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Full text of "The Christian remembrancer"

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THK 



CHRISTIAN 
REMEMBRANCER. 



^mxtttlp. 9i6(e))ieb)« 



VOL. XVIII. 

JULY UECEMBEK. 



LONDON : 

PUBLISHED BY J. & C. MOZLEY, 

6, PATERNOSTER ROW; 
AND D. APPLETOK 4 CO. 200, nROADWAY, NEW YORK. 

1849. 



LONDoK: 
K. CLAT, PRTNTKBy BRRAD 8TRKKT fllLL. 



THE 



CHRISTIAN REMEMBRANCER, 



JULY, 1849. 



Art, I. — 1. Scriptore* Grcpri Miiwre*, By Dr. Giles. Oxoa 

Talboys. 1831. 
2, Stesichort Himer&nm Frapnenta. Bif O, F. Kleine. Berolini, 

Typis et Impcnsis Ge. Keiniari. 1828. 

Let our readers imagine the works of Shakspere to have 
perished. Let them imagine our whole knowledge of that 
immitable gcniiie to be gleaned from the scattered reference <i 
made to him by other writers, Suinctiiiics we should find strajf 
expressioDs, idioiUi?, and alhij^ions, current »is household words^ 
Sometimes the meaning alone would be referred to, while the 
words were altered or parodied. Sometimes a few lines might 
be quoted, or even a passage of some lengtlj, as the ' Seven 
Ages/ for example. By some rare chance, one might even 
drop upon a Bcene, or upon the 'Beauties of Shakspere.' 
Then the SchcJia, or notes of commentators might tuni up; 
dissertations upon the genius of the great author, analyses ol 
some of his more striking characters, or even * Lamb's Tales.' 
But after all, what a deplorable deficiency wonld be presented 
by t}ie total result ! Let ua imagine the most elaborate Geniian 
criticism, or even the desperate researches of the * Shakspere 
Society/ to be enlisted in the cause. Let us fancy them collecting 
the fragments, arranging them under the dramas from which 
they were taken, and [ilacing them in the proper order of their 
fiucceasion. One can see them rummaging the most despised 
authors^ ohl grammarians, scribblers on prosudy, and collectors 
of wretched ' Elegant Extracts,' but all m vain, all lamentably 
■inadequate, tlie mere shadow of a mighty reality, the ' baseless 
fabric of a vision,* 

If such must have been the result in the CASe of a modern 
writer, referred to by thousands of his contemporaries and ours, 
^^hat can we expect to find of the lost works of writers who 
belonged to a remote antiquity, though the civilized world once 
rang to the echo of their names? Thus we have lost Menander, 
quoted by S> Paul ; and with infinite lab^^^j. g^^me beautiful 

no. LXV. — N, 8. B " 



The Remains of Steslchm^ui* 



* 
I 



of Stesichorus^ Kleine cleacrvea the highest praise. Indeed* it 
would be very difficult to point out any fragraeutary writer 
edited with more learning, judgment, and good taste. More, 
hovv'ever, remains to be done* A future editor will find that 
ftubeequent improvements of the text have been mjide ; as, for 
example, by Sir E, F. Broinhead, in the * Classical Journal,' 
No, 46, and some more hinted at in the version of (he frag- 
ments wliich we subjoin ; nor would the discovery of additional 
fragments be too much to expect. 

It were much to be wialied that a systematic English version 
of tlie fragmentary writers could be publiathed. At an early 
period tJie renowned Grotius did not tliink it beneath him to 
turn many such fraf^raent^ into very polished Latin. England 
can boast of some valuable anthological collections ; and of the 
poet Simonidcs, we have in one of our Quarterly Journals a 
complete version, abounding in tasteful scholarship. Stesi- 
chorus we arc ourselves about to present to our readers in an 
English dress ; but we will first give some account of a writer, 
once so much, and in all appearance so deservedly renowned, 

Accordinty to Suidas, Euscbius, and others, Stesichorus, sur- 
named the Himeraean, was born in the 37th Olympiad, attained 
to eminence in the 48th,, and died in the 55th, or 56tb, about 
556 years before the Christian era. He was the contemn 
porary uf Phalaris, somewhat the junior of ALcman, and the 
predecessor of Simonides, who speaks of him ns an old writer 
in connexion with Homer. The Marmor Parium, indeed, 
makes Stesichorus coeval with Simonides, in direct contradic- 
tion to this testimony, but more than one or two members of 
the poet's family bore the same name with himself, to one or 
other of whom the author of the inscription most probably 
refers. It was by no means uncommon to bestow on some of 
liie descendants the name of an illustrious ancestor, either t(* 
commemorate the honours of the dead, or stimulate the ambi- 
tion of the living, 

Tliat Ilimera was the native country of Stesichorus, was so 
firmly established by ancient opinion, that the Himeraean poet 
was his most common designation. All, however, do not agree 
upun tlie |>oint. Italy has been assigned by some as his birth- 
place. Soidaa mentions Matauria ; Lascans, Metaurus ; Stepha- 
nus Byzantius speaks of Mataurus in Sietif/, but the geographer 
seems to be mistaken as to the situation of the city. We may 
safely believe that both Stesichorus and Himera equally oived 
their origin to Italy. It is certain that no long time before the 
poet*s birth, the city was founded by some Chalcideans from 
Zancle, who, together w^ith the Metaurian branch of the Ln- 
rrians, sprang, in the first instance, from ffiolia; ami that 
Ste*ichoruw had lived among the Locrians, may be cullected 

b2 



6 The l(Mt \Vritini/i of Aniiqiiiiy* 

Sicily, not, indeed, immediately to Catena, but in the firast 
instance to Himera. He seems to have taken refuge at the 
former place towards the close of his hfe, perhaps disturbed by 
the civil dissensions excited among the Himerseans by the 
intrigues of Phalaris, The change of his name from Tisiajs to 
btesichorus may not improbably be dated from this jjeriod. 
He died in his 85th year, and was buried at Catana, with much 
expense, at the gate called from him the Stemchoream His 
tomb was octangular; it was ascended by eight stcpe, and 
adorned with eight colnnms. According to some, the prover- 
bial expression irmna o/cratf denoting perfection, derived its 
origin from the number eight, so conspicuous in every part of 
the poet's monument ; while the throw of eight upon the dice 
was called for the same reason the Steslchorus* Two epitaphs 
in honour of the poet are still extant j one in Greek, by Anti- 
pater ; another of a later age, in Latin, in the ' Jrlusa? Lapidariai' 
of Ferretiua. Of these, for the benefit of the Englisli reader, 
we give the following veraions: — 

• In Cfttana*B /Etntun pluiiis 
KeBt here SteBiclionis' rcmnins, 
HiB tu nliuse living lips belong 
J m measurable streams or^oiig: 
The aage Pythagoras said well, 
That aouls in divers bodiea dwell ; 
Thy soul, StesickoruB, the same, 

Thftt animated once old Homer's frame.' 

♦ The bones of sweet Stesichnnifr repose! 
Hia boncH, the bones of j^Lna here enclose. 
By me, by Opa enshrined ! Of him the reat, 
That now remains, m by the world possess "d.' 

Cicero speaka of the honours heaped upon Stesichorua by the 
jieoplc of Himera. Among the brazen etatues which adorned 
the Thermic, was one of the aged poet, in a tstooping posture, 
with a book in Ida band, executed witli rare skill and beauty, 
Chrietodorus describes another placed in the Byzantian Gym- 
nasium. Finally^ a coin is in existence, supposed by some to 
have been struck in commemoration of him. On one side is a 
head enclosed in a helmet ; on tlie reverse, a man in a standing 
posture, holding in one hand a crown, in the other a lyre. 
There is no absurdity in supposing that an honour which hail 
been paid to Siippho, AlcaeuSj and Anacrcon, should have been 
paid to 8te si chorus also ; but the fact docs not rest upon suf- 
ficient authority. 

The testimony borne to the poet*a merit by the most cele- 
bi'atcd writei-w of antiquity, is of the highest order. The 
* Stesichyriqiie graves Camainaj ' of Horace, is known to all. 
Aristides, Cicero, Dionysius, Longinut!, vie with each other in 



The Jlnmatm (jf SU^ickorui, 



I 



celebrating Lis praise. Dio Chrysostom and Synesius concur 
in representing him as not unworthy to be naojed with Homer. 
The former in particular speaks of him as not only emulating 
the greatest of epic poets, but fit, in mmiy rcepcctd, to be placed 
by his side. Quintilian, indeed, while he speaks highly of his 
genius, and lauds the gravity of his subjects and the dignity of 
hia characters, blames the redundance of hia style ; a redundance, 
however, which is approved by Hermogenea, as owing its origin 
to the grace and sweetness of his epitliets. The author of * The 
Examination of the iViicicnts,* genex'ally supposed to be Dio- 
nysius, speaks of Stesichorus as succeeding where Pindar and 
Simonides failed, and surpassing them iu the grandeur of his 
events, and the consistency of his cliaraeters. Chrysifjpui^ would 
fain liave added to the Stoic philosophy the weight of tlie poet's 
authority, and pressed the Fables of Stesichorus, as well as those 
of Orpheus, Homer, and ilesiod, into the service of the Porch. 

But the excellence of tl»c celebrated iliniercean is sufficiently 
proved by the general popularity wliich he enjoyed. His gongs 
were in every mouth after the lapse of ages ; and the Pajans 
were feung by guests at the banquet, even in the time of Dio- 
nyeius the younger. To crown the whole, we read in Ammianus 
Marcellinus, that when Socrates had been thrown into prison, 
and already looked forward to the iniquitous punislnuent which 
awaited himj he asked for one weU skilled in singing the songs 
of Ste8ichc»rus, that he might learn to do the same wmle life yet 
lasted. 

The statement of Sutdas that the jioct's name waa changed 
from Tisias to Stcsichorus, because he wtis the first who added 
tlie motion of the dance to the accompaniment of the harp, is 
not unattended with difficulty. It is well known that, long 
before his time, the Greeks made use of dancing in their eacrcd 
rites ; certainly in those instituted in honour of Latona and her 
children, the invention of which was attributed by the ancients 
to the fabulous Philammon. It appears, moreover, that these 
dancea were regulated by the lyre, of which instrument Apollo 
hiiuself is repeatedly represented as the inventor, and is said to 
have contended with the Phrygian pipers by the sounds which 
he drew from its strings. In the Ilomoric hymn, tlie Muses 
and Graces delight tlie inhabitants of Olympus, the one by 
singing, the other by dancing, to the lyre of Apollo. ^ We must 
not then rely so implicitly on the testimony of Suidiis as to 
believe that, before the time of Stesichorus, the dances iu 
honour of the god were regulated only by the sound of the pipe. 
The poet was probably the first who, at Himera, or even in 
Sicily, applied the dance to the accompaniment of the harp, or, 
at least, changed and correctcJ, in many respects, its nidcr and 




The lost Writing$ of JfUlquitff. 

more Hiraple form; and thus, as the iiiveoior of a more elabo- 
rate s*tyle of movement, acquired hia new appellation. Clemens 
Alexaodrinus, indeed, attributes the improvement to Alcman, 
who ilouriflIie<l fifty years before. Vestiges of choral poetrj' are 
found every where in \m fragments; and we arc told that he 
taught the Doric virgins to move in measured cadence whiJe he 
adapted Ins songa to the sounds of the pipe nnd !yre* We need 
not be surprised that the accompaniment of the dance should be 
attributed to Alcraan also, so closely are the nature and dispo- 
i^ition of the strophe connected with its movements. Whatever 
the inventions might liave been with which these princes of 
lyric aonff enriched t!ie art in which they excelled, tliey must 
have made an equal innovation in the choral dances with which 
their son^s were accompanied. The one would do this at 
Hiraera, the other at Sparta; and Ste8i'*horu8 cannot be sus- 
pected of plagiarism, inasmuch as his style of jtoetry, the form 
of hia strophe?, his rhythms, and his metres, arc totally diftercnt 
from those of Alcman* Moreover, Alcnian made no use of the 
epode. Accortling to the well-known proverb— OySc to. rpla 
"SfTTfo-ij^Spou jiyv(^a-K€i,q^i]ie three kinds, the strophe, the anti- 
Btrophc, and the epode, belong to the later poet* Possibly 
Stesichorus was conf^idered the inventor of the epode, and of 
tlie pause created by its introduction into the ancient choral 
system of strophe and antistrophe ; and the name accordingly 
referred to that point. Even his strophes Alcman did not 
amplify and adorn equally with his more celebrated successor, 
while the ricliness and beauty lavished by Stesichorua on liis 
epodes, will authorize the assertion that he discovered what his 
predecessor only souglit. 

That Stcsichorus wrote in the Doric dialect is clear from tlie 
teetiuiony of Suidas, and the fragments of his poetry atill extant. 
This may be easily believed, inasmuch as Alcman, whom in 
*ome respects he followed, had applied the Doric tongue before 
him to lyric verse, while the dialect was for the most part that 
of Sicily, as Thucydides has shown with his accustomed learning 
and research. Suidas tells us that the poems of Stesichorua 
were collected and published in twenty-six books, but by whom, 
or at what period, he does not mention. It is well known, how- 
ever, that the works of Pindar were thus edited in the time of 
Aristof thanes Byzantius, and it is not probable that those of 
Stesichorus were published long before. It is certain that Cha- 
madeon. a Peripatetic of Hcraclea, about the time of Thco- 
phrastus, edited a single btjuk. He wrote of nearly all the 
lyric as well as dramatic ptiets, and in common with Ai'istotlc 
himself and many of his disciples cultivated that branch of lite- 
ature. 



The Remaim of Stesichorui. 



¥ 



But it is time to proceed to the fragments theiuficlves. Of 

thejsC a very close version is not possible, and iti some caecs, in 
order to complete the series, it has Lieen found necessary to 
extort a kind of paraphrastic meaning from the smaller scraps. 
It ia singular enough that the English translation prciscnts a 
more complete view of the poet^a remaina than the original. 
We frequently find the substance of his meaning given without 
an exact quotation of his words ; and these in a translation may 
be justifiably added to the immima verba^ though in a more 
formal work on the subject, these instances should be carefidly 
distinguished. Where the context has been restored merely 
from conjecture, we have thought it right to mark the additions 
by placing them between brackets. Where the fragmenta, 
whether they have reached uh in t^ubstance merely, or in the 
words of Stesichorus himself, belong to any work of his that can 
be ascertained, they are collected under that head, AVhere tlie 
location of the fragment is unknown, it is marked wiih a (t), 
and placed under any head which may artificially enhance its 
meaning, and to which it may therefore ijossibly bekmg. The 
industry of critics has brought together about 95 fragments, or 
fragmentary references. 

L EYPOnElA.— r/jf Stort/ of Europa, 
Europa, the daughter of Agenor, the brother of Belus, was 
playing on tbe sca-Bhore when she was decoyed to Crete. 

This poem seems to have contained an account of the family 
of Cadmus. (2.) refers to the well-known story of the dragons 
teeth. (3.) attributes the disaster of Actcon, not to his intrusion 
upon Diana^ but to a passion for Semele, the daughter of Cad- 
mus. Perhaps the goddess wis^hed to enrol Semele among her 
nymphs. 

* Daijprlitcr of Arabiis, Ilermaon'a heir 
By Belus' daughter, I'lironia the fair. 

2. 

* By Pflllna* aid the Dragon- teeth were sown ♦ 
The Goddess rea|/d ji harvest all her own. 

3. 

* When Semele, the destined spouse of Jove, 
Won younff: A<^teoii*B mnLiispiciotiii k)ve, 
Thonjrh Dian disallow 'd, in her despite 
The eager liimtcr iirg'd the nuptial rite; 
In a stag's hide encased by Dmn s power, 
He perishes for love, and dujijs devour.' 

IL KYKN OS,— Cycnu*. 

(1.) Stesichorua was the first who gave thia ruffian aspect to 
Hercules. 




Th^ hst Writimjs of Antiquky* 

(4.) These lines and some others niuat be conaidered to repre- 
sent the versified arguments heading the books of certain poems 
rather than any definite fragment. Our readers will be 
reminded of the catacombs of Paris. 

' In giiise uncouth tbe Son ofJove appeared, 
A knotted Club of niftsaive weight he reftr'd, 
A Lion's hide was o*er hia ahoulders flung, 
And at his back the rattling Quiver bung. 

+2. 
' Mighty of bone and limb he stalk M along ; 
Gilled with atrengtb to overthrow the strong. 

t3. 

-* Of Argive He, and of Ba^otian fame. 



' As journt:y'd IlerculeSj and onward lay 
To the ThessaFmn plain the Hero's way, 
Therc^ on his pathway lawless Cyctius stood, 
Impatient thirstiitigf for a stranger's blood; 
The path he watch 'd, and, from the slaughter 'tl dead 
With ruthleaa hand dismembering, lopp'a tlie Head, 
A Temple destined of their Henda to rise, 
To Mar» hia Sire a fitting sacrifice ; 
By Mars impelfd he rush'd upon hia prey, 
And stopp'd in mid career the Hero's way. 
Cycnua with Hercidea engaged in fight, 
And then the Sire displayed his own immortal might ; 
The Hero saw the God of War confess 'd, 
Awe-struck, a panic liorror chOl'd hia breast; 
Then first lied Hercules, hut instant burned 
The Shame, and all the Demi-god retura'd ; 
Indignant rushing on hia lavvleaa Foe, 
Akidea crush'd him to the realms below.' 

II L TBPYQ'SrE.— T/ie Genjonld, 
The loss of this poem is much to be lamented, as it must liave 
teemed with very curious mythological matter. (3.) This sin- 
gular fragment refers to an ancient opinion that the ocean was 
a river encircling the earthy and that the sun on setting in the 
west entered a bowl in which he sailed round to the east during 
the night. The same idea occurs in a fragment of Mimncrnms. 
The poet ia not to be considered in thla cjtsc as representing 
Hercules employing the bowl to pass to the island of Erytheia, 
though some commentators so interpret it (4.) Pholos was 
one of the centaurs. 

L 
* Firm on six feet the monster Geryon stands^ 
And raises dreadful aix unconquer*d hands; 
Broad vrings behind sua tain the monster might. 
For combat fashioned or a wcli-limed flight. 



The Rentaiinf uf Steikhonit, 



11 



* Where monster Geryon first belield iLe light, 
Famed Erytbeia rises to the sight ; 
Bom near tb* mnfatbom*d silver springs that glemn 
Mid cavern 'd rocks, and feed Tartessii*' stream* 

3. 

' Sol's golden bowl be enter'd to pass o*er 
The hoary Ocean's stream, and reach *d the uborc, 
The fiacred depths of venerable night. 
There on the Mother shade to feed his sight, 
'I'bere to behold attain the virgio VViJe, 
And the dear Children torn away from lifcf 
Then pass'd on foot the Hero son of Jove 
Through the dim shadows of the kurel grove. 



* He raised the draught by Pholoa mix'd, a bowl 
Of triple measure, aod he drained the whole.' 

IV. KEPBEP02.— -C^rAiTW. 

The hero here must have been Hercules, (1.) This vessel is 
said to have been shaped like a puree. (3.) may belong to the 
Scylla* 

1, 

* Ample below and narrow-raoutii'd above, 
A Vessel worthy of the son of Jove. 

• • • * Where hid from human eye 
Deep TartaruLS and black Abysses lie. 

t3. 

♦ • • • The aoimd 
Of howling dogs for ever ringing round,* 

V. SKVAAA.— tycy//a. 

* There Lamia's daughter, hateful Scylla dwells. 

VI. SYOeHPAL— rAtf Boar-Htmten, 
This was probably a hiBtory of the hunt of the Caledonian 
Boar. 

* The savage Boar upturn'd the earth around, 
Th« monster's snout keen buried under ground.' 

Vir. 'AeAA—TAe Oamfx. 

The appHcuMlity of (3.) has been a subject of diacussion, and 
an alteratioti of the text has been proposed to give the fragment 
a Male application, but from some of the parties mentioned it 
may possibly refer to Atalanta and games connected with the 
hunt of the Caledonian Boar, which she firyt wounded, or per- 




The lost Wriilngs of Aniifjuity. 



Imps to the marriage of Peleus. The fragment is in it^s way us 
singular as the supper of Horace^ and the translator has been 
driven to circumlocution to escape the announcement of mix- 
tures of oil and honej, and messes of frumenty or firmity por- 
ridge, ju8t as Pope was compelled to evade the assimilation of 
Ajax to a certain stentorophouous animal. 

1. 
' The twin-born progeny of Jove possesH'd 
Coursers of lof^ stram, tlie fleetest and the best; 
Phlogifla and Harpagiis of winged speed 
Hermes bestowU, of the Podarga breed; 
Exalithus and Cjtlarus were riven 
By the high Consort of the King of heaven. 



' Amphinraws m the Knrer's art 
Excell'd, and Meleager with the Dart. 

3. 
i # ♦ * Gifts prepare, 
Bring presents worthy of the Virgin Fair: 
Confections from the OUve and the Bee, 
The meas of Wheat, and calses of Sesame : 
The Honey-comb of golden hue produce, 
Bring all the choicest dainties for her use. 

4, 
* A Vase of massive gold, where wondrous E»hine 
Vulcanean labours and the Hand divine : 
This Gifl to Bacehua grateful Vulcan bore, 
Hia guest on Naxos' hospitable shore ; 
The same to Thetis grateful Bacchus gave, 
His guardian Goddess on the ocean wave, 
When fierce Lycurgus down the Naxian steep 
Drove the young God for shelter to the deep ; 
Next, the sad giilt of Thetis to her Son, 
To hold his asbea when his race \n run.' 

V 1 1 1. 'EPl^r AA.—Eriph^le. 
Eriphyle was the wife of Aniphiaraua, who through her trea- 
chery went to the Thcban war, and perished. (1.) Thig event 
can scarcely refer to the Epigoni, as has been supposed ; this 
being directly contrary to the speech of Sthcnelus to Agamem- 
non m the Iliad, The healing art cannot be supposed to be 
exercised except upon persons recently deiw!, and in the present 
case may have been connected with the death of Amphiaraus. 



• By healing art divine the deed is done, 
By daring .Eacuhipius. Paean's gon : 
Thouirh by the Fates* docree the Heroes fall 
Fore-doom*d to die before the Theban wall ; 
Lycurgua breathes the vital air again, 
And Capaucus by thunder scathed in vain \ 
By Gold suborn'd. • • • 



Th B^maim of Ste^ichorus, 



13 



IX. EPFTHALAMIUM OF PELEUS AND THETIS. 

tl. 
No lon^r. Muse, of battlhtg Heroes tell. 
The festive Dance with Me beseems thee ivell : 
Corae sing witb Me a fttvourd Bard of thine ; 
I sing the Nuptial Rites of Powers divine, 
1 sing the lordly Feasts that Mortals love^ 
I sing the Btinqiicta of the Gods above ; 
And these, O Miise, the favourite Themes with thee, 
Since our first early strains of I oesy,' 

X. EPITHALAMIUM OF HELEN AND MENELACS. 

This piece acquired much celebritj, and gave rise to many 
imiitaturs, and perhaps we may enumerate among tliem CatuUus 
in his Epithahimium of PeleuB and Thetb. (1.) The violet of 
antiquity seema to have been an iris, and our violet seems to 
have received the name from its tliree petals, the sporthp of its 
coloui*8, and the odour resembling parts of certain indaca\ 

* Myrtle and garlands of the Rose they fling 
Into the passing chariot of the King ; 

Quinces they cast» and cast in showers the bloom 
Of Flowers that shed the violet's perfiime. 

+2. 

• # « ♦ Next advance 
The youths well skilPd to lead the WarUke Dance.' 

X I. TAIOY UEP2I2.— The Fall of Troij. 

Notwitbetanding the existence of the aecond book of the 
iEneid, tbe loss of this poem is much to be lamented, (2.) The 
poem included the story of the wooden horse, which was con- 
structed by Epeiui*, probably a slave of mechanical genius 
rescued from servile duties by the pity of Clytemnesti-a or 
Helen, From the wooden horse sumpter-mules seem to have 
been called I^^peius, and the name may have been given as a 
nicknauie to certain slaves. (6.) This will remind our readers 
of the Coat Armour in tbe Seven against Tiiebes ; the Dolphin, 
probably, refers to the eimile in the river battle of the Iliad. 
(11,) Virgil repreeents ^neas ad ready to destroy Helen, and 
in the present case the poet may have alluded to the fate 
threatened by Hector to Paris. (13.) Medusa formed part of 
a group at Delphi* (16.) Later writers have called Hector the 
son of Apollo on tbe autltority of Stesichorus, possibly m.is- 
understanding some metaphor, 

+1. 
' » « » On Thee I call 

Who shak'at the Gates of the embattled wall. 




The lost Writings of Antiqtdti/, 



' Jovc*a Dnwghter pities (is lie ever brings 
The servile weiglit of waters for the Kings ; 
Epeiiis lie, condemn'd to swell the state 
Of Atreus' sous by too severe a fftte. 

3. 

' The Heroes* Names it boots not to relate, 
« « • * 

4. ' A Hundred to the Horse confide tlicir fate. 

* Unmitigated sufferings liave I borne. 

' Laertes* Son Ulysses stood reveal'd, 
The sea-born Dolphin tignr'd on \i\h Shield. 

t7. 
' ♦ ♦ ♦ They throw 

Their powerful darts in sbowers againat the fue. 

' The very boldest of the race of men. 

.< And in liia hand the slaughter-pointed spear. 
flO. 

* A chief conspicuous with the snow-white steeds. 

11. 

* Arm*d with the stony shower, the desperate crew 
Rush headlong: to inflict the vengeance due: 

In Beauty ann'd the bright Adultreas stands, 
And Stones drop harmless from their lifted hands, 

tl2. 

* The precious mountain-brass of Oriehalc, 
13. 

' Medusa, daug^hter of the Trojan King, 
la seen low seated on the earth to cJinf, 
The Laver clasping in her desperate bauds ; 

14. * There Clyroene, her captive Sister stands, 
15. 

* But Hecmba the Queen, Apollo bore 
To distant Lycia's hospitable shore ; 

* « « » 

16. • Mother of Hector, loved as Pbosbus' son. 
tl7. 

* -ind having brought the dread destruction down 



XII. X^O'lTOl.-^The Relurm from Troy. 
The existence of tlii8 tlesiderated companion to tlie Ody 





The Remalm of Stesichorm. 



15 



discovered by Klcine. (6») Tlie singular epithet is said to 
refer to the early inhabitants of Rhodes, notorious for envy and 
malignity. (12*) Amphilochu?, on hia return from Troy, founded 
a colony. 

tl. 
• • • Hear. 
Tuneful Calliope, and now draw near. 



' The reckless madness of tlse Cliicfs I tell, 
And all the varied fortunes that hcfeli; 

• « ♦ « ^ 

3. ' How some lay buried in the Ocean-tide, 

How some to foreij^i climes were drifted wide, 
And how for some their happier Fates ordain 
To see their loved, their native homes again ; 

» « • • 

4. ' Tbo Capharsean rocks, where vessels lie 

Sad victims of tlie Nauplian treachery ; 

♦ ♦ ♦ * 

5. * The crash of rocks erratic, and the shore 

Where the wdd eddies of Charvbdia roar. 



1<i. 



Events of dismal gloom, Telcliinian woes. 
Of human kind the ever-envioua foes. 



Fair Aristomache, in wedlock won 
By Critulaus, Hicetaon's son, 
Daughter of Priam s own imperial line. 



fS. 

* The mighty God of ocean, he who loads 

The tramp of hollow-hoord, high-hounding steeda, 

+9. 
' * • • Tlie breeze propilious brings 
The llakyons 'nith healing on their winga; 
O'er the soothed Seas they wheel and disappear, 
The Pleiada niling now the rolling year* 

flO. 

* And Penelops tlie dnck of varied plnme. 

11. 

* Now Mesonyx affords a planet light. 

tl2. 

* • • ♦ When thus began 
Amphilochus, " Melampns the divine 
Sprang with Myself from one ancestral line ; 
He gat Antiphates, — Oicles hCj,— * 
Amphiaraus in the next degree 
Oicles' honour'd heir, — the Sire of Me. 






16 



The. IvH Wntf'n^^ of Anfiquffj/. 



XI I r. HELEN. 




The satirical invective against Helen waa probably a poem 
a lighter nature than the present, more in imiaon witli the * Pa- 
linodia/ and forming a sort of first part to that production. 

tl. 

• * * * Inspire, 

Muee, presiding o'er the tuneful lyre. 

+2. 

• Icarius, Aphareiis, Lysippus stood, 
Own brothers all ofTindarua*a blood; 
Gorgo phone, the ehild of Perseus bore 
To Pcrieres nil the honour'd four ; 
From fttoied Cynortca Pericrca came, 
And Hyacinthus own'd ftn uncle's name. 

t3. 

' Piaa the city Pericres reared. 

ft. 

• When Tindarua made solemn sacrifice 
To all the high Olympic deiliea, 

The hapless Sire forgot the rights alone 
Due to the Goddeas of the golden zone! 
Hence Venus vengeful, to chastise the Sire, 
Upon the heauteuuH dau^litera turn'd her ire; 
Hence burn'd the double, and the triple flame, 
Forgotten hence the husband 'a honoured namu. 



For the aoiFd feet the tepid stream to hold, 

A vase of silver-slag, of rudely-fashion'd mould.' 



XIV. 



nA.\INQiAlA E12 'EAEN AN. —Palinodia, or iht Rtcantafiun ta 
Beicn. 



This poem of Stesichorua was of great celebrity among the 
ancients, and even gave riise to a proverb respecting those who 
(to nsc onr elegant phraseology) are * forced to eat their own 
words.' An attempt is here made to reconstruct the Palinotlia 
from the scattered references in Horace, laocrates, Pausanias, 
Suidaa, Conon^ Plato> Maximus Tyrius, Athenaeus, Philostrates, 
Cicero, and various scholiasts, though of the poet himself we 
actufiUy possess only three or four scattered lines. The ancients 
were sometimes cruelly literal^ as much so as our northern 
neighbours are said to be, or our American hrethren, of which 
last a distinguished writer complains that he did not find any 
one who could take a joke until he reached the boatmen on the 
Mississippi. Horace, however, himself a writer of much humour, 
perfectly entered into the spirit of the * Paliuodia.' Accoitling to 
Canon Tait, he began his literary career by imitating the old 



The Remains of Steiidwrui, 



17 



coarse and prosaic Roraan eatiristiSj and, among othor satires, 
very grossly attacked Gratidia, under the name of Canidia, 
By the advice of Meca^nas he then began to imitate Archiloehus 
and the other Greek satirists in hia book of Epodcs, winch were 
still sufficiently coarse. Among others, he imitated Stesichorua, 
first writing an ode of inimitable slander on the beforemcntioDed 
lady, and immediately following it by another under the name 
of *Palinodia/ in which he directly refers to the poet whom he 

» imitated: — 
• Til piidica, tu proba, 
Perambukbis astra aidus aureiim. 
Itifamis Helenas Castor oHetisus vice, 
Fralcrqiie magni Castoria, victi prece, 
Adempta vati reddidere lumina.' — Ep. 17. 
Horace from this point was naturally led to imitate the Greek 
lyric poet«. On commencing hia odes, it seenw that be fell in 
love with Gratidia's daughter, and we find amcmg tlieni a bona 
fide recantation in the ' O matre pnlchra filia pulchrior.' Auto- 
leon, allied also Lconymuc^j by a play upon his name, was probably 
a friend of Stesicborus, who bad taken part in an engagement 
against theLocriana. These people oyr bard detested, and fired 
off a fable against them, ^o that the whole story of Autoleon 
and Ajax is probably as mncb a piece of banter as that of him- 
sell' and Helen. The ij^land of Lciiee, where Acbillcs had a 
temple, was near the Delta of tbe Danube, cnllcd little Egypt; 
and it woidd be odd enougb if tbe story of Helen's sojourn in 
Egypt originated in the same mistake aa the popular notion, 
that the grpsies, when driven out of little Egypt, Imd come 
^ from the Delta of the Nile. (8.) A scholiast tells us that 
H Stesichorus applied the expresaion wbich related to the volun- 
tary departure of Helen, to his separation from his own mistress; 
but we have, doubtless, given tnc fragment its true location, 
though StesichoruB may have humorously quoted himself on 
some 8ucli occasion. Ibe story of Custor atid Pollux [>ntleef- 
ing Simonidea may have originated from this Palinodia, 

L 
' Accursed the prostituted Lyre, 
That rouaed the Jove-born Twins to ire! 
Deprived of sight, I mouni the minu? 

Of rielcn soil o with deeds of shame. 

• • • 

. 'In troubled dream uitli fear and awe 
The frowning demigods I saw, 
Aod starting from my sleep 1 Iny 
Sefurching in vain the hght of day. 

. * The stroke was from n hand Divine ; 
My counsel from the Delphic shrine. 



NO. LXV. — N. 8. 



■ 18 


■ 


The lod Writims of Jntiquftf/^ 




4. 


* Autoleon for himself and Me, 
Hied to the healing Deity, 






Autoleon by n w uuml dbtresa'd, 






Unheal'd and rankUiitj; in the breast, 
Wounded vvlicji laurel d tieids he sought 
Where Locri and Crotoaiaus fo tight, 
« • * 




5. 


' He of the lofty Lion-name 
At last to mystic l)cl|)hi earnc; 
Replies the Povrer, ** No hopes avail 
Till you to disUvnt Leuce sail ! 
OfTended Ajax then may pity, 
And barda may learn a dilTorent ditty.'* 
The desert Leuee next was won, 
Sacred to Thetis' godlike son; 
Shades of Ajaces there were seen, 
The Less and he of giant mienj 
Atrhilles there, and at his side 
The chaste, the lovely Spartan Bride. 
• • • 




e. 


* Warn d that to Ajax still belong 
Our Locri of the courleoua tongue, 
Or heal'd by Ajax or the sea, 
He brought a warning back to Mc, 
" From Helen tell that Poetaster, 
To Me he owca the due disaster; 
He shall recant those caluiniiies, 

And he shall laud me to the skies t" 

« • • 




7. 


' Oh, Helen ! Queen of Beauty thou ! 
And faithful to the marriage vow 1 




fS. 


* [Blindly I sang,] " With willing heart 
>id Helen from Iter home depart :*' 








n. 


* Tie false ! for never Dardan oars 
Did Helen bear to Trojan shores ; 

4 * • 




10. 


* The faithless Paris put to sea 
With a dead Image, shaped like Theel 

» w » 




IL 


' The Twins propitious hear the righteous Lay; ^^^^M 
Apdn 1 now bchtdd the Light of day.' ^^^^H 

XV. '0?E2TElA.^The J?tor^ of Ortrsten, ^^H 


^^ This 


piece was in two parts ; (6.) is mcDtitmcil ns being in tlie^B 


^H Bectind 


purt 


. (4.) Our poet doej* not lay tlie scene in Argos or ■ 


^H Mycenae. (5,) Our poet doc^ not give the received name of the | 


^H nurse. 


(7.) Agamemnon was the son of Pleitjtbeucs, ^M 






* In every month the cheerful song ^M 






Should to the Graces now belong, ■ 






Song of the Graces golden-treus'd, ^M 






SoftsoDg in Phrygiati measure drubs'd ; ^H 




m 


^^^M 



Tke Remains of Stesiek&rtiM, 



w 



f2. For now tlio genial Spring is here, 

And, Hark! the Swallow luiltcrH near. 

* * * And ain^ once more 

* The theme old Xanthtis sang before. 

t. 
' In lofty Laccdtcmon stood 
Atridcs' palace, scene of blood. 

5. 

* Laodamia^ she whose tender care 
Had fustcr'd Agamemnon's infant heir, 

G, 

* Letters, the fruit of Pakmedes' art. 
Are fitting means tlie counsel to impnrt. 



* In Clytetnnestra's vii^ions of the nij^ht 
Dreams of foreboding horror blast the sight ; 
His crest besmear 'd with blood a Dragon renr'il, 
And then Pleisthenide^ the king appeurM. 

* Of feather'd shads a formidable store. 
By Phoebus self- bestowed, Orestes bore. 

' The God of Day <lc%hts in sport and song; 
To Pluto grief aud moaning gronns helung ! 

* • * ' 

110. Bootless to monrn where every hope hns fled, 
Vainest of Vanities to mourn the Dead ! 

• • « 

f 1 1. The Dead we never .shall behold ag^ain, 
Their favour faded from the face of men.' 



XVI. 'PAMNA.—Mmlme, an E/eg^, 

Of the real history of this poem we know nothing. It seemi* 
to have been one of the ehi8S A'rjfKOfxaTa, which we shoult! call 
ballads. The era chosen must have been during the regal 
government of Corinth, perhapa before tlio foimding of Sy ra- 
ciise. Cephalonia was one of the islands wliieh formerly 
I'eceived the name of Samoa. Strabo supposes It to be a tribute 
to the memory of the brother and cousin t»f Radine, put to 
death by the king of Corinth. 

L 
• Come, sacred MuHe» begin the sonjpr, 
To thee the tuneful notes bebmg; 
Let Samoa and her Sons inspire 
The lovely lay and lovely lyre, 

c2 



20 



The lost Writing$ of Anthjuittf. 



2. * l^p apringa tlie gentk western breeze 
To waft Radiiie tier the seas, 
From her own Satooa mailing o'er 
To regal Corinth's diataiit shore. 
Where Corloth's King with longing arm a 
Impatient waits her Bridal eharniH, 

• • » 

' The same breeze summons to depart 
The Brother of Radinc'a heart, 
Sent on an embaasy divine, 
To diataiit Delphi's halJow'd shrine. 

• * • 

* Her Kinsman hastenSr too, to grace 
The bridal games and chariot race^ 
And at fair Corinth sighs to dwell 
Near her that he had loved too well. 

« • » 

' The furious Husband has decreed 
Brother and Kinsman both ahalt bleed. 

• • • 

' The Chariot by hia stern command 
Conveys the dead from off the laud ; 
But soon the pangs of conaeience bum, 
ITie Dead are summon 'd to return. 

• • • 

' The funeral rites are duly paid, 
And low in peaceful earth the dead are laid.* 

XVII, K^^ryih.—CaIyce, an Ode, 

The unsullied purity of Stei^ichorus in sentiment and expres- 
sion is very remarkable. Calyce can scarcely have been con- 
sidered by tlie poet the daughter of JEolns, as woukl appear 
from tlie nature of her prayer and its re&iilt, and from the pro- 
bably invented name of Evathlu:?. The ^ Lover d Leap/ in the 
* Spectator,' will repay a peruaal. 



* " VenuB ! hear a Lover's prayer, 
Be suppliant Calycc thy care ; 

A maiden seeks thy honoured shrine, 
And BO unba!low*d love be minej 
Or 1 Evathlus' wedded wife, 
Or may I quit a loathed life !" 

• • # 

' Thus Calyce her prayer preferr'd, 
No Power divine propitious heard ; 
Nor could her purer passion move, 
Evathlus scorned her maiden love. 

« • • 

* Where spreads the wide Thessalian plain, 
And iEohis'a ancient reign. 

* She, where F^eucate overhangs the tide, 
Plunging down desperate — a Virgin died.* 



w liemaim of Stmchorue, 



XVIII. DAPHNIS. A BUCOLIC. 



This branch of poetry i8 said to have been invented by Steai- 



1 hw Drancn oi poetry i8 saiti to imve Dc 
churu8j the Father of the Sicelides Miisa?. 



* 1 mourn ihe Shepherd Dapliuisi robb'd orsiglit, 
Doom'd by a Goddeas Nymph to endless night. 

* Fair Clonia's slighted love to hate had gfrown; 
Her Shepherd Diiphnis stands transform 'tl to stone.' 

XIX. YMNOS E15 OAAAAAA. — Hxjmn to Minerva. 

(1.) do€3 not with certainty belong to Ste^ichoru.s, but the 
style is his, (2.) This picture of Minerva is said to have origi- 
nated with our poet, but is found on Etiiiscan remaine. 

1. 

* Pallas, the dreadful Goildesfl, ndes the lyre; 
Pallaa that seta the martial aoiil on fire, — 

The Power that lays the haughty Cities wastCj^ 
That rouses slumbering h at l!e,— Goddess Chaste, — 
Jove's mighty Daughter, — skilled the Steed to tame,— 
Minerva ! awful, all-unrivall*d Nanie ! 

* From Jovc*8 own Head, forth to the light of day 
Minerva leap'd in all her arm'd array. 

13. 

* Typlioeus sprang from Juno, sprangyfrom Her, 
To vengeance roused against the Thuudertr.' 

XX. FABLES. 

The versatility of Stesiehorus* genius was unrivalletl among 
the Gi^eeks, and only equalled by that of the inexliuustible Ovid 
among the Romans. His fables seeui to have been all of a poli- 
tical character. It has been questioned whether they were 
written in prose or verse ; but we may conclude from the general 
tone of his wrltinf!;^, and from the precedents set by ot!iers, that 
he would compose them in verse, except when a fable was deli- 
vered as part of a public speech, lie may have quoted on such 
an occasion the fable of some otiicr writer* That of the Horse 
and Stag we know lias paased through several hands, such as 
-^sop in his defence of the demagogue. It was not unusual to 
degrade poetical fables into the form of prose. An indu.strioua 
person might possibly pick out some loose Iambic measure from 
the second and tliird fables which seem to possess the digjtctt 
membra poekv. Socrates in prison asked for the poems of Stesi- 
chorus, and may have been led by these to compoi?e some fables 
of his own. (4,) The Cicada of the ancients was not our grass- 
hopper. 



23 



The lost Writings of Antiqaitih 




'mnOS KAl *EAA*OS.— 7'A* Uorae and the Stai/. 

* A Stag comes trampling and destroys 
The meadow whicb a Horse enjoys; 
The Horse for vengeance cries to Man— 
*' AsKist to punisli, ifytHj can." 
Replies the Man, '* Wear you this Bridle, 
These javelins shall not be idle! ' 
The Horse agrees?, the Bridle wears, 
And on his back the Hunter bears: 
But for revenge he took'd in vain, 
And never \\m he free again* 
Ye Iliniera.ian3, think of this, 
Nor seek revenge throug:h Fhidaris ; 
From vou he holds supreme command, 
A Bridle ready in his hand ! 
To make the Fable aptly fit, 
Give him a Body-guard for Bit! 
Then fairly mounted on your back, 
Your master he — and you his hack ! ! 

2. The IIoTMe and the Doe. 

' A paaturo smded in green, and near 
A riviilet t!ow*d sweet and clear; 
A roving Doc, that chanced to pass, 
The fountain foiird, and trod the grass ; 
A Horse to whom the field belongs, 
Bnms to aTenge these heinous wrongs. 
The Doe he finds too fleet to chaae, 
A Hunter meetB, tiud states hits case: 
QuotJi Hunter, ** Were I on your back, 
And w'ere you bridled on her track. 
We both could soon chastise this Foe : " 
He mounts, and spears the hapless Doe* 
The Horse revenged found out too late 
Himself reduced to servile state. 
' Ye Uemocrata, 1 fear that you 
And ilimera the like may rue : 
You hate your betters, and you cjill 
For Gclon's help to crush them all; 
For this a Body-guard he craves, 
And you may find that you are slaves.' 



3. rEQProj KAI *AET02,— 7%e Eagie and the Ifttsfmiidman, 

* As sixteen kbourcrs U)ird together, 
And harvested in sultry weather, 
Thejf sat them down to rest and dine, 
Alhirst for water to their wine ; 
So one is sent away to bring 
The water from a neighbouring; spring. 
Away he hies at tlieir comraaud^ 
Flagon on shoulder, hook in hand. 
And there he spies an cattle lying 
In a snake's folds just strunglcd, dying? 
The eiigle hoped a prey to make, 
And fouud himself outniatcli d bv snake ; 



lerin* of SieMtchorm- 



23^ 



The kiD^ of birds by snake is bcatt?n ; 
Not now to eat, — perbaps be ealeii : 
Unlike o!d Homer 9 birds, the brcjod 
AJJ gape, and gape in vain tbr food. 
The countryman has beard that Jove 
Sends birds xni errands from iiliove. 
That eagles do his high behest, 
And snake he knows a hateful henst. 
He lakeE) bis hook, cuts sntikc nsmidcr, 
And liberates the Bird of Thunder! 
Work done of supererogation. 
Water be draws in hm vocation ; 
Water be mixes with the wine, 
And hands about for all to dhie : 
The thirst is great, *tis high noon-tide. 
The draughts are deep, and often plied. 
Oiir Countryman had served the rest. 
Nor aat with them to share tlie feast; 
At last be dines, and raiaes up 
With eager thirst the coobng eup ; 
The Eagle sees, he pounces down, 
Upsets the cup, and straight is gone! 
The Countryman indignant criuti, 
As off the well-known Eagle dies, 
**Ob ! is this conduct right or just/ 
Who now in Jove will put his trust? 
Aud who again will act like me, 
Or set his captive eagles free?" 
He spoke, — he turn'd, and then saw lying 
The rest convulsed, in torture dying! 
Snake-poiaon in the stream was laid, 
llie bird the boon of life repaid. 

* [Since much to you, my friends, I owe, 
Unwelcome counsel 1 bestow ; 
'Tis good — adopt, nor bear so hard 
Upon your faithful Eagle- Hard,]" 

To the LocrlaiiB on tiicir use of foul language : — 



4. The Grasshopperg, 

* [Day after day, and year by year, 
Chattering, chirping, fur and near, 
Some GrasahopperH a house surround 
And din the owner with the Bound. 
These grasshoppers delight in trees 
To chirp and chatter at tbeir ease : 
So quoth our friend, ** You villain vermin f 
This nuiiiaiice I'll at once determine : 
Your Trees 111 fell, and then you may 
In humbler tjuarters sing away !'"] 

* Hush, Locrians I or far and near 
Divcllings and Trees may disatipenr; 
Theu Grasshoppers, ill-omen *d sound, 
Shall sing to You, — and from the ground. 



u 



The lost Writinfjs of AntiquUij, 



XXI. HYMNS TO BACCHUS, PVEANS, PANEGYRICS, EPITAPHS, kc. 

Of the rabcellaDeous compOBitionB of all Borts, we can only 
Bay that some of the preceding fnigments may belong to them. 

1 . Solm- Eciipse. 
' The loftiest, Gn^eatest Star^ before so bright, 

Now kvrks conceal'd, his noonday tuni'd to night ; 

Where once ihe sun his dazzling: radmncc shud, 

Are paths of black eclipse with darkness overspread.* 

2. 7'Atf Ilimera, 
* The HimerEean waters there divide, 

Rolling two curreiita to the ocean- tide ; 
One enters where the Tuficfln hillowni sweep, 
One awellB the surges of the Libyan deep. 
» « « * 

13. * A Hostelry, the fnvonrite reaorl 

Of MnrinerB at the Trinacrian port/ 

Opinions apparently the most absurd, arc eomctiincs latmdcd 
on truth. Our readers will recollect tlie incniorable complaint 
of Horace respecting the e&tituation in which the older writers 
were held ; tlic absurdity of which he attempts to prove by 
deducting one year after another, demo eii&m titntmi until he 
reaches his own time. But, independent of hiatorieal interest, 
an actutil and real value in composition is derived from if a mere 
antiquity. If wc take a work of the reign of Queen Elizabeth 
for example, an old play, an old poem, an old piece of vitupe- 
rative declamation, we find such a raciness in the expression, 
and such an originality in the idiom and iden^ running tlirough 
the whole, as make what was utterly common-place at the time, 
new and striking to m. How much more forcibly^ then, must 
the remark apply to the beat writers of a more remote antiquity! 
Wlicn we take up such a work as that of Klelne, we are struck 
with an impression similar to that of Dawkiii^, when he came 
suddenly upon the ruins of Tadmor in the wilderness. Here 
a noble pillar lies prostrate, there a rich capital ; here a muti- 
lated inscription, there a flight of steps leading to the sc4ittered 
fragments of a temple still to be traced in outline ; every where 
broken rcmnantB of sublimity and beauty ; and, whatever may 
be said of the natural, in the intellectual ruin more may yet be 
discovered. We must not imagine that this branch of literature 
is yet exhausted. Much of interest remains to be done ; frag- 
ments to be amended, and their purport and relation illustrated ; 
every correction and addition throwing new light on the whole. 
In matters of this nature much industry is required. There 
must be a systematic research for te^tlmoma through all the 
ancient writers, such especially as have ever proved their ac- 
quaintance with a particular author by any quotation not at 
second hand; and also a critical examination of quotations 



I 




^^^^^^^^^^iW^Eemains of StemAarue, ^^^^^^T^ 

uoa[>propriatetl to any author by name. Precious fragmcntej 
have beeo found in the most unexpected quurterr?. We have 
seen publifthed in our own day the dull and shallow remarks of 
old grammarians sparkling with gems not their own. The 
present Bishop of Lincoln, Dr, Kayo, in hia analysis of Clemens 
AJexandrinus, mentions the interest attached to that writer 
for echoUirs, from the many classic references to be found in his 
works, Sometimes Greek writers may be traced in unaeknow- 
le«lged translations. Catullus thus gives us literally an ex- 
quisite ode of Sappho, while Horace does not name Alcaeus, 
when he writes — 

* Nullam, Vare, sacrft vite prius sercris arborem ;' 

nor Virgil the predecessors^ of whom he does not scruple to 
make free use. We are even tolil that, at the revival of 
letters, some scholars destroyed ancient manuscripts, and pub- 
lished copies of them as their own. Some ancient writers 
have come down to us through the hands of an ahridger, as 
was Justin the historian ; others have been paraphrased, as 
were the Epistles of 8, Ignatius, and in such a yhapc that the 
worthy and perverse Winston insists upon the original being 
an abridgement. The early Christian writers are often merely 
fragmentary from the well-known persecution of their books 
qiB treasonable against the state, and blasphemous towards the 
keathen deities. In tlie ca^je of the fables which pass under 
the name of -^Itlsop, and, perhaps, in that of others, poetry 
has been converted into prose. A German scholar publishes 
a Babrius of his own, extorted from the Di»jecti Afrmbra 
Poela*, when, heboid, the original Babrius is discovered in the 
East, and published at Paris, affording an amusing criticism on 
clasj^ical conjectures, and enabling our own Mr, ifurray to pub- 
lish a chastised and most elegant collection of tables. Some- 
times ancient works have been detected as translations into tlic 
Semitic tongues, of wdiich a work of Eusebius, lately brought 
to light, affords an example. It cannot be dcmbted that, in 
eastern libraries, some few valuable works yet remain to be dis- 
covered. "Ejiigi'ams, which have conic down to us from anti- 
quity, have appeared again as inscriptions; and lately, the 
gt-eater part of a long hymn to Isis has turned up in this manner. 
Xhe peculiar nature of mathematical research has enabled the 
modems to recover many of the lost writings of the ancients, 
and the very remarkable restomtiuu of the Torisms is celebrated 
among men of science. In existing libraries, we have Palimp- 
sest MSS., out of which we have gleaned fragments of Cicero, 
Fronto, and others ; and this seems to be a sort of propensity 
in human nature, as indicated by the rc-used slabs of cuneiform 
inscriptions at Nineveh, and our own mediaeval brasses. The 



26 



Tk^loit Writings of AntiquUif* 



newspapers would, moreover^ lately have 03 believe that the 
fijot of an Apelles or Zeuxis way detected |jcepui*r from heneatli 
i\\Q over-hiid drapery of a mediaeval saint. This resourec j»* 
ahuosfc untouched; and it is to be lamented that a due exniui- 
nation of the Vatican, the Eseurialj and other repositaries of 
learning, would require the y^yj rare combination of high 
elassical schohu^c^liip, antiquarian research, niecliaoical tact, in- 
defatigable industry, great leisure, and a good income. 

From the tombs of Egypt we have recovered scraps of Homer, 
and more recently a Greek orator; and wc need not despair of 
future acquisitions from the hind of the Ptolemies, and of the 
Alcxundrian library. The \vorks of Aristotle were once burietl 
by hiri lamily. But these voluntaiy entombments are notliing, 
when compared with the devastation of an earthquake at Smyrna, 
or with the destruction of Hereulaneuui. Amidst the ruins of 
the latter, a library has been found, and another by a bare pos- 
sibility may be detected ; unliappiJy, the library in quet^tion 
belonged to a metaphysical philot^oplier, and the unrolling of the 
MSS. haa been moat costly, tardy, anil discouraging. Sir 
Humphrey Davy wenr over to <»fler the aid of hi^ chemical .skill* 
but they contrived very jydiciou4y not 4o put the best t^pecimena 
into the hands of a gentleman who was in the habit of smashing 
retorts during the impulsive fervour of operating genius. 

We ought, however, to be very thankful that bo much is left. 

* Arma vinim, tabulE£(|ue, et Troiii gaza, per umltt»/ 

vVnd to Christianity, in conmion with every great and goml in- 
fluence tluit could tend to promote human happiness and civili- 
zation, i^ the boon due. Christianity has taken upon herself 
for ever the maintenance of the learning cimnected witli the 
Semitic, and Cfreekj and Roman tongues. Vulgar uneducated 
fanaticism may ignorantly imdervalue those tongues, and fool- 
ishly endeavour to supplant them ; but while Christian learning 
and scholarship exist, their study must exist also. 

The translation of the Holy Scriptures into all languages will, 
in the same manner, be eventually of incalculable value to ethno- 
logy, to the fixing of semi-barbarous tongues, and k» the easy 
acquisition of any language whatever, tlwough the medium of 
compositions common to them all. We say this, how^evcr, with a 
caution against what has already happened; we mean their trans- 
lation into cert4iin hideous jargons, whicli are in no sense language, 
and winch are entirely undt fur any representation of the sacred 
ifleas, and the peculiar s]>iritualitics of the Gospel. The most 
inveterate enemy of the monastic sys^tem will not deny that 
conventual estaldishmcnts were in their tlay the last rciugc and 
citiidel of assailed learning; neither can it be disputed that, on 
the fidl of Constantinople, and (he revival i>f letters, the sun of 



I 



Th Remains oj 



hiaaiin civilization sboue brightest in Italy under tlie Mctlici, 
when the iliaeovery of si nianuticript wae hailed jw the dii-covery 
of ^ treasure beyond all value; and u scholar died broken- 
hearted on the loss of his collections in the East. Printing 
just came in time to aid the development of learning; or, 
perhaps, we should rather yay, was forced into existence, lilce 
other inventions, by the demand. 

We cannot conclude this article without lookinf^ into the 
future, with regard to the continued existence of valuable works 
now within our reach. We are accustomed to consider the 
pa^t as a series of great geological eras in social existence* which 
can never recur again, and look uiion ancient writers as if they 
were a sort of Plesjosauri existing in our strata and museums, 
Hut wc must not deceive ourselves. Lyall's doctrine that the 
causes of great geologicsd changes arc still in operation every 
where, is unquestionably true in the social world; and pu.sterity 
may 8e«irch in vain for a Didus, or Dcinornis, or Mastudon 
Gigantcum, now in existence. Very recently, the unique Ice- 
landic collections at Copenhagen were burnt ; and wc daily 
hear of valuable libraries belonging to the nobility and gentry 
meeting with a similar fate. It i^ notoriou!?, that there are 
many works, of which a single copy only is known t<j exist, 
such as the Hamlet in the collection of the Duke of Devonshire, 
and the volume of Prynne, lately in the Stow collection, while 
works are reprinted on that very account by some of our anti- 
quarian societies. Their proceedings, however, remind us of the 
culloquy between Time and Hcarne the Antiquary :— 

* . , , , Quotli Time Ui Thomas Hearne, 
" Whatever I ttir^et, you learn." 
.... Cri&s Hcftriic, in furious fret, 
** Whftte'cr I learn, youTl soon forget.*'* 

It has, in fact, bccouie a regular practice to print a very limited 
number of copies of curious books, for the avowed ol>jcct of 
making them rare. 

The publications of the provincial and periodical press in the 
l»resent day, sometimes of a high order, disappear almost as fast 
iis they are printed; and posterity will search in vain for nan-a- 
tive^ and discussions, wldcli will h{ive an interest for them incon- 
ceivable to contemporaries. Who cc>uld imagine that broadsides, 
and penny publications, and a printed volume of oKl balhuls, 
ehould be now among the ibrlorn t/eMderata of our literature? 
Valuable works fall very frecpiently dead-born from the press* 
wliilc accident or favouritism furces into notice works about 
wbich posterity will care little. Meanwhile, a system of active 
Vandalism is at work every where, not to be surpassed by civic 
authorities, or even by cluu*chwardens. A new Paliaii»8e8t 
process has been announced for <iischarging titc print of old 



28 



The loit Writhi^s of Anttqnttt/. 



books, and rc-manufacturlng t!ie paper. Thousandi?, and tens 
of thousands of tous, are yearly torn up without scruple or dig- 
criminatioUj to he uj^cd as waste paper by seedsmen, grocerg, 
and bacoii-vendoi'8 ; and sales are attended for the purpose of 
purchasing Avorks that sell below a certain weight per pound. 
Then the very ingenious Mr, Frederick Strong, of Graftoii- 
placc, Euston-square, haa invented, in addition, the rapidly 
extending profession of a literary anatomist, who dissects rare 
books and periodical, and disposes of the mutilated limbs to 
persona who may be collecting topography, or biography, or 
aeronautics, or somnambulism, or illustrations of the life of 
Wesley, or Bamfylde Moore Carew, or any thing, or body, 
else which may happen to strike their fancy. In the mean- 
time, there are great works of inestimable value, such as the 
earlier Philosophical Transactions, and those of other learned 
bodies, journals, and travels, which will never be reprinted, and 
in resjject of which wc are satisfied with the power of reference. 
But, after all, it will be said, that the use of gunpowder must pre- 
vent society from ever being overrun again by uncivilized hordes 
of Gotlis, Vandals, Visigoths, Huns, and Tartars; but, alas! either 
politically, socially, or intellectually, this is an utter delusion. 
Tlie plain truth is, that the different classes or strata of society, 
I'rom the highest to the lowest, though speaking the same lan- 
guage, may, to all intents and jjurposes, be considered as eo 
many distinct nations, widely diifering in habits, sentiments, 
moral principle, education, and opinions. The outbreak of a 
horde of red republicans, or English socialists, would bear every 
character of a barbaric invasion; and Burke very truly asks, 
what savage hordes would have treated France worse than its 
democratic revolutionists. The vulgar inatiuct of each social 
stratum is to invade the stratum above it, except as far as self- 
control may be induced by moral and religious princiide, by a 
feeling of natural dignity and seli -respect, or by a fear of the 
social strjitum below. A rapid growth of wealth and jirosperity 
is usually attended with social danger. This was seen in the 
reigns of Charles I. and Lrouis XVI., when violent convulsions 
placed gigantic resources at the command of the grasping and 
unscrupulous despotisms that followed, and were composed only 
by the exhaustion produced. In our own country, the quad- 
rangles of colleges have been ankle-deep in torn books and 
manuscripts; ruffians were liircd to break the richest stained 
glass, and destroy the carved work of God's temples 'with axes 
and hammers ;' and it was proposed to annihilate all the records 
of the kingdom ; while, in our own day, we have seen a deter- 
iniuation expressed in a democratic publication, that the success 
of its party should be cei-tainly followed by the burning of 
Westminster Abbey, and probably of the British Museum. 



29 



Bif ITenry Taylor, /T.^^. 
Bv ITenry Tayloh, 



¥ 



Art, IL — 1. Notes ffom Life 
London; Murray. 

2. 7sw of^ie Canqit4?st and other Poems* 
3tq. London; Moxon. 

It has been truly said, that the world has little to do with 
habits or modes of authorship, the quick or the slow, the deli- 
berate or the impulsive. Whether a writer strikes off a thought 
in a happy moment of inspiration, or brings it to gradual per- 
fection by the annealing process of meditation and time, is a 
email matter to the reader: what he is concei'ned with is the 
result; if that be good, we regard all means of attaining it with 
equal respect. It comes but to i\\e question, at what period 
wad the necessary thought gone through — at the time, or before- 
hand? For every work worthy to Iitc is the fruit of thought 
and reflection in their largest senae. It may be the hoarded 
musings and visions of youth, brooded over since chiklhood, and 
flashing into sudden life and maturity when their time comes; or 
the more conscious workings at the period of composition of a 
thoughtful and comprehensive miod. Inquiry into such matters 
is curious and interesting as a question of Psychology, but the 
value of the work itself is not affected by it. Whether Drydcn 
was a fortnight in composing his * Alexander's Feast,' as Juhn- 
eon reports, or but a single niglit, as seems more probable, a 
night of inspiration leaving the old bard * in an unusual agita- 
tion of epirits even to a trembling,' does not affect tlie intrinsic 
merits of that wonderful ode — it h equally a noble poem. * We 

* have no mode,' says Sir Walter Scntt, * of estimating the excr- 

* tions of a quality so capricious as a poetic imagination \ the 

* finished work alone proves the power and the degree and mca- 

* sure of the gift.' 

Such being the case, we believe it to be the beat policy of 
authors to keep back from an inquisitive public the processes 
by which their labours have been accomplished, and in present- 
ing the fruits of their toil, to hold in obscurity the efforts they 
have cost them. Any allusion to the machinery of thought and 
meditation seems to justify criticism, and lays them open to the 
consequences of their confession. If a writer boasts of rapidity 
in composition, we may then lay every weak line to careless 
haste, or arrogant self-confidence; if lie pleases himself by 
dwelling on his deliberation, and the fastidiousness of his taste 
prompting him to frequent modification and rejection, we are 



Tavl 



or 8 



letl to look curiously for an mlcquate result of so much pauis, 
and to n\\^^ thai free spontaneous flow uf thouirht which repre- 
sents in the popnlsir mind the gift of genius. A poet*8 mind, 
we env, shouUl be a sort of fea^^t, an inexhaustible profiij?iun, 
even tliough the very abundance prevents perfect order in the. 
display. We ouglit to be able to say of him as of Nature, and 
an was ^aid of our greatest early poet, * Here is God's plenty.' 
Thus it happens that we do not thank the poet for his pains; 
we are ai>t not to value the care he has taken to please, nor to 
estiuaate his success as highly as if it were the fruit of a happy 
accident, or a native felicity of execution; which wc might pos- 
sibly have believed it to he, had not the author himself been at 
tlie Iroulilc Ui undeceive us. However, this same success cer- 
tainly justifies the introduction of the delicate subject self, and 
what w^c have said is rather advice to authors tor tiaeir own 
sake, than from any discontent at our being taken so fai- into 
an author's confidence. 

Mr. Taylor, in his two recent works, has adinittcd us intu 
some of the secrets of his mode of comi>osition. The volume of 
[K>ems begins appropriately with a rhymed dedication, of which 
we give the opeuing lines : — 

*To THE Hon. Mrs. Henry Taylor. 

* Dear Alice, throiigb much mockery of yourV, 

(Impatient of my labours long Aiid stow, 

AnJ Hinall results tbat 1 made haste to show 
From time to lime,) you scorttfullest of reviewers, 

These verses nork'tl their uny : *' Get on, get on," 
Whs mostly my encouragement. But I, 

Dcatl to all spnrritij;, kept ray pace foregouc, 
And limg bad learnt nil kughtcr to defy.* 

N^or 18 the preface to the Essays les3 confidential. We are 
thus let into some of the secrets of dramatic writing: — 

* My present work must he regarded as to some extent comprelictidcd in 
the same design, thiit of embodying in the form of maxima and rcfiectiona 

the immediate results of an attentive observation of life For more 

than twenty years I have been in the habit of notin"; these results M they 
were thrown up, when the facts and oocurreuccs that gave rise to them 
were fresh in mj mind-* 

* A large portion of them I would more willingly have transfused into 
dramatic compositions. Year afler year I have indulged the belief that I 
mip:ht find health, leisure^ and opportunitif\ for doing so; nor do I yet 
reliuqubb the hope that I may gain the tune for some further efforts of 
that nature before I lose the faculty. But the yean* wear away, and 
though I da not hold that youth is the poet'a prime, yet I feel that after 

' ' Some of the noies were originally made in t'erse, others were from time to time 
converted into verse to serve the pnrpo^eR of dramatic or poetic works in progress 
or in contemplation: and I have not hesitated to nuotc the vcnjcs in illusLratlon 
of the pro«o, aa often as ibo vcrHitted fortn ttccmed to give a reflection, or an aphorism, 
a better cbaaoc of fiuding a resting-place in the memory of the reader/ 



I 
I 



Tatjlt^f Potmf, 



iJi 



youth the iinaginatiJMi i-wniiot be put on uml taken off with the same eas^ 
versatility — that a cuulinumm fthKnrntion in the dramatir ilieine is more 
iudispensable to ita treatment ; and that, cojiscquently, such piirsuir.s come 
to be less readi!y combined m ith otlier ftvoentions. Other avocations I am 
unnble to discard, and lest, therefore, 1 shtmkl never be in u condition to 
realize a better liope, I have put into the proaaic form such of my reflec- 
tions on life as 1 have thought worthy in one way or another to be pre- 
served.' 

* We, who are priests of Apollo/ say* Drydciit ' uiust wait 
till the god comes rushing on tis.' This may be Mr. Taylor's 
mcaDing in hia own calmer language ; when the god rushes on 
him he will write liia drama. In the nieauwhile we are let into 
the mode Ly which, applying the luoderu art of tlivision of labour^ 
he prepares himself for this event. He has hts thitt/jht^ «11 ready, 
it ia no injustice to say, *cut and dried.' The plot, the action, 
and pcjetic diction^ are all that lie w^aits for till such tiiue m? 
inspiration and leisure shall attend hiui hand in hand. To 
simple pcuplc, like ourselves, who never attempted even a 
* dramatic sketch,' we must repeat that we feel it a mislakc to 
have given this insight into the secret of construction. All 
people have their own way of going to work, with which, as wc 
have already said, the world has nothing to do; yet it would 
a good deal mar the pleasure of the uninitiated in reading 
dramatic work?, if they were lorccd to believe that all tho^e 
profound reflections, those deep insights into the innermost 
heart of man to be found in iheni, had been prepared before- 
hand by the author, and were not elicited in his own mind, a.s 
they profess to be Ijy the characters who utter them, from the 
force of the occasion » and the energy of the scene, which I he 
poet inteni?ely realizes. We know bow, in couversatiun, cir- 
cumstances of interest, and the intiniate collision and fusion of 
two minds, bring out their powers, and develop thought and 
fancy beyond what each separately seemed capable of, AVe 
believed that the poet, embodying his characters, could work 
the same wonder by" the intimacy of his relation with these 
creatures of his imagination. It would be a diisappointment to 
learn that those startling truths, those profoundest appeals to 
our sympathy, which delight us in Shakspere — those touches 
wliich seem suggested by the urgency of the occai^ion, by the 
inspiration, so to say, of some peculiar conjuncture, were in 
fact drawn out of his note-book; that he had skilfully led the 
conversation up to them, that they were not the natural fruit 
and consequence of that emergency. Nor can we believe it to 
he otherwise than as wc fancy it; and that it is, in truth, the 
appropriateness of the saying that gives it its force and value. 
Shakspere struck wldlo the iron waa hot, he so vividly saw 
and realized as he went along that hh nature was a step 



3d 



Tai/lots Pomm* 



beyond that of other men. He not only wrote what men were 
likely to suy, but what they icofdd pay, and how far these two 
differ any one nniy tell who takes the trouble to compare his 
expectationti of any critical aeene with the event. But to return 
to our aubjcct. 

It iiii a proverbial sign of genius to be able to make much of 
small muterialrf, to produce a great work from means which 
appear to common minda wholly inadequate. If the promised 
tragedy ia a great one, Mr. Taylttr will prove himself a greater 
poet than even at present we esteem him ; for his published 
storehouse of thought, as seen in * Notea from Life,' must, we 
think, be nuiver*5ally held to be most inadequate for such a 
work. After what Mr. Taylor has already achieved, we, there- 
fore, regard it as in some sort an injury to his high repu- 
tation to have published this volume of detached thouglita. 
They must disappoint liis admirers; not that they do not contain 
much truth and good sense, but they do not satisfy expectation, 
nor come up to the estimate already ibrmcd of him. Few persons 
could have written * Philip van Artevelde ;' many— very many 
men could have made notes on life quite as true, quite a^s ori- 
ginal, quite as instructive. It is a pity then to have thus 
paraded his materials, to have shown us an embryo labour. Mr. 
Taylor, even with his own estimate of the value of his lucubra- 
tions, should have remembered the old aJagc, that * Fools and 
children should never see a work half done/ 

To us it seems that many of these ' Notes from Life,' coming 
as they do from a distinguished writer, must be regarded rather 
as rough notes on subjects to be t/wu/?/d abont, tlian actually the 
deep mature thoughts of a comprehensive mind — a series of 
common-phices, first principles, truisms, which rliythm and the 
harmony of numbers must develop out of their present trite- 
ness into vigour and freshness. It has been plausibly said, that 
half the noblest passages in [joetry are truisms. This we deny, 
but readily grant that divested of their point and their melody, 
and put into inharmoniona prose, they may be. The sword is 
rusted into its sheath. The Hash and edge, the keen penetrat- 
ing force is gone. Its power is over. Truth is always fresh 
and always new. Truisms are truths east into moulds ; all the 
clear lines and edges are dulled and rounded oW. 

The following reflections in their present state we think to be 
truisms. We have heard them all before, and so had tlie author 
before he wrote them ; nor do tliey seem to have gained any 
new grace or attractiveness in their passage through his indivi- 
dual mind. They are simply so much of the stock wisdom of the 
world, which no one for the last tliousand years can appropriate 
aa his own ; and yet, in all the dignity of large type, and all the 



1 



I 



Taylor't Foemi, 



titi 



|>petensioD of appearing on their own account^ — not to confirm 
something else, but for their own intrinsic value,— they do seem 
to affect a certain degree of novelty. The first extrjit!t is on the 
subject of generosity : — 

• All giving is not generous ; and the ^h of a spendthrift is not given in 
generosity; for prodigality is, ec^ually with avarice, a selfieb vice: nor cut 
there be a more spurious view of generosity than that which has been often 
taken by sentimental comedians and novelists, when tbcy have rcpTcsented 
it in combination Mith recklejsyiiess and waste. He who gives only uhat 
he would as readily throw away, gives without generosity ; fop the essence 
of generosity is in Belf-sacrilice.* 

AH this is exceedingly true> but we certainly knew it be- 
fore. 

Again, we have surely all of us known — it is, indeed^ one of 
the standard and current maxima of the most ordinary observa- 
tion and experience — that men would rather condemn them- 
aelvea in the general than the particular. Mr, Taylor hardly 
appears aware that mankind have been beforehand in this dis- 
covery : — 

' Besides the false humility under cover of which we desert the duty of 
censuring our fellow- creatures, there are others by which we evade, or per- 
vert that of censuring ourselves. The most common of the spurious 
humilities of this kind, is that by which a general language of self- 
disparagement is substituted for a distinct discernmenl and specific acknow- 
ledgment of our real faults. The humble individual of this class will 
declare himsell* to be very incontestibly a miserable sinner ; but, at the same 
time, there is no particular fault, or error, that can be imputed to him from 
which he will not find himself to be happily exempt. Each item is aeve- 
piilly denied; and the acknowledgment of general sinfulness turns out to 
have been an unmeaning abstraction — a sum total of cyphers. 1 1 is not 
thus that the devil makes up his accounts.* 

On the question of saving, Mr. Taylor aays : — 

• As to the mtiiu/ of money — the saving like the getting should be intel- 
ligent of a purpose beyond: it should not be saving fur saving's sake, 
but for the sake of some worthy object to be accomplished by the money 
savedf and especially we are to gnard against that accumulative instinct, or 
passion, which ia ready to take possession of all collectors."* 

Kitson^ the caustic antiquary, in commenting on some brother 
critic, somewhere exclaims — ' This lover of truth never wrote a 
truer line, — give me a lie with a apirit in it I ' We would not, 
however, be understood as going along witli bim in this latter 
wish; believing, indeed, that truth wtU managed ia quite as 
capable of spirit as the lies he longs for. On the subject of 
beauty Mr. Taylor says : — 

• \Ve«Jth and worldly considerations have a good deal to do with the 
choice made in most marriages. It is commonly said that beauty,, how- 
soever enchanting before marriage, becomes a matter of indifference after. 
But if the beauty be of that quality which not only attracts admiration, but 
helps to deepen it into love^ I am not one of those who think that what 
charmed the lover i» forthwith to be lost in the husband," 

NO, XLV. — N. 8. D 



u 



Ta^lor\ Foemi. 



We own we should have been surprised if Mr. Taylor, a poet 

nnd philosopher, had been one ^ of those.' There le, however, 
Bome litnesa and propriety in subjoining a trite answer to a 
trite objection. Again, on the game subject: — 

•The exception to be takeQ to beauty as a marriage portion, (if it be 
b«aiaty of the highest order,) is not, tberetbrc, that it can become other* 
Kviae than precious whilst it lasta, but rather that aa it ia precious so it is 

Eerishable; and that, let it be valued as it may, it may be accounted at the 
est but a mdancholy possession.' 

Of humility he says : — 

' It is, indeed, chiefly in our intercourse with cqunh and auperioi^ Ihat 
our humility is put to the proof. When the Servus Servomm at Rome 
washes, according to annual usage, the feet of some poor pilgrims, the 
oereraony, if it be held to typily humility, should at the same time be 
understood to be typical of the eaaieat of all hnmilitiea.' 

This 18 true in a sense^ and certainly amongst the standard 
common-places in the matter of humility. Of pride it 16 
said : — 

■ The proud man is of all men the most vulnerable, and, aa there ia 
nothing that nmklea and festers more than wounded pride, he has much 
cause for fear.' 

But it may be thought invidious thus to cull sentences apart 
from the context, which will be euppoBcd to give them the dig- 
nity and novelty they want thus standing alone ; and some of our 
readers may esteem the statements themselves to be so true and 
valuable that they may not object to meet with them more than 
once, thinking that in this world of lies we ought not to mind hear- 
ing the same truth now and then twice over. Indeed, we have felt 
this 80 much, that we have abstained from illustrating our mean- 
ing by ench sentiments, as fur example— * In extreme youth 
obedience should be the rule of the child * — ^Passion is not to be 
taken for a guide in extreme youth,' &c. — because they do bear 
upon the context Still we ask, is it not a misfortune to a style 
that it [should be capable of this mode of treatment, that it may be 
broken up into trite forma of expression and separated into 
common-[)laces ? The reader's eye grows careless as it wanders 
over them, and attention and expectation languish. And in 
an essay we have an especial right to he critical. An essay on 
a given subject implies that the author has something new to 
say upon it. He undertakes, as Jt were, to start from where 
his predecessor 9 in the theme left off; to give us not the col- 
lected wisdom and experience of ages, but his own private 
addition to the stock* Thus it may be considered among the 
most ambitious forms of composition. In others, the writer's 
wisdom comes in apropos to something else, and if it be to the 
point we do not so much look for novelty, (as 



a good steward 



I 



Taylor^t J^oemgu 



3$ 



must bring out of Iiie treasure things old aa well tu uew,) it 
bears ujjon the main topic but does not constitute it. But an 
essay should be as it were a sort of quintessence of inquiry, 
thought, and observation ; if it be not this it h nothing. How- 
ever, we are ready to grant that besides the large stock of 
matter * respectable tor its antiquity' to be found in the present 
volume, there is much that shows the workings of a thoughtful 
individual mind, some passages that are striking, and forcibly 
expressed, and many against which we cannot make tlie com- 
plaint of a too implicit agreement; to these we will revert in 
due time. It is in connexion with the question of style and 
power of expresaion that we have so far entered inta the merits 
of his prose volume, not for the subjects on which it treats. 
^Lr, Taylor does in verse possess the art of expressing his 
thoughts, which in prose he does not. That which takes hold 
of our thoughts in his poetry passes by them in his prose ; it 
wants the arresting power. We are thus led into a comparison 
between the two. 

It is, perhaps, the fashion of the present day to depreciate 
style too much, to separate thought ii"oni the mode of expres- 
sion, as if this were an accidental excellence not affecting the 
intrinsic value of the idea. But we believe that every noble 
thought naturally invests itself with noble language, and that 
it would be a poet's unconscious habit thus to clothe in its very 
rise and creation whatever is most distinctive and clniracteristic 
JO his own mind. It is not born, it is not complete, till it is so 
clothed. Thus we have not only Mi\ Taylors best form of 
expression, but actually his freshest and most original thoughts, 
in his poetry. He cannot turn at will lame prose into good 
verse. Feeling thus we cannot enter into views sanclioned by 
great names and plausilile at first sight, of the unimportance of 
mere wording and choice of expression. We find Sir Walter Scott 
saying, ' We care as little for the minor arts of composition and 

* versification as Falstaif did for the thews and sinews, and out- 

* w^ard compoyition of his recruits. It is " t/ie heart, the hearii^ 
' that makes the poet as well as the soldier*' True, but the heart 
will speak out, and its outpourings will be in exact accordance 
with its dictates. In curioua contrast with this sentiment of the 
modem bard is that saying of Cowley's, that the ' music of num- 
bers sometime?, almost without anything else, makes an excellent 
poet.' Both sayings have in fact a partiid truth. One is not 
more unfair than the other. Arts of versification, or a natural 
gift which acts intuitively upon them, are as essential to a good 
poem, and order and rhythm to good prose, as thought itself. 

This maybe made clear, we think, from the consideration that 
nothing lirps fhnt is not well expressed, Man, as man, is full 

d2 




m 



Taylor* i Poems. 



of chaotic lialf-forracd ruuainga and dim aapirations. Genius 
gives life to these formless impiilseB— a lociil habitation and a 
name. Who can trace the source of this secret happiness ? Wliereiii 
lies the power of words such as we all of us use for every com- 
mon want, and to convey each insignificant intelligence? It is 
the birthright of genius to discern their hidden force and pro- 
prieties, to cull, to arrange, to compare, to set them in shining 
array, nicely fitted together, condensed, harmonious; so that 
henceforth for ever they live in that order and can never be 
displaced. Dante makes Casclla sing his songs in the shadowy 
land, and heaven to ring with earth's divinest hymns; and surely 
it is in accordance with all our intimations and impressions, 
that the pure etraina of our poets on earth shall it ill delight us 
in heaven. 

There are, however, some who take a dififerent view altogether 
of language. With another meaniug, they think with TaDey- 
rand, that it is made to conceal our thoughts ; that it is so poor a 
medium, so inflexible, so barren, so external to ourselves, that 
it suppresses or misrepresents all our most recondite ideas, all our 
deepest impressions. They think that language frustrates their 
aims, and they have a natural spite against it. Were it not for 
these vile words, they seem to say, ive should ourselves have 
been a poet. We honestly believe that in all these cases of 
declamation against language, as if it were little better veliiclc for 
expression than the inarticulate sounds of animals, that if our 
friend would sit down, and in calm deliberation seek to express 
his exalted ideas in this 'jargon* of ours, he would find, and, if 
he were candid enough for the avowal, be forced to confess, that 
it was not after all words that he wanted^ but definite thoughts. 
And it is well often to bring the mind to this severe scrutiny 
and ordeal ; to convince ourselves that what disturbs and ele- 
vates us with a sense of suppressed greatness and genius, is 
often a sort of illusion, a crude and formless chaos. We shall 
find words for whatever is real; words in some proportion to 
tlie clearness and force of our ideas. Wc cannot in fact detach 
thoughta from the words that clothe them, any more than we 
can separate soul and body. A thought will not live unless it 
has this fitting body ; we only know it to be higher, deeper, 
more stirring, more inspiring than the kindred speculations of 
other men, by some nubtle indefinable grace in the wording, 
some beauty so mysterious and illusive that the smallest change 
does it grievous wrong. Let the reader take any line or passage 
which embodies to him an ideal of a noble or a beautiful thought, 
and let him, here and there, substitute words of what he thinks 
similar meaning. The charm is broken. Where is the suggestive 
power? where the magic key to his inmost heart? The words 



I 



Ta^*s Poem, 



37 



prove to have been like Samson's seven locks: the etrcngtli 
lay by some divine charm within them. The giant thought 
now lies weak as some other man's. We cannot suppose tnat 
the world is ever cheated of its heat and greatist, merely from 
want of power of expre^jsion ; that is, we cannot believe this to be 
a separate gift There are not two classes, one that tliiuks and 
one that speaks. We are persuaded that the thinkers arc the 
speakers — that the conception finds vent in eloquent expression, 
as the root in the flower; a man docs not knuw what his own 
thought is like till he has given it the only form which in our 
present nature we can judge of it by— -till he has invested it in 
language. Till we have this test we disregard what is called 
promise^ The rose and the brier look alike in their first bare 
twigs ; when the bloom comes, and not till then, can we dis- 
tinguish them. There are writers who are called promising 
all their lives ; who believe themselves and arc supposed by 
others to be storehouses of noble, struggling, unexpressed ideas. 
One line of performance we hold to be more decisive of the poet 
or the philosopher than volumes of such promise. 
Mr. Taylor has said that 

* The world knows nothing of ils jrreatcst men;' 

a sentiment which is often quoted, and which we believe owes 
much of its success to the easy flow of its wording and the com- 
pactness of its construction. It bears somewhat upon this ques- 
tion, and from it we might fear to have Mr. Taylor's authority in 
theory brought against us. For if any of the world's greatest 
men are great for their powers of thought, it must imply failure 
of expression on their part, that tlie world is still ignonint of 
them; for no one can say that the greatest thoughts greatly 
expressed, have passed unnoticed by the world. We can only 
express our entire dissent from the view, if we are to take great- 
ness in its ordinary meaning. It may be quite true to say that 
many have died prematurely, or been suppresacd, to begin with, 
by want of all education, who would, had they lived or been 
educated, have been greater than any actual great men that have 
been in the world. But if we arc to understand by greatness, 
something actual and present, not merely embryo and perspec- 
tive ; the actual preeminence of certain high gifts and powers, 
bodily and mental, we discredit the dictmn exceedingly. We 
feel convinced tiiat there have been no greater poets than Shak- 
spere of whom the world knows nothing; no greater philoso- 
phers, no greater men of science than those who have actually 
iDBtructed us. But such reflections have given consolation to 
many unsuccessful ai^pirants for fame, who willingly believe 
anything rather than the fallacy of their own inward stirrings; 



38 



Taylor's Poems, 



and given consolation^ too, to many a warm admiring friend and 
party of intimates, who in the close intercourse of friendahip 
believe they eee in tlieir leader, nnd in each other, qualities 
beyond what may be discovered in men who have already won 
publicity and distinction. The fact being that such intercourse, 
confidential, exclusive, free and unrestrained, has a faacination 
which blinds the judgment and throws a false glose and unreal 
grandeur over all efforts of thought that are viewed under its 
fight. But we have wandered very far from our main subject 
in a dissertation which was to introduce the mention of Mr. 
Taylor's last volume of poctryj and to convey our impression 
that verse is the natural home for whatever is original and dis- 
tinctive in his thoughts. In the present slipshod days of verse, 
when many men publish a poem with as little care and delibe- 
ration, as little attention to the arts of versification, as if these 
were of no importance, or were exjiected to come of themselves 
without thought or pains; or who * indulge themselves in the 

* luxury of writing, and perhaps knew the neglect was a fault, 

* but hoped the reader would not find it ;' it h a positive gra- 
tification to meet with verse which bears marks of cnre, of 
skilful handling, of loving paternal correction. It is like the 
pleasure of watching a good workman at his trade. It is build- 
ing the lofty rhyme instead of flinging together the rude heap 
of stones by which some hope to reach the clouds. We are 
obliged and flattered by a writer who at once respects him- 
self and rci^pects the judgment and capacity of hjs readcra. 
And if w^e do not rank IMr, Taylor's efforts so high as some of 
his admirers, if we arc not willing to call his deficiencies graces, 
and his poverty better tlian other men's wealth, we yet prize 
them for that they are, and feel grateful to him for pre- 

* serving the purity of the English,' and seeking with un- 
wearying care to develop its dignity and its beauty, its finer 
turns and more hidden graces. Except certain lyrical poems 
inserted in his dramas, the present volume is, we believe, the 
only volume of ijoetry proper Mr. Taylor ha« given to the world. 
And the poem which gives its name to the volume, * The Eve of 
the Conquest,* is somewhat dramatical in its structure. His field 
is blank verse; there his muse has her proper scope and exercise; 
and though ttitie is much gmce in his lyrical poems, we are 
constantly reminded in their perusal of certain unfitnesses in- 
herent in his mind for this form of composition. We should 
even say that the principle on which he starts is adverse to it, 
that of addressing himself mainly to the understanding, and 

Icpreciating those pleasures which the senses and the feelings 
tlerive from poetry. He separates and comparatively disregaras 
what he calls the luxuries of poetry, its charms and attractive 





Taylors Poemf* 



39 



graces, from its intellectual, andj as lie thinks, immortal part. 
Now these are things which cannot be separated without loss. 
There is no immortal poetry which does not owe its immor- 
tality as much to qualities here disparaged as to its subject- 
matter ; we do not say its merit, but its immortality* ' The 
poet's business,' says Dryden, 'is certainly to pkme his audi- 
ence/ It is wrong, In fact, to decide on what is the only part 
of ourselves worthy to be regarded. Let us respect our bodies. 
If our mind lasts through all eternity go will our ear, and the 
pleasures it is capable of imparting to us. Indeed, in the only 
inspired indications we have of our future state, the enjoyments 
of the senses, eye and ear^ — ^are dwelt upon rather than the 
severer pleasures of pure mind^ — thought and induction ; — not 
that these will be wanting, but that our nature is treated as a 
whole, the senses miniatering most gubtle and acute pleasures 
to the understanding. In like manner poetry addresses the 
whole man, his soul and his body, his heart and his brain, his 
senses and his nerves. The blood thrills, the nerves vibrate, 
the tears flow, the ears tingle under the poet's highest inspira- 
tion. It is no sign of it when we sit without other bodily 
manifestation of its influence than knit brows ; while tlie mind la 
intensely at work. Gifted poetry gives us understanding, it 
makes hard things easy -= it lifts a veil — it shows us glimpses of 
a far off country ; it lights up ourselves as it lights up the world 
with its own light : 

* The light that never was on sea or land, 
The coDsecratiou and the poet's dream,' 

telliog us more than we know or can see, which we only believe 
because our whole frame responds to it. 

Poetry may perhaps be defined as a divine mechanism for 
teaching us certain truths or impreseions which we could not 
learn by other meant;. The secret of its power is too subtle to 
be discovered ; but that much of its power lies undoubtedly in 
the music, and not only in the strain of higher, bolder, ten- 
derer, thought which it induces — may be illustrated, we think, 
from the effect which music itself produces on us. We cannot 
listen to a * rich,' * intricate,' * majestic ' strain, without an intense 
desire to know what it means, and without a full conviction 
that it has a meaning which some higher intelligence could 
explain. Now the qualities of melody, recurrence of tones in 
measured order, rise and fall, flow and pause, belong in like 
manner to harmonious verse ; they work on the mind and senses 
in the same way that good music does, pausing the same per- 
plexing delight, full of hope and yet of present uncertainty^, 
placing our minds in a higher state for apprehending what is 
out of sight than unassisted reason does. These mystic charms, 




40 



Ta^hr'M Poems* 



however, belong to those qualities of poetry that Mr. Tayliir 
least esteems, and to which he haa not devoted himseltl They do 
not in fiict belong to the turn of his genius, which expresses itself 
with that aceuracy and exactness which has been called the wit 
of propriety (as opposed to the wit of pleasantry), — an accuracy 
which has a peculiar gracefulness of its own, — rather than in 
the swelling cadences of lyrical liarmony. 

It ts customary to attribute to authors who do uot use a rich 
or florid style, a disdain of bucU * arts,' as if all poets had similar 
natural powers. Possibly Mr. Taylor's preface to his first work 
may give some ground for such an impression in his case ; yet 
we do not ourselves enter into the view ; we believe him to give 
as much ornament as is natural to him; his is not a luxuriant 
or playful fancy, it needs no clipping of its wings. We rather 
believe this, than attribute its absence to any disdain which will 
not permit him to humour the tastes of his readers. It is not for 
the poet to encourage disdains against any of his readers. AVc are 
satisfied that Mr. Taylor haa taxed and exercised his full powers, 
that there is no store of metaphor that lie lias never used, of 

f'aces which he has despised, of ornaments that he has rejected. 
he trutli is tliat these are not his points of excellence ; he would 
have failed in ornament ; he frequently lias failed in metaphor j he 
often sins against good taate, and hi& poetry is so far the worse. 
It is common to place rigid truth in opposition to such graces, 
as if the two powers were incompatible, and to regard it as a 
full and ample compensation for their loss* We do not see how 
truth would be the gainer, and object to the term ri^idy as applied 
to the truth of poetry, whic^h sliould be spontaneous and free. 
As an illustration of what we mean, take the truth of the 
witness-box and the first unconscious narrative of the same 
witness; in both instances he speaks the truth ; iu tlie first with 
intention, in the second, because he has no other thought than 
to do so. But which truth is truest, most complete, most satis- 
factory? Where he is full of his story, where possibly he runs 
oflfiuto digression, where he forgets himself in his story, where we 
have his thoughts, all accompanying circumstances, the scene 
itself before us, the reflections arising from it, the fervour, the 
intensity, the hyperbole^ — compare this to the bare statement 
of facts: in which case does the listener know most of the event, 
or has it clearest before him ? And which should be the poet's 
truth ? Without conti*avening, however, this quality in our pre- 
sent author, the merit of his style, in our eyes, lies rather in a 
certain earnestness and conviction of the truth and the importance 
of what he is saying, than that it actually contains more of that 
divine essence than exists in the imaginative kind of poetry. 
What Dryden says of au ancient didactic poet may also be applied 



I 



Taylors P<^mg. 



41 



bim : * The distinguishing character of his soul and genius 

* 13 a certain kind of noble pride and positive assertion of hia 

* opinions. He i& everywhere confident of his own reason . . . and 

* though often in the wrong, yet deals honafide with his reader, 

* and telb him nothing but what he tliinks.* And this is a 
quality which wherever it is met with, justly holds a great 
influence over us, and is more powerful, as being connected 
with the will, than more showy intellectual gifts. It is the 
one desideratum of the preacher* A man may have but little 
new to tell, but little play of fancy or imagination ; but if he 
is deeply convinced of the truth of wliat he is saying, so as 
to overcome all diffidence or fear of his hearers (which in itself 
implies perhaps no small strength of mlad), and can give utter- 
ance to the convictions of his heart, he wnll liave power. Simple 
assertion backed by this inner conviction has far more weight 
than argument or reason ; recourj^e to which appears like conde- 
scension and a descent to lower ground after it, bringing the 
speaker on a level with his hearers. This is a wxapon of which 
Mr. Taylor knows the use, and to which we are disposed to 
attribute some ehare at least of his high reputation for truth. 
He thinks that what he says is true, and he could not, therefore, 
argue on the other aide. And to express these convictions the 
diction, profiting by this same force of the will, is dignified, 
strong, flow^ing, sometimes roost felicitous, always showing a 
wide acquaintance with the resources of our language. Into its 
innermost riches, its most fortunate succcbses, ' those secret hap- 
pinesses * that attend some poets' choice, he docs not enter \ they 
belong to what is designated " the sentient," or they herald higher 
and (^eper truths than Mr. Taylor's muse touches upon ; but 
such as he needs he has at his command, together with an ear 
perhaps too fancifully pleased with artful dispositions and the 
intricacies of an involved harmony. Of all modern poets this 
present volume shows him most anxious to suit sound to sense, 
to please the ear liy ha|>py recurrences of similur tones — by 
measured pause and sounding close — ^by that peculiar finish and 
point which needs labour and care and frequent revision. We 
do not wonder, in rcjuling many pasi^ages, that his progress was, 
as he says, slow. No one can say, after the old model of criti- 
cism, that the poem would have been better if the poet had 
taken more pains, for every line indicates thought and delibe- 
ration, and, on the whole, thought and deliberation well be- 
stowed, though sometimes we might wish the art to be some- 
what less obvious. But we do not imagine any natural graces 
are thereby nipped in the bud, Ben Jonaon tells us that^ ' a 
good poet*8 made as well as born,' and our present author is a 
made poet, in as true a sense at least as he is a born one. 



42 



Taylors Poenit. 



Our admiration of Mr. Taylor's diction applies principally, 
however, to lib blank veracj whicb, as we have said, suits his 
turn of mind. It is grave, dignified^ and eententiousj giving 
importance to common sense and keenness to obaervation. It 
admits, too, of eloquence and rhetorical arts, which more essential 
poetry repudiates; and accommodates itself witli equal ease 
to the didactic, the philosophic, the eatirical mood ; and he 
is acquainted with its capabilities, and knows how to bring 
out its harmonies; tbat fugue-like measure of which it is 
susceptible— those returns and repetitions of itself— phrase 
echoing to phrase, and sound to sound — which so happily supply 
the want of rhyme ; and satisfy the ear, gratifying our uncon- 
scious curiosity and expectation. Its highest flights — those 
extremes of pomp and statelinessj which seem to teat all tlie 
powers of language^ as if to show us how heroes and deoii-gods 
express their thoughts, are not attempted iiy him ; they do not, 
indeed, come within the scope of his plan, nor are aaapted to 
poetry founded on the stern common-eense basis. 

In order to illuatrate the artful nature of Mr. Taylor's verse, 
let us dwell on a few detached passages apart from the context, 
the interest of which should in au ordinary peiiisal withhold us 
from too close a scrutiny. The design is of course to soothe 
and please the ear, and put us in a fit fiximc to conceive and 
sympathise with the sentiment, without our being directly con- 
Bcious of the cause of our satisfaction. Harold, the night before 
the battle, sends this message to Adeliza ; — 

* Bat I bequeath this raesaage of my lovej 
Tlmi knowing thus it died not with my dcatlij 
Her sorrow, by ft soft remembrance sootli'd, 
May sleep and dream, and dreaming^ things divine, 
Be glorioualy trana figured by a hope. 

For love, that dies not till the body dies, 
Shall with the soul survive.' 

where any one taking the pains to consider, may discern the 
intricacy of the harmony ; the recurrence of thoughts, words, 
toncB at duo intervals ; the sound, the representative of the 
sense ; the verses answering to each other in rhythm and expres- 
Bion. Again : — 

• That waa a season when the un travelled spirit^ 
Not way-worn nor way-weftried, nor with goil 
Nor stain upon it, lions in its path 
Saw none,— or seeing, with triumphant trust 
In its resources and its powers, defied,^ 
Perverse to find provocatives in warnings, 
And in diaLurbance taking^deep delight.' 

Mr. Taylor is always observant of that rule of legitimate 
verse ao essential to its melody, to make each line, whether its 
end be marked by a stop or not, to conclude with a pause and 



Taylor'f Poemf, 

sounding close. The reveree of this rule, wbich obtains with 
many modern writers, lias been well called prose-poetry. The 
sense should not hurry us on ; we should be allowed a pause of 
susceptible duration; the second, third, and fourth lines of the 
foregoing passage liave no concluding siopj but their close is duly 
maxked. Another example of the same observance : — 
' What meaxnu At thiB uiiasual hour ibe light 
In yonder casement? Doth it hint a talo 
or (rouble, where some maiden mouruer pile 
ConJides lier sorrow to the secret night V 

The next linea express well a full yet even flow of waters. 
Their correct accent, and regard also to quantity, iu the second 
line, are the cause of this effect : — 

• So love flowed on me, from a thousand springa, 
And poured itself around me like a tlood.' 

In the next, where vigour and power are to be expressed, this 
regularity of accent is purposely avoided ; the superfluous syl- 
lable in the second line adds to its dtreogth : — 

• When to relent he saw, and when to dare ; 
Sudden to strike — magnanimous to forbear.' 

Sometimes he is * curiously and perversely elaborate,' as C. Lamb 
boasts one of hb own sonnets to be * — 

* By choke or chance, or choice attending chance.' 

Again : — 

Of this she saw not all — she saw hut little ; 

That which she could not choose but see, fihe saw.* 

And sometimes purposely harsh :— 

' Where the boors. 
Though scared yet greedy^ grimly iurk'd aloof/ 
And — 

* 'Twas he whose skill and courage gagg'd its gaping jaws.* 

Often Mr, Taylor's versification is rhetorical, an excellence 
in its way, but not compatible with the purest poetical form, 
though the highest poet may occasionally exhibit it. The art 
of poetical language is to produce effect with apparently inade- 
quate means : the art of the orator and rhetorician is to call in 
all the pomp, all the resources of language, its majestical forms, 
its effects, its appeak to our prouder reason and sympathies. 
It 18 self-possessed and dignified and argumentative. This style 
often manifests itself by almost indescribable deviations from the 
simpler poetic mode of expression. For example, in the next 
passage the word shotdd implies it to our ears: — 

' Should I fall 
To-morrow, I Hhall leave behind me few, 
It may be none, to tell with friendly truth 
My tale to after times.' 




r 



In the next tlie negative nor conveys the same impression :— 

* " Sleeps ihe the Itdy Edith V " No," they said, 
*• Nor will alie be persuaded," ' 

Again, where the whole passage is an instance in point i — 

* By fakehnod they prevnird, nor lees hy truth. 
They told him, which was true, that wc despised 
His person and hia power: they said besides, 
We prftctiaed to overtiirn the tottering throne, 
Which now we overshadowed, which was false.* 

Again : — 

* Thev thence 
Took courage whom they injured to inBult.' 

Acjain, the following haughty line of argument, which is highly 
and justly rhetorical: — 

* Twixt me and England BhouUl some seuselesfi swain 
Ask of my title j say I wear the cro^ra 

Because it fits my head/ 

But alliteration is Mr. Taylor's favourite artificej and we know 
no writer, ancient or modern, who has need it so much ; certainly 
to a great excess ; yet we can enter into its attractiveness, and 
understand the temptation* It is often practised with the greatest 
succesa, and is a most obedient instrument : in the following 

fassage it is used to give tlic idea of haste and impetuosity. 
faFoId is recounting his battle with his brother Tostig, and the 
subsequent news of further wars ;~ 

* A blooi/y day c/etermin'd iu the c^ust 

Their pride and j^roweas. Scarcely were they cold. 
When posts from /^evensey with speed desna'tch'd, 
Announced the Duke's approach. At dotiole speed 
I marched to meet him. Here we stand oppoaed,' 

In the description of the battle the same art is happily em- 
ployed :— 

' A mighty roar ensued, pierced through and through 
By ihrillest *hriek incej*ant, or of man 
Or madden'd horae that *cream'd with fear and pain, 
Death agonies. The battle, like a ship, 
Then when the whirlujind hath /orn and ^oat, 
Stagp^er'd from *ide to aide. The day was long 
By dreadful chaii":e of onset and feign 'd flight, 
And rout, and rally, </ircfully drawn out, 
Z>iaa9trous> rfiamaL' 

Sometimes alliteration is employed simply from the pleasure ol 
findin^t similar sounds :^ — • 



Or, 



* The Jiribe that would have bribed me to betray.' 

• 0//emiiiine ii/ection/ancy/ed.* 



Taylor^s P^nns, 



45 



Very beautiful examples of this kind of play will occur to 
roost readers from other authors, as for exaniple: — 

• That tlie rude *ea grew civil at her *oiig*' 

• To hear the sea-maid's masic* 

• In maiden meditation, /ancy/ree.' 

'Instances which are all taken from one page in the * Midsummer 
Kight's Dream,' as if the poet's ear had got into a jingling 
mood. Mr. Taylor, however^ applies it to the most serious 
pyrpo»e8* One of the most elaborate poems of the volume 
is a dialogue on matrimony and celibacy — where it seems to 
U3 every letter in the alphabet is made to bear witness to the 
superiority of the wedded over the single life, and to band 
together against the unhappy celibate. When once we become 
alive to this highly artificial structure, our attention, we own, is 
somewhat led astray from the force of the argument, to observ- 
ing how the consonants give their evidence and record their 
opinion. We will give our readers the advantage of our in- 
quiries on this matter by the aid of italics : — 

* Down the path of palms and ycwi 
A bloodless phantom of a ffronian t^alked. 
Hooded and veiPd, nilb languid Htep and slow, 
And oft-reverted head. Once and again 
A holy rapture lilled her, and scarce 
She seem'd to touch the ifround ; bat presently 
It feft her, and with /anguid *tep and «/aw. 
And droo;pm|r pojit^are, paw'd *he on her wny, 
*S^till //raying ar the went, but itnmbliug rtilt 
Through trearincM o'er jlick* nnd iftraw*, and jitill 
W\i\i fftick« and jtrawt *he quarrell'd a* *he pray'd. 
^hen she approach'd the g:rave that cro«jway» cloiied 
The avenue, though w/eary of the w-ay, 
S\ie *eem'd not glad, but shudder "d and recoird, 
shaking throngfi weakness of licr tt?earineii ; 
And though she upward look'd, look'd backward too, 
And *o with arm* that clafp*d the soliitide 
Mie slowly diiappear'd. This way of life, 
The ^byl said, i* the wn.y celibate, 
irhere walks erroneous wiany a wionk and nun. 
The good /Aerein is good /Aal dies //ierein 
And haM no offspringr ; nei/Aer ha/A fAe evil, 
For He that out of evil briug;:eth good 
iiegets no issue in the evil here; 
Pro6ation Plotted from the &ook of life 
With evil good ohliterntea, for these two 
In quality » though opposite and at war, 
Are each to each correlative and essential, 
And evil conatier*d maketh moral good, 
With virtue that is more than innocence,' 

Thus is the poor celibate hissed off the stage. One must 
own that the languor, and at the same time, irritation of the 



46 



Tatfior's Poemik^ 



verse very much assists and supports the writer's view. The » 

and the w do him good eervice as disputants; and now for the 
contrast—' The eonjugal way more perfect/ and deserving, in 
Mr. Taylor's mind, of a more tripping, light, and graceful versi- 
fication, wherein the /^i5, the r's and the /'s have their turn, and 
the pleasing duty of ushering in * that other way,' which they 
do in the following really beautiful lines : — 
* Tbe maiden tum'd obedientj and beheld, 
Wbere, at tbe outact from a mystic bower, 
A/igiire ^ike Aurora, /usb'd wHh joy, 
Zeapt /ightly/orth, and t/ancing" cfown tbe path 
Sbook tbe firigbt «?evi"f/ropa from tbe ra(/iant urealb 
'Hiat crown'd ber lockB pro/use j ere long tbe /lush 
Subsided, and tbe bountlmg jrteps were *tay*d. 
But firmly still, and witb a durable strengtb 
Slie traveird on : not seldom on her way 
A colour*d cloud diapbonoua, like tbose 
That gild the morn, conceal'd her ; but ere long 
She iasutd thence, and with ber issued thence 
A naked cbdd that roll'd amongst the flowers, 
And kugb'd and cried: a thicker cloud auou 
Fell round ber, and frora that witb siuilcen eyes 
Sbe issued, and witb slaios upon her cheek 
From scalding tears ; but onward alill she look'd, 
And u/tward still, and on ber brow uotum'd, 
And on tbe joaleness of ber penitent fkce 
A glory broke, tbe dfly-spring from on bigb : 
Thenceforth witb loftier and less troubled strength, 
And even step, she irod tbe /remulous earth, 
Elastic not «?late. Tbe grave was near 
That crosBwaya cut the path ; but witb her went 
A conflpany of spirits bnght and young. 
Which caught the blossoms from ber wreath that fell, 
And gave them back. And as she reach 'd tbe close. 
Gazing betwixt the willows far beyond, 
Full many a group successive sbe descried 
With wreaths like hers, and as she softly sank, 
A Aeavenly Aope, which like a rainbow spann'd 
A thousand earthly Aopes, its colours threw 
Across tbe gloomy entrance of the grave. 
This, said the Sibyl, is tbe conjugal way, 
With joys raore/ree and nobler sorrows /raughf. 
Which scatter by their force li/e's/rivolous cares 
And meaner molestations : */ern the yirokcj*, 
The *miggles arduous, which this way presents, 
And fearful the temptations ; but the a/ako 
Is worthier of ihe */rife, and she that wins 
Hear« at the gates of heaven the words, ** Well done," 
And, " Eater thou.'* ' 

Our readers ought to he made aware that the poem contairiT 
a practical condusion for these two contrasts, and that the nar- 
rator who thus ahly marshals his alphabetical forces, is appa- 
rently the suitor to his fair listener, whom he seems in a likely 
way to convince. 



Taifior't Foema. 



If 



Among wbat are called the ornaments of poetiy, the me- 
taphor holds a chief place, though figurative language, — the art, 
that is, of dei?cribing one thing by its analogy with aiiotlier thing, 
— ^is too much of the essence of poetry as a divine science, to be 
BO designated. Mr. Taylor baa been frequently complimented 
on hla neglect of this ornament, as indeed very beautiful poetry 
may be written by simply pourtraying a thing as what it is, 
without assembling all the object.i of nature or art to show what 
it is also like ; but praise in this matter is surely misplaced. If 
a poet has not the gift of appropriate and abundant illustration, 
let him follow his calling without it ; but let us not disparage tlic 
marvellous suggestive power of a good metaphor, nor call that idle 
decoration, which in gifted hands can unlock memory, transport 
fancy, and enable us in a moment — at a glance^ — to enter into 
the innermost heart of a poet^s meaning. Such a metaphor, for 
example, as the following, so familiar to us all, which we will 
quote to show our meaninnr ; where the poet by no direct means 
could have so clearly carried us back to the point he dwells on — 
remotest childhood, all its blessed sensations, the boundless sea 
of eternity;— 

' Hence in a season of cftlm weaLber, 

Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have Htgbt of that immortai aea 

Which brought uh hither, 

Can iii a moment travel thither,* 
And see ihe children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters sounding evermore.' 

It would seem, however, that Mr, Taylors range of metaphor; 
is limited, rather than that he neglects it; he is only unsuc- 
cessful when he transgresses his natural bounds. The elements 
Bie his treasury : the storm — the flow of waters — the play of 
Inds, and especially , and above all, the sun. He adopts, that 
IS, and often with gi*eat effect, the received imnpery of" poetry, 
as such, rather than pursues any private fancies of his own. We 
w^ill cull some examples of his style from the present volume ; 
some, as our readers will see, very happy and graceful ones. We 
quote them to show that Mr. Taylor does not despise metaphor. 
We can share in contempt for deliberate and painful search for, 
and construction of figures; but no poet will despise what 
comes to him alon^ with tlie thought, which cannot be separated 
from it, which is indeed the mode in wliich the thought first 
iresents itself to him, as a picture that is, not in words. The 
Following are instances of the w^orld-wide language wtiich to 
the end of time will compare joy and success to sunshine, and 
sorrow to a cloud, and still [ilease us by the eomparison : — 

♦ But joy ia nhort, 
And soon upon our glorious break of iky, 



48 Tai^Ior's Poems, 

So rich in smishine and so fresh with dew. 
We SAW the clouds to gather from that side 
Whence now the atorni assails lis/ 

The following picture of Editli, Harold's daughter, is very 
graceful, tinged as it la in the end with the sunset glow : — 

* She rose, 
And rising, seera'd the vision of ft saint 
Awaitiiig^ her n^suniption. In her mien 
Celestial beauty reia^'d» with ftovran ^race, 
And holy peace, which holier raptures left. 
Not colourless, but like a sunset sk}\ 
Partaking of their glories. So she rose/ Sec. 

Harold in the next passages personifies the sun or the son- 
god;— 

* Then Harold, rising; as the Princess knelt, 
Threw olf theclmnj that veifd him, and appear'd 
His very selfj a man of god-like mould. 
Radiant hut grave,' 

William the Conqueror — 

' Essay 'd to ^Id 

This thunder-eloud of dark design.' 

The following ia a happy adaptation of the common image, 
likening reserve to a cloud and mist: — 

* Then did all sternness melt, as melts a mist 
Toueh'd by the brightness of the golden dawn : 
Aerial heights disclosing, valleys green, 

And sunlights thrown the woodland tufts between. 
And flowers Rnd spangles of the dewy lawn.' 

And this again, of the sunshine of friendship ; — 

* Mine is inferior matter, my own loss, 
The loss of dear delights for ever flc<l, 
Of reason's converse, by affection fed, 
Of wisdom, counsel, solace, that across 
Life's dreariest tracts a tender radiance shed/ 

And in Elena's Lay :— 

* She loved too soon in life ; her dawn 
Was bright with sunbeams, whence is drawn 
A sure prognostic tiiat the day 
Will not unclouded pass away.' 

And again : — 

• Brightly upon me, 
Like the red sunset of a stormy day, 
Love breaks anew beneath the gathering clouds/ 

Mr. Taylor^s most novel metaphors arc his least successful 
ones. In his essays he has thought it worth while to invest in 
the dignity of verse the following grotesque image :™ 

• For Pride, 
Which is the Devil's toasting-fork, doth toast 
Him brownest that his whiteness vaunteth most.' ~ 



Tatfhrs Poems, 



49 



^■^ In expreeslng his contempt tor the ^x)puhice, a favourite 

^■Cbcme, we find the following concatenation: — 

^H * To Eiigland, i^hdse street-sUtearaen, blind as moles, 

^H Scribc-taijglit, mid ravening lite wolvea for blood :* 

^ "where the epithet scribe-taught, i. e* newspaper-reading, so 
little harmonizes with the animal comparisons, that in search of 
an analogy we arc forced hack to our early days, and Mother 
Iliibhaixi'si dog, who— . 

If • When abe came back, 

p She found reading the news.' 

IVe have sometimes to regret thid tone toward^s tlie com- 
jiionalty, where it does not aifect the unity of a metaphor, but 
-only its refinement : — 
r * But service such tis his to virtue vow'd, 

I Ne'er Uix'd lor noise the tveagand of the crowd, 

' Most thankless in their ignorance and spleen.' 

We have extracted alike from Mr, Taylor's jioems in blank 
Terdcaud in rhyme. But our tcBtiinouy to his mastery over his 
'instrument mu!*t be applied chiefly to the former, though all 
his versificiition shows a good ear and a skilful hand. He knowa 
what that will bear, but sometimes he uiakcj? experiments of 
long words and acute reflections in measures which altogether 
reject such open efforts of the intellectual faculty, and make 
them out of place and pedantic. In lyrical verse we all know 
to our cost that tlie poet may be obscure — we may be puzzled 
(quite jwjcordlng to legitimate order) as to what he means. He 
trangresses no rules in thus constructing his poem; but he must 
* nut, in order to make himself more intelligible, give us hard 
words, or our ears instantly rebel. No ; he must express recondite 
^m truths, if bent to do «o at all, in simple Saxon, such as a child 
^B might use. Mr. Taylor's most striking departure from this law 
^ is, however, not to be found in the present volume, though 
that contains long words occasionally— a good deal out of place 
—as * equipoise,' ' arbitrement,' * suseoptive,' and the like; but 
in the earlier lyrical poem to be found between the two dramas 
of Philip van Arteveldc, which is ushered in with such conde- 
scension to weak minds, with such a promise to the reader of 
mere amusement, as led us to expect other things ; — 

* Rest thee a spucCp or if thou lovcst to hear 
A soft pulsation in thine easy cftr, 
Turn thou the pa^^e, and let thy sensed drink 
A lay, that shall not trouble Ihec to think.' 

And then follows Elena's experience of life, so analytical, so 
acute, 80 shrewd even, as would have needed the tcn-syllablc 
stanza at least, if not blank verse, to do it justice. Persons 
are to ei^ess their (Selings and passions in lyrical effusions, 

NO. XLV.— X, S. E 




Taylor^s Poems, 

or what is better, have them describe<l for them; but they 

should avoid metaphysics j they may not go into the why and 
the whereiorc, nor analyse then- sensations, nor profeee to under- 
stand themselves nor each other. The raeaeure makes all such 
reflections importune. Moreover, simple and not complex emo- 
tions are best for it— anything great, magnanimous, devoted, 
impulsive. A firat love is its essence and its felicity, for it 
necdi? no accounting for, which a second does. We look for un- 
dying Inve, unchanging constancy, heavenly beauty, uncon- 
quercd valour, and all heroic achievmenta, and arc disposed 
under its influence to he hard on change and inconatancy. It 
\% a celestial region of the virtues — a sphere where we can 
retain our pristine nt»tions on such points, and never cease to be 
horrified by events which in common life we must needs reconcile 
ourselves to as best we ma)^ We are, we own, jealous of en- 
croachment upon this paradise of the affections. Wordsworth, 
the master of his art in t^o many ways, strikes ue as pcndiarl}* 
happy in the adaptations of his subject to their appropriftte 
measure. Would he express a sort of divine inanity, we have 
in baby tones, and oft-recurring rhymes, the idyl of the * Idiot 
Boy ;' or deep thought analysmg nature and man's lieart, we 
follow with aDsorbeci,, and withal, somewhat strained attention, 
the stately march, unfettered by the golden chains of rhyme,, 
of the * Excursion ;' or a jjure, simple, devoted affection, wc have 
the lyrical ballad with feuth for its heroine, who when that 

* youth from Georgia's shore' leaves her (after her first tumul- 
tuous grief is over) spends, as must needs be to preserve the 
consistency of the meawure, the rest of her * innocent life but 
far astray,' with nature and returning childhood, as her only 
consolers. Would he tell a tale of sorrowful adventure and mis- 
fortune? — he gives it in the harmonious monotony of the Spen- 
cerian vStanza; or express the cream of all hla thoughts— the 
result, without the process of reflection — the deep experience of 
our higlier life— the remembrances of childhood — the wisdom of 
manhood — the inspirations of nature — the hopes that lie beyond? 
— he embodies all in the ode, that last achicvment of the lyric 
muse, the poet's crowning effort, testing all his powers. 

'V\liat we complain of in * Elena's Lay/ is that it wants this 
adaptation. Mr. Taylor, indeed, almost apologizes for exercising 
his skill on so trifling a subject — * I have not ceased/ he say?, 

* to admire this poetry in its degree j and the interlude (the 

* Lay,) which I have inserted between these plays will show, that, 

* to a limited extent, I have been desirous even to cultivate and 

* employ it,' This is not the spirit in which to succeed in a 
lyrical poem. Tie has wished, indeed, to infuse a more intel- 
lectual spirit, another element into tlie verse, so Elena glvei> her 



Taylors Pot^mt^ 



«t 



experience, and has not only rhyme but reasmn fur all that 
befalls her : — 

* First love the world is wont to call 
The passioa Vfhicb was now her all. 
So be tt call'd ; but be it knowo. 
The feeling which possessM ber now, 
Waa novel in degree alone.' 

When the object of thia first love, whom she describes aa 
' Intelligent, ltyquaciou»^ mild/ 

finds out that he docs not care for her, and the tic is dissolved, 
ghe thus accounts for her returning Interest in life : — 

*The liuman heart cannot sustain 
Prolong'd inalterable psun, 
And not till reason cease to reign, 
WiJl nature want some momenta brief 
Of other moods to mix with grief; 
Such, and so bard io be destroyed. 
That vigour v^hich abhors a void» 
And in the midst of all distress 
Such nature's need of happmoss.* 

Dwelling on her own love of the beautiful she says: — 

* Devoted thus to what was fair to sight, 
She loved too little else, nor this aright ; 
And many disappointments could not cure 
This born obliquity, or break the lure 
Which this strong passion spread ; she grew not wise, 
Nor grows. — ' 

In disappointment she took reftige in pleasures— 

* That bloom but briefly at the best ; 
The world's sad subatitutes for joys 
To minds that lose their equipoise,' 

Somewhat akin to these novelties is the use of technical 
expressions. A great critic has established it as a general rule, 
that all appropriated terms of art should be sunk in general 
expressions, because poetry is to speak a universal language. 
These are, however, tranimela which poets are often impatient 
of, as interfering with the dcfiniteneas of what they have to say. 
Dryden ventured on umny daring deviations of the rule, not with 
the happiest success; witness the following stanza out of a great 
many from the 'Annus Mi rabilis' describing the fire of London: — - 

Tb' Eternal heard^ and from the heavenly quire 
Chose out the cberub with the flaming sword, 
And bnde him swillly drive th' approaching firo 
From where our natal magazi»*^» were stored/ 
In the Lay we have much technical language in the descrip- 
tion of Elena's boat : — 

*■ Reel up it rots upon the strand^ 
Its gimwale sunken in the sand, 
E 2 




S2 Tayhr*$ Pitenu, 

Where suna and tempcHU irnrp'd and shrank 
Eiicli ahfttter'd rib and riven plank. 
Never Again thAt liind-wri^-ck'd vvsSi 
Shall feel the billows boom abaft..' 

The three several rhymes having all similar vowel tones, add 
to the inharmoniousnesa of this passage. In the matter of 
rhymes the later volume has, however, few sins to answer for. 
They are always correct and felicitous — ^no mean praise. 

Mr. Tiiylor's poetry as a whole is justly called classical — 
classical from tlie art and care with which it i^ written, classical 
in its spirit. It is compared to a Grecian temple, and the com- 
parison is a just one. It is Grecian rather than Gothic, very 
complete, reaching what it aims at, but not aspiring, nor in any 
high degree suggestive. There is one point in which Mr, 
Taylor very exactly* follows the ancient world, on the point 
which has been defined as one great mark of difference between 
the remote heathen age and our own — that which has been 
described technically by the critics as the * best common-place 
of pity (or interest), which is love/ and which in this light is 
said to belong exclusively to the moderns. Mr. Taylor cer- 
tainly enters into this in the old spirit rather than the new. 
There is nothing chivalrous or ennobling in his apprehension of 
it, though verse in its very nature, especially verse so graceful 
nnd Ijarmonious as his, must necessarily in some degree cover 
over the deficiency. All his readers must liave been pained by 
ills treatment of the subject in his greatest work. Philip van 
Artevelde is a heathen lover, not a Christian one, and tliis not 
alone because hrs love was in one instance an unlawful one, but 
in its very texture, and the slight hold it possesses over his 
mind. The well-known soliloquy beginning and ending — 

* How little llatteriug is a woinau's love/ 

bears out our view. There is nothing generous, nothing self- 
forgetful in it, no hopes^no illu^ionsj it la simple present amuse- 
ment, no union of heart or soul. 

