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THE 



CHRISTIAN 



REMEMBRANCER 



VOL. XVI. 

j U L Y D E C E M B E R. 




LONDON : 

PUBLISHED BY J. & C. MOZLEY, 

6, PATERNOSTER ROW; 

AND D. APPLETON & CO. 200, BROADWAY, NEW YORK. 

1848. 




LONDON I 
Jl. CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREET HILL. 



\\\ 



CONTENTS 



No. LXI. 



PAGE 

ART. I. Novum Organum ; or, True Suggestions for the 
Interpretation of Nature. By Francis Lord 
Verulam . 1 

II. Sketches of Continental Ecclesiology ; or, Church 
Notes in Belgium, Germany, and Italy. By the 
Rev. Benjamin Webb, M.A 27 

III. Eastern Life, Present and Past. By Harriet 

Martineau , . . . 62 

IV. Sermons during the Seasons from Advent to Whit- 
suntide. By the Rev. E. B. Pusey, D.D., Regius 
Professor of Hebrew, Canon of Christ Church ; 
late Fellow of Oriel College 90 

V. Niccolo de'Lapi, ovvero I Palleschi ed i Piagnoni, 

di Massimo D' Azeglio 117 

VI. History of the Girondists ; or, Personal Memoirs 
of the Patriots of the French Revolution. From 
unpublished Sources. By Alphonse de Lamar- 
tine. Translated by N. T. Ryde ; with a Biogra- 
phical Sketch of the Author 165 

NO. LXI. N. s. 



il CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

ART. VII. Holy Baptism : a Dissertation by the Rev. William 
Maskell, M.A. Vicar of St. Mary Church, 
Devon, and Domestic Chaplain to the Eight 
Reverend the Lord Bishop of Exeter 191 

VIII. Narrative of the French Revolution of 1848. By 

W. K. Kelly 202 



NOTICES OF BOOKS , 248 



CONTENTS 



No. LXIL 



PAGE 

ART. I. 1. Sketches of the History of Christian Art. By 

Lord Lindsay. 

2. Progression by Antagonism : a Theory involving 
Considerations touching the present Cond tion, 
Duties, and Destiny of Great Britain. By Lord 
Lindsay 261 

II. Principles of Political Economy, with some of their 
applications to Social Philosophy. By John Stuart 
Mill 315 

III. An Essay on Logical Method. By Charles P. Chre- 
tien, M.A. Fellow and Tutor of Oriel College, 
Oxford 345 

IV. A Description of Active and Extinct Volcanos, of 
Earthquakes, and Thermal Springs, &c. By 
Charles Daubeny, M.D. F.R.S 365 

V. Baptism ; or, the Ministration of Public Baptism 
of Infants, to be used in the Church ; scripturally 
illustrated and explained. By the Ven. C. J. 
Hoare, A.M. Archdeacon of Surrey, Canon of 

Winchester, and Vicar of Godstone 406 

NO. LXII. N.S. 



ii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

ART. VI. Final Memorials of Charles Lamb. By Thomas 

Noon Talfourd, &c 424 

VJI. 1. Defence of the Thirty-nine Articles : in Reply 
to the Bishop of Exeter. By William Goode, 
M.A. F.S.A. Rector of St. Antholin, London. 

2. The Christian Observer for May and June. 

3. An Appeal to the Laity, &c. By a Presbyter. 

4. The Thirty-nine Articles no Test of Heresy, &c. 
By the Rev. F. W. Trenow, B.A. Curate of 
Manningford Bruce. 

5. A Charge delivered at the Triennial Visitation, 
&c. By Henry, Lord Bishop of Exeter. 

6. Observations on the Standard of Doctrine, &c. 
By Peter Holmes, M.A. Curate of Egg Buckland. 

7. Examination before admission to a Benefice, by 
the Bishop of Exeter, followed by refusal to insti- 
tute, &c. Edited by the Clerk examined, G. C. 
Gorham, B.D. Vicar of S. Just, &c. 

8. Vindication of the ' Defence of the Thirty-nine 
Articles, &c.,' in Reply to the Bishop of Exeter. 

By William Goode, M.A. &c 456 



NOTICES OF BOOKS 495 



THE 

CHRISTIAN REMEMBRANCER 

JULY, 1848. 



ART. I. Novum Organum; or, True Suggestions for the Inter- 
pretation of Nature. By FRANCIS LORD VERULAM. London : 
Pickering. 1 844. 

THAT ' the Organon(l) of Bacon (2) was not designed (3) to 
supersede (4) the Organon (5) of Aristotle '(6), is a well-known 
axiom, f opinor omnibus et lippis notum et tonsoribus esse,' 
thanks to the logic, the confessedly 'popular' logic, of Doc- 
tor Whately. 1 It is a pleasing paradox, in these self- 
opinionated, would -be -enlightened days, to find the literary 
world composedly acquiescing in the dictum of a superior eccle- 
siastic, especially one so Proteus-like and variable as he who 
now presides over the sister metropolis. We might argue well, 
a fortiori, for the judgment of a Butler or a Berkeley upon a 
like subject. 

Unfortunately, however, the meaning of the above dictum 
is by no means as clear as it appears ; our arch-logician main- 
tains it may f be regarded as at least six different propositions : 
f If the word numbered (1) were in italics, it would leave us at 
( liberty to suppose that Bacon might have designed to supersede 
6 by " some" work of his the Organon of Aristotle, but not by his 
' own Organon ; if number (2) were in italics, we should under- 
' stand the author to be contending that, whether or no any 
( " other" author had composed an Organon with such a design, 
' Bacon, at least, did not ; if number (3), then we should under- 
' stand him to maintain that, whether Bacon's Organon does or 
( does not supersede Aristotle's, no such " design," at least, was 
6 entertained ; and so with the rest.' Truly, this is to surpass 
the inspired Pythian herself! Kpoiaos " K\vv Siapas, &c. is a 
complete joke to it. We are once more thrown upon the wide 
sea, and that which we had fondly deemed our polar-star, as 
well from its altitude as from the decisive characteristics it 
exhibited, is discovered to be a vague meteor, not less fallacious 



1 Elements of Logic, p. 98. 
NO. LXI. N. S. B 



2 Lord Verularrfs Novum Organum. 

and wanton than the ignis fatuus which, in a far lower sphere, 
plays over the bogs and morasses of the Emerald Isle. This 
perplexity does not, however, seem to have harassed the public 
mind ; nobody seems to have regarded the question as one of 
the least importance. Bacon, it is tacitly agreed upon all hands, 
did very well for the age in which he lived ; what he thought, 
said, or wrote, it is, in the present advanced age, superfluous to 
inquire; and, in the present instance, such a conclusion may 
commend itself to our acceptance with a twofold force ; as to 
hold the above proposition, in any sense, would involve a careful 
perusal of the Organon of Aristotle, as well as of Bacon, both, 
it is to be feared, equally consigned to the shelf by far the 
greater proportion of the classical world. But, after all, it is 
not Bacon's Organon only that we would fain rescue from obli- 
vion in the writings or the mind of the great author, it is by 
no means to be regarded as a single work ; it is, indeed, the 
key-stone to the arch, and the foundation of the entire super- 
structure ; but it is, at the same time, but a part of the whole 
but a compendium of the ultimate principles to which the details 
may be traced ; nor must we forget to contemplate the stately 
trunk and widely disseminated branches, while we scrutinize, 
with wonder and amazement, the deeply-fixed tap-root of the 
British oak. To quote the poet inversely 

' Tantum vertice ad auras 
^Ethereas, quantum radice in Tartara tendit/ 

' Very apt, indeed, the last half of the lines especially,' says 
a disciple of Cudworth, or a glowing admirer of the late reaction 
towards a more Catholic spirit, ' as applied to Bacon. I have 
' always considered him the Coryphaeus of the sceptical philoso- 
6 phers and free-thinkers of the last century.' 4 Doubtless you 
' have, good sir,' it is returned ; ' but have you ever examined 
' the writings of him you calumniate ?' 

We have introduced these reflections somewhat familiarly, 
but we intend them not the less seriously. Like many more 
master-minds, Bacon has not only been misinterpreted, but 
ignorantly traduced. Many that profess to follow him have a 
mere general idea, that he was to science what our reformers 
were to religion ; and these they have already demonstrated, as 
they imagine, by a like barefaced assumption, to have totally 
disowned and reprobated the doctrine, ceremonies, and practices 
of the Church anterior to the Reformation. It is not more 
wonderful that they who virtually deny many parts of the Book 
of Common Prayer should delude themselves into the notion 
that they hold the self-same doctrinal views as those who framed 
itj than that those who advocate a universal scepticism should 



Lord Verulam's Noimm Organum. 3 

claim to be treading in his footsteps who first advocated upon 
particular subjects the right of a free inquiry. Nor, on the 
other hand, can it be a matter of surprise, that those who view 
the Reformers with suspicion on account of the charge to which, 
directly or indirectly, they have laid themselves open, of dis- 
severing the unity of the Catholic Church, should regard with 
greater complacency one who so vigorously sapped the foun- 
dations of the old philosophy which, before the Reformation, 
was implicated by the closest alliance with the received theology. 
But neither the one nor the other are to be condemned unheard ; 
and certainly, if it is in the least degree possible that the suspicions 
towards the Reformers may be diminished, or contrariwise 
balanced, by a fair and impartial examination of the writings 
they have left behind them, it is far more probable that injustice 
may have been done to Bacon, when it is as fully considered, as it 
ought to be, that his principles are distinctly propounded with 
a salvo to religion. And here, let it be premised, we do not 
intend to discuss his personal character. Not to allude to the 
more positive blots in it, of which, considering his deservedly 
great fame, there were not a few, it has been observed elsewhere 
very impartially, that ( his moral qualities were not of a high 
order' .... Nothing, indeed, like intemperance or profligacy are 
laid to his charge but ' his faults were coldness of heart and 
( meanness of spirit : he seems to have been incapable of feeling 
* strong affections, of facing great dangers, of making great 
( sacrifices : his desires were set on things below.' ' . . . This 
may provoke a scornful smile from those who would instantly 
retort, ' How complete the analogy between his character and 
his philosophy !' but it is not remarkable, we reply ; for what 
man, that does not dissemble, is not the living effigy of his prin- 
ciples ? and the more he gives vent and expression to them, 
insists upon, developes, and applies them practically, whether 
by word or deed, the more he will be insensibly aifected by 
them, till he grows into the exact embodiment of them. Only, 
therefore, let a deficiency be proved, and the necessity for the 
introduction of the Baconian principles be fully shown, as a 
counterpoise to the old system, and his character will not only 
have been accounted for, but, to a certain extent, even palliated 
in the very points in which it failed, so far as he can be called 
a victim to his principles. It is like what often occurred, and 
still occurs, in a religious controversy, that those who write 
against a particular error are betrayed into the opposite extreme ; 
and thus S. Austin, in his ( Refutation of Pelagianism,' occasion- 
ally employs language redolent of a later Calvinism. 

1 Edinburgh Review, July, 1837, p. 29. 
B 2 



4 Lord Verulam's Novum Organum. 

To return we assert it is our confident impression that 
Bacon is very generally misrepresented, because he is not very 
generally, or at least carefully, read. Hallam, indeed, seems to 
think he has been more studied of late than heretofore. ' Scot- 
' land,' he says, * has the merit of having led the way ; Keid, 
( Stewart, Robison, and Pluyfair, turned that which had been 
* a blind veneration into a rational worship ; and I should sus- 
( pect that more have read Lord Bacon within these last thirty 
' years than in the two preceding centuries.' 1 On the other 
hand, one who ought to be conversant with the habits of his 
countrymen observes, 2 ' It is by his Essays that Bacon is best 
( known to the multitude. The " Novum Organon" and the " De 
6 Augmentis " are much talked of, but little read. They have 
c produced, indeed, a vast effect on the opinions of mankind, but 
' they have produced it through the operation of intermediate 
' agents. They have moved the intellects which have moved 
' the world.' Again, it is a matter of history, that Archbishops 
of Canterbury, Sancroft and Tennison for instance, and great and 
good men formerly, like Bishop Andrewes and George Herbert, 
were reckoned among the devoted admirers and students of our 
author 3 admirers he may have of the same kind even in these 
days but we have never heard of any that professed them- 
selves his devoted students in these days. Since the publication 
of the ( Intellectual System,' for a reason we shall presently assign, 
the orthodox have manifested considerable shyness towards him, 
without cause, we think ; and accordingly, it will be our endea- 
vour in the present paper to lay down what we imagine will 
exhibit the true view of his philosophy from the following con- 
siderations : 

1. What Bacon did attempt and intend in his scheme ; 

2. What he did not intend ; and 

3. The manner in which he accomplished his purpose, which 
will at once embrace the spirit and method of his inquiry. 

From these reflections it will be seen how far he kept within 
his own province, and in what respects he may have deviated ; 
and these last, whether attributable to his own inconsistency, or 
to the circumstances of the times in which he lived ; how far he 
is to be considered responsible for the speculations, to which, owing 
to the above vacillation, he may, in a certain sense, be said to 
have encouraged ; and how far he may be justly deemed irre- 
sponsible for the application of his principles to subjects he 
never for a moment intended they should apply. 



1 Hist, of Literature, vol. iii. p. 25. 2 Edin. Eev., July 1837, p. 102. 

3 See, respectively, pp. 17, 155, 156, and 192, of the Prefatory Matter to the 
Pol. Ed. London, 1730, vol. i. 



Lord Verulams Novum Organum. 5 

And first, Bacon's intentions and aspirations are sufficiently 
clear, though perhaps the title of his great work, the 'Instauratio 
Magna,' may have a tendency to obscure them. It is, indeed, a 
comprehensive designation for a stupendous treatise, and, inter- 
nally examined, it will not be found wanting to its professions. 
Still it is not to be inferred from hence, that he considered the 
whole previous system equally old and effete, equally curt and 
contemptible, equally needing a regeneration. That there was 
a considerable deficiency somewhere he assumed indeed, it was 
a self-evident truth. Innumerable facts bore witness to the 
shallowness of the old philosophy, viewed as a whole ; and day 
after day some fresh discovery was announced, that overturned 
the entire basis of a favourite dogma, and opened the way to a 
new world of truths, hardly less important or less extensive 
than the recent addition of the Western Hemisphere. 1 But to 
detect in what locality the fault lay precisely required a patient 
analysis of the whole. Like a skilful watchmaker, when a clock 
or watch is out of order, Bacon knew the most obvious step was 
to take it to pieces, not that the respective parts, without excep- 
tion, wanted repair, or that the entire works were to be replaced, 
but that the disturber of the general harmony and regularity 
being discovered and rectified, all might be burnished and 
polished, and made to correspond with the mainspring, wheel, 
or fusee, w T hich had been restored, The principal flaw was so 
monstrous, that it threw minor irregularities into the shade ; 
but, it being effectually removed, other defects hitherto imper- 
ceptible would present themselves, were they not anticipated 
by a careful revision, and all component parts made of a piece. 

Now, as we have before observed, Bacon intimates very 
plainly, and very frequently, where the fault lay, and what 
branch it was of the ancient philosophy which he laboured to 
remedy. In his prefatory reflections to the ' Instauratio 
Magna,' after expressing his firm belief that the previous errors 
never would correct themselves: 'propterea quod notiones 
' rerum primae, quas mens haustu facili et supino excipit, recon- 
f dit, atque accumulat, (unde reliqua omnia fluunt), vitiosse sint, 
6 et confusas, et temere a rebus abstracts : neque minor sit in 
* secundis et reliquis libido et inconstantia. . . .' 2 He adds : 
6 Ex quo fit, ut universa ista ratio humana, quoad inquisitionem 
6 naturaj, non bene congesta et sedificata sit ; sed tanquam 
6 moles aliqua rnagnifica sine fundamento.' So, too, in the 
work entitled, ' Cogitata et Visa de Interpretatione Naturae,' 
the very name of which leads to the conclusion here sought to 
be established, f Franciscus Baconus sic cogitavit. Scientiam 

1 Nov. Org., Aph. xcii. 2 Edit. Fol London, 1730, vol. i. 



6 Lord Verdant s Novum Organum. 

' in cujus possessione genus humanum adhuc versatur, ad cer- 
' titudinern et magnitudinem operum non accedere. . . .' And 
the particular branches, which he instances to prove the defi- 
ciency, are medicine, magic, and alchemy ; then, after a suitable 
enlargement upon these, follows his next reflection : 

( Cogitavit et illud, inter ista scientiarum detrimenta, natu- 
' rails philosophise sortem prse omnibus minus asquam esse ; ut 
' qua) a laboribus hominuni leviter occupata, facile deserta, nee 
' majorem in modum culta et subacta sit. . . .'' He assigns one 
very probable reason for the said omission, to which we shall 
subsequently recur, and thereupon announces his inference very 
decidedly : ' Itaque visum est ei, naturalem philosophiam, 
' incumbentium et paucitate, et festinatione, et tyrocinio, desti- 
' tutam jacere. Nee ita multo post visum est ei, hoc ad univer- 
s sum doctrinarum statum summopere pertinere* Omnes enim 
' artes et scientias, ab hac stirpe revulsas, poliri fortassis aut in 
6 usum effingi, sed nil admodum crescere.' In other words, the 
Avatch was out of order because the mainspring was defective. 
A solid reason is here furnished for taking the whole watch to 
pieces. The same thing might be illustrated from the reasons 
alleged by him for his rejection of the syllogism, 2 and remodel- 
ment of the inductive process ; from the new sense attached 
by him to the formal cause, 3 and the imputation he casts upon 
the previous employment of the final cause, 4 and from many 
like indications. We shall only further instance the first aphorism 
of the * Novum Organon,' in which is contained the germ of the 
whole. 

e Man, as the minister and interpreter of nature, does, and 
' understands as much as his observations on the order of 

* nature, either with regard to things, or the mind, permit him; 
' and neither knows nor is capable of more. . . .' And the 
129th Aphorism of the same book, where he dilates upon the 
excellence of his proposed end, ' the introduction,' he says, * of 
' great inventions appears one of the most distinguished of 
' human actions ; and the ancients so considered it. For they 

* assigned divine honours to the authors of inventions, but only 
' heroic honours to those who displayed civil merits (such as 
' the founders of cities and empires, legislators, the deliverers of 
' their country from lasting misfortunes, the quellers of tyrants 



1 Comp. Nov. Org. I. Aph. Ixxviii Ixxxii. vol. ii. p. 267, 8, where he treats of 
the causes of error. 

! Instaur. M. Distribut. Oper, p. 13, 14. 

3 Vide Nov. Org. I. Aph. li. See also Book II. Aph. ii., and note to Eng. 
Trans. Pickering: 1844. 

4 Nov ; Org. I. Aph. xlviil, where it is classed among the ' idola tribus,' Book 
T. Aph. ii. See also Advancement of Learning, p. 149. Pickering : 1838. 



Lord Verulanis Novum Organum. 7 

and the like) ; and if any one will rightly compare them, he 
will find the judgment of antiquity to be correct. For the 
benefits derived from inventions may extend to mankind in 
general, but civil benefits to particular spots alone ; the latter, 
moreover, last but for a time, the former, for ever. Civil 
reformation seldom is carried on without violence and con- 
fusion, whilst inventions are a blessing and a benefit without 
injuring or afflicting any. Inventions are also, as it were, new 
creations and imitations of Divine works, as was expressed by 
the poet : 

' <{ Primum frugiferos foetus mortalibus segris 
Dididerunt quondam praestanti nomine Athenae, 
Et recreaverunt vitam legesque rogarunt." '* 

It is undeniable, we conceive, from these passages, and we 
could have produced many more, that the consideration upper- 
most in Bacon's mind was Physical Science. This was the 
branch he deemed, and justly deemed, so defective. To restore, 
promote, commend, adorn, and amplify, this hitherto neglected 
study, was his undisguisedly chief aim and proudest aspiration. 
He is so far carried away by his subject occasionally, that he 
styles it philosophy, knowledge, science, without any specific 
epithet to restrict his meaning, as though it were not a mere 
branch, but the entire tree. 2 Even a later writer had fallen 
into the same inaccuracy, did he not explain himself once for 
all in his introductory remarks ; 3 and those who wish to enter 
more particularly into the various ramifications which have 
since germinated most luxuriantly from this one branch, will 
recognize in the ' History of the Inductive Sciences,' the develop- 
ment of our philosopher's leading idea. It was for this he 
sacrificed every moment that he could steal from his public 
employments 4 to make experiments upon nature till they killed 
him ; 5 for this he endured obloquy and the unjust imputation 
of his contemporaries ; 6 and for this he did not grudge a labour 
of eighteen years, to bequeath the guide he had been at the 
pains of discovering in his own case to his successors.? We 
cannot subscribe to the opinion which has been expressed else- 
where, that ' the end which Bacon proposed to himself was, to 



1 Eng. Trans, as before. Lucret. vi. 1. Comp. Advancement of Learning, p. 186. 

2 E.g. Nov. Org. xciii., where he applies Dan. xii. 4, to it. 

3 Whewell's Hist, of Inductive Sciences, Introd. p. 6. 
* Pref. to the Nov. Org. 

5 Edinburgh Review, as before, p. 68. 

6 Nov. Org. Aph. Ixxxix xci., where he can hardly be supposed not to have 
experienced in his own case what he remarks. 

7 Brucker : Hist. Grit. Phil. Period iii. Pars ii. lib. i, e. iv. 7. 



8 Lord Vendam's JSFovum Organum. 

6 use his own emphatic expression, "fruit." ?1 At least it seems 
a superficial way of regarding it, and adds certainly nothing to 
its lustre. It savours of the old mistake revived, which con- 
fused the ' utile ' and f honestum,' of which Cicero complains. 2 
That his philosophy resulted in the ' utile ' there can be no 
doubt ; but it was the ( honestum ' which impelled him : else 
why does he so constantly inveigh against ' experimenta fructi- 
( fera,' 3 as opposed to ( lucifera ? ' Why does he call his trea- 
tise c the advancement of learning,' or ( of the sciences ? ' and 
not of expediency ? Truth is at all times a profitable study ; 
speculative truth feeds the intellect, moral truth attempers the 
manners, physical truth ministers to the needs and comforts of 
the outer man : and yet it is universally acknowledged possible, 
as well as commendable, to study truth for its own sake. This 
we maintain Bacon to have done, though the department which 
he selected was the very one most calculated to produce obvious 
and immediate results, and we affirm that had the study of 
ethics, or metaphysics, or even of the logic he holds so cheap, 
because so over-rated, been equally neglected with physical 
science, and, contrariwise, physical science equally cultivated as 
they were, his was the mind that would have laboured to supply 
the deficiency, and would have assisted to complete the per- 
fection of the human kind wheresoever it needed a helper. 

And now let us pause to inquire in what state he found phy- 
sical science. As a whole, it was very nearly in the same 
condition in which Aristotle had left it, after a lapse of seven- 
teen or eighteen centuries. Not that we mean to insinuate that 
Aristotle had been the sole or chief benefactor to it in his day, but 
that his system, like Aaron's rod, had devoured the rest. On 
the contrary, we affirm that, without disparaging his service to 
ethics, politics, logic, or metaphysics, of which we cannot speak 
too highly, there were several essential defects in his customary 
procedure, when applied to physics. We think the negative 
argument* afforded by the great fact of the stagnation of the 
arts and sciences, during the whole time his system was in the 
ascendant, would be conclusive against it; even though internally 
examined, it did not exhibit the strong proofs it does of its essen- 
tially non-practical tendency. Though we admit a few of the 
arguments in his Physical Lectures to point to some remote specu- 
lative truth, there is not one of which we could say that it had in the 

1 Edin. Rev. p. 65. 

2 De Officiis, iii. 3. 

3 Nov. Org. Aph. xcix., ciii., cxxi. Elsewhere he beautifully applies the fable of 
Atlanta to those who stopped to pick up the golden apples in the pursuit of 
knowledge. 

4 Prsef. ad Inst. Mag p. 8. 



Lord Verdant s Nomim Organum. 9 

slightest degree conduced to the present advanced acquirements of 
the natural philosopher. The fact is, Aristotle was too dogmatic 
and positive to study nature with the spirit of a humble empiric, 
too general and abstract to descend into the minute intricacies and 
infinitesimal proportions of the physical world. 1 The creature, so 
to speak, is the exact avrlo-rpofos of the great Creator. To the 
f nattira nafrurans' belongs oneness, unchangeableness, and uni- 
versality; to the e natura naturata,' particularity, variableness, 
and variety. To beings of a finite capacity the latter appears infi- 
nite in her arrangements and effects. Language the most par- 
ticular cannot embody them, much less therefore the more 
abstract generalizations ; senses the most acute fail to detect 
them, much less therefore can the observations of the many. 2 
Aristotle's arguments are not unusually based upon what may 
be called the experience of the million. He frequently com- 
mences his inquiry with a reference to the Troo-a^w^ \ejerai,, 
the different acceptations of a word. The same remark extends 
to the appeals made by him to the opinions of those who pre- 
ceded him ; when he refutes them, it is either by a personal or 
abstract argument, and not by facts ; when he brings them over 
to his side, it is for the most part by a constrained and purely 
nominal amalgamation. Seldom does he confute what they 
have alleged by a reference to the more clandestine operations 
of nature ; and when he appeals to ra fyaiVQ^eva for the 
truth of his own position, they are generally the most obvious 
and ordinary. For the most part he delights to argue from the 
arbitrary creations of the mind, 3 upon a single vague doctrine, 
viz. : contrariety, 4 for instance, the whole of his physical system 
may be said to rest. The observations he made were the result 
of a laborious and active exercise of the senses, and his most 
subtle facts were derived from experiments connected with 
anatomy. But with the hidden properties and elementary sub- 
stances of the natural world, he seems to have been wholly 
unacquainted ; the principle which Bacon so frequently enun- 
ciates viz. e ut sensus tantum de experimento, et experimen- 
1 turn de re judicet' 5 upon which modern chemical analysis is 
based, was unknown in his day. His language is frequently so 
general, that it can be accommodated to recent discoveries, 
though they run exactly counter to the views, which it is otherwise 

1 The Defect is illustrated Nov. Org. Aph. xix. and xxii. 

2 Distrib. Op. Instaur. Mag. p. 1 6. Nov. Org. Aph. xxiv. 
s iS'ov. Org. Aph. xlv. and Ixiii. 

4 Brucker. Para ii. Lib. ii. c. vii. xiv. Comp. Hist, of the Induct. Scienc. 
Vol. i. p. 40, though we do not entirely subscribe to the remark there made. 

5 Instaur. M. Distrib. Op. p. 15, and Nov. Org. i. Aph. xlix. Comp. Aph. iv. 
which says, ' Man, whilst operating, can only apply or withdraw natural bodies : 
nature internally performs the rest.' This is a supplement to the above. 



10 Lord Verulams Novum Organum. 

ascertainable, were entertained by him on the subject ; and the 
superficial character of his inductive process, while it fully 
explains the last-mentioned defect, was at the same time a 
barrier and a stumbling block to any deeper investigation. In 
the same spirit he is blamed, and we think not unfairly, by 
Bacon, for his employment of the final, to the utter abandon- 
ment of the physical, cause ; it arose from the objective obvious- 
ness of the one, as well as from a subjective blindness to the 
other. Far be it from our intention to disparage the great 
Stagyrite, for a deficiency more attributable to the age, than to 
the man ; had his metempsychosis been attainable, amidst the 
empirical developments of the seventeenth century, his transmi- 
gration might have received actual confirmation a posteriori, from 
the existence of a Bacon. It is curious to find our philosopher 
depreciating Aristotle for the oriental despotism with which he 
trampled upon the necks of his predecessors ; is Lord Yerulam, 
we ask, himself, more lenient in his treatment of the Peripa- 
tetics, the Platonists, in fact, the entire Greek philosophy, and 
the schools ? But we shall pardon our British ( Great King,' 
on the same principle by which we feel disposed to make allowance 
for his illustrious prototype. To reform philosophy, was no less 
a Herculean labour, than to form it ; and cumbersome errors 
required a vigorous hand and strong language to remove them. 
We are of course confining our remarks to the particular branch, 
which we assert it was the object of our philosopher to reform : 
and here we say that Bacon would never have been obliged to 
disparage Aristotle to the extent he did, had it not been for the 
use which had been made of his system. Not only were the 
errors we have already enumerated, perpetuated by his imme- 
diate successors, and during the middle ages, but through 
innumerable relations and accumulations they had been swelled 
into a mountain, like a snow- ball rolled by school-boys during a 
thaw. It was bad enough, that during the period of the Alex- 
andrine School, commentators devoted themselves to illustrate 
Aristotle, or perhaps more strictly speaking, to effect a recon- 
ciliation between him and Plato, by reflection, abstraction, 
verbal exposition, and inference ; while they utterly neglected 
to test his dicta by observation, application to facts, real 
comparison, and induction it was bad enough, we repeat, that 
nature should be studied in a book ; that is, in the experience of 
the past, and in the mere critical manner we have described; to 
the entire omission of the investigation of her phenomena but it 
was far worse when, together with these overgrown incon- 
gruities and complicated errors, Aristotle, as a whole, was made 
the text-book of a theology ushered into the world long since 
his day ; and the logic, ethics, politics, physics, and metaphysics 



Lord Verulants Novum Organum. 1 1 

of a heathen were perforce ground and pounded into a religious 
system, without the least consideration paid to the essential 
character of the respective elements thus introduced all were 
weighed in the balance of the deductive syllogism, and all con- 
sidered equally abstract and dependent upon argumentation. 
There were no distinctions, practical distinctions we mean, made 
between what was discoverable by nature, reason, or revelation; 
but the first was dismissed unheard ; the last explained away ; 
while the second summoned all causes whatever to her tribunal, 
and ruled with a despotic sway. We do not mean to assert 
such effects to have been deliberately intended by the school- 
men ; we do not mean to say that there were not circumstances 
over which they had not the slightest control, which effectually 
closed the avenues to a wider field ; we do not mean to deny 
that we are still indebted to them for a valuable legacy upon 
points the most momentous to our moral and religious interests ; 
but we do maintain that if the innovations made upon the 
schools by the Jesuits are justified in the communion which most 
upholds them, and upon a subject in which they were so well versed 
as theology ; much more imperative may f we,' of a communion 
not so favourable to them, deem the Baconian reforms to have 
been, and upon a subject in which they were so profoundly 
ignorant as physical science. In the words of a recent author 
who, consciously or unconsciously, is ever expanding Bacon: 
( A universal science had been established with the authority 
of a religious creed. Its universality rested on erroneous 
views of the relation of words and truths ; its pretensions as a 
science were admitted by the servile temper of men's intellects; 
and its religious authority was assigned it, by making all truth 
part of religion. And as religion claimed assent within her own 
jurisdiction under the most solemn and imperative sanctions, 
philosophy shared in her imperial power, and dissent from their 
doctrines was no longer blameless or allowable. Error became 
wicked, dissent became heresy; to reject the received human 
doctrines was nearly the same, as to doubt the divine declara- 
tions. The scholastic philosophy claimed the assent of all 
believers. 1 ' 

Such being the state into which science had fallen, nothing 
short of a review of the whole could suffice. The branches so 
long interwoven were to be disentangled, separately pruned, and 
re-adjusted ; all linked together in the indissoluble bond of truth ; 
but to each was to be assigned a proportionate sphere, beyond 
which, as it was enjoined not to digress, so within it, in the same 

1 Hist, of the Inductive Sciences, vol. i. p. 314-15. Comp. Bacon Nov. Org. L 
A ph. Ixxxix. Cogitata and Visa De Interp. Nat. vol. ii. p. 269. Works. 



