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'flthe Jnidlectual
AND
NEW JERUSALEM MAGAZINE.
No. 254.]
'
FEBRUARY 1, 1875.
[Vol. XXII.
LIKE AND UNLIKE.
There are many things in this world that appear to he alike, and
some that are even supposed to be identical, which are yet very differ
ent from, and some of them even opposite to, each other. Charity and
benevolence are often confounded, but are by no means the same.
Although not in their nature antagonistic, they are not unfrequently
opposite in their results. Charity aims at the real and even the ever
lasting good of its objects, benevolence only consults their apparent
good, and not only leaves the eternal out of consideration, but often so
acts as to make the temporal hostile to it. Parental love and fondness
are not unfrequently mistaken for each other, or rather fondness is
sometimes mistaken for love. Yet they are far from being the same.
Love, like charity, constantly aims at the real good of the objects of
its affection and regard, and so treats them as to secure, as far as it can,
their true and lasting welfare. Fondness seeks its satisfaction in the
gratification of its own and of its objects’ feelings and desires, and
often sacrifices their true interests by ministering to their appetites and
passions.
Zeal and anger are not always distinguished, yet they are not only
different but opposite in their origin, in their nature, and in their
tendency. Zeal is the warmth of love, anger is the fire of hatred.
“ Externally zeal appears like anger, but inwardly they are different.
The differences are these. The zeal of a good love is like a heavenly
flame, which in no case bursts forth upon another, but only defends
itself against a wicked person. But the zeal of an evil love is like an
�54
Like and Unlike.
infernal flame, which of itself bursts forth and rushes on, and desires
to consume another. The zeal of a good love burns away, and is
allayed when the assailant ceases to assault; but the zeal of an evil
love continues, and is not extinguished. This is because the internal
of him who is in the love of goodness is in itself mild, soft, friendly and
benevolent; wherefore when his external, with a view of defending
itself, is fierce, harsh, and haughty, and thereby acts with rigour, still
it is tempered by the good in which he is internally. It is otherwise
with the evil. With them the internal is unfriendly, without pity,
harsh, breathing hatred and revenge, and feeding itself with their
delights ; and although it is reconciled, still these evils lie concealed as
fire in the wood under the embers; and these fires burst forth after
death, if not in this world.” (C. L. 365.) There are two lessons we
may learn from this outward similarity between the two essentially
different feelings of zeal and anger. We must not regard all warmth of
feeling which we meet with in debate, when a speaker is vindicating
his own opinions, or refuting or even declaiming against those of others,
as of necessity so much as allied to anger. Nor must we suppose that
a still more fiery denunciation of wrong and vindication of right has
any necessary relationship with wrath. There is a generous indigna
tion, which is sometimes called righteous anger; but such indignation
or anger is only zeal. It has in it no hatred except against evil. It
desires the welfare even of those who do the evil against which it is
directed. The angels, we are told, have indignation, but their indigna
tion “ is not of anger but of zeal, in which there is nothing of evil,
and which is as far removed from hatred or revenge, or from the spirit
of returning evil for evil, as heaven is from hell, for it originates in
good.” (A. C. 3839.) Another lesson we learn from the outward
similarity between zeal and anger has respect to God.
He is a zealous
God. And His Divine zeal, although it is the fire of infinite love, to a
certain class of His creatures has the appearance, and from that ap
pearance has in Scripture assumed the name, of anger and even of
wrath and vengeance. “ The zeal of the Lord, which in itself is love
and pity, appears to the evil as anger; for when the Lord out of love
and mercy protects His own in heaven, the wicked are indignant and
angry against the good, and rush into the sphere where Divine good
and Divine truth are, and attempt to destroy those who are there, and
■ in this case the Divine truth of the Divine good operates upon them,
and makes them feel such torments as exist in hell; hence they attri
bute to the Divine Being wrath and anger, whereas in Him there is
nothing at all of anger or of evil, but pure clemency and mercy.
Wrath and anger are attributed to the Lord, but they belong to those
who are in evil, or are angry against the Divine.” (A. C. 8875.) How
needful, then, the Lord’s exhortation—“ Judge not according to the
appearance, but judge righteous judgment.”
�55
SKETCH OF THE SCIENCE OF PSYCHOLOGY
BASED ON SCRIPTURE AND REASON.
BY THE LATE REV. W. WOODMAN.
Chap. V.—The Relation of the Soul and Body—continued.
We now come to the final question, which, though last, is not least
in importance : “ What is the use of the material body in relation to
the soul?” or, “What is the ground, in the divine economy, of the
necessity of man being born into the natural world 1 ” That such a
necessity exists must be inferred from the fact: for Divine Wisdom
does nothing in vain. No provision which exists is superfluous.
Hence there must be an adequate reason for the phenomenon.
In the preceding chapter it was explained that, without an inert or
reactive basis, creation itself would have been impossible, and that the
creative energies would have dissipated themselves without result. It
was also shown by reference to those phenomena of the other world, of
which the Scriptures supply intimations, that the substances of that
world have an inherent activity which results in continual change,
many of the scenes described in the prophets and the Apocalypse being
like the shifting scenes of a drama. That objects and scenery of a
permanent character exist there is unquestionable, but, as will be
shown in a future part of this work, their continuance is due to their
connection with states derived from the fixedness of this world. Such
Would be the character of the human soul, had it not been provided,
in order to its preserving a permanent identity, that the spirit should
be allied to the inert substances of the world of nature, thence to
derive a kind of limbus—a selvidge, or fringe-work of fixedness, which
forms a substratum or fulcrum to the spiritual activities, and serves,
like the cutaneous integument of the body, to hold all its parts in their
connection.
The rudiment of this is laid at conception, and becomes actual at birth,
so soon as the material organization has been animated from the outer
world, by the inhalation of the external atmosphere. Life thus brought
down to the extreme verge of our nature—in other words, the influx of
life from which the embryo lived thus uniting itself with the afflux of
life from without—-the connection of the soul with the body, which
previously had been potential, now becomes actual.
Still, the base thus formed in the child, though real, is rudimentary,
and receives its full development in after life, the body then serving as
�56
Sketch of the Science of Psychology.
a plane into which the mental activities are determined, and where, by
being embodied in corresponding acts, they become fixed in actual life.
This explains why in the Scriptures so great an emphasis is placed on
works, and why we are to be judged according to the deeds done in th®
body. It is for this reason that the Lord insists on the doing of His
precepts as the foundation on which alone our spiritual house can
stand.
The importance of this subject affords a sufficient apology for
adducing a few of the more prominent instances in which this doctrine
is enforced, such as the following : “ Blessed are the dead which die in
the Lord from henceforth'; yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest
from their labours, and their works do follow them ” (Rev. xiv. 13).
l( Blessed are they that do His commandments, that they may have right
to the tree of life, and may enter in through the gates into the city ”
(Rev. xxii. 14). “ Not every one that saith unto Me, Lord, Lord, shall
enter into the kingdom of heaven; but he who doeth the will of My
Father which is in heaven” (Matt. vii. 21). “ He that hath My com
mandments, and doeth them, he it is that loveth Me” (John xiv. 21).
“ Herein is My Father glorified, that ye bear much fruit: so shall ye
be My disciples ” (John xv. 5). “ Say ye to the righteous, It shall
be well with him; for they shall eat the fruit of their doings ” (Isa. iii.
10). And these are but a small fraction of the texts which bear on
the point.
The ground of these strong injunctions is obviously because love
together with faith, unless embodied in act, evaporate in mere senti
mentality. “ If,” as the Apostle James truly observes, “ a brother or
sister be naked, or destitute of daily food, and one of you say unto
them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled; notwithstanding ye
give them not those things which are needful to the body, what doth
it profit?” (chap. ii. 15, 16.) It is as profitless to him who contents
himself with the sentiment as to the object of it; it is equally desti
tute of fruit in the one case as in the other. In the act all purposes of
the will, with all the mental powers, both intellectual and affectional,
are concentrated. They are simultaneously present, and require a
consistency in the deed, whilst they leave their indelible impress on
the spirit.
It is not however to be inferred that there is any efficacy in mere
deeds. Actions, however pious or beneficent in their outward form,
when not the result of genuine religious principle, are destitute of
spiritual vitality. They are either formal or hypocritical—either like
�Sketch of the Science of Psychology.
57
a lk»dy without a soul, or a whited sepulchre, the receptacle of dead
Bien’s hones and all uncleanness. A mere act, considered abstractedly
from motive, is simply mechanical. It is qualified by the motive out of
which it springs; and the same act performed by different persons
may differ in all its essential characteristics, and indeed does so in
the degree in which the respective purposes and ends contemplated in
the performance of it respectively vary. In the mutual relation there
fore which the one bears to the other the inward motive impresses on
the deed its peculiar character, whilst this solidifies and renders
permanent the principles of thought and affection whence it springs.
It is also a fact, of which every one on reflection may convince him
self, that the principles of the mind, by derivation, become principles
of the body also. This is illustrated in the impress of the mental
characteristics on the countenance. I do not allude to those transitory
changes which are produced by the passing emotions; principles per
manently established within the soul imprint a lasting image of them
selves on the expression of the face.1
That there are instances where the secret workings of the soul are
sedulously concealed from observation is fully conceded; but this is
the result of long education of the features to conceal the real senti
ments of the mind, and simulate others which it does not feel.
It is an abnormal condition, and may be regarded as an exception,
which rather serves to prove the rule than furnish an argument against
it. Moreover, viewed in its essential character, the image of hypocrisy
will be found stamped on every one of its forms, although not so easily
detected by the external senses.2
The impress of the mental principles derived into the bodily
organization is not however confined to the face, although this is, par
1 The author witnessed a remarkable instance of this in comparing the portrait
of a gentleman taken at one period with the original some years afterwards, dur
ing which time a change had taken place in his religious sentiments. The like
ness was evidently an excellent one. Every feature was a perfect reproduction,
as far as to the general contour of the living face then preseent, but the expression
of the two was vastly different. That of the former, though not harsh, was cold
and rigid ; that of the latter beamed with benevolence and sympathy. A change
such as this could only be due to a correspondent change in the arrangement of
the interior fibres which underlie the surface, and which, as explained in the text,
primarily receive the impressions of the mental activities.
2 The author, and doubtless many who read these pages, has found how often
the impression spontaneously produced on first seeing an individual proves to be
the correct one. Even deceit, notwithstanding the consummate art resorted to for
the purpose of concealing the true sentiments, will thus frequently crop out.
/
�58
Sketch of the Science of Psychology.
excellence, the index of the mind. The manual dexterity acquired hy
practice in the more delicate operations of art or mechanics, rests on
the same ground. The soul not only thus educates its material
organism from the minutest fibres of which it is composed to its more
concrete organs, but a lasting impression is left upon them, a disposing
of the minute parts, whereby the operations are capable of almost
spontaneous reproduction ; many of the manual processes requiring no
ordinary skill being carried on without the effort of reflection. The
body has thus a species of automatic action, whence use becomes a
second nature. The retentive faculty of the organism of the im
pressions its activities may have received is most strikingly illustrated
by the circumstance, that what has been acquired in early youth, when
both mind and body are most plastic, is nevertheless so indelibly
fixed as never during life to be obliterated, but are capable of repro
duction at any subsequent period so long as our frame retains its
normal powers.
If this is the case with operations which lie relatively on the surface,
much more with the principles that stir the profounder depths of our
being. Manual dexterity, and even intellectual aptitude, may exist
independently of moral or spiritual character ; but that which springs
from the fountain of the life’s love, acting from a far deeper ground,
will exercise a proportionately more powerful influence; the inmost
motives, whatever their character, will inevitably transform the
whole organism inhabited by it into a perfect image of themselves,
and form a substratum, so to speak, on which the others rest.
It is then for this reason that the soul in its first stage is allied with
a material vesture; and that the natural universe has been created to
supply the elements necessary to form this external covering, and to
furnish a plane whereon these ultimate activities may be developed to
their utmost extent.
In the soul and body, then, are collated all the arcana of created
existence, and communication established with both worlds, so that
each may contribute its wealth to the human subject. The spiritual
supplies the active energies of his being, the material, the reactive base,
by means of which these become fixed and permanent. The lowest
being thus brought into the closest relationship with the highest, the
conditions are supplied for realizing the action of that law whereby
all true operation proceeds from first principles by ultimates into
intermediates. At birth there are only the two extremes, the soul and
a mere corporeity. The former, operating through the latter, rears the
�Shelch of the Science of Psychology.
59
mental superstructure lying between. The first plane rests on the
bodily senses; through these, by instruction, science is formed, and
the moral sentiments superadded; and if man becomes the subject of
& new birth, the centre of a new series is formed, a spiritual super
structure crowns the edifice. The soul is thus like a many-storied
house, rising from the lowest natural plane till it reaches the verge of
the spiritual, which, when formed and developed, brings it into com
munion and conjunction with the Supreme. In all these stages the
operation of the same law may be discovered. The principles and.
purposes formed within the mind acquire a mental consistency and
permanence only as they are determined to act. And whilst this im
parts a fixity to them, it also provides a solid mental basis for the
development and perfection of the religious life within.1
1 Three objections may possibly arise in some minds. It may appear that the
arguments employed in this chapter favour the conclusion that the existence of the
body is indispensable to the full exercise of the mental functions, and that at its
dissolution the soul is deprived of an essential element necessary to such exercise.
In the second place, it may seem as though those who died in infancy must lack
the full development of the natural base, and consequently remain imperfect.
The third difficulty which may probably suggest itself relates to the existence of
angels created such. On the first two points I must request the reader to suspend
his judgment till a future portion of this work, when they will more properly come
Under the full consideration they demand. As regards the third, I must beg
permission to remark that much misapprehension prevails on the subject. There
certainly is no direct intimation in the Scriptures of any existences being so
Created, and the doctrine rests entirely on inference, and this from passages con
fessedly obscure. The direct testimony of Holy Writ is fatal to the hypothesis.
A detailed account of the order of creation is given in the Book of Genesis from
th® “beginning :”—“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.”
Th® process continued, in an ascending series, till it culminated in man, with
which, and the subordinating of all inferior beings to his dominion and control,
God, we are told, “ ended all His work which He had made.” It is unnecessary to
observe that not the slightest reference occurs to the creation of angels. As to
fallen angels the declaration that ‘ ‘ God saw everything that He had made, and,
behold, it was very good,” precludes the idea of such being then in existence.
Moreover, it is not possible rationally to conceive of a being higher than an
image and likeness of God save God Himself. There can be no relation closer
than that of an image and likeness to the original of which it is the copy save
identity, which it would be a misnomer to call relationship, and, in the case
under consideration, would involve the idea of a transfusion of the Deity—an idea
revolting to every Christian sentiment. In addition to this, where angels are
mentioned as having appeared to the patriarchs, and there is no record of such
an event prior to the time of Abraham, they are called “men.” The three who
visited Abraham, and the two who sojourned with Lot, are so called (Gen. xviii.
2 i xix. 10). So also the angel of the Lord that appeared to Manoah and his wife
(Judges xiii.). The angels that appeared at the Lord’s sepulchre, likewise, are so
�6o
EMERSON.
i.
The time was when our American consins were so completely our
imitators that it was only in the matter of Slaveholding and Con
stitution we could say they were distinct with a difference. Cooper
wrote novels after Scott; Washington Irving followed Goldsmith;
Bryant imitated the best things in Wordsworth and Byron; Prescott
walked upon the shadow of Robertson. In arts, science, and agricul
ture, it was the same : we made the Americans their tools, and
composed their manuals;—they were content to use them after our
fashion.
But this state of things had to cease. Territorial annexation
excited a spirit of innovation generally. Then first arose Emerson
with his Transcendentalism; a clock remarkable for its inexactitude
and its whirr in striking followed ; the Poughkeepsie Seer next dawned
upon the indefinable side of the Western horizon; finally, Walt Whit
man made his appearance. The clock has been replaced by a more
reliable chronometer; the Harmonial Philosopher has been overshot
by innumerable experts, mediumistic, thaumaturgic and clairvoyant;
Whitman’s song has been left to die away uncared for beneath the
overwhelming chorus of healthier and less inartistic singers; but
Emerson still remains unaffected by the Zeit-Geist.
In joyous
styled (Mark xvi. 5 ; Luke xxiv. 4 ; compare also John xx. 12), whilst the angel
attendant on John, whose glory was so transcendent that John would have fallen
before him in worship, declared that he was his fellow servant, of the apostles, and
of his brethren the prophets, and of them that kept the sayings of that book
(Rev. xxii. 9). As to the devil ever having been an angel of light, it is directly
contradicted by the declaration of our Lord, that “he was a murderer from the
beginning. ” From the direct testimony of Scripture, and from every rational con
sideration, the conclusion that both angels and internals are from the human
race appears inevitable. The portion of the Second Epistle of Peter, and of that
of Jude, where they speak of the angels who left their first estate, are often
quoted. But, surrounded as they admittedly are with the greatest obscurity, and
their meaning being a matter of conjecture, to urge them in opposition to the
clearly expressed statements on the other side, would be an inversion of all
legitimate reasoning. Similar remarks are applicable to the other texts usually
believed to favour the popular doctrine, as the poetical reference in Job to the
morning stars, and the sons of Gfod singing together at the laying of the corner
stone of the earth, the falling of Lucifer in Isaiah, etc. ; so far as their sense can be
intelligibly gathered, they are entirely irrelevant to the matter in point. On
this subject, however, the reader is referred to Noble’s Appeal.
�Emerson.
6i
severity, dreamy smartness, sagacious mother-wit, and subtle thought,
ha has steadily held his own amongst our Transatlantic brethren
during over forty years of literary activity, and still remains the most
American of Americans;—an incessant protestor against social stag
nation, servility, covetousness, heartlessness, and that conventional
superficiality which—in the domain of thought—brings us everywhere
face to face with mere s^m-dilettantes “peeping into microscopes
and turning rhymes, as a boy whistles to keep his courage up
“men who grind and grind in the mill of a truism, and nothing comes
■out but what was put in.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson was born at Boston in the year 1803,
and in early manhood—after graduating at Harvard—was ordained
an Unitarian minister.
An objection to the Sacramental Rite sub
sequently arose in his mind, and gradually widened into difficulties
ending only with the resignation of his pastorate. He then betook
himself to farming at Concord, near the spot where the first soldier
fell at the beginning of the War of Independence. There he has
spent most of his time since—his winter lecturing in Boston excepted.
Erom 1836 until now public attention has been attracted to him at
intervals either by a new course of lectures or by a new book.
“Nature,” “Essays and Orations,” “Representative Men,” “Poems,”
“The Conduct of Life,” “Society and Solitude,” “English Traits,”—
such are his principal literary works. He has also written largely in
the North American Review. Of his works not literary, it may be
briefly stated that Moncure Conway credits him with having so
Completely unsettled the minds of numbers of American thinkers some
years ago, that the Brook Farm Community, and certain other forms
of Harmonism, sprang out of the agitation j1 while J. R. Lowell—
speaking of the late War of Emancipation—says that “to Emerson
more than to all other causes together, did the young martyrs of our
civil war owe the sustaining strength of thoughtful heroism that is so
touching in every record of their lives.”2 What have been the prin
cipal causes of this success ? Is this success overrated ?
When Emerson—speaking of Goethe’s extraordinary knowledge of
human nature—said that this man seemed to see through every pore
of his skin, he used a remark equally applicable to himself. In this
lies the chief secret of his popularity. Another reason of his success
fe, that finding his countrymen were sinking their individuality before
1 In introduction to Passages from Nath. Hawthorne’s Note-Books, p. ii.
2 Vide My Study Windows, p. 280.
�Ó2
Emerson.
the demands of business, creedism and fashion, he had the courage
and tact to shame them into the admission of the fact. He showed
them they were the slaves of an idea that could but degrade. There
was a smooth mediocrity, a squalid contentment, that unmanned men.
How mean—he would say—to go blazing a gaudy butterfly in fashion
able or political saloons, the fool of society, the fool of notoriety, a
topic for newspapers, a piece of the street, and forfeiting the real
prerogative of the russet coat, the privacy and the true warm heart of
the citizen!
11 The babe by its mother lies bathed in joy ;
Glides its hours uncounted, the sun is its toy—
Shines the peace of all being, without cloud, in its eyes,
And the sum of the world in soft miniature lies,
But man crouches and blushes ; absconds and conceals ;
He creepeth and peepeth, he palters and steals.
Infirm, melancholy, jealous, glancing around,
An oaf, an accomplice, he poisons the ground.”
«
The world is his who can see through its pretension, he would say;—
why be timid and apologetic and no longer upright? Why dwarf
thyself beneath some great decorum, some fetish of a government,
some ephemeral trade, or war, or man ?
Addressing the leaders of thought, he showed them how com
pletely they had failed to meet the reasonable expectations of man
kind.
“Men looked when all feudal straps and bandages were
snapped asunder, that nature-—too long the mother of dwarfs—
should reimburse itself by a brood of Titans, who should laugh and
leap in the continent, and run up the mountains of the West with
the errand of genius and love : instead of this you are at best but
timid, imitative, tame —in painting, sculpture, poetry, fiction,
eloquence, there is grace without grandeur, and even that is not new,
but derivative. The great man makes the great thing. They are the
kings of the world who give the colour of the present thought to all
nature and all art, and persuade men by the cheerful serenity of
their carrying the matter, that this thing which they do is the apple
which the ages have desired to pluck, now at last ripe, and inviting
nations to the harvest.”
Young America won inspiration from his words, and lent itself
willingly to his teaching. His method was a sort of galvanic one,
and produced a like result. Little new was introduced into the
system,—the individual was led to feel himself. Stay at home in
thy own soul, Emerson would say,—are not Greece, Palestine, Italy,
�Emerson.
63
and ttte islands there in as far as the genius and active principle of
each and all is concerned? In silence, in steadiness, in severe
abstraction, hold by thyself. Add observation to observation. Be
patient of neglect, patient of reproach, and bide the fitting time 5
thou shalt see truly at last. The day is always his who works in it
with, serenity and great aims. As the world was plastic fluid in the
hands of God, so it is ever to so much of His attributes as we bring to
it: to ignorance it is flint.
Place not thy faith upon externals. The
sources of nature are in thy own mind if the sentiment of duty he
there. All thy strength, courage, hope, comes from within. Man is
spirit, and not a mere fleshly appetency. “ Every spirit builds itself
,a house; and beyond its house a world; and beyond its world a
heaven. What we are that only can we see. All that Adam had,
all that Caesar could, you have, 0 countrymen, and can do. Adam
called his house heaven and earth; Caesar called his house Rome ;
you perhaps call yours a cobbler’s trade, a hundred acres of ploughed
land, or a scholar’s garret. Yet line for line and point for point,
your dominion is as great as theirs, though without their fine names.
Build therefore your own world ! ” But build wisely. Trust your
intuitions rather than custom, conventionality and the rule of the
mart. They pass ; God is ; so is your personality and yours. Trust
God with this and knowledge is yours; for “ the heart which aban
dons itself to the Supreme Mind finds itself related to all its works,
and will travel a royal road to particular knowledges and powers. In
ascending to this primary and aboriginal sentiment we have come from
our remote station on the circumference instantaneously to the centre
of the world, where—as in the closet of God—-we see causes and
anticipate the universe which is but a slow effect.”
This was news for Young America, already made conscious that
“the ways of trade were grown selfish to the borders of theft, and
supple to the borders of fraud.” Not without a need came the
warning voice—
“What boots thy zeal,
0 glowing friend,
That would indignant rend
The northland from the south ?
Wherefore ! to what good end ?
Boston Bay and Bunker Hill
Would serve things still!
Things are of the snake.
The horseman serves the horse,
�64
Emerson.
' The neatherd serves the neat,
The merchant serves the purse,
The eater serves his meat.
’Tis the day of the chattel,
Web to weave and corn to grind ;
Things are in the saddle
And ride mankind.”
By Essays on Friendship, Prudence, Worship, Love, and other
subjects, Emerson sought to spiritualize man’s thoughts once more.
What a discovery these Essays must have proved to some only
half-enslaved traditionalist! There is that on “ Love,” for instance :
to learn that the “ foolish passion,” as one eminent divine called Love,
did really not only establish marriage, unite man to his race and
pledge him to domestic and civic relations, but did also carry him
with new sympathy into nature, did enhance the power of the senses,
did open the imagination, add to his character heroic and sacred attri
butes, and finally did secure to the true mind a personal conviction
that the purification of the intellect and heart from year to year is
the real marriage, foreseen and prepared from the first, and wholly
above their consciousness ! To think that all mankind love a lover ;
that love is a celestial rapture falling out of heaven to inheaven
humanity,—the remembrance of its visions outlasting all other
remembrances and remaining a wreath of flowers on the oldest brows!
“No man ever forgot the visitations of that power to his heart and
brain which created all things new; which was the dawn in him
of music, poetry and art; which made the face of nature radiant
with purple light, the morning and night varied enchantments; when
a single tone of one voice could make the heart bound, and the
most trivial circumstance associated with one form is put in the amber
of memory; when he became all eye when one was present, and all
memory when one was gone; when no place was too solitary and
none too silent for him who has richer company and sweeter conver
sation in his new thoughts than any old friends, though best and
purest, can give him;—for the figures, the motions, the words of
the beloved object are not like other images, written in water, but as
Plutarch says ‘ enamelled in fire.’ ”
And then the satisfaction some young Caleb would experience in
being told what he had previously learnt but could not shape into
words j—namely, that beauty is the flowering of virtue and that we
cannot approach it. “ Its nature is like opaline doves’-neck lustres,
hovering and evanescent. Herein it resembles the most excellent
�Emerson.
65
things, which all have this rainbow • character, defying all attempts
at appropriation and usethat like the statue it is then beautiful
when it begins to be incomprehensible,—when it is passing out of
criticism,—that it is not you, but your radiance one loves!
One will search far to find a more exquisite and manly piece of
thought than where Emerson in this Essay tells how, by conversa
tion with that which is in itself excellent, magnanimous, lovely and
just, the lover comes to a warmer love of these nobilities and a
Quicker apprehension of them. “ Then he passes from loving them
in one to loving them in all, and so is the one beautiful soul only the
door through which he enters to the society of all true and pure souls.
In the particular society of his mate he attains a clearer sight of
any spot, any taint, which her beauty has contracted from this
World, and is able to point it out, and this with mutual joy that
they are now able, without offence, to indicate blemishes and
hindrances in each other, and give to each all help and comfort in
curing the same. And, beholding in many souls the traits of the
divine beauty, and separating in each soul that which is divine
from the taint which it has contracted in the world, the lover ascends
to the highest beauty, to the love and knowledge of the Divinity, by
Steps in this ladder of created souls.” No wonder, if, after realisinosuch perceptions as these, Emerson persistently declaimed against that
“ subterranean prudence” which only too generally presides at
marriages “ with words that take hold of the upper world, whilst one
eye is prowling in the cellar, so that its gravest discourse has a
Savour of hams and powdering tubs.” Such thoughts as these are of
no mere ephemeral character.
But it is by his Transcendentalism, or Idealistic Philosophy, that
the character of this man’s mind is best discerned. Setting out
with the conviction that we must so far trust the perfection of the
creation as to believe that whatever curiosity the .'order of things
has awakened in our mind the order of things can satisfy, Emerson
shows that, philosophically considered, the universe is composed of
Nature and the Soul,—Nature being the Not-Me. Sensual objects
Conform to the premonitions of Reason and reflect the conscience;
thus every natural process is a version of a moral sentence. Nature
consequently exists for Uses ;—for Commodity, or the advantages of
sense ; Beauty, or eesthetical satisfactions ; Language, or the expres
sion of thought; and Discipline, or the education of the Understanding
and Reason. A proper appreciation of these excellences would
�66
Emerson.
lead us to see all things as continually hastening back to Unity. Our
globe as seen by God is a transparent law, not a mass of facts. We
may not implicitly believe our senses.
Nature conspires with spirit
to emancipate us.
The materialist respects sensible masses j the
idealist has another measure,—the Rank which things themselves take
in his consciousness. Mind is the only reality; of this men and all
other natures are better or worse reflectors. Matter does not exist :
Nature is an appendix of the Soul. Not that the sensuous fact is
denied, but that this is looked upon as a sequel or completion of a
spiritual fact. This manner of looking at things transfers every
object in nature from an independent and anomalous position
without into the consciousness.
All that you call the world__he
told his disciples—is the shadow of that substance which you are__
the perpetual creation of the powers of thought. The mould is
invisible, but the world betrays the shape of the mould. Seen in the
light of thought, the world always is phenomenal; and virtue
subordinates it to the mind. Idealism sees the world in God.
“If a man is at heart just, then in so far he is God ; the safety
of God, the immortality of God, the majesty of God, do enter
into that man with justice,” from which words one understands how
possible it is that a man should raise his hat to—himself, <£ Transcen
dentalism,” says Emerson 11 is the Saturnalia or excess of faith.”
Such Idealism, we further learn, beholds the whole circle of persons
and things, of actions and events, of country and religion, not as
painfully accumulated, atom after atom, act after act, in an aged
creeping Past; hut as one vast picture which God paints on the
instant eternity, for the contemplation of the soul.
“ The great Pan
of old, who was clothed in a leopard skin to signify the beautiful
variety of things, and the firmament his coat of stars,—was but a
representative of thee, 0 rich and various man ! thou palace of sight
and sound, carrying in thy senses the morning and the night and the
unfathomable galaxy; in thy brain the geometry of the City of God ;
in thy heart the bower of love and the realms of right and wrong.”
From these facts Emerson would lead us to see that the universal
essence—which is not wisdom, or love, or beauty, 'or power, but all
in one and each entirely—is that for which all things exist, and that
by which they are.
Spirit creates.
Behind nature, throughout
nature, spirit is present. One and not compound; it does not act
upon us from without, that is, in space and time, but spiritually, or
through ourselves. In other words, the Supreme Being does not build
�Emerson.
67
tip nature around us, but puts it forth through us, as the life of
the tree puts forth new branches and leaves through the pores of the
oli As a plant upon the earth, so a man rests upon the bosom of
God; he is nourished by unfailing fountains, and draws at his need
inexhaustible power.
In all this Emerson refuses to recognize the doctrine of Discrete
Degrees, and, as a consequence, he is committed—like Professor
Tyndall—to that confusion of thought which accepts life in its activity
in nature, as Life Itself in God.
He interprets its law of action
there, as if this life in such action were the Primal Law-Maker.
He takes the stream, of influences for the source and calls it God.
K The world, ” he says, “ proceeds from the same spirit as the body of
man. It is a remoter and inferior incarnation of God,—a projection
of God into the unconscious.” The Transcendentalist thus has no
difficulty in believing in one kind of miracle,—the perpetual
Openness of the human mind to new influx of light and power.
He has his Millenarianism too.
“ As far as you conform your life
to the pure idea in your mind,” says Emerson, “ that will unfold its
great proportions. A correspondent revolution in things will attend
the influx of the spirit. So fast will disagreeable appearances, swine,
spiders, snakes, pests, madhouses, prisons, enemies, vanish ; they are
temporary, and shall be no more seen. The sordor and filths of nature
tike sun shall dry up and the wind exhale. As, when the summer
comes from the south, the snow-banks melt and the face of the earth
becomes green before it, so shall the advancing spirit create its
ornaments along its path, and carry with it the beauty it visits and
the song which enchants it. It shall draw beautiful faces, warm
hearts, wise discourse and heroic acts around its way, until evil is
no more seen. The kingdom of man over nature, which cometh not
with observation—a dominion such as now is beyond his dream of
God—he shall enter without more wonder than the blind man feels
who is gradually restored to perfect sight.”
Erom thoughts like these numbers of young men won a sort of
rehabilitation for their intellect. They were without an ideal;
Emerson showed them one,—his own : a manhood scholarly, poetical,
individualistic, meditative, spontaneous. True, he was not always
understood, nor perhaps understandable : but this with youth is a
small matter if there be a truth-like shimmering splendour there. It
is said that certain of the auditory on one occasion were so stunned
with a flow of pretty incomprehensibilities from Emerson, that a
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Life Immediate and Mediate.
friend suggested that they should stand on their heads the remainder
of the lecture, and see if that course would lead to a better understand
ing of this new Franklin declaiming in Orphic phrase. Young
America listened, read, and believed it believed.
But Old America and the America of Middle Age ? These have not
remained with Emerson, for Emerson failed to satisfy their heart
wants ! That volume which begins with the command of the Eternal
Father, Let there be Light / and which closes with the proclamation
of an Everlasting Gospel and the revelation of an unending New
ITeaven and Earth, “ and there shall be no night there,” for “ the Lamb
is the Light thereof”—that volume was to Transcendentalism a sealed
book, for Emerson and his followers scorned to look to the Lord
Jesus, the only breaker of those seals. As the individual ripens away
from early manhood, and his experience of the depth of his inherent
corruptions becomes more vivid and intense, it is not Idealism will
assure him of a Divine Father who is “ a very present help in time
of trouble yet it is towards Him faith then looks for hearthold.
LIFE IMMEDIATE AND MEDIATE.
There is one only source of life, that is God. He is the sole vivifying,
animating, and sustaining cause of everything that lives. God in
Himself is substantial life, He being self-essent and self-existent.
Life from God, however, which is the life and support of every finite
existence, is not substantial, it is an active force. Were it substantial
it would be God from God, or God from Himself, which is an obvious
absurdity. If the proceeding life from God were substantial, then,
inasmuch as it exists only in what is finite, the Infinite would be
literally in the finite, which is an impossibility.
Of the Infinite
finite beings cannot by any means form an idea : after stretching the
thought to its utmost possible limit, nothing but what is finite is com
prehended, and all that can be said in respect to the Infinite is, that it
is not there, what is perceived is only finite, and therefore is no part
of the Infinite. The Infinite having no finite limit, it is not an object
of finite thought, it is consequently incomprehensible ; all we can know
respecting it is from revelation ; and it is there declared, that we may
believe and adore it as the origin of life, and the producer of all that
is good. It must ever be remembered that influx is a descent of life
from the spiritual to the natural world, or rather from God, through
the spiritual world to man; and also that there is no influx of sub
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69
stance. This is of the utmost importance, and must never be forgotten.
Substance does not flow from God, nor from one plane to another ; all
the degrees of the created universe are retained in their places, and in
their relative positions, never being removed, nor any part of them,
which would not be the case if influx were substantial. By that
retention of the various degrees of substance, both spiritual and natural
order is preserved throughout the whole, and all confusion is thereby
prevented.
Pure heat and light from the spiritual sun is what is meant by im
mediate life. Immediate life pervades all things, and it is the operation
of the immediate life in the disposal and arrangement of things which
is called the Divine Providence. It is the cause of all order, and pre
serves it both in the spiritual and in the natural worlds ; and it is pre
sent in all things as their indispensable sustainer. ' It is consequently
by immediate life that the distinction between the heavens is main
tained, by which the angels are formed into societies, or by which
classifications are effected—which is one of the greatest blessings of
Providence, and without which heaven would not be a place of
happiness. It is also by immediate life that representatives exist in
one heaven from another, and by which they correspond to each. It
is also the cause of days and nights and the seasons in this world.
Immediate life is also the cause of all the involuntary motions in man
in both soul and body ; by it the heart propels the blood, the lungs
respire, and all the other viscera perform their functions. It is like
wise by immediate life that diseases are removed, and the body is
restored to health, and by which man is strengthened and refreshed
during sleep. Immediate life is the very life of mediate life ; therefore
where there is mediate life there is also immediate, mediate life being
the immediate clothed, and without which clothing the influx of life
would be altogether imperceptible. Indeed, what is done by mediate
life is but little in comparison with what is done by immediate life.
(A. C. 7004.)
Immediate life is life unaffected by human or angelic mediums. It
is not only life as it proceeds from the spiritual sun, in which state it
is too intense to be received even by the highest angels ; but it is also
that life as it is mercifully accommodated to angelic reception by
divinely appointed accommodated mediums ; by these its intensity is
diminished and its ardency tempered. These mediums are spiritual
atmospheres. But these do not render it mediate ; it is still immediate
life notwithstanding its having passed through and been tempered by
these media.
Life as it flows from the spiritual sun is absolute, having no
specific form, no moral or human quality ; it is also undefinable and
F
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Life Immediate and Mediate.
indeterminate. It creates a form, vivifies it, and assumes a nature
therein; it also receives a quality in such forms as possess voluntary
power, and as mankind, and the life is thereby rendered mediate.
Life as a proceeding from God being absolute and undefined, no idea
of it can be formed but as heat and light proceeding from the sun,
which can scarcely be called an idea, inasmuch as heat and light apart
from substantial existences arc never made manifest.
When considering the different kinds of life, we are not to confound
the life which man lives with the life
which he lives. The life by
which man lives is immediate; but the life which he lives, whilst it
implies both immediate and mediate, is itself neither, but voluntary life.
It is a remarkable fact, that the life of man, or of any other living
thing, can be seen only in the existence of that thing; for this obvious
reason, it is neither more nor less than the thing itself living. The
life of man is the life which he lives, and not the vivifying force by
which he is animated; this latter is the same in all things. Man’s
voluntary life is that particular mode which life assumes, or which is
given to it by his free determination, which is in all cases peculiar to
the man himself; hence there are as many lives, or modes of life, as
there are men. When we think of the life of man, we are necessitated
to associate therewith the idea of the man himself. For example—
when we think of him speaking, his speaking is not anything apart
from himself as a subject; the same with regard to the act of walking,
for whether he be talking or walking there is nothing but himself as a
substantial form, both these being actions of the man, they are only
the man acting; and whether acting or not, he is nothing more than
himself as substantial form. It is the same with any particular organ
or limb as it is with the aggregate; the foot when walking, or the
hand when manipulating, is simply a foot or a hand; walking being
the foot acting, and manipulating being the hand acting, and nothing'
more; action adding nothing to either, but, as said, the action of any
thing is only the thing acting. It is likewise the same with the
sentient organs of the body and their sensations; each sensation
being nothing more than the organ’s own consciousness of some varia
tion which has been produced in itself. For instance, sight is not
anything apart from the eye, but it is simply the eye seeing, and
whether seeing or not seeing, it is neither more nor less than an eye.
This affirmation will, no doubt, be a paradox to those who have been
accustomed to think of the life of man as something which flows into
him, and also to those who believe that influx is substantial. But the
life which flows into man is not substantial, nor is it his life; his life
does not enter into him at all, but comes out of him only; it originates
in his will, and proceeds thence to the extremities of his body, where
�Life Immediate and Mediate.
71
it terminates in action. This life is simply the exercise of man’s in
ternal aij^l external capabilities, or those of his mind and body, and it
must be obvious that such exercise is only those capabilities in action ;
and what are capabilities in action more than the capabilities them
selves ? A capability is the power which is peculiar to an organ, and
which is inherent therein; it is grounded in its form, and is made to
exist by the presence and action of immediate life. There are in man
two kinds of organs, and although each possesses its own peculiar
capability, yet the process of life in each is different, yea, opposite,
from the other; one being from without to within, and the other
from within to without; the former is sensitive, the latter motive
the former commences in the organs of sensation, and terminates in
the memory; the latter commences in the will, and terminates in the
actions of the body. The former is involuntary, the latter is voluntary.
This latter process is what is meant by wm’s K/e; it is so because it
is from man’s will, commencing with his determinations, and is con
tinued through his nerves and muscles into external action. For what
is done by this process he is responsible. Now, the will and its
capability to determine are a one; we may think of the will existing
as a substantial form without the capability, but we cannot think of
the capability of determining existing apart from the will; because it
is only the will’s power to determine. When the will’s capability of
acting is brought into action, it is by the will’s own effort, and the de
termination is nothing more than the will determining its own power
to the production of some effort. As it is with any one organ so it is
with their aggregate, or with the whole man; therefore, as the action
of an organ is only the organ acting, so the action of a man is only the
man acting, and as the man is substantial so is his action; not action
alone, there being no such thing, but action in the sense of its being
a subject acting. This view of the life of man, or of man living, will
account for certain remarks made by Swedenborg, which, without this
understanding of action or living, must appear extraordinary and
anomalous, and which have proved to some of the students of his
writings most perplexing, viz., that affections, perceptions, and
thoughts, “are actually and really the subjects themselves which undergo
changes according to the influences which affect them ” (D. L. W. 42).
Notwithstanding all this, the influx of life is not substantial, but
it is the result of a proceeding living force from the source of life.
Some have actually concluded that the influx of life is substantial,
and, as a consequence, have arrived at the notion, that the life of each
individual is a spark struck off from the Divinity; that each one
possesses in himself literally what is divine; and that God has no
personality, but is infinitesimally divided amongst all His creatures, and
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Life Immediate and Mediate.
therefore that He is universally diffused. These, however, are mere
hallucinations, altogether apart from the truth; and the more they
are indulged in, the further will they lead the mind from an under
standing of the true nature of life.
Mediate life is life together with the mode it has assumed in living
subjects in the spiritual world; it proceeds from those subjects, and
is continued to others who are recipients, and by which they are
affected. It is not influx by reason of its flowing to man ; as it flows
to him it is only afflux, and it becomes influx only when it flows
him. The influx of which we are now treating is that which takes
place with man. Besides this there is a general influx which flows
from a superior to an inferior heaven, and from the spiritual into the
natural world, into homogeneous substances, and arranges them into
an agreement with itself, producing such things and states as corre
spond, and which are called correspondences.
Life becomes mediate only by virtue of flowing through conscious
living beings who possess quality, good or evil. Those mediums are
good and evil spirits in the spiritual world. In consequence of life
passing through such mediums, it is brought under the denomination
of “mediate life.” Hence mediate life always possesses a quality,
being good or evil in agreement with the quality of the spirits through
which it has passed. Life is therefore properly called mediate only
when it is in such a condition. But still the flow of mediate life to
man is not, strictly speaking, influx ■ that alone being influx which
flows into him. Mediate life when it flows to man is only afflux.
When man is first made conscious of its presence, it is only objective,
and can be inspected, approved, or disapproved, at discretion, accord
ing to the free determination of his will, and it is only when it is
approved and accepted that it becomes influx. Although this distinc
tion between afflux and influx is not commonly pointed out, it must
be evident to every thinking mind that such a distinction exists.
That such is the case will be clear from the fact that evil influence
comes to the good as well as to the wicked, and that good influence
comes to the wicked as well as to the good; but still such influence
does not give to either a quality, which it would do if it flowed into
them; it simply flows to them, and is thereby a/flux, and if it sub
sequently flow’s into them, it is by their own approval and reception,
when, and not before, it is //¿flux. Respecting the difference between
afflux and influx Swedenborg is silent; still he makes use of phrases
which imply both. In A. C. he frequently uses the words “flow
in into,” which can mean only afflux and influx; by flowing in
he means flowing to, or afflux; and by flowing into, influx. He
also speaks of God flowing into man, and of His being received or
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73
ejected; His flowing into also in this case means afflux, and His being
received, influx. The Scriptures are in some parts very explicit on
the difference between afflux and influx, anc? without naming the
Words, clearly point out the two fluxes, and also the difference between
them ; as for instance—“ Behold I stand at the door and knock; if any
man hear My voice and open the door,” etc. (Rev. iii. 20). The stand
ing at the door and knocking is evidently afflux, and His going in,
when the door is opened, is influx. Afflux only gives man an
opportunity to accept or reject, but influx yields a blessing.
Mediate life as it comes to man may be more properly styled
influence than influx. It may be called influence for a most obvious
reason; thus, when it flows to man it operates upon the forms in his
memory, and excites them, and arranges them into an agreement with
the state of the spirit or spirits whence the influence came, and that
arrangement is perceived by man in himself as the presence of such
spirits, whatever may be their qualities.
When influence comes from spirits to man, so far is it from giving
him a quality, that it may be made the means of his receiving an
opposite quality; for by evil influence his own evils are excited and
made to appear, which might otherwise have remained quiescent and
latent; and, when seen, they may be opposed and subdued; and so
far as that is done, he is elevated out of them, and is at the same time
brought into an opposite state of goodness.
Inasmuch as life does not become mediate by reason of flowing
through spirits, but by reason of what is assumed in them, it has been
a question as to whether the idea of mediate life ought not to be con
fined to that which is derived from the medium; that is, its quality,
good or evil, for take away its quality, and all sense of mediate life is
gone, nor would man be conscious of its presence; yet life is the
active principle, without which there could be neither influx nor
afflux. This being so, it would appear, that the word mediate life
involves the idea of an active principle to operate and assume, and
also the state which is assumed; and although there is a clear distinc
tion between the two, yet neither alone, but both together, constitute
mediate life.
We may here, without digression, introduce a correlative idea.
Previously to the development of man’s interior degrees by regenera
tion, he has communication only with spirits in the world of spirits
(H. H. 600), but afterwards with angels. But, notwithstanding this,
he is not sensible of his communication with spirits in the world of
spirits, nor can he be unless his spiritual senses be opened; his
evidence of such communication is affectional and mental: this is so
because his consciousness is on one plane and they are on another, or
<
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Life Immediate and Mediate.
he is in the natural world whilst they are in the spiritual ; they are
consequently inhabitants of different worlds. This being the case,
were it not for influx existing between the two worlds, and between
spirits and men, they could not communicate at all. Spirits do not
communicate with man from their voluntary principles, nor are they,
when in their normal states, conscious of such communication any
more than man is conscious of his communication with them (H. H.
249, 292). Why, it may be asked, cannot spirits in their normal
states consciously communicate with man in this world ? It is because
the two worlds which they inhabit are so different from each other as
to have nothing in common ; those who are in one cannot see, hear,
taste, smell, or feel anything that is in the other. Of this, so far as
man in this world is concerned, we have continual evidence, and as it
is with the inhabitants of one world, so it is with those of the other.
The communication which exists between the two worlds cannot be
sensibly perceived, but must be effected by an internal way. The
only ordinary communication is effected by influx, and such communi
cation is not felt. That communication is effected by the spheres of
spirits, which flow from them spontaneously, therefore without their
power of direction. Those spheres act upon all who are near to them,
and they are the means of associating or dissociating the inhabitants
of that world ; with those who are like-minded they effect conjunction,
but with those who are dissimilar as to state, they cause disjunction
and separation ; they are also the cause of distances in that world.
Spheres originate and terminate on the same plane—they never leave
the plane on which they originate ; they extend, but neither ascend
nor descend : and inasmuch as spirits and men exist upon distinct and
altogether different planes, the spheres of spirits cannot be made
manifest to man in this world.
The spheres of spirits do not affect men as they affect the spirits who
are on the same plane; spirits are.affected as to their bodies as well as
to their minds, because there are spheres from both their minds and
their bodies, and being on the same plane, they are affected as to both ;
but it is not so with men. The spheres of spirits affect the degrees in
others which are similar to those in the spirits themselves in whom
they originate, and from whom they proceed. There is a sphere from
each degree, internal as well as external ; the sphere from the spirit’s body
affects the bodies of other spirits, and they are sensibly perceived ; the
sphere from their understandings affect the understandings of others,
and the sphere from their wills affect the wills of others—not the
will as a capability, or the power of determination, but the will as a
substantial subject, the subject of the power to determine. But men
existing in a discrete degree below that of the spirits, their spheres
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75
cannot affect them ; communication must therefore be effected in
another way. That way is as follows. Although man, whilst he is ii.
this world, is conscious only in the world, still he has in his constitu
tion degrees which are of the substances of the spiritual world, and
although whilst he is in this world he has no consciousness in them,
still they may be affected by what is on their plane, and are so affected
by the spirit’s spheres ; which affection is carried down by descendi-ng
life to man’s conscious degrees where it becomes inwardly manifested.
That descending life, together with its assumed state, is what is called
influx. The spheres of spirits which affect man’s spirit originate in
their vital parts—their wills and understandings, which contain
their qualities as to good or evil, and proceeding thence carry with
them these qualities ; and inasmuch as the sphere affects that degree
of man’s spirit which is on the same plane as that of the spirit whence
the sphere proceeded, it is manifested as an affection of the mind,
good or evil according to the quality of the spirit whence it emanated.
This is the ordinary communication which exists between spirits and
men in this world ; it therefore follows, that spirits are not conscious of
such communication, much less are they conscious of the particular
individuals with whom they are held in connection.
However,
whether they possess such consciousness or not, and whatever be their
qualities, their spheres proceed to and act upon man’s spirit ; nor can
they prevent it, neither can man avoid feeling the effects thereof, for
he feels them from the same necessity that the body feels whatever acts
upon- its skin. But, notwithstanding the mind being necessitated to
perceive the effects of spirits’ spheres, both good and evil, yet he is
not necessitated to yield to either, but receives or rejects them as a
matter of free choice. That to which he gives preference, and receives
into his will and thought, from afflux becomes influx, and he becomes
one with it in quality, and is conjoined with the spirits in which it
originated. Yet, we must observe that man’s quality is not from those
spheres, nor from the spirits whence they proceed, but it is from his
own free choice of good or evil. This is the way in which the first
human quality, whether good or evil, originated; it is the way in which
both angels and devils have acquired theirs, and in no other way could
human quality of any kind have been acquired. If man had originally
waited for evil influences from others, or from any extraneous source,
in order that he might procure for himself a quality, it is clear, that
he would never have procured one, because there then were no such
influences. Human quality originates only in man, each man origi
nating his own, just as the first evil was originated, whatever may be
the circumstances by which he is environed. We conclude that life
is a living force, and that it exists in two conditions ; firstly, as a pro-
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The Miracle of the Loaves and Fishes.
ceeding of spiritual heat and light from the sun of heaven; that this
passes through spiritual atmospheres, as accommodating mediums, by
■which it is tempered and made receptive by the highest and most per
fect human beings, viz., the celestial angels. That proceeding, even
when accommodated by those divinely appointed mediums, is imme
diate life. .That same proceeding, by entering into angels and spirits,
and also devils, assumes their qualities, and thereby becomes mediate
life. The proceeding life does not become mediate life by passing
through the accommodating mediums, but by passing through living,
voluntary mediums, which contain angelic or infernal qualities, which
are spirits in the spiritual world ; it therefore comes to man as good
or evil influence. There is always this distinction between immediate
and mediate life, the former enters man without his consent or his
consciousness, and without his power of interference; but of the latter
he is conscious, and he can interfere with it, and does so interfere,
it not being able to enter into him without his consent and reception.
By immediate life man is endued with capabilities, and by mediate
life he is furnished with objects on which these capabilities can be
exercised, by which under the influence of his free-will he forms
in himself a state which, in the future life, becomes the ground of
his everlasting happiness or misery.
S. S.
THE MIRACLE OF MULTIPLYING THE LOAVES
AND FISHES.
Addressed
to the
Sick and Aged
Matt.
in a
Union Workhouse.
xv. 32-39.
Our attention was drawn on a previous occasion to our Lord’s cure of
the lame, the blind, the dumb and the maimed, of which the account is
given in the preceding verses. By such wonderful cures the Lord
Jesus Christ proved to those who were willing to be convinced that
He was God as wrell as man. But so condescending was He to our
fallen and unbelieving state, that though the miracle of performing
such cures was enough to convince any teachable spirit that the Lord
was God, He yet added another equally wonderful proof of the truth
of St. John’s declaration, that “without Him was not anything made
that was made,” by showing that He could multiply food also, so that
seven loaves and a few little fishes fed four thousand men, besides
women and children. When we think how few could get a meal off
the same quantity of food when distributed by human hands, we see
that it was only One who could create food that could have fed so great
a multitude. When we were talking about the cure of those who
were sick of various diseases, you may remember that I told you, that
one lesson which we had to learn from it was, that we were to go to
Jesus Christ for the cure not only of our bodily ailments, but of what
is far more to be dreaded, the sickness of our souls. And the miracle
of feeding so many has a lesson for us too. Jesus says, “ Man shall not
�Modem Science and Revelation.
77
live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the
mouth of God.” He says also, “ If any man thirst, let him come unto
Me and drink.” When we are sick we do not feel much appetite, but
a« our health returns our desire for food comes back; and so it is with
out souls. So long as we do not wish to live according to our Lord’s
commandments, we do not desire to be taught what we ought to do,
we have no appetite for the bread which cometh down from Heaven,
and will not drink of the “ Water of Life.” But when we have truly
come to Him, asking Him to take away our sins, and to give us a
“new heart and a right spirit,” then we desire to be all that He would
have us to be, and are constantly thinking, when any difficulty arises,
“I wonder what I ought to do?” Under the influence of such
thoughts we go to God in prayer, to ask Him to teach us, and we read
God’s Holy Word that we may learn His will. Then He sends His
Holy Spirit, to show us what our duty is, and so we are fed by Him.
It may be only a few words, or a short verse, but it is enough to feed
the soul. It is like a grain of mustard seed, which springeth up into a
great tree, or ‘‘'like a little leaven, that leavens the whole lump.” For,
suppose we feel angry with any one who has done us harm and desire
to revenge ourselves, we open the Bible, and see, “ Forgive your
enemies,” “ do good to them that hate you.” “ Render not evil for
evil,” or “ railing for railing.” Then we begin to hesitate, and perhaps
another text comes to our help, “ For if ye forgive not men their
trespasses, neither shall your Father in Heaven forgive you your
trespasses.” What a dreadful thought that is ! If we are not forgiven
then we cannot go to Heaven, and if we do not go there, there is only
other place. Oh, awful thought! Shall we sacrifice the hope of
eternal happiness for the sake of saying a few angry words, or doing
an unkind thing, which will give neither us nor our fellow-creatures
any real pleasure ? Then perhaps we remember having heard at church,
or read for ourselves, “ Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain
mercy.” There is something in that word “Blessed” that seems so
attractive ! It is not only that we shall be forgiven, but we shall be
made happy into the bargain. Well, we think, it is only a little sacrifice
that I am required to make, and the gain is more than eternity can
tell, so I will pray to God to help me to forgive this time. Ah, now
we taste heavenly food, good affections flow into our hearts from the
Lord, and wTe not only feel the blessedness of “ the merciful,” but the
blessedness of “ the meek,” and of “ the poor in spirit; ” and so you see
how heavenly food is multiplied. Well may we pray, “ Lord, ever
more give us this Bread.”
M. S. B.
MODERN SCIENCE AND REVELATION.
The faculty of observation and the desire of knowing are the two im
portant principles which impart to the mind its progressive tendency.
Glancing back into the remote ages of the past, we can conceive
primaeval man calling these powers into exercise in recording his
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Modern Science and Revelation.
conceptions of the world and its phenomena. His notions of things
would be at first crude and wanting in accuracy. He would perceive
that the day was divided between light and darkness, and this he
would observe to be caused by the sun. Tracing that luminary from
its rising to its time of setting, and noting that the same phenomenon
was repeated from day to day, he would conclude that the sun moves
in an orbit around the earth. Also observing the position of the
fixed stars, he would infer from their apparent movement in the
direction of the sun that the whole sidereal heavens revolves around
the earth. Then following the bent of his inherent desire to know,
he would extend his investigation to the planets and their movements.
Successive observations of the phenomena of nature in her several de
partments would bring to his mind a considerable increment of facts.
The classification and arrangements of these facts under various heads
would form the first crude indications of the natural sciences. Suc
ceeding generations of thinkers, while making use of the records of
men who had gone before, and taking them as the basis of ex
tended observations, would, although perpetuating some of the errors
of previous observers, discern and correct many of their faults. Thus
the sciences are the recorded experiences of thinking minds in
dealing with nature. In their infancy the sciences are necessarily the
repositories of much that is erroneous and fallacious. The conceptions
of the Chaldeean astronomers cannot be compared with the discoveries
of a Herschel or a Newton. The anatomical deductions of Hippocrates
are extremely crude when placed side by side with the learned dis
quisitions of a Carpenter or a Huxley. Ideas which at one period
seemed to bear the impress of truth are shown to be more or less un
sound by thinkers of later times.
Subsequently to the investigations of Copernicus the world was
considered as a plane, and the stars were conceived to be fixed in the
revolving vault of the heavens. But that philosopher, about 1500 a.d.,
satisfied himself that the planets, including the earth, revolve around
the sun. In 1610 this hypothesis was confirmed by Galileo by the
aid of his newly invented telescope. This was the beginning of a new
era in the science of astronomy. But it was also the signal for the
commencement of a conflict between speculative minds and the digni
taries of the Romish Church. Galileo proved to a demonstration that
the earth revolves around the sun, and that the sun has no orbital
movement. Theologians, because of certain expressions in the Bible
implying the contrary, discredited this discovery, and maintained that
it had no foundation in fact. But the march of thought was irre
sistible, and the Church was powerless to arrest its onward progress.
Theologians could not then conceive, nor are they willing to accept the
conclusion to-day, that the Bible deals exclusively with man’s spiritual
nature, and does not lay down canons and laws of natural science. In
stead of receiving the Bible and the laws of nature as each pointing
upward to a Divine Author, instead of perceiving that there is no con
tradiction between the revealed Word and the truths of creation, because
each has a distinct mission to fulfil, they opposed the apparent truths of
�Modern Science and Revelation.
79
the Word to the rigid demonstrations of science. A similar conflict was
engendered in recent times when geology first threw light upon the
history of life upon the globe. That science made rapid strides. De
posited in the various strata which form the earth’s crust were dis
covered fossil remains of forms of life which have long since
become extinct. Numerous races of creatures it was seen had lived
and died. Low forms of life had been succeeded by higher and more
complicated organisms. Gigantic creatures had formed their homes on
the land and in the ocean, whose skeletons, preserved in the strata of
the earth’s crust, enable the geologist to read in the pages of the Stone
Book the history of periods long anterior to the existence of man;
while fossilized remains of vegetable life indicate that vast areas of
the earth’s surface were once covered by plants which attained to
enormous proportions, which, subsequently disappearing, formed our
coal-beds that lie far below the surface of the globe.
Thus investiga
tions and discoveries which geologists have made lead them to the
conclusion that the earth and its life-forms have arrived at their present
condition through countless ages. And the facts of astronomy also
prove that the vast cycles of time during which the universe has been in
existence surpass human powers of comprehension.
But how have these deductions been met by theologians ? Instead
of giving up the position of a literal interpretation of the early
chapters of Genesis as untenable, they have endeavoured to harmonize
the records of science with the higher truths of revelation by methods
that have excited derision and contempt. Before geology gained a
firm footing amongst thinking minds, it was generally believed that the
universe had existed only 6000 years, and that its creation had occupied
but six days. When it was rigidly shown that creation was an orderly
development embracing myriads of ages, some other mode of explain
ing the narrative in Genesis was looked for, and at length those who
professed to believe in a close literal conception of the word so far de
parted from their position as to call the days of creation not days, but
ages—unfortunately, however, the Sabbath is mentioned as the seventh
day, and therefore by that supposition the first Sabbath was not a period
of twenty-four hours, but an age. Again, a difficulty was found in the
Scripture narrative that light was created before the sun. It has been
suggested that the difficulty may be overcome by supposing a subtle
luminous vapour to have pervaded all space prior to the creation of the
greater luminary of heaven. Such an hypothesis is altogether un
tenable in the face of the fact that the sun is the sole source of light
to its planets.
But in thus endeavouring to reconcile the Bible
narrative with the facts of science, theologians have placed a con
struction upon the account in Genesis for which there is no justifica
tion ; for if it is to be taken literally, its letter ought not to be
departed from, nor must it be subjected to the gratuitous interpreta
tion of every capricious mind. The facts of science have suffered
nothing in this conflict of opinions; but the Bible, by the bigoted
zeal of its professed expositors, has been brought into contempt.
But the reasonable aspect of the question is one which should not
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Modern Science and Revelation.
"be rejected without consideration. The facts of science are discover
able by man’s powers of observation and reason. The book of nature
is intimately connected with his mortal part; as such he may read and
study it, and discover in its pages unmistakeable indications of the
Divine author. But the Bible relates to his immortal part, and he
may, if he will, discover in it those spiritual laws and truths which
can reach us by revelation alone. Nature is the effect of God’s creative
power, the Bible is the expression of His infinite wisdom. The laws
of nature and the revelations of the Word having the same Divine
source, there can be no contradiction between them. When therefore
theologians are met by facts which invalidate a literal interpretation
of a certain portion of the Word, they should be prepared to look for
the deeper and purer sense of its spirit. Dr. Whewell says, “ The
meaning which any generation puts upon the phases of Scripture
depends more than is at first sight supposed upon the philosophy of
the time. Hence, when men imagine that they are contending for
revelation they are in fact contending for their own interpretation of
revelation, unconsciously adapted to what they believe to be rationally
probable. And the new interpretation which the new philosophy
requires, and which appears to the older school to be a fatal violence
done to the authority of religion, is accepted by their successors without
the dangerous results which were apprehended. At the present day
we can hardly conceive how reasonable men should have imagined
that religious reflections on the stability of the earth, and the beauty
and use of the luminaries which revolve around it, would be interfered
with by its being seen that this rest and motion are apparent only.
Those who adhere tenaciously to the traditionary or arbitrary mode
of understanding Scriptural expressions of physical events are always
strongly condemned by succeeding generations, and are looked upon
with pity by the more serious and considerate, who know how weak
and vain is the attempt to get rid of the difficulty by merely
denouncing the new tenets as inconsistent with religious belief.”1
Truly so. The Bible is the word of the Highest; and not in its
letter, but in its spirit must we seek for evidences of its divinity and
its power. And in the first chapter of Genesis, beneath the un
scientific form of the letter, we trace the development of the spiritual
side of our nature from the commencement of the re-creative work of
regeneration until we attain the beauty and perfection of the heavenly
state. The Bible is the Word of God, and He has told us that His
words “are spirit and life.” Let us then receive His revelation in
this sense, and while we search for its spirit, grow strong by its life
giving power.
In the learned disquisition recently given to the world by a pro
found philosopher this sentence appears :—“ Abandoning all disguise,
the confession that I feel bound to make before you is, that I pro
long the vision backward across the boundary of the experimental
evidence, and discern in that matter, which we in our ignorance, and
notwithstanding our professed reverence for its Creator, have hitherto
1 Indications of the Creator, p. 52, 2d ed.
�Modern Science and Revelation.
81
covered with opprobrium, the promise and potency of every form and
quality of life.”1 Does this conception land us in materialism? We
think not. It is the statement of a belief which may be true or false.
It contains no direct denial of a Creator, and as an hypothesis is ex
ceedingly plausible. The transcendentalism of Kant annihilated matter
and established a universe of ideas in the place of creation. But if,
With Tyndall, we view matter as the repository of power, which gives
v the promise of every form and quality of life,” we have but “ to pro
long our vision backward ” beyond the region of matter to see in the
Divine the source of that power, by virtue of which matter is enabled
to give the “ promise of every form and quality of life.”
It is a generally received hypothesis that matter is formed of atoms.
On the assumption of the truth of this theory it has been said that
“ they are the manufactured articles which, formed by the skill
of the Highest, produce by subsequent interaction all the pheno
mena of the natural world.” Dalton first established the atomic
hypothesis in reference to chemical combinations. It is found that
in a given compound the elements combine in a certain definite
and invariable ratio. Take water as an example. It can be shown
by experiment that two volumes of hydrogen always combine with
one volume of oxygen. Assuming the existence of atoms, it is evident
that two atoms of the hydrogen element combine with one atom
of the oxygen element. That atoms by combining in various pro
portions form compounds differing from each other is plainly shown
in the well-known nitrogen series. Whatever we touch or see in the
three kingdoms of nature bears testimony to the fact that “ atoms by
their interaction produce all the phenomena of nature.” But now the
question arises : Do atoms contribute to these results by any inherent
power of their own, independently of the Creator? Every natural
phenomenon, we are told, rests on a cause, but atoms by their “ inter
action produce natural phenomena;” are atoms then the primary cause of
their own effects? Atoms, we say, form by their interaction the
endless variety of compounds and substances in nature under the rule
of certain laws, from which it should seem they have no power to
■deviate. And it may be urged that new variations from established
forms are continually being produced both in the animal, vegetable,
and mineral kingdoms. But evidently atoms produce these effects
in obedience to certain conditions, or else if by their own free choice,
why were not these results forthcoming earlier? When a plant
Strikes out into varieties it does so by the operation of agencies
external to itself—a change in the conditions of soil or climate, or
the forced impregnation of its ovaries by the pollen of another plant.
A seed is placed in the ground, it germinates, develops, and assumes
the exquisite symmetry and beauty of the lily. Atoms have here been
built up, and have by their interaction produced leaves and flowers.
But before this building operation could proceed, certain external
conditions were necessary. A force exterior to the special atoms which
formed the lily came into play. That force is heat. Heat produces
1 Professor Tyndall’s Address in Nature.
�Modern Science and Revelation.
motion, and motion causes interaction of atoms. Suppose the seed
hermetically sealed in a glass tube, and, in absence of the necessary
conditions of soil and moisture, and of the main condition heat, and
no life movement would be observed. Given then soil, moisture, and
light, still in the absence of heat a seed fails' to germinate. Again,
admitting for a moment that all life-forms originated in a monad,
throw back your gaze into the bygone ages, and note that protoplasmic
substance—that combination of atoms lying on the solitary shore of
the unpeopled world, where no sound arises but the surging of the
waves upon the bare and solid granite, and the sweep of the wind
across the desert of the world, yet lifeless as the tomb. This monad
develops into a symmetrical form—it moves—there is the first trace
of life—there is the first species—the progenitor of all future existences.
But why did not that monad remain motionless as the rock upon
which it lay? Undoubtedly its movement was produced by the
agency of heat and light, forces external to itself. Here heat was
evidently a necessary condition. Now the grand source of heat is the
sun ; if the heat of that body could be withheld—all other conditions
remaining the same—we are justified in supposing that all life would
cease, consequently that all “interaction of atoms” would be suspended.
But the sun is composed of atoms. And it is maintained that heat is
an effect of motion. If, as we have endeavoured to show, no inter
action of special atoms can take place but by the agency of forces
exterior to them, so cannot motion be maintained as a condition of
heat in the atoms of the sun apart from external power or force.
Here we reach the barrier which the physicist cannot pass. Are we
to hesitate here? We think not. We conceive that we must transfer
ourselves to a region of causes beyond the domain of experiment.
Here we are aware the philosopher will be unwilling to follow. Still
we cannot lose sight of the fact that the interaction of atoms—and the
whole universe is the result of that interaction—is an effect, the cause
of which cannot be sought in the atoms themselves. We therefore
affirm that this cause is the power of the Divine operating through the
medium of a world which we call spiritual. Truly the nature of this
world cannot be demonstrated by experiment, but the evidences of revela
tion are powerful upon the characteristics of this spiritual region. The
Bible is that revelation. The proof of its being a revealed book is found
in the soundness of the chain of spiritual meaning which runs through
its letter. This spiritual sense shows, to a demonstration that the
letter of the Word has been framed according to a law as rigid and
plausible as the law of multiple proportions or the “interaction of
atoms.” Where then science ends we maintain that revelation steps
in to fill up the void, to conduct us into the world of primary causes
and to usher us into the presence of the Creator.
Another question which has occupied the minds of scientific men in
recent times, is the origin and development of life upon the globe.
And in the pursuit of this subject some of the finest minds have been
engaged. Theologians conclude that the positions which have been
taken up by our great scientific thinkers upon this question, militate
�Modern Science and Revelation.
83
against the teaching of the Word and the immortality of the soul.
We have shown that the literal interpretation of the first chapter of
Genesis is an unwarrantable assumption. However, therefore, life may
have originated upon the world, or what was the nature of man’s
beginning, can in no way affect the Biblical account of the origin of life,
seeing that it is an allegory investing spiritual truth of the highest
character. Now life originated upon the world in some mode; if
there is life on the planets, and we believe there is, it must have
originated on them in a similar mode. There may have been a
“ primordial substance ” as the first life germ—we cannot say; and
wre may deduce the origin of life from many forms or one form, yet
still the “ question will be inevitably asked,” as a learned professor has
said, “ How came that form there ? ” Thus again we are carried past
the “interaction of atoms,” and either landed in impenetrable mystery
or placed at the feet of the Divine.
That there has been a successive development in animal and vege
table forms, from lower to higher, is clearly established by the facts of
geology. This development has mainly been the result of external
conditions. Whether, in the case of the animal kingdom, this develop
ment proceeded in an increasing ratio from lower to higher, until a form
fittingly organized to be the seat of reason and the soul was produced,
we perhaps shall never be able to ascertain. It seems plain almost to
demonstration that there is a discrete degree between man and animals.
There are certainly low types of the human race which seem to be
closely allied with the ape tribe. An ape, however, has never yet in
the memory .of man, by any species of progress, or by the most happy
combination of circumstances, assumed the form and capabilities of the
very lowest specimen of the human family. In the case of the human
race, civilization has caused a continuous upward movement. The vast
hordes of barbarians that at one period roamed through the forests of
Europe have been supplanted by races of a more refined type of mind.
The brain of the Papuan, we are told, is not nearly so large as the brain
of a European. Consequently the apparatus for recording his experi
ences, and hence for the development of his mind, is imperfect. Under
the refining influences of civilization that defect would undoubtedly
disappear from the race, and the Papuan would ultimately be
capable of achieving the same wonderful results as the European.
Man differs from an animal especially in the capability which he
possesses of developing his mind to an unlimited extent; no bonds
can be set to the knowledge which his mind is adapted to grasp
ahd retain. So far as we at present know, no process of develop
ment has yet brought about the same result in animals even of
the highest order. The doctrine of the “survival of the fittest”
is as true in the case of man as in that of animals. Many races
of men have disappeared, and beings of finer parts have survived.
But this “survival of the fittest” we cannot conceive to militate
against the doctrine of the soul’s immortality. The more perfect the
instrument, the more accurate the results.
Hence the higher the
development of the body, the more perfect the action of the soul, and
�«4
Modern Science and Revelation.
therefore the greater its achievements. But it is asked what is it that
survives when sensation ceases in the body? We can find but one
answer. And that is, that the soul, the seat of sensation, has quitted
its tenement. Still we apprehend that it ean be proved indirectly
that the soul continues to exist. Using an illustration which has
recently been cited. Suppose a telegraph clerk is surrounded by his
instruments, he can communicate with a hundred places, and thus prove
his existence. But a thunderstorm arises, his instruments are dis
arranged, he is still in his room, but he cannot inform any one that
survives. Supposing the wires of his instruments to correspond to
the organs of sensation in man, and suppose a break occurs—an
accident resulting in death—he can no longer directly communicate
the fact of his existence to those around him. He knows he exists
equally as the clerk. But the one is as incapable of proving the fact
as the other, when we restrict the one to his wires and the other to
his nerves. But the clerk can prove his existence in other ways, it
may be said. So also can the soul, if we seek for our proof beyond the
region of nerves and crude experiment.
There are powerful evidences of design in creation. And design argues
an intelligent cause. The flower has exquisite organs adapted for
reproducing its species, but the faculty of foreseeing ends and providing
for their attainment is not an attribute of atoms. The end is attained
by the interaction of atoms, but they have no power of deviating from
that end, and they submit to influences beyond them. The “ survival
of the fittest ” is a doctrine substantially true. But there is an end to
be gained by this “survival,” and that end seems to be the most com
plete happiness of the fittest. This seems so in man’s case. Civiliza
tion brings its blessings, and will bring them more abundantly as man,
in the development of his more sacred faculties, is fitted to receive
them. Divine blessings reach us through media; the more perfect
these media in all departments of nature the richer and more
abundant the blessings. We therefore conceive it no unimportant
feature in the design of creation that the “fittest” survive.
But if design points to intelligence, where may we look for the
origin of things ? All nature when devoutly studied points silently
upward to an infinitely wise God. This is the conclusion at which we
must inevitably arrive. Creation is an effect, it cannot be the cause
of its own effect. Creation is also finite and limited in time. It
must therefore have a cause neither finite nor limited in time. While
then we thus trace upward from the creature to the Creator, and stand
in the presence of Him whose “ ways are not our ways, and whose
thoughts are not our thoughts,” let us bow the head and reverently adore.
Reverting again to the “ survival of the fittest,” we remark that this
doctrine is as true in mental as in animal life. In some departments
of thought this goes on more rapidly than in others. Development in
scientific truth has been rapid, but growth in clearness and purity of
theological thought has been slow. Scarcely a step has been made in
a forward direction since the time of the Fathers. The Bible is
acknowledged to be in great part utterly incomprehensible. The
�Correspondence,
8$
march of thought continues, and still theologians are found far behind
Hence it arises that in many minds biblical truth fades and scientific
truth survives. But as the mind becomes fitted to receive spiritual
truth of a higher order than that previously accepted, it is supplied by
to orderly revelation. Modes of interpretation of the Word that once
found implicit and ready assent are no longer tenable. Old creeds fail
to satisfy reflecting and intelligent minds. But a clearer light is
breaking in upon the field of theological thought, and by this light
we perceive the Word to have unmistakeable indications of a divine
origin; we perceive that it is an inexhaustable fountain, adequate to
supply and enrich all minds with the life-giving streams of its
spirit. In the new theology there is a consistency and clearness
which former systems have wanted; while the spiritual world and
the soul are dealt with philosophically and rationally. In con
clusion, we believe that no danger to religion can arise from the
advance of scientific thought, but rather from attempted resistance to
that advance by theologians. As the human mind grows in strength
by the influence of civilization and education, it leaves the traditions
and errors of former generations, and searches by the light of reason
for purer truths. There is a deep longing amongst men for more light
upon the divine Word and the immortal life. Wherever this light
breaks forth let us fearlessly receive it. For be assured that as the
falling leaves of autumn are swept away by the gale, so will error in
our conceptions of nature and of God be borne by the coming ages
into the oblivion of the past, and truth alone will survive.
L T.
(tarrspimtaix
MAURITIUS.
(To the, Editor of the Intellectual Repository.}
Port Louis, Mauritius, "Elth, September 1874.
Reverend and Dear Sir,—At the last meeting of our Society (that of the
New Jerusalem Church here) one of our members brought under notice a
Review in the August number of the Repository. This review comments
upon three publications of our president, Mr. Edmond de Ghazal.
A short conversation arose on the subject, and the undersigned were de
puted to write to you respecting it.
We thank you sincerely for the friendly terms in which you allude to
Mr. de Chazal’s publications, and we feel much gratified that any efforts
here to spread the truth should be noticed in your periodical, but there are
two or three errors in the reviewer’s account of our Society that we feel
bound to bring under your notice, feeling assured that they are involuntary,
and result from the circumstance that we have not such frequent and full
communication with the Church in other lands as we ought to have.
The errors we allude to are the following : After speaking of the efforts
of our Society to procure a minister, and of the difficulties it experienced in
this attempt, the writer proceeds thus :—“ They succeeded at last in obtain
ing one, unknown however to the Church in this country and in America.
G
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Correspondence.
He had belonged successively to the Greek and Roman Catholic Church,
but he seems to have pursued an eccentric course. He did not remain long
with them ; and we have since found him in India, in America, and recently
in Australia.” This statement is incorrect. The person alluded to, that is
Mr. Bugnion, never was our minister, and never conducted a single one of
our services, as we did not consider him to be a thorough New Churchman,
though possibly he -wishes to be received as such. It is quite unnecessary
for us to enter at any length into his history, but a few words on the subject
are perhaps required. We understand that he came to Mauritius in 1858
in connection with the Independents. He did not however agree with them
for any length of time, and towards the end of 1859 a separation ensued,
into the merits of which it is needless for us to enter. After this, it is true,
that he and his family received hospitality from Mr. de Chazal, but he
never was treated in any way by that gentleman as a minister of the New
Church or of our Society, of which he was never a member, for Mr.
Bugnion’s religious ideas and the manner in which he proclaimed them
were on many points unacceptable to our president and to our Society.
Mr. Bugnion formed a congregation of his own, to which he preached for
some time, then left for Europe, returned here, made a short stay, and then
proceeded to India, where he remained for about four years. After this he
travelled in America and Europe, and came back to Mauritius towards the
end of 1871. Here he renewed his relations with his former congregation,
but he never had anything to do with our Society either as a minister or
member. Towards the end of last year he went to Australia, where he still
is. As to the supposed fact of his having belonged at one time to the
Roman Catholic Church, we never heard of it, and we do not think it is
correct. We think it quite unnecessary for us to enter into further details
as to Mr. Bugnion’s act. We may however mention one which has in
duced our president not only not to consider Mr. Bugnion as a New
Churchman, but also to decline any social intercourse with him ; we allude
to his unwarrantable assumption of the title of Bishop. The Rev. J.
Bayley, to whom Mr. de Chazal wrote at the time, can, we believe, give you
more precise information on this subject should you desire it.
Another error we wish to point out is one contained in these words :
« Since the Bishop left Mauritius the service we believe has been conducted
by Mr. de Chazal; and we hope that, in their peculiar circumstances, he
exercises all the functions of a minister.” The truth is, that ever since our
Society has been founded Mr. de Chazal has conducted our monthly
services, and when he is unavoidably absent Mr. Lesage or Mr. G. Mayer
replaces him, quite irrespective of Mr. Bugnion’s presence in or absence
from this island. We use the term “monthly,” because, owing to our being
scattered over different parts of the island, we cannot meet oftener. On
-other Sundays each head of a family leads the services for his own people.
We have thought it necessary to trouble you with these details, since we
do not wish to pass in the Church as a Society that has had for its minister
a person whose writings bear, as you say, “evident traces of Harrisism and
Spiritism.”
We cannot, Mr. Editor, conclude a letter addressed to the organ of the
New Church in England without expressing our satisfaction at the steady
progress of the New Church ideas which we find recorded in its pages, and
our admiration of the ability with which these views are therein pro
claimed. We are also glad to see from the reviews it contains that many
interesting and instructive New Church works are published from time to
time.—We beg to remain your faithful brothers in the New Church,
T. H. Ackroyd.
P. E. de Chazad, Secretary.
�Review.
87
[We have also received a long letter from Mr. Bugnion, vindicating him
self from some charges which some of his friends had informed him our
reviewer had made against him. The only “ charge ” made against him was,
that “ his liturgy bears evident traces of Harrisism and Spiritism.” As this
is a simple fact, which Mr. Bugnion does not deny, but only endeavours to
justify, his letter, which does not deserve insertion, needs no reply.]
Sancta Ccena : or, the Holy Supper, explained on the Principles
taught BY Emanuel Swedenborg. By the Rev. Augustus Clissold,
M.A. London : Longmans, Green & Co.
The need of clearer and more worthy views on the subject of the Holy
Supper than are held in Christendom at the present day is made very
evident by the author in his preface. According to one writer “ the ordi
nance (considered as a sacrifice) is an absolute mystery. It involves a
paradox or apparent contradiction ; a seeming incompatibility of terms ; in
short, a mystery, whatever the exact nature and limits of that mystery may
be supposed to be. It remains a divinely stated paradox, irreconcilable by
man ; a mystery utterly beyond his power to clear up, and such it must
ever be.” The Holy Supper being represented by the Passover, involves
the law that by death alone can death be undone. “How this should be, in
what sense one death can act upon another death, so as to do away with it,
or with any of its consequences, we are absolutely devoid of faculties for
comprehending.”
And thus the Feast of the Christian Passover, which was intended to feed
the souls of the faithful with the flesh and blood of a Living and Divine
Body, becomes at best a mysterious ceremonial.
In the work itself the author shows the true nature and use of the Sacra
ment. “ The two fundamental ideas in the Holy Supper are, first of all,
that of The Word, whether living or written ; and secondly, that which the
Word effects, namely, the conjunction of the church on earth with the
church in heaven.” He had first pointed out the Scripture doctrine re
specting the Word, that from the beginning, before He was made flesh,
our Lord was the Word, mediating between the Father and all creatures.
But there is a written Word as well as a Living Word, and the written Word
is also called the Word of God. As being the Word of God there is a sense
in it in which the Word of God written mediates between the Father and
all creatures. This being the case, the written Word of God is like the
Living Word of God, the medium of communication between the Father
and the Church. Not that there are two Mediators, but One only; inas
much as the written Word mediates between God and man, only in virtue
of the Living or Eternal Word being in it ; and as such the written Word
is itself the medium by which we have life from the Eternal Word.
As the Word is the medium of conjunction between God and man, and
the Holy Supper is also said to be such a medium, what is the nature of
the relation and connection between them ? By extracts from Swedenborg
enlarged and simplified by his own commentary, the author presents the
subject in great clearness and beauty. “ It is not by any figure of speech
that the Living Word and the written Word are both spoken of as one, and
are both called the Word of God ; but because the Word of God written is
�88
Review.
the same essentially as the Word of God spoken, and the Word of God
spoken is the same essentially with the Word made flesh, and speaking.
It is in consequence of this essential identity that the history of the Word
of God written corresponds to that of the Word made flesh.” The Word
as the Divine Wisdom descends from God through all the heavens to the
earth, and becomes accommodated to the apprehensions of angels and men.
In its inmost it is Divine, in its intermediate it is celestial and spiritual, in
its ultimate it is natural. But the Eternal Word also descended through
all the heavens, and finally assumed a natural humanity on earth, when He
became incarnate for the redemption and salvation of the human race.
“The inmost sense of the Word,” says Swedenborg, “treats solely of the
Lord, describing all the states of the glorification of His Humanity, that is,
of its union with the essential Divinity ; and likewise all the states of the
subjugation of the hells, and the reducing to order all things therein as well
as in the heavens. Thus in the inmost sense is described the Lord’s whole
life upon earth, and thereby the Lord is continually present with angels.
Therefore the Lord alone is in the inmost part of the Word, and the
divinity and sanctity of the Word is thence derived.” This blending of the
Eternal Word with the written Word is the ground of their both being
described in Scripture by the same language, and of their both being the
mediums of the conjunction of man with God, and of God with man.
The author shows not only that there is a correspondence between the
written and the Eternal Word, but that they both suffer and are glorified
together. The Lord assumed a material humanity as the Word assumed
itself with a literal sense. But the Lord is believed to be still clothed with
such a body. For a Christian writer observes, “How it can be that a real
substantial Presence of Christ is possible on our altars while yet He abides
in the natural substance of His flesh and blood at the right hand of His
Father ; or how bread and wine, remaining in their natural substances,
become associated with a new and Divine substance, is not given us to
know.” The Lord’s humanity being thus supposed to be merely natural,
and the written Word being supposed to be also merely literal, how can the
Holy Supper be understood as other than a lifeless ceremonial ? “ In order
to a right understanding of the sacrament of the Holy Supper, the first
thing requisite is a right understanding of the doctrine of the Incarnation,
or of the Word made flesh.” This doctrine the author presents in a very
lucid aspect, bringing out in bold relief the New Church view of the Lord’s
glorification, w’hich shows that the Lord’s humanity became Divine, without,
however, ceasing to be human, so that His flesh and blood are necessarily
Divine, and therefore living and lifegiving. When the subject is viewed
in its true light, it will be seen that the Lord is actually and intimately
present in His Holy Supper; and that, as the most sacred solemnity of
worship, it is the means of bringing the Lord and the worshipper into the
closest connection, and the medium of conjunction between them.
This very meagre outline of the book will, wre trust, induce the members
of the Church to read it for themselves ; for although evidently designed
for the clergy of the Church of England, it will afford much to instruct and
delight those who already know in part. The author is too well known,
and his labours are too highly appreciated, to require or even to admit of
any approbation or recommendation from us.
�
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The Intellectual Repository and New Jerusalem Magazine. Vol. XXII, No. 254, February 1, 1875
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Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 88 p. ; 23 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Rev. W. Woodman - - an unsigned article on Ralph Waldo Emerson -- Modern science and revelation. Earlier Title: Intellectual Repository for the New Church, later Title: New Church Magazine.
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DOLMAN’S
MAGAZINE.
No. I.
March 1, 1845.
Vol. I.
CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN SIR ROBERT PEEL AND
MR. BESTE, ON IRISH AGRARIAN OUTRAGES.
WE believe it is usual to state, in the first number of every new
publication, the principles on which it is to be conducted. We
must beg to decline complying with this custom. We had
much rather that our readers should be content to take us as
they find us. We had much rather that the whole of this num
ber should be considered as our letter of introduction,—we hope
we may say of recommendation. We request the reader to
collect from it what are our principles—public, private, and
religious. Perhaps he will say that we have no principles at
all: he will err if he does. Time will show that this is not an
unprincipled Magazine.
The short correspondence which has been placed in our bands,
and which we are happy to publish here, might not have been
deemed sufficiently weighty for an opening article, were it not
for the mighty interests to which it refers, and which are daily
increasing in importance. The poor-law in Ireland is still, we
trust, only an experiment. The little success which has at
tended its introduction, does not stamp it as a settled institution
of the country. It is mixed up with, it is dependent upon
wrants which are, as yet, barely understood : upon difficulties
weighing upon the labouring population of England as well as
that of Ireland—difficulties which charity, whether legal or
private, can but slightly alleviate, and which daily call for the
attention of the legislature in a louder and yet a louder voice.
VOL. I.
B
�2
CORRESPONDENCE WITH SIR R. PEEL.
Who, indeed, can look upon poor-laws as a panacea for the
evils of Ireland or of England, while the public mind is agitated
by questions involving the very right of one class to minister to
the wants of another class?—aye, for it is futile to talk of poorlaws while the very right of the landowner to those possessions
which supply the relief, is contested. We have heard that welltaught paupers have said, “ If the land will not maintain the
poor, let the poor take the land and maintain themselves !” And
to what does all the outcry against landowners, which has been
so industriously got up for some months past, tend, but to the
promulgation of such a creed ? “ Property has its duties as
well as its rights “ Holders of property are but the stewards
of God for the poor.” Granted, gentlemen, granted : but me
thinks these are doctrines better suited to the pulpit than to
schools of political economy; better inculcated by the ministers
of religion, than by the daily newspapers or by political agitators.
“ Fixity of tenure” is not the only doctrine lately broached
which directly strikes at the rights of all possession in England
as well as in Ireland. An outcry has been raised against Eng
lish landowners, not only for maintaining the duties on foreign
corn, but also for the amount of rent they receive for their land;
for the wretched state of the cottages they provide for their
labourers ; for the waste of corn occasioned by their game pre
serves ; and for the unimproved cultivation of their estates.
What are all these complaints, except the first, but direct
attacks upon the rights of property? We except the first com
plaint, because we hold that no body of men in the state has a
right to drive any other body of men from the free exercise of
their industry. But the remainder of the black catalogue of
landowners'1 sins, is drawn up by those who are either ignorant
of the first principles of political economy (or, if that word be
objected to, of common sense) or who else seek to curry popular
favour by swelling an unmeaning cry, that they may hereafter
turn it to what they believe to be a good purpose.
Can all these writers and speakers forget that the matters
which arouse their indignation are matters of simple contract
between man and man ? The land is too highly rented: then
wThy does the tenant take it ?—He cannot find any other mode
of investing his capital. That is a totally different question :
that is not the fault of the landlord—at least not of the individual
in his commercial character, as the seller of the use of his lands.
The tenant knows to what laws the produce of that land is sub
jected : he makes his calculations, or, if he does not make them,
it is his own fault. In real fact, a farmer takes the land because
he knows that, if he does not, some one else will; and because
he knows that, high as the rent may appear to be to those who
�CORRESPONDENCE WITH SIR R. PEEL.
3
know nothing of the cultivation of land, he will be enabled to
spend fifty per cent interest upon his capital, where the manu
facturer only realizes fifteen.
The state of the cottages inhabited by the agricultural
labourers is, we freely admit, wretched: we admit that they
are, in general, so damp and ill-built as to promote disease ; so
small as to promote indecency and immorality; and many, very
many thanks are due to Mr. Sheridan for having directed the
attention of his Dorsetshire neighbours to the subject, and,
through them, the attention of the whole country. Still, let
us not be carried away by a vain feeling of philanthropy, which,
hurrying us on to imaginary cures, leads us astray from the real
one. The plain question is, could those who inhabit these
wretched tenements afford to pay for better ? It is easy to ex
claim against the badness of cottages : but in every neighbour
hood, there are dwellings of different sizes: which do the poor
most readily rent, the cheaper or the dearer houses? We pre
sume it will hardly be contended that landowners ought to build
large cottages and to let them for the same rent they receive for
small ones. “ Oh, but some are so old and dilapidated that they
are not fit for the habitation of human beings.” What remedy
would you propose ? “ Pull them down,” you answer with the
glibness of a gentleman living in a parlour lodging, who never
asked himself why he did not rent the whole house ? Pull them
down forsooth! and turn their poor inmates into the lane ? for
this must be their lot, unless we are able to build a new house
for them, and to let it to them at the same rent as they pay for
the old one. No, no; as a matter of charity, every owner of
land or of houses will do all he can to alleviate the sufferings of
the poor around him;—will make their homes comfortable; will
let them at low rents, or will give them rent free;—but he who
wishes practically and permanently to improve the condition of
the poor in this respect as well as in others, will enable them to
earn such wages as will empower them to command comfortable
cottages. But talk not of charity to the poor, while you with
hold from them their rights. Their wages will be increased
by increasing their employment: make that employment profit
able, and individual enterprise will supply it: enable them to pay
the rent of good houses, and individual enterprise will build
good houses for them.
As we have mentioned the preservation of game as one of the
crimes it is just now the fashion to charge upon landowners, we
must say a few words on the accusation, and those few will be
more than it deserves. We are not writing here on the policy
of the game laws, of those laws which inflict heavier punish
ments for an interference with our amusements than for the
b 2
�4
CORRESPONDENCE WITH SIR R. PEEL.
commission of serious felonies; we allude only to the charge of
ruining tenants by keeping game that eats up their crops. But
this is a simple matter of barter between landlord and tenant;
the tenant knows to what injury he is liable when he takes the
land, and he pays a proportionably less rent. The outcry against
landlords on this score is as insensate as that which the member
for Knaresborough attempted to raise against the mill-owners,
for manufacturing inferior pieces of cotton goods for those who
could not afford to purchase the best. In neither case, is the
bargain a forced one.
The inferior cultivation of their lands is, however, the fashion
able charge against the lords of the soil: and the admissions of
ignorance on the part of agriculturists, made by the Agricultural
Societies themselves, seem to make it impossible to refute this
accusation, still less to maintain a right in landowners “ to do
what they please with their own.” “ Their own !” exclaims the
modern Gracchus; “ property has its duties as well as its rights.”
Aye; and you are the expounder of those duties and of those
rights, to boot. The Duke of So-and-so has so many hundred
acres of moorland; make him drain and improve them, and they
will become productive pastures. He has so many scores of
acres in his park ; make him plough them up, and the park will
be as fine an arable farm as any in the county. He has so many
roods of pleasure grounds; make him divide it into allotments
for the poor. He has dozens of flower-pots in his green-house;
what bushels of potatoes might be grown in them, did he only
understand the duties of property as well as its rights!
What, indeed, is the poor-law in England ; what has it been
from its introduction by Elizabeth, but a measure of police?
Owing to the ruin of their employers (the monks) masses of
people are thrown out of work: laws are enacted to compel the
rich to maintain them ; gradually the rich substitute a compli
ance with a legal obligation for the exercise of those charities
ordained of God; gradually the poor lose all sense of self-de
pendence and prefer an idle life, at the cost of the parish, to a
provident one supported by their own industry ; gradually it
becomes impossible to ascertain who are the willing idlers and
who are the really indigent; and the workhouse test is applied
to distinguish the one from the other. Such has been the case
in England; but different, very different has been the state of
the agricultural poor in Ireland. No one has ever questioned
their willingness to work, evinced by their weary journeys
amongst a hostile population (for such the competing English
labouring classes have been to them) in search of employment.
No one has ever questioned their willingness to expend their
strength in their own country, to obtain such wages as would
�CORRESPONDENCE with sir r. peel.
5
not be deemed sufficient to keep an English peasant from starv
ing. No workhouse could, therefore, be wanted in Ireland, to
test the reality of their distress or their willingness to labour.
A workhouse did not remove the cause of their suffering; its
originators did not even look to that cause. That origin was
plain enough to be seen. It needed no commissioners to find out
that the Irish peasant was in a state of starvation, because no
one employed him, because daily pay was not to be had in the
country in exchange for daily labour. We say not that, under
such circumstances, a poor-law without the workhouse test was
the proper remedy for the disease; on the contrary, we hold that,
were all restrictions removed from the employment of capital
throughout the world, labour would soon be at a premium in
the market, while the natural feelings of charity would not be
blunted by forced contributions ; while domestic ties and affec
tions would not be interfered with ; while the young would not
be made independent of the love of the old, nor the old of the
gratitude of the young.
Property has, indeed, its duties as well as its rights. God
forbid that we should attempt to lessen to the mind of the least
holder of property a sense of the responsibility which the pos
session entails upon him. But those duties are duties of charity,
of good will, of forbearance, of mercy; the duty of self-abne
gation, instead of laws upheld for his own benefit and to the
injury of the poor; the exercise of those kindly feelings im
planted by the great God of nature in the heart of man, and to
the sympathy of which that same great God has committed the
lot of his poorer creatures. But the feelings that would prompt
such charities between the rich and the poor are, in no way,
connected with matters of barter, with questions of political
economy. And the very confused notions which exist at the
present day on these subjects, have made it necessary for us thus
shortly to recur to first principles, before we laid before our
readers any arguments on Irish poor-laws or Irish agrarian out
rages. The great fund of natural good feeling towards the poor
is now working in the public mind more strongly than it has done
for the last three centuries. Only let it not confuse questions
of commerce with questions of charity; let it not offer the poor
eleemosinary assistance instead of those rights which might
enable them to do without it.
It is true, woefully true, that poverty and distress exist in
England and in Ireland to an unprecedented extent; that the
condition of the labouring classes has deteriorated, while im
mense masses of wealth have accumulated in the hands of a few.
This is not the place to seek out the causes of such things. Our
business is with the remedies proposed—to show the injustice as
�6
CORRESPONDENCE WITH SIR R. PEEL.
well as the impolicy of those which have suggested themselves
to the public mind for some months past, and which directly
tend to upset all rights to private property. The adoption of
such remedies might tend to confound all the first principles of
social economy; but could no more remove the distress of the
agricultural poor, than would establishing Sunday schools for
children, or police regulations for grown up starvelings.
Me hold all poor-laws to be essentially objectionable and de
structive of the best feelings of the community amongst which
they are introduced. But if a poor-law was to be introduced
into. Ireland, if the giving of alms was to be exchanged for a
parliamentary tax, we would rather have seen that law adminis
tered and that tax expended on some such plan as that recom
mended by Mr. Beste in the following letters, than in the erection
and maintenance of workhouses to shut in or to test the destitu
tion of three millions of willing labourers.
But we proceed at once, and without comment, to lay before
our readers the correspondence that has been placed in our
hands:
LETTER I---- TO THE RT. HON. SIR ROBERT PEEL, BART., DRAYTON MANOR.
Sir,—Two years ago, I took the liberty of submitting to your con
sideration whether the causes of agrarian outrages in Ireland might
not be removed by establishing district farms in that country, for the
employment of able-bodied labourers, instead of subjecting them to the
workhouse test; and I proposed a plan by which permanent agricul
tural employment might be found for them, so as to make them inde
pendent of their small cottage holdings. Though you did not adopt
my suggestion, you did me the honour of writing me two letters on
the subject, which evinced your anxiety to entertain any proposal for
the improvement of the condition of the people. Agrarian outrages
still continue in Ireland. The poor-law there has not tended to
increase the market for labour, so as to enable landowners to com
pensate small tenants for the loss of those holdings from which they
may desire to remove them: and in submitting my plan to the notice
of the public, it is now my wish to publish the correspondence that
took.place between us on that subject. Your letters to me contain
nothing of a private nature; and the general tone in which they are
written, from the readiness they show to receive any suggestion bene
ficial to Ireland, must be deemed highly honourable to a minister of
the crown: yet, as a matter of courtesy, I do not like to publish them
without first requesting your permission to do so. As their substance
may probably have escaped your memory, I take the liberty of enclos
ing copies of your letters; and shall esteem it a favour if you acquiesce
in my request.
I have the honour to be, sir, your very obedient servant,
bolleigh Grange, Southampton,
J. Richard Beste.
10/A January, 1845.
�CORRESPONDENCE WITH SIR R. PEEL.
7
LETTER II.----TO J. RICHARD BESTE, ESQ., BOTLEIGH GRANGE.
Sir,—I am desired by Sir Robert Peel to acknowledge the receipt
of your letter of the 10th instant, and to inform you in reply, that he
thanks you for the courtesy which prompted your application, and that
he will leave you to exercise your own discretion in regard to the pub
lication of the letters to which you refer.
I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant,
Whitehall, Jan. Yitli, 1845.
G-. Arbuthnot.
LETTER III.---- TO THE RT. HON. SIR R. PEEL, BART., DRAYTON MANOR.
Sir,—Considering it my duty to write, I venture to do so in the
manner that may most conduce to the object I have in view. I there
fore take the liberty of addressing myself to you personally, rather
than to the department to which my communication should, perhaps,
officially be made.
Let me first,—in order to assure you that I have some practical know
ledge of the subject on which I write,—state that I am in the commis
sion of the peace in more than one county in England, and that I have
acted as chairman to a board of guardians for some years, during
which I established the new poor-law in a large agricultural union in
Hampshire.
Agrarian outrages are occasioned in Ireland by the knowledge that,
if turned out from his cottage and potatoe ground, the occupant must
starve on the roads, because he cannot find agricultural day labour in
Ireland, as the peasantry do in England.
The remedy is—plenty of agricultural employment at wages that
will maintain the labourer.
The Irish are willing to work. The English peasantry, degraded
by long mal-administration of poor-laws, refused to exert themselves:
and union workhouses were here necessary as a test of destitution.
No such test is required in Ireland. Poor-rates are levied in Ireland;
and assistant commissioners are organising the methods of granting
relief, and are building workhouses. Let a different plan be tried in
one district: instead of building workhouses (costing about 7000Z.
each), let farms of one thousand acres of waste land be engaged. The
cost of reclaiming them is 7Z. per acre. Let all applicants for relief
be admitted to work on the farm—at task work—at such a price as is
paid by the best farmers in the district. After the first year or two,
the farm would pay its own expenses. An improved system of agri
culture would be introduced into the country: the “ surplus popula
tion” being employed, the wages of the others would be raised.
Family ties would not be interfered with; and the possession of a plot
of highly-rented potatoe ground would no longer be a matter of vital
importance, for day-labour and day-pay would have been established.
Such, sir, is an outline of the plan which I think it my duty to
submit to the government. Should you deem it worthy of notice, I
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CORRESPONDENCE WITH STR R. PEEL.
shall be most glad to enter into any further details; and as, in that
case, you might wish to know something of the party from whom the
suggestion comes, I may add that I am an acting magistrate in this
division of Hants; that, in politics, I am a Whig; and, in religion, an
English Catholic.
Excuse, sir, what may seem the abruptness of my letter. Notwith
standing which, with all proper feelings of respect,
I have the honour to be your very obedient servant,
Botleigh Grange,
J. Richard Beste.
26Z/1 Dec. 1842.
LETTER IV.---- TO J. RICHARD BESTE, ESQ., BOTLEIGH GRANGE.
Sir,—I beg leave to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the
26th instant.
Whatever I may think of the difficulties attending the plan you
suggest,—which, I presume, includes the construction of farm-build
ings requisite for the profitable cultivation of a farm of one thousand
acres, and the provision of lodging for those applicants for relief, who
are to be admitted to work on the farm, and do not happen to reside
in the immediate neighbourhood,—and however improbable I think it,
that such a farm will, after a year or two, pay its own expenses—yet
I shall be prepared to read, with the same attention with which I have
read your letter of the 26th December, any further communication you
may think fit to address to me on the subject.
I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient faithful servant,
Drayton Manor, 31s£ Dec. 1842.
Robert Reel.
LETTER V.---- TO THE RT. HON. SIR R. PEEL, BART., DRAYTON MANOR.
Sir,—Allow me to express my thankfulness that, amid all the calls
upon your attention, you should have condescended to notice the
communication of a stranger. I hasten to reply to the difficulties
which you suggest as applying to my plan for relieving agrarian dis
tress in Ireland; and your mention of which proves, if I may be per
mitted to say so, your acquaintance with the practical working of any
laws for the relief of the poor.
In my letter of the 26th ult., I suggested that, instead of using the
workhouse in Ireland as a test of destitution, district farms of one
thousand acres each should be established, to offer task work, at re
munerating wages, to all applicants. To this, you object the erection
of farm buildings and the provision of lodgings for applicants who are
to be admitted to work on the farm, and who do not happen to reside
m the immediate neighbourhood. Permit me to say that no farm
building would be requisite, beyond a house for an overseer or bailiff.
Spade husbandry alone would be practised; a day’s work would be
allotted to each applicant, such as would enable an able-bodied man to
earn Irish farmer’s wages, or more, if more were necessary to the
�CORRESPONDENCE WITH SIR R. PEEL.
9
maintenance of his family in the poorest manner, say 10c?. or 1$. per
day. Each applicant would thus earn in proportion to his strength or
ability. For the first year or two, potatoes would be the only crop
produced; and these would require no buildings.
Then as to the lodging of applicants. A labourer will gladly walk
five miles to his day’s work. I am now employing about fifty ablebodied men here, who must have gone into the workhouse with their
families, had I not, in order to keep them out, set them to clear a
wood and grub up the roots of trees : many of them come more than
four miles to the work. Irish labourers would gladly do the same, or
more ; and I calculated, that those nearest the district farm being
employed on it, those towards the outer circumference of the circle it
would embrace would find labour with farmers nearer home. But I
only named farms of one thousand acres, because the expense of re
claiming Irish land being about 7?. an acre, and the average cost of
workhouses 7,000?., I wished to place the farm in juxta-position to
the workhouse. A farm of five hundred acres might perhaps be
better, and would only entail the expense of additional bailiffs.
You also question, sir, whether the farms would pay their own ex
penses in the short time I name. We find here that labourers are
glad to be allowed to break up and bring into cultivation any piece of
waste land, if it is granted to them for two years rent-free. After
that time, they can afford to pay rent. And I do think, from some
considerable practical knowledge of agriculture, that the farms I wish
to establish in Ireland would, after that period, pay their own ex
penses ; although they would not so soon refund the amount expended
in their first establishment.