But Mr. Taylor seems to lack the power of comprehending a 
reciprocal passion, as well as of placing the relation of the lovers 
on its right footing. Christian or chivalrous love should be 
always supjioscd to begin on our side, but our author reganling 
it as a weak idle passion, apparently considers it more suited to 
the female temperariient, and therefore nut only makes his ladies 
take the initiative, but support the sentiment throughout with 
much the most cordiality and enthusiasm. Ilia heroes allow 
themselves to be courted^little more. The lady Ad nana was 
f)f this mood. Elena's first love, as well as her second, appears 
to have l^ecu conducted on the same plan. In the present volume 



I 



Tttfjlura Poems, 



63 



Harold, in detailing his history to his dauj;litcr Edith, thus 
describeis hJ8 own similar good fortune in attracting the regards 
of Adeliza the Duke s daughter. The picture is well drawn, 
and all that verse can do to reconcile ua ia done ; — 

' Of these the firat 
In statiou and itumt etiiineMtly fair, 
Was Adeliza. da lighter of ihc Duke. 
A woman-child »he was : but womanhood 
By pn*adnfll afllux on her rhildhood gaiti'd, 
And like a tide that up a river steals 
And reaches to a lilied bank, began 
To lilt up lii'e beneath her. As a child 
She still V* as simple, — rather shall J say 
More simple than a child, as being loat 
In deeper admirations and desires. 
'Vhe roseate richness uf her chUdisb bloom 
Hemain'd, hut by inconalancics and change 
Refcrr'd it.sell to sources passion-Hwept 
Siirh had I seen her as 1 passM the gates 
Of H{>iien, in proeesainn, on tlie day 
I landed, when a shower of rose.s fell 
Upork luy head, and looking up 1 saw 
The fiiij^cra^ which had scatter^ them half-spread 
Forgetful, and the forward-leatiini? fmce 
Intently fixed and glowing, but methotight 
More serious than it tuight to be, so youu^i!; 
And midmost in a show. From time to time 
Thenceforth I felt, although I met them not, 
The visitation of those serious eyes, 
The ardours of that face toward me turn'd ; 
These long I understood not ; lor I knew 
That she in fast companionship had lived 

With Ulnoth. 

« « • « ♦ 

' But Ulnoth wfis a boy 
When first nhe knew him, nor was yet renown*d; 
And woman's fancy m more tjuick lo read 
In furrow 'd faces histories of wars 
And tales of wonder by the lamp of fame, 
Than in the cursive characters of youth, 
How fiiir soever written, to descry 
A glorious promise. Thus betwixt these twain 
A love that litirst too early into bloom 
Was sevcr'd ere it set. For Ulnuth's partj 
He, in his nature buoyant, lightly held 
By all his loves save thai be bore to me ; 
And lightly, with a Joyful pride, he saw 
The heart to me surrender d, and himself 
Of some unsettled moiety disseized* 
Such shape lo him the matter took. For me, 
Her excellence of beauty, and re^nrds 
Rapt oftentimes forgetful of the earth, 
Of earthly attributions unaware 
lu him her fancy glorified, — ^ regards 
That secm'd of power to make the thing they sought,— 



Taylors Poems, 

Did duiibtleas toucli what time, aud public carea. 
And household griefs, liad left me of a heart. 
I loved the lady witli a grateful love, 
Tender and pure, not pasaiouate.' 

If it be argued by that rigid common aense to which Mr. 
Taylor appeals, that from Harold, a widower and a father, thia 
amount of regard and interest was all that could he expected 
from him, we moat fully asaent. We only remark upon the 
fact, that the relation which he has conatructed between the 
two lovera should be of such a kind ; that the affair of love 
asfiumefl such order naturally to him, and that he arranges 
accordingly. He may urge the cnae of Othello and Deedemona, 
but it only Bupports him up to a certain point ; for Othello-s 
love, even if it be posterior in time, is a genuine passion when 
he has it. And this particular case is not after all the poet*s 
order of nature. If, lea\'ing the gracca and fictions of poetry, 
we turn to Mr. Taylor^s proae ideas on the same subject, we 
find him boldly uttering sentiments, and justifying supposed 
feelinga and views, for which we believe those for whose sake 
he expresses them will be the least obliged. In his chapter 
on marriage we have the following passage : — - 

' Bot if an unreasonable opposiuon to a daughter's choice be not to pre- 
vail, 1 ihink that, oti the other hand, the pareut», if their views uf marriage 
he pure from worldlincas, are jua lifted in using agooddcul of management j 
not more than they very often do use, but more than they are wont to avow, 
or than society ia wont to countenance, with a view to putting their datigh- 
terM in the way of such mamagreB as tliey can ftpprovc, [t is the way of 
ihc world to give such management an ill name, probably because it ia 
most used by those who abuse it to m orklly purpoaea ; and I have heard 
a mother pique licrsclf on never having taken a single step to get her 
daughters married, which appeared to me to be a dereliction of one of the 
most essential duties of a parent. If ihe mother be wholly passive, ciihcr 
the daughters muat take steps nnd use management for themselves (which 
is not desirable), or the happiness and the most important interests of 
their Uvea, moral and apiritual^ must be the sport of chance and take a 
course purely fortuitous : and In many situations where unsought oppor- 
tunities of choice do not abound, the result may be, not improbably, audi 
a love and marriage a» the mother and every one elwe contemplates wiih 
astonishment. Some such astonishment I recollect to have expressed on an 
occasion of the kind to an illustrious poet and phUoaopher, whose reply I 
have always borne in mind when other such cases have come under iny 
observiition : — " We have no reason to be surprised, uuless we knew w hat 
may have been the young kdy'a opportiinittefi. If Miranda had not fsillen 
in love with Ferdiujaid she woidd have been in love with Cahban/' ' 

Any one wlio chooses to raise the question wdiether Miranda 
could have fallen in love with Caliban* may settle it as he 
pleases. If the ' illueitrious poet and philotiopheiv' however, to 
whom Mr. Taylor alludea, is to be understood as ganetioning 
the view of matrinioiiial diplomacy presented in this extract, he 
appears to us to have been, bo far, a very indifferent poet and a 



Tatftor'g PaemM* 



very strange pliUosopher. For our own part, if we are to have 
any such system recognised^ we ehould uot hesitate to prefer 
the one which Mr. Taylor rejects on acc*>unt of its secular 
motives to the one which he recommeiitls on account of its 
Ijenevolent ones. If the queation is one of uniting a Leicester- 
shire estate nf the vahie of 3,000/. a-year with 50,000/. in 
the three per cents., and the mode of cftccting that junction be 
a matrimonial alhance between a young gentleman and young 
lady who respectively represent those properties, the parents 
who exert cunning or force to bring about such a marriage, are 
certainly ^Ity of avarice; but there cannot be said to be 
indelicacy in the matter, inasmuch as there is no pretence that 
there is any love. But the deliberate |troposal of a method for 
manufacturing love appears to us a sin against delic^tcvj more 
especially as it must be remembered, that in Mr. Taylor's 
system the lady makes the first move. Imagine a parent stami- 
ing by, watching benignantly, and gently encouraging a daugli- 
ter, for whose matrimonial happiiies*^ he is tenderly anxious, in 
making affectionate a^lvances towards a young gentleman of merit, 
who would in his opinion make her an improving and congenifil 
partner — on the idea thtit the young gentleman will sec those 
advances, will be pleased with tlieni, and be induced at last to 
respond to them ! Between such a sense of propriety as this 
ana greediness for money, it is difficult indeed to choose ; but if 
we are to make a choice, we think avarice on the whole the least 
of&ofilve. There there is at any rate no defilement, because 
there is nothing to defile. But here there is a ujeddliog and a 
tampering with the iimdumental delicacies of the human mind. 
That is very wrong, but this is very wrong and very disgusting 
too. Mr, Taylor seems to be the especial patron of one class in 
the social world — one which does not, wc think, stand in any 
great need of his assistance — at the exfieuse of all others. 
Fathers and motlicrs will not thank him for his suggestions, for 
they will say, and we think justly, tliat if they arc to demean 
themselves, they had rather do so for the tangible and certain 
benefit of broad acres, than tlie very iallible one of a young 
gentleman's moral beauties as tlieir reward and compensation. 
Young ladies will not be much obliged to him, for it is no 
stretch of politeness to say, that the task he baa provided them 
will hardlv be to the taste of the majority. But young gentle- 
men will be exceedingly pleased with his plan, those especially 
who are endowed with a modest self-appreciation. The way is 
smoothed exquisitely for them ; they have not to put themselves 
forward, or to put themselves out; they have only to sit still and 
with a serene approval watch female admiration growing into 
respectful love. Then, indeed, their dignity allows some re- 



a». 



Taf/hre Poema. 



I 



pponse, and thoy condescend to ackoowledge themselves pleas(?d 
with the attention paid them, and with her fi"om whuiii they 
receive ir. The young gentleman reasons^ Ah ! poor girl, she 
has, it is true, many defects, but then she has some discernment — 
and he douBtft* whether he iiiay not go further and fare worse in 
seeking a suitable partner. 

Not but that siieh a scheme, liowever it may flatter the self- 
e£»miilaceney, strongly conflicts with the sukstantial rights of the 
male sex. It might be supjx^scd from the whole of the pas-^age 
we have quoted that men had nothing to do but to sit still and be 
chosen ; whereas if tliis somewhat offensive expression of * choice 
must be applied somewhere, let it have its prescribed place. 
We assert for ourselves tlie liberty of choice which seems here 
ahirminj^ly infringed. Let a man ckoon' his wife, but do not let 
t>ur ladies begin to ciwo^e their husbands, or form deliberate 
plans either with or witliout their mammas connivance. One 
would sujipose there w^aa no Providence to order events, as well 
as no man capable of^orming an imassisted, unprompted attach- 
ment, that such counsels shuuld be thought needed. What we 
}irincipally observe, however, is, that Mi\ Taylor seems to forget 
lere that there is an alternative between Ferdinand and Cali- 
ban, a state which so many women emiol>le and adorn, a state 
which has its own Ccdling, and duties, and responsibilities, and 
pleasures. Or, possibly, he may think he has disposed for evei 
of its claims on our respect in the dialogue from which we have 
already quoteil. But we are not so easily convinced. W^e still 
see room in this world for the blessed single state. The mind all 
the more eagerly expatiates on if s merits. What would our child- 
hood have done without aunts and cousins with leisure to attend 
to us ' I low ill would many of us have fured if there had been 
no old maids ! — we use the term in all honour and reverence* 
VVe see, for our part, no necessity for everybody getting mar- 
ried. Why sliould there be none to sit out from the game ot 
life and find their joy in looking on? And still less do we sec 
the necessity for young ladies speculating beforehand, and form- 
ing schemes upcui the subject. It is surely the privilege oi 
women that they need not think of such things — that they need 
not choose till tlie 8ul>ject is brought i)ractically before them. But 
this is a favourite theme with our author, he thus pursues it :— 

• It mny be observed, I think, that women of high intellectual endow- 
ments, and much dignity of d^^portment, have the greatest dillkidty in mar- 
rying;, and Mtanct moat in need of a mntber's help. And this, not becAuse 
they are themselves faHtidioua, (for they are oficii as little so as any.) biU 
be<niuHe men are not humble cooTigh to wish to have their supcriara for 
iheir wives 

' III the ease, therefore, iif either ]n^\\ eiidi>wments or great wcftlih in a 
dftiightcr, the care of a parent is peculiarly iicL-detl to midliply her tippor- 



I 

I 



Taylors Poitm, 



I 



% 



tunitiea of making a ^:nod trhuk« in marriage, and hi no case caii such car© 
be properly pretermitted. 

* When the mother takes no pains, the marriage of (he daughter, even if 
not in itself ineligible, is likely to be unduly deferred, &c.' 

Now passing over with a summary protest the many often- 
eive points in the wording of this passage, wc would ask, what 
is there practical in it all ? How is a modest nuttron to hej^in 
to take pains *to muitiply opportunities' with a set purjwfie? 
As Bocicty is now constituted, people meet without need of 
all this arrangement, and men have not hitherto tbund such 
insurmountable difficulties. What hindrances there have been, 
liave been hitherto considered a sort of charm> as well as a test 
of devotion and constancy. We own, however, that Mr. Taylor 
raises a picture in the painstaking mother, and the dignilicd 
intellectual daughter, which does present obstacles to the fancy 
which may almost be pronounced insurmountable. But in be- 
half of the single life, whose cause we plead, we would a^k, If 
intellectual w<>men so often are found unmarried, may there not 
be something in the leisure and retirement of that state friendly 
to the development of the intellect? Is not a woman in a better 
state for mental cultivation, supjxjsing the ten years between 
twenty and thirty are spent in reading, perfecting her educa- 
tion, fostering her pecidiar talents, than if these years were passed, 
as in the young wife they nuist commonly be, in the duties and 
cares of a nursery and household ? — most honourable duties and 
cares. Good sense, and many high Christian graces, may be 
matured in such a school ; but what is meant especially by the in- 
tellectual faculties needs more leisin*c and study tor their growth ; 
an immunity from more engrossing cares, a leisure which if in- 
dulged in in married life would lead to the neglect of obvious 
duties. 

We shall not, we thirdt, be misunderstood, when we venture 
further to suggest, that |>ossibly women, wiio are really best 
described as intellectuiil, may be no loss to the married state ; 
and that if nien are afraid, as they are charged with being, of 
women so gifted, they may bave sound reasons for tlieir fear^. 
For a woman to be descnbed as intellectual, or clever, does in 
fact raise an unfavourable impression, as giving tbe idea of these 
(jualities acting in undue preponderance^ ovcrwhiwlowing those 
moral qualities and atfectious which shouid be a woman's crown* 
ing grace, Men sometimes cannot help being famous, therefore 
certain epithets, as * clever,* 'able,' Mcarncd/ ^intcllectuaV may 
stick to them without any fault of theirs, witlunit implying any 
poverty in their moral nature ; but if such terms most appro- 
priately describe a woman, we may, we think, justly suspect her 
of some impoitant want. Wc do not mistrust her for what she 



SB Ta^hr'i Poems. 

iSf but for what we imagine she U not But this charge doe«s 
not apply to what is really the highest clasB of female intellect. 
Ainonr^ the women of highest iotcllectual endow menta who 
have come within our observation, we should feel we did them 
the utmost injuatice to designate them by such terms; it would 
be calling names ; they never present themselves to our minds as 
such- Tbere is a eweetncsjs, or a truth, or a kindnes3"~tsome 
grace, some charm, some distinguishing moral characteristic, 
which keeps the intellect in due subordination, and brings them 
to our thoughts, — temper, mind, affections— one harmonious 
whole. 

Nor is it any regret to ourselves, as it appears to be to Mr. 
Taylor, if women such as these ha\'e not, as they often have 
not, married. For not to mention the risk of their marrying 
some stupid man— (in which case, t. e, after reigning for ten or 
twenty years in conscious supremacy over an inferior intellect, 
they might not have been what they are now) — it is well that 
the single life, which the world is ready enough to contemn, 
without the aid of poets and philosophers to hark it on, should 
have its representatives to stand foremost, to maintain its cause 
and give it weight and dignity j women, who for their loveable 
as wcU as admirable qualities, (whether their present condition 
be from choice or accident,) demoDstrate that it is from no desti- 
tution of graces and attractions that they are whiit they are ; 
who rather strike our fancy as something set apart and precious. 
Natural reason shows that it could never have been the design 
of Providence — as some must inevitably remain unmarried, as 
mankind are not paired off in so exact a fit that nobody stands 
out— that the celibates should be only the melancholy, the dis- 
agreeable, the unamiable, the stupid- All providentia! tli visions 
of matikind are konourablei they each have their champions, 
their nobility. 

But Mr. Taylor, though ambitious by such reflections as 
these to prove himself a man of the world, with an insight into 
things as they are, not as poets and sentimentalists choose to 
suppose them, yet would not entirely drop the character which 
his leading works have won for him ; he woidd not forget the 
jK>et altogether, he would wilhngly suffuse his downright com- 
mon sense with a tinge of romance. Thus in the following 
passage he boldly advocates passion as a guide. There is a kind 
of daring in the tone, he feels he is hazarding what may be con- 
sidered a dangerous assertion, but after all the feelings must be 
allowed some play. 

* I have said, that considering the nrany misguidances to which a delibe- 
rate] udgraent 18 cxpoiicd ill the nmttCT of marriage, (liere may oilen be less 
risk of error in a choice wbicli is impassioned. But I ought, perhaps, to 



Taylor' i Poems* 



^ 






DftTe explained that by a passion I do not mean — ^what young ladies some- 
times mistake for it — a mere imaginative sentiment, dream, or illusion. . . . 
But if the heart hare been trained in the way that it ahonld go, tbe passion 
to which it will lie open will be something very different from a warm illu> 
sion or a sentimental dream^ though very poBsibly including these and 
ha^dng begun in them. For true love is not, 1 think, that isolated and 
indivisible unity which it might be supposed to be from the way in which it 
ia sometimes spoken of. It is mixed and niauilbld according to the abun- 
dance of the being, and in a large nature becomes in its progress a highly 
composite passion ; commonly, no doubt, having its source in admiration 
and imaginative sentiment ; but as it rolls on, involving divers tributaries, 
swollen bj accessory passions, feelings, and affections — pity, gratitude, 
generosity, loyalty, fidelity, anxiety, fear, and devotion, and deepened by 
the embankments of duty 'and justice — foreign to the subject as these last 
may seem to some. In shorty the whole nature and conscience being 
worked upon by this paasion, re -act upon it and become interfused and 
blended with it ; not by an absorption of all elements into one, but by a 
derelopmeut of each into each : and when, therefore^ I affirm that passion, 
err though it may, will be often less misleading than the dispassionate 
judgment, I do but aver that the entire nature— reaivon, conscience, and 
affections, interpenetrating and triune — that this totah^ of the nature, 
raised, vivified, and enlarged by love, is less likely to take an erroneous 
direction, than a part of the nature standing aloof and dictating to the other 
part/ 

VVTiat does all this really mean, we would ask, but that Mr. 
Taylor tliinks that reaeou, conscience, and the affections, com- 
bined, are better gnide^ than the judgment by itself? For 
ourselves we do not see how these power* can ever come into 
collision. What can a sound judgment do better, than refer 
the matter at once to these arbiters ' intcrjjeuetratinff and triune?* 
and that would surely be anything but a sound judgment which 
would persist in acting against their united decision. 

But we have dwelt long enough on points of disagreement 
and criticism^ and shall be glad, in conclusion, to present our 
readers with more favourable sj^ecimens of our author's vicwa 
and manner thiui some of our later examples afford. Of the 
sis etisays in * Notes for Life* — Money, Ilumility, and Independ- 
ence, Wisdom, Choice in Marriage, Cliildrenj and the Life Poetic — 
perhaps the two last are most valuable ; tbe first from its con- 
taining some sound and useful hints; the last because it is written 
in a higher mood, and whatever a poet says of his art, and the 
circumstances that befit its cultivation, must be interesting. The 
following reflectiou concludes a passnge on the old sulyectof the 
over-education of cliiltl re J) in these times; the first part of which 
we will spare our readers, because they would he sure hciutily 
to agree with it in theory, however much they may be going 
against it in practice. 

' One rule, however, it is in his (the wise parent's) own hands to carry 
out, and thin i-^, if he talk mm:h to his childrnn, not to lalk intellectimlly. 
Tbe intellect ual talk of ftduUs is apt nut only tu stimulate the child's 



Tarfloi\ Poems, 



intetlcct to efforts bcvund its streufth, but also t<j ovcrtflv many intelle*?- 
tual lastes which have their uiitiira) pUee in childhcjod, nnd which it is pond 
for every mind to hnve pttM^cd through. It is beat for a child that he 
should admire cordially what he does admire ; but if the intellectual t-tt«tes 
And criticisms of the adult mind arc browght to bear upon him, he will try 
to admire what he cannot, and fsiil to admire what he migjht. 

*Oii the other hand 1 woidd not be understood to recommend the sort 
of jocular nomiense which someintellectiiiftl parents will have recourse to, in 
order to place their eonversatioii on ft level with a child's understanding; 
nor do I observe that children are fond of it, or at all flattered by it, but 
rather the contrary. For it is a mistake to suppose that any joke is good 
enough for a child. Intellinient ebJldren, if not absolutely fa»tidjouH as to 
jokes, (which certainly all children are as to taste and manners,) will not, 
however, accept as complacently as niijifht be wished, the mere ^ood- 
naturcd disposition to make them merry; nor can they respond in the 
manner that is sometimes expected from them, to every well-meant effort 
of heavy gambolling and forced faceliouanesH. Whatever is most simple 
and natural ia nnist ple^aing to a child, ajid if the parent be not naturally 
light and gay, he had better be grave with his childrcu, only avoiding 
to be deep or subtle in discourse.* 

The following cotitjideratioti luay liave occurred to miiny a^ 
the restilt of an intercourse with spoilt children, but we do not 
remember to have seen it urged before : — 

* There is another way not much adverted to by blind parents, in which 
children are injured by undue iudidgence. It prevents them from bene- 
fitting by the general tendency of mankind to have kind and friendly teelings 
towards children. Such fecling.s are checked and abated, when it is seen 
that children are unduly favtmred by their parents j and when the rights and 
comforts of other.s are afkcrificed for their sake, instead of being objects for 
the protection and good offices of all around them, they become odious, in 
the same manner Uiat princes' favourites do, and iheir parents* alas are 
visited upon thcra. 

*Then the repugnance which people feel towards the objects of an un- 
just partiality, provokes them to exaggerate the demerits of the children, 
— not probably to the face of the parents, but in a way to go round to 
them, — whereupon the parents come in with some whow of reason as pro- 
tectors of injured inJioceocL', and fortify themaelvca in their own delusituia 
by detecting injustice in the views of others. It is not the nature of man- 
kind to be unjust to children, and where parents find this injustice to 
prevail, they should look for the source of it ia their children or iti 
themselves.' 

The following passive on the subject of style i:? interesting, 
though with reference to the opening view, wc must express 
om* conviction that men muat keep themaelveij acquainted with 
the litenitiire of their own day, or they lose one chief source of 
obBCrvation nnd experience. It argues, we tliink, some mistake 
of feeling or of judgtncnt to remain in voluntary ignonince of 
what our cotemporaricB arc about—what 8ul>jecttj living minds 
are engaged upon. 

' In these times J think that a poet should feed chiefly (not, of course^ 
exclusively) on the literature of the seventeenth century.', . , Their books 
are not writteu to be snatched up, run through, lalkedo ver and foi^otten ; 
and their diclioD, therefore, was not such as lent wiugs to impatience, making 



I 



Taylors Poena, 



61 



everything so clear tlial he who ran or fleiv might rend: rather it wft» 
so coustructed as to detain the reader over what was pregnant and profound^ 
and compel him to that brooding and prolific posture of the iniiid, by which, 
if he had wings, they might help hina to some more genial and profitable 
employment than that of nmiilng like an oatrich through the desert ; a}td 
hence, those characteristics of diction by which these writers are made 
more fit than those which have follovred them to train the ear and utlcr- 
ance of a poet. For if we look at the long-suspended aentencea of those 
dayst with all their convolutions and iuterteiturcs — the many parts waiting 
{or the ultimate wholeoess — we shall perceive that without di'itinctive 
movement nnd rhythmical significance of a very hij^h order, it would b« 
impossible that they could be sustained in any sort of clearness. One of 
the«e writers" sentences is oiten in itself a work of art, having its 
strophes and antistrophes, its winding changea and recals, by which the 
reader, though conscious of plural voices, and running divisions of thougjht, 
13 not however permitted tn dissociate them from their mutual current 
and dependency, but required, on the contrary, to give tbem entrance into 
his mind, opening it wide enough for the purpose, as one compacted and 
harmonious fabric. Sentences thus elaboralely constructed, and complex 
though musical, are not easy to a remiss reacfer, but they are clear and 
delightful to nn intent reader. . . . The finer melodies of language will 
always be fuuud in those compositions wliich deal with many considerations 
at onccj — some principal, some subordinate, some exceptional, some grada- 
tional, some oppiignant ; and deal with them comnositely, by blending 
wlule they distinguish; and so much am 1 pcrsuaued of the connexion 
between true intellectual harmony of Imiguage and this kind of composition, 
that I would rather seek for it in an Act of Pariiaraenl — -if an arduous mat- 
ter of Icffislation be in hand — than iu the productions of our popular 
waiters, however lively and forcible. An Act of Parliament in such 
subject-matter, is studiously written and expects to be ddigently read, and 
it generally comprises compositions of the multiplex character which has 
been described. It is a kind of writing, therefore, to which some species 
vi rhythmical movement is indispensable, as any one will fine! who 
attempts to draft a ditlkult and comprehensive enactment w ith the omission 
of all the words which speak to the car only, and are superfluous to the 
sense. Let me not be misunderstood, as presuming to find fault generally 
and indiscriminately with our modern manner of writing. It may be 
adapted to its age and its purposes; which purposes, as bearing directly on 
iiviug multitudes, have a vasiness and moraentouaness of their ow n- All 
that it concerns me to aver is, that the purpose that it will not answer, is 
that of training the ear of a poet to rhythmical melodies : and how little it 
tends itself to any high order of poetical purpotaes, may be judged by the 
dreary results of every attempt which is nmdc to apply it to purposes of a 
cognate character — to prayers, for example, and spiritual exercises. Com- 
pare our modem compositions of this kind with the language of the Liturgy 
— a language which, though for the moat part short and ejaculatory, and 
not demanding to be rhythmic in order to he understood, partakes, never- 
theless, iu the highest degree, of the musical expressiveness which per- 
vaded the composiiions of the lime. Listen to it in all its varieties of 
strain and cailcnce, sudden or sustained,— now holding on in assured 
strength, now sinking in a soil contrition, and anon soaring in the joyful- 
ness of faith, — confession, absolution, exultation, each to its appropriate 
music J and these again contrasted w ith ihe steady statements of the 
doxolo^es;— let us listen, I say, to this language, which is one elTu- 
aion of celestial harmonies, and compare it with the flat and uninspired 
tones and flagging movements of those compounds of petition nnd exhorta* 



62 



Taylor's Poenu, 



tion, (for their length and multifariousnesB peculiarly demanding rhythmical 
support,) which are to be fmind in modern collections of prayers for the 
use of families. I think the comparison will constrHin us to acknowledge 
th»t short sentences in long 8UC4;efision, however clear in construction and 
correct in grammar, if they have no rhythmic impulse — though they may 
very well deliver themselves of what the %vrilcr thinks and means — will 
fail to beiir iu upon the mitid any adequate impression of what he/feZ«— his 
hopes and fears, his joy, hit» latitude, his compunction,, his an^aish and tri- 
buimtion ; or indeed assurance that he had not merely framed a document 
of piety, ill which ho had carefully set down whatever was most proper 
lo be said on the mornings and evenings of each day. These coraposilioua 
have heenj by an illustrious aoldicr, designated " laiicy prayers," and this 
epithet may be suitable to them, in so far as they make no account of 
authority and prescriptioii ; but neither to the fancy nor to the imagination 
do they appeal, throngh any utterance which can charm the ear.' 

It is not only, we fear, the difference between the style of the 
sixteenth and seventeenth centnnes and the nineteenth which 
constitutes the chief point of dissimibrity Mr, Taylor dwells 
upon. The language of our Prayer-book interprets the devo- 
tional tlwugfJils of a much earlier period. There are some effusions 
of the Beventeenth century appended to it, which do not, we 
think, either in excellence of spirit or in expression, mueh sur- 
pa88 the devotions of our own day : while on the other hand, 
t!ic modern translation of Bishop Andrcwce' Devotions, deserves 
all those commendations for rhythm, cadence and varied flow 
which are here bestowed on the style of two hundred year)S ago 
as opposed to our own. 

We will conclude our extracts by one from the poema contain- 
ing a comparison between Italian and English liberty. The 
happy freedom of air and m^mner shown in two peasant girls 
gives room for the contraat. It becomes a question whether true 
national freedom is compatible with this delightful hilarity of 
manner as a national feature — whether our precious gift of 
liberty is not a hard-won treasure, to be laboiirea and toiled for, 
and leaving traces of the conflict on its possessors. In the pre- 
sent day, at least, we are not disposed to undervalue our actual 
possessions, whatever they may have cost us. P^vcn in aspect 
we must have the better of it— for every true heart in Italy 
must now be a sad one — every face of the true-hearted have 
gathered blackness^ Yet the lines are beautiful, and the gene- 
ra! tone wins our sympatliy. 

' Thence n e returned, revolving as we went, 

The lesson this and previous daya had taught 
In raaibling meditations ; and we sought 
To read the face of Italy, intent 
With equal eycand just arbitrcment 

To menHure its expressions as we ought : 

And chiefly one conclusion did we draw, — 
That liberty dvreU here with Heaven's consent, 
Tboiigh not by human law. 



Taijlor^» Paetm, 

* A liberty imperfect, undesign'd, — 

A liberty of circumstance ; but still 
A liberty that moulds the heart and will 
And works an inward freedoiu of the mind. 
Not such is statutable freedom : blitid 

Are they to whom the letter, which doth kill, 

Stands for the spirit which giveth life : sore pains 
They take to set Ambititm free, and bind 
The heart of man in chaina. 

* Ambition, Envy, Avarice and Pridi?, 

These are the tyrants of our hearts : the laws 
Which cherish these io multitudes, and cjiuse 
The passions that aforetime lived and died 
111 palaces, to fiunrish far and wide 
Throughout a land — (allot them what applause 

We may, for w caltli and science tliat Ihev nurse, 
And greatness)^aeen upon their darker aide, 
Bear the primffival curse. 

* Oh England! " Merry England," styled of yore! 

Where is thy mirth? thy jocund laufjhter, where? 
The sweat of hibour on the brow of care, 
Makes a mute answer — driven from every door ! 
The May-pole cheers the village green no more, 
Nor harvest-home, nor Christmas mummers rare. 

The tired mechanic at hia lecture sigh a, 
And of the learned, which, with all his lore, 
Haa leianre to be wise ? 

* Civil and moral libertv are twain r 

That truth the carefess countenancca free 
Of Italy avouch 'd; that truth did we, 
On converse prrounds, and with reluctant pain, 
Confess that Englnnd proved. Wash first the stain 
Of worldliness away ; when that shall he, 

Us shall " the glorious liberty" befit 
Whereof in other far than earthly strain, 
The Jew of Tarsus writ, 

* So shall the noble structure of our land, 

(Oh nobler and more deeply founded far 
Than any form beneath a southern star), 
Move, more at large ; be open, courteous, bland, 
lie simple, cordial, not more strong to stitnd 
Than just to yield,— nor obvious to each jar 

'ill at shakes the prond; for Independence walks 
With staid Humility aye hand in hand, 
Whdst Pride in tremor stalks. 

* From pride nlcbcian and from pride high-born, 

From priae of knowledge no less vain and weak. 
From overstrain 'd activities that seek 
Ends worthiest of indifference or scorn. 
From pride of intellect that exalts its horn 
In contumely above the wise and meek. 

Exulting in coarse cruelties of the pen, 
From pride of drudging souls to Mammon swoni, 
Where shall we flee and when ? 



64 Taylor's Poems. 

' One House of Reiuge in this dreary waste 

Was, through God's mercy, by our fathers built, — 
That house the Church : oh, England! if the guilt 
Of pride and greed thy CTandeur have debased, 
Thy liberty endaneer'd, nere be placed 

Thy trust: thy nreedom's garment, if thou wilt, 

To piece by charters and by statutes strive, 
But to its personal rescue, haste, oh haste ! 
And save its soul alive.' 

Mr. Taylor's most recent work, * Notes from Books,' as it 
consists almost entirely of critical essays reprinted from the 
'Quarterly Review,' does not come within the scope of our 
article. It would be carrying criticism too far to review 
reviews — these have but one legitimate tribunal, the world of 
readers. 



65 



Art. IIL— 1. Thp. P/iiioanplu/ of Ttditjion, By J. D. Mohell, 

A.M. London: Lon<jman. 1849. 
2. The Soul: her Sorrntrat ami her J»piratiavs, Ju EsMiff towarth 

the Natural Iliaforf/ of ike Soul, (U the true /*^/.s/jf of Tht'oh^fp. 

Jilt Franci8 William Newman, fiirmerhf Fit/on* of BtiUiU 

VolUge^ Oa-foTfl LtmcJon : Cliapinan. 1849. 

We notice these two volumes^ not liecause we expect them to 
exercise any great influence on the Englii^h minil, tut* jjnictic4U 
to l>e dislodged from its linldings, even by the tlicorles of nhle 
men, but because ttiey indieate the set of that current which for 
many years has lieen secretly undermining the uationul faith : 

* Flumlnnque antiquos subterlubentin munis' 

In enying that Rational ii5ni is patent (to use Mr. Moreira 
favourite expression), in these volumes, we arc hound to notice 
his own earnest protect against such a charge. But his definition 
of Rationalism differs from oura, A primary priaeiple of his 
philosophy, and one which is in every way to be commended, 
IS the distinction which he draws between the intuitive and the 
logical part of man's nature. This will be known to tliose who 
have seen the ' Historical View of Philosophy,' which he pub- 
lished three years ago. 

Now, Rationalism, according to Mr. Morcll, is, ' the attempt 

* to exhibit Christianity simply as a system of logical thought, 

* based upon certain fundamental definitions, and erecting upon 

* them a complete superstructure of doctrine/ (p. 256. J He 
eupfjoses himself safe, therefore, from such an imimtation, 
because his opinion is that Cliristianity 'cannot be accounted 

* for by any ecieutific aualysiH ; but iu its evidences, in its eon- 

* ceptions, in its holy impulses and anticipations, hes quite 

* beyond the region of the logical understanding,' (Pref. xiii.) 
This is in great measure true, but it leaves untouched the real 
characteristic of Rationalism, regarded as a religions error. 
For if this name is really tu mean anything, if its definition is 
to lielp us in estimating the true course of parties, and in dis 
cerniug the causes of spiritual delirancy, we must seek tlvr its 
distinctive conchtions in some fundamental misap[>relien8ion of 
those relations between man and God, wbich tbrm the basis of 
religion. Theology means the knowledge of Gn<l; religion the 
hijntl which is thus iuiposed upon tlic jiraeticc of His creatures. 
A right e&timate, then, of the relation of man to God will lead 

NO XLV, — N, 8, F 




66 Rationalism, 

to true, a defective or erroneous estiiimte to false religion. 
Now, the relation between man and God may be viewed in 
reference to two syateras — the coiirse of nnturo, and the course 
of grace. The first is that which grows out of the original 
creation of miinkind in Adam, the second grows out of his 
re-creatiun in Jesus Christ. This last, therefore, ia the principle 
of mediation, the otlier that of nature* Now, Rationalism is that 
system of religion which rests upon the laws and processes of 
nature, whereas Christianity rests upon mediation and grace. 

It may be said, this ia to make Rationalism identical with 
natural religion. But such is not our meaning. Natural 
religion ia that feeble but real torch which burnt in man's 
conscience through the influence of the Eternal Word, before 
* life and immortality were brought to light by the Gospel/ 
It preaented no opposition, therefore, to that intenser radiance 
which shone forth in the true Sun of Righteousness. The 
opposition to Christianity was from other aysteniSj which pre- 
tended to the same heavenly principle of a new life, which the 
Christian truly possessed. The Church had to conquer the 
false schemes of mediation which made up popular paganism. 
But now that these rivals are vanquished, there waits it a new 
enemy, — -a system which admits and applauds Holy Scripture 
as well as itself, — which spreadii itself over the game wide field 
of history and experience, which appeals to all the results of 
Divine teaching, and to all the facts of the sacred annals, but 
which professes to be independent of that law of mediation, 
through which the Churcli t>f Christ derives all its blessings. 
This system is Rationalism, the final enemy of the cross of 
Christ, the great Antichrist of the last days. 

If such be the true view of Rationalism, it may equally occur, 
whether men build their intellectual theory on intuition or on 
logic. Is their law of judgment based on the jiroperties of 
nature, or on that new creati<m td* man's race which was wrought 
in Christ Jesus? Is their criterion for the interpretation of 
Scripture based on those qualities which came into our constitu- 
tion by its creation, or on those new liglits of which the con- 
tinual influx of grace from the second Adam is the potent cause? 
Is their notion of approach to the Supreme Being that of an 
immediate reaching forth of the spirit to its spiritual Maker: 
or does the God -man appear, as the sole channel, wherel>y God 
and man are united? I he former set of processes are no doubt 
commended to us by the conatitution of our nature, and if 
nature suflficed for our salvation it were needless for us to seek 
anything more ; but to apply tbeui to Revelation is to handle it 
according to the principles of our lirst creation, and thus to 
substitute the system of Rationalism for the religion of Christ. 





iftttonfthitfn* 



67 



^ 



Tliese two writers, therefore, are ikeiJedly Riitionalbtic: 
the principles on which they bage the religious judfj^ient, the 
criterion which they suggest of truth and falsehood!, are built 
upon the natural, qualities of man, and not upon timt higher 
sense with which humanity has been endowed through the 
Christian covenant. We may take them in a measure apart, 
because the one forma a sort of introduction to the other; 
Mr. Morell's work, far more deep, calm, and eoniprchcns>ive, 
sets fortli those general principles which are illuist rated in the 
earnest, and fervid, but somewhat vituperative pages of Mr. 
Newman. 

In reading Mr. Morcll's volume wo must confess ourselves 
to have experienced a great disappointment. Its philosophical 
views, at least towards the coiiimeiicenient of the work^ arc so 
just and valuable, they are so clearly enounced and happily 
illustrated, that in tipite of t5ome auspicious expreeisions we were 
prepared to find in him a valuable instructor. And such we are 
persuaded lie would have proved, if he had been e(>ntented to 
take his philojjophy from Jacobi, without taking hia theology 
from SchleJcrmachcr. As* we woidd fain give him all the praise 
which is his due, we shall fii-st notice the more grutifyiug part 
of his volume. We find in liiin a coui[>lcte ctnanciiiution from 
that low and sordid system of Locke, which has been at the 
root of 80 much infidelity both here and on the Continent. 
The nobler and truer views which Jacobi set forth »o success- 
fully in Germany, and which oor own Coleridge livetl to vindicate, 
have fonnd in him an apt disciple. We trust we may liail this 
circumstance as a proof of the increaipiug prevalence of that 
higher t^^ste in philosophy, which though not necessarily involving 
theological truth, is yet essential to its prevaleni'o. For though 
men who hold the doctrine of the Moral Sense in its complete- 
ness may unhajipily st^ijv short at tlmt point of their progress, 
Tct its ilenial is incompatible with any tlifory of religion. And 
though, through the infirmity of reason, this error fails bapjiily 
of its result in individual cases, yet in tlic long run its |wrnicioua 
consequences arc sure to display tbenisclvcs. We hail, therefore, 
the healthier tone of Mr. MorelPs pliiloi^ophy. 

The portion of his work which we have read with the greate'st 
pleasure is tlie tiecond chapter, in which, after a general sketch 
of the human faculties, which docs not contain anything very 
instructive, he pri»ceeds to * the distinction between the Logical 
and the Intuitional C'onseiousness.* The points which he brings 
out in this chapter, and which we shall illustrate by quntatjons, 
are, tii-st, the degree in which intuitive consciousness lies at the 
niot of human knowledge ; secondly, that while the form of 
things 18 communicated to us through the .^enses, a knowledge 

r 2 



J 



68 Rationalism* 

of their matter is intuitively apprahended by tho niinfl ; thirdly, 
tliat the criterion which supplies a test for the verification of 
intuitive judgments ia that decision of mankind at large by 
wliicli the private judgment of individualB is amended. These 
wc conceive to be important steps towards a right judgment of 
the tc/iole^ as Lucretius would term it, and especially do we con- 
sider that tliey lead to the admission of an objective reality in 
the domain of those spiritual essences which address themselves 
so peculiarly to our inner nature. It will not of course escape 
obi^ervation that Mr. Morcll's view of mutter and form would 
go far to justily such statements of the Heal Presence as were 
introduced into the terminology of the niedia?val Church. We 
need not quarrel with the word mhtance, as denoting the manner 
of our Lord's presence in tlie Holy Eucharist, ii* interpreted 
according to this acnsc of the term mateviid* But to come to 
our author:— 

' Hie rmidameutal realities of the true, i\t bcftiitiful, and tbe good, «ll 
alike conic to us at otice by virtue of an intellectual seusibility, ivhicb 
apprelicnds them apontniK.ously and intuit ively, just as in our perceptive 
con,sciriiisness wc apprehend the outward rtrality of tliii>c?H ariiuini us, 
Witbcint this percept ive eonseioiiMiicris v\c could never uUftin dit^ very first 
elements of physical truth ; iiiasniiii^b an we could never eouiprehend what 
is i^iven us iuunediately in pcrei'ptitHi, by any ilcscriptinn, (JeJinilion, or 
idea. Vet once pven m demenix wc cjin reason upon ibem hft^ityilly, and 
tbus creale what is properly termed phymcal iicience, hi like manner, idso, 
we comprehend the eleuieuta of all hi^^ber truth, whether in theology, 
Esthetics, or muralii; but haviiijc thus ^ot accc«s to theni by otir inluitloiml 
consciousness, then at length we can reason upon them by the uuderstand- 
ini^, nntil ue reduce them to losfical or acienliJic terms.* — P, 10* 

On this id founded the rcmarkj that 

' The Itnowledg^e we obtain by the intuitiimal consciousness is maieriat^ that 
which we p^niu by the logicfd consriousneisH h formal .... The division of 
human knowledge into tbe nmfler and the /orw/, ia one which has stood its 
ground iu the history of pliiloHophy tbrousjhout a vast number of centuries, 
and has generally indicated an advanced Ktate ot metaphysical thinking, 
in proportion as it has become lhorouj2;bly realized, and incorporated into 
the science of the age. In this particular tispeet of the distinctions in cjues- 
tion, as hi those we have already considered, the best illtistrrttion of the 
subject we can present ia the analogous rnse of our sense-perccptiona, 
since the eo-existence ofrriatlfr and form, in all knowledge depending upon 
tbc experience of the senses, is precisely similar to their co-esistenee in 
kntHv ledge of a higher and more j^eneral description, * — F. *I5. 

And hence we advance to the third point — the criterion which 
J8 supplied for the testinr^ ol' nnr |»nnriple& of intuition by the 
col I e ct i ve j 1 1 d r^ii e n t of man k i n d . 

' The logical eonscitmsness is Indhidua'^ the intuitional consciousness is 
tfenerir . . . The contest has lonj; been jroini; f(U"ward, hnw far we must 
appeal to the individunl reason as the basis and leaf of trutli, or how far 
w<* must make our Rppeal to thf common conHent of n.juiUiHh On the our 
hanil it has been aro:ue(i that the individual reason must beihe final appeal 




Rationalism, 



69 



for in whatCTCT way truth comrs to us, still our own indindual rainiltici 
muMtj as far as we are conccrnvd, be the judge of it« evidences and the 
interpreter of ita meaning. .... On the other hand it has been ar«tue4 
forcibly enoiig^h that the individual reason '\& Hltoy;ether uutrustwortby, lor it 
may, and oftfii does, give iie aH^^ent to the very g:ro3scsi errors and delusions. 
. . . Hence it is concluded that the reason of humfliiity, the common con- 
sent of the race i'? our true test, our last appeal. Now both these theories 
have truth on their side, although they appear to stand in direct opposition 
to each other. The ground of their an tagonistn arises from omitting to 
consider whiit ia within us which u individual in its character, and what 
that is g"eueric, or belonging to the race of mankind at large. We uU feel 
conscious that there are certain points of truth respecting wliich we cnn 
appeal to our own individual understanding with unerring certainty. No 
amount of contradiction, fur example, no weight of opposing testimony 
from others, could ever shake our belief in the definitions and deductions 
of mathematical science, or the conclusions of a purely logical syllogism. 
On the other hand, we arc equally conscious, upon due consideration, that 
there are truths, respecting which we distrmt our individtml judgment, 
and gain certainty in admitting ihcm, only from the concurring testimony 
ofotner roinds. (Of this nature, for example»are the main pomts uf nionil 
and religious truth.) Hence it appears evident thiit there is within us both 
an individual and a generic element, Jind ihnt answering to them there are 
truths for which we may appeal to the iodivitlual reason, and truths for 
which we must nppeal to the lesttmony of mAnkind as a whole, , . . The 
logical consciousness is stamped with a perfect mdividualiyni, t!ie intuit 
Hmuil consciousness witli an e«|uallv universal or geuerii! ehuruetcr.*— 
^MUreU, pp. 51-^53- 

We have been more full in tht\se extract*^, because we con- 
ceive them to be the must vuhiable part of tbe vubitne before 
lis, and desire to sec them apprcbeuded by llmsc wbo inlglit be 
repelled by otber part* of it. But we wl^li that Mr. Morell liad 
ascended vl step higbcrj and traced to its source the atitbority of 
that intuitional consciousness which dwells in the faaaly of man- 
kind. For, though men might be influenced in their judgments 
by the simple coincidence of testimonies, yet we are pei*Buaded 
that a deeper and more real authority is to be ascribed to the 
intuitional consciousness t4' liunianity. Its existence in that 
whole family, which owes its origin to a cotmnou crealhui, 
fihows it to be the impress of the Parent mind, whose being and 
nature is one of the most indelible of those instincts which He 
has implanted upon IJis creatiu'es. Here we trust that our 
author is fully with us, for he points out with great force and 
beatity that the idea of God is no mere negative notion, attained 
by abstracting tbe limits of things; that it lies in tbe inherent 
belief of the Infinite and Absolute, as of a positive and necessary 
Being. 

* Reason up to a (Jod, nud the hcst you cnn do in to hypostatize nnd deify 
the final product of your own faculties ; but admit the reality of an intel- 
lectual intuition, <rts the mass of mankiitd virttmHy do,) and the absolute 
otanda before you in xkU its living reality. "^3/orW/, *p. ao. 

With this view of tbe Supfcmc Nature, our author, we are 



70 EatiOfiolijtm^ 

peraoaded, must eyrapathise in the aentinients of Aquinas, 
when he claims a Divine syiirce for those inherent judgments of 
the hunifin race wliich have been vindicated by all true philoso- 
phers from Plato to Jacobi. 

* Supra aoimara iirtclkctivara humanam nccessc est ponerc aliquena su- 
periorcm intcllectum, a ({no auima virtutcm intelli^cndi obtineat. — Plato 
intellcchim separatum, imprimentem iti atiimaa nostras, compamvii Soli, — 
Seti iutellcctua separatus, secundum nostra) Mei documenta, est ipse Deus.' 

Wc are indelited for this quotation to a recent work by Arch- 
deacon Wilberforcc, and wc shall quote hia words, as illustrating 
our assertion, that the unity of creation supplies the authority 
for those common judgments which are due to the moral 
instincfca of mankind, 

' If it be asked why men arc not justified in adopting those conclusions 
to whicli tlieir single coiisdouanesa conducts ; why they should admit more 
than, by proccs^ics within thernKelves, tliev can ascertain and accept; the 
answer isj that they do not stand alone ; that they are parts of a race ; that 
He ivho made them has established certain laws, which find a response in 
their common nnture, and has thus fijced Hia impress on their collective 
being. , . . Stnrting^ from the fact that thny were all " the offspring of hira that 
waa first made from the earth," they must conclude that wisdom was " the 
brcatli of the power of God, and a pure iuflucnce flowing from the glory of 
the Almighty." And Revelation witnesses that men*B natural power of 
appreciatuiff moral truth iy the gift of that Eternal Word, who never totally 
forsook the beings whom He had created. ** hi Him was life, and the life 
was the light of men/' This is the origin and divine cause for that com- 
mimity and connexion of the souls of men, the natural and apparent gronnde 
of which have been already stated,' ^^Wiiberforce on the IncamatioNt P* -194. 
2d Ed. 

But why, it may be asked, should we have wished Mr, Morcll 
to have entered upon this subject, and to have stated the law> 
from which the intuitional consciousness of nature derives its 
validity ? Because^ had he done so> he might probably have been 
led on to the rccofrnition of that higher law, which occupies a 
corresponding position in the economy of grace. And here it is 
that wc are compelled, however reluctantly, to part company 
with him. After this philosophical estimate of the nature of 
consciousness, he advances onwards to the essential character- 
istics of religion in general, and in particular of the religion of 
Christ. This leads him to speak of llevelation, of Ins^pinition, 
and of the criterion by whicli its truth and falsehood ia to be 
discriminated. Now, in this progress, instead of going on 
* to the acknowledgment of the mystery of God, and of the 
Father, and of Christ/ he never rises above that natural level 
which is all we fear that a disciple of Schleiermachcr can be ex- 
pected to attain. lie admits freely the influence of Christ as 
a historical Person, and as raising humanity above itself, but we 
lack that law of a new creation, which aopplies the real distinc- 
tion bct\vcen the system of nature and tlic syetem of grace. 





nationalism. 



71 



This becomes pain fully apjuirent whpn he tliscustjeH the two 
great questions which at present arc most pressing on the minds 
of thoughtful men, — thelntipiration of Scripture and theCritericm 
of Trutk Of the importance of these subjects our author seems 
indeed to have a due estimate, 

* The age in which we now live, an age universally fruitfui in independent 
thinking, is fast driving the questions of renson and authority, as held by 
the Protestant world, to a jjomt. Multitudes fullv conseious of the logical 
untenableaeaa of their onliiiary profe83iona» have tieen impeJlcd to mie or 
the other extreme. Some, following out the principle of uidividualism^ 
have seen it land them in the lowest ahy^ss of Uationalism ; while others, 
naturally shriukiDg from »ueh a result, have thrown theniHelves iuto the 
arms of absolute authority. On this spectacle the Christian worid is now 
l^azing; and many in the throbbing heart T^hich ia atiking at the hand of the 
Protestant Church, in which its (hitli has been nurtured, an intelligible sulii- 
tion of this alMmportant question.' — P, 378. 

The importance assigned, not unjustly to this subject, leads us 
to weigh somewhat mure fully t!ie theory of our author. Its 
failure seems to us to be attributable to the unfortunate de- 
ficiency which we have already noticed* His general view of 
the nature of Inspiration we are far from quarrelling ivith. 
' Kevelation,' he says, * is a process of tiie intuitional eonscious- 
jiess, gazing upun eternal verities,' (p. 141,) ' Inspirntion is the 
power of spiritual vision,' (p. 151/) Neither do we call in ques- 
tion bis assertion, that 'there is no positive evidence of a verbal 
dictation' of Scripture. What then, it will be said, is tlie 
objection to his theory ? The objection is this, that he dis- 
believes the reality of that new system which truly altered all 
the relations of heaven and earth, and made the estate and |jro- 
epects of men whullj other than they bad been before. The 
Gospel dii^pensatiuu was a new creation, a re-moulding of the 
former state of things ; the visible and invisible were alike 
altered ; the new birth of time was come : * Glory to Gocl in 
the highest, and on earth peace, good Will towards men*' This 
mighty innovation in the ancient order of the universe did not 
fail to involve an alteration in the condition of those l)y whom it 
was witnessed j but it was not only a change in their sentiments, 
an enhancement and excitation of their feelings ; they were 
truly altered by a supernatural power, even as olij^-cls were 
altered around them. For then came in the Law of Gmce in 
place of the Law of Creation ; anil the ortlinary compreliension 
of the children of Adam was superseded by the inspired judg- 
uient of tJie members of Christ. 

Now, to this great change our author docs no just lee* Inspi- 
ration with him is merely that intcnscr action of the powers of 
a moral intuition wliieb was called forth liy the deeds and in- 
IbiL'nce of Clu'ist. 




72 Eaiioimlism, 

'Thepersimal experience of the Hfc, preaching, character, aiifferinpcs, aivd 
(lenth of Cliri.st, to^^ethcr with tlvt^ remarkfthic ctFuBifm of spiritual influence 
whicli (blltnvcil His a'4ecii8i(in, were assuredly most cxtruordiiiHry iasiru- 
HI CD t« I i ties, wunderfully atliipted, moreover* to work upon the minds of the 
Jpot(l*f*, and raiKte tAem to ft state of spiritual perception and sensibUiiy. — 
Moreli, p. 166- 

Contrast thia with the statement of the Apostle: * If any 
* man lie in ChriBtj he is a new creature ; old tilings tire passed 
' away ; beliokl, all things are become new.* Or still more, 
refer to that Divine deelnration that a real change had been pro- 
duced in the actual relations of the universe, whereby was ful- 
fihed Isaiah's prediction of a new hciiven and a new earths 
' All power is phat unto me in heaven and earth. Go ye, tA^re* 
fore^ and make diseiples of all nations.* 

Our com[>laint, then, against Mr. Morell's sj^stem is that it 
silently elimijiates the Mediator out of His own world. It 
ignores that mifility chun«;e which is described in Scripture as 
the setting up of His kingdom. And, as a necessary consequence, 
it rejects those Divine records in which this new form of things 
was set forth to [)usterity. For, whcu we sjieak of inspiration 
as a higher mode of intuition, we are not referring only to an in- 
creased acutenesa in appreciating the general truths of morals, or 
to an augmented zeal in pr<ii)agating them, but to some actual 
power of discerning those new realities, which at this reason 
were truly introduced into the world. Nothing but a belief in 
the reality of that Divine system which the Apostles professed 
to set forth, including, of course, 8Ueh an influence on the 
observers as qualified thera to declare it, will secure that due 
reverence for God'a word, of wiiich our author's theory would 
wholly deprive it. Kot ouly does he deny to the sacred writers 
'either miraculous powers, or any distinct comtnission from God,* 
(p. Iii5,) but he virtually discards the whole dogmatic teaching 
of the Apostles, aj* being * exclusively Jewish in form/ though 
' their intuitions were put*ely Christian,* {p, 272.) Thus, then, is 
tlie main part of Christian doctrine got rid of by a writer who 
still professes to believe in Scrij>ture, and, in name, recognises 
the inspiration of its winters. And we are taunted by the 
assertion of Dr. Hamjxlen, that * 8. Paul never meant to treat 
of doctrines in his Epistles,' (pp. 233, 272.) Such is the usual 
history of heretical statetnenis. Tins position had no sooner 
been advanced by Dr. IIaui[Hlen, than it was condemned Ijy the 
coumion voice of the Church; and it formed one of the main 
grounds of his censure by the University of Oxford. Dr. IIann>- 
den, instead of taking the manly course of saying that, if there 
was any thing in his teaching inconsistent with the doctrines of" 
the Cliurcii, he retracted and wished it unsaid, calleil ht-aven 
and earth to witness tiiat lie liad never meant what was attri- 




Rattonalhm. 



VJ 



Imted to hitn ; and In jrartieiiliir, lie repeatedly asserted that lie 
did consider the dootrinitl statements of the A|instle8 to be a 
binding statement oftriitli. 8oeli was* the language of Km ap- 
[leal to the Puritan party in liis Inaiiirural Lecture. And the 
same statement he has often repe«tetl. The Whigs cudic \n 
again. Dr. Hampden^ of course, * haA his reward' for hia trea- 
son to the Church. It was said to be unfair to attribute to him 
an error, which, by bis repeated denials, lie had virtually re- 
tracted. But no sooner baa he attained his purpose, than we see 
his theological assertions quoted, as though they had lieen ac- 
cepted mtb silefitio by the Cluirch, and had gained a recognised 
pumtion in our theology* 

We can assure Mr. Morell, however, that he is mistaken if 
he thinks that the Eugfish publie is prepared, like his friend 
Schleiennaeher, to give up evt-n one of the Impieties. Far rather 
will they throw over Dr. Hampden and the whole bench of 
Bishops. But what i^ the alteinativc? Is it neceseaiy that to 
maintain our reverence for 8cn[>ture we should admit the ex- 
treme statements to which flic naked theory of verbal inspi- 
ration ha^ been sometimes extended ? We sbuuhl greatly prefer 
this to Mr. ^MoreH's alternative : yet such elttrenie stLitements 
involve great, and aa we think, unnccci^fiary difficulties ; and 
they were introduced merely to i*rup up an iniperfect system of 
theology. Here again we will refer to Mr. MorclL 

* When the RrformcTS threw olf the papal yr>kc, and disowned the 
Cbureh, they nftturall}' fell bark upon the plenary inHpirMlion of the Scrip- 
lures as their most powcrlul appeal. Hence, the Protestant Church, which 
had uaturuUy iahfrited somewhat of the nicciiaitiical spirit uf the Papacy, 
was nurtured in those rij^id idenn of inspiration hy whit'h ahme it was ahle 
in those limes to hold tip an finfnrronistic authority to [he pretended infal- 
Uhility of the Papal Sec. The professed theologiann of almost all the 
reformed Churches accordingly developed and maintaijied the doctrine of 
verbal inspiration with great tcnacily.' — P. 188. 

We bch'eve this to be a true statement, though of course 
do not inelude the Church of England, as our author per- 
would do, auion*^ Protestant Churcliefc». And we fully 
agree with him when he points out what hoth history and 
reason show to be the ncceg.sary result of such a yystetu. 

• We find as a mruter of logical neeesf*ity that the theory of rclignjus 
ck rtitude^ which throws ihc whole decision upon the interpretations oK the 
letter of Scripture, insenaihly merges into the very Ibundation-priucipte of 
Rationalism; for in one case, as in the; (jther, the individu:tl reason i.s the 
final appeal. And this t'cau'lt^ he it ohscrved, perfectly eoincides with the 
liicts of history, for nearly all the Rationalicini of modern tiuiey has based 
Itself upon Biblical interpretation, and appeab e^eii to the Scriptures 
theraselvea as u verificatioa of it> euntiusioiKS. . , . Little do they consider 
who proclaim so Kaidly the doctrine ol private judgment, or private inter- 
pretarion «* uh hitdterhud prhuiuh'^ what lies eonceated in tl Hf>u\ ami what 
may come forth from it hercalter Onee give the individniil principle full 




RationalhM, 



pky, anil whatever be tlie result of a 



mail's speculations ou the Bible, )ou 
iQve not a word wherewith to meet him. Hk individual judgmDut is 
theoretically as good as your own, and if he be a Iceener logician than 
yourself, a thousand to one but he will beat you entirely out of the field, 
and set up bis logiml Rationaliarti completely over the head of your logical 
orthodoxy/— ,4/«rt//, pp. 333, 335. 

Our iiuthor lias a perfectly just conception of the process 
which is now going on among the Dissenters, and of which 
the whole Ptiritan party is the unconscious victim. Let us 
review hie steps. He objects to the system of a mechanical 
inspiration as nntrue in fact, because not consistent with 
history. * It catue in,' he saya, ' as an expedient to enable men 

* to tio witliout that belief in a Divine guidance, on which 

* Church authority is dependent. But by making the intellect 

* of the individual the law of appeal, it leads of necei^sity, (as 18 
' proved by the example of all Protestant Europe,) to Ration- 
' alisni.' Now what doea our author suggest instead? You 
must have a better law of appeal. Individual intellect will not 
answer the purpose: you must appciil to the intmtim conscious 
^i€€s of hnnutnitt^. But now comes the sacrifice. You must 
pull down Scripture to the same level with the mind, which is 
its adequate critei'ion. You cannot have a Divine law and a 
merely tunnan interpreter. Had this been aimed at, the inspired 
sayings of the ApostleB must have been cut off by some sharp 
line of demarcation iVoin their ordinary remarks on common 
subjects. But no such thing is recorded. (Pp. 155, 164.) * I go 
a-fishing.'— Waj5 the Apostle always inspired when he thus 
epoke, or what was there to indicate his inspiration to himselti 
in the single instance recorded in Scripture? 

Our author's view then is, that inspiration is a singularly 
rich vein of intuition, — a peculiarly happy example of that 
power, by which all moral truth is apprehended. Such an 
effect he concludes to have tbllovved from that mission of the 
Saviour into the world, the object whereof was to raise the 
imtm*al tone of humanity. ' Our knowledge u Divine, but it is 
' 80, just because humanity itself is Divine; it comes from Gixl, 

* because we came forth from God,' (p, 328.) And if tee can 
give to Revelation a higher place, it must be because we sup- 
jwse the advancement of hum«nity to depend on a higher 
principle, — because we look on Christianity, not as an exal- 
tation of man^s natural state, but as a re-creation in Christ 
Jesus. 

So far we fully agree with Islv. Morell, that whatever origin be 
ascribed to inspiration, the same must be given to that power 
which is the adequate criterion of its meaning and its claims. 
Y^ou cannot exalt the natural above the supernatuniL To do 
so were against liistory and against reason. It were against 



RationaUsm* 



I 



history, wliicli relates no 8uch iiltempt : it were against reason ; 
for what were the use of a supernaturjil guide, if its meaning 
were to be preacTibed by a naturjil interpreter? Kither, there- 
fore, you must pull down Scripture to the level ol' reason, or 
yuu must udmit the existence of some Divine principle of 
guidance in the Church of God. For it h at once the inter- 
j)reter of Scripture, and the judge of its incipii'ution. A mid*Ue 
line was attempted by all the Trutestant bodies at the time of 
the Reformation. Tliey built Op fabrics, which promised to be 
enduring, the baais whereof was, first, the verbal inspiration of 
the sacred canon, and secondly, certain arbitrary interpreta- 
tions of it, which were dniwn up by eminent men* Mr. Slorell 
relates, with evident satistaction, that not one of thcni haa 
dtood its ground. 'The firs^t asisault of a vigorous pliilosophical 

* RationaLidni shattered into iragments the brittle texture of 

* those logical systcint*, &cc." (p. 283,) And why not? What 
right had Luther or Calvin to set eternal limits to the mind? 
We wonder that Mr. JMorcll, who, generally, is neither w^eak 
nor unfair, should not have discerned the wide ditlcrcncc be- 
tween dogmas, which thus stood upon nothing, and those 
sy nodical decrees of the English Church, which are confessedly 
put furth as not contrary to Cathobc consent, and are built upon 
the Church's claim to * authority in controversies of taitlu' 
For this claim plainly rests upon the other principle which has 
been noticed. The objection to which it will be liable is, that 
it involvea the claim to infallibility. But what it asserts is not 
the infallibility of the Roman Church, but the indefectibility of 
the Cliurch Universal, Unless this can be maintained, we see 
no alternative but our aulhur's. Either Rcvclatiou was not 
above humamty, or the power by which it is judged must be so 
also. 

The contrast then between the sjsteni of our author imd that 
of the Church is manifest. All that can be attainctl by mere 
humanity, he asserts for his criterion of truth. Its gruund is 
intuition, not logic ; the judgment of the race, not individual 
intellect; the enlightened muid, finally, which has been duly 
moulded by the grout Teacher of humanity, and His lofty-minded 
didciple^. But it remains a human judgment still. We should 
be sorry to impute to hira opinions, iVoni which his English 
education may have saved him ; and wc <lo not assume, tlierelbre, 
that like his master, Schlciermacherjie has failcn into thnae deadly 
errors, whiclt deform the w^orks of that able man. We do not 
infer that he disbelieves the doctrines of the Trinity, because he 
sneers at S. Athanasius, (p. 246); or that by him, as by his 
German teacher, the great truths of our Lord's t^atiafaction for 
sin, or of Eternal Judgment aire dcjiied. It is enough that he 




EaHonalum. 



lowers the mystery of tlie Go^spel to the etandanJ of nature, Man 
natural is his standard of truth, not man redeemed, Wliat God 
heistowa upon man Jie supnoses to have been bestowed according 
to the law of creation, not the law of grace. 

Now to all this we oppose the Divine mystery of the Gospel ; 
we assert that when the manliood was taken unto God, there 
began that sublime system of grace, which is characteristic of 
the Cin'istian kingdom. We athrni that it is still acting in the 
ordinances, and sjjcaking throu^ the judgment of the Universal 
Church. For * lo, I am with you always, even to the end of 
the world.' And from this power were derived those liigher 
intuitions, whereby the secrets of the unseen world were hiid 
open to our Lord's disciples. And if we are asked how we can 
discriminate what has been uttered on thin undoubted authority 
from such less important sivyings as, no doubt, proceeded at 
times even from the mouths of Apostles, we refer to the criterion 
which is supplied by the judgment of the collective body of 
Christ. This body we believe to have often spoken by its 
authorized representatives, and we hope and believe that it will 
yet again si>cakj and to its decisions we shall listen as to the 
voice of God, But this voice will never sjjeak for the purpose 
of making new Revelations, but only of fixing the sense of old 
ones. For such is tiie promise of God Himself And having 
this criterion of truth, we can afford to discard that system of a 
mechanicid inspiration, winch would otlicrwise be esseutial. For 
since the criterion is Divine, the Kevelation itself mn^t be 
Divine also» The intuitions, on which it is dependent, must be 
supposed to be a resd communing with things unseen. A spiritual 
world is tridy round about us, and of its immortal verities the 
Apostles- liad the same clear perception as the senses convey 
of the material universe. In recording the result of these sacrc* 
communings, what was necessary, save that they should speak 
tlie truth? When the Apostle tells us that lie left a cloak 
at Troas, we do not think it necessary to assert more than 
that he had truly reason to say he had done so. And uhen 
S. John relates that the * Land> that was slidn,' was seen before 
the throrje, or when S. Paul expresses the same fact, by de- 
claring that * He ever liveth to make intercession for us,' still, 
that they speak the truth is nil whicli it is essential for us to 
affirm. What matters it, that in the one case the inii>rmant 
may liave been memory; in the other, ins[nrcil intuition; 
supposing that we have the testimony of an unfailing witness 
that both are to be believed. There will be no evil in admitting 
that in both cases the results are conveyed to us in human 
words, provided we hold tirmly to these two facts, of which the 
ChuiTh's witness assures us, It^t, that an actual wtirld of wonders 




I 




TationalUm, 



ffcos it3 existence outside of us; and, 2dly, that with its secrets the 
Apostles were as fuily conversant as they wei*e with those 
I bodily and sensible appearances which their eyes beheld or 
their hands handled. 

In conclusion, we will recapitulate the three particular com- 
plaints which we have to ninke a<^ainst Mr, ilorclFs theurv of 
IJispiration. 1st. lie does not recognise the dislincti^tn wfiich 
[ought plainly to obtain between the words of Him who * spake 
Ifis never man spake,' and those ot His Apostles. Tti theni the 
unseen world was opened by Hit? power, and their s])iritual eye 
Iwas armed to discern its mysteries, but how far their kuow- 
lledge may have extended respecting the universe w^e are not 
[concerned. It is indifferent wliether S. Paul was aer|uainted 
■with the system of Copernlctis; but it is otherwise when we 
[conic to Him, to whom all the secrets ol" time nnd space are 
patnrally open. That any words of His could be inj perfect or 
inaccurate, it were a profanation to conceive. 

2dly, Our author does not nmke due account of miracles. 

Supposing that Scripture docs not mount above the level of 

[nature, he sees no value in those ndraculous events, by which a 

nBU|>erhuman system was naturally accompanied. We are far 

[from looking at the subject ot" miracles in that cold calcuLiting 

fipirit, which has oiltcn bccu applied to them. Wa nee«l not count 

or weigh them; nor do we conceive that each act of revelation 

must be countereigned by a corresponding act of power. But 

:we cannot forget that our Lord referred to miracles, and that 

.8. Paul, whose words are our especial authority for many new 

'lews of truth, alhidcs more than any other Apostle to this 

LUctioQ. {(hil iii. 5; Koni. xv. 19; f Cur. 14, 18.) We look 

therefore with great suspicion on the tendency which a[ipcars in 

ither quarters, as w*ell as in our author, (\k 1o2,) to depreciate 

lilie weight of miracles, even without denying their reality. It 

part of the same system which would sink the mystery of 

idemptiou into a mere exaltation of the natural powers of man. 

3dJy. Our author treats the words id" the Apostles with a 

mterapt, which he coidd never entertain, if he recognised that 

*ivine intuition uf which they were possessed, I*id he believe 

rtiat the unseen world was open to their gaze, he would hardly 

hink himself justified in rejecting their expressions, because 

"ley do n4)t range with the partial deductions of his own Ingic, 

\m. 175, 6.) IIow diflerently is this subject treated by the 

kblest of modern writers. 

Supposing, for arfTU merit's sake, S. Pawls reasonings areseprtrkihle from hh 
mcltihions, and he h onfy inspired in the latter. >«■!, Hitiiutecdromp to this, 
iftt in »>rdcr lo defend the Gospel, ati Apostle must he supposed to indtdpt? 

words and arjrinnent», which mean, pothing? Is one who is gpualt;r llinif 



78 



Rationalism, 



man with inspiration, less than man without it? Arc hiH antitheses and 
amplificjfctiotiM and similitudes, arc his words of emphasis and weight, such 
as " light," " power," •* glory," " riches," *• height and depth," '* inward 
working," *' spirit," " mystery," and ** Christ indwelling," to stand for 
nothing? Arc they rdndom worda uttered for effect, or from a sort of 
habit, as sacred names are now used by sinners to mnke their language 
tell 1 Are his eKpreswions glowing, not hecanse his anbjecl is ^real, but 
beeause his temperamejit was sanguine? Is he antithetical, not because he 
treat* of things discordant, but because he was taught in the schools of 
Tarsus? Or does he repeat his words, not from the poverty of human 
language, but the slendernes3 of his vocabulary ? . . . Surely it its not only 
shallow but profane, thua to treat the argumentative structure of an 
Inspired Volume,' 

Mr, Moreirs volume is not likely, oF course, to gain much 
acceptauco with the Ptintaii portion of the Church of Enn^land, 
the sceptical tendency of whose tenete he so forcibly exposes*, 
and whose intolerance he is imahlc to sj)eak of with patience. He 
lias no sympathy with those who rant about * the ^implia'tji/ of 
' the Gospel,^ (Pref. xv.) He com|>lains that ' the religions excite- 
' ment of the age leads insensibly into the same diplomatic 
* habit of action, whicli wc find in the contentions of politicai 
' and other purely secular interests,' (Prcf. xxiii.) But does this 
party expect more support from Mr. Newman? They might 
liave some i%ht to do so, IVjr Mr. Newman's volume is but the 
expansion and enforcement of the main truth of Puritan theo- 
logy, the existence merely of personal religion ; Mr. Newman's 
whole object is to contend for this principle ; to show that it 
involvea all goodness and ull truth, that nothing else is worth 
peeking after, that it is idle to waste attention on non-essential*!, 
when everything turns in reality on the relation between God 
aad the soul. Now this is so miieh whi\t we have licen used to 
hear; it is the vo^ry opinion which lias lieen made the ground for 
neglecting all sacramental ordinnnees, that wc might expect the 
work in which it is ably nnd clearly set forth to be an especial 
favourite with the depreciators of the Chm*eh*s system. The 
offer made to thcin by this writer is of an int<dlectuni rectification 
of their own principles; their isyt^tem is stated with force and 
defended with earnestness. How many will be led aw^ay by the 
subtlety of the w^ork, wc cannot say. It would be mure per- 
suasive, if it !?toppcd short of tiie conclusions which it develops. 
We observe, however, that the * Record ^newspaper speaks of our 
author as * the greater of the two Newmans,' a title which can 
only be justified by an attraction towards some of his opinions. 
Perhaps their unreasoning a[>prehension from the ' Sterling 
Clnl>j* may act as a sahitary caution again^^t the real dangers of 
their ]>oyition.' But let us notice some of tlic particidars in 

' Having ulliidiid to ibis subjeci, we cannot hdp im-tiuug ihc ob^ervatians of 
lliat sensible paper, the 'New York Churchm&a,* for -'^pril 28. Persons at a 



I 




Rationalism, 



79 



I 



wrTwewmmi's work, which may be expected to find favour in 

iheir eyes* 

Nothing 13 of greater moment than the means of acceptance 
with God. This is of course the nmiu object of all religion, its 
professed purpose — to rescue man from a estate of alienation, and 

' to bring him into favour with God, We all know what is to be 

» heiurd on this subject from Puritan |mlpits, that men must come 
to Chi'iat as they are, that they have only to believe themselves 
as one with Him, and they are eo; that such faith will of itself 
lead to right conduct, and that the great impcdhneut to it is the 
habit of trusting to the routine of ritual observances, or of making 
work-righieousnesa a condition of acquittaL We do not stop 
at present to inquire how far trutlt and falsehood are mixed 
together in euch a system ; we notice it only to obwei^ve that 

I ^Ir, J^ewmaii says Shibboleth, the right way, and therefore 

I might pass muster with the Tryeri of the Pastoral Aid as a 

I converted character* 

I * Tbe great, ihc ijnmincnt danger is, tliat the soul which begius to turn 

[ once more towards Gotl» should exaggerate tbe dijfllculiies in the wriy uf ita 

resturatioa; and often nolhiagcan be bappii^r, than if in a fit of unreaHOii- 

ing enthusiasm it suddenly conceivea itself U) be the special object of 

I tbe Divine favour. Let the man but once come really under a isensc of 

[ God's unchangeable complacency, and he will then soon mourn bitterly 

' enough for hii sinsr, and profitably to himself. " Tbou shak be lontb- 

tiome in thine own eyes^ tchen I am pacified with thte for all that thou 

hast done." Thia is the rationale of the recovery of men from deplorable 

hardness and renior^se, under the influence of doctrine commonly esteemed 

fanatical, but practically proved to be far mote powerful Lo convert and 

rescue than any wisdom of the mere moralist. The preacher anxiously 

warns tbe dsner not to think that he must make himselt' fjocd and 

righteous before he comes to Christ ; but let him " come as he itj, ragged, 

wretclied, filthy, with all bin sing about him :" let him believe that he is 

accepted, and he shall iustautly be made whole ; be shall be received with 

joy, as the prodigal son returning: a ring &hall l>c placed on his band and 

shoes on his feet : the angelii shall be glad becjiusc of him: he nliall be 

justified in the midst of his ungodliness; and bis Ikiih shall be counted as 

ditttiiee are Bometlmes better jndgen than tboae near at hand. ' The London 
*' Reoord," and some eectariao papera ia tbiii country, have been making a loud 
outcry about the "Sterling Club," of which the Bitibops of Oxford and St. I)avid*§, 
with beveral other dialinguished divines, arc aaid to be monibers. Ah the Itcv- Mr! 
Sterling died a more than auflpected infidel, it was, of course, ehfiritably iufcrred 
that all the memb^rB held the same sentiments, and wc have had mvu'h whiniuu 
about the lamentable results of Puneyism ami High tlhurchism. It apjuBars, 
however, that tbe " Club" waa formed ten or twolva ycjura ago bcft're tho hetero- 
doxy of 5Ir. Slcrling was ever siiRpected ; It eonaistcd of iTtcrarj- nnn, artiitis, 
and other clever people who met for aoeiul purpoBCS, and not for the main* 
teusnce of any set of opinions. It wh* eallcfl by tliat name partly because ifr, S. 
wait tbe prime mover hi the burtiiicsft, and partly oa a pun upon Iho wonl. Many 
of the orjghial mcmbcre liave long ceased to attend Kh meetings. It is need- 
Icf* for us to add that the word of the " London hccord" is not to be taken for 
anything.' Whatever objections may, not iinrcaeouahly, he niaile ujcruiast the 
'Sterling Club,' the attempt to connect * Traetariunii^m ' with Mr, Sterling's 
*jpecuiatioU6 is iuffieicatly abi^urd. 



I 




%» 



Rattonalum. 



righteousness. Undoubtedly if the bearer inuigines tbat this is some pro- 
ce.HH tor cnablinj^ him to coiitiiiue in sin witbutit evil consequences, it is a 
gh>istly deluiiifm ; but if he accepts it as a methml oj' freeing him fn^m 
the power of inwaril aiii, as well as from all farther spiritual consequences, 
it is precisely the tiling needed for hb cftse. There ia no single thing flhich 
more strikingly shous the gross blindnc^a of comniun momlissing divines 
concerning the soul, than the incredulity and contempt which is cast upon 
sudden conversions.*— AVri7Mcn, pp, 7^^ "9. 

Let any one read these linei? antT Bay whether Mr. Newman 
shoukl not be aUowcd by the Puritan party to underataod the 
Gospel, Here i^ their 'artieuhi8 stantis aut cadentis ecclcsito ' 
fully adopteth And this doctrhic carries it3 proof so completely 
in itscU', tliat no further question geenia admi?;sib!e. For if faitii 
be its own criterion, if those who are conscious of it have in that 
circnmstancc a ^ufHeient test of the sincerity of their profet5.^ion, 
what more can be re([uircd. The favourite arfrunjcnt against 
tlie sacramental syistem is, that it is a needless interference, 
which is superceded by that immediate apprehension of pardon 
which is provided by faith. But ilr. Kcwnian^s sympatiiy with 
the Puritan party does not stop here. The ' eadeni vcllc et 
eadem nolle ^ may be shown by other instances. Ue joins with 
them in protesting against the notion that any real cdijective 
gift of grace is bestowed in either sacrament through the cHScaey 
of sacerdotal blessing. Its rcsultj he says, is that * a wafer 

* blesj4ed and water sprinkled by a priest arc often invested over 

* the breadth of Europe with magical virtue; and the words of 

* a creed, reverentially recited by one who docs not ]^rofess to 

* understand them, are believed to have power in heaven and 

* belt/ (p. 10.) Agaittj he asserts that to have any vahic for 
Ordination is a form of Feticism : 'the ordained and consecrated 
are all Feikh^ (p. 1 1.) Fasting is a ' Babylonisii practice,' (p. 83.) 
He refuses to believe 'the pretended nuigical force of a sacra- 
mentj until some tangible proof of it is adduced,' (p. 162.) It is 

* to ijrnore the whole momentous reality of the new litrth,' to 
ideutily it * with a magical prucess effected by epriukling water 
on an infant,' (p. 1 H.j And not only does he tbtis symiiathize 
with the dislikes of the party, he also concurs in their predilec- 
tions. Charles Wesley is * that glorioua hy inn -writer/ (p. 65,) 
' As mariners or travellers deligbt to remember dangers past, 

* 80 do practical Christians; and the distreepcs of their inward 

* life have fiu^riished abundant themes to Christian hymn-writers 
' innumerable. From these, without undergoing their tliroes* we 

* may gain rather ample knowledge of their experience/ (p. 89.) 

All this might well induce the psirty in cpiestitm to suppose 
that in i^Ir. Newman they have gained an accession to their 
ranks. And the earne^etness witii wbieb he advocates his views, 
must needs prf>duce a fitvourable iraprec-sion in his favttur. Nor 



Raitonatism, 



81 



I 



are those views anything more than a legitimate deduction from 
the belief that all rehgion consiata in the persjQiial surrender of 
the individual aoul to God. Let this notion be taken its tlie 
sum of all religion ; let the idea of a Federal union, of Cliurch- 
njember&hip, of approach to the Father through those common 
ordinances, in which we take part together as members of the 
Lord's body, be looked upon ns something which id merely 
superadded and non-essential, and we undertake to my that 
Mr. Newman's conception of religion is con'cct, and that thoao 
whom he addresses are bound to accept the conductions which 
he develops. Those conclusions, however, are i^ufficient, we 
hope, to make many of them doubt the surticicncy of that article 
of Jnatification by Faith in Christ, which they have usually repre- 
sented as not only true but as the sole adequate test of tirthoduxy. 
In the book before us we have a sufficient proof that a man may 
comply with the letter of this test without being a Christian at all. 
For not only does Mr, Newman deny the advantage of liturgical 
prayer, (which some would be less offended at,) but he attacks 
in reality the idea of all public prayer whatever. He protests 

* against that tyranny of public opinion which stigmatizes as 
' irreligious all who are indisposed to " come to church," and 

* hinders each from following the indications of his inward 
« monitor. Under church I include chapel; for there is much 

* in common," (p, 167.) Nor is he more favourable to the idolized 
ordinance of preaching. We must really quote bis words; their 
truth we are sure will be keenly felt by those who have suffered 
under the infliction of Puritan preaching:— 

♦ The seroifin ! Can ajiy one say a word agninst tliis ? Is not this nt 
leugih " the means of gmc©?'* Reader, must \ ask whether thou hast ever 
heard a bad sermon ? One so dull and drowsy that it was impossible to 
maintain attendon : one so empty, that no food for heart or mind con Id be 
found in it: one so logical^ that the isoul was never addressed at all, but 
only the critical faculty called out : one so illogical, that the hearer's uoder- 
atanding violently resents it, and will not leave his hooI free to feed im the 
food which is intermixed : one so uncharitiible as to turn the heart 
: one so («tl of g:roas carnal awperslition as to excite indignation, that 
mism and Formalism still live to vex us : one so vulgar, coarse, and 
profane in the manocr of Addreae, as to spoil good matter. . . Under all iliesc 
things, I, oh reader! have gnfoaned a hundred tinies^perbaps thou hast 
not, . . . Occasional listening to a preacher will always be more or less 
coveted : but it is very hurtful to imagine that we wW afwnifs m nnt a" regular 
ministry" to teach us. Nothing is more desirable ibr those who arc 
already fully fledged than that each should be driven uut from the nest to 
seek his own food by soaring through God's wide heaven, insteod of 
buddliiig together, as now, with closed wiujca, on the flat earth, gaping for 
morsels of meat, killed and cooked by another.'^Pp. 173* 175. 

Here, then, is the whole public portion of Puritan religion 
swept away at a stroke. But still worse remuine, if anything 
can eeem worse to those who mnke piety consist in hearing 

NO, XLV. — N. S. G 




liaiwnaitjsm. 



semione. Our author goeia on to tell us that * Sundays have 
nothing to do with abstinence from worldly bii8inet43/ (p. 156,) 
tind that it would be far better to employ tlieiii in a measure us 
days of labour. Finally, he totally denies all aulhorUjf to Scn[>- 
ture, (p. 198,) and asserts that to ascribe any suijernatural know- 
ledge to the Apos?tlea is incompatible with the clearer percep- 
tions of truth which have been attained by this reasoning age, 
(pp. 208, 210.) Of course tliis implies unbelief in the doctrines 
of Christianity. Yet he uses the name of Christ, stating it to 
be equivalent to that of Gcvd, (p. 64.) What is the precipe form 
of heresy which he has adopted he does not teli us; probably 
it is moulded of so many erroneous elements that he fondly 
fancies it originah His positive system, if we were to express 
it in Christian terms, would be a modification of the Sabellian 
heresy ; though it woukl hardly be correct to apply a name, 
which has been commonly used of those who call themeelvea 
Christians, to one whose real theory is that Christianity has 
wholly passed away, and that its sole residual effect is the 
impulse which has been given to the intellectual progress of 
society. Mr. Newman, Iftiwever, occasionally uses Sabellian 
language in a manner not unlikely to mislead others; and it is 
BO usual for men to hesitate in carrying out infidel principles to 
their full logical result, that we should not be surprised if (as 
was so long the case with Blanco White) he still deceived 
himself, and fancied that he was only rejecting the niceties of 
S. Athanasius, when, in trutli, lie is attempting to harmonize tlie 
usual phraseology of the Christian world with a bare belief in 
the abstractions of Theism* 

But why, it may be asked, have we asserted Mr. Newman ^s 
theory to be the full expression of the Puritan systeraj if he ad- 
vances so many propositions which that party abhors? Wc never 
said that he represented its present aspect ; we affirmed only 
that his views were the inteUectual complement, if we nmy so ex- 
jiress itj of theirs ; that the one therefore in the end leads of 
necessity to the other. And Puritanism has in fact so often 
issued in infidelity, that their intellectual proximity is in no de- 
gree surprising. Now what is Mr. Newman's theory? We have 
ah-eady stated it to be that all religion consists in the individual 
relation of the soul to Christ, meaning, as he says, by Christ to 
express God. And what is the objection which is commonly 
made by Puritans to the sacramentid system ? They are ready 
to respect sacraments^ as a very effective mode of preaching, a 
port of acted sermon ; but to suppose them essential, is to limit, 
they say, the freedom of man*!? access to Christ, and thus to put 
the Church between man and his Saviour. And why is this 
supposed to be an obstruction ? Because God, they say, is a 



faUtmaUsm. 



Spirit, to wham the spiritual part, of man can betake itself by 
imnicdiatc approach. What need then of any authorized time 
and place, or of the intervention of Aiiy appointed niinistei'j when 
man has but to enter into the temple of his own heart in order 
to reach upward to the Godhead ? These things ai'c useful a^ 
helps to the untaught, but to the spiritual worshipper they are 
rather an obstacle. And therefbre, to make them essential, tu 
bid us wait for them, to depend on them, is to put the Chureh 
or saci'ameDts instead of the Saviour. 

All this language, be it observed, depeudg upon the hypo- 
thesis that by tiie exercise of their thoughts men have at once 
an approach to God* It 8uppo8ei5 that tlieir thoughts are an 
immediate object to the Supreme Being, as is doubtless true, 
and likewise that the mind of man is able, by its immediate 
energy, to apjjroach God. And that 8uch was the case, ac- 
cording to the law of man's original creation, must be admitted. 
But to rest on this at present id to depend on what at the com- 
mencement we eiioweci to be the Rationalistic, as opposed to 
the Christian scheme. For there are but two ways in which 
those Divine gifts, on which all Tbeists profess to depend, can 
flow forth into man from his ilaker. The first is that natuiiil 
connexion which was introduced by creation, and which sin has 
obstructed. The second id the re-creation of man's race in 
Christ, w^hich began in the sanctification of that manhood which 
was personally one with God, and is^sues in the sanetification of 
His brethren, through their sacramental union with Himself* This 
Becond, therefore, is the law of grace : the first that of nature. 
But when it is maintained that the intercourse which the indi- 
Yidual soul maintains with God is the natural mode of inter- 
course, it is evident that men have in view that law of con- 
nexion, which was introduced by creatiouj and not that new 
law which has been introduced by grace. To this they look 
then a;9 the means of intercourse with God, It is an immediate 
and direct connexion ; the same whereby Adam received from 
his Maker those commands Avhich were anterior to any otiicr 
channel of intercourse. And did such a connexion exist at pre- 
sent, (as it might if man had not fallen,) men miglit still receive 
intimations by such direct influence of the Supreme Being, as 
mwti be of paramount authority in the guidance of their lives. 
Now this is exactly the position of Mr. Newman, He who re- 
ceives directions from a superior by word of mouth, knows them 
to supersede any previouw written instructions. Let men hold 
intercourse, therefore, with God by tliat immediate relation 
which obtains between their aouls and His Eternal Being, and 
a previous provision can affect the fulness of their information. 
Why should Scripture or usage, why should public worship or 

G 2 



84 



Hatwtmltsm, 



eacramental union, be allowed to intrude^ when man is already 
in immediate contact with his Maker? Why aliould such out- 
ward impediments ' binder each from following the indicationa 
of his inward monitor?* 

It is plain that no external means can be necessary as a 
channel of intercourse between God and man, supposing that 
this intercourse is completely attained according to the law of 
nature, and thrauj^h the relation which the mind bears to the 
mind's Creator. But allow that man has been alienated from 
God; that Cliriat, as the God-man, is the necessary link between 
them, and the whole theory of the immediate relation of the 
mind to God falls at once, while the sacramental system comes 
in as the natural means of a renewed intercourse between man 
and hia Maker. So that in fact there are but two grand sys- 
tems into which this whole class of subjects is divided. Let the 
system of nature be taken, and there comes in the notion of 
Kationalism ; of an individual relation of mankind to God. Adopt 
the principle of the new creation, and you mus^t take the sacra- 
mental eyetem, as being the manner in which the mediation of 
Christ extends itself to mankind. So that tlie Puritan creed, 
which would begin with the individual and pjisa on to tlie body, 
which makes the ]>rivate relation of mankind to God the basis 
of religion, and represents onr collective uoion in Christ as a 
mere system of technical convenience, must of neceasity end in 
Mr. Newman's theory, bccanse it adopts his liindamental prin- 
ciple. Does the teaching of Scripture, or belief in the person of 
Christ, or the doctrine of present grace, or the expectation of 
future judgment, go against any man's private will; and they 
must respectively bo thrown away, as inconsistent with that 
primary principle which allows no higher criterion than itself. 

Thus it is, then, that Mr. Newman is led to aflBrm the system 
of mediation to be a mere Feticmn, a blind confidence in a cer- 
tain artificial scheme, invented by men for the deception of their 
fellows. His own acute mind must, of course, be conscious 
(perhaps all his readers are not) that the wdiole Christian 
theory, the Incarnation of the Son of God, His atonement and 
sacrifice, must all be referred to the same class with the sacra- 
mental system, its ministering priesthood, its holy rttes, its 
prayers, and blessings. And for our part we may remind him, 
that, as believers in Scripture, we have a definite declaration 
that his rash profaneness cannot have been suggested by the 
Spirit of God. For * no man, speaking by the Spirit of God, 
calleth Jesus accursed.* We wish that we could believe that 
our author could be unconscious how wide is the extent of that 
awful malediction which, in the pride of his individual con- 
Idence, he has ventured to utter : — 



nationalism. 



88 



* Tbe cuned invctitioB of Mediators in design<?d to binder tliis contact, 
[of the soul with (incl,] and hmve too ciTectualiy done their work, whether 
tlicy be the lower gods ot polytheism, or priests, saints, and a Virgiii. .iU 
Christianity might have been thus blighted, only that, side by tsidc with 
the growth of the ^fediato^ial idea, the reverential iiitftginaUnn of the 
Church at Antioch sublimated the Mediator into something spiritusilly un- 
distinguishftble from the morally perfect and omnipresent God ; and thus 
neutralized the doctrine, saving spirituality ut the expense of logic/ — P, 68. 

What is this but a declaration tliat Clirist, as the Incarnate 
God, as partaker of our iiattire, ami as thus distingui.-«hed from 
Parent Deity, is in fact included in the anathema, which this 
man, in the strength of liis Belf-esteem, ha^ uttered against all 
who interfere between his spirit and the Spirit of his Maker ? 
For here is a distinct avowal, that * we will not have this man 
to reign over us/ Were we to express our authors opinions in 
a fcvf words, %ve should paraphrase tbeni thui^:- — Ij Francis 
William Newman, address myself directly to the Parent Spirit 
of the Universe, and respond to the as|*irations of my nature. 
I want no human help : I am indifferent to Aquinas and Paul, 
to the first Adam, from whom my i-uce was drawn, and to the 
last Adam, who was born oi' a virgin. 

And were we wrong in representing this as a form of the final 
apostasy — ^popular as are such errors, and covering themselves, as 
they ol'ten do, with the forms of the Gospel ? Is there any- 
thing by which the whole Christian system is more directly 
opposed ; any tiling which heaps greater contempt on the cross, 
or does fouler despite to tbe Spirit? * Hereby know yc the 

* Spirit of God : eveij spirit that confesseth that Jesus Christ is 

* come in the flesh is of God : and every spirit that confesseth 

* not that Jesus Christ Is come in the flesh is not of God ; and 

* this IS that spirit of Antichrist whereof ye have heard already 
' that it should come, and even now" already is it in the world.' 

We will not stop to enter further into Mr. Newman *8 volume ; 
ijo refute his assertions, or illuairate the tendency of his system. 
It is enough for us to have shown their parentage and their 
result. They have their origin in his denial of those super- 
natural inHuencos which are still acting upon bnmanity in the 
ordinances of the Chm*ch. They are the systematic expression 
of that heresy, which, in its less methodical tbrni, exhibits itself 
in the denial of Baptismal Regeneration, or in the exaltation of 
the intellectual appeals of the pulpit above the ordinances of 
grace. This theory our author has determined to put into 
shape, and to carry out into Its logical consequences. lie hius 
wished to show us that Rationalism can have its dendopmeid as 
well as the Church. And his rcsidt is the denial of the Gospel, 
and of its authors ; of the balknved influence of all holy words, 
and even of that Word Incarnate, whose Presence is Life. 




m 



Art. lY.— 'Memoirs of Prince I? u peri and the Caralters,mdudiiip 
t/teir Private Correspondeme* By Eliot Warburton, Author 
0/ the * Crescent and the Cross,* London: Bent ley. 1849* 

The oft-to!(] history of our great rebellion is once more before tlic 
public in three octavo volumes by Mr, Kliot Warburton. This 
eventful period of our constitution will never we^irj the his- 
torica! reader; our martyred king^ his friends and liia foes, are 
lusting clniractcrt^ in the English mind, the dra?tiat/8 pergoticp oi' 
civil discord and political tragedy, according to our first and our 
clearest conceptions of lhcf*e national calamities. The import- 
ance and the interest of this period does not depend so much on 
the extent or the ten*ors of its con3Cf|nences, although it claims 
consideration enough on this ground alone, as on the gradual 
development of certain principles, the steady and persevering 
opposition between two ideas, which may be traced thrunghout 
it, Tlie whole history of Charles is the cold-blooded battle of 
modern politics. Individual minds are laid open, private 
thoughts and motives exposed, in a manner which woidd be 
impossible and without Interest in writing of almost any other 
time, but which give a profoundly moral and philosophical cha- 
racter to the study of these men, their principlesj and their 
actions* 

The French Revolution, and the recent disturbances through- 
out Europe, as also the fearful ravages of anarchy in raedlajval 
Germany, are known more by their results than by the stages 
through which men rose up to the final explosion. A sudden 
frenzy of madness does not afford the same room for study and 
examination as the history of a quieter but more fixed hatred, 
working its way, and placing two opposing factions in long-con- 
tinued hostile array. England wa^, on many nccounts, the 
fairest example of the real character of that great i^Lange which, 
at one time or other, in every country, has placed moilern habits 
of thought and modem politics, both civil and religiousj on the 
system of the middle ages. English people are not so quickly 
aroused as many nations on the Continent, but they dwell with 
peculiar tenacity on their ideas of truth, or may be their preju- 
dices; and, from a natural love of fair play and justice, they 
fight their cause out with unequalled perseverance. That age, 
therefore, or that generation whose sad lot it is to be actors in 
such a contest, affords experience at the bitter price of its own 
hapfnness, and gives knowledge by its demonstration of human 
frailty. 

It is strange to watch the mixture of good and evil, the 



I 



1 



Prince Rupert and the Caialien* 



87 



» 



» 






elements of tnitli and the corruption of falseliooJ, in all parties 
at such times as those we are discussing ! Varied, however, aa 
are the motives, equally varied is the succeas. Good in the end 
ever works Its end and triumphs, * Matifiia est Veritas et praeva- 
lebit;' but, nevertheless, its visible triumph ig often over- 
fibadowed by that vengeance which, with equal certainty, 
pursues the evU adhering to it. The Cavaliers and the Puritans 
both were conquerors and were both conquered. The cause of 
loyalty and of the Church, eo nobly advocated by the Cavaliers, 
after many sufferings and memorable sacrifices, to atone aa it 
were for its errors, was at length triumphant, yet fell from its 
lofty position because its eins were not purged aw^iy. And the 
cause of Puritanism, aa being a wholesome scourge to both 
Church and Throne, effected its? purpose with a terrible con- 
quest* again fell, and yet has remained a thorn in the Church 
and State, rankling with no little power from that time to this. 
It is, however, of the individual actors in the awful tragedy 
itself that we would now speak. The group of Cavaliers and 
Churchmen l)y whom we are surrounded, when we dive into 
the study of the^e tunes, are a motley crew ; every exalted 
virtue, every heroic faculty, has there its type, but every 
infirmity of our nature has the same. Well, indeed, would it bo 
for any to escape unharmed by the breath of fame from such a 
scrutiny, and such hatred as-the leading Cavaliers have been 
exposed to. The sad but graceful Charles, the zealous and 
determined Laud, the stern but heroic 8traffortl, the impetuous 
Rupert, the grnpliic Clarendon, the gentle Stanley, are poeti- 
cally impressed in our imagination, and we trust that the criiel 
and bitter judgments of Mr. Macauley, and those of his school, 
will not be the future opinions of the people of England. Let 
them remember that caution need be used in trusting the honour 
of England's Church and throne to a political historian who 
appreciates neither Church nor loyal principles ; who exaggerates 
the vicea of those he does not spnpathize with, and glosses over 
those of his friends; and whose whole hiatorj' we have justly 
heard described as a book written for a particular pai'ty, at a 
particular time, and for particular pur|ioscs. 

Before we bring forward any extracts from Mr. Warburton, 
we will first rajdce a few remarks on the authors own part 
in tJje work ; we can then the more freely lay before our readers 
some examples of his illustrative and descriptive powers. 

The author of the ' Crescent and the Cross' is aware that 
history, strictly speaking, is not his province, and therefore 
he does not pretend to call these volumes by that solemn and 
re^lX)nsible name. He feels more at home under the idea that 
he is collecting memoirs and garnishing them with a little gossip. 



88 



Prince Rupert and the Cavaliers. 



The 'stately march'* (if history he does not aim at; nor is he 
Piifficienfly equal in his style ever to become aii historian. Few 
can equal him in brillitincy of touch when a scene or character 
is before him towards which his heart warms; but when the 
minor details of poHtica or warfare are to be described, we 
cjinnot say that he sustains the reader's interest. Yet these 
details arc given at great icngthj and occupy a large share of the 
\vhole work. One cause of this inequality is, no doubt, the 
constant interapersion of letter;?, whicli, though of no great in- 
dividual intcrcjst, yet form the very plan of the work, and are 
necessary to illustrate tlie more prominent eventa. Yet one 
comequence is to give rather a sentiineutal tone to the whole 
work, as though it were undertaken, not bo much from deep 
interest in the cause he would advocate, as from the attractive- 
nesa of particular actions and phases of character. Perhaps, 
indeed, tnis is really the case, and not only the accidental con- 
sequence of our author's plan. Great tmiidity is ap[>arcnt 
in defending the true cause as established by the King, Laud, 
and Strafford. A large part of the first volume is occupied 
with preliminary assurances that these three persona were 
to blame throughout; and that it was only a part of their 
characters which is the subject of his admiration, After having 
done this, he professes to throw himself into the royal cause 
iicart and hand, yet the same spirit is ever showing itself. The 
secret, we suspect, is, that Mr. Warburton has no sympathy 
with the Church party in this contest, and without that, the 
cause of the cavaliers has no foundation ; lor it was on this that 
their master himself rested his own royal prerogative. Chival- 
rous loyalty unconnected with the consecration of the Church, 
w^hich is the meaning of the much-contested expression, 'jus 
fliviimm,' is hut a romantic shadow, and deserves the jealous 
suspicion of the world, which has every right to rcmonstmto 
against the arbitrary dominion of an irresponsibic human power. 
A christian monarchy claims allegiance on the ground of its 
responsibility to heaven, and therefore, if that high title is given 
up, no wonder that the people insist on the monarclfs respon- 
sibility to themselves. We do not here advocate the principle 
of * jus divinura,' as sanctioning arbitrary power, or as being 
altogether in place of constitutional safeguards. Heaven alone 
is fit for such a government. But there is a cerUiin balance 
Itetween ideal principle and the necessities of a corrupt world 
which it is the chief object of man to arrive at in every branch 
ol morals; and our own constitution we would instance as 
a wonderful example in political government of the adaptation 
of a theoretical 'jus divinumj' to the proper claims of a well- 
disposed comraimity. 



Prince Rupert and the Cavaliers. 



fi9 



^ 



Grievou3 troubles, however, haye been necessary before thia 
constitution has been granted us, and therefore it is that we 
look with peculiar interest to such times as those we are now 
reading of. In a contest like that between King Charlca and 
the P\iritan5, we »ee arrayetl against each other no mere personal 
enemieB; no hired troops, fighting under tlie direction of tlic 
supreme power, about tliey know not what; but we see 
the two principles, of a Divine right to govern, and the power 
of the visible Church of Christ on earth to consecrate that right 
on the one hand, and on the other hiind, of the denial of all 
visible delegation of power either in religion or politics; or, as it 
may almost be called, * the doctrine of consecmtcd things,' 

Throughout these volumes we miss the expression of any 
sentiments which imply that the author really felt for the cause, 
the heroes of which he commends. The burning intellectual 
and moral zeal of those great men who truly stood to their prin- 
ciples, ilr. Warburton passes over with comparative coolness. 
lie looks on such as wonderful phenomena, and pathetically 
describes the tragedy of death wLlch closed so many of them to 
thb world. Again he dwells on the readily -gran ted infirmities 
of Charles's vacillating disposition, though not without sympathy 
or without ajipreciation for the nobility of his nature, yet with- 
out that entire forgiveness which his misi'ortunes and his death 
entitle Mm to, if ever faults can be atoned for in the judgment 
of fellow mortals. Our author's hero of these times, rather shows 
his point of admiration. Prince Rupert was a dashing, chivalrous 
cavalier, bold in arms and devoted to hi« uncle, King Charles; 
but he entered on the service of commanding the royal army, not 
so much from any especial love of the English constitution, or as 
representing the principle of that side in the contest, but rather 
from his love of military adventure and his allowable wish to 
ae'sist his uncle in distress. No doubt he was a zealous royalist, 
but it would not appear he had much sympathy for the Church's 
]>art in the question, or that in his private capacity he exhibited 
the religious spirit which was part of the true cavalier character. 

It is time, however, now that we come to the book itself. 
The following extract from the |>reface will explain the nature 
|j|f our author's plan : — 

• For the first Rtid sccotid volumes of fliis work I nm answerable as an 
Author; for the last, as little mnre thnn Ectiidr. 1 have oiulortjiken the 
reapoiisibility of introducing therein a liirgc collection of Original Papers 
rel«Ung to the Civil Wars. 

* This collection is derived from Colonel iSrnett, Prince Rupert's Secrclary, 
It contains upwards of n thousand letters, written by the lending eavoliera 
to their young chief during the wnr. together with many of a later date. 
Besides such letters, there iire confiidemble nmteriidM, in various stages of 
prepuratiou, for a formal biLography of the Prince j of these some are frag- 



QO 



Prince Rupert and the Oatalien- 



meiits, each containrng an episode of their hero's life, apparently ready for 
publictttiou, and corrected hv Rupert himself. His biography was of more 
importunce to this Prince than to moat men : no person, perhaps, except 
his rnyal master^ was ever more exposed to cah^mny,. or less defended. He 
seems to have superintended the prcpuratinn of his memoirs about the 
year 1657, in order to meet the mi&constriictiona of his actions which he 
apprehended in England, the country of liis adoption. On the Restoration he 
found that his popularity ivas already restored, in the same hour with that 
of his Toynl kinsman ; and from this time the preparations for his biography 
appear to have ceased. The extraordinary vicissitndca of his career were 
then nearly terminated. At nil events, from this period I am obliged to seek 
in other sources for biographical materials*" — VoLi. Fref. iii. iv. 

The other sources liere spoken of are the private collections 
of those families descemled from the Cavaliers, which have been 
examined and arranged with great care. The next passage we 
will quote is irom an introductory survey of the whole event of 
the rchellion. We cannot agree with our author's notion of 
moral courage expressed in the last paragraph, 

' Nor is the interest inferior to the importance of those momentous times : 
there is a fearful fascination in the rapid current of their events ; irc are 
hurried along, like the actors themselves^ so rapidly from scene to scene, 
that we have only too little time for thought. The finely balanced fortune 
of each buttle day — the beleaguered town all but surrendered — the blessed 
treaty almost accomplished] the Kin^ and people yearning for rest and 
reconciliation ; now, within a point of attaining; it — now, at deadliest issue 
on some undecided field. Then follow the King's flight, the vain treaty , the 
mock tribunal, the loo real and ghastly scatfold, the reign of the regicidal 
oligarchy, trampled ou in turn by their master- tyrant. 

*■ And through all these stormy times shines steadily thelieroic character 
of Ennfli:;h nature, nobly manilctJting its grave and earnest power: terrible 
and nnsparinjsf on the battle-field, self-cont rolled and considerate in all 
intervals of peace. Compared with the great German war^ generous and 
gentle as a totirnament ; yet stcadfa.st in purpose, as behoved its great and 
glorious end and aim. I do not presume to canvass my reader's sympathies 
for either l*nritan or Cavalier; I leave them to plead their own cause m their 
o\rii letters: — 1 invite him to liaten to their own long silent voices, speak- 
ing once more — eagerly^ earnestly — as when armed men with desperate 
speed bore these, their blotted, and often blood-stained pages, from 
leaguered city or roving camp — from faltering diplonmtiijt, or renolute war- 
rior, Eit whose beck men died. Every letter will possess some interest for 
the thoughtful reader, and shed some light for him on the heart of the 
bvgooe timeM. He will find them still animated by the passions that were 
then throbbing in every brcayt. At first the earnest, rather than angry 
spirit of our memorable English wjir is apparent in them ; but ihcy gra- 
dually become more intense in their expression, as if they were the work 
of a single man ; the same note of triumph or tone of despair is perceptible 
in all. Unman nature, and the nature of each writer, ia transparent in 
them all ; the reader ia ihe confidant of kings, princes^ statesmen, generals, 
patriots, traitora ; he is the contes.'iior of the noblest ininds and the most; 
villainona natures ; he scea the very conscience of the war. 

• The greater part of theae letters and this work relates to the Cavaliers, 
and especially to Prince Rupert. NeverthelcsH, I am far from assuming 
the indiscriminate advocacy of their can«e, though 1 have endeavoured to 
do justice to the gallant jneji who espoused it. 1 believe that cause, if at 



Prinee Rupert and the Cavaliers. 



91 



first triurapliant, would have led la despotism and mtolernncc ; I know- 
that it was stained by rapine and licentioiasness ; and 1 dare not suppose 
that by such agency the higher destiiues of this great nation could hnve 
been promoted or achieved. 

* But I also believe thnf the Cavaliers did good service in their generation, 
bv keeping: alive the generous spirit of loyalty, by cherishing the genial 
charities of life, and maintaining unimpaired the chivalrous character of 
our country. On the other hand, J du not believe that the King's party 
monopolized ail the chivalry — or the vices cither — of the war. If the 
Puritan cause was adorned with little outward sho^va or braveries, its 
source of energy lay deep within, in the souls of men ; and there lay also, 
its support and power. Devoted and desperately daring as was the Cava- 
lier, he had not the same occasion for moral courage as the Puritan ; his 
cause was that of his "anointed King,'* at the same time graced and 
gaarded by ancestral predilection and long-established reverence. Tbo 
Puritan entered on the strife, not only against his sovereign, hut against 
those ancient prejudices of world-wide respectability which to him also had 
once been dear and reverend ; he left the firm and simple ground of allegi- 
ance to struggle dangerously after what was then a mere abstraction. The 
Cavalier, fired with visions of kiiiglv power and courtly fame, as he dashed 
all plumed and scarfed through fields of blood, had nothing but the fortune 
of the day to fear. 'Flie Puritan, dark and grim, stood stoutly to his amis 
as one Tiho knew that freedom or the scaffold were his only alternative. — 
VoL i. pp. 4—8. 

Prince Rupert was born soon after his father, the King of 
i;varia*8 coronation — a coronation most splendid in its eere- 
•aiOQies, but most unhappy in its results. Frederic, Prince 
Palatine of the Rhine, with great possessions, and head of I he 
Protestant union, occupied a most distinguij?hcd position, and 
he whsely hesitated about accepting the Bavarian crown, hut 
Elizabeth, his Electress, eistcr of Charles I., taunted him for liis 
fears, and in an evil day gained her ohjeet. * You were hoM 

* enotigh,* she said, * to marry the daugliter of a kinpj* and yon 
' hesitate to accept a crown ! I had rather live on bread with a 

* king, than feast with an Elector.' 

We now pass on to the consequences of this tidvice. 8hc 
who enjoyed the fair names of the ' Queen of Hearts/ and the 

* Pearl of Britain,' had rough ecencs to go through, which 
early brought her infant Rupert into the field of battle. 

• And their loved and lovely Queen, — the queen of many a heart novr 
Biilled for ever in her cause — her reign is over! Her lofty spirit had led 
Frederic into dangler; it now sustained him in defeat rri>strftted hy his 
ruin, he was only roused to the exertion of escapiujj by the energy of 
Elizabeth- and it was fidl time. The stern Maximilian was at the ^ates, 
and allowed the city but ei^ht bovirs to frame guch terms of capitulation aa 
mi^ht save it from the horrors of assault. Before then, or never, the 
young Queen must be far away over the ru'i:o:ed mountain panses throuj^h 

wintry snow. Nor did she hesitate ; delicately nurtured as she was, 

within a hw weeks of her confinement, the brave Englishwoman pre- 

aoy fate to that of eaptivity and disgrace. One moment her voice 

fiiltercd, as her devoted followers olfered to set the enemy at defiance, and 

the dty to the death, to cover her retreat. "Never!" she ex- 



92 



Prince Rupert and the Cataliers^ 



claimed, to Btrtiard Count Tbunn, *' never sbaU the son of our bcsL fiiend 
hazard hie life to apare ray fears, — ^never shall this devoted city be exposed 
to more outrageous treatment for my aake. Rather let me perish on the 
spot than be remembered as a curse! " 

* Tlie carriage that was to convey the royal fugitives stood ready for 
their tlight, when, a sudden alarm being given, they uere hurried away by 
their servants, and borne oft' among the crowd \vith desperate speed away 
nver the level plain, attended by a fevjr faithfid followers, and up, by rarely- 
trodden paths to the mountains, where wheels could no lunger move ; there 
the poor Queen was placed on a pillion behind Ensig^n llopton, and sped 
forward again as heat she might, w ith all her sorrows, through the snow. 

' Meanwhile young Rupert was sleeping soundly in his nurse's arms, 
undisturbed by the tumult and diatracLion round him. The terrified w oman 
laid down her charjife to hurry alter the fugitives, and Baron dlloua, the 
King's chamberlain, found him still asleep upon the ground. There was then 
no time for ceremony; the chamberlain flung the prince into the last 
carris^ge just as it dajshed away from the Strahoff. The ri^nigh j oiling soon 
wakened the poor chlkl, who had rolled into some indefccribable recess they 
call **a hool;" his lusty cries attracted attention, and he was restored 
in safety to his mother.' — Vui. i. pp. 37 — 39. 

In due time the young Prince Rupert went to the University 
of Ley den J and of this period we have the following notice : — 

' Schoolboy experiences and events, however deeply they impresa 
the character, leave little to record, and we only leern that our Prince be- 
came w ell grounded " in mathematics and religion," and \i?as, " indeed, 
made Jcauit-prooF," so that those " subtle priests with whom he hath been 
much conversant, could never make him stagger." Nevertheless he was 
by no means an exemplary scholar, for he had an utter distaste for the 
learned languages, and infinitely preferred amusement or military excr- 
ctses to the most abstruse metaphysics/- — VoL i. p. 44. 

His more congenial occupation of war commenced in 1635, 
as volunteer in the life-guard of the Prince of Orange, * reject- 

* ing nil distinction of Ida rank, discharging all the dutiea, and 

* ehiiring all the hardships of the private soldier,' 

This campaign was in alliance with the Protestant Repub- 
licans, and, strange to say, wit li the Red Cardinal ofFnxnce, (so 
called to distinguish him, that is Richelieu, from Mazarin, etjled 

* His Black Eminence/) against the Catholic powers of Spain 
and Italy. The cauipaign, however, was not worthy of note, 
except as affording an op|>ortunity for individual acts of chivalry. 

Prince Rupert, eoon after this, visited the English C'ourt , and 
there passed a pleasant and qniet year. Various suggestions were 
here made, with a view of placing him in a comfortable birth. 
The yoimg soldier objected to a bishopric, which wa^ thought a 
convenient seltlenieut, and an expedition to ' goe aa vizeroy' ^ 
to Madagaisc^iri' also failed, A rich heiress was then thought of, ■ 
but Rupert'^ heart was not so cusily affected in youth aa it ap- 
pears to have been when more advanced in years. Meanwhile 
fie was made honorary blaster of Arts in the University of 
Oxford, which city lie visited with the King, and then proceeding 



I 



'tnee Rupert and the CataUert, 

to London, enjoyed the dissipation of WliitehalL The following 
notice of tlie English Court at thie period is interesting in itself, 
and forms a melancholy contrast with future events :- — 

* " At this period Charles the First held tlie most splendid court in 
Europe :" it iraa so, not only for the pynip aad iiiagnificeace diaplayed 
there, but for the refined taste and exquisite judgment that had enriched ita 
precincts. The finest works of art in Europe were collected there, imd 
Rubens and Vandyke were found among their own creations^ Ben Jonson 
iras poet-laureate tu the Court, nnd Inigo Jonc» gave classic beauty to itj* 
decorations Ferabasco refined the musicians to the standard of his oun 
eiLquisite ear, and the King had skill and power to appreciate and to heighten 
all. Baasompierre descnhed the company of this rival Court au *" mag- 
nificent, and its order exquisite," We may be excused for dwelling a 
moment on this gracefid splendour when the rest of our lives are to be 
past in the camp or leaguer, the restless bivouac and the dreary moor. 

*** Charles appears," says Mr. Disraeli, "to have desired that hia 
Court should resemble the literary Court of the Medici. He assembled 
about him the great masters of the various arts. We may rate Charks'a 
taste at the supreme degree, by remarking that this monarch never patro- 
nised mediocrity : the artist who waa honoured by bis regard was ever a 
master-spirit. Father of art m our conntry, Charles seemed ambitious of 
making English denizens of every man of genius in Europe/' Vandyke 
and Hubens were domiciled in KngUnd; and who can tell how much the 
Cavalier cause owes of its romantic interest to the classic, yet original 
grace, with which the former has immortalized the perHons of its heroes. 
The Italians happily call him *' 11 Pittore Cavalieresco," and it was in one 
of his happiest moods that he mnde that fine picture of Prince Rupert 
hequeatbed, in gratitude for many a noble service, to Lord Craven, and 
now in possession of his descendants at Combe Abbey. 

' In the midst of such society it was natural for our young Prince to 
imbibe the accomplished tastes he saw so richly displayed around him, 
and therewith to nourish and cultivate bis own natural genius for the arts« 
We sball soon find him a solitary pri>soner, consoling himself with such 
resources, and exercising those gifts that ultimately made his pencil as 
famous as his sword. 

' Rut these Medicean enjoyments were not the only attractions that the 
Court of Charles posaesaed for the young Palatine. The Queen, Henrietta 
Maria, had a passion for society, and a Frenchwoman's wonderful tact in 
sustaiaing its etfervesence. She had contrived to impart to herdravTing- 
roora gossip some of the deep and agitating importance of the Cuuncil 
Chamber. Every interest was, ihcrefore, concentrated there: exery 
poUiical or social intrigue ti as there to be heard of, to be canvassed, and 
acbemed about yet further. Under this glittering mask, most of the many 
inbchiefs of the Stale were concocted, or, at least, received their poisonous 
ingredients. The Queen's winning manner and sweet beauty threw a grace 
and fascination over all this, Rud Lady Carlisle, the prime miuiater of her 
boudoir and petty politics, was also beautilul and persuasive : Lady Rivers, 
Lady Aubigny, Lady Isabel Thy one, belonged to the same circle, and were 
similarly qualified. Their charms, or talents, or interest, as well as the 
tnagic of tneir place, secured for them the adoration of the poets and wits, 
Donne, Carew, Suckling, Waller, Lovelace, Matthewea, and others, through 
whose flattery they are best known to us, and whose wit is living still in 
the cold and unexplored recesses of our libraries. Among the men of 
higher ** caste" and lower intellect who were then Court butterrties (or 
caterpillars) were Lords Holland, Newport, Devonshire, Elgin, Rich, Dun- 



94 



Prince Rupert and the Cavaliers, 



garvoii, DuJiIucc, Whartoi), F^iget, Saltoun ; and some of wordiier stamp, 
as the Duke oC Lennox (Rich mo ml) Lord Gmndisoii, audi Lord Fielding, 
(Earl of Denbigh 'a son). Turning from the spArkliug " Acftciemie/' and 
the treachery-brooding "chamber" of Lady Carlisle, truth, intellect, and 
lionniir, were to be found in the Hociety of Falkland, and such friends as he 
gathered rmmd him at IJurford and in London. I do not know that the 
conversation of such men as Hyde, Scldcn, Hales, or Chillingworth, would 
have had much charm for the soldier-prince at this time, but ir oualifiedf 
as men of mind will ever dfj, the tone of peneral society, in winch the 
ioiluence of a Bacon, a Raleigh, and a Burleigh, was atill felt.' — Vol. i. 
pp. 72 — 7G. 