12 Lord Verulams Novum Organum. 

way, the rest were forbidden to obtrude. But this by the way, and 
as a means to the proposed end ; for, as we have already seen, 
it was the defective branch, to which the attention and energies 
of our philosopher were directed. He expressly declares the 
inadequacy, as well as the impertinency, of his method to 
elucidate things divine by the comparison of our sense with the 
sun, { which, as we see, openeth and revealeth all the terrestrial 
globe ; but then again it obscureth and concealeth the stars and 
celestial globe : ' and f so doth the sense discover,' he adds, 
' natural things, but it darkeneth and shutteth up divine.' 
And it is his candid acknowledgment, ' that divers great 
6 learned men have been heretical, whilst they have sought to 
e fly up to the secrets of the Deity by the waxen wings of the 
s senses.' * Again : ( Scriptum est,' he says, ( Cocli enarrant glo- 
riam Dei ; at nusquam scriptum invenitur, Coali enarrant volun- 
tatem Dei.' 2 Thence revelation alone, he concludes, can enlighten 
a man upon the mysteries of our creation and redemption, or 
furnish a full and complete understanding of our duty to God 
and to our neighbour. And under the same view he con- 
demns those 'who pretended to find the truth of all natural 
philosophy in the Scriptures. 3 Again, Bacon frequently declares 
it not to be his purpose to interfere with the old system, otherwise 
than by the introduction of what he conceived necessary to 
supply a deficiency. He even allows his predecessors con- 
siderable proficiency in so far as concerns abstract speculations.* 
( It is his good fortune,' he says, ( as he considers it, for the sake 
c of extinguishing and removing contradiction and irritation of 
' mind, to leave the honour and reverence due to the ancients 
' untouched and undiminished, so that he can perform his in- 
' tended work, and yet enjoy the benefit of his respectful 
f moderation.' . . . f For we deny not,' he adds, 6 that the re- 
* ceived system of philosophy, and others of a similar nature, 
' encourage discussion, embellish harangues, are employed, and 
' are of service, in the duties of the professor, and the affairs of 
civil life.' 5 And the same thing he repeats elsewhere of the 
deductive syllogism, adding, that it may also subserve theology. 6 
Now that he was, on the whole, consistent with these his 
expressed intentions and prescribed bounds, is no less clear from 
the manner of his inquiry, than from the deep humility with 
which he commences it ; such a spirit, it is evident, is not that 
of a sceptic or unbeliever. We are strikingly reminded of the 

1 Advancement of Learning, p. 1 3. 

2 De Augmentis Sclent, lib. ix. c. i., and compare his beautiful Prayer, Praef. ad 
Instaur. M. p. 11. 

3 Adv. of Learning, p. 326. 4 Prsef. ad Tnstaur. M. p. 10. 

5 Pref. to Nov. Org. 47. 6 De Augmentis Sclent, lib. v. c. 2. 



Lord Verulam's Nomtm Organum. 13 

Bishop of Oxford's Sermon before the British Association last 
year, when we hear Bacon humbly professing : ' Qua in re 
{ ei quid profecerimus, non alia sane ratio nobis viam aperuit, 
' quam vera et legitima spiritus human! humilitatio ; n and we 
shall qualify a remark which we made some time since with much 
pleasure, under the impression that we know of one English 
Bishop, at all events, who is familiar with the aphorism which 
says, ( We have now treated of each kind of idols and their 
( qualities, all of which must be renounced and abjured with 
6 firm and solemn resolution ; and the understanding must be 
6 completely freed and cleared of them, so that the access to the 
' kingdom of man, which is founded on the sciences, may re- 
( semble that of the kingdom of heaven, where no admission is 
' conceded except to children.' 2 Our Newton's humility is too 
trite a fact to require proof, but we claim the same virtue, 
though not perhaps acknowledged so universally, for our 
Bacon. Such a spirit is indeed implied in the notion of one 
who may be truly said to have explored nature. Her page 
requires infinitely more patience to decipher than the most 
abbreviated manuscript. ' To this first condition of successful 
' study,' says Dr. Wilberforce, 3 ( pride is the direct antagonist. 
' The pride of ignorance is, we all know, most impatient ; it 
' gathers up the merest external resemblances, and then gene- 
' ralizes at a grasp. And very little removed from this state is 
c the impatient man, be his actual attainments what they may. 
6 His own thoughts, his own impressions, his own fancies 
6 these are the facts of the self-sufficient. He cannot endure 
' the slow laborious processes to which the student of nature 
6 must submit.' These, and the like remarks abound in the 
Baconian aphorisms. 

And now briefly to revert to the method employed by him 
which gives name to the treatise specified at the head of this 
article, the 6 Novum Organon ; or, True Suggestions for the 
Interpretation of Nature.' It is, as we have observed, of itself 
a proof of what he designed to restore ; being, in fact, ' ars in- 
strumentalis dirigens mentem in cognitlone rerum physicarum.' 
It is called the inductive process, because it ( leads' from facts 
6 to' principles ; from particulars l to' universals; from the judg- 
ment of the senses to the judgment of the intellect. It is 
opposed to the ' deductive ' process in the same way that defi- 
nitionthe logical, we mean is to division. In definition the 
process is upwards, so to speak. When we define man to be a 
rational animal, both terms of the definition are a degree more 

1 Praef. ad Instaur. M. p. 10. 2 Nov. Org. I. Aph. Ixviii. 

3 Serm. ' Pride a Hindrance to True Knowledge,' 1847, p. 16. 



14 Lord Verularns Novum Organum. 

abstract than the term defined ; when we divide men into 
whites, and blacks, &c., the members of the division are more 
concrete than the term so divided. The more abstract a term 
is, the higher, according to the analogy suggested by the visible 
world, we seem to go for it, i. e. the farther from the senses ; 
when we turn to a more concrete, that is, a more sensible 
image, we seem to descend from our eminence; we quit the 
intellect and come down to the senses. 

What, therefore, definition and division are with reference to 
things absolutely considered, or viewed disconnectedly, that 
induction and deduction are the things contemplated in a mutual 
relation, with a known or assumed agreement or disagreement. 
By induction we rise from the judgment passed after examina- 
tion upon the particulars of a certain class, to the establishment 
of a general law, by which the remainder, which we have not 
examined, are, for the future, to be tested. By deduction we 
take our stand upon the general law so gained, evolve the par- 
ticulars implied under it, and assert their conformity to it ; and 
as the particulars compounded constitute the general law, so the 
general law, when analyzed, is found to be a mere compound of 
the same particulars. Inductive facts are the ministrations of 
the senses to the mind ; the general law is the instinctive 
abstraction of the mind consequent upon them ; and the deduc- 
tions which ensue, are the re-action of the mind upon the 
senses. The trite proposition, e all men are animals,' is at once 
the apex of the inductive and the deductive syllogism ; it is the 
summit to which the one attains, and from which the other de- 
scends. They may be contrasted as follows : 

A. B. C. D. are animals. 

A. B. C. D. are all men (i.e. constitute the whole human race). 

All men are animals. All men are animals. 

A. B. C. D. are all men. 
A. B. C. D. are animals. 

Thus the one is the exact reverse process of the other. By 
the first we analyze; by the second we compound. By the 
first the mind is impressed, informed, and stored with ideas ; by 
the second the mind applies what has been acquired, and makes 
a practical use of her knowledge. As for the processes them- 
selves, both are equally connatural and innate. All practise 
them instinctively, without exception. But because external 
objects are not so readily presentable to the mind as the words 
that describe them, and still more, because our ideas are scarce 
communicable without words ; both are apt to be made con- 
versant with words only, to the exclusion of the things signified 
by them ; we dwell upon the sign or token till we have lost 
sight of the object ; of which, it ever ought to be remembered, 



Lord Verularrfs Novum Organum. 15 

it can only be the most inadequate representation. Now, this 
is by no means so deleterious in the deductive, as in the inductive, 
syllogism ; because it is by induction that the mind is informed 
and endued with a knowledge of the external world ; and 
hence, so far as it is possible, it should be derived immediately 
from the objects themselves, through the legitimate channels 
that is, the senses. These are naturally formed to convey the 
image of the thing itself. There is a certain proportion between 
them and the object, and they act spontaneously. Words are 
arbitrary signs, and have not the slightest perceptible con- 
nexion with what they signify. When we know things, we may 
select the most appropriate words to represent or communicate 
them, and that by a perpetual law ; but words will not convey 
the slightest knowledge of the things they signify, till we have 
received our impressions in the first instance, however faint, of 
the things themselves, through the senses. When, therefore, 
we have seen, heard, smelt, tasted, or touched a sensible object, 
then only can we be said to have a definite notion about it, or 
be competent to discuss it ; but, provided our examination of 
it, in the first instance, was as accurate as the case required, we 
are not obliged to recur to it every time we argue from it, and 
infer a necessary result. Doubtless, it will be the safer plan to 
be sparing of our argumentations ; and to make our deductions 
experimentally, and not simply nominally. Having got our 
general law, let us make the application a practical one, as 
Bacon says ;' we may stop short, if we please, to talk about 
what we have acquired, and rest upon our oars, but we shall do 
well to remember that if we do so, our knowledge will be sta- 
tionary, and not progressive. 

This was the defect of the Peripatetic system ; it encouraged 
the most superficial induction ; and then, delighted at the in- 
formation so acquired, it never ceased to talk about it, or 
laboured to augment it. It confined itself practically to the 
deductive process, and the deductive process to mere words, as 
the subject-matter. Witness the contents of the Organon of 
the Stagyrite. It begins with the anti-predicaments, as they 
are called, which consist in a mere distinction of the modes of 
predication ; next come the categories, which, it is ever to be 
understood, are considered there with reference to predication, 
and not existence ; 2 their consideration as entities being referred 
to the metaphysics. After these we have the treatise ' De 
Interpretatione,' which starts with the definition of a noun, verb, 
and sentence. In the ' Topics and Analytics,' arguments, and 
not things, are discussed ; and in the ( Sophistical Elenchs,' it is 

1 Nov. Org. Aph. ciii cvi. 2 Vide Toletum ad Categ. 



16 Lord Verulanis Novum Organum. 

needless to say, the whole stress is to expose the different plays 
upon language. We can only remember a single place where 
the nature of things seems more directly brought under con- 
sideration ; viz., in the physiognomonical syllogism at the end of 
the ' Prior Analytics ;' but Aristotle had been led into it by what 
preceded, and he only mentions it to close the book. Elsewhere 
he says expressly that it belongs to others to investigate the sub- 
jects 1 upon which his logic is to be employed, and he is content 
to assume the principles which they supply, and to argue from 
them. Indeed, while speaking of the subject-matter, it is but 
fair to observe, that the consideration of words, to the neglect 
of things, is by no means so prejudicial to the cause of ethics, 
politics, and religion, &c., which we call the Aristotelian range, 
as it is to physics, and other more directly objective sciences ; 
and for this simple reason that the words employed here bear 
reference, for the most part, to the transactions of mankind ; 
and so each individual has that within him by which a continual 
check is imposed upon the arbitrary fitfulness of the language 
used to express them. No external comparison is needed from 
time to time, because the internal test is sufficient ; while in the 
study of the objective world it is not so ; but words require 
continually to be compared with the things they signify, that 
every new discovery may be fully taken into consideration. 

Literally speaking, therefore, Bacon reformed induction and 
deduction alike with reference to the subject-matter ; he inno- 
vated upon the deductive process no less than upon the induc- 
tive, when he recalled both equally from words to things ; the 
mechanical part is the same, but the subject-matter is changed ; 
the mind works according to the same rule, but the results are 
widely different ; only let it here be observed, that, dwelling 
upon argumentation as Aristotle did, it was natural to expect 
that he would attend to the mechanical structure of the one 
most conversant with discussion (his whole art being, as the 
very name testifies, that of ' dialectics' ) and neglect the 
one least so ; and that Bacon, on the other hand, intent as he 
was upon the advancement of his physical science, would attend 
to the mechanism of the one most suitable to his purpose. And 
so in fact we find it ; Aristotle mentions, indeed, the inductive, 
as well as the deductive, syllogism in his scheme ; but applies 
himself, it may be said exclusively, to the formal development 
and cultivation of the latter. Bacon, too, mentions both in his 
scheme ; but applies himself with equal exclusiveness to the 
formal development of the hitherto neglected one, which was 
likewise the most suited to advance his cause. 

1 Anal. Prior, lib. i. c. 30. 



Lord Verulants Novum Organum. 17 

We are by no means disposed to subscribe to the views of 
a writer from whom we have already ventured to dissent ; and 
to ascribe little ' practical value to the analysis of the inductive 

* method which Bacon gives in the second book of the Novum 

* Organon,' because, ' it is an analysis of that which we are 

* doing from morning to night, and which we continue to do even 

* in our dreams.' * This is simply the old story revived against 
the Aristotelian dialectics. We comply with the rules of grammar 
in our daily conversation ; yet, are the labours of the gram- 
marians to be held cheap who discovered them ? Who is not 
occasionally persuasive ? and yet is rhetoric a barren study ? 
Have not profound musicians assisted the cultivation of the 
musical faculty, by the analysis they have been able to furnish 
of the laws of harmony ? and have not the brush and pencil 
approached more to the life, since the laws of perspective have 
been made a preparatory study ? What Aristotle observes in the 
commencement of his Rhetoric, may, we think, fairly be said to 
determine the question : f At' oydp eTrirvy^dvovo-Lv ol re St,d avv- 
r)Qeiav KOI ol CLTTO ravro^drov, TOVTOV rrjv alrtav Qcwpeiv eVSe^erar 
TO $e roiovrov 77877 Trdvres dv 6fjuo\oyr)craiev re^^? epyov elvau* . . . 
Nor, on the other hand, after what has been said, can we assent 
to the insinuation contained in the previous paragraph of the 
same author, that Aristotle had anticipated Bacon in his dis- 
covery. The Baconian and Aristotelian induction, we trust we 
have proved, are not to be confounded ; that of Aristotle being 
conformable to his system a system in which argumentation, 
ethics, politics, religion, in a word, the subjective, that is, the 
intellectual and moral world, are the legitimate province ; that 
of Bacon, to his system, which is the investigation of the ob- 
jective, that is, the physical world. 3 Equally plausible would it 
be to deny to Bacon the origination of the experientia literata, 
classification of { facts,' or ( experiments' committed to paper, 
which he so often desiderates, 4 and which has been the means of 
so much improvement since his time ; because Aristotle so con- 
stantly recommends his hearers to make a collection of * argu- 
ments,' in a common-place book systematically arranged, to which 
they may recur continually, when preparing themselves for a 
disputation. 5 As if the study of words, and of objects, though 
apparently connected, is not many ways distinct and widely 



1 Edin. Review, p. 88. 2 Rhet. i. 1. 

Vide Pref. to the Nov. Org. p. 6. 4 Vide Nov. Org. i. Aph. xcviii. ciii. 

3 Vide Top. viii. c. 12. Ae?oe KOI T&S dtrofj.V7]/j.ov*v(rfis KaQ6\oviTOif1ffQci.i rcav \/y <av 

Acl re Se? ffKovfiv rods \6yovs. 11, 12. AeT Se ical irfiroit]^vovs fx iv 

A i 7 o v s 11, 12, 17. Comp. Anal. Prior, lib. i. c. xxvii. xxx. Anal. Post. lib. ii. 
c. xiii. in which av\ \oyiap.i t and ?r po/3 A ?f fiar a are respectively said to be 
the objects of the collection. 

NO. LXI. N.S. C 



18 Lord Verularrfs Novum Organum. 

diverse. We affirm that the Baconian induction does not in the 
least interfere with the Aristotelian ; but that, leaving it in the 
position which it occupies on the surface, it descends a step 
lower in the investigation, and institutes a searching inquiry 
into the particulars themselves. The Aristotelian says, f Hie et 
iste maynes attrahit ferrum, ergo omnis.' The Baconian subjects 
the particular instance to a rigid examination, before the vulgar 
truth is received, that ' hie et iste' do what is alleged. What 
is it that really attracts in the loadstone ? is it the stone, or 
some peculiar virtue that is inherent in it, and never found 
elsewhere ? For this purpose we bring before the mind as the 
result of our experiments, a collection of instances agreeing in 
the form of the magnetic influence ; secondly, a collection of 
instances apparently connected closely with the preceding, which 
nevertheless want the said form ; thirdly, a table of instances 
in which the said form is exhibited in a greater or less degree ; 
fourthly, what is the immediate consequence of the above 
review, the rejection of the extraneous matter in which the said 
form is found the stony particles, for instance, or the steel. 
And thence, fifthly, we may venture to make our first deduc- 
tion as to what is really the attractive thing in the magnet. 
Bacon, indeed, does not stop here, but we shall not attempt to 
follow him ; we shall content ourselves with the observation 
that a single instance, properly subjected to his tests, is sufficient 
to establish a general inference ; and further, it is easy to see, 
that though primarily and mainly applicable to the investigation 
of nature, the method here specified may be found of incalcu- 
lable service, within even the Aristotelian range. For, example, 1 
it is to be remembered, in morals, answers to induction in 
physics ; and we shall be far more candid and impartial in our 
practical deductions, when we have first subjected our example 
to the rigid analysis here prescribed. The Aristotelian example 
is equally superficial with the old induction. A person infers 
summarily and peremptorily that free trade is the mother of 
national embarrassments, because it is assumed to have been so 
in our particular case. But here the Baconian induction would 
cry query ? It bids the inquirer not to be satisfied with compa- 
rentia ad intellect-urn instantiarum convenientium. Did a panic 
never occur before the introduction of free trade ? did it com- 
mence with the first free-trade measure, become worse with the 
second, spread universally when the protective system was 
wholly abandoned? Can we reject railroads, the late famine, 
unwarrantable speculations, and the like, from a proportionate 
share in it ? It is not to be supposed, of course, that politics 

1 Comp. Arist. Anal. Prior, ii. 2, 26. 



Lord Verulams Notwn Organum. 19 

will admit of the same searching analysis with physics, or that 
in so complex a subject-matter we shall ever attain to the simple 
cause ; still, they who are real inquirers after truth, will be 
pleased to be taught the means of coming to a right decision in 
a particular case, and sophistry will be convicted in the attempt 
to pass off her presumptuous dogmatic assertions. So far, 
therefore, from slighting the labours of our philosopher, in the 
very particular of which he was most proud, 1 and considered 
most likely to advance the interests of the cause he upheld, and 
to secure numerous discoveries to a future age, we lament 
greatly that its practical utility has been so very generally over- 
looked ; and we would submit to the serious attention of the 
logic Professors and Prselectors in our Universities, whether or 
not it is a grave desideratum, that the Baconian inductive pro- 
cess has not been taught commensurately with the Aristotelian 
deductive syllogism ; for it is not that one contradicts or super- 
sedes the other, but both are, or may be, co-existent or sub- 
sidiary to the same end ; both are helps to the reason, and assist 
to the formation of a right inference. 

Taking, therefore, the foregoing to have been a fair descrip- 
tion of the province occupied by the Baconian philosophy, and 
of the void into which he stepped not marching into a hostile 
territory with fire and sword, but as the French are said to have 
conquered Italy, 2 marking the doors of the house he designed 
to occupy with chalk we shall neither listen to those who 
regard him simply in the light of the antagonist of Aristotle 
and of the schools, because he introduced a new and hitherto 
unexplored way, and developed a branch of science which they 
had well nigh overlooked ; nor to those who, with Cudworth, 
would impeach his orthodoxy, because he rejected the con- 
sideration of the final cause from his system ; 3 nor to those who, 
with Lord Bolingbroke, 4 think they have his countenance be- 
cause it was his observation, ' Scriptum est, Coeli enarrant 
gloriam Dei, at nusquam scriptum invenitur, Coeli enarrant 
voluntatem Dei ;' 5 nor, finally, to those who would make 
him advocate a universal scepticism, 6 disparage authority, utterly 
scorn the mediaeval Church, because he taught that true physical 

1 Vide Dedication to Bishop Andrewes, Works, vol. iii. p. 535. Comp. Nov. Org. 
i. Aph. cxxvii cxxix. 

2 Vide Nov. Org. i. Aph. xxxv. 

3 Vide Brucker, Per. iii. ii. i. civ. and Cudworth, Intell. Syst. i 5, p. 679, 680. 
Quarto, London, 1743. 

4 For a short account of the argument, vide Leland's View of the Deistical 
Writers, letter xxiii. 

5 De Augrnen. Scien. lib. ix. c. 1. 

6 It remains perhaps to be considered, how far Locke was justified, who, it is 
said, ' successfully applied Lord Bacon's mode of investigation to the study of the 
human mind,' &c. Tytlers Elcm. of Hist. vol. ii. p. 429. 

c 2 



20 Lord Verulain's Novum Organum. 

science could only be based upon experiments ; that abstract 
dogmatism was fatal to its development ; and that it had been 
a grave mistake, which confounded natural philosophy with 
religion. The first of these we conceive to have been suf- 
ficiently answered in the intrinsic difference we have already 
pointed out between the Baconian system and the Aristotelian. 
The second have not a word to say, when it has been fairly con- 
sidered that physical science was his aim ; every science being de- 
termined by the subject-matter, and the final cause 1 being wholly 
irrelevant to that of the above mentioned. Still less is Bacon 
to be censured because he refers to the written word for a reve- 
lation of the ' perfect' will of God. And lastly, has he not 
expressed himself with sufficient plainness, that it is the natural 
outward and visible world, which he desires may be handled 
experimentally, and subjected to a strict critical analysis? 
Surely there could never have been the least advance made in 
the arts and sciences, if we were bound indissolubly by the 
opinions of our predecessors ; 2 and we conceive nothing can be 
more just, or more solid, than the remark with which he shows 
that those who object antiquity, are not to be heard in his pro- 
vince. * For,' says he, 3 f the opinion which men cherish of 

* antiquity is altogether idle, and scarcely accords with the term. 
( For the old age and increasing years of the world, should, in 
f reality, be considered as antiquity ; and this is rather the cha- 
f racter of our own times, than of the less advanced age of the 
( world in those of the ancients.' Granting he does occasionally 
use strong language, when he is endeavouring with mighty 
efforts to release the physical science from the thraldom in 
which it had been held ; yet, elsewhere, he shows himself 
plainly grateful to the middle ages for the lamp they had handed 
down to him in the torch-race ; and very graceful and very 
candid is his justification, for instance, of the monastic system, 
than which its most ardent admirers can scarce venture a better 
defence in these days. Speaking of the respective merits of 
the practical and contemplative life, he says : 4 ' Neque sane 
' fieri potuit, ut de hac re dubitatio in ecclesia unquam susci- 
' taretur (utcunque plurimis in ore fuerit dictum illud, " pretiosa 
' in oculis Domini mors sanctorum ejus:" ex quo loco mortem 
' illam civilem, et instituta vitse monastics et regularis attollere 
f solebant ;) nisi illud etiam una subesset, quod vita ilia monas- 
' tica mere conternplativa non sit, verum plane in ecclesiasticis 
( officiis versetur, qualia sunt jugis oratio et votorum sacrificia 

* Deo oblata. Librorum item theologicorum multo in otio con- 

i Vide Adv. of Learning, p. 148150. 2 Nov. Org. i. Aph. Ixxxiv. 
3 Nov. Org. i. Aph. Ivi. 4 De Aug. Scien. lib. vii. c. 1. 



Lord Verulam's Novum Organum. 21 

' scriptio, ad legis divinaB doctrinam propagandam ; quemad- 
' modum et Moses fecit, cum per tot dies in montis secessu 
* moratus esset.' And still more impartial is the closing sen- 
tence : ' Contemplativam vero quod attinet meram, et in se ipsa 
e terminatam, quaaque radios nullos, sive caloris, sive luminis, in 
f societatem humanam diffundat, nescit earn certe theologia.' 

That Bacon's inductive method should have been applied by 
his contemporaries or successors to theology, is easily explained, 
considering the way in which physical science had been impli- 
cated with theology. Every question in those days wore a theo- 
logical aspect ; and the Bible is not more unhappily a text-book in 
our Sunday and even week-day schools in the present age, than 
were the semi-religious questions of the schools ordinary 
subjects of argumentation and discussion in those times ; in 
fact, people had nothing else to talk about. Still, if they are 
to be excused who originally joined together things ever to be 
kept asunder ; much more he, whose object it was first to sepa- 
rate them, and in the next place to adorn, improve, remodel the 
neglected one. We cannot consider a man responsible for the 
wilful or unconscious perversion of his philosophy by his succes- 
sors. We say, therefore, Bacon has been to a great extent un- 
fairly accused. But it is not, however, our object to make people 
fancy he is wholly immaculate, or endowed with a superhuman 
consistency. Here and there, indeed, it cannot be said that he 
keeps within the limits of his plan ; occasionally he seems to 
confuse persons and things ; occasionally he seems to forget 
there are exceptions ; occasionally he employs a superficial argu- 
ment, and occasionally lapses into dogmatism. For instance, 
when he speaks of the old ethical system, and notices the 
grand deficiency which Christianity supplied in the theological 
virtue, charity ; we are by no means disposed in the first in- 
stance to acquiesce in the solidity of the argument by which 
he says it might have been discovered ; namely, the analogy 
which nature supplies of the double relation of a body, as it 
exists per se, or forms a part of the universe; 1 arguments from 
analogy being of a negative and not a positive, of an indirect and 
not direct, tendency. And secondly, why does he admit the fact, 
that however wanting it might have been in the pure Aristo- 
telian ethics, it not only found a place, but the very highest 
that could be, the moment those ethics were christianized by 
the Schoolmen ? Aristotle and the Schoolmen are usually ranged 
under the same category by him when he blames them ; it would 
have been only fair to have acknowledged where the commen- 
tators had introduced a desirable gloss upon the text. Had 

1 Vide Adv. of Learning, p. 234. 



22 Lord Verulams Novum Organum. 

Bacon studied II. ii. 23. of the Summa, he might have seen the 
desiderated virtue fully analyzed ; had he turned to I. ii. 65, he 
might have found another deficiency, (which he reports at the 
end of the seventh book (chap, iii.) of the De Augmentis, to 
have been only cursorily foreshadowed by Aristotle, in what he 
designates heroical virtue) admirably supplied; had he looked 
into I. i. 22 48 inclusive, though he might have still censured 
Aristotle for the omission, he might have been able to refer to a 
writer, by whom a full consideration of the passions had not 
been unheeded. We likewise think he might have excepted 
Cicero, when he says a regard to characters and dispositions had 
been overlooked, who treats of them formally in his excellent 
work De Officiis ;* and we do not consider the censure just, 
which he passes upon Aristotle, that, allowing he may have 
depicted virtue to the life, he does not explain how we may 
become virtuous. Though the Stagyrite may not be so prolix 
as our author, which we by no means consider a defect in the 
former, the leading motto of his Ethics, a yap Set padovras 
7roiiv, ravra Troiovvres fjuavOavofjuev, together with the first, 
second, fourth, and ninth chapters of the second book, are quite 
sufficient, in our opinion, to cancel the imputation. 