At all events, the plan which I propose would entail no alteration in
the principle of the law now in force in Ireland for the relief of the
poor. Poor-rates being established, they could be applied to any
purpose. Boards of guardians should still be elected to work out my
plan, under superintendant assistant-commissioners to overlook them.
And I confidently predict the result would be—blessings upon a sys
tem which secured to the peasant remunerating wages for his day’s
work, without the confinement of the workhouse, without the sever
ance of family ties, without the degradation of pauperism,—which
made the possession of a plot of potatoe ground no longer necessary to
his existence,—which w’ould enable the farmer to reply to the sturdy
mendicant, “ Go to the district farm.”
The farmers alone would object to the plan, because it would raise
the price of labour upon them. But few would sympathize with this
complaint, seeing the low wages actually given.
Permit me to thank you for your kind attention to the matter. I
shall esteem myself very fortunate, should your good opinion of it en
title me to the honour of further communication from you.
I have the honour to be, sir, your most obedient humble servant,
Botleigh Grange,
J. Richard Beste.
Zrd January 1843.
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CORRESPONDENCE WITH SIR R. PEEL.
LETTER VI---- TO J. RICHARD BESTE, ESQ., BOTLEIGH GRANGE.
Sir,—I beg leave to acknowledge the receipt of your letter of the
3rd January.
Having further considered the project to which that letter refers, I
do not think the plan you suggested (which, indeed, is one which has
been frequently proposed) could be advantageously adopted. If land
in Ireland can be profitably reclaimed or profitably cultivated, it will
be done most effectually by those who are possessors of the soil, and
through the instrumentality of private enterprise.
I am sir, your obedient faithful servant,
Whitehall, Jan. 9, 1843.
Robert Peel.
LETTER VII.----TO THE RIGHT HON. SIR R. PEEL, BART., WHITEHALL.
SiR>—I would not presume to lead you to a prolonged correspond
ence ; but your letter of yesterday’s date shows that, since the receipt
of my first letter, you have misapprehended the purport of my plan, so
as to call for a short explanation on my part. Excuse me that I say
that the profitable employment of pauper labourers was not the object
of my proposal. My primary object was to prevent agrarian outrages
in Ireland, which originate in the defence of a cabin and potatoe
ground,—the occupant knowing that, if ejected from thence, he
WILL NOT BE ABLE TO FIND DAY LABOUR, ON THE WAGES OF WHICH HE
MAY MAINTAIN HIMSELF : HE, THEREFORE, MURDERS ANOTHER RATHER
than starve himself. I would have taken from him this pretence,
by offering him day-labour for day-wages on a district farm. My
object is the pacification of the country, and the opening a market to
the labourer’s industry. Whether that labour should be productive or
not, is quite a secondary consideration. The poor-rates that are to be
expended in the erection of workhouses and the maintenance of
paupers therein, I would have expended in affording labour to the in
dustrious. If that labour were not remunerative, the rate-payers
would be no worse off than under the system of the poor-law com
missioners. But I believe it would have repaid them.
I am quite aware of the folly of attempting to make pauper-labour
a source of profit: so much so that, both privately and in print, I have
endeavoured to induce the poor-law commissioners in England to pro
hibit all labour of every description in their workhouses. But my
plan would not make a pauper of the Irish labourer ; he would receive
only what he should earn. I am aware also that in a peaceful and
healthy-minded country, private enterprise will best reclaim or culti
vate the soil; and my plan would open a field to private enterprise,
by enabling owners to regain possession of their tenements, and so to
improve their properties.
For all these reasons, I venture to think that my plan is different
from any that has been hitherto proposed ; and being contrary to that
of the poor-law commissioners (who would of course oppose it) I sug
gested that it should be first tried in one district only.
Although I fear that you have decided against my suggestion, I beg
�CORRESPONDENCE WITH SIR R. PEEL.
11
to be excused for thus endeavouring to remove the misapprehensions
on which that decision seems to be founded. Should anything induce
you to think more favourably of it, I should be happy to wait on you
at any time, and more fully to explain my views.
I have the honour to be, sir, your very obedient humble servant,
Botleigh Grange,
J. Richard Beste.
11 th January, 1843.
The length of time which has elapsed since the date of this
last letter, shows at once that Sir R. Peel has adhered to his
condemnation of the plan suggested. It was not, in truth, likely
to be approved by the poor-law commissioners; and we own
that we have fancied we saw a difference in the tone of the
letter written by the Right Hon. Baronet from Whitehall, to
that which he had first penned from Drayton Manor. He had
had an opportunity of consulting the triumvirate at Somerset
House.
Meanwhile, agrarian outrages in Ireland have increased in a
fearful manner during the last few months ; nor has any attempt
been made to remove the causes in which they originate. But
we beg pardon: a commission has been issued to inquire into
the tenure of land in that country ; nay, more ; Lord Devon is
about to make his report on what he has discovered. We hear
that he has examined Mr. O’Connell at great length, and, we
doubt not, obtained much valuable information from him—of
which all the world was before aware from that learned gentleman’s
former statements. If, however, Mr. O’Connell shall have sug
gested any plan by which a fixity of tenure can be secured to
the tenant without an infringement upon the rights of the
owner, highly as we esteem of his ability, we shall deem that, in
this instance, he has exceeded himself.
We own, therefore, freely that we have no hope from this
commission ; and yet that something must be done, all the world
agrees. The plan suggested in the foregoing letters seems to
us practicable; and (though we are no admirers of poor-laws,
that is to say of charity by act of parliament) we think that it
might have been introduced with advantage in a country situated
like Ireland. We shall await, with more of curiosity than of
hope, to see Lord Devon’s attempts at legislation. Perhaps he
will recommend that the sources of Irish justice should be puri
fied—that the peasant should not be oppressed by vexatious
distresses for rent which would not be endured in England—
that he should not be suddenly called upon to pay up arrears
after time given by his landlord—that the said landlord should
not be allowed to distrain, even for rents not yet due—and that
he should then be debarred from showing his kindly feeling for
his tenant by seizing his dung-heap only,—only his dung
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CORRESPONDENCE WITH SIR R. PEEL.
heap,—with the certain knowledge that the loss of it will ruin
his crops, and bring him to beggary next year. Perhaps he will
suggest, that redress for such grievances should be given the
tenant in the local courts of justice, and that public opinion
should be encouraged to uphold the sufferer in defending his
rights and to blast the reputation of the oppressor. Public
opinion is, indeed, a mighty engine, and the best redresser of
wrongs, the best controller of magisterial responsibility; but we
doubt whether it will be efficiently worked in Mayo by the Earl
of Lucan, as lord-lieutenant of the county.
*
* Some three years since, the Earl of Lucan was removed from the commission
of the peace by the present government, for outrageous conduct in court to a brother
magistrate. He is this day placed at the head of the administration of justice in
lus county.
THE EVENING THRUSH.
From out the skirting bush,
Yon solitary thrush
Comes out upon the strip of level lawn,
All in the evening grey,
To sing a roundelay,
That may calm her to her rest till peep of dawn.
She through the hours of light,
From morn to closing night,
Sought food for her hungry callow young;
Now when the sun is set,
Her wings all dewy wet,
Soothes her spirit with her own sweet song.
She seeks the open lawn
Where the doe and happy fawn
Come forth, from the covert wild, to play;
For she loves to hear the note,
Gushing fully from her throat,
Pierce yonder heaven above at close of day.
C. D.
�13
THE ETERNAL CITY.
More stirring themes have been supplied to history by a few
roods of space on the banks of the Tiber, than by any other re
gion of the world, or perhaps than by all the rest of it. There,
of a certainty, has the theatre of whatever is grandest, of what
ever is most widely felt and permanently influential in the drama
of human existence, been appointed; as the heatheps would
have said, by the Fates, but as we say, by Providence.
Superhuman, indeed, have been the efforts of Hope on the one
hand, to make good her footing within that old ring-wall gird
ing the 4 seven hills,’ and of Time, ‘ the destroyer,’ on the other
hand, to dislodge her. See, in the ruins of the 4 imperial mount,’
of the Caelian, of the Aventine, and even of the Capitol and the
Roman Forum, what havoc has been the consequence I
Yes, the powers that build up trophies to memory and erect
temples to expectation, and the powers that labour to pull down
and to level both the one and the other, have, for five-and-twenty
centuries, at the least, made this spot the chief scene of their
conflicts. Both principleshave here had their most signal victories
and reverses ; so has it been with the one which delights to ruin,
and with the other delighting to erect and to conserve. Within
these lists of destiny, marked out in the midst of a vast mephitic
solitude strewed with ruins—a sort of neutral ground between
time and eternity—death and life, triumph and overthrow, have
pushed forward and suffered repulse by turns.
Here, from an origin so obscure that for centuries history had
scarcely deigned to notice it, there grew up a power that over
shadowed the world for many ages : from a bivouac of rude huts,
there came forth the city of Augustus and the Antonines.
These perished, though men thought, and apparently with jus
tice prophesied, they were to be eternal. They perished miser
ably. Not a rood of the empire, scarcely a few fragments of the
city were left. The 4 Seven hills,’ the vale of the Forum, and
of the Great Circus, reverted back again to nature. It was
thought to be all over with Rome, since the site of the pagan
city is still a wilderness; but, at its side, and as if from under
neath its ruins, another city and another Roman empire have
arisen. In comparison with these, the Rome and the empire of the
Caesars were but shadows as to extent, as to the power of resisting
the effects of violence and of decay, but, above all, as to duration.
But withal, the genii of destruction and of immortality are
still entrenched within the enclosure of that old wall, garrisoned
�14
THE ETERNAL CITY.
now only by recollections. They divide it pretty equally be
tween them; and, from opposite sides of the Capitol, seem to
watch each other as from two hostile camps. Their sentinels,
Despair and divine Hope, mount guard respectively on the Coli
seum and St. Peter’s.
. It is the history of their struggles we propose to write. We
aim not at writing what may be termed the world-history of
Rome, the annals of her empire ; but merely to tell the story of
iC the city.” Beyond the proscenium we are determined not to
pass. However, let no one dread a dearth of argument. The
whole precinct is but twelve miles in circuit, it is true; Sir
John Cam Hobhouse and a friend of his measured it; but—
“ Ages and realms are crowded in this span.”
We shall of course commence with the Rome of Paganism,
and next proceed to the Rome of Christianity. The history of
the latter will run greatly into that of the popes, especially from
St. Gregory the Great to Gregory XVI. In both instances, it
shall be our object not so much to aim at continuity of narrative
from age to age, as, by giving a vivid picture not only of the
extrinsic aspect of the city, but of its institutions and the cos
tume and manners of inhabitants, to spread over each most
remarkable epoch such a light as that the Romans of each suc
ceeding. generation shall stand before the reader’s eyes, distinct,
intelligible, and familiar as contemporaries.
Rome as it was when the fugitives returned after the retreat or
expulsion of the Gauls,—when Hannibal was at its gates,—when
Augustus was emperor,—when Nero burned it;—what its aspect
was when the first Christian emperor entered it in triumph, and
when Belisarius viewed it after the barbarians had reduced it to
a desert;—for the Pagan city this will be sufficient.
For the Rome of the Popes, our first tableau will represent it
in the days of Gregory the Great; the next in the days of
Leo III, when Charlemagne was anointed and crowned with the
old imperial diadem of Augustus. Again, when being sore
pressed by the Saracens, pope Leo IV rebuilt and extended its
walls. It will , present a terrible, but picturesque, and most
tragical aspect in the tenth age. The age of Hildebrand will
see it shake off its tyrants ; and under the reign of Innocent III
it will shine out in such majesty as to eclipse all the glories of
the past. The next scene will be in the year of our Lord 1300,
when Dante and John Villani were amongst the millions who
assembled there for the jubilee of Boniface VIII. We next
shall see Petrarcha crowned, and hear Rienzi harangue the
Romans on.the Campidoglio. When next we behold it, the grass
is growing in the streets, the people wretched, and the “ abomi
�THE ETERNAL CITY.
15
nation of desolation is seated in the holy places,” at the return
of the popes from the captivity of Avignon. This is linked
with the Rome of Luther and Leo X. Then the storming and
sack of Rome, as described by Benvenuto Cellini, who fought
on the walls where Bourbon was shot, and witnessed the havoc
and conflagration afterwards from the top of Sant’ Angelo.
Then the Rome of Sixtus Quintus, of Alexander VIII, of
Pius VII.
This brings us to Rome as it is, with its studios and its
museums, its cloisters and colleges, its libraries, monuments,
charitable institutions, schools, and academies of literature, the
sciences and the fine arts. Of all these things, with whatever
else either instructive or amusing we have been able to glean
concerning the eternal city, whether above or below ground,
from either reading or observation, we will take care to hide
none under a bushel.
“ But enough for the day is the evil thereof.” Thank heaven
we have done with the preface; now for our first chapter.
CHAPTER I.
“He who calls what has vanished back again into being, enjoys a bliss like that of
creating.”—Niebuhr.
The old story about Romulus and Remus, the she-wolf, and
the twelve vultures, is known to every one. “ But its essence,”
says Niebuhr, “is the fabulous. We may strip this of its pecu
liarities, and pare away and alter until it is reduced to a possible
every-day incident, but we ought to be firmly convinced that
the caput mortuwm which will remain will be any thing but an
historical fact.” Let this pass for the present. For the elder
ages of Rome, the cry is, Niebuhr or nobody. We are not
strong enough yet to stem the current: let us go with the
fashion, then.
“ From what people the eternal city originally arose is pre
cisely what we do not know,” says Niebuhr; “ but it is no less
suited to the eternity of Rome for its roots to lose themselves in
infinity, than what the poets sang of the rearing and deification
of Romulus befits the majesty of the city. A god or no one
must have founded it.”
The name Rome, Greek in form like that of Pyrgi, belonged
to the city at the time when it, as well as all the towns in its
neighbourhood, was Pelasgian.
All legends agree in recognizing the Palatine as the site of
the original Rome. The sides were cut into steep precipices,
and made to serve for a wall. This was the most primitive style
of fortifying a town, and quite a usual one with the aborigines
of middle Italy. From the statement of Tacitus (Ann. xii. 24)
�16
THE ETERNAL CITY.
the pomaerium of Romulus, beginning from the Forum Boarium,
ran skirting along the north side of the Circus Maximus, a
swamp or long narrow lake at that time; then from the Septizonium to below the baths of Trajan; thence finally perhaps
along the Via Sacra to the Forum; from whence to the Velabrum, closing the circuit, there extended a marsh. Indeed,
according to Brocchi, there was a time when the seven hills rose
like so many woody islets from a wide lake. The waters sank
by degrees. . The mound of Ancus Martius helped to restrain
the Tiber within his bed, and the Cloaca Maxima to drain the
marshes; but that the Forum, even long after the building of
the city, was in great part under water, is plain from the legend
of Quintius Curtius jumping into the pool that was there.
The Aventine was an island. To pass to it by the ferry from
the side of the Palatine, one paid a ([uadrantem, or farthing,
according to Varro. Nearly all the hillsides abounded in limpid
springs.
According to Niebuhr, another bourgh of later origin than
that on the palatine, grew upon the Carinae, an acclivity of the
Esquiline near to St. Pietro in Vincoli. It had an earth-wall,
he says, towards the Subura, and a gate at the foot of the
Viminal, spoken of in the legend of the Sabine war. The Porta
Janualis can have been no other than that which closed the
bottom of the ascent leading up to the Carinae.
It is remarked by Dionysius, that the aborigines dwelt in
scattered villages upon the hills where Rome ultimately rose.
“ Locum,1’ as Cicero calls it, “ in regione pestilenti salubrem.”*
All the mounds and eminences along the Campagna bear traces
of having been similarly occupied. Niebuhr will have it that
one of the detached villages was called Remuria, another, on the
Janiculum near St. Onofrio, he thinks was called Vattica or
Vatticum, whence the Ager Vaticanus derived its name; and
that these were the first to disappear before Rome; the entire
population of conquered places being usually led captive by the
victors.f
A still more important town he plants on the Agonian hill,
the Quirinal, as it was afterwards called. It was founded, he
thinks, by the Sabines having taken post there when they were
driving the Caseans and Umbrians before them down the Tiber.
The Capitoline was the citadel or Acropolis of this village. “ If
we enquire after the particular name of this town,” he says, “ I
think I may assume without scruple that it was Quierium.”
* De R. p. ii. 6.
+ The name Vaticanus is derived by Aulus Gellius (Noct. Atticar. 1. xvi. 17)
a vaticiniis, because there was a shrine of Apollo celebrated for its oracles by Varro
and St. Augustin (de Civ. Dei, 1. viii.) It is derived from a deity named Vaticanus
qui infantium vagitibus prsesidet.”
�THE ETERNAL CITY.
17
All traces by which the two cities came to be united into one
state have not been effaced. A tradition was preserved that
each had its king, each its own senate of one hundred men, and
that they met together on the level between the Capitol and the
Palatine, thence called the Comitiiim. The kernel of fact to be
extracted from the myth of the Sabine raptus is, that Rome
gained by force of arms the right of intermarriage with Quirium. The double-headed Janus, somewhat after the fashion of
a turnstile, looked with one face towards each city, as the gate
of the double barrier that at once united their interests and
separated their liberties. It was open in war-time to allow of
mutual succours being sent from one to the other, wherever the
danger most required it. It was to restrict promiscuous and
too frequent intercourse, that it was closed in time of peace.
The Via sacra running between the two seems to have been des
tined for common religious processions. Most of the ceremonies
and rites of the Roman religion were Sabine.
A double people the Romans certainly continued to be, low
down in the historical period. The poem on the twin brothers
has no other meaning. This, occasioned at first, it is likely, by
the union through conquest of the Aborigines and the Pelas
gians, or of Roma and Remuria, was perpetuated by that of the
Romans and Quirites, or Sabine people of Quirium. The rival
castes of patricians and plebeians gave it most vivid expression.
It is likely that these heterogeneous elements were first blended
and well combined by pressure from without. United by inter
marriages, by a common worship, probably by common dangers
and ambition, the two towns agreed to have but one king and
one senate,—in a word, but one government,—to form but one
state. Henceforward, on all solemn occasions, their style and
title became “ Populus Romanus et Quirites.” The Romans, in
course of time, got the upper hand,—became the ascendancy.
Quirites and plebeians became synonymous. By this union,
Romulus was converted into Quirinus, and Quirium probably
became that mysterious name of Rome which it was prohibited
to utter. Immediately after the federal union of the two cities,
tradition places the division of the people into the three tribes,
the Ramnes, Titles, and Luceres ; and into thirty subdivisions,
called Curies.
The festival of Septimontium preserved the remembrance of
a time when the Capitoline, Quirinal, and Viminal hills, were
not yet incorporated with Rome, but when the remainder of the
heights, except the Aventine, formed a united civic community.
This was the extent afterwards enclosed by the wall of Servius.
It consisted of seven districts, each of which, even in the time
of Tiberius, had its own holidays and sacrifices. They were :
vol. i.
c
�18
THE ETERNAL CITY.
Palatium, Velia, Cermalus, Ccelia, Fagutal, Oppius, Cispius.
These were not all hills. Some of them were mere heichts or
swells of land; others lay on the plain at the foot of the hills.
The Velia ran from the Galatine to the Carinae, where stood
afterwards, as do their ruins to-day, the Temple of Peace, and
that of Venus and Rome. Oppius and Cispius are the two
slopes of the Esquiline; Cermalus, the ground at the foot of
the Palatine, where the Lupercal and the Ficus Ruminalis were.
Probably the Fatugal ran between the Palatine and the Coelian.
These were for a long time detached villages, not enclosed by
any common ring-wall. The Aventine was easily fortified,
being isolated in a great degree by the Tiber and the marshes.
The other flank of it, towards the Porta Capena, was protected
by a fosse, called the ditch of the Quirites : “ Quiritium fossa
haud parvum munimentum a planioribus aditu locis.”—Lwik
i. 33.
In a military point of view, the detached towns were not
united till the erection of the wall of Servius. This mound ex
tended from the Calline to the Esquiline gate, seven stadiums,
or seven-eighths of a mile. Out of a moat one hundred feet
broad by thirty feet deep, there rose a wall sixty feet high and
fifty feet thick, faced with flag-stones, and flanked with towers.
No wonder Pliny the Elder (H. N. iii. 9) was amazed at this
work, though the Coliseum was new in his days. The rest of
the enclosure was completed by uniting the outer walls of the
old villages one with another, by lines carried from hill to hill.
These, with the towers and walls at the gates, which barred an
ascent, were the only works of man. Elsewhere, this aggre
gation of burly rustic bivouacs was fortified solely by the steep
ness of the hill sides. When the Gauls had clomb the Capitoline, they were in the citadel. Above, there was no breast
work or battlement. The whole circumference, a little longer
than that of Athens, was under six miles. There was on the
Janiculum, it is likely, a fort or acropolis; but the idea of it
having been united by walls with the bridge over the Tiber,
Niebuhr laughs at. The building itself he places outside the
enclosure.
At this time, the Viminal seems to have been uninhabited,
overgrown with osier underwood, whence its name, as that of
the Esquiline came from its oak woods. Indeed we are by no
means to suppose the entire enclosure to have been filled by a
town, In those ages, to have pasturage and even arable lands
within the walls of cities was quite customary. The fortified
precinct received the peasant with his cattle in time of war.
The malaria was as fatal and dreaded then as now. Hence
space and dwelling-places were required, even in peace-time—
�THE ETERNAL CITY.
19
angel-visits then—for the country folk, crowding in from the
Campagna in the unhealthy season.
The Cloaca Maxima, built in the earliest times to carry off
the waters of the Velabrum swamp and the Curtian pool in the
Forum, was made of dimensions sufficient to receive other
effluxes besides. This astonishing structure consists of three
concentric semicircular arches, the inner one being; eighteen
Roman palms in width and in height. They are all formed of
blocks of peperino, seven and one-quarter palms long, and four
and one-sixth high, fixed together without cement. This river
like sewer discharges itself into the Tiber through a kind of
gate in the quay, which is of the same style of architecture, and
must have been raised at the same time, inasmuch as it dams off
the river from Velabrum, which has been rescued from it.
“ These works,” says Niebuhr, “ with the wall of Servius
described above, and the building of the Capitoline temple, utter
an irresistible testimony that Rome under her later kings was
the capital of a great state. They were suggested by a spirit
that already trusted in the eternity of the city, and was pre
paring a way for its advance.”
However loath to dissent from such an authority as Niebuhr,
the old traditions, we think, are of much greater historical
moment than he is disposed to allow. Our reasons we may
perhaps assign further on. For the present, let it suffice to
remark, what the learned German himself has admitted,—that
“ the she-wolf’s den, the fig-tree at the roots of which the
sucklings were saved,—-all the relics of Romulus, and the rich
poem containing so many features connected with local circum
stances which were unknown to foreigners, contribute to show
that the traditions sprung up on the very site of the city. Nor
was it alone that these memories had taken root in the scenery,
—were “ racy of the soilthey were kept green and vivid from
age to age by religious festivals and games; in the lays and
hymns chanted on solemn occasions, and in the songs of the
people. Dionysius tells us this. After narrating the story of
Romulus and Remus, &c. he adds: ¿c A rote TrarpiovQ vjdvots viro
PotptavMV ¿ri Kat vvv ¿iSerai.”
It may also pass for an ancient testimony of an actual popular
belief, recognized by the state, that in the year of the city 458,
bronze figures of the she-wolf and the babes were set up near
the Ficus Ruminalis. It is the self-same image that was struck
at the death of Caesar by lightning, and is still preserved in the
Capitoline museum.
On the surrounding country in those days were many forests
and tracts covered with underwood—well stocked with game
and with wild animals, both of the chase and of prey—scenes of
c 2
�20
THE ETERN2ÌL CITY.
hunting in peace, and of battle and ambuscade in war-time.
Instead of the imperial highways of later ages, some footpaths
and bridleways led through the farms and woodlands to the city.
The city itself wore a rural aspect; but above it the sky was as
beautiful as when it was built of marble. If the fortress on the
Capitol and the temples there and around the Forum, displayed a
certain severe majesty, the dwellings, even of the patricians, were
of the lowliest description. The palace of Romulus—preserved to
the latest times of the empire—was but a hut thatched with reeds.
On several of the hills were groves, and through every quarter
of the enclosure were dispersed umbrageous trees, and even
gardens, vineyards, and green fields. Withal it was a stirring
place; despising commerce and the arts, but much given to
athletic games, to feats of agility and horsemanship; enamoured
of festivals celebrated with loud warlike music, with carousals
and brave feasting on victims slaughtered in honour of the im
mortal gods. From all the neighbouring petty states, the out
lawed, the malcontent, the sport-loving, and the enterprising,
flocked thither, and the new town had room, welcome, and work
for them all. The maidens at eventide used to gather, with
theii amphorae, not at marble fountains, but round the clear
springs that bubbled from the hill sides; while the youth en
gaged in feats of strength and daring on the plains of the Forum
or the Subura, or exercised their war-steeds on the Campus
Martius. Bracelets, tiaras for the head, with bright colours and
gay costumes, had their charms for the one,—the other class
delighted in brilliant well-tempered arms and rich caparisons;
these hailed the signal with tumultuous exultation that sum
moned them to the foray ; to their betrothed it was a day of
rapture, which saw their lovers returning in triumph, laden with
spoils, and driving before them the flocks, the herds, and droves
of citizens they had torn from the Gabians or the Volci. The
burghers understood but two arts—agriculture and war. The
senators were wont to pass with facility from the plough to the
debate; from, tending their cattle to the conduct of armies.
After the day s work in seed-time or harvest, they assembled on
uie green sod of the Forum to resolve on a campaign against
y^m-CUm or CoBoli, or to receive ambassadors from the republics
of Fiber or Bovillae.
It would not, however, be correct to figure these elder ages to
ourselves as deficient , in a high degree of military discipline;
rp 1? a !?ertain imposing solemnity in whatever regarded public
life, the functions of the commonwealth, but, above all, of reli
gion,-—which came from the very first—from the reign of Numa
“ T°i ue r,/2’art^ec^ as fiie paladium and mainspring of the state.
a c ie, says Machiavelli, “ se si havesse a disputare a quale
�THE ETERNAL CITY.
21
principe Roma fusse più obbligato a Romulo o a Numa, credo
più tosto Numa attercbe il primo grado.” At the time that
Rome was starting on her career, a considerable refinement and
progress in the arts had been attained to, by several, particularly
of the Etruscan, states in her neighbourhood. The specimens of
architecture before alluded to, the Cloaca, the mound of Servius,
and the substructures of the Capitol, after braving five-andtwenty centuries of havoc, give us no mean estimate of the
building art when the city was still young. The Tarquins
especially gave a great impulse in these respects. Of Corinthian
extraction, and long settled in Etruria, they combined the arts
of the lattei with Grecian genius. Tarquinius Priscus, it is
*
said, was the first to introduce the fasces, the trabea, rings,
curule chairs, caparisons for steeds ; the various species of toga
—the striped, or bordered, and the embroidered ; the custom
of harnessing four white horses to the car of triumph ; and, in
fine, the various badges and insignia which are the becoming
ornaments, if not the indispensable appendages, of jurisdiction.
*
But, truth to say, Rome during this epoch wore much more
the aspect of an entrenched camp in the midst of a hostile
country, or of a stronghold of banditti, than of an ordinary
town. This was a destiny entailed upon it by the character of
its origin ; for we must still abide by the prescriptive story,
notwithstanding all that Niebuhr has written, that the city
sprung from an aggregation of outlaws and adventurers, under
a daring but blood-stained leader. This caused it to be held, by
all the surrounding septs, in an execration which failed not to
excite in the outlaws a counter scorn, and a fierce resolve to
wrest by violence what was denied to them on the ordinary
grounds of intercourse and neighbourhood. Hence the hand of
the Roman was against every man, and every man’s hand was
against him. This warlike and aggressive character became still
more decided after the Tarquins were driven from the throne,
and that, besides their old enemies on the side of Etruria and of
Latium, the new republic had to contend against the royal exiles
and their powerful adherents. But like her own eagle, the burly
young Rome seemed to disport herself and grow vigorous amidst
these stormy dangers.
“ Incredible,” says Sallust, “ were the strides made by the
country after it had won its freedom. Then for the first time
the Roman youth began to acquire on the field of battle and in
camps that discipline and skill in the management of arms, which
hitherto they used to learn on the Campus Martius. They
rushed with equal alacrity to the laborious duties of the pioneer,
* “ Rome under Paganism and under the Popes,” vol. i. p. 108.
�22
STONE HENGE AND PÆSTUM.
and to the perils of the foremost ranks ; and a vehement love
for brilliant armour and steed-trappings seemed to have absorbed
in them the other passions which usually predominate at their
age. To men inspired with such heroism, toil was but a pastime,
forced marches over the most rugged ground a recreation. They
stormed heights apparently inaccessible ; the number of their
foes they never heeded. Nothing in fine was able to resist their
valour. But of all their conflicts, the fiercest was that in which
they contended for glory with one another. Each burned to be
the first to charge the enemy, to scale the rampart ; and the
fame of achievements such as these they prized beyond all riches
and nobility.”
We cannot desire a more appropriate reflexion to close with
than the following :—“ Rome faisant toujours des efforts, et
trouvant toujours des obstacles, faisait sentir sa puissance sans
pouvoir l’étendre, et dans une circonférence très petite elle
s’exerçait à des vertus qui devaient être fatales à l’univers.”—
Montesquieu.
SONNET ON STONE HENGE.
I
beside the blue Tyrrhenian sea,
And saw three wondrous monuments uprear
Their column’d aisles ’mid desolation drear,
For some forgotten cult’s strange ministry—
Type of man’s wants and God’s high majesty.
Years pass’d. And now, more wondrous far, appear
The mighty unhewn stones that circle here
On the lone down ’mid countless tumuli.
Whence came these stones? What unknown power has riven
And mov’d and rais’d them? Was it love or dread
Of God they testify? Reply, ye dead!
They do: and still the same response is given:
For ages, have Stone Henge and Pæstum said
“ Man’s noblest works are consecrate to heaven.”
Somebody.
stood
�23
THE POLICY OF CATHOLICS.
If it be useful and refreshing to the traveller occasionally to
interrupt his course that he may ascend an eminence and take
a view, first, of the progress that he has made, and secondly, of
the journey which yet remains to be accomplished, so the jour
nalist, who must keep pace with the times, will do well to follow
a similar plan; and, as we have hitherto moved on with the
events of our day, and are entering upon a new course, we
think it not inappropriate to consider the position of the Catholic
body as to both the past and the present, that the review may
assist us as to the future that lies before us.
It is often made a reproach to the Catholic if he advert to
the days of that bitter persecution, whereby it was attempted for
nearly three hundred years to eradicate the religion of his fathers
from the country. But the reproach is unjust, inasmuch as the
retrospect not merely serves the purpose of recrimination, but is
useful to explain our present position, which embraces the effects
of causes which were then laid; and also to form a correct esti
mate of those who are obviously animated by the spirit that
then predominated, and who still cling, as their predecessors have
always clung, to the several links of that chain which it has been
the object of a wiser and more Christian policy to sever.
But, mindful of the hint given to the orator in Moliere, who
commenced his pleadings with the beginning of the world, that
he should come down to the deluge, we shall not startle the
reader with a prolix dissertation on the whole history of the penal
laws, but come at once to the conclusion thereof. In England,
indeed, and still more in Scotland, such had been the systematic
severity with which those unchristian, unsocial, inhuman enact
ments had been made part and parcel of the jurisprudence of the
country, had been interwoven with the whole administration of
the constitution, that in these kingdoms the Catholic body had
been ground down to a number so inconsiderable, as to be no
longer an element in even a political disquisition. But in Ire
land, whatever may have been the cause (and that cause may be
made the subject of interesting investigation), the Catholics still
remained the nation. The physical force of Ireland was the
Catholic people, at the moment, when the genius of persecution
seemed fairly wearied out in the unhallowed and unavailing
warfare against the religion of the Cross, the faith of the Chris
tian world. It might have been asked, in the beautiful words
�24
THE POLICY OF CATHOLICS.
of the Holy Scripture, “ Why have the Gentiles raqed and the
people devised vain things ? The kings of the earth stood, up, and
the princes met together against the Lord and against his ChristT
1 hese attempts, in recent days, as in the earlier ones of our heathen
persecutors, have been found to be altogether vain thino-s. The
Catholic people constituted the Irish nation. Well, gradually
they outgrew their shackles. Gradually were conceded to them
rights, the abrogation of which will be surely read in after awes
with_incredulity—the right to acquire real property, the right
to educate their own children in their own country, and the
right to the elective franchise.
Now any one of these concessions was calculated to be the
death-blow to the iniquitous system hitherto so rampant. The
acquisition of knowledge would afford, to the physical force of
the nation, an opening to a clear and forcible perception both of
their wrongs and their rights. The acquisition of wealth would
generate political influence: and the suffrage conferred, at once,
political power. So that the eventual emancipation of the Ca
tholic millions became merely a question of time, and the com
bination of the conceded rights was calculated to accelerate, and
that with irresistible rapidity, the advent of freedom.
But circumstances intervened, not to prevent, but to check
this desirable consummation. The cause of the people was taken
up by men who had themselves a direct interest in its success,
but who, or many of whom, commended themselves but ill to a
religious people by a notorious, if not avowed, indifference to
the obligations of religion. The people of Ireland, the bane of
whose cause had, from remote ages, been internal discord, were
not likely to amalgamate extensively with leaders who cared so
little, to recommend themselves to a people more zealous for their
religion than even for their country. Accordingly, great progress
was not made, till one man arose, who combined in his own per
son all the elements of success. Station and fortune (two fruit
ful sources of influence with a nation not yet impregnated with
the democratic spirit usually created by commerce), were united
with commanding talents, singular tact, wonderful address,
powerful eloquence, and, above all, a familiar knowledge of the
truths, and habitual devotion to the duties of their religion. "
lhen, clergy and people, throughout the four provinces, disco
vered a common rallying point. Then they found that their
C°n r,en<ie y°uld not .^e ,misplacecb or their energies wasted;
an ’ eaded by the chief in whom they implicitly trusted, they
exhibited to an admiring world the singular spectacle of an
oiganize nation, quite prepared to achieve, at any risk and any
sacrifice but that of conscience, any object upon which their
�THE POLICY OF CATHOLICS.
25
energies should be directed. This grand array of power, intel
lect, and cool determination, resulted in the wonderful revolution,
which (contradicting all experience of history, and confounding
even the speculations of political philosophy), without bloodshed^
without violence, without crime, wrested from a reluctant
government and a protesting monarch, the emancipation of a
long oppressed people.
A reluctant government and a protesting monarch ! It is not
necessary, nor is it becoming to withhold from the parties con
cerned, the grateful acknowledgment of their merits on this great
occasion. When it is considered how little influence justice and
right are allowed usually to exercise over statesmen, when it is
considered how many wars since that of Troy, desolating nations
and producing to the successful one nothing but the barren repu
tation of a wholesale murderer, have arisen from causes just
adapted for nursery altercation : how commonly, in a word, the
interests of mighty nations have been thrown into jeopardy in
compliance with individual caprice or passion,—the mind, arising
from such considerations, will be disposed to award to the reluc
tant parties to the Act of Emancipation, no small degree of com
mendation.
It would, indeed, have much more redounded to their credit,
, had they continued to administer the government in the spirit of
the act to the passing of which they had so much contributed.
The ministers had summoned up the moral courage to put in
abeyance the professions of their whole lives, and to sacrifice
political connections and personal prejudices to that which they
deemed their duty to their country. And the monarch had ad
dressed to his Hanoverian subjects the brief, but comprehensive
—the all-important political maxim—that difference in religious
opinion ought not to occasion distinction in the enjoyment of
political rights. Happy, indeed, would it have been for all parties,
if the genius which dictated such conduct and such language,
had been allowed to preside over the future which now opened
before them. Unfortunately, it was not so. As a mighty na
tional movement, an actual, though peaceable, revolution, in
volving the destinies of millions and affecting relationships with
nations, was marred by the petty malice of individual hostility;
so, both monarch and minister relapsed, after their effort, into
their former state of anti-Catholic hate; and, as far as they were
concerned, that act of the legislature remained a dead letter on
the statute-book.
Not so, however, was it with the emancipated body. Hitherto
a mere nonentity in the constitution (so much so, indeed, that
an Irish judge had declared, from the judgment-seat, that a
�26
THE POLICY OF CATHOLICS.
Catholic was a being unknown to the law but as an object of
punishment), the Catholic body assumed an important and in
fluential position in the commonwealth ; and, let it be recorded
with pride, that the whole of its influence was devoted to the
cause of the people and of popular rights. It has been remarked
before, that, in the agitation for the reform of parliament, which
soon succeeded the act of emancipation, the Catholics, whether
in parliament or out of doors, were almost universally ranged on
the side of the people. A minority, indeed, were on the other
side ; but, while it was sufficiently large to prove that they were
not bound together by ties of faction or party, and thus obliged
to herd together without liberty of judgment or action, it was
far too small to be considered, for a moment, in an estimate of
the entire body. Thus, but one Catholic member of the House
of Lords, and one of the House of Commons, were found to vote
against the great measure of parliamentary reform.
The.change, which had been wrought in the sentiments of the
Catholic body by the scenes through which they had passed, may
afford to the political philosopher matter for interesting specula
tion. The Catholic religion, expounded by the great apostle and
doctor of the Gentiles, inculcates the great maxim, that all power
is from .God, and, therefore, that he who resisteth power, resisteth
the ordinance of God. Hence she alone, of all forms of religious
belief, has been found to amalgamate, readily and naturally,
with every form of political government, from absolute des
potism to complete republican equality ; and hence her children
have been always disposed to view, with jealousy and apprehen
sion, all movements of a revolutionary character. To this
original predisposition, must be added the fact, that, in the poli
tical agitations of former days, the most virulent enemies to
the toleration of Catholics, were uniformly the leaders of the
popular party; and their friends—if, indeed, they may be said to
have had any friends—were to be sought exclusively among the
Tories. The character of the successful rebellion under the
leadership of Cromwell, and that of the still more successful
one under the leadership of William, combined with the crimes
committed in different parts of the continent in the name of
liberty, whether civil or religious, might also have confirmed
their prejudices against the professors of liberal opinions and in
favour of Toryism.
But the scene had changed. They had endured—and, with
the fortitude of their predecessors in the infancy of Christianity
endured — a bitter and wasting persecution ; and, although
they had not, in imitation of some modern sects, deemed their
persecution a sufficient reason for withholding their allegiance,
�THE POLICY OF CATHOLICS.
27
their admiration of a system, of which that persecution had
formed an integral portion, had either entirely evaporated or
been very much diminished. When, therefore, they saw the
state of things under which they had suffered still upheld by the
Tory party, while the Whigs, retaining their devotion to the
cause of liberty, had opened their eyes to the infatuation under
the influence of which their party had excluded Catholics from
benefits which they had desired to extend to all the world beside,
the Catholic body found that a species of tacit revolution had gone
on around them: and, retaining the devotion to order which
religion prescribes, they could not now but avail themselves of
the means sanctioned and provided by the British constitution,
for vindicating, protecting, and promoting, the cause of the
people.
It was a very common, and certainly a very plausible doc
trine, that the Catholic body, being now fused into the great
mass of the nation, should renounce all disposition to a separate,
independent, and, to use the ordinary expression, a sectarian
existence. Much may be said in favour of this doctrine ; espe
cially if the government and the different departments of the
constitution had been administered in accordance with the prin
ciple which it involves, and if it had been adopted by other different
bodies, which had also their separate character. But this was not
the case. The establishment retained its separate character; the
various classes of dissenters did the same, and formed associa
tions to watch over their separate interests.
These were examples for the Catholics. At the passing of
the Reform Bill, their political conduct had raised them to a
high position in public estimation, which was by no means
lowered by the Christian heroism, the truly pastoral devotion to
their afflicted neighbours, exhibited by the clergy during the
terrific devastations of the cholera. They had, indeed, no wives
or families to whom they might fear to carry home the disease.
They heeded only the call of duty. Their conduct, therefore,
both in politics and in religion, had done much to obliterate the
prejudices of their Protestant fellow-countrymen, and to con
ciliate their esteem. It would have been comparatively easy to
have maintained this, favourable position, by perseverance.
But they had made an effort; and having done so, as if wearied
by unwonted exertion, they relapsed into the quietude to which
the persecution of other days had consigned their fathers. Their
enemies availed themselves of this inaction; and by their asso
ciations and their incessant exertions (in which indeed they were
by no means scrupulous as to the means) acted upon the leaven
that was not quite eradicated from the Protestant breast, till,
�28
THE POLICY OF CATHOLICS.
once more fermenting, it again diffused its pernicious influence
throughout the mass of society.
To the philanthropist, a melancholy reflection on the weakness
of the human mind, and on the force with which religious pre
judice may act upon it, is deduced from the fact that the man
who stood convicted of having roused the passions of his hearers
at Exeter Hall to a pitch of madness against their fellow-Christians, by means of a document which proved to be a forgery,—
of haying represented this forgery as an interposition of Divine
Providence,—of having stood by this forgery with a desperate
fidelity, as long as it was possible to do so,—should nevertheless
be still welcome to the same people whom he had so grievously
deluded, and that his subsequent ravings should continue to
meet with the same favour as those which he had uttered before
his detection and exposure.
These mad exhibitions, which would have been merely ridi
culous had they no practical results, were not long confined to
Exeter Hall or Exeter Change. They found their way into
the. houses of the legislature, where exploded calumnies were
revived; and Catholics were obliged to endure, as Catholics,
language which no one would have dared to address to them
as individuals. Finally, this spirit reappeared upon the hust
ings ; and men were not ashamed to solicit the confidence of
their fellow-Christians on the ground of their hostility to the
great mass of the Christian world.
In the midst of all these things, which were daily developing
their fatal results, the Catholics were quiescent. The ministry
for the time being was friendly. It was through the co-ope
ration of its members that their emancipation had been achieved,
and on it they bestowed their confidence, wasting their own
energies in inglorious indolence. They forgot the French
maxim: Aide-toi, et Dieu faidera,— and, less wise than even the
ancient husbandman, they suffered the wheel of their carriage to
subside deeper and deeper into the mud ; and they neither put
their shoulders to it, nor called upon Hercules to do the work
for. them. But such inaction is but ill-suited to a constitution
which derives its impulse in great measure from the popular
will. In such a state, an administration is comparatively inef
fective, unless it harmonise with public feeling ; and that feeling
cannot.be known but by public expression. The fault of the
Catholics was the fault of the liberal party in general. The
members of this party did not reflect that a government is .essen
tially conservative; not, indeed, in the technical and party
sense which this word is acquiring,—but the duty of a ministry
is to work the machine of the state with as little change as pos
�THE POLICY OF CATHOLICS.
29
sible. If changes indeed appear even desirable, it is very pos
sible that a patriotic ministry may go too far in advance of the
popular feeling, which then a dexterous and unscrupulous oppo
sition will direct against them, to their own discomfiture, and to
the indefinite retardment of all amelioration. In a popular con
stitution, the popular will is the source and support of all im
provements ; and the ministry must from it derive both the jus
tification of its efforts and its sustainment during their progress.
To these principles both the Catholic body and the liberal party
at large did not sufficiently advert. Both seemed to rest satis
fied, because their friends were in power ; whereas their ene
mies, in associations, at the registries, at dinners, and on all
other occasions, were gathering up and organising a power, the
progress of which became daily more and more perceptible,till
it at length attained the success for which it was arranged.
The Catholics were specially worthy of censure, because the
contest between the two great parties in the State turned prin
cipally upon them. What the Whigs could do, they did to
wards the amelioration of the laws affecting principally the
Catholic body ; and if their efforts in this respect were thwarted
by the systematic and bigoted opposition of their adversaries,
they endeavoured to remedy the evil, as well as they could, by
a judicious and kindly administration of the existing law. Even
the Coercion Act, that suicidal act of the Whig ministry,—the
creation, indeed, of the Tory portion of that ministry, but for
which nevertheless the whole body incurred the responsibility,—
that act, which was vociferously supported by the whole Tory
party, and which, in their hands, would most probably have
been so administered as to spread misery and retaliatory ven
geance throughout Ireland,—became, in the hands of a Normanby, a dead letter. It is also most worthy of remark, that
our excellent and beloved Queen departed so far from the routine
of royalty, as to signify to that liberal viceroy her approbation
of his government, and her desire that he would continue to
govern in the same spirit. It is easy to declaim against any
party. Invective is, indeed, the resource of petty minds, and,
in the wide field of omissions on one hand and of motives on the
other, the spirit that is in love with melancholy may expatiate
indefinitely; but, in truth, these were halcyon days. The
Catholics breathed under the administration of a just ministry
and a parental monarch. It was surely their duty, as it was
unquestionably their policy, to exert themselves in defence and
support of both. Neither ought the circumstance to be over
looked, that they might have done so, if not effectually—for of
this we can only conjecture—at least so as necessarily to pro
�30
THE POLICY OF CATHOLICS.
duce a powerful and useful impression. The Catholics are,
beyond question, one-third of the people of the United King
dom ; and if the poverty which prevails so extensively among
them be calculated so far to neutralize their efforts as to with
hold from them influence commensurate with their numbers,
their numbers nevertheless must, when combined in unity of
action, produce a powerful impression.
The Catholics, however, were supine. Their associations,
both in England and Ireland, had been very properly dissolved;
but the events which have in these pages passed under review,
surely called for their revival; but in vain. Some gentlemen,
indeed, aware, as it would seem, of the necessity, set on foot an
imitation society, which—in defiance even of the lexicographers
—they denominated an Institute ; but to any one capable of
appreciating the spirit of the age, it was evident that this society
was but ill adapted to that spirit. It wanted indeed the broad
basis of the public suffrage. It was formed in secret; in secret
were the rules concocted, by a few—though indeed highly re
spectable—individuals; and in secret has it always acted. Its
constitution was anomalous. It eschewed politics, whereas it
was in the political arena that such a body was especially deside
rated ; and, composed as it was of a mixed body of clergy and
laity, the latter predominating, it undertook to present works of
religious instruction to the Catholic and Protestant public.
Accordingly, when great events have taken place, in which
all parties have participated, the Catholics only have been ex
cepted. The accession of one of the best sovereigns that have
swayed the sceptre, the coronation of that sovereign, her mar
riage, the birth of her children, her escapes from assassination,
all have afforded to other classes occasions for expressing their loy
alty, of which too they have availed themselves. The same occa
sions have been afforded to the Catholic body; but, for want of
a medium of communication through its several members, they
have been afforded in vain. And, it may be asked, if, according
to the ancient maxim, that which appears not may be accounted
as not existing, how was it possible that the sovereign should be
aware of the vast support which, in any great contingency,
awaited her,—if she should resolve to uphold the system of
government which was most congenial to her benevolent dispo
sition ? In the political arena, out of parliament, Catholics were
not represented.
But, whether in association or not, it becomes an important
consideration, what should be their public course in relation
to their political position ? In answer, it may be stated that
their objects are twofold ; first, inasmuch as they are members
�THE POLICY OF CATHOLICS.
31
of the community at large, and secondly, in reference to their
own peculiar interests. These objects are, however, in a great
degree blended together. It is only on particular questions of
temporal policy, such as the corn law, free trade, foreign politics,
&c., &c., that each individual is likely to follow his own view,
without reference to the interests of the body.
In regard, then, to their action upon the general politics of
the country, it seems obviously desirable that they should be, as
much as possible, united; and if, instead of catching up the
clamour of the day, they pay some attention to their real duty
as members of the commonwealth, it is most probable that this
union will be, in great measure, effected. They should not, in
deed, identify themselves as mere partisans with any one of the
sections into which the political world is divided; but it is
plainly their policy, as it is their duty, to incline to that great
party to which they are unquestionably indebted for all that
they have attained, and which is pledged, by the uniform lan
guage and conduct of its members, to afford them all that they
have ever desired, or ought to desire—a real equality with the
rest of the community in the enjoyment of the benefits and pri
vileges, as they equally share the burdens, of the state. If that
great party have sometimes deserved their disapprobation, as
well as that of the people at large, it has been always in propor
tion as it has adopted the principles of the Tories; whereas the
latter have sanctioned and adopted all that has been bad in the
Whigs, and have added to it their own peculiar iniquities.
The party at present in power have not been wanting in fair
professions towards the Catholics; but they should be judged by
their acts. To pass over the fact that, as a party, they resisted
the Act of Emancipation with a desperate resolution worthy of
a better cause, what has been their conduct recently ? They
were certainly borne to power by the most unscrupulous and
systematic slanders on the Catholic clergy and people, especially
of Ireland. “ Hooded incendiaries,” “ surpliced ruffians,” and
ec a demon priesthood,” applied to the former ; and “ a filthy and
felonious rabble,” applied to the latter, are but specimens of the
language let loose against the Irish nation ; and, if it be said
that this was but the language of newspapers, the reply is, that
the day is past when newspapers should be despised. They are
the organs of their respective parties; and the language above
quoted has never been condemned or repudiated by the party
whose views it was intended to promote. Nor have the horrible,
the unmanly assaults upon the character of the Queen, earned
for any of the disgraceful assailants unpleasant consequences.
To all this should be added the administration of affairs in
�32
SHROVE-TIDE FESTIVITY.
Ireland, where, on the judicial as well as the episcopal bench,
promotion has been attained in proportion to the hostility mani
fested by the fortunate objects to the Catholic religion and the
Catholic people. Neither should we be surprised at the reward
conferred upon the Chancellor for his denunciation of that people
as “ aliens in blood, aliens in language, aliens in religion,” while
we remember that those men persevere in office (one of them
having been lately raised to the peerage) who did not hesitate
to stigmatise the Catholic body with the slanderous charge of
systematic perjury.
From such men what can be expected? Do men gather grapes
from thorns, or figs from thistles F Common sense then, as well
as common gratitude and common justice, must for ever alienate
the Catholic people from the party at present in power, and
attach them to that party, which, unfortunately for the empire
at large, has been, by the most disgraceful means, compelled to
retire, we trust but for a time, from the administration of the
affairs of the country.
*
* Though we have felt pleasure in inserting the foregoing article, we beg to say
that we do not wish to restrict the pages of this Magazine to the diffusion of the
political principles of any party. We have, of course, our own predilections; but,
considering to whom this publication principally addresses itself, we wish to give
an equal hearing to all, quite convinced that truth, on whichever side it may be,
will come out stronger from the conflict of comparison. With this view, we had
planned that the article following this should be a strongly Conservative one, but
our correspondent, having requested the temporary loan of his papers, we now find
that he is so chagrined by the announced continuance of the Property and Income
Tax, that he refuses the support of his pen to the party which sanctions it. We
much regret this circumstance, as his article would have given us an opportunity
of evincing the liberty we intend to afford for discussion—
Tros Tyriusque mihi nullo discrimene agetur.
SHROVE-TIDE FESTIVITY PROLONGED.
i.
What!—feasting still! though long ago
Midnight hath chimed on high;
And the waning stars more faintly glow
Along the eastern sky!
Depart, thou thoughtless one!—Depart—
Or stay—but to pray and mourn:—
To mourn, and think that “ ©U£it t^OU art,
Sub to Uu^t tljou ¿^alt return!”
�33
SHROVE-TIDE FESTIVITY PROLONGED.
II.
Ah, thus our changeful life flies past—
Alternate joys and tears—
The cares of manhood follow fast
On the sports of boyish years.
Still pleasure’s merry bound makes way
For the languid step of wo;—
As Autumn’s fairest flowers decay
Before November’s snow;—
hi.
And oft the bridal robe prepares
A victim for the tomb;
And the merry smile that Beauty wears,
But marks its early doom.
And all that seems the fairest
May be soonest doomed to sorrow:
And the laugh that now thou hearest
May be changed to wail to-morrow.
IV.
Then strew the mystic ember
Upon thy fair young brow;
And remember, oh, remember
This morning’s awful vow!
Be it ever in thy heart—
’Twill be graven on thy urn—
“ 3Bu$t anU asljeg, man, tl)ou art!
^inU to iiutft tljou ¿Ijalt return !”
Ash-Wednesday morning, 1845.
VOL. I.
D
�34
FLORAL SYMBOLISM.—(Part I.)
The language of flowers seems to have been the invention of the
remotest antiquity. The sacred pages will immediately suggest
both numerous and very beautiful examples, which show its
universal adoption, from the earliest epochs, throughout the east.
That it was well understood in the early ages of Greece, is evi
dent from those monuments which we still possess of that people,
who were endowed by nature with such elegantly constructed
minds. Their temples, their sepulchres, their altars, their painted
vases, and their medals, exhibit a variety of symbolic plants and
flowers, to each of which they had affixed a peculiar and ap
propriate signification.
*
By means of these types they often
succeeded in imparting an eloquent and pathetic expression to
some of their most refined and elegantly conceived ideas.
Into this, as into every other literary elegance and liberal re
finement, the conquering Romans were initiated by their captive
Greece;+ and we observe their poets, from Horace down to
Claudian, perpetually referring to the funeral cypress,f—that
* Clarke, in his travels through Greece, observes of some terra-cotta painted
vases found at Athens : “ Another circumstance discovered' by the paintings upon
these vases is too important to be omitted in a work which professes to treat of the
antiquities of Greece. The origin of the symbol denoting water, as it has been
figured by Grecian sculptors in their marble friezes and cornices, and upon ancient
medals and gems, and as it was used for borders upon their pictured vases, appears
from the terra-cottas found, to have originated in the superstitious veneration
shown to a certain aquatic plant as yet unknown, but which will not long escape
the notice of botanists, to whom the plants of Greece become familiar. It is repre
sented under such a variety of circumstances, and with so many remarkable asso
ciations, that no doubt can remain as to the fact. The plant appears terminated by
its flower, as in a state of fructification. When to the form of the flower, which is
threefold, the volute appears on either side, we have the representation of an orna
ment conspicuous upon the cornices of the most magnificent temples of ancient
Greece. From all which it may appear to be evident, that in the paintings and
sculpture of the ancient Grecians, exhibited by their sepulchral vases, or gems, or
medals, or sacred buildings, or by whatsoever else had any reference to their reli
gion, nothing was represented that ought to be considered merely as a fanciful
decoration. The ornament itself was strictly historical; it consisted of symbols,
which were severally so many records of their faith and worship. Like the hiero
glyphics of Egypt, they were the signs of a language perhaps known only to the
priests ; but it was circumscribed by the most rigid canons; and while the match
less beauty of workmanship demanded admiration, the sanctity of the symbolical
representation excited reverence.”—Travels in Various Countries, §-c. by E. D. Clarke,
L.L.D. vol. vii. p. 7, 8vo. edit. London, 1818.
t
“ Graecia capta ferum victorem cepit, et artes
Intulit agresti Latio.”—Hor. Lib. ii. Epist. i. v. 156.
J “ Jubet cupressos funebres,” &c.—Hor. Ode v. Epod. v. 18.
“ Funeris ara mihi, ferali cincta cupresso.”—Ovid. Trist. Eleg. 13.
“Quercus arnica Jovi, tumulos tectura cupresso.”—Claud. 2 De Rapt. Pros.
�35
FLORAL SYMBOLISM.
“ only constant mourner o’er the deadto the triumphant
palm; * to the peace-betokening olive ;f and to a variety of
other symbolical plants. Hence it was that, amongst both people,
the oak was regarded as sacred to Jupiter; the laurel to Apollo;
myrtle to Venus ; poplar to Hercules ivy, the vine, and fig, to
Bacchus; pine, to Pan; and the cypress not only to Pluto, but
also to Silenus.
The little columns, -r/Xat, which, like the modern tombstone,
pointed out the grave of the departed, were amongst the Greeks
festooned with wreaths, usually, though not always, of the herbs
Trodoc and
or parsley, and such garlands may frequently
be observed sculptured on their sepulchres. The deceased was
arrayed in his most splendid apparel, and a chaplet, as an emblem
of mortality here, entwined his brow. No sooner was he con
signed to the tomb, than flowers and leaves were strewed upon
it, which were continually renewed, as a type of his existence in
another and a blissful state. || This custom will immediately
occur to every one, however slightly acquainted with the Greek
classics. Euripides introduces Electra as giving vent to her
grief that Agamemnon had been defrauded of his funeral rites,
and his tomb had remained unhonoured with the libation and the
myrtle-bough:—
Ayapfjuroroc G rvpftoQ pripac ptvoQ
Ov irunror a
xXoiva pvpcwriQ
EXa/3e" srvpa oe ycpcrog ayXaibpa-wc.
And afterwards the tragic poet makes the old man who had been
foster-father to Agamemnon, turn aside from his road to go and
visit the tomb of that fallen chief, and hang over it a myrtle
garland;—
Tvpflp S’ apepeOpKa pvpffivac.
The Latin poets are equally careful to describe that portion
of the funeral rite which prescribed the scattering of flowers*
§
“ Palmaque nobilis
Terrarum dominos evehit ad Deos.”—Herr. Carm. lib.i. v. 5.
t
“ Paciferaque manu ramum praetendit olivae.”—EEneid. lib. v.
j See “ Museo Pio-Clementino” of Visconti, vol. vi. p. 93 et seq.
§ Athenseus.
|| Epitaphium Bionis. This was called 0uXXo€oXia: this classic ceremony is still
retained in the burials of the modern Greeks. At stated periods, groups of women
may be discovered sitting upon the grave of some relation, covering it with flowers,
or watering the plants their care had sown around it. Parsley continues to be the
plant in most common use upon such occasions, in consequence probably of the
dark colour of its leaves. In the hieroglyphic language of flowers, the gift of
parsley implies a wish of the person’s death to whom it is presented.—Essay on
certain points of resemblance between the Ancient and Modern Greeks, by the Hon. F.
Douglas, p. 133.
*
D2
�36
FLORAL SYMBOLISM.
over the tombs of their departed friends.
*
it:—
Ovid thus notices
“ Tu tamen extincto feralia munera ferto;
Deque tuis lacrymis humida serta dato.”
Lib. iii. Trist. Eleg. 3.
Every one must recollect the touching lines of Virgil, in which
is inserted, with so much art, and yet so feelingly, the beautiful
lamentation for the recent death of the youthful Marcellus:—
“ Tu Marcellus eris. Manibus date lilia plenis:
Purpureos spargam flores, animamque nepotis
His saltern ad cumulem donis.—JEneid. lib. vi. v. 884.
“ A new Marcellus shall arise in thee!
Full canisters of fragrant lilies bring,
Mix’d with the purple roses of the spring;
Let me with fun’ral flow’rs his body strow:
This gift which parents to their children owe.”—Dryden. Ib.
A withered flower drooping its head on a broken stem, was
symbolical of death,—a type which may frequently be met with
imaged somewhere about an ancient sepulchre.
. But flowers were made to speak a more joyful language. The
figure of a youthful virgin in the act of bounding forwards, with
her left hand gracefully upholding the border of her tunic to her
light elastic step, and her eyes earnestly fixed upon a rose-bud
or a lotus-blossom, half expanded and supported in her right
hand,:—was the beautiful and expressive emblem of young
ardent hope, a personification which appears upon the medals,
gems, and sculptures of the classic era.f
Nor were the ancient Christians, commencing with the primi
tive ages, without a knowledge of this typical language of flowers,
in its widest acceptation. On the contrary, they not only knew,
but delighted to employ it; and we trace its symbols inscribed
on some of their most venerable monuments. According to the
mythology of ancient Egypt, flowers and branches were so many
hieroglyphics of eternal life ; so were they in the symbolic floral
language of the early Christians. To indicate the fruition of
* The ancients frequently enjoined their heirs and successors to adorn their
tombs with roses once a year, and even caused their request upon this subject to be
inserted as a particular clause in their wills, and directed it to be recorded in their
sepulchral inscriptions. Hence we frequently meet one like the following, which
is given by Dr. Clarke in his Travels, vol. viii. p. 262:
UT QUOTANNIS ROSAS AD MONUMENTUM
EJUS DEFERANT ET IBI EPULENTUR
DUNTAXAT IN V EID JULIAS.
T A basso-relievo figure of Hope may be seen on the pedestal of one of those
■magnificent candelabra in the Vatican Museum. See a plate of it in Visconti,
Museo Vaticano,” tom. iv. p. 60, 8vo. edition. Other figures of the same subject
are given in vol. ii, of the “ Ionian Antiquities,” p. 40.
�FLORAL SYMBOLISM.
37
the beatific presence and an existence amid the joys and ever
lasting happiness of the land of bliss—the celestial paradise—
the figures of the saints and martyrs were represented strolling
amid luxuriant and evergreen trees, or wandering over lawns
starred with brilliant flowers, and fringed with never-fading
groves; as may be witnessed more especially in the fresco
paintings of the Roman catacombs, and in those curious mosaics
*
which still adorn many of the venerable churches yet standing
in that metropolis of Christianity. +
Moreover, the fresco paintings of the Roman catacombs, J the
mortuary tiles§ found in these subterranean cemetries,—in which
were entombed the holy martyrs,—and their sarcofagi,|| exhibit
the symbolic vine, of such frequent occurrence in the sacred
Scriptures,51 together with the palm, the olive, and the cypress.
The meaning of emblematical plants is frequently pointed out
in the writings of the fathers ; and some of them have preserved
the names of certain pious individuals, who were in the habit of
adorning the church with wreaths of flowers and garlands of the
vine, and other trees.
**
Those first believers in the Christian
faith were most studious in avoiding every practice, however
harmless in itself, and excluded every rite, however indifferent
of its own nature, which might savour—though but faintly—of
Gentile superstition. At the disappearance of idolatry, how
ever, and when the period had arrived that no danger could be
apprehended from a false interpretation being assigned to the
employment of ceremonies which were inoffensive in themselves,
many of the ancient usages were revived,ff and amongst others
* For the age of these paintings, see “ Hierurgia,” vol. ii. p. 821.
+ See “ Ciampini Vetera Monimenta,” passim. In the old basilical churches at
Rome, the large arch which spans the sanctuary, as well as the ceiling of the apsis
or recess in which the altar is erected, are always decorated with mosaic work.
The subject wrought within the apsis, and overshadowing the altar, is generally
figurative of heaven: that on the arch almost always bears a reference to the con
demnation of some of the early heresies ; hence it is denominated the triumphal
arch, as it records the victory of truth over error, and is considered as a trophy of
the Church over her opponents, in the same manner as the triumphal arches erected
by the Roman emperors were monuments of their achievements over the enemies
of the empire.
J See the works of Aringhi and Bottari.
§ Ibid.
|| Ibid.
God compares His people to a vine which he had brought out of Egypt, and
planted in Palestine.—Psalm lxxx.; Isa. v. Our divine Redeemer says: “lam
the true vine, and my father is the husbandman. Every branch in me that beareth
not fruit, he will take away ; and every one that beareth fruit, he will purge it,
that it may bring forth more fruit.”—John xv. 1, 2. Every traveller in Italy will
pall to mind the magnificent porphyry sarcofagus in which was entombed St. Con
stantia, daughter of Constantine the Great. This rich and curious sepulchral
monument is ornamented with vines laden with grapes, which are being gathered
by one party, and pressed, by treading, by another party of little boys.
** St. Jerom particularly panegyrizes his deceased friend Nepotianus for such an
assiduity: “ Basilica ecclesiae et martyrum conciliabula diversis floribus et arborum
comis vitiumque pampinis adumbrabat.”—Hieron. Epist. 3.
ff Practices indifferent and innocent in themselves, that do not involve any thing
�38
FLORAL SYMBOLISM.
the elegant, no less than innocent, one of strewing the tomb of
a departed friend or relative with flowers. Of this we find
evidences in the works of the fathers, and other ancient Chris
tian writers.
The Christian poet Prudentius, a.d. 406, in recording the
devotion which the faithful of that period exhibited towards the
relics of the saints, informs us that one amongst the honours
superstitious or contrary to religion, though once cherished as favourites, and con
spicuously employed in their idolatrous worship by the Pagan nations of antiquity,
may harmlessly—nay, even meritoriously—be retained and encouraged at the pre
sent period. The Catholic Church has frequently been assailed for having per
mitted nations holding her communion to continue several blameless usages once
prevalent amongst their Gentile forefathers, and for having adopted, in her own
liturgy, rites and ceremonies innocent in themselves, but closely resembling those
which were employed in the idolatrous worship of heathenism. The Catholic
Church admits nay, glories in—the fact, but denies the allegation, and asserts the
abjurgation of those who differ from her to be as unjust as it is irrational. Things
innocent of their own nature cannot be necessarily criminal amongst Christians,
because once employed by Pagans. Are the admirable precepts that were occa
sionally delivered in the philosophy of Socrates, and advocated in the lessons of
Plato, and the Offices and other writings of Cicero, less correct and beautiful, and to
be rejected by us, because they formed a part of the guiding morality of Pagans ?
Are we to keep up no priesthood—build no churches—have no festivals in honour
of the true God—observe no saints’ days,—because the heathens had their hiero
phants, their temples, their feasts, their holydays at stated periods in honour of
Bacchus, and Venus, and Juno, and Jupiter? Are the arms, the ammunition, the
treasures captured from rebels, not to be used in upholding the cause of truth, and
maintaining legitimate authority, because they were collected by traitors, and once
employed in propagating rebellion? No, certainly. Therefore, must we abstain
from adopting forms and rites in their own nature innocent or indifferent, merely
because they happened to have been formerly in use amongst the Pagans in their
senseless worship ? The Catholic Church employs no ceremonial, and tolerates no
practice, which is pernicious or superstitious in itself. She has purified Gentile
usages from every thing that bore about it the slightest resemblance to idolatry and
superstition, and rescued practices, harmless in their own nature, from the profa
nation with which they were defiled by being employed in Pagan worship. The
ceremony thus degraded and vitiated before by forming a portion of an impure and
superstitious rite, the Church has elevated and hallowed by dedicating it to the
honour and the service of the one true God. She glories in having thus adopted
and tolerated these usages and ceremonies; for they are, in reality, so many splendid
badges of her antiquity; they are so many incontrovertible proofs, which bear wit
ness that the Catholic Church not only was born when Paganism universally pre
vailed, but that she was a long time cotemporary with the monster ; and that when
man passed from error to truth,—from Gentile darkness to Gospel-light,—when
they extricated themselves from the mazes and labyrinths of idolatry,—they imme
diately entered into her pale ; and having left behind their former superstitions,
were allowed to bring along with them nothing but what was harmless and indif
ferent. While such rites and ceremonies were ennobled and purified by being
dedicated to the holy and spotless worship of the Deity, they were designedly
adopted by the Church, and publicly used; just as the spoils of an enemy were
displayed in the solemn triumphs of the victor. They constitute, at the present
day, the proud and venerable dates of the ancient existence, and the conquests of
the Catholic Church over Paganism ; and form one of the links in that unbroken
c ain which unites and identifies her present children, as one and the same family
with the primitive believers in the Gospel. Nor ought it to be forgotten that
•nail?
“ese rites were ordained, in reality, by Almighty God himself, to be used
tiles 6 °”1Ces °f1’e^gt°n by the Jews, from w hom they were borrowed by the Gen-
�FLORAL SYMBOLISM.
39
paid to them was to strew flowers and sprinkle perfumes at their
shrines and altars:—
“ Nos tecta fovebimus ossa
Violis et fronde frequenti
Titulumque et frigida saxa
Liquido spargemus odore.”
Cathemerincon, x., circa finem.
And again:—
“ Carpite purpureas violas
Sanguineosque crocos metite:
Non caret his genialis hyems,
Laxat et arva tepens glacies,
Floribus ut cumulet calathos.
Ista comantibus e foliis
Munera, virgo, puerque, date.”
Hym. iii. Peristeph. circa finem.
That eminent father of the Church, St. Jerom, testifies that
such was his grief for the loss of a particular friend, that, when
“ he attempted to give utterance to his words, and scatter
flowers over his grave, his eyes began to swim with tears ;”* and
in the feeling epistle addressed by the same writer, by way of
consolation, to his intimate and religious friend Pammachius,
who had just lost his pious wife Paulina, that saint observes:—
“ other husbands strew violets, and roses, and lilies, and flowers
of purple hue upon the sepulchres of their wives, and allay their
bosom’s grief by such offices. But our Pammachius bedews
those holy remains—those venerable bones—with the balsam
of alms-deeds; it is with their dyes, it is with their odours
that he embalms these ashes now reposing in peace.”+ This
elegant custom of planting flowers and suspending garlands over
the tombs of deceased friends and relatives, is, as we noticed
before, still observed in Greece^, and in many countries of con
tinental Europe. In Pome may frequently be seen the unco
vered bier passing along with its lifeless burden, at whose feet
there lies a crown of flowers, and surrounded by some pious
brotherhood supporting lights in their hands, and murmuring a
“ De Profundis” or a “ Miserere” for the soul of the departed.
At the death of the Pope, during the public mourning which
lasts nine days, the troops (soldiers and officers) wear a small
branch of cypress in their caps. But in no place is it seen to so
much advantage as at Paris, in the public and beautiful cemetry
* “ Quotiescumque nitor in verba prorumpere, et super tumulum ejus flores spargere, toties lacrymis implentur oculi.”—Hieron. ad Heliodorum, Epist. ill. c. 1.
t “ Caeteri mariti super tumulos conjugum spargunt violas, rosas, lilia, floresque
purpureos, et dolorem pectoris his officiis consolantur. Pammachius noster sanctam favillam ossaque veneranda eleemosynae balsamis rigat: his pigmentis atque
odoribus fovet cineres quiescentes.”—Epist. ad Pammachium.
J See note, p. 35.
�40
FLORAL SYMBOLISM.'
of Pere-la-Chaise, where cypress and weeping willow are taught
to speak the unceasing mourning of some survivors, while the
crown of the everlasting flower announces the never-fading
*
remembrance of others; and the fragrant, brilliant rose, expresses
a religious hope that the pious soul of him or her whose ashes
sleep below, is now in the enjoyment of eternal happiness.
Flowers speak in a silent eloquence of their own, so rich and
copious, and, at the same time, so pleasing and congenial to
human nature,, that their symbolical expressions have been
adopted at all times, ancient and modern, and in every country,
on joyous and festive occasions. The Greek and Roman of the
classic period never reclined at the feast in the triclinium, nor
reposed beneath the foliage of some wide-spreading tree, or on
the border of a shady fountain, to sip his Chian,f his Massie, or
Falernian wine,^ but his temples were twined with a chaplet of
roses, or some other flowers.§ Amongst the ornaments employed
at the solemnization of their marriages, [| and at the celebration of
their public rejoicings, garlands of flowers were not the least
conspicuous in ancient Greece and Rome. In more modern
periods they have been invariably selected as the emblems of
gladness and festivity. Time was, too, and not far remote, in
England, when the first days of May were dedicated to a glad
some floral festival amongst the peasantry, and of which some
slight observance still lingers in a few remote and unfrequented
districts. In Italy they still retain a pretty custom during the
whole of this month,.which they call the Mese Mariano. The
little children erect in the streets and by the way-side, small*
§
* “ Gnaphalium orientale,” called by the French éternelles or immortelles.
f The island of Chios, now called Scio, still retains its former celebrity for deli
cious wine. All its beautiful ancient medals bear reference to it, as they exhibit,
on the obverse, a sphinx with a bunch of grapes ; for the reverse, an amphora, with
other symbols of the island’s fertility.
t
“ Nunc viridi membra sub arbuto
Stratus, nunc ad aquæ lene caput sacræ.”—Hor. Ode 1.
“ Dedecet myrtus, neque me sub arctâ
Vite bibendum.”—Ode 38.
§ Anacreon has composed an especial ode in praise of the queen of flowers, the
rose. Horace would frequently content himself with some humbler garland, as we
may gather from the directions which he issues to his servant in the following
verses :
“ I tell thee, boy, that I detest
The grandeur of a Persian feast;
Not for me the linden’s rind
Shall the flowery chaplet bind ;
Then search not where the curious rose
Beyond his season loit’ring grows;
But beneath the mantling vine,
While I quaff the flowing wine,
The myrtle’s wreath shall crown our brows,
'.
While you shall wait and I carouse.”—Hor. Ode 38, book 1.
loscorides and Theocrites always call such flowers as were employed for making
garlands for the head, coronary flowers.
|| Catullus Epithal.
�FLORAL SYMBOLISM.
41
altars to the Madonna. They are ornamented with a picture
of the Blessed Virgin; sometimes have a light burning before
them ; but are always highly ornamented with flowers. Nothing
is more common in Italy than to meet with little rustic altars
and chapels by the roadside, festooned with garlands, and always
exhibiting a fresh and blooming posy of flowers, which the
neighbouring country-people supply as they are returning from
the vineyards, and leave there, towards sunset, when they stop,
and kneeling round, in a most picturesque group, chant the
litanies, and recite their evening prayers. The custom, more
over, of ornamenting the altar with flowers, of strewing leaves
upon the pavement of churches, and garlanding their doors with
wreaths of evergreens, is universally practised in that country
on festivals. This innocent and beautiful ceremony has been
observed by the Italians from the earliest ages; as we find
St. Paulinus of Nola, a.d. 409, thus referring to it in his descrip
tion of the way in which the annual feast of his patron saint, St.
Felix, was celebrated:—
“ Hymn praise to God, ye youths, discharge your vows;
Strew flow’rs around; the threshold wreathe with boughs;
Let hoary winter sigh like purple spring;
And the young year his earliest garlands bring
Before their season; thus shall nature pay
A fitting homage to this hallow’d day! ”
During the celebration of mass and vespers at the church of
St. Maria Maggiore, in Rome, for the festival of the Blessed
Virgin Mary on 5th August, called Sancta Maria ad Nives, the
blossoms of the jessamine flower are showered down from the
cupola of the beautiful Borghese chapel in which the service is
performed; and do not inaptly imitate the flakes of snow, the
fall of which, in the height of a Boman summer, they are in
tended to commemorate. “ On the first of May, at Athens,
there is not a door that is not crowned with a garland, and the
youth of both sexes, with the elasticity of spirits so characteristic
of Greeks, forget, or brave their Turkish masters, while, with
guitars in their hands and crowns upon their heads—
“ ‘ They lead the dance in honour of the May,’
and crowns of flowers are suspended from the prow of the vessel!
which is about to be launched.”^:
* “ Ferte Deo pueri laudem, pia solvite vota,
Spargite flore solum, praetexite limina sertis.
Purpureum ver spiret hiems, sit floreus annus
Ante diem, sancto cedat natura diei.”—S'. Paulinus, Nat. in.
f “ Puppibus et lseti nautae imposuere coronas.”—Georg, lib. i.
J Douglas on the Ancient Greeks.
�42
THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
The History and Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church; contain
ing an account of its Origin, Government, Doctrines, Worship,
Revenues, and Clerical and Monastic Institutions. By John
Lingard, D.D. 2 vols. 8vo. Dolman, London, 1845.
“ It would be unreasonable to expect that a catholic clergyman,
zealously attached to his communion, should be able to write
with impartiality the history of a period obscured and perplexed
by the controversies of Catholic and Protestant.” Such was
once the supercilious remark of a writer (Dr. Allen) in the
Edinburgh Review, in reference to the former editions of the
work which now lies before us. Since then, however, the despised
clergyman has grown into the literary giant. His powers,
expanding as they advanced, have grappled with the most intri
cate and the most dangerous portion of our annals. Another
history has been given to the world ; another and a bolder chal
lenge has gone forth : and, while the government of the country
has testified to the merits of its author, by presenting him with
the published records of the kingdom, the voice of Europe has
united with that of the most intelligent of his own countrymen,
in placing Dr. Lingard at the head of our national historians.
It is, then, with no ordinary degree of satisfaction that we call
the attention of our readers to the inestimable work, whose title
we have prefixed to this article. A period of nearly forty years has
elapsed since, in a smaller and less considerable form, it was first
published at Newcastle. But the interval that has passed has
been one of thought, of study, of deep, and patient, and untiring
research. During its course, the writer’s mind has consolidated
its powers; the rich storehouse of his knowledge has become
more rich; and, while his fancy has retained its freshness and
his intellect its force, the calmer and less impassioned feelings
of a still vigorous age have supervened, to dignify his remarks,
and impart additional authority to his opinions. Hence, in the
work before us, we have all the elegance and learning of the
earlier editions, without any of the defects by which those
editions have sometimes been supposed to be rendered less per
fect. A more orderly plan in the distribution of the materials
has been adopted: every expression, however remotely calculated
to give offence, has been removed; and an anxious and scrupulous
attention to represent nothing as certain which is doubtful, to
leave nothing doubtful which is certain, has everywhere through
out the volumes been manifested.
�THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
43
But it is in the large mass of additional and interesting matter
which our author has introduced into his pages, that the real
value of the present edition consists. Vfhen Dr. Lingard origi
nally sat down to compose his <c Antiquities,” materials were, of
course, at hand, to assist him in his labour, and to supply the
more necessary details. There can be no doubt that, with res
pect to the history, the doctrine, and the discipline of the AngloSaxon Church, for more than two hundred years after the
arrival of St. Augustine, we have long possessed the most satis
factory evidence. Among this are the writings of Bede, who,
in his ecclesiastical history, his lives of the abbots of his monas
tery, his letter to archbishop Egbert, and his commentaries on
many books of the Scripture, has described the preaching of the
missionaries, with the establishment of Christianity, and its sub sequent progress among his countrymen. Eddius, the contem
porary of Bede, and the companion and biographer of St. Wil
frid, has. left us, in his life of that prelate, much valuable
information relative to the belief and practice of the Church,
during the latter half of the seventh century. With the dis
cipline of the time also we have not been left unacquainted.
It is presented to us in the Penitential of archbishop Theodore,
and the Excerptions, the Penitential, and the Confessional of
archbishop. Egbert; in the canons of the councils of Cloveshoe
and Calcuith, in the correspondence between St. Boniface of
Mentz and his friends in England, and in the epistles, the litur
gical works, and some of the other writings of Alcuin. All these,
it should be remembered, are contemporary authorities, and all
confined to the period which terminated with the close of the
eighth century.
From that time to the death of Alfred, one hundred years
later, the incursions of the Danes, with the unsettled state of
society consequent on the irruptions of those barbarians, have
left a dreary void in the literature of our Anglo-Saxon ancestors.
During the whole of that space, it is scarcely possible to find a
single ecclesiastical notice either of interest or importance. But
after the accession of Edward, the son of Alfred, letters began
to revive ; and we again possess a large mass of contemporary
documents, in the shape of laws enacted in the national councils,
of charters and homilies, of episcopal charges and pastoral
letters, and of biographical notices of some few distinguished
personages. To these we may add the last, but certainly not
the least important, production of the period, the record of
Domesday, which, among other matters, contains much informa
mation respecting the temporal state of the Church under
Edward the Confessor, and, of course, under his immediate pre
decessors.
�44
THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
Now, of these sources of information most were undoubtedly
open to Dr. Lingard, when he originally composed his “ Anti
quities.” There was the folio edition of Bede by Smith, the
Councils and Saxon laws by Wilkins, the Saxon Chronicle by
Gibson, the letters of St. Boniface by Serrarius, and other
*
works.
But of all these fuller and more correct editions have
been published within the last few years. Mr. Stevenson, in the
name of the. Historical Society, has given us an elegant edition
of the historical works of Bede ; and Dr. Giles has followed with
an impression, not only of the historical, but also of the scientific
and theological writings of that author. Dr. Giles has also pub
lished the correspondence of St. Boniface, with numerous notes,
corrections, and additions. Mr. Thorpe has set forth, with great
accuracy and judgment, “ The Ancient Laws and Institutes of
England, under the Anglo-Saxon Kingsand, in a second
volume, has printed the Ecclesiastical Monuments, including the
Penitentials, the Confessional, and other similar documents. He
has also given, in the first volume of the Homilies ofyElfric, an
entirely new publication. To Mr. Kemble and the Historical
Society we are indebted for another work, not less important, in
several particulars, than any of the preceding. It is the “ Codex
Diplomaticus,” a collection of Anglo-Saxon charters, which
throws considerable light not only on the legal, but also on the
ecclesiastical, transactions of the time. Nor is this all. Besides
the labours of native scholars, we have now the works of many
learned foreigners, of Rask, of Grimm, of Michell, of Lappenberg, and of various others, who have toiled in the same field,
and contributed by their exertions to improve our acquaintance
with our early history; to which may be added generally, that,
in the large number of other publications, produced by the revival
of Anglo-Saxon literature, passages of various descriptions are
constantly occurring, from which some valuable information may
be gleaned.
Surrounded, then, by these additional aids, Dr. Lingard has
not been slow to avail himself of their assistance, in revising
his earlier opinions, and enriching his pages with the important
matter which they supply. With regard to the former part of his
task, however, it is really astonishing to find how seldom he has
to recal a judgment, or to cancel what he had previously written.
In some few instances, indeed, as where he had attributed to
* We purposely omit the Anglo-Norman writers, because Dr. Lingard has evi
dently refrained from citing them, except when absolutely necessary. Some few
things, indeed, he has gleaned from their pages: but he seems to have felt that they
were not contemporaries, that they wrote from distant and uncertain information,
and that their narratives, however valuable in matters of a later date, were to be
consulted on transactions previous to the conquest, only when other and earlier
authority was wanting.
...
�THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
45
Theodore the original establishment of parishes, and to Augus
tine the introduction of a ritual exclusively Roman, his subse
quent reading has convinced him that he was wrong; and he has
here corrected the mistake.
*
But, generally speaking, the evi
dence lies in a contrary direction. His first conclusions have
been confirmed by his latest studies; and there is not a point
of any real importance, on which authorities the most conclusive
have not been produced to fortify his original opinions.
As to the additions introduced into the present volumes, they
are so numerous, as to render it impossible for us to convey to
our readers anything like an adequate notion of their extent.
They are to be found in almost every page; they extend to
almost every subject; and, if they alter not the character of the
work, they at least impart to it such an air of novelty as might
almost entitle it to the name of a new publication.
It is unnecessary to inform our readers that, among a certain
class of modern writers, it has long been a favourite object to dis
connect the ancient churches of this island with that of Rome.
According to them, the Britons neither owed their Christianity,
nor acknowledged their allegiance, to the popes. If the AngloSaxons were converted by the zeal of Gregory and the labours
of Augustine and his companions, they at least refused to submit
themselves to the jurisdiction of a foreign see ; and, while they
received the doctrines of Christianity, and the general forms of
religion, at the hands of their instructors, they neverthelessrejected
their teaching on many of those points, which have since become
the subject of controversial discussion with Rome. It is plain that
* Compare pp. 65, 192, in the edition of 1810, with i. 158, 294, 295, of the present
work. Another instance occurs to us at this moment, which shows the severe scru
tiny to which Dr. Lingard has subjected his former opinions. It relates to the
origin of Peter-pence. In the preceding editions of his work, he speaks of Ethel
wulf as “ granting ” an annuity to the Homan pontiff; says that, in pursuance of
this grant, his son Alfred, after the expulsion of the Danes, was careful to forward
“ the royal alms to Rome;” and then infers (we think without authority) that the
origin of the tribute may not unreasonably “ be ascribed to the policy of Ethelwulf,
or his immediate successors, who, by this expedient, sought to raise the money
which they had engaged to remit to the holy see” (p. 99, ed. 1810). In the present
work, a different, and no doubt a more accurate, account of this matter is given.
Having remarked that what he had previously described as the “grant” of Ethel
wulf, was in reality “a will, made a little time before his death,” in which the mo
narch “ charged the heirs to his lands of inheritance with the obligation of sending
yearly to Rome three hundred mancuses,” Dr. Lingard adds,—•“ there plainly could
be no resemblance between this bequest and the Rome-feoh, or Peter-pence, which
was not a legacy charged on the lands of a particular family, but a national tax
levied after a fixed rate on every proprietor of lands in all the Anglo-Saxon king
doms. It must, then,” he continues, “ have been originally established by authority
of the king, with the consent of the whole legislature ; but at what time this took
place, it is impossible to discover from the imperfect records of the age. There is
no reason to think that the Peter-pence was in existence before the reign of Alfred:
and whether the royal alms, which that monarch sent yearly to Rome, were the
Rome-feoh, or the bequest of his father Ethelwulf, is uncertain.”—i. 283, 284.
�46
THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
the question thus raised, however it may have been pressed into
the service of religious polemics, is essentially one of mere histo
rical fact. With its solution the truth or falsehood of the peculiar
doctrines in debate can have no concern. They may be corrupt,
or they may be otherwise: but their corruption affords no proof
of their rejection, as their purity supplies no evidence of their
admission, by our early progenitors : and it is only, perhaps, by
forgetting their religious character, by separating them, as it
were, from their spiritual bearings and connexions, and tracing
their existence and their history according to the ordinary rules
of critical investigation, that we can hope to arrive at a just con
clusion, or form a dispassionate judgment between the contending
parties.
It is upon this principle that Dr. Lingard has proceeded both
in the composition and revision of his present work. He is the
historian, not the apologist, of the Anglo-Saxon Church. His
object is to exhibit that Church as she really was, to describe her
origin and her progress, her laws, her doctrines, her sacraments,
and her service. His design is, not to defend opinions, but “ to
discover and establish facts”; and hence we are bound to declare
it as our deliberate opinion, that, as a narrative of the events, and
a portrait of the times, to which it refers, as a body of evidence,
illustrating the religious belief, and customs, and observances of
our Anglo-Saxon forefathers, we possess no work that, for depth
of information, patience of research, and a faithful delineation of
persons and of things, can for an instant be placed in competition
with the interesting volumes now before us. At present, how
ever, our business is with the additions that have been made to
the book, not with the book itself. This has been too long known,
and too highly appreciated, to need any notice or commendations
of ours ; but the additions are still new to the world; and, as we
think that by them the original value of the work has been very
greatly enhanced, we shall, in the sequel of this article, select a
few specimens, on which the judgment of our readers may be
formed.
We just now alluded to the attempts of some modern writers
to rescue the ancient British Church from her dependence on the
Roman see. In the former editions of his work, Dr. Lingard
had touched but lightly on this subject. As the information
which had descended to us was scanty, he seems to have thought
it unnecessary to enter into details on which little satisfactory
evidence could be produced. But recent events have invested
the subject with additional interest; and accordingly, having
discussed the pretensions of Britain to have been converted
during the life-time of the apostles (note a. i. 345), and thrown
together such proofs of her religious belief as could be collected
from the scattered and accidental expressions of her only histo
�THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
47
rian, Gildas (i. 14, 15), he now proceeds to address himself to
the enquiry, whether she acknowledged or denied the superior
authority of the Roman Church. To decide the question, he
undertakes to produce “ whatever may be reasonably alleged on
either side;” and, to simplify his argument, he divides “the first
six hundred years of our era into three periods, of which one is
limited by the persecution under Dioclesian, the second by the
separation of the island from the dominion of Rome, and the third
by the mission of St. Augustine to the Anglo-Saxons.” Of the
first of these periods Dr. Lingard remarks that no contemporary
evidence of any sort has descended to us, and that, consequently,
the only rational conclusion at which we can arrive is, that
Christianity then “ existed here on the same footing as in the
other western provinces of the empire. If the superiority of the
Roman pontiff was admitted or rejected there, so it would also
be admitted or rejected in Britain.” (i. 370).
The second period extends over a space of two hundred and
fifty years. Having shewn that the argument employed by
Stillingfleet, in his “ Origines Britannicse,” is neither tenable in
itself, nor applicable to the matter in debate, our author proceeds
to state the evidence in favour of the connexion between Britain
and the papal see.
“ In the fourth century,” says he, “ several councils were assembled,
and, in three of these, bishops from Britain sat as colleagues of the
bishops from other parts of Christendom; the Council of Arles in 314,
that of Sardica (now Sophia in Bulgaria) in 347, and that of Rimini
in 359. From these facts two conclusions will follow:—first, that the
British Church formed an integral part of the universal Church, agree
ing in doctrine and discipline with the other Christian Churches;
second, that the acts and declarations of these councils may be taken
as acts and declarations of the British bishops, and, therefore, as ex
pressions of the belief and practice of the British Church.
“ Now, in the acts and declarations of these councils there is one
document, and, I believe, one only, which bears a direct relation to
the present enquiry. At the conclusion of the Council of Sardica, the
fathers sent a messenger to give an account of their proceedings to Pope
Julius, who, 1 though absent in person, had been present with them in
spirit;’ and, in a common letter, assigned as the reason of this message,
that he, being the successor of St. Peter, was their head:—‘ It will be
seen to be best and most proper, if the bishops from each particular
province make reference (or send information) to their head, that is,
to the seat of Peter the Apostle’—Optimum et congruentissimum
esse videbitur, si ad caput, hoc est, ad Petri Apostoli sedem, de sin
gulis quibusque provinciis Domini referant sacerdotes (Labbe, Cone,
ii. 690. Venet. 1728). Hence, whatever may be the meaning of the
word ‘ referant,’ whether it be confined to the transactions at Sardica,
or, as is more probable, be understood in the larger sense, of all mat
ters which may happen of importance in any part of the Church, this
�48
THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
at least is certain, that the members of the council, and therefore the
British bishops, looked upon the Bishop of Rome as their head, be
cause he was the successor of Peter the Apostle. It will, perhaps, be
alleged that this proves nothing more than a primacy of rank, not of
jurisdiction; but it will be difficult to understand why the bishops of
each individual province—de singulis quibusque provinces—should
make reference, or send information, to a foreign and distant bishop
as their head, if such bishop, in that capacity, possessed no real autho
rity in their respective provinces.”—i. 371-373.
Dr. Lingard next shews, from the testimony of Prosper, who
lived at the time, and filled the office of secretary to Pope
Celestine, that St. Germanus, a Gallic bishop, was sent by the
authority of that pontiff, “ in his own place,'” that is, as his own
legate or representative, vice sua, to oppose the heresy of the
Pelagians in Britain. He then remarks that “ the letter of the
Council of Sardica to Pope Julius, and this mission of St. Ger
manus against the Pelagians, are the only two acts which di
rectly affect the question during the time that the island remained
under the dominion of Romeand he adds, with great truth,
that they “ both undoubtedly tend to establish the fact, that the
papal authority was then admitted by the Christians of Britain.”
—ibid. 373, 374.
“There is, however,” he says, “another light in which the subject
may be viewed. No one can doubt that a close connexion existed
between the Christians of Britain and Gaul. This followed from their
proximity to each other, which for a long time made the Gauls the
only Christian neighbours of the Britons; from the civil policy of the
imperial government, which had placed both countries under the com
mand of the same magistrate, the prefect of the Gauls; from the pre
sence of the British with the Gallic prelates in ecclesiastical councils;
and from the missionary visits of the Gallic bishops to Britain.
Hence the conclusion is, that both Churches would recognize the same
form of ecclesiastical superiority and government; and that, if the
Gallic Church admitted or repudiated the superintending authority of
the Church of Rome, the British Church would admit it or repudiate
it also.”—ibid. 375.
The belief of the Gallic Church is then investigated; and a
chain of evidence, extending from St. Irenaeus in the second
century, to Prosper of Aquitaine in the fifth, is produced, to
show that, during the whole of this time, it admitted the su
periority of the Roman see.
Under the third period, or division, to which his argument is
applied, a period comprehending the century and a half, which
elapsed between the extinction of the civil power of Rome and
the arrival of Augustine in the island, Dr. Lingard has intro
duced a remarkable testimony to the belief and practice of the
Britons from Gildas,—the only writer who has mentioned the
Church of Britain during that calamitous time.
�49
THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
“ The reader,” says our author, speaking of this historian, “ is
already acquainted with his complaints respecting the state of Britain
in his day; meaning by Britain the present principality of Wales, with
the counties of Devon and Cornwall: and will have noticed that passage
in which he inveighs against the ambition of the British clergymen,
who, refusing to submit to the judgment of their fellows, seek that of
a foreign authority—an authority that resides beyond the seas; and
not beyond the seas only, but at a still greater distance, for, after
they have passed the seas, they have to traverse spacious regions
before they can reach it. (The passage is given in a preceding page,
367.) I do not see how this description can apply to any other place
and authority but Rome and the Bishop of Rome; and, if that be the
case, it will follow that the British Church, even during this calamitous
period, acknowdedged, both in doctrine and practice, the superior
authority of the Roman pontiff.”-—ibid. 378, 379.
For the remainder of this valuable note we must refer our
readers to the volume itself. It is principally devoted to a dis
cussion of the arguments raised in favour of the independence of
the British Church. These relate exclusively to events which
occurred after the arrival of the Roman missionaries; and, in
our judgment, they are very effectually disposed of by the au
thorities and reasons of Dr. Lingard.
Connected with the belief of the British, is that of the AngloSaxon, Church, respecting the primacy of St. Peter and his suc
cessors. On this subject also, Dr. Lingard has introduced some
important additions. He appeals to the writings of Bede, of
Alcuin, and of St. Aidhelm, in which Peter is denominated
“ the first pastor of the Church, the prince of the apostolic col
lege ;” “ the shepherd of the Lord’s flock;” “the man whom the
Lord Jesus Christ had appointed the pastor of all pastors, the
head of the chosen flock;” (i. 114. Dr. L. gives the original pas
sages in the notes): he cites the sentence in which Bede, in one
of his homilies (p. 199) declares that to Peter had been given
“ the keys of the kingdom of heaven, with the chief exercise of
judicial power (principatum judiciarise potestatis) in the Church;
to the end that all the faithful throughout the world might know,
that whosoever should separate himself from the unity of Peter’s
faith or Peter’s fellowship, that man could never obtain absolu
tion from the bonds of sin, nor admission through the gates of
the heavenly kingdom ” (ii. 87 ): finally, he shews, from the same
writers, that the prerogatives of Peter were believed to have
descended to his successors, as “ the representatives of his dig
nity and the heirs of his ■wonderful authority ;” and that, while
the Church of Rome was regarded as “ the head of Churches,”
“the distinguished head of the w'hole Church,” the bishop of
Rome was said to be “set over the Churches converted to Christ,”
to be “ entrusted with the government of the whole Church,” to
VOL. I.
B
�50
THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
be “ the pastor of pastors” and “ the bishop of the world” (i. 115).
But the most satisfactory, because the most practical, evidence of
the acknowledged jurisdiction of the Pope is to be found in the
declarations and professions of obedience, made by the Bishops
at the time of their consecration. Of these Dr. Lingard has
given one, from the Anglia Sacra, in which Berhtred, Bishop of
Sidnacester, about the year 850, declares that, together with the
six general councils, he receives the decrees of the popes, and
subscribes the definitions, not only of the earlier, but also of the
later pontiffs (ii. 25, note). There are, however, other docu
ments of a similar character, and even of an earlier date, with
which, though he has not referred to them, Dr. Lingard is no
doubt acquainted. Thus, Denebert, Bishop of Worcester, who
was present at the third council of Cloveshoe in 803, expresses
his submission to the Roman see in almost the same words as
those which Berhtred employs:—“Suscipio etiam decreta pontificum, et sex synodos catholicas antiquorum heroicorum viroruin,
et prtefixam ab eis regulam sincera devotione conservo” (Textus
Rotfensis, 253). “ I promise,” says Beormod, Bishop of Ro
chester, who was consecrated in 802, “ that, as far as the Lord
shall enlighten and strengthen me, I will diligently order my
life in conformity with the sacred ordinances of’ the canons, and
the venerable decrees of the bishops of the apostolic see.”* “ I
engage,” says Rethun, Bishop of Lincoln, before 829, “ by the
aid of the sevenfold Spirit, to observe, throughout my life, the
sacred ordinances of the canons, and the venerable decrees of
the pontiffs.
We own that, to our minds, it is impossible to
rise from the perusal of these authorities and of the varied
evidences and reasonings of Dr. Lingard, without feeling that
the submission both of the British and of the Anglo-Saxon
Church to that of Rome is unanswerably established.
We have dwelt so long on this interesting topic, that we must
hurry, as rapidly as possible, over the other matters, to which
we are anxious to draw the attention of our readers. The fol
lowing passage, on the original destination of tithes among our
Anglo-Saxon ancestors, will surprise those, who, with Hume,
have been accustomed to refer the institution to the avarice of
the clergy, working on the ignorance of the age and the weak
ness of a superstitious prince.
“ Tithe, while it was only a matter of counsel, was looked upon as’
an alms entrusted for distribution to the good faith of the clergy : the
* Necnon et spondeo memet secundum sacra canonum institute., ac veneranda
pontificum apostolica; sedis decreta, in quantum Dominus scientiam et possibilitatem
contulerit, vigilanter victurum. Text. Roff. 259.
+ Spondeo me ipsum sacra semper canonum instituta, ac veneranda pontificum
decreta, in quantum septiformis Spiritus mihi scientiam contulerit, usque ad calcem
vitae mese servare. Ibid. 247.
�51
THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
change, by which it was converted into a compulsory payment, did not
alter its destination. It was still considered as the alms of the faith
ful, and could be legitimately employed in two wrays only ; in the
maintenance of divine service, and in works of Christian charity.
The first council, by which it was enjoined as an obligation, ordered
it to be devoted to the use of the poor, or the ransom of captives :
*
succeeding councils, to the use of the Church and of the poor
to
which was added that, where the church was amply endowed, the poor
should be entitled to two-thirds of the tithe, where it was not, to onehalf'4 The doctrine of the Anglo-Saxon Church was substantially
the same as that of the Churches on the continent : and not a single
national document relative to the subject has come down to us, in
which the right of the poor to a considerable portion of the tithe is not
distinctly recognised. In the compilation which goes under the name
of Archbishop Egbert, we meet with the following canon :—‘ Let the
mass-priests themselves receive the tithes from the people, and keep a
written list of the names of all who have given, and divide, in pre
sence of men fearing God, the tithe according to the authority of the
canons ; and choose the first portion for the adornment of the church,
and let them distribute humbly and mercifully with their own hands
the second portion for the benefit of poor and wayfaring men; and
then may they retain the third portion for themselves.’§ To the same
effect it is enjoined, in a canon passed during the reign of Edgar,
that priests dispense the people’s alms, so as to please God, and accus
tom them to alms:—‘ and right it is that one portion be set apart for
the clergy, the second for the need of the church, and the third for
the need of the poor.’|| Nor let it be supposed that this distribution
w7as commanded by ecclesiastical authority only : in 1013, it was con
firmed by the legislature. ‘ And respecting tithe, the king and his
witan have chosen and decreed, as is right, that one-third part of the
tithe go to the reparation of the church, and a second part to the ser
vants of God (the ministers), and the third to God’s poor, and to
needy ones in thraldom.’5T It has, indeed, been pretended that this
division concerned the larger monastic establishments only ; but the
contrary is evident from the following passage in the charge of Bishop
Wulfsine, which was delivered to the parish priests of his diocese, and
regarded the tithes of their churches :—t The holy fathers have ap
pointed that men pay their tithe unto God’s Church: and let the mass
priest go to, and divide it into three ; one part for the repair of the
church, and another for the poor, and the third for God’s servants, who
have the care of the Church’.”** (i. 187-190.)
On the belief of the early Christians and of our Anglo-Saxon
forefathers in the miraculous interpositions of the Deity, Dr. Lingard has a beautiful passage. He thinks that what has often*
**
§
* Cone. Matisc. ii. can. v. tom. vi. p. 675.
t Cone. Turon, iii. can. xvi. tom. ix. 537.
J Ibid. 569, Capit. Ludov. Pii, cap. v.
§ Thorpe, ii. 93.
|| Ibid. ii. 256.
Ibid. i. 342.
** Id. ii. 352. This charge was composed for Wulfsine by the celebrated AElfrie. ibid.
E 2
�52
THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
been sneered at as credulity and superstition, was the natural
offspring of a belief in the inspired writings ; that, from their
application to these, the Christian converts became familiar with
miracles and mysteries ; and that the docility of mind with
which they were taught to read or to listen to the inspired word,
while it opened their hearts in belief and thankfulness to each
benevolent manifestation of the Divine power recorded in the
sacred volume, animated them also with confidence that the same
power was still waking for their protection, and predisposed them
to acknowledge its agency in every extraordinary or unexpected
occurrence. There can be no doubt that there is much truth in all
this. At the present day, indeed, and in the present advanced state
of science, an indiscriminate admission of every thing that was
regarded as supernatural in earlier times, would be ridiculous.
But there is a wide difference between reason and incredulity,
between religion and religious scepticism : and we are convinced
that if, among those whose creed is confined to the pages of the
Bible, there were more humility of heart, more docility of mind, *
in their communings with the sacred volume, so there would be a
greater disposition to acknowledge the workings of God’s won
derful power, and a less confirmed antipathy to the doctrine and
the belief of miracles. Of that belief Dr. Lingard says,—
“ It was common to every Christian Church on the face of the earth,
to the Churches in the east as well as the west, to those of more an
cient as well as of more recent origin. All equally believed in the
continued recurrence of miracles ; all frequently attributed them to
the intercession of the saints, whose aid had been implored. Nor does
there appear any thing very surprising in this general persuasion. It
naturally grew out of their common belief in the Christian religion. For
the Bible is a record of miracles and mysteries. It requires of the
believer not only to give his assent to doctrines far above his compre
hension, but also to admit the existence of events inexplicable by the
known laws of nature. When the convert from paganism read, or was
told, of the wonders wrought by the Almighty in favour of the chil
dren of Israel, he could not fail to infer that God would work similar
wonders in favour of those, whom he had called to be his favourite
people in the place of the children of Israel: when he became acquainted
with the miracles of our Blessed Lord here upon earth, and with his
promise that the believers in him should, after his departure, 4 do the
same works, or even greater works than he had done’ (John xiv. 12),
the new Christian would naturally infer that this promise would be
accomplished in his time, as it had been accomplished in former ages.
He saw that heavenly favours had been granted to the Jews, for the
sake of their fathers Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob ; how could he doubt
that similar favours would be granted to Christians, in consideration
of their brethren who had faithfully observed the law, or shed their
blood in the cause of God ? The body of the dead man, as soon as it
�THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
53
touched the bones of the Jewish prophet Elisha, revived, why should
not similar efficacy be granted to the bones of the Christian saints and
martyrs ? From such reasoning as this the converted nations were
led to expect the renewal among themselves of the prodigies recorded
in the Scripture ; nor were they, if we may believe the testimony of
contemporary writers, disappointed in this expectation.”