From scenes such as these, we next find onr Prince in the 

continental wars, entering upon what miiy be called lita career 
or his science of cavahy charges; for that Hne of warfare was his 
strong i»oint, too much to the neglect ol' every other, if we may 
except a happy and re.idy manner of kce[>ing the commissariat 
department well sujipliedj and the use of a watchful ear, which 
he kept about him at all times, aa the following incident will 
show :— 

* One night, there was a pause in the almost perpetual conilict; the aol- 
dierg of attack and defence both rested their wearied limha, the besiegers 
in deep sleep. Rupert's watchful ear detected some sounds within the 
walls; now plainly audible and now so faint, that he feared to give what 
might have proved a false alarm. He wakened bis brother Maurice, who 
liktnviso heard some doubtful sounds risuipj from among the red gables of 
llie (dd loa^uered town. The hrothera moved nwny through the miat, and 
crept up the glacis so silently and ao near the enemy, that tlicy could 
detect the forming of troops for a sortie, and even their appointed desti- 
nation. Retiring to their oAvn camp as sihtnlly as they had left it, they 
hasted to Prince Frederic's quarters, and before the enemy bad crossed 
their drawbridnje, the Hollandera were drawn np in battle order to receive 
them;'— Vol i. pp. 80, 8L 

One of his first charges is thus de8cribed :- — 

' This was an unexpected pleasure to Rupert, who dashed at his assailants 
with dehght ; his charge was resistless then, aa ever; the force of five hun- 
dred men and horses, recklcsa as battering rams, hurled by enthusiasm 
against masses which every man and horse felt certain they had only to 
reach in order to rout— had, could have^but one result ; the Palatine 
cavalry rode through them, over them, and almost before tbem to the 
drawbridge of the tow n ; the survivors rushed into their refuge, and Rupert, 
reforming his array, resumed his line of march in triumph. 

* A picturesque array ; accoutred in the old chivalric fashion, with 
plumed helmet, and bright armour over leathern doublet ; steel cuissea io 
the knee, and huge " gambadoes " armed with the large knightly spur. 
Tall powerful horses, such as Wouvermans has left us, stepped proudly 
under their caparisons; and the small "cornet," or flag, that (luttered over 
each troop, gave liveliness to the gleaming column as it wound along the 
wide plains of Hanover The main body also con.sistcd, for the most part, 
ofcavalry, as better suited to the rapid movements by which this hazardoxis 
and romantic expedition alone could be accomplished. The few infantry 
belonging to the army, principally Swedes, were armed with the pike and 
arquebusH, or musket, steeL-cap, and corslet.' — Vol. i. pp. 83 — 85. 

A similar charge soon afterwards was equally victorious for 



I 




* 




Prince Mup^^^fiiflilhe Cavalieh. 



95 



the moment, but ended in tlic Prince himself being taken 
prisoner. We give the account of tlii^ adventure :^ — 

' The Prince was alreftdy on tbe spur; his men were, for the most part, 
voltiBteers, and led by English cliivulry, and tbe electric spirit of hia own 
daring shot lightning sympathy through every heart and hand. They 
charged, or rather daahed at, the chnrgpng enemy : their own fugitive com- 
rades whirled past them, like tbe eddy of some cataract, as on they rnshcd, 
their white plumes waving like a foam, and met, and repelled, and bore 
down the Austrian cavalry, overwhelming ali whom ibey encountered, and 
ch&sing the remainder resistlessly before there. Colonel Boye was de- 
spatched to look for Conigsmiirk, and conjure bun to follow up the Prince's 
success, but in vain; it aecmed the destiny of Rupert ever to be defeated, 
even while he conquered. The Prince pursued the Austrians, who suddenly 
"were seen to halt, wheel about, and prepare to charge again, and a fresh 
body of imperial troopa under Marshal Giitz appeared supporting them. 
The Prince's condition was now almost des]ierate ; he was left unsupported, 
his horses fatigued, and his men tenfold outnumbered. Just then. Lord 
Craven came up at the gallop with two troopj* of tbe Elector's gruards, and 
renewed tlxe fight. Once more the Austrians charged, and forced the Pala- 
tine cavalry bact, still struggling:, into the defile Irom wLence they had 
issued: but here they made a firm stand, repelling every attack, until a 
strong body of the enemy crept down the hill-side, charged the Prince's 
flank, and put his few rcmainine: troops to the sword, or threw them into 
irretrievable confusion. No thought of retreating ever occurred to the 
Prince's mind ; he struggled onward throujih hia enemies as fast aa horse 
and sword could force their way, when sudtlenly be found himself the sole 
object of attack to a score of cuirassiers: be turned for ft moment to cheer 
on his men, and found himself alone ! With a desperate elfort he broke 
through bis assailant, and soon afterwardn, to bia surprise, found luraself 
disregardefl by the eager enemy. For a moment he was unable to account 
for their neglect ; until he observed that the Anstrians nil wore a white 
nbbon in their helmets aa the sign. He had by chance adopted the same 
mark to render himself conspicuous to bis followers, and thus passed ua- 
injured among the hostile forces. As he rode through the confused and 
still struggling bands under this disguise, he observed one of the cornets, 
whom Lord Craven hud brought up, struggUiig with a few gallant soldiers 
to defend tbe Elector's standard. In a moment Rupert was in the mHee^ 
fighting fiercely till bis last comrade fell. Then, once more burstin^j from 
his assailants, he rode at a high wall, his exhausted horse refused it, and 
sunk upon the ground. His pursuers rushed forward to secure him ; but 
striking down tbe foremost man he refused all quarter, and fought desperately 
on, until overwhelmed with numbers and borne by sheer strength to the 
ground. Colonel Lippe struck up the visor of his helmet, find, not knowing 
nis face, demanded who he was? "A colonel," replied the Palatine. 
** Saeremetf " cried the grey-haired veteran, '* you are a young one.*' Just 
then, General Halzfeldt rode up ; he immediately recf)giiised his prisoner, 
addressed bim with respect, and committed him in charge to Colonel 
Devereux to escort to Warren dorp. '^ — Vol. i. pp. 88 — 90. 

For tliree yeara did Rtipert * pine like a caged eagle ' in his 
captivity, relieved only by his own thoughts. The reti*osipect 
of his life even now afforded him much to dwell on, and no 
doubt his spirit looked forward with confidence to future activity. 
Meanwhile, however, lie waa not without the consolation of 



96 



Prince Rupert and the CatalleriM 



agreeable society. A little romance even tinged this quiet portion 
o£ his life, 

' Among the few recreations permitted to the Prmce waa an occasional 
dinner with the Governor, and free access to his gardens. It wag destined 
that his imprisonment, as well as his chivalric career, should lack nothing 
of the requirements of romance. Strange as. it may rend in these matter- 
of-fact pa^eSj Count Kuffstein had a daughter, an only, cherished child, ivho 
lived in his atern old castle, like the delicate Dryad of some gnarled tree. 
She waa " one of the hrightest beauties of herage^" and nirely p:ifted, "no 
lease excelling; in the charmcs of her minde than of her faire bodye." The 
imagination of the reader will easilF supply what the faUhful historian ii 
not permitted to record. How the neroismj the misfortunes, and the noble 
person of her royal captive, touched her imagination: how the impetuous 
young IVince, whose thoughts had ever fed on tales of love and glory, 
passed his time in that grim castle hitherto without an object, save to 
watch time and the old Danube rolling by : how this fair girl dawned upon 
hia gloomy life» charged by her father t<j cheer her royal prisoner, and, if it 
might be, to win his soul over to the ancient faith. Does the reader pity 
him — or even her f Though soon to be forsaken, she never was forgotten 
in all the wild vicissitude» of hia dangerons and reckless career; and to 
woman's foolish heart even this is something. And for him— how often, 
when wearied of the doomed yet charmed Life he bore, must hla thoughts 
have tlown back to that fair giri ; back, from tlie hushed ambniih, or raging 
battle-field, or stormy seas, to those quiet and innocent days, when he 
listened to her loving controversy, aa they stood by the antique battlements, 
with the old Danube rolliog by \ '—Vol. i. pp. 91, 95. 

Soon, indeed, was this pleasure lost ; for in a abort time, 
inatead of her * gentle preaence, twelve mousqueteers and two 
halberda watched night and day over that beardless boy in that 
strong castle :'- — 

* Still, youth aud its hope triumphed over persecution. Debarred from 
all human society, the Prince made friends of a " beautiful white dogge and 
M hare;" The former waa given to him by Lord Arundel, and was " of a 
breede so famous that the Grand Turk gave it in particular injunction to 
his ambassador to obtaine him a puppje thereof." It is curious to observe 
this daring and restless man amnaing himself by teaching a dog that dis- 
cipline he himself could never learn, and inducing a hare to lay atiide that 
fear towards him that he inspired ao widely even among brave men* " This 
hare used to follow him about, and do hia bidding with docility,*' having 
discovered in thia wild soldier some toucli of the same gentle nature that 
its fellow found in the poet Cowper/— Vol. i. pp. 09, 100. 

At lengthy however, sufficient interest waa made to procure 
his release, and liencefortb Rupert devoted himself to the en use 
of the Cavaliers. On his road to Enolaud he passed through 
Prague, where he waa welcomed by a banquet and a vchetnent 
German * drinking-bout.' Rupert, always temperate, s^oon left 
the table, on which the Elector exclaimed, in pure astonish- 
ment, ' What shall we do ivith him, if he won't drink V As a 
sample of the extent to which these ' drinking-bouts' were 
carried on, we have the following accotmt of the reception of an 
ambassador : — 



i 



Prince Rupert and the Cataliere. 



•«7 



* ** The King of Denmark feasted my Lord Leyce*<tre from eleven in the 
mornin)!. He gave tbirty-five healths ; the first to the Emperor, the second 
to the King of Enu;1and (his nephew) ; then all the kings aud queens of 
Christendom, hut omitted the King of Bohemia [in whose cause the ambas- 
sador had come to his Court]. The King was takcMi away in his chair, but 
when two of the guards came to carry my Lord Leyccstre, he shook them 
off, and walked away stoutly." * — Vtd. i p. 105. 

Prince Rtipert landed first at Dover, but returned to the 
Hague witli tho Queen of England. He tlieu lamlcd at Tyne- 
moutli, aud made such haste to join \m uucle, that, las horse 
slipping in the dark, he di^loeated his shouhier. With the 
assistance, liowever, of a * bone-sotter/ ho restimed his journey 
in three days, and proceeded to Nottingham ; tlience he went to 
Leicester to join the King, and there received charge of the 
royal oiivalry, consisting of but 800 horse ! The next day, 
being the 22d of August, 1642, they proceeded to Nottingham, 
where the royal standard was then stft up amid the gloom of a 
raging tempest — s;ul omen of apftroaehing times* 

Having now enlisted Rupert fairly in onr great niitional con- 
test, let us look at the personal appearance of this hero who 
inspired his drooping party with such fiery zeal, and won for 
himself a name so renowned : — 

' Prince Rupert was now nenrly twenty-three. Hia portraits present to 
us the ideal of a gallant cavalier. Hia figure, talll, vigorous, and sym- 
metricah would have been somewhat statt-ly, hut for ita graceful bearing 
and noble ease. A vehement, yet firm, chariicter predominates in the 
countenance* combined with a certain gentleness, apparent only ia the 
thoughtful, but not pensive eyes. Large, dark, and well-formed eyebrows, 
overarch a high-bred, Nornmn nose: the upper lip is finely cut, but some- 
what supercilious iu expression; the lower part of the mouth and chin 
have a very different meaning, and impart a tone of iron resolution to the 
whole countenance. Long llovving hair (ihrough which, dnubtlcss, curled 
the romantic " love-lock ) flawed over the wide embroidered collar, or the 
sk^arlet cloak: he wore neither heard nor moustaches, tlieu almost uni- 
versal ; and his cheek, though bronzed by exposure, was marked by a 
womanly dimple. On the whole, our cavalier must have represented an 
appearance as attractive in a lady's eye, and as unlovely in a Puritan's, as 
Vandyke ever immortalized.'— Vol. i. p. 113. 

The spirit which Rupert at once infused into the royalists la 
a proof of his woodcrfnl energy of character. The means he 
adopted to recruit the army arc thus described: — 

• For the Prince flew like wildfire — as Parliament writers affirmed — from 
place to place : breathing and inspiring ardour, astonishing country gentlo^ 
men, anu giving a momentum to corporate bodies, incredible till then. 
Restrained by no local inftuence or patriotic mi«gi\inga, he only saw in the 
anti- royalist a foe : wherever he found a llonmlhead horse, he clapped a 
cavalier trooper on its back; and with equal decision, when be dashed into 
a Puritan town, he levied a contrd)ution. The good people who had been 
quietly debating about abstract rights and wrongs, were taken by surprise 
at these practical acts. Now here, now there, a gallant troop of cavalicrJ 

NO. XLV. — N. s. n 



98 



Prince Eupert and the Cataliers, 



would come cantering up, swagjieriiig, and, I fenr, swearing not a little, but 
comporting themselves in a g:ood-humoured off-hand sort of way, thnt gave 
leaa ofiboce thiiu injury, especially to tbe women. Now some peaceful 
village had to fiirninli « day's crciiturc-comforts for a fiquadron of these 
merry "mftlignants," and now some respectable ftssi^e-town was called 
upon to pay them for a wcelc. Saddles too, for their horses, were very 
often required ; spurs for their hoots, fenthcrs for their hats ; iron for 
Armour, cloth for douhlet; H was wonderful how much they wanted, nnd 
how much they got. Throughout the wide north and west no place was 
secure from their visitfttion ; reckless of danger and setting nil odds at 
defiance, their merry furaginjj parties seemed indeed to make a game of 
war. The fiery and impetuouM daring of Prince Rupert, his perfect IE- 
difference to danger, mnrMl and physical ; his fertility of resource, Lis 
{iromptitudc and zeal for the cause, had endeared hiin to the young cava- 
ier; \vhi1e the old Boldicra respected his experience in havoc, and knew that 
his terrible prf4f//_g'f was well-founded. Wherever the flutter of a cavalier- 
Bcnrf was seen, Friuce Rupert was there, or believed to be there: by his 
name contributions were levied at the unscrupulous will of the trooper; 
by hia name villages were conquered and cities menaced and children stilled. 
And, in truth, he was seldom far off or over indulgent when he C4ime : his 
sleepless vigour* his untiring energy, were everywhere felt, dreaded, and 
admired. With such a leader, and in such a time, his forces rapidly in- 
creased. He rode Ibrth from Leicester on the 26tb of August, at the head 
of eight hundred horse, ill-eqjuipped and almost undisciplmed : he paraded at 
Shrewsbury, on the 28th (tf September, with upwards of three tliousaod 
troopers and dragoons, well-fed^ well-horsed, and laden with Puritan plunder 
and execrations/ — Vol, i. pp. 387 — 389. 

It is not our ptirposc to follow tlic nieliuiclioly course of this 
war in any clirontd(ig;icul order, but a few incidents immediately 
connected with our hero, and a feiv of Mr. Warburton's brilliant 
descriptions in the field of battle, or otherwise, will be interest- 
ing to our rcaderB- The fo!h>wdng extract tells a story which 
brings the evil of civil war y^vy near home. The Cavaliers were 
attacking a Mr, Purefoy'e house in his absence :— 

' The attack was renewed durin* some hours, with heavy loss to the 
Cavaliers, who had nothing but pistols and pcrhapa a few dra<it>on*» car- 
bines to oppose to an enemy firuig with deadly ccrtninly from behind im- 
pregnable stone walls. There were only twelve mnskets in the house, but 
these ladies and their maid servants loaded as fast as they were discharged, 
melting down the pewter plates for bullets when the ammunition bcgmi to 
fail. At length even Rupert consented to retire his men under shelter ; but 
fiudin^: A strong wind blowing from the fami-yard, he fired the barns, and 
advancing wnder cover of the smoke, assailed the very doors. Then at lust 
the brave lady came forth, and claimed protection for'ihe lives of her Utile 
garrison. When the Prince ascertained their nunrjber, his anger was 
changed into admiration; he complimented Mr. Abbott on his gallant 
defence, and offered him a good command in his re;j;!ment, which was 
declined. The Prince then respectfully saluted Mrs. Purcfoy and drew off 
his troops \ nor did he allow a man of the garrison, or any property what- 
ever, to be injured.' — VoL i. pp, 391, 392. 

Rupert's way of dealinjr with ninyors and corporationa was 
Bmmniaiy, and nwwi eadiy have disturbed the composure of 
thoee bodies. In a letter to the Mayor of Leicester he required 



*rinc0 Rttperi and the Cavalien* 



M 



two thoiisanil pounds sterling to be given for the King's service, 
at ten of the clock next morning, adding to his letter the fol* 
lowing ominous postscript: — 

. ' P.S. — If any disaffected persons with you slmll teftise lliemselves, or 
•^rsuadc you to neglect the commaiul, I slmll to-morrow appear before 
your town, in huc\i a posture, with horse, foot, and cannon^ as shall inakp 
you know it is more safe to obev tliaii to resist hh Majesty's command.'^ 
Vol. i. p. .194. 

It is just to the King'to say that he repudiated such conduct, 
but nevertheless 500/. was paid, in this case, at the appointed 
hour. Rupert on several occasions acted a^ his own spy, and 
adopted various disguises, such as the following extract de- 
scribes : — 

• Meauwhile tLe restless Rupert, chafing at delay, made a reconnoissance 
towards Warwick, in order to employ himself, unattended by a single 
trooper r it was au adventure in which his heart rejoiced. He waa over- 
taken, when near the town, by a heavy shower^ and took refuge in an 
alehouse. He there found a country fellow vtho waa on his way to 
Warwick to sell cabbage-nets. The Prince could easily ingratiate himself 
wlien he pleased with those about him, and was soon in liigh favour witli 
all the topers at the inn ; he, of course passing as a Puritan, Suddenly a 
thought seemed to strike him : •' Hold, my good fellow !" said he tu the 
net-seller, "/ want to go to Warwick, and I'll sell your nets for you; 
hcrc*8 a crown for you and these good fellows to drink tdl 1 come back, for 
1 must have your horse; ay, and your coat too, my friend. I want to put 
• a touch * on a friend uf mine." The countryman thought that this was at 
the same time *' a good bargain and a good joke," so be dotted his long 
coat and slouched old hat, and the disguised Prince having assumed them, 
rode forward to the stronghold of his enemies. He goon sold his nets, as 
the purchasers might have tbera at their own price ; he heard at the same 
time all sorts of accounts of the battle, and no small share of execration on 
himself, which he bore with great philosophy, and apparently luili reUsh. 
He ascertained the state of the Roundheads* army, and all the approaches 
of the town, and then returned to his expectant friend at the alehouse. 
Having resumed his own attire» and mounted his own horse, he told the 
countryman he might infurnj his customers in Warwick '* that Prince 
Rupert had been their salesman ; that he was obliged to them for their 
custom, and would soon be among them, to supply them with something 
else." '■ — Vol. ii. pp. 41, 4:2. 

The first cliarge of cavalry established Prince Kupcrt's 
name. The Roundhead army were unaccustomed to so im- 
petuous a rush J we give, however, the account in his own 
words: — 

* Rupert sprang to his feet, leaped upon the nearest horse, and called to 
his comrades to charge, " For the honour of God and of their country ! " 
Not one «ho heard him paused or waited for his men to follow him; in 
gallunt rivalrj', each only strove to be first upon tlie enemy; unarmed as 
they were, they spjirrcd forward with the cheering war-cry, '* For a 
king!** and so charged their iron-clad enemies, and charged them home. 
The Roundheads met them stoutly, too, though scarcely disengaged from 
the narrow lane. They were mailed all over and well comm.anded, never- 

II 2 



100 



Prmce Rttpert and the Catulltsrs. 



theless, tbey could not stand before that furious charge. Rupert was ever 
resistless when first he came upon his enemy, and now he and his comrade 
Cavaliers, not only dashed tlirouj^h, but rode duwii the hostile ranlcs. At 
the same time Lord Crawford \va3 ordered by the Prince to frill upon tlie 
ri^fht think of the enemy, which he did with severe effect. Swords, how- 
ever, struck almost vainly upon the impenetrable armour of the Round- 
headis ; tlicy seemed un wounded, yet they were shaken, routed, driven into 
the river and drowned, or utterly dispersed. The brave Sandys, their 
colonel, did not share their tlight ; he fell in tlie firat shock, as did his 
major, Gunlcr. The survivors never drew rein for four miles, when they 
were eapied by Essex's life-gfuarda, g^alloping into Pershore with swords 
drawn ; many unhelnieted, and all filled with such fear that they frightened 
the lifc-g^uards too; then they galloped altogether to the bead-quartera of 
the Lord-General, where they received but *' a cold welcome," which one 
of them candidly confessea waa their due. As the Cavaliers returned from 
the pur:juit, they fo\md, to their surprise, that but four nr live of their 
Iroopers had fallen, whilst of the officers, who formed the front rank in the 
irregular and chivalrous charge, all had received some wound, except 
Prince Rupert. On the other side, four hundred are said, by Lord Falk- 
huid» to have been slain; few were taken prisoners, but five or six 
utaudards were won, aud many good horses, which proved far more 
valuable. 

* rije moral effect of this skirmish was very ^eat. That the best Pnr- 
Uamcntary cavalry, fully armed and well mounted, should have been put 
to sudden and utter rout by half their number of Cavaliers, without annonr, 
and on wearied horses, appeared very ominous. The defeated troops tnag- 
nified their opponent's valour, in order to mitigate their own disgrace; 
many ^vauderetl altogether nwf y from the Roundhead standard, and spread 
abroad the " terror of Prince Rupert's name; hid irresistible courage, and 
that of the King's horac/"' — VoL i. pp. 403— -106, 

The tnllowiTig surv^ey of the royal army is given bv our 
ttuthor shortly before the great battle of Edgehill: — 

* It ia diflficult, perhaps, for cpdet people, in the nineteenth ceatury, liviug 
under a powerful and prosperous sovereign, to imagine the eutbusiastic 
BGntimeut, the passionate loyalty that was excited by the misfortunes of 
Charles L To all the dcviited alTcction with which in after times the Pre- 
tendcr'a cause was cherished» there was noiv added the solemn sense of 
reli^ous duty, and an intense conviction that in their King's safety, all the 
glory and prosperity of England was involved. Loyalty was, then, to the 
Cavaliers' politics, what religion was to morals, a rule, a cause, and a j'oun- 
dation. Therefore it was that fathers, and mothers too, sent their only 
sons, with joy and [jride, lo fight for the fatal standard ; loving wives em- 
broidered for their husbands the scarlet scarf that wa* soon to be more deeply 
dyed: man, woman, and cbiid, wherever loyalty was professed, gave their 
heart's first wish, their souls most fervent prayer; for that they freely 
ofFered up their wealth, their nearest affections, and their Hves, to the 
Advancement of the royal cause. 

* The King's array at Shrewsbury, where his little army was assembled, 
is not to be regarded coldly, as a mere mass of men collected to do a mus- 
ter's bidding t'cir a master's Wiiiges. Almost every gentleman and many a 
poor soldier there, represented some home left tmprotected, and household 
goods endEingered. No love of lucre or prospect of ambition had filled up 
tiiose df>omcd ranks: the better, and the greater part, were not only %'olun- 
teers, hut self-despoiled, iin order to promote the royal cause. Every 
tfcatleraan brought with him a retinue, accordins to his mentis, together 



I 



Prince Raptrt and the CatalUn* 



101 



% 



I 



^ilh money, plate, and armB, to fiirnisli which, niRtiy a household was 
stripped bare and many a comfort sacrificed for even But it was all for 
their Kiii*^! And that, to thdr brave old-fashioned hearts, was a sacred 
word and an irresistible appeal. 

* Not that the royal army was altogether composed of such material; 
had it been soj that King bad never died a felon's death upon a scalTold. 
But that such true-hearted men abounded in lus rankii, is proved by 
the long and desperate struggle they luaiiitaincd against all the power 
of Purlianicnt. In our future pa^eti, we shall find tmrne traces of this 
nobler^ purer spirit to the end, but they are far too few, and gradually 
become still more so. Men of evil and violent passions always work their 
way into foremost places in troubloua times, and leave the stain of their 
own characters upon their cause : thus, Falkland, Hopton, Carnarvon, 
are pushed aside by Goring, Digby, and even Lunsford, in the path of 
notoriety, if not of fame, — as they were but too ofteiij even in the royal 
favour. 

' To the latter the King's preacher, Dr. Symmons, thus addressed himself, 
in a sermon he preached before the royal array : — 

' " Alas \ gailant g^entlemen and Christian people, you all know there 
ure too many and too great occasions given by some amonfrst you to our 
enemies to report evil of us, I beseech you, therefore, in the fear of God, to 
walk worthy of your employment. You that he commanders [ beg of you, 
that you would more strictly punish sin according to thoac military orders 
set forth by his sacred MftjestVr your religious master." 

* To the former, also, headdresses himself in these noble words; — - 

• " A complete cavalier is a child of honour. lie is the only renerve of 
Enc^Ush gentility and ancient valour, and hath rather chosen to bury hira- 
Bclf in the tomb of honour, than to see the nobility [nobleness?] of his 
nation vassalaged ; the dipnity of his country captivated or obscured by 

any base domestic enemy, or by any foreign fore-conquered foe Po*'- 

haps you now expect, that by way of use, I should stir you up to be cruel, 
bat, noble gentlemen and soldiers, if 1 should do so, 1 should forget myself 
to be a minister of the Prince of Mercy, and to be a subject of a most mer- 
ciful King, whose meek and gentle nature^ as we jdl love and admire, so 
should we strive to imitate. And I bicHs God for it, I could never yet apeak 
that language of ^i//, sltitfy and desiror/, which the ministers of the rebel side 
are so « kiLful in : I durst never incite men to llight np to the back in 
blood. The spirit of the Gospel is an unbloody spirit^ — ' We,' says the 
Apostle, speaking of himself and all true ministers of Christ, * have 
the mind of Christ which endeavourcth the salvation, not the destruction 
of men **'.... 

• The preacher then exhorts his soldier-hearers to spare and to be very 
merciJ'u] ; to live temperately and in brotherly love : and, in conclusion, he 
entreats them to fine every one for swearing, according to statute ; and of 
the proceeds, to purcb«se comforts for the jioor rebel prisoners, Jeremy 
Taylor was also, 1 believe, one ot the royal chaplains at tliii* time, and 
many other eminent Churchmen attended the King's army throughout 
their aer\ice,' — Vol. L pp. 412—415. 

The battle of Edgehill, that terrible tragedy that stained the 
peaceful fields of AYarwickshire, is tlcBcribed at considerable 
length, one passage of which we extract: — 

' The King addressed his soldiers in the name of theip country and their 
faith. WiH royid nature ever rose with the occasion, and now be spoke and 
looked as became a chivalrous monarch : and his devoted troopB regarded 
htm with an enthusieam unknown to tamer times. 



102 



Prince Rupert and the Cavaliirs. 



* " The King Ims come to marslml us, nil in his armour dresf, 

And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. 
He leaked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye : 
He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was atern and hig-h. 
Right graciously he smiled on ua^ as rolled from w'mg to winy, 
Down all our line, a deafening shout, * For God and for the King/* 
' Even thus Charles L looked and was received by his Cavaliers. He was 
clad in armour, with the brightest star of chivalry upon his breast ; and hia 
voice wan firm and clieerful as he addressed his soldiers in these brave 
1^ ords : — 

* '' if this (lay shine prosperous unto us," said he, *' we shall all be happy 
in a glorious victory. Your King is both your cause^ your quarrel, and 
your captain. The foe is insight. You show yourselves no 'malignant 
party,' but with your aworda declare what courage and fidelity is wifhin 
you. I have written and declared^ that I intended always to maintain and 
defend the Protestant religion, the nghts and prh dcgcs of Parliamentj and 
the liberty of the subject, and now I must prove my words by the con- 
vincing argument of the sword. Let Heaven show his power by this day *s 
victoryi to declare me just; and, as a lawful, sn a loving King to my 
subjects. The best encouragement I can give you is this: that come life or 
death, your King will bear you corapnny, and ever keep this field, this 
place, and this day's service in bin grateful rememhrauce." 

* There is no sound that ever rent the air so terrible as the deep sUence 
of suspense before the battle word is given ; it is the moment when tlic 
soul sinks under the awe of something that thrdls deeper than any fear. 
During that dread pause many a fervent prayer was offered up by the true 
hearts that abounded in both armies, but nntie was more simple and sincere 
than Sir Jacob Astloy'si uttered manfully aloud : •* O, Lord I thou knowest 
bow busy I must bo this day; if I forget thee, do not thou forget me;" 
then rising, be exclaimed, ** March on hoys! " 

' The Farliamentary army began the figbt by three shots from their guns 
upon the right ; the King's Brtillcry instantly replied. Then the whole line 
advanced : as the Cavaliers approached, a horseman darted from the enemy's 
column and rode up to Prince Itvipert, flinging from him the orange badge 
he wore. It was a lieutenant in Sir Faithful Fortcscue*s troop, to announce 
the defection of his commander with all his men, and that the signal would 
be the firing a pistol in the ground. The Prince, already on the move, 
observed the signal, and forcbore to assail the deserters, but Kdligrew and 
BjTon slew several of them before they discovered their purpose. Rupert 
now led on the royal horse, commanding them to use their swords alone, 
and " charge !" Before the ^\ ord was fairly uttered, that brilliant cavalry was 
on the spur ; away in one wild sweep of magnificent concision the proud 
chivalry of Kngland dashed, in generous rivalry each seeking to strike the 
first home-stroke "for God and for the King!" What could abide that 
thundering charge, nil spur, no rein, every heart within that flashing 
armour was on lire, every voice a shout of triumph, every plume bent 
forward to the charger's niane ! The Roundheads seemed swept away by 
the very wind of that wild charge. No sword wns crossed, no saddle 
emptied, no trooper waited to abide the shock ; they fled with frantic fear, 
but fell fast under the snbres of their pursuers. ' The cavalry galloped 
furiously until they reached such shelter as the town could give them ; nor 
did their infantry Ihrc better. No sooner were the royal horse upon tbera 
than they broke and (led; Manderviile and Cholniondelcy vainly strove to 
r terror-sEricl^cn followers: tb^v wci 



rally 



cpt away 



fiery 



avaliers. •* But," adds the canting and profligate Lord Wharton, who, it 
'fts said, hid himself in a saw-pit on the occasion, " il pleased God to begin 



Prince Rupert and the CatalUvg* 



103 



so 

The 



tben to sbow hiniself, for their cavalry tm>k bait upon our baggage aDii 
lost their advantage .... only three hundred of ours were slain!!" 1 
more shame lor them it it had been true/ — Vol. it. pp. 19^ — 23. 

The sacl havoc t!iat was going on on the other side, while 
Rupert was thus Yictorious himtielf^ is well known, liupert wfia 
not a general ta contiimnd a whole aruiv, tor it was ever his 
fate to conquer and then find himsell' conquered. On this 
account he can never stand htgh in military science. How 
many brave general"? have been ttcterred from making brilliant 
charges, for which they might have acquired a name, by this 
very fear ; but Rupert thought only of one thing— to sweep the 
very earth by the impetuous wave of his own regiment, regard- 
less of what might haj^pen elsewhere during hi^ absence; thus, 
when he returned flushed with the excitement of victory, he 
more than once found his enemies in poi^sei^sion of the field. 

An expedition from Oxford, tinder Prince Kujiert, which 
passed over ^lagdalen Bridge plumed and gUtrering, ended in 
the death of Hampden, which ijs thus described: — 

* Hampden now came up from the enclosures nbout Wapsgrove House, 
and endeavoured to check the Cavahers, and gne time to bis comrades to 
rally; but he received his death-wound in hia first charge ; two carbine- 
ballH struck him in ihe shoulder, broke the bone, and buried themselves in 
Ma body. Hts course «as run. He feebly turned hia horse, and rode 
away from the meih to^varda bis father-in-law's house at Pyrton. ** There 
he had in youth mariied ibe first wife of hia love, and thither he vi ouldhnv.; 
goj\e to die." But Rupert's fierce squadrons were now scallered over the 
pJaiii, diiing fearful execution on the fugitives, and the wounded patriot 
Wft5 forced to turn back towards Thame. At length he reached the house 
of one ICzekiel Browne, where bis wounds were dressed, and some hopes of 
life were heLd omtto him. He knew better ; he felt life's task was doue, and 
Le passed his remaining hours in writing to Parliament the coun.sels be 
could no longer speak. Atlcr six days of cruel sulTerinj?, he died, having 
received the sacrament from a minister of the Clmreh of England, Hia last 
words were, **0 Lord, pave my country ! O Lord, be merciful to . . . ," 
Hia utterance failed, be fell back, and died. He was followed to his grave 
amongst his native hillK and wood?« of the Cbiltern by all the troops that 
could be gathered for that sad duty. And bo he was committed to the 
dust aa beseemed a gallant soldier/— Vol. ii. pp. 208, 209. 

Our author exliibits much Bympathy for Hampden, and, 
without doubtj he was more honest in his political views, as 
well as lesa inchned to violence, if he had followed hia own 
nature, than were many of his party ; bnt Ktill, there he was 
amongst the rebel:?^ and must shure their lot of praise or dis- 
praise: nay, his own dLsposition and his talents make him all 
the more responsible, and all the more blatncablc for the part in 
which we sec him, as a matter of fact^ engaged* Well wiis it 
for him that he was spared the trial of further extremes. 

It is true, however, that with Hampden died the original 
claim of justice with wliich the rebellious party would sanction 



104 



Princa Rupert and the Cavaliers, 



I 



their proceedings. He represented the cause of a coiistitutioniil 
^vTong, and after his death that pretence was almost abandoned. 
Ttie stronger minds who, at the beginning of the quarrel, marked 
out the political line of their respeetJve p:lrtiei^J were now much 
thinned. Strafford, Laud, Pyni, and Planipdcn have now left 
the scene. Tbe true elements of the j?tru(f<rle are with them 
forgotten, and lirute force settles the question which had arisen 
from the contact of high principles with evil pai*siona in the 
deeper minds of the first generation in thiis unhappy reign. 
Charles is bow left alone to an unequal content. Cromwell 
rises up as his personal enemy, with a strange and de'^astaling 
power, from which Kupert can no longer protect his cause. 
The fatal tragedies of Mareton Moor and Naseby follow each 
other, and leave Cromwell to his evil triumph, liupcrt is the 
same to the last, but he avails not. The Ironsides oi" Cromwell 
are more than a match for his desperate charges. At Marston 
JMoor, Kupcrt had been successful as ever with his own regi- 
ment, but the conclusion of the day is thus described; — 

' And now the comquerors on either side Imve done tlieir work, and have 
time to rally and breathe and look art>uiid them ; cai.li moving to regain his 
battle ground. When lo ! as if starting from the dead, each victor meets 
another, returning Jrom tbe slaughter cjf his enemies to claim the victory. 
Then caaie the severest triul of the day. Each oecnpicd the ground his 
enemy bad covered when the tight began: and tbrongh the lurid and 
EuJphurous shades of approaching night, uaa seen tbe gh'aamig armour of 
another hoatile Hue. Then it was that Ruperl's fullouerw failed him: the 
high and sparkling metal of his Cavaliers, consuming ali before it in the 
first outbreak, fainted now before tbe sustained tiame of fanaticism that 
burned in the Furitana' excited heart.i, Stiil Rupert strove to rally the 
pantmg and exhausted troops; still hin loud battle-cry "Fcjr God and for 
tbe King !" rose above tbe din ; but he no longer found an echo to that cry. 
The PoritaBH galloped up to his Cavaliers, and met uith scarcely an 
antagonist; ** their enemies were scattered before them,"'' as they too truly 
said. Away over the broken grnvuid and dismounted guns and shattered 
cnrriages, the Cavaliers are flying through tbe darkness, and leave the 
bloodily contested field to tbe Puritans — and Caoai well. '—Vol. ii. 
pp, 459, 460. 

The prestige of militaiy power now changes from Kupcrt to 
Cromwellj IVoiu the furiuus Cavaliers to the indoiuituble Iron- 
sides, whose fierce fanaticism and savage strangeness of nature, 
which seemed to cut off* all bonds of sympathy with other 
niortals, made them to be reputed as myeterious agents of 
an unearthly power. Among the dead on Mareton I^Ioor was 
Prince Rupci*t'i3 dog, which circunistanee was celebrated with 
great exaltation by the parliamentary jotirnals«, as the dog had 
Been aiispectcd of being the Prince's familiar spirit in disgtiiee. 
Even this tot>k away eorue of the awe which had attached to the 
name of the Cavalier* 



Prince Rupert and the Catalien. 



I 



At Naseby, Rupert again won his part of the battle, but the 
cause received its final blow. The conclusion of this battle is 
thus told:^ 

' Cromwell's liorae were there carrying nil before tliem ; and ekirting the 
mHfey waa seen the King, striving Tiiinly to rally hi« broken squadrons. 
Such was the scene the Ol-slarred Rupert beheld uben be thought the 
victory was all his own. In a mnracnt he plungred into ibe thickest of the 
^K^t, cleaving: his way furionsly towards where the Kiii^ was cheering on 
^18 dismayed troopers. *' Oue charge more, gentlemen!'* cried the un- 
happy monarch, ** one charge more, and the day is ours !" Then, placing: 
himself at the head of Ida most for^vard troopers he prepared to charge. 
The royal impnlse communicated itself in a moment to thousands; once 
more they faced the enemy, and in another moment the King: might have 
won a gloriouii victory, or more glorious dc^thj when oae of his courtiers, 
ever his curse, snatched at the King's bridle, and turned him from the path 
of honour to despair. Was there no hand to smite that traitor to the 
ground — not even the King's, that should have done it? The momentary 
glow in the King's breast was past j he HufTered himself to be led away like 
a child; he turned his hack upon his enemy, his kingdom, and his honour, 
Rupert just then came up, but it was too late ; the battle-heart of his men 
was broken; the horse were in disgraceful and lumnlluous retreat. Vainly 
he strove to rally even his own devoted cavalry. They, too, were un- 
manned. All was over except the akughter.'^Vcd. iii. pp. 108, 109. 

From this time we may trace but one raelancliolj progress — 
a gradual decline of power with Charles standing out heibre ns, 
as a victim destined in his death to atone for the faults of one 
cnut?e, aud to be the judguient of another by the fearful sin it 
corunjitted. Of Rupert, it is enougli for the present to say that, 
after suffering much from the vacillation of Charles's disposition, 
whoj now refijsing to second his measures, and now even sus- 
pecting his honesty of puqiose, grievously tried his constancy, 
lie left this country and entered u[Jon other adventurer, of which 
we may give some account if space permit. Charles wa^ wasting 
in strength of resolution ; but what his enemies call weakness 
was often but too lenient a heart towards his subjects even in 
rebellion. After the battle of Kdgehill, Charles ought in mili- 
tary tactics to htjvc pushed on towards London w'itbout delay, 
but he did not, and, as it wotdd appear, from the very tempta- 
tion of absolute conquest. He dare not trust bimself with a 
victorious army to enter London as a conqueror. 

Charles in heart w^as not a soldier, yet he had courage; for his 
princely bearing, as misfortutic tried him, brought out tiiia as 
well as otber excellences of his character. Some remarks on 
Charles's character, and also his latter end, ^ve will extract from 
our author. 

The corameneeraent of fighting, and Charles's melancholy 
expression on that occasion, is made the opportunity for the 
folh 



106 



Prince Ha pert and the Cataliers, 



* Well might lie be ** very raelaaclioly ;*' well might the shadow of his 
soul's misfortune be dark upon that brow— that lofty brow, so famihar to 
our memory J How many of us can recollect our childish sympathy for 
the first timfj touched by the power of art, as we gazed upon the portrnit of 
that mournful face : the innocent boyish enthusiasm that kindLed within us 
aa we heurd from loyal lips of the wrongs and ssufTeriugrs for which so many 
of our fathers di«d. It uns only in aftcr-yeartif when rciuctuntly forced to 
abandon the once literal creed of *' kings can do no wrong," that vie 
detected other chatactcristica besides those of nobleness and truth in the 
martyr monarch of Vandyke and the Cavaliers. Yet even then, when better 
read in the dark facts and darker calumnies that history reveals, we trace 
in those sad features the chamctcrs of weakness rather than of wickedness; 
the unerring signs of a vacillating mind are visible ; and that high-arched 
brow and unceriain lip, the dchcate soft hand that droops by his side with 
all the helpless grace of a girl, the very attitude in which he stands — all 
bespeak a spirit, ill-calculated to encounter the atornia of a state. It is not 
only after misfortune and disappointment had done their work, that these 
characteristic:* become visible in the portraits of Charles. Fiom the very 
first, even when he sat at Velasquez during his romantic visit to romantic 
Spain, buoyed np hy lusty youth and a bridegroom's hope — even then his 
portrait wears a sad, doomed look, as if he felt already destined to expiate 
the crimes and the follies of his tyrant ancestors. 

* Having accompanied the King of the Cavaliers so far towards his fatal 
goal — having endeavoured to esLteuuate nothing, nor set down aught in 
prejudice, it is time to consider what there was in this ill-fated monarch 
that, notwithstanding all his faults, attached so many of the best and 
bravest men of England^ not only to hiacausej but to his person. 

* No human character has ever been so rigorously scrutinized by cotem- 
poraries and historians as that of ChoTles the First, His public and private 
conduct have been exposed to every test and inquisition that the most 
malignant hatred could suggest, or the most subtle genius could invent. 
The greatest writers of our own day have exercised all their ingenuity, nnd 
practised all the easy but impusing art of deiuineiation upon this conspicu- 
ous theme. The Milton, the Pym, and other leading minds of his own time, 
aought out, as a matter of conscience and duty, how they could moat bit- 
terly mahgn him. Every sentence that admitted of a second meaning was 
perverted to his reproach; every action was distorted, exaggerated, exhi- 
bited in the darkest point of view, and imniortatized in sublime inventive. 
The ghiry of freedom was then the great theme of orator and poct^ the 
crime of despotism was a necessary antithesis, and its atti'ibuted author was 
magnified into proportionally colossal guilt. Charles L was idcn titled with 
the principles that were then most obnoxious; he was driven forth, like 
the scape -goat of the Hebrews, into the wilderness of rcprobulion, with the 
curses due to all others* crime heaped thickly upon his devoted head. 

'The very scurrility and bitteraessof the party pamphlets of that unscru- 
pulous and heated time ha\e been ever since sustained, enhjrged upon, and 
taken for truth by the anti-monarcliicnl writers of n hiter period. Yet how 
little, comparatively, has this awful array of perscctition and arraignment 
brought home against tluir victim, setting n^sidc his one great and inex- 
cusable vice of insincerity, which he mistook for policy and state-crafl 
necessity. Grievous and many wrongs indeed he wrought against the 
liberties'of England; fatally he prrscvered in the jirejudicea instilled into 
his youth concerning king-craft, divine right, and royal prerogative ; and 
terribly he atoned for these his errors. Nevertheless, when we peruse, 
even as chronicled by his enemies, his words, his letters, his expressioDs; 
Avhen we observe his patience, his undaunted spirit, his pietj, his long- 



I 



Prince Rupert and the Catallen. 



107 



sufTcring, nnd Lis redeominp: death, we are forced to acknowledge that there 
was somewhat of righteous nnd heroic in this miich-vilificd monarch; 
something, apart from the high sentiment of loyalty, that justified the 
devotion of his followers ; and thnt in the world of truth to come, vnll con- 
fute thfi worst accusations of his enemies. Unhappy in his time, his reign, 
his circura stance 8, hi>i friends, hi.s ejiemies.— he was Blili more unhappy in 
that which gave evil power to ihem all — the fatal facility and weakness so 
often and so pertinaciously misconstrued into perfidy and crime/ — Vgl. i. 
pp. 328-^ai. 

There >vas indeed cause for melancholy if we consider the 
time which passed between ^ the beginning of blood, and the 
conclusion of the sacrifice' in his own person, as opened to our 
eyes in the following words :— 

' The 30th of January, 1C49, was the day appointed for the great sacrifice ; 
the greatest in profane history, when all its solemn circumatances are con- 
sidered. It was not only that an illu^trioua and gallant mam was doomed 
to die ; it was not only the sacrifice of an ancient monarchy to the vulgar 
Amhitiou of a demagopie ; but it was the annihilation of the time-honoured 
and most ancient sentiment of religious loyaltv. Never again was the intnit- 
able hondage of humanity to be ennobled by belief in the Divine nature of 
it5 government ; never again was the proudest spirit to bend reverently 
before its King as before t!ie ^* anointed of the Lord! " From that day forth 
the people were wiser, not happier, fnnn their dread experience. The grace- 
fid ideal of sovereignty was turned into bloody dust bel'ore their eyes ; and 
in its place rose up the harsh and capricious authority of brutal force. 

' Some years passed on, and Cromwell was a king in all but name and 
nature. He then recognised the power that still lingered in that sacred 
name. He was already in enjoyment of all the irresponsible power 
that ever cursed our earlier kings ; he had already exercised such des- 
potism as no Stuart had ever dared to speak of; he had raised his country's 
E re-eminence among the nations; he had stimulated her cnerpies^ revived 
er prosperity, llatlercd her pride, and laid broadly the ibundations of her 
future glory. Xevertbelcss, England cursed him in her heart. The nation^ 
down to his owu creatures, inditrnantly rejtK!ted him as kin^. He saw his 
power departing from him before he died; and then the people took 
refuge even in ihe vices and imbecility of the Second Chfirles from the 
revolting mockery of a protectorate. 

' Every imagination is familiar with the closing scene of the Civil War's 
dark tragedy. The scaflbld erected in phaatly contrast to the fair archi- 
tecture ot the Bau(|ucling Hall ; the bolls driven into the floor in the fashion 
of shambles by the human butchers : the headsman's block so low that the 
KinE^ WAS obliged to lie along the floor in order to reach it with his neck, 

'The fierce array of fanatic troopers round the scailold; the uncovered 
masses of the people^ reaching far awuv towards the green hills that 
bounded the vista of old streets, or visible through the archway thnt opened 
towards the venerable Abbey of Westminater. And high above the heaving 
tiunuttoous masses of people and soldiers stood the King, with the hcnda- 
inan bv his side : the royal victim showed a manly and cheerful bravery 
towards his fellow men, a trusting and deep humility towards God. His 
voice was calm and musical ns he uttered his dying words — brief, eloquent, 
and full of forgiveness, of prophecy, and prayer; his eye was vividly bright 
as he laid his neck upon the soiifTohL One moment's pause, and the King 

favc the signal with his hand ; the axe Unshed through the diirk group on 
igh ; and from below, "one dismal universal groan" burst forth from «l 
nmion's breast, and all is over. 



log 



PiifH-e llupcrt a?id the Oaralicrs, 



'Charles Stuart, slaughtered by hypocrites, fanatics, and traitors, lay 
calmly in his coflrn, in the midst of the Banqueting Hall, in the darkness 
and silence of midnight His destroyer was not so calm though he had 
conquered : impelled by a horror of suspense, he went to visit the dead 
Kin^. Did he not envy the dead majesty that lay there in calm repose, its 
lifevork done ? 

• When the next morning came, and the scaiTold was removed, and the 
streets were thronged again with their usual busy crowds, the people 
doubtlesa mar\'eUed to think how simple n matter it was to kill a king, and 
yet how powerful must he ihoae who slew him. Btit even those w ho sought 
the life of Charles acknouledijcd the gnintleur of his death, and CromweU's 
own laureate celebrated the event in worthy English verse. The partizan 
Has lost in the poet, and Andrew MarvcU has left us thia noble picture of 

the scaffold scene i — 

• • • • • 

' *' While round the armed bands 
Did clasp their bloody hands : 
He nothuig common did, or mean, 
After that memorable scene ; 

But with his keener eye 

The ttxe'a edge did try ; 
Nor called the gods with vulgar spite 
To vindicate his helpess right, 
But bowed hi,s comely head 
Down, as upon a bed." ' — Vol. iii. pp. 398 — 401. 

The King's great companions in life were not parted from him 
in death. The enda of Strafford and Laud are thus alluded to 
by Mr. Wm^burton : — 

• But Strafford was ever superior to circumatancea ; he now compelled 
even his evil destiny to do him honour, by encountering it with lofty seli^ 
possession and maguanimity. Henceforth, until '■ that wisest head in 
England" was bowed upon the scatfold, the whole interest of the time was 
concentrated on his fate and the princi|des with which it was assiociated. 
Straiford's impeachment, defence, betrayal by the King, and dying scene 
contain one of the sublimes t tragedies to he found in history, 

' This first great otTering at the shrine of English freedom was soon fol- 
lowed by that of his friend find coadjutor Laud. The former was doomed 
as (he great pillar of the raisgovernetl State, the latter of the Church-'^ — 
Vol. i. pp. 182, laa 

' In the meantime, however, the parliamentary lesulers stained their cause 
with an act of atrocity that the reddest days of French rejmblicanism never 
saw exceeded ; the condemnation of the poor old Archbishop Laud, to be 
hanged,, drawn, and quartered. It was held to he a great favour that he 
was only beheaded ultimately. They dared to seek the autljority of the 
judges for this murderous and wanton deedj but even they, how evertimidly, 
professed themselves unable to assist the Parliament in legalizing such 
atrocity. To Laiul himself it was very merciful to take him from the 
penury, and loneliness, and imprisoiuuent, in which they had long left Ids 
grey hairs to whiten ; to promote !iini from the too just iiuputations of 
arbitrariness and indiscretion under which he had long lain, to a noble 
martyrdom on the scaffold. His defence was magnanimous and un- 
answerable ; his dying speech is one of the noblest and most touching thnt 
ever preceded a bloody death, and that death itself was but repose to him, 
and a triumph for his fame.* — Vol. iii. pp, 42, 43. 



I 



4 



Prince Bap^t and the Cataliert. 



109 



^ 



TIiroiit^lKtut this work there are mterestiog pjisisages descrip- 
tive of the noble conduct, or noble deaths, of many who gave 
their all to the cause of Charles. Also there is jibundiiTit proof 
that Cavalier ladies were not behind their husbands in the cause 
of loyalty, or in personal counige, when fairly called on to exert 
it : Lady Arundel for instance. 

* On the 2nd of Way, 1643, during the absence of Lord Anmdeli at 
Oxford, Sir Ednvard Huiigerford presented himself before Wardour CaatJe, 
demanding adinittam-c in stinrch fnr mRlignJinla, and upon being^ denied, 
calleil a body of troops under Colonel Strode to assist him in reducing it by 
force. With this army of thirteen hundred men he sumnnmed the castle 
to surrender, and received no other reply than that *' Lady Arundell had a 
command from her lord to keep it, which order ahe would obey." On the 
following day cannon were brought within musket ahnt of the walls, and 
continued to fire on the castle for six days and nighta : two mines were 
also sprurisr. During all this time the heroic lady with her followers, 
amounlin^ to about My servants, of whom only half were tij^h ting-men, 
perseveringly defended her stronghold, the women supplying Ammunition 
to the men, and exertiuj; themselves? in extinguishing the fiery miaailes 
thrown over the walls. At length their povvcM of resistance being com- 
pleteiy exliansted, and no hope of relief appearing, a parley wua offered, 
and the castle surrendered on capitulation. The terms, however, were 
only observed as fur aa regarded the lives of the besieged ; (or the rebela 
had no sooner taken poaaession, than they at once set about plundering 
and demohahing aO the vahiables it contained, and waatefully ravaged the 
country round, so that the loss of property witz computed at 100,000/,— 
Vol. ii. pp. 215,216. 

The following letter from Lady Denbigh to her eon after the 
death of her husband ia one of inopt pathetic eloquence. Her 
eon, now to succeed to the honours of his father, had joined iho 
Parliament, and her piiasionate appeal that he nuiy no longer 
remain with the murderers of his i'ather is as refined a compo- 
sition as we ever remember to have read. 

*"FROM THE COUNTESS OF DENBIGH TO BABIL, SECOND EARL OP DENBIGH- 

« ** My DEAR Son, — I am much comforted with the receiving of your kind 
letter in this time of my great sorrow for the losa of my dear hu.sbaad, your 
deur father, whose memory I sluill ever keep with sorrow and a moat tender 
affection, as he did deserve from me and all the whole world. (Jnd make me 
able to overcome thi3 my nfUiction ! I beg tif you, my first-burn won, whom 
1 do so dearly love, to give me that satisfaction which you now owe mn, to 
leave those that murdered your dear father — for what else can it be called? 
When he received hia death-wound for saying that *he waa for the King,' 
they shewed no mercy to bin grey haira, but s words and shots, a horror to 
me to think of O my dear Jesus ! put it into my dear son'a heart to leave 
that merciless company that waa the death of his father; for now I think 
of this party with horror, — before with sorrow. This is the time that God 
and nature ckim it Oom you. Before, you were carried away by error, 
now it seems monstrous and hiJeouij. The last word* your detir fitber 
spoke, was to desire God loforfive you and to touch your heart. Let yoiir 
dear father and unfortunate mother make your heart relent — let my great 
iorrow receive aome comfort. If I receive joy, you shall reeeive blessing 
and honour. 'Think, if I mny be ho hapjiy aa to obtain this my desire of 



110 



Rupert and the Camlters, 



yoit : Jet me know, and 1 shall make your way to your best advantage. I 
do know you shall be welcome. I give yon iriany thanks for the cure you 
took in payings the last rites to your father j I have a longing desire to see 
vou, ana if 1 had any means I would venture far to do it. The Queen bath 
been very kind to me, and hath iTritteni to the Kin^ to stay the place that 
Lord Denbigh held, that it may not be given to tiny, but that my lord'a 
debts may be paid out of it; besides, the Queen did send me money, or I 
do not know what I should have done, 1 was in so great want. I thank 
you for the messaffe yon sent me by John Grime ; so, with my blessing, I 
take my leave. Your loving mother, S. DKNBJfiii/' ' — Vol, ii. pp. 157j 
158. 

The deaths of Sir Charles Lucas and Sir George Lisle are 

thus gmphically talcl : — 

'The doomed Cavaliera heard their sentence with astonishment, but 
without dismay, lliey were to die before auniiet ; they requested, but in 
vain, to be allowed to live until the following morning, *' that they might 
settle some things in this world, and prepare their souls fur another/' 
They were imly allowed time for some brief prayer, and to receive the 
sacrament. At seven o'clock they were hurried out to a green spot beneath 
the castle walls; three files of musketeers, with Ireton, Rainsborough, and 
Whalley received them there. Sir George Lisle was removed out of sight of 
hiB coumide's execution, but the volley that announced hisi death rang 
upon his car. The gallant Lucas had died as he had lived, with the unos- 
tentatious courage of a gentlerafin: he knelt down upon the green sward, 
and prayed fervently for a little w hile ; then rising, he stood erect, with a 
cheerful countenance, belbre his executioners ; he opened his doublet, and 
bared bis manly bosom to their fire: "See, I'm ready! — Rcbelsr do your 
worst!** were the last words he uttered; before be ceased to speak, the 
Roundheads fired, and he fell lifelesa; four bullets bad pierced his heart, 
Sir George Lisle was now brought forward: he knelt down and kissed the 
dead face of hia friend, with lips that were in a few moments to be as cold. 
Then rising, and looking upon the firing party, he told them that they 
stood too fan one of them replied, *' Never fear, sir ; rit irurraut we'll hit 
you 1" The Cavalier smiled as he said, "I have been nearer you when you 
have missed nie." TheiJ, after & short prayer^ he too gave the order to fire, 
and nenrly in the same words his dying friend had used, — " I'm ready !— 
Traitors*, do your worst V That raomentbe fell dead.* — VoL lii. pp. 405, 406. 

We conclude this sad history witli a tribute to tlie loyalty of 
Oxford, a [Aace of no email importance in these troubled times. 

' On the 2yth the King reached Oxford, where the royal court was for 
the future to be held. That loyal city " was the only one in England at 
that time wholly devoted to his Majesty," and although it remained faithful 
to the hist, it suffered but little froniita loyally. The parliamentary forces 
under Lord Say had respected the scat of learning after a fashion, and 
there are fewer mark.'j of Fmritan iconoclasm to be found in this majestic 
city than in any other of siniihir beauty and similar visitation. . . . 

* In those day a when Oxford lorraeti the rally ing-poinl for all the most 
chivEilrous and loyal men of luigland, and constituted the great centre of 
operations on w hicli the fate of cTiipires depended, the stately old colleges 
inu§t have had some stirring exjieriences. When the streets rang to the 
soimd of the trumpet summoning the young Cavaliers to mount instantly, 
HB some daring lloundliendH hovered near the ciiy, or some foam-covered 
trooper brought tidings of a stolen march, or to be stolen convoy within 



4 



mce Ruperi and the Cavaliers. 



Ill 



real 
^^ com 
^ft eSbi 
^^i evei 



tlieir reach. Or, when tbe students were rauatered by Dcnn and Warden 
** in buff and banddicr" under Lord Dover, to suard the walls and prove 
their manhood under their sovereiga's and the ladies' eyes. It waa only 
when flssHuU was tbreateued, that these young volunteers were allowed to 
act as CaTftlters : eagerly then they saw the '* toga yield to arms" and ear- 
nestly they wished every success to the Roundheads that might bring them 
within reach of Univeraity discipline. Musically, in those romantk tinies, 
tbe old cloisters of AH Souls or of Magdalen gave echo to the armed tread 
of ihe Cttvalierr or the faint rustle of the silken robe that flouted by his 
side^ and shared in his ue weary watch.* — Vol. ii. pp. 44 — 46. 

Elsewhere a note Informs 115 that the Qneen, and uuiny of 
her ladic;?> resided in ^Vlcrtcm Ctiile^e, dnrmg her stay in 
Oxford. The Privy Council was held at Oriel ; the King and 
Prince Rupert had their quarter^^ at Christ Church. 

It is time now that we conclude with a brief review of 
Prince Kupcrt'a history after the tune that he lef^ Englantl in 
the summer of 1646. One occupation in which he was em- 
jjloyed still for the royal cause is thus told :— 

' The na\ al expedition undertaken by Prince Rupert in tbe autumn of 
164S, is of a nature without any parallel in liistory- We must look back 
to the days of tbe Scandinavian Sea-kings for even a resemblance to 
Rupert's present mission. His was a spirit cast in the old Northern heroic 
mould; resolute, indomitable, adventurous aad dauntless. He wa« one 
who could— 

* '* Turn what some deem danger to delight, 

And for itself could woo the approacbiog fight" 

He lived in a romantic world of his own, not withstanding the dismal 
realities of his position: tbe petty intrigues of the young king's petty 
court ; tbe perpetual mutinies of bis own dissolute sailors; the humiliating 
efforts to raise money ; the mercenary considerations that prompted almost 
every exploit; even the details of captive cargoes, the forced sales of "sugars, 
indigo, and hides," not one, nor all, of these things could bring down 
soaring spirit for more than a moment to their own level. From the 
time that he lirst trod the duck of hb gallant ship, he assumed the bearing 
and the tone, as well as the habits, of the ancient Viking^r. In the commission 
that he received, he whs invested with '*nll the command at sea that he had 
held formerly on shore :" that is to say, be was absolute. To gratify the 
oflDcial people about the exded court, tbe young Viking received what were 
termed " Instructions," bat those instructions wltc dictated according to 
his own resohile will, and were binding no longer upon him than be chose. 
Nor was this power to be vTOndcred at; who else, in the midst of such a 
storm of misfortune, woidd or could have umlertaken a post of auch difli- 
cnlty and danger ? Who else could have borne the royal standard in such 
a career as his, without dishonour to it ? Rupert tvas destined to main- 
tain the name of Royal England on the seas, and to contend with his mighty 
enemies not only for their naval supremacy but their wealth. This last 
was the first great object of the Prince's cruise ; the Prince of Wales and 
all his court were almost famishing in their exile; they looked to Ruperfs 
squadron to supply tliem with the very necessaries of life. But for this 
consideration, the extraordinary squadron we are about to sail with would 
never have been fitted out. And while Ormond anxiously expected Rupert 
to enable him to reconquer Ireland, the courtiers' first anxiety was, that 
his Highness should enable them to obtain their bread. The naval specu- 



112 



Prime Rupert and the Cavaliers. 



lation was perfectly successful in this point of vicir, Tlie King being per- 
secuted by every one proved a source of {^reat profit to tlie royal buccaneers. 
There wan scart^ely auy flag that had [lower to protect its owner. Wherever 
a ship was seen she was pursued; wherever pursued, she was taken; and 
the remaining process was wonderfully simplified by the nature of the 
"Court of Adjudication." This high-sounding tribunal seems frequently 
only to have comprised the ofticer of the wateh ; at other times it amounted 
to a court-martial of tbe beggared and rapacious Cavaliers. A sail in sight 
and ft well secured prize, soon became synonymous. There was something 
very attractive in this sort of adveiiture, and it required all the native 
characteristics of gentlemen to prevent the sea-going Cavaliers from carry- 
ing their buccaneering to excess. Hut it was uof carried to excess ; at least 
all was done fairly and above board, as to an enemy ; no cruelty was 
practised; fair terms were offered and honourably kept towards the victim* 
of this predatory war.' — Vol. iii. pp. 256 — 25J>, 

For 60ine years after tliis Eupert was engaged in an expedi- 
tion to the West Indies, of whicli a lengthened account k 
given. We there find hhn in stiirma and shipwrecks at sea, aa 
he had ever been on hind. lie was now amongst wild Indians, 
as he had formerly been among the eavages which rivil war 
develo|>s, even in the most civilized countries. On hi a return 
to Europe our hero betakes himself to the more quiet occupn- 
tions of inventing the mczzotinto style of engraving, aod also 
to many chemical experiment« which might apply to tlie art 
of war. 

At the Restoration, Prince Rupert came to England, and 
spent the remainder of his day 8 in comparative tranquillity, 
with one or two naval expeditions against the Dutch. The old 
town of Windsor was his principal residence, and his pursuits 
maintained their scientific character. In short, he appears to 
have been an eccentric old gentlojuan, sometimes immersed in 
his laboratory, whither Charles II. antl Buckingham delighted 
to visit him, and sometimes in the gayest scenes of those gay 
times. Nor was he free from the vices of the Court; indeed, 
Mr. Warburion is obliged to regret the fact that his hero was 
not respectably gettleil early in life. His latter days are thus 
pictured ;^ 

* The brief remainder of Prince Rupert^a existence was pfissed in tran- 
quilhty and retirement ; a calm and quiet evcninfj^ closuig in after his life's 
stormy day. The philosophical veteran is still visible to ovir imagination, 
as be dvteU in the Old Tower at Windsor, aurrouuded with arnioiir, and 
strange iinplomenta, ajid strange old hooka. The walls iverc hung over 
with mapti of countries that he would have visited, and plans of battles that 
he might have fought. As he pnzcd from his eitadel on the matchless 
scenery that surrounds it. he coidd trace the course of many a niiduiglit 
march and bold assault, He had aecii many of his faithful troopers pcriBh 
on the very slopes beneath his eyes ; and farther oJT, to the very horizon, 
there was no tovni th!\t had not echoed to the tramp of his hold troopers, 
no church-tower that had not ^ven warning of his mareh. Those troopen 
had all passed away i the very name of Cavalier was aliniost forgotten ; the 



I 



Prince Rupert and the Cavalitrs. 



113 



cause for vrhich they had fought ftud fallen whs how trimnphAnt, yet in 
dishoitour, and he, their leader, waa estranged, if not exited, fruni the King: 
he had served too well. 

' Doubtless the royal rccluae had ample food forhia raedilation. Alt men 
of activity in youth are thoug:htfEil in their age ; retroapeet is the ninunating: 
of the mind, whereby memory is changed into exfierience, and becomes 
profitable towards a future life, cither in this world or the next. In the 
retrospect of Prince Rupert's lifct as regarded his fellovv-mcii, there was 
little to visit him with a elf-rep ro ach ; if his career had been unprosperoua, 
it had been unstained by one disshonourable act: he had striven manfully 
to perform Mrhat he esteemed to be his duty; in council and in camp he 
haa been ever fearless and eliaintercsted ; he had eudeavnured to promote 
the prosperity of his adopted country with pratefiil solicitude ; and when 
the country and the King; had fallen under the power of the Cabal^ he had 
retired from all participation in the disgraceful proceedinars that he waji 
unable to resist 

** When impioitB men hear away, 
The post of honour \n a private Btation*" 

And that station he was contented to occupy until the hour of his death.' — 
Vol. ill. pp. 510,511, 

He died on the 2f)tti of Noveuilicr, 1682, aged sixtj-three, 
and wafi buried in Westminster Abbey with great ceremonj. 
Thus ends Prince Rupert, a man of genius^ of eelf-devotlon, 
and unequalled bravery. His character will ever be one to 
excite very diiiercnt feelings. Some will ever hate his very 
name^ and we do not eay but that they cauld make out such a 
case against him as to convince many that he is not the sort of 
man we want among us very often. But some, again, will ever 
moat gratefully preserve the memory of one who, with reckless 
daring and chivalrous loyalty, strained every nerve to defend 
our Iving and country from the dark and gloomy away of poli- 
tical fanatics and republican tyrants. 



wo. LXV. — N»8. 




114 



Art. V.— VLnt to Moim^leries in the Levant. By the Hon. 
KoBEHT CuiizoN, JuN. London : Blurray. 1849. 

The iiresent contUtion of the Greek Church, her practical 
working, and future prospects, are certsiinly matters of Bufficient 
importiince to claim our senoua consideration •, and yet, it 
is a fact but too appsirent, thnt the utmost ignorance and luis- 
appreheosion exists on this subject in England; and that great 
indifference, to say tlic lea&t of it, ie nianife&ted towards this 
living branch of the CJuirch Ciitholic, It is well known that she 
has hut lately arisen from a long-protracted and fiery trial, 
when her cliildren were the unrei?i8ting slavciri of a Mahomedan 
power, and day by day the cry of the false faith went up from 
her desecrated altars — while the cross w^as wantonly thrown 
down and trampled under foot on the threshold of each one 
of her polluted i^anctuariea ; hut whether lu these her days 
of persecution and misery, ahc may not liave had her martyrs 
and confessors, whose holy lives, and glorious deaths of torture, 
were as the shining of stars in the thick darkness which 
enveloped her— whether there be not in her, now, as then, a 
singular faithfuhiess, in the fundamental parts of doctrine and 
practice, to her first apostolic teaching, are rjuestions on which 
most persons in this country are profoundly ignorant. Some 
few able ami valuable books have lately ajipeared on the Eastern 
(Jhurch, but tlieee are not generally read, and the universal 
impression seems to be that it is a nn^e system of unredeemed 
error and Huperatition. 

It may appear strange, considering the vast numbers of 
English travellers who yearly visit the Ea^t, that more accurate 
details on this important subject sliould not have long since been 
brought to England; but the truth is, that by far the larger 
proportion are wholly indifferent to the matter. They are 
lured to the shores of Greece by the charm oi" classical asso- 
ciation. They luxuriate in the lovely climate ; and they wander 
w^ifrh delight in scenes where the past seems no longer a great 
shadowy idiantom haunting the imagination, but a thing real 
and tangible, a shape, a form, whose vast remains arc mouldering 
in the dust on which they tread ; wdio, every here and tliere, 
before their very eyes, thrnsts out as it were a skeleton 
hand from beneath its winding-slieet of ages, that they may 
handle the crumbling bonce, and so form some notion of what 
the bvinff frame has been ; hut it never occurs to them to 



d 



The Church in Greece. 



11. 



irtain whether this beautiful lami 



tfic shrine of a i\ 



I 



k 



aacci 

worship, or of a panil)'!?!n^ siiperstition ; nor do they ever 
remember that the wild poetic people round theiu claim to 
be their brethreu indeed, members with thenu^ehes of the 
visible Church of Chriijt. Others, again, who might be disponed 
to take gome interest in that branch of the Church whieli has 
gathered eo large a portion oi' the Christian world within 
her fold, are too fatally prejudiced a^ijainst her before tlieir 
arrival in the East, to be at all capable of discerning her actual 
condition. In their preconceived ideas, they have given full 
credence to the charge of superstition and fonnalism, which 
has been brought jigainst her, and they take no other means for 
ascertaining its tnith or falsity, than by witnessing a few oi 
those outward ceremonies and customary obaervances of the 
people, "which often do not even form a part of her ritual; 
whilst their ignoranee of the language and habits of the country, 
t\A well as of the ancient i\wu\& <tf jiymbolisni, all combine 
to furnish them witii the most ujietakcu and extravagnnt 
notions, which they afterwartls proumlgate on the authority 
of eye-witnesses. 

We are convinced that nothing would tend so much to 
remove these false impressions, as a few details, simply given, 
of the actual working of theiireek Church at the present time, 
not only in her public servicer, but in her private teaching and 
discipJine. We were, consequently, well jileiiecd to witness the 
publication of any w^ork calculated to cnlighteu the English 
public in theso matters ; and we had ho[ied* judging from the 
title of Mr. Curzon's book, that his * Visit to the Monasteries 
of the Levant* might have h:id the desired etTect. We must 
own, however, that in this reqicct we have been disappointed, 
ahhough his volume is cleverly writtcii, and very interesting 
to the general reader. 

Mr. Curzon^s sole object in visiting the religious houses 
of the Levant, was to procure any ancient MSS. which their 
libraries might contain ; to gain this end he did not disdain 
very discreditable mc;\ne, even to the extent of wduit in England 
would be called drugging the wine of his guests; and he was too 
much absorbed in the pursuit, to use bis own phrase, of his 
* venerable game,' to find leisure for investigating into the 
state of the Greek Church, or for correcting even those misap- 
prehensions respecting her which he entertained in common with 
most of his countrymen. Thus the advantages afforded him for 
ascertaining the truth of her position were neutralized by the 
bias his opinions had already received, although the gay ad- 
venturous spirit wiiich renders the account of his travels so 
nirmsing, often placed him in scenes of great interest and novelty. 

I 2 



116 



The Chmrh in Greece^ 



It If, hijwevcr, with much regret tiiiit \vc are compelled 
to notice in Mr. Cuizoii's book, something beyond mere indif- 
ference towards the Eastern Church — ^there is a certain tone 
of levity in his remarks, and an occasional disposition to treat her 
with ridicule and contempt, which is c^ilcnlated to have a very 
prejudicial effect. One of the great evils of the present age, whicli 
we have reason deeply to deplore, ia the reckless spirit of contempt, 
the thoughtless profanity with which many Lngliish travellers 
are wont to write and speak of foreign Churches. Most often 
profoundly ignorant of the nature of the things at which they 
acoff, they scruple not to brand with ridicule the living branches 
of Christ's Church, forgetting that they cannot aim a blow 
at one portion of the Body without the sliock being felt 
throughout the whole* It is this fatal tendency which daily 
widens the rent in the searalesi? garment of the Lord, and places 
ever further from us that distant vision of the blessed unity 
tor which lie prayed in His hour of agony. But results yet 
darker spring from it, for it does most surely pa%'e the way 
for the scepticism which ia advancing on us from every side. 
When these per8ons hold up to scorn and contempt the doc- 
trine and practice of those who profess the Faith from the 
8ame source that we do in our own communion, they think not 
how, in the minds of others, they may shake the very foundations 
of the truth itself. They may not design to mock at any, but such 
matters as they themselves deem incredible or inexpedient; but 
those who are led by them to scepticism on minor points, may 
not be disposed to stop short where they do. We have seen in 
revolutionary France, and elsewhere, that there is nothing too 
Sficred or too awful to be exempt from human profanation when 
once an opening has been given to the course of unbelief; and 
though we doubt not that our countrymen are often wholly 
unaware of the evil etFects of their own words, it ia yet cer- 
tain that by all such levity, and scoffing at practices which 
other men deem holy, they are but hewing down the barriers 
before the feet of those, who are ever so ready to rush in where 
angels fear to tread. We should be very sorry to assert that 
Mr. Curzon^s pleasant book will produce such results as these ; 
but, at least, we must lament in it the total absence of that 
veiy different spirit with which we conceive it to be the 
bounden duty of all men to treat of the Churches in other lands. 
We would have them ever go there only in all brotherly^ love 
and sympathy, ir^e from prejudice^ and treading cautiously, as 
on holy ground, desiring earnestly to draw closer the bonds of the 
fellowship which unite us, viewing with reverence and gratitude 
the tnices of the Divine Founder*s Hand, and wherever they 
may be discerned, and noting, if need be, the stains which the 



« 



The Church m Greece. 



117 



^ 



dust of centuries may have gathiired on them, gently and ten- 
derly, a8 we would think of a brothers failings. 

We have said, however, that u hi^rher unJ more correct 
view of the Aj[K)atolic Church uf the East may be gained from 
a simple account of her system as it work;* in the present day ; 
and we !?hall find much to corroborate thia statement in the 
actual facta vvliich Mr. Curzon witnej?ded. 

The first part of liie volume gives the narrative of his journey 
through Egypt and Syria, It is full of interesting information 
respecting the Cojjtic and Syriac Churchea, and it affords, also, 
a valuable testimony to one liict we are tuo apt to overlook, — 
that in many a spot unknown to the worki, in the desert 
and in the mountain solitude, Christian devotion abides and 
flourishes, ujjheld hy no human care, and adorned with many 
of those earlier graces of her iirst purity which she haa well- 
nigh lost in lands more busy and tumultuous. The following 
account of Mr, Curzon's meeting with the Abyssinian monks at 
the Coptic monastery of Souriani, which is situated in the 
desert of Nitiia, gives us a striking instance of this fuct^ though 
we cannot but regret that it is written in such a style as to 
throw a shade of ridicule over the self-devotion, which, under 
any circumstances, must claim our highest respect, 

♦ While we had been standing on the top of the steps, I heard from time 
to time some iDconipreheusible sounds^ which seemed to arise from among 
ihe ^een branches of the pulms and fig trees in a eormir of the garden at 
our teet, ** Whnt^" said I to a bearded Copt, who was seated on the steps, 
" is that strange howling noise which I hear among the treea ? 1 have heard 
it several timea when the ruHthng of the wind among the branches haa died 
away for a moment, ft sounds something like a chant, or a dism:*! moan- 
ing song; only it is diflerent in its cadence from anything that I have heard 
before." "That voice," repUed the monk, " is the sound of the service of 
the church, which m being chanted by the Abyssinian monks. Come down 
the ateps, and I will ahovv you their chapel and their library. The roonas' 
tery which they frequented in this desert has fallen to decay; and they now 
live here, their numberH being recruited occasionally by pilgrims on their 
•way from Abyssinia to Jerusalem, some of whom pass by each year; not 
many now, to be sure, but atill fewer return to their own land." Giving up 
my precious manuscripts to the gimrdianahip of my servants, and desiring 
them to put them down earelully in my cellj 1 accompanied my Coptic 
friend into the garden^^ and turning round Home huaheSj we immediately 
encountered one of the Abyssinian monks walking with a book in his 
hand under the shade of the trees. Presently we saw three or four more ; 
and very remarkable looking persons they were. Thcae holy brethren 
were aa black as crows ; tall, thin, ascetic hjoking men, of a most original 
aspect and costume, I have seen the natives of many strange nations^ 
both before and since, hut I do not know that 1 ever met with so singular 
a set of men, so completely the types ol' another age, and of a state of 
things so opposite to European, as' thc-se Abyssinian ereniitcrt. Tliey were 
black, as 1 have already said, which is not the usual complexion of the 
natives of Habesh, and ihey were all clothed in tunics of wash-leather, 
madej tbey told rac» of gazelle skins. Tbij* garment came down to their 



118 



The Charch in Gre^e. 



knees, aud iras confined round their waist with a ieaibern girdle. Over 
their shoulders tliey had a strap supporting a cnse, like a cartridge-box, of 
thick brov( n leather, coutaiiiini^ a manuscript book ; and above this they 
wore a large shapeless cloak, or toga, of the Bam© light yellow wasli-leather 
as the timic \ I do not think that they wore any thmg on the head, but 
this I do not dii^liiictly remember. Their legs \vere bura, and they had no 
other clothing, if I may except a profuse smearing of grwiae, for they had 
anointed themselves in the most lavish manner^ not with oil of |;ladneas, but 
with that of castor, which however had by no means the effect of giving 
thera a cheerful countenance \ for, although they looked exceedingly stt^ 
pery and greasy, they seemed to he an austere and dismal set of fanatics, 
true disciples of the great Macariun, the founder of these secluded monas- 
teries, and excellentlv calculated to fisrurc in that grim chorus of his inven- 
tion, or at least whicli is called after his name, '* La danse Macabre," known 
to us by the appellatiou of " Dance of Death.'* They seemed to be men 
who fasted much, and feasted little ; great observers were they of vigils, 
of penance, of pilgrimages, and midnight masses ; eaters of bitter herbs for 
conscience sake." — P. 93, 

Many of the cuatoms of the early Christtan Church, as well 
as its peculiaritiea of architecture, are Btill palpably evident io 
the Coptic monasteries. It is singular that Mr. Curzon*a de- 
scription of one of tlieir most ancient churches— a huihlinpf half 
catacomb, Iialf cave — is in most respects strikingly similar to 
the Greek chapels of the present day ; his account of the great 
Coptic establishment called the White 'Monastery has some 
interesting details. 

* The peculiarity of this monastery is, that the interior was once a magni- 
ficent basilica, while the exterior %vas built by the Empress Heleoa, in the 
ancieDt E«jyptian style. The walls slope inwards tuwards the summit, 
where they are crowned with a deep overhanging cornice. The building iu 
of an oblong shape, about two hundred feet in length by ninety wide, very 
well biiilti of line blocks of Btone ; it has no windows outside larger than 
loopholes, and thcae are at a great height from the nrromid. Of these there 
are twenty on the south aide, and nine at the east end, The monastery 
stands at the foot of the hill, on the edge of the Libyan desert, where the 
sand encroaches on the p1ain« It looks like the sanctuary, or cella, of an 
ancient temple, and is not unlike the bastion of an old fortification ; except 
one solitary doomed tree, it stands quite alone, and has a most desolate 
aspect, backed, as it is^ by the desert, and without any appearance of a 
garden, either within or outside its walls. The ancient doorway of red 
^anite ou the south side has been partially closed up, Icaung an opening 
just large enough to admit one person at a time. 

' The door was closed, and we shouted in vain for admittance. We then 
tried the effect of a double knock, in the Grosvenor-square style, with a 
large atone, but that was of no use \ so [ got one still larger, and banged 
away at the door with all ray might, shouting at the same time that we 
were friends and Christians. After some minutcsi a small voice was heard 
inside, and several questions being satisfactorily answered, we were let in 
by a monk ; and^ passing through the narrow door, I found myself sur* 
rounded by piles of ruined buildings of various ages, among which the tall 
granite columns of the ancient church reared themselveSf like an avenue on 
cither side of the desecrated nave, which is now open to the sky, and is 
used ns a promenade for a host of chickens. Some goats also were perched 



The Church in Greece. 



119 



^ 



k 



iipou ffa^inents of ruined w&Ilat, and looked cuiiningly at iia as ue iitvadcd 
their domaia. I saw some Coptic women peeping at me from ihe windoWM 
of iome wretcbed liovels of mud and brick, which they Imd bMdt up in 
tfOmerti among the ancient ruhus, like svvuilowa' nests. 

• There were but three poor priests. The principal one led us io the upper 
part of the church, which had lately been repHired and walled olT from the 
open nave, and eiichiscd the apsis and transepts, which hud been restored 
in some measure, and lilted for the pertormance of Divine Bcrvice. The 
half domes of the apsis and two traneepis, which were of welUbiult ma- 
sonry, were still entire, and the original Ircscoea remain upon them. Those 
in the transepli* are stiff fig;ures of saints ; and in the one over the altar is 
the gre^t fi«5ure of the Redeemer, such ay is usvmlly met with in the mosaics 
of Jtalian basilicas. These apsides are above fifty feet from the ground, 
which gives them a dignity of appearance, and leaves greater cause to 
regret the destruction of the nave, which, with its clerestory, must have 
been still higher. Fbcre appear to have been fifteen columns on ench side 
of the centre aisle, and two at the end opposite the altar, which in this 
instance, I believe, is at the west end. The roof over the part of the east 
end which has been fitted tip as a church, is supported by four square 
modern piers of plastered brick or rubble work. Ou the nide walls, above 
the altar, there are some circular compartments containing paintings of the 
saints ; and near these are two tablets with inscriptions in black on a white 
ground. 7'hat on the left appeared to be in Abyssinian ; the one on the 
other side was either Coptic or uncial Greek j but it was too dark, and 
the tablet was too high, to enable me to make it out. There is also a long 
Greek inscription in red letters on one of the modern square piers, which 
looks as if it was of considerable antiquity ; and the whole interior of the 
budding bears traces of having been repaired and altered, more than once, 
in ancient times. The richly ornamented recesses of the three apsides have 
been smeared over with piaster, on which aorae tremendously grim saints 
have been portrayed, whose present threadbare appearance shows that 
they have disfigured the walla for several centuries. Some comparatively 
modern capitals, of bad design, have been placed upon two or three of the 
granite columns of the nave; and others, which were broken, have been 
patched with brick, plastered and painted to look like granite, 

• The principal entrance was formerly at the west end, where there is a 
small vestibule, immediately within the door of i,vhich, on tlio left hand, is 
a small chapel, perhaps the baptistery, about twenty-five feet long, and still 
in tolerable preservation. It is a splendid specimen of the richest Roman 
architecture of the latter empire, and is truly an imperial little room. 

• The arched ceiling is of atone; and there are three beautifully orna- 
mented niches on each side. The upper end is scmtcircular, and has been 
entirely covered vvith a profuaiMn of sculpture in panels, cornices, and evejry 
kind of architectural enrichment. When it was entire, and covered with 
gilding, painting, or mosaic, it must have been most gorgeous. The altar 
on such a chapel as this was probably of gold, set full of gems ; or il' it was 
the baptistery, as I suppose, it most likely contained a nath, of the most 
precious jasper, or of sunie of the more rare kinds of marble^ f*ir the im- 
mersion <»f the converted heathen, wiiosc entrance into the church was not 
permitted until they had been pm-ilied with the waters of baptism, in a build- 
ing without the door of the house of God— an appropriate custom, which 
wa-s not broken in upon for ages; imd even then the infant was only 
brought jast inside the door, where the font was placed on the left hand of 
the entrance— a judicious pnutice, which is completely set ni non-jht in 
England, where the stjualling imp oltcn distracts the attention of the con- 
grcgation* and i:* finally sprlidvled, instead of being immersed; tlie whole 



120 



The Church in Greece, 



ceremony liaviog been so much altcrcti and pared do\vu from its original 
symbolic form, that, wctl- a CbriHtian of the early ages to return upon the 
earth, he would be nimble to reco^iae its meaning. '~F. 131. 

The concluding remarks in this passage are much to the pur- 
pose. We believe that even in the present day the Eastern 
Church may he shown to maintain many of these primitive 
cuatams with a singular accuracy. Unforttmately, Mr, Curzon 
gives UB very few details on the subject in the aecount of his 
journey through Egypt and S)?ria, and we shall therefore pass 
on to the hiatory of his visit to continental Greece, and to the 
tiywu opo?, the Holy Mountain of Athos, which seema to stand 
alone in tlie world as a special monument to the power of that 
faith which, with its strong and sweet persuasionj can draw 
men away from all the joys of life, when most the ardour of 
youth and hope would make them seem alluring, and constrain 
them to abide in a salitudcj where no human ties can chain 
back their hearte from heaven* We must fin^t, however, notice 
what a])pears to us a mistake of Mr. Curzon's, respecting the 
Greek quietists, of whom he gives some account when describing 
his visit to the monastery of S. Sabba. 

• It wjifi in one rd" the caves in these rocks tliat the renowned S, Sabba 
passed bis time in the society of a pet lion, He was a famou;) anchiirite, 
And was made chief of all the monks of Fale^itLue by SaUostius, Fiitriarch of 
Jerusalem, about the year 490. He was tvTice arabusaador to Conatanti- 
nople, to propitiate the Emperors Anastaaius the Sibut and JiistiniAn; 
moreoveTf he made a vow never to eat apples as long as he lived. He waa 
born at Mutalasca, near Ceaarea of Cappadocia, in 439, and died in 332, in 
the ninety-fillli year of bis n^e ; lie is still held in high veneration by the 
Greek and Ijfttin Ghurchea. He was the founder of the Laurai which was 
formerly situated among the clefts and crevices of these rocks, the prcactit 
monastery havins been enclosed and fortified, at I do not know what period, 
but \un^ ailer the deceaaeof the waiut. The word Laura, which is oilen 
met with in the histories of the first five centurieu after Christ, sigiiifies, 
when appUed lo monastic instituiiona, a number of separate ceHs, each 
inhabited by a sin«;le hermit or anchorite, in contradiatitiction to a convent 
or monaster^j which was called aCGenobium, where the monka lived together 
in one buiidmg, under the rule of a superior- 

* This species of monasttcism seems ahvaya to have been a peculiar cha- 
racteristic of the Greek Church ; and in the present dav, these ascetic 
observances are upheld only by the Greek, Coptic, and Atvasinian Chris- 
tians, among whom hermits and quietiats, such as waste the body for the 
improvement of the soul, are still to he met with in the cicHs of the rocks, 
and in the desert places of Asia and Africa. 

* They are a sort of dissenters, as regards their own church ; for, by the 
mortiflcations to which they subject themselves, they rebuke the regular 
pnesthood, who do not go so far, althou;^h these latter fuiit in the year 
above one hundred days, and always rise lo midnight prayer. In the dis- 
sent, if such it be, of these monks of the desert, there is a dignity and self- 
denjring firmness mwch to be respected. They follow the tenets of their 
faith, and the ordinances of their religion, in a manner which is almost 
sublime. 

• They arc in this respect the very opposite to European Dissenters, who 



n 



The Church in Greece. 



121 






¥ 



I 



are as undignified aa they are generally stiug and cosy in their mode uf life. 
Here, among tlie foUowers of S. Anthony, there are no mock lieroics, no 
turning up of the whites of the eyes, and drawing down of the corners of 
the mouth ; they form their rule of life from the ascetic writinga of the ejirly 
fathers of the Church ; their self-denial isj extreme ; their devotion heroic ; 
but yet to our eyes it appeitrs puerile and irr^iUonaL that mm should give 
up their whole Uvea to a routine of observances uhichj although they are 
hard and stem, are yet so trivial that they app&ir almost ridiculous.' 
—P. 20<J, 

We are glad to read even tbis partial tribute of admiration to 
these devoted men, but we are certain that Mr, Curzon is mis- 
taken in applying to tliem the term of Dissenters ; he h pro- 
bably not aware of the great didtiuetion between the two classes 
of clergy in the Greek Churcli, — tlje monastic bodies and the 
working priests; the latter are not expected to live, in any 
reapect, bj the same severity of rule which is enjoined upon the 
former. Under all circumstances, it seems quite anomalous 
to euppoee that an extraordinary sanctity exhibited by an 
individual within the pale of the Church, should be qualified as 
dissent: and certainly, with regard to the quietists and other 
ascetics, it serves, ou the contrary, only to i>hiee them very high 
in the estimation of their brethren, and to entitle them to the 
most sacred and difficult offices. 

Before we proceed further to extract from Mr. Curzon's 
book such pa&sages as bear more directly on the Church of 
Greece, we would now endeavour, by a few details of her prac- 
tical working, to elucidate somewhat the truth of her actual 
condition at the present time. 

There is one primary fact concerning her which must not 
lightly be overlooked — it is the glorious testimony which she 
can offer to the abundant fuliihjient of the great promise once 
made to the Church of Christ ; for there has been in her, 
throughout ages of unparalleled trial and suffering, a constant 
manifestation of that xVbiding Presence, without which she 
never could have survived, living and triumphant, to appear 
before us this day, as a witness to His love and truth. Let it 
be remembered that, from a period so remote as that which 
preceded the triumph of the Venetian Republic in tlic East, 
until within the last few years, this Church has been exposed to 
the blighting influence of the Mahomeilan faith ; the darkness of 
that debasing and yet seductive creed has been around and 
within her, seeking by every conceivable means to extinguish 
the light of truth, of which she was the guardian— by persecu- 
tion, and by the puwer <if a hopeless slavery — by the fire and 
the aword~-by the temptation of ease and luxury— -by the 
licensed gratification of human passions, which renders the 
Moslem superstition fio dear to human coi'ru[*tion— by alt these 




The Church in Greece* 



waa slie long and sorely tried ; but still, amid Iilt many 
etruggles^amid the convulsions of contending powers^ whea 
Turks and Venetians fought for every inch oi' tJie huid where 
the feet of Apostlea had trodden — during the hist hundred yeara 
of unbroken and paralysing subjection to the Turkish rule, after 
the Venetians had been expelled from tbe Ottoman empire — 
still ahe has kept the faith once committed to her, with her 
fluccesiiion inviolate and her ritual tinclianged. Through gloom 
and tempest, century after century , the Greek Church has aent 
in her liarveBt of soids to t}ie garner liouisc of the Lord—not a 
few entering therein to receive a martyrs crown ; the voice of 
her prayer and praise has gone up to heaven eclu/mg back the 
very words of our elder brethren in tlie faith — S. Chrysostom, 
S. Janiee, and many others. Twenty years have seen her at 
length the authorized Church of a Christian land, and if she has 
not come out of her great tribulation with garments altogether 
unsoiled, there is yet muc!i in her primitive temper — in the 
dcvotedncss of her priests — in the Bimi>le faith and obedience of 
her people, and in many of her beautiful and touching ceremo- 
niea> which betrays the impress of apostolic times. 

The Church in Greece is altogether independent of the 
Patriarch of Constantinople ; it is governed solely by the Holy 
Synods formed by seven Archbishops, one of whom, generally 
the Archbishop ol* Attica, is president. The Bishops arc ex- 
tremely numerous, each having their separate diocese, where 
they hold a complete authority over all the priests within their 
spiritual jurisdiction ; whilst these, in their turn, have uncon- 
trolled influence among the people comniitted to their charge. 
The bishops arc elected by the Synod, the civil power having 
no share in the ai)pointmcnt; they must be single men, or at 
the least widowers, whereas the parish priests are all, without 
exception, married. There is a thii'd class, entitled the irvev^a- 
Titcoly or 'spiritual,* who have alone the privilege of being con- 
fessors ; these are specially appointed by tiie Bishop, who, before 
granting them a licence, never fails to make the most rigorous 
investigation into their life and conversation. They are almost 
invariably chosen from the monajstic bodies, but of late this rule 
has of necessity been infringed in some degree, as the members 
of the brotherhoods have been greatly diminished by the legal 
prohibition against the admittance of any new members into 
the smaller monasteries. 

It is only within the last few years that a university has 
for the first time been established in Athens; before that 
period there was no other means whatever provided for the 
education of the priests, even of the Ingiicst rank, but tbe oinii- 
nary village schools, and such casual opportunities of acfjuiring 



The CAurcU in Grsece, 



123 



^B koowledge ai5 their own desire of improvement tiiight lead them 
^■to seek. The institution of this new college is of too reeent 
^■date to have wrought any change on the Greek priesthood of 
^■the present day, although, doubtles?, its influence will be felt by 
^B their successors. We musL treat more of tlteir past history than 
^Bof their future prospects in judging of their prej^ent condition ; 
^" «nd we arcj tlierefore, ready to admit the charge of ignorance 
which has been brought against them. At the same time the 

I state of poverty and oppression under which they have su long 
yeaned, and their distance from the European held of science 
luid study, considerably exphun and excuse this defect ; and 
where lliere is a valid excuse ibr want of learaing, we may 
readily believe that a Himple ikith is permitted in the scheme of 
providence to supply its place. Hie Greek priesthood raot iSmr 
telief with simple trust on the Creeds, the bulwarks of the 
Christian faith, and on the teaching of their Church as eon- 
Teyed to them through tlic canons and liturgical books. Nor 
do tJiey only, with childlike submission, hear and obey her 
voice in the weightier matters of doctrine, but also in the 
most minute details of her enjoined observances. They know 
nothing of that strange anomaly which would permit them to 
accept her instruction as a divinely-appointed guide on certain 
points and reject it in other8,^to follow her commands so far as 
they agree with their own views ami inclination, and systema- 
tically neglect them whenever they clash with their self-ibrmeil 
ideas. They have not mtellectual skill to sift and examine into 
the minutiie of her various instructions, in order tliat they may 
^^ determine whether Kome points in her doctrine be not erro- 
^H neous, or some observances in her practice inexpedient and 
^m Buperfluous. If in certain things she be to them a true teacher, 
^P worthy of reverence and submission, they hold that she must be 
" 60 in all ; they receive her teaching, not in part only, but as a 
I whole, and, giving themselves up to her guidance imreservedly, 
^B they yield her an active and imphoit obedience even in the 
^m most trifling particulars. 

I These remarks? apply C(pmlly to the Laity as to the Clergy. 

We would not pretend to say that the former do not often dis- 
play much laxity in their appreciation of Church privileges, and 
that individual unworthiness is not sometimes to be found 
i amongst the latter; hut with respect to the actual disciphne ui" 
K the Church, it is an undoubted fact that, hovvevcr nmch a priest 
V might wish to shrink from the lieavy duties laid upon hini, it 
is a thing unheard of that any should dare to omit or alter one 
iota of her enjoine<l observances. 

There is another striking peculiarity in the Greek Church 
which is an inestimable blessing to both priests and people. It 



124 



The Church in Gresee. 



consists in tbe I'act that it is their iu violate practice to take the 
MCtual worda in which their Church's teaching w conveyed to 
them quite literally, never stopping t?!iort of their full meaning— 
never goinfT heyond it — not reasoning on them — not attempting 
to analyze them— not seeking to give them a different interpre- 
tation from that palpably evident. The result of this strict 
adherence to the letter of their instruction is especially re- 
markable as regards the Holy Sacraments; the various words 
which assign to them their distinct value and importance are 
taken in their plain and literal sense by each and all ; thus it 
cannot be with thera ns we see it elsewhere, that the same ex- 
pression should convey to one person the idea of an empty sign 
or symhul, and to another the belief in an awful and mysterious 
conveyance of grace ; for instance, %vhen the priest administers 
the sacred elements to the communicant, he uses no other words 
than these: * This is My Body,'—' This is My Blood,' and as 
such the celebrant gives them and the recipient receives them, 
but in her practical teaching no attempt is made to penetrate 
or define the mystery. In like maimer, in res^pect to the 
clause Filfogue in the Creed, which caused the separation be- 
tween the Eastern and Western Churches, the members of the 
Greek communion do 7iot make any dogmatic assertion on this 
subtle point of doctrine,— they simply declare that it is an inter- 
polation on the Creed, and therefore not to be accepted by them, 
—they do not pronounce as to whether the actual getise of the 
addition and the doctrine it involves is or is not to be rejected; 
but they refuse to receive 7Hot*e than their Churcli originally 
taught them. 

To this conscientious acceptance of her simple statementa 
we believe may be traced the origin of the remarkable obedience 
and reverence manifested by the members of the Greek Church 
to their Clergy, They are taught by the ' Holy Catechism 
or Orthodox Instniction,' that Christ hath delivered over 
seven sacraments to His Apostles ; viz. Bapti^^m, the Holy 
Myrrh,' the Holy Communion, the Repentance, (Le, al>golntion 
of the penitent^) Extreme Unction, Ordination, and Marriage. 
Of these. Baptism and the Lord's Sujiper arc termed ra cvq 
tcupia Koi k^aiptra fivimrfpia ; and in treating of them separately, 
it is added, tovto to fivarrjpioif Sierd^dBt} vw avrou rov Z&jrjjpo?; 
but the remaining fivQ are not the less explicitly stated to be 
sacramental means of grace ; consequently, in the sacrament of 
Ordination, when, according to the form of the Greek ritual, tlie 
Bishop says: * Let u8 pray that the Holy Ghost may descend 

' The Catechism proceeds to explaiu the Holj Myrdi na l)cing * the ceremony 
of auointing, by which the bjiptiitcd persona receive the gifts of the Holy Spirit.* 



The Church in Greece^ 



125 



upon him,' ihey believe that through the laying on of hands, 
as the eaoie Catechifijii proceeck to i?ay, the awful hiessing does 
in fact deseend, and the priest hecomes a mfiii set aj>art, con- 
secrated by Divine authority and power to be their spiritual 
guide in all things. Therefore do they obey him with reverence 
and humility ; for this cause they wait on the threshold of the 
church till he appears, that they may bow down to kiss his hand, 
and ask for hirf benediction as a good thing gresitly to be longed 
for; for this, when lie comes into their liouse, they hapten to 
place l>efore him of their best, as for their most honoured guest, 
and never fail to pray him at lea.^t on the first day of every 
month to visit their dwellings and bless them, that if the Son of 
Peace be there His peace may rest upon it; still more for this 
cause when they make to him their humble cimfcssion of past 
miedoingis, they believe that if He who tries the reins and the 
heart can indeed discern in themselves a deep and true re}>ent- 
ance — -so surely as their sins arc remitted to them on eartli by 
Jlis servant's hands, they shall be reu^itted to tliem in heaven. 

The self-denial and frugality displayed in the livci* of the 
Greek priesthood wonld, we believe^ be scarcely credited in this 
country if fully known; — tlie asceticism, the total abstinence 
from the luxuries of life, whicli elsewhere are counted ta^ the 
evidence of peculiar sanctity, by them are practised habitually, 
in the most unostentatious manner, as duties of an ordinary 
nature. Poverty is not necessarily abstemious or self-denying; 
and therefore these good qualities should be mentioned though 
they are in a measure the fruit of circnmatances, which have 
saved them from the great peril of riches ; in practical illustra- 
tion of which we may mention that the salary of the Archbishop 
of Attica i**j if we remember rightly, about 120/. per annum. 
Government has taken possession of all ecclesiastical property, 
and awards a very small salary to the Bishops only ; the other 
priests receive no payment excepting the very trifling offer- 
ings matle at baptisms atid weddings. Thus, even the highest 
dignitaries, the members of the Holy Synod, live with a humble 
simplicity, far removed from the world's pomp and pleasure, which 
must have many points of resemblance with the holy lives of the 
early Fathers of the Church. Although it is amongst these 
that are to be found various exceptions to the almost invariable 
ignorance of which we have spoken, and some of them are noted 
for deep research and learning,, they yet never seek to raise their 
condition above that ot" the poorest around them;— they are 
generally men single of purpose, lowly in heart ; their dwellings 
are very humble, their attendants few ; day by tluy they pursue 
their quiet round of duty — preventing the morning watclies at 
the altar, where the daily lu-ayer and praise are offered up, — 



126 



The Church in Gresee. 



•2foitig; on foot from house to house where the sick or sorrowful 
hnjilorc tlietr presence, and retitrriinf^ ttt the church at night- fall 
to repent their solemn act of worship before they betake them 
to tlieir needful rest, — ^living all the while with an ahetemious- 
ne83 which would eeem to characterise their whole lives as one 
loner fast, hut for the contract with their severity of abstinence 
at the appointed seasons of humiliation ; and yet, with all their 
simplicity of habits, there is a peculiar calm and dignity in the 
rajinnera and appearance of these men which is very atrikinrf : 
they never sectn to forget their prie?!tly chiiracter and responsi- 
bility, even as they never, on any occasion whatever, lay aside 
the priestly robes ; they are always to be seen with the dark 
flowing garment:^, high cap, and black crape veil, which from 
time immemorial hnve been their appointed coistume, moving 
along with an aspect of unworldly repose, which seems involun- 
tarily to command respect from alL They seldom, if ever, uj^e 
the customary fonns of pahitation, hut silently offer tlieir hand 
to receive the reverential kiss, or bestow their dearly-prized 
blessing in return for any act of courtesy ; nor does their low- 
liness of mind and practical humility ever cause them to forget 
the great autivority committed to tliem^ which they sometimes 
exercise with a wholesome severity and an uncompromising 
determination. We may give, as an Instance of this, a striking 
t*xamplc nf rhiuTb-discipline wliich occurred some time since. 

There was a certain priest, named Kait'es, a man of remark- 
able talent and great intellectual powers, — energetic* ambitious, 
and full of the most zealous patriotism; self-taught, be hiud 
availed himself of all such opportimities of acquiring knowledge 
as Greece could afford him, until he had in fact become one of 
the most learned amongst his countrymen; hut bis earnest and 
aspiring mind was not easily contented; he longed for yet higher 
attainments, and still more for the means of conferring such 
Bignal benefit,^ upon his country as should cause his name to be 
held in honour of succeeding generations. lie made bis way to 
Europe with the two-fold design of increasing his stock of know- 
ledge to the uttcrmo.^t, and of obtaining pecuniary assistance in 
aid of a scheme which had become the object of his life. It was 
to found in Greece an extensive college* of wbicfi he was to be 
the sole director and principal instnictor. It seems clear, that 
at this time KaTres was actnnted in no degree by a pure desire 
for his Masters glory, but more probably only by an unholy 
ambition to win for himself a crown of earthly fame, which will 
readily account for his swift yieltling to the temptation which 
shortly overtouk biin. In liis unbounded zeal for knowledge of 
all kinds be seems to have cared little from what poisoned source 
it came to him, antl he gradually imbibed tliosc fatal Rational- 



I 



I 



Tha Church in Greeca, 



127 



I 



I 



Utic c>|)ini«m8 wlik!li threw so tearful a bll^lit over Western 
KnrojH'. It was mv doubt his arro*(aucti of intt^Ucrt aiul pre- 
8unjpUious iitteiDpt at jiHlcpentlence of iiihid^ whioh soon led 
him OH to a cotnplcte nvcrthruw of the faith; but wJuitever 
might have been his previoiLs opinion?, it is certain that Kairea 
returned to Greece a confirmed Deist. 

He concealed his real views, however, and continued to hold 
his place as a priest in the Church; for he had returned from 
Europe with a 3ura raised by Subscription wbieh was 8ul!ident, 
when increased by hi** own litlle fortune, for the execution of 
his great scheme. It was j?peedily carried into cilbct ; he opened 
hiis college, and aa he was believed to be a man, not only of va^t 
learning, but of great piety, pupils were sent to bim from all 
partB of the country. Nothing could exceed the admirable w ia- 
dom and judgment which guided him in the arrangement of this 
institution; his sclioola were a model of order; the instruction, 
so far as regarded secular knowledge, was first-rate, and his 
college very soon becauie a ttmiridhing establishment, where the 
education of a vast number of young men was ably ooridueted. 
This had continued, however, but a very tiboi't time when strange 
rumours began to gain ground respecting Kaires's oi>iuions : he 
was said to be a propagator of Ariafiism ; finally, it was asserted 
that he actually tanglif Deism in his echool;!. No sooner was 
this susjjected than, withmit delay or circumlocution, lie was 
summoned to a[i[jcar before the Holy Synod to answer to the 
charge brought against him. 

The scene of Ka'ires's trial in the ecclesiastical court is said to 
have been veiy remarkable. The six Archbishops, of whom at 
that time the Synod was com poised, were in no way remarkable 
for learning, but in all probability much tlie contrary, although 
Bome were, we believe, noted for holiness of lile. They were 
Bged men, simple and unpretending in epeech and nianne]\ 
Tidiil-^t the accused, who stood before tliem, was not only well 
known as a man pre-eminent in their country for knowledge and 
talent, but he \\ti6 celebrated most especially for hi.? extraordi- 
nary eloquence* He was told plainly the charge which had been 
made against hitn. He answered with a powertul and beautiful 
address, in which we believe he detailed, in glow^ing language, 
the rise and progress of his institution, the wonderful effects 
which ha<l already been produce<l, and tlic sure prospects he now 
had of retidering a lasting blej*sing to their dear country, to 
which end he had devoted his life and energies as well as his 
worldly goods. The Synod heard him without comment, and 
when he bad concluded they simply desired him to repeat the 
Creed— (of course as a distinct act of faith), Kaires eva<lcd the 
order, and again addressing them, implored of tlicm, if we 




128 



The Church in Greece. 



remember correctly, not for any peculiarity of doctrine, or shade 
of opimon, to impede a scheme >vhich might prove the glory of 
regenerate Greece, and be the means of her ultimate restoration 
totlie hiorh place she once held in the .scale (>f nations. He spoke 
long, and eloquently ; they heard him patiently ; but, when he 
paused, they repeated their former command in the Belf-same 
words. He was tlien forced to answer that his conscience refused 
to let him utter that declaration of a faith which he did not 
hold. At once, although the room was crowded with those who 
had well nigh idolized liira for his active patriotism and brilliant 
genius, although serious tumults might be expected from his 
disappointed pupils, the Holy Synod commanded KaVres, then 
and tlicre, to strip himself of those priestly robes which, as he 
was not a Christian, he coidd no longer be permitted to wear — 
they were the tokens of the holy office from which he was hence- 
forth expelled, Kaires refused, as by so doing he must have 
resigned hi oj self to give up the institution from which lie hoped 
80 much— none but a priest being permitted to take the direc- 
tion of any school or college. On his refusal the Synod proceeded, 
without delay, to sentence hioi to imprisonment — ^an order 
which was instantly put in execution ; and he was kept in close 
confinement until the sanction of the civil power had been 
received for his further condemnation to perpetual exile. The 
schools were of course abolished, and the progress of the fatal 
error he was disseminating effectually stopped. 

We have spoken much of the obedient habit of faith y if we 
may use the term, so remarkable in the Greek Church; but we 
would not be supposed to assert that she has altogetlier escaped 
the taint of that modern scepticism wdiich is ruining the souls 
nf 80 many baptized members of other branches of the Church. 
There has been too much of intercourse with young Fi'nnce and 
revolutionary Italy for her to pass unscathed in this respect ; 
but the evil is confined to a certain class only — chiefly to young 
men who have been educated in Europe, and even these have 
sufficient reverence for the Church of their fathers to abstain 
from bringing their opinions very prominently forwaixl ; while 
certainly of the great mass of the population we may confidently 
assert that they do, as obedient children, fullow the form of 
sound words once delivered to them. 

From what we have now stated respecting the unvarying 
obedience of priests and people to their Church, it will be readily 
understowi that her practical syBteni must everywhere be the 
same, and when we have given some idea of her discipline and 
observances as displayed in a country parish, we shall have con- 
veyed such information as may equally be applied to other 
localities, and to the higher grades of society. 



The Church m Greee^f, 



129 



I 



» 



In this 11W6 of (krce unrest anil intellectual strife, when eiicli 
unholy wisdom and so many subtle ci'rurs ;ire striving for llie 
maatery, tliere are 6j>ecial chiu'ms wliich btloiig to u quiet 
Greek village^ deep buried among tlu:>se lofty mojjn tains which 
enclose it m a peaceful fiolitudc. Tlie simple aud intelligent 
people are altogether cut oft" from sceuljij- knowlcdge—tliey 
know nothing of the arts and gcienccs— of the mighty works 
of mail 'g invention, the dLviee^ of Imman intellect ; there are 
no influences from witlioiit to tell them of the evils that are in 
the world— of the errwiJ and eoiitruversy> tlic deep questions 
fitirring the minds of many to very nmdnese— they have but one 
teacher for things temporal and eternaJ, their own unchanging 
Chureli. Tlieir prieat, like themselves, lias probahJy never gone 
beyond hie native village; lie is the successor of Jiitu who lasi 
held that sacred and responsible office, and who has been his 
guide and instructor in all things pertaining to the fuillu Chosen 
by his predecessor, almost in infancy, for the position of neo- 
jjhyte, he has been taught by him all that the Church would 
imve him to know; he lia;3 learnt to repeat the canons and 
formnlariee by heart, and to read the Scrijitures witli at least 
BuflScient case to enable him to deci|iher the lessons for each 
day; he has »pent his childlwod and youth ministering in the 
CouTte of the Lord's house; for more tliau twenty ycara he has 
gone about with his bead uncovered, however fiercely the sun 
might ehine upon him, in token that he is set apart to minister 
in the presence of things holy ; then at the appointed time he 
has been sent on foot, or perhaps on horseback, over oiany a steep 
and difficult path, to be admitted Into Holy Orders by his Bishop, 
and to receive from him, if his characwtcr can Btaud the previous 
cxanjination, the licence of confessor, which office, being sole 
priest in the village, it is necessary he should likewise hold. He 
has then returned probably to lay in tJie grave his former guide 
^od master, and to take his place as spiritual fatlier of the little 
flock whom he will quit no more. 

Ignorant of all save that, which his Church has taught kirn, 
he has sufficient knowledge for his people's wants. Of lieresy and 
error, of doubt and difficulty, be knows nothing. The dogmatic 
truth once given to him, he faithfully received. Faithfully as he 
received it, lie gives it to theiu again, and is in all things their 
Epiritual governor, counsellor, and friend. In him t'ley reverence 
the authority and wisdom of the Church; to him they ever turn 
for guidance. As he alone can teach of right or wrong, it is 
Jittle likely tliat they should arrogate to themselves the right to 
specuhite upon his conduct, or dispute bis conunands ; nor coidd 
any question iu fact ever be raised by them upon the pcr- 
formajxco of his duty as priest, for he can but himself follow 

NO. hXV, — N. S, K 



130 



The Church in Greece* 



implicitly the ritual onjoiiicd. They cannot so mucli as read 
the Holy * Evangelia' which Dight and morning they kiss with 
such deep reverence ; but he requires to give them but little 
oral instruction in the truths wlii<^h tlicy well know it containsj 
for by the simple medium of tbeii^ ciiBtoinary Bcrvices and 
ceremonies, they are taught all that is 'fitting in doctrine and 
practice ; by the very eacraments wliich convey the blessing, 
they are told of its existence. From their t^olemn Burial 
Service they learn the certainty of immortality to soul and 
body • in the Holy Eucharist the mystery of their redemption 
is made manifest ; the necessity of regeneration is shown to 
them in the plunging of their children beneath the baptismal 
waters, where they must die to sin, and rise anew to live in 
Christ; while they are abundantly reminded that they must 
repent of sin, or they ahall all likewise perish^ in their confession 
find absolution. In the beautiful marriage ceremony they per- 
ceive that all human ties must be sanctified by the heavenly 
benediction, in order that they may become the antepast of that 
unutterable communion of saints, when the whole family of 
heaven and earth shall be gathered into one in Him ; and 
from infancy to dt'ath, they are shown that in Him alone all 
fulness dwells by many significant tokens. Long before their 
infant fingers have received strength they are guided to form 
the sign of the cross^ and ever afterwards tney never fail 
to repeat it on all occasions : in their moments of grief or 
danger, bccau.sc from Him alone cometh help; in the height of 
their joy, because from Him all blessings flow; most especially 
before tasting food, in remembrance that the same Hand which 
dispenses to them the good things of life, once for their sakes 
was pierced with the torturing nail; and ever when they lie 
down in the sleep that is so like to death, or rise to the day that 
may be one of sin or sorro^v. They cannot read the record of 
their Lord's holy Hfe and sufferings in His written word; yet, 
could any know the details of His fasting and temptation, His 
bitter cross and passion, better than they do, who, after thirty- 
fieven days of severest abstinence and mortification, enter on that 
solenui Friday, (by them called ^ The Great,') within their 
darkened church so still iind silent, though intensely crowded, 
there to prristrate themselves at the l)ier which represents His 
tomb, and watch beside it during the long hours of that awful 
night and day, till with t!ic first nmment of Easter morning, the 
sudden bursting ft»rtli <if lirjht and music^ and a multitude of 
glad trininphaut vniccs, pr(»c!aims to them that He is risen, and 
they shall rise again with Him? 

Besides all this they daily hear the portions of the Gospel 
recite<l frnm the altar, and tlnir zenl or laxitv in ohevinsr the 



I 



Tk0 Church in GreccZ 



131 



precepts therein enjomed, is fully laid i>iicn to the priest, and 
duly noted l>y him at the period of conies^ion. 

They are not devoid cither of powcHul incitements to that 
self-siicrifice and devotion even to the death, which is far more 
rare in lands of brighter light and deei)cr learning than among 
the simple mcQibers of the Greek comnmnion ; for in their scanty 
stock of Ivnowledge, conveyed to them, aa we have shown, chiefly 
in signs and symbols, the histories of the niartyra and the 
saints of old have a most prominent place; on the walls of their 
humble cliurchcs are painted many a noble record of that 
glorious constancy of faith which has well-nigh passed from 
earth— the faith whose sincerity was tested in the name, whose 
strength was manifeet in the torture ; and as they gaze daily on 
the pictured faces of the martyred, smiling and serene in agony, 
they gather unconsciously a etrange calm strength, for the per- 
formance of many an act of bitter sacrifice and self-imposed toil, 
which shows how Iioly a longing has stirred their childlike 
spirits to follow on His steps of suffering. During the shock of 
the convulsion which overthrew the Turkish dominion in Greece, 
many a mart}r sold escaped unknown, iincheered by human 
sympathy, from the world, where as an apostate he might have 
dwelt in luxury, would he but have professed the Moslem 
faitli 1 and many turned away from the intoxicating cup of this 
life's pleasures, which was offered to their lips in the name of 
Mahomet, and rather chose to drain the bitter draught of 
death! Weak women even, young and timid, who were temjjted 
with tlje promise of some luxurious home, where the loving care 
and tenderness for which their nature craved should be around 
them — even they, in the summer time of life, fainting and shud- 
dering at the thought of violence and torture, yet offered their 
breasts unliesitatingly to the piercing of the knife, and went 
down to their uu timely graves in the name of Christ ! And 
even now, although they need not to shed their blood for His 
name's sake, the members of the Greek Church find ways and 
means of oiTering up their lives in martyrdom with a simple 
humility, far rcmcicd from ostentation and parade, which is very 
beautiful. Independent, however, of the higher acts of devotion 
which they may dioose to impftse upon tnem»elvca, the daily 
routine of spiritual exercises to which they are called by the 
discipline of the Church, is by no means easy of performance. 

Before the rising of the sun, the bell calls then) to matins, 
and it is rare indeed that any fail in their attendance — the 
curing men ready to go and work for a few hours before tlie 
jfl too intense — the wouru leading or carrying even the 
it of their children — the agcil, who might well be 
^ed to claim a ^k:\\ hours longer of rc^tose — all came 

K 2 



132 



Th& Church in Greece. 



tli rouging to tlioir open churcli, bo picturesque in its fantastic 
Byzantine architecture. Mr, Curzon's description of the chapel 
in the Greek monastery of Barlaam, gives so good an idea of 
the interior of the Greek churches, wliich are all precisely the 
BamCj that we will transcribe his own account. 

' 'Hie monastery of Barlaam stands on the summit of an isolated rocl(, 
on a flat, or neiirly flat space, of perhaps an acre and a half, of which about 
one half is occupied hy the church and a smaller chapel, the refectory, the 
kitchen, the tower of the windlass, where you are pulled up, and a num- 
ber of separate buildings containing offices and habitations of tlie monks, 
of whom there were at this time only fourteen* These various structures 
surround one tolerably Inrge, irregularly-shaped court, the chief part of 
which is paved; and there are several other small open spaces. All Greek 
monasteries are built in this irregular way, and the confused mass of dis- 
jointed cdificea is usually encircled by a high bare wall; but in tlua monas- 
tery there is no such enclosing wall, as its position efibctually prevents the 
approach of an enemy. On a portion of the flat space which is not occupied 
hy buildingra, they have a small garden, but it is not cultivated, and there 
is nothing like a parapet wall in any direction to prevent your falling over. 
The place wears an aspect of poverty and neglect; its best days have long 
gone by; for here, as everywhere else, the spirit of asccticiism is on the 
wane. 

* The church has a porch before the door, vapBt}^^ supported by marble 
columns, the interior wall of which, on each side of the door, is painted 
with representations of tJic Last Judgment, and the iorture of the con- 
demned, with a liberal allowance of llames and devils. These pictures 
of the torments oIl the wicked, are always placed outside the body of the 
church, as typical of tlie unhappy litate of those who are out of its pale ; 
they arc never seen within. The interior of this curious old church, which 
ie dedicated to All Saints, has depicted on its walls on all sides, portraits of 
a great many holy personaget, in the stiff, conventional, early stjie. It baa 
four columns within which support the dome ; and the altar or bulv table, 
ayia rpanrc^a, is separated from the nave by a wooden screen, called the 
iconostasis, on which are paintings of the Blessed Virgin, the Kedcenier, and 
many siunts, Tljese pictures are kissed by all who enter the church. The 
iconostasis has three doors in it ; one in the centre, before the holy table, 
and one on each side. The centre one is only a half-door, like an old 
Enghsb buttery 'hatch, the upper part being screened by a curtain of rich 
stuff, which, except on certain occasions, is drawn aside, so as to afford a 
view of the book of the Gospels, in a rich binding, lying upon the holy 
table beyojid. A Greek church has no sacristy ; the vestures are usually 
kept in presses, in this space behind the iconostasig, iihere none but the 
priests and the deacon, or servant who trims the lampR, are allowed to 
enter, and they pass in and out by the side doors. The centre door is only 
used in the celehration of the bofy mass. This part of the church is the 
sanctuary, and is called, in Romaic, ayta Bij/ia, or 617^*0. It is typical 
of the holy of holies of the temple, and the veil is represented by the cur- 
tain which divides it from the rest of the church. Everything is symbolical 
in the Eastern Church ; and these symbols have been in use from the very 
earliest ages of Christianitj. The four columns which support the dome 
represent the four Evangelists ; and the dome itself is the symbol of heaven, 
to which access has been given to mankind by the glad tidings of the Gos- 
pels which they wrote. Part of the mosaic with which the whole interior 
of the dome was formerly covered in the cathedral of S. Sophia, at Con- 
atautinople, is to be seen in the four angels below the dome, where the 



« 



The Churdh in Greece. 