But that to which we most object is the arbitrary, dogmatic 
manner, with which he takes upon himself to pronounce against 
the old acceptation 2 of the formal cause, and to consider it as a 
thing equally devoid of meaning and objective truth. Here, we 
do contend, Bacon was so far carried away by the greatness of 
his discovery, that he considered the whole universe was laid at 
his feet, and measurable by it. Physical laws, it is true, the 
natures, properties, and processes of the material world, had 
never been inquired into, so to speak, by those who preceded 
him ; and these undoubtedly constitute the system we see, and 
have a real, though it may be a transient existence. But is there 
nothing else to be found in the universe ? nothing immaterial 
and invisible ? no substance distinct from matter, and existent 
under wholly different conditions? Whether Cudworth may 
or may not have demonstrated the existence of a plastic nature, 3 
which he believes incorporeal, though a grade below sensitive 
life, he has undoubtedly exposed the absurdities of the 

Hylozoists. We do find fault with the following dogmatic 
language of our philosopher ; we do consider him so far a party 

wilfully or not it may be doubted, but still a party to the 

1 Lib. i. 130134. 

2 r6 ri fy e?i/ai ' quidditas,' or definition. Vide Arist. Metaph. iv. (v.) c. 2, 
and S. Th. ad C. 

3 Intell. Syst. I. c. iii. By a plastic nature he seems to mean the old ' Anima 
Mundi ' in a confined orthodox sense. Is not Wordsworth's ' active principle ' 
akin to this? Excursion, b. ix. 1. 



Lord Verularns Novum Organum. 23 

spread of the materialistic doctrines in the succeeding century ; 
and we venture to assert that, had he been consistent with his 
usual diffidence and humility, and particularly with the very 
inductive method he lays down, he would never have hazarded 
the like assertions to those contained in the fourth book (c. i.) of 
the De Augmentis : 

' Notavimus,' be says, ' paulo superius (ubi de formis loquebamur) 
differentes illas duas animarum emanationes, quse in prima utriusque 
c; eatione se dant conspiciendas : nimirum, quod altera ortum habuerit e 
spiraculo Dei, altera a matricibus elementorum. Nam de animae rationalis 
generatione primitive, ita ait Scriptura : " Formavit hominem de limo terras, 
et spiravit in ejus faciem spiraculum vitas." At generatio animae irrationalis 
sive bmtorum, facta est per verba ilia : " Producat aqua, producat terra." 
Hasc autera anima, (qualis est in homine) animas rationali organum tantum 
est, atque originem habet et ipsa quoque, quemadmodum in brutis, e limo 
terras neque enim dictum est, "Formavit" corpus "hominis de limo 
terras," sed "formavit hominem ; " integrum scilicet hominem, excepto illo 
spiraculo.' .... ' Itaque nobis,' he adds, * non nimium placet confusa 
ilia et promiscua philosophorum de animas functionibus tractatio ; ac si 
anima humana, gradu potius quam specie, discriminata esset ab anima 
brutorum ; non aliter quam sol inter astra, aut aurum inter metalla.' 

And then, after enlarging upon what he considers the 
consequent inference, that the nature of the human soul can 
only be discoverable by the light of His inspired Word, by 
whom it was inspired into the first man, he proceeds with 
reference to the animal world : 

'Doctrina vero de anima sensibili, sive producta, etiam quatenus ad 
substantiam ejus, vere inquiritur. At ea inquisitio nobis quasi desiderari 
videtur. Quid enim ad doctrinam de substantia animas faciunt actus ultimus, 
et forma corporis, et hujusmodi nugae logicae ? Anima siquidem sensibilis, 
sive brutorum, plane substantia corporea censenda est, a calore attenuata, 
et facta invisibilis ; aura, inquam, ex natura flammea et aerea conflata, aeris 
mollitie ad impressionem recipiendam, igneo vigore ad actionem vibrandam 
dotata; partim ex oleosis, partim ex aqueis nutrita; corpore obducta, 
atque in animalibus perfectis in capite prsecipue locata, in nervis percurrens, 
et sanguine spirituoso arteriarum refecta et rcparata, quemadmodum 
Barnardinus Telesius et discipulus ejus Augustinus Donius, aliqua ex parte 
non inutiliter asseruerunt.' . . . . 

Now with regard to these passages it may be observed in the 
first instance, that it is a somewhat awkward consequence Bacon 
would infer from revelation namely, that in a human being 
there are two distinct souls, the rational and the sensitive ; and 
we are not quite certain whether the voice of the Church may 
not have already defined the contrary. 1 'Homo,' it is clear, 
is not complete without the rational, and therefore will not be 
made so by saying it includes the sensitive soul and the body in 
the passage alleged. Besides, it never can be proved that ' the 

1 Synod. Univ. viii. Can. 2. Vide Martinez in Arist. De Animll, I. c. 5, ad f. 
Ruvium, ad ii. c. 2. 



24 Lord Verulam's Novum Organum. 

breath of life' means the rational, to the exclusion of the 
sensitive, soul. Doubtless the superiority of the human soul 
over the rest may be proved a posteriori, and the consequence 
resulting from it may be that souls are specifically distinguished; 1 
still the Peripatetic doctrine, so far from contradicting, alleges 
the self-same thing, and only maintains a common genus. 2 

Again, by assuming the fact that the souls of animals are 
material, he has encouraged others to assume the like of the 
human soul ; 3 and the very same description of the sensitive soul, 
as it exists in beasts, has been often since, not perhaps indeed 
in the very same words, applied to the whole soul, as it exists 
in men. Now it is clear that a very significant argument may 
be drawn against the materiality even of the sensitive soul, 
from the fact that physical science has never been able to 
analyze, and consequently to compound it; and this proves 
Bacon's description to be mere words, otherwise it would be 
possible from his receipt to compound a sensitive soul, while as for 
the required organ, it might be always had in a carcase. Indeed, 
to make a candid avowal, it does not seem possible that inter- 
mediate ground can be tenable : soul and matter require to be 
distinguished throughout the universe, or they will be through- 
out the universe confounded. If the souls of the lower orders 
of the creation are allowed to be material, it will soon be 
concluded those of the higher orders are; and then, like 
Tertullian, 4 perhaps, we shall feel ourselves obliged to confess 
that God is so too. Such a consequence may, indeed, tend to 
expose the absurdity, when fully considered; meanwhile we 
may thank the inductive sciences for a negative argument, as 
observed above, that not even the souls of the lower orders of 
the creation are so, or at least can be proved so. 5 

At the same time the probability that they are immaterial, 
granting it to have been made to appear so, does not infer their 
personal immortality, any more than our personal immortality 
proves our antecedent existence : all that it appears is, that the 
principle of life is ever a distinct substance from the system 
animated by it; its immateriality and its personal existence 
involve two separate questions; and the resurrection of the 
animal world, in the same sense as that of the rational world, is 

1 Vide Summam Theol. I. Qusest. Ixxv. Art. iii. ad 1. 

2 Vide Ruvium ad Arist De Anima, ii. c. 3. 

3 e. g. Lord Bolinbroke. vide Leland's View of Deistical Writers, p. 350. 

4 Vide S. Aug. De Anima, et ejus Orig. ii. 5. In Hseres. Ixxxvi. ; and com p. 
Cudworth, lutell. Syst. i. iii. p. 174. 

5 Clarke, Demonstration of the Being and Attributes of God, p. 90. ' From 
which most excellent discovery,' he remarks in a like case, ' we may, by the bye, 
observe the usefulness of natural and experimental philosophy, sometimes even in 
matters of religion.' 



Lord Veridartis Novum Organum. 25 

a doctrine from which we instinctively shrink, and against 
which the schools have unanimously pronounced. 1 

But, to state the case within legitimate bounds, there seems 
considerable proof, a priori) that the souls of the inferior 
creatures are immaterial, as well as of men. 

I. David says, * When Thou lettest Thy breath go forth they 
shall be made ;' just as he had said before, f When Thou takest 
away their breath, they die.' 2 It is not contended that these words 
are so forcible as those which describe the creation of the first man, 
at the same time it cannot be said that they are not remarkable. 

II. Does not the resemblance of their body to the human 
body seem to indicate a certain proportionate resemblance in 
the soul ? not but that every resemblance necessarily pre-sup- 
poses a difference. 

III. The arguments collected by Cicero in the 1st book of 
the Tusculans for the immortality of the human soul, seem in a 
lower degree to apply to the inferior orders, e.g. 

e Serit arbores, quse alter! saeculo prosint,' 3 

At the same time it is to be remembered that the inferior orders 
propagate, and so naturally perpetuate themselves. 

IV. Prophecy seems to intimate a general restoration of the 
whole created universe, by the imagery with which it adorns 
the future kingdom of the Messiah. If it be said that the 
inferior orders are to be regarded as types, and not things ; it 
may be replied, that holy men have been employed as types in 
the same prophetic language, but do not therefore cease to be 
things, either now, or with reference to a future state. Add 
to which, that the inferior orders seem to have shared Paradise 
with our first parents. 4 We need not deny what seems to be 
generally admitted, 5 that the annihilation of the soul of a beast 
is consequent to the annihilation of the body; while we look 
for a literal accomplishment of the prophecy which says, 6 The 
' wolf shall dwell with the lamb.' 6 We need not assert that 
there will not be a particular resurrection of birds, beasts, and 
fishes, as well as of men : while we have a strong presentiment 
that the forms and types of the creature existing in the Divine 
Mind will reproduce their real objective counterparts in a 
future state. We may * look for a new heaven and a new earth,' 
with S. Peter, ' according to his promise,' 7 and at the same time 
feel sure that, in the equally inspired language of the Preacher, 
there is a sense in which * the earth ' may be said f to abide for 

1 Vide Scholasticos in IV. Sent. Dist. xlviii. 2 Ps. civ. 29, 30. 3 Lib. i. c. 14. 

4 Leonard Coq. ad xiv. c. 11. De Civ. Dei, thinks it can scarce be doubted. 

5 Vide Gcnnad. De Dog.Eccl. c. 17, and Bp. Bull, Serm. ii. p. 31. (Oxon. 1846.) 

6 Isaiah xii. 6. 1 2 Peter iii. 13. 



26 Lord Verulairis Novum Organum. 

ever.' 1 What have ever been the views of the Church upon the 
subject, may be gathered from one of the most diligent col- 
lectors of the opinions of her Doctors. 

' Elementa, id est coelum et terrain, non credamus abolenda per ignem, 
sed in melius commutanda: figuram quoque mundi, id est imaginem, non 
substantiam transituram.' 2 

It is admitted that the Schoolmen seem to speak against a resusci- 
tation of the animal world, and, in a less degree, of the produc- 
tions of the earth ; 3 but we have little doubt we could explain 
what they really mean, had we space for a theological investiga- 
tion. Commentators, it is to be observed, on the same side, 
speak unreservedly, when it is incumbent upon them to explain 
passages of the following nature. 

Eccl. iii. 14. "Ryvcov OTI, iravra ocra eiroirjorev 6 609, avrd 



Rom. viii. 21. on teal avrrj TJ KTICTIS eKevdeptocrerai diro 7779 
SouXe/a9 r^9 (f)0opd<> et9 TTJV e\ev6epiav rrj<> 80^779 TGQV TGKVWV TOV 
Seov. OiSa/nev yap on TT d era 77 KTicrw avcrTevd^et, /cal crvvw^Lvei, 

&%pl TOV VVV. 

1 Cor. xv. r iva ^ 6 609 rd Trdvra ev TTCLO-LV. 

To refute a pantheistic doctrine which had been built upon the 
last passage, it is observed by one, 

* Deus erit omnia in omnibus ; ergo omnia, id est omnes res creatse, 
erunt etpermanebunt.' 4 

While another says upon the preceding text, 5 

'Nota est Theologorum doctrina, in resurrectione hominum futurum 
renovationem totius creaturae, quam significat Scriptura, 2 Petri iii. 
Apoc. xxi. et Isaiae Ixv. novas cceios et novam terram promittens.' 

And so it may chance to turn out in the end, that the forms 
and essences of the Schoolmen, rightly understood, may long 
survive the husks and membranes in which they are enveloped : 
and that in ( the glorious manifestation,' of which the Apostle 
speaks, they may declare the glory of God, and be the means 
of showing His handywork more perfectly to His regenerate 
people, when the subject-matter of the Baconian philosophy (rd 
Trepi ryevecrw teal (frOopdv, as they may fitly be called) shall be no 
more. 



1 Eccl. i. 4. 2 Gennad. l)e Eccl. Dog. c. 70. 

3 See as above on IV. Sent. Dist. xlviii. 4 Corn, a Lap. in loc. 

5 Estius in loc. 



27 



ART. II. Sketches of Continental Ecclesiology ; or. Church Notes 
in Belgium, Germany, and Italy. By the Rev. BENJAMIN 
WEBB, M.A. London: Masters, 1848. 

AMONG the numerous difficulties and embarrassments which 
beset those members of the English communion who have begun 
to look upon religious matters with a deeper earnestness, and a 
more rational discrimination, there is none, perhaps, which more 
forcibly arrests our attention, none which more saliently demon- 
strates how very unhealthy and unnatural the present condition 
of the universal Church must be, than those involved in the 
question of foreign travel. To quit the territorial heritage of the 
English Communion must, of necessity, assume a difficult aspect 
even to that better class of travellers who have been led to under- 
stand and to prize the inestimable value of Church ordinances, 
arid the grievous loss which even a temporary deprivation of 
them entails, particularly when accompanied with that mental 
excitement and greater risk of human life, which unquestionably 
accompanies foreign travel under its most favourable shape, and 
in the times of the utmost tranquillity. Shut our eyes as we 
may do to the fact, bolster ourselves as we may do in the plea- 
sant dreams of community of feeling, and of uniting on the 
ground of the common past, yet we cannot but feel very bitterly 
that as soon as ever we set foot upon the territories of the 
western, or indeed of the eastern, Church, we become self- 
excommunicated. We may gaze at the fairest cathedrals, we 
may listen to the entrancing notes of a soul-melting hymn, ' Veni 
Creator,' or f Pange lingua,' or to the world-famous ' Miserere' in 
the Sistine Chapel, and fancy we form one of the flock ; we may 
kneel upon the pavement and join in prayer with those around 
us, but let us once attempt to do that which alone constitutes 
fellowship, alone makes worship in its highest sense, partake with 
our brethren of the bread of life, and our illusion is rudely broken, 
our isolated position is brought most distressingly home to us, 
and we find ourselves treated as more completely strangers and 
aliens, than we should be led to think ourselves were we to stray 
into the conventicles of the most heretical sect in our native land. 
Such is the condition of the traveller through Catholic lands. 
His position in those where the various forms of foreign Pro- 
testantism are established, is, of course, to the Catholic-minded 
Anglican, one of equal desolation and equal sickness of heart, 
arising, indeed, from other causes, which we need not here 



28 Continental Eccksiology. 

recount, but still such as to make it a very grave question with 
any one how far he is justified in adventuring the trial. So far 
the priest suffers equally with the layman ; but the latter has a 
still further and much heavier deprivation. Unless under 
favourable circumstances, he is not only an exile from the 
Church of the country, but from the Christian Church altogether. 
Except in a few principal towns, or in case (which we cannot 
but think is the bounden duty of all who can afford it to take 
care should be their privilege whenever they travel abroad), he 
is happy enough to be the companion of a Priest, he must con- 
tinue destitute of the means of grace ; and if he be stricken with 
mortal disease, he must die the death of the infidel. But the 
Priest cannot divest himself of the presence of the Christian 
Church ; he bears it with him ; and so long as he has the use of 
hand and of tongue, it is his own fault if he is deprived of the 
benefit of the Christian sacrifice. We do not, indeed, counsel our 
friends of the Clergy to follow the example of the enthusiastic 
but somewhat unreasonable Mr. Perceval, who went from 
Bishop to Bishop, demanding that outward communion, which 
he might have recollected that no individual prelate or simple 
priest could grant him, without himself becoming the whole 
Roman Communion, and himself annulling the acta of centu- 
ries. But we do advise him to be careful for his own soul's 
health, and not to grudge himself that spiritual food of which he 
has been made the dispenser. 

We do not mean to press these observations as if they were 
of universal or even general acceptation, for there are many 
cases in which foreign travel may be not only advisable but even 
necessary; occasions, for instance, of health, or business, or 
public service, or scientific or literary research. We have rather 
been talking against mere holiday touring, against visiting 
foreign lands for the sole object of relaxation, which we do not 
think, as a general rule, is in the present divided state of the 
Christian Church, (putting the strange political aspect of Eu- 
rope, which has nothing to do with the main question, out of 
sight,) an entirely healthy amusement. There is much to be 
seen, much to distract the mind, and give it pleasurable occupa- 
tion in our own island, not merely in such beaten districts as 
those of the Wye and the Lakes, or the Isle of Wight, but in 
many another part of England. Those who can superadd to 
mere scenery hunting some special scientific taste, cultivated for 
the sake of recreation merely architecture for example, or 
natural history will find their sphere of amusement propor- 
tionably increased, without having too lightly to resort to the 
perilous experiment of deserting, for the time, the shelter of their 
mother Church. 



Continental Ecclesiology^ 29 

But it is time to break off a discussion into which we 
have been betrayed by having to review a work of foreign 
travel, and to proceed to the book before us, which we have 
somewhat unfairly overlooked, while theorising as to whether 
Englishmen ought to travel at all. We are glad to find that, as 
the production of an English Clergyman, and as a scientific work, 
it is fairly one of the exceptional cases of allowable travels. 
We can with justice state, that it presents a thoroughly original 
picture of Belgium and parts of Germany and Italy. We need 
hardly say, after such a prelude, that it is not a general tour, 
nor a statistical or geological survey, nor even a merely archi- 
tectural visitation, for there has already been more than one 
book of architectural travels published through the regions in 
question. It is strictly and literally the record of a journey 
undertaken with the intention of investigating the ' Ecclesiology * 
of those portions of the continent. Little short of having some 
new point of view in which to regard these beaten paths, could 
have justified a fresh volume of travels in those regions, over 
which Mr. Webb's course lay, written, when it was, before the late 
European revolutions, from the rank soil of which we may now 
hopefully expect fresh crops of tours, till the faces of Lamartine 
and Charles Albert shall have become as stale as that of Louis 
Philippe is already to the diligent student of Punch. But he 
most entirely fulfils this requirement. Ecclesiology is a new 
and still tentative science, just as much as geology was some 
time back ; and it is therefore as necessary for its students to 
examine Europe de now ecclesiologically, and to map it into its 
ecclesiological districts, as a similar undertaking was for those 
who first developed geology. 

The commencement (for it is of course, after all, but a com- 
mencement), of this undertaking on the part of members of the 
English Church, could not possibly have fallen into better hands 
than it has done. Mr. Webb was already well known in the 
ecclesiological world, as the co-founder and active Secretary of 
the Cambridge Camden, or, as it now calls itself, the Ecclesio- 
logical Society, which has, it must be confessed, helped in no 
little degree to promote throughout our communion the revival 
of the perception of the outward requirements of Divine worship. 
He had trained himself among our own cathedrals and parish 
churches, and learned to realize their outward forms and inward 
meanings; and he could, therefore, when first he set out on his 
continental investigations, bring to bear upon what he saw the 
results of a ripened judgment and of much aptitude of appre- 
hension. He has accordingly produced a work which must be 
extremely interesting to all students of Ecclesiology, from the 
abundance of well digested matter which it contains. It may 



30 Continental Ecclesiology. 

indeed be considered its only fault, if this is a fault, that it is 
too technical ; and is not as much as it might have been here 
and there enlivened, by such incidents of personal adventure 
and descriptions of scenery, as would tend to localize the 
churches he talks of, and, without detracting from the dignity of 
the work, render it more likely to win favour with those who 
are not as yet fully converted to the charm of pure Ecclesio- 
logical research, but are yet sufficiently anxious for information 
on the subject, as to be led to take up a volume with so capti- 
vating a title on the back as ( Continental Ecclesiology.' Still 
this would have increased the bulk of what is at present a book 
of considerable dimensions, or else led to the omission of matter 
more germane to its especial subject. On the whole, therefore, 
we believe that though Mr. Webb may not have consulted most 
wisely for the sale of his travels, he has for their intrinsic worth 
to ecclesiologists. 

The work divides itself very manifestly into two parts. So 
long as Mr. Webb lingers in Teutonic realms, he is evidently 
uneasy to move on, his descriptions are for the most part some- 
what brief, and his incidental notices few and far between. 
He disposes of Belgium, and those parts of Germany which 
he visited, and the Tyrol, in less than 200 pages. In Italy, on 
the contrary, he seems to revel ; he lingers in city after city, he 
becomes more copious and descriptive, he shows glimpses of 
character, amid the routine of measured description. The chapter 
on Home, as was natural, is the fullest and most soigne of 
all, assuming quite the shape of a separate treatise, with more 
of classification and of method than any other part of the work. 
We really hardly know whether to scold him, or to praise him 
for this. A work ought certainly to be natural, and we have 
no more right to quarrel with an ecclesiological tourist for 
telling us which district of churches most arrested his attention, 
than we have to reproach the Almanach des Gourmands, for 
the enthusiasm with which it approaches the classic ground of 
Perigord or Strasburg. Still Mr. Webb cannot altogether 
shelter himself under travellers' privileges ; he has thrown enough 
of system into the book to make us call for more, and to claim 
that equal justice shall be done to different countries. Yet the 
circumstances under which he travelled made this almost im- 
possible ; and we ought to be very thankful to him for having 
made so much use of two long vacations. We do not think that 
any other student could have, in so short a time, accumu- 
lated so much matter, bearing at once upon the architectural 
features of the various churches, and upon their ritual peculi- 
arities, and (wherein Mr. Webb's excellence resides) the treasures 
of painting which they contain. Had Mr. Neale written the 



Continental Ecclesiology. 3 1 

book, we should probably have had more of what we have 
adumbrated above a very picturesque and interesting tour, with 
most valuable Church notes worked up into it much poetical 
description, and stores of recondite learning brought to bear 
upon points which interested the author but we doubt whether 
he would have tarried so long to note the minutiae of pictures, 
and to copy their legends, as his brother secretary of the Eccle- 
siological Society has done. % 

It is not at all surprising, that Italy should have so forcibly 
captured our tourist's affections. He entered that country, as 
most people do, with the idea that he should find pointed archi- 
tecture a mere sickly exotic in it, a few specimens like the 
cathedrals of Milan and Siena, and the church at Assisi, scat- 
tered widely apart, and showing the marks of their German 
origin too palpably to be mistaken. To his astonishment, 
wherever he went, he found indications of an Italian school 
of pointed architecture ; in every town of any magnitude, there 
were pointed churches, of a type indeed very different from 
those of Northern lands, but still truly pointed, and in their 
differences showing, (with much of the old Roman servitude 
remaining in many,) a real accommodation to the difference of 
climate, which admitted of being further developed, and adopted 
in other countries where the temperature called for similar 
deflections from these forms of pointed architecture, with which 
England is peculiar. Here, then, was a theory to be followed 
out, a fact to be realised, which, to an inquiring mind, was of 
great interest ; and still more so, when it concerned no obscure 
regions, no buildings of secondary importance ; but Italy itself, 
and those churches which had entwined themselves round the 
annals of her famous middle age. What wonder is it, that he 
should devote himself with greater zeal and carefulness to the 
study of these churches, than the better known ones of Belgium? 
We happen to know, that still more lately than Mr. Webb, 
Mr. Pugin went to Italy for the first time, prepossessed with the 
same prejudices, and returned similarly undeceived, with a rich 
sketch-book to testify to his conversion. The Italian portion of 
the present work, is not the only result of Mr. Webb's journeys ; 
to his first visit to Italy, we owe a very interesting and useful 
paper, on the application of pointed architecture to tropical 
climates, written with a view to church building in our Colonies, 
and published in the Transactions of the Cambridge Camden 
Society. 

Our author does not of course confine his notices to the 
greater churches, which, although of obviously best worth 
seeing, are not of themselves sufficient to give a knowledge 
of the ecclesiology of any country, any more than having 



32 Continental Ecclesiology. 

fastidiously mixed with the aristocracy, and the aristocracy only, 
of the land, would entitle a traveller to say, that he had tho- 
roughly studied the national character. The descriptions, how- 
ever, of inferior churches, we leave where we found them, as 
they will not be so interesting to our general readers, and those 
who study ecclesiology more particularly ought to provide 
themselves with the book itself; we shall, in order to give them 
an idea of Mr. Webb's .style, as well as to introduce them to Con- 
tinental churches, quote a few passages, chiefly of impressions of 
some of the most famous cathedrals of Europe, appending a few 
remarks of our own, and so leave the book to the mercies of 
the two classes of persons, those who will read it at home, with 
their feet before their fires, and those who will lay it by, till 
Europe is peaceable enough for them to pack it up in their port- 
manteaus, along with Murray's Hand-books, adapted to the 
changes of 1848. 

We shall begin with a church which, from its vastness, and 
its proximity to our shores, has attained a greater degree of 
celebrity than its deserts entitle it to, the Cathedral of Antwerp, 
for so of course it still is, although, on the restoration of the 
Belgian Church, its Bishopric for some reason was not restored 
along with the rest. 

1 This famous church sadly disappointed me, both externally and inter- 
nally. Excepting the west front, there is an unfinished look about the 
outside: the mouldings are shabby, the flying buttresses to the apse 
wanting in dignity, and the meanest houses (the complaint of every tra- 
veller) still abut on the walls, to the great disgrace of the authorities. 
Again, the central lantern is crowned by a bulbous top, which is positively 
hideous. The roofs of all four arms of the great cross are extremely high ; 
but though gabling nobly in the nave and transept fronts, and ending 
apsidally in the choir, they are all four hipped in the most ugly way, in- 
stead of gabling on the central lantern. Consequently no such majestic 
effect of roof as at Ely or Westminster can be gained. Many foreign 
churches fail in this respect. The west front is well known by drawings. 
A great peculiarity in it is the entire absence of imagery, excepting a rood 
in the tympanum of the middle door, and the almost severity of the gene- 
ral style of the ornament. This absence of what has been well called 
" frippery," has gained the design the approbation of the Italian editor of 
the Eglises principales de I' Europe, and may perhaps be accounted for by the 
singular fact that one of its two architects, Amelius, was a Bolognese. The 
north spire is completed, is 432 French feet high, according to Simonau, 
and was in building from 1422 to 1 5 1 8. It is beautifully treated up to where 
the tower ends : the great buttresses are subdued, and lead up the eye 
very gently ; the windows are to an Englishman's eye unnecessarily large, 
but are kept down by the surface-panelling (in itself very indifferent) of the 
whole. But the design of the spire is less happy. The gallery at its foot 
overhangs, after the secular style of the late town-hall architecture of the 
Low Countries. The spire itself does not answer the English notion of one. 
The English idea of a spire may be taken to be a solid covering indefinitely 
attenuated ; but the Continental type is a series of galleries, gradually 
diminishing. The English spire I call it so merely for shortness, for 



Continental Ecclesiology . 33 

beautiful examples of this type are found in France, as on the south-west 
tower of Chartres, and the two towers of S. Etienne at Caen seems the 
most real in principle; being only the necessary weather-capping of the 
bell-tower, rendered beautiful and symbolical by the genius of the Pointed 
style, not open to let out the sound of the bells, but merely pierced for 
wind-holes and light. In fact, that type of belfry where the spire itself is 
pierced seems to be a Romanesque one, never fairly developed. The Ro- 
manesque tower is, in theory, merely a number of stages, one over the 
other: this has been translated, but not developed, in the open spire. To 
recur to the Antwerp example. The spire is scarcely proportionate to 
its tower, is open, and horizontal in character, and spoilt by exaggerated 
overhanging crops to the pinnacles. The simple weathercock above the 
iron cross is quite refreshing, after a spire which looks like confectionery. 
The towers are engaged, by which much external grandeur is lost : but 
extent of internal area (it measures 63,375 French feet), is the weakness, 
so to say, of this church, The inside has two narrow aisles on each side of 
the nave, and a row of broad chapels beyond each, giving the extraordinary 
internal effect of seven parallel alleys. The rood-screen has disappeared, 
probably a sacrifice to this notion of area. The pillars, 126 in number, 
are most disappointing : they are very meagre, their bases are hidden by 
the raising of the floor to keep the church safe from inundations, and the 
nave-arches have no caps at all, but spring continuously from the side 
members of the pillars : a most tame arrangement. Then the spandril- 
spaces of these arches are most superficially panelled: and, with no more 
triforia than a mere passage defended by a late pierced parapet along the 
bottom of the huge clerestory windows, the eye reaches the vaulting. The 
apse is wanting in grandeur : the high altar under it, a vast pseudo-classical 
design, would ruin the effect of an apse, in spite of its picture, the famous 
" Assumption" of Rubens, a very flower-garden of colour, but most unfit 
for a Christian church. Antwerp cathedral has come to be regarded as a 
picture-gallery for Rubens, rather than anything else, and the guides will, 
without a blush, point out to you the portrait of the Chapeau depaille in the 
representation of the Ever-Virgin. However, some works of the new revival 
are in progress. M. Geefs is erecting some new carved stalls of most cre- 
ditable design ; perhaps a little starved in execution. They are to be in 
four divisions, of which three ate now finished (1847). They appear not to 
have returns. A new rood has been suspended in the choir-arch, carved and 
coloured; the arms ending in fleurs-de-lis, which are rather over-sized. 
Also in the south choir-aisle there is a new altar with canopy, in Pointed 
style, very satisfactorily treated, with a picture of the new Catholic school 
over it, in a painted and gilt frame. 

' Rubens' " Raising the Cross," is east of the north transept,, and his 
" Descent from the Cross," east of the south transept : both of great size 
with wings. 

' Benediction is sung about five P.M., every evening, at the altar of the 
Blessed Sacrament, in the south aisle.' Pp. 1416. 