Having remarked that the Anglo-Saxons participated in the
belief of other Christians on this subject, and that they “claimed
the G> of miracles for the saints of each succeeding O
gift
generation,”
O
7
our author proceeds,—
“ It is evident that, with this persuasion, men would take but little
pains to investigate the physical or moral causes of the events which
excited their wonder and gratitude. With them, Providence was
everything ; with us, it is seldom thought of. The more religious
among them (so it appears from their own language and correspon
dence) may be said literally to have ‘ walked with God.’ They kept
Him and Ilis works constantly before their eyes : physical causes did
His bidding, the wills of men were guided or controlled by Him :
they beheld Him in every occurrence of life, and placed themselves
with submission, but with confidence, under the protection of their
heavenly Father, ‘by whom all the hairs of their head were num
bered, and without whom not even a sparrow could fall to the ground.’
(Matt. x. 30.) Hence was generated a predisposition to invest every
unexpected or wished-for event with a supernatural character ; to see
in it the evident handy-work of the Almighty. A dream often would
betaken for a vision or a warning from heaven ; a conjecture, after
wards verified by the event, be converted into a prophecy ; an occur
rence, in conformity with the object of their prayer, be pronounced a
special interposition of the divine power ; and narratives of distant
and surprising cures be admitted without enquiry, and on the mere
testimony of the relators. It cannot be denied that this remark will
apply to many of the facts recorded as miracles in our ancient writers.
Their previous disposition of mind has led them into error : it was,
however, an error of the head, not of the heart ; one which might
argue a want of science and discernment, but not of religion and piety.
“ There was also another cause which contributed to the compo
sition of many among those legends, which no one can read at the pre
sent day without a smile at the profound credulity of the writers. Men,
at that time, lived in a state of comparative isolation : of the matters
which happened around them they could obtain no information, but
from the casual arrival of strangers ; and the resources which the
press, by the multiplication of books, now offers to the idle, had then
no existence. Hence, to relieve the monotony of conversation, they
received and repeated with avidity every tale which reached them :
the more it interested the imagination and the feelings, the more
acceptable it was to the hearers : a taste for the marvellous was gene
rated ; and traditions of long standing, as well as stories of more recent
date, were often committed to writing as facts by men, who, if they had
�54
THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
learned to doubt and examine, would have considered them as fictions
or exaggerations. In this respect, the caution of Beda is worthy of
notice. He relates several wonderful events, but not one of them on
his own knowledge. To some he gives full credit, on the personal
authority of men whose names he mentions, and of whose veracity he
can entertain no doubt: of the others he is careful to state that they
come to him at third or fourth hand, or from the tradition of certain
churches ; and with this information he leaves them to the judgment
of his readers.” (ii. 98-103.)
Perhaps, in the following description of the Anglo-Saxon
gleeman, another of the sources of these legendary productions
will be discovered :—
“ The gleeman was a minstrel, either attached to the service of a
particular chieftain, or wandering from place to place, and subsisting
on the bounty of his hearers. We have evidence that the songs of
these men were enthusiastically admired ; that the most striking pas
sages were remembered, repeated, and communicated from mouth to
mouth; and that to chant them to the harp was an acquirement com
mon even to the lowest classes. Thus Casdmon was a farmer’s servant,
as were his friends and neighbours: and yet we learn that, at their
merry meetings, it was expected of each that he should sing to the
harp in his turn, for the gratification of his companions (Bed. iv. c. 24).
Casdmon afterwards became a monk at Whitby, of the class devoted to
agricultural labour. He was, of course, unable to read; yet, when a
subject had been proposed and explained to him, he would repeat it in
language so noble, and in numbers so harmonious, that his teachers
became his hearers, and looked upon him as a person inspired. His
poetry was exclusively religious. He sung of the creation of the
world, of the chief events recorded in the Scriptures, of the last judg
ment, and of the future happiness or misery of man. The fame which
he acquired excited a spirit of emulation among the scholars of his
nation : ‘still,’ says Beda, ‘illiterate as he was, and surrounded with
competitors, he never yet has met with an equal.’ (Bed. ibid.)
“ Contemporary with Ctedmon in the north, was St. Aldhelm in the
south, who also cultivated the vernacular poetry as ancillary to the cause
of religion. At a time when no parish or country churches existed,
he saw the advantage of combining the profession of the gleeman with
the office of the missionary; and, having composed tales and ballads in
the Anglo-Saxon tongue, on subjects likely to interest the vulgar, he
was accustomed to station himself on a bridge, or at the junction of two
cross roads, and there to sing his poems to the harp, till he had col
lected a numerous audience around him; and then, laying aside the
gleeman, he would profit by the opportunity to instruct his hearers in
the doctrine of the Gospel. Much of his Saxon poetry survived him,
and was transmitted by tradition from one generation to another. By
King Alfred he was pronounced the prince of native poets ; and
Malmesbury assures us that one of his ballads was still a favourite
with the people, four hundred years after his death.”—ii. 153-155.
But we really must tear ourselves from these attractive
volumes. We could have wished to call the attention of our
�THE ANGLO-SAXON CHURCH.
55
readers to several other matters,—to the account of the service,
and of some of the Sacraments, of the Church ; to the description
of the itinerant preaching of the early missionaries, of the erec
tion of the first churches, and of the original formation of paro
chial districts; and not less than all this, to many of the
inimitable notes, critical, controversial, and philosophical, either
scattered in profusion through the work, or thrown together in a
more lengthened form, at the end of each volume. Than these
notes, in fact, taken as specimens of varied learning, of deep
research, of acute, yet clear, convincing, and exquisitely simple
reasoning, we positively know of nothing more beautiful. But,
for the present, we must pass them by, and must content our
selves with adding, that, whilst, on the one hand, we commend
them to the particular study of our readers, on the other we
earnestly hope that their effect will not be lost on Messrs.
Wright, Soames, Palmer, Churton, and others, for whose
special benefit and correction they seem in general to have been
intended. *
Before we take leave of Dr. Lingard, we would just su<west
that there are one or two mechanical oversights in the volumes,
which, in another edition, it would be well to rectify. Thus,
the^ passage concerning the austere lives of the early monks,
which is taken from the old editions, is inserted in page 227 of
the first volume, and is afterwards repeated in page 258. In
another place (i. 181), we fear that the compositor must bear the
blame of having made Dr. Lingard say the reverse of what he
intended. He is stating the argument in favour of the payment
of tithes under the new law; and is made to say that “ the obli
gation of the Jew could not be less than that of the Christian ” ;
whereas it is quite evident that he means to say that “ the obli
gation of the Christian could not be less than that of the Jew J
These, however, are but mere trifles,—matters to which we
should never have alluded, could we have discovered anything
more important, whereon to exercise our professional privilege
of finding fault. For the rest, then, we heartily thank Dr. Lin
gard for the valuable additions which he has here made to a
most valuable work; and most sincerely do we hope that life
and health may still be spared him, in order that he may conti
nue to instruct and delight the world by his productions.
* One of these notes (that in page 246 of the second volume) we would particu
larly recommend to the notice of Dr. Giles. That gentleman has lately pledged
himself to print the works of John Scotus Erigena among those of the early English
fathers; and the note in question shews, we think, very clearly, that John Scotus
Erigena was not only not an Englishman, but is not known to have ever set his
foot on English soil. Even Mr. Wright acknowledges that there is “no reason for
believing that he ever quitted Erance.”—Biog. Britan. Lit. i. 423.
�56
THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
BY THE EDITOR OF DOLMAN’S MAGAZINE.
CHAPTER I.
It was a curious old pile that castle of Beni-zekher or, as the
Sicilians have since called it, by a very easy transition, San
Benedetto I Straight walls of hewn stone, diversified by little
moorish arches and graceful cupolas, were flanked by two oct
angular towers, of rougher masonry, added on the outside of the
southern wall, and by a large square Norman keep on the north,
rising to the height of twenty feet or more above the rest of the
building. The appearance of the whole pile showed, at once,
that it was a Saracen dwelling house, converted into a fortified
castle by its more recent owners from the North.
It was in a room in one of the smaller octangular towers, a
room of the shape of the outer walls, but reduced in size as much
as was necessary for steps to wind in the thickness of the wall to
the battlemented roof above—it was in such a room that con
versed those who attract our notice and bespeak our interest.
A sweet female voice, in light and joyous tones, has, for some
while, reached our ear; and its merry prattle has seemed to rise
still more gaily after it had momentarily yielded to the expostulat
ing tones of deeper and more mellow accents. Joyous, indeed,
was the look of that sweet female speaker: nor was the character
of the physiognomy of the knight, who addressed her, so grave
and thoughtful as the tones of his voice would have led a listener
to suppose. They were both perfect specimens of male and fe
male beauty. Let us not be told that every writer of romance
so portrays his hero and his heroine; when a stroke of the pen
can bestow attractions, he must, indeed, be a niggard scribe who
would withhold them. Our personages are not, however, of
our own imagining. Seven centuries have passed since either
smiled on the other:
“ The Knight’s bones are dust,
And his good sword rust—
His soul is with the saints we trust.”
But we must not forestall our story: though, as we have said
that the parties lived nearly seven centuries ago, the reader will
naturally imagine that they are not living now.
At the time, then, of which we write, and on that particular
day when they conversed in the little octagon room, the lady’s
fair face was lighted up by a smile which gave more soul and
'
�THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
57
expression than one would have thought features so fair could ever
have conveyed. Her hair, indeed, was almost as white as flax;
her eyes were of the blue of those southern skies ; her skin was
so transparently white that no one would have supposed she
could have been exposed for twenty years to the wear and tear of
the world. Her figure was slight; her step active: her dress was
indescribable. We do not mean to say that we are incompetent
to describe it; we have it all there before our mind’s eye—her
little bejewelled Saracenic jackets—her flowing Grecian robes—•
her Norman untrowsered modesty. But when the dress of so
many nations was combined in the attire of one female, it may
well be supposed that fashion ruled not with immutable sway;
that the fancy of the wearer was the only guide constantly fol
lowed ; and consequently, that were we to give up a whole chap
ter to describe the outward attire of our heroine, we should not
be enriching the heads of antiquaries by details of forgotten lore,
but should only be describing one fanciful woman’s fancy of the
day. All will admit this were loss of good room.
Nor can we give much space to describe the appearance of the
person whose deep-toned voice we had heard so finely contrasted
with the musical treble of the lady. And yet he had a noble
presence I A clear olive skin mantled over a set of the finest
features ever moulded out of earth, and perfected in five-andtwenty years. Large black eyes seemed to shoot forth the fire
of a resolute and undaunted soul. And yet the long dark eye
lashes which added so much to his beauty, seemed to soften an
expression which might othenvise have become fixed and stern.
You thought it was the eye-lashes which did this; but as you
watched that speaking face, you saw an unsteadiness in the
glance itself, and a slight vibration about the well-formed lips and
the corners of the mouth, which showed that, in truth, the owner’s
character was not, perhaps, so firm and resolute as the first fire
of those black eyes would have led you to believe. A something
unsettled—a something wavering seemed to lurk behind, and to
be striven against by the conscious mind. But then, how well
trimmed was his beard, and what noble locks he wore flowing all
around his neck, and lying, like coiled and glistening snakes,
upon his satin hood !
This hood was now thrown back, so as to show his head to
the best advantage, and was joined to a hauberk or outer tunic,
which bedecked limbs of perfect symmetry, but of dimensions
above the common mould. It was formed of primrose-coloured
satin, too slightly wadded, indeed, to resist even a sword-cut,
but this insufficiency was guarded against by polished rings of
gold and silver, fixed, in alternate rows, upon the dress ; and,
although about two inches in diameter, lapping lightly over one
�58
THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
another so accurately as to form a sort of chain-armour, which
no slight thrust could have pierced. Nothing could be richer
than this dress: it was open before and behind, that it might
not incommode the wearer when on horseback; open also at the
sleeves, which did not reach below the elbows: but underneath,
a close tunic of pale blue silk fitted tightly to the well-formed
limbs, and allowed them to be seen in all their fine proportions.
Boots of finely prepared leather lined with blue satin, folded
back over the calves of his legs: and in front of each leg was a
diamond brooch to which the long pointed toes of the boots were
fastened up by a slight chain of gold. When we add that, on
his right hip, he wore, suspended through a loop in his hauberk,
a long curved scimitar whose jewelled handle stood up above its
golden scabbard, we shall have given a picture of such a young
man as no lady’s heart could fail to admire in these degenerate
days.
Was such, however, the feeling of the lady in that little
room ? Perhaps the following conversation will enlighten us on
the subject.
££ Nay, beautiful Countess,” interposed the young man (whose
person we beg to say we have described as it is portrayed by
contemporary historians), ££ nay, beautiful Countess,” he expos
tulated, ££ can you not, will you not be serious ?”
“ In very truth, then,” she lightly answered, “ I neither can
nor will, when I hear you talk of falling on your knees. Don’t,
I pray you. I should laugh so much that you would be offended
outright.”
££ And you would be still better pleased if I were,” expostu
lated the knight in a tone half of sorrow and half of anger.
££ You, who will never allow me to say what you know I wish
to express, would be right joyful were I so displeased as to free
you from my importunities for ever.”
££ I know what you wish to express, Don Matteo 1” exclaimed
the lady. “ Why you must think me as great a prophet as
padre Giovacchino himself. How is it possible that I can know
your sentiments when you do not know them yourself?”
££ Is it possible, then, that my devotion for so many years....”
££ Many years I discourteous Chevalier; how old, then, would
you make me out ?” gaily interposed the lady.
££ Saint Agatha forbid that I should make you responsible for
having tortured mankind for one year longer than you can be
justly charged withal,” said Don Matteo reproachfully. “ But
you know that ever since your widowhood—ever since your
hand has been free—”
“ You have wished to throw yourself at my feet, is it not so
—when you have seen me ?” she archly asked ; “ and have been
�THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
59
ready to do the same by half a dozen other Sicilian dames when
you have seen them. Oh Don Matteo, I know your heart and
character better than you do yourself. You have so much to
be proud of justly, that you would never acknowledge to your
self how unstable you are.”
The latter part of this sentence was spoken in more serious
tones than any she had yet used, and with an expression of
feeling that evidently much moved the young nobleman. His
eyes fell beneath her steady look of interest; and he stood silent
and irresolute before the beautiful widow—who, though so
young, had now, however, been a widow for several years. She
watched him keenly and with an increasing look of interest
when she saw his glance fall before her own. She allowed
time for her words to produce their effect upon his mind ; and
only when she saw that he was about to speak, did she again
break silence.
“ And say not,” she then added, “ that my hand is free.
What heiress or what female holder of any lands is free to dis
pose of herself and of them as she may please ? You know well
what a tight hand that odious Majone keeps over every fief:
and my brother, the king, seems to feel and to own our relation
as little as the Church and the laws do. By Saint Martin of
Tours,” she said in a tone of rising anger, “ I am less free than
the veriest bondswoman that walks through the streets of
PalermoI”
“ This must, this shall be amended!” ejaculated the knight
warmly.
“Nay, do not think I have said it wrould be any better for
you if it were amended as your valour would doubtless propose,”
interrupted the lady with forced gaiety. “ But now,” she added,
“leave me, Sir Baron. We have had a long conference to-day:
and if the Lord Admiral Majone hears of it, he will be inclined
to send me out of harm’s way with my cousin, poor Tancred,
and all the other noble prisoners whom he has lodged so snugly
under the palace. Go, then, before he grow suspicious ; and
success attend you with the lady to whom you are about to
carry your constant vows.'’
“ Cruel—cruel Clemence—” began the knight; but she waved
her hand in such a style of remonstrance as, at once, cut short
his intended protestations ; and then held it out to him with an
air of more than regal condescension while a tear rose up and
suffused those bright blue eyes. The Baron caught her fair
hand; and bending one knee, pressed it with devotion to his
lips: then, obedient to a second sign, he hastily turned him
away and left the apartment.
In the small court below, the knight found his horse, and
�60
THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
attendants ; and as this visit had been somewhat private for the
reasons hinted at by the Countess, he had come with a smaller
tiain than generally followed one so wealthy and so admired for
his splendour, Two mounted attendants besides Ins squire
were all who now waited on him. One of the former of these
held his lord’s charger—a small but spirited animal, showing the
strength of bone of the Norman war-horse united to the sym
metry and fire of the Arabian breed. Without saying a word,
the nobleman leapt into the high-peaked Asiatic saddle, which
rested upon a flowing cloth of silk and gold, and turned his
horse through the gateway; while he drew the hood over his
own head, more for the purpose of sheltering it from the rays of
the^ afternoon sun than as a protection from the balmy air of a
Sicilian summer. The squire and attendants followed. The
two latter were dressed in the red quilted gambaisons of the
period, covered, of course, with the iron shirt of steel rings : on
their heads were the low iron scull-caps common to men-atarms. Straight swords on their thighs, and, at their backs,
those bows and a quiver of those arrows for which the Normans
had ever been so celebrated, were all their offensive arms.
The squire, however, who closely followed his lord, calls for
our more particular notice. He was a young man of fair com
plexion, who could scarcely have numbered more than twentytwo years ; and whose dress and general appearance were some
what singular, even in a country where so many different nations
lived together, and conformed to their own several habits.
Richard Mardan was, by birth, an Irishman: his father had
been a follower of the deputation which, a few years before, had
vainly waited upon Adrian IV (the Englishman who then filled
St. Peter’s chair); had vainly waited upon him in the attempt to
avert that bull which handed over his country to the gentle
mercies of the English monarch. Disappointed in the object of
their mission, the father had died in Italy : and the son, friend
less and a stranger, had had the good fortune to recommend
himself to the noble Baron of Taverna, and to bespeak his good
will and favour. Being of gentle birth (gentle enough, at least,
to pass muster with the descendant of one of the Norman adven
turers who had accompanied the great Count Roger, half a cen
tury before, in his first descent upon Sicily)—Richard Mardan
had been permitted to approach his lord’s person in the quality
of page. He had soon risen into favour by his trustworthiness,
and by his frank and cheerful bearing; and now often attended
him as a favoured squire. Still, however, the Irishman could
not forget the land of his fathers ; and every year, every month
that he passed away from it, made his thoughts recur to it more
and more often, and dwell upon it more and more fondly.
�THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
61
Thus, though living among those who placed their greatest
pride in the splendour of their arms and in their warlike equip
ments, nothing could induce Richard Mardan to forego the pre
judices of his own father-land, which taught him to see in all
defensive armour only so many proofs of the cowardice of the
wearer. He still adhered to the customs of his own country
men as much as his patron would allow him to do so : and the
latter, who felt the pride of a young man in having followers
from different countries, did not require his favourite squire to
forego that dress and equipment which marked him out as a
stranger from some unknown land. Richard had, also, many
arguments by which to prove his wisdom in refusing to be burthened with defensive armour: he had, he said, to bear his
knight’s helmet or his heavy lance, to carry his shield, and often,
when he was on visits of courtesy like the present, to hold the
heavy straight war-sword or battle-axe with which he would not
encumber his own person. How much more conveniently could
he do this when clothed only in his tight-fitting national dress
of black woollen, with a sling and supply of bolts suspended
under his left arm ! Thus would he argue ; and although he had
so far deferred to the habits of his adopted country as to have
stuck in his belt a handseax, or Anglo-Saxon dagger, to be used
as occasion might require in freeing his lord or otherwise defend
ing him should he be unhorsed in battle, he never would forego
the machue or pile which, in shape much like the Irish shillelah,
he had had forged of steel, and now always carried thrust through
his belt in the manner in which the others bore their swords.
Some Norman laws (those of our English conqueror for example)
had marked these piles or maces as the weapons of serfs, who
were not allowed to bear lances and swords, the proper arms of
knighthood; but not even this disparagement could induce
Richard Mardan to forego his accustomed weapon.
Such were those who composed the small cavalcade that now
emerged from the castle of Beni-zekher and rode through the
wild scenery around it. Wild, indeed, and beautiful were those
wooded hills. Shrubs of every variety covered the rocks above,
and opened into green glades as they neared the plain around.
Tall clumps of the dark green stone pine trees towered, here
and there, above the copsewood, and contrasted beautifully with
its bright foliage. The ground in the open spaces was covered
with wild flowers of every variety—wild flowers in that favoured
region—but choice green-house plants could they be transported
into our northern clime: and this varied carpeting of every hue
was broken, here and there, by large patches of purple convol
vulus, matted together in luxuriant masses of flower, or climbing
up the naked stems of the lofty pine.
�62
THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
The noble knight rode slowly and pensively through this quiet
woodland ; and thought, over and over again, on the conversa
tion which had just passed between him and the lady he was
almost sure he loved. She was, indeed, a beautiful and highspirited woman: and he thought how, two generations ago, one
of his haughty Norman race would have been fired in the pursuit
of her by those very dangers which she had just hinted at. Wa3
he less brave than they had been ? or was he enervated by
having been born in that slothful clime, and by carrying in his
veins the blood of that young Sicilian Greek whom his father
had rescued from his ruder fellow-northmen and honourably
mairied? At times, he thought it must be so. At times, he
was glad to excuse to himself that want of energy and perse
verance which he secretly felt within him, by throwing the blame
on such circumstances over which he could have had no controul.
And yet the Countess Clemence was, indeed, a prize worth con
tending for—so beautiful in herself, so wealthy in the many fiefs
which her father, the late king, had heaped upon his favourite
though illegitimate daughter. And why should he, why should
he Mathew of Taverna, fear to strive for the prize ? What
though the king himself should oppose?—the king was but one
of themselves. His father had, indeed, deservedly ruled, for more
valiant or wiser monarch never won or swayed a kingdom : but
this king, his son, had been long known as the least deserving
of his offspring; had only come to the throne by the unexpected
death of his four elder brothers:—why should such an one rule
over the descendant of those Norman warriors who had chosen
their sovereign from among the most worthy, and had only bowed
to him as such ?
Long the thoughts of the young knight wandered on in this
dangerous and tempting vein, while his horse scarcely moved
through the shade of those high overhanging boughs. Anon
they turned to the High Admiral Majone, the king’s favourite—
his sole minister. Clemence had alluded to him more strongly
even than to the king. He would, indeed, be a dangerous enemy
with whom to contend: powerful — unprincipled—and sur
rounded by unscrupulous dependents. Why should he risk an
encounter with such an adversary ? Could not fame and power
be more securely won by conciliating him ? Fame and power :
—who panted more eagerly than he did to achieve them? What
but his earnest aspirations for fame and power, what but his own
secret pride had made him hold himself so much aloof, not only
from the High Admiral and the court, but, also, from his brother
barons ? This must be no longer. Years were passing :—fiveand-twenty had already slipped away; and yet he had achieved
nothing. Brave spirits were astir all over the world. None ex
�THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
63
celled him in arms, this he well knew ; and he had been told by
those whom he did not deem flatterers, that he possessed that
rude eloquence which was most prized amongst his compeers.
Such opportunities should no longer be thrown away. He would
do something. He would win Clemence or, at all events, he
would win power and fame.
They were now approaching the natural gorge that winds
through the summit of the rocks that enclose that quiet valley ;
and such thoughts as we have attempted to portray were cours
ing more and more wildly through the brain of the ambitious
Baron, when he was aroused from his reveries by Bichard Mardan who rode up to his side at the same time that a shrill cry
overhead caused him to look to the top of the rock beside the
gorge.
On the very edge of the precipice, stood the figure of a young
woman clothed in a plain long robe and flowing white veil. That
veil, however, was thrown back and showed features so wan and
pale, although so beautifully carved, that the Baron might be well
excused for thinking her at first a spirit of the air just alighted
on that high rock: her person, though tall, was so slight and
slim that she wanted only wings to perfect the angelic illusion
to the mind of the pious Norman. Mardan had not"the slightest
doubt that he beheld a heavenly vision. The figure, however,
allowed no time for their observations and conjectures. Having
drawn their attention by her first shrill cry, she gesticulated vio
lently with her slim arms and made signs, the purport of which
could not be mistaken, to urge them to advance speedily. They
did so ; and passing the gorge, the Baron who rode first, soon
looked down on the other side of the ridge of mountain. He
then drew up for a moment; and signed to his squire to come to
his side. Without speaking, he took the shield from him and
hung it round his own neck; grasped his long lance and laid it
in rest, put spurs to his horse; and, uttering the war-cry of
“ Harou! Harou 1 to the rescue I” he dashed down the opposite
hill.
Some short way down the steep descent, a party, whom their
dress showed to be native Saracens, were attacking a group whom
one would have been surprised to see in that lonely place had
one not remembered that it was still almost within a walk of the
city of Palermo. We said that the Saracens were attacking the
group; we ought to have said dispersing them: for two or three
men were, even then, flying off from the pagan bandits. These
seemed on the point of leading away two females whom they
had captured, while their leader stood with a drawn scimitar over
a prostrate Sicilian. The cry of the Norman Baron soon, how
ever, drew his attention; and, making one ineffectual blow at
�64
THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
his intended victim, he sprang upon his horse and turned bravely
to meet the new comer, while he fixed an arrow in the bow he
held in his hand. The Knight’s quickness of eye alone saved
him for the slight hauberk he wore could not have resisted the
practised force of the other: he dipped his head, and the arrow
flew harmlessly by. Richard Mardan struck it down with his
pile as it flew past him with spent power; and brandishing the
heavy weapon as though it had been a willow wand, rode boldly
up to the side of his lord. The Saracen had been too wary of
the strength of the Norman lance to abide its blow: he had rode
off to a little distance; and with his half-dozen followers, was
preparing to send a volley of arrows and resist their assailant: but
seeing the squire and the two men-at-arms ride up, they dis
charged them more in bravado than with any serious purpose,
and rode off in the forest. Ere he turned his horse’s head, the
leader came, however, a few steps nearer; and called out in the
Italian of the country, “ Signor Barone, we shall meet again. Tell
that screaming white girl that she has foiled Abderachman, but
that he never forgives.” Shaking his hand towards the moun
tain, he soon disappeared beneath the boughs of the forest.
Mathew of Taverna immediately addressed himself to appease
the fears of the two females who still sat on their mules where
the bandit—for such, having heard his name, they now knew
him to be—had left them. The one was a young girl about a
dozen years old with the complexion and ardent look of a -gypsy,
but superbly dressed in the richest manufactures of Greece^; the
other, her companion, was nearly double her age and, in manner
as well as in dress, was much more humble and steady than her
young friend or mistress appeared to be.
“ Whom has my good angel given me the happiness of assist
ing?” asked the Baron as he leapt from his horse and courteously
approached the younger female.
“One whom thy good angel would have thee make thy
wife,” answered in soft and sweetest tones, a voice close behind
them. The Knight turned abruptly, and started, as he saw, at
his side, the figure in white whose cry had first drawn him to the
rescue.
“ Fear not,” said the figure gently, and casting down her dark
eyes with a look of angelic purity ; “ I saw the pagan banditti
about to attack these wanderers; and, from the hill, I saw thee
also draw nigh. Thou earnest in time to save them. But now,”
she continued, drawing herself up, while every feature sparkled
with the flash of inspiration, “but now save thyself from the
dangers thou wouldest court. Beware of joining thyself to Clemence of Catanzaro. This, this is the bride with whom thy days
should pass in peace and happiness. Aye, look on her. Disre-
�THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
65
gard my words, and vainly, oh vainly those eyes will mourn the
remembrance of all God’s heavenly creations ! ”
While the young man stood mute with astonishment at this
singular address, the gentle prophetess, for such she seemed,
turned swiftly around, and was on the point of darting again up
the rocks from which she had descended unseen, when the elder
female of those just rescued from the Saracens, and who had
quietly slipped from the saddle, sprang forward, and, catching
hold of the skirts of her long white robe, forcibly detained her;
then casting herself on her knees before her, she seized her hand
and respectfully kissed it while she bathed it with her tears.
“ At last, at last, dear lady Rosalia, I have found you ! ” she
joyfully exclaimed. “ Nay, nay you cannot unconvince my de
voted heart. Surely, surely you do not forget your faithful
Theresa I Oh, think of the years when she watched over you,
and played with you more as an elder sister than as an attendant;
when the lords William and Tancred and you all lived so happily
at Lecce I Oh, how and wherefore did you leave us ? ”
Thus rapidly the faithful creature ran on, heedless of all the
show of resistance that pale emaciated figure made to check her
unwished-for revelations.
“ It is vain, then, to hope to conceal it,” she at length said,
with a gentle sigh. “The will of God be done. I am, dear
Theresa, that poor Rosalia thou speakest of. But ask me not to
say more. God has deigned to call me to himself; and has put
me, as I humbly hope, in the way of saving mine own soul.
WRy should I have staid in the world ? Thou knowest how
distasteful it had ever been. And when, during a retreat which,
unknown to all, I had made to this holy convent,” she said,
¡jointing towards the noble pile of the convent of St. Martin,
“when during a pious retreat to its walls, I heard that the new
king had imprisoned my brothers, the fear of his anger came to
strengthen my religious vows. I dared not return to the palace.
Oh, thou knowest not how blessed is a life in these hills, with
God and the holy Virgin for sole companions ’ ” she added with a
look of enthusiasm. “ But follow me not, follow me not,” she
cried more wildly. Too many have already discovered my re
treat. Follow me not, Theresa: I charge thee on thy love for
poor Rosalia.”
She bounded away from them; and with an agility that
seemed superhuman, clomb up amid the shrubs and rocks, and
was out of sight in an instant.
We may well suppose that it was not without some feeling of
embarrassment, not to say of shyness, occasioned by the strange
injunction given by the singular though beautiful being who had
just disappeared, that Taverna again addressed himself to the
vol. i.
F
�66
THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
damsel he had rescued. Aware, however, of the awkwardness of
his position, he braved it like a true Norman ; and again repeated
in cheerful and humorous tones, “ But whom has my good an
gel given me the happiness of assisting? All about you, fair
damoiselle, seems involved in mystery: and delightful as is the
recommendation of my doubtless holy but unknown sponsor, it
but makes me the more anxious to know to whom I dedicate the
service of my poor lance.”
“ You mean, sir knight, that you would be unwilling to put it
in rest for an unknown damsel who might be unworthy of its
prowess,” replied the young lady with a look of half-saucy for
wardness. Then, with a still more self-satisfied air, she added,
“But fear not: Corazza, daughter of the Lord High Admiral,
who now thanks you, is not likely to need your services again.”
Such a speech as this could hardly have been uttered by a girl
of the same age born in any of our northern climates; but in
Sicily, where they are often mothers at thirteen, their manners
are, of course, proportionately precocious. We cannot say that
the great Norman baron was agreeably impressed by the airs
which this daughter of an Italian oil-seller (raised by the favor
itism of his sovereign to his present high rank), evidently gave
herself. Still his mind was so taken aback by the surprise which
the announcement of her name occasioned him, that he little
heeded the manner of the speaker. It was, indeed, a strange
coincidence that, while his secret thoughts were running upon
plans of self-advancement, and even doubting whether he should
not smother his predilections for the noble-minded Countess of
Catanzaro, to seek fame and power in the wake of the Admiral
—that, at that very moment he should have been called upon to
save the daughter of the royal favorite from death or captivity;
and that a strange being, apparently half saint and half spirit,
should have rushed from the hills and bade him take that daugh
ter for his wife. Our hero like most men of his time, and
indeed, like most men of every time, was not without a degree
of superstition : and was willing to flatter himself that heaven
had taken extraordinary methods to interfere in his especial be
half. This, however, was not a time to carry on such a train of
thoughts : and turning gallantly to the young lady he exclaimed,
“ If, as a Norman knight, I before deemed myself most fortunate
in having been the means of delivering a lady from an unpleasant
situation, how much more do I congratulate myself on my good
fortune, as a baron of the kingdom, now that I find that lady to
be so exalted by the high rank of her father. Permit me, signorina, to conduct you in safety to the Torre de Baych.”
The manner of the young gypsy-looking girl had considera
bly altered on hearing the rank of her protector ; and it was now
�THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
67
in a much less capricious tone that she assured him she felt no fur
ther danger, that her own escort was sufficient security, and that
she would not have him ride aside from his road on her account.
<e It will not be necessary that I should do so, fair damoiselle,”
insisted the baron. “ I have this day left my poor castle of
Taverna; and my people already await me in Palermo. Your
road, therefore, is doubly mine.”
“Taverna!” thought the young coquette within herself;
“ and a baron of the kingdomI Surely he must be the hand
some and powerful baron of Taverna of whom I have heard so
much! And, indeed, he is very handsome. I marvel it did not
strike me before.”
Vulgar and upstart pretension shows itself, in all ages and in
all countries, in the same manner. She cast a more timid, or
rather, we should say, a less bold look on her companion than
she had bestowed on any one for many a month; and, in half
formed sentences gave him to understand that she not only ac
cepted his escort, but would be flattered by it.
When the principal personages now on our scene had thus in
troduced themselves to one another, and began their ride towards
Palermo, their followers lost no time in imitating the example set
them. Richard Mardan rode beside the female who had called
herself Theresa; and putting on his most devoted yet winning
smile, he blandly said to her, “ By St. Patrick, that was a kind
spirit that sought to bring my lord and your lady together ! Are
such often to be met with in this pretty island of yours, my fair
mistress ?”
“ Speak not lightly, I beseech you, gentle squire, of the
blessed Saint, the Princess Rosalia—for such she most certainly
is. And as it is her pleasure now to withdraw herself from our
ken, it would ill become me to speak more of her. Excuse me,
then, if I ask you to choose some other subject for your discourse.”
“ Nay, mistress,” replied Mardan, “ I meant not to speak
lightly of her. All the world knows that my countrymen of
Ireland are famous for the respect they pay the saints :—St. Pa
trick forgive me for saying that all the world knows it,” he added
archly, “ when the Pope himself is as ignorant of the matter as
the pagan Saracen whom we drove away from you e’en now!
But be that as it may, every one except his Holiness, the Pope,
knows it: and he, poor man, has so much to do that he has not
time to think of us at all; and so he has decreed that we are
barbarians and heathens. That is to say, the other, Adrian, did
so ; and I take it this one will think so too, rather than give up
all the pennies which the king of England is to send him from
Ireland.”
“ I have heard from a holy English priest at Palermo,” replied
f 2
�68
THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
the attendant,“ how your country has been treated; and, 1 must
say, that, to me, it seems a sad and shameful business.”
“ Bless your beautiful heart for thinking so!” exclaimed the
Irishman. “ Oh, I wish the lady Rosalia would introduce me to
you as she did the Baron to your young lady !”
A shade of displeasure, not unmixed with a smile at the im
petuosity of the young man, came over the calm features of
Theresa, like a slight cloud stealing over part of the surface of
a shining lake. Her face, indeed, wore such a still and unruffled
expression of benignity, that the least feeling of her soul instantly
left an impress upon it. Yet that face had neither a perpetual
simper nor a look of unmeaning vacancy. On the contrary, it
showed that its owner was alive to every thing around her, and
could interest herself in whatever interested others ; but that, on
some one subject, she felt too deeply and too pleasantly ever to
forget it, though she allowed her spirit cheerfully to waft other
matters over the deep under-current of her mind.
“ I see, fair mistress,” resumed the Irishman, “ that you are not
wont to listen to a plain-speaking honest heart; and you doubt
my sincerity because whatever I think rushes out from me with
out a moment’s hesitation. This is the very quality that ought
to convince you that I am a true man and mean what I say;
especially when I protest that I am more happy to have become
acquainted with you than with any woman I have seen since I
left the green hills of county Clare. Nay, don't frown ; for I am
sure you could not do it if you tried. You must not expect me
to be as deceitful as the poor conquered Greeks of this country,
nor as wily as the pagan Saracens, nor as rude and overbearing
and quarrelsome as the proud Normans who hold them all in
thrall: and when I say this against the Normans, please to ob
serve that I do not mean my own good lord wto has never a fault
in him except that he is not an Irishman. But you will be tired
to hear me talk so much; or, at all events, I myself am tired of
not hearing your sweet voice : so pray tell me how you and the
little black-eyed lady found yourselves so far from Palermo and
in the hands of those banditti.”
“ You do, indeed, speak the lingua franca of these countries
more fluently than any man from the north I have ever met,”
replied Theresa, smiling with good humour. “ But, in reply to
your question, I really scarce know how we wandered on so far.
I had proposed, several times, to return to the city ; but the
Lady Corazza ever insisted upon going a little further and again a
little further: and I had been so much with the young princes and
princesses, that I know not howto thwart those under my charge.”
“ Or any one else, I hope,” interposed Mardan. “ But how,”
he asked, “ could you like to leave the family of the king to live
�THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
69
with that of the Lord High Admiral, whom every one seems to
speak so much against ?”
“ Do they ?” inquired Theresa. “ In truth, those of a house
hold are not likely soon to hear what is said against it. But I
have left the Alcazar for a short time only. At the prayer of
the Admiral, the good queen besought me to take his daughter
under my charge for a while.”
^“ Perhaps that you might not see his own doings in the palace
with the queen, if report speak truth,” thought Kichard Mardan
to himself. Despite of his boasted sincerity, he had, however,
judgment enough to keep this thought to himself: and went on
to converse on other matters in a manner that certainly won upon
the good opinion of his mild companion. Nor could her very
pleasing and speaking features conceal the favourable impression
he made; and the consequence was that, ere they parted that
day, the Irishman had vowed to himself that he really felt to
wards her all that he had, at first, insinuated as a matter of
course.
Turn we, however, to the other members of our cavalcade.
The Baron had been so much occupied with his own thoughts on
the singularity of his adventure and on his schemes of ambition,
that he had but ill responded to the lively attempts of the little
Lady Corazza to enveigle his attention.
Her looks were
sprightly and complimentary to himself: but there was a degree
of vulgarity in her manner (which his Norman pride attributed,
as a matter of course, to the base birth of her father) and of
vanity in all she said, that was offensive to his sensibilities after
the noble bearing and highmindedness of the Countess Clemence
—even when he was weighing the propriety of deserting the one
for the other. He soon, therefore, fell back from her side as if
to give some directions to his attendants and rode after her
thoughtfully and alone. But the meditations in which he began
to indulge, were again soon interrupted. A tall, large-boned
man-at-arms, on a gaunt powerful horse like himself, rode up to
his side and saluting him with little show of reverence said
abruptly : “You do not remember me, my lord. You do not
know that I am the man whose throat would soon have become
acquainted with Abdcrachman’s scimitar if you had not come to
the rescue.”
“ Were you the person he stood over ?” asked the Baron.
“ I was. These dastardly eunuchs,” pointing to his compa
nions, “ had fled at the Saracen’s approach. I alone, could do
nothing against him. You saved my life. It is a boon for which
I thank you. Professions from one like me would seem but idle
talk : but the time may come when Gavaretto may be able to
repay the great Baron of Taverna.”
�70
THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
Without waiting for farther parley, he rode back to his fellows.
But on learning his name, Taverna was not sorry to have made
a friend of one who was reported to be the trusted, the unscru
pulous and the faithful creature of the High Admiral.
. Meanwhile the cavalcade was rapidly descending from the
ridge of hills and approaching the populous city beneath them.
How beautiful was the view that stretched out on all sides around!
Even those preoccupied and worldly-minded characters of whom
we write could not approach that favoured Palermo—thrice
favoured in its glorious situation—unmoved by the enchanting
scene. The noisy and busy city at the foot of its amphitheatre
of hills, the distant ridges of the courtly Begaria on the right,
the picturesque mountain of Pellegrino on the left, and That
bright glassy sea bathing all the shore with liquid diamonds,
flashing back the rays of the evening sun, and bearing upon its
glowing bosom the countless navies of the kingdom (so numerous
as to require an admiral in every station) the commercial vessels
of Europe, Africa, and Constantinople, and the armed galleys
of many a northern crusader who loitered amid the delights of
Sicily on his way to the Holy Land, must have moved the coldest
heart. Add to this that the air was perfumed by the fragrance
of every odoriferous tree and shrub that blooms in the most fa
voured climates, and you will have some idea—no you will still
be unable to form any idea equal to that most lovely scene.
Slowly the cavalcade passed through the fortified gate of St.
Agatha, and then, through a narrow street, approached the broad
square before the Alcazar—the Saracen, and, therefore, popular
name for the royal palace. The broad banner of the Norman
king floated on a staff before it; and countless numbers passed
and repassed in every direction. Beside the banner, rose several
gibbets ; and from three of these, fresh slain corpses still dangled.
The horrid state of the faces of the dead showed that, before
their execution, they had been subjected to the king’s favourite
punishment of the bason:—that is to say, heated basons or
plates had been held before their eyes until the sight was perburned out. Hard by the gibbets, lay three or four other
bodies purposely left there to be mangled by the dogs that were
already beginning to collect round about: and the corpses still
on the gibbets had been so much lowered for the same purpose
that their knees bent upon the ground, and invited the curs that
came and smelt around them in turn. Of the many passers to
and fro through the square, none seemed to heed these evidences
of a recent execution : still every face bore an expression of con
straint and of smothered dissatisfaction. Men-at-arms stood
heedlessly under the palace-walls, and jested boisterously or slept
�THE COUNTESS CLEMENCE.
71
on benches in the shade with the usual thoughtlessness of suc
cessful soldiers.
The Baron of Taverna beckoned his squire to his side, and
asked him, in an undertone, if he knew the cause of the but
cheries before them.
“That is what I have just been trying to find out from the
very talkative man-at-arms whose life your lordship saved,” re
plied Richard : “ and with a great deal of trouble, I have gained
so much as to be able to state that the great Prince of Capua has
been taken on the point of rising in arms against the sovereign,
or of being suspected of rising; and, with his eyes basoned, has
been shut up in one of the snug wards below the palace yonder:
while these poor creatures whom the dogs do not, to say truth,
seem much to fancy, were accused of being his accomplices.
But look there, Monseigneurhe continued in a lower voice :
“ see that man in the purple cognisance of the archbishop, which
peers through the ragged great cloak he has cast over it: see ;
he is throwing a stone at that dog which comes too close to the
furthest body on the gibbet. I would wager this dagger to a
helmet of gold that the dead man is some kinsman of the great
archbishop; and that yon seeming beggar is put to watch it till
night-fall. If it be so, more will come of it.”
The young lady Corazza here called the baron to her side and
made some trifling remark on a slight pageant that was passing
at the other side of the square. While she was yet speaking,
they turned into a street which ran in the same direction as the
present splendid Cassaro, (so called by a corruption of Alcazar)
and approached the fortified ward in which the Saracen popula
tion of the city dwelt together. No town in Europe has more
changed in appearance than has Palermo during the seven
centuries that have slipped away since the days of which we
write ; though sufficient traces of that which then was, still exist
to the eye of the antiquary. Stretching around the beautiful
bason of the sea from the old custom-house, to the modern palace
of Conte Federigo, the Kalah then overflowed the delicious
Marina and ran up beside each of these now inland points and
formed a spacious harbour, ending in the little streams'of Papirato and Oreto. But this noble harbour was then parted in two
by the body of the city, placed upon a tongue of land that ran
out from the palace at the upper end as far as the Torre di Baych
at the lower extremity. The interval between thesejtwo ex
tremes of the peninsula was divided into three wards: the centre
one of which was, as we have before observed, allotted to the
Saracen population of the city. Our cavalcade rode through
their narrow streets containing shops and bazaars crowded with
the richest merchandise in Europe; and passing thence into the
�72
MEMORY.
third compartment of the town, approached the spot where now
stands the church of Sant’ Antonio, in the heart of a crowded
city. Here, at the time of which we write, was the extreme
point of the land, surrounded on three sides by the blue waters
of the finest harbour in the world : and here stood the Saracen
tower of Baych—now the residence of the Lord High Admiral ;
or, to give him his proper title, of the Lord Admiral of Admirals.
(To be continued.')
MEMORY.
i.
How sweet will seem in after-life
This moment now so fleeting !
From hope or joy, or peace or strife,
To memory’s stores retreating,
My heart from this dear hour will borrow
Solace sweet for every sorrow.
ii.
Though future hours perchance may give
More thrilling sense of pleasure,
To this sweet hour I’ll fondly cling
And count my hoarded treasure ;
’Mid every keen delight procuring
Joy more sweet and more enduring.
hi.
’Twill ever live my hopes among,
Nor grief nor care o’ershading :
The echo breathes the streamlet’s song
Till, rougher sounds invading,
It yields awhile—then sweeter, firmer,
Tells the stream’s unceasing murmur.
Nobody.
�73
TRACTARIANISM AND MR. WARD.
A Sermon on Fasting, preached at the Church of St. Mary (fB. F.)
Bawdsey, at Matins on the fourteenth Sunday after Trinity
1844, hy the lien. E. G. Brozone, curate of Bawdsey, Suffolk.
Although this is a well-written little sermon, ancl evidently
composed by a conscientious man of good feeling, it will be
readily supposed that we could not give up the space required
even for the repetition of its title, did we not consider that it
would afford us a fitting opportunity of making some observa
tions on the objects and prospects of those whom (for lack of
another name) we must be allowed to call, by their popular name,
“ Puseyites.” We are well aware that the parties to whom we
refer are anxious to secure to themselves a more honoured appel
lation. But this we cannot designate them by, for fear of
creating mistakes and misapprehensions. We say for fear of
misapprehensions: for, indeed, when we opened Mr. Browne’s
sermon, we were ourselves much puzzled by the expressions that
first met our eye. We saw that it was inscribed to the “ V. P.
of St. David’s College, Lampeter, as a mark of tribute for his
Catholic teachingand, in the second page, we read “ The
Church Catholic (of which we, brethren, have the inestimable
privilege of being members)” &c.
Now we are sorry to deprive Mr. Browne and those who
think with him, of that which they consider to be “ an inesti
mable privilegebut we must, at the same time, assure them
that the Catholic Church does not recognize them as members
of its community : and we might put it to their own good feel
ing, as gentlemen and as men of common sense, whether it were
decorous in them to assume the name of a confraternity which
disowns their membership until they shall have complied with
the known conditions of the family. On reading the passages
we have quoted, we naturally asked ourselves in surprise “ How
can a Catholic be curate of Bawdsey ?” It was only intelligible
when we remembered that there existed a sect in England who
“ filched from Catholics their good name ; but who, at the same
time, “ stole that which could not, indeed, enrich them, nor
make the others poor.” We would not wish to treat with slight
the amiable, the conscientious, the learned men, who, in fact
though not in intention, act thus dishonestly. Still, we must
remind them of what all the world knows : viz. that the assump
tion of the name “ Catholic,” is of very recent date amongst
themselves ; that the popular habits of this, and of every other
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TRACTARIAN1SM AND MR. WARD.
country,, recognize as “ Catholics” those only who have been
distinguished by that appellation from the beginning; and that
the Catholics themselves only look upon the device as a very
shallow one, which has been adopted by the followers of in
numerable false teachers from the earliest ages. “We must
hold,” wrote St. Augustin, “ we must hold the Christian religion
and the communion of that Church which is Catholic, and which
is called Catholic not only by its own followers, but also by all
its enemies”—“a name which this Church alone has so obtained,
that, although all the heretics wish to acquire it, should a
stranger ask where the Catholics assemble, the heretics them
selves will not dare to point out any of their own places of
meeting.”
We do not, however, transcribe this definition, laid down
fourteen hundred years ago, as if it were unknown to those of
whom we write. They feel its cogency as strongly as we do,
and endeavour to escape from it by attributing to the word
Catholic a sort of generic or conglomerative meaning which it
never yet bore, and by asserting that there may be affiliations of
a society which disowns the connexion, and refuses to hold com
munion with its pretended branches. Thus we now hear of the
Anglo-Catholic Church ; and we are expected to think it holds,
in reference to the Catholic Church, a position similar to that
of the Gallican Catholic Church. But the one is in communion
with the parent, which the other is not. Puseyites, therefore,
do not mend their case, even to the most superficial reasoner,
by this “ dodge.” Besides, it introduces a laxity of thought and
feeling in the public, which the conscientious divines we speak
of ought most to lament. People begin to think of religion as
of a national affair. A nation, indeed, may have the true re
ligion ; but its being national does not make it true. Once ad
mitted, where is this nationalising system to end? We may
have an Anglo-Catholic Church, and a Middlesex-Catholic
Church, and a Marylebone-Catholic Church, all differing in
their doctrines, but assuming the name of Catholic. And the
law of settlement, from which Sir James Graham is now endea
vouring to emancipate paupers, will have to be enacted to pro
hibit all these Catholic Churches from wandering from that
locality from which each of them derives its name and its spirit
of national or local truth.
Neither the Catholic Church nor the people of this country,
of whatever creed, can, however, as yet, be misled by an un
warranted assumption, even did the Puseyites really wish to
mislead them. All the world knows that Roman Catholic con
troversialists have ever cast up to the members of the Established
Church in England, the title-page of their Book of Common
�TRACTARIANISM AND MR. WARD.
75
Prayer, and “ Rites and Ceremonies of the Church, according
to the use of the Church of England all the world knows that
it has been a common argument to ask them to what “ Church”
they referred; and thus, driving them to history, to reduce the
discussion, in a great degree, to a question of chronology. “ Pro
testant,” which had been the popular name of the established
religion, would then no longer answer the purpose of the Eng
lish disputants: the “ Church of England” took its place, and
did very well for a time : this was replaced by “ Anglican” (a
name brought popularly forward not twenty years ago, and
which gave much offence at the time) : it was, however, adopted
by the high-church party, and responded to until the superior
learning and research of the Oxford Tractarians showed them
that, if they claimed to be of the family of the primitive Chris
tian Church, they must also assume its surname. Hence they
dubbed themselves “ Catholics,” or “Anglo-Catholics,” and seem
so proud of the title, that some real Catholics, out of good-nature
and policy, have allowed them to think that the forgery was
acquiesced in!
So much on the name which Mr. Browne assumes,—and we
fearlessly appeal to the common-sense of the public and to the
honesty of Mr. Browne himself, to say if we have not given a
true version of his reasons for informing his hearers that they
are members of the Catholic Church :—a fact of which, had it
been well established, it would have been strange to inform
them.
There are two parties to the delusion which it has been attempted
to pass upon the public in this matter; namely the Tractarians
and some of the English Catholics themselves: and we wish briefly
to consider what are the views of both parties, and what likeli
hood they have of fulfilling them. We believe we may, without
rash judgment, state the Tractarians to be a number of the most
learned of the Anglican divines, who hold that the fathers of the
Reformation in England intended only to protest against what
were then popularly believed to be the abuses of the Roman
Catholic system and practice, but not against the real faith of
that Church as expounded in the Council of Trent, and as held
by well-informed Catholics: that they themselves, the said An
glican Tractarians, have found out that such Catholic doctrines,
being agreeable to Scripture and to the belief of the primitive
Church, and not having been, in reality, disowned by the Church
of England, are, or ought to be, held and taught by all true
Anglicans; that the disunion of the Anglican Church from the
see of Rome is a schism to be deplored, and to be remedied as
soon as possible: and that they themselves, being fully con
vinced of the present anomalous and unhappy state of their
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TRACTARIANISM AND SIR. WARD.
Church, will do their best endeavour to assimilate their practice
and doctrine to that of Rome as defined at the Council of Trent;
and will live in the hope of being, with their flocks, reunited, at
no distant day, to the mother Church—it being most desirable
that such a reunion should be, as much as possible, a simul
taneous and a national one.
Now, it is far from our wish to write a controversial article :
we at once own that no greater abuses of discipline (not of faith,
that is immutable)—that no greater abuses of discipline ever
disgraced any system than those which obtained among Catholics
prior to the Lutheran movement: those abuses, however, were all
reformed before or at the Council of Trent—without any breach
of the faith; they were reformed in England also—but the faith
went with them. AVe will not oppose our judgment to that of
learned Tractarians, who say that their reformers did not really
mean to renounce any article of Catholic faith : we had thought
differently, but the divines of the Anglican Church ought to
know best. But, as we wish to think of them, and, consequently,
to speak of them, with respect, we will not ask how, as religious
men, they can reconcile it to their consciences to live on and
even to die in that which they believe to be a state of schism,—•
a state of sin,—waiting until they shall be able to come back in
a body, and to bring the Church of England back with them, to
that which they believe to be the one true communion I These
are matters of conscience with which we would not seek to in
terfere. They themselves best know what answer they would
make to any pagan who should reply to a Christian missionary,
—“ I fully believe in the truth of what you say ; I believe my
present state to be one of unhappiness and of sin ; tell me not
that I ought to look after my own soul, and to ‘ leave the dead
to bury the deadI have good hopes that, if I delay my con
version, either I or those who come after me will be able to
bring over the whole body of my countrymen with me. Think
what a grand thing that will be 1”
Grand, indeed, did it but justify delay I Grand, indeed, were
there but any probability of its coming to pass I But we will
not be tempted into controversy. May the aspirations of the
Puscyites be justified: and may they reach that quiet home for
which they sigh, and which Virgil tells them where to find:—
“ Per varios casus, per tot discrimina rerum,
'Tendimus in Latium, sedes ubi fata quietas
OsTENDUNT.”
Such being the doctrines and the objects of the Puseyites,
(and we beg their pardon if we have misrepresented them), turn
we now to those English Catholics whom we have accused of
being parties to the delusion which the others have put upon
themselves and upon the public.
�TRACTARIANISM AND MR. WARD.
77
We will not charge any among them with having purposely
intended to delude by the countenance they have given, and the
sympathy which they have expressed. We know how apt some
minds are to believe that which they wish to be true : and this
feeling, together with a natural feeling of vanity, may have led
them to anticipate that the day was really approaching when the
whole ecclesiastical establishment of England was about to be
restored to them, bag and baggage—churches, prebends, livings
and all. How gratifying must such an anticipation have been
to the pride of an impoverished and long proscribed religionist !
How grateful would a representation of such splendid prospects
be to the heads of the Catholic Church abroad ! How acceptable
would those become who should foretell such a movement to be
impending ! But if, in the sincerity of their hearts, they really
did and do anticipate the proximate reconversion en masse of the
people of England, they must, we should think, by this time, see
how injurious their sympathy, not to say cajolery, has been to
their new protégés. We speak not of Catholic divines who, in
controversy with Puseyites, must ever have unflinchingly main
tained that which they knew to be the truth : but we do say
that, by numbers of English Catholics, a tenderness has been
shown to the writings and feelings of the Tractarians, and an
admiration expressed for their conduct, which must have made
the Tractarians better satisfied with their own labours,—which
must have made them consider as a matter of comparative indif
ference, that total submission and reunion to the Boman Catho
lic Church which their English Catholic flatterers believed, in their
hearts, to be essential to their spiritual well-being. Not thus
would they have treated an illiterate, uninfluential enquirer !
They would have told him at once, “ You believe that the ’doc
trines you now profess are false ; you own it, and you own that
you believe ours to be true. Act then, at once, honestly, con
scientiously : let us have no play upon words : render homage to
what you believe to be the truth : gamble not with the time that
God may give you : save your own soul at once : c baisse-toi fier
Sicambre : adore ce que tu as brûlé, brûle ce que tu as adoré.’ ”
Is this the spirit, is this the tone in which they have treated
the Tractarians ? No, we assert ; it is not. They have almost
held out the hand of fellowship to them. They have almost al
lowed them to adopt their own surname of Catholic. They have
applauded all their writings. They have made them believe that
the points which still separated them were of small moment.
And in the hope that the grand movement would bring them all
over simultaneously, they have allowed them to tarry and at
tempt to convert others, instead of telling them that it was their
first duty to convert themselves.
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TRACTARIANISM AND MR. WARD.
Mr. Browne dates his sermon on the “ Feast of St. Andrew,
Apost. and Alart. 1844-45.’ This is the style in use amongst the
Oxford Tractarians: and this style their friends amongst the
English Catholics have had the weakness to copy. That is to
say, they have adopted a system of dates unintelligible to the
community at large; so.inconvenient to themselves that they
are. obliged to add to their almanacks explanatory calendars to
which thay. may. refer; and different from the style followed by
their co-religionists in every part of the world. We have seen
as many letters from popes and cardinals as most Englishmen;
but they all signed their letters like—like Christians : as if their
object was to be generally understood, not to point themselves
out as members of a sect—however pious and learned. We well
remember some years ago, the amiable jocularity with which the
late lamented Bishop Baines told us of a skirmish he had just had
with a correspondent. The latter, who, it should seem, was a copier
of the Tractarian plan, had dated his letter to the Bishop with the
name of the saint on whose festival it W’as written. In answer
ing. the letter, Dr. Baines had dated his reply ££ Marsh Mallows.”
This had produced an indignant remonstrance from the corres
pondent, with a request to know why the letter bore so strange a
date. ‘.£ I replied to him,” said the Bishop to us,££ that I gathered,
from his own style of dating his letters that the days of the month
were to be no.longer used as heretofore, and that each one was,
therefore, at liberty to follow his own ideas in the matter; that
he, my correspondent, had dated his letter with the name of a
saint of whom I had so seldom heard that I was obliged to take
the trouble of referring to my breviary to see when the festival
had occurred : that I then remembered a little monkish volume
which gave, opposite to each day of the year, the name of some
flower or matter of horticultural interest: that referring to this
when I dated my reply to him, I had found the day marked as
that on which ££ Marsh Mallows''' blossomed : that I should be
sorry if my new plan put him to any inconvenience; but that as
the old system of dates was to be superseded, I intended, for my
own part, to follow that of my little book.1’
Having now stated (we hope without offence to either party)
what are the hopes and objects of the Puseyites and of their
English Catholic admirers, let us briefly consider what prospect
there is of their being realised.
And had we ever entertained any doubts on this subject, they
must have been fully laid at rest by the events of the last few
weeks. The manner in which the calm, and dignified, and Chris
tian pastoral of the Bishop of Exeter has been greeted by the
people of his diocese and of all England, must convince any one,
who is not totally blinded by hope, that the mass of the people
�TRACTAR1ANTSM AND MR. WARD.
79
of this country is as far as ever from that reunion to the Catholic
church which both parties sigh for. The questions in dispute
were matters of the most unimportant discipline: clergy of both
parties had appealed to the Bishop: he answered, as any sound
divine or sound lawyer must have answered, “ Look to the letter
of the law : follow the rubric, and you cannot err.” We all
know with what a howl of execration the injunction was re
ceived. That unprincipled organ of the popular opinion, the
Times newspaper, which had ever upheld the doctrines of the
Tractarians, found out, at once, what was the feeling of the
country ; and in its own disreputable style, brought the whole
battery of its talent to bear against those whose opinions it had
hitherto fostered. “ Throw up a straw, ’twill show how blows
the wind : ”—look into the columns of the Times and you will
see which way the public voice has inclined. True that the sub
jects of all this discussion and ill-will were but trifles: but that
trifles should have had power to create so much ill-will and so
much discussion, proves that they were looked upon as indicating
ultimate objects; and, therefore, were opposed. The Bishop was
compelled to give way : the people triumphed : and a feeling has
been registered in the minds of men, against the Homeward ten
dencies of the Puseyites, which few, till lately, believed to have
existed in the community.
Those of the Puseyites or of their Catholic flatterers who hope
after this display, must be, indeed, of most sanguine dispositions.
Again, see what has, more recently still, taken place at Oxford.
Mr. Ward has, indeed, obtained a triumph which must be most
gratifying to his feelings as a man : this his enemies now begin
to find out: but the feeling of the people of England on which
the Tractarians and those of the English Catholics to whom
we have alluded, build their hopes, will not be affected by it; or
if influenced, it will be in a sense contrary to the hopes of both
parties. Let us reconsider these extraordinary proceedings at
Oxford : after blunder upon blunder and evidences of arrogance
and imbecillity such as never yet disgraced even a committee
of the House of Commons, the Hebdomadal Board succeed in
carrying their hostility to the Tractarian movement into Convo
cation. The university meet, in most unusual numbers, to judge
points which they have not the power of judging, and to pass
decrees which they have not the power of enforcing. A mob of
divines, legislators, country squires, and country parsons, are
called upon to determine whether the interpretation which Mr.
Ward puts upon the articles and the duties resulting from his
subscription to them, be according to the intention of the pro
posers of those articles. Mr. Ward has an opportunity given of
defending himself—if not as fully as the subject required, still
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TRACTARIANISM AND MR. WARD.
quite as much so as the motley mob of judges would have cared
to hear. He speaks ably, temperately ; in a manner to produce
a most favourable impression ; and while questioning the legality
of the whole proceeding against him, and triumphantly exposing
the bad faith of his opponents, he proclaims the differences of
opinion amongst those who are yet considered honest members
of the Anglican communion ; and the dangers that may result
to the establishment from this arrogant intermeddling. Still there
is nothing, in all this, which proves that the spirit of the Catholic
Church is pervading the length and breadth of the land. True,
that one of the propositions condemned is that it should be a
subject of rejoicing that “ the whole cycle of Roman doctrine is
gradually possessing numbers of English churchmen still Mr.
Ward admits “ I stand here the supporter of doctrines which the
great majority of you hold in suspicion and dislike.”
The numbers who voted for Mr. Ward proved that this ma
jority was not, after all, so very great. But had the majority been
as small as that which carried his pretended degradation from his
degrees (and which the courts of law will, necessarily, restore)
had the numbers of those even who voted for and against the
propositions in his book, been reversed—still we contend that
the popular feeling of this country would not have been one
slightest degree nearer to that consummation wished for by the
more sanguine of the Tractarians, and shadowed out by Mr.
Ward himself when he eloquently said, <£ I ask you to let our
present framework remain, as far as in you lies, that under its
protection numbers of humble and dutiful souls, who are quite
unable to chuse for themselves a side, and shrink appalled from
the strife of words now raging among us, may gradually develope into that which they cannot suddenly become — deeply
rooted believers in the whole truth.”
The recent transactions in the diocese of Exeter show that the
people entertain no such timidity as Mr. Ward gives them credit
for : and if he and those who think with him are waiting for the
“ full developement of the whole truth” in the self-sufficient
minds of those mob-theologians, lasting, indeed, will be their pre
sent anomalous position. That people possessed with such feel
ings towards every thing which they fancy to have a Catholic
tendency should ever be led by their clergy to a reunion with
the Catholic Church, can now no longer be expected by the most
sanguine. Whatever may be the tone of feeling at the univer
sities, whatever may be the spirit instilled into the rising gene
ration there, the doctrines of the Reformation and the slanders
of three centuries have taken too strong a hold of the uneducated
for them to be materially swayed by any exhortations of the
Tractarian scholar. And in the ranks of the establishment itself
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TRACTARIANISM AND MR. WARD.
will always be found plenty of self-seeking men who will pro
mote this feeling in the hope of benefiting by it. Were all
those four hundred members who voted in convocation for Mr.
Ward to join the communion of the Catholic Church to-morrow,
the only consequence upon their parishioners and brother clergy
would be that (supposing them all to be clergymen) there would
be twelve hundred candidates for the livings and emoluments
which they would have vacated.
This is an endless subject. AVe cannot give more space to it.
We hope that, in the little we have said, we have not given
matter for scandal or offence. We ourselves have wished to
write on the subject as lookers-on rather than as divines. We
have not even wished to make apparent our own religious convic
tions. Were not learned and pious men like Mr. Ward, Mr.
Oakley, our preacher (Mr. Browne), and others, personally in
terested in the matter, we should have preferred to discuss the
question in reference only to its bearings upon the political feel
ings of the people of the country. Friends, as we are, to the
extension of civil and religious liberty all over the world—
anxious, as we are, to establish the principle that no man has, in
his civil capacity, a right to inquire into the religious belief of
another man, we have regretted that a movement which, in its
religious consequences, could only affect the creed of individuals,
should have been so brought forwards as to arouse a sectarian
feeling in the mass of the people ; should have made them suspi
cious of the ulterior views of religionists; and should have
awakened their ancient prejudices against that faith on the court
eous and respectful treatment of which depends the welfare of
Ireland and, through Ireland, of this great country. The people
of England entertain no innate antipathy to the followers of any
religion whatever, provided only that they will live and let live;
provided only that they will not interfere with their own several
predilections, with their own several interests: and successful as
was Mr. Ward in maintaining his right to his own opinions be
fore the university of Oxford, we cannot be surprised that the
people, who, like Gallio, “ care for none of these things,” should
have had their suspicions aroused by practices different from what
they had been accustomed to, and avowedly tending towards a
change in those opinions which they believe their teachers to
have undertaken to uphold.
VOL. I.
G
�82
A PEEP AT ALL THINGS AND A FEW OTHERS.
By Bo-Peep.
*
Showing, a Frosty Day—Fox-hunting at Rome—Church and Statery—M. de
Montalembert—Old Patent Snaffles—The Tomb of the Prophet—Ball at General
Narvaez — Christian Goths; no Gothic Christians—Altars—Wise Men of the
West—Christmas Carols—Latin and Greek in Parliament—Income versus Pro
perty—The Queen and the Owls.
Once upon a time (and that cautious historian, Gibbon, who
would dispute every thing that ought to be deemed indisputable,
assures us the story is true), once upon a time seven noble Chris
tian youths of Ephesus who had betaken themselves to a cavern
to avoid the persecution of the heathen, were walled up therein
by command of the Emperor Decius ; but immediately falling
into a miraculous slumber, did not awake until some labourers,
working the stone-quarry, threw down the wall one hundred and
eighty-seven years afterwards. Almost as wonderful and last
ing as this lasting and wonderful sleep, is that which, months
and months ago, fell upon ourselves, though a privileged sleeper.
Little Bo-Peep
Fell fast asleep
with a vengeance ! But what put him to sleep ? “ That is the
question.” It was to escape no persecution that he went off in
such a dreamless nap : for admiring listeners awaited eagerly his
monthly visits. Perhaps it was that his sheep were all sleeping
around : or that the hall in which he exhibited his powers of
clairvoyance (more wonderful than any produced by mesmeric
pawing) possessed some such lethargic quality as the cavern in
Africa. It is hard to keep awake when others are yawning
around ;
Yaw—yeaw—yeaigh—comment faire, hélas,
Pour s’amuser sur cette terre,
Pour ne pas bailler—bailler ici bas !
However, thank thy good stars, gentle reader, that we are awake
now ; and like a lion refreshed with wine, are prepared, from
our high Watch-Tower, to look out and tell thee what is going on
in that nether world of thine.
What a bright frosty day it is !—the hardest frost we have
had this year. One can hardly see the pale blue sky and the old
leafless trees of our park and our ice-clad lake through the frosty
fret-work on our wide window-panes. How beautifully it spreads
across the glass ! What fanciful trelliswork, what fairy patterns
* Not Sir James Graham.
�83
A PEEP AT ALL THINGS.
interweave themselves in condensed spangles! There in the
centre of that pane, amid a sea of ice, is a little island indented
by the most convenient harbours, fringed with lines of crystal
rock and surrounded by a belt like Saturn’s ring. On the pane
beside it, bristling little stalactites rise from the bottom to the
top like the mighty spars in Fingal’s cave: and beside this again,
from a pane the upper half of which is clothed with frozen
forests (like those of Upper Canada bedecked with the diamonds
of a hoar frost), shoot out, underneath, long stretches of jagged
tracery like the coral reefs that gird the happy islands of the
west. Athwart them all, we see a full-breasted thrush hop
lightly on the close-shaven turf; and turning its head first on
one side then on the other, eye, with hopeless inquisitiveness,
the frost-bound mould of the up-turned flower-bed.
No day this for hunting, friends! It was all very well to ad
vertise in the county papers that you would meet this day, at
the turnpike-gate below at half-past ten o’clock—(lazy loons!
your grandfathers would have met at seven) it was all very well
to advertise the meet; and right welcome should ye have been
to a bottle of prime cherry-brandy to give ye a glow ere starting:
but yoicks I who can promise themselves sport of any kind in
such a climate as this ! A s vain were the hopes of the Eastern
king of whom great Johnson wrote. Would ye be sure of a day’s
hunting when ye have torn yourselves from your pillows at the
early hour of half-past ten to secure it, leave these northern
climes where the Spirit of Ice delights to thwart ye : leave these
unpropitious realms of snow, and betake ye to the happy hunt
ing-grounds of Italy. See how gaily they meet in the wide Cam
pagna of Rome! Hark how cheerily the huntsman's horn re
verberates from the old walls of the tomb of Cecilia Metella!
Thanks to Lord Chesterfield and to the southern sun, English
men have now an unfailing occupation in the Eternal City,
worthy of themselves: twice a week, at all events, they can
there kill time, the destroyer, who has killed most else around
them!
Unbag the fox, cheer on the pack
’Neath temples nodding low:—
Let pedants tell their gods—alack,
We heed not. Tally ho!
Well done, old fox! skim o’er the plain,
We follow—tally ho!
He swims the Tiber—turns again
At Dio Ridicolo.
To quiz old Hanibal ’twas built,
Not our brave sport:—oh no;
Along the Appian way, full tilt
We gallop. Tally ho!
g 2
�84
A PEEP AT ALL THINGS
We show their Eminences where
The scarlet should be worn:
Not round their shaking shanks so spare . . .
Hark! hark! the huntsman’s horn.
Great was Dian of Ephesus—
Long worshipp’d here, we trow.
A British Dian ours, and thus
We worship: Tally ho!
Blithely, indeed, the scarlet field bedecks that desert ground.
Time was, when Lord Burghersh took over a pack of hounds,
that the foxes came out of their covers to gaze, like uninterested
spectators, at the unwonted sight. Lord Chesterfield has re
medied this unexpected inconvenience ; and by taking over a
few English foxes who knew what was expected of them, he has
set an example to the Roman cubs, and is breeding them up in
the way they should go.
“ How merrily the days of Englishmen go by” in Rome !
Fox-hunting in the morning; a lounge in St. Peter’s or cold
fowl in the Sixtine chapel at vespers; and Cerito dancing in
pantaloons in the evening. Cerito seems, indeed, to have won
mightily on the old Pope : he has not only sanctioned her mar
riage at Rome (we hope, after this, he will no longer permit any
of his clergy to refuse, on their own responsibility, unsanctioned
by the Church, Christian burial to comedians ; if they are worthy
of a sacrament, they are worthy of a ceremony) : he has not only
sanctioned her marriage, but he has allowed her also to dance
nightly at the theatre—but in pantaloons. We are glad of this ;
for it makes her exhibition the only decent English pursuit of
those we have noticed.
Poor old sainted Gregory XVI—(we hope we may apply the
term to one who has borne the tiara as humbly as he has—who
has fared as sparingly, and has slept as hardly, as he did when
an unknown monk)—poor old sainted Gregory XVI has dis
appointed the English visitors to Rome this season. He has
scarcely shown himself at the religious offices of Christmas;
because, when he kneels at the altar, he cannot rise again with
out difficulty. And they grumble, as may be supposed, at being
deprived of the show. However, the rumours of a concordat
with England, and of an alliance with the English ministry to
put down the Irish clamour for repeal, have given them some
what of food for the mind. Beware, however, your Holiness,
how you meddle in matters of temporal policy. Ireland is not
Poland; and the effects of such a letter as you addressed to the
patriot Poles, might be different from what Roman tactics
anticipate.
It is, indeed, delightful and amusing to one overlooking the
�AND A FEW OTHERS.
85
world as we do, to mark the change that has come over the mind
of religionists of late years, in reference to the long-boasted
connexion between Church and state. How they used to insist
upon it in by-gone times I—the state was not to secularize the
Church ; oh no! but the Church was to spiritualize the state.
And so, when the state could not stand alone, and when the
Church enjoyed the pleasure of propping it up, nothing was so
holy and so pure as these loves of the angels—this intermarriage
between heaven and earth. Now, however, that the State has
got the upper hand, and would make use of her power to enslave
her former equal, all Christian men in every Christian country,
seem to rise spontaneously against the alliance. O’Connell and
the Irish Catholics had long proclaimed their hostility to any
state endowment of their Church; and no one believed them.
French Catholics, however, and those of the old noblesse (once
the most devoted dependents upon the state) have also found
out that they are enslaved by the connexion, and now use their
best endeavours to obtain a divorce. Their organ, the Comte
de Montalembert, has recently made, in the House of Peers,
what, even in this country, would be considered a splendid
appeal in favour of the rights of conscience, the liberty of reli
gion, and the freedom of education. Well, indeed, does he com
ment upon the insolent intermeddling spirit of a government
that decrees, “ It is permitted to twenty-six Protestants to
assemble in the castle of Loree, for public worship according to
their rite.” The French question of the freedom of education is
little understood in this country. People argue here that, be
cause French parents are not obliged to send their sons to the
government universities, they have nothing of which to com
plain ; but when professions, from the highest to the lowest,
when admittance into every pursuit in life is dependent upon
certificates and degrees, to be obtained at those universities only
:—we see that a French parent has as little power over the edu
cation of his offspring as the poor Manchester weaver, who
cannot send his brat to earn her dinner, unless she take with
her a certificate that she has spent three hours in learning a, b
—ab ; b, a—ba.
Battle on, then, M. de Montalembert, say we; you have our
best wishes; as have those in every clime who would prevent
the state from intermeddling in that which is not its business.
Oh, how we rejoiced to see our friend Henry Light, the governor
of British Guiana, throw light on this subject by copying out
Lord Stanley’s rules of conduct, and refuse to supercede a cate
chist on the application of his bishop ! “ The two Boman Ca
tholic clergymen for whom the legislature has provided stipends,”
he writes, “ are, when authorized to receive the public money,
�86
A PEEP AT ALL THINGS
in that sense civil servants of the public. As civil servants, they
are amenable, on any offence committed, to forfeiture of
salary ; that forfeiture or dismissal must be upon cause shown,
and with an opportunity given for the accused to defend himself.
The forfeiture or dismissal must be the act of the government.”
We rejoiced to see this; for we were convinced, not only that
Irish prelates would take the hint home to themselves when
pressed to take the shilling and enlist as “ civil servants of the
public,” but we also figured to ourselves how the Bishop of
Exeter’s bile would rise at being thus again reminded that he
was the thing he so much scorned—“ an official of the establish
ment.”
Concordats and salaries are, however, very convenient snaffles
for the state to control the vagaries of the ecclesiastical team
when once the state has got the whip hand of it. What said
Lord Castlereagh when the Princess Charlotte received a present
of two beautiful ponies from a Catholic young lady ?—
“If the Princess
keep them (says Lord Castlereagh),
To make them quite harmless, the only true way
Is (as certain Chief-Justices do with their wives),
To flog them within half-an-inch of their lives—
If they’ve any bad Irish blood lurking about,
This (he knew by experience) would soon draw it out.
Or, if this be thought cruel, his Lordship proposes
The new veto-snaffle to bind down their noses :—
A pretty contrivance made out of old chains,
Which appears to indulge while it doubly restrains,
Which, however high-mettled, their gamesomeness checks,
(Adds his Lordship humanely), or else, breaks theii necks ! ” *
*
But enough of“ The Holy City ” and its doings. Wherefore,
by the bye, do some English writers always thus designate
Rome? On the continent of Europe, it is never so spoken of.
For our own parts, we know but of one “holy city,” properly,
that is generally, so called; and whenever we read the epithet,
our minds revert to the holy city of Mecca and the tomb of the
prophet.
How beautiful and transparently clear is the freezing atmo
sphere 1 From the high look-out of the Watch-Tower, the eye
wanders far and farther away till it rests upon the sunny hills of
the Escureal and the feathery trees of El Pardo. Gay doings
and high rejoicings in Madrid. Zurbano has been taken and
shot—his spirit gone to rejoin those of his two sons and relations
whom he had not seen for a long while, but whom gentle Nar
vaez butchered for being of kin to one who dared to raise his
* Moore’s “ Twopenny Post-bag.”
�w
1
F'iffw w y y y y w
i
r
”
”
~
*
w
*
y
yy
i rw i fi r iH n iF in r
AND A FEW OTHERS.
87
standard against a long established government—of how many
months old ? — a government begot in treachery, swathed in
French gold, baptised in blood, and to which Lord Aberdeen
stands sponsor. Gay doings then at Madrid since Zurbano, too,
has been sent to join the rest. And Narvaez is giving a fancyball, at which the queen and all the gentles rejoice, while one of
the honorable deputies filches the table-spoons. The queen-mo
ther, the amiable Christina, is in the delicate situation proper to
ladies who love their lords; and may not with safety attend.
We trust that report spoke truly, which said that she had pri
vately married Signor Munoz some years ago; else, as it is not
many weeks since she acquainted her parliament with the inter
esting fact, her present state must rather jeopardise her fair fame.
Uncomplimentary to sovereigns is the train of thoughts which
these second marriages of their widows awaken. Christina of
Spain, the duchess of Berri, Marie Louise of France,—all who
have tried royal partners, betake themselves, as soon as possible,
to lords of humbler birth. Napoleon must, indeed,
“----- have improved when he wed,
Though he ne’er grew right royally fat in the head,”
to have made it possible for his widow to class herself with the
others I Or is it that sovereigns have too much head and not
enough of heart to satisfy their spouses ? The former half of
this position can scarcely stand investigation. Perhaps it is that
they have not enough of either the one or the other. All honour,
however, to our own fair Victoria; who with more of head and
heart than falls to the lot of sovereigns, has managed worthily to
satisfy both the woman and the queen.
And grateful are we to our queen for having recalled our
wandering thoughts home; for so much here calls for notice,
that we have no more to spare this month to foreign lands.
Besides, in what foreign country can we find so much that may
worthily employ the mind on high and holy things ? What
foreign country, like our own pious land, takes its religious cere
monies from the rabble, its divinity from the newspapers, its
faith from architects ? Happy land ! Thrice happy, too, in that
it possesses courts of law and ecclesiastical courts, which con
stantly either urge or restrain the vagaries of its people! There
is a society of gentle antiquaries at Cambridge, yclept the
Camden: surely they, if any, must know of what stuff religion and
churches ought to be made;—for, has it not been decided that
the primitive Christians, who worshipped in ancient basilicas,
were no Christians at all ?—since they provided space for the
poor to kneel at their ease, and, while that was wanting, deemed
carved stone and pointed pinnacles only so many pointed abuses ?
has it not been decided that, to be a Christian, a man must be a
�88
A PEEP AT ALL THINGS
Goth ? Such were the sound opinions entertained by the Cam
den Society, amongst others; and they were naturally shocked
at seeing a wooden table in the Round Church which they had
just restored in the most approved taste. They, whose minds
ran back more than two hundred years, remembered how anti
quaries of old had fought the battle of the altar, and how they
had striven to raise it from the disparagement into which it had
fallen: —
“ God’s board is what they first reform,
That never mov’d but brought a storm :
From midst of quire they thought it good
To place it where the altar stood.
And altar-wise they needs must set it,
Close to the wall as they could get it:
Nor would they call it now God’s board,
But holy altar of the Lord.”
Thus, recording the fate of those early sticklers for antiquity,
sings old Ward :—we marvel if the Air. Ward of our days be of
the same family?—most probably: and courts of law still exist
to mar the sculptor’s finest conceptions, as the versified rabble
did of yore. For, alack I alack 1 these matter of fact courts have
discovered that the word “altar” nowhere enters into the voca
bulary of that faith the Camdens follow: that boards and deals
are the only orthodox materials, and that their favourite stone
altar is unwarranted by act of parliament.
And, powerful as the courts of law are in one instance, the
western “ populace” are no less so in others. It had been said
by a traveller, that, the further he went to the west, the more
convinced he was the Wise Men came out of the cast. Such an
unseemly imputation upon our western countries can now no
longer be cast against them. No antiquaries they of two hun
dred years I but they know what was done yesterday and the
day before ; and they scorn to submit to novel forms of worship I
How they fled from the churches, and mobbed the clergymen
who presumed to know more of divine matters than themselves 1
The mayor and aidermen and police of Exeter were needed to
keep within due bounds their theological ardour. Not even the
pelting rain could allay it. We have all heard of the icono
clastic riots of the east: they were nothing to those originated
by the mighty surplice question in the west. And, meanwhile,
somebody is gone to tell the people of Mecca that this nation is
about to return to the faith of true believers I
And yet poor Dr. Philpotts was right in law and in common
sense:—we know nothing of divinity—we leave that to the
“ populace,” as he terms the theologians of Exeter. Some of his
clergy followed one device, some another: some were for surplice,
�. AND A FEW OTHERS.
89
some for gown, some for great-coat: he was called upon officially
to adjudicate between disputants: he was obliged to decide accord
ing to the law : that law was the rubric of the Book of Common
Prayer: what then was more self-evident, more rational, than
that he should direct them all to follow that rubric? We must,
however, admit that he made one grand, one fatal mistake;—in
stead of publishing his pastoral at a time when the editors of
papers were all agape for matter wherewith to fill their columns,
had he waited until they were obliged to report the doings of
Parliament, they would not have had space to interfere between
him and his clergy; the people would have remained unexcited
by penny-a-liners ; and he might have made good the position he
coveted,—that of being something more than an “ official of the
establishment.”
But really are these Puseyites to be allowed to proceed in
their vagaries unchecked by the popular voice ? See the feeling
lamentations of the Churchwardens and Co. of some village in
Kent to the Bishop of London:—their clergyman (one of the
Bev. Wilberforces) had been walking about the village with
some of his choristers singing carols on the night of Christmas
eve ! Nor was this all the abomination :—they bore lights in
their hands—and this too while the full moon shone I As bad
as “ burning daylight” in the Catholic Church—which, being
an article sacred to the uses of state taxation, ought not to be
wastefully consumed. Well might the Churchwardens and Co.
complain to their Bishop of these mighty strides their clergyman
was making Homewards I What could he mean by singing ca
rols on Christmas eve with torch in hand while the moon shone?
What could he mean ? What ask ye ? Why he was singing
mass to be sure. We have all heard of midnight mass on Christ
mas eve ; and who knows but what that is the way in which it is
done ! We own that is not the way in which the learned com
mentators who have recently republished Froissart’s Memoirs,
with illustrations selected according to the best antiquarian skill
•—we own that is not the way in which they represent the per
formance of mass : in an engraving they give us of the “ Bishop
of Pamiers singing mass in the 15th century,” they represent a
monk playing on the organ while the Bishop, robed in ponti
ficals, stands with open mouth beside a one-legged music-desk
hard by. But the Kentish churchwardens had not seen this
print; and not knowing how the thing was really done, naturally
supposed Mr. Wilberforce might be singing midnight mass along
the streets. Thrice happy county that (graced by the residence
of the Primate of all England) has such watchful guardians of
the purity of the faith that it starts alarmed from a Christmas
carol and falls down and worships the divinity of Thom I
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A PEEP AT ALL THINGS
But plague take the world, we can see nothing but religion
this month1 Every body is gone wild about it, and it obtrudes
itself eternally on our peepers. We will, positively, not give it
another look; but will turn our whole attention to politics;
which, as all the world knows, has nothing to do with religion
in England and Ireland.
And our gracious Queen has been opening her parliament and
making unto it a speech. And an excellent speech all the world
declares it to be; and sure we are no one will be more delighted
with it than Mr. O’Connell and his followers ; for her Majesty
speaks of the union as though it were already repealed: “ Among
all classes of my people,” she says, “ there is generally prevalent
a spirit of loyalty and cheerful obedience to the laws.” “ I have
observed, with sincere satisfaction, that the improvement, which
is manifest in other parts of the country, has extended to Ire
land.” So that the people of Ireland are not included amongst
“ all classes of my subjects.” The union is not only repealed,
but Ireland is become independent of England, and the Queen
speaks of it as a philanthropical looker-on merely 1 We fear,
however, that we shall not be so easily quit of the subject;
though the government has hit upon an expedient, by no means
novel, for getting rid of unruly children. Ask you what it is ?
They are going to send them to school! True, upon the faith
of Bo-Peep ! They cannot make them “ behave themselves” and
so are going to send them to school. We protest, however,
against being taxed, with the people of this country, “ for im
proving and extending academical education in Ireland.” There
is plenty of ecclesiastical property in Ireland to fulfil her Ma
jesty’s intentions, however generous. And if there be not, let
the government throw open Trinity College to all comers: the
foundation of two new universities will not compensate for the
insult of being excluded from that one. But it seems the naughty
Irish boys are not only to be sent to school; but are to be treated
in other respects like unreasoning children. It will not succeed,
Sir Robert Peel. The only sensible thing that was said in the
debate on the Address came from one who is not, in general,
famed for wisdom : this orator was “ fully satisfied that demands
would never cease while anything remained to be conceded.”
So said Mr. Plumptre; and so says Bo-Peep.
To return, however, to the speech of our gracious Sovereign:
“ She continues to receive the most friendly assurances from all
foreign powers.” And she does not believe one word of them.
This she shows, by immediately recommending an increase in
the navy. So the Prince de Joinville’s pamphlet was not, after
all, so very absurd, so very unworthy of notice. He called upon
the French admiralty to turn all their attention to steam, as
�AND A FEW OTHERS.
91
they could not compete with us in sailing vessels; and lo I the
English government immediately takes the alarm, and deems it
necessary to meet him I And the harbours of refuge along the
southern coast, of which we hear so much, will be very conve
nient stations from whence said steamers may protect “ the ex
tended commerce of the country” from the Prince de Joinville.
All very right, if we could but agree,
“ Where’s the money to come from, daughter, daughter ?
Where’s the money to come from, daughter of mine ?”
Oh, Sir Robert Peel will tell you by and bye, when he has
sang “ io paaan” a little longer on the glorious state of the coun
try, and, in answer to Lord John Russell’s powerful objurga
tions, has thrown dismay into some of the newspaper reporters,
by quoting Latin which they had not at their fingers’ ends. AVe
would not say one word against the daily press of this country,
more able, more intelligent, and better conducted, by a thou
sand leagues, than that of any other time or place : but it is
hardly fair for an honourable member to expect a reporter who
is listening to him as a matter of business only, to remember
whether he says quia non lacrymare necesse est, or quia nil lacrymabile cernit. This propensity to quote fifth-form Latin ought
to be checked, as were Greek intrusions into Parliament. AVe
forget what honourable speaker it was who set the gentlemen of
the press at their wits’ end, by constantly quoting Greek. They
knew not how to meet the difficulty, till, at length, they hit
upon the plan of stereotyping
Toy S’airayEtPoyevoQ irpofrE^T] vroiktg ojkvq Ay^XXcug.
This answered perfectly. AVhatever Greek the speaker might
quote to show his learning,
a
Top 3 a7rayei/3opei'OQ 7rpoae<l)Ti 7r6Sae w/cvg Aj%iXXevc
^ie JePor^ of his speech. The gouty old gentleman
had thought at first that it was an error of the press; but when
top ¿a7rapEqo6^voC still appeared, he gave up the hopeless contest, and fell back upon his mother-tongue. Greek havings by
these means, been successfully banished from Parliament, we
would recommend puzzled reporters to adopt a similar plan with
all spouters of Latin verse. Let them stereotype two lines;
and whenever Sir Robert Peel introduces a AVhig measure, and
dignifies the theft by a scrap from Ovid or others, let him be
made to say, with a triumphant glance at Lord John Russell,
“ Sic vos non vobis nidificatis aves.”*
And whenever Lord John Russell and his AVhig friends cast
longing looks at the treasury benches, and endeavour to oust
Freely translated, “ You help to build these nests we Tories feather/
�92
A
PEEP AT ALL THINGS
their rivals therefrom by retorting school-boy lore, let the stereo
typed report ever give the heart-melting line :
“ Tityre, tu patuke recubans sub tegmine fagi.”f
It is astonishing how soon “ Sic vos non vobis,” and “ Tityre,
tu patulte,” would succeed in banishing classical lore from the
walls of Parliament.
While on literary matters, we are irresistibly drawn to notice
Mr. Gladstone and his book. Never since the mysterious book
in the sixteenth century on which Grotius expended his erudi
tion, had printer’s devil originated so much unfathomable
wonder;—never since the autos da fa of the Spanish inquisition,
or the mild butcheries of our English Elizabeth, had martyr
sacrificed himself in defence of his religious opinions with the
heroism attributed to the late president of the Board of Trade,—
coidd we but understand it. We have heard a good deal of the
puffing system in which Messrs. Colburn and Bentley were sup
posed to be tolerably proficient; but not even they ever devised
such a scheme for getting up a demand for a new edition of a
forgotten work. We have heard, too, a good deal of excommu
nications practised in the olden time,—excommunication “ by
book and bell.” In Mr. Gladstone’s self-excommunication froai
the ministry, the part performed by the book is sufficiently evi
dent ; and we suspect the bells may be typified by certain
appendages to a certain sugar-loaf cap which, notwithstanding
appearances, Nir. Gladstone will be no party to place upon his
own head. The cause of his resignation of the sweets of office
has, in fact, yet to be explained : the motives of the president of
the Board of Trade should, one would think, be more dependent
upon commerce than upon literature,—for one can hardly sup
pose that, to please the bigots of the university of Oxford, he, a
Puseyite, would have resigned office because Sir Robert Peel’s
measures were too favourable to Catholics.
But to return ; how these literary questions do lead us astray
from questions of common sense, questions of £ s d! We
were talking about the queen’s speech and the minister’s financial
statement. What delight it gave 1 The duty was to be taken
off glass in order that blackguards might be able to break the
Portland vase in future, at a less cost for a new case ; watchsprings were to be made of glass. Whether they would go or
not, we doubt; but at all events they would serve to wind up
periods, and to set the ministry going so prosperously, that no
one would watch their doings. Thus, with scarcely a discordant
voice, all the world voted a continuance of the income tax. It
was, indeed, at first imposed on the express promise, from the
t “ Robert, thou cumberest long enough those sweet Treasury benches.”—
Printer's devil.
�AND A FEW OTHERS.
93
Duke of Wellington, “that it should not be continued one mo
ment longer than was absolutely necessary.” But what signifies
a breach of promise to Sir Robert Peel ? Did he not obtain
power by promising, through his supporters, to repeal the poor-law
—to maintain undiminished the old protection to agriculture ?
Sir James Graham’s enactments, his own tariffs, and Canadian
corn bills, had proved what dependence was to be placed on such
promises; and people must have been overflowing with faith to
have expected the income tax to be given up. No, no ; he will
repeal taxes to the amount of £3,308,000 : but the income tax
yields upwards of five millions; and the minister told Lord
John Russell “ that, supposing his lordship’s present position to
be changed, and that he found himself on the treasury benches,
he would feel the surplus of £5,200,000, however derived, to be
a most comfortable addition to the ordinary and permanent
revenue of the country.” Just so: but to vote in favour of that
“ oppressive,” “ unjust,” “ vexatious,” “ inquisitorial ” tax, is
not, my Lord John, the way to reach those benches. People will
not vote for your party out of mere love, pour leur beaux yeux ;
they must be induced to do so by some difference between your
policy and that of your opponents. Sir Robert Peel made one
statement which ought to be remembered :—out of an income of
about forty-nine millions, twenty-eight millions and a half are
required for the payment of interest on the national debt. Every
ones knows this, but everyone forgets it. We wish that honour
should be given where honour is due; and that people should
remember, when they pay taxes, that more than half of what
they pay is for the pleasure their fathers enjoyed in making war.
One word more about the property and income tax. Mr.
Roebuck and others exclaim against the unfairness with which
it presses upon annuitants, professional men, and floating capital
engaged in commerce ; and they demand that all such should be
exonerated from it, that it may be raised entirely from real pro
perty. Now we love to see things in a different light from any
one else; and we boldly assert that real property ought to be
exempted from this tax, and that it should be saddled exclusively
upon the others. We will prove our position;—taxes are paid
to enable the government to maintain the laws, and to uphold
the fabric of civil society. “ Do you dispute that, Mr. Roebuck ?”
“ Certainly not,” he answers, delighted to see that we have so
true an idea of the first principles of political economy. Without
taxes, therefore, laws could not be maintained, and society would
revert, to a state of nature. “ Do you admit that, Mr. Roe
buck ?” “Admitted,” he answers, with a grunt, suspicious of
what is coming. Now, then, Mr. Roebuck; supposing society to
be reduced to a state of nature, who do you think would fare
best in the scramble, the professional man, the artisan, and the
�94
SWEET SEVENTEEN.
tradesman, who subsist by ministering to the wants of a civilized
community, or we who have our broad acres to fall back upon,
and which, providing us with corn, meat, and game, we could
defend with the strong arm, as our forefathers did heretofore ?
“Well, Mr. Roebuck, you do not answer: well.”—“ Well,” he
growls, at last, not at all liking the turn of the argument. Well,
then, we continue; as professional men, annuitants, artists, and
tradesmen, are most interested in the maintenance of society in
its present legal, civilized state, it is but just they should pay
most towards it. Therefore, we say, if we must have an income
tax, take it off from real property and double it upon Mr. Roe
buck’s pets. But where is the honourable member for Bath
gone ? Unable to refute our argument, he has absolutely rushed
from the Watch-tower in a huff. This is not civil, Mr. Roebuck :
you should learn to command your temper before the public.
But now, as every one will admit that we have had the best
of every argument at which we have glanced, we withdraw from
the scenes of our triumph. Our whole attention is just now
riveted upon our gracious sovereign, who has succeeded in es
caping from the errand boys and well-dressed mobs of Brighton,
and is enjoying the dignified hospitality of the noble old castle
of Arundel. The first peer of England has peculiar claims upon
our sympathy, and we rejoice to see him so nobly acquit himself,
though he has not, like his grace of Buckingham, hired two score
of labourers, at fifteen pence per day, to play at cricket on the
lawn in order to evince the every-day happiness of England’s
bold peasantry. Now, like one of the mighty owls in the lofty
keep of Arundel castle, we close our weary eyes; resolved that
for one month nought shall
“ Molest our ancient solitary reign.”
From the Watch-Tower, IQth February,
1845.
SWEET SEVENTEEN.
Air—“ I remember.”
i.
I remember, I remember how my childhood fleeted by ;
All its sorrows, schoolings, scoldings, grammars, globes that made me
cry !
On my brow, love, on my brow, love, there is now no sign of care,
But that childhood was far sweeter, ’tis the fashion to declare...
I remember, I remember how my childhood fleeted by;
All its sorrows, schoolings, scoldings, grammars, globes that made me
cry !
�SWEET SEVENTEEN.—A RIDDLE.
95
II.
Then the governess, the hated ! was as cross as cross could be,
And the summer flowers faded while I squeak’d out do, re, mi.
Gems to-night, love, gems to-night, love, are bright-braided in my hair,
But my cheeks were far more bright, love, when my teacher’s mark was
there...
I remember, I remember how my childhood fleeted by ;
All its sorrows, schoolings, scoldings, grammars, globes that made me
cry !
in.
Was I merry, was I merry, then the dancing-master came,
With his squeaking pocket-fiddle, battemens, pliez, chaine des dames.
Now I’ve you, love, now I’ve you, love, on your knees before me there,
And I bid adieu to backboards, bread-and-scrape and nursery fare...
I remember, I remember how my childhood fleeted by ;
All its sorrows, schoolings, scoldings, grammars, globes that made me
cry I
J. R. B.
A RIDDLE.
i.
When foreign despots bade him pry,
Who did the deed of treachery ?
ii.
Who caus’d the knout a woman tear
For writing to her husband here ?
hi.
Who had the Bandieras shot,
And left on England’s fame, a blot ?
IV.
When Frenchmen sneer’d, who made us blush
For fatherland, nor car’d a rush ?
v.
Who Tommy Duncombe’s letters read,
Too mean to own the dirty deed ?
VI.
Quick : tell my riddle if you can,
Or give it up : who was the man ?
VII.
I’ll help you. What will rhyme with fame—
Ill-fame, of course ?—tame—blame—shame.......
24#A Feb. 1845.
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NOTICES OF NEW PUBLICATIONS.
History of the Waterloo Campaign. By Capt. W. Siborne. 2 vols.
8 vo. 1844.
The chances of the most eventful campaign that was ever fought, are
here fully developed in an animated and a careful style. The work is
well written ; and all our patriotic feelings would bid us declare it a
most faithful history of circumstances which, one would suppose, it
were impossible to dispute about. And yet foi' thirty years have the
conduct and chances of the battle of Waterloo been differently related ;
and, to this day, the pride of the English and of the French leads
them to see and to represent that glorious massacre in very different
lights. The French not being quite able to deny that they were
beaten on that bloody field, would detract from the so-called glory of
the English army, by giving the Prussians the greater share of the
honour ; while many amongst ourselves would allow no partner in
bringing about that mighty result which changed the fortunes of the
world. We do not say that Captain Siborne claims for us quite so
large a share in the honours of the day ; still we feel, as Englishmen,
that his statements are more gratifying to our patriotic sense than to
our sense of strict historic justice.
In fact, the spirit of the two nations of France and England has
long since selected three topics of charge and counter-charge from the
events of those most exciting weeks ; and each country has urged or
repelled them with a pertinacity which leaves them still matters of
debate. Was the Duke of Wellington surprised by the approach of
Napoleon ? Were the English officers called from a ball-room to
mount their chargers ? We remember that every print-shop on the
Boulevards used to declare it, in every imaginable representation of
the Garde Française qui meurt et ne se rend pas ; while English offi
cers, in silk stockings and pumps, shot and carved away limb after
limb. Byron’s immortal verses have declared much the same ; and,
true or not, we fear that the opinion of all nations has too decidedly
affirmed the question, for their opinion to be shaken by sober history,
however true.
Pumps or no pumps, however, the result is the same ; and as the
French do not dispute this result, we may be generous in allowing
them to account for it in their own way. They all declare that it was
occasioned by Grouchy’s (either mistaken or wilful) departure from
the orders he had received from Napoleon. We will not say whether
the arrival of Grouchy with his thirty-one thousand men on the field
of battle would, or would not, have changed the fortune of the day ;
but surely the French ought to know better than us what his orders
were ; and if they say that he departed from those orders, it is hardly
generous in us to insist that he did not do so,—or even that the result
would have been the same, had the presumed commands of the Em
peror been accurately fulfilled.
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“But at all events,” insist the French, “even if you did win the
battle in the end, it was against your own expectations ; you know that
you had the worst of it until the Prussians came up.” It is not to be
supposed that Captain Siborne should admit any such doubt to have
existed in the mind of our army ; and, indeed, it has been more and
more strongly denied with every passing year. Who shall then say
that it was so ? Assuredly we will not : but yet we have been assured
by a French officer, one of those who followed Louis XVIII during
the Hundred Days, that he was one of the couriers posted at short in
tervals between the field of battle and Brussels, and appointed to carry
verbal accounts from the English commander-in-chief to the French
king,—we have been assured by such a one (whose word, as a man of
honour, we have no reason to doubt), that for a long time the message
which he had to pass on was : “ All is lost ; but we will try and keep
our ground till night.” The manner in which the English troops did
keep their ground, is matter of undisputed history, and of just pride to
our army ; and we enter into the spirit with which it is described in
these volumes.
From the contradictory opinions extant on the subjects to which we
have alluded, it would really appear as if commanding officers and
men were so carried away by their feelings at the hour of battle, as
not to be able to retain any sure recollection of that which they had
ordered and seen. We remember to have heard from the gallant
author of the “ History of the Peninsular Wfir,” that, bewildered by
contradictory statements concerning one particular action, he had
applied for information to the commander-in-chief, to his first acting
aide-de-camp, and to the general commanding the division respecting
whose movements there were different statements ; and that, from all
three, he had received different and contradictory information ! Who
then shall wonder that the national pride of the conquerors and of the
conquered should enable them to give different colourings to the same
event ?
Justice is seldom done to Napoleon’s conduct after the battle. He
argued long and strenuously against the opinion of his council, who
wished him to leave the army and to go to Paris. “ I consent,” he
cried, at length, “ but you are making me commit an act of folly. My
place is with the army. It is not annihilated, if I remain with it ;
and from here, I can send my orders to Paris and France. But I
yield.” Had he abided by his own judgment, who shall say that
events would not have turned out differently ? Most praiseworthy
also was his refusal to allow the peasantry of the frontier provinces to
be armed. He would not draw down war upon the people. At
whatever cost to himself, he willed that war to be confined to the
army : he would have it a war of armies, not of nations. Never, in
fact, had he shown himself so great as during the Hundred Days ;
and those who overcame him then can afford to be generous, and to
admit his version of the means that occasioned his fall. “ Adieu,
terre des braves !” he cried with the greatest emotion, as he saw it for
the last time off Cape Hoguet : “Adieu, chère France ! Quelques
VOL. I.
H
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traîtres de moins, et tu serais encore la grande nation, et la maîtresse
du monde.” Let us thank heaven, which has kept the world from
being enslaved by any one mistress.
Valentine M‘Clutchy, the Irish Agent; or Chronicles of the Castle
Clumber Property. By Wm. Carleton. 3 vols. Chapman & Hall.
Mr. Carleton is one of the best of those writers who, in these latter
days, have so excellently well portrayed to us the affectionate, hu
morous, witty, fierce, and pious peasant of hapless Ireland ; and this
is, we think, even his best work. It is true to nature ; and when we
have said this of an Irish story, we have said that it is interesting, ex
citing. It was impossible but that Mr. Carleton’s truth and power of
writing should be increased, when he threw off the trammels of that
party which, in Ireland at least, is essentially opposed to every just
and generous feeling ; and though it may be said that, in the portrait
he has drawn, in old Topertoe, of the real Irish member of Parliament
of the olden time, he had an idea of putting his countrymen on their
guard against assembling such native legislators once more in College
Green, we will not doubt but that the author drew him only as a
sample of things that had been. Say what we will against the present
times, they are certainly more decorous than any that have preceded
them ; and the time is gone when Tom Topertoe’s election speech, ex
cellent as it is, would be relished even by the “ affectionate rascals”
of Ireland. The speeeh had, however, one good quality which, we
own with sorrow, is becoming more and more scarce every year,—it
was very short. We, therefore, strongly recommend it and the book
to all members of Parliament, as well as to the public in general. It
is astonishing how much wit derives its soul from brevity on the
hustings. One of the most loudly-applauded speeches we ever heard
was made by a member of an English corporation (unreformed), who
rose and said : “ Gentlemen, I beg to propose Mr. So and So, because
I like him.” Few proposers and seconders can give better reasons for
the long-winded support they give their favoured candidates ; and on
such occasions, we cannot but regret the speech of Tom Topertoe, and
the times when, as Coningsby says, a man could be returned “ like
a gentleman,” without having to canvass his constituents,—aye, and
without ever seeing the borough for which he sat,—which an Union
peer told us had been his own case. Here, however, is the speech :
“ Here I am again, ye blaggards ; your own ould Topertoe, that never
had a day’s illness, but the gout, bad luck to it. Damn your bloods,
ye affectionate rascals, sure you love me, and I love you, and ’tisnt
Gully Preston [his adversary] that can cut our loves in two. No,
boys, he’s not the blade to do that, at any rate ! Hurra, then, ye
vagabones ! ould Tom Topertoe for ever 1 He loves his bottle and
his wench, and will make any rascal quiver on a daisy that would dare
to say bow to your blankets. Now, Gully Preston, make a speech,—
if you can ! Hurra for Tap Topertoe, that never had a day’s illness
but the gout, bad luck to it ! and don’t listen to Gully Preston, boys !