133 



tringed figures oftlie four Evangelists stiJl remain. Luckily for tho Greek 
Church their eacrecl buildings are not iinder the authority of lay church- 
wardens — ^ocers in towns, and farmers in villages", — who feel it their duty 
to whitewash every thing which is o!d and venerable and curious, and to 
oppose the Cicrg^yman in order to show their independence, 

• The Greek Church, debased as it is by ignorance and superstition, has 
still the merit of carefully preserving and restoring all the memorials of its 
earlier and purer nges. If the fresco painting of a saint is jobbed out or 
damaged in the lapse of time, it is scrupulously repainted, exactly as it was 
before* even to ihe colour of the robe, the aspect of the countenance, and 
the romutest accessories of the composition. It is this systematic respect 
for every thin^ which ia old and venerable, which renders the interior of the 
ancient Eastern churches so peculiarly interesting. They are the unchanged 
monuments of primieval days. The Christians who suffered under the per- 
secution of Diocleaiau, may have knelt before the very altar which we now 
see, and which wag then exactly the same as we now behold it, without 
any additions or subtractions either in its form or use.' — P* 286, 

, There is of course thia diflTerence between the chapel of a 
.monastery and the church of a countrj^ parish — that in the latter, 
.one of the aisles is appropriated to the use of the women, the 
other is filled by the men, and the centre is left unoccupied; 
behind the iconostasis, as Mr, Curzon observer, bo lay person 
is allowed to intrude. 

Whilst certain parties in En^jjland look upon it as an insup- 
►portable deprivation of comfort that their cushioned and carpeted 
pews should be exchanged for open benches, in the Greek 
churches there are no seats whatever provided for either priest, 
or people. On the stone floor, where there is no mat or carpets, 
they are expected to stand and kneel, and no other posture 
is so much as contcniplatcd- At all times it is required of them 
that they should stand during the reading of the Gospels ; and 
even on Jlaundy Thursday, when the portions appointed to be 
recited occupy the time from sunset till midnight, they are not 
^allowed to change their attitude, unless, as not unfrequently 
Jiappens, they fall down from actual fatigue* The matin service 
is extremely simple, and resembles that appointed for daily 
'morniiiii nravcr by the Churcli of Eimlund; there is first the 
eolemn invocation, Ayio^ o r)fo<rj evyio^ o IJYi/po^, ayio^ o 
\\QdvaTo^, l\kj}aov i^fid^:. Then the Psalms and Lessons are 
chanted by the pricBt in ancient Greek, which, however, so 
nearly approaches to the modern Romaic, that even the most 
rtinediicated can understand them ; the prayers are then said. 
They are chanted with a very peculiar and inonotonous intona- 
tion, the priest standiofr before the screen with his face ttirned 
to the unseen altar* The prayers concluded, he brings the in- 
cense in its silver censer from behind the iconostasis and offers^ 
it to each worshipper in turn, uttering at the same time ihi 
words of the ble^ing ; he then retires, and the people silently 



« 



134 



The Ckurch in Grmk 



go to kias the feet and hands of the pictured gaiota. Tliis act 

of simple reverence to tlie memory of tlie holy departed is 

.distinctly 6tated by the Seventh Council, which authorized the 

admission of pictures into their churches, to be merely the 

a<77rao'/i09 or (fiiXij^ia — that is, the common tialutation or kiss 

bestowed in ordinary life by one friend upon another ; but the 

precise nature of thia reverential act as practised by the Greek 

'Churelij is practically illustrated cixch time that the corpse of 

me but newly called Irom earth is laid before the altar^ there 

'to receive the last rites and the last tokens of love from those 

.who can hope to hold sweet converse with him a^ain only in 

the blessed communion of saints. When the burial-service on 

the^e occasions has been concluded, and the holy words have 

died away — when the priest for the last time has traced on the 

brow and breast of him, for whom the storma of life are hushed, 

"the same sig-n that in infancy was imprinted there, in token 

["whence the grace and strength would be obtained to bear hira 

[^through them — then the friends and relations arc desired to 

i^draw near, and one by one they press upon the cold lips the 

'VeXeuraEo? dfTTracr/io?, whilst each in turn addresses the corpse 

I with many a loucliing and eajuest word, beseeching of him in 

'the huly realms, whither he has gone, to watch and wait ti»r 

them who yet must weep and struggle here. Exactly similar 

to tliid toucluDg ceremony h the salutation given to the pictured 

saints, bnt we will give the words of the* Orthodox Instruction' 

on this point : — 

* Tlxe invocation of saints is aot repu^ant to the firat commandment. 
The mvocfition of God is a most profound homa«je to His DLvtfio Majesty, 
and a universal trust in Him aloue. The invocation of saints is a uniting 
our prayers iTith their prayers j the saints, when alive on earth, prayed for 
others, and entreated others to pray for them; hcc Rom, xv. 30 ; 2 Cor. i. 1 1 ; 
Phil. L 4 J and Acts xii 5 ; much more afler death when they are nearer to 
Goil, united to Him, and continually enjoying Tlin presence, must they 
rifeel an ardent deairc for the salvation of believers known to (tod. Such hcing 
I 'the ease, what ehoukl prevent ua from itniting our prayers, that is, our 
desire for our salvation, with the deaire and prayer of S. Paul for instance, 
or any other saint? Now in this consists the invocation of saints, which 
80 far from snpcrscdingr, im])ltes the mediation of Christ as the sure and 
necessary foundation both of their pravors and ours. The greatest hononr 
we can pay the aninta is to strive to imitate their lives, and like them to 
pat our truat iii God alone.' 

Notwithstanding much that has been asserted on this sub- 
ject, it is, however, a faet, that in tlie practice of the members 
of the Greek Church, they do but seldom avail themselves ot'the 
licence here given to unite tlicir prajens wltli those of departed 
eaints. In respect to the reverence due to the Blessed Mother 
of our Lord, wham it has been declai'cd lliat they w^or?hip because 
they never fail in like miuiner to bestow upon her pictuie the cus- 



Jke Vkurek in Greece, 



13o 



tomar}' eKTrraa-fio^?, wc will also give tlie statements of the ortlio- 
dox Catccbi;3m. After Bayiii*|, that * the most Holy Mary re- 

* mained antl remains a virgin, before tlie birth, during the birth, 

* and after the birth of the Saviour, imd is therefore called Ever 

* Virgin,' it proceeds to ask, * What other great title u there 

* with which the orthodox Church honours the most Holy 

* Maiy?' * Answer-That of Mother of God.' * 2. What 

* thoughts should we have of the exalted dignity of the most 
' Holy Virgin Mary?* * A,— As mother of the Lortl, she cxeela 
^ in grace and nearness to God, and so also in dignity, every 

* created being.' This is the only formal in.^truction given by. 
the Greek Church. At t!ie same time we are ready to admif 
that many, too careless, or too ignorant to have undcratood th< ^ 
hidden meaning of the outward act, do in fact give an undue, 
and unwarrantable interpretation to the reverence which they 
are enjoined to pay to the Blessed Virgin. 

At sunset the community of the country parish are again 
called together for the vesper office, which is similar to that_ 
of the morning ; the Greek Church, however, is not satisfiec 
with claiming the attendance of her people twice in the daj 
to public worshlp^she abo duly regulates their private devo-?^ 
tions ; in the words of the * Orthodox Instruction' they arc taught 
that * the duty of a Christian in private prayer is to say, at least, 
' the " In the name of the Fatlier," the Lord's Prayer, the Holy 

* Creed, and the Salutation of the AngeL* He is also ini-tructed 
at what hour he ought to pray, and for what special benefits; 
and it is remarkable how univerrfally and rigicUy these directiona 
are followed, although by no means to the exclusion of spon- 
taneous prayer. The great benefit of this watchful care on the 
part of that Church, in the ortlering of her children's ways, may 
be aptly iUustrated by the effci^ts to be perceived in this country | 
from the neglect of a similar discipline. It was but the other 
day that a forcible instance of it came under our notice. A person 

.residing in a town in England, where there were churches and 
[Schools, and every apparent means of instruction, on being asked 
what form she was in the habit of using for |>rivate devotion, 
answered that she had for forty years recited the same ' beautiful 
prayer,' and forthwith proceeded to repeat Watts's hymn, 

* How doth the little busy bee,' We believe it might be a 
curious subject for investigation to ascertain how many of the 

jasantiy in England limit their devotions to the old rhyme. 

There are foui* corners to my bed,' &c. 

Such then is the daily public and private routine appointed for 
members of the Greek Church. On Sundays the Holy Com- 
munion is regularly celebrated at dawn of day, and all who will 
may partake of it weekly: if none present themsclveu, the 



T36 



7^ Church lit Cwreece* 



¥ 



pL-icst CQHiraunicuteaJ ftlcme, but on no occasion whatever ie tlie 
^celebration uiiiitted. The people, it must be owned, are somewhat 
Jax in availing theniselvcd of this great privilege, but we cannot 
feci surprised that they are so, on account of the extreme severity 
of the preparation required before they can be permitted to ap- 
proach the Holy Mystery. The first great essential is, that they 
must coniesB, and receive abtjolution; on no pretence whatever 
can they partake of the Holy Eucharist without doing so. Their 
catechism teaches them with respect to this sacred rite, th«t 
' it is the sacrament by which lie who confesses his sins, and 
' repents sincerely that he has sinned, receives Irora God lorgive- 
* nessby the spiritual father/ and they especially believe thiU the 
blessing eacramentally conveyed depends entirely on the reality 
of faith aud repentance on the part of the recipient. 

The iTvevfiartKtil or contessorij are generally monks, as we 
have said ; but under any circumsJancca they arc men who 
jnvaiiably devote themselves to severei* study and more ascetic 
lives than the other priests, that they may fit themselves by 
prayer and meditation for the difficult task of guiding the soul* 
whose hidden lives arc laid bare before them. It is absolutely 
necessary also that they should have attained, not only to a ripe, 
but to an advanced, age, before they can assume this sacred 
office. It is very rarely that they enjoin any penance on their 
peof>}e, except in cases of gross violation of the laws of God and 
the Church, when they generally refuse them permission to ap- 
proach the Holy Communian until some stated period, when their 
repentance shall have been tested; but they exercise a considerable 
degree of watchfulness over the lives and conduct of those com- 
mitted to their guidance, and often use a wholesome severity 
towards them, in compelling them to abstain at any cost from 
tilings hurtful to their spiritual welfare* Under no circum- 
stances would they allow the slightest neglect of the Church'a 
ordinances to pass unnoticed. It is generally considered ad- 
visable that they should always rcsurt lo the same confessor; 
but there is nothing to prevent either party making any change 
m this respect which they may deem advisable, and there is no 
confessor ever appointed in afamily. The actual ceremony is 
couducted with the utmost secresy ; it is considered a subject too 
sacred to be mentioned even amongst the most intimate friends 
or relations. Although, as we have stated, the duty is never 
omitted before the Holy Communion, yet the priest generally 
enter^s and quits the liou-se unknown to all save the indiriduai 
concerned. The confession takes place the day before the cele- 
bration ; after it is concluded the communicant retires into com- 
plete solitudct where he proceeds to recite a certain number of 
prayers, which the Church positively commands to be repeated 



The Church in Greece, 






before communicating. They are long and futiguing^all are, 
of course, «aid ^tamling^ or kneeling, and when concluded, the 
communicant must not only last rigidly from all loud until the 
ext day, after he han jmrtakeu of the Holy Kuch;Tri^t, but he 
\%^i also abstain from speech and fruni all intercourse with hit* 
family and friends, not uttering so much as the common saluta- 
titui liefore retiring to rest ; they limit aUo the bourse of sluml)er 
on thiis occasion, and there ia another part of their preparation 
i^'hich is very beiuititul^ — knowing that they must appruacli that 
solemn altar only in love and charity with all men, they go* 
before commencing the prayers of which we Jiavc epoken, to all 
the members of tlieir household in turn, not exrludLag the 
lowest of their dependents, and re(|ucst their pardon for all 
offenccis they may Imve committed against them in thought, 
word, or deed, tendering at the same time their own for- 
giveness for any injuriea received, and not quitting them until 
they have obtained the kiss of peace in token of reconcilia- 
tion. At dawn of day, fasting and etill silent, the conmuinicant 
proceeds to the church ; he usually places himself at once kneel- 
ing upright on the stone floor, where lie reumins, without 
changing his jwsition, throughout the whole long ceremony. 
It 18 at their option to stand during the introductory prayeri», 
but very few ever seek that relief After the general coufe4?8JoE 
and the exhortation the priest retires for the consecration 
beliind tlie Bcreen which hides t!ie altar from the people, who 
remain during this interval in silent prayer. The itpTou or 
bread is a round loaf made expressly Jor this pui-posc, and 
Dcver used for any other i it is stamped with four crosses, 
and after the consecration, these are cut out and laid aside to 
be given later to the communicants, who carry them home to 
any sick or aged member of their family ; it is then called the 
dvTtZwpov, ^V^hen all is ready the priest comes forth, holding 
the sacred elements, covered, w ith a silken veil upon his head, 
in token that they are now consecrated; he stands holding 
them in silence for a few minutes, and then retires to bring a 
small quantity to each communicant in turn. He admintsters 
in both kinds; they are given together in a spoon, and he utters 
no other words, as w^e have already said, than these, * This ia 
My Body — this is My Blood.' There is no limitation in respect 
to the age of the communicant — the youngest infants are 
brought to the altar, for confirmation folio w^s immediately on 
baptism. During a certain number of hours after partaking of the 
Holy Communion, no food is taken whatever excepting a little 
bread and wine. The celebration cannot take place after noon. 

Within the last few years the preaching of sermons has 
begun to be currently put in practice, but these are generally 



138 



I'he Church in Gn^ce, 



fleliveretl on liolidays. All eiiints* days and festivals are 
obeierved with the utinoat strictness, and often greatly to the 
injury of the people s worldly interests, as they perform no work 
whatever on these occasions. In the country parisheB tlief 
are kept in a very striking manner. There are thieidj ftcat- 
tered over the whole of Greece an immense number of small 
churches generally called ' rock cka^da,* because they are eo 
frequently huilt in the mouth of caverns on the mountain side, 
or on the stnmmt of an inaccessible precipice. 'J'hey are all 
extremely ancient, some almost incredihly so. There is one 
not far from Atliens, that stands as a strange monument to the 
struggle of the light with the darkness during those bygone 
centuries, whose trace yet lingers round it. It is very small, 
and almost in ruins, but it bears within it the record of four 
great epochs of alternate gloom and light, which seem to have 
passed over it like sunbeama chasing clouds. There is first a 
block of white marble, on which may be read in distinct though 
very ancient characters, an inscription dedicjiting this temple to 
Pluto and all infernal gods. Over this is placed the altju- of the 
Christian sacrifice surmounted by a cross ; the rudeness of the 
sculpture and peculiar form showing, that at some very remote 
period the temple of Pagan worship had been converted into 
the house of God by the followers of Christ. But the cross is 
broken, the altar has been ovcrtlirown, and the pictures of the 
saints bear many traces of desecration, at tlie time when ths 
Christian Church became the Mahomcdan raosque, and the rites 
of the false faith were performed within it Lastly, the Turk- 
ish minaret then built upon it hjis been destroyed and trampled 
under foot, the Moslem symbols all removed, and now the lamp 
ever burning before the altar, ruined as it is, testifies that once 
more the true faith of Christ crucified is triumphant there. 

These chapels arc all dedicated to some one particular saint. 
As there is, generidly, no population near then'i for very many 
miles, the service is never performed within them except on the 
day appointed for the commemoration of the saint to whom it 
is dedicated. On that day the priest of the nearest village 
makes a pilgrimage to the spot for this express purpose, accom- 
panied by the whole of Km parishioners, who follow to att^jnd 
the service. The distance is often fully a duy's journey over 
steep and perilous paths, but they let nothing deter them from 
what they hold to be a duty. Long before sunrise they quit 
their homes and set forward in procession, the priest going 
first, riding on his ass and carrying the books and incense 
vessels ; the villagers following on foot, bringing with them 
the provisions for the day and their children, i'or they are very 
scrupulous in taking even their youngest infants to church, 




The Church in Greece. 



130 



Fill in order tliat they may receive the blessing of the priest, 
and because they believe that all must derive n. certain benefit 
from being even witluii the holy atmosphere of that phice which 
*Hi8 Presence has sanctified. Fainting under the burning 8un, 
they toil along till they reach the little chapcb so utterly 
deserted, excep4 on these occasions. At once, without waiting 
to repose^ lest the tppobited hour should pass, the priest pro- 
ceeds to perform the service; and thus there is not in all 
Greece a mountain cliff, or desolate ravroc, hoireiner lonely and 
inaoceBsiblc, where once in the year, at lejist, the voice of th« 
Church is not heard to sound proclaiming the truth of Kevcla- 
tion. Before the altar of every church in the country, and of 
these chapels also, there hangs a HmuU crystal lamp filled with 
oil, which must always remain lighted night and day. On 
thia occasion^ when the prayers are over, the priest takes it 
down^ trims it, and re-lights it. He then departs with hia Hock 
leaving that little flame burning there in the midst of the great 
solitude, with entire confidence that it will so burn until the 
^came day in the next year, when they shall return again. It 
IS not that they look for any miracle in the matter, but 
this duty of tending the lamp of the sanctuary Is one of those 
which calls forth tliat spirit of sacrifice, of wdiich we have 
6jH>kcn as being eo remarkable in the practice of the Greek 
Church. They hold that it would be a most culpable negli- 
gence if ever this light, which typifies the brightness of the 
true Faith, were to be extinguished j and, therefore, as soon as 
tliey know that the oil must be nearly spent, sonic one of the 
peafiants from the nearest village, however distant it may be, 
-sets out alone, and on foot, to go to the chapel and replenish 
it. This is no common act of self-sacrifice, for the journey is 
oflten dangerous as well as difficult. It is generally performed 
ttt night, for the humble villagei-s caunot afford to lose a day's 
labour* Sometimes it is the working man who has toiled idl 
day in his vineyard, who when evening coincs, acts forward to 
spend the long hours of the night in journcjing to the spot 
where the pious duty waits him. But more often it is some 
poor weak woman, whose natural timidity and feeble frame 
render the task indeed niost painful whicli she volunteers to 
perform ; for it is not enjoined on any in particular. Quietly 
and humbly, she makes her preparatious-^sbe binds a few rushes 
round her feet to defend them, as far as may be, from the 
stones and thorns— she tidvcs with her the oil as a voluntary 
offering from her own scanty store, and commences at night- 
fall her pilgrimage^she has a firm faith tliat, for her errand^s 
fiake, a protection will \te around her, but she well knows it will 
be needful; for even sltould she escape the mountain brigand^: 



h 



140 



The Church in Greece* 



on her path, it is very certain that the sound of her steps will 
rouse the wolves, and jackals, and the poisonous snakes. What 
she does is not assuredly for praise of men, for slie hns no other 
witness to her deed than the quiet stars that light her on her 
way : and when, exliausted, slie hcia reached the desolate chapel 
* — when by her pious care she has seen the living flame burn 
bright, which testifies to the shining forth of One who is the 
Ijightof the world—and when, bowing down, with her bleeding 
feet and aching limbs, ahe utters to no mortal ears her simple 
Warep jj/taJi^ who shall dare to say, that hcra is not a service 
acceptable to God? 

There is another particular in which the members of the 
Greek Church certainly approach closely to the earlier dis- 
cipline in mortification of the flesh,^!! is the manner in which 
they observe the fasts enjoined upon them. These are nume- 
rous and moat severe ; they are appointed fiH' every Wednesday 
and Friday, besides the vigils of certain holidays in the course of 
the yean Thia ia independent of the principal fa^ts, which are 
the three weeks of Advent, the forty days of Lent, and Holy 
Week, which ia not included in that number. Lastly, the fast 
in tlie mtmth of Augnat, which is called ^ Kol^tjcrif rrji; Hai^aryia^^ 
(the sleep of the Virgin). They do not hold the doctrine of her 
assumption, but they maintain that she never passed through 
death, and that her body only slept, in the grave. It w^ill be 
scsirce credited how rigidly and univeriitally these fasts are kept. 
During the Advent fast nothing whatever is eaten, but a limited i 
quantity of shcll-fishj that being the season when this sort of fl 
food abounds ; and as it is very unpalatable they obtain it for a " 
mere trifle, so that scarcely any thing is spent on their eub- 
sistence. During Lent they cat notliing whatever but a little 
rice boiled in water twice a day ; they do not allow themselves 
even bread ; in Holy Week they abstain almost entirely. The 
last fast is the least severe; they arc then permitted to eat 
vegetables, fl 

It is precisely on account of the zeal and sincerity with which " 
the members of the Greek Church obey these her comtnands, 
tlmt they have been accused of formalism, and it is asserted of 
them that they liuiit their attempts to do God service to these 
outward observances. Even admitting that it were so, a fact 
which we believe cx)uld easily be disproved, we w^ould simply 
ask— What, after all, is the only acceptable service which man 
can render unto God? Is it not obedience — obedience in that 
path, and that only, which Providence has pointed out? la 
there anything in the precise nature of the duties which a man 
performs for conscience sake which can affect the Omnipotent 
and the Unchangeable ? He needs, surely, no offering, spiritual 



T^e Church in Greece* 



141 



I 



or material, at our tands. If He were liungry He woultl not 
tell us — His are the cattle on a thousand hills. He wili:^ on© 
thing only,— that men g}ioukl serve Him in obedience ; nnd bj 
the peculiar nature of the duties He impose:? upon them, it has 
seemed good to llim that they should be subdued to Himself* 
What right then have any to queation the acceptablencs:^ of the 
service performed by the Eastern Christiana, since tliey arc but 
following with severe and difficult faithfulness tlie command of 
their Church, which is to them the interpreter of His will? We 
deny, however, distinctly, that the Greek Church limits the 
duties of her children to any outward observance ; we believe 
that pure Christian charity is nowhere more beautifully illus- 
trated than among her poorer members. 

There are no workhouses, no poor-rates, no parochial relief 
in Greece ; yet never did the fatherless seek a home in vain from 
those who ol'ten had not bread to feed themselves — ^ncvcr did the 
widow fail to find a hand ready to help her in her hour of need — 
never did the stranger and the beggar pass the huudile^t cottage 
door, without being invited to enter tliere as a welcome guest, to 
eat, drink, and be refreshed. Indeed, one of the touching super* 
s^titions of the country, which almost always have some holy and 
beautiful truth hid beneath thcni, proves how universal arc those 
pmctices. They believe that to adopt an orphan into tlie family 
is to ensure such a blessing from the Father of the fatherless 
upon them, that their own children shall never know want. A 
child so adopted is called the son of their soul, and they bind 
themselves by a solemn promise never to desert him so long as 
they shall live. There is also another very ancient and singular 
custom in tlie Greek Church, which has for aim and object to 
provide any one left friendless in the world with a protector, 
who is as much bound to care for liini in every way as 
the nearest relation could have been. By a solemn religious 
ceremony two persons, between whom no blood relationship 
exists, are constituted brother and sister, or brothers, as the 
case may be, and they are bound together by this strange fra- 
ternal tie in a manner so distinct and positive, that even their 
children cannot marry, being considered within the prohibited 
degrees of affinity as first cousins. Kneeling before the altar 
the priest dictates to them a sacred oath, whereby they swear 
to be to one another from that hour to their life's end brotlicrs 
in very deed and truth, nothing more and nothing less, and 
vowing as they hope for the favour of Heaven, to perform to 
each other all those duties which would have been incumbent 
upon them, had they indeed been born of the sajnc parents. 
The priest then pronounces over them the blessing nf the holy 
Church, and this union is considered so very sacred that it is 



Tke Church in Greece* 



never violated in any way. In oases where the rich and the 
poor, the weak and the strong, arc thus united^ it is mo^t 
beneficial to both parties. 

Tho^e traces of primitive and apostolic customs of which we 
have spoken as pertaining to the Greek Church, may be found 
in almost all her ceremonies, many of the details of which are 
full of eii^nificance. In her baptismal service, for instance, the 
child is first anointed with tlic holy oil on the eyes, cars, nose, 
lips, and hands, in token that the five senses are to be con- 
eecrated to God; then the Bign of the cross is made over the 
water already sanctified to the mystical washing away of sin^ 
and a lock of the child's hair is cut off and thrown into it, 
aa a eign that he is aljout to be surrendered altogether to 
Hig Master. The infant is then innnersed three tiniesi in 
the name of the three Persons of the Most Holy Trinity ; and, 
finally, the priest holds hin^ up and presents him to the people 
saying, * He is baptized ; behold the servant of Gx)d !' Again, 
when a neophyte is admitted into Holy Orders, he kneels during 
the whole of the ordinary service which precedes the consecra- 
tion in a motionless attitude before the altar, his arms crossed 
and his head bowed down. Before commencing the Ordination 
service one of the officiating Bi8ho[i8 states to the people the 
qualifications of the candidate, and tlicn coming forward he 
stretches out his hand towards him, and demands of them E?i/a£ 
«ffo(?; (Is he worthy?) all instantly an8wer,*^Afto9 — tl^io^: and 
some, if they know him, will call out Jlavrd^io^ t and then, 
after the anointing, the laying on of hands, and the sealing 
with the sign of the cross, they crowd forward to piu^take with 
the newly-made priest of the Holy Communion* 

We have spoken of the TeXet/raio? a<T7ra<r^d?, the last embi*ace 
of the dead ; but the Church does not permit the survivors to 
close with that farewell kiss all reverence for the departed ; 
they are not allowed, as elsewhere, to bury them out of their 
sight and mention their name no more, living as though they 
had never been, forgetting altogether how closely, though un- 
seen, they are still united to them in the fellowship of His body. 
At stated periods the priests call together all the relations of 
the departed for a ceremony entitled the Feast of the Comme- 
moration. The family prepare a dish called xckvfia, made of 
boiled wheat and spices; this is given to the priest, who sends a 
portion to all the IViends, and ujipoints a time when tlicy are to 
meet in the church. Tlie hour fixed is always at dead of night, 
and the persons coaxe dressed in deep mourning, to join without 
light or tumult in a few prayers;— a thanksgiving, we believe, 
for those dejiarted in His faith and fear ; an intercession for the 
whoh; body of His Church, visible and invisible; a supplication 



I 



Th Church in 

for themiseTve!? in the hour of (leatli and judgment; finally, an 
earnest entreaty thnt living and dead may alike come to tlio 
perfect consuinination of bliss. 

There is much nlsu that is beautiful in the wcddinjr cere- 
monies : the signing of the bride and bridcirrooni with the 
sign of the cross traced on their foreheads by the wcddiog ring, 
and their immediate participation in t!ic Holy Eucharist, while 
etill kneeling where their vows had been taken. GJJt crowns, 
decorated with flowers, are placed on their heads by the jiriest, 
ajid it ia one of their most toucliing observances carefully to 
preserve the young bride's crown, and never again to place it 
on her head, till cold and etlff she is carried out to make her 
couch in the grave. It is most striking to sec the withered 
corpse of some aged woman, adorned with the bridal crown, 
going forth to seek again in the dust the huaband of lier youth, 
the memory of whose buried love has been, perhaps, her solace 
through long-widowed ycare. 

The ceremony of blessing the hougc, to which we have already 
adverted, b necessarily productive of very good results ; it 
ensures the visit of the priest once in the month. On the ap- 
pointed day he never fails to come, bringing with him oidy a 
large croijs and a brancli of palm dipped in water, with which 
he sprinkles the threshold, wlieu he panecs to pronounce the 
salutation, * Peace be to this !iout?e;' he presents^ the cross to 
each individual in turn, that they may press it to their lips and 
forehead^ while he gives them his bleseing ; he then takes the 
opportunity of inquiring into the state of the family, and gives 
his advice or admonitions according to their necessity. This if, 
of course, quite independent of his visits in cases of affliction and 
sickness. Sorrow never enters a house in any shape whatever 
but the servant of God is ready to follow in its steps ; he 
comes to anoint the sick with the holy oil, to pray with the 
mourners, or to speak peace and consolation to those who arc 
In any way afflicted or distressed in mind. 

One part of the Church system which tends most especially 
to give the .^jiiritual father a salutary control over his flock, is 
the rule which limits to the priest alone the right to teach in the 
schools. In villages he u, in fact, tlie only schoolmaster, and he 
thus acquires an influence over bis people from their earliest 
ycai'd ; he assembles the children for daily instruction, but the 
sum of his teaching is ever the same — the reading of the * Evan- 
geliiV tlie Creeds, t!ic lives of the siiints and martyrs. The 
neophytes are, of course, entirely under his care, and we 
cannot but admire the practice of thus setting apart the can- 
didates for the priest! mod almost from infancy, as a separate 
rart* i»f Ivrin^s. The cflc'ct of this cuslom is mo«t liencficial 



The Church in Greece, 

botli to priests and j)eoi»le. The former naturally feel themsclvea 
invesstcd with a pcciiluii' tlignity, with which it \a indeed mcel 
that their lives and conduct should agree, while it greatly 
deepetia and strcngtiiens the reverence felt for them by the 
latter. Wc have seen the neophyte, while still but a young 
cluld, avoidingj of his free will, all intereouri^e with the e^m- 
paoiona of liis own a^e, and ever walking solierly by tlic eide of 
the priest, holding his superior's garment with his little hand, 
and bendinrr down his uncovered head over liis well-worn book 
of prayers. 

These are the details conceraiQcr the Greek Church which 
Mr- Curzon had Ultle opporttniity of observing; but he was for- 
tunate in gaining a eonsidcrahle insight into monastic life, and 
most especially m being enaliled to sojourn for eonie time on 
Mount Atlio:?. His account of tlie vmious monasteries in that 
sacred spot is highly intcreefcing; but they all so nearly resemble 
one another, that we will extract only his remarks on the prlii' 
ciiml establishment — ihat of S. Laura ; — 



' I will nowj from the infoTmation i linvc received from the motika and 
my own observation, give tbc best RL-couiit I can of this extensive and 
carious mouasLcry. It vvns founded by nn Kmpcror Nicephonis, but w hftt 
pnrticular Nicephorus he was, nobody knows. N ice p horns, the treasurer, 
got into (rouble with Cliarlcmaerrie on one side, and llarounat IlHi!hid 
on tbc other and was killed by the Bulgnrians in 811, Nicephorus Phocoa 
waH a great captain, a mighty man of valour, who fought with every hotly, 
and frightened the Caliph at the gates of Bajrdad, but did c-ood to no one ; 
and at lenjjth became so disa^^reeable that hid wife had him murdered in 
969. Niccphorns Batnniates, by the help of AlextisComnenus, causcht and 
put out the eyes of his rival Nicephorus Bryennius, whose son married 
that celebrated blue-stockini^, Anna Comnena, However Nicephorus 
BotaniatCH having quarrelled with Alexus Comnenus, that great man 
kicked him out, and reigned in his atcatl, and Botaniates took refuge in 
this monastery, which, as I make ont, he had founded some time before. 
He crime here about the year \<A'A\^ and takes the \'ow of a Kaloyeri or 
Cireek monk. 

* This word Kaloyeri mcitns a g^ood old man. All the monks of Mount 
Athos follow the rule of S. Basil ; indeed, all Greek monks arc of this 
order, 'I'hey are ascetics, and their discipline is most severe ; they never 
eat nieat ; fish they have on feast days; but on fast days, which are above 
a hundred in the year, they are not allowed any animal substance, or even 
oil ; their prayers occupy eight hours in the day, and about two during^ the 
niglit, so that they never enjoy a real nighrs rest. They never sit down 
during prayer; but as the services are of extreme len^h, they are allowed 
to rest (heir arms on the elbows of a sort of stall without seats, which are 
found h\ nil Greek churches, imd at other time* they lean on a crutch. A 
crutch of this kind, of silver, richly oniameiited, forjn?f the piitriarchal staflF: 
it is called the Patritxa, and answers to the crozier of the Romaii Bishops, 
Bells nre not used to call the fraternity to prayers, but a long piece of 
hoard, suspended by two strings, is struck with a mallet. Sometimes, 
instead of the wooden board, a pit^e of iron, like part of the tire of a wheel, 
is used for this [>urposc. Bells are rung ouly mi occasioas of rejoicing, or 



The Church in Greece* 



to Bhow respect to Bome great personage, and on the great feasts of ibe 
Church, 

* The huildings consist of a thick aod lofty wall of stone, which encom- 
passes an irregular piece of ground of between three and four acres ui 
extent ; there is only one entrance, a crooked passage defended hy three 
iron doors ; the front of the building, on the side of the entrance^ extends 
above five hundred feet. There is no attempt at external architecture, but 
only this plaio wall j the few windows which look out from it belong to 
rooma which are built of wood and project over the top of the wall^, being 
supported upon strong beams like brackets. At the south-west comer of 
the building there is a large stjuare tower, which formerly contained a 
printing press ; but this press was destroyed by the Turkish aoldiera 
during the late Greek revolution, and at the same time they carried off 
certain old cannons which stood upon the battlements, but which were 
more for show than use, for the monks had never once ventured to fire 
them off during the long period they had been there ; and my question, as 
to when they were brought there originallyj was answered by the regular 
and universal phrase of the Levant — Tt €^f^po — * Qui sa?*— Who knows? 
The interior of tlie monastery consists of several small courts, and two large 
open spaces surrounded with buildings, which have open galleries of wood or 
stone Deforethem^ by moans of which entrance is gained into the various 
apartments, which now afford lodging for one hundred and twenty monks, 
and there is room tor many more. 

* Two large courts are built without any regularity, hut their architecture 
is exceedingly curious, aud in it^ style closely resembles the buildings erected 
in Constantinople, between the tifth and the twelfth centuries, a sort of 
Jiyseanttne, of which S. Marc's in Venice is the finest speciraen in Europe, 
It bears some affinity to the Lombardic or Romanesque, only it is more 
oriental in ita style. The chapel of the ancient palace of Palermo is more 
in the style of the buildings on Mount Athos than any thing else in Chris- 
tendom that I remember; hut the ceilings of that chapel are regularly Ara- 
besque, whereas those on Mount Athos are tlat with painted beams,^ like 
the Italian basdicaa, excepting where they are arched or domed, aud in those 
citaes there is little or no mosaic, but only coarse paintings in freeco, repre- 
senting saints in the conventional Greek style of superlative ugliness.' 

We must subjoin also the account of the shrine, gift of the 
Hospodar of Walliiclua, which Mr, Curzon eaw at tlie monas- 
tery of S. Dionyaius, for it may well put to shame the dona- 
tions of kings in the present day. 

* I was taken as a pilgrim to the church, and we stood in the middle of 
the floor before the iKovoaTaaiif whilst the monks brought out an oUl- 
fashioned low wooden table, upon which they placed the relics of the saints 
wliich they presumed we came to adore. Of these some were very interestini»; 
specimens of intricate workmanship and auperh and precious materiab. 
One was a patera, of a kind of china or paste, made, as I imagine, of a 
multitude of turquoises ground dow n toeether, for it was too large to be of 
one single turquoise ; there is one of the same kind, hut of Tar inferior 
workmanship, in the treasury of S. Marc. This marveUous dish is carved 
in Tcry high relief with minute figures, or little statues of the saints, with 
ioscriptionB in very early Greek, It is set in pure gold, richly worked, 
and was a gift from the' Empress, or imperial Princess Pulcheria. Then 
there was an invaluable shrine for the head of S. John the Baptist, whose 
bones, and another of his heads, are in the cathedral at Genoa. S. John 
Iw^teran also boasts a head of S. John, but that may have belonged to 
S. John the Evangelist. This shrine was the ^ft of Neagulus, Waywode 

NO. LXV.— N.8. T. 



146 



The Church in Greece* 



nr Iloapoflar of Wallacbia : it is nbout two feet longantl two feet bigli, and 
TL& ill ibe shape oi n, Uyzanline cliurcli ; the material is silver gilt, but the 
admirable and stngular srylc of the ivork man ship gives it a vnlue far sur- 
passing its intrinsic worth. The roof is covered xvith five domes of gold * 
on each side it has sixteen Tecesaes, in which arc portraits of the saints in 
niello, and at eiich end there are eight others. All the windowa are 
enriched in opco-wtirk trneery, of a stmtige »ort of Gothic pattern, unlike 
nnylhiug in Europe. It is altogether a wonderful and prex'iouj monument 
of ancient art, the production of an almost unknown conn try, rich, quaint, 
and oripnal in its deHign and execution, and is indeed one of the most 
curious objects on Mount Athos ; aitboua:b the patera of Princess Pidclieria 
might probably be considered of greater value. There were many other 
shrincfl and rctiquariesj but none of any particular interest/—?. 418. 

One very ancient and atriking custom, still forralng a part of 
the nionastic system in Greece, seeius to have escaped our 
author's observation, but it is too hig^ily characteristic of the 
auatcrc, deep-searching spirit of their discipline to be left 
unnoticed. 

Tlicre is, belonging to every monastery in Greece, a small chapel 
devoted to a very eolemn purpose. Those which we have seen 
were always at some distance from the nmin building, generally 
placed in the most lonely spot on the mountain-side. This chapel 
is entirely deserted, and is never entered except on the one 
occasion for which it is destined. The monks avoid it with care, 
knowing that onoe only shall they enter it, and that in an awful 
hour. Whenever it is perceived by the brethren that sick- 
ness or iniirniity has fallen heavily on one of their number, 
so that they can no longer doubt the speedy termination of hia 
mortal conflict, the Superior announces to the dying man that 
the time is come when he must retire into the prescribed soli- 
ttidc, where be is to wrestle alone with that agony, when for 
the lust time his living voice shall be permitted to utter a cry 
of supplication. Pascars 'je mourrai seul/ awful as is tlie 
truth it conveys with so much significance, is not enough for 
them ; not only must their son I of stern necessity depart un- 
accompanied into the land imaeen, but the living man also must 
await his call w^ithout a sight or sound of earth to clog the final 
prayers that should go as heralds before his advancing spirit, — 
no friendly human voice must cause his eyes to turn back with 
longing on the home of hia pilgrimage, — no look of tenderness 
or pity must come between his gaze and heaven. During the 
life-agony and the bfe-struggle wherein they seek to offer up a 
whole and unreserved love to God, the monks of the order of 
S. Basil are permitted to walk in company along the toilsome 
paths; but those of death must be endured alone — alone, face 
to face, must each one meet the dread messenger that calls bis 
soul before his God. If his life has been in accordance with 
his vows, thankful Iv will he seek during his last hours to com- 



TM0 Ohtrch in Greme^ 



147 



I 



mune with none save Him in whose Likeness he tntsts so soon to 
wake up and be eati&ficd ; gladly will he tnrn from all connexion 
Avith the world and the things of it, to cling in every thought 
80 cloaely to the Cross that it shall bear him safely over the 
deep waters of death; but if it be otherwise — if in name only 
he was the servant of hia Lord, then in the last moment of 
permitted repentance, his sin ia made to find hini out, where 
no beguiling words of charitable hope can soften tiie ntern 
truth, nor the confiding trust of loving hearts dispel the salu- 
tary terror by speaking of peace where there is none. So 
Boon, therefore, as all prospect of recovery ia past for the 
sufferer, the monks carry a sninll trestle bcdsteiul up to the 
chapel, where they place it before the altar, setting beside it 
only a loaf of bread and a jar of cold water ; the dying monk 
is then conducted to this final refuge. Whenever his failing 
strength permits he goes there voluntarily, toiling with tottering 
steps along the last stage of bis lifeV journey, and lays him down 
with cahn submission on his death-bed; the Superior then admi- 
nisters to him the concluding rites of the Church ; the whole 
brotherhood partake with him of the Holy Communion, and 
witli this solemn act all intercourse with him closes for ever; 
no breath trom the mortal world must henceforth sully the 
spirit cleansed by the ISacramental Blood—no word designed 
for human ears must pass his lips, now purified as with a living 
cool. They all depart, and leave him alone to die in perfect 
solitude. He lies there— no light is round him but that of the 
lamp which hangs before the altar, no sound is lieard but the 
sobbing of his own life-breath, as it ebbs away— hajdy in such 
a fearful stillness it may seem to hiui that he can hear the 
echoing footsteps of the swift approaching death ; or, more 
awtiil yet, the whispering voices of forgotten sins rising up to 
claim repentance. Once only in the twenty -four hours he ia 
visited by his brethren; they come in the night to chant around 
him the prayers for the dying; but they never speak to him, 
for he is no longer of this world — tliey have nothing further to 
do with him. Finally, they come to find him dead, but whether 
his soul went forth in a bitter struggle, or whether gently he 
fell asleep, none of this earth must ever know. 

We liave now endeavoured to show how much there ia in the 
holy Eastern Church to claim our sympathy and admiration ; 
yet, we are not blind to the truth that severe and primitive as she 
is in many respects, the leaven of human corruption ia working 
there also. Many abuses have gained ground within her in 
times past, many dangers beset her now ; but for thie very 
retifion we would demand fur her from all otlier branches of the 
Catholic Church the brotherly love and assistance of which she 

l2 




148 



The Church in Greece, 



has been too long bereft. How complete is the neglect with 
which she has ever been treated by our own communion, may 
be snflicienfly proved by the mutual ignorance in wliicli both 
Churchoa have been content to remain respecting one another. 
She knows, perhaps, even less of us than we do of her- — ^her 
opportunities of observation respecting our faith and practice 
have been confined to such representationa of them as the 
indiftcrcncc and frivolity of worldly persons travelling for 
amusement, or the mistaken zeal of Dissenting Mssion- 
aries, could display ; and she would be as little likely to look 
for communion or sympathy from us, as we should be to offer 
it. Surely these things ought not to be. If, as the wisest 
and best among us seem to think, the Church must shortly pre- 
pare for many a sore conflict with the powers of darkness, is it 
not in unity that her strength must be ? We have said that dan- 
gers now tlireaten the Eastern Churchy — dangers which, if she 
fall a prey to them, would disable her altogether from working 
with us in the hour of need. This peril is not now from perse- 
cution, or the allurements of the ilahomedan creed, but from 
the spirit of the world, from the encroachments of the civil 
power and the ambition of foreign states, from the influence 
of those whose interest it is to paralyse her and render her 
voiceleaa, to sap her foundations, and cause her to waste away. 
Alreatly is she wholly without resources j what little she pos- 
sessed has been taken from her, and she has no means of remedy- 
ing much that is hurtful in her present condition. Her want of 
learning, too, will ultimately become a deadly bane, unless some 
improvement, which however may fairly be anticipated, should 
take place ; for she must learn to keep pace with the* world 
against which she has to fight; she must learn to appreciate 
her own high privileges, to know and act up to her own high 
calling, which as yet she scarcely understands. Now if these 
evils be already within and around the Greek Church, it must 
needs he that we ourselves are affected by them^^if one mem- 
ber suffer, the whole body must suftler with it ; and we know 
not how our neglect and indifTcrence may one day fall back 
upon ourselves, if we leave this sister Church to struggle any 
longer with her deep poverty and many trials, unaided and 
uncliecred. It is time that we should do something more 
than dwell with an inactive longing on our desire for unity. 
Although neither ourselves nor our children, nor 3^et, perhaps, 
even succeeding generations, may hope to witness that glorious 
consummation, still we may do something towards it, We 
shall profit by the effort, though it seem fruitless now. Yes; 
though it hear no fruit ibr many centuries, are we not still 
working for ourselves, and for our brethren ? Christ's Church 



The Church in Greece* 



149 



I 



IB not dlvidetl —time, and spaccj and Individualityj have nought 
to do with it. Vi^c form a part of what it was in Apostolic 
timesj and of what it shall lie at the hour of the Lord'B coining. 
The work of every individual must affect the whole. Each deed 
of his strikes a chord that vibrates through the entire body 
from first to last of its earthly probation^ and the responding 
note may be far off in the vista of coming ages. If there must 
needs be divisions now, yet sympathy towards our brctlu-en, and 
loving help, and a mutual interchange of hope, will eurely 
strengthen us all alike against the common enemies of the 
universal Church ; and even had it no such result, it is, it must 
be, our bounden duty. 

"We would ask but little, however, for the Greek Church. 
We would only plead for her that those who visit her from our 
own shores^ instead of treating her with scorn and ridicule, or 
with apathetic and complete indifference, would acknowledge 
in her the one legitimate object of interest which ought to 
claim their whole thoughts and attention. 

We feel certain that it is incalculable how much might be done 
for her, and through her, for the entire Church, if a very few 
of those vast numbers of our countrymen who visit the East 
would but go there as true follo^vers of Christ, with the single 
devoted purpose of tendering by every means in their power 
a hel[jing hand to this struggling portion of His own redeemed 
flock. The crusaders of old counted it all joy to be permitted 
to give up ease, and luxury, and life itself, for the rescuing of 
Hb Sacred Tomb from the infidel ; and shall not some few per- 
haps of ourselvc!?, no less by profession sworn soldiers of the 
Cross, abandon our exclusive search for mere amusement, and 
turn from the beautiful in art and nature, and the manifold 
charms of the classic ground, to m\e tlieir time, and energies, 
and substance, to this, a part ot His living body? It is a 
bitter thing to see those men, baptized Christians one and 
nil, bestowing not only their talents and attention, but their 
superfluous riches also, on the fair relics of Pagan times, which 
are around them thcrc^ making it often the sole aim and object 
of their journeys to trace out the lingering remnants of heathen 
mythology, whilst Hia own holy Church is languishing and 
fainting in the land for lack of nurture and assistance- We 
do not mean to condemn the natural pleasure which the scholar 
and the student must take in visiting the very localities which 
are connected with his earliest classical associations ; we know 
well how strange a fascination there is, for instance, in that 
poor fallen city of Athens, so beautiful in its great decay, lying 
there all soiled and helpless, like a melancholy native of the 
past, exiled into a strange generation ; but the pleasant dream- 




150 



The Church in Grs^e. 



ing over bygone times, and the allurements of poetic recollecticm, 
are too unreal, too unprofitable to occupy us in this brief period 
when it ig called to-day, and we alone can work. The war 
between the Church and Infidelity seems waxing fiercer every 
hour, and no more urgent duty is set before us than that of 
Btrenirthening our brethren. 

We are well aware that it is a most Utopian vision to imagine 
that even many of the ^ray and pleasure-seeking travellers who 
visit Eastern lands will ever unite in serving the Great Cause 
they all should have at heart ; but even indlviduala might do 
much, were they but earnest in purpose and in hope. We may 
bring this assertion to the test of most practical illustration, by 
showing that the eum required for the education from first to 
last of a Greek priest is infinitely leps than that which almost 
all Englishmen visiting those countries are certain to bestow for 
the popscsision of some relic of ancient art. Incredible tm it may 
eeem, 20/. is all that is required to be paid by a candidate for 
Holy Orders on his admission to the new University, where we 
have ascertained that he does in fact receive during several years, 
euch instruction as will render him perfectly fit for his sacred 
office. We menticm this merely as an instance to show how 
much good miglit be done, were some spirit of sympathy for 
the Greek Church to animate all those who, like Mr. Curzon, 
not only have an opportunity of judging of her position, but 
who also give the result of their observations to the public* 
Let them, therefore, whilst present with her, offer her, to the 
uttermost of their power, all assistance ; and when they write of 
her, let it not be with levity and «corn, but rather let them seek 
to draw out the love and pity of our brethren towards her, and 
a blessing shall surely rest upon their labours. 



151 



^ 



^ 



Art. Yl,—Jounial in France in 1845 and 1848, mik Lemrs 
from Italt/ in 1847, of Things and Per soiu concernim^ the Church 
and Education, Bij Thomas AVilliam Allies* SL A. Rector 
of Launton, Oj^ott* London : Longman, Brown, Green Sc 



to 



1849. 



Among all the Churches of the Latin commimion, the French 
Church at thia day occupies the most prominent place, a place 
distinctly and peculiarly its own, in point of importance and 
interest. That it ap[>ears so to us in England, is no accident of 
local proximity. Wo know very little, it is true, of the Italian 
or Peninsular Churches, but we know that they do not come 
forward on the stage of the world, and catch the eye, as the 
French Clinrch does. It is the fit ecclcsfiastical representative 
of the leading nation of Continental Europe. In thut stirring 
and adventurous people, it is stirring and adventurous too — to 
the most eventful history of modern days, it has contrihuted a 
most eventful portion. No Church lias gone through guch 
viciBBitudes, so sudden, so stormy, so extreme. No Church has 
jet felt with such violence the rude shocks of political changes, 
altering at a moment's notice all old relations, and forcing her 
to adapt herself to new difficulties and new ground. From being 
the richest Churcli in Christendom, elie became at once the 
poorest; from being the proudest, she became tlie most perse* 
cutcd. Her place could sciircc bo found in her own land, and 
her Clergy received the alms of those whom they called heretics. 
Then she was restored — restored to the patronage of those who 
had confiscated her land and persecuted her priests — restored, 
that she might do homage to the new powers of the sword, and 
sanctify their title— retitored, but in chains, to grace an Impe- 
rial throne. Next raised by one chance of war high enough for 
envy, but not for power, another chance of war hurled licr down 
again. What the cannon of Waterloo had won for ber was lost 
at the barricades of July, Then at length she began to compre- 
hend the stern lesson which events had been teaching her, that 
her hope must no longer be m go\'ernments ; tliat she had all 
but lost the French people, and that her last chance lay, humanly 
speaking, in herself. The Inevitable necessity of BclfHlepeudence 
and energy, felt very widely, soon took the ehai)e of a theory, 
propounded and urged forward by no common advocate. It w a^ 
a memorable era when the Arenir proclaimed in words which 
aatonished not France only, but Europe, that tbe Church of 



15^ 




Allied Journal in France in \%45 and 1848. 



revolutionized France must take new ground ; that, with her 
coteniporaries, tthe nmet look onwards, not backwards, and take 
lier place among the leaders of * progress,' in the adviuice of the 
advancing age. It was vain> it eaid, to linger on the past when 
the past was become a by-word ; ancient honours and venerable 
prcrogativee suited not the hard-working Clergy of a democracy; 
hut the future was well wortli the past, and that might be theirs. 
But, then, they must break at once with the maxims, the tra- 
ditions, the regretsj of the monarchy, and match themselves with 
those daring parties which were competing for that common 
prize — the future ; they must mingle with them, and share their 
Dold spirit and fiery zeal, if they hope to tame and win them, 
or even to defeat them. It cost the leader of this bold move- 
ment dear — it cost him his faith and Christian hope ; but his 
wonls stirred the whole Church of France, and went far to 
decide her course. Her leaders embraced the idea of independ- 
ence, the consetjuences it involved, the prospect it opened. 
They entered on their new line with zeal, and with the chai-acter- 
istic spirit and ease of Frenchmen, Governments had ignored 
the Divine claims of the Church, — ^knew of her only as a fact 
of society, — as a fuct, therefore, of society, they should find out 
her strength. New vigour and activity were infused into her 
institutiong of education and charity ; embarrassing watchwords 
dropped ; towards the government, an attitude assumed of dis- 
tance and jealous vigilance; and thus the French Church 
appeared as an important and rising power in the country; one 
which statesmeu found they must at once resist and conciliate. 
The change, though easy to explain, was remarkable; the 
Cliurch of the Gallican Articles — once the most jealous of the 
Pope's power, became, in its leaders at least, the most ultra- 
montane ; the most monarcliical ceased to care about forms of 
gt>vcrnment in its exclusive allegiance to tlie centre of unity. 
Yet the most ultra-montane did not cease to be in spirit and 
character the most national of Continental Churches, Its 
activity, its fearless assertion of broad abstract principles, its 
organization, its venturous enterprises, its enthusiasm and senti- 
ment, its cheerfulness in privations, its unconquerable hopeful- 
ness, its militant and missionary character, were all peculiarly 
its own, and reflected the chai-acter and circumstances of the 
people to which it belonged ; its Clergy exhibited in a Christian 
shape the natural excellences of their countrymen, yet symp- 
toms were not wanting which betrayed their kindred with the 
most logical, yet most unreasonable of European races; — 
80 keen, yet so credulous ; so full of kind impulse, yet so bitter; 
so prejudiced, yet so easy to move ; so variable ; so merciless to its 
own faults, yet so self-complacent; so successful in theories, 



I 



Aliien* J(mrtial in France in 1845 and 1848. 



153 



and reclileBS of factfl. We will not fix on them the Vene- 
tian's apology — Prima Veneziaui^ pot Cridiani ; yet it is cer- 
tainly true that, however catholic they may be, they never 
cease to be Freochnien. 

Such 18 the prima facie aspect of the French Church. She 
claims the interest even of the mere observers of the time by 
her remarkable activity and zeal, and the novel position into 
which she has been forced ; and to Christians she presents the 
epectacle of a Church in which the unheeded forebodings of her 
prophets have been fulfilled ; in which past neglect has brought 
forth its bitter fruits without meaisure ; but which, in the midjjt 
of her adversity, ia working in earnestj and working hard, to 
mitigate the heaviness of her punishment, and to regain the 
people whom another generation had loat to licr. Whether or 
not, her measures are always wise ones — whether or not we can 
always sympathize with her tone of feeling, or form of doctrine 
and worship — she is the only body in France which attempts to 
cope with error and moral evil ; she is fighting, and fighting 
with success, the battle of faith and duty ; not with such un- 
mixed success, or, as we believe, such unmixed trutli, as to 
exempt her from that criticism which her leaders freely bestow 
on others, but w*ith enough of both to make her an object of 
deep interest to all, to whom the claims of home duty leave 
leitiitre to think of what ia going on in other parts of Christendom. 

Dr. Wordsworth was the first, we believe, to invite interest to 
the internal condition of the French Church. He set the 
example of seeing with Ids own eyes, and examining in detail 
the machinery and working of her system. His diary is instruc- 
tive and interesting; it supplied information on French educa- 
tion, and on the views of the French Clergy, that at the time 
was novel to many of us ; and what was perhaps its chief merit, 
it was written on the whole in a spirit oi friendliness and fidr- 
nees, with which the strong adverse opinions of the writer were 
not allowed to interfere. I)r» Wordsworth was not a person to 
sympathize much with ultra-montane theology, or with French 
character; he had his theory, the French Clergy had theirs; that 
either party should understand the other, or judge of the same 
facts in the same way, was not much to be expected ; but there 
ia seldom wanting on his part tlie real desire to do full justice. 
It certainly appears to us that he has quite missed the true 
position of the French Clergy in their relation to the govern- 
ment ; that lie was in no degree capable of entering into their 
difficulties, has judged tliem by an arbitrary and unreal rule of 
\m own, and imputed to them faults with wliieh they are not 
chargeable- But if his diary does not manifest all the sympathy 
towards them which tbev would wish for, it shows both interest 




154 



Allies Journal in Frattee in 1845 and 1848, 



and kind feeling ; and as a record of what passed under his own 

observation, it lias the appeai*ance, though but a fragment, of 
being caretul, accurate, and trustworthy. 

Mr. Allied' book is a further contrilmtion to our knowledge 
of the institutions and spirit of the French Church, to which 
his attention was chiefly directed in the two tours which his 
journal embraces. The book has been made the anbject of nauch 
unfavourable remark— and we must say, in spite of the interest 
we feel in its subject, and in the new facts which it brings under 
our notice— not witliout reason. For professing to be a peace- 
making book — a book to correct prejudices, to soften asperities 
of feeling, to explain misunderstandings, to awaken sympathy'^ 
it fails in the first requisites for such a character and under- 
taking — cnlmness of temper. !Mr. Allies' honesty and upright- 
ness of intention are beyond question j he wished at once to do a 
good work to the English branch of the Church, and to contribute 
towai'ds the ultimate drawing together of the whole ; to provoke 
to emulation his own brethren by the examples of the Clergy of 
France, and to induce them to think more kindly of men who 
are working in the same field with themselves, and working so 
hard; and certainly, for our part, wq cannot say that this was 
wrong. But he has done more than tJiis. He has spoilt a good 
work by that very common but not less irremediable mistake 
— impatience. He wished to give vent to feeling, as well as 
to state lacta^he wanted to do what is perfectly right and 
proper in an itdvociite, or an assailant, but is incompatible with 
the character of a peace- maker. A peace-maker cannot afford to 
be indignant, impatient, or even unguarded; it ivill not do for 
him to have enthusiasm for one side, sareasm for the other * he 
must not seem to be guilty of that most inexcusable practical 
unfairness, being fail* to all but his own friends. If be forgets 
these conditions, be must not be surjirised if people forget that 
he is a [leace-maker, and view him as really hostile — unfairly 
so, very probably — but unfairness and exaggeration propagate 
themselves rapidly, and a heavy share of responsibility rests on 
him who provokes by an unfair depreciation an unfair defence. 
Surely the world has gone on long enough for us to have learnt 
that if men may be possibly scolded, they are at least not to be 
snuhMi into sympathy. It may be necessary sometimes so to 
treat them, but certainly not at the moment when you arc 
asking for their admiration or their assent. Mr. Allies too often 
passes from the character of peace-maker, to which he has full 
right, to that of reformer,— a character to which his right seems 
to us more questionable, 

Witli respect to various foreign usages and forms of doctrine 
which make the principal visible distinction between the English 



I 
I 



AUies^ Jourtial in France in 1845 and 1848, 



155 



^ 



and Roman Churches, ilr. AUica is not to our mind at all satis- 
factory. He has said too much, or not enough. For a mere 
journal and its reflections, he hjia said too mucn ; to explain the 
strong and unqualiiicd approval he has given to Homan pecu- 
liarities, he ought to have written a treatise. We do not ourselves 
think that he Iiaa gone hejond the theological line, for which he 
has good warrant from English authorities; lie has not gone 
even eo near the edge of what ia defined by the English Church 
as the mass of that party who are so clamorous against him, 
have gone beyond it — but we must say he has often given his 
opinion very rudely* with very little consideration either of the 
judgment or feelings, or, it may he, tlie prejudices of those 
whom he addresses and rebukes, lie has attempted to give the 
key to those parts of the Koman Bysteui which most excite the 
Buspicion and dislike of Englishmen — ^to give their interior mean- 
ing and connexion with the great doctrines of Christianity, 
which^ he says, Englislmien miss, and which recommend them 
to the unquestionably religious minds which adopt them abroad. 
More than once in striking words he has put doctrinea which 
we shrink from in the light in w^kich he conceives them to 
present themselves to persons jealous for the same Catholic 
faith which wc liold, and drawn out the conjfolation and sup- 
port which some of the more peculiar foreign ar ran gements may 
be believed to minister to pure and devotional minds. In this 
of itself there is nothing to complain of, though it is a difficult 
task, and one not without hazard, requiring not merely knowledge, 
but great caution and self-restraint. Yet anything ought to be 
welcome which in any measure really explains that apparently 
strange mixture of what is good and wTiat is corrupt in the 
system of the Continental Churches: and that the most question- 
able of its features have a good side, and are capable, in the case 
of good men, of being turned to good, is probably not new to 
any w^ell-informed and tlioughtful churchman. But the question 
Btiil remains open, whether these are the only, the most natural, 
the ordinary ways of viewing them, wdiere tliey prevail ; what is 
their real foundation in doctrine j what is the balance of their 
effects. And even if Air. Allies were more conclusive than he 
is on these points, with respect to the foreign Church, he ^vould 
still be a long way off from tlie question, whether they are 
necessaiy, suitable, right, for us. Certainly he has not in the 
book before us made good the ground on which he presses, or 
suggests, the acceptance of continental peculiarities on the 
English Church; and it would require a cahner mind than his, 
a calmer mind than probably any of us possess, to discuss at this 
moment the questions they involve. 

We make these re marls with regret, both from our recollec- 
tion of Mr. Allies' former services to the Church, and because 



156 



Miles' Journal in France in 1845 and 1848. 



attacks have been made on him so unwarrantable and so bitter 
—on his honesty, not on the judfljment, or accuracy, or propriety 
of his publication— that we are loth even to appear on the same 
side with such asj^ailants. There la very much in his book which 
ought not to be there — much tliat is grating and harah in tooe 
— much that was certain to be misunderstood, left in bare and 
crude statement. All the information which he has given us, 
might have been given, we do not say without offence to the 
ignorant or prejudiced^ but without aifordinj]^ them such a 
plausible ground for clamour. But we should be very sorry, 
if in the controversial feelings which the book has excited, 
this information be neglected. There it ia — if not altogether 
new in its general character, yet new in ita details to most 
English readers — information, not of course to be taken on 
trust more than any other, but interesting in its nature, and 
deserving of attention and inquiry. We quite agree with Mr, 
Allies, that it is no necessary part of an English chnrclmian's 
character, to be uninquisitive about the Roman Church, or to 
acquicijcc in those popular prejudices against her, which, though 
we cannot think them so wholly without foundation as he does, 
are fair matter of examination, and arc doubtless greatly exag- 
gerated ; our knowledge about her is very imperfect, as hers is 
very imperfect about ua : there certainly can be no harm in our 
knowing more* And we cannot think that to acknowledge and 
admire what is excellent in the Konian Church must needs go 
along with disloyalty to our own ; or that it implies doubt of 
her own claims, and disparagement of lier efforts, to think that 
we may profitably contemplate, and it may be, where occasion 
calls for it, imitate the example of foreign era. Where such admi- 
ration has been dangerous, the danger has been more than half 
created by the suspicion of it* It is high time, not merely as 
a matter of fairness in a time of so mucli intellectual activity, 
and therefore of increased variety of tastes and feelings, but 
also as a matter concerning the safety and activity of the 
Church, that it shall no longer be a practical axiom among us, 
tliat respect for, and sympathy with, the Clmrch abroad is 
incompatible with sincere attachment to the Church at home. 
There is no telling what damage tlic Church here has received 
from the effect of this false and mischievous prejudice, both on 
the minds of those who felt that Bympathy, and of those who 
feared it ; and its work of exasperation and disturbance ia not 
over, unless those in whom it directs acts of authority show 
themselves superior to its influence. Then it will cease to 
harass consciences and distract minds, in no way alienated from 
their Church, but in whom misgiving and perplexity are created 
and kept alive, by the unwise suspiciousness of those above 
them. 



I 

I 



Allies' Journal in France in 1845 and 1848* 



^ 



The most important infi^rmation in Mr. Allics's hook, U that 
T\*hkh relates to the education provided by the Church, and to 
the character^ positionj and spirit of the ccclesiastica in the cities 
of the North of France, especially in the capital. It is not of 
course a complete accountj and provokes rather than satisfies 
our curiosity; but what there is, is of much interest, Mr, Allies 
was received with nmch kindness by many of the leading men 
among the Clergy, and appears to have been on as familiar terms 
with them as a foreigner could be, who was staying but a short 
time in the country. The picture that he draws is worthy of 
attention ; no doul)t it is the fairest and be.'^t account we have 
yet received of their ways of thought, and the interior state 
of things among them ; and it is not less valuable, because, as it 
eeems to ua, he discloses, sometimes unconsciously, their weak- 
Besses, while he is jusf ly touched with their zeal and self-devotion. 

A striking acccmnt is given of a school in the diuccse of 
Rouen, wliich Mr, Allies visited more than once, and which, 
from the chai-acter of its conductors, seems to us to have more 
real interest than even some of the more imposing institutions 
of the capital. It is a characteristic specimen, not merely of 
Christian, but of French enterprise ; and shoves that tlic per- 
severance, organization, end n ranee of hardsliip and privation, 
hopefulness aud hardiliood, which unhappily mark the character 
of the revolutionary parties in France, have found their match 
among those on whom are now resting the hopes of Christianity 
in that land of unbelief. The school was set up by two clergy* 
men, brotliers, with the single object, as their course of twenty 
years has ehuwn, of giving a Christian education to the children 
of the middle class, to which they themaclves belonged. Tliey 
started wjtli the slenderest means, and on an humlvle scale; the 
design succeeded, and as their numbers increased and accora- 
modation was wanted, they went on adding to their buildings 
and their staffs living without forethought or care, ejtcept to 
use to the utmost the advantages of the moment for the object 
they had in view ; content to do little while little was in their 
j)ower, extending their plans when the occasion presented itself. 
Thus Mr. Allies found one of the brothers, a man of forty-five, 
and a schoolmaster of twenty years' standing, setting to work 
on his Greek grammar, andpractising Greek verses, that he might 
be examined along witli boys of eighteen for a university degree, 
which should entitle his scliool to some further privileges, and 
enlarge its sphere of usefulness. The Ibllowing is the account 
of the general aspect of the school :— 

' Irefoi, June 2rj, 1R45. Thuritda^, — We called on M. Labb^ a little before 
ten, and were with tim till bftlf-paat thrct*. \\m brother is Siip^rieiir of the 
Petit Seminaire, in which arc 225 youths. The whole pay meat, on aa 



158 



Alli»8^ Journal in Fratics in 1845 and 1848. 



average, is 360 iVancs per annum for board and instruction; some paying 
as little ft3 200 francs, snme «s mucli as 500, but no difference m hatever is 
made between tlicm* The children are evidently on the most affectionate 
terms with the masters. "There are twelve priests, a deacon and sub- 
deacon^ and three clerks in minor orders.'* — M,' 

' The f hapel is a pretty and simple building^ of the early decorated cha* 
racier, designed by Pere Robert, who was formerly an engineer.' 

' We dined with them at twelve *'in the refectory. There was a crucifix 
at one side, in the middle of the long room; and before it stood the Superienr 
while we said grace/' — M. ; and we supped irith thera at seven, in the midst 
of 1 80 boys. Absolute silence was kept, and a youth at a tribune in the 
middle read fir&t a verse or two of the Gospels, and then some of** Daniel'a 
History of France." Nothing could be more simple than their dress ; the 
masters were distributed at iutervala down the tables. The school was to 
educate laymen and ecclesiastics together^ and they showed with pride a 
young man who had become priest out of their house, just twelve years 
after hia firat communion. Thia is generally in the twelfth year, but earlier 
or later according to the state of the individual. They take their first 
communion after special confession, and before cnnfirniation; we narrowly 
escnpcd Beeing thia sacrament conferred by the archbishop, who had only 
left two days before- Confession begins at seven according to rule, hut 
generally before that age »>i fact. 
At 5 a.m. They rise. Half an hour to get ready, 
5| to 6^. In chapel; prayers and mass. 
6^ to 8. Study m sUence, in school-room, 
8 to 8|. lirenkfast, with reading Lives of Saints. 
8| to SJ. Recreation. 

Class. Viva voce lecture. 

Study. 

Dinner, with reading. 

Recreation. 

Study. 

Class. 

Recreation. 

Jitiidy. 

Lecture Spirituelle, and Evening Prayeri ; the tune at which 
the Sup6rieur took notice of any thing which had occurred, 
gave advice, &c. 

Supper. 

Recreation. Then a minute or two of prayers in chapel, and 
bed* 

' Study commences always with the hymn beginning •' Veni Sancte 
SpirituR," the collect for Pentecost, and " Ave Maria." One half holiday, 
Thursday. " Afterwards we walked in their little garden and play ground. 
IL being Thursday, the boys went out to walk with some of the clerks. 
Some, however^ remained about the premiseSj doing some of the painting, 
&c. that was rctiuired. Much of the work has been done by them. They 
carried all the brickji and mortar w hile the chapel was building, &c. &c 
They seem to be quite a fiimily." — J// Pp. 10, 13 — 13. 

The leading point in French education, at least as admi- 
nistered by the Clergy, is to establish a perfect intimacy between 
the puplla and teacliers : — - 

*They attend ccmfession once a months and it is very rare that they 
fttU in this : this is the nde of the house ; hut bhould any avoid it much 
longer, his confessor would not speak to him authoritatively at all, or send 
or him, but rather take an opportunity of referring incidentally to his 



8i to lOi. 


104 to 12. 


12 to 12i. 


121 to U' 


U to 3. 


3 to4i. 


4 J to 6. 


5 ton. 


71 to 1%. 


7| to 8|. 


H to B£. 



I 



X 



AUM Journal in France in 1845 and 1848. 



absence. This liardly ever fails. ** They generally thank him for doing so, 
the reason being; something about which they were uuablc to get them- 
seives to break the ice," — M. They live entirely with their pupils; 
sleeping, eatiup^, playing, teaching : in the centre of a large dormitory, 
with betls on both sides, was a bed, nowise distinguished from the rest 
save that it had a chair beside it : here the Superieur f^Ieeps. His Mnlary 
is !000 francs a year ; that of the olhern about 000* They said, laug^hlng, 
that it ttaa hardly what a servant in England would receive- The Superieur 
has A very pleasing and paternal aspect. AVe heard him catechise the 
children in the chapel for some time ; their aoswers were good. Several 
were on the Bacraraentg, and the reply to them definitti aod precise :— 

* Which is the most indispensable fiacrament?' 'Baptism.' ' How many 
sorts of baptism are there?' 'The baptism of water, of blood, and of 
desire,' 'Can any sacrament be administered by other than a priest t* 
*Ye9, bftptism in case of necessity.' ♦ Can any other?' 'None, air/ 

* What condidous are necessary to receive the sacrament of Penance ? ' 
'Five,* *Are there any of those more indispcngable than others ?' ' Yes, 
fervent sorrow for sin past, and a resolution not to offend God by shining 
anymore.' * If a priest conferred absolution on a person who gave no 
oa'tward sign of penitence, from his state of sickness, would it benefit him?' 
'If be WHS able to make interior actions of the soul, it would; not other- 
wise.* ('The Church,' said M. Labbc, in explanation, * would prefer bestow- 
ing n sacrament often inutilcment^ to denying it oucc where it might 
benefit.'; ' Which arc the three chief Christiao graces?' *Faiih, Hope, 
and Charity.' ' Which is the moat perfect?" * Charity.' ' Why V * Because 
it presupposes the other two/ {I think); and, again, 'because it will last 
forever/ *Will Faith last for ever T ' Non, Monsieur/ •Why?' ' Par- 
ceque, qnand nous verrona Dieu, nous n' anrons pas besoin de le croire/ 
' VMll you see God?' • Oui, avec nos propres yeux.' ' You have just re- 
ceived confirmation; what docs it make him who receives it?' * Un parfait 
Chretien.' ' Etes-vous done no parfait Chretien ? ' With hesitation, 'Oui, 
Monsieur/ • Etes-vous un Chretien parfait ? " * Non, Monsieur.* 'Quelle 
est la diff&rence ? ' ' Un parfait Chretien est celui qui a tous les moyens 
pour parvenir au salut — Va. Chretien parfait est celui qui est sanspeche.' 

* En y a-t'-il ? ' ' Non, Monsieur/ (with licsitation). ' Non, mon enfant, il 
n'y en a pas/ ' — Pp. 11 — J 3. 

On a stibsequeDt visit Mr. Allien was much struck with a 
contirmatioa which he saw at this school : — 

•At three we went on to Ivetot, and found a most kind welcome from 
our friends. They lodged us in a house they have lately purchased, in 
their garden, where, fur the first time in my life, I had .the honour of a 
silver bason and ewer. Wc supped in the refectory, at a table in the 
middle, with M. le Superieur. Silence is kept at the meals, and one of the 
pupils reads from a pulpit on one side. The pupils act as scrvjiuts iu turn 
during the meal. 

^Afonday, Jttltf 10. — We heard two sermons, morning and afternoon, from 
M. P. L. Labbi^ to the coufirmans, Dfty-nine in number. Our friend's 
manner was mild and paternal, yet full of xeal and unction. His morning 
subject was, " You have not received the spirit of bonduge again to fear, 
but ye have received the spirit of adoption whereby we cry Abba Father.'* 
He distinguished between servile fear and filial fear — between Jewish 
bondage and Christian adoption ; beseeching his hearers ever to cherish 
in their hearts the sense of God's pfitcrnal love, and that *' we can never 
know how much God loves us in this world/' and then he urged them, if 
ever they fell into sin, to fly to Crod at once for pardon, never distrusting 



IGO 



Allies' Journal hi Fratice m 1845 mid 1848- 



Hira, however great their own unworthiness ; reminding them that the 
iribimal of penitence was ever open to them. In the iiftemooii his subject 
waa, " Ye sball receive power after that the Holy Gliost is come upon yoa, 
and ye shall he witnesses unto me." Thnt at confirmation there was a 
larger infuBion of the Holy Spirit than at baptism — what it was to be 
witnesses to God— witnesses by our whole life and conversation. These two 
addresses much pleased me, both as to manner and matter. 

* We had the privilege of saying our Enghsh oflice in their chapct, where 
the single lamp marks the presence of the Holy Sacrament, How great a 
blessing: ts this^ that the Lord of the Temple dwells bodily in it — how ^cat 
a realiising of the Incarnation. The chapel is a very pleasing; limitation of 
the middle Gothic style, built from the designs of M. Robert, who, being a 
pupil of the Ecole Polytechnique, gave up all prospects in the world for 
the hard and painful life of a priest in a petit seminaire : and not only he» 
but all who are there, seem to have their daily life supported by a spring 
of charity in themselves ; and the great self-denial which accompanies it 
seems borne as if it were no weight at all, for they look for the recompense 
of the reward. During the five days we passed at Irctot we remarked 
again and again to each other the atmosphere of fraternal charity which all 
seemed to breathe. There was no looking for success in the world — no 
thought of gaining wealth ; but the one thing in view w aa to train the 
children committed to them as members of Christ and heirs of His king- 
dom. This one thought pervaded all their actions. In the evening the 
Archbishop of Kouen came, attended by his vicaire genera!, M. Surgia. 
The masters and ourselves supped in private with him j and I was con- 
founded at being put on his right, as P. was on his left. His own aila- 
hility, however, and the unaffected kindness and ease of his demeanour 
with hia clergy, soon made one feel cnmfortahle. 

* Tuesday, Jutij 1 L — The confirmation was at nine. The pupils formed in 
procession along the corridor into the chnpcl, some sixty or eighty of the 
rear in albes, followed by the masters and some other clergy^ the cross and 
crosier immediately preceding the Archbishop ; we followed behind, and 
then mounted to the latticed tribune at the end of the chapel, whence the 
whole disposition of the congregation, the multitude of albes, the altar 
dreaaed for the Holy Sacrifice, and the splendid habit of the Archbishop, 
formed a most pleasins scene. He said MasH, and communicjited, I should 
think, a hundred pupils ; as they knelt two and two all up the chapel and 
received successively from his hands, nothing could he more solemn. 
There wa^i a moment in this service particularly tonchxng — the Archbishop 
took his crosier in his hand and, standing before the altar said, '' Bene- 
dicat vos omnipotcns Dens, Pater, et Filius, -{-, et Spiritus Sanctus." 
It seemed like the great Hi^h Priest Himself blessmg His people. After 
Mass he stood before the middle of the altar, and, requesting them to be 
seated, addressed them for about twenty minutes. His manner was a 
mixture of grace and simplicity most pleasing to behold ; indeed, hia whole 
demeanour represented exactly the priest, the lather, and the bishop, and left 
behind it a perfume as it were of the heavenly hierarchy, among whose earthly 
counterpart he ranked. He enlarged upon the triple blessing bestowed 
upon us by the Holy Trinity, in creation, in redemption, and in sanctifica- 
tion. Presently he spoke of the Holy Eucharist as an extension of the 
incarnation, (rapi^tissant,) gathering it up into little; and of Christ therein 
really, substautijiUy, and personally present in us. His vicaire general 
said, that in daily confirmations during two months he never repented 
himself, hut varied each address. He had no note, and spoke without 
effort. Tlien followed an examination of the confirmans by himself during 
abont thirty-five minutes. He took boys here and there and asked them 
questions on the elements of the faith, the sacraments, &c,, in so low & 



I 



Allies^ Journal in France tn 1845 and 1848. 



161 



p 



I 



Toice that I coiild on!y catch the general import. Then came the confir- 
mation itself, which, lUte our owe, is very short.' — Pp. 172 — 176. 

The following curious scene is somewhat at variance with 
Engliflb ideas both of etiquette and of amusement. But national 
jdeae on both these eubjects are incommensurable. Certainly we 
sympathize more with our French frientls at Ivetot in their 
eeriong than in their jocose moods : — 

•After dinner, two of the pupila, one from the older and frora the 
younger division of the school, recited verses before the Archbishop, and 
the whole school seemed dehghted at the words of kindneya he ad- 
dressed to them. I heard our friend, io one of his addresseSj remind 
them thttt the Archbishop was the head and master of the house, and ao 
they all appeared to feel him to be. 

' In the evening we were all collected^ in n somewhat suspicious manner, 
for some exhibition in a long hall, at the end of which a carpet was spread, 
and a chair placed for the Archbishop, I ask M. Robert what was coming j 
but he replied, " Pour nous autrea Fran^aia, vous savez, nous sommes dea 
fous : il faut c|ne nous rions de tout! " I will not say that the entertain- 
ment verified his former proposition, but ccrUunly it did the latter. M. 
Picard, cure of the cathedral of Rouen, took out a paper, and began reading 
a copy of verses by himself, commemorating a recent fall from his horse of 
one of the tutors. At each verse the boys took up conplet and refrain, 
and sung it with hearty good will. This continued for some twenty or 
thirty stanzas. The boys needed but the hint. I thought to myself, I 
doubt whether it would improve the discipline of Eton to collect the boya 
in the loag school-room together to commemorate an equestrian lapse of 
my friend C. or A., Qupposing them to have met with one. The refrain, 

*^ Quel est-ce cavalier-ld 
Qu'il mene bien son dada? 

Tra-la-la tra-la-la." 

aounded by 250 voices, still rings in ray ears. This was succeeded by 
another song, lecited in the same manner, on M. Robert's propensities to 
atudy the moon/— Pp. 177—179. 

And the following scene — a distribution of prizes at a school 
in Paris— 'iiS not less quaint. It seems to mark the weak aide 
of French education : if we interfere too little, and our affection 
for manlinesfi degenerates into rudenesB, they meddle too much, 
and their tendernees is in danger of becoming mawkishness ; — - 

*At one went to the distribution of prices at the Petit Seminaire, 21 
Rue N. V, des Champa, llie four vicaires gdn^raux of the Chapter of Paris 
sat in front, to crown with a cbaplet the gainers of the prizes^ and to pre- 
sent books to them and those who gained an acceasil. There were a good 
many other clergy, and a tolerable number of laity, men and women, pre- 
aent, friends evidently of the young men and boys'* . . When this was done, 
the giving of prizes began. It took an hour; and no wonder, for at least 
two hundred wreaths and two hundred sets of books, single <*r double, 
were to be distributed. Many indeed received several wreaths and prizes. 
The winners came forward, ascended four or five steps, and were succes- 
sively crowned and saluted on each cheek by one of the vicaires g^neraux ; 
now and then they were taken to a friend or relative, mnle or female, when 
present to receive their crown. It wns put on the head, and then carried 
m the hand. I thought that at least the principle of emulation was not dis- 

NO. LXV.^N.S. M 



les 



Un Journtil in Francs in 1845 and 1848. 



conmffed. But tlie grent number of subjects which were rewarded wie as 
reiuftrkable as the number of prizes. It seemed as if they never trould 
end. There was Excellence and Sagesse ; Greek, L^tin, and French com- 
position f Latiti verse; philosophy, rhetoric, geography, Eng^iih hiug^uage, 
J^ I and iH03t of these divided into dilfereut fonns. * No merit could Jse 
.fud to be neglected. There was a firat prize, and a second, and aometimes 
three aocessit hcBidcs; and some reached nine, or even ten re wards. I 
dare say they all felt as young Greeks receiving the laurel crown. Cer- 
tainly the mounting those steep atairs, in order to receive their crown, 
must have been a nervous operation. 

' At the couciusiou, one of the vicaires g6n^rAiix rose and delivered a few 
words to the pupils with great simplicity and ease ; the day of return was 
then announced for Thursday, 5th Oct. I marked many ingenuous and 
pleasing countenances among the successful candidatCvi. A father near me 
waa in a state of the greatest excitement at the prizes of his son, a lad of 
thirteen/— Pp. 229—231. 

Mr. Allies is minute in his details respecting the great ecclesi- 
astical seminary of S. Sulpice, the mtxlel institution far the 
training of the French Clergy. He received the following ac- 
count of their employment of the day: — 

•From him we obtained an account of the day's occupation in the Sdmi- 
naire de S. Sulpice, which I took down from his mouth as follows, incor- 
porating with it Bome further information given noe by M. Oalais, professor 
of Canon Law therein t-^ 



5 a. m 
5 to H. 

54 to 6J. 



^1 to 7, 



7. 






8 


to 


Bl 


Si 


til 


n^ 


n 


to 


lov 


m 


to 


lOj 


m 


ttl 


111 


112 


to 


12, 



12 to 12|. 



They rise; recite the *' Angelus" (angelic salutation). 
Dress, come down stairs ; tlie most pious go for two or three 

minutes before the Holy Sacrament. 
Vocal prayer for ten minutes, and tlieti prayer for the rest of 

the hour^ each by himself kneelmg, without support. 

The Profeaaor says his prayer aloud, in order to teach 

the pupils, on his knees, in the ball. 
Mass; those who have communicated attend another mass 

for returning thanks, which may last to 7}, The rest 

mount to their rooms. 
Reading of Holy Scripture in private. 
Breakfast, — dry bread, wine, and water ; nothing else allowed, 

save that in case of ueceBsity milk or «oup is sometimes 

given. Each reads in private. 
Preparation of theological lesson in their rooms. 
LesHon in theology, Mc>rale. 
Visit to the Holy Sacrament. 
Deacons have a lesson in theology ; the rest a singing lesson 

for half an hour, and then go up to their rooms. 
Private examination of conscience. During seven minutes, 

meditation, kueeling, on some fact of the New Testament ; 

and for the next seven, Tronson read. 
Dinner For three minutes a chapter of the Old Testament 

read aloud, then the life of a saint, or ecclesiastical history. 

They end with the Roman Martyrology for the morrow. 

Then a visit to the Holy Sacrament for a minute,- recita- 
tion of the Ancjclus. 

Dinner consists of a little soup; one dish of meat, pota- 
toes, or " legumes." For dessert, an apple, or such like. 

Drink, wine and water. 



A Urn* Journal in France in 1845 and 1848. 



1l. 






2 


to 


H. 


i* 


to 


n. 


^i 


to 


4*. 


^ 


or 




5i. 






«i 


to 


7. 


7 


to 


n* 



I 



12 to If. Recreation. At 12| talking is allowed for the first time in 
the (lay. Letters are delivered. The Frofessora are bound 
by their rule to take their recrcatious with their pupils ; 
they make a great point of this. 

Recitation of the **Chapelet;" sixty-three Patera and Avet. 

Private study in their rooms. From 2 to 3|, class of eccle- 
siastical singing four tiroes a-weck. From 2 to 5^ adoration 
of the Holy Sacrament by each person for halfan-faour. 

Tlieological class. Dogma. 

Visit to the Holy Sacrament. 

According to the season, bell for all in holy orders to say their 
breviary. Time for conferences, 

" Glose," — spiritual reading by the Superior, 

Supper. One dish of meat, " legumes," salad, wine and 
water Reading at all meals. Talking never allowed but 
at the Archbisho])'s vii^it once a-year. A chapter of the 
New Teatament read ; a verse of the ** Imitation of Jcaus 
Christ/' 
7.J. They go before the Holy Sacrament ; recite the Angelue. 

7 4 to 8j. Recreation, 

ii\ to 83. Evening prayers; Utanics, vocal, with private examination 
of conscience. Mount straight to their rooms, or go first 
before the Holy Sacranjcut. Tlie Superior remains in his 
place; each, in passing beside him, accuse himself of any 
outward faults committed daring the day against the rules. 
9 to 9^ Bed time : at f)| to he in bed. Each has a room to himself; 
a table, a bed, a candlestick, and fire-place, A priest sleeps 
in each corridor. 

Special Lectures. 

Hebrew; two courses. 

Aforal Theoloey ; a great conrsc. Young men admitted who have 
ab^eady studied the elementary course— about forty or tiBy. 

Canon Law ; a special course. 

From Easter to the vacation they are instructed in the duties of a pastor 
in great detail. 

Private study of the Holy Scriptures by each half-an-hour a day. 

At three o'clock on Sunday, at S. Sulpice, the young men exercise them- 
selves in catechising, except from Kaster to the vacation. 

Before the first communion there is catechising at S. Sulpice for two 
months thrice a-weck, (not hy the pupils). 

OBSERVATIONS. 

There ia much sickness ; (the building has not gardens or sufficient space 
for recreation attached to it). 
Not time enough for study. 
The vacation is from Aug. 15, to Oct. K 
The cassock is always worn/*— Pp. 29 — 32. 

On a Bub sequent occasion he went over it, and thus de- 
scribes it : — 

* Thursday, July 10.~M. Calais took us over the Seminairc de S. Sulpice. 
There is nothing remarkable in the building. The pupils are rather more 
than 200: their appearance is very devout; they seem of low rank in liJe 
generally, and this is no doubt the case, but with exceptions ; for instance, 
we heard to-day of the son of M. S6gur, who is there. Each pupd has a 
small room to himself, which opens on the corridor ; it has a bed, table, 
little atove, and hardly anything more, with a crucifix and little statue of 

M 2 



164 



Aiiie/ Journal in Fratvce in 1845 and 1848. 



.^e Blessed Virgin, belongijag to the house. They mftke their own beds : 
they are not allowed to enter each other's rooms at iillj but, if they wish to 
speak to one another, the stronger atands in the paasape, and the occupant 
at his door. The whole is under the inspection of the Archbishop, who 
has a chamber here, but does oot often couie. There are twelve masters. 
The atftte of instruction as regartis the Church is as foOoirs id France gene- 
rally. In each diocese there is one or more petita sdminnires, w Inch are for 

Ifjhildren, not oidy such as are to be eccleaiastics, but laymen also. These 
are the only schools in which morals and religion are made a primary coti- 
sideration ; and, therefore, though they have nothing to do wrib the uni- 
veraity, and are excluded from all privilegea, they are sought after by the 
sounder part of the community, To these succeeds, for ecclesiastics alone, 
the grana s^minairc for each diocese; this of S. Sulpice is the most eminent 
in France, The studies are for five years ; two in philosophy, three in 
theology. They are thus arranged^ as we took them aown from the lips of 
M. Galais. 

Philosophy {First Yeae). 
Logic Psychology, — ^naoraing. 
Arithmetic, Geometry, beginning of Algebra, — evening. 

Second Year. 



Th6odic6e \ 

Morale ) ™"""S- 



Geology 
Physics 
Astronomy 



evenms. 



Chemistry ) 

* Sometimes, perhaps in half the dioceses of France, these two years of 
philosophy are contracted to one. The three years of theology are thus 
arranged : — 

First Year. 
Morale. Le traits de actibus hainanis. 
„ de legibus. 
„ de pcccatis. 
„ de decalogo. 
Dogme. „ de vera religione, 

„ de vera ecclesia. 
„ de locis theologicifl. 

Second Year. 
Morale. De jure et justitia. 

De contractibus. 
Dogme. De Trinitate. 

De Incarnattone. 

De gratia. 

Third Year. 
Morale. De sacramento poenitentiae. (Under this head 
would fall the whole direction for tlie guid- 
ance of souls.) 
De matriraonio. 

De ceusuris et irregukritatibus. 
Dogme. De sacramentis in gen ere. 
De bap tig mo. 
De conGrmatione. 
De Eucharialirt, 
De ordine. (TTiere is also a special course on 

on this), 
De extrema uuctione. 



[ilies* Journal in Frame in 1845 mid 1848. 



165 



* A course of Holy Scripture twice a-week, exclusive of private study 
of it. 

Authors used:— 
Bailly, 8 vols. 

Bouvicr, Institutioncs TheologicsE. 
Camere, De Jure, et Justitia, Sic, 
Tronson, Forma Cleri- 
*TTiese three years of thcologj' are aometimea expanded to four.*^ — 
Pp„ 51—54. 

Their Bpeclal spiritual preparation is strict and searching: 
the account which Mr. Allies received was as follows : — 

* They confess thcm.selvea every weak, ordinarily ie the morning during 
the mt^ditation. They choose their own confessor among the masters, who 
are at present twelve, hut the nomhcr ia not fixed. Aa to communicating, 
they are free ; but arc exhorted to do it often. Often is all the Sundays 
and' festivals. Some communicate besides tv\?o, three, four, five, times a 
week, especially as the time of tljeir ordination draws near. The priests 
every day. After the communion twenty minutes *' action de ip-Rces.'* On. 
entering the seminary, a general confession of the whole past life is made. 
At the coraraencement of each year, after the vacation, in October, a con- 
fession of the year is made. At the bcgjinning of each month there is a 
retreat for one day^ ordinarily the first Siuiday. Direction is twice a month. 
It is intercourse between each young man and his director for the purpose 
of making known his inward state. There is a general retreat after the 
vacation for eight days ; in tliia no visits allowed ; no letters received ; no 
going out into the city. There are recreations, but the rest of the day is 
consecrated to prayer, to confession, and to sermons. Each has his own 
rule (reglement particulier,) which he draws up in concert with his con- 
fessor. 

' The day, the hour, and the mode of using the following exercises, to be 
determined on with the director. 

Private examination of oneself. 

Coufeasion. 

Holy Communion. 

Direction. 

The monthly retreat. 

La Monition. 

Any special reading. 

Accessory studies. 

' What has been determined on by the director, relatively to the pre- 
ceding exercises, ia to be written in the " reglement particulier" of each. 

* The main resolution necessary to insure the fruits of the seminary ia 
fidelity to the " reglement," and especially to silence at the prescribed 
times, and to tlie holy employment of one'a time. 

* The virtues to be studied are, collectedness, the thought of the presence 
of CJod, modesty and good example, charity and humility, religion and 
fervour in the exerdses of piety. 

* The order of exerrisea for a day in the annual retreat is as follows : — 
5 a.m. Rise; preparation for prayer; short visit to the Moat Holy 

Sacrament. 
54' Prayer. 

Mes.se de comromiaut^. 

Preparation for general confeaaion, or for that of the nnnunl 

review, and especially for that of the time spent in the 

vacation. 



166 AUi&s* Journal in Frame in 1845 and 1848. 



I 



Breakfast 

Petttea heures. 
Sf. Reading, c>r '* direct ioa," 

9f. Visit to the Holy Sacrament. 

94. *' Entretien." 

lOi. "Dctassement," during which there may be citlier reading or 
"direction." 

1 1 . Writing of one's rcaolutionB, and then reading the preaciribed 

chapters of Holy Scripture, 
112. Private examinatitm, 

12. Dinner, followed by the Aiigelua, and recreation. 

1|, Vespers and Compline; recollecting of oneself, to examine how 

one has done the morning's exerciaes. 
2^. Reading, with meditation, of the chapters of the Imitation. 
3^. Visit to the Holy Sacrament. 

3|. «' Entretien," 

4i. Matines and frauds ; writing of resolutions. Then ** delasaement/' 

as in morning at 10|. 
5. Recitation of "chapelet," meditated. 

Oi. A spiritnal lecture. 

7. Supper, followed by the Angelna, and recreation. 

SJ. Prayer; examination of conscience, 

[i. Bed ; making prepanition tor (the morning's) prayer. 

* The following means are recommended for profiting by the *' retreat." 

* I. From its commencement have your •*rfiglement partieidier'' ap- 
proved by your director; agree i^ith bira on the employment of your 
time, on the subject of your reading, on the manner of preparing your 
confeasiou. 

' 2. Road the chapter of the Holy Scripture and of the Imitation marked 
in the ** Manual of Piety," and never omit this reading. 

* 3. Observe silence carefully, save at the time of recreation, and if you 
are obliged to speak, «bk leave to do so, 

"4. Do not read or write any letter* 

* 5. If you experience dryness, disgust, repugnance, discouraging thoughts, 
as generally happens in retreats, communicate them immediately to your 
director, and follow his advice, as the moat assured means of overcoming 
( eniptations. 

' 6. If you have already made a general confession at the seminary, em- 
ploy the time after mass till breakfast in examining yourself on the manner 
in which you have done your actions in tbe seminary the past year, how 
you have combated your defects and your ruling passion, and how you have 
practised the virtues which you proposed to acquire. 

' 7. Study especially inward recollectedoess, contidence in our Lord, and 
in the Must Holy Virgin, serious and deep examination of your conscience, 
and a great desire *' de faire un bon Scminaire." 

' 8, After the retreat tell yonr director your feelings and resolutions, and 
busy yourself immediately with drawing up your •• rcglement particulier," 

* There are, moreover, retreats for eight days before each ordination. 
Exposition of the pontifical is given. Before the ordination of any indi- 
vidual is decided on, there are tw o " appels" to be gone through ; 1st, that 
of outward conduct; 2d, that of inward conduct, decided by all the masters 
in common. If these are passed there is a third examination of himself 
and his fitmss for tbe ministry to be gone through by the pupil in private. 
Fourthly, if he ia iborougbiy persuaded of bis vocation, his confessor 
linally decides whether he shall be accepted for the ministry or rejected. 
The ordinary payment made by ciich pupil is 700 franca a year, but this. 



^^^^ AUiei Jmirnal in France in 1845 and 1848. ^iS? 

in case of necessity, or of promising persona, especially when recommcudod 
by bisbopH, is reduced to 400. 

^ In Lent one meal and one collation (a hiilf meal) are allowed: the first 
at mid-day. Meat is permitted on Sundnys, Mondays, Tuesdays and 
Thursdays, by the archbishop's " mandement." Fridays and Saturdays 
are meagre days through the year, but not fasts. The other fasts of the 
year are very fcw^ the f^^reater number having: been nbolinhed by the Con- 
cordat. They arc Christmas Eve, Whitsun Eve, S, Peter's Eve, the vigils 
of the Assumption and All Saints.* — I'p, 32—37. 

The work Is a hard and painfid one : — ^ 

'M. Gaduel told me that the good professors of S. Sulpice receive no 
saJary ivhatever. They live, he said, aa children in a father's house, pro- 
vided with everything they ^vaut, but they are not given money. If ojie 
has need of a coat, he aska for it, and has it. Should they be" taken ill, 
and be unable to continne their functions, they will be supported and ten- 
derly provided for all their days. Tbey take no votTs, and can leave xvben 
they pleaae; and they retain whatever private property they may possess. 
Those who have none receive 100 franca a year for their charities ; fur yuii 
know, he said, they cannot go into llie city without a mm. Thus their hfe 
is entirely detached from the cares of this world, from, the desire of wealth, 
and all that attaches to it. Yet is it, from ita sedentariness and severely 
abstract pursuits, an well as from the continued pressure on the heart and 
conscience, a tr}'ing life. Health, I imagine, is only maintained by the 
weekly relaxation of Wednesday, and the annual vacation of tw o months 
in Au^fit and September/ — P. 37. 

These accounts preBent, without questiotij a rare and touch- 
ing picture of self-devotion, of high appreciation of the respon- 
sibihties and duties of the Clergyj of zealous and disinterested 
efforts to fulfil them. Such hard work of charity canuot, wo 
would fain hope, be tkrown away even upon France, though 
nothing less than that coidd hold the ground of the chm-ch even 
for a generation, against the wild tumult of opinion, and the 
activity and talent of the infidel sects. The French Clergy 
have certainly done enough to entitle them to the sympathy and 
respect of Christendom. Whether they are doin^ enough to 
attain the great object of once more regaining and Christian- 
izing the French people, time must show. Great as is our 
admiration of their staunch unflinching bravery, and limited as 
we feel our powder to be of cntlcieing what is at once so opposite to 
our own way.*? of acting, and excels exactly in those points where 
we are defective, we cannot hear the accounts which reach us of 
French ecclesiastical education without some misgivings. Aa 
a drili it seems admirable ; and drill, in a clergy as in an army, 
is of the highest importance ; and drill is precisely that in which 
our own Clergy are deficient ; but drill in an army, and much 
less in a clergy, is not everything, and we cannot help thinking 
may be overdone. It is a perilous thing for a man to have to 
educiitc himself; but it is not less periloua to relieve him alto- 
gether of the charge of his own education. Other men may 



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AUitu^ Journal in France in 1845 and 1848. 



^ 



and were meant to help him in it; but we cannot think thjitthey 
were meant to leave him nothing to do or to provide for, except 
to co-o[>erate with them in will and ol>edienGc. The system of 
S. Sulpicc, while it seema undoubtedly to promise obedience, 
siibordinationj and an a\ craijje amount of kiiowlcdf^e, does not 
seem to promise ptnver. Doubtless, a dorgy with far lower 
fjualilicationa than those provided for by S. Sulpice, may do 
good service iu a flock ready formed and disposed to hefiev^e 
and obey: but the Church of France is now a Misiiionary Chuitih, 
and has to reconquer , in an age not alone of corruption, but 
of bold and powerful thought* Her present gyetem of educa- 
tion avoids the dangers which fiurroiinded the freer and bolder 
systems of the middle agea and the early Cliurch, but it also 
gives up their advantages. It provides for the poor, to ita great 
praise be it spoken^ with earnest and seriiius c^re ; but, so far 
as we can see, it declines to cope with ijitcllect and refinement 
We are quite aware that we are speaking at a disadvantage — 
» disadvantage which a foreigner never can entirely surmount in 
sj leaking of something so domestic, so complicated, so myste- 
rious and unaccountable in its effects, as education, even if 
lie sees with his own eyes. But we do not speak without 
authority. We do not know whether the French Clergy are 
altogether satisfied with their system of education, which is in 
principle, though not in detail, much the same as in most parts 
of Roman Catholic Europe ; but in Italy, one writer at leai*t of 
high authority^ Rosmini, has comidaincd in strong tei-ms of it^ 
defectiveness, in some of the very points which are tlte first to 
strike an Englishman— that it i^ too much of a drill, and not 
enough of an education, — that it leaves too little to the pupil 
himself, and is tito timid in trusting him,— that it confines him to 
systems, instead of allowing him to come in contiict for himself 
with the great works of antiquity* In an appeal which he 
makes to his own brethren on the main evils which oppress the 
Church,* and in the front of which he places the ^separation of 
the people from the Clergy in public worship — the cutting off 
the people from taking a full and intelligent part in it— he traces 
one of the main causes of these evils, and of this last one in 
particular to the imperfect instruction given by the Clergy ; 
and this imperfection to the technical character of their own 
education, compared with the freer or more living system of 
curly times, when bishops were the immediate teachers of the 
Clergy, and text-books had not supplanted the Bible and the 
Fathers, His remarks on catechisms, aa at present in use, are 
strong? fully admitting the great value of conciseness and pre- 

' ' Ddle cinqtie pinghe della 8. Chiesft, trattaio dedicato ftl clero Cattolico: di 
Anl. Hosmini- Perngis, 18l».' (Preface date^ 1832.> 



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[iJfiW Journal in France in 1845 and 1848. 



169 



cialon of Blatement in conveying Cliristlan doctrine, and con- 
sidering that this has been to a great degree attamed in such 
hook?, he complains that this has in |)ractice served only a* a cloak 
for a jejune teiichiug, devoid of substance, fulness, and Fife :^ 

•The lack of a living iind fiiU iiiatnictinii for the people ... is tlic first 
cause of that wall of separation whicli b raised between them and the 
ministera of tlic Cburcb. I say, ^'full and living instruct on," for as 
regards material instruction, it is more abundant now, perhaps, than in 
other times. C&techisma are in every one's memory ; these catechisms con- 
t*dn the dogrmatic formulae, those last expressions, the simplest and most 
precise, to which the united labours of all the doctors who have nourished 
in so many centuries have, with marveUoua intellectual subtlety, and 
above alU with the aid of the Holy Spirit present in the councils, and ever 
speaking in the Church throughout the world, reduced the whole doctrine 
of Chrii^tianitJ^ Such conciseness, such ex«ctnesa in doctrinal expressions, is 
doubtless a step in advance. Words are become purely and entirely truth ; a 
secure way is traced out, by which teachers may, without much study on 
their part, make the deepest and sublimest doctrines reach the ears of the 
faithful whom tliey instruct But if it has been rendered easy to con- 
vey exact expressions to the ears of the faithful, has it become equally easy 
to make these expressions reach their minds, and sink down into their heart, 
w hich must be reached throujrh their minds ? Has this abridging of doc- 
trine, this bringing^ the terms in which it is expressed to perfection and to 
the last dogmatic exactness, this fixing them unchangeably^ — and making 
them the only ones, — has all this made these expressions more accessible to 
the common under»taudiug ? Is it not a question, on the contrary, whe- 
ther a certain multiplicity and variety of expression is not a suitable means 
to convey to the minds of the multitude the knowledge of tnith T . . , « 
Is it not true that a teacher who repeats what he does not understand 
himself, however careful he may be in repeating verbally what he has 

received, makes his hearers feel the chill on his lipa Nay, those 

formulae, imperfect it may be, which in former times were used in teaching 
Christian doctrine, had perhaps in their very imperfection this good, that 
they did not communicate to mankind the truth whole and entire, but as it 
were broken into parts, and then the comment at length made up for the 
defect, if such there were, of the expressions, gathered up and united those 
parts of truth dismembered only in the external expression — or rather, truth 
gathered itself up, so to say, and became united in the minds and spirits of 
those whom it had penetratedt and thereof itself built itself up and became 
complete- . . . It is true, that when a child is to be admitted to the greater 
sacraments of the Church, he is carefully examined whether he knows the 
principal mysteries. He recites the words ; and this is a proof that he 
knows them. Yet is it not a question, whether the child who says by rote 
the words of the catechism, knows a bit more about those mysteries than 
he who has never heard these words? Has then the introduction in 
modern times of catechisms been more prejudicial than advantageous to 
the Church? Strange, indeed, would it be, if this were the result of an 
institution, which in itself promised .'io much. But we may say of these 
admirable abridgement.^ of Christian teaching, what the Apoailc said of the 
law of Moses, that they arc certainly holy, and just, and good, that they 
are useful if a man use them lawallly. 'The fault is in man, not in the 
thing.'— Pp. 17, 18. 

The following are hits remarks on flic practical working of the 
seminariesi. After contrasting the difficulty in ancient times 



170 



Mies Journal in France in 1M6 and 1848, 



oi' finding masters, with tbe comparative facility now, lie 
8ays:— 

* Consider, on the oftier hand, how in the present day we abotind, or 
think at least that we abound, in masters fit to iuatruct the Clergy in tbe doo 
trine and religion of Christ- Not only has every diocese its aerainary, and 
in every seminary many roaatera, hut out of our overflowing abundance, 
out of the exceeding facility which the Bishop has now in finding Priests to 
he teachers of his routhful Clergy, the maatera are changed after a few 
years of teaching, by promotion to some less meagre benefice, while in their 
place are substituted others, entirely new men, who although they have 
not yet gained any experience of human affairSt i<>"* finished yet their edu- 
cation in the principles of common sense in the school of social intercourse, 
have yet achieved the great course of the aerainary schools, the nepius ultra 
of modem ecclesiastical learning: after which the yoinig ministers of the 
altar are without further delay set tn work on their employments, and so 
honourably released from further study. Meanwhile the science of reli- 
gion which these young masters had received in the seminary, broken up into 
parts, or rather confined to those parts which appeared most needinl to 
enable them promptly and in actual practice to discharge the ecclesiastical 
offices required of priests, as a matter of simple duty, by the people and the 
government — this great science, I say, has acquired in tbe mind of the 
young priest neither root nor unity — has not penetrated in the least degree 
mto his mind. He wants the sense of acientitic knowledge — wants all true 
comprehension of it ; he carries it fastened to him as it were, and lianging 
on his youthful memory, and it is precisely on account of this memory that 
he til inks himself more fit than a man of matured wisdom for the office of 
teacher .... Lastly, in times in which the amount of the salary attached 
to offices is a sufiiciently snre indication by which to judge of the ability of 
the men who are employed in them, must we not feel considerable doubt 
about the knowledge possessed by the roasters of our seminaries, to whose 
oiBce is annexed so poor a provision, that often they seem to have reached 
the term of human ambition, when leaving the seminary, they attain to 
a parochial benefice, on which, beyond their tutorship, they hmve ever kept 
their eyes fixed/— Pp. 36, 37. 

We will further quote hia observations on the systematic 
teaching in the seminaries; we do it the rather, because our 
defects bein^ in the very opposite direction — in the want of 
text-bookf*, and of a complete and consistent method of study — 
we are eomettities apt to expect more than is to be attained, 
from a plan of education wliicli avoid;^ these defects. 

* Now if it is to such small men thiit the education of the Clergy is com- 
mitted, it is no wonder that these teachers, removed from the writings of 
the saints and of the wise, use for their text-books works compiled, as their 
title-pages declare, in mumjuventutisf by men of the same small calibre as 
themselves. For everything must be in proportion, part must correspond 
to part, and one fault leads to another : and tliis poverty and weakness of 
the books uaed in the schools, is precisely tbe third reason of the insufli- 
eiency of their eduaition* 

* There are two sorts of books. One are classical books, books of majesty, 
which comprehend the wisdom of the human nice, ^mtten by the represen- 
tatives of that wisdom— books where there is nothing arbitrary or uniruitfui, 
cither in the method or style or teaehing ; in which are stored upj not 
merely particular truths, in a word, erudition, but which set forth umversal 
truths, those fruitful and wholesome doctrines, into which human nature 



I 



Allm' Joumai tn France in 1845 and 1848. 



171 



bas transfiiseii its very self, with its feelings, its ivants, And ils bopcn. 
Tliere arc other hooka, again, books of jjettincss and detail^ of mere indi\ i- 
dual interest, where all is poor and frigid, where trulli which is boimdlcKs 
only appears in shreds, and in that shape in whkh a poor httle mind could 
find room for it ; wlicre the aiithoi't exhausted by the labour of giving it 
birth, has only retained vig^our enough to stamp on the book the senate of 
his toil, and a fainting life— books on which human nalure when it iasiMa 
from its pupillage, turns its baek for ever, for it fiiida in them neitber ilwir, 
nor its tlioughtaj nor its alTections— yet books to which we obstinately and 
cruelly condemn our youth, which with a natural instinct rejects them, and 
too often, from a desire to exchange them fiir better, falls under the temptar 
tions of corrupt writingSj or forms a determined aversion to study, or 
Irora the long violence it has sufieredl under the rigour of the schools, che- 
rishes a hatred, secret, deeo, life-long, against its masters, its superiors, its 
books, and the truths whicb the books contain— yes, a hatred, I say, not 
always clearly developed, but working continually under forma diflcreot 
from those of actual hatred — which clothes itself under all pretexts, which 
where it betrayB itself, astonishes even him who is conscious of it, because 
he did not know that he had it» and cjinnot explain its cause — ^and which 
wears all the appearance of impiety or rude ingratitude towards teachers, 
otherwise excellent, and who have lavished so much care, so many words, 
so much affection, on their pupils,' — Pp. 37» 38. 

Then after spcitklng of the educational books of the Church 
in former times, ^ — the Bible fii^st, then t!ie writings of the 
Fathers, then the scientific abridgements of their teiiching by 
the schoolmen, of which the Summa Theologlw of S. Thomiw* 
Arjuinas was the most perfect example,— and after noticing the 
ridvantages, and in hia view greater disadvantageSj wWch had 
attended on the scholastic method, he proceeds: — 

♦The schoolmen,' (he apecifilly excepts S. Bernard and S, Bonavcnturn, 
whoj he Bays, * wrote with the digiiity of the early Fathers/) • the school- 
meo had abridged Christian wisdom at the sacrifice of all that ap|>eals to 
the heait, and that rendered it operative : tlicir disciples, (and the disciples, 
once more be it said, are not greater than the masters,) continued to abridge 
it, by cutting off from it all that was most deep, most essential, and by waiv- 
ing the mention of its great principles, under colour of facilitating its study, 
but in reality because they did not understand them in the least tliema elves. 
'X'hus they reduced it miserably to material formuhc, to isolated conse- 
quences, to practical directions, which the hierarchy cannot do without, if 
it wishes in the presence of the people to carry on the service of religion in 
the external way in which it has been done in times past. This \» the 
fourth and last epoch in tlie history of the books used in Christian schools ; 
the epoch of the theologians who succeeded the schoolmen. And by these 
steps, from Scripture, from the Fathers, from the schoolmen, and from the 
theologians, we have arrived at these portentous text-books which we use 
in our seminaries — bonks which yet inspire us with such a sense of our 
own wisdom, with such contempt for our ancestors — hooka which in the 
a^es to come, wherein rest the hopes of the Church which can never perish, 
wdl, as I believe, be judged the most paltry and repulsive of all that has 
been written during the eighteen centuries' which the Church has lasted, — 
books, to sum up all in a word, without life, without principles, without 
eloquence, and without method, thouejh indeed in adaptation and regular 
disposition of their subjects, in which they make method to consist, their 
authors show that they have exhausted the whole power of their minds — 



k 



172 



jiiUe^ Journal in France in 1845 and 1848. 



booka which not beiug composed for thi? heart, nor for the intellect, nor 
for the imapnution, are not in triith books for Bishopa or for Priests, 

' But if httli: books and little men go together, can there from these two 
elements be formed a fjrcat school, — can there be an imposijig method of 
teaching? No j and the defectiveness of the method is the fourth and List 
reason of this sore of the Church of which we are speaking — the insufficient 
education of the Ciergj in our times/ 

The view given to Mr. Allies by hia friends of the social and 
religious condition of Prance^ and of the obstacles, in the way of 
improvement, is a dark one. But hia informantfi speak aUo of 
great chmigei' in their favour, both in the feeling of the mass of 
the population, and in the external clreumstuiices of the Church- 
The litter tlislocation and annihilation of all political ties, has in 
eome respects though by no meana in all, facilitated the action 
of the Clergy. The following account is gathered hy Mr. AOies 
from an evening conversation with some Parisian friends : — 

• Last evening we dined with M. Defresne, a very clever, able, and ener- 
getic talker We met T Abbe Pet^tot, cur^ of S. LoniB d'Antin, 

one of the parishes of Paris, with 18,000 inhabitants; he has ei^bt 
curates, besides occasional assistance. They give the most astonishmg 
account of the change which has taken place in France in the last fil^een 
years in religious matters. Formerlv a young man dared not confess 
that he was a Chrietianj or show himself in a church ; now the bitter 
sarcasm and ridicule with which all religious subjects were treated have 
passed away ; earnestness has laid hold of the mind of the nation, and 
even those who are not Christians appear to be searching for the truth, and 
treat Christianity as a reality, and conviction with respect. Even now, not 
one ffounff man in a hundrtd is a Chrisfian. I asked TAbhiS Petetot particu- 
larly, if he Mt sure of this proportion, and he conlirmed it* Out of the 
thirty-two millions of French, they reckon two millions who are reaOy 
Christians, practising confession ; many of the others send for a priest iji 
their last illness, coufesa, and receive the sacraments; but M. DetVesnc 
thought this very unsatisfactory, as we should. They are making great 
exertions to chriatianisie the class of workmen, the great majority of whom 
arc not even nominally believers. You may judge of their life by the fact 
that they live with many different women in common, sometimes afler 
a time selecting one of these, and confining themselves to her, but without 
legitimate marriage. The Church has gained about fifteen hundred of this 
class out of a hundred thousand in Paris, and worked a great reformation. At 
S. Snl])ice they have every other Sunday a meeting of the^^e, called confe- 
rences, at which they are addressed by different persons, dergj' or lay, on 
religious, moral, or instructive aubjectg. We went to the" meeting on 
Sunday night, and were much pleased with what we saw and heard- Their 
minds are laid hold of and interested ; bv drawing together they get a sense 
of union and the force of numbers, and are encouraged by each other's 
progress ; they see their superiors in knowledge and station exerting them- 
selves for their impro\^ement. L'Abbe P6tdtot told us he had preached 
eifffiit/ times last Lent, seven times in one day. This is entirely without 
note. Their labour must be very great. His manner of speaking is very 
pleasing, and 1 think the priests generally speak with great propriety^ and 
with an abundance and arrangement of matter which is not common with 
us. We have just returned from a visit to M. Martin Noirlieu, once sub- 
preceptor of the Duke de Bordeaux, ami now a cure at Paris. He has been 



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AUiea^ Journal ia France in tS^oand 1848. 



173 



in England, and speaks fevoumbly of us. He thinks there is much good 
and Teal religion in the people of England^ though very defective, and 
though the Chureh is suffering under many abuses. Me said they com- 
puted that the Bishop of London received as much as all the French 
Bishops put together. The state of things here i9 totally different from 
vhat It is with as. There is no state religion, no temjjlation wbate\er to 
pretend to be a Christian if you are not. The consequence is, that ibere is 
little hypocrisy : iofideliity is openly professed by a ^cat number. On the 
'Other hand, the believers are so from real conviction, and generally after 
a personal conversion ; there are comparatively few hereditnry ChristiAus. 
I ' The Church is gradually gaining, but much more in the higher than iti 
[jhe lower ranks. There are 80U priests in Paris ; they want 400 more ; 
lefore the great Revolution there were 3,000. '^Pp. 112 — 1 15. 

Some of them took a hopeful view of the Revolution: — 

* Wednesday, Juqvti 2,— Called on M. L'Ahbe P6tetot, Tlie last revolu- 
tion has had a happy effect on the side of religion. The utmost respect has 
been paid to the priests ; they have never ceased a moment to go abroad 
en soutane. In 1830 they were obliged to give this up for two yearsj and 

jonly recovered popularity by their devotion to the sick in the time of the 
cholera. But now they have come to the priest to bless the trees of liberty. 
He had blessed six. They even went in procession with the Cross, which 

lis contrary to the la^vs, and woe to him who did not take off his hat. Hut 
this is the only good side of the late movements. Commerce is at a atand- 
itiil ; and the very boutiquiers talk freely of the necessity of having a king. 
Paris subsists by articles of Ivxe^ and a republic is not favourable to these. 
But what is coming nobody can see. In the riots of June, the insurgents 
had possession of the church of S. Paul, in the Faubourg S. Antoine. The 
cure induced them to go elsewhere ; and, before leaving the church, they 
came to him for his blessing, saiying they were gomg to fight : and so they 
went forth to kill and be killed. But all the middle clags — the bour- 
geoisie — is profoundly hostile to religion : they w ill do anything to prevent 
Its gaining mtlucnce. Although liberty of teaching would follow naturftlly 
from the principles of the renublic, yet the Assembly has just passed a law 
on primary instruction as bad as can be ; and another on secondar}' instruc- 
tion will follow like it. Religion does not make any way with these classes ; 
money is their idoh A workman or poor woman will give five francs to a 
charity, where these people think much often sous/^Pp. 260, 2(J7. 

The total alteration of political circumstances is given as tlic 
explanation of the readiness of the Clergy to go along, as wafi 
noticed at tlie time, with the revolutionary feeling. The fol- 
lowing words express what all must have felt who have paid 
attention to French politics; — 

' As we went home with M, Le Normand, he observed on the misconcep- 
tion of their position by the Quarterly lately, which seemed shocked at the 
acceptance of the republic by the Church ; as if it wns possible to do any- 
thing else. I said it was a sentiment of loyalty among us, which dictated 
that feeling. '*Z/<>yc(//y," he replied, "is entirely extinct in France; it is 
a fiction, and it is useless to attempt to conjure it up ►" '—Pp. 270. 271. 

Extinct, judeed, we fear, even in its etymological sense, and 
yet the Church is not considered to have gained all the freedom 
which would be the fair counterbalance for the loss of political 
Btrength. M. Galais is a^ked :— 



174 



AUim Journal in France in 1845 and 1848. 



* Will the Jesuit* get more libertjr of action under the Revolution i He 
thought not^ There waa no disposition to Apply the principles of liberty 
either to the .leauita or the other religious orders. They had the reputa- 
tion of hein«^ very '* habilcs ; " and " mibilcs'' they certain) v wcre^ hut not 
so much aa they were esteemed. He doubted if they had been wise under 
Louis Pbihppe's government; it waa known that in their colleges oat of 
France, Bruj^elette for instance, devotion to the elder branch waa inculcated. 
Now, the wise course seemed to be to accept the government de facto, as 
the fatliers of the Church did. They troubled themaclves A'ery little who 
was emperor. Had the Jesuits done so, they would not have been 
suspected by Louis Philippe ; and so, perhaps, would have had colleges 
entrusted to them, I asked what the actual position of the Church with 
regard to the state waa. " There arc/' he said, ** in the Assembly sixty — 
it may be as many as a hundred — good Calholica ; but all the rest are 
indifferent, or even hostile to us. The immense majority arc bent on 
resisting the influence of religion.'* ** It seems to me then," I said, " a kind 
of miracle that you subsist at all." " It is so," be replied. *' The thing in 
our favour is that, small minority of the nation as we are, we are firm, 
compact, and banded together, wliile our enemies are divided in cverj' way. 
They hnve no common principle, and so they have a dread of ua, a fear of 
our aucccediug in winning back the nation to religion, by which they would 
fall into a minority. The real feeling which influences this unbelieving 
mass is the luHt of domination ; they have got their lect on the neck of 
religion, and they mean to keep it there. For this reason they will allow 
no liberty of teaching if they can help it." " But I suppose you have won 
ground since 1802 ; have you not?" I said. ** We have won and we have 
lost," be replied. *• Doubtless the Clergv arc better constituted now ; there 
J8 a great devotion among them. Our bishops are in the main well chosen, 
and do their duty. They undei*stand the crisis, and arc fully convinced 
that they must fight the battle stoutly, and make no concession. But, on 
the other hand, in 1S02, ihcmgh religion had been ovcrthroun, and impiety 
had publicly triumphed, yet the great mass of the natirm had received 
a Christian education. It is the reverse now; this mass is now unbe- 
lieving, they have not been brought up as Christians, their first im- 
pressions were not in favour of religion." •' You are then as mission- 
aries among unbelievers," I said. " Precisely so. And this enormous 
unbelieving mass has the greatest jealousy of us. We only ask fair play ; 
liberty, not privileges ; and this they will do every thing to keep from us. 
They are making, quietly but dcfmitely, efforts to secularise, as they call 
it, the education of girls; tliat is, knoiviog the importance of first impres- 
sions, and of the female sex on society, they would take this primary 
education out of religious bands. There are infernal plots abroad. They 
dread us, and have a feeling, that if xve were allowed a fair trial we should 
win our ground, I am convinced that we should recontpicr France if we 
were only allowed liberty of action. Even the multitude who seek to 
satiate themselves in sensual enjoyments, even these come to us sooner or 
later for aid. Few after all can gain these enjoyments, and those who do, 
feel that they have not reached \vhat they were seeking for. And then in 
the young clergy I am continually seeing instances of the most touching 
generosity and devotion. Many give up fair prospects, and fortunes, and 
surrender themselves wholly to their ministry." ' — Pp. 272 — 274. 