Mr. Webb, in this passage, seems to us to have forgotten 
another species of spire, of which there are several instances 
on the continent, of extreme beauty, the tapering pierced 
spire, the spire that is composed, not like that one at Antwerp, 
of series of towers of diminishing diameter, but, like our English 
ones, of sloping sides, pierced, however, in traceried patterns, 
instead of being left solid, or perforated with spire-lights merely. 
To this class belong the famous spire at Freyberg, in Breisgau, 

NO. LXI. N. s. i> 



34 Continental Ecclesiology. 

and those with which it has for centuries been intended to crown 
Cologne Cathedral. This type of spire is as pure a one as the 
solid spire of England. The diminishing tower is, we agree with 
Mr. Webb, by no means so satisfying, but we can hardly bring 
ourselves to call it a Eomanesque belfry never fairly developed ; 
the Komanesque spire was one of sloping sides, very obtuse, to 
be sure, and, at first, more like a pyramid than a spire, but still 
completely of the same genus as those of Salisbury and Chichester. 
The pierced spire, like that at Freyberg, was either an improve- 
ment or a corruption of this, but still one which retained the 
normal form, the pyramid, of its Romanesque prototype. On 
the other hand, the spire of diminishing stories was a purely 
original idea, one of the strange caprices of the architects of the 
Flamboyant age, with no prototype which we can remember, 
except that of the Chinese Pagoda, or, perhaps, the Tower of 
Babel. 

Mr. Webb is very much pleased with the Collegiate Church 
of S. Michael, and S. Gudule, at Brussels, which, by the way, 
he calls the Cathedral, incorrectly we apprehend, as there never 
has been a bishop of Brussels. 

' This is a noble church, of remarkably good detail, dating from 1226, 
that is, of well-developed Continental Middle-Pointed ; but a long time in 
building. Its grand feature is the west front, imposingly elevated on a high 
flight Of steps. There are two towers, which have never had their spires. 
The general effect is not less striking than that of Notre Dame of Paris, in 
point of solemnity and severe simplicity. But it surpasses in positive 
beauty the French example, and no less so, in my judgment, in respect of 
purity and dignity, the west front of York, to which it also bears much 
resemblance. Perhaps we may define this front as being what Westminster 
aimed at being. At York the buttresses are too prominent ; there is an 
over-great horizontalism apparent, and the ornament is too florid: at 
Brussels, the buttresses quite satisfy the mind without being offensive, the 
windows are without any exaggeration in size or detail, and the ornament 
is sufficient without excess. A remarkable originality is given to the front 
by the making the outer (north and south) parts of the towers project, as 
it were, in a kind of solid buttressing, so that the real fronts of the towers 
are rather recessed, and do not occupy above two-thirds of the whole ex- 
ternal face. The windows are disposed evenly, relatively to these reduced 
fronts ; not placed as at Antwerp, for example, with reference to the dimen- 
sions of the whole face, where half a window is, in the original design, con- 
cealed by the thickening of the tower walls for the staircases. Some judicious 
repairs have been effected to these towers. 

' The interior of the church is also fine ; there being a well developed 
triforium. Some fine stained glass remains in the south clerestory : but 
nothing can be worse than some modern " transparency" glass, put up in 
1842. The detail of this cathedral is the best that I have seen in Belgium. 
A remarkable interior effect is produced from the fact of there being two 
vast chapels, of very late Pointed date, added one on each side of the choir- 
aisles. The choir is^ lofty, and its aisles low: but beyond the latter soar 
the extremely high vaults of the chapels. There is a most incongruous 
pseudo-classical chapel built at the extreme east end.' Pp. 18, 19. 



Continental Ecclesiology. 35 

It is not very long since we have seen the west front of 
York, and we must confess we consider the usual charge brought 
against it of its buttresses being too prominent an unfounded 
one. The pediment, no doubt, is too horizontal, but the but- 
tresses, though very massive, are well proportioned. Had Mr. 
Webb named Beverley instead, we should have most fully 
agreed with him. The west front of this Minster, an inferior 
imitation of York, made in the third pointed age, has buttresses 
of a bulk which quite throw every other portion of the facade 
out of keeping, especially, capped as they are with towers of 
such distressing thinness. 

Cologne Cathedral, of course, works our ecclesiologist up to 
the highest pitch of enthusiasm. 

4 The cathedral must be mentioned first, but it is too glorious a work for 
description. Regular in plan, and almost uniform in detail, it does not 
afford much for the note-book. The impression that it gives is a whole : 
one of inexpressible grandeur and beauty. In this respect it is like S. Peter's, 
that the first glance can in no degree appreciate its scale. The proportions 
are vast, but most accurate and beautiful; so that at first they only satisfy, 
and it is long before they begin to astonish. It is curious that one feels as 
if one had very soon " seen " the cathedral. Unlike S. Mark's at Venice, 
for example, where every part and detail seems to detain the visitor, Co- 
logne only impresses with one great effect. Even if a long time be con- 
sumed in the church, it is not in the examination of a number of interesting 
points, but in a contemplation of the whole. The mind expands and soars 
away in this prodigious temple, forgetful of minute particularities. The 
eye sees rich details, gilded capitals, coloured imagery, gorgeous windows, 
but rests on none of them: these are rejected as being only subservient 
to the great idea: or rather they are not rejected, for they are too humble 
and well ordered to be obtrusive. They are just where and what they ought 
to be ; necessary but quite subsidiary parts of the design ; and claiming to 
be no more. It is just as in the solemn performance of the ritual of the 
altar, where there are many degrees of ministers, each in his duty, and 
order, and dress, and local position, contributing to make up the whole act 
of sublime worship. It would be wrong if one knee knelt too many, one 
taper flashed needlessly, one censer swung too prominently. The rapt 
worshipper sees all and yet sees none. All he sees and feels is that, in the 
very beauty of holiness, the highest service that man can offer is being 
rendered to God in the Divine Liturgy. So the unknown designer of 
Cologne made every art and even substance minister as it were a rational 
service in its appointed subordination around the material altar for which 
he, a true poet, made this material shrine. He has fixed and embodied a 
heavenly vision. He conceived a not unworthy temple for Him Whom the 
heaven of heavens cannot contain ; and we see in wood and stone the ex- 
pression of his sublime thought. His poem presents to us a master har- 
mony, in which metal and stone and wood, and every art that moulds them, 
combine to praise and glorify God : and his work exalts the soul to ado- 
ration, much in the same way as does the sublimity of an Alpine range. 
A glorious view of what we call external nature, can certainly elevate our 
souls towards heaven. Much more so can Christian art. External nature 
need not speak of more than the greatness and goodness of our Creator : 
but Christian art in all its branches leads the beholder directly to Him, 

D2 



36 Continental Ecclesiology. 

who took the manhood into God, and by His Incarnation permitted and 
authorized and sanctified our use of matter in His service, and to his 
glory. 

' I shall not endeavour to give an idea of the plan or detail of the Dom, 
because Boisseree's beautiful engravings are so generally accessible: and 
the restorations and new works have proceeded so fast since the last time 
I saw them, as to make any account I could give superfluous, 1 am con- 
strained to doubt if there is so much symbolism in the details of this design 
as one would have expected. There is, however, a beautiful effect to be 
seen from the west end of the choir. The three stilted arches of the apse 
end the view, and of these the middle one shows a beautiful window of 
two trefoiled lights, with three equal trefoils in the head. 

' Even in this most perfect example of Foreign Pointed, it is remarkable 
that the triforium is more like a prolonged compartment of the clerestory 
than, as with us, a constructive portion of the design. This, of course, partly 
arises from the greater freedom with which Continental Pointed allowed of 
separate roofs to its aisles, instead of lean-tos. Our own architecture, even 
in late and in elaborate examples, religiously retained the older type. 

' The choir of Cologne is surrounded by an original stone parclose, very 
high, panelled on the surface, and with an open moulding at the top. The 
tracery of it is very beautiful. The stalls within it have back-hangings of 
red and gold. The altar is carved, and on ordinary days has no frontal. 

' There are some monuments in the church of great excellence. 

' The shrine of the Three Kings is at present in the easternmost chapel 
of the choir. A large fee is paid to open the iron railings, and to have the 
tapers lighted by which the jewels and relics can be seen. The effect is 
tawdry and bad. The poor, who cannot pay the fee, try to get a glimpse 
through the grills when a party of visitors is admitted. 

' The treasury is inferior to that of Aix-la-Chapelle, but very costly. It 
contains a shrine of great beauty, and a fine crozier, seven feet two inches 
high, with the Crucifixion in the middle, and the Evangelic symbols at the 
four points, with a knop four feet five and a half inches from the bottom, 
which is not sharp-pointed. I may notice also a monstrance, of 1658, of* 
gold, covered with jewels ; some of which hang like earrings to it. There 
is an exquisite pastoral staff, very sharp-pointed, six feet four inches high, 
with no knops, but three joints, enamelled in alternating lozenges all the 
way up, and enriched at the. top with most delicate tabernacle-work of gold. 
A thurible, I presume of Romanesque date, exactly resembles the church 
of the Holy Sepulchre, Cambridge : there is a surrounding aisle with lean-to 
roof and windows and buttresses ; and above, a clerestory of the same kind 
under a nebule cornice, all capped by a conical roof.' Pp. 35 38. 

Nuremburg was, we need not say, visited, and the following 
description of the fittings of the Churches of S. Sebaldus, and 
S. Laurence, both for three centuries devoted to Lutheran 
worship, may be read with interest in certain religious circles. 

' S. SEBALDUS, This is a most magnificent church, of peculiar character. 
It has two towers and spires, covered with coloured copper, and huge roofs 
similarly decorated. The nave and west apse is Transitional or First- 
Pointed, 1215; the transepts and choir very much more lofty than the 
nave are later. 

' The western apse has one bay and a pentagonal end. It is of early 
First-Pointed kind, with a trefoiled arcade of good mouldings all round, 
and is raised on five steps. It now holds a brass font, circular, of late date : 



Continental Ecdeswlogy. 37 

and an altar of S. Catharine, over which is retained a carved triptych with 
painted leaves. This has some fine heads, and is dated 1453. 

' The whole eastern part of the church is later (1361 1377) and much 
more gorgeous. The windows are necessarily very large and lofty, and are 
almost entirely filled with stained glass. The way by which the church was 
so splendidly ornamented was this : each of the great mercantile families 
seems to have borne the charges of a portion. In the choir- aisles, for ex- 
ample, every bay, each of which contains a window and two statues in 
niches, was given by some one family. The subjects, therefore, have no 
necessary connexion, for each family chose its own design. 

' The most remarkable thing, with respect to the whole church, is the 
Catholic aspect still preserved by its Lutheran holders. Scarcely one fea- 
ture has been disturbed. The choir retains its double stalls, its altar 
vested in purple with four candlesticks, with a poor reredos, but exquisite 
rood with S. Mary and S. John, and the bronze shrine of S. Sebaldus. 
The whole church is studded with altars, still vested and fitted with lights : 
and on a north altar, near the empty tabernacle, a lamp still burns con- 
tinually. I chanced to reach Nuremberg on the Feast of S. Sebaldus. The 
church was crowded, every altar lighted, and the shrine and altars gar- 
landed with flowers. It was a very singular exhibition of Protestantism. 

' The choir, however, is stuffed up with flimsy seats of deal : and there 
are some modern deal open seats with poppyheads. 

' An image of S. Sebaldus, a palmer holding a church, faces the pulpit. 
I need not describe the shrine, the masterpiece of Peter Vischer. It is 
world-famous and well known by plates. It has only one fault, a corrup- 
tion in some of the details, which might be expected from its date, 1508 
1519. 

' S. LAURENCE. Another most noble church, remarkable for the beautiful 
rich effect arising from the deep coloured stone of which it is built : and re- 
taining its Catholic fittings. The choir has its surrounding arches as lofty as 
the vaulting, and from the immense windows of the aisle, all full of stained 
glass, is quite a blaze of coloured light. The nave has lower arcades, and 
above them a blank space for triforia and clerestory ; and a fine rose win- 
dow at the west end. The nave is of about 1200, I should say; and the 
choir is said to have been in building from 1439 to 1477. Here also there 
are two western towers with metal spires, of great and picturesque beauty; 
and the great door is canopied and adorned with excellent statuary. This 
church contains also the famous Tabernacle (Sakrament-hauschen) of Adam 
Kraft, carved most delicately in stone, and tapering up to an immense 
height in intricate open work. The date of this is 1500. The conceit of 
supporting this huge mass of stone on the crouching figures of the carver 
and two scholars is far from pleasing in effect or feeling. 

' The church is most remarkable for its decorations. The noble families 
of Nuremberg seem to have contended which should spend most in orna- 
ments. Thus, as in the Sebaldus-kirche, particular families gave windows ; 
and the same, or other houses, crowded the church with single statues, 
groups, bassi-relievi, altars with furniture, pictures, monuments, arms, and 
inscriptions ; so that the enrichment is almost unequalled. The windows 
are most gorgeous. One of them in the south chancel-aisle called the 
Wolkamer Fenster that, namely, given by Peter Wolkamer has European 
fame. The subject is a tree of Jesse, with very many saints on each side. 
The figures are all small, and of the most bright and contrasted colours ; 
but the masterly treatment of the work has made the result a most harmo- 
nious whole. 

' The next window to this the Schliisselfelder window contains a most 
singular device. The Evangelistic Symbols are represented in surplices 



38 Continental Ecdesiology. 

(looking like Gnostic Eons) and are pouring coins into a mill. M. Kellner, 
the present glass-stainer of Nuremberg, has added to this window Albert 
Durer's Four Apostles, executed by himself, with a great deal too much 
shading and effect. 

' The church contains eleven altars ; of which the high one is by Heide- 
loff, built a few years since. It has a rood behind it, and six candlesticks, 
each carried by an angel. The work is good, but modern looking. 1 fear 
I can give no idea of the richness of the whole interior. Almost the whole 
Kalendar, one would say, was commemorated several times over in the 
windows, or triptychs, or carvings. The main points of our Blessed Lord's 
life are repeated in various ways, and materials, and styles, in all parts. 
As if no other room could be found, a large carving of the Assumption is 
suspended from the roof in the chancel. Beams are laid from cap to cap of 
the arcade, holding angels with candlesticks or other figures. When I saw 
the church, it being a feast-day, the walls were hung all round with vast 
tapestries of the Life of S. Laurence (the patron) and S. Leonard, of the 
fourteenth (I think) century; of course concealing other ornaments. It 
was a very excess of richness. There is a great rood, beautifully floriated, 
suspended, and standing on a rood-beam. 

' A magnificent corona lucis (Kronleucter) of twelve lights is attributed 
to Peter Vischer. The dedication-crosses remain, coloured red, nine and a 
half feet from the ground. One Byzantine painting of the Madonna is 
preserved. Several triptychs are by Wohlgemuth ; and here (as commonly 
in Nuremberg) the front of the super-altar is painted in a series of the 
heads of saints ; either arbitrarily chosen, or, more often, our Lord and 
the Blessed Virgin Mary, with six apostles on each side. A triptych, in the 
north pier of the chancel-arch, contains the story of S. Eucharius. It would 
be impossible to name all the saints commemorated in the decorations of 
this church. 

' It remains to mention a new pulpit by Heideloff. It is rich, and boldly 
carved in stone with figures of the apostles, evangelists, and smaller statues. 
The attitudes are, however, strained ; and the stairs are made to interfere 
disagreeably with the pillar against which the pulpit is set.' Pp. 105 109. 

As a pendant, however, we must quote the notice of a third 
Church in the same city 

' S. GILES. The ancient church was burnt in 1696, only three chapels 
being saved. The new one is very large and gaudy, of classical style : 
cruciform, with double galleries round three sides, both of the nave and 
transepts. It is Protestantism run mad. It is a strange thing that this 
Lutheran body at Nuremberg has retained so much of Catholic fittings and 
arrangements : but the Egidienkirche will show that it has no true feeling 
or apprehension of them. The Reformation would seem to have been an 
easy change here ; without iconoclasm or exasperation. At any rate they 
had no Will Dowsing, as we had, to destroy what the Reformers had left. 
The altar is classical, with a Deposition attributed to Van Dyck, and six 
candlesticks, of which two are old, four modern. Here, as in some other 
churches, the Lutherans employ one or two lecterns on the altar steps, as 
if for Gospel and Epistle ; and two kneeling cushions are often laid on the 
steps.' P. 112. 

We shall not attempt to follow our author through Italy ; 
we should, if we did so, involve ourselves in a surge of discussion 
and description which would be nearly endless. These chapters 
will be read now with all the more interest, because they 



Continental Ecdesiology. 39 

describe a state of things which has already passed away for 
Italy, as completely as the line of the Etrurian Lucumones, the 
Emperors, or the Gonfalioneri. Part of the fabric existed 
when Mr. Webb's last sheet went to press, the remainder has 
been submerged in the short interval which has since elapsed. 
He describes those old times, when Austria ruled over Lom- 
bardy, and the absolute monarchs of Sardinia and Tuscany 
dozed on their seats beneath the shadow of the banner of 
Hapsburg, and good Pope Gregory XVI. and his ministers, 
in all the effete obstinacy of blind incapacity, suffered the seeds 
of every evil to germinate throughout the Roman states, all 
the more rankly because growing in the shade. 

We must, however, let the cathedral of Milan, which with that 
of Florence constitute the chief glories of Italian Pointed, pass in 
review, and the Basilic of S. Mark, that strange shadow of the 
Eastern Church cast upon Western Europe ; and, for its dignity's 
sake, and its unique altar, S. John Lateran, 'omnium urbis et orbis 
ecclesiarum mater et caput.' Both S. Peter's, the type of the 
world and the Church in ill-adjusted alliance, and Ravenna, we 
leave to the book itself. They are too interesting as wholes 
to admit of being excerpted. 

' The DUOMO [of Milan]. This famous church would require a better pen 
than mine to describe it. It is one of the largest and most perfect examples 
of the Pointed style in Italy, and has many peculiarities unlike the Pointed 
of the north of Europe. Moreover, its architect was a German, whose adap- 
tation of the style to a more southern climate, must be considered as in 
some respects more interesting than works of Italian architects them- 
selves. Consequently few buildings have been more discussed than this. 

* Its foundation was laid in 1386, by John Galeazzo Visconti, first Duke 
of Milan. A stone inserted in the north choir-aisle commemorates this in 
the words, " El principio dil domo di Milano fu nel anno 1386." The archi- 
tect was Heinrich von Gemiinden ; in Italian da Gamodia ; who also 
designed the Certosa of Pavia for the same founder. Many years were spent 
in the building. The octagonal lantern was commenced by Omodeo, in 
1490. The whole church was consecrated by S. Charles Borromeo in 1577. 

' The plan consists of a nave and double aisles, separated from each other 
by arcades of nine arches ; two transepts, each with double aisles, of three 
arches on each side of the " crossing," which is surmounted by an octagonal 
lantern ; and a choir of three bays, and a broad three-sided apse surrounded 
by a broad aisle, and with sacristies to the north and south sides. 

' The first thing to be noticed in this plan is the absence of chapels. The 
Ambrosian rite only recognises one altar, and I believe there was only one 
in this church till some minor ones were introduced by S. Charles Borro- 
meo. But these added altars are absolute deformities to the church, not 
being in chapels, but merely affixed to walls, e.g. of the east sides of the 
transepts, and the north and south walls of the outer aisles. The design of 
the whole, and the detail, are uniform. The nave is higher than the first 
aisles, and these again higher than the outer ones. Consequently both the 
nave and the first aisles have clerestory windows. The piers are of enor- 
mous size and height : in plan an octofoil, each foil being composed of an 
ogee roll and fillet. The bases are of the same plan, but with boldly pro- 



40 Continental Ecclesiology. 

jecting mouldings. The caps are banded with a moulded abacus above a 
band of flowers : upon which stands a row of eight statues in niches belting 
the pier ; from above this spring the pier-arches, sharply pointed, and a 
vaulting-shaft, clustered of five, rises on the face of the wall to about the 
level of the apex of the pier-arches, from which point diverge the pointed 
arches and ribs of the quadripartite vaulting. The clerestory wall in each 
bay has a window of three lights, each containing two smaller lights, with 
trefoils in the heads, and a row of quatrefoils at the base. Two small 
pierced quatrefoils, square below, light a concealed triforium passage. The 
cells of the vaulting are painted in very beautiful tracery of the most flowing 
kind: but this is an inexcusable unreality, however good in effect. This 
description is true of the transepts and choir as well as the nave. The arcade 
between the outer and inner aisles is similar, except that the caps have not 
the band of statues, but the inner aisles have similar clerestory windows. 
The outer aisles have lofty windows of three lights, with traceried heads, 
and a kind of foliated transome, higher in the middle than in the side lights. 
The aisle surrounding the choir has three immense and most magnificent 
windows in the three sides of its apse : these are of six lights, with vast 
traceried circles in the heads, and are full of gorgeous stained glass. 

' The central lantern is square, but is vaulted from an octagon. The 
vertical walls of the square are covered with statues in niches : the pen- 
dentives have high-reliefs of the Four Doctors in oval medallions : and 
there is a three-light window in each cell of the cupola. 

' And now to come to the ritual arrangements. The church was of an 
uniform level till the time of S. Charles Borromeo : but he, by the aid of 
the architect Pellegrini, raised the choir considerably, and constructed an 
undercroft, or chiesa hiemale, of Renaissance style. The whole choir is 
screened from the surrounding aisle by a high wall : the stalls are in the 
apse itself, behind the high altar, which, however, stands only a little in front 
of the chord of the apse, and has the main choir westward of it. The altar 
is of a very unfit design, and is covered by a suspended baldachin, which 
looks absurdly like the hangings of a bed. There are sacrarium-rails before 
the altar, and other low rails on some steps under the choir-arch : thus 
there is a " sacrarium " between the two rails, exactly as in the present 
arrangements of Westminster Abbey ; and to make the resemblance more 
like, people are allowed to sit there during Divine Service. There is a vast 
organ with painted leaves, above the screen, on each side of this sacrarium ; 
and embracing the huge girth of the piers of the choir-arch are two ambons 
of metal-work, richly elaborated; erected by S. Charles Borromeo. At an 
immense height, above the caps of this arch, is a rood-beam bearing the 
rood, and two attendant figures, besides two angels kneeling in adoration. 
On the beam is inscribed, " Attendite ad petram unde excisi estis ;" and on 
its east side, " Exulta et lauda habitatio Sion." There are two crowns 
hanging in the choir, each having seven lights. High up, near the roof, 
is suspended a reliquary containing a nail, believed to be one of those used 
to crucify our Lord. This is visited once a year by some of the clergy, 
who are drawn up in a kind of car, by ropes through holes in the vaulting. 
The frontal on the high altar had the superfrontal returned down the sides, 
and a cross embroidered in the middle. 

' I have already mentioned that some subsidiary altars have been ad- 
mitted, to the great prejudice of the design. The transepts originally had 
doors, which were blocked up by S. Charles Borromeo, who threw out in 
their places two small three-sided apses with Pointed windows, but many 
Renaissance details, and set up altars in them. That on the south is dedi- 
cated in honour of S. Giovanni Buono, an early bishop of Milan ; that on 
the north to our Lady of the Rosary. 



Continental Ecclesiology. 41 

' Immediately under the central lantern is an eight-sided opening in the 
floor of the church, guarded by a low balustrade, through which is seen 
the subterranean chapel where S. Charles Borromeo lies enshrined in a 
crystal-coffin. This is reached from the scurolo, and is very costly, but of 
most unsatisfactory decoration. 

' At the north-west part of the north aisle is a baptistery under a Renais- 
sance canopy, designed by Pellegrini ; and there are some, but not many, 
interesting monuments and statues. 

' The exterior is very unlike a northern Pointed church. It always re- 
minded me of a swan floating on the water : it is of dazzling whiteness, and 
very broad, and seems low in proportion to its area. The roof is of one low 
span, embracing the nave arid all the aisles. There is thus no broadside of 
roof to show, and what there might be is masked by high open parapets of 
most delicate work. These parapets mount up the gables, besides crowning 
every horizontal line, and at equal distances rise pinnacles from the flying 
buttresses, each ending in a statue instead of a crop. The effect is very 
singular, but not particularly successful; for the statues themselves are not 
distinguishable, and scarcely satisfy the eye as to the mechanical function 
they fulfil. The external walls are in reality much higher than most 
Pointed examples, there not being any chapels ; and the buttresses are of 
very slight projection, scarcely more than pilasters : the immense area of 
wall thus gained is very elaborately panelled all over with numerous statues 
and canopies, and the ascending lines of the panelling and the statued pin- 
nacles are that which gives a vertical effect to the design. 

* The octagon is also capped by statued pinnacles, and supports a single 
open spirelet terminating in an ugly gilt figure of the Blessed Virgin. The 
cathedral is dedicated in honour of her, and the inscription " Marias 
Nascenti " is to be read on the west front. This spire was not finished till 
1772, under the care of Francesco Croce. 

' The west front is not satisfactory, some of the Renaissance windows of 
Pellegrini being retained in the late Pointed fa9ade, which was added in the 
beginning of the present century. 

The roof is not of lead, but of slabs of white marble, like the rest of the 
church. The whole building is in a fine state of order and repair, large 
sums being annually expended in its support. The view from the summit 
on a clear day is, I should think, unrivalled in the world : it commands the 
whole range of the Alps from Mount Cenis on the left to the Tyrol, and the 
Apennines bound the prospect on the south ; while nearly the whole plain 
of Lombardy lies around. 

' I know few churches where the performance of Divine Service is more 
stately and reverent than in the Duomo of Milan ; and the peculiarities of 
the Ambrosian use make an object of especial interest to an ecclesiologist. 
I will describe high mass on an ordinary Sunday, August 3, 1845. Tierce 
is sung about ten, the antiphons being accompanied by the organ. The 
north organ is generally used, and a choir in surplices is placed in the gal- 
lery before it. The celebrant and his attendants enter in procession. The 
psalm Judica me, Do mine is chanted. An acolyte read a long Lectio from 
the north ambon, after which the subdeacon sang the epistle from the same. 
He then returned to the altar, and preceded the deacon to the same ambon. 
While the deacon sang the gospel, the people stood up, and the censers 
were swung. After the gospel, the clergy took their seats near the throne 
to hear the sermon, which was preached from the south ambon, by a priest 
in surplice, stole, and cap. The sermon was about modern exhibitions of 
Pharisaism, and the preacher addressed different classes of his hearers with 
great animation. After the sermon, some members of a confraternity, or 
bedesmen, two men and two women, in black and white mantles, brought 



42 Continental Ecdeswlogy. 

in an oblation of the elements. They stood at the end of the choir, and the 
deacon came with much ceremony to receive the offerings. During the 
offertory, the whole of the clergy went in order round the altar, and each 
knelt and kissed the gospel corner. During many parts of the mass, the 
deacon kneels at the south, and the subdeacon at the north end of the altar, 
the celebrant, of course, standing at the west side. Si\ lights are brought 
in at the time of consecration. The celebrant at one time extends his arms 
in the form of a cross. The In principio, after the mass, was not said ; nor 
was Ite missa est sung. The deacon wears a broad stole over the left shoul- 
der fastened under the right arm. In the Ambrosian rite, the altar must 
be detached ; at certain times the deacon goes all round it, censing it. No 
small bells are rung during the mass. 

( After vespers, the choir went in procession all round the church, bearing 
a banner of the Blessed Virgin, with two crosses, four tapers, and attended 
by some members of a confraternity, to the north transept. There they 
sang a short office, and the singing-men, standing in a group, sang an an- 
them, just like a grace sung in the hall of Trinity, at Cambridge. 

' There was Dottrina Cristiana, or a Sunday-school, in the nave in the 
afternoon. 

' The dress of the canons is a scarlet cape and mantle worn over the sur- 
plice ; the minor canons carry furred caps over their arms ; and the singing- 
men wear over their surplices hooded black mantles, faced and lined with 
green. The surplices used in the Duomo are all knitted, and very short, 
but not slit at the sides as in France, nor crimped. 

" When I was in Milan, in 1844, the high mass on Sunday, October 5, 
was sung in the north transept, not at the high altar, it being the Feast of 
S. Mary de Rosario. 

.' Nothing can be more beautiful than to watch the waning of the daylight 
in the cathedral. It is generally very quiet, and comparatively empty, and 
one is generously allowed free access to every part without question or 
annoyance. When it becomes almost dark, the four lights round the shrine 
of S. Carlo Borromeo become very striking, and there are also eight lights 
burnt in the choir, and one suspended high up near the roof, by the reli- 
quary which holds the Nail of the Crucifixion. These lights merely show 
their brightness, and exaggerate the gloom of the vast church : they do not 
attempt to dissipate it.' Pp. 200 205. 

' S. MARK. I suppose this church is unique in the world in almost every 
point of view in which it can be regarded. It is of pure Byzantine archi- 
tecture, of the tenth century, having been designed in 976 by architects of 
Constantinople, brought over for ,the purpose. The germ of the plan is a 
Greek cross, with five domes, one over the central lantern, and one over 
each arm : but the nave is extended westwards, and the choir has also 
greater length, with a smaller dome beyond the eastern one, and further 
ending in a small round-headed apse. All the arms of the cross have aisles ; 
but there is no retrochoir. The aisles are remarkably narrow compared 
with the breadth of the nave. The construction of the building is this : the 
corners of the squares of the ground-plan are occupied by vast rectangular 
masses of masonry, connected with each other by segmental arches as 
broad as the masses themselves : these squares have pendentives supporting 
circular tambours pierced with windows, and cappedby domes. Those of these 
broad arches which divide the central spaces from their aisles are traversed 
by three or four small arches; which latter sustain a wall connecting the 
imposts of the greater arches. These are not galleries, because they do not 
extend over the aisles, which are vaulted at the height of the crown of the 
greater arches, but merely viaducts by which a passage is carried from pier 



Continental Ecclesidogy. 43 

to pier. These viaducts have been furnished or railed in with parapets 
formed of ancient monumental slabs placed at random. The slabs are of 
various marbles, often carved with crosses, and are often placed upside 
down, and sometimes cut in half in order to fit in. There are therefore no 
triforia, and no clerestory : all the light being admitted through the tam- 
bours of the domes. There is, however, a large round window in the south 
transept : the north transept is quite blank, and covered with mosaics. 