Hurra !”
We strongly recommend this book to the public.
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99
Passages in the Life of a Radical. By Samuel Bamford. 2 vols.
Simpkin and Co.
What strikes us most in these volumes is the power of language
possessed by a hand-loom weaver ; and not only by a hand-loom
weaver, but by one who, not twenty years ago, could only express
himself in the common dialect of the peasantry of his native county.
Yet now he writes in good nervous English, that would put to shame
the slip-shod phraseology of most fine gentlemen. Really, if the
weavers of our manufacturing districts be improving themselves at
this rate, it will behove the managers of our public schools and uni
versities to furbish up their arms, if they do not wish to be pushed
from their stools by the so-called “ illiterate vulgar.” True that Mr,
Bamford has had opportunities (and particularly during his imprison
ment in Lincoln jail) of improving himself; and that he has assidu
ously studied to do this, since he has resolved that he who would be a
reformer of the public, should not lack education himself. Still his
progress has been wonderful.
This is, however, on many accounts a very interesting work ; not
only as portraying the feelings of the man himself in a very curious
style, but also as showing the mind of those who, like himself, joined
Hunt in their first clamour for Parliamentary reform,—the objects
they had at heart, and the manner in which they were met by the
treacherous and dastardly ministry of the period. The first political
event that we ourselves have any recollection of, was the rightly-called
“ Manchester Massacre
and we suspect that the feelings of many,
like ourselves, then took a bias which dictated their principles in
after-life ; and that the murders then committed accelerated incalcu
lably the movement they were intended to check. But for the con
duct of the partisans of irresponsible power, we should not have seen
a reform of Parliament so soon carried, nor should we have seen those
who, at the time, were the stoutest upholders of the conduct of the
heroes of Peterloo, now only anxious to throw a veil of forgetfulness
over the transaction.
Mr. Bamford’s is a most interesting sketch of the period. We wish
we had more such of every period, to portray the thoughts and habits
of those whom history in general deems unworthy of its notice.
Mores Catholici, or Ages of Faith. Parts I. II. and III. Dolman, 1845.
We know not wherefore these numbers are not recommended to
public favour by bearing on their title-page the name of their author.
That author is well known to be Kenehn Digby ; and the fame which
he had deservedly acquired by his “ Broad-stone of Honour,” first
secured attention to the work now before us. In the Broad-stone of
Honour, indeed, the writer’s name is withheld until the last page of
the work : such may be the case with the “ Ages of Faith,” which,
we own, we have not seen in its complete form. Still we think it a
pity that it should not be given in the title-page, particularly when
the conclusion of the work (even should it there appear) has to be
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waited for some months. It is always better that a reader should
know at first that which, when known, will conduce to his appreciation
of the matter before him,—on the same principle which so judiciously
leads Spanish writers to place marks of interrogation at the beginning
of the sentence, instead of reserving them to the end, as we do. The
reader is thereby enabled to modulate his voice, if he be reading aloud,
as well as his mind, to the sense of the author. So would the student
attach more importance to the “ Ages of Faith,” did he know by
whom it were written : or, to adopt a simile more consonant to the
feelings of the author, did he bear his proper cognisance upon his
shield, instead of appearingparma inglorius alba.
In point of fact, however, these works are already so widely known,
that their fame is equally creditable to the author and to the reader.
It is creditable to the reading public that there should be so many
among them able to appreciate books based upon a tone of feeling so
high and pure as that which prevades the “ Ages of Faith.” We had
heard with surprise that a stereotype edition had lately appeared at
Cincinnati,—in what, not very long ago, were the backwoods of Ame
rica ; but we considered that no work could better fill the long even
ings of a solitary settler, and we rejoiced that he had such an excellent
companion. More needed, however, to him whose time is engrossed
by worldly pursuits, are pages which may waft his soul away from
petty passing cares ; and, carrying it to ages long gone, purify it as
the air is purified by every shower from heaven. On this account,
we rejoice to see this reprint in a cheap and popular form. The work
is indeed brought out in a style highly creditable to the spirited pub
lisher.
By “Ages of Faith,” Mr. Digby would signify what we, in other
language, term the middle ages.
“ The middle ages, then I said, were ages of highest grace to men ;
ages of faith, ages when all Europe was Catholic ; when vast temples
were seen to rise in every place of human concourse to give glory to
God and to exalt men’s souls to sanctity ; when houses of holy peace
and order were found amid woods and desolate mountains, on the
banks of placid lakes as well as on solitary rocks of the ocean : ages
of sanctity which witnessed a Bede, an Alcuin, a Bernard, a Francis,
and crowds who followed them as they did Christ: ages of vast and
beneficent intelligence, in which it pleased the Holy Spirit to display
the power of the seven gifts in the lives of an Anselm, a Thomas of
Aquinum, and the saintly flock whose steps a cloister guarded : ages
of the highest civil virtue ; which gave birth to the laws and institu
tions of an Edward, a Lewis, a Suger : ages of the noblest art which
beheld a Ghiotto, a Michael Angelo, a Raffaello, a Dominichino :
ages of poetry which heard an Avitus, a Caedmon, a Dante, a
Shakespear, a Calderon : ages of more than mortal heroism which
produced a Tancred and a Godfrey : ages of majesty which knew a
Charlemagne, an Alfred, and the sainted youth who bore the lily :
ages, too, of England’s glory, when she appears, not even excluding a
comparison with the Eastern Empire, as the most truly civilized country
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101
on the globe ; when the sovereigns of the greater part of the western
world applied to her schools for instructors ; when she sends forth
her saints to evangelize the nations of the north, and to diffuse spiri
tual treasure over the whole world : when heroes flock to her courts
to behold the models of reproachless chivalry, and emperors leave
their thrones to adore God at the tombs of the martyrs.”
Now, it is impossible to gainsay one word of what the author here
advances ; at the same time that every one must feel that such a train
of feeling is not likely to produce an accurate description of the times
to which it refers. The “ Middle Ages ” are, in fact, here made to
include all the period between the fall of the western empire and the
more recent settlement of Europe :—a wide field assuredly, and one
which must present examples of every highest virtue. Still, we must
observe, that those who are not resolved to look upon them so decidedly
en beau, will find therein no fewer examples of every monstrous vice.
We cannot think the ages which have passed away more intellectual
than those which now exist, nor more civilized. More piety may,
certainly, have been felt by particular classes than the same classes
now exhibit ; still, without quite denying Voltaire’s assertion “ que
la pudeur s’est enfuit des cœurs pour se réfugier sur les lèvres,” we
maintain that, on the whole, a higher standard of morality obtains
now than the so-called “ Ages of Faith ” ever witnessed. Morality,
we know, is not piety ; still it is its near handmaid, and does not
exclude it : and Mr. Digby must consider that, if so many models of
piety during these latter ages have not been held up to veneration,
they may, no less, have preceded and be still living amongst us ; though
time and the decrees of consistories have not yet adjudicated upon
their claims. How many a “ village Hampden,” all unknown, con
stantly fights the battle of the cross and prays unseen
“ As his whole life were one communion day !”
Mr. Digby, however, does not profess to write the history of the
middle ages : though the examples that he brings forward are so
varied and often so beautiful, that, in making good his own position,
he necessarily, conveys much collateral information to the majority of
his readers. We could dwell long upon his volumes ; but we shall
have opportunities of recurring to them as the several parts come
before us. At present, we will only say that we have a high opinion
of him who wrote, and a no less high opinion of him who delights to
read these amiable compilations.
Vacation Rambles and Thoughts, comprising the Recollections of
Three Continental Tours: in the vacations of 1841, 42, and 43.
By T. N. Talfourd, D.C.L., Sergeant-at-Law. 2 Vols.
These volumes contain a great deal of very pleasant reading,
written in an agreeable, sensible, and cheerful strain. The scenes
they describe are, indeed, well known to most of our readers : and it
was not likely that a man of Mr. Talfourd’s age and professional habits
should have much of that power of comparison which gives life and
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interest to the power of observation. Still it is impossible that a man
of his eminence, the author of Ion to boot, should not give novelty to
descriptions of the most beaten roads : and it is equally impossible
that, when such a man sits down to tell us what his thoughts and
impressions are, we should not hear much that must and ought to
interest us. The reading of these “ Vacation Rambles ” will enliven
the drudgery of the student with thoughts of pleasant times to come.
We have not room for any extracts ; but the whole work will well
repay perusal.
The Highlands of .¿Ethiopia. By Major AV. Cornwallis Harris.
3 vols. 8vo. 1844.
Some travellers can journey from Dan to Beersheba and prove to
us that it is not all barren : and some can pass through countries
which we should have imagined teeming with matters of interest and
excitement, and then record their impressions, if impressions they
have, in a style which would scarcely have been justified by a journey
from Beersheba to Dan. What would not the author of a book of
travels over this macadamised surface of Europe give for such a mean
of attraction as the very title of the book we are now noticing.
“ Bless my soul !” he would say ; “ the Highlands of Ethiopia ! why
my book is made ! it is all interest I the whole country must teem
with ‘ plums ’—sponte tulere sua ! ’tis not indeed a land of Cocaigne.”
“ When so ready all nature its cookery yields:
Maccaroni and Parmesan grows in the fields ;
Little birds fly about with the true pheasant taint,
And the geese are all born with the liver complaint.”
“ It is not, indeed, a land of Cocaigne, seeing that the Abyssinians
eat their meat raw, and often without killing the ox whereof they cut
their living steak. But even this style of no-cookery will be inte
resting to the satiated palates of modern gourmands. The Highlands
of Ethiopia 1 Never was such an interesting book as mine will be 1”
But as cookery, however exquisite, palls, at length, upon the
stomach, so may scenes of romance—so may the country of Johnson’s
“ Happy Valley,” and of Tasso’s “ Clorinda.” Major Harris seems
to have found this to be the case ; for we search his work in vain for
those fresher feelings and that gusto with which he must have first
invaded these unknown regions. We have not space to do more than
record our general feeling of disappointment. Nothing seems to move
our author from his equanimity except the renewed attempts of the
Western Christians to convert the Abyssinians from theii' corrupt
traditions of religion ;—unless, indeed, it be their present state of
abominable superstition and immorality : and we have much regretted
that, in this instance, we could not understand his argument—or,
rather, the cause of much of his wrath. The Abyssinian religion is
so ancient that it ought not to have been meddled with. The Abys
sinian religion is so corrupt that the record of its doings is disgusting.
We cannot trace the argument.
In one respect, however, we see no difference between the habits of
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103
the people of these regions and those followed by more civilized nations.
“In Shoa,” says Major Harris, “ a girl is reckoned according to the
value of her property ; and the heiress to a house, a field and a bed
stead, is certain to add a husband to her list before many summers
have shone over her head.” Shoa is not the only country where a
girl is thought more of for the possession of such accomplishments, any
more than Ireland is the only land in which a male lover is prized for
the qualifications of Barney Bralagan—
I’ve got nine pigs and a sow,
I’ve got a sty to keep them ;
A calf and a brindled cow ;
I’ve got a cabin to sleep them.
I’ve the ring to make us wed;
Some whiskey to treat us gaily ;
A mattress feather bed ;
And a handsome new shilelah.
Alas ! alas ! Hence so many unhappy marriages in all countries :
hence so many domestic quarrels : hence the furious wife and unhappy
husband—“ Infelix, qui non sponsce prcecepta furentis audierit“ the
husband who would not obey his furious wife.” But we will not be
sentimental.
Maps of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge.
Chapman and Hall. London : 1844.
After lying about for some years, these maps have been, at last,
completed ; and we presume that most of our readers who had sub
scribed to them have had their copies bound. We need not ask them how
they like their bargain ; but we do think it right to expose the catch
penny system on which this publication has been conducted by a
society in which most people thought confidence might be reposed.
We remark not upon the geographical accuracy of the maps, which
may be perfect : we remark not upon the price, even, because sub
scribers knew to what they engaged themselves ; but we do remark
upon the fact that, for some time, those maps have been advertized at
two-thirds of the price charged to subscribers ; and we do remark
upon the fact that, after the earlier numbers, the size should have
been changed from that of the plates first issued, and every variety of
shape and proportion introduced, so that it is impossible that the com
pleted work can be bound together without every imaginable fold,
and without subjecting the student to examine the volume now sidewise and now endwise, according to the shape of the leaf. The map
of Ireland, for example, which is sixteen inches high by fourteen wide,
is followed by that of North Ireland fourteen inches high by nineteen
inches wide : and between these two extremes, every variety of size
exists in glorious confusion. And let it be observed that this scan
dalous indifference to the appearance of the work and to the comfort
of readers, obtains in a set of maps which, unbound, have cost, even
subscribers, 15Z. 7 s.
“ Know thyself,” is an ancient warning : we say, know the Society
for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge.
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Ellen Middleton, a Novel. By Lady Georgina Fullarton. 3 vols.
Second Edition. London, 1845.
Although we ourselves are somewhat fastidious in our approbation
of mere works of fiction, we must admit that “ Ellen Middleton” pos
sesses the grand characteristic of a good novel,—it is very interesting.
In many a house, we have seen the younger members of the family all
absorbed in the pages of this attractive work. For our own taste, it
possesses a too strongly religious cast; for when we do read a novel,
we feel as poor Walter Scott felt on card-playing,—that, instead of
drivelling away existence on shilling points, like old ladies in country
towns, it were more excusable to plunge in at once, neck or nothing.
So when we sit down to enjoy ourselves over a novel, we seek for en
joyment, and nothing more. Those who are content to make and to
find light reading a vehicle for more serious thoughts, have our appro
bation,—we wish we could say our sympathy.
The story of “ Ellen Middleton” is, however, artistically con
structed. We have written too many novels ourselves, for the fair and
clever authoress to fear that we shall betray the plot. The workings
of conscience in her heroine are powerfully portrayed ; and the man
ner in which the clergyman obtains her confidence is novel and
striking. We are glad to see, by a new edition, that this novel still
holds its ground.
Defence of the Game Laws, in reply to their assailants, and on their
effects on the morals of the poor. By Hon. Grantley F. Berkeley,
M.P. Second edition, 8vo. Longman and Co.
Mr. Berkeley's defence of the game laws has afforded a day’s sport
to most of the gentlemen of the press: but, althoug hit has been so
generally made game of, we are rejoiced to see that his treatise has
reached a second edition. For ourselves, we highly approve of his
system. Give every man you meet a “ punch on the head,” and put
on the “ handcuffs” to prevent him for compelling you to hurt him,
and you will, assuredly, put a stop to all poaching. Follow out the
same plan; put every man you find, off the turnpike-road, in the
stocks, and you will, assuredly, put a stop to all petty larceny and to
felony of every description. Why are mad people put into straightwaistcoats?—to prevent them from doing wrong. The plan adopted
by the Norman who made the New Forest, was the only good one for
the morals of the poor. Drive out of the country all but game-keepers
and game-keepers’ assistants, and you will put an end to poaching.
It is,- however, impossible that Mr. Grantley Berkeley should write
anything that is not spirited and entertaining; and it is very seldom
indeed that he starts off on a wrong scent.
�
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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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Dolman's Magazine. Vol. I, No. I, March 1845
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Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 104 p.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
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1845
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G5550
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[Unknown]
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[s.n.]
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PARKER’S
LONDON MAGAZINE.
INTRODUCTION.
We are told by Addison, in the opening paper of the Spectator,
that he had observed that ‘ a reader seldom peruses a book with
pleasure until he knows whether the writer of it be a black or
fair man, of a mild or choleric disposition, married or a bachelor,
with other particulars of the like nature that conduce very much
to the right understanding of an author.’ And with a most con
siderate regard for people’s prejudices herein, he proceeded forth
with to furnish an account of the several persons to be engaged
in the work. Now, with every wish to show a like consideration
for the reasonable expectations of our readers, we venture to
think that they will be satisfied with an exposition of our prin
ciples without a portrait of ourselves. Not that we have any
reason to be ashamed either of the number or the character of
our contributors. Among them may be found authors of acknow
ledged reputation in every department of the republic of letters,
and from their varied resources we hope to provide for the
public a miscellany replete with instruction and amusement, which
shall be welcome in the family of every English Churchman.
Thus, while we withhold the names of our literary staff, it may
be well to state the principles by which their contributions will
be measured. Of these principles, we may say that their formal
expression lies in a nutshell. We have already proclaimed them
to the world, as ‘ Reverence for the Church and Loyalty to the
Queen.’ And, therefore, here we might be content to leave the
reader with the assurance that able hands, guided by honest
hearts and well-informed heads, were enlisted in his service,
and that he might rely upon a constant succession of articles
calculated to entertain as well as to inform, and having a ten- •
dency to improve and strengthen both the judgment and the
feelings of all hearty Churchmen and loving subjects. But, un
happily, parties have arisen in the Church no less than in the
State; and when one man talks of the principles of the Church,
his next neighbour takes alarm, and is at a loss to divine what
he may exactly mean by the Church. We will, therefore, in the
outset of our course disclaim all connexion with parties within
Vol. I.
B
\
�2
INTRODUCTION.
the Church, as parties. It will be no business of ours to array
brother against brother, nor to agitate questions which we
cannot settle. We long to see the Church of England what her
old parochial theory makes her, and what in the language of
eulogy she is styled, the Poor Man’s Church. In another place
we have alluded to the process by which the poor of this coun
try have become alienated from the Church of their home. Our
Parish Churches are no longer thronged because they are our
Parish Churches; and in the great majority of our large popula
tions there is a widely-spread disaffection towards the ministra
tions which formerly were the bond of union among all classes,
who saw in their appointed Clergyman the link which joined
them all together as one man.
And why is this ? The mischief is here. The head has said
to the feet, I need you not. And the feet have taken the rebuff
literally and foregone all sympathy with the head. The con
straining feeling of a common membership in one Body has lost
its vitality and so its hold—and men have come to think of the
Church rather as an office or department in the State, than as a
corporate life, needing for its proper health a free circulation of
life-giving blood through all its parts. Worldly distinctions have
obtained place in the Divine kingdom: and the blessings of
poverty, and the honoui and regard due to that station which
*
the Redeemer chose as His own, have been well nigh lost sight
of. The very sanctuary itself, in which it might have been
hoped that rich and poor would have forgotten their own dis
parity in their common distance from the Maker of All, has
been made to minister to earthly pride : and one generation has
succeeded into the place of its forerunner, only to bear testimony
to the corroding influence of ambition and the hardening effect
of riches.
We are not advocates for rash change; we would not
willingly interrupt the order of that man’s devotional feelings
who has been used from very childhood to the seclusion and
distinction of his well-enclosed pew, but still we must protest
against the absurd mockery of calling the Church of England
the Poor Man's Church, unless within the material temples where
we worship there is a provision for the accommodation of our
population upon principles which are not obnoxious to the
censure of the Apostle, spoken in reference to courts of judica
ture among the early Christians (James ii. 1, 2,3). We repeat
we would not rashly abolish pews; but still there is much truth
in the following extract from a newly published pamphlet * which
,
in very good temper, if not always with unerring wisdom, grap
ples with some manifest evils. It thus speaks of some practical
evils of the pew system:—
Parochial Disorganization. By P. E. Turnbull, Esq. London: Parker.
�INTRODUCTION.
L
3
One of the projects in question was, to raise an income for the
Minister by the letting of the pews. Of the pew system in general, a
deep conviction is rapidly gaining ground, that it is one of the deadliest
stains on our national religion. A spurious product of the Reforma
tion, (for it had no antecedent existence,) it has gone far to nullify, as
regards our Anglican Church, the happy effects of that great event, for
it has practically excluded the poor from attendance at our purified
ministrations. It has parcelled out the body of that sacred edifice
which is theoretically open to all, into nests of half-filled chambers of
exclusiveness, the allotment of which is too often used as the instrument
of a petty parochial patronage. It has destroyed the rights of the
many, for the benefit, or rather for the ill-placed indulgence, of the few.
It is even chargeable with a greater sin than this:—it has cast forth
those to whom emphatically our Lord declared that His Gospel should
be preached, to find a preaching of that Gospel, as best they may,
wheresoever chance shall direct: and thus prove, by sad experience, the
practical working of our parochial system.
A better spirit is awaking’ among us: and the so-called
Evangelical Clergy have been as zealous as their so-called High
Church brethren in encouraging the building of Churches in
which the poor may feel that they are indeed in their Father’s
House. And we are strongly of opinion that if all parties in the
Church would only address themselves to the remedy of the
real practical grievances which all admit to have sprung up like
mushrooms in the night of past ministerial faithlessness, they all
would find that their present differences are unduly exalted
while their points of agreement are kept in the back-ground. It
is surely unworthy of the great body of the Church, Clergy and
Laity alike, to exhibit to the world signs of disunion upon
externals, while the poorer members of that Church require all
the aid which could result from the most united action. These
are subjects to which we must recur, and if our readers will have
patience with us, they will find that our Churchmanship is of
the good old-fashioned sort, which teaches to feai’ God, honour
the Queen, and love the brotherhood: and we would therefore
conclude these remarks ■with a few words upon a subject of allabsorbing interest.
RICH AND POOR
there must evei’ be in the land—for out of the land the poor
can never cease : they are with us always, and in order that
they may inherit the blessings which the Gospel promises to
Christian poverty, the rich too must be an abiding element in
God’s moral government. Hence since there must always be
poor, and the rich are requisite to the happiness of the poor,
the relation of Rich and Poor must be a theme of importance
to the Politician, and of sacred interest to the Churchman.
Be it ours then to reflect as well as to direct the general
temper of the times in which we live : and while we acknowledge
that nothing occupies so large a portion of attention at the
B 2
�4
INTRODUCTION.
present moment as the state of the Poor, let it be ours to give
the subject a candid and Christian consideration. It is a sub
ject that interests all classes. The Ecclesiastic, the Philanthro
pist, the Legislator, and the Politician—ah have their thoughts
directed to the condition of the Poor. It forms one of the
branches of every inquiry, one of the principal objects in every
new movement, one of the topics in every controversy. And
well it may : for we are reaping the bitter harvest which neglect
of this all-absorbing question has sown. We have year aftei'
year been extending those operations which require a dense
population, and which draw in their train a rapidly multiplying
people, and yet we have made no adequate provision for their
present well doing, nor assisted them in that discharge of the
duties of to-day, which is the true preservative against the evils
of to-morrow.
It is true that the temporal distresses of the manufacturing
and other classes of the poor may have been aggravated by cir
cumstances over which man has no control, by adverse seasons,
fluctuations of commerce, and the like; still we cannot conceal
from ourselves that much of their physical discomfort might have
been prevented or relieved by us, and that, if we would, we might
have afforded them that instruction in sound faith and right
practice which would have been the best corrective of their
faults, and would have saved t/zcm. from the wretchedness of
their present state, and us from its danger, and reproach, and
punishment.
It is a fearful fact, and herein is involved our guilt as a
nation, that our poor are very poor, while our rich are very rich.
They are also luxurious in their tastes, expensive in their habits,
extravagant in spending upon themselves and niggardly in spend
ing upon others. And yet men and women have died of want,
or, driven by hunger, have madly rushed upon death, which
was already marching towards them, with a welcome embrace:
and scores of people have found their only nightly shelter in
the trunks of trees and on the cold turf: and this in the Metro
polis, on a royal domain, surrounded by the dwellings of the
wealthiest and the noblest in the land, and within sight of at
least two royal palaces.
But the worst of the grievance is here. All this extra
poverty and destitution have arisen, as we have said, at a time
when the amount of wealth in the country is unexampled. In
Railways alone, from Januarv, 1826, to January, 1844, the sum
of £79,026,317 was raised for constructing 121 lines.
Last
session Acts were granted for 26 Railways, the capital required
for which is £11,121,000.
Of the schemes projected during this autumn, the nominal
capital is £127,000,000. Many of these are now virtually extinct,
as then projectors have not complied with the standing orders
o Pailiament to lodge then- plans in the proper quarter before
�INTRODUCTION.
5
the 30th November; but between three and four millions is the
amount spoken of as required for the first deposit of those in
progress.
The Income Tax produced last year £5,387,455 ; this repre
sents an income of ¿184,000,000, held by persons having more
than £150 a-year.
The Funds have, for the first time during almost a century,
risen above par. The causes of this unequal distribution of wealth
form a branch of enquiry of vital importance to the statesman.
These facts are only adduced here, 'to show that our almsgiving
has not been restrained for want of means, but for want of a just
perception of the extent of the duty and of the blessedness of
the privilege. We know what is done by Poor Laws, and by
Hospitals, and by Savings Banks, and self-supporting Institutions,
and we honour all that is done, and are thankful for it. But
these Societies, whether for the relief or the prevention of dis
tress, are not the only remedies which our social state needs to
restore it to healthy and vigorous action. There has been too
much charity done by deputy. Men have lost sight of the
privilege of personal contact with the poor. The rich have too
often grown proud and contemptuous. The poor have too often
become murmuring and rebellious. Absence of kindly feeling,
and in its place the presence of an overbearing supremacy, have
banished from their hearts the spirit of contentment and of
thankfulness. Let it be our welcome office to draw rich and
poor once more together in bonds of amity—let it be ours to
make the condition of the poor better, and that of the rich
safer, by inducing both to cultivate kindly feelings and practise
kindly deeds. It is too commonly the case at present, that the
poor hate the rich and the rich despise the poor. They are the
one set against the other, £ the poor against the rich, the many
against the few/ Moral force is with the rich, and physical force
is with the poor; but with such a population as we have been
naming, moral force must gradually lose its influence, and the
consciousness of the power to resist it successfully will soon be
the only thing wanting for its overthrow.
We must reserve for future numbers the probing of the sores
which fester upon our body politic, and make us all so restless
and so uneasy: and we know it will be easier to point out the
evils than suggest their cure. But we have one panacea which
has been but feebly tried, and that is the Church. Not the
Church of man, but the Church of God; and strongly confident
in the power of God’s Church we fear no foes. We would only
in the outset say to all superiors, whether they be agriculturists,
manufacturers, miners, or what else, they must not be the
employers merely, but the friends; not only the task-masters, but
the protectors of their dependents. To this all must come.
Whatsoever power is given to any man and spent upon self
is squandered: it is no longer his. He has shown himself un
�6
INTRODUCTION.
worthy of its possession. Let the rich and those in high station
remember that though they are on high—yet volcanic fires
smoulder beneath the mountain’s summit: and then’true security
is in safe rather than high ground. Let such know that a peace
ful and happy people are the solid basis on which to erect a
superstructure of greatness, such as can only be raised when
‘ Property shall acknowledge as in the old days of Faith, that
Labour is his twin brother, and that the essence of tenure is the
performance of duty.’ Let us lay aside our selfishness and
learn to care for one another—already the temper is born among
us which loves to lend
An arm of aid to the weak,
A friendly hand to the friendless;
Kind words, so short to speak,
But whose echo is endless.
And we have made a determined bound from the ruinous
course in which the faithless earthly Philosophy of our time was
leading men, and we have chosen our steps at the bidding of
that better and Divine Philosophy which Holy Church alone
is commissioned to shed abroad upon a sinful world. This spirit
and temper of holy faith and true Church temper it must be
ours to strengthen. It is the energetic principle which has
nerved for stern conflict in other days—and its power is not
gone. We believe that it now no longer sleeps. At all events it
shall be ours to rouse it—and to show that we were in earnest
when we said we 'would faithfully and fearlessly enforce and
maintain the Duties of the Rich—and the Rights of the Poor;
always remembering that Station has its divinely appointed
honour, which cannot be withheld without injury to those who
ought to pay it. Poverty has its claims and its rights on the
same terms as Riches—namely, the performance of its duties.
And as the Rich owe Protection, and Kindness, and Thankful
ness, so the Poor owe Service.
�7
MERRY LONDON IN THE OLDEN TIME.
Chapter I.
‘ Happie and Merrie England’ is our motto. We have said
that such she once was, and such, with our assistance, we hope
to see her again. But here we are likely to be met by some
matter-of-fact people (by which is often meant those who are
especially innocent as to all matters of fact,) with the preliminary
inquiry as to whether England ever really was either happy or
merry, or whether the notion is not rather one of those tradi
tional figments which men are wont to take for granted without
insisting on much proof; just as venerable old gentlemen are
accustomed to look back upon and speak of their school-boy
days as being the most delectable section of their existence, the
simple truth being that the scars of the Rugby birch have dis
appeared from their bodies, and the sundry blubberings over
difficult tasks vanished from their minds, leaving an indistinct
halo of bats and balls, sugar-plums, and holidays, which shine
brighter in their memories, and leave a sweeter relish on their
appetites than the perpetual leisure and daily feastings of their
now uniform and somewhat jaded existence. Such being an
objection to our text, in limine, it certainly does behove us to
prove to sceptics like these that there was mirth and happiness in
the world in days of yore; and to bring conviction to their intel
lects the natural process seems to be a distinct detail of what that
mirth and happiness was. There is, no doubt, a cloud over the
past; and men will estimate by-gone sections of time according to
the depth which they can penetrate through its dimness. ‘The
dark ages,’ it has at last begun to be discovered, owe their
gloominess not so much to their own intrinsic haziness, as to the
feebleness of the optics which are gazing back upon them. As
the Rosse-like telescopes of modern industry and investigation
are brought successively to bear upon these as yet unexplored
portions of the historical heavens, bright twinkling stars are
brought out from the hitherto obscure distance, and we find that
our ancestors possessed not merely our own complement of phy
sical members, but at least our own grasp of mental power; and
as knowledge was then acquired with more mental labour, and
the habits and necessities of the times demanded less attention to
the common-place occupations of merely ‘preparing to live,’ the
probability is in their favour, that in all intellectual pursuits
which did not involve physical and experimental science, they
would be at least on a par with us upon whom has shined the
peripatetic philosophy of the British Association,—and such we
find to have been the case. To look back, for a moment, to the
fifteenth and two following centuries,—our telescopes are not yet
furnished with lenses of sufficient power to carry us safely much
�8
MERRY LONDON IN THE OLDEN TIME.
farther,—of what a lofty character were the studies and even
the amusements of the educated classes of that time, compared
with those of our own day! When Shakespeare and Ben Jonson,
and their mighty host of compeers, provided the daily food for
the mere amusement and fun of the people—when Milton wrote
masques for private parties among the nobility—when students
in college halls enacted Latin farces, instead of priding them
selves (as embryo Bishops now do) for being ‘the best oar on the
river’ — when Hooker and Taylor, and Barrow and Pocock,
formed specimens of the ordinary run of preachers to whom
even village congregations had then the privilege of listening,—
it cannot be said that it was for want of intellectual food that
old England was not then ‘merrie and happie.’ But our special
business is more with a class below these in station and mental
culture. We write for all classes; and it is of all that we shall
naturally be expected to give some account, when we compare
the present state of the people at large with their condition in
days gone by. ‘What say you, Mr. Reviewer, to the condition
of the commonalty of this realm; what of the shopkeeper, the
tailor and draper, the horse and man milliner, the gold, silver,
white, and black-smith, the country gentleman, and the city
apprentice? What were their amusements, what was their intel
lectual stature?’ Our present object, Mr. Querist, is to answer
the very questions which you somewhat peremptorily and tri
umphantly propose. We wish to show you that it was, then as
always, ‘like master, like man;’ and we are enabled to do so,
as far as London is concerned, (and what is London but the type
of ‘all England,’ the be-all and the end-all of all that provincial
industry can produce, the aggregate of all agrestic wealth, wit,
and wisdom?) this, we say, we are enabled to do by a very
interesting publication which has lately been sent forth by the
Percy Society* one of those now numerous associations lately
,
established for the purpose of digging among our ancestors’
bones, and exhuming their departed relics; and though the pro
duct be as often beads and tinsel as sterling metal, yet all is
curious if not valuable, as exhibiting what formed the minds or
amused the fancies of our fathers of the olden time. Among
these societies none have more honestly fulfilled their promises,
or more fully satisfied the expectations of their supporters than
the ‘Percy Society;’ and as the works published by them are
necessarily out of the reach of the public at large, we consider
that we shall be doing our readers an acceptable service by
presenting to them an abstract of the well-compiled work to
which we have just alluded, presenting, as it does, a strikingly
drawn picture of ‘Merry London in the Olden Time.’ From
this view we think that the Laudator temporis acti may safely
The Lord Mayor s Pageants, &c., &c., by Frederick W. Fairholt, Esq.
�MERRY LONDON IN THE OLDEN TIME.
9
venture to draw a conclusion in favour of his own premises, and
to assert that, as far as one department of mental cultivation is
concerned, the present has no just grounds of looking back with
scorn upon the past; and that while among the highei’ classes
the wholesome food supplied from the inexhaustible dramatic
stores of Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Massinger, and their contem
poraries, has degenerated into melo-drama and extravaganza, the
rational amusements of the middle and lower classes have under
gone a similar depreciation, and the intelligible and intelligent
exhibition of the Lord Mayor’s Pageant has sunk down into the
inane fooleries and degrading frivolities of Bartholomew fair.
The history of Lord Mayors’ Pageants carries us back into
the obscure but picturesque era of the Middle Ages. Whether
the Norman dynasty brought with them from their original
French territories, the tournament, the troubadour, and the dra
matic mystery, or founded them in their new and richer domains,
and transferred them back to the land of their birth and often
of their love, may be matter of historical debate; but certain it
is, that it is to that period that we are to look for their com
mencement ; and that while the king or baron had his Joust, and
the lady her Trouvère, and the Church her Mystery and Morality,
the guilds, or fraternities of tradesmen, had their cognate amuse
ments of shews and pageants, and especially those of the Low
Countries, once so wealthy, and which exercised so powerful an
influence on the political movements of the middle ages. These
companies of merchants, unlike the mere trading societies of the
present day, were great patrons of literature and the arts, and
employed their vast wealth in reviving a taste for the then
dormant literature of classical times, as well as in prosecuting
discoveries into those new regions of knowledge which an ex
tended intercourse with as yet unknown and distant nations
opened to their view. The London companies followed with a
rapid step the bright example set them by those of Flanders.
The Hanseatic League found a generous rival in the Mercers’
Company. Caxton was its sworn freeman and apprentice. £ A
mercer of London, named William Praat,’ encouraged him to
translate and print The Book of Good Manners; and Rogei' Thor
ny e, mercer, induced his successor, Wynkyn de Wolde, to print
his Polychronicon.
The illustrious Gresham derived his idea
of what was at first styled ‘Britaine’s Bourse,’ or the Royal
Exchange, from the Bourse at Antwerp, constructed in 1531;
and the gay processions of the various guilds of Antwerp, its
muses, Cyclops, gods, musicians, blacksmiths, butchers, &c., of
which Albert Durer gives a very picturesque account in a journal
of his visit to the Low Countries in 1520, furnished, no doubt,
the model on which, mutatis mutandis, the Lord Mayor’s Shew
was afterwards constructed. In these processions, the useful
seem to have had a proper and sensible precedence of the orna
mental arts. After a long list of worthies, from sailors and
�10
MERRY LONDON IN THE OLDEN TIME.
smiths down to breeches-makers, comes a group of jesters, and
then fencers, harquebussiers, young and old bowyers, young and
old cross-bowyers. The cobblers, inverting the ordei’ in which
their services are required, precede the shoemakers; and the
reason on which the post of honour was thus assigned to them
is well worth extracting: ‘King Charles the Fifth was fond of
parading the towns incog., and thus getting at the genuine
sentiments of the people on him and his government. Rambling
at Brussels in this way, his boot required immediate mending,
and he was directed to the nearest cobbler. It was St. Crispin’s
Day, and the cobblei’ resolutely refused to work, “ even for
Charles himself!” but he invited him in to join his merry-making
companions; the offer was accepted, and after much free but
good-humoured discourse upon political and other matters, the
emperor departed. The next day, much to his surprise, the
cobbler was sent for to court, where, contrary to his fears, the
emperor thanked him for his hospitality, and gave him a day to
consider what he would ask as a suitable reward. He expressed
a wish that the cobblers of Flanders might bear for their arms
a boot, with the emperor’s crown upon it. This modest request
was granted, and he was told to ask another, when he declared
his utmost wish to be that the company of cobblers should take
precedence of the shoemakers/
Mr. Fairholt next proceeds to show, from an examination of
an exceedingly curious old representation of the Antwerp pro
cessions, engraved on wood by John Jeghers, and published on
five folio sheets, about the end of the fifteenth century, that
they are so similar to the London exhibitions as almost to be
identical. First come mounted trumpeters and kettle-drummers,
clothed in the livery of Antwerp, followed by two men on foot
bearing the arms of Antwerp and Spain. Then comes a great
ship, fully rigged and manned, having fifers and drummers on
board, with men in the yards and top-castles. This pageant
first appeared in the triumphal entry of Charles the Fifth, and
was exhibited to denote the privileges of Spanish trade then
conferred upon this city. Smaller ships follow, to denote the
extensive trade then enjoyed by her; she having as many as two
thousand vessels at one time in the Scheldt. An enormous
whale next appears, on wdiose back sits Orpheus playing on his
viol, while a no less harmonious bag-piper walks beside him. The
whale is attended by two dolphins, on which sit two boys guiding
him with a bridle, ‘ as a token that the dolphin plays with
children; for Pliny says that in still water they allow" children to
stroke them, and swim upon their backs.’ The persons w'ho
bear the dolphins are concealed by painted cloths that hang to
the ground, resembling water w’ith fish of all sorts (and many
not yet classified) sporting therein. The larger whale, which
measured twenty-seven feet in length by fifteen feet in height,
was contrived to contain a reservoir of water, which, by means
�MERRY LONDON IN THE OLDEN TIME.
11
of a pump acting like a bellows, could be made to spout it upon
the spectators when it was least expected, and where the mob
was most dense. This larger whale was made by the oil-mer
chants to do honour to the procession, and carried Neptune
occasionally. The whale, and the ship, like the dolphins, were
hung about with cloths painted with appropriate devices, to con
ceal the means by which they were moved forward. ‘ The next
pageant,’ continues our author, ‘ is one which belongs equally to
the Lord Mayor’s pageants—the Triumph of Neptune. He is
represented as sitting in a car, the sides of which are carved in
the figure of a fish, the canopy shaped like a crown, and fish are
suspended from it as ornaments. Amphitrite is seated beside
him, and the car is drawn by two sea-horses, guided by infant
tritons; he is attended by other tritons, male and female, who
sound sea-shells, and before him swim two mermaids, with their
glasses and combs.’ Next in this marvellous medley we have
one nevei’ to be overlooked or forgotten—the giant. A pageant
without a giant was sure to be little better than an utter failure,
from the days of Charles the Fifth down to those of Mr. Aider
man Gibbs. Four of these worthies graced the procession in
the city of Chester in the year 1564, on the eve of St. John the
Baptist; and we are told that on one occasion in Spain, on the
festival of Corpus Christi, eight great giants were exhibited.
The Antwerp giant, however, had a peculiar propriety in the
procession, and had especial charms for an Antwerp mob; so
much so, that Mr. Fairholt considers that he may justly be
esteemed the proper fathei’ of the whole race of European GogMagogs. He haunted the place where Antwerp now stands, and
exacted a toll at the risk of losing both their hands, from all
who passed up or down the Scheldt. At last he is encountered,
and his own hands cut off, by Braban, a famous general of Julius
Caesar’s (no bad military school), who afterwards gave his own
name to Brabant. We have now a veritable Mount of Par
nassus, about eighteen feet in height (strange that it is found so
difficult to climb !) with the nine Muses, sitting in three rows
above each other, playing on musical instruments, Apollo seated
at top with his violin, Pegasus on the topmost point, and a figure
of Fame placed upon each side of him. Lastly, after various
emblematical devices called ‘ cars of devotion,’ comes the con
cluding and most popular exhibition of the whole pageant—the
great Morality of the performance, and one which probably
produced more edifying impressions on the rising roguery of those
equivocal times than all the monkish warnings and friars’ frightenings by which the ignorant of these days were deterred from
following the devices of Satan. This was the great visible exhi
bition of Hell-Mouth, with all its attendant and consequent
horrors, which closed and wound up the dramatic scene, and
which (as dangerous matter for us to touch,) we think it safest
to present to our readers in Mr. Fairholt’s own racy language:—
�12
MERRY LONDON IN THE OLDEN TIME.
1 It takes the form of a monstrous and grotesque head,
having a sort of crown of spikes across the forehead, above
which sits a devil with four spotted wings, as portei' of hell,
holding in his hand a hook with three prongs, of the form usu
ally depicted in all infernal scenes from a very early period, as
they are exhibited in early illuminations. A devil behind is hold
ing a torch, and the scene is enlivened by a male and female
demon in grotesque costume, who dance in comic evolutions to
the music of a third demon, who lustily plays on an infernal bag
pipe, the chanter of which assumes the form of a serpent.’
‘ In Barnaby Googe’s translation of Naogeorgus’ Popish
Kingdom, we are told that usually on the great Catholic feast of
Corpus Christi:
The devil’s house is drawne about, wherein there doth appeare
A wondrous sort of damned sprites, with foul and fearful looke.
And the descriptive account of the procession at Antwerp in
1685, informs us, that the devils were seen tormenting damned
souls, by tearing their flesh with red-hot pincers, or pouring
molten gold down the throats of unjust bankrupts and debtors,
who were flayed by their tormentors. Drunkards were forced
to swallow burning wine, and the -whole scene was intended to
impress the spectators with a horror of hell torments.’
Precisely in the same manner, and in much earlier times, was
hell exhibited to our ancestors in their Mysteries. Among the
items of expenditure printed by Mr. Sharpe from the books of the
Drapers’ Company of Coventry, we meet with the folio-wing:—
1537 It’m paide for paynting and makyng newe hell hede . xijd.
1538 It’m payd for mendyng hell hede ....
vjd.
1542 It'm payd for makying hell hede
.
.
. viiijs. ijd.
1554 It’m payd for payntyng hell hede newe.
.
.
xxd.
1556 It’m payde for kepying hell hede .... viijd.
1565 P’d to Jhon Hayt for paynting of hell mouthe
.
xvjd.
1567 P’d for makyng hell mouth and cloth for liyt . iiiis.
From the various entries for repairing, repainting, and re
making this pageant, it would appear to have seen rather active
service. There is a single item of much curiosity and interest
quoted by Mr. Sharpe, among the expenses for 1557,—
It’m payd for kepyn of fyer at Hell-mouthe .
.
.
iiijd.
which shows that some attention was bestowed to theatrical
effect in these pageants; and some danger was undergone in
bringing fire into the centre of so fragile an erection of wood
and canvass. A charge for coals to keep up hell-fire reads oddly
enough now.
The devils, that busied themselves after the most grotesque
fashion about this pageant, were especial favourites with the
people; and indulged in many a jest with the unfortunates who
fell into their clutches; and the authors of the old Mysteries
sometimes gave them an opportunity to display their vagaries,
�MERRY LONDON IN THE OLDEN TIME.
13
by introducing a little episode, such as the cheating hostess
of Chester, in the Mystery there performed, with whom the
audience could have little sympathy, and would therefore exceed
ingly enjoy the welcome given her by Satan and the demons:
Welcome, deare darlinge, to endles bale,
Useing cardes, dice, and cuppes small,
With many false othes to sell thy ale;
Now thou shalte have a feaste.
The porter of hell was an important character in the pa
geant, and is humorously alluded to by Heywood in his Foiir
P.’s; where the Pardoner, describing his visit to the infernal
regions, declares that the devil who kept the gate and himself
knew each other immediately,
For oft in the play of Corpus Christi
He had play’d the Devil at Coventrie.
In the Capper’s pageant, the devil had a club made of buck
ram, painted, and probably stuffed with wool; and from the fre
quent charges made for painting and repairing it, it would
appear that he laid about him with it lustily, to make fun for the
spectators. That these demons, like the modern theatrical
clowns, were paid extra wages for the extra exertions required
from them, is seen from the account for 1565, where we find
‘ payd to ye demon xxid.,’ while the bishops had but one shilling
each, and the angels only eight-pence.
We have dwelt the more minutely upon the history and cha
racter of this Antwerp pageant, because we agree with Mr. Fair
holt in considering it, if not in some degree the origin, at least
more than an average specimen of similar pageants in contem
porary and subsequent times, and as throwing much light upon
those to which we propose to draw our readers’ more parti
cular attention in future numbers—the Lord Mayor’s Shews. If,
then, our new friends have accompanied us with some degree of
patience through the somewhat entangled wilderness into which,
by way of introduction of our subject, we have thought it our
duty to lead them, we may fairly reckon upon their company
along the broad highway of the Lord Mayor’s Processions, which
now lies straight before them; more especially as we propose to
enliven the march by the songs and snatches of the city poets,
which, quaint as they may sometimes be, are interesting as pic
tures of amusements and manners long gone by, and as proofs
(as we set out with asserting) that Merry London in the Olden
Time mingled wisdom with its folly, and had method in its very
madness. Let us then, for the present, in the name of our
fraternity,—take leave of our new readers in the concluding
language of one of these ‘right merrie’ pageants:—
My friends, the company on whom I wait
Command me to salute you at your gate,
With their fraternal hearty wishes;—may
Your joys exceed the glory of this day.
�14
MERRY LONDON IN THE OLDEN TIME.
May never night approach them, never ill
Divert them, but be fair and rising still:
May you in traffic no disaster know,
Your riches never ebb, but ever flow;
Piety be your practice, and the poor
Never go empty-handed from your door.
May you grow up in honour’s seat, and prove
A subject for your king’s and city’s love.
May you live centuries of years, and see
Yourself still young in your posterity.
And so your company bids (in your own right)
Good morrow to your glories, not good night.
IDEALISM; Dr. ARNOLD and Mr. WARD.
Lord Bacon, it is well known, has given the designation of Idols
to several false notions, which commonly distort men’s judgments,
and hinder them from making any real progress in philosophy.
His woids may, with great propriety, be extended to the conduct
of seveial, in the pursuit of religious knowledge: and idols may
be strictly understood in their common acceptation of objects
of worship. For idolatry properly consists in attributing the
honour which is the right of the Creator alone, to the creature,
whether that creature be a substance of wood or stone, or a living
being, or an intellectual faculty. It takes place, whenever any
work or gift of God is exalted by man from its proper function
as an instrument, to the rank of a sovereign authority. Now it
is very plain, that of those religious extravagancies which are at
present distracting us, the true cause is often to be found in the
pernicious habit of setting up the individual fancy, as the arbiter
in questions upon which the wisest and best of men, in all ages,
have been slow to trust their individual judgment. This idolatry
of opinion, which used to be called Conceit, has ever been the
fruitful source of heresy and division; and would we account for
the dissatisfaction which is entertained towards the Church of
England, by persons of very distinct sympathies,—some blaming
her protest against Rome; others complaining that the tinsel of
the papacy yet disfigures her worship,—we shall find the predis
posing cause, in each instance, to be an overweening confidence
in the value and practicability of some imaginary model of ex
cellence. Then’ alleged reason (in which there is abundant self
deception,) is generally this,—that corruptions or deficiencies exist
in the Church of England, which hinder, as they think, devotion,
spirituality, or some of those sovereign benefits sought from the
ministrations of the Church by all earnest men. Now nothing
is more common than to lay the blame of disaster or troubles,
occasioned by our own errors, upon external circumstances which
lave 1 eally no connexion with them. When men are ill at ease
�IDEALISM.
15
in theii' own minds, everything surrounding them is imagined to
contribute towards their disquiet. And when once they commit
the fatal error of making their own ideal theories the standard
of what is right in matters of religion, it cannot fail but that
they must see all real objects through a false medium: an
incurable dissatisfaction with the actual state of things must
follow.
Every Utopia is of course perfect in all respects: and the
greatest order and excellence that was ever yet realized upon
earth, must fall far short of the airy vision. And thus the ex
cesses of enthusiasm and fanaticism which have in all periods
of English history been the most frequent causes of dissent,
have arisen from this ill-regulated indulgence of Idealism. They
have been struggles to realize certain notions which the course
of Divine Providence has never yet permitted.
If proofs be required of these assertions, they are at hand in
two well-known works of recent publication the productions of
,
*
minds very different in their powder and constitution, but agreeing
in this one quality of self-confidence; or to speak more strictly, in
an unquestioning exaltation of the standard of excellence each has
self-confidently set up as his Ideal or Idol. Each writer is alike
dissatisfied with the Church of England, because its actual con
dition is at variance with his own fanciful theory. The objec
tions of these writers are not directed against her present prac
tice only, but against her very constitution and principles as the
home of the faithful in these kingdoms. Each writer treats with
disregard her acknowledged defenders, and practically despises
her brightest luminaries. Mr. Ward seems to be scarcely aware
of their existence, for in such a work as his wre have a right to
expect frequent reference to then' learned labours. Dr. Arnold
coolly and contemptuously disdains their assistance f. Mr. Ward,
in putting forth his Ideal of a Christian Church, has required
that it should contain such a systematized body of theology, in
three great departments, as has never yet been known in any
branch of the Universal Church; and that it should exhibit a
sanctity of manners, and a fervour of devotion, which belong to
angels, and to the very few who on earth make near approaches
to their perfection; but which sanctity and which fervour can
never without hypocrisy be even externally the characteristics of
the entire body of that visible Church which, until the end, is to
be composed of the evil as w ell as the good, tares no less than
wheat. Dr. Arnold has formed a scheme for what he calls a
Church, which is purely imaginary, because irreconcileable with
all that the testimony of antiquity and past time, and the most
learned and venerable authorities have taught us are essential
* The Ideal of a Christian Church, by Rev. W. G. Ward, M.A.
Fragment on the Church, by Thos. Arnold, D.D.
f See Preface to Third Volume of Sermons.
�16
IDEALISM.
towards its constitution.
Both have set themselves up as
lawgivers: and both quarrel with the Church of England, because
she is not conformed to a state of things which never yet has
been, and so long as human nature exists upon earth, perhaps
never can be.
The conclusion arrived at by each of these writers is a
strong proof of the common proverb, that extremes meet. Mr.
Ward would seem to be a Romanist in everything but name: he
acquiesces in her system, and tolerates her corruption and
.
*
superstition
Like some of the visionaries of popular romance,
he first forms in his mind an extravagant picture of perfec
tion, and then proceeds to identify this imaginary portrait with
an actually existing object, whose blemishes he partially over
looks, whose very deformities he mistakes for beauties.
On the contrary, Dr. Arnold abhors Romanism, and, for want
of sufficient knowledge or thought, falls into the common mistake
of confounding some of the essential features of Catholic Chris
tianity with the usurpations and corruptions of Popery.
He
differs also from Mr. Ward in not having assimilated his ideal to
any living object. In fact he seems to consider the Church, to
use the language of the Schoolmen, to be a thing in posse, not in
esse; as possible, not actually existent; and because the Church
of England has a Priesthood, because she holds that Ecclesiastical
Government is vested in the successors of the Apostles,—in short,
because she believes and teaches what has ever been believed
and taught,—he holds her to be mistaken and corrupt. So that
both agree in slighting the appointed Messenger of Heaven, and
in worshipping that Golden Image that each has severally set up.
The fact is, that both err in the extravagant indulgence of
private judgment: that is, of notions entertained in very despite
of all moral and historical evidence. They are dissatisfied with
the teaching which has been thought sufficient by minds of at
least equal piety, of far greater powers, and of learning far more
extensive. They alike dispute the efficacy of a system, whose
full resources they have not tried. They deny the abilities, or
soundness, or holiness of men with whose writings they are
scarcely acquainted, of whose lives they are contented to be
ignorant. When Dr. Arnold, in one of his letters, denies the
attribute of greatness to any one of our divines, except Bishop
Butler; when, in another, he avows that he had discontinued
reading them, because, as far as he had gone, they had not satis
fied him, what unprejudiced student of English theology but must
more than doubt the soundness of his,judgment, nay, suspect
him of great intellectual arrogance? When in a treatise like
Mr. Ward’s, written expressly upon the system of the English
* ‘We find, Oh most joyful, most wonderful, most unexpected sight ! we find
the whole cycle of Roman doctkine gradually possessing numbers of
English Churchmen.’—Ward’s Ideal, p. 505.
�IDEALISM.
17
Church, we find so few references to the authoritative divines of
that Church, who but must doubt his competency to discuss the
matter he has taken in hand? Both alike, though after a differ
ent fashion, slight the attestation of antiquity to sound doctrine.
Mr. Ward laughs at English Churchmen, because they appeal to
that testimony in support both of the Catholic views which she
has cleared of the incrustations of Popery, and of those which
she has preserved from the mutilating hand of Dissent: and in
sinuates that there is a more powerful and important argument
which she neglects: though what that is he docs not clearly
explain. Dr. Arnold, according to his wont, doubts the evidence
of antiquity upon any subject, sacred or profane, and the
same spirit which makes him sceptical as to ancient history,
causes him to slight the attestation afforded, by the voice of the
Ancient Church, to the existence of certain fundamental doc
trines, and to an uniform system of Church Polity, in its govern
ment and legislation by Bishops and Priests. His desire for the
Unity of the Church, (though very sincere, according to his
notion,) is a desire for a thing merely nominal: for his ‘Unity’ is
a mere comprehension of the greatest discordance in doctrine,
and in discipline too: his ‘ Church’ is an assemblage of teachers
without mission and without authority, and of a people without
obedience. In Dr. Arnold we have a striking proof of the danger
of latitudinarian views like these in matters of polity. When
once a slight is cast upon the testimony of the early Christians,
of those nearest to the Apostolic time, as to the existing facts of
Church discipline and order, it must follow that the faith in the
authenticity of Scripture is shaken, for this is based, as far as
external proofs go, upon the same evidence. Accordingly, we
find Dr. Arnold questioning the authenticity of some portion of
the prophecies of Daniel: even some which form the cardinal
points of received prophetic interpretation. Had he lived to
follow out his own system, it is to be apprehended he- would have
ended, like the Socinian, in disbelieving any portion of Scripture
whatever, that could not possibly be reconciled to his notion.
And when once Scripture is tampered with, from what error of
doctrine are we safe? or rather, what is our faith, what are the
foundations of our religion? What do we believe, and why?
It is very remarkable what slender allusions to Scripture
either Mr. Ward or Dr. Arnold make when expounding their
views. This is of itself an important circumstance, which ought
to be of use in restraining those who are inclined to be dis
satisfied with our Church. They will find that these two writers
have not appealed to, or made use of those ample means by
which the faith of the Church of England ever has hitherto been
regulated. They both pay more regard to their own wishes or
fancies than to the testimony afforded by the lives of good and
holy men, who have found in our Liturgy and ordinances, in the
sermons and treatises both of laymen and clergymen, ample
Vol. I.
C
�18
IDEALISM.
means for instruction and edification. And they both seem to
forget or overlook this important consideration, that it is our
plain duty to keep to the truth, to the real doctrines of the
Church, and never to suffer their importance to be weakened in
our minds by thinking upon the superior advantages supposed
to be afforded by other Communions, in exciting devotion, or
ministering to religious feelings.
There is a formidable attempt now making, by more than
one religious party, to draw off susceptible minds from our
Church by the specious method of holding up the corruptions and
deficiencies alleged to exist within her. Now, since the days of
our Lord himself, no Church has ever existed withour practical
abuse of some kind or other. But the attempt to create dissent
by means of exhibiting these is by no means new. If the argu
ment were worth anything, then the ancient Jewish Church
ought to have been deserted by its more pious members; im
practical corruption existed in it to as high a degree as ever
has been known in any Christian community. If our Church
affords us means of grace, the carelessness or irreligión of our
neighbours cannot affect their validity to ourselves. And the
wickedness of the multitude by no means proves the want of
power in the system of the Church to those who will submit to
it; for the multitude has ever been wicked, and even the Lord’s
ministry itself was rejected by them.
In all the late attacks upon our religious system, there is
nothing new. By Mr. Ward, indeed, they have been urged with
greater vehemence and bitterness than has hitherto been practised
by any one within our pale. His earnestness may have an effect
with many; but this adds no weight whatever to his arguments,
or rather to his declamation. Men as earnest and sincere, and
as much alive to the existence of practical evil, and far more
active in its redress, have found a refuge and sufficiency in the
system he condemns. Dr. Arnold’s visionary notions are nothing
more than what have been in substance entertained in all ages
of the world: it is nothing more than a scheme of compre
hension, which all experience shows to be impracticable. That
scheme is utterly hopeless till men are agreed upon what are
fundamentals, what essentials—what may be open questions, what
irrevocable articles of faith. To both, Goldsmith’s words are
eminently applicable: ‘ I ask pardon for interrupting so much
learning; but I think T have heard all this before.’
As Mr. Ward’s sincerity may influence some, so we believe
that any attention which Dr. Arnold may secure will be owing to
the various attractive features of his character. But it is unwise
and dangerous to suffer considerations of personal qualities,
however amiable and attractive, to influence the principles of
religious truth, which are stern and inflexible. The founders
and promoters of some of the worst heresies have been men
distinguished for personal qualities of the most attractive kind.
�IDEALISM.
19
And we may charitably believe that in teaching their pernicious
doctrine, they were often self-deceived: although in most in
stances we may trace their errors to some defect in their training-,
and especially to a radical neglect of self-discipline.
When men who hold sound Church principles are attacked
both by men of Popish and latitudinarian tendencies, they have
a strong reason for believing that their course is the true one.
This is an old maxim r Aristotle could propound it, and there is
nothing whatever in the circumstances of later times to make it
questionable. The Romanisers and Romanists still persist in
saying that we should do very well if we would superadd some
thing to what we have. The latitudinarians and dissenters in
general consider our system the next best to that which they
either in theory or in practice hold; and think we should do
very well if we retrenched or relaxed somewhat. From the com
mendation and objection of each we may make this just surmise,
that we are holding to the middle course of Truth.
Considerations like these can never become out of date. But
we must remember besides that individual Christians are not
legislators; are not called upon to invent new systems, but to
make the best use of that under which Providence has placed
them. They have quite enough to do with realities, and with
the means of edification placed within their power, more ample
than men are commonly content to use, even those who make
the loudest outcry about their wants. And for the heavy evils
and defects which surround them, (which must ever prevail in
the world,) they would find one of the surest correctives in that
truly Christian spirit, which is less indulgent to human fancy, and
is more obedient to the will of God.
But it must be borne in mind, that we have been speaking
of the system of our Church, as exhibited in her public docu
ments, and as exemplified in the lives and writings of hei- holy
men. To be guided by these is a matter altogether different
from that of acquiescing in the abuses which, to an extent the
most deplorable, exist within her. There never was a nation
upon earth so blessed by Providence with special blessings.
Perhaps there never was a nation which so awfully neglected
them. We cannot, we dare not, shut our eyes to the evils which
surround us. We must not flatter ourselves by dwelling on the
improvements which in some respects may have partially taken
place within the last few years; for to our shame be it spoken,
these bear no proportion whatever to the means of amelioration
within the power both of clergy and people.
We have no right to contrast our condition with that of any
other nation upon earth, as far as regards our zeal, activity, or
piety. This would be mere pride, (and all pride is sin,) even
were it true that the contrast was in our favour. But who that
really looks at home, can say that it is ? Have selfishness,
vanity, the love of self and of our own opinion and fancies, the
C 2
�20
IDEALISM.
resistance to lawful authority, the indifference to public devotion,
the repugnance to self-denial and to real holiness of mind, and
the contempt or neglect of the poor,—have all these frightful
evils diminished to any extent ? Are we quite sure they are not
increasing ? Let any man who loves the Church, who loves God
and his brother, who yearns for the return of humility, obedience,
and peace, first look at one of our newspapers, and what a
picture of our condition will he see exhibited in the wranglings
and bickerings, the personal abuse, and the wi’ZZ worship which
almost every column at present exhibits. But then, what is the
cause of this ? The system of the Church of England ? Why,
every page of her Prayer-Book, every provision she has made
for furthering her great work, bears witness against us, and
shows that we have fallen into this state, not from obeying, but
from neglecting her; and that after all, so far from being insuf
ficient for us, she contains more abundant advantages than her
children ever think of using, Mr. Ward and Dr. Arnold being
eminently among the number of those who have committed this
wilful and inexcusable neglect.
In reading for the last time the above remarks, it has occurred
to us that exception will be taken to our censure upon two
distinct grounds. As regards Dr. Arnold, it will be said we
have infringed upon the rule De mortuis nil nisi bonum: and in
reference to Mr. Ward it will be urged, that it is ungenerous to
attack him now that he is liable to be brought under the opera
tion of University pains and penalties.
Our answer in each case is simple. As regards Mr. Ward,
the article was in type before any such proceedings were
announced as those that have been since made public; and in
respect to Dr. Arnold, the book which is published after the
decease of its author, cannot be noticed in his lifetime. As
respects them both, we have said not a word to impugn the
motives of either, but have simply put our readers in possession
of what appears to us to be at the root of all disaffection with
the Church of England, whether the objectors are found in the
Romanizing or the ultra-Protestantizing ranks.
�21
HISTORICAL
BALLADS,
BY LORD JOHN MANNERS, M.P.
No. I.
THE DEATH OF PRINCE HENRY PLANTAGENET.
I.
‘ Give me the ring,’ in accents weak, the dying Henry said,
As with a mighty effort he upraised himself in bed,
Then pressed the precious token of an injured father’s love
Fast to his heart, and clammy lips that scarcely now could move.
ii.
Then to King Henry’s mercy he most heartily commends
The rebel lords of Aquitaine, and all his guilty friends,
And prays him that liis knights and squires may have their wages due,
‘ To me they have been loyal men, albeit false to you.
hi.
‘ My lord archbishop, order now the ashes to be spread,
And put me on the sackcloth, and draw me from the bed,
And lay me on them near the door, for sinner such as I
Who lived unlike a Christian man, unlike to one should die.’
IV.
His servants, lo, with many tears, the shameful halter bring,
And round the neck they tie it of the penitent young king,
And draw him from his princely couch, and lay him on the floor;
Alack! did ever prince die on so sad a bed before?
v.
‘ Oh! bury me at Rouen; grant me this my last request:
My bones beside my grandfather’s in peace could never rest,
*
For he was true and faithful, and a good and loyal son,
And happy was the race, though brief, which in this life he run.’
VI.
The good archbishop shrives him, and bids him not despair;
He receives the blessed Sacrament, and breathes his parting prayer.
Fie is dead, alas, the brave young prince; his soul hath passed away—•
May God that soul assoilzie in the dreadful judgment day!
Prince Geoffrey Plantagenet, buried at Mans.
�22
THE VIA MEDIA.
We were on tlie point of stating again the oft-stated question
of extremes in religion, when our mind’s eye reverted to a very
pertinent paper in the Tatter: and as we cannot expect every
reader’s recollection to be as fresh as our own, we subjoin a literal
reprint of that paper; for although there are many particulars
in which the remarks it contains are irrelevant to our present
position, yet there is much in it which may serve to instruct as
well as amuse, although more than a century and a quarter have
passed since it was written.
Even virtue, when pursued with warmth extreme,
Turns into vice, and fools the sage’s fame
.
*
Having received many letters filled with compliments and acknowledg
ments for my late useful discovery of the Political Barometer, I shall here
communicate to the public an account of my Ecclesiastical Thermometer,
the latter giving as manifest prognostications of the changes and revolu
tions in Church, as the former does of those in State; and both of them
being absolutely necessary for every prudent subject who is resolved to
keep what he has, and get what he can.
The Church Thermometer, which I am now to treat of, is supposed to
have been invented in the reign of Henry the Eighth, about the time
when that religious prince put some to death for owning the Pope’s
supremacy, and others for denying transubstantiation. I do not find,
however, any great use made of this instrument, until it fell into the
hands of a learned and vigilant priest or minister, for he frequently wrote
himself both one and the other, who was some time Vicar of Bray. This
gentleman lived in his vicarage to a good old age; and, after having seen
several successions of his neighbouring clergy cither burned or banished,
departed this life with the satisfaction of having never deserted his flock,
and died Vicar of Bray. As this Glass was at first designed to calculate
the different degrees of heat in religion, as it raged in popery, or as it
cooled and grew temperate in the reformation ; it was marked at several
distances, after the manner our ordinary thermometer is to this day, viz.,
‘Extreme Pleat, Sultry Heat, Very Hot, Hot, Warm, Temperate, Cold,
Just Freezing, Frost, Hard Frost, Great Frost, Extreme Cold.’
It is well known that Torricellius, the inventor of the common
weather-glass, made the experiment in a long tube which held thirty-two
feet of water; and that a more modern virtuoso, finding such a machine
altogether unwieldy and useless, and considering that tliirty-two inches of
quicksilver weighed as much as so many feet of water in a tube of the
same circumference, invented that sizeable instrument which is now in
use. After this manner that I might adapt the Thermometer I am now
speaking of to the present constitution of our Church, as divided into
High and Low, I have made some necessary variations both in the tube
and the fluid it contains. In the first place, I ordered a tube to be cast
in a planetary hour, and took care to seal it hermetically, when the sun
was in conjunction with Saturn. I then took the proper precautions
* Francis’ Horace, Ep. I. Bk. vii.
�THE VIA MEDIA.
23
about the fluid, which is a compound of two very different liquors: one of
them is a spirit drawn out of a strong heady wine; the other a particular
sort of rock-water, colder than ice, and clearer than crystal. The spirit
is of a red fiery colour, and so very apt to ferment, that unless it be
mingled with a proportion of the water, or pent up very close, it will
burst the vessel that holds it, and fly up in fume and smoke. The water,
on the contrary, is of such a subtile piercing cold, that unless it be
mingled with a proportion of the spirits, it will sink almost through every
thing that it is put into: and seems to be of the same nature as the
water mentioned by Quintus Curtius, which, says the historian, could be
contained in nothing but in the hoof, or, as the Oxford manuscript has it,
in the scull of an ass. The Thermometer is marked according to the
following figure; which I set down at length, not only to give my reader a
clear idea of it, but also to fill up my Paper :
Ignorance.
Persecution.
Wrath.
Zeal.
THE CHURCH.
Moderation.
Lukewarmness.
Infidelity.
Ignorance.
The reader will observe, that the Church is placed in the middle point
of the glass, between Zeal and Moderation; the situation in which she
always flourishes, and in which every good Englishman wishes her, who is
a friend to the constitution of his country. However, when it mounts to
Zeal, it is not amiss; and when it sinks to Moderation, is still in a most
admirable temper. The worst of it is, that when it once begins to rise, it
has still an inclination to ascend; insomuch that it is apt to climb up
from Zeal to Wrath, and from Wrath to Persecution, which always ends
in Ignorance, and very often proceeds from it. In the same manner it
frequently takes its progress through the lower half of the glass; and,
when it has a tendency to fall, will gradually descend from Moderation to
Lukewarmness, and from Lukewarmness to Infidelity, which very often
terminates in Ignorance, and always proceeds from it.
It is a common observation, that the ordinary Thermometer will be
affected by the breathing of people who are in the room where it stands;
and indeed it is almost incredible to conceive how the glass I am now
describing will fall by the breath of a multitude crying ‘ Popery;’ or, on
the contrary, how it will rise when the same multitude, as it sometimes
happens, cry out in the same breath, ‘ The Church is in danger.’
As soon as I had finished this my glass, and adjusted it to the abovementioned scale of religion, that I might make proper experiments with
it, I carried it under my cloak to several coffee-houses, and other places of
resort about this great city. At St. James’s coffee-house the liquor stood
at Moderation: but at Will’s, to my great surprise, it subsided to the
very lowest mark on the glass. At the Grecian it mounted but just one
point higher; at the Rainbow it still ascended two degrees; Child’s
fetched it up to Zeal; and other adjacent coffee-houses, to Wrath.
�24
THE VIA MEDIA.
It fell in the lower half of the glass as I went farther into the city,
until at length it settled at Moderation, where it continued all the time I
stayed about the Exchange, as also while I passed by the Bank. And
here I cannot but take notice, that through the whole course of my
remarks, I never observed my glass to rise at the same time the stocks did.
To complete the experiment, I prevailed upon a friend of mine, who
works under me in the Occult Sciences, to make a progress with my glass
through the whole island of Great Britain : and after his return, to present
me with a register of his observations. I guessed beforehand at the
temper of several places he passed through, by the characters they have
had time out of mind. Thus that facetious divine, Dr. Fuller, speaking
of the town of Banbury near a hundred years ago, tells us, it was a place
famous for cakes and zeal, which I find by my glass is true to this day, as
to the latter part of this description; though I must confess, it is not in
the same reputation for cakes that it was in the time of that learned
author; and thus of other places. In short, I have now by me, digested
in an alphabetical order, all the counties, corporations, and boroughs, in
Great Britain, with their respective tempers, as they stand related to my
Thermometer. But this I shall keep to myself, because I would by no
means do anything that may seem to influence any ensuing elections.
The point of doctrine which I would propagate by this my invention,
is the same which was long ago advanced by that able teacher Horace, out
of whom I have taken my text for this discourse. We should be careful
not to overshoot ourselves in the pursuit even of virtue. Whether Zeal
or Moderation be the point we aim at, let us keep fire out of the one, and
frost out of the other. But, alas! the world is too wise to want such a
precaution. The terms High Church and Low Church, as commonly
used, do not so much denote a principle, as they distinguish a party.
They are like words of battle, they have nothing to do with their original
signification : but are only given to keep a body of men together, and to
let them know friends from enemies.
I must confess I have considered, with some little attention, the
influence which the opinions of these great national sects have upon their
practice; and do look upon it as one of the unaccountable things of our
times, that multitudes of honest gentlemen, who entirely agree in their
lives, should take it in their heads to differ in their religion.
The riches which thou treasurest up are lost; those thou charitably
bestowest are truly thine.—St. Augustine.
There is no misery more true and real, than false and counterfeit plea
sure.—St. Bernard.
Apparent and notorious iniquities ought both to be reproved and con
demned ; but we should never judge such things as we understand not,
nor can certainly know whether they be done with a good or evil
intent.—St. Augustine.
»
�25
REMEMBER THY CREATOR.
Ecclesiastes xii. to verse 8.
i.
Remember thy Creator in the spring-time of thy life!
While th’ evil day is far away,
Nor the sad year approaches near;
While yet thou hast no cause to groan
And ask, “Ah whither’s pleasure flown?”
ii.
Remember thy Creator in the spring-time of thy life!
While sun and moon are not gone down,
While stars and light are yet in sight,
Nor rain and cloud, and cloud and rain
A sad vicissitude maintain.
hi.
Remember thy Creator in the spring-time of thy life!
The day is near when watchmen fear,
When arms shall quail and knees shall fail,
The few that grind shall move with pain,—•
Dark be the windows of the brain.
IV.
Remember thy Creator in the spring-time of thy life!
Thou shalt not roam: O stay at home,
Thou useless guest, at costly feast!
The small bird’s chirp shall make thee start,
And music soothe no more thine heart.
v.
Remember thy Creator in the spring-time of thy life!
The trailing root shall trip thy foot;
Thine head shall be as th’ almond tree;
An insect’s weight shall press thee down,
And fear shall come and joy be gone.
VI.
Remember thy Creator in the spring-time of thy life!
Now thou art come to thy long home;
The mourners meet in the gay street:
The silver cord that tied the soul
Is broken, and the golden bowl.
VII.
Remember thy Creator in the spring-time of thy life!
The wheel beside the fountain dried
No more essays the stream to raise:
The dust shall mingle with the clod,
The spirit shall return to God.
VIII.
Remember thy Creator in the spring-time of thy life!
All that thou wert, all that thou art,
Is vanity, is vanity,
All that thou shalt be till thy death
Is vanity,—the Preacher saith.
Mord'aunt Barnard, Amwdl.
*
�26
A CORNISH TOUR A CENTURY AGO.
The original of the following letter addressed by the celebrated
antiquary Charles Lyttelton, then Dean of Exeter, and after
wards Bishop of Carlisle, to his brother George Lord Lyttelton,
has been placed in our hands by the present noble owner of
Hagley; and its graphic terseness and racy humour almost tempt
us to regret the ill-considered rapidity with which railroads dance
us from one place to another; and the brevity and looseness of
description with which we think our friends must be saucy to
quarrel because Rowland Hill has relieved them from paying
a full price for an empty sheet. We are sorely tempted to turn
the good Dean’s letter into a text for an Homily—but it is better
perhaps to leave something to be supplied by the reader’s imagi
nation: and therefore we will content ourselves with directing
his attention to the fact, that the following letter contains the
record of more than one practice of the olden time, which gave
our nobility and gentry a hold upon the affections as well as the
attentions of their dependent neighbours.
Dear Brother,
Exeter, May 16, 1752.
I was happy in your kind Letter on my arrival at Dr. Amphlett’s on Sunday Evening, which was forwarded thither from Exeter, and
so gave me a speedy opportunity of paying Mr. Hoskine the money the
next day with my own Hands. It seems Luxmore declined laying so
much down for you the last year, which, methinks, was an ill return for
all the Favours you had done his Family. Had I known before of your
being a Subscriber to the Oakh". Char. School I should have taken
care to have paid the money regularly without waiting for a particular
order from you.
By a Letter I received yesterday from Molly West, I find Kitty and
Billy are gone to Spa, notwithstanding your remonstrances and advice to
them to defer it till another year. I wish her Strength be equal to her
Spirit, but fear she is ill able to bear Sea-sickness and the fatigue of so
long a journey. I am concerned to hear my Sister Lyttelton is so much
out of order, and that poor Major Rich still continues in so dangerous a
way. I doubt his Illness has affected my Lady’s spirits, and therefore
cannot help dreading the consequences of his Death, in case that should
happen. I had thought of going myself to Tunbridge had not my
Stomach kept well, and the Defluxion on my lungs continued so long
upon me; but I must not now think of Steel waters, but rather of
Bristol or Buxton, if I drink any this Summer: but as the late warm
weather has allmost quite removed my Catarh, I flatter myself I shall
have no occasion for waters of any kind this Summer.
I think your intended excursion, both now and in Augst. cannot
well fail of affording you a good deal of Pleasure; if you have leisure
while you are at Bristol, I would wish you to see Radcliff Church
there, which is esteemed one of the finest Gotliick Buildings in the
kingdom, it was built in H. 7th’s time, a good Age for that style of
Building. If Billy be not returned from Germany time enough to
�A CORNISH TOUR A CENTURY AGO,
27
accompany you into Wales, I will most gladly wait upon you thither,
tho’ I have seen all the places you propose visiting. As you seldom
read News Papers ’tis probable you may have overlook’d the en
closed Advertisement, and I imagine you will be glad to have the
work now it is translated from the Spanish. By the extracts which
Mr. Folkes made and read to the society from Don Antonio D’Alloa’s
Papers some years ago (from which these Volumes are composed) I
should expect to find a great many new and curious observations in the
larger Work, especially what relates to the Natural History of the
Cordelleras and its neighbourhood. You will present my Compts. to
your agreeable Fellow Travellers, and tell Miller I had his letter yester
day, and return him abundance of Thanks for the Paper he enclosed in
it. Now to give you some little account of my late Cornisii Tour. On
Sunday was sev’night I left Falmouth after morning service was over,
accompanied by Mr. Borlase, who gave me the meeting at Truroe the
Friday before, and after viewing some amazing Rocks and Druid monu
ments, arrived early in the evening at Lady Vivian’s at Trelowarren.
The situation of Trelowarren is so bad, the country all round being wild
and dreary to the last Degree, that nothing would have carried me
thither but the prospect of finding a sweet Bed to sleep in, which is
seldom to be had at the Inns in Cornwal, for both the Houses and
Beds stink worse than a Pig-stye; but I had the satisfaction of finding
there all kind of good Accommodations, and what must please an
Antiquary, both the House and its Inhabitants an exact Picture of the
old style of Living in good Queen Besses Days. You pass thro’ a pair
of Gates into a Quadrangle, the left side consisting of a handsome Cha
pel and large Eating Room, the right, a huge Kitchen and other Offices,
in Front is the Mansion House, the entrance of which leads you directly
into a spacious Hall, furnished with Calivers, Cross Bows, Hunting Poles,
Militia Drums, and Stag Horns. The Furniture of the Parlour and Bed
chambers are in the same Style, especially the latter, where you see the
Labours of the Female Pwians in work’d Cloth Hangings, point Lace Beds,
&c., for several Generations past: but the greatest curiosity of all is the
old Lady herself, with her Children and Grand-children all around her.
After the Ceremony of kissing both Old and Young was performed,
for this is Cornish Custom, we were refreshed with a Glass of Sack, (it
should have been Hippocrass to have suited the rest of the entertain
ment,) and then proceeded in great Form to Chapel, (where Prayers
arc regularly said twice a-day,) and in the like Form return’d to the
Parlour to Supper an Hour before Candle Light. The Old Lady eat a
pound of Scotch collops for Supper, and wondered I could not do the
like. The next morning Mr. Borlase and myself set out after Break
fast for the Lizard Point, and returned back to Trelowarren to our
Dinner, though the old lady’s Supper. Our Way lay through the Goonhelly Downs, which are no other than boggy, naked, barren moors, with
not a Tree or even a Shrub to be seen for 8 or 9 miles riding. At
the end of these Downs you come to a miserable Village, and a mile
further another rotten moor brings you to a Glyn or narrow Vallow, the
sides of which are sow’d as it were with vast masses of Rag-Stone. At
the Top of this Glyn we left our horses and descended into the Vally on
foot. When we arrived at the extremity of it, a natural Arched
Entrance thro’ a vast Red Rock led us into the finest piece of Scenery
�28
A CORNISH TOUR A CENTURY AGO.
that sportive Nature ever produced; on the right hand you sec tho
boldest Rocky shore glistning with spars and mundicks, and enamell’d
with a thousand different hues. Under these Rocks the Sea has form’d
Cavities large enough to admit of twenty People commodiously in each
Cove; from one you see a little arm of the Sea, which at low Water
comes within less than twenty Yards of you, dashing its waves against a
vast Rock that stands entirely detach’d from any other. From another
Cove you have a sight of the Ocean, but agreeably interrupted on the
right hand by an immense high broken Rock detach’d, like the former,
from tho Rocks which join the main Land; and this Rock, as well as all
the others, is alike enamell’d with the most beautiful Colours, and
decorated with Samphire and other Sea Plants which hang down from
several parts of it. It is impossible, without your Poetical Genius, to
do justice to this singular Scene, for there are a Thousand Beautys still
to be described, which a dull narration will give you no Idea of. The
excessive shining Whiteness of tho Sand, and several small Basons full of
Limpid Sea Water, which the Tide leaves behind when the Sea is out, the
various Windings and Turnings which the different Groups of Rocks
oblige you to make in traversing this splendid Court of Neptune, ought
all to be taken into the Description, but the Task is too great for me, and
therefore I must refer you to Mr. Borlase’s Drawing for the general
Idea of the Place, and for the singular beauty of the stones which these
rocks consist of, to a small specimen, which I shall bring with me to
Hagley.
N.B. The name of the Place is Kinance, very near the famous Soapy
Rock at the Lizard Point, which you know is the most Southerly Point
in Great Britain. Miller will find it in the Map near
Parish. On my return from hence to Trelowarren, I call’d at the
Lizard Village upon an old man, who was reported to be 111 years of
age, but on talking with him, I think he is not so old by six years; how
ever, he is old enough to remember very well a dispute between a
Blacksmith and Tanner in his own Parish, the one a Royalist the
other a Parliamentarian, concerning Charles 2nd right to the crown,
just before the Restoration, which did not end till they had thrashed
each other stoutly, but the honest Cavalier had the better of his
Antagonist, who was at last willing (as the old man told me) to let tho
King come quietly home and enjoy his own. This antient CornuBritain has all his senses perfect, except his Hearing, which he has not
quite lost, never was blooded in his Life, and seldom took Physick, nor
ever had the Small Pox. On Tuesday morning we left Trelowarren,
went to Ilelston and Godolphin, where we dined, and in the Evening
reach’d Mr. Borlase’s near Penzance. Godolphin is not near so good a
house as Lady Vivian’s, and is situate in a worse Country, if a worse
can be found. I cannot, therefore, but honour my Ld. Godolphin’s
Taste for rejecting such a horrid spot, tho’ it has been the Seat of his
Ancestors for ages, and at the same time keeping a constant Family of
Servants, and a Table for the exercise of Hospitality and the Relief of
the Poor. There remain some good Family Pictures by Cornelius John
son and Lely; and in the Hall is a Clock, which was taken at the seige of
Bullodyn by one of his Ancestors. Miller would have been pleas’d with
a sight of the old Wardrobe, where I remark’d some curious Pink’d Silk
Wastcoats and Petticoats, which are not to bo match’d even in the Green
�A CORNISH TOUR A CENTURY AGO.
29
Room at Drury-Lane Playhouse. In a former Letter to my Father, which
you had the perusal of two Years agoe, I described the beautiful Situa
tion of the Mount, with its charming accompaniments, viz., the Bay, Pen
zance, Market Jew, &c. &c. therefore, I shall not here trouble you with it,
but hasten to release you from this tedious Epistle, after observing that
from hence to the Land’s end nothing occurs remarkable, except several
noble Druid monuments and fine Sea Prospects. The Land terminates
in a vast Groupe of Rocks, from which you see the Islands of Scilly, at
about 9 leagues distance; on the right the Bristol Channel, and on the
left that of St. George. Tho’ all this Tract has an appearance of great
Poverty, and the Houses in general miserable Cottages, yet they differ I
believe from all other Cottages in Europe, scarce one in twenty wanting
a Sasli-Window, such is the fondness these People have for this kind of
ornament in their houses. I would indeed forgive them if they con
fined it only to their Houses, (tho’ it looks very odd in a thatch’d low
mansion,) but they have also sash’d all their Churches in these Parts,
which ill suits the Gothick Simplicity of these Antient Buildings. The
winters are so mild in this part of Cornwall, that Aloes, winter cherry,
and other Green-House-Plants thrive well here in the open air, and this
even at Trelowarren, which, from its exposed situation, is not near so
warm as the neighbourhood of Penzance. At the latter I saw last
week Green Peas in the Market, which would have been esteemed too
old by nice Palates, and this on the
instant. I am truly sorry to
hear the Admiral’s disorder in his Leg is broke out again. I hope he or
his secretary, Captn. Hood will soon tell me that he is better, for I am
anxious for him.
Adieu my dearest Brother,
Your ever affectionate and obliged,
CHAS. LYTTELTON.
I thank little Tom for his Letter.
Winter is called a dull season; and to the sensations of some, the enjoy
ments of others, and, perhaps, to the vision of all, it is a most cheerless
period. This is so universally felt, that we always associate the idea of
pleasure with the return of spring; whatsoever our employments or occupa
tions may be, though its sleety storms and piercing winds may at times
chill the very current in our veins, yet we consider it as an harbinger of
pleasurable hours and grateful pursuits. We commence our undertakings,
or defer them till spring. The hopes or prospects of the coming year are
principally established in spring; and we trust that the delicate health
of the blossoms round our hearths, which has faded in the chilling airs of
winter, may be restored by the mild influence of that season. Yet winter
must be considered as the time in which Nature is most busily employed;
silent in her secret mansions, she is now preparing and compounding the
verdure, the flowers, the nutriment of spring; and all the fruits and glo
rious profusion of our summer year are only the advance of what has
been ordained and fabricated in these dull months.—Journal of a Natu
ralist.
�30
CHURCH ARCHITECTURE—CHURCH RESTORATION.
I. CHURCH ARCHITECTURE SCRIPTURALLY CONSIDERED,
from the earliest Ages to the present Time. By the Rev. F. Close,
A.Ar. Hatchards.
II. Remarks on the Rev. F. Close s i Church Architecture Scripturally con
sidered.’ By the Rev. Thomas Kerchever Arnold, M.A., Rector
of Lyndon, and late Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge.
Rivingtons
III. A Reply to the ‘ Remarks’ 3jc. By the Rev. F. Close. Hatchards.
IV. An Examination of the Rev. F. Close’s ‘ Reply’
By the Rev.
T. K. Arnold. Rivingtons.
V. The RESTORATION of CHURCHES is the RESTORATION
of POPERY; proved and illustrated from the Authenticated
Publications of the Cambridge Camden Society; a Sermon
preached in the Parish Church of Cheltenham, on Tuesday,
November 5, 1844, by the Rev. F. Close, A.M., Perpetual Curate.
Hatchards.
We have read these books of Mr. Close’s with sorrow and
shame; with sorrow, to think, that when a protest is needed
against Romish innovation, one should be raised which goes to
the destruction of so much that is sound and Scriptural, earnest
and zealous, within the limits of good Churchmanship itself; and
with shame, to see that there can be found in the ranks of the
English Clergy, one who, coming forward to rebuke and to
forewarn, is so signally ill fitted, by bitterness of temper and
shallowness of knowledge, for this important work. It has
rarely been our lot to meet with so many inaccuracies in the
same number of pages; and never to witness such intolerance
of correction and rebuke, even when most richly deserved, and
temperately administered.
The Church of England, after many lamentable years of
indifference or inaction, has at length awakened to a sense of
the responsibilities which rest upon her. Meanwhile, the in
fluences adverse to her work of Christianizing the people have
increased to a fearful extent. She finds vast districts abandoned
to Dissent in all its forms. From the so-called orthodox Dissenter,
to the openly avowed Infidel, in all the various shades of unbelief
we find only this one master-colour common to them all—oppo
sition to her faith, her sacraments, and her ministry. As might
have been expected, immorality and profaneness have had thencorresponding growth. Never, perhaps, in the history of the
Christian Church, was there so vast a field of duty open before
her members. Whether we read, or hear, or observe, the same
awful facts are ever present to us: the religious degradation of
our people, the comparative absence of self-denial and true
charity; the neglect, even to derision, of the precepts of our
�CHURCH RESTORATION.
31
blessed Lord, and the doctrines preached by His Apostles: luxury,
costliness, and abundance loading the mansions of the rich, and the
semblance of these pervading even the middle classes, while the
hardest measure of unsympathizing economy is dealt out to the
poor. And what wonder if, in this state of things, the parish
churches of the land, the gathering points of all holy and
charitable association of- feelings, have deeply suffered. The
bond is broken which knit together our parisites as one man,
in their assemblies in those Houses of Prayer: they endure not
as seeing Him who is invisible: His name and His praise are no
longer words of power: if the parish church is crowded, it is
only by the frail tenure of the life of a man that such tenancy
is maintained: it is
that is worshipped, man’s voice that is
listened to; and the humble and laborious Minister of Christ
has, amidst his tods, the painful forethought, that a breath may
scatter his people when he is gone from them, as a breath
gathered them when he came among them. And if he turns to
the church where he ministers, little indeed does he find there,
in most cases, calculated to inspire his people with respect, or to
give them a permanent object amongst themselves, which may
minister to a wish for religious unity. Squalid and half-ruinous
as those buildings have been allowed to become, they are only
known to many of his parishioners, by the annual calls upon their
purse for their mean and insufficient repairs; or if they notice
them, it is only to draw a contrast between the comfortless and
rubbishy state of the church, and the snug warmth of the dis
senting conventicle. And since as men see so will they judge,
the result has been that the Church has lost, or at least does not
possess, her just influence over numbers who in other days would
have been her willing-hearted children.
Church Architecture Scripturally Considered, from the earliest.
Ages to the present Time, is the title, not of a pamphlet, but of
a book of more pretension, a £ systematic attempt’ to overthrow
certain principles commonly held sacred by Churchmen; this
attempt being justified in the writer’s mind by the progress of
certain ‘evils perilous and growing,’ now rife among us. Whether
Mr. Close or his binder be responsible for the device which adorns
the cover of this treatise, nothing could more aptly describe the
contents. A gilt street-front of a modern church of the true
composite order is presented to us, ‘ worthy,’ we suppose, ‘ to
stand among the abodes of wealth or rank, by -which it is
chiefly furnished with guests:’ while the back of the volume
offers us the other end of the same building, minus the gold;
the part, we presume, which is turned away from the eyes of
men, and therefore need not be adorned. Can it be that the
author oi’ his publisher, acting in the spirit of the book, has
given us a symbolic representation of the idea of a Christian
church according to Mr. Close ? And, will our readers believe,
that this is indeed the drift of the argument in this work, that
�32
CHURCH ARCHITECTURE.
Churches are not to be to Christians places of joy, or objects of
their affection and reverence: but that, being from their aim and
employment loathsome and sickening, whatever adornment they
may receive must have no reference to the Gospel which is
preached in them, or the Sacraments which are administered,
but must only be such as to make them good enough for the rich
and gay, and fit to stand among their sumptuous palaces!
Now in freely criticising this extraordinary argument, we
must premise that we have no sympathy with Romanizing ten
dencies. We lament, as much as Mr. Close can do, the unwise
proceedings of some persons among us, who are overstepping the
clear line of demarcation which divides us from Rome: and the
main reason why we lament these proceedings is, not that we
conceive there is any danger of our people becoming extensively
infected with a superstition, from which, perhaps, they were
never further removed; but because such tendencies obstruct
and thwart our progress to purity and holiness, and by them
weak minds are scandalized, and kept back from love and obe
dience to the Church. Mr. Close may conceal from himself and
his readers the fact, but it is well known to all who choose
impartially to observe, that there are among us great numbers
both of clergy and laity, dutiful and affectionate sons of the
English Reformed Church, anxious to see her restored to her
efficiency, her discipline, her hold upon the people; abhorrent
from any superstition of any kind; hating the name and exist
ence of party in the Church; devoting their money to God’s
poor and God’s house, and their lives to God’s service; and yet
these men would one and all be by Mr. Close accused of going
themselves, and leading their people, in the direction of Rome.
And why ? simply because they hold that God’s house, being the
House of Prayer for aU nations, is to be ordered according to
the will of Him who purified it of all inappropriate and unseemly
things: because they hold that buildings raised for holy pur
poses may well in their form and furniture bear some aUusion to
those purposes; or at least better such allusion, than emblems
of paganism: that as the spire tells of their heavenward objects,
so the cross may remind us of that tribulation through which
the kingdom of heaven must be attained. For our Reformers
did not think, as Mr. Close does, that we cannot have crosses
without worshipping them, but were clear-headed and wisehearted enough not to be ashamed of that emblem either in their
sacred buildings or their sacred services because Rome had
,
*
superstitiously abused a reverent custom, and yielded practical
adoration to a material symbol.
Now upon such persons as these, supposing Mr. Close’s book
to have proved what it signally fails to prove, and to be as con
clusive as it is fallacious, would it not inflict ‘ a heavy blow and
Ex. gr.
The use of the Cross in Baptism.
�33
CHURCH RESTORATION.
a great discouragement?’ Let us, with this question before us,
briefly follow him through his argument. The Christian Church
man of England believes his Parish Church to be the House of
God: a joyful and hallowed place; into which he is exhorted to
enter with thanksgiving and praise. He reads in Scripture the
most reverent and affectionate expressions applied by holy men,
and by our blessed Lord Himself, to this House: and that, not in
virtue of any transitory observances, but from consideration of
it being that very House of prayer and praise, which he finds it
to be. And thus rejoicing in God’s temple on earth, he waits
his appointed time in faith and patience, when by Divine Mercy
he shall be removed to be a pillar in God’s temple in heaven,
and to serve Him day and night in that temple. Now to all this
Mr. Close tells him: You are mistaken. There is no temple on
earth: there will be no temple in Heaven ! The house of Prayer
in which you delight, is no subject for your delight; it is a
‘ lazaretto for infected souls
‘ Sin,’ not thankfulness, ‘ has
raised the pile!’ All the reverence, all the affection of the
Israelites of old, passed away with the dispensation under which
they lived; when our Lord spoke of the House of Prayer for all
nations, He intended no allusion to the time when all nations
should worship in it; you will find no temple in Heaven, therefore
cherish no such feelings as your present ones, or you will soon
find yourself the victim of dark and fatal errors.
Now in writing the above, we are well aware that in general
terms Mr. Close has (Reply, pp. 11, 12), disclaimed the desire to
produce such effects as these. But is a man to be at liberty to
advance the premisses, and to disavow the conclusion ? We put
it to any candid reader of Mr. Close’s book, whether such be
not the plain inference from its argument and tendency: and if
it be so, then we ask whether Mr. Close is to be considered
as the helper, or the hinderer, of the great and godly work of
furthering among us God’s truth and God’s service by means of
the faithful members of God’s Church.
But we must notice some of the steps of Mr. Close’s argu
ment to which we have as yet only referred.
First, because Mr. Close has placed it first in order; ‘there
is to be no temple in Heaven.’ Now it is to us most strange,
that the idea should never have dawned on Mr. Close’s mind,
that in almost all which he here says, he is refuting his own
argument. He states, and rightly, the reason why there will be
no (material or symbolic) temple there; viz., because the Lord
God Almighty and the Lamb are the Temple of it; and with
admirable naivete he winds up the sentence by saying,—
Churches, temples, ordinances, sacraments, are the means by which
God reveals himself to Ilis people now—but there will be no temple
there t!
* Church Architecture, p. 21.
Vol. I.
f Ibid,, p. 17.
D
�34
CHURCH ARCHITECTURE.
Exactly so: and being’ such, the fact of their being done
away in the state of fruition no more makes them sad and
mournful things, than the light of the sun is a mournful thing
on earth, because the redeemed will not need it in heaven.
Indeed, this whole passage, to which we have several times
referred, containing the ‘ lunatic asylum ’ comparison, is one
which we hope and pray that Mr. Close himself may yet live to
recoil from with as great aversion as the better part of his
readers have done. We fear, however, that in order for this to
be accomplished, that most pernicious practice must be got rid
of in preaching and writing, so common with Mr. Close’s school,
of sounding to us the sad strains of human depravity and misery,
and there ceasing—without striking the joyful and triumphant
notes of God’s praise to which every Christian Pastor should on
all such occasions proceed.
Now with regard to the next, the ‘ no temple in Paradise’
argument, surely Mr. Close might have reflected that his ‘stilted
prose ’ cannot decide a matter about which the greatest scholars
have been in doubt, and into which it were idle to enter, since
we have absolutely no data upon which to decide it. How ill
qualified, however, in scholarship and knowledge of Scripture,
Mr. Close is to enter on the enquiry, let the following blunders
prove, pointed out by Mr. Arnold, but not fully exposed:
What evidence is there, . . . that our first parents were con
templating an act of worship when ‘they were walking in the
garden in the cool of the day?’—(Close’s Reply, p. 9.)
Now we do not read that our first parents were walking, &c.,
but that ‘ they heard the voice of the Lord God walking in the
garden in the cool of the day.’ But it may perhaps be thought
that Mr. Close only draws an inference, or is imaginative, as he
was before. No such thing. Here is Mr. Close’s pointing of the
verse in question: (And they heard the voice of the Lord God,
walking in the garden in the cool of the day.—(Reply, p. 8).
Hence it appears, that he conceives ‘walking,’ &c., before which
he places a comma, to refer to Adam and Eve. This of course
will in a moment be decided by the Hebrew, the Septuagint, the
Vulgate, or any version in which singular and plural inflexions
appear. Now in all of these, the participle is in the singular, in
in the
apposition with ‘the Lord God:’ in the Hebrew,
Septuagint, TrepinTaTovvTos; in the Vulgate, deambulantis.
Is
this quite excusable, even in ‘ the pastor of a populous parish
is this ‘rightly dividing the word of Truth?’
But again, Mr. Close (Reply, p. 9, line 7) calls our first
parents’ hiding themselves from the presence of the Lord, an
event before the fall, (’.!) and on this he founds an argument,
wound up with no little contempt for Mr. Arnold, by saying,
‘ Surely never was there a bolder hypothesis hazarded on a more
baseless foundation!’ to which echo may answer, Surely never!
Space will not allow us to dwell on Mr. Close’s extraordinary
�CHURCH RESTORATION.
35
views of the state and worship of the Patriarchal Church: that
‘perhaps they walked more nearly with God than believers since
have done:’ (p. 24) that ‘they needed not the oft-repeated
sacrifice and the blood-stained altar’ (¿incZ): to the first of which
sentences it might be objected that on such a supposition, the
covenant of the Gospel has not been fulfilled, and we are none
the better for the manifestation of the Godhead in flesh: whereas
after an enumeration of these among other worthies, the
Apostle states that God hath ‘ provided some better thing for us
that they without us should not be made perfect:’—and to the
latter it may be answered, that such an assertion is most unwar
ranted, for that all the indications which we have of the worship
of that period point to ordained sacrifices of living animals.
—(Gen. iv. 4, 7. v. Faber on Primitive Sacrifice?)
After this it will scarcely be credited except by those who
are accustomed to the suicidal character of Mr. Close’s style,
that he says, having stated that there was neither altar nor sacri
fice in Egypt, (does he forget the sacrifice of the Lord’s Passover,
Exod. xii. 27?)
To this, in great measure, may be attributed the rapid decline of
the Israelites from the service of the God of then’ fathers soon after the
death of Jacob and Joseph.—(p. 28.)
And yet he himself has been dwelling with rapture almost
poetic, and admiration tinctured with something like disparage
ment of the state of believers under the Gospel, on the purity
and nearness to God of those who, according to him, had neither
altar nor sacrifice, and leaving his readers to infer that their
superior sanctity was connected with this circumstance. Verily
this is blowing hot and cold with one and the same breath.
Our readers have seen, we trust, on how flimsy a foundation
Mr. Close’s argument rests, as far as the giving of the Mosaic
Law. It is in fact, nothing but mere conjecture, and that con
jecture directly opposed to the spirit of the few hints which are
furnished in Scripture, and to the opinions of those who, unlike
himself, consult and pay attention to the original language of the
Pentateuch. Which of the two carries the most weight, wre
need hardly ask our readers to judge.
And yet he states with amusing assurance,
Above two thousand three hundred years of the world’s existence
have rolled by, and as yet no kind of temple is raised to the worship of
Almighty God.
Now even supposing this demonstrated and giving Mr. Close
also the sentence paraded in capitals on page 32, which asserts
the same of three thousand years, or one half of the world’s pre
sent existence, what does it all prove, but just what wre might
expect to find from the analogy of Providence, that the dealings
of God in choosing and establishing His people were not sudden
but gradual: nor irrespective of circumstance, but adapted to
each successive state of the family and nation whom He had
D 2
�36
CHURCH ARCHITECTURE.
chosen, so that when they were strangers seeking a country, His
tabernacle moved with them, and it -was not till they were
planted in the mountain of His inheritance, that there was also
made a place for Him to dwell in—a Sanctuary which His
hands had established. (Exod. xv. 17.)
But the next part of Mr. Close’s argument is more posi
tively offensive. We are unwilling to quote the ascription of
motives to the Most High, which, besides savouring, to us at
least, of irreverence, is most directly contrasted with the state
ments of Scripture. Let any student of Scripture compare the
prophecies in Deut. xii., where it is repeatedly asserted that
the Lord would hereafter in the land of promise ‘ choose a
place out of aU the tribes, to put His name there,’ with Psalm
lxxviii. 67, 68, 69, ‘ Moreover He refused the tabernacle of
Joseph, and chose not the tribe of Ephraim; but chose the
tribe of Judah, the Mount Zion which He loved: and He built
His sanctuary like high palaces, like the earth, which He
hath established for ever:’ and then say whether the whole
of this part of Mr. Close’s argument is not founded on misap
prehension. Nor is it difficult to see what that misapprehension
is. Let us carefully read the message of Nathan to David in
1 Chron. xvii. (not half of it, which Mr. Close has quoted, p. 34,
but the whole,) with David’s prayer following, and we shall see
what the burden of the message is. The stress throughout is
upon the circumstance that Israel had been as yet, and even in
David’s time, in motion and unsettled, and that therefore the Lord
had not commanded them to build Him a temple, but had
gone from tent to tent, and from one tabernacle to another:
that for this same reason David, having been a man of war and
change, was not to build it; but that his son, a man of rest,
should build it, when the children of Israel should be planted in
their place. In chap. xxii. 6—10, we find this stated by David
himself as the reason. So that there appears in Scripture no
ground for the strange perversion given to this passage by Mr.
Close to serve the purposes of his argument. Nay, there is
everything against it: the commendation of David’s purpose
(1 Kings viii. 18): the revelation of all the order and furniture
of the temple by the Spirit unto David (1 Chron. xxviii. 12, 19,)
the expressions, too numerous to quote, but familiar to all, from
God Himself, of love for His temple, and commands to His people
to reverence it: all these come in but strangely after Mr. Close’s
assertions. And as to what he states in page 34, and, which, for
reasons mentioned above, we refrain from citing, let us only ask,
does not the Spirit of the Lord by the Prophets, so far from
tracing superstition to the temple as its source, constantly call
the people back /rom their superstitions to the purity of God’s
worship in the sanctuary—and do we not find, that whenever the
Kings of Judah wished to combat superstition, the restoration of
the temple was one of their first objects?
�CHURCH RESTORATION.
37
As we pass on, error after error, perversion after perversion,
seem to crowd thicker upon us. Mr. Close says, (page 42) after
insisting very strongly on the circumstance that the first temple
was the only one in which the Lord ever dwelt,—
We have seen how far inferior in every respect the second temple
was to that of Solomon: not merely in its extent, costliness, or deco
rations—nor simply in its deficiency in typical emblems, but chiefly in
this,—that God the Lord never entered it, never dwelt in it.
