, even to a period approaching ours. There was no real
knowledge of nature: the idea of the inviolability of its laws was yet to
appear. Alchemy, astrology and medicine regularly ministered to magic;
they recognized, as much as did contemporary theology, hidden forces,
talismans, the power of magic words, and impossible transmutations. Even
after the renaissance what a confused mystical medley the physiological
doctrines of Cardan, of Paracelsus, of Van Helmont! The general state of
mind, determined in great part by the church I acknowledge, but by the
church itself under the influence of the ruling ideas, must have been the
true cause of that long series of follies and abominations which constitute
the history of the devil in the middle ages and in modern times. It is an
evidence of this that, in a time and in countries where the church was still
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very powerful and very intolerant, the belief in the devil visibly drooped,
declined, suffered repeated assault.«, and fell slowly into ridicule, without
any notable persecution having signaled this very serious change in the
ideas of enlightened Europe. The old stories pretended that the most
tumultuous witch-meetings vanished like smoke at sunrise; in truth, the old
Btories did not know how far the future would show them to be right.
The two great facts which, modifying profoundly the general state of
mind, brought about this irremediable decline, were the indirect influence
of the Reformation and the progress of rationalistic science. Some will
perhaps be astonished that I mention the Reformation. The reformers of
the sixteenth century did not at all combat faith in the devil. Luther himself
held to it strongly, and so did most of his friends. Calvin was obliged by a
certain dryness of mind, by his distrust of everything which gave too much
play to the imagination, to remain always very sober in speaking of a subject
which made the best heads delirious ; but he nevertheless shared the common
ideas in regard to Satan and his power, and enounced them more than once.
We should speak also of an indirect influence, which was nevertheless very
strong. That which, among people which adopted the Reformation, gave a
first and very sensible blow to his infernal majesty, was that in virtue of the
principles it proclaimed, they had no longer any fear at all of him. The idea
which had so much power among protestants of the sixteenth century, of the
absolute sovereignty of God, that idea which they push even to the paradox
of predestination, very soon led them no longer to see in Satan anything but
an instrument of the divine will, in his actions only means of which it
pleased God to make use in order to realize his secret plans. In pursuance
of this faith, the Christian had now only to despise the rebellious angel,
wholly powerless against the elect. It is known how Luther received him
when he came to make him a visit at the Wai tbourg. The simplicity of
worship, and the denial of the supernatural powers hitherto delegated to
the clergy, also contributed much to dissipate the delusion in the minds of
the simple. No more exorcisms, neither at baptism, nor in the supposed
cases of demoniacal possession ; no more of those scenic displays which
terrified the imagination, in which the priest, brandishing the brush for
sprinkling holy water, fought with the demon, who replied with frightful
blasphemies. No one henceforth believes in incubi or succubi. If there is
still from time to time talk of persons being possessed, prayer and moral
exhortation are the only remedies practiced, and soon nothing is more rare
than to hear demoniacs spoken of among these peoples. The idea that the
miracles related in the Bible are the only true ones, illogical as it may be,
nevertheless made people accustomed to living without daily hoping or fear
ing them. Now the miracles of the devil are the first to suffer from this
beginning of a decline of the belief in the supernatural. Satan then becomes
again purely what he was in the first century, and even less still, a tempting
spirit, invisible, impalpable, whose suggestions must be repulsed, and from
whom moral regeneration alone delivers, but delivers surely. They cannot
even longer keep for him his old part in the drama of redemption. Every
thing now depends on the relation between the faithful man and his God. In
�74
History of the. Devil.
a word, without any one thinking yet of denying the existence and the
power of Satan, while even making great use of his name in popular teach
ing and preaching, the Reformation sends him slowly back to an abstract,
ideal sphere, without any very clear relation to real life. We might consider
him only as a convenient personification of the power of moral evil in the
world, without changing at all protestant piety. French Catholicism in its
finest period, that is to say in the seventeenth century, feeling much more than
is generally supposed the influence of the Reformation, presents a quite
similar characteristic. With what sobriety its most illustrious representa
tives, Bossuet, F6n61on, preachers even such as Bourdaloue, treat this part
of catholic doctrine ! Good taste among them took the place of rationalism,
and who is astonished in reading them, that a Louis XIV., who nevertheless '
was not tender when a question of religion was at stake, was able to show
himself skeptical on the subject of sorcery and less superstitious than the
gentlemen of Rouen ?
Even in the times of the greatest ignorance, there were skeptics in regard
to sorcerers and witches. The Lombard law, by a remarkable exception,
had interdicted prosecutions against the masks (thus sorcerers were called
in Italy). A king of Hungary, of theeleventh century, had declared that they
need not be mentioned, for the simple reason that there were none. An
archbishop of Lyons, Agobard, had ranked belief in witches’ meetings among
the absurdities bequeathed by paganism to the ignorant. The Hammer of
Sorceresses must certainly have had in view adversaries who denied sorcery
and even the intervention of the devil in human affairs, when it demonstrated
both by a grand array of scholastic arguments. At the time when condem
nations for the crime of covenanting with the devil were most frequent, there
was a worthy Jesuit by the name of Spee, with whom the feelings of human
ity prevailed against the spirit of his order. Charged with the guidance of
souls in Franconia, be had been obliged to accompany to the stake, in the
space of a few years, more than two hundred alleged sorcerers. One day the
archbishop of Mayence, Philip of Schoenborn, had asked him why his hair
was already becoming grey, although he was scarcely thirty years old.
“ From grief,” he replied, “ because of so many sorcerers that I have been
obliged to prepare for death and of whom not one was guilty.” It was from
him that arose a Cautio criminalis, printed without the author’s name iri 1631,
which, without denying sorcery nor even the legitimacy of the legal penalties
declared against it, adjures the inquisitors and magistrates to multiply
precautions so as not to condemn to death so many innocent. Before him,
Jean Weicar, attached to the person of William of Cleves, had written, to the
same purpose, a work quite learned for the time, the fruit of distant voyages
and numerous observations, in which, while fully admitting the reality of
magic, he denied the so-called sorcery, and violently accused the clergy of
keeping up popular superstitions by making good people believe that the
evils from which they could not deliver them had their origin in sorcerers
sold to the devil. There was courage in using such language in such times.
To take the position of defender of sorcerers, was to expose one’s self to be
accused of sorcery, and it is not rare to find in these sad annals examples of
�History of the Devil.
75
judges and priests victims of their humanity or their equity, that is to say
condemned and burned with those they had attempted to save. The French
physician Gabriel NaudS, undertook, in the support of the same course of
ideas, his Apology of the Men accused of Magic (1669) ; but the causes, of whose
slow influence we have written, had not yet transformed minds so that they
were capable of emancipating themselves from the devil. A radical demoli
tion of the edifice was necessary on the one side, and on the other a religious
justification of that destruction. There as elsewhere, progress could take
place in a powerful manner only on condition of adding to arguments of a
purely rational sort, the sanction of religious feeling. Otherwise general
opinion divides itself into two camps which continually hold each other in
check, and maintain a menacing attitude without accomplishing anything.
That which had come through the church was to take its departure through
the church. The honor of having inflicted a decisive blow on the diabolical
superstition is due to the Holland pastor Balthazar Bakker, who entered
the lists, no longer simply in the name of good sense or humanity, but as a
theologian, and published his famous book entitled The Enchanted World
(1691-1693). Four thousand copies sent forth in two months, the rapid
translation of this huge work into all the languages of Europe, the ardent
controversies which it aroused and which it has alone survived in the
memory of posterity, all these show what an epoch this book made.
Assuredly the demonstrations of the Dutch theologian would not all have
the same value in our eyes. For example, not yet daring to emancipate
himself from Scripture, considered by him as an infallible authority, he
twists and turns the texts to eliminate from them the doctrine of a personal
devil mingling in the thoughts and actions of men. Nevertheless, he calls
attention to many details not remarked before him, which prove that biblical
teaching about the devil is neither fixed, nor consistent, nor in conformity
to the opinions of the middle ages. He submits to merciless criticism all
the arguments commonly used to support the popular prejudice in regard to
facts drawn from experience. His discussion of the case of Urbain Grandier,
and of the Ursulines of London, which was still fresh in every mind, must
have especially struck his readers.
A fact like that, which one could
analyze and discuss with evidences at hand, threw a clear light on a large
number of other facts older and more obscure, to which the partisans of the
devil constantly appealed. For the first time, too, universal history was
brought into requisition to exhibit the incontestable filiation of the polythe
istic and Christian beliefs in demons. The whole spirit of the book is
expressed in these aphorisms from the latter part. “There is no sorcery
except where people believe in it; do not believe in it, and there will be no
more.” “Rid yourselves of all those superannuated and silly fables, but
exercise yourselves in piety.” It was a true prophecy; but it was not given
to the author to see it realized. To his disrespect for Satan, he added the
wrong then very serious in the eyes of Dutch orthodoxy, of being a zealous
Cartesian. He was accordingly removed by a synod, and died a little after;
but they could not remove his book, which made its way quite alone, and
with great effect. Indeed, from that time the cause of the devil may be
�76
History of the Devil.
considered as lost in scientific theology. The progress of the human mind
in acquaintance with nature and modern philosophy did the rest.
The scientific spirit, such as it has become since Bacon and Descartes, no
longer admits those hasty conclusions which so readily gained the assent of
the centuries when imagination ruled, when the readiness a man exhibited
in expressing an opinion upon the most obscure subjects was in direct pro
portion to his ignorance. The experimental method, which is the only true
one, obtains as much strength for the theses it verifies, as it inspires mistrust
of everything out of its field of examination. Doubtless there are necessary
truths which we cannot make enter the crucible of experience; however,
they atone for that inconvenience by their close connection wtih our nature,
our life, and our conscience. If, for example, one could say that belief in
the devil recommends itself by its high moral utility, that it makes those
better who share it, that it elevates characters by rendering them more
chaste, more courageous, more devoted, there would yet be respectable
motives for trying to save it from the formidable attacks of modern reason;
but quite the contrary is the case. A belief in the devil tends necessarily to
blunt the feeling of individual responsibility. If I do evil, not because I am
bad, but because another has forced me to it by a power superior to my own
will, my culpability is certainly lessened, if not annihilated. We have just
seen the deplorable superstitions, the dangerous follies, the horrible crimes
of which that belief was so long the inspirer. What is evidence against
sorcery, will perhaps be said, is not evidence against a personal genius of
evil from whom men have to defend themselves as from an enemy continually
around them to drive them to evil. Let us nevertheless reflect that sorcery
is not so detached in principle from that belief whose daughter it is. The
devil once admitted, the sorcerer follows quite naturally. If there really
exists a personal being, in possession of superhuman powers, seeking, as is
said, to ruin us morally for his private satisfaction, is it not evident that, in
order better to succeed, he will try to entice weak souls by furnishing them
the means of procuring for themselves what they most desire? Not without
reason did the belief in the devil reach its full development in a belief in
sorcerers; and the latter, having given way before experience, necessarily
drew down in its ruin the belief in the devil himself. If there is truly a
devil, there are sorcerers, and, since there are no sorcerers, it is clear that
there is no devil; this the combined good sense of the last three centuries
authorizes us to conclude, and this conclusion will forever await its
refutation.
The eighteenth century made the mistake of imagining that to destroy
traditional beliefs it was sufficient to throw ridicule on them. When a
belief which has been ridiculed for some time has deep roots in human
consciousness, it easily survives the sarcasms of which it has been the
object, and the time comes when these sarcasms no longer excite a laugh,
because they chill the dearest feelings of religious minds, and the good taste
of the refined; but, as to the devil, the laugh of the eighteenth century has
remained victorious. It is in fact because the devil is ridiculous. That
being whom they pretend is so cunning, so mischievous, so learnedly ego-
�History of the Devil.
tistic, and who strives eternally in the wearisome business of corrupting
souls, ends by being very foolish. Looked at thus close at hand, brought
down from the heights where poetry and mysticism have been able some
times to place him, put face to face with the bare reality, Satan is .just
simply stupid and since people have clearly felt that it has been impossible
to do him the honor of admitting his real existence. We could prolong this
retrospective study of works which continued through all the eighteenth
century, and are still continuing in our days, a contest henceforth useless.
Since the real constitution of the universe has dissipated the illusions
which served as an indispensable accompaniment to the person of the old
Satan, viz.: a closed heaven, subterranean hell, and the earth between;
since people have been obliged to recognize the universal presence and
everywhere active life of God in all things, there is no longer, in truth, any
place for him in the world. There is nothing so distressing and puerile, as
the efforts of some reactionary theologians, in Germany and elsewhere, to
give back a shadow of reality to the old phantom, without falling into the
gross superstitions which decidedly orthodox reaction itself can no longer
digest. In vain one seeks to preserve for him a place, in the least honor
able, in some doctrinal treatises or pious songs. The sane portion of the
clergy and people shrug their shoulders or are annoyed. Satan is still per
mitted to be an expression, a type, a symbol consecrated by religious
language, but that is all. As to giving him any place whatever in the laws,
the customs, in real life, there is no longer any question about it.
Is there, nevertheless, nothing at all to draw from this long-continued
error, which holds so considerable a place in the history of religions, and
even goes back to their origin? Must we avow that on this subject the
human mind has nourished itself for so many centuries with the absolutely
false? That cannot be. There must necessarily have been something in
human nature which pleaded in its favor and maintained for so many genera
tions a faith contrary to experience. I will not say, as do some thinkers,
that it was the ease with which that doctrine of the devil permitted the
problem of the origin of evil to be resolved, for it resolved nothing. It
carried back to heaven the problem that was thought insoluble on earth;
but what was gained thereby ? That which has maintained a belief in the
devil, that which, indeed, constitutes the eternal foundation of it, is rather
the power of evil in us and outside of us. I admire the singular tranquility
of mind with which all our French philosophers look at that question, or
rather forget it, to launch out in eloquent phrases on free will. Let us then
put ourselves face to face with realities. The fact is that the best among us
is a hundred leagues from the ideal which he proposes to himself, that he is
too weak to realize it, and that he acknowledges this when he is sincere.
Another fact still is, that we are every moment determined toward evil by
the social influences which surround us, and that very few have the desired
energy to react victoriously against the corrupt streams which hurry them
away. We need not fall into the excess of theologians who have taught the
total depravity of human nature, even too, marking out for it the way of
regeneration, as if miracle itself were capable of regenerating a nature
�78
History of the Devil.
totally corrupt. Observation attests that we are selfish, but capable of
loving; naturally sensual, but not less naturally drawn by the splendor of
the true and the good; very imperfect, but capable of improvement. The
first condition of progress is to feel what we need. To live in harmony with
conscience, one must know how to triumph over the assaults which selfish
pleasures of sense, which flesh and blood, the world and its allurements, gives
us into the power of at every moment. That is the diabolical power from
which we should emancipate ourselves. In one sense, we might say that we
are all more or less possessed. Error comes in as soon as we desire to per
sonify this power of evil. When theists say that God is personal, they do
not fail to recognize what there is defective in the idea of personality bor
rowed from our human nature; but as it is impossible to conceive another
mode of existence than personality and impersonality, as God must possess
every perfection, they say, for want of something better, that he is personal
because he is perfect, and that an impersonal perfection is a contradiction.
Evil, on the contrary, which is the opposite of the perfect, is necessarily
impersonal. It is against its pernicious seductions, against its always fatal
enchantments that it is necessary to struggle in order that our true human
personality, our moral personality, may disengage itself, victorious, from
the vile surroundings where it must grow. It is on that condition that it
attains the pure regions of liberty and of impregnable morality, where
nothing which resembles Satan can longer trouble the ascent towards God.
That is all that remains of the doctrine of the devil, but also all that concerns
our moral health, and which we ought never to forget.
Albert Reville.
�Rev. Mr. Abbot at Toledo.
79
REV. MR. ABBOT AT TOLEDO.
Early in the summer we heard that our friend Abbot, whom we deem not
less worthy of love and honor as a Christian apostle, albeit he calls himself
“outside of Christianity,” than any other man among living religious
leaders, was likely to have a break down with his society at Toledo, though
possibly he might be able to succeed with his weekly paper, The Index. It
was also told us that originally he had crept in privily and stolen a society
and a meeting-house which belonged to regular Unitarianism, and which
were in honor mortgaged to the American Unitarian Association on account
of money paid by it in aid of the society. Knowing that the part of this
information reflecting upon Mr. Abbot must have an explanation honorable
to him, we surmised that the other might also change face upon investiga
tion, and resolved to go and see for ourselves. We went at the end of June,
and spent two days in Toledo, with exceeding satisfaction.
The once Unitarian, and now Independent, society to which Mr.
Abbot preaches, was never aided by the American Unitarian Association.
It twice came near it, and would have put its neck under the yoke, but for
a single circumstance, which was the refusal of the society to accept aid on the
conditions proposed by the American Unitarian Association. Twice in its history
this people, before ever they had heard of Mr. Abbot, had declined to accept
aid as a Unitarian society, lest at some future day they might find tlieir inde
pendence hampered by the implicit pledge thus given. This special provi
dence prepared Mr. Abbot’s way in Toledo. It was but one out of many
which plainly enough show that the Lord is with him.
When Mr. Abbot was asked to go to Toledo to preach a few Sundays, he
wrote a letter stating conditions which he thought would not be accepted,
inasmuch as they included a frank avowal of his most offensive heresies.
This letter was read to a number of the society together, and was then
passed from hand to hand, to anybody who wished to see it. The statement
that it was suppressed, and people kept in ignorance of Mr. Abbot’s views,
is wholly baseless. Moreover, Rev. Mr. Camp, the former pastor, meddlesomely and maliciously towards Mr. Abbot, wrote to a member of the
society against him, and this immoral document circulated freely. Mr.
Abbot came July 3, 18G9, and preached several Sundays with more than his
usual frankness and boldness. What ground he took may be seen by turning
to the masterly discourses in the early numbers of The Index. July 11,
his topic was, “What is Christianity?” July 18, “What is Free Relig
ion?” July 25, “Christianity and Free Religion contrasted as to CornerStones”; August 1, “Christianity and Free Religion contrasted as to
Institutions, Terms of Fellowship, Social Ideal, Moral Ideal, and Essential
Spirit”; August 8, “The Practical Work of Free Religion”; and having
made this full and frank disclosure of his renunciation of Christianity, as
�80
Rev. Mr. Abbot at Toledo.
he deemed and proposed it, for Free Religion, he announced, in view of a
nearly or quite unanimous disposition to give him a call to settle, that such
a step would he of no use unless the society would adopt a preamble and
resolutions offered by him (see No. 7 of The Index), and thereby leave
Unitarian Christianity for Free Religion. His reasons for insisting on this,
Mr. Abbot gave in his discourse of August 15, entitled “ Unitarianism
versus Freedom.” A week later, by a vote of 39 to 18, the preamble and
resolutions were adopted, and “The First Unitarian Society of Toledo,” by
its own free act, became the “First Independent Society of Toledo,” outside
of Unitarian Christianity. That the 18 nays did not represent much hostil
ity to Mr. Abbot is shown by the significant fact that the motion immediately
made to give him a call passed by a vote of 60 to 2. And had there been
from that moment no unscrupulous meddling, Mr. Abbot would have carried
along with him all who joined in this call. It was in consequence of outside
interference that a minority which had joined in the vote to accept Mr.
Abbot's ministry, finally seceded from him. This interference came from the
Unitarian headquarters and from Rev. Mr. Camp, and those who took part
in it have no shadow of ground for their assertion that either Mr. Abbot or
his adherents acted in any but the most open and honorable manner.
We preached to Mr. Abbot’s congregation, saw his Sunday School, con
versed with members of his society, and learned all about what has been and
what is the state of things there, and can gay emphatically that the local
movement has been from the first and still continues to be a remarkable
success. The society had just set out upon a new year, with renewed evi
dences of their hearty devotion to Mr. Abbot. The congregation proved to
be more than double what we had been told it was, and as interesting and
Christian in appearance as any we ever saw. Constant labors of charity, and
benefactions widely and generously bestowed, attest the practical Christian
spirit which, to an unusual extent, pervades it. If any comparison is to be
drawn, we should say that the entire Unitarian body is more likely to be
expunged from contemporary history than Mr. Abbot to come to a break
down in Toledo. At the moment of this writing we learn that the publica
tion of The Index is guaranteed foi- a second year, by the parties in Mr.
Abbot’s society who suggested this enterprise, and who have stood behind it
thus far. The Toledo apostleship is genuine. Good men and women gather
to its support, and the good Lord does not have to go out of his way to seal
it with his blessing. We heartily commend it to all who value truth, of
character and of teaching, and earnestly ask our more liberal contempora
ries to lend their aid to the support of our noble friend. Send him money
outright, and bid him good-speed with his work; for he is the servant of all
of us, and in justice should have our sympathy and help. His attempt to
“stand squarely outside of Christianity” is, in our judgment, a sort of
Messianic mistake, but we no less believe in his mission and urge his support.
Such truth of character we but rarely find; such pure and perfect intellec
tual love of truth only the noblest minds of the race are capable of; and by
“outside of Christianity” he means precisely what the most enlightened
Christians signify by Christianity itself.
He fully accepts the universal
�81
Our Religious Purpose.
element of Christianity, its religion, and only rejects the special element,
its Christism, and calls this rejecting Christianity, which it is not, if there
is any truth in the radical method of interpretation, the very point of which
is that it uncovers the living truth of any system, plants itself on that, and
from that rejects whatever in the special element is not consistent with the
universal. In our next issue we shall show that Mr. Abbott is purely and
rigorously Christian, in the true religious sense, and all the more so for his
rejection of Jesuism, and might as well announce himself outside the solar
system as outside true Christianity.
It concerns Christian interests mightily to be reconciled with such burn
ing and shining truth as every candid observer must see in Mr. Abbot. In
intellectual interest he stands with the leaders of our generation, and does
not suffer by comparison with such elder masters as Emerson, Spencer, and
Mill. He is now but thirty-two years of age, and six years ago he had
attracted the attention of the most distinguished philosophical inquirers and
teachers in this country and abroad, as a philosophical writer of great
originality and power. Men of nearly or quite twice his years, philosoph
ical thinkers of repute on the other side of the Atlantic, have sent to him, a
mere youth except in commanding intellectual power, for his judgment upon
their merits as candidates for distinguished philosophical positions. The
quality of Mr. Abbot’s intellect is even more remarkable than its singular
force. Such pure interest in truth, such veracity of intelligence, such
sincerity of mind, have belonged only to the masters of thought and the
greatest leaders of reform. And in serene, uncompromising loyalty to the
moral ideal, and rigorous application of principle to the conduct of life and
the practice of every virtue, Mr. Abbot belongs with the most revered and
endeared of this or any other time. Were he to call himself, from specula
tive doubts, an atheist, he would yet be one of the noblest and most useful
among masters of religion, from the fact that his moral ideal is the truest
possible image of Deity. His intense devotion to the most exact conception
he can form of right is the real explanation of his resolute rejection of the
Christian name; an error which is truly glorified by the spirit which
accompanies it.
OUR RELIGIOUS PURPOSE.
The editor of The Examiner begs his critics to state distinctly the full
extent of his religious purpose, which is,—
1. To teach a Christianity of which the creed is contained in the words
‘Our Father who art in Heaven,’ and is unfolded in the doctrines of
God’s
perfect fatherhood
over all souls, the real
brotherhood of all men
on earth and in the world to come, our supreme duty of
filial loyalty, of trust and love, to God, and
love to men
and
inspiration and providence
the source and guarantee, author and authority, to every one of us, of
knowledge, holiness and blessedness forever.
vol. i.—no. i.
6
�82
How We Start.
2. To explain and prove, with sound learning and sound reasoning, the
fact of error mingled with truth, from the very first, in historical Christian
ity, and how surely, in the exercise of Christian faith and reason, to distin
guish between Christian truth and Christian error.
3. To root up the theological heathenism,— total depravity, divine wrath,
damnation, and blood atonement, which choke Christian truth in orthodox
teaching.
4. To expel from true Christian religion every form of Jesuism, or regard
for Jesus as more than a mere man, and all Bibliolatry, or regard for the
Bible as more than a collection of mere human writings.
And this to the end of plainly opening to all human feet the path of direct,
obedient, and happy trust in God; and in the sincere belief that the Judaic
and half-heathen Christianity of the existing sects, is doomed of God to
speedy extinction.
HOW WE START.
In making our experiment with The Examiner, we gratefully and devoutly
acknowledge the repeated striking providences by which we have been helped
and guided thus far. Our earliest definite plans for such a publication date
back to a period previous to the establishment of The Radical. Our imme
diate arrangements to bring out The Examiner began with the first of May
last. A single difficulty has alone remained since the last week of June, the
need of $------ , the sum we thought we must add to our resources before
commencing. As the end of August approached, and we still lacked this, we
fixed a day on which we would make one last effort to perfect our arrange
ments, and on that day the needed help came. The first person we met on
taking the train from our residence to Chicago, a friend to whom we had
some time before spoken of our plans and our need, said to us instantly,
“You may draw on me after Sept. 10th, for------ dollars,” just the sum we
had waited for.
He had previously resolved on this, and was waiting
to meet us. It came just right. We had waited none too long, and we were
able to make our trial with the requisite means. Now we make our appeal
to other friends, who may believe our work a good one, to give us help, not
only in subscriptions, but in outright contributions, every dollar of which
shall be faithfully applied to printing and distributing The Examiner, not a
cent to any other use, either of the Editor or of any one else. Friends of true
Christian Religion! The time is fully ripe; the hour is exceedingly oppor
tune; our plans, long meditated and waited for, are working perfectly; and
with reasonable assistance we can secure the permanence of our enterprise
beyond a doubt. We are willing to fail, if so it pleases the good providence.
We should but fall back to the line of hope and faith and study from which
we make this forward movement, and wait for opportunity to try again.
�Is There No Open Vision?
83
But there need be no such temporary failure, nor will there be, if good men
and good women who want to be Christian in simple and pure love to all men
and perfect trust in God, will fairly do their part towards the great work for
which we establish The Examiner. If ever an enterprise was born in faith,
this is, and if it goes down, faith will see it fall, and patiently expect its
rise, or the rise in some better shape of the grand interest which it represents.
Every subscription to The Examiner will be deposited with our
banker as money belonging to our subscribers, and only one-twelfth taken
by us each month. If we should fail, every subscriber will receive back as
many twelfths of his $4, as he fails to get numbers of our Review.
IS THERE NO OPEN VISION?
All experience and study teach the wise believer to be very cautious about
assuming a special providence or special inspiration. Just as far as Jesus
and Paul attempted to rest in special knowledge of the secrets of heaven,
they went wrong. The grand failure of Jesus to discern truly God’s will,
was in respect of that anticipation which proceeded from his assumption
that Deity had vouchsafed special attention to him. Paul never blundered so
badly as when he most confidently claimed to be speaking by the word of the
Lord. This only is legitimate, to repose absolute faith in the providence and
inspiration of Infinite Mind; to work, always, at once with this faith, and
with as much diligence, vigilance and earnestness as if all depended on us;
to aim at success and to anticipate it, yet with a mind ready to accept fail
ure; and ever to give thanks, as events pass, however they may turn, or
whatever they may overturn, with full assurance that the Lord the Ruler
doeth all things well.
It is thus that we have striven to ‘wait on the Lord,’ and, never suffering
ourselves beforehand to say, of either deed to be done or word to be spoken,
‘in this the Lord is with us beyond peradventure or mistake,’ we have grown
more and more, taking successes and failures together, to feel that, for the
large aim and long course of our life, we can depend on the gracious presence
and heavenly providence of Infinite Mind, as implicitly as ever trusting
child depended on a faithful parent, or wise prophet on the perfect inspira
tion of the alone supreme and blessed God.
We say this with extreme hesitation, but we venture to say it, because we
want the whole class of Christian heathen and infidels, who do not believe
in God here and now, and who insist that all worship shall be with knees
bent and heads bowed before the idol which they have found in the person
of Jesus, to understand distinctly that we believe, as earnestly and implic
itly as if we knew that tongue and pen were moved by the unerring inspira
tion of God, and that we so believe in Gon, perfect providence and perfect
illumination, that we would no more turn from His presence, .even if a
pantheon of undoubted god-men invited us, than we would turn from perfect
light to utter darkness.
�84
The Chicago Advance and The Examiner.
If Samuel, David, and Isaiah, John, Jesus, and Paul, might trust in the
Lord’s direction, so may we, in the full proportion of our diligence, fidelity,
discipline, and instruction. So at least we do trust, and there remains with
us none the least shadow of doubt, that with us, too, God is, and will be, for
the same purposes of manifestation which in all ages lovers of God and
prophets have served, and that we no more need pin our faith to what Jesus
and Paul said, than we need walk at high noon to-day by the memory or the
record of yesterday’s daylight.
We have lived now more than a quarter of a century by this conviction o^
the direct nearness of God to soul and heart and mind in us individually,
and the immediate direction of our life, study, work, and career, by the
most holy divine providence, and for fourteen of these years we have
eagerly, zealously, diligently, and fearlessly studied how to be a true prophet
of pure Christian truth, how most wisely to believe, and most judiciously to
correct belief by thought, and learning, and the blessed rules of holy living,
and we think it right now to say to those who deny living truth in the name
of tradition, that we challenge their idolatry and defy their idol, in the name
of the living God and the authority of divine direction, believing firmly that
‘•The Love of the Lord passeth all things for Illumination,” and that
“Wisdom, in all ages entering into holy souls, maketh them friends of God,
and prophets.”
THE CHICAGO ADVANCE AND THE EXAMINER.
We have always cherished with intense satisfaction the sentiment of
Christian fellowship. The illusion never forsakes us that church relations
mast be at bottom fraternal, even though fallible men administer them less as
brothers than as judges and executioners. The “Church of Christ in Yale
College,” which was our religious home during the years when our greatest
aims for life were maturing, and which at last excommunicated us for
believing in God,* always rises before our imagination and love as one of our
shrines of delightful communion, where we may expect, sometime if not
now, to be made welcome under the immortal covenants of faith, and holi
ness, and love. Memories of bitter injustice, of cruel contempt, of strange
coldness and harshness fade away more easily than not, and we are ready to
go back there as a lover goes home to the most blessed joys.
It was this intense feeling of Christian communion which led us to wish
to make a personal explanation, through the Chicago Advance, to the
denomination under whose influences we were reared, and whose dogmatic
sanctities we knew that we would be regarded as outraging by the publica
tion of The Examiner. To expect candid and kind treatment from the
editor of the Advance, was indeed a stretch of faith even to our disposition
to expect the best everywhere, but we resolved to make the experiment and
sent a communication, which we reproduce below. In this our point was to
give evidence that we had obeyed a Christian motive, and had followed
*As Father, with effective sanctifying and redeeming care of all his human children.
�The Chicago Advance and The Examiner.
85
providential guidance and inspiration, in passing from orthodoxy to radical
Christianity, and it included of course a frank and definite indication of
what we meant by radical Christianity. Had the Advance extracted the
former as a matter of fraternal kindness to us, and excluded the latter as a
statement of dangerous or dreadful error unfit to lay before orthodox
readers, its motives would have been defensible. Instead of this it picked
out and published the most offensive part of the latter, and deliberately told
a befouling and wicked falsehood about the former in the following sentence.
“If a Congregationalist forsakes his faith, we cannot appreciate the ground
upon which he should occupy our crowded columns with a statement of his
progress in religious error; whether he become a Unitarian, a Mormon, a
Free-Religionist, or a Positive Philosopher.” Our readers can judge how
unscrupulous must be the anxiety about orthodoxy which led the Editor of
the Advance to write that sentence with our statement before him, as a
response to our request to be allowed to say to fathers and brethren with
whom we have the most sacred associations, that we had reached our present
faith by strictly obeying, as we believed, the purest motive and highest law
of our life-long Christian faith in God Our Father! As a notice of The
Examiner — 350 words at the head of “Editorial Miscellany”—probably
nothing could have been better, because those of the readers of the Advance
whom we care to reach understand its tricks, and are only excited to look
for a fact which they see has been concealed by a fib. But we want justice
and decency, as a preparation for fraternal communion, and we give notice
to irreligious and unchristian editors of theological newspapers that they
will find it to their interest to tell no lies about us.
The following is the communication referred to above, and refused publi
cation by the Advance:
Editor Advance:
Dear Sir: I send you herewith my proposal to publish The Examiner
as a Monthly Review of Religious and Humane Questions, and of Literature,
and an organ of what I would call Radical Christianity. And I beg leave
to make in your journal a brief explanation, in view of the fact that I was
reared in the Congregationalism which you represent. Some twenty years
ago I was admitted to the Congregational church in St. Charles, 111., by Rev.
G. S. F. Savage. Soon after I became a student in Beloit College for above
two years, and went thence to Yale College, where I was graduated in 1856.
I passed the next year in New York city, teaching and studying theology,
and an attendant upon the ministry of Dr. Win. Adams, of the Madison
Square Presbyterian church. The two following years I was again in New
Haven, studying theology. In all these places I never so much as thought
of going near heretical ministry. I never once saw an heretical book, tract,
or journal, nor did I ever converse with an unorthodox person, until after I
had become as fully settled in unorthodox conclusions as 1 am now. In New
York I did not know of the existence of Drs. Osgood and Bellows, and even
did not hear Henry Ward Beecher. I was wholly and absolutely under
orthodox influences, sincerely and earnestly continuing my confession of
hope in Christ which I had first made when I was but eight years old. In
commencing theological study I set to work in the most earnest manner to
put in working order the orthodox reasons for faith in the Bible as the sole
and absolute rule of truth and duty, and I purposed to prepare myself in
the most thorough manner possible for a strictly Biblical style of preaching,
�86
The Chicago Advance and The Examiner.
invariable support of every point by a text, and illustration drawn as much
as possible from the sacred pages. I even selected a large octavo copy of
the Bible for my life’s use and study, to be marked and made familiar in
every page, so that preaching from it I could readily put my hand upon any
passage, and be always able to drive home the sure nail with the very
hammer of’the Lord. Such, moreover, was the deliberate ardor of my
orthodoxy that I contemplated, first, taking a five years’ course of varied
preparation, in view of the special demands of an unsettled state of the
popular mind about Christian faith and duty, and, second, devoting myself
to preaching an armed and aggressive, a confident and conquering faith,
from place to place, and as nearly as possible without reward. I had
earlier, I may say, meant to go as a missionary to South-west Africa, and
had lost this dream under the overwhelming sense of the importance of
saving the faith in our own land.
My orthodoxy came to grief all at once, in the following way: I had
always had an intensely real faith in God Our Father, as he was addressed
in the prayer Jesus gave to his disc-iples. The desire to hallow that name
■was a passion stronger than my life, and as sober and sustained as it was
strong. Filial loyalty to God, as the Heavenly Providence and Holy Spirit
of our life and our eternal destiny, was the substance and soul of my inward
experience, the principle on which I built all my careful devotion to Christ,
the Bible, and the Christian church. This principle became the undoing of
my whole structure of orthodox dogma about depravity, wrath, atonement,
hell, and the divine authority and offices of Jesus and the Bible. For as
soon as my observation was once arrested by the condition of that great
seething and surging mass of souls which New York city presents, I believed
instantly, and without hesitation or qualification, that the Heavenly Father,
by the resources of Heavenly Providence and Holy Spirit, both could and
would redeem all, and that every thought, no matter if found on the lips of
a Jesus or a Paul, which implied doubt or disbelief of this, must be an error.
It was no more possible for me to challenge this expansion of my faith in
God than it would be for me to prefer the light of a candle to full sunrise,
even though I had to see Jesus and Paul as erring men, who had held and
taught Christian truth purely in many passages, and in some had set forth
error, and that God had meant us to depend on his own providence and
inspiration, and had not given us Jesus as more than a mere human teacher
and providential leader.
In January, 1859, after studying in New Haven Dr. Taylor’s systematic
and masterly exposition of the grounds of orthodoxy, and otherwise inves
tigating the foundations of religious belief, I found myself, as I believed, as
secure of my new’ position as possible, although I did not then know that
any Christian had come to any similar conclusion, and I wrote a little tract
to show where I stood, the concluding sentence of which was, “Christ was
a mere man, and the speculative theology which has been taught in his
name, and which he partially taught himself, must pass away before the
progress of that religion of good will to men and loyalty to God which he
practiced.”
I have found this conclusion confirmed by more than ten years of addi
tional study, and I now purpose to ask thoughtful attention, in the pages of
The Examiner, to the exposition of pure Christianity, as it is taught in the
prayer of Jesus, and in the most significant spiritual passages of the Bible
at large, without admixture of the errors which even Jesus did not wholly
exclude, and which his followers have expanded into a system which is a
veritable anti-Christ. Knowing full well that ardent faith, thorough study,
and earnest looking to providence and inspiration, do not in the least entitle
me to exalt myself, or claim any special authority, I do yet, declare, in the
very name of God Our Father, and of the truth as it was in Christ, that the
popular faith in “Lord Jesus,” “Holy Bible,” total depravity, wrath of God,
devil and hell, atonement, separate communion here, and separate heaven
�Free Religion not Anti-Christian.
87
i
hereafter, is of human and heathen conceit, and not of the true Christian
consciousness. This ground I shall take in The Examiner, and am ready
to defend against all dispute. If the faculty of instruction in the Chicago
Theological Seminary, or any one of them, will take up the discussion, I
will undertake to prove, that they are teaching heathenism in presenting for
Christian truth the doctrine of Jesus as God-Man, Divine Lord, Atoning
Saviour, and Final Judge, with the related doctrines of the special divine
character of the Bible, the total depravity of human nature, the consuming
eternal wrath of God, and the separate destiny of souls, part to heaven and
part to hell.
Hoping that I may be dealt with in a fair and candid spirit, I am
Yours very truly,
Edward C. Towne,
Winnetka, III.
August 28, 1870.
FREE RELIGION NOT ANTI-CHRISTIAN.
It has been assumed by a portion of the public of late that free religion
implies disavowal of Christianity. The Radical and the Index have been taken
to represent the entire breadth of this new interpretation of religion. The
course of the Executive Committee of “ The Free Religious Association,” in
adopting the Index as an organ of communication with the public, has given
color to this assumption. Yet nothing could be farther from the truth. The
movement which the application of freedom to religion has produced is not
in general unchristian, or antichristian, or other than avowedly and reso
lutely Christian, both in fact and in name. We consider even Mr. Abbot, in
all but the name and certain non-essential notions, one of the lights of recent
Christianity, as new studies, new insight, and new providential indications
have disclosed to devout and thoughtful minds the pure truth suggested and
revealed in Christ’s word and life. And we strenuously insist that free
Religion is pure religion, as it has occupied the heart of formal Christianity,
and is now emancipated from errors of form, and disclosed in its real spirit
and power.
The history of the movement which is represented nominally by “ The
Free Religious Association,” we are entitled to write if any one is. We
suggested to Rev. Dr. Bartol, after Unitarianism had settled down upon a
narrow Jesuism, the propriety of a conference of radicals to consider the
practicability of an organization broader than the Unitarian. And when,
after two such conferences, Dr. Bartol and several others decided for action
without organization, we proposd to Rev. W. J. Potter and Rev. F. E. Abbot
that we three unite in a pledge to secure an organization, and that we work
together as a committee to form a plan. Under that pledge we together
carried the movement forward until the plan devised by our little caucus was
realized in “The Free Religious Association.” The other organization
which has been so much spoken of, and so widely reported, “ The Radical
Club,” of Boston, first met at our suggestion and upon our individual invita
tion of the persons who organized it. The term “ Free Religious ” wras
originally suggested by Mr. Potter; and the courses of lectures given in
�88
A Criticism of Our Aim.
Boston were also suggested by him after he had been appointed Secretary of
“ The Free Religious Association.” Mr. Abbot has recently taken ground
for free religion “ squarely outside of Christianity,” and Mr. Potter has
appeared to concur with him. We do not regret Mr. Potter’s action; he did
just right to use the Index, even at the cost of seeming to identify Free
Religion with the position of Mr. Abbot; but we want it understood that we
at least make Free Religion identical with true Christianity, and look for its
confessors in every communion, from Catholic, Calvanist, etc., to the latest
forms of heresy.
A CRITICISM OF OUR AIM.
One of our truest radicals, an admirably Christian scholar, thinker, and
man, writes to us of our position as follows : —
“ I do not assent to the fundamental proposition which you intend The
Examiner shall support, that Free Religion is Christianity stripped of
unessential opinion and tradition. I don’t care to keep the Christian name
— would rather have it dropped, and expect it some day to be dropped. Of
course I understand your meaning, that what has given to Christianity its
best vitality and power is its free and universal elements, the great spiritual
realities found under all forms of religion. And to this I assent. But I see
no logic in calling these universal elements by the specific name ‘ Christian.’
Why go to the progressive Jew, or the Hindu, or the Confucian, and say
• The essential, vital truth under your religious belief is to be called Chris
tianity ? ’ I am content to find that it is the same with the essential and
permanent in the Christian religion, and will not insist that he shall call it
4 Christianity,’ more than I would yield to his claim that I should call my
religion ‘Judaism’ or ‘Hinduism.’ Why not take at once the large term
that includes them all — universal Religion ? ”
Our friend very seriously misapprehends our position, which is, that we,
and all others, Jews, Mahometans, Hindus, and whoever has a religion
which at heart is religion, should, by radical reform, strip off what is not
true religion, and make, each for his own people, a true Judaism, or true
Christianity, or true Hinduism, or true Mahometanism. We could easily show
our friend that Jews, Arabs, Persians, Hindus, Siamese Buddhists, and other
representatives of world-religions, as well as Christians, are each freeing their
respective faiths of superstition, and are appealing to ther fellow believers
to use each their traditional religious name as properly meaning the pure
truth freed from the husk of error. We, on radical Christian ground, say
to each of these faiths, hold your ground and keep your name, and let us
have a world fellowship of the different religions of the earth. Our idea,
when we asked our friend to join us in a resolution to secure a new organi
zation for religious ends, and the idea we supposed the Free Religious
Association was to represent, was this unity of religions with liberty and
diversity both of names and of special tenets. We wanted to see all classes
of Christians come together, Catholic, Calvinist, etc., etc., on a platform of
generous human recognition of one another, and with them, if occasion should
�A Criticism of Our Aim.
89
be found, men and women of other names than the Christian. We desired
to see each accept the method of radical reform, each putting his truest
truth in the front, and agreeing to hold together by that, and to hold separately
other things as each felt necessary.
Our Free Religion leaves the Catholic a Catholic, and the Hindu a Hindu,
and the Moslem a Moslem, and the Jew a Jew, and the Christian a Chris
tian, each to wear his providential name, and to have his individual pecul
iarities of creed and worship, until we all come in the unity of the faith unto
a perfect jian. But our friend, if he is logically consistent, as he seems to
mean to be, must ask each of these to drop their providential name and take
that of Free Religionist, or universal Religionist. If, to use Mr. Abbot’s
language, he proposes to “stand squarely outside of Christianity,” he must
also stand squarely outside of the other great religions, or else go squarely
into some one of them. Assuming that he has not found any of these reli
gions “a good place to emigrate to,” and that he sees the logic of his
position, he really helps to set up, as far as his nominal relations are
concerned, a very small new sect, in fact making Free Religion a Boston
and Toledo notion, and doing this none the less although those engaged in it
feel as broad and liberal as all out of doors. Our friend in short squares off
against all the religions of the world, nominally, while we accept our Chris
tian name and place, with all the other world-religions. He and we alike
hold, and work for, the truth of pure free Religion, and sympathize with it
wherever found, but he declines, or would prefer to drop out of, nominal
relation to Christians, while we adhere to that relation, and do it on a prin
ciple which warrants the Jew, the Hindu, the Moslem, and other religionists
of the world in keeping each to his own name and fellowship, as God has
made them to dwell on all the face of the earth.
This principle is really radical and free, it makes the name a name only,
and gives freedom of names and peculiarities. Our friend’s principle is
neither radical nor free, for it does not allow perfect liberty as to names, and
it insists, not merely on the root of pure truth, but on a correct name, thus
creating a kind of Free Religious orthodoxy which is all about a name.
Especially if this is carried to the extreme point made by Mr. Abbot, that
none are truly and honestly Christian who do not take Jesus as Messiah, it
gives Free Religion an attitude not merely of strictness but of bigotry. We
have a perfect right to judge for ourselves how to be honest Christians, and
our friend misses the radical mark exceedingly when he makes the ado he
does about other people’s honesty. It is done with a nobly pure purpose,
but it ought to be left undone nevertheless. We consider it our duty to stay
under the Christian name, and make Christianity mean Free Religion.
We do in this matter as Theodore Parker did in the matter of American
politics. He took his part as an American citizen, and worked to make
“American” mean justice to all men. Mr. Phillips was working for the
same thing, but refused all citizen relations, on the ground that “American”
did not mean justice. He was for breaking up the national fellowship, while
Mr. Parker was for purging it. Our friend and Mr. Abbot take just the
ground about Christianity which Mr. Phillips took about the Constitution
�90
Matthew Arnold’s Idea of Christianity.
and the Union. It turned out that Mr. Parker was the true prophet. The
course of events purged the nation and left it united. Does anybody wish
Mr. Phillips could have had his way, to break the country in two, one part
to be free, and the other to be securely slave with no abolition fellow
citizens to molest or make them afraid ? We are for purging Christianity,
not seceding from it. Even excommunicated we claim and will hold our
place. And it is as sure as fate that Christianity will be purged, as our
nation was purged, and made to mean free Religion. The other religions
also will be purged in like manner. Whether some of the great names will
fall, we neither know nor care. Possibly they may. But if they do not, and
probably they will not, we can still have religion free and pure in all the
great divisions of the race.
MATTHEW ARNOLD’S IDEA OF CHRISTIANITY.
The acute English critic, Matthew Arnold, who certainly deserves to rank
with the most thoughtful men of the present generation, lays down the
following principle of Christian confession :
“ The Christian Church is
founded, not on a correct speculative knowledge of the ideas of Paul, but on
the much surer ground, Let every one that nameth the name of Christ depart
from iniquity ; and holding this to be so, we might change the current strains
of theology from one end to the other, without on that account setting up
any new church, or bringing in any new religion.”—St. Paul and Protest
antism, p. 10.
It is not meant of course by this that the text quoted originally averred
the sufficiency of a simply moral basis for Christian communion, but that
“ Christian ” now means, above all things, good, and that this emphatic
meaning we are to accept as from the inspiration and providence of God, as
the fundamental sense of the word. A venerable Puritan minister, in the
old town of Medford, near Boston,—Dr. David Osgood, — said fifty years
and more ago, to some persons who began to suspect their pastor of heresy,
“ If your minister is a good man let him alone.” In so saying he antici
pated what must become the view of all enlightened Christian minds.
Goodness is the root of the matter. There is no more significant Christian
word than the injunction to be perfect, and this injunction is no less signif
icant taken by itself, apart from the appeal to the divine character. The
threshold of Christian teaching is the rule of good will, the commandment
to love one another. Therefore it is necessary to begin with this, and to
build upon it. And, if need be, we may come back to this for determining
and regulating Christian communion, and may always insist that this is
sufficient for real fellowship, and that all good men are truly Christian.
This being said, however, we deem it important, because truth and fact so
require, to include in complete Christian confession the faith in God, and loyalty
to God, implied in the terms of the prayer “Our Father.” No more signif
�Mr. Abbot on Following Christ.
91
icant passage could be cited from the original memorials of historical Chris
tianity than this prayer. If Jesus had the smallest conception of his mission,
he must have touched the heart of the matter in teaching his disciples to
pray, and cannot have left out of that prayer the main point of religion.
Happily that prayer exactly represents the ordinary frame of mind in which
profoundly religious persons do actually bend in devotion. As Mr. Emerson
says, speaking of Reason, the Creator, the Spirit of the Universe, “Man in
all ages and countries embodies it as the Father.” And it is perhaps truest
to say that Christianity has no greater claim to recognition than its distinct
and emphatic utterance of the words God Our Father.
MR. ABBOT ON FOLLOWING CHRIST.
“There is one more way, however, to interpret the command, ‘Follow
Me,’ namely, ‘I)o as the spirit of Christ would prompt you to do.' If this
means simply, let the same spirit of obedience to principle, self-sacrifice,
courage, and love, which controlled Jesus, also control us, —well and good.
But then I must say that this is not, in any true sense, ‘following his
example;’ it is following the spirit which made his example, — obeying the
law which he also obeyed.”
This illustrates strikingly a way which Mr. Abbot has of using, and
insisting on, a method of interpretation which is to us neither free nor reli
gious, but strangely secular and strict. The only true sense in religion,
especially when we appreciate that religion must be free, of following either
Jesus or the example of Jesus, is that of adopting the ideal suggested by his
character and life, the spirit disclosed to us in his deeds and words. It is
not even necessary, nor so much as permissible, to exactly adopt his ideal,
and closely conform to his precise spirit, if we find that any part of either
appears incongruous with the general purport of the same, and no longer
possible to be obeyed by a soul truly obedient in general to the identical
heavenly vision which caught and fixed the eye of the young Nazarene.
While Mr. Abbot is insisting that the usual strict orthodox way of interpret
ing Jesus is the true way, great numbers of liberal orthodox believers, in
and out of pulpits, books, and religious papers, are finding freedom and
simple pure religion in looking to Jesus precisely as they look to teachers
and masters other than him ; for suggestion of how best to seek God directly
without either master or mediator other than the Truth manifested to their
own souls, as a true free thinker looks to Socrates, not to servilely copy him,
nor to copy him at all, but to get inspiration for doing likewise, with such
difference as a like effort will now be sure to find necessary. It is a great
pity that Mr. Abbot should look at Christianity through orthodox spectacles,
and insist that what he sees bears no aspect of Free Religion, when in fact
the clear upshot of Christianity is Free Religion, and numberless persons in
every quarter of Christendom see it to be so, and hail the discovery with
infinite delight.
�92
The Old Christian Test and the New.
THE OLD CHRISTIAN TEST AND THE NEW.
“We believe it is admitted by all sects, that in the first age of the church
pure living was the test, the distinguishing mark, of a Christian. It was
only later, after the philosophers had been at work at the faith, that doc
trines or points of belief assumed the importance they have since held. In
the first century, and second century, a man proclaimed his faith in Christ
by his morals, and the principal vices of paganism were of a nature to
make the line between the church and the world very broad and distinct.
Those vices were cruelty and licentiousness.”—The Nation, June 16, p. 379.
The distinguishing mark of a Christian of the first age was that he
believed Jesus to have been the Christ. Other points of belief which emi
nently distinguished him were, that Jesus had risen from the dead and would
speedily appear as Messianic King in all the terrors and glories of super
natural power, that he would bring a material, political, moral and spiritual
regeneration of the earth, that this sudden change of all things would be
destruction and horror to all enemies of the kingdom and deliverance and
glory to all who looked in faith for its appearing, and that in view of these
things it was but prudent and decent to live moral and pious lives, trusting
God in his Christ for the sake of salvation, and loving the brethren who
might be brought together by this trust.
No such thing as pure living for its own sake was anywhere characteristic
of the primitive Christians. A Paul, indeed, felt the power of the moral
ideal, and also adored God as God, in the spirit of simple, pure religion.
But even he did this only out of his occasional highest inspiration, rising far
above the average level of his teaching and his practice, while his disciples
were almost exclusively ruled to such decency of life as they attained, by
those points of belief which we have mentioned, the doctrines of early
Jesuism, which had engaged their ignorant and superstitious assent, and had
wrought in them a measure of piety and brotherly love.
In very many classes, and on a very wide scale, the faith of the first age
was even scandalously separate from pure religion in either heart or life.
It was a mere fanaticism, a detestable superstition, the faith of those who
forgot God and goodness equally in looking for a King of terrors, a Jesus
more Devil than either human or divine, whose mission it would be to
execute indiscriminate vengeance upon the mass of men and receive a few
devotees to everlasting enjoyment. Unhappily, it was possible to cite sup
posed words of Jesus and undoubted sentences of Paul, in support of even
this wretchedly heathen type of Christianity.
It might be said of certain pagan teachers, previous to or contemporary
with primitive Christianity, that they made pure living of chief importance.
But this cannot be said of Paul, nor even Jesu3; not because either of them
failed to see the intrinsic worth of goodness and power of godliness, but for
the reason that both the master and the apostle put the groundless Messi
anic expectation in the foreground.
Happily Paul stands on quite other ground, on great heights of Christian
inspiration and prophecy in fact, in several of the most significant passages
�Some Recent Views of Jesus.
93
of his letters; and Jesus still more, led astray though he was in the pres
ence of that Jewish world which at once promised and demanded a Messiah
rather than a simple teacher of truth, must have been chiefly attracted, in
his better moments of meditation and prayer, by the pure vision only of
God and of good, and he certainly came in the moment of his great trial, the
single purely Christian moment of his outward career, to give up the delu
sion of Messiahship, and rest all faith in the will of God.
The truth was in Jesus and Paul, and can be clearly seen in them, but the
characteristic thing with them was the Jesuism which received so hard a blow
in Gethsemane, and is now at last fairly dying, after a career of vast mis
chief through eighteen centuries. Side by side with the slow progress of
truth in her narrow path, has run the comprehensive error of the Nazarene
carpenter and the Cilician tent-maker, so that only now does it begin to be
true that “Christian” first and chiefly means pure in heart.
A new Christianity, latent in that of the first age, and never lost out of
the pure hearts which have kept undefiled truth under all the forms of
pseudo-Christianity, is so clearly manifested within a few years, that it is
now possible to speak of Christians whose sole distinguishing mark is pure
living. The professors of accredited Christianity do not generally admit
that this new Christianity is veritably Christian, but philosophical observers,
and nearly all emancipated or rational believers, justly claim, and joyfully
proclaim, this sifted and pure truth of Christ, the only Christianity worthy
the name.
Of course such Christianity does not take its name from the person, pre
tension, or characteristic teaching of Jesus, nor from its affinity with what
is called "The Christian Religion,” but from its fulfilment of the providen
tial ideal of the Christianity and the Christ of history, its expression of
what was suggested, and was meant of God, in Jesus, and was destined to
be unfolded out of the tradition propagated in his name. In this it stands
towards the teaching of Jesus as that stood toward Judaism; it is a new
birth, another regeneration, leaving the form of the old to more perfectly
fulfil its pure truth and vital power.
SOME RECENT VIEWS OF JESUS.
M. Edouard Reuss, the accomplished author of “Histoire de la Théologie
Chrétienne au Siècle Apostolique,” said of Renan’s “Vie de Jésus,” that it
had popularized a study hitherto confined to theologians, and made the
question of who and what Jesus was one of the common topics of free
discussion everywhere. He anticipated that all sorts of people would feel
called to give the public the benefit of their impressions and convictions,
and that thus a great movement of new inquiry would bring its powerful
aid to the solution of the evangelic problem. These expectations of a
thoughtful scholar, expressed in 1864, in the preface to the third edition of
�94
Some Recent Views of Jesus.
the “Histoire” mentioned above, have been more than realized. And, as
M. Reuss intimated, every sort of advocate has entered the field.
Last year Mr. Wendell Phillips undertook a kind of vindication of the
Christ of popular tradition, the Messiah of whatever progress eighteen
centuries can show. Rev. F. E. Abbot, who is now editing the Index at
Toledo, as the organ of religion emancipated from Christian associations,
has found himself impelled to disown Christian fellowship, and to rate Jesus
as unworthy the name of master in any sense whatever. Mrs. Julia Ward
Howe not long since lifted up her voice, to rebuke the hardy recusant of
Toledo, and to certify her esthetic and pious approval of the figure presented
to her imagination in connection with the name of Jesus. And about the
same time Mr. D. A. Wasson, a very acute thinker, who is also not a little
gifted as a poet, earnestly attempted to shelter the ideal Jesus from the rude
blows of free religious discussion.
The singular defect of all the pleas just mentioned is their lack of con
formity to the best results of recent sound scholarship. In Mr. Abbot’s
argument against respect of any sort for the authority of Jesus as a relig
ious master, there occur citations of reported words of Jesus which ought
never to be made again, and never will be made again by any both fair and
well-informed critic. Mr. Abbot does not lack fairness, nor is he, for a
writer who has devoted himself chiefly and with the highest success to
philosophical speculation, without a highly creditable acquaintance with the
results of New Testament criticism. But he does lack a portion of the
knowledge which should have preceded his renunciation of Christian connec
tion, a renunciation for which he will certainly find no enduring warrant in
either the method or the tenets of a sound free thinker. There can be no
question, we believe, that the candor and broad sympathy with noble
effort which are conspicuous in Mr. Abbot, will bring him at length
to give the young peasant rabbi of Nazareth a place among the prov
idential masters of the human race. He speaks still of “the wonderful
religious genius,” “the transcendant greatness,” of Jesus, terms which
he may find occasion to drop as he becomes more intimately acquainted
with the real man whom Pilate crucified, and whom inscrutable Provi
dence made the standard-bearer of a great movement of mankind, but a
closer knowledge of the facts of a simple and humble life, and of the
incidents and accidents to which peculiar circumstances gave momen
tous significance, can hardly fail to convince him that, without any
particular greatness of either intellect or character, the child of Joseph and
Mary fairly obtained, and must always hold among men on earth, one of the
greatest providential places of human history. Think what we may of the
powers or the qualities, of the ideas or the purposes of Jesus, it is absurd to
strike out his name everywhere, or to undertake to stand outside a definite
relation to him.
The warm, and somewhat arrogant pleas of Mr. Phillips and Mrs. Howe
can barely command respect with anyone accustomed to study, thoroughly
�Some Recent Views of Jesus.
95
and without passion, all the historical aspects of the question who and what
Jesus was. It was of course extremely easy for either the orator or the
lady to take a high tone, sustained as they were in so doing by all the popu
lar assumptions, and to rehearse the claims of Jesus, the one with fascinating
eloquence, the other with half-angry dignity. But even Mr. Phillips errs
egregiously if he supposes that any amount of confidence and of eloquence
can make an utterance respectable, as thinkers and scholars count respect,
which is made in nearly total ignorance of the facts elicited by the noble
and fruitful labors of recent scholarship. The field is not one for brilliant
generalization, but rather for a special knowledge to be had only upon
thorough study and long meditation. No one could make general observa
tions upon the appearances presented by Christianity now and formerly, to
better popular purpose than Mr. Phillips, but unfortunately the particular
demand of the discussion is for a true account of what took place before any
of these now visible appearances had yet been seen, and for historical truth
which must beyond a doubt offend the popular faith. Mr. Phillips, there
fore, made an ill-advised and no way useful attempt to deliver a judgment
where he had yet to possess himself of information. And like most persons
who think they know beyond a question, because current tradition is on
their side, he is probably prepared to resent the suggestion of his ignorance.
He doubtless has never even heard of the books to which we should refer
him as sources of knowledge. So runs the religious world, but the time of
the end of this is not, we trust, far distant.
The treatment which Mr. Wasson gave to the theme “Jesus and Chris
tianity,” was that of an idealist far too little conscious of the sober facts of
history. It is solely in the exercise of a generous imagination that he
assures us that the Hebrew hope of a Messiah had become refined and
spiritualized before Jesus came upon the scene, approaching the typical
idea of history, and that this hope, thus refined, furnished the ideal elements
by which the mind of Jesus was nourished, until he imagined a divine soci
ety here on earth, made so by the unqualified sway of ethical law, and was
so possessed by this holy imagination as to think himself more than an
individual being, and to feel in his own exalted soul, in his “ world-great
heart,” the tides of infinite and eternal life; while around him were
gathered “popular imaginations large enough” to recognize and accept “a
soul so amazingly magnanimous.” It would give us great pleasure to see
the evidence on which Mr. Wasson pronounces Jesus “an imperial soul,”
and the historical ground for his assumption that the young Nazarene enthu
siast expected “a reign of morals pure and simple,” not the reign of an
individual, nor of a nation. Still more curious are we to see in what light
other than of imagination the simple folk who gathered about Jesus appear
to Mr. Wasson as “large popular imaginations.” Doubtless there was
imagination enough in the circle of those who handed down the report of
Jesus’s life and teaching, but unhappily it wrought more in the way of
invention than of recognition, and obscured, a great deal more than it dis
closed, the truth of history.
�96
The Failure of the Pulpit.
THE FAILURE OF THE PULPIT.
The Independent, discussing “ the wide and ever widening breach between
modern preaching and modern culture,” attempts the following disposition
of the question:
“ A great deal of the dissatisfaction expressed by educated men with the
manner and matter of modern preaching is only one form in which the revolt
of the age against all theology, and indeed against all preaching whatsoever,
whether good or bad, finds vent for itself. It is not the sermon, it is Chris
tianity which is objected to. This is explicitly admitted by the writer in the
Spectator of whom we have spoken [as having “ stated the prevalent indict
ment of cultivated men against makers of sermons.”]
‘ About the sermon,’
he says, ‘ I am about to state honestly what I believe thousands of men feel
secretly. I dislike good sermons just as much as bad. I do not want to be
lectured, even by a great lecturer. I object to the usual basis of the very
best sermon ever delivered in a Christian church.’ It is only fair, then, to
a great and most laborious and devoted profession, to indicate where the
trouble really lies. A great many cultivated people at present do not like to
hear preaching, . . chiefly, we think, because much of the cultivated mind
of this age has become alienated from the old faith, and is throwing itself
forth, this way and that, in an agony of bewilderment, baffled energy and
discontent. . . If every preacher of this age could preach like Paul,
preaching would continue to be an impertinence and a bore to those whose
minds have swung away from that system of belief which constitutes the
basis of all Christian preaching, good or bad ”
The truly Christian mind cannot help objecting decidedly to the assump
tions of the pulpit. The perfect Christian attitude is that of filial conscious
ness of Our Father, and absolute, direct trust in him. The pulpit claims,
not merely a hearing, to speak of God, but authority, to speak for God. It
assumes to lecture the hearer, in the name of unquestionable dogma, when
religion, justly interpreted, knows nothing of such dogma, and deems the
assertion of dogmatic authority an outrage upon spiritual freedom. So
long, therefore, as pseudo-Christianity dictates the tone of the pulpit, and
the sermon assumes the right of the preacher to proclaim dogma, instead
of promote free inquiry and persuade to free faith, so long must the first
assumption of the pulpit be hateful to truly religious minds.
Further than this, the “system of belief” which constitutes the customary
basis of preaching, has justly lost its hold upon the cultivated Christian
mind of the age, to which total depravity, wrath of God, damnation, blood
atonement, godhead of a young Jew, and infallibility of Hebrew and Chris
tian books, with transmission of same by ignorant and prejudiced interpre
ters, are superstitions as arrant as any the world ever saw. Until, therefore,
preachers shall consent to be truly Christian, to believe in God and in man
with some spirit and truth, and to thoroughly discriminate the husk of
Christianity from its truth, and offer truth only to truth-loving souls, the
providence and inspiration of our time will more and more set aside the
pulpit.
�The Need of a Free Divinity School.
97
We suggest to The Independent, which we believe means to find and to
follow the truth, a study of Christian Conceit and Christian Superstition,
as causes of the failure of the pulpit. The public ministry of religion is
certain to be welcome to the cultivated classes, and to all other classes, when
it shall be made even tolerably worthy of respect. We also beg to assure
our contemporary that the cultivated mind of this age, which is indeed
‘alienated from the old faith,’ is not in the least unhappy in its new situaation. We have had the opportunities of a pronounced heretic, during ten
or twelve years, to observe the real truth of this matter; we have besides
gathered evidence out of recent literature in all directions ; and we know
that nothing could be more ridiculous than the statement that new belief is
in an agony of bewilderment. Orthodox writers should reflect that they
learn of the exceptions only, and are not in a position to know what new
believers usually may feel.
THE NEED OF A FREE DIVINITY SCHOOL.
One of the first and greatest needs of religious and human progress in
America is a well endowed and appointed Free Religious Divinity School.
We have canvassed the matter pretty thoroughly, during the past few years,
and fully believe that this Free School of Truth must be, and that it will be.
The great cause of spiritual emancipation has many liberal friends, who do
not lack means to carry into effect any wise purpose which they may form.
To secure.this, it only needs to make evident the nature of the opportunity
now open, to wealth and faith and learning and zeal, to organize thinking
and believing people everywhere into free societies, under free teachers and
pastors; and to show the necessity to this end, and the practicability, of a
well endowed ami appointed Free Religious Divinity School. We will not
at this time argue the matter. Our present purpose is only to propound it,
and we propound it in fervent hope and full faith. Right here perhaps on
this shore of Lake Michigan, from which we write, not remote from the great
city of the West, yet among scenes of pure nature eminently suitable, we
may yet see a great Free School of Divinity, such as the world has not yet
had. The sum of Two Hundred and Fifty Thousand Dollars ought to be
immediately devoted to this grand purpose, and this generation ought not to
pass away without increasing this endowment to One Million Dollars, to
adequately provide for complete, free instruction in religion, in all its
branches, and adequate aid of every sort to students seeking the sacred
ministry of divine truth. In the whole of Christendom there is hardly one
respectable theological school. The greatly dishonest purpose to conceal, to
evade, and everyway to maintain the creed in vogue by means which equally
lack veracity and courage, ought to render them in general morally disrepu
table. There are few in which inadvertent falsification is not the art of arts.
And to support it is the dark spirit whose foul words are “devil,” “hell,”
“damnation,” ever ready to kill off, by ban if not by burning, any teacher
VOL. I.—no. I.
7
�98
Dr. Me Cosh in Boston.
or student who is led, in the sincerest and strictest development of his deepest
Christian faith, to believe better of God than the current creeds allow. And
these creeds are still a refuge of lies about man and about God, theological
old wives’ fables begotten of the darkness of heathenism, and totally unfit to
convey the grace and truth of Christianity. True Christian Religion has
waited long enough; let there be one housetop from which to proclaim the
pure truth which Jesus whispered in the ear of Judea more than eighteen
hundred years ago.
In venturing to bring to public notice a bare proposition, we yield to a
sense of the extreme urgency of an interest which has no representative yet
among religious organizations, or none prepared to appreciate the situation,
and to take action promptly and with energy. We do not hesitate because
of the possibility, or even probability, that no immediate answer will come.
We more than half believe in the prophetic office, and think it in this matter
at least our solemn duty to say to our generation of scattered believers in
the future of free religion, A Million of Money wanted for a Free
Religious Divinity School.
DR. McCOSH IN BOSTON.
The N. K Tribune thinks Free Religion will probably find a defender,
against a late tremendous assault of Dr. McCosh, in “that deep thinker,
uncommon scholar, and courageous woman, Mrs. Howe.” It is difficult to
understand what the Tribune means by deep thought, uncommon scholarship,
and courage in religion, when it finds these in the estimable woman named,
three of whose striking characteristics are conservative timidity about
departure from tradition as it has come to her, the dogmatism of very
insufficient study, and opinion not obtained by profound meditation nor
expressed usually with the spirit of real thought. The Tribune seems not
aware that Mrs. Howe is more an exponent of traditional Christianity than
of Free Religion, and that at least fifty persons might be named in New
England more likely than she to undertake an effective defence of Free
Religion, even if she chanced to be drawn into the controversy on that side.
As for Dr. McCosh, a rude schoolman who knows no better than to assault
sunlight with paving-stones, and whose utmost achievement is to darken with
dust air which will clear itself as soon as his back is turned, we hold him, on
his own ground, greatly inferior to such ripe scholars and sound thinkers as
Rev. Samuel Johnson or Rev. W. J. Potter, though doubtless in tremendous
bluster he can do more in six lectures than they in six thousand. A certain
massive and portentous ignorance, a hopeless failure of perception, charac
terize Dr. McCosh. Had he lived in America even, still more had he passed
some years in Boston, and suffered himself to open his eyes occasionally, it
is possible that he would know a little something about the nature and ground
of Free Religion. As it is, his voice is the roar of a blind son of Anak,
noticeable only as so much noise. He has no more intelligence of the spirit
�Vicious Piety.—Secularism as Religion.