' No language could adequately describe the singular effect produced by 
the extreme gorgeousness of the ornamentation of the interior. It is one 
complete blaze of beautiful marbles and mosaics. There is not an inch of 
common or shabby material. Every part, not covered with bright mosaics 
or gold grounds, is of polished marble of some rare and exquisite variety, 
or is richly gilt ; and the very floor is a mosaic of rich patterns and colours. 
Porphyry, jasper, serpentine and alabaster, verde, and rose antique, and a 
hundred others, give a truly eastern magnificence ; to which art has lent its 
magic in every conceivable branch. Here, there are exquisitely wrought 
gates of bronze by Sansovino ; there, shafts of transparent alabaster carved 
all over in delicate reliefs : while above, the mosaics and legends over every 
part of the domes and roofs add a new interest. And further, besides the 
church itself, and its impressiveness and associations, there is a deep sym- 
bolism of arrangement and ornament conveyed in these decorations. If 
ever the eye is raised, it falls on some words, or scenes, or figures, which 
not only themselves convey a religious meaning, but suggest other more 
recondite ones for contemplation by their position and antithetical distri- 
bution. A meditative person having entered the church, and given himself 
up to the thoughts suggested, could scarcely tear himself away from the 
fascinating influence of the place. 

' It is not in my power to offer any clue to the hieratic symbolism of 
S. Mark's. Without drawings, and with limited time, it would be next to 
impossible for any one to do this fully. I shall, however, describe several 
parts as well as my notes enable me to do ; after having first gone through 
the actual ritual arrangements of the church. 

' There is here a real rood-screen, rightly placed along the eastern face of 
the central lantern. It consists of two low walls of marble, one on each 
side of a rise of steps leading to the holy doors ; above which is a cornice 
or entablature, going across the whole breadth, supported on four small 
shafts on each side, and sustaining a floriated rood placed between fourteen 
statues of the twelve apostles, with the Blessed Virgin Mary and S. John 
next the Cross. It bears the legend, " * M ccc L xxx mi. hoc opus 
factum fuit tempore excelsi Domini Dni. Anthonii Venebio 
Dei gratia Ducis Venetiarum ac nobilium virorum Dominoru. 
prsefatse ecclesise benedictse beatissimi Marci evangelistse." 
Within the rood-screen, the square under the eastern dome is occupied by 
some modern seats (!) at its west part, and by the patriarch's throne at the 
north-east opposite to the sedilia, which are moveable seats on the south. 

' The altar stands eastward of this area, under a baldachin. This altar is 
the shrine of S. Mark : it is of marbles and porphyry with columns at the 
corner. The baldachin, which is asserted to have come bodily from S. Sophia's, 
stands on four elaborately carved columns : of which the two eastern have 
subjects from the Old, the two western from the New, Testament. The 
altar stands at the further part of the area of the baldachin ; and conse- 
quently the celebrant stands facing east, with his back to the church. A 
patriarchal cross stands on a fixed base at the north-west of the baldachin ; 
and a fixed credence-table on its south side. The stalls are double, in the 
apsidal space behind the altar ; and there is an organ on each side. North- 
east of the stalls is a fine brass eagle-desk, standing on three lions j tuid 



44 Continental Eccleswlogy. 

opposite to it on the south-east the great lettern for the antiphonary. I 
mentioned that this space had further a small eastern apse : this is occu- 
pied by a smaller altar, made of wonderfully precious marbles, and under a 
canopy resting on spiral columns of transparent alabaster. There are nu- 
merous lamps in the choir depending from the roof. 

' ' Now to come out of the choir. North of the rood-screen, and on the 
west face of the north pier of the arch of triumph is an ambon, an irregular 
hexagon, supported on seven marble shafts, with a stone desk, facing south, 
for the Gospel. Above this, also raised on columns, which rest on the 
ambon, is a smaller pulpit-like seat with a domical top, in which the Doge 
used to sit on certain grand occasions. Another ambon, or pulpit, is on the 
south side of the screen. 

' The area of the church is quite unencumbered ; but a marble seat runs 
round all the walls. There is a much frequented modern altar, against the 
east side of the east aisle of the north transept, dedicated in honour of 
Notre Dame de 1'Orient : and there is a small chapel, north-west of the 
north transept, dedicated in honour of the Madonna de' Marcoli ; of whom 
there is a beautiful marble statue of Andrea Pisano. 

' Against the west face of one of the piers on the north side of the nave 
there is a beautiful little altar complete, with a small pentagonal baldachin 
over it: this is said to have been brought from S. Sophia's. The baldachin 
has monolithic marble shafts and stilted round-headed arches, and a pyra- 
midal roof of marble. 

' At the south-west of the nave there is a baptistery, with a dome, and a 
separate chancel under a smaller dome ; and west of this is a chapel called 
of S. Maria della Scarpe, containing a fine bronze recumbent figure of Car- 
dinal Zeno, dated 1515. The west and north sides of the church have an 
external kind of cloister : the place of which, on the south side, is occupied 
by the baptistery and chapel last described. 

' At the south side also is the treasury, where are preserved reliques and 
vessels of great value. The chief ornament, however, is the Pala d'Oro : 
an altar-piece of gold and jewels for the high altar. It is embossed in 
various small reliefs and enamels, and is said to be of Constantinopolitan 
work of the tenth century. The subjects have generally an explanatory 
legend ; e. g. HANASTASIS : and there are many figures of prophets, apostles, 
and angels. In the middle is a figure of our Lord, in majesty, with the 
Evangelistic Symbols round Him : and there is an enamel of the Blessed 
Virgin Mary, in a light blue dress under a dark blue mantle. The jewels 
are often very large, and are set so as to project out from the front. There 
is an inferior frontal of silver-gilt, with twenty-six saints in niches. The 
frontal ordinarily upon the high altar is a contemptibly mean one. Among 
the treasures are many chalices ; some of which are said to have come from 
Constantinople. These may probably have been used for communicating 
the laity ; but I could not well examine them. 

' And now to attempt to describe the mosaics 

' I was present in S. Mark's at high mass on the Feast of the Assump- 
tion, 1845. A fee gained admission to the modern seats, described above 
as being just within the rood-screen. Consequently I was within two yards 
of the Patriarch's throne. The canons of the church sat in their stalls 
behind the altar ; they wore stoles over their surplices, and copes, or else 
chasubles, of gold. The Patriarch came in in procession, knelt at a kneeling- 
desk which had been prepared for him before the altar, and then went to 
his throne. He was attended by a priest, in surplice, stole, and cope, and 
by two others in dalmatics and copes, one holding his mitre, the other his 
crozier. Tierce was first sung, but the psalms were not chaunted antipho- 
nally, but sung, 'like our modern " services," in solos, duets, &c. ; and the 



Continental Ecclesiology. 45 

antiphons were omitted, I mean, were not sung properly by precentors. 
After Tierce, the patriarch was vested publicly for mass on his throne. He 
was celebrant, and was attended by the three mentioned above, besides his 
deacon and subdeacon. There was a large hired choir, both of voices and 
instruments, in the gallery by each organ. The magistrates attended in 
much state. Eight lights'were brought in at the consecration. After the 
mass an indulgence was proclaimed ; and the patriarch after the mass, 
not after the gospel went to the ambon on the south side and preached, 
eloquently enough, in his mitre and chasuble. During the sermon the 
canons and others left the choir, and sat as near as they could to the pulpit. 
The patriarch then returned to his kneeling-desk before the altar, and was 
there unvested.' Pp. 268275. 

We wish that we had space for Mr. Webb's account of the 
Duomo of Florence. One word, however, upon a single point. 
Mr. Webb had perhaps better have told his readers, that the 
real name of the worthy who is commemorated as Giovanni 
Acuto, was John Hawkwoocl. We hardly think that he need 
have put a mark of exclamation after the announcement that 
the two western side windows were false. He meant, of course, 
by this to show his horror of a sham. But he forgets that all 
these windows are shams, and that he had previously praised 
them for being such for being broad lancets inside, and so 
affording an area for painted glass, and at the same time for 
being externally traceried. But this tracery is, of course, mere 
panelling ; and if once we concede that it is allowable to extend 
it before a really untraceried window, we have no right to com- 
plain if we find it in those bays which are not pierced for light. 
Whether the expedient be legitimate or not, on which we do 
not wish to enter, we think Mr. Webb has assumed its legiti- 
macy far too lightly, considering the strong f anti-sham' position 
which he has so long taken up. What would he say to such a 
contrivance in a church by Mr. Salvin or Mr. Ferrey, adopted 
for the sake of showing some piece of modern glass-painting ? 

' S. GIOVANNI LATERANO. This famous church, the episcopal throne of 
the Pope in his capacity of Bishop of Rome, was built on the site of the 
Lateran palace. First dedicated to the Saviour, it is now under the invo- 
cation of the two Saints John. It bears the proud title " Sacrosancta 
Lateranensis ecclesia omnium Urbis et orbis ecclesiarum mater et caput." 

' It was first rebuilt by S. Adrian I. at the end of the eighth century, and 
having been burnt, again rebuilt in Renaissance by Borromini under Inno- 
cent X. The apse, however, was saved, and remains ; having been built in 
Pointed, and covered with mosaics by Nicolas IV. in 1291. The apse faces 
west, and the doors are at the east end. 

' Originally this was a basilica comprising a nave and four aisles, reached 
by seven doors from a vestibule, and opening into a broad transept, out of 
which opens a round-ended apse, of the same breadth as the nave. 

' At present nothing old remains in the nave except the mosaic pavement. 
There are still nave and four aisles, very grand and costly, but of the most 
distressing unchristian architecture; with a heavy, flat, but richly gilded 



46 



Continental Ecclesiology. 



roof. The transept is on a higher level, but also modern. The high altar 
stands under a Pointed baldachin on the rise of the transept at the end of 
the nave. This altar is one of the most famous in the world, being of wood, 
and believed to be one upon which S. Peter himself celebrated. It is the 
only wooden altar allowed in the Roman Communion, and is used exclu- 
sively by the Pope. It is mentioned in all ritualists, as the one exception 
to the rule about stone altars : e. g. in Durandus Rationale, I. vii. 28. 
(Cambridge Translation, p. 153.) I was very curious to see this altar, and 
after some trouble succeeded in doing so, the frontals, &c. being removed : 
but still it was enclosed in a kind of network, and not quite easy to be 
made out. The following sketch will give an idea of it. It is said to be of 
cypress-wood : it looked like planed wood, by no means discoloured with 





age. A broad plank, rather thick, was supported on four uprights, to which 
are nailed planks, three in number. The upper plank considerably over- 
hangs the base. It is about four feet high. Inside, I suppose, it is hollow, 
but is said to contain reliques. The altar faces towards the nave, i. e. to 
the actual east ; but ecclesiologically speaking, to the west. Above it is a 
Pointed baldachin, with a gallery at the top ; from which rises another very 
lofty and very well-designed Pointed canopy, with foliated arches. This 
upper structure contains the heads of S. Peter and S. Paul. This Pointed 
work was executed under Urban V., between 1362 and 1370. 

' The apse, which is semi-domical, and contains four obtusely Pointed 
windows, is of the date 1291, under Nicolas IV. The mosaic represents a 
half-figure of our LORD much more ancient than the rest surrounded by 
angels. Below it is a cross, represented as jewelled and as perfused with 
grace, which a Dove is shedding down upon it. From its base flow four 
streams, Gion, Pison, Tigris, and Evfrates, from which various sheep and 
harts are drinking. Below is a river, lordanes, in which are fishes, birds, 
boats, and men. To the right of the cross stands the Blessed Virgin, MP. 6Y., 
with her right hand on the head of Nicolas IV., who is kneeling. Next 
stands S. Peter with the legend, "Tu es XP2. filius Dei vivi," and next 
S. Paul, with the words, " Salvatorem expectamus Dmn I. C." On the 
other side are S. John Baptist, S. John Evangelist, and S. Andrew. Besides 
these there are small figures of S. Francis, and S. Antony ; Pope Nicolas 
was a Franciscan. Below, alternating with the windows, are figures of the 
remaining apostles. The artists of this work are commemorated by name 
Jacobus Torriie pict. ho. op. fecit ; and he and his assistant, Fra Jacobo 
da Camerino, are represented at work. 

' The inscription is not without interest. " Partem posteriorem et ante- 
riorem ruinosas hujus sancti templi a fundamentis reedificari fecit et ornari 



Continental Ecclesiology. 47 

opere musivo Nicolaus IV. films S. Francisci, et sacrum vultum Salvatoris 
integrum reponi fecit in loco ubi primum miraculose apparuit quando fuit 
ipsa ecclesia consecrata Anno Domini MCCXCI." 

' There is a fine recumbent monument of Pope Martin V., fully vested, 
and with triple mitre and pall, with crossed hands, at the end of the nave, 
with its back to the altar ; . e. facing the actual east. Much of the detail 
is wonderfully debased. The epitaph is not bad : " Martinus . Papa . V. 
sedit . an. xm. mens . nr . dies . xn. obiit . ann. MCCCCXXXI . die . xx. 
Februarii temporum . suorum . felicitas." 

* There are confessionals for different languages in this church. There is 
now a retrochoral aisle behind the apse, with which however it has no com- 
munication. There is a row of columns in the middle of it, and the vaulting 
is Roman. Here, to my unspeakable disgust, I was shown one of the 
famous " false relics " of the Lateran, but which are still shown as true, 
and perhaps believed by the ignorant to be true. This was no other than 
the identical table on which our LORD celebrated the Last Supper : stuck 
upright in a dark hole behind a grating. Nothing in the world, it seems to 
me, can justify such an exhibition as this : but I cannot describe my feelings 
about it. 

' On the north side of the church is a very beautiful cloister, surrounded 
by an arcade of round-headed arches rising from double columns, twisted 
and otherwise ornamented. This cloister is full of monuments and frag- 
ments of the older church ; e. g. of the ancient ambons and paschal candle- 
stick. In the middle is a well, coolly asserted to be the identical well of 
Samaria. There is yet another smaller cloister, of Transitional style : with 
the arcade on a podium, and the columns resting on lions. 

' The west vestibule of the church is all Renaissance, but fine of its sort. 
There is an exquisite view of the Campagna and the Alban hills beyond 
from under the portico. 

* There are several chapels of great richness, but bad detail, added to the 
basilica. A curious external effect should be noticed, from the east side. 
The transept wall is very lofty, and panelled with corbel-tabling ; and the 
apse and its surrounding aisle seem quite small in comparison. Engaged 
at the end of the south transept is a thin square tower, with a pyramidal 
spire ; which makes the elevation of the transepts look exactly like a nave.' 
Pp. 507510. 

Mr. Webb should have stated that the original basilic still 
remains absolutely -imbedded in the new one. The method 
adopted at its so-called restoration was to fill up every alternate 
arch, and to case the pillars with plaster, we believe. Thus a 
series of heavy solid piers was produced. Then the interme- 
diate arches were travestied into Renaissance, and quantum suff. 
of decoration superadded. When will the old church emerge ? 

Mr. Webb's summing up of the condition of outward religion 
at Rome at the epoch of his visit in 1845, will probably surprise 
some of our readers, (it would have surprised more six months 
ago,) grieve, we trust, all, while at the same time it may 
afford support to some who are striving to regulate their faith 
according to the Scriptural direction, ( By their fruits ye shall 
know them,' and who, if pained and troubled, as they may pos- 
sibly be, at instances of unreality, and neglect, and profanity, in 
our own communion, may be prevented from making the sad 



48 Continental Ecclesiology. 

experiment of seeking consolation at other Altars, when they 
learn that shortcomings are not our unique distinction, but will 
even be found in those Churches where they had the right to 
expect the most extreme degree of zeal and devotion. 

' A person who should wish to witness the religious ceremonies in Rome, 
mast buy the Diario for the year, in which is set down under every day the 
name of* the church in which the Station is held, and in which he will also 
find every peculiar rite or festival duly commemorated. When it is the 
Station in a church, the Blessed Sacrament appears to be exposed nearly all 
day on the high altar, with innumerable lights ; and all the devout in Rome 
make a point of betaking themselves there in the course of the day, in 
order to win the indulgences which are proclaimed in connexion with such 
a church, altar, or festival. And again, a particular saint's day is not kept 
in every church, as with us : but in one or more particular churches, to 
which, accordingly, every body resorts on that day. Thus larger indul- 
gences are obtained, and also of course the festival is kept with greater 
pomp, each church in turn hiring a number of vocal and instrumental per- 
formers. 

' I was not in Rome at a very favourable time for religious services. I 
shall, however, describe the chief of the ceremonies which I was able to 
witness. Generally speaking, I was not much impressed in Rome with an 
idea of the devotion of the people : it seemed, indeed, to be below the Italian 
average. And the clergy were, in general, markedly more irreverent than 
usual. I saw, however, a very pretty sight one Sunday evening in the 
Forum. The Litany of the Blessed Virgin was being sung in the oratory 
attached to SS. Cosmo and Damian ; and the crowd being much larger than 
the chapel would hold, many were kneeling and singing outside both the 
doors, and some also on the opposite side of the road, 

' One thing that struck me much was the absence in Rome of any constant 
magnificent exhibition of ritual, such as is afforded in the cathedrals of 
Florence and Milan. One might have expected great dignity of worship in 
all the chief basilicas, considering the wealth and grandeur of their religious 
foundations, or at any rate in S. Peter's. But this is far from being the 
case. So far as I could ascertain, a messa cantata, without any special 
pomp, is performed on most, not all days, in the Cappella del Coro : and 
very perfunctorily, I can testify, is it done. On S. Matthew's day, Tierce 
was sung in this chapel, but was not followed by a messa cantata. There 
were merely two or three low masses said at some of the subsidiary altars 
of the church. At least I expected, in my simplicity, to find vespers sung 
solemnly every day. In this again I was mistaken. I found that it is only 
on certain festivals that vespers are sung ; and then in a kind of temporary 
choir formed by means of benches, with backs covered with red cloth, 
placed longitudinally on either side of the altar of the festival. I shall have 
occasion to mention the second vespers of Michaelmas day, so sung. 

' S. Peter's did not seem to be very much frequented. In the afternoon it 
was not unusual to find it nearly empty : once I saw a solitary old woman 
sitting before the chapel of the Blesse'd Sacrament. Not but that many 
visit the church daily, and kiss the toe of the bronze image of S. Peter. 
Crowds also kiss the toe of the miraculous image of the Blessed Virgin in 
S. Agostino, and there is a third image in Rome I forget in which church 
similarly honoured. This is a very easy kind of devotion. An indulgence 
is given, I need not say, in return for e'ach kiss. In like manner an indul- 
gence is gained by kissing the cross in the Coliseum (as M. Renouvier 1 

1 Sur les monuments gothiques de quelques villes d'ltalie, p. 85. 



Continental Ecclesiology. 49 

has mentioned with disapprobation), these words being written up : Baciando 
la croce si acquista un anno e xl. giorni d'indulgenza. 

( One thing which surprised as well as distressed me in Rome, was to 
find some of the most interesting and curious churches, with their patron- 
saints still sleeping beneath their altars, neglected and almost profaned. 
It is true that the population has been drained off to the Campus Martius, 
leaving these churches lonely in the midst of the accumulated ruins of cen- 
turies ; surrounded by deserted gardens and half-tended vineyards, and only 
to be approached by rugged lanes winding between the patched and perish- 
ing wails of former palaces : but they are still the tituli of the cardinals, and 
still enjoy revenues. It is not as if the clergy and their revenues had been 
drafted off to the modern city : that is full of churches and clergy, founded 
and endowed by later munificence. The truth is, that these ancient build- 
ings are so many sinecures, slowly perishing, and, with some few excep- 
tions, only not destroyed. But surely spots so sacred deserve to be cared 
for, and it would not be much to expect that in the Eternal City the cardi- 
nals should keep vicars in the venerable churches whence they derive their 
titles. A daily mass, even without a congregation, is not so rare a thing 
in the Roman communion, as to make it unreasonable to expect that a 
beneficiary should care for the daily offering of the Christian Sacrifice on 
altars so holy and undoubted the cradles of our religion. 

' And here I must observe, that the inconsistency of the Roman Church 
in respect of its value for relics and sacred spots, is a serious offence to 
many minds. Why, for example, should the body of S. Bartholomew the 
apostle be suffered to lie in his church on the Island, without votive lamps 
and careful tending, in a forlorn, unfashionable, contemned church, while 
no honour can be too great or constant for S. Philomena ? I have failed to 
find any explanation of this, except in the fact that indulgences form the 
mainspring of the modern devotion. Obtain an indulgence for this church, 
or this altar, or this worship, or this saint's day, or this relic, or this prayer, 
or this action, and popularity will follow. Neglect to obtain an indul- 
gence, through poverty or want of zeal, and the intrinsic authenticity of a 
relic, or undoubted sanctity of a spot, will not suffice to gain a reasonable 
veneration, except, it may be, from a thoughtful Catholic of the English 
communion. 

' But to revert to the ancient Roman basilicas. In some of them a Sun- 
day mass is said ; in some (I was told) a yearly mass on the day of the 
patron-saint. At other times they are deserted, except when visited by a 
tourist or ecclesiologist, who may care to see sights so uninteresting com- 
pared with the attractions of the modern capital. They are generally in 
charge of a " hermit," some man who lives in the church, or in the deserted 
buildings attached to it. These hermits I found, for the most part, very 
dirty and unintelligent; and I cannot forbear mentioning an adventure at 
S. Prisca. I had made several vain attempts to get into that church, or to 
rouse the hermit in the adjoining house. At last I went again, this time 
with a guide, whose repeated thundering knocks, at last, just as we were 
once more leaving in despair, brought a man to an upper window. " Are 
you the hermit?" " No; I am the hermit's friend, living with him : have 
you come to buy the dog?" " No : come down and open the church." 
Down he catnc, and soon opened the west door, from which bounded a 
beautiful Italian greyhound. He still had no other thought than that we 
had come to buy his dog, and he invited us in to see it go through its tricks. 
I insisted at least on the tricks being exhibited outside ; which was done, 
and then we saw the church, amidst the pressing solicitations to buy the 
dog of the hermit's friend. The hermit's friend was a Prussian, and, if of 
any religion, a Lutheran.' Pp. 55 59. 

NO. LXI. N. S. E 



50 Continental Ecclesiology. 

There are two German cathedrals of surpassing interest both 
architecturally and historically, those of Aix la Chapelle and 
Treves, about which Mr. Webb is provokingly brief. In the 
case, indeed, of Treves, he pleads not being able to find his 
notes of it ; but surely his well-stored memory could have pro- 
vided him with something more to say of the only cathedral 
north of the Alps, which is supposed to contain any really 
Roman work. We think, too, that he might have been 
more diffuse upon the Dom of Mentz, as the Metropolitical 
Church of Germany for a thousand years, from the days that 
the stout-hearted Englishman S. Boniface planted the Cross 
in that forest tract, till the havoc of the first French Revolution 
swept over Rhineland. It has, indeed, all along struck us that 
Mr. Webb is haunted with too great a fear of saying anything 
which he fancies his readers may already know, or may easily 
learn for themselves elsewhere ; such a feeling is no doubt in 
itself commendable, but it may easily be pushed to excess. 
People want pictures of Churches, and they do not like the 
trouble of putting in so many shades for themselves, though 
they may very well know what those shades are. 

Our readers have, of course, heard rumours of the revival 
of Christian architecture in Germany ; it will not be uninterest- 
ing, therefore, to let them hear the impression which three of 
the most notable structures of the revival in that land made 
upon the individual to whom more than to any one is due the 
credit of having rightly and continuously directed the freshen- 
ing current of ritual and religious externals in our communion. 

' A very conspicuous object to one ascending the Rhine is the new church 
of S. APOLLINARIS, built by M. Zwirner, the architect of the completion of 
Cologne cathedral. It stands nobly on a height above Remagen, facing a 
bend of the river ; with the chateau of the noble founder below. With so 
fine a situation, and so eminent an architect, this church ought to be good. 
Nor would it be fair to condemn it altogether, although I certainly found 
cause to be much disappointed with it ; for there is much respectable detail, 
and some grandeur about it: but many an English architect would have 
produced, I believe, a better design. The plan is an equal cross, all four 
arms being equally high, with sharp gables, and a small apse set on the 
eastern end. The whole church is raised on a crypt, built of a blue stone, 
different from that used in the upper part. This crypt is lighted all round, 
by large round cinq-foiled windows. The apse in the crypt is round-ended, but 
in the church above it is five-sided. There are plain buttresses at the four 
angles, rising into good pinnacles ; and each of the five sides is canopied, 
with crockets and a crop, above a two-light window, trefoiled with a quatre- 
foil in the head ; the pediment being filled up with radiating tracery. But 
of these five windows, the three eastern are blank, each light being occupied 
by a statue under a canopy, and the other two are only partly glazed, part 
being unpierced. Surely this is an inexcusable unreality, for the mere sake 
of an external decoration. A very poor surface arcade runs all round the 
apse below. The cruciform part has none but round windows, excepting 



Continental Ecclesiology* 51 

the faces of the nave and south transept which have fine four-light Middle- 
Pointed windows, with qnatrefoils above the pairs of lights, and a large- 
foliated quatrefoil in the general head, and the north transept, which is 
quite blank. These round windows are filled with eight trefoiled leaves, 
are boldly moulded and have an open ornament like a Tudor flower 
outside their outer rim. But all the windows north and south of both 
chancel and nave are blank, those east and west of the transepts alone 
being pierced. A pierced parapet, rather weak in point of design, runs 
round the church, being continued horizontally across the four gables, and 
forming thus an external gallery: above this, each gable is panelled in 
seven graduating trefoiled lights, and each gable also is crock eted. This is 
a common foreign plan of cutting a gable by a horizontal line; but I think 
it a defect in point of verticality, and indeed a Romanesque element not 
eradicated. 

' The west front has the window described above continued below in a 
double door of good mouldings and beautifully cut. It is flanked by two 
very thin wiry towers, which have three stages each, under a horizontal 
crowning gallery ; above this two more stages, better treated, and capped by 
pretty, but low, quadrangular spires of pierced work and crocketed up the 
angles. There are also at the angles of the eastern arm of the cross, two 
thin octagonal turrets crocketed, which are, however, nothing more than 
exaggerated pinnacles, and each of the transept gables has also low pin- 
nacles. This again is surely a Romanesque idea. German Pointed, in 
many particulars, never worked quite free from Romanesque, unlike France, 
England, and of course Cologne cathedral itself. But M. Zwirner, so well 
acquainted as he must be with Cologne, might have been expected to de- 
velope in this. The prevalence of Romanesque features in German Pointed 
is not to be wondered at, when it is remembered that Romanesque continued 
to flourish in Germany after Pointed had been fully developed. 

' I had merely time to remark that the interior (July, 1844) was being 
entirely painted by artists of the revived Christian School. 

' I noticed that M. Zwirner has used water-pipes instead of gurgoyles, 
and has embedded them in a channel formed in the ashlar.' Pp. 59 61. 

The Church of S. Boniface and the Aukirche, both built at 
Munich by the ex-king of Bavaria, next claim our attention. 
The Aukirche has been already described by Mr. Webb, in the 
Ecdesiologist, vol. iv. p. 87. 

' S. BONIFACE. This is called a basilica, and certainly resembles one 
more than any other kind of church. The architect is M. Ziebland,' the 
painters M. Hess and his pupils MM. Koch and Schnorr. The church is 
built in red brick, with white stone dressings. The west front shows a low 
gable with three round-headed windows, above a kind of entrance portico, 
made of nine round-headed arches. Inside there are double aisles of great 
height, and a round apse : besides a clerestory. The apse is painted with 
our LORD in a vesica-formed aureole, in white, attended by the Blessed 
Virgin Mary, S. John, and twelve Saints, some of whom have a Greek stole. 
Above the arch is the Agnus Dei and twelve sheep ; a basilican device. 
The frescoes representing the life of S. Boniface are truly beautiful. One 
at least has been lithographed on a good scale. In 1845 they were nearly 
finished, except at the west end. 

From these notices it will be seen that although these 
churches are (one at least) of a somewhat larger size, and 
of more elaborate ornament, than those recently erected in our 

E 2 



52 .Continental Ecclesiology. 

own land, yet in point of architectural purity, and the real 
feeling for Christian architecture, they cannot compare with 
such churches as S. Saviour's, Leeds, or S. Paul's, Brighton, 
(not to mention the sumptuous and religious, but un-English, 
church at Wilton,) and that with the addition of paintings, 
such instances of our English revival of Christian art would 
stand a rigid comparison with the works of a king in his capital. 
Recent events have indeed stripped the new churches at Mu- 
nich of very much of their extrinsic interest. We cannot now 
(to say the truth, individually we never did) look at them as at 
all evidences of religious intentions on the part of their chief 
promoter: with what different feelings do we enter S. Saviour's, 
Leeds ! And even if the moral sentiment of Europe had not 
been outraged as it has been, by that wretched greybeard 
voluptuary, we could only have regarded him as having patron- 
ized Christian art in an eclectic and unreal manner. The 
same individual who founded the Aukirche and the Basilic of 
S. Boniface, was the builder of the heathenish Walhalla, and of 
the Pompeian Palace. 