To this statement we would oppose not only the whole spirit
of the prophecies of Haggai and Zechariah, but the plain and
decisive assertion of our Blessed Lord, (Matt, xxiii. 21,) spoken
of this very temple, ‘ Whoso shall swear by the temple, sweareth
by it, and by Him that dwelleth therein.’ (!!)
Yet again: Mr. Arnold has cited Hooker as ‘not thinking any
place so good for the performance of worship as a church,
neither any exhortation so fit as that of David, 0 worship the
Lord in the beauty of holiness.’ On this Mr. Close remarks:—
That so great a writer should quote the words of David thus, as
really applicable to a beautiful building, is surprising! could Hooker
really think that ‘ the beauty of holiness’ meant the beauty of a stone
building which was not then erected? yet the quotation otherwise has
no force: and if so, it argues a want of spiritual discernment.
That is, we suppose, the words ‘beauty of holiness’ are to be
spiritually understood. Now observe the modesty of this passage.
Mr. Close, who does not knoio what these words mean, who has
never investigated the subject, but takes up with the second
hand interpretation which he finds current, is surprised at, and
accuses of want of spiritual discernment one who, setting autho
rity out of the question, might at least, being learned, and
judicious, and pious, have been presumed to have ascertained the
meaning of the words before he quoted them. Let us see how
the matter stands. The words rendered ‘beauty of holiness’ in
Psalm xxix. 2, xcvi. 9, and 1 Chron. xvi. 29,
and
in the margin, ‘ the glorious sanctuary,’ are by the LXX. rendered
ev avKy dyla avrov, and by the Vulgate, in atrio sancto Ejus,
1 in His holy court.’ In the other place where they occur,
(2 Chron. xx. 21,) it would baffle the most determined partisan to
give them the spiritual interpretation.
Mr. Arnold has well
observed that in all these places they seem to refer to the beau
tiful vestments used in the temple service: or perhaps, the
beautiful order and array of the ministers employed in it.
Now Mr. Close’s error here, one common to his school, is,
that he loses the type in the antitype. All the beauty and
adornment of the temple was symbolic and typical; but it does
not therefore ‘ argue want of spiritual discernment’ to maintain
that David speaks of the material temple, in a passage where he
clearly does so. This mistake runs through Mr. Close’s reason
ings: e. y., The hearts of true believers are the proper and
highest residence of God under the Gospel dispensation.
�38
CHURCH ARCHITECTURE.
Granted: and granted also that all material temples, their
worship and appurtenances, are subservient to, and representa
tive of, this most glorious of all temples. But this will not do
for Mr. Close: because the hearts of true believers are in the
highest sense the temple of God, therefore there is no material
temple I
But our quarrel with the passage above-cited is not mainly
on account of its partaking of this fallacious error, but on account
of its arrogant spirit in pronouncing a sentence of condemnation
on one, who, whatever Mr. Close may think of his authority when
it makes against him, was at least by consent of all a learned,
judicious, and pious writer. Would that Mr. Close himself, by
the signal absence of the two first of these qualities, had not cast
such a cloud as he has done on the acknowledged presence of
the latter!
Mr. Close’s conduct of his argument through the history of
the New Testament has been so ably exposed by Mr. Arnold,
that we need only refer our readers to his two excellent pam
phlets; adding, however, one or two remarks. Here, as before,
all that Mr. Close advances is based upon mere conjecture, and
that unwarranted and improbable. The assertion that sanctity
of places was abolished, contrasts rather strangely with the
assembling, again and again, of the Apostles in (not an, but)
the upper chamber in which the Lord’s supper had been insti
tuted. The endeavour of Mr. Close to prove that the descent of
the Holy Ghost was not in the temple, will not probably produce
much effect upon the unbiassed reader of the second chapter of
the Acts, who will remember that besides the fact of the temple
being the place of resort at the festival of Pentecost, where the
people would hear the Apostles speaking with tongues, the
analogy of the proceedings of the Church, hardly leaves room for
any other supposition, when we reflect that, until the descent of
the Spirit, the upper chamber was their constant place of meet
ing; but no sooner has that taken place, than we find them
continuing daily in the temple. What could have produced this
change in the place of resort, but its having been the place of
the fulfilment of the promise of the Father?
But Mr. Close asserts, (could he not here also have used
more reverential language?) that oui' Lord dissevered His Chris
tian institutions as much as possible from Temple Ordinances; and
that it was His purpose to abolish sacred localities in introducing
the Christian dispensation,
Mr. Arnold had met this assertion by adducing the Christian
festivals of Easter and Whitsuntide, and stating that their exact
coincidence with the Jewish Passover and Pentecost did not bear
out what Mr. Close maintains.
Mr. Close’s answer to this is too curious to be omitted:—
And is this seriously intended to refute a statement which had
reference to ‘the words and deeds’ of our blessed Lord only? Can any
�CHURCH RESTORATION.
39
thing be gathered respecting the rhind and will of Christ from the sub
sequent institutions of his Church, that is, of mere men? Did our Lord,
or even his Apostles, institute Easter and Whitsuntide? Thus it is that
things human and divine are continually mingled together by certain
writers, as if the authority of our Lord Jesus Christ and of his uninspired
Church were equal.—{Reply, p. 19.)
Now, in answer to all this, will Mr. Close be so good as to
say what gave rise to the festivals of Easter and Whitsuntide?
for that is the question. Is it not obviously the point insisted on
by Mr. Arnold, that our Blessed Lord, in choosing these exact
times for His Resurrection and the Descent of the Holy Spirit, did
not separate Christian Ordinances from, but identified them with,
the temple ordinances? And what is Mr. Close’s escape from
the inference, but a subterfuge? But mark the consequence:
men cannot employ subterfuges with impunity. Mr. Arnold has
spoken of the great events of Redemption by the familiar and
household names of the annual commemorations of the Church.
According to Mr. Close, this Church, the body of the faithful, is
the true temple of God in which His Spirit dwells: and yet, the
moment it suits his argument, their institutions are worthless,
they become mere men, uninspired! Again, if Mr. Close be
pleased thus to sneer at the yearly festival of the Resurrection,
will he point out to us upon what authority the observance of the
weekly festival of the Resurrection rests ?i If a Jew had pre
sumed to neglect the seventh day, God’s appointed Sabbath, and
to keep the first day, he would have incurred God’s severe dis
pleasure: by what authority have we made the change? Might
not every word of the above quotation have been used with
regard to the Lords day, as well as to Easter and Whitsuntide?
and would not Mi’. Close be one of the first to reject such an
inference as would thence be drawn?
Thus is the first and greater part of Mr. Close’s Church
Architecture employed:—the great conclusion of his argument
being, that under the Gospel the sanctity of places is done away,
and there are, properly speaking, no churches at all. In order
for Mr. Close to be consistent with himself, a consecrated church
should be his abomination: nay, any fixed or settled building at
all undesirable; but seeing probably the madness of such an
opinion, he curiously enough states as his conclusion, ‘ That the
churches in which Christians worship should, as to external deco
ration, harmonize with the genius of the Christian dispensation?
A conclusion to which we have nothing to object, provided
always Mr. Close be not its interpreter.
But here we must break off, promising our readers to recur
to the remainder of Church Architecture on another occasion:
and to review Mr. Close’s extraordinary statement, that ‘the
Restoration of Churches is the Restoration of Popery.’
�40
A RECOLLECTION OF ROSAS.
BY A NAVAL OFFICER.
It was a moral end for which they fought;
Else how, when mighty thrones were put to shame,
Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim,
A resolution, or enlivening thought ?
Spain, poor fallen Spain! Another revolution in that ill-fated
country excites the regrets of the worthy, as an additional proof
of the utter political ruin of a fine nation; one which of erst
wielded the balance of European power. Her exhausted re
sources, prostrated strength, murderous proscriptions, and con
tempt of honour, excite the deepest disgust in minds which
recognise her former chivalry, and really deplore her fall. This
train of thought recalled the remembrance of the year 1808,
when the Spaniards everywhere started up simultaneously, as if
moved by one indignant soul, into an attitude of defence and
defiance, and declared eternal war against perfidious France, to
the astonishment of all Europe, including the man who caused it.
On this signal occasion, Catalonia was terribly in the way of
Napoleon’s designs,—and as one of our earliest combined exploits
took place here, in a war which eventually hurled that gentleman
from his throne, we are tempted to say a word or two on the
fall of Rosas. England and Spain, though at war with each
other at the outbreak of the French plot, quickly came to a
right understanding, and Viva Fernando Settimo! was the mutual
war-cry: ’tis a pity the individual rallying-point was so worth
less a man. The presence of the British men-of-war stationed
on the coast of Catalonia, rendered the most essential support
to the Patriots. Their officers and crews co-operated with the
utmost alacrity in every service where the naval force could
be employed for their advantage ; and the ships afforded an
asylum to the unfortunate fugitives, whenever the successes of
*
their reckless enemy left no other refuge for them.
All
ranks on board cheerfully submitted to inconvenience and priva
tion on their account, giving up every little comfort for the
accommodation. The enemy were repeatedly driven from the
beach by the cannonade of the ships, and the fire from their
boats, in covering the retreat of the Patriots, or in dislodging
the French from their positions along the coast, when within
range of our shot. Unfortunately the imbecility of the Spanish
councils was too soon apparent, for most of the public measures
were retarded and embarrassed by apathy and extreme mis
management. The rival jealousies of the Patriot chiefs com
pleted the mischief of such weakness; for instead of being
actuated by an honourable and practical detestation of their foul
invaders, they were too often occupied with schemes to ruin and
�A RECOLLECTION OF ROSAS.
41
supplant each other. Meantime the people at large were moved
with a full desire for the expulsion of the common enemy; and
the Catalan peasant, amidst all his misfortunes, preserved his
spirit and persevering activity; every new enormity committed
by the French,—and such were of constant occurrence,—only
excited a keener sense of his wrongs, a more implacable hatred
towards the perpetrators, and a more determined resolution to
subdue them.
Such was the state of affairs in the north of Spain, within a
few brief months after the gloriously memorable outbreak of
May, 1808; when, stung by their reverses at Saragossa and
Gerona, the French were determined upon breaking-in the pro
vince of Catalonia. After devastating the country around Bar
celona, a force of five thousand men was dispatched against
Rosas, it being looked upon as a key to the important fortress of
Figueras.
Rosas is a town and citadel at the bottom of a great bay of
the same name, where the Pyrenees enter the Mediterranean
Sea. The town is composed of a single street of white-washed
houses along the water’s edge, to the eastward of the citadel;
the latter is a large irregular pentagon, without a ditch or
covered-way, in poor repair and equipment, and still bearing
marks of its noted siege in 1793, by General Perignon. On the
coast hills beyond the town is a well-known fort called Trinidad,
the Bouton of the French, which communicates by a narrow and
steep road between the slope of the hill and the beach. It is
a compact structure surmounted by a small light-house, and
though commanded by the rocky crags adjacent, it made a stout
resistance in 1793. From hence to the extreme cape, the land
becomes picturesque from the variety of its intricate parts, con
trasting with the blank and uninteresting plain below Rosas,
where lowly dwellings and neglected farms evince misery.
The Bay of Rosas is formed by the Medas islands on the
south, and Cape Norfeo, a Pyrenean promontory, on the north,
comprising a length of about twelve miles: it is quite clear of
rocks and shoals, and the soundings are so regular that large
ships may conveniently anchor within cannon-shot. They gene
rally bring up off the town in from fifteen to seven fathoms
water, and smaller ones in from five to three and a half fathoms,
where they ride very securely, being exposed to south-east winds
only, and these seldom blow home. The tramontana, or north
wind, often rushes violently from the Pyrenees, but as it blows
fair for sailing out of the bay, it can do no harm to a vessel
riding there. It is never greatly frequented; but in order to
maintain possession of the Lampourdan, as the surrounding parts
are called, and to secure supplies by means of the sea, it is
necessary to hold Rosas. Hence the movement of the fell
invaders.
The unexpected spirit which the Spanish peasantry displayed,
�42
A RECOLLECTION OF ROSAS.
liad sorely galled the enemy, and irritated the French generals to
an unprecedented degree; and the consequent extortions and
butcheries of Duhesme in Catalonia, had already acquired for
him the cognomen of The Cruel. Proclamations were abroad
in all directions, enjoining the most coercive measures for the
suppression of the rebels, as the Patriots were termed, and
rapine and violence rioted in excess around Barcelona. Great,
thei efoi e, was the consternation when, about the beginning of
November, authentic accounts were received that the French
were advancing to attack Rosas. The men made a display of
indignation, but the terrors of the women and children were
very distressing. It is true the garrison consisted of nearly
three thousand men, but they were ill-paid, ill-fed, and, like the
citadel itself, but ill-found.
Fortunately the British flag was flying in the bay at this
critical moment, to the joy of the inhabitants, and the confusion
of their enemies; for the asylum given to many of the former,
greatly reduced the plunder of the latter. The Excellent, of
seventy-four guns, commanded by Captain John West, together
with the Meteor bomb-ship, Captain Collins, lay within point
blank range of the shore, where they were shortly afterwards
joined by the Lucifer bomb, under the late well-known brave
officer, Captain Robert Hall. Every assistance was immediately
rendered; and the Spanish and English, so recently at war
against each other, were now zealously engaged in a common
cause. The garrison was reinforced with the marines of the
Excellent (with the exception of an officer and twenty-five men,
who had been previously dispatched to Fort Trinidad,) and a
strong party of seamen.
On the evening of the 6th November the French troops were
observed in motion between Figueras and Castillera, and on the
following morning they had complete possession of the heights
adjacent to Rosas. On the same day at noon, a small body of
the enemy entered the town, which in an instant was cleared of
its remaining inhabitants, who either fled to their own fishing
vessels, the British boats, or the citadel, for protection. Shouts
and cries announced the successful advance of the French; but
a well-directed fire from the Excellent and Meteor compelled
them precipitately to retire. On the 7th they advanced towards
some houses and ruins in the rear of the town, which they occu
pied as an advanced post; and this position they finally retained,
although repeatedly dislodged by the shot and shells from the
citadel and the ships. On the 8th, at noon, observing that the
French were hard pressing a body of Miqueletes, or Catalonian
militia, Captain West was induced to make a dash in their favour.
Accordingly he suddenly made a sortie for the citadel, at the
head of 250 of the Excellent’s seamen and marines, who
sallied out in a style that astonished the French, and suspended
their pursuit of the Catalans. Our men advanced with great
�A RECOLLECTION OE ROSAS.
43
spirit, and showed an excellent front; but the superior force of
the French, who endeavoured with their cavalry to surround the
British, compelled the latter, after having succeeded in their
object of rescuing the Miqueletes, to retire within the fortress.
Several seamen and marines were wounded, and Captain West
had his horse shot undei' him in this novel encounter, but they
regained them quarters without losing a man. Hearty were the
vivas and congratulations of Governor O’Daly and the Dons, and
preparations were made for extremity.
Meantime the men-of-war kept the French out of the
deserted town, and prevented them making a lodgment there
for several days. On the 9th a large breach was made in the
walls of the place, but it was repaired in the night, principally
by British seamen, so that the enemy could hardly have been
aware of the damage they had done. The support thus given
to the Spaniards drove the French to alter their measures, and
compelled them to proceed by rules of art, where they hoped
to have carried aU by a coup-de-main. Ample time was thus
afforded to the ruling powers, to take energetic steps for the
relief of so important a post. Mais betas! it was a Spanish
government. The assistance thus rendered by Captain West was
represented to the Junta as an attempt of that officer to possess
himself of the place; and the sapient Junta believed, or affected
to believe the tale!
The French maintained an occasional fire until the morning
of the 15th, when about a couple of hundred of them, with a
reserve of two thousand, made a most resolute assault upon
Trinidad; yet so well were they received by the garrison and
the marines, that it was altogether unsuccessful. In a second
assault, with increased numbers, two of the outer gates were
broken open; but, by a steady and well-directed fire of musketry
and hand-grenades from the fort, the French were, a second
time, obliged to retire, leaving their leader, a chief of brigade,
and several other- officers and men, dead under the walls. Five
of our marines were wounded.
As there was every symptom that the French intended a
third assault, Captain West, by means of a rope-ladder, threw in
a reinforcement of two officers and thirty marines; of whom
only one man was slightly wounded, although the party had
bravely entered during an incessant fire of musketry from the
besiegers. But the latter saw cause finally to adopt other
measures for the present, and occupied themselves in constructing
batteries to drive the ships further from the shore: and in this
they succeeded.
On the 21st the Excellent was relieved by the Fame, of
74 guns, Captain Bennett; who, finding the citadel and Trinidad
closely invested, and the Spanish garrisons in a deplorable state,
withdrew his marines on the 23rd, and shortly afterwards retired
from the coast, leaving the Meteor and the Lucifer to witness
�44
A RECOLLECTION OF ROSAS.
the catastrophe. And thus was Rosas virtually abandoned to its
fate.
Another struggle, however, was yet to be made. On the
25th, the Impérieuse frigate, commanded by that brave and
seaman-like officer, Lord Cochrane, anchored in the bay. The
captains of the bomb-vessels soon acquainted him with the situa
tion of affairs; and Captain Hall, in particular, suggested the
necessity of impeding the French to the utmost, even in cases
where there should be no hope. Lord Cochrane went himself to
examine the state of Fort Trinidad; and, finding that the Spanish
garrison was on the point of surrendering, threw himself into the
walls, with fifty of his seamen and thirty marines. The resources
of his active mind were immediately called into full play, and
excited the admiration of all. In his official report to Colling
wood, Lord Cochrane says :—4 The arrangements made, I need
not detail to your Lordship; suffice it to say, that about one
thousand bags, besides barrels and palisadoes, supplied the
place of walls and ditches ; and that the enemy, who assaulted
the castle on the 30th with a thousand picked men, were repulsed
with the loss of their commanding officer, storming equipage, and
all who had attempted to mount the breach?
Valour and skill, however, could only oppose temporary
obstacles to the overwhelming force against them. On the 5th
of December the citadel of Rosas capitulated; and, considering
further resistance in Fort Trinidad impracticable against the
whole French army, Lord Cochrane fired the trains for exploding
the magazines, and re-embarked his men. Thus fell Rosas: but
though admitted to be the key of Figueras, it could not obtain one
of the conditions, namely the sea communication; and within a
year of Lord Cochrane’s exploit, a whole French convoy was
either burnt at their moorings, or brought off, by our boats, in the
face of a heavy fire from the war-vessels, the citadel, Trinidad,
and the troops.
We must not close this ‘ recollection’ without a word upon
the great bulwark of Catalonia, the far-famed Figueras, a fortress
which was intended to be a master-piece in the art of fortifica
tions. It stands on the summit of an eminence about half a
mile from the town of the same name. Its form is pentagonal,
with bastions, ditches, and bomb-proof works prodigally distri
buted to ensure impregnability. There are accomodations for
fifteen thousand men, besides horses; as well as capacious
store-houses for provisions and muniments of all descriptions.
Every part is casemated, ramparts, barracks, hospital, church,
stables, magazines, and cellars. When some English officers were
expatiating on its apparent efficiency, the Abbot of the Fran
ciscan Monastery in Figueras exclaimed, ‘ It is, indeed, a fine
fortress; yet, with all its advantages, it has never withstood
anything deserving the name of a siege. In fact, in time of
peace it belongs to us, but in time of war to our enemies?
�A RECOLLECTION OF ROSAS.
45
One of his auditors took the liberty of asking, how that came
to pass? The Abbot made no verbal reply, but with a signifi
cant shrug motioned with the fingers of his right hand, as if
counting money into the palm of his left one.
Such is the reliance placed by the Spaniards on the honour,
integrity, and patriotism of their defenders!
BALLAD.
BY THE REV. HENRY ALFORD, M.A.
I.
Rise, sons of merry England, from mountain and from plain
Let each light up his spirit, let none unmoved remain;
The morning is before you, and glorious is the sun;
Rise up, and do your blessed work before the day be done.
ii.
‘ Come help us, come and help us,’—from the valley and the hill
To the ear of God in heaven are the cries ascending still:
The soul that wanteth knowledge, the flesh that wanteth food;—.
Arise, ye sons of England, goaabout doing good.
hi.
Your hundreds and your thousands at usage and in purse,
Behold a safe investment which shall bless and never curse!
O who would spend for house or land, if he might but from above
Draw down the sweet and holy dew of happiness and love?
IV
Pour out upon the needy ones the soft and healing balm,
The storm hath not arisen yet—ye yet may keep the calm:
Already mounts the darkness,—the warning wind is loud;
But ye may seek your fathers’ God, and pray away the cloud.
v.
Go throng our ancient churches, and on the holy floor
Kneel humbly in your penitence among the kneeling poor;
Cry out at morn and even, and amid the busy day,
‘ Spare, spare, O Lord, thy people;—0 cast us not away.’
vi.
Hush down the sounds of quarrel, let party names alone,—
Let brother join with brother, and England claim her own.
In battle with the Mammon-host join peasant, clerk, and lord:
Sweet charity your banner-flag, and God for all your word.
�46
MUSIC AT HOME.
CONCERTED MUSIC, AS A DOMESTIC AND SOCIAL RECREATION.
After a century or more of exhibition, amateur as well as profes
sional, it seems very likely that Music will, ere long, again be
generally turned to account as a social recreation,—that after
a long course of dissipation, she will return to the spheres she is
so well fitted to adorn,—the fireside and the home-circle.
How far the practice of the musical art has been discou
raged, how far its reputation as a humanizing agent has suffered
from its long and almost exclusive use as a vehicle for individual
display, those only can know who, loving it dearly, have yet ears
to hear and patience to consider even the groundless scruples of
conscientious people.
That Music may be made the handmaid of Vice is indis
putable; that she is not of necessity such must be as obvious.
But it is vain to deny, that in the exhibition of great individual
musical skill, there is danger, to auditors as well as to per
formers, that too much store be set on an accomplishment not
inseparably connected with high moral, or even intellectual
qualities. Moreover, it must be admitted, that in all individual
display there is a tendency to rub off, from the manner if not
from the mind, the bloom of that modesty, which—always
associated in our minds with a something of reserve—is one of
the greatest charms, more especially of the female character.
Ha you mark’d but the fall o’ the snow,
Before the soil hath smutched it?
says an old Poet; and we are as little prepared as our fore
fathers, to find our countrywomen ‘ prepared for every possible
contingency,’ or ‘ no longer to be astonished by anything.’ The
majority of us, it must be confessed, have still a sneaking kind
ness for the paradox, ‘ not the least charm of a young English
woman is her ignorance.’
Most unwillingly would we be understood to imply, that
the self-possession required for the efficient display of indi
vidual skill in music or aught else, whether by man or woman, is
necessarily purchased by the sacrifice of modesty or virtue; but
an exchange may be made instead of an addition; and the addi
tion is in most cases unnecessary. For without doubt the
purposes of High Art will be served most efficiently, by restrict
ing individual display to those rare instances, where God’s good
gifts seem brought together, that they may be an example and
a delight to many.
From all such objections, well or ill founded, Concerted
Music, rightly used, is entirely free. And by rightly used is
meant, not the infliction on the patience of an unwilling audience
of those never-ending, still-beginning, instrumental trios and quar
tets, or worse still, those ‘arrangements’ of synfonies ‘compressed
�MUSIC AT HOME.
47
from the score,’ which unlike models of mountains and pyramids,
give less idea of the form of their originals than their size; with
all the accessories of amateur rosining, amateur tuning, and
amateur independence of time * in which the ‘ Fanatico’ is wont
,
to display his vanity and ignorance. Noi' by concerted music
rightly used, do we mean the subjecting one’s guests to the
mesmeric influences of that lugubrious class of ‘ Glees’ (un-etymological people nevei' can understand why they are so called)
with which loyal and patriotic gentlemen of a certain age, are
wont to be soothed after the healthful stimulus of tavern senti
mentality, or ‘high and dry’ toasts. Neither have we in our
minds anything in the least like a modern musical party. For
in general, nothing in the world is got together with such a coil
of preparation as a modern musical party; certainly of nothing
in the world is the result so strangely disproportionate to the
means used to make it successful. To the true musician, it is,
usually, a source of unmixed annoyance; to the man who, in
the common sense of the term, ‘ hath no music in his soul,’ it is
a chaos, an ever-pregnant source of mystification: and all this
because amateurs in general neither use the right music, nor use
it rightly.
The truth is that our classifications of music want revision
and addition. We have in general pretty clear notions of the
difference between Sacred Music and Secular; i. e., when con
nected with words: what the essentials of Sacred Music are, may
be worth considering another time. We know in what respects
an Oratorio differs from an Opera; and these two again, from
what is called Chamber Music. But Chamber Music presents
many varieties, and on the face of it branches off into two great
divisions—Music for the Listener and Music for the Performer—
the music in which the Composer has addressed himself to
those who hear it, by bold and striking effects, and that music
in which care for those who ‘ make’ it, is shown in a pretty
equal distribution of interest among all the parts;—exhibitional
music and social music.
It is to this latter Music we would wish to see more of the
talent of our young composers, more of the research of our
antiquarians, and most of the attention of our amateur students,
directed: in its creation and resuscitation, the former will most
certainly raise their own reputations and best serve their art; in
its interpretation the latter will find the most deep and lasting
delight,—it is for them, food, not stimulus. With the exhibitional
works of the great masters of harmony,—for the true rendering of
* There is a story (we think in Miss Hawkins’ Anecdotes') of an amateur
violin pupil of Dr. Cooke, who on his attention being drawn to the fact that
one or two rests had escaped his notice, at a moment when he thought he was
‘getting on’ famously, replied, ‘ These trifles are all very well for you who get
your living by attending to them, but they are nothing to me !’
�48
MUSIC AT HOME.
which great mechanical skill (the result of a life’s labour) is the
smallest essential, the Amateur is deeply concerned as an auditor
or as a critic; as a performer he can only meddle with them, at
the risk of making them unintelligible, and himself ridiculous.
But with another class of music he has every concern; for he
may be at once its auditor, its critic, and its performer.
We speak of that music of which the best specimens and
the greater portion are due to what is called ‘ the Madrigalian
Era,’—the latter part of the sixteenth century,—an era, during
which the composer required no intermediate agency to make
his thoughts intelligible, but addressed himself directly to those
who were at once his artists and his public. That he did so
with success,—that this free intercourse between producer and
consumer worked well,—that there were ‘ readers ’ for these
works we know: the fact indeed is evidenced in their number
alone; of the greatness of which, as well as of their intrinsic
excellence, every day’s research adds something to our know
ledge.
The musical reader will forgive us, if, addressing ourselves
rather to those who are just finding out ‘ what music is, and what
it is made of,’ than to him, we bring under notice (not for the
first time) a passage from the opening of a Book of Instructions
in Music published at the end of the sixteenth century; as a
,
*
fragment of much evidence that might be adduced, to show not
so much the estimation in which music was then held, as the
extent to which it was generally cultivated.
Polymath.es. Stay, brother Philomathes: what haste? Whither go
you so fast?
Philomathes. To seeke out an old friend of mine.
Pol. But before you goe, I pray you repeate some of the discourses
which you had yesternight at Master Sophobulus his banket: for com
monly he is not without wise and learned guests.
Phi. It is true, indeede. And yesternight there were a number of
excellent scliollers, both gentlemen and others; but all the propose,
which then was discoursed upon, was Musicke.
Pol. I trust you were contented to suffer others to speake of that
matter.
Phi. I would that had beene the worst: for I was compelled to
discover mine owne ignorance, and confesse that I knew nothing at
all in it.
Pol. How so?
Phi. Among the rest of the guests by chance, Master Aphron came
thither also, who falling to discourse of Musicke, was in an argument so
quickly taken up and hotly pursued by Eudoxus and Calergus, two
kinsmen of Sophobulus, as in his owne act he was overthrowen: but he
still sticking in his opinion, the two gentlemen requested me to examine
his reasons, and confute them. But I refusing, and pretending igno
* A Plaine and Easie Ihtroduction to Practicall Musicke. Set down in the
form of a Dialogue, by Thomas Morley.
�MUSIC AT HOME.
49
rance, the whole company condemned me of discurtesie, being fully
perswaded, that I had beene as skilfull in that art, as they tooke me to
be learned in others. But supper being ended, and musicke bookcs
(according to the custome) being brought to table, the mistresse of the
house presented me with a part, earnestly requesting me to sing;
but when, after many excuses, I protested vnfainedly that I could not,
every one began to wonder. Yea, some whispered to others, demand
ing how I was brought vp; so that, vpon shame of mine ignorance, I
goe now to seeke out mine old friend, Master Gnorimus, to make my
selfe his scholer.
With every allowance for the involuntary exaggeration of
an enthusiast writing about his own pursuit, this picture bears
internal evidence (were other -wanting) of truth. Doubtless,
ladies and gentlemen of the sixteenth century would have
‘demanded -where’ a man who could not sing ‘was brought up.’
How fortunate for some of our contemporaries that this test of
gentility is no longer applied. What would become of our
grand juries?—of our county balls? Perhaps in the general
emergency to get up a quorum or a quadrille, we should be
obliged to make professors of music, gentlemen, by law!
Of great individual instrumental performers, during the
Madrigalian Era, we read next to nothing; of great individual
singers about as much; but we do read again and again, that
every great house had its ‘ chest of viols,’ and almost every
house, small as well as great, its ‘set of part books.’ And there
fore, we know, that at a period when the manlier virtues of
English character flourished with a strength and luxuriance that
we are accustomed to think can scarcely be exceeded, a know
ledge of music was more generally spread than has ever been
the case since.
And the domestic scene from the drama of musical life,
which we find in Morley, is not the only one we have to look
back upon. We know that the sitting-room and the refectory
were not the only places for the exercise of a talent so widely
diffused. The same skill that gave a charm and an intelligence
to the Madrigal or Round, lent its aid to many a ‘ Service high and
Anthem clear.’ At the time when Ecclesiastical music at home
and abroad had reached its highest point, there were few, perhaps
no great Performers, but vocal music was commonly practised,
and the power of singing from notes widely diffused. Music
became the ‘handmaid of Divinity;’ not by the display of rare
excellence in individuals, but by the combination of many voices,
perhaps of great, but certainly not of distinguished excellence.
Doubtless there is an indissoluble connection between the highest
and the lowest powers: doubtless, it may be shown, that the
Senior Wrangler or the ‘Double First’ has something to do with
the smallest village school’s smallest pupil, and that unless the
former take his honours, the latter will not be taught his letters.
But what is true of money is true of man; ‘take care of the
Vol. I.
'
E
�50
MUSIC AT HOME.
pence and farthings, and the pounds will take care of themselves.’
There is as little fear of a deficiency in the supply of great
artists as of great scholars; they, (the pounds,) can take care
of themselves; but the small scholars and the small artists, (the
pence and farthings,) must be cared for. If a general cultivation
of art have anything to do with real civilization, if the musical
art, in particular, have anything to do with the solemnity and
power of public worship—the people must be taught to sing.
NEW YEAR’S DAY.
THE CIRCUMCISION OF OUR LORD.
i.
ANOTHER year completes its round,
Another year its course begins—
And girt for conflict we are found,
Oi’ in our sins.
ii.
And time will be as time hath been—
An interchange of hopes and fears,
Of lowering sky and glowing scene,
And smiles and tears.
hi.
A season fraught with direst woe,
To laggard souls that idly bask—
But bliss to those who boldly go
On to their task.
vi.
When brought like that blest Babe
who wrought
Our freedom from the ancient rite,
And through His guiltless suffering
brought
Our life to light.
VII.
Oh! not in riot nor in sin—
Not with the world’s unholy glee—
But, Lord, the year we would begin
With thoughts of Thee.
VIII.
Mindful that we were early laid
Like Thee in holy arms, and given
The task to battle every hour,
To God’s high service, sealed and made
With ghostly foes, and deadly ill,
The sons of Heaven.
And their own hearts, a hidden power
More deadly still.
IX.
v.
That awful task they dare not shun— And so may each succeeding year,
In Thee be finish’d and begun,
Imposed by Baptism’s holy vow,
Till all our tasks be ended here,
Whose sign as soon as life begun,
And Heaven be won.
A.
Shone on their brow:
IV.
The soldier labours to make bis companion valiant; the scholar endea
vours to have his friend learned; the bad man would have his company
like himself; and the good man strives to make others virtuous. Every
man will naturally endeavour to communicate that quality to others
which may be predominant in himself. We can converse with nothing,
but will work upon us; and by the unperceived stealth of time, liken us
to itself. The choice, therefore, of the company we keep is one of the
most weighty actions of our lives. If we choose ill, every day renders
us worse than we were; we have a perpetual weight hanging on us,
which is ever sinking us down to vice; but if we choose well, we have a
hand of virtue gently lifting us to a continual rising nobleness. Antisthenes used to wonder at those who, in buying an earthen dish, were
so particular in seeing that it had no cracks or defects; and yet would
be careless in the selecting of their friends, and so take them with the
flaws of vice.—Owen Felltiiam’s Resolves.
�51
REVIEWS OF BOOKS.
EOTHEN; or, Traces of Travel brought Home from
the East
.
*
From the East —the wonderful East! the land of the gorgeous
empires of other days! the land where first the dove found
rest for her foot going forth of the Ark far over the mighty
but subsiding waters! the land where the Patriarchs of old fed
their flocks in the pastoral valleys—where the people of Jehovah
for forty years wandered in the sandy deserts—mysterious Egypt
—sacred Palestine! ‘the hill of Sion, the joy of the whole
earth!’—how do memory, fancy, imagination, religion concur in
anticipating delight and instruction from everything which relates
to ‘the East!’ So felt we on taking up ‘ Eothen•’ the title,
though somewhat fanciful, had yet a pregnant meaning, which
was still further explained by the motto on the title-page from
old Herodotus, and seemed to promise a feast of purely eastern
dainties: and our thoughts flew back to scenes of other years
when we ourselves had wandered almost on the borders of the
wonderful and mysterious land, borne upon the bluest of all seas,
(7rop(f)vpea, flaXacrcra) where the Sun truly ‘goeth forth as a
giant to run his course’—silvering the waves with a more intense
radiance and shining with an almost intolerable splendour.
The season, moreover, when the book comes to us, the season
of Advent, had directed our thoughts to the event which the
Church at this time commemorates: the song of the Angels
upon the green uplands of Judaea: the star which was ‘seen in
the East;’ the stable and the manger at Bethlehem—the flight
across the desert into Egypt and the return to Nazareth—all
these were vividly in our mind’s eye, and the localities of all
these events we perceived by a rapid glance through the book
were visited by the writer, and how delightfid to have the testi
mony of an eye-witness regarding the scenes where first the
Incarnate God appeared upon earth in the swaddling bands of
helpless Infancy!
We sat down, therefore, with our mind somewhat subdued;
and disposed to be edified as well as to be pleased. We expected
to find a book suitable to the season, and to the present subject
matter of a Christian’s thoughts; or at least we reckoned upon
finding nothing which could shock our feelings or our preposses
sions. We regret to say that we have been grievously disap
pointed. The book consists of clever and brilliant sketches of
scenes which are brought vividly before the eye of the reader; but
* London: Ollivier, 1844. pp. 418.
E 2
�52
REVIEWS OF BOOKS.
whenever any reference is macle to sacred subjects it is usually
accompanied with a sort of irreverent scoffing, as if the writer
was ashamed of his better feelings. The fasts, and holy days of
the Church: religion in general: the plague: holy scenes and
holy places, all come alike to his taunting, scoffing pen! His
aim is to be brilliant and sparkling, and he is so; but the glitter
of his language and sentiment is often like that of the fabled
fruits of the Dead Sea,
...................... which tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips.
Indeed he frankly confesses that
his narrative conveys not those impressions which ought to have been
produced upon any ‘well-constituted mind,’ but those which were really
and truly received at the time of his rambles by a headstrong, and not
very amiable traveller, whose prejudices in favour of other people’s
notions were then exceedingly slight.—Preface, p. vi.
Again, he says,—
It is right to forewarn people that the book is quite superficial in
its character. I have endeavoured to discard from it all valuable
matter derived from the works of others, and it appears to me that my
effoits in this direction have been attended with great success: I
believe I may truly acknowledge that from all details of geographical
discovery, or antiquarian research; from all display of ‘sound learning
and religious knowledge;’ from all historical and scientific illustrations;
fiom all useful statistics; and from all good moral reflections, the
volume is thoroughly free!—Preface, p. vi.
After this most frank avowal one must be sanguine indeed to
expect to discover in his pages models of decorous expression, or
correct thinking: some ‘display of learning and knowledge’ shall
we find, but neither ‘ sound’ nor ‘.religious’—‘statistics,’ but
not such as are ‘useful’—‘reflections,’ but not ‘good or moral.’
His journey commences at Semlin, whence he travels through the
Servian forests to Belgrade and Constantinople: the following are
fair specimens of his style both as to matter and manner.
The Moslem quarter of a city is lonely and desolate; you go up
and down and on over shelving and liillocky paths through the narrow
lanes walled in by blank, windowless dwellings; you come out upon an
open space strewed with the black ruins that some late fire has left; you
pass by a mountain of cast-away things, the rubbish of centuries, and on
it.you. see numbers of big, wolf-like dogs lying torpid under the sun,
with limbs outstretched to the full, as if they were dead; storks or
cianes sitting fearless upon the low roofs, look gravely down upon you;
the still air that you breathe is loaded with the scent of citron, and
pomegranate rinds scorched by the sun; or (as you approach the Bazaar)
with the dry, dead perfume of strange spices. You long for some
signs of life, and tread the ground more heavily, as though you would
wake the sleepers, with the heel of your boot; but the foot falls noise
less upon the crumbling soil of an eastern city, and silence follows you
still. Again and again you meet turbans, and faces of men, but they
�KEVIEWS OF BOOKS.
53
have nothing for you, no welcome—no wonder—no wrath—no scorn—
they look upon you as we do upon a December’s fall of snow—as a
4 seasonable,’ unaccountable, uncomfortable work of God, that may have
been sent for some good purpose to be revealed hereafter.—pp. 7, 8.
And again,
There are few countries less infested by ‘ lions,’ than the provinces
on this part of your route; you are not called upon ‘to drop a tear
*
over the tomb of ‘ the once brilliant’ any body, or to pay your ‘ tribute
of respect’ to anything dead, or alive; there are no Servian, or Bulga
rian Littérateurs with whom it would be positively disgraceful not to
form an acquaintance; you have no staring, no praising to get through;
the only public building of any interest which lies on the road is of
modern date, but it is said to be a good specimen of oriental architec
ture; it is of a pyramidical shape, and is made up of thirty thousand sculls
which were contributed by the rebellious Servians in the early part (I
believe) of this century; I am not at all sure of my date, but I fancy it
was in the year 1806 that the first scull was laid. I am ashamed that
in the darkness of the early morning, we unknowingly went by thé
neighbourhood of this triumph of art, and so basely got off from
admiring ‘ the simple grandeur of the architect’s conception,’ and ‘ the
exquisite beauty of the fretwork.’
In almost every page we find the same half sarcastic, half
ludicrous mode of speaking,—which may be amusing enough
when applied to common objects and incidents of travels, though
it wearies and palls upon one even then; but which becomes
most offensive when applied to objects of religious interest.
What can be in worse taste or feeling than the following: he
would speak with some toleration of heathen rites; but he has
no respect for the scruples of Christians.
The number of murders committed during Lent is greater, I am
told, than at any other time of the year. A man under the influence of
a bean dietary, (for this is the principal food of the Greeks during their
fasts,) will be in an apt humour for enriching the shrine of his saint,
and passing a knife through his next door neighbour. The monies
deposited upon the shrines are appropriated by the priest; the priests
are married men, and have families to provide for ; they ‘ take the good
with the bad,’ and continue to recommend fasts.
Then, too, the Greek Church enjoins her followers to keep holy
such a vast number of Saints’ Days, as practically to shorten the lives of
the people very materially. I believe that one-third out of the number
of days in the year are ‘ kept holy,’ or rather, kept stupid, in honour of
the saints; no great portion of the time thus set apart is spent in reli
gious exercises, and the people don’t betake themselves to any animating
pastimes, which might serve to strengthen the frame, or invigorate the
mind, or exalt the taste. On the contrary, the Saints’ Days of the
Greeks in Smyrna are passed in the same manner as the Sabbaths of
well-behaved Protestant housemaids in London; that is to say, in a
steady and serious contemplation of street-scenery. The men perform
this duty at the doors of their houses; the women at the windows, which
the custom of Greek towns has so decidedly appropriated to them as
the proper station of their sex, that a man would be looked upon as
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utterly effeminate if he ventured to choose that situation for the keeping
of Saints’ Days.—pp. 79, 80.
And in a strain still more flippant he affects to excuse himself
for thus ‘chiming in with some tuneful cant,’ and closes the
chapter with sentiments which would have been appropriate
enough in the mouth of a Pagan some two thousand years ago,
but are most unseemly in that of a Christian. This flippant
scoffing quite spoils what would otherwise be striking and beau
tiful. In the descriptions of certain localities nothing can be
finer: for instance—
I ascended to the height on which our Lord was standing when he
wrought the miracle. The hill was lofty enough to show me the fair
ness of the land on all sides, but I have an ancient love for the mere
features of a lake, and so forgetting all else when I reached the sum
mit, I looked away eagerly to the eastward. There she lay, the sea of
Galilee. Less stern than Wastwater—less fair than gentle Windermere
•—she had still the winning ways of an English lake; she caught from
the smiling heavens unceasing light, and changeful phases of beauty,
and with all this brightness on her face, she yet clung so fondly to the
dull he-looking mountain at her side, as though she would
Soothe him with her finer fancies,
Touch him with her lighter thought —p. 168.
.
*
And again, when on the shores of the Dead Sea, he says,—
I went on, and came near to those waters of death; they stretched
deeply into the southern desert, and before me, all all around, as far
away as the eye could follow, blank hills piled high over hills, pale,
yellow, and naked, walled up in her tomb for ever, the dead, and
damned Gomorrah. There was no fly that hummed in the forbidden
air, but instead a deep stillness—no grass grew from the earth—no
weed peered through the void sand, but in mockery of all life, there
were trees borne down by Jordan in some ancient flood, and these gro
tesquely planted upon the forlorn shore, spread out their grim skeleton
arms all scorched, and charred to blackness, by the heats of the longsilent years.—p. 190.
Had we inclination and space -we could point out several
passages which are plainly plagiarisms from Lamartine, parti
cularly an anecdote relating to Lady Hester Stanhope, which is
given at greater length in Lamartine: and the like in another
place, -where he describes his feelings and actions at Nazareth.
Indeed, nearly the same route seems to have been taken by
both, the chief difference being that Lamartine’s travels end
where those of our author’s begin, at Semlin. And we cannot
forbear to add w ith a feeling akin to shame, that in all matters
relating to our holy religion, the sentiments and reflections of
the former are immeasurably superior to the flippant scoffings of
the latter; the low tone, lightness and frivolity, almost induces
a fancy that the authors of the two books have changed
countriesI
* Tennyson.
�REVIEWS OF BOOKS.
55
In some future number we may draw the attention of our
readers to the sterling difference between the descriptions of our
Author, and those of other travellers over the same charmed
and charming, the same enchanted and enchanting tracts
of country. Our object now has been to warn oui' readers
against the flippancy and irreverence of a writer, who sets
all right and decent feeling at defiance, but whose unbridled
thoughts have the advantage of a witty and brilliant dress, and
to caution them against the seduction of an attractive title-page,
an unusual frontispiece, and a gay drawing-room exterior, all of
which belong to the volume before us.
For, strange to say, as our Author quits sacred scenes, he
takes leave of his ribaldry. In the latter part of the book there
are fewer flippant scoffings; the fact is, he seems less tempted to
ridicule by the ‘ worldly pyramids ’ and the ‘ unworldly sphynx,’
than by objects of a more holy character. And what makes
matters worse, there are really some redeeming points in the
narrative, and we almost feel that we may forgive the writer
much, because of his honest testimony on the passage of the
Red Sea, by which he demolishes ‘ the Oxford theologians and
Milman their Professor;’ and ‘ the plausible hydrostatical notion
of the fellows of Trinity,’ which he says ‘ it is difficult to recon
cile with the account given in Exodus, unless we can suppose
that the words sea and water are there used in a sense implying
dry land?
An Essay on Topographical Literature, ¿pc. By John Brit
ton, F.S.A
.
*
It is a very happy omen for the future that we no longer
think ourselves wiser than all who have preceded us. In the
formation of Antiquarian, Archaeological, Topographical, and
Architectural Societies, whose business it is to make us ac
quainted with times gone by, we hail an omen of returning
diffidence, and diffidence is one external mark of excellence.
The work we have before us, is apparently designed for private
chculation, ‘Fifty copies printed’ being upon its title-page. It
does credit to the powers of investigation of its veteran author;
and the glossaries, one of them explanatory of the peculiar terms
used in the ‘ Domesday Survey,’ and the other of such general
topographical and archaeological words as are employed in the
manuscript [and published works of old authors, have an
interest especially their own. We shall look anxiously for the
next publication of this Society, a Topographical History of Kington
St. Michael, Mr. Britton’s native parish, which is to contain a
copious memoir of John Aubrey.
* London; printed for the Wiltshire Topographical Society : Nichols,
pp. 56.
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Points and Pickings of Information about China and the
Chinese. By the Author of Soldiers and Sailors
.
*
A very gay and attractive, and, as far as a hasty glance will
permit us to judge, a very amusing and unobjectionable work.
It has a religious tone, but not a very distinctive one. Still it is
something to have writers of this class showing any care for
religious feeling: for with too many of our describers of travel,
religion has been the last thing they thought of. When the
Church at home better fulfils her duty and her high behest as the
Evangelizer of the nations, travellers abroad will more instinctively
own her sway. The work has twenty very effective illustrative
plates, though we cannot think that much has been won foi'
Chinese reputation, as regards the physical development of the
people, in giving a portrait of the Emperor.
It may amuse our readers to read the estimate of a ‘ China
man’ of our vast London:—
Afar in the ocean, towards the extremities of the north-west,
There is a nation, or country, called England:
The climate is frigid, and you are compelled to approach the fire;
The houses are so lofty, that you may pluck the stars!
The pious inhabitants respect the ceremonies of worship,
And the virtuous among them ever read the sacred books.
They bear a peculiar enmity towards the French nation;
The weapons of war rest not for a moment between them.
Their fertile hills, adorned with the richest luxuriance,
Resemble, in the outline of their summits, the arched eyebrows of a
fair woman;
The inhabitants are inspired with a respect for the female sex,
Who in this land correspond with the perfect features of nature;
Theii- young maidens have checks resembling red blossoms,
And the complexion of their beauties is like the white gem.
Of old has connubial affection been highly esteemed among them.
Husband and wife delighting in mutual harmony.
The two banks of the river lie to the north and south;
Three bridges interrupt the stream, and form a communication.
Vessels of every kind pass between the arches,
While men and horses pace among the clouds (fogs),
A thousand masses of stone rise one above the other,
And the river flows through nine channels.
The bridge of Loyang, which out-tops all in our empire,
Is in shape and size somewhat like these.
The towering edifices rise story above story,
In all the stateliness of splendid mansions:
Railings of iron thickly stud the sides of every entrance,
And streams from the rivers circulate through the walls.
* London: Grant and Griffith. 12mo. pp. 316.
�REVIEWS OF BOOKS.
57
The sides of each apartment are variegated with devices,
Through the windows of glass appear the scarlet hangings;
And in the street itself is presented a beautiful scene;
The congregated buildings have all the aspect of a picture.
The spacious streets are exceedingly smooth and level.
Each being crossed by others at intervals;
On either side perambulate men and women;
In the centre career along the carriages and horses:
The mingled sound of voices is heard in the shops at evening.
During winter the heaped-up snows adhere to the pathway;
Lamps are displayed at nights along the street-sides, •
Whose radiance twinkles like the stars of the sky.
The fair sex will owe their eastern correspondents no love for
the value set upon them, as that value may be gathered from the
following lines, descriptive of the different feelings which pervade
a family whether a son or a daughter is born.
When a son is born,
He sleeps in a bed;
He is clothed in robes;
He plays with gems;
His cry is princely loud.—
But when a daughter is born,
She sleeps on the ground;
She is clothed with a wrapper;
She plays with a tile;
She is incapable either of evil or good:—
It is hers only to think of preparing wine and food
And not giving any occasion of grief to her parents.
As a specimen of the general writing of the book, we would
extract from the twenty-eighth chapter the following:—
The manners and customs of so strange a country as China, as
a matter of course, must be strange to an European. Those who have
not paid a visit to the Celestials, have heard such odd accounts of them,
that to suppose them thinking, speaking, or acting, eating, drinking, or
dressing, marrying, or burying, rejoicing, or mourning like English
people, is hardly a supposable case. If it could be proved to be true,
that the Chinese were like other people, the fact would yield disap
pointment, and not pleasure. You may, however, rest satisfied that
their manners and customs are odd, and that
The Chinese have a Chinese way
In all they think, and do, and say.
In China a man may be said to purchase his wife, and young
people are pledged to each other at a very early age. If I were asked
what qualities in a woman stood highest in the estimation of a Chinaman,
my answer would be, affection, obedience, fidelity, and a grave and dig
nified deportment, to which must be added the charm of little feet, with
out which all the rest would be sadly undervalued. Among her accom
plishments, skill in music, embroidery, and painting on silk, must be
numbered. Lowly as females are estimated in China, a Chinaman
regards his countrywoman as the fairest and best in the world. If he
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did not do this, ho would deserve to be bambooed, and bastinadoed with
his own tail, knotted for the occasion, into the bargain.
Seldom is a marriage contracted in China without having recourse
to astrology and divination. When the parents of a marriageable young
man have discovered by the aid of the diviner, that omens on the earth,
the flight of birds in the am, and the stars in the heavens are in
favour of his being happy, if united to any particular young lady, a
e go-between,’ (and what country is there beneath the skies where ‘ gobetweens’ are not to be found?) is employed to treat for the lady; a
written promise of marriage is obtained, and suitable gifts are presented
on the part of the would-be bridegroom. When the nuptial day is
fixed, which is first ascertained by astrology to be a lucky one, and
preparations made for the marriage ceremony, the young man, adding
another name to his own, meaning to love and cherish, wears a tuft of
scarlet as a symbol of the joy of his heart, and the young lady, changing
her manner of dress, and altering the braiding of her hair, puts on a
thoughtful demeanour, and hides herself in deeper seclusion.
Among the presents given by friends on the day of nuptials,
tame and wild geese, as emblems of fidelity and domestic virtue, are
usually found, nor is it an uncommon thing to have the figure of a
goose carried in the marriage procession. The bridegroom and his
friends, with a posse of attendants, go with a highly-ornamented chair
to fetch home the bride, with plenty of music and plenty of lanterns.
To describe the procession is somewhat difficult, varying as it does in
different cases; but usually if the parties are of any consequence, it is
swelled out by a long train of hired persons, with dresses of different
kinds. If there were less show, and more affection in Chinese mar
riages, the change would be for the better; but indeed the same remark
may be made of European marriages, though not with equal propriety.
In Chinese marriage processions may often be seen a goodly stock
of comforts for the storehouse, the cupboard, and the larder, and a
goodly show of furniture for the habitation;—jars of sweetmeats, wine,
and spirits; chairs, tables, gay cushions, and ornaments, to say nothing of
the fowls in their cages, and the fat hog grunting in the painted palan
quin in which he is carried. The band of music, the red-robed musi
cians, the image of a four-footed dragon, the splendid chair covered
with gold, bearing the bride, and the large sedans that follow, make an
imposing scene.
Music and songs await the bride on her arrival at the dwelling of
her husband, where an apartment is ready prepared, and delicacies are
spread on the table. The wine-cup is handed to them, and the marriage
contract is sealed by each sipping a little of its contents. The family
gods are worshipped by the young couple on the following day, and on
the third the bride visits her parents in state. For a full month the
ceremonies are prolonged, when the parents of the bride give to their
son and daughter the crowning nuptial feast.
I wish I could say, that after marriage the young bride was uniformly
treated with respect and kindness. Where there is true affection, this
is, in some degree, the case, but as marriages are not the result of affec
tion in China, so it follows, in the greater number of cases, that the
wife is a mere drudge. She is altogether in the power of her husband,
who, if he do not absolutely break her bones, may chastise her at his
own pleasure. If she be not patient, uncomplaining, obedient, diligent,
I
�REVIEWS OF BOOKS.
59
and obliging, she is soon tanght that her husband can play the tyrant.
Chinamen are not allowed to see those whom they wed till they are
betiothed to them: how can they be expected to dwell together in
affection ?
6 This custom of itself is quite enough to make us thankful that we
dwell in a Christian country. Let the sleek heads then enjoy, as well
as they can, then1 lanterns and lacquered boxes,—their beads, bamboos,
birds -nests, and butterflies,—their carvings, chopsticks, and china,—
their fans, flower-stands, and pictures of five-clawed dragons, and make
the best of their customs while we value ours.’
The book abounds in amusing anecdotes, sharp points, and
hasty pickings.
Can Woman regenerate Society
?
*
‘A startling question, not well put.’ Such was our impression
on taking up this little volume. We like not the use of terms
which theology has made her own in any but the sense to which
theology assigns them. We say candidly, then, that our feelings
were hostile to the book when first we encountered it, simply
for its title. But knowing that the beauteous fruit may have an
ashy taste, and that the diamond boasts of but a rough exterior,
we did not put down this book without going beyond its title
page. And no sooner did we find ourselves in the midst of the
Introduction than we turned to the first page thereof to give it
fan' play, and we loosened not our grasp of the book until we had
mentally devoured its every line. We scarcely remember to have
been more struck with any book of similar size: it is a work
which possesses an originality and freshness peculiarly its own.
What can be more naive than the following?
The heads of the one sex have been educated, or filled at least, at the
expense of then1 hearts, while the case has been just reversed in regard
to the other; the feelings of woman having been forced as in a hot
house at the expense of her understanding. Were the system some
what reversed in regard to both, how beneficial would be the conse
quences ; were virtue to be regarded as an endurable whole, not
frittered into shreds and patches with male and female names tacked
to them, how much better would it be for both parties.
We think the authoress of this work (for that it is one of
themselves who is vindicating woman’s prerogative is avowed,)
would do well to modify some of her statements as to the
Creator’s design in the relative position of male and female; for,
without, as we believe, intending it, she appears to do much to
interfere with Scriptural statement upon this point. Still, take
the book as a whole, it is one which says severe things without
unkindness; and one in which the smart of the lash is followed
by the healing balm of the remedy. We are not afraid of this
work having general circulation and attentive reading. Women
London : John W. Parker, 1844. pp, 183.
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would be none the worse, and men much the better, for its
perusal.
That the writer is a single woman one can plainly
see; that she is such from choice, as thinking it the state most
likely to conduce to her happiness, one may not doubt: and
thus there is much true wit and no disappointed acidity in the fol
lowing :—
Young persons, nay persons from twenty to seventy (so ridiculous
have we become,) cannot meet a few times, without some love affair
being gossiped about, given out as a hint, that if they are not in love
they ought to be so, or else it is very imprudent, and such other
absurdity; until it has become absolutely dangerous for a Victoria shawl
to say, ‘How d’ye do?’ to an Albert surtout. Were women to earn
their own livelihood, or succeeded to an equal inheritance of property
with men, wc should hear less assuredly about falling in love from them,
and on the other hand were men somewhat occupied with higher ideas,
as well as with business, less of it even from them. The necessity for
women working for themselves is now, however, becoming glaringly
apparent.
As a sample of the morals and manners of the refined nineteenth
century,—the model for future ages!—we behold young ladies so
susceptible that they fall in love at a mile’s distance, and young gentle
men so terrified thereat, that they very prudently keep out of the way,
since marriage is becoming every day an affair more and more seriously
expensive; in fact, scarcely to be entered upon in these bad times. It
will be a day of regeneration when man and woman can meet, without
their brains being full of imaginary phantoms; when it will be found
possible to converse about other things than love, and when a woman
may befriend a man, or a man a woman, without reference to what a
witty authoress calls the ‘zoological distinction.’
I am not so foolish as to assert, that the fears of the young man,
or old man, (for it is all one, so that he be but a man,) are needless.
So far from this, we must be aware that unsuspecting youths, as well as
sagacious old bachelors, are drawn into engagements, and even marriage,
ere they know what they are doing, so great is the demand for
husbands. Still I must exonerate those who are often er dupes and
victims to their elders, than projectors of such schemes themselves; I
mean the young girls, who would associate with their young male
companions, without much risk of falling in love, were they only left to
themselves. For surely it is not meant to be asserted in earnest, that
we are ready, or that it is our nature, to fall in love with any man and
every man whom chance may throw in our way, though such a belief is
acted upon, (like many other absurdities.) helped not a little, I must say,
by the vanity of young men, who as men deem themselves irresistible.
Whereas, were nature permitted to speak, and not artifice, the matter
would wear a different aspect, and the pretensions of vanity and the
delusions of imagination be laid low enough.
In sober truth society is in danger of becoming a wilderness
to the eye though a fertile plain in reality, from the mere gossip
of match-makers. It certainly is a wanton cruelty that unmar
ried folk may have no friendships without being charged with
love-making, and that marriage is to circumscribe intimacy by
�REVIEWS OF BOOKS.
61
the limits of man and wife. The following passage, with which
we shall conclude this notice, would be doubly valuable if there
were not the all but implied opposition to Scripture, that the
husband’s tyranny justifies the wife’s disobedience.
Nothing, however, seems at present to be known, than the one rule
of ‘ Wives obey your husbands! ’ no matter how silly, how absurd—
nay, indeed, in many instances, how ruinous the command may be.
The duty of the wife means the obedience of a Turkish slave, while the
husband believes himself empowered to be of a like imperiousness with
the follower of the turbaned prophet. It is a curious fact, that we
never hear the faintest echo of that equally distinct command, ‘Men,
love and honour your wives!’ It seems to be taken for granted, that
women have many obligations in this state to perform, from which men
are free; but this is far from being the case: the obligations being the
same, and equally binding upon both, though from the perverse training
to which the sexes are subjected, the whole weight is laid upon those
who, from the very falsehood of their education, are the least able to
bear it. Woman, chained and fettered, is yet expected to work mira
cles. Man, however, deems himself free to do as he likes; to spend his
money and time as he pleases, and to scold his patient Griselda, should
she dare to remonstrate about extravagance, waste, indolence, or idle
ness. Her business is to love! suffer!! and obey!!! the three articles of
woman’s creed. She must on no account reason or suppose herself
wiser than her protector and legislator, even should he bring her and
her children to beggary. The misery which women often suffer, from
the recklessness and speculative folly of their companions, is incal
culable; only to be understood by those who have thus become victims to
the obstinacy and self-will of those upon whom they depended—may,
upon whom they were forced to depend—for subsistence.
Essays written in the Intervals of *
Business
.
The man must have good confidence in the excellence of his
matter who could choose to send forth his thoughts under a
title so unpromising to the generality of ears. And the writer of
these essays may safely feel that they will command attention
on their own merits. Were it only for the sound common sense
which is to be found in every page, these essays are worth the
printing and the reading. But they have an additional value
inasmuch as it is the common sense of a mind which owns its
debt to revelation that is everywhere conspicuous. The philo
sophy of these papers is Christian philosophy; and the author,
without making any parade of his creed, oi' using religion as a
stalking-horse to favour, is not afraid to measure every-day life
by the standard of a life beyond the grave. That man is im
mortal; that his ever-conscious soul will one day be again
enshrined in the body whose identity will be preserved amid its
glorious transfiguration, is evidently present to the mind of the
* London : Pickering, fcap. 8vo. pp. 148.
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writer of these essays, as a truth the knowledge of which should
make the Christian a better subject and a kinder fellow-creature
than a heathen could ever become. We began to mark for
quotation, but we have bewildered ourselves with choice. We
shall, therefore, simply assure our readers that the book is worth
reading, and keep our extracts for another department of our
Magazine: and yet we will find room for one short passage.
Contentment abides with Truth. You will generally suffer for
wishing to appear other than that you are; whether it be richer, or
greater, or more learned. The mask soon becomes an instrument of
torture.
How can the Church Evangelize the World? A. Sermon.
Thomas Littlehales, M.A., Rector of Sheering
.
*
By
A very striking, most seasonable, and highly important sermon,
stating with remarkable force the Divine Law of Christian Endow
ment, and establishing beyond controversy that
if we would adequately provide for the evangelizing our own people
at home, our colonies and the heathen abroad, we must return to
those first principles from which our own endowments, churches, and
parochial system originally sprung; that we must teach every man the
duty and blessing of giving carnal for spiritual things, according to the
ability and the rule of proportion which God has given; and that then
only, when we take the Church as a whole, with each one of her
integral parts in full operation, and humble ourselves, to act by faith
and obedience rather than by sight and expediency, can we hope to see
her capability effectually revived.
A Charge delivered to the Clergy of the Archdeaconry of the East
Riding, at the Ordinary Visitation, 1844. By Robert Isaac
Wilberforce, M.A., Archdeacon of the East Riding^.
A Charge delivered to a body of clergy by one invested with a
defined amount of jurisdiction over them should be safe from
external criticism so long as it is presented only to those whom
it officially concerns. But when it is printed for general circu
lation, it does not carry with it to the public at large that
authoritative claim to a favourable consideration which should
be conceded to it in its more restricted sphere. But at the same
time, persons in ecclesiastical station are not merely the officers
of a locality—they are pro tanto the organs of the Church, and
their advice should therefore be considered with respect, though
their decisions may not always stand the test of the candid
reason and well-informed judgment to which an appeal is made
by the publication of that which, but for publication, would be
purely an authoritative document. It will be observed that we
* London : Buras, 1844. 8vo. pp. 15.
+ London: John Murray. 8vo. pp. 34.
�REVIEWS OF BOOKS.
63
do not here pretend to determine the extent of authority which
a Charge has in its own peculiar province. We are merely
stating that of that authority, be it small or be it great, it is for
the most part shorn when it appears in the shape of a pamphlet
for general circulation.
When, however, as in the case of the Charge whose title
stands at the head of this notice, the decisions and the advice
are not the mere dogmatic assertion of the writer, but are offered
to the consideration of the reader in connection with the train
of thought and reasoning of which they are the legitimate result,
it is the less necessary to settle the extent of this authority; and
we can -with great confidence recommend this document to those
of our readers who wish to see the important questions of the
Authority of the State to legislate for the Church; the Education
of the People; Church Building and Church Restoration; So
lemnity and Uniformity in Public Worship; the increase of the
Episcopate; and Family Devotion, temperately, though of neces
sity briefly, handled. The Archdeacon’s remarks on the lastmentioned subject strike us as especially well judged; the more
intimately the character of the Prayer-Book is reflected from
our ordinary life, the better will it be for us as individuals and as
a Church. We had marked several passages for quotation: but
we must content ourselves with the following just remarks on the
inadequacy of the English Episcopate to the needs of the English
Church.
Our altars are served by ten times as many priests as in the time
of Elizabeth, but Confirmation and Orders are not ministered by more
hands than were found needful for a tythe of our population. This
evil, my reverend brethren, can hardly be remedied till the residue of
the clergy follow your example, and petition Her Majesty to grant that
opportunity of synodical deliberation, which she is pledged to concede
to their request, but its existence sufficiently accounts for the popular
ignorance. Formularies and canons will never teach the mass of man
kind, whose instruction must be experience, and the key to whose faith
lies in the usages of the age. Till the episcopate, therefore, is so far
increased, that its functions can be adequately developed,—a thing at
present notoriously impossible—what marvel if our people believe the
Bishop to be only a check upon the actions of the clergy, and that his
functions might be as easily discharged by any commissary of the crown.
Indeed, it is to be feared, that this notion is not confined merely to
vulgar minds. Now it is in vain to tell such persons of those more
sacred objects of this order which our service book declares; the ancient
maxim, Ecclesia et in episcopo, is a mere unpractical statement till it is
exhibited in action.
The Archdeacon is right. Plain matter-of-fact persons have
no tangible idea of the value of Bishops. Nor will they in any
sufficient manner realize the blessings of which Bishops are the
Divinely-commissioned ministers, still less that there are certain
peculiar blessings of which the Bishops are the only authoritative
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dispensers, until our temporal rulers remember that consecration
to the office of a Bishop does not confer eithei’ the power of
being everywhere at once, or insensibility to fatigue: and until as a
result of this conviction some sufficient steps are taken for the
subdivision of our overgrown dioceses into folds, of which the
Bishops may be physically able as well as morally willing to take
an active, real, and personal oversight.
This is, however, too wide a subject to be discussed here.
We can but express our hope, that this most important topic
will obtain that share of attention, in high places, which cannot
be much longer safely withheld.
College Lectures on Ecclesiastical History, with complete sets of
Cambridge, Dublin, and Durham University Examination
Papers. By the Rev. William Bates, M.A., Fellow,
Lecturer, and Hebrew Lecturer of Christ’s College, Cam
bridge *
.
One of the most cheering signs of the present times is the
growth of Catechetical works amongst us. Mi’. Bevan led the
way by his Help to Catechising, followed by the reprint of Bishop
Nicholson’s Exposition of the Catechism in the Anglo-Catholic
Library; Mr. Watson, of Cheltenham, has given us a Catechism
on the Book of Common Prayer; Dr. Wordsworth entered upon
a much wider field in his most valuable Theophilus Anglicanus;
and here we have an able and learned Lecturer of one of the
Colleges in the University of Cambridge presenting us with a
Catechetical Treatise on Ecclesiastical History.
We cannot
possibly conceive a book more indispensable to the youthful
student,—and it has this charm, that it is an invitatory to study
as well as an epitome of research. There certainly is a danger
now-a-days, that men should be tempted to take all their learning
second-hand; and while it is well that facilities are offered for
making the acquaintance of ancient writers in an English dress,
we hope that as soon as the hurry and bustle of catching a
glimpse of every newly opened mine of treasure is over, the
ecclesiastical student will calmly settle down to explore the rich
veins of golden ore which run in such lavish profusion beneath
the surface of the by-gone literature of the Christian Church.
It is not easy to give specimens of the execution of such a work
as this in pages like our own; but a short account of the subjects
treated of in it will have interest. We have first a sketch of the
Literature of Ecclesiastical History. The work then follows the
stream of the Church’s Annals from its origin, through its early
privileges and early trials, until the assembling of the Council of
Nice, with which our Author opens the second chief division of
his book.
London: John W. Parker, 1844. pp. 420.
�REVIEWS OF BOOKS.
65
The following extract will have particular interest in these
days, when the very foundations of our faith are called in ques
tion :—
Q. What doctrine does our Church hold on the form of Church
Government?
A.. She asserts that it is evident ‘ from Scripture and ancient
authors,’ that three orders of the Ministry are necessary for consti
tuting a Church.
Q. Whence are their names derived, and to what officers of the
Jewish Church do they correspond?
A. Bishop is derived from '~£7u<tko7tos, an inspector of others; Pres
byter oi’ Priest is derived from Hpea/3vrepos , a superior in age and station;
and from AAkovos, one who serves or ministers, comes Deacon; who
severally corresponded to the Jewish High-Priest, Priests, and Levites.
Q. Why were the successors of the Apostles called Bishops?
A. Probably because the term had already been used by the
Septuagint translators, in which the apostasy of Judas is foretold,
‘ his e7riaKO7rri let another take.’
Q. Quote the sentiments of some of the ancient authors.
A. Clemens Romanus thus expresses himself: ‘So also our
Apostles knew by our Lord Jesus Christ, that contentions should arise
on account of the ministry. And, therefore, having a perfect foreknow
ledge of this, they appointed persons, (the first-fruits of their conversions,
to be bishops and deacons, c. 42,) and then gave a direction in what
manner, when they should die, other chosen and approved men should
succeed in their ministry.’ (Clemens Romanus, c. 44, transZafed by
Clievallier.') Ignatius, in his Epistle to the Magnesians, says, ‘As the
Lord did nothing without the Father, being united to him," neither by
himself nor yet by his Apostles, in like manner do ye nothing without
the Bishop and the Presbyters.’ To the Trallians, ‘Let all reverence
the Deacons as Jesus Christ, and the Bishop as the Father; and the
Presbyters as the Council of God, and the Assembly of the Apostles.
Without these there is no Church.’ Irenaeus says, ‘ We are able to
give a catalogue of the names of those who were appointed Bishops by
the Apostles, and their successors, even to our own times.’ Tertullian,
‘ If there be any heretics that venture to date from the Apostles, let
them make known the originals of their Churches; let them unfold the
roll of their Bishops so coming down from the beginning, that their first
Bishop had for his ordainer and predecessor some one of the Apostles,
or of Apostolic men, so he were one that continued steadfast with the
Apostles.’ Cyprian, ‘Bishops are rulers who succeed the Apostles,
vicarid ordinatione.’
Q. How are Bishops derived from God?
A. Our Saviour was made the head of the Church by his Father,
and consecrated by the visible descent of the Holy Ghost; he appointed
the Apostles and sent the Holy Ghost to them, and commissioned them
similarly to appoint others until his second coming.
Q. How does Scripture and practice bear out this view?
A. Immediately after the ascension the Apostles appointed Matthias,
and for fifteen hundred years no other form was admitted than that of
Bishops, who successively ruled over the clergy as well as the people.
Vol. I.
"
F
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Q. What other fact bears out this view?
A. That even heretics of all kinds, with the single exception of
Aenus, (who was anathematized for his departure from this mode of
government,) acknowledged the necessity of having Bishops for their
governors.
Q. Quote the opinions of two writers of our own on this subject.'
. A. Hooker (Eccl. Polity, vn. 5, 10), in concluding his argument
in favour of Apostolical succession, says, ‘ Let us not fear to be herein
bold and peremptory, that if any thing in the Church’s government,
surely the first institution of Bishops was from heaven, was even of God
the Holy Ghost was the author of it.’ Bishop Pearson on Ignatius
says, ‘No writer of the second century ever gave to a Presbyter the
title of Bishop, or that of a Bishop to a Presbyter.’
Q. Is the same person ever called a Presbyter and a Bishop?
, . \ IICi WaS a Presbyter as t0 Ws personal character, a Bishop as to
his official capacity, or, as Theodoret expresses it, ‘ The same persons
were once called both Bishops and Presbyters; but those who are now
called Bishops were formerly called Apostles; for in process of time the
Apostolic name was reserved for those who were really Apostles.’
Q. How come the Apostles to speak of Churches being governed
by Presbyters ?
&
A. The Apostles themselves being the real Bishops were not called
upon to make the distinction between the Presbyteri and Episcopi.
Q. What order did St. Paul establish?
A. That persons appointed by his own sole authority should per
form all the duties of a Bishop with respect to the Presbyters and
Deacons, and that he was to complete arrangements w’hich the Apostle
had left unfinished.
Q. Does any other Apostle speak of individual governors of the
Churches?
A. St. John in the Revelation speaks of every one of the seven
Churches of Asia as having a head called an Angel.
The Second Part takes us from the assembling’ of the Coun
cil of Nice to the commencement of the Reformation. The
heresy for which Nestorius was condemned in the Council of
Ephesus is thus stated:—
Q. On what occasion did the Nestorian controversy break out?
A. . Anastasius, a presbyter of Constantinople, and friend of
Nestorius, in a public discourse delivered a.d. 428, inveighed against
the title eeoroKos, oi’ Mother of God, which was now more frequently
attributed to the Virgin Mary, in the Arian controversy, than it had
foimerly been; and gave it as his opinion, that she ought rather to be
called XpiaroT6KoS, i.e., Mother of Christ, since the Deity can neither
be born nor die, and therefore the Son of Alan alone could be born
from an earthly parent. Nestorius applauded and defended these
sentiments, but was opposed by some monks, who maintained that the
Son of Mary was God incarnate, and stirred up the populace against his
doctrine.
The writer having noted that Cyril, Bishop of Alexandria,
was the chief opponent of Nestorius, then states briefly the
�REVIEWS OF BOOKS.
course pursued by him to procure the condemnation of the latter,
gives the reason for the Council not coming to an unanimous
decision, and then proceeds:—
Q. A want of regularity has been alleged against the general Coun
cil of Ephesus. Does this affect its authority? Was Nestorius con
demned unheard?
A. As the whole Church at length approved of the sentence; as
Nestorius was called on three times for his defence, and was only con
demned after his writings had been examined; as a considerable delay
took place before he was finally deposed; there cannot be any reason
able doubt of the justice of the sentence.
The Third Part contains the History of the English Church,
and the inquiry is conducted with singular tact, much research,
and a very learned familiarity with the subject.
The value of the book to the young ecclesiastical student is
much enhanced by its containing a very complete set of Exami
nation Papers, proposed as tests of theological proficiency in
the Universities of Oxford, Cambridge, and Durham.
The Ecclesiastical Architecture of Great Britain, from the Con
quest to the Reformation. By H. Bowman, Architect
.
*
We have before us the first eight parts of a very attractive
work now in the course of monthly publication. It is one of a
number, now happily on the increase, in which we have faithful
and professional accounts in detail of the better specimens of
our elder Ecclesiastical Architecture. The ■work consists of
well-executed lithographic plates (in some instances, coloured),
of the exterior and interior views and arrangements of our
Parish Churches, with ground-plans and working drawings of
the several portions of the building.
These drawings, all of
which are good specimens of their separate class, are accom
panied with a beautifully printed letter-press, containing for the
most part a history of each Church, and a description of the
general features and details of the several Churches, with which
we are thus made familiar, without moving from our fireside.
To the mere antiquarian the work is not addressed, but the
architect and lover of the architectural achievements of me
diaeval times will find sufficient to interest and instruct them.
It would be well if the former would consult this and every other
work published in a similar style and from them take the
models of then’ new Churches: rather than thinking that merit
consists in peculiarity. It is a happy thing that greater atten
tion is now being paid to the best models of ancient archi
tecture: for it was hardly possible to look upon a modern
church without blushing for the ignorance, or being angry with
the impudence of the designer. Men are so conceited that they
* London : John W. Parker.
F 2
�68
REVIEWS OF BOOKS.
will all be inventors whether or no they possess the power to
originate.
To this work all may turn for information without going
away disappointed: here they will find elevations, sections,
plans and other details carefully and accurately delineated:
stained glass introduced in colours, and all drawn to a scale, so
that they will be easily adapted to use. The Churches which
have hitherto been illustrated are those of Norbury, Derbyshire;
Lambley, Notts; Castle Rising, Norfolk; and Chaddesley-Corbet,
Worcestershire. The details of Chaddesley-Corbet are very
interesting, and the elevation very beautiful. The font is most
curious.
We shall look with interest for future numbers.
The Virgin Martyr. By Philip Massinger; with six Designs
by R. F. Pickersgill, Esq
.
*
As a publisher’s gem this is unique.
The Virgin Martyr’s
tale is given to the world in a pure virgin dress; and the plates
are far above anything one usually sees in illustrations. The
poem itself is a tragedy, ‘the plot of which is founded on the
tenth and last general persecution of the Christians, which broke
out in the nineteenth year of Dioclesian’s reign, (about a.d. 303,)
with a fury hard to be expressed, the Christians being every
where, without distinction of age, sex, or condition, dragged to
execution, and subjected to the most exquisite torments that
rage, cruelty, and hatred could suggest.’
Nursery Rhymes, Tales, and Jingles
.
*
Mr. Burns is resolved to allow no rival in the elegance of his
books for the young. This is one of his most successful efforts,
and we are much mistaken if this little book is not our most
popular new year’s gift. Printing, paper, embellishment, binding,
all is first-rate; and the Rhymes, and Tales, and Jingles are
the familiar inheritance of our nurseries, though there are several
emendations here and there. There is hardly a single unobjec
tionable rhyme which is not here; and the assurance of the
compiler in the preface that those have been excluded which
morally were of a questionable tendency has been well realised.
No wonder Mr. Burns aspired for the sanction of the Prince of
Wales, the Princess Royal, and the Princess Alice, to whom it is
inscribed. The book is worthy of the Palace. And it is quite
true that few of the many works which have appeared will bear
comparison with this as a splendidly illustrated book.
* * London: James Burhs.
�69
AN ESSAY ON FICTION.
INTRODUCTORY TO A SERIES OF SPECIMENS OF CELEBRATED WRITERS
OF FICTION FROM SIR PHILIP SIDNEY TO THE PRESENT TIME.
The history of Fiction commences with the history of Poetry;
and the earliest specimen of Romance may be found in the
legends of the Iliad-, but any attempt to ascertain the sources,
and trace the progress of this beautiful stream of literature,
would lead us beyond the necessary limits and the more peculiar
object of these remarks. The Romances of Chivalry might
alone claim a chapter to themselves. Sismondi divides them
into three distinct classes; the first devoted to the celebration
of King Arthur; the second to Amadis de Gaul; the third to
Charlemagne and his knights.
The oldest prose-romance,
which is, however, interspersed with metrical passages, is sup
posed to be Tristan of Leonois, either written or translated by
Lucas de Gast, about the year 1170
.
*
The earlier specimens of
Greek and Latin fiction are excluded from this inquiry. A new
sera of romance, observes Mr. Hallam, began with Amadis de
Gaul, derived, as some have thought, but upon insufficient
evidence, from a French metrical original, but certainly written
in Portugal, though in the Castilian language, by Vasco de
Lohezara, whose death is generally fixed in 1325. This romance
is in prose; and through a long interval seems to have elapsed
before those founded on the story of Amadis began to multiply,
many were written in French during the latter part of the four
teenth and fifteenth centuries, derived from other legends of
chivalry, which became the popular reading, and superseded the
old metrical romances, already somewhat obsolete in their forms
of language.
English romance was not the birth of the soil; but it
owed much to the celebrated Caxton, whose translation of the
Recueil des Histoires de Troye was published at Cologne, in 1471.
This book was sold for more than one thousand pounds at the
Duke of Roxburgh’s sale. In the reign of Henry VIII. appeared
versions of Artus de Bretagne, and Huon of Bourdeaux; but the
Utopia of Sir Thomas More, written in Latin, was the only pro
duction of the age in which the workings of genius can be
discovered. Inspired by the spirit of Plato, More was not afraid
of trusting to his own invention; and the intrepidity of his
sentiments, and the general justice of his reasoning, entitle him
to be considered a burning light in a very dark and tempestuous
period of our history. The Utopia deceived Budseus, in the
same manner as the graphic pictures of De Foe impressed the
* Hallam’s Introduction to the Literature of Europe, vol. i. p. 18, and
Roquefort, Etat de la Poesie Française, p. 147.
�70
AN ESSAY ON FICTION.
mind of Dr. Meade. It has been ascertained from a letter of
Erasmus that the Utopia was printed in 1515.
The exploits of Palmerin and Amadis delighted the Eliza
bethan Court, and continued to flourish until the Italian Tales
superseded the romances of chivalry. To the same class
belonged the Ornatus and Artesia of Emanuel Ford, and the
Pheander of Henry Roberts. The Euphues of John Lylie ap
peared about 1580, and rose into such wide popularity as to
introduce a species of affectation known by the name of Eu
phuism. Dunlop notices its three characteristics—1. a constant
antithesis; 2. a perpetual display of learning; 3. an overflowing
abundance of similes, for which Lylie was ridiculed by the poet
Drayton. Among the disciples of this school may be mentioned
Lodge, from whose Rosalynd, Shakespeare borrowed the plot of
As you like it; and Greene, the dramatist, whose life may point
a moral, though it can never adorn a tale; his story of PAiVomeia,
inscribed to Lady Fitzwaters, has been reprinted in the ArcAaica.
The style is deformed by the absurdities of his Master; but Sir
Egerton Brydges commends the selection of circumstances, which
anticipates the skill of a later age, and is the more remarkable,
when we contrast it with the prolixity of Sir Philip Sidney. The
character of Philomela Sir Egerton considers to be drawn with
many traits of generous and saint-like purity. It is a legend of
female virtue triumphing over temptation. Greene also wrote
a tale called Arcadia, which preceded the publication of the
Romance of Sidney about three years ; it is, however, immeasureably inferior to that celebrated work both in sentiment, incident,
and expression. Sir Philip Sidney must be regarded as the first
English writer who imparted modulation to our prose. The
influence of his example may be traced in the sweeter selection
and more harmonious combinations of imagery and diction, which
soon began to be developed both in poetry and prose.
The seventeenth century, so rich in the higher efforts of the
imagination, offers little to a survey of Fiction. The Duchess
of Newcastle, who abstained from any revision of her works, ‘ lest
it should disturb her following conceptions,’ indulged herself in
some heavy compositions, and realised her own definition of
romance; that it consisted of ‘a number of impossibilities put
into a methodical discourse.’ Her Comical Tales in Prose are
neither witty nor very decorous. The Parthenissa of Roger Boyle,
Earl of Orrery, published in 1664, was more successful; but its
unfinished state seems to prove the careless indifference of the
age. Towards the close of the reign of Charles the Second,
one Aphra Behn produced some novels, which participated in the
noxious qualities of her comedies. Her Oronooko, however,
contains several pleasing passages. The Atalantis of Mrs.
Manley is preserved only in the verse of Pope, and the serious
tale by the Hon. Robert Boyle, The Martyrdom of Didymus and
Theodora, has long been forgotten even in name. De Foe
�AN ESSAY ON FICTION.
71
opened a purer fountain, and gave to fiction the endearing aspect
of truth,—his History of Robinson Crusoe is the most beautiful
narrative in the treasures of fancy, and to the youthful mind has
long been delightful as it is beneficial: a gentle and devout spirit
of religious feeling pervades and moralizes all the writings of De
Foe. Sir Walter Scott has defined Romance to be a fictitious
narrative in prose or verse, the interest of which turns upon
marvellous or uncommon incidents; and a Novel to be a fictitious
narrative, differing from the Romance, because the events are
accommodated to the ordinary train of human events, and the
modern state of society. The Romance will belong to the ruder,
and the Novel to the more polished epoch of existence. In the
former class may be placed the Tale of a Tub, and the Travels
of Gulliver, which, under the mask of fiction, were poignant
satires upon mankind. The first is the most brilliant and the
second the most popular work of Swift. A new sera opened
with the publication of Richardson’s Pamela in 1730, written
with the noble intention of promoting the cause of religion
and virtue: 1 considerate readers/ the Author said in the
Preface, ‘ will not enter upon a perusal of the piece before
them, as if it were designed only to divert and amuse.’ Pamela
was succeeded by the Joseph Andrews of Fielding; a work,
if estimated by its literary merits, far superior, and possess
ing one character—Parson Adams—with whom every reader
is familiar, and to whose simplicity fame has given a proverbial
currency. Fielding died at Lisbon, in his forty-eighth year, while
his rival lived to paint a companion portrait to the saint-like
Clarissa, in an individual displaying every Christian grace, to
whom he gave the name of Sir Charles Grandison. The greatest
works of Fielding had appeared almost simultaneously with those
of Richardson; Tom Jones having been published in 1747, and
Clarissa Harlowe in the following year. Their intellectual cha
racters were not less widely opposite than their moral. The grave
and virtuous Richardson carried into his fictions the modest and
serious manners which he practised in reality; while Fielding, in
drawing the boisterous squire and the man of intrigue, was only
copying himself. Richardson possessed pathos and wanted
humour; Fielding overflowed with humour, and was almost en
tirely destitute of pathos. We say almost, for his Amelia con
tains one or two scenes of domestic tenderness; and in Tom Jones
we sometimes see the sympathy and the benevolence of a good
man. Richardson had the greatest power of affecting the
heart, and Fielding of diverting the fancy: virtue may weep
over the sorrows of Clarissa; vice never feels abashed by the
history of the Foundling. Coleridge, indeed, preferred Fielding:
‘ to take him up/ he observed, ‘ after Richardson, is like
emerging from a sick room heated by stoves, into an open lawn,
or a breezy day in May.’ He might be the most agreeable,
but he certainly was not the healthiest writer. Eight years
�72
AN ESSAY ON FICTION.
after the publication of Pamela, a new candidate for fame
broke upon the town with the Adventures of Roderick Ran
dom, in which Fielding might have recognised a kindred
humour to his own, but gushing with a more vivacious intem
perance, and characterized by a more fearless hardihood of
application. With skill inferior to that of his celebrated contem
porary, Smollett was endowed with a genius of even ampler
capacity. He was a negligent artist, but a powerful writer.
No English author has rivalled the rich and brilliant colouring of
those homely scenes of coarse and common life which he delighted
to delineate.
Fiction, like poetry, seems to put forth its richest fruit in
clusters. In the same year, 1759, Johnson’s Story of Rasselas,
and the first part of the Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy,
were given to the public; and not long after the Vicar of Wake
field obtained that tribute of popular admiration which it has
since continued to enjoy. It is a curious circumstance that four
of the most daring humorists of modern times should have
been connected with the priesthood—Rabelais, Scarron, Swift,
and Sterne. The last of the four, indeed, borrowed largely from
those authors, with whom his genius appears to have associated
with the greatest familiarity. Recent researches have shown
him to be not less copious, than audacious, in his plagiarisms.
Dr. Ferrier, in his very interesting illustrations of Sterne, has
traced many of the grotesque incidents in Tristram Shandy to
some of the early French writers with whom Sterne was con
versant,—he enumerates Rabelais, Beroalle, D’Aubigne, Bouchet,
Bruscambelle, and Scarron. The quotations of parallel passages
from these authors are very amusing. But Sterne did not confine
his imitations to foreign works. Bacon, Blount, Bishop Hall, and
particularly Burton, furnished him with thoughts and expres
sions. The Anatomy of Melancholy afforded him a rich quarry;
and he dug out the treasure with no sparing hand. Probably
the history of Literary Plagiarisms contains no specimen of
more consummate confidence than the attack upon copyists in
Tristram Shandy, stolen almost verbatim out of Burton. Dr.
Ferrier has also contributed a chapter upon the personages of
Tristram Shandy, with anecdotes of Dr. Slop, which throw con
siderable light upon the book. Dr. Slop is supposed upon
traditional and circumstantial testimony, to have been Dr. John
Burton of York. Uncle Toby and the Widow Wadman have not
been identified with any living individuals; but the author is
known to have intended the gay and benevolent Yorick as a
portrait of himself. Dr. Ferrier supposes the plan of the Sen
timental Journey to have been suggested by such pieces as the
Poy«ye of Chapelle, or Fontaine, which differed from the English
author s narrative principally by being written in verse. But,
after these deductions have been made from his originality,
Sterne will still be entitled to admiration for the skill with which
�AN ESSAY ON FICTION.
73
he has employed his acquisitions. He never stole a jewel to set
it in lead. Under all the heavy mass of absurdity and coarse
ness which he suffered his fancy and his learning to heap up,
there is a spark of genius always burning, and which continually
shoots up in a clear and beautiful flame. Sterne is to be blamed,
not for borrowing, but for concealing his obligations.
The remaining productions of the eighteenth century need
not detain us. The Fool of Quality, by Henry Brooke, in 1766,
has been compared to the shorter and simpler tale of Goldsmith;
and Mackenzie, in his Man of Feeling, caught some of the spirit,
without any of the license of Sterne.
About the same period the first specimen of modern Romance
was presented by Horace Walpole in the Castle of Otranto, 1768,
which was followed in 1777 by the Old English Baron of Clara
Reeve. Walpole has related the history of his famous Tale in
a letter to Mr. Cole, March 9, 1769.
Shall I confess to you what was the origin of this romance ? I
waked one morning in the beginning of last June from a dream, of which
all I could recover was, that I had thought myself in an ancient
castle, (a very natural dream for a head filled like mine with Gothic
story,) and that on the uppermost banister of a great staircase, I saw
a gigantic hand in armour. In the evening I sat down and began to
write, without knowing, in the least, what I intended to say, or relate.
The work grew on my hands, and I grew fond of it. Add, that I was
very glad to think of anything rather than politics. In short, I was so
engrossed with my Tale, which I completed in less than two months,
that one evening I wrote from the time I had drunk tea, about six
o’clock, till half an horn’ after one in the morning, when my hand
and fingers were so weary, that I could not hold the pen to finish the
sentence, but left Matilda and Isabella talking in the middle of a para
graph. You will laugh at my earnestness, but, if I have amused you
by retracing with any fidelity the manners of ancient days, I am
content.
The Castle of Otranto has been fortunate in its critics ; Byron
eulogised it, and Scott has commended it in very high terms.
The moonlight vision of Alphonso, (he says,) dilated to immense
magnitude, the astonished group of spectators in the front, and the
shattered ruins of the castle in the back ground, are briefly and sub
limely described. The applause due to chastity and precision of style—
to a happy combination of supernatural agency with human interest—
to a tone of feudal manners and language, sustained by characters
strongly drawn and well discriminated—and to unity of action, pro
ducing scenes alternately of interest and grandeur; the applause, in fine,
which cannot be denied to him who can excite the passions of fear and
of pity, must be awarded to the author of the Castle of Otranto.
Of the modern Novel it is unnecessary to speak, and of the
Author of Waverley, in particular, criticism would now be idle,
as it would be unprofitable; we may apply to Scott, with far
greater propriety, Johnson’s observation upon Garrick, that his
death eclipsed the gaiety of nations, and impoverished the
�74
AN ESSAY ON FICTION.
harmless sources of amusement. But he had erected his monu
ment before he was removed from amongst us; the Magician
has completed the most beautiful structures of his art before his
wand was broken. Many of his tales will perish only with the
elements of human society, for they have linked themselves with
the tenderest feelings of the heart, and the brightest recol
lections of the scholar. When we behold a sister, labouring in
the labour of love, we think of Effie Deans; and at the name
of Ivanhoe all the splendid scenery of a chivalrous age glows
upon our eyes.
With these prefatory remarks we shall be ready to introduce
from time to time, selections from the various writers in Fiction
to our readers, and will begin with
SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
Although supposed to be written about the year 1580, the first
edition of the Arcadia appeared in 1590. Its success was imme
diate and lasting ; before 1633 it had reached an eighth im
pression. It was written diming Sidney’s temporary seclusion
at Wilton, occasioned by a quarrel with the Earl of Oxford;
and Zouch conjectures the plan to have been suggested by the
Arcadia of Sannazzarius, which was printed at Milan in 1504.
It was published after the death of Sidney by his sister, the
Countess of Pembroke, for whose entertainment it had been
composed. They who read the Arcadia with any view to a story,
will not be rewarded for their trouble. It is a pastoral romance,
containing many fanciful descriptions conceived in a spirit of
poetry, and abounds in generous and noble sentiments. The
style is often sweet and melodious, and embellished with many
picturesque epithets, which might have attracted the eyes of
Shakespeare. Cowper happily characterised Sidney in the Task
as the
.......... warbler of poetic prose.
Musidorus, having been shipwrecked on the coast of Laconia,
is discovered by two shepherds, Strephon and Caius, who con
duct him to their country;—
THE TRAVELS OF MUSIDORUS INTO ARCADIA.
Now, sir, thus for ourselves it is, we are in profession but shepherds,
and in this country of Laconia little better than strangers; and, there
fore, neither in skill nor ability, of power greatly to stead you. But
what we can present unto you is this. Arcadia, of which country we
are, is but a little way hence; and even upon the next confines, there
dwelleth a gentleman, by name Kalander, who vouchsafeth much favour
unto us; a man who for his hospitality is so much haunted, that no
news stirs, but comes to his ears; for his upright dealing so beloved by
his neighbours, that he hath many ever ready to do him their uttermost
service; and by the great good-will our prince bears him, may soon
obtain the use of his name and credit, which hath a principal sway not
�AN ESSAY ON FICTION.
75
only in his own Arcadia, but in all those countries of Peloponnesus.
And (which is worth all) all these things give him not so much power,
as his nature gives him will to benefit: so that it seems no music is so
sweet to his ears as deserved thanks. To him we will bring you, and
there you may recover again your health, without which you cannot be
able to make any diligent search for your friend; and, therefore, you
must labour for it. Besides, the comfort of courtesy, and ease of wise
counsel shall not be wanting.
Musidorus (who besides he was merely unacquainted in the country,
had his wits astonished with sorrow,) gave easy consent to that from
which he saw no reason to disagree; and, therefore, they took their
journey together through Laconia, Caius and Strephon by course carry
ing his chest for him, Musidorus only bearing in his countenance
evident marks of a sorrowful mind, supported with a weak body;
which they perceiving, and knowing that the violence of sorrow is not
at the first to be striven withal, (being like a mighty beast, sooner
tamed with following, than overthrown by withstanding,) they gave way
to it for that day and the next, never troubling him either with asking
questions, or finding fault with his melancholy, but rather fitting to his
dolour dolorous discourses of their own and other folks’ misfortune,
which speeches, though they had not a lively entrance to his senses shut
up in sorrow, like one half asleep, he took hold of much of the matters
spoken unto him, so as a man may say, ere sorrow was aware, they
made his thoughts bear away something else beside his own sorrow,
which wrought so in him, that at length he grew content to mark their
speeches, then to marvel at such wit in shepherds, after to like their
company, and, lastly, to vouchsafe conference. So that the third day
after, in the time that the morning did shew roses and violets in the
heavenly floor against the coming of the sun, and the nightingales
(striving one with the other, which could in most dainty variety recount
their wrong-caused sorrow,) made them put off their sleep, and rising
from under a tree, (which that night have been their pavilion,) they
went on their journey, which by and by welcomed Musidorus’ eyes
(wearied with the wasted soil of Laconia) with defightful prospects.
There were hills which garnished their proud heights with stately trees;
humble valleys, whose base estate seemed comforted with the refreshing
of silver rivers; meadows enamelled with all sorts of eye-pleasing
flowers; thickets, which being lined with most pleasant shade were
witnessed so too, by the cheerful disposition of many well-tuned birds ;
each pasture stored with sheep feeding with sober security, while the
pretty lambs, with bleating oratory, claimed the dam’s comfort. Here
a shepherd’s boy piping as though he should never be old; there a young
shepherdess knitting, and withal singing, and it seemed that her voice
comforted her hands to work and her hands kept time to her voice
music. As for the houses of the country (for many houses came under
their eye) they were all scattered, no two being one by the other, and
yet not so far off as that it barred mutual succour; a shew, as it were,
of an accompaniable solitariness; and of a civil wildness. I pray you,
said Musidorus, (then first unsealing his long-silent lips,) what countries
be these we pass through, which are so divers in shew, the one wanting
no store, the other having no store, but of want ?
The country (answered Caius) where you were cast ashore, and
�76
AN ESSAY ON FICTION.
now are past through, is Laconia, not so poor by the barrenness of the
soil, (though in itself not passing fertile,) as by a civil war, which being
these two years within the bowels of this estate, between the gentlemen
and the peasants, (by them named Helots,) hath in this soil as it were
disfigured the face of nature, and made it so unhospitable as now you
have found it; the towns neither of the one side nor of the other
willingly opening their gates to strangers, nor strangers willingly
entering for fear of being mistaken. But this country where now you
set your foot is Arcadia, and where hard by is the house of Kalander,
whither we lead you. This country being thus decked with peace
and (the child of peace) good husbandry, these houses you see so
scattered are of men as we two are, that live upon the commodity of
their sheep; and therefore, in the division of the Arcadian estate, are
termed shepherds—a happy people, wanting little, because they desire
not much.
THE FIRST NIGHT OF A NEW YEAR.
During the night succeeding the first day of a new year, a man was at
his window. He raised his eyes towards the azure vault of heaven,
where floated the stars, like snowy flowers of the water-lily on the
bosom of the tranquil lake; he cast them downwards to the earth, which
contained, among its millions of inhabitants, none so wretched as him
self, deprived alike of happiness and tranquillity, and rapidly sinking to
the grave. He felt that he had already descended sixty of the steps
that led thither, and that the harvest he had reaped from the seed sown
in his youth, was crime and remorse. His health had failed, his heart
was desolate and repentant, and his old age miserable. He recollected
the days of his youth, and recalled that solemn hour when his father
had placed him at the commencement of two paths; the one leading to
a tranquil and happy country, covered with verdure and fertility, lighted
by a cloudless sun, and resounding with soft harmony,—the other lead
ing to an endless domain, enveloped in thick darkness, the abode of ser
pents, and infected with poisons. Alas! the serpents had stung him to
the heart, the poisons had stained his lips, and he felt that he had
erred.
Again he raised his eyes towards heaven, and cried in inexpressible
anguish:—‘ Oh youth, return again! Oh father, place me again at the
entrance of the paths of life, that I may make a different choice!’ But
his youth and his father were beyond recall. He beheld the meteors
rise from the marshes, play over them for a brief space, and then dis
appear; and he said to himself, ‘ So passed the days of my folly.’ He
saw a star shoot from its sphere, traverse the heavens, twinkle, and
vanish; ‘ Such has been my course,’ cried he; and the stings of repent
ance pierced his heart still more keenly. In thought, he recalled all the
men of his own age; those with whom he was familiar, and those com
paratively unknown, who had been children with him, and who, scat
tered over the earth, had become the happy fathers of families, the
friends of truth and virtue, were now passing this first night of the new
year in peace and happiness, unalloyed by remorse. The sound of a
�THE FIRST NIGHT OF A NEW YEAR.
77
clock, from the tower of the church, announcing the lapse of another
Step of time, now broke the stillness, and. sounded in his ear like a holy
chant, recalling to him the memory of his parents, the hopes they had
once breathed for him on this solemn day, the lessons they had taught
him, hopes which their unhappy son had never realized, lessons by which
he had never profited. Overwhelmed with grief and shame, he could
no longer gaze on that heaven now the abode of his father. He cast
down his eyes to the earth, and his tears fell fast on the snow by which
it was covered; he groaned; and, in his despair, he again cried, i Oh
youth, return to me again!’
And his youth did return to him,—for all that had passed was but a
dream, which had thus disturbed him on the first night of the new year.
He was young still—his faults only were real. He blessed God that his
youth had not passed away; that there was still time for him to quit
the path of vice, and to re-enter that of virtue, and thereby gain admis
sion to that happy fertile country.
And now, my young readers, if, like him, you have wandered from
the right path, seek, like him, to regain it, lest this terrible dream
should typify your fate—lest the time should come when, worn down
with grief and despair, you cry, ‘Return, bright season of youth!’ and
for you that bright season shall return no more!
[From the French of Madame Guizot; by E. M. M.J
I can never hear a stray note of any of our national airs, without being
carried suddenly back to the mountains and valleys of old Scotland,
amongst which I have rambled so much and so often. I remember once
in particular, when wandering far away in the interior of India, I heard
accidentally Smollett’s beautiful lines, beginning,—
On Leven’s banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,
repeated by a countryman. The effect was instantaneous, and reminded
me of Humboldt’s theory, that there occur, occasionally, magnetic shocks
so deeply seated in the heart of the earth, that they affect the mag
netic needle at the same instant of time, on spots ten thousand miles
apart. As I felt the invisible, but indissoluble, chord of national sym
pathy, thus casually touched in a foreign land, vibrate home again, I
owed and paid much gratitude to the poet, who by the graphic magic of
his numbers, could thus annihilate both time and space, and give me,
even amidst the gorgeous teak forests of Malabar, so true a taste of the
superior attractions of my own distant Fatherland.—Capt. Basil Hall.
�78
NOTES ON THE MONTH OF JANUARY.
January is usually the coldest month in the year. The thermometer has a
range of from 20° to 50° Fahr., the extremes of an ordinary winter. In very
severe seasons, however, it has fallen to 10° or 12°; and sometimes to 0° or
zero, and even to - 3° or—4°, that is, three or four degrees below zero. On the
contrary, in mild winters a temperature of 58° has been attained in the open
country, and once, in 1828, in the neighbourhood of London, Mr. Howard
noticed it at 64°. The mean temperature of the twenty-four hours upon a
long average of years is two or three degrees above the freezing point; so
that continued frost is an exception to the general law of the climate. The
mean temperature of London is about two degrees higher than that of the
surrounding country; but the difference exists chiefly at night, and is
greatest in winter, and least in spring.
Although we are accustomed to complain of our climate as being extremely
variable, yet a very moderate attention to meteorology is sufficient to prove
that the climate of the same place possesses a remarkable steadiness. And it
is to this constitution of the earth as to climate, that the constitution of the
animal and vegetable world is precisely adapted. 4 The differences of differ
ent climates are provided for by the existence of entirely different classes of
plants and animals in different countries. The constancy of climate at the
same place is a necessary condition of the prosperity of each species there
.
*
fixed ’
On the present occasion this 4 constancy of climate ’ may be illustrated
with respect to temperature. Other atmospheric phenomena will be noticed
in subsequent months.
4 It is easy to see, with a little attention, that there is a certain degree of
constancy in the average weather and seasons of each place, though the par
ticular facts of which these generalities are made up seem to be out of the
reach of fixed laws. And when we apply any numerical measure to these
particular occurrences, and take the average of the numbers thus observed,
we generally find a remarkably close correspondence in the numbers belong
ing to the whole, or to analogous portions of successive years. This will be
found to apply to the measures given by the thermometer, the barometer,
the hygrometer, the rain-gauge, and similar instruments. Thus it is found
that very hot summers, or very cold winters, raise or depress the mean
annual temperature very little above or below the general standard.
4 The heat may be expressed by degrees of the thermometer; the tem
perature of the day is estimated by this measure, taken at a certain period of
the day, which period has been found by experience to correspond with the
daily average; and the mean annual temperature will then be the average of
all the heights of the thermometer so taken for every day in the year.
4 The mean annual temperature of London thus measured is about fifty
degrees and four-tenths. The frost of the year 1788 was so severe that the
Thames was passable on the ice; the mean temperature of that year was fifty
* Whewell, Bridgewater Treatise.
�NOTES ON THE MONTH OF JANUARY.
79
degrees and six-tenths, being within a small fraction of a degree of the standard.