99
uality, pure fervor of soul, and richness of faith which are found in the Free
Religious leaders, than a cannon has of the glory of sunlight under which
nature renews her life. It is highly probable that whatsoever things are
pure, whatsover things are of good report, will continue to be thought on,
and to be most inspiringly discoursed of, among Free Religious believers in
Boston, in spite of the lectures of Dr. McCosh. Grace and truth do not
perish out of the hearts of men and women because of deafening noise in a
Methodist meeting-house, any more than violets and roses fade and die
because of a coluinbiad fired off at Charlestown navy yard.
VICIOUS PIETY.
“ The vices of our time — that is, of a commercial and scientific age — are
fraud, chicane, falsehood, and over-eagerness in pusuit of material enjoy
ment, and scepticism as to the existence of anything higher or better.
Great numbers of the knaves of our time are in the church, ami even active
in it, ami call themselves ‘Christians’ as a help in their business.”—The
Nation, June 16, p. 379.
It would be more exact to say of the pious knaves of our time,
that they profess strict orthodox faith in “the blood of Jesus,” and
confess a hope of redemption through “the atonement alone,” without
merit of good works. And more than this, knavery finds a chance in the
mind of many tempted confessors of this doctrine, to whom it seems quite
easy to be rascals in trade and redeemed sinners through Christ. It is but
one trick and lie at a time, and the fount of absolution is close by, always
open to faith, and the more open the greater the sinner’s demerit. Life
becomes a plunge into the smut of mammon by day, and a bath of absolution
at night. Many practical men bear witness that a man who puts forward an
“evangelical” profession, among men of the world, either as mere profes
sion or for persuasion, is commonly either too weak to be trusted amid
temptations, or is already tricky, or mean, or knavish.
SECULARISM AS RELIGION.
Secularism is vastly powerful [in England] among those of the working
classes who do make the attempt to think on the most serious questions of
life. It would appear that Secularist societies have spread a net-work of
complete organization over the land,.have an effective system of tract distri
bution, and command eloquent and persuasive lecturers, who know the
working classes well, and gain the more ready access to them on the ground
of this knowledge.”—The Sunday Magazine.
This is called “infidelity” and a “gigantic evil,” by the editor whose
statement, we quote. For our part we deem “those of the working classes
who make the attempt to think on the most serious questions of life ” more
faithful to their light than any of the Christian sects. Furthermore, they
are truer to the Christian foundation than these sects. They begin right,
�100
Dr. McLeod on Buddhism.
with the religion of duty. They come nearer doing the things taught in the
Sermon on the Mount than any man does who goes apart from mankind to
seek his own salvation. But even if they did not, they are honest men and
women, who think seriously, believe sincerely, and labor earnestly, and that,
too, with the heaviest troubles of life pressing particularly upon them, and we
deem it only decent to bid them good-speed, and think them well started on
the right way, especially as there is a God, who made these men and women,
and quite likely is looking after them at least as well as we could, and possi
bly has lent them his inspiration and providence even for getting up a
religion whose sole deity and heaven are the doing of duty in common daily
life. It seems to us more important that such practical religion should
flourish than that the Pharisaism of sects should survive. We do not deem
Secularism a perfect form of religion, but we do think it better than any
form of popular Christianity. It is to us among the cheering evidences that
God Almighty has a little the start of his Grace of Canterbury, and his
Holiness of Rome, and the various potentates of dogma and custom, that
Secularism lies like a rock under the troubled sea of English life, a “gigan
tic ” adherence of the common people to the doctrine that it pays to do
right even if death is, as the poor old Bible so often implies, a final rest.
DR. MACLEOD ON BUDDHISM.
Rev. Norman Macleod, D. D., a distinguished Scotch divine whose
Christianity has been for some time growing less and less dogmatic, and
more and more humane, speaks as follows of Buddhism, in connection with
his account of a visit to a Buddhist temple in Ceylon :
“ It was interesting to see, even once, a temple with its living worshippers
representing a religion which, though now extinct in India, yet still com
mands the faith and reverence of hundreds of millions in Ceylon, Thibet,
Burmah, and China. I cannot think, from the laws of the human mind, that
their Aeari-belief is that they are to be so absorbed into the divine essence,
or Nirvana, as practically to destroy all individual existence. . A religion
which denied the immortality of a living God, or of living men, could not
possibly live from age to age in the heart-convictions of a large portion of
the human race, so opposed is such a negation to the instincts and cravings
of human nature. Either human nature has no such moral instincts, or
Buddhists have no such religion.’’
When the “New Logic,” as we have been accustomed to name it, shall be
written, it will fully justify Dr. Macleod’s'assumption that Buddhism, what
ever it may say, does not, and cannot, mean anything either foolish or bad,
in its great doctrine of the final relation of all being to the divine essence.
We make the quotation here, however, to call attention to Dr. Macleod’s way
of looking at the matter. He speaks of these Buddhists as of human brothers,
and interprets by sympathy and faith, instead of doubt and hatred. Instead
of grasping the usual orthodox side-arm, the tomahawk, with an evident
savage desire to hew in pieces before the Lord his pagan fellows, he extends
�Sakya-Muni and Atheism.—Dr. Stebbins's Demand.
101
a Christian right hand of fellowship. There is, in'the kindness with which
he speaks, no Pharisaism as of one who wishes the Buddhists well yet
expects them to be damned nevertheless, but a generous charity, and com
prehension, which hopetli all things and believeth all things. This is
Christian; the other method is anti-Christian, and none the less so because
commonly employed by those who claim exclusive knowledge of Christian
truth.
SAKYA-MUNI AND ATHEISM.
“ The atheism of Sakya-Muni has been asserted by eminent scholars, whose
judgment I am not entitled to controvert, though quite unable to accept it.”—
D. A. Wasson. “The testimony of the most competents cholars certainly
seems to us decisive in this case, as we have no knowledge of the original
sources of information. But perhaps the fact does not harmonize with Mr.
Wasson’s theories, and this may be the reason for discarding it. . . If
Mr. Wasson has any better reasons (than “ I want to” and “ because ”) for
setting aside the verdict of scholars in a question of scholarship, we fail to
see them.”—F. E. Abbot in reply to Mr. Wasson.
Mr. Abbot’s failure herein we are sorry for. The overwhelming presump
tion, established by all thorough study of religions, is, that the human mind
has ever sought, and never unsuccessfully, to find God. Therefore it is
perfectly legitimate to suspect of insufficiency the study which reports SakyaMuni an atheist, and to decline to accept it, even while modestly confessing
not knowledge enough of the studies in question to otherwise prove SakyaMuni a theist. Mr. Abbot entirely forgets the dignity of the discussion, as
well as fails conspicuously to appreciate a significant point, when he accuses
Mr. Wasson of holding a profound conviction with no better reasons than “ I
want to” and “because,” which he (Mr. A.) quotes from a small boy of his
acquaintance.
DR. STEBBINS’S DEMAND.
Rev. R. P. Stebbins, D. D., is energetically arguing for a conservative
policy among Unitarians, on the ground that this is in harmony with the
antecedents of the Unitarian body. He lamentably forgets, as conservative
Christians of every school do, that regeneration, birth out of the old into the
new, is the supreme law of genuine Christianity. There never has been,
and never can be,—certainly was not in Jesus and Paul, and probably is not
in Stebbins and Hepworth,— any form for religion except a human form.
This human form is inevitably more or less imperfect, and also more or less
stamped with peculiarities of time, place, and people, which make it good
for that time, place and people, but not so good for another time and place,
and other people. Hence the necessity of constant change, with effort at
least for improvement. Dr. Stebbins has had occasion enough to know this.
He some years since became disgusted with the failure of Unitarian parishes
to appreciate the sullen roar of his heavy guns, and their decided preference
�102
The Athauasian Creed.
of light rifled cannon, which the old columbiad says take polish because
they are made of brass. As Secretary of the American Unitarian Associ
ation, after leaving his last parish, Dr. Stebbins succeeded in nothing so
well as in stirring up a general determination to get rid, at all costs, of his
portentious and dismal imitation of orthodoxy, and to put in his place a
man who, while no less conservative in doctrine perhaps, had the sense to
see that the young and agile intelligences of the new generation cannot be
expected to repeat the heavy gait and severe mien of elder Puritanism. A
new time must have new methods and new men. We advise grandpa
Stebbins to quit roaring and storming about it.
THE ATHANASIAN CREED.
The Contemporary Review (Strahan & Co., London and New York) is in
some respects the most interesting and valuable publication of the kind
accessible to English-speaking readers. It represents the liberal element in
the Church of England, than which no section of existing Christian com
munion is more worthy of respect, whether for Christian studies or Christian
graces. Dissenting of course from its continued recognition of Jesuism as
essential to Christianity, we yet would be glad to see so admirable an organ
of truly Christian inquiry in the hands of every clergyman in the land. We
know of nothing among religious reviews equally attractive and instructive
to general readers with this representative of the broader scholarship and
more genial piety of the English national church. The publishers would
render a great service to religion in America if they would put an American
edition into our market, at a moderate price.
The August issue of the Contemporary contains an article by Dean Stanley
on “ The Athanasian Creed,” some points of which we wish to lay before
our readers. We premise that this famous creed is peculiar for the dogmatic
harshness with which it sets forth the doctrine of the Trinity, and the rigor
with which it declares the sure damnation to eternal fire of all who hesitate
to fully accept that fiction of theological speculation. It, as a binding creed,
is substantially held still by all orthodox belief, as it must be so long as Jesus
is made a God-Man and Lord and Saviour, and so long as ‘ He that believeth
not shall be damned ’ (Mark xvi. 16), is read as a text of Christian truth.
Originally, to use the language of “ The English Cyclopaedia,” this creed “was
received by the free conviction of the churches that it contained a correct
exposition of Christian doctrine;” the very way in which the authority of
the Bible, and the divine truth of all orthodox dogmas, were originally set
up among Christians. By the same general authority of the Christian
church, this creed was ascribed to Athanasius, the great theologian of the
fourth century, precisely as the fourth gospel was ascribed to the apostle
John. Nobody ever pretended to really prove the ability of primitive
�The Aihanasinn Creed.
103
Christians to detect godhead in Jesus and divinity in gospels and epistles ;
that ability has been loosely assumed ; and how much the assumption is
worth we can judge from Dean Stanley’s remarks on “ The Creed of St.
Athanasius.” He says,—
“ Its first reception and actual use in Christendom is one of the most
remarkable instances of those literary mistakes (not in the first instance a
deliberate forgery, in the vulgar sense of the word) which have exercised so
great an influence over the history of the Church. It is to be classed in this
respect with the works of Dionysius the Areopagite, which formed the basis
of the popular notions of the Celestial Hierarchy ; with the false Decretals of
the early Popes, or early Emperors, which formed the basis of the Pontifical
power. Under the shadow of a great name it crept, like those other docu
ments, into general acceptance ; and then, when that shadow was exorcised
by the spell of critical inquiry, still retained the place which it had won
under false pretences. Through the Middle Ages it was always quoted as
his work. At the time of the Reformation, the name of the champion of
Christian orthodoxy still dazzled the vision of the Reformers. In the Augs
burg Confession, and in the Thirty-nine Articles, in the Belgic and in the
Bohemian Confessions, in the ‘ Ecclesiastical Polity ’ of Hooker, it is unhes
itatingly received as the ‘Creed of St. Athanasius.’ No one at that time
entertained any doubt of its authorship. The very year of its composition
was fixed; the very hole in the Abbey of S. Maximin, near the Black Gate
at Treves, was pointed out as the spot where Athanasius had written it in
the concealment of his western exile. Yet it is now known with absolute
certainty not only that Athanasius never did write it, but never could have
written it. The language in which it was composed was probably unknown
to him. We shall see, as we proceed, that the terminology which it employs
was condemned by him. It contains at least one doctrine which he would
have repudiated. But . . the treatise of the unknown author who composed
this, in some respects, anti-Athanasian Creed, has been embalmed for poster
ity by its early ascription to the Father of orthodoxy. . . By the magic
of his name this confession, of unknown and ambiguous character, found its
way into the Western Church, and has been kept alive and retained a charmed
existence after its real character had been discovered. . . The history of
the reception of the Creed of St. Athanasius is like the parallel history of
the reception of the Pope's Infallibility — ‘ gangrened with imposture ; ’ not
willful imposture it may be, not conscious fraud, but still leaving it so desti
tute of historical foundation as to render doubly imperative the duty of
testing its claims to authority by its own intrinsic merits.”
These last strong words are fully justified by the facts. And not only are
they applicable where Dean Stanley applies them, but over the whole field of
ecclesiastical and theological support of accredited Christianity. That
support is gangrened with imposture, not willful it may be, not conscious and
deliberate fraud, but still leaving it so destitute of honest foundation in any
truth ever taught as to render absolutely imperative the duty of testing all
claims of Christianity to authority by the intrinsic merits of its teaching, as
reason and faith can take cognizance of these.
�104
Duty Without Heaven.
AN EVANGELICAL INSTANCE.
In the article from which we have quoted above, Dean Stanley says that
“it was expected, almost wished (by certain orthodox leaders in England),
that a frightful, sudden death, such as that which befel Arius in the streets
of Constantinople [who was believed by one party to have been killed by
God in answer to orthodox prayers], would be inflicted on an eminent scholar
who had come to take his part in making better understood the Holy Scrip
tures, and in kneeling with his brethren around the table of their common
Lord. . . Sentiments like these . . . are the natural fruits of the ancient
damnatory spirit of the age whence those clauses originated. The meaning
of the clauses is now reduced, by ‘considerable intellectual caution’ to
something much more like the spirit of the Gospel. But, to anyone who
accepts them in their full sense, or who is influenced by their intention, it is
only natural that the persons against whom they are believed to be directed
should be viewed with unspeakable horror. A man, of whom we are unhes
itatingly able to say that, ‘he shall, without doubt, perish everlastingly,’
must be the most miserable of human beings—to be avoided, not only in
sacred, but in common intercourse, as something too awful to be approached
or spoken of.”
DUTY WITHOUT HEAVEN.
“The doing of duty without any hope of a future is a daring but a dreary
faith,” says the editor of The Sunday Magazine, in commenting on the Secu
larist confession of faith. Let each speak for himself. We can testify that
there is an inexpressible, heavenly blessedness in giving up all hope of
reward, future as well as present, to do present duty, and that the gloomier
the outlook from the post of duty has seemed, the more would the irrepres
sible sense of heaven in the heart assert itself. We have frequently found
in men and women this perfectly serene, joyous satisfaction in mere doing
duty. It accords with all our study of the human mind, that the best
attainment of man leaves him where he can find perfect delight in duty,
wholly apart from a future, while our observation of human experience has
repeatedly shown us that doing of duty can be profoundly joyous even where
disbelief of a future exists. Those who have never tried a religion which
forbids eagerness about one’s own redemption, and commands the cultivation
of spiritual courage to share all hope with all souls, ought to remember that
their cowardice in the battle of life cannot be a measure of the courage of
soldiers of humanity, who are perfectly willing to do their duty here and
take the result.
�
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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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The Examiner: a monthly review of religious and humane questions, and of literature. Vol. 1, November,1870, no. 1
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [Winnetka, IL.]
Collation: 104 p. ; 25 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Contents: Crazy Chicago; or the back stairs to fortune -- Charles Dickens and his Christian Critics -- The Women and the trial --Dr. J.F. Clarke against theism --The Unitarian situation -- History of the devil, his rise, greatness and downfall / Albert Reville --Rev. Mr. Abbot at Toledos. 'The woman and the trial' concerns Harriet Beecher Stowe and the Beecher-Tilton trial. Reville's article was possibly the reason why Conway kept this item - a review of Gustave Roskoff's 'History of the Devil' translated from 'Revus des deux mondes'; his own 'Demonology and devil lore' would be published in 1879.
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[s.n.]
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1870
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G5448
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Periodicals
Religion
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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 (The Examiner: a monthly review of religious and humane questions, and of literature. Vol. 1, November,1870, no. 1), 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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Conway Tracts
Devil
Religion
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FRIEND OF PROGRESS.
Vol. 1.]
New York, July, 1865.
Frances Power Gobbe.
BY T. W. HIGGINSON.
[No. 9.
and one often observes it while traveling, in
the hands of young gentlemen of serious
aspect, and young ladies of no particular
aspect at all. It sometimes suggests curiosity
as to the precise shape in which these scat
tered rays are transmitted through these vari
ous private prisms.
The new volume on “Religious Duty”*
appears to be an earlier work than ‘ ‘ Broken
Lights,” and in some respects more extended.
Her subject she defines as “comprehending
the actions and sentiments due by man imme
diately to his Maker.” She treats of Reli
gious Offenses, which comprise Blasphemy,
Apostacy, Hypocrisy, Perjury, Sacrilege, Per
secution, Atheism, Pantheism, Polytheism,
Idolatry, and Demonolatry. Then of Religious
Faults, including Thanklessness, Irreverence,
Prayerlessness, Impenitence, Skepticism, and
Worldliness. Then of Religious Obligations,
classed as Thankgiving, Adoration, Prayer,
Repentance, Faith, and Self-consecration.
The mere list of these subdivisions implies a
good deal of thoroughness, and, perhaps, a lit
tle over-minuteness of systematization.
There is no want of courage in the book,
and the writer adheres most faithfully to her
position of “Absolute Religion.” On the
appearance of a new edition of Longfellow’s
and Johnson’s “Book of Hymns,” now called
“Hymns of the Spirit,” an enthusiastic admi
rer wrote: “The book is theologically pure.
The name of Christ does not appear in it;”
meaning that the hymns recognized Jesus only
in a human character, and by a human appel
lation. Tried by this rather novel test of
If Miss Cobbe had the good fortune to write
in an attractive style, she would achieve for
herself a leading position in the most ad
vanced Beligious literature. No one else
shows so strong a desire to develop Theism
into a system, without reference to Jewish and
Christian traditions, and to fit it out with the
requisite ethical adaptations. She is also
very sincere and single-minded, free from
cant and rant, and shows much reading in
the most desirable directions. But her style
is apt to be bare and tame, without having the
sort of crisp dry clearness which sometimes
lends attraction to theological books else un
readable; as is the case, for instance, with
Beecher’s “Conflict of Ages,” and Norton’s
‘ ‘ Genuineness of the Gospels. ” Hers is rather
the style of average Unitarian discourses; a
style unexceptionable, but without freshness,
saliency, or relief, and hence rather unat
tractive.
She has been heretofore known in this coun
try as the author of “ Intuitive Morals,” and
the English editor of Theodore Parker’s works.
This is good ground for reputation. The first
part of her first book was certainly remarka
ble, though the second part by no means
equaled it; and her edition of Theodore Par
ker puts his American literary executors to
shame. But she is rapidly becoming still
better known through her own contributions
to theology. “Broken Lights” has already
been frankly criticised in these pages. It is
*“ Religious Duty, by Frances Power Cobbe.’>
apparently obtaining quite a wide circulation, Boston: 5V. V. Spencer. 12mo. pp. viii, 326. $1.75.
Entered according to Act of Congress by C. M. Plumb & Co., in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the
United States, for the Southern District of New York.
�258
The inend of Progress.
orthodox}', Miss Cobbe’s last work is theologi out of the true church invisible those wbo<
cally pure also. It is not professedly a trea found themselves in this position.—In aU
tise on Christian Duty, but on Religious Duty. these respects the canons laid down by Miss
And though the writer suggests a latent con Cobbe are a step downward from his position,
fusion in her title by admitting that all duty is and are directly in the spirit of sectarianism.
religious; still this objection would not have
This can be readily shown by quoting her
been averted, and many others would have own language; the italics not being, however,
been introduced, by using the word “Chris her own.
tian.” That is a word which no disciple of
“Nevertheless, the unspeakable blessing
Miss Cobbe’s can use without embarrassment, and honor of communion offered to us by
because, by the whole theory of Theism, the God in prayer renders our rejection of them a
world is destined to outgrow all personal religious fault, tantamount to a general delin
quency in all religious duty. He who cares
names. If by “Christian” one means to des not to obtain the aid of God’s grace, or feel
ignate simply what is pure, right, noble, man the joy of His presence, is manifestly in a
ly,—then these last are the clearer and better condition wherein the religious part of his
words. If it means anything more or less nature must be dormant. Such sentiments
as remain to him can scarcely possess eth
than these, it is not desirable at all. Chris ical merit, inasmuch as they must be
tian virtue is simply virtue, Christian morals merely the residue of those natural instincts,
simply morals. Why complicate the phrases which, if duly cherished, must have led him to
by the addition of an adjective, which only prayer. The occasional God-ward impulses
which show themselves in all men, so far from
confuses their meaning, because it must itself constituting the fulfillment of this obligation,
be interpreted,—and however interpreted, is no form the very ground of their guilt when left
barren. Without such religious sentiments,
improvement on the simpler word ?
man could have no religious duty at all.
It is saying much for Miss Cobbe, to say that Possessed of them, he is bound to cultivate
she has kept resolutely clear of all this. In and display them in all the forms of direct
this respect her position is more unequivocal and indirect worship. ” (p. 94.)
than that of Theodore Parker, who clung to the
She afterwards, in a vague way, limits these
word “Christian”—as, indeed, he was rath remarks to those who believe that “prayer for
er attached to the word “ Unitarian.”
spiritual good receives a real answer from
When it came to a definition of Absolute God.” “It is possible for religious minds at
Religion, however, his was certainly the more an early stage to make mistakes for a time
comprehensive. His definition was simply, on this matter,” &c. (p. 95.) But the fact
“Faith in God, and love to man.” Hers seems never to have dawned upon her mind,
appears to be: “ Good morals, plus the habit that there are multitudes of earnest persons
of conscious personal prayer.”
in all stages of culture, and of all grades of
It is at this point that she and her immediate moral excellence, to whom conscious praye r
teacher diverge; not at belief in prayer, but has been for years a rare and occasional im
at its recognition as the ground of spiritual de pulse only, and perhaps not even that;—to
marcation and classification. Theodore Parker whom, at any rate, it is no part of their regu
believed in prayer intensely, and loved it lar plan of life.
intensely. He would have liked every public
Can any observing person doubt that the
lecture to be preceded or followed by it. His external practices of prayer are rapidly di
volume of prayers is, on the whole, the most minishing in our community, like all other
characteristic work he has left behind, and may external religious forms,—like baptism, and
live the longest. While reproached—even by the communion service, and church-member
men so liberal as Beecher,—with a deficiency ship ? It is impossible to deny that this tend
of religious sentiment, he was yet the only ency often coexists with increased moral
minister to whom it had occurred to address earnestness, and with higher and higher ideas
the Deity as both Father and Mother. Yet, of the Universe. It is not now needful to
for all this, he never once suggested that maintain or defend this position; only to
conscious personal prayer was essential to state it. But Miss Cobbe finds nothing to do
the highest spiritual attitude. He recognized with any such tendency, except to exclude it
with charity the scruples which prevented from her imaginary synagogue.
some, and the instinctive disinclination which
Yet after all, it is to be noticed, that,
withheld others, from taking part in it. He when this author comes to her highest state
never proposed, directly or indirectly, to read ment of possible prayer, she comes round to.
�Frances Power Coble.
an assertion which many of these excluded
ones might claim to make for themselves.
“I shall speak of that indirect worship
wherein it is to be hoped all life at last may
merge for us—wherein not only we shall
know that ‘laborare est orare,'1 but all feel
ing shall be holy feeling, all thought shall be
pure, loving, resigned, adoring thought; so
that at every moment of existence we shall
1 gloriiy God in our bodies, and in our spirits,
which are God’s.’” Then she quotes the fa
mous passage from Coleridge, which has been
the comfort of so many:
“ Ere on my bed my limbs I lay
It hath not been my use to pray
With moving lips or bended knees ;
But silently, by slow degrees,
My . pirit I to love compose,
In. humble trust mine eyelids close,
With reverential resignation;
No wish conceived, no thought expressed.
Only a. sense of supplication—
A sense o’er all my soul impressed,
That I am weak, yet not unblest,
Since in me, round me, everywhere,
Eternal strength and wisdom are.”
Yet will Miss Cobbe venture to say, that
those whose conceptions of Deity are so inef
fable and sublime, and their recognition of
his laws so complete, that specific or uttered
prayer seems to them an impertinence, may
not be as far advanced toward this higher
state as herself, or as any representative of
that type of moral progress which she de
scribes ?
Theodore Parker, her especial teacher,
never seemed so noble, because never so
humble, as when he acknowledged his own
obligations, and admitted his own inferiority,
to his especial teacher, Emerson. Yet how
far is Emerson, who can calmly speak of the
progress of humanity as tending to ‘ ‘ sweep
out of men’s minds all vestige of theisms”—
how far is he from Miss Cobbe’s type of reli
gion, or even of morality;—how near to her
type of “guilt!”
Something of the same narrowness is shown
in her, hearty denunciations of that “cold
pseudo philosophy ” which substitutes for the
endearing word “God,” the more distant
phrases of “the Deity,” “the Supreme Be
ing,” “the Almighty.” She seems utterly
unable to conceive of that mood of intense
reverence, when one instinctively seeks the
loftiest words, though they be the remotest,
and where any word at all seems almost a
profanation. Saadi says, ’ ‘ Who knows God,
is silent.” When, in that grand passage of
Faust, the philosopher utterly refuses to give
259
a name to the Unknown— Name 1st Schall
und Rauch, umnebelndHimmelsglutli)—even
the innocent little Margaret answers that it is
all very fine and good, and that the priest says
nearly the same, only with words a little dif
ferent; but to Miss Cobbe it seems all very
improper. Although she elsewhere admits
that Pantheism and Anthropomorphism are
only the two opposing tendencies of that
ever-swinging pendulum, the human soul,
yet she seems unconscious how closely her
own temperament holds her to the latter side.
She has never discovered that, in all ages,
man’s sublimest reveries are most Pantheistic,
while it is his daily needs and instincts that
bring him back to a personal God.
Apart from these limitations of tempera
ment, her discussion of the subject of Prayer
is interesting and valuable, whatever one may
think of her conclusions. More than a third
of the volume is given, under different titles,
to this theme. She even believes in prayer
for our departed friends, and enters on a long
argument to show its propriety. (Pp. 200-5.)
She demands more family prayers, and more
stated private prayers. “ Suppose that in
stead of confining our grace to one meal in
the day, we were each to say, in our own
hearts, a little grace after every successive
occupation.” (p. 134.)
Though she here says, “in our liearts,”
she yet implies something more explicit, in
this multiplication of observances. She insists
upon the form, and does not shrink from put
ting her demand in the most matter-oi-fact
way. For she says, on the same page: “ We
should show gratitude by actually expressing
our thanks in the words which would sponta
neously issue from our lips were our hearts
truly kindled." Yet this seems very incon
sistent with the position taken by her in re
gard to attendance on public worship. “As
for the attendance at worship, &c., ‘for ex
ample’s sake,’ it is marvelous how any hu
man creatures have ever had the presumption
to entertain such an idea. Let any sane man
consider what he does when he enters a
church, and ask himself how his “exemplary”
behavior therein must appear to God, and I
cannot but suppose he will be sufficiently
shocked to abandon such attempts for the
future. For either he must intend really to
worship, to thank, adore and pray to the great
Lord of all, or he must intend to make an
outward show of so doing without any uplift
ing of soul. The latter conduct is grossly in-
�260
The Friend of Progress.
suiting to the God who watches him,” &c. &c.
When she comes to points involving sim(pp. 33-4.)
ply moral courage, however, how fine and
But if the author herself advises her readers discriminating are her statements! The fol
to show gratitude by formally employing lowing, for instance, is admirable, and much
words which ought to come spontaneously, needed just at present.
but do not, —it is certainly a venial step farther
“Few of us have not much to repent in the
to employ the same words, for the benefit way of unworthy silences on our true faith;
of others, under similar circumstances. The silences, which, if caused by tenderness, were
truth is, that great danger waits, for most weak,—if by any fear, cowardly and base.
Vast numbers of free-thinkers, especially, and
temperaments, upon any merely ritual observ above all the elder Deists, seem actually to
ance. Jean Paul goes so far as to declare, have accepted their antagonists’ view of their
in his Levana, that “a grace before meat own creed, and to consider that the next best
thing to not knowing a truth was the not
must make every child deceitful.”
spreading it. Others, like Sterling, say that
This may be too strongly stated; and the as they are not professional teachers of Reli
whole theme requires the greatest delicacy of gion, they may teach (even their own
treatment, not so much for the sake of public children!) the opposite errors! It is marvel
ous that men do not see the turpitude, reli
opinion, as for the sake of truth and the affec gious, personal and social, involved in such
tions. But I am firm in the belief that the conduct. For ourselves, a life in which the
t endency of the age is to the disuse of all family inward and the outward are in harmony is
devotions, and that this disuse proceeds from absolutely needful to all moral health and
progress; and that the stunted religious
the correct conviction, that such observances growth of many free-thinkers may be attrib
very soon become formal and unprofitable, to utable to this inward rottenness, no one who
knows his own nature can doubt.” (pp. 28-9.)
nine persons out of ten.
These various defects are pointed out, be
As frankly and clearly does she deal with a
cause they constitute the only drawbacks form of hypocrisy seldom noticed, and so
upon a strong and noble book;—a book which abundant that it penetrates almost all public
will be read with deep interest by all who agree religious services—the hypocrisy of represent
with the author’s general attitude. No one ing ourselves as worse than we really are.
has given abler and clearer statements of the ‘ ‘ If we desire to grow better than we are, we
sufficiency of Natural Religion, or stated must, in the first place, be openly what we
more forcibly its independence of all tra are. We must live out our own life of duty
dition or historic narrative. She believes faithfully, uprightly, humbly, never trying to
in it too thoroughly to need the aid of any conceal our faults and making no prudery
buttresses so unsubstantial. He whose most about such poor withered charms as our vir
vital opinions have for their corner-stone a Mir tues ever possess. The life of virtue is before all
aculous Conception or a Resurrection, holds things a life of simplicity. The man who pro
his faith and hope at the mercy of the latest fesses selfish, worldly motives, when he is con
critic or translator. He who rests his convic scious of better ones, who jests about lax and
tions on eternal principles can let the waves vicious habits when his own are pure, runs
of criticism ebb and flow, he remaining un most imminent risk of very shortly adoptingtouched. Not bound to the petty details of those motives in earnest, and falling actually
any single form of creed or worship, he is in into those evil habits.” (p. 35.)
sympathy with the pure and noble of all ages.
In using one disparaging phrase above,
It is thus that the writer of Religious Duty is she perhaps crosses the border of the very
strong; and she is only weak where she shrinks offense she censures, of undue self-disparage
from the consequences of her own principles, ment. But it is an offense she seldom
and thinks it necessary to disavow the fellow commits; she is a strong, sincere, and noble
ship of those who only vary from her in tem woman; she is free from almost all the em
perament or training,—not in sincerity, nor barrassments of the sects; and every one whoeven in the essential points of belief. There is aiming at such freedom should read every
is certainly a distinguishable difference be word she writes.
tween the spiritual attitude of Parker and
Emerson: but after all there is something
—He that giveth love receiveth love, which
rather strange in the position of a woman who is his return and reward for giving. He must
edits the one writer, and utterly repudiates the ever receive more than he giveth, for his ca
other
I pability progresses.
�Womanhood.
OB,
Madelon’s
Soliloquy.
BY LIZZIE DOTEN.
0 wondrous gift of womanhood ! how frail,
And yet how strong ! How simple, yet how wise!
How full of subtle mysteries thou art!
The heights of glory and the depths of shame,
Transcendent bliss and agonies of pain,
Beauty and terror, Life and Death through love,
Are all combined and manifest in thee.
Through thy divinest gift of motherhood,
Immortal souls are debtors unto thee;
For all the elements of mortal mold,
By which the soul becomes incorporate,
And finds admission to this natural world,
Take form and shape, through subtlest chem
istry
And brooding life, in thee.
Lo, here I stand,
A woman! Would to God that I could know
The scope and meaning of that potent word,
With its divine intent; that I might say
To men and manners, habits, customs, laws—
Stand back ! I am a woman! and I claim
Freedom from everything that doth impose
Restraint upon my proper womanhood.
I do appeal from comm n usage: dare
The venom and vitupei us speech of tongues
That only know to slan! er. I conform
No longer to the false ilea which makes
Me but the adjunct of man’s social life—
His puppet, plaything, servile tool, or worse
Than these—the slave of his base pleasure.
The bonds I rive—the silken, tinsel gyves,
Which Fashion round her votaries weaves.
I walk
With fearless freedom in my quest for truth,
And quips of caitiffs—scorn of meddling shrews,
Or prudent warnings from the worldly wise,
Shall not restrain me from my high intent.
Manis not woman—woman is not man;
Yet is.it for his weal and mine, that I,
And all who bear the sacred name of woman,
Should strive to reach that social altitude,
Where, with the difference of our gifts con
fessed,
We stand as equals, side by side with man.
Why do I stay to question ? even now
The die is cast. Already on my heart
The world’s harsh judgment, like a vulture sits,
With beak and talons dripping blood. The
Truth
Leaps up like fire to my unwilling lips.
Impelled by mine own sacred womanhood,
I speak what timorous souls refuse to hear.
Already have I met the social ban—
Have dared to think, and speak as I have
thought;
Have shocked false delicacy—wounded pride—
Called things by their right names, and much
disturbed
Those souls who have the world’s morality
In charge, and whose extravagant pretense
To virtue is their greatest vice.
261
Alas!
God pity me ! for every word I speak,
Though sanctioned by eternal Truth, is born
Of untold anguish in my woman’s heart.
And well I know that each unwelcome truth
That issues from my lips, serves as a cloud,
To shut love’s sunshine from my shivering
heart.
A woman, walking unaccustomed ways,
And using most unusual forms of speech,
And seeing what the world would least have
seen,
And telling what the wo id would least have
known,
Performs a thankless service, and doth gain
But little vantage. By the common rule,
A woman should have pulp instead of brains—
Should have no thew or sinew to her thought,
Or weight and meaning in her speech, lest she
Offend the sensibilities of love.
Yet have I not the freedom of a choice;
The Fates, which consummate Eternal Will,
Constrain me. I am made a sacrifice
To powers unseen, like sad Polyxena,
Who fell a victim to Achilles’ ghost;
Or like Cassandra—favored of the gods,
Though filled with the celestial fire, I breathe
My prophecies to unbelieving ears.
Men say I have a devil! Pious men !
Who measure others’ morals by their own;
And saying thus, they stop their jealous ears,
Like those, who, with Ulysses, thus escaped
The soft enchantments of the syren isle.
Oh strange infirmity of faith ! Hath Truth,
Then, lost the pith and marrow of its life,
That I, a feeble woman, can prevail
In aught against it ? If so, let it fall!
For it is dead. The living Truth must stand.
God help me ! I must speak ! not for myself,
But for the sorrowing sisterhood of woman—
The doves by vultures torn—the bleeding
lambs—
The timorous deer pursued by cruel hounds;
And with all these, a painted, reckless throng,
Full of rude jests and wanton flouts and flings,
Tricked out in flaunting silks and tinsel gauds,
From whom the high estate and potent charm
Of womanhood hath long since lapsed away.
Yet, as a woman, I am bound to such,
And they, in turn, have part and lot in me.
Oh fallen sisterhood! your woes and wrongs
Knock with a piteous pleading at my heart,
And in the sacred name of womanhood,
The hand of sympathy I will extend,
And greet each as a sister and a friend.
Woman weak ! in virtue frail!
On whose cheek the rose is pale,
From whose eye the light hath fled,
In whose heart all hope is dead—
What have I to boast o’er thee ?
Come ! and find a friend in me.
While we share the name of woman,
We have sympathies in common.
Do you shrink and turn away—
Warning me what man will say ?
I have known the world too long,
Not to hold my purpose strong;
�262
The Triend of Progress.
Pious knave and dainty dame,
Loud may cry, “ For sliarne ! for shame!”
But I’ve learned that great professions,
Often hide most foul transgressions.
All my nerves, like tempered steel,
Life’s magnetic changes feel;
All the streams of human woe
Through myVbeing’s channels flow;
Every sorrow, every smart,
Is repeated in my heart;
Therefore, let us walk together—
Friends in fair and foulest weather.
Though a woman, yet will I
Scorn, and shame, and wrong defy;
I will dare the world’s disgrace,
Till I find my proper place,
And will lend a hand to all
Who may by the wayside fall.
Souls that act with brave decision
Need not fear the world’s derision.
/
Be I lioness or lamb,
God hath made me what I am.
Whatsoe’er my gift may be,
It is all in all to me;
And in doing what I cun,
I shall serve both God and man.
Therefore, with my best endeavor,
I shall struggle upward ever.
“Woman and her Era”
versus
“A PLEA FOR THE MASCULINE.”
BY J. V. V. R.
The first article of the second number of the
Friend of Progress, “A Plea for the Mascu
line”—so courteous in its tone, so candid in
its statement of principles, and so logical in
its method—would doubtless have been an
swered.by the author of “Woman and her
Era,” had she been spared to the world and
restored to health. As it is, a thorough
believer in the doctrine of the superiority of
woman may be excused for taking her place
here, though it would be impossible even in
this to fill the hiatus left by her untimely
departure.
It is fortunate for the present discussion
that the parties are agreed, or nearly so, as
to the premises. The “Plea” not only ac
knowledges, but takes as the basis of its
‘ ‘ argument demonstrating the equality of the
sexes,’’the positions from which Mrs. Farnham
deduces the inequality of the sexes, and the
superior excellence on woman’s side. Its
grand truth, the general of all its particulars,
on which it hangs its entire argument, is,
“that Quantity is masculine—Quality femi
nine.” Now, it is an instinctive feeling, and
a first thought of the unsophisticated mind,
that quality, other things being equal, is the
standard of value, and that quantity, in itself,
is of no value whatever, but positive trash and
incumbrance. According to this, the more
there is of a mere man the worse it is for
him, as in the case of several famous scourges
of mankind who had the epithet “Great” at
tached to their names. But the more there is
of a pure woman, the better it is for her, be
cause she has the qualities of mind and heart
that make her valuable, a ‘ recious treasure
p
to her family and the world.
The question is, which excels, quality or
quantity? and the answer is, that quality is
synonymous with excellence, and that quan
tity in itself has no excellence at all. We
estimate the value of metals, stones, fruits,
animals, and human beings, by their quality,
the source of their qualifications for any
use whatever—and the lack of this makes
dross, dirt, trash, garbage, nuisance, all in
the degree of the quantity, growth, and accre
tion, which Mr. Dickerson states to be mascu
line. By “quality,” of course he means
“good quality,” fineness and exquisiteness of
organization, and purity and delicacy of soul,
and by “quantity,” of course he means a
“good deal,” which does not mean good at
all, but simply very much. Now, which is
superior, that to which we can attach a moral
attribute, some sort of merit, qualifications of
some sort, or that to which we can attach
none? Mr. Dickerson says that the two are
equal. He says, “ Woman is better than
man. She stands a mediator between him
and the positively pure, spiritual, lovely, of
the universe.” On the other side he says
merely, “Man is more than woman. He
stands a mediator between her and the abso
lutely grand, magnificent, sublime, of the
universe.” And yet he asserts the equality of
the sexes, as if better were not superior to
more—a diamond to a boulder, a strawberry
to a pumpkin, a man to an elephant, and a
woman to a man 1 The value of quantity
depends entirely on quality, but the value of
quality does not depend on quantity; it is
only increased by it. So the value of the
masculine depends entirely on the feminine;
but the value of the feminine does not depend
on the masculine—it is only increased by it.
Woman inspires man, is the motive of his
action, and man is subservient to woman, is
the instrument of her action.
�“ Woman and her Era ” versus “A Plea for the Masculine?
Quality is primarily spiritual, pertaining to
the soul, and to the essence, nature, or prin
ciple of things. Quantity is primarily a prop
erty of matter, of that which is formed of
particles and is capable of accretion and
growth. To maintain that quality is not su
perior to quantity, is to maintain that the
soul is not superior to the body, and that
God is not superior to the material universe.
Infinity, as we view it, is not an attribute of
quantity, either great or small, as Mr. D. sup
poses : it is an attribute of Quality, to which
no limitation can be assigned. Infinite Per
fection, Infinite Goodness, not infinite size or
quantity! The source, the Fountain of all
things, is the 1 ‘ center, ” not the ‘1 circumfer
ence:” it is with the “feminine,” not with the
“masculine,” which are respectively “cen
ter” and “circumference,” according to both
Mrs. F. and her critic. The center is superior
to the circumference, the cause is superior to
the effect, the angelic heaven is superior to
the stellar heaven, the soul is superior to the
body, the jewel is superior to the casket, the
internal is superior to the external, woman is
superior to man. All these exterior things
are for the sake of these interior things, and
their subserviency marks their inferiority, and
at the same time the honor bestowed upon
them.
Take the advocate of equality at his word,
that “woman is better than man,” and that
“man is more than woman
is not the
moral and spiritual nature, of which better is
predicable, superior to the carnal nature and
to knowledge, of which more is predicable?
Who does not place goodness above great
ness, “Aristides the Just’’above “Alexander
the Great ” ? Goodness includes all true great
ness, but greatness does not include all true
goodness. The cause includes the effect,
which is but its unfolding; the Divine is the
Being whose name is “Love,” “Life,”
“ Goodness,” all attributes of the feminine,
‘ ‘ in whom we live and move and have our
being.” The aspiration fortrue greatness, is
for goodness first, as its essential—its lan
guage is, “Great, not like Caasar, stained
with blood, but only great as I am good.”
The “widow’s mite" was “more" than all
the “rich men, of their abundance, threw
into the treasury ”—greater in the purity, the
genuineness of the charity, and greater in its
results. The sex that is better, is also greater,
in the sense of multum in parvo and of “that
life being long which answers life’s great
263
end,” than the sex whose characteristic is
quantity.
The writer of the “Plea for the Masculine,”
assigns “development” to woman, and
“growth” to man, defining development to
be “the unfolding of that which is,” and
growth to be “ the adding to that which is,”
and he says they are equal. Let us see.
Development, “the unfolding of that which
is,” is predicable of the Divine operation in
the work of creation, because the soul of all
things is a unit, and all things are the un
folding and manifestation of Itself'. Growth,
“addition to that which is,” is predicable of
matter, of material particles; but it is so only
in subserviency to development, to the action
of the unfolding life in the growth of the or
ganisms of plants and animals. Growth has
been the grand idea during man’s reign, ex
tending itself to education and the mind.
Woman’s era is ushered in with the idea of
Development, as the true method and sum of
education, and of everything natural and
artistic.
Development belongs to woman as a teacher
and a pupil, and it will produce in the world
a predominance of Quality over Quantity, of
the Feminine over the Masculine; and for
all that none the less, but all the more, of
quantity, though in numbers rather than in
bulk. It is often and well said of woman,
that “the most precious things are done up
in small packages,” and these are greater in
their developments than the largest growths.
There is one point in the argument for
“equality,” to which the view of its author
claims special attention, viz. : an asserted
necessity to the indissoluble marriage rela
tion. It says, “Prove the inequality of the
sexes, and you have proven the impossibility
of true eternal marriages.” Now, “even the
gods will not fight against necessity;” and if
“equality of the sexes” is absolutely indis
pensable to the conjugal—which itself is a
moral necessity beyond the ability of the free
will to resist—any attempt at a counter argu
ment might as well be resigned at once. But
there is an “if" in the case that “alters the
case”—that makes it questionable. The mas
culine has somehow got along in the marriage
relation, and in the happiest manner, accord
ing to its way of thinking, under the reign of
the idea of its own superiority. It has not
seen anything incompatible with a conjunc
tion performed by God and indissoluble by
man in the obligation of woman to “love,
�264
,
!
I
The Friend of Progress.
honor, and obey, and of man to merely hardly be said to equal his spiritual mother
“love and cherish.” Suppose the conjugal re- and the artist whose work he is.
lation should express itself in the instinct of
Here we might drop the argument, only
the woman to love, and of the man to love and that the article we have undertaken to an
honor? it is precisely what exists in the lover swer, pledges the author not to be con
relation before and during betrothal, and to vinced “until the following questions are
the extent of the period called the “honey settled in the negative: (1.) Is not the in
moon,” ere the theory of the opposite has finitude of Deity—his perfect amount—as
made the man tyrannical and the woman ser godlike as the unfathomableness of his nature
vile. And this lover-relation is the foretaste —his perfect state?” We have already seen
on earth of the “eternal marriage,” to which, that infinitude is not an attribute of quantity,
Mr. Dickerson asserts, the equality of the or of the measurable—it is rather an attribute
sexes is absolutely necessary. The language of the immeasurable, the “unfathomable,”
of the point in question is, “Prove the ine the character, the infinite perfection of Deity.
quality of the sexes, *
* and you have As to a “perfect state,” we can form some
shattered the very foundation upon which conception of it; but a “perfect amount,”
such [eternal] marriages can rest, viz.: mu what is it? Perfection pertains to quality—
tual conscioitsness of mutual worth. Mutual not to quantity. Both Infinity and Per
worth demands equal (not similar) attain fection, therefore, are archetypes of the femi
ments; therefore an equal grade of pro nine—not of the masculine.
gression.” By “mutual worth,” I suppose is
(2.) “Is not the aspiration toward this
meant mutual love, for it is the quality of the perfect magnitude as godlike as is the aspira
love that makes the worth of each to the tion toward the perfect state?” No ; better
other, and that is at the same time mutual. be good than great. “Be ye holy, for I am
But I do not see why there cannot be ‘ ‘ mu holy.” We aspire toward the “Divine liketual consciousness of mutual worth, ” in this ness”—not toward the Divine magnitude.
or in any other sense, without equal worth. This is an object of ambition, and makes men
The logical sequence does not appear. It tyrants, as the other makes them philanthro
seems to me a mere assumption to say that pists.
the worths must be equal in the conjugal rela
(3.) “Is not the acquisitiveness—the out
tion any more than in the relation between ward tendency and action of the masculine—
the Divine and the human, which is eternal as as noble, as truly in harmony with the Divine
well as that, and conjugal as well as that. design, as is the spiritualization—the inward
“Christ and his Bride” are the incarnate Di tendency, the concentrated action of the
vine Wisdom and Love. “ Heaven on earth” feminine?” “Acquisitiveness” as noble as
is Earth and Heaven united in wedlock. The “spiritualizationI” does any one need be told
parental and filial relation, too, is eternal, that it is not? It is “as truly in harmony7
and it is not that of equals. The relation of with the Divine design,” and so an oyster is
the Divine to the human is both parental and as truly in harmony with the Divine design
conjugal, and that of woman to man is so. as a man; but that does not make them
Woman’s pure love regenerates man’s sensual equal.
love—makes it pure, by making it subservient
(4. “ Is comprehension—the power to em
to her own. In comparing the sexes, Mrs. F. brace and contain—of less importance than
has compared the natural woman with the insight, the power to pierce and penetrate?”
natural man—not with the regenerate man. The embraced and contained is the precious
The failure to recognize this has caused the treasure; the pierced and penetrated is the
Atlantic Monthly to say that Mrs. F.’s men, mere receptacle, the husk, the shell, the out
with whom she compares her ideal woman, are side of things. Give me “ insight ” into the
all “scoundrels,” and it has led the author of penetralia of Nature, entrance to the interior
the “Plea for the Masculine ” to say that Mrs. of her temple, rather than comprehension of
F.’s book exposes masculine perversions, the outside, if I am to have but one. The
and well nigh ignores masculine excellence.” “holy of holies” is of more “importance,” of
The natural man, against the natural wo- diviner import and significance, than the
■ man, she has “weighed in the balance, and “outer court ” and the “profane place.”
found wanting.” And the regenerate man,
(5.) “ Does not the far-reaching, abundant
influenced, inspired, purified by her, can affection of the masculine, balance the con
�^Monopoly in Religion.
centrated devotedness of the feminine ?” For
example, the diluted, diffused, wAe-spread,
thin, shallow, superficial, surface love that is
natural to man—“wandering like the fool’s
eyes to the end of the earth, ” and tending ever
to licentiousness and adulteration—compared
with the concentrated, faithful, devoted, pure
love that is natural to woman ? No, it does
not balance. We value love according to its
quality, its purity, its genuineness, its refine
ment, its tenderness, its devotion, its unself
ishness, its spirituality, its blessedness: not
according to its quantity, which, if that is the
object, is increased by dilution and adultera
tion. The difference between woman’s and
man’s love is as the difference between the
choice and genuine article that is offered as a
free gift and token of affection, and the spuri
ous article, the shoddy, that is manufactured
by the wholesale for money.
(6.) “ Has the masculine aspiration to be
come and do more, a lesser claim upon our
reverence than has the aspiration of the femi
nine to become and do better ?” The good
are the revered—not the great. The “better”
the more revered, and the “ more ” the more
despised, if the person be not good. I would
rather be called “the best, littlest,” than
“the greatest, meanest of mankind.”
(7.) “And finally, is not the Divine Pres
ence of the Infinite as perfectly expressed in
the grand, stately, majestic appearance of the
true man, as is the Divine Presence of the
All-Pure expressed in the lovely, exquisite,
symmetrical appearance of the true woman?”
Well, suppose it were—which is the highest
attribute of the Divine—Purity or Infinity?
Holiness or Omnipresence ? But the only in
finity belonging to extension is that of infinite
space, which is nothing. The Infinity of
Deity is that implied in Infinite Perfec
tion, the object of love rather than of won
der. The difference between the objects of
love and wonder is precisely the difference
between the modest loveliness of woman and
the proud stateliness of man. Our exaltation
of woman to her true position does not de
grade, but elevates ourselves.
“He that
exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that
humbleth himself shall be exalted.” This
places the “true man” in a higher posi
tion, and the “true woman” in the highest.
265
Monopoly in Religion.
BY O. B. FROTHINGHAM.
John, the disciple, said one day: “Master,
we saw one casting out devils in thy name,
and we forbade him, because he followed not
with us.” Jesus replied: “Forbid him not;
for he that is not against us is for us.”
Wnat sort of man this was who was casting
out devils in the charmed name of Jesus, we
can only guess. He was probably some Jew
who thought that name a good one to conjure
by, and who used it without thinking it neces
sary to call himself a disciple. Or he might
have been a pagan; worse still, a Samaritan,
who, observing what wonders were wrought
by the name, ventured to use jt in his exor
cism. Some unbeliever it was, at all events,
who only cared for Christ’s name because it
gave him good help in his calling as physician
for the more mysterious diseases which, as
they were attributed to demonic possession,
were supposed to be curable by magical or
superhuman aid. Whoever the man was, and
whatever his motive may have been, so much
is clear: he did cast out spirits. That the
disciples confessed. They did not say the
man was trying to cast out spirits, or pre
tending to cast out spirits; but he was actual
ly casting them out; he was doing it success
fully. Nay, more than this: he was doing it
by the same holy agency which they used
themselves. He was confessing the very
Master whom they followed. Had they been
reasonable men they would have been greatly
delighted that men outside of their own little
persecuted body were doing their work, re
lieving them of part of their responsibility,
and proving that more agencies than they
could employ were on foot in the same cause.
They would be glad that the immense labor
of casting out demons was not committed
solely to them, but was intrusted to such a
variety of people, that its accomplishment
was made far more certain.
But these early disciples were not above
claiming a monopoly of this divine business,
though the stock was then exceedingly low,
and the dividends very uncertain and remote.
Nobody should cast out devils unless he held
to them, and belonged to their company.
They were the exclusive holders of that privi
lege, and were ready to prosecute any who
—Judgment dwelleth in man, and Respon infringed their patent. The thing must be
sibility sitteth by its side.
done by their allowance, in their way, and
�266
The Friend of Progress.
under their patronage. There might be fewer
devils cast out—that was not the point. The
business was a private one of theirs, and they
were jealous of it. Though all the devils
remained in possession, opposition in casting
them out must be stopped.
The Master’s reply to this petty jealousy
was, as usual, magnanimous. No matter
whether he is of our party or not. If he does
our work he is our friend. The main thing is
to get the devils cast out. If they do that, I
am satisfied. They may be Jews, Pagans,
Samaritans, heathen of any sort—if they suc
ceed in casting out devils, they are of our
party.
Thus, in the very life-time of the Master,
and in the very circle of his immediate friends,
began that struggle between partisanship and
charity, which has raged ever since that early
day, and which now tears apart the Christian
world. Can Christian work be monopolized?
That is the question. Can such a thing be
admitted as proprietorship in the humane and
universal? Shall ownership in truth and
charity—in moral and spiritual elemnts—be
allowed ? Is any company large enough, or
strong enough, or wise enough, or honest
enough, to take out a patent for the enlight
enment and inspiration of mankind? The
human passion for proprietorship is some
thing prodigious. It is enormous. It stops
at nothing. It ranges from earth to heaven,
from dirt to Deity. Man makes everything
his own. He would set on everything his
private seal, and make it sacred as property.
Houses and lands, personal estate, wardrobe,
horses, furniture, plate, merchandise, are not
the only things that bear the charmed name
of possessions.
The phrase, my servant,
my porter, my clerk, my friend, my child, my
husband or wife, is almost as familiar as the
phrase, my carriage, or my house; and it is
used in much the same absolute spirit.
“I would not take five thousand dollars for
that little protege' of mine,” said a friend
unwittingly to me. Love is full of private
jealousies. It cannot bear that others, not
even that humanity, not even that God, should
have any part in its beloved. It is resentful
that the interests of the race should appropri
ate the thoughts or affections of its darling.
When the dear God takes to his bosom, child
or friend, we complain that he has robbed us |
of what belonged to us as a piece of private
property.
The passion for proprietorship does not
stop with persons. It lays hold on ideas;
hangsits livery on universal truths; sets its
private stamp on the Infinite. How constant
ly we hear of “my” philosophy, “my”
creed, “ my ” system, “ my ” truth ! A man
is supposed to have reached the hight of
spiritual experiences when he can say, “my”
God. The Jews had a notion of God, which
they said was peculiar to themselves—nobody
else had it; nobody else should have it,
unless he joined them, and became a Jew.
It was their monopoly; they had a patent for
it, and jealously guarded their right, for it
secured to them the key to the kingdom.
They took great pains to keep it distinct
from every other idea of God that prevailed
in the world. They would not carry it or send
it anywhere. Whoever wanted it must come
to them and get it. Now one would say that
this niggardliness of theirs proved them unre
ligious; proved that they had no worthy idea
of God at all. No! it gains them the repu
tation of being the most religious nation on
the face of the earth. If, instead of saying
“our” God—the God of the Hebrews—the
God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob—they had
said simply, ‘ ‘ God the Infinite and Eternal ”—
“all men’s God”—they would have been
reckoned little better than pagans. If, instead
of saying, “Come to us, all ye people, and we
will give you God, for we alone have him,”
they had said, “In every nation he that feareth and worketh righteousness is accepted, ”
it would have been said that they cared
no more about God than so many heathen.
To say my God—our God—is the special
mark of the saint. To say ‘1 all men’s God ”
is equivalent to saying “no. God.” When a
man can feel that he has secured a personal
or family interest in Deity—when he lias suc
ceeded in elbowing his way through the
vulgar crowd into the Divine Presence, and,
catching his eye, has extorted from him a
promise of future favor, he is said to be con
verted. The man with a new heart has ever
a long list of special providences wrought in
his behalf. It is his privilege to have a God
who singles him out from the rest of mankind,
and makes his private affairs a concern of his.
Only the unsanctified disavow this sort of pro
prietorship in Deity, contend that he rules the
world by general laws—loving no one in par
ticular—and speak of him as the Absolute,
the Infinite, the Eternal.
It follows, naturally enough, that this pri
vate possession is held in very high esteem.
�Monopoly in Religion.
267
My things are better than yours. There is no ity is the only authority conferred by the
o
house that I like so well as my own. There Spirit; my priesthood is the only priesthood
■e
is no horse like my horse. My child is a won that has the true ordination;—when a sect
ider. My friend is peerless. The circle I says: You must shout my shibboleth, or you
belong to is the choice circle. The family will be damned; you must work my organizay
from which I sprung ranks with the very first tion, or you can do nothing; this way of mine
st
for antiquity and honorableness of descent. is the only way; I have the charmed formula;
:.
There is no blood purer than the blood in my these men outside are Infidels; they are doing
y
veins. Aristocrats are we .all, somewhere. harm; their influence is bad; God does not
!.
My town ranks the country—my country is favor people who deny these doctrines which
s
the chosen’ spot of the earth. This little we hold, and neglect those practices which
e
infirmity of private conceit in ordinary life we follow; when a doctor of divinity says in a
e
and in small matters, we pass by with a lecture: “If a man believes the creed, he has
smile; but in graver matters it becomes seri.- a faith ; if he denies it, he has a philosophy,
ous. When Religion thus overworks the per and Anti-Christ is a philosopher ;” it is time to
sonal pronoun—when Religion emphasizes say that the divine grace has not made itself
s
the I, the me, the our, the us—when Religion over to any denomination or party ; that for
i
lets its sunshine and its rain fall upon this seed the matter of need, God needs none of us.
1
of individuality, till from it there shall spring
5
The idea that this little clique of theologia tree whose top touches the heaven—when ans, who cannot even define their own terms,
i
Religion makes this me a mountain whose should pretend to hold so much as a small
3
summit overtops the country round, and ac latch-key to a back door unto the kingdom of
commodates the court of Jupiter and all the use and beauty ! The idea that this church,
ì
Gods—when Religion gives its divine sanc whose history is stained with blood, should
tion to this idea of ownership, and allows a pretend that only she can make men white !
i
man to think that his opinion is the final This, too, in a world which has seen churches
1
truth; that his way of saving men is the only rise and fall like waves, under the blowing of the
7
way by which men can be saved; that his invisible Spirit ! This in a world which has
J
church is the providential institution, outsidej seen systems chase each other across the sky
of which is no salvation—it is time to look; of thought like clouds! This in a world
about and ask what it means. Some fieldsj which has seen vast institutions dry up like
certainly must be rescued from this exorbitant mist in the dawn! This in a world where
;
claim of proprietorship. When the Reformer• mighty results are brought about by trifling
says to his fellow-men, “You who wish to aidI causes, which no man could see a moment in
men to throw off this great burden of abuse, advance, and where the most tremendous
to deliver Jhemselves from this particular■ efforts of organized man have so often failed
oppression, to emancipate themselves from. to accomplish anything! This in a world
this special sin, must come into my party, where a thousand agencies cross and recross
take my oath, adopt my tenets, use my spe one another, doing the perfect will from
cific; we shall count you against us unless moment to moment !
you join our society, and wear our badge;
It is said, I know, that this feeling of private *
for nobody can do this thing but we; wheu ownership is the only guaranty that people
the Temperance reformer, for instance, brings will take an interest in the work they are set
out his pledge of total abstinence, and bids to do. Men care tor their own ; and as their
you sign and circulate it, as the only means own, will work for it, save for it, live and die
of stopping the curse of intemperance, and for it ; while for that which is not their own,
on penalty of being reckoned an enemy of the they will lift no finger and give no dollar.
inebriate if you decline; when he says: All The selfish feeling of proprietorship keeps the
other devices are worse than useless; every world a going; just as water, till it is forced
other doctrine than this of mine is damning; to flow between banks, spreads out into a
every other society than this of mine is a pre marsh, overflows valuable territory, rots the
tense ; it is time to declare that there is work land and the trees, gives play-ground to slimy
so broad and radical that it needs all earnest snakes and frogs, and keeps the country
men to do it. When a church says: In my about well supplied with fevers for grave
communion alone is salvation; my sacraments : yards; so men and women become—we are
are the only genuine sacraments; my author- i told—shallow and stagnant and pestilential,
�268
The Friend of Progress.
till you set them at work for their own pri
vate interest. It is of no use to talk of
humanity and justice and the welfare of the
race. People are kind to themselves and to
those who belong to them, and to no others.
Public buildings may burn, but each individual
takes care that his house does not take fire.
The mother no doubt is very fond and foolish
and tiresome, and kindless, who thinks that
never a sweet babe was born till her darling
came into the world; but unless she did think
so, she would not nurse the baby, and carry
it through all the perils of infancy. Who
would do for another’s child from sentiments
of humanity, for heaven’s sake or for God’s
sake, what she does for her own child, for her
own sake ? The sentiment of ownership is,
we are assured, the main-spring of life. To
turn the wheel of existence, love must be set
running through a sluice-way. The coldhearted man provides bountifully for his own
family; watches jealously over his daughters;
educates carefully his sons; spares no pains
and no cost for health, instruction, culture;
spends his life, in fact, in the effort to train
this little plant of his so that it shall bear
beautiful blossoms and rich fruit—all the
while priding himself supremely on its thrifti
ness and beauty. He is improving his own
property, and increasing his own possessions.
You do not find him doing that, or anything
like it, for those who are not his own; but
he keeps his little garden-plot weeded. The
patriot will fight for his country and her insti
tutions, whatever they may be, and will send
his sons to fight and bleed for them too;
exulting in their glorious death when they go
down into premature graves. There is no
devotion like his. Poets make it the theme
of their song; orators make it the source of
their inspiration; historians use it as the best
material for the holy traditions that bind the
generations of national existence together,
and warm up a people’s heart with grand
memories of valor and sacrifice. The man
without a country—rather the man whose
country is the world—the man who can claim
one country as being his own as much as
another—the man who, instead of being rooted
to a little island, has the freedom of the
globe—whose countrymen are all mankind—
never does anything like this. He will not
fight for a flag; he will not engage in a
national struggle; he will not sing patriotic
songs, or lay down his life that a people may
be tree; because no people is his people, no
songs are his songs, no nation is his nation,
and no flag is his flag. He has nothing spe
cially at stake. His pride is not enlisted;
his self-love is not appealed to; his vanity is
not excited; and so for him all causes are
indifferent; all revolutions alike interesting
or uninteresting; all struggles equally mo
mentous or idle; all flags but silken symbols
of nationalities'in which he has no special
concern; and the convulsions of states are
but so many social movements of which he is
a curious spectator. The largest expense in
the grand patriotic demonstration of February
22 was incurred by the people whp wanted to
display their sign-boards.
The man who cares nothing for the social
ties that link men together, upon whose ear
the words “human brotherhood” come with
an unmeaning sound, who has no conception
of a unity as existing between himself and his
fellow-men, and will consequently do nothing
to promote that unity, may become intensely
interested in his church, because it is his
church—the church of which he is a pillar
and in which he is a proprietor—and in the
act of building up that by enlarging its mem
bership, filling its meetings, augmenting its
sociability, enriching its communion and ves
per services, adorning and beautifying its
sanctuary, he will help make a bond of unity
felt among a number of his fellow-beings; he
may create a limited brotherhood of human
souls, and may build a sheepfold or a home
where the imperiled may find shelter and the
outcast may find rest. All the time it is his
church, his church, that is uppermost in his
thoughts; but it cannot be his church without
being also the church of many human souls
besides himself.
Or take another illustration. There was a
meeting at the Academy in behalf of the sol
diers—called by the officers and friends of the
Christian Commission. There was nothing
remarkable in the published list of speakers,
or in anything else, to attract a crowd. But
the crowd was there—immense, crushing.
Interest rose to the pitch of excitement. The
appeals of the orators roused the audience to
enthusiasm, and when the collection was
taken up, people, instead of following the
usual custom—of searching for a small piece
of currency among the bills—poured out the
entire contents of their purses; nay, took
the rings from their fingers, the chains from
their necks, the bracelets from their arms,
the watches from their pockets, and flung
�Monopoly in Religion.
them promiscuously into the pile of trea
sure.
■What prompted this extraordinary generos
ity ? A feeling of humanity ? Sympathy with
suffering ? A conviction of the soldiers’ needs ?
Why, those needs had been presented to them
hy the Sanitary Commission for four years.
For four years eloquent speakers had been
arguing, exhorting, appeali^, praying for
money for these very soldiers, from these very
people. But they did not touch this sensitive
sectarian sentiment. They did not ventilate
the personal pronoun. They did not say,
“we, we,” but only “they, they.” They did
not forbid those that followed not with them.
‘ ‘ Cast out the devils, ” they said, 1 ‘ and we are
satisfied.” But the devils were not cast out.
Now comes a body that adopts the narrow
sectarian policy, holds out hope of sectarian
aggrandizement, pricks the spirit of sectarian
vanity and conceit, and jealously shouts,
“we, we ”—our denomination—owr church—
and the charity sprouts up like coal oil in
Pennsylvania.
What will not men do for the sake of their
own souls, who will do nothing for the sake
of the bodies and souls of all Christendom 1
Speak to them of justice, of humanity, of the
claims of a common kindred in God, of the
poor man’s need, the sick man’s misery, the
stupid man’s ignorance, the weak man’s vice,
the wicked man’s turpitude and sin, and they
are as immovable as rocks. Frighten them a
little about the safety of their private souls,
and there is no end to their charity. Make
alms-giving a private business, the chief pro
fits whereof are to accrue to themselves—gua
rantee to them a special interest in the kingdom
of heaven—and you rouse them to such effort as
will make a desert blossom. The premium
on private seats in heaven built the Church of
St. Peter.
Seeing all this, people argue that monopoly
in religion is a good thing; that narrowness
in church life is a good thing; that sectarian
ism is a good thing; that every kind of pious
partisanship is a good thing; that the constant
over-working of the personal pronoun “I,”
1 ‘ we, ” ‘ ‘ ours, ” “ us, ” is a good thing. Is it ?
Was that rebuke of John well bestowed ? Is it
well to say to people: Cultivate your exclusive
ness, if it is only in exclusiveness and through
exclusiveness that you will work—insist that no
man shall cast out devils at all unless he will
cast them out in your way—is it well to say
this?
269
•
Remembering who it was that rebuked this
disposition when it first showed itself among
his own disciples, let us consider this point.
Granted that men work more intensely
when they work for their own denomination,
church, party, organization, sect, corporate
interest—granting that the effort to monopo
lize power, authority, privilege, prestige,
to triumph over rivals, to get patronage away
from competitors, is the mainspring of all
intensity of labor—the question still remains:
Is the work done, the work required ? Are
the demons cast out ? Are none but demons
cast out? When the zealous John forbade
the casting out of devils by that outsider,
because he did not join his company, was
he not thinking a little more of his com
pany than he was of the dispossession of the
demons? And was he not more interested
in the gathering in of followers than he was
in the driving out of devils ? And presently,
when Paul came along and proposed to cast
out heathen demons, on another plan, did not
this same John think that the integrity and
compactness and orthodox consistency of the
Jerusalem church would more than compen
sate for the weeding of the Lord’s garden?
Did he not vote that Paul was little better
than a demon himself, because he divided the
company and drew some away ?
The close churchman, the narrow sectary,
the exclusive partisan, becomes so absorbed
in his church, his sect, his party, that he for
gets there are any demons to be cast out.
He may give, work, toil, spend, apparently
for objects outside; but it is always for objects
inside. He bestows only on himself. He
flings the gold away from him with most
impetuous and lavish hand; but flings it in
such a way, that, like the Indian boomerang,
it comes directly back to his own hand.
Partisanship in morals and religion strength
ens nothing but itself. It is very doubtful if
mankind are any better for it. It is true, no
doubt, that, to a certain extent, the poor are
aided, the hungry are fed, the naked are
clothed; but this is done indirectly, inciden
tally, as a means to an end, and in a spirit
that makes the utility of it very questionable;
for with every gift of clothing or money goes
something of the Phariseeism that bestows it.