An ecclesiological movement was in progress in France 
before the late catastrophe, real, we fully believe, on the part 
of its true promoters, though aided, and at the same time 
snubbed, by the government, in pursuance of its systematic 
and significant lack of principle. The principal church to 
which it has given birth is that of Notre Dame de Bon Secours, 
near Eouen, (described in the Ecclesiologist for last January,) 
large, sumptuous, and interesting in some points, failing in 
others, and altogether such as need not make us at all ashamed 
of ourselves. How far church building may thrive under the 
Republic, supposing this to continue, remains to be seen. 

The early and orthodox members of the Cambridge Cam- 
den Society, have long been taught to regard galleries, or 
' scaffoldings,' as the result of the Puritan movement in 
England, and duly to execrate them in company with Cromwell. 
They will, we fancy, be not a little startled when they find that 
this corruption has an earlier and a Catholic origin, and that 
constructional galleries are not uncommon in Pointed churches 
(chiefly of a late date) in Rhineland. Mr. Webb enumerates 
the successive instances of galleries which he comes across in 
his travels with a sort of malicious dryness, just as if they were 
matters of course, without at all considering the feelings which 
he may lacerate by the accumulated proofs which he brings 
forward, that there is, after all, a great deal of authority for 
galleries. 

S. Foilan, at Aix la Chapelle, is a ' little Late-Pointed 
Church,' and has ' an original stone gallery at the west end 



Continental Ecclesiology. 53 

of the nave and two aisles, with an open arcade for its front.' 
At the west end of S. Ursula, Cologne, is ' a very large 
' stone gallery, contemporary with that part of the church,' 
namely, of Romanesque date, and forming beneath a species 
of narthex. The Jesuits' Church, in the same city, is a large 
flamboyant one; * the aisles are broad, and have original galleries 
in them subvaulted in stone. The galleries are reached by 

spiral staircases There are altars at the eastern ends 

of the galleries, used by the students in the seminary, and 
archives are also kept in them.' S. Columba, Cologne, also 
Third Pointed, has double aisles ; ( the outer aisles being vaulted, 
and having stone galleries (also vaulted underneath), which 
extend also along the west end of the nave, and have a pierced 
arcade in front. This is a very singular feature.' There is a 
western gallery in the Romanesque Abbey Church at Laach. 
At Sinzig Church (of late Romanesque), the triforia have been 
built sufficiently large to serve as galleries. The Jesuits' 
Church at Treves, ( a fine, large, Late-Pointed church ' has ' a 
( stone west gallery, with a front of pierced flamboyant tracery.' 
The aisles of the rubble Pointed church of Dausenau, in Nas- 
sau, have ' galleries subvaulted, and this gallery is continued 
f across the west end on pillars.' The Church of the Carmel- 
ites at Boppart, ( a noble late Middle-Pointed church,' has at its 
west end * a large subvaulted gallery, consisting of a pierced 
( flowing parapet, supported on three obtuse, four-centered 
e arches ; with figures in niches above the piers.' The flam- 
boyant church of S. Goar has 'subvaulted triforial galleries.' 
In the Collegiate Church of Stephen and S. Mary Magdalene, 
at Menz, ' above the stalls is a stone gallery, with a pierced 
6 front of singular late tracery.' The Church of S. Leonard, 
at Frankfort, ' contains remains of a late Romanesque church of 
' the date 1219, with largo alterations in rich Third-Pointed.' 
In this, ( the outer aisles are lower, and contain a subvaulted 
6 stone gallery, which also runs across the west end, and is 
* reached by elegant open staircases at the west end.' The 
Church of S. Mary at Wazburg is ' a most beautiful Pointed ' 
one, dating 1377. Here, f the west bay of the nave has a stone 
' gallery, groined underneath, with a pendant, and reaching to 
' the last pillars, not extending over the aisles.' At the Frauen- 
kirche, at Nuremberg, dating 1361, and still devoted to 
Catholic worship, ' much more curious are two seemingly ori- 
' ginal wooden scaffolds, or galleries, each occupying the last 
4 bay of the aisle.' In the Church of S. James, in the same 
city, ( the eastern compartment of each aisle is occupied by a 
' curious subvaulted gallery.' The most gigantic specimen of a 
galleried church is, however, S. Emmeran, at Ratisbon. 



54 Continental Ecclesioloyy . 

1 The abbey church is very large, and of such an extraordinary plan, that 
I despair of giving any satisfactory idea of it. Indeed, with the actual plan 
before one, it is next to impossible to make it out. It is a huge quadri- 
lateral area, very far from being regular, with a gallery of stone on all four 
sides, that at the west end being of two bays' depth. The altar is thus 
actually under an original gallery ! The style is very early Transitional. 
The mouldings are uniformly Romanesque ; but many of the arches are 
Pointed. The windows also are pretty generally Pointed. But the whole 
has been debased or paganized (though with great costliness) to a ruinous 
extent before the dissolution, and now that it is only saved from utter 
neglect arid ruin by the inadequate use made of it as a parish-church, it is 
very difficult to make out anything satisfactorily about it. In truth, the 
church has no parts accurately denned : but I suppose this was of less im- 
portance in a church chiefly abbatial : in which one large choir, for which 
I take the central open part to have been arranged, for the great services, 
and numerous small altars, were alone wanted. If a person enters S. Em- 
meran's by the descent (six steps) of the west door, he finds himself in a 
kind of crypt. He will find the whole breadth of the church divided into 
five unequal bays ; of which the two outer bays are the aisles, while the 
middle three bays (of which the outside ones are narrower than the central 
one, which contains the west door,) comprise the breadth of the nave. 
Repeat this arrangement one bay eastward, and we have the extent of the 
interior that is covered by the west gallery : the whole of it might, perhaps, 
be called a narthex. Eastward of this, the aisles extend three bays east- 
ward, the subvaulted gallery being continued in them, but the triple-bayed 
gallery in the breadth of nave ceases, leaving the nave itself unincumbered 
to the extent eastward of three bays. One bay more added lengthwise to 
the whole breadth completes the plan, and being galleried over, in three 
bays across the nave, joins the two aisle-galleries. An altar now stands in 
the easternmost middle bay of the nave, and therefore under the gallery. I 
think that probably this bay under the eastern gallery was meant as a 
retrochoir ; and that an altar stood eastward of the open part of the nave. 
This open part of the nave occupies, as I said, the length of three bays of 
the aisle, and there is an ascent of two steps across, by the easternmost 
piers. The gallery has a Third- Pointed pierced parapet on all four sides, 
and is reached by winding staircases, north and south. There is a very 
large porch to the north-west, which seems to have been once larger than 
it now is. Over the door is a very ancient figure of our Lord, between 
SS. Emmeran and Denis, and this legend : 

' Cum petra sic dictus stabili p 'nomine XPC 
Illius in saxo satis apte constat imago. 

' This portal is of early Romanesque. North-west of the church is a 
detached campanile, and there is an infirmary ( ?) chapel, dated 1727, near 
the campanile. This desolate church is still rich in monuments. In the 
south aisle, on a slab raised on four low shafts and covered by an iron 
herse, is a fine coloured recumbent effigy of a bishop : perhaps of S. Wolf- 
gang. In the same aisle is a kind of altar-like tomb of S. Tuto, a bishop 
of Ratisbon. At the east end of the south aisle is a very beautiful recum- 
bent figure of S. Emmeran himself: episcopally arrayed, and lying on a 
low plinth, beneath a flat slab which rests on four small shafts. In the 
north, upon a slab similarly raised, lies the figure of a queen, of early date, 
brightly coloured. 

' Under an altar lies a skeleton, with artificial roses about it, lettered 
S. Calcidonius.' 

The Church of S. Udalric and S. Afra, at Augsburg, dates 



Continental Ecdesiology. 55 

1474. In it is a chapel, and ' in this chapel is a rare thing, a 

* small square-headed piscina ; and above it a curious original 
' subvaulted gallery.' At Stuttgard, ' the first bay (eastwards) 

* of the north aisle ' of the principal church, which dates from 
1419 to 1531, ( is singularly treated. It has a stone gallery in 
4 it, with a pierced parapet, subvaulted, and reached by a solid 
' staircase, pierced in some solid masonry under the arch. The 
' gallery was probably used for a chapel.' There is a similar 
arrangement in the Hospital Church of the same city. ' The 
f north aisle also ' (in addition to this chapel), ( has an original 
6 gallery, properly so called, not reaching the nave piers, but 
' resting on piers of its own, with elaborate subvaulting, and 
' niches in the spandrils between each arch, and a flowing 

* parapet.' 

It is very curious that the ancient basilic of S. Agnese, at 
Rome, is completely like a London church of the last century 
in its plan, with full blown galleries at the sides continued 
round the west end. 

The pew-system has, like many other features of Protest- 
antism, its representative in numerous churches of the Roman 
Communion as it now is. Normandy can show several speci- 
mens of pews of the first class of deformity. Mr. Webb, too, 
in his travels, has come across more than one nest of pews in 
his walks through still Catholic towns and villages. We hardly 
think it worth troubling our readers' attention by recounting 
the hideous catalogue. We should, by the way, be very glad 
if Mr. Webb and his associates of the Ecclesiologist would 
give up the pedantic archaism of writing i pue ' for f pew.' 
'"Plaister ' for ' plaster ' is another favourite affectation of theirs. 
Into the comparative claims of ( ceiling ' and f cieling ' we do 
not wish to enter. We are very glad that the present series of 
the Ecclesiologist has abandoned the use of the k ephelcysticon. 
We suppose it was assumed in the early days of ( the Camden,' 
because it had an ' Anglo-Catholick' look. Unhappily, however, 
it smacked equally of Tillotsonianism. 

There is an interesting account of a synagogue of Middle- 
Pointed date and style, still existing at Frankfort. We have 
elsewhere seen a curious notice of a mediaeval synagogue of 
most venerable aspect, which is to be found at Prague. 

We wish Mr. Webb had more regularly given the orientation 
and the dimensions of the churches which he describes. Such a 
collection of the statistics of a zone of churches extending from 
north to south, from the mouth of the Rhine to that of the 
Tiber, would have been not only very interesting in itself, but 
as the basis of future inquiries. It is well known that the law 
of orientation has been supposed to have been more strictly 



56 Continental Ecclesiology. 

observed in the North than in the South. While he was at 
Rome, indeed, Mr. Webb attended systematically to the point, 
and with curious results ; but these would have been far more 
valuable had he illustrated them with, for instance, a compa- 
rison with the orientations of the Rome of the North, Cologne, 
not to mention other instances. We mean accurate orientations, 
not merely general ones. The passage is somewhat too long to 
quote in extenso, but Mr. Webb comes to the conclusion that 
' the true orientation of the altar was an object with the first 
f church builders.' He observes, we think with justice, ' that 
' the impossibility of orientating both altar and church rightly, 
' as long as the Basilican arrangement was retained, was one 
' great reason for this arrangement being discarded.' Orienta- 
tion, according to our ideas, seems to have been studied in 
those churches of Rome which were built between the desue- 
tude of the Basilican type, and the triumph of Renaissance. 
Mr. Webb inclines to think that the faulty orientation of many 
Roman churches arises from the obvious practical difficulty of 
obtaining sites correctly lying in an already existing city. 
' Many of the most ancient churches will be found to lie 
' parallel with, or else at right angles to, existing streets which 
6 we know to occupy the same direction as in ancient Rome.' 

Throughout the book our Author is provokingly silent on the 
subject of dimensions. This is a very serious omission in a 
work which attempts to give a scientific description of buildings. 
Mr. Webb has seen the churches for himself, and so he may 
have a pretty correct scale of their dimensions in his head ; but 
how can he put his readers who have not had a similar advan- 
tage, in possession of any approximation to it, without having 
recourse to the common, though it may be dry, expedient of 
feet and inches ? Being told that a church is large, or small, or 
middle-sized, means absolutely nothing, so arbitrarily are these 
designations assumed, and so little uniformity of dimension 
exists even among churches of the same class. The question of 
dimension is, in fact, one of the main branches of ecclesiology. 
To show how little vague terms of dimension ever mean any- 
thing, we will take an example of what happened last year. 
Lord John Russell promised that he would soon found Bishop- 
rics at S. Alban's Abbey, and at Southwell Minster, convert- 
ing these churches into cathedrals. All who thought anything 
of the matter exclaimed, How very appropriate, how grand ! 
two such noble churches so large of cathedral propor- 
tions of cathedral character, fit to range with our old cathe- 
drals !- and so on. This was perfectly true ; all these phrases of 
commendation could with the utmost truth be predicated either 
of S. Alban's or of Southwell. Will not our readers, then, be 



Continental Ecclesioloyy. 57 

rather astonished to learn that one of these is precisely double 
the length of the other, that S. Alban's is of the prodigious 
length of 600 feet, Southwell of 300? A knowledge of the 
comparative dimensions of churches is not merely necessary 
for the drier parts of Ecclesiology, but for the more popular 
and sesthetical question of 'effects.' If we hear that one church 
looks large and striking, and another poor and pinched, we have 
no data to go upon, and we receive the information dully, and 
assume it as a matter of course. But if it is added that the 
large and striking church is in reality smaller than the one 
which looks poor and pinched, we are driven to investigate the 
reasons why the effect in either case should be disproportionate 
to the cause ; and thence, and thence alone, do we arrive at 
those first principles of architectural effect which we are called 
upon to study. 

Mr. Webb is not merely a student of architecture and 
ritualism ; painting (especially that of the Christian schools) 
has occupied no little of his attention. His description of the 
frescoes of the Blessed Angelico still existing in the Convent 
of S. Mark at Florence, of which house he was a brother, will 
be perused with great interest. In that convent, now resides 
Brother Marchese, to whom the world is indebted for a very 
valuable history of Dominican art a topic of no little interest, 
for, singularly, the order of S. Dominic has always been distin- 
guished for its cultivation of the arts. Besides Fra Angelico it 
has produced another beatified artist, B. James of Ulm, an 
eminent painter on glass in the 15th century. Fra Bartolomeo 
also was a Dominican. Mr. Webb was indebted to Fra 
Marchese for the sight of some cells which are not generally 
shown. Every one is filled with exquisite frescoes depicted for 
the spiritual benefit of the inmate, by the pious hand of the 
blessed Fiesolese ; now unhappily in a neglected condition. 

To us who are sitting at home, Mr. Webb appears to have 
traversed vast spaces, and to have done a very great deal to- 
wards acquainting us with the ecclesiology of Europe. And 
so, indeed, he has done ; but still, as he would himself be the 
first to acknowledge, he has, comparatively speaking, accom- 
plished but the beginning of the work of recording the eccle- 
siology of the Continent. In Belgium, where he commences, 
he has not had the opportunity of viewing the immense cathe- 
dral of Tournay, distinguished from the other large churches of 
that land by its nave of gigantic Romanesque. We miss in his 
index the suggestive names of Worms, Spires, Mannheim, 
Lorsch. He has pretty carefully examined Rhenish Germany, 
but stores of noble churches lie beyond in Thuringia and 
Saxony, while the Pointed work of Bohemia, Austria, Ilun- 



58 Continental Ecclesiology. 

gary, and Poland, is of barbaric richness. That vast and rich 
ecclesiological region, France, is undescribed by him, and is very 
little known, except along a few beaten paths, to English tra- 
vellers. Southern Italy, too, has deeply interesting churches ; 
while in Sicily there are Pointed cathedrals and churches, as at 
Monreale and Cefalu, of a surpassing splendour, though of a 
peculiar character, and Romanesque work, which would amply 
repay any visitor. No country indeed in the world is so full of 
architectural treasures of all ages as that Mediterranean island. 
There and there only can we find gathered into a narrow 
compass, chefs-tfceuvres of Grecian, of Roman, of Romanesque, 
of Arabian, of Pointed, and of Cinque Cento architecture. Spain 
too, and Portugal, are rich in the most gorgeous and huge 
Pointed cathedrals, not to mention the elaborate and costly, but 
less pleasing structures raised by the piety of the last three 
centuries. If we turn northward, the inhospitable regions of 
Sweden and Norway, and especially the islands of the Baltic, 
abound in ecclesiological riches, till lately little known, and 
little thought of by the general traveller. Those vast provinces 
of Europe, too, which are in communion with the Eastern patri- 
archates, afford us numberless churches of a very different type 
indeed, and far inferior in size and beauty to those of the 
Western Church, but still of the deepest interest to him who 
wishes to study, with broad views and steady purposes, the 
ecclesiology, the art, and the ritualism of universal Chris- 
tendom. 

Whether or not it may hereafter be possible for Mr. Webb 
in person, to complete the task he has entered upon as we have 
chalked it out for him, we trust that some persons may be 
found to undertake the work, and, if it be too extensive for any 
one traveller to accomplish it, yet that, as the opportunity may 
offer, the whole of Europe may be effectually and compendiously 
brought within the scope of our ecclesiological vision ; and this 
we earnestly desire, for the sake not merely of the present sub- 
ject, but for that of the general well-being of Europe; for most 
assuredly all investigation, ecclesiological or otherwise, must 
come to an end in an age of social convulsion, so that our wish 
is one for peace. Now that the condition of the continent is 
growing every day darker and darker, it is at least consolatory 
that the storm had not burst upon us before we had begun 
to look upon the mighty problem of the Western Church 
with more impartial eyes. Had the political disorganization 
occurred a little sooner, had we been called upon to regenerate 
our communion in things external, not to talk of those affecting 
her inner spiritual life (with which we do not at present wish to 
meddle,) without a practical experience of other lands and other 



Continental Ecclesiology. 59 

national traditions than our own, we should necessarily have 
been diverted into erroneous and self-sufficient makeshifts, and 
have had at some future time to do the work over again at an 
immense disadvantage. The remarkable failure of the Caroline 
development in ritual matters, nay even the transience of its 
singular recurrence to Pointed architecture, may be attributed 
to its stiff and repulsive, and in many respects ignorant, insu- 
larity. It fell because it made its own traditions. With respect, 
however, to the actual science of churches in our own days, 
our present development has been so gradual, and it has ex- 
plored so wide a field, that it bids fair to last. The incomplete 
and cramped, but still useful, labours of Mr. Rickman in discrimi- 
nating the various epochs of English Pointed, preceded the theo- 
logical movement by a period of a few years. Consequently, 
when men began to think of building churches in a more church- 
like spirit than they had previously thought of, they found them- 
selves in possession of knowledge and capabilities of so doing, 
of whose assistance they had not previously dreamed. About 
this time was published Hope's 'Historical Essay on Architect- 
ure,' a posthumous and incomplete work, in many parts barely 
sketched out. The effect of this most valuable contribution to 
our literature was gradually to lead individuals to a more 
Catholic appreciation of the spirit of the mediaeval Church 
builders. Mr. Hope's Essay stands alone among our architec- 
tural works as the production of a mind of remarkable vigour 
and acuteness, following up quietly from the resources of its 
own observation, a series of truths which had been hitherto 
most remarkably overlooked, and which, step by step, irre- 
sistibly took possession of it. In some points he was led to 
take too trenchant a view, as, for example, in his extremely 
unfavourable estimate of English Pointed. The reason of this 
was to be found in the natural repugnance which he felt to 
the vain-glorious assumptions of previous English writers in 
the presence of the noblest efforts of Continental architecture. 
Still that theory of the gradual and almost undefinable growth 
of Pointed architecture out of Romanesque, and of Romanesque 
out of Roman, and the lateness with which every change was 
felt in England, which Mr. Hope was the first to introduce 
to the English mind, in anything like a systematic and phi- 
losophical shape, has on all hands, and mainly owing to him, 
been accepted among our antiquaries, as the only one which 
rests upon a fragment of evidence. By a sort of natural in- 
stinct, Mr. Hope's attention was much attracted to the ritual 
arrangements of the Basilics of Italy, which had hitherto, 
except perhaps to the few students of Binghain, or Smith, 
been an inexplicable and unattempted riddle. We very much 



60 Continental Ecclesiology. 

wish that a new edition of this most interesting work, carefully 
revised and copiously illustrated with notes and additional 
matter, could be given to the world. It might be made an in- 
valuable addition to our ecclesiological literature. Shortly 
afterwards appeared the publications of Professors Whewell 
and Willis on the Church architecture of Germany and Italy. 
The natural result of this sudden opening of new fields of re- 
search was a somewhat hasty and, if we may say so without 
offence, puerile adoption of the newly discovered Romanesque. 
It seemed almost carried by acclamation that this was the 
architecture of the future ; and Messrs. Wild, Blore, Eailton, 
&c. produced cheap and debased specimens of the new ware 
at Streatham, Hoxton, Bethnal Green, and other agreeable 
suburban localities. The toy, after having been sufficiently 
played with, has been thrown away, and the danger may now 
be fairly considered as one which has passed over. Amicable 
relations were beginning to be entered into with foreigners 
engaged in similar studies. The Ecclesiologist, which in its 
earlier days was notorious for a very John-Bullish contempt of 
all Mounseers, even in the engaging garb of mediaeval Church 
builders, changed its tone, and openecl its pages to Continental 
intelligence handled in an impartial spirit. At this time Mr. 
Webb spent those two summers abroad which have produced 
the book before us, the first work which has ever appeared speci- 
fically on Foreign Ecclesiology. Here, then, we stand at pre- 
sent. The greater part of the Continent may for a long time be 
quite prohibited ground to us. But it is no longer a terra incog- 
nita. We have had glimpse enough of it to make it inexcusable 
for us to let go of it in our future ecclesiological researches. 
Our problem is, Given on the one hand, the Churches of the 
middle and primitive ages, and on the other, the Book of Com- 
mon Prayer and the Sacramentary of the Church of England ; 
To construct out of the former, and for the use of the latter, 
temples of Catholic worship which shall bear upon their face 
the impress of their being the legitimate growth and instruments 
of the Church of England. Such a task, full of interest and 
importance at all times, has quite lately grown of ten-fold 
interest, beholding as we do, on the one side, the English 
Church remaining erect and unshaken, visibly extending her 
influence every day in proportion as she acts more and more in 
her true character of a branch of the Universal Church and on 
the other, that marvellous vision of the Roman Communion 
shaken as she never has been shaken since her present 
system was matured; her own chief Bishop, after having 
evoked the dangerous spirit of liberalism, (not that we blame 
him for his earlier reforms, which were absolutely demanded 



Continental Ecdesiology -. 61 

by the corrupt condition of his realm,) being, perhaps, more 
effectually than the other tottering thrones of Europe, com- 
pelled to succumb to the storm which he summoned and failed 
to direct ; the Patriarch of the West imprisoned by his own 
subjects, who, if they have any faith in their own system, must 
look upon him as the one who has received the utmost parts of the 
earth for his possession ; schism threatened in quarters where 
it was least expected; the Church elsewhere compelled to 
truckle to the mob ; that body of men who, whatever may 
have been their faults in other days, were undoubtedly now 
distinguished for their attachment to the Roman See, and their 
devotion to the propagation of Christianity according to the 
Roman system, everywhere denounced and banished, and aban- 
doned by those to whom they had every right to look for 
protection. What may be the next act of the portentous 
drama which is now being enacted, it is not our business to 
inquire. Our own simple and present duty is to strengthen 
our own communion, internally by practising and teaching 
holy living, externally by contributing to the beauty and the 
decency of the sanctuary. Mr. Webb has brought in most 
valuable help to the latter object, and for that we owe him 
thanks, That his present volume would be materially assisted 
by more copious illustrations, he will admit as fully as it must 
be obvious to his readers. 



ART. III. Eastern Life, Present and Past. By HARRIET 
MARTINEAU. London : Edward Moxon. 1848. 

WHEN I first came to Egypt,' Mohammed All once observed 
to a distinguished writer upon that country, f there were but 
three hats in it.' The viceroy has certainly lived to see the 
supremacy of the turban strangely disputed. English black 
hats, French white ones, give the wearers now no uneasiness 
touching the precious contents of these insignia of Frangistan, 
as they criticize the wares of the merchant, or canter at the 
perilous speed of an Egyptian donkey through the majestic 
gloom of the bazaars of Saladin. So shaken, indeed, are 
Oriental proprieties now-a-days, that felt or beaver, over and 
above the consular, are no longer the limits to which toleration 
reaches. Bonnets, and the fair faces that they shelter, freed 
from the trammels of the yashmak, may be seen not un- 
frequently even within the sacred walls of Sultan Hassan. 
European ladies of every nation, and most in number our 
fellow-countrywomen, care little for shocking Mohammedan 
ideas of modesty by their unveiled faces, and a not inaudible 
indulgence of curiosity and sense of the ludicrous, among 
people whose manners are new to them in all things. Certainly 
the old man lived to see matters strangely altered. It has been 
all along his object to root out Eastern prejudices in every way 
in which they impeded 'modern enlightenment? and he boasts, or 
did boast, that he had succeeded. 

Those, indeed, who have known the Pasha intimately, and 
have watched the current of his affairs, are said to be doubtful 
as to the wisdom of the general tenor of his method of improve- 
ment. Natives of France, and Italy, and, in cases, of England, 
have taken the highminded course of leaving the associations 
and restraints of home, to devote their talents and lives to carry 
out his highness's enlightened views, by filling every post of 
honour or emolument in his dominions. Advised by these 
uncompromising persons, and actuated by a spirit of modern 
liberalism, he has striven to raise his position in the scale of 
worldly grandeur to a level with the great European powers, 
by judiciously combining the morality, political and otherwise, 
of both East and West ; a convenient amalgam for his boundless 
ambition and undaunted resolution. 

One result, however, of his wisdom or his policy all sensible 
men must rejoice at, the perfect safety which he has established 
for all strangers who visit his dominions or reside there. Those 
who know what he has had to struggle against in gaining this 
end in Egypt, 'the land of superstition,' a nation composed 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 63 

of so many elements, and affording such continual facility for 
escape into the deserts, will appreciate his perseverance. No 
traveller will be backward in acknowledging the conveniences 
that result from it. Egypt and the East are no longer un- 
approachable regions. 

Philosophers, topographers, sportsmen, and ennuyes, may 
extend their energies in a field comparatively untried, and enjoy 
the glory of having achieved something beyond the limits of 
our annual swarms of tourists. It is rarely now that the learned 
favour us with works on Italy, ' Tours in Switzerland,' ' Con- 
tinental Impressions,' and the like. Those mysterious red 
Hand-books seem to have touched the Ultima Thule of infor- 
mation on matters of fact ; and as for views, every one now 
prefers his own. It becomes so generally ( the thing ' for 
every one to have a smattering of ' continental lore,' that it is 
supposed to be a matter of course : talkers are plenty, listeners 
rare ; conversations on foreign lands being a race for the 
discovery of some one ' lion ' that escaped one's neighbour's 
observation ; he fortunately having had to * do ' the part of the 
country in question against time. ( The East/ though not 
forgotten in the series of the marvellous productions alluded to, 
is not quite the land for a hand-book. Diligences and hotels are 
not yet general there, statistics of any sort not to be obtained ; 
and as for charges and prices, all must depend on the talents of 
the interpreter, whose services will rise in costliness in propor- 
tion. For any information, therefore, from a distance, that can 
be relied upon, we are now dependent on the works of modern 
travellers. And, it must be allowed, they have not been slow 
in providing supplies. If Mohammed Ali prides himself on the 
secure state of the banks of the Nile, and the yet smouldering 
terror of his name in Syria, we must congratulate ourselves on 
the learned labour that has striven or condescended to enlighten 
us on all subjects connected with these deeply interesting 
regions. There is no lack of variety here. Protestant professors, 
less influenced by religious impressions than Chateaubriand, 
and less unsophisticated than Maundrell, have discussed the 
topography of the Holy Land with dispassionate perseverance. 
Ladies and lords have immortalized the powers of their cooks, 
and their own generalship against Arab tribes baffled de- 
manders of tribute, and the prowling marauders of the valleys 
of Samaria. From a sceptical Presbyterian minister, down 
to the talented contributor to comic periodicals, none have 
considered f The East ' above or beneath them. None who 
aspire to the magic wand of authorship have withheld their hand 
from treating of these solemn scenes, where once reposed the 
wisdom of this world, or glimmered the revelations of the next. 



64 Eastern Lifa Present and Past. 

Taking the mass of these works, the fitness of the subject to 
their handling seems to have weighed little with the authors ; 
the idea even of serious preparation of mind for making fitting 
observations of holy sites and remains any relation, in short, be- 
tween the temper and habits of the traveller and the soil travelled 
over never suggesting itself for an instant ; perchance 

.' in those holy fields 

Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet 
Which, eighteen hundred years ago, were nail'd 
For our advantage on the bitter cross.' 

We confess to a feeling that there is a painful incongruity 
in this merciless spirit of book-making. We do not wish to 
accuse such persons as the author of f Biblical Researches ' of 
voluntary irreverence ; still less the writer of 4 Lands Classical 
and Sacred,' whose express intention was to refute some asser- 
tions and opinions of the former. We would do the latter noble 
author justice for the excellent taste of his simple unpretending 
tone upon sacred sites and subjects. But we have a work before 
us which eminently illustrates the unsuitableness we speak of. 
6 Eastern Life, Present and Past,' is a work of no ordinary talent. 
It shows careful observation, and, we add it. with regret, deep 
thought. 