But with all these discounigements, they still pride them- 
selves, and with reason, on being the most energetic branch of 
the Roman cotnmunlon. ' I asked M. Galais,' sjiys Mr. Allies, 
^wliich nation io tlie Bonmn Church was at present most 



I 



I 



I 



^^^^ Allied' Journal in f'ram^ in 15^45 mid 1848, 175 

*coDspiciioiis for its missionary exertions. He said, the French 
'by far J there are ten French for one Italian raissionarj\' 
And 80 the Fere Ravignan : — 

' He agreed with M. Gftlais in thiDking that France was at present that 
part of the Roman Church in which there was moat movement, ** Italy is 
always the head and heart: there are, and always have heen, there many 
ecclesiastics of a holy li!k Still it cftnnot be doubted that a certain reform 
is wanted there — a reform, of course, to be wrought % the Church, and not 
ill separation from bcr. This is only aaying that where there are men, 
there is a natural tendency to degenerate. We have passud thronti;h this 
reform in France." 1 asked whether he tliought^ if liberty of teaching 
were grantedj that the Church would regain the mass of the population. 
Me hesitated. A certain effect would doubtless be produced: the mere 
establiiihnient of a house of education in ^M^ry diocese would be a conside- 
rable step. It was very difficult to know the number of practising Catholics 
in France. There were not above two millions of Protestants. Out of the 
million of Parisians there might be from a hundred to a hundred and fil'ty 
thousiind who communicated at Easter, men, women and children: of 
women one half were Catholic; of men, perhaps one-twentieth. Paris was 
one of the worst places in France \ so, again, the North ^enerally» and the 
centre, Bourges, lierri, le Nivernois. On the other hand, in Bretagne and 
the South, religion was much more generah'— Pp. 278, 279. 

It is romarkaltlc to observe that the centralization of evcry- 
thing in Paris which is so observable in other tliiuge^ is spoken 
of as true of religion also : — • 

* Monday, July 7- — We called on M. Defresne; much atruck by his con- 
versation. He said all that was best in religion was at Paris ; out of a mil- 
lion of inhabitants there were ,300,000 going io mass, and 50J)00 practising 
Christians ; this was the kernel of religion in the country, the pure gold.' — 
P. 41. 

Mr. Allies has collected some interesting and striking informa- 
tion with respect to the MissionH of the Front'h Church, The 
following is the account of one of the congregations, to which 
are entrusted the missions in the Pacific : — 

Hie Abbe Coudrin gathorcd by degreeis a number of young persons 
[round him, and succeeded in setting his Congregation on foot, which was 
'TTcognised in i817 by Pius VII. In the year 1837 he died, having mtnessed 
many establishments of his Congregation in France ; the fouudation of one 
Bt Valparaiso : many of bis di.'sciples cvau^eliaing the Polynesian inlands, 
and two of his children bishops^ M. Bonamie, first Bishop of Babylon, and 
then Archbishop of Smyrna, «nd M, Rouchouze, Vicar Apostolic of Eastern 
: Oceania. On bis death the former was chosen for the government of the 
f Congregation bv its general (!hapter. 

* At present tne Congregation has, besides twenty-four eatabliahraents in 
France, two houses in Chili, and two in Belgium ; one at Lotivain, the other 
at Enghicn, for instruction of youth. It has about one hundred missiona- 
ries, priests and catechists, in the Sandwich Islands, the MarqueHa.s, Oceania, 
and elsewhere. 

' The object of the institution h to retrace the four periods of our Lord's 
life: Hia infancy, His bidden life, His evangelical life, aod His crucified life, 

* With respect to our Lord's bifaney, gratuitous schoola are kept for ptjor 
children ; and larger schools, to which a certain number of young persons 



176 



AllU^' Jminial in Frame in 1845 and 1848, 



is admitted tree ofchargej according- to the resources of each establishment. 
Those intended for the Church arc here prepared for their sacred fancrions. 

* As to onr Lord's hidden hfe, all members of the Congcegatian are to 
imitate it by repairing iu the perpetual adoration, day atid night, of the 
Must Holy Sacrament, tbe wronf^s done to the Sacred Hearts of Jesus and 
of Mary, by the sins wbirh are committed 

* Priests imit-ate our Lord's evangelical life by the preaching of the 
Gospel, and by missions. 

' Lastly, alt members of the CongTcp;ation should recall, so far as iu them 
lies, our Saviour's LTucified life, by pniclising with zeal and prudence works 
of Christian mortification, specially in the mastery of their senses. 

* In 183.1 Gregory XVI, entrusted to the Society of Picpus the missions 
of Eastern Oceania. 

' There are houses for tli e novitiate at lasy, near Paris, at Louvain^ and 
at Graves, near Villefranche. It continues not more than eighteen, nor 
less than twelve months. Here are priests and candidates for the priest- 
hood, preparing themselves to live under the laws of religious obedience, 
and to devote themselves either to the instruction of youths, or to missions, 
or to the direction of souls, in the post assigned to them by their obedience ; 
or to deeper atudiea, ivhich shall enable them to serve the faith according 
to the talents God has given them. 

* Young men and adults UHtewise are received, who, without being called 
to the ecclesiasticjil state, wish to consecrate theraaelvea to God for the 
advancement of His glory, and the assuring of their own salvation by the 
practice of reliicious virtues, 

' Priests besides, and laymen, arc received as boarders, who, desirous not 
to remain in llie vw orld, wish to prepare themselves in retirement, and the 
practice of the virtues of ihcir estate, for their passa^^e from lime to eternity. 

* This society baa just applied to the government for permission to send 
out chaplains with those who shall be transported for their participation in 
the late revolt. I do not know a higher degree of charity than this; and 
many other priests have inscribed themselves for this service. 

* In the chapel we saw one of the brethren continuing the perpetual 
adoration of the Holy Sacrament. 

* I'be Archbishop spoke in terms of great contempt of the ignorance of 
the Greeks; and likewise anticipated a large conversion of the Turks, 
whenever liberty of conscience is allowed. He had just sent out some 
misaionaries to Oceania.' — Pp. 211—214. 

The French Church can boast of martyrs among her IMission- 
aries. In Cochin China a Missionary Bishop, M, Borie, and 

BOtne of his priests, as well as many among tlieir converts, went 
through agonizing stiffen ngs, and gained their crown. Heroism 
in France is not monopohzed by the army or the mob ; and any 
Church might well be proud of such nohle brethren. Yet the 
tone in which Mr. Alllea' friends arc represented as speaking in 
reference to thera, suggests the thought that self-complacency is 
an infirmity which even French Clergymen find it hard to era- 
dicate. Take the following remarks of M. Parisis, Bi^^hop of 
Langres : — 

* *• You must not look for the faith among the mass of the people here, 
for they have it not, hut in religious houses, foreign missions, Cathohc 
institutions, &c. You have not had martyrs, I think, in the last twenty 
yemra : we have had many ; and it is remarkable to observe how entirely 



I 



Allies Journal in France in 1845 atid 1848. 



177 



tne icenea of the first ages hnvc been ri^produced; the Spirit of Christ has 
given birth to prwisely the same unsweTa to questions put to martyrs aa ol 
old by the spirit of the devil j nnd torraenis aw terrible, tearing of the tlesh, 
and hewing in pieces, have been borne. I wns dining^ not long- ago at ihc 
Forcigrti Missions, and was saying that the life of a Missionary in China Tra* 
not good, when all present cried out at ouee, clapping their hands , 'Oh. 
yes ; but it is good — it is good.' French Missicmaries have subsisted," he 
continued, "for a long time without even breadj which ia mnch for us, 
though not for you; while yours go out with wife and duldrcu pour faire 
le commerce." '^Fp. 193, 190. 

We will add one extract more, giving an account of one of 
the modes in which the French Clergy meet the infidelity of 
the lower orderi*. We must not of course jtitlge such a scene 
by English feelings. The French mind in its most serious and 
earnest mood;?, oscillates on the edge of a laugh, and easOy 
recovers from it ; and it may require a bold and startling, and 
even ui itself hazardous system, to cope with that mixture at 
once of outward levity and terrible meaning, wliich has turned 
the Gospels into a Socialist text-book, and parodied Liouardo 
da Vinci's 'Last Supper/ aa a »SociaIiat hnnquet:— 

' In the evening we went to the Eeole des Fr^res Chretiens, 6 Rue de 
Fleurus, and were conducted by some of the brethren to the most cjttra- 
ordinary scene we have witnessed in France. It was a meeting held in 
the parish church of S. Marguerite, to give prizes to the assiduous members 
of the society of S. Fran^yis Xavier, which is composed of artizana, who 
attend periodically to be instructed. After VeBpera and ComplinCf Mon- 
fleigneur the Archbishop of Chakedoine was introduced, under whom the 
seance wtm held. The cur6 then briefly stated the course of proceedings, 
and presently ccjmmenced a dispute between M, I'Abbc Masaard, pretre 
directeur, and M. l' Abbe Croze, on the subject whether there were or w^ere 
not miracles ; the former maintaining the negative, the hitter the affirma- 
tive. The usual philosophical objections were put by I'Abbe MassartI, 
very fairly and with gjeat vivacity, and were answered by FAbbe Crosce 
with vivacity still greater aud superior ingenuity. Constant approbation 
and laughter attended both cjueation and answer* there being a lat^e 
mimher of women outside the bnrricr in the aisles, the workmen members 
occupying the nave, and all seemed to relish to the utmost the nature of 
the colloquy. It was, indeed, extremely well imagined to convey to minds of 
that class a ready answer to specious philosophical objections against the 
truth of religion j and, though uo doubt previously arranged by the two 
disputants, had all the air of hein^ poured forth with extreme volubility 
on the spur of the moraent. To give a notion of the thing :— " M, Mas- 
eard proposed the subject of Miracles; and on being asked, What about 
miracles ? said, he should dispute against them, L'Abhe Croze asked him 
what be meant by miracles. M, Massard began, piirsonaliiig an eager and 
hasty infidel, with a rough account of them. ' I don*t mean to give a 
philosophical definition; I mean what every body means — an extraor- 
dinary thing, such as one never saw — in fact, an impossible thing.' L'Abbe 
Croze complained that this waa too vague, and gave his own detiuition — 
• an act surpassing human power, and out of the ordinary course of nature, 
and which consequently must be referred to some supernatural power.' 
L'Abbd Maasard then made a speech of some length about the impoasi- 
biUty of miracles, and the absurdity of some that were found in history, 
NO« LXV. — N.S, N 



178 



AUks^ Journal hi France in 1845 and 1848. 



and cijjicl tided by {leuyiiijc? all. M. Croze made him begin to repent liis 
Rr^umt'iitti one by ane, tsuyhig', he vioiilt! tlitin srrve him as Iloratius did 
the CurititiL M, Massard snid, in r*'peUtitm, * God caniiut work a mtrajcle, 
for it would be ii disorder ; it would be H^jCAiiiHt ld» own laws,' &c. L'Abbe 
Croze »aid, ' lie could not see why He, who makes the sun rise every day, 
jni^ht not stop it one d»y, as the maker of a watch can stop the watch. 
A miracle is no exertion of (orce in tbe Almig:l;ity, no more thun for one 
who walks to stop walking an instant." <SL'c. M. Masaard changed his 
g;roun(l, and "^ — M. — urfjed Hurae*a argument, that even if a miracle were 
acted before our eyes, we could have no proafB that it wsia a miracle equal 
in force to the amecedent improbability that a miracle would be done. M. 
Croie pulled this to pieces, to the great amujiement of the auditory. '' What," 
said he, ''can anything: be more ridiculous than to tell me that proofs are 
wanted, when a miracle ia done before my ejes? If I see a man whom I 
well know in the Just stage of sickness, witness afterwards his death and 
burinl, and, a year or two after that, that qian reappears before ray eyes, 
do I want any proof of the miracle? If I meet nn am in the street and 
lay to him, Ass, apeak, philosophiza; and he forthwith opens hi?i month 
and argues, do I want any proof that it ie a miracle? If I meet an ox 
going along, and I say, Ox, fly; and he flre.^, do I want proof of the 
miracle? If one evening all the women in Paris were to become dumb, 
and could not speak," — here a burst of laughter broke from all parts of the 
church, and it was some time before this orator triumphant could proceed/ 
—Pp. m^BG, 

* Such wna the nature of this conference between M- Massard and M, 
Ctoze, which latter hud a countenance remarkable for finesse, and subtilty, 
and comic humour, Profaneness to the church was supposed to be guai'ded 
againgt by stretching a curtain before the altar at some little distance. 

'This was followed by an energetic and rhetorical sermon from l/Abbe 
Frappa?!, on the !ove of Christ, and on faith, hope, and charity, which was 
listened to with great attention, and applauded more than once. " After 
this they san^ * Monstra ie esse matrenr* to a lively hopping air,** — M, 

'Then came a loiig distribution of prizes*, in books and pictures, to the 
moat attentive memberSi which were delivered to each by the Archbishop 
of Chalcedoine, while at intervals the choir struck out verses of a hymn in 
honour of S. FVanci^ Xavier, which was echoed through the church. In 
the meantime the curtain had been ^lithdrawn* and the altar brilliantly 
hghted np for a salut pontificalement c^lebr6. This, however, we did not 
stay for, as it was already past ten.'— Pp. OR, 70. 

Our extracts are but specimens oi" the various matters con- 
tiected with religion and education in France, on which details, 
many of them very interesting, are collected in Mr, AUies's 
Journal. The general inipregsion left is one highly favourable 
to the zeal, energy, and self-devotion of tlie French Clergy 
where Mr, Allies came in contact with them; that is, in the 
great cities of the Nurtli. We are less satisfied with his account 
of their explanations of theological ditliculties, or of the perplexi- 
ties of their political position, — points*, no doubt, where both 
partiej?, the stranger and the native, are almost equally at 
a di^ad vantage' in convcrf^atlon. The information it* conveyed 
apparently in the same rough form in which it took shape in the 
writer*^ note-book, so tliat it is scattered, often incomplete, and 
often wanting explanation. But these dii?advantages of form 



JlUa' Journal in France in 1845 and 1848. 



179 



are connterbalanced by the force and truthfulnesis wliich accom- 
pany the first notings of immeditite iniprcssions. One reranrk 
more we must make. Mr. AlHcii must be considered as a partial 
observer. It may be asked, it is true, Who is not? And cer- 
tainly the spirit in which he made his inquiries is incalculably 
higher than that which influences our travelling countrymen in 
general. Yet the disposition to put a favourable construction 
on every thing is as visible in him, as the contrary disposition is 
aa obvious in others; and he would have produced, we think, a 
better and more convincing book, if he had allowed himself 
more freedom of judgment, and not thwarted altogether the 
natural suspiciousness of a foreigner in bis strong effurts to be 
perfectly fair, and to keep down insular and En^ifHsh prejudices. 
One word, in conclusion, in reference to euch peace-making 
attempts. In saying a word on such a subject as the re-union 
of the Church, we would not willingly forget that we are speak- 
ing of matters which hold the first place in the councils of 
Perfect Wisdom and All-controlling Power,— of that Divine 
Chanty, wliosc last prayer was for the unity of His Church. 
Standing between those great cominutiions wliicb we believe to 
be the branches of the Universal Church, an individual must be 
very insensible who dues not feel the insignificance of his position 
when appearing to arbitrate between tlienijand to judge of their 
awful interests and awful claims. Little, indeed, it is, that man 
can judge about them; little that be can do or say with clear- 
ness and confidence ; and he must be very narrow-minded, or 
very bold, who does not feel himself cowed and fettered in the 
presence of these great questions — so heart-searching, and so 
dark. But what individuals judge right, and recommend, indi- 
viduals may criticize. Further, God forbid that any woixl of 
ours should discountenance or damp that desire for unity which 
all true Churchmen ought to feel as an inatinctj or should check 
any hope which rests on God*s promise and power, and not on 
man's Welshes or forccastings. But those who feel most deeply 
the desire for unity, and pray for it morning, and mid-day, and 
evening, cannot force on, by any effort of theirs, that which 
God sees not fit to grant. They certainly can act for themselves 
if they please ; but the present re-union of the Church, so far 
ss we can judge of men and circumstances, is not an object that 
any man, or set of men, can with reason hope to bring about. 
There is nothing in tlie aspect of things to lead us to hope that 
God will accord it yet. Who can say that he sees his way 
towards it? Plainly, before it could be, even in the hollow and 
diplomatic form in which it has been sometimes tried, circum- 
stances must widely change; plainly, they must change far 
more widely, if it is to be a re-union in heart and spirit. To 

n2 




I 




AUies Jounial in France In 1845 and 1848 



Bpeak only of the West, — union, in the terms of the Roman 
Church, means simply aubmis^sion ; her strenf^th would seem to 
be forfeited by concession ; she can only pardon, not negotiate. 
The English Church is certainly not more disposed to surrender 
than the Eoman is to treat. Both have too strong a case ; both 
are too deeply founded in actual fact, and each is fidly sensible 
of the weak points of the other. There is a dead lock : it is 
difficult to see what direct efibrts can be made to disentangle it. 
The cliange must be from within — ^by a softening and inclining 
within, not by impulse from without. This has been said often, 
but is not lesiH true* Wc mu!*t change, and they must change, 
and l)oth improve, before any direct or immediate measures can 
be dreamed of. Till then, we can but prepare, aa best we may, 
by preparing ourBelves. This is the most we can do ; this at 
any rate, this alone, will not lie done in vain. But one tiling ia 
quite plain, tliat it will not be bustened on either sitle by what 
exasperates without j>cr^nading. It will not be hastened on 
either side by what throws men on their self-defence, by the arts 
of controversialists ; nor, we must say^ will it be hcl(>ed on our 
owuj by exaggerated unbalanced self-depreciation, by conceding 
for tlie English Church, in tone and language, to those who will 
concede nothing. If the English Church has a good standing 
ground in controversy, — if she is the only body which 1ms a 
cliance of maintaining Catholic truth in our strongly marked 
and fiemdiar race,— if she is worth working in, and improving, 
she is worth defending ; and her defence, as a system, is 
subject to the same conditions aa that of any other system ; it 
cannot bear, to any unlimited extent, concessions or assaults 
from within. Men have corporate duties. If the claims of tJie 
English Church come in competition with those of the Univer- 
sal Church, this menna that her case is given up; but if Home 
and England are between themselves, as we believe them to be, 
but two parts of the Universal Church, the claims against which 
England sets hers, are not those of the whole but of a part ; 
and none of us have a right to transfer to that part, however 
imposing, however united, the reverence and prerogatives of the 
whole. • 

While, then, Rome maintains her present position of unbend- 
ing Jiostllity, no other position is possible for the English 
Church but one of watchful reserve ; and if forced to it, reso- 
lute self-defence. This is the simple necessity of the case, 
su|*po8ing her to have any meaning at all in her cause. Beyond 
this, however, parties or individuals may feel her own attitude 
docs not go : within this, however, her feeling and tone cannot 
but be affected by the policy and language of others towards 
her. She wants neither the moral temper nor the dogmatic 



AUles^ Journal in France in 1845 and 1848, 



181 



I 



creed whioh in themselves would lead her to s^y input hise with 
those partij of the Church which are separated troiii lier; which 
are tending ever to the re-iinion of shattered Christendom; hut 
here^ a& in otlier things, it is plain that sympathy, co-operation, 
re-union, depend on many other conditionij hesidcs tliose of 
essential jLt^reement in fj;eneral prinejpk\s, — Jn teuijKT and 
belief. "What is trne every day in tJie case of individuub, is 
not less true in the case of hodies of men— it does not require 
/7rm^ differences to keep tliem apart: the lesist are often the 
most impracticable. W hile the claims of Konie remain what 
they are, it is too much to require from the EngHt^h Church, vr 
from members of it, more than that pergonal !?ynipatliy which 
gCK)d and Christian men naturally excite in those who wish to 
follow the same steps which tliey are follow^in*^. 

^leanwhile, whatever tends to make either side realize personal 
excellence in the other, which brings it before men in visible 
and individual shape, tends to that softening of hearts wdiich 
must precede the work of the peace-maker. Such an exhibition 
will produce its effect in proportion as it is, not merely striking, 
but natural and unatudiedj and will fail in proportion as it appears 
one-sided, or arranged for a pur])osc; but it is in danger of 
being sinqdy nselees, if it bears, or can be made to bear, a con* 
trovcrsial aj^pect, — if the contemplation of foreign excellence not 
only goes along with an ignoring of foreign defects, but with a 
keen and unrelenting exposure of domestic ones. If great and 
good deeds are presented, not merely a« an answer to ignorance 
and calumny, but as a w^arrant for things which our knowledge 
and religious instinct shrink back from, they do at the utmost 
but perplex,^ — they certainly cannot attract : and if they are 
thrown in our face, and made matters of reproach and argu- 
ment to silence ub, no one can be surprised if men turn 
their eyes to the other side of the picture— for another side 
there surely is. 

But we should have thought that in the present state of 
European society, it was no time on any side for irritating con- 
trasts. The materials for them arc no doubt abundant, and 
lierhaps temjJting — contrasts drawn on one's own principles, and 
on those of our opjwnents — contrasts between systems and be- 
tween results — between profession and practice. We know 
enough to make them more circumstftntial, and therefore more 
telling than formerly ; but we have as yet seen no proof that 
we know enough to make them fair ones; and all sides will do 
well not to trust cither for attack or defence, to a mode of argu- 
ment which acts indeed strongly on the imagination at the 
moment, but which a change of circumstances may falsify 
to-morrow. 



M 




182 




^ 



Art, VI L — 1. A Hhtory of Ecctenastical Arehitecture in Fng- 

land, Lhj George Ayliffe Poole, M.A., Vicar of Welford. 

London ; Masters. 1848* 
2. A Historii of Architecture. By Edward A. Freeman, M*A., 

lote Fellmt of Trinity Col!e</e, Oxford. London: Masters. 

1849. 

Toe new Renaimance — the revival of Gothic architecture in our 
own times — is, under whatever aspect it ia regarded, a remark- 
able phenomenon. Daring the last fifteen year« a complete 
change haa been in proereas in the taste and feelinga of the 
more educated classesj with res|>ect to the proprietiea of reli- 
gious architecture ; the architecture, that is, of churches and 
coUegea, parsonages^ hosj^itals, and schools. The Pointed style, 
from being simply ridiculed, became, first, an object of curious 
and scientific inquiry; next, it began to be eclcctically imitated^ 
though without any discriminating perception of its principles; 
then, as if in indignation — ^impltcit rather than explicit — ^at the 
monstrosities which pretended to the name of Gothic, many 
different classes of tliinkers and explorers applied themselves to 
the investigation and vindication of its rightful claims aud meritf. 
The late Mr, Hope led the way, in his 'Historical Essay,' by 
laying down, with a perspicuity still unrivalled, broad and philoso- 
pliical foundations for the historical study of architecture and 
for the successful understanding of the genius and capacities of 
its several styles. Dr. Whewell and Professor Willis, from a 
different quarter, brought their great scientific acquirements to 
bear on the examination of the constructional laws of the 
medifcval styles ; while Mr. Pugin, in the Koman communion, 
and the writers of the * Cambridge Camden Society ' in our 
own, devoted themselves to the discovery and the assertioa 
of all that waa not merely mechanical and exoteric in arclii- 
tectural study— in other words, of the * True Principles ' of 
Gothic architecture, of its symbolienl or esoteric signifie^nce, 
its ' Sacranientality,' and, in particular, its ritualistic develop- 
ments and adaptations. Meanwhile, Mr. Petit and ilr. Gaily 
Knight were doing excellent service by contributing a know- 
ledge of foreign buildings, which has since raaterially corrected 
the too narrow and insular views maintained at first by the last- 
named writers ; and Mr, Bloxam and the author of the ' Glos- 
sary of Arcliitecture,' among others, were scarcely less usefully 
employed in collecting and arranging facts, and familiarizing ua 
with details. To this list, those of our readers who are at all 
interested in these pursuits will add the names of other writers. 



Poole and Freeman on the Historic of Avchii^iure* 1 83 



valuable in their way, who have thrown light on particukr sub- 
sidiary tjepartments oF tJiifi wide suhject. 

All thia, however, would have beea vain, and perliapa iinpos- 
sUile, without a contem[iriraneourt and nearly parallel develop- 
ment in architectunii practice* Our liniita would not allow ua 
to trace this at anv length : fiuffice it to con)|Mire the Pointed 
of Rickman'a builduigs at S. John*s CollegCj Cambridge, with 
8. Augustine's College, Canterbury, by Mr. Buttcrfield ; Mr. 
Ynibaniy'i* church at llighgate with Mr, Scott's at Canil*crvvell; 
Mr. Barry's church of iS. Peter at llriglitou wilh S. Paul's in 
the ftanie town by Mr. Carpenter ; Jir, Chantrell with Mr. 
Derick in the pari f^h- church and S- Saviour's at Leeds. 

Now we shall not, we believe, be thought enthusiasts^, if we 
express our oi)inion that the extraordinary revival we have so 
succinctly traced ha.^ been jiermitted, for some worthy end, by 
Divine Providence. For preeieel}' at the time %vhen the Church 
of* England wa** awnkening from its long sleep, and beginning 
to expand and grow in a measure to which, since the primitive 
ages, the hif^tory of the Church affords no parallel, the art of 
architecture— the eldest of the si&ter handmaids of the Church 
— itself revived to tender its services flhen most needed. The 
almost incredible number of churches builtj within our own 
memorieB, in England, created — to use the language of the day 
— a demand which was pretty sure to be supplied. But how? 
Humanly speaking, some one of the eitete pseudo-classical 
styles, or sonie degratled parody of Gothic, or even some con- 
venticular type, might have been |>erpetuated among us. It ia 
surely a matter for earnest gratitude, that the Chm-ch of Eng- 
land should have, abnost instinctively, avoided all these dangers, 
and should now be provided with an arcliitecture — every dayl 
becoming more fully recognised as its own — which, like its doo^ 
trine, is no new invention, hut a return to its old inheritance ; 
— a vigorous descendant of the art which raised Salisbury, 
Lincoln, and Westminster so many centuries ago for our pre- 
decessors in the faith. 

The moment when church-building received go extraordinary 
an imnulse.j proved to be a happier epoch for the Church than 
when Wren was called upon to rebuild London. A hundred 
,«nd fifty years had (juite worn out the mischievous school of 
that great man : and no single architect of any deserved emi- 
nence was at hand to impress a character on the rising move- 
ment Churches began to be built in all directions, but exhi- 
biting a chaotic confusion of plans and styles and arrangements. 
The Church, in its greatest need, seemed to be without a reli- 
gious and appropriate architecture ; and had any of those, to 
who(se exertions we more immediately attribute the resuscitation 



184 PooU and Freeman, on the Histortf of Architecture* 

of a pure Gothic etyle among us, been able to foresee the extent 
of the movement they wore tryinor to control and direct, their 
hearts, we think, would have faded them at the prospect. 
Plappily^ they did not bcc it : tliey enimciated principles full of 
the vitality of truth ; and these have worked their own way 
have triitnijihed. There can be no reasonable doubt, at the pn 
sent time, that the great majority of the intelligent members of 
the Church of England are ]>ersuaded of at least two funda- 
mental positions :~tl lilt the Pointed style is the most proper kind 
of architecture for a religious structure , and that a chiu-ch is not 
merely an aitdllotiitmj but a building arranged according to cer- 
tain essential principles, for the proper performance of united 
prayer and of a liturgical worship. The importance of these 
points, already gained, can be hardly overrated* That they are 
gained, every one's own expencnce may testify. The 6ame 
principles tuo arc gradually jiervading the Colonial, and have 
taken ruot in the American Church. Nor is there any reason 
to suppose that their extension has reached its limit. We are 
not concerned now with foreign countricsi, but it is a remark- 
able and significant tact, that in many of them, before the last 
fatal year of revolutions, an analogous revival was in pro- 
jsrress. Whatever may be reserved, however, for the Continental 
Churches, we believe that we may humbly but hopefully anticipate., 
such an advance of architectural art in our own communion^ that 
we shall be able to look back to the thirteenth and fourteenth 
centuries in this ptu*ticular, without either envy or regret. 

And this consideration enables us to feel less surprise and 
sorrow than we often hear expressedj at the present compara- 
tive backwardness of religious sculpture and painting in this 
country. Tt is true that Gibson, though the most hopeful uame 
we know of, has as yet scarcely shown the least capacity for 
true Christian sculpture ; while Overbcck, Steinle, and Fiihrich 
have still no English disciples ; and while Dyce, Herbert, and 
Eastlake have not yet satisfied the high expectations many 
have ventured to form of them. But architecture ought to pre- 
cede its ancillary arts ; and we believe that whenever we shall 
really want their aid— whenever mere church extension shall 
be no longer our first, if not only, duty— the decorative arts will 
follow their mistress pari paMtt. Meanwhile, such works as those 
from the pen of Lord Lindsay, Mrs. Jameson, and others, which 
have obtained so deserved a popularity^ are doubtless ei^ns of 
the futui^e, and are preparing the way for developments of these 
arts yet to come,' 

' We regret thiit the last-istiued nurabars of the series of plaicH published l»v 
Ibe Society for tlia Diairibution of Religioiif^ Prints are so very inferior in cxccu 
tion, as well a« in dpirit and design^ to the three specimens which first ftppeared. 



pQole afid Fryman w* the Histoty of Architecture. 185 

To return from this difrression — the literature of the new 
architectural Renaissance is hyno means exhausted by the works 
mentioned above as those which had mainly contributed to the 
earlier stages of its progees. Professor Willie's successive his- 
tories of so many of our inoc<t celebrated cathedrals, distin- 
guished by an extraordinary intelligence and penetration, have 
directly, as well as indirectly, been of a value wliich it would be 
difficult to overrate. Mr. Webb's * Continental Eeclcsiology,' 
alrejidy noticed in these pages, Iras opened a new and wide 
field for speculation and gencrahziition. The two volumes 
which form the subject of the present article, Mr. PooIe"'8 

* Ecclesiastical Architecture in Enghmdj' and Mr. Freeman's 

* History of Architecture,' have been published almost simulta- 
neously within the last few months, and claim from us an im- 
mediate notice, as well by their own pretensions and iniport- 
ance, as by the general interest with which the topics oi* wliich 
they treat are regarded. And we may fairly anticipate still 
more contributions from the press: in proof of which we may 
add that, even since tbe preparation of this article, the author 
of * Modem Painters ' has given the world a fanciful but very 
suggestive volume under the strange title of * The Seven Lampa 
of Architecture.' 

For in fact the Pointed revival Is &tlll in progress, and no man 
can foresee its term. Ten years hence many ol' our own asser- 
tions may be shown to have been false, or but partially true ; 
our predictions may be proved to be erroneous, and results, at 
present quite unexpected, may have followed upon causes now 
in imdlscerned operation* This must be taken into account by 
our readers, even when we speak positively to the Ijcst of our 
present judgment? more especially when we C4ill attention to 
the present state of the architectural parties — to use so dignified 
a word— ^whlch respectively invite onr adhesion. 

It is hard to decide, at the present moment, whether the 
science of church architecture is in as hopeful a state na we could 
wish, or whether it is suffering a temporary check. Practically 
we incline to the forn^er view : but the want of union among 
most of those who claitn to be working for a common object is 
very conspicuous to an unprejudiced observer. Altliough all 
seem to w^ish it, no organization has yet been framed for the 
combination of so many independent efforts into one powerful 



Thift step backwarde, lli'm falling short of Trbat might have been expected from 
the earlier numbers, is altoge^iher a bad sigtt, though the whale undertaking hoR 
too mnoh of & mercantile aspect Another stiriei of a \tm pretending kind, but 
eqiiatly well intentioned, ' Soars' Bcripturo Printfi/ ia a contemptible failure : it i.^ 
Tery likelv that the projectorB meant well, l>uL thoac entrusted with the execution 
are entirely ignorant of a single principle in roligiona art. 



186 Pode and Freeman on the BisUr^ of Architecture. 

engine. The various bodies among ug betray, not imfreqiiently, 
a considerable jcjdousy of one another, and seldom or never 
imite even for jmrpose?* independent of their peculiar opinions. 
For instance, the recent whitewashing of the mural paintings 
discovered at S* Cro.^s, — said to be of remarkable beauty, — by 
order of the Karl of Guildford, (a name on other grounds of no 
good onjen to the Churchj) wiiOi i\B we have seen it statedj 
woidd not even permit an artist engaged in copying them to 
eompletc hiiS taslc before they were etiliced — excited no com- 
ment, no remonstrance, ironi archaeologists, ecclesiologists, or 
mere architects, separately or united. 

Let US hope for ^orae better understanding; and we would 
gladly contribute to such a result by any means in our |>ower. 
DiiFerences of principle cannot be healed by a compromise : but 
differences of detail may be. One fertile source of disagree- 
ment of the latter kind is as to tlie principle of ckssificatlon 
and the consequent nomenclature of the Gothic styles. Now 
this dispute positively hinders the success of architectural 
study. In the observations we sludl make on this subject, we 
heartily wish that, if we should be thought to adduce any good 
reasons for adhering to one of the three rival nomenclatures 
before the world, the advocates of the others would, for the 
sake of the manifest advantages of unanimity, wave their own 
prejudices* 

Mr. Freeman, in his Introduction, speaks at much length on 
the two chief schools that i)rcvail among the students of church 
architecture, and comes forward jvs the originator of wliat would 
be, in some measure, a third one, occupying a middle place 
between them. lie distinguishes especially, we said, tw^o schools, 
which lie ajipropriately designates the Archaeological, and the 
Ecciesiologictd* lie might probably have added tlie pure archi- 
tecturalists; to which Dr. AVhewell, Professor Willis, Mr. Petit, 
and perhaps Mr. Poole properly belong* Mr. Freeman himself 
differs totocah from the archieologists, to whom he ie an unsparing 
and persevering enemy, thuugh he is found occiisiooally fighting 
on their side, (on wholly dili'crent grounds, however,) against the 
ecclesiological nomenclature of styles. But all his resjiect and 
sympathy are rc^^crved fortius latter school, whose motives and 
principles have never been more eloquently and more generously 
defended than in the volume before us. His immediate object, 
which is, as he defines it, * to give in the strictest sense a history 

* of the science of architecture, as a contribution, however humble, 

* to the philosophy of art,' (p. 7,) justifies him, Imwever, in declar- 
ing that his history has too wide a scope to be regiirded a^? s 
merely ecclesiological work: and thus he is the better able to 
take up an independent position, and to suggest an original 



f PooU and Freeviun on the History of Architecture, 187 

classification in place of that employed by those writers with 
whom, iu other points, and in general sentiments, he is anxioua 
to show that he coincidea. We quote the following extract 
firom bia Preface ;<— 

' No one can deny tbe dircrt and most importnnt benefits conferred 
upon architectural science by tbe ecclosiological jncboot. I do not think 
they cnn be fairly charged with introducing into architectural studiesj 
matters unconnected therewith ; architecture ia only nn incidental feature 
in their pursuitSj just as it is in thoae of rtrchajologians. The two Ktudica, 
diflering^ in other respects, have a common point, and each, vievking^ that 
common point from itsovin position, tTftats it accordingly. If I consult 
the *• Ecclesiolog^iat " nn an architectural question, I have no ripht to com- 
plain if I find the informalion I nm aearchin§c for side by side m ith an 
article on Gregorian Chants, any more than if a similar search in the 
'* Archaiological Jonniar* bring:H me into the vicinity of a discourse on 
bronze celts or Eomaii pottery- Neither tbe chants nor the celts have any 
interest for myself personally, but both are legitimate objects of study 
treated of in their proper places. 

• For I would repeat, at the riak of wearinesat both to myself nnd my 
reader^ that it is not to wrchajology or archajologians that I object, but to 
the position which thev assume. Their researches are vnluabh" and neces- 
sary : it ia only to the liostile tone which they often asKume, tbe uncflsiness 
and jealousy which (heir organ invsirinbly displays at anything^ like the 
deduction of a principle or a theory, that any objection can be brought. And 
against this hardly any objection can be too strong. 1 may allude to one 
subject in which I certainly have no sort of personal biaa. The nomenclature 
of the ecclesiologiats I neither employ nor approve ; but the manner in 
which any use of it is met with in certain quarterst the frivoUma, contra- 
dictory, often spitefnl objertiooB which I have seen and heard brought 
against it, would be almost euoujib to make me introduce it even now into 
every pa«fe of my book, had i not myself objections to it far stronger, as 
I hope, than those to which I refer. 

' It ia not archieolo^ in itn right place, as something subordinate and 
ancillary, but archieology excluHive, assuming, claiming a rank which docs 
not belong to it« which is at i\\\^ present tuoment tbe bane, not only of 
architecture, but of a yet nobler study, of history itself/^ — P. xiv. 

In the firi*t chapter of the history, Mr. Freeman recurs to the 
same subject in most energetic hinguagc. He complains (p. 3) 
' of the mere antiquariane, who look on bnildings solely in the 

* light of antiquitiein, with whom the most sumptuous display of 

* Grecian or Gothic art has, after all, scarcely any other interest 

* than that raiecd by a barrow or a kiatvaen, a ritisty dagger or 

* an antique potshertl."' And again, ' It is only in quite recent 

* times that what deems itself a more enlightened archtPology 
' bos taken up a jjo^sition which must be looked upon as clietiuctly 

* and formally hoatile to religion.' Our next extract, though 
long, ia too important to be omitted, [jarticularly as it clearly 
exUibits, in contrast, Mr. Freetnan^s own object in writing hi^ 
hbtory. 

' Our only ground of complaint ib, that some writers of this school forget 
ktliat they huve only paved « way fijr others ; they ni>t only atop short at a 



18S Poole and Freeman on the Hktofy of Jrchiltdure, 



certain point tliemaelves, but gmdg^c ihnt Any one else should go farther j 
they Imve iupplied fHctts, nnd ciiiarrel ivitJi Uiose who \ioiild theiiec deduce 
principles ; they have provided a complete but lifeless body, and look with 
suspicion on any attempt to infuse a vilfll principle into the inert mass; 
they are like a dry plodding iimialiat ahakiiig his head and Inokino: gjrare 
at the *' fanciful " reflections of a Tliueydidea or an Arnold, or a pedag:o{jfue 
whoae mind had never taken a (light bey nod nccideiice and bireh, looking 
aghast at the extended philolosry of the Comparative Graininar. 

* On the other hand is a nobler race, the aulhors of tlie great eccle^io- 
logical movement; the men ulio have fought the battle of the Church in 
her material sanctnaries, and have, amid suspicion and Blanderi stood forth 
8o manfully to convert the modern preaching-house into the Catholic 
temple of prnyera and saeraments* Nothing i» further (Vom the thoughts 
of the present writer, hiniHelf a humble fellow-labourer in the great work, 
than to cast a moment's alur upon their hi^h and holy cause. But still it 
is manifest that their eifons do not necessarily tend to promote the study 
of architecture as an art. The first phase of ecclesiology was simple 
antiquarianism ; raised indeed by the end at which it lumed and the objects 
with which it was converfiant, hut still, in its theory a mere leciinical 
acquaintance with the sacred buildings of a particular age, iu its practice a 
careful reprodnction of their features. The science has now taken a bolder 
flight; Christian temples of all agCH nnd all c aim tries arc to be studied, 
painting, sculpture, muaiCf history are all pressed into its service ; a single 
period is no longer put forward' as the necessary standard of perfection, 
but new developments of Christian art are confidently looked for. But it 
b manifest that thia is not the direct study of architecture, bnt one 
which I freely allow has a much better and higher scope „ it ia essenliany 
religious, and only incidentally artiaticah It occupies a field at once too 
wide and too narrow for our present purpose ; it of course excludes all direct 
attention to any hut eoilesiaatical architecture, and moreover includes a large 
vanety of subjects which have no place in our present investigation. Every- 
thing that can add fresh solemnity to the Christian temple and it^ worship 
comea within the natural and legitimate scope of the ccclesiologist; every 
fine art, almost every mechanical one, has there its place ; the painter^ the 
sculptor, tlic glass-stainer, the goldsmith, the worker in brass and iron^ all 
contribute theiriiharc; the proprieties of church arrangement, the refine- 
ment of church symbolism, the splendour of vestments, the hannony of 
music, the deep treasures of rilual antiquity, are all ajJpropriate branches 
of hm studies. But it ia manifest that while our present design openis on 
ihe one hand a wider field for iuvestigaiiou, as including the architecture of 
all ages and nations, it is <in the other more narrowed in its rangCj as it has 
no connex^ion whatever with any of these latter pursuits, unless when they 
happen incidentally to aitect the style and proportions of strictly archi- 
tectural works. '—P, 4. ' 

Mr* Poole, on the other hand, has carefully abstained from 
committing himself to any architectural party, and as mucli 
m possible from allowing Ms own opinions or preferences to find 
uttcmnce. His nomenclature is the old one, or that of the 
archaeologists. It is to an excess of caution, and to an unwilling- 
ness to be considered as a fautor of extreme opinions, and not 
to intentional disingenuousness, we are sure, that we must 
attribute his occasionally adopting without sufficient acknow- 
ledgment the contribution^! to otir architectural km>wledge of 
some of the most able, hut unpopular and theologtcally ^us- 



^f Pode and Freeman an the HtBtori/ of Architecture. 189 

pcctcd, writers on the subject The contrast, however, in this 
respect, between tlik aiitlior and I!klr. Freeninn is very striking. 

The two works before us, though wc Lave classed them 
together for the sake of convenience, huve little in common. 
TMr, Frecmun'fi object has been to provide for the adept in the 
philosophy of mind, as well ne for the arehitcctural student, a 
guide to the history, in all its branchca, of arehiteetural science: 
— -to carry out what Mr. Hope and jMr. Petit* who, as he re- 
peatedly and emphatically dcckrcj?, arc his great authorities 
and examples, have only partiidly accomplished, and to do for 
the whole what they have done for parts. The result is a 
volume of singular power and extreme interest ; most of which 
demands our complete concurrence, and all of it our careful and 
patient c^nBidcration. 

Mr. Poolers object, which he Bomewlmt obscurely defines to 
be, ' to combine a genenxl history of the greater English eccle- 

* aiastical architects of the middle ages, with an equally general 

* view of their works, and of the characters which distinsjuish the 
' buildings of their respective ages,' (p. vii.) is much more limited 
in its ranjje, and is designed for a much smaller and less im- 
portant class of readers. We must award him the credit of 
liaving amassed much curious and not easily accessible informa- 
tion as to many of our early architects ; but wc cannot think 
that he has been happy m so describing their works as to leave 
any marked impressitm on his readers' minds. Indeed, his de- 
scriptive style is so unusually lifeless, and his architectural 
criticisms and argnments treated in so uninviting and diiluse 
a way, that we should think his book would be schlom consulted 
except for some biograidiical facts about a Gundulf, or a Poore, 
or a John of Wisbeach, and that consequently' many of the 
valuable facta it contains will be overlooked. 

It would be too great a task, and would scarcely interest our 
readers, to give an abstract of Mr. Poole's volume. We shall, 
therefore, content ourselves with calling attention to a few un- 
connected points ; in some of which we think he has thrown 
additional light on his subject, while in others we shall have to 
express a decided dissent from his conclusions. 

And first we notice a valuable hint in its description of * The 
Saxon Period:' where he points out the great influence on 
architecture that Archbishop Theotlore's division of the country 
into parishes must have exercised. Before that period, from 
A.D. 678—690, {Poole, p. 76,) no village could have boasted of 
a church. Towns and monasteries may have had churches, while 
the country was dotted over with nothing better than small 
chapels, one, probably, in each manor. The grouping several 
manors into one parish, made it possible, of course, for the lords 



190 



Poole and Freeman on tlte Hlstorif of ArchiUc\ 



of these manors to unite io building a larger church. Now this 
fact may l»c vahiahle in limiting speculation as to the antiquity 
of any reputed Anglo-Saxon reiiiains, on the one hand ; while 
on the other, it is conceivable that it may help to make it pro- 
bable that some such particular remains may be a fragment of 
the first church ever built on that site, and may date, tberefore, 
from^ tlic time of Theodore himself, in the seventh century. But 
wc have referred to this point more particularly for the sake of 
suggesting that it would have been quite in accordance with 
Mr. PtHjlc's design to have examined how many parishes, in 
any given district, mentioned in Domesday book, retain churches 
of which the whole or part is of such early Romanesque as to 
be possibly of ante-Norman date. We sliall see, hcrcat^er, that 
there is a growing persuasion in the minds of the best qualified 
observers, that very many mare ante-Norman churches, or parts 
of churches, exist, tlian have usually been believed : and we 
would call Mr. Poole's attention to two copious lists of Anglo- 
Saxon places, in a late communication of Mr, Kcmblc to the 
Philological Society, (No. 76, vol. iv,) which have already, we 
Ijelievc, served to vindicate, with much probability, the claim 
of some supposed Norman remains, in a village church, to an 
Anglo-Saxon origin. 

The next point which we shall mention is the statement that 
Hereford Cathedral, after being destroyed by the Welsh, ivas 
rebuilt by Bishop Kobert de Lozinga {1079^ — 1107} ad e.remplar 
Aqmsfjraneti^is \eccksiw\ a Car oh Ma</no extmctw {Poole ^ p, 106). 
This curious fact is stated by Mr. Poole on the authority of 
Godwin, and may be as new to many of our readers as it was 
to ourselves. It would well repay the energetic Dean of Here- 
ford if he could discover any traces of this in the fabric of the 
existing church, or the records of the aithedral. For it must 
be observed, though Mr. Poole has failed to see this, that a 
church built on the model of Aix-la-Chapelle must have been 
octagonal in plan, and have had a Byzantine element in its 
style ; two circumstances that must have exerted an immediate 
influence on English architecture, of which as yet no account 
has been taken. 

As the use of what is called * the priest's door' in our parish 
churches is the subject of much controversy, we give the fol- 
lowing sugijestion of Mr, Poolc^ though quite unable to think 
it a probable one. The passage contains also a hypothetical 
explanation of the principle of internal decoration in the Nor- 
man style, which seems to us equally untenable : — 

'The Norman architect never seemefl to eontemplntf Llic possibility of a 
worsliipper tumm^hack, VInteririg at the rich door, w bich presents agtorious 
ttsscmblagc of decorfttioiis to the advanciB^ eye, we leave beliiiid us, as we 



I 



I 
I 



W Pooh and Ftmman on the History of Architecture. 191 

[prtss the threaliold, a perfect blank. We look to the chftiicel-arth, aiiJ, 
[•tven in very small churches, find three or four concentric orders, with their 
uiimbs and jamh-ahn.fts, each crowded with rich and effective decorations - 
b^d beyond this is the apse with its three wii^dowg, cRch aurmounfed with 
Lft glory of ziaizag moiildtn^, and separated by vitulting shafts, Ifrom which 
finoulded groming^-ribs ariae to one point over the place of the altar, like a 
mch imperialcrowii; and, ut the south of the ekanceh is the little side 
door throush which the worshipper passes out, irithout havinaf discovered 
[that if he had turned his head at any Htaoje of his advance, he would have 
Ueen but bare walls and unadorned arches. All this may, or may not, 
[have been desired tu express such a meaning, but it surely looka like an 
[sBmbodying of the worda of our Lord, *' He that puttcth his hand to the 
hilough, and lookrlh imek^ i« not worthy of me.'* '—Pooh, p, l'!7, 

I Mr. Poole devotea hig eleventh chapter to * The Connexion 
[of Heraldi7 witfi Architecture' That there was such a con- 
pexion is undoubted, and that an accomiilished ttrchitectuml 
[iuiti<]uary shnuld have a caiwpetcut knowledge of heraldry may 
l«,l9o be conceded ; but we protest against an undue estimate of 
[this science. Heraldry h uwful merely in reference to the 
fpaet : it is a mere skafri as to the present. The altered con- 
ditions of society have long ago made it an unreality; and tho«e 
["who can even desire its revival now-a-days, must be as blind to 
[the temper of the times as they are insensihlc to ridicule, A 
||p€;?/(/o-heraldry, indeed, is tolerated, not only in this country, 
where every seal-engraver * finds* crests and arms, but in tlie 
United States, where each consistent Republican heiirs the 
.insignia of some imaginary ehivalric ancestor: it survives be- 
■cause, liarmless and absurd in itself, it has never deserved a 
Cervantes to give it a coup de r^race. What serious meaning — 
we would ask even of a mo<ieni herald — can possibly attach to 
the following lament of Mr. Poole :— * I fear it is too much to 
hope that heraldry shall again be accounted a reUphus science, 
[* or its application so much aa capable of receiving a soul of 
devotion?' (p. 210.) Heraldry has its value in ascertaining 
itefi, and in settling genealogies ; but at the present day it ia 
limply instrumental. 

We have next a more serious difference with Mr. Poole with 
regard to his extraordinary views aa to mural painting. We 
mst give it in his own words, and shall do this the more readily 
the passage is a fair specimen of the literary characteristics 
of bis style : — 

• The revival of the use of mnral painting has now become a part of ihe 
hisfory of the art, and it would be atfectation, or carelessness, not to advert 
to it. Indeed, it induced us to commence the subiect as a practical one, 
and now leads us to add some remarks on the subject in the same tunc. 
If we speak aa advocating^ the use of pnintin^sj, (a» we nhall do williiu 
certain Uniits,) we are met by what seems to »ome an objection af,'amat 
them, from the very fact of their having been used before the Reformation: 



1 92 Pooh aud Freeman on the Hhtor^ of Jrclu'teclurem 



I 



ati ofyjection wliich I need not say would tell just aa strongly agcainst every 
visible tbiiin;, or service, thiit we atill posaesa in the Chureh of England; 
the Commination Service and the setting' up of the royal arms excepted, 
which last, however, has no authority. The tjuestion really ia^ whether it 
was one of the* Wf things in use before the Kefonnation ; and this ia 
nowhere decided in form, though in spirit 1 think it is fidly determined by 
very hi^h authorities. If there ia a body of men \vhich,now that Con- 
vocation is silenced, more than any other represents the anlhoritative 
voice of the Church, f presume it is the Society for Promoting" Christian 
Knowledge, which contains on its lists the Queen's Most Excellent Majesty, 
the two Archbiahops, and every Bishop in the Church of England. Now, 
this Society sanctions, by ita publications, the uwe of pictures of Scripture 
subjects, I do not consider myself charged with the defence of this prac- 
tice, and indeed I confess a dislike to all pictures which includo a repre- 
sentation of our blessed Ijord, whom as God-man {i.e. in the very same 
nature in which He is represented), we worships so that I think they are 
contrary to the decree of the council of Eliheris in 305, which forbad mural 
paintine[8, lest that be renresented which is worshipped or adored. 

• The usage of our Church, too, has ever been in harmony witb this 
judgment. Emblematiciil figures, as of Faith, Hope, and Charity, of Time 
with his scythe and hour-glass, seem tn be nowhere objected to ; that is^ 
not on ecclesiastical grounds, Moses and Aaron are nlwavs admitted to 
hold the two tables of Commandments. Altar-pieces are found in mnny, 
if not most, of our fine churches ; and by way of memnrm ttchmcu^ to fix 
the time at which such things have been done, Sir William Thornhill 
painted the dome of S. Paul's; liogartb painted three pictures which now 
surround the altar of S. Mary Redcliti^ Bristol; West painted the altar-piece 
of Winchester Cathedrid; an ancient picture had been placed in the new 
parirtb church in Leeds; and a promising native artist has given a large 
painting, which is suspended over the aJtnr of S. George's church in the 
same place. It cannot, therefore, be contrary to the spirit, to the usage, 
or to the antboriticH of our Church, to employ pictures for church decora- 
tion. And this use of paintinga is very greatly to be desired, even for 
aeemliness, in the restoration of old churches. Except in churches of 
the highest order, the walls arc commonly of rubble, and must have some 
coating. Whitewash, and all the tbrms of lime and ochre, arc cold and 
dull. Plaster without lines in iuiitutton of masonry is too unitbrm» and 
with lines it ia olTensive, because it iw evidently sham. The use of paint- 
ings occurs then to fill up the vitid, which there can be no manner of ques- 
tion it would do with the beat efl'ect, if it were judiciously employed. 

' Now, for subjects, I should suggest such parts of the sacred history of 
the Old Teatfiiment and of the New, as do not involve an attempt at repre- 
senting the First reraou in the ever blessed Trinity at all, or the Second and 
Third Persons except in the way of symbol, "^/*o'o/«% p. 2n<>. 

It need scarcely Le pointed out in refutation of this last opinion, 
that any effigy of the First Person of the Holy Trinity would be 
quite inadmissible in our churches; but to represent the Humanity 
of tJie Second Person is not only allowable, but the very highest 
and worthlei?t aim of Christian art. It is one of the chiefest of 
the j*econdary blessings of the Incarnation, that we are no longer 
confined to the languarre of i^yinljol, but may— and, if our faith 
in the humanity of Gotl the Sou be lively, must— have in otjr 
niindi? some ideal of His sacred person. Can any oue, we ask, 
read the Gospela witliout pictm-ing to himself the gracioua 



I 



I 



I 

I 



Poole and Freeman on tkti Hhtory of Arekmc^re* 

scenes therein described? Is the chief Person in those ecenes 
to be wanting? Is our Saviour to be an abstruction ? la a lamb 
to be extended on that croas to which the eye of faith so often 
turns? Are we, in a word, to be conipelled to regard our Lord 
as a spirit, when the main truth of Ciiristianity i-s tliat *a body 
hast Thou prepared Him?' TIi4i authority of the Council in 
TruMo, which ordered that our Lord's person ehoukl be depicted 
in future, instead of the t^ymbol of the Lainb^undei' which 
disguise, am on^ other8,_t!ie earliest Cbrii^tians during the agea of 
persecution veiled the objects of their faith — ^16 got rid of by 
ilr, Poole in a note, under cover of tliat most unfair supposi- 
tion of Bingham, tliat ' by thia time the worsliip of images waa 
'begun, anno 692; and it was now thought indecent to pay 

* their devotions to the picture of a lainb, and therefore they 

* would no longer endure it to be seen in the church.' (P. 297.) 
Bingham, w^e need unly add, would doubtle&d have been more 
consistent than Mr, Poole, and would have objected to religious 
painting akogether. 

We turn now, Avith unfeigned satisfaction, to Mr. Freeman's 
more interesting pages. We have already described the object 
that ]Mr. Freeman proposed to himself We think he hag very 
successfully accomplished it. No one can open bi^^ pages with- 
out deriving the greatest benefit and Instiuctton, both irom the 
largeness of his views, and the ability with w^hich he Biipport« 
them, even though occasionally, as is the case with ouraelvea, 
one is compelled to dissent from his conclusions^ We propose 
to give our readers a general idea of the important contents of 
this volume, discussing, as we proceed, several particulars with 
respect to which we have the misfortune to disagree with the 
writer. 

And first, we would willingly (but our apace forbids it) trans- 
fer to our pages the whole of the introductory remarks, in 
which the dignity of architecture—* the art whose name be- 
speaks it the chief and queen of all, wbicli presses the noblest 
of other arts into its service, and bends them to its will/ 
(p. 2.) — is vindicated, and in which the causes of the contempt 
with which even the more educated still regard it and its pro- 
fessors are inveatigated and denounced* 

The philosophical history of architecture, — ' the arrangement 
of suceessive styles, not by mere date^, but by the pervading 
and animating principle of each;' ' the tracing its developments 
among all nations ;' the consideration of the effects produced on 
the art * by the events of history, as exemplifying the character 
and position of nations, and the working of pohtical and eccle- 
siastical circumstances:* to select some of the many forcible ex» 
presaion£ in which Mr. Freeman labours to distinguish his aim 

NO, LXV, — N. s. o 



194 Pode and Freeman on the History of ArehUeciUff, 



I 



from that of all contenrporary writere,— oblifij^ed him of course to 
discuss at length every known architccturul style. He enume- 
rates the Celtic, Pelftsfjiau, Hindoo^ Central Aiucriean, Efjyp- 
tian, Grecian, lloman, Romanesque, Saracenic, Gutliic, and the 
Kevived ItaUnn. We think he rather uonecessarily labours to 
prove that he m justified in payln*^ attention to all these styles. 
Is he uot ilghtlnof a shadow wlicn he thinks any one would 
deny his rifiht to do bo? Pereons, Burely, who praeticjdly con- 
j^ider i\\<^ Pointed styles as those only fitted for our present 
ecclesiastical use, are not debarred from the scientific examina- 
tion of other arcliitectural forms on the one hand, while on 
the other they ought not to he thought bigoted, or narrow- 
minded, if they decline the study of these Jess luunediatelj 
u.sel'ul branches of the subject. All persons cannot take a 
broad and philosophical view; Mr. Freeman must be content 
for a icyf to read Lis whole book, and may be glad that muny 
will read at least that part wliich deals with the media?val 
Christian styles. For our own parts, we have profited most, 
and have been most interested, by the discussion of all those 
styles that are not Christian; it is only as to the Christian 
styles that we must maintain opinions opposite to those of our 
autlior- 

Mr. Freeman attributes the causes of the diversities of styles 
to ihe diversities of the inner mind, aud the physical and intel- 
lectual cojidition, of diverse nations :^ — 

* Every iirdiilcftiirftl work,' heatntes, 'both in its geneml coaception and 
in its most remote detnil, bears on it tlae Blimip ol'its own age and country : i 
not only ia it oWt'u possible at oncu to recognise iheir impress with almost 
the cerUiinly of historicitl testimony, but a deeper iavestigalion will shovr 
Umt Iht'se forms are not merely so many Rutiquarinn facts, but the expo- 
nents of some pervadiner principle, to be Bought for in the peculiar circuni- 
Btances of the nge and country whose stamp they bear.' — P. 13. 

Besides tliie, the varieties of climate, the geological diversities 
of material, and new mechanical discoveries, exert the strongest 
influence on architectural development; while plan and arrange- 
mcnt, outline and proportion, depend in an untold degree on 

Khe requirements of religious worship. The power of habit and 
as?80ciatloD> again, haa an ever-living and ever-present tendency 
to reproduce accustomed ornaments and forms. The folluwlng 

i beautiful extract is almost a eummary of the material exhibi- 
'lions of these various coincident causes, as Mr, Freeman dis* 
tinguishes them in various styles:-— 

* For every nation, as it has been poiverfully traced oul by Mr. Hope, i 
continues lo reprodnce under fresh cinuimstniicea, with fresh materials, 
the one original type to i\hich it una at first habituated; a process whirli 
produces a third fbrra, differing from that in which either material would 
naturally be treated. Thu^, alter ho many ages, the Chinese reproduces, in 



5 and Freeman en the HiHcry (f Architecture, 19.1 



* 



I 



wooi], stone, or porcelain, the tent of his nomad Ancestors; the temples of 
EgApt and Hincloaiau alill recall the sub terraneous cavern; Greece in her 
roost glorious days, in her most sumptuous temples in all their stately 
columns of the choicest marbltfs, amid the elaborate grace of their momld- 
ings, the living foliage of their cjipitals, the friezes where I^pithsc autl 
Centaurs are called to breath and motion by the chisel of a Pheidias, did 
\et preserve unchanged, undiispiii^ed, the one unvarying nrodul, the woodeu 
hut of Pelasgus; yet mure, the soaring nave of a Gothic minster, in ihc 
cluKtered and handed stalls of its lofiy pillar;?, the curling leaves of its 
capitals and cornices, the interlaciii^^ iirches of itM fretted vault, tlie inter- 
miDftble entwiuings of its tracery, the countless buca that spurklc from 
roof, and chupiter, and wall, and uindow, recalls no uork of man in- 
deed, — no tent, or hut, or cavern, — but the sublimest temple of natural 
religion, the avvJu! gloom of the deep forcsld of the North j the aspiring^ 
height of ihe slender piuCj the spreading arms of the giant oak, rich witlj 
the varied tints of leaf and blossom, with the wild bird's song for its 
anthem, or the rustle of the breeze in its waving branches for tlie voices of 
the mighty multitude, or the deep notes of the solemn organ." — P. 15, 

But while all ety!es are deserving of a scientific exaiuination, 
yet two, the Grecian and Gothic, are intrinsically more worth 
considering^ and have had n greater influence amont^ mankind, 
than all the rest put together; and to these two AJr. Freeman 
devotes the care and attention that are due from a most enthu- 
siastic admirer of hot k 

* What is the whole history of the Eat^t^ the countless dynasticH of Chinii, 
India, and Egypt, with all their vjist duniiniuns, their early civihzauon, 
their fixed and ancient instilutioiis, but a barren caialogue of kings, and 
priests, and conquerors^ when it is viewed side by side «ith one bving and 
stirring page of Greece, or Rome, or mediaeval Europe f One word from 
one man in a little town of Greece or Italy, had otVtmies more effect on the 
future destinies of the human racr. than all the hms and victories of a 
thousand ^habs or Phuruuhs. Atid thus too with their architecture ; all 
siyles are not of the same merit, all do not equally coutjiin a principle of 
lite, ail are not equally the expression of an idea ; partly from these in- 
herent differences, partly tVom external causes, all have not the same hiy- 
toiicjtl importance in influencing the arts of future ages. It hence follows, 
that all do not present the same facilities for an investigalion of their per- 
vadiiig principles of construction, decornlion^ and symbolism. The vivid, 
piercing intellect of the Greek, his inherent perception «f grace and loveli- 
ness, have given birth to a style of art utinvalkd forsitiiple elegance and 
dignity; the stert>, practical mmd of the Roman, bis calnij delibetiite, un- 
vifclding eoergy^ cuuld by the moral power of bis instiiutions, and the very 
name of bis mighty empire, mould alike the institutiuns Htid the arts of 
Europe for ages after his political povter had crumbled in the dnst. These 
ncre the wonks of heathendom, the breathings of unrenewed, though not 
abandoned nature; the olfTspring ot the keen intellect and the indomitable 
will. It was for other lands, and for another race, tt> manitest the influ- 
ence of a higher and a holier principle, to give birth to a siyle that speaks 
not of the things of earth, but whose every stone should breathe of the 
religion of heaven. As ibe art of nncicnt Greece uas tbe purest and love- 
liest child of mere intellect and taste, of mere human aspirationa after the 
noble and thebenuiilnl, that of mcdiaival Christendom is the holiest offspring 
of moral power, the yearnings of a heart renewed from above, and in every 
thought and affection soaring heavenwards. These, then, are the two 
points mhich irresistibly draw our thoughts towards them; the Greek 

o 2 



196 Pooh aftd Freeman on the Hhto^ry of ArdHetture. 



Willi bis earthly luveluies^i, tlic Teuton with liis almost bemenly awe; the 
one faullkaa g:riice, the other soaring ninjesty ; the one telling of the faint 
glimnicrlnp;* of heathendom, the olhur kindled by the full blaze of the 
Church^B light ; the one, in a word, human, the other divine.' 

These same two styles, philosophically regarded, are found to 
exemplify respectively the most perfect and bcuutifiil forms of 
the two opposite principles of mechaincal cunstructioii ; thotse 
principles which Mn Freeman felicitously adopts as formiug an 
absolutely exhaustive division of architectural styles— the en- 
tablature and the arclu 

• Every definite style of architecture/ he continues, 'has for its animating: 
principle of construction eiiher the entablature or the arch ; ita forma and 
details ndapt themselves to this couatruction ; and it is the dilferent ways 
in which this con tit ruction ia eong^ht to be decorated, and the different 
deirreca oi' excellence attained by each^ which constitute the subordinate 
distinctions among the members of the two main j;p*oup3.' — P. 20. 

The invention of the arch, or rather of its capacities in 
mechanical conBtruction, Mr, Freeman assigns to the ancient 
Etniriiin?: tlmt the Romans failed to develop these capacities^ is 
attributed to the ' denationalizing spirit' which led them to 
mask and conecid this vast mechanical discovery under the bor- 
rowed and imitated forms of Greek art. We cannot quote the 
vigorous passages in which, in the remainder of his Introduction, 
Mr. Freeman describes the Egyptian, Hindoo, and Grecian 
styles J nor even the acconnt of the subdivisions of the Arch 
architecture,^ — the Roman, Romanesque, and Saracenic. He 
defines *thc idea which ia the soul of Gothic,' (p. 27,) to be 
* that of vertical extension ;' and concludes with an indignant 
denunciation of Revived Italian, 

' With the |2;radual extinction of the Gothic fctyle, the history of good and 
cooHiBtent architecture terminates, or rather becomes dormant till the happy 
reviv/il of ecclesiaHticid art in otir <iwn day. Not that great genius, some- 
tiinea real beauty, la not tlisphiyed in many specimens of the Revivkd 
iTALtAS^; but as a style it is, except as a warnings, completely valueless. 
It is, in the rirat place, open to every objection to which the classical Roman 
is liable, mid is besides loaded xvith e\ery apecies of fantaalic vagary, of 
which impi^rinl Rome, amid her worst corruptions, had never dreamed. 
Then, ha not beiag a real development, but a violent reaction, a return to 
worn-out and abandoned forma, it lacks— in this resembling even the best 
Gothic of our own day— the interest which attacbca (o every natural and 
original phase of the art. And, above all, when we consider that this 
corrupted style waa deliberately, by a formal purpose, in contempt of all 
ancient precedent and tradition, and in despite of every religious and 
national feelinur, aiihstituted for the moat glorious forms that Christendom 
baa ever beheld, it ia imposaihle but that our admiration for the genius and 
skill of many of its authors mie«t be altog^ether overbalajiced by a feeling 
approaching to disgust at the utter perversion of their mighty powers, 
St. Teler's at Rome, and St. Paurs in London, migbt, a thousand years 
sooner, have commanded feelings of unmixed homage, and might have 
ranked side by side with St. Sophia'a and St, Mark's \ but uhen we know 
they wcie reared in contempt of Cologne, and Westniinater, and St. Ouea's, 



I 



I 'Poole and Freeman on the Histortf of ArchUedure^ 1 97 

our feelinjjs of udmirntioii at the vRst j'onception of the whole, tlie 
wonderful mechanical skill displayed, the reiil m*ijes(y and beauty which 
Ciinnot be denied them, are lost in the slmck sustained by our best ideal of 
a Christian temple, nnd in the moral fondemnation which a hieh view of 
Clirii5tiaii an must of necessity pronoitnee upon their authors.* — F, 28, 

The way in which Mr. Freeman fills up the outline which we 
have describe'! is very iiiasterly. In trie Pehisginn styles of 
Greece and Italy he finds sx development of will aiul power, 
such as we niiij^Iit have expected in the art of that important 
elemeot of the Roman nation. Under the head of • Early] 
Columnar Architecture' are reckoned the mysterious remains in 
Central America, and the styles of China and Siam ; andhere 
we arrive at a discussion of extraordinary interest. 

Every informed person has heard of t!ie notion of the early 
Jesuit mis-sionaries in India, that the devil had anticipated 
Christianity, hy instituting the monstrous parody of it that was 
presented in the doctrines and discipline of Buddhism. That 
Buddfiist architecture shouhl similarly have a semhlance of the 
Christian style, is a most remarkable circumstance in illustra- 
tion, Mr. Freeman thus alludes to it: — - 

• The outward resemblance \^ hich the religion of Buddha [** a diabolic 
mimicry of Christiauity," aa Frederic Schlegel expresses it] beard to some 
of the doctrines and cercmouies of the true faith, (reudcrin*^ it ihereby a 
more thoroughly hostile system than any other false worship,) ha« been 
oJlcn remarked, sometimes with evil purposes. But it may bt; alloivable ta 
compare the undoubted fact w ith the circumstance that some features in 
pthe Buddhist temples of Siani present an exactly similar reseuiblaDce to the 
architecture of the Christian Church. The gables just mentioned may he 
considered as An instance ; and it is still more strikingly mIkuau in tbe 
sacred spires. These are of divers forms and outlines, but all of the same 
•apiring tendency, and all seem to cry aloud fur the cross as tlieir natural 
finish. The most remarkable is that of a temple c:dled Wai.^-nusia, which, 
in its genend outline, most vividly recalls the appearance of such erections 
as the Eleanor crosses or the market cross at Winchester, its open character 
lUtBimilating it more closely to the latter. But upon exammatiou it will be 
found, as I have heard it expressed, literally living with demons. Pointed 
arches, or their appearance, occur in two stages, but t!ie hiwer range, as if 
in direct mockery, are actually formed by the extended lees of some mon- 
strous portent of depraved idolatry. It Buddhism really be a Satanic 
burlesque of our religion, one might be almost tempted tn consider such 
erections — of the age of which I can give no information, though there are 
reaiions for supposing none of the Siamese buildings to be very ancient — ^to 
be, in truth, a similar burlesque upon Christian architecture and Christian 
emblems.* — ^F, 50, 

In Ellora,. also, Mr. Freeman finds auotlicr example :— 
' Instead of the multiplied and flat roof colonnades of Elepbanta,* he says, 
*we have here the entire arrangements of a Christian cburch. The remark 
before made that Buddhism presents in its buildings, as well as in its tentsis, 
a Satanic mimicry of the coming Gospel, applies with still more force to the 
long aisles and apsidal termination of the present temple; even so minute 
an arrangement as the two det;iched pdkrs in front lind their like in the 
plan of many an early Basilica.' — P. 50. 



1 98 Poole and Freeman on the Hbtory of ArchUeclarB* 

In opposition to Mr. Fergii9:3on and otherii, but supported by 
Heercn, Mr. Freeman jissigna an cxcavatory urigin to Hindoo 
nrchitecturo. And to the same origin he refers the architecture 
of Egypt, in a chapter remarkable tor his skiltul argument and 
eloquent descriptions. His account (p. 72) of an Egyptian 
temple abnost places us before it. And we cannot help noticing 
the peculiarly happy observation, {p. 74») suggested by the 
lieavinesB of Egyptian architecture, tliat tliis is to he attributed 
to the eaine cause which, imdcr the ojjpo^lte conditiongi, both of 
(iothic and Grecian art, produced a piecisely opposite effect. 
For io an excavatory style, he argues, the less you have to cut 
away— in other words, the more you leave — the better; while, 
on the contrary, * in the development both of Grecian and 

* Gothic architecture there is a constant tendency towarda in- 

* creased lightness, both as giving, when not carried to an 

* cxtravar^ant cxcesSj additional elegance, and ns actually saving 

* materials, and thereby time and labour,' Not, however, that 
Hindoo nnd Egy|itlan ardiitccturc, though Imving a eimilar, 
have the identically same origin; the latter being derived from 
artificial excavations, the former from the ImitatloQ of natural 
ciivea. The following striking sentences conclude the history 
of the Egyptian style : — 

' As long: a?* the Egyptian idolatry flnrvived, the forin of architecture to 
which it is^ave birth survived nlso. With tlie prt'domiiiwDce of Christianity 
it fell ; nmi when the Pntriarchate of Alexaiuirift took the place of thehierar- 
(hies af Thebes and Memphis, the Homan arclutecture of the early Church 
succeeded in all new religious striiclures to the fonns whieli, fctr two thou- 
siuid years, had been renred iii honour of the gloofny hcathcutsm of Ej^ypt. 
Many aucient buildings w ere, however, converted into chiirchea ; several 
temples have been found where the demon form has been erased to make 
room for the triuniphs^nt cross and the i^aintly elfiiz^y. And now the candle- 
ftliclc is remove<I from the Church of St. Mark and St. Atlmnasius ; and the 
^vandcring Arab desecrutea, and ilie traveller gasscs wiih aniaKement on, the 
ahrinen which have wi messed a false and a trae religion alike perish from 
among them.' — P. 8 1. 

All his readers will regret that Mr, Freeman had not IImj 
advantage of consulting Mr. Layard's Nineveh while preparing 
liis chapter ' On the Ancient Arehitecture of Western Asia;' 
hut a second edition will, donhtless, be enriched from these 
most surprising discoveries. The Persian style is shown to be 
by far the best and purest in this part of the world, and to have 
a timber origin. 

In approaching Grecian architecture, Mr. Freeman manifests 
the most eager enthusiasm. Me claima for it the praise of being 
indigenous ; nu^st unmercifully exposing — as indeed he takes a 
malicious pleasure in doing on every occasion— the opposite 
opinion of the author of the 'Glossary' on this siihject. Its 
construction, he shows, has a timber origin, quite different from 



Poole and Freeman on the Hidor^ qf Architiscture* 139 



I 



the Btone origin of the PelaBgian style, which it supplanted. 
The Parthenon is a faultless vision of beauty* in Mr. Freeman's 
judgment ; and tlie Dorie the ideal style : " it is that,' lie says, 

* ot' which the others were modifications, not to say corruptions,' 
(p, 101-,) tliough such beautiful corruptions, that he calls them, 
further on, ' the three jiriuclpal phiises of j^race to vvhicli the 
consummate taste of tlie Greek gave birth.' The Doric style is 

thusexceOently characterised :— 

* The Grecian Doric, the eldest, the plainest^ nnd yet the most thorouplily 
laultless mid beautHul of aU, is the very masterpiece of dignified simplicity. 
A shaft of massive proportions, vviihaut a base, cruwned with the simplest 
of capitals and the heaviest ni abaci, supports an entablature mnssive like 
itself, and composed of a very few bold tnembcrs. Yet oxit of tlrese few and 
sevete elements a composuion ia produced, not merely sublime, hut the 
very [jerf'ectioii of vii;orotis and manly beauty. It thonjiighly realizes the 
Aristoteliiin conception of the latter, the tjAu ^ctu (pof^tpoTfiTo^. Nothing is 
weak, uotbinj^ frittered away: simple, but never rude; unadorned, but 
never base; severe, and yet in the highest decree attractive, the if^schylean 
majesty of the Doric order is the very highest conception that even Grecian 
art could realize. The contemplation, even in the meanest engraving, of 
one of its matcbteas porticoi?, in all the stern oacc of column^ capital, and 
cornice, is absolutely overwhelming:. And this climax of pure digiiity, 
this expression of heathendom in its nobleat form, this embodied KctAoi', 
such as the Hellenic mind alotie could coinpaas, tac are gjravely lold waa 
borrowed from the hideous and unmeaning monstrosities of the race who 
paid divine honours to the lowest vermin ^ and whom tlieir gardens supplied 
with appropriate objects of veneration !'— P. lOG. 

We must pass on to the very able chapter in wliich Mr, Free- 
man gives a general view ai:td summary of Grecian architecture. 
We at^ree in theraain with all he says, though we detect in parts 
some exaggeration ; but this is the natural iault into which this 
kind of writing is apt to fall Siinidicity and uniformity are 
stated to be the main characteristics of the Grecian styles ; all 
of which were but different methods of working out ^ a single 
conception of beauty ;' and this, in Mr, Freeman^a opinion, mere 
beauty, earthly beauty, such tis ' comes within oui* own grasp, 

* not soaring ahovc lis, and overwhelming ua with a superhuman 

* majesty.' ' Grecian art/ he cuntinues, * is definite, local, per- 
' sonal, lovely; Gothic glories in beuig infinite, uafettcrcd, 
^ spiritual, majestic ; it is the expression of sotucthitig not to be 
'comprehended vvitliiu the ordinaiy limits of humanity, or 

* indeed of aught of the material world.' (P, iSo.) ' Grecian 

* architecture,' be says again, * is horizontal, definite, rectangular, 

* with one unvaried construction, and one unvaried outline/ 
With this he contratits that * embodying of tlie itifinite— that 

* direipoj/ which (he Greek deemed a form of evil— in the in- 

* terior of a Christian minster, especially in its noblest form, 

* the soaring and heaven-pointing Gothic' And he selects 
Oxford cathedral as au example of a * literally boundless view' 



2U0 Potih and Freeman on the flittortf of Archtttcture. 1 

being obtained in a comparatively small chorch. Now, we 
allow that eucb dturches as Amiens^ Wetitjuiiister, Befiuvais, 
and Cologne, do indeed embody tbis aTretpov ; but it is only the 
highest developments of Pointed art that can be said to succeed 
in doing so. To our own minds, the internal arcades of S, Paul 
withont the walls, and tliir external colonnades of tlie ParthenoD, 
the Walhalla, and the Madeleine, suggest the idea of illimitable 
horizontal extension scarcely \^m Buceefsfully than vertical 
infinity is embodied by the t*j>lendld churehea enumemtcd above. 
So that wc think this* ciiieation has not been sufficiently worked 
out by Mr. Freeman ; and, as to his chosen example, it is purely 
an unfortunate case to be liuoted. The internal impression of 
Oxford cathedral is to the eye of marvy observers distressingly 
narrow and confined :^ — 

' hunc aogustique imlaice tecti 
Parietibusqiie premunl ftrctia— / 

And even the positive size of the gigantic pile of Ely fails^ from 
its simplicity of plan, its want of a retrochoir/ and the absence 
of chapels, to prwlucc the effect that might have been expected. 
We repeat that the subject of the Infinite in architecture re- 
quires much more illustration tiian it has yet received. The 
power of producing overwhelming impressions of our ow^n little- 
ness does not reside exclusively in Gothic, Few persons are 
not painfully *^truck with the narrowness of the l)eBt French 
Gothic wdicn first returning from the broad naves of the Italian 
CinqueCento; and the memory of Brunei! escbi'a dome at Florence 
dwarfs the height even of Amiens and Westminster, when these 
are first seen again by the bonic ward-bound traveller. 

To conclude this part of the subject, it follows from the 
chnracteristicg of tlie Grecian style noted above, that a Grecian 
building is precluded from attaining any comparative height; 
that no division of the height is allowable; that no means of 
enriching a large blank suriace of w^all exist in the style ; that 
no circular or polygonal forms can be introduced into its out- 
lines; that * the wliole end and aim of Grecian architecture i3 
to produce an exterior,' and that any boldness of mechanical 
construction la precluded by the want of the arch. In other 
w^ords^ pure Grecian architecture is wdioUy unsuitable, under 
any conceivable circumstances, for modern iniitation. 

The architecture of the entablature being thus disposed of, 
we turn to that of the arch ; and first, of course, to those forms 
of the latter in which the round arch predominatea. The 

' All lovers of true church architecture mmt rejoice that there is reason to hope 
the Dean and Chapf^r of Ely will remove oue of these defects by carrying back thfl 
choir ta the archcF tbat join the central oclag^'H ; thuB forming a pres^hyiwy 
beyond ita eastern end. 



I 



PoM and Freeman on th Hutory of Archiudure, 201 

Romatia^ inheriting from Etniria tlie knowledge and use of the 
arch, wight have been expected to develnj) a iTKignificent etyle 
of arched arehitecture. And Mr. Freeman findj?, in the greatest 
Roman works — for instnnee, in the Pont du Gard — evidences of 
the possihiUty of euch a ehniraeteristic architectnre beinfr Ibrinetl. 
Such a style, he says, may be defined as ' essentially and pre- 
eminently the architectnre of strength, the material expression 
of the steady, undaunted, unyielding wilJ,' But it was never 
perfected; the imitation of Greek forms became the favourite 
practice of the Romans in architecture as in literature; and 
in vain attempts to combine, in one structure, the opposite 
mechanical principles of the entablature and tfic arch, the 
opportunity was lost, and it was reserved for the Romanesque 
of the dark age^ to develop the perfection of the rouiid-arched 
style. The history of Romanesque is introduced by the follow- 
ing brilliant summary of the preceding styles : — 

* Thus far liavc wc traced the history of architecture through the different 
acres and nationa of what is commonly known as the ancient world; the old 
U'orld of heathendom in all its countless forms, from the dark mysteries 
of Kgypt to the sunny britjlitiieBs of (jreece ; from the low and grovtdling 
idolatry that bowed before an api3 or an oniun, to the soul of art and poetry 
that kindled the glittering aplendonra of Olympus ; from the dim and 
awftil vaiilneas of the shrines of uu Apis or an Anubi.s, to the livipg ^ace 
that befilted the pure Apollo and the Athenian Maid, Wc have also seen 
how conquered Greece led captive her couqueror* : how, while the Pnyx no 
longer echoed to the voice of Pericles, and the groves of Colon ua were no 
longer vocal with the song of Sophocles, the spirit of Homer and Callicrates 
had (bund an empire in the land of their bondage, in thefonira of Komulua, 
and by the banks of the yellow Tiber. We have seen, too, how little kindred 
was the soil on which they lighted j how the grace and buoyancy of the 
Greek proved but an incongnious garb for the stern greatness of Roman 
enersfy ; how hia poetry waa but the feeble echo of the harp of Chios and 
the lute of Lesbos, his architecture a vain attempt to bring the massive 
piers and ponderous vaults of his own land into harmony with the tall 
coUimna of the matchless fihriiiea he vainly sought to imitate. The beau- 
tiful forms of Grecian art were a mere yoke, which kepi the genuine spirit 
of Roman btiiMing from its legitimate expression. It is, as we have seen, 
in the buildings least affected by it, that the real Uoman construction, the 
pier and the round arch, cornea out in all its purity and majesty ; and it 
was by these element^, more than by the Grecian system unnaturally 
anited to them, that Rome has exercised so wide and lasting an influence 
ypon the arcliitcctiire of the whole civilized world." — T, 146. 

The development of Romanesque began when (aa at Spalatro) 
the entablature wjus first cast aside, and the construction of the 
arch rising front its supports avowed and revealed. It ended, 
in Mr. Freeman's opinion, in the perfection of our own Norman 
Romanesque^ which he riinks higher than any other variety of 
the style, either than the Lombard, or than that of the Rhine, to 
which Mr. Petit assigns the palm. 

The Baailiean architectnre, however, niusi firr>t Ue diepo&ed 



202 Fooh and Freeman on the Hisfory of Arcldtseimre* 



of. ^Ir. Freeman appears to us to have Joet sight of many of 
the most interesting cliaracterij^Ucis of this style, in his eagerness 
to view it as a trophy won from Faganism—aa a spoiling of the 
Egj^ptiaus. But he has devoted to it, in this aspect, much 
eloquent and very true panegyric. We find, however, two 
points in which ive cannot follow him. He lays down the 
|K)sition, which wc think he has not adequately proved, that the 
colunm is in essence a detail of the architecture of the entabla- 
ture ; and tlmt, in strictness, an arch ought to have musses of 
walls, and not columns, for its support. Columnar supports 
therefore, as in the Basilican arcades, he considers a Grecian 
detail retained in tlie nascent Homancstpie. From this follows 
an inference, to wliich we Bhall have to recur, that the last 
Pointed style, where tlic pier had come to take the form (though 
not universally even in that style) of a uuiss, and not a pillar, is 
the most perfect development of the architecture of tlie arch. 
We can in no respect agree with him here. The moiiulithlc 
columns of the Basilicns, generally taken from earlier buildings, 
naturally gave a character to the earlier Itnlian styles ; but in 
the Romanesque of the north, wliere the columns of necessity 
were of masonry, there was no reason for the marked preference 
there shown for the columnar form of pier, except that it 
must have been regnrded, ntKt only as in perfect harmony with 
the style, but as more beautiful in iti^elf than a mass of wall, 
however treated. We can scarcely believe that Mr. Freeman, in 
his heart, can prefer the massy piers of S. Alban's to the ctjliinins 
of Diudiam or Tewkesbury, or the sufiertici ally -moulded wall- 
piers of the l^erpendicular, to the pillars of Salisbury. His 
theory of continuity, as it seems to us, has been a hobby -hoi'se, 
and has carried him away. We canuot, in short, admit that a 
pillar is inconsistent with the genius of the arch: rather we 
believe it to be the most perfect and beautiful development of 
the support of an arch. It may be true that a column had a 
timber origin, and an arch ii stone one: but in the arch-archi- 
tcctnre — which as a development is confessedly later than that 
of timber, (and which we believe could never be independent 
of timber, as timber nxay be of stone,)— the column, however 
derived, was assimilated and adopted for ever — became a natu- 
ndized member of the style, 

JVIr. Freeman paves the way also, in this same early chapter, 
for (mother view in which we can scarcely follow him; viz., 
the utter reprobation of Italian Pointed— by dweDing, w^ith 
peculiar stress, on the permanence of the Basilican type in Koman 
church building : and he adduces 8. Maria in Trastevere as 
rebuilt in 1139, and instancing at that late date, * an actual 
return to all the absurdities of the combined arch and entabla- 



I 



I 

I 

I 



I 



Pode ami Freeman on the Hhtoiy of Architecture^ 203 



op 



ture.' Now, we contend that this example is not fairly quota- 
ble: for though tliii* late date ia f^ven by Gally-Knight, yet 
Mr. Webb (quoted also by Mr. Fvceman in a note) assigns 
this building to tlie fir:*t half of the eighth century : and, Tipon 
looking further into authoritic^i, \vc find that Canina, Vaai, and 
liossi, all ignore the complete rebuilding in 1139, which is 
nsaerted by Bnnsen, Severano, and Professor Willis* When 
opinions «d much ditler, it \a scarcely fair to quote this cxam[)le 
B proving what is, at Xo-'H^i prima faci^ most improlHvble. 
Pa>??ing on to liysjantlne architecture, we are glad to see that 
r. Freeman adopts the view so ably advanced by Hope, and 
Adopted by ourselves in a previous number, that it was strictly 
a new atyle, deliberately invented as a Christian style, by the 
great architects chosen by Constant ine to build his new capital 
on the Bo^pliorus. 

At BjKantium there was no Buck feeling ns at Home tiiiist bave induced 
mformity to the eldei' Ibrm ; nor was there the same store of elder 
lifices which at Rome supplied both nmterifils and models for Christian 
larches; there were neiiher BasiUcas enont^h to converi uti changed to 
iclesiastical use*, nor vet trmplca whose colnmoa might supply the in- 
reasin^ want of '' church nccommodatioiii" in the first Chrisriau city. The 
tyzantine buildiniiH were then, hi the words of t!ie nutliur just quoted, 
'<lisencumbere4ol the reetruiiits which accompniiicd die superior resources 
they could command in Itnme;" they were not only at liberty, but were 
absolutely driven, lo find their own materials jiud their own architecture; 
and a style arose, which lacks indeed the simplicity and elegance of hea- 
ihen Greeecj the avifut nifijcsty and vastness ol' mediBBval France and 
England, but which must be allowed to possess in the highest degree a 
rhnracier both oriffinal and enduring, vigorous alike in intellectual concep- 
tion and mechanical execution. '^F. 1G6. 

The peculiarities of the Byzantine style are exceedingly well 

jized by our author and det^cribed. The foUowinf^ observation 

very happy : * The rjiF:*pnng of the arch Is the vault ; of 

the vault the cupola; and this inajestic ornament u the very 

life and soul of Byzantine architecture, to which every other 

feature is subordinate.' Still, upon the wliole, we incline 

the opinion that the merits and capabilities of Byzantine are 

indcr- valued by Mr. Freeman; but we must allow with him, 

that the few examples of it as yet known to us by accurate 

description or by drawings, are biircly sufficient for justice to be 

fully done to the style. 

Our space warns us that we must hurry on to those etylea 
w^hich more immediately concern our own country. We Bhall| 
therefore, merely give a passing mention to the intermediate 
links of the chain. 

The next great advance, after the Byzantine, was made by 
tlie Lombards, who not merely infused a new life into the old 
Roman forms, but fused into a harmonious whole principles 



204 Pode and Freeman on the HUlor^ of ArchUedura. 



taken not only from the Baailican, but from those Byzantine 
churches that were by this time scntterecl over the West. Mr. 
Freeman dUtinguisheB three pei'iods of Lombard architecture, 
and then, crossing the Alpa, showa us the next development in 
the Romanesque of the Rhine. In thi^^ he finds an additional 
element of Byzantine^ beyond that whicli in regular descent it 
inherited from tlie Lomhard. lie follows Frederic Schlegel in 
thinking tiiat Byzantium exercissed a fresh and immediate iuBu- 
ence on Rhenish arcliitecture, by means of the intermarriages 
of the Saxon C-aesars with the court of Constantinople. 

It is ^ufticiently remarkahle, that in discussing the last-nien- 
ttoned style, Mr. Freeman should so entirely have forgotten one 
of its chief peculiarities, the Mannerclior, or triforial gallery, 
as to venture the as^sertion, that ' The tritbriura is by no means 
a necessary feature even in great churches, nor very conspi- 
cuous when it occurs.' (P. 193.) 

We now come to an interesting chapter on the early Roman- 
esque of Ireland. There can be httle doubt that this style re- 
presents, and descends independently from the very earliest 
Christian architecture, that of the first three centuries of 
our era. 

* While other inquirers into the arcbitectiare ftnd aniiquitiea of the earlier 
days of Christianity have investigated every country iu which temples have 
been reared to ih^j service tif our relij^ioti— whiU* nearly nil the mft^nilkent 
cathedrals and nhbeja of Europe have been .subjected to such minute 
investigation^ that, withwut lenviiig our own lirosiide, we may bring betbre 
us, with nearly all the vividne»H of personal knowledge, the spires of Burgos 
and the domcH of Byzantium, the basilicas of Italy and the log-churches of 
Norway^ — one patient, enterprising, and zealous inniiirer, has by hia own 
shigle exertions opened to im a field hitherto uiitruddenj and the glory of 
whose discovery ia wholly his own. The maguificeut volume of Mr. Petrie, 
on the architecture of Ireland, forma indeed an epoch in eoclcsiasticftl 
reaearch j it brings the Church and her material fabrics before ws in a new 
garb i one less gorgeou.s, indeed, than that which we used to contemplate, — 
one not gleaming with the go!d of rurtessua, or the jewels of the Eastern 
land, — but un soiled by the touch of the world, severely arrayed in the sterner 
holincsa of her earheat days, in all the immaculate whiteness of her vii^n 
purity. In that far island of the west^ in whose air the Roman eagle never 
fluttered^ and iVom whose shore no captive w as dragged to enrich a Caesar'a 
triumph with his combats and hia agonies, we have most vividly brought 
before us the estate of the Church when her temples were hut the damp 
cave or the rnde butt when she dwelt not as yet in the halls of the patrician 
and the palace of the emperor, and when the outcry of a populace, or the 
frown of' a tyrant^ hurried away her Pontiff^ from their lowly thronciS 
and altars to seal their witness in the recking amphitheatre. These build- 
ings, themselves of the most venerable antiquity, the earliest exialiag Cbrisj- 
linn temples in northern Europe^ are tlie representatives of others more 
venerable still ; they derived not their origin from the gor|jeou8 basilicas of 
Constantiae and 'I'heodosius, but ia them we behold the direct ol&pring of 
the lowly temples of the days of persecution, the humble shrines wiiere 
Cyprian bent in worship, and which Valerian and Diocletian swept from 
olTthe earth. 



I 



^K Poole and Freeman on the Hiitorif of Architecture, 205 

' ** ft ia, indeed," says Mr. Petrie, " by no means improbable, that 
the severe simplicity, as well as the uniforinity of plan and size, wliidi 
MBwally characterises our early churches, was leas the result of the poverty 
or i^orancc of their founders than of their choice, originating in the spirit 
of their fiiitb, or a veneration for some model given to them hy their first 
teachers ; for that the earliest Christian churches on the continent, before 
the time of Constaiitiue, were, like these, small and unadorned, there is no 
reason to doubt.*' And this position tieeniH to he stroni^ly corroboTftted by 
the fact that the apse is unknown, which manifcKtly points to ii type ante- 
rior to the basilican model, as otherwise we can hardly account for the 
omission of that clmracleristic and almost universal feature," — P. 19G* 

We wish Mr. Freeman, adopting as he tlocs these conclusions, 
had boldly set the example of fdvin^ this style precedence to 
the Basilican, and named it the First Konianesqiie, or the Primi- 
tive style. 

We have now arrived at tlie earliest Romanesque of England ; 
in other word?, to the much di:<puted Anglo-Saxon style. 

Upon the res summa of this question > we have already in this 
paper expreseed our own persuasion. It is well known that the 
Glossary of Arcliitecturo, and many of the pure archaeologiste of 
the day, eagerly maintain tliat no ante* Norman buildings existt 
among us. Jlr. Freeman, with a degree of scorn that makes ua 
feel for its objects even while we admit its justice, speaks of thi^i 
Bchool as writers who * seem animated with a desire to prove, 

* in the teeth of all probability and all evidence, that every frag- 

* ment of Saxon architecture has been swept from the earth j or 

* rather, that some physical or moral incapacity prevented our 

* Saxon forefathers from putting stone and mortar together* 

* The event of the field of Scnlac,' he continues, * is held to have 

* introduced, by some myi^tic influence, a previously unknown 
' power of constructing buildings into the British isles : some- 
' times they seem inclined to add, into tlie whole of Europe, 

* The year 1066 beconjes an urchonahip of Eucleides, before 

* which things either existed not, or may not be remembered; the 

* slightest hint that aught can have sur%'ivcd, causes an uneasi- 

* ncss to the propouuders of these theories,' {P, 203.) Then 
follows an able argument, to show that certain buildings mmt 
be ante-Norman, and that i'rom them may be compiled a satis- 
factory knowledge of the Anglo-Saxon style. With this view, 
too, Mr. Poole fully agrees: his volume appeared just long 
enougli before the publicatiun of Mn Freeman's work to enable 
the latter to exprees his assent to the important proposition, that 
probably much of what is now considered Nmman may be here- 
after proved to be anterior to the Conqueet (Freeman, p. 205, 
Poole, p, 69.) Mr. Freeman, in elucidating this style, makes 
one very happy observation, suggested by a hint from Professor 
Willis, that * the Saxon tower is a rude imitation of the Italian 
wwnpanile,' (p. 212); whether the V>alancing part of the same 



206 PccU aj.d Freeman on the HisUri/ of ArchtUcture, 



Bentence— tlmt * the Norman tower ig the legitimate successor 
of the cupt»la ' — be equally true, we doubt. A more common- 
eeuse view would surely be, just as \vc argued above as to the 
column, that no particular feature could thus preserve an un- 
mixed independent descent ; but, however derived, would lu its 
development become adopted into the style, and lose its indi- 
viduality. We mean, that the Norman tower must be the 
Buccessor as well of the Italiau campanile aa of the Byzantine 
cupola. Granted, that its situation in the ground plan, and 
even other particuhirs, vv ere derived from Byzantine : yet Mr. 
Freeman would not ass^^rt that the Norman architects carefully 
kept it distinrt in idea from the campanile. On the contrary, 
the external treatment of a si]uare Norniau lower is decidedly 
a development of the tower and not of the cupola. 

In comparing Saxon and Norman Romanesque in England, ISIr. 
Freeman proposes a principle of subdivision for the Romanesque 
styles according to the form of the pier. In Saxon the pier is, he 
states, a rectangular mass ; in Norman it is columnar. So far 
then, according to Mr, Freeman's own theory mentioned above, 
(though we believe he omits to draw this unpleaaing inference,) 
the latter is the less consistent and harmonious style. A bold, 
but we think quite justifiable, suggestion follows for dividing the 
Anglo-Saxon into three styles: the firet, the uncouth imitation 
of Soman remains with Roman materials; the second, 'the 
most truly and purely Saxon,' of wliicli the powers of the two 
Bartons are the types ; the third, an approximation to the 
coming Norman, due to the ' denationalizing process' going 
on in the reign of the Confessor. 

The Provencal style hnving aiibrded an instructive intercalii- 
tory chapter, we arrive at last at our own Norman Romanesque. 
IVe have already prepared our readers for Mr. Freeman's 
opinion^ that this form of architecture presents the perfection 
of the round-arch style. His own pages (chap, xiv.) must 
be consulted for his satisfactory arguments in sujiport of this 
position J though we may be allowed to quote his verdict: — 

' The historjr of RomancBque, as traced in our former cbftptera, may seem 
inconsistent with the theory of its perfection, mid Irns led both cUissical 
and Gothic exclusivencss it> despise it. To the former it ia a mere bungling 
corrviplion, introduced by men who knew not how to work archkraves, or 
prt'KePve tlie proper proporliona of cuhiiniis ; il is not dtissiciil and is 
therefore worthless. To the Utter, it is clftssicfth ^^nd theretbre worthless; 
it is PAgau, horizontal, at best only \aluabie aa a groundviork on which 
Gothic was built up. The one cannot conreive bow northern harbariiinst 
ignorant of the principka of Vitruviua, could introduce improvemeulH 
into the fine arts; to the other a round arch or an acanthus leaf appearat 
alttigethcr profane, and is a subject for absolute lonibing. But those who 
allow that good architecture is not the exchibive properly of any one a^e 
or natioDj will perceive that a eiyle may be neither classical nor Golliic, 



I 



I 



4 



Pooh and Freeman on the History of ArchUecture, 207 



and yet have principles and incriLa of its ouu, distinct from both. And 
in ibia vieiv it will appear nothings wonderrnl tlmt tbe destroyers of tbe 
Roman power might be the Improvere of Roman art. More skilful hand-s 
inifljbt bfive perpetuated the old system of urnament in all its incontfrunuHi 
splendour; with bnildera who could raise the pier and turn the arcb, but 
nut measure the column and enrich tbe frieze, the ornamental feature,^ 
died away, and the mere skeleton, the unadorned construction, remained 
r ead y lor m o re ap p ru p ri a t e f o rnis to be e og r n f t e d 1 1 po nit. A re b i I e c tu re w as 
brought back to the point which we may conceive it bad gained amoujjj the 
ancient nations of Italy, when the splendid inventions of Grecian art ;\cre 
first made known to thcra. The pier and arch stood ready for the Germau 
or Norman architect to adorn abke with the creations of his own geniua, 
and with such of the spoils of beaihendom as might be fitly pressed into 
the Church's service. The arch bc«;an to be recessed, its square section 

ito be enriched with gor^ijeous moulding ; the pier has the taper shaft, with 
its rich capital attachetl to relieve tiie heavy mass, and to support each 
receding order. The column is now reduced within the limits of the small 
Urcade, now soars uninterruptedly from the floor to the roof, Tbe laws 
of classical proportion are sacrificed, as only cramping tbe energies of the 
•tyle ; but the construction which tbe classical architect was content 
to disguise, now stands forth in all its majestic Bimplicily, its immovtihle 
Bolidity, its severe individuality of parts, admitting alike of the naked 
plainness of Jnmiegea, and tbe lavi.-ih gorgeouaness of Bayeux. Surely the 
Adorning of this construction in a manner so harmonious and so splendid, 
is as much the mark of a pure and perjlxt style as aught that Grecian 
or Gothic skill has reared, and may fairly challenge a plnce parallt-l to 
theirs, among the noblest developments of the art of architecture/ — P. 256. 

Aa the soul of Grecian arcliitccture was asserted to be horizoii- 
tiil, that of Gothic being vertical, extension — the distinguishing 
characteristic of Ronianesqtie is now asserted to be, that neither 
vcrticality nor horlzontality shall be allowed to obtain a marked 
predominance, liest, therefore, and solidity, * an eiiduritij^ and 

I immovable finnness/are the idea that Romanesque priociimlly 
embodies* Its moral lesson is * a warning against despondency 
in days of affliction, a living teacliing of the everbtstingness 
of the Church on earth, so long us tlie world itself remaind.' — 
P. 266. 
Pointed, on the other hand, (for we must with Mr. Freeman 
anticipate the style,) * is the language of the CJiurch, when she 
'throws off her mourning, and, going forth intrium]>h over her 
* persecutors, arrays herself with a victor^s wreath of tlie fairest 
* foliage; then was the lesson needed, — and sot forth in the tall 

* shaft, the soaring arcli, the airy spire,— -not to be corrtijttcd 

* by prosperity, not to rest in a worldly triumph, but to rise in all 

* things heavenward.' It was this vivid idea of the genius of the 
two styles, Bhown in this graceful sentence, that led Mr. Free- 
man, if we remember rightly, to suggest on one occasion, that in 

■the present depressed condition of the Church, we needed the 

liuunil lesson of Romanesque, and ought to hulUl in that style; 

Kand, not dissimilarly, the IJishop of New Zealand proposed, 

when about to sail for his diocese, to build hia first churches 



208 Pod^ and Freeman 091 the HLtortt of Architecture, 



in Norman^ that the newly planted Church might begin its 
existence with an architecture characterised by rude and 
undeyelope*! strength, which might grow and expand, siraulta- 
neou:5ly with the lioped-for growth of the Church, into a 
Pointed style. 

We cannot, before leaving this style, refrain from comparing 
with what we have €|UQted, Air. Poole*s much less poetical idea 
of its characteristic spirit. He finds in it, ho tells us, *a 
squareness* and a ' directness* impressed upon ita details ; and 
adds, * AVliether or no it has any connexion with the character 
of the people^ the Norman is the most straightforward Btyle,'— 
Poole, p. 154. 

There remains the most important architecture of all, that of 
the pointed arch, to be considered : with respect to which we 
shall find many theories of our author which we are altogether 
unable to accept. The pointed ai'cli itself, according to Mr, 
Freeman, was first extensively used in Saracenic,— a style 
which he refuses to reckon amonj^ the legitimate off-shoots 
of the Byzantine, but which held this form of arch ai* a lifeless 
seed, never having been able to develop its latent powers. 
From the Saracens it was introduced into Christendom by the 
Crusaders, and still earlier into Sicily,- — an island which has 
always existed under the most extraordinai*y architectural con- 
ditions. We cannot ourselves subseribe to the opinion that 
much influence was exerted on general European ai'chitecturc 
by the Saracenic style ; and the idea of Italian Pointed in 
particular borrowing ' a good deal ' from that source, as Mr. 
Freeman (p. 293) ventures to hint, seems only referable to the 
extreme aversion with which, as we shall sec, he always regards 
that much vilified style. We hasten to Mr. Freeman's defini- 
tion of Gothic, 

' FortuDatcly,' be says, • ilierc is tio style wLicli admits of so easy 
Rnd philosd-piiiciU a definition; none is so completely the carrying out 
of one grand prinflpl^j of wliicli all ita feiitures of coustniction and decora- 
tion are but the exhibition in detail. This has been alreadv detiiind to be 
iJie upward tendency of the whole hnilding, und of its minutest details ; 
in a tvurd, the vertical principle, which, wTien fully earned out, renders 
a Gothic cathedral one harraonions whole, seeming actually to rise heaven- 
wards. The eye is guided upwards throughout ; the whole building rises 
from the floor to the roof; no part seems an after-thought, as soraethiiigt 
unavoidably put oiij but each portion grows out of that beneath ; all 
is light, airy, and soaring. '^ — P. 29f*. 

Now, of thiB verticality, the most prominent and fuiidaraeutal 
example is the pointed arch, by Mr. Freeman's own admission. 
We defer the further eonsideratioii of this point and the conse- 
quences that may he drawn from it till we come to discuss the 
best nomenclature of the styles. Here we will only add, that 



I 



I 



i 



Poole and Freeman on the History rtf Architecture, 



09 



^Fr. Freeman eomevvlmt elahoJ-ately argues in favour of whnt ho 
calls (p. 320) * the combined Otstrogothic and vegetable theory ' 
of the origin of Gothic: /. £?. he beheves tlmt the pointed sirch, 
the germ of the **tylej hiiving been brought from the Saracens 
of the Etist bj tiic returning Crusaders, was developed by the 
architects of the West ; \v]io introduced, as they went on, 
ideas borrowed from tlic rcr;enibhince the style suggested to the 
leafy alleys of a forest; to which, — he folh>w3 Mr. Petit in 
thinking — * we may owe the intricate tmeery of our windows, 
and the rainnte ramifications of our fan-vaulting!?.* 

Mr. Freeman's opiniona with regard to the Gothic styles 
may be represent cil^ not unfairly we hope^ in the follownng 
ffiinnnary : — 

The ordinary threefold division of Gothic, — the First, Middle, 
nnd Third Pointed of the Ecclcsiological Society, and the Karly 
English, Decorated, and Perpendicular of Kiekman and his imi- 
tators,— Mr. Freeman rejects iis unphilor^ophical ; and he g^ub- 
8titntc8 a twofold diviision into Early and Continuous, Early 
Gothic is that which retains any kind of dit^tinctness in its 
individual parts ; Continuous is that which, destroying the sepa- 
rate existence of parts, fuses the entire outline and dctJiil of 
a building into a Continuous whole. Hence, Geometrical Mid- 
dle-Pointed being — to supply a term whicli we are surprised 
that ]Mr. Freeman has not used, if only to bahmce bis temii- 
nology— discontiruious, it luUovvs that it belongs to the former, 
and not to the latter, or Continuous half of the twofold division. 
*i'iie supjx>9ition then of a middle style, though in practice con- 
venient, is unphilosophicaJ in theory. Mr, Freeman, however, 
for the sake of practical convenience, proposes a fourfold sobdi- 
vision : Lancet and Geometrical, in Early Gothic ; Flowing and 
Perpendicuhvr, or Flamboyant, in Continuous. It is under this 
classification that he describes, in language always both inter- 
esting and instractive, the succession of the most famous Gothic 
buildings in the north of Europe. Th& abbey of S. Ouen at 
Rouen, is his ideal of the utmost perfection as yet attidned in 
the Gothic style, 

A succeeding chapter reviews the Gothic of tlic south of 
Europe: the conclusion being, that all of it is worthless, a.nd 
the Italian variety the worst. 

The last chapter traces the decay of tbe Pointed architecture, 
the rise of the Kenaissance (in which Mr. Freeman accords to 
the dome of Florence the most unqualified admiration), the 
Caroline revival of Gothic in this country, the Revived Italian, 
the Revived Grecian, (under which head the Taylor buildings 
at Oxford suQ'er the last of tbe countless sneers which are aimed 
at this unhappy design throughout the volume), and ends with 

NO. LXV. — N.^■. ' P 



210 PooIb and Freeman on the llislofy cf Arekitecturc, ' 

a genial, but warning welcome of that new Rcnaiseancc which 
our own timcB have originated. 

It is a matter of regret with ub, that having agreed so much 
with Mr. Freeman in tiie course of onr analysis of hia * Hietory 
of Arehitecture/ wc Fhould dow have to enlarge upon our dif- 
ference from him in his eatimatc, as well as his principle of 
clae^ification, of the most imjiortant atid most beautiful arelii- 
tcctiii'al style that the world has seen. 

Let us 8ee how the cape stands at present with respect to the rival 
nonicnclatiu'cs and divisions of styles. Rickman 'was among the 
first to notice, —and all succeeding observers Irave followed him — 
that in what went under the general name of Gothic, there were 
three principal varieties to be distingiiijehed in this country : the 
first, in which the Romanesque elements were nearly or quite 
discarded, and the princi].dc of Gothic, whatever that was, had 
stamped itself on the whole style; the next, in which all the 
promise of the former style was matured and satisfied, in the 
same way as the glories of a full-blown rose take tlie phicc 
(though often almost to our regT'ct) of the more modest beauty 
and the pure promlee of the opening bud ', the tlurd, in whirh 
a general deterioration might be detected, and which was only 
saved from the corruption of form and ornament that seized 
upon it in its continental varieties, by the introduction of a 
new and uncongenial clement in that kind most common in our 
own country. As he was the first to remark, so was Rickman 
the first to name these three styles: and after him, at first all 
writers, and of late a great number, liave called them respec- 
tively the Early English, the Decorated, and the Perpendicular, 
or Flamboyant. 

The absurdity of tliis terminology became soon apparent. 
Take the term Earl// Em/iisL Why, it was naturally asked, 
should a style be so called, which had been preceded in this 
countiy by at least Noi-man, Saxon, and RomaUj in church archi- 
tecture ? And, if one crossed the channel, or went into Ireland, 
and found any similar buildings, were these to be called Early 
French, Early German, Early Irish, &c. ? Tlicn, as to DecoratetL 
The architectural student was astonished to learn that the style, 
80 far from the luxuriance of detail of its predecessor, and from 
the excessive ornamentation of its suceessorj positively athnitted 
of a greater simplicity in its unpretending examples than any 
other I Again, Perpendicular and Flamboyant, which differ 
from the others in being adujirably descriptive of species, were 
equally nnsuited with the others to be generic. It was, how- 
ever, a great credit to Rickman thnt his division should l)c 
followed, and no disgrace at all that his tenua should be in 
time superseded by better ones. 



m Poole and Freeman on the Uigtory of ArMltcture, SI 1 

The Eccle4iolopht in due course proposed and Btoutly main- 
tained a new nomenclature. For tLc term Gotliic, which had 
been given in if^norance and contempt, and was it&elf mis- 
leading and inadequate, it |)ropo5cd Pointed as a substitute- 
This, it was surjgcated, would have the advantage of deseribing^ 
the most 8tnkin^ and fundamental charactemtic of the new 
style, as distinguiBhed from its round-arch predecessor We 
may urge, in addition, the important argument, that it is in 
harmony with the improved continental terminology. M. de 
Caumont, in France, has divided Gothic architecture into three 
subdivisions, which he called re&pectively le sttfle ogind primitlfi 
$eco?idaire, and tertiaire. M. Ikmras?^ has followed him, and M. 
Sehaycs had adopted the same nomenclature in Belgium, in a 
Treatise, translated hy Mr. Austin, in Wealc'a * Quarterly 
Papers,' vol. i. German architectural writers, too, are begin- 
ing to use the words Spitzbogenkitn^t^ Spitzhogeiisti^l^ as opposed 
to Rundhogertknmty in their ordinary descriptions: and even 
Italy has adopted from De Caumout the term Architettnra di 
sesto acuiv, subilivided ijito the styles a lancftte, a raggi, and a 
Jiamma, 

The name Pointed being conceded, the classification into 
First, Middle, and Third Pointed is a small matter ; and we 
cannot sufficiently express our surprise, that writers who adhere 
to Rickman^s threefold division, should have so ungraciously 
received a nomenclature, which, retaining the division, merely 
provided for it a more consistent and reasonable set of names. 
Certain it is, however, that the Ecclesiological nomenclature 
has been an object of continual assault to the archasolo- 
gists, who in this one point are supported by Mr. Freeman, 
leagiied with them in an imhuly alliance ; for he really has, 
from his own theory, intelligible and philogophic4il, though we 
think inconclusive, reasons against the threefold division alto- 
gether. 

Our readers may have already gathered, that in our own 
opinion the Ecclesiological nomenclature is the one least open to 
objections; and whioli, if only for uniformity's sake, wc would 
gladly see in general use. It has the further advantages of being 
very easy to learn, convenient to use, and, by the fact of its 
^mmitting itself to nothing more than the Pointedness of the 
Iftyle, being ready to give place when further investigation or 
profound discernment shall have provided us with a better. 

It is as being a better one — more philosophical, more true, 
more exhaustive — that Mr. Freeman proposes nis novel division, 
with its terminology. And were it indeed so, we sliould our- 
selves adopt it, {MkI so, wc believe we may assert, would the 
Ecclesiologists themselves. But we are not convinced of the 

p2 



212 Fods and Freeman on the Hulortf of ArchUecturB, 



^ 



principles on whicli Mr. Freeman's conclusions are based. We 
cannot persuade ourselves that the one chief ruling yjrinciple of 
the Pointed style h the continuity of parts; and consequently 
that tire perfection of that architecture is to be found in the 
Perpendicular Tliird-pointed, in which that continuity of parts is 
most perfectly attained. On the contrary, we hold that the 
culminating point of Gothic architecture was reached in that 
full expansion of the Middle-pointed period, when, with match- 
less grace and most justly halaneed proportion, every construc- 
tive and decorative feature alike found its full development 
without injury to others ; when every part was taught to combine 
in moat perfect harmony with every other partj and not one waa 
slighted or extinguished. The moment this delicate adjustment 
was transgressed, the corruption of Gothic began. Some mem- 
bers of the architectural body w^ere degraded, and next effaced ; ' 
tracery, not content with windows, usurped first the w^alls, and 
then the roof; pier and arch forgot their mutual de|>endeDce and 
support, and disguised, for they could not annihilate* the impost 
which reminded them of their due relation ; and the roof was 
lowered, because the lowest members of the building must visibly 
and ostentatiously (not as of old, unseen but really) assert their'l 
share in bearing it. In short, the Middle-pointed reminds us 
always of the due gradation of the heavenly hierarchy :— 

' Tlie heavetiB tliemselvea, the planets, and ibis centre, 
Obaerve degree, priority, and place, 
InsiBture, course, proportion, seaaon, form, 
QSice, and custom, in all line of order/ 

But the licentious facility and flow^ of Third-pointed is like the 

misconceived liberty of a modern republic. We would meet 
Mr. Freeman, therefore, on his oivn chosen ground of continuity, 
and argue, that what he considers the triumph of the principle, 
is it« excess and corruption ; and, consequently, the Third- 
pointed, so far from being the perfection of Gothic, we regai"d 
as its degradation and decline. 

The best way of pursuing the subject will be by examining 
the value of some of Mr. Freeman's objections to the Ecclesio* 
logical nomenclature, and his arguments in favour of his own. 

He declares, we find, that in two impoitant particulars the 
former is defective : in that the term * First-pointed ' is meant 
to apply to Gotliic in general, whereas that style * in any form 
worthy the name of Gothic, is exclusively English f and m that 
Third-pointed embraces ' two such different styles as Flamboyant 



Tbe trirorlum, mora cepecially, wm utterly IcMt in late Pointed. Mr. FreemaiL 
rejoices over ita oxtinclion ! 



Pook and Freeman on t/ts Hktor^ of Architecture* 213 



incon- 



and Pcrpendicubir; to yoke which under one title is cle 

Bistent in writers who assert the fbmier and deny the latter to 

be a le^tiniate development of the Gothic principle.', — P. 339. 

The first of the:5e we mu.^t think a somewhat shallow objec- 
tion : for First -pointed, though rarely, in a pure ibrm at least, 
yet does oecur on the continent of Europe, The Seminary 
chapel at Bayeux 18 a notable instance ; and a German example 
has been made known to ua in the chancel of Remafzien, on the 
Bhine. Antlj which is much more importnnt, M* de Caumtmt 
and the Abbe Bourasse, whose names stand as high aa any ict 
France for this kind of learning, have, as we saw above, 
actuaVIy laid down a Primary Ogival, or Lancet style, as of 
universal application. And eurcly it is not unreasonable, in a 
broad view of tio widely-extended a style as the Pointed — one, 
too, of which we know so little as to the means of its diffusion — 
to assign to the style of Salisbury its precedence in the formal 
development of Pomtcdj since it confessedly u^ strictly speaking, 
the first development that can be conceived of Gothic forms, — 
even though ttiis or that country may have in its own ea^e no 
example of that style to show. An illustratitm will best show 
what we mean. Suppose future study should class Romanesque 
according to a similar division; and, as probably would be the 
case, the ancient Irish churches (as we proposed above) were, 
by consent of European Ecclesio legists, reckoned as of the First 
Romanesque. What difficulty w^ould there be, for example, 
in England reckoning her Anglo-Saxon churches as Second Ro- 
manesque, or Germany her Rhenish churches as Third ? Ima- 
gine, again (as in Spanish America), a country christianized in 
late Third-pointed times : are its churches not to be reckoned 
Third-pointed because First and Middle-pointed exist only in 
the old continent ? The question seems to us fo be simply tliis: 
on a general review of all known examples of the development 
of the Gothic style, which form is the eimplebt and earlie^jt — con- 
sidered as to principles, not as to actual dates? Confessedly the 
First-pointed — even though its idea were only fully realized in 
a remote isknd- Then we say, tliat philosophically that may be 
called the First-pointed etyle. 

Mn Freeman's second objection is a captions one. It appears 
from his note, that a writer in the * Ecclesiologiet ' contended 
that Flamboyant was a legitimate corruption of Flowing Middle- 
pointed, while Perpendicular was that corruption, saved or partly 
redeemed from its degeneracy by the introduction of a new 
element— absolute perpendicularity of lines ; the idea (as he 
suggested) of the great Wykeham. This view may be true or 
false ; we are not concerned with it : but any one holding it is 



214 Pode and Freeman on the Histori/ of Architecture, 

not precluded from regarding the two fonua aa coatemporaaeouB 
but unequally good phases of the deeaying style, and tirom 
designating them respectively the Flamboyant, and the Perpen- 
dictdar Third-pointed. 

Mr. Freeman's own two-fold divii^ion is practically identical, 
he tell» us, with Mr, Petit's ' Eai-ly Complete' and * Late 
Complete * Gothic, But he diifera wholly from that writer's 
opinion, wdiieh makes Transitional Romanesque the i« -complete 
Gothic ; the resemblance between the two cla^iaifications being 
only in this point, that both agree in considering Geometrical 
and Flowing Middle-pointed to be two Btylea, and not varieties of 
one style. It ia a fair inference that Sin Freeman's view i\ho 
repudiates Mr. Petit^s notion of both Eai'ly and Continuous 
being Cmnplete Gothic styles. 

But we muet aliow ilr» Freeman to apeak for himself in 
behalf of his division of Geometrical and Flowing into separate 
styles. 