The Christian Commission will, of course,
render much assistance to the soldiers in camp
and hospital; but with every package of sup
plies will go a package of tracts; every bun
dle of clothing will contain just so many suits
�270
The Friend of Progress.
of sectarian livery; every bottle of medicine
will be folded in wrappers indicating the spir
itual drug-gist it came from, and soliciting
patronage for the firm; every pair of shoes
will suggest to the sore-footed recipient the
strait and narrow way of orthodoxy, by which
alone he can find the kingdom of heaven; and
every blanket, as it is put on, will remind the
shivering man of certain filthy rags of infidel
ity, which must be put off. The temporal
estate of some denomination is the thing to
be improved, after all. The soldiers must
follow after us. I make bold to say, for my
own part, that the good done to the soldiers is
slight, as compared with the evil done to the
cause of religion. It would be better, in my
judgment, every way, that the soldiers should
have nothing beyond what the government
can furnish them with, than that this enor
mous vice of sectarianism should grow. It
were better that the demon of cold and hun
ger and pain should not be expelled, than
that the far more terrible demon of religious
partisanship should take possession. If we
could break down the principle of monopoly
in faith, we could richly afford to let the world
take its chance with its physical and social
ills.
It will have to take its chance with these at
any rate. What does the costly religion of
New York, supported by these most munifi
cent sectarians, do toward diminishing the
burden of excessive taxation, lessening the
fearful rate of mortality among the poorer
classes of citizens, stopping the gaping sources
of disease that belch out streams of poisoned
air in every foul street, providing that the
children should be saved from the wholesale
murder to which they are exposed through
the neglect of Street Commissioners, or saving
the poor from the outrageous and merciless
spoliations of their rulers ? We New Yorkers
live daily on the very brink of destruction.
All the demons are let loose upon us: foul
odors, dirt, putrefaction, the elements of every
conceivable disease, beggary, thievery, vice
in every variety; and the Citizen’s Associa
tion cannot find ten good men to undertake
its gigantic sanitary work. The organiza
tions that represent the law and will of God
are busy filling their quotas for the ranks of
saints in the world to come.
A sure way, perhaps, of effecting the sani
tary reform of the city, would be to fire some
body of sectaries with the idea that it would
redound greatly to its religious reputation
and its denominational power, to redeem the
city from its filth. Let there be a rivalry
started among the churches as to which should,
glean the richest harvest of converts from the
poor who were saved from pestilence and the
rich who were saved from pillage—let some
“ Christian Association ” be induced to under
take the work of cleaning our augean stables
for the “lovt^of souls,” and in a very few
weeks our city would rival Paris in the exqui
site cleanliness of its streets, the complete
ness of its sewerage, the admirable ventilation
of its dwellings, the absolute abatement of all
its nuisances, and the beauty of its municipal
appointments. The demons of the earth
would be expelled, but in their place we should
have demons of the air; an atmosphere filled
with controversial and theological dust; heaps
of evangelical tracts; a police watch set at
the avenues of thought. When the unclean
spirit had gone out, into the swept and gar
nished city would come seven other spirits
more wicked than he, and the last state of
that man might be worse than the first.
For this disposition, illustrated by John,
conjures up more d mons than it lays. Nay,
it leaves the real demons in full possession,
and goes to work to expel as demons what
there is ground for believing are no demons
at all, but the saving spirits of the earth.
The test of any faith is that it casts out
demons; but the people who say that none
but they have authority or power to cast out
demons, simply assail as demons all who try
to cast out demons in a different way from
theirs. Every sect is demonic in the eyes of
every other sect. The list of the arch-fiends
whom Christendom has tried to cast out is
rather remarkable. St. Paul heads it. At
long intervals follow Huss, Jerome, Savona
rola, Luther, Servetus, Latimer, Ridley, Chan
ning, Parker—all men who fought real devils
to some purpose. Church does its best to
exorcise church, denomination to dispossess
denomination, party to put party under the
ban; while ignorance, want, suffering, sor
row, limitation, imbecility, sit moping and
gibbering on the hearts of human kind.
The Pope of Rome, in whose holy city
800,000 francs are annually spent in masses,
while 214,000 suffice for public instruction,
issues his manifesto, in which he pronounces
accurst and summons the faithful to expel
some half hundred or more of spirits which
we in America are accustomed to consider
the very guardian angels of our social estate.
�Monopoly in Religion.
But you will find that the different parties in
Christendom have their devils too, in whose
expulsion they are as much interested as he
is in his; and of those devils he is reckoned
the chief.
The test of a faith is its power to cast out
demons. But who shall tell us what the
demons are? It is very easy to say, Cast
out devils; but thus far it has resulted in
Christians trying to cast out one another, and
letting the devils remain in possession.
Who shall tell us what the devils are? 0
friends! we cannot know what they are, till
we are delivered from the prince of them,
which is the spirit of Phariseeism, and exclu
siveness, and monopoly. We canno’t know
what they are, until we come out of our sec
tarian corners and ecclesiastical closets,
where we have been so long barricaded, and
standing in the open plains of humanity, ask
ourselves what it is that injures Man; what
'Curses society at large; what depraves and
eradicates human nature; not what weakens
our party, shakes our organization, enfeebles
the influence of our church. When we can
forget the personal pronoun entirely—forget
that we have an establishment to build up—
forget that we have a denomination to sustain
—forget that we have a church to fill—forget
that we have a private spiritual interest to
serve—forget that we have a system to defend
and promulgate—and only remember* that
God has a truth to serve—then, and not till
then, shall we know what the demons are
that we are called to cast out. Then we may
discover, possibly, that the first demon is the
spirit which we have been all along cherishing
as angel: the hunger for personal or partisan
appropriation—the rage for spoils in the
heavenly kingdom. The faith that makes
men large and liberal—call itself what it may
—is the true faith. The faith that delivers men
from their limitations, stirs them from their
stupor, makes them ashamed of their igno
rance, puts down unwarranted authority,
expels from their bosoms the fear of God,
exorcises the spirit of distrust and timidity,
of doubt respecting themselves and the world
they live in—the faith that gives them confi
dence in their power to find the truth, and in
the power of natural and providential agencies
to get them out of their misery—no matter
what ugly name it may happen to bear—is
good faith. Call it orthodoxy, heterodoxy,
heresy, infidelity, secularism, pantheism, or
whatever else is most obnoxious in title—if it
271
casts out the demons of ignorance, lethargy,
stupor, blindness, and servility of mind—if it
expels the spirit of tame acquiescence and
dumb submission to want and misery—if it
drives out cowardice and credulity and super
stition—if it is a spirit of liberation, it is good.
It may not be for our church—it cannot be
against our influence.
Jesus said bitterly one day: “A man’s foes
are they of his own household.” Indeed they
are. The foes of a man are they that bar his
way out into generous relations with his fellow
creatures and his God—bosom foes all—
demons of the threshold: domestic luxury,
personal exclusiveness, family pride, social
contempt, sectarian zeal, church foppery.
God help us to put these things away. God
help us to love truth more than opinion,
society more than sect, the community more
than the church, him more than ourselves.
Then we shall find ourselves in possession of
the charm that casts out every demon.
When will men understand that they are
powerful only when they serve the truth—that
they must always be weak when they patronize
it ? When will men understand that they gain
nothing by appropriating ideas to themselves,
and insisting on their monopoly being re
spected? Just as all our back yards—now so
dark and moldy and grassless and forlorn—
would each and all be green and blooming if
we would pull down the high fences that shut
out light and air, and in place of them put up
open inclosures of iron-work, through which
the breeze would circulate—so each one of
our opinions and credences would gain in
vitality if the sectarian barricade were removed
and the common air of heavenly truth allowed
to sweep over and freshen the whole. In God
we cannot lose ourselves—we always find our
selves. We lose ourselves out o’f him. The
universal never drowns us—it saves us from
drowning. The very largest charity, while it
seems likely to let the man ran out and be
drained off, serves to let the great spirit run
in and fill him up frill. Do you lose your
breath when you open your windows to the
air of heaven ?
Every great example takes hold of us with
the authority of a miracle, and says to us,
If ye had but faith, ye should also be able to
do the things which I do.—Jacobi.
It is impossble to be a hero in anything,
unless one is first a hero in faith.—id.
�272
The Friend of Progress.
The Friend of Progress.
C. M. Plumb & Co., Publishers.
NEW YORK, JULY, 1865.
Mr. Towne’s Survey of Mr. Beecher’s Beliefs
and Opinions will be resumed in our next
number, and probably be completed in the
number following. The contribution for this
month is unavoidably delayed.
The Psychometrical Delineation of the
Character of Abraham Lincoln, to be found
upon another page, is published not so much
for the purpose of adding another to the
many individual opinions of our late Presi
dent, as for the sake of the peculiar method
of the examination, and its striking harmony
with the character revealed to the nation in
the career of Mr. Lincoln, since 1861, when
the examination was made and first pub
lished.
The Truth in Error.
That the human mind is naturally truthful,
is no less evident from the efforts of liars than
from the credulity of the honest. Were we as
enamored of the face of falsehood as of that
of truth, the task of the hypocrite would be
needless, as a lie might flaunt its own colors
without disparagement. Counterfeits are only
profitable where a sound currency is their
basis.
We ought then to expect a show of truth in
all the professions of men, and where a doc
trine has been passed down from age to age,
till it has become the spiritual and mental life
of thousands, we should look for a reality of
truth, as well as the specious appearance of
it in that life-creed. Where men are persist
ent in their exercise of gnawing theological
husks, it is safe to conclude that some kernel
enlivens their dry fodder, or that they have
power to assimilate even husks, and derive
from them a little spiritual nutriment.
Often we have only to translate the idea
from the cant of the conventicle into the lan
guage of common sense, to get a very appre
ciable fact out of a very abominable dogma.
A kernel of good sense may be wrapped up
for a thousand years in the unsavory mummy
foldings of a creed, and yet retain vitality
enough to germinate under the free air and
sunshine, in the natural soil of unsanctified’
thought. Thus the doctrine of total depravity,
the existence of which in the mind of any
sane man is the nearest approach to its de
monstration that so gross a doctrine is capable
of, has in its loathsome wrappings a little
mummy wheat which does not refuse to vege
tate when carefully separated from its dismal
surroundings, and nursed by a purely human
philosophy. The venerable Assembly of
Westminster Divines put forth the conclusion,
pithily summed up in that juvenile distich:
•
“In Adam’s fall
We sinned all,”
and backed it up by certain hideous commen
taries and consequences, in which their disci
ples discovered that hell, already well “paved
with good intentions,” was paved anew
“with infantsnot a span long,” McAdmalzed
with these little offshoots of Adam’s depravity!
Now just as this double outrage upon God
and Man is getting to smell too decidedly of
the very ancient sarcophagus from which it
was exhumed, while the very divines are
making a bonfire of the bituminous rags and
dusty hide of the old mummy, a vital fact
drops out of the old cerements, and takes
root in the mind—the fact that certain tenden
cies are hereditary, that men do partake, not
of the flaws only, but of the virtues and talents
ot their ancestors.
Some time since men learned, on the purely
animal plane of philosophy, that horses,
cows, and sheep owe much to parentage; and
vast sums of money and no little care have
been bestowed on the physical perfection of
the lower races, with very marked advantages.
Of course it would be very distasteful to apply
the principles of good sense to the perfection
of the animal man, for a tender regard to>
delicacy and propriety seem to require that
man-culture should be suffered to go on at
haphazard, in transgression of all laws that
happen to lie across the path of a blind pas
sion, or a dazzled fancy, and let God take
care of the cripples and monsters that are
bred of such folly. But with all deference to
the squeamishness of the very delicate, it may
be suggested that a better “improvement”
might have been drawn from the venerable'
text of transmitted depravity.
The one grand fact long buried in the mon
strous creed, has not yet been sown widely
enough to effect the race; nor will it, till men
learn to pluck the pearl of truth out bf the
�Education.
muck-heap, instead of scratching there for
worms, like the foolish cock in the fable. If
the good God would speak to us audibly, as he
does in every fact of his providence, or in
other words, if we would listen to the true
teachings of Nature, our human homes would
cease to be mere nurseries of blights and
abortions, and our youth no longer marrying
the sons and daughters of Cain, instead of
those of Enos, men and women would be so
well bom the first time, they would not need
to be born again.
B.
Education.
Every child must receive an education, and
that education must consist of a double train
ing—a training of the mind and a training of
the body to invigorate the mind.
Moreover, education must be of such a na
ture that, first, every child shall learn to
think for itself, independently of master and
authority; second, it shall be furnished with
a knowledge of things rather than words; and
third, the mode of teaching shall be such, and
the nature of the things taught of such a real,
practical character, that the moral and reli
gious instincts shall receive at every instant
increase of strength and gratification.
1. To teach a child unselfishness and con
sideration for others, the teacher must begin
by setting an example of unselfishness in not
forcing upon the pupil his own opinions, com
ments, or interpretations, or that of any
authority, however much venerated of old,
when those opinions do not at once coincide
with the receptive mind. No matter how
quaint, crooked, irreligious or dreadful, the
objections of the child to old traditions, socalled beliefs, and fables, may be, a respect
for the mind working within, and common
sense, should teach us not violently to enforce
our ideas upon it. That violence, even if it
were in favor of the most evident truth, de
moralizes the child, and renders it incapable,
in general, of arriving by its own original ef
forts at the truth thus forced upon it. It will
learn to hate the truth, and the creature thus
trained will only become as a man, a hypo
crite, a mocker in his heart, and a constitu
tional liar.
As religion is the embodiment of truth
itself, the enforcement of what is to the mind
an untruth, a fable, a contradiction, an im
piety—however lovely and divine your own
thought and long habit may have made it—is
273
the first corroding agent, the world’s ignorant
and selfish want of consideration for others,
imposes on the child. The mind ready and
fresh for truth receives in this way its first
degradation. The ignorant ask for submis
sion merely; instead of seeking to give that
Light, which must be free to be true.
In the old time, history was an exaggera
tion; religion, fairy tales; literature, in
ventions; poetry, extravagance; science and
medicine, quackery; law, the whim and bru
tality of the judge. Through this Slough of
Despond the human mind had to march. From
infancy to old age, violence was done to it; so
that the child was almost invariably a preco
cious enemy of every truth and of every good
impulse—an embodiment of hypocrisy of con
duct, violence in action, and submission to
authority from abject fear. The physiogno
mist traces still on the countenances of almost
all, that inexpressible want of manly expres
sion, which, like the word Mystery on the
forehead of the Beast, has been written on
the face by this chaos of contradictions, su
perstitions, and violations of the moral right
to free thought.
To systematically destroy the originality of
the pupil’s mind, is the wanton act of the
barbarous and unintelligent teacher. The
selfish man is unwilling that the scholar
should deviate from the methods and ideas
which have dwarfed himself. He strives,
therefore, to maintain his own authority, and
uses the authority of the ignorant past as a
means to this end.
Take the artist’s studio as an example. An
exaggerated veneration is created for the
Michael Angelos and Raphaels of art. This ven
eration is due not merely to the actual talents
of those artists, but more to the fact of the in
cessant repetition of the same praises—praises
given and yielded to by the worshipers
without a thought of investigating the sub
ject for themselves. The teacher insists, and
denounces any doubt or question with indig
nation ! Had the pupil been allowed to ex
amine and criticise for himself, hewoukl have
discovered in all authorities defects and in
feriorities. But under the influence of master
and the jeers of his fellow-students, the
youthful aspirant gives his whole soul to the
adoration of the mannerisms and faults of the
artist-saints, and losing by degrees bis own
natural originality, becomes a mere imitator
or painter-ape.
We want to study the works of others by an
�274
The Friend of Progress.
incessant examination or criticism of them—
thus using them as a stepping-stone, and not
a stumbling-block, to our own improvement
and progress.
2. Things are better than words. When
we know wliat a thing is, then the words of
the book are full of meaning and information
as to its nature, its habits, its history, &c., &c.
What is h-o-m-e as letters put together as a
word, to a child, which has had no means of
associating the sound of the word or the
combination of the letters, with the family
circle and living-place ? What is g-l-a-s-s, as a
combination of letters to form a word without
a view of the object? When transparent?
when opaque ? How brittle ? Can it compre
hend ? Does it know how it is made ? Then
bring the materials, and make it, so that as
this and other objects are presented in their
reality and demonstrated in their various
combinations, the child may insensibly learn
the elements of chemistry and other sciences
and arts.
There are a thousand facts of creation
which children ought to know before they are
out of childhood, which most men know
nothing about, so wretched is our training.
The child-mind is an inexhaustible source
of curiosity, and every fact which it re
ceives becomes so completely a part ol
itself, that the future man is the work
ing product of this constructed mental ma
chine. It will know—it puts endless ques
tions—it asks the meaning of every word it
sees or hears, and wants to see and handle
and manipulate every (to it; unknown ob
ject—to search out its cause—to investigate
its character and nature—ascertain and apply
its uses. Education, then, must be a mass of
mentally digested things and facts, about
which there can be no mystification—no de
ception—no lie.
When the things are known and the facts
are ascertained, words are easily found for
every species of demonstration. That is an
art of itself—the word art—but secondary, not
as heretofore, the first point of education.
The pressure of word-teaching upon the
brain has been such that millions of educated
children have had nearly all incipient talent
crushed out of them. Mere book-learning,
stale, dry, and unprofitable word-gabble, has
been the vampire of our school-system. While
things seen and felt leave an indelible impress,
the vague word-description of the unseen and
unknown thing leaves confusion and suggests
absurdities. The unhealthy, crazy conceits,
attachments to old errors, credulity about
what is clearly false, and blindness to the
practical evidences of the senses, is one form
of word-education. The mind dwells and
lingers in an evil-disposed chaos ol contra
dictory, artificial, and arbitrary thoughts.
3. A perfect disorder of intellect is the
growth of our chaotic system of education.
It is the intellectual man that is generally the
most prejudiced and the most blind to simple
and positive truths and facts. And as all he
has learnt has been forced upon him under
the influence of flattery—the teacher of the
false instinctively knows the repulsiveness
of the absurdities he is impressing, and so
uses evil’s last resource—he, (the intellectual
victim,) under the belief thus adroitly imposed
upon him, hates what is new, rejects discovepies and denies facts, because they open up to
him the falsities of his labors and credulities,
and shock his selfishness by threatening to
diminish the profits of the business or pro
fession to which he has been ignorantly har
nessed.
The struggle of the intellect of the nineteenth
century is to get rid of that intellectual blind
ness, which has stayed the progress of mind
in all past times. A blindness which is the
fruit of the imposture of words and phrases—of
their incomplete, uncomprehended, miscon
strued meaning—of their wrongly interpreted,
translated, and misprinted passages—of num
berless interpolations, pious frauds, and rav
ings of iusane persons, passing among the
vulgar of the time for holy men and women—
of excessive admiration for certain authors and
authorities—[Shakespeare for example, the
most obscure passages in which, arising
probably from errors of the printer, are
oftenest admired]—of rapt enthusiasm for
legal quibbles, medical quackeries, pious
fables, and scientific absurdities. These stum
bling-blocks to truth, men are now struggling
to remove; but it cannot be thoroughly done,
except by a change of our system of educa
tion from the too exclusive study of words, to
a more thorough study of things, beginning
at the earliest age.
When we reflect that the greatest intellects
of the past have, with few exceptions, been
dupes of the most irrational superstitions
and scientific falsities, and that great and
simple truths almost invariably have come
from men who had no classical or scientific
education, and add to these facts our own
�experience that simple and positive truths are
almost always accepted and comprehended
intuitively by simple-minded persons and the
young, we shall at once see with what care
and suspicion we should receive the “wis
dom” of the past.
Self-made men—intellectually speaking—
are generally modest in proportion to the
greatness and earnestness of the truth that is
in them. College-made men are almost inva
riably conceited, even, when they have some
intellectual ability. This fault arises from the
mode of teaching. Instead of the “moral and
religious instincts receiving at every instant
increase of strength and gratification, ” their
literary education is held upto them constantly
as a subject of pride in contradistinction to the
ignorance of the people; and this pride runs
through all the professions, with this addition
to the religious, that it is inculcated in all
persons, high and low, rich and poor—by the
sects as one against the other—and is thus
made the great backbone of all the falsities,
as it is of all the vices and crimes of society.
Hence a simple truth, spoken at the be
ginning of the first century, was just as repul
sive to the educated man of that day, as it is
now in the nineteenth century. It was to
the simple and ignorant in a literary point
of view, that the truth was addressed, in de
spair of convincing the irrational acuteness
of the pocket-interested of the age. This ir
rational acuteness pretends to demonstrate
logically the truth of fables that are scientific
absurdities ; and is just a part of that system
of unreasoning to sustain falsehoods, super
stitions, and interested fictions, which have so
long characterized the schools.
To moralize education, then, we must
make it general, and direct it out of the mire
of mere word-study, into that of the demon
stration of the realities and wonders of the
creation. The pride of sect—that curse and
degradation of humanity for the support of
idlers—must be broken up ; and that can only
be by making truth free to all—for the truth
shall make all free.
From the earliest infancy the child is
dragged to the Sunday-school to learn words
of self-esteem and mystification ; and to the
church to hear these commented and dogma
tized upon and sustained, as proved, by quo
tations, questionable extracts, and fabled
sayings and doings of beings who have or
have not existed. All is in the vague. He is
told every day, every hour, that his sect is
better than others—consequently that he—
however ignorant, or unworthy—is better
than others! This great crime is the begin
ning of his degradation as a man—he is
practically lowered to the grade of the ani
mal, the criminal—and his actions towards
his brethren subsequently, show by their vio
lence of word and deed the effect of the
training.
But when you take the child, and putting
aside the love of slander and hatred incul
cated by the old system, simply teach him the
great truths found in the wonders of God’s
creation, there is no room for selfish feelings,
but ample space for admiration, and enthusi
asm, and love of the Creator and all that he
has made. The children of the common Fa
ther learn instinctively that all are brothers.
The intellect develops without effort, and the
moral feelings are kept in healthy activity.
The mind exclusively occupied in acquiring
new scientific facts, finds no time for mere
lancies, theories and superstitions. It builds
not on sand, but on rock. Fairy tales, novels,
fables, and barefaced assertions will lose
their influence—compromises with evils, with
injustice in the guise of law, with quackery in
the guise of medicine, with superstition in the
guise of religion, with assertions in the guise
of science, will end. And with the progress
of a purified intellect may we expect a more
correct appreciation of the laws which should
govern society, and such an application of
them as will obliterate in time those social
evils which have so iong disgraced humanitvA."
BY CORA L. V. H ATC H .
Youngest, rarest household treasure;
Source of constant care and pleasure;
Bud of promise; gem of beauty;
Idol of home’s love and duty—
Babe Mabel!
Eyes as blue as mirrored ether;
Earth and heaven blent together;
Roses, girt with lily’s blossom,
Paling upon neck and bosom—
Fair Mabel!
Form of shape and mold most, human,
Fittest for a future woman;
Sweet caprices; frowning, smiling,
Baby anger; now beguiling—
Sweet Mabel!
Eager face and lips upturning;
Proffered kisses often spurning;
Giving love when none are wooing;
Busy ever with undoing—
Witch Mabel I
Body poised, its balance trying;
Arms outstretched, like wings, for flying;
Little feet, uncertain, straying,
Life’s first journey just essaying—
Brave Mabel!
Longer journeys are before thee;
May as loving ones bend o’er thee;
And, when sterner tasks are calling,
May Heaven’s arms shield thee from falling,.
Bear Mabel!
�The Triend of Progress.
^Relations of the Indians and the
General Government.
BY CAPTAIN R. J. HINTON, U. S. C. T.
The last Congress took steps towards a
thorough investigation of the present position
and relation of the Indians to the General
Government, by the appointment of a Con
gressional Commission to visit the tribes, and
make such investigations as the subject de
manded. It also considered, though it did
not pass, a bill securing a territorial civil or
ganization for the Indian territory, south of
Kansas. Senator Doolittle, of Wisconsin, one
of the ablest and most humane members of
the U. S. Senate, is at the head of the Investi
gating Commission, and this with the presence
of the Hon. James Harlan, of Iowa, in the
Secretaryship of the Interior, are evidences
that a wiser and more equitable adjustment of
the status of the American Indian is about to
take place.
When it shall be generally known that
during the progress of the great rebellion, we
have maintained an army against Indians,
larger than the entire regular army was be
fore the rebellion; when we remember that we
have had two outbreaks of a most disastrous
character; that of Minnesota in 1862, and
that on the overland and Santa Fe Mail
Roads and the settlements contiguous thereto,
with the murder of several hundred unpro
tected settlers, the interruption of our interoceanic lines of travel, and the robbery and
destruction of at least five millions dollars of
goods and stock, it will be granted that the
necessity for a thorough overhauling of our
Indian policy is most imperative. We have
maintained and now have in the field about
fifteen thousand men altogether, employed in
looking after the Indians. General Dodge,
commanding in Kansas, has two expeditions
in the field, and with the troops guarding the
great routes, must have at least six thousand
men in this service. General Curtis, com
manding the North-West Department, has
about five thousand, half of whom are in the
field, the remainder holding the frontier
posts, and forts on the upper Missouri. Gen.
Conner has at least a brigade in Utah, mainly
employed in checking Indian depredations.
The Department of the Pacific has considera
ble expeditions in the Humboldt region, in
Washington, and a large force in Arizona.
At no time in the history of the Govern
ment has the necessity been so apparent, of
devising some plan of dealing with the Abo
riginal tribes under our control, alike humane
towards them, just to our own citizens, and
comprehensive enough to meet the expansion
and true growth of the country. The rebellion
has broken many idols. It has made the
nation conquer its prejudices. War is the
sternest of logicians. The premises once ac
cepted, its conclusions cannot be contro
verted. One lesson it practically enforces,
and that is the duty which devolves upon
power, to aid the weak and defend the op
pressed. The present struggle affords mani
fold occasions to the statesman to lay broad
the foundations of equitable administration.
It compels our executive and legislative in
cumbents to recognize that America means
Man, not Caste, and that Democracy repre
sents the race, and not condition.
In this spirit we would deal with the
question under discussion. The public mind,
even yet in these days of crowding events,
retains the terrible recollections of the Minnesota massacres. On the other hand, while
we remember with loathing the race that
committed such deeds, we also have brought
to us, as a companion, yet diverse picture, the
story of the endurances, suffering, valor and
sacrifices—deeds done in behalf of the Union
by loyal Indians, on our south-western
frontier.
The amazing discoveries of the precious
metals in our continental mountain-ranges,
and consequent rapid development in popu
lation and wealth of the territories newly
formed there, demand also the adoption of a
just and comprehensive policy for the present
and prospective government of the Indian
tribes, who roam the Sierras Madre and Ne
vada and their connecting mountain chains.
Whatever policy is proposed, or whatever
measures be adopted, there should be a care
ful avoidance on the one hand of the senti
mentalism which has often characterized
discussions of this subject, and on the other,
of the crushing-out spirit of the practical
West. The romance which attaches itself in
the minds of many with relation to the In
dian character, fades rapidly into a very
sensible disgust, wherever we are brought
into contact with the tribes scattered through
out oui’ broad domain. This disgust is hightened most sensibly by the fact, that in the
new States and- Territories, Indian Reserva
tions are the choicest lands as to situation
�Relations of the Indians and the General Government.
and quality. This excites the white settler’s
cupidity and consequent animosity. The fact
may be cause for regret; but it is true.
Human nature is imperfect, and must be
dealt with as such. It cannot be questioned
that the policy of treating with the tribes as
dependent nationalities, is a mistaken one.
They have none of the elements—are within
the limits of the Union, and under its authori
ty. The land belongs by the highest law to
those who subdue it to the uses of civiliza
tion. It cannot be surrendered to or con
trolled by an idle race, marked by a savage
individuality which renders it difficult for
them to devote themselves to industrial pur
poses. Indeed, though the theory has been
that the original ownership of the land lies in
the Aboriginal tribes, and treaties are con
tinually made with them, yet the fact is that
the Government has always compelled the
removal of the Indians, when the necessities of
advancing settlements required them for the
use of the husbandman.
The entire system now pursued by the
Government toward the Indian, is wrong,
both to them and the white citizens. The
placing of the various tribes on reservations
scattered wide apart throughout our Western
States, is calculated only to increase the num
ber of well-paid officials, and to deteriorate,
debauch, and ultimately to exterminate by
drunkenness and disease, the tribes so located.
The policy of appointing tribal agents tends
only to enrich a large number of politicians
and hangers-on, whom the various Senators
and Representatives take this method of pen
sioning upon the national treasury in consid
eration of party or personal services. We
assert from an extended knowledge of the
class of men appointed to fill the various In
dian Agencies, Superintendencies, etc., that
considerations of fitness—such as knowledge
of the Indian character, a desire to benefit
them, acquaintance with agriculture or other
arts of civilization, are among the very last
things that seem to have entered the minds
of the appointing power. The Indian Bureau,
as at present managed, is necessarily but a
huge machine for enriching a lot of offi
cials, who desire to make the most of the four
years’ lease of power. The only other effect
of the existing agencies is to persistently de
stroy the confidence of the Indians in the
Government, to render our frontiers liable to
such scenes as have occurred in Minnesota
and upon the overland-routes, whenever the
HI
embarrassments of the nation or the despera
tion of the savages may afford an opportunity
or pretext, and to continually embitter the
pioneer population of the West against the
unfortunate red men.
The other and collateral portion of the
present policy, is the payment to Indian tribes
of large sums of money in the form of annui
ties—these payments being with the permit
ting of authorized traders among the different
tribes, who generally manage, with the pe
culiar faculty which belongs to all connected
with the Indians, to enrich themselves at the
expense of their customers. By arrangements
made with agents, the Indians are permitted
to run into debt at the stores, and when the
payments are made by the Government, but a
small portion of the annuities reach the pock
ets ofthose for whom they are intended. Ex
amination of the accounts of a trader to any
tribe will disclose how enormous are the
profits of the traffic, and how large a portion
thereof is for articles which are of no practi
cal benefit. Paint, beads, paltry and gaudy
articles of dress, constitute the largest items
in the bills incurred by the Indians at their
trading-posts. The fiction is that agents
have nothing to do with traders. The truth,
however, is that they obtain a large percent
age of these profits. It can be readily seen
how such temptations tend to illegitimate ar
rangements. On this subject we find the fol
lowing well-considered suggestions of Judge
Usher, in a late report. They deserve con
sideration and contain the germ of the true
Indian policy which should be pursued by the
National Government: “lam iully convinced
that many serious difficulties grow out of the
practice of permitting traders to sell goods
and other property to the Indians on credit.
The profits which are made by the traders,
might be used for the Indians. It seems to
me expedient for Congress to provide by law,
for the purchase of such goods, agricultural
implements, stock, and such other articles as
the Indians need, to be paid for from the
sums provided by treaties to be paid to the
Indians. These should be placed in charge
of a store-keeper under the control of the
agent, and should be delivered to the Indians
as their necessities may require, charging
them only the cost and transportation. All
contracts with them should be prohibited, and
all promises or obligations made by them be
declared void. A radical change in the mode
of treatment of the Indians, should, in my
�The Friend of Progress.
judgment, be adopted. Instead of being
treated as independent nations, they should
be regarded as wards of the Government, en
titled to its fostering care and protection.
Suitable districts of country should be assign
ed to them for their homes, and the Govern
ment should supply them, through its own
agents, with such articles as they use, until
they can be instructed to earn their subsist
ence by their labor.”
Mr. Usher has struck the key-note of the
whole question, in the expression that the
Indians should be regarded “as wards of the
Government, entitled to its fostering care and
protection.” The same principle has forced
itself upon our attention in the necessities at
tending the condition of the freed people of
the South. It grows out of the demands of
a Christian civilization which compels a re
cognition of the duty incumbent upon power,
wealth, culture, to protect the weak and lift
up the ignorant to higher planes of progress.
Neither the Negro or the Indian can develop
in isolation. Both are eminently gregarious,
though differing widely in the manifestations
thereof. Hence the futility of endeavoring to
save and elevate the Indians by the present
system, apart from just objections to it, found
ed on the opportunities for plunder on the
part of those connected with them. The
most feasible and practicable plan for the
protection and advancement of both Indians
and whites, seems to be found in the Territo
rial system hinted at by Secretary Usher,
more elaborately stated by Senator Pomeroy,
of Kansas, in a paper laid before the Indian
Bureau, and published in Mr. Commissioner
Dole’s report for 1862, which plan has been
broached to the loyal Indians of the Territory
west of Arkansas. This plan had reference
mainly to the semi-civilized tribes living on
reservations in the State of Kansas, and con
templated their removal to the Territory oc
cupied by the Cherokees, Choctaws, Creeks,
Chickasaws, and Seminóles. We propose to
elaborate this same plan and show its appli
cation to a settlement of the entire question
under discussion.
To do this properly, some statements should
be given as to the numbers, condition, pro
gress, locations of the Indian tribes within the
United States. From the preliminary report
of the Eighth Census, we copy the following
table of the Indian population, retaining their
tribal character and not enumerated in the
Census:
West of Arkansas,.. G5,680
California,............... 13,540
Georgia,....................... 377
Indiana,...................... 384
Kansas...................... 8,189
Michigan,................. 7,777
Minnesota............... 17,900
Mississippi,................ 900
New York,................ 3,785
North Carolina......... 1,499
I Oregon,..................... 7,000
Tennessee,................ 181
Wisconsin,................ 2,833
Colorado Ter.,......... 6,000
Dacotah Ter.,......... 39.664
Nebraska Ter.,......... 3,072
N evada Ter............... 7,550
New Mexico Ter., . .55,100
Utah Ter.,.............. 20,000
Washington Ter.,.. 31,000
I
i
I
I
294,431
Governor Evans, of Colorado, states in his
first Report to the Indian Bureau, that the
Utahs, Kiowas, and Comanches number
10,000, and range in the western part of that
Territory. Large bands of the Kiowas and
Comanches roam through portions of Colora
do, New Mexico, and the Indian Territory.
All of these tribes are wild and warlike.
Since the spring of 1864 they have been in
constant hostility. The long continued inter
ruption of the Overland Mail and Telegraph,
with robberies and murders committed upon
the frontier settlements of Kansas, Nebraska,
and Colorado, during the last ten months,
point conclusively to the necessity of com
ing to some permanent, just understanding
with these tribes, and all similar ones; or, if
that be not possible, then to a war so com
plete, thorough, and energetic as shall once
for all break down and destroy the warlike
marauds of the plains. We are also urged to
the adoption of a correct policy towards
tribes that have not yet made treaties, by the
rapid growth of our empire in the direction of
their haunts, and consequent necessity of
providing equitably for their wants. In addi
tion to those enumerated in the foregoing
table, tribes which bear relation to the Gen
eral Government of a more or less distinct
character, there are probably not less than
one hundred and fifty thousand belonging to
tribes which have not yet acknowledged our
rule while living within our Territory, and who
are more or less in hostility to our people.
We believe that we under- rather than over
estimate the number.
A glance at the map, and at the location
of the principal bodies of Indians, will readily
show that any territorial system which will
cover the whole case, must involve at least
the location of four districts, of suitable extent
and character to support the entire Indian
population within the territorial area of the
Union. The most prominent, because, from
the circumstances attending its past and
present history, the most accessible and suita
ble, is the region known as the Indian Terri
tory, bounded on the North by Kansas, South.
�delations of the Indians and the General Government.
279
by Texas, East by Arkansas and a small strip the Federal authority in Florida, Hal-us-tus■of South-West Missouri, and West by New tenug-gee, was the leader of his people in the
Mexico. It contains an area of 74,127 square battles they fought in common with Creeks
miles, or 47,441,480 acres, being in length and Cherokees, against their rebel brethren
east and west, 320, and breadth, North and in November and December, 1861, and since
South, 220 miles. It has a delightful climate as members of the Indian Brigade of the
in the same zone as Mississippi, Alabama, Army of the Frontier, under Major General
and the Carolinas, producing in abundance Blunt. Captain Billy Bowlegs is in command
the cereals of the temperate and the products of the Seminole company, in the Federal
of semi-tropical States, and having a virgin service. He is a nephew of the chief who
soil of inexhaustible fertility, it offers a tempt resisted so long in Florida. They number
ing field to the labor of the emigrant. The 2,226 persons. The Choctaws are disloyal,
eastern portion is well watered, and wooded being intensely pro-slavery. They numbered
by the Arkansas, Canadian, and Red River, 18,000, and owned 2,297 slaves. They are
and such streams as the Neosho, Grand, well educated, and supported, before the war,
Illinoise, Elk, Verdigris, Spring, and other the largest number of schools. The Chickaminor water-courses. The whole country is saws form part of the Choctaw Nation. They
admirably adapted to the raising of stock. number 5,000.
This is true of the western portion, the vast
The rebellion has materially changed this.
prairies of which will afford a congenial occu Slavery is dead among these tribes, and this
pation for the Indian, in the care of the herds removes one obstacle to an equitable re
and flocks which will one day cover the buf adjustment. They numbered 60,000 of the
falo range.
65,000 Indians living in this Territory. The
The fact of the settlement of the eastern negroes, slaves and free, 7,773, and the
portion of this territory by the well civilized whites 1,988. This, according to the census
tribes that now inhabit it, and the necessity of 1860. The mortality has been terrible
for new treaties with them, owing to the since. The casualties of war, and the rava
changes produced by the rebellion, points to ges of famine and disease, must have reduced
this territory as the mostiavorable district for them at least 20,000. The present population
may, therefore, be set down as about 55,000,
liberally carrying out a new policy.
The five principal tribes, Cherokees, Creeks. all told, including those in the Federal and
Choctaws, Chickaaaws, and Seminoles, were, Rebel service.
at the commencement of the war, among the
In this Territory we propose that the Gov
wealthiest communities in the continent. ernment shall offer homes to all of the semi
They were large farmers, slave-owners, and civilized tribes of Kansas, Southern Nebraska,
stock-raisers. The Cherokees were the own Indiana, Iowa, Michigan, Wisconsin, and
ers of 2,504 slaves. Their personal wealth perhaps Minnesota. The tribes who come
was very large. The war has changed the under the designation of civilized, will number
character of affairs and reduced them to pov about 30,000, and be possessed of considera
erty. The loyal Cherokees exhibit a com ble wealth and intelligence. The alternative
mendable spirit of adaptation to their new may be presented to the more advanced of
surroundings. They have abolished slavery, them, who yet preserve a distinctive charac
making colored natives of the Territory citi ter, of abandoning the tribal form, national
zens. disfranchised the rebels, and otherwise annuities, and taking their present reserva
legislated in that direction. They express tions in severality, and thereby becoming
themselves willing to make arrangements for citizens of the United States. Those who do
the settlement of other Indians in their midst. not choose to accept this, and are desirous
The Creeks are an important tribe. The of preserving their semi-national existence,
loyal members of this tribe, comprising a can be removed to the Indian Territory, and
large majority, have abolished slavery, accord located on new homes, where the necessary
citizenship to the negroes and whites in their steps should be taken to provide for them
midst, donate lands to the freed people, and until their industry returns support. Such a
on equitable terms cede to the Government Territory and population, wisely managed
lands for the settlement of their tribes.
and generously provided for, would in a very
The Seminoles are a small and intensely few years be a self-supporting community,
loyal people. One of the last chiefs to resist affording the nation the satisfaction of seeing
�280
The Friend of Progress.
the Aboriginal race preserved and made of
value to themselves as well as to the country.
Might we not well hope, if a wise policy was
pursued, to see it asking admission a few
years hence as a Free State into the Union?
In the meantime a delegate might be allowed
them in Congress. The Fosses, Christy,
Dowing, and other chiefs of the civilized In
dians, are able and educated men. Objections
may be urged to this plan, of expense in
removal, necessity of a large military force to
preserve order, and similar arguments. We
reply, that the economy in the Indian admin
istration here would in a short period more
than compensate for the expense incurred by
removal, provided that in all future arrange
ments, the system of trading, of paying annui
ties, and of tribal agents now in vogue, be
entirely abolished. Experience has proved
the capacity of these loyal Indians to act as
soldiers, and to defend their own homes and
interests. There are three regiments of
mounted infantry (Indians') in the United
States service jn that Territory. These In
dians can be intrusted with their own police.
They should, when practicable, be intrusted
with such duty, if only for the purpose of edu
cating them up to the full requirements of
citizenship. Thus much by way of suggestion
in relation to the Indian Territory.
For the tribes located and roaming in
Northern Nebraska, Idaho, Dakota, Minneso
ta, and the Lake Superior region, a Territory
should be organized in some portion of the
North-West. A portion of Dakota could be
wisely selected. It will not do to locate it
too near the mountains, as the continued gold
discoveries attract emigrants hitherward, and
will necessarily disturb the Indians. Such
a district must be chosen with a view to a cer
tain accessibility in supplying the military
force that will be required among them for
some years. It should be adapted to agri
cultural and grazing purposes, and be sup
plied with fuel and water.
Gen. Pope, when in command of the NorthWest, suggested the territory north and east
of the Upper Missouri, and west of the James
River. The country around Lake Mini Wakan,
and at the head of the Plateaus De Coteau,
Du Missouri, and Du Coteau Du Sioux, is an
admirable location, and his policy has been
to establish a chain of posts from the Red
River in Minnesota, to the Missouri, and up
to the confluence of the Yellowstone, and
gradually drive in the hostile Sioux, placing
a cordon around to retain them there. He
succeeded to a considerable extent, and if his
policy be pursued fully, it will work well.
With the wants of the Indians properly
supplied, and a judicious selection of officers
over them, this population, now the source of
uneasiness, may be made valuable and selfsustaining. In this relation it would be wise
to select agents from among educated half
breeds and missionaries, men whose identifi
cation with and knowledge of the race, will en
able them to deal understanding^ and justly.
There is now left to care for, the tribes
within the Pacific States and Territories, and
among the mining region of the Sierra Madre
or Rocky Mountains. For a large portion of
those in Colorado, suitable homes can be
found in the western portion of the Indian
Territory. For tribes to whom that country
might not be adapted, a portion of Utah
might be obtained. Here the mountain tribes
of Colorado, Utah, and Nevada might be
gathered and controlled. In New Mexico the
condition of the tribes at all tamable, the ex
istence of the Puebla Indians offers a success
ful result for the guidance of new experiments.
We have not the details of their life and pro
gress, though we know generally of their
industry and good order. To the devoted
priests of the Catholic church belongs the
honor of civilizing these people. They have
always been successful, and it would pay the
Government to support missionaries of that
faith among the red men of the west. There
are tribes in New Mexico and Arizona, who
seem determined to die in their independence,
rather than submit to civilization or the en
croachments of the w’hite man. Such are the.
Navajoes and Appaches. These must submit,
if not to peace, then to be crushed. The
present amazing gold discoveries in these
Territories demands this. Civilization needs
wealth to aid its forward march.
Gen. Carleton, commanding in New Mexico,
has succeeded in effectually subduing the
Navajoes. This is the first time for one hun
dred and fifty years, that anything like peace
has been brought about. He is now en
gaged and has been for twelve months past
engaged in removing them from their moun
tain homes to the valley of the Bosque Redonds, where it is intended to locate all but
the Pueblas. For the Appaches of Arizona,
who, during two hundred years, have deso
lated this region, nothing short of remorseless
warfare will succeed.
�Each Fights for AU.
Is it best for humanity that the inexhausti
ble treasure hived by the centuries, and held
safely locked in the primal granite of the
mother-mountains as a sacred trust for the
era enterprising enough to demand their
hitherto unproductive riches, should be
snatched from us by a sentimental reverence
for the hypothetical rights of a dog-in-themanger people who can neither use nor de
velop such wealth themselves, nor will allow
any other people to do so ? Is the nation that
wrung free commerce from the Japanese,
likely to allow the uncultured Indians to
throw barriers in the way of its advancing
march? The question is an important one.
The onward progress of benign civilization
should not be stayed, while justice and mag
nanimity should always take part in the deci
sions of a great nation.
Upon the Pacific coast there is the same
need of a just Indian policy. In California
there are fifteen thousand of this race, who
have neither lands nor homes. They have not
even the poor satisfaction of a paltry reserva
tion. The Spaniard never recognized the
Indian land-title, and we, succeeding to his
sovereignty, have succeeded to his policy.
Something must be done for the Californian
Indians. Would it not be practicable to ob
tain sufficient territory, say in Washington, to
mass the tribes of California, Oregon, and the
territory named, carrying out the same gen
eral policy suggested herein for the manage
ment of the proposed Indian territory ?
The plan here suggested is the result of
careful thought, observation, and desire to
deal rightly by the Indians and our own
people. We are not wedded to it as a hobby,
but rather suggest it as a measure of practical
and beneficent policy. The great end and
aim of all efforts in this nation for the amelio
ration and advancement of any portion of the
population placed as are the Indians or ne
groes, must be to clear the path, aiding them
to reach the utilities of an industrial and
Christian Democracy, that thereby they may
become worthy of being an integral portion
of that nationality which, aiming to establish
in Government the ideal justice, will yet
prove practically that all men are endowed by
their Creator with the right to life, liberty, and
the pursuit of happiness.
281
The sons of light in every age and zone,
Though on the cross, the gibbet, or the throne,
Now armed with love, the martyrs of a faith,
And now with steel, the anointed priests of
death,
Who shed the tyrant’s or their own best blood,
Stand rank to rank one serried brotherhood;
Moses who smote the Egyptian to the dust,
With him who died the Just for the unjust:
Deep-thoughted Plato with his mystic “ word,”
And fiery Cromwell armed with Gid eon’s sword,
Melancthon mild, with Luther roughly strong—
That storm-plowed crag with its lark’s nest
of song;
Fair tyrant-slayers, Jael and Corday,
With brave Grace Darling plucking ocean’s
prey
Out of his foaming jaws, and her, as brave,
That Nightingale whose music ’tis to save ;
AU free strong natures, beautiful and clear,
Who make earth better, and the heavens more
near,
Servants of God—the sacramental host
Who bear his banners down the invaded coast
Of flying darkness, form one dauntless corps,
To whom yon million worlds add countless
thousands more.
A thousand rivers swell the same free surge,
A hundred ways to one fair town converge,
An 4 rock, and tree, and treasures of the mine,
In one grand temple, one sweet home com
bine :
So meet all gifts in service of the One
Who rays them out as from a central sun.
He builds for all who builds by inward law,
For years unborn, and lands he never saw:
The smallest insect in the coral reef,
Unseen, unseeing, and of life so brief,
With pulpy arms too powerless to command
The ponderous motions of a grain of sand,
Weaving at once his vest and burial robe,
Lays the foundations of the solid globe ;
So true work grows and least at last is great,
And each serves All in one well-ordered state.
The sword Harmodius on the tyrant drew,
If justly drawn, struck well for me and you;
The song of Miriam, by the avenging sea,
Was sung for bondmen on the dark Santee ;
The people’s cry that crumbled the Bastile,
Was the old shout that made first darkness
reel.
When Spartan valor kept that narrow pass
Where Freedom fell with slain Leonidas,
Not Persia’s millions could subdue the braves,
Nor all the centuries trampling on their
graves:
They strike for Freedom in her every blow—
The soul is the most powerful of all poisons. Their deed sheds light on every dauntless
brow;
It is the most penetrating and diffusible stim Who dares to die to make a people free,
ulus.—Novalis.
Still guards unconquered his Thermopj las :
�282
The Friend of Progress.
Hope of the nations—heir of pure renown,
Though named Leonidas or Old John Brown !
A gallant spirit never breathed our air.
But left some touch of nobler being there ;
No heart of pity soothed a brother’s pain,
But sent some pulse to life’s remotest vein:
A soul of truth becomes a Name of power—
The saving watchword of a crisis’ hour:
Around great natures, with no trumpet-call,
The peoples rally, proud to fight and fall.
They choose their lords as doth the lioness,
Who wins the battle, wins their love’s caress.
What though, as round their rival chiefs they
crowd,
A hundred war-cries shake their streamers
proud,
Till all that clamor to pained ears might seem
The wild disorder of a frenzied dream ;
Ore spirit rears each burning Gonfalon,
And men are clanships because Man is one !
[From “Answers to Questions.”]
Psycliometrical Examination of
Abraham Lincoln.
BY
A. J.
DAVIS.
By particular request, a friend in Wash
ington furnished the President’s autograph
and a scrap of his hand-writing. By this
method a connection with the characteristics
of Mr. Lincoln was perfected, and the results
of the examination are herewith respectfully
submitted. I have no personal knowledge of
the mental peculiarities of the President.
What is here given, therefore, must stand or
fall, according to the facts in possession of
those who know him best. I shall welcome
the verdict of his most intimate friends; more
especially do I wait for proofs to be furnished
by him as President of the United States.
[The following was written soon after Mr.
Lincoln entered upon the duties of his office
in 1861.]
IMPRESSIONS ON VIEWING HIM OBJECTIVELY.
His physical system is muscularly, but not
vitally, powerful. It is unevenly developed
in the joints and sockets. He is not nervous,
elastic, or sensitive; and yet, with respect to
bodily endurance, he is remarkably easy,
steady, and unyielding. With care he can
resist the approach of disease in any form ex
cept in the loins and throat. His internal
organs are not large, but their functions are
steadily and fully performed. He is built to
sustain a prodigious quantity of either manual
or mental labor; but such labor, to be well
done, must be very carefully graduated by an
orderly division of days and hours. He must
not be hurried and urged beyond his natural
deliberateness. He is rapid only when under ;
the action of his own temperaments. All j
outward stimuli, in the shape of air, and
foods, and drinks, exert but little effect.
j
. In conversation, or when addressing a mul
titude, the same seli-steadiness is exhibited.
There is no dissimulation in his manners; no
attempt to stand straighter, to look hand
somer, to speak more eloquently, or to act
more gracefully, than when alone with a
friend or in the retirement of his family. He
is not impetuous in physical gesture, but em
phatic and strong, with an irregularity which
is almost eccentric and quite original.
He appears like a man not fond of parlor
life. Temporal comforts do not tempt him
from the rugged paths of duty. His features
are indicative of honor, sincerity, simplicity,
generosity, and good nature, with much of
the indomitable and unchangeable.
IMPRESSIONS ON VIEWING HIM SOCIALLY.
His domestic affections are temperate and
unwavering, but not powerful, and yet, at
home with his family, there is no man more
happy and contented. Children are interest
ing to him when they are playful. But his
tongue is the quickest to interest the young.
He appreciates the young mind, is attracted
by its simplicities, and is ever ready to hear or
relate a story. But this man is not over-much
wedded to locality. He is not a traveler by
nature, and yet a change of place is rather a
relief to, than a tax upon his feelings.
His private life is remarkable for artless
ness and uniform truthfulness. Warm and
confiding to his friends, and never embittered
toward his enemies, he smooths the path of
many in his vicinity. He is fond of praise,
but is likely to remain firm in friendship, un
der the lash of private disapprobation. He
is not hasty to demolish his opponent, even
when he has been sorely aggrieved by him,
but rather inclines to give his enemy another
conscious opportunity for reflection.
IMPRESSIONS ON VIEWING HIM INTELLECTUALLY.
There is a singular texture of brain for his
mind to act through. It is elastic only after
repeated exertions to bring it into action.
Then his intellectual organs act separately,
so to say, or one at a time—each, like an inde
pendent entity, doing its duty singly, and with
out consulting the feelings or inclinations of
its fellow-laborers. His understanding of a
matter is at first unsatisfactory to himself.
The facts, and fragments, and data of an
event or case first occupy all the spare rooms
in the department of bis intelligence. Things,
and persons, and places, and the acts of
agents in relation to them, cluster in chaotic
groups before his perceptions. He is, there
fore, not certain, at first, whether he sees
things in their proper places, and whether he
appreciates the full import and force of a
single fact; but, guided by a wholesome and
powerful love of accuracy, he persists in ob
serving, and arranging, and recombining the
items of a matter, untd, with an approbation
wholly internal, he fixes his opinions and
proceeds therefrom to act.
There is a critical and studied adhesion to
established rules of thought and reasoning.
He dreads an unauthorized digression from
the recognized powers in either law, politics,
�Psychometrical Examination of Abraham Lincoln.
or religion. And yet he pays deferential
respect to the deductions of no one mind in
any department of human interest. His per
ceptive powers are active, and readily dis
cover the errors and tricks of men, and are
equally quick to detect a ridiculous flaw in
an argument, or the most assailable point in
a general proposition. He will rely on his
own judgment, and is unwavering in attach
ment to his own conclusions.
There is nothing impetuous in the delibera
tions of such a mind. The lightning flash of !
genius, though it might reveal to his eyes the
inlinite unity of the universe, would not move
him. The range of real principles he must
infer from the position, magnitude, multipli
city, and force otfacts. He cannot penetrate
the surface by intuition, but must enter in at
the open door of events and data. Shelley’s
poetry could interest his mind rarely, but be
would glean much poetry from the sermons of
Dr. Channing. History would give much rest
to his intellect; but science, if it should smell of
mountains, and forests, and grand objects in
space, as geology and astronomy, would yield
the largest gratification. And yet this man’s
mind is never satisfied unless its deductions
are consistent with the major elements of hu
man nature.
IMPRESSIONS ON VIEWING HIM MORALLY.
By this I mean spiritually, or with reference
to the most interior and religious attributes
of his being. He is a man of talent and indus
try, but no genius, no man for the moment,
no ability to decide in advance of reflection
and analysis. The man of intuition is impoli
tic and revolutionary. Mr. Lincoln is no such
man. He is willing to accept a great responsi
bility, to act well his whole duty, and to leave
things as he found them. A new State and
the foundations of new Laws are the electrical
eliminations of genius. Strong minds are
certain to elaborate and administer the inspi
rations of genius, but such minds cannot elec
trify a country with the enunciation of any
very revolutionary law. No new truth ever
bubbles over the bowl of their lives. Mental
powers are unfertile, unless fed and fostered
by the endless fires of truth and justice.
Morally speaking, Mr. Lincoln is what the
religious world would call a “naturally good
man.” Whether sanctified by faith or not,
his “works” are distinguished by an ex
tremely sensitive regard to everybody’s rights
and everybody’s greatest welfare. Justice,
when tempered with a gentle paternal mercy,
is dear to him. He is, however, more benevo
lent than conservative, and more humanely
sympathetic than conscientious, and is there
fore liable to err and come short .under the
pressure of appeals from the unfortunate. In
all matters intrusted to his care and control,
he is self-sacrificing and faithful to the end,
with very much' beautiful self-forgetfulness
and straightforward integrity.
But there is a remarkable trait in this man’s
spirit, not often found among professed poli
ticians, and that is, a willingness to concede
that he does not know what will occur to
283
morrow. For this reason he is teachable, and
is most anxious to gain knowledge from
almost every imaginable source. How earn
estly and sincerely, how calmly and faithfully,
does Mr. Lincoln give audience, even to the
discourse of the least of his associates! The
modesty of his manner is an earnest of his
moral excellence. He cannot be certain that
his knowledge is up to the measure of to
morrow’s consequences; wherefore he, unlike
the conceited pettifogger and political mountebank, is open to more light and instruction.
I think he would be much rejoiced to learn
of the departed concerning the eternal to
morrow.
But shall we not also mention that this
man is a close-mouth ed-keeper of “ his own
counsels” ?* This trait is observable, even to
his most intimate friends, with whom he is
ever confiding. Whenever there is the least
obscurity, he hesitates, checks his impulses,
and looks steadily toward consequences. The
doctrine of Retribution, so far as be is indi
vidually concerned, would seem to have no
weight. He is above personal fear, and does
not court public favor or position: but the
question whether the results of a given course
will subserve the interests of mankind, is very
deliberately revolved by his moral faculties.
Cajoling demagogues cannot captivate this
man’s moral forces. He is silent, but firm,
amid cotton-lords and slave-dealing monopo
lies. He is fond of progressive civilization,
amid the strongholds of conservatism and
aristocracy, and'the God of his heart is for
lawful freedom and unitary strength. He
appreciates the loathsomeness of treason,
sees its deadly blight as it steals over the
minds of once faithful men, and yet enter
tains glorious hopes and undimmed faith in
the direction of freedom and peace.
IMPRESSIONS
ON VIEWING HIM INDIVIDUALLY.
Under this head I propose to give the sum
of Mr. Lincoln’s character in its relation to
the world. He is cordial, loves to entertain
friends, but is not fastidious in the matter of
selection; and is a devoted friend and brother
to all. But, intellectually and morally, he is
too cautious and too fearful of doing wrong,
to be party to any very original or revolu
tionary scheme. He will step slowly, and
firmly, and independently; but, in the mean
time, many things will come to light, and
events will transpire which will compel a
modification of procedure. Of enemies, Mr.
Lincoln will have but few. Of friends, among
all parties, as long as he lives, there will be a
great multitude. He is a true American citi
zen, and believes not in leading public senti
ment, but following it, guided only by the
Constitution and thelaws'of Congress.
While, he. listens deferentially to those
about him, including the constituents of his
Cabinet, he is not the man to be carried be
yond his own judgment. He will surely act
according to the orders of his individual reason
and will. It is folly to suppose that any diplo
matist or influential legislator can succeed
long in warping the judgment of this con
scientious man.
•
�284
The Triend of Progress.
Mr. Lincoln is a very prudential character,
and would not transcend the letter of the
law. Its letter and its spirit are inseparable
in his eyes. He is preeminently a man of
“peace,” and would not object to a “compro
mise,” if the people so declared their wishes;
but from him the world may never expect
such a proposition to emanate. There is,
however, some danger to be apprehended from
the exceedingly sympathetic, cautious, legal,
and economical suggestions of his peculiar
mental structure. The poet has very nearly
defined his conception of what should consti
tute the foundations and glory of our Govern
ment:
“----- Men, high-minded men,
With powers as far above the brutes endued,
In forest, brake, or den,
As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude—
Men who their duties know,
But know their rights, and knowing, dare main
tain,
Prevent the long aimed blow,
And crush the tyrant while they rend the
chain:
These constitute a State;
And sovereign Law, that State’s collected will,
O’er thrones and globes elate
Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill.”
Let the country take counsel of its hopes,
and despair not, for there is a divinity, behind
the presidential mind, which will direct
heaven’s high purposes, and bring a better
day out of this black and awful night. Mr.
Lincoln will betray no trust, neither will he
shrink from still more pressing responsibili
ties; and the people would do well to share
the burthen of sympathy and care with which
he is oppressed.
BY PHCEBE CARY.
Alas, alas! how many sighs
Are breathed for his sad fate, who dies
With triumph dawning on his eyes.
Who sees amid their ranks go down,
Great men, that never won renown,
And martyrs, with no martyr’s crown ?
Unrecognized, a poet slips
Into death’s total, long eclipse,
With breaking heart, and wordless lips ;
And never any brother true,
Utters the praise that was his due—
“ This man was greater than ye knew!”
No maiden by his grave appears,*
Crying out in long after years,
“I would have loved him,” through her tears.
We weep for her, untimely dead,
Who should have pressed the marriage-bed—
Yet to death’s chamber went instead.
But who deplores the sadder fate
Of her who finds no mortal mate,
And lives and dies most desolate ?
Alas ! ’tis sorrowful to know
That she who finds least love below,
Finds least of pity for her woe.
Hard is her fate who feels life past,
Though loving hands still hold her fast,
And loving eyes watch to the last.
But she, whose lids no kisses prest,
Who crossed her own hands on her breast,
And went to her eternal rest;
She had so sad a lot below,
That her unutterable woe
Only the pitying God can know !
When little hands have dropped away
From the warm bosom where they lay,,
And the poor mother holds but clay :
What human lip that does not moan,
What heart that does not inly groan,
And make such suffering its own ?
Yet, sitting mute in their despair,
With their unnoticed griefs to bear,,
Are childless women everywhere ;
What thousands for the soldier weep,
From his first battle gone to sleep
That slumber which is true and deep.
Who never knew, nor understood,
That which is woman’s greatest good,
The sacredness of motherhood !
But who about his fate can tell,
Who struggled manfully and well;
Yet fainted on the march, and fell ?
But putting down their hopes and fears,.
Claiming no pity and no tears,
They live the measure of their years.
Or who above his rest makes moan,
Who dies in the sick tent alone—
“ Only a private, name unknown !”
They see age stealing on apace,
And put the gray hairs from their face,
No children’s fingers shall displace !
What tears down pity’s cheek have run
For poets singing in the sun,
Stopped suddenly, their song half done.
Though grief hath many a form and show,
I think that unloved women know
The very bottom of life’s woe !
But for the hosts of souls below,
Who to eternal silence go,
Hiding ttupr great unspoken woe :
And that the God, who pitying sees,
Hath yet a recompense for these,
Kept in the long eternities!
�The Inner Temple.
The Inner Temple.
BY
ESTELLE.
I have somewhere read, long ago, of a
heathen devotee, who had constructed, in a
corner of the temple where devotions were
Offered to the gods, a chamber, which was
kept sacred to his own use; no profaning foot
was allowed to enter there, no irreverent or
carious eye must gaze therein, lest some bab
bling lip may whisper the secrets of the con
secrated chamber—the Inner Temple belonged
wholly to himself and the gods he worshiped.
Deep in the corner of every human heart,
far hidden from every eye, is an Inner Temple,
consecrated to the uses of the individual
alone.
We all meet upon a visible plane—we live
our outward life of rejoicing, of sorrow, of
prosperity, of want—we call this one covetous,
that one a profligate, here is a moral hero,
there a bigot. They pass us on the street,
and sit at our table, labeled with the verdict
of their fellow men: avaricious, sycophantic,
generous, amiable. We stamp them compla
cently, and there is no appeal from our deci
sion. Human nature, we say, is as an open
book, that he who will may read.
We call ourselves students of human nature.
We penetrate the weaknesses of our fellow
mortal, and when we have discovered a great
flaw or weakness in his character, we rub our
hands with complacent, self-paid compliments for our own cleverness.
Atas for the student of human nature!
When we have read and combined all the fin
ger-boards of a man’s character, which Nature
has placed upon each of her children—when
opposing elements have been carefully bal
anced, predominant passions brought for
ward, all points summed up into an infallible
whole, what have we gained ? The vestibule
to the Inner Temple only—the door of the
secret chamber is closed, and the key is not
in our possession. We act our various roles
in life behind a mask, not bceause of will,
but of necessity.
Once in a life-time some one is found to
whom this Holy of Holies is revealed.
What bliss to wander hand in hand with
this kindred spirit, down the rough valleys,
and up the sunny slopes of this life, to lay
down the burden of mortality together, and
mingle in the glories of immortality, one
mind and one soul.
285
But though this inner life is, and must of
necessity be a sealed chapter to us, I often
amuse myself by speculating upon its nature,
as developed by outer indications.
I once saw a poor woman returning after a
day of hard labor to her miserable hovel,
stooping to pick a stunted, faded blossom, on
which the summer dust had gathered thickly,
and it pleased me to imagine that in the Inner
Temple rare flowers bloomed, and sweet birds
sang, and music and fragrance shed their soft
ening influence over her life of squalor, pov
erty, and wretchedness.
I have seen a friend sit at her piano when
twilight shadows were gathering in the room,
and let her fingers wander over the keys in a
sort of dreamy trance, wakening harmonies
that were never practiced under the eye of a
teacher, or learned from books; and I knew,
if she did not, that she was playing for the
spirit that dwelt in the Inner Temple.
Best gift of Nature when its outward mani
festations are harmony, charity^ kindness,
and love. How terrible when it becomes the
abode of demoniac passions—a secret cham
ber full of unclean images, where the imagi
nation delights to wander, groveling in gross
ness and sensuality of spirit, while the avenues
are kept pharisaically clean and pure for the
eyes of the world.
“ If I keep my thoughts to myself they can
do no harm, ” says the spiritual debauchee. A
little longer, and the screen of mortality is
laid aside, and he can behold the blackness of
ashes where the vestal flame should be burn
ing—the walls defaced with hideous images, a
temple where none but evil passions could
delight to dwell—images, which it will take
years of progress to erase. Every offense
against purity leaves a scar upon the soul.
Alas for those to whom the Inner Temple
is but the tomb of a dead or crucified love,
waiting the touch of the shining finger ef the
Angel of Death to roll the stone from the
mouth of the sepulcher, that this love may
rise transfigured and glorified, with wings
poised for the spheres of immortality.
“Your unvarying cheerfulness is unac
countable to me, ” said a friend to me one day.,
“ If I did not know you better I should say yon
were too frivolous to realize misfortune.”
“I dwell in my Inner Temple,” was the nnspoken reply, saddened by the thought that
this faithful friend of years, whose hand had
clasped ours in love a thousand times, knew
so little of that bright realm where fragrance,
�■286
The Friend of Progress.
and sunshine, and music, and all things beau
tiful, reign perpetually, and cast their shi
ning halo over the adversities of common
life—a splendor that turns its common dross
to precious gold.
Alas for those who sit together at the
hearth with clasped hands on winter nights,
and in the wailing wind without can hear no
undertone of harmony—who sit day after day
at the same table, who lie down at night, and
rise in the morning together, who walk side
by side through life, and ever strive vainly to
pierce the vail that separates their souls, gro
ping with baffled fingers for the entrance
to that spiritual chamber where where each
holds converse with his own imaginings.
Guard well the Inner Temple. Cleanse it
from envy, from impurity, from uncharitable
ness—so shall you be more prepared to enter
into that life where suffering is not, and sor
row cannot come.
sighted friends are not the most agreeable
persons to have relations with. To them the
object they are after, the evil to be remedied,
the patch of color or limb just before their
eyes, is the one only noble purpose of life.
All who do not run in their grooves are sav
agely denounced; all who, looking beyond, see
the soft landscape stretching away into a
beautiful perspective; all who see how the
Divine Artist has rounded out the statue of
life into complete and perfect proportions,
and therefore cannot give more attention than
properly due, to the apparent imperfection
of detail; these are denounced and derided
as wanting earnestness, and as unworthy
workers.
Let us not eschew earnestness. Let us be
zealous, but at the same time tone our judg
ments by that divine charity which recognizes
the finiteness of man, the imperfection of his
surroundings, and the controlling power of
circumstance. Fight we the evil with the
spirit of the Crusaders, but let it be the evil,
and not so much the individual doers thereof,
who, after all, are likewise its victims. H.
A Single String.
Some one says: “ The more music you can
make on one string the less it will cost you
to keep your fiddle strung.” The advice is
poor economy unless toe instrument be played
by a master hand. It takes a Paganini to
make harmony from a single string. The
richest lives are not found among the one-idea
men. When, however, the subtile keys of
melody or thought have been touched,
genuis can create from its single truth or
chord, that world of weird’suggestions and
correspondence, from which the rhythmical
harmonies are evolved. A single great idea.,
like the central chord in music, is a key by
which the possessor unravels the spiritual
universe, and enters into all mysteries.
Yet, let none believe that either life or mu
sic can be perfect upon the one-string theory.
Development is the distinctive mark of this
era. Harmony is the hope of the age. How
do we see men whose devotion to one thought,
one purpose,—whose resistance to one evil,
has completely obscured their vision in all
other directions. These are the genuine
fanatics; persons who get so near the object
aimed at, that they cannot see its relations to
the other parts of the universal whole. I have
seen a near-sighted man looking at a picture or
statue. Forced by his infirmity to get near the
object, it was utterly impossible for him to see
beyond that portion upon which his eyes rested.
Tiie tout ensemble is invisible to him, or only to
be absorbed by slow and painful efforts. Is not
this an example of the rigid, unbending pu
rist, the possessed one-ideaist. The near
sighted men, either in physical or mental life,
acquire a microscopic minuteness and accu
racy which in some degree makes up for their
deficiency of breadth and comprehensiveness
of vision. But in mental activities our near
BY LOUISE PALMER,
Her letter lies under my pillow—its words
burn heart and brain ;
Ten days ago their warming changed to the
smarting fire of pain:
“My lover dear,” she says, “Of strong men
prince and flower,
I hold my soul in patience up, and watch and
wait the hour
When past all shouting in the street to my list
ening ear shall come
The eager tread oi your manly feet in the
regiment marching home.
0 happiest girl in the warring land to reach
the day at length
When my hero’s arms shall shut me close in
the safety of their strength.”
Bitterest words to me who lie in the hospital
ward alone,
With a crippling wound in my leg, and my arm
forever gone!
She fills her heart with her lover’s praise in
dreams that never tire,
Nor knows he lies a shattered wreck—past
any heart’s desire.
Her own will fail when she comes to see—I
have no fear for her truth;
She will turn her pride to protection—her love
to sorrowing ruth.