Miss Martineau, while on a visit to some friends in the 
autumn of 1846, was invited by Mr. and Mrs. R. V. Yates to 
accompany them in their proposed travels in the East, and a 
Mr. J. Ewart joined their party at Malta. 

It is a point of conscience with our authoress to publish her 
work. f The thoughtful traveller,' she thinks, * must have some 
{ knowledge and some ideas which he could not have obtained 

* at home, and which the generality of people at home cannot g-dn 

* for themselves. These he cannot, in fidelity to himself and his 
' fellowmen, ignore, or bury out of the way of his convenience 
( and repose. He feels that, however lowly his powers, he must 
' use such knowledge and reflective faculty as he has ; and again, 
4 he feels that if he can speak he must. He must speak. He 
c must say what he thinks, and all that he thinks, on the topics of 
' which his mind, is full. It is no concern of his,' she adds, 
' whether what he thinks is new, nor, in this relation, whether 
' it is abstractedly and absolutely true. Probably, no one can say 
f anything which is abstractedly and absolutely true. When 
' all thinkers say freely what is to them true, we shall know more 
' of abstract and absolute truth than we have ever known yet: the 
' thoughtful traveller's only concern is to keep his fidelity to 

* truth and man.' 1 

1 Vol. iii. Conclusion. 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 65 

She landed at Alexandria on the 20th of November, reached 
the Nile at Atfeh by the Mahmoudieh canal, and Boolak, the 
port of Cairo, by the Nile steamer. At the Hotel de FOrient 
they remained long enough to complete their preparations for a 
Nile voyage, racing a party of Scots with various fortune, who 
beat them at last in the start 'up stream.' 

From the 2d of December to the 9th of February is occupied 
by their researches in Upper Egypt and Nubia as far as Wadi 
Haifa, the second cataract. With a noble forbearance they 
leave there only, on the rock of Abooseer, their names carved 
for the benefit of posterity ; take their last view of the far blue 
hills, those appealing peaks, that seem to promise such wonders 
in the realms of Dongola. ' It was with a heavy heart that 
6 I quitted the rock, turned my back on the south, and rode 
' away.' She descended the river, seeing at her leisure the 
antiquities which she had passed over in the ascent. It is 
always an object to take advantage of the north winds against 
the stream, so as to leave you with a command of your time in 
returning. This time she devotes greater attention to seeing 
Cairo itself, while her party make their preparations for their 
journey across the desert. This completes Part I., ' Egypt and 
its Faith ;' the longest, and f to me,' she tells us, 'by far the 
most interesting portion of our travels,' 1 from the deep im- 
pression it made upon the authoress, and the way in which it 
influenced her in the sequel. Would that, like her friends during 
the evenings on board their ' dahabieh,' we were but concerned 
with her ' facts,' and that she had been content with rather 
more of the humble part of a follower in matters of opinion ! 

Her power of conveying her impressions of these former, the 

truth of her occasional sketches, is inimitable ; details are here 

and there carefully coloured and brought into the foreground 

with the knowledge of effect of a skilful artist. Who that 

once has seen, can ever forget the magic world that dawns upon 

his first introduction to an eastern city? Wretched, indeed, as 

Alexandria is as a specimen, yet the contrast between this and 

every European town, from its being the first seen, is everything. 

She describes the landing, for instance, ' The stars were out, 

and the last brilliant light had faded from the waters before 

we anchored ; we had a crowd of boats about us containing a 

few European gentlemen, and a multitude of screaming Arabs. 

The silence of our little passage from the ship to the quay was 

a welcome respite, but on the quay we found ourselves among 

a crowd of men in a variety of odd dresses, and boys pushing 

their little donkeys in among us, and carts pulled hither and 

1 Part ii. p. 195. 
NO. LXI. N.S. F 



66 Eastern Life, Present and Past. 

' thither ; everybody vociferating and hustling in the starlight. 
' Our luggage was piled upon a long cart, and we followed it on 
( foot ; but there was an immediate stoppage about some Custom- 
( house difficulty, got over we know not how ' (she knows pro- 
( bably by this time) ; then the horse ran away, broke his girths, 

* and scattered some of our goods. At last, however, we 
6 achieved the walk to our hotel : all the way we had glimpses 
( of smoking householders in their dim interiors, turbaned 

* artisans, and yellow lamplight behind latticed windows. The 

* rest of the evening was fatiguing enough. The crowd of 
f Bombay passengers hurrying over their preparations, their 
( letter-writing and their tea, in order to start for Cairo at nine 
f o'clock ; the growling and snarling of the camels loading in the 
' square, the flare of the cressets, the heat, light, noise and hurry, 
' were overpowering after the monotony of sea life.' The 
impressions of her first walk in an oriental bazaar are reserved 
till she has before her their far fuller realization in the ( Queen 
of Arabian Cities ;' we wish we could convey to the reader 
what it is to wake up the lendemain to this tumultuous farewell 
to European matter-of-fact life. Let him recal the hero of the 

* Talisman's ' first sleep in his captivity. ' The singular 
' contrast between his present position, and that which he had 
e occupied upon the same spot, when the envoy of princes, and 
' the victor in combat, came like a cloud over his mind, and 
6 fasting, lassitude, and fatigue oppressed his bodily powers. 
( When the Knight of the Leopard awoke from his long and 
' profound repose, he found himself in circumstances so different 

* from those in which he had laid down to sleep, that he doubted 
' whether he was not still dreaming, or whether the scene had 
f not been changed by magic. Instead of the damp grass, he 
6 lay on a couch of more than oriental luxury, and some kind 
6 hand had, during his repose, stripped him of the cassock of 
( chamois which he wore under his armour, and substituted a 
( night dress of the finest linen and a loose gown of silk. He 
f had been canopied only by the palm-trees of the desert, but 
( now he lay beneath a silken pavilion, which blazed with the 
' richest colours of the Chinese loom. He looked around as if 
f to convince himself that he was actually awake, and all that 
( fell beneath his eye partook of the splendour of his dor- 
( mitory.' 

Something of this kind salutes the eye of the oriental traveller. 
There are few gayer things in life,' says our authoress, < than 
a visit to Cairo, the most wonderful and romantic dream that 
can ever meet the stranger's waking senses. The most wonder- 
ful and romantic, because there is nothing so wonderful and 
romantic in the whole social world as an Arabian city: and 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 67 

* Cairo is the queen of Arabian cities ; full of charms as 
6 Damascus is, it is charming for other reasons than its virtues as 
' an Arabian city, on which ground it cannot for a moment stand 
e in comparison with Cairo.' It is indeed the very atmosphere 
that we breathe in the dreamy tales of the Thousand-and-One 
Nights. The rich and brilliant dresses glowing in the sunlight ; 
the strange admixture of complexions ; the passing and repassing 
of the crowd, dividing occasionally for a mounted Bey, with tall 
slaves in blue shirts and crimson turbans running at his side; 
or the wide swaying mass of a camel's burden an Arab boy 
perhaps perched above the whole in some never ungraceful 
posture, bending forward and back with every step of the 
deliberate ungainly beast below him ; sometimes a body of 
troops in their white uniforms, or a mounted file of ladies, 
6 a harem going out for a ride on asses, each lady enveloped in 
( a sort of balloon of black silk, and astride on her ass, her feet 
' displaying a pair of bright morocco boots f ' or the pro- 
cession of a circumcision : all this seen through the cool dark 
telescope of the slipper or silk bazaar. Then the sort of way 
one's dreamy contemplation is interrupted by the frantic onward 
dash of the donkey that one is riding ; the boy that runs beside 
you screams to the peaceable passers by, applying at the same 
moment his cane to the loins of his charge, which winces with 
an oblique wriggle, as if about to glide from under its rider, and 
leave him astride upon his disproportioned saddle in the dust. 
You had reached the entrance to one of the more fashionable 
bazaars, you are full tear through it before you recover your 
gravity, wondering by what chance the lower orders in Cairo 
avoid being physically as well as morally trodden to a jelly. 
These donkeys, ( the cabs of Cairo,' as Sir G. Wilkinson names 
them, are beautifully kept, sometimes with their coats dipt, and 
are arrayed in ample bright-coloured carpet saddles and scarlet 
headstalls ; strings of them lurk in a shady corner in frequented 
neighbourhoods, their bridles fastened short up to the cushion 
in front, and their little heads drawn up as proud as those of 
London carriage horses. Their pace is a rapid run, with steps 
too minute to disturb the body of the rider, who feels much as if 
he had a Brobdignag rat beneath him. f The little rogues of 
( donkey boys were always ready and eager close by the hotel, 
' hustling each other to get the preference ; one displaying his 
' English with " God save the Queen ! ros bif I" others kicking 
c and cuffing, as people who had a prior right, and must relieve 
us of encroachers.' 

She carries us bodily back to the Ezbekeeyeh, a great open 
space planted, the lounge of Cairene idlers. 

1 Page 8. 

F 2 



68 Eastern Life, Present and Past. 

1 Then off we went through the Ezbekeeyeh, under the acacias, past the 
water-carriers with their full skins on their left shoulder, and the left hand 
holding the orifice of the neck, from which they could squirt water into the 
road, or quietly fill a jar at pleasure ; past the silent smoking party, with 
their long chibouques, or serpentine nargeelehs ; past the barber shaving 
the head of a man kneeling, and resting his crown on the barber's lap ; past 
the veiled woman with her tray of bread, thin round cakes ; past the red 
and white striped mosque, where we looked up to the gallery of the 
minaret in hope of the muezzin coming out to call the men to prayer ; past 
a handsome house or two with its rich lattices, its elaborate gateway, and 
its shade of trees in front, or of shrubs within the court, of which we might 
obtain a tempting glimpse ; past Shepherd's Hotel, where English gentle- 
men might be seen going in and out, or chattering before the door ; past a 
row of artisan dwellings, where the joiner, the weaver, and the maker of 
slippers were at work, with their Oriental tools, and in their graceful 
Oriental postures ; and then into the bazaars. Cairo streets are wholly 
indescribable ; their narrowness, antiquity, sharp lights and arcades of 
gloom, carved lattices, mat awnings, mixture of hubbub and fatalist 
quietude in the people, to whom loss of sight appears a matter of course, 
all are in my mind, but cannot be set down." Vol. ii. p. 119. 

Her whole description of the bazaars will waken in the 
traveller the recollection of what must be seen, or hinted and 
filled up by the imagination, but cannot be adequately repre- 
sented in words. The tyranny of the cumbrous rickety carriages, 
which can be escaped only by flight down the nearest opening ; 
the flattening of oneself against the wall or the goods of a 
merchant, when a certain heavy breathing over one's shoulder 
gives warning of that most outlandish of all domestic animals, 
the camel. Some distance in advance come the outstretched 
chin and hanging lips and the long ceremonious neck, elastically 
stiff: one speculates on the sway of the next step being to one's 
own side, and presses one's head against the muddy wall at the 
back, in the imminent peril of having the prominent parts of it 
rasped away by the edges of a mat of charcoal or a net of tobacco- 
leaves. Then again, f the tranquil slowness with which the 
* tradespeople (who. all looked, to my eyes, like kings and princes 
' in fairy tales) served any one of us, gave all the rest many 
f such opportunities of observation.' Nothing can be imagined 
more un-English than an Oriental bargain; and almost every- 
thing is bargained for, down to the cabbages at dinner, and up to 
the present, the ' backsheesh,' to be made to a Governor or a 
Bey. Something like the following takes place: You want 
perhaps a carpet ; the dragoman conducts you to a merchant his 
friend; you dismount from the donkey while they exchange 
salutations, and at the merchant's invitation squat opposite him 
on the low platform that extends in front of his shop or stall ; 
6 Salaam Aleikoum !' you muster your polite Arabic ; ' Aleikoum 
Salaam!' the merchant smiles, and his boy brings pipes and 
coffee from the nearest gawah, or coffee-shop. There is a 
silence of some moments, puff, puff, the Englishman desires to 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 69 

proceed to business. ( I say, Ali, tell him I want a carpet ;' 
puff. ' Of what kind ? ' puff. The merchant lays his pipe 
aside, and from the adyta of his shop produces and unfolds three or 
four of different sizes and value, one of which meets the taste of 
the purchaser. 6 Ask him how much that is.' ' He say, seven 
hundred piastre.' e Oh, nonsense! that's too much, is'nt it? tell 
him I will give him two hundred.' Puff, puff, puff. The mer- 
chant receives the announcement with a smile. ' What does he 
say, Ali ?' 6 He say he not have less 'an six hundred, but I 
think if we give him three hundred that quite enough.' ' Very 
well, just tell him so.' The merchant shakes his head. There 
is a silence grave and energetic smoking ; at last the British 
pipe is out, several abortive attempts are made, the parties 
approximate, but do not meet. The patience of the Englishman 
is exhausted : f Well, Ali, I can't wait here all day, tell him 
I will go as high as three hundred and fifty, and not a farthing 
more.' The merchant again shakes his head, and remains at his 
last mentioned price. ' Very well, tell him I won't have it at 
all' (preparing to go). ' What does he say, Ali?' ' He say, very 
well.' The Englishman descends from his throne, remounts 
his donkey, salutes the merchant, and they ride on ; he is 
recalled by the relenting owner ; it seems on the point of being 
settled, but no, he cannot make up his mind, and the purchaser 
rides away. Next day he is passing through the same bazaar ; 
the merchant, who is smoking with a friend, rises the instant he 
sees him, salutes him with unusual vivacity and graciousness, 
and stops Ali, while he draws out again from its lurking place 
the disputed article of trade. The Englishman thinks he has 
got it now, yet the merchant does but quote his yesterday's 
price, slightly decreased. The Englishman is angry, turns round 
at once, and goes on with his ride: ' Tell him I will not have any- 
thing to say to him. ' This, however, was a final effort ; before 
they are out of hearing the merchant calls or runs after him. 
1 Well, Ali, what does he want ? tell him I will not give him 
a bit more than I said yesterday.' ( He say take it.' It is then 
folded up, while the Englishman produces the money, and the 
merchant, more gracious than ever and perfectly content, invites 
the purchaser to another pipe, which, however, the Englishman 
declines : f Tell him I am much obliged to him, Ali, but I have 
got a lot to do this morning,' and he continues his course for 
the day. No one, however, has caught these features of Eastern 
life so inimitably as the author of f Eothen.' 

Miss Martineau took her last view of Cairo from the terrace 
of the citadel, which she thus describes : 

' I would entreat any stranger to see this view first in the evening, 
before sunset. In the morning there was much haze in the distance, and 



70 Eastern Life, Present and Past. 

a sameness of colour, which hurt the eye. At noon there was no colour 
at all all colour being discharged in the middle of the day in Egypt, except 
in shady places. In the evening the beauty is beyond description. The 
vastness of the city, as it lies stretched below, surprises every one. It looks 
a perfect wilderness of flat roofs, cupolas, minarets, and palm tops, with an 
open space here and there, presenting the complete front of a mosque, and 
gay groups of people and moving camels, a relief to the eye, though so 
diminished by distance. The aqueduct is a most striking feature, running 
off for miles. The City of Tombs,' (they extend for a considerable distance on 
the desert side of the city,) ' was beautiful and interesting ; its fawn coloured 
domes rising against the somewhat darker sand of the desert. The river 
gleamed and wound away from the dim south into the blue distance of the 
north, the green strip of cultivation on its banks delighting the eye amidst 
the yellow sands. Over to the west, the Pyramids looked their full height, 
and their full distance, which is not the case from below. The platform of 
the Great Pyramid is here seen to be a considerable hill of itself; and the 
fields and causeways which intervene between it and the river lie as in a 
map, and indicate the true distance and elevation of these mighty monu- 
ments. The Lybian hills, dreary as possible, close in the view behind them, 
as the Mokultam range does above and behind the citadel. This view is 
the great sight of Cairo, and that which the stranger contrives to bring into 
his plan for almost every day.' 

Our authoress modestly declines giving very definite opinions 
on the Pasha's character ; but, as far as her remarks go on this 
subject, they seem to us to be most shrewdly stated. 

' While his public works,' she observes, ' stand in such mournful contrast 
with the misery of his people, it would be unjust to him not to mention 
that he has about him men of various European nations, who endeavour 
to serve both their national and individual interests by stimulating him to 
enterprises in which they may be wanted, or their country may be served. 
However shrewd the old man be on the whole, he cannot be always clear- 
sighted and prudent. He may be easily dazzled by the glory proposed to 
him of doing something which shall make France and England wonder 
something which shall make the whole world think him the most patriotic 
ruler in it. At the same time, we see how cautious he can be about matters 
which he really understands. Those who so wonder,' (at the contrast be- 
tween his wisdom and his procrastination,) ' may be assured that there is 
more in the matter than has been presented to them. It is a case which 
the Pasha happens to understand, and about which he chooses to take his 
time, and to judge for himself. He knows all about the shallows at both 
ends of the proposed ship canal, and he knows also the precise depth of 
the interests engaged in the railway scheme. He has amused himself by 
seeing locomotives run on a little railway before his palace ; he looked, 
and laughed, and stroked his beard, and talked of the devil being in it ; and 
he has some reason to think that the devil would be in it indeed if he should 
be in a hurry to lay down the rails, which, as he knows, lie at hand wanting 
to be used. He may think that the whole matter, however important to 
England, may be so dubious in regard to Egypt as not to be hastily pro- 
ceeded in at the risk of rousing the Bedoueens to harass the country. If 
he appears to people in London and Paris as dilatory and uncertain about 
undertaking either of these works as he has been rash and positive about 
others, it is clear that there must be a reason for his new slowness and 
uncertainty; and that reason may be other than one of foreign policy. 
When I hear that either canal or railroad is certainly begun in earnest, and 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 7 1 

not merely surveyed for, I shall believe that it may be at work in time 
Till then, I am not disposed to think we shall have either during the old 
man's life.' (She is probably proved correct here by this time.) The only 
thing I am sure of, however, is, that people at home had better not decide 
what the Pasha ought to do, and represent the matter as a very plain and 
simple one.' Vol. ii. pp. 178, 179. 

Before quitting Miss Martineau's ' Eastern Life Present,' upon 
which the most careful observations are contained in Part I., 
we must notice a subject which authors can describe usually 
but in a general sort of way. The sex of our authoress pro- 
cured her admission to the harem, of which she saw two. 

' And it would,' she says, ' be wrong to pass them over in an account of 
my travels, though the subject is as little agreeable as any I can have to 
treat. I cannot now think of the two mornings thus employed, without a 
heaviness of heart greater than I have ever brought away from deaf-and- 
dumb schools, lunatic asylums, or even prisons. Before I went abroad, 
more than one sensible friend had warned me to leave behind as many pre- 
judices as possible, and especially on this subject, on which the prejudices 
of Europeans are the strongest. I was reminded of the wide extent, both 
of time and space, in which polygamy had existed, and that openness of 
mind w r as as necessary to the accurate observation of this institution as of 
every other. I had really taken this advice to heart ; I had been struck 
by the view taken bv Mr. Milnes in his beautiful poem of The Harem ; 
and I am sure I did meet this subject with every desire to investigate the 
ideas and general feelings involved in it. I learned a very great deal about 
the institution ; and I believe I apprehend the thoughts and feelings of the 
persons concerned in it : and I declare, that if we are to look for a hell upon 
earth, it is where polygamy exists : and that, as polygamy runs riot in 
Egypt, Egypt is the lowest depth of this hell. I always before believed 
that every arrangement and prevalent practice had some one fair side, 
some one redeeming quality ; and diligently did I look for this fair side in 
regard to polygamy ; but there is none. The longer one studies the subject, 
and the deeper one penetrates into it, the more is one's mind confounded 
with the intricacy of its iniquity, and the more does one's heart feel as if 
it would break.' 

Nothing, indeed, can exceed the laxity that prevails on the 
subject of marriages in Egypt. Sensual as the spirit of Moham- 
medanism is at the best, Mr. Lane, whose accuracy is almost 
unequalled, tells us that a man may divorce himself at pleasure, 
the only impediment to his doing so being the necessity of giving 
his wife a dowry. The lowest possible sum which the laws 
permit for this object is twenty-five piastres, somewhere about 
five shillings ; and persons are known to have gone on for long 
periods being divorced and married afresh weekly. ' It is 
' scarcely needful to say that those benevolent persons are mis- 
{ taken who believe that slavery in Egypt has been abolished 
6 by the Pasha, and the importation of slaves effectually pro- 
' hibited. Neither the Pasha, nor any other human power, can 
6 abolish slavery while polygamy is an institution of the country.' 



72 Eastern Life, Present and Past. 

In one of the harems she saw three persons who were the wives 
of two husbands. ' Children of different mothers in the same 

* harem ! It is evident, at a glance, what a tragedy lies under 

* this ; what the horrors of jealousy must he among sisters thus 

* connected for life. And we were told that the jealousy had 
' begun, young as they were, and the third having been married 

* only a week. This young creature, aged twelve, was the bride 

* of the husband of fifteen.' 

' The children born in large harems are extremely few ; and they are 
usually idolized, and sometimes murdered. If a child so born dies naturally, 
it is mourned, as we saw, through a wonderful conquest of personal jea- 
lousy by this general instinct. But, when the jealousy is uppermost, what 
happens then ? Why, the strangling the innocent in its sleep, or the letting 
it slip from the window into the river below, or the mixing poison with its 
food ; the mother and the murderess, always rivals, and now fiends, being 
shut up together for life ! If the child lives, what then? If a girl, she 
sees before her, from the beginning, the nothingness of external life, and the 
chaos of interior existence, in which she is to dwell for life. If a boy, he 
remains among the women till ten years old, seeing and hearing things 
which brutalize him for life, before the age of rationality comes. But I will 
not dwell on these hopeless miseries. 

' I noted all the laces well during our constrained stay (in the Cairo 
visit), and I saw no trace of mind in any one, except in the homely, one- 
eyed old lady,' (attending an invalid). 'All the younger ones were dull, 
sullen, brutish, or peevish. How should it be otherwise? There cannot 
be a woman of them all who is not dwarfed and withered in mind and soul. 
I was told, while at Cairo, of one extraordinary family, w r here there is not 
only rational intercourse and confidence at home, and some relaxation of 
imprisonment, but the young ladies read ! And French, and Italian! I 
asked what would be the end of this ; and my informant replied, that, 
whether the young ladies married or not, they would sooner or later sink 
down, he thought, into a state even less discontented than the ordinary. 
There could be no sufficient inducement for secluded girls, who never saw 
anybody wiser than themselves, to go on reading French and Italian books 
within a certain range. For want of stimulus and sympathy, they would 
stop ; and then, finding themselves dissatisfied among the nothings which 
fill the life of other women, they would be very unhappy." 

Again : 

" The great amusement in the harem at Damascus was my trumpet. 
The eldest widow, who sat next me, asked lor it, and put it to her ear, when 
I said, ' Bo ! ' When she had done laughing, she put it into her next 
neighbour's ear, and said, ' Bo ! ' And in this way it came round to me 
again. But in two minutes it was asked for again, and went round a 
second time, every body laughing as loud as ever at each Bo ; ' and then 
a third time! Could one have conceived it ! The next joke was on be- 
half of the Jewesses, four or five of whom sat in a row on the deewan, 
obliged to decline joining us ; for it happened to be Saturday; they must 
not smoke on the Sabbath. They were naturally much pitied, and some of 
the young wives did what was possible for them. Drawing in a long breath 
of smoke, they puffed it forth in the faces of the Jewesses, who opened 
mouth and nostrils eagerly to receive it ; thus was the Sabbath observed 
to shouts of laughter." 1 

1 Vol. ii. chap. xxii. 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 73 

We need not go further into a subject replete with such 
abasement, misery, and sin as the condition of women in Mo- 
hammedan countries must necessarily involve. Rightly has the 
writer of ' Eastern Life ' termed it 'hellish,' though we earnestly 
wish she had expressed her horror of it on grounds more reli- 
gious than she does. We agree with her, too, in her condemna- 
tion of the oriental slave trade, difficult as we find it to see our 
way clearly as to the popular anti-slavery cry of the day ; but 
here again her grounds appear philanthropical rather than 
Christian. Let us not be misunderstood : we concur entirely 
with Miss Martineau's conclusions ; only we think we shall have 
cause to show that the philosophical grounds on which rest her 
objections to what she saw, and her repugnance to 'slavery 
' and polygamy, which, as practices, can clearly never be separ- 
' ated, are here avowedly connected ; and, in that connexion, are 
' exalted into a double institution, whose working is such as to 
' make one almost wish that the Nile would rise to cover the tops 
6 of the hills, and sweep away the whole abomination,' that this 
repugnance was to the mental debasement, and the physical 
and social misery which in Egypt grow out of the system ; not 
to the open systematic violation of God's law, not to the pur- 
posed contravention of one chief moral feature in His life who 
pronounced purity the state of angels ; who lived and died to 
open to us a heaven more pure than the Eden where the man 
and his wife dwelt as one flesh, and making for us a more than 
angelic nature in it. There was a moral and a mental debasement, 
and to condemn the system out of which they necessarily arise 
is most just. But she does not bring forward religious ground 
for her opinions. ' The Egyptians laugh at the marriage 
' arrangements of Europe, declaring that virtual polygamy ex- 
' ists everywhere, and is not improved by hypocritical conceal- 
6 ment. The European may see, when startled by the state of 
' Egypt, that virtual slavery is indispensably required by the 
' practice of polygamy ; virtual proprietorship of the women in- 
' volved, without the obligations imposed by actual proprietor- 
' ship. And again, the Carolina planter, who knows as well as 
' any Egyptian that polygamy is a natural concomitant of 
' slavery, may see in the state of Egypt and the Egyptians what 
' his country and his children must come to, if either of those 
' vile arrangements is permitted which necessitates the other.' 
Again, she quotes the notes of her journal after the first of the 
visits detailed in vol. ii. 

' It will never do to look on this as a case for cosmopolitan phi- 
' losophy to regard complacently, and require a good construction 
' for ; it is not a phase of natural early manners, it is as pure a 
' conventionalism as our representative monarchy, or German 



74 Eastern Life, Present and Past. 

f heraldry, or Hindoo caste, and the most atrocious in the 
( world.' 

The vile, sensual, and brutal results from such a state of so- 
ciety, justly excite the utmost repugnance ; yet we would we 
had seen such a matter discussed upon deeper principles. ' The 
reason assigned by Montesquieu for polygamy throughout the 
East has, no doubt, something in it : that women are so early 
married that the wife cannot satisfy the needs of her husband's 
mind and heart ; he must have both a bride and a companion 
of whom he may make a friend. How little there is in this to 
excuse the polygamy of Egypt, may be seen by an observation 
of the state of things there and in Turkey, where the same re- 
ligion and natural laws prevail as in Egypt. In Turkey, where 
the wives are of far higher order, polygamy is rare, and women 
are not married so young. The cause of Montesquieu is true 
in connexion with a vicious state of society ; but it is not in- 
superable, and will operate only so long as it is wished for. If 
any influence could exalt the ideas of marriage, and improve 
the training of women in Egypt, men would prefer marrying 
women of nearly their own age, and would naturally remain 
comparatively constant.' l It may be true, indeed, that Mo- 
hammedanism in one country presents this one of its features in 
a form less revolting than it does in others ; that it may dis- 
play phases more reconcileable with philosophical ideas of liberty 
and equality and intellectual culture ; but what are compari- 
sons and degrees of that which, in itself, in its first principles, is 
sinful and anti-christian ? 

With deep regret we are obliged to make these remarks upon 
the work of a writer evidently of distinguished talent ; but what 
we shall have occasion presently to say of her, where she handles 
questions immediately connected with religion, will convince 
the reader that we do not speak without strong reason. The 
so-called philosophical and liberal ways that modern travellers 
take of viewing foreign lands and customs, we do think most 
deleterious. Miss Martineau talks of the comparative vice of 
Egypt and Turkey, the comparative debasement, social and 
intellectual, of the female sex : what would be her opinion of a 
refined, intellectual state of Western socialism? a refined 
edition of what sprung from the reason-worship of the French 
Revolution ? What would she say to principles which are 
widely acted upon among some classes in Germany, and in 
France, and, we grieve to think, are growing in our own 
country at the present day ? What would she think of them, 
were they to appear before us in unison with high mental 

1 Vol. ii. chap. xxii. 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 75 

culture, and the polish of educated society? Let it not be 
supposed that such a state of manners is impossible. The very 
cankerworm that gnaws out the core of real religion in our day, 
is it gross oppression, tyranny, and sensualism, combined, as in 
Egypt, with the greatest cruelty ? Is it the gluttony of former 
ages, or the debauchery so disgracefully prevalent * sixty years 
since ? ' Is it not this very refinement of luxury ? we would 
add, this scientific, philosophic luxury, the combining of the 
essences of enjoyment, the exalted selfishness of high intellectual 
pride ; the rejection of every shade of restraint that fetters the 
judgment on all subjects, from religions downwards, admitting 
sensualism in its least revolting, most refined and plausible 
forms, but therefore most iniquitous, most universally under- 
mining, and most infidel. What, indeed, can be too grave as a 
censure upon one who writes as she professes, in no vain or 
ambitious, and, we trust, no avaricious mood, but on conviction, 
and as a guide to candid uninformed inquirers? 1 We wish, 
indeed, and most sincerely, that Miss Martin eau had confined 
her powers to those of description of scenery and circumstances 
which recall so vividly remembrances, whose charm, to all whose 
privilege it is to have them, is indescribable. We had rather 
she had all the credulity of Sir John Mandeville, or even all 
the scepticism of Robinson, than see an influential writer take 
the line in opinions that she does. What chord of self-reproach 
can be wakened by such books as this, in those who have been 
tempted to the baleful ignis fatuus of Oriental sensualism, 
accompanied by virtual or open apostasy ? 2 The enormity of 
social inequality and debasement is nothing new to them. What 
they know not is the enormity of their own sin. 