* The Enrly is marked by the application of the principle of destroying 
the separate exieteiice orpart» unly, to the eons traction of iheprimEur; parts 
of the building; that is, it BubordinateB the shaf>, and capital, and arcu, to 
the 1.1 bole formed by tliem, the picr-arcb, the trilbrium, the window^ ^,, 
without completely subordinating these to the whole ; the secondary parts 
lose thmr separntc cxiatencCj, but the primary ones retain theirs. They 
still remain distinct, united by harmonious juxtaposition, but not actually 
fused into a aingle cxiatcncc. The CoutinuouiSi, on the other hand, effects 
the Bubijrdiualiou ol' the secondary parts more completely, while tt extends 
the applicatiati of the principle to the furtber subonlination of the primary 
parts to the whole, ao that ibc parts sink into nothing of thcmseWcaj but 
exist merely as parts of the whole. The beauty, then, of the Early 13 that 
of parts ; the slim and delicate shaft, the f!:raceful foliasre of the capital, the 
bold rounds and hollows of the mouldings, not only exist, but arc brought 
into prominent notice — they are forced on the eye at the fiurst glance; ia 
the Continuous they are not noticed, il' they exist, but it is the whole alone 
that is seen and con tern plated*' — P. 341. 

We have anticipated the answer to most of this, when we 
showed that the difference between the forms of Geometrical 
and Flowing Middle- Pointed is raucli less marked than the 
above passage aflaerts it to be j in fact, that the latter is iden- 
tical with the tbrmer, with the one exception of having tlie la^t 
roughnesses of the Geometrical forms s-oftened into the graceful 
continuity (we are not afraid to use the word) of the Flowing, 
Let us grant that the gain of continuity is the indication of the 
climax of the Gothic being reached ; we assert that the decay 
began from the moment that this continuity overatepped its duo 
limits, and invaded the rights of other elements of the style* 
We all agree that the new element did so develop itself — 
rightfully, says Mr. Freeman — wltile we say, in a corruption; 
nsomueh that, substituting the word Perpendicnkrj or Flam- 



^ P^t^ and Freeman on the H'ustorif of Architdchire, 215 

boyant, for the word Flowing, wc would adopt all !Mr. Freeman 
asserts of the ili^tuiction between tliu Early ami Uoutinuous of 
hb clivssitication, as true of the diritinctiou between ^lidillt- 
pointed and Ferpeudiculaa'. All lie .says ia true of Tlurd- 
IMiintcd, in each of its form.?, but it u not true of the Flowing 
Middle-poiuted. Geometrical ^^liddle-poiotcd Wii5, we repeat, 
perfection eliort of one quality — via., entire ease and grace: 
Flowing Middle-pointed was that one wanting etep, more or 
less succesdftilly, supplied. But we also hold that perfection 
wa3 either never reached, or, at least, never maintained, For 
whatever rcaj^on— we need not here even hint an opinion fur 
what reason — a corruptioii iniiuediately began. With the gain 
of perfect grace came the loss of severity ; and architecture, 
enervated by relaxed disci idine, declined. So in paintings 
Itiiffaelle had scarcely approximated to perfection before the 
decay began. 

There is nothing niurc difficulty of eour:*c, than to dniw an 
accurate line as to where legitimate develoiimcnt stopped, and 
degeneracy began- Few Avould probably be found to agree as 
to the exact point. But we conceive this difficulty to attach ad 
much to Mr. Freeman's division aa to the one we are defend- 
ing. The whole duration of Pointed architecture is, in fact* 
a time uf perpetual transition. But, in spite of this perpetnal 
transition, tour ^ub-divisions have been recognised by all ob- 
servers alike; those, namely* in which the Lancet> the (icomc- 
tricul, tlie Flowing, and the Perpendicular forms prevail. Why 
not, then, at once adoi>t this fourfuhl division, and reckon four 
styles of Pointed architecture ? Because nearly all observers 
have remarked a much stronger line of demarcation between 
the tirst and tlio second, and tiimilarly between the third and 
fourth, than between the second and third. That is to say, 
they have grouped Geometrical and Flowing into one, and so 
reckoned three etylcs. Mr. Freeman thinks he has detected a 
subtle principle, which is to be a safer guide for drawing the 
line of division than the combined observations of all his fellow 
students, and on the strength of it recommends a two- fold 
division, which places the greatest interval exactly where most 
but himself perceive the leaat ditrercnce, and which eombmea 
under each of the hesids. Early and Continuous, two vainetiea 
wliich have been nearly universally nia»ntaiiied to be pretty 
broadly distinguishable one irom the other. Now if any un- 
prejudiced reader, not particularly interested in this discussion, 
has accompanied us so fiir, he will probably be inclined to 
wonder why the dispute is continued after each side has stated 
its arguments. Is it not, after all, he will say, a nunc (juestioii 
of opinion? Pointed ai'chilccture, yuu confess, while it lasted. 



'216 iW<? and Freeman on the History of Archit^iure, 



had an ever-^liirtlng, ever-develoinng existence. You investigate 
itj3 facts, and search after its principles, and make arbitrary 
classifications, Imt cannot agree among yourselves ei liter as to 
the best system of subdivision, or as to where the perfection of 
the style resides. What hope is there of agreement if there is no 
further authority to appeal to, and no further argument to adduce? 
We think there m a further authority, and an appeal to it 
shall be our cheval de bataille; we mean MoftMii}Q$. It is quite 
singular how seldom Mr, Freeman refers to Mouldings through- 
out his volume, and when he does 80, it is always in the most 
vague and general terms* We believe that a careful rerrard to 
them would not only have eaved him from what we thmk his 
mistaken theory about the perfection of Pointed, but will nia- 
terially support tlie eide we have taken in this controversy as to 
the division of styles. We believe it is now generally ad- 
mitted that IMouidingg are the very gnmnnar of Pointed archi- 
tecture; tliat form, eifect, and even principles, may all, con- 
Bidcred alone, lead sometimes to erronef*us conclusions, to which 
nothing but a knowledge of Mouldings can provide a corrective. 
We are not going to dit?cuss Moiddings technically. Any of our 
readers who may have little or no practical acquaintance theni- 
gelvcs with this somewhat difficult and uninviting department of 
architectural science, may follow all we shall say b}^ referring 
to the plates of Mr. Paley's excellent nianuaL So far iVom our 
finding there any etrongly marked difference Vjctween Geome- 
trical and Flowing moulding?, it is absolutely impossible to dis- 
tinguish them apart J while between the ibrms of early or late 
First, or those of early and late Third-iHanted, there is the 
most obvious varlatinn. That mouldings group themselves 
neither into two, nor fcmr, but into thi-ee, and only three, classe*, 
a cursory inspection of IMr. Paley*a plates will prove ; and that 
great authority carefully cla'^sifics them accordingly. In other 
worda, he tlerives troni mouldings the same conclusions that 
others Iravc arrived at in different ways — that the Geometrical 
and Flowing forms of Middle-pointed essentially belong to one 
and the same style, a style which, with nearly all writei*8 but 
^Ir. Freeman, he considci^s to be the highest attained develop- 
ment of (xotliic architecture ; for he hazards the strong assertion 
respecting it, that * there can be no doubt that the perfection 

* of mouldings, as of all architectural detail, was attained in this 

* style,' (Manual of Gothic iVIouldings, p. 37.) 

Strengthened by the weight of this imlei^ndent testimony 
ft'ora IMouldings, we venture to assert that Mr. Freeman is not 
justified in dividing the two forms of Middle-pointed into 
separate styles, and we sincerely hope that he will make no con- 
Tertd to his system of ehiissification and his new nomenclature. 



Poule and Freeman on the IlUtory vf jlrchiteclure, 217 



I 

P 



For this place we have reserved an extract from Mr, Freeman^ 
which, while arguing for his favourite theory, contains so many 
remarkable admissions on our eidcj tlmt we reckon upon receiv- 
ing coneiderahlc support from it for our own position : — 

* It will be thus seen tlmt 1 completely ignore the exietence of a Decorated 
or Middle- Pointed style as a philosopbical division. At the same time, m 
desm')ing churchca, it is almost nee<!;8«ary to retaia some such name, 
for distinct as are the fully developed Flowing and the pure Geomctrienl, 
^Ely choir and Lichfield nave, — totally opposite aa are their principles, 
it la utterly irapossible to draw a hartf line of demarcation betweeu one 
and the other. Eyen the two fontia of windowa are murh confused, 
and much more the other details. One sees that the earliest Decorated 
churches are esgentially Early, the latest essentially Continwoua; vrhere 
one style overcomes the other, it is impossihie to say. In fact, if we 
relaiii a Decorated style, it can only be as one of transition, but of not a 
transition of the same kind as that from Grecian to Romnn, or Rnman 
to Gothic. Those were attempts to combine a new principle of const ntc- 
tion with an ohi principle of decoration ^ the present transition is not 
between two principles, but between two applications of the same principle. 
And it is to the constant commingling^ of the two applications, both being 
for a lime in Bimultancous use, and indeed often employed in the aarae 
structure, that I attribute the notion of the Decorated as a definite style : a 
class of buildings is marked negatively, as beiii^ neither Lancet nor Per- 
pendicular, and xvhicb agree pretty much in some points of detail. But if 
we are lo divide, not merely by date and detail, but by some pervading 
principle, or application of a principle, we shall surely see that two very 
different ones are at work itr buildings of this class. It is very difficult in 
individual instances to separate Geometrical from Flowing tracery: they 
are sometimes palpably of the same date, sometimes part of a window is 
Geometrical, part Flowing; yet this commingling in fact does not prevent 
an entire diversity in principle. And surely a pure Flowing window is as 
simply Continuous, as though its niullious were contimied in straight 
instead of curved lines. So, too, in other parts of the building; the details 
are mingled up in the individual instances, yet we can trace out two types; 
the one with Geometrical windows j deeply hollowed mouldings, jamb-stiafts, 
clustered cohimns, arcndcs, parts retaining a strongly marked individuality; 
the other with Flowing tracery, channelled piers, pannelling, parts subor- 
dinate to the whole. It may be that no perfectly pure example can be 
found of either, yet even this would not hmder the existence of the two 
models in idea; and clearly one must rank with Lancet, ihe other with 
Perpendicular. Their union in one style is most convenient in practice, as 
avoiding the necessity of nltempting a most painful and often fruitless dis- 
crimination of detail; but investigated on philosophical jmnciples, the 
unity of the Decorated aiylc falls to the ground/ — P. 353. 

His own volume affords many instances of the inconvenience 
he here acknowledges of denying the existence of a Middle 
i^tyle. AVe o!>servcd, more than once, in pem&ing it, that a 
building or detail was pronounced to be * Early Gothic:' it is 
impossihle to say, without fui*ther description, whether this 
Tiieans First-Pointed or Early Middle- Pointed. Elsewhere 
(p. 367) we read, 'a Continuous arrangement with Early de- 
titils;' which miffhi mean, a Third-Pointed etritcture witii First- 
Pointed mouldings^ but which dt}€» mean — for he is describing 



218 /W/cJ a fid Fixemau on the Hktortf oj ArckiUclure. 



the nave of York— what otlicr pcnsong would call a specimen 
of early Third-PointeiL Aiid the olas^ificatiou will appear 
still more unpractical, if pat to the tc^t in an actual example. 
Let U3 imagine a village church, tlio whole external wallu of 
which have been rebuilt in kte Third-Pointed^ but in which the 
old arcades remain under an added clerestory. If theae arcadea 
do not exhibit any continuity, there id no possible method of 
ascertaining their dates^ except by examining their mouldings. 
The mouldings will jnforro us infallibly whctlier the piers are 
First, or Middle-Pointed :- — they will nut tell us whether they 
arc Geometrical or Flowing ; they will not tell Mr. Freeman 
whether they are Early or Continuous. It is quite impossible 
for him to decide to which of \m two main diviaions the pier in 
such an example must be unsigned. We can scarcely conceive 
a stronger testimony to the inconvetiieuce of his ehis.silication. 

It is a sufficient reply to that final assertion at the cml of the 
last extract, that ' investigated on philo.-^ophical principles, the 
unity of the Decorated style falls to the ground,' to remark 
the curious circumstance that Mr. Freeman, in discussing 
Romanesque, argues (p, 231), that * we may safely treat the 
Norman style, both in England and Normandy, both of the 
eleventh and twelfth centuries, as a unitji^ in spite of such 
deeided transitional combinations, that many writers distinguiah 
a separate Tninsitional style, and Mr. Petit, from whom he so 
riu'ely ventures to differ, actually considers the Komanesque of 
the twelfth century an incomplete Gothic style. 

If^ thcn» Mr. I*rccman*a didsion and nomenclature be not 
accepted^ we must fall back upon the tlu^eefold division, and, for 
all reasons, we think, to the Ecclesiological terminology of the 
styles. We need scarcely advert to the great benefit that would 
result, both to the advanced architectural student and to the 
tyro, from a fixeil system of terms. 

An objection however to the generic name of Pointed has been 
raised by Mr, Freeman, to which we must here offer a reply. 
He has expressly condemned the term Pointed, on the score of 
the Pointed arch not being the essence of the style, and because 
tlie correlative term of Round arcliitecture has not been adopte<l 
for Roman esque.' And yet he has been himself, we believe, 
the first to lay down that the Round and Pohitcd forms are an 
absolutely exhaustive division of the arclutectm-e of the arch. 
He speaks distinctly (p. 149) of * the round-arched form of 
arcliitecture ;' and, still more inconsistently with his own theory 
(p. 312), of 'a Christian Pointed style/ Then again he speaka 

' How little weight there is in this ohjcclion will appear, when, the reader i« 
remitidcd tluit Mr. Freeman haa numal hii* owu two great divitiiontj Early ikwK 
ConLinuouft— tiiniib which have no nulsktioji wliaiovcr tu cocii other* 



I 
I 



■ Poole aiid Freeman on the History of Architecture* 219 

(p. 300) of the Pointed arch as being the * first instance alike in 
date and importance' of the development of the vertical prin- 
cif»le ; he aims a severe sarcasm (p. 302) at the * Glossary ' for 
denying its importance ; he contends (p. 307) against Dr. 
Wheivell for malviiig the flying buttress a more important elc- 
[ment in the development of Gothic; he defends (p. 310) 'the 
old antiquaries, who reduced the inquiiy into the origin of 
[5 the Gothic architecture into an inquiry into the origin of the 
* pointed arch,' as being ^ accidentalh not so far wrong as might 
^' be, and often has been supposed. Again, a little further on 
['(p. 314), we read, * The pointed arch once firmly established, 
tvery other detail followed as a inattei- of course f and, histly 
). 323), the pointed arch is reasserted to be * the first and most 
Important feature' intro<luced intii the new style; while Mr. 
Gady-Knight and Mr. Paley arc approvingly quoted (p. 314) aa 
[laying down the same position. Are not tnese statements alone 
ufEcient to justify the assertion, that the tenn Pointed architec- 
ture is not only not an incorrect one, but is the most descriptive 
md appropriate that could be found ? And still more particu- 
trly, adopting as we do Mr- Freeman's theory of the entablature 
and arch, we may safely declare, that the moat philosophically 
accurate generic name for what has been called Gothic architec- 
ture is the tenn Pointed, which expresses the main chai-acterlstio 
of the style — the Pointed arch. 

The further question, as to the style which must bear the 
palm in Gothic, is intimately connected with the last discnssioii, 
but is not absolutely identicaL JMr. Freeman stands nearly 
if not quite alone, m his preference of Tldrd Pointed; the 
great majority of architectural thinkers have decided with sin- 
gular unanimity in favour of the very earliest phase of Flowing 
Middle-Pointed. There are some, wo know, who think even 
this one degree too late, and take their stand by Geometrical ; 
and fewer still, who go so far as to claim for First Pointed the 
glory of being the purest development of the style. But tliese 
last two classes arc in truth ecarcely at issue with our own view, 
while their opinions tell with t!ic force of an a fortiori argument 
against Mr. Freeman. For their only difference with us is, as to 
whetlier even the Geometrical forms arc not too great a relaxation 
of the austerity of the first pure Pointed style ; they altogether 
agree with us in believing, that in that perpetual transition of 
Pointed, never stationary for a single year, we must exiiect to find, 
not one legitimate development, but a rise, a climajt, and a falL 
Mr. Freeman is solitary in seeing no corruption at all in the 
whole progress, till (we presume) Pointed collapsed into the 
Elizabethan ; and the onm probandi fairly rests with hiui for an 
assertion so contrary to tlic generally accepted belief. But his 



220 Poole and Freeman on the Hidorf/ of Architecture, 



proof, we think, is confined to the argument, that continuity is 
the essence of verttcality, and eo of Gothic ; whence. Perpendi- 
cular being most continuous is raost vertical^ and so the inost 
1)erfect Gothic. We have shown, we hope, that continuity is 
)ut one of many co-ordinate principles of the Pointed style, 
and that having reached its lawful growtli it immediately 
exceeded it, and was tlienccforward a symptom of decay. We 
reject, therefore, that latest Gothic, which we hold to be a cor- 
rupted and a degenerate style, and fix the acme of Pointed as 
nearly as possible at the point where its every principle found 
a full, but proportionate develoi)ment, and all its elements were 
fused with justest harmony and grace into a perfect whole. 

We have yet another lance to break with Mr. Freeman in 
behalf of Italian Pointed- With all his prejudices against the 
style, he spares the Duomo of Milan,^ mainly because Jlr. 
Petit has most truly sjiid of it, that it must be seen to be 
estimated, and that * the more accurately it is described, the less 
favourable will be the impression on the mind of either architect 
or artist; whereas, if he visit the building, he cannot but be 
lost in admiration.' This observation must be extended to 
Itidian Pointed in generah We must express our own belief, 
that no one who has not been fortunate enough to visit Italy 
can justly estimate, or even understand, her Pointed schools. 
They still need to be thoroughly and fairly examined ; and the 
constantly forgotten or ignored fact, that the whole architecture 
of large portions of Italy, in vilhiges as well as cities, civil and 
military, as well as ecclesiastical, Avas really and truly Pointed, 
in the times when Dante and Petrarch sang, and wdien Giotto 
I>ainted, and continued so till the Kenaissancc^ — needs to be 
urged and urged again on people*fi minds. We do not deny, 
that in many respects Italian Pointed may be found to differ 
(and, perha[^, in most cases for the worst) from the Trans- 
alpine styles; but w^c should attribute this to several causes ; 
such as new conditions of climate; the properties of other 
materials than were used in the North (marbles, for example) ; 
and new national charactenstics, Mr. Freeman » we confess to 
our surprise, does not enter at all on the consideration of the 
question, whether his favourite Gothic architecture can be 
transplanted as it is, into a tropical climate, or whether, and 
how it must be modified ; w^hether, in short, it pretends to be 
an universal style. The historian of architecture might weU, 
w^e think, iiave devoted a chapter to this subject, and have 
brought the benefit of his thought and experience to bear on the 

' The Duomo of Milan kept up a coiutaut Buceegsion of Pointed architects and 
warkmeo till the preacat century : and the l&niernj, which, as Mr. Freeman owna, 
' whether bcautiM or not, is certoiiilj wonderful/ (p. 413>) is a very late d^ij^o. 



I 
I 

I 



I 



^^^ Pook and Freeman on the Hufor^ of ArcMtectiire, 221 

important and pressing question of tlie best f*tyle to be adopted 
now in the churches rising in our Colonial Dioceses, Had he 
turned liis attention to the influence of climate upon Pointed, 
we think be would have pussed a more lenient judgment on the 
southern styles. In truth, his chapter on this subject is unequal 
to the scope and execution of the rest of the volume. We 
observe in it no account whatever of the Pointed school of the 
Pisaui, nor of the architecture of Giotto or Orcagna, nor of the 
Dominican architects, nor of the remarkable Neapolitan style. 
In a history of architecture one may fairly look for some notice 
of these styles, and we hope the omission may be made good in 
another edition. 

A new defender of the Italian Pointed has veiy recently come 
into the field, in the person of Mr, Ruskin, to whose last work 
we refen*ed above. Siany of his observations as to the differ- 
ence between northern and southern Pointed show much pene- 
tration, and if duly weighed, would, we believe, tend to expand 
jx>n8iderably the exclusive predilections of many among us for 
'le northern forms. Let us take an incidental example: *Tho 
method of decoration by shadow/ he remarks, ' was, as far aa 
we have hitherto traced it, common to the northern and 
southern Gothic. But in the carrying out of the system, they 
instantly diverged. Having marble at his command, and clas- 
sical decoration in his sight, the southern architect was able to 
carve the intermediate epaces with exquisite leafage, or to vary 
his wall surface with inlaid stones. The northern architect 
neither knew the ancient work, nor possessed the delicate 
material ; and he had no resource but to cover liis walk with 
holes> cut into foiled shapes like those of the windows.' — {Seren 
iOmps of Architecture^ p. 86.) Now the more this thought ia 
raaered, the more pregnant with meaning will it seem; it 
juggesta a view which will defend the Pointed of the South on 
its roost assailable aide, and leads directly to that most inte- 
jsting question, whether the northern Gothic is the only true 
levelopnient of the style, or whether new climates and condi- 
tions may not produce other developments not less beautiful, 
lor less truly Gothic. We shall leave the question here, 
kfter quoting one more apposite passage from Mr, Ruskin, 
expressed with an eleganee that has been seldom ct^ualled, 
fHaving enumerated and defined sixteen 'conditions of archi- 
tectural beauty and power,* he continues:— 

' lliese clmracteristics occur more nr less in different builditt^s, some in 
one, and some in nnather. But all togctlicr, and all in their liigkest poa- 
ftible relatiye degrees, they exists as far fts 1 know, only in one buildiin^ in 
the world, the Campanile of Giotto, at Flutciicc, . . , . la its (irst appeiil to 
tbe alranger's eye there is sometbing un pleasing \ a mingling, aa it seems 
to him^ of ovcr-ae verity \\\ih over-niinuteiiess. Ihu let him mve it time, 
AS he should to all other consummHtc uit» I remember ivell hoAT, when 



222 Peoh and Freeman on the Historp of Architecture. 



ft bov, I used to despise that Campanile, ftnd think it mcnnly smootli and 
finislied. But I Imve since lived beside it many a day, and looked ont upon 
it from my VTiiulowa by sunligbt and moonUgrht, and I sball not soon forget 
hovi profound and gloomy appeared to me the savageness of tbe northern 
Ootbic, when [ afterwards stood, for the first time, beneath tbe front of 
Salisbury. Tbe contrast is indeed strange, if it could be quickly felt, 
between the riaing of those grey walls out of their quiet awarded space, 
like dark and barren rocks out of a green lake, with tbeir nide, mouldering, 
rough-grained shafts, and triple ligbt^s, without tracery or other ornament 
than the martin's neat in the height of them, and that bright, smooth, sunny 
surface of glowing j asp er, those spiral shaftji and fairy traceries, so white, 
80 faint, 80 cryBtaliine* that their slight shapes are hardly traced in dark- 
ness on tbe pallor of the eastern sky j that serene height of mountaiu 
alabaster, coloured like a morning cloud, and chaaed like a sea aheU,'^ — 
Sci'en Lamps, p. 131. 

There arc several other minor questions, though very nearly 
eannectcd with the history of architecture, which Mr. Freeman 
has wholly omitted to notice. Forexainple, what, if any, influ- 
ence the supposed system of Freemasonry exerted on mediaeval 
architecture has been often disputed. Mr, Freeman probably 
altogether disbelieves it : but he might well have ^wqh \\h 
readers .some mcana of knowing^his mind, or forming their own 
opinion on the subject. IMr. Poolcj we observe, repeats, with 
little or no commentj the common account of Freemasonry and 
the influence and importance of the fniternity. 

Still more important is that theory lately advocated by Mr. 
Gnfllith, — and there are numerous very similar theories afloat, — 
which finds a key to the whole mystery of Pointed design in 
abstruse geometrical and symbolical combinations. This prin- 
ciple, if accepted, woidd cause a complete rcvoluti<»n in the 
general ideas on this subject: and we regret that both ^Ir. 
Freeman and Mr. Poole have entirely ignored the controversy. 

Symbolism again, in its several branches, Mr. Freeman has 
in this volume passed over without notice. Not so Mr. Poole, 
who has tliscusscd it, (p. 170,) though without originality, and 
without assisting us to arrive at any satisfactory conclusion. 
He seems, indeed, in his chapter on this subject, to be arguing 
for truisms which no one ever denied, and to be conteuding 
against quite imaginary opponents. 

One more thing we will mention, and that is Polychrome, 
Mr. Freeman has discussed the whole history of architecture, 
without, we believe, one passing allusion to the decorative 
colouring, either of the ancients or the mediaeval architects. 
Mr. Poole's notice of the subject (p. 27o) is so superficial as to 
offer nothing available for an extract. As usual, he scarcely 
ventures to let his own opinion escape; we may gather it, per- 
haps, from such an expression as the following : * The stalls at 
"VVcnsley were never, I am persuaded, injured by the addition 
of colour,' 

We will now draw these remarks to a conclusion, having 



I 



I 



JPook and Freeman on the Uiskry of Jrchitecturc* 

detained our renders too loiinj already in tlic attempt to give 
them not only an idea of tlie merits of the^e particidar vohinies, 
but a view of the present state of this branch of knowledfre 
among ns. No true Ciuircbinan ean be uninterested in the 
jiiitiire ^rowdi of the theory and {>nictice of Church arehitec- 
tiire. Besides our own immediate duty to conseerate to the 
eervice of Go<l the beet of all we have — the highest art, the most 
pkilful workmanship, the richest materials — wc have a secondary 
duty to perform to our f^ueccijisors in the faith; we ought now 
to be huildinfT churches which shall be to them what Lincoln 
and WeMniingter are to us. There ii* work to be done at the 
present crisis in which all may cooperate. Architecture can 
never flourish till people in general are competent to appreciate 
what is built. An academy will never rescue art froni degra- 
dation ; art cannot but languish so long as it ia not the expres- 
eion of a people's life. Our people must be educated then ; 
men must know what chiirch architceturc is, — why it is so; 
they must siiffer a real craving after good churches a;? the 
exivonents of their inarticulate feelings of worship, and must be 
able to gee and feel for themselves whether their craving is 
satisfied, before wo can hope for any great progress, 1a it not 
go in painting ? The^c are bad days for that art also : but in 
what departments of it do our native artiste moet succeed? In 
precisely those, and only tliose, in which the public taste is 
intuitively interested, and in which it is competent to pass an 
intelligent judgment: for instance, in landscape, and the school 
of Wilkie. The English mind must be strung up to a higher 
tone before it is ready to welcome, Itcforc it is able to elicit, true 
eacred pictures from Englifc?h art. 

Now in architecture we have seen already that there ia a 
deep-rooted revival in progress, of which we may form high 
expectations. It really seems as if, at least in this one point, 
Englishmen were likely to exchange that eclecticism which is 
the result of ignorance and indiflerentism for something like an 
unanimous sentiment in reference to tlie proprieties of church 
building. It m most important that this growing feeling should 
be encouraged and maintained. Every one who u able to do so 
should do his best practicaUy to spread information about the 
history, and to enforce the importance of church architecture^ to 
point out the advantage of one uniform style being ailopted, to 
explain its principles, capacities, and beauties, to demonstrate its 
fitness, to interpret its symbolism, to develop its associations* 
We heard lately of an * elocution-master,'— ivs those persons are 
called who form the nondescript chiss to which the final educa- 
tion of our young women is generally entrusted,— prescribing a 
course of cluirch architeclure, as now-a-dnys necessary for a 



^i Pooie and Freeman on the Hhtorff of Architecture, 



lady in society, Wc accept tlic omen. We heartily wish tint 
every one felt ii real personal interest in the suhjeet ; that every 
one were qualified to enjoy that glorious inheritance of Christian 
art in which he has a right to share. Conkl we but all agree 
and work together — then, in proportion to tlie growing intelli- 
gence and a]>preciation of architeetural fituees and beauty, would 
be the successful advancement of the ^science : the feeling that 
he was appreciated, woidd inllame and sustain the efforts of the 
professed architect, and the successes of the latter would react 
in increasing the knowledge and improving tlie taste of the 
community. Architecture would become inseparably identified 
with the life and energy of the Church, and would be in the 
fair way of entering upon soiue new and glorious development. 
Is it mere enthusiasm to anticiijate anything of this sort? 
We believe it is not so. Let uh remembLT, as we said before, 
that the Church having demanded an increased number of ma- 
terial temples, the impetus thereby given to architecture has 
already not only produced an unparalleied advance of architec- 
tural skill and Bcience, hut, contrary to all ex])ectation, has suc- 
ceeded in estahlisliing the persuasion that the Church has an 
appropriate religious style of its own, which is not only the best 
adapted to meet the practical wants of Catholic ritual, but is a 
Bignificant expression of the Chui'ch's iiaind and doctrine, suited 
by some essential fitness for a temple of the Christian faith. 
We trust that neither our Church uor our nation are eftete or 
approaching dissolution. The religious movement among us is 
a source of fresh life, which need not be stifled If it be God's 
will that his Church among us shall prosper, we have in it a 
germ of life more than sufficient to reanimate the arts which 
are at best but the Church's handmaids. It is in this light that 
we try to view our own architectural revivaJ,— as a revival, not 
merely of dead forms and mouhlings, but of the living spirit of 
architecture. We believe that our people and our architects, 
in growing uumbers, demand churches on the one side, and 
supply them on the other, not as mere academy studies nor as 
the gmtifications of individual caprice, but as houses of God 
— designed to meet the practical exigencies of God*s worship, 
and to be material expressions of the Christian faith. What are 
the elements of architectural life if not these? If this spirit be 
among us, as we believe it is, ive may trust that it will in 
time mould into subjection to itself the mechanical foims whicli 
it has to use* Look at the Lombard movement in architecture ; 
there was an instance of a new life reanimating old forms, and 
of a new development being the consequence. So far as we can 
at present see, the new life among us is seizing upon, is per- 
informing, (as we should most wish) the Middle 



I 



I 



I 



img, 



Poole and Freeman on the History of Architecture, 225 

Pointed details of Gothic architecture. It is there that we have 
fixed the point from which the Pointed style began to decline. 
Thence, if from any point, it must take a new beginning. 

Taking warning by the failure of their Third- Pointed prede- 
cessors, our new architects may tread a safer but narrower way 
•in developing, or, if no further deyelopment be possible^ in 
exfaaasting, though this is even less possible, the capacities of 
of the Middle-Pointed style. We have been endeavouring to 
show how all may help forward this consummation. Meanwhile, 
it is deeply to be regretted that such an author as Mr. Freeman, 
who haa done so much as this volume cannot fail to effect for the 
sake of church architecture, should have nevertheless thrown 
one great impediment in the way of the revival, by — at the very 
moment when agreement among ourselves is the main condition 
of success — doing his best to confuse the generally admitted 
classification of styles, and placing the perfection of Gt>tbic in 
its most vitiated and degenerate form. 



NO. LXV.— N» S. 



226 



Aet. Vin. — Principles of Geohgn ; or, the Modern Changes of the 
Earth and iU Inhabitants comidered as Hhtstratite of Geology, 
^j^ Charles L YELL, MA. F.R.S. Seventh Edition. Murray: 
1847. 

2. Elements of Gedogii* ZJ^f Charles Lyell, JSifr/. F.KS. First 

Edition. Murray 1*1838. Second Edition. 2 vole. 1841. 

3. The Earth^s AniiquitH in Harmon}^ ttiih the Mosaic Record of 
Creation, Bif the Rsv, James Gray, London : J. W. Parker. 
1849. 

Sir Charles Lyell may be regarded as the representative of 
the prevailing school in Geology. The chnracteriiitlcs of that 
school may be stated in a few words. It avoids all discussion 
and even speculation^ as to ihe first origin and condition of tlie 
earth we inhabit, as a snare, an iguiifatum by which geolo<]^ist3 
of former times have nlrcudy too often been diverted from their 
true task and vocation, the examination of the actual existing 
state of the globe wc inhabit, and the inferences which it 
8Ugge4?ts. Moreover, its great principle is, that tlie existing 
geological ithenomena, including mountains, valleys, continents, 
islands, and the like, as well as those which appear on a more 
minute examination of the strata, — the embt^ddcd remains of 
land and sea animals, sheila, wood, and even forests, may be 
explained by reference to the canines now in operation u|K>n and 
within the surface of the globe ; so that we must bani«h 
altogether from our minds the ideas of sudden convulsions, 
destruction and re-ereation of worlds, great revobitions crowded 
into a few years or days, and the like, and have recom^se 
merely to the action of nature m her present state, continued 
for such a period (whatever it may be) as wall suffice to account 
for the existing phenomena. It almost necessarily follows., 
that this school carries on its geological investigations abso- 
lutely without any reference to the declarations of Holy Scrip- 
ture as to the creation of the work], and the events which 
have since taken place upon it. We believe we do not exagge- 
rate, when we express our deliberate opinion, that the thought 
of the first chapter of Genesis no more occurs to the mind of Sir 
Charles Lyell when examining the question, for instance, of the 
period of the earth's history at which it was first inhabited by 
any particular animal, say tlie elephant or the whale, than it 
would if be were writing upon the principles of mathematics or 
medicine. We are tar from accusing the K^hool in question of 



I 



Gtolog^ and Revelation* 



227 



cllsbelief in Kevelation, much less of any intention to assail it 
by means of their philostijihical studies. Such things we all 
know have been,— they may be again; there may be, even now> 
writers who are thus actuated ; but of the scliool as a school we 
neither believe nor would insinuate any charge of the kind. 
Still, the fact is undoubted, that whether believers or not, they 
do alike, aa geologists*, ignore the tact of Revelation ; their 
inquiries are caiTied on exactly i\B if none had ever been given. 

In the |>resent article we shall suggest soine considerations 
upon this fact, and on the bearings of geology, in its present 
state, upon Kevehitiun and belief, and do not intend to enter 
iDto the facts themselves which geologists have ascertained, or 
the theories by which they have arranged them, more at length 
than tills subject requires or suggeste. 

And, first, concerning this investigation of geological pheno- 
mena and turmatitui of geologicid theories, wholly without 
consideration of the revealed history of creation, the queetion 
at once r>ccur?. How far is it consistent with our faith aa 
Christians and Catholics? 

It must, we think, be admitted, that this very question could 
hardly have been asked without ollencc a few years ago. The 
notion of scriptui-al geology was so deeply ingr;iined in the minds 
of men, that the believer and unbeliever alike seem to have 
aasumed that the thing existed, whether it could or could not 
be reconciled with existing facts. The history of the study in 
this respect has been, perhaps, nothing more than might reason- 
ably have been anticipated ; but, however this may be, it haa, 
unquesfionably, been very curious. Men to whom the Scrip- 
ture histories of the creation and the deluge were, as to 
Christians they must be, fixed and established facts—first 
princii>Ies of certainty in a dark and mysterious world, — natur- 
ally judged at once of the phenomena around them by those 
facts, which almost alone were certain and undoubted in the 
history of the visible world. To thera* almost of necessity, the 
fossils in ancient rocks spoke of the deluge; and the date of 
the material world was assumed without further inquiry to be 
the 5ame as that of man^s residence upon earth. Thus the first, 
and most natural theory of Christians was a scriptural geology. 
They rejoiced and trembled as they found themselves brought 
into continual contact with the remnants of that older world 
whose destruction by water they knew as one of the very fact8 
of their own inmost souls. 

That their feelings and belief were really natural and reason- 
able, was curiously attested by unbelievers as well as by be- 
lievers. So plainly did the fossil remains testify of the general 
deluge, that Voltaire denied the existence of fossils, lest he 

q2 



228 



Gedogy and Rerelatmi, 



glionld be compelled to admit the fact of the deluge. They 
iverc, lie .^aidj *fc.j)ortii of Kature/* The shells embedded in the 
A!j>int> rocks were no doubt real ehelli?, but they iiad dropped 
from tlic hats of pilgrims on tlicir return from Syria; the fossil 
plants were not plants at alb Sir C. LycH observes: — 

*Tbey irhrv knew ihnt hia attncks were directed by a desire to invalidiite 
Scri|jlijre, nnd wlio were imAcquniiit«d willi the true merits of the question, 
niigiil wi'M deem the old diluvian h\ pothesis inconlrovcrtible, it Voltaire 
cowld addiu'e no better iirtriiinent against it than to deiij the true nature of 
orgauic remains.^ — Principifs, p, 57, 

It IS interesting and instructive to observe how gpeedlly ajid 
entirely unbelievers cliaiiged their views of geology. It was 
soon whispered that geological phenomena seemed to indiciite 
that the antiquity of tlic globe was much greater than that 
attributed by the Mosaic account to the human race, and, a^ all 
ChriKitians then presumed, to the world which they inhabit. So 
VLtluntary are belief and unbelief, that geology which had been 
rejected and derided in spite of the clear evidence of the senses^ 
ai3 long as it was believed to corroborate the Mosaic liistory of 
the deluge, was at once honoured and cultivated;^ and its most 
doubtful deductions were treated as certain truths, as soon as 
it w*as supposed to impugn the Mosaic history of the creation. 
This innocent science seems really to have been regarded by 
infidel philosophers first with the animosity with which partisans 
regard an antagonist, and afterwards with nil the partiality they 
could show to a convert. In Mr. Brydonc's ' Tour tlu"ougli 
Sicily and Malta, in 1770/ eight years before the death of Yul- 
taire, the immense antiquity ol' the globe as proved by the geolo- 
gical phenomena of ^I'^tna, is treated of with a radiant satisfaction 
which is really hardly exceeded when he descants upon the pro- 
fligacy of the Sicilian monks or knights of Maltiu lie seems to 
have the same sort of pleasin-e in dwelling upon the number of 
strata and the years required for their formation, which he 
shows when lie makes an opportunity fur detailing an indecent 
story, real or imaginary, of a wicked Capuchin. 

Sir C. Lyell laments and complains of the habit wdiicli thus 
prevailed in past years of discussing geological suVyccts upon 
theological grounds, and for purposes religious or irreligious as 
tjuitcd the prepossessions of the writer; for he considers it as an 
injury to his favourite science. There is no doubt that such 
h:ia been the case. Still we do not see that believers in Chris- 
tianity acted in this nmtter unreasonably. The unpression that 
the date and manner cd' the formation of the material globe arc 
revealed in Scripture, if it be, as we believe, erroneous, is yet 

I * LyclI ; Elt'iLcntaj p. 56. 



OMfffSf ^f^ Rezelation. 



229 



I 



I 
I 



certainly not at first sight unnatural ; and uUliougli we take 
a deep interest in geolog^^ we will still, by Sir Charles LyelFs 
permission, point out tfie important distinction, timt without 
geology the world has done well, and may do well, but without 
n belief in the truth of the Bible it cannot do at alL Under 
these circurnstancesi, some degree of over-sensitiveness, even if 
it were mistaken, may well be excused in thaee who undeniably 
saw that the facts of geology were employed as an instrument 
of assault upon Revelation. 

Had we been writing only a few years ago, we should have 
thought it little necessary thus to defend those who maintained 
a scriptural geology, but should rather have been called upon to 
prove that a geology not founded upon Scripture may be adopted 
by one whose belief in Revelation is of all tilings dearest to his 
heart. We should then have entered into an inquiry which ia 
not now required, because thinking men in general are agreed as 
to its result. We should have tliought it necessary to inquire 
whether there are indeed grounds for supposing that it was the 
will of the all-seeing Autlior of Revelation to convey to us 
information as to the geological changes which have taken [>lace 
upon the globe, and the phenomena which have resulted from 
them. We shoidd have insisted that it is plainly not His will to 
reveal to us either all that forms the subject of His own infinite 
consciousness, or even all that portion of it which our finite 
understandings arc capable of embracing — that the real question 
is not whether He who knows all things knows t!ic exact date 
and manner of the formation and change of every rock upon and 
within the world, which He has made and sustains, but whetlier 
or not Hehajs really been pleased to give us information (as He 
might, had such been His pleasure), with regard to these points. 
Upon these points we say we do not now consider it needful to 
enter, because they are not at the present day seriouslj^ discussed. 
We doubt whether there are any persons remaining, who 
seriously believe that it was the pleasure of the All-wise God to 
occupy with these subjects the pages of His Revelation to man. 

We assume^ therefore, that the modern geologists arc reli- 
giously justified in carrying on their investigation of nature, and 
in theorizing freely upon its phenomemi without reference to 
the creation as recorded in the Old Testaments We believe 
this course to be on the whole most consistent with a reverent 
vahie fur the Divine word. We have no overweening sympathy 
with the temper of mind which would refer men to nothing but 
the inspired pages lor controversial purposes, even if the con- 
troversy be purely theological. When indeed controversy 
arisen, we must refer to Scripture; as the Church has ever done: 



230 



Geohify and B^telation, 



yet it ia for devotion uut for controversy tliat Kevelatton wa§ 
given, and fur devotlou rjitlier than for controversy we tlesire all 
men to Imve the Scriptures in their Jiand.s. But if this he ao ia 
controversies of theology, how much more iu those of a geculnr 
nature, J!^ore]y it is cvidmit that needlessly to introduce tlie 
word of God in dii*cueisions merely eceular, exposes men to the 
danger of an irreverence, somewiiat akin to that wliich is engen- 
dered by introducing the Name uf God in secidar conversation- 

But it is sometimes replied that this is a misstatement ofl 
the question. It is not, whetlier we shall go to Scripture 
for geological facta, hut whether when a fact is, (for whatever! 
reason,) distinctly stated in Scripture, we shall reject it a» 
inconsistent with facts ohservcd and theories adopted in modera^ 
times — whether moreover those who do reject it, can defend 
themselves from the charge of rejecting the Divine testimony by 
urging that the subject is scientific and not religious, and there- 
fore not that upon which it was the pleasure of God to make 
revelations to us. 

Now, fully holding the great princijdes upon which modern 
physical philosuphcrs maintain that their inquiries ought to b«] 
made, inde|icndent of lievelation and witliout reference to il 
we must still admit that tliis objection is not without weight. li 
cannot surely be doubted that to reject any one fact really 
and confessedly revealed in Scripture is inconsietent with 
belief in its Divine inspiration, as that inspiration is believed 
among us. For that which the Divine Author of Scripture 
was pleased to teach us, whatever he its nature or its subject, 
rests upon His omniscience and His truth; and if it were 
His will to declare that this material globe ivas called int»> 
existence out ol' nothing, 5,9U0 years ago, we could reject the 
dechiration only denying one of those fuiidauicutal tacts ; that is, 
by denying God Himself, Uis nature and peribctions ; for He is 
wisdom and is truth. Those therefore, for example, who deny 
the historical facts recorded in the Old Testament must of neces- 
sity deny the inspiration of Scripture, as it has id ways been 
understood.^ However ihey muy intend to preserve sacred tlie 
religious facts and doctrines of Kevelation, they cannot maintain 
tlie Divine origin of the book, except in that limited sense which 
would confine the Divine communication or the superintending 
and controlling grace of God, guarding the writer from error, to 
those parts which they regard as strictiy theologicaL 

The doctrine of inspiration, therefore, which alone is con- 
Bistent with views such as those of M. Bunaen, Ewald, and even 

* &6Q the notice on the Cheviilicr Buiiscd ftiid Ewaltl, in the fifty- third number 
of the * ChristiaD llcmcmbruucer,' in a letter feigned E. B. P. 



Getjlogjf and Rtt^latioiu 



231 



¥ 



^ 



¥ 



Kiebuhr, (not to mention names in the English Church,) is pre- 
cisely that which the Konian Churcii tuaintaios with regard to 
the authrn-ity of the existing Cliureh m successive ages. That 
it hiks pleased God to enlighten the exititing Church with a 
EUpernatural knowledge of scieiitifie or historical factis, or any 
othefij save those of a purely religious character, no Roman 
theologian believes. U[>on tloctrinal questions, on the other hand, 
she speaks with His authority* Thus, if tlie Church declarer eis 
cathedra that a certain doctriuc \v:i3 maintained by Origen, and 
that it is heretical; the latter of these dcchirations re^ts, accord- 
ing to their bellcti upon a Divine, the former upon a merely 
human, aulhurity. Whether or not it would be consistent wdth 
the principles of the liotuan Church to e-\tcud this distinction to 
the writers of Holy Scripture, and to maintain us (5?<y/(/e that their 
religious and doctrinal assertions are from God, admitting mean- 
while that upon other questions they were left to tlie unaided 
light of fallible luinuui tcatiuiony and hujiian intellect, we do not 
here inquire. Such at best must be the view maintained by 
those Protestant philoa4;jphcrs, who reject any fact really re- 
corded by the inspired writers upon any subject whatever, 
while at the same time they admit their inspiration upon matters 
of religion. 

►Such a view of inspiratltm, however, would be utterly abhor- 
rent tVom the religiuus convictions and sympathies of English 
Churchmen of every school oi opinion ; neither, so far aa we can 
see, have those who adopt it (aa seems to be the case with the 
more oilhodox and devout of the Lutheran body) any security 
whatever for the maintenance even of the must eaicred religious 
truths, unless they admit along with it a living teaching 
authority. For those who admit no Divine voice upon earth 
save the voice of Scripture, and who at the same time deny tlrnt 
Scripture speaks with Divine autliority upon any other than 
religious subjects, need only deny that any question is indeed 
necessary to tlie reality of religion, and they may immediately 
deny its truth, however clearly taught in Scripture. This 
view therefore appears to us to require, as its necessary supple- 
ment, a living voice which may from time to time declare with 
authority wluit are and what are not necessary religious doc- 
trines and facts, and the subject-matters of inspiration. 

It seems, then, that upon our own priucipleSj to admit that 
any one fact wdiatcver is clearly stated in Holy Scripture, and 
yet to deny the truth of that fact, would be in truth to deny the 
Divine authority and inspiration of Scripture. 

But it is widely different when the question is wdicther such 
and such a fact is really declared or not That men, and even 
learned and religious men, have before now assumed for ages 



232 



$UkffS and Retelatlon, 



togetlierthat certain facts are Inconsistent with Scripture, which 
we now all hold to be perfectly consistent with it, it is too plain 
to be denied. There is no doubt that the antboiities of the Konian 
Church felt the astronomical ductrinea of Galileo to be contrary 
lo the interpretation of Scrijjture usually received In his day, 
hoth by lionuui Catholics anti all other Christians. It is shown 
indeed by an able writer in the 'Dublin Rcview/(July 1838, > that 
this was the extent of tbe j?entence against him, and that the 
great Bellannine, by whom, among other:*, it was passed, felt 
that the usual and most obvious interpretation, was a thing so 
far distinct from the Divine verity itself, that Galileo^s doctrine 
might hereafter be established ; and that should such be the case, 
the ordinary interpretation of Scripture upon the subject would 
be proved to be mistaken. Such has accordin*;ly, as we all 
ktioWj been the course of events, and there is now probably 
hardly any one above t!ie lower claes of a national school, eo 
half-learned as to be puzzled by the apparent diiicrepancy upon 
this point between the word of God and Ills world. May it 
not be worth while that one who is scandalized at any appa- 
rent contradiction between the conclusions of geologists and 
Divine Kevelation, should very carefully consider whether they 
too rnay not, perhaps, contradict our established interpretations 
of the Jlosaie history of the creation or the deluge, rather 
than the Divine record itself? That such contradiction will 
always exist between the observed facfs of every progressive 
science and the records of Kevelation, seems to us, beforehand, 
ahnost certain. The words of Scripture, be it remembered, not 
only arc not designed to teach natural science, and therefore cannot 
be expected to be fitted for a work to which their Di\^ine Author 
has never * sent them;' but what is even more important, they 
are, as we well know, the heritage of all nations, and of every 
age; and we may say chiefly and perha[)s in the first place, the 
heritage of the simple, the ignorant, the poor, ihe unscientific. 
Kow, if in the Divine wisdom the volutiie of inspiration had been 
80 written that the facts of nature which came under review,^for 
example * the sun standing still overGibeon,' — had been described 
in the language of sciences not yet discovered; the very meaning 
must of necessity have been altogether a riddle to every agj and 
nation until the progress of science had unlocked the mystery. 
Thus the scandal (such aa it is) of a popular and unscientific 
style, when it is first discovered that it does not accurately 
describe the physical facts, would indeed have been avoided ; but 
at the cost of those many generations which elapsed, and rend, 
and mused over the sacred record, before the physical discoveries 
had been thought of: the poor would have been sacrificed to 
the great and intellectual, the simple to the objector. How 



Geolo^tf and Eerdatmi, 



isz 



different all this from the whole course of His Reyektion, who 
' has hid these things from the wise and prudent, and revealed 
• them unto habcs, for so it seemed good in His sight!* We might 
enlarge upon other considerations akin to these — for instance, on 
the opposition 1)et\veen science and poetry, and the distinctlj 
poetical cast in which He who made and loved iis, has been pleased 
to mould his communications to us, both in nnturc and grace. 
AVhat would the 1 9th Pr?a!m be if translated into the terms of 
science? Wc might point out the benefit and necessity to in- 
quiring and intellectual minds of diflicullies, which exercise 
peculiarly those virtues which are to them most nectlful and 
hardest of attainment, — the virtues of humility, distrust of self, 
and simple submission to God. But we have said enough, we 
think, to explain and justify our expectationj that as in times 
past, so in fnture, the progress of physical science will be marked 
by apparent discrepancies of observed facts with Revelation, by 
the scoffs of the infidel, and the apologies of the believer. We 
have seen this already in aslronomy, in geology, in ethnology. 
We may expect it in the farther investigation of these sciences, 
and perhaps in others ; even, for example, in cxpcrimeuts upon 
the nature and conditions of animal life, and the like. 

Not that we doubt that diflficultics like these, if so they are 
to be considered^ will clear away in future as in past times, as 
the subjects are more carefully and fully investigated. W<3 
enter through clouds into a region of light. And in the mean- 
|w time w^c have no sympatliy with the state of mind wiiieh we 
Bptannot help occasionally observing, which hastily takes alarm at 
every new investigation which seems to threaten results incon- 
sistent with belief. Men who indulge this spirit mean well no 
doubt, and are to be treated with respect; yet we cannot but feel 
them to be but dangerous friends to the causf^ of Trotli, They 
seem always in a panic lest its unsoundness should be found out 
—they arc alarmed lest the miracles of Scripture should be 
rivalled by ilesmerism, — lest the Mosaic history should he con- 
tradicted by geology,— lest the descent of man from one original 
stock should be impugned by an examination into the history of 
nations,— lest the theory of nebidje should suggest something 

against the creation of the world by Gud. Surely this is but a 

eak sort of faith after all. Wc would say to such men, Cheer 
"tip and take courage, for you are on the side of truth, and 
this is the prerogative of truth, that she may indeed for a 
wdiile be eclipsed by olyeetions, but that as facts are fully 
examined^ they uuist be found in accordaace with her. No 
ne truth can be contrary to any other truth — if it is your 
xiom that the Gospel is true, tlien is it certaiuj demonstrably 
certain, that bo fact in the universe — in heaven above or earth 



234 



Geologif and R^dalimu 



beneath, or ia the waters or the rocks under the earth, can by 

possibility be rea!ly inconsistent with it. 

And llierei'orc, Jia Christiimsj we wanld say baldly let inquiry 
find invcstigutiou }u*oceed. We fear them nut. Some opiDions 
wliich we huve in tinica past supposed to be revealed truths, may 
indeed be found to have been mistaken inferences from scrtptnral 
expressions. But when the iiiquir)^ has been fairly and fully 
carried out, it i^ utterly impossible that its rc^sult can be ineon- 
eistent with any one doctrine of our faitli, or any one fact which 
God lias really revealed. To shrink from the inquiry would, in 
our mind, be as unreasonable as if we should fear lest the 
working out of some abstruse calculation should exhibit results 
inconsistent with the axiom, that things equal to the gfLme are 
equal to one anotlier. We really cannot percfuade ourselvegj 
feel nervously anxious, lest it should be proved that two 
two are not after all equal to four. 

Thus then we would bid the geologist go on boldly — collect 
all tlie facts you can — do not fear that any real result of 
facts can be injurious. No truth ever was or ever can be in- 
jurious; it is only falsehood which ever did injury to any one- 
Collect your facts and systematize them; if the results seem in 
any degree inconsistent with Itevelation, it is either because 
Revelation does not really say what you liavc supposed, or 
else because your theory is founded upon an imperfect induc- 
tion of facts, Le. because it ia not true. But go on boldly, you 
need not be pausing at each step to inquire liow far will this 
agree >vith the Mosaic record — is there anything in this opposed 
to religion ? You are working indeed on another part of GocFii 
works, but they are His works still. Do not be afraid. It is not 
the <levirs world whose construction you are examining, but 
God's ; and in it there can be no contradiction of anything God 
has eaid. Only let us know exactly what His works are, and 
they w^ill be found to be in agreement with His words. 

With these feelings, we confess we think that upon subjects 
like these, men of science and divines will do well to agree upon 
a division of labour. Let the geologist go on ascertaining and 
an*auging his facts and drawing his inferences as best he may, 
unchecked by any fear lest conclusions should be inconsistent 
witli religion, and let it be the business of divines to inquire, 
after the conclusions have been attained with tolerable certainty, 
whether they agree with the preconceived opinions of religious 
nicn, and if not, how the discrepancy is to be set right. 

But if this c^u'tel is to be established, there is one condition 
which men of science must carefully preserve. They must 
stick to their last ; they must leave theology to others. If 
they leave their proper province, the investigation of physical 



I 



G^olopp and 



235 



fiicU, and encroacli upon theological groimd, they must not ex- 
pect impunity because they are not divines but philosophers*, 
A foreigner is ameimblc to tlie lawc* of Eugtand if he comes 
amongst us — a man oi' science, if lie chooses to write on qiiestiooa 
of theology at all, must write tike a Christian, or bear from U3 
the imputation of heresy or infidelity. To illu:5trate our mean- 
ing. A genlogiet may state hia opinion, that the causes now 
in operation are sufficient to account for the existing strata 
and organic remains, but that those causes must have been in 
operation almost for countless ages. He may state that he can 
find no truces of any general inundation over the whole earth ; 
he may declare that the organic contents of the ancient strata 
must have belonged to animals which lived and died long prior 
to the creation of man. These subjects are his legitimate field 
of inquiry. But if he chooses to examine the questions, whether 
S^'oali's deluge was universal, in what sense * death came into 
he world by sin/ and the like, he is writing theology ; and must 
>e tried by the same rules which are a]>ijhed to other theologians. 
For be it well observed, that ttiere are two styles of writing 
^which may secm^ at first sight, much hkc each other, but which, 
truth, spring from principles and imply tempera diame- 
[trically opposite. Of tlie one we have already spoken ; it is that 
,of a man, who, firmly convinced that the Revelation of God 
fie and must he true, goes boldly fbrth Into His vvurld, certain 
that any discrepancy with it most be only superficial and appa- 
[Xent^ and theretbre piirsucs his inquiry without fear of a con- 
licting result. The other is that of one who, by no nicana 
convinced of the trutli of Revelation, and fully persuaded of the 
rejility of his own studies, pays a formal acknowle'Jgment at 
starting to the one, and then goes on to the other quite willing, 
upon any ten>ptation, to make statements really and plainly 
opposite to the truths which he began by formally adnntting. 
The ditferenoe may be illustrated by our own feelings. If we 
Iiear a story which seems to attach a suspicion of dishonest or 
dishonourable conduct to a friend, whom we know to be wholly 
incapable of it, we say at once, * There is some mistake, when tlie 
facts are fully known it will appeal-;' but we do not even for a 
moment feel a doubt that perhaps it may be as it is represented. 
How different this from the official protest of Shakspeare's 
Antony — * Brutus is an honourable man,' while he is labour- 
ing to prove liini a villain. Now it cannot be denied that 
there was, especially in the last century, a class of writers who 
habitually used this policy towards the religion of Christ. It 
was adopted by Voltaire, by Hume, by Gibbon, and by the vulgar 
herd of their fol lower?!. They canted about ' our holy reli* 
gion, especially when they conceived that they had found some 



IK 



€M^ atid Rerelaii 



071, 



telling weapon agninat it Voltaire writes, in a letter to the 
editors of the first edition of liis works; — 

* A I'egnrd dc qnelqiies t'crits phis scricux, tout ce que j'ai a 

* vous dire, c^e^t que je suis i\^ Fraii^uls et CathoHqye; et c'est 

* principalement datis un pave Protestant que je dois vous niar- 

* qtier inon zele pour nion patrie, et nion profood respect pour la 

* religion dans Iiiquclle je suis nt5 et pour ecux qui sont a la tetc 

* de cette religion,' Hume concludes his * Essay on Miracles/ 

* I am the better pleased with the method of reasoning here 

* delivered, as I think it may serve to con found those dangerous 

* friends or tlisguised enemies to the C'hrietian religion, wlio have 

* undertaken to defend it by the principles of human reason. 

* Our most holy religion is founded on Faith, not on reason, 

* and it is a sure method of exposing it to put it to such a trial 
' as it is by no means fitted to endure.' 

Now it is evident tliat a geologist may very easily act in the 
spirit here exposed, who begins his work with a protest of his 
belief in Christianity, and of his being now engaged on a wholly 
different subject j which must be examined, not as a question of 
cosmogony, but as one of pure science; if he afterwards takes 
opportunities to sneer at Cliiistiun doctrines, or at those whose 
writings show that they heartily receive and embrace them as 
uoqiicsticmable truths. And this obliges us to express our deep 
regret that Sir Cliar!c9 Lyell, — we sincerely trust without in- 
tending it, or congsidering the inference to which his words lairly 
expose him, — should in several i>laee» have written in a manner 
which exposes him to the charge of* writing in this very spirit. 
^V^e will give one or two examples out of several which He 
before us. 

' In f\ rude state of societj', all great cfilnmiriea arc rejicftrded by the pcnple 
as jutIlg:mcntM of God njion die wickeJnesa ofiniiri. Thiis^ in our own lime, 
the priests perauiided a large part of the popntation of Chili, a»id, perhapK, 
believed theinsclvc:*, that the fatal cartlujuak(3 of 1822 was a sign of the 
urath of Heaven for ibe pfreat politicul rcvohiuon just then cousun^matttd 
in South America/ — Prificipfeji, p. 10. 

Speaking of llay'a * Essay on Chaos and Creation/ he says:^ — 

' We perceive clearly, from his wriiinfi^s, that the gradual decline of our 
Kystem, and i(s linuro t-"onsumniatiuii hy fire, wuh held to he as recessary 
ail article of Jkith hy the orthodox as was ihe recent oriu^in of oi»r planch 
His discourseat like ihnHv. of HookCj are higldy interesting;, as attesting; the 
ikmiliiir association in the miuds of phihisophera ra the aj^e of Neuton of 
questions nf physics and divinity* It i.s curious to meet with so niRny 
citations from the t'bristinn Fathers and Prophets, in his " Essays on Phy- 
Btcal Science;" to find him, in one page proieediiig^, hy ihe strict rules of 
indnctionj t(j explain the Jormer cliangcs uf the jrlohet and in the next 
gravely entei'tainiiij; the question, whether the yun and t«tJirs, :ind tlie whole 
heavens, shall be nnnihihitcd tt»gether with the earth at the erji. of the grand 
cojjtlngrjitinij/^/*/7>»ri/j/t'*, p. ^U. 



I 
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Oeohgff and Eeukttioru 



237 



TTere Sir Charles Lyell assumos tliat it is tlie error and 
euperstition of a riidc ^tute of society to suppose that * earth- 
quakes and other great cnlaniitics' are * jiidgineiits of God upon 
the wicked nces of men ;' he treats, as a similar weakness, the 
opinion that the world will one day be destroyed by fire, and 
tlie inquiry liow far tliat conflaij^ration will extend. Now, be- 
yond a doubt, these arc questions of pure theo!og3\ If he 
chooses to speak upon ihem at all, he is bound to speak of them 
as a Christian, and ia as mncli open to censure and criticism as 
nny professed theologian. Ilis theology may be good or bad, but 
theology it is ; and it ia not too much to demand, that a pro- 
fessed Christian writing on points of theology, should tell us on 
what religious grounds he rejects conclusions which have ever 
seemed unquestionable to all Ctiristians who have discussed 
them. Docs he mean tliat we have been mistaken in supposing 
these doctrines to be revealed ? If so, let him show it. Does 
he mean, that, though revealed, tliey arc not to be believed? 
We trust not J for in that ease his profession of Christianity 
would but too nmeh rcsemlde the zeal of Hume for our * most 
holy religion.' 

We have enlarged upon this point because we think we see, 
in much of the populai* literature of the day, a tendency to con* 
fuse togetlicr the just and healtliy tone of a scientific inquiry^ 
(we mean that which, assuming earnestly and sincerely the truth 
of Revelation, proceeds upon purely inductive principles of ob- 
servation, as if Kevelation did not exist; confident that truth, 
when really diteovcredj will be found to agree with truth re- 
vealed;) with that other temper, the very worst in which such 
an inquiry can be carried on, which renders to Revelation a 
hoUow and pretended acknowledgment (which, however intended 
as a compliment, is really an insult), — and then proceeds upon 
the real assumption of its falsehood; as if it were something ludi- 
crous that a practical man should really believe its facts to be no 
less certain than the results of the most rigid induction, though 
attained by another metliod of proof. 

Neither arc we by any means convinced tliat the interests 
of religion are safe, because philosophers i>rofe39, above all things, 
to reverence the First Cause, the Deity, the Author of Nature, 
and the like. Our re«ders probably remember that Lord 
Brougham appeals to phrases like these, in the writings of Vol- 
tiiire, for the purpose of proving that lie was not an impious or 
irreligious man, although unfortunately disgusted with Chris- 
tianity, which he knew only under the garb of Popery. We 
would employ the same fact for another purpose: we would beg 
our philosophers not to consider themselves sound Christians 
because they employ, and employ sincerely, expressiona which 



Geid^tp^ and Rfitelatton. 



were eqimlly sincere in tlic month and iroiii tlic pen of Voltaire. 
They can hardly think us uncharitable or bigoted if we require 
something more than this ; in faef, we are but acting upon prin- 
ciples which they would themselves apjily to any other subject- 
matter. IVc are not conlent tliat a Christian sliould think it 
much to acknowletlge and rest in natural theology, because in 
him, tn rest in thiit truth, implies the rejection of n^any trutli? 
more important, more practical, more strongly attested. That 
Cicero or Plato t?hould appeal to the works of nature, and trust 
in their great Author, was indeed a great thing, because their 
doing so was, ai? S, Paul says, *a feeling after Him' who had, 
for a while, siiftered all nations to go in their own ways, and 
had left Himself witli only this imperfect witness. But for him 
who knows ihe true God, the Father of our Lord Je.*ns Christ, 
to content himself with this mesigre theology, is nn ungrateful 
rejection of truth; not a craving after it and reaching toward it; 
it is groping for the wall, and shutting his eyes to the glorious 
light of day* For these cause.'*, we cannot acknowledge such 
passages as the following as any jiroof of the Christianity of the 

writers althouich we do not for a moment mean to deny that 

...» * 

they are sincere Christians, Sir Charles Lyell says of Hutton, 

<|uoting the words of Playfalr: — 

' " Up had always displayed/' snys Plftyfair» *' the utmost disposition to 
admire the beneficent design manitcsttd in the atruclure tif the world, and 
be con lem plated with dehght those parts oT his theory wlitch made the 
^eatcst nadititm to our knovvledj»:e of final causes.'" W<^ may say, with 
equal truth, that in no scientilic works in our language can moro eloquent 
paHsiiges be found, eoncerniiig the fitness, harmony, and grandeur, of all parts 
of the ereatiout than in those of Playfair; they are evidently the analTt'cted 
expresoions of a mind which contemplated the study of nature, as best 
cftlcukted to elevale our conceptions of tbe First Cause/ ^c.—Prificiple*t 
p. 5&, 

Our objection to all this is the same which our author would 
feel to any woi*k which should, in the present day, announce as 
great discoveries, geological tacts which wxKikl have been im- 
portant accessions to knowledge a hundred years ago. There 
was a time J befbi*e (Jod had spoken, when the study of Nature 
was perhaps * best calcidated to elevate our conceptions of the 
First Cau8c.* Is not our author employing conventional 
language, tlie meaning of which he does not realize, when he 
says it is so now ? Dues he really mean that the physical 
works of God are higher, nobler, or more glorious than His 
moral and spiritual works ; — that the strata of our hills have 
a tendency to elevate a Christian mind higher than the word 
and the works of Hiui who has brought for us life and im- 
mortality to light through His Gospel ? We trust, nay, we 
flincerely believe, he cannot mean what he says. It i." an idle 



I 



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Geology and Reteluiion. 



339 



fashion wliidi the miserable stutly of evidences and natural 
theology, and the like poor fare, which was of late so jiopiilar 
among us, haa introduced; and which custom, we trusty now 
keeps up among men who really mean better ; eke the 
pai?8age we have quoted would really amount to a denial by im- 
.plication, of aU that ia really great, noble, and gtirring in God'a 
"lievclation of Himself through His Son ; if, after all, we may 
say, that He has been born, and lived, and died, among us, and 
men have seen God manifest in the flesh, and ' have Been with 

* their eyes, and have looked upon, and their hands have handled, 

* the Word of Life ; for the life was manifested, and we have 
|-* seen it, and heur witness, and sliow unto you that eternal life, 

* which waa with the Father, and was manifested unto us;* and 
jet that still, after all thie, it i.s true as it was befure, that it id 
the study of nature which elevates man most near to God ; and 
that the rocks of the earth reveal Him more fully, more nobly, 
with more transforming power, than His incarnate Word, 
Surely, * if these j^hould htdd iheir peace, the very stones would 
inmiediately cry out.' Inanimate nature herself will witness to 
her Lord, if man, to whom He has spoken, will not hear and 
love Hts voice; yet it ia only because these hold their peace- — 
not because the stones speak of Him more clearly or more 
nobly than His revealed Word, but because He will not be left 
without meaner witnesses, when they who should be His wit- 
nesses refuse the task which is their true glory* 

W^ith what indignation must wc suppose that glorioua Apostle 
would have reatl words like these i'rom the pen of a Christian, 
who cried, * God furlnd that I sht^uld gloiy save in the Cross of 
our Lord Jesus Christ f and again, * We all with open face he- 

* holding as in a glass the glory of the Lord, are changed after 

* the same image from gk>ry to gloiy, as by the Spirit of the 

* Lord I' Yes \ it is the Word made flesh that is alone the true 
elevator of mankind. 

In these remarkiji, be it remembered, we are not by any means 
demanding that philosophers shall intermingle religious with 
ecientific subjects. We think they had better usually be kept 
separate. All wc require is, that if Christian philosophers 
choose to theologize at all, they should theologize as Christians, 
and not merge the Christian in the natural philoso[)hcr, when 
speaking upon theological subjects. Neither do wc think of 
denying that the Christian may and will make a religious use of 
the works of nature. Of course he wilL But he will not come 
to them aa one ignorant^ to be instructed in the great First 
Cause, as he might and would have done had God ne%'er spoken. 
On the contrary, he will go to them in the spirit of one who 
knows God already, Jind turns to His works, not for proofs of 



240 



GeolcH^y and RetdQtlm, 



Ilia power and wisdom and love, but for perpetual instanoai 
ftnd memomls of that love, wisdom and power, which be knowi 
atrcafl}% not in His works hut in Himself. He adores jo them 
the God whom lie alrciidy knowe, insteswl of seekinfj in them for 
proofts of One whom he knows not. He receives them as gifts, 
not from an unknown benefactor, whose jroodness he infers from 
them, but endeared to him even beyond their intrinsic value 
because be knows them to be llie works and the gifts of Hira 
who has loved him and given Himself for him. The one 
temper woukl be but a deifying of the works of nature, the 
other is to see and worship the true God in His w^orks. The 
one is the religion of Nature, the other the faith of Cbrist 
Thus it is that the Christian contemplates nature : — 

' Mis arc the inounluiiis, And the valleys his, 
Audi ihe resplendcut rivers ; hia to enjoy 
With ft propriety that none can feel, 
But who, witli filial confidence inspired, 
Cnii lilt to heaven nii iinpreaiimpLiious eye, 
And smihng say. My Fatjikr made tliem nil! 



' Acquaint ihyself with God if than would^st taste 
His worka. Admitted once to W'm emhrnce 
Thou shalt perceive that thou wast blind before ; 
Thine eye shall be inslrucled, And Ihinc heart 
Made pure, aliJill relish with Divine delight 
l"ill then iinfett, what hands Divine have wrought.' 

Neither will we deny (hat he who brings with him this tem- 
per to the worka of (iod will draw conclnaions with some degree 
of diftidencc as to the mctliod of their creation* He remembers 
that he is scanning the works of Ilim whose * judgments are 
nnsearchalile and His way a past finding out C Bnd he applies to 
bimself the reproof of God to the Patriarch : * Where wast 

* thou when 1 laid the foundations of the earth? dcclarcj if thou 

* hast nnderst^inding. Who hath laid the mea^sures thereof", if 

* thou kuoweat ? or ivho hath stretched the line upon it ? 

* Whereupon are the foundations thereof fastened ? or who laid 
'the corner-stone thereof; when the morning stars sang 

* together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?' In this 
spirit be will not indeed abstain from a careful and rigid analysis 
of nature, nor from logical induction from its phenomena ; but 
he may, perhaps, sin-ink from deciding that it is only in thia 
manner, or only in that nninner, that it can have been iramed. 
To exemplify our meaning: — the moilern geologists, as we have 
already said, assume that all the existing rocks of which we 
have cognizance, (wlietbcr stratified as deposits from water, or 
massy as the results of fusion,) have gradually been formed in 
the course of successive ages by the operation of the same 



4 



Gedop^ and J^erelatton. 



241 



causes which are now at work upon the globe, and that simi lar 
results are at this moment be'mj? produced by the action of the 
same causes; thus they entirely reject the hypothesis of any 
gudden and violent changes formerly taking place in some chao- 
tic Etate of our earth, wholly dissiroilur to any which are now 
going on around u8. But they are ibrced to assume that thia 
material globe has existed and been inhabited for a period 
of time which it almost perplexes the human mind to contem- 
plate. The period indeed of man's residence upon earth would 
be sufficiently proved to be con)paratlvely very i^liort (apart from 
Revelation) by the mere geological records of the earth. But 
that it must have been replete with vegetable and animal life, 
not merely for centuries, but thousandg, and more probably even 
millions, of years before the creation of Adam, seems certain, if 
the existing rocks were formed by a processs exactly eimilar to 
those which are in progress around us. Fully convinced of this, 
we do not hesitate to admit that Christian geohsgista are jus^tified 
in esaniining the physical records of the eaiih, as if unqucistion- 
abJy the result of existing causes acting fur a period of years 
almost countless. It is the work of theologians to adjust what- 
ever may re:dly be discovered with existing systems of belief, to 
show whether in any point the popular opinion has too hastily 
assumed, as the true meaning of Scripture, facts, which are not 
indeed rec("rded there; or if not, to show in what other way the 
face of the world and the words of God may be shown to be, as 
when rightly understood they must of necessity be, perfectly 
hartnoniotis. And this has already been done in a great measure. 
There is much that is very valuable upon this subject in Mr. 
Gray's little work, especially in the thiixl chapterj on * The har- 
mony between the Word m\d Worke of God, in relation to I he 
Earth's Antiquity/ Mueli had been done before, as lor instance 
by Bishop Wiseman, in his *- Lectures on the Connexion between 
i^cience and lievealed Religion,' and in some valuable remarks in 
a note supplied by Dr, Puaey to Dean Buck land's * Briclgewater 
Treatise.' Dr, Pusey shows that the creation of the world out 
of nothing, at an indefinite period before the creation of man, 
(although inconsistent no doubt with the usual opinion of 
Christians as derived from the book of Genesis before geological 
facts were investigated,) is yet so far from being contrary to the 
words of that Divine Kecord^ that great authorities go understood 
them long before geology was studied. He says, * The time 

* of the creation, in verse 1, appears to me not to be defined; 
' we are told only what alone wc are concerned with, that all 
' things were made by God. Nor is this any new opinion. Many 

* of the Fathers (they are quoted by Petavius, lib.c. cap,ii, s. 1 — 

* 8,) supposed the first two verses of Geneais to contain an account 

NO. LXV.— K.8. R 



24S 



Geology and Retelatlmi. 



I 



* of a distinct and prior act of creation ; some, as S, Augus- 

* tine, TheodorcL and otliers, that of the tTcation of matter; 
' others tliat of the elements . , * . Accordingly, in some 

* old eJitioii8 of the Etif(li^h Bible, where there i.s no division 
' into vers^es, you at'tually find a break at the end of what ia 

* now the second vcr^e; and in Luther'ij Bible, (Wittenburg, 

* 1557,) you have in adilitiuu the figure 1, placed against the 
' third verse, as being the beffinning of the account of the 

* creation on the first day. Thi.s then is just the sort of confirma- 
' tion which one wished for, because, though one would shrink 
' from the impiety of bending the language of God's book to 

* any other thnn \U obvious meaning, we cannot help fearing 
' lest we might be unconsciously influenced by tiie floating 

* opinions of our own day, and tiierefore turn the more anxiously 

* to those who explained Holy Scripture before those theories 

* existed,' 

III a siziiilar manner may be explained (what seems the most 
startling ditficulry) the creation of the sun on the fourth day 
of the Mosaic creation, while it appears as if the world had ex- 
isted for countlcds ages betbre that last work of God, under con- 
ditions simihir to tiujse in which it now is. It is shown by 
Bishop Wiseman, that ' S. Basil, S. CiEsarius, and Origen, 
' account for the creation of light prior to that of the sun, by 
'supposing l\\H luminary to have indeed before existed; yet so 

* that its rays were prevented by the dense chaotic atmosphere 

* from penetrating. This was, on tlie first day, so far ranfied 

* as to allow the transmission of the sun's rays, though not the 
' discenimeut of its disk, which was fully dis[tlayed on the 

* third day.' 

Another difficulty had loner atro been observed— the dietribu- 
tion of animals as well as plants over the globe. Men have 
often inferred that all were created in one district; and, mora 
naturally, thnt after the flood of Xoah, no auimal life remainedi 
upon the world except that preserved in the ark ; and, that, 
from this renmant, all creatures now existing on earth had their 
origin. This at once suggested the question, how animals, 
and in many cases noxious animals whom man would not trans- 
port, were carried fnnn the centre of Asia to distant islands ; 
and how it ca.me, that many of them are found only in those 
distant lands? Thus, for example, all the quadrupeds of the 
great Australian continent, about forty in number, are pecuHaTj 
to it. This seems to negative the idea that they have sprung from 
individuals preserved in the ark and casmiUy transijlautcd across 
the sea; for, had this been the case, it would be miraculous 
that none of thcni should have left any of their race, in any of 
the countries through which they must have passedj and which 



I 



and UifveiattuH, 



243 



^ 



are well adapted far their increase. The same remark applied 
to the American continent, and to many distant ii^lands. This 
difticulty was obr^crved by 8. Augustincj who inquires, whe- 
ther God, by the ministry of angel:-, may have tr:inspDrtcd 
them across the sea after the flood? It now appears tliat the 
fossil remaina of Anstrulia, for example, are eliiiracterised with 
the same peculiarities Mdiich are f<njnd ako in it^ recent animal 
races. This geema to indicate, tliat the Almighty planted the 
creatures which it was Ilia pleasure should inhuhit different 
lands in those lands at their first creation^ that Auiitralia* for 
instance, has been occupied by mar^npial animals^, not merely 
since the Hood, but for ages before, Difficuhies like these will 
be adjusted by degrees; whctlier the judgment of divines may 
finally acquiesce in the opinion, that the universality of the 
deluge consisted, not in its covering the whole face of the 
globe, and sweeping away all wild animals; hut rather in the 
entire destruction of the race of man, (which is a point of 
religious belief, attested by the clear wurds of Scripture, aad by 
the tratlitions of all nations,^) and the animals de[>endent upon 
him, and all his works ; or, whether they may decide, that alter 
the cartli had been swept by the flood, it pleased God to 
replenish it by creating anew in each land, as at first, creatures 
eimilar to those which had before occupied it In either caae, 
we arc of opinion, that as it is nowhere declared in Scripture 
that all animals now existing are descended from those pre- 
Berved in the ark, so, on the other hand, that opinion, natural 
AB it is, will not be found consistent with f^icts. 

From what we have said, it will be plain to our readers that 
we are far from regarding the modern systems of geology, ftjunded 
as they are upon observation and indueiion apart from any 
consideration of Seriptnre, as in any degree ineonsistont with 
the iiacta iherc rtcorded. On the contrary, we are convinced 
that a sincere and earnest believer may consistently admit the 
conclusions of the geologists, which are in the main these: that 
the world baa existed in substantially its actual state for count- 
less ages l>efore the creation of man, — that -the existing rocks* 
which meet our eyes in all known Cimntries have been gradually 
formed, and have assumed their present shape and cliarficter, 
while the earth has been enlightened by the sun as it now is, 
divided as now into sea and land, rivers and hikes, plains and 
naountains,— that during these ages tlie climate of diflerent parts 
of the earth, as for instance of that which we inliabit, ha^s been 



* Thb U shown by BUhop WUemaa iu a very interesting manner in Ma 
* Tjcctures,' 

* The term rock, as used by gtjologists. h teohntcal. and Big^uifi(M? not merely 
miisfcs of hard Rtone, but any mass of mineral wnUer, clialk, day, s?iind, itc. 

R 2 



24 1 



{hokffff and Mtteiaikm, 



greatly modified, at different periods, by changes in the propor- 
tion and situation of land and sea, the growth and clearing away. 
of forests and the like,^ — tliat since the creation of man the saniej 
causea have continued to operate and to produce similar effects, 
so that there are, no doubt, many rocks now existing, (though 
they may be chiefly hidden in the bed of the ocean,) part of 
wliich was formed before men were created, while part exactly! 
eiiiiilar has gradually accumulated 8ince-=but that the peritidl 
&ince the creation of man is so small compared with tlinse whichj 
elapsed before, that the geological results of that period are as' 
yet scarcely appreciable, aa compared with the vast monuments 
existing in actual mountains, valleys, minesj and the like, of 
changes wdiich took place before the first man tenanted the^ 
globe, — in particular, that we cannot decide with certainty that 
any existing remains which have yet been examined arc the 
results of Isoali's flf)od, and that there are in most countries 
many races of animak which do not appear to have sprung from 
those preserved in the ark* Of these couclujjions, indeed, somo^ 
are startling at first sight, and differ from those suggested by 
the first view of the Scripture narrative; yet we think that 
even these are by no means inconsistent with the real meaning 
of that sacred history, and that a fair and candid mind will not 
feel itself obliged to censure those who maintain them aa sub- 
verting the truths of Kevelution. 

Yet fully admitting all this, and that the views entertained by 
modern geologists may he actually correct, we still cannot but 
feel that our author and his compeers exaggerate their certainty. 
Take wdiat view you please of the formation of existing strata, 
allow for it what time you please ; but at last we are met 
by that one stupendous fact, however distant, the point at 
which matter and spirit come into contact, the great won- 
der and mystery of this visible world, the fact of creation", 
* In the beginning God created the heavens and tfie earth/' 
This is a certain theological truth revealed by God Himself, and 
wliich (even when unrevealed) reason itself showed to men of 
higher souls. Indeed, is it as evident to reason as to faith ? 
For all life upon this globe has its beginning no less tlian its 
end ; and it ia almost a contradiction in terms to say that 
a series has lasted for ever without any commencement, every 
individual of which had a beginning. One uncreated cause, 
without beginning, is indeed beyond our conception or under- 
standing, but euch a eeries as this would be contrary to our 
reason. Moreover, the fact of creation is witnessed even by the 
organic remains, which geology brings to our notice ; for no fact 
ia more certain, than that many species of animals have come 
'nto exiateoce within geological periodis : and of course (unlesa 



Geology and Rectlaticn, 



245 



¥ 



I 



¥ 



I 
I 



philosopbera are disposed to return to the ' fortuitous concurrence 
of atoms'), this can only be referred to an tict of creation. Now, 
who shall undertake to sny in what state God would create any 
of the works of His hand. Who is sufficient for such a specula- 
tion? This is that ultimate difficuUj which remaina behind 
every creological theory, however complete. 

Sir Charles Lyell states at the end of his book, in language 
which wc think might well be more positive, the argument from 
analogy as he accounts it, agalnt^t the existence of the present 
order of things from everlasting; but if it ever had a beginning, 
if there ever was a period, however remote, at which animal and 
vegetable life first commenced upon this earth, (and that such a 
period there was, we are aseurcd by reason no less certainly 
tiian by faith,) then at that period we are met by the act of 
creation^ by the Divine agent and the creature of His lumd. 
Now, what human intellect shall presume to conjecture what the 
state of this world wa8 a6 it came thus from the hand of the 
Creator, and before any changes liad been wrought in it by the 
course of iiges— the formation of new Btrata — the embedding of 
organic remains? Far be it from us to answer: yet one sug- 
gestion may be offered. The only approach towards even a 
probable solution, must be made, not upon princijjles of a priori 
probability — not by asserting what God nnist needs have done, 
(in all cases a perilous course,} but by analogy — by inquiring 
what it has pleased Him to do in other instances. For though 
this is no demonstration that He will do the same in every 
case, yet, inasmuch as * lie is not the God of confusion, but of 
order,* it is a jiresumption of a high oitlcr. Now, the only 
analogy we can consult, is the case of the creation of the exist- 
ing state of tilings as recorded iu the book of Genesis. We find 
there that He created both Adaui and Eve in a state of perfec- 
tion ; it has generally been supposed euch as they would have been 
after twenty or thirty years' life upon earth ; not, indeed, such 
as their children since tlie fall have been ai'ter so many years, 
but such as they would have been, had they been born sinless 
and without intirmity, into a sinless world, and had then gradu- 
ally advanced to strength and perfection. Certainly, in neither 
of tlicm was there any lengthened period of infancy and youth. 
The same seems to have been the case with 'every beast of the 
field,' created for their use, and put under their subjeclion. They 
were created such as their progeny w^ould gradually become in tho 
process of time. Itloreover, the same rule seems to have olitained 
ill the creation of the trees of the field, for He created * every 
plant of the field before it wns iti the earth, and every herb of 
the field before it grew.' It seems then, that tho?e things which 
were called into existence with and for the use of man, as wtU 
as man bimeelf, wcro brought at once by the creative will of 



240 



Geolofjf/ and Revelaimn 



God, to that state of perfection which it would have taken a 
lapse of ycnr.^ to produce in the usual course of growth* If, d 
then, any phUosopher hud stood aiuong the works thus produced, ^ 
l)tit a few years after their creation, what mu^t have heen the 
effect produced upon hitn I He would liave seen around him 
ohjcct.-* which bore no witness of any sudden change or violent 
con\ulctlon, which spoke of nothing hut silent grailual growth 
and iimturity, but wliieli must liave required numy year^ to 
bring them to their existing state. The whole world that 
eurrounded him wouhl bear witness to the long -continued 
action of still existing causeB* Nay, there are many of the 
w^orks of nature which bear upon their face a record of the pre- 
cise number of years which has parsed over them. A tree, for 
instance, of the fir tribe, shows this so distinctly, that the phi- 
Inrtnpher could have no difficulty in stating exactly how many 
years it had stood : every successive layer of wood being the 
reer>rd of a year of growth. More than this, if the trees origi- 
nally created "wcrej as the book of Genesis seems plainly to 
declare, such tree^ as have grown since, they were couipoaed of 
wood, the internal rings of which tell each of one year's | 
growth* In like manner, Adam himself, if he was a man such 
as other men, must Iiave borne in the sutures of his skull, and 
in other [nnnts of his anatomical structure, distinct traces of that 
wondrous state of imperfection and infancy, through which it 
was the purpose of God that nil his children should pass Thus 
much seems clearly implied in the history of the book of Genesis, 
the only account, be it remembered, which has been given us of 
any act of creation. If, then, it had been tlie will of God to 
call into existence the material globe at the snme epoch with the I 
creation nf man»what reason have we to 8up[iose that He would 
niit adopt in this instance the same course which we are told He 
adopts in the other acts of creation at the same tinie ? And, if He 
did, would not the world be created at once in the state to which it 
would have been brought by the action, for a course of ages, of 
the same principles, and the continuance of the same clianges 
which since the creation have been passing upon it? Thus we 
infer, that analogy, (the only argument, as far as we can see, 
which bears at all upon the sulyect,) suggests the belief, that if 
it had been the will of God to call at once into existence a globe 
for tlic habitation of men. He would probal)ly have created such 
an one as we actually find this to be, namely, one which to all 
outward appearance liiul gradually come to its state of perfec- 
tion through the continued action of natural causes for many 
years. Now, the only reiison for supposing that the Avorld was 
not created iuimedialely l»etbre the creation of man, is, that it 
has this appearance \ the analogy, therefore, which we ha^e 
pointed out, if it be just, altogether removes every reason which 



Gmlogij and Revelathih 



247 



niiolit have had for 



believing 



til at it is in fact more 



ancient. 

One objection we have Iieard to this yiew, namely, that it 
woiiW be inconsistent with the Divine truth thus to create at 
once objects (as organic remains) wliicb, to all appcariince, were 
the gradual result of many yearB, aud of the life and death 
of uumeroug animals. This objection, however, i?eem» to us 
obviated by what we have seen of the reoncled history of crea- 
tion. Adam, as be came from the hand of iiis C ret dor, t^pake a;* 
plainly to liuman undcretanding of years already gone over hiiu, 
as any of the fossil remains on tiie rochs upon which be stood. 

Whatever there is of strangeness in this theory at firM sight, 
appears to us to vanish, when we remember who lie is of whose 
works we are reasoning. Not to enter at present into the deep 
and mysterious subject of the action of the Divine will upon 
those creatures whtim God has been pleased to create in Ilia 
own image, giving them a free will and power to choose the 
good or evil — leaving this mystery, which is alien to our present 
f^ubjcct, it is plain that whatever is done in the physical and 
material world, He alone is the doer of it. So reason tells us, 
and Revelation confinus it; assuring us, that God clothes the 
grass of the field and numbers the f^parrows. Let us, then, 
assume the correctness of the prevalent theory of geology, and 
admit that for many ages before the creation of man, this 
world had been inhabited by inferior animals; and during those 
ages had been gradually made fit for his use by the revolutions 
which passed upon it. It is certain, then, that in the mind and 
will of the Creator every one of tliese revolutions, every indivi- 
dual rock and stratum, every animal wbo^e remains now astonish 
us in the ancient strata — all these must have been present from 
the beginning, a^ they were when they existed, or as they are 
Dow: lor to Ilim time is not. No detail could have been other- 
wise than it actually was, without interfering with the perfection 
of His work and His plan. Thus tlien every geologist, who is a 
theist, must admit that the whole course of events in all the ages 
of the geological eras, was present to the will of the Creator, at 
the moiiicnt of creation ; and afterwanls gradually developed one 
after the other in the course of ages. The only difference then 
between this view and that of the creation of the world as 
it was when man first entered it, is a question of time— of the 
time in which God would produce a certain work.; a question, 
that is, of time with regard to Him who does not exist in time — 
to whom time is not. Will any wise man venture to say, that it 
might not be His will,— that it may not have been the very idea 
of creation to compress into a moment (to employ Inmiau lan- 
guage, which cannot really apply to Him) that course of events. 
tliat succession of cause and elFect, which He saw to be requisite 



248 



Gmlogij and Retehtion* 



for proJucin^ such a world as it was Ills pleasure to create? 
Before any man undertakes to decide time, let him consider how 
entire is our ignorance of the nature and process of creation, 
(ttd Dr. Pusey observes in another part of the note from which 
we have already made an extract,) how entirely ignorant we are 
even of the more kindred cventa which most intimately touch 
each of us indlvidiuilly. We know not how God acted in the 
creation of our own individual souls ; how He framed our bodies, 
^ secretly, beneath in the earth; ' how the jiowers of our souls 
grow, not to mention the body ; what birth is, and what death, 
Above all, we are absolutely ignorant of the very nature of thm; 
and know only, a^ is shown in a well-known paper of the 
* Spectator,' that even to men in our present state i)f being the 
eame period may vary almost indefinitely. 

These cousiderationd do not appear to us calculated to dimi- 
nish, but, on the contrary, greatly to augment, the interest of 
geological inciuiries In the minds of those who arc disposed to 
give them full weight. In examining these phenomena it ia 
certain, that we have before us, presented to our senses, the in- 
strument by which it pleased God to [jreparc this His world 
fur the inhabitation of man and for the hutuiliation and incarna- 
tion of Plis Only- Begotten. All tilings indeed come from Him, 
and bear the impress of His hand, and therefore, unquestionably, 
these among otiiers. In any case, the geologist is analyzing the 
course of events by which it was His pleasure to prepare the 
theatre of this great event. He is tracing back to the best uf 
his feeble powers the succession of event and cause which existed 
in the will of the Creator from the beginning. This \% certain ; 
yet to our imagination at least, and we think to our reason aleo, 
it would invest it with a fresh and deeper interest, and the ob- 
jects which we contemplate would appear to come more directly 
from the hand of the Creatorj if it wa^ indeed the case that they 
were all called into existence in the moment of creation by Hi« 
Alniij^hty Word; in the same manner aa we should look with 
greater interest upon a tree, an herb, or an animal which we koew 
to have been created, than upon one which was indeed equally 
the work of the Creator's hand, only by the instrumentality of 
the usual powers of Nature. Thus, we think tliat the Christian 
geologist, while he will not condemn the prevaiMng opinion of 
philosophers as irreligious, will not for liis own part find the 
subject less, but rather more, interesting should he be inclined to 
think that in a subject beyond the reach of human intellect the 
balance of probability may be rather ia favour of the actual 
creation of this world, including all its strata, and all their 
organized contents, both animal and vegetable, nearly in the state 
in which we see it, and at a period little preceding the creatioa 
of man. 



249 



NOTICES. 



I 



Tmr depArtmeut of our laboura which 19 in many respects the most 
unsatiafactory to ourselvesf, is that of noi icing the quarterly massea of 
well-intentioned and generally wcII-principlcd ' little books ' which are 
now-a-duys published. We have so often — ^and hitherto s(j ineffectually^ 
rechiLmed againat these numbcra numberless of ' Children's Books/ arul 
* School Prizes/ and ' Religious Tales/ that we abandon the task, or duty. 
The whole world is against us : men of the highest acquirementB — l&dies 
yoiUTg and old^ — doctors and senior fellows— ^publisher aud printer — ^pro- 
bably six out of every ten of our readers— all write or are interested 
in writing good little books, or at least what are meant for good; and 
we are expected to praise all this. We respectively are Church-pub- 
lishers, Chnrch-printcrs, Church -writers, Church-rhymeaters, Church-essiay- 
ists, Church-pamphleteerSf Chiirch-tract-mditers : we have a right, each 
and all, to have our little works praiiicd in a Church review : the mere fact 
that we are all w orking on the same side, and for the same enda, as the 
Christian Kemembrancer, establishes onr claims to a favourable notice. 
This is really the languaj2:e addressed to ua : and as it is so, we can but in 
all humility, howev^er sad, submit to what seems inevitable. We cJemur to 
the claim. We have duties towards English literature, as well as to friendly 
partialities. The * little volumes of nonsense/ of which Sidney Smith 
spoke, are so many, and of late bo very nonsenBical, thateven the proverbial 
patience of our much-enduring craft ihils us. We do not desire to hurt the 
feelin'^3 of well-meaning people: so, without specifying or naming a single 
publication of tiie class to which we allude, we simply state that, in our 
judgment, of its twenty-one rcpreaentativ^ea which this quarter has brought 
before us, in all its varieties of the small blue and red feuiUeions^ manuals 
catechetical and aemi-catechetical, tales illustrative of this or that office, or 
this or that portion of truth, reward-books and atory-booka, tracts and fictions, 
allegories and verses, (and we have rej^lly read them ail,) there is not one 
above the average — moat of Ihem far below it, even taking that at a very 
low pitch. If people would but remember that if they have nothing to say, 
it is far more prudent to be silent ; and that, on the whole, reading is a far 
more healthful occupation than writing \ among other useful ends which thia 
abstinence would compass, stands foremost that of saving money, which 
is at present wasted either by themselves, their publishers, or their pur- 
chasers. The market is stocked and over-stocked. One of the most sen* 
sible ordinances of a certain period of ecclesiastical history was that which 
stopped preacliiug for a whole twelvemonth. We will offer no opinion of 
the expediency of its literal revival among ourselves : to the advantages of 
its apidieation to check iho rank luxuriant under-growth of 'good books,' 
perhaps the booksellers tbemsclveH can bear the most practical testimony. 



250 



Koti'ces. 



One iUustnition we are not sufficicnlly RscelLc to suppress : frcim a verse- 
book for the use of scbools we extract : — 

My (ionkcy, I ivould love him bo, * I'd feed him well, atirf «peak blm kind, 

I know tbat 1 could make him go For that's the way to make him imad j 

Witboui ike Jear of blow or kick, And ly hiji aide I'd trudge alung, 

Not eireo of a hazel stick. Aod sitig a little donkey song/ 

We can quite assure the writer that he haa riiiaappUed his moods and 
tensc!^ : any form of the couditionnl is out of place. He has already sung 
* a little donkey uong.' 

* Adelaide's Gift; or, New Year's Day, by Misa M'Anslane,' (Ediu- 
burpfh, Grants, 1848,) is, however, a small collection of tales satisfactorily 
Blrutig^ together. The spirit is good, the refert^nce to sacred considerations 
just iTbal is right and needful in nny book aimiing at morality and designed 
for the young, and not too much for one which does not profess to be 
theological; and the last story indicates really considerable inventive and 
constructive power. We mention the book as something above the 
average. 

The same may be said of the * Shejilicrds of Bethlehem.* (Masters.) 

* Baptism : its Nature, Efilcacy, Src., by Mr, Maxwell Nicholson, of 
Pencaitland.' (Paton & Ritchie.) * The Holy Eucharist: its Nature and 
Laws, ike, by Mr. John Marsliall, of Burnside/ (Patun and Rilchie,) It is 
by tio accident that these two pamphlets are bracketed ; they arc in every 
Bcnse antis trophic. They are curious illustrations of the TrHn.s-Tuedine 
religions tendencies. The same publishers send its by the same post a 
correlative antagonism in controversy. The two chief sacraments are 
illustrated by a happy and unhappy detlection from their own principles of 
two Cbriatian teachers. Mr. Nicholson ib a Presbyterian preach en whose 
views of BaptiBm are nearly as deep as those of the C:itholic Church. 
Mr. Mariihall, a Scotch priest, degrades the other sacrament into a mere 
Puritau commemoration. It were, on the one hand, a^ unreasonable to 
expect, as on the other it were uufaithfal to believe, that either writer 
represented more than an exception in their respective connnunions. 
Mr. Nichulson's tone is as warm and able as Mr. Marshairs is cold and 
common-place. The latter reflects upon the important question, opened 
by Mr, Palmer (of Magdalene) on • j^/ws/t-^ ami non-pasxite communion.' 

Chancellor llarriugton has printed a Postscript to his searchiug pamphlet 
against Macaulay's History of England. (Ri\ingtoaa.) On this branch of 
the subjecS; the case is complete. But perhaps, ou the whole, the most 
damaging ass;mlt yet made on the most readable and amusiug historian of 
this or any other day, is Mr. Churchill Babington^s * Macauhiy's Character 
of the Clergy considered/ Apart from its triumphant euncluHion, Mr. Ba- 
bington's Essay ia a very finished piece of criticism: it is as minute and 
exact fi3 one of Croker's attacks^ without that writer's captious littleness of 
thought and style, Mr. Babington knows what Jf r. Macaulay — we will 
hope — did not know, the moral value of the authorities he cites. • The 
young Levite filling himself with corned beef and carrots,* is just the 
tfort of phrase never to be forgotten. Mr. Macaulay's strength lies in 
hii* brilliancy. Unfortunately for his credit^ however, his malice getting 



Notice** 



251 



the better ol his drscTctkin, he produces for fact what at the best was 
iiicHTut for banter : and when Aristopbanen happens to be accepted as 
on historica] authority for the character of Socrates, or when Captain 
Leniael GulJiver supersedes U'Anvillc, then Mr. Macaulay may aspire to 
the historian's sober robe — but not till then. Mr. Babingtnti*8 last chap- 
ter proves that Macaulay's Tt^nj Parson and Tory Squire are taken, 
feature by feature, in aio uuack do pledged but most direct plagiarism, 
from conicoiporaneous sketches, in a pamphlet entitled *The character of a 
Whig under several denominations.:' we can acqutesce in the present 
writer's caotioua seventy : * It was a bold and perhaps not very politic 

* stroke of Mr. Macaulay to take the above dtiscriptionj reproduce it mufaih 

* mntandijt^ and apply it to the Tory Clerr^y, And all this* not in an avowed 

* work of fiction, but in a professed History of England. Some may cou- 

* sider the fraud pious ; all mudt confess its conception facetioua : but his 
joke, once discovered, is at the expense of tbe author and his history.'— 

P. ilO. 

Two pamphlets on Baptism, of which the writerti respectively seem 
alive to the unhappy state in which the particular question rests, are 
before us, ' Baptism mia understood, the great trouble of tbe Church, 
by Mr. Alfred Gatty,' (Bell,) and * Discourse on Baptism, by Mr. Richard 
HibbSj* (Hamilton^ Adams and Co.) The former, while cautious, i^ earnest 
und sound ; the latter, while^ we have no rea-ioji to doubt, equally 
earnest, in quite unsound, Mr. Gatty pleads; Mr, Hihbs decides. He 
tella us, which will surprise most, ' that during ibe eighteen centuriea 
of the Church's continuance, either no consistent view of Christian 
baptism has been elicited, or that his own xiew is least of all known 
or received:' this view being only the very ordinary 'charitable as- 
sumption' one, Mr, Hibbs complacently assttres his Church of England 
hearers, that to deny infant baptism altogether is much better than 
to believe in baptismal regeneration: the latter 'is far more' {p. 22) dan- 
gerous. We have not heard that Mr. Uibbs has been censured: being 
n Suffolk curate, it were hn.rd to expect it. But what we fear is any thing 
like ihe growth of a disposition to accept this state of things as normal : 
not only to admit the fact, that our Church, by its living authorities, does 
permit contradictory teaching, but to acquiesce in it; in other words, to 
Bay that a Church even on fundamcntuls need hold no doctrine. 

The two metropolitan Archdeacons have published their recent Charges, 
(Rivingtons.) To Archdeacon Hale we are thankful for a manly and 
intelligible protest against the incestuous Marriages Bili and the (so-called) 
Clergy Relief Dill. Archdeacon Males language is eminently plain and 
satisfactory: one can always tell his meaning; and though we do not 
perhaps meet with very high language, or very expansive principles, there 
is a wholesome English, common-sense, practical character about nil that 
be says. We detect a contrast between the bliintnefis of London and the 
feunvity of Middlesex: suited, vrc suppose, to the more deUcatc and coarser 
fibre of their respective conatituencica. The allusions to * lowering 
irretrievably the social position of the whole clerical body,' (p, fi3^) and 
to * the young men of birth and properly who are induced fo enter into hofi/ 



252 



Notices* 



orders,' (ibid.) and to the courtly fact of * almost every family of any eon- 
tequence in the kingdom having ties of kiodred or affinity connecting 
it with the Church,' {ibid,) had, we had hoped, become obsolete in archi- 
diaconal Chargea. Wc should have been glad, moreover, to have seen some 
allusion to the Marriage Bill, and leas approval of the Management 
Clauses. 

* Remarks upon the Record Newspaper, A-c, by an Incumbent of the Die 
cese of London.* (Thomson.) If this I<ondon Incumbent had contined hii 
'•elfto his appointed task of exposing the 'malignancy, profanity, falsehood, J 
inconsistency, evil speaking and e%il thinking, selfishness, ignorance, andi 
narrow-mindedneas,' (p. 23) — to use his own words— of the newspaper with., 
which he finds fault* it would have been little concern of ours. We should sim- 
ply have sympathised with the excellent intentions of such a writer, as well 
AS with hia deplorable, however amiable, ignorance in attempUng to improve 
in a quarter alike incapable of appreciating argument, principle, common 
sense, or common decency. But the London Incumbent is an Arnoldite; 
and, true to liis party, runs a-muck against all the self-called religious 
journals and religious criticism of the day. Aa in Archdeacon Hare'a 
various worka^ those who will not ' speak of the ** Victory c»f Faith " and 
** Mission of the Comlbrter " as the grandest expoaitions of the ti^o central 
veritien of Evangelical truth which our English literature contaiuy,' (p. 10) 
— those who begin to doubt the propriety of n Theological professor tell ijig 
us 'that the popular Eiiglisb religious systems cannot last,' (one at least 
of those popular systems simply claiming to be that of Christianity before 
ita corniption) — all such persons, if they happen tu express their opinions, 
current opinions meant to meet current errors, are denoimced by Air. Hare 
and his many friends as 'bravoea of orthodoxy,*— as * hired and anonymous 
scribes,' whose 'favourite employment is to blacken and traduce,*— as ' Ingo,' 
and possessed of a 'hoof,' — as * link boys,' or what not. Of course we have 
a word to say about all this. Dr. Arnold himself was either proprietor or 
editor of, or a constant contributor to, a newspaper : he was a re vie wr writer; 
nay, he wrote, aa everybody knows, the most virulent 'blackening and 
traducing' and personal article which ever brought disgrace upon any 
review ; so that IJt. Arnold's friends and w^orshippers will have some diffi- 
culiy in showing, at least from the example of * that true and righteous 
man of God, Dr. Arnold himself,' (p. 8,) that in themselves religious reviews 
and periodicals are unlawrul. They will have greater difhciilty in showing 
that * falsehood and inconsistency, ignorance and narrow-mindedness, self- 
ishness and suspiciousness, ' are iuseparnble from periodical writing in 
^period icals. And while it is not for us to say what reviews are, or can do, 
the world has not yet learnt from the tone which replies to criticism in 
^certain quarters have taken that no disturbance of temper can force its 
entrance into the serene temples of the wisdom of Hurstmonceux, or the 
academic calm of King's College. 

Mr. E. V. Vangban, of Wraxall, has addressed a very important 'Letter 
to Mr. Miles,' (Nisbet,) on one particular part of the practical working of 
the Minutes of Council on Education. We do not know whether thia letter 
baa attracted attention — ^it fully deserves it, Mr. Vaughan shows what is 



I 



Noti'cra. 



253 



^ 
^ 



^ 



actually at vfotk ; ^liat a miserable class, the rou^h material of 'dangerous 
classes,' as dangerous aa those of Paris itsnlf, the present system of 
Govcrnmtnt inspection is actually brhig:iiig: up ; and yet more, how, in 
cases quoted and produced, the State iu&pector seta aside pupil teachers, 
against tbe deliberate judgement of the parish priest as to their moral and 
religions acquirementa and general aptitude in teaching and docility, and 
against bis testimony of their twelvemonth's daily diligence and proficiency, 
only on hm own dislike to a provincial accent in a nervous child during^ a 
quarter of an hour's viva voce exHrnination by a stranger. The fact is — and 
the sooner the Clergy learn it, the better — that the Government grant and 
the system of pupil tenchers and salaried monitors have already turned our 
parish schools info a very plain instalment of the Prussian Staats-system, 
It is not a contingent danger ; it is a fact daily at work. We are not 
alarmists, but the classes who at this moment have overturned all the 
authority and faith of Europe have been educated exactly and precisely 
upon the principles of which the paid monitors, and pupil teachers, and 
CJovemment certificates, and Her Majesty's ioBpectors, are the actual 
exponents. 

Mr. Cosserat has printed a ' Letter to the Bishop of Exeter,* (WalUa,) on 
the necessity of catechiising. It is judicious and useful. 

There is, to those disposed properly to use it, some important information 
in Mr. C. il. Cottrell'a 'Religious Movements of Germany,' (Petheram,)^- 
thftt is to say, Mr.Cottreira facts are important. For himself, be only adopts 
tbe swaggering tone of one to whom all religious movements are equally an 
object of contempt. The principles avowed in this pamphlet are hardly 
other than infidel. We gather from it that the result of tbe poUtical con- 
vtilsions of Germany has been, that the so-called orthodox party, as repre- 
sented at least by Krummacber, is now 'using the most conciliatory," indeed 
ralionalidtic, ' lunguage to the very persons whom they have hitherto treated 
AS freethinkers and unbelievers.' (P. lOB.) In other words, & fusion of 
orthodox and pietists, the Friends of Light and tbe Rungeiy.ts, in ' that 
young and renovated Church which is, with its ft-ee institutions, developing 
itself before our eyes," to use Krummacber's own words^ ia all but openly 
recommended by the most respectable of German so-called orthodoxy. 

Mr. C. J. Lyon, of St. Andre w*8, has reprinted from a very promising 
periodical, *The Scottish Magazine,' three admirable 'Letters on the Duke 
of Argyle's recent work/ (Lendrum,) j\lr. Lyon's is a searching and 
closely-argued piece of criticism. 

Mr. J. Lockbart Ross,— one keenly alive to tlic necessity of practical 
reforms* — has addressed some useful * Letters on Diocesan Colleges to (he 
Dean of CbichcPter.' (J. H. Parker,) We are entirely at one with the writer 
AS to the desirableness of a distinct theological curgugf and even of distinct 
theological colleges. But tbe real dillkulty remains, how to make this course 
compulsory on all candidates for orders ; or, which ia only another way of 
stating it, bow to bear an increase on the present enormous expense of clerical 
education. On tbe one band, our existing theological seminaries, planned 
to supersede the expense of Oxford and Cambridge, oi^y produce second* 



2:a 



A'&iicei. 



cIass Clergy : ou the other, the existing diocesan colleges are only aiteuded 
by the more efiruest B.A.'s. The question ia how to force upon the crowd 
of imperfectly-taught and imperliectly-disciplincd candidates for Orders, 
a creditable amount yf divinity. Are we prepared to add to the four years 
at Oxford nnd Cambridge two more at the Dincesau College? or are we 
prepared to abridge the University period? 

The Hun. Riebard Cavendish has addrestied one of the most striking 
pamphlets which have come before us, *■ On the actual Relations of Church 
and State,' in the form of a 'Letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury/ 
(Ollivier.) Mr. Cavendish's position^ as bearing the name of the highest 
among the great Whig aristocratieal families, gives his words only an 
adventitious weight : they are in themselves entitled to aiteniion, whicb» 
however, they had scarcely secured had they come from a leas influeotiAl 
fjuarter, lie says plainly that to ' mnUiply Bishops/ as at present ap- 
pointed, * would serve but to multiply the evil,* (p, 18.) He puts a ques- 
tion,— nnd, considering both who it ia who asks the question, and to whom 
it 18 putf it is an awful one,— in the plainest language which we have vet 
seen. We extract the passage: — ' Men who ean only sign the Articles 

* in ft non-natural sense have justly been made to feel that the Church 

* has no denire to retain them within her fold. Shall olherg who use 

* the most fiolenin addresties to Almighty God in a non-uatural sense, 
' believing thcni, aa they must, when taken in their natural sense, 

* to be •• moat blasphemoua frivolities," — shall they any longer not 
'only be tolerated, but cherished ns the very salt of the Clergy? 
' My Lord, if all truth aad uprightness are not to die out amongst ns, her« 
t is a nuitter to which the rulers of the Church muat look. Here in a moral 

* plague which must indeed be stayed. If it be not, what can result but an 
' upgrowth of the rankest and most deadly infidelity? The nders of the 
' Church r Are Ibey all untainted ihcmselvcfl? Not long ago a Bishop of 

* our Cburcli had occasion to refer in a Vrsitation Charge to some of these 
' " blasphemous frivolities/' He informed his Clergy that to question the 
' maintenance by our Church of one of the chief doctrines so termed by 

* Mr. Noel, is absurd and impossible. But, says his Lordship to those of 

* his Clergy who may reject it, this doctrine is iu the Prayer-book, but an 

* undue importance ia attached to it. There, indeed, arc the words, but 
' they arc only worth, Srty them and hear lbem» but say them and hear 

* them as if they were empty sounds, destitute of all menning. In a cor- 

* respondcuce with one of his Clergy, relating to some other "blasphemous 

* frivolities" in the Prayer-book, the same Bishop informed bim that they 
' were allowed to remain in it by our Reformers out of pure compassion to 

* human ignorance and infirmity. Now, my Lord, if any unprejndiced 
' man will only pay one moment's attention to the aolemn and awful invo- 

* ciitious which accompany these "idle words," he cannot fail to acknow- 
' ledge that if such were ihe intentions of our Reformers, then they were 
'hypocrites the most accomplished, abettors of perjury the most shame- 
' less, and breakers of the third commandment the most reckless, whom the 

* world has yet seen, or, it may he hoped, is ever likely to see. My Lord» 

* when one of the chief pastors of our Church ventureH on such assertions, 
' and gives such advice to hia Clergy, what wonder if some of the startled 



I 



I 



Notices, 



25j 



¥ 



* sheep should wander awa>% some in one direction, some in another, from 

* a fold which is thus pronounced, ex cathedra^ to be polhited uith falsehood 

* the most revoltifig, and profanity the moNt impious? ' — Pp. 21 — 23. 

Mr. Brudenell Barter has added to his many warm-hearted appeals ' A So- 
lemn Wariiingf against that doctrme of Special Grace which causes divisions 
in, thi! Church, and prepares the way for Infidelity.' (lliving^ons.) Mr. 
Barter's title is perhaps not very clear : Ma matter is unriucst ion ably so. 

With reference to Mr. Heurtley's * Tract on Public Worship/ (J, R, 
Parker*) we must repeat his own iibatemcnt, 'It is tnie: but it is not the 
whole trutli," (p* 7,)=-iiot more tbnn half the truth : 'thanksgiving, praise, 
the hearing of God's word, prayer/ are not the objects of public worship; 
not even if we add Mr. lleurtley's * fifth : vix. to partake* of the SarratnentM,' 
which, significantly enough, *- it is beside his purpose to dwell on/ (P, 18») 
Such a purpose announces its own inadequacy. There yet remains amon*^ 

* the objects of public worship ' all that does not concern individual edificJi- 
tion : auch as come under the ideas of sacrifice, offering, mystery, the 
i*imple abstract glory of God, announced by angel voices, asone*half of tlie 
purpose of the Gospel, the witness to the faith, and sympathy with the 
unseen Church. 

A useful and scientific ' History and Description of Exeter Cathedral,' 
has been printed by Mr. J. W» ficwett. (fi olden.) It is of exactly the 
light proportion and in the right spirit. We do not accord with Mr. 
Hewett's doubts about the paintings on the choir-screen. 

AU that Mr. Winston writes upon the subject which he has so deeply 
studied deserves respectful consideration, or even deference. With this 
view we recommend this gentleman's ' Introduction to the Study of Painted 
Glass.' (J. H. Parker.) We are entirely satisfied with his historical prerh 
it( the art, with bis tccbiiicfil descriptions, and his accurate and tasteful 
criticism of ancient art. And while we can quite enter inlu bis vigorous 
condemnation of the modern mediayvalisms, we are by no means satisfied 
with the exi.sting specimens of an improved style which Mr. Winston 
praises. Wc should be sorry, for example, to admit that such glass as that 
lately placed in Westminster Abbey was an iraprovement, either artistic or 
technical, even upon the nwst servile tmitalions *»f old glass practised by 
mere copyists, such as Willemcnt and Warrington, On the contrary, we 
look rather for the terftum ffuid of an improved style, not in a development 
commencing npon the vitiated einque cento^ which .Mr. Winston seems dis- 
posed to take tor his starting point, but rather upon a combination of the 
mosaic principle of colouring with the careful religious draxving of early 
Italian art. An advance in the right direction has been lately mnde in a 
window at Clirist Church, Hoxton : of which, however, the chief defect is a 
want of relief, arising from the absence of cool white glass. 

In our January number, after commending the improved practice which 
had been introduced into the education of the choristers at Westminster, 
we added, * When we hear of similar care being taken at S. Paul's, we yhaU 
gladly withdraw the whole of our observations/ We are very happy in 



256 



Notieet, 



being able to state tbat our stricturee had been preceded by a recent i 
iinpoHRnt cbange for tbe better: a change, however, only as recent, in its 
completeness, as Midsummer, 1848, The details may be learned from a 
courteous communication which we have received : — ^' . . . first premising 

* the system, pursued by our forefftthera centuries ago, which no modern 

* system v.&n outvie, and which it is a pleasure to state we are imitating a» 
' nearly as vre can. . . . 

' In the earlie^st periods to which our records refer, we find the educa- 

* tion of the Choristers of St. Paul b Cathedral intrusted to the following 
' officers: — 

' I, The Almnner^ whose duty it was to clothe, board, and tuperitiUnd the 

* education of the Choristers^ both reli^ous and secular* 

'11, The Chance iior^ whose duty it was to teach them grammar, writ- 

* ing, &c. 

' II L The Music Mmtert whose title sufficiently denotes his duties. 
' After a time, the Chancellor, whose revenues tlien began to increase, 
' (and possibly then his zeal and love for scholastic duties began to de- 

* crease,) appointed a Deputy, under the title of "Magiater Grammaticse," 

* the duties of the two oflicers, Almoner and Music Master, remaining^ un- 

* touched. This change appears to have existed for a \cry long period. 

' But afterwards it appeara that the Dean and Chapter departed seriously 
' firom the well-projiected and matured plan of their predecessors, and for 
' some reasons aniaigamated all the above mentioned offices in one person, 

* that person sometimes being a Minor CanoUj but generally the Organist, 

* or a Vicar Choral, 

• This plan remained in operation until the death of the late Mr, Hawes, 

* Almoner and Vicar Choral, when, upon some little lapse of time, Mr. Arch- 
' deacon Hale (whose energy has been of much service to the Cathedral) 

* accepted the office of Almoner, (independent of its emoluments,) and 
' appointed a Music Master, a Gnimraar Master, (unconnected with the 

* Cathedral,) who taught the Choristers grammar, &c. iive days in the week 

* for two hours per diem j and the office of Divinity Lecturer was given to 

* one of the Minor Canons, Mr. Povah, (to whom praise is due for the 

* interest he has generally taken in their m elfare,) with the condition that 

* he shoidd catechise the boys, which he did one day in the week, and then 
' only for one hour, his avocations not allowing him to do more,' 

This system commenced in 1845; but it was obviously one in which a 
very important element in education was wanting, namely , the formation 
of character, and the correction of the general conduct of the Choristers 
both in and out of choir : the moral teaching of the boys belonged to no 
one. There was no provision for anything beyond a technical training. In 
this difficulty, an individual Minor Canon^(and we are glad to connect Mr. 
J. H, Coward's name with this movement) — offered to undertake the educa- 
tion of the boys, both religious and secular, as ' Magister GrammaticsE/ — 
Mr- Archdeacon Hale still retaining the Almonry, and Mr Bailey the office 
of Music Master. This scheme was commenced at Midsummer last. It3 
details consist in providing for the instruction of the Choir-boys in Latin, 
HtBtory, Geography, Matheraatica, and Arithmetic, with Music, in all five 
hours per diem, for live days in the week. It is much to be regretted, how- 
everj that the Almonry cannot provide funds to board the boys, who at 



I 
I 



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Notices, 



257 



I 



present reside at home, ftnd are not very sufficiently paid. To state the 
whole matter io full, vvliile it is but a simple act of justice to the present 
Dean atid Chapter, gi^-eg us fiatisfaction, as a proof of the vast improvement 
daily taking place in ali departments of the Church practice. 

Mr. J. H, Parker'a devotional series has heen enricbed hy a new edition 
of Sherlock's • Practical Christian,' edited, with a very nice preface, by one 
of the autbor*a descendants, Mr. Harold Sherlock, of Winwick. 

Jeremy Taylor's 'Life of Christ' has been usefully reprinted in an 
abridged form. (Mozley.) This is one of our most admirable books, and 
eniineatiy suited for the poor : as, indeed, all high-caste books are. 

We have, in a single particular, done the editor of Mr. J. W. Parker'i ' Liber 
Precum* wrong in our recent review of that publication. We stated that the 
' In commcndationibus Benefactorum/ &c., was omitted. It is printed at the 
end of the preface — not a very likely place to look for Occasional Offices, 
nor exactly corresponding with the place which this Office, and that for 
Communion at funerals, occupies in Queen Elizabeth's Liiiirj Prayer-book, 
which Mr Parker's recension ofTera to folhnv. We willingly put on record 
the editor's private avovral nf hii " most earnest desire of his lile lo devote 
himself entirely to the ser\iee of ibe English Church, and the chuhs of 
Catholic truth,' though we still regret moat strongly tbat^ witb whatever 
good intentions, he \ms piihlisbed a book which will not serve hiu zeal in 
that cause. 

* Self- Murder," an affecting and solemn Pastoral Letter, Addressed by 
Mr. Andcrdon, of Leicester, to bis parishioners on a case of suicide. 

The second, and completing, volume of Dr. Hook's ' Sermons on the 
Miracles' has appeared. (Bell.) They make an interesting series. 

Mr. BowteH's admirable work on ' Monumental Brasses,* (Bell,) which 
has appeared regularly, wants but the couchuling part. — Mr, Sharpc's 
equally interesting series on ' Decorated Windows* (Van Voorst) has been 
in this predicament since February, 1846. It is a groat pity that it should 
not be concluded, especially as its delay forma (|uite an exception to the 
publisher'a usual punctuality. 