For that you know, is a woman—forever patient
and true
In sacrifice to your need of her, while she needs
nothing of you:
That brings the question quick to heart with
subtlest rankle and sting,
What have I to give for her perfect youthmost sweet and precious thing 1
�Relinquish eel.
What but the burden of my loss to clog her
lightsome years—
My weakness where God meant support—a
cloud of cares and tears.
Yet every pulse of my broken life tremulous
yearns and stirs
To bind its pitiful weakness up with the joyous
strength of hers!
In passionate prime when I held you close in
the grace of a first caress,
And called you my Lizzie, my own for life, I
loved and wanted you less
Than now, as I lie all nerveless, spent, and wan
with the pallor of pain,
And no right arm to draw you close to my
longing heart again.
287
I To thick of the added care oi a wife, and beg
your kindly release.”
Such speech as this will kindle her pride and
the fire of her quick disdain
Will snap the bond her pity would bind like the
links of a daisy-chain.
The letter is ended and sped, and I think of it
day by day;
On its journey home, where I thought to be
taking my eager way,
Till it reaches the hand whose tender touch I
was hoping now to feel.
I think of her face as its impatient eyes the
letter’s sense reveal!
As quick along the rambling lines her kindling
glances scan,
I know I can hobble home on my crutch, and
She will not guess my heart’s best blood along
claim my promised wife—
the letters ran.
Creep into the arms of her pity and shelter
me there for life.
0 sweet and strong temptation! 0 precious I did not know that mortal days could float a
man so slow;
rest to win!
God help me rally what manhood’s left against Once cast aloose from love and hope on their
dull tide to flow!
the lovely sin!
Lord save me from the selfish deed of taking I feel the longing lack of her loss in every
leaden hour:
her life for mine ;
Let me give her freedom, the one good gift Yet keep like a fool her image at heart in its
place of ancient power.
left to my love divine.
I shall see not even her writing again on aught
Greater is he who conquers his soul, is the
—not the tiniest note,
praise of the holy page,
Save cold address on letters returned, that my
Than one that taketh the city strong in face of
lost right hand wrote.
the enemy’s rage.
Yet my pulse leaps up when the mail comes in,
I braced my spirit with half the strain for the
refusing to feel how vain
shock of bloody fray
The hope of precious missive sent from her
That it takes to scale the cruel hights of sac
firm white hand again.
rifice to day!
But at last my bitter strife prevails,- and my As I lie in silence alone, and close my eyes to
heart’s desire lies slain:
night,
Now the letter quick, lest the foe revive and I let the thought of her grow and fill my inward
make my victory vain.
sight,
Till I almost feel her smile the shadowy ward
Only the ink and paper, nurse—I will not tax
illume,
your hand:
And hear the float of her dress, and breathe its
My poor one left must begin to learn in place
vague perfume.
of the right to stand.
Why, my heart is as loth to coin the words as Kind Savior! whose tear is this that has fallen
my awkward hand to write !
on my face ?
Yet cold and hard I put them down, to lie at Whose these two hands that hold my one in
last in her sight.
clinging soft embrace ?
I know her too well to write the truth, to sound Whose voice can speak to me such words—too
her its wailing strain
sweet for truth their sounds ;
Of, “ My darling, I shut your sun from my life “My own ! do we love the dear Christ less for
and sit in the night of pain !
the mangling of his wounds 1”
The stalwart knight of your maiden choice went
down in battle’s rack,
Lizzie! my soul leaps out to light at the dayFailing forever out of the world—so take your
dawn of your eyes,
plighting back;
That I could not blind to my yearning love by
Nor cheat your heart a crippled wretch can for
any cold disguise.
its loss atone,
And waste upon his ailing life the sweetness of 0 quick to follow the shining steps of tbe
your own.”
Lord of woman born,
No words like these : but coldest talk of “cir Who came from the hights of Paradise to wed
cumstance, if foreseen
the church forlorn,
On the summer-day we made our troth, the And gave for it his priceless life in offering glad
vowing had never been.
and free,
The late battle disabled me somewhat, and on So out of the depths of her holy love she gives
the whole, I must cease
I
herself to me.
�288
The Friend of Progress.
Our Librarj/.
The Ideal Attained: Being the Story of Two
Steadfast Souls, and how they won their
Happiness and lost it not. By Eliza W.
Farnham. 1 volume. New York: 0. M.
Plumb & Co.
We give the title of Mrs. Farnham’s , volume
in full, because the first part of it conveys no
idea of its purport. It is a story of a man
and a woman, constructed after the author
ess’s ideal, who met on a sailing-vessel bound
for San Francisco; she on her way to an
uncle there; he yielding to an attraction
which had sprung up in his heart for her.
Other characters take part in the develop
ment of the story; but they serve merely as
foils to display these two. The incidents of
the plot are also arranged evidently with a
view of exhibiting these two personages in
the greatest variety of attitudes, both as indi
viduals and as related to each other. They
are brought intimately together—they are
kept sternly apart. They share in comforts and
in privations. They are subjected to rest and
to labor. They are tried by dependence and
by independence. They are alienated and
reconciled. Their minds meet on trivial sub
jects and on grave. The test of experience
brings out their weak and their strong points.
In the end, they are joined in a perfect union.
We infer from the Publishers’ Preface, that
this book was written a considerable time be
fore the last work, “Woman and her Era.”
Mrs. Farnham must, however, have had the
doctrine of that work matured in her mind
before she planned this. The two books are
complements of each other. “The Ideal
Attained ” is the illustration in the form of
experience of the theory maintained in “Wo
man and her Era.” It is the concrete of that
abstraction; or rather that gives the philoso
phy of the characters and relations depicted
in this. No reader of Mrs. Farnham’s last
book should fail to read the story before us;
and the reader of the story would do well to
turn over the chapters of that more elaborate
work. To many Mrs. Farnham’s theory of the
relation existing between man and woman,
and of their providential attitude in history,
seemed repulsive, owing, perhaps, to the ne
cessarily critical, analytical, and to some ex
tent, controversial character of the volumes in
which that theory was explained. But in this
vivid sketch of two lives, the relation between
the man and the woman is as natural and
sympathetic as one could wish. If Mrs.
Bromfield is a woman after Mrs. Farnham’s
own heart, and ‘ ‘ the Colonel ” is such a man
as her soul delights in, and their union the
legitimate and fair result of her premises, then
we say “ amen ” to her philosophy. For Mrs,
Bromfield is a woman who would adorn
the choicest circle—whom women would
admire—whom men would honor, accept,
and be only too glad to take to their
homes as wife, in the noblest sense of the
word. “The Colonel” is a man of a rare
stamp, whom women might be pardoned for
adoring, and whom men would applaud as a
model of manly virtues; and their union
comes as near what all good and cultivated
people would call a perfect marriage as this
earth gives an opportunity of seeing. The
characters are certainly idealized.
They
could hardly have been life-studies. If they
were, we envy the authoress her experience
in men and women. They are constructed,
we fancy—creations of her mind; but the
traits which her imagination supplies, be
long, without exception, to the pure manly
and womanly, and fill out, instead of distort
ing, the image of ordinary humanity.
The book is intensely earnest in its tone.
There is no trifling in its chapters. The
dramatis personae all have brains, and well do
they use them in discourse on grave themes.
Even the table-talk is significant. The
“asides” are momentous. We do not get
these people to the end of their voyage without
sailing over many seas of thought and sound
ing many deeps of reflection. To most people,
the reading of the book would be an educa
tion in liberal opinions, and a very pleasant
education too—for the course, though rigidly
exact, is so delicately conducted and so bril
liantly illustrated, that one is instructed while
seeming to be merely amused.
The literary execution of the volume
has much merit. The description of the
sea-voyage is full of alternate calm and
breeze. The life on the island might have
been painted from actual sketches taken on
the spot. The life in the young San Francisco
was, in truth, so painted, and we should not
know where, out of these pages, to find
another so faithful photograph of the woman
less, childless, chaotic, sandy town, as it was
in its early days. We feel as if we had been
there, and were glad we had got out of it.
“The Ideal Attained” will add greatly to
Mrs. Farnham’s literary reputation, as a suc
cessful attempt at the philosophical fiction:
the novel that holds an earnest, moral, social,
and even humane purpose, without losing the
fascinating excitements of the novel; the trea
tise on high themes of personal interest,
clothed in the rich garments of the novel, and
yet retaining the dignity of the treatise. The
story is good as a story; the moral is good as
a moral, and both moral and story are one.
We rather object to long letters at the
end of a tale. They look as if the author,
tired of his task, laid by his art, and supplied
the deficiency of his work by opening his files
of correspondence; and Mrs. Farnham’s epis
tolary style is not as graceful as her narra
tive: but the letters cannot be omitted by
the reader who wishes to understand the
story of the two lives, and the substance of them
will amply compensate for the form.
* *
�
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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
Date
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Title
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The Friend of Progress. Vol. 1. No. 9, July 1865
Creator
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Conway, Moncure Daniel [1832-1907.]
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [New York]
Collation: [257]-288 p. ; 24 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Includes bibliographical references. Printed in double columns. _Louise Palmer -- a review of 'The Ideal Attained' by Eliza W. Farnham. The spiritualist and occult journal was previously named Herald of Progress and then Banner of Light before becoming Friend of Progress which became more explicitly devoted to reform.
Publisher
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[s.n.]
Date
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1865
Identifier
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G5295
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Periodicals
Women's rights
Indigenous peoples
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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 (The Friend of Progress. Vol. 1. No. 9, July 1865), 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
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English
Conway Tracts
Women
-
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Text
1—-----------&
D U AN
jor
A Twofold Journey
With Manifold Purposes.
BY THE AUTHORS OF
“THE COMING K
” and “THE SILIAD.”
Contents :
Dedication
Canto the
Canto the
Canto the
Canto the
Canto the
Canto the
Canto the
Canto the
First .
Second .
Third .
Fourth .
Fifth .
Sixth .
Seventh
Eighth
.
.
.
.
.
.
. Ben Trovato.
. Ancestry, Parentage, and Education.
. The Queenless Court.
. Progress through Bohemia.
. Mother Church and her Children.
. The Savour of Society.
. The Lords and Ladies of the Drama.
. A Sojourn in Deer Land.
. The Smoke-Room at the M------ Club.
Junbun ;
WELDON & CO., 15, Wine Office Court, Fleet Street, E.C.
1874.
�yON DUAN ADVËRTÏSEMENTS.
E. MOSES & SON,
Merchant Tailors and Outfitters for all Classes.
OVERCOATS in Great Variety, 19s. to £7.
The Newest Styles and Patterns.
Extensive Preparations have been made in every Department for the Winter Season.
A Distinct Department
for
Boys’ Clothing.
ALL GOODS MARKED IN PLAIN FIGURES,
RULES FOR SELF-MEASURE.
Any article Exchanged, or, if desired,
the money returned.
Patterns, List of Prices,
and Fashion Sheet, Post Free.
E. MOSES & SON’S Establishments are Closed every Friday evening at sunset till Saturday
evening at sunset, when business is resumed till eleven o’clock.
The following are the only Addresses of E. MOSES & SON:
¿CORNER OF MINORIES AND ALDGATE,
London]new oxford street, corner of hart street,
(corner
OF TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD & EUSTON ROAD.
COUNTRY BRANCH—BRADFORD, YORKSHIRE.
MUSICAL BOX DEPOTS, 56, Cheapside j and 22, Ludgate Hill.
WATCHES AT ABOUT HALF-PRICE,
By eminent makers (Frodsham, M'Cabe, Barraud, Dent, &c.), in Gold and Silver, quite unimpaired by wear; the system
of warranty ensuring complete satisfaction to purchasers. Catalogues, with prices, gratis «id post free on application»
WALES & M'CULLOCH, 22, Ludgate Hill; and 56, Cheapside, London,
�DUAN.
JON
By the Authors
of
“ The Coming K----- ” and “ The Siliad.”
Dedication.
EN DIZZY ! you’re a humbug—Humbug
laureate,
And representative of all the race ;
Although ’tis true that you turned out a Tory at
Last, yours is still an enigmatic face.
And now, O Sphyntic renegade, what are you at
With all the Rurals in and out of place ?
You'll educate them, won’t you, Master Ben ?
And make them think that they are clever,
very,
Until the trick is won, and they’ll wish, then,
They’d taken you cum grano Salis-\>Mxy.
No wonder Mr. Miall’s making merry,
And rallying his Liberation men—
Where will you leave the boobies in the lurch—
He sees your tongue so plainly in your cheek,
Have you resolved to double D------ the Church ?1
When in your Church’s champion role you speak.
You’ve dished the Whigs before; we now would
Go on, neat humbug, laughing in your sleeve.
sing,
What is the pie that you’re so busy making ?
A dainty dish to set before the Thing—2
Or aught that its digestion will be shaking ?—
Or is it Discord’s apple that you bring
Or will you set the good old Tories quaking,
And winking, as you bid the Church not falter ;
We joy to see her aid from you receive,
To guard her ’gainst the dangers that assault
her;
The English Church has had her last reprieve,
Now_y<?zz are standing boldly by her altar.—
By saying that they hitherto have missed tricks,.
Already in the glass we see the image,
By not going in for equal polling districts ?
Of an impending, big religious scrimmage.
�DEDICA TION.
O, who shall tell the turmoil and the strife—
The more interminable because religious—
With which the coming Session will be rife,
When all the rival creeds shall wax litigious,
To help the State keep Madame Church, his wife,
In proper order ?
It will be prodigious !
The war of politics becomes mere prattle
Beside a rubrical religious battle.
Thank God ! it’s coming ! we shall live to see
The State Church crushed, and God from
Mammon parted ;
England from dowered priestcraft will be free,
The Bishops from the Upper House all started ;
Then flowers and fruit will fill fair wisdom’s
tree,
And Superstition from the land be carted.
O, Dizzy, for the coming state of things,
Our muse her warmest thanks, prospective, sings !
The Pope had better dance his can-cans straight
way,
For weak-souled Marquises he’s proselyted ;
For Truth is mustering at Error’s gateway,
Demanding that
the
people’s wrongs
be
righted ;
Priestcraft is doomed, and this will go a great
way
Tow’rds bringing sunshine into lands be
nighted.
“ The moaning wind
Oh yes, Ben, we have
heard it—
Is rising now, and woe to them that stirred it !
And we, because we call a spade a spade,—
Despising weak and washy euphemisms,—
Find everywhere false accusations made
Against us by the smarting “ ists” and “isms”
�DEDICA TION.
We have attacked ; they like not to be flayed
O’er fires made up with their own catechisms ;
So, as they writhe and twist like dying eels,
They make the air resound with libellous squeals.
Some have accused us of a strange design
Against the Heads and Tales3 of the land ;
They’ve traced it in The Siliad's ev’ry line,
And in The Coming K------ seen treason’s
brand.
Well, it no way displeases natures fine
As ours are, when our readers understand
More than we write ; or less, in very truth :
We mean no war; we’ve only crossed the Pruth.4
To the cool readers of this temp’rate clime,
Our style of writing may appear erotic ;
But what is ours to Musset’s passioned rhyme,
Or Hugo’s shafts ’gainst all that is despotic ?
The nervous English of this modern time
Will own that in our lines, poor things, is no
tic—
’Xcept douloureux, perhaps, which brings a pain—
We’ll hope we have not giv’n a twinge in vain.
We don’t believe, however, in the painful
Expression worn by some whom we have seen,
Who, speaking of our work, seemed, in the main,
full
Of pimples on their mind, and sought to screen
Impostumations foul, feigning a brainful
Of purest thoughts, and fancies always clean :
Such people are like blow-flies, who secrete
Their poisoned ova in the freshest meat.
Then there’s that cadging dodger, who saw fit
To write himself down Ass, on scores of pages,
And, in a volume lacking sense or wit,
To tout for preferment.
When next his wages
�lv
DEDICATION.
Are paid for such like raids, perhaps he’ll hit,
Or try to hit, the foe that he engages :—
It must be so annoying to lickspittle
As he did, and be wrong in every tittle.
Go to ! you reverend, “lining” gentleman ;
Go, take your ’davies, prostitute your pen ;
Go, do your hireling work, as best you can,
And be, as usual, all things to all men ;—
Be high, or broad, or low, as suits your plan,
And, greedily, essay the work of ten ;
But, if you’ve got a spark of manly virtue,
Don’t lie again of one who’s never hurt you.
Enough of scolding—in our purpose pure,
We care not what they call us—Fool, or Van
dal;
Of good and true souls’ approbation sure,
We glory in the hate of those who brand all
Plain truths as treason ; and who can’t endure
That we should lance and probe each public
scandal.
The fact being that these purists, who would
urge on
Our flaying, need themselves the moral surgeon.
’Tis pleasanter to see that light is spreading,
That Science has bowled Dogma’s middle
stump ;
And that the rays which Reason’s surely shedding,
Are penetrating now the dense, dark lump
Of Superstition ; that fair Truth is heading
Splay-footed Prejudice, the ugly frump ;
That Tyndall’s in the van, and naught can turn
him—
Oh, wouldn’t all the Bigots like to burn him !
Confusion fills the priestly camp ; the tocsin
That called to Church is summoning to Arms ;
I
�1,
-
-
■
-
!
iI ------ -—”
|
DEDICA TION.
The frightened priests are calling all their flocks in,
But find they heed no more the ancient charms ;
|
They vainly, now, are robed their smartest smocks
in,
Their threats and curses fill with no alarms ;
But there they stand, the church’s light so dim in,
And find their followers are but fools and women.
v
The morning comes, the outer darkness breaks,
And perfect day upon her shall, at last, steal ;
She dreams, and even in her visions shakes
From her the bloated Bourbon of the Bastile ;
Shrieks, as her hand the young Napoleon takes,
For at his touch dread mem’ries of the past
steal
O’er her ; and, vowing on his race, Vendetta,
She wakes and clings for safety to Gambetta.
Confusion fills the City—Samson’s fall
Has much vexed the financial Philistines ;
P And for another unjust judge they call,
’Stead of King Crump, who crumples their
You’re suffering—is it not so ?—from the gout;
Podagral pains afflict you, so our pen
designs,
And is a burden to them, as King Saul
Was to the Israelites.
And now, we mean to spare your feelings, Ben,
It is hard lines,
No doubt, to find they can nowise ensnare him—
He won’t be bought—no wonder they can’t “ bear”
him.
Confusion fills the Country—Tory Squires,
Elated at their triumph, try to stop
The march of progress, damp down Freedom’s
fires,
And ignorance’s shaking knees to prop ;
The peasant’s child, these worthies say, requires
No education, he his books must drop—
They care not how degraded their poor neighbour,
Shall show you mercy, and we will not flout
You further—may you soon be well! and then,
Why, then, your former mission set about,
Begin again, with resolution hearty,
To educate your stupid Tory party.
Teach it to use its brains, and ears, and eyes,
Teach it to think that Bigotry’s a blunder ;
Teach it that Education is a prize,
Teach it to hear the moaning wind and thunder,
Teach it to heed the people’s warning cries ;
Teach it to rend the Church and State asunder :
TeaGh it—-but, there, we trust to your sagacity,
For you know best your followers’ capacity.
Their sole idea is to get cheap labour.
Meantime, Ben Dizzy, we proceed to dedicate,
Confusion fills fair France—her breast is torn
By Royal Sham bores, Bonapartist bullies;
Her grief is great, and grievous to be borne,
Her cup of tribulation very full is.
But hope is springing, as she sits forlorn,
And waits for Fate to move the proper pulleys ;
In honest, simple verse, our lays to you ;
And though in flattering strains we do not predi-
cate,
Believe us, our intent is good and true.—
We must our Cantos with a moral medicate,
Because we wish a doctor’s work to do :
Her lips shall never an Imperial cub lick,
Our country’s sick, we’ve read the diagnosis,
May she firm found a glorious, free Republic !
The knife, applied in time, may save necrosis.
�DEDICA TION.
vi
We imply no profane intentions to Mr. Disraeli. He is
on the side of the Angels, and, of course, never swears. The
“ double D.” refers merely to that Disendowment and Dis
establishment of the English Church, which we rejoice to
think, thanks to our Prime Minister, are so imminent.
2 Thing or Althing. So was called the first Political
Assembly of the Northern nations. To Iceland, many years
before the Normans overcame the English, went many
thousands of hardy, intelligent settlers from Norway. These
were the men who preferred to be damned with all their an
cestors, than to be saved without them. Rather than give
way to Olaf, who had become a saint, and therefore a perse
cutor, they elected to depart and seek other shores. Thus,
little Iceland became a great community. One Ulfljot was
the man for the Thing; the hour was 930, A.d. Thence
forward it met annually on the plains of Thing Valla. For
the benefit of our present Premier, who may use the informa
tion to serve up in his next Bath Letter, or to his Aylesbury
1
Ordinary Farmers (these yeomen, surely, should be extra
ordinary ones), when next he addresses them, we shall add
one more piece of news. It may be useful to him to know,
and to keep in reserve—in company with Wilkes’s Extinct
Volcanoes, Coningsby's Plundering and Blundering, Balzac’s
Definition of a Critic, M. Thiers’ Obituary Addresses, and
the other choice specimens of his talent for eclectic epigrammatizing—that the President of the Thing was called Lagmadur. The first syllable is unpleasantly suggestive of the
rural régime, under which we have the present happiness,
according to the received formula, to live, but we trust to the
Member for Bucks to keep us moving.
Tales. Suchlike and so distinguished.
See Kinglake’s "Crimea; ” or the work of any veracions
historian of the Russian War, say that of M. Thiers, or,
better still, that of any of the companions of the author of
the “History of Caesar.”
Notes to Canto the First.
Our Gentleman from Dapping (VIII).—Every public
schoolboy knows that the fearless and reproachless Bayard
was the grandfather of Chastelard. But, as everybody is
not a public schoolboy, we print from the Dictionnaire de
Bouillet the following brief account of Mary’s hapless lover :
•—“ Pierre de Boscobel de Chastelard, un gentilhomme
Dauphinois, était petit-fils de Bayard. Ayant conçu une
violente passion pour la célèbre Marie Stuart, épouse de
Francois II., il suivit cette princesse en Ecosse après la mort
de ce monarque. Il fut surpris dans la chambre de Marie,
et condamné à perdre la tète.” Mr. Swinburne has sung, in
impassioned lines, the moving history of Chastelard’s erotic
adventures ; and the Saturday Review, whilst rebuking, has
fully described them.
David, Bathsheba (XIV).—Mr. Peter Bayle, in his Critical
and Historical Dictionary, thus sums up the case he makes
against the royal prophet, the man after God's own heart :
— “Those who shall think it strange that I speak my
mind about the actions of David compared with natural
morality, are desired to consider three things :—I. They
themselves are obliged to own that the conduct of this
prince towards Uriah is one of the greatest crimes which
can be committed. There is then only a difference of more
to less between them and me ; for, I agree with them, that
the other faults of the prophet did not hinder him being filled
with piety, and great zeal for the glory of God. He was
subject alternately to passion and grace. This is a misfor
tune attending our nature since the fall of Adam. The
grace of God very often directed him ; but on several
occasions passion got the better ; policy silenced religion.
2. It is very allowable of private persons, like me, to judge
of Facts contained in the Scripture, when they are not ex
pressly characterized by the Holy Spirit. If the Scripture,
in relating an action, praises or condemns it, none can
appeal from this judgment: every one ought to regulate his
approbation or censure on the model of Scripture. I have
not acted contrary to this Rule: the facts, upon which I
have advanced my humble Opinion, are related in the Holy
Scripture, without any mark of approbation affixed by the
Spirit of God. 3. It would be doing an injury to the
Eternal Laws, and consequently to the true Religion, to
give Libertines occasion to object, that when a man has been
once inspired by God, we look upon his Conduct as the Rule
of Manners; so that we should not dare to condemn the
Actions of People, though most opposite to the notions of
Equity, when such an one had done them. There is no
Medium in this Case ; either these actions are not good, or
Actions like them are not evil ; now, since we must choose
either the one or the other, is it better not to take care of the
Interests of Morality than the glory of a private Person ? •
Otherwise, will it not be evident, that one chooses rather to
expose the Honour of God than that of a mortal Man ?
Own the Corti (XVI).—According to the strict classical
ipsissima verba of the Sacred Vedas of the United States,
this should be written " acknowledge the corn.” Dr. Scheie
de Vere thus narrates the origin of the phrase. It arose out
of the misfortune of a flat-boatman, who had come down to
New Orleans, with two flat boats, laden, the one with corn,
the other with potatoes. He was tempted to enter a gambling
establishment, and lost his money and his produce. On re
turning to the wharf at night, he found the boat laden with
corn had sunk in the river ; and when the winner came next
morning to demand the stake, he received the answer,
“Stranger, I acknowledge the corn, take ’em; but the
potatoes you cant have, by thunder ! ”
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�i
JON
DUAN.
Canto The First.
i.
HE blood of Duan’s race was very blue—
In indigo, indeed, an uncle dealt—
The Heralds’ College, too, had got a clue,
Pursuing which, the prouder members felt
The Duans were as old as any Jew,
Who had been asked by them to kindly melt
Certain acceptances, from time to time—
As done by Israel in every clime.
II.
The fluid in the Duans’ veins was mixed;
Not wholly Saxon, nor of Norman strain— •
For early tribes had not their dwellings fixed,
But wandered forth in search of grass and grain.
Much as, sweet reader, yesterday, thou picksed
Thy villa on the Thames, close to the train ;—To mind thy shop in London smoke; then rush
Into the country from the crowd and crush.
IV.
They searched thro’ Lubbock, his Primeval man
(Whose words weigh well, and far above his coin),
Hoping to find a record of the clan,
But couldn’t trace a single rib or loin
From which they might have come; so chose a branNew pedigree, which sought Jon’s folk to join
With one who came with Marie’s suite from France,
Marie the sweet, who led the men a dance.
v.
All know—a periphrase which means, how few—
’Mongst Marie’s amants stood French Chastelard,
Of whom ’tis saying nothing fresh or new,
That his unfortunate, or lucky, star
Brought her to love him whom she, after, slew;—
A mangled victim ’neath her loving Car.
But Bayard’s grandson felt, when he gained Mary,
Ecstatic bliss, which naught could raise or vary.
VI.
ill.
The Duans’ archives do not throw much light on
What rank they held, as Cave men, in the past;
But, as their modern way is just to fight on,
We may suppose they were the men to last;—
That age was not the one to form a Crichton,
Then were no feeds to speak of, but of mast;
And dinner orat’ry was not in vogue,
Words were so short that all was monologue.
Now, ’tis a very strange, tho’ truthful fact,
That some men, tho’ they’ve known the tip-top
dames,
Have not disdained with lowlier maids to act,
As though the Royal or Imperial flames
Had something in them which so much attacked
The nerves, that ’spite of the most loyal claims.
They’ve fell a-flirting with a “ Waiting Lady”— •
And thought it venial if the Queen was “fadey.”
B
�yON DUAN.
2
VII.
XII.
fis certain. Chastelard had no excuse
Of fadiness in Mary, to atone
For making eyes at others, but the deuce
Is in some men, for when they’re left alone,
They can’t contain themselves ; but on the loose
They get ; and enter the unfaithful zone,
In moment’ry unmindfulness of her
Who, did she know it, would kick up a stir.
She was a Marguerite, Bellanger to wit,
Who pleased the Third Napoleon for awhile,
By wiles well known, and for the old well fit—
These to describe won’t suit our English style ;
So, by your leave, we would them pretermit,
Altho’ naught pleases more than scenes of guile;
And, to speak truth—which is above and ’fore all—
France is, of all known lands, the most immoral!
VIII.
To Duan’s forefathers we would return ;
But must a moment keep you in the South,
To note where Austria’s Empress wished to learn
The English tongue from moustached, warlike
mouth.
Ah ! Francis Joseph, you with rage may burn,
But, if you won’t forsake the ways of youth,
Your charming wife, slim-waisted, full of grace,
Will make her game and start a steeple chase.
XIII.
til
Our gentleman from Dauphiny had seen
The Queen’s four Maries, and full often thought
Had Mary Stuart not his mistress been,
One of these dames d’honneur he would have
sought ;
For he did fancy one of them did lean
A little to his side, when he had brought,
Perchance, some heather from King Arthur’s Seat,
To please his Queen, whom he had come to meet.
IX.
And why is it, sw’eet woman, you incline
To listen to /zA tongue, and note his eye,
And love the fellow, when he isn’t thine ?
Is it because you like to make her cry,
In whose possession this same youth has lien ?
We fear it is so, and must call “Fie ! fie !”
Because, if we don’t, others will do’t, you know,
And we, as Jove, had better scold our Juno.
x.
B
Fîî
F
’Twas true enough ; one of the four was struck,
And Chastelard, the striker, had his way ;
So well it is to live in way of luck ;
And good such facts, for those who sing the lay—
For, if there wrere no doe to please the buck,
No “poor deluded,” nor “ deceiver gay”—
What would become of novelists and poets,
Tho’, for Afflatus’ sake, they drank up “Moet’s ”?
XT.
il
R
Have you not heard of Widow Eugénie,
Who, when a wife, quitting the Emperor,
Did from the Court of France instanter flee,
And scandal make, because a woman bore
A burden she should not ;—one of those filles
Who care for naught but naughtiness, and store
Of di’monds, coral, pearl, and rentes, or rolls
Of billets, notes, or cheques on Coutts or Bowles ?
XIV.
From Dan to Beersheba ’tis all the same :—
Jacob and Rachel; Sarah and the King ;
David, Bathsheba ; very much to blame
(She was a bad mark for the Psalmist’s sling);
The tale don’t change; ’tis only in the name :
’Tis not—thank God!—otir place the dirt to fling,
We leave such work to Beecher and his Church,
Where’s dirt enough all Brooklyn to besmirch.
xv.
We hope it’s now extremely clear to all
Where Duan’s people came from ; for, indeed,
We can’t get on without some facts to fall
Upon ; yet, now, some critic who shall read
This verse, may, if permitted, choose to call
Attention to the fact that our Jon’s breed
Is not legitimate, but bastard-born
Well, if it must be so,—we’ll own the corn.
XVI.
Our first love-making, that’s a great event,
Standing from out the flat shores of our life,
Like Devon sandstone, or chalk cliff in Kent;
But seldom ending in her being our wife,
Whose charms our green youth th’ unknown fire
had lent;
For boys of eighteen, in their first love-strife,
Find older women more omnipotent
Than younger demoiselles who blush and start,
Not having learned the ways of Cupid’s dart.
�JON DUAN.
3
XVII.
|
|
,
XXII.
Not more exempt than other white or black man,
Kalmuck, Caucasian, or wan d’ring Tartar,
Or Indian Red, or pig-tail China Jackman—
Each one for ever wanting some one’s “darter”—Jon felt a shock, and straight became a pack-man
With a love load, for which he gave in barter
That adoration pure, and worship truthful,
Which blasé men sneer down as “ very youthful.”
The hill is breasted, and the top is reached,
And fast down hill the line of hounds extends;
And to the yokel old, and boy just breeched,
Who stand beneath the hedge, just where it
bends,
It is a view superb; and ’twill be preached
That night, in slow Kent phrase, which greatly
tends
To help the talethat- “ ’twor a real bloomin’
Soight to see the hounds over plough a-roomin’.”
XVIII.
Though Duan often laughed at his first hit,
I
I
When harder grown, and much more up to snuff ;
Yet, when ’twas on, he felt the strong love-fit
Shake him with strong sensations, quite enough
To please and torture him, as he did sit
In admiration mute—the simple muff !—
Of sweet Maria, as she bent her head
Over her book or plate, or prayed, or fed.
XXIII.
Lady Maria is but gently moving,
She knows, the paces ; knows, too, the wire
fences;
And tho’ her temperament’s inclined to loving,
She’s found that common sense the topping sense
is;
So she reserves herself, but keeps improving
The place she has; but never once commences
To try her very best, till she’s persuaded
She must try other, charms, since youth’s are
faded.
XXIV.
XIX.
Like other women who have got to thirty,
She knew a little of the ways of men,
IAnd, just as happened to our Royal Bertie,
Duan was taught some things he didn’t ken
Before, and found the new-learned ways so “purty,”
That he became Maria’s slave, and ten
I Times more than many people thought was proper,
They riding went:—and once Jon came a
“cropper.”
In following foxes, she was just the same,
She was as cool at this as when a heart
Was startled by her eyes; or other game,
On which she’d set her mind, was in the mart;
N or cruel, nor selfish was she, but a dam.e
Ready on any jig or joust to start;
And loved that man who near at hand did lay,
To take her to the field or to the play.
xxv.
Now Duan suited her just to a “t,”
Except in this—he was a trifle young;
That didn’t matter for a vis-a-vis,
But in the hunting field, it might be flung
Into her face, by a dear, kind lady
(Thus Charity adorns the female tongue),
That she had brought her nephew out from Eton,
Where, probably, he had been lately beaten.
XXVI.
xx.
’Twas in a hunt down with the West Kent hounds,
Over the hills, from Horton to the right;
And tho’ the pack’s not good, and wood abounds,
Yet ’twas a pretty and exciting sight
To see the horsemen; glorious, too, the sounds
Of the ground-striking hoofs ; fierce, too, the light
She knew that Duan loved her, but she’d passed—
Like nearly all who are bon-ton, just now—■
Through such experiences in years amassed,
That she well knew the value of a vow
�4
JON DUAN.
Made by a youth to her who’s aging fast;—
She knew some day or other they would “ row.”
Were there not hidden in her books and drawers,
Portraits of lovers she had lost by scores ?
XXVII.
But if we slowly canter in this way,
Searching my Lady’s mind, the night will come,
And find our hunters, after a hard day,
Distant a weary twenty miles from home.
So that we catch Jon Duan, let us pray—
And, as it’s heavy going on wet loam,
We’ll spur our Pegasus with hopes of laurel;
And pass the field of horses, bay and sorrel.
XXVIII.
In the best families, accidents occur ;
And hunting accidents are never rare,—
Think of the chances : you may catch your spur,
Cannon your enemy, or throw your mare :,
In many such ways you may make a stir,
And at a county meeting gain a stare,
From some sweet creature, who, like Desdemona,
Loves hair-breadth ’scapes as well as Dea bona.
XXIX.
Duan’s last gallop was almost performed,
Although he’d no idea of what was coming ;
And, as veracious poets, well informed,
We should not merit praises, but a drumming
Out of the Laureate’s fort so late we stormed,
If we delayed from saying, that the numbing
Sensation Duan’s just experiencing
Were not due to ill riding, or bad fencing.
XXX.
For ’twas no fence he’d gone at, nor drop jump,
Nor anything that tries a horseman’s skill;
And tho’ some roarers had begun to pump,
Through having gone the pace that’s sure to kill
The duffers ; yet J on’s mare, a thorough trump,
Went steady, as an old ’un at a mill;
So we must tell you in the following strain,
Why Duan lay extended on the plain.
XXXI.
For him, as many others, ’twas a drain
That settled him ; a drain too much, in fact,
Which had been made to carry off the rain,
But sent our hero spinning—a worse act,
�JON DUAN.
Causing, perhaps, concussion of the brain ;
So sudden and so shocking the impact.
For Duan’s mare, alas, put her foot in it,
And Duan’s head came “ crack,” in half a minute.
5
That he the chase loved well as pill and blister—
Felt Duan’s pulse; and said, there’ll be no hearse
Wanted for him this bout, if common care
Is taken, but he’s bound to lose his hair.
XXXII.
Our hero lay there very much at rest;
The blood oozed from his temple, o’er his eye ;
And all his get-up, hat and coat and vest,
Was sadly soiled ; and some said he would die
Before assistance came ; which added zest
To the day’s sport; though some might haply cry,
When they did hear their favourite was killed,
Upon a field not warlike, but just tilled.
XXXVII.
He’d lost his fox, and now must lose his hair,
’Twas very hard ; at least it seemed hard lines ;
But, then, you see, he’d gained a something there
Which they knew not; for Providence combines
A set of compensations, and don’t spare
For lenience e’en to sinners’ faults and fines ;
Content if of good deeds she find a few—an’
There really was a lot of good in Duan.
XXXIII.
Not many stopped to see what could be done :
A hunt is not the place for sentiment ;
Those for’ard didn’t want to lose the fun,
And were on Reynard’s death much more intent,
Than caring for the life of any one
As human as themselves ; quite innocent
Of any motive, yet no doubt believing
The world would be improved by some men leaving.
XXXIV.
But we will do some justice while we may,—
And, place aux dames, my Lady gallops up
On her old grey, well warranted to stay
The longest run, and ready aye to sup
On his bran mash at close of hardest day ;
Welcomed at home by stable cat and pup,—■
Lady Maria joins the little group,
Nor lets, on seeing Jon, her courage droop.
XXXV.
Forth from her flask a little spirit pours
Into our hero’s mouth ; his poor pale lips
Reminding her of kisses by the scores
She’d had of them ; such as a woman sips,
Who’s fond of kissing, and, in fact, adores
The men who give them ; ’twas her ladyship’s
Delight, indeed ; and we repeat once more,
She’d plenty had from other men before.
xxxvi.
Duan’s white brow she bandaged like a Sister
Of Charity, or like a St. John’s nurse,
With her own handkerchief, while, to assist her,
A little sporting doctor—none the worse
XXXVIII.
Two “varmer’s” men upon a hurdle took him,
Gently as if he’d been their little child,
To a near cottage, nor at all they shook him ;
For little food had made their natures mild.
And Lady May not for an inch forsook him,
But on his handsome face, all-hoping, smiled.
It is quite true—if you’d a woman win,
Get weak or wounded, then you will “ wire in.”
XXXIX.
With more of tender feeling than she’d felt
For Duan all the time that he had courted her,
My Lady, self-controlled, unused to melt,
Smiling most sweetly just when things most
thwarted her,
Having the nature of the'happy Celt—
(Debrett and Burke of Irish blood reported
her)—
My Lady led the way for Duan’s entry,
And, as the yokels bore him in, stood sentry.
XL.
The cottage was a lovely little place,
Belonging to my lord, we mean not ours, but
Lady Maria’s lord, who had the grace,
Being a kind lord—blessed, too, with the
“Gower” strut—■
To be quite blind to the most obvious trace
Of ’Ria’s “goings on,” e’en in her bower shut;
Nor cared a jot for what was said by rumour,
As long as Lady M. kept in good humour.
�JON DUAN
XLI.
We hope we’re clear before our readers now—
We’ve had a deal of trouble with the rhyme ;
We’ve landed Duan, who will make his bow
As soon as may be, in his gaysome prime ;
Cured of his wound;—but, there, we don’t know how
His heart will feel; still, loving is no crime,
And we, with all our hearts, wish Duan joy,
Having become quite spooney on the boy.
XLII.
And sweet on him, my Lady came—Eheu !
’Tis ever so ; one gives the cheek to kiss,
The other kisses it: we know it, so do you :
Duan before his fall had felt the bliss
Of loving; now, somehow, he’d lost the cue,
Whilst Lady May had found how much she’d
miss
When Duan should depart; but in her cooings,
She never once deplored her present doings.
XLIII.
Is that a fact about remorse, we wonder ?
Is it the least true that men do repent
When youth and age lie many years asunder,
And all our brightness and our force are spent?—
Grieve men for youthful follies as a blunder ?—
Is sackcloth worn for salad merriment ?—
It may be so ; still we think, indigestion
Alone makes men say “Yes ” to such a question.
XLIV.
We’ve known a many various men in life,
High, Low, Jack, Game, all four, all sorts and
sizes ;
Some who’ve behaved like bricks in serious strife,
Some on the bench, some summon’d to th’ assizes,
One’s in the Church, one’s just divorced his wife,
And one’s a publisher, who advertises
What he declares is “ Beeton’s Annual New,”
Whilst B. asserts the statement isn’t true.
XLV.
Being inquisitive, that we might know
From diff’rent minds what each felt on this point,
We’ve asked the men above if it is so
With them, if they regretted any joint
�yON DUAN.
Proceedings in those sweet spring days, that go
So swift and are so precious, that anoint
With pungent memories all the years that follow,
When baldness comes, and teeth are growing
hollow.
XLVI.
Well, each one’s answer show’d the self-same thing,
Which was, that they’d enjoyed their youth-time
greatly,
And that the only trouble and real sting
Was, in some cases, that they’d grown too
stately-—(Which meant, too fat) that no new times could bring
The pleasures of the past ; — when Bridget,
“ nately,”
Would dance a jig, Janet the Highland Fling,
Rose fill the cup, and Alice ditties sing.
XLVII.
Ah ! dear old Béranger has caught the strain—
“ La jambe bien faite et le temps perduf
Never such honest verse we’ll see again ;
For, readers (this betwixt ourselves and you),
Humbug has on this land such strong chains lain,
We ne’er, with all our strength, can break them
through,
Until—oh ! happy day, arise ! arise !—
Truth makes Hypocrisy her lawful Prize.
XLVIII.
’Twas most important you should understand
Our feelings on the subject of Remorse,
Because the subject that we have in hand—
(That it’s objective, Bismarck would enforce)
Duan, the subject, is of that stout band
Who nothing but the natural, will endorse;
And, as we can’t be fighting our own hero,
We “ ditto” say, though Cant may weep, “Oh,
dear, oh ! ”
XLIX.
As Duan, soon, became a little better,
And his hurt temple had begun to heal ;
He learnt how much he was my Lady’s debtor,
And with his thanks, and more, soon made her
feel
How sweet caresses are ; and thinking, set her,
How grateful manhood is ; and set the seal
Of real fervour on the yielding wax,
Which, when not felt, makes loving limp and lax.
7
L.
These cottage days, alas, too quickly fled ;
And ever more my Lady treasured them;
For, though she gaily spent her time, and led,
In after life, the rout, nor sought to stem
Her later fancies, when Jon’s love was dead—
Yet, when they met, it needed all her phlegm
To seem as though she’d never cared about him,
And had but nursed, in order just to flout, him.
LI.
One day a maiden, urged by anguish keen,
Went down by the North Kent to Greenhithe
Station,
For in her country home she had just seen—
Amongst the other news of our great nation—■
Duan’s mishap described, and how he’d been
Thought dead. She, in a loving perturbation,
Did not clap spurs into her steed, as knights would,
But left by the first train which called at Briteswood.
LII.
Lady Maria had gone up to town,
To be at Guelpho’s fancy ball that night :
So, met the train which brought the damsel down.
We’ll not go in for telling the brave sight
At Marlborough House—but note the inquiring
frown
My Lady’s maid gave, as she asked “What
might
Miss want with Mister Jon-—-he’s very weak,
And doctor has left word he mustn’t speak?”
LIII.
Poor Letty Lethbridge, she was near to faint,
When the trained maid thus met her anxious
quest;
But love is strong in sinner and in saint,
And to see Jon she still would do her best:—
“ Is there no way to see him ?”—“ No, there ain’t,”
The Cockney said.—“ I won’t disturb his rest,”
Said pretty Letty,—“ Only just to see him;
Oh, won’t the doctor let me, if I fee him ?”
Liv.
“ Fee him, indeed ! If anyone could do it,
I am the party, although I dare not.
My Lady, on the spot, would make me rue it.”
“ Lady !—what lady ?/’ Letty gasped, all hot.
�JON DUAN.
8
“ Lady Maria ; if she only knew it,
She’d give up Coming K----- and all the lot;
My goodness me ! it puts me in a tremyor
Only to think of it! what a dilemyor 1 ”
LV.
Billings was yielding ; only just a little,
But’twas enough to give the Lethbridge hope,—
Not that my Lady’s maid did care a tittle
About my Lady’s anger : she could cope
With that; besides, she knew how very brittle
Was man’s love, and how soon and sharp it
broke;
And she had seen some symptoms of Jon’s tiring,
And thought 7us would go out, bar some new
firing.
LVI.
Letty began then, in a gracious way— r
She had her purse, too, in her open palm :—
“I want to see Jon Duan, and I pray
You do whate’er you can to bring me balm ;
And I will give you all I have, to-day,
If but my fears about him I may calm.
Let me but have one peep at him, sweet honey,
And you shall have—oh, lots and lots of money ! ”
lvii.
The sovereigns did it—Letty gave her purse,
And Billings took her where our hero lay,
Saying, “ You mustn’t make a bit of ‘ furse,’ *
Then I don’t mind how long you with him stay.”
And Letty, happy she was now his nurse,
Felt that her night had brightened into day,
Though, still, the jealous doubt would come to
bother,
Who was this lady, whom she longed to smother ?
LVIII.
Duan was dozing; men do, ill or well;
And nothing’s more enjoyable on earth,
Whether you’re visioning the last night’s belle
You danced with ; or when comes a total dearth
Of news and scandal. So that it befell
Letty did gaze, as Duan dozed. No berth
So pleasurable could anyone have given her—
To write down all her joy, ’twould take a scrivener.
LIX.
Duan, in turning lazily about,
Opened his peepers, and caught sight of something
Which, to his half-roused mind, did seem, no doubt,
A little strange ; however, like a dumb thing,
He stayed ; and baby-like, tried to make out
What ’twas before his eyes—a fee, fo, fum thing,
His doziness divined ;—soon, shape it takes,
And when it did so, quickly Duan wakes.
LX.
We’re not a Wilkie Collins—God be praised ’
Not that we don’t think involutions fine ;
We do, in fact; but don’t wish our brain crazed
To trace a tale in geometric line.
So don’t imagine you are to be mazed
Just after, or before, you’ve been to dine—
For ’twas indeed a simple, plain old thing
That Duan saw—a palpable gold ring.
LXI.
That plain gold rings resemble plain gold rings,
Must be, we think, a proposition simple—
It would not puzzle one of our old kings ;
Still, there is many a woman with a dimple,
Whose nerves are sensitive on such old things ;
And e’en that sister, who doth wear a wimple,
Is touched, maybe, when those smooth circlets
golden
Are seen on hands where they should not be holden.
lxh.
But as a cheese-mite knows another mite,
In that rich Stilton cheese you have in cut;
And as an oyster knows its pearl by sight,—
So Duan knew this ring from out a rut
Of rings ; and would have bet, e’en being “tight,”
He’d spot it in whatever light ’twas put;
For ’twas the one he’d put on Letty Lethbridge
One day at church, when they were down at
Fettridge.
LXIII.
Poor little Robson in that wondrous role
Of wand’ring Minstrel, which he really made,—
Unlike creations now, which most are “ stole,”—
When he did sing of Villikins’s jade,
Was wont to pause, as he his song did troll,
And, looking with that look demurely staid,
Would say, ’Tis not a comic song I’m singing—
So we—’Tis not an intrigue we’re beginning.
���JON DUAN.
LXIV.
There’s nothing on the cross, we do assure you,
No figure of the kind you’ll see in Spain ;—
We don’t invent bad stories to allure you,
We leave such things for Ouida to explain.
Duan’s a gentleman, and is to cure you
Of some crude notions as to future pain ;
Meanwhile, there’s something in the following
stanza,—
At least we’ll hope so, and say—Esperanza !
LXV.
Now for it; let us tell about the ring—
’Tis not the Book and Ring, remember that;
But just a story of a boy in spring,
Who gave his play and pew-mate, pink and fat,
This rounded circlet, whose romance we sing,
Causing amongst her fellows mirth and chat,
Whene’er they met at Manor House or Farm—■_
Now where, ye nasty nice ones, where’s the harm?
LXVI.
.
If you are disappointed, Tartuffe olden,
So much the better ; you have bought our poem,
Hoping for some things you’ll not find so golden—Or gilded, rather, as you hoped we’d show ’em—
You’ve bought J. D., and carefully it folden
In that same drawer with pictures where you
stow ’em ;
And now you’re done—we’re very glad to do you,
And if we could—you and your crew, we’d stew
you !
,
ii
You’ll always find he’s hard upon the pious,—
Who, if they could, would burn us, and then try us.
LXIX.
Sweet, simple Letty, she was very charming,
Such a good little thing, that all did love her ;
And as for anyone to think of harming
Her, ’twas impossible ; for those above her,
And those in rank below, who did the farming
Upon her father’s land, would ever cover her
With blessings for her kind and thoughtful ways,
And give her, what the parson wanted—praise.
LXX.
Duan had seen not much of London town,
Before he scented something dull and vapid,
And though he was too young, as yet, to frown
On those who set the pace a little rapid,
Yet, for all that, he often took a train down
To see the little maid he ne’er found sapid ;
Who, though, o’erjoyed to see her darling lover,
Took time before she could her wits recover.
LXXI.
If you know such a maiden, and are young,
Love her and bless her, keep your troth and
word ;
Not all the songs that poets ever sung,
Not all the sweetest trills from singing-bird,
Not Shelley’s lark, nor linked sweetness flung
By Swan of Avon,—sweetest sounds e’er heard;
Not all these, on a million others mounted,
Can claim an ear, when a maid’s tale’s recounted.
LXVI I.
But all this time we’ve purposely abstained
From peeping at Jon Duan and his Letty ;
UY know she’s thoroughly by spot unstained,
And think that looking on is very petty,
So is eavesdropping ; and if you are pained,
Good-hearted reader, kiss your own dear Betty ;
And you will know, for one thing, what they did,
Although we were not ’hind the curtains hid.
LXXII.
We’ve not a word to say for Duan’s flirting
With other women in his London life ;
He couldn’t be accused, ’tis true, of hurting
The sentiments so dear to Grundy’s wife,
His bonnes fortunes he never thought of blurting ;
No cuckold threatened him with shot or knife ;
No more discreet young fellow’s gone to Hades
In what concerned his doings with the ladies.
LXVIII.
Thanks to his nature fine, a well-bred man
Will reverence what is good and what is pure ;
He mayn’t believe what’s told of prophet Dan,
Nor many things of which the Pope’s cock-sure,
Yet will he carry out what he began ;
His love of truth for truth’s sake will endure ;
LXXIII.
My Lady knew that Duan was a leal lad,
But that he loved like Jeunesse loved the
L’Enclos,
A petite passion, which makes one feel mad
For a few weeks or months, but doesn’t often go
�JON DUAN.
12
Longer than that ; then one feels hard and steelclad
’Gainst her who might have nursed you in
your long clo’—
Old women can’t expect men’s love for ever,
Let them, of all wiles that they know, endeavour.
LXXIV.
It had all past—his heart was wholly L-etty’s ;
Just now at any rate, and he forgot
The hunting and the fall, for he had met his
First love, won in past years, whom not for dot
He loved ; for by the side of Lady Betty’s,
The Lethbridge lands were small and mort
gaged—not
Like neighbouring Lady B.’s, who owned the park,
But hadn’t quite the charms to please our spark.
LXXV.
The day had worn on ; Duan had been served
With all his usual fare, and Letty went
At times to see the walks and roads that curved
Around the cottage built on an ascent,
Commanding a grand view, which well deserved
The title of the prettiest scene in Kent—There down below, seen through its oaks and
beeches,
Stretched Father Thames down to the sea in
reaches.
LXXVI.
They’d spoken of old times, our youth and maid,
And smiled and laughed, and Letty nearly
cried
At the remembrance of a cruel thing said
By Duan once. She’d been, too, sorely tried,
When older girls made eyes at Jon ;•—afraid
That he might change, and take another bride.
But Duan’s just that “kinder sort o’ man,” you
see,
Who knows the sex as well as Ballantyne, Q.C.
lxxvh.
He might make blunders in the books he pub
lished,
Be an enthusiast for Rochefort’s Lanterne;
Be in a bargain with Barabbas vanquished
(Jon in mere trading was the wee-est bairn) ;
But with the women ne’er was Duan dubbed
“ dished ”—
As Derby dished the Whigs—but like Jules
Verne,
Takes Phileas round the world in eighty days,
Duan the women won ; he knew their ways.
LXXVIII.
He had a funny theory on this head,
Which may be worth reporting to the world
(If it is not, just think, then, ’twas not said).
Well, his assertion was, that hair which curled,
Bright eyes which shone (and weren’t like cod
fish dead),
Long arms that clasped as in the waltz they
twirled,
The lissom limb, the backbone straight, and
small feet,
Were manly charms which in most men don’t all
meet.
LXXIX.
And when they did,—and here you’ll see the
point,—
Women admired, and common men did hate
The lucky man who showed the shapely joint :
And in this life ’twas sure to be his fate
That all the sex that’s fair would him anoint
With sweetest unguents, morning, noon, or
late—
And so it worked, that men who’d luck with
women,
Had usually to count most males their foemen.
LXXX.
Poor Letty had been hovering round the question
As to the lady of whom Billings spoke ;
And she had often got as far as “Yes, Jon,
But tell me who?”—and then her courage
broke.
She was afraid, perhaps, of his digestion,
And more she feared that she might be awoke
To listen to some fearful revelation,
More shocking than poor Lady Dilke’s cremation.
LXXXI.
Well, and it came at last, and Duan felt it
A very awkward question to discuss ;
But, the bull taking by the horns, he dealt it
A blow which settled it without much fuss :
�JON DUAN.
He knew the girl’s soft heart, and so, to melt it,
He told her all about his absent “ nuss
Except a fact or two, by some suspected,
At which poor Letty might have felt dejected.
LXXXII.
But we have left Society some time,
And how will that great mart get on without us ?
To-day a hundred would commit a crime
To gain an entry—pray, will any doubt us ?—
To see the Coming I<------ ’s great pantomime
At Marlborough House; and, oh, how some
will flout us
Because we print—what some there dared to say—
“ We wonder if Lome’s mother-in-law will pay ? ”
lxxxhi.
A change of scene now comes ; and for a spell,
Whilst Duan’s getting happier every minute,
We go to town, and cab it to Pall Mall,
And see the world, and hear what fresh news’
in it;—
And there’s a story going, which, if no sell,
Bodes mischief; so we may as well begin it:—
Lady Maria, ’spite of phlegm and fashion,
Has gone into a fearful, towering passion.
13
She knew how useless ’twas her wit to try,
And ’gainst her Grace’s influence to fight;
So unto Duan’s arms she thought she’d fly,
And tell her sorrows to her youthful knight.
Alas ! her cup was soon to overflow,
And she was doomed to feel a harder blow.
LXXXVII.
A woman’s senses are extremely keen,
When she’s in love, and Letty heard some words
Spoken below, and ere the form was seen,
She knew, as know the little mother birds
When danger threatens—there must be a scene ;
And, as a warrior his armour girds,
So Duan’s present nurse her courage braces,
Nor shows of fear even the slightest traces.
LXXXVIII.
Having within us tender hearts and pity,
We feel grief for the elder woman’s case ;
We’re not like those promoters in the City,
Who laugh at victims of their schemings base;
We feel that Duan’s conduct’s not been pretty,
And that he don’t deserve an ounce of grace;
But, having said so in our own defence,
We’ll let the ladies show their skill of fence.
LXXXIX.
LXXXIV.
A Duchess, aged, one of Guelpho’s friends,
Met her at Madame Louise’s to-day ;
And—see how small a thing the sex offends—
Asked if her little boy went out to play.
Furious, on Duchess M. a frown she bends,
Retorting—“ Now, be careful what you say,
Or I shall tell that little tale of Bertie,
When he was but sixteen and you were thirty.”
LXXXV.
This shocked the Duchess very much, perforce ;
But, with the sang froid of a lady born,
She said, “You go to Marlborough House, of
course,
To-night ; you’ll be received just like poor
Lome :
You’ll see if Guelpho will my words endorse,
For all your life yourwords to me you’ll mourn.”
Then spoke to Madame Louise as to lace,
Without the least emotion in her face.
LXXXVI.
Lady Maria did not stay to buy
What she intended for the ball that night;
Duan sat up upon his sofa, thinking,
As on the stairs my Lady’s foot-fall fell,
Whoever got the best in the sharp pinking,
He could not come out of the contest well;
There was no way of skulking or of blinking ;
In fact, he felt quite sea-sick at the swell
Of varying emotions, which, like ocean’s,
Caused heavings tremulous and nauseous motions.
XC.
Entered, the practised woman of the world,
To tread the stage, and act a scene of life ;
Her look was thunder, scorn her pale lips curled,
A very Amazon, arrayed for strife ;
At Letty, epithets like javelins hurled,
Piercing the maiden’s bosom like a knife ;
Yet, past the understanding of our dull wit,
She said no word against the real culprit.
XCI.
Letty grew fierce, as Duan’s heart was wrung;
She, with the divination purely sexual,
Knew why the taunts at her alone were flung ;
And, though there’s no description that’s called
textual,
�-
14
'
JON DUAN.
Of every fierce and horrid phrase that stung ;
Yet, women-folk, though we, so writing, vex
you all,
Believe that if Jon had been absent, then,
The work would have been different for our pen.
xcn.
’Twas jealousy of Letty’s being there—
There, in the very room for Jon made nice,
By her (Maria’s) loving hands and care—
Proved, ’neath the smooth exterior, there was
vice—
Vice like you found in that neat chesnut mare,
Which, bucking freely, threw you, fairly, thrice :
Vesuvian slopes, which vines and verdure drape,
Hide furious fires which, one day, must escape.
xcm.
Letty, whose temper had been growing heated
Under the bellows of my lady’s rage,
Now moved from where Jon lately had been seated,
Just like a frigate going to engage :
“Madam, you have me in a manner treated
Quite unbecoming to your rank and age ;
I felt to Duan as to a dear brother,
And he tells me you’ve been to him a mother.
xciv.
“Why, therefore, Madam, anger should you show,
Because I came to see him, having read,
Altho’ the news had travelled very slow,
He’d had a fall, and had been left for dead ;
Why was I wrong in setting forth to know
If there was truth in what the papers said ?
Jon Duan is my own accepted lover,
Why should I from the world my true love cover ?
’
xcv.
Potent is truth, and potent, too, is candour—
The latter may be now and then excessive,
As in some lines of Walter Savage Landor ;
But there was nothing wrong, or too aggressive,
In Letty’s words ; for she was bound to stand or
Fall by faith in Duan—who, digressive
From virtuous paths, should be received with
more joy,
Than if he’d always been an honest, poor boy.
xcvi.
The moment came, and with it came the man ;
It was too much for Duan to rest longer;
So, gathering his strength, he thus began :
“ I would not wish in any way to wrong her,
Who’s been so kind to me ; and when I scan
The kindness of her ladyship, feel stronger
To declare I shall remain for life her debtor,
And that no woman could be kinder, better;
1
XCVII.
“ Still, and with shame I am obliged to own it,
However kindly Lady May has nursed me,
My loyalty is due, where I’ve not shown it,—
To Letty Lethbridge; for, cruel fate has
cursed me
With a weak nature—oh ! how I bemoan it—
Which has brought grief to you two, and
immersed me
In what I thoroughly deserve—a slough of des
pond—
’Twould serve me right if some one said a
horse-pond.”
XCVIII.
But it avails not to prolong the view
Of this unhappy meeting of the three ;
’Tis better to get each out of the stew
As best we can ; and Duan will agree
He’d rather be one of a Lascar crew
Under a Yankee “boss,” or “up a tree/’;
Or be in any sort of bad condition,
Than stay in that room, in his then position.
xcix.
So plucking up his courage and his strength,—
“ Lady Maria, I will take my leave,”
He said ; and saying, rose, erect, full length,—
“Miss Lethbridge,” turning to the girl, “I
grieve
That my misconduct should (here a parenthEsis occurred from failing breath)—I grieve
I have occasioned so much pain to friends—
I will do all I can to make amends.”
c.
And bowing “farewell” to her ladyship—
As, with a courtesy, Letty went out too,—
Duan, with faltering step and many a “ trip,”
Passed down the stairs, and then the door
went through,
Into the grounds, where to his trembling lip
Came from the beating heart, “ Thank God,
I do,
That that is over.” So do we sincerely ;
The printers, too, whose patience we’ve tried,
dearly.
�JON DUAN.
15
Canto The Second.
1.
E sing our Court—select, sedate, demure,
Bound in the virtuous chainsVictoria forges;
So good, so dull, so proper, and so pure,
And O ! so different from her Uncle George’s—
That “ first of gentlemen,” who, it seems sure,
Was fond of “life” and bacchanalian orgies ;
That blood relation of “ our kings to be,”
Who did not spell his “ quean” with double (i a ”
e.
II.
How great the change ! the courtly newsman’s pen
Has never now to rise above the level
Of commonplace particulars, save when
Victoria in her Highland home holds revel,
And dances with her Scotch dependents then,
As though she’d learned the castanets at Seville—■
N ot that with such vivacity we quarrel—
But why does she confine it to Balmoral ?
ill.
We wish our Queen would dance a little more,
Would follow Queen Elizabeth’s example;
And of her powers upon the dancing-floor
Would give us Englishmen, down south, a
sample.
That Scots alone are favoured makes us sore,
For surely London loyalty’s as ample :
And, with all deference, we think it silly
To dance a reel with gamekeeper or gillie.
IV.
How “ Good Queen Bess’’danced, history relates—•
You find it in her memoirs by Miss Aikin,
“ High and disposedly” she danced, as states
Quaint Sir James Melvil, who was somewhat
shaken
By what he saw ; and yet we find by dates
Her age then may at twenty-nine be taken—
A by no means too great age for a maiden
To dance, although with Queenly duties laden.
V.
And yet the people talked, and wagged their chins,
To hear the English Church’s head was danc
ing ;r
But now, when England’s Sovereign begins
To step it—vide note2—we’re not romancing—
�JON DUAN.
16
We’re rather glad, nor care a pair of pins,
Though she in years is certainly advancing ;
But, as we’ve said, its only right and fair,
Royal partners should be picked out with more care.
VI.
When, too, our virgin monarch ruled the land
(And, by the way, there’s doubt of her virginity),
She showed for certain nobles, great and grand,
A manifest and somewhat warm affinity;
And favourites ruled her Court, we understand,
And queenly heart as well, and the divinity
That hedges kings and queens—see Shakspeare’s
plays—
Was at a discount, rather, in those days.
VII.
Now quite another scene is being enacted
(Our Queen has morals far above suspicion),
And quite another way our Sovereign’s acted,
A way not wholly fitting her position ;—
For now the British public’s ear’s attracted
By circumstantial tales of the admission
Of menial Scotchmen to the royal favour ;—
This does not of the regal instinct savour.
VIII.
Cophetua loved a beggar-maid, ’tis true,
But that was passion, love has some excuse ;
But how excuse the Sovereign who can view
A set of stalwart gillies, sans the trews,
With what we call a preference undue ?
Not that our Lady has no right to choose,
But—wishing to be loyally obedient,—
We still assert such friendship’s not expedient.
IX.
If she’d have councillors, and friends, and guides,
Let her choose them ’mongst British gentlemen ;
And not select them from Scotch mountain-sides,
Nor pick them from the crofter’s smoky den ;
Nor trust the adventurers Germany provides,
Nor furnish tattle for the reckless pen
By efforts vain—the adage old and terse is —
To make the sow’s ears into silken purses.
Nor that she only hold high carnival .
When her Scotch servants marry; ’tis not fair
To us, who royal smiles are never rich in,
To find them lavished freely on her kitchen.
XI.
It may be pleasing, in a way, to hear
The luck of Ballater, and Braemar Glen;
How there our Sovereign for half the year
Retires from midst the haunts of Englishmen,
And spends her morning, dropping the sad tear,
And building Albert cairns on every Ben—
Then courts reaction in the afternoons,
By hearing Willie Blair play Scottish tunes.
XII.
Or taking tea in some dependent’s cottage,
Or seeing poor old widow Farquharson,
Or sharing some ’cute Highland woman’s pottage,
Or choosing for a gillie her stout son;—
But such things smack a “wee” too much of dotage,
To make us happy when we hear they’re done;
We want our Queen, in whom such duties rests,
To come and entertain her Royal guests.
XIII.
Come, if you please, Victoria, do not waste
Your valued time ’midst stalwart grooms' and
keepers,—
We dare not question your most royal taste,
Or we would add, cut off the “widow’s weepers,”—
Come back to us to do your duties, haste;
And leave old memories among the sleepers;
And if for quiet you still sometimes burn,
Let Ireland, long-neglected, have its turn.
XIV.
Nor make the Crathie church a raree-show,
To which the enterprising landlords run
Post-chaises, omnibuses, to and fro,
Crowded with tourists eager for the fun
Of scrambling for the places whence they know
A good view of their Sovereign may be won—
And, in a spirit less devout than jocular,
Their eyesight aid with Dolland’s binocular.
X.
xv.'
It is not seemly that the servants’ hall
Should form a Court, nor that the servants there
Should be the sole invités to a ball
Which the Queen graces with her presence rare ;
They turn their backs on altar and on preacher,
For the best pews with golden bribes they treat,
Regardless of the words of our great Teacher—
“ Make not My house a money-changer’s seat!’’—
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
DISCOUNT-THREEPENCE.
Books for Christmas ; Books for Easter;
In olden days, when Time was young,
To publish was a glorious trade ;
BOOKS for faster ; Books for feaster;
Though poets grumbled, poets sung,
Books for Shipping ; Books in Sets;
Books about our Household Pets;
And fortunes were most quickly made,
Books for Wholesale; Books for Retail;
By publishers, who never let
General Books ; and Books of detail;
Booksellers charge a penny less
Books for Children; BOOKS for Babies;
Than price resolved on ; or to fret
Them with remonstrance. You will guess
Books for Girls; and Books for Ladies;
*
Books with pretty Illustrations ;
Books on all the Foreign Nations;
That men like Stoneham could not live :
(Stoneham, of Seventy-nine, Cheapside),
Who discount has resolved to give,
And fight the Publishers beside.
For every shilling that you pay,
Returned are to you just three pence,
By Stoneham, bookseller; now say
If it does not seem common sense,
That if he can afford to sell
At threepence less than other men,
This very work, Jon Duan, well,
May be not all the same again.
Books for Prizes; Books for Presents ;
. Books for Princes; Books for Peasants ;
Books for Scholars ; Books for Schools ;
Books about Dame Nature’s rules ;
Books in binding gay or neat;
BOOKS all warranted complete ;
Annual Books and Magazines ;
BOOKS of Fine Arts fit for Queens ;
BOOKS about the search for gold;
BOOKS for all; nay, we are told
That—but you’ll think it is too bad—
He sells that shocking Siliad.
Nay more, we’ve heard some people say,
“ Stoneham has yet a Coming K----- .”
With Books for Young, and Books for Old;
We don’t believe it, these are libels ;
Books for Summer ; Books for cold ;
We know he has a Stock of Bibles.
�•SIIVMO SHilOOTVJLVO
th e I V O R L D
CHRISTMAS PRESENTS AND NEW YEAR ’S GIFTS.
O N L Y E s ta b lis h m e n ts in
3d.
79,
IN
THE
S H IL L IN G .
CHEAPSIDE, AND BRANCHES.
D IS C O U N T
Christm as Cards, Valentines, Playing Cards,
B IB L E S , P R A Y E R B O O K S , C H U R C H S E R V IC E S ,
The
JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
�THE CENTRE AND RIGHT.—A “Coup de M‘Mahon.”
�i
�yON DUAN.
Forgetting God, they gaze up at his creature.
Your Majesty, this, surely, is not meet:-—•
Then they slip out as soon as they are able,
And make the tombstones serve as luncheon-table.
XVI.
O, stop this crying scandal, if you please,
Encourage not this sacrilege so shocking ;
Let not the tourists push, and rush, and squeeze,
Like London roughs to play-house gallery
flocking ;
Nor let next summer bring such scenes as these,
All that is sacred so completely mocking.
It can on no pretence be right and proper, a
House of God should be “ Her Majesty’s Opera!”
XVII.
What is there in stern Caledonia’s air
That makes our Sovereign forget her grief?
We wish profoundly she’d conceal her care
From English subject as from Scottish fief.
For we be loyal too, and cannot bear
The Gael should solely give our Queen relief—
That Highland pibrochs should her joys enhance,
Whilst we pipe on in vain to make her dance.
XVIII.