Mohammedanism may be encouraging the most debasing 
iniquity, but what guide does Miss Martineau find for us to 
what is ' holy, just, and true ? ' 

We insist the more seriously on the principles and the faith 
of a writer on the East, because it is impossible to describe 
Egypt, Syria, and the Holy Land, without touching upon religious 
questions in very important ways. Topographical difficulties 
meet the eye of the traveller, which require the greatest 
patience, and much humility on his part, if he expects to serve 
his generation by illustrating, in any degree, religious history. 

1 It is rumoured, that the authoress of ' Eastern Life' received offers from 
the Government to write tales, &c., to raise the moral tone of our working 
classes an invitation which, however, she declined. 

2 The allurements of Oriental sensuality have proved an irresistible temptation 
to more than one of our countrymen, to whom we can but allude, and to many 
foreigners, French and Italians. Egyptian toleration permits io such persons the 
purchase of slaves, and the mode of life, in all but its virtues, of actual Mo- 
hammedans. 



76 Eastern Life, Present and Past. 

It is in this point of view that, we must repeat, we do not think 
ordinary persons are capable of visiting sacred sites and countries 
without in some way preparing their minds, as for a task different 
from that of travellers in general. The interest that every 
educated person must feel for scenes of which they have pre- 
conceived circumstantial ideas, to a degree which on other subjects 
they have not, cannot but be very great, quite apart from the 
place that these may hold in their religious thoughts, whatever 
their personal character. And while we agree with Miss 
Martineau, and with a wider meaning still than hers, when she 
says, f If he' (the traveller) ( derives from his travels nothing 
* but picturesque and amusing impressions, nothing but mere 
4 pastime (too miserably often the case with young Englishmen), 
( he uses like a child a most serious and manlike privilege.' 
We think also that ' the thoughtful traveller' may give a 
liberty to his intellect, which will prove dangerous to others and 
himself in exact proportion to its power. With a sublime con- 
tempt for every opinion of every age except his own, the author 
of ' Biblical Researches,' who for once stood upon the soil of 
Jerusalem ' with his measuring tape in his hand,' wipes away 
every tradition of the Church Catholic, the succession of ages, 
to substitute, in many cases, traditions or inventions of his own. 
The shallowness of this author's reasoning in some points, and 
his ignorance of facts in others, have been sufficiently shown 
elsewhere. Miss Martineau's philosophy, however, embraced a 
wider view of the past; and leaving, for the most part, as beneath 
her, all disputed questions of locality, she traces religious know- 
ledge and religious history to sources more remote than have 
hitherto been learned from revelation. 

Eastern Life ( Past' comprehends her impressions of Ancient 
Egypt in Part i. ; and Parts ii. and iii. relate to ' Sinai and its 
Faith,' and f Palestine and its Faith ;' Part iv. to ' Syria and its 
Faith,' containing what she saw in her journey from Damascus to 
the coast, with some few further remarks on Mohammedanism, in 
which she hazards the monstrous assertion, that that 'faith 
( includes a larger proportion of mankind than any other, so as to 
' make even Christendom look insignificant beside it.' 1 We will 
endeavour to set before the reader a few passages in illustration 
of the religious impressions made by the memorials of Eastern 
Life Past, on a mind constituted like Miss Martineau's. 

' All knowledge,' she tells us, is sacred ; 2 all truth, 
divine :' including, we presume, what is told us of certain 
kinds of knowledge in the book of the Acts, and elsewhere 
in Holy Scripture. l It is not for us to mix up passion and 

1 Vol. iii. p. 293. * Vol. ii. p. 87. 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 77 

' prejudice with our perception of new facts. We may not 

* like to be perplexed by new knowledge which throws us out 
( of some notions which we took for knowledge before.' Vide- 
licet the Creeds of the Catholic Church. ' We are apt to feel 
' our spiritual privileges lessened by its appearing that they were 
( held for many ages before the time which we had supposed. 
1 They ' (the ancient Egyptians) f teach us to be modest and 
( patient in regard to our knowledge of the ancient world, by 
' showing us that while we have been talking confidently of the 
' six thousand years of human existence, and about who was who 
( in the earliest days, we have in reality known nothing about it. 
' They rebuke us sufficiently in showing us, that at that time, 
' men were living very much as we do ; without some know- 
4 ledge that we have gained, (i. e. scientific knowledge,) but in 
' possession of some arts which we have not. They confound 
' us by their mute exhibitions of their iron tools,' &C. 1 ' There 
( is enough here to teach us some humility and patience about 
( the true history of the world.' 6 People who had believed all 
f their lives that the globe and man were created together, 
6 were startled when the new science of Geology revealed to 
' them the great fact that man is a comparatively new creation 
6 on the earth, whose oceans, and swamps, and jungles were 
6 aforetime inhabited by monsters never seen by human eye 
( but in their fossil remains. People who enter Egypt with 
' the belief that the human race has existed only six thousand 
6 years, and at that date the world was uninhabited by men, 
6 except within a small circuit in Asia, must undergo a some- 

* what similar revolution of ideas. The differences between 

* the dates given by legendary records and modern research 
( (with the help of contemporary history) are very great : but 
( the one agrees as little as the other with the popular notion 
' that the human race is only six thousand years old.' 2 The 
history of ideas, again, is the only true history. * How 
' happy,' she tells us, f should I be if I could arouse in others 
' by this book, as I experienced it myself from the monuments, 
' any sense of the depth and solemnity of the ideas which 
' were the foundation of the old Egyptian faith ! I vividly 
' remember the satisfaction of ascertaining the ideas that lay at 
1 the bottom of those most barbarous South Sea Island practices 

* of human sacrifice and cannibalism. With all men's tendency 
to praise the olden time, to say that the former times are better 
( than these ; we find that it is usually only the wisdom of their 
' own forefathers that they extol merely a former mode of 
' holding and acting upon their own existing ideas. They have 

1 Vol. ii. p. 84. 2 Vol. i. p. 150. 



78 Eastern Life, Present and Past. 

6 no such praise for the forefathers of another race, who had 
' other ideas, and acted them out differently. Thus we, as a 
c society, take upon ourselves to abhor and utterly despise 
' " the idolatry of the Egyptians," without asking ourselves 
' whether we comprehend anything of Egyptian theology.' 1 
Such are the ' illiberal conceptions ' of persons that believe St. 
Paul's writings, who pronounces their science ( falsely so called.' 
' After the example of Egypt,' she says again, vol. i. ad fin., 
( men preserved, amidst more or less corruption, the belief in one 
( Supreme God ; in a Divine moral government ; in a future 
f life and retribution ; and in the greatest of all truths, that 
' moral good is the highest good, and moral evil the deepest 
' evil. From the lips of this thoughtful people it was that the 
' infant nations learned, through a long course of centuries, 
( whatever they held that was most noble concerning the 
' origin and tendencies of things, and what was most to be 
' desired for the race of men at large, and the soul of every 
( individual man. Many things remained to be learned ; and 
4 many needed to be unlearned. We find much that was bar- 
6 baric, coarse, ignorant, and untrue ; but the wonder is at the 
e amount of insight, achievement and truth. The ground 
c gained by the human mind was never lost ; for out of this 
( valley of the Nile issued Judaism, and out of Judaism issued, 
' in due time, Christianity.' 

Other passages might be selected, but these suffice to show 
the reader the first effect that scientific discoveries produce upon 
the unrestrained and unchastened intellect. What were the 
precise articles of the writer's creed before her travels in Egypt, 
we cannot, of course, presume to define ; we may fairly suppose 
that they were held, to say the least of it, in a very liberal 
spirit. She aims, however, sincerely at a philosophical view 
and reception of the truth. We wish to illustrate our remark, 
that we fear that those who start with this intention, or are led 
to take it up when employed as she was, are not fit, without grave 
preparation for the task. Their principles must be carefully and 
faithfully sounded, and commended to Him who alone can keep 
them unshaken, before they launch themselves into records of 
past thoughts or knowledge, such as are liable to assail, and most 
perilously, the grounds of faith. The treasure that they seek is 
good, no doubt, very good ; yet here, in this polluted world, its 
acquisition is mysteriously linked with evil. In one sense, 
indeed, knowledge is a divine attribute; but to speak absolutely, 
it is not, and cannot be, so with us. We can but know Divine 
knowledge here ( in part,' and our knowledge of facts that 

1 Vol. i. p. 83, &c. 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 79 

surround us cannot be had without a knowledge of evil also : 
good and evil are so inextricably mixed with us. And though 
it may be maintained that the treasures of scientific knowledge 
are certainly, so far as they were meant for us in the Divine 
purpose, applicable to holy purposes, what inducements do 
the world and the pride of intellectual supremacy hold out to 
us to do so? One who had mastered the wisdom of the old 
philosophic world, declared at the last that he came not with 
excellency of speech or wisdom, but determining thenceforth to 
know one thing alone, that One Thing which was to the Jews 
a stumbling-block, and to the Greeks foolishness, the very 
contradictory to the wisdom of this world; and we believe that, 
in detail, the principle involved in his saying will be found 
sadly and fearfully carried out ; and that, whether necessarily 
or not, speaking practically, scientific discovery does not tend, 
or but very rarely, to make men more religious. And scientific 
and so called philosophical illustrations to the facts and doctrines 
of revelation, prove oftener a darkening of the truth. 

Thus starting on the principle that the true treasures are 
those of knowledge, as it can be subjected to human judgment 
and classification, as she says, f treasures which neither moth nor 
rust can corrupt, nor thieves can carry away, Miss Martineau 
informs us how she saw with the eyes of Moses. 

' Turning my back upon the convent, and forgetting the wretched super- 
stitions of the monks, I looked abroad with the eyes of a disciple of Moses, 
who had followed his footsteps from Memphis hither; and I saw more 
than by many years' reading of the Pentateuch at home. How differently 
the Pentateuch here reads, from the same worn old Bible which one has 
handled for five-and-twenty years, I could not have imagined. The light 
from Egypt and Arabia shining into it, illuminates unthought-of places, 
and gives a new and most fresh colouring to the whole.' 

The beginning of the Pentateuch, the history of creation, 
accordingly, is thus illustrated : 

' In their (the Egyptians') theory of the formation of the world, they 
believed that when the formless void of eternal matter began to part off 
into realms, the igneous elements ascending and becoming a firmament of 
fiery bodies, and the heavier portions sinking and becoming compacted into 
earth and sea, the earth gave out animals, beasts and reptiles ; an idea 
evidently derived from their annual spectacle of the coming forth of myriads 
of living creatures from the soil of their valley, on the subsidence of the 
flood. When we remember that to them the Nile was the sea, and that 
they had before them the spectacle, which is seen nowhere else, of the 
springing' of the green herb after the separation of the waters from the 
land, we shall see how different their view of the creation must be from 
any which we could naturally form. In this particular case, we have adopted 
their traditions given to us through the mind of Moses ; but where we have 
not the mind of Moses to interpret them to us, we must abstain from read- 
ing their meanings by any other light than that which they themselves afford us. ' 

1 Vol. i., p. 206. 



80 Eastern Life, Present and Past. 

Ideas, then, of the creation which Revelation gives us, must 
b e read by the light of Egyptian traditions ; which Egyptians, 
without a certain unattainable interpretation, are mythological, 
differing from any ideas we should naturally form and, as we 
and they receive them uninterpreted, false; for theirs was 
* a theological system, eminently symbolical to its priests not 
so to the people at large.' 

Again : ( It is necessary to bear in mind chiefly that the leading 
' point of belief of the Egyptians from the earliest times known to 
f us, was that there was One Supreme, or, as they said, one 
6 Only God, who was to be adored in silence ; that most of the 
6 other gods were deifications of his attributes, or of the power or 
6 forces on which the destiny of the Egvptian nation depended.' 
This, she tells us, was the source of the belief in One God. 
( For out of the Nile valley issued Judaism,' 1 yet ' we must try 
c to conceive of these Egyptian gods as being, to the general 
' Egyptian mind, actual personages, inseparably connected with 
' the facts and appearances in which they were believed to exist.' 2 

This shadowy mystic philosophy is brought to bear upon the 
doctrines of Christianity as follows : 

' When it is said that Osiris was the only manifestation of the Supreme 
upon earth, it must be understood that this means the only manifestation 
by a native heavenly resident. For all animated beings were supposed to 
be emanations from the Centre of Life. The great Emanation doctrine, 
which has spread so far over the world, was certainly a chief point of faith 
in Egypt at a very early date ; and it is believed that Pythagoras, recog- 
nising it in all their observances, which were expositions of doctrine, 
adopted it from them. Osiris was not the only manifestation of the Uni- 
versal Soul, and so far shared the lot of the humblest worm bred in the 
mud of the Nile ; but he was the only member of the heavenly society, the 
only one of the sons of the Supreme, who came upon earth to make Him 
known, and he thus took rank above them all. It is impossible not to 
perceive that Osiris was to the old Egyptians what the Messiah is to be to 
the Jews, and what Another has been to the Christians. The nature, cha- 
racter, and offices of Osiris, and the sacred language concerning him, are so 
coincident with those most interesting to Christians, as to compel a very 
careful attention on the part of inquirers into Egyptian antiquities. 
Various solutions of the extraordinary fact have been offered. Some who 
hold to the literal historical truth of the Book of Genesis suggest, as their 
conjecture, that Noah may have foreknown everything relating to the 
coming of Christ, even to the language which should be used concerning 
Him by sacred writers ; and that his descendants may have communicated 
all this to the ancient Egyptians, who made a God out of the prophecy and 
its adjuncts. 3 Others have endeavoured to make out such personal inter- 
course between Pythagoras and some of the Hebrew prophets on the one 
hand, and the Egyptian priests on the other, as might account for the 
parallelism in question. 4 Others would have us understand it by con- 
cluding that the latest Egyptian priests were disciples of Plato, and put 

i Vol. i. p. 336. 2 Vol. i. p. 205. 

3 Wilkinson Ancient Egyptians, vol. iv. p. 188. 

4 Bayle, Art. Pythagoras, Note li. 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 81 

their own Platonizing interpretations on the character of Osiris, as the 
Platonizing Christians did on that of Christ. Others again,' (and among 
them, we conclude, the authoress) * who see that Ideas are the highest 
subjects of human cognizance, the history of Ideas the only true history, 
and a common holding of Ideas the only real relation of human beings to 
each other, believe that this great constellation of Ideas is one and the 
same to all these different peoples ; was sacred to all in their turn, and 
became more noble and more glorious to men's minds as their minds 
became strengthened by the nourishment and exercise of ages.' Vol. i. 248. 

So she goes on. Or take, again, the philosophical view which 
she took of the doctrine of a future life. She thus begins one 
of her chapters on Thebes. 

' The most striking thing at Thebes is, perhaps, the evidence on every 
hand of the importance to the old Egyptian mind of the state of the dead. 
To the philosopher there is nothing surprising in this ; for he knows that 
it must be so to an infant race, inexperienced in the history of man, and 
unlearned as to the power of the human mind, and the relative value of its 
aims. Everywhere the mind of man is active, unsatisfied, and aspiring ; 
and while he knows so little of the world he lives in, and the companions 
beside him, and the unseen region of ideas which lies about him as infant- 
ine nations do, he is compelled to refer his activity and his desires to the 
future, which he supposes to contain what he at present wants and cannot 
find. It is with puerile man as with the child, who is never satisfied with 
the present, but always stretching forward into the unknown future, not 
knowing the value of what is under his hand, but neglecting it in dreams 
of what he shall have and do in some desirable state by and by. The 
aspiration is instinctive, and therefore right, but as yet unenlightened and 
undisciplined. As he grows up, the present becomes more to him, and the 
future less. In proportion as he becomes truly wise, he discovers that in 
the present scene and moment lies more than his best industry can under- 
stand, and his best powers achieve. He brings home his faculties, and 
finds in the present enough to occupy them ail, and to fill his life com- 
pletely full of interest, activity, and advancement. He is the wisest man 
who knows that he has always many unexplored and ungoverned worlds 
on his hands, which should leave him no leisure for looking forward into a 
future which he cannot penetrate. It is with races of men as with individuals. 
Not knowing yet how to employ their aspirations and desires on the unfath- 
omable and inexhaustible universe in which they are placed; notknowing how 
adequate their human powers are, if fully exercised to their present human 
work; notknowing how exact is the momentary retribution of fidelity or un- 
faithfulness to their powers and their work, they are perpetually referring to 
the future for a wider scene, for new powers, for arbitrary reward and punish- 
ment. There is nothing blameworthy or despicable in this. On the con- 
trary, the tendency comes in happily to lift men over their infantine age of 
inexperience, as the child is ennobled by the forecast of his hopes, before he 
can be yet more ennobled by the wisdom of his self-knowledge. And every 
working of instinct, every direction of natural aspiration, is to be revered 
in its proper place, and at its proper time. We truly respect accordingly 
the child's or the peasant's notion of a literal judgment day, when there will be 
a. process of trial, with books of account opened, and a sentence passed in 
words, and burning inflicted in the one case, and whatever the individual 
most desires on the other. We truly respect these notions in the child and 
the peasant, while we know that no enlightened and disciplined man looks for- 
ward to any such actual scene. And the enlightened and disciplined man 
knows that while he continually thinks less of the future, as the inestimable 

NO. LXI. N. S. G 



82 Eastern Life, Present and Past. 

present of life and duty opens before his contemplation and his industry, 
his hold of that inestimable present will appear weak and careless to a 
wiser than he who will come after him. As I said before, the most striking 
thing at Thebes, is the evidence on every hand of the importance to the old 
Egyptian mind of the state of the dead. And these evidences will be 
regarded by the philosopher,' &c. 

We cannot forbear, before leaving this passage, to quote one 
of singular beauty, in which she speaks of the situation of the 
City of the Dead, at Thebes. 

' The most prominent idea presented to us in these tombs is, that their 
makers considered them to be really and truly an abode ; literally " a long 
home ; " or, as they called them, " everlasting habitations ;" and to be pre- 
pared and provided accordingly. The way to the long home of the Theban 
kings is very appropriate, and most impressive ; a succession of winding 
defiles between grand but most desolate rocks, the recesses of which might 
seem to invite the candidate for death to come and rest there in the deptli 
of silence, till his thousand years of suspense should be fulfilled. To rest 
in silence, but not in solitude ; not in the solitude of the wide desert, but 
in the still congregation of the deep valley. To the old Egyptians the true 
congregation of the human race must always have been looked for beyond 
the grave, so immeasurably must the dead ever outnumber existing 
men. Every man must have felt himself one of a very small company in 
comparison with that which he was to join. But the case of the kings 
was strong indeed. Each one of them lived solitary ; and it was only when 
he died that he could enter among his peers. He went from the solitude of 
that busy, peopled plain, to the sanctified society of the valley of death. 
To him this was the great event to which he was looking forward during 
the best years of his life.' Vol. i. p. 300304. 

Noble, indeed, were the conceptions of those ancient kings. 
Earnestly and devotedly did they feel after the truth in the 
dark times. And little as we can advocate Miss Martineau's 
view that ' the literal truth of the objects of faith, when those 

* objects are the highest that can be conceived, is a small 
( matter : the exercise of the faculty is everything,' our readers 
will perchance think with us, that with all her ' discipline ' and 
' enlightenment,' the devoted heathen of old came nearer to the 
Truth than she. 

At the risk of fatiguing the reader, we proceed to extract 
from Part iii. one or two passages, to illustrate the fruits of 
the light from Egypt upon the topography of Christianity. 
' To iny apprehension, on the spot, and with the records of His 
' life in my hand, and the recollections of Egypt and of Sinai 

* fresh in my mind, nothing could be simpler than His recorded 
c words, and nothing less like what is superstitiously and irre- 
' verently taught as coming from Him in most of the " Churches 
< of Christendom.' ' 

( In Egypt,' she says, ( we had seen the origin of the my- 
( tkology and superstitions which were engrafted upon Christianity 

1 Vol. iii. p. 244. 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 83 

( at Alexandria, and in Greece, and Rome, and which debase 
' the religion of Christ at this day. We had seen in Egypt, 
( and in the Greek philosophy which was thence derived, ages 
' before the time of Christ, those allegorical fables of Osiris 
' and his nature and offices ; of the descent of the Supreme on 
' earth in a fleshly form, and the deifying or sanctification of 
' intercessors, which were unhappily, but very naturally, con- 
' nected with the simple teachings of Christ by the Platonizing 
( converts of various countries, and which to this day deform and 
6 vitiate the Gospel in countries which yet keep clear of the 
( open idolatries of the Greek and Latin Churches.' Amongst 
the allegorical fables alluded to are, S. John's ' Logos of the 
' Platonists, the incompatible resurrection and immortality of 
' opposing schools, profanely named after Him who came to 
6 teach, not " cunningly devised fables," but that men should 
' love their Father in heaven with all their hearts and minds, 
6 and their neighbours as themselves.' ! 
Farther on she says : 

' To this incident,' (the prophecy of the destruction of Jerusalem from 
the Mount of Olives) 'we owe the clearest exposition we are in possession 
of, of the belief and doctrine of Jesus in regard to his kingdom. That it was 
a spiritual kingdom, not to be won by war, and not limited to the expul- 
sion of the Roman power from Palestine, or the mere re-establishment of the 
Mosaic system in its purity under a Jewish monarch, had long been 
evident. But from this moment it was made clear what his expectation 
was, as understood by his followers, and recorded by those who some years 
afterwards wrote his history for the information of the world. The king- 
dom of Christ was to come in that generation by the destruction of the 
existing world, when not only the Temple should be overthrown, but the 
powers of the world and the frame of nature. There was to be a new 
heaven and a new earth ; Christ was to come, attended by the risen dead, and 
by heavenly beings ; and those of his followers who remained behind were 
to meet him in the air, and be rendered immortal without the intervention 
of death. After that second coming, his immediate followers were to be 
the judges of his kingdom, sitting on twelve thrones, to judge the tribes of 
Israel. Of the precise time when this should happen, he declared that he 
knew nothing ; God alone knew this ; but he himself could say only that 
that generation should not pass away till all this was fulfilled. When that 
generation had passed away, and the destruction was found to be limited to 
the conquest of the land and nation by the Romans, the record of what 
was said on this spot on Olivet, was naturally referred to a still future 
coming of Jesus. In ages when the study of the sacred records was confined 
to a small number of readers, whose minds were sophisticated, it may not 
be wonderful that so plain a statement of the expectations of Christ, or of 
his recorders' understanding of them, should have been slighted or per- 
verted ; but now that men are learning that the Scriptures are records and 
not oracles, it seems impossible that there should be much more dispute 
about as clear and plain a statement as ever was penned. In general, it is 
no light work for the sincere and reverent mind to read the gospel history, 
so as to come within reach of the actual voice of Jesus, and listen to it 

1 Vol. iii. p. 127. 
G 2 



84 Eastern Life, Present and Past. 

among the perplexing echoes of his place and time ; to separate it from the 
Jewish construction of Matthew, the traditional accretions and arrange- 
ments of Mark and Luke, and the Platonisiug medium of John ; a care 
and a labour which it is profane and presumptuous to omit or make light of; 
but in this instance the record is clear, and bears its historical truth upon 
the face of it. He went on ' (from the declaration of the destruction of the 
Temple) ' to declare the protest and terms of admission of the dead to his 
kingdom, promising to admit the watchful, the pure, the faithful, and 
charitable, and to disown and reject the careless, and cowardly, and heart- 
less. It is an affecting moment for the pilgrim, when he surveys at once 
the three periods of time concerned ; the imposing, calm, and prosperous 
aspect of the scene when the disciples asked that pregnant question ; the 
tumult when the Temple was burning, and the hopes of the world seemed 
to be carried away in the smoke of the conflagration ; and at the present 
time, when & partial phase of Christianity^^ succeeded (viz. Mohammedanism) 
under the name of a new prophet, and all looks outwardly dead, while the 
kingdom of Christ has actually come in a better manifestation than that of thrones, 
and new wine, and a new Jerusalem, in the new heavens and new earth of the re- 
generated human mind.' Vol. iii. 172 177. 

No wonder, with such enlightened views, that the reality of 
Egyptian faith was a venerable childishness ; no wonder that 
however ' hellish' it may appear in exaggeration she regards 
Mohammedanism complacently ; like the Egyptians, e thinking 
life and its production the most sacred and the most real, and 
therefore the most important fact with which the human race 
can have concern ;' however they may ' misapply or ill convey 
their reverent appreciation of the fact of life' 1 No wonder she 
reasonably regards Mohammedanism as the f reformed faith 
4 which raises men above any elevation they could reach by Chris- 
( tianity as it is in the East,' or that the minds of medieval 
Churchmen were ' sophisticated,' and f Mohammed honest and 
sound minded in rejecting a priesthood ;' ' a strong point which 
' he took from Christianity, the Mohammedan traditions of 
( Christianity relating to a time prior to the fatal institution of a 
' priesthood.' Miserable race, if this Egypt's intellectual philo- 
sophy is the true interpretation of what they have hitherto taught 
their brethren so ignorantly ! 

The reader will be little surprised after this, if Miss Mar- 
tineau's indignation is moved at Nazareth, ' when the Jews put 

* aside the characteristics of their faith, received the infection of 
( allegorizing from their heathen neighbours, and attached their 
' allegories to the simple history of their prophets a process 

* likely to be used to a most disastrous purpose. It has been a 
' great misfortune to the average Christian world for many ages, 
' that the old allegories of Egypt, the old images of miraculous 
' birth, and the annunciation of it from heaven, should have been 
' laid hold of, and repeated from age to age, however the character 
' of the theology might change, till at last, repeated without 

* Vol. i. p. 311. See the whole chap. 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 85 

( explanation, it came to be taken, with other mythic stories, for 
( historical truth, and is to this day profanely and literally held 
* by multitudes who should have been trained to a truer reverence.' ! 
We need not, however, multiply extracts to prove, in this 
instance, the tendency of the free use of a strong unbridled 
intellect upon such subject matter. We pass on to a few 
remarks on the general run of Oriental lion-hunters of the day. 
If lords and ladies write innocuous little books, with hopeless 
sketches lithographed ' ad ungueiri by Haghe, do they write 
more innocuously because they are really more of philosophers 
than the authoress ? because their aims are more disinterested 
and philanthropical ? because their religious principles are 
deeper and truer ? That this latter is the case, we hope indeed, 
but we must repeat our fears already expressed. And while we 
follow such authors in their matter-of-course condemnation of 
what seems vicious and immoral in the Oriental system, we look 
with a jealous eye to the principles on which they move. We 
desire nothing transcendental or sublime, nor any display of 
learning ; we desire the truth, and stated in all simplicity. The 
East is no longer closed to Franks now ; there is no need, as 
there was heretofore, of the assumption of the dress and title of 
Hakim, or physician. Travellers are crowding into it yearly : 
Methley's servant, in his pantry jacket, looks out for gentle- 
men's country seats in the desert, and Antoine, Major Grote's 
Belgian, rides his dromedary for his first triste monture. We 
need information, and we ought to have it. Let travellers by 
all means acquaint us with the fact, that chariot-wheels are 
not fished up out of the Ked Sea, that startling anomalies, 
contradictory appearances, at first sight meet them in their 
inquiries. We desire them to tell us faithfully what they 
see; in the spirit of Maundrell, or of Surius, with a humble 
heart, and a consciousness of ignorance, and a real love for the 
souls of men. We shall listen, then, with more satisfaction to 
what they have to advance on the present state of Eastern 
morals we shall know whereto their remarks lead us. As it is 
we are mystified. What does Miss Martineau mean by the 
' hellish'-ness of certain Oriental institutions on the one hand, 
while she talks so sublimely of Egyptian embodiments of 
great facts and great ideas, on the other? The very same 
philosophy, as it is well known, is applied by intellectual 
Mohammedans to the exposition of the fundamental belief and 
hopes of their fellow-believers. Are we not to believe He- 
rodotus ? She quotes him as an authority ; and if what he tells 
us is true, will such principles as the writer brings from the dim 

1 Vol. iii. p. 223. 



86 Eastern Life, Present and Past. 

strongholds of far Nile, really light us to the furtherance of 
practical religion, whose very essential is, not intellectual or 
social freedom, but real angelic purity ? 

With yearning regret we forego to follow a vivid and 
spirited describer of facts, into more details of her travels in 
Palestine. In memory we bend to each pace of the weary 
dromedary, welcoming the line of the ' hill-country of Judea,' 
as the cool evening breeze steals across to us loaded with the fra- 
grance of commencing vegetation ; we recall the white-crested 
solitary perched on a bush above the springing corn, pouring, 
in seeming abstraction, his glad evening chant ; we picture our- 
selves advancing out of the desert, passing and leaving him 
behind us, a sinless worshipper sent to teach men the little we 
really need here on earth, and the blessedness of a life of con- 
templation and solitude ; or we hear once again grow louder, as 
we stalk through the deathlike stillness of the sunlight, the gush- 
ing waters of Wady Feiran, f the Diamond of the Desert,' lost 
shortly in the sand, but shaded here for a while by tall palms, 
gum arabic, and shittim trees a ' well for the pilgrims of the 
vale of misery.' 

But we must have companionship more suited to us, before 
we can take up our staff to tread again more hallowed sites. The 
pilgrim's eyes should indeed open to see what meets them, but 
wait for the issue of what is strange with forbearing reverence. 
How can we safely act otherwise ? How can all things fall in 
with our preconceived