In 1796, when the greatest cold ever observed in London occurred, the mean
temperature of the year was fifty degrees and one-tenth, which is likewise
within a fraction of a degree of the standard. In the severe winter of 1813-14,
when the Thames, Tyne, and other large rivers in England were completely
frozen over, the mean temperature of the two years was forty-nine degrees,
being little more than a degree below the standard. And in the year 1808,
when the summer was so hot that the temperature in London was as high as
ninety-three and a half degrees, the mean heat of the year was fifty and a
half, which is about that of the standard ’
.
*
Careful records of the thermometer in different parts of the world tend to
show that every spot on the earth’s surface has a tolerably fixed mean annual
temperature; thus, that of Petersburg is 39°; of Rome, 60°; of Cairo, 72°.
By collecting such observations as these from various places, ‘ the surface of
the earth can be divided by boundary lines into various stripes, according to
these physical differences. Thus, the zones which take in all the places
having the same or nearly the same mean annual temperature, have been
called isothermal zones.’
As the cold 4 strengthens,’ several animals fall into their winter state of
torpor, seeking for this purpose such hiding-places as are adapted to their
wants. Holes in the earth, hollow trees, thick bushes, caves, or ruins, are
selected, and in some cases the spot is lined with dried herbs, grasses, and
moss. Here, protected from intense cold, hybernating animals sleep away
the severe weather, without requiring food, and, strange to say, without
actual need of air. Experiments made on torpid animals have proved that
they can exist in that state, not only in confined portions of air, but in an
atmosphere which would cause instant death to an animal in its active
condition. In fact, they almost wholly cease to breathe.
Those birds which have not left the country in search of more genial
climes, are now driven to various resources to procure food. Industriously
do they peck among the moss, and in the clefts of the bark of trees, for the
insects that find shelter there, and in accordance with their habits, more or
less nearly do they approach the dwellings of man, and become dependants
on the bounty of the inmates.
At this season few insects come openly abroad except the small winter
gnats that play about running water in fine weather, and these afford a scanty
meal to the wagtail; or small slugs, and earth-worms, that creep forth in
mild weather, and are soon pounced upon by the diligent robin, ever prying
about to discover such fare.
During this month, when the majority of the nights have their tempe
rature at or about the freezing point, we are not to expect many objects of
interest in the vegetable world; still they are not altogether wanting. Ever
green plants never look so bright and beautiful as when spangled with hoar
frost and illumined by the rays of a winter’s sun. Thus, when annuals
have died off, and a large proportion of perennials lie buried deep in the fos
tering soil, with perhaps a mantle of snow for a covering, then do we see in
full perfection the ivy, the holly, the bay, the laurel, and other welcome
evergreens, shining forth in full luxuriance; then too the cheerful blossoms
of the laurustinus enliven oiu' shrubberies, and the berries of hip and haw
* Whewele.
�80
NOTES ON THE MONTH OF JANUARY.
look brilliant and tempting. China roses still yield their faint perfume in
some sunny corner ; the garden anemone also ventures to peep forth; perhaps
even a stray snow-drop will unexpectedly show her face; while the black
hellebore, or Christmas rose, and its relative, the foetid hellebore, or bear’s
foot, exhibit their blossoms. The Japan quince, the sweet coltsfoot, and the
Japan allspice, are also in flower.
This is also a good season to observe the mosses, an inconspicuous but
wonderful class of vegetables. Inhabiting every latitude and every climate,
they perform their Maker’s purposes in clothing the barren rock with soil,
formed by their successive growth and decay, until it is fit to sustain plants
of larger growth. Thus by the instrumentality of these humble weeds the
barren coral reef may, in the course of ages, be converted into a smiling and
verdant isle, fit for the reception and sustenance of human beings. Linnaeus
called these plants servi, or slaves, and it has been well remarked that
‘ though they have no master but their Maker, they are universal and most
assiduous labourers in the system of God’s creation.’
‘ Winter,’ says Miller, 4 is called a dead season; so it is to appearance,
although nature is now busily employed in preparing her gaudy garments for
summer. Take but a brown hard bud from the hedges, dissect it, examine it
well with the aid of a microscope, and there you will find the young leaf or
tender blossom coiled up in its unsightly sheath, which, when unfolded,
displays the green velvet richness which will ere long open its beauty.
Look at the naked branch of a fruit-tree; how barren it appears! No leaf,
no blossom, nothing that pleases the eye—it seems fit only for the fire; yet
beneath its rough rind there is a mighty Mechanist at work, forming the
substances of leaf and bark, bloom and fruit—an unerring Hand guiding the
juices through thousands of invisible channels—an unfailing Alchemist, who
will hang the rugged bough with golden fruit before autumn. Who doeth
these things V
‘ Who hath divided a watercourse for the overflowing of waters, or a way
for the lightning of thunder ; to cause it to rain on the earth, where no man
is; on the wilderness, wherein there is no man; to satisfy the desolate and
waste ground; and to cause the bud of the tender herb to spring forth?
Hath the rain a father? or who hath beg’otten the drops of dew? Out of
whose womb came the ice? and the hoary frost of heaven, who hath gen
dered it ? The waters are hid as with a stone, and the face of the deep is
frozen.’ Job chap, xxxviii. 25—30.
�
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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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Parker's London Magazine. Vol. 1, 1845
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Collation: 80 p.
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Conway Tracts
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Text
THE
WEST OF ENGLAND MISCELLANY.
Vol. 1.]
JANUARY, 1845.
[No. 3.
CHURCH AND STATE.
“Church and State ” was ever the favourite toast of the Tories ; it
was wont to call forth the loudest cheers, to inspire the most lofty elo
quence at their banquets, and the peroration of many a maudlin speech
has been rendered effective by some happy allusion to the Altar and
the Throne. It was the cry par excellence at every election, the for
lorn hope in a doubtful debate. And in these latter days, the bastard
children of the Tories, the self-styled Conservatives, will stiff drain a
brimming bumper to Church and State; with an inconsistency sur
prising even in them this is stiff their favoured toast.
Church and State ! It was an evil and an unlucky day that beheld
this sordid marriage. Christianity and sound policy alike forbade the
banns. The minister of the King of Kings betrayed his Master’s trust
when he placed his mitre at the foot of an earthly sovereign. It was a
sinful act, and it is receiving its punishment.
The present position of Church and State very closely resembles that
of an ill-matched couple “ never pair’d above,” who, after years of end
less bickering, have mutually agreed, for appearance sake, to reside still
under the same roof, but in separate apartments,—to be virtually di
vorced, but seem man and wife. Some of our readers may be aware
that such schemes are not often very successful; the altercations are
carried on by proxy; Madame becomes jealous of her lord, and he
thinks he sees a Falstaff in every basket of linen conveyed to or from
her chamber. If they don’t part entirely the weaker will fall a victim
to the stronger, and be involved in ruin and shame. The Church is in
truth and fact no longer allied with the State. The unsanctified bonds
vol 1.
F
�66
CHURCH AND STATE.
which joined them are severed,- they live together, but in separate
apartments : the State has ceased to respect the Church, and the
Church has no affection for a State which she rightly conceives has doue
her wrong. The Church brought the State a large dowry, but it was
understood and agreed that this marriage portion should be reserved for
religious purposes—for the support and maintenance of the Church for
ever. The State, before the ink was dry or the wax firm, violated that
solemn compact, and squandered upon worthless and abandoned para
sites the treasures thus obtained. Every year injury accumulated, and
insult was added to injury. All union is now virtually at an end, and
if the Church would preserve her good name, or save herself from worse
disasters, she must not hesitate, but come forth at once from that which
is unholy, and snap the silken ligatures ere they are changed to fetters
of coldest iron. ■ “ The heathen are come into the inheritance of God .his holy temple have they defiled.”
It is very startling to some ears to advocate a separation of Church
and State ; the phrase smells strong of Dissent, and is redolent of the
Conventicle, but let not this prevent its being considered calmly and
dispassionately. The question might be treated in a very brief manner.
We might say that, as a State Church, the Church of England was no
more, and point to the Statute Book and the pages of Hansard for
Bible-proof of our assertion,—the Church Commission, the New Poor
Law, and the declarations of the “ Conservative ” Ministers, as our wit
nesses. But we will go further back; we assert that the alliance was
evil in its conception, unhallowed in its consummation, and ruinous in
its sequences ; that it was based upon fraud, and perfected by spolia
tion ; and we beg and pray the Church to arouse all her energies, to
awaken the dormant enthusiasm of her disciples, and at once shake off
a temporal restraint which usurps, and will not hesitate to destroy every
remnant of her ancient and legitimate power.
“ The Priests of God are the Tribunes of the People; ” they are the
servants of Him who is above all, and ‘as such should be respected,
and as such should respect themselves. How degrading, then, to see
the vicegerent of heaven submitting to the direction of a motley Parlia
ment and a Lay Commission—to see the messenger of mercy become
an administrator of earthly justice, and the preacher of a Catholic and
Apostolic Faith dependent on the minister or gold for his cure. The
�CHURCH AND STATUE.
67
Catholic Church of our fathers requires no support, needs no sustenance
•from the State. Thrones, and parliaments, and dynasties, are but the
creatures of public opinion; the power which made can destroy. Their
tenure of office is uncertain, and their judgments fallible; but the
Church is enthroned in the hearts of the people; her monitions are
alike audible in the conscience of the peasant and the lord of broad
acres; her supernal power it is which regulates governments, and
teaches senators wisdom. The mitre is encircled with a halo of glory
emanating from Heaven, and shedding the light of its truth, its mercy,
and its charity over the surface of the earth on which it sojourns. Oh 1
we mock the Church when we crave the aid of the State to enforce her
mandates !
We much fear that more than one dignitary of our Church will, ere
long, exclaim in the language of one whose fate they will do well to
remember -.—
“ Had I but serv’d my God with half the zeal
I serv’d my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.”
The whisper of these things has already been heard, and when it is
too late, like Wolsey, our prelates will sound the alarm, and in the
same moment capitulate. The Church has friends, many, right honest
and true, but in her hour of seeming prosperity and fancied security,
basking, in the bland smile of an expedient Minister, she knows them
not; and in the time which is at hand, in the day which is hurrying on,
these firm and banded friends will be unable to save a fortress which
has sapped its own foundations, and dug a mine for its own destruction.
This is no time for delay. We say it with truthful sadness—the Church
has even now lost all its vantage ground, and must do battle with a
conquering foe with fearful odds in his favour. Nevertheless if she will
throw down the secular sword, denude herself of that armour which
encumbers instead of rendering assistance—if she will renounce her
temporalities, and appeal to the people to support the religion of the
Cross, such an appeal will not be made in vain; and if for awhile her
incomes are diminished or her revenues reduced, the integrity of the
Church will be secured, and her vitality restored. Let the descendants
of the arch-spoliators of the Reformation retain, if they will, the price of
their ancestors’ crime: let them add to their hoards the pittance which
F2
�68
CHARLES ARNOLD.
they now dole out to the Church. She will not require it; we would
only ask the repeal of the Mortmain Act, and denland the temples in
which the people worship. For the rest let Shylock have his bond.
The Church can only purchase her redemption at such a price, and let
it be freely paid. We should then have fewer “ cast-iron parsons
the Rector would not sit on the magisterial bench, or keep his hounds,
or ride his hunters. Be it so. These are not the times for pharisaical
automatons : we wish that clerical magistrates had quitted the judgment
seat before they had brought reproach thereon; and a fox-hunting,
game-preserving clergyman, is as odious in our eyes as what he calls a
“ popularity-hunting parson ” is in the eyes of the Home Secretary.
CHARLES ARNOLD.
A SKETCH.
“ How dark appear to mortal man
The mysteries which guide this world.”
I was seated at breakfast a few years ago in the happy mood in which a
man possessed of a fine estate, and the prospect of a life of happiness
before him, may naturally indulge.
The servant entered with the
Times, wet from the press. With the paper in one hand, and a cup of
chocolate in the other, I reclined at mine ease by my fire-side. I
scanned the contents of the journal in a merry mood, laughing at this
joke, wondering at the childish folly of that. My eye at length settled
on the following paragraph:—“ One of the most singular and unac
countable murders that has occurred for years took place yesterday in
the town of T------ . Charles Arnold, esq., a young gentleman married
a short time since, destroyed his wife in a horrible manner. In the
morning, before breakfast, the unfortunate lady entered the dining-room
where her husband was by himself. Some words passed between them,
and were heard by a servant in an adjoining room—a heavy blow and a
faint cry were heard. The domestic rushed in, when she discovered her
unfortunate mistress lying on the floor a corpse; her brains having been
beaten out by her husband with a poker, which he was holding in his
hand when discovered. When spoken to he did not seem to know what
he had done, but in a moment or two afterwards fell down beside the
�CHARLES ARNOLD.
69
corpse, weeping bitterly. Without a word he surrendered himself to
the officers of justice, and no motive can be assigned for this fatal OutBurst of passion. The prisoner, who possesses extensive property, was
highly respected in the town prior to this atrocious and bloody tragedy.
Our reporter has just arrived from the prison, and states that the pri
soner has not betrayed the slightest feeling since he has been in cus
tody. It cannot be that he is insane, as his prior conduct does not in
any way lead to that conclusion.”
Charles Arnold a murderer! My own true friend! Good God, it
cannot be so ! He whom I have loved and valued as my best friend,
with whom I stood before the sacred altar a few months before, when
he received at my hands the lovely being whom he had thus horridly
butchered. Yet there were the lines—there the whole circumstances
described with awful fidelity. Charles Arnold and myself had been
students together at Oxford: we had read together, toiled together, and
won College honours together. A bond of friendship had arisen be
tween us which nothing could break down or dissolve. Warm, ardent,
and generous, no man could be more popular amongst his acquaintance,
none more idolized by his friends. What a gay and happy life we had
led together! We both left College at the same time : the world was
before us, and we could laugh at its tricks and changing strife, having
neither to look to its patronage for support, or to its dissipations for our
pleasures. Soon afterwards I was called to London by the serious ill
ness of my mother. I left Charles at a snug rectory in Somerset, des
perately enamoured with a fair and lovely girl, the ward of the clergy
man. We constantly corresponded; each letter I received spoke of his
affection for Margaret, and his delight the more he discovered her
various amiable and charming qualities. The girl was almost penniless
and portionless, and a few designing friends, who had heard of the
attachment of Charles, sneered at him for the course he was pursuing.
What did he care for that ? In many of his letters to me he alluded, in
the warmth and noble feeling of his heart, to the ignoble and paltry
course his relatives had taken in endeavouring to thwart his attachment.
Margaret Seale had beauty, education, and every quality to make a
married life a happy one; but she was poor. That was the secret
which guided the opposition to the match. Arnold soon discovered it,
and, acting like a high-minded and generous fellow, he married her. I
�70
CHARLES ARNOLD.
gave the bride away, and truly I had never seen a couple whom I more
envied than Arnold and his wife. They went abroad. Italy afforded
them a glorious ramble for a couple of months, and then they returned
to England. They joined me in London soon after, and if ever I ex
perienced delight in the companionship of friends it was in their soci
ety. If there is happiness in married life surely it was with them.
They left after a week’s sojourn, giving me a warm invitation to visit
them in the country. It was only a week since they had left me.
Arnold a murderer ! What a thought! Yes, I must be off at once: I
must see and know why and how the deed was committed.
Away I started for T------ as fast as four horses could carry me. It
was towards evening when I entered the town; the streets seemed full
of bustle and excitement. I ordered the postilion to stop, and eagerly
accosting the first person I could meet, I enquired what was the mat
ter. The man hastily informed me that a coroner’s jury had just
returned a verdict of “wilful murder” against Arnold. I hastened at
once to a magistrate whom I knew, and obtained an order for instant
admittance to the prison to see the unhappy man. It was a gloomy,
dilapidated building, its appearance bespeaking its purpose. The
turnkey who ushered me through the gloomy cells was a dull, misan
thropic man. I urged and besought him to give me some intelligence
respecting the state of the unfortunate prisoner, but I could gain
nothing by my inquiries^ He led the way to the cell, I mechanically
following him. The door was unlocked, and there stood Arnold.' I
wept as I beheld the fallen man. What a change had come over him:
he seemed scarcely the same beiftg. I motioned the turnkey to leave
us; I was alone vrith the murderer, in dark and dreary compani
onship.
“ Charles,” I asked, “ how came you here ? ”
“ Murder,” hfe said, fai a low tremulous voice; “ blood is on my
hands; the mark of Cain is on my brow. I can’t weep; I destroyed
her—yet not I. Could I destroy my own Margaret ? Comade,” he
continued, “she was destroyedby my‘hand, but my soul, my intellect,
knew not of the deed—knew not of it until it was accomplished—until
the blood flowed from the corpse before me.” He stopped ; his words
were clear, and delivered without excitement, and with apparent truth
fulness. I began to imagine that Arfiold’h intellects were impaired. I
�CHARLES ARNOLD.
71
watched his countenance narrowly; I marked the roll of his eye : he
seemed no madman. Every word was chosen, every sentence marked
with the greatest propriety.
“ Go on, Charles,” I said; tell me all; “ you may, perhaps, be saved
from a dreadful doom. I will strive hard, toil hard, aye, I would even
die to save you, my friend, from an ignominious death.”
My last words aroused him. “ I shall not die an ignominious death.
Margaret was not murdered by me ; my spirit, my minrl, would have
battled with hell and the grave before they would on their own part
have committed such a deed; ” and then turning to me, he whispered,
as if fearful of being heard, “ Conrade, do you believe that evil spirits
take up their abode with men ? ”
“ Go on,” I said, “ let me hear you; hide nothing from me.”
He proceeded :—“ The day before the death of Margaret a sudden
and most unaccountable change came on me. I became an altered
man. Instead of manifesting that cheerfulness, good nature, and kindly
disposition to those with whom I mingled, I became at once gloomy
and reserved. A darkness seemed to mingle round my spirits. At its
first appearance I strove hard to banish it. I felt that a being and
spirit new to my nature had taken possession of me, had found a home
in my bosom. It chained my every movement—-it made me hellish—
it spurred me on to deeds at which my own soul would have revolted.
It made me at once depraved. There was nothing that I had hereto
fore hated for its wickedness and criminality but I now gladly perpe
trated. A day passed, and my character was nearly ruined with the
public. I had been discovered in actions base and beyond belief. I
retired to rest in a state of intoxication. Margaret remonstrated with
me; a woman’s love sounded in every word, a wife’s tenderness in all
she said. A still small voice whispered within my brain as her silvery
voice fell on my ear. I could have fallen at her feet, and wept and
prayed for forgiveness. No 1 the power within my bosom was wresting
me on to destruction. It seemed as if the little pause which had taken
place had only occurred to drive me on in the downward road.- I
struck the poor girl a heavy blow, which felled her to the ground. I
shall never forget the look she gave me when she arose; it was more
in sorrow than in anger. ‘ Charles,’ she said, ‘ I forgive you, but
strike me not again; there is something wrong. Tell me what it is;
�72
CHARLES ARNOLD.
you. are not the same man.’ The tears fell from her eyes as she spoke.
There was no angry look, and every word sounded mournfully sweet
and distinct. ‘ Not the same man ! ’ Did she, too, know what pos
sessed me ? Had my tongue told the hated tale of my curse ? I struck
her again. She would have left me and sought the protection of the
neighbours, but I fastened the door and kept her back. She did not
speak, but she wept bitterly. I believe she thought I was mad. There
were even then two natures striving within me—my former nature
what you knew it, and that implanted within my bosom a few hours
before. I gazed on Margaret. She was at a distance, and would not
come near me; her hair was dishevelled, and in wild confusion; her
features were pale and haggard, yet still there was the beauty which
had so enamoured my heart in former days. The more I looked on
that sweet creature did I seem to recover possession of my former
faculties. I straggled hard to regain them. A sudden light shone
through me; I comprehended what I had done.
“ ‘ Margaret,’ I said, ‘ forgive me ; I know not what I do. Forgive
me; you know me not; pray for me. I have hell raging within my
bosom.’
“ ‘ I do forgive you, Charles,’ she replied. ‘ But what is that you
say—hell within your bosom ? ’
“‘An evil spirit, Margaret,’ I answered.
“ ‘ I will pray for you, Arnold,’ she said. She knelt down by the
bedside : I followed her example. With folded hands, and in a deep
humble tone, she prayed for me, her unhappy husband. Nothing could
be more simple, more affecting. We arose: my heart was ready to
burst with grief for my previous conduct. She affectionately besought
me to retire to rest. I complied. Soon I fell asleep. It was a strange
kind of slumber; my mind was alive, and its powers were more acute
than ever. A sound as of distant music fell on my ear; then came, as
it were, a hot, clammy hand, resting on my brow, scorching me with its
heat; then I felt the cool and reviving influence of water, as it seemed
to trickle down my burning brow. I awoke : the light in the room was
still burning. The place Margaret occupied by my side was vacant.
Yes, there she was, kneeling at the foot of the bed in prayer. I knew
she was praying for me. Frequent sobs attested that her prayer
breathed forth from the inmost recesses of her heart.
I heard my
�CHARLES ARNOLD.
73
name frequently uttered. A calm stole over me. I thought I too
would pray, but I could not collect my thoughts for devotion. Yes, I
felt it. Again was the evil spirit rising within me; I closed my eyes
once more, but I could not sleep. Presently Margaret rose from her
knees, and came to the side of the bed where I lay. She looked to see
if I were asleep. My eyes were closed, and she thought I was. I felt
the soft kiss of woman on my hot and burning cheek, and heard her
say, ‘ Poor Charles,’ and then she went and lay down by my side.
Soon she fell asleep. I was lying looking towards the candle, which
was gradually sinking in the socket, when a small bright yellowish
flame attracted my attention. It played about the room at a distance,
presently it came nearer and nearer, and took up its station near me.
It seemed a supernatural visitation. I jumped out of bed ; the flame
gradually retreated as I advanced towards it, ‘ I will follow it,’ I said,
and hastily slipping on my clothes I pursued it. My bedroom door
was shut; the flame passed through it; it was still visible. It took its
station at the head of the stairs, as if waiting for me to accompany it.
I followed it out into the street. It led me towards the church. I met
no living soul on my way, and all was dull and silent.
“The clock struck two as I came near the church. The light led me
into the church-yard, where it finally settled on a grave. I came
towards it, and viewed it narrowly. Amid that little flame were the
lineaments of a human face I once well knew. A secret was told me—
a horrid, awful secret. The countenance was vividly and distinctly
shewn; it looked on me sorrowfully. I knelt on that grave, the flame
still keeping its position. I eyed it with frenzy; it tormented me to
madness. I attempted to grasp it—to destroy it if I could, as a more
than mortal agony tormented my frame. Once more I attempted to
grasp, and at the same moment I felt a rush of blood from the heart—
a dizziness came on, and I fell to the ground senseless. I was awoke
by the church clock striking five. The sun was breaking out in all his
majesty and glory. I arose from the grave; all my energies seemed
gone. How I got to my house I cannot tell; but none of the inmates
were up. I immediately proceeded to my room. Margaret was still
asleep; I took my place by her side. About an hour afterwards she
awoke and began dressing herself; she thought I was slumbering, and
her movements were as silent as possible, fearful of disturbing me. She
left the room, leaving me apparently in deep slumber, I followed her
�74
CHARLES ARNOLD.
down stairs soon after. I went into the dining-room; no one was
there. The evil spirit had again resumed its power. Could I resist it ?
Could I destroy its influence ? I tried. No ! I could not cast it out;
it clung to me firmly. Apparently it had taken up its residence with
me for ever. I threw myself on the carpet; I groaned and wept in the
hopelessness of despair. A bitter heart-rending cry burst from my lips.
My servants heard me, and told Margaret, who hastened to me.
Would to God she had never come. She spoke to me. I made no
answer. A dark foreboding of distant horror came on my soul.
She
thought, perhaps, I did not hear her, for I was standing with my back
to her, my hands covering my face.
“ Could I have but spoken one word to say that the evil spirit was
on me in all its power, and to urge her to flee, I might now, perhaps,
have been happy. She came near and touched me on the back with
her soft small hand, to rouse me from my sullen silence. Merciful
God! that touch was as the unletting of all the devils in hell within
my breast to play with my passions. Its thrill ran through my frame.
Can you believe me, Conrade, when I say I seized the poker with the
fury and passion of a demon, and that it fell from my grasp as with a
fiendish and heavy blow I struck the innocent girl. One cry was heard,
and I felt brains and blood come flying in my face. My former nature
at once regained its power; my passion ceased. I was unconscious of
what I had done. I looked on the ground. Margaret was lying dead.
They told me that I was her destroyer—that her brains had been dashed
out by my savage violence. The servants came in, and when they saw
their mistress they fled away. My agony could not weep ; it could not
show itself in outward semblance. I was like an .idiot when I viewed
the slaughter I had committed. A crowd assembled round the house ;
soon the constables came, and I was led to prison.”
He stopped ; there was a low short breathing.
“ You were insane at the time, Charles ; you must have been to have
committed such a deed,” I said.
“ Listen to me Conrade,” he replied; “ you cannot laugh at what I
have been saying. Do you doubt its truth ? I will tell you something
more : you can keep a secret, and this is a secret of the grave. I have
received an intimation of approaching death. I don’t despise it.
Philosophy might have sneered at it, but there is with visitations of life
and death a reality which neither the illiterate nor learned can see or
�CHARLES ARNOLD.
comprehend. I die to night,” he continued, " not by my own hand,
but by the will of Heaven. Without priest I have become resigned to
death. Here,” he said, producing a New Testament, “ have I gained
a peace that the world knows nothing of. Men may filter its precepts
to suit their creeds, but its truths can never die. What is the hour ? ”
he enquired.
I looked at my watch ; it was eight o’clock.
“ Then I have but four hours to live. Conrade, read a chapter
to me.”
I read the 1st chapter of Revelations. When I had finished he ex
claimed; “ What a magnificent description; how I should like to read
the original Hebrew.”
“ Arnold, from what I have heard to-night I fancy you are deranged.
What you have been saying sounds as if it proceeded from a distem
pered brain.”
“ You know me/' he replied. “ I have never feared to speak the
truth ; all the pains of the rack could not extort a lie from my lips. As
I hope for eternal salvation hereafter, what I have told you is true.”
He was proceeding when the Governor of the gaol entered, and in
formed me that my visit had passed the usual hour, and I must leave.
Arnold earnestly requested that I might remain a few minutes longer,
to which no objection was offered.
“ Conrade, I have told you that I have received a warning of ap
proaching death. I have taken steps to meet that death as a Christian.
Mypropei’ty is disposed of to a good purpose. Mark me, friend, I
have received a knowledge of the hour when my dissolution will take
place. If one word of what I have been saying to you is false, then
will you see me alive to-morrow; if true, then we shall never meet
again. I now go to my cell. I pass the few dreary hours that I must
exist in prayer. I have much to be forgiven. Adieu, God bless you.”
He grasped me by the hand. I looked on him with undefinable feelings
of mystery and awe. I tore myself away from him ; the door closed on
me, and we parted.
I found my way to the hotel, believing, yet almost afraid to believe,
the few last words that Arnold had spoken. I retired to rest: I could
not sleep. Weeping and praying for my poor unhappy friend, I spent
the hours of darkness; Almost before daylight I was up and dressed,
and hurried down to the gaol. The doors Were not yet opened, nor
�76
SONG.
was any one stirring. I waited near the entrance for a few minntea till
I heard the bell ring. Soon the door was opened by the turnkey. I
eagerly asked him to admit me to see Mr. Arnold.—“ I can’t stop, I
am going for a doctor; the poor gentleman be dead.” I rushed in. I
entered his cell: Arnold was not there. I heard voices sounding at a
distance. I proceeded thither, and found the governor and turnkeys
in one of the sleeping wards of the prison. The dead body of Arnold
lay on the ground. It was cold and stiff; a faint smile illumined his
features; his hands were clasped as if his spirit had passed away whilst
at prayer. Evidently his death had been free from pain. A post mor
tem examination of the body was made, but there was nothing to show
that his death was a premeditated act, or how it had taken place.
Alas! the unhappy Arnold had spoken truly ; he had been destroyed
by the destroyer.
Taunton.
SONG.
Here’s a health to the fair one whoever she be
Who may one day my “ feelings enslave
Be she then in her teens, or a sipper of tea,
Be she wild, blithesome, buxom or grave.
A sylph or a Venus, imposing and tall,
Smart and roguish, or stately and staid ;
Provided she loves me, I’ll overlook all,
If her person’s but charmingly made.
Let her eyes be sky blue or as black as a sloe,
With languishing looks or with fire;
I’m sure I could love, if with love they but glow,
And are form’d a like love to inspire.
Be her hair dark as jet, or as flaxen as flax,
In ringlets, in plaits, or in curls;
There’s no reason there for my love to relax,—
False hair would be suiting for girls.
Let her mouth be expressive of sweetness or scorn,
Let her lips be all pouts or all joy;
I think, if she loves me, it all may be borne
Provided there’s nought to annoy.
Here’s a health to the fair one whoever she be,
Who may one day my “feelings enslave;”
Be she then in her teens, or a sipper of tea,
Be she wild, blithesome, buxom or grave.
�THE MOVEMENT.
The march of mind is taking rapid strides amongst all classes through
out the country. A new impulse has been given to mental and phy
sical education. A change has sprung up—a spirit has arisen, which,
until it started into being, the politician could never have dreamt—the
philosopher formed no conception. It is a spirit which has breathed
forth from no kingly halls or marble palaces, but from the noble and
lofty impulses of the human intellect alone. Its progress has scarce
commenced, and yet its triumph is sure and certain. Society is look
ing on in wonder. Party spirit is almost paralyzed by the wnparty
spirit the movement assumes. Everywhere is it creating excitement—
the man who has been but slightly educated is beginning to pant for
more knowledge, to thirst for improvement. The humble mechanic
whose head has found no other employment than in the menial labour
of his hands, thinks this. Thinkings embody home truths—“ I have a
mind, but no one has told me how to improve it ; rich and poor have
passed me by.” That knowledge, feeble and small though it be,
teaches him one great truth—to spend the time formerly passed in the
pot-house in the cultivation of his faculties. The pathway of his huma
nity, though dimly illumined, has raised mind above matter. Who is
there that, amid the battling of Tories, Whigs, and Radicals, has not
sickened at the cant, corruption, and intolerance which have marked the
two first parties, and the low popularity-seeking of the other. The
party hate that has lately marked political and religious differences in
this Christian country exceeds all belief. The Churchman denounces
the Dissenter; the Wesleyan Dissenter hates Catholicism, and in his
hymn-book calls on the Deity to chase his Unitarian brother’s doctrine
down to hell ;* the Baptist violently opposes and denounces the Clergy
and doctrines of the Established Church. What an anomaly do the two
rival systems of Catholicism and Protestantism present, viewing them
from the time of the great reformers of the fifteenth century. Then the
Catholic, with a deep and hostile spirit, branded and hunted down Pro
testantism and its professors. How have the tables turned I With few
exceptions, and they are exceptions which will arise wherever there is
human nature, we see the Catholic the warm advocate of Christian
* Vide 433 hymn in Wesleyan Hymn Book.
�78
THE MOVEMENT.
charity, and anxious to live in peace and concord; and the Protestant
assuming the character the Romanist formerly bore. Some human
reformer is wanted to meet the exigencies of the times. Some change
is required: society cannot go on in its present state of alienation.
Who can quell the tumult ? Who can pom oil on the troubled waters
of strife ? There is a call being made from every part of the country
to bury the feuds of party feeling—to respect om brother more—to
cool down those asperities which have marked man and man. There is
a spirit abroad which aims at this—nearer and nearer does it approach
—slow but surely it comes. “ It will bide its time.” Religious hate
and mutual discord must cease, and that, too, ere long. Away with
party; fling those creeds to the wind which will not tolerate another.
They are worthless, depend upon it. Let us in om charity bid God
speed to those men whose religious opinions are productive of morality,
and which improve the social and religious condition of society. Mys
tified they may be, characterised by singularity they may stand, yet each
is worthy of respect as possessing the germ of true religion in its belief.
Let us as one man tread down the great barrier which creates this feel
ing in society. The line of demarcation is religious differences,—these
have fed the flame of hatred, and made om country a crying cmse to
humanity and civilization. A oneness in religion will come. It comes,
not with persecution or the hate of man, but with mutual love and fel
lowship. Let us cultivate a friendship with those who differ from us;
let us see each other’s good qualities, even though it be “ through a
glass darkly,” being assmed that it ■will finally make way for that great
and glorious light, which, uniting society in a tenfold bond, will bring
about a great and glorious regeneration of the human race.
Taunton, Nov., 1844.
ROSCURUCIA.
In an eager pursuit to be happy, and to be rich, men do many unwise, and some
unprincipled actions; it ends in their becoming miserable, and continuing poor.—
Vivian Grey.
A man’s soul should always be elevated, and his passions would then require
little purification.—Ibid.
The brain is the mansion-house of Reason, and he who worships at Reason’s
shrine, though poor as Lazarus, holds a higher rank in Nature’s scale than the
proudest monarch.
A madman, a man of prejudice, and irritable or malignant disposition (vulgarly
termed “bad temper”), are alike, and should be treated accordingly.
�THE BACHELOR.
Some Gentlemen begg’d a Lady one day
To explain in a full, comprehensible way,
What the curious term, “ Old Bachelor,” meant ?
And declared till they knew they would not be content.
She was ask’d by a pair of elderly brothers,
By fellows of Oxford and Cambridge, and others,
And several sportsmen, and every guest
Came forward to second each other’s*request;
An extraordinary fancy, it must be confest!
The Lady replied, that she felt quite unable,
For Bachelors many were then at her table ;
But as they were urgent, and still she had fears
That truth might be grating or harsh to their ears,
She promised to write whene’er she had time,
A full and complete definition in rhyme;
And with their permission, the same would inscribe
To themselves and their friends of the Bachelor Tribe;—
(A nondescript race, very hard to describe.)
The Gentlemen hoped that she soon might have leisure,
For to read of themselves would be infinite pleasure ?
As they love their dear selves they knew beyond measure,
And themselves their own selves, were their hearts’ greatest treasure.
Then she sought for an eye glass the better to see,
And this eye glass or spy glass, which e’er it might be,
Could magnify small things, as all will agree :
As she took a hard pen, or a pencil of steel,
To make these unfeeling Old Bachelors feel:
'
And pourtrayed them in rhymes of two, three, and four,
Dull prose having often described them before,
And prosing in prose being always a bore.
The Naturalists say these singular creatures
Are alike in their habits, their form, and their features:
The Benedicts think that their senses are small;
While Women affirm, ‘they have no sense at all,’
But are curious compounds of very odd stuff,
Inflexible, hard, and remarkably tough !
The old ones have wigs, the young ones have hair,
And they curl it, and scent it, and friz it with care,
And turn it to dark, should it chance to be fair.
They are wanderers, and ramblers, and never at home,
Making sure of a welcome wherever they roam,
And every one knows that the Bachelor’s den
Is a room set apart for these singular men;
A nook in the clouds, of perhaps five feet by four,
Tho’ sometimes, perchance, it may be rather more,
With skylight or no light, ghosts, goblins, and gloom,
And ev’ry where term’d “ The Bachelor’s room.”
These creatures they say, are not valued at all,
Except when the Herd gives a Bachelor’s ball.
Then drest in their best, in their gold broidered vest,
’Tis known as a fact, that they act with much tact,
And they lisp out ‘ How do ?’ and they coo and they sue,
And they smile for awhile, their guest to beguile •
Condescending and bending, for fear of offending;
Tho’ inert, they exert to be pert and to flirt;
And they turn and they twist,
And they e’en play at whist;
And they whirl and they twirl,
�80
THE BACHELOR.
And they whisk and are brisk;
And they whiz and they quiz,
And they spy with their eye,
And they sigh as they fly,
For they meet to be sweet,
And be fleet on their feet.
Pattering and flattering and chattering,
Spluttering and fluttering and buttering,
Advancing and glancing and dancing and prancing,
And bumping and jumping and stumping and thumping,
Sounding and bounding around and around;
Sliding and gliding with minuet pace,
Perouetting and setting with infinite grace.
They like dashing and flashing, and lashing and splashing,
And racing and chasing, and pacing and lacing;
They are frittering and glittering, gallant and gay,
Yawning all morning, and lounging all day;
Love living in London, life loitering away
At the Club and at Crockfords, the Park and the Play.
But when the Bachelor boy grows old,
And these Butterfly days are past;
When threescore years their tale have told,
He then repents at last,
When he becomes an odd old man,
With no warmer friends than his warming pan!—
He is fidgetty, fretful, and frousy, in fine,
Loves self and his bed, and his dinner and wine 1
And he rates and he prates, as he reads the debates,
Abuses the world, and the women he hates;
And is prosing, and dozing, and cozing all day,
And snoring, and boring, and roaring away.
He is grievously given to gout and to Gout,
Dyspeptic, Rheumatic, and never goes out.
And he’s snuffy, and puffy, and huffy, and stuffy,
And musty, and fusty, and rusty, and crusty,
Sneezing, and wheezing, and teazing, and freezing,
Provoking, and croaking, and joking, and smoking,
And grumbling, and mumbling, and stumbling, and tumbling,
Falling, and bawling, and sprawling, and crawling,
And withering, and dithering, and quivering, and shivering.
Waking, and aching, and quaking, and shaking,
Ailing, and failing, and always bewailing,
Dreary, and weary, and nothing that’s cheery.
Groaning, and moaning, his selfishness owning,
And sighing, and crying, and ev’ry day dying,
And grieving, and heaving, when really he’s leaving
But wealth, and ill health, and his pelf, and dear self.
Then he sends for a Doctor to cure or to kill,
Who gives him offence as well as a pill,
By dropping a hint about making his will;
And as fretful Antiquity cannot be mended,
The lonely life of the Bachelor’s ended.
Nobody mourns him, and nobody sighs,
Nobody misses him, nobody cries,
For nobody grieves when a Bachelor dies.
Now, Gentlemen, hearken, for this is the life
That is led by a man never blest with a wife;
And this is the way that he yields up his breath,
Attested by all who are in at the death.
�A “FACT” FOR THE POOR LAW COMMISSIONERS.
■ri’HERE is a species of insanity,” says Dr. Voisin, of Paris, “ to which
the Swiss peasantry, who are, as a people, generally very badly off, the
Southern Germans, and the very poor about Milan, are particularly sub
ject, arising chiefly, if not wholly, from a bad or scanty diet. Among
the Monks, too, who observe rigidly a spare regimen, insanity is of fre
quent occurrence.” Hereby we see that none (even a great philosopher)
can break, or even attempt to break, Nature's laws (which are the laws
of God), physical or moral, with impunity. In short, he would not
deserve, any more than the idiot, the epithet of “philosopher” did he
do so. Those only “ who walk with Nature find her paths are peace.’’
All our Creator’s laws are in beautiful harmony; they are immutable’
and are written on the Universe by the finger of God himself. The
whole world is a great book of God’s mercy. Even pain is a wise and
merciful provision of Nature, to warn us when we break her laws.
*** We hope our talented correspondent will excuse the liberty we
have taken in specially calling the attention of the “ Guardians ” of
England’s poor peasantry to this too short article. The laws of Na
ture, “WHICH ARE THE laws of god,” are daily, hourly, shamelessly,
and awfully outraged in this “ Christian ” land, and by “ Christian ”
men, who, with hypocrisy truly appalling, and a mendacity almost
beyond conception, dare to invoke the blessing of Heaven, and preach
salvation to the heathen, when at home, on the very steps of then’ own
Exeter Hall, lie crouching the hungry, the miserable, and the dying.
’Tis fearfully true, starvation will beget madness, will fight the torch of
the incendiary, and will prompt the murderer’s hand. ’Tis true,—lack
of food and cruel treatment will destroy reason, will make the beggar a
lunatic ; but it is surely true that the vacant gaze, the horrid scream,
and the lingering, long moan of the madman, will be heard and answered
by Him who is no respecter of persons. A member of the House of
Commons tells the world that in England—“in this highly favoured
land,”—he found in a Poor Law Bastille the poor mother suckling her
child with a crowd of maniacs hovering round her; and that on every
side he was met by the cry, “ God love you, sir, give us bread.” Is the
religious feeling of our countrymen extinct ?
Vol. 1.
. '
g
�THE POET’S LOVE *
A lonely grave, mid the barren hills
Over which sweeps on the breeze
For ever by, with a ceaseless dirge,
And mbans through the leafless trees.
A stranger kneels by that lonely grave,
With a proud and lofty brow,
But a cloud of grief has darkened its light,
And the shadow rests on him now.
A vision of old o’er his memory steals,
He thinks of his early years ;
He looks on the past with longing eyes,
Though dimmed with his blinding tears.
The years since past like a long, long dream
Of ambition—of fame—depart,
And sobs, as of childhood’s changeful hours,
Are rending the proud man’s heart.
He has left the crowd, and its words of praise,
The smiles of the fair, the brave,
His heart echoes not the gentlest tones
Enshrined in that silent grave.
A young fair face is before him still,
With its dark and braided hair,
The soft eyes, filled with the light of mind,
The bright smile—all are there.
His poet love—the first, the best,
The passionate love of youth,
Which flows in a pure, unchanging stream,
Fresh from the well of truth.
Oh! the world of fancies that vision wrought,
He lives yet again in the past,
The dreams of the future, which haunted him then,
With a beauty too bright to last.
What to him is ambition—the voice of fame—
The glory his genins had won ?
He would give them all for a smile of her’s—
His gentle, his long-lost one.
* Cino da Pistoia was a celebrated poet, doctor, and teacher of civil law. In early
life he loved the beautiful Ricciardo Da Selvaggia, also celebrated for her poetical
talents. The parents being exiled from Pistoia by a contrary faction, took refuge
among the Appenines. Here Cino followed them ; and here Ricciardo died. In after
years, when crossing the Appenines, after having won fame, wealth, and honour, he
sought alone the grave of his early love, and wept over it. She died about the yent 1316.
�83
THE OFFERTORY.
He has grasped the undying laurel leaf,
That graceful brow to shade,
And the poet’s love has immortal grown
With the wreath which years cannot fade.
Ah! lovely as rare, the unchanging truth,
Unchilled by the cold world’s breath,
The holy love, which perishes not,
But survives the grave aud death.
ADA.
THE OFFERTORY.
If proof were wanting of the fearfully rapid increase of a spirit of infi
delity and apathy, in matters of religion, the loud and bitter hostility
with which the revival of the Offertory has been met would furnish pain
fully convincing testimony of this lamentable fact. It must now be
evident to the most incredulous that the Protestant Church of England
has nearly, if not entirely, lost her hold upon the affections of the
people; it must be apparent that the degrading connection with the
State, and the carelessness and the lukewarmness of the Clergy, have
done a serious, if not fatal, damage to the Church of England. It is
the boast of the Dissenter that Churchmen have no real feelings of reli
gion— that their homage is mechanical, and their worship a form.
Would that we could deny the accusation, throw back the withering
taunt, and demonstrate its falsehood; but, alas ! every day, almost every
hour, is now bringing up a fresh witness against us, and supplying a new
link in the evidence of our adversary. We are reaping the fruits of our
fathers’ apostacy and worldly mindedness.
One of the most talented of the London journals truly says :—“ It is
very probable that the whole lay population of England has been so far
imbued with Dissenting and Calvinistic principles as to have really gone
further from the principles of a Church only reformed from that of Rome
than any Episcopal clergy could well follow, and that an adherence to
forms not unsuited to a Protestant Church may startle those quasi Dis
senters with a semblance of making lee-way back to Rome.”* And it
is beyond dispute that of the great mass of church-goers very few are
Churchmen. They observe the form of attending within the consecrated
walls, but they have no faith in the holy creed. They care not how
* The Spectator, Dec^7.
G 2
�84
THE OFFERTORY.
loose in discipline or how apathetic in manner the priest may be, but
zeal, strictness, or energy, they cannot abide. They are Dissenters in
all but the name. To such as these an observance of the commands of
the Rubric, and a weekly Offertory, cannot but be peculiarly distasteful.
Such things are high treason against Geneva. We are told that the
Offertory is illegal when the proceeds are appropriated to other pur
poses than the relief of the poor of the parish, and it may be so; and
if it is so we know full well that the Church is now bound to yield obe
dience, even in spiritual matters, to temporal laws and Lay Commissioners,—to statutes enacted by Dissenters, and worked by their
nominees. We know this right well, and we will not stop to enquire
how far such a doctrine will interfere with every collection for charitable
purposes, whether made in the meeting-house or the cathedral, unless
sanctioned by Act of Parliament, or permitted by the Home Secretary,
for we do not mean to defend the introduction of the Offertory for any
other purpose than the relief of the poor of the parish—the giving of
alms to the needy, and the sick, and the destitute—and for this we
assert that it is a legal, scriptural, and Godly institution, eminently cal
culated to promote real piety and Catholic feelings in every class of the
community. Then we are met with the objection that another and a
more certain provision is now made for the poor, and that alms-giving
is rendered unnecessary by the existence of a Poor-Law; and this objec
tion is sustained by the advocacy of the leading journal of the day, with
all its usual ability and accustomed eloquence ; stiff we must venture to
express a very humble opinion that the Times is on this particular point
(where the Offertory is for the poor of the parish) in error, and a very
earnest hope that, ere long, its talent and its influence will be again
enlisted on the side of the Poor and the Church.
We do not doubt that the Irish Attorney General could easily
furnish Sir James Graham with an indictment, containing we know
not how many counts, and including Henry, Lord Bishop of Exeter, and every clergyman in his diocese, as defendants, for that they
did knowingly and wilfully, and with malice aforethought, conspire
together to subvert and bring into contempt the laws enacted for the
relief of the poor, by making, and causing to be made in their respective
churches, an illegal, novel, and seditious collection of money ; and by
the illegal, &c., distribution of such monies, so illegally, &c., collected
�THE OFFERTORY.
as aforesaid, did knowingly, &c., bring into contempt and evil repute
the aforesaid mild, merciful, and benevolent laws for the relief of the
poor of this realm, &c. &c. It would be a fine occupation for that
clever functionary. But we have yet to learn that charity is an offence
against law, or the giving of alms punishable as a crime. We have been
taught to consider these as Christian duties, enjoined by the Sacred
Volume, and observed by the Church in all ages : we thought that
obedience herein brought its own reward, and that it was a command
pleasurable to fulfil, giving and securing comfort. But no, it is exceed
ingly unpleasant, we are told, to be detained in the church whilst a
collection is made for the poor; it is very annoying to wait ten minutes
for dinner, to be requested to subscribe money to purchase a dinner for
the poor also; it is manifestly wrong that the sanctity of high and
cushioned pews should be violated for the purpose of gathering alms for
those who sit on the benches; it is scandalous and irregular, and clearly
an innovation of Papal Rome. Oh ! little do these ultra-Protestants—
these scrupulous Evangelicals—think how much they exalt “Papal
Rome ” by such assertions : little do they think how many will look
longingly towards the “ seven hills,” and will view with the eye of mild
est censure the worst errors of a religion which is so denounced !
How does the State provide for the poor ? Can the Church close her
eyes to what passes in the Union Houses ? And if, by the Offertory,
only a few poor families are saved from this last degradation—if only a
few old men and women are by this means enabled to spend the last
hours of a weary life in the companionship of those they love, and in
the little cottage, where they have grown up from children, sink down
to the grave in freedom, will not the prayers of a noble-hearted pea
santry call blessings from Heaven upon the Church, and amply repay
her devoted servants for the misconstruction and mockery they are
enduring ? Year after year has the Church tamely surrendered her
privileges; every year the usurpations of the State have increased;
laymen are become dictators in spiritual affairs, and the parishes of
England and the poor of England are handed over to the tender mer
cies of a Board of Guardians. Every Session of Parliament has brought
forth some measure of deprivation, some interference with matters
ecclesiastical; and now, when one of the prelates of the Church—a man
of true piety, extraordinary attainments, and powerful eloquence—has
�86
THE OFFERTORY.
boldly come forward, and firmly discharged the duties of his responsible
office, the cry is loud for further state interference, for new restrictions
to be placed on the authority of the Church. Parish meetings are con
vened, and remonstrance soon merges into insult; the Press sends forth
“ slashing articles,” and “ Evangelical ” clergymen endeavour to prove
that the ordinances and ceremonies of their own church are Papistical I
If we ask the cause of this commotion, the reason of all this clamour,
tve are answered—“ a Bishop has decreed that the Surplice shall be
worn during the sermon, and has advised a weekly Offertory ! ” And
this it is which is frighting our fair isle from its propriety—a surplice,
and a weekly offering for the poor ! Surely we are mistaken. When
the poor were to be imprisoned in Bastilles, because they were poor—
when husband and wife were to be separated—when profligacy was to
be sanctioned by law—when every sacred feeling of human nature was
about to be strangely violated, where were then these parish meetings ?
where the warnings of these “Evangelical ” priests ? These men were
mute then ; they were not affected by the proposed change, and they
observed a profound silence; they were told that the poor could be
“ provided for ” at a much more economical rate in the Union House
than if out-door relief were permitted, and they never thought of
enquiring whether their comfort would also be “provided for ” in these
dreary-looking abodes. They s^w them driven in by troops—the grey
hawed old man, -with one foot already in the grave, the bedridden widow,
the fatherless, and the orphan;—they see now mothers, with sucking
children in their arms, condemned to break stones ; they hear the ver
dicts of juries, which tell of what is next of kin to murder in these dread
prisons, and they are still mute. These things concern them not; but
if a Surplice is to be worn, a Rubric to be obeyed, or an Offertory
advised, if a clergyman uses a crucifix in his private devotions, or calls
the Mother of our Saviour “ blessed,” then -will the wrath of a Bickersteth and the eloquence of a Noel be poured forth in all the blind
fervour of Protestant bigotry; then will shop-keeping citizens hold
parish meetings, and talk loud and long about a church they care not
for, and a religion they are too worldly-minded to understand. Let the
truth be told, these men do not like to give when the giver is not
chronicled.
It is but too true, “ we are a nation of humbugs.” Men will dis-
�WANDERINGS OF A FAY.
87
Bro^and. wrangle on points of discipline—on matters of comparative
insignificance—who care not for the essentials of religion, neglect its
most sacred ordinances, and speak lightly of its holiest laws. They
cannot serve God and Mammon, and we fear worldly wisdom will guide
their election.
*#* Since writing the above a correspondent at Tavistock has kindly favoured us
with a. private report of the meeting held in that town to oppose the injunctions of
the Bishop of Exeter, and which was presided over by the Vicar’s Churchwarden !
Tavistock is the very hot-bed of Dissent, and we are not much surprised at anything
emanating therefrom. We could a tale unfold on matters relevant to this subject, i^
we were so disposed, but for the present forbear. The resolutions are certainly a
Very odd composition—very “ forcible-feeble,” and more remarkable for the auda
city than the accuracy of their statements ; they are a jumble of incongruous words
signifying nothing. We trust the Rev. Vicar will follow, as he is bound to do, the
advice of his Diocesan; and, from a knowledge of his character, we cannot for a
moment believe that he is a consenting party to these high sounding resolutions, or
that he will sanction the proceedings of his subordinate officer, the Churchwarden.
If he does we will thank our correspondent to inform us of the fact, and he will find
that we are not afraid to speak a few “home truths” in this, and in every other
instance. When a venerable prelate of the Church is thus virulently and indecently
assailed, it is time for the true friends of the Church to speak out firmly and fear
lessly ; to rally round the intrepid man, who, in an age of infidelity, has dared to
assert the high and holy principles of a Catholic religion; and we assure our cor
respondent that we only refrain from a more searching analyzation of this particular
instance of opposition in the hope that the Clergy of Tavistock, and more especially
the respected Vicar, will disclaim all connection with the 'faction in which it has
originated, and yield a cheerful and ready obedience to their Bishop.
WANDERINGS OE A EAY.
FOR THE WEST OF ENGLAND MISCELLANY.
A Spirit of etherial birth
Once sojourn’d for a while on earth,
For to the buoyant child of air
Our fallen world look’d passing fair,
And he would rove or pause at will
Amid our scenes of good and ill.
Morn rose in beauty o’er the sea,
The flow’rs sprang sweetly on the lea;
The little birds pour’d through the grove
Their matin song of joy and love,
And in the bright and glowing sky
There shone to many a mortal eye
A sunbeam, of such glorious hue
Heav’n almost open’d to the view,
�88
WANDERINGS OF A FAY.
And on that sunbeam’s path of light
The spirit took his earthward flight,
And soon his graceful tiny feet
Stood in the city’s crowded street.
Invisible to human eye,
He scann’d the various passers by;
The merchants, with their purse-proud looks,
The student, pale with conning books;
The lawyer’s clerk, with well fill’d bags,
The mendicant in tatter’d rags;
The playful children’s unspent glee,
The itinerant’s measur’d minstrelsy ;
And moving on, with looks profound,
The “ man of letters ” took his round.
Now, thought the Spirit, “ I would know
Some of the news of weal and woe.”—
One movement of his rapid wings,
And through a window swift he springs !
The parlour wore a pleasant air,
For childhood’s cheerful looks were there;
But in the mother’s earnest eye
There shone a deep anxiety.
Their father should by yesterday
Have reach’d his home; why this delay ?
Now this strange missive too is brought,
Oh! with what tidings is it fraught I
With trembling hand and throbbing heart
She tears its many folds asunder;—
What mean that sudden shriek and start ?
The little ones are mute with wonder;
Silenc’d at once their infant play,
They rush to give the fond caress,—■
God! in thy sov’reign mercy stay
The widow and the fatherless.
Oh! the strong wrench to loving hearts
When Death, with rod of iron, parts
Affections warm, and true, and deep,—
Why doth not yon poor mourner weep ?
Thought, sense, and almost life, are crush’d
Beneath that grasp of agony;
Although her unseen guest hath brush’d
The dew-drop from his radiant eye,
She cannot, may not, find relief
In tears from her o’ermast’ring grief.
Ah! Spirit, all her depths of woe
Your gentle heart can never know,
�ODE.
89
For Death’s dark sceptre hath no power
In your bright realm of song and flow’r :
Not yours to feel his mighty sway,
Nor mourn a brother pass’d away.
Yet_ did he kindly grieve to see
The woes of poor humanity,
And ere again he soar’d in air
He paus’d, and left a blessing there—
A blessing that would firmly last
When their first wild despair was past.
FLORENCE.
(To be continued.
ODE XI.—BOOK XI.—(Horace.)
Cease, Quinctius, cease to rack thy brain
With thoughts of Scythia or of Spain;
For powerless are their plans I ween
Since the wide ocean rolls between.
Be not so restless to pursue
The goods of life, its wants are few.
Light youth with airy foot flies fast,
And soon is love and beauty past •
Whilst my old age, with snowy head,
Drives sleep and joy from pleasure’s bed.
The flower that blossoms now so fair
Soon, soon will be no longer there;
And time will change the bright moon’s ray,
And mingle in its light decay.
Why then fatigue thy mortal soul
With plans above its small control ?
Oh! rather stretched beneath the shade
Of some tall tree, or cooling glade,
Our locks bedewed with sweet pomade,
There let us stoop to pleasure’s shrine,
And drown our cares in rosy wine •
For Evius is a God who can
Chase weary thoughts from weary man.
—Quick, quick, boy, bring the crystal wave
To cool the juice Falernum gave.
Let our new Doctors in “Divinity,” in our new “Sanctuaries of Thought,”
become Doctors in Enquiry also, and thereby place in their proper places, those
Siamese twin, Religion and Morality (at whose shrines we shall then worship), upon
their high pedestals—upon their natural and most proper bases.
�Recollections of the Emperor Napoleon. By Mrs. Arelt,
(late Miss Balcombe). John Murray, London.
This is a very interesting book. With all the fascination of romance,
it bears in every page the impress of truth. Mrs. Abell writes with the
elegance and the simplicity of a woman, and with a woman’s honourable
candour and high sentiment. She has done an act of justice to the
memory of Napoleon.
Our space will not admit of more than one or two extracts. The
father of our authoress resided at St. Helena, in a cottage called the
Briars, which is very prettily described in the introductory chapter, and
which was the abode of Napoleon during the first three months of his
imprisonment on the island. His first visit is thus related :—
“ How vividly I recollect my feelings of dread, mingled with admiration, as I
now first looked upon him whom I had learned to fear so much, His appearance on
horseback was noble and imposing. The animal he rode was a superb one; his
colour jet black; and as he proudly stepped up the avenue, arching his neck and
champing his bit, I thought he looked worthy to be the bearer of him who was once
the ruler of nearly the whole European world. Napoleon’s position on horseback,
by adding height to his figure, supplied all that was wanting to make me think him
the most majestic person I had ever seen. His dress was green, and covered with
orders, and his saddle and housings were of crimson velvet, embroidered with gold.
He alighted at our house, and we all moved to the entrance to receive him. Sir
George Cockburn introduced us to him. On a nearer approach Napoleon, contrast
ing, as his short figure did, with the noble height and aristocratic bearing of Sir
George Cockburn, lost something of the dignity which had so much struck me on
first seeing him. He was deadly pale, and I thought his features, though cold and
immoveable, and somewhat stern, were exceedingly beautiful. He seated himself
on one of our cottage chairs, and after scanning our little apartment with his eagle
glance, he complimented Mamma on the pretty situation of the Briars. When once
he began to speak his fascinating smile and kind manner removed every vestige of
the fear with which I had hitherto regarded him. While he was talking to Mamma
I had an opportunity of scrutinizing his features, which I did with the keenest inte
rest, and certainly I had never seen any one with so remarkable and striking a phy
siognomy. The portraits of him -give a good general idea of his features; but his
smile, and the expression of his eye, could not be transmitted to canvass; and these
constituted Napoleon’s chief charm. His hair was dark brown, and as fine and silky
as a child’s—rather too much so, indeed, for a man, as its very softness caused it to
look thin. His teeth were even, but rather dark, and I afterwards found that this
arose from his constant habit of eating liquorice, of which he always kept a supply
�REVIEWS.
91
ill his Waistcoat pocket. The Emperor appeared much pleased with the Briars, and
expressed a wish to remain there. My father had offered Sir George Cockburn
apartments at the cottage, and he immediately assured us of his willingness to resign
them to General Buonaparte, as the situation appeared to please him so much; and
it was arranged, much apparently to Napoleon’s satisfaction, that he should be our
guest until his residence at Longwood was fit to receive him. *
*
* Some
chairs were brought out at his request upon the lawn, and seating himself on one, he
desired me to take another, which I did with a beating heart. He then said, ‘You
speak French ? ’ I replied that I did, and he asked me w’ho had taught me. I
informed him, and he put several questions to me about my studies, and more par
ticularly concerning geography. He inquired the capitals of the different countries
of Europe. ‘What is the capital of France? ‘Paris.’ ‘Of Italy?’ ‘Rome.’
Of Russia?’ ‘Petersburg now,’ I replied; ‘Moscow formerly.’ On my saying
this, he turned abruptly round, and fixing his piercing eyes full in my face, he
demanded sternly ‘ Qui l’a brule ? ’ When I saw the expression of his eye, and
heard his changed voice, all my former terror of him returned, and I was unable to
utter a syllable. I had often heard the burning of Moscow talked of, and had been
present at discussions as to whether the French or Russians were the authors of that
dreadful conflagration. I therefore feared to offend him by alluding to it. He
repeated the question, and I stammered, ‘I do not know, sir,’ ‘ Oui, oui,’ he
replied, laughing violently; ‘ Vous savez ties bien, c’est moi qui l’a brule.’ On
seeing him laugh, I gained a little courage, and said, ‘ I believe, sir, the Russians
burnt it to get rid of the French.’ He again laughed, and seemed pleased to find I
knew anything about the matter.”
Many of the anecdotes are very amusing, and well told :—
“ One evening he strolled out, accompanied by General Gourgaud, my sister, and
myself, into a meadow in which some cows were grazing. One of these, the moment
she saw our party, put her head down, and (I believe) her tail up, and advanced
a pas de charge against the Emperor. He.made a skilful and rapid retreat, and
leaping nimbly over a wall, placed this rampart between himself and the enemy.
But General Gourgaud valiantly stood his ground, and, drawing his sword, threw
himself between his sovereign and the cow, exclaiming, ‘ This is the second time I
have saved the Emperor’s life. Napoleon laughed heartily when he heard the
General’s boast, and said, ‘ He ought to have put himself in the position to repel
cavalry.’ I told him the cow appeared tranquillized, and stopped the moment he
disappeared, and he continued to laugh, and said, ‘ She wished to save the English
government the expense and trouble of keeping him.’ ”
The nineteenth chapter is, perhaps, the most seriously interesting of
any in the book, as it contains Napoleon’s explanation (in his own
words) of the charges so repeatedly and so virulently urged against him
respecting the Turkish prisoners, the sick in the hospitals at Jaffa, and
the death of the Duke D’Enghien. We have not space to give the
whole, and an extract cannot be fairly made; but we urge all who have
perused the accusation also to read the defence. We advise them to
consider well the position of Napoleon ere they adopt the sentiments of
�92
REVIEWS.
partial historians, or lend an ear to interested misrepresentation. It
should be remembered, too, that the execution of the chivalrous and
daring Ney, and the incarceration of Napoleon himself on the barren
rock of St. Helena, can alone be justified—if justified at all—on those
very motives of State policy which must also excuse the acts that are by
some so loudly condemned. Happily, however, the reign of prejudice
and bigotry is nearly over—the light of truth is fast shining through the
mists of gloomy ignorance, and the mighty dead—the aspersed and
insulted in life—are beginning to claim a meet and becoming reverence.
The sins of a Napoleon, the errors of a Byron, and the failings of a Can
ning, oh ! how have they been magnified! How greedily have little
minds rejoiced over their frailties, and misconstrued their noble actions!
But posterity—impartial and unbiassed—will vindicate their claims to
an enduring fame—to a full page in the chronicles of the past.
ANTI-CONINGSBY ;
AN
OR THE NEW GENERATION GROWN OLD.
Embryo M.P.
BY
T. C, Newby, Mortimer Street, London.
This work cannot be correctly called a novel, for it will not bear a
moment's comparison with even the most trashy production of that
class; it cannot be justly termed a satire, for it is utterly devoid of wit,
and despicably pointless ; and, in truth, we know not how to designate
a book which consists of that description of flippant slang which an
omnibus cad would hesitate to utter if he had any lady passengers ; of
doggrel rhymes, which, if written by a schoolboy on the lowest form,
would ensure an immediate acquaintance with the rod; and of stale
vulgar jokes which the mountebank at a country fair would not risk his
reputation by perpetrating. It deserves to be, and we believe, spite of
a very fair puffing, has been, generally damned.
“ An Embryo M. P.” may be an acquisition to certain Sunday news
papers (if such is not already his occupation), but in the higher and
more respectable walks of literature he will not be tolerated.
There is a time in human suffering when succeeding sorrows are but like snow
falling on an iceberg.—Fzvjan Grey.
The presence of a beautiful woman, natural and good tempered, even if she be not
a L’Espinasse or a de Stael, is animating.—Coningsby.
�CORRESPONDENCE.
RAILWAY EXTENSION.
To the Editor of the West of England Miscellany.
Sir,—As I believe you set out with the profession of giving admission to corres
pondence on both sides of a question, I trust you will do me the fairness of inserting
a few remarks in reply to the article of “ Clericus,” in your first number, on
“ Railways in Agricultural Districts,” on which, it appears to me, he has taken a
very distorted and morbid view of the case.
According to “ Clericus,” the rage for railway extensioh is fraught with impending
mischief and injury to the labouring population, and the introduction of railways
through agricultural districts a wholesale inroad on the comforts and enjoyments of
the peasantry ■ likely to reduce them to the most abject poverty, by reducing their
wages, and depriving them of labour; and, besides all this, to corrupt the simplicity
of their manners ! Whence has he his statistics or data for such a conclusion ? or
the least shadow of a fact to support it ? Having started his objection, he proceeds
to argue from it from such irrelevant and far-fetched matter as “ cheap merchandize,”
“ shop windows,” “ increase of manufactures,” &c., which have about as much to
do with the question, in the abstract, as the prize oxen and sheep at a cattle show.
If it were a fact that the condition of the peasantry before railroads invaded their
parishes was such as to place them, by a fair remuneration for their labour, above
want, there would be some degree of plausibility in the fears and objections of
“ Clericus;” but as it is notorious that long before railways were generally intro
duced the wages of the peasantry were brought down to the very lowest pitch above
the starving point, the argument against their impoverishing tendency comes much
too late, and is as ill founded as fact can make it. And as to railways spoiling the
manners of the labourers, it is difficult to conceive how the daily whizzing of a line
of carriages, bearing with astonishing rapidity thousands of passengers through vil
lages and hamlets, can have the effect of reducing their poor inhabitants to a lower
scale of demeanour, or of inspiring them with that evil influence which should con
vert them into a race of insolent misbehaved beings. On the other hand, I can
easily imagine that the wonders of science and art exhibited in the formation of a
railway, and the construction of steam carriages, brought before their eyes, may
excite even in the dull and subdued mind of a half-starved peasant, curiosity, admi
ration, and laudable enquiry; and thus lead him from the sordid prostration of his
faculties to thoughts and feelings more becoming his nature, and more consistent
with his destiny as a rational being.
But, to come to the pecuniary and commercial part of the matter, the truth is
that railways, so far from injuring the labouring classes, have been and are the
means of doing them immense benefit, by draining off the superabundant labour of
the rural districts. Thousands have been, and are, employed in the formation and
maintenance of railways who would otherwise have remained idle burdens to the
parish, and would, therefore, have increased the pressure upon those employed by
cheapening their labour ; and were “ Clericus ” a landowner, or a farmer, I should
say, m reference to his jeremiad over railways, liinc illoe lachrymal; for I believe
the real secret at the bottom of many an opposition to such undertakings to be a fear
�94
CORRESPONDENCE.
that by thus giving employment to the surplus labouring population the effect will
be an increase in the wages of the agricultural labourers. If, as “ Clericus ” says,
“millions of capital are lavished ” on these speculations ; how is it employed ? Do
those who become shareholders advance their money to be buried in the earth,
or thrown into a river? Is it not expended for the most part in the execution of
works for which a vast quantity of well-remunerated labour is required ? This
capital, instead of being locked up as useless, is thereby circulated through a
thousand different channels, diffusing among vast numbers the means of subsistence.
But “ Clericus ” waxes eloquent, and overflows with pathos in favour of the
starving peasantry, on the assumption that railways, while they benefit the other
classes, tend to produce their starvation ! “ Before you enlighten them,” says he,
“ respecting low fares for travelling, for Heaven’s sake provide them with decent, if
not comfortable homes. Millions are lavished on the construction of railways,
whilst the poor are perishing for lack of bread.” And have railways deprived them
of comfortable homes and bread? Or would the bread and homes be less lacked
had there been no railways ? Can it be supposed that “ Clericus ” is so stolid as
seriously to believe that there is a necessary connexion, like cause and effect,
between railways and a peasantry without food ? Does it not appear by his own
showing that the very evil he affects to dread, from the proposed introduction of
railways in the agricultural districts, already exist to its most horrible climax ? Can
a road of iron, as the French call it, add to the hard heartedness which must have
long ago developed itself among the rural oppressors and taskmasters by whose
instrumentality the labouring population must have been ground to the dust, if the
description which “ Clericus ” gives of their condition be true ?
But supposing the case to be, for the sake of argument, that the labouring classes
derived no immediate benefit from railways, and had no interest whatever in their
extension; is that a sufficient reason they should be opposed if a large portion of
the community reap an advantage from them as a great public convenience ? If it
is, then the same argument applies to any other means of conveyance, and as much
to stage coaches as to railways; for the poor can no more afford to ride by the one
than by the other, and by the former scarcely at all. In fact, if the objection to
railways has any validity because only the trading and wealthy classes can avail
themselves of them, it is equally so against every other change or improvement for
national or social economy. “ Clericus ” might as well ask of what use to the poor
is the building of a new Royal Exchange, or new Houses of Parliament ?—why so
much money should be “lavished” on such expensive structures as the Bank of
England or the Custom House, the British Museum, the National Gallery, or any
other public institution, “ while the poor are perishing for lack of bread ? ” The
starving peasant, following his mode of reasoning, might exclaim against the printing
press as worse than useless, as far as he is concerned; and on seeing the monthly
parcel of books brought by railway conveyance to the doors of “ Clericus,” might ask
of what advantage to him was cheap literature and printing by steam, who cannot
read, and if he could, had not the means to procure food and clothing ? On seeing
one of Broadwood’s or Clementi’s modern piano-fortes about to be substituted for
one of the obsolete instruments in the parlour of “ Clericus,” for the use of one of
his daughters, might not the starving man complain that all this refinement and art
this increasing expense in elegant luxuries, only served to mock his misery by
making him still more sensitive to the contrast ? To carry on the logical principle
�GLEANINGS.
95
questron still further, even religion itself, in its outward forms and proprieties,
might be complained of as a pernicious grievance ! and the modern zeal for
efetzrc/i extension placed on the same footing as railway extension, or even a degree
lower ; for the latter is more the effect of public necessity than the other. Let us
suppose, then, that “ Clericus,” being tonched with the mania for church building,
as he represents others to be for railway construction, and that an ecclesiastical
fabric has recently reared its lofty spire in his own parish, bearing conspicuous tes
timony to the march of pious enterprise : then let us imagine one of his houseless,
breadless parishioners, covered with rags, surveying the newly-erected fabric, and
using the same strain of reasoning as “ Clericus ” employs with regard to railroads.
His soliloquy would be to this effect—“ Before you enlighten me respecting the
advantages of church accommodation, and the benefits of having to sit in a pew with
more elbow room, for Heaven’s sake (whom you pretend to worship and obey) put
me in a condition fit to appear in such an edifice, with a healthy frame, decent
clothing, and contented and cheerful mind; or, in the words of our clergyman,
‘ provide me with a decent, if not a comfortable home, where I may rest my weary
and emaciated limbs.’ I ask for bread, and you give me stones ; I crave for shelter
by night, and food by day, and you furnish me with a splendid temple, to which my
poverty and my bodily frailty prevent me from going, and which my grovelling and
degraded mind unfits me for appreciating.” Now I do not pretend to say that this
would be legitimate reasoning, or viewing the liberality displayed in church building
in the right light • but I maintain it is quite of a piece with the line of argument
“ Clericus ” has adopted in reference to railways; and if the one is fallacious, so
is the other.
There is one point involved in the objection of “ Clericus “’ which I need not
touch upon, because every one accustomed to travel by railway must bear witness
to its refutation. None but the wealthy and trading classes, according to his doc
trine, can avail themselves of such a mode of transporting themselves from place to
place ; for the poor can have no beneficial interest in the railways. I grant that
those of them whom he has described so graphically, as without homes or bread,
can have but little to do with them ; but if by the poor are meant in general those
who live by their weekly earnings—in other words, the working classes—nothing can
.be more contrary to the. fact, as witnessed every day in all parts of the kingdom.
A POOR MAN.
GLEANINGS.
Young England.—(From the speech of the Rev. W. R. Neivbolt, at the
Yeovil Agricultural Meeting.)—Party politics, thank God! are now fairly at a
discount; men’s mind’s are directed to higher, nobler views. There is, inffact, a
large and increasing body springing up in this country (designate them by what
name you will) totally independent of either of the great parties in the state, whose
claims to attention must and will be heard, inasmuch as they are influenced not by
selfish, but by Christian motives, and invariably act upon Christian principles—
whose sole aim and object it is to confer the greatest amount of good on the largest
number of persons, and whose anxious wish it is to break down that barrier of ex
clusiveness which has too long subsisted in this free country. To this end they
�96
GLEANINGS, ETC'.
seek the restoration of those festivals and customs which promoted, in olden time,
a reciprocation of kindly feeling and good offices between the different classes of
the community; and above all things are they anxious to provide for the comfort,
the independence—aye, and even for the relaxations and amusements of the poor.
Eton.—That delicious plain, studded with every creation of graceful culture?
hamlet, and hall, and grange; garden, and grove, and park; that castle-palace,
grey with glorious ages; those antique spires hoar with faith and wisdom, the
chapel and the college; that river winding through the shady meads; the sunny
glade and the solemn avenue ; the room in the Dame’s house where we first order
our own breakfast, and first feel we are free; the stirring multitude, the energetic
groups, the individual mind that leads, conquers, controls; the emulation and the
affection; the noble strife and the tender sentiment; the daring exploit and the
dashing scrape; the passion that pervades our life, and breathes in everything, from
the aspiring study to the inspiring sport—oh! what hereafter can spur the brain
and touch the heart like this; can give us a world so deeply and variously inte
resting ; a life so full of quick and bright excitement—passed in a scene so fair!—
Contn^s&y.
No Sabbath is observed by the Chinese, nor is it intimated in their divisions of
time (says W. B. Langdon). Sunday was originally the heathen festival of their
glorious Solar Deity.
LIST OF NEW BOOKS.
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, by Lord Byron, with 60 vignettes, 8vo., 21s.—The
Chimes by Charles Dickens, Esq., 8vo., 5s.—Literary Extracts, by John Poynder,
Esq., 2 vols., 8vo., 30s.—Strathern, by the Countess of Blessington.—My Adven
tures, by Col. Montgomery Maxwell, K,H., 2 vols., 8vo., 21s.—Nothing, in Rhyme
and Prose, by George Bolton, post 8vo., 7s. 6d.—The Fortunes of the Scattergood
Family, by Albert Smith, Esq., 3 vols., post 8vo.—Reynard the Fox, a renowned
Apologue of the Middle Age, by Samuel Naylor, large 8vo., 18s.—India and Lord
Ellenborough, 2s. 6d.
TO CORRESPONDENTS, &c.
We are obliged to “ A Subscriber ’’ (Chard) for the newspaper containing the article on
incendiarism, and for his commentary thereon. He is perfectly right, and we agree in
his remarks; but the paragraph is by this time forgotten by the few who ever read it,
and we must decline giving it a notoriety which its own merit was unable to command.
We do not know the writer, but we would advise him to beware how he slanders the
Peasantry, or his waspish words may only serve as lucifer matches. Treat the labourer
as a fellow man, and he will not seek to stifle despair in the alehouse, or in the frantic
madness of starvation grasp the fatal torch of the incendiary.
“ Observer ” is a little too severe in his amusing criticisms on the report of the Agri
cultural Meeting at Yeovil; the speech of the day (Mr. Newbolt’s) was crrrectly given,
we understand, and that covers a multitude of eccentricities in our eyes. Besides, we
are half inclined to agree that a dinner may be “ scientifically served up.”
We are happy to have it in our power to reply to the query of “ A Devon Solicitor,”
“ Why are my legal brethren so industrious in the agitation against the Bishop of Exe
ter ? ” The Times hos cast a doubt on the legality of the Offertory, and the eyes of an
attorney are never closed : they have cheated themselves into a belief that this division
in the Church must be settled in a Court of Law I
“ A Young Imdy,” who writes from Exeter on schoolmistresses opening tlieis pupils’
letters, will find, if she can procure our next number, that we sympathize with her hard
fate. The enclosure shall be returned to the address named; every communication we
receive is deemed confidential. We do not think all “ Establishments ” are alike ; but
to allude to this school so pointedly as requested would expose us to an action for libel.
“ Catholicus” is too late for the present number. Many other favours will be noticed
in our next.
All communications for the Editor are requested in future to be addressed to him at
Mr. Custard’s Library, Yeovil.
John and James Keene, Printers, Bath.
�
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The West of England Miscellany. Vol. 1, No. 3, January 1845
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■ THE EXAMINER:
A Monthly Review of Religious and Humane Questions,
and of Literature.
Vol. I. —FEBRUARY, 1871. —No. 3.
Article I.— Unitarian Leaders.
[These sketches were written while watching the pro
ceedings of the recent meeting of the Unitarian National
Conference. Though slight, and hastily set down, they
aim to be just. They refer in part to persons who were not
present in the meeting alluded to.]
REV. DR. BELLOWS
Is well known to the general public. In the Conference
he appeared as the President of the Council of Ten, which
is the executive committee of the organization! His report
in this capacity opened the work of the conference! In
several respects Dr. Bellows stands in a position almost
pontifical. His abundant energy, his large and broad
intelligence in ethical and religious matters, his usual cath
olicity of spirit, the exceptional warmth and vigor of his
fraternal sympathies, and his great gifts as a writer and
preacher, have justly entitled him to a position not accorded
to any other among the leaders of Unitarianism. It is at
the same time to be said, that a somewhat pontifical temper
is thought by many of Dr. Bellows’s brethren to detract
unhappily from his usefulness as unofficial primate of the
denomination, while his long-time habit of giving way to
LIBRARY
South Place Ethical Society
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Class .....................................
Congress, in the year 1871, by Edward C. Towne, in the OfT.ce of the
Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
I
�202
Unitarian Leaders.
extreme inspirations, now in the direction of unrestricted
liberty, and now as entirely in the opposite direction, gives
great uneasiness to the less eminent but more consistent
managers of denominational affairs. The more radical
repress with difficulty their dissatisfaction with the conces
sions which Dr. Bellows has made to extreme conservatism.
On the other hand, the more conservative entertain un
feigned disgust at the equal concessions which their primate
has made to radicalism. It cannot be denied by any, how
ever, that in the report made by Dr. Bellows he stood
between the two extreme which divide his brethren, and
*
even stood above them, both in the gentleness and firmness
of his entirely Christian spirit, and in his sincere effort to
state the common ground occupied by the widely separated
elements pf the caflamunion, that of faith in God, whether
through the Christ off God or the Spirit of God, Christian
union justly frecogjiized between all who believe in “the
God behind both Christ and Spirit.”
REV. E. E. HALE,
, The popular preacher and magazinist of Boston, represents
the onljheecognized denominational publication, “ Old and
New,” of which Mr. Hale is the editor. Five thousand
dollars was given by the American Unitarian Association
towards establishing “ Old and New,” and some benevolent
individuals gave the venerable “ Christian Examiner ”
thirty-five hundred dollars to “ go up higher,” and it went,
leaving the field.to Mr. Hale’s enterprise. In the opinion
of some of the more thoughtful and scholarly of the Unita
rian divines, Mr. Hale has not met just expectations.
Not a few—Rev, Dr. Hedge for example—deem “ Old and
New” of little off no account to any serious religious work,
its notes of really religious utterance are so few and feeble.
Some go so far as to energetically stigmatize the publica
tion as unpardonably superficial, a sugared mush of pleasant
words which can be liked once, can be endured a few times,
but cannot be accepted for a moment as the latest literary
�Unitarian Leaders.
203
legacy of Unitarianism to the American people. These
would gladly give a handsome sum to induce “ Old and
New ” to follow the “ Christian Examiner ” “ up higher.”
Even Dr. Bellows, in his calm, judicious report to the Con
ference, did not hesitate to mingle with kindly praise of his
beloved friend’s labors, an earnest intimation that Mr. Hale
had not yet done what he was supposed to be under a pledge
to do, and decided warning that further disappointment on
the part of the denomination would hardly be borne with
patience. It is but just to say for Mr. Hale, that he has
both consulted the market, which makes but a limited
demand for any other than cheap work in popular maga
zines, and his own genius, which is essentially genial rather
than thoughtfull and interested more in strewing pleasure
in the everyday path of common people, than in leading
the march of the saints and thinkers, or heading the fray
of zealous faith.
REV. CHARLES LOWE,
The popular secretary of the American Unitarian Associa
tion, is a remarkable illustration of modest powers used
with a wisdom hardly ever associated with a more striking
and more daring order of genius. Of delicate physical
constitution, of a peculiar sweetness of spirit and gentle
ness of manner, cautious in thought and unambitious in
action, he yet goes so directly to the point of every matter
with which he has to deal, and takes his stand so conscien
tiously and firmly, with such breadth of spirit and such
profound sympathy with all things lovely and of good
report, as to find himself recognized as one at least of the
pillars of the Gate Beautiful of the Urratarian communion,
if not in fact, in himself alone, the most exact contempo
rary expression of the Christian Liberty through which
Channing taught his disciples to seek entrance to the king
dom of God.
JWES FREEMAN CLARKE,
As he likes to be called, without his titles, was the Secretary
�204
Unitarian Leaders.
of the Association, now represented by Mr. Lowe, during
a p^iod ten years ago, when the seeds of present agitation
were being sown; and at that time no one could have more
nobly held up the Unitarian standard of spiritual freedom.
As an earnest friend of Theodore Parker, and a sufferer
from insisting upon Christian recognition of that great
heresiarch, before Unitarianism had begun to build his
monument,—when in fact it was still stoning him,—Mr.
Clarke earned a most honorable fame among the earliest
friends of the progress which has now become intensely
radical, and this he did not in any respect forfeit during
the period of his secretaryship in the American Unitarian
Association. It was, however, always the case that Mr.
Clarke belonged by his most cherished beliefs to orthodox
Unitarianism. Few of Theodore Parker’s critics have
appreciated his theology less than Mr. Clarke, or have
more positively questioned that radical reformer’s success
as a seeker for Christian truth. The recent eminence of
Mr. Clarke,—now Dr. Clarke,—as a preacher and denomi
national writer, has brought his theological conservatism
into particular prominence, and has given the impression
that age is cooling the more liberal sympathies of his
earlier career. It can be pretty confidently said, neverthe
less, that any wanderer from the stricter churches, or any
fugitive from the darker faiths of the modern world, who
may come to the Gate Beautiful alluded to above, will find
himself passing very close to the ever-warm heart of one
of the purest and noblest men now living, James Freeman
Clarke.
REV. F. H. HEDGE, D.D.,
Rarely presses to the front in any assemblage of liberal
Christians, though he should be recognized as the finest
thinker and ablest writer the denomination has had since
Mr. Emerson withdrew to an exclusively literary position.
Like Dr. Clarke, Dr. Hedge is in one direction conserva
tive—that of a strenuous demand for close connection with
the Christianity of the past; yet he is essentially a trans-
�Unitarian Leaders.
20.5
cendentalist by the greatness of his intellect, a calm seer
who looks out with clear eyes over the highest summits of
human thought, and views both discussions and conclusions
in the purest light of unclouded heavenly reason. Not
even Mr. Emerson has more deeply penetrated the mystic
secrets of divine reason, nor more happily separated in the
spectrum of his thought the elements of the uncreated light
which is to all religious minds the essence of revelation.
If any man now living is competent to report to the ear of
this generation the best echoes of eighteen Christian centu
ries, and in fact the utterances of the “still small voice” in
all ages and places of human faith, Dr. Hedge is entitled to
such rank.
REV. C. A. BARTOL, D.D.,
The successor of Dr. Lowell, in that watch-tower of spirit
ual edification, the pulpit of the West Church, Boston, is
one of the beloved and distinguished leaders of Unitarianism, in spite of his life-long determination to abstain from
all sectarian connection. He is a rare example of the spir
itual insight which makes a. successful preacher, the power
to look through forms to sympathies, and touch the deeper
chords of feeling, in the vibration of which the Christian
heart most readily recognizes the visitation of the divine
compassion. Had he so chosen, Dr. Bartol might have cul
tivated, with eminent success, the difficult field of theologi
cal speculation, and he does not, with all his simplicity and
gentleness, lack the robust qualities necessary to the high
controversy of religious opinion. It was his deliberate
choice to entirely devote himself to edification through
pulpit ministry and pastoral labor, and here he stands
second to none among his brethren.
REV. WM. H. FURNESS, D.D.,
Of Philadelphia, is in the same category as Dr. Bartol: he
1 is a Unitarian leader, without ever meddling with the con
duct of denominational affairs. The most genial of natures
is in him matured by thorough and varied culture in litera-
�206
Unitarian Leaders.
ture, art, and social graces, until he justly ranks among the
most charming masters of the interpretation and illustra
tion of Christian grace and truth. It has been the single
study of Dr. Furness, through all his active life, and by
many successive efforts, to reproduce the true likeness of
ideal humanity, as he reads it in the person of Christ. The
consummate art of the painter appears in every stroke of
his work, but, with most readers, it is less easy to be sure
of the historical fidelity of the picture. The latest, and
probably the final attempt of Dr. Furness to interpret the
person and career of Christ to the modern world, will be
found in a new book from his pen, bearing the simple title
“ Jesus,” which has just issued from the press of J. B.
Lippincott & Co.
REV. W. P. TILDEN,
Who conducted the opening service of the Conference, and
gave to that service a tone of profound faith in the broadest
communion,—through the presence of the indwelling
Father, in the children now, as in the Master eighteen cen
turies ago, “ God in us as in him,”—deservedly ranks with
the leaders of the denomination, for his single-hearted fer
vor of faith, and hope, and charity, and his zealous labors
for the promotion of practical Christianity. Originally a
New England ship-carpenter, his largeness of spiritual
nature and irrepressible enthusiasm for humanitarian and
religious work, pointed him out to Rev. Caleb Stetson, one
of the eminent Unitarian leaders of the last generation, as
peculiarly qualified for effective service in the liberal pulpit;
and this anticipation has been fully justified by all the
events of Mr. Tilden’s career. Without attempting to share
the special labors of Unitarian learning and thought, Mr.
Tilden, who is now among the elder men of the body, has
established a just claim to be considered one of the practi
cal apostles of the work and fellowship of Unitarianism.
And in the same category should be set that worthiest of
good men, and most excellent and earnest of fathers in the
church,
�Definitions from Carlyle.
207
REV. SAMUEL J. MAY,
"Whose long life has beautifully exemplified the power of
zealous goodness, and the charm which always attaches to
a character of which simplicity, sincerity, and the fervor of
unmixed kindness are the chief elements. Mr. May was
magna pars of the great anti-slavery conflict, and has lately
embodied in an interesting and valuable volume, his “ Rec
ollections” of that holy war. In ripe old age, he is as
fresh in fervor as if youth still kept the fountain of his life,
and almost promises to stay here indefinitely, unless the
powers up higher repeat in full, as they have in great part,
the experiment of the patriarch who walked with God, and
was not, for God took him.
Article II.—Definitions, from Carlyle, of Religion, of Pa
ganism, and of Christianity.
“ Religion. . m The thing a man does practically believe
(and this is often without asserting it even to himself, much
less to others); the thing a man does practically lay tc
heart, and know for certain, concerning his vital relations
to this mysterious Universe, and his duty and destiny
there.”
“ Recognition of the divineness of nature 1 sincere com
munion of man with the mysterious invisible Powers visi
bly seen at work in the world around him, . . is the essence
of all Pagan mythology, H. . sincerity the great character
istic of it, . . . looking into nature with open eye and soul:
most earnest, honest!childlike, and yet manlike; with a
great-hearted simplicity and depth and freshness, in a true,
loving, admiring, unfearing way. . . . Such recognition of
Nature one finds to be the chief element of Paganism : rec
ognition of man, and his moral Duty, comes to be the chief
element only in purer forms of religion ; . . here indeed is
a great distinction and epoch in Human Beliefs; a great
landmark in the religious development of Mankind. Man
�208
“ Jesus Christ an Inferior Man.”
first puts himself in relation with Nature and her Powers;
not till a later epoch does he discern that all Power is Moral,
that the grand point is the distinction for him of Good and
Evil, of Thou shalt and Thou shalt not.”
“ Pagan Religion is indeed an Allegory, a symbol of
what men felt and knew about the Universe; and all relig
ions are symbols of that, altering always as that alters.”
“ Christianism; faith in an Invisible, not as real only,
but as the only reality; Time, through every moment of it,
resting on Eternity; Pagan empire of Force displayed by a
nobler supremacy, that of Holiness.”
“ The germ of Christianity, . . is hero-worship, heartfelt
prostrate admiration, submission, burning, boundless, for a
noblest, godlike Form of Man, . . for the great man, with
his free force direct out of God’s own hand, as the indis
pensable saviour of his epoch . . Christianity is the highest
instance of Hero-Worship.”
Article III. — “Jesus Christ an Inferior Man.” — Inde
pendent.
The Independent of November 24 devoted its leading
editorial to the topic, Jesus Christ an Inferior Man. It
placarded this sentiment where it met the eyes of we know
not how many scores of thousands of persons. It rung
the changes upon it until it had repeated the epithet of
contempt twenty-one times, through a column and a half
of feeble rhetoric or feebler snuffle. Appealing to pi pus
fiction, to sacred myth, to goody incident, and goodish
anecdote, and to various historical characters, reputable
and disreputable, it frantically cried shame on the shame
less Examiner for calling Jesus “an inferior man.” The
old pagan, Constantine, and “another emperor, immortal
for infamy,” with that modern master of selfishness, whose
imperial line reached the finale of its infamy at Sedan the
other day, it grouped effectively round Dr. Kane, while the
latter planted a toy cross on “ the northernmost iceberg of
�‘‘ Jesus Christ gin Inferior Man.”
209
the frozen sea,” a “ beautiful, dreary, and perilous cere
mony,” which we, forsooth, could not look on with even
“ a faint pulse of sympathy,” because of our “little criti
cism ” about the “ inferior man 1 ”
This representation of what we were said to have said
about the popular man-image of God has gone the rounds
of the religious press, in editorials and paragraphs, and
probably reached an audience a hundred times as large as
we could reach, or even a thousand times as large, and with
an effect towards breaking down faith in the Christian idol
very much greater than The Examiner, by any circulation
whatever, could have produced. The Independent conspicu
ously posted the intelligence that Jesus Christ had been
thrust ignominiously out of Christianity, had been tumbled
like a heathen idol out of the temple of religion, by a man
who professes Christian faith ! It was very stupid if it
supposed that such an announcement could fail to have a
most disastrous effect upon common faith in Jesus as a
supposed express image of God. For it is not calm argu
ment, nor labored appeal, which have most effect on the
average mind, but sharp, strong assertion, pithy catchwords,
keen epithets,—-just like this which the Independent has
placarded, Jesus Christ an inferior man. Bold to rudeness
or profanity though it be, it is all the more a blow the force
of which cannot be parried. In passing it round, the reli
gious weeklies offer themselves to their enemy as the ass’s
colt offered his back to the Lord Christ.
It is particularly interesting to an iconoclast to see his
work done for him, when the echo of his own word is the
only clear, strong point of the utterance. What do we
care for Kane on an iceberg, or Napoleon arrogantly pre
tending that he knew men, or Constantine guessing or
feigning he saw a cross in the sky, or t’other heathen, con
fessedly “ immortal for infamy,” who, perhaps, did finally
tremble before the “ Galilean,” as many a. wretch certainly
has? Theology is not the science of accidental confessions
of great scamps. Napoleon “knew men,” did he? Knew
�210
“Jesus Christ an Inferior Man.”
the divine side of man, did he? Was just the man to say,
“ I know men, and Jesus Christ was not a man?” Why
not consult the present Napoleon, and get his certificate
that Jesus was not a man ? These “ immortal-for-infamy ”
fellows have such an eye for deity, and can give such sure,
testimony to the godhead of a young Jew of eighteen
centuries since 1 It is really touching, isn’t it, to find how
handsomely they make out their useful certificates that
Jesus was not a man at alf and of course was not“ an inferior
man.”
But here we must say that the words placarded by the
Independent, in the article to which we have alluded, were
never used by The Examiner, nor any words like them.
The expression was copied by the Independent from a con
temptuous sentence of D. A. Wasson, whom we had asked
tor evidence of the “ imperial” greatness of Jesus, and who
eked out the meagreness and feebleness of his reply by sar
casm and sneers, intended to confute us by bringing us into
contempt. He professed to find in what we had said, the
theory that ‘‘Jesus was an inferior man, whom Providence
selected for the express purpose of showing what might be
made of an inferior man,” although in fact we said that
u the child of Joseph and Mary fairly obtained, and must
always hold among men on earth, one of the greatest prov
idential places of human history.” If we also said that his
life was “ simple and humble,” and that he was “ without
any particular greatness of intellect or character,” we said
this in the course of a protest against Mr. Abbot’s attempt
to stand outside a definite relation to him ” as “ the stand
ard bearer of a great movement of mankind.” The words
which Mr. Wasson used were worse than contemptuous,
therefore; they told one of those half truths which are
worse than downright falsehoods. We had not intended to
say this, and should not have done so had not the Indepen
dent given so wide a circulation to Mr. Wasson’s gibe. To
the Independent we beg to say, Beware of second-hand learn
ing, for, from the day that there began to be stories afloat
�Mr. Wasson’s “Medicines.”
211
about the young rabbi of Nazareth, to this present time,
second-hand knowledge has made the current Christianity
a fabric more of fiction than of fact. For instance, Jesus
was not the original author of anything contained in the
Sermon on the Mount. As a distinguished Hebraist of our
time has said, that discourse was perfectly familiar in the
streets of Jerusalem before it was delivered by Jesus; and
both the truths of it and its spirit may be referred to the
truly great Hillel much more justly than to the young
master who was but a pupil and a child, when a rash ambi
tion cost him his life.
Article IV.—Mr. Wasson’s “ Medicines” or IIow to “ See
Jesus.”
In one of the shorter articles of our first issue, we said
that “ it would give us great pleasure to seethe evidence on
which Mr. Wasson pronounces Jesus ‘ an imperial soul,’
and the historical ground for his assumption that the young
Nazarene enthusiast expected ‘ a reign of morals pure and
simple,’ not the reign of an individual, nor of a nation. ”
Mr. Wasson has made a reply to this demand, in the
Liberal Christian. In this reply he first alleges, That we
are in the condition of De Quincey, when he pronounced
Socrates and Plato a pair of charlatans, “ betraying the
extent to which his judgments might be dictated by his
humors,” and presenting a case of “ disease, to be contro
verted with medicines; not with logic and testimony. ”
But what medicines will suffice to prove that Jesus is “ an
imperial soul ?” Is it by calomel or ipecac, by vomit or by
purge, that we may arrive at Mr. Wasson’s view? It is
truly very unkind in our friend to refer us to promiscuous
drugs. We might retire on a dose of blue pill for example,
and wake up Calvinist, as fierce as Fulton, who glories in
having “preached hell in Boston ” to so much purpose ; or’
having distressed our stomach with an emetic, we might
bring ourselves to a condition requiring the small beer and
�212
Mr. Wasson’s “ Medicines ’’
water-gruel Christology of brother Tilton. To proof num
ber one, therefore, alleged by Mr. Wasson, we beg to ask
the particular medicines he would recommend.
In the second place, Mr. Wasson, in reply to our demand
for proof of the “ imperial ” greatness of Jesus, alleges
this: “I see in Jesus an amazing elevation of soul; Mr.
Towne looks on the same picture, and beholds only a daub,
or, at best, a work of little merit. The question, accord
ingly, what Jesus was in character and quality of spirit, is
one which I cannot discuss with him.” Which is, in other
words, “I am right, evidence or no evidence.” Mr. Was
son says, we “ do not entertain the question, which of us
two sees more truly.” But that is exactly the question we
do entertain, and the settlement of which we hoped to
reach, by hearing Mr. Wasson’s evidence, and by contro
verting it with other and weightier proof. We asserted our
belief that Mr. Wasson depended more on imagination than
on historical proof, and here we convict him of it. lie
avows that Jesus is an amazing picture to him, and that we
do not see it as he does, simply because we have not the
eye for it. Very well, but Mr. Wasson’s eye is not histori
cal evidence. He glorified the first disciples, as “ large
popular imaginations,” expressly ascribing their recognition
of Jesus to the largeness and the popular quality of their
imagination. And now he confesses that it is all in his
eye. Medicines and imagination, then, are, so far, what
Mr. Wasson recommends to us, if we would “ see Jesus.”
But Mr. Wasson goes a step further. He names Nicolas
and Colani. He avows that he makes certain “ discrimina
tions,” and we look with care to see what they are. He
rejects the Fourth Gospel. So far, good. The Fourth
Gospel is a theological story, and a poor one at that, though
some of the finest things are preserved in it. Again, he
rejects “ the most extended and explicit of the Messianic
passages in the Synoptical Gospels,” “ upon the showing of
M. Colani.” If he means that he clears Jesus of the charge
of Messianic pretension in a Jewish sense, merely on the
�Or “ How io See Jesus.”
'
213
showing of Colani, he rests, as we feared he did, on the very
narrow basis of insufficient investigation. Not a tithe of
the weight of modern scholarship is on that side. The one
fact most surely proven in regard to Jesus is, that he under
took to be the king of the Jews, and lost his life in conse
quence. To cite. Colani as evidence of the contrary, is to
cite the opinion of a worthy preacher—not the indorsement
of a real scholar; much like quoting Dr. J. F. Clarke.
Mr. Wasson disposes of this point in five lines. He merely
states that Colani has satisfied him. But this is the key of
the controversy, the question whether Jesus entertained a
false Messianic ambition. If Colani has satisfied Mr. Was
son that he did not, either potent drugs or a “ large popular
imagination’'’ must have assisted the effect of Colani’s
superficial and unsatisfactory handling of the subject.
In/the third place, Mr. Wasson feels sure that oral tradi
tion, assuming that the Christ must have put forth claims,
ascribed to him pretension of which he was not guilty.
In fact, however, the evidence still existing, that Jesus put
forth these claims, cannot be set aside by this or any other
imagination of what may or must have been ; while, if Jesus
did undertake and failed, every motive to drop out of sight
the evidence of the abortive undertaking, must have worked
during the years through which the tradition was oral, thus
making it almost certain, that whatever evidence of this
has survived, is to be regarded as peculiarly significant and
weighty. So far, therefore, from throwing out the evidence
that Jesus was a pretender to Messiahship, we ought to
regard it as more strictly historical than anything else in
the record. It is by imagination here, also, not by sound
scholarship, that Mr. Wasson reaches his conclusion.
And, finally, Mr. Wasson thinks it certain, that Jesus
was greater than his immediate followers knew him to be,
and that we must assume, on the one hand, that the best
things reported were not lent him by the disciples, who had
nothing to give, and that other things not so good, were
due to their failure to comprehend. But the fact is, that
�214
Mr. Wasson's “ Medicines.”
the story of Jesus was worked over by oral report, after a
supposed resurrection was thought to have proved him to
have been the Messiah. “Large popular imaginations”
had charge of it, and made what they chose of it. And
the good things of the story (the ethical and spiritual
truths') were current, just as much before. Jesus and apart
from him, as they could be after him. Or if he brought
them together, he did not originate them. Hillel was as
much greater than Jesus as Channing than Chadwick, or
Theodore Parker than Mr. Morse. We intend to speak
exactly. And Hillel’s spirit was, as that of Jesus was not,
fully and invariably that of the best things in the Sermon
on the Mount. He gave to Christianity the Golden RuleHis school of teaching and influence was as much more
important than that of Jesus, as his years, and learning,
and character surpassed those of the young enthusiast
whose dreams interrupted the course of human progress,
from Judaism onward, with eighteen centuries of worship
of a man, and untold inhumanities wrought in the propaga
tion of his pretension. On the one hand then, the belief
that Jesus had been proved the Messiah, moved his disciples
to make the best story they could, and, on the other hand,
they could copy fine truths from current teaching, just as
easily as to repeat them from Jesus, who had but copied
them at the best, so that we are bound to assume, not that
Jesus lost in the story of him, but that he gained in it
immensely, so much so as to be more the creature of it)
than a fact of history. Thus, briefly, do we dispose of Mr.
Wasson’s “ discriminations,” on the basis of which he says
he has made up a critical judgment. We find every one of
these, except the first, unscholarly to a lamentable degree.
But if we had not done this, it would be easy to show
the vice of Mr. Wasson’s conclusion. Por he says that he
proceeds “ to make up a critical judgment,” by “ endeavor
ing first to catch the tune of his mind, his action and char
acter, by meditating upon those sayings of his, and those
incidents of his life which are of such a quality as to carry
�John Brown on the Scaffold.
215
their own credentials.” Imagination, again ! Sayings and
incidents which carry their own credentials ! The Qolden
Rule, for example, or other fine truths, proof of the charac
ter of Jesus, because they are so fine, when, to a certainty
Jesus did not originate either the terms or the tone of the
purest Christian teaching, and did originate the baleful
pretension of his own claim to divine position ! Mr. Was
son must try again. He has not given us a scrap of evi
dence that Jesus was eminently great, either in thought or
in principle. We do not wonder that he began with recom
mending drugs, and then offered the use of his eye, for cer
tainly his “ discriminations” are of no weight whatever, nor
is his “ critical judgment ” entitled to any authority. It
is very well to have read Nicolas, and what there is of
Colani may be looked at with profit, especially if one looks
and passes on, but neither Mr. Wasson nor any other advo
cate of an exploded superstition can afford to be contemptu
ous in a matter of scholarship, on so meagre a support.
We ask Mr. Wasson again for evidence, and hope he will
give us more on the main point than he does when he says,
“I am satisfied on the showing of M. Colani.”
Article V.—John Brown on the Scaffold and Jesus on the
Cross.
Before secession, civil war, and emancipation, had shown
the leader of the Harper’s Ferry enterprise to have been the
providential herald of the greatest overturning of modern
times, there were few persons who would not have been
shocked at the mere suggestion of comparing John Brown
with the most remarkable prophet-judges and prophet
chieftains of familiar Hebrew story. The most plausible
view at first was that he was a crack-brained fanatic, who
might even escape the penalty of his mad crime under the
plea of insanity. It soon became evident, however, that
this madness had more method and character than the
sanity of ordinary men] Two bitterly prejudiced witnesses
said of the hero of Harper’s Ferry :
�216
;
;
,
I
I
I
,
John Brown on the Scaffold
“It is vain to underrate either the man or the conspiracy.
Captain John Brown is as brave and resolute a man as ever
headed an insurrection, and, in a good cause, and with a
sufficient force, would have been a consummate partisan
commander. He has coolness, daring, persistency, the stoic
faith and patience, and a firmness of will and purpose unconquerable. He is the farthest possible remove from the
ordinary ruffian, fanatic, or madman. Certainly it was one
of the best planned and best executed conspiracies that ever
*
failed.
“ They are themselves mistaken who take him to be a
madman. He is a bundle of the best nerves I ever saw,
cut, and thrust, and bleeding, and in bonds. He is a man
of clear head, of courage, fortitude, and simple ingenuousness. He is cool, collected, and indomitable. . . . lie
inspired me with great trust in his integrity, as a man of
truth. . . . Colonel Washington says that he was the cool
est and firmest man he ever saw in defying danger and
death. With one son dead by his side, and another shot
through, he felt the pulse of his dying son with one hand
and held his rifle with the other, and commanded his men
with the utmost composure, encouraging them to be firm,
and to sell their lives as dearly as they could.”f
The opinion of the martyr himself upon the proposal to
put in the plea of insanity on his behalf was unequivocal
and indignant. In addressing the court before his trial he
said : “I look upon it (the plea in question) as a miserable
artifice and pretext of those who ought to take a different
course in regard to me, if they took any at all, and I view
it with contempt more than otherwise. ... I am perfectly
unconscious of insanity, and I reject, as far as I am capable,
any attempts to interfere on my behalf on that score.” To
this we may add the convincing allusion of one of his latest
letters : “I may be very insane, and I am so if insane at all.
But, if that be so, insanity is like a pleasant dream to me.
* C. L. Vallandigliam.
f Henry A. Wise.
�And Jesus on the Cross.
217
I am not in the least degree conscious of my ravings, of my
fears, or of any terrible visions whatever; but fancy my
self entirely composed ; and that my sleep, in particular, is as
sweet as that of a healthy, joyous little infant. I pray G od that
he will grant me a continuance of the same calm but de
lightful dream, until I come to know of those realities which
eyes have not seen, and ears have not heard.” Mary
Brown, who had always been the sharer of her husband’s
plans, said emphatically : “I couldn’t say, if I were called
upon, that my husband was insane—even to save his life;
because he wasn’t.] She declared that if her husband were
. insane he had been consistent in his insanity from the first
moment she knew him.
But more than all else the perfectly grand manifestation
of character, made to the whole world during John Brown’s
forty-two days before the gallows, settled the question of
his mental condition. The conversations, speeches in court
and letters from prison, of John Brown, convict him of any
thing but mental weakness. Beginning with the precious
• fragment of autobiography written for the young son of Mr.
George L. Stearns, the recorded utterances of this uncul
tured man of the people have a fine literary quality which
indicates remarkable purity of intellectual tone. Their
style alone speaks a man of clear head and pure taste. And
x their moral elevation is so complete, the sentiments which
they report are so good and so great, that we are forced to
confess ourselves in presence of a miracle of character.
There seems to us no doubt that John Brown, shepherd,
tanner, wool merchant,farmer, Kansas chieftain, provisional
constitution maker, and Harper’s Ferry commander, must
be classed with the greatest characters of history, because
of his remarkable union of clear vision, pure conscience,
and perfect courage,—the insight of a prophet, the most un
compromising love of right, and absolute intrepidity in
action. In amount of quality he stands with the very few
supreme men of the race, the founders for mankind of civil
ity and religion. And for combination of the grand types
VOL. I.—NO. 3.
2
�218
John Brown on the Scaffold
of character, is it too much to say that, as we see him in
his transfiguration before the scaffold, his figure is nobler
than that of any earlier hero of our race — the wisest,
purest, bravest of mankind ? Standing on this latest stage
of time, instructed, chastened and inspired by a situation
quite beyond any hitherto arranged in history, it was in the
order of Providence that the mount of this martyr should
plant the standard of our march above Calvary, as Calvary
planted it above Sinai. Not that we compare, in respect to
nature, the now deified Christ of Galilee and the’ just now
despised fanatic of Harper’s Ferry. They were equally
common men. We compare only the Jewish figure with
the American figure, the man on the cross with the man
on the scaffold, and say confidently that in John Brown on
his scaffold, Eternal God has lifted the standard of human
advancement higher than it was lifted in the Christ of Cal
vary. Or to put it in other words, and words justified by
that which Jesus himself said, the true Christ-Son of God,
Heaven-anointed soul, which was manifested in Jesus, and
was to be manifested in his humblest disciple, the least of
these his brethren, is manifested to-day in the American
martyr as it was not, and could not be manifested in the
Messiah.
The eindmce is close at hand. At this moment let it suf
fice to present one point of this, the point which is most
important and most conclusive. The world knows the
story of the trial of Jesus—not the trial before Pilate, but
the trial in his own soul. Theological ingenuity has been
exhausted in the attempt to explain this without damage to
the orthodox theory that Jesus was a person of the deity;
but in vain. Give Jesus no more benefit of ingenious
hypothesis and pious prepossession than we give Socrates,
Paul, Giordano Bruno, and John Brown, and we are com
pelled to say that either one had a courage which Jesus did
not possess. Estimate fairly the mental anguish of Savon
arola and of Edward Irving, who died unvisited by the super
natural intervention they had with absolute faith looked
�And Jesus on the Cross.
219
for, the one hung up in chains in the flames after forty-two
days of torture, the other wasted by distressing disease
through days and months of unanswered agonizing prayer,
and it cannot be denied that their trial was far heavier than
that of Jesus. It is idle to ascribe to the Jewish martyr a
superhuman sensibility to evil; for if superhuman at all, he
was superhuman in courage and endurance not less than in
sensibility. If he were not equal to perfect endurance, as
he plainly was not, we but make his weakness the greater
the more we lift him above humanity. The anguish of his
prayer and the wail of the cross, on the lips of a mere child
of Galilee, wrung from the heart of a peasant-Messiah, when
he had really looked for intervention by miracle which did
not come, can be readily explained, without denying the
spiritual elevation of Jesus. We say, then, that in forecast
ing events, and in meeting the turns of fate, he fell short of
the perfection possible to human nature. We recognize
that it was not his mission to do all the things which man
in his most heroic mood can perform, that he represents a
stage in the elevation of our race, by no means our final
attainment. And we confidently compare facts to show
that the American martyr was, in respect to courage under
the heavy blows of fate, superior to the man of Nazareth.
In the garden of Gethsemane we see Jesus “ in distress and
anguish,”—as Mark puts it, “ in great consternation and
anguish,”—and hear him say to his disciples, “ I am in ex
ceeding distress, ready to die.” The bare existence of this
fact is significant; the communication of it, especially to
disciples who could not help himkif they would, marks a
mind utterly shaken out of self-possession. And how con
clusive to the same effect is the prayer, thrice repeated, of
Jesus: He fell upon his face and prayed, saying, “My
Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me. But net
as I will, but as thou wilt.” A second time he prayed, sav
ing, “My Father, if this cup cannot pass from me, but I
must drink it, thy will be done.” Still again he prayed
a third time, saying the same words.
r
�220
John Brown on the Scaffold, Etc.
Setting aside the theory that Jesus was not what he
seemed to be, we have here a man engaged in an almost
desperate effort to meet his fate. The effort of submission
is sincere and grand; it lifts Jesus into the position of a
leader of mankind; considering especially his Jewish limi
tations, how naturally he had looked for supernatural inter
vention, how purely and nobly too he had desired this as
the true coming of God to man, and how really to his eyes
the power of healing the body, with inspiration which
enabled him to instruct and control the mind, had seemed to
him the beginning of miracle, we may'justly see in this
effort, so distinctly conceived and so resolutely attempted, a
manifestation of the very divinity of human nature; but it
is vain to deny that effort is a stage behind attainment. Not
only does the consternation of an experience like that of
Jesus argue a failure to foresee possible duty, but still more
the agonizing effort to accept the situation shows a decided
deficiency of heroic equipment. This deficiency, we repeat,
admits of an explanation, in the case of Jesus, whose em
inence was of purity more than of force, which does not
pluck him from his lofty position of anointed master of the
Christian ages. By the usage of his people Jesus had barely
come of age; he was contemplative rather than executive
in his temperament, more spiritual than practical, and al
most without other education than that of meditation and
prayer. He was in fact an inspired child of Nazareth; more
than that, he had the heart of a pure girl in the breast of a
Galilean peasant. Thus he naturally enough failed to meet
his fate with the serenity of prepared courage, but the ex
planation of the failure does not explain it away. He failed
conspicuously, and as conspicuously John Brown, bringing
back the great example of Socrates, did not fail.
�Theodore Parker’s Antagonism, Etc.
221
Article VI. — Theodore Parker’s Character and Ideas.
■ Chap. III.—His Antagonism with the Religious World.
We come now to the question of Theodore Parker’s
“ antagonism with the religious world.” The reviewer,
whose judgment our discussion starts from, regrets that Mr.
Parker was not “ thrown into intimate relations with Evan
gelical scholars,” and says “ it is singular how rarely he met
such, and how kindly he spoke of them, as of Professors
Stuart, Porter and Woolsey.”
That Theodore Parker found but three or four evangeli
cal scholars who gave him occasion to speak kindly of them,
is doubtless a singular fact, considering the fundamental
principles of Christian religion. Perhaps it is not so sin
gular a fact that Theodore Parker spoke kindly, very kindly,
of these exceptions to the rule. I wish the reviewer had
given a list of the evangelical scholars with whom Mr.
Parker might have had relations of intimate Christian broth
erhood. He mentions Stuart, Woolsey, and Porter, neither
of whom ever pretended to consider Parker a Christian
man and brother. The little intercourse which took place
between Theodore Parker and Stuart, Woolsey, Porter,and
the chief of the New Haven school of theology, Dr. Taylor,
was marked by a manly effort of good will on their part,
and by generous appreciation on his part; but it would be
a great mistake to suppose that these men, the best of their
class, ever felt at liberty to do justice to Theodore Parker.
Their honest principles forbade it. They could suppress, in
his presence, the unbrotherly severity of their judgment
upon him, but they could not offer him Christian brother
hood. And it was not merely that they assumed that he
did not want fellowship. If he had wanted it ever so much,—
and no man has borne the cross of lonely service with a
deeper sense of the value of brotherly fellowship,—they
must in conscience have dropped the mask of generous
courtesy, and shown him all the resolute hardness of their
hearts. Prof. Porter discussed Mr. Parker’s opinions with
�222
Theodore Parker’s Antagonism
charity, and reviewed him with kindness. But even he, so
exceptionally gentle and just, must have resisted, to the last
degree of bitterness even, any attempt to remove the limits
of communion, and make Christian fellowship broad enough
to include the great heretic. President Woolsey could not
fail to act the Christian gentleman in any intercourse with
such a man as Theodore Parker, for by nature and by cul
ture, he is very noble, but even he can feel and show con
tempt for unorthodox struggles in a sincere soul. As to
Dr. N. W. Taylor, who was at once the ablest divine and
the noblest gentleman of all that New Haven circle, I have
heard him tell of his interview with Parker, and how they
crossed broad-swords, and whose head came off. It was in
the spirit of Prof. Park, in the great Boston Council, wnen
he said, “ A man who has studied theology three years, and
has read the Bible in the original languages, and is not a
Calvinist, is not a respectable man.”
I know-what the orthodox spirit in the best men is capa
ble of attempting. I know how the conscience of a solitary
thinker, without help in men or books, may be set upon
and tormented by evangelical surroundings. I have had
said to me, “as a heathen man and a publican”—a hard word
for which there is supposed to be pretty good evangelical
authority. No doubt the souls in whom there is great out
break of new faith and radical thought do sometimes sin
grievously against the pure fitness of things in their demon
strations, but that is not all of their hard case; they not
only become obnoxious in that way, by their own fault, but
they almost invariably become criminals and outlaws, in
the view of the evangelical world, from the hardness and
bitterness of the evangelical spirit. Not only are they dealt
with very harshly for errors which are treated tenderly
where no heresy exists, but they are terribly punished for
that innocent and pure faith which is in them the profound
necessity of a sincere conscience.
It is plain to me that Theodore Parker’s critic does not
consider how infinite is the bitterness of the cup which
�With the Religious World.
K
223
evangelicalism, in all its common forms^ presses to the lips
of one who has stripped himself of precious dogmatic beliefs
to undertake a more daring, more heroic exercise of faith
in God and labor of love than the current Christianity per
mits. Therefore I beg to assure him, upon abundant expe
rience, that a man confessing heresy heartily, must have a
face of brass to presume on “ intimate relations with evan
gelical scholars,” except as a relic of very close youthful
friendship. And if he had the shining qualities of an arch
angel on earth, and withal bore his cross honestly in the
world, doing with his might the work given him to do, he
could not but seem, to evangelical scholars of strict convic
tion, of “ no form nor comeliness—no beauty that they
should desire him.” No worse men than President Wool
sey have thought the dungeon and the fagot needful in the
discipline of demonstrative departure from orthodoxy. The
spirit of the age has, indeed, reduced marvelously the tem
per of orthodox defence of the faith, but the time has hardly
come, certainly had not come in the day of Mr. Parker’s
encounter with the religious world, when liberality could
be consistently practiced by evangelical scholars.
It is, I trust, one result of the appearance of Mr. Parker,
to disclose to some of the wiser defenders of correct tradi
tional faith, the necessity of adjusting their position once
more, to conform more closely to the demand of the Chris
tian spirit. Possibly the day is not far off when the scholars
our critic wishes Mr. Parker might have met, will be
able to accept, within evangelical limits, absolute liberality.
That is to say, holding firmly to the evangelical doctrine of
redemption, its necessity, plan, and operation, they will
relax the severity of their dogmatic convictions upon minor
points, so far as to make character the ground of human
fellowship, and to leave to God alone, the searcher of hearts,
all judgment as to the amount and style of creed necessary
to start either a soul on the road to heaven, or a teacher of
Truth on the way of the knowledge of God. It is easy for
me to think of liberality thus carried to perfection, within
�224
Theodore Parker's Antagonism
evangelical limits. Let our vain decisions as to the times
and seasons of God’s grace and power, be wholly set aside.
Say, if we must, that God hath appointed this way and no
other, the literal gospel of Christ, but leave the administra
tion of this way to Him with whom a thousand years are as
one day.
There is no Biblical evidence to compel acceptance of the
dogma of limited probation. Insist on the possibility of
the worst with the evil and the disobedient, but with the
honest, earnest and faithful seeker for Truth and lover of
God, insist as strongly on the certainty of the best. Go
down to deep below deep, in the experience of true men,
until you find for them a saving tie to God’s administration
of true redemption, rather than suffer our human judgment
to pronounce that there is little or no hope for an honest
soul misguided by an erring intellect. The possibility of
final loss may be, indeed, urged, and the whole terror of
absolute peril brought to bear, to persuade to deeper hon
esty, more serious inquiry, and more humble crying unto
the spirit of Truth, b,ut let it be in love, in hope, in firm
faith, so that the Christian spirit may bind all in one, and
the Holy Spirit, if it may possibly be, bind all to that mercy
seat before which we are all one in absolute need.
It is possible for this to be. It only requires to believe,
as humanity and divinity, even within the strictest evangeli
cal limits, require, that for those who seek there is no closing
of the chances, no limit of opportunity, no inadequacy of
eternal divine providence. Grant that the path is beset
with perils; grant that the abyss of final loss may receive
us at the next step; but say this of all, because of sins
and unworthiness of a moral sort; never say it with a lim
itation to the case of “ that publican,” who is such only by
reason of intellectual error. I heard the New Haven Dr.
Taylor say, very near the close of his life, that he knew he
might fail of heaven. Let this be the form in wlfich we
doubt as to human chances of acceptance with God. Let
this humility penetrate and bind in one all who feel the
�'With the Religious World.
225
burden of moral evil. Then it will be easy to feel that the
grace which is extended to sinners, will not need to be fur
ther extended to embrace all who try to come unto the God
and Saviour of squIs, whatever may be the fault, or, as our
critic says, the “vice” of their conception and confession
of the things of God.
It would be a noble enterprise if eminent evangelical
scholars would unite in, we will say, an Academy of Chris
tian Studies, the aim and use of which should be to vindi
cate the principle of liberality, to throw the shield of Chris
tian charity and Christian encouragement over all honest
and capable pursuits of divine Truth. In two ways espe
cially would this improve exceedingly the position of the
evangelical school. It would provide Christian discipline
for radicalism; and it would show to the world that evan
gelical faith is not afraid of inquiry. Radicalism is forced
to exaggerate the individualism of its method, because the
hand of every man is against it. Give it a place, its due
place, in the school of Christian studies, and at once its
temper must become more moderate, and its demonstra
tions less dangerous to the order of the religious world.
Had Mr. Parker been treated in this way from the begin
ning, there is every reason to believe that his mind would
have acted, upon questions of dogma, with none of that vol
canic energy which made him seem to the evangelical world
a tremendous engine of destruction! And instead of
becoming the leader and hero, not only of elect believers in
whom the spirit and the life had wrought profound convic
tion, but of the throng of deniers in whom serious convic
tion was less developed, he would have stood forth the
exponent of the modern tendency of the Christian faith.
I anticipate the reply to this, that at his best Mr. Parker
would have been an enemy. But I think the assumption of
this reply a mistake. Grant that the best of Mr? Parker’s
belief was erroneous. I go back of his dogmatic convic
tions, then, to his moral and spiritual tendencies, and un
hesitatingly affirm the necessity of accepting these as suffi
�226
Theodore Parker’s Antagonism, Etc.
cient, under the ample providence of the power and grace
of God, for cordial Christian fellowship. Let Professor
Park and President Woolsey have said to Mr. Parker,
“ Brother, we differ with you entirely in doctrinal method
and convictions, but in allegiance to the law of love and to
the spirit of Truth and of Holiness we agree; the soul, and
the soul’s union with God in moral loyalty and spiritual
yearning and devotion, are the foundation,—the Christian
foundation ; in that we meet, alike putting on the new man;
now let us reason together, and labor in one spirit of love
to God and love to man, with good hope in the eternal
providence of God with us, until we all come in the unity
of the faith unto a perfect man,”—let this have been said,
and realized in the attitude of the evangelical school, and
the modern world would have lost its great heresiarch, the
Christian world, so-called, would have gained a great apos
tle of natural religion.
Mr. Parker’s great work in Boston, and in America, had
never been undertaken if even his own sect, the Unitarian,
had had the liberality it ought to have had. In his letter to
his first parish, upon leaving them for Boston, to which he
was called solely to vindicate freedom of religious teaching,
Mr. Parker said:
“ If my brethren of the Christian ministry had stood by
me, nay, if they had not themselves refused the usual min
isterial fellowship with me, then I should have been spared
this painful separation, and my life might have flowed on
in the channel we have both wished for it.”—Life, vol. I,
p. 26L
In a letter to Rev. Mr. Niles, written the year before his
removal to Boston, Mr. Parker states what no one can rea
sonably doubt, that he had no choice but to accept individ
ualism or abdicate his own manhood. He says:
“I must of course have committed errors in reasoning
and in conclusion. I hoped once that philosophical men
would point out both; then I would confess my mistake
and start anew. But they have only raised a storm about
my head; and in a general way a man wraps his cloak
�A Letter of Theodore Parker.
227
about him in a storm and holds on the tighter.”—Life, vol.
Z, p. JfhO.
Now I ask, is it not evident that a divine design, work
ing through the robust nature of this Socratic Samson of
truth and righteousness, wrought deliberately and wisely
the rough antagonism of Theodore Parker to the popular
churches, in order to convict them, one and all, of want of
the Christian spirit, and to utter, in tones that should ring
round the world, the demand of that spirit, in this new
time, for a liberality in religion adequate to sustain, with
all honest believers and teachers, a true Christian fellow
ship ? Theodore Parker, nailing the new theses of human
ity on the doors of recognized Christian communion,
though he made the very walls of the temple tremble to their
foundation, was no lawless destructive, no mad troubler
of communion, but the providential sign of a new reforma
tion in Christendom, the Luther of emancipated faith, the
angel of a new resurrection of that holy spirit which was
the truth in .Tesus, and has been the truth in the Christian
ages, and shall be, in redeemed humanity, sole author and
authority of pure and undefiled religion.
Article VII.—A Letter of Theodore Parker.
Rev. John T. Sargent, who was intimately associated
with Theodore Parker, writes to us as follows :
I welcome your articles just opening in The Examiner
on Theodore Parker. It may interest you to know that I
have large files of letters from him, which have a value so
far as they might illustrate your main topics, bis “ charac
ter and ideas.” Most of them, it is true, are of that pri
vate and social character not intended for the public, 'and
were occasioned by that peculiar relation into which I was
thrown in consequence of my exchange of pulpits with him,
when such an expression of fellowship was looked upon
with distrust, even by the so called “ Liberal” Unitarians.
But there are others so expressive of his well known sympa-
�228
A Leiter of Theodore Parker.
thics for all the great interests of humanity, that portions of
them at least ought to be seen. Take, for instance, the
following extracts which I copy from one under date of
September 18th, 1859, when he was abroad in Montreux,
Canton de Vaud, Switzerland :
“It is Sunday, to-day, and my thoughts turn homeward
with even a stronger flight than on any other days of the
week, so I shall write a little to one of my dear old friends
— ‘ a friend indeed,’ also a brother in the same ministry.
It is the day when the services at the Music Hall are to
begin again I believe, but where I shall no more stand; for
I sent in my letter of resignation some days ago, as duty
and necessity compelled. But my affection will always go
with the dear old friends who gather there, and on Sundays,
when the Music Hall is open, I always come as a silent
minister to look at the congregation, and have ‘ sweet com
munion together,’ though we no longer ‘walk to the house
of God in company.’ It is a tender bond which gets thus
knit by years of spiritual communion :—I think not to be
broken in this life. But here, as you know, Sunday is quite
different from what it is in New England; devoted more
to gaiety and to social festivity of a harmless character.
But to-day is the Annual Fast all over Switzerland, and the
land is as still as with us in the most quiet town in New
England. I like these Swiss people. They are industrious,
thrifty and economical to an extraordinary degree,—intelli
gent, and happy. I sometimes think them the happiest
people in Europe, perhaps happier than even we in Massa
chusetts, for they are not so devoured by either pecuniary
or political ambition. * * * What a condition the
Unitarians are in just now I They put Huntington in the
place of Dr. Henry Ware, and he turns out to be orthodox,—
and, as I understand, won’t go into the Unitarian pulpit of
Brooklyn, N. Y., but officiates in the great orthodox
Plymouth church hard by. Then brother Bellows comes
out with his ‘ Broad (T) church,’ and, while talking of the
‘ Suspense of Faith,’ represents the little sect in no very
�A Letter of Theodore Parker.
229
pleasant light. Meantime, The Examiner—(certainly the
ablest journal in America,) reports to the denomination
the most revolutionary theologic opinions, and this, too,
with manifest approbation thereof. Witness the half-dozen
articles within so many years, by Frothingham, Jr., some
of Alger’s, that of Scherb’s on the Devil, and the three on
India, China, and Asiatic Religions, by an orthodox mis
sionary, now living in Middletown, Conn.; a noble fellow
too. What is to become of us ? To me it is pretty clear
the Progressive party will continue to go ahead in a circu
itous course, for Progress is never in a straight line. No
progressive party will go back describing a line with analo
gous curves.
“ It is beautiful to see the gradual development of religion
in the world, especially among su h a people as our own,
where the government puts no yoke on men’s shoulders.
Little by little they shake off the old traditionary fetters,
get rid of their false ideas of man and God, and come to
clear, beautiful views and forms of religion. No where in
the world is this progress so rapid as in America, because,
in our Northern States, the whole mass of the people is
educated and capable of appreciating the best thoughts of
the highest minds. Of course, foolish things will be done,
and foolish words spoken, but on the whole the good work
goes on, not slowly and yet surely. I am glad the Catho
lics have the same rights as the Protestants;—if they had
not I should contend for the Catholics as I now do for the
negroes. But I think that, after Slavery, Catholicism is
the worst and most dangerous institution in America; and
I deplore the growth of its churches. I know the power of
an embodied class of men with unity of sentiment, unity of
idea, and unity of aim, and when the aim, the idea, and
the sentiment are what we see and know, and the men are
governed by such rules, I think there is danger. Still, it is
to be met, not by Bigotry and Persecution, but by Wisdom
and Philanthropy. I don’t believe Catholicism thrives very
well even in a Republic, but it loves the soil a despot sticks
�230 '
A Letter of Theodore Parlier.
his bayonet into. Since Louis Napoleon has been on the
throne of France, the worst class of Catholic priests have
come more and more into power ; that miserable order, the
Capauchins, has been revived and spreads rapidly. More
than 300 new Convents have been established since the
‘ Coup d’ Etat,’ and are filled with more than 30,000 devo
tees already. But in liberally governed Switzerland, Cathol
icism does not increase, but falls back little by little. No
Jesuits are allowed to actin the land. In a few generations
we shall overcome the ignorance, stupidity, and superstition
of the Irish Catholics in America, at least in the North, but
before that is done, we shall have a deal of trouble. Soon
Boston will be a Catholic city if the custom continues of
business men living in the country; and we know what use
a few demagogues can make of the Catholic voters. It
only requires that another capitalist offer the Bishop $1,500
or so if he will tell his subjects to vote against a special
person or a special measure. All the Catholics may be
expected to be on the side of Slavery, Fillibustering, and
Intemperance. I mean, all in a body; this Romanism will
lead them to support Slavery;—the Irishmen to encourage
Fillibustering and Drunkenness. But good comes out of
evil. I think the Irish Catholics with their descendants,
could not so soon be emancipated in any country as in our
own dear blessed land. So, we need not complain, but only
fall to and do our duty,—clean, educate and emancipate the
‘gintieman from Corrk.’
“ How goes it with the ‘ Poor ?’ and with the ‘ Boston
Provident Association,’ with which you are officially con
nected ? All well, I hope. I am not quite sorry the ‘ Reform
School’ at Westboro is burnt down. The immediate loss
to the State is, to be sure, a great one, but the ultimate loss
would have been far more, for it was a school for crime,
and must graduate villains. I wonder men don’t see that
they can never safely depart from the natural order which
God has appointed. Boys are born in families ; they grow
up in families, a few in each household, mixed with girls
�The Index on Christianity Again.
231
and with their elders. How unnatural to put 500 or 600
boys into a great barn and keep them there till they are one
and twenty years of age, and then expect them to turn out
well and become natural men, after such unnatural treat
ment ! At the beginning, Dr. Howe, really one of the
most enlightened philanthropists I ever met in America or
Europe, proposed a ‘ Central Bureau,’ with a house of tem
porary deposit for boys, and that an agent should place them
in families throughout the country. A quarter of the
money thus spent, would have done a deal of good. I
wonder if you have ever been up to the ‘ Industrial School
for Girls,’ at Lancaster. To me this is one of the most
interesting institutions in the good old State. If I were
Governor of Massachusetts, I think I shouldn’t often dine
with the 1 Lancers,’ or the 1 Tigers,’ or even the ‘Ancients
and Honorables,’ but I should know exactly the condition
of every jail, and ‘ House of Correction,’ in the State, and
of all the institutions for preventing crime and ignorance.
If Horace Mann had been Governor, I think he would have
done so. Here in Europe my life is dull, and would be
intolerable were it not introductory to renewed work on
earth or another existence in Heaven. I am necessarily
idle here, or busy only with trifles which seem only a stren
uous idleness. Such is the state of my voice that I aril
constrained to silence, and so fail to profit by the admirable
opportunity of intercourse with French, German, and Rus
sian people who now fill up the house. I do not complain
of this, but think myself fortunate to be free from pain.”
Article VIII.—'The Index on Christianity Again.
In the Index of January 7th, Mr. Abbot prints a “ synop
sis of Free Religion,” which commences with a criticism of
“ Christianity as a System,” some of the points of which
surprise us more than anything Mr. Abbot has previously
said. What, for example, is he thinking about when he
says, “ Regarded as to its universal element, Christianity is
�232
The Index on Christianity Again.
a beautiful but imperfect presentation of natural morality ?”
His own opinion may separate morality from faith in God,
and make the former only the universal element of religion,
• but no Christianity that ever was, has separated these two
universal elements, or thought of presenting religion, in its
general aspect, as other than the two-fold passion of the soul
of man, towards man and duty on the one hand, and
towards God and heaven on the other.
But this is not the worst of what we deem our friend’s
misrepresentation of “ Christianity as a System.” Having,
as we have seen, made Christianity to consist, as to its uni
versal element, in a “ presentation of natural morality,” he
then states that, “ Regarded as to its special element, Chris
tianity is a great completed system of faith and life,” and
that “ the chief features of this system are the doctrines of
the Fall of Adam, the Total Depravity of the human race,
the Everlasting Punishment of the wicked, and Salvation
by Christ alone,” and that “ it is the worst enemy of liberty,
science, and civilization, because it is organized Despair of
Man.” He then goes on to define “Free Religion as a
System,” and finds it to be “ organized Faith in Man.”
Between the two there exists, he asserts, “ an absolute con
flict of principles, aims, and methods.” He declares that
“ the one ruled the world in the Dark Ages of the past,”
and that “ the other will rule the world in the Light Ages
of the future,” while “ their battle-ground is the Twilight
Age of the present.”
To us this is scandalously unfair. It is no more true that
Christianity is despair of man than it is that free religion is
faith in man. But granting Mr. Abbot his definition of
free religion,—which to us, and to the majority at least of
free religionists, leaves out the religion of Free Religion,—
it is an amazing disregard of the simplest and plainest facts
which permits the statement just quoted, of the sum and
substance of Christianity. Christianity is not organized
despair, but the contrary. One of the means generally
adopted by Christian propagandists to rouse men to “ come
�The Index on Christianity Again.
233
to Christ,” is the preaching of despair, but our friend
knows perfectly well that this is a means only, employed by
teachers of a religion whose chief word is hope, and that
this means is not employed except to induce mankind to
accept the “ hope” which Christianity teaches as her great
lesson. Christianity has never been preached as simple
despair of man, and Mr. Abbot owes it to his honorable
devotion to truth to withdraw the conspicuous assertion that
it consists in so dark and dreadful a thing. “ The worst
enemy of liberty, science, and civilization !” It connot be
said with a particle of justice. Of 79sei«7o-Christianity, the
darker human side of historical Christianity, Mr. Abbot can
speak as harshly as he chooses, without provoking our chal
lenge, but of “ the great completed system of faith and life,”
which, in his own words, Christianity is, he ought never, it
seems to us, to speak as he now speaks in his “Synopsis of
Free Religion.”
We beg him to tell us why he omits from his view of
Christianity as a “ great completed system of faith and life”
everything which constitutes it, in the general opinion of
mankind, except the four dogmas named by him as its
“ chief features.” And in particular, why does he remove
from their universally admitted place, as features of Chris
tianity chief above all others, the two supreme Christian
tenets that God is and that he is Our Father, and that
man is the offspring of God and all men members one of
another in human brotherhood? Even the false side of
historical Christianity contains other chief features than the
four doctrines named by Mr. Abbot, such, for example, as
the doctrines of a special revelation of redemption made
through the Bible, and of the Godhead of Jesus as the agent
of this redemption, and of the administration of this re
demption' by special divine influences, and these doctrines,
however false they may be, cannot be summed up in despair
of man, but intend rather great hope for man; and in all
fair judgment they stand above the darker dogmas of Fall,
Depravity, Punishment, and Limitation of redemption, and
vol.
i.—no. 3.
3
�234
The Index on Christianity Again.
are more entitled than these to give distinctive character to
Christianity, as Mr. Emerson recognizes when he sums up
Christianity in “ faith in the infinitude of man.”
The deplorable fact is that Mr. Abbot, in this instance,
defines Christianity by the darker half of its darker side,
not only leaving out of sight its great and glorious prin
ciples of God’s Fatherhood and man’s brotherhood, its two
supreme rules of love to God and love to man, which make
its bright side, but also leaving out entirely .the more
humane and hopeful of its false dogmas. There would be
nothing at all of Free Religion if it were defined thus by
the worst aspects of its worse side. Nothing that ever was
on earth can bear judgment so grossly unjust. The con
trasts drawn by Mr. Abbot are not legitimate. The past
has not been given up to “ the worst enemy of liberty,
science, and civilization,” nor will the future be ruled by
“the best friend of progress of every kind.” There has
been a vast deal of human freedom in religion before now,
and there will be a vast deal of bondage to authority in the
religion of the future. Not all men have been deceived in
the past, and not all escape delusion now. We heartily
approve vigorous, positive assertion of convictions, but we
must regard some of our friend Abbot’s dogmatizing as not
one whit more respectful towards human freedom than the
least warranted assertions of the popular creeds, inasmuch
as it is not based in evident truth, but in very serious neglect
and disregard of true facts, and does not stop a moment to
consider that its assumptions are generally denied, but lays
down the law of individual opinion precisely as if it were
the law of divine authority. We trust we speak with mod
eration, and with due respect for our friend’s eminence as a
religious teacher, but really we know of nothing in the
movements of religion at the present time more to be
regretted, than Mr. Abbot’s attempt to prove that Christi
anity is all blank despair, and Free Religion all pure faith.
Neither one nor the other is true.
�Why does Mr. Abbot Object, Etc.
235
Article X.— Why Does Mr. Abbot Object to Mr. Sen’s Faith
in God?
We could hardly name two more genuine religious believ
ers and teachers than Keshub Chunder Sen, the Indian
reformer and prophet, and our friend Abbot, at Toledo, the
editor of The Index. The latter has as deep, as pure, as
earnest faith in God as can be anywhere found. Such
sentences as the following are gems of spiritual truth:
“ My whole religion centres in the fact of this perennial,
this unutterable revelation of Eternal Being in the soul of
man;”—“Life is lifted into heaven, in proportion as we
repose in this embrace of the All-Encompassing Soul;”—
“ It is the conception of Nature as the living self-manifes
tation of God, that keeps trie fires of faith still burning in
the inward temple of the soul;” “Pure Religion is itself
the presence of the Infinite Spirit, making itself felt in the
soul of man;”—“The great task of Free Religion is to
prove the ability of each soul to draw its nutriment from its
native soil, dispensing with mediation, and coming into
primary relations with the All-Permeating Deity;’-—“ That
which calls out all high and pure affection is the divine
element, the God in man ;”—“ The lofty and tender senti
ment, the divine sympathy in eternal things, which marks
the completest unity of allied natures, is rooted in the con
sciousness of God;”—“That consciousness of the One
Divine which makes possible to us our loftiest intercourse
with congenial minds, lies also at the root of the sentiment
of the universal brotherhood of man ;”—“ The same repose
in the universal life of God which enables two friends to
enjoy the pure delight of spiritual fellowship, enables, nay,
compels them, to recognize the fundamental unity of their
race, and to cherish that inner consciousness of it which is
the true love of man ;”—“ In the love of God we become
friends to each other, and, in a large sense, friends of man
kind as well; and in this broadening out of the private into
the public, of the individual into the universal, friendship
�236
Why does Mr. Abbot Object to
achieves its highest perfection, and crowns, itself with wor
ship of the Divine.”
To every word of this Mr. Sen would say a hearty amen,
and it would seem as if the two men, being so agreed,
i could walk together in the closest brotherhood. The dis
position of the pious and eloquent leader of the Brahmo
Somaj, of India, was expressed quite recently in a letter to
the Free Religious Association, printed in The Index of
November 24. In that letter Mr. Sen said, “I am sure
that in the fulness of time all the great nations in the East
and in the West will unite and form a vast Theistic Brother
hood, and I am sure that America will occupy a prominent
place in that grand confederation. Let us then no longer
keep aloof from each other, but co-work with unity of heart,
that we may supply each other’s deficiencies, strengthen
each other’s hands, and with mutual aid build up the house
of God. Please take this subject into consideration, and
let me know if you have any suggestions to make whereby
a closer union may be brought about between the Brahmo
Somaj and the Free Religious Association,—between India
and America,—and a definite system of mutual intercourse
and co-operation may be established between our brethren
here and those in the New World. Such union is desirable,
and daily we feel the need of it more and more. Let us
sincerely pray and earnestly labor in order that it may be
realized under God’s blessing in due time.”
To this brotherly word of one who “ crowns friendship
with worship of the Divine,” Mr. Abbot called attention in
the following editorial, printed in the same number of The
Index, under the head, “ A Vital Difference.”
“ An interresting letter, addressed to Mr. Potter by
Keshub Chunder Sen, of India, will be found in the
‘ Department of the Free Religious Association ? This
native reformer, whose late visit to England attracted so
much attention, is desirous of ‘mutual intercourse and
co-operation ’ between the Association and the Brahmo
Somaj. While most cordially reciprocating his brotherly
�Mr. Sen's Faith in G-od?
237
sentiments, we feel constrained to point out an important
difference in their bases of organization. The Brahmo
Somaj, as its name implies, has a Theistic creed as its bond
of union ; the F. R. A. has its bond of union in the simple
principle of Freedom, in Fellowship. Theism, as a creed, is,
in our judgment, little, better than Tritheism. . . . The
friendliest and most brotherly relations should subsist
between the F. R. A. and the Brahmo Somaj; but we must
keep clearly before the public the all-important distinction
between creeded and creedless organization, and forbear, out
of sentiment or sentimentality, to swamp Free Religion in
a ‘ mush of concessions.’ ”
Imagine Mr. Sen receiving the Index, with his letter
printed in the department officially occupied by the Free
Religious Association, and finding that the same number
contained an editorial, warning the public against equal
recognition of him, as a swamping of Free Religion in a
mush of concessions I And that simply because he and
his companions have earnest faith in God!
It is mere words when Mr. Abbot objects to a creed.
No man living has more distinctly laid down, insisted on,
and fought for a creed, than Mr. Abbot. He made a creed
in fifty articles a year ago, and he has just made another
in thirty-two articles, which he calls a “ Synopsis of Free
Religion.” As long as he believes anything, which he
can state in articles, he will have a creed. As long as
*
he devises systems of assertions, and lays them down
nakedly and without qualification, he will have a creed of
the most positive character. We do not object to our
friend’s annual experiment of a downright creed, a set of
positive articles, bold and bald assertions, putting forward
* Creed.—“A definite summary of what is believed; a brief exposition of
important points, as in religion, science, politics, etc.; especially a summary
of Christian belief; a religious symbol.”
“ Symbol.—(Theol.) An abstract or compendium of faith or doctrine; the
creed, or a summary of the articles of religion.”—Webster.
Where does Mr. Abbot get the word “creeded?”
�238
Why does Mr. Abbot Object to
his individual opinion as absolute truth. It is one very
proper way of working on the human mind. But for a
man, who has made two creeds within thirteen months, to
object to Mr. Sen’s equal standing, because the former
believes in God, will not answer.
It happens that Mr. Abbot thinks religion possible with
out faith in God, while Mr. Sen finds the deepest truth of
religion in filial trust in God, and that the latter thinks
quite well of Christianity while the former does not think
well of it at all. But Mr. Abbot’s opinions here are just as
much part of a creed as Mr. Sen’s. Indeed the former
holds his notions on the subject far more rigidly, and asserts
them far more dogmatically than the latter holds and asserts
his views. We do not blame or bewail our friend’s dogma
tism ; let him drive ahead with all his might; but it is
absurd for him to accuse Mr. Sen of having a creed in regard
to God. We could not name a position recently taken in
the religious world which more emphatically merits what
ever stigma should attach to the most positive of creeds,
than our good friend’s position about God and Christianity
as neither of them essential to religion.
And this position not merely has the form and tone of a
creed, or articles of a creed, but it has the tenor, to us, of a
very bad creed. It is a sad enough thing to “ stand squarely
outside of Christianity,” because it involves so general a
refusal of good fellowship, but of thinking of religion with
express exclusion of faith in God, and trying to organize
the law and gospel, the rule and consolation of faith, with
out including the sentiment of the “ Our Father,” is to us
the most terrible of mistakes, not because we have any
aversion to honest atheism, or any wish to put a brand upon
candid infidelity (so called), but for the simple reason that,
in general, faith in God Our Father is the central and fruit
ful principle of blessed religion, and he who dissuades men,
or deters them, or debars them, as Mr. Abbot is doing, from
the exercise of unquestioning filial trust in the Divine Pater
�Mr. Sen’s Faith in God ?
239
nity, is doing the average soul more harm than all other
religious teaching can do him good.
We have given our friend’s new creed, in the Index of
January 7, a respectful study, and see how he arrives at
“ E PLURIBUS UNUM ”
as “ the great watchword of the ages/’ but to us, and we
think to mankind generally, “E PluHus Unum” will not
displace “ Our Father,fl nor any sense of what we are, in
onrselves, and to one another, take the place of the Con
sciousness of God, and the consolation derived from remem
bering HIM in whom we live, Mdflmove, and have our
being. To keep a lively sense of the being, and goodness,
and perfect power of the alone supreme and blessed God,
is not to swamp religion in a mush of concessions. Mr.
Sen’s wish for a Theistic Brottflrhood of all the great
nations, merited sympathy and respect from Mr. Abbot,
and these only. It was no more legitimate to object to it
than it would be to require the mass of childifln to limit
their interest in home pleasuBs to such as orphan asylums
can offer. And in the name of all that is sacred and consol
ing to the heart of man, we beg MiflAbbot to abate the
rigor with which he insists upomkccommodatwg religion to
atheism and to materialism. We will deal respectfully and
fraternally with these honest restrictions of human hope
and faith, but we cannot see wl®any man who has faith in
God and the blessed world of spirit should think it neces
sary to hide that faith, and to base a creed upon suspense of
natural happy trust. In general the atheists, materialists,
and professed “infidels,” are exceedingly positive in their
views, as well as frank and outspokenly Let them be so.
But on the other hand, let those who have firm faith in a
Living Soul of all things, and in Eternal blessed Life, stand
as frankly and firmly for their trust and their thought. If
Mr. Abbot does not care toflhus stand for his best thought
and faith, let him at least cease to insist upon suspense of
faith in our brotherly Bllowship, since the demand is wholly
�240
The Old and the New Christianity.
unreasonable and extremely hurtful. A “ Theistic Brother
hood” does not imply the exclusion of anybody, and not to
show what faith we have in God is to do great hurt to our fel
lows, as well as to be unfaithful to our own vision.
Article XI.— The Old and the New Christianity (Concluded).
Translated from the French of N. Vacherot.
*
After the first ecumenical councils, dogma having
received its constitution almost complete, it would seem
that its history must be finished, and it only remained to
pursue that of organization and church discipline. How
ever, the history of dogma still continues, if not for estab
lishing, at least for the teaching of doctrines. The great
theologians whose discussions prepared the way for the
council of Nicoea, had, with all their subtle distinctions,
preserved, with their Platonic learning, the consciousness
of the highest religious verities. It was rather the teaching
of John which inspired them than that of Paul: but it was
still the vivifying breath of Christian thought. When that
thought fell upon the barbarism of the middle ages, it
found no method of exposition or instruction other than
the philosophy of Aristotle. We know what this became
in the hands of his interpreters of the Sorbonne and of the
universities of the middle ages. The name Schoolman
tells the whole story of distinctions, divisions and ver
bal discussions. If doctors, such as St. Anselm and St.
Thomas, were able to maintain Christian thought in its high
import, it was because both had a spirit sufficiently high
and sufficiently deep to comprehend whatever in the genius
of Plato and Aristotle is most like that thought. Yet we
may question if the extremely Aristotelian philosophy of
St. Thomas would have been to the liking of Paul, of John,
and of the fathers of the church. We will not speak of
* In the last line of Art. VI. (p. 181), of last number, strike out the word
“not,” and read “ could easily accommodate itself.”
�The Old and the New Christianity.
241
Christ himself, who never let slip an occasion to show his
antipathy to every kind of scholasticism. If he would not
have driven from his church the respectable doctors of the
Sorbonne, as he did the traffickers of the temple, we may
believe that the author of the Sermon on the Mount would
not have set foot in schools of this sort, where the spirit of
his teaching was scarcely better kept than the letter.
There is surely a great difference between the teaching
of the gospels and epistles and scholastic theology ; but per
haps a still greater between the primitive church and the
Catholic church governed by the court of Rome. While
reading the historians of Christianity, and particularly M.
Renan, we naturally picture to ourselves those happy and
charming little Christian societies, with such free manners,
such active faith, such simple practice, in comparisonOth
the strong and minute discipline, the mute and passive obe
dience, which characterize the government of our great
Catholic societies of the middle ages. The truth is that the
rising Christianity had no more an organized church than it
had a fixed set of doctrines. It is subject to the same law
as all things which are of this world, or exist in it: it was
obliged to be formed before developing, and to be developed
before organizing. The blessed anarchy of the first Chris
tian societies may be envied by liberal believers as the ideal
of religious societies in the largest acceptation of the word;
but at that time this religious condition was rather the
effect of a provisional historic necessity, than of a welldetermined theory upon the free action of the religious
conscience. As soon as Christian society had attained some
little degree of development and multiplied the number of
its churches, it experienced the need of a more exact disci
pline and of some kind of central government. When
Christianity became under Constantine the religion of the
empire, the bishops were already exercising an actual
authority over the consciences of the faithful. It is to be
observed that the councils, save that at Jerusalem, which
was little more than a name, began to assemble from this
�242
The Old and the New Christianity.
time, under the more or less imperious patronage of the
Ceesars of Byzantium—a circumstance very perilous to thb
independence of the church. Religious monarchy was a
necessity of the times. If it had not had as a head a pope
at Rome, it would have had one in the emperors at Con
stantinople. We see this clearly later in the examples of
the Eastern and of the Russian church, the one being sub
ject to the Caesars of the Lower Empire, the other to the
czars of Moscow and St. Petersburg. All the emperors of
Constantinople, from Constantine down, set about dogma
tising. He allows himself to condemn Arius, although
later he embraced his doctrines ; and in what terms does he
condemn him? “ Constantine, the conqueror, the great,
the august, to the bishops and people of Judea: Arius
must be branded with infamy.” There is nothing more
curious than his letter to the two great opponents in the
Council of Nicoea. “ I know what your dispute is. You,
patriarch, question your priests in regard to what each
thinks about some test of the law or other trifling question.
You, priest, proclaim what you never ought to have
thoughtjor rather what you should have been silent
upon. The inquiry and response are equally useless:
All that is well enough to pass the time or exercise
the ingenuity, but should never reach the ears of the
common people. Pardon each other then the impru
dence of the question and the unsuitableness of the
reply.” Does not this suggest a Romish priest shutting the
mouth of two complaining parties ? His son, Constantins,
speaks even more freely : “ What part of the universe
are you,” writes he to Liberius,. bishop of Rome, “ you
who alone take the part of an unprincipled wretch (Atha
nasius), and break the peace of the world and of the
empire ?”
The establishment of the discipline and organization of
the church were the work of the councils presided over by
the popes, while the government of Christendom was the
peculiar function of papacy. The adversaries of that insti
�The Old and the New Christianity.
243
tution have seen in it only the advent of a monarchial gov
ernment succeeding a sort of democratic and republican
organization of the primitive church. They have not suffi
ciently comprehended that it was also a necessary and
urgent guarantee of the independence of the Christian
church, which, to triumph more easily and quickly over
paganism, had placed itself under the hand of imperial
despotism. If religious liberty of conscience was to suffer
later from the autocracy of the court of Rome, inspired
more by traditional policy and diplomacy than by the
thoughts and feelings of the true religion of Christ, the lib
erty of the church was then and always that of an establish
ment which, in raising the bishop of Rome above all the
others and giving to him for a see the ancient capital of the
known world, freed the management of spiritual affairs from
the yoke of political powers, whatever they might be, mon
archical, aristocratic or democratic. However, the trans
formation of the Christian church was complete. If any
one wishes to judge what ground has been gone over from
primitive Christianity down to present Catholicism, let him
compare the council of Jerusalem with the council of 1869,
where, they say, is at length to be proclaimed the dogma of
the personal infallibility of the sovereign pontiff in the per
son of Pius IX, and consequently the principle of absolute
monarchy applied to the government of a spiritual society
is to be fully realized: an admirable completion to the edi
fice, of which the founder could hardly have dreamed, nor
indeed his first apostles !
Such, in substance, is the history of Christianity from its
advent down to the middle ages. It is very difficult to see
only the word, the hand and the spirit of God in the devel
opment of an institution where error, darkness, superstition,
and persecution have too large a part to prevent traces of
human infirmity being manifest even in dogma. But, in
whatever manner one explains this history, whether he
only considers human causes according to the philosophic
method, or brings in supernatural causes according to the
�244
The, Old and the New Christianity.
theological method, it is a constant fact that Christianity
has obeyed, in its development on the theatre of time and
space, the law of all human institutions, that it has passed,
in doctrine and government, through all the phases of
things which spring up, grow, become organized and defi
nitely established. After having followed it in the move
ment of expansion which takes it continually farther from
its origin, it remains for us to follow it in the movement of
return, which is constantly bringing it back under the
influence of modern times.
HI.
We are about the middle of the fifteenth century, after
the taking of Constantinople. The Roman church no longer
finds in its peculiar world either heresy or resistance. Doc
trine has been for a long time fixed. The teaching of
doctrine is regulated in its least details in accordance with
the scholastic method. Discipline itself is organized and
regulated in its most minute prescriptions. The Catholic
communion resembles an immense army .which moves or
stops, fights or rests, on the orders of its commanders.
Woe to him who speaks, thinks or prays other than as the
formulary directs. Silence even is suspected among those
of whom the church expects a complete confession or a pro
fession of faith. Nothing is more imposing than this silent,
absolute, infallible, government of consciences, where the
word of command as soon as uttered by the mouth of one
man is reechoed in the most remote parts of the Christian
world, without a single voice being able to protest. And
as if that discipline were not sufficient, the court of Rome
has its indefatigable police of the inquisition, to seek out
and denounce the crimes of heresy and sorcery to pitiless
judges, who condemned to the stake thousands of victims.
Suddenly the star of the renaissance rises upon this world,
and driving away the last traces of the darkness of the mid
dle ages, floods with light the dawn of modern societies.
Before the arts and sciences of antiquity, Gothic art and
�The Old and the New Christianity.
245
scholastic science fall into disrepute. And it 19 not the
learned and lettered world alone which receives, admires,
yea, gazes with unbounded delight upon these marvelous
works of classic accuracy, of material grace, of strong
thought, of exquisite taste, of incomparable language,
whose secret the human mind seemed to have lost; it is
also the religious world, it is especially the court of Rome
and its foremost Italian dignitaries.
We cannot positively say that the renaissance caused the
reform. Protestantism, we must not forgetlwas born of a
simple administrative question, the granting of indulgences :
confining itself to a change of discipline, it kept the doc
trines almost without alteration. The great reform which
it accomplished was, to free the religious conscience from
the tutelage which weighed so heavily upon it, and which
left it no initiative, either of thought or of sentiment,
before the word of God interpreted and formally uttered by
the authority of the church. Now every thing was there,
at least in principle. What matter that the new religion
did not touch the credo, if all doctrine was henceforth
wholly subject to a free interpretation of the Scriptures by
the reason and conscience of believers ? Doubtless, as there
is no church without authority, the reformed church had,
also on its part, a council and creed in the Augsburg con
fession; but the principle of individual initiative had been
so affirmed before the contrary principle of official author
ity, that no effort of Protestant orthodoxy, if this expression
may be applied to the reformation, could arrest its course,
even in the lifetime of the great reformers. The door was
open to liberty in matters of faith. The future was to show
that no necessity of discipline could close it: but for the
moment, if we only consider its doctrinal bearing, the
reform was confined to a very slight simplification of
dogma. The worship of saints, worship of the Virgin,
adoration of relics, in fine, the most serious of all, the
eucharist, were the principal objects of reform in what con
cerned dogma, purely so called. Luther was not only a fer
�246
I
The Old and the New Christianity.
vent Christian, he was a consummate theologian, who
would not hear to any one’s touching the holy ark of doc
trine. He was more convinced than Leo X. and the gay
wits of his court of the justice of eternal punishment, of
the efficacy of grace, of the predestination of the elect and
the damned, of the existence and puissance of the devil, of
the wily power of sorcerers, of the real presence of Jesus
Christ in the host. The boldest thing the reform did in
the way of doctrine, was the substitution of consubstantiation
for transubstantiation in the sacrament of the eucharist,
attempting thus to reconcile the preservation of the mate
rial substance with the presence of the divine person. The
court of Rome did not take fire, as Calvin did, on the ques
tion of heresies, and if it still allowed heretics, like Bruno
and Vanini, to be burned by the tribunals of the inexora
ble inquisition, we cannot think it was done with as much
zeal as Calvin manifested in the trial of Michse’. Servetus. In
religious matters, it no longer showed much wrath or en
thusiasm; its passion was elsewhere.
The leading thought of the reform was quite other than
that ofencroaching upon dogma. The spirit which gave
rise to it was too Christian to touch any thing but the
organization of the church. The religious faith of the
people whom the voice of Luther had won over, demanded
nothing more. The natural sciences were not yet born,
and philosophy was still given over to scholastic disputes,
or engaged in the subtle commentaries of the: learned upon
the books of antiquity. Christian dogma, such as the Old
and New Testament had made it,—Alexandrian theology
and scholastic theology,—had not yet been positively contra
dicted, either by the revelations of the natural and the his
toric sciences, or by the interior revelations of the modern
conscience. Beside, in emancipating the conscience, the
reformation reanimated and strengthened Christian thought,
stifled by scholasticism or enervated by the renaissance.
The faith of the new believers went back to the doctrines of
Paul, which the wholly practical sense of the Roman church
�The Old and the New Christianity.
247
had modified, and even to the Old Testament theology.
Luther and Calvin took up again with a vigor and a harsh
ness which the Catholic church seemed to have forgotten,
the doctrines of necessity, of omnipotent grace, of the stern
justice of a powerful God, mild toward the just, terrible to
his enemies.
But when light had begun to be thrown upon philosophy
by the progress of the material sciences, upon conscience
by the progress of moral science, the spirit of reform in the
Christian world was obliged to attack dogma itself, and it
cut off from it as useless every thing which hindered it
from accommodating itself to modern science and con
science. How could they indeed preserve that barbarous
theology of the Old Testament, which confounds in its''
cruel justice, the Bible says in its vengeance, children with
fathers, the innocent with the guilty ? How keep that psy
chology and those moral principles of Paul which make of
sin a question of species and not of individuals, and which
take away from man all the merit of his works by attribut
ing it to God ? How take literally the miracles and other
facts of Biblical history before the scientific revelation of
the immutable laws of nature? And was it not becoming
very difficult to preserve that mysterious theology of the
Nicsean creed when already all high metaphysical specula
tion was falling into discredit ? Was it possible to this
heavy ship of scholastic Christianity to sail in the new
waters of a sea as strong as the modern world, if a way
was not found of lightening its weight and simplifying its
means of locomotion ? The new Christianity was then
obliged to abandon all the cosmogony and a considerable
part of the theology of the old Bible, the fundamental dog
mas of Paul s teaching, and, at last, the great mysteries of
the divine nature, which it found, if not in opposition, at
least useless to a healthy religious life. Let us render jus
tice to the clear and resolute spirit of the eighteenth cen
tury. It attempted little subtilizing or equivocating with
texts : it loyally made the sacrifice of every part of Chris-
�248
The Old and the New Christianity.
tian dogma which was found in contradiction with experi
ence, history, reason, conscience, preserving scarcely any
thing of it except that which constitutes its truth and
worth. When Kant, Lessing, and later, Schleiermacher,
and all that great school of German theology speak
of Christianity, it is almost always in that sense. Their
Christianity is that which sustains, fortifies, purifies and
consoles the soul, much rather than that which engages the
intellect in the mysterious depths of its metaphysics, or
fetters the will in the bonds of its discipline. In that, this
school has largely opened the way to the Christianity which
later was to push forward the reform movement to the
entire suppression of dogma, by preserving only morality,
and morality, too, reduced to the ideal of the life and the
teaching of Christ. Such seems also to have been the
spirit, if not the explicit teaching of the generous part of
the French clergy who embraced the principles and hopes
of the revolution. It was by attaching themselves to the
moral and purely evangelical side of doctrine, that priests
like Faucher and Gregory wished to reconcile Christianity
with the principle^ of reason, of liberty, of justice, of fra
ternity, which that revolution had inscribed upon its pro
gramme. In this sense, it is just to say that the eighteenth
century remained Christian while ceasing to be Catholic,
and that over that part of society which was won by philoso
phy, religion still preserved a certain sway.
This work of simplification which was already bringing
back dogma to its source, was arrested, at the opening of
the nineteenth century, by a wholly opposite movement,
whose aim, on the contrary, was the complete reinstatement
of Christian thought in modern science and philosophy.
The eclecticism of that epoch exerted itself everywhere, in
England, and in France, as well as in Germany, to show,
by an ingenious method of interpretations and explanations,
that all science and all philosophy were at least in germ in
Christianity; all was, to rightly interpret the texts. So
Genesis was harmonized with the geology of certain Eng-
�The Old and the New Christianity.
249
lish savang, the Kicene creed had a place in the metaphysics
of Schelling and Hegel, and the hard doctrines of Saint
Paul themselves, found their explanation and fortification
in the mystic philosophy of certain contemporary schools.
The learned world was quite astonished to learn that there
was a Christian astronomy, geology and history, just as
there was a theology and a morality with this name. Indeed
all the sciences took a peculiar aspect from the new point of
view in which the eclectics of those times placed themselves.
This method had at first great success, thanks to the genius
of the men and the disposition of the times; but this suc
cess could be only ephemeral, because such a manner of
procedure was contrary to the true spirit of the nineteenth
century, a critical spirit, if any ever were so. Besides, the
method was not new: it has a well known name in the
philosophic and religious history of the human mind. Neoplatism had attempted it for paganism with an ardor, a per
severance, a brilliancy, a positive failure, which we need not
recall. For a century like ours, so severe in its methods, so
well informed in natural and historical facts, this kind of
speculation was not science, it was something which savored
now of mystic dreaming, now of political compromise, or
again of Alexandrian exegesis.
This eclecticism was a pure accident, in spite of all the
appearances of reality ! The law which governs the mod
ern history of Christianity, soon resumed its sway I the
progress of purification and simplification grew more and
more pronounced; criticism breathed upon these scaffoldings
so laboriously and sometimes so artistically constructed.
Sober science would no longer lendlitself to that which it
must regard as a play of wits, if not the illusion of a liberal
faith desiring to be of its century at the same time as of its
church. The spirit of reform which fashions the ChrisWn
societies of to-day no longer loses its time and its genius in
reconciling contradictions or confounding differences. With
a firm and bold hand, the doctors which itlnspires separate,
in Christianity, morality from dogma; that is, in their
VOL. I.—NO. 3.
4
�250
'
The Old and the New Christianity.
understanding, the true from the actual, the essential from
the accidental, the eternal and immutable from the tempo
rary and variable. To the history of the past, they refer
all the details of dogma properly so called, from Paulinian
and Alexandrian theology to scholastic theology, keeping
only what in their eyes constitutes the basis, the essence,
the very spirit of Christianity, the mild and lofty teaching
of Jesus. And yet, as it is difficult not to find in that teach
ing, so pure and perfect, some indications which recall the
narrow genius of the people to whom the Christ belongs,
the doctors of liberal Christianity refer their religion to the
ideal rather than to the evangelical reality, and, without
denying the latter, preserve of the legend only the figure of
a Christ truly divine, in that he has no longer anything in
common with the sufferings of humanity. Suppose that
Christ really was the man of whom the gospels tell us, the
school, or, if you please, the church of which we speak,
does not make of this an essential point of its religion. The
ideal suffices for it, and, not finding a richer and higher one
in the modern conscience, it proposes it to the faith of the
present, to the faith of the future, as the ideal itself of the
human conscience.
Jfo one has better defined this Christianity than Mr. F.
Pecaut, one of its most noble and most serious doctors.
“ It is not,” he says, “ that we attach to this name of Chris
tians a superstitious value or a sort of magic virtue ; but,
whether we will it or not, our moral and religious ideal is
in its essential features the same as the ideal of Jesus, and
we are his posterity. . . . The ineffaceable glory of the
gospel, its immortal attraction, is always its being the good
news, the news of grace, of the spirit of life which assures
us of the love of God, and frees us from the servitude of
remorse and evil. That is a revelation appealed to by the
human soul, and consequently written on its inmost tablets:
the seers attempt to read it in themselves, and from age to
age they are learning among various peoples to decipher the
name of the Father, until Jesus, by pronouncing it loudly,
�The Old and the New Christianity.
251
makes the old earth, weary of long efforts, leap with exceed,
ing j°y« Hence, as from a generous spring, escape in rivu
lets of living water the best sentiments which are henceforth
to render fruitful Christian civilization, humility, confi
dence, unwavering hope, innate dignity, devotion towards
even the wicked. Does any one to-day conceive of a relig
ious idea superior to that ? Who would wish to repudiate
it? who would dare to deprive his brothers of it, and to
deprive himself of it ? It is the very depth of ourselves
so humane, so natural, but so deep and so uncomfortable
for the profane eye to read, that men in their exuberant
delight have believed it supernatural and superhuman.”
This is why the liberal Christian takes his place in the
school of Jesus: not of Jesus the Messiah, the eternal
Word, the second person of the Trinity, but of Jesus, the
Son of man, the gentle and humble-hearted master who
gives repose to the soul, the master whom love of the
Father and tenderness for the least of his brothers raised to
such a moral height that he felt himself the beloved son of
whom the heavenly Father had no secrets in pure, good
and holy things. Such is the true, the eternal Jesus, he
who founded religion upon conscience and opened to
humanity the gates of the celestial city. Is it the spirit of
God which speaks by that mouth, or the spirit of Satan, as
the Roman Church has it? If Christian sentiment is not
there, where then is it ? If this is not the language of the
true children of God, where shall we find it ? As to us,
whom people accuse, it is true, of having a somewhat large
measure in this sort of things, we believe that there are
many ways of being Christian. One may be so according
to the spirit or according to the letter. He may be so with
Jesus, with Paul, with John, with the Alexandrian theo
logians, with the doctors in the Sorbonne, with all tradition,
as the Catholic Ghurch directs. Does it not seem that to
be Christian with Christ alone, receiving inspiration only
from his spirit and his example, is to be it in the best, the most
Christian manner? If any one says that it is only chosen
�252
The Old and the New Christianity.
souls essentially religious for whom such an inspiration can
suffice for living in Christianity, and that, as 1o the rest, all
the formality of dogma and traditional discipline is neces
sary, we do not deny it. Upon this ground, many ways of
looking at the matter may be reconciled. What appears to
us harsh and almost odious, is the intolerance of the friends
of the letter towards the friends of the spirit, so that it is pos
sible to say that in drawing near the hearth of every relig
ious faith, the soul of Christ, in order to receive more and
more warmth, life and purification, we get farther away
from the religion of Christ.
Like doctrine, like church: absolute liberty under the
law, or rather under the spirit of Christ. Where there is
no longer dogma, to speak strictly, there can no longer be
discipline and government. Every believer is his own
priest, as his true Bible is his own conscience enlightened
by the light of the gospel ideal. In fact, it is not a church,
but a society of the believers who instruct, guide and help
each other; it is indeed the communion of brothers of the
free spirit in the most modern acceptation of the phrase.
From whatever source the spirit breathes, it is always wel
come; they receive it and become penetrated with it with
out demanding of those inspired any other title to the confi
dence of all than the excellence of their nature or the supe
riority of their wisdom. As to the Scriptures, for this new
church, every grand or fine book is a bible; it is sufficient
if it answers to what is most pure and holy in the conscience
of each one. It is indeed always the soul of Christ which
makes the religious life of the new Christians; but between
it and them there is no intermediate agent, no traditional
teaching, no authority which imposes its decisions. It is
not enough to say, no more pope; no more councils, they
say, no more synods, no more creeds, even if agreed upon
by all. It is the reign of that divine anarchy of which the
primitive church had been only a very feeble image, and
wThich is the ideal itse f of every truly spiritual communion.
�The Old and the New Christianity.
253
IV.
We see what Christianity becomes by simplification after
simplification, from the reformation down to our time, just
as we saw what it become by complication after complica
tion, from its advent to the reformation. This double spec
tacle gives rise to quite difibrent reflexions, according as one
contemplates it as an orthodox Christian, a liberal Chris
tian, or a historian. Where the orthodox Christian finds
only subject for admiration in the ancient period of the his
tory of that religion, and for regret in the second period,
where the liberal Christian, on the contrary, has only regrets
for the one and hopes for the other, the philosophical histo
rian undertakes to comprehend and explain whatever is
necessary in the double movement, in a sense contrary to
religious thought. With the orthodox Christian, he accepts
the entire dogma, no longer as one single and same revela
tion of which all the parts are equally in conformity to the
ideal itself of Christianity, but as a succession of doctrines
corresponding each to a historical fatality of its existence.
Leaving to the liberal believer the ideal point of view, and
himself, in his quality of historian, holding to the point of
view of actual fact, he finds that Christianity, in respect to
the condition of the society it was to conquer, could do it
only by accommodating itself to the instincts, needs, habits
and necessities of human nature, at any particular moment
of its history. Thus he comprehends how, to become a relig
ion in the positive sense of the word, it was necessary that
Christianity pass from the morality of Jesus to the theology
of Paul; how, to become the religion of the most metaphys
ical and most mystical part of ancient society, it was neces
sary for it to pass from the teaching of Paul to the high the
ology of the gospel of John and of the Nicene Creed. So,
at length, he comprehends that, to become the religion of
the middle ages, it has been obliged to descend from these
speculative heights to the practical necessities of a disci
pline as minute as rigorous. Like all the institutions whose
development history shows, Christianity did not have the
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The Old and the New Christianity.
choice of means in extending, establishing and preserving
itself. Whatever were its origin and its peculiar genius, it
had no more freedom of conduct than any other human
institution. It could not escape the law which regulates the
development of everything in time and space; the ideal is
realized only on conditions which do not always permit it
to maintain the purity of its principle or of its origin. Thus
the philosophic historian finds himself in harmony with the
orthodox Christian upon the legitimacy of the dogmas and
institutions with which primitive Christianity enriched
itself or complicated itself, as one may choose to call it.
But he is in harmony with the liberal Christian in quite a
different way. Here it is no more historical necessity that
he has in view, it is the light itself of the idea which makes
him know where he is in the quite opposite religious move
ment which has been in progress since the end of the
middle ages down to our time. The necessity, if this word
may be employed, of the progress which is elevating the
religion of Christ, fallen in the darkness and barbarity of
the middle ages, is no longer an exterior and material law
of reality ; it is an interior and wholly spiritual law of the
idea, which, finding a nature better and better prepared,
whether in individuals or in societies of modern times,
develops itself more and more freely, realizes itself more
and more completely, in proportion as-it feels itself better
sustained by the state of civilization which corresponds to
its expansion. Consequently, without sharing the regrets
of the liberal Christian in all that concerns the past, the
philosophic historian comprehends and judges as a continual
progress, in the literal sense of the word, the work of puri
fication and simplification which is going on in Christian
souls and churches since the renaissance, which restores
liberty to religious faith by the reformation of Luther, and
which is freeing the teaching of Christ from either the subtilties of the Alexandrian creed, or the severity of Paulinian
dogma, to show it to the modern world in all the purity of
its light and in all the power of its worth. If he cannot be
�The Old and the New Christianity.
255
hostile or even indifferent to the history of dogmas and
institutions which have served in the establishment of
Christianity, how much more will he be in sympathy with
the history of the struggles maintained aud efforts attempted
in order to free it from the fett'ers that weigh upon it to-day,
and to bring it back to this high ideal of every truly Chris
tian conscience, which, in certain quarters, is confounded
with the ideal itself of the modern conscience !
What will be the future of liberal Christianity in the pres
ent societies ? If the question were only concerning some
particular reform, attempted by certain men, at some given
time, in view of creating a certain church, all foresight
would be rash. What have become of all the reforms so
ardently preached by the reverend Catholics of our country
who wished to shake off the yoke of Roman discipline or of
scholastic theology ? We know the fruitless efforts
attempted with this intent by Lamennais, Buchez, BordasDumoulin, and Huet. What will become of the movement
of which the apostles of liberal Protestantism have consti
tuted themselves the promoters ? It seems as if everything
concurs for the success of such an enterprise, the devotion
of the men, the favor of circumstances, the essentially popu
lar simplicity of the teaching. Is not this the religion of
those simple in heart and spirit, as Jesus taught it to the
people of Galilee ? In it, appeal is not made to theology,
to metaphysics, to erudition, or to criticism ; it is made only
to conscience, which alone must respond. In perceiving
and loving, all the new Christianity lies; feeling the inner
truths, the heart truths, that is, the beautiful, the just and
the good, and loving them in the person of Christ.
We are not of those whom the passion for pure philos
ophy would render indifferent to such a progress of the
religious life. It is a beautiful idea to make the name of
Christ-the symbol of human conscience, and to surround
the popular teaching of morality with the aureole of such a
tradition. We shall not make so soon a philosophic human
ity. If we could produce such a religious humanity, does
�TC-
256
The Old and the New Christianity.
it not seem as if philosophy might patiently await the day
of its complete triumph, if it is ever to come? What a
dream is that of the liberal Christians ! Christianity appears
to them like the tree which was to cover the world and can
yet do so. This tree, planted at Golgotha for the punish
ment of Jesus, watered with his blood, enveloped with the
divine benediction as with a vivifying atmosphere, left to
natural growth and grace from above, would have first
touched the heavens, and soon embraced the .world in the
universal expansion of its branches. The strong and
learned culture of a Paul, a John, of the Alexandrian fathers
and the scholastic doctors, makes of it the sturdy tree which
history gives us for contemplation, with roots taking deep
hold of the soil, a short and massive trunk, boughs clasped
and interlacing, a rough bark, an-d foliage so thick as to
intercept the rays of light. And as, with such a constitu
tion, the sap could not rise, it was obliged to betake itself
to the ends'of the branches, instead of concentrating itself at
the heart of the tree, to force it to its highest development.
And then, after the brilliant Alexandrian vegetation, after
the solid scholastic organization, either from lack of cir
culation or from a wrong direction of the sap, the tree
grows weak and bends under the weight of the branches
which pull it earthward; it covers the world of the middle
ages with a thick shadow under which everything grows
benumbed or sleeps. What did the reformation have to do
towards righting the tree and making it resume its growth
towards heaven ? To recall the sap to the trunk by lop
ping the dead branches and those too low. It is this work
begun by the first reformers, which liberal Christianity con
tinues, by disengaging the tree more and more from every
thing which prevents it from shooting heavenward. Thus
will it become the tree of life under which the religious
faith of humanity will find again the air, light and fragrance
which strengthen without intoxicating, which calm without
stupifying.
Will the dream become a reality? Only God and his
�The Old and the New Christianity.
257
prophets know; but there is one thing which three centu
ries of progress teach us with certainty; it is that the relig
ious world is on the way to the ideal dreamed of by its
freest children. Because some see it still in large majority
attached to dogma and its most minute details, they con
clude that it has not changed and will'not change, that the
orthodoxy of Rome, of Augsburg or of Geneva, holds it con
strained by its narrow formulas. It is an error. To any
one who looks into the matter closelySt is manifest that the
spirit is gaining light more and more in the Christian con
sciences of our times through the letter which so long
pressed it down. If any one wishes to judge of the im
portance of the religious movement which is going on in
the midst of modern societies, he must not form his opinion
from the bold enterprises which suddeily burst forth and
come to nothing; he must follow the slow and sure evolu
tion taking place in the souls in appearance the most in
bondage to the letter. Everything has kept its position,
everything appears equally firm in Christian dogma as
authority imposes it on its believers; but there is only one
place, even in the Catholiq world, where one does not see
that it has its dead and its living partsk that these latter
alone constitute its worth and can assure its future. Alas
for him, especially in these times, who forgets that the let
ter kills and the spirit gives life! It seems that the true
genius of the new times equally escapes the conservatives
who cling to the past and the men who would revolution
ize the future, to see the illusion of the former and the dis
couragements in store for the latter. Our age has, at the
same time, a liking for tradition and for progress. It
remains faithful to the one by'keeping the letter; it serves
the other by being inspired with the spirit. It is plain that
it is more and more out of conceit with and mistrusts theat
rical strokes and the sudden changes of scene called revolu
tions in the history of human societies. Evolution is what
it would appear is to be the preferred form of modern pro
gress. We do not know what the future reserves for the
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The Old and the New Christianity.
religious world. We see indeed liberal Christianity
redouble its efforts and extend its conquests ; we see it in
America, with Channing, Parker and their disciples, draw
crowds and found new churches; we see it in Europe radi
ate in all the great centres of religious life, at Paris, at
Strasburg, at Geneva, the city of Calvin, at London, at
Berlin, at Florence. We should not be surprised, neverthe
less, if this movement did not descend from the high and
free society of the sons of the spirit into the depths of the
religious world, and if the immense majority of Catholic
or Protestant Christians kept the formulas of orthodoxy,
while gaining light from science and becoming penetrated
by the sentiments of modern conscience.
It would be rash in us to pry into the Catholic and
Christian consciences of our times, and pretend to see into
them more clearly than the believers themselves; but it
seems to us that their faith is no longer all of one kind as
in the past. The faith of our fathers in the middle ages,
and even in the first centuries of modern times, embraced
all its articles of dogma in one single affirmation, invincible
and absolute; nothing in it then either wounded the con
science or revolted against reason. To-day there is taking
place, asfit were without its knowledge, a distinction, if not
a separation, in the depth of the religious conscience.
Everything is accepted which the authority of the church
imposes; but people make really two parts of the subject
matter of tradition, one comprehending everything which
no longer answers to the reason, science, or conscience of
ourBime; the other, one whose eternal and universal truth
will never be behind the progress of modern civilization.
Surely no one can call himself Catholic if he does not sin
cerely profess a belief in eternal punishment, in the resur
rection of the body, in original sin, in the mystery of a God
three in one, and even in many other dogmas of less
importance; but how many believers attach to these things
true faith, the faith of the feeling? They believe in them
because it is the law of the church; but the heart of the
�The Old aud the New Christianity.
259
Christian is elsewhere, it is in those ideas of purity, of
justice, of fraternity, of love, which the evangelical teaching
breathes, and which the believer finds in the newest inspi
rations of the modern conscience. This is, if not the only
faith., at least the living one of the religious souls of our
time; the other is only a traditional faith which people
affirm, and will perhaps always affirm, but which they do
not feel alive in their hearts.
Such are those revolutions, which are no more understood
at Rome to-diy than they were in the time of Luther, which
indeed cannot be understood there, because Rome is the
seat of Romanism, rather than of Christianity. The saying
is from the duke of Orleans, and has a yet wider applica
tion than he who let it escape in a moment of discourage
ment intended.
“ Ta regere imperio populos, Romane, memento.” The
verse of the poet is still true. Christian Rome has always
left theology to the doctors of the universities and of the
religious orders, keeping for herself the science of canonical
law and the art of governing. Unfortunately for her,
neither that deep science nor that consummate art are suffi
cient to direct the Christian world in present circumstances.
It is with the religious democracy as with political democ
racy; in order to live they both want more and more
freedom and light, less and less discipline and government.
At the very moment when civilized society aspires to
govern itself, the Romish church reaches the most absolute
formula of personal government. One need not be a pro
phet to predict that such a regime will no more be the law
of the religious than of the political societies of the future.
The spiri-t of liberal Christianity will prevail over the
wholly political genius of Roman Catholicism, not by a
schism, which is not created in a time of so little zeal for
questions of dogma, but by a slow and continued trans
formation of the religious conscience, tending more and
more to conformity with the moral conscience of modern
society. When Protestants like M. de Pressense, when
�I
i
■I
J
I
260
I
The Old and the New Christianity.
Catholics like MM. Dupanloup and Gratry, come to take
for their own church the name even of liberal Chris
tianity, which -is the symbol of the boldest reforms of the
day, we feel that the court of Rome cannot stop the course
of religious thought. In freedom and by freedom was the
great battle of Christianity fought and won in its heroic
age, even in spite of oppression and persecution from with
out. I know no other means of reconquering the world
to-day.” (De Pressense, Hist, des Trois Siecles de l’Eg. Ch.)
Rome is not of this opinion. There are indeed many
degrees in liberal Christianity; the liberty of the Catholics
cannot have such a career as that of Protestants; but Rome,
which understands discipline, comprehends them all in that
universal malady called the spirit of the age, not perceiving
that the true danger which threatens its church to-day, is
the lethargic sleep of a passive and servile faith. It is said
that it is not the freethinkers that cause it the most discom
fort at this time; we readily believe it, and so much the
more as it has never had a taste either for the mystic the
ology or for the scholastic science of these barbarians of the
AVest, for the Germans or the Gauls of any times, which
seem to it to continually wish to go up to the assault of the
Capitol. When Italian finesse does not smile at it, it is
uneasy about it, knowing by a long experience how much
the erudition of the former and the eloqence of the latter
interfere with or trouble her in the manceuvers of her skill
ful diplomacy. They are as children to that great mistress
in the art of governing, but terrible children whose too
violent love for the church of Christ has more than once
agitated and shaken the church of Rome. Such is its mistrust
ot discussion, that, from the advent of modern times, it has
not felt the need of rallying around it the highest lights and
the best forces it found in its own bosom, and that, for its
great combat against the modern spirit, it has counted on
the Inquisition, on the Jesuits, on the favor of princes, on
the adroitness and patience of its diplomacy, on everything,
in short, except the councils. Trusting only to her own
�The Story of a Damned Soul.
261
wisdom, for more than three centuries Rome has governed
and administered her empire without their co-operation,
and now that she has just assembled one, it is to have a
dogma proclaimed which henceforth strikes the institution
with impotence. Then, hearing no longer those disagree
able contradictions which are to have their last echo in the
present assembly, she will be able to live or to sleep in
peace, like the bird which hides its head under its wing at
the approach of the enemy. The fact is, Rome does not
like noisy outbursts, even from the writers and orators
which defend its cause. What it likes, is neither the great
heart of a Lamennais, nor the generous soul of a Lacordaire,
nor the noble and liberal spirit of a Montalembert, nor the
broad and high preaching of a Father Hyacinthe, nor the
fiery polemics of a Gratry, nor the calm dialectics of a
Maret, nor the beautiful and strong eloquence of a Dupanloup, nor, above all, the somewhat worldly wisdom of a
Darboy, nor even the acrimonious temper and satirical spirit
of a Veuillot; it is mute obedience among all its subjects,
without any distinction of character or talent. But, if the
great satisfaction of being mistress of her own house costs
her the dominion of the Catholic world, Rome will have
met the fate of all powers which do not comprehend that
henceforth in liberty alone is the security of all authority.
E. Vacherot.
Article XI.—The Story of'a Damned Soul.
The Examiner and Chronicle, the leading Baptist journal
of the country, calls us to account for the interpretation
put by us upon a passage of Bickersteth’s “Yesterday,
To-day, and Forever,” which we took to refer to Theodore
Parker. Our critic is quite right. The “ Theodore ” of
Mr. Bickersteth’s epic is a Roman youth, the son of a
Christian mother, who, for the love of a pagan girl, goes
over to his father’s paganism, and is soon after killed in
battle, and as particularly and painfully damned, as if the
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The Story of a Damned Soul.
existence of God Almighty depended on it. We confess
to having misinterpreted Mr. Bickersteth, and now propose
to make amends by giving him, and our critic above named,
the benefit, first, of our explanation and apology, and second,
of a reproduction of the story of Theodore’s eternal dam
nation.
The intense anxiety of orthodoxy to get Theodore Parker
fast and sure in hell, was so great, even before Mr. Parker’s
death, as to break out in a prayer-meeting devoted to the
purpose of stirring up Jehovah to give instant attention to
the business. The recollection of this, suggested to us that
Mr. Bickersteth, whose whole work shows him entirely
capable of such a thing, had taken occasion to give assurance
that orthodox desires had been attended to. We had read
his horrible poem all the way from the account of creation
to the end, and could neither recall, nor discover upon
examination, any clue to the meaning of the “ Theodore ”
passage. We had missed the story of Theodore by not
reading one of the preliminary books, in which it comes in
as an episode, where Oriel tells how his first experience of
escorting a soul to hell was in the case of a youth by the
name of “ Theodore,” a youth of “ noble birth,” and “ high
and generous bearing,” whom he had “ fondly loved,” and
whom, nevertheless, he “ bore to his own place in yonder
realms of wrath.” We retract, therefore, the charge that
Mr. Bickersteth particularly and personally damned a
mighty enemy of orthodoxy. It was a generous youth, son
of a pagan father, and drawn, by fond human love of a
pagan girl, to depart from the faith his mother had educated
him in, whom the magnanimous singer of hell and damna
tion singled out for particular horrible mention. We
guessed wrong. Mr. Bickersteth did not strike at a great
heresiarch, to warn daring heretics; he struck at the
unconverted son of a pious mother, to warn a Mrs. Stowe,
and whoever thinks God may be pitiful to Christian mothers,
that inexorable hell cannot be so escaped, in any instance
whatever. We particularly beg pardon of the Examiner
�The Story of a Damned Soul.
263
and Chronicle for robbing its client of a portion of his elab
orately fiendish devotion to orthodoxy. It occurred to us,
when we found the poet saying, “Thus passed the centu
ries,” and then mentioning a name as having startled him,
because it was “ so familiar,” that he must refer to one of
his contemporaries, and we had no doubt that the intense
anxiety of the orthodox world to make sure of Theodore
Parker’s defeat on earth and damnation in hell, had found
convenient, disguised expression in Mr. Bickersteth’s vision.
Our secondary inference, that the mother was damned
with the son, is fully justified by the context of the passage.
“ Theodore is represented as stealing a hurried glance
“ upon a form
us,” with the thought, “ could it be his
mother ?” The Examiner and Chronicle says of our mistake
about the passage, “ All this comes of mistaking below us
(below Oriel and the poet-seer) for below him.” But in fact
the poem had described the damnation of the rebel angels
e
o
as going on below Oriel and the seer, so that
“ As their cry of piercing misery
“ From out that yawning gulf went up to heaven,
Standing upon its rugged edge, we gazed,
Intently and long, down after them;”
and immediately upon this, the lost of earth had been sum
moned to take their turn, whereupon Oriel, says the poet,
“ Spake,
“ With tears, of that which passed beneath, our feet”
The very next local allusion is the “ below us,” which tells
where Theodore saw his mother; and if “below us” is not
equivalent to “ beneath our feet,” which referred, two pages
before, to the damned, we do not understand plain language.
However, going back some seven thousand lines, to the
actual story of Theodore, it becomes plain that the poet
intended to show us how the son was damned to everlasting
hell, but the mother to everlasting heaven, and “ no breath
of useless prayer escaped his lips,” or her’s either. Will
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The Story of a Damned, Sold.
the Examiner and Chronicle face the honest fact here, and
permit its readers to see that its poet’s lesson, in the dam
nation of Theodore, is blacker, a thousand fold, than the
one we mistakenly pointed out? Meanwhile we invite our
readers, who can stomach as blasphemous heathenism as
superstition ever fathered, to trace with us, in Mr. Bicker
steth’s sulphurous pages, the story of a pious mother’s
son particularly damned, for a sign to maternal love that
for the impenitent dead there is possible no other doom
than “ Gehenna’s burning, sulphurous waves.”
The angel attendant of the seer who tells the vast story
of Mr. Bickersteth’s poem, is called Oriel. He points out
to the seer the road to hell, and is asked whether he has
ever been there.
“ Oriel replied, with calm, unfaltering lip,
And with his words his countenance benign
Grew more and more severely beautiful;
The. beauty of triumphant holiness,
The calm, severity of burning love.”
Is not this exquisitely satanic in conception ? Oriel had
been to hell “ thrice,” and the recollection brings to his
countenance the calm severity of love, “burning to. the
lowest hell,” as the full phrase is. The occasion which
particularly comes to his mind was this :
“ The first
Of disembodied human souls I bore
To his own place in yonder realms of wrath,
Was one I fondly loved, of noble birth,
Of high and generous bearing.”
He was “ born of Christian mother,” the wife of a Roman
consul, who himself kept the old faith of his pagan fathers.
5
“ An aged priest baptized him Theodore,
God's <71/% his mother whispered. And thenceforth
She poured upon him, him her only child,
The priceless treasures of a mother’s heart.”
�The Story of a Damned Soul.
1
265
Oriel was his guardian angel, and relates that the boy’s
home,
9
“ Unlike
The moated fortress of a faithful house,
Was ever open to the spirits malign.”
That is to say, the father not being a saint, devils had con
stant access to the young Theodore! Nevertheless, if the
“ severely beautiful ” Oriel tells the truth, “ not an arrow
reached him.” Innate depravity alone was his ruin, says
the explicitely theological angel. And yet he seems to
ascribe to the father a malign influence;—
11 The mother teaching prayers the father mocked!
And yet her spell was earliest on her child,
And strongest. And the fearless Theodore
Was called by other men, and called himself,
A Christian. Love, emotion, gratitude,
All that was tenderest in a tender heart,
All most heroic in a hero’s soul,
Pleaded on Christ’s behalf.”
Theodore was trained to arms, and joined the army of
Constantine, in the struggle against Maxentius,
“ When it chanced,
In sack of a beleagured city, he saved
A Grecian maiden and her sire from death;
Her name Irene, his Iconocles;
Among the princes he a prince, of all
Fair women she the fairest of her race,
Not only for her symmetry of form,
But for the music and the love which breathed
In every motion and in every word.”
Theodore loved her, but his suit was met with the answer,
from Irene’s father,
“ Never shall my child be his
Who kneels before a malefactor’s cross,”
vol. i.—no. 3.
5
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The Story of a Damned Soul.
A determination approved by Irene, who was pagan enough
to abhor the idea of worshipping an undoubted man. The
odore struggled hard,“ now cleaving to his mother’s faith,’’
and “now driven from his anchorage.” “God’s Spirit
strove with him,” and unsuccessfully, says the accurately
Calvanistic Oriel, although he—Oriel —was good enough
to “ ward the powers of darkness off,” while “ the awful
fight was foughten, ’ and give God a fair chance with the
young man. The poet is determined to clearly reveal the
inability of the Heavenly Father (and the human mother)
to save this fine youth, even when Oriel vigilantly and
successfully warded off hellish fraud and violence.” The
bad heart of the youth brought him to this decision:
“ 11 cannot leave that spirit
Angelic in a human form enshrined.
She must be mine forever. Life were death
Without her.’ And straight entering, where she leaned
Upon her father, as white jasmine leans
On a dark pine, slowly, resolutely,
As measuring every word with fate, he said,
‘ Irene, if the choice be endless woe,
For thy sake I renounce my mother’s faith:
I cannot, will not leave thee. I am thine.’ ”
That night the three escaped to the army of Maxentius;
a “soldier’s spousal” was celebrated; and the morning
brought the fatal battle. Mr. Oriel relates, with calm
severity of damning love, that Theodore rose, a desperate,
maddened, hell-inspired blasphemer, “in his eye a wild,
disastrous fire,” and “ the tempest raging in his heart, and
went
Impetuously into the thickest fight,
And prodigies of valor wrought that day,
Felling beneath his fratricidal blade
Whole ranks, his comrades and his brethren, late
Brethren in faith and arms.”
We suspect Mr. Oriel here of being an arrant liar, and
�The Story of a Damned Soul.
267
wonder that the poet-seer did not bid him go “ squat like a
toad ” at the ear of Rev. J. D. Fulton, with this part of his
tale. But we will hear from him Theodore’s end:
£< An unknown arrow, not unfledged with prayer,
Transpierced his eye and brain. Sudden he fell;
One short, sharp cry; one strong, convulsive throe,
And in a moment his unhappy spirit
Was from its quivering tabernacle loosed.”
The first cry of the disembodied soul, says Oriel, was,—
“ Mother, where art thou, mother ? where am I ?”
a cry which Oriel answered by seizing his “ fondly loved ”
charge, with a stern announcement of orders from Almighty
Power to convey him to hell. Theodore was “ submissive,”
without “ lamentations,” and without “ proud reluctances
and vain despite,” as Oriel led him hellward. But as they
advanced on the dreadfully darkening way, and “the hope
less captive gazed a long, last gaze” upon sun and stars,
“ A groan brake from him, and he sobbed aloud—
4 My mother, oh 1 my mother, from thy love
I learned to love those silent orbs of light,
God’s watchers thou didst call them, as they peered,
Evening by evening, on my infant sleep,
And mingled with my every boyish dream:
Are they now shining on thy misery ?
Who, now that I am gone, will wipe thine eyes ?
Who, mother, bind thy bruised and broken heart ?’ ”
Oriel now states to Theodors that his mother, will think
he was slain a Christian and has gone to heaven, whereat
the doomed young man expresses feelings of which Oriel
says,
44 Never will this heart forget
The impress of the look he cast on me.
He had not wept before; but now a tear
Hung on his trembling lids, through which he looked
�268
The Story of a Damned Soul.
Such gratitude as utter hopelessness
May render, .... a look which said
‘ I thank thee as the damned alone can thank;
Lost as I am, hell will not be such hell,
The while my mother thinks of me in heaven.’ ”
At last “ the iron gates of hell ” are reached, after a march
of interminable horror, through a desolate ravine, in the
palpable darkness of which the radiance of Oriel’s form, as
we can readily believe, was but “ a faint and feeble torch.”
The “ adamantine doors ” receive their victim and his
escort; Oriel conducts Theodore to a barren mountain, and
“ God looked upon him,” with his “ dreadful eye,”— not
with its full hell power, but “ half eclipsed,” yet with such
severely loving effect that to the doomed man,
“ The very air he breathed
Seemed to his sense one universal flame
Of wrath, . . . H . . and a low wail
Ere long brake from those miserable lips—
‘ 0 God, and is this hell ? and must this last
Forever ? would I never had been born I
Why was I born ! I did not choose my birth.
0 Thou, who did’st create me, uncreate,
I pray Thee. By Thine own omnipotence
Quench Thou this feeble spark of life in me.
0 God destroy me. Grant this latest boon
Thy wretched, ruined child will ever ask,
And suffer me to be no more at all.’ ”
To this “ aimless, bootless prayer,” the quite contented
Oriel replies,
“ Thou cravest what Omnipotence can do,”
but wont do, because “ Omniscient Love decrees ” damna
tion,
“ And therefore vainly dost thou now invoke
Almighty Power to thwart All-Seeing Love.”
�✓
The Story of a Damned Soul.
269
Even the “free service” of God, “justice interdicts,”
that being “heaven’s perennial joy.” “ Hades knows no
other law ” than “ passive submission ” to damnation,
“And here there is no sentinel but Glod;
His Eye alone is jailer; and His Hand
The only executioner of wrath.”
With this pungent doctrine of Moloch, Oriel proposes to
leave Theodore, while he catches a glimpse, “permitted
him by God,” of Paradise, and is moved thereby to indulge
“ idle phantasies of hope,” which Oriel, mindful of Calvinistic problems, turns back to extinguish, “ in mere pity.”
Convinced thus that there is no hope for himself, Theodore
cries out,
,
'
“ But is there not a hope
For one I briefly, passionately loved ?
*******
Tell her, in mercy tell her where I am,
What suffering—what must suffer evermore :
It may be she will turn and live. And if,
Whene’er my mother’s pilgrimage is passed,
And she, entering the gates of bliss, shall search
Through every field of yonder Paradise,
To find her only son, and search in vain,
If then thou wilt but try and comfort her—■
What way I know not, but thou know’st—and should
Her restless eye intuitively glance
Towards this valley, instantly divert
Its gaze else wither, thou wilt have done all
I ask for, and far more than I deserve.”
To which the insensate, pitiless, damnation-contriving
Oriel replies,
“Thy prayers to thine own bosom must return.”
*******
“ I leave thee in thy just Creator’s hands.”
Fifteen centuries now passed, and Oriel received orders
�The Story of a Damned Soul.
270
from the Almighty to join an embassy sent forth to
“ traverse hell in all its length and breadth,” and announce
the near approach of the judgment day. Of this Oriel
says,
“First to that mountain valley, where I left
Lost Theodore, I bent my course. 0 God !
The solemn change which fifteen centuries
In hell had written on his fearful brow.”
The further description, and the elaborate speeches ex
changed, represent Theodore as entirely converted to high
Calvinism, and quite convinced that hell-fire,—the “ veilless
blaze” of the “Dreadful Eye,” which is to come after
the judgment, will be after all the greatest possible boon,
“repressing with flame the fertility ” of “ the ineradicable
germs of sin,” though never able to extinguish them. And
to this extraordinary exposition of the divine imbecility, or
indisposition, to eradicate sin, the judicious angel gave
Theodore no opportunity to reply, but sped on his way to
advise the hellions of the speedy Second Advent of the
Messiah, making expository remarks, as he went, vindicative
of hell in general, and of particular hell for the generous
youth to whom he had been guardian angel.
To follow the story we must turn now to the ninth book
of the poem, which is called “ The Bridal of the Lamb.”
Here we hear Messiah say,
“ Now is the day of vengeance in my heart,
And now the year of my redeemed is come; ”
and we behold
“ Messiah seated on a snow-white horse
Of fiery brightness, as the Lord of hosts,
Apparelled in a vesture dipped in blood.”
In due time the Last Judgment is at. hand, and the hosts
of darkness gather in one final conspiracy,
�The Story of a Damned Soul.
271
“ When from the frowning heavens again that sound,
Which shook the first fell council of the damned,
More terrible than thunder, vibrated
Through every heart Jehovaffls awful laugh / ”
And now
“ Messiah spake again, His voice
Resounding from the jasper walls of heaven
To hell’s profoundest caves.
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
and' Death and Hell,
With dreadful throes and agonizing groans,
Disgorged their dead, the lost of every age,
In myriads, small and great confusedly.”
These are all brought back to earth to resume their
bodies, which were to be “ made fit to endure the terrors
of the wrath to come.” Then the book of life is read, and
the redeemed deceived to the right hand of the Judge.
The rebel angels are damned in order, ending with the
Arch-fiend, whose head Messiah crushes with “ his burning
heel.”
“ And for a space no sound was heard. But then
It seemed the crystal anpyr^m clave
Beneath them, and the horrid vacuum sucked
The devil and his armies down . . .
To bottomless perdition.”
After this the lost of mankind are summoned, and among
them is specially observed Theodore. Then
“ The Judge arising from his throne,
Bent on the countless multitudes convict
His vision of eternaBwrath, and spake
In tones which more than thousand thunders shook
The crumbling citadel of every heart,—
‘ Depart from Me, ye cursed, into fire,
For the devil and his hosts prepared,
Fire everlasting, fire unquenchable;
Myself have said it: let it be : Amen.’
*
*
*
*
Again the floor
�272
The Story of a Damned Soul.
Of solid crystal where the damned stood
Opened its mouth, immeasurable leagues;
And with a cry whose piercing echoes yet
Beat through the void of shoreless space, the lost
Helplessly, hopelessly, resistlessly,
Adown the inevitable fissure sank,
As sank before the ruined hosts of hell,
Still down, still ever down, from deep to deep,
Into the outer darkness, till at last
The fiery gulf received them, and they plunged
Beneath Gehenna’s burning sulphurous waves
In the abyss of ever-during woe.
"
“ All shook except the Throne of Judgment. * *
The Hand that held the scales of destiny
Swerved not a hair’s breadth: and the Voice which spake
Those utterances quailed not, faltered not.
But when the fiery gulf was shut, and all
Looked with one instinct on the judgment-seat,
To read his countenance who sate thereon,
He was in tears—the Judge was weeping—tears
Of grief and pity inexpressible.
And in full sympathy of grief the springs
Gushed forth within us; and the angels wept:
Till stooping from the throne with His own hand
He wiped the tears from every eye, and said,
1 My Father’s will be done: His will is mine;
And mine is yours: but mercy is his delight,
And judgment is his strange and dreadful work.
Now it is done forever. Come with me
Ye blessed children of my Father, come;
And in the many mansions of His love
Enjoy the beams of His unclouded smil<£f
So saying, as once from Olivet, he rose
Majestically toward the heaven of heavens
In the serenity of perfect peace:
And we arose^with him.
But what of those
Who from the place of final judgment hurled,
Had each his portion in the lake of fire ?
�The Story of a Damned Soul.
273
No Lethe rolled its dark oblivious waves,
As some have feigned, betwixt that world of woe
And ours of bliss. But rather, as of old
Foreshadowed in the prescient oracles,
The smoke of their great torment rose to heaven
In presence of the holy seraphim,
And in the presence of the Lamb of God,
For ever and for ever. At the first
Nothing was heard ascending from the deep
Save wailings and unutterable groans,
Wrung from them by o’ermastering agony;
But as His Eye, who is consuming fire,
Unintermittingly abode on them,—
Silence assumed her adamantine throne.”
The One-Eyed Dread having thus attended to his ene
mies, snivelled a pretence of grief to accommodate a passage
in the New Testament, and got his red-hot look so fixed on
the damned that they burned horribly without useless wail
or groan, there roll away “ages of a measureless eternity,”
and at last the voice of “ hell’s dethroned monarch ” breaks
the silence with an elaborate confession of the dogmas and
arguments of Calvinism, ending with
“ Lost, lost: our doom is irreversible:
Power, justice, mercy, love have sealed us here;
Glory to God who sitteth on the throne,
And to the Lamb for ever and for ever.”
<
The voice was hushed a moment; then a deep
Low murmur, like a hoarse resounding surge,
Rose from the universal lake of fire:
No tongue was mute, no damned spirit but swelled
That multitudinous tide of awful praise,
‘ Glory to God who sitteth on the throne,
And to the Lamb, for ever and for ever.’ ”
H
The reader who has not made himself familiar with the
severities of damning love may imagine that the One-Eyed
�274
z
The Story of a Damned Soul.
Horror called a Lamb took off now his eye of consuming
fire, and'permitted the hellions to cool a trifle. Not he, if
he knew the catechism. On the contrary, he held on the
hotter, as the only sure thing for his glory, and the devil is
made to say pensively and submissively, at the Lamb’s hellhot look,
“ I see far off the glory of thy kingdom
Basking in peace, uninterrupted peace:
But were I free, and were my comrades free,
Sin mightier than myself and them would drag
Our armies to perplex those fields with war.
Only thus fettered can we safely gaze;
Thus only to the prisoners of despair
Can Mercy, which is infinite, vouchsafe
Far glimpses of the beauty of holiness.
Woe, woe, immedicable woe for those
Whose hopeless ruin is their only hope,
And hell their solitary resting-place,”—
/
which makes it plain that if the Fount of Hell, the Lamb’s
Dreadful Eye, should cool ever so little, to all eternity, it
would be very bad for the damned, whose only hope is in
sizzling patierroly under the merciful vengeance of the
Moloch Eye.
There is bug one more point to be made, that of the
advantage to the saints of having the damned always in
view, the happiness a redeemed mother, for example, will
feel from gazing occasionally on her Theodore—her God’s
gift—smoking in the frying-pan of the Lamb’s “ infinite
mercy,” and kept from unconverted pranks of human love
by the “ immedicable woe ” of “ hopeless ruin.” In his
closing pages Mr. Bickersteth labors to make this evident.
He seems to be of opinion that the saints would be too
happy in heaven, or on the redeemed and restored earth,
but for interesting reminiscences of damnation and occa
sional contemplation of the woes of the lost.
�275
The Story of a Damned Soul.
“ Haply such perfectness of earthly bliss,
And such far vistas of celestial light,
Had overcharged their hearts. But not in vain
The awful chronicles of time. And oft
When dazzled with the glory and the glow
That streamed from Zion’s everlasting hills,
Messiah or his ministers would tell
Rapt auditors how Satan fell from bliss,
The story of a ruined Paradise,
The foughten fight, the victory achieved,
But only with the endless banishment
Of damned spirits innumerable and men
From heaven and heavenly favor, which is life.
Nor seldom he, who strengthened human sight,
As with angelic telescope, to read
The wonders of the highest firmament,
Would bid them gaze into the awful Deep
Couching beneath; and there they saw the lost
- ...
For ever bound under his dreadful Eye,
Who is eternal and consuming fire,
There in the outer darkness.
*
*
*
That which men witnessed of the damned in hell,
By unction of the Spirit at God’s command,
Was in our gaze at will, whene’er the smoke
In mighty volumes rising from the Deep,
Blown devious by God’s breath athwart the void,
Dispersed. Nor turned we always from the sight; (
Should not the children share their Father’s thoughts ?
Should not the Wife her husband’s counsels learn?
*
*
*
*
*
*
And in the cloudless joys of heaven and earth
Haply this sight and knowledge were, to us
The needful undertones of sympathy
With Him.”
So ends the tale. The mother of our Roman youth is
with the redeemed; her husband and only child in hell. To
keep her from a surfeit of happiness the Lamb gossips with
her about the fall and damnation of spirits and men;
�276
Prospects and Purposes.
strengthens her vision so that she can distinctly see what
is going on in hell; and so brings her into sympathy with
the effects of his red-hot Dreadful Eye. Who says Amen
to this heathenism ?
The Examiner and Chronicle.
Mr. Beecher's Christian Union.
The Chicago Advance.
The Independent.
The Congregationalist and Recorder.
The Watchman and deflector, etc., etc.
Article XI.—Prospects and Purposes.
We believe we may now say, with confidence, that the
permanence of The Examiner is fully assured. We have
had to make a month’s delay, to consider difficulties and
provide resources, and for this reason, date our third issue
February, instead of January. Our enterprise is a difficult
one, but we lack neither faith nor courage, and we find
willing and strong friends. The Examiner will not die.
It is gaining noble support, and much ampler than we
expected.
Our position in a field already occupied by The Rad
ical and The Index, has a two-fold explanation. We
undertook to interpret religion and kindred themes, under
the Christian name, which The Index rejects, and with the
purpose of earnestly and definitely controverting the pseudo
Christianity of existing sects, much more than The Radical
has chosen to do this. Our views of the error and mischief
of Jesuism, either as orthodox theology or as liberal heroworship, are much more distinct and decisive than those of
contemporary liberalism. Neither The Radical nor The
Index seem to us to have illustrated full emancipation from
the current sentimentalism and unscholarly prepossession,
which have made Jesus more than a common man, and
better, for help and comfort, than the natural dependence of
�Prospects and Purposes.
277
man, the God and Father of all souls. We propose to
have the exact truth of history told about this young Jew
ish aspirant to earthly Messiahship, and the plain truth of
theology taught in regard to the absolute insignificance of
him, or any other man, where the question is of the eternal
life, the destiny and the blessedness, of the creatures of
GOD. It is time to cry Great Pan is dead, and perempto
rily to remand Jesus, the God-man, Lord and Saviour, mas
ter and hero, to his proper humble place, as in himself a
quite common and erring man, and in his providential posi
tion a standard-bearer for similar quite common and erring
men, of faith in God’s presence, without mediator or mes
senger, with every soul of man.
On the other hand we desire to resist, with all the force
of what we deem just thought and sound learning, the
theory of The Index that Christianity is to be separated from,
and that the new movement of faith is to disavow the pre
vious steps of our common humanity. Not only is there
vast power to be kept in the just weight of what has been
best in Christianity, but the connection is one absolutely
essential to the consolation, by religious teaching, of the
suffering millions. We had rather a thousand fold silence
our private opinions, and study and practice the simpler,
more universal, and always most heavenly truths of practi
cal Christianity, as a lay member, a novice or penitent, in
the Catholic church, than to join our friend Abbot in his
stupendous misrepresentation of Christianity. Not that we
shrink from any surgery of truth, lor would hesitate a
moment to give Mr. Abbot a place with us in The Exam
iner, for fair consideration of his views, and full defence of
them, but simply because, when all has been said, his con
clusion is, to us, the most unwarranted and lamentable
which an honest thinker and earnest scholar ever arrived
at. We profoundly honor our friend, whose position we thus
criticise; he has on every ground as much right to his opin
ion as we to ours; we cherish no aversion towards him as
a religious teacher, and will gladly stand anywhere with
�278
Prospects and Purposes.
him, but of what 13 to us the utterly unfit expedient of
seething the kid in his mother’s blood we will unmistaka
bly speak our mind to the end of the chapter. And we
have abundant evidence that in so doing we can render
important service to the emancipation of the public miud
from superstition, and the healthy development of free reli
gion. In general, with many exceptions of course, the
purification of faith results in a free and large comprehen
sion of Christianity, not in rejection of the connection or
the name. With Mr. Abbot’s organ (much more than with
Mr. Abbot himself), it results in a singular stringency ot
speculative doubt and reserve, which flatly forbids us to be
Christian, and hardly permits us to cherish a comfortable
thought of God. Our special hope and desire, on the contrary, is to cultivate a very great, and fervent, and fruitful
thought of God, and to make clear that this, as it is emphasized in “Our Father,” is the ever-enduring truth of Christiani ty.
The lament, or the complaint, of some of our critics, that
The Examiner is the organ of one man, bespeaks a mi-understanding of our editorial plans. To such as take a
friendly interest in our effort to conduct a monthly review
such as The Examiner is, we need say but a word in explanation of our purpose, which is to editorially bring together
the ample testimonies of literature, and make the greatest
and best minds of this and other times help to fill our pages.
To us literature is the true scripture, and it is a neglected
scripture. Lessons far richer and greater than the current
divinity knows, are scattered through the better writings
of mankind, from the time of Socrates to the present day.
To edit and publish these lessons of neglected inspiration,
to gather and set forth to the public of common readers
these contributions of unrecognized prophets, marking
their force and fairly interpreting their significance, is a
legitimate work.
And in this work we can also have the aid of many of
the best living writers, the leaders of thought and faith and
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�Prospects and Purposes.
279
science in all parts of the world, whose best selected words
we can properly and acceptably reproduce in our pages.
Two distinguished French writers have already instructed
our readers, and Emerson, Parker, Max Miiller, Mr. Abbot,
and others have been heard in the numbers already issued.
We shall make this feature of our plan more distinct as we
go on, and have no doubt that our readers will be satisfied
of the wisdom of our aim. And in addition to this, we
*
shall secure, as our plans develop, the very best aid which
contemporary thought and learning, at home or abroad, can
furnish, in the form of original contributions prepared
expressly for The Examiner, English, French, German,
and other voices, as well as American, speaking through a
publication in the heart of our new world, to the audience
of earnest inquirers which we are gathering.
It is not too much, we trust, to ask our friends to work
earnestly for us now, with the full expectation of permanent
and complete success. To give more time for this, and to
enable us to put our regular publication-day back to the
middle of the month, we shall bring out our next number
for April, and have it ready March 15. This will make ©ur
first year of the publication (12 numbers) end with the
current year.
* There is variety enough, and richness enough, in the current expres
sion of the human race to give us more than we can possibly use. Our
work will be, as near as possible, to gather out of this unrolling scrip
ture of mankind the fact, thought, principle, life, which are the voice
of man and the voice of God in the world to-day; sometimes citing
exact words of contemporary utterances, as in our translated article,
and the numerous extracts scattered through other articles; sometimes
reporting the substance of a new or fresh page of revelation; and
sometimes entering upon a critical examination of the book, the man,
the life which merits attention.
�280
Wanted, a Moralist for Dr. Clarke’s Statesman.
Article XIII.— Wanted, a Moralist for Dr. J. F. Clarke’s
Statesman.
The title under which Dr. J. F. Clarke discoursed of
political matters, in a recent number of Old and New—
“Wanted, a Statesman,”—assumed enough in itself to
warrant us in looking for superior wisdom in the essay,
whether it dealt only with the failure of our politics, or also
went on to lay down a policy of its own. To our great
surprisel we found, under this title, some remarks as
ill-considered as'the worst parts of Dr. Clarke’s theological
treatises, not the sound wisdom of a cautious thinker, nor
even the correct views of a careful observer; but crude
observations of a deplorably careless sentimentalist, such as
we so commonly find in second-rate sermons. Take, for
example, Dr. Clarke’s solution of the Alabama question,
gravely proposed by him in an exposition of what he con
siders the statesmanship wanted by us :—
“ Great Britain either did right or did wrong. Leave it
to herself to decide which. Let Gen. Grant request our
minister to request the British Government to decide that
question, and inform it beforehand that we are ready to
accept its conclusion. If Great Britain, through her govern
ment, says that she did right, we will accept that solution,
and drop the subject; only in that case, we shall, of course,
have the right to do the same. Whenever she has a rebel
lion in her empire, or is engaged in a foreign war, we shall
have a right to do to Great Britain exactly what she did to
us. We shall take just as much pains as she did, and no
more, to keep pirates from going out of our ports, to prey
upon her commerce. If she likes this programme, let her
say so.”
This may be astute statesmanship, to leave to Great
Britain to say whether those who lost by the rebel cruisers
fitted out in British ports have any just claim upon her, and
also to leave to her prejudiced decision to settle the future
law of the matter, but at least we may deny the morality,
in case Great Britain refuses what we are sure is justice, of
�'Wanted, a Moralist for Dr. Clarke’s Statesman.
281
determining to imitate such refusal of justice the first
chance we have. As a sentimentalist, Dr. Clarke might
have said, “ If Great Britain thinks she did right, let us sayno more about it, and when our chance comes, we will
shame her neglect and treachery by scrupulous justice and
fidelity.” He would then lie open only to the charge of
unjustly sacrificing the claims of our citizens, and of yield
ing needlessly a grave point of law, merely for a burst of
sentiment. But when he advises that we yield now, and
make it up in hard hits by and by, he proposes the policy of
the cowardly savage, a statesmanship which would soon
carry the world back to the settlement of all questions by
stealthy blows of the strong hand and the wily craft of
aboriginal passion.
We introduced in our last issue, on p. 184, a barbarism,
anti Christum, etc^intending to indicate by a note that we
used it as a barbarism. Our meaning was, that if the Uni
tarians were to forget their culture and take a position in
the spirit of the expression in question, it would be better
than to dawdle disreputably about Zion waiting for the
Lord to come and claim the contents of the Unitarian
napkin.
VOL. I.—NO. 3.
6
�BOOKS'.
Plutarch's Morals—A Bible of Greek “ Grace and Truth.’'*
—What mean these five goodly octavos, with their more
than twenty-five hundred pages of the writings of a pagan
of the last half of the first Christian century? They are
published under auspices the very best which America
could afford. No house in the country, or indeed anywhere,
would be less likely than Little, Brown & Co., Boston,
whose imprint these volumes bear, to make either a com
mercial or a literary mistake, in a matter so serious as this
evidently is. So, also, the name of Prof. Goodwin argues
not less certainly that so large and difficult a task was not
attempted except for most weighty reasons. And when we
learn that the revision carried through by him has been
beset at every step with unusual perplexities, yet has been
accomplished with the utmost pains, and is evidently a
signal success, we conclude, unhesitatingly, that Plutarch’s
Morals must have merits rarely found in the productions of
any age. To confirm this conclusion, if confirmation were
needed, what witness more competent than Mr. Emerson ?
lie is the acknowledged master of the best school of
American literature, and the man of all men now living
to pass judgment on, and to authenticate to the thoughtful
and working world of to-day, any studies, ancient or
modern, in the important field of ethical science and prac
tical wisdom. If, therefore, he gives unstinted praise, we
need not wait to turn over these twenty-five hundred pages
to be convinced that something rich and rare is set before us.
* Translated from the Greek, by several hands. Corrected and revised by
William W. Goodwin, Ph.D., Professor of Greek Literature in Harvard
University. With an Introduction by Ralph Waldo Emerson. 5 vols., 8vo.,
$15. Little, Brown & Co., Boston.
�Plutarch’s Morals.
2E3
As a matter of fact, however, we had known for some
years that a certain old translation of Plutarch’s Morals,—
an extensive collection of essays by the author of the famous
“Lives,”—was esteemed by Mr. Emerson, both from the
Greek wit and wisdom garnered in it, and for the singular
vigor, freshness, and breadth of its English style, one of
the most precious bibles of mankind. We had had the use
of a copy of this translation — it is a very rare book — and
had made a selection of its richest texts; and from Mr.
Emerson himself we had learned, some time since, of the
plan for its revision and reproducEon, and of the hope
which he cherished that it would introduce to the studious
and earnest believers and workers of our day “some good
paganism.”
The labors of some forty or fifty English university men
produced the version now re-presentedftnd made it, in Mr.
Emerson’s judgment, “a monument of the English language
at a period of singular vigor and freedom of style.” Still, the
old book was “ careless and vicious in parts,” as a transla
tion, and sadly needed the improvement which ProflGoodwin’s accomplished hand has given it. And happily,Ehe
thorough revision which has made the translation faithful
to the Greek original, has proved throughout a vindication
of Plutarch, a restoratibn of clear and accurate statements
where the old version gave something absurd and unintel
ligible.
Plutarch belonged to the generation second after that of
Jesus. He was just coming to manhood when Paul ceased
from apostolic labors. The essays which are called his
“ Morals,” were written at the moment when Christian
teaching was fairly in the world, but before it had made
any appreciable impression upon paganism. If they contain
lessons of rare and gracious wTisdom, these lessons show
what paganism was capable of at the very hour when
Christianity, as popularly interpreted, claims to have found
the light of ethical and religious teaching Blean gone out.
�284
Plutarch's Morals.
The “ Lives” and the “ Morals” of Plutarch, taken together,
form a large body of history and instruction, of chronicle,
character and catechism, retold and retaught, newly narrated
and freshly expounded and enforced, at just the moment
when our popular Christianity pretends that the world of
ancient life and faith was without form and void, and dark
ness brooded over a chaos which waited the creating breath
of Divine interference through Christ. As Mr. Emerson
says, “ Plutarch occupies a unique place in literature, as an
encyclopaedia of Greek and Roman antiquity.” He is a
kind of bible of ancient faith and practice, an evangelist of
the best, in ideas and in examples, which the old pagan
world had to offer. It is worth while, therefore, to know
what his gospel is, and to compareBits truths and errors
with the truths and errors of the system which has so long
put all other systems aside, with the claim that they all
failed of grace and truth, and that it alone had the word of
lifeH
Mr. Emerson says of the “ Morals,” the sermons of
Plutarch, “ I know not where to find a book — to borrow a
phrase of Ben Jonson’s—1 so rammed with life.’ ” Plutarch
in general he pronounces “ a chief example of the illumina
tion of the intellect by the force of morals.” Other
points of the explanation and vindication of the Greek
essayist by the American, appear in the following sentences,
which we cull from the Introduction to the edition of the
“ Morals ” now before us :
“ Whatever is eminent in fact, or in fiction, in opinion,
in character, in institutions, in science — natural, moral, or
metaphysical, or in memorable sayings, drew his attention
and came to his pen with more or less fullness of record.”
—(The reason of Plutarch’s vast popularity is his humanity.
Nothing touches man but he feels it to be his. He has
preserved for us a multitude of precious sentences, in prose
or verse, of authors whose books are lost; and these
embalmed fragments, through his loving selection alone,
have come to be proverbs of later mankind.”—“Now and
then there are hints of superior science. You may cull
�Plutarch’s Morals.
285
from his record of barbarous guesses of shepherds and
travelers statements that are predictions of facts established
in modern science.”—“ His extreme interest in every trait
of character, and his broad humanity, lead him constantly to
Morals, to the study of the Beautiful and Good. Hence
his love of heroes, his rule of life, and his clear convictions
of the high destiny of the soul. La Harpe said ‘ that Plutarch
is the genius the most naturally moral that ever exist
ed.’ ”—“Plutarch is genial, with an endless interest in all
human and divine things.” — “ Plutarch thought ‘ truth
to be the greatest good that man can receive, and the good
liest blessing that God can give.’ ”—“ His faith in the
immortality of the soul is another measure of his deep
humanity. He believes that the doctrine of the divine
Providence, and that of the immortality of the soul, rest on
one and the same basis.”—“lean easily believe that an
anxious soul may find in Plutarch’s chapter called ‘Pleasure
not attainable by Epicurus,’ and his ‘Letter to his Wife
Tiihoxena,’ a more sweet and reassuring argument on the
immortality than in the Phaedo of Plato; for Plutarch
always addresses the question on the human side, and not
on the metaphysical; as Walter Scott took hold of boys
and young men, in England and America, and through
them of their fathers. His grand perceptions of duty lead
him to his stern delight in heroism; a stoic resistance to
low indulgence; to a fight with fortune; a regard for truth ;
his love of Sparta and of heroes like Aristides, Phocion,
and Cato.”—“But this stoic, in his fight with fortune,with
vices, effeminacy and indolence, is gentle as a woman when
other strings are touched. He is the most amiable of men.
He has a tenderness almost to tears, when he writes on
‘Friendship,’ on ‘Benefitsflon ‘The Training of Children,’
and on ‘The Love of Brothers.’ All his judgments are
noble. He thought, with Epicurus, that it is more delight
ful to do than to receive a kindness. . . . His excessive and
fanciful humanity reminds one of Charles Lamb, whiist it
much exceeds him. . . . His delight in magnanimity and
self-sacrifice has made his books, like Homer’s Iliad, a bible
for heroes.”
We cannot here go at length into proof from Plutarch’s
own pages, of the existence in him of a veritable revelation,
worthy to be compared, in many great and noble respects,
with anything ever indited for the instruction of mankind.
�286
Plutarch’s Morals.
In brief, we declare our unhesitating judgment that
Plutarch, pagan chronicler and moralist though he be, is as
well worth earnest and reverent study as that Bible which
has been so long thrust upon us as the only and the infallible
rule of divine truth. In our opinion, the revelation which
is contained in Socrates, Plato, Philo Judaeus, Plutarch, and
the other representatives or inheritors of Greek wisdom, is
much richer than that which we have accepted from the
Hebrews and Hebrew-Christian mind. As the words Christ
and Christianity are Greek, so the best part of our truest
Christianity is from Greek teaching rather than Hebrew,
and far the largest, and deepest, and purest fountain of
divine truth, is in the scriptures which commence with
Socrates and Plato, and which have their fourth gospel in
the “Morals” of Plutarch, as they have their Acts of the
Apostles in his “ Lives.”
’ It may seem a rude judgment in the face of current
Christian opinion, but we cannot help it. We feel no call
to respect the crass ignorance and gross superstition which
still make accredited Christian judgment, in the matter of
divine revelation, a baseless prepossession, no more just
than Hindoo, Chinese, or Mohammedan prepossession. If
the world of Christendom had spent as much pains in the
free study of Greek chronicle and exposition as have been
given to the law and gospel derived from Jewish sources,
we have no doubt that the average enlightenment and ele
vation of mankind would be very much greater than at
present. The simpler and more superstitious books have
commanded attention, and the world meanwhile has lost
fifteen hundred years, and only now begins to walk with
the best masters of paganism. It did not surprise us when
Mr. Emerson said to us, speaking of Plutarch, “ We want
some good paganism.” The study of divinity will take a step
as important as any ‘ revival of learning ’ that ever was,
when Greek Socrates shall displace Hebrew Samuel, Plato
Paul, and Plutarch John and Matthew’, aud study shall seek
�Plutarch's Morals.
287
for great thoughts, humane principles,, and manly examples
rather than waste itself on the®uperstition that one young
Jew and certain Jewish books shut up both God and God’s
truth in themselves, and that the first and last labor of
investigation is to vindicate this pretension. We will un
hesitatingly compare Plutarch alone with the whole Bible,
not to show that he avoids error, but to prove that he more
fully and more profoundly grasps essential truth, and that
on the grand points of ethical and theological teaching he
is infinitely wiser than the popular Christian interpretation
of so-called holy writ. We shall make it our duty to bring
forward proof of this from time to time, as our space and
plans will permit. In conclusion now we merely cite a few
specimens taken from the first pages of Vol. I. of the
“ Morals.”
0S'<3hr,a'tes, ^t^as be’perceived "anyfierceness of spifiT
h
*s
to rise within him towards any of his friends, setting him
self like a promontory to break the waves, would speak with
A lower voice, bear a smiling PowntenancS,, and look with a more
*
yentie'eye $ andtehusl by bending thexother way and moving
contrary to the passion, he kept himself from falling or
being worst®d^S|
“Observing that many have begun their change to virtue
more from being pardoned than being punished, I became per
suaded of this: that reason was fitter to govern with than
anger,” JI
“Good temper doth remedy some things, put an orna
ment upon others, ^udgweete^^thermiU
“ If every one would al way s rep eat th e question of Plato
to himself, But am not I perhaps sum aone
and
turn his reason from abroad to loofei into himself, and put
restraint upon his reprehension of others, he would not make
so much use of his hatred of evil in reproving other men, seeing
himsaH:
in need fgrgat. indulgonc^^jg
“ J^rnTve affl vnlwest, 1
Jimpedoelelp.as a
divine thing, ‘ To fast from evil.’ ” — From Concerning the
Cure of
�288
The Invitation Heeded.
“Atheism, which is a false persuasion that there are no
blessed and incorruptible beings, . . is very lamentable and
sad. For to be blind or to see amiss in matters of this con
sequence cannot but be a fatal unhappiness to the mind, it
being then deplved of the fairest and brightest of its many
eyes, the knowledge of God.”
“ Atheism hath no hand at all in causing superstition ;
bull superstition not only gave atheism its first birth, but
serves it ever since by giving it its best apology for existing,
whgh, although it be neither a good nor a fair one, is yet
the most specious and colorable.”
“There is certainly no infirmiB belonging to us that
contains such a multipllity of errors and fond"passions, or
that consists of such incongruous and incoherent opinions,
as this of superstition dotl3f It behooves us, therefore
to
*
do our utmost to escape it; but withal, we must see we do it
safely and prudmtly, and not rashly and inconsiderately, as
people run from the incursions of robbers or from fire, and
fall into bewildered and untrodden paths, full of pits and
precipices. For so some, while they would avoid supersti
tion,Rea® over the golden mean of true piety into the harsh
and coarse extreme of atheism.”—From Of Superstition or
Indiscreet Devotion.
The Invitation Heeded—Reasons for a Return to Catholic
Unity.—By James Kent Stone.
*
The activity of the Catholic Publication Society has been
for some time one of the signs of theKimes. It represents
an earnest school of American Catholics, whose gifts and
graceJcannot be denied. We have a shelf of the books
which have come from this school within a few years, which
we highly prize as one of the genuine fruits of contempo
rary religious activity, although much which these volumes
contain must be winowed out as mere chaff of tradition. In
our judgment the new school of Catholicism is much more
humane, sensible and religious in its literature, both books
and tracts, than the Protestant orthodoxy ^represented by
* The Catholic Publication Society, New York, 1870.
�The Invitation Heeded.
289
the Tract Societies and Publication Houses which flood the
country with cheap superstition; superstition, too, which is
absurd and cruel.
This school finds a new recruit, and a valuable one, in
the author of The Invitation Heeded. Dr. Stone appears to
great advantage in his deeply sincere, earnest and able argu
ment and appeal, which he does not confidently urge with
out having profoundly felt. We can lend a hearty sympa
thy to the deep, spiritual tones of such a man’s plea, and
challenge for him the respectful attention of his religious
contemporaries, although the opinion within the limits of
which he now attempts religion has no more practical value,
weight, or interest to us than any other hallucination of
misguided sentiment] Dr. Stone treats first of the Church
considered in certain historical aspects, such as the attitude
of the world towards it, its perpetuity, its guardianship of
morals, the failure of its great foe Protestanism, its relation
to civilization, and its asserted complicity with persecution.
In the second part of his work he deals with the Church as
a Divine Creation, under the heads of incarnation and in
spiration, infallibility, scripture, antiquity, and the signs of
the true church. The third, and concluding part, considers
the Church as an organization, or the relations of the Pri
macy to Christianity; to prophecy, to antiquity, to unity, to
authority, and to infallibility. Into the merits of the argu
ment we cannot here enter, but we can assure our readers
that they can see in these pages just how pious and earnest
men are obeying certain sentiments taught them by Chris
tianity, by going over to Romanism. And we think no
man engaged with religion can sympathetically follow Dr.
Stone’s plea through to the end without being wiser and
better for noting the aspects of experience which it discloses.
Pew readers accustomed to the assumptions of faith which
are dictated by sound reason will have ary difficulty in see
ing where Dr. Stone’s illusion is, or how it is that his logic
has constrained him to join himself to the largest historical
�290
Mommsen’s Rome.
result of the primitive Christian movement. If we did not
believe in the universality of inspiration and incarnation,
and had to assume that the creature can return to the Crea
tor only through creature mediation by Christ and the
church, we should make haste to follow Dr. Stone. As it is,
we bid him good speed into the Roman fold, but propose,
ourselves, to stay outside and take the chance of their being
God enough for all creation. We have a shrewdy guess that
the supply of Divine grace is not materially lessened, much
less exhausted, by what the Primacy has shut up in Roman
limits.
Mommsen’s History of Rome, the American edition of
which, published by Charles Scribner & Co., New York, is
now completed by the appearance of the fourth volume,
merits recognition by both critics and readers, as without
exception the finest existing account of the course of events
from the origin of Rome, and the earliest political life of
Italy, to the time when Caesar put an end to the Roman
Republic!in the year 46 B. C. The scholar finds in the fruits
of Mommsen’s labors much more than learned study in this
field has ever before achieved; fuller discovery of facts,
more just appreciation of causes, more faithful and more
complete reproduction of real features of Roman life, and
a method and style of the highest and noblest art. But
none the less does the mere reader, who wishes to be carried
along by a trustworthy and attractive recital, find in Momm
sen a guide whom it is a profound pleasure to follow. The
secret of this two-fold success of the work is in the author’s
union of learning and masterly intelligence with simplicity,
earnestness and vigor.
It is one of the most satisfactory peculiarities of study, as
the best scholars undertake it, that it demands real facts and
actual truths, and counts no cost great which adds to veri- .
tableBcnMledge. We are able now to come at a great deal
of historical truth, where heretofore we have had to put up
with traditions W’hich were in large part misrepresentations
�Froude’s England.
291
of fact, even when they were not pure inventions of igno
rance, or fictions of imagination. We rejoice in this new
fidelity of study to truth, both for its results in such resto
ration of the picture of humanity as we have an illustration
of in Mommsen’s Rome, and for what must come from the
inevitable application of it to the history of religion, which
has been with Christians a mass of misrepresentation in the
case of all other religions than their ownland for their own
a tissue of fiction and false tradition, persisted in with a
bravery of unveracity fcr which the whole history of man
kind besides affords no parallel. Dr.Mommsen tells the
story of conquering Rome down to a period very near the
era of Christianity. He is expected to go on with the nar
rative through the period of the empire, and mil thus give
us important aid in comprehending the world into which
Christian teaching penetrated. At present, however, the
work is complete. The English translation was made from
the fourth German edition, and the reprint is in Scribner’s
excellent library style, four handsome volumesBwith com
plete index, and sold at the very low price of $2 a volume.
Scribner’s edition is decidedly preferable to the English.
Froude’s History of England has extended to twelve vol
umes, covering the events from the Fall of Wolsey to the
Defeat of the Spanish Armada, and is now brought to a
close, because the author deems that he has already tres
passed too much upon the patience of his readers, and
because, although he has not reached the end of the reign
of Elizabeth, where he at first proposed to stop, he has gone
far enough to accomplish his main purpose, which was “to
describe the transition from the Catholic England with
which the century opened, the England of a dominant
Church and monasteries and pilgrimages, into the England
of progressive intelligence.”
It is not our purpose to attempt even a brief criticism of
the work which Mr. Froude thus brings to a close. Its
�292
Eroude’s England.
fascination as one of the grand stories of the world, told
with singular eloquence, need not be celebrated here. But
one remark in particular we wish to make, in justification
of the unstinted praise which we deem it but right to
bestow upon Mr. Froude’s work. It is not yet time to write
the final history of an epoch so closely connected with our
own as that in which “ the England of progressive intelli
gence” had its birth. Dr. Mommsen can write of Rome,
and Mr. Lea can write of early and mediaeval Christian
pretension, with the confidence of judicial decision, because
the one and the other have been sufficiently investigated to
be thoroughly known, and readily comprehended and
judged. The turns and problems of Roman historv are
simple, as soon as they are seen in the light of actual facts,
and even Christianity, as it took outward form in an organ
ized church, only needed to be fairly seen as it was to be
conclusively judged as the most woful defeat of the Chris
tian spirit, and most heinous outrage upon human rights.
If Christians generally do not admit this, it is only because
their prejudice loves ignorance rather than knowledge,
and deliberately excludes the light, that in complete dark
ness it may continue a pretension which every candid
scholar in Christendom knows to have no warrant whatever,
nor even the shadow of an honest excuse. But no such
judicial certainty is possible in the case which comes before
us in Mr. Froude’s volumes. We are hearing the pleas of
great advocates, and must continue so to do for a long time
to come. Mr. Froude is an advocate worthy of the field
into which he has entered, in thoroughness of learned
study, in penetration and vigor of thought, in profound and
glowing sympathies, and in earnest eloquence. The course
of his great story commands our deepest interest at every
step, and if we cannot feel on all points that historv utters
through him her conclusive word, we nevertheless are con
scious that no such plea in her court has been made before,
touching this matter of the transition from Catholic England
to the England of progressive intelligence, and that very
�The Library of Wonders.
293
much which Mr. Froude so eloquently urges will appear in
the final verdict of the tribunal of coming time. The story
is a long one, but we can hardly wish that there were less.
In fact we hope that Mr. Froude may yet carry out his
original purpose, and go on to the end of Elizabeth’s reign.
The twelve volumes which now complete the work are
brought out in three styles by its American publishers,
Charles Scribner & Co.; a large paper edition at $5 a
volume, a library edition at $3 a volume, and a capital
popular edition at $1.25 a volume.
The Illustrated Library of Wonders, a translation of which
is in course of publication by Charles Scribner & Co., was
immediately successful on its first appearance in Paris, and
seems hardly less popular in America. Eighteen volumes
of Scribner’s edition are already out, and eleven more are
to appear shortly. One of the last published volumes,
however, Lighthouses and Lightships, is chiefly an English
work, and the entire series has been edited by English
hands. These volumes, in their proper place, as stories of
science told for the entertainment and instruction of un
learned and uncritical readers, fully deserve the welcome
they have received, and one much wider still which we
cannot doubt they will‘obtain. They are just the sort of
books which are needed in the popular library and on the
household book-shelf, attractive with their numerous illus
trations, entertaining and readable in matter and style, and
full of information, suggestion, and intellectual stimulus.
The titles of the volumes already published are, Thunder
and Lightning; Wonders of Optics; Wonders of Heat;
Intelligence of Animals; Great Hunts; Egypt 3,300 Years
Ago; Wonders of Pompeii; The Sun; The Sublime in
Nature; Wonders of Glassmaking; Wonders of Italian
Art; Wonders of the Human Body; Wonders of Architec
ture; The Bottom of the Ocean; Winders of Acoustics;
Lighthouses and Lightships; Wonderful Balloon Ascents;
and Wonders of Bodily Strength and Skill. Price per
vol., in scarlet cloth, gilt backs, and printed on very nice
paper, $1.50.
�264
The Geology and Physical Geography of Brazil.
The Geology and Physical Geography of Brazil, by Ch.
Fred. Hartt, which Fields, Osgood & Co. have just published,
forms an elegant octavo of above 600 pages, enriched with
73 illustrations and a large and valuable map, and completed
by an excellent index (price $5). In form, therefore, it is
worthy of the place which its author and publishers propose
for it, as one volume of the “ Scientific Results of a Journey
in Brazil, by Louis Agassiz and his travelling companions.”
It seems to us still more worthy of its ,place among the
fruits of the “Thayer Expedition” to Brazil, in the scien
tific excellence, and in the great interest, of its matter. It
was at first the intention of Prof. Hartt to make the work
embr|pe merely the results of his explorations as geologist
of the expedition under Prof. Agassiz, together with those
of a second journey made by himself, independently; but,
happily for the public, the studies incidental to the prepa
ration of the matter for the press, led to a considerable
expansion of this plan, and we now have a general work
which incorporates with the results of recent investigation
all that is most valuable in previous works on the geology
and Physi°al geography of Brazil. We note with special
satisfactions also, the strong terms in which Prof. Hartt
announces his indebtedness to the people of Brazil, and his
“ sincerest wish in acknowledgment of so much kindness
to be to some humble degree instrumental in removing
false Jmpressions so current about Brazil, and to make the
tesourcegof the empire better known in America.”
It would be of no avail to attempt, in a brief notice, to
give a just idea of the store of facts about Brazil which
this rich volume contains. Prof. Hartt takes us from prov
ince to province, over the great field of his explorations,
along the extensive coasts, up rivers and through forests,
over plains and mountains, until he has shown us the whole
face of the land, has pointed out to us its striking features
and its most remarkable objects of interest, when we feel
almost as if we had ourselves probed the soils, hammered
the rocks, inspected the corals, brought to light the treasures
■
�Margaret, a Tale of the Real, Etc.
295
of caves, threaded the forests, and otherwise gathered the
elements of a complete sketch of that great region which
Brazil is. Not only will students of science receive this
volume with particular satisfaction, but whoever is practi
cally interested in the resources of South America, and its
opportunities for enterprise, will find in it a trustworthy
guide to an extensive knowledge of important facts, while
to all who acknc wledge the duty of acquainting themselves
with the great regions of. the earth as. the seats of human
life, it will render a great and grateful service.
Margaret, A Tale of the Real and the Ideal, Blight and Bloom, by
Sylvester Judd, is a New England classic, a true picture out of the
quaint, sweet, homely life which a gentle parson such as Sylvester
Judd was loved to move in and portray. Time but adds to its value.
If it were not a picture which the press can multiply, it would speedily
become a work of price, as one of the choicest remaining illustrations
of manners and men of the genuine New England which is passing
rapidly away. Happily a new edition can reproduce for a new gene
(
*
ration of readers every line of Judd’s masterpiece, as undoubtedly
future editions will transmit the wise and beautiful tale to future gen
erations interested to study, and able to take delight in, the by-gone
New England. Mr. Judd was one of the earlier apostles of sweetness
and light, a very true and pure soul emancipated by graces of charac
ter and clearness of intelligence from the old dark creed of the Puri
tans. He became-a saintly teacher of charity, justice, and faith, as he
found these impersonated in him to whom he looked, without worship,
but with reverence, as his guide, friend, and Master, and the helpful
and friendly Master of all the sons® of men. One aim of hi® tale was
to bring back to his readers the simple, natural humanity of the ideal
Christ, which was to him the actual leader of life, and so to give to
whoever could accept it a gentle,Hiving guide and Reacher in place of
the half awful, half absurd Jesus of Puritan theology. In this aspect
the book is twenty-fold more available now than it was when Mr. Judd
first gave it to the world, twenty years ago, because the popular con^i
ception of the Christ has come round very largely to the view which is
so admirably illustrated in Margaret# But Mr. Judd was more an
artist than a theologian, and made a capital tale of real life rathe© <
*
than a religions treatise. He will be increasingly honored and loved
�296
Immortality.
by all readers who know how precious a thing is a true, simple'
impressive picture of wholesome realities, as they were seen by him,
and were portrayed with photographic accuracy. The present edition
is in a very neat volume from the pre'-s of Roberts Brothers, Boston.
Price $1.50. We shall take a future occasion for criticising Mr.
Judd’s view of the ideal, “ self-wrought,” perfection of Jesus, which
we deem as far from radical truth lying before it as it is in advance of
the Puritan idea which it had displaced. Meanwhile we can promise
our readers a rich repast in Mr. Judd’s beautiful pages, and trust
many of them will place Margaret among their choicest books.
Immortality. Four Sermons preached before the University of Cam
bridge. Being the Hulsean Lectures for 1868. By J. J. Perowne, B. D.
Published by A. D. F. Randolph, New York. These lectures, which
only profess to be “ a fragmentary contribution to the literature of
a great subject,” may be profitably consulted as an able recent
evangelical attempt to prove that life and immortality are revealed
through the Christ of orthodoxy alone. The first discusses the theories
of materialism, of pantheism, and of spiritism. The second treats of
Egyptian, Greek, and Oriental faith, and failure of faith, in immor
tality. In the third we are shown the hope of the Jew, which is
found on a cursory examination to be “ no advance whatever upon the
pagan system,” yet is finally thought to have been “ brighter and
truer than that of the wisest of the heathen,” because so clearly
implied in the doctrine of a near relation of the soul to God. In the
concluding chapter, the hope of the Christian is set forth as resting
on two facts, the resurrection of Christ, and the inner life of the Spirit.
The general fairness, sincerity and thoughtfulness of the work are
worthy of praise. It opens a great subject, the critical examination
of which, as handled by Mr. Perowne, we shall return to at a suitable
future time.
If our readers are acquainted with the little books entitled Arne,
and The Happy Boy, they will eagerly accept a third from the same
source, a little volume of stories of Norwegian and Danish origin, with
the title The Flying Mail, Old Olaf, and Railroad and Churchyard,
published in very tasteful style by Sever and Francis, Boston. Arne,
and The Happy Boy, which the same publishers introduced to us in
an English translation, were delightful specimens of the current
fiction of Norway, stories by Bjornstjerne Bjornson, a simple, pure,
and touching painter of human life and passion in the land of the
northmen. They were a real addition to our treasures, at once works
of real art, and transcripts of pure nature, from a field in which nature,
human and other, possesses an unique interest. In the little volume
before us the third of the stories is by Bjornsen. The first is by
Goldschmidt, a Danish writer famous in his own country, and the
second by Mrs. Thoresen, a countrywoman of Bjornson. They all
have the same fine flavor of simple nature, and make together a
charming little book.
�
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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 Examiner: a monthly review of religious and humane questions, and of literature. Vol. 1, February,1871, no. 3
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Place of publication: [Winnetka, IL.]
Collation: [201]-296 p. ; 25 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Contents include: Unitarian leaders -- Theodore Parker's character and ideas.
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<img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /><br /><span>This work (The Examiner: a monthly review of religious and humane questions, and of literature. Vol. 1, February,1871, no. 3</span><span>), identified by </span><span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk">Humanist Library and Archives</a></span><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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Unitarianism
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Text
THE
TRUTHSEEKER,
VOL. IV.]
DECEMBER, 1866.
[No. 44.
THE CLOSING YEAR.
Once more we come to the end of our
labours for another year ; and once
more, with the few words we are accustomel to write on such occasions, we
have to commend these labours to the
generous consideration of all who have
borne us company on the way.
The year that is now ending has not
been as fruitful of change as previous
years, for it seems that we have now
found the audience that can hear all
we have to say. As a matter of busi
ness, our undertaking must still be
regarded as a failure; our contributors
still write for love, and the conductor of
“ The Truthseeker ” is still solely
responsible for the yearly loss which
rewards his toil. It is very likely that
a committee could be formed who would
undertake to relieve him of this responsi
bility, but it is felt that perfect freedom
can be best secured by maintaining the
present position of affairs • and, so long
as convincing proofs exist, as they do
now, that t , ^>eed sown is bringing
forth good fruit, any work or sacrifice,
within possible limits, will still be cheer
fully and even thankfully welcomed.
And yet we appeal for help. These
words will be read by more than two
thousand persons, nearly all of whom
will be sincerely interested in our
efforts, or even quite at one with us in
our ideas. To these we say;—and we
have earned a right to say it;—Give us
your hearty sympathy and earnest help
in carrying out the task we have set
before us. We need not point out the
legitimate and proper ways in which
such an undertaking as this can be sup
ported. We ask for no personal favour
and plead for no “nursing” of this
Review, willing as we are to stand or
fall on our own merits or failures. We
only repeat the word of last December,
—“ The seeking of the Truth sometimes
scatters us, but concerning one thing
we should at least be united—the pre
servation of the faintest light that
illumines, or the feeblest sentinel that
guards the way.”
Thanking many known and unknown
friends for kind and generous words that
have helped us greatly, we have now
only to prepare for another year of work,
with undiminished faith, and a good
hope that will
“ Still bear up and ateer right onward.”
�262
THOUGHTS FOR THE HEART AND LIFE.
(Fob Advent Time.)
“ Rapent ye therefore and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out;
when the times of refreshing shall come from the presence of the Lord. And He
shall send Jesus Christ who, before, was preached unto you.”—Acts iii, 19-20.
We have come round once more to the
first days in Advent. From afar we
once more see the star of the childChrist appear ; and the blessed atmos
phere of Christmas, which is itself a
kind of benediction, is slowly gathering
round us, It was a wise and pious feel
ing that led the fathers of the English
Church to provide a month of prepara
tion that we might not be surprised by
a sudden Christmas, or lose the sweet
charm of anticipation and the prolonged
pleasures of the day. To-day, then, we
stand on the threshold—we come into
the outer court of the Holy Place, and
all around us gather the pure memories
of the time. And to the eye of the reverent
believer there is an angel everywhere
with a message suited to the day. The
earnest woman who hastened at early
dawn to the sepulchre found angels
waiting where her dear Lord had been:
and so to us will the angels appear
when, with loving haste, we turn our
feet to seek the Lord. And this is what
seems to me their message to us now—
purest and heavenliest message for
Advent time—“ Repent ye therefore
and be converted, that your sins may be
blotted out, when the times of refreshing
shall come from the presence of the
Lord.” And a dear and loving message
from on high it is,—a message which if
it fills us with contrition will fill us also
with consolation,—a message which calls
us to repent, but which calls us to sweet
refreshing from the presence of the
Lord. I want no theory of the Church
to prove to me that this message is
inspired: no miracle could prove that
to me as itself could do. It brings with
it its own evidence in its power to heal
and to bless me : it is not merely in
spired, it is an inspiration : it is not
only alive but it gives life. We are
called by these words, then, to make
this month of Advent time a month of
heart-searching and of heart-refreshing;
and, that we may do so, look upon their
wondrous wisdom and heavenly beauty.
First, the angel of Advent time calls
us to Repent;—a word that suggests the
commencement of all heart-change, that
goes to the root of all lieart-sin. Why
are we so far from God and Heaven ?
Why do we need an Advent time, and a
Christ who shall save His people from
their sins ? Why do we need the re
deeming angel with his heavenly mes
sage of love and peace ? Simply because
we are estranged from God by sin. And
so the first strain of this Advent song is
in the minor key—“ O sons of men,
Repent!” Ah ! how often does God so
begin even His dearest messages ! In
tending to end in love and joy and glad
ness even to exultation, how often does
He begin with some touching minor
strain, that opens the heart, that lures
us from our sin, that teaches us how to
repent! We may not come suddenly to
the joy of our Lord: first sorrow then
salvation : first repentance, then peace.
And so the angel seems to meet us on
�THOUGHTS FOB THE HEART AND LIFE.
the threshold; seeming to bar our pas
sage with sober hand—“Put off thy
shoes from off thy feet, for the place
whereon thou standest is holy ground.”
Put off thy follies, thy vanities, thy
pride, thy envy, thy jealousy, thy malice,
thy selfishness ; make the heart ready
for Him who is to dwell therein, its
rightful Lord and King—Repent. Dear
friends, let us listen to this good angel
—to this first word that falls from its
lips, and let Advent time once more be
consecrated by the cleansing of our
hearts before God. Think of all the old
offences of the year, of all the undue
anxiety about gain, of all the un
generosity, of all the hard, unyielding,
temper of the year ; and now, with this
sweet messenger of Advent time—this
new angel from Heaven to lead the
way—let us enter in, with silent feet
and bowed head; and if the dear God
will suffer us to lay before His altar all
these sins and stains and scars of the
year, let us sorrow before Him with
lowly hearts and bid our better nature
live.
But this is another step in the Hea
venly way: and this, too, is named here,
as the angel’s second word—“ Repent
and be converted.” For repentance is
not all: repentance is negative. Con
version is affirmative. Repentance says
—This is that for which I grieve : con
version says—This is that for which I
long. Repentance is stopping on the
wrong road, conversion is turning into
the right road. Hence that beautiful
word of Christ—“Except ye be con
verted and become as little children ye
shall not enter into the kingdom of
Heaven.” For this is indeed, con
version,—to become as little children,
263
living in all pure simplicity, putting
aside all our artificial evils and con
tracted sins, and letting the pure na
ture that belongs to every man have
sway. And though this angel of Advent
time may seem inexorable, asking too
much of mortal man, we may be sure it
asks no more than we need to have
asked of us,—we may be sure that it is
needful for us that the heavenly
message of peace should begin with a
call to purity : for, before the pure light
of Advent time can stream into our
hearts, the brood of evils that have
nestled there must all depart, and the
longing soul must be prepared to receive
the better life. So then conversion as
well as repentance is asked of us, that
we put down the old and take up the
new—that we not only see the wrong
but follow the right,—that we not only
bid farewell to the offences of the year
but joyfully welcome the new Evangel
of a better life to come. We must not
only bury the old grudge, but we must
stretch forth the generous, open hand:
we must not only sacrifice pride, but go
on to taste the sweets of all humility :
we must not only check our feverish
pursuit of gain, but learn to prize the
better riches of a furnished mind, a
virtuous spirit, and a religious soul: we
must not only lay our burden down at
God’s altar with regretful hearts that
we had sinned, but lift up this prayer
with passionate entreaty—“ Lead me,
O God, and teach me, unite my heart to
fear Thy name.”
Thus much the
Heavenly messenger demands of us—
that we enter not into the Heavenly
Temple with soiled and stained hearts,
with unchastened spirits, with lofty
tempers, with unsubdued wills,—that
�264
THOUGHTS FOR THE HEART AND LIFE.
we may not be inwardly darkened
against the glorious light of Advent
time,—that we may make the heart
ready for the Christ that is to be.
And now, the tone is changed; ano
ther key is struck; and the angel of
mercy ceases this plaintive cry for
repentance and conversion; and, these
being accomplished, the face of the
messenger beams with a serener radi
ance, as these words fall on the pre
pared ear,—“and the times of refreshing
shall come from the presence of the
Lord.” Dear friends, we cannot believe
these words too well,—we cannot
hear them too often: for God who
calls us to repentance calls us to refresh
ing, and has appointed blessings to wait
upon us while we lie before Him
humbled in the dust. But here is the
secret. It is not that He demands re
pentance and contrition before He will
give these times of refreshing, but it is
that this refreshing is the fruit of the
repentance to which we are called. And
this is why Christmas time is a time of
generosity and kindliness,—a time of
pleasure and pure delight. We feel
more generous then, more forgiving,
more open-hearted, more child-like;
and we wonder what it is that gives the
charm. Alas ! that we should be in
doubt about it: it is only what Christ
said,—only they can enter the Kingdom
of Heaven who are like little children,
and the Kingdom of Heaven is “within
you;” and ’tis the child-like, gentle,
holy heart that enters into its own holy
of holies, and finds its priest and home
and altar there. Hence, the angel’s
message is only the announcement
of nature’s law—a Heavenly transla
tion of an earthly condition—“ the
times of refreshing” shall come when
repentance and conversion have led
the way. And is it not so ? Is
there not a refreshment [in loving
forgiveness, when we refuse to remem
ber old offences, and let the dear light of
Advent time create a new world of
sympathies and delights ? What a sad
life it is that is filled with envy, and
wrath, and a spirit of resistance
and avarice, and assertion of self ?
What a loss of all that is dear and beau
tiful in life ! What a blighting of all
pure affections, and generous feelings,
and noble thoughts ! What a creation
of a perennial fountain of bitter waters
in the soul! and in what a gloom must
the spirit live—one long, black, cheer
less winter day! But what new joys
and pure delights are born when the
ice melts, when the hard hand relaxes,
when the stubborn temper yields, when
the heart yearns to do an unselfish
thing, and flies to make a sacrifice ra
ther than to snatch a victory ! What a
new joy rises upon the whole man!
What a release of all the frost-bound
affections and imprisoned kindnesses of
the poor starved soul! What a new
world of life and beauty! The eye can
see now, and the ear is open, and the
heart is sensitive, and the times of re
freshing have come to the recovered
soul. Is there not a refreshment even
in the very tears of contrition, when the
wanderer comes back, and the soul re
gains its own true home ? and are not
the regrets, the remorse, the very shame
of the spirit, precious and dear, since
they tell of a great deliverance and a
true return ?
And then what times of refreshment
come when the new virtue clothes the
�THOUGHTS FOR THE HEART AND LIFE.
soul like some pure vesture brought by
angel-hands—when the spirit feels that
it is pure, and at peace with God and
man—when, one by one, like the stars at
night, the virtues of the soul appear, and
blot out at last the dreary expanse
with their glorious array! What a re
freshment when the soul can return
to God’s altar, no more with the
bitter cry of repentance, but with
the subdued and peaceful voice of lowlyhearted gratitude,—“ Not unto us,
Oh Lord, not unto us, but unto Thy
name be all the praise !” Like that sad
demoniac who sat at last clothed and in
his right mind at the Saviour’s feet:
like the worn and weary prodigal, when
he had proved his penitence, and shown
that he was worthy of the forgiving
kiss of peace : like the wounded Mag
dalen, when all Heaven dawned on her
Borry heart with those consoling words,
“ Thy sins be forgiven thee, go in
peaceso to our hearts—to each in his
degree, if we be truly penitent—comes
this sweet evangel, this first strain of
the full angel-melody that shall fill the
air with Heavenly music soon, “Peace
on earth, goodwill towards men.” And
that word brings us to yet another note
in the perfect harmony of this heavenly
message. For listen to its fulness—“the
times of refreshing shall come from, the
presence of the Lord.” Yes, there is all
the secret! It is the presence of the
Lord that works all this glorious change.
Once believe in that, and old things
will pass away, and all things will be
come new: and we shall seek no more
our true delight in our own poor deeds
and plans, but in Him whose beautiful
presence is in itself a salvation, and
who “gives to His beloved in their sleep.”
265
Thus from that presence the refresh
ment comes; for He beholds our con
trition, and accepts our penitence, and
consecrates our tears, and fills us with a
nameless peace, when we put on our
beautiful garments, and stand before Him
as sons at home. It is the presence of
the Lord that makes Advent time a time
of purity, and peace, and holy joy ; and
it is this presence of the Lord that
would turn earth into Heaven for us
everywhere, if we had eyes to see and
hearts to love Him:
“Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be,
As more of Heaven in each we see :
Some softening g.eam of love and prayer
Shall dawn on every cross and care.”
And now, to complete this Advent song
—to bring us nigh to the very Holy of
Holies—to shed abroad the true light
and glory of the time, hear these words:
“And He shall send Jesus, who before
was preached unto you.” Thus in Him
all is fulfilled, to bring as to sincere re
pentance, to teach us true conversion, to
give us immortal refreshment, and to
bring us nigh to the presence of the un
seen Lord. Behold, then, the m earn ng
of Advent-time. It heralds the coming
of one who is the revealer of God and
the Saviour of man—of one who comes
to open our eyes and touch our hearts—
to do for us all that the love and wisdom
of an unseen God designed. For it is
the Father who sends the Son, that we
might know all the mighty meaning of
an unseen Father’s love.
Come then, holy and blessed Re
deemer of the world—come to our longestranged hearts, and win them all for
God! And Thou, Father and Saviour,
who art so nigh to us, and who didst
send Thy Son only that He might open
our hearts to see Thee, vouchsafe to us
�266
SHE FOUR GOSPELS.
the purest fellowship with Thy Hea
venly messengers; and into all our
hearts let this dear message fall:—
"Come, oh ye children of time, and hear
once more the psalm of the blest Evan
gel—‘ Repent, believe, and live, that the
times of refreshing may come to your
fainting souls !’ ”
THE FOUR GOSPELS:
The History of their Transmission, their Evidences and
their Peculiarities.
LECTURE 'Sjlll.—An Enquiry into the History, Claims, and Peculiarities
of the Gospel according to St. John.
Turning now to the last of the four
gospels, the least careful reader will feel
that he is treading on new ground, and
breathing another atmosphere. “In the
other gospels,” he will say, " I saw pecu
liarities, and detected distinctions, but
here everything seems changed. The
story is a different one: the very Christ
himself seems no longer the same.”
This will be felt even by one who can
only read the gospel in our English ver
sion, and who is unacquainted with the
history of thought in the ancient world
and in the early Christian Church. But
all this will be much more sensibly felt
by those who know something both of
the original tongue and of the peculiari
ties of thought and expression associated
with ancient philosophical systems. The
very first phrase in the gospel, the
whole, indeed, of what has been called
the prologue to the gospel—marks it out
as a specialty, as something to be stu
died in connection with the prevailing
religious speculations of the age which
produced it. For that " In the beginning
was the Word” could only have been
written by one who had grown familiar
with the philosophy which delighted in
these very words. Thus, the question
as to the authorship of this gospel be
comes a very important one: but up to
this very hour it remains an open ques
tion—one upon which fresh light is
being poured almost every day.
The John to whom this gospel is as
cribed seems to have been one of Christ’s
favourites—in all probability the disci
ple described as the one "whom Jesus
loved.” He was, moreover, one of the
two or three Christ took with Him on
great and solemn occasions : so also he
was one of the few who ventured near
to witness the last moments of his dear
Master and Friend; and it was to him
Christ looked when, with touching
thought and affection, He bade him be a
true son in His stead to the mother who
also stood by. He it was who, it is said,
wrote the three tender epistles that con
trast so wonderfully with the gigantic
strength of the Epistles of St. Paul. He
it was also of whom it was said that,
when old age prevented him speaking, at
length, of the Master he loved so well,
he used to be carried into the church by
younger hands, to repeat over and over
again, day after day, the burden of his
epistles—" Little children I love one
another.” Nor is it a contradiction to
this glimpse of the character of St. John
to be reminded that he was one of the two
brothers whom Christ called Boanerges,
or Sons of Thunder; for all greatly loving
�TH® FOUR GOSPHLS.
men have in them much potential thun
der. Thus Paul who, in an hour of peril,
cried to his sorrowing friends, “ What
mean ye, to weep and to break my
heart!” added, “ For I am ready, not to
be bound only, but also to die at Jeru
salem for the name of the Lord Jesus.”
And Luther, who knew how to defy all
the crowned and mitred heads in Europe,
had a nature that was pathetically ten
der and affectionate. In our own time
Theodore Parker was another illustratration of this apparent contradiction—
that the Son of Thunder is the disciple
whom Jesus loves.
That this gospel, then, was written by
John was the ancient belief of the
fathers of the Christian Church, so far
as they have mentioned it at all. Thus
Irenaeus distinctly states that John wrote
this gospel “ to extirpate the errors” of
the Gnostics. Eusebius, the historian,
testifies that “ John, who is the last of
the evangelists, having seen that, in the
three former gospels, corporeal things
had been explained, and, being urged by
his acquaintance and inspired of God,
composed a spiritual gospel.” But no
one is to be censured who is unable to
receive this opinion, since it is very
doubtful whether in the lifetime of John,
and by John, such a gospel could have
been written.
I shall have to point out, presently,
the very peculiar character of this gos
pel—the evident familiarity of the writer
of it with the phrases and the forms of
thought of philosophical systems pre
vailing both before Christ (as, of course,
separate from Christianity) and long
after Christ (as allied to the new faith.J
Well might it be asked, “ Is it indeed
John who is able to write in Greek these
lessons of abstract metaphysics, to
which neither the synoptics nor the
Talmud offer any analogy ?” The same
questioner has acutely remarked that if
Jesus really spoke as these discourses in
the fourth gospel represent Him as
speaking, it is more than suprising “that
but a single one of his hearers (and bio
graphers) should have so well kept the
secret.”
“ The Gospel according to St. John,”
then, may, in reality, be the gospel ac
cording to the school of John, written,
not by the apostle himself, but by some
devoted disciple who, preserving the
traditions handed down by John, used
these and other “ remains” of the vener
able and venerated apostle to combat
and yet to satisfy the growing heresies
o£ the day that attempted to pour the
new wine of Christianity into the old
bottles of a metaphysical system of
thought , of which John would know little,
and for which he would have cared less.
It is not at all impossible; indeed, it is
quite likely, that some follower of John,
or, perhaps, at a farther remove, some
Christian thinker acquainted with the
philosophy of Alexandria, wrote this
gospel, never intending to “palm it off”
upon the Church as the work of St.
John, but simply publishing it as
another version of the life of Him to
whom the whole Church ardently de
sired to make subject all the “kingdoms
of this world.” Certain it is that this
gospel seems to depart from the simpli
city of the earlier records, giving a new
reading, as it were, in a new light, of
the great life : and it is not easy to see
how such a life could have been written
by one who had seen the Lord—who had
known Him as the guest at Bethany and
�268
THE TOUR GOSPELS.
the despised one of Jerusalem—who had
been trained, notin the schools of Egypt,
but by the side of Christ.
One thing we must note, by the way,
that the gospel was evidently written
for Gentile readers. The Hebrew names,
such as Rabbi, Cephas, Messiah, &c., are
all translated into Greek equivalents.
The feasts of the Jews, moreover, are
called Jewish, as though the writer stood
outside Palestine. In the same way,
explanatory clauses are often inserted
which could hardly have been necessary
for Jewish readers.
Respecting the style of writing pecu
liar to this gospel, what we have chiefly
to notice, is its remarkable simplicity;
this being all the more remarkable be
cause it concerns itself with the profoundest metaphysical and spiritual
subjects. In other hands, this gospel
might easily have become so dull that
ordinary readers would never have cared
to read it, or so involved that few would
have been able to profit by it. But, as
it is, is not too much to say that we
should look in vain amongst early Chris
tian records for a narrative at once so
simple in its style and yet so lofty in its
aim,—so artless and unpretending and
yet so original and profound. This is
all the more remarkable because there
is nothing in this gospel, as to the style
of it, to lead us to suppose that the
author of it was either a practised
writer or a great reader of classical
Greek.
I have already intimated that the pe
culiar charactei’ of the gospel is to be
seen at once in what has been called the
prologue or proem—the opening verses
of the ¡st chapter. Now this prologue
has been misunderstood by thousands
who have not sufficiently taken into ac
count the relation of the peculiar
phraseology employed here to the philo
sophical systems that prevailed before
and after the time of Christ. The word
“ Logos,” here translated Word, was no
new term, but one that had long been
used by the philosophical winters of in
fluential schools of thought. It was
older than Christ, and the writer of this
gospel found it ready made to his hand.
He was coining no new phraseology,—
he was starting no new idea. He did
not set out of his own accord to call Christ
“ 0 Logos,” or the Word; but he begins
where others left off—he takes up the
common language of the schools, he
stands with the philosophers, and, like
Paul in another case, the Word they
dimly knew or profitlessly theorised over
he proposed to preach unto them: “ Be
hold in Him,” he cries, “ behold in Him
the Logos of whom ye speak.”
The truth, then, is, that the Evange
list sets out to prove the very opposite
of what is generally supposed to be
proved here. We are told that in this
prologue we have a triumphant proof of
the Deity of Christ, but what we really
have is a wonderfully clear testimony as
to the essential and perfect unity of
God. If these lectures were theological
instead of critical or descriptive, it would
be easy to shew this at length, but I
may just point out that what the writer
is here combating is the idea that the
word or creative power is a being sepa
rate from God. The truth is that the
one great object of these opening verses
is to assert, (in opposition to the philoso
phical speculations that were gradually
introducing into the Church the mons
trosity of a second God,) that God was
�THB FOUR OO9PSL».
one—that the Word was not something
or some one apart from God,—that it
never began to be as a separate being—
that it was therefore “in thebeginning
with God,”—His very inmost Thought
and Life—Himself. Yes ! the Word was
God, and not a separate being as the
philosophers had maintained, and as the
so-called orthodox divines of our own
time now maintain. And, in Christ, the
Word was “made flesh”—the image of
the invisible God was projected upon the
manifested man, and so, as even Dean Al
ford admits, “Christ is the Word of God—
because the Word dwells in and speaks
from Him, just as the light dwells in
and shines from, and the Life lives in,
and works from Him.” Thus, though the
man Christ Jesus was not pre-existent,
the Logos was ; for Christ was of Time
but the Logos which was manifested in
Him -was of Eternity—that was “ in the
beginning with God”—that “was God;”
and in Christ we see “ the glory ” of it,
even in Him who was “ full of grace and
truth.”
The idea of a Logos or word, then, as
having an independent existence apart
from God,—as being, in fact, a second
person,—was the idea the Evangelist
combated as repugnant to Christian
thought. For the philosophers, reflect
ing upon the Infinite God and the crea
tion of the world of matter and finite
man, had called into being this idea of a
second or mediate Deity, in their at
tempts to conceive of the creation of all
things. This mediate Deity was at first,
not a definite and distinct person, but
an impersonation of power or wisdom—
a personification of the Eternal idea—an
image of the Divine mind, by which (or
by whom) all other things were made or
269
became. Thus, the Word was the image
of the invisible God, “ the beginning of
the creation of God; ”—and this was
how the philosophers sought to bridge
over the infinite and awful interval be
tween the seen and the unseen, the eter
nal and the temporal, God and man.
It was thus that the idea of a Logos
or Word arose (long before Christ came).
Men could not logically conceive of God
as creating the world tillhe had “passed”
as it were “ out of Himself; ” and so
man’s apparent necessity led to the con
ception of God’s all-creative Worda
personification the worst fruit of which
was that it put far away the face of God
as the immediate Guide and Friend of
man. Upon this, the Christian teacher
comes in with his sublime declaration
that man is born of God—that God is
all, and that the Word, which has been
deemed so great a necessity, was and is
no other than God Himself. Seeming
to partly agree with the philosophers
and their doctrine of the Logos, and
taking up and repeating their lan
guage, he yet comes to quite another
conclusion,—that we are all the sons of
God who receive Him in the spirit of
His Son.
That this essential Unity of God was
not broken but rather manifested and
set forth by the coming of Christ is seen
in the attitude Christ loved to preserve
towards God, and in that great declara
tion “that the Word was made flesh
and dwelt among us,” and that they
who beheld the glory of Christ beheld
the glory of a beloved son full of His
Father’s “ grace and truth.” This ex
position of these phrases is borne out by
I some of the most ancient Fathers of the
| early Christian Church. These opening
�270
THE FOUB GOSPELS,
verses of the Gospel, then, contain for
us a priceless truth. The Word of God
is that inspiring Breath—that all per
vading Life of God—which blesses
"every man that cometh into the world”:
—a Life which will be in us and in all
men as we are able to receive it.
It is clear, then, that this Gospel was
written not for ordinary enquirers, or for
Christian learners, but for believers who
had got far beyond the elementary teach
ings of the Church—who knew the facts,
so fully and so constantly reported by
every Christian teacher who opened his
lips. We have no longer the reporter
but the apologist, the Christian philoso
pher. For narrative, we have analysis;
for remembrance, we have meditation;
and for a simply told story, we have an
earnest exposition of ideas. Thus this
Gospel differs from the other three in
being concerned with what we may
either call the deeper utterances and
manifestations of Christ, or the philoso
phy of a later time and of a new culture
respecting Him. The weight of pro
bability is certainly in favour of the
latter supposition; and this is borne out
by the fact that, as time went on, the
growing Church would naturally de
mand and supply a class of writings
which would be something more than a
mere narrative of events. But, even on
this supposition, (though it may exclude
the authorship of John), it may still be
held that these more contemplative
writings were the proper and legitimate
development of what had gone before.
And, indeed, in this Gospel we seem to
come nearer to the holy of holies—to
the inner life of things—to the vital
significance of what the others could
only report, half from without. We seem
to see here in growth what the other
Gospels give us in the seed.
But this does not lay bare, after all,
the most striking peculiarity of this
Gospel, which consists rather in the
strange and mysterious fact that the
scene of the whole seems laid in a region
outside of our common world, and that
the writer deals even more with the
eternal than the temporal—more with
heavenly than with earthly things. Thus
it is the Gospel of John which gives
us nearly all those mysterious sayings
that connect Christ’s earthly with His
heavenly life—that seem to attribute to
Him a pre-existence in Heaven—nay!
an actual existence in Heaven even
while men spurned Him upon the earth.
For does Dot this Gospel make Christ
speak of Himself as, even here, “in the
bosom of the Father ” ? But, as I have
already intimated, this was mysteriously,
yet simply enough, connected with the
great truth presented all through the
Gospel, that Christ was the manifesta
tion of God; or the being in and
through whom was manifested the
eternal Word. Thus the Christ of this
Gospel is the sent of God; the Son of
The Infinite Father, the Word of Life,
the Bread of Heaven, the Life of the
world, whose flesh is “meat indeed,”
and whose blood is " drink indeed.” In
a word, He is, throughout, the manifes
tation of the Divine Wisdom, Power,
and Love, destined to overcome the dis
order and evil of the world. Hence we
are told in the Epistle of St. John that
“ for this purpose the Son of God was
manifested, that he might destroy the
works of the devil.” Hence, again, we
have a running contrast all through be
tween the Father and the world, be
�the four gospels.
tween that which is from above and that
which is from beneath, between the
Light and Darkness, Life and Death.
Thus a miracle of feeding is worked in
connection with a discourse concerning
the Bread of Life, and the eyes of the
blind are opened in connection with a
reference to the Light of the World;
and everything is set forth as a manifes
tation of the Divine glory which in this
honoured being shone, “ full of grace
and truth.” The great end, the inner
design, then, of this writer is, as I have
said, to set forth the wonderful truth
indicated in the sublime prologue to the
Gospel—the complete and conscious
realisation of the Divine Life by man,
as a child of God, born “ not of the will
of the flesh, nor of the will of man, but
of God.”
And yet, in all, we never lose sight of
“the man Christ Jesus.” It is in this
Gospel we see Him seated “wearied
with His journey,” by the well, asking
drink of the woman of Samaria. It is
in this Gospel we have that touching
appeal to the twelve—that faltering,
loving enquiry of a truly human soul,
when some “went back, and walked no
more with him”—“ Will ye also go
away ?” It is in this Gospel we read
the beautiful story of His friendship
with Lazarus, and Mary, and Martha :
and here, alone, we find the touching
record that “Jesus wept.” Thus, all
through the Gospel, with all the
mystery attending the revelation of the
Divine life in Christ, we are brought
very near to the tender heart and
gentle spirit of the man in and by
whom that Life was manifested. And
so, if we could only judge more
after the spirit, and less after the
271
flesh, we should see the mystery made
clear.
It is true that we have here the reve
lation of an “Eternal Life which was
the Father,” but it is the revelation of
that Life in humanity. The first half
of that great truth, standing alone, is
dead or bewildering; but when under
stood in its divine completeness we see,
with a great thankfulness, the signifi
cance of the whole;—we see a Father
who, because He is a Father, has re
vealed Himself to us in a Son,—we see
a Divine Life that seeks to manifest
itself in our human life,— we see a Di
vinity that comes to restore our hu
manity,—we see, not that; God is put
farther off from men by the interpo
sition of a second mysterious being who
stands between God and man, but that
God is really brought nigh to us in the
person of one whose humanity was
found a fitting vehicle for the revelation
of “that Eternal Life which was with
the Father, but which is now “mani
fested unto us :” and which only seeks
to be manifested in us. For the witness
who told us this, also told us that “now
are we the sons of God,” and that “of
His fulness have all we received, and grace
for grace.” Thus, heaven and earth,
the human and the divine, God and
man, meet, in a very real and glorious
sense, in this picture of Christ, who is
no longer a being separated ftom us as
an object of mystery and wonder, but in
deed our brother, who came from God,
and was one with God, because in His
holy soul, as in a prepared and sacred
temple, dwelt “all the fulness of God.”
The revelation of Christ, then, in this
Gospel, is not the revelation of a mys
tery of God in man, apart from God in
�272
THE FOUR GOSFEL8.
humanity, but the revelation of God in we must admit that they are utterly un
man as the great fact of humanity:— like anything we find in the other
the Christ being really our representa gospels ; so much so, indeed, that we are
tive, our Head, our elder brother, almost forced to the conclusion that if
through whom, as the revealer1 of our the discourses of Matthew are genuine,
true life and our true relationship to those of John are very doubtful, since it
God, we may humbly lay claim, in our is hardly possible both could have fallen
degree, to all that was His, “without from the same lips. At the same time,
measure.” Thus, instead of Christ it is only fair to add, that many see, in
being something essentially different these discourses, reminiscences of “ the
from us, He is in truth the very oppo deeper spiritual verities relating to His
site of this,—He is our revealer;—as own divine person and mission,” which
truly the revealer of man as of God: Christ unfolded to His chosen ones
and the Divine Life which He manifests, “ when conversing privately with them.”
He manifests as the root and ground of If we accept this theory, as accounting for
our human life—as a Life which ever the difference between the public dis
seeks to realise itself in humanity, that courses of Christ given by the first three
man may know he is of God, and that he evangelists, and these inner and more
also, by right of his humanity, is “a spiritual discourses preserved by John,
partaker of the Divine Nature.” O this we shall be prepared to give due weight
is a great truth!—happy are they to tn the opinion of one who, maintaining
whom it is " spirit and life,” and who this theory and defending also the
see in the sonship of Christ, not some authenticity of the gospel as the actual
thing to marvel at as a great mystery testimony of John, says—“ I think it—
that separates Him from us, but some probable, that the character and diction
thing to love and welcome as a pledge, of our Lord’s discourses entirely pene
a surety, and an illustration of our trated and assimilated the habits of
thought of His beloved apostle ; so that
own!
Such being the special character of! in his first epistle he writes in the very
this Gospel we are not surprised to find' tone and spirit of those discourses;
that it is, in effect, a life of Christ un and, when reporting the sayings
like the other three. Here, for instance, of his own former teacher the Baptist,
.
we find those discourses and conversa he gives them (consistently with the
tions, at once so touching and so pro. deepest inner truth of narration,) the
found, which are peculiar to this Gospel;; forms and cadences so familiar and
discourses and conversations which are! habitual to himself.”
best and most fully represented by thosej
And now, I can only name, in con»
wonderful Chapters, the 13th to the 17th,, elusion, the passages in this Gospel that
recording at such length the dis have been marked as doubtful by many
■
t
The touching
courses and the pathetic prayer that reliable authorities.
preceded the betrayal of the garden and record at the end of the 7th and the
1
the sorrows of the cross. Of these, and beginning of the 8th Chapters, that
1
similar discourses found in this gospel, “ every man went unto his own house,”
,
�THB FOUR GOSPELS.
but that “ Jesus went unto the Mount
of Olives,” is generally regarded as an
interpolation, since it forms part of a
fragment which, in originalMSS, appears
in various forms and in various places.
The account which immediately follows
it, of the sinful woman brought to
Christ for judgment, forms the princi
pal portion of that fragment, the true
place for which may be the Gospel of
Luke and not this Gospel at all. It
was, in all probability, one of those’
ancient and well-received fragments
which, as being too precious to be lost,
was “ in or soon after the 4th century
adopted into the sacred text.” The mar
vellous statement in Chapter 5, respect
ing the pool at Bethesda, that " an
angel came down at a certain season into
the pool and troubled the water,” is also
pronounced, even by conservative
critics, as “ doubtful,” the “ internal
evidence, (as well as the external,) being
very strong against the whole ” though
Strauss who, (one half suspects,) is glad
to retain the legend to help him to dis
credit the Gospel, says that “ the most
convincing critical grounds are in favour
of the genuineness of this verse.”
The whole of the last Chapter is also
very different in its character from the
rest of the Gospel, and is evidently by
another hand, though some, who are
anxious to maintain the authorship of
John, have supposed that it was added
by himself long after the writing of the
Gospel, which fittingly and clearly ends
■with the 20th Chapter.
273
Here I close our brief and rapid ex
amination of the History of the
MSS of the New Testament, and the
pecularities of the four Gospels. I have
done little more than indicate objects of
study and point out fields of enquiry—
exhausting nothing and attempting to
finally settle nothing, believing that
our wisdom will be best shewn by re
taining many as open questions, to be,
for ages yet, the objects of enquiry and
the subjects of change. And yet, let
me hope, I have given to earnest,
seekers after truth such information and
indicated such well ascertained facts as
will help to make the prosecution of this
enquiry a pleasure and a profit to all
who have a mind to go on with it.
Nor can I let my last words here be
any other than words of humble thank
fulness to God that, amid all the
changes and mischances of troublous
times He has so well preserved these
precious records for our reverence, our
study, and our love. Perfect they are
not: infallible they have never been•
but they are what thousands now in
heaven have felt them to be—“ a lamp
to their feet, a light to their path,” and
a comfort to their souls :—they are what
the Evangelist of whom I have now
spoken said his Gospel was meant to be
—a record of words and deeds “written,
that ye might believe that Jesus is
the Christ, the Son of God, and that,
believing, ye might have life through
His name.”
�¿74
THE DIVINITY
(concluded
OF JESUS
from page
IV.
The relative divinity of Jesus was made
then an integral part of the orthodox
dogma at the end of the third century.
But there was still much to be done be
fore this divinity was proclaimed in the
absolute form towards which Christian
thought gravitated, and which it would
earlier have attained if the facts, the
apostolic witnesses, the Jewish mono
theistic spirit, in fact all that was of a
primitive character had permitted.
Orthodoxy, in the second half of the
third century, consisted in regarding the
Son as a Divine Being, but subordinate.
Upon this contradictory basis, minds,
according to their particular tendency,
were either urgent for the subordination
by the love of monotheism and to give a
good account of the evangelical history
and apostolic doctrine; or insisted upon
his divinity to satisfy the ardent piety
which could not tdb highly esalt Christ.
This oscillation originated two doctrines
which have ever been struggling, the
one to destroy the other, viz., those of
Arius and of Athanasius. Arius and his
numerous partisans, generally discip.es
of the exegetic school of Antioch, more
frequently simple presbyters than
bishops (and this fact, in general too
little remarked, very strongly influenced
the beginning and conclusion of the
struggle), wished to definitely fix the
subordination; and we must acknow
ledge that they did it in the only way
that could satisfy intelligence within
CHRIST.
248.)
the limits of the system generally ad
mitted. If the Son is subordinate to
the Father, said they,he is not absolutely
God; consequently he has not that
which the Father has, therefore we must
say he is not equal to the Father. Not
being equal, he is not of the same
essence; for if he possesses the Divine
essence, this essence being perfect, he
ought to be perfect himself, and there is
therefore two Gods, equal in everything,
which is polytheistic and absurd. On the
other hand, at the side of the uncreated
essence there can only be created
essences, and that which is said to be
created is said to be a being born in
time. Thus the Son is not eternal, he
is a creature, the first, the most excel
lent of creatures, but still a creature.
“ There was a time when the Son was not:”
behold here that which, in accord with
Tertullian, Arius proclaimed as the base
of his system. “ He is of another essence
than the Father: ” behold here the
fundamental idea which Origen held.
Athanasius, on the contrary, retains
from Tertullian the idea that the Son
and the Father are of the same essence,
and from Origen that the Son is eternal.
Both find then, in the old orthodoxy,
the elements of their own systems ; and
if one acknowledged that Arius had more
reason than Athanasius, in maintaining
that the New Testament and all tradi
tion of the first three centuries had
always taught that the Son is inferior
and subordinate to the Father (a prin-
�THE DIVINITY OF JESUS CHRIST.
oiple which they have only to advo
cate to be Arian)—Athanasius in his
turn was more with the tide of the
Christian idea, which from the beginning
had not ceased to approach Jesus to God.
Such is in reality, the true reason for
the triumph of the doctrine of Athana
sius. Doubtless we ought not to forget
thenumerous causes which contributed to
this result. It was fatal to the cause of
Arius, that the first grand ecumenic
Council, under the pressure it is true of
the Emperor Constantine, had pro
nounced solemnly against him. Con
stantine who perceived afterwards, that
in favouring the Episcopate he was
giving to himself a redoubtable rival,
altered his opinion and recalled Arius
from exile, but the first prestige was
against him. The Arian Emperors who
succeeded him did more harm than good
to his doctrine by their despotic
measures, initiated it is true, and even
surpassed by the intolerance of the
orthodox Emperors. Then, the Arian
party, because that it represented the
opposition to ecclesiastical authority
and mysticism, was in general that of
free thought, consequently it was always
less united than its adversaries, more
opposed also to the superstitious, ascetic,
monkish customs, which invaded the
church. Vigilance, Arius, Jovinian,
these Protestants of the fourth cen
tury, were more or less Arian: but
that which would recommend in our own
days Arianism to our esteem would
only make it lower in the opinion of the
majority then. All this was, however,
only accessory. The multitude, who
comprehended nothing of the debates of
the doctors, understood very well that,
in the eyes of Arius, Jesus was less
276
than in the eyes of the orthodox. It
would seem then, to them, that these
last were better Christians. It is just
the same now when a great majority of
fervent Catholics have declared them
selves in favour of the Immaculate Con
ception, without knowing very exactly
what it is that is discussed; but more
because the profound devotion to Mary
finds greater satisfaction in affirming
than in denying. In short, in the bosom
of the Roman Church, the gradual glori
fication of the Mother of Christ follows,
although much more slowly, a march
analogous to that which the church of
the first centuries followed in elaborat
ing the deity of her Son. Already more
than one Catholic author has made
serious attempts to add Mary in one
way or another to the Trinity.
#*#«*##
Let us pass on to the later develop
ments which the orthodox dogma had
yet to receive. The unity of God was
compromised by the dogma of Nicea,
and it became necessary that Christian
speculation should apply itself to this
subject of greatest importance, in order
to try to reconcile the divinity of the
Son with that of the Father. At the
same time the church had preserved, by
its prolonged struggle with Gnosticism,
a lively sentiment of the reality of the
flesh and of the human nature of Jesus:
and yet it was important to the glory of
<his man that it was he himself who was
God, and not that he had served occa
sionally as form or instrument of divi
nity. But how had God been able, while
remaining God, to participate really in the
infirmities of human nature ? And how
could they affirm that he had been truly
i man, without denying by the same that
�276
THE DIVINITY OF JISV3 CHRIST.
he was truly God ? The persons who in
our day, love to oppose to these indis
creet questions, the conclusion of not
receiving what is to be drawn from the
mystery, forget that this mystery is not
primitive, imposed by the nature of
things, but that it was elaborated know
ingly and freely by the theology of the
fourth and fifth centuries.
From the moment that the equality
of the Son and Father was acknowledged,
the divinity of the Holy Spirit, of which
the dist’nct personality had been little
by little admitted, in spite of frequent
oppositions, ought also to be proclaimed
absolute. This was the work of the
Council of Constantinople 381, which
condemned in Macedonius the opposite
doctrine. To Augustine (the fifth cen
tury) was reserved the honour of found
ing dogmatically (eliminating all idea,
of subordination), the numerical unity
of the three divine persons; without
succeeding, however, and for good cause,
notwithstanding the turns and evasions
of his subtle genius, in satisfying a
somewhat obstinate reason.
But the East had already solved the
problems concerning the union of God
and man in Christ Jesus. How could
God, as a perfect being, have been man ?
Were not there two persons in Jesus, then,
one divine, the other human ? and could
they admit that two persons had con
stituted a single leing, endowed with
one conscience, ore will? Apollinarjs
Bishop of Laodicea, hal believed him
self able to solve the difficulty by admit
ting that the Word had held in Jesus,
the place of rational soul. This was
without doubt, conforming to the doc
trine of the fourth gospel; but it was
also a denial of the integrity of the
human person. Thus Apollinaria and
his partisans were completely beaten
and finally condemned. Nestorius tried
to solve the question by taking the
other side. According to him, Jesus
was a complete man, the Word or the
Son was truly God, but in him the two
natures, the divine and the human, were
quite plainly conjoined, but in a way,
for example, that does not enable us
to call Mary mother of God. This last
trait did him a great injury, and, for the
rest, it was not difficult to see that in
pressing this point still farther one
would arrive at Unitarianism. Jesus is
a man, who finds himself with the Word
in a close connection of spiritual union,
but the Word has not quitted the
heavenly glory to become man in him.
His fiery adversary, Cyril of Alexandria,
pretended on the contrary, that the two
natures made only one, and that their
properties were integrally passed the
one into the other; but this led on to the
denial of the human nature, in the
absorption of it in the divine nature»
for if we can conceive that the finite
passes into the infinite, it is not the same
with the inverse passage. Nestorius,
since 428 Bishop of Constantinople, was
condemned in 430 and died in misery 440,
but not without leaving a school which
became even a church, existing till the
present day in the East. Cyril was
more fortunate, but did not wholly
succeed in making his views triumph,
for they were condemned in the person
of Eutyches by the Council of Chalcedon
(451), although in 449 the ecumenic
Council of Ephesus, called later Council
of Brigands, had given him a verdict.
The Egyptians nevertheless declared
themselves for the unity of the nature
�THE DIVINITY O» JESUS CHMST.
in the sense of Cyril and Eutyches, and
caused a schism. In the seventh cen
tury the Emperor Heraclius having
attempted to reconcile them with ortho
doxy, in proposing to them a formula
according to which if there had been
two natures in Christ, there was in him
only one will, there resulted from it a
new and very bitter debate, in which the
rival pretensions of Rome and Constan
tinople entered into play and which
terminated by the condemnation of
Monotheism. In fact this would have
ruined the dogma of the two natures by
suppressing the human will in the per
son of Jesus Christ. It was then resolved
at the Council of Constantinople, 680,
that there were two wills, one divine,
and the other human, in Jesus Christ;
but that this was necessarily and con
stantly subject to that; a resolution, we
must avow it, which only suppressed the
difficulty and which is the very opposite
of a solution.
It is in order to be quite exact that we
have thus recapitulated this tedious
history, extremely dreary to follow, in
all its details, but which, losing itself
more and more in all its subtleties,
shows that the immanent law of all this
dogmatic vegetation is just what we
have said—deification as complete as
possible of Jesus, with a repugnance for
everything which would annihilate him
in absorbing him in the divinity, and also
for everything that would lessen him in
taking from him something which might
belong to his divine glory. Thus under
stood, orthodoxy is logical, I will even
say faithful to the end of the secret
principle which directs it. On the whole,
it avows with naive audacity the contra
dictions which it has piled up one upon
277
another in the famous creed Quicunque,
or A thanasian ; which is called by this
last name, because it is regarded as
being a resume of the opinions of the
illustrious Bishop ; but of which in
reality Augustine ought rather to claim
the paternity, since it appeared at the
end of the sixth century, in the west,
was written in latin, and proceeded evi
dently from a spirit nourished by the
works of the great African Doctor. This
creed became ecumenic, in fact it ex
pressed very well the paradoxical faith
of the Church,
V.
The Creed Quicunque is the full-blown
flower of traditional orthodoxy. We
may say it is orthodoxy itself in its
strictest sense. We have not the least
right to call ourselves or to believe our
selves orthodox, if we do not admit
completely the tenor of each of the
clauses of which it is composed. This
creed once fixed, there was nothing
more to be done upon the subject of the
Divinity of Jesus Christ; and,- in fact,
since that moment, except the addition
of filioque in the article on the Holy
Spirit, an addition which was one of the
complaints of the Eastern against the
Latin Church, and except a quarrel soon
forgotten of adoptianism (a kind of
revived Nestorianism), the doctrine of
Quicunque reigned undisputedly during
the middle ages. Scholasticism found
in it a marvellous theme on which to
exercise its subtlety. Besides, as we
may easily comprehend, the doctors of
the schools either fell into Sabelhanism
when they wished to shew how three
divine persons make only one God, or
they give in to full tritheism when they
would shew how one single God exists
�278
THE DIVINITY OF JESTS CHRIST.
in three distinct persons. The realist
who sacrificed the plurality to the
unity would be rather Sabellian; and,
inversely, the nominalists would be
often tritheists. But, let us add, their
intentions were always strictly ortho
dox. It is in the school of Abelard alone
that we find the feeble desires of opposi
tion to the orthodox dogma more or less
declared.
The Socinians especially
gathered together quite an arsenal of
arguments against the orthodox dogma
of the Divinity of Jesus Christ, many
of which remain to this day without re
futation, and we may add that, since
the last century, the number of Uni
tarian Christians, both within and
without the constituted protestant
church, has not ceased to increase.
It is certain that, except by mixing up
with the contradictory definition of the
Quicunque philosophic ideas without
real connection with it, there are no
other means of persuading ourselves that
we believe positively in that which it
contains, than to submit blindly and
without inquiry to the authority of tradi
tion; since, if we wish to reason, we
ought to break off with a symbol which
affirms repeatedly and consciously a
contradiction. To call God a being who
exists not by Himself, but who is engen
dered or proceeds from another; above
all to add that this being is not unequal
in anything to God, who possesses in
Himself the eternal cause of His being,
is evidently to declare the absolute is
the relative, or that the relative is the
absolute ; it is to fall headlong into a
strife of words. On the other hand, that
which distinguishes liypostatically the
divine persons is either an imperfection
or a perfection; in the first case, it is
false to say of one being possessing an
imperfection that he is God; in the
second case the perfection of one supposes
defect in the other two. But we will leave
controversy and remain historians.
We may be permitted to conclude, as
a matter of fact, that the Dogma of the
Trinity has a history in the bosom of
Christianity, and that nothing is more
improper than to mix it up with
the Gospel as is constantly done. Pious
souls, easily enkindled for the cause of
religious traditions, do not always con
sider how much injury they inflict upon
Christianity by binding it in an in
dissoluble manner to certain doctrines
which are after all only one or the other
of its historic forms. Even from theii’
point of view is it not much better that
such men as Milton, Newton, Priest
ley, Channing, Theodore Parker, and
many others should be able to call
themselves and believe themselves to be
Christians whilst rejecting the Trinity,
than that they should give up the
Gospel altogether ?*****
Let them know decidedly, they have
no longer any right to identify this
dogma with the Gospel, or to conclude
that the Gospel falls or rises with it.
Letthem compare,for one single moment,
the form and basis of the Quicunque
with the teaching of Jesus, and they will
feel as though there were two spirits
there,—almost two religions.
As to the present epoch: if in Jesus,
the God goes away, the man shines forth
with a splendour more glorious than
ever. For, in spite of the good inten
tions of orthodoxy, it is a fact that,
of the two natures agreed to by the
Councils, the divine nature ceases not to
confiscate to its profit the human nature,
�MARGERY MILLES.
And this ought to be. A man is only
God on the condition of being most truly
man; and a God is man only on the
condition of being most truly God.
But in the first case he is elevated;
in the second he humbles himself. Piety,
then, of itself, tends to do wrong to hu
man nature rather than to the divine
nature ; and thus, in the Church of the
middle ages, Christ had become so much
God that it was necessary to Christianity
to provide a mediator, which was found
in the Mother of Christ. If modern
Christianity is called (as all facts fore
tell) to undo by little and little the in
tricate web of dogmatic definitions of
the first five centuries, it will simply re
turn to the consciousness which Jesus
had of himself; that is to say of his
divine vocation to found upon earth the
religion of pure love. And, if we take a
thorough account of what this implies,
when we picture what the world would
be if this divine principle pervaded
all, (which it has never yet done,)
we should not be able to deny to Jesus
¿79
the glory of having placed, by word and
example, the foundation of the vastest
edifice in which men may be converted
to adore God in spirit and in truth.
The history of the church testifies to
the incalculable power that such a prin
ciple has communicated to the teaching
and the person of him who was the in
carnation of it, and, reciprocally, of the
incompetency of Christianity to elevate
itself high enough to seize it in its purity
and to apply it with fidelity and resolu
tion to the collective and individual life.
In like manner, the special history of
the dogma of the divinity of Jesus
Christ proves that, contrary to his
positive intentions, men attach much
more importance to the forming precise
definitions as to his person and origin,
than to the conforming themselves to his
spirit: but this proves also how great
has been the impression produced on
humanity by him whose memory has not
been left to repose until men have com
pletely deified him.
MARGERY MILLER.
[Some time ago the following poem
was read by Mr. Home, at a meeting of
spiritualists. It was ahnounced as
“given through the mediumship of
“Lizzie Doten.” But, whether by spirit
in the flesh or out of the flesh, we know
of none much more worthy to be read
at Christmas time.J
Old Margery Miller sat alone,
One Christmas eve, by her poor hearthstone,
Where dimly the fading tirelight shone.
Full eighty summers had swiftly sped.
Full eighty winters their snows had shed,
With silver-shcun, on her aged head.
Her brow was furrowed with signs of care,
For 0 ! life’s burden waB hard to bear.
Poor old Margery Miller !
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
Had her friends like birds of summer, flown ?
One by one had her loved ones died—
One by one had they left her side—
Fading like flowers in their summer pride.
Poor old Margery Miller !
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
Had God forgotten that she was His own ?
�280
MARGERY MILLER.
No castle was hers with a spacious lawn ;
Her poor old hut was the proud man’s scorn;
Yet Margery Miller was nobly born.
A brother she had who once wore a crown,
And deeds of greatness and high renown
From age to age had been handed down.
Poor old Margery Miller !
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
Where was her kingdom, her crown, her throne?
Margery Miller, a child of God,
Meekly and bravely life’s path had trod,
Nor deemed affliction “a chastening rod.”
Her brother, Jesus, who went before,
A crown of thorns in his meekness wore,
And what, poor soul, could she hope formore ■
Poor old Margery Miller !
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
Strange that her heart had not turned to stone!
Aye ! there she sat, on that Christmas eve,
Seeking some dream of the past to weave,
Patiently striving not to grieve.
0 I fer those long, long, eighty years,
How had she struggled with doubts and fears?
Shedding in secret, unnumbered tears.
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
How could she stifle her sad heart's moan ?
Soft on her ear fell the Christmas chimes,
Bringing the thought of the dear old times,
Like birds that sing of far-distant climes.
Then swelled the floods of her pent-up grief—
Swayed like a reed in the tempest brief,
Her bowed form shook like an aspen leaf
Poor old Margery Miller I
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
How heavy the burden of life had grown I
“ 0 God I” she cried, “ I am lonely here,
Bereft of all that my heart holds dear ;
Yet Thou dost never refu.e to hear.
0! if the dead were allowed t o speak I
Could I only look on their faces meek.
How it would strengthen my heart so weak !”
Poor old Margery Miller I
Sitting alone,
Unsought, unknown,
What was that light which around her shone ?
Dim on the hearth burned the embers red,
Yet soft and clear, on her silvered head,
A light like the sunset glow was shed.
Bright blossoms fell on the cottage floor,
“ Mother” was whispered, as oft before,
And long-lost faces gleamed forth once more.
Poor old Margery Miller !
No longer alone,
Unsought, unknown,
How light the burden of life had grown!
She lifted her withered hands on high,
And uttered the eager, earnest cry:
“ God of all mercy ! now let me die.
Beautiful Angels I fair and bright,
Holding the hem of your garments white,
Let me go forth to the world of light.”
Poor old Margery Miller I
So earnest grown I
Was she left alone?
His humble child did the Lord disown ?
O I sweet was the sound of the Christmas bell!
As its musical changes rose and fell,
With a low refrain or a solemn swell.
But sweeter by far was that blessed strain,
That soothed old Margery Miller’s pain,
And gave her comfort and peace again.
Poor old Margery Miller !
In silence alone,
Her faith had grown ;
And now the blossom had brightly blown.
Out of the glory that burned like flame,
Calmly a great white Angel came—
Softly he whispered her humble name.
“ Child of the highest.” he gently said,
“Thy toils are ended, thy tears are shed,
And life immortal now crowns thy head.”
Poor old Margery Miller !
No longer alone,
Unsought, unknown,
God had not forgotten she was His own.
A change o’er her pallid features passed;
She felt that her feet were nearing fast
The land of safety and peace, at last.
She faintly murmured “God’s name be blest I”
And, folding her hands on her dying breast,
She calmly sank to her dreamless rest.
*
Poor old Margery Miller!
Sitting alone,
Without one moan,
Her patient spirit at length had flown.
Next morning a stranger found her there,
Her pale hands folded as if in prai er,
Sitting so still in her old arm-chair.
He spoke but she answered not again,
For, far away from all earthly pain,
Her voice was singing a joyful strain.
Poor old Margery Miller I
Her spirit had flown
To the world unknown,
Where true hearts never can be alone,
�381
BRIEF NOTICES
The Inquirer, The Theological Review,
The Christian Spectator, The Christian
Unitarian, The Monthly Journal of the
American Unitarian Association, and The
Phrenological Journal have been regularly
received during the year.
The Inquirer has increased in interest
and usefulness. Wisely opening its
columns for the discussion of great prin
ciples, and taking broad and thoroughly
liberal views in its various utterances
concerning them, it has more than
retained its position as the competent
and generally accepted organ of the
Unitarian Church.
The Theological Review, while main
taining its character for ability, seems
to be quietly changing its vocation. In
stead of reviews, it seems to prefer in
dependent (and sometimes gets contra
dictory) essays, accompanied by the
signatures or initials of the various
writers who are alone responsible for
them. This may have its uses, but it
has serious disadvantages, and certainly
prevents the Review taking that kind of
aim which men generally believe will
best hit the mark. But we cannot have
everything in one thing, and what we
lose in unity and directness we shall
probably gain in breadth and diversity,
i At all events, it is satisfactory to see
I that the Review is doing a good and
I wholesome work in an able and honest
OF BOOKS.
we have been glad to see its willingness
to tell all the truth concerning subjects
that have too long received very indiffer
ent treatment even from independent
Independents. Amid papers of strangely
unequal merit, we notice a few that are
singularly beautiful and thoughtful.
We are sorry, however, to hear that it
is about to pass into other, and, we
fear, less liberal, hands.
The Christian Unitarian is confirmed
in its office as the misi epresenter of all
who fail to come up to the requirements
of its one narrow condition of Church
Communion.
The monthly journal of the American
Unitarian Association is the able and
business-like organ of that flourishing
Society. The numbers for July and
August contain a remarkably interesting
report of the forty-first anniversary of
the Association.
The Phrenological Journal is an Ameri
can monthly of considerable merit. It
is full of good-tempered and wholesome
counsel, and presents what we may call
the ethics of phrenology in a very favour
able light.
“ The Religious Weakness of
Protestantism.” By Francis W. New
man. Ramsgate : Thomas Scott. Mr.
Newman has here re-printed, with
a few changes, a review intended to
show, to use the words of an anec
dote at the end, that Christianity has
I way.
The Christian Spectator this year has no future. Christianity, based on the
been edited by an advanced mind, and miraculous, has, according to Mr. New-
�282
NOTICES OF BOOKS.
man, nothing to say even to this age. It Misrepresentations op the Rev. C.
is an anachronism, if not an imperti H. Craupurd.” A letter by David
nence: end he is right, regarding Christi Maginnis. London: Whitfield, Green
anity a3 that “Protestantism” which and Son.—The Rev. C. H. Craufurd is
pretends to appeal to the reason it only clearly one of those unfortunate beings
insults, and clamours for “the right of whose training in an Established Church
private judgment,” but smites the pri has been too much for them. Without
vate judger or the public truth-teller on meaning any harm, perhaps, the poor
the mouth. But Mr. Newman’s “Pro man half unconsciously falls into the
testantism” is one thing, and the Pro habit of despising all dissenters, and
testantism that is ready to develop and then of damning all heretics. The next
that is going on to develop the princi step is an easy one : for after you have
ples of the Reformation is another. given a man over to the devil what
Mr. Newman rather summarily dis does it matter what you say of him or
misses those who do not base Christi do to him ? Hence we find this eccle
anity on the miraculous—who do not siastical person coming out with gems
swear by the “wonders” of the New of this sort:—“‘The fool hath said in his
Testament, or the “mysteries” of the heart, there is no God.’ I am greatly
Church—who reject the Trinity, and afraid there are many such fools amongst
deny the orthodox atonement, and go us . . . And, observe, I am not
on with St. Paul to know Christ “in the speaking of heathen fools, or Unitarian
newness of the Spirit” and not in the fools, but of those who profess to be
“ollness of the letter.” And yet surely, Christians :” (just as though Unitarians
these are worth reckoning when we did not “ profess to be Christians”.)
look out upon the gathering hosts, And again, still careful to assure us
closing in for future conflicts. Mr. that Unitarians are “ fools”, he tells
Newman says well what he has to say us of “ their poor shallow intellects,
against the “miraculous conception” their unscholarly pens, their prating
and the physical resurrection of Christ : tongues.” And all this because they
and many will think that he is unan will not say that Christ is “God the
swerable on thé subject of “miracles” Son.” And this is the kind of thing
generally. We do not think so ; but Mr. Maginnis has to “vindicate” him
feel perfectly content in leaving that self and his friends from. Heaven help
a perfectly open question : and this us I—it is almost a pity to waste time
we do all the more because of that over such nonsense. It seems like hang
fatal error which desperately stakes the ing a gnat or breaking a fly on the
existence of Christianity upon the truth wheel. But even this is, perhaps, neces
of miracles. We have a Christ Jesus, sary,—with modifications, The pam
the Son of God and brother of man, phlet, however, is well done, and is, in
come what -will : and, to be brought tone and spirit, an admirable contrast to
heme to God in the spirit of sonship, is the amazing production of this “rector”
all we seek—is all we need.
of a place we never heard of before, and of
“ Unitarians vindicated against the J which we shall probably never hear again.
�NOTICES OE BOOKS.
283
“Dogma versus Morality ; a Reply to mercies of God! ” Then, in love to
!| Church Congress.” By Charles Voysey. God, in doing good to man, and
^B.A. London : Trubner and Co.—This in the hearts hungering and thirsting
|is a sermon by Mr. Voysey concerning after righteousness, they will see what
|the rapturously applauded declaration “ religion ” really is.
“Haggai.” By James Biden. Gosport:
.¡made at the “Church Congress” at
i York, that “ it is better to have a reli- J. P. Legg. We have heard from this
■ gion without morality than morality writer before; but he does not improve.
without religion.” The absurdity of His present pamphlet is a curious and
this irreligious utterance is well exposed. incoherent attempt to explain certain
What the speaker meant by “ religion” ancient prophecies, mixed up with a
we all know; an 1 alas ! what the British chaotic story about an old seal and an
public mean by it we all know: but the ancient spoon which somehow do some
time is fast coming when, for rapturous thing towards proving the writer to
applause, such monstrous sayings as be “of royal origin.” But, what with
that we have quoted will be received Darius, Zerubbabel, Ezekiel, King Ed
with blank surprise if not with sheer ward, Haggai, and the old spoon, we can
¡disgust. Well does Mr. Voysey say, “If make nothing of it.
¡religious belief” (that is, as we should
“Unitarianism : What claims hasit to
¡say, creed-making and creed-believing) respect and favour?” By Joseph Barker.
' “ and the cause of morality should ever London: E. Stock. [Second notice.]
¡come into open collision, I know well In justice to a respectable publisher we
which must give way. A creed crowned return to this disreputable pamphlet
with the victories of twice two thousand just to say that we have received a com
years cannot stand a day when brought munication informing us that the pub
into open contrast (or rather con lisher’s name was attached to it before he
flict) with the eternal law of God.” was aware of the character of its con
The Scribes are putting the issue tents ; but that he has now declined to
very plainly before us; and we are have anything more to do with it. As a
heartily glad of it. Is it to be dead last word, we may state that Mr. Barker,
Tradition or living Inspiration ?—Creed at the end of his pamphlet, publishes
or Conscience?—Ritualism or Righteous what he calls a correspondence between
ness ?—Dogma or Morality ? We are himself and certain Unitarian ministers.
not afraid to accept the issue thus It is simply a reprint of his own letters,
brought home to us; nor are we afraid without a word on the other side, from
that the English people will ultimately the letters that convicted him of crook
go wrong on this question. They will edness, the exposure of which has led to
presently say, “ Take your religion, this sad display of “ envy, hatred, and
with its mystifications and its impossi malice, and all uncharitableness,” from
bilities, and leave us to our excommuni which “. Good Lord, deliver us.”
cated morality, and to the uncovenanted
�«84
NOTES BY THE WAY.
The long pending suit in Chancery,—
Bishop Colenso against the trustees of
The Colonial Bishops’ Fund,—has been
settled at last. On the 6th of November,
Lord Romilly, The Master of The
Rolls, decided in favour of the Bishop.
The contributors to the fund, he said,
ought to have known the law. Bishop
Colenso is Bishop of Natal, and will re
main so till convicted by regular process
of law of immorality or heresy, or till re
moved to another see: he has been “ in
the right throughout;” and the decision
is—payment to the Bishop of all arrears
of salary, with interest, and all his costs.
As regards the status of the Bishop in
Natal, Lord Romilly holds that his
letters patent are valid, as constituting
him a Bishop of the Church of England
in Natal, but that they are invalid as
regards any compulsory jurisdiction,
except through the civil courts there.
This is all Bishop Colenso contends for.
It is for the Bishop of Capetown to say
“ what next.” As for our brave and good
Bishop, this is what a letter from Natal
says of him:—“ The Bishop goes on
steadily increasing his influence among
the people—some of them almost wor
ship him. Persons from the neighbour
ing colony, while visiting here, of course
go to hear him preach, and all express
themselves astonished at what they find.
They seem to have received some extra
ordinary ideas of his conduct and ser
mons, and are little prepared to witness
the great, earnest, reverent eloquence of
the preacher, and the breathless atten
tion of the congregation,—We want all
to belong to our National Church, and
we hope that our church will, before
long, open her arms wide enough to in
clude a much wider range of thought
and belief than she seems inclined to admit
just now. I do not understand a National
Church trying to exclude differences and
even shades of differences of opinion.”
After having been unanimously recom
mended to the Chair of Mental Philo
sophy and Logic, by the Senate of
University College, London, the Council
have thought well to reject Mr. Marti
neau, and thus to deprive the University
of the services of one whom they cannot
hope to match in ability or surpass in
conscientiousness and liberality: the
only discoverable, and we may venture
to say the only possible, reason for this
being that Mr. Martineau is a distin
guished Unitarian. What this has to
do with mental philosophy and logic
nobody knows; and what the end of
this rather shabby business may be-no
body knows; but it is clear that the
Council have seriously imperilled the
reputation of a University that was be
lieved to be the cradle of advanced
liberality, and not the refuge of thread
bare bigotry. It cannot matter much
to Mr. Martineau how the affair event
ually ends; for he would bring to the
vacant chair as much honour as he
would receive from it; but, for the sake
of a University that has hitherto borne
a good name, we hope some way may
yet be found to reverse a decision which
can only wound the truth in the house
of its friends,
�
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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 Truthseeker. Vol. IV. No. 44, December 1866
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Place of publication: [New York]
Collation: 261-284 p. ; 21 cm.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Printed in double columns. Contents: The Closing Year; Thoughts for the Heart and Life; The Four Gospels; The Divinity of Jesus Christ (concluded from page 248); the poem 'Margery Miller'; Brief notices of books; Notes by the Way (which salutes the settlement of the Colenso suit and is scathing about the University of London's rejection of James Martineau as chair, Department of Mental Philosophy and Logic).
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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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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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Pamphlet
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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement and Instruction. Vol. 49, No. 6. January 1847
Description
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Place of publication: [London]
Collation: 76 p., ill.
Notes: Printed in double columns. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
Date
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1847
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G5552
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Periodicals
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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
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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.’
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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.
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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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71
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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73
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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75
‘ 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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77
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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79
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.
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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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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.’
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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
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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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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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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
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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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LETTER OPENING IN LADIES’ SCHOOLS.
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
�BOODHISM.
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,
�THE MONK AND THE STUDENT.
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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1<E VIEWS.
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
�124.
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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The West of England Miscellany. Vol. 1, No. 4, February 1845
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Place of publication: [Sherborne]
Collation: 97-128 p.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
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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
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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
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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
�Horace Walpole's Memoirs.—George III.
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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Horace. Walpoles Memoirs.—George III.
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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Horace Walpoles Memoirs.—George III.
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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Horace Walpole's Memoirs^ George III.
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
�217
Horace Walpole's Memoirs.— George III.
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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Horace Walpoles Memoirs.— George III.
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
�220
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.
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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
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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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Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches.
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
�Oliver Cromwell’s Letters and Speeches.
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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Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches.
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
�Oliver Cromivell's Letters and Speeches.
233
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
�WUliver Cromwell’s Letters and Speeches.
235
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
�236
Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches.
‘ 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.’
�Oliver Cromwell's Letters and Speeches.
237
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.’
�240
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.
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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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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.
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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
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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
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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 ?”
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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.
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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.’
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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.
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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,
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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.
���
Dublin Core
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Dublin Core
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Title
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The Oxford and Cambridge Review. Vol. II, No. II, April 1846
Description
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Place of publication: [London]
Collation: [201]-288 p.
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
Date
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1846
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G5554
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Periodicals
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<p class="western"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" name="graphics1" width="88" height="31" border="0" alt="88x31.png" /><br />This work (The Oxford and Cambridge Review. Vol. II, No. II, April 1846), identified by <span style="color:#0000ff;"><span lang="zxx"><u>Humanist Library and Archives</u></span></span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</p>
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application/pdf
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Text
Language
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English
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[s.n.]
Conway Tracts