' Protestantism and Catholicity compHred in their effects on the civiliza- 
tion of Europe,' by the Rev. J. Balmez. (Burns.) Tbia is a translation of 
a Spanbh work, which has attained an European celebrity, Jt readv^ very 
like ft sensible and prose echo of Mr. Digby's * Mores CatboUci.' There is 
a great deal both of argument and elegant illustration in the work. The 
chief part of it glances over our heads. Indeed Mr. B^lmnez wmild have 
little quarrel witb the Church of England had he had opportunities of 
riglitly underBtanding our ow n position ; for most of that impulse upon 
civilization which he claims for CatholiL-ism attaches as much to ourselves as 
to the rest of the Western Church. On one occasion, if we remember rightly, 
we found Mr. Balraez admitting a very fundamental distinction between 
England and the other Protestant bodies, as, speaking according to hi.9 
brief, he of course stylea ua. The present translation ia taken from a 

NO. LXV,— N. S. 3 



258 



Notices* 



French version, by Meiira. IlanfortI And Keraliavv: uhoever these gentle- 
men may be, they are not scholars sufficient for this or any other work of 
learning. Thus vvc find * Justin Clement of Alexandria/ p, 56; ^Penestea/ 
(p. 6«,) which, if it he the French form, is neither the Greek nor 
the English; * Chio/ {iltid.) which ia a mere Gallicism. In another place 
the French translator's phrase ' Ics fillcs dc Chypre ' ia faithfully done into 
English, (p. 386.) * tbe daughters of Chypre," which, whatever notion it 
may carry, is scarcely ci/pr^ to the original. 

The most important work of the qnnrter we pniftounce to be Mr. George 
Williams's very elaborate second edition of his * Holy City.' (J. W. Parker.) 
We shall call future attention to it: in the mean tinie» ue can at present 
only Rpeak hij^hly of the very happy results at which Mr. WilliAms has 
arrived^ Professor Willises share in the work is a great improvement to it; 
and it contains, for the lirst time publiahed, the Ordnance Sun^cy of Jeru- 
salem, not the least valuable fruit of our brief successes in Syria. 

Mr. Robert Montgomery, we believe, is desirous to take higher standing, 
and to represent a better tone of Church doctrine than the world has 
hitherto assigned to him. This praiseworthy purpose will not be furthered 
if he stands forward as the sponsor of such books as * Nitzsch s System of 
Christian Doctrine/ (Clark,) vrhich has just appeared under his auspices as 
joint-translator. This book ia intensely German : a happy defect, which 
wdl render innocuous its intense heresy. NitEsch's own * soteriology/ to 
use one of his own frightful inintnges, ia a mere eclecticism from the 
various German, so-called, systems ; and it entirely ignores the dogmatic 
teaching of the historical Church. Indeed he ignores Church, the creed 
and Sacraments, as objective realities. The notion of the implanted 
Christian life docs not seem to have occvirrcd to him. As a system — and it 
is revoltingly systematical — the work is n vast fabric of difficulty and 
danger. 

Dr. Wordsworth has published, byway of supplement to his recent Lectures 
on the Apocalypse, an extremely full and scholar-like edition of the Text 
of the Apocfilypsc, with an Lngliah translation and harmony. (Rivingtons.) 
The volume also contains a full appendix to its sister volume of Lectured* 
We are not called upon to repeat what we have already said of Dr. Words- 
worth a private conclusions on the interpretation of the Revelation of 
S. John J but the present undertaking, as a whole, is decidedly such as to 
raise its author's reputation. Wc desire entirely to preclude ourselves, in 
this place, from passing any judgment on its details. The bias ia so strong 
and patent, that the exegesis must be judged on \'ery different groundi 
from the judgment passed upon the formation of the text, 

* Westminster : Meraoriala of the City/ Src, by Mr. PiLickenzie Walcot, 
Curate of St. Margaret's, (Masters,) is a handsome volume. It embraces 
a good deal of curious matter, historical, biographical, and topographical ; 
it is interspersed with lively anecdotes and minute personal details. It 
contains also much antiquarian information : and were it nut disfigured 



Noiicis* 



259 



I 



I 



by an over ornate and stilted style, we couM recommend it uncon- 
ditionally. A paragraph in the first page will illustrate our objection: 

* Its [Westminster's] fittest emblem is the oak of our native land, upon 

* whose rlud the succesaive ring^s of a tlioiisniid yeara denote its gradual 

* g^rowth from the tiny acorn into the kingliest forest-tree/ &c. The meta- 
phor is false in fact, for the annual rings are not on the rind at all. Mr. 
Walcot*s work does not embrace the history of the Abbey. We detected 
some uiii;ly mispriutSj such aa : ' Velasco," p. 52. We demur to calling the two 
westward looking seats? i|i the sanctuary of S.Margaret*8 *two sediUaforlhe 
officiating Cler^.' (P. 136.) All Souls' towers we have always understood 
to be the work of Hawksmoor, not Dean Aldrich. (P. 158.) We are not 
aware of the alluaion to the ' rival schools of St. Paul's, and St. Peter's 
Cornhill, in Loudon.' {P. 170,) We regret also that a clergyman, and one 
so right-principled as the present writer, should have pronounced such an 
eulogium on Milton as that which— we say nothing of its taste — may be 
found at p. 291. 

We suppose that Mr, Hobart Seymour does not remember JEsop* 
But the hint ivhich the lion gave the forester, how the figures might 
be grouped were lion^j the statuaries, should have suggested to Mr. 
Seymour how his Matineea Theohgiqucs would have read if the Jesuits 
had published their complement to his recent volume, * Morning among 
the Jesuits at Rome.* (Sceley.) If the Jesuits are what Mr. H. Sey- 
mour represents them, their teeth have been drawn and their claws 
pared. Instead of any dread of Maynooth, the Irish Protestants ought 
to patronize it as a vivarium of living theological victims, who might 
safely be brought out to be baited with perfect security on every recurring 
festival of S. William of (Jrange. Mr. Seymour seems lo have found aa 
good sport with the sons of Loyola as OJivcr Proudfute did with his 
'Soldan or Saracen j' — 'With him 1 breathe myself, and wield my two- 
handed sword against him, thrust or point, for an hour together," Alany 
is the downright blow that Mr, Seymour has aimed- — 'in troth the infidel 
has but little of his skull renmining to hit at.' Mr, Seymour's sword and 
prowess are as good as the honest bonnet-ranker's, we have no doubt : 
from his own showing, he is a very formidable polemic. However, the re- 
semblance to the slashing burgher of Perth does not end herei we own to 
a sort of Uking for Mr. Seymour: his bustle is so much on the surface, 
that we can quite tolerate it for a fnnd of fairness and honesty which 
underlies it. Though, seriously, the sly way in which Mr. Seymour, only 
intent upon trapping the deluded Jesuits, and drawing them out for the 
theological triumphs of himself aud Mrs. Seymour, under the pretence 
that he was but a meek inquirer after truth, instead of the confirmed 
champion of Protestantism, cannot be quite reconciled with some strict 
codes of ethics. 

' Parthenogenesis,' by Professor Ovren, (Van Voorst,) is scarcely within 
OUT province, but we understand it to be an able and original essay. 

There is much that is pleasing in Mr. Thomas Knox's ^ Daniel the 
Prophet, &c/ (Hodges and Smith). It consists of reflections written in a 



260 



Notices, 



meditative furm ; without mticb dcptli or origitiatjty, the volume reads 
equably and usefully. Hhs tlie amiable writer, or bis publisber, regulated 
bia impression in any anticipation of (he wish expressed in the Prelace — 
his ' fervent hope lliat, niih the bletisitig of God, this little book may be 
kindly received into emr^ one's library V 

Of a much higher range and cast of thought is the Tolumc of Sermona 
left by the late Professor Butler. This has been published, together mth 
an interesting Memoir, by Mr. Thomas Woodward, of Fetbard. (Hodges 
& Smith.) Professor Dutler \rftfl a writer not only of merit but promise, 
and hia early death aeema to be regarded in Ireland in n way somewhat 
similnr to the removal of Mr. II. J. Rose from ourselves. His life waij 
curious, ns he forms* ftlmost a solitary instance of one who quitted the 
Roman Catholic communion without passing into the ranks of Ultra-Pro- 
testantism. It must be borne in mind, however, that one of his parents 
wn.s an An^licaiij and he himself became so before he was eighteen. The 
Irish Chun h could, we fear, little afford to lose a son so full of hope : one, 
however, whose opinions, ihougjh very raoderAte, the majority of the Irish 
Clergy felt but little the duty of fiyi^P*^*hising with. We should perhaps 
have been pleased had the volume consisted rather of a selection of his 
SermonSj together with some of his Atlvenaria^ Some papers in the Irish 
' Ecclesiastical Gazette' we remember thinking very powerful, 

Mr. Prichartl, formerly Fellow of Oriel, and lately Vicar of Mitehnm, has 
left for the recollection of his friends, and for more general usefulness, two 
works: a volume of Sermons, (.\iasters,) quite of a parochial and simple 
character, yet displaying much thought and evenness of temper ; and the 
* Life of Hincmar/ (Masson: Littlemore,) which displays a great amount of 
painstaking in a dtflkult period of Church History. Mr. Prichard certaiidy 
had many of the historian's qualifications — calmness, and a close habit of 
judgmeut and discrimination. He «eema studiously to have kept in view 
the severity required in such compositions. 

Three volumes of Sermons have reached us, each of which we think above 
the average : one by Mr. Chanter, of llfracombci (Masters,) of a level and 
practical character; one by Mr. Harper* of Bideford, (Cleaver,) warm and 
direct; ' Lent Lectures,* by Mr. Jackson, of St. James', Piccadilly, (Skef- 
finijton,) alight in texture, but useful ; and a vfdujne by Mr. Heurtley, 
fj. H. Parker,) of which the first, elsewhere noticed as a * Tract on Public 
Worship,' is an average specimen, 

* The Devout Chorister,' (Masters,) edited by Mr. Smith, Fellow of Mag- 
dalene, we think suggested by a religious appreciation of a great need. It 
is a very useful book, which we have great sati'ifactioii in recommending. 

Sir Francis Doyle has translated the *(Edipua Rex,' (J. H. Parker,) with 
a view of familiarising uneducated persons with the beauties of the Greek 
stage. We always thought C. Lamb a solitary instance of one who could 
relish the tranaldtion of Greek plays ; he however deUghted in the literal 



Notices 261 

Latin * cribs." But such works can only touch the poetical miud. The 
present version is both spirited and scbolar-like. 

* A Plea for Sisterhoods/ by the Bishop of Brecliia, (Masters,) is a very 
Bolernn and religions appeal. 

Dr. Wordjj worth has edited, in an abridged form, for the use of a lower 
class of students, Ma well-known 'Theophilui Anglicanus.' This shorter 
fonm is published under the title of * Elements of Instruction on the Church/ 
(Rivmgtons.) 

Butler's • Six Sermons' have been reprinted, with a Syllabus and Preface 
by Dr. Whewell (J. W. Parker.) They form a sequel to the * Three Ser- 
mons on Human Nature,' executed on the same plan. Whv the Six 
Sermons do not range with the Three, we cannot say. 

* Rodrignez an Christian Perfection ' has, we believe, generally been found 
too cumbrous for general use. Its plan is confusing for most persons. An 
edition for * those living in the world* has been published by Mr. Bnrns. 
There is so very little in it which belongs to local differences, that this 
publication, of which the praise is in all Churches, may be employed to 
general edification, 

' T!ie Christian Consoled, and llie Christian Instructed/ by Quadrupani 
has issued from the same publisher. It is entirely addresaetl to the spiritual 
life ; and being strictly of an internal character, has few or none of the 
drawbacks which not iinfreqnently are believed to attend the use of prac- 
tical hooka of the great branch of the Western Church. 



A very pretty pocket edition of * Herbert's Poems 
has been printed by Mr. Waahbouxne, 



,nd Country Parson,' 



There is a considerable range of fancy and reading in Mr. T. H. White's 
* Marigold Window; or, Pictures of Thought,' (Longman,) but Mn White 
wants discipline : his volumes are not, as liis fantasiic title would suggest, 
gay with an orderly variety. His is not the Mosaic of a painted window, 
but TAther that of a kaleidoscope, — not of a kaleidoscope viewed through 
its tube, but only its receptacle, with all its untidy bits of broken glass, 
crooked pins, scraps of lace, and chequered beads- Mr. White's mind must 
be perlectly chaotic: occasionally he says very bright sparkling things. 
But there is no occasion for him always to be thinking: — still less for hiin 
to write down all his gleaming fancies : — ^least of all to print tliem all. 

Another volume of the ' Annals of the Colonial Church/ by Mr. Ernest 
ffawkins, perhaps exceeds its predecessors in interest. Its subject is the 
Diocese of Quebec :— audit has some very suggestive illustrations, 

* Judith; a Romance,' (Hatchard,) is an unfortnnate idea unsuccess- 
fully executed. Because the Rook of Judith is not canonical Scripture, 
there is no occasion that it should he turned— not into a Romance, of 
which there is nothing,— but into a very tedious story-book. 



262 



Niiiic€9* 



Not that we are prepared to say that tbe Scriptural lives or narratives 
cannot be reproduced in other forms. Jeremy Taylor, to take the most 
direct iiistancc, is a case in paint: he did not scruple to write the ' Life of 
Chost/ Bio^aphiea of the Apostles have been al^uiys the privilege of the 
Church* Dr. Biber has, we think, been unusually successful in Ma recent 
' Life of S. FhuI,' (Cleaver.) Not only does it contain the narrative of the 
Acta, but it weaves up most of the substance of the Epistles ; and ind- 
dentally, of course, the history of all the Apostolic Churches. The parallel 
only suggestH what least fits the subject, an unpleasant association, but tbe 
history is elucidated from tbe Epistles, something on the pliin of Middle- 
ton*s ' Life of Cicero/ Tlie result is an instructive volume. The acbeme 
leads Dr. Biber, incidentally, through much doctrine, which must, from the 
nature of the case, be represented in a book of this sort under a single 
definite phase. Here the writer will not expect his readers to accompany 
him implicitly. We do not desire to do so ourselves. 

Mr. R» A. Willmott's ' Summer-Time in the Country/ (J, \\\ Parker,) is 
suitable to the season. To some mind:*, the hazy, musing, half-dreamy 
images which such a Hcriea of quiet thoughts suggests, is almost better 
than real holiday-making. It is seldom in this windy, showery climate 
that, except in bookSi one — 

* Comes into a land 
la which it Rcemeth always afternoon ; 
Where round the eou^t the languid atr doth swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.' 

Perhaps, too, it is better to dream of idling than to idle : idleness never is 
to a true heart but in anticipation ; one seldom really sinks down into the 
full luscious moss bank shoulder-buried in enjoyment and 'greenery:' 
and it ia better to do it in essays and verses than in fact. And Mr. 
WUlmott is a pleasant, suggestive writer: he never bunts bis thoughts, 
literary, artistic, and poetic, down. He just places them before you, to do 
their work. You may follow or not, according to taste : but their mere 
presence is pleasant. Mr. Willmott is always graccfulj and often origiual ; 
and he displays true criticism. Wc Ukc this book much. 

To those who mean to make their holidays a matter of hoUday-task^ — 
happily the majority— we can recommend Dr. Harvey's * Sea-side Book,' 
(Van Voorst,} for those who are for the sea-board. It is beautifully 
illustrated, 

' Ornithological Rambles in Sussex/ (Van Voorst,) by Mr. Knox, ia 
rather for rustic use. It is a genial, good-tempered book r all the writers 
on Natural History seem good-tempered. They have but one drawback 
— a merciless delight in enriching ' my collection ' at the expense of their 
friends^, furred or feathered. Mr. Knox seems occasionally to shoot for 
the sake of shooting. Surely Mr. Waterton's kind practice, by which even 
the hawks and owls are all over his estate as tame as chickens, is more 
rational. The * Eleron alighting on bis Nest' is a very graphic sketch by 
Mr. Knox, who \% equally spirited with pen and pencil ; and one gets 




I 




Notices, 



TOO 



tamiliar with a pair of mvcna, -vt'hose lives and fortunes Mr* Knox delighU 
to tell. 

Major Trevillian has published an extremely important book, ' A Letter 
rm the ADticliristiaii character of Freemanonry, &c.' (Biith : Biuns &'Good' 
win.) It bears out and illustrates a recent article in our own pages on 
this aubjccL There seema quite a movement in the right direction with 
respect to this question. 

* Notes on various Distinctive Varieties of the Christian Church. By the 
Rev. R. W, Morgan, Perpetual Curate of Tregynon, ^!untgomcry shire/ 
Scattered thoughts are sometimes an influential form of authorahip, and 
we are not surprised at Mr. Morgan trying the experiraent, aa he has done 
in this volume. Such a form, however, is not generally very effectual, 
except the author has made some previous impression on the public by 
nieans of regular composition. The interest of a book of scattered thoughts 
lies principally in an appeal to the curiosity of the reading public, who are 
anxious to know vhat such a person, previoualy known to themj thinks 
and says on auch and auch points. Without this previous iutroduetiQn, 
such thoughts rest entirely on their own merit, and ret|tiire the aid of 
formal composition to give them weight. With this drawback, we are glad 
to acknowledge that we have come across many remarks in this volume 
which show a writer of considerable thought and varied reading, and who 
has been observant of the signs of the times. It shows, too, sound Church 
feelings. Its defects are a want of that pithiness and force winch such a 
form of writing ought especially to have. The thoughts, when they are 
good, are often weakened by dilTusenesa, and a too copious and cumbrous 
style ceases to arrest and fix the reader, 

• Cyclops ChristianuB,' — an epigraph which we cannot understand, — Is 

♦ an argument to disprove the supposed antiquity of Stonehenge and other 

* jnegalithic erections in Kngland and Brittany, By A. Herbert, late of 
' Merton College.' (Petheram.) Mr, Herbert is a decided innovator ; yet, 
either of purpose, because his theory is intended to connect itself with 
ulterior speculations, or from defect of method, he is not very clear in an- 
nouncing his own position. It is decidedly opposed to the ordinary * Dra- 
eontian' theory of Stonehenge and Amesbury, as well as of Carnac : neither 
is he less merciful to the ordinary Druidical, i. c the ante-Roman view. 
As far as we can collect Mr. Herbert's own theory, which is very obscurely 
announced, it is that at or about the end of the fourth century, af\cr the 
Roman power had declined, the erection of Stonehenge was connected with 
the renewal of an EngJish independence, with a revival of » modified Pagan- 
ism, engrafted upon and adopting some features both of Christiauity and 
of the religion of the Norman settlers. In other words, that there was an 
occidental type of a depraved Christianity exhibited in these megalithic 
structures somewhat akin to the oriental Gnosticism: a point of union 
would be the Mithraie rites. It is well known that heathenism did, per- 
haps does still, survive in some fiiint way both in Brittany and in the 
southern and western parts of our own islands ■ and that in some way or 



264 



Notictt, 



other it was preserved, not iii opposition to, nor in fusion^ but in a strange 
parallel witK tlie Cliurcli*s rites and worship. This is a view, and requires 
to be met. WtJ need hardly aay Low important it is upon the character of 
what we esteem the original British Church before the mission of S. Au- 
gustine; Mr. Herbert, we believe, propouuda it without theulogical bins* 
to ^1 hich he is, or aflfccts to be, profoundly indifrcrcnt. There is a good 
deal of strange learning in the volume, which, whether sound or not, recom- 
mends itself to those who are interested in its very curious subject. 

' Vogan's Lectures on the Sacrament of the Lord's Supper,' (J. H, 
Parker,) have reached us very late in the quarter. Upon ft cursory inspec- 
tion they appear to represent the received theology of Wat^rland on this 
subject. 

Our anticipations that the first number of Masters's Guide t<i Daily 
Prayers ' could not be very correct, ^ — as indeed the Etlitors confessed, — 
were amply veriiied. The second number, however, vihich has since ap- 
peared, has corrected the mistakes, which were very numerous, of the first, 
in great measure : though a few errors have still been pointed out to us. 
U raises the number of churches with Daily Prayers to ^ about 40(K We 
were led, by too iaiplicit a rehancc on the first number, into one or two 
errors in our recent article on the subject ; but none, that we are aware of 
calling for particular nolire. In some of the counties which we mentioned 
ai absolutely without Daily Service, the second edition of the ' Guide' states 
that there arc one or two instances. But, as Dr. Johnson said, ' If I go 
into an orchard, and say, Here are no apples or pears,^ — and a man, after a 
diligent search, says, '• Sir, you are mistaken : I have found one pear and 
two apples,"— what does that prove?' In the same article we have to 
apoiogizu for a curious typographical error. The paragraph, p. 343, 1, 12, 
' Next come Gbucester, .... sixteen,' was a correction for p. 342, L 37,-^ 
on the preceding page, • Next comes Devon/ &c. 

Mr. Oakeley must excuse us. We trust we are prepared to read a palinode 
on any proper occasion : but we cannot think that he has established a 
claim of that nature upon us in a publiBhed • Letter to the Editor of the 
Christian Ileracrabraucer,' &c, (Uurns,) complaining of a passage in our last 
number. The statement made by vis was, that, in the communion to which 
he now belongs, an utiequnl prominence is given to the sacrilkial, as com* 
pared with the sacramental, aspect of the Eucharist. As indications of this, 
we adduced the urgency with which frequent ' hearing ' of the rite is en- 
joined, and the comparative deficiency of exhortations to actual communion^ 
referring, in proof of our statement, to a manual of their own upon the sub- 
ject. The passage quoted by us was very strong, and went the whole length 
of our assertion : Dr. Pusey, in his ' Letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury/ 
(first edition,) had adduced one equally to the point. And the impression 
conveyed by these extracts was fully confirmed by all that we had ever 
learnt of the practice of that communion. Mr. Oakeley slurs over the evi- 
dence of the books ; but even what he does say, on the other hand, amounts 
tn an admission of as much as we had asserted The book quoted by us, 



I 



Noiicee* 



265 



wc «re told, was publislied aoine twenty years ago ; neither are the regrets 
expressed by preacliers or teachers, as to the decay of communion, to be 
taken an pied de ia htlre. Hut these pleas will hardly meet the case. 
The book has been reprinted qtiite lately ; and we know that everything in 
that quarter must come forth under sanction ; and Mr. Oakeley himself 
speaks of it with commendation. And we contend that, this being the case, 
the complexion of the hook may be fairly taken to reflect, with some fidelity^ 
the mind of the communion from which it emanates. Now so it is, that in 
a very thick little duodecimo, no more than one short chapter is devoted to 
the consideration of communion ; and even there it is dealt with in the * fal- 
termg ' manner which we exemplified. We have examined other manuals 
of theirs with the same re«uU. This fact speaknj much in confirmation of 
what we said. We are told of a particular manual which has of late been 
specially recommended by their authorities, and which certainly ia free 
from the defect in question; but as wo cannot be supposed to know, as 
soon as it takes place, of every sudden improvement \vhich other commu- 
nions may make under an awakened sense of duty, we can but speak from 
our knowledge of such of their own uncontradicted teaching as falls in our 
way. So, again, Mr. Oakeley brings a great array of e^'idence from various 
coimtriea, for the existence of activity in the Roman Church in bringing its 
member.^ to communion at the present day. We, on the other hand, could 
allege counter evidence, collected partly before and partly auice, and apply- 
ing to parts of the self-same countries. Such an utter desolation of com- 
municating Christians in those parts, as is testified to by persons on whom 
we can place the fullest reliance, only too sadly proves our point. The truth 
is, firstly j — ^and it would have placed Mr. Oakeley in a much better contro- 
versial position to have owned it, — that the constitution of the Roman rite 
fuis a tendency, unless great diligence be used to counterwork it, to induce 
the practice o'i non-cammunicafmg attendance upon it. Witness the demand 
of the Dcvonahire iusurgeuts at the time of the Reformation : ' They wiU 
have mass celebrated a» ii has been formerly ^ wlihoul atiy persons comfmmicatinif 
with the priett^ because, as the office is now managed, the mysteries are 
treated without due regard/ (CoUier, vol. v. p. 315.) And the truth is, 
secondly, that a reviml has taken place in that communion as well as in our 
own: but that is all. It ia tacitly admitted by Mr, Oakeley himself, that 
twenty years ago the stale of things we speak of was nniversaL He has 
only proved, and we rejoice to learn it, that it is universal no longer : but 
it is too much that he should take a tone, as if he had shown that it never 
did, nor could, by any possibility, exist at all. Mr. Oakeley would have done 
better by his adopted communion, if he had immediately admitted and 
deplored what cannot be denied. As to the necessity of yearly communion 
for remaining within the Church, wc know it is their theory, but we also 
know, and so does Mr. Oakeley, that it is not insisted on in practice. 

Two or three important works which we have lately received require 
further consideration :—' Wales/ (J. W. Parker,) by Sir Thomas PhiHips, 
an extremely valuable volume on the Education Question. — * Corpus 
Ignatianum,' (Rivingtons,) by Mr. Curetou, a complete recension of all that 
he has to say on this subject. — * The Church of our Fathers,' (Dolman,) 

NO. LXY.— N.9. T 



266 iVo^tV^. 

by Dr. Rock. This last we shall perhaps reserve till the third au4 com- 
pleting Yohime appears. 

Among single Sermons, we have to acknowledges ' Penitents and Saints,' 
the second edition, witib a preface — Ardideacon Manning's well-known seSs 
mon preached for the Magdalen Hospital. (Pickering.) ' Modem FhOo- 
sophical Infidelitj," &c., an University Sermon, preached by Mr. Gaibett, 
(Hatchard,) containing some usefhl matter, disfignred by Ae anther's gro- 
tesque style and parade of technological terms. ' On the Inspiration of Holy 
Bcriptore, Ire.,' also an Uniyersity Sermon, by Mr. Harris, of Magdalen 
Cmiege, exhibiting much serious thought, and an accnrate reflection of 
Bntlei^ method and spirit. <The Sacredness of lifiB, and the Doom of 
Murder,' by Dean Lowe, (Wallis,) a forcible reclamation against the nn« 
christian sentimentalism afloat on this subject. * The B^uty of Holi* 
ness,' by Bishop Doane, (Atkinson, Burlington,) the sul^ect justifying its 
ornate style. A Sermon by the Bishop of Exeter for the Plymouth Fund» 
(Croydon, Torquay,) vigorous and practical. * Charity under Persecution,' 
a Sermon on behalf of the Devonport Sisters of Mercy, by Mr. Martin, of 
S. Martin's, Liverpool, (Masters,) very afifectionate and stirring. 



TflE 



CHRISTIAN EEMEMBRANCER. 

OCTOBER, 1849, 



Art. I. — The Works of Qtthitus Horatlus Fiaccus: illtfst rated 
chkftu from the remains of ancient j^rt. With a Life. Btf the 
EeV.^ H. H. Milman. * Murray. 1849. 

It may be a blblionianiacal prejudice, but we are inclined to 
doubt wbetber, so far fis mere printing goes, the classics may 
not be read more plcasurably hi the editions of the ln«t century 
than in any that have succeeded them. It is possible that the 
rejjroach which this feeling dictates may attach to foreigners 
rather than to our own countryoien, and that the fact may bo 
merely that the Germans, of whose labours we most naturally 
think when speaking of modern classical philology, arc almost 
without an exception insensible to the charms of good paper and 
elegant typography. Still, while we thankfully acknowledge that 
English workmen arc in this respect far superior, and recall with 
satisfaction editions like those of Messrs. Harding & Co., twenty 
years ago, and Mr. Pickering's of a later date, our instinct is never- 
theless to look yet further buck ward. Mr. Murray, in the book 
now before us, has made a bold attempt to vindicate the honour 
of his century ; but his success does not strike us as complete. It 
is a very beautifid work, but the type is hardly equal to that with 
which Horace has before now been embellished in more than 
one instance. We do not liappcn to have Pine within call, nor 
yet the immaculate edition of Foulis; but we can safely speak 
for Bnskerville, and also for Bensley, who was Gilbert Wake- 
field's printer. There is, indeed, much for Mr. Murray to full 
back upon, even if it be allowed that Messrs. Vizetell/s fount 
16 inferior to the silver type of the old Birmingham press. In 
the combined force of its attractions, his book is, so far as we 
know, unique. There are vignettes without number, gems, and 
hmdscapes, and groups of figures, quite a Horatian gallery j and 
each page stands in a graceful iVamework, varied with consider- 
able skill, though perhaps the cflcct of the whole is not quite 
distinctively classical, and reminds us too much of mediaeval 
illuminations, and other developments hardly congenial to the 
spirit of Augustan Rome. 

KO. LXVI.— N.S. U 



MilmaiCs Horace. 



But whether the tatite of the present period in externals be 

rctro*;rade or progressive, in the more substantial requirements 
of ebfiisical c(lit*a*sliip we have decklctllj advanced^ as this 
edition shows. In tlie hi^t century it wouhl have been difficult 
to secure such eervices as Mr. jMihimn's, which t^hould attract 
the Engliiih reader by embodying critical learning in the forms 
of elegant literature. Had lonson a hundred-and-twenty 
or thirty years ago resolved to delight the world with a model 
HcvracCj and enn>loycd Addison to write t!ic life, whatever 
might have been the impression made at the time, it would 
scarcely now be a book quoted and appealed to. Something 
must be allowed for the disadvantngc nndcr which even the 

Eurest specimen of eighteenth century English would come 
eforc us now. We might abstractedly admit the style to be 
equal, or superior to our own, but many of the terms of ex* 
prcssion will be such as have now become practically obsolete — 
i^erfcctly intelligible indeed, but imsuited to our modern habits 
of thought. We should ^^mile, for instance, to see Horace called 
the most shining wit of the emperor's coiu't, or^ perhaps, an 
exemphir of Koman civility and polite letters, mid might thus 
be prevented from doing full ju!?tice to the real excellences of a 
memoir where such phrases abounded. But setting aside all 
these prepossessions, we may affirm confidently that a life by 
Addison would in a'sthetical, and still more in historical, requi- 
sites be infinitely behind this of jMn ]\lil man's* The sketch of 
previous Roman literature, if given at all, would be superficial 
to the last degree ; nor could much more be expected from an 
attempt made in Queen Anne's reign to give Horace his proper 
rank in poetry, even by the critic who first showed a tendency 
to appreciate the * Paradise Lost.* In our days there is, it may 
be said without vanity, a larger amount of knowledge, and 
truer, wider views; and when we meet with a writer like ^Ir. 
Milman, exhibiting a ha])j>y combination of the English and the 
classical scholar, we are led to reflect with some complacency on 
the improved literary circumstances under which we livcj and 
the improved literary atmosphere winch we breathe. 

Save, in the nro forma revision of the text, which appears to 
be that of Orelli,^ JMr, Milman 's editorial labours are entirely 
prcriminary. Besides the life, which extends to five chapters, 
he lias given us a tabic of Horatian chronology, and two long 

* The pliilologicAl world has i^ustaincd ft great \ctsB in the recent de&th of this 
cxcellcEt scholar. To estimate bis meritji ns a critic would be beyond ourproTince. 
It is more in point to remark thiit, as we learn from a late number of the Claii^icali 
MuaouDi, the very last book with whieh he waa occupied was Horace, a third 
edition of which he had almost coinpleieit. The ficeond edition, now before us, 
is admirable for ita learning and critical acumen, though rather deficient in natiTo 
poetical taste. 



Milman*a Horace* 



269 



^ 



P 



lists of notices of the various historical personages and brother 
poets Avlioni Horjice happens to mention. He has also, by a 
fortunate power of assimilalion, contrived to favour us with a 
letter from Mr. Dennis {antlior, a^ many of our readers probably 
know, of an elaborate work on the sepulchres of Etruria,) de- 
ficribiuf^ lIorace*s villa. Thus, without making himself respon- 
sible for anything in the shape of a critical commentary, he has 
accumulated a large amount of information, temling to illustrate 
the personal and poetical character of Horace, — his position in 
relation to his own time, and to Roman litemture in gencrah 
and so to commend him to the perusal of the reader, not aa a 
stranger, but as one wliosc life and oirciunstaiices are already 
known and understood, We should have been grateful if he 
had added a few notes^ such as would have come very appro- 
priately from him- — notesj which, taking for granted the results 
of philological investigation, would decide the meaning of doubt- 
ful passages by considerations of tnste and poetical feeling, 
precisely of that class which we seek in vain from ordinary 
commentators, but which an flccomplished student might easily 
furnish. What he has done already is quite conclusive as to his 
perfect ability to have done more. He displays, we think, great: 
jutlgnient in the manner in which he deals with the vexed 
question of Horatian dates. We do not pretend to go into the 
controversy, or to arbitrate in any way except on grounds which 
would apply to any collection of poems, no less than to the 
Odes, Satires, and Epistles: but we cannot doubt that hia 
instinct (backed, as it apparently has been, by a careful inde- 
pendent inquiry,) has guided him right. Bcntlcy, as might 
have been expected from a man who, though a giant in classical 
scholarship, ie not known to have written more than one copy 
of English verses in his lifCj drew out a scheme, which, correct 
as it seems to be in the main, is far too simple and unbending ; 
and the consent of subsequent editors, till a very late period, 
has been generally in his favour, Tate's *Horatius Restitutus,' 
for instance, is a restoration on strictly Bentloian principles. On 
the continent, however, an attack on his theory has for some 
little time been going on, and various exceptions have been 
satisfactorily estabhsbcd by a diligent comparison of passage 
with passage. Mr. Wilman sees without any ilifficulty that the 
publication of a collection of poems does not show that all 
the pieces contained were written at the same date, nor that the 
author may not have had by bira at the time some production 
of a different nature, reserving it for a later volume. He sees, 
too, what an antiquarian ouglit to have seen, that in those days 
the private circulation of works was much more frequent even 
than now, and that Horace may have been known as a poet of 
name in more branches than one, before Ug <i^<iT -sciVi^wT^i^ \r* 

u 2 



270 



Milmaas Hm*ace- 



piiblbli at all. Of course it is not meant to assert tbat a sepa- 
rate (late can be assigned to every ode, though that has been 
niairitaiiietl by the all-encouutering hardihood of the Germans — - 
* Ego vero tunc Ronu\J non fui/ is Orelirs shrewd and 8arcastic 
remark on tlie subject of one of these disputes. Differences of 
style and tone may furnish good reasons for believing one part of 
a poet's writings to belong to a later stage in bis mcutal growth 
than unother; but these, belonging as they do to questions of 
general interest, will mostly be at once discernible by an in- 
structed comprclicnsion, not merely dependent on the individual 
subtlety, however valuable in itscUj of a professional critic 
Supposed allusions to historical events, thougli eeemiiigly more 
definite, are really much less amenable to broad prineiples of 
judgment J and except in certain tangible casee, more likely to 
be due to perverted ingenuity- 

And now, jjrcsuming that Mr. ^lilmau, like a loyal editor, 
would widh (he main interest of the reader to be centred in his 
autlior, not in himself, we shall make no apology for speaking 
exclusively of Horace — of Horace as the representative of a 
note-worthy period, both of literature and of society. It is a 
•picture which has often been drawn with various success; but 
perhaps there may be something in the disposition of the lights 
and shadows, as it appears to us, which is not included in the 
view ordiniu-ily presented, and lor which it may therefore be 
worth while to nm the rii?k of a little sameness in the general 
outline. The Augustan age certainly ia one which, without 
tliere being any difference about the facts, will be estimated 
differently by different minds; and each year, independently of 
the direct iatlucnce it may exert on the question by means of 
historical re^icarch, is sure to affLct its bearings indirectly, as 
adding to the data out of which intellectual developments and 
social plienomena are to be judged. 

The literature of Home, more particularly Its poetry, at the 
time that Horace appcaretl, wajs undeniably cxhil)iting strong 
signs of vigorous life. It had been already conquered by Greece 
gome time before : the expulsion of the Saturnian measure, of 
which Horace speaks as such a step in civilization, really 
amounted to the banishment of the one metre which was of 
native Latin growth ; and though the hexameter had the right 
of the stronger on its side, its triun^ph is no more to be imputed 
to the Latin language than the victories of the Norman kings 
— a point which Mr. Macanlay has just been putting with so 
much force— to the national glories of England. But the 
parallel with our own conquest holds so far that the native life 
of the conquered was but overlaid, not crushed, by the con- 
queror. Specimens might be quoted from Knnius, even without 
going beyond the two or three lines which Mr. Milman happens 



< 



< 



« 



Milmans Horace. 



S71 



to cite in one of bis foot*notesj to show tlmt the Ijatin tongue 
Wfi5 failiiooing itself to poetical expressions which might have 
established themselves as original and independent. When we 
get to Lncretlu8 and Ctttullus, the possibility of Roman poetry 
seems to have been proved beyond a doubt. The poem of the 
former especially well deserves more systematic consideration 
than it has yet received, or than we can now iiftbrd to bc&tow 
on it. We suspect Mr. Mihnan is right in intimating that it w»3 
the finest burst of didactic poetry that the world jiad as yet heard 
— far beyond anything which had been iiroduced in that strain 
by the Greeks. In ita main object it is indeed a failure, not so 
much from the unjwetical nature of its philosophy, as though, 
doubtless, it ia by no means the most capable of all schemes of 
doctrine to be exhibited in verge, jmctry has overcome greater 
difficulties in its day — but rather irom the poet's want of art, 
hindering him from grasping together the ideas which he appre- 
hended separately, and forcing liim at last to leave a composition 
where the two element-*, the poetical and the doctrinal, eeparate 
and fall asunder the instant they arc touclicd. But tlie attem[)t 
Avas a hirge one, especially for a man whose life was not ^ ery 
long protracted, and who seems to have lived in some way under 
a cioiid : defective as was its execution, it was conceived and 
carried out on a great scale. Nor has any one since wholly 
succeeded where he failed, and effected a thorough conjunction, 
without trace of heterogeneousuess, between poetry and didactic 
philosophy. It is not enough to reason in verse, even in excel- 
lent and genuine verse ; the reasoning itself must be such as 
belongs to verse, and to verse alone — the logic of the imagina- 
tion. Conclusions must be brought before the mind, not by the 
tangible cliain of dialectical syllogisms, but by the impalpable, 
yet no less appreciable connexion of poetical images. Where 
Lucretius ha^ turned both eyes on poetrj^, instead of endeavour- 
ing with a double vision to take in two objects, he sees more 
than was ever seen by most Roman poets, and many of other 
nations. The passage on the physical decay of t!ie world at the 
end of his second book, has a solemn and overwheliniug gran- 
deur, which affects us more than anything that we recollect in 
Latin verse. The majesty of Nature rising up to rebuke her 
creature for his puny and querulous dread of death, described 
in the third book, is even more than poetical ; it is, pro tanto^ 
an exception to the general failure of the attempt, and gives 
the poetry of Epicurean doctrine as truly as man can ever hope 
to give it. In the copiousness of his phraseology too he affords 
us a better notion than any one since his time of what the 
resources of the Latin language ap])earcd to promise. A careful 
examination of his style will detect a great deal of slovenliness 
and inartificiality, as in all works written befoY'a \\v^ ^^^^ "^^ 



272 



Milman^s Hcraet* 



taste has been tliorouglily formed ; but it will discover no less a 
surprising imniber of pbraees and terms of diction, most of 
them of high oicrity hazarded apparently by him, and only lost 
to Moman poetry by the timidity of those who succeeded hiin, 
Catullus, who cannot be more than mentioned here, was a poet 
of the same stainp^by the fault of his time deficient in art, as 
the most cursory inspection of his longest %vork, the Epiiha- 
lanium of Peleus and Thetis, at once shows — by hia own 
genius a writer rarely surpassed for strength and sweetness, as 
the fourteen lines on Slrmio alonCi received and worked out by 
a kindred nature, would be sufficient to prove. 

Unfortunately, however, Greece was not content with a 
single conquest, once for all. It was not enough to have esta- 
blished a supremacy over Latin literature, which miglit then 
have been allowed to develop under its ffhade into a gradual 
independence — to have given a primary form which the reci- 
pient might have been trusted to fill up troin his own resources. 
There was at hand a second invasion, by which Koman tliought, 
ju9t recovering from its prostration, was to Ijc overthrown 
afresh, and reduced almost completely to bondage. Already., 
in the boasted works of Cicero, in and through whom^ to 
quote the highest authority on Roman history, the literature of 
Home attained its perfection, it must have been plainly dis- 
cernible that the matter was in danger of being sacrificed to 
the form. Character is, doubtless, very closely connected with 
genius; and a man whose morale is not in some sense inde- 
pendent and 4^ elf* sufficing, is nf>t likely to show a very sub- 
stantive intellect, Cicero's deficiencies, as a man, are well 
known ; and thus we should be prepared to presume that, as 
a writer, be would let the external preponderate over the 
internal. But, in the period which followed, even a degree 
of indei)eiHlence like Cicero's was a thing to be coveted. Con- 
eequently, we may expect to find an increasing tendency to 
make style and manner everything. Literature had arrived at 
a crisis which, in any case, is sure to be peculiarly perilous. 
Men were becoming every day more sensible of the require- 
ments of taste; more impatient of tlie rusticity and inelegance 
of what had pleased them a few years before. Ennius had 
spoken with contempt of Kitnius, as of one who Jiad lived 
before poetry existed at all. He was now to be relegated 
himself by public oi)inion t<j the same Ijarbarous age. Nothing 
as yet produced in Konse had been composed with a suflicicnt 
knowledge of the rules of art. A model was wanted; aiul 
tu whom coidd they go more profitably than to their old 
musters, the Greeks? Greek literature was not exactly living 
then, being, in fact, in a state of extreme decrepitude ; but it 
had enjoyed such a life as no phenomenon of the kind had ever 



Milmaiii Hora6$». 



273 



equalled. The great authors of Greece were in every one's 
liancld ; they were the real sovereigns of the Eomaii mlndj as 
surely as the phj'sical energies of the nation hntl given way 
before Rome. The gods had not bestowed every thing on 
Rome ; she had no real poetry of her own j tlierefore, slie must 
borrow. There was much in the nature of things to recom- 
mend such a notion. No one will say that the liomans were 
Ci^sentinlly a poetical people, or that there w^erc not elements in 
their national character, their aptitude for law and empire, 
whieli are as uncongenial to poetry as to ?pecohitivc philosophy. 
But the stern senatorial dignity of Iloman nature had that in 
it^ which might have expressed itself in solemn ^Esehyleiin 
music, as Lucretius had practically shown; and the question 
should have occurred, whether a literature borrowed from 
another people was, indeed, a literature worth having. Aiter 
the battle of Aetium, howeverj tliese eousiderationa were not 
likely to suggest themselves. The austere gravity of tho 
Roman citizen had, in the person of Cicero, the pattern pnblic- 
)i)an of the time immediately preceding, so far as externals went, 
become a kind of peace-loving pompouisness, hardly sacred from 
riclicule, thougli not reaching to the comic conception of 
a modern civic functionary^ and, at any ratc> no living source of 
inspiration or enthusiasm. The great men of the day were 
cjttra-national ; foraiing no class which could be said to repre- 
sent Koman interests, Init animated by personal hopes and 
a spirit of personal ambition. On the other haudj there was 
a decided appetite for literature^ and plenty of workmen, some 
of them men of extraordinary artistic ability, prepared to 
supply the want by studies after the Greek. Cicnerally speaking, 
tliere was no lack of judgment exhibited in these copies; but 
in one remarkable instance they showx^d themselves ignorant of 
the analogy whicli is the iirst law of imitation. They regarded 
epic poetry, not as the wild, luxuriant growth of an eai*Jy age, 
but as a plant which could be reared in any atmosphere by 
ordinary pains. A narrative poem with similes and episodes, 
and a heroic action extending over a given number of books, 
twelve, or four-and-twenty, was to all intents and purposes 
the representative of the Homeric rhapsodies. Wliat bitter 
Barcasm there is, wlietlicr intended or no, in Niebuhrs state- 
ment, that Virgil admitted a few archaic forms into his ^TCneid, 
ineontbnnity with a rule resjiecting epic poetry, wliich bad been 
laid down by the Alexandrian grammarians! Home needed an 
epic, ibr the older poems had gone out of fashion; and Virgil 
was asked liy Augustus to supiVly it. It was to be on a great 
national subject; no mere common history of two or three 
hundred years back; but one as old as the very oldci^t origin of 
the Latin race. The poet had abundant grace and tendiii:v\<i:yi. 



274 



MilniatCs Hi^aee, 



and a certain majeaty, besitles an inimitable style ; but the 
whole feelini^ was modern. Those wlio used to maintain that 
iEneaa wa;a intended to prefigure Aufrngtus Avere unconsciously 
maintaining a truth. It i» an xVugustan poem, — a splendid glori- 
fication of Augnstan Rome, — incidents, image?, characters, all of 
the Angustan stamp, slightly transformed, in tjrder to look 
atitique* — hut with no trace of the heroic life and manners. 
But the Romana thought it a genuine epic ; and it has been 
a common-place with critics ever since, whether the -^neid or 
the Iliad be superior. 

It wa« among this band of poetical regenerators that Horace 
came forward. He was every way qualified by temperament 
and bent of genius, to take rank as an Angiistan poet In 
versatility of mental experience he eeemed to have the ad- 
vantage over some others of the class. He began life as 
a republican, among the last school of political enthusiasts which 
Home saw ; and in his later years he frei|uently recurred to the 
recollection, and described, though with an apology for meddling 
with such serious eulyects, how, when all else on earth had 
been conquered, the fierce soul of Cato alone remained untimied. 
But he had no mind to seek a Konian deaths eitlicr in tlic field, 
or by his own sword ; and he lived to think better of hia 
youthful heat* and to find that he could live and please his 
readers veiy well though the republic was gone lieyond recall. 
Educated in the best style, first at Rome, and then at Athens, 
he early foniied his literary taste, and was even ambitious to 
be distinguished as a Greek poet, when his better genius wisely 
counselled him not to bring poetry into a language where none 
Avos wantedj^advice which a supernatural informant might 
have taught him to apply to imitations from the Greek as well 
as to Greek originals. His fiist attempts, however, were in 
a department almost purely Roman — that of satire* From 
very early times it had existed in Italy ; firsts in a rough 
dramatic form, analogous to that of Greece, afterwards in a 
tiliape of its own, not scenic, nor yet lyrical, like tlic satire of 
Archilochus, but entirely devoid of the external marks of 
poetry, save the metre. No denationalizing chunge had p:issed 
over it, if we except the introduction of the hexameter. One 
great master of it at least had nhcady appeared ; Lucilius, an 
anthor whose w^orks were read as clai^sical at the time when 
Horace wrote. Many years after t!ie Augustan period, it still 
flourished in full vigour, increasing rather than waxing feeble 
as the rest of Roman poetry and the remains of Roman 
character fell into corruption, and, like history in prose litera- 
ture, roused into more vital intensity by the utter badness of 
everything around it. It was the most real intellectual birth 
that the nation produccO, generated by the old eternness of 



Milmaua lit/race. 



275 



dispofiitlun and unideat legislative temper; wtkI, so long as a 
trace of those cliaraeteristits remained, it was likely to induce 
a stroncrer and more velieincnt protest the more spreading the 
evil to be protested against. In Horace's time, and in Horace's 
hands, it had no such temptation to indecorous el siuiour. Liberty 
went out, not with a violent exph>sion, hut in a gentle exhala- 
tion, almost imperceptibly ; Oetiivius seemed so like a heneliecnt 
person, destined to restore order and tranquillitv, and to put 
down that long-continued b trite of factions which had been 
proved to be tlie banc of rational frceduni. Everyttiing would 
isoon come right in the political world; and ail that a satirist 
could do was to testify against a few moral and social delin- 
quencies, such as the extremely illiberal passion of avarice, or 
perhaps an immoderate and vulgar indulgence in sensual 
plcastu'C, in neither case as absolutely wrung, but as interfering 
M'ith the amenities of life, while at the same time no favour was 
to be shown to the Stoici«, or any people who dared to he over- 
etrict. Some mock-moralist is reported to have remarked that 
it 18 exceedingly diflicidt to strike the golden mean between 
vice and virtue; and this difficulty is exactly what Horace 
surmounted himself by his own happy constitution, and wished 
to make others do so too. He disliked violence of any kind, 
■whether in the pursuit of good or of evil, as offending against 
the rule which he wanted to have regarded as the rule of t'oeiety, 
the rule of toleration. Fortune had not cast liia birth among 
the nobility; but it did not prejudice his innate social qualities; 
he did not mind the accident ; indeed, he turned it to good 
account, and while he speaks with that gratitude and warmth of 
his fathers maguauimity in resolving, in spite of his circum- 
stances, to give his son as complete an education as the best, he 
feels that to have escaped the vioraiie aristocrattipte is a blessing, 
and that the true thing is to live among the great without 
being troubled with greatness one's self. His perception of the 
outward appearances of life was consummately keen, and sharp- 
ened by ilaity practice ; all beyond was a territory which he 
neither knew, nor cared to know — a region of abniirmal mon- 
strosities, of exaggerated feelings and useless questionings. In 
coming before the world as a censor, he touched on literary as 
well as on moral topics, and lost no time in proclaiming himself 
a decided champion of progress. There seems to have been 
a tendency at the time to over-estimate the old writers, and 
to despair of getting bejond them, tliough we do not hear that 
it enlisted much intellectual activity on its side. Horace at 
once opposed it, beginning with an attack on the writer who 
in the very province of satire wa^ supposed to have precluded 
all further improvement, Lucdius, and replying to the clamour 



« 



276 



Mtlmau^s Horace. 



which he thus excited by a second note of spirited defiance. 
With this, his first collected publication seems to have con- 
chuled; wtico he next [Rjts forth a series* of satires he is seen 
as the establislicd favourite of the public, not requiring to make 
any bold strokes for their applause, but licensed to disport him- 
eelf as he thinks fit, and take for granted that they will feci 
interested in his pen^onul humours and fancies. lie next 
appeared, if our chronology be correct, with a lokinie of'epodes, 
a species of composition half-way between satire and ode. 
These were after the Greek, heiu"^ in imitation of Archilochus, 
and may be regarded as Horace^s first conti'ibutiun to the 
literature of the new echooh Some of them at least look as if 
they had been composed e^u'lier than some of the satires, as the 
Epicureanism is scarcely eo ripe, and the tone, whether in 
laughter or in rebuke, rather louder, though the change of form 
inay perhaps have given tlie a[>[)eanuice of a change of spirit- 
'Even in the most satirical of tliem there is something dithy- 
rand)ic; even in tiiose which rise most nearly to a high lyrical 
strain there is a dash of bitterness. However, they paved the 
w^ay for his presenting himself before tlie public as a purely 
lyric writer. lie produced two books of odes, and afterwards 
a third, consisting chiefly of addresses to gods and goddesses, 
great men, (who nre made rather more prominent than the 
immoi'tals,) and male and female friends, Pindar and Anacreon 
appear to iiave been the two extreme points on which he fixed 
his eyes, Sappho and Alcajus lying between. From these last 
he took some of his metres, following the Grreek form, ai 
Niebuhr remarks, much more closely than had been tlie custom 
in the generation just before. To the full height of Pindar he 
did not venture to a^^pire. But he evidently thought himself, 
or wished to be thought, a Koman Pindar. Between the 
rcid enthusiasm with which the Theban bard deifies his heroes, 
and the mock enthusiasm with which Horace deifies Augustus, 
there is, indeed, a step. Still, Horace had a certain belief in 
that great personage — the belief of a quiet, easy-going citizen 
in the restorer of order, reinforced by that of a literary man in 
his patron ; and he trusted to poetical art to do the rest, W^e 
read them as they are^admire the consummate skill of the poet, 
but pity him for his not having had a better subject. Yet it is 
by no means clear whether he would not have felt the inspi- 
ration of a more exalted name a burden to him. * Mature 
formed the poet for the king :' and ju-obably as mucli fervonr 
was called out as his composition was capable of. The ode 
in which, after first endeavouring to stop a friend's grief for the 
loss of a favourite boy by an ap]»eal to the greater moderation 
observed by the convulsions of the physical worldj he ends with 



Milmaiii Horace* 



277 



recommending him by way of diversion to sing the praises 
of CiBsar, whatever eke it proves, (and it might be taken as 
11 text fur proving a good deal,) m an argument, at any rate, 
that hifl faith in tlie man on the throne must have been 
coosiderable, at least for biui. But he was not quite eatisfictl 
ihat his vocation was to celebrate great men and great deeds. 
He rarely gives a specimen of Pindaric song without begging 
jjai'don for having forgotten himself, and confe:*sing that lil:i 
province after all is, what he significantly calls 'joci/ a term 
nearly panilh 1 to 8. PauFis evrpaweXia. It is as tlic Roman 
Anacrcon that he is in his element. Then his exquisite grace 
and playfulness come out, and we fuel that the man ia 
thoroughly equal to liis3 subject. As he advances in years, he 
Muctnutes more and more. He seems half to wish to withdraw 
his diselaimer, apparently being conscious that the happiest 
occasional pieces on love and friendsljip would fortn but a 
slender basis for his permanent reputation as tkt^ lyric bard of 
liOine* At the be^rinmng of the third book he sets forth ode 
after ode, each of them attempting soniethmg of the moral 
sublime. Later still, in putting out a fourth iMXik, he dwells 
more exclusively on his dignity as a poet, and his power over 
posterity. To be ihe Homer of Caesar's battles is on the whole 
felt to be beyond hit? hopes ; but he gradually draws to the 
conviction that he may yet be remembered in connexion with 
the peaceful glories of the Augustan period. A short time 
before, he had returned to his old manner, and published a col- 
lection of epistles, the satires of mature life. He now added 
a second series, containing only three> but those of much greater 
length, and mainly on literary subjects. He makes a final 
protest against the old school of poets, sketches a sort of 
Biographia Literaria of his own poetical life, past and present, 
and lastly, embodies the rules and traditions of his art, all the 
precepts which a long experience had enabled him to leave 
to the world, in a didactic treatise in verse. He was not only 
to revive at liome the spirit of Aleieus, Anacreon, and the 
Greek comedy, but to appear at last as the Roman Aristotle 
wepl IXoiTjTiKtjf;. This was his last character ; and it was natural 
that the curtain should fall among thunders of applause. 

Such a career would doubtless lead us to expect great in- 
cidental succesg ; but it is scarcely prohable that a man so 
ch*cumstanced should have realized his main object. \Vc see 
a most skilful artist availing himself of liis consummate felicity 
of touch to a1 tempt works of diOerent and almost opposite 
characters, half eunseiously with tiie intention of taking more 
than one t^hare in furnishing a gallery of lioman literature. Of 
course, he would be the idol of his contemporaries ; teeling how 



278 



Miimaun Hvrace, 



completely he was one of themselves, they would acknowledge 
in liis varied powers the versatility of their own national clia- 
ractcr, and rejoice to observe what perceptihle progress tlie Latin 
mind was capable of making. It wae, indeed, a stooping to 
conquer. Kojne hail coudej^cended to learn from Greece, and 
Avas amply rewarded by the sudden impulse given to its mental 
dcvelopnieut in almost every branch, and the posj^ession of those 
provinces of intellect and imagination which it seemed in 
a moment to have made its own. But an impartial observer 
will estimate tlie marvel eomcvvhat diftercntly. Guided by 
a view of the literary interests, not of this or that people, 
but of mankind at large, he wilt set no great value on the 
facility with which a national literature can he run up in 
& single generation by persons content faithfully to follow 
the best foreign models, except so far as any characteristic 
genius may be incidentally maniicsted in the process. He will 
not acknowledge the right of a Koman to produce a copy, 
however artfully adapted, of Pindur or Anacreoii, merely 
because there hapjtcned to be at liome a demand for lyric 
poetry. A certain 8tej> has been made by the masters of former 
times; but it will not help the advance of literature simply to 
have that step gone over again, however truly the pleasure 
arising from the first exhibition may be repeated in the second. 
It may be made with a tiiffercnce; and then the difference 
alone will be set down as a gain, and the rest ignored. l\''ith 
these principles he will approach the examination of a work 
like the odes of Horace. He will find undeniable Roman 
oHusions, illustrations, adaptations. But the qucetion w^ith him 
will be, Is the whole w^ritten in a Roman spirit? If not, the 
lyric spirit disjilayed will be restored to the fountain, whatever 
that be, from which it wa^ dcrivetl, and only the Koman externals 
credited to Horace, as proofs of more or less art. And tliis 
last lie will probably find to be his duty. It will ajipear that 
there wan something in the old lloman character that might 
have overflowed in lyric poetry of a certain kind ; it will 
be equally evident that no such element is to be found in 
Horace, A Greek, brought up from his childhood in Koine, 
and able to wield the Latin language completely, might have 
written almost anything in the odes, so far as national indi- 
viduality is concerned. Such a criticism would of course 
ajiply mainly to the greater odes. The 'songs of love and 
wine' Home was still capable of protlueing, though Grecized, 
perhaps all the more for having been Grccized, They are the 
genuine growth of the poetical life of the Augustan era, as 
epics and dithyrarabics are the eimrious. Still, after the case 
has been decided against Horace's title to be considered a great 



Milmaiis Horace, 



279 



Romnn lyrist, it is possible to leave him a large proportion 
of the praise with which men have a^j^reed to honour hini. 
There ia that iinsurpaisscd style of which he and the other 
Augustan poets were such masters; not, indeed^ the style 
which Komati poetg might have attained, had they been 
able to walk in the footsteps of Lucretius and Catullus, but 
admirable as far as it reached, in performance nuich beyond 
anything; previous in Latin, posgibly, even in Greek, antl 
[jowerful in its influence on literary composition many centuries 
afterwards. Coleridge was inclined to trace what lie regarded 
as the depravation of English poetical style to the practice 
of writing Latin verses in schools. It cannot be doubted, that 
our poetry from the Restoration to the beginning of the 
present century was very materially affected by Ovid, Virgil 
and Horace, either in themselves, or through the instru- 
mentality of their French imitators. And there arc other 
beauties, which though going ileeper than the mere phraseology 
of a passage, are yet to be reckoned among the externals or 
accidents of poetry, being not thoughts, but metlia through 
which thought is conveyed, though thcTn^elvea frequently sug- 
gesting thoughts of their own, which give them a substantive 
value as isolated pieces of writing. liorace may lay claim to 
many of tlicse, even in thoi?e odes which most fail of accom- 
plishing their real purpose ; and the existence of ihem tells 
80 far in favour of Koman poetry, showing that there were 
fiubordinate spheres in whicli, even in tlic atmosphere of 
Augustan influences, it was tending to genuine excellence. We 
will mention only the increasing appreciation of the picturesque 
in natural objects. The reader of Humboldt's Cosmos will 
have followed with great interest the sketch there drawn of the 
manner in which this innate feeling has developed itself with 
more or less pronnnence in the literature of the several nations 
of ancient and modern times. The comparatively small space 
which it occupies among the expressed sentiments of classical 
antiquity has often been observed, and is, doubtless, to be 
accounted for by tlie causes ordinarily alleged, the absence 
of a reflective habit of mind, and the like. AVe shall under- 
stand it better by looking to the siuiple question of the division 
of mental labour. In early times the various provinces of 
thought were not likely to be clearly mapped out. The 
physicid philosopher and the poet were continually trespass- 
ing on each other's ground. The former was not free from 



the idols 
province 
nides 
to 



of tl 



le 



miagmation- 



the latter thouijht it was his 



were 
himself 
aires 



reruui cognosccrc causas.' Xenophanes and Parme- 

sion which Virgil proposes 
itions, would in 



ibj 



aspin 



later ages have been left undisputed to Newton and Gaasewlv 



te0 



Milniatis Horace. 



Tbe very nnmcs of the Muses find their respective offices 
show liow completely at first all things were in common* It 
is only since the full reception of the Baconian method that 
a lo\e of nature, like Words worth's, has been possible. Hum- 
boldt will not dlow tlmt the Romans were so appreciative 
as the Greeks, but to us they acem to have been a stage 
nearer to the modern point of view. They were, indeed, 
sufficiently removed from anything like an admiration of 
romantic scenery. Tiie Alps, ns he remarks, appear to have 
suggested no other sensations than those of pure diecomfort. 
But we think there is a greater sense of the quieter beauties of 
nature t^hown by the Romans than can be paralleled from 
the poetry of Greece, except, perhaps, in Theocritus. Tbe 
Greeks were, doubtless, more naturally alive to tbe charms 
of their country j but as Roman civilization advanced, scenery 
seems to have been contemplated more definitely as a separate 
and distinct source of pleasure. It is at Rome that we first 
see gardening becoming au art. And if this be admitted to 
be in any way characteristic of Latin literature, no Latin 
poetry can be named possessing it in a greater degree than 
J Horace's odes. We hardly open a page without finding some- 
tliing about the headlong Anio, and the orchai'ds watered 
by ductile streams, or tbe gtjats wandering through the shel- 
tered wood in search of arbutes and thyme. He has few direct 
attempts at regular picture drawing; but he is fond of noting 
some feature of the landscape, as that on which Jiis eye 
happens to rest. 

It is possible, however, by regarding a poet'e works as a con- 
tinuous process of self*revelation, to extract interest even from 
the \QYy points in which we consider bini to have failed, sup- 
posing of course his failure to be in itself a matter of any im- 
poi*tancc. The curtain is the painting ; and a very good paint- 
ing it may be, if we make up our minds to expect nothing roore. 
As an Augustan writer, the poet of society, striving to express 
himself in Orphic song, Horace is worth studying in his Odes, 
no less than in his Satires. But this is only saying that his 
moral and didactic poems are the real groundwork of the in- 
terest that is felt in him, as being the genuine issues of his 
mind, and thus supplying a point from which his other writings 
are to be judged. Those who delight in the Satires and Epi- 
stles, will he glad to turn to the Odes, and see how that worldly 
wisdom, that courtly adroitness, that easy fluency, stood the 
author in stead, when he strove to prove that Rome might have 
her lyric poetry no less than Greece, It shows no great appre- 
ciation of tbe mission of a poet — a vates, who sees the future 
by the light of imagination — to address an ode to a states- 
man, in the most majestic passage of which he id told not to 



3Iiiinan^8 Horace. 



281 



be anxious about anything beyond the present hour; for that 
all the rest is hoiTied away like a stream which none can check 
or measure. But we miiy admire tlie description of the river, 
now flowing cuhnly on to the Etruscan eea, now rolling along 
fragments of corroded Btone, and trees, and cattle, and cottages, 
while mountain and forest re-echo to its roar; and we may 
moreover be pleased with the pliilosophy as characteristic, 
without defending it as highly poetical. Thus we are sent back 
to the more prosaic works of Horace as the true foundation of 
bis fame. They are the objects on which, after our school days, 
men most often dwell, whenever they think of him at all Nor 
can there be much doubt that they entitle him to something 
very like the credit of an inventor. Lucilius had discarded the 
lyric and dramatic acconipaninients of tlie old comedy, * mutatis 
numevis pedihusque f but his prosaic simplicity may have been 
due to the rudeness of his age, rather than to any principle of 
writing, consciously and definitely embraced by him. But 
works like the Satires and Epistles of Horace may fairly be 
regarded as forming an epoch in the history of poetry. In thera 
we first plainly see the question raised, w bether the language 
of poetry be not the hmguagc of common life? Certain subjects 
come before the mind, as those which are felt to be most real 
nnd vital at the time, and they plead to be admitted into 
poetry: the heroic age may have been thoroughly poetical, but 
it is no longer a living thing ; even those who draw their trage- 
dies out of it, are compelled to breathe into their characters 
their own spirit and that of their age. May not we take any 
phase of society as such, so long as it be our own, and get our 
poetry thence? If this be conceded, tlie monopoly of poetical 
diction has not long to live; for every-clay subjects require 
every-day language to express them, or the effect is at once 
felt to be frigid. The question is one of special moment to us, 
as it is being worked out among us now in more ways than at 
firet sight appear. Even in the past generation, those who thought * 
they were contending against \V"onk worth's doctrine most effec- 
tually were in reality promoting it* We may now see that on the 
literary question Don Juan was on the same side as the Excur- 
sion, both battling for the language of common life against that of 
conventional versifiers ; though the every day existence of the 
one poet was sufficiently different from that of the other, and 
supplied very different images and expressions. The distinction 
between tragcfly and comedy does not settle the question ; but 
rather shows that the apparent difference between poetry and 
prose resolves itself into one of subject. Take up a translation 
of ^schybis into prose, and one of Aristophanes into I'erse, 
and they will be as far from one another as ever; the former 
will not have been made lesa serious^ or the latter less comic. 



282 



Mihmns HojYice. 



English poetry at tlic present moment has not very much direct 
imitatiou of Wo nla worth, and still less of Byron ; hut the revo- 
lution in style is going on no lesa. Those who have tried to 
copy Mr, Tennyson s diction^ or at any rate have studied it 
carefully, will have been surprised to find how much there is 
which they would have before set down as prosaic, esj>ecially 
technical terms and phrases borrowed from philosophy. It 
wonld be easy to accumulate proofs ; but it is sufficient to have 
indicated the fact. Of Bucli a change in poetical language no 
more proper epoch can be chosen than the time of Augustus, 
It had, dou!>tlc!*8, been going on long before, especially nuder 
the influence of Euripides, and his school in Athens: stillj tlie 
experiment there was hardly a crucial one, for the reason men- 
tioned above in the case of the Attic comedy, the retaining of 
certain adjuncts which had been oi"dinarily held to distinguish 
poetry from pro^e. Cut in Horace, society appears to contem- 
plate itself, in and by itself, through no medium but that of a 
studiously unmodulated metre. He binds himself to nothing 
when he begins the Sutire or Epistle^ — ^ perhaps it may turn 
out ft song, perhaps turn out a sermon;'— (a habit of mind 
which he carried with him into the composition of his Odes)^ 
but runs on just as his thought, at no time very deJinite or sus- 
tained, may happen to lead him ; insomuch that his critics 
liavc often proposed, with some apparent reason, to change the 
places of whole paragraphs, even to the extent of inserting 
what now stands as part of one poem in the middle of another. 
Cicero's Letters are a marked literary [ihcnomcnon — a species 
of writing which has been cultivated most successfully in 
modern times, and for which they iiave to thank not Greece, 
but liome. What they are in prose, Iloracc^s Epistles are in 
verse ; the product of a similar state of society, which has ad- 
vanced so far in the study of art that it can aftord to be negli- 
gent on ])rinciple. At Athens, life was too much c*u*ned on 
• out of doors to admit of what we call really social intercourse ; 
the sentiment destroyed itself by its very dittusion, as where 
men were constantly meeting for public purposes, they could 
have hut little strictly domestic feeling: while in Rome, the 
family princi[)le had been always strong, so as to counteract 
anything like an ultra-political spirit; and even now, when 
both the antagonists were being swept away by the common 
enemy, indifiercntism, the first appearance of the evil rather 
tended to develop the social capacities of the people; and men, 
at length set free from other cares than those required for a 
graceful existence, easily formed themselves into circles round 
the imperial centre. Thus, it may be said, that the poetry of 
society was for the first time made possible in the cage of 
llorace. 



I 
4 



Milman^a Horace u 



2B3 



The place then which we a&sign to Horace must depend on 
the estimate formed of this poetry of society, viewed in ita 
simplest aspect* It is, us Mr. Miltnan perceives, to a great 
extent, the Byroa imd liowles controversy ahout Pope, over 
again ; and if anything i^ to he said now more than was said 
theo, it must be owing simply to the change which twenty or 
thirty years? of testhetical improvement may have effected in 
common hahits of thought Certainly now we shall hardly hear 
it asserted, that the dispute turns on the comparative aptitudes 
for poetry of nature aod artj or he called upon to assist at the 
analysis of some of Shakspere's best known passages, in the 
hope of ascertaining which of the two great factors was most 
concerned in their production. We eliould much rather gay 
that the point is?, wdiether the object, be it of nature or art, is 
idcahxed; not literally represented, but glorified by the imagi- 
nation tfiat looks on it. It has now become a formula so trite 
as hardly to need repetition, that wherever there is imagioation, 
whether in verse or prose, there is poetry ; and that every sub- 
ject on which imagination can be exercised is therefore poetical. 
On this general position, that there can be such a thing as the 
poetry of society, Mr. Mihnan will find few to dispute with 
him : what lie is bound to prove is, that Horace's view of society 
was a poetical one. Pie seems to ignore the very common dis- 
tinction between truth in general, that is, any kind of truth, 
and poetical truth ; if indeed, he docs not directly contravene 
it, and suppose that conventionnl literalncss is the essence, in- 
stead of being as it frequently is, the antipodes of reality. 
Goetlie, we take it, would he readily accepted by any one as 
pre-eminently the poet of civilized life; Lot his insight was not 
merely tliat of a keen observer, but that of a diviner, not col- 
lecting isolated facts, but seizing the spirit of the whole. How 
fiir this higher praise can be claimed for Horace, may admit of 
some doubt. He was, indeed, practically indjucd with the 
spirit of the society in which be moved; but this, for a poet, is 
hardly enough* A man tliorougldy absorbed in the life about 
him, teaches others, not by precept, but by example: he may 
himself be held up and flashed into light by a poet's imagination, 
but he can scarcely exercise the gift of imagination himself. 
Byron, at once below and above his age, was able to sketch 
boldly and truly from his own point of view ; we see tlie poet 
standinfT aloof for a tiuie^ and rrazitw on the mddy wbirl about 
him, though himself accustomed to join in it more recklessly 
than the rest. Horm;e was too much occupied with mere present 
enjoyment, not sufficiently violent to cause any revulsion, to 
have the [lowcr of doing more than note down the different 
things which [jaesed before him, as mere matters of sensiUion, 
and generalize from those. Afterwards, when his blood became 

NO LXVI. N,8. X 



284 



Milmans Horace. 



coaler, and his pleasures more philosopliical, hU standing-point 

coiithiued virtiinlly tlie Bame ; he is still an essentially social 
Leiiig, thtaigh hi^ i'lieiKls are fewer, and moral disquisition is 
quite a*; much a thiog fur company as ever Epicurean practice 
was. If he 18 more of a spectator than he wjis, he still likes to 
have some one at his elbow to whom he can make liis com- 
meats, and from whose face he can gather that he is observing 
as a wise man i^liould. He is evidently doubtful himself 
whether he has a rij^ht to be called a poet on the strength of the 
Satires and Epistles. This might he put down to the diffidence 
which a knowknlge of the world teaches a man to feel, or at 
lc:ist to express, did not the appearance of the Odes look like 
the evidence of a more genuine feeling. We do not hear that he 
liegan to write lyrics merely at the request of Augustus, or 
Mecienas; while it is undeniable tliat he talks at intervals, as 
if in producing thcoi he were establishing a real foundation for 
his fame. No one has ever questioned the happiness and ai>- 
plicabilily of the expression strmoui proplora; it can hardly 
be contended that it is merely meant to extend to the metre 
and language, and not to the manner of treating tlie subject. 

It IS at all times diffictilt to point out exact historical pandlels 
between one period and another; the elements are sure to be 
indefinitely varied, and even when t!icy are all to be found in 
one plane, they will not prove to be spread over the same sur- 
i'ace in two given cJises. On the wholc^ if it were asked what 
aj^e in Engli.sli literature corresponded to the Augustan age in 
Kome, it would probably be most correct, as it would be most 
natural, to fix on the times following the Restoration. The 
French writers had then begun to be to us what the Greeks 
were to Horace and his conteuqiornrics. The national spirit, 
after a lung and apparently iticffectual struggle, had at lenglh 
given way, and the general feeling was to sacrifice every higher 
consideration to tlie maintenance of peace and settled order. 
In each instance the lull was favourable to the growth of 
literary ambition. Neither generation perceived how com- 
pletely that wliich must tbrin the heart of a living literature 
had died out ; but they had become better critics, more sen- 
sitive to the requirements of taste, and they were anxious to 
ap|dy their newly acquired knowledge to practice. Thus wo 
had French tragedies, French satires, and probably only escaped 
French epics because France had no very standard model to 
furniah. Had not the earlier writers of England had infinitely 
more strength than those of Rome, great as we have allowed 
these last tu be, and had not there stiU remained something in 
the English mind which after t!ie hipse of more than a century 
could beget a wish to return to old things, poetry among us 
must have eventually become mere rhetoric, and served only aa 



Milmans Horace. 



28a 



the matter out of whose decomposition 8omc new life might be 
generated. But Shakspcare and 3IiUon were afc once the wit- 
ness of the existence of a fuiidixmenlally poetical element in the 
national character, and the cause of its revival. A people could 
not be despaired of which had once given birth to such a litera- 
ture, and was yet ])ermittcd to retain it as an example. 

Yet it is not among the inuiiediatc post-Restoration worthies 
that we should i?eek for a counterpart to Horace. Tlicre may be 
some particles of his spirit discoverable among the Sedleys and 
the Bnckluirsts, were it worth while at this time of day to 
look back to tlicir writings : but not one of them can be named 
as presenting any fif his really distinctive featuren, any in short 
wdiich he has not in common with Petronius. Pope has, nn- 
doubtedly, much stronger claims of cousinage, and most courts 
would not scruple to pronounce him hclr-at-law. As a versifier, 
however, he is rather the Ovid tlian the Ilonice of English 
poetry. Whatever may be the Horatianisms of the Moral 
Essaysj or the Easay on Criticism, they cannot outweigh 8uch a 
fact on the other aide as the translation of Homer. Nor are the 
resemblances between the characters of the two men very ex- 
traordinary. The Roman, even witliout making allowance for 
the difftTence of the light in whicli he lived, was clearly a more 
amiable and better-heai'tcd man than the EngHshraarij whose 
intense pcn^onal vanity, capacity for intrigue, literary jealousy, 
rising to positive malevolence, and consequent uncharitableness 
in judging of the motives of others, have nothing whicli coidd 
be get off against them. We should rather bo incfmed to main- 
rtain tlie pretensions of Cowpcr, admitting freely the great 

iperficial dliiparity that exists between them, but contending 
that at bottom their natures had strong mutual afBnity. Of 
course we suppose ourselves to abstract the influence of that 
singular cfiange wliich pa.'^sed so early over Cowper, and may 
almost be said to have transformed hia whole being, as though 
due abatement should be made for the predisposition of tem- 
perament which such an event implies, the case w^as to a 
great extent an individual one, and the subject of it, retain- 
ing his place as an Englishman in the eighteenth century, might 
quite conceivably have developed without it. Even with it in 
its full ibrce, not resisted by tlie intellect, but suffered to work 
as the law of his mind, he displays in his seclusion from the 
world a social freedom, a genial playful humour, a faculty of 
quiet observation and judgment, an innate gentleness of spirit 
and sympatliy with human frailties, in spite of the severer 
standard recognised and upheld by his conscience, which show 
what the good side of Horace's character might have become. 
His [mre, unatfected vein c>f Engl'sh, runoing out, not in 
epigrams and antitheses, but in real conversational verae^ blsLwk 

X 2 



286 



Milman^s Horace, 



or rhyme, is the nearest thing we have to Horace's poetry pto- 
eaicizctl Plardly any two inetaDces could be mentioned in 
which the raw material of character has heen worked up on more 
discordant principles ; l>ut from the likencsis yet discernible in the 
result, we feel tlmt it must have been originally much the same. 
After all, however, thege parallels scarcely amount even to 
illustrations; lliey may be curious as cases of coincidence, but 
they do not really affect our judgment of the phenomenon in 
behalf of which they are adduced* Horace is to be estimated, 
not as the type of nny other person in any other age or nation, 
but as a man occupying a certain position in his own time. To 
arrai»^n the poet of goci;il life before the tribunal of an austere 
morality, may seem like breaking a butterfly on the wheel ; 
condemning a comedy because it does not fulfil all the require- 
ments of a sermon; yet when we consider wliat Rome was, 
and to what it was luistening, we shall pcrha})s feel that a little 
indignation will not be misdirected against a citizen^ who having 
the ear of Ids covmtry said so few true words — whose philosophy 
at itfi highest did not really rise beyond inculcating a decent 
moderation in sensual pleasure, and a good-natured tolerance of 
other men's peculiarities — whose patriotism, if occasionally it 
vented itself in denunciations of the progress of material pro- 
Bperity, a species of political zeal easy to realize, and almost 
worthless unless accompaiued by a spirit of far-seeing practical 
wisdom, was, in general, quite satisfied with the government of 
Augustus, and saw without pain all the wide-spread energies 
of the nation gradually lost and absorbed into the person of one 
man, A poet who could really find pleasure in living at the 
imperial court, and enjoying the personal friendship of the 
emperor, without, so far as we know, a single thought that he 
was doing what in him lay to swell that vast mass of Koman 
corruption, of whose existence and gradual increase he some- 
times showed himself conscious, will hardly conunand the full 
jsympathies of any, except such as, like liiui, are content to 
barter the future for the present, and employ their thoughts in 
attention to conventional decorum and the art of standing well 
with the world when society is going to ruin l>efore their eyes. 
It was because the better sort of men in the days of Augustus 
consisted of men like Horace, that the next generation pre- 
sented such a spectacle as we see when the curtain draws up, 
and Tacitus sliows us Tiberius in the act of ascending the 
throne. As to the mere material Rome, the city with houses, 
and porticos, and aqueducts, and temples, it may be perfectly 
true that Augustus found it brick and left it marble ; it is no 
less true that he c;imc upon the moral Rome, when, though con- 
vid**ed with strong figonies, it had yet much life to show, and 
that at the time of his quitting it, it was a mouldering system 



I 



Milmans Horace, 



287 



"With scurcely a seed of vitality. Men of gooias oiiglit to be 
the salt which keeps a nation from decay ; the restoratives 
which diffuse a healthy action tlirongh the whole body* But 
Roman literature had lost its savour ; it scarcely even prolonged 
tlie existence of the people from which it sprung : decoin- 
position went on unchecked by it, if not actually assisted. And 
where writings do not appear to have exercised any renovating 
power in their own jieriod, it i& hard to see how they can main- 
tain their place in after times aa permanent soelal companions^ 
We are bringing no new charge against Horace: we are 
merely stating facta and suggesting conclusions which all man- 
kind is supposed to be ready to draw* 

fStill, there is no denying that lie has ever enjoyed, and con- 
tinues to enjoy, greater popidarity thnn many who have a much 
better title to be reckoned as tlie masters of liuman thought. 
With the late Archbishop of Canterbury we understand he 
was a constant favourite. *'I know nothing of your Tract 90, 
and your Tract 89/ said a country getitlcnmn some years ago, 
when the conversation happened to turn on fhe Oxford con- 
troversy; * I always say, Give me my Horace.' Nor is it 
difficult to see how many persons of literary pretensions may 
gladly take refuge in the Horatiaii philosophy, as tlie best 
after-dinner antidote to otlier and more perplexing ciuestions. 
Eveiy one, however unworldly his disposition, has probably a 
latent wish at times to be thought a man of tlie world ; every 
one, however strict his moral coiIe> lias doubtless moments at 
which an Epicurean view of life appears the most tenable. This 
is tantamount to saying, that there are times when" Horace will 
be felt to come home to the breast of every one. It is not 
well to despise or overlook any definite regularly constituted 
instinct in human nature. We may not think it the highest j 
but if we see even the best men occasionally abandoning them- 
selves to it, we may be sure that it has its place, though our 
scheme of ethical duties may seem to have been framed without 
a view to its admission. Where there is nothing that strikes 
the conscience as actually wrong, or as reaching to more than a 
venial offence, we may be sure that there is eon^e genuine sym- 
pathy, however in significant, asking for its jtropcr satisfaction. 
Whether those who look upon Horace as one who after the 
lapse of nearly two thousand years may still be a friend by 
day and a solace by night will be content with this concession, 
we cannot pretend to say ; but such as it is, they are welcome 
to take full advantaf'^c of it,' 

o 

' It may Beem^^Btnmge that we have made do mentioD of Mr. Keblc ; but, 
tbough tbe BentimotitA horc depressed coincide more or less with tlioso dcUvore4 
in UuLeetures, thoy were not coneciouBly derived from llieiii. 



288 



Art. IL^ — Scenes tchtre tha 

Author of The Gaol Chaplain. 



r ha» triumphed* B^ 
London : Bentley, 



the 



There is a clasd of writers wlio rejoice in great solemnity of 
title, and an attractive programme as represented by the contents. 
Now, this is all quite right as far as it goes, but for the very 
reason why a grandiloquent title and a list of subjects euphoni- 
ously arranj^od are rather jileasing to the mind, it also happens that 
they are caiculated to produce a more than slight feeliug of disap- 
pointment if the book itself should not ansTver to the expectations 
ibrmed by it: *wc like a profession just so fur as we associate it 
with the reality. If a title attracts us, it does so because it pre- 
sents to the mind a certain idea of a book, which book we picture 
aa desirable ; but if we discover that the previous idea is not 
realized on further acquaintance, that book henceforth becomes 
only a part of our experience as to the emptiness of mere words, 
and the difference between professions and their fulfilment. 

The same feeling also applies to the general subject under- 
taken as the foundation of a book. If stirring and thrilling 
scenes for instance are chosen, wc have a right to expect in re- 
turn for such an advantage taken by the writer, that he shall 
give something of dramatic patlios or powertul moral tone, or at 
least take great care to accomplish a concise and vivid descriiv 
tion of what is before him. 

With regard indeed to all books of a descriptive or an historical 
character, there are certain instinctive laws in the literary world 
which it is rash for an author to violate. There is a sort of cove- 
nant understood to exist between the writer and the reader. 

The writer chooses his own groimd, and the reader forms hia 
judgment according to the advantages of that ]3osition. To 
illustrate our meaning, we will first take the ease of pure 
roniauce or fiction. The writer here is bound to a certain pro- 
bability of events, and unless indeed he professes the super- 
natural, he must follow^ a natural order of things, such as life 
may be imagined to bring to any one's experience. Events 
deecribed may perhaps be strange, but still they must be possible 
and not violate our notions of probability too much. If stranger 
events and more thrilling scenes arc ventured on than can be 
thus supported, the effect instead of being sublime, from over- 
stepping the mark, baa become ridiculous. A thrilling scene or 
u catastrophe can only be admitted in any legitimate manner, 
as the cUniax of a plot gradually leading up to it, or as the 



Scenes where the Tempter has trhiwphed» 



289 



fonu walorum of a coming history. To arrive unnecessarily or 
frequently at such a mcuns of enchaining attention is takino; an 
unfair advantage, contrary to the true art of story-making, and 
consequently produces either an empty or a ludicrous eticct. A. 
child's first atteuijjt at a story rushca headlong into fires, and 
the tumbling down of houses, whereas a niaturer judgment sees 
the propriety of setting off more exciting events hy a pre\iou9 
train of quieter transactions. This rule is peculiarly observable 
in dramatic writing!*. High drama may include most frightful 
tmgedies, hut there is always some deep ph)t, either represented 
by the continued working of human passion, or by the idea of 
lute, or whatever the case may be, and thus a complete ground- 
work is discovered to exist, on wdiich to raise the climax. Low 
drama on the contrary is often distinguished by its too great 
profusion of vapoury tragedies brought in with uo art or no 
plot, but only for scenic eflect. The attempt is made to unite 
the thriUing climax of several histories into one, by which 
mcansj that process, through wiiich we arrive at a condition to 
be really affected, m altogether neglected, and the final result is 
a vulgar appeal to the eyes, or the very outside surface of our 
sensiti^'e powers. The same argument holds good in things 
altogether disconnected with literature. For instance, iu 
painting, great brilliancy of colour requires some reason and ex- 
cuse lor itA introduction. It is the luxury of painting, the 
crowning feast of the eyes, which must come in ap[tro[triute!y, 
and with due moderation to be itself fully appreciated, or to 
avoid the charge of vulgarity. Again in music, the stormy 
climax so Avonderful and absorbing in its place, without the 
fjuietcr history which the rest of the symphony discloses, would 
come spoilt of its interpreter, and would simply gratify an un- 
meaning love of noise. One proof, if any w^ere wanting, of the 
necessity of due proportion between the preparatory stages of 
any work and the climax may be found in the utter fruitless- 
11688 of attemjjting to satisfy the mind without its observance. 
The mind, if it looks for excitement or amusement from the 
mere relation of horrors, or tVoni mere scenic effect, or, in the 
arts wc have referred to, from brilliancy of ci>lour and the 
clanging parts of music, becomes a more insatiable monster, 
than any earthly food can satisfy. You may heap one thing on 
another ad ififinituin, but you cannot keep pace with such dis- 
proportionate desires. This has been the ruin of all modern 
theatriciil managers. To make up for dmmatic talent, they have 
commenced scenic representations. That ]irinciple once begun 
is self-condemned to |>crpctual increase or to decay. Nobody 
cares to witness such things a second time, except on a grander 
scale. The expense soon overreaches all bounds, and empti- 



290 



tfie Tempter has triumpkein 



I 



ness of mind is the only result. The same result may be ob- 
served in the ever-growing expense which the desire for a splendid 
manner of lix^iiig entails, if everything h not kept in proportiun 
by what U ctUled good taste, that is, an ajjprcclatlun of the 
fitness of things* 

To return, however, to the province of literature, we will 
enm up our notice of ronianco or fiction, generally, by the 
remark, that an attempt to excite interest by an appeal to the 
morbid sensibibtiCsS of the niitid, not in proportion to the ground 
work or plot of a story, is a fraud in literature, oidy meety with 
admiration in the vulgar qualities of the mind, and must have 
a most ephemeral existence. 

Other ca^^es, however, need consideration besides that of 
general romance or fiction, where the whole ground of human 
events is before the writer, and he has to make his choice. We 
may take the ease of a particular period of history, that of a 
very tragical character, being ado]>ted ai? the i^ubject cither for 
narration, or on which to found an hit<torical romance; for so far 
as the descriptive powerii are concerned there U equal room for 
powerful writing in both. In thi^ case, tragctly of course will 
occupy a larger place tlian on the fonner supposition. But still 
there need be no dtEfproi»ortion in the work as a whole; for those 
preparatory t^tages that work the mind up, so to speak, for 
tragedy arc presupposed. The writer professedly starts from 
that point, and therefore may be perlectly cunsistent with 
nature and good t«iste if he deals ygyy greatly in scenes and 
horrors, just as an artist, if he chooses tor his subject any scene 
like as the destruction of Sodom, is at liberty to indulge in an 
otherwise unnatural amount of wild and fiery sky. In this case, 
however, the point from which the writer starts h laid to Ida 
account in the mind of the reader, as so much in his advantage, 
in return for which privilege of subject he must give an equiva- 
lent in the manner of narration and the power of hia language. 
Even newspaper reporters, whose business is simply to commu- 
nicate facts, and that on the sliorteat notice, they are aware of 
the privilege which great events afford them, and feel it incum- 
bent on them to exalt their style of writing in jiroportion to the 
emergency. Much more then in writing a book, which is sup- 
posed to be a work of mature consideration; should this instruc- 
tive contract between the writing and the reading world be 
8crupuloU!?ly observed. 

We now take another supposition, which we will put into n 
definite form, exemplified by the work at the head of our article. 
The circumstances o\' this book, we will premise by saying, are 
very favourable for the indulgence of a certain thrUling manner 
of wanting. This is an advantage gi^anted to the author, or 



Scenes where the Tempter h€ts triumphed. 



291 



rather chosen by himsolf, in return for whicli we expect a 
powerful t^tyle. In the first ploce, his professed {^iiKjcct ts 
tragedy ; he depicts sin in it 8 deepest forai, and follows out its 
most calamitous results on the well-heuig of society. Here 16 
the foundation of tragedy, but further than this he k granted the 
poetical sublimity of heavenly vengeance and earthly retrihu- 
tion. He dej^cribes first the sin; he traces the mental agony of 
convicted culprits ; he followis them to the scaffold^ and brings 
in death, with its most awful accampaniments, at the end of 
every chapter. Wliat would a worn-out novelii^t give for 5uch a 
happy licence? lie knows, however, that in his cane it would be 
ludierouis to indulge so freely in tlie nltimatiim of sceite.*. Witli 
regard, however^ to the present book, this privilege, from the 
nature of the casc» is granted. A sad reality, again, with regard 
to facts, though melancholy in itself, is another advantage in aid 
of the writer; and to increase our cxitectations from such mate- 
rials, if it were po^t^ible, the relater of them lias been himself an 
actor in tliose or similar scenes, as we conclude from his being 
the author of 'The Gaol Chaplain/ and also from the intro- 
duction. Beyond this inference we have no personal know- 
ledge of our author; he is consequently surrounded by the 
mysterious power and authority which the anonymous style 
affords to a writer in place of the gratification of any personal 
vanity. The author of the 'Gaol Chaplain' stands before us, 
hiniBelf also one of those solemn functionaries. In that charac- 
ter only do we know him ; we liave not, like young Cop[)crfield, 

* seen liim without that white thing.' Surely, then, taking all 
these means and apphance^ into cnnsideration, a nervous-minded 
person might almost begin to shudder before the book was 
opened. The recollection ol* otlier storie?, whei*e a like advan- 
tage of subject had been taken, sucli as gome parts of the 

* Diary of a late Physician,' and * Death-bed Scenes/ comes 
into the mind, and expectation is raised very high, hoping that 
the same interest is about to be again excited through means 
of the present volume. 

The title of the work also gives still further hope of ita 
interest. ' Scenes where the Tempter has Triumphed ' throws 
a supernatural gleam of horror on the too familiar associations 
of vice ; and also it assumes that the nature of crime is dis- 
cussed as leading to certain terrible results by the inevitable 
disposition of Providence. Both in the title, and also in the 
headings of eaeh chapter, we have an assurance tliat the aiitlior 
knew^ and felt the strength of his position. Each instance of 
crime which he selects for description is announced under the 
head of the original .snare which first led its victim from the 
right course, or else is meant to convey 8ome proverb of mighty 



202 



Scetm where Uie Tempter has triumphed. 



im|)ort Tlius we have * Wounded Vanity' at tbe head of one 
clmpter, * ropnlmity ' at the head ot" atiothLT; and, of the 
IjittcT kind, * Tlie Engineer hoist by his own Petard/ Again, 
'The Traitor Clergyman/ 'The Gaining-house, an Ante-room 

the Gallows/ ' The Viper who stung his Benefactor/ are 

iples of the profound moral and philosophieal aspect in which 
irime and its punishment are seen by our author. But what- 
ever the sentiment or aphorism may he which lieada eacli 
chajiter, there is but one conclusion to all^ — that uf the gallows; 
to thi:* point we arrive with mieJ*ring certainty. We are secure 
of vengeance if indignation is roused at the crime, and may 
always land tlie hero of each tale beyond the reach of earthly 
mischief. 

Now, to Fay that this book does not answer to its oppor- 
tunities, or fnltil expectation, will convey no adequate uotion of 
its many deficieneies. All hope, indeed, of any brilliancy or 
poetic manner of treatment, any well-followed out view of divine 
Nemesis working tlirough human justice, is checked by the 
general views of crime and punishment expressed in the first 
chapter, where he states that * tlic sole and legitimate object of 
all punishment is the prevention of crime/ but we were not 
quite prepared for the meagre account given in many instances 
of bare Ihcta to illustrate the ponqious headings under which 
they are arranged ; or, again, for the very indifferent language 
in which they arc given, Ulie morals, also, drawn from each 
case, as it comes in review, arc not sufhciently novel in our 
opinion to warrant the sole amity of their introduction. They 
are too much like the verbal address of a chaplain in the per- 
formance of his office. Then, indeed, they might be appro- 
priate; and, considering to whom they would be adtlressed, 
might even not strike the listener as common-place ; !>ut to other 
persons, and those who are at all likely to read the present 
vulume^ we cannot but imagine that they will appear very trite. 

We w^ill give, however, one Idstory complete, to show the 
ground of our complaint ns to poverty of facts and triteness of 
morah The chapter is beaded ' Industry in an Unholy Cause. 
Denton, the Coiner.' 

Mt is an Engl is lim sin's boast that in his own freecoimtrj^ no distinction la 
unnttninabie t*i the aspirant wlio combines in liis own person taUnit, industry, 
and character ; that an adventurer, no matter how humble hia birth or how 
obscure hia femily^ may, if deserviog, grasp the highest honours of the pro" 
fession of hia choice. 

*TIie boast is a noble one, nnd based on centuries of experience of our 
free institutions. Many a bishop lias first seen the light in a lowly eottagc; 
and many a law-lord been cradled in the little "keepiog-room" behind the 
shop of some petty tradcsmau in a provincial town, 

* But in each of these inetances, to talent and industry, there baa been 



Seems te/tere tlte Tempter has triumphed* 



293 



^ 



added principle. The determination to excel has been vigorously mani- 
fested, and has decidedly the resolution to rise fairly. 

' A simihir boast may be uttered with reference to that importfint boon — 
education. The Engflishman says proudlji ** it is not withheld from the 
people, it b promoted amone^st them." 

' But to eaucntion and industry, a parity of rensoning will Apply. 

* Industry to be availing must be rightly directed : and education, if it ia 
to bless and benefit, must be based on Christian principles. 

' Othermse, the former resolven itself into activity in wickedness — a mere 
multiplication of misdeeds ; and the latter into a training for the gallows. 

* The fate of the chemisit-eoiner illustrates these eonclu:siona : — 

* Thomas Denton was a native of Yorkshire, his birth-place being a little 
\illage in the North Ridings of that wealthy county. His orij^nal position 
in life was humble — that of a tinman, Selt-instructed, and naturally of an 
aspiring disposition, be lost no opportunity of gaining information and 
laising himaelf in the scale of society. Success scema to have attended his 

efforts, for, in 1779, we find him a bookseller in the city of York. Soon 

Imfkerwards he visited London, where, seeing a speaking figure made by 

[i«ome ingenious foreigners, it occnrred to him that be could const ruct a 

similar piece of mecliariiam. lie made the attempt, and triumphed. A 

;indred figure was completed in a very Bhort space of time; by exhibiting 

which in various parts of England, he accumulated a considerable sum of 

money. 'I*he speaking ^lg^^rc he subsetjueutly sold to a printer, in London. 

He then made a writing figure, which xvas in existence at the close of the 

.last centnry, Science claimed every leisure hour. He became an adept in 

chemiiJh-y. From early youth this appears to have been a favourite pur- 

luit. To it he grudgetf no expense or labour, so far as experiments were 

tncerned, if they promised in the most remote degree to further his mas- 

of the science. One among many of his suceiessful efforts lu thia 

'iiepartment deserves distinct mention, namely, his translation of" I'infitti'a 

Book of Deceptions," with notes. From his acquaintance with chemistry 

he obtained the art of plating conch-harne.ss, which he carried on for some 

time in connexion with the business of a bookseller, in High-strc'Ct, tlol- 

born. While thus engaged he, most unfortunately, formed a connexion 

with a person notorious for making plain shiUings. The same abihtiea 

which had enabled him to construct several mathematical instruments, such 

as pentagrnphs, sextants, Arc, gave him facilities for imitating the current 

coin of tbe realm with a perfection that deceived the best judges. 

* Detection at last overtook him ; he w^as apprehended, indicted, and ar- 
raigned. His trial lasted seven hours: and such was the tact with which 
he liad conducted his jiroceedinga that, from the beginning to the end of 
the investigation, it was more than doubtful whether any verdict could be 
secured against him. The result waSj that he was acquitted of coining, but 
convicted of having the implemenls lor coining in his possession, Sentence 
of death was passed upon him, and, pursuant to it, he was executed July 
Uty 1789. 

* Will men never learu that any deviation, however slight, from the 
narrow patli of integrity is necessarily perilous? Uo they retjuire to be 
reminded that it is an fttmesiand meritorious aim, which srinctifieH industry, 
and draws down the blessing of Heaven upon it? No cJlbris, no toil, no 
perseverance, no amoimt of patience and self-denial can hallow a bad cause. 
Wovvcver fair its outside, the seeds of shame and sorrow Inrk within it, 

*Iiad half tlie patient and continuous industry which Denton displayed 

in acquiring knoi\ ledge for purposes of fraud* been honestly and properly 

directed, opulence, security, ami an untarnished name might have ocen his. 

•Hia love of knowledge, his thirst lor information, the perseverance with 



SH 



Scenes where the Tempter has triumphed. 



which lie carried out his plan of self-inBtniction, the avidity with which he 
grnspcd opportunities of strengthening his hold on science^ these are so 
many noble feutureH in hh cimracter. 

* Had hia aims been hone>>t all would have been well. 

' As it was he " sowed the wind to reap the whirlwind.'* * — Pp. 99-^103, 

What there is in this rehearsal worthy of the form in which 
it is now put Ijefore the world, is bcjond our power of iuveatiou 
to discover. We neither have the curious piece of mechanism 
descriheil, tior the nianner of the culprit's detection, nor even 
hia execution; but only something about a free country, a 
bishop, and a law-lord, with an extnict from a gaol sermon 
tacked on at the end. 

The chapter, * The Gaining House, an Ante*room to the 
GallowB,' lias, on perusal, very little concern with the peculiar 
vice it holds forth, as leading to such disastrous consequences. 
The whole chapter i8 eight pages in lenfrfch, disposed of as 
follows :^One page and a half, remarks about the Teiopter, 
full of notes of inteijection ; two, a confused account of some 
dishonest transactions in the I'uuds, by Henry Weston; one, 
stating the fact, that the said Henry Weston was hanged; anr 
after his conviction, exliortod all young men to take better cai 
of their money than he had done ; and three and a half, de- 
flcribing another man who, though he lived by phiy, yet went to 
church) was temperate in hia habits, and died comfortably in his 
own bed. The only positive notice of a gaming-house in the 
account of the man who was hanged, occurs incidentally at an 
end of a sentence about the funds, and stands as follows: — 
' And other great losses which he had experienced at different 
gaming-tables.' To tnake up for this deficiency of appropriate 
niuterial, it is so managed, that the reader's eye sliall rest on 
the words * T/te Gamhtg-home T in the course of the first page, 
forming a whole paragra[>h, and obviously meant to tell its own 
story, as the author had no story to tell about it. The end of 
this unfortunate man is conveyed with equal brevity in another 
paragraph, coni?l:?ting of the word 'Death.' 

Another chapter is headed * Extravagance, the Highway- 
man's Training School. Robert Walpole Chamberlaine.' The 
first page and a half wc will extract, as it contains all that has 
to do with the subject, the remaining four being about some 

lady, whose hands were not so delicate as those of Lady ; 

but yet who was a more pi'aiseworthy character. 

* The cry is often loudly raiaed, and as often slavisbly heeded — " Ab I he 
will siieceed because be is backed by me^ns ; nnd he will assuredly fail^ 
because he haa to atrnggle with poverty." But it is not ftlways thns. 
Means are aometiraes a positive evil. Where pnuiencc and principle are 
wanting^ they are deatrnctjve. Whcrean poverty, tbongfb a severe school, 
teaches many a snlntnry lesson, affords many a valuable check, subdues a 




Scme$ tcAere the Tempter hat triumphed. 



2»d 



man's heart, renders it soft and sympathisingj and nerres him for fuhire 
eflurt and for future uaeftdness. 

* AVhich of these assertiouB will the following facts support? 

' Early in Jime, 179lf Mr. nellamy, of Ewell, in Surrey, and his lady, as 
they were returning to that place in their carriage, were stopped near the 
twtrlve-mile stone, on the Epsom road, at nbmit tea o'clock at night. Their 
assailants were three footpads, who robbed them of their watches and other 
valiiftblLeB, together with a considerable sura of money. 

* But with robbery they were not content. Dragging by main force the 
lady and gentleman from their vehicle^ tkcy cut and wounded the latter in 
a most cruel, wanton, and danfjernus manner. 

' Many months elapsed without bring^mg with them a diacovery of these 
ferocious aasailanta. No means were lel\ untriDd to detect the gudty per- 
petrators, but in vain. 

* At length, in 1793, a clue was obtained to the parties, and Robert Wal- 
pole Chamberlaine was apprehended, tried^ and convicted at the Summer 
Assize, held at Croydon, for high^vay robbcrv and maltreatment, 

* No mitigating circumstances presenting iliemselves, he was executed on 
Kenuington Common, August ,>th, 1793* lie had numbered only 23 years 
of age, and at the decease of his mother, a very iew years before, had in- 
herited ii fortune of 10,000^, which he dissipated in three year»*—V\i, 265 — 267. 

The cliapter headed ' The Traitor Clergyman/ commencea 
with some general remarks on the restlessness of man, the ne- 
cessity ot'govcnitnt'ntj antl tlie s?in of rehcllion. The particular 
instance of the crioie which he adduces, is thus described: — 

* Such was presented in the person of the Rev. William Jackson, uhose 
designs admitted oidy of one coustniction. Treachery placed these in pos- 
session of the government, and on the 23d of April, 179a, ho was put on 
his trial Ibr high treason, at the bar of the Court of King's Bench, Dublin/ 
— R 120. 

The trial is dwelt on more at leno;tli in this case than the 
former, and is interspersed with long speeches, beginning 
* Gentlemen of the Jury/ the whole scene ending in the 
prisoner at tlie bar dying irom poison. All this is told in a 
cooftised, pointless manner, the common routine of every trial 
occiiiiying as much space as the peculiar features of the one 
under consideration. 

The principal crimes for which death has been the penalty in 
the histories now before us, arc murder and forgery. Of the 
former, that headed * Wonnded Vanity,' is, perhaps, the most 
interesting, and contains the lUllest account of the facts oF the 
ease, Ou the subject, indeed, of wonnded vanity, as leading to 
such disastrous conseciucnces, not much is proved, for tlie murder 
itself is a very imimportaiit part of the story; and is even sup* 
posed by our aulhor to have been accidental. The peculiar 
feature of the case was, the coticcahiient of the dead body for 
a long time in the house betore anything was suf^pected, and 
the absence of any attempt on the part of the murderer to 
effect his escape. Theodore Gardelle,~if we remember right 
this man was of the same country as CourFoisier and the woman 



296 



Scenes where the Tempter hag triump/ted. 



Mannin^if — was a portrait painter, and had lodgings at the house 
of Mrs. King, in Leicester-square, * a gay, showy woman,' who is 
the institiicc of wounded vanity ; Gardellc not havin^^ done justice 
to licr ehanna in hiB attempts on Iier portrait. One morning, 
when these two were alone in the house, the servant being out 
on an errand, (which occupiea several pages of the book to 
explain,) the following scene took place : — 

' ImmLHlialely after the girrs rlepnrtiirc, Mrs* King, hearing tlie sound of 
footsteps in the ]mrlnnr, called out, *^U'/to is ihcre ?*'" «nd at the same lime 
opened her chambtM' tloor. Giirdellc waa at a tiible, very near the door, 
Ijavin?^ just thcu taken up a book that lay xipon it. He had some short 
time helbrr. hcen enjira;j;^cd on Mrs. King's portrait, which it was her wislll 
shoiiUt he hiirhly flattered, and had teased liim so much on this point thaC^ 
the elTcct was the direct contrary. The portrait wan undcnifthly plain. It 
happened, uorortiinately^ that the very first thing she said to him when she 
saw it was he who was wBlkinfj; ahoiit the room, was some remark of a re- 
pro-ichful and angry nature toueliiiig the plainness, or inferior execution, 
or faulty likencsa of her portrait ; — something in diaparagement of his 
efforts. 

* Gardelle was provoked, and speakings English but imperfectly, told her, 
in lieu of sonic nmre guarded expression, that she waif an {mperlinenf woman* 

' Tliia threw Jier into a transport of rage, nnd she gave him a violent blow 
with her fist on the breast, so violent, that he said he "could not hava^ 
thought such a blow could have been struck by a woman," As soon at 
the blow had fallen she drew hack a little, and at the same instant he laid 
hi3 hand on her shfuddcr, and pushed iier from him, rather in contempt than 
in anger, or wilh a design to hurt her. At this juncture her foot happened 
to trip in the floor-cloth. She fell backwarks, and her head crime with 
gfcnt Ibrce iigninst the corner of the bedstead. The blood immediately 
gushed from lier mouth, not in a continued stream, but na if by dift'erent 
strokes of a pump. He instantly ran to her and Btooped to raise her, ex- 
pressing his eouccru at liie accident; f)ut she pushed him a\Tay, and 
thrcntened^ though in a feeble and faltering voire, to jumish him for what 
he had dtme. He wag, lie said, terrified exceeding^iy at the thought of being 
condemned for a eriminul act upon her accusation, and again attempted to 
raise her up, as the blond still gushed from her mouth in large quantities ; 
but she exerted all her strengh to keep him off, and continued to cry out, 
mixing threats xvitb her screams. He then seized an ivory comb with a 
sharp taper pointy which she used for adjusting the curls of her hair, antl 
which lay upon her toilet^ and threatened, in his turn, to prevent her eryinp^ 
out; but she continuing to scream, tbougli her voice became famter and 
fainter, he struck her with the comb, probably in the throat, upon which 
the blood llowerl from her moutlv in yet greater quantiliea, and her voice waa 
quite choked. He then drew the bed-clothes o\er her, to prevent her blood 
from spreading on the floor, and to hide her from his sight. He stood 
some time motionless before her, and then fell down by her side in a swoon. 
When he came to himself he perceived that the maid had returned^ and 
therefore left the room without examining the body to sec if the unhappy 
woman was quite dead; his confusion was then so great, that he staggered 
against the wainscot, and struck his head so violently as to raise a bump 
over Iiis eye. As no person wa;* in the hnusc but the murdered and tb« 
murderer while the deed wiha committed, nothing can be known respecting 
it, except from Gardelle's own lips. Tlfcsc detadn contain the substance of 
what he related both in his defence, and in the account whicli he drew up 
jin French to leave behind him." — Pp. 11 — M, 



Scenei whrs the Tempter has tnampJted, 



297 



> 



» 



The concealment of the murder 13 described with far more 
prolixity of detail thim would warrant us in extracting the story, 
as tbe author himself ha^s related it ; of thi^, the following 
passage, which ia continued from the last extract, will convince 
our readers:— 

All was quiet wlieu the aervant-girl, Annie, returned, wbich, ahe says, 
vas in a quarter of an bonr. SLe went first into the parlour, where Gar- 
tlelle had promised to wait till she came back, and saw noboiiy; she bad 
paid three sbilbngs ami nincpcncc out of the guinea at thesnulf-shop where 
sbe delivered one of the lettjcrs, to the other she had no iinswcr, and abo 
laid the change and tbe aiiulT-box, with the snuff sbe bad fetched in it, upon 
the table ; nbe then went up into Gardelles room and found nobody, and 
by turns she went into every room in the house, except bep mistress's 
cbamber* tthich she never entered umummnnefL Visit wbal room she would 
sbe found nobody : slic then lieated some water in the kitchen, made some 
bnttered toast, and sat down to breakfast, '—Pp. 14^ 15, 

The suUstanee, however, of the case is, that Gardelle sent 
the servant out again, and on her return, stated that her niijs- 
tresa had unexpectedly left home for a short time, and that her 
services were no longer required. She then left hiui alone in 
the house* and in spite of another loili^er w!io slept in the 
house, and of a char-woman, (called a partf/j) whom eonie 
friends of his own sent in conscqucucc of the servant's absence, 
he maintained the secret for a wliole week without any suspicion 
being raised. Duriog all tlVis time he never attempted to 
escape, but employed hioiself day and night in making away 
with the body, burning some jiarts and concealing others, and 
wa."*hing out all traces of blood. This last process led to sus- 
picion, which was followed by conviction. The execution was 
thus conducted: — 

* lie was executed, amidst the shouts and hisses of an indigjnant populace, 
in tbe Hay market, near Paaton-street, to which be was broujjfht by n route 
that conducted him paist Mfr. Kiof^'s bouse. Here tbe cart slopped, and 
the wretched man g:avc one basty p:lance at it — no more. His body waa 
banged in chains on Hotuislow Heath.' — P. 32. 

The chapter headed ' The Penalty of Sin Delayed, but 
Certain,' contains a singular instance of a struggle between 
avarice and self-preservation. An elder brother, was all through 
life at the mercy of a younger, from the latter's knowledge id' a 
crime committed by his brother. He bis exposed his chiltl 
under a hay-stack, in order to cause its death, and accordingly 
i t was found dead early next morning. In spite, however, of 
the elder one being thus ia his brother's power, he behaved 
most dishonestly to hini in all pecuniary transactions, and, him- 
self very wealthy, suffered his brofclier to remain in abject 
poverty, occupying a very huml)lc cottage at his own gates, 
wliich he was in the habit of opening for tlie brotber'a carriage, 



298 



Scenes where tlie Tempter has triumphed. 



without receiving any token of recognition. On several occa 
sions the younger brother let out the secret casually, but the 
matter was hu.sJicd u[), and spread no farther, as of too long 
standing to be dragired before the public. On one occasion, 
wlien the circumstanco was hinted abroad, and legal proceed- 
ings were actually commenced, the younger brother, from 
apprehension of the serious cunscqncnce^ of hia own evidence, 
offered to leave the country, if five pounds were given him for 
necessary expenses, but avarice refused even this sum ; and at 
lastj in old age, he buffered tlie penalty of death, for a crime 
commilted in early youtli* 

The chapter somewhat pompously entitled, * The Engineer 
hoist by his Petard : Isdwell the Jew Schemer,' is first made 
the occasion of some remarks on the general respectability of 
Jews, and also on the generous impulses of Lord John Russell, 
for wisliing ' to remove every remaining relic of persecution 
from so peaccaljle, industrious, and compassionate a community.' 
The story itself is given as follows: — 

* Indwell, \\\m waa conihunl in die New Prison, Clerkenwell, liad manjiged, 
by the aid of "enornioug Ijing/' to pcrsiiadc tw<i of the turakeys tliitt 
an fiunt of his, who waa very rich, then lay Bt the point of death, iind 
that, coii!d she see liim before she died, she would gnve him a thousand 
pounds. For their aid in acconipUshiop; this interview and securing tho 
money, be promised a bberal rcninoeralion : the terois to wliicb he pledged 
Liniaelf, were these: that if ihey ivouhl let him out, and accoaipnny him to 
bis relative's residence, he Mould give tbera fifty guineas each for their 
trouble, and suprfz^cisted that the interview might be effected without the 
kjuiw ledge of the keeper of the pruson, or of any other person, they having 
the keys of it at night, and the time refpiired being very short. To i his pro- 
posal the Uirakeys assented ; the rink was deemed ligpht ; the visit prac- 
ticable ; and the promised douceur by no means comemptible. The 
preliminaries being arranged, and a thorough understanding existing anioiig 
the parties, about one o'clock ia the morning the gates were opened, and 
Isdwell, with hia irons on, was conducted in a hackney-coach by one of tlie 
txirnkeys, John Dny^ armed wilb a blunderbuss, to his aunt's house, which 
be stated to be in Artillery-Inne, Bi^hopagale-street. Here they gKiucd 
immediiLtc admittjince on ringing a bell^ and on making inquiry for the sick 
lady were ushered up stairs. 

* Isdweli went into the rotmi first, on whieb several fellows rushed forth 
and endeavoured to prevent the turnkey, John Day, from following him. 
Failing in that attempt they extinguished the lights, wrested the bluudcr- 
busB out of Day's bauds, and discharged it at him. At this instant, it is 
supposed, Isdwell was endeavouring to make bis escape out of the door, as 
he received the principal part of the contents of the blunderbuss in his 
back, and felt dead! Dny also fell, one of the ahiga having grazed the 
upper part of hie head. The confederates, by somo means detecting tbeir 
mistake, though in the dark, beat the turnltcy so severely with the butt 
end of the bluuderhiiss, while be lay upon the ground, as to break it in 
pieces, fracture his hcuU ia two places, and inflict frightful bruises on his 
body. The noise which the atTray occasioned brought the ni^jbt patrol to 
the house, who secured ten perssons therein — all, with sciircely an excei>- 
tion, Jewx. The intention of the BS^^ailant.■? was obvious. They would have 
murdered the turnkey, had not timely assistance been rendered.* — Pp. 92 — 91. 






I 



Scenes tohere the Tempter hat triumphed* 



SIM 



The trial and concluding moral we spare our reader?, with its 
solemn paragraphs, * 'IV* ef>er tkmf 

* A deppenite Stratagem* is an interesting story, if the prefa- 
tory remarks on bankers' clerks io general be omitted, wliereia 
bankers are exhorted to place that class above temptation, a 
phrase innocent enough, if meant only to say that men should 
be paid for their work, but unmeaning and incorrect if taken 
literally. 

The case of the Stanfield-Hall murder 36 given at some length, 
imder the head of * The Criminal carefully cloaked in Religious 
Professions j' but as the account contains no improvement either 
in novelty or style on the newtipaper reports so lately before the 
world, we pass it over. ' A Worcester Tragedy,' a c^'isc of 
matricide, and also the case of Richard Patch* for murdering 
the man to whom he was most indebted in life, are horrible in 
the annak of crime ; but the manner of their relation is to the 
last degree mean and desultory. The last in the book is ciilled 
* Murder for One Word — Barbot, the irascible Attorney,' which 
on investigation turns out to be nothing but a v'ery uninteresting 
duel, arising, as such things commonly do, out of hasty words. 

Several cases of forgery are given at some length, with more 
than ordinary minuteness of detail. A eort of tender sentiment 
is made to hang over the memory of Dr. Dodd, as the victim 
of his love for popularity: as the law, howeverj then stood, 
be deserved hie fate perhaps more than the majority of those 
who were offered up at the shrine of commercial probity. It 
may be a subject of congratulation that forgery is no longer a 
capital offence, but we should not forget that the intricate 
syistem of commerciul credit, which so facilitates busifiess, may, 
during its earlier stages of growth, have absolutely required the 
extreme penalty of death on all who so violated its principle. 
There must be an instinctive horror attached to the name of 
forgery, or all paper transactions must cease, and all the business 
of a civilized comnumlty must return to a simplicity of monetary 
affairs quite incompatible with the most ordinary mercantile 
transactions. If we can dispense with death as the punishment 
for a forged name, so much the better ; but at a former age of 
legislation the question may have stood before the world in 
some such manner as the following :-=Here is an immense 
advantage to be gained from simplifying the conveyance of 
money — ^a convenience so incalculaole, that with it we may 
extend our commerce into a fresh stage of existence, but without 
it we must lay beliind the world, and not be able to remain even 
stationary. But a certain condition is requisite before this can 
be done. The signature of a name must be sacred ; the feeling 
of honour as connected with paper must be equivalent to the 

NO. LXVl. — N.8, Y 



300 



Scenes where the Tempter has triumphed* 



I 



love of gold, for the one is to represent the other. Precautions, 
indeecl, may be taken to render forgery as difficult aa possible, 
but BtiU there needs a poweriul protection and t^afeguard beyond 
that< On this ground it may be explained why the protection 
Becessary to establish confidence ap[)c«red to our forefathers to 
be nothing less than death to the oiteiider. 

Another ground of complaint we would bring against tbia 
book, arises from a coaiparison of its title with the particular 
instances of crime recorded in it. The reader is, undoubtedly, 
led to suppose, as we have said before, both by the title and the 
introduction, that the author is a* Gaol Chaplain,' and, therefore, 
he not unreasonably expects that the book will contain histories 
that have come under his own experiences, and thus bring to 
light something new in the annals of crime. If an author tra- 
vel, aud comes home to write an account of those countries 
which he has visited, we certainly have reason to he disappointed 
if the book is a compilation from other Bources, and has no refe- 
rence to the author^s own ex])erience. Yet this * Gaol Chaplain' 
writes a his lory *ofvanou3 criminals, which turn out to be cases 
about which he has no more infonnation than other people, or 
even as much, in some instances. Wc are not benefited by 
the peculiar fitness of the author for undertaking such a work; 
therefore, he stands before us in a false position, when, having 
anticipated otherwise, we make this discovery. 

l»[ow, 80 far from the instances here brought forward being 
the experiences of one man, they arc the moat familiar catises 
ctitbres of more than a century, from Gardelle to Rush, and are 
all of most common-place notoriety, being, moreover, much 
better told in the ' Annual Kegister' of the dates. Gardelle, 
for instance, is familiar to all, not only from that most accessible 
source, but from Hogarth's awful portrait of him. 

But not only has our author selected instances of common- 
place notoriety, but in doing this, he has displayed singular 
Ignorance as to the history of those very cases, and also great 
C4U"eleseue88 as to the sources from which lie gathers his facts. 
Take, for instance, the above-named case of Gardelle; he accepts, 
unhesitatingly, the murderer's own account of what passed, which 
made it appear an accidental occurrence. As well might we 
weave up a story out of Rush's fictitious accounts of the Stan- 
field Hall murder, or take any version of the facta of a crime 
which a prisoner may assert in self-defence* Now, Gardelle 
was pretty generally known not to have taken the innocent part 
in the affair which he would have had supposed. T!ie real facte 
of the case, as believed at the time, hatl very little to do with 
wounded vanity * on the part of the woman King, but throw 
>le guilt on the murderer. 



Scenes where the Tempter has triumphed, 301 

We now close the book before us, again repeating that it does 
not answer to the expectations raised by the title and the sub- 
jects discussed. It is an attempt to take advantage of a certain 
morbid appreciation for histories of crime, which exists in the 
minds of some, in order that a book utterly void of all the proper 
qualification of interest, may yet go down with the public. This 
is the principle, above all others, which it is the critic's work to 
detect and expose. The honour of the literary world, and the 
dignity of a book, it is his duty to defend and sustain against all 
the trashy, ill-digested publications of those who would write a 
book, yet have nothing to say, nor would even know how to 
write it if they had. 



Y 2 



302 



Art. IIL — 1. Pmlni9, Hi;mm, and Spiritual Son^s, B^Uba, 
Watts, D.D. 

2. A Collection oflhmng,for the Use of the People called Method- 
i'Hg. Bt/ the !iev. John Wesley, A*M. 

3, Hf^mniy founded on tarhm Tea^ts of the Hol^ Scriptures. B^ 
Philip Doddridge, D.D. 

4. A Collection of JJtmtns for Social IVorship ; more pariieularlu 
designed for the nm of the Tabernacle and Chapel Con^re^ations^] 

Bif GeORG E WlIlTEFIELD, M» A. 