Surely would sing all England a Te Deum
If she could her beloved Queen persuade
To lock lor once and all the Mausoleum,
To leave in peace the dear, departed shade ;
Be less the égoïste, think less of “ meum,”
Save hard-worked ministers, and commerce aid,
By ending her seclusion ;—and to lean,
Being still a woman, to be more a Queen !
XIX.
We know her virtues—how she drives and walks,
And goes to church with charming regularity ;
We know her business tact—how well she talks
On politics ; we know her gracious charity
To German poverty—(’tis true, want stalks
In Osborne Cottages : why this disparity
We cannot say, though surely what is right
In Gotha, ’s ditto in the Isle of Wight).
xx.
We know, we say, how very pure our Queen is,
And what a manager ! and what a mother !
But, though all this so very plainly seen is,
We cannot quite our discontentment smother.
17
Her virtues we admire ;—but what we mean is,
Of two moves she should choose the one or
t’other :—
The one is—Coming out amongst the nation ;
The other—Going in for Abdication.
XXI.
’Tis give and take. If we continue loyal—
And we are so without the slightest doubt—We certainly expect our lady royal
Will keep a court, and not aye fret and pout,—
Water without a fire will cease to boil,
And loyalty unshone on may go out.
If shining on it is not in her line,
Then let the Son appear and have a shine !
XXII.
We do not pay our Sovereign to hide
In northern solitudes, however sweet;
We want to view her in her pomp and pride,
And cheer her in the park and in the street;
We want her in our midst and at our side,
To grace our triumphs and our joys complete.
It does not seem a dignified position
To put Great Britain’s sceptre in commission.
XXIII.
Our Royal Mistress, yet, should have her due,—
She did come up to town a bit last season;
May she, next year, again, that course pursue,
And longer stay—we trust this is not treason—
Indeed, we personally yield to few
In loyalty; and therein lies the reason
Why on her Gracious Majesty we call
To heed the handwriting upon the wall.
XXIV.
Well, as we’ve said, last season saw the Queen
In London; and, most marvellous to say,
Whilst she was ling’ring sadly on the scene,
She held a drawing-room herself one day:
And, naturally, with ardour very keen,
Our fairest rushed their compliments to pay.
Duan, of course, as in his bounden duty,
Was in attendance at the beck of beauty.
xxv.
He wish’d, sans doittefasX beauty had not beckon’d,
For drawing-rooms were not in Duan’s line,—
Most etiquette insuff’rable he reckon’d,
And hated going out to dance or fee;
c
�JON DUAN.
Nor could he tolerate a single second,
The social miseries that we incline
To call, good God! in their inane variety,
The usages of elegant society.
XXVI.
Despite which, to the “drawing-room” he went,
For beauty draws, we know, with single hairs,
(And paints with hares’ feet, we might add, if bent
On being cynical, authorial bears ;
But as to be so is not our intent,
Our muse to no such cruel length repairs,
But simply adds that our great hero’s knock
Was heard in Clarges Street at twelve o’clock).
XXVII.
Beauty was ready, in a low-necked dress,
That showed more shoulder, certainly, than sense;
And dragged behind a train in all the mess,
That might have served, at just the same expense,
To cover up a bust which, we confess,
Was fair to see, but might p’rhaps give offence
To leaner sisters and to envious tongues—•
N ot to forget the danger to her lungs.
XXVIII.
Beauty’s mamma, a Countess of four-score,
Showed even more of charms, though they were
bony ;
And with a dress, than Beauty’s even lower,
Displayed much skin, the hue of macaroni;
Whilst in a wig most palpable, she wore
Three ostrich plumes, — poor Duan gave a
groan, he
Felt tempted sore to get up an eruption
’Gainst going to Court with such bedecked cor
ruption.
XXIX.
What sight on God’s earth can be more disgusting
Than painted, powder’d, and made-up old age ?
Its scragginess on the beholder thrusting,
And fighting time with feeble, wrinkled rage ;
Covering with tinsel what has long been rusting,
And writing hideous lies upon life’s page.
Ruins, when left alone, are often grand,
But worthless if they feel the plasterer’s hand.
XXX.
But there’s no time to moralise like this,—
The carriage of the Countess waits below,
And offering his arm to ma’ and miss,
Our hero hands them in, and off they go
�JON DUAN.
To plunge into the yaw-yawning abyss,
And mingle with the never-ceasing flow
That fills the Mall and Bird-cage Walk, intent
To crowd and take the Social Sacrament.
XXXI.
Full soon the bloated coachman had to stop
His horses, as the carriage falls in line ;
And from the curious crowd begin to drop
Remarks that made Jon Duan much incline
Out of the door of the barouche to pop,
And visit them with punishment condign ;
Though all they said to put him in a passion
Was, “ I say, here’s an old ewe dressed lamb
fashion 1 ”
19
As ’twas, a rowel made her ankle bleed,
And scores of feet her long train trod upon,
Till, well-nigh fainting, and with terror dumb,
She almost wished that she had never come.
XXXVI.
Beauty’s mamma, a tried old dowager,
Made better progress, worked her skinny arms
In neighbouring sides, till they made way for her,
And op’ed a passage for her bony charms ;
She’d often pass’d the ordeal; so the stir
Filled her old crusty breast with no alarms :
Indeed, she must have been devoid of feeling,
As though her frame had undergone annealing.
XXXII.
XXXVII.
A tedious houi' went by : the carriage crawled
By slow degrees, and made its way by inches ;
The people chaff’d and cheer’d ; the p’licemen
bawled,
.But not a high-born dame or maid that flinches.
Nor would they, one of them, have been appall’d
Had all of Purgatory’s pains and pinches
To be passed through to gain St. James’s portal,
And courtesy low before a royal mortal!
Thus on they struggled, inch by inch, and stair
By stair ; now losing, now a little gaining ;
As though it were a life and death affair—
As though the goal to which they all were
straining
Were worth an endless lot of wear and tear,
And efforts manifold, and arduous training—
As though, indeed, this courtly p'resentation
Worked out their future and their full salvation.
XXXIII.
- At last the gate is gained where sentries stand,
Nor aim the inroad of the great to stay,
But grimly watch the fairest of the land
As they pass in to mix in the wild fray ;
To join the seething, surging, swaying band
That pushes on, its best respects to pay
To her, who for a whim—it can’t be malice—
Will use what our Jeames calls St. James’s “Palice.”
XXXIV.
And then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And hustling crowds, and symptoms of distress ;
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blush’d at the sight of their own loveliness ;
And there were sudden rents and sounds of woe,
As skirts were torn and trampled in the press ;
Till Beauty, who that day was first presented,
Thought all “Who’s Who” were certainly demented.
xxxv.
She clung to Duan’s arm, and there was need,
For like a wave the well-dressed mob surged on,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
Till she had been o’erwhelmed but for our Jon.
XXXVIII.
Still, ’tis no secret what they went to see,
A widow’d lady ; getting near three-score ;
Still mourning, in a costume “ ca.p”-d-ftU,
One dead some thirteen years ago and more.
An estimable lady as may be,
Yet looking on the whole thing as a bore.
Can we, if we dispassionately handle
The subject, say the game is worth the candle ?
XXXIX.
Duan thought not. If you the crown respect,
Go to the Tower and see the whole regalia,
It costs but sixpence ; or if you affect
The royal person, ’midst the penetralia
Of Tussaud’s wax-works we may soon detect
The waxen effigy ; and slobber daily a
Kiss or two upon the figure’s garments,
To show you are not democratic “varmints.”
XL.
But as to putting on absurd attire,
And running risks of damage and mishap,
Exposing corns and clothes to danger dire
To see a woman in a widow’s cap—
�JON DUAN.
20
George IV. As portrayed by the Tories.
Jon did not to such ecstasy aspire ;
In point of fact, he did not care a rap—
’Spite all the gushing of the penny journals—
To gaze at royalty sans its externals :
XLI.
But thousands do and thousands did that day,
Whose history, so far, has been related :
And as these rhymes must not go on for aye,
We think that Beauty long enough has waited
Upon the stairs ; we’ll take her from the fray,
And, with her pleasure all but dissipated,
We’ll pass her on, as Yankees put it, slickly,
And bring her to the presence-chamber quickly.
XLII.
Stay ! for thy tread is where a sovereign sits !
An Empire’s Queen is seated on that chair!
N or let a palsy overwhelm thy wits,
When thou perceiv’st she is not lonely there ; —
Nor sink into the earth ; since fate permits
Thine eyes to rest—if thou the sight canst bear—
On Princes and Princesses, fecund found,
In Guelphic lavishness arranged around.
XLIII.
See ! there is Albor’s eldest,—-language fails
To write the reverence his face inspires :
The sight of Coming K----- our colour pales,
Till loyalty lights up our facial fires.
God bless, by all means, Albert Prince of Wales!
For certainly His blessing he requires.
Though happily we long ago have sunk all
Fear that he’ll turn out like his gross great-uncle.
XLIV.
We do not mean the Duke of York, that cheat
■ Who, saving that of nature, paid no debts;
Nor Sussex, that nonentity complete,
Whose failings, fortunately, one forgets ;
Nor mean we Clarence, that buffoon effete
Whose reign each loyal Englishman regrets—
Rascal or madman, it is hard to class him :
See for yourselves in “Greville’s Memoirs ”/zzjjz'zzz.
XLV.
We mean that other brother foul and false,
That vulgar ruffian whom no oath restrained ;
*
That bloated sot, who when too fat to valse,
Was fit for nothing; that coarse king who’s gained
"Who’s your fat friend?”—Beau Brummel.
(From the Originals, published by Hone.)
* Daily News, Oct. 31, 1874.
�JON DUAN.
More obloquy from history’s assaults
Than any monarch who has o’er us reigned.
We would not visit harshly mere frivolity,
But where in George was one redeeming quality ?
XLVI.
He lied ; he swore ; he was obscene and lewd;
And rakish past e’en what’s a regal latitude ;
He broke his word; his duties he eschew’d ;
He understood not what was meant by gratitude;
The two great aims in life that he pursued
Were how to dress and howto strike an attitude—
Another king so mean and vile as he,
And England’s kingly race would cease to be.
2i
The coming Court will not be quite so dingy
As that o’er which his royal mamma has sway.
And though our notion may be very shocking,
We don’t like sovereigns who “make a stocking.”
LI.
Nor love we princes who have not large hearts—
Nor love we much the Duke of Edinburgh ;
He lives too late. A young man of his parts
Would well have represented a “ close” borough.
As ’tis, no thought incongruous ever starts
At finding him a Scotchmen’s duke, for thorough
Is the connection’twixt them, though ’tis troubling
To find that he’s not dubbed the Duke of Doubling.
LII.
XLVII.
He was an utter brute, a sceptred thing,
A vampire sucking out his country’s life ;
Eclectic in his vice, a compound king,
Charles to his people, Henry to his wife.
Better by far that time again should bring
A Henry, or a Charles, and plunge in strife
Our country, than that it should e’er disgorge
Another heartless, soulless wretch like George,
XLVIII.
Our Heir-apparent will not be like this —
He mayn’t be brilliant, but he is not brutal;
He may be simple, but it’s not amiss
If that is all he is : he will not suit all
Tastes and desires, but it is well, we wis—
Though our opinion here may meet refutal—
Since kings are now for us but gilded toys,
To have one who won’t make a fuss and noise.
XLIX.
Thank God ! the eldest son’s not like his sire,
A meddling, mean, and over-rated man;
A Bailiff on the throne we don’t require,
However neatly he may scheme and plan
To make a property’s return grow higher.
We can’t forget the way Albor began
His steward’s work ; with what a screwy touch he
Wrung increased revenue from Cornwall’s duchy.
L.
No one can say that our A. E. is stingy—
Indeed, his failing lies the other way ;
Yet, though he on his capital infringe, he
Spends his money in a British way.
A sailor should be generous and hearty ;
An English prince ’fore all should not be mean;
And whilst rememb’ring statements made ex parte
Must not be credited too much, we glean
That modern Athens’ duke, however smart he
Upon the fiddle plays, yet has not been
So wise as to despise all petty things,
And keep his scrapings for his fiddle-strings.
LIII.
We had a hope, being married, he’d improve—
He had a lot of money with his Mary,—
We’ll wish some generous impulses will move
Our new Princess, and that, like some good fairy,
She’ll lift her Alfred from his stingy groove,
And make him for the future very chary
Of any acts like those of him recorded,
Which are, to put it mildly, mean and sordid.
LIV.
It gives our enemies so good a handle
To chaff our institutions and our crown,
When princes make themselves a peg for scandal,
And furnish tittle-tattle for the town.
For they should clearly learn to firm withstand all
Queer deeds and words that tarnish their re
renown,
And those who’re near the Princess should advise
her
On no account let Alfred be a miser.
LV.
Nor let him show the instincts of a trader -,
Nor bargain with his friends in search of gain ;
But, that his actions never may degrade her,
Let him from City ways henceforth refrain.
�JON DUAN.
22
His star is now mQst surely in its nadir,
But there is time the zenith to regain ;
Then we will let the Malta business * slip,
And not remember his Australian trip.
LVI.
And whilst addressing Marie, we may add
We hope it is not true she made a fuss,
And summoned to her aid her royal dad,
Because a princess who’s most dear to us
Declined to listen to her foolish fad,
Or questions of precedence to discuss.
But if ’tis true, then Marie must take care
Lest she is called the little Russian Bear.LVII.
Our coming Monarch’s Consort’s loved most
dearly,
Loyal respect for her is most emphatic ;
And whosoever her attacks, is clearly
By no means well-advised or diplomatic ;
We’ll trust that Marie knew no better, merely
Having been bred in Russ ways autocratic.
Yet, for the future, if she’d keep her place,
She mustn’t show the Tartar, but learn grace.
LVIII.
But all this time the royal party waits—
Louise and Arthur, Uncle George and Lome ;
And pretty ’Trixy, who, if rumour states
The truth, will soon be to the altar borne.
See Christian, too, who doubtless stands and rates
His luck, that from his Fatherland he’s torn.
Poor fellow ! notice his dejected carriage—
s thinking of his morganatic marriage.
He’s thinking of the frazt he left behind him,
Of sauer-kraut perchance, and Lager beer ;
And wondering that the skein the Parcee wind him
Has guided him so comfortably here;
With such a kind mamma-in-law to find him
In pocket-money, and with lots a year
As ranger of an English park.—’Tis strange
How those dear Germans like our parks to range.t
* As boys say—Ask the “ Governor” tokell you the story,
Thumb-Nail Sketches
frcm
The Academy.
t “ I will be thy park, and thou shalt be my deer,”—
SHAKSPEARE's Venus and Adonis.
�JON DUAN.
23
LX.
LXV.
At home they starve, but here they live in clover ;
Our best positions are at their command :
Since Coburg-Gotha’s prince to us came over,
Legions of Deutchland’s princelings seek our
land ;
And Queenly eyes and ears swiftly discover
The hidden virtues of that German band.
But though we ’ve had experience of dozens,
There’s not much love lost for these German“ cozens.”
Too long our blushing Beauty’s been neglected,
It’s now her turn to figure on the scene.
For months a mistress has her steps directed,
That she herself may properly demean,
May backwards walk, and bow low, as expected
When subjects dare to pass before their Queen.
All natural instincts have to be dispersed,
When that play called “Society” ’s rehearsed.
LX I.
Society ! O what a hideous sham
Is veiled and masked beneath that specious
name !
Society ! its mission is to damn,
To curse, and blight; to burn with withering
flame
All that is worthiest in us—to cram
The world with polished hypocrites, who claim
To sin, of right—Society has said it—
And think their crimes are greatly to their credit!
A look of anger spreads o’er Kamdux’ face,
As though the Siliad^xQ just had read.
The officer would be in sorry case
Who now approached our army’s titled head ;
For Uncle George does not belie his race,
But swears and blusters—so the Siliad said--As though he had been one of those commanders
Who fought years since with Corporal Trim in
Flanders.
LXVI.
LXII.
His mind is very likely burdened now
With doubts about his army’s straps and buckles;
And care is seated on his massive brow,
Because he fears how military “ suckles ”
Will to his next new button-edict bow ;
Whilst many a line his Guelphic features puckles
As he decides he will, in any case,
Curtail the width of sergeant-majors’ lace.
LXIII.
And here our muse breaks off to sing All hail
Great army tailor ! and hail ! Prince Com
mander,
Thou burker of reforms, that needs must fail
Whilst statesmen to the Geòrgie wishes pander ;
Thou duke of details ! ’tis of no avail,
Except for rhyme, to call thee Alexander :—
For when thou sittest down to weep and falter,
Tis ’cause thou’st no more uniforms to alter.
LXIV.
Now, look at poor young Lome—his face averring
That, though a royal princess he has got,
He’s neither fish, nor joint, nor good red-herring,
Thanks to the special nature of his lot ;
Snubbed by the Court : the world beneath inferring
He’s now no part in it—he p’rhaps is not
So happy as he might be, and may rue
He ever played so very high for “ Loo.” •
LXVII.
What worships rank, and makes a god of gold ?
What turns fair women into painted frights ?
What tempts to vice and villainy untold ?
And claims frorii all of us its devilish rites ?
What prompts ambition, base and uncontrolled ?
What never on the side of mercy fights ?
What causes sin in horrible variety ?—
Mostly, the demon that we call Society.
LXVIII.
’Tis in obedience to its unwrit laws
We bow beneath the iron yoke of Fashion ;
In its stern edicts see the primal cause
Why we as sin treat every healthy passion—
Why we a daughter sell, without a pause,
As though she were a Georgian or Circassian—
Yet shudder when we meet a painted harlot,
And say, “ Thank God 1 ” that she is not our
Charlotte.
LX IX.
And what is Charlotte, then, in Heaven’s name ?
She did not love the fellow that she married ;
But he some hundred thousand pounds could claim,
And such a weapon could not well be parried.
*
* Although, be it observed, the weapon in question was
undoubtedly “blunt.”
�24
JON DUAN.
She sold herself for life.—Is’t not the same
As though the sale but brief possession carried ?
We think it worse—though Mother Church has
prayed
The sordid union may be fruitful made.
LXX.
And yet Society makes much of Charlotte,
And takes her to its bosom with delight,
Receives effusively the life-long harlot—But curses her who sins but for a night,
Expels her from its midst—her sins are scarlet,
And ne’er can be atoned for in its sight.
Thus serves two ends—the Social Evil nourishing,
And keeping the Divorce Court cause-list flourish
ing.
LXXI.
But it is vain of us to run a-tilt
Against Society with bitter verses,
Its fabric is by far too firmly built
To yield to them ; it only yields to purses.
We will not longer linger on its guilt,
Save to bestow upon it final curses,
And in the name of all that’s pure and holy,
Denounce it and its sinful doings wholly !
LXXII.
In Beauty’s name denounce it;—though but twenty,
She’d learn’d some of its lessons from her mother;
She’d learn’d to feign the dolce far niente,
And how her appetite to check and smother;
She’d learned to lace too tight—to use a plenty
Of toilet adjuncts : rouge, and many another
Such weighty preparation.—Gott in Himmel!
He’s much to answer for, has Monsieur Rimmel.
LXXIH.
She’d learn’d to flirt, and calmly to cast off
The man she’d loved, when he his money lost;
She had a lisp and an affected cough,
And valued things according to their cost.
She’d practised, too, the usual sneer and scoff,
And could not bear her slightest wishes cross’d •
In fact, although out of her teens but lately,
She had advanced in worldly knowledge greatly,
LXXIV.
Still, as we’ve said, ’twas her first drawing-room.
She’d been in mobs before at “drums” and dances,
But ne’er before this had it been her doom
To mix in such a mob as that which chances
*
�JON DUAN.
When Queen Victoria comes out from her gloom,
And, following out one of her widowed fancies,
Won’t hold receptions where there’s space to
spare,
But at St. James’s has a crush and scare.
LXXV.
’Twas well she had Jon Duan at her side
To whisper in her ear and make her brave;
“Now, go!” he said, when Beauty’s name was
cried;
And Beauty did go then, and by a shave
Just managed not to fall down, as she tried
To show the Queen she knew how to behave,
By walking backwards, when she’d courtesied low,
And had out at a distant door to go.
LXXVI.
Court etiquette of course must be maintained;
But, in the name of common sense and reason,
This “backwards” business long enough has
reigned ;
Such fooleries have long since had their season.
If subjects from such crab-like steps refrained,
Lese-majeste, wouldst call it, or high treason ?
Surely one can the Sovereign love and honour,
Although his back were sometimes turned upon
her.
LXXVII.
Poor Beauty had a very near escape,
For, as she from the presence retrograded,
A gouty General interposed his shape;
And had not watchful Duan once more aided,
His charge had fell into a pretty scrape.
As ’twas, the warrior’s steel her train invaded,
And, making in it quite a deep incision,
Writ ’mongst its folds much long and short division.
Lxxvni.
Still she escaped uninjured save in. dress,
And that was cause for some congratulation;
Though at that stage ’twas early to express
A sense of gratitude or exultation ;
For there was yet to come, we must confess,
The worst alarm, the greatest consternation.
To get in was a “caution ;” sans a doubt,
’Twas twenty times more trouble to get out!
25
LXXIX.
It was but quitting frying-pan for fire,
’Twas very “hot,” poor Beauty quickly found;
The crowd was worse; the temperature was higher;
And there were swords that hitched, and heels
that ground;—Patrician faces glared with anger dire,
Patricians strove like porkers in a pound ;
And many plainly muttered observations
Sounded extremely like'to execrations.
LXXX.
Two hours they-pushed and pressed from pen to
pen,
And there was nothing there to drink or eat;
A biscuit and a glass of wine would, then,
Have fetched a price we scarcely dare repeat,—
For tender girls were faint; and lusty men
For very hunger scarce could keep their feet.
Meantime, the Sovereign serenely rests
Upon her chair, nor troubles ’bout her guests.
LXXXI.
Thus Duan thought“’Tis inconsiderate, very ;
Either hold drawing-rooms where there is space,
Or give the weary guests a glass of sherry,
When they’ve to struggle so from place to place;
The cost would not be so extraordinary—
The boon would priceless be in many a case;
For it is apt both strong and weak to ‘ flummox,’
To push for several hours on empty stomachs !”
LXXXII.
Beauty, for instance, had no breakfast eaten,
Excitement took away her appetite ;—
By one o’clock she felt she was dead-beaten :
But there was not a chance of sup or bite.
At four, resignedly, she took her seat on
A chair our hero found, and fainted quite ;
And then for twenty minutes she’d to stay
Before her mother’s carriage stopped the way.
LXXXIII.
And what a scene she left !—of fainting girls,
And gasping duchesses, and sinking dames;
Confusion everywhere the people whirls,
’Midst hasty shouts and calling out of names ;
�26
JON DUAN.
And all the ground is strewn with scraps and curls,
And shreds of stuff and beads which no one claims,
Whilst England’s highest-born, with might and
main,
Fight like a gallery crowd at Drury Lane.
LXXXIV.
The morn beheld them full of lusty life,
In radiant toilets decked and proudly gay:
Four hours of pushing toil and crushing strife,
And who so tattered and so limp as they?
N ow rents are everywhere and rags are rife—
Destruction has succeeded to display ;
And wondrous costumes, “built” by foreign artistes,
Are wreck’d and ruined like the Bonapartists !
LXXXV.
Sweet Mistress, why let such a scandal be,
When thy fond subjects flock to see thy face ?
Thou wilt now to its reformation see,
And act as doth become thy royal race ;
For all that read this will with us agree,
That such a state of things is a disgrace.
And if your Highness won’t believe our rhymes,
We just refer you to last July’s “ Times D
LXXXVI.
That night, when Beauty had devoured her dinner,
And her mamma had filled up all her creases—
For, truth to tell, that very ancient sinner
Had almost literally been pulled to pieces—
Jon Duan, looking p’rhaps a little thinner,
Sits down, when casual conversation ceases,
At the piano, and with anger rising,
Performed the following piece of improvising.
Qty -Haul nf SSHtjrafita.
i.
The Belgravians came down on the Queen in her
hold,
And their costumes were gleaming with purple
and gold,
And the sheen of their jewels was like stars on the
sea,
As their chariots roll’d proudly down Piccadill-ee.
¡QI
�27
JON DUAN.
2.
Like the leaves of Le Follet when summer is green,
That host in its glory at noontide was seen ;
Like the leaves of a toy-book all thumb-marked
and worn,
That host four hours later was tattered and torn.
3For the crush of the crowd, which was eager and
vast,
Had rumpled and ruin’d and‘wreck’d as it pass’d ;
And the eyes of the wearer wax’d angry in haste,
As a dress but once-worn was dragged out of waist.
4And there lay the feather and fan, side by side,
But no longer they nodded or waved in their pride ;
And there lay lace flounces, and ruching in slips,
And spur-torn material in plentiful strips.
5And there were odd gauntlets, and pieces of hair;
And fragments of back-combs, and slippers were
there ;
1 The well-known exclamation of the Spanish Ambassador
to Elizabeth’s Court—“ I have seen the head of the English
Church dancing!”-—may be remembered. To his notion
there was something strikingly incongruous in the grave and
lawful governess of the Church stepping it merrily with the
favourite gentlemen of the Court. What would that Spanish
Ambassador have exclaimed had he witnessed the scene
detailed in the next note ? What should we think now of
Elizabeth if she had danced with a stable-help?
And the gay were all silent; their mirth was all
hush’d ;
Whilst the dew-drops stood out on the brows of
the crush’d.
6.
And the dames of Belgravia were loud in their wail,
And the matrons of Mayfair all took up the tale ;
And they vow, as they hurry, unnerved, from the
scene,
That it’s no trifling matter to call on the Queen.
LXXXVII.
Soon after, seeing Beauty was so weary,
Jon Duan press’d her hand and said “ Good
bye ! ”
And, fancying that his room would be too dreary,
He bade a hansom to far Fulham hie.
Why he should go down there we leave a query,
Lest some who read these lines should say
“Fie ! fle !”
Though from this hint we cannot well refrain,
That p’rhaps he wished to go to “ court” again.
2 Her Majesty gave a ball at Balmoral, on Friday. In
the course of the evening Her Majesty danced for the first
time since the death of the Prince Consort. She danced
with Prince Albert Victor and Prince George, sons of the
Prince of Wales, and afterwards took part in a reel with
John Brown, her attendant, and Donald Stewart, game
keeper.— The Leeds Weekly News, Saturday, June 6th, 1874.
�28
JON DUAN.
Canto The Third.
i.
There stands, or once stood, for on several pleas,
It’s most unsafe to use the present tense
In speaking of these paper argosies
That pirate daily all a lounger’s pence ;
And have to labour against heavy seas,
And sail, most of them, in a fog as dense
As any that rasps London lungs quite raw—
Then, go to pieces on the rocks of law :
II.
So there stood once—we’ll say once on a time—
A time when newspapers were not a spec,”
Consisting in the offering for a dime
Of seven murders, one rape, ditto wreck,
Critiques on the Academy, sublime,
The last accouchement of the Princess Teck,
Fashionable scandals, exits and arrivals—
All latest, news—picked from the morning rivals—
ill.
There stood, then, but a few doors from the Strand,
A dingy mansion, such as is best fitted
To shrine that fourth estate, which rules the land—
That is to say, outrageously pock-pitted
And tumble-down, with proofs of devil’s hand
On every door, with windows grimed and gritted,
And so clothed in old broad-sheets that it stood
For almanack to all the neighbourhood.
IV.
The reader has a character to lose—
Or one to sell; and characters are cheap
In offices of newspapers that choose
To rather scandalise than let one sleep ;
And therefore all concerning them is news ;
And being curious, you long to peep
At places where they scarify Disraeli,
Or tell Lord Salisbury his conduct’s scaly.
V.
A crowd of ragamuffins in a court,
Who wait for papers, playing pitch and toss ;
Cabmen and loafers ready at retort,
And generally talking of a “ ’oss ” ;
�JON DUAN.
A dribbling stream who 11 flimsily ” report,
And feel Sir Roger a tremendous loss ;
Surely a peeler—sometimes an M.P. ;
This is the usual mise en scene you see.
VI.
Within the temple, order of the sternest
Prevails, supported by a well-drilled staff.
Woe to thee, compos., if a pipe thou burnest I
Woe to thee, reader, if thou dar’st to laugh !
Here everybody must appear in earnest ;
They’re all half theologians here, and half
Teetotallers; their aim is strict propriety—They’re read in families of Quivering piety.
VII.
Respectability, you Juggernaut,
You fetish insular and insolent,
You’re everywhere ! the nation’s neck you’ve
caught
In one big noose—a white cravat; you’ve sent
Pecksniff to Parliament, and’gainst us wrought
The worst of ills—on humbugs ever bent ;
But never did we deem you so infernal
As when you set up your own daily journal.
VIII.
There are so many Mrs. Grundys preaching
A blind obedience to your nods and firmans ;
There are so many Mr. Podsnaps teaching
Your gospel to the French and Turks and Ger
mans—
Who’re all Bohemian vagrants and want breech
ing—
The stage and pulpit echo with your sermons—
A thing they never did for Dr. Paley—
Surely you’re not obliged to print them daily !
29
x.
The sheet in question, then, is widely read,
Chiefly by cabmen—and it’s not elating,
For when they’ve got that pure prose in their head,
They always sixpence ask, at least, for waiting.
Its politics are liberal, too, ’tis said,
Which means they’re radical with silver plating ;
But all sorts write in it, Rad, Whig, or Tory,
With any coloured ink, buff, blue, or gory.
XI.
Mong writers, printers, clerks, and advertisers,
All in a hurry and as grave as J ob,
Moved by a noble rage to print the Kaiser’s
Last ukase half an hour before the Globe—
For that’s true journalism, though paid disguisers
Essay with pompous phrase the truth to robe;—
Among these, then, Jon Duan passed ; his pocket
Bulged with MSS. ’twould take an hour to docket.
XII.
He went towards the pigeon-hole to which
The needle’s eye of Scripture is a fool—
That’s a mere figure to rebuke the rich—
Here poor and wealthy find their welcome cool;—
Why, Saint Augustine might step from his niche,
And knock, and they’d not offer him a stool,
Unless he’d cry “No Popery,” or would make
A speech or two supporting Miss Jex Blake.
XIII.
There was another way, and that Jon Duan
By chance alone and innocently took.
One gets a civil letter written to one
By some famed author of a Bill or book—
If it’s a woman—she must be a blue ’un ;
They’ll print the missive forthwith, and will look
Thankfully on you ; one of their anxieties
Is to seem popular with notorieties.
IX.
But we must bow, for we must read ;—a want
That makes us more dyspeptic than our sires,
And also favours an increase of cant;
For though to highest thought a man aspires,
He can’t be always reading Hume and Kant,
Nor Swinburne, nor the rest of the high-flyers.
The fire divine fatigues—one takes to tapers,
That is to say, one reads the daily papers.
XIV.
Up went Jon Duan’s lucky name, and soon
With beating heart and pulse his card he followed.
Downstairs the steam-press hummed its drowsy
tune,
Clerks passed in corridors, and urchins hollo’d;
He heard naught, but walked on as in a swoon,
Fancying somefree and fearlesspresencehallowed
�3°
F'
y ON DUAN.
The creaking floors, the wall’s perspiring dun
blank—
Spirit of Wilkes, Swift, Junius, Jerrold, Fonblanque.
xv.
I see a smile come to the reader’s eyes,
Which view, of course, all things thro’ micro
scopes,
And read between the lines of leaders—lies ;
The reader, naturally, “ knows the ropes ”
In these press matters : we apologise ;
But faith, our hero’s sadly young, and hopes
Love’s not all lust nor Liberty an ogress—And thinks—the simpleton—the press means pro
gress.
XVI.
Forgive him. You may hear how he was punished;
How soon the warm, quick blood oozed cooler,
calmer;
How women laughed at him, and men admonished;
How he grew deaf unto the illusive charmer,—
Was never grieved, delighted, nor astonished,
Dined, slept, walked, flirted in a suit of armour—
In short, so perfect got, you scarce could hit on
A prettier portrait of the ideal Briton.
XVII.
But now we have left him innocent and blushing—
Remembering those manuscripts, before
A door whereon, awe-struck, he read the crushing,
August, and gorgeous title : Editor !
He cleared his throat, pulled down his cuffs, and
pushing
With timid touches that Plutonian door,
Which, opening promptly, swung back with a
slam,—
He saw the great chief—eating bread and jam !
XVIII.
Jon Duan brought a note from Castelar,
One from Caprera, one from bold Bazaine ;—So he was well received. These heroes are
Acquaintances of value, for they deign
Write numerous letters on the Carlist war,
Peace Congresses, Courts Martial; and it’s plain
Each one’s a puff for which he thanks them deeply—
Besides, they serve to fill the paper cheaply.
XIX.
After Jon Duan had been sagely pumped,
Concerning all he’d seen in his excursions,
He mustered up some confidence, and plumped
Into the theme of literary exertions.
He said: “I am, Sir, what you may call—stumped”—
(The chief sighed at neologists’ perversions)—
I’ve loved, loafed, danced, drank, gambled, and
played polo ;
I’d try at Journalism—tho’ they say it’s so low !
XX.
“ I want to write—above all to be printed ;'
The modern mania burns within my breast.
I’ve some experience, as I just now hinted,
Perhaps ’twould give my articles a zest.
Would, now, this sonnet----- ” Here his listener
squinted
At a broadsheet a boy presented. “ Pest!”
Exclaimed the Editor ; “ the sub’s wits wander,
Tell him to put in ‘ Latest from Santander !’”
XXI.
Then, blandly turning round: “You mentioned
Verses!
Young man, you’re in a very vicious path.
They are among an Editor’s chief curses.
I have now—pray don’t whisper it in Gath—
Three spinsters who have met with sore reverses,
Ten Tuppers, seven Swinburnes, very wroth,
All writing daily and requesting answers
Concerning all their madrigals and “ stanzers.”
’
XXII.
Of course, Jon Duan said he’d naught in common
With humble rhymsters, who essay to climb
Parnassus in list slippers. He’d seen human
Nature almost in every phase and clime ;
And didn’t sing thé usual song of Woman
In Alexandrines, elephants of rhyme ;
He’d read a specimen—and really grew so
Pressing, at last the bland chief bade him do so.
iKaiuinmifclIe ^ruMjnmnre.
Her dress is high, and there’s nothing within.
Polished in Clapham, its pale flowers’ pick,
She is just twenty-one and spruce as a pin,—
Her head is the only thing she has thick.
�3i
JON DUAN.
A meagre bosom, and shoulder, and mind,
A meagre mouth, that will never miss
The tender touch it will never find—
The passionate pulse of a lover’s kiss.
The eyes speak no language, much less a soul ;
The brows are faint, and the forehead is spare,
And low and empty. Then over the whole
That fool’s straw crown of submissive hair.
O, happy the man with wrought-iron nerves,
Who shall say of this tempting morsel, “Mine”—
O treasure in pottery and preserves—
O Hebe, careful of gooseberry wine !
Has it a heart ? oh, arise and appeal,
Lost sisters, that famine and cold destroyed ;
Will you prick to pity the hearts that feel
For Magdalen less than Aurora Floyd?
Has it a mind ? Come, arise and unfold,
Redeemer, the lives to be raised at last !
Is there room for thought in the brains that hold
Kitchen and nursery sufficiently vast ?
And yet she shall be a woman in fine ;
Some one will worship her thimble and fan,
Some one grow drunk on her gooseberry wine ;
And she’ll find a husband—perhaps a man.
For fate will be good and provide one—meek,
And long, and good, and foolish, and flat,
A curate—immaculate, sour and sleek,
A Pillar of Grace with a Blanched Cravat !
And duly the two will endow their kind
With the old Clapham growth as spruce as a pin ;
Meagre in bosom, and shoulder, and mind,
Her horrible virtue sanctifies sin.
Mademoiselle Prudhomme will hamper and stay
The world’s march onwards—will gossip and
dress,
And sew, and suckle, and dine, and pray :
“Madonna Grundy have pity or bless ;”—•
Mademoiselle Prudhomme will simper and slay
“ Strong Minds,” with her poor little anodyne
wit ;
And flatter herself as she’s dying one day,
She’s a heart—while the sawdust leaks out of it.
XXIII.
This was a little piece of lyric flattery ;
For anyone not quite a savage knows
Our Editor’s renowned for milk and watery
Elegies on the sweeter sex’s woes.
He thought their masters too much given to battery
With fire-irons, doubled fists,and hobnailed shoes,
Which don’t, he said, reform domestic Tartars;—
At home, ’tis said, he suffers for the martyrs.
XXIV.
He said Jon Duan’s principles were proper ;
' He liked the matter and he liked the name ;
And then abruptly he applied a stopper
To all the poet’s rising hopes of fame.
“The fact is, such things are not worth a copper.
Your young enthusiasm I don’t blame;
But really you don’t think—it is too funny !—
You don’t think that this kind of thing’s worth
money!
XXV.
“ No man writes poetry to-day, unless
He’s leisure, and some hundreds sure a year—
Ev’n then he’ll often find that going to press,
Mean’s going to Queer Street, E.C.; and when
there
He’ll find the Registrar no whit the less
Severe, because he’s only paid too dear
For writing verse—and not for acting prose—
At St. John’s Wood with Miss or Madame Chose.
XXVI.
“ The Press, sir, is the modern channel flowing
To Pactolus : compress into a column
Your finest thought, your dreams most grand and
glowing ;
Frequent good clubs ; grow staid, and stout, and
solemn;
And, with a little cringing and kotowing,
Your fortune’s made. I don’t want to extol ’em,
But we’ve a few bards of imagination—
They’re now reporting a Great Conflagration.
XXVII.
“ We may not want bays, laurels, crowns, and
mitres ;
We’d do without some J.P.s and policemen ;
We’d do without some lawyers and some fighters—
The fools who bully, and the knaves who fleece
men;
�JON DUAN.
32
But, sir, this Age must have its ready writers—
Not too profound, but aiming to release men,
By aid of half a dozen library shelves,
From that dread task of thinking for themselves.”
XXVIII.
Humility, that worst of all good qualities—
And Heaven knows there’s plenty bad enough!—
Is common, but Jon Duan wouldn’t call it his.
He knew his intellect was of the stuff
That makes men feel above such vain frivolities;
He rhymed, it’s true ; but he was also tough
In logic, versed in art, a studious reader,
So he sat down and wrote a social leader.
XXIX.
You know the social leader—it’s designed
To please the ladies o’er the morning toast.
We’ve written them ourselves sometimes, and find
Wrecks, royal visits, and divorces, most
Apt to enthrall the lovely creatures’ mind.
A breach of promise isn’t bad ; you coast
Round naughty subjects, show an inch of stocking,
Observing all the while : How very shocking !
XXX.
We know the bits to quote to show your learning,
And those to prove your feeling or your humour ;
Swift, Hook, Hood, Smith, or Jerrold; the discerning
Reader will add the rest; Pepys, Evelyn,
Hume, or
Bacon, La Rochefoucauld—they all bear churning
In frothy paragraphs ; and one or two more
Make up a hodge-podge which, served after warm
ing,
People not yet at Earlswood call quite charming.
XXXI.
I think Jon Duan tried his ’prentice hand
At something more or less to do with Beer
(What hasn’t in this free and thirsty land ?),
He lashed tremendously, he had no fear ;
On highly moral grounds he took his stand,
And vigorously, with biting jest and jeer,
Spoke out about the publicans’ last grievance,
To be assuaged by brewers at St. Stephen’s.
XXXII.
Thumb-Nail Sketches from The Acade
iy.
II Highly commendable,” the chief observed ;
And mildly glowed the austere spectacles ;
“ From those great principles I’ve never swerved.
But this will never do—our paper sells—
�ADVERTISEMENTS.
JCXV
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��JON DUAN.
33
Of muses, singing some old London rhyme ;
And then—and then we see the tribe of Levy
Entering their broughams with smug ostentation—
And, somehow, that arrests our inspiration.
(Of course I know your strictures are deserved)—■
Largely in cafés, taverns, and hotels ;
We have sent out poor Truth dress’d so succinctly,
She’s caught cold—that’s why she don’t speak
distinctly.”
XXXVIII.
XXXIII.
We drop back to the role of chronicler,
Following Jon Duan and his new-found,friend,
Maloy. That juvenile philosopher
Descanted freely on the aim and end
Of literature ; and glibly could refer
To several famous gentlemen who’ve penned
Verse, novels, essays, which we’ve all admired—
Not knowing how the authors were inspired.
Jon Duan, downcast and confused was standing,
Thinking he’d ne’er a leader read again,
His mind with notions new and strange expanding ;
When some one cried : “ Put in my news from
Spain.”
And bounding upstairs, bumped him on the landing,
A stranger, who’s—we may as well explain,
Mr. Maloy, a li special,” who makes free
To date from Irun, write in Bloomsbury.
xxxix.
Maloy was made to be an interviewer,
There was no Fleet Street curtain and no blind
He didn’t raise, and with some comments truer
Than tender, scarify the scribes behind.
Here rose a hiccough, there a hallelujah—
Not far from Shoe Lane once the two combined—
Here they declare the Ballot Act’s a sad law—
Here kid-glove Radicals haw-haw at Bradlaugh.
XXXIV.
There’s nothing like this odd kind of collision—
If one’s not seeking rhymes or lost one’s purse—
As introduction, it makes an incision
Into that Saxon cloak of pride we curse
But still will wear, through death, despair, division,
The Robe of Nessus, of Ovidian verse—
At least to-day it made Jon Duan enter
A friendship in which he soon found a Mentor.
XL.
xxxv.
Here, to the left, two-pennyworth of gall
Wars with two-pennyworth of gall and water,
One shrieking £‘ Yankee !” and the other “ Gaul!”
And threatening weekly libel suits and slaughter.
Flere lies poor Punch, a Taylor sews his pall,
While opposite there stands the brick and mortar
Palace of Truth, where, to instruct us, Stanley
Finds out the Nile, while Greenwood hunts at
Hanley.
Fleet Street, receive the writers’ salutation!
We never pass through tottering Temple Bar,
Without a feeling of profound elation
At the grand panorama stretched afar;
We take our hats off, and from Ludgate Station
See Genius coming, in triumphal car,
And with a flaming crest, and waving pinions,
Beating the boundaries of its own dominions.
XLI.
xxxvi.
Here’s the great factory where they puff the
Premier,
The Lords, the Bishops, Publicans and Princes ;
Only they’d make the soft-soap rather creamier,
Were it not that my Lord of Salisbury winces ;
Besides t’wards a new rival, rather dreamier,
Favour at times the Government evinces.
They sell though, still, from poppies of their growing,
The largest pennyworth of opium going.
We see the nation’s brain, its best lobe seething
In the strong throb and clamour of the road :
We see the legion of the teachers sheathing
Theirpensin monkish creed and Pecksniff’s code;
Tis here each high idea begins its breathing,
From here it takes its armed flight abroad —
To fall, a thunderbolt on thrones and steeples—
To fall, as manna, to the calling peoples.
XXXVII.
XLII.
Temple of Fame, all stained with dust and grime,
In air oft foul, in architecture heavy,
We freedom see and knowledge guard, sublime,
Thy low dark eaves ; and in thy courts a bevy
The best of chatterers is a scandal-monger ;
His pills are bitter, and he gilds a bit ;
And all men, though they smirk and say No, hunger
To have their famous neighbours’ windbags slit.
i
D
�aK
34
W' J
JON DUAN.
So laughed Jon Duan as Maloy grew stronger
In aphorisms—those stalactites of wit ;
And when they had dined en garçon at the
“ Mitre,”
Resolved he’d die, or be a well-known writer.
XLIII.
A writer—bravo ! The idea’s not new,
At least, it’s shared by all the Civil Service ;
The Bar, the Church, and in the Army, too,
It rages with the force of several scurvies ;
But, faith, the aim, with this unique reserve, is
As good as any British youths pursue—
It’s mostly, when a lad is fresh from school
A horse, champagne, Anonyma, or pool.
XLIV.
“ But what’s your special genius, talent, line—
Prose, verse,or ‘rhythmic Saxon,’ like dear Dixon ?
Wish you to scandalise, or mildly shine ?
Swinburne’s or Houghton’s, which renown d’you
fix on ?
Come, choose your mate among the tuneful Nine ;
There’s Tupper’s Twaddle, and Buchanan’s
Vixen ;
That Pale One, made O’Shaughnessy’s by mar
riage—
And Browning’s Blue, oft subject to miscarriage.
XLV.
“ There’s Bret Harte’s Yankee—though she does
say d----- n,
She’s quite the lady in her principles.
And what d’you say to Lockyer’s, a grande dame
Coiffée at moments à la cap and bells ?
There’s Tennyson’s would serve you like a lamb,
And teach you to ‘ring out wild bells,’ and knells,
Whene’er a German, corpulent and moral,
Expires, lies in, or marries, at Balmoral.
XLVI.
iC But maybe odder fancies make you moody—
Perhaps you’d write your novel, like your neigh
bours ;
Walk up—make your selection : There’s the goody,
The gamy, the idyllic, arduous labours
Which bring in millions—unto Mr. Mudie :
The military, full of oaths and sabres,
The hectic, allegoric, or the pastoral—
But only Jeafferson has time to master all.
�I
JON DUAN.
XLVII.
“ The eight vols. like George Eliot’s—there’s afield
Fresh, wide, and rich in fine food for the flail;
But pray wear spectacles ; it doesn’t yield
Unless you analyse each slug and snail;
And read theology in blocks congealed
From safes of Kant, Spinoza, Reid, and Bayle ;
Unless, too, you’ve a friend, and can wade through
his
Complete Edition of the Works of Lewes.
XLVIII.
“ I might suggest likewise those smaller spheres
Where several virgins, widows—even wives—•
But husbands hinder terribly, one hears—Are writing novels for their very lives.
Oh, if they’d do it in their uglier years—
. Ink’s a cosmetic when old age arrives ;
But no, the dears have scarce left pinafores,
.Before they’re knocking at Sam Tinsley’s doors.
XLIX.
“ And what astounding manuscripts they carry,
These innocents just fresh from Mangnall’s Ques
tions !
How very oddly all their heroines marry !
How very frequently the very best shuns
Her Lord and Master, for Tom, and Dick, and
Harry—•
Who’re always in the Guards, have good diges
tions,
Tawny moustaches, ‘ lean flanks ’ — charming
Satans,
Come up from Hell in kid gloves and mail
phaetons.
L.
“ Pardon, Miss Mulocch and Miss’Yonge—you’re
free
From any taint the moralist impure rates ;—
O, that your world were real, that we might be
All Lady Bountifuls and model curates,
Talking good grammar o’er eternal tea,
With one ambition—to reduce the'poor rates !
But fie ! Miss Braddon, Broughton, Ouida—you
Seduce us from the Band of Hope Review.
Li.
“Reade, Lawrance, Yates, and Holme Lee, Kings
ley, Grant,
Black the idyllic, Collins (Mortimer),
35
Collins, called Wilkie, Trollope, whom they vaunt
In proud Belgravia, and in Westminster;
Grave Farjeon, and E. Jenkins, who decant
The wine of Dickens in a cullender ;
And then there’s—but how dare you keep your hat
on ?■■—
That proud provincial Editor, Joe Hatton !
Lil.
passe et des meilleurs] ” Maloy concluded :
“ Fitzgerald, Oliphant, George Meredith,
Sell ; so perhaps they shouldn’t be excluded ;
Whyte Melville, Francillon, are men of pith ;
I also might have said that one or two did
Wonders to neutralize the brand of Smith;—■
But catalogues were ever an infliction—
E’en Homer’s ships—fai- lighter than our fiction.
LUI.
“ One’s born a woman ; one becomes a man.
Jon Duan, when you write, bear this in mind,
And interest the ladies if you can ;
For all the wide world over, womankind
Loves the same books ; male readers pry and
scan ;
Boys, young men, fogies, different authors find—
But schoolgirl, grandmamma, French, German'
Briton—
Show me the woman who don’t dote on Lytton.
LIV.
“But he’s their classic. You, the modern, must
Select your heroes and your heroines
From their own drawing-rooms, and then adjust
Your dolls in patch works made of all the sins ; •
Be roué, and disclose a bit of bust,
Raise Dolly Vardens o’er somç shapely shins ;
Suggest, but don’t be crude ; and don’t say Vice—
But hint your villain’s conduct isn’t nice.
LV.
“ And then, slang, croquet, champagne, clubs, and
horses ;
Plump painted c persons,’ who will bear the blame
For all misguided heroes’ evil courses;
Bad French, when sloven English is too tame ;
Danseuses and Guardsmen, Duchesses, divorces—
Mix up and spice—the elixir this, of fame
Of modern Balzacs-—of this pure and mighty
Age, that’s produced two publishers for ‘ Clytie.’ ”
�JON DUAN.
36
LVI.
Here poor Jon Duan rose and paid the bill.
“ But you must choose your set as well as style,”
Pursued Maloy, who, though not meaning ill,
Was apt to make his inch of talk a mile.
“ There is a spectacle hard by that will
Make plain my meaning in a little while.”
A few steps brought them to a—well, a “pub”—
(Rhyme’s a great leveller), and a liter’ry club.
LVII.
It is the Great Club of the Disappointed
And bald Bohemian mediocrities,
Who think the century is all disjointed,
Because they can’t direct it as they please ;
And so they choose to make their own Anointed,
Regardless of the outer world’s decrees ;
No matter how their idols it excoriates,
Here they’re all statesmen, M.P.s, R.A.s, Laureates.
LXI.
I want an Invocation, for the theme
Is one of that sublime and solemn kind
That ought to be approached with half a ream
Of “ Ohs ” addressed to deities, designed
To give us time to invent and get up steam,
And tune our fiddles ere we raise the blind—■
Also to make the publisher advance a
Pound or two more ’cause of the extra stanza.
LXII.
But really I find nothing to invoke.
Before the Great Apollo Club, the Muses
Shrink back, and blushes clothe them as a cloak ;
Venus, Diana, Jupiter refuses.
Priapus might do, but much finer folk
Retain his services ; one picks and chooses—
But, faith, the naughtiest gods in Lempriere,
Are quite surpassed in Hanoveria Square.
LVIII.
There’s Hack, their novelist; George Eliot quakes
When one of his Scotch pastorals appears ;
And Mr. Browning, too, ’tis said, “ sees snakes,”
When Carver, their own poet, drops the shears,
(The bard’s Sub-Editor—fate makes mistakes),
And in a magazine sheds lyric tears ;
Their Bowman, too, a wondrous name has got,
Though it does not appear what he has shot.
LIX.
They’ve publishers who print railway reports,
And so, of course, are guides to literature ;
They’ve journalists who do the County Courts,
And know the Times’ great guns, and tell you
who’re
The authors of the “ Coming K----- ”; all sorts
Of Lilliputians, empty and obscure,
Swell out here twice a week, and, lulled by shag,
Dream that they’re citizens of Brobdingnag.
LX.
“ That’s old Bohemia,” said Jon Duan’s guide,’
“ Impotent, gouty, full of age and spite ;
Let’s leave them o’er their whisky to decide
Browning’s a bubble, Morris is a mite,
And only Ashby Sterry opens wide
A window on the starry infinite.
Come westward — there’s Bohemia, young and
sunny,
With no gray hairs—and generally no money.”
LXIII.
So let the chaste Apollo Club be seen
Without vain dallying at the modest door;
Follow Jon Duan and Maloy between
Two rows of hats, and pictures, which all bore
The impress of free minds that scorned to screen
The beauties Nature meant us to adore :
Here they’d corrupt, such thin toilettes enwrap
’em,
The seminaries most select in Clapham.
LXIV.
Upstairs, a lively circle is fulfilling
The promise of the pictures—that’s to say,
Divesting truth of all the flounce and frilling,
That so disguise her in the present day;
And in our “ cleanly^ English tongue” * instilling
The subtle piquancy of Rabelais ;
They don’t mince words here—if they did they’d
hurry
To put in spice, and make the mincemeat—curry.
LXV.
Champagne and seltzer corks are popping gaily ;
It’s two o’clock ; the night has just begun ;
In pour the critics from the theatres, palely,
Suffering from Byron s or Burnand’s last pun.
* An idiom of the Daily Telegraph.
«
�JON DUAN.
Here comes Fred Bates, who dines with Viscounts
daily,
And hatches “high life” novels by the ton ;
Here’s the sleek Jew band leader, Knight — and
then,
One “ Gentleman who writes for Gentlemen.”
LXVI.
Smoke, and a rivulet of seltz. and brandy ;
A buzz of talk that oft becomes a roar ;
Impassive waiters setting glasses handy;
On settees, arm-chairs, lounging, some three
score
Tenors and poets, dramatists and dandy
Diplomatists and dilettanti ; four
Painters who’ve coloured nothing but a pipe,
Because the Royal Academy’s not ripe
LXVII.
For philosophic realism ; a common
Creature or two, who neither wrote nor drew,
And whom, therefore, the Club expects to summon
Up fierce enthusiasm for the men who do—
Clerks from the War Office, who love to strum on
Their red-tape lyres, and think they’re poets too ;
A Communist freed from Versailles inquisitors—
They make a point of showing him to visitors.
LXVIII.
There’s a broad line fire of buffoonery,
There are the single cracks of paradox;
Here, splutters from the whip of Irony ;
And cynicism’s icy ooze that mocks
■One moment, the last moment’s deity :—
An intellectual Babel, that oft shocks
At first the pious stranger, and confuses—
That’s how most of us cultivate the Muses.
LXIX.
Jon Duan promptly made himself at home.
He’d just such erudition as they prize
At the Apollo Club : he’d read Brantome,
Faublas, and Casanova—which supplies
A man with many anecdotes and some
Vices ; but here it served to make him rise
In favour with his friends, who won’t deny
Their library is very like a sty.
37
LXX.
As dawn approached, the conversation grew
More lyrical: they passed the loving cup ;
They felt all men were brothers—which is true—
All Cains and Abels ; and, like men who sup
In the small hours, they felt old songs steal through
The vapours of the wine, and struggle up
Unto the lips. So, finding they grew dreamy, a
Poet trolled this Carol of Bohemia.
S (¡Carol of Baljentta.
1.
Bohemians ! this our trade and rank, we drift
without an anchor,
All idle ’prentices who’ve broke Society’s inden
ture ;
Gil Blas, whose lives are voyages to some hazy
Salamanca;—
We’ll pit against your L. S. D. our motto : Per
adventure.
2.
The hostelries upon our way keep open house and
table;
And if e’en at the first relay, we find the money
short,
With muleteers of old romance we sup in barn or
stable,
And if the bread is black, the wine but vinegar
—qu? importe!
3Qu' importe the chasm and precipice, qu' importe
too, death and danger 1
We take the truant’s path in life, and there one
never slips.
If all the men we meet are foes, there’s not a girl a
stranger,
When one has Murger in the heart, and Musset
on the lips !
4O, green ways trodden hand in hand ! O sweet
things that mean nothing !
And Raphael’s fair sister, who makes vagrant
hearts beat louder.
Ah, for the golden spring of life! Ah, for the
autumn loathing !—
Raphael robs the traveller, Madonna’s plumes
are powder.
�JON DUAN.
38
5And russet comes upon the green ; we see the
roses’ canker ;
Lorenza’s little hands I hold have trenchant tips
and scar mine,
Gil Blas grows fat and falls asleep, half-way to
Salamanca ;
And Laura’s kisses are so sweet—they make
one’s moustache carmine !
LXXI.
As the last echoes into stillness sunk,
Jon Duan rose and bade adieu to Babel;
He’d seen and heard enough ; his ideal shrunk
Within him, and he felt his gods unstable ;
He left a famous poet very drunk,
Reciting bits from Pindar, on the table ;
And others, dry as wither’d leaves in Arden,
To finish up the night at Covent Garden.
LXXII.
These are the ordeals through which greenhorns
pass
Before they’re fit to form public opinion,
Or in romance to hold up a clear glass
To modern men and manners ; their dominion
Is reached by by-ways tortuous and crass,
Wherein one’s pure ambition moults its pinion,
And changes so in heart and aim and soul—
What was an eagle dwindles to poor poll.
LXXIII.
They set forth with their poems in their wallet,
And nothing much to speak of in their purse,
Thinking they’re going to wield Thor’s mighty
mallet,
And all the bubbles of the age disperse ;
Proud of their Mission, as the poor lads call it—
To mend the world in philosophic verse,
To speak out boldly, giving stout all-rounders,
From Vested Interests unto Pious Founders ;
LXXIV.
To laugh to scorn our wars of sacristies,
That set us flying at each other’s throats,
Because some curates like gay draperies,
Or rather higher collars to their coats :—
And then they bandy talk of11 heresies ”—
That’s what the beams denominate the motes,—
Set doctors arguing and lawyers fighting—
And, one good thing, set Mr. Gladstone writing ;
LXXV.
To tilt against—but who shall give the list
Of all the wrongs and ills that want redressing
In this sweet isle, where, if a sore exist,
Fourscore-year bishops say it’s a great blessing?
Who’ll count the reefs and rocks seen through the
mist,
Through which Pangloss, M.P., says we’re progressing ?
Who’ll count our paupers, plutocrats—none can
aver—
And oh! who’ll count the Royal House of Hanover?
LXXVI.
One thought that one could do it all, elated
With young dreams, when life’s morning star
its best shone;
Political economy we rated
Merely the art of sidling round the question :—
St. Giles’s hunger isn’t compensated
Or cured by Lord St. James’s indigestion :
And then we found blank looks on either hand—
St. Giles can’t read—St. James can’t understand.
LXXYII.
And all our wings fell from us, and we stumbled,
Crawled crablike, sneaked, and sidled with the
best;
iExalted Toole, Vance, H.R.H.S,—humbled
Your Arch’s, Bradlaughs, Odgers, and the rest;
We hung on to Fame’s chariot as it rumbled
Down Fleet Street—and from that day, were well
dressed,
And had a cheque-book—knew a peer who pities
Us scribes, and sat on several Club Committees.
LXXVIII.
An old, old tale : a lucky hero ours,
To have it all made plain before he started
On that road, which seems carpeted with flowers
To amateurs who’re young and simple hearted ;
He grieved at first, and, for a few brief hours,’
His eyes, because the scales had dropp’d off,
smarted;
But soon he hardened into crying, Bosh !—
Couleur da res#—that colour doesn’t wash !
LXXIX.
And he went in for all the browns and grays
Of stern reality, for perfect prose
�JON DUAN.
I;
I
In life, in literature, in aims, and ways:
He came to know the fact that no man goes
To market with an ingot: bread or bays,
Small change will buy the best that’s baked or
grows.
He sent his grand old idols to the mint—
And rich and godless, soon prepared to print
LXXX.
L
‘J
You’ve seen his progress in the magazines,
Reviews and Quarterlies ; his course is planned
After the best authorities, on means
Whereby to keep one’s name before the land :
To start with, his identity he screens,
Forthwith, a weekly says : “We understand
The paper in this month’s ‘True Blue,’ which
no one
Failed to remark, is written by Jon Duan.”
I
Or ere the paper’s printed : “ We’re informed
The 1 Unicorn’ for next month will contain
An essay by Jon Duan.” Thus he charmed
The public with reiterative strain,
Till simple outsiders grew quite alarmed
At the prodigious business of his brain ;
And he grew known so, he’d a near escape
From having his fine features limned by “Ape.”
1
LXXXI.
39
LXXXIV.
No bribes ! Thank Heaven, the English press is
pure •—
A model for all Europe, and a score tall
Yankees ! but sometimes salaries aren’t secure ;—
And sometimes even journalists are mortal;
Therefore a little dinner-card, when you’re
In want of praise, will open many a portal;—
I’d name.—if libel cases weren’t so brisk—
A dozen laurel wreaths that sprung from bisque.
'
LXXXV.
Laurels Jon Duan got, or substitutes
For what they called wreaths eighty years ago :
Success in our days yields more solid fruits
Than figurative chaplets—fruits that grow
Too quickly, maybe, and from rotten roots,
But still afford a pleasant meal or so.
And after all, to make a crop secure,
Don’t the best cultivators use manure ?
LXXXVI.
We don’t say that Jon Duan did ; he merely
Knew his age well, and catered for its taste.
It loves the portrait of its vices dearly,
Provided certain angles are effaced,
And certain details not described too clearly—
A photograph half libertine, half chaste,
That matrons smile at, and girls in their teens
Say prettily they can’t see what it means.
i
•
i
i
;
LXXXVII.
That is our “ social, psychologic ” fiction,
In which Grub Street takes vengeance car Bel
gravia,
Denouncing all its sins with feigned affliction
At having to describe the bad behaviour
Of titled folks—for there’s an interdiction
On vulgar crimes; we treat those that are caviar
Unto the general—pigeon-shooting, gaming,
Genteel polygamy—all won’t bear naming.
LXXXVIII.
LXXXII.
And to their country cousins Cockneys said :
“ Pray notice! look! he’s passing! that is he!
That noble presence—that inspired head—
Lit by the dawn of young celebrity—•
That is Jon Duan, following up the thread
Of his new serial for the 1 Busy Bee,’
Or gleaning bits of realism in the gutter,
That’s what makes his romance go down like
butter.”
And this Jon Duan painted to the life.
Ne’er was a better writer to portray
Thoroughbreds, cocottes, and post-nuptial strife,
And scenery in a pretty Mignard way;
To show how one makes love to a friend’s wife,
Or leads a virgin’s timid steps astray,—
*
j
i
.
;
i
|
�40
JON DUAN.
How to transgress the Ten Commandments daily,
Wear good coats well—and not end at the Old
Bailey.
LXXXIX.
He also touched on politics, and wrote
The usual anonymous report,
From Cloudland allegorical; we dote
On pamphlets of the Prince Florestan sort,
Putting them down to ten M.P.s of note,
F or lively satire is our statesmen’s forte.
Talk of the daily press, Mill, Grote—oh, fiddle !
The best loved flower of literature’s a riddle.
xc.
Reviews, translations, travels, essays, stories,
Liberal programmes, letters to the Times—
The record of his exploits would crack Glory’s
Trumpet, unused to praise this kind of crimes;
Each week the acid Athenaeum bore his
Name in some column, linked to prose or rhymes,
Which being largely advertised and often,
Made the most stony critic’s bosom soften.
xci.
N o evanescent Period was founded,
Or foundered, but he had his finger in it;
No Mirror crack’d, no Junius fell down dead,
No Torch illumed the country for a minute,
But in their columns his MS. abounded;
Eclecticism was his prevailing sin, it
Led him to promise prose to that transcendent
Modern press joke : The Daily Independent !
XCII.
That crowns a man’s career ; no further goes
The force of sane ambition. For the rest,
He’d all the wealth of privilege one owes
To having frequently in print express’d
Old thoughts about some older joys and woes '
He had his stalls for nothing, and the best
Place on first nights—a manager’s civility,
Which is the author’s patent of nobility.
XCIII.
He had the run of philosophic bars,
Where literature’s professors congregate,
With haply, some clean-shaven tragic stars,
And a few faithful servants of the State,
Who make enough to pay for their cigars,
By writing critiques for the press—a fate
So few sane men in our days seem
to
*
covet—
Thank God ! the Civil Service ain’t above it.
�JON DUAN.
XCIV.
The damsels who deign serve you with your beer
Are deeply versed in literature and art;
And oh! the things those virgins see and hear
Would rather make the goddess Grundy start.
It’s not improving always to sit near
Authors, who, if they don’t attack your heart,—
For they can’t touch it, though they’ve won some
laurels—
Do play the very devil with your morals.
xcv.
Wide as they range, a flavour of sour ink
Goes with them, from the City to the Strand,
And thence to Panton Street. Just watch them pink
A reputation with a master-hand ;
List to them squabbling, and observe them drink—
And then reflect, to-morrow all the land
Will only know which way the world’s inclining,
By what they all have put into their “ lining,”
XCVI.
Leave them. The Muse, poor jade, has had her fill
Of copy and of copy writers. Satis,
Even Jon Duan, though he’s prosperous, still
Cries now and then, when he sees what his fate
is—
To grind for ever in the same old mill
The same old thoughts, for evermore to mate his
Dreams with the need of publishers and editors—
Because the Ideal won’t appease one’s creditors.
XCVII.
Leave them, and leave Jon Duan for awhile,
One of their band, a brother—till one sees
A way that’s safe to say his prose is vile,
And his successes only plagiaries;
4i
You’ll meet them all to-morrow and you’ll smile
At their old jokes, weep o’er their elegies,
Admire them all in copy which encumbers
The New Year Annuals and the Christmas Numbers.
XCVIII.
We’ve seen Jon Duan through Grub Street, safe and
sound—
The passage isn’t always so secure :
Footpads are plenty, publishers abound—
Things which don’t tend to keep a young man
pure.
We’ve seen him fêted, published, bought and
crowned,
And shown at all Smith’s bookstalls : now he’s
sure
Of immortality—and, such is fame-—
Forty years hence, e’en Timbs won’t know his name.
XCIX.
’Tis the best way to leave a hero—great,
The friend of critics, prosperous and fat ;
Keeping his brougham, asked to civic fêtes,
And noble poets’ garden parties.—That
Is not invariably an author’s fate,
But we want an exception, for thereat
The amateurs take fire, write verse by scores—
And that’s the way to punish editors.
C.
And so he’s reached the glorious apogee ;
And success has no history ;—like Peace,
He’s at an altitude whereunto we
Can’t follow, for our wings are fixed with grease,
And in the sun’s red rays shake wofully :
But this will prove he’s found the golden fleece :
We leave him, with a set, refined and manly,
Talking of Gladstone’s pamphlet with Dean Stanley.
�42
JON DUAN.
Canto The Fourth.
i.
||||T‘ PAUL once had apartments with a
The street, you may remember, was called
Straight,—
But whether Peter lodged in such a manner,
The pens of the Apostles don’t relate:
We know he’d several blots upon his banner,
And that he now keeps guard at Heaven’s gate:
But as to what his social habits were,
The details we can find are very rare.
II.
Though we are bound our full belief to give
To that sad business about the Cock;
And though that other incident will live—
When he gave Ma'lchus such a sudden shock.—
Our information’s mostly negative
’Bout this Barjona, who was christened “Rock”;
Yet we’re inclined to think Pierre a hearty,
Hot-temper’d, bold, and fearless sort of party.
III.
He readily gave up his little all—
The fishing business p’rhaps was slow just then—
And, feeling he for preaching had a call,
He went forthwith to fish for souls of men.
The thought of leaving home did not appal,
.And that he gladly went’s no wonder, when,
Alike from Matthew, Mark, and Luke, we find
He must have left a mother-in-law behind!
IV.
However, let St. Peter have his due,
He was a faithful follower, on the whole;
Human, of course—so, equally, are you —
But he’d a loving and an ardent soul,
Which, after persecutions not a few,
Bore him in triumph to a martyr’s goal;
And left behind him an undying fame,
Heirship to which Rome’s Pope advances claim.
V.
Poor Peter ! It is monstrously unfair
That such a Church should take his name in
vain;
To say that he first filled the Papal chair
Must surely give him much post mortem pain.
�JON DUAN.
For not his worst detractor could declare
He e’er did aught the name of Pope to gain.
The lives of few of them will bear inspection;
For lust and blood most had a predilection.
VI.
And Peter’s free from that; he did not fill
His life with villainies the pen can’t write;
His name is not mixed up with crimes that chill;
With sins incestuous that the soul affright;
He did not torture, persecute, and kill,
And make his influence a cursing blight;—
When sinning most, he still might have the hope
He’d never sinned enough to be a Pope!
VII.
He ne’er his helpless fellow-creatures robbed,
To live in sensuality and ease;
He never schemed, and lied, and planned, and
jobbed,
In Heaven’s name, his mistresses to please;
His steps were not with guilty favourites mobbed,
He did not use the Church’s holy keys
The door to damned and devilish sins to ope,—
In short, St. Peter never was a Pope !
VIII.
He had no gold nor houses, tithes nor land,
He had no pictures, and no jewels nor plate;
He never bore a crozier in his hand,
He never put a mitre on his pate;
He simply followed Jesus Christ’s command,
Which so-called Christians have not done of
late;—
Oh! we would raise Hosannahs in our metre,
If pioús people were more like St. Peter.
IX.
We will not talk of Rome ; its annals black
Our pages would too deeply, darkly soil;
Upon the Vatican we’ll turn our back,
Lest indignation should too fiercely boil ;
Its fiendish crimes have reached a depth, alack !
T’wards which our feeble pen would vainly toil :
We will not dabble in the dirt of Rome,
We have enough to do to look at home.
x.
Each sect of Christians in numbers grows,
Who with the nomination are suffic’d;
43
Who are to what their Founder taught, fierce
foes,
Boasting a bastard creed, with errors spiced.
The Christians of the present day are those
Whose words and actions savour least of Christ,
And reckon but of very little count
The precepts of the Sermon on the Mount !
XI.
The English Church our serious thought bespeaks—
We write as friend to it, and not as foeman;
We write to save it from the trait’rous sneaks
Who, English-named, at heart are wholly Roman;
We write, unfettered, with a pen that seeks
Fair field from all, favour undue from no man ;
We write because a thousand blots besmear
Th’ escutcheon of the Church we hold so dear.
XII.
Blots of all kinds and colours, sorts and sizes—
Blots Evangelical and Ritualistic ;
Blots so pronounced that indignation rises ;
Blots hidden carefully in language mystic ;
Blots publicly exhibited as prizes ;
Blots to all usefulness antagonistic—
Blots so diffuse, in fact, that without doubt
They threaten soon to blot the Church right out.
XIII.
Our hero knew that some such blots existed,
For he’d an uncle who’d been Bishop made;
The reason being that he for years persisted
In giving to the Tory party aid.
Though how it was such services could be twisted
To show a fitness for the Bishop grade,
We’ve tried to find out, but we’ve tried in vain—
Perhaps Lord Shaftesbury could this explain.
XIV.
Jon’s Bishop-uncle was a portly man,
With well-filled waistcoat, and a port-wine nose;
Who, since to be a vicar he began,
Had never seen his watch-seals or his toes ;
Who, knowing life to be at best a span,
Resolved to eat good dinners to its close ;
And giving thanks each day to God the giver,
O’erfed himself, and took those pills called liver.
�44
JON DUAN.
XV.
It did not seem, save as an awful warning,
He thought of the directions Christ had given ;
His Purse was large; he search’d the Times each
morning,
That he might see how well his Scrip had thriven
Was far from bed-accommodation scorning,
And never walked it, when he could be driven.
And if the meek in heart alone are bless’d,
He must for cursing long have been assessed.
XVI.
He hunger’d and he thirsted, it is true—
But not for Righteousness—it is most clear.
He mourn’d—but that was merely ’cause he knew
A neighbouring Bishop had more pounds a year;
He laid up earthly treasures not a few,
But of the moth and rust he had no fear;
And whilst of meat and drink he took much
thought,
Consider’d not the lilies as he ought.
XVII.
In sooth, Jon Duan could not find a trait
In which the Bishop followed the Great Master;
. His diocese brought ^15 a day,
And he contriv’d to make a fortune faster
Than money-changers, for he’d a’cute way
Of speculating that ne’er met disaster ;—■
And as his will proved, later, it is gammon
To think one cannot worship God and Mammon.
XVIII.
Of course he something did his pay to earn:
He wrote a bitter book against Dissent ;
And once a year, in May, his soul would burn,
Because the Hindoo had no Testament ;
And to the House of Lords his feet would turn,
If by his aid reforms he could prevent :
And he’d some trouble, too, in duly giving
To all his reverend relatives a living !
XIX.
He has in Ember * weeks to lay his hands
Upon the candidates for ordination ;
In his be-puffed lawn sleeves, and linen bands,
He ’mongst the ladies makes no small sensation ;
* It is not singular perhaps that Ember week is prolific in
“ sticks."
�JON DUAN.
And periodically his lordship stands
To consummate the rite of confirmation,
Which, being an Epicure, he finds not easy,
For as a rule the children’s heads are greasy.
45
Our 36fi£f)rrp)5'.
Meantime, whilst this good man in wealth is rolling,
His slaving curates scarce get bread to eat;
As he his soul with choice old wine’s consoling
(Fit follower of the Apostles’ feet !),
They, as their wretched stipend they are doling
(The Bishop in three months spends more in
meat),
Must recollect, although it seems odd, rather,
That he, in God, is their Right Reverend Father.
1.
Who follow Christ with humble feet,
And rarely have enough to eat,
Who “ Misereres ” oft repeat ?—Our Bishops.
2.
Who, like the fishermen of old,
Care not for house, nor lands, nor gold,
But boldly brave the damp and cold ?—Our Bishops.
3Who preach the gospel to the poor,
And nurse the sick, and teach the boor —
Who faithful to the end endure ?—
Our Bishops.
4Who give up all for Jesus’ sake,
And no thought for the morrow take,
But daily sacrifices make ?—
Our Bishops.
5And who count everything a loss
Except their Lord and Master’s cross,
And reckon riches as but dross ?—
Our Bishops.
xx.
And shame to say, this pillar of the Church
Is the severest landlord in the county ;
Woe to the tenant, who, left in the lurch,
Is not quite ready with the right amount; he
Gets no mercy, for the strictest search
Reveals no instance of this Bishop’s bounty—
Bounty, indeed, ne’er enters in his plans,
Except it is that Bounty called Queen Anne’s !
XXI.
XXII.
XXIV.
How very strange it is that Mr. Miall
Won’t let a state of things like this alone !
For him to say the Church is on its trial
Is but mere foolery, we all must own ;
The Bench of Bishops cannot fail to smile,—The Church they grace is steadfast as the
♦
throne,—•
“ Ged rid of us indeed, what nonsense ! Zounds 1
We cost each year two hundred thousand pounds !w
Thus Duan sings as he one night is dining
With his good Bishop-uncle tête à tête ;
What time the prelate’s nose is redly shining,
And brightly gleams his bald and polished pate.
He does not speak, they had some time been
wining,
Yet on his face is satisfaction great ;
And when his nephew the decanter passes,
They toast the Bench of Bishops in full glasses.
XXIII.
Let’s leave the reverend Epicure to fuddle,
Of many bishop-types he is but one ;
And who can wonder at the Church’s muddle,
When half a dozen ways its leaders run ?
When some are smeared with Babylonish ruddle,
And some are steeped in Evangelic dun;
When Broad and High Church meet in battle
shocks,
And Low Church pelts the pair of them with
Rocks.
xxv.
The Bishops ! What a volume in a word !
Our hearts beat quicker at the very sound ;
Get rid of them, indeed !—it’s too absurd.
Shame on the men who such a scheme pro
pound!
Oh ! can it be that they have never heard
How in good works the Bishops all abound ?
Let Science, Art, and Learning pass away,
But leave us Bishops to crown Coming K----- .
�JON DUAN.
XXVI.
Meantime, whilst High and Narrow, Low and
Broad,
And Deep (the Deep are those who get the prizes)
All fight together, for the praise of God,
The thought in some few people’s minds arises,
Why any longer they the land defraud,
And common-sense most certainly advises
That if their zeal for fighting’s so intense,
They ought to combat at their own expense.
XXVII.
For who takes interest in their petty quarrels ?
Who cares for what they wear or how they stan
Let the big babies have their bells and corals,
And play the fool ; but men the right demand
To say these “posers ” shall not teach us morals,
Nor be upheld by law throughout the land.
,
’Tis time, indeed, the Church to roughly handle,
And stop what has become a crying scandal.
XXVIII.
When Christian Bishops do but bark and bite
In silly speeches and in unread books ;
When shepherds leave their flocks in sorry plight,
And lay about them with their pastoral crooks ;
When Congress breaks up in a smart, free fight,
The state of things delay no longer brooks,
But every day makes the impression stronger—
We should support the Church’s wars no longer.
XXIX.
Nor must we in our midst still go on breeding
A set of priests both pestilent and prying;
Who, on our daughters’ superstition feeding,
The strongest bonds of home-love are untying;
At whose attacks morality is bleeding,
And Englishwomen’s honour lies a-dying—
Who are reviving, with zeal retrogressional,
The grievous scandals of the old confessional.
XXX.
&
These fellows are the worst;—not half so bad
The Calvinists who say we must be damned,
Nor those who go at times revival mad,
And glory in conversions that are shamm’d ;
Nor those who, Spurgeon apeing, think to add
To their renown by getting churches cramm’d,
Nor think how much they let religion down
By posturing weekly as a pulpit clown.
nwaiwwnitffic-i;
�JON DUAN.
XXXI.
A truce, though—we are getting very prosy,
And quite forgetting our long-suffering hero. .
For the long sermon to atone, suppose he
Appear at once and dance a gay bolero,
Or sing a ditty, amorous and rosy,
To bring our readers’ spirits up from zero—
Or stay, what’s better still, let us prevail
On him to tell a Ritualistic tale.
San ©uatt’tf
A STORY OF THE CONFESSIONAL.
I.
Know ye the place where they press and they
hurtle,
And do daring deeds for greed and for gain,
Where the mellow milk-punch and the green-fatted
turtle
Now mildly digest, and now madden with pain ?
Know ye the land of Stone and of Vine,
Where mayors ever banquet and aidermen dine ;
Where Emma was wooed, and Abbott laid low,
And they fly paper kites and big bubbles blow ;
Where Gold is a god unassail’d in his might,
And neck-ties are loosened when stocks get too
tight ?
If this district you know—it is E.C. to guess,
And you go up a street which the Hebrews possess,
And turn to the right,—why, then, for a wager,
You come to the Church of St. Wackslite the Major;
And list, as o’er noises that constantly swell,
Comes the soul-stirring sound of its evensong bell.
2'.
Robed in the vestments of the East,
Apparell’d as becomes a priest,
Awaiting his sacristan’s knock,
The Reverend Hippolytus Stock
Sat musing in his vestry chair.
Deep thought was in his pasty face,
His tonsured head was racked with care:—
A smell of spirits filled the place—
(Terrestrial spirits such as we
Call mystic’ly Brett’s O. D. V.)
His crafty soul, well skill’d to hide,
The guilty secrets kept inside, *
Could smoothe not from his furrow’d brow
The anxious lines that seared it now.
3’Twas strange what troubled him, he had
All things that Ritualists make glad:
Embroider’d banners, silken flags,
And velvet Offertory Bags :
Two Utrecht Altar-cloths with lace,
Font Jugs and Buckets in their place.
Of Candlesticks a wondrous pair,
A Chalice Veil of texture rare.
Rich Dossals in the chancel hang ;
From Carven Desks the choir-boys sang ;
The Pavement was encaustic tiles ;
The Fauld Stools of the latest styles.
Even the Hat-suspenders show’d
The latest ritualistic mode ;
His Maniples were fair and white ;
His Sacramental Spoons a sight;
The Chancel nothing could surpass,
The Altar-rails were polish’d brass ;
Assorted Crosses every where,
Assist the congregation’s prayer ;
Indeed, though it involved some loss,
The Napkins were cut on the cross ;
*
He’d Cutters for the sacred bread ;
And from an Eagle lectern read;
The Pews were new, the Windows stained,—
In short, no single want remained,
Suggested by religious pride,
Which had not promptly been supplied.
So ’twas no use to go again
To Cox and Sons in Maiden Lane.—
Yet still those reverend features bore
The anxious look we’ve named before.
4The knock was heard, a form appear’d,
A black, lank form with copious beard—
“ Three minutes, and the bell will cease.”
Then, Hippolytus, “ Hold thy pe^ce !
Has the communion plate been clean’d?”
The lank one acquiescence lean’d—
“ Three boys,” he said, “ have work’d for hours,
Gard’s Plate Cloth capitally scours,
I never saw it look so bright,
You will feel proud of it to-night.”
“ And has that sack of incense come ?”
The lank one, save for “ Yes,” was dumb.
* A friend who thinks all Ritualists are vipers,
These napkins christens Ritualistic Wipers. ”
47
�48
JON DUAN.
“ Incense is up again, beware !
The Acolytes must take more care.
They burn too much of it at nights.”
And here the black form silence brake—
“ O, Sir, concerning those wax lights :
Wicks says he will a discount make
On thirty pounds for ready cash.”
The vicar smiled, he was not rash,
And merely murmuring softly, “ Thirty ? ”
Continued in a louder tone,
“Joseph, that I. H. S. is dirty,
See by a sister it is scrubbed,
And have my pocket-service rubbed.
And say to Mrs. Sniggs, it’s bosh !
That Alb did not come from the wash.
And now, enough of worldly cares,
Lead on the way to evening prayers ! ”
5St. Wackslite’s filled with floods of light,
’Tis celebration high to-night.
The organ peals, the people kneels.
The “ supers ” first their banners bear,
The vergers with their wands are there,
The choristers march two by two,
The Acolytes their duties do.
And as their censers high are sway’d,
They would a sweet perfume have made,
Had not the incense been of late
Cheap, truly,—but adulterate.
Lay brothers in due sequence walk,
The assistant-priests behind them stalk.
Last comes in robes which rainbows mock
The Reverend Hippolytus Stock ;
And round the church in order slow,
They with triumphal music go.
But by the door a son of sin,
A writer in the rabid Rock,
Has managed early to slip in—
’Tis his to cause a sudden shock.
For in a tone so full and clear
That everyone cannot but hear,
His voice he raises and recites
These lines, and not a line but bites :—
dje
of Rrintr.
i.
“ The aisles of Rome ! the aisles of Rome 1
Where burning censers oft are swung,
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p'HE LUXURY & PRACTICAL UTILITY
QF AUTUMN & WINTER COSTUMES.
JJMIFORM SUITS for LADIES and GENTLEMEN.
ULSTER
TRAVELLING COATS,
With all the Latest Improvements,
301-. to 130J.
Ditto, lined with Fur, 15 to 75 guineas.
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COUNTRY & TOURING SUITS A®
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DITTO SUITS, 6o.v. to oo.r
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Ready for immediate use, or made to order at a few hours’
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From Soft, Pliable Materials, specially Manufactured and
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„
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House, Conduit Street, has prepared for his lady custoaMHL we mav
more especially call attention to one which most of A™ers, we
KE S» “ f
Measurement Required ; Size of Breast and Waist, and
the Height.
TTLSTER HOUSE,
CONDUIT STREET. — It were
Vy superfluous, of course, to point out that this well-known establish
ment of Mr. benjamin s contains at all seasons every variety of the
newest and most approved description of apparel, suitable both for
gentlemen and the gentler sex. But certain of his novelties deserve
special mention. Among the latest wonders of the tailor’s art, as here
practised,„is the Universal,” which may well be described as i{no end
of a coat.
The cloth is all wool, soft, warm, and waterproof—the last
epithet applies to all the cloths used here. It is furnished with a large
hood, has numerous and capacious pockets, and is provided likewise
with a gun-flap, which may be taken off when no longer needed. It is
equally adapted for riding, driving, or walking, and is so built that the
wearer when on horseback may, by a skilful arrangement of straps and
buttons, convert Jt into both coat and leggings. For this purpose the
skl?11S m three pieces, the centre one of which can be turned up inside,
while the two outer ones fasten round the legs below the knee, leaving
ample room for the play of those limbs. It is scarcely possible to
imagine a class of coat more suitable for the sportsman. Another
novelty is a new kind of shooting coat with expanding pleats, so
arranged that, no matter how placed, the body and arms enjoy perfect
freedom of action. It looks like an improved Norfolk jacket, and is
made to fit the. figure admirably, so that it is sightly as well as useful.
Another, and indeed the latest, of Mr. Benjamin’s novelties, is the
Kink suit, intended for ladies, chiefly when skating, but available also
for rough cross-country walking. This comprises an underskirt or petti
coat ; an overskirt, opening both back and front ; a jacket fitting tight
behind, but pleated in front ; a pair of gaiters, and a hat to match. It
forms, indeed, a complete outer costume, and we should judge it
would stand rough wear admirably. Above this may also be worn an
over-jacket, with muff to match, when the intensity of the cold makes
such additions desirable.
Other habits, polonaises, ladies’ Ulsters,
with hood and cape—so contrived that the wearer may detach them if
she chooses—and jackets with, if required, a skirt long enough for
riding, and that may be looped up and formed into a pannier for
walking All these coats and costumes can be made in such different
materials as homespuns, cheviots, &c., and of a thickness suitable
either to our temperate climate, or the severer cold of a Russian or
Canadian winter. We are not prepared to say if the garment known of
ail men as an Upper Benjamin is indebted for its name to the proprietor
of Ulster House, but certainly those who need such an article might do
worse than test Mr. Benjamin’s skill and ingenuity as a builder of coats.
L,and and Water, Nov. 21st, 1874.
ULSTER COVERT COATS, 45s. to 70s”
'pHE DRAG DRIVING and RIDING COAT.
'pHE AUTUMN UPPER COAT.
H
*
pE
IMPROVED INVERNESS, with Belt, &c.
’
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Movable Cape, Hood, and Pocket Gun Flaps, 70s. to 100s.
WINTER OVERCOATS, 35s. to 100s.
TTLSTER and HIGHLAND
PLEATED SUITS for
SHOOTING and FISHING.
‘^^’ITH BREEKS, Knicks, or Pants, 70J. to 905.
ITH all the LATEST IMPROVEMENTS, including
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JpiGHLAND KILT SUITS.
which then takes fho nlan 3 ?se^u s.kirt> longer than the one] below,
„ ? 1 -J ta^es the place of a petticoat; on the principle of the verv
*
useful riding habit introduced by this firm some Time sfoce which bv
ohfeaSawaeikhiv <leimrthanCe’
reqU1fred’ can be transformed’into skirte
ot a walking length—a great boon for travelling.
Now that tailorfittfoVcImh1indr hS° much th<? fashi?n: Iadies wil1 find the exquisitely
particularly1 tem^^V“15 anl Jackets made by Mr' **
jamin
PJrtlcuIariy tempting. The same firm has a speciality for well-cut
for h ThSieSa°f
grey cloth Wlth velvet revers, and pockets as well as
jackets Vku±terS/n tktraVClling C,l0aks’ and every variety oOadies?
former years fnd
°ther
?°ths are StiI1 as much "v°™ « in
pan^in/thete art
now exclusively trimmed with fur; and Kcom?r yln» these are muffs of the same material edged with fur Ulster
House has made a name for itself in the matter of Children^ Uhtos
beenCso muchfo
^7
be
the leatber Petticoats wlgXhave
ceen so much m request of late.—Oct. 3 rst, 1874
THERTrTrTdING HABITj^r^rto^/yTT:--------------
"pHE WATERPROOF SPENCER, 35.f. to 45j.
'T'HE ULSTER and HIGHLAND PLEATED & KILTED
DRESSES, 703 to 100^.
.
*
THE TAILORS' IMPROVED POLONAISE, 70X to
9oa
IVTEW POLONAISE WALKING DRESS.—That index
fatigable caterer for the ladies, Mr. Benjamin, of Ulster House,
Conduit Street, is again in the field with an Improved Polonaise Walking
Dress. Though in view of the recent torrid weather it seems almost
out of place to speak of dresses made of woollen materials at all, yet it
is not always May, and even in spring and summer the chilly and damp
days of our changeable climate often, make a woollen dress of light
colour and stylish make at the same time seasonable and comfortable.
Both these qualifications can be united in the new polonaise suit which
has been brought under our notice. It is composed of a double-breasted
polonaise, with a very artistically draped pannier tunic, to be worn over
a plain skint of the same material as the polonaise, both being finished
off with several rows of stitching at the edge. To these may be added
if desired, a double-breasted jacket for out-door wear in wet or cold
weather. The series of garments are put and made up with the neat
ness and accuracy of workmanship which we have always found to be
the characteristics of Mr. Benjamin’s confections for ladies; neither
has he forgotten to add the many convenient pockets hitherto reserved
for the use of the sterner sex. To suit all requirements in the way of
make of material and colour, Mr. Benjamin shows an extremely large
assortment of homespuns, cheviots, and tweeds, manufactured of every
imaginable tint, ranging from Oxford grey to the lightest stone colour,
¿nd including the heather, granite, and yellow shades so much worn at
the present time. Some vicuna cloth in this collection, made from un
dyed wool of the animal, whence it takes its name, is very effective
from its pale golden, tint; while the softness of its texture makes it
most suitable fordraping into these polonaise tunics.-Queen, May 2,1874.
T ADIES’
ULSTER
TRAVELLING
COATS,
from
42s. to roos.
RADIES’ UNIVERSAL CLOAKS,
y^ITH MOVABLE CAPE and HOOD, 50X. to
8oj.
U’LSTER RIDING and HUNTING HABITS, yor. to
iooj.
LSTER WALKING and TRAVELLING DRESSES,
703'. to 1003
.
*
AT ULSTER HOUSE, No. 38, Conduit Street, W
�3
THE “ BUSKIN.”—A Tragedy Tracing.
—------------------------------- :-------------------------------------------- i, i
J
1
��JON DUAN.
49
Where saints are worshipp’d ’neath the dome,
Where banners sway and mass is sung—<
In Papal Sees these aisles have place,
But English churches they disgrace.
II.
“ The vestments, many-hued and quaint,
The alb, the stole, the hood, the cope,
The prayers to Virgin and to saint—
These are for them who serve the Pope :
Shame ! that such mummeries besmirch
The ritual of the English Church!
ill.
“ I took the train to Farringdon,
From Farringdon I walked due E.;
And musing there an hour alone,
I scarce could think such things could be.
At Smithfield—scene of martyrs slain—
I could not deem they died in vain.
IV.
u And is it so ? and can it be,
My country ? Is what we deplore
Aught but a phase of idiocy ?
Is England Protestant no more?
Is she led captive by a man—
The dotard of the Vatican ?
V.
“ Must we but weep o’er days more blest ?
Must we but blush ?—Our fathers bled.
Earth, render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our martyred dead !
Of all the hundreds grant but three
To fight anew Mackonochie.”
This while had all around been dazed,
And no one tried his tongue to stay ;
The choristers had ceased, amazed,
The organ did no longer play.
But soon a sense of wrong return’d,
And scores of eager fingers burn’d
To turn the ribald traitor out;
And there arose a shaming shout,
And several vergers for him made;
Still he no sign of fear betrayed.
In truth, so full of zeal was he,
Another verse he did begin,
But, promptly fetched, P.C. 9 E.
Appears, and forthwith “runs him in.”
E
�5o
The organ then peals forth once more,
And the processional is o’er.
6.
The three assistant priests await
The signal to officiate,
And bide till ’tis their vicar’s will
To dance the usual quadrille.
Then, when he joins their little band,
And all before the altar stand,
They face the east, they face the west,
They face the ways that please them best ;
They scuffle quickly dos-à-dos,
And through gymnastic motions go ;
They turn to corners, do the chain,
Kneel down, get up, and kneel again ;
The vicar, plainly as can be,
Makes an exemplary M.C.
Each tangled move he regulates,
And juggles with the cups and plates—
No slip, no stumble, not a fault ;
Though he is near two-score and fat,
He could have turned a somersault,
This Ritualistic acrobat.
Nay, it obtains among his friends,
And is in Low Church circles said,
That Hippolytus soon intends
To celebrate “upon his head !”
7The organ plays its final note,
The church is wrapp’d in silent gloom,
A dreamy stillness seems to float,
The vicar seeks his robing-room.
One duty now remains for him,
’Tis the Confessional to seek,
Where burns the waxen taper dim,
And hear the heart-thoughts of the weak.
And, as he goes, he murmurs low,
“ Yes ! she will come, for she was there !”
And in his eyes hot passions glow,
As sits he in his oaken chair.
And now, one parts the curtains red,
And kneels, and bows a guilty head,
With many a tale of sin and woe ;
Still others come, and kneel,.and go—
Escaping thus, they think, the ban
Shed o’er them by this wicked man.
x
His eyes still peer with anxious care,
He mutters, “ Surely she was there !”
JON DUAN.
Then fiendish lustre fills his eyes,
And colour to his pale cheeks flies,
For down the aisle, in the light so dim,
A female form comes straight to him,
And he knows by the hat with the sea-gull’s wing,
And the cuirass cut in the latest fashion,
That those faintly-falling footsteps bring
The woman he loves with a guilty passion.
8.
Thoughts of the past rush through his brain,
Thoughts rapturous, yet link’d with pain,
Of the sweet face when first she came
His spiritual aid to claim—
Of her soft arms, in meekness bending
Across her maiden’s budding breast;
Of those soft arms anon extending
To clasp the hands of him who blest.
O she was fair ! her eyes were blue,
Her hair was golden, as spun sunbeams are ;
Her cheeks had robbed the rosebuds of their hue,
Her voice was music coming from afar ;
And she, suspecting naught, was full of trust—
Trust, confidence and innocence inspire ;
Whilst he look’d on her lovely form and bust,
And vow’d to win her to his fierce desire.
Yes, she was fair as first of womankind,
When in her virgin innocence first smiling ;
And he, with cruel purpose in his mind,
Was wily as the serpent; her beguiling
With holy words and hypocritic speeches,
Such as the Ritualistic manual teaches.
.
Too many times she came, and he
Plied her with subtle Jesuitry;
Poison’d her mind and soil’d her heart
With all his cunning, priestly art;
Dealing his every venomed stroke
From underneath religion’s cloak,
Till, counting her within his power,
He hailed th’ approach of triumph’s hour,
And, as her frail form meets his sight,
He plans her fall that very night.
9In silence bow’d the virgin’s head ;
As if her eyes were fill’d with tears,
That stifled feeling dared not shed—
As if o’ercome by maiden’s fears.
�51
JON DUAN.
“ My daughter ! ” quoth the wicked priest,
il Your face lift up, tell me, at least,
What ghostly trouble rives your soul—
God gives me power to make it whole.”
And, as he spoke, behind her head
He closely drew the curtains red ;
But still no word her silence broke,
Her presence sighs alone bespoke.
“ My daughter ! ” thus the priest again,
“Your studied reticence is vain.”
His lips bent forward near her ear,
“ Come, cast away your foolish fear ;
Confess the sins that on you press—
Confess to me, sweet girl, confess ! ”
Save heavier sighs, no answer came,
The vicar’s breath came quicklier, then—
“ Dear Alice !”—for he knew her name—
Burst forth that villain amongst men,
I quite forget my own distress
In telling you I love you well,—
So well, that all the pains of Hell
I’d bear for one long, close caress.”
No movement yet. “ O, Alice, make
Some answer, lest my heart should break.
I am your priest, I know your heart;
Alice, I will not from you part.
I’ve sworn to be a celibate,
And marriage vows are not for me ;
But holy love and passion great
A mingled fate for us decree.
I claim you, who shall dare say nay,
Or tear you from my arms away?
Come, darling, we are all alone,
One hour will all past pain atone ;
Come, let no longer aught divide—
Come, darling, be the Church’s bride 1 ”
10.
All suddenly the female form arose,
And as the vicar stretched his arms to seize her,
A manly fist dash’d right into his nose,
A crushing blow, call’d vulgarly a “ sneezer ”;
And whilst he felt all nose and strange surprise,
The fist work’d piston-like just twice or thrice,
And bunged up straightway were his sunken eyes,
And then his throat^was seized as in a vice.
Whilst, as his breath was being shaken out,
And he felt he would very quickly smother—
Then, just before he fainted, came a shout,
Of “Alice could not come! but I’m her brother!”
i
11.
The Reverend Hippolytus Stock
Was kept for several weeks in bed ;
It was a very sudden shock,
And very copiously he bled.
He suffered very dreadful pain,
His mental torture was still greater ;
His nose will ne’er be straight again,—
Let’s hope his notions will be straighter !
XXXII.
Thus told, or would, or could, or should have told
Our hero Duan, in tolerable rhyme,
The story of the Ritualist, so sold,
A precious product of this popish time.
Such men o’er wives and daughters get a hold,
Combining snake-like venom with its slime.—
J on knew the details well; he was no other
Than the revenging metamorphosed brother,
XXXIII.
He’d seen his sister mope for weeks and weeks,.
And grow more melancholy every day ;
He half suspected Ritualistic freaks,
Knowing her inclinations went that way.
At last, her fullest confidence he seeks,
And learns enough to fill him with dismay ;
Then warns her promptly of her wily foe,
And lays the stratagem of which you know.
XXXIV.
When all his sister’s clothes he had put on,
And sought from paint and tweezers artful aid,
No casual glance could have detected Jon,
He looked so very like a pretty maid ;
And with long tresses his head pinn’d upon,
A perfect transformation was display’d.
In fact, to Alice, for the parson’s liking,
He show’d resemblance very much too striking t
XXXV.
'
Exuno disce omnes / ’Tis a saying
We cannot well too strongly bear in mind—
Beware the clergymen at Popery playing,
The set to priestly arrogance inclined ;
They are, at best, beguiling and betraying
The sacred ties around our hearts entwined.
Husbands and Brothers ! stamp out like small-pox,
Virus that breeds in the Confession-box.
b
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�52
' JON DUAN.
Canto The Fifth.
i.
ELL is a city (very) much like London ”—
The words are Shelley’s, reader, not our
own—If it be so, then there’s no lack of Pun done
Down in that place where Satan has his throne.
Nor would the hardened sinner be quite undone,
Were he sent there for sinning to atone.
In fact, the Ranters would not make us cry,
If we’d to go to London when we die.
i
I
;
j
II.
Of course there are two sides to every question,
There’s not a medal has not its obverse—
Good dinners have their following indigestion,
And London has its bad side and its worse;
But, if we choose the good side and the rest shun,
Who can our somewhat natural choice asperse ?
If Duan chose what he thought best, with zest,
’Tis not for us to say—Bad was his best.
1
III.
■
For all these things are matters of opinion—
And one man’s poison is another’s meat;
We’re not to say a man’s the Devil’s minion,
Because no creed he happens to repeat;
Or doom to flames eternal, a Socinian,
Because One God to him is all complete.
All men have power to choose—by which we mean,
There are such things as moral fat and lean.
IV.
The fat suits one, the lean may suit another ;
And why should we, against our will, eat fat,
Or force the lean on an unwilling brother,
Who thinks it fit to only feed the cat ?
And if a man will eat nor one, nor t’other,
He surely is best judge what he is at—
No man’s a right to, wholly or in part,
Prescribe his brother’s moral dinner carte.
v-
Wherefore, we say, we will not raise our voice
To say what Duan chose as best was bad;
He, certainly, did not repent his choice,
And very rarely was he hipp’d or sad ;
Au contraire,—in his youth he did rejoice,
And who are we that he should not be glad ?
He slept well, drank well, ate well, and his dinners
Digested admirably for a sinner’s.
.
1
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�JON DUAN.
53
VI.
XI.
And, by-the-by, what is a sinner, pray ?
“ A man who sins.” Then, prithee, what is sin ?
Let rival sect’ries have on this their say,
And each a different answer will begin.
Which is confusing, and would cause delay,
The fact being, we have to look within.
What use are dogmas, doctrines,myths,and creeds?
A man’s own heart supplies the truth he needs.
Think what he went through ! Flow he’d to observe
A code of laws unwritten, but Draconic,
Which make life all straight lines without a curve—
And so conservative and non-Byronic,
That he who from their ruling dares to swerve
Is punished with severity Masonic—
The eternal laws of Fashion’s legislature,
Being ever urged ’gainst those who go for Nature.
VII.
But these digressions cannot be allow’d,
Or we shall never tell how Duan fared ;
Whilst seeking pleasure in the London crowd—
How he was pleas’d and flatter’d, trick’d and
snared—
But, thanks to his good heart and lineage proud,
Was yet from every degradation spared.
And how he lived, and went a killing pace,
With polished footsteps and a finished grace.
VIII.
No wonder Duan was a favourite,
Or that his handsome person was admired ;
That he was rather spoilt, if not so quite,
And that no end of passions he inspired.
It was indeed a trial by no means light
When he from ’mongst the “ upper ten” retired ;
And all Society was rather riled
When he took refuge in Bohemia’s wild.
IX.
For, he was such a pet, his mirror’s frame
(He had a suite of rooms in Piccadilly)
Was studded with the cards with which the game
Of good Society is played. ’Tis silly
How one admits a piece of pasteboard’s claim,
And has to do its bidding “willy-nilly,”
And dine and dance, and dawdle without measure,
Because it is Society’s good pleasure.
x.
No other mistress could be so severe,
Or bully man so much, or so afflict him,
As Duan found when, in his twentieth year,
He to her tyranny became a victim;
And served her until, from exhaustion sheer,
He well-nigh wished Society had kick’d him,
Or that, still better, he had kick’d Society,
And gone in for Bohemian variety.
........ "«■■I«'
XII.
Duan soon found he had to dress by rule ;
His own sartorial taste did not avail; or
Could he help the idea he was a fool
When he had audiences of his tailor.
Scorn mixed with pity filled the face of Poole
As he, as though he had been Duan’s jailer,
To his directions turned a deaf ear, utter,
And passed him on, unheeded, to the cutter.
XIII.
In vain Jon Duan very mildly states,
He thinks that pattern and this cut will suit him;
The cutter coolly for his silence waits,
Nor deigns to take the trouble to refute him;
But, standing sternly to “ Le Coupeur” plates,
Seems as a forward youngster to compute him,
And simply says, as though to save all fuss—
“ Gents usually leave such things to us !”
XIV.
We know what that means; for, ’tis no small
matter.
Why do we wear to-day the “chimney-pot”?
Because we leave our head-gear to our hatter,
And not because one useful point it’s got.
Why not the old delusive notion scatter,
And have a hat not heavy, hard, and hot ?—
(That last line, we may make especial mention,
Is worth the Cockney’s serious attention.)
XV.
Think of the modern boot, and then say whether
Such pedal torture must perforce be borne.
Why not encase our feet in untann’d leather,
And say farewell to blister and to corn ?
Let boots and bunions pass away together,
’Mid universal ecstasy and scorn !
We are but pilgrims, yet, can’t there be made
A single “Progress” without “Bunyan’s” aid?
�JON DUAN.
54
XVI.
Must we be always abject slaves, in fact,
And martyrs to the taste of those who dress us ?
Bear meekly all that Fashion does enact
(She clothes poor woman in a shirt of Nessus !),
And stand, and, like the tailors’ dummies, act,
Whilst into trussed-up blocks our snips com
press us ?
Free Land ! Free Love !—these two cries just now
press :
Well, add a third, and clamour for Free Dress !
XVII.
Again, digression ! Duan meekly wore
The clothes his first-class tailors kindly made
him;
Bought Hoby’s boots, by Lincoln’s “stove-pipe”
swore;
And did his hair as Mr. Truefitt bade him:
Had collars, gloves, and useless things galore,
All which helped in Society to aid him—
And warmly welcomed by Patricia’s host,
His name was daily in the Morning Post.
XVIII.
Here could be seen—who doubts the Morning
Post ?
Its articles are like the Thirty-nine—
How often Duan with a noble host
Would, with more victims, “greatly daring,
dine I”
And wonder that, with such parade and boast,
There was so little food, and such bad wine;
And ask himself, with natural surprise,
If noble hosts fed hunger through the eyes ?
Dined, too, with Lord Cinqfoil, in Blankley Square,
Who is another of these curious mixtures;
Who has a name and reputation glorious,
Yet takes his neighbours’ spoons in way notorious.
XXI.
He put his legs ’neath Lord Maecenas’ table,
Who’s so much money and so little mind,
Whose sensuality smacks of the stable,
Though he to Art and Music seems inclined.
He fed with Viscount Quicksot, and was able,
From after-dinner confidence, to find
The strongest reason why this peer should press
To rescue pretty nurse-girls in distress.
XXII.
He dined at Lambeth Palace with the saints,
He dined at Richmond (often) with a sinner;
He found that nearly every lady paints,
And laces far too tight to eat her dinner.
Hidden, in upper circles, he found taints,
’Neath a disguise that daily waxes thinner.
And that for morals ’tis a very queer age,
And more especially amongst the Peerage.
XXIII.
Yes, ’neath the very dull and placid level,
He found the morals of high life but lame;
Beneath its mask of etiquette, the Devil
Promoting scandals that we dare not name.
We’ll leave th’ exposé to some future Gre ville,
Nor hurt the fame of any high-born dame —
Though, truth to tell, despite our Sovereign Lady,
Society’s repute was ne’er more shady.
XXIV.
XIX.
He dined with Omnium’s Duke, that titled rake,
Who keeps a private house of assignation;
Whose agents, from the West End, nightly take,
Fresh damsels for his Grace’s delectation;
Who, publicly, such efforts seems to make
For wicked London’s moral reformation;
And, as becomes his dignified position,
Is liberal patron of the “ Midnight Mission.”
XX.
He dined with Earl Tartuffe, who takes the chair,
When Vice requires his periodic strictures;
And when he dined, saw his collection rare
Of obscene pamphlets and indecent pictures.
The air is full of scandals of divorces,
The smoking-rooms of Pall Mall reek with
rumour ;
And if we trace it to its various sources,
’Tis not, we find, a freak of spite of humour.
No ; everywhere demoralizing force is
Right hard at work ; and in a very few more
Years, if there is no change, our upper crust
Will crumble up, destroyed—its lust in dust.
XXV.
At Brookes’s, Prince’s, at the “Rag” or Raleigh,
Wherever Duan went, by night or day,
The conversation turned, methodically,
Upon patrician damsels gone astray ;
:
�JON DUAN.
55
And scarce an anecdote or witty sally,
But took a woman’s character away.
Titled transgressions seemed the only fashion;
And joys, unblessed by Church, the ruling passion.
XXVI.
But on the surface, as has been expressed,
Society was placid as before,
And called, and rode, and drove, and 11 drummed,”
and dressed,
As though it had at heart no cancerous sore;
And Duan, being so much in request,
Full often entered its portentous door,
And, with a Spartan heroism, danced,
Or tea’d at five o’clock with air entranced.
XXVII.
He went to many a hostess’s “At home”—
Where everybody is so much abroad—
Through crammed-up halls and salons doomed to
roam,
Where, ’spite the heat, the etiquette’s not thaw’d;
Up crowded staircases he slowly clomb,
Hustled and pushed, and trodden on and
claw’d.—
Such inconvenience much too great a price is
To pay for cold weak tea and lukewarm ices.
XXVIII.
Or e’en to hear the last new baritone,
Or shake the hand of the receiving Duchess,
Or see the Heir-apparent to the Throne,
Trotted round proudly in her eager clutches;
Or catch some flirting matron all alone,
And make a future assignation; much is
This last in vogue ; it is not hard to chouse
The husbands, specially if in the “ House.”
XXIX.
They go, dear innocents! and sit and snore,
And vote to order in St. Stephen’s Chapel ;
Nor dream that gallant captains haunt their door,
And Princes with their wives’ fair virtue
grapple ;
And—well, our womankind are as of yore, 1
They have not changed since Eve devoured
the apple,—
But, ’twould be “rough” on Hannen, past all
doubt,
If half the husbands found their spouses out.
�56
yON DUAN.
XXX.
All her reputed pleasures he had tasted,
And found them, oft repeated, apt to pall
Upon his palate ; he no longer hasted
To get an invite for the Prince’s ball,
And thought the hours were altogether wasted
He spent in evening routs and morning call ;
And even found, in time, to care one fails
’Bout meeting Him of Cambridge or of Wales.
XXXI.
Whilst his friends’ husbands, not to be outdone,
Kept pretty, painted cages in “ The Wood ” ;
With pretty birdies in them, full of fun,
And often in a rather naughty mood ;—
Thus is it that the double trick is done.
(To speak such facts is, as we know, tabooed ;
But we, spite Mrs. Grundy’s interfering,
Intend to strip off modern life’s veneering.)
He tired of Dudley’s china and his pictures ;
Nor cared for Pender’s most elaborate “ feeds”;
He wearied of those Chiswick Garden mixtures,
Where names so heterogeneous one reads.
He shunned, at last, all Lady Devonshire’s
“ fixtures,”
And feared the Waldegravian "friendlyleads.”
And, as a child a powder or a pill dreads,
Shirked Art at Mr. Hope’s and Lady Mildred’s.
XXXII.
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xxxv.
It is not strange that, since our women marry
For riches and position, name and fame,
They seek for love elsewhere, and quickly carry
A fierce flirtation on with some old " flame,”
And freely yield to Dick, or Tom, or Harry,
The pleasant leisure-hours their lords should
claim.
And Duan found, when once well in the swim,
His friends’ wives made too many calls on him.
XXXVII.
XXXVI.
;
;
)
,
i
It’s very thin, you scratch the Politician,
And find that he’s a hungerer for place ;
The great Philanthropist—he makes admission
His motives would his character disgrace ;
The Bishop—and he mourns that his position
Does not admit that he should go the pace—
Removes from yon Prude’s face her veil, so thin,
And, with a leer, she’ll lure you into sin.
XXXIII.
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,
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i
:
Pull off the Church’s gown, and she will stand
A greedy tyrant, gorged with guilt and gold ;
Take from Justitia’s eyes the blinding band,
And see her wink as truth is bought and sold ;
The mask from Thespis snatch with sudden hand,
And then in every London stage behold
A mart for painted women, and an aid
To padded Cyprians to ply their trade.
The Hamiltonian Hall no more he seeks,
Nor treads the corridors of Leveson Gower;
The tableaux vivants down at Mrs. Freke’s
Raise no excitement in him as of yore ;
He did not go to Grosvenor House for weeks,
And never darkened Bentinck’s ducal door.
In fact, the more he saw, and heard, and knew,
Did la crème de la crème seem but “ sky-blue.”
XXXVIII.
And even intrigues grew great bores at last,
For they, too, savoured strongly of De Brett ;
And, also, when a girl was more than fast,
Her sin was fenced about with etiquette
To such extent that Duan was aghast
At an hypocrisy unequalled yet ;
And longing for an unrestrain’d variety,
Vow’d he would have the sins jzz/zj' the society.
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' XXXIV.
XXXIX.
i
Pull—no, please don’t, on reconsideration !
Our hero’s patient, but to keep him waiting,
While we indulge in moral observation,
Is calculated to be irritating.
Besides, we have some further information
To give you of his later doings, dating
From those days when both wiser grown and older,
He gave Society the frigid shoulder.
So he to the " ten thousand ” bade adieu,
And said ‘‘Good-bye” to "Prince’s” and its
rink—
(" Prince’s ” is too select for most of you,
But there are warmish corners there, we think),
And with regret he said " Farewell ” to few
Of those who’d given him their meat and
drink :
i
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�y'ON DUAN-.
57
For as the average modern dinner goes,
’Tis a fit torture not for friends but foes.
XL.
He also turned upon Mayfair his back,
And wholly left Belgravia in the lurch ;
Gladly he gave Tyburnia the "sack,”
In vain did Kensingtonia for him search ;
He sailed completely on another tack,
And gave up leaving cards or going to church—
Sins of omission in the topmost zone,
Which no committed virtues can condone.
XLI.
So now behold Jon Duan set quite free
To suck the sweets from every London flower ;
More like a butterfly, perhaps, than bee—•
For he did not improve the shining hour.
And had you chance and money, then we’d see
If you, good reader, would own virtue’s power.
For though the truth, sweet innocents, may hurt
you,
Necessity’s a powerful aid to virtue.
XLII.
Flow often acrid women virtue boast,
Of which a trial would be a new sensation !
So, all the goody-goody priggish host,
Are prigs perforce—they follow their vocation,
It is no credit to a senseless post,
Because it does not fall into temptation ;
Nor do we crown an icicle with laurels
Because it hasn’t thawn into soft morals.
XLIII.
Therefore, our hero we don’t mean to censure
For having, what in slang is called his "fling” ;
He had to bear the sequel of his venture,
And Nature is the goddess that we sing !—
For he who breaks her laws, or tries to wrench
her
Rules, so well balanc’d, naturally will bring—
Sure as contempt has fallen on Bazaine—
Just retribution and deserved disdain.
XLIV.
This granted, without any more preamble,
Duan may start upon his search for pleasure ;
We’ll try to only chronicle his scramble,
And not to moralize in every measure ;
�JON DUAN.
58
But if again we into preaching ramble,
And weary out your patience and your leisure,—
Why, blame the metre !—which, of all we know,
Most tempts one from the beaten track to go.
XLV.
The public pleasures of our wondrous city
Are not so plentiful as one would think,
Thanks to the sapient licensing committee,
Who from the very thought of dancing shrink.
The Alhambra’s spoiled—it is a shame and pity;
The Holborn’s given up to meat and drink,
And nothing could be just now so forlorn
As passing a long evening at Cremorne ! ~
XLVI.
’Twas not in this direction Duan found
The pleasure that he sought. He went, ’tis
true,
The usual dull and soul-depressing round,
And raked and rioted till all was blue ;
He trod, of course, the old familiar ground,
And liked it not a whit more than did you,
When you—consule Planco—’woke with pain,
And cursed the women and the vile champagne.
XLVI I.
He went to the Alhambra, found it dirty,
With “ Ichabod ’’.writ large upon its walls.
He sought the “ Duke’s ” about eleven thirty,
And wandered listlessly through Argyle’s Halls ;
SawTottie, Lottie, Dottie, Mottie, Gertie,—
And liquors stood responsive to their calls ;
Thinking the openly conducted traffic
Was far more Cityish in its tone than Sapphic.
XLVIII.
He lounged about the Haymarket, and smoked ;
And felt quite sad amidst its scenes and sights ;
He haunted bars, and with their Hebes joked,
He “ finished” at Kate H.’s, several nights ;
He saw, God knows ! a mass of misery, cloak’d
With ghastly gaiety, beneath the lights,
Until the hideous visions made his soul burn,
And sent him virtuously back to Holborn.
XLIX.
For he had taken Chambers in Gray’s Inn,
Since he had cut the West End so completely .
And had a laundress smelling much of gin,
Who could do nothing noiselessly or neatly.
’Twas here his other life he did begin,
In rooms whose look-out, chosen most dis
creetly,
Show’d those old elms, each one of them a big
tree,—
And here he sinned ’neath his own vine and fig
tree.
L.
If walls had ears !—the notion is not new—
You’d like to hear Jon Duan’s tell their tale.
And still, the same old notion to pursue,
If chairs and sofas talked, we would avail
Us of their confidences, also ; you
May be quite sure that, were they writ, the
sale'
Of these poor rhymes, then, would be more
immense,
Though hypocritiq cries rose more intense.
LI.
As ’tis, we’d Figaro want to tabulate
For us a list of all Jon Duan’s loves ;
To catalogue his cartes, each with its date,
And give the history of the flowers and gloves,
And snipp’d-off tresses, which in numbers great
From time to time into his drawer he shoves.
But, failing that, here is a peg to hang
A little song upon, that once he sang.
Qty ¿Hath nf (Clapljam.
Maid of Clapham ! ere I part,
Tell me if thou hast a heart!
For, so padded is thy breast,
I begin to doubt the rest!
Tell me now before I go—
Apr 0ov aXX p.a.Se viropvu ?
Are those tresses thickly twined,
Only hair-pinned on behind ?
Is thy blush which roses mocks,
Bought at three-and-six per box?
Tell me, for I ask in woe—
Apr 6ov aXX p.a.5e vvopvu> ?
�59
JON DUAN.
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3And those lips I seem to taste,
Are they pink with cherry-paste ?
Gladly I’d the notion scout,
But do those white teeth take out ?
Answer me, it is not so—
But to improve, he managed to secure
This model’s services—nor did it vex
Her, when, with face and voice alike demure,
He called her the most lovely of her sex,
And pleading but poor skill to paint her beauty,
Yet many times a week essayed the duty.
Apr Gov aXX /¿a.8e virbpvQi ?
4Maid of Clapham! come, no larks !
For thy shoulders leave white marks—
Tell me ! quickly tell to me
What is really real in thee !
Tell me, or at once I go—
Apr Gov aXX /mSc vjropvco ?
LII.
His taste for girls was certainly eclectic,
He loved the dark ones even as the fair ;
He liked complexions pale, complexions hectic,
He liked black tresses, he liked golden hair,
And ne’er got amatorily dyspeptic—
Which is a state of heart by no means rare ;
But managed by the means detailed above,
To never be completely out of love.
LUI.
Gussie was dark, a perfect gipsy she,
With sloe-black eyes, of raven hair an ocean ;
With lips so red, they well might tempt the bee,
And full of many a quaint artistic notion,—
She was an artist’s model, you could see
It was so in her graceful, flowing motion.
It must, we think, be a most pleasing duty
To draw and paint the curves' of female beauty.
LIV.
The girl had sat for many a well-known painter,
Before her path across Jon Duan’s came ;
As beggar-girl, as sinner, and as saint, her
Pretty face oft peeped from out a frame.
In ’73 no picture could be quainter
Than that—it bore a rising painter’s name—
Which represented her in grandma’s bonnet—
We recollect that it called forth a sonnet.
LV.
Now Jon was no great artist, that was sure,—
Not much he’d ever drawn but bills and
cheques,
LVI.
Nor did he weary of his occupation,
For she was very jolly in her style ;
Full of artistic chatter, animation
In every look, and word, and frown, and smile.
And she could play—a great consideration
To have a girl who thus your time can while ;
And take a hand at whist, and play it, too—
A thing not one girl in ten-score can do.
LVI I.
And naturally she was very skilful
In falling into stock artistic poses ;
A little petulant, sometimes, and wilful—
Que voulez-vous ? Without a thorn no rose is.
A “model” girl is very often still full
Of that old Adam which the Church, you
know, says
Is in us all ; and which, as we’re advised,
Means all our hearts are old (Me) Adamized.
LVIII.
Be this as’t may. In time Miss Gussie went,
And fair-haired Looie reigned in her stead ;
Whilst Duan seemed by no means discontent---Having escaped the plate flung at his head
By the retiring beauty ;—nor gave vent
To vain regrets, nor wished that he were dead.
Instead of this, his spirits seemed to rally,
As he cried, “ L’Art est mort, so, Vive le Ballet!”
LIX.
For Loo was in the ballet at the Strand,
And thus possess’d that halo of romance
Which footlights ever throw on all who stand
Before them, let them act, or sing, or dance.—
It even spreads a little o’er the band—
Nay, we a weak-kneed fellow knew by chance,
Who was a very bad and drunken “super,”
’Cause his admirers treated him to “ cooper.”
�JON DUAN.
6o
LX.
Looie was in the foremost row, a token
She danced with more than average ability :
And many a stallite’s heart no doubt she’d
broken
With her plump legs and marvellous agility.
But when our hero once to her had spoken,
The intimacy grew with great facility.
And as he knew the critics, and had means,
Jon Duan spent much time behind the scenes,
LXI.
And waited for his charmer many nights,
And hung about what ‘‘Yanks” call the
“ theater ” ;
Supped to the full on Thespian delights ;
But p’rhaps his feeling of delight was greater
When she rehearsed new dances in her tights,
He being her only critic and spectator.
Had he been good, he should have tried to stop
her,
But, then, it is so nice to be improper.
And then dismiss them with a curt good-bye,
As though they’d been so many Brighton flymen ?
No 1 if our hero had the right way fix’d on,
Then what becomes of married life at Brixton—•
LXV.
At Peckham, Clapham, Islington, and Walworth,
At Ball’s Pond, Pentonville, and Kentish Town ?
Surely these homes of misery you’ll call worth
The great rewards that virtue always crown.
Jon Duan’s wicked life is naught at all worth,
And he and all like him must be put down.
He’s happy, truly, but his joy’s unstable—
Most married ones are always miserable.
LXVI.
Sewing-machines and cooks on trial we get,
And horses we may try before we buy ;
And ev’n if afterwards we should regret
Our bargains, we can sometimes off them cry;—
But matrimonial bargains, don’t forget,
Last till one of the parties chance to die.
’Twas knowing if he married, ’twas for life,
Made Duan hesitate to take a wife.
LXII.
“ Man’s a phenomenon, one knows not what,
And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure :
’Tis pity, though, in this sublime world, that
Pleasure’s a sin, and sometimes sin’s a pleasure.”
Which lines are Byron’s. You will find them pat,
If you look up Don Juan when you’ve leisure.
If sin’s unpleasant, as the churches din so,
Then, why the dickens is it that we sin so ?
LXVII.
’Twas very wrong of him, of course, to do so :
Men ought from marriage never thus to shrink ;
For is it not ordained ?—Jon Duan knew so,
And yet stood lingering at the altar’s brink.
He thought that he the life-long step might rue ; so
Do others; and there are some men who think
Hannan would hear less charging and denial
If we could take our spouses upon trial.
LXIII.
Is it unpleasant ?—that’s the awkward question—
And many sinners answer with a “ No !”
Jon Duan, when he had no indigestion,
Thought it was most decidedly not so ;
That if you pick your sins, and all the rest shun,
You may most pleasantly through this world go.
Which shows us plainly, ’spite his great vitality,
How very cold and dead was his morality.
LXVI 11.
On trial, indeed ! Why, not one in ten thousand
Women would e’er be wed on such a term ;
For rare’s the one who does not break her vows,
and
Show very quickly that she has the germ
Of mutiny within her, and makes rows, and
Most speedily her husband’s fears confirm.
If married life were terminable at will,
How many would next week be married still ?
LXIV.
How else could he have dared to thus defy
The ethics of society and Hymen ;
And half a dozen amoratas try,
Just like as many tarts bought of a pieman,
LXIX.
How long our young friend loved the ballet
dancer
We do not mean to tell, nor shall we add
�61
JON DUAN.
More details of his charmers; ’twould not answer
To waste so much space on what is so bad.
No ! let us shun the subject like a cancer,
’Twould only make us and our readers sad.
We will, instead, with their permission, fit a
Small song in here—Jon sung it with his zither.
1.
O, pocket edition of Phryne !
Your robe is bewitchingly Greek ;
O, kiss me, my charmer most tiny—
I mean on my mouth, not my cheek.
Come, sit on my knee and be jolly—
The classical’s now out of date—
And let us toast passion and folly—
For you are not marble, thank fate !
2.
What! haven’t you heard of her story,
And how all her judges she won,
By suddenly showing her glory
Of beauty, which warmed like the sun?
Yes, that was in Cecrops’ fair city,
And we are ’neath London’s green trees—
But, Tiny, you’re awfully pretty,
And I’ll be your judge, if you please.
LXX.
Love is an ailment dangerously zymotic—
’Twould be no use for us to here deplore
That Duan’s song has savour so erotic—
No ! we will leave him on his second-floor,
Puffing the weed the doctors call narcotic,
And with his eyes fixed keenly on his door—
Whom he expects it’s not for us to say,
It isn't his old laundress, any way.
LXXI.
What are the Mission people all about,
That to Gray’s Inn they do not send a preacher?
Why to Ashanti and Fiji go out,
And leave unvisited by tract or teacher
The district where the foolish fling and flaunt,
And sink the Christian too much in the creature ?
Call back ! say we, the men from Timbuctoo,
There’s better work at home for them to do.
�62
JON DUAN.
LXXII.
We mean to start a Mission of our own,
To preach the Testament in Grosvenor Square;
And when the funds sufficiently have grown,
We’ll ^end a Missionary to Mayfair ;
And we’ll leave large-type leaflets on the throne,
And preach in Pall Mall in the open air :
In time, too, we’ll endeavour to arrange
A set of sermons for the Stock Exchange.
LXXIII.
The texts used there shall be, “ Thou shalt not
steal,”
And Lying lips are an abomination” ; *
All the discourses should most plainly deal
With paper frauds and bubble speculation.
How sweet to make a cheating broker kneel
In penitent and tearful agitation I
Surely a London broker on his knees
Is worth a score of Christianised Burmese.
LXXIV.
What could be grander than a “ Bull ” in tears,
Or a “ Bear ” giving up all he possesses ?
How pleasant to the missionary’s ears
When some McEwen his dark deed confesses,
And promises repentance ! when the jeers
Of jobbers cease ; and all the Mission presses.
Spread the glad news that, as they’re just advised,
Fifteen stockbrokers were last night baptized.
Let fear and trembling come upon thee now,
For closer than a leech McDougal sticketh ;—
Let consternation sit upon thy brow
When thought of ‘Emma,’ thy profuse heart
pricketh, —
Nor glory in thy riches—house or arable-—
But recollect the rich fool in the parable ! ”
LXXVII.
The “ upper ten ” there parlous state should see;
There should be preaching at the Carlton Club ;
A Boanerges should the preacher be,
With words and will Aristos’ sin to drub.
And Lazarus should come from penury,
And hold forth in the ‘‘ Row,” upon a tub.
Whilst some great light—the “toppest” of topsawyers—
Should the New Testament proclaim to lawyers.
LXXVIII.
The publishers, too, must not be forgotten,
Since great above all others is their need ;
For Paternoster Row is getting rotten,
And worships but one God, and that is
“ Greed.”
To lie, cheat, cozen, and to cringe and cotton,
Is now the publisher’s adopted creed ;
They’r.e grasping, greedy, vulgar, and omni
vorous,—
From publishers, we pray, Good Lord deliver us!
LXXIX.
LXXV.
Oh ! what a noble work the news to spread
Amongst the streets and alleys of the City ;
To tell the heathens there what has been said
Of those who have no principle or pity :
To pour denunciation on their head,
And wake up Lothbury with a pious ditty ;
And oh ! how eagerly we yearn and pant
To send a special missionary to Grant 1
LXXVI.
And this should be his message—“ Albert! thou
Of whom ’tis said, ‘ He waxeth fat and kicketh,’
* The.se passages are evidently not included in the " Scrip
ture ” in use in Capel Court ; though we suppose it is
generally known there that “ Barabbas was a publisher.”
We have heard of the “Thieves’ Litany,” maybe there is
such a volume in existence as the “ Stockbrokers’ Bible."
Our readers perhaps by this time will be ready,
To pray to be delivered from us ;—
Our Pegasus, in fact, had got his head, he
Often bites his bit, and bolts off thus.
But now we promise that his pace we’ll steady,
And, without any further fume or fuss,
To Duan we’ll return, though, since we started,
He very likely has to bed departed.
LXXX.
There let us leave him—for ’tis doubtless best
To “ring down” whilst we set the next new
scene on—■
Leaning, it may be, on a maiden’s breast,—
Happy the man’s who’s such a place to lean on !
For certain he’s caressing or caress’d :—
But it is two a.m.; and we have been on
Rhythmical duty since we dined at eight :
We’ll put the light out—it is getting late.
�JON DUAN.
63
Canto The Sixth.
I.
U Grand Hotel, Paris, the 10th November—
Dear Boy,—The stage is going to the
deuce,
The kiosques, naked, and there’s not an ember
Of fiery France alive. It is no use
To seek the Imperial Paris we remember,
Dear Venus Meretrix of cities, loose
But lovely, and beloved—of Saxon tourists,
Who when abroad are not such rigid purists.
II.
“ School atlases still tell us it’s called Paris,
They talk French still, a little, in its walls—
Though nasal North American less rare is ;
There still are cafes, and the naughty balls ;
The Boulevards—though they’re widowed of Gus
Harris,
Are not precisely hung with shrouds and palls ;
Crowds, not more virtuous and not more solemn,
Still saunter past the new-erected Column.
III.
THE BRI 1JSH ' DRAMATIST.
11 Still in the Palais Royal, yellow covers,
Abhorred by strict mammas in England, beg
Attention to their tales of loves and lovers,
Crammed full of wholesome nurture as an egg—
Still, at street crossings, prurient Saxon rovers
Look shocked at some faint soupçon of a leg,
Disclosed by vicious sylph or luring modiste,
Loose-principled—but very tightly bodiced.
IV.
11 But the sweet home of British drama—that is
A thing to seek as Schliemann seeks for TroyHome of the Capouls, Schneiders, Faures, and
Pattis,
Who take our millions, and who give us joy—
The birthplace of all persona dramatis
That e’er amused since Taylor was a boy,
Where is it ?—where’s the generous Providence
Whence all of us draw plots, and fame, and pence ?
v.
“ Where’s the great reservoir of milk and water
Which Oxenford’s keen pen was wont to tap,
Before that horrid Madame Angot’s daughter
Had made the pure old five-acts seem like pap ?
�JON DUAN.
64
■
Those old ‘grandes machines] full of fire and
slaughter,
And doeskin boots, that soothed one’s evening
nap,
Where are they ?—Ah ! they have left this drear
and pallid day
To Walter Scott, improved by Andrew Halliday.
VI.
“ The Vaudeville, preposterous and broad,
Where heroes in check suits could damn a bit,
And into bed get, while the house guffawed—
And those brave poker-scenes that made ^us
split—
The singing chambermaids who weren’t outlawed 1
By chaste dress circles that like Gilbert’s wit—The gay old farce, loud, jovial, coarse, and fat—
Hasn’t disastrous Sedan left us that ?
VII.
“It hasn’t, I assure you—not a line.
I’ve tried the Variétés and Palais Royal,
But though our H.R.H.’s tastes incline
To that snug house—and though I’m strictly
loyal—
I can’t find the old salt ; defeats refine,
And theatres here have grown so very coy all,
They have not one poor smile for “ adaptators ”—
Those eunuchs who all yearn to look like paters.
VIII.
“ As poor Brooks said—‘ There’s nothing in the
papers,’
And I remark there’s nothing on the stage—
The old familiar bony legs cut capers,
Their owners in the old intrigues engage
Before the usual crowd of languid gapers,
Kept silent by the sanctity of age.
Lemaître and Bernhardt still pass round the hat,
Léonide’s still lean, and Celine’s still fat.
X.
“ The Demi-monde won’t do : it is enticing,
I own—but no ; it really will not do,
E’en though we made it seemlier by splicing
A roué and a courtezan or two,
According to the English way of icing
French fancies, found red-hot and deemed too
true ;
And even then, when we have changed the visors,
There’s always that prude Piggott with the scissors.
XI.
“Always those scissors ! Halévy might yield
A thing or two, and Meilhac’s not quite dried ;
But what can a poor devil do when sealed
To that old haggard Spiritual bride,
The Censorship? Its maimed limbs scarcely healed,
On to the stage your poor piece takes a stride,
And halts half-way, then with a limp crawls out—
Forthose official shears are worse than gout.
XII.
“I think we must encourage ‘native talent’—
That’s how we’ll make our poverty seem grand,
And not at all enforced by the repellant
Airs of our French originals. Your hand
Put into those deep drawers, where all the gallant
And unplayed amateurs, a numerous band,
Have left the ashes of their simple hopes—Those MSS. that no one ever opes.
XIII.
“ Perhaps you’ll find a pearl of rarest price,
Or rubbish written by a lord, which will
Do quite as well ; the public aren’t too nice
When a peer condescends to hold a quill.
Give it to Byron—he’ll put in the spice.
But as for here—my verdict still is : nil !
There’s not a piece to steal, so we must do one
Ourselves. Ta, ta, old boy; till—Jon Duan.”
i
XIV.
IX.
“ And there you have the worst of the collapse
Of our dear famous factory of plays.
Now, what is to be done ? We’re tired of traps,
And care no more to see blue-fire ablaze
Around three-score old ladies, who want caps
And snuff to comfort their declining days.
Poor Comedy, the Comedy of Sheridan,
Is done—and Mrs. Bancroft echoes : Very done.
One doesn’t always call a manager
Old boy, or write as lengthily as this.
Some, one should call “ My Lord,” one “ Reverend
Sir,”
And many a “Mrs.” more correctly “Miss !”
But fame, thank Heaven, ’s a glorious leveller,
And straight inducts you into that great bliss
Of penetrating the most awful portals,
And treating even managers as mortals.
i
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�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
TO THE READERS OF JON DUAN.
We reprint from The Times, of Not. 2.6th, the Report
re Ward v. Beeton, in order that the purchasers and readers
of Jon Duan may have a correct version of the question
raised between Mr. Beeton and his Publishers. We should
no trepeat this notice were it not for the rumours which have
been freely circulated that Jon XTunn would not be published.
Even coercion has been used to prevent certain tradesmen
lending us their valuable assistance in the production of the
New Annual.
The Public and the Trade are now in the position of
being our judges, and we shall rest satisfied with the verdict
which may be accorded us.
■• ■
• <;
From “The Times,” Nov. 26, 1874.
{Before Vice-Chancellor Sir R.
Malins.)
Ward v. Beeton (“Beeton’s Christmas Annual”).
This was a motion on behalf of the plaintiffs, Messrs.
Ward and Lock, the publishers, for an injunction to restrain
the defendant, Mr. S. O. Beeton, from publishing or circu
lating any advertisements or letters representing that he
was interested or concerned in any annual book or publica
tion other than “Beeton’s Christmas Annual,” published
by .the _ plaintiffs, or that the defendant’s connexion with
the plaintiffs’ firm was terminated, or that the use of the
defendant’s name by the plaintiffs for the purposes of their
“Beeton’s Christmas Annual” was improper or un
authorized. According to the statements contained in the
bill, the defendant was in business on his own account as a
publisher down to the year 1866, and among the publica
tions of which he was the proprietor was “ Beeton’s Christ
mas Annual,” now in its 15th year. In 1866 the plaintiffs pur
chased the copyrights and business property of the defendant,
and in September of that year an agreement was entered
into between the plaintiffs and the defendant, by which it
was provided, among other things, that the defendant was to
devote himself to the development of the plaintiffs’ busi
ness and not to be interested in any other business without
their consent; that the plaintiffs were to have the use of
the defendant’s name for the purposes of their present and
future publications, and that the defendant should not
permit the use of his name for any other publication with
out their consent; and the defendant was to be remu
nerated by a salary which was at first to consist of a fixed
annual sum, and was subsequently to be equivalent to a
fourth share of the profits of the plaintiffs’ business. Under
this agreement “Beeton’s Christmas Annual” was pub
lished by the plaintiffs with the assistance of the defendant
down to and including Christmas last. In the year 1872
the annual consisted of a production called “The Coming
K----- .” It waspublished, however, as the plaintiffs alleged,
without their having seen the MSS., and, as it con
tained passages which they considered were open to grave
objections, they refused to print or publish a second edition
of it. In 1873 the annual consisted of a publication called
“The Siliad,” which was written By the same author as
“The Coming K----- .” In July last the plaintiffs applied
to the defendant to prepare the volume of the annual for
Christmas next, but desired that its character and contents
might differ from those of “ The Siliad,” with which they
were dissatisfied ; the defendant, however, “neglected to
prepare or assist in preparing the same.” In October last th
plaintiffs heard that the defendant was engaged in prepar
ing another annual in opposition to theirs. A correspondence
ensued, in which the plaintiffs gave the defendant notice
that they would maintain their rights, and required him to
make proper arrangements for the production _ of the
annual, while the defendant denied that he was in fault,
and alleged that the plaintiffs- had rejected the production
he had proposed, which was to be by the authors of “The
Coming K----- ,” and that those gentlemen had then made
their own arrangements for publishing their work. The
plaintiffs then made arrangements with one of the authors of
“The Siliad ” for the annual of 1874, and announced it by
advertisements in the newspapers,under the titleof “Beeton’s
Christmas Annual for 1874, 15th season.” T he title of the
coming annual is “The Fijiad.” The defendant then caused
advertisements to be inserted in the Standard, Athenceum,
and other newspapers, addressed to booksellers, advertisers,
and the public, stating that he had no hand in the annual
announced by the plaintiffs; that he devised long ago
his usual annual in collaboration with the authors of “The
Coming K.----- ” and “The Siliad;” that the title of the
annual now in the press was “Jon Duan;” that it was
written by the authors of “The Coming K----- ” and “ The
Siliad,” and would not be published by the plaintiffs,
but by another publisher. Under these circumstances the
present bill was filed yesterday, and in pursuance of leave
then obtained the motion for injunction was made this
morning. The defendant did not appear; and upon an
affidavit that service of the notice of motion had been
effected upon him before five o’clock yesterday afternoon at
his country residence, an order was made by the Court for
an injunction in terms of the motion, extending until the
hearing of the cause.
London: WELDON & CO., 15, Wine Office Court, Fleet Street.
�■■■■
��JON DUAN.
XV.
The person whom. Jon Duan thus addressed
Had an odd mania—general with his class—
For novelties, without which Spring’s no zest
In managerial eyes : he’d fix his glass,
Perceive the world with April-green new-dressed,
And only think: the Spring’s turned up the gas,
We’ve done Burnand—for fear of a reversal,
It’s time to put Bob Reece into rehearsal.
67
XX.
But, following the ancient pure tradition
Of English art to borrow from the French,
Jon Duan had set out upon a mission,
To see what Paris drama one could wrench.
Into a Saxon shape, by clever scission
Of evil branches, which emit a stench
We breathe with rapture at the “ Delass. Com.,”
But call a pestilential death at home.
XXI.
XVI.
He’d got Jon Duan this year—a rare catch,
That bothered Buckstone sorely, and made
Bateman
Talk privately of bowie-knives ; a batch
Of critics—his club-fellows—all elate, man
The yards of paper barks, where they keep watch
On actors, ready to call Irving great man,
And Neville, stickor quite the other way :
It just depends on what their rivals say.
XVII.
Hollingshead hides his head; the craft looks sour,
From classic Surrey to coquettish Court.
It’s such a glorious thing to get the flower .
’ Of a young author’s mind, whom wide report
Proclaims the sovereign genius of the hour,
And when the stale Byronic stream runs short—
Which even that perpetual fountain may,
When Gilbert’s proper, and “ Old Sailors” pay.
And seeing there was nothing that could give
The Insular adapter a fair chance
To catch the rare French nectar in a sieve—
For that’s the way we get our sustenance,
Who don’t know French, go to the play—and live 1— ’
Jon Duan shook the sterile dust of France
From off his feet, and reappeared in town,
Resolved to bring out three acts of his own.
XXII.
Then in a dim and dusty room, somewhere
Near Covent Garden, a dull chamber, smelling
Of orange-peel and gas, the native air
Of Thespis, there ensued long talk, which
dwelling
On things theatrical, would make the hair
Of stage-struck youths stand upright—so repelhng,
Hard and materialistic as a Hun’s,
The manager who’s looking for long “ runs.”
XXIII.
XVIII.
You managers, when wearied—as you weary
The public—of the tight dramatic ring
That writes eulogious notices, and dreary
Dramas, alternately, from Spring to Spring,
Don’t dare too much—and don’t revive Dundreary,
But simply ask a man whom critics sing,
And at whose feet the publishers all grovel,
To dialogue you his last prurient novel.
'
XIX.
!
There is your man. He’s been well advertised,
Which saves a lot of posting and of puffs ;
You know the papers where his copy’s prized,
And which, therefore, are sure not to be rough
On his new venture. Then a book, disguised
In five acts, with a new name’s just the stuff
To run two hundred nights ; we all adore
Hearing the jokes we’ve read a month before.
“ I have told you so : I’d much prefer a bouffe,
A bouffe of thorough native growth: d’you see ?
Something that we can say affords a proof
Wit and song ain’t a French monopoly.
Something that shows at times the cloven hoof—
Of Meilhac, great in impropriety,
But sentimental chiefly—even sad,
A Tennysonian pastoral gone mad.
XXIV.
“ There’d be a part for Cecil—heavy father,
Eccentric, muddle-headed: that’s his line.
We must give little Lou a lift—I’m rather
Spoony on little Lou; besides, she’ll shine,
If you but give her a catch-song to gather
The plaudits of the gods with. There’s a mine
Worth working—there’s ten thousand pounds in
that—
And, by-the-by, give Isabel some fat.
�JON DUAN.
XXV.
j
Ci Lord D----- insists upon it: Bella must
Have three good scenes, at least, in which to drop
Her h’s—or the old boy will entrust
His love and money to a rival shop.
There’s Belamour, too, who will not be thrust
Into a minor part; he’ll want a sop,
Because of those fine legs of his^ on which
He counts to catch a “relict” old and rich.
XXVI.
<c As for the rest, we’ll have a galaxy
Of stars seduced by gold from lesser spheres:
Cox, Terry, Toole, Brough, and the rest; you’ll see
We’ll do the thing superbly----- Now, my dears 1”
(This to two pleasing damsels who’d made free
To push the door ajar, and stood all ears,
And those all red, regarding the uncertain
And ghostly region called Behind the Curtain.)
XXVII.
The postulants, for such they were, of course,
Were average growths of English womanhood,
Sprung from the same poor petty tradesman source,
Not capable of much ill or much good ;
But conscious of some appetite perforce
Restrained, the which in their weak natures stood
For mind, ambition, heart—some simple needs
Of love, champagne, fine dresses, and good feeds.
XXVIII.
We all know, though decorum keeps us mute,
How shop-girl, servant wench, and seamstress
feel,
When pretty broughams of world-wide repute
Bear sinning sisters by on rapid wheel,
And Regent Street’s battalions, in pursuit
Of night-bound swell, flash by them, down at heel
And threadbare, thinking—not: how shocking !—
oh no—
But simply of their labouring lives : Cui bono ?
XXIX.
Cui bono, having learnt one’s catechism
And making shirts for close on ninepence each ?
Cui bono, all this vulgar heroism
That only serves to make a parson preach
About our pure examples ? Egotism,
That’s what you pay—the moral that you teach ;
Vice has its brougham, Virtue its foul alley—
This is the reason why girls join the Ballet.
�JON DUAN.
69
r—
XXX.
The first one of the two who spoke had passed
The Rubicon, and left false shame behind her ;
Her bonnet might have been a whit less fast,
Her speech a bit more modest and refined ; her
Red hands bulged from Jouvin’s gloves. She cast
A side-leer at Jon Duan rather kinder
Than their acquaintance warranted, and said
She knew the business ; she’d already played.
XXXI.
“ At the East End Imperial Bower of Song,
I used to sing ‘The Chick-a-Leary Bloke,’
With breakdown, all complete. ’Twas rather
strong—
The beaks refused the licence. But I’ve spoke
To----- (here she whispered earnestly and long)
He’ll come down handsomely: just one small
joke,
And then a dance. What! fifty pounds!—Well,
then,
You’ll throw a speech in for another ten.”
XXXII.
“ It’s sixty pounds; no salary at first.”
And then the manager turned round: “And
you ?”
The second humble applicant was cursed
With knowledge of her own defects, and drew
Back as he spoke. Then feebly from her burst:
“ I heard you wanted figurantes who knew
Something of music, prepossessing—Oh,
I want to know, sir, if I’m like to do 1”
XXXIII.
Jon Duan pitied; but his friend looked stern.
This one had no Protector and no past.
She couldn’t pay, and might expect to earn
Her living—the pretension of her caste,
Who in each yawning trap and slide discern
Mines where all women’s treasures are amassed—
Diamonds, Bond Street dresses, silks and sashes,
And tall Nonentities with blond moustaches.
XXXIV.
“Young woman, you may do; I don’t object
To trying you: just bring your ‘props’ next
week----- ■”
“ Props ?”----- “ That’s your shoes and tights; but
recollect,
You’re never likely to do more than speak
Ten words, and show—your ankles. We expect
Our ladies to wear costumes new and chic,
Which they provide—with some gems of pure
water----The salary? It’s five pounds ten per quarter.
XXXV.
“ You couldn’t live on that ? Of course you can’t.
Did you expect it ?— Where have you been
taught ?—
A brougham’s at the door : its occupant
Gets one pound ten a week—and she’s just
bought
A pair of bays—which proves she’s not in want.
No, no, young woman, salaries are nought—
Our treasurer don’t count ; you’ll find far finer—
A millionaire—a dotard—or a minor.
XXXVI.
“ All of them do it : it’s the modern plan
Of getting up a pretty ballet cheap ;
And since the public don’t like Sheridan—
Except as Amy—and since we can’t keep
Ladies—most of them of enormous space—
In silken robes and satin shoes ; we leap
At amateurs with protégées, whose rage
It is to see their darlings on the stage.”
XXXVII.
Then they went back to business, and talked over
Which points Odell should make,which speeches
Stoyle ;
If Wyndham or Lal. Brough should do the lover,
Say with Laverne or Farren as a foil.
And whether Miss A.’s part was not above her,
Or Miss B. meet Miss C. without a broil.—
In short, the heavy talk, the prime First Cause
Of plays received with rapturous applause.
XXXVIII.
Jon Duan gave in to the bouffe idea,
His hopes resigning of regenerating
The public taste. He gazed, and could but see a
Vast Amphitheatre, its lungs inflating
With one loud universal Ave Dea,
Madonna Cascade of our own creating,
Gross, gaudy goddess of our fleshly charlatan
’ Period, with tinsel wings and robes of tarlatan.
xxxix.
That is the cry, the Ideal----- Oh, Rare Ben,
See what they’ve made of your old jovial muse !
�70
JON DUAN.
Enter, great Shade, no matter where or when,
The bill of fare’s the same—you cannot choose.
It’s an Aquarium—and once again
Fifty familiar naked backs one views—
Then naked breasts, legs, naked arms with wings
Of gauze—innumerable naked things !
XL.
The footlights glow on thin arms, twisted knees,
Lean shoulders rising, fleshy chins that drop;
Oh for the awful busts’ concavities !
Oh for the busts that don’t know where to stop.
They smirk, and grin, and ogle at their ease,
But one thinks vaguely of a butcher’s shop
Lit up on Saturdays—one hears the cry,
A cry they all might echo : “ Come, buy, buy ! ”
XLI.
a
M
0K
I
N (r
Ah, one divines how, mute, the song-nymphs flee,
And Watteau’s muse drops down themagic brush
Before that swollen, restless, muddy sea
Of shapeless flesh, pink with a painted blush ;
Those meagre shoulder-blades that don’t agree,
Those overflowing waists that corsets crush,
Those poor old calves, for twice a hundred nights
Entombed with pain in cherry-coloured tights.
XLII.
A sprite, long, lean, and languid as a worm,
A sprite that trails a cotton-velvet cloak,
Carols a topic song, with not a germ
Of tune or sense in it. Ay, Ben, they croak—
These mounds of chignons-false and flesh-infirm—
Dreary distortions of thy Attic joke,
With tripping feet and leering eyes, and shifty,
As if they weren’t all grandmammas of fifty !
XLIII.
Oh Byron, Farnie, oh Burnand, and Reece,
Maybe your consciences are very full,
For you’ve committed many a dreary piece;
But oh, we’d hold your grievous sinnings null
If you had not—Heaven send your souls release !—
You—and some thousand bales of cotton-wool—
Produced, to torture your long-suffering patrons,
That bevy of obese and padded matrons !
XLIV.
But Goldie, Cibber, Knowles, whene’er we pray
For one gleam of your wit or poesy;
When with the jingle of Lecocq, and bray
Of Offenbach distraught, we make a plea
�7*
JON DUAN.
For Tobin or for Coleman—for the gay
Old glorious peal of laughter, frank and free—
Bah ! cry the lessees—Helicon !—a treat!—
Sir—what the public dotes upon is Meat!
XLV.
And faith, they get it, calves and necks, huge
boulders
Smeared with cold-cream, and bismuth, and
ceruse;
Not much heart anywhere, but such fine shoulders !
Not much art, but such bright metallic hues !
Fat Aphrodites—born for their beholders
From froth of champagne-cup—upon their cruise
To spoil our gilded youth, dupe hoary age,
Making a bagnio of the British stage.
XLVI.
Jon Duan passed some agonizing weeks,
Conning Joe Miller and his Lempriere •,
Laying the strata of burlesque in streaks
Of slang and puns; also refusing fair
Touters for parts, with badly painted cheeks,
And insolently red and oily hair;
Who pet one—till you don’t know where to get to—
That is the worst of writing a libretto.
XLVII.
The paragraph, which, to the Era carried,
The world tells that you’re “on” a bouffe,
wakes up
Three hundred ladies, who have found life arid,
Because they never dine, and seldom sup,
And who begin to pester you : if married,
With gall they fill your matrimonial cup ;
If single—well, of course they will not hurt you—
Only their friendship don’t conduce to virtue !
XLIX.
The formula’s quite simple : all depends
On an anachronism, the more absurd
The better. Take a monarch and his friends
From Livy—Roman—for they’re much preferred,
The Grecian’s quite used up except for bends—
Send them to Prince’s, and pretend they’ve heard
Of Gladstone’s pamphlets, Arnim’s case, whatever
You choose, provided that you’re not too clever.
L.
Talent will kill. Leave actors to invent
Whatever gags they can; they’ll find a number,
Not too refined, about each day’s event,
At those dramatic “ publics ” which encumber
The lanes of Covent Garden. If they’re spent,
And find the audience somewhat prone to
slumber,
A wink, grimace, a slang phrase—clownish acting—
That stirs your patrons up—they’re not exacting.
LI.
They have broad backs, and not too lively brains;
They’ll bear whatever burdens you impose ;
So that the playbill says it entertains,
Don’t think of them—they’ll never hiss nor doze,
Provided you leave room for Herve’s strains,
And give them a perspective of pink hose
From back to footlights, in bright buoyant
masses—
Before six hundred levelled opera-glasses.
LIL
Jon Duan at his writing-table, strewn
With delicately scented little notes—
All begging him, as a tremendous boon,
To lengthen parts and shorten petticoats—
Wrote feverishly; and, humming o’er a tune,
Beside him lounged his partner—who devotes
His life to writing can-can and fandango—
Waiting for his hour and his Madame Angot.
XLVIII.
LIII.
As for the writing—that’s the easiest part—
So easy, that if it the public guessed,
They’d never pay to see Burnand, but start
A theatre themselves—perhaps the best.
A plot—who listens ?—Dialogue—it’s smart
If loose : for ladies, have them much undressed,
Have two French mimics, lime-light, vulgar jokes,
Danseuses like Sara, villains like Fred Yokes.
“ I must have that new song to-morrow—that
About the second-class—four lines of six,
And two of four for chorus. You’ve been flat
Of late; redeem yourself this time, and mix
The Old Hundredth up with Herve’s pit-a-pat,
Or any other of their Paris tricks.”
The maestro grumbled—then, remembering
Gluck’s works at home—said he had just the thing.
�JON DUAN.
LIV.
“ Have you heard anything from Piggott ?” said he,
After a pause, in which Jon Duan’s quill
Ran fiercely. 11 I’m afraid our chance is shady,
Unless you drop those jokes he’s taken ill.”
J ust then the servant came, and said a lady
Wanted Jon Duan, and the maestro, still
Humming, went, leaving the field free to fair
Miss Constance Smith—Fitz-Fulke by nom de
guerre.
LV.
The sweetest little creature man has ever
Paid modiste’s bills for; clouds of breezy curls
Blowing about her face, from such a clever
And daring poem of a hat. She furls
Her veil, and, drugging one—and spreading fever—
Fever of love and longing, round her whirls
A wind of subtle scents, corrupt and vicious—
Monstrous—exaggerated—and delicious 1
LVI.
Wine-scarlet was her mouth—a flower of blood—
A flower fed by the dew of many kisses ;
And her eyes, fathomless, made one’s heart thud,
Though nought lay in their violet-grey abysses;
She was a creature, on the whole, who could
Give man a vast variety of blisses—
The bliss of wooing, quarrelling, and playing—
With one monotonous—the bliss of paying 1
LVII.
And yet she doesn’t merit all the stones
Austere and portly ladies, who “ sit under”
Good parsons, are prepared to fling : she owns
Some fervent, heavenly impulses, that sunder
Those venal lips, and break out in meek moans.
Not less sincere than Pharisaic thunder,
About her sinfulness—whence fall, at times,
Prayers not less pure because they follow rhymes.
LVIII.
It is a little bosom full of eddies
And counter-eddies, gusts, and whirls of whimsy
That turn, re-turn her, till her pretty head is
A chaos of conflicting thoughts, and swims,
A labyrinth through which no man can thread his
Way—for she shifts and turns, and tacks and
trims
So wildly, that Jon Duan’s lighter, gayer
Poem—composed much later—must portray her.
�h
t
‘
JON DUAN.
^atnt CHltnetm.
i
I’d give—the bliss she’s given me—to perceive
What moves her most—Caprice or Charity.
Turn her glove back—just where it meets the
sleeve—
You smell involved incense, and patchouli.
I
1
2.
The march of music up long aisles, the dirges,
Ormolu censers, waxen saints and lights,
Move the frail facile heart, albeit she merges
Devoutest days in Saturnalian nights.
'
■
j
;i
J
!
!
i
73
-------------- ---
1 '
3‘
I’d have you watch her as she bends alone
In some prim pew, her mouth composed, hands
crossed—
Fancying, vaguely, the priest’s monotone
Is something like Faure’s lower notes in Faust.
4She seeks salvation with the beautiful,
Loves David’s psalms—no less than Swinburne’s
sonnets—
Respects the Follet like a papal bull,
And holds we’re saved by perfect faith—and
bonnets.
5Her mode of charity includes a ball;
And such her pity of each pauper claimant—
Watching her waltz, one deems she’s given all—Even like St. Martin—more than half her raiment.
6
9For though one lose the fabled fox’s quiet
When the good grapes to low lips’ level fall ;
She seems more fit for mankind’s daily diet—
“ And she might like one really, after all.”
IO.
Like one ! to her guitar’s erotic thrum
She sets the preacher’s precept: love all men;
And founds her plea for pardon on muli-um—
Et multos—amavi—like Magdalen.
11.
She makes a dainty mouth of doubt; her fan
Rebukes that soft Parisian purr: Je t’aime !
But she loves you—well, even as she can—
A month or two—and then forgets your name.
12.
Forgets it all—till one day when her vapours
Dispose to prayer the two months’ devotee,
And in the glow of Ritualistic tapers,
She finds a love not in her breviary.
LIX.
Aye, she was Moliere’s heroine,..the jade !—
“ I am Miss Constance Fitzfulke.” Duan bowed.
“ They call me Rattlesnake.” “Who’s they?” he
said;
And felt, somehow, girls should not be allowed
To make eyes of the enticing kind she made.
“ They ? — Why the fellows —- all of them—a
crowd,
De Lacy, Pierpoint, Charlie Lisle—you know,”
“ I understand—you’re not what one calls—slow !”
LX.
When she comes begging for a fund or mission,
Jew, Greek, Voltairian, weak or very wise,
You give your obolus—with shamed contrition,
When Heaven returns it threefold, through her
eyes.
7And when you’ve watched Saint Cdlimfene receding,
Veiled like a Quakeress in coif of grey,
The recollection of her tender pleading
Makes you admire Lord Ripon, for the day.
il Slow—not a bit, I’m fast as an express—■
Upon the Midland—and as dangerous.
One of those dolls all you men die to dress,
So that your wives may safely copy us ;
You’ve got a part for me—now come, confess—
You have one : something nice and frivolous,
None of your high art that thins all the houses
Of managers with tragic girls and spouses.
8.
Nor that same evening, when she quits the cloister.
Is the antithesis of her bare breast
Aught than a drop of acid with one’s oyster'—
The peppery pod that gives the dish a zest.
“ You’ll hear me sing; you’ll see me dance : I
flatter
Myself in both I’ll rather startle you.
You see we vagabond ne’er-do-wells scatter
The old traditions to the winds. We’re new,
LXI.
�74
JON DUAN.
And young, and—well, not hideous.” Staring at
her,
Jon Duan, with conviction murmured : “ True.’
u We ’ve seen life off the stage; while your old
shoppy
Damsels know nought beyond a prompter’s copy.
LXII.
“ Our boudoirs, which are little Royal Exchanges,
Afford a curious study of mankind ;
Roam as you like, from Tiber to the Ganges,
And not a better point of sight you’ll find.
But the pure player’s vision seldom ranges
Beyond—say that small spy-hole in the blind,
Through which we peer to see if he is in
His stall; if 1 paper5 ’s in the house—or 1 tin.’
LXIII.
“ Therefore my play will be original,
I’ll be myself upon the boards—a thing
The critic always sees—and ever shall,
Till players are cultivated, and don’t spring,
Like lichens, from the vestiges of all
Professions they have failed in ; covering
Gown, surplice, red coat that’s grown limp and
dangles,
With tragic robes or acrobatic spangles.”
LXIV.
Oh, wiser than the serpent—and much harder
Than any stone, becomes the lovely woman
Who looks on London streets as a vast larder—
A Hounslow Heath where she can stop and do
man
Out of his purse and life. Good fortunes guard her,
As though the one dear creature, frankly human,
In our sick century, whose jaundiced face is
Veiled, and who sespeech one endless periphrase is.
LXV.
Is ’t vile—the Demi monde'?—Why, sale and
barter
In noble drawing-rooms, are just the same,—
The dot, the face, the hoary lecher’s garter,
The father’s money, and the mother’s shame.
Let trousseaux rain, let diamonds of pure water
Deck the dear well-bred maid who’s made her
game !—
Arrange for monsieur’s mistress, madame’s car
riage—
You parody a vile Haymarket marriage.
�JON DUAN.
75
LXXI.
LXVI.
“Your part, my princess ? Oh, it is the best
That even Rachel ever undertook.
The scene: Green Woods, that would make
Telbin’s breast
Grow hot with envy, a small shady nook
That doesn’t smell of paint—The Prettiest
Woman in the World, A Man, whose look
Indicates spooniness beyond disguises—
Discovered talking as the curtain rises.
The wicked Demi monde !—well, is your monde
So whole and sound and healthy ? Are your
wives
Much better than “the others,” and less fond
Of princes, lions, lead they purer lives ?
And is the Social Evil far beyond
Your pinchbeck imitation ? If it thrives,
Is it because it’s honester and franker,
And don’t put so much cold cream on the canker ?
LXXII.
LXVII.
“ The dialogue’s poetic nonsense, Wills
Would give his ears to equal; the bye-play
Is charming ; not all Robertson’s best quills
Could sketch out ‘ business ’ half as sweet
and gay :
The kisses are on flesh and blood that thrills —
Not the light, cold contact of Eau des Fees,
With the best rouge, laid on by feet of hares,
To hide—the feet of crows from searching stares.
We never held Jon Duan an example
Of virtue, such as one finds in the Peerage—
Which teems, of course, with many a brilliant
sample
Of godliness—above all in the sere age,
When man’s ability to sin aint ample—
But lots of genteel Josephs will, I fear, rage
(And wish they’d had a chance with the “ beguil-ah”,)
On hearing how he gave in to Dalilah.
LXXIII.
“ The Time—the Present. Costume—rich enough
To show the wearers are of decent station,
And have a little leisure left for love.
The Plot—ah, ’tis the airiest creation
That ever bard—strong-voiced or silent—wove ;
The simple plot that’s pleased each age and
nation
From Adam’s day to Darwin’s, though the latter,
Thanks unto Gilbert, finds the story flatter.
lxviii.
He fell; where is the man who never fell
At beck of like fair fingers, at th’ invite
Of such a Syren, such a Satan’s belle ?—
He’d be indeed a pure Arthurian knight,
Unlike the Marlborough Club men in Pall Mall.
Jon Duan perished—we may’nt think him right,
Though even blood and iron do give in
To beauty decked out with the Wage of Sin------
LXXIV.
LXIX.
“ The Piece is Love—The Plot, it is love-making.
It’s had a run of some six thousand years.
Come, let us put it in rehearsal, taking
The stage alone, and keeping it. Our ears
Weren’t made for prompter’s whispers !” But
she, shaking
That sunny head of hers, said she had fears
About her memory—was he sure that he'd do ?—
And was that quite a good lever de rideau ?
Which isn’t a bad salary on the whole,
As wages go in these degenerate days ;
When violet powder is less dear than coal;—
At least we know that several pairs of bays
Are kept on those same wages, which a shoal
Of Jew promoters, bankers, lordlings, pays,
Without reflecting on that heinous libel
About the Wage, they might find in the Bible.
LXX.
LXXV.
Jon Duan, fascinated, just declared
The giving of a lady’s part depended
Upon Miss Constance Fitzfulke—and he stared
Quite rudely at the opulent and splendid figure
Before him. But, by no means scared,
With coquetry and prudence subtly blended,
She said his demonstrations touched her heart—
But she would rather like to know her part.
It might come afterwards—as final farce,
For farce it must be—she’s nought, if not funny;
But a too quick denouement often mars
An author’s best piece—and, above all, one he
Has planned so hastily. Profits are sparse,
When one commences with so little money.
She’d see—a little later on—and her
Eyes said that day he’d be the Manager!
|
�JON DUAN.
LXXVI.
“ Well, though we’re very full, I think I’ve found
A small part, that will fit you like a glove,
In my ‘^Eneas,’ a burlesque that’s bound
To beat ‘ Ixion.’ ” " You’re a perfect love !—
But what’s the dress?” “Oh, Roman robes.”
She frowned.
"‘Robes,’ that sounds bad. Don’t Roman
swells approve
Of tights ?” " Well, don’t obey us to the letter,
Wear what you like-—perhaps the less the better.
i
I
LXXVII.
“We’ve got EumidiaJohnson to play Dido.
You’ll have a scene with her.”—“A scene with
Miss
Eumidia Johnson !”—and Miss Constance cried :
" Oh,
You are a darling—Come now—there’s a
kiss!”—
“ She enters speaking to a village guide, who
Stays in the wings—Then Dido utters this :
* Is this the road to Sicily ? ’ The wight
Responds : ‘Just past the cabstand, to your right.’
lxxviii.
‘‘You’ll play the village lass.”—"Well, what
comes next ? ”
"Next—why there’s nothing.” "What! I
don’t appear
At all ! ”—and Miss Fitzfulke looked rather
vexed,—
“Of course not.” “Then why do you make
me wear
A costume ? ”—The librettist said the text
Of his engagement stipulated there
Should be, in smallest details, a sublime
Aud true historic picture of the time.
LXXIX.
"Besides, you’re sure to make Eumidia furious,
She hates a pretty colleague worse than sin ;
And then the Stalls are sure to be most curious
To know who’s Miss Fitzfulke, who ne’er
comes in ;—
A mystery is not at all injurious
When figurantes, who would ‘ see life,’ begin ;
It whets the appetite of wealthy sinners
Seeking their vis-à-vis for Richmond dinners.”
LXXX.
So it was settled. Heaven knows what pact
Between the pair was furthermore concluded.
L
�JON DUAN
One can’t say always how one’s heroes act,
And we’re quite ignorant of what these two
did ;
But there’s one positive and patent fact,
Miss Constance Fitzfulke’s name henceforth
obtruded
Itself in bills, which said her part would be as
Julia in the new Bouffe—“ Pious ?Eneas.”
77 K
in.
The dahlias bleus in courts of Spanish castles,
And, where it’s shady,
The merle blanc chanting,
And floating robes, and feathers, fringe and tassels
That frame the lady
One’s always wanting.
IV.
How sweet are memories of the thin white bodies,
When, sooner or later
Two puffs dismiss them ;
And what love grows for vague lips of the goddess
When the creator
Can never kiss them !
LXXXI.
We know the link between them was soon broken,
That he forgot—and she would not forgive ;—
The usual end of light vows rashly spoken—
The usual end of immortelles we weave
Into a passing fancy’s foolish token.
The Love goes out, and-—well, the lovers live,
And, turning o’er some old creased yellow letter,
He cannot, for his life, tell where he met her.
V.
Ah, those clouds aid the preachers’ exhortations
With apt examples
Of hope’s fruitions,
And breed, in time, that comfortable patience
Which mutely tramples
On vain ambitions.
lxxxii.
One lives—with just another cause for saying
Hard things against the sex which, from our
nurses
Unto our widows, lives but for betraying.
One lives—to vent a few dramatic curses
Upon their heads, and, for our pain’s allaying,
To smoke more pipes, and write more doleful
verses,
Such as Jon Duan wrote in the dyspeptic
Tone of the Jilted who would seem a Sceptic.
VI.
The goddess grows amorphous in the fusion
Of fumes, and none deign
To mend or drape her—
Hence, stoic smokers draw the trite conclusion
That most things mundane
Must end in vapour.
©amtaS.
'
:
VII.
And in the place of peace, and praise, and laurel,
A bay-wrecked boat sees,
From which in deep tone,
Comes o’er the water’s waste—the Master’s moral
Of M<xtcu6t77s
i.
Tell me I’m weary ; say of Pride—it cowers ;
Of love—it bored me ;
Of faith—dove broke it ;
But add, the world’s a weed worth all its flowers,
And fate afford me
The time to smoke it.
MaraiirijTWi'
LXXXIII.
II.
1
They who pretend that this last joy, disabled
From pleasing, duly
Will leave you lonely,
Know not how fortune’s wizard-wand has labelled
The fairy Thule
“For smokers only ;”
|
A first night at the Pandemonium. All
The facade is ablaze. Electric light
Streams from the fronting houses on a wall,
Bearing in letters, half a yard in height:
“Pious .¿Eneas ; or, the Roman Fall,”—
With a few witticisms just as bright
( Vide the theatre columns of the Times'),
Filched from the bills of ancient pantomimes.
�JON DUAN.
y8
LXXXIV.
Cabs are Echeloned in adjoining streets ;
The first-night clan has mustered in full force :
The critics, who’ve got pocketfuls of sheets
Of ready-made abuse or praise, of course ;
Some actors—first nights are their special treats—
An actress, yearning for that strange divorce
Which hangs fire—not because her lord don’t
doubt her,
But just because he’d get no parts without her.
LXXXV.
There’s the small German banker come to see
If this thing threatens his majestic place
As millionaire, supporting two or three
Flourishing houses—not from any base
Desire of pelf, but just to win the key
Of a few dressing-rooms, to know a brace
Of low comedians—and perhaps arrive at
A knowledge of how authors look in private.
LXXXVI.
There’s Rhadamanthus of the Thunderer,
Who generally, to prime himself, dines freely ;
There’s Papa Levy, breathing nard and myrrh
Proffered by Freddy Arnold—styled the Mealy
Gusher—his fond and faithful thurifer.
There’s Sala—with that one jocose and steely
Orb levelled at Hain Friswell like a pistol—•
A fierce carbuncle glowing at a crystal.
LXXXVII.
There’s bland E. Blanchard, with the sleek curled
locks,
There’s the white head that gives the Athenaum
Those pure and classic notices; there flocks
The Civil Service legion—You should see ’em
Passing pretentiously from box to box,
Chanting Anathema, or a Te Deum,
According to their hearers’ love or spite,
For, or against, the author of the night.
LXXXVIII.
And nameless crowds fill up the stalls ; a hum
Subdued goes down the critics’ own first row;
Dawdling Guy Livingstones are stricken dumb
By their profound anxiety to know
Whether Amanda, Lou or Nell will “ come
Out strong ”—or make dear friends'and rivals
crow :
And one by one the detrimentals rise,
And saunter off to see how the ground lies.
LXXXIX.
The secret of this theatre’s success
They know. You pass behind the boxes, thread
Some corridors and galleries that grow less
Thronged as you push on, save by some wellbred
Patrons profound of drama and the Press •
They bribe the latter, by the first are bled ;
You come across a small door where officials
Demand of you your name and her initials.
XC.
And you descend a Dantesque staircase, filled
With that foul feverish air of the coulisse,
Into a world where all essay to build,
Apparently a Babel, not a piece.
At every step you take you’re nearly killed
By carpenters ; by call-boys—cackling geese—■
And men who’re shifting temples, wings, and
drops,
Or handing Grecian goddesses their “props.”
XCI.
Only the maestro is self-possessed
In this great madhouse, set on fire by night—
That’s tHb comparison that suits it best ;—
He, humming shreds of opera airs, makes
light
Of each defect, because all his hopes rest
Upon his music, which will set all right ;
Jon Duan, being a novice at the trade,
Though not less vain, was rather more afraid.
xcn.
He gave the worst directions, quite forgetting
The most important ; he strode to and fro
From prompter to stage manager, upsetting
The watering pots, with which the dust’s laid
low,
When all the scene-shifters have finished “ setting,”
He felt a subtle fever stealing thro’
Him—“Author ! ” heard, and hisses, madly
mingled,
’Twas like champagne drunk through his ears,
which tingled.
xeni.
“ Lend me your rouge.”—“ Miss Amy’s borrowed
it.”
‘‘The hairdresser!”—“He’s occupied.”—
“ I’m in
»
-J
�1 »"
■
I
JON DUAN.
The second scene.”—“I’m in the first!”—“A
chit! ”
“A minx!”—“Oh, dresser, take care with
that pin ! ”
“ Dresser—I’m sure my shoulder-straps will
split.”—
That is the usual last moment’s din—
Traversed by call-boy’s cries, tenor’s objections,
Mechanics’ oaths, and author’s last directions.
XCIV.
Then Dido came down from her dressing-room.
Her maid held up her train—she strode
superb
In sheeny satin—dazzling, with a bloom
From Rimmel’s on that face—that neck you
curb
But with a diamond necklace. Vague perfume,
Distilled from many a rare and precious herb,
Enveloped her—as some ethereal presence,
To which all present made profound obeisance.
xcv.
The maestro bore her poodle, and her fan
Was carried by the manager. She knew
Her power, the jade ! and calmly her gaze ran
Around the stage.
“That chair will never
do”—
And it was changed. “ That drop’s too high ”—
a man
Was straightway sent to lower it—they flew,
They bowed, they, cringed, and felt it a great
honour—
1 Hadn’t they spent ten thousand pounds upon her ?
XCVI.
Then the bell rings—that tinkle which the
hearts
Of authors echo with re-tingling force.
The curtain rises, and the public starts
Quick to its feet, and in a moment’s hoarse
With hailing the fair favourite—from all parts
Bouquets rain down upon her, hurled of course,
79
By hands that have held her’s—and left, too,
there,
Not a few fortunes poets would call fair.
xcvn.
And the applause ne’er ceased, for no one heard
A line, but saw legs after legs succeed
Each other, caper and poussette. No word
Was wanted. All who’ve come have what they
need—
Plenty of lime-light, music, and a herd
Of puppets, pink, and finest of their breed :
That’s why the papers next day chronicled
The piece as one in which France was excelled.
xcvin.
Oh, those encores—those bravoes, how they make
One’s bosom bound, one’s vanity brim o’er.
The modest bounds of reticence we break,
Only behind our inmost chamber’s door—
Where, it is true, a rich revenge we take
For the feigned meekness of an hour before—
But on a first night it’s legitimate
To say, as well as feel convinced, you’re great.
XCIX.
But o’er Jon Duan’s brow a shade would come,
E’en while Queen Dido ran off, flushed with
praise,
And said he was “a perfect treasure.” Some
Dim struggling recollections of the plays
He’d hoped to write—ere this indecent dumb
Show of fine legs—plays, worthy of old days,
And which do one more honour in one’s desk,
Perhaps, than many a popular burlesque.
c.
And so, when Dido and jEneas had
Been called on thrice, he answered to the shout
For “Author ! Author !” with a face half sad,
Half cynical; as, gazing round about,
He saw what philtres made the public mad,
And why they hissed not those fat women out—
And in his heart he thanked, the while he made
his
Bow, the dear friends of all his “ leading ladies.”
�.8o
JON DUAN.
Canto The Seventh.
i.
EARY of London and of London ways,
The glare and glitter of the London nights,
And very weary also of the days,
Which once could minister such rare delights,
Duan, who erst had written many lays
Praising the hundred pleasant sounds and sights
Of this great hive of very busy bees,
Resolved to quit the town and take his ease.
II.
He sometimes liked, although in Fashion’s season,
To bid farewell to sun-dried London streets ;
He could not, nor could we, afford a reason,
To every stupid questioner one meets
Who pries about, as'if suspecting treason,
To find out why the pulse so languid beats,
Or why we seek the hillside, sea, or river,—
And puts it down to a disordered liver.
in.
So Duan turned to fields and pastures new,
Taking a ticket'for the Midland line;
For on the pleasant shores full" well he knew
He might find scenes to soften and refine;
And thinking much about the same, he grew
Almost poetic—till he w ished to dine ;
And then he roused from fancy’s meditation,
And looked in Bradshaw for the stopping station.
IV.
He crossed the border, and at once he felt
A keenness and a rawness in the air ;
A fume of oats and cock-a-leekie smelt,
Heard mingled sounds of blasphemy and prayer;
And saw that on the people’s faces dwelt
A hard and bony Calvinistic stare,
Which seemed to express it] was a Scot’s life
labour
To skin a flint and damn outright his- neighbour.
v.
O, Caledonia ! very stern and wild,
And only dear to those who travel through you ;
The poet says you’re lov’d by each Scotch child,
But you do not believe such nonsense, do you?
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�I"
I
THE “ SOCK.”—A Comedy Company.
��JON DUAN,
What Scotchman is there that would not be riled,
If he was bound for life to stick close to you ?
No, Land of heath, and loch, and shaggy moor,
You’re only dear, say we, to those who tour.
VI.
0, Land of Whisky, Oatmeal, Bastards, Bibles ;
O Land of Kirks, Kilts, Claymores, Kail, and
Cant,—
Of lofty mountains and of very high hills,
Of dreary “Sawbaths,” and of patriot rant;
0 Land which Dr. Johnson foully libels,
To sound thy praises does our hero pant;
And to relate how, from engagements freed,
He calmly vegetated north of Tweed.
VII.
He saw “Auld Reekie,” climbed up Arthur’s Seat,
And thought the modern Athens a fine city;
Admired the view he got from Prince’s Street,
And wished the lassies could have been more
pretty—
With smaller bones, and less decided feet;
He found the cabmen insolent, though witty ;
The Castle "did,” and, ere he slept, had been on
The Carlton’Hill and seen the new Parthenon.
VIII.
The Edinburgh “Sawbath” bored him, though,
’Twas like being in a city of the dead ;
With solemn steps, and faces full of woe,
The people to their kirks and chapels sped,
Heard damning doctrines, droned some psalms,
and so
Went home again with Puritanic tread;
Pulled down their blinds, and in the evening
glooms,
Got very drunk in their back sitting-rooms.
IX.
All, outward form—it is the old, old story :
The Pharisee his presence still discloses:—
They go to church, they give to God the glory ;
They roll their eyes, and snuffle through their
noses;
Tow’rds other sinners hold views sternly gory,
And are great sticklers for the law of Moses.
Then go home, shut their doors, and, as a body,
Go in for secret sins and too much “ toddy.”
81
�82
JON DUAN.
x.
But westward was the cry, and Duan went
To Balloch Pier, and steamed up Lomond’s
loch ;
And felt inclined for silent sentiment ;* —
But tourists crowded round him in a flock,
And vulgarised the scenery, and lent
A disenchantment to the view ; ’tis shock
ing how they can a fellow-traveller worry,
And bore him with th'eir manners and their
“ Murray.”
XI.
They “ do ” their nature as they would a sum,
And rule off scenery like so much cash :
They quote their guide-books, or they would be
dumb :
A waterfall to them is but a splash ;
A mountain but so many feet;—they come,
And go, and see that nature does not clash
With dinner. And take home as travel’s fruit
An empty purse and worn-out tourist-suit.
XII.
Soon Duan fled the beaten track, nor rested
Till, fortunate, he chanced upon a village
From tourist-locusts free, and uninfested
By Highland landlords who the traveller
pillage—•
A spot with towering mountain-walls invested,
And given up to pasturage and tillage,
Whilst in the distance, dimly, through a crevice,
You saw the summit of cloud-capp’d Ben Nevis.
XIII.
Here Duan stayed, and fished—there was a burn ;
And flirted—for of course there was a lass
there ;
Tried Gaelic epithets of love to learn ;
Climbed every mountain, and explored each
pass there,
And set himself, in philosophic turn,
To study the condition of the mass there ;
And found they lived, chiefly on milk and porridge,
In hovels where we wouldn’t store up forage.
XIV.
Hovels of mud and peat, with plots of ground
Just large enough to grow their owner’s oats ;
A cow, a lank, lean sheep or two he found, i
Some long-legged fowls, and p’rhaps a pair of
goats :
�JON DUAN.
------- —...
—~—.-------------------- ,------------------- ----
Inside, nor roofs, nor walls, nor windows sound—
They’re worse than huts of Sclaves, or Czechs,
or Croats :
So lives, and will live, till lairds’ hearts grow
softer,
That remnant of the feudal days, the crofter.
xv.
He pays but little rent, but even then
Body and soul he scarce can keep together:
His wife and daughters have to work like men,
Subsistence hangs on such a fragile tether;
And when the snow comes drifting up the glen,
God knows how they survive the wintry weather.
We fuss about the happy South Sea Islanders,
But have no thought for these half-starving
Highlanders.
XVI.
He walked through tracts of country—countless
acres,—
White men ejected that red-deer may live ;
And let to rich and purse-proud sugar-bakers,
Who care not what the rent is that they give ;
Nor that they have been desolation-makers,—
To use a very mild appelative—
And when he saw these forests so extensive,
Those Highland deer, thought he, were too ex
pensive.
XVII.
Sport is a proper thing enough—we are
No weak and sickly sentimentalists ;
But what is sport ? For very, very far
The definitions differ : one insists
It’s battue-shooting; then, a butcher, bar
None, is the greatest sportsman that exists—
He’s slaughtering always ; not a lord whose study
It is to make big bags, is half as bloody.
XVIII.
A slaughter-house would be a new delight
For high-born ladies who “ warm corners visit,5’
And relish pigeon-shooting—’twould excite
Fresh joys to see a pig stuck, and to quiz it
As it dies slowly with a squeal of fright ;
For if they like the killing so, why is it
They draw the line at pigeon or at pheasant ?—
To see big beasts killed would be still more
pleasant.
83
�84
JON DUAN.
XIX.
But to our muttons, that is, to our deer—
Stalking the stag is proper sport, we grant ;
But British sport should never interfere
With British people’s welfare—if we can’t
Hunt deer unless a country-side’s made drear
And desolate,—why, then it’s clear, we shan’t
Be acting properly to make a waste
To suit a few rich sportsmen’s vulgar taste.
xx.
John Duan heard sad tales of men being turned
From ’neath their treasured and ancestral roof;
And sheep by thousands could be kept, he learn’d,
Where now, save for the deer, there roams no
hoof ;—
He look’d on ruin’d homes, and his heart burned
With indignation, as he saw fresh proof
Of how the man, with money in his hand,
Can rough-shod ride o’er all the privileged land.
*
XXI.
And he came back to England, his heart burning
To tell his story in the Daily News ;
Resolved to stay this very general turning
Of fertile land to desert : but his views
Met with but faint encouragement ;—discerning
I® Men thought him right : but, just then, to amuse
The public, there came up a new sensation—Sir Henry Thompson’s paper on Cremation.
XXII.
So, up in Scotland there are, still, evictions,
And still all else gives way to sport a»d game :
No matter how severe are the inflictions
On harmless people : still it is the same.
There must be deer and grouse ; and soon in
fictions
Alone will live the Highlander’s proud name.
Perish the people, and whate’er would war
With rich and selfish pleasures—Vive le Sport !
* It is worthy of record that a’ Scotch nobleman, whose
large estate is, by dint of wholesale evictions and purposed
neglect, being turned into deer-forests—called forests, seem
ingly, because they do not contain a single tree—has been
able, by the exercise of his lordly will, to prevent the post
office telegraph-wires passing over a part of his property,
where, for the convenience of hundreds of isolated people, it
would have been especially useful. His lordship's most
urgent argument against the wires was that they would
frighten his grouse ! The wires have accordingly made a
détour, and his lordship's unfortunate tenants are left prac
tically cut off from the world, to get ill, and get well again,
as best they can, and to die without being able to make a
sign. Meanwhile, the grouse are not frightened—which is,
of course, a great blessing.
�JON DUAN.
Canto The Eighth.
1.
iHss^gji FRAGRANT odour of the choicest weeds,
A hum of voices, pitched in high-born tones ;
A score of fellows, some of our best breeds,
The Heir-apparent to the British throne ;
Soft-footed flunkeys tending to their needs—
The vintage in request, to-night, is Beaune—
Luxurious lounging-chairs, well-stuffed settees,
An air of lavishness, and taste, and ease.
II.
The walls are covered with a set of frames
Containing all the members limned by “ Ape”;
The loungers bear our most illustrious names,
At which the outside public gasp and gape.
That is a duke’s son who just now exclaims—
“ Avaunt, ye ‘ World’ly and unholy shape ! ”
And he who enters, being the “ shape ” he means,
Is little Labby, fresh from City scenes.
III.
There is more chatter: — “ How are ‘Anglo's'
now ?”—
“Were you at Prince’s
Isn’t Amy stunning ? ”—
“ The bets are off.”—“.She waltzes like a cow.”—
“ It’s Somerset is making all the running.”—
“Churchill’s on guard.”—“ 0, yes, a devilish
row! ”—
“ It’s in the World?—“ I say, Wales, Yorke is
punning.”—
“The framjous muff!”—“By Jove! an awful
joke!”—
Such are the words that penetrate the smoke.
IV.
Guelpho is beaming, as he always beams,
And listening to Jon Duan’s latest “ tips”;
Upon a sofa Wodecot lies and dreams
Of other hearts, and Nellie’s charming lips ;
The air with pretty little scandals teems,
Of men’s mistakes and pretty women’s slips.
What looked you for within the sacred portals ?—
The Guelpho Clubmen, after all, are mortals.
V.
;
Again the noiseless door swings open wide,
And Coachington is with a loud roar greeted.
85
1 Is Bromley still by Bow? ” a witling cried,
Before the new arrival could be seated;
But he—he had sat down by Guelpho’s side—
Said, “ I bought this outside,” and then repeated,
From a broadsheet of ballads, ’midst much
laughter,
The “ Coster’s Carol ” you’ll find following after.
•
'GIjc Cms'trr’ja Garni.
1.
I may be rough an’ like 0’ that,
But I ain’t no bloomin’ fool;
An’ I’m rather up to what is what,
Though I never goed to school.
I know my way about a bit,
An’ this is what I say :—■
That it’s those as does the business
As ought to get the pay !
2.
I ain’t no grudge agen the Queen,
Leastways, that is, no spite ;
But I helps to keep her, so I mean
To ax for what’s my right:—
An’ as she won’t come out at all,
It’s not no ’arm to say,
That if she don’t do the business,
Why, she shouldn’t get the pay.
*
0
She’s livin’ on the cheap, I’m told.
An’ puttin’ lots away—
Some gets like that when they is old—
But what I want’s fair play !
Let Wictoria get her pension,
An’ up in Scotland stay—
But let them as do her business,
Be the ones to get most pay.
4I think as ’ow her eldest son
’As got a hopen ’art;
I likes his looks, myself, for one,
An’ I alius takes his part.
And then there’s Alexandrar,
She’s a proper sort, I say ;
Them’s the two as do the business,
An’ they ought to get the pay.
•
�JON DUAN.
86
5.
There ain’t to me the slightest doubt
(An’ no hoffence I means)—•
’Tis the moke as draws the truck about,
As ought to get most greens.
We do not starve the old ’uns,
But we give much less to they—
’Tis the ones as do the business
As ought to have the pay«
>
6.
I pay my whack for queen or king,
Like them o’ ’igher birth ;
An’ ’taint a werry wicked thing
To want my money’s worth :
An’ if I’m discontented,
’Tis only ’cause I say—
That the coves as does the business .
Ought to get the bloomin’ pay.
• 7So let the Queen her ways pursoo,
An’ I for one won’t weep ;
An’ all the idle Jarmints, too,
As I helps for to keep.
But what I ’ope ain’t treason,
Is boldly for to say
That the Prince and Alexandrar
Ought to get their mother’s pay.
VI.
“ What impudence 1 ” they cry, and yet they laugh,
And Duan says, “ The logic isn’t bad :
A lot of truth is sometimes mixed with chaff.
And, by-the-by, if’t please you, I will add
A parody I’ve made : on its behalf
I claim your leniency.” Then he gave tongue,
And in his rich, ripe voice these verses sung :—
€I)at (Germans 3)£h>.
London, 18'74.
Which I wish to remark—
And my language is plain—
That for ways that are dark,
And tricks far from vain,
The Germany Jew is peculiar,
Which the same I’m about to explain.
Eim Gott was his name ;
And I shall not deny
In regard to the same,
He was wonderful “ fly,”
But his watch-chain was vulgar and massive,
And his manner was dapper and spry.
It’s two years come the time,
Since the mine first came out;
Which in language sublime
It was puffed all about:—
But if there’s a mine called Miss Emma
I’m beginning to werry much doubt.
Which there was a small game
And Eim Gott had a hand
In promoting ! The same
He did well understand
But he sat at Miss Emma’s board-table,
With a smile that was child-like and bland.
Yet the shares they were “ bulled,”
In a way that I grieve,
And the public was fooled,
Which Eim Gott, I believe,
Sold 22,000 Miss Emmas,
And the same with intent to deceive.
And the tricks that were played’
By that Germany Jew,
And the pounds that he made
Are quite well known to you.
But the way that he flooded Miss Emma
Is a “watering” of shares that is new.
Which it woke up MacD------ ,
And his words were but few.
For he said, “ Can this be ? ”
And he whistled a “ Whew !”
“ We are ruined by German-Jew swindlers”!—
And he went for that Germany J ew.
In the trial that ensued
I did not take a hand ;
But the Court was quite filled
With the fi-nancing band,
And Eim Gott was “ had ” with hard labour,
For the games he did well understand.
Which is why I remark—
And my language is plain—
That for ways that are dark,
And for tricks far from vain.
The Germany Jew was peculiar,—
But he won’t soon be at it again.
�JON DUAN.
VII.
The verdict was “ Not bad ! ” and then the chat
Turned on the Mordaunt Trial and Vert-Vert
case :—
“ The plaintiff’s 1 Fairlie ’ beaten,” Jon said ; at
Which witticism there was a grimace ;
Next, little Labby, who till then had sat
Quite quietly, said, at Fred Bates’s place
He’d seen a skit, he quite forgot to bring it,
But knew the words, and if they liked, he’d sing it.
“ 3E
im'tlj (grant.”
“ I was with Grant----- ” the stranger said ;
Said McDougal, 11 Say no more,
But come you in—I have much to ask—
And please to shut the door.”
“ I was with Grant----- ” the stranger said;
Said McDougal, “Nay, no more,—
You have seen him sit at the Emma board ?
Come, draw on your mem’ry’s store.
“ What said my Albert—my Baron brave,
Of the great financing corps ?
I warrant he bore him scurvily
’Midst the interruption’s roar ! ”
“No doubt he did,” said the stranger then ;
“ But, as I remarked before,
I was with Grant----- ” “Nay, nay, I know,”
Said McDougal; “but tell me more.
“ He’s presented another square 1—I see,
You’d smooth the tidings o’er—
Or started, perchance, more Water works
On the Mediterranean shore ?
“ Or made the Credit Foncier pay,
Or floated a mine with ore ?
Oh, tell me not he is pass’d away
From his home in Kensington Gore !”
“ I cannot tell,” said the unknown man,
“ And should have remarked before,
That I was with Grant—Ulysses, I mean—
In the great American war.”
End
87
Then McDougal spake him never a word,
But beat, with his fist, full sore
The stranger who’d been with Ulysses Grant,
In the great American war.
VIII.
Then City men they most severely “ slated”—
Chiefly the banking German Jew variety.
How is it, Landford asked, cads, aggravated
As they, have wriggled into good society ?
And some one said their path to it is plated,
And looked at Guelpho with assumed anxiety.
But Guelpho, ever genial, smiled and said,
“ Suppose we have some loo (unlimited).”
IX.
But Duan wouldn’t play, but said he’d read
Some of the proofs of his new work instead ;
At which there was a loud outcry, indeed,
And soda corks assailed our hero’s head,
Until he promised he would not proceed.
“ And, by the way, J on,” Beersford said, “ I read
That Lord and Dock’s new Annual was out.”
Jon shrugged his shoulders, “ Yes,” he said, “no
doubt,
X.
“ Very much out indeed ; 4t seems to me
That Beeton’s statement was not far from true,
For from internal evidence I see
He could have had naught with their book to do.
I know him, and whatever he may be,
He is not vulgar ; knows a thing or two ;
Has brains, in fact, and has not got to grovel
In worn-out notions, but goes in for novel.”
XI.
And now for loo the cry was raised again,
And there’s a general movement towards the
door;
And humming as he went the coster’s strain,
Duan, with Guelpho, sought the second-floor.
Said Coming K----- , “ Come, Duan, please refrain;
Such sentiments, you know, I must deplore.”
But Duan—“ It’s done ; we’ve put it to the nation—
We’ve gone in for an Early Abdication !”
OF J on
Duan.
�88
SPINNINGS IN TOWN
Spinnings in Town.
•
i.
Although unversed in lays and ways Byronic,
And of Don Juan not a line have read,
Although I’ve never touched the lyre Ionic,
And even nursery-rhymes in prose have said,
Yet for a change I’ll try the gentle Tonic
Of verses, that must be with kindness read,
And, being counselled by some good advisers,
Will journey, too—but to see advertisers.
II.
For I have heard a murmur of fair sights,
All to be seen within gay London town,
Of robes delicious, bonnets gay as sprites,
Cuirasses braided, and jet-spangled gown.
Inventions useful, such as give delight
To all good housewives (those that do not frown
At novelty, or, when they’re asked to try it,
Say, “ It looks very nice, but I shan’t buy it.”)
hi.
Not for such churlish souls, I sing the news—
Not for the women who don’t care for dress ;
Our sex’s armour ne’er did I refuse,
And, without mauvaise honte, I will confess
That, when I’m asked of two new gowns to choose,
I do not take the one which costs the less,
Unless ’tis prettier far ; and then I say,
“ Admire your sposds moderation, pray !”
IV.
I am a Silkworm, spinner by profession,
And make long yarns from very slender case,
I love new things and pretty—this confession
Alone should give me absolution’s grace
From all who read my lines and my digression,
Which I can’t really help—words grow apace—
For I could write whole volumes on a feather,
If I had not to put the rhymes together.
v.
Man’s dress is of man’s life a thing apart:
To Poole or Melton he with calmness goes ;
But woman’s toilette lies so near her heart,
That ’tis with doubts, and fears, and many throes
�BY THE i1ILK WORM.
!
'
’
!
i
In visiting the rounds of shop and mart,
That she selects a ribbon or a rose.
Her fate in life doth oft depend, I ween,
If she be struck with just that shade of green.
VI.
Beauteous Hibernia ! (Britons, do not frown
At rhapsodies from one who owes her much)
What could one do without a poplin gown,
Whose folds take graceful form from every
touch ?
These lips have never pressed the Blarney
11 stone ”—
No flattery ’tis to speak of fabrics such
As are produced in Inglis-Tinckler factory—
Oh dear me! all these rhymes are so refractory.
VII.
To Ireland, too, we owe a great invention ;
For warmth and comfort in the wintry cold,
The Ulster Coat is just the thing to mention,
For driving to the covert, or be rolled
In, for the morning train, or Great Extension
Line Terminus, within its cosy fold,
N or snow nor wet shall harm you, if but ye
Buy Ulster Coats alone of John McGee.
X.
And for yourselves, who to the coverts go,
In dog-cart neat, oft in the pouring rain,
The Ulster Deer-Stalker’s a coat that so
Will keep you dry, and save rheumatic pain.
It useful is in travelling, to and fro
The country station, and must prove a gain.
’Tis so becoming to a figure tall !
In fact, it suits all mankind, great and small.
XI.
Where to begin, and whither wend my way !
Shall I to Atkinson or Jay first go?
Look at Black Silk Costumes sold cheap by Jay;
Or view chairs, tables, carpets, row by row ;
Inspect the “ Brussels, five-and-two,” or say,
“ Prices of furniture I wish to know ; ”
Look at the mirrors, view the marquet’rie,
Gaze at the inlaid work, or wander free ?
XII.
Through gall’ries large, and through saloons light,
vast,
I cast a hasty glance on either hand,
Rich carvings chaste, cretonnes so bright, and
fast
Colours.
VIII.
Say what you will about furs in cold weather,
Sing of the warmth of seal skin as you please,
’Gainst cold, or ice, or snow, or all together,
Give me the Ulster Overcoat of frieze !
Useful in Autumn, driving the heather;
Safeguard in Winter against cough or sneeze ;
But, as they imitate the Ulster Coat,
See that the maker’s name (McGee) you note.
*
IX.
Ladies’ Costumes, and Suits of Irish stuff,
Windermere lining, soft, of every shade,
Cuirasses matelasse see enough
To turn the head of either wife or maid.
I think no woman born could ever “huff”
If in such lovely garments but arrayed,
So, Fathers, Husbands, Brothers, try to find
If Ladies’ Ulster Coats” won’t suit your
womankind.
* John G. McGee and Co., Belfast, Ireland.
89
I note enough to deck the land
With CURTAINS, COVERS, that will surely last
When Time has ta’en the pencil from this hand,
Which strives to give a notion (somewhat faint)
Of furniture that would tempt e’en a saint.
XIII.
Talk of Temptation ! just call in at Jay’s !
The London Mourning Warehouses, I
mean,
In Regent Street ; ’tis crowded on fine days
With the élite of London, and the Queen
Has patronised the house, and without lèseMajesté, I may mention she has seen
Such crêpe of English and of foreign make,
That from no other house she will it take.
XIV.
Yet at the present moment ’tis not crêpe,
But SILK COSTUMES that I would bid all see
(Six pounds sixteen !) of the last cut and shape
The best Parisian models ! flowing free,
--------------- - ----------------------------._____ .___________ _t
�SPINNINGS IN TOWN
90
The graceful folds from dainty bows escape,
Harmonious corsages with the skirts agree;
See what a change French politics have made—
Silks cost just double when they Nap. obeyed ! J
XV.
Then there’s another Jay, whose house full well
Both English maids and New York matrons
know ;
“ The best store out for lingerie, du tell,”
’Tis near unto the mourning warehouse, so
You can’t mistake the maison Samuel
Jay, of high renown for brides’ trousseaux,
Infants’ layettes, and morning toilettes cozy
(For my part, I like cashmere, blue or rosy).
XVI.
Those who do mourn, or wish to compliment
Acquaintances, connections, or their friends,
Who do not care to see much money spent
(For crape turns brown, and ravels at the ends),
Should get the Albert Crape, an excellent
Crape, good to look at; it intends
To be the only crape used ; GOOD and cheap—
Considerations strong for those who weep.
XVII.
Being close by, what hinders me to visit
The Wanzer Company, Great Portland
Street ?—
The Little Wanzer, a machine exquisite—
With such a lockstitch, sewing is a treat;
It works away on any stuff, nor is it
One of those kind whose stitching is not neat ;
Though small, it sews as well as Wanzer D,
Or Wanzer F—“ machine for family.”
XVIII.
Why trouble we to stitch by midnight taper,
New cuffs and collars for our future wear,
When we can buy our lingerie of PAPER,
Each day put on a parure, white and fair?
Collars,which keep their stiffness ’spite of vapour,
Cuffs fit for maid and matron debonair.
Collars and CUFFS, shirt-fronts for gentleman—
These are in Holborn sold, by Edward Tann.
xix.
Holborn the High, number three hundred eight,
There one can buy all kinds of paper things,—
Japanese curtains, ws&jupons for state
Occasions, ’broidered all in wheels and rings.
The paper well doth ’broidery simulate,
’Tis raised and open; then the’re blinds and
strings,
Of paper all, most curious to view—
Think of the saving in the washing, too !
xx.
How difficult it is to find out rhymes
For Vose’s Portable Annihilator,
Which gardens waters, fires checks betimes !
Or Loysel’s Hydrostatic Percolator
For making coffee in,—oh Christmas chimes !
I can’t find any rhyme except Equator,
And that means naught: I want the world to
know it,
They’re made at Birmingham by Griffiths,
Browett.
xxi.
Respite is near, or surely I’d be undone;
’Tis one o’clock, and time to have some lunch.
Where shall I turn ? Of course unto the London,
Where, in the Ladies’ Room, we find Fim,
Punch,
To while the time we spend on things so mundane
(As well as other papers), while we munch
Good things, and menus gay and cartes unravel,
Learn that the restaurant is kept by Reed and
Cavell.
xxii.
The London Restaurant is famed for dinners,
(The London is in Fleet Street, by the way,
Close unto Temple Bar); too good for sinners,
By far the dinner that is set each day.
I took my lads there when not out of “ pinners,”
The first time that they ever saw a play.
When children go to see the Pantomime,
’Tis at The London they should stop and dine.
XXIII.
The SKATING SUITS for ladies next claim my
Attention, for the weather’s very cold;
�91
BY THE SILKWORM.
These suits are useful both for wet and dry
Weather, and draped are in graceful fold,
Shorter or longer, looped up low or high,
Forming jupons by means of ribbons’ hold ;—
And these costumes, accompanied by muff
To match, and edged with fur, are warm enough
XXIV.
To keep each joliefrileuse free from harm,
E’en in Siberia’s frozen climate drear;
Where everlasting snows keep endless calm,
And toes are nipped up in a way that here
We cannot comprehend, nor guess what charm
Keeps men alive, far from all they hold dear—
I’m sure that I should die could I not meet
A friend and go to shop in Conduit Street.
xxv.
Where, by the bye, ladies will always find,
At Benjamin’s, cloth habits to their taste ;
And will discover, if they have a mind,
Most useful pleated skirts, in which a waist
(That’s pretty in itself) looks most refined,
And tapers from the folds, if neatly laced.
Dear dames, if you will give my words fair weight,
Call in Conduit Street at Number Thirty-eight.
xxvi.
But if indeed, you will “Take my Advice,”
As well as all “Things that you ought to
KNOW,”
You’ll go for Diaries and books so nice
Unto James Blackwood’s, Paternoster
Row,
Where information’s given in a trice,
On Pocket Books and Diaries, and so
Cheap are these works that there is no excuse
Left, if these diaries you do not use.
xxviii.
Auriferous visions on my eyeballs strike—
No imitation, it must be real gold,
This jewell’ry made by the Brothers Pyke ;
Yet ’tis but Abyssinian, we are told;
How difficult to credit! It’s so like
To eighteen carat that we’re often “ sold.”
As for pickpockets, I have heard that they
Have left off stealing chains, finding they may
XXIX.
No profit get from Gold that is AS good
As the real, veritable Simon Pure ;
So, honest turn these rogues, once understood
Among their set, that profits come no more.—
With Abyssinian gold to clasp one’s hood,
We safely stand at Covent Garden’s door;
For many a thief has got in sad disgrace
For gold made by The Pykes in Ely Place.
xxx.
To wear with Abyssinian Golden chain,
A cheap and good watch you will get of Dyer,
At Number Ninety, Regent Street; remain
Till you have seen the watches you require,
Superior Levers, patent keyless—gain,
These watches don’t, or lose ; at prices higher
You may have watches, but not better see
Than Dyer’s Watches, Clocks, and Jewellery.
xxxi.
Oh, for the pen of Byron, or such a wight
Who could help a poor rhymster in a fix I
How can I e’er explain that Mr. Hight
’s invented a Revolving Cipher Disc.
Easy to execute by day or night,
Yet difficult to solve or to unmix
The cipher, and from all suspicion clear ;
Essentials held by Bacon and Napier.
XXVII.
But wherefore ask for clever Cooking Book,
If open fires are seen where’er one roves,
Or why on coloured illustrations look,
If that we can’t have Solar cooking Stoves;
Oh! joyful news for housewives and for cooks !—
Portable, too, fancy a stove that moves
Easily ! Yet these stoves are to be seen
At Bishopsgate Street Within, at Brown and
Green.
-
XXXII.
To rest awhile from “ciphering” my brain,
I turn to Pictures of fair Scenery—
The Upper Alpine World—again, again,
These visions fair by Loppe I would see :
They’re shown in Conduit Street; and I would fain
Return unto that lovely gallery—
Pictures by Loppe please me so, I’m willing
For six days in the week to pay my shilling.
�92
SPINNINGS IN TOWN
XXXIII.
A shilling is a pretty little sum,
And with three halfpence added, we can get
Almost each PlLL that’s made ; let’s count them ;
come
And see if the long list I do know yet—
I ought to, for the press is never dumb
Upon the merits of the whole, round set;
Thinking with Thackeray, that we shall find
A favourite pill with each “ well-ordered mind.”
XXXIV.
First, Grains of Health must stand, because
they’re new
And TASTELESS, being COATED o’er with PEARL,
I think they’re Dr. Ridge’s ; ’tis he who
Gives us digestive biscuits fit for girl,
Or infant delicate ; truth, there are few
Dyspeptics who don’t take them. Where’s the
churl
Who will not try, to ease life’s many ills,
A single remedy, say Roberts’ Pills.
XXXV.
Page Woodcock, too, has made a wondrous name
For curing every ill that you may mention ;
While Brodie’s cures (miraculous) the same
For Corns and Bunions :—it wasmy intention
To name Clarke’s Blood Mixture, of which
the fame
Is well established ; but I must my pen shun,
If I go on like this : I really feel
My hair turns grey while rhyming—where’s LaTREILLE ?
XXXVI.
Restoring and producing all one’s hair
Within short time and on the baldest place :
“ Waiting for copy ! ” is the cry, so there,
I cannot mention half I would, with grace :—
Wright’s Pilosagine, Eade’s Pills for pain
in face—
And yet I think ’twould really be a scandal
If I omit the Hair Restorer : Sandell.
xxxvii.
For New Year’s Offering, and for Christmas Box,
Rowland’s Odonto, and Macassar Oil,
With Rowlands’ Kalydor, which really mocks
Youth’s bloom, removing trace of time and toil.
For Jewel-Safes and thief-detecting locks
Try Chubb, his patent safes will always foil
Both fire and thief, do with them all they can—■
A first-rate present for a gentleman !
XXXVIII.
While for the ladies, surely you can’t err,
To buy for them a Whight and Mann Ma
chine,
For hand or foot, indeed this will please her,
Whom you denominate your household Oueen :
But as some women dearly love to stir
Abroad to choose their presents, then I ween,
You will do well to take her some morn,
To buy a new machine in famed Holborri.
XXXIX.
In Charles Street, number four, you’ll find
that Smith
And Co. have of MACHINES a various stock;
There you can test machines and see the pith
Of all their varied workings—chain and lock.
’ Oh, for the pen of Owen Meredith,
That I no more with such bad rhymes need shock
Your feelings ; but, remember, while you’re there,
To look at Weir’s machines, also in Soho
Square.
XL.
Taking one’s teeth out is a painful thing; —
We don’t much like this parting with our bones;—
But what if PAINLESS DENTISTRY I sing,
Which all mankind can have from Mr. JONES?
Of all the new inventions ’tis the king.
Imagine teeth out, minus all the groans !
We’ll turn to other subjects, if you please,
A GUINEA BUNCH of TWENTY-FIVE ROSE TREES.
XLI.
This is a Christmas-box for those who love
Their gardens; and George Cooling’s nursery,
Bath,
Roses supplies in quantities above
This number at a cheaper rate : he hath
�93
BY THE SILKWORM.
Collections good, as many prizes prove,
Taken for roses for the bed or path.
Another swift transition if you please,
Go to H. Webber for your Christmas cheese.
xlii.
With cheese we want good wine; and, as the short
Old-fashioned phrase is, “ Good wine needs no
bush,”
So I name simply Hedges-Butler’s PORT,
Sure that when you your chair backward do push
The vintage will not upon you retort
With sudden seizure or with gouty rush.
In fact, I’m told you may drink many pledges
In wine that’s bought of Butler and of Hedges.
xliii.
How can I possibly find rhymes to fit
The MAGNETICON, Or SYCHNOPHYLAX ;
Even our well-beloved Ozokerit
Candles, which do so much resemble wax,
Not easy are to verse on ; I will quit
These subjects, and try if Opoponax,
Sweetest of perfumes, will not yield me any.
Oh, yes ! here’s one—Piesse’s Frangipanni.
XLIV.
Piesse and Lubin an oasis make,
All in the foggy air of New Bond Street;
At number two, their resting place they take,
Filling surroundings with their odours sweet.
LlGN Aloes, Turkish pastiles for your sake,
Oh, English maids, to make your charms com
plete.
Ladies, indeed, you will have cause to bless
The labours skilled of Lubin and Piesse.
xlv.
No space is left of Bragg’s Carbon to speak,
Or mention Stevenson’s new firewood ;
To praise Slack’s spoons and forks would take
a week,
Or Crosby’s Elixir for cough so good ;
Magnetine (Darlow’s patent for the weak),
Or Barnard’s pretty novelties in wood ;
The “ Eastern Condiment ” for our cold mutton,
And Green and Cadbury’s the very button.
xlvi.
MOSES and SON require an annual quite
Unto themselves to simply name their stock ;
OetzmAnn’s carpets all the world delight,
And scraps for SCREENS are sold by Jam&s Lock
Chocolat Menier is the thing for night
And morning meals. You can physicians mock
If you but take—indeed I am not maline—
A daily draught of the Pyretic Saline.
xlvii.
Who can explain why Stoneham, of Cheapside,
Should of EACH SHILLING SPENT, THREEPENCE
RETURN
Unto the buyer? and in fact has tried,
By this means, custom to his till to turn ;
Succeeded, too : hath not the public hied
To him, and “come” like butter in a churn.
Pour moi, I feel so very, very cross,
When in a crowd, that threepence gained is
loss.
XL VIII.
Fleet’s Mineral Waters next demand a word ;
Dietz and Co. have lamps not to be slighted—
Where these burn grumbling tones are never
heard—
The largest room by Paragon’s well lighted.
There are so many, that ’tis quite absurd,
With Asser-Sherwin’s bags I am delighted ;
Their wedding presents and their writing
cases
Will bring a blush of joy to merry faces.
XLIX.
In dear old Shakespeare I have often read
Of 44 bourne from which no traveller returns,”
And an idea will come into my head,
Just think of never leaving Addley Bourne’s,
Renowned for trousseaux and for cradle-beds,
Infants’ layettes—fair robes de chambre—one
learns
Such trimmings, sees such treasures—willy, nilly,
We can’t keep long away from Piccadilly.
�SPINNINGS IN TOWN.
94
L.
A change comes o’er the spirit of my dream,
Where I have often stood I seem to stand,
Sweet odours on my aching senses stream—
I’m opposite to Rimmel in the Strand,
Whose kindly influence on our homes doth beam,
And fills with joy each child’s heart in the land,
Where we behold his Christmas novelties,
His perfumed almanacs, and such things as
these:
LI.
The robin, and the toys for Christmas trees,
The Comic Almanac and fan bouquet,
Delicious scents and perfumes that do seize
Upon the weary brain :—restore the gay
And cheerful tone, and give the headache ease.
All these we owe to him, who holdeth sway
O’er all sweet scents ! Ye perfumed sachets tell
This great magician’s name! It is—it is—Rimmel !
LII.
And now my pen from weary hand doth fall,
And with humility I lay aside
A task which p’raps some spinners might appal;
But pleasant has it been to me to glide
From one to other subject, touching all
With kindly hand, and what doth me betide
At critic’s pen I care not, for the rest
I’ve done,comme toujours, just my “level best.”
The Silkworm.
MYRA, late Editress of BEETONS “ YOUNG ENGLISHWOMAN."
MYRA’S LETTERS on DRESS & FASHION.
In Illustrated Wrapper.
Containing Sixteen Pages, Large Quarto, size of the London Journal, Bow Bells, Qh’c.
PRICE TWOPENCE, MONTHLY.
PROPOSE to issue, every month, beginning next
February, a Journal for Ladies, which shall contain Instruc
tions and Advice in connection with Dress and Fashion.
Several different departments will be necessary to make this
Journal useful to the thousands of Ladies whom I hope to have
as Subscribers or Correspondents. >
Original Articles from Paris, contributed by Madame
Goubaud, will appear, from which a knowledge will be gained
of the newest Materials and coming Modes.
Mademoiselle Agnes Verboom, long a Contributor to Mr.
Beeton’S Fashion Journals here, and to the leading Lady’s
Paper in America, will write a Monthly Letter on the Changes in
Fashion.
Diagrams, full-sized, for cutting out all kinds of Articles of
Dress, will be issued every month ; and frequently Paper Models
themselves will be issued with Myra’s Journal.
From the Grand Magasin du Louvre, the first house in Paris,
I shall receive bulletins of their latest Purchases, and accounts
of what is most in vogue in the Capital of Fashion.
For my. personal writing, I shall continue the same plan
which I originated, under the name of Myra, in Mr. Beeton’s
“Young Englishwoman.” Mr. Beeton no longer edits that
Journal, and Myra's Letters will not appear there in future.
My Letters there were so successful, and the Advice I was
able to give seemed so prized by my Correspondents, that I
believe I shall be doing some service by devoting the whole
space of a Monthly Journal to the subjects of Taste and
Economy in Dress, and the Alteration of Dress.
I shall, therefore, every month, answer all Correspondents
who seek information upon
I
WHAT DRESSES TO WEAR
. AND
HOW TO ALTER DRESSES.
I will pay the most careful attention to any Letters sent me,
so that I may answer enquiries with the closest and most exact
details ; and whilst giving Instructions as .to the best Style of
Dress and the Alteration of Dress, I shall be anxious to state
what is not to be done, aS well as what is to be done, in the
important matter of the Toilette.
Letters from Correspondents received by me not later than
the 20th of the month- will be answered in the next Myra’S
Journal. But all enquiries should be made of me, as much as
possible, at the beginning of the month, so as to give me ample
time to obtain and prepare particular information on any knotty
point.
A Free Exchange, gratis, and open to all who have Articles
to dispose of, or barter for others, will be opened in Myra's
Journal. The Addresses of Exchangers must be printed, in
order to have the benefit of the Free Exchange. Addresses,
however, can be entered upon the payment of One Shilling in
postage stamps, to defray necessary expenses. Rules in con
nection with the Exchange will be found in Myra’s Journal.
Some Ladies, on certain occasions, are anxious to receive
immediately information as to what is the proper kind of Dress
to Wear, or how to Alter the Dresses that they have. To serve
these Ladies, I will state in writing, by return of post, what is
the best course for them to take. When questions are thus
asked for, to be answered by post, enquiries must be accom
panied by twelve postage stamps, for expenses of various kinds
which will naturally be incurred
All Communications to be addressed to Myra, care of Weldon & Co., 15, Wine Office Court, London, E.C.
J. OGDEN AND CO., PRINTERS, 17», ST. JOHN STRBST, LONDON, E.C.
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
ix
INDIGESTION !
INDIGESTION!!
J
MORSON’S PREPARATIONS OF PEPSINE.
See Name on Label.
Highly Recommended by the Medical Profession.
Sold in Bottles as Wine, at 35., 5L, and 9J.; Lozenges, zs. 6d. and 4s. 6d.-, Globules, 2j., 3^. 6d., and 6s. 6d.;
and Powder in 1 oz. bottles, at 5-1. each, by all Chemists and the Manufacturers,
T. MORSON & SON, Southampton Row, Russell Square, London.
WHOLESALE & RETAIL MANUFACTURING 8TA TIONERS,
192, Fleet Street, and 1 & 2, Chancery Lane, London.
The Sole Proprietors
and
Manufacturers of
the
VELLUM WOVE CLUB-HOUSE NOTE PAPER,
Which combines a perfectly smooth surface with total freedom from grease.
Relief Stamping reduced to is. per ioo.
Illuminating and Die Sinking done by the Best Artists.
.ZVb Charge for Plain Stamping.
CHRISTMAS PRESENTS AND NEW YEAR’S GIFTS,
An immense variety, suitable for every Age and every Class.
HOUSEHOLD, OFFICE, COMMERCIAL, AND LEGAL STATIONERY,
,
Supplied 20 per cent, lower than any other House in the Trade.
192, FLEET STREET, AND 1 & 2, CHANCERY LANE, E.C.
Established 1841.
FUNERAL REFORM.
'pHE LONDON NECROPOLIS COMPANY,
"
*
■
as the Originators of the Funeral Reform, have
published a small Pamphlet explanatory' of their system,
which is simple, unostentatious, and inexpensive. It can be
had gratis, or will be sent by post, upon application.
Chief Office, 2, Lancaster Place, Strand, W.C.
SOLID THIRST-QUENCHERS,
Or Effervescing Lozenges,
. Relieve the most intense Thirst, at the same time
obviating the frequent desire for taking fluids. Price ij. •
by Post, u. 2d.
' ’
W. T. OOOPEE, Patentee, 26, Oxford Street, London.
EFFERVESCING
ASTRINGENT VOICE LOZENGE.
CRAINS OF HEALTH (Registered).—A Pearl Coated
1 • *.PlLRiT??iiessi A certdin Cure for Indigestion, Bilious and Liver Com
plaints. Of all Chemists, at ij. 4«?. and ar. gd, per box.
Used with the greatest success by Mdlle. Tietjens,
Madame Marie Roze, and other distinguished Operatic
Artistes. Do not produce dryness. Do not contain any
irritant. Impart a most agreeable odour to the breath. Are
perfectly harmless.
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
x
FOR BREAKFAST.
GRAND
MEDAL AT THE
VIENNA
EXHIBITION.
LOWEST PRICES. ~
" Patterns can be forwarded to the
Country free.
FIRST-CLASS DRAPERY.
LOWEST PRICES.
FIRST-CLASS SILKS.
LOWEST PRICES.
Patterns Post Free.
FIRST-CLASS FURNITURE.
LOWEST PRICES.
An Illustrated Price List Post Free.
ents can have the full advantageof Lowest London Prices by writing for Patterns, which will
be forwarded Post Free.
T. VENABLES & SONS, 103, 104, & 105, WHITECHAPEL,
And 2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, & 16, COMMERCIAL STREET, LONDON, E.
Postal Address : T. Venables & Sons, 103, Whitechapel, London, E.
A CHEERFUL HOME
SECURED BY USING
“THE WINDOW BLIND OF THE PERIOD.”
This Blind has obtained an unimpeachable reputation for
Elegance, Durability, and Economy in Window Space. It
adorn.., enecrs, ul jeautifies the Palaces of the Nobility and
the Mansions of the Gentry in all parts of the World.
It Fixes
in
Less than Half the Space of a Wood Blind.
SEE IT AT ONCE.
Send for a Sample Lath, Price Lisi, and Testimonials, which
■will be forwarded free on application to the Patentees.
HODKINSON & CLARKE,
Who. are the only Corrugated Metallic Window Blind Manufacturers in
the World. Best House for all kinds of Sun Blinds.
Canada Works, Small Heath, Birmingham,
And 2, Chiswell Street, Finsbury Square, London, E.C.
THE ROYAL GALVANIC BATH,
55, Marylebone Road, N.W., close to Baker Street Station.
These celebrated Galvanic Baths have been proved to be wonderfully
efficacious, both as Hygienic and Curative Agents. They are soothing,
tonic, and invigorating in their action, and have a specific effect upon
all disorders of the nervous and muscular systems. They can be applied
without pain or shock, and be adjusted with the greatest nicety to suit
age, sex, and constitution.
TARIFF OF PRICES.
Subscription for 12 First-Class Bath Tickets .......... ,£4 45.
Single Galvanic Bath....................................................
85.
The Baths are open daily from 9 to 6 (Sundays excepted).
x^xiE OF WIGHT.
RECOMMENDED BY EMINENT PHYSICIANS.
HOPGOOD & CO.’S
NUTRITIVE & SEDATIVE CREAM
FOR THE HAIR, HAS THE TESTIMONY OF
Eminent Physicians to its “ surprising ” and “ unfailing success.”
In Bottles at 1/6, 2/-, 2/6, 3/6, 5/-, 6/6, and 11/- each.
(~)UT on the Waters, Ocean, River, or Lake; in Steamer,
Ship, Yacht, Yawl, Boat, Canoe, or other craft.
Wherever
self-help is a condition, THE PORTABLE KITCHENERS,
supplied at No 11, Oxford Street, obtain for the possessor in all
culinary operations ample and speedy Services.
Breakfast or Tea,
with Eggs and Bacon, Chops, Kidney, Sausage, &c., &c., for one-to
three'or four persons, in Ten to Twenty Minutes. Dinner for ditto in
Tweljve to Thirty Minutes. Fire, without fuel ! No dirt! No nuisance !
Available in Cabin or on Deck, on River Bank, in Railway Carriage, on
Tour, Excursion, or Picnic; in Sanctum, Office, Chamber, Study,
Boudoir, or Mountain top. Anywhere and instantly, under any circum
stances. Price for one person, complete, 5s.; for two, ys. 6d.; for three,
105. 6d. to 13s. 6d.; for four, 185. 6d., 21s., or 255. 6d.
Failure or disappointment absolutely unknown.
Also THE POCKET KITCHENER, now familiarised all the
world over, 35. gd. Also, THE COMRADE COOKING STOVE,
for Home Service, for Jungle, Backwoods, Bush, Prairie, Gold or Dia
mond Fields, &c., &c., los. fid. Ditto, in Japanned Case (occupying less
space than a hat-box), with fifteen to twenty-five utensils, 175. fd. to 255.6^.
Invented and sold Export, Wholesale, and Retail, by
THOMAS GRE VILLE POTTER, Stella Lamp Depot,
Full of Instructions about Seeds and Plants, with Parti
culars of everything relating to Gardening.
Price Is., Post Free.
No 11, Oxford Street, near “The Oxford.”
Send for Catalogtie, interesting as a Novel.
HOOPER & CO, Couent Garden, London.
�gp—-------- ---------—-
�JON DUAN AD VERTISEMENTS.
xii
DARLOW & CO.’S
Original Patent, 1866.
IMPROVED PATENT FLEXIBLE
MAGNETIC APPLIANCES.
The ever-increasing success of Messrs. DARLOW & CO.’S MAGNETIC
Appliances during the past EIGHT YEARS, is evidence of their apprecia—------ ~ Improved Patent 1873
tion by the public, and the testimony of gentlemen of the highest standing in
medical Profession is that MAGNETINE far surpasses all other inventions of a similar character for curative purposes.
mISnETINE is unique ata PERFECTLY FLEXIBLE MAGNET. It is an entirely original indention oiJlL^rs.
DARI OW &CO improved by them on their previous invention patented in 1866, and possessing qualities which cannot
be found in any other magnetic substance. It is soft, light, and durable-entirely elastic, perfectly flexible through
out, and permanently magnetic.___________ _
______ _
________ _____
arlow
D
& co.’s
TES TIMON I A L .
magnetine appliances
are now freely recommended by some of the most emi
From Garth Wilkinson, Esq., M.D., M.R.C.S.E.
nent in the medical profession, from the established fact of their
76, Wimpole Street, Cavendish square, London, W.
power to afford both relief and cure to the exhausted nervous W. Darlow, Esq.
F.
March 17, 1874. _
system; also in Incipient Paralysis and Consumption,
Sir,—I am able to certify that I have used your Magnetic
Loss of Brain and Nerve power, and in cases of
Appliances pretty largely in my practice, and that in personal
convenience to my patients they are unexceptionable, and far
GOUT and RHEUMATISM, SPINAL, LIVER,
superior to any other inventions of the kind which I have
KIDNEY, LUNG, THROAT, and CHEST
employed ; and that of their efficacy, their positive powers, I
COMPLAINTS, GENERAL DEBILITY, INDI
have no doubt. I have found them useful in constipation, in
GESTION, HERNIA, SCIATICA. NEURALGIA,
abdominal congestion, in neuralgia, and in many cases involving
BRONCHITIS, and OTHER FORMS of NERV
weakness of the spine, and of the great organs of the abdomen.
OUS and RHEUMATIC AFFECTIONS.
In the public interest I wish you to use my unqualified testimony
The adaptation of these appliances is so simple that a child
in favour of your Magnetic Appliances.
can use them ; and so gentle, soothing, and vitalising is their
I remain, yours faithfully,
action, that they can be placed on the most delicate invalid
Garth Wilkinson, M.D., M.R.C.S.E.
without fear of inconvenience.
_____ __________
DARLOW & CO., 435, WEST STRAND, LONDON, W.C.,
Nearly opposite Charing Cross Station, three doors east of the Lowther Arcade.
Descriptive Pamphlets pest free.}
_____________________ [Illustrated Price Lists fastfree.
“BREATHES THERE A MAN.”—Scott.
OUT AND RHEUMATISM.—The excruciating
pain of Gout or Rheumatism is quickly relieved,and cured
in a few days by that celebrated Medicine, BLAIR'S GOUT
AND RHEUMATIC PILLS. They require no restraint of
diet or confinement during their use, and are certain to prevent
the disease attacking any vital part.
Sold at it.
and 2s. gd. per Box by all Medicine Vendors.
G
T
FRAM PTON’S^PILlToF^HEALTH.
HIS excellent Family Medicine is the most
Breathes there a man with soul so dead
Who never to himself hath said,
“To have moustaches would be grand;”
Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned,
As o’er the paper he hath turned,
And Wright’s advertisement hath scanned
If such there be, go, mark him well,
And in his ears the good news tell:
PILOSAGINE has gained a name,
All who have tried it own its fame ;
While thousands prove its great renown
By the moustaches they have grown,
Whiskers and beards on many a face
Their origin to it can trace.
It contains neither oil nor grease,
And now, forsooth, our rhyme must cease.
But what, you ask, is the expense?
’Tis sent post free for eighteenpence.
Wright and Co., Pilosagine Manufactory, Hull.
effective remedy for indigestion, bilious and liver, com
plaints, sick headache, loss of appetite, drowsiness, giddiness,
spasms, and all disorders of the stomach and bowels ; and, where
an occasional aperient is required, nothing can be better adapted.
For Females these Pills are truly excellent, removing all
obstructions, the distressing headache so very prevalent with the
AA7HISKERS, MOUSTACHES, &c., guaranteed by
sex, depression of spirits, dulness of sight, nervous affections,
VV
PILOSAGINE.
Price is. (>d., of all Chemists (by post
blotches, pimples, and sallowness of the skin, and give a healthy
18 stamps), a liquid free from oil and grease. Before purchasing any
bloom to the complexion.
preparation send add ress for Testimonials and Treatise (gratis). Whole
sale : Sanger & Son s, London; Lofthouse & Saltmer, Hull.
Sold by all Medicine Vendors, price ts. Vfd. and 2s. gd. per Box.
WRIGHT & CO., Filosagine Manufactory, Hull.
FREEMAN’S CHLORODYNE
the original and only
genuine
Considered by the Faculty one of the greatest discoveries of the century.
FREEMAN’S CHLORODYNE is the best remedy known for Coughs,
Consumption, Bronchitis, and Asthma.
,,
,
,
,
,
FREEMAN’S CHLORODYNE effectually checks and arrests those too
often fatal diseases-Diphtheria, Fever, Croup, and Ague.
.
FREEMAN’S CHLORODYNE acts like a charm in Diarrhoea, and is
the only specific in Cholera and Dysentery.
FREEMAN'S CHLORODYNE effectually cuts short all attacks of
Epilepsy, Hysteria, Palpitation, and Spasms.
..................
FREEMAN'S CHLORODYNE is the only palliative in Neuralgia,
Rheumatism, Gout. Cancer, Tooth-ache, Meningitis, &c.
FREEMAN’S CHLORODYNE rapidly relieves pain from whatever
FREEMAN’S CHLORODYNE allays the irritation of Fever, soothes
the system under exhausting diseases, and gives quiet and refreshing sleep.
IMPORTANT Caution.—Four Chancery Suits terminated in favour of FREE
MAN'S ORIGINAL Chlorodyne. Lord Chancellor Selborne, Lord Justice James,
Lord Tustice Mellish, and Vice-Chancellor Sir W. Page Wood (now Lord HatherIey) all decided in its favour, and against the proprietors of J. Collis Browne s, con
demning their conduct, and ordering them to pay all costs of the suit»
Sold by ait Chemists, in Bottles at is. fd.; 2 oz., 2s. gd.; 4 oz., 4s. 6d.;
10 oz., ui.; and 20 oz., 20s. each.
CAUTION. —Beware of Piracy, Spurious Imitations, and Fraud.
GOOD for the cure of WIND on the STOMACH,
GOOD for the cure of INDIGESTION.
GOOD for the cure of SICK HEADACHE,
GOOD for the cure of HEARTBURN.
GOOD for the cure of BILIOUSNESS,
GOOD for the cure of LIVER COMPLAINT.
JU
GOOD for all COMPLAINTS arising from a disordered
state of the STOMACH, BOWELS, or LIVER.
Sold by all Medicine Vendors, in Boxes, at ij. ifid.,
2s. gd., and 4s. 6d. each ; or, free for 14, 33, or 54
from PAGE D. WOODCOCK, “Lincoln House, St.
Faith’s, Norwich.
��JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
xiv
JOHN STEVEN, Bookseller,
~
304, STRAND, W.G., Opposite St. Mary’s Church;
AND
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BOOKS IN EVERYZLASS^OF LITERATURE:
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A SCRAPS, BORDERS, &c., FOR SCREENS. Sug
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gestions offered as to arrangement of Subjects.
Screens made to Order, Varnished,
or
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The Cheapest House, with the greatest variety of
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WILLIAM BARNARD, 119, Edgware Road., London.
WHITE WOOD ARTICLES,
PICTURE FRAMES OF EVERY DESCRIPTION,
For Painting, Fern-printing, and Decalcomanie.
At the Lowest Prices.
JAMES W. LOCK,Dealer in Works of Art,&o.
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14, Booksellers’ Row, Strand, London.
WILLIAM BARNARD, 119, Edgware Road, London.
VALENTINES! VALENTINES!!
The Largest Valentine Manufacturers in the World.
THE NEW BALL-ROOM, CHRISTMAS, AND VALENTINE FANS,
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The Largest Manufacturers in the World of Christmas Stationery, &c.
LONDON LACE PAPER AND VALENTINE COMPANY.
J. T. WOOD & CO., 278, 279, & 280, Strand.
Manufactory, Clare Court.
THINGS YOU
OUGHT TO
KNOW
CLEARLY EX
PLAINED Containing Thing’s Social, Personal, Profitable, Scientific, Sta
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1
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BLACKWOOD’S DIARIES, 1875.
BLACKWOOD’S SHILLING SCRIBBLING DIARY, Seven
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13 Dy inches.
*• The best and cheapest of its kind ”—Civil Service Gazette.
BLACKWOOD’S THREE-DA Y DIARY. Three Days on each
page. Price ij. 6t/. Size 13 by 8j inches. With Blotting, 2j.
BLACKWOOD’S POCKET-BOOK AND DIARY, for Ladies,
Gentlemen, and National, u. each, in leather. Special Information. .¿Don't
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London: JAMES BLACKWOOD & CO., 8, Lovell's Court, Paternoster Row.
A few Copies to be had of
“THE COMING K----- and “THE SILIAD.”
Apply to the Publishers of “Jon Duan,” 15, Wine Office Court, Fleet Street.
�uced by Gillotype process. J
Tom *T‘wl.tu^jT-^Bimeat, I
tell you,” saidthe Giant.
[Ageuf, A. Maxon.
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
xvi
I
AT H AM'SSHK I
-,
POLYTCCH NI C ^AMUSEMENTS. !
ARE THE BEST PRESENTS FOR YOUTH.
They combine Science with Play, Knowledge with Amusement, and afford end
less Pastime for Holidays and Evenings.
A Choice Selection of Novelties suitable for the above
occasions.
Statham’s Box of Chemical Magic contains materials and direc
tions for performing 50 and 100 instructive Experiments, ix., ss. 6d.; by post,
u. 2d., 2s. gd.
Statham’s Youth’s Chemical Cabinets, with Book of Experiments,
6s., 8s., 11s., and 15X. 6d.
Statham’s Student’s Chemical Cabinets, for studying Chemistry,
Analysing, Experimenting, &c., 2ix., 3U 6d., 42s, 63X., 84X., aiox.
Agent for Joseph Rodgers ’ & Sons celebrated Outlery.
Statham’s “ First Steps in Chemistry,” containing 145 Experimeats, 6d. ; by post, 7<Z.
Statham’s “ Panopticon ” (or see everything). No. i., 25$.; No. 2.
E. N. PEARCE, (from 77, Cornhill)
Albert Buildings, Queen Victoria St., E.C.
Statham's Electrical Sets, 42X., 6gx ,
105J.
Electrotype Sets, ys. 6d., xos. 6d.t 21s.,
42s.
Youth's Microscopes, xos. 6d., 21s., 42s.
Student's Microscopes, 63X., 105X., 210X.
Geological Cabinets, jr. 6d., js. (td., 25J.
Conjurer s Cabinets, js. 6d., 15X., 21s.
Model Steam Engines,
Ci., iox. 6d.,
2ix., 42J.
Magic Lanterns, with 12 Slides, ys. 6d.,
10s. 6d., 21j., &c.
Printing Press (with type, ink &c.), 6s. 6d.t 8x., i2X., 14$. 6d.ix6s.i 24X.
Sendfor Illustrated Catalogue of above and numberless other
EDUCATIONAL TOYS, SCIENTIFIC MODELS, GAMES, &c.
(Near Mansion House Station.)
W. STATHAM, no%, Strand, London.
BARTHOLOMEW & FLETCHER,
217 & 219, TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD.
DRAWING ROOM SUITES
.
. From IO Guineas to £50.
DININGROOM SUITES
12
„
to £80.
BED ROOM SUITES
....,,
8
„to 1OO.
Estimates Free. Every Article Guaranteed.
GENERAL
HOUSE
FURNISHERS.
HEALTH'!
STRENGTH 1 !
ENERGY ! ! 1
PEPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TONIC.
HOLLOWAY’SPILLS
pEPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TONIC Purifies and enriches the Blood.
Sir SAMUEL BAKER,
fo Ms work on the Sources of the Nile, says:—
“ I ordered my dragoman Mahomet to inform the Faky that I was
“ a doctor, and that I had the best medicines at the service of the
** sick, with advice gratis. In a short time I had many applicants,
“ to whom I served out a quantity of Holloway’s Pills. These are
“ most useful to an explorer, as, possessing unmistakable purgative
“ properties, they create an undeniable effect upon the patient, which
“ satisfies him of their value.”
This fine Medicine cures all disorders of the Liver,
Stomach, Kidneys and Bowels, is a Great PURIFIER
of the BLOOD, and wonderfully efficacious in aU
ailments incidental to Females. In WEAKNESS and
DEBILITY, a powerful invigorator of the system.
EPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TONIC Strengthens the Nerves and
Muscular System._______________________ _
EPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TONIC Promotes Appetite and Improves
Digestion.__________________________ _
EPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TON IC Animates the Spirits and Mental
Faculties.
___
PEPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TONIC, in Scrofula, Wasting Diseases,
Neuralgia, Sciatica, Indigestion, Flatulence, Weakness of the Chest and
Respiratory Organs, Ague, Fevers of all kinds. ______________________________ __
PEPPER’S" QUININE AN D~IRON TON IC, for Delicate Females and weakly,
ailing Children.
________
PEPPER’S QUININE AND IRON TONIC thoroughly Recruits the General
Bodily Health.
Is sold by Chemists everywhere, in capsuled bottles, 45. 6d. and us.,and in stone
jars, 225. each. For protection be sure the Name, Address, and Trade Mark of
JOHN PEPPER, «87, Tottenham Court Road, London, is on the Label. Any
Chemist will procure it to order, but do not be prevailed on to try any other com
pound.
_
_________________________________________________ .
LOCKYER’S SULPHUR HAIR RESTORER will completely restore, in a
few days, grey hair to its original colour, without injury. The Hair Restorer
is the best ever offered for sale; thoroughly cleanses the head from scurf, and
causes the growth o< rew hair. It is soid everywhere by Chemists and HairDressers, in Targe bottles, at is. 6d. each.
Important Notice to all who wish to preserve “Jon Duan.”
A
HANDSOME
COVER
FOR
BINDING
THIS
ANNUAL,
Specially designed, in cloth and gold, is now ready, price 2s., postage free, and may be had through
any Bookseller, or of the Publisher, Weldon & Co., 15, Wine Office Court, Fleet Street, E.C._________ __
ANTIQUEPOINLaNDHONITON LACE.
BY
MRS. TREADWIN.
"Contains full and clear directions on Lace Making, Lace Joining, and Lace Cleaning.”
PRICE
lOs. 6d.
MRS. TREA.DWIN, 5, Cathedral Yard, Exeter.
��xviii
yON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
A BEAUTIFUL SET OF TEETH.
JOHN GOSN ELL & CO.’S
o
c-t
O
W
s
b
Q>
b
Q
O
02
K
*
ir
t“1
&
Q
O
SQ
>3
>3
N
b
b
Thames St., London
I
THE
MAGNETICON,
PATENTED.
WETTON’S Patent Magnetic Belts, Lung Invigorators, Chest Protectors, Throat Pro
tectors, Spine Bands, Anklets, Wristlets, Knee Caps, Friction Gloves, &c. &c., for
Liver, Kidney, Spinal, and Chest Complaints, and all forms of Nervous and Rheumatic
Afflictions.
The Appliances, which are made up of light comfortable materials, such as flannel, silk, merino, and velvet, are powerfully
Magnetic, and supply gentle and continuous currents of ELECTRICITY, withoutthe aid of batteries, chains, or acids. They are
worn oyer the under-clothing, require no preparation, give no shocks, and generate no sores. Little or no sensation is experienced,
unless it be the glow of returning health ; and experience has proved that the Appliances may be worn with much benefit and perfect
safety by infants or the most delicate invalids. Prices, jr. to 50J.
Those whose names are appended have kindly consented to aillow the same to be published, as a guarantee of the genuineness
of '‘THE MAGNETICON.” Their reasons for testifying to the great curative properties of "THE MAGNETICON " are
derived either from their own experience or from their knowledge of the benefits which others have received.
The Dowager Lady Palmer, Dorney House, Windsor.
The Rev. R. A. Knox, M.A., Rector of Shobrooke, Devon.
C. R. Woodford, Esq., M.D., Marlborough House, Ventnor.
Charles Lowder, Esq., M.D., Lansdowne House, Ryde.
The Rev. A. Morton Brown, LL.D., Minister of the Congregational
Church, Cheltenham.
Thos. J. Cottle, Esq., M.R.C.S., L.S. A., Pulteney Villa, Cheltenham.
E. P. Bulkeley, Esq., Strathdum, Cheltenham.
I._S. Aplin, Merchant, Yeovil.
Lieut.-Col. C. W. Hodson, 25, Priory Street, Cheltenham.
The Rev. J. Wilkinson, Stanwell House, Ventnor.
Henry Hopkins, Esq., Ph.D., M.A., F.C.P., formerly Principal of
Sumner Hill School, Birmingham, and Author of several Educationa
Works, 14, Belvedere, Bath,
The Rev. R. Williamson, The Manse, Waltham Abbey.
Mr. C. S. M. Lockhart, M.B.A.A., Author of the “ Centenary Me
morial of Sir Walter Scott.”
The Rev. J. B. Talbot, Secretary and Founder of “The Princess
Louise Home,” Woodhouse, Wanstead.
Arthur S. Mbdwin, Esq., 28, George Street, Euston Square, London.
Mrs. Ginevkr, Kingsdown Orphan Home, 12, Kingsdown Road, Upper
Holloway, London.
For additional nc les see Pamphlet.
WETTON & CO., 9, Upper Baker Street, Portman Square, London.
A 48-page Illustrated Pamphlet, containing numerous Testimonials, a Lecture on Magnetism and Health by Professor HAGARTY,
and full particulars of " THE MAGNETICON,” may be had on application, or will be forwarded post free.
_ A copy of ‘ The Magnetic Review: a Record of Curative Electric Science and Journal of Health, published by Wetton and Co., 9, Upper Baker Street, will also be forwarded post free.
�yCw WAN ADV£RTIS£M£NTS.
Tom Thumb,—“When the
ife? h>ega^ tQ|ff^|
�yON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
MURDOCH &*CO.,
WW I®’ Laurence Pountney Hill, Cannon St, f
Late of 115, Cannon Street,
LONDON, E.C.
Works ; Larbert, N.B.
is
HS THE
LIVINGSTONE
RANGE.
(Stove and Name Registered}.
CAN BE PLACED IN A FIRE-PLACE.
CAN BE PLACED IN FRONT OF A FIRE-PLACE.
CAN BE PLACED AWAY FROM A FIRE-PLACE.
No. 6 will standin a 2 ft. 10 in. opening.
”7
,,
3 n 2 >»
,,
>> 8
_>>
3 >> 6,,
,,
Height of Range, 2 ft.
The “LIVINGSTONE RANGE” has been constructed to meet
a want widely felt. It embraces all the best points of English Open
Ranges and Fire-Places, without their faults. A Large Hot
Plate is available for general cookery, and an Oven soconstructed that
it will bake bread or pastry, and also roast meat as sweetly and
Size of Oven in Inches.
12 hiah
THOROUGHLY AS IF DONE IN FRONT OF A FIRE.
A good frontage,
No. 6. 12 wide.
12 deep.
k ■
however, is secured to the fire itself. It can be closed in by a door,
>> 7- 14
14 >,
*
”
which, when let down, forms a shelf or stand, and then fowls, small joints
„ 8. 16 „
16 „
” ”
of meat, steaks, fish, &c., can be roasted or broiled.
The HOT-WATER SUPPLY has been well considered and provided for in constructing this stove, “ boilers being usually a source of
great discomfort, expense, and danger in English Homes.” The Water Cistern is made of copper, tinned inside, or else of malleable iron, gal
vanized ; and as it stands above, as well as below, the level of the hot plate, it affords proportionately a larger quantity of hot water than
any other stove, range, or kitchener in use. The water is heated by a very safe and simple plan, which is patented, and only to be had with
these stoves. The cistern can be easily taken out and replaced, made self-supplying, and the water can be used for culinary purposes, never
BEING “RUSTY.”
No BRICKWORK SETTING is required or these Stoves, and they are equally good in action, whether placed in or away from a fire
place. A smoky chimney is perfectly overcome by their use.
The CONSUMPTION OF COAL is wonderfully small, from the excellence of the construction of the “ Livingstone,” and the judicious
arrangements of fire-place and flues. Means are used to prevent the escape of heat from the stove, and thus the full value is taken out of the pro
ducts of combustion. We make the deliberate statement that the Economy in Fuel is such that, ¡fused daily, the whole cost of the Stove can
be saved in twelve months at the normal price of Coal in London, or in nine months at the 1873-4 prices. Wood and Peat are ex'•ellent for heating these stoves, and for most kinds of cooking, Coke may be solely used. Dust is avoided, as the ashes fall into a secured pan.
Fire-bricks, with which each Stove is provided, can be easily renewed when needed. The same remark applies to any part of the stove
which from use or accident may need replacing.
For further particulars of this and other Cooking and Heating Stoves, address MURDOCH & CO., as above.
NEWTONS
QUININE, RHUBARB, & DANDELION PILLS,
(Prepared from the Recipe of
an
Eminent Physician),
A Simple but Effectual Remedy for Indigestion, Stomach,
and Liver Complaints.
The properties of Quinine and Rhubarb in stomachic affections are too well known to require any comment, and the
medicinal virtues of Dandelion have long been held in high, estimation by the faculty for all disorders of the Liver. By a
peculiar process of extraction and condensation, the active properties of these valuable Medicines have been carefully com
bined in the form of Pills, in which will be found a certain remedy for Indigestion, all Stomach Complaints, Sluggish Liver,
Constipation of the Bowels, Headache, Giddiness, Loss of Appetite, Pains in the Chest, Fullness after Eating, Depression
of Spirits, Disturbed Sleep, and as a Renovator to the Nervous System invaluable. These purifying Vegetable Pills may
be taken lay persons of all ages, in all conditions, and by both sexes. Their action, though gentle, is effectual in removing
all impurities from the blood and system, gradually compelling the bowels and various functions of the body to act in a
regular and spontaneous manner; and as a general Family Aperient they are much preferred to any other medicine.
Sold in Boxes, with Directions, at I J. I%<7. and 2s. gd.; or sent, Post Free, for 15 and 30 Stamps.
Every Sufferer is earnestly invited to try their wonderful efficacy.
Barclay & Sons are the London Agents, and all Chemists.
prepared solely by
J. W. NEWTON, M.P.S., Family Chemist,Salisbury.
Ask your Chemist to obtain the above, if not in stock.
�JtON DUAN A DIE/UWEEM ENTS.
xxi
�xxii
JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
'4>ceneral
PATENT
furnishing coy'
OZOKERIT
NEHWiïi
CANDLES.
; ~Wx4JrtriztÎvg"Rg a.cfrb
-ALL.PT^e.AV^Tx-cTVg^a^^9>Sout'h/a-Ttvp fro tv S.E \ S frra/nd/7
All Sizes, Sold. Everywhere.
CHOICE ROSE TREES.
Ask for the
'T'HE Amateur’s GUINEA BUNDLE of ROSE TREES
“LYCHNOPHYLAX,”
contains 25 of the choicest-named kinds in cultivation, all extra
large plants, especially selected for villa gardens. Carriage and packing
free on receipt of P.O.O. for/i is-.; or twelve choice kinds as sample
for 105. (id. Full particulars of other cheap collections post free.
GEORGE COOLING, The Nurseries, Bath.
Or Candle Guard (Patented).
Sold Everywhere. J. C. & J. FIELD, London.
The above make very suitable Christmas Gifts.
“ Inventions to delight the taste.”—Shakspere.
THE “EASTERFlOHDIMENT
“ The greatest aid. to Digestion known to man.”
This delicious Condiment should be eaten with all Meals.
Is. and. Is. 6d. per Jar.
THE “ EASTERN ” SAUCE OR RELISH,
KECISTIS5O
THE
THE
THE
THE
“EASTERN”
“EASTERN”
“EASTERN”
“EASTERN”
Prepared in conjunction with the celebrated Condiment,
is pronounced unequalled for flavour, richness, and price.
6d., ij., and 15. 6d. per bottle.
.k*
MUSTARD. Ready Mixed. Most Economical.
BAKING POWDER. No Penny Packet in the World can touch it.
CUSTARD POWDER. A Penny Packet equal to two eggs and a half.
_____ ----CURRY POWDER. The Great Baboo’s original, improved.
88
SS
«EClSTtR*»
These preparations are all most care
fully compounded, are highly recom
mended, and much approved by all
classes.
To be had of all Family Grocers.
JONES, PALMER, & CO., “Eastern” Works, Tabernacle Walk, Finsbury.
FACTORS.
from
^TURKISH PASTILS^
/ 7 Through all my travels few things as- '
tonished me more than seeing the Beauties
of the Harem sfnoking the Stamboul. After
smoking, a sweet aromatic Pastil is used,
which imparts an odour of flowers to the
breath. I have never.seen these Pastils but
once in Europe; it was at Piesse & Lubin’s
' CBz"' ” -Lady W. Montague.
\ Ladies who admire a “ Breath of Flowers”
1 take aPastil night anf
/q
*
Ì (S' every flower that
breathes a fragrance
LIGN-ALOE. OPOPONAX.
LOVE-AMONG-THE-ROSES.
FRANGI PANNI
TO BE OBTAINED OF ALL
'tv.
Perfumers and
THOUSAND OTHERS.
case,
5ond St J
RITING, BOOKKEEPING, &c.—Persons of
W
Steuen’s Model Cutters, Schooners,
any age, however bad their Writing, may in Eight Easy
Lessons acquire permanently an elegant and flowing style of Brigs, Screzi) and Paddle Boats?, propelled by Steam or
Penmanship, adapted either to Professional pursuits or Private Clock-work.
Correspondence ; Bookkeeping by Double Entry, as practised in
Steven’s Model Fittings for Ships and
the Government, Banking, and Mercantile Offices ; Arithmetic,
Shorthand, &c. Apply to Mr. W. Smart, at his sole Institution, Boats. Blocks, Deadeyes, Wheels, Skylights, Com
panions, Flags, &c.
97B, Quadrant, Regent Street.
Agent to the West of England Fire and Life
Steuen’s Model Steam Engines, Loco
Insurance Company.
IMPORTANT TO
LADIES AND
GENTLEMEN.—
C. A. can confidently recommend, as a most strictly honest person, and one
whom she and her friends have dealt with for many years, Mrs.
COCKREM, 1, Queen Street, Barnstaple, North Devon, who gives the
greatest value for all sorts of Ladies’. Gentlemen’s, and Children’s
Cast Ï-EFT-OFF WEARING APPAREL of every description. Officers
*
Uniforms, Misfits, Jewellery, Court Suits, Furs, Outfits, Old Lace,
nff
Underclothing, Boots, Household Linen, and every description of
miscellaneous property, in however large or small quantities, or in good
ninth nc or inferior condition, purchased for Cash at the utmost value. The
viuuueb. strictest honour is observed in remitting, per return, the full value, by
cheque or P.O.O., for all parcels. The expense of Carriage borne by
X
motive, Marine, Vertical and Horizontal;
Saw and Bench.
Steuen’s
Model
Parts
of
Circular
Engines,
Cylinders, Pumps, Steam and, Water Gauges, SafetyValves, Eccentrics, Taps, &c.
STE VEN’S MODEL DOCKYARD, 22, Aidgate, London.
Catalogues, 3 Stamps.
Chemical Chests, Magic-Lanterns, Floor Skates, Balloons, arc.
�W
ADVERTISEMENT S.
Reduced ly Gdloty/e/roccss.~\
, *
The Golden Ass.—The King went to consult an old Druid.
Uta—vol; ttk~
'
ji .
WTW
_
>-*g
�J ON DÜAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
XXIV
“ FIRES INSTANTLY LIGHTED: ” GREAT SAVING of TIME to SERVANTS.
By STEVENSON'S
PATENT FIREWOOD,
Entirely superseding Bundle Wood, requiring no paper, adapted for
any grate, and not affected- by Damp.
SOLD BY ALL OILMEN AND GROCERS.
Extensively Patronised in the House of Peers, University of Cambridge,
among the Nobility, Gentry, Principal Hotels, Club Houses, &c.
500, in Tenon. and Suburbs,
12S. fxi.
Directions.—Place small coal and cinders in grate, then the Patent Fire
wood wheel or square (dipped side down), cover over with coal, and light
the centre with a match.________________________
M, STEVENSON & 00., Sole Patentees and Manufacturers,
18, Wharf Road, City Road.
OETZMANN & CO.,
67, 69, 71, & 73, Hampstead Road,
Near Tottenham Court Road, London.
CARPETS, FURNITURE,
BEDDING, DRAPERY,
FURNISHING IRONMONGERY,
CHINA, GLASS, &c., &c.
A Descriptive Catalogue {the best Furnishing Guide
extant}, post free on application.
HEDGES AND BUTLER
Invite attention to the following WINES and SPIRITS:—
Good Sherry, Pale or Gold.............
20s. 244. 304. 36s. 424. per doz.
Very choice Sherry .........................
484. 544. 604. 724. per doz.
Port, of various ages.........................
24s. 304. 364, 424-. 484. per doz.
Good Claret........................................
144. 184. 204. 244. per doz.
Choice De.-sert Clarets.....................
304. 364. 424. 484. È04. per doz.
Sparkling Champagne .....................
3 4. 424. 484. ¿04. 784. per doz.
Hock and Moselle............................. 244. 304. 364. 424. 484. 604. per doz.
Old Pa'e Brandy .............................
444. 484. 604. 724. 844. per doz.
Fine Old Irish and Scotch Whisky..
424. 484. per doz.
Wines in Wood.
Callon.
Octave.
Otr. Cask.
Hhd.
Pale Sherry ................
94. ini.
£6 5 0 £12 0 O
Good Sherry................. . 114. id.
15 10 0
8 0 Q
3°
Choice Sherry ............
i-js. 6d.
II IQ O
22 IO
44
Old Sherry................... . 23J. 6d.
29 0 O
14 15 O
57
20 O G
Good Port..................... 14s. 6d.
IO
5 O
39
Old Port.......................... 20s. 6d.
27 G O
13 15 O
53
Old Pale Brandy.......... 21s. 24J. 30$. 36^. per imperial gallon.
IO
10
10
0
0
©
0
G
O
O
©
•
Price Lists of all other Wines, &*c, on application to
HEDGES & BUTLER, 155, Regent Street, London,
30 and 74, King’s Road, Brighton.
RIMMEL’S PERFUMED ALMA
VOSE’8 PATENT HYDROPULT,
NAC for 1875 (the Hours), beautifully Illu
minated, Id., by post for 7 stamps.
RIMMEL’S NEW COMIC ALMANAC
(Signs of the Zodiac), 14., by post for 13 stamps.
RIMMEL’S CHRISTMAS BOUQUET,
changing into a Fan, 14. 6<f., by post 19 stamps.
RIMMEL’S FANCY ARTICLES for Christ
mas Presents and New Year’s Gifts in endless
variety. List on Application.
RIMMEL, Perfumer, 96, Strand ; 128, Regent
Street ; and 24, Cornhill, London.
A PORTABLE FIRE ANNIHILATOR.
The best article ever invented for Watering Gardens, &c.;
weighs but 81bs., and will throw water 50 feet.
LOYSEL’S PATENT HYDROSTATIC
TEA & COFFEE PERCOLATORS.
These Urns are elegant inform, are the most efficient ones
yet introduced, and effect a saving of 50 per cent. The
Times newspaper remarks :—“ M. Loysel’s hydrostatic
machine for making tea or coffee is justly considered as one
of the most complete inventions of its kind.”
Sold by all respectable Ironmongers.
Manufacturers:
More than 200,000 now i use.
GRIFFITHS & BROWETT, Birmingham.
12, Moorgate Street, London ; and 25, Boulevard Magenta, Paris,
WISS FAIRY ORGANS, 2.S., ^s., and 55-. each.
Patented in Europe and America. Four Gold Medals
awarded for excellence. Each Instrument is constructed to play
a variety of modern airs, sacred, operatic, dance, and song,
perfect in tone and of marvellous power. Carriage free for
Stamps, or P. O. O. at above prices. Numerous copies of fully
directed Testimonials post free. Address J acques.Baum, &Co.,
Kingston Works, Sparkbrook, Birmingham.
S
DUNN &ISLANDICUS, OR ’S
HEWETT
“LICHEN
ICELAND MOSS COCOA,'’
(registered),
In i-lb., ilb., ani 1-lb. Packets, at Is. 4d. per lb.
In Tin Canisters at Is. 6d. lb.
Strongly recommended by the Faculty in all cases of Debility, Indigestion, Consumption and all Pulmonary
and Chest Diseases.
<fI have carefully examined, both Microscopically and Chenrcally, the preparation of ICELAND MOSS and COCOA,
made by Messrs. DUNN & HEWITT. I find it to be carefully manufactured with ingredients of the first quality.
“The combination ofTCELAND MOSS and COCOA forms a valuable article of diet, suited equally fcr the Robust and
’ 1 _
i
’’
for Invalids, especially those whose digestion is HHpwwwL It is very nutritious, of easy digestibility, and it possesses, moreover, tonic properties.
impaired.
(Signed) “ARTHUR HILL HASSALL, M.D.,”
, .
TRADE MARK.
Analyst of the Lancet Sanitary Commission, Author of the Refort of the Lancet Commission j of
“Food and its Adulterations \ “ “ Adulterations Detected ** and other VForks»
PENTONVILLE,
LONDON.
�XXV
JJjMMfc,. Al _
- U— —1
JM»
�JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
xxvi
DIETZ & CO
15
to
LONDON,
21, Carter Lane,
I, Sermon Lane,
and
Exporters of the celebrated
Inventors, Manufacturers, and
LAMPS
PARAGON
HURRICANE LANTERNS,
COOKING & HEATING STOVES
BURNING KEROSENE
OR PARAFFIN.
UNRIVALLED FOR
Over 5000 Patterns of
TABLE LAMPS, HALL LAMPS,
SIMPLICITY,
SAFETY,
Chandeliers, Erackets,
Billiard Lamps, Street Lamps,
LIBRARY LAMPS,
LANTERNS, STOVES, &c.
Pitferl until
J. illeCl V1UU
Our Famous
¿the climax
AND ABSOLUTE FREEDOM
FROM SMOEE,
SMELL, and DANGER.
a
M
a
g A, fl a
JSL Jg
i
*a.
BURNERS,
t-AS
JUa
Which give a magnificent white and steady Light, equal to 25, 20, 14, and II
Candles, at the cost of l-4th, l-5th, l-6th, and l-7th of a Penny per Hour.
J1
_Jj
fegwnnngÿ
BRILLIANCY,
Church Lamps, Ship Lamps,
Our HURRICANE LANTERNS are absolutely windproof and safe ; simple in consr.-action, and give a splendid
■white and steady light. They
are the most serviceable Lan
terns for use in Stables, Farms,
Gardens, Boats, Cellars, &c.
0
Economy, Durability,
BiE.TZ.&.C”.
Our CLIMAX COOKING
and HEATING STOVES, in
six sizes, will be found ex
tremely useful in every house
hold, being always ready for
use, and saving time and
money, coals, trouble of light
ing fire, dust, and refuse.
BLACK SILK COSTUMES,
Parisian Models.
Owing to the Reduced Price of manufactured French Silk, Messrs. Jay are happy to announce they
sell good and Fashionable Black Silk Costumes at ^6 i6l 6d. each.
J A Y S’,
THE LONDON GENERAL MOURNING WAREHOUSE,
243, 245, 247, 249, 251, Regent Street, W.
WHITE,
EDWARD
(FROM DENT’S,)
Manufacturer of Chronometers, Watches and Clocks, Gold Chains, Lockets, &c.,
Of best quality only and moderate price. »
PRIZE MEDALLIST AT LONDON, DUBLIN, AND PARIS EXHIBITIONS,
For “ Excellence of Workmanship, Taste, and Sfttll.”
20, COCKSPUR STREET, LONDON, S.W.
Sold
by
All Drapers.
Ask for “THE VERY BUTTON.”—Shakespeare.
GREEN
&
CADBURY’S
PATENT
2-HOLE
LINEN
BUTTONS.
And see that you get them, as inferior kinds are often substitutedfor the sake of extra profits.
“ ‘ The Very Button ’ is a capital button for use and wear.”—The Young Englishwoman.
CHUBB’S
ATENT FIRE AND THIEF RESISTING
^ur?4FES’
LftlCHE.S.
PATENT DETECTOR LOCKS AND
Illustrated Price Lists Post Free.
CHUBB & SON,
57, ST. PAUL’S CHURCHYARD, E.C.,
68, ST. JAMES'S STREET, S.W.
Manchester, Liverpool,
and
AND
Wolverhampton.
EHPI WT01 HWZX, HEBF BLEI ORZPT YGZB.
TflVE POUNDS REWARD to anyone able to decipher
X
the above, written by HIGHT’S REVOLVING CIPHER DISC.
Very useful for Telegrams, Postal Cards, and Love-letter, or any private
writing. Quickly and easily written. The only absolutely undiscoverable system of Cryptography. T« be had, with full Instructions, of all
Stationers, or of the Publishers,
WALMESLEY & CO., 384, City Road, E.C.
Post free for 14 Stamps.
�JON D'JAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
Reduced by allotype/recess.]
Blue Beard.—* *
xxvir
[Agent, A.. MexAe
�xxviii
JON DUAN ADVERTISEMENTS.
DR. ROBERTS’
POOR MAN’S FRIEND!
THE COMING GREAT TRIAL
By the Public in 1875.
Is confidently recommended to the Public as an unfailing remedy
for Wounds of every description, Burns, Scalds, Chilblains, Scorbutic
Eruptions, Sore and Inflamed Eyes, &c.
Sold in Pots, is. i\d., is. gd., xis., and 22s. each.
DR. ROBERTS’
PILULJE ANTISGROPHULJE,
Or Alterative Pills,
For Scrofula, Leprosy,
and all Skin Diseases.
Proved by Sixty Years’ experience to be one of the best Alterative
Medicines ever offered to the Public. They may be taken at all times,
without confinement or change of diet. Sold in Boxes, ij. i%<Z., is. gd.,
4s. 6d., 11s., and 22s. each.
Sold by the Proprietors, BEACH & BABNICOTT, Bridport.
And by all respec'able Medicine Vendors.
OU shall well and truly try—
APPROVED
Y MANN’Smay quickly go ! MED’CINE buy,
That your ills
Take, and health will shortly flow ;
Colds and Iiooping-conghs will flee.
Read the bills and you will see
>
Nothing with it can compare.
“ Nice!” the children all declare.
Young and old its glories tell;
Both did take, and now are well.
True the evidence that stands
On the bills throughout all lands,
This, the public verdict, give—
“ Take, oh sickly one, and live ! ”
Sixteen affidavits before the Sussex Magistrates prove MANN’S
APPROVED MEDICINE to be the GREAT RESTORATIVE TO
HEALTH for Coughs, Colds, Asthma, Influenza, Convulsive Fits, and
Consumptions. Sold by all Chemists, who will obtain it for you if not
in stock, at is.
, is. 6d., and 4s. 6d. per bottle. Be not persuaded
to take any other remedy._________________
Proprietor, THOMAS MANN, Horsham, Sussex.
QOUT, RHEUMATISM, LUMBAGO, &c.
JNSTANT RELIEF AND RAPID CURE.
A S professionally certified, have saved the lives of many when
11. all other nourishment has failed. In cases of Cholera Infantum, Dysentery,
Chronic Diarrhoea, Dyspepsia, Prostration of the System, and General Debility, Dr.
RIDGE’S Digestive Biscuits will be found particularly beneficial in co-opera
tion with medical treatment, as a perfectly safe, nourishing, and strengthening diet
In Canisters, ix. each, by post ^d. extra.—Dr. RlDGE & CO., Kingsland, London,
and of Chemists and Grocers.
IMPORTANT DISCOVERY.
CAN D'ELL’S HAIR RESTORER,
,...
O the certain Cure for Dandriff and Baldness,
and the only reliable and harmless preparation
for restoring grey hair to its original colour.
Sold by all Chemists, in bottles, is. and 3s. 6d.
UADE’S GOUT AND RHEUMATIC PILLS,
the safest and most effectual cure for Gout, Rheumatism,
Rheumatic Gout, Lumbago, Sciatica, Pains in the Head,
Face, and Limbs. They require neither confinement nor
alteration of diet, and in no case can their effects be injurious.
Prepared only by GEORGE EADE, 72, Goswell
Road, London, and Sold by all Chemists, in Bottles at
or Three in One, 2s. gd.
Ij.
Do not be persuaded to have any other kind.
®ott'es sent cafr>aSe free-
S.O.SANDELL,Sole Manufacturer,Yeovil.
Ask for Fade's Celebrated Gout and Rheumatic Pills.
DR. HAYWARD'S NEW DISCOVERY,THE TREATMENT & MODE OF CURE.
HOW TO USE SUCCESSFULLY, WITH SAFETY AND CERTAINTY,
In all cases of Weakness, Lou) Spirits, Indigestion, Rheumatism, Loss of Nerve Power, Functional Ailments, Despondency,
Langour, Exhaustion, Muscular Debility, arising from various excesses, Loss of Strength, Appetite, &=c., &>c.
WITHOUT MEDICINE.
THE NEW MODE re-animates and revives the failing functions of Life, and thus imparts Energy
and fresh Vitality to the Exhausted and Debilitated Constitution, and may fairly be termed the Fountain of Health
THE LOCAL AND NERVINE TREATMENT imparts tone and vigour to the Nervous
System, and possesses highly re-animating properties ; its inflrence on the secretions and functions is speedily manifested; and
in all cases of Debility, Nervousness, Depression, Palpitation of the Heart, Trembling in the Limbs, Pains in the Back, &c.,
resulting from over-taxed energies of body or mind, &c.
Full Printed Instructions, with Pamphlets and Diagrams, for Invalids, post-free, Six stamps,
(From Sole Inventor and Patentee,)
DR. HAYWARD, M.R.C.S., L.S.A., 14, York Street, Portman Square, London, W.
N.B. For Qualifications, vide “ Medical Register."
OPA AAA REWARD.—The above sum
50 O kJ ■ LJ kJ kJ having during the last twelve years been
received on the sale of LATREILLE’S
invention for the production of WHISKERS and MOUSTACHIOS and curing BALDNESS, it may fairly be called the
reward of merit, as the article is universally acknowledged to be
the only producer of hair. Full particulars, with Testimonials
and Opinions of the Press, sent free to any person addressing
John Latreille, Walworth.
DRCAPLIN’S ELE TRO-CHEMICAL BATHS.
NEW WORKS BY DR. SMITH.
Just Published, 104 pages, Free by Post Two Stamps.
UIDE TO HEALTH -, or, Prescriptions and
Instructions for the Cure of Nervous Exhaustion.
By
Henry Smith, M.D. (Jena), Author of the “ Volunteers’
G
Manual.” This work gives Instructions for Strengthening the
Human Body. How to Regain Health and Secure Long Life.
Prescriptions for the Cure of Debilitating Diseases, Indigestion,
Mental Depression, Prostration, Timidity, &c., resulting from
Loss of Nerve Power. Testimonials, Treatment, &c.
“ In this Work the Doctor gives ‘ Advice as to the Choice of a Phy
sician ;’ ‘ What to Eat, Drink, and Avoid ;’ ‘ Health: how to Procure it,
and other subjects of interest to man as well as woman.”--6’zzwa'izj'
Times, May 4, 1873.
Also by the same Author,
For the Cure of Paralysis, Rheumatism, Gout, Nervous
Third Thousand. Post free in an envelope, 13 stamps,
Affections, axd many kinds of Chronic Diseases.
WOMAN : Her Duties, Relations, and Position.
Prospectuses and Testimonials free by post, on application to
N.B. A Special Edition, beautifully Illustrated by
the Secretary, The Electro-Chemical Bath Institution, i Engravings on Wood. Cloth gilt, One Shilling.
��XXX
DUAN ADVERTISEMENI S.
TRAVELLING
WEDDING PRESENTS.
CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.
WRITING-OASES.
NEW YEAR’S PRESENTS.
ASSER & SHERWIN, 80 and 81, Strand, W.C.; and 69, Oxford Street, W., London.
MRS. SAMUEL JAY,
LADIES’ OUTFITTER,
Address.
} 259, Regent Circus, Oxford Streep 259.
SPECIALITY FOR THE WINTER MONTHS.
THE ARAGON
MORNING
ROBE,
In. French Cashmere, Richly Ornamented in Soutache-Broderie.
COMPLETE SUITS OF WASHED AND GOT-UP UNDER-CLOTHING READY FOR IMMEDIATE USE.
Guinea Flannel Dressing Gozvns, Dressing Jackets, Bodices, Fichus, and Embroidered Flannel Petticoats.
Infants’ Layettes.—Marriage Trousseaux.—Good Materials.-—Tasteful Trimmings.—Dainty Stitches.
MRS.
‘ABYSSINIAN GOLD JEWELLERY’
SAMUEL JAY.
LIONEL & ALFRED PYKE’S.
‘ABYSSINIAN GOLD JEWELLERY ’
Is now worn by Ladies to avoid
IS THE ONLY IMITA
the risk of losing their “ Real
TION which cannot be detected
Sold Jewellery,” the Imitation
from “Real Gold Jewellery,”
•REGISTEREDbeing so perfect, detection need
possessing qualities so long
not befeared. It received a Prize
needed and desired in Imitation
Medal for its superiority over
Gold Jewellery, viz. :—supe
all other Imitation Jewellery.
APPEARANCE
Catalogues, with Press Opinions,
riority of finish, elegance of
forwardedpostfree on applica
design, solidity, and durability. T 018 Garat
qOLD tion.
Sole Manufacturers,
JEWELLERY.WM
I. & A. PYKE, 32, Ely Place, Holborn.
Retail Depots : 153, Cheapside,
I53A> Cheapside; 68, Fleet Street,
E. C. ; and at the Royal Polytechnic,
Regent Street, W.
MEDAL
TRADE-MARK.
18 JO.
Sole Manufacturers.
L. & A. PYKE, 32, Ely Place, Holbom.
Retail Depots : 153, Cheapside,
153A, Cheapside ; 68, Fleet Street,
E. C.; and at the Royal Polytechnic,
Regent Street, W.
Medical Testimony states that, unquestionably no remedy exists which is so certain in its effects.
_
ASTHMA,
WINTER COUGH,
DIFFICULTY OF BREATHING,
TRADE MARK alike yield to its influence. One Lozenge alone gives the sufferer relief. Many remedies are sold that contain Morphia,
....
. , , Opium, or violent drugs, but KEATING’S COUGH LOZENGES are composed only of the purest simple drugs and the
most delicate m health may use them with perfect confidence. KEATING’S COUGH LOZENGES are prepared by Thomas Keating St
Paul s Churchyard, and sold by all Chemists, in Boxes, is. i-RZ. and 2s. gd. each.
’
KEATING’S CHILDREN’S WORM TABLETS.
A PURELY VEGETABLE SWEETMEAT, both in apnearance and taste, furnishing a most agreeable method of administering the onlv
certain remedy for INTESTINAL or THREAD WORMS, itis a perfectly safe and mild preparation, and is especially adapted for Children.
bold by all Druggists, in Tins, is. ijrf. and 2s. gd. eacn. Put up in small boxes “specially ” for post, which will be forwarded on receipt of
15 stamps.
*
THOMAS KEATING, St. Paul’s Churchyard, London.
�JON DUAN AD UEDTISEMENDS.
XXXI
�JON DUAN AD VE r. riSEMENTS.
xxxii
DO NOT LET fOUR CHILD DIE.
FENNING’S CHILDREN’S POWDERS PREVENT CONVULSIONS,
Are Cooling and Soothing.
M •
W a)
FENNINGS’CHILDREN’S POWDERS
For Children Cutting their Teeth, to prevent Convulsions.
Sold in Stamped Boxes at ij. x^d. and qj. gd. (great saving), with full Directions. Sent post free for 15 stamps.
Direct to Alfred Fennings, West Cowes, I. W.
1-1 w
Q
Read FENNINGS’ EVERY MOTHER’S BOOK, sent post free for 8 stamps.
REMEMBER LAMPLOUGH’S
PYRETIC SALINE
AND HAVE IT IN YOUR HOUSES.
It is most invigorating, vitalising, and refreshing. Gives instant relief in Headaches, Sea or Bilious Sickness, and quickly cures the worst form of
Eruptive or Skin Complaints. The various diseases arising from Climatic Causes, Constipation, the Liver, or Blood Impurities, Inoculation, the
Results of Breathing Air Infected with Fever, Measles, or SMALLPOX, are frequently prevented, and these diseases cured by its use. Any
person who has already Smallpox should take it, and be kept in a cool and darkened room to prevent its leaving any trace on the features.
The numerous statements and letters relating to its marvellous effect, as a positive cure in TYPHUS, SCARLET FEVER, SMALL
POX, and other BLOOD POISONS, are most remarkable, and are painfully suggestive of great neglect, whenever the PYRETIC
SALINE is not employed in these diseases.
“ It furnishes the blood with its lost Saline constituents."—Dr. Morgan, M'.D., &c.
The late Dr. Turley states in his letters and lectures:—“ I found it act as a specific in the worst form of Scarlet Fever, NO OTHER
Medicine being given. ’ ’
Caution.—The great reputation of this remedy having called forth spurious imitations, whose only merit is a transposition of the words of
my label and wrappers, without any of the health-restoring properties, it is needful to observe my Name and Trade Mark, as above, on a buffcoloured Wrapper, without which the Saline cannot be genuine.
Sold by all Chemists and the Maker, in patent glass-stoppered Bottles, at 2s. (>d., 4>r. i>d., Ilf.. and 2U. each.
H. LAMPLOUGH, 113, Holborn Hill, London, E.C.
“Magna est veritas, et prævalebit.”
THE MIRACULOUS CURE
For Corns and Bunions.
BRODIE’S CELEBRATED REMEDY.
This Preparation,
which, from its wonder
ful efficacy, has been
named the “ Miraculous
Cure,” is rapidly becom
ing the most popular one
of the day; it is quite
Painless in its operation,
and will remove the
most obstinate Corns.
ft is earnestly recom
mended to all sufferers.
Sold in Packets is.
each, by all the principal
the miraculous cure Chemists in England.
If your Chemist does
not keep it, you can obtain it direct from the Manufactory and Depot,
485, Oxford Street, London, or by Post for 14 Stamps.
"
:
OROIDE GOLD JEWELLERY (Registered).
SCARF RINGS and PINS, in New Designs of great Beauty,
Y~TIEESE.—CHEDDAR, CHESHIRE, SOMERSET,
and WILTSHIRE, the produce of some of the Choicest Dairies,
in constant supply.
AMERICAN CHEESE are relatively cheap, and very pleasing in
quality this season.
Buyers are requested to inspect the produce of some of the Finest
United States Dairy and Fancy qualities of Factory Cheese now
arriving, in splendid condition.
HENRY WEBBER, Cheese and Bacon Factor, 17, Long Lanb ,
West Smithfield,
three Doors East of Metropolitan Market.
FINE CHEESE FOR CHRISTMAS PRESENTS.
SEND FOR ONE ON TRIAL.
WEIR’S GLOBE SEWING MACHINE, Suit
able for Dressmakers. Reduced price, ,£2 as., Com
plete.
WEIR’S
55s.
SEWING
MACHINE,
for
Families, improved and Patented (Prize Medals),
works by Hand or Foot, the most simple Sewing
Machine in the world.
Guaranteed to do every
kind of work.
Weik’S New Patent Lockstitch Machine, "THE
ZEPHYR,” price £443-., Complete, works by Hand
or Foot. The most perfect and simple Lock-Stitch
Machine. One month’s free trial. Easy terms of payment. Carriage paid to
any Railway Station. Illustrated Prospectus and Patterns of Work, Pose Frit.
■TAMFIS G. WEIR, 2, Carlisle St.,Soho Square, London.
TWO TEASPOONFULS of NEWTON'S CELEBRATED
I
BALM OF LICORICE, Coltsfoot, Honey, and Horehound, instantly
RELIEVES COUGHS, Colds, Bronchitis, Asthma, Whooping Cough, and all
post free, y. ALBERT CHAINS, in best Finish, and perfectly Undistinguishable from 18 carat gold, 7J. 6d. LOCKETS, handsomely Engraved, 4J 6J.,.Obstructions of the Throat, Chest, and Lungs. For Children invaluable No
.
*
home should be without it. In Bottles ir. t\d. and as. gd. Proprietor, J. W.
and 7J. 6<Z. Post Free. Illustrated Price Lists and Opinions of the Press
NEWTON, Chemist and M.P.S., Salisbury; BARCLAY & SONS, London; and
free per Postall Chemists.
C. C. ROWE, 53, All Saints’ Road, Westbourne Park, London, W.
MW
i
The best article for Cleaning and Polishing Silver, Electro Plate, Plate Glass, Marble, &c. Produces an immediate, brilliant, and
lasting polish. Tablets, 6a. each.
Prepared expressly for the Patent Knife Cleaning Machines, India Rubber and Buff Leather Knife Boards. Knives -- eafh
--_ constantly
«leaned with it have a brilliant polish, equal to new cutlery. Sold m Packets, 3d. each ; and in Tins, 6d„ is., 2s. 6d., and 45. eacn.
Prevent friction in cleaning and injury to the knife. Price from is. 6ff. each. OAKEY’S WELLINGTON KNIFE POLISH should
be used with the boards. Sold Everywhere, by Grocers, Ironmongers, Brushmakers, Oilmen, Chemists, &c.
Wholesale ■ JOHN Q A KEV & SONS, Manufacturers of Emery, Emery Cloth, Black Lead, Cabinet Glass Paper, &c.
Wellington Emery
and
Black Lead Mills, Westminster Bridge Road, London, S.E.
�
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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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
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
2018
Publisher
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
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
A name given to the resource
Jon Duan: a twofold journey with manifold purposes by the authors of "The Coming K---" and "The Siliad"
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: vi, [2], 94, ix-xxxii p. : ill. ; 25 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Advertisements throughout the text and on numbered pages at the beginning and end.
Publisher
An entity responsible for making the resource available
Weldon & Co.
Date
A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource
1874
Identifier
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G5455
Subject
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Poetry
Periodicals
Rights
Information about rights held in and over the resource
<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 (Jon Duan: a twofold journey with manifold purposes by the authors of "The Coming K---" and "The Siliad"), 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
A language of the resource
English
Conway Tracts
English Poetry
Poetry in English