5, The Ohieif If if mm. 
tJ. Hymn^ on tariom Passapes of Scripture, J5y Tuomab Kel.ly. 

7. Ht/}nm. Bt/ Auqustits Toplady, M.A. 

8. H^mm, Bij Reginald Heber, D.D. Lord Bishop of Cal- 
cutta^ 

9. The Cottage Hymn-hooh Published by the Religious Tract 
Society. 

10. The Christian Piahtmt: Hf^mm selected and originai, Bf 
James Montgomery. 

\\. A Selection ofPmlms and Hpmtg. Bi/ the Hct. C. Simeon,M. A, 

12. A Selection of Fmkm and Htfmm, Ileriged f&r the use of 
Peretf Chapel* Bt/ the Rev, Jabies H. Stewart, A.M. 

13. Pmhm and Hf/mn^f adapted to the Services of the Church oj 
England* Selected % the Eev. W, J. Hall^ M.A. 

14. Btfmni EcclesitJe : e Bremario Parisietm, 

1 5. Ilpnni Ecelesirse : e Bretiariis Romano, Sansburienst, 
Eboracensi, et aliunde. 

16. Themurus H^mnohgicm, Confecit H, A. Daniel, 

\1, Tramlations from the Roman, «S*t\ Breriarieit, bg Bishop' 
Makt, Copeland, Cuandler, Isaac Williams, "^J. Wil- 
liams, Caswall, Wackerdarth, &c. 

18. A Selection of HgmnSjfor Public and Private Use. London : 
J. Masters. 

19. Hymns for the Public Worship of the Church. Leicester: 

J. S. Crossley, 

20. The Sn Samour's \^L€ed/\ Collection of Hgmns. 

2L 2)ivim Songs. By Isaac Watts^ D.D. Society for Pro^ 
moting Chnstian Knowledge. 




I 



English JIi/miiolo(/t/ : its History and Prospects, 303 

22. N'urseri/ Eht^mci. Bf/ Jane Taylou* 

23. The Child's Vhristian Year. 

24. Ilffmm for Children,, in accordance with the Catechism. By 
the Rev. J. M. Neale, M.A. 

25. Hf^mm on the Catechism. By the Uev. Ibaac Williams, B.D. 

26. Hifmns for Little Children. By the Author of ' The Lord of 
the Foresti ^'c. 

Among the most pressing of the inconveniences coneequent on 
the adoption of the vernatular language in the office-books of 
the Reformation, must be reckoned the immediate dicuse of all 
the hjrans of the Western Chnrch. Thut treasnrjs into which 
the eaints of every age and country Jiad poured their con- 
tributioni*, delighting, each in his generation^ to express their 
hopes and fears, their joys and sorrows, in language which 
should be the heritage of their Holy ^Mother to the end of time 
— those noble hymns, which had solaced anchorets on their 
mountains, monks in their cells, priests in bearing up against 
the burden and heat of the day, missionaries in girding them- 
selves for martyrdom — ^henceforth they became as a sealed book 
and as a dead letter. The prayers and collects, the versicles 
and responses, of the earlier Church might, without any great 
loss of beauty, be preserved; but the hymns, whether of the 
sevenfold daily office, of the weekly commemoration of creation 
and redemption, of the yearly revolution of the Churcli's 
seasons, or of the birthdaya to glory of martyrs and confessors^ 
those hymns by whtcb day unto day bad uttered speech, and 
night unto night had taught knowledge— they could not, by the 
hands then employed in ecclesiastical matters, be rendered into 
another, and that a then comparatively barbarous, tongue. One 
attempt the Reformers made — the version of the Veni Creator 
Spiriim in the Ordinal; and that, so far perhaps fortunately, 
was the only one. Cranmer, indeed, expressed some casual 
hope tliat men fit for the office might be induced to come 
forward; but the very idea of a hynmology of the time of 
Henry VIII. may make us feel thankful that the primate's 
wish was not carried out. 

The Church of England liad, then, to wait. She had, as it 
has been well said, to begin over again. There miglit arise 
eaints within heri^elf, who, one by one, should enrich her with 
hymns in her own language; there might arise poets, who 
should be capable of supplying her office-books ivith versions of 
the hymns of earlier times. In the meantime the psalms were 
her own; and grievous as was the loss she had sustained^ she 




304 Enpliih H^nolo^ : its History and Prospects, 

might Ijc content to suffice lierself with those, and expect in 
])utience the rest- 
But the people, reduced in great measure to the prose of 
a read service, clamoui'ed for metrical compositions of eoinc 
kind, wliich would necessitate a portion of music; and Stcm- 
liold and Hopkins arose to supply the want. With their 
versions, or rather perversions, of the Psalms, of the Ten 
Commandments, of the Creed,' of the Te Deum, and of the 
other prose liynms of the Church, she was contented for nearly 
a century and a hiiif* To Stcrnhold and Hopkins, however, we 
arc indebted for one hyran of striking pathos ; that which com- 
mences, — J 
' O LoRDj turn not Thy face away ! * ■ 

The Puritans were satisfied ivith the use of the Psalms and 
some few, hut very few, compositions of their own teachers ; 
and an Enjrrlish hymn-hook was unknown, 

AUhongh between the accession of Queen Elizabeth and the 
Revolution several sacred lyrics of great beauty were added to 
our literature by Crashaw, and Herbert, and Wither, and Henry 
Vaugban, and others j and though the Countess of Pembroke, 
and Crashaw, undertook, and not altogether unsuccessfully, 
versions of the Psnhiis; it would be difficult to specify more thaa 
four hymuti in any way suited to the service of the Church, 
which were composed during that period. Two uf them arc 
George Herbert's, and are therefore in every one's bands. We 
refer to those which commence j— J 

* Ye glorious spirilSj who, after all your haads/ M 
and, — I 

* Teach me, my God and King.' M 

The other two will probably be new to our readers, and W€^ 
shall quote a portion of each. 

The first is by the dramatic poet Shirley, who, whatever 
might have been the excesses of his youth, died a true penitent ; 
and it reads to our cars very much like a penitential ^ prose' 
from 8t>me earlier Breviary : — 

* Cunst Thon, O LoRD, forgive so soon J 
A soul hath sinnM so long;? I 

Cfliifit Thou submit Thy a elf to one I 

That loads Thee still with wrong ? M 

' One specimen of the theology of the New Version of Ihe Apostles' Creed is 
worth <|yotitiig. • The forgivencMi of atnii,' so clearly explained in the Nicene 
Creed ty mean the * One biptism for the remiayion of sinV ia ihna paraphraAed : — 
* Forgiveness of repented «ins 
Through Clirit(t our Sacrifice/ 
In similur epirit, the Qio^n'a in Exo'J-ns is called Iho ' ThankBgiving in the 
ffiurch Communion Service ;* and this in a Prayer book 1 



English Hymnology : its History and Prospects, 305 

* Canst Thou invite me to repent, 

And woo me to return t 
And will Thine anger, Lord, relent, 
And bid me cease to mourn ? 

* It is no merit of my own, 

But blood of Him That died, 
Our elder Brother, and Thy Son, 
Whom my sins crucified. 

* For every chrop of crimson dye 

Thus shed to make me live, 
Oh wherefore, wherefore have not I 
A thousand souls to give?' 

Undoubtedly, there is much of the old spirit here ; but there 
is also much of that individualizing tendency which makes 
modern hymns as carefully employ, as the ancient scrupulously 
avoided, the singular number. 

The other to which we alluded is the following ; we will not 
mention the author till the reader has concluded it : — 
' Christ leads me through no darker rooms 
Than He went through before : 
He that into God's kingdom comes 
Must enter by this door. 
' Come, Lord, when grace hath made me meet 
Thy blessed face to see ; 
For if Thy work on earth be sweet, 

What must Thy glory be ? 
*■ Then I shall end my sad complaints, 
And weary, sinful days. 
And join viith those triumphant saints 
That sing Jehovah's praise. 

* My knowledge of tliat life is small ; 

The eye of faith is dim : 
But 'tis enough that Christ knows all, 
And I shall be with Him I ' 

Now let US clothe these verses in an ancient dress ; and when 
we have made one or two slight alterations, the reader will, 
perhaps, not think them altogether unworthy of earlier times : — 
' Per nulla nos Christus vocat 
Nisi Ipse prsecessit loca : 
Qui gloriam quterit Dei 
Hoc debet ire tramite. 

* Veni, Redemptor, dum Tuo 
Nos prsepares adventui : 
Tam suavi si pro Te labor 
Quid gloria tecum irui ? 

* Nullus metus, nullus dolor, 
Nullo ^ravantur crimine, 
Quo mille mille coelitum 
Hymnis vacant perennibus : 

< Si scire nondum Patriam 
Terrena pr»valet fides, 



306 English Ht/muologtf : iu UUtory and Pr&apecta* 



At novit omne, Qui rocat 
Et nos futiuos bospite*.' 

And yet the author was liichard Baxter I 

We are c'arncd on perforce, then, from tlie era of StcrnhulJ 
ftiul Hofikins to that of Tate and Brady— a at ill lower abyss of 
wretchedneea. Considering what the court and age was, the 
Poet Laureate of the end of the seventeenth century was 
hardly the man to versify a Psalm of penitence or praiHe. 

About the time of the publication of the New Yeri^ion, Bishop 
Ken composed tliosc hymns, two of which form the whule 
recognised, though unaccredited, hymnology of tlic Euf^lish 
Church. Addison published his two versions from the Psalms ; 
and those three lyrics, 

* How arc Thy servunts bless 'd, O Lord !* 

* Wbeu all Thy mercies, my God!' 
and, 

* Wbeu rising from the. bed of death ;' 

whidi, however sweet in tbeniselveSj could never by any po5j?i- 
bihty be euitable for the offices of the Church. Dryden versified 
the Veiii Creator Spirilus^ and Hosconimon the Di€» Irw, the 
two last linoa of which he repeated with great fervour on his 
dcath-bcd. 

It IS Burprielng, at that tlmc^ how strong the objection Heenis 
to have been against metrical compositions in public worship. 
Bishop Comptuii, of London, mentions in his commendatory 
notice of Tate and Brady, ' the unhappy objection which haid 
lain against it;' as an antidote to which the warrior- prelate 'did 
heartily recommend unto his brethren' the New Ven^iou. To 
the New Version, then, AVllliam and his court betook them- 
selves ; but the villages of England clave to Sternhold and 
Hopkins; and, with Hannah Morc*s Squire, — 

* They thought 't wonid show a falling statCj 
If Stemhold should give vrviy to Tnte.' 

The objection among the Dissenters seems at that time (so 
tboronghly a popular religion Avill change I) to have been as 
strong, as we shall see preset! tly, till Dr. Watts C4ime out first 
with hi.s Hymns, in three books, and then with his paraphrase 
of the Psalms. From his timcj in or out of the English Church, 
a succession of hymn-writers, such as they are, have appeared j 
and it will be our duty to notice in turn Watts, the Wesleys, 
Doddridge, Newton, Covv]>er, Toplady, Beddome» Kelly, and 
IMontgomcry, before we turn to more modem writers, and to 
more practical points.* 

1 It will be undcretocHl that we do not profess t/j speak of veTBionBof iho Psalms, 
whether licfore Watt^, as tho Scotch oinl Patrick'^, or aflcr, m Merrick, Cottle, and 
many others. We confine oureelvca strictly to hymnfi. 




« 



I^" EnfflUk Uymndogf/: iU History and Prosf^eeta* 307 

Dr. Watts'a Preface, which is now eeldom reprinted, contains 
a great portion of curious matter. The following passage ia 
worth quoting, as forcibly stating the very exact converse of the 
Church's theory : — 

' I never could persuade myself tliat the beat way to raise a devout frame 
in plftiu Christians was to brmg a king or captaiu into their churches, and 
let him lead and dictate the worship in his own style of royalty, or in the 
lan^age of a field of battle. Does every menial servant in ibe assembly 
know £qw to use theae words devoutly — '* When I receive the congrega- 
t!on» I will judge upriglitly ;'* '* A bow of steel is broken by mine arms :" 
" As soon as they bear of me, they shall obey me ?" Would 1 encourage a 
pariali clerk to stand up in the midst of a country church, and bid all the 
people join with Ms words, and aay, " I will praise Thee upon a pHaltcry :" 
or, ** I will open ray dark saying upon the harp r" when even our catbe- 
drftla sing only to the sound of an organ, most of the meaner chuiches 
can have no music but the voice, and some ^^lU have none besides? Why, 
then, must all that will sing a Psalm at church use such words, as if they 
were to pray upon harp and psailery, and know nothing of the art? You 
will tell me, perhaps, that when you take these expressions upon your lips^ 
you mean only that you will wiirahip God according to His appointment 
DOW, even aa David worshipped him in his day, accordiii|r to God's appoint- 
ment then. But why will ye confine yourselves to speak one thing and 
mean another? Why must we be boiuid up to such words as can never be 
addressed to God in their own sense ? And since the heart of a Christian 
cannot join herein with his lips, why may not his lips be led to speak bi» 
heart? Experience itself has often shown that it interrupts the holy 
melody, and spoils the devotion of many a sincere good mun or v\oman, 
when in the raitlst of the song some speeches of David have been almost 
imposed upon ibeir tongues ; where he relates his own troubles, his 
banishnient, or peculiar deliverances ; where he speaks like a prince, a 
musician, or a prophet ; or where the sense ia ho obscure that it cannot be 
miderstuod without a learned commenlator.' 

On these principles, then, Dr- Watts set to work; and flat- 
tered himself that he was sensibly improving the words of 
inspiration. 

' In all places I have kept my grand design in view, and that is, to teach 
my author to speak like a Christian. For why should I now address God 
my Saviour in a song with burnt sacrifices of latliiigs, and with the incense 
of rams ? Why should I pray to be sprinkled with hyssop, or recur to the 
blood of bullocks and goats? Why sholild I hind my sacrifice witli cords 
to the horns of an altar, op sing the praises of God to high-sounding 
cymbals, when the Gospel baa shown me a nobler atonement lot* sin, ana 
appointed a purer and more spiritual worship? Why must I join witli 
David in bis legal or prophetic language to curse my enemies, when my 
Saviour in ilis sermons has taught me to love and bless them? Why may 
not a Christian omit all those passages of the Jewish Psalmist that tend to 
fill the mind with overwhelming sorrows, despairing thoughts, or bitter 
personal rcBentments, oone of whicb are well suited to the spirit of Christ- 
umity, which is a dispensation of hope, and joy, and love?' 

And yet men like this are they who upliukl the Bible, the 
whole J3ible, and nothing but the Bible, against all interpreta- 
tions of fallible men ! At tlie end of his i*reface we find that 
the then usual practice among Dissenters was to sing six etanzaaJ 



308 EnjUah Hiimnoloffi/ : Us History ani Prospects. ** 

and that the clerk read line by line before the congregation 
sang it. Tliia intolerable method of psahnody puts us in mind 
of an occurrence which once happened to ourselves. We were, 
in the days of our youtli, fated to be present at a large 
evening evangelical party, to which one of the stars of that 
time happened to be inviteil. He, of course, wjis to expound 
the Scriptures, and to offer prayer; but his ideas were not thus 
to be liinited. Family prayers began with a hymn ; the lady of 
the house sat down to the piano ; the tunc was played over, and 
the hymn commenced. The first hne was concluded, when Mr< 

exclaimed, in a loud voice, * What ! is there to be no 

exposition?' The obliging hostess paused j the happy moment 
was seized; and to one line after another, to the horrible dia* 
jointing of sense and music, an exposition was affixed, through 
a hymn of four or five stanzas. 

But to return to Dr. Watts. On the appearance of hla 
liynms,* Bishop Compton addre^Bcd a complimentary letter to 
him, rejoicing to be able to drop ' those lesser differences, on 
which bigots dote,' in sympathizing with his labours. With 
these we are now concerned. 

The three books comprise three hiindrcd and sixty-five 
hymng. Now, it might be well to say that we have no business 
to criticise, by the laws of the Cimrch, the compositions of those 
who are out of her i>ale^ were it not that, as matter of fact, 
A\^atts's Hymns are deeply studied, devotionally used, and 
enthusiastically admired, by many persons who profess to be 
Churchmen » and that many of them are to be found in every 
collection of hymns in every proprietary chapel in England. 
We once fell in with a church where Watts was ui?cd, and Watts 
alone. It is a miserable thing to find the Society for Pro- 
moting Chriatian Knowdedpje republishing, and so many national 
schools using, the same author's ' Divine and Moral Songs/ 

We do not think, therclore, that we shall be performing an 
useless task if we point out a few instances of downright 
heresy, and of the most striking (though unintentional) pro- 
fanity and irreverence, which occur in these compositions. 
And we own that nothing more surprises us in Dr. Johnson's 
writings than that he should voluntarily have reconmxended the 
works ol* Watta for insertion among the British poets. 

It is well known that throughout the writings of this volu- 
minous author, lie completely overlooks- — nay, more, he abso- 
lutely denies— the part which the First Person of the ever- 
blc^aed TitiNiTY bore in the work of man's redemption. Here 



' Or, nitlier. aller ecein^ them in BIS., for Bishop Couipton died in extreme 
old agCp ill 1713. 



Enyliih U^mnolw/i/: iti Ilhtort/ and Prospects. 



309 



again we have another melancholy example, how seripturaljstg 
depart from Scripture; how the enemies of the traditions of tlie 
Church make the AYorJ of (ioD of none effect by tlie traditions 
of Calvin, Only let the mind dwell for one moment on such a 
text us, * God so loved the world, that He gave his only- 
begotten S<^N ;' and then compare it with siich past^agee as the 
following : — 

' But eU was mercy, nil was mild, 

And wrath formuk the throne^ 
When CniiiST on tiie kiud errand came, 

And brought ealvation dowii.* 

Or the next, which, to say the least, is Bhocking; — 

• Once 'twas a seat of dreadful wrath, 

And shot devouring tlame; 
Our God appear'd cousummg fire, 

And ven^eancG was His name. 
Rich were the drops of Jesus' blood, 

That calin'd His frowning face. 
That sprinkled o'er the burning throne, 

And turn d His wralh to grace.' 

Or a hymn which thus begins :— 

' Well ! the Redeemer's gone 
To appear before our God ! 
To eprinkle o'er the tlamitig throne 
With His atoning blooti' 

And this written by one who professed his belief in those 
words of our Lori>, * The Fatuer himself lovetli you ; ' or that 
declaration of S, John's^ * In this was manifested the love of God, 
because that God sent His only-begotten Son into the world, 
that we might live through Hhn.' And the same tenour of 
thought runs all through Dr. Watts*s compositions. Till the 
aacrifece of God the Son, the Father is ail wrath, all ven- 
geance. He threatens damnation ; He promises nothing • all 
the mercy is from the Sox: the 'everlasting love' of the 
Father is tacitly or absolutely denied. 

Most remarkalilc, too, in another point of view, is the con- 
trast between this 'scriptural writer' and Scripture itstdf. 
According to him, our Lord's death reconciled God to man, 
S, Paul teaches us tliat it reconciled man to God: * God, who 
hath reconciled us to Himself.' * We pray you, m Christ's 
Bteatl, be ye reconciled to God.' 

This error has never, that we know, been condemned by the 
Church, simply because it never seems, in primitive or medieval 
times, to have existed. The nearest approach to it is perhaps 
to be found in the heresy of Sotcriclius Panteugenus, con- 
demned in the Council of .Constantinople, 1156. 

On the subject of imputed righteousness Watts held, of 



310 English H^nmolog^ : its llistort/ and Prospects* 

course, the Lutheran idea ; and Bometimea brings it out id the 

most offensive maDuer possible. • 

* Audi lest the shadow of a spot 
Should on my soul be found, 

He took the robe that Jesus wrought, 
And cast il all around. 

♦ ♦ • • 

* The SIMRIT wrought nay faith, and love, 
And hope, and every grace ; 

But Jesus spent His life to work 
The robe of righteousness/ 

Granting that the Lutheran heresy were the Catholic faith, 

could any reverent mind for a moment endure the comparison 
institutecf in the last lines between the respective works of our 
Lord and of the Holy Guost ? 

But on these points we need not stop to quote such passagets 

* When on Thy name we trust. 
Our faith receives a riglilenuHiieaa 
That makes the sinner just/ — 

because, knowing the writer, we might naturally expect them- 

Atijain, on the Incarnation liia views are lamentably defective. 
That our Lohd took on Himself our flesh we constantly find in 
these Hymns ; but there they stop : that He became man Watts 
never comp r ehe ndc d. 

' Hoaanna to the Prince of Light, 
Thftt clothed Himself in clay.' 



And, — 



Aside the Prince of Glory threw 

His must Divine array, 
And wrapp'd His Godhead in a veil 

Of our inferior clay.' 




Most remarkaldy are the words of Nestorius akin to the last 
expression, ' On account of the employer, I venerate the vest- 
ment' (Ncale's Hist. Alex, i. 236.) Yet Watts was not a 
Nestorian J for the expression, *a dying God,' is a favourite one 
of his ; and in one place he ascribes honour 

* To God the King, and Gon the Priest,' 

an expression which, in the mouth of S. Proclua, Nestorius 
bitterly attacked, His views ^eeni ratlier to have been Apolli- 
narian ; a heresy which naturally allies itself with Sabellianism» 
For, indeed, a pure Sabellian must of necessity be a Nestorian 
or Apollinarian, else he runs into Pat ri pass i an ism ; a heresy 
whicJi, we believe, in modern times, the Swcdcnborcrians alone 
maintain. But to 8abcllianism Dr. Watts unduubtedly yielded 
in many of his controversial writings. Belsham, in his Memoirs 



Englhk Hi/mnohgy : its Ilistmy and Prospects* 311 



i 

I 



of Lindsey, claims Watts as an Unitarian, at least in liia 
later years. 

In the Hymns we are cansiderlng, we shall hardly open a 
page without being shocked by &on>e gross piece of irreverence. 
It is no pleasant task to collect such ; but it may be useful to 
show what could be written by one whoae works so many 
Churchraen admire, and whose Hymns for Children the Society 
for Promoting Christian Knowledge reprint. 

Under the head of. The Soft of God incarnatCy wc find this 
ahocking expression :— 

' This Itifdirt is the Mighty God, 
Come to be suckled and adored.* 

A Vision of the Lamb thus speaks : — 

* Glory Wm fleecy mbe adorns : 

JMftrk'tl with the bloody death He borer 
Seven arc His eyos, ami «oven His horns, 
To apeak Ilia wisdom and ilia power.' 

The Description of CnRiST the Beloved is the title of another 
hymn i- — 

* Tlie wonderiuff world inquires to know 
Why 1 shoiildlove my Jesus so : 

« • • • 

Yes ! my Beloved to my sight 

Shows a awect mixture, red and white.' 

The 130tb of Book L bcginB,— 

* Now, by the bowels of my God/ — 

and the 98th of Book U.— 

* My heartt how dreadful hard it isT 

In another place it Is said of the delighte of Paradise that, — 

* Not the fair fields of heath'nish bliss 
Could raise such pleasures in the mind ; 
Nor does the Turkish Paradise 
Pretend to joys so well refiued/^ — 

which comparison reminds us of one in a writer who much 
resembles Watta, and is almost as popular — ^Abbot. The 
Young Christian is calmly told, what we almost tremble to 
write, that our Lord on the cross presented a more sublhne 
spectacle than Regulus in his place of torture. 

Of the Holy Eucharist we are told, in language as revolting 
as profane^ that — 

' Here every bowel of our God 
With soft compassion rolls.' 

But enough, and too much, of this. We do not deny that 
Watts has left some few — some very few^ — pieces, which, 
with alterations, would grace a hymnglogy oi the English 



312 EnglhJt H^mnohap: He Hisiorf/ and Prospects* 



Church. Far example :^ — ' Give me the wings of faith lo rise;' 
' How can I eink with such a prop f ^ There is a hind of pure 
delight;' *Why i?hould the children of a King;* *BkBB*d be 
the everlasting God ;' and, * When I survey the wondrous 
crofis.' Of the latter we will attempt a version, which wiU 
show some faint rec^einblance, we think, to the hymns of old 
tiiue: — 



\N 



EXALTATIONE CRUCIS AD 

Vesperas. 



Watts. Book HI. Htmn 7. 

' When I survey tlie wondrous cross 

00 which the Prince of Glory died, 
My richest gain I count but loss, 
Aod pour contempt on all mypride- 

' Forbid i(^ LoEi>, that I should boast, 
Save in the cross ol" Christ my God: 
All the vain things that charm me most. 

1 s&crifice them to Hia blood. 



* Cmcem sequenteg pncvmra 
Qua Hex pependit gloriaj^ 
Per lucrft damnum qua'.rimuaj 
Et tcrajiiraus snperbiom, 

* O Crux, tuorum cordibua 
Tu sola s'm jactatio : 
Pendent! s ad Regis pedea 
Spretrc voluptates jacent. 

" Qu^ vana complex! sumns. 
Jam non placebunt amplius ; 
Dum per pedes, manu«, caput, 
A more raixtus it cruor : 

* O cui nee an tea cruor 
Talis se amori juuxcrat ! 
O nulla Regis ispineai 
Corona comparabili^ I 

' Qui debitaa victoriae 
TantEE rependemus \ices, 
N], Qui redemit nos, Deo 
Fiamus ipsi victimiu t 

* Sit laus Palri, laua FiUo 
Tristi levato atipite : 
Cum Spirit u Paraclito 
In sseculoFiun soecula. Amen.* 

We next come to the hymni? written by Dr. Doddridge. 
They were publislied after his death, which took plaee in 1750, 
and are three hundred and seventy-five in number. He evi- 
dently took Watts for hia model ; and while he never equalled 
that writer in his few really good compositions, he never fell 
into his vulgarities and profanities* He constantly avails him- 
self of a licence which Watts endeavoured to avoid, and pro- 
tested against : a ' common metre,' in which the first and third 
lines do not rhyme. 

Doddridge is the author of the two hymns which are ap- 
pended to Pate and Brady— by whose permission or connivance 
it were now vain to inquire — * Hark! the herald angels ein^,' 
and * My God, and is Tliy table spread.' The last^ utterly 



' See from His head, His bauds, His feet, 
Sorrow and love flow mingled down : 

Did e'er such love and sorrow meet. 
Or thorn i compose »o rich a crown f 

* Were the whole realm of nature mine, 
That were a present far too small: 
Love so amazing, so diviuef 
Demands my soul, my life, my all' 



n 



« 



Engliah Hymnology : its History and Prospects. 313 

unworthy of the subject, is not bad, considering the time and 
the man. The second verse, in particular, is remarkable : — 

* Aye, sacrum coDvivium, * Hail ! sacred feast, which Jesus makes : 
Quod Jesus Ipse perficit : Rich banquet of His flesh and blood/ &c.i 
Quo Corpus Ipse dat suum, 
Suum dat Ipse Sanguinem/ &c. 

The most pleasing amon^ Doddridge's poems is, undoubtedly, 
the * Evening Meditation, beginning, — 

* Interval of grateful shade;* 

but this does not profess to be a hymn. The following, which 
is little known, and in which we have made one or two altera- 
tions, strikes us as worthy of a better place : — 

* Do not I love Thee, O my Lord ! 

Behold my heart, and see : 
And " cast each idol from its throne " 
That dares to rival Thee. 

* Is not Thy Name melodious still 

To mine attentive ear? 
Doth not each pulse with pleasure bound. 
My Saviour's name to hear ? 

* Hast Thou a lamb in all Thy flock 

I \«ould disdain to feed ? 
Hast thou a foe, before whose face 
I fear Thy cause to plead ? 

* Would not my heart pour forth its blood 

In honour of Thy Name, 
And challenge the cold hand of death 
To damp the immortal flame ? 

* Thou know^st I Iqve Thee, blessed Lord : 

But oh ! I long to soar 
Far from the sphere of mortal joys, 
And learn to love Thee more !' 



Again 



* Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord, we love : 
But there's a nobler rest above : 
Oh ! that that rest we might attain. 
From sin, from sorrow, and from pain. 

' " The heirs of that blest land" shall be 
From everv mortal trouble free : 
No sighs shall mingle with the songs 
That echo from immortal tongues. 



^ It ia remarkable, too, that this Christian phrase of a Dissenter should be 
thought too high for a Churchman. Mr. Hall's collection, dedicated to the Bishop 
of London, and so generally, and so unfortunately, used in many of the London 
■churches, dilutes the second line into 

' Memorial of His flesh and blood.' (Hymn 271.) 



314 English Ili/mnolo^^: its History and PrcspecU, I 

^^^ • No rude alftrros of rngln? foes, M 

^^H No cartes to break tlie long repose ; 1 

^^^ No mldn^lit sliade, no cloudetJ aim, 1 

But sacred, high, eternal noon/ 

Tlie hymn, ^Teru^aletn, my happy home/ the author of which 
was a Priest of the Scotch Church, is quite of Doddridge a 
school :— 

• Jerusalem, my liappy home ! 

Name ever dear to me! ■ 

^^^ When shiill my Ifiboura have an end I 

^^H In peace, and love^ and thee ? M 

^^H * When shall these eyei thy heaven-built nails M 

^^^P And pearly gates behold ? ■ 

^^H Thy bulwarks with salvation strong, fl 

^^V And strecta of shiniug gold? ■ 

^^^B * When, oh I thou city of my GoD| I 

^^w Shall 1 thy coortii ascend, 1 

Where the assembly ne'er breaks up, — I 

The Sabbath hath no end ? I 

' There happier bowers than Eden's bloom, I 

Nor nm nor sorrow share : ■ 

1^ BleiJt seats I through rude and stormy scenes I 

■ I stUl pre&s onward there, M 

I * Apostles, martyrs, prophets, saints, I 

■ Around my Saviour stand; I 
And all the elect of Christ belovr I 

Shall join the glf>riou3 band, I 

* Jerusalcmi, mv happy home I I 

My soul etill pants for thee: I 

Then shall my labours have an end, ■ 

When I thy joya shall see!' 

Next we come to the hymna of the Wesleys. John Wesley 
entertained sufficiently high ideas of them. * As but a small part/ 
sayshe^ 'of these hymns iv^ of my own composing* I do not think 

* it inconsistent with modesty to declare, that I am persuaded no 

* such liy mil-book as this has hitherto been pubhslietl in the 

* English Lmguage. In what other publication of the kind have 

* you BO distinct and full an account of Scriptural Christianity? 

* — such a declaration of the heights and depths of religion, 

* speculative and practical ? «- so strong cautions against the 
' most i>lauaible errors, particularly those that arc now most 

* prevalent? ... * With regard to the poetry .... Here are 

* (allow me to say) both the purity, tlie strength, and the 

* elegance of the English language, and, at the t*ame tin^e, the 
' utmost simplicity and plainness, suited to every capacity. 

* Lastly, I desire men of tiiste to judge (these are the only com- 

* petent judges) whether there be not in some of the following 



English Ht/mnoioffy : its Hidortf ami Prospects, 



315 



' hymns the true spirit of poetrj, such aa cannot b2 acquired by 
* art Jind labour, but must be the gift of nature/ 

One remarkable circuinstaiice connected with these hymns, 
is the populanty they have acquired with the new sceptical 
school. In our la^st number we quoted a passage from one of 
these writer!^, which spoke of* that glorious hymn-maker, Charles 
Wesley,' One reason of tliis preference is, no doubt* the in- 
tense subjectivity of these compositions; while the darkness, the 
strnggles, the perpetual feeling after a strength and wisdom not 
belonging to man, too often dissevered from any connexion 
with, or acknowledgment of, the Man Christ Jesus, may add to 
their popularity with this chisa. Among the Wesleyans it is 
well known thiit the Hymn-book has almost usurped the place of 
the Bible ; and translations tVoni it, in the foreign missions, 
form about the first productions of the Missionary press. 

The Hymn-book contains 560 hymns, the greater part the 
compositiun of Charles and John Wesley ; but there are also a 
few from Dr, Watts, and one or two from the Olney collection. 
We must do Wesley the justice of acknowledging him the 
introducer of several new and very appropriate measures into 
English hymnology» or, at least, the first who employed them 
to any extent, and with any success* Of these, the most suc- 
cessful are Trochaic dimeter cataUctic (Sevens), and Trochaic 
tetrameter catukctic: — 

* Urbs Jerusflileni beata, 
Dicta Pocis V^iato.* 

But the offensive vulgarity of some of the Wesleyan anapaestic 
compositions almost exceeds anything of the kind in Wntts, 
The very cadence of a verse like the following, borrowed aa 
it is from the ' Sir Trusty shall be my Adonis," of EQSamondy 
is as profane as was the Thalia of Arius : — 

* We remember the word 
Of our cniciiied Lord, 

And tiie spirit of ffl-ith lie imparts : 
Thea, Ihcu we conceive 
How \i\ heaven they live, 

By the kingdom of God in our hearts.* 
Again: — 

* Come let us ascend, 
My companion and friend, 

To a taste uf the banquet above : 
If thy lieart be as mine, 
If for Jesus it pine, 

Come up into the chariot of love.' 

There is nothings we may observe in passing, in which it Is 
more difficult to preserve dignity than in rhymes, recurring at 

NO. LXVI* — N.S. Z 




316 EtHjlUh Hpnnolopy: iu HUtory and Pro9f*ecig. 

very short intcrv'aU; oor any trial of skill from which the 
liymnogrn pliers of the C hurdi have come out wkh greater sue- 
oeam Por example ; nothing can be more reverent than the 
following stanzas of S. Casimir of Poland, where, actually, in 
the alternate verseSj Irnlf the syllables rhyme :^ — 

* O Benta, per <iuam djitft 

Nova muiido gftutlia ; 
Et apertn fide cert a 

RegnM sunt cselestia \ 
Per te miindus lEeUbiinduij 

Novo fidget lumiiie : 
AnticitiEirum tenebrarum 

Ex 11 ill a cnltgine. 
Ntiuc potentes sunt egentes, 

Si cut olim dixcrns : 
Et egciii fiunt pleni, 

Ut tu prophctavcftts.' 

To return to the "VVe«ley«. It may be tloubted whether any 
of the original hymns ineluded in this hook eoiild poesibly, and 
by any change, be inclnded in an Engh!?h hymnology. There 
ore, it is true, some eompojfiitions among them which show no 
mean skill, ear, and taste ; of these, the chief le the celebrated 
hymo, ' Come, O thou traveller unknown I' in which, to use 
the iforaewhat partial criticism of a popular hynm-vvriter of our 
own day, ' he has, with consummate art, carried on the action of 
a lyrical dmma.' 80 again, the hymn, * Thou God of glorioua 
majesty !' composed by Cliarlcs Wesley at t!ie verj^ extremity 
of the Land's End, is remarkably striking, especially — to any 
one acquainted with the locality — the stanza — 

' Lo ! on a narrow neck of liind^ 
Twixt XvfQ uiibounded seas I stand,* &c. 

Yet nothing, it Is clear, can be farther removed from the true 
idia of a Clmrch hymn than these two compositions. If two, 
which might in some small ^legree approximate to that model, 
ninst be selected from the five hundred and sixty of the Wesley an 
llymu-book, they would be, * Jesu, lover of my soul,' and 
* Ha[jpy soul, thy days are ended !' 

As to the theology of these compositions, it is wliat might be 
expected. The mischievous Wesleyan idea of the necessity of 
faith only, for the forgiveness of sine, — in plain words, believe 
tliatyou are pardoned, and you arc pardoned, — is kept, perhaps, 
Tnore in the background than one might have supposed likely ; 
but the other — and, comparatively, innoxious^ — doj^ma, of the 
sinless state of perfection attainable by every Christian, is again 
and again repeated* Yet, against the worst errors of Calvinism 
Wesley takes an opportunity of protesting constantly, and occa- 



4 





^P Efiglish Hffmnolopjf : U$ II i$tortf and Prospects, 317 

sionally altera an obnoxious verse, where he admits the hyxnn of 
another iiiithor. For instance, in the well-known Cahinian 
hymn, * Jesu, Thj blood and righteousness/ we read : — 

* Bold Bhall I staDd in that great da^ \ 
For who fiLight to my charge shall lay? 
Completely cloth *d itj Christ alone, 
And all my filthy garments gone.' 

AV^esley softens the last lines into — 

* Fully absolv 'd by tbeae I am, 

From guilt aivj fear, from sin and shame.* 

It was the boast of Wesley, in the Prelace from which we have 
before made an extract, — * Here are m\ cant expressions, no 
* words without meaning; those who impute thia to us, know 
^ not what they say.' Yet we will venture to asftert, that no 
Hymn-book, except tlie Moravian, contains lialf so much. This 
alone, were there no ot!ier objections, would ruin some of those 
attempts which might otherwise be passable. 

From Wesley it is natural to proceed to Whitefield. He, too> 
published a Hyiiin-buok — the first wdiich may fairly claim to 
be a collection of hymns j for he drew largely on Watt^i, Wesley, 
and other sources : and after his death, the Oliicy book was, in 
like manner, kid under contribution. AVhitefield himeelf had 
no pretensions to be a writer of verse ; and his book contains 
specimens of profane vulgarity — and that in a form till then 
new — of parody. Thus : — 

* My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent. 
When Phoebe went with me wherever I wentj' 

18 improved into — 

' My time, O ye divuj^hters of Zton, did run 
Most sweetly and softly, wheu Christ was my sun,' 

In this series, however, we first meet with one of the best 
hymns of a certain cla^s we possess, — ' Sweet the moments, rich 
in blessing,' — the author of which was a Mr- Batty ; and another, 
which is not without its beauty, but which is less known— 

* Is there a thing that moves and breaka 

A heart as hard as stone? 
Or warms a heart as cold aa ice ? 
*T\^ Jssu's blood alone. 

* One drop of this can traly cheer 
And heal tb' afflicted soul ; 

Wimt multitudes of broken hearts 
This living stream makes whole! 

* Hark, O my soul ! what sing the choirfl 
Around the glorious throne? 

Hark I the slain Lamb for evermore 
Sounds in the sweetest tone : 
z 2 



Eitaliih Jltfrnnolop^ 





* The elders there cast down their crdwne* 
And allj both night and day. 

Sing praise to Him that shed tiis blood, 
And wash'd their giiilt awfty. 

* But Thou, O Lord ! make every day 
Thy grace to na more sweet ; 

Till we behold Thy wounded side, 
And worship at Thy t'eet," 

At the same time with Whitcfield and Wesley, flourished 
Ceiinick, a class-leiwler, if we remember right, in Somersetshire, 
iind a man of great intliience among the Methodists of the we^t. 
He eventually became a kind of leader in a sect, virtual or 
declared, among the A\ e^leyuns ; and seems to have been a low 
and violent person. Ilis hymna wure published at the end of 
a series of sermons. It is many years since we saw them ; but 
we remember that they struck us as peculiarly offensive, both as 
to matter and manner. He has left one, however, which might 
certainly, when purged of one or two expressions of ' assurance,* 
enter into Bome future English hymnology. We mark them in 
italics : — 

* Children of the heav'nly King, 
As ye journey, sweetly sing ; 
Sing your Saviour's worthy prAise, 
Glorioufl in Hia works and ways. 

* Ye are trHvelliufC home to GoDj 
In the path the Fathers trod ; 
They are happy now — and ye 
Soon their happiness ihaiisire, 

* Shout, yc ransom'd tlock, and blest! 
Ye on j£SU*s throne shali reat : 
There your seat w now prepared ^ 
There your kingdom and reward. 

* Fe^ir not, brethren f joyful stand 
On the borders of your land \ 
jEsi'sCiniisT, Gon's only Son, 
fiida you inidismay'd go OD. 

* Lohd! submissive may we go, 
Gladly leaving all below ; 
Only Thou our leader be, 
And we stUl will follow Tliec.* 

The offensive part of the third verse might easily be al- 
tered ; — 

'They, yc ransom'd flock and blest, 
Now on Abrahain*s bosom rest ; 
Ye, if well ye nni tlie race. 
In their Joys shall find a place,* 

Next we come to the only name among Engliah writers who 
seems fitted to have added greatly to the value of our hymns^ had 



Etigli$h Hymnolvgy : tf^ History and Prospects, 319 



^ 



^ 



^ 



he been brounrht up in a more perfect knowledge of the truth — 
we mean Topladj. "^ Rock of ages, cleft for Die,' is undJoubtedly 
the beat originul hymn in the English language, provided it be 
taken as a penitential devotion, and not as the ordinary and 
proper expression of a Christian's every-day prayers. The 
thrilling solemnity of the last stanza— 

' While I draw this fleeting breath — ^ 
When my eye-strings break in deatli— 
When, 1 soar to worlds unknov^n — 
See Thee on Tbv jiidgmeDt-thronc : 
Rotk of Ages, cieft for me, 
Let me hide mysell in Thee !' 

is not quite unworthy to recall to the mind that wonderful 

apostrophe^ — 

* Quid sum miser tunc fact ur us,' 
Quern Patroims rogatunis, 
Quum viK Justus sit BCcurusT 

And the two devotional odes* * Deathless principle, arise T and, 
* When languor and disease invade,* show what Toplady might 
have done had he lived in better times. The concluding etanza 
of the laat-namcd composition has just the turn of a Breviary 
Hymn — 

' If such the sweetneaa of the streains, 
What must the fount ain be, 
Where Snints and Angels draw their bliss 
Immediately from Thee!' 

Probably, the worst orif^inal collection of hyrana ever put 
forth is the Olney Book. In some of Cowpers there may be 
beauty: but Newton's are the very cfipencc of doggerel. The 
prosaic stnieture of his verses is such that we wonder how any 
rhymester could write them — should be able, we mean, to make 
verse at all without getting some of the trick and knack of it. 
For example i — 

' 'Twaa He who taught me thus to pray, 
And He, I trust, has answered prayer: 
But it has been in siwh a way 
As almost drove me tn despair.* 

We may very safely affirm that Newton is quite out of the ques- 
tion for Church purposes ; or, indeed, for any Hymn-book 
whatever, and in whatever sect* 

The genius of Cowpcr, though it certainly never shone less 
than in his hymurf, raises them far above his friend's. * There 
is a fountain fillVl with blood/ might, perliaps, be admitted as a 
Lent Hymn; while, * God moves in a mysterious way,' and 
* God of my Life, to Thee I call,' we migbtj without much hesi- 
tation, make our own. * Oh for a closer walk with God,' though 



320 English ITt/mnolopy ; itt History and ProspeeU* 

not without its beauty, ia quite out of the question for our 
pwrpoRo. 

It is wonderful, indeed, how the Olaey Hymn-book acquired 
its popnliiritj. The compositions of Cowpcr were far above the 
general run of its rpfvdergi. The fact is partly to be accounted 
for by the immense influence which Newton possessed among hb 
own party, and partly perhaps by the consideration that the 
work in question was the first Imjok of original hymns published 
by a Priest of the Church of England. 

We muBt not pass over the name of Bcddome, a Saptist g 

minister, because his hymns, bad as they are in all otlicr rej?pectB»^M 
pos^^cea tlie rare merit of having a beginning, middle, and end.^H 
If wc might venture to take any one of hia compositions, it 
would be that which begins, * And ahall we sit alone?* Uiit we 
forbear to extend our quotntiona. 

At the beginning of i\m century, Thomas Kelly, an Irishman, 
brought out a prcat number of original hymns, and accompanied 
them with original tunes. Flad he written three or four, 
instead of three or four hundred, there is a warmth about liim 
which might have produced fe-omcthing not altogether contempt- 
ible. It was he who brought that Trochaic measure into 

I fashion, for it had been attempted before, of which this verse 

I may serve aa a specimen : — 



Led by that, wc brnvc the ocean. 
Led by tliRt, the storms defy ; 

Calm amidijt (.umiiLltuous niolintif 
Knowing that our Lord ia nigh : 

Waves obey him, 
And the storms before him fly/ 



I 



James Montgomery added a century of hymns to the * Chris- 
tian Paalmist;' his collection of the best compoyitioud, in his 
judgment, of thia kind. Notwithstanding some very neatly ex- 
prefixed pnomw which occur in them : e.ff^— 

' 'Tis not the whole of life to lire, 
Nor all of death to die ;' 

W6 doubt if there be any that would suit the nurpoeea of the 
Church, with the exception perhaps of one, begmning — 
* Lord God, the Holv Guost,' 

Bishop Hcber deplored deeply the miserable estate of English 
hymnology, and set himself In earnest to raise it. But how f It 
was hut in a slight degree that he turned to the old sources 
of Christian devotion; Ins chief conception wa.s original com- 
positions, lie brougbt an elegant mind, but little else, to the 
task; and accordingly aome elegant verses were the result; 
aonie also, we are bound to add, remarkably inelegant. 



English Htftnuology : its Hintorg and Prospects. 321 



We have now* 



think. 



thi 



fh all the authors of 



note ill this way, for we certainly shall not notice the raving 
profanity of the Countess of Huntingdon'^ Hymn-book, or of 
the Moravian collection. One or two single hymns will be 
atlded from other quarters: for example, that by Logan, * O God 
of Bethel, by Whose hand.' 

These were the resources of the English Church about thirty 
years ago. By that time people seem to have been convinced 
that hymns were not to be made to order ; that so many yards of 
print could not be manufactured at the shorte&t notice ; that no 
one rann could hope to supply tlic acknowledged deficiency. 
Collections^ therefore, originally brouglit forwiird by the old 
evangelical party, by JVIadan, liomaine, Walker of Truro, 
Sinie^ni, Berridge, Riland, Adam of Winteringhara, were mul- 
tiplied ten-fold. Every one, as in the Apostles' time, liad a 
Psalm. Preeminent among the rest stood the * Percy ' col- 
lection, the 'Simeon' collection, the 'Cottage Hymn- book,' 
and Mr. Hall's, usually called the Bishop of London's col- 
lection, because unhappily dedicated to him : this is one of the 
worst; and other collections were, generally speaking, nothing 
but compilations from these. More or less of heresy attached 
to all of thein : happy he that, in a church where a collection 
was used, got off with irreverence or nonsense^ 

But the movement began in the English Church. Evangeli- 
calism tottered, liujiliing into an opposite extreme, the leaders 
of the movement eschewed the very name of a hymn, Tate 
and Brady, and Sttrnhold luid Hopkins, again came in tri- 
umphantly: our churches were in danger once more of resounding 
with the — 
. * How long, ye stupid fools, bow long?' 

^^ or that comjiliiintj savouring of such thorough knowledge of 
^H polite society and the deep philosophy of morning calK 
^^K ' SujppoHe they formal visitB make, 



Tis all but empfy sliow 
They gather miscVief in their hearts, 
And vent it where they go,' 



of the one ; or the- 



* Oh pluck it out, and be not slow 
To give Thy foe^ a rap,' 



of the other. Mr. Keble was induced to publish r new 
version of Psiilms; in hopelessness, on the one hand, that 
chanting would ever take a firm hold of English people; and, 
on the other, that a Hymnology could be formed for the use of 
the Church. In the former case wc believe that he will as 
readily and gratefully admit his error, as at the time of pnb- 



322 English Hpmndoffy : ib Hittort/ and Profpeefs, 

lication he expressed doubts about the practicability of his 
Psalter meeting the latter eaj^e. 

At lenrrth, men befran to turn their attention to the possi- 
"biliiy of the English Church deriving, as her prayers, eo her 
hynioi?, from ancient stores. The principal saurees from which 
an Kngligh reader would derive a knowledge of the H^Tnns of 
tlie Latin Church are, the translations, chiefly from the Itoman 
Breviary, of Mr. Copcland, Bishop Mant, J. Williams, (an 
American author,) Air. Newman, (in a privately printed trans- 
latlun of part of the 'Para Hyemalia,' of the Roman Breviary,) and 
Mr, Ca^ wall— who alone has translated all the Hymns of the 
Konian Breviary and Missal; besides those w^hich occur in ^ 
Anglo-Roman Missals, and in diiferent cullectionSj such as those ^H 
of Mr, Pidmer, of Maj^dalene, and the selection for the use of ^H 
Margaret-street chapel; while of transktions from the Paris ' 
lireviarv» we have Mr, Williams's, Mr. Chandler's, and the 
Leeds ilymn-book: 'the third little more than a transcript, 
howevtT, of the eccond. 

All these, however, together, and much more any of them 
separately^ fall very short of what we want. We will point out 
some of t lie reaa^ons of this. 

1. It was a very natural mistake that, after the Breviary 
Hymns had experienced such long neglect, they should, on their 
revival, be thought in all cases absolutely perfect It was also 
natural that at first the Paris Breviarj-^ should be preferred to 
the Roman. It is more like that to which English ears had been 
accustomed; it is prctlier, more tlowing, more classieal, than 
even the Roman reform; it is far more subjccti^'e; and though 
the amazing Htrcngth, the awful solemnity, of the earlier hymns 
be gone, it was perhaps not the less popular on that account 
Yet, if any one will remember that a great part of the Parisian 
hymns, so far aa they were original, are merely the composition, 
done to order y of some very respectable French divines and 
scholars of the seventeenth century, — ^tainted, even now, in some 
places with heresy, more tlian tainted with it at first, {e, g^ the 
alteration, 'Jesn, Redemptor /)/jirmw,' for the Church's ' Jesu, 
Rederoptor omnium,') — he will perhaps be disposed to smile at 
the great energy with which people went to work in versifying 
the moat jejune, common-place compositions of the Gallican 
Church. It is noticeable, that Mr. Newman, in his selections 
frum the Paris Breviary, filled two hundred pages, while in 
that from the Roman, York, and Halisbury, he could not find 
nearly so large a number of hymns which he thought fit to 
republish. 

2. Another objection to the modern tnmslations of the Bre- 
viary has been the extraordinary measures in which they have 



t 



English Iltfmnoloay : its HUiortf and Prospects, 323 



I 



been composed. It is tlie peculiar beauty, indeed, of English, 
as compared with Latin, that any kind of strophe is allowable; 
but then it behoves English writers to be the more careful, lest 
this liberty of theirs become licence. Especially is tbis ueces- 
aary in translating verse, so simple, so unchanging, as are the 

freater part of the hymna of the Church. But the tranalators 
ave often oflfended in this particular. AYhat a monstrous stanza, 
for instance, ia this : — 

• Lo ! the Baptist's herald cry 
Shakes the Jordan; 
IM the waken "d eye and ear 
Wckume the great Harbinger.' 

Again ; it may, we think, be laid down as a general rule, that 
in modern languages a translation \y\{\ fail in conveying a true 
idea of the origin^ unless it adopts the same species of verse. 
We rcracniber but one instance of a version in any degree suc- 
cessful where this rule is neglected, and that is the * Lusiad' of 
Mickle. And wc will venture to say, that, on this very account, 
the translation ia intolerable to any one at all acijuainted with 
Camoens. But ecclesiastical Latin is, to all intents and pur» 
poses, a modern language. It not only employs the same mea- 
sures that wc use, but its whole struct ui-e of phrase, and 
sequence of thought, is the same. Then, further, it is desirable 
that we should be able to employ the same ancient tunc to a 
translation of the same ancient nymn : how can this be, when 
the metre, perhaps even the rhythm, is changed ? Besides this, 
there seems a natural concatenation of thought peculiarly attach- 
ing itself to certain rhythms; and this is sadly violated by the 
substitution of one for another. Take, for example, the version 
of the * Deus Tuornm tnUkum^^ as given in the 75th Number of 
the ' Tracts for the Times,' by setting the original and the trans- 
lation side by side : — 



* Deus TuoTum mil i turn 
Sors eL corona, prfemium, 
Laudcs canentcB martyria, 
Ahsohe noxam servulis. 

* Hie van a Mimdi ^audia, 
Et blandimenta nuxia, 
Caduca riiie deputans, 
Pervenit ad coeiestia, 

* Pcenas cucnrrit fortiter, 
Et snatinet viriliier; 

Pro te effundcna sanguine m^ 
£ tern a dotia possid^L 

* Ob hsec precatu Hupplici 
Te poscimtis piissime, 

In hoc triunipho Martyris 
Dbmlte tioxam scrvwtiis. 



*0 God, of Thy aoldiepa 
The Tortion and Crown, 
Spare sinners, who hymn 
The praise of the blest ; 

* Earth's hitter joys, 

Its lures and its frowns, 

He weigh 'd them, and scorn'd 

them, 
And MO is at rest* 

* The Martyr be ran 
All valiantly o'er 

A highway of blood, 

For the prize Thou hast given ; 

* VVe kneel at Thy feet, 
And meekly implore 
Our pardon may wait 

Oa llis triamph in Heaven. 



324 EnglUh Hymnoloptf : its History and Pronpeets* 



' Glork Tibi* Domine, 
Qui Burrexisd a mortuis, 
Cum Pfttre, et Sancto Spiritu, 
In sempitcrna saecula.* 



' Glory and praise, 

To the Fallier and Son, 
And Spirit be done, 
Now aiici always/ 



There is no one, we imagine, but must feel that the anapaestic 
rhytlim oi" the EngliJ^h has utterly altered the calm majciatic 
severity of the Iambic Latin, It is curioufi how, in the third 
verse, it has iiitrodueed the vulgarisni of * The Martyr he ran/ 
and has brought in ' the liighway of blood,' which does not occur 
in the Xiatin. 

Wc will now take an exactly opposite instance: one, namely, 
where an aiiapajstic rhythm becomes Iambic in the translation. 
It shall be the celebrated '' Ade^te fideles :^— 



I 



* Adeste, fideles, 
Laeti, trlunnphanteSj 
Venite, veiiite in Bethlehem : 
Natum videte 

Reg^eni Angelorum. 
Vetiile ado rem us, 
Venite adoreniua, 
Veuitc adoremua Domiuum. 

* Deum de Deo, 

Lumen de liimine, 
Ucstant Puella; viscera; 
Deum veruin, 
Gcnitum, noii factum, 
Venite adoremuSj &c. 

* Cant^t, nunc, lo 
Chorus Angelorum *. 
Cantct nuUcoelestiuin: 
Gloria in 

Excelais Deo ; 
Venit« ado rem us, fire, 

' Ergo Qui natuB, 
Die hodiema, 
Jesu, Tibi sit gloria, 
Pat r is eterni 
Verbum Caro factum ; 
Venite adoremua,' &c. 



Oh come, ye fRithful, and your homage 

bring 
To David's town, with one accord : 
Ikhold the Son, behold the Angels* 

King, 
Oh come ye and sing praises to the 

Lord! 



♦ For He, the GoD of Goi>, the Light of 
Light, 
The Vii:g:in'B womb hath not ab- 
horr'd : 
But QoB hnow reveal' d to nittrial jilght. 
Oh come ye, 5:c. 

*And hmk! the Angels through the 
lofty sky 
'llieir praises to His Name afford^ 
All glory M#*/ ascribe to GoD on High: 
Oh come ye, &c. 



O Jesu, Virgin-boro ! Thy name shall be 

For aye on this Thy day adored : 
Incarnate Word of God, we worship 

Thee! 
Oh come ve,' &c. 



It Will easily be seen how this hymn— the wildest effusion (so 
to speak) of joy which tde Church ]ia.s permitted herself to use- 
is tamed down by tlie matt er-ot- fact s^tatemcnts and prosaic 
epithets of the translation, wbicli also has the fault of being in 
a mesiaure represented by no known tune, whereas that of the 
* Adeste^ is famous over the world. We will now attempt a 
version of the same hymn, confinhig ourselves literally to the 
Batne measure: — 



English Ht/mnokiJif : iis History and Praspects, 32.5 

» Be present, ye faitlifal, 
Adoring, triiimpliant, 
And Imsten, and hasten^ to Bethlehem ; 
He lies in a manger, 
The Mouarch of Angels: 
O cfjme and let ua worship) 
O come and let us worship, 
' O come and let us worship the Lord wiLh them I 

* Very G 3D of God, 

Liglit of Light everlasting. 
The Virgin's womb lie hath not abhorr'd- 

True God everlaating, 

Not made, but begotten i 

O come and let ua worship, 

O come and let us worship, 
O come and let us worship our Gob and Lord f 

* Let them raise their llaaanBas, 
The chorus of Angels, 

Let it echo, the hall by the blessed trod ; 

To Go 13 in the highest 

Be ^lory, be glory ; 

O come and let us worship, 

O come and let ua worship, 
O come and let us worship our Lord and God 1 

' To-dav Thou art bom 

For Thy people's salvation, 
To 'n»ee, O Jesu, all praise he poured ; 

Of the Father eternal 

The Word incarnate ; 

O come and let us worship, 

O come and let us worship, 
O come and let ua worship our GoD and Lord,' 

We will give one more instance, and it sliaU be a striking one. 
S. Thomas thus writes : ~ 

* Adoro Te devote, latcns Deitas, 
Quae sub hb figuria vere latitas : 
Tibi 3C cor meum totum aubdidit, 
Quia Tc CO ntcm plans totnm deficit ; 
Visus, tactUB, guatus, in Te fallitnr, 
Sed audita soli tuto creditur. 
Credo quicquid dixit Dei Filius/ &c. 

The spirit of this is much lost in Mr. Williams^s blank verse : — 

* O drfaifful, unapproached Deity, 

Who 'nealh these symbols gw^t J'htf^rl/ta me: 
The heart ofhearti prostrate before Thee fallB, 
And cannot reach Thee : coutempladJon fails, 
Jn dread amazemeid fast : I hear Thy worda, 
T/tis is Mil Bodt/,' dec. 

That which is marked in italics is not in the original; while 
out t>f the seven lines quoted t'roni the Latin two are omitted. 
We foresee, however, two objections that will at once occur 



326 EnpllsA I/i/mnolopy : its Hutortf and Prospdctif, 



to the retainiDg the measure of the original in tranalations from 
the Breviary, The one is, that classical measures cannot be so 
rendered. We are not quite sure that they could not. Dr. 
Watte's attempt at a religious Sapphic is not altogether unsuc- 
cesflfuL Witness the verse— 

' SucK shall tJie noiae be. and the wild disorder, 
If the eternal may be like the earthJvt 
Such the dread terror, when the great Archangel 
Shakes the creation.' 

But the truth is, that there is hardly a hymn in classical mea- 
sure which we can look upon as absolutely necessary for our 
Hyranology, except the ' Gloria, Laus, ct Honor.' We will, 
however^ make an attempt — it will be for the reader to jutlge of 
its success ; and will take the Paris hymn at Lauds for a Virgin 
Martyr : — 

^L ' Quid sacram, Virgo, generoaa Mwrtyr, 

^^^^ Ainbiutit front era diiplJices coronae f 

^^^^L Nempe non uno geminum reportas 

^^^^V Hodte triuinphiim. 



Mollior frept neque tc voluptnH ; 
Irapotens tlexit ncrjuc te tvrannus; 
Tu graves poenas, panten|ue bland os 
Vincis nmorea. 



' Liliia S pons us recubat, rosisque t 
Tu, tuo sfemper bene fida Sponso, 
Et roaas martyr, simul et dedisli 
Lilia Virgo. 

* Sumnrm laus Pntri, genitoque Verho, 
Et Tibi compar, ntri usque Nexus : 
Fac Tibi semper placeamus uni 
Moribus aequia.' 

* Wherefore, O Virgin, venerated Martyr, 
Glitters the two-fold crown upon thy forehead? 
Is it that two-fold was tlie face of battle, 

Double the triumph ? 

* Neither did pleaaurcs lure thee with their aoftness : 
Neither did tyrants bend thee with their terrors : 
Terrors on this side, and on that afTcction, 

Vainly beset thee, 

* Roses and lilies are the Rridegroom'a portion } 
Thon, to thy Bridegroom evermore found faithful, 
Bringest Him roses as a Martyr, bringest 

Lilies, a Virgin. 

' Laud to the Father, to the Son be glory ; 
To the blest Spirit equal aduration : 
Grant that fhy yervants evormore may please Thee 
Liviog or dying.' 

Whatever may be the case with Sapphics, we have a remark- 
able proof that hexameters are not altogether foreign from the 



E/ipla/t Hpnuoloffy ; its History and Frospects, 327 

genius of our language^ ad applietl to religious aubjects, in the 
iact that the poetical parts of the Bible often throw them- 
selves into that form. What a noble example, for instance, 
is this :• — 

* Blessed and holy is he that li«th part in the first resurrection ! ' 

Or, again, (omitting a clause) — 

* Unto the Lord our Goti — And again they said, Alleluia I 

And the emokc of her tontieut went up [ascended] for ever and ever.' 

Or, 

* There is a natural body, and there la a spiritual body.' 
Or, 
*■ And they shall see His face : and Hia name ahtkll be in thdr foreheada.* 

MoBt remarkably in Isaiah : — 

* How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! 
How art thou c!ut down to the ground, who dost weaken the national 
For thou hast said in thy heart, — I will ascend into heaven I ' 

Ami by very sDght alterations considerable passages fall into 
this measure : — 

' Hear, O heavens ! and g:ive ear, O earth I for Jehovah hath spoken : 

1 have nourished children, and they have rebelled against me. 

Loj the ox knoweth his owner, the asa the crib of his master: 

Israel doth not know,— My people doth not consider. 

Ah, for the sinful nation, the people iniquity-laden ! 

They have forsaken the Fjord, have provoked the Holy to anger/ 

Not that we have any desire to see the adoption of hexametrical 
rhythm in an English hymn-book : the laws and niuhial 
provinces of English accent and quantity must be much better 
uuderstood than they are. 

Another objection is, that on the systera of slrailar metres, 
our usual fourtecn-syllable Iambic measure, * Common Metre,* 
must not be employed in translation. But this does not seem 
quite to follow. It was clearly contrary to the genius of the 
Latin language, that an uneven number of Iambi should form 
a line. All such attempts in niodern Latin are most unsuccess- 
ful, from the time of Sir Thomas More with his 

* Jam tempuB id petit, 
Monetque, Candide, 
Vagia auioribus 
Tandem renuncias,* — 

down to the Neo-Latin translator of Schiller — 

' A primo mane, vesperae 
Dum precem redtat, 
Uni vivehat Doniinae, 
Nil satis judical.' 

Both of which measures arc, to our ear, truly horrible. Yet 
iigain, neither is the genius of the English language sufficiently 



328 EngUih Hijmnolopif : its Hhtory and ProspecU^ 



k 



suited to Long Metre with alternate rhymes ; and it will gene- 
rally be found that ench a verse can, with great advantage, both 
of 80und, Henae, and flow, be cut down to a Common Metre. 
Tate and Brady- — were they worth the iinproveraent — ^would 
be greatly benefited by the compression: e.^g. — 
« Ye tbat His just commands obey, 

And hear aud d(j liia saertd will, 

Ye hosts of His, this tpibute pay, 

And atill whut He ordninft fultil :* 
' And what lie bUl*,fu(Jii: 

But now, as it is clearly competent to any one to translate 
an Iambic dimeter into this alternate Long Measure, so, we 
argue, la it, to turn it into Common Metre. There is no alter- 
ation of the rhytluu; none, in ctiect, of the cadence. Now 
we will take an example; — the Long Metre translation is froni 
one of the established versions ; the other, an attempt of our 
own. 

In Sabbalo ante SeptuiLgesimam. 
Ad Vesperas. 



' Tc laetft, mundi Contlitor, 
Uriuin inaiiet semper qiti<M, 
Festiva coelestes chortia 
Semper decent prajconia. 

• Nos, sanctitate perditft, 
Pccnalis cxpectAt hibor: 
Hymnosne dulces Patria; 
Mtcsti canamus exulea? 



' Qui Te piia plucftbilcm 
Spondcs futuram fletibus, 
Lugere da lon^, Pater, 
DellctA, causjis exilL 

' V'ftrtim Balubrem t-emperet 
Spe nixa nicerorein Fidea : 
Tw mox qaieti nos Tiiaj 
Lastisque redder canticis.' 




* Thou, gre^t Creator, art posscssedj 
And Thou alone, of ciidleaa rest: 
To angels only it beloiiga 
To oiler Thee their ceaseless songs. 

* But wc, mid earthly toil:* and pains, 
l*ong peniiivcc hear for native stains ; 
How tnen can we, in exile drear. 
Raise the glad aoog of glory here ? 

' O Thou J who wilt forgiving be 
To all who truly turn to Thee; 
Grant us to mourn the heavy canse 
Of all our woe, Thy broken lawa. 

' Then to the sharp and wholesome grief 
Let fiiith and hope bring due relief: 
And we, too, aoon shall be posseas'd;^ 
Of ceaseless aonga, of endless resL* 
' Maker of earth, to Thee alone 
Perpetual rest belongs ; 
And the bright choirs around Thy throne 
May pour their endless songs. 

* But we, — ^ahj holy now no more ! 
Are doomed to toil and pain j 

Yet exiles on an alien shore 
May sing their country's strain, 

* Father, whose promise hinds Thee sti!! 
'o heal the suppliant throng, 

Grant ua to raourn the deeds of ill 
That baui»h us so long ! 

* And while we rooum, in faith \o rest 
Upon Thy love and care : 

Till rhon restore us, with the blest. 
The song of heaven to share/ 



EngUsh Hffmrwlopy : iu Histort/ and Prospect** 329 



We have bow touched on Bome of tlie causes why translations 
from the Breviary have generally been unsucceasfiiL But the 
chief remains: the great carelessness, haste, and slovenliness 
with which they have been written. Tliia remark applies to 
every translator^ except to Mr. Wackerbarth, Mr. Caswall, 
too, is less obnoxious to it than the rest. 

That which should now be done — on competent authority—^ 
seems clear. Let all the versions from the Breviary be col- 
lected : let some scholar, possessed of a good ear, and well 
read in our poets, select the best parts of each, — and, where 
they all fail, endeavour to supply the deficiency with something 
of his owTi. Let him be content with thirty or forty good 
translations J and let him spare no pains in rendering them 
the model versions: to these let the twelve or fifteen best 
English hymns we at present possess be added; — with such 
corrections as the Faith may require, or taste suggeat. Then 
let the book be submitted to the correction of such members of 
the English Church as have a right to be consulted ; and let 
then a second editor decide }}etween their corrections, and the 
oritrinal of the first compiler. The forty hymns we so obtain 
might perhaps be sufficient till some future convocation shall 
authoritatively decide the great question of Hymnology. 

As an example of what we have been saying, we will take 
four versions of the celebrated Fame lingua. The first is 
Mr. Wackerbarth^s ; the second, Mr. Williams's ; the tlurd, the 
improvement of it m the Leicester Collection; the fourth, that 
given in Ur. Pu&ey's Translation of the Paradisus Aninue. 
To enable the English reader to judge of the rcBpcctive racrita 
of the translations, as to closeness, we subjoin a literal version : — 



• Pange, lingua, gloriosi 

Corporis Myaterium, 
Saiinruiniaquo preliosi 

Quern in muiidi pretium, 
Frnctua ventris generosi, 

Hex efrndit gentium. 
' Nobis datua, nobis iiatua, 

Ex intftcta Virgine, 
Et in raundo conversalus, 

Spai'ao verbi seaiine, 
Sui mcjrHs inculatiis 

Miro clauait ordinc. 



In 8upreraa3 uocte CociitE, 
IlwumbeiiB cum fratribus, 

Observata lege plene 
Cibia in legalibus» 

Clbum turbiu duudcnie, 
Se dat Hiiis mauibua. 



* Sing, mtf tongue, of the glorious 

Body, the mystery : 
And of the precious Blood, 

Whicbj for the price of the world, 
The fruit of a noble womb, 

The King of Nations poured fortlt. 
' To us given, for ua born 
Of a Bpolleaa Virgin ; 
And having had Ilia conversation in the 
^vond, 
The seed of the word having been scat- 
tered, 
The delays of Hib dwelling therein 
He dosed after a wonderful order. 

* In the night of the Last Snpper, 

Lying at meat witli ///« brethren, 
The lavr having been fully observed 

In the reception of the legal meals, 
jis food to tJie twelve-fold company 

He giveth Himself with His *o\vn 
hands. 



330 EnfflUh Hifmnolo^y : its Historif and ProspecU^ 



-very 



* Verbura Caro paoem veram * The Word made Flesh maketh 
Verho carnem eflQcit, bread 

Fitque Sanguis Chbisti raerum, By a word to be flesb, 

Et »i Bcnsus deficit And wine becometh the Blood of Christ : 

Ad firnmndlum cur siucerum Ami if aense fails, 

Sola Fidesj Mifiicit. To confirm a sincere heart 

Faiih alone suffices. 



Tantuni ergo Sacramentura 

Venerenmr cornui, 
Et antiquum d(jciimcntum 

Novo cednt ritiii ; 
Prtestct fides aupplementum 

Sensuum defectid. 

Genitori, Genitoqiie, 

Laus et jubilatio^ 
Salus, honor, virtna quoque, 

Sit et beuedictio, 
Ppocedenti ab Utroque, 

Compar ait iaudatio,' 



Such a Sacrament^ therefore, 
Let H8, prostrate, adore; 

And let the old ceremonial 
Yield to the new rite ; 

Let faith afford the supplement 
To the defect of the senses. 

To the Begetter and the Begotten 

Laud and jubilation. 
Salvation, honour, virtue also. 

Be tfiere and benediction ; 
To Him that proceedetli from Both 

Be there equal praise,' 



* Of the glorioua Body bleeding, 4. 

O my »ouK the mystery sing, 
And the Blood, all price excetading, 

Which for this wodd*« ransoming, 
From a nohle womb proceeding, 

JcsuH shed, the Gentiles' King. 

' Given for ns, for us descended 
Of ft Maid from evil freed, 

And His life for ua expended, 
Scattering Ibe Word's blest seed^ 

Hia career at length He ended, 
Wonderful in word and deed. 

' At the last sad Supper seated, 

Aided by His chosen band, 

Moses* Law in full completed 

In the food it doth command, 
To the twelve as food He meted 
Forth Himself with His own hand. 



* At the Incarnate Word's high bid- 

ding, 
Bread to very flesh doth turn ; 
Wine becoraeth Christ's blood- 
ahedding. 
And, if sense cannot discern, 
Guileless apirita never dreading, 
May firom Faith sufficient learn. 

* To the aacred Host inclining, 

In adoring awe wp beod. 
Ancient forms their place resigning 

Unto ritea of nobler eud ; 
Faith the senses dark refining, 

Mysteries to comprehend. 



* Of the Body bright and gracious. 

Tongue, rehearse the mystcrv, 
And the Blood, all pure andprecfous. 

Which He shed, our world to buy ; 
King of all its realms so spacious, 

Fruit of high-born Purity. 

* Given to us, His birth and nursing 

Taken of that holiest Maid, 
Here and there His Word dispersing, 

In the world a whUe he stayed ; 
Then, a wondrous Law rehearsing, 

End of weary sojourn made. 

* At His final Supper sitting;, 

With His own, that nwhd even. 
All th' old Law for aye completing. 

Pas chid meat made Meal from 
Heaven, 
To the Twelve for solemn eating. 

By Hia own Hands see Him given. 

' W^ord made Flesh ! the bread of 
nature 
Thou by word to Flesh dost turn, 
Wine to Blood of our CrcRtor : — 

If no sense the work discern, 
Yet the true heart proves no 
trai tor ; 
Faith unaided all shall learn, 

* Then in love and heart's prostration, 

Own we this great Sacrament- 
Gospel Rite, come, take thy station ,- 

A ncieot Law, be gone and spent! 
Faith, thine earnest adoration. 

Passing eye and touch, present I 





History and ProspecU* 331 ^| 


^P * Sire and Son, all power possessing, 
^ Unto Thee all glory be, 

Mit;ht, suIvatioH, lioaour, blessing, 

Unto all eternity J 
Holy Ghosts from Both progreasing, 
Equal glory be to Tbee,' 


* Praise and glad notes, heavenward ^M 

speeding, ^H 

To the Father and the Son. ^1 

Blessing, glory, power exceeding, ^H 

And salvation dearly won ; ^| 

To the Spirit, of Both proceeding, ^H 

Equtd, endless beniaon*' ^H 


2. < Speak, O tongue, tbe Body broken, ^^^H 
Given to be the spirit's loud; ^^^H 

And tbe Word Almighty spoken, ^^^^H 
Which bath turned the wine to Hloodi ^^^H 

or tbe King the awful token, ^^^1 
And celestial brotherhood, ^^^^ 


* Born for us, and for ua given, 
Of a V'ir^^bi undefiled, 
Scattering wide the seeds of Heiiven, 
Sojmirird He in this viorJd's wild; 
1 And on that remember'd even, 
^ft His appointed course fulliird. 




^H * Meekly to tbe kw complying, 
^H He had finish d tta commands; 
^B And to them at supper lying, 
^H Gave Himself with His own hfuidsi 
^H A niemorial of Hiu dying 
^H Hence to be unto all lands. 




^B < Tib His word to our receixing, 3. 
■ Makea the bread His Flesh to be; 
^H And tbe wine, our sins relieving, 
^H Blood that llow'd upon the tree : 
^H Though not seeing, yet believing, 
^H Take we this great Myatery. 


* God the Word by one woihI maketh ^^^B 
Very Bread His Flesh to be; ^| 

And wiiio.^o thai cup partakctbi ^| 
Tastes (lie Fruit of Calvary; ^| 

While tbe carnal mind forsaketh, ^| 
Faith receives, the Mystery. ^| 


^H * To our smitten rock ^^xw^^ fleeing, 
^H Drink we the new covenantj 
^H Wbicb to ancient types agreeing, 
^H To the latest time va sent ; 
^H Still believing, though nut seeing, 
^H Take we tliis dread Sacrament. 


' Unto that His presence veiled, ^^ 
Draw we nigh, with headn bow'd ^H 

All that Paschal rites entailed, ^| 
Yield lo higher blessings now ; ^H 

Earthly touch and sight have ^H 

failed, ■ 

Fatib ftdores, nor questions how. ^H 


^^f " * Now all might and adoration, 
^1 To tbe dreadful Trinity ; 
^H Houour, worship, and salvation^ 
^H And immortal glory be ; 
^H Co-etenial Three in station, 
^H And in power co-equal Three/ 


' Power ascribe we, praibc and bleaa^ ^^ 

ingi ^^H 

Both to Father and to Son ; ^^^1 

Holy Spirit, Thee addressing, ^^^H 

One with them, as Lohp alone; ^^^H 

l%is right ikith we hold, con- ^H 

fcssing ^H 

Persons Three, in aubstance ^| 

One.' ■ 


B 


^1 Now, of these versions, it is very clear that 5»Ir. Wackerbarth's H 
^H is by far tlie be&t, but yet by no means perfect. 'The glorious ^^ 
H Bocfy bleeding,'' ia an utijitsliliable interpolation for the gakc of a ^| 
r rhyme. We are not called to contemplate our Lord's Passion, ^| 


^^ NO. LXVI. N.8. A 


.^^H 



English Ht/mnolopy r its Histori/ and Prospects, 



but His gift of Himself to us as our footl. The last five lincfl 
of ilm first Mixnxii are nearly perft'ct, as a translation; In the 
Becoiul, the term desctrnthd^ for I'onf, is nio^t awkward ; and the 
rendering the itikfcta Virginc, clearly meant only by S. Thomas 
to express the maiden purity of tlie IMother of God, by an 
expression which hints at the luiiuaciilate Conception, is hardly 
a fair licence. Neither ia the * Et in mnndo eonvcrsatus' well 
^iven by ' And His life for us expended.' In the third stanza, 
the close contexture of the original is fully licpt uj), with the 
one exception of the w^ord fratrihm, Tlie lieauty of the idea, 
that it was to \\i^ brethren that onr Lurd gave Himself, is 
quite lost. The fourth stanza is not so successful. 77/^? Word 
(made) Fleshy bf/ a word maketh tert/ bread to hejitfd. The repe- 
tition of the tcrmfi h quite lost by the substitution of utcariHite, 
i'or made fle»k^ and Inddutq, ^^"^ tcord ; and the phrase Uood- 
sfiedMiifjy for htjod, is extremely au'kward. The Leicester hook 
is better \ but, by giving * God the Word/ for Verbum Carot 
misses one of the points. Dr. Pusey*s seems the best, tliongh 
the Bnad of fiattirey instead of terif Bread, is not so well ; but 
the two antitheses ore perfectly kept up. In the fifth stanzti, 
S. Thomas's idea, that faith is the supplement, or rattier com- 
plement, of sense, is quite lost by Mr. Wackerbarth, and by all 
the translators. The doxoloojy gives a very awkw^ard rhyme 
in the second line; and the similar commencement of that and 
the fourth, should have been avoided. 

Mr. CaswalTs translation of the above Hymn we have not 
given ; and that for the reason that, by dropping the doulile 
rhymes, he has put himself out of the pale of comparison w' ith 
the other translators. He had a very much easier task; but, 
notwithstanding this, and his having borrowed some lines from 
Dr. Puaey'a translation, w^e doubt whether his version is so 
good as Mr, Wackerbartirs. This indeed is the great fault of 
his work, — the difficulty he seems to have experienced in 
finding rhymes, and their consequent paucity and poverty; f*y. 

' Well fitting it was tliat a Son so divi/ie 
Should preserve from all taint of original Mfti; 
Nor snJTcr by smallest defuct to be st4iin*d 
That Mother, vphoiii He for iliinaeU'hadordftinMJ 

We will, however, to do Mr. Caawall justice, give in this 
place one beautiful hymn, beautifully translated. It is S« Francis 
Xavier'a Deus, ego amo Tt\ 

* My God, I love Thee* not bccnuse 
I hope for heaven thereby; 
Nor bceiinse those i.vhf> h>vc Thee not 
Must bum etertmlly. 



I 



English Hymnohgy : its History and Prospects, 333 

' Thou, O my Jesus, Thou didst me 
Upon the Cross embrace ; 
For me didst bear the nails and spear, 
And manifold disgrace ; 

* And griefs and torments numberless. 

And sweat of agony, 
Yea, death itself; and all for one 
That was Thine enemy. 

* Then why, O blessed Jesu Christ, 

Should I not love Thee well? 
Not for the hope of winning heaven. 
Nor of escaping hell : 

< Not with the hope of gaining aught. 

Not seekinff a reward ; 
But as Thyself hast loved me, 
O everloving Lord. 

* Ev'n so I love Thee, and will love, 

And in Thy praise will sing, 
Solely because Thou art my God, 
And my Eternal King.' 

Mr. Caswairs unwillingness to take the trouble of rhyming 
is still more strongly shown in his translation of the prose, 
VictimcB Paschali. We will first give his blank-verse version, 
and then an attempt of our own in rhyme. 

* Forth to the Paschal Victim, Christians, bring 

Your sacrifice of praise : 
The Lamb redeems the sheep : 
And Christ, the sinless One, 

Hath to the Father sinners reconciled. 

* Together Death and Life 
In a strange conflict strove : 

The Prince of Life who died now lives and reigns. 

* What thou sawest, Mary, say. 
As thou wentest on the way. 

* ** I saw the tomb wherein the Living One had lain : 
I saw His glory as He rose again : 

Napkin, and linen clothes, and angels twain : 
Yea, Christ is risen, my hope, and He 
Will go before you into GalUee." 

We know that Christ indeed has risen from the grave. 
Hail, Thou King of Victory ! 
Have mercy, Lord, and save.' 

* The Paschal work is wrought. 

The Victim's praise be told : 
The spotless Lamb hath brought 

The sheep into the fold : 
The just and innocent was slain 
To reconcile to God again. 

A A 2 



334 English Hffmnology : its Ffistorv and Prospects. 

* To womlrtms strife cnme Deatli and Life ; 

Slmrp was the conflicl, but 'tLs rj'cr: 
BeholJ, He livctk Ibat un,.* de«d, 
And ia alive for evermore I 

' Mary, sud mourner, say, 
What saw 'at thou in lb e way T 

* ^' I saw tbe Sbiin Ones earthly prisou ; 
t riftw the glory of the Hiaen, 

The angel giiardiS that kept the cavc^ 
Tlie useless gamienis of I he grjive. 

My hope hath risen from the dendf 
And ]^onii before you, as He ssiid.'* 

' CiriiiKT hutb arisen ; He is risen indeed : 
Thou viclur Monarch, for Thy suppliants plead.' 

The only general atlempt to provide a hynHi-book for the 
English Cliurch appeared in 1847, tinder the title which stands 
seventeenth at the head of this article. We noticcfl it at the time, 
and pronounced it to be — what cmphaticiilly it is — an utter 
fai 1 u re . 1 1 co n t a i n 8 2 3 G h y m n a, c viden t ly rak ed together \v i t h t he 
utmost speed, and reminding one of the Wise Mans declaration 
■ — * An inheritance may be gotten hastily at the beginning: 
but tlie end thereof shall not be blessed/ Perliaps of the local 
col lections, that marked No. 18 in our Hat is the best. This 
contains a hundred hymns — about twice as many as it ought 
to embrace :— but there are none very bad, though we rai^rs 
Beveral of the best* 

One difficulty still remains to be disposed of. How far is 
the Church juatified in selecting for her Hymnology the com- 
positions of those who were never within lier fold? some of 
whom, moreover^ were tainted with the most gross and glaring 
heresy. 

To us, we confesSj the question seems perfectly easy. In the 
same way as the Churcli has dared to inherit the earth p!iy- 
eically, and intellectually, and {estiveticaJly, eo she may vindicate 
to herself its moral possession. It would be as reasonable to 
say that she should not reconcile the temples of heretics, — that 
she should not avail herself of the treasures of Pagans,— that 
she should not render subservient to her own purpose the art 
or the discoveries of Greece or Kome, — that she should not 
have stamped the Aristotelian philosophy with her own approval, 
and made it that of the schoolmen; as that she may not lay 
hands, whenever and wherever they may occur, on the writings 
of those that acknowledge her not, adopting them either wholly, 
or moidding them to her own creeda. A precisely similar case 
occurs in the fact that a part of the authentic version of the 
•Scriptures, as employed by tlie Eastern Church, is, actually. 



Enali&k Htfmnoii^u : Itx Hutonf and Vrvspects. 335 

the work of a heretic. If it be urged that thia approprlatjoii 
can only be made by a Synodal Act of a provincial Church, m 
far we agree; but the Hy umology, the composition of which 
WD are conteiiiphitin«r, can <^iily h^ viewed in the light of a 
tentative work, and subject, of course, to the final a^iproval or 
rejection of her supreme authority. Ail we urge is, that the 
hymns of Dissenters will be accepted or rejected by Convocation 
on their own merit or demerit, and not on the bare smiple 
ground that their authors did not hold the Catholic faith. 

And we cannot help ex presiding our thunk fulness that our 
Church ha^ hitherto been kept from conmiitting herself, as her 
American daughter has done, to a ha:?tily compiled and trufhy 
hymn-book. A judgment of extreme chanty only can hinder 
us from branding some of the compositions of the latter a^ 
undoubtedly heretical. 

We now, finally, have to speak of a class of hymns which 
completely belongs to modern times: we mean those for chil- 
dren» Till the late movement there were but two original 
works of this kind which attained any celebinty :^ — Dr. Watts'« 
Divine and Moral Sungi*, and Jane Taylor's Nursery Rhyines. 
Now, with the views that Dii^scntcrs take of hymns — as com- 
positions designed to teach some religious truth in verse, — we 
neither are surprist^d, nor at all disposed to blame them, if they 
have hit on this method of inculcating their own tenets, on their, 
and other people's children. Could they have done it more 
Buccesi^luliy ? Wn.s any one composition had more influence 
in forming the nrinds of English children, — we do not for a 
moment except the Catechism,— than Watts's Divine and Moral 
Songs ? Is it not a fact, that where the parish priest himself 
has preached the doctrine of tlie Church, he has allowed the 
children committed to his charge to suck in the poison of thia 
book, — to believe themselves reprobates from the cradle; he has 
i breed them to say— 

* if tliis rebelliuus heart of mine 
Despise the gmciuus calls of heaven, 
1 may be '•artleu'd in mif thi, 
And never have repeutauce given.' 

Instead of being tauglit that the work of salvation is already 
accomplished for them, and that all their part is to ' continue in 
the 8a me unto their life's end/ they are cfilled upon to bey in it 
at once, — they are called upon to begin it themselves, — they 
are furiously threatened if they delay this beginning. 

♦ I wmikl rint puss another day 
Without this worlt he|run.* 

How it ia to be begun, h plcntiiully repeated:— 



I 

I 



SM 




To UmA duUran dw m '^aemg the Holt Srarr of 
God,* Whose ii i tiiri i w are m rtrang witluB dMH% bj teOtng 
them that the3r mre th&cAnt^ grroi «p and sold mwjgr dui; 
— ii 10 tfafhiiig them to tnut in llifMinrWrn ftr tlMsir nl- 
TVtioii, sod to dnpMe the ^ift of God; — it is thnnrigi^ mmrnw 
thftt oi»e pndoiiB opportmutj whidi cui never be rtatorod ;— 
it ii nuM|^ a vaotac^ ^tmod for afl foliire iWinUt of their 
great enemj ; — it la aieoociiagiiigaQ fvture rontanoe to i 
tion ; for why should he be lensted who it alrea^ in 



noo f And 80 the child argues^ — I am bad now, and I maj aa 
well be bad a little longer. 

We caimot resist uttejiiig one word of wu-Dix^ in leipect to 
this yery book, to those who call themselTes £e ETangelioal 
party. Does it not show that there rou»t be somethtDg totally 
and fimdamcDtaliy wrong in their mtens, when in a work thai 
to so great a d^ree forma the mina of Uieir children^ there is 
but one reference— and that of the mo^t casual kind — ^to the 
Third Person of tlie ever-blci^sed Trinity ? In the hymns on the 
Bible^ and on the Sunday, where we ^lould have thought that 
the writer oonld hardly fail of referring in the one caae to the 
hii|»ration« in the other to the descent, of the Holy Ghost, there 
la not the slightest allusion to either. This ought to startle 
those who are in this error. One warning they hare already 
had, of a similar kind, — the avidity with whicli they dispersed, 
(recommended in a preface written by one of their leaders,) 
a work composed by an Arian, — his Arian creed developed 
most strongly in the book itself^ though not then acknowledged 
by Dublic report as now. 

So much for Watta's Hymns : — Jane Taylor's come less 
under our notice. If they were never possessed of so much 
influence, they are at all events less dangerous, and iar less 
offensive. A few lines in that on Eternity are so excessively 
striking in themselves, and so admirably adapted to the capa- 
cities of those for whom they are written, that we will quote 
them here : — 

* Dfij9, montlis, and years will hare ait end, 

Eternity hath none ; 
Twiil always have as long to spend 

Ab when it first began. 



English llf^mnoht^n/ : itis Histon/ and Fro&pecta, 337 

* Great GuD ! an infant caonot tell 

AVhat such a thing may be: i 

1 only pray that 1 nmy dwell 
I'httt luDg, loug time with Thee ! * 

However, on the revivnl, the question immediately opened 
itself'j — What is to be done with respect to hymns for children? 

Of* modern hymn-books written to this end, we have placed 
four at the head of our article. The ChildU Christian Year is 
good, both in style and thought, tliough perhaps too much in 
advance of the intellect of a common child. 

The second is IMr. Williams's ' Hymns on the Church Cate- 
chism:' of which the following Hymn may stand as a specimen; 
the most beautiful, which is the last, is too long to quote;— 

* To Sarah old a child was given, 

And promised iVom on high ; 
It was the child^ at call of Heaven, 
His father gave to die. 

• * To Hannah, who had none before, 

A child did God award; 
She gave to God the son she bore. 
And Samuel served the Lord. 

* rHizabeth was grey and old, 
When holy John was given; 

These births were all of Hen v en I'orelold, 
All miracles of Heaven. 

* But these all hasted fast away 
Though marvellously born; 

But Mary's Child is like the day 
Of everlasting tnorn. 

* Blessed above all m omen thou, 
Thou mother of our God; 

More bletjscd they His love who know. 
And in Ilia stepH have trod/ 

The third are the Three Scries of Hymns for Children, in 
accordance with the Catechism, by Mr, J, M. Neale, Their 
recommendation is, that they teach no false doctrine, and that 
they are written in easy measures ; their great fault, that many 
of them are intolerably prosaic. We will give one as a spe- 
cimen : — 

'SUNDAY EVENING. 

*'rhe Apo:jtle3 were assembled, 

Fearing all their hopes w ere vain j 
For their Lord they w ept, and trembled, 

Lest he should not rise again i 
And the doors were shut around them, 

And they hardly dared to a peak ; 
So it waB tlit'ir Saviour fuund them, 

On the lirst day of the w eek* 



SS8 English Uf^mmlopj : it^ Hlstonj and FrospecU. 

' He 19 aometjmea just tin tiigh ua 

Wlien uc think Him far away ; 
And Aliniglity God waa hy u3 

When we knelt in church to-day ; 
There to mark whose thouglitd might lAFauder, 

Til ere who prayed indeeu to eee ; 
Watching us with love inuch fonder 

Than our mothers* love can be. 

* Saviour, iCTliou hadst despised ua, 

Thou woultlst not have made uh Thine, 
When Thy faithful priest baptized nsy 

When he sign'd U8 with Thy sign; 
And when all was finish 'd duly, 

Wc received another hirth, 
And became the members truly 

Of Thy holy Churcli on earth. 

* Yet the Devil will deceive ua. 

If he have us at his will; 
We shall perish if Thnu leave iis ; — 

Having loved ua, love us Btill : 
Father, Son, and Spirit, take as 

To Thy mercy and Thy love y 
Lead us onwani, till Thou make us 

Members of Thy Church above ! ' 

Tlicse hymns arc principally deisigned for National Sclioole : 
those wc arc about to notice, on the contrary, jire better adapted 
for those of the upper classes. And wc must confeas that it Is 
deep matter of tluiidt fulness, after having found children threat- 
ened by * dwelling with devils/ * in dsirkncss, fire, and chains,' 
and 'young sinners being sent alive tu hell,' and having their 
portion ' in the lake that burns with brimstone and with fire,' — 
and being brought to consider themselves, ' by nature and by 
practice too, a wretched alave to sin ;' to have the following 
liyinn proposed for their daily use. It is like coming into an 
atmnspnere of health, light, and freedom, from a dark and 
pestilential prison : — 

' We are little Christian children ; 

We can run, nud lAugh, and play : 
The great God of earth and heaven 
MadCt and keeps us every day. 
' We are little Christian children : 
Christ, the Son of God Most High, 
With Hid precious blood redeemed u», 
Dying that we might not ilic. 
' We are little Christian children * 
God the Holy Ghost is here, 
Dwelling in our hearts, to make ua 

Kind and holy, good and dear. 
' We are little Christian children, 

Saved by Him who loved us most; 
We believe in God Almighty, 
Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.' 



Engiiah //(/mfwlopt/ : Us HUtQrtf and Pn>.<peL'ts. 339 



So again, instead of hearing tliat children who kugli or play 
in church are struck dead, and tormented by fiends, and turn 
all God's love into tiiry, we arc taught^ 

* Haw to keep Cbrist's holiday 
In the happiest fittest way j 
With our fathers aad our mulhers, 
With our sisters and our hrothers, 
To the holy church we go, 
The dear church of high and low, 
Where the poor man, meanly dreas'd, 
Is as welcome as the best ; 
And the rich and poor may gather 
All around their common Father ; 
And our risen Lord h there, 
Listening kindly to our prayer." 

One more contrast, and we have done. Hear Dr. WattsV 
warning * Agaimt cun'uig^ atid iweartng, and taking Go^s Name 
ia rain .*' — 

* Angels, that high in glnrv dwell. 
Adore Thy Name, Alnii{;£jty God; 
And devils tremble down in hell, 
Beneath the terrora of Thy rod. 

* And yet, how wicked children dare 
Abuse 'liiy drcfidluh glorious Name f 
And when they're angry, how they swear, 
And curse their fellows and blaspheme I ' 

Having forthwith, after hia custom, consigned these wicked 
children to perdition, AVatts proceeds with a sort of savage 
exultation — 

' There never shall one cooling drop 
To quench thek burning tongues oe given.* 

Now, hear the writer of the Church:— 

' Hush ! little Christian child! 
Not with a laughing; lip,— 
For the Great God of all 
He will remember it 

Hush J for Hia hosts unseen 
His angels spread their wings, 
Wilt thou with words profane, 
Scatter thine angel-guards, 



Speak not that Holy Name, 
Not in thy playful game; 
Heareth each word we say, 
In the g^reat judgment day. 

Are watching over thee ; 
Thy keepers kind to be. 
Hash and uiiduliful. 
Glorious and heaulifid? 

Speak it with thought sincere, 
Breathe it in earnest prayer; 
In thy light joy or pain: 
Tliat take His Name ia vain." ' 



* Honour God's Holy Name ; 
Sing to it holy hymns, 
But not with sudden cry, 
" God will hold gniky hTI 

We will add Mr. Williams's hymn on the same subject : — 
' When men or children curae and swear. 

We hear the words of hell ; 
The dovil's mark iheir tongues declare, 
And with him ihcy must dwell. 



340 En^lhh Ilifmnolo^ff : itn Hidorif and ProiptCU, 

* And they who nse religious spcccb, 

Protane that awful word, 
If all the while their acticma teach 
I'hey du not fear the Lord. 

* Angels which iire iu Heaven above^ 

All tremble at that Name; 
And Saints, when they adore and love, 
With thrilling awe proclaim. 

* Have mercy, Lord, and teach us more 
To love Thee and Thy will, 

And, more than we have done before, 
Thy holy law fulfil/ 

We must now conclude these remarks. We make no apology 
fi>r their length, because we feel that tlic itiiportaucc of tlie 
subject cannot easily be overrated. If Sir Philip Sydney eald 
truly, ' Give me the making of a nation's ballads, ami I care not 
who makes its laws/ — so with at leaet equal trtith it might be 
lidj * Give me the selection of a Church'fi Hymns^^ and I care 
not who makcSj — or rather, in the present instance, who lias 
made, — its Articles.' No doubt the Puritan depression of the 
Church of England in the first thirty years of the present cen- 
tury waSj in great measure, brought to pass by the heresy of 
its hymns ; may we not, under God, expect the happiest resulU 
from Catholic teaching in her future llymnology? And does 
it not depend on all and each of us, by the hymns we now 
employ in our churches, or sanction hi our Bchools, what the 
future Hymnology of the Englieh Church shall be? 



Since the above article was written, we hare perused the 
* Evangelical Melodies,' which many of our reatlers will have 
seen quoted in a late article of the Quarterly Review. God 
forbid that we should endeavour to raise a laugh at such a bouk. 
We have not so learnt the Apostle's words : * For many walk, 
of whom I have told you often, and now tell you even weeping, 
that they are the enemies of the Cross of Cuiust.' Yet we shall 
certainly make some quotations from the hook, that our readeca 
may judge for themselves what that religion was, which, twenty 
years ago, so nearly engulfed the Church of England* 

First, the writer shall tell his design : — 

* Suppose, then, we took a letif out of our worldlinpf brother's book^ 
suppusie there were erceted, at capable bands, a spiritual ballad literature, 
which, with professiiigeirelea, mi^^bt hueonie what the worhi's ballad litera- 
ture has §0 long and so uifltientiiilly been with its votaries. Suppose, when 






m 



i 



English Ih/mnolo(jFi/ : its Hldonf and Pro»picU. 341 

such circles are visited by some jQung worltUy acqimiiitiince, who requested 
Mies Matilda or Miss Caroline to favour him witU a song, that the young 
lady, on reaching her instrument, in placeofaonie mere worldly diity, some 
Did yfou ne'er hear of Kate Ke/inte^i or As Cupid was one dai/ near Julia » 
hawtr, should be prepared with some graceful ballad, presenting, insteiid of 
the repulsive lineameDtu of the nauseated psalm and hymti, all the mrtrical 
aiid niusical attrtictions of his own favourite ditties, but uf whi«h the burden 
should bi\ some one of those thousand lesser features of evangelical expe- 
rience, of which strictly devotional compoaitiuna rarely, if cver^ take cog- 
nisance' 

Next, he sball speak of his capabilities : — - 

* I was not conslitalionally grave, 
Nor of a morbid temperameot the slave : 
I've sung and written, and with some Ixlait 
More than one comic song in days of yore/ 

And a good many more lately : — 

* Ay, and been deem VI, if I may mention it, 
Atolerable humorist and wit,' &c, &c. 

Now for exaraplea : — 

(*' Ilich and rare were the gemn she ware") 

* Few indeed were the things he sought 
That on earth by men are of moment thought : 
But oh 1 his riches did far exceed 
The riches of those who scorn *d his creed V 

* Ah ! but your taunt about new brooms 
Applieth not to me : 

With me these ways have long since shed 

The charm of novelty. 
Eleven years — perhaps rather more — 

Have' tied since first I tried 
To realise that great It is, 

Christ and tlim crucified I' 

Again : — 

* And though metres like these arc not quite those in which 

To treat of the sacred theme you adducPj 
Yet when denunciations and sneers you would pitch 

At my scheme of adoption, it may be of use 
Just to ponder the hint the above lines suggest, 

And sec whether awe of the kind w hich you mean, 
Is not something akin to that briefly expressed 

In S. James's Epiitle, cap, two, verse nineteen !* 

Once more i — 

' My back must I turn upon men who rely 

On the same source of hope whence my own is begot. 
Because we perchance may not see eye to eye 

Touching Prelacy, Liturgies, Tithes, and what not ? 
Must I count as no brother the man who I ken 

Is of meet opportunity ever in search 
To glorify Goii and cvangeliae men, 

Because he goes to chapel and I go to church ? ' 



342 Engthh IIi/mni>lot/f/ : iu IlUtortf and Pratpictt* 



The writer — a merohaot — thus addreasea his partner; — 
' For we adiicreuts are, altl friend. 
Of that ** lic€iitinuH " creed, 
Whicli nuake^ salvation's wealth devolve 

On an yaH?arnin!^ seed : 
And ontr> thoae who urge that creed 

To lawlessness diapones^ 

I amiply sav, heboid the way 

Of life of* Wiiliam Jones!* 



The following, 
Matilda or 
* drops ID.' 



WG suppose, must be intended for the * Miss 
]Misa Caroline* to produce when Sir C. E. Smith 



' Brothers^ nonconfonnist brothers, 

Are ye wholly now 
Wliat ye were when ye could bonst of 

Doddridge^ Watts/and Howe? 
Arc yc not a shade too bitter, 

Too political : 
Wilh yc are " essentials " now as 

Whilome^'all in all f" 

This complaint of too great bitterness comes rather strangely 
in a book which i?peakj3 of ' these days of Satan-Ilt)nie-an<f- 

* Oxford-plotting ogaint?t heart relinrion, spiritual worishi[), and 

* Chriat-salvatiou— tfiese days of aad eeclesiolatry, saoraruent- 

* debauchery, fas t-and -festival perversion,* 

And again i — 

* Ah, but, aorae one will sa\% Tractarianiam has had its day. Has it ? Look 
at the accursed poetry, novels, talea, and other poisons of like stamp, con* 
Btantly pouring from our presses. Three of these hideous compounds came 
in one dread batch under the wriler's notice but a few daya since. If 
Tractarianiam be not a crowning effort of the great adversary under a con* 
acioiisnesH that hi« time is short, verily the depths of his subtlety are un- 
fatlinmable. Thorough-going llomaniam is a fool to it/ 

Here is another specimen : — 

' To church let ud go at eve, noontide, and morning; 

But if thence to theiktre or ball we repair, 
Our many church-goings lefa not be suborning 

To cover and cancel our worlcllLness there! 
Fast we raorniitg and night if by fasting we cherish 

Devntinn that laatetii when fasting is o'er; 
But oh ! let our fraudulent fantin^ go perish, 

If to poBt-fasting license it open the door ! 
Empty-atomach devotion to-day ^ do not let it, 

For the winebibbing banquet to-morrow at one ; 
Nor yet of our Lenten acckision the merit 

Give sin a carte bhnche when Lent season is flown ! ' 

And here is the commendation of the ' good City Mission :* — 
* No " I am of Paul, sir, and thou of Apollo3," 

la heard In the ranks ofthwt brother-like hand ; 
One in faith, thoup;h in diHcipline encli brother follows 
What tbc dictates of conscience in each may command. 



English Hymiwlogy : its History and Prospects, 343 

No " touting " for churches (excuse the expression) 
Or chapels you shall 'mong its members perceive ; 

To the Church of the First-bom alone the accession 
Of perishing sinners they seek to achieve I ' 

We must conclude. Our author seems to have had some 
idea of leaving the English Church, as being now somewhat in 
the condition that she occupied — 

* When, Stuartised even to Popery's brink, 
Her children began to forsake her in fight.' 

But he fortunately remembered that — 

' She's the Church of John Newton, of Cecil, of Goode, 
And dozens and dozens of like saints beside.' 

And so there we will leave him, with one quotation more :— 

' Confound not with Baptism Regeneration, 

That dogma which hath many soulfl undone ; 
For justification and sanctification 

Sunder them not, yet never deem them one. 
Ye shall find the Invisible then will award ye 

A rest, a peace, a joy, an ecstasy, 
Which TVactarianism can never afford ye, 

That infant mystery of iniquity ! ' 



344 



Art. lY.^Sidmiiay the Sorceress. Bf/ William llEmnoLD, 

Author of The Amber Wik'h, Trandaied for the Parlour 
Librartf. 

It is an interesting question, and one not easily settled, what 
amount of deception ia lawful in authoreliip. Even tlie most 
avowed fiction has fiome pretence at reiditj, and is ushered in 
with as many circumstances of likelihood and probability as the 
writer can devise. The allegory c^irefully penned at the study 
table is announced as a dream, tbe fairy tale as a veritable 
legend ; while white-haired dome^ticis, maiden aunts, way-side 
travellers and venerable priestij are the standard narrators of 
novels and hi??torjes, which nakedly set forth on their own 
account would want some link to connect them with the reader's 
imagination. It is only Simg tlje joiner, * a very gentle bea^t, 
and of a good conscience,' wliu thinks it necessary, before he 
roars as hon, to announce his true nature and calling, and no 
illusion can stand against such odds. Fiction does not deserve 
the name till it has, in a certain sense, 

' power ! 

To render things irapoasible believed, ■ 

And will them vndi the credence of an hour ■ 

To be for trulba retxnved.' | 

Buch deception is of its very essence ; and, wdiatever the Puri- 
tans may once have done, we apprehend that few quarrel with 
it now. The objection to plays and romances rests now rather 
upon their intrinsic demerits than on the simple ground that 
they are not true. 

The historical novel is a step farther in artifice. The small 
a<hnixture of truth claims a sort of credit for all the rest, and 
in this conjunction, fiction, woven by a skilful hand^ keeps its 
hold on the reader's mind with more than the credence of an 
hour. For example, we all know how the mind of a nation 
may be permanently imbued with a mere fancy, as if it were 
the very truth itticlf, when a lofty genius undertakes to inform 
it on matters concerning the creation of this world, and the fall of 
ijian : till many do not know whether their impressions on these 
i^reat events are derived from the Word of God, or only from 
the poet's imagination, received along with it, as its interpreter 
and development. 

But quitting such high and hnzai'dous themes, we still feel 



MelnhMa Sidoma. 



345 



that we must kuow the author, — that he should come to us with 
some credcDtials, — wlien we are to take from him our more inti- 
mate acquaiotance with jinst events, and tiee [»ersoiiages and 
8cenc8 under t!ie ghire of his illumination, outshining the pale 
dim twilight of history. But ali this is between the author und 
JuH own conscience. If he verilj believes he is representing 
principles and parties as they really were, if to the beet of hia 
power he it* truthful and impartial, we hold him justified in hia 
attempt. The reader, in his turn, must use discretion, and not 
take imag^ination for more than it is worth. All people have 
their special gift. The poet cannot write a history. It was Sir 
Walter Scott^s best way of giving us his ideas of the actions and 
motives of other times ; and hia researches into and opinions of 
those times were very well worth our knowing. There are wits 
so keen that they can conceive a just judgment of a character 
from one recorded trait, as Cuvier could draw the fossil animal 
true and complete, on being shown a single bone. 

It is otherwise when the author, to gain a credence beyond 
what his imagination hy its own inherent force can win, pro- 
ceeds to assertions connected with his story as a whole, which 
are nut true ; when he says deliberately that it was w^ritten by 
another hand than his own, and when he surrounds this assertion 
with so many probable circumstances that the reader is ready to 
believe it ; and here we apprehend that the deliberate inteution 
to deceive must be the only test. No one quarrels with the great 
novelist alreatiy quoted, when the schoolmaster of Gandercleugh 
gives U8 hia account of the chscovered MS., from which liis aa- 
sistant, Peter Patticson, weaves a beautiful romance, because the 
simplest and moat credulous of his readers is able to exclaim 
with the unveiler of the great Mrs. Harris fiction — ' There 19 
no setch a jterson.' 

It seems, then, to us, that the question is entirely one of 
degree, and almost adiuits of a typographical illustration and 
'lomtioD. The tej-l of all fiction is its legitimate ground. There 
tibe author may re]>rcsent himself as whatever and whoever he 
plefltea. It is an additional step in artifice when we have an ela- 
borate introduction, professing to account for the narrative. We 
come to deceit if the preface makes a false and at the same time 
probable statement ; and when the title-page confirms and clenches 
all this evidence by additional circumstances intended to mislead, 
the subterfuge is complete. However much we may disapprove 
of such irapostures, w^c are not going to launch out into veiy 
strong invectives against them: such warmth would endanger 
our own credit for dtscernment. The critic should never take 
such matters too much e?i serieux* A practised eye and coiTect 
laste can, in most cases, distinguish, in a moment, truth from 



346 



Meinhotd'8 Sidonia, 



its counterfeit ; and the owner of these good gifts is too well 
j>leascd with the exercise of his own peculiar faculty, to be very 
indig;nant against those who call it into play. Nor, indeed, are 
readers very ready to believe that deceit U iiieantj till they 
are themselves itti victims. It is those who are taken in whose 
mora! sense is most shocked at the deception ; and justly so, for 
in all men's eyes truth is sacred : and we realize a falsehood 
%vhcn we have been brought fur a time to believe it. In most 
casesj however, the author has much to say in vindication. He 
intended a jest, and found himself taken in earnest ; or, perhaps, 
fileascd with his own conception, he surrounds it with every 
accessory, to give it external semblance of reality, and find?, to 
his eurprise, that it is taken for reality itself. Such must have 
been the experience of the auth<j»r of * Lady Willoughby's 
Diary,' who, we imagine, could no more have expected the as- 
HUMied quaintness of style necessary for hia design to mislead his 
readers Into supposing they were possessed of a genuine diai-y of 
the sevcnteeth century, than the printer supposed his miniicry 
oi' old type would persuade the pui'chaser lie was buying a 
choice and perfect copy two hundred years old. Again, the 
scrupulous author of * The Old Man's Home' was shocked 
by letters from the admirers of his pretty fiction, taking <(>r 
granted it was all fact, and wanting further particulars; and 
had to Bet matters right as well as he could with a too crediduus 
public in a second edition. It may be that where the character 
of the work is devotional, tlua deception is ill-timed. It may be 
akin to jesting on serious sulijccts. We do not like imaginary 
prayers, composed with all the fervoiu' and unction of which 
the writer is capable, and skilfully adapted to the cliaracter and 
times they profess to belong to ; for we can hardly understand 
or sympathize with the author's posture of mind, which must 
be an imitative and not a devotional one. Thus those who are 
most pleased with the performance, are least willing to think it 
a simple exercise of talent and ingenuity. 

In the case of the author at tbe head of our article, who has 
distinguished himself by a most successful deception, there is no 
room for the excuse that he was taken too literally at his 
word. In his first work, * Tiic Amber Witch,' he practised 
upon the credulity of his countrymen as deliberately as Chat- 
terton and Ireland did upon theirs. It was, in fact, a pious 
fraud, How it succeeded as it did with the critical German 
wT>rld, we arc at a loss to imagine ; but the intention to deceive 
is as certain as the success of the deception itself. ' The Amber 
W^itch' is an illustration of our ty pograpliical scale; and as a 
crowning art, the title-page is made to commend the story — the 
author laying aside the modesty of hie calling, and announcing 



Meinhohfs Sidania. 



347 



I 



the narrative as ' the most interesting trial for witchcraflt ever 
known ;' and in the preface he artfully apologises for leaving the 
MS. as he found it, except in the case of certain needful 
interpolations, whicli, for the sake of the general reader, he does 
not point out, concluding with an insidious compliment to the 
critics:— ' for modern criticism, which haa now attained to a 

* degree of acutenesa never before equalled, such a confession 
' would be entirely superfluoua, as criticB will easily distinguish 

* the passages where Pastor Schwcidler [the alleged author] 
' speaks, from those written by Pastor Meinhold.' The work, 
thus ushered forth, had all success. It was received as literal 
truth, no one, as it seems, doubting its genuineness — ^till after a 
time Meinhold published a contession, or ratlier a boast, of his 
deception in the AU^emelm Zeitung, together witli the motives 
wliich had influenced him ; to the great indignation of the critica, 
who refused to believe themselves taken in, and some of 
whom maintain, to this day, the genuineness of the greater part 
of the book, Tlic reason for this elaliorate trick i>racti8ed by 
n Doctor of Theology is to be found apart from his care or 
interest for the story, which he professed to hold as quite a 
secondary concern. He had long been persuaded of the fal- 
lacy of those rules of criticism by %vhich his countrymen judged 
of the authenticity of Holy Scripture, He believed that the 
seal and test of it3 truth and divine origin lay within, 
and that all external rules by which it was tried were unsound 
and fallacious. He wrote his witch story to prove the worth- 
lessness of such rules, and, by showing how easily critics and 
commentators may be misled into believing a fiction of the 
nineteenth century a true narrative of the seventeenth, convince 
the world how little their rules are to be trusted in deciding tlie 
date and authorship of writings of the most reiuoto antiquity. 
The argument ought certainly to have great weight with his 
countrymen, who, to the surprise of more than one English 
reader, so readily swallowed the bait ; and M. Meinhold has so 
much at heart the proving of this his main point, as to feel 
indignation rather than amusement and triumph at tlie obstinate 
credulity of some of his victims. 

We have thus briefly given the history of a literary deception, 
unilcrtaken for an end which, in the author's eyes, no doubt 
justifies the means. M. Mcinhold's new work at the head of our 
article is an argument in proof, if any were wanting, of the danger 
of such practices, and of the influence for harm they must exert 
on the mind. The admirers of ' The Amber Witch' will think 
this second witch story a great falling ofll Those who saw in 
the first much to blame and disapprove, will find these faults 
exaggerated ten-fold in ' Sidonia;' though here, too, the motive 

KO. LXVI, — N. S, li B 



fur its composition profeMca to be a religious one, as we are in- 

ibrmed in the * Preface i' — 

* 1 truvst that all just thinkers, of every party, will pardon me for having 
here and there introduced my superniitural views of Christianity. A man's 
prijiciplea, as put forward in his philosophical writings, are in general only 
read by his own party, and not by that of his adversai-ies. A Rationalist 
will ily from a hook by a Siipematuraliat as rapidly as this latter from one 
by a Friend of Light. But* by introducing my views in the manner I have 
ailopEedt in place of publishing thera in a distinct volume, I trust that all 
parties will be ioduced to peruse them, and that many will find what is 
worthy their particular attention, and matter for deep and serious reflection.' 

As people have refused to believe M. Meinbold in Lis assertion 
of bis fir&t story being an entire fiction, he declines to say what 
h true, and what invention in 'Sidonia;' but the style of the giame 
period ia ufFected throughout. There is soniethin*^ in the necea- 
gity of always wearing a mask and supporting a character which 
luuat interfere with tlic finer arts of composition. An author 
nuist feel hampered and constrained, in delineating scenes of real 
interest, by being forced to the invariable use of a quaint 
phraseology. He can never forget himself in his theme; and 
in the most exciting momenta must be most on his guard, lest 
his own fcclingfl, rather than those of the imaginary narrator, 
should transpire. This was felt in ' The Amber Witch,' where 
the charactenstic peculiarities and wcakncBses of the old pastoFj 
amusing in themselves, grew importunate when our interest 
was really excited* It ia not possible to write in an assumed 
charactei' and age, without giving undue prominence to triHea 
and points of detail. Human nature is always the same, but 
the garb in which it shows itself varies with each succeedin 
age. It is all-important that this should be correctly given ; an 
it h easier to keep up the illusion by truth of detail than by 
truth to our common nature: just as in modern historical pic- 
tures the costume of all tfie characters, down to the most insigni- 
ficant, is accurately given, and every accessory true to the letter; 
hut in anxiety to secure this servile exactness, all the passion and 
nature for wliich the scene was worth depicting at all, is lost 
sight of, and we have a gaudy array of well-dressed models in its 
place. Again, it is chiefly by giving prominence to the defects 
of a ruder age, that the image of it ia most easily raised and 
kept alive. Every one can be made aware of the dlflerence 
between uncouth and civilized usages, and is kept in good 
luimour by tlie contrast ; but it cannot be doubted that that dig* 
nity which, in all times, belongs equally to an honest and upright 
course, sntTerg consideraljly ; and the actors in it fall in our 
respect, when the solecisms and roughnesses which accompany 
their best achievements are ostentatiously laid before us. We 
may see them exactly as they were; but, after all, we should 



Areinhol<I*8 Sidonta. 



349 



I 



have a corrccter notion of them without these lowering details: 
for wliat Molierc eaya of models to be followed and iiuUiited 
applies, in some sort, to their simple dehneation :■ — 

* Quand aur ime persontie on pretend se regler, 
C'est par les bcniix cotes fjiiil lui fnut ressemhlcr ; 
Et ce n'est point du tout la prendre pour modeiej 
Ma accur, que de tousaer at du craclier commc cllc.' 

Yet these points are of the very essence of a inere imitation. 
But if thei?e and kindred defects were apparent in * The 
Amber Witch,' they are flagrant in ' Sidonia.' M. Meinhold 
finds his assumed style, in epite of its inherent difficulties, a 
convenient excuee and blind for many faults in taste and 
feeling. Thus, it was a coarse age, and our author finds it a con- 
genial soil for the indulgence of great natural coarsencsis ; and 
we have scenes and jests which would not be tolerated in a 
writer representing our own times. Again, it was a prolix, 
proj^y, and diffuse age ; men had not learnt the art of expressing 
themselves with order or conciseness, and it falls in wonderfully 
well with M. Meinhold's natural turn of mind to be prolix and 
diffuse, while thereby he alt the more correctly personates a 
Lutheran di\^nc of two hundred years ago. It was a superati- 
tious age, and by this means he can imply a larger belief, with- 
out deliberate assertion, in all the witcheries and conjurations 
he describes so fully, than it would be possible for a man now 
to do in a formal treatise or statement of opinion. No one can 
find out positively how much of it all he docs believe ; but that he 
puts faith in a great many absurdities is beyond question. 
Lastly ; it was a cruel age, and that must needs he a cruel na- 
ture which delights to dwell on scenes of pain and torture with 
a minuteness of detail and gratuitous horrors that make the blood 
curdle but to think of However, we ought possibly to abate 
sontewhat of tlic charge of cruelty in regard to the former charge 
of supei^tition, which in a mesisure excuses it, inasmuch as 
superstition believes all such horroi's well deserved, and a simple 
a^t of justice. So that the reader is actually made to witness 
tortures, to consent to them, and, by the author's gootl-wiU, even 
to take pleasure in them, on the ground that they were richly 
merited l>y the diabolical wickedness and extensive powers of 
mischief of the miserable victims. In many cases M. Meinhold 
protests against the cruelties practised in those times, and em- 
ploys the strongest language in denouncing them j but there is 
a satisfaction evident in the thought of his genuine witches 
cn4luring the same, which comes from the heart, and is some- 
thing bey««nd the assumi>tion of a character. 

But though we hold M. Meinhtild deficient in the higher gifYs 
of imagination, for which his voluntary trammels would be too 

D B 2 



350 



Mdnhold'$ Sidonta* 



severe a reatramt, he ia yet a remarkable writer, and possesses 
powcra of entering into his subject, and realizing each scene 
with a fidelity and exactness, creeping and eervile though they 
be, not often met with ; as if he literally did see all that he 
described. This is, indeed, so striking a feature in his writing, 
aa to make it at first eight a matter of surprise that his books 
are not more interesting. But vivid as many of his scenes are, 
and exciting, in a certain sense, we defy any one to read 
* Sidonia ' through without extreme weariness. It is matter of 
surprise at first sight only, and until we call to mind how neces- 
sary it is to the success of fiction that its general tone should be 
pleasing. Men are happily so constituted as not to endure, for 
any length of time, the contemplation of unalloyed wickedness. 
There must be some sort of contest between good and evil, or 
what the writer and the reader conceive to be such ; but unmi- 
tigated baseness needs, happily, a most |)Owcrful pen and rare 
graces of style to chain the attention upon it for any long 
period. We get positively tired of it, and our nature rebels. 
Sidonia's low, sordid, detailed wickedness wearies us. It is like 
watching a toad for hours. Nor do the inferior actors in the 
piece do much to redeem the revolting featiu*es of the heroine. 
M. Meinhold has a taste for the mean and the nasty. He 
delights in abject scenes. At one time it is the peasants licking 
up the wine as it streams down the palacc-steps ; at another, a 
party of Jews, in their long beards, scrarabling for spoil on the 
j>avement. Or it is a rabble, accompanying, with jeers and 
laughter, some innocent victim, tricked out in dismal mockery, 
to the gibbet ; or Sidonia and her base lover interchanging vile 
reproaches and blows ; or a poor jester, frightened to death in 
jest. 

Nor do his superior characters escape contamination ; indeed, 
the profession of high aims tempts our author to administer this 
species of huraihation, which, ivith the fiend for his ally, ia easily 
effected. The Priest of the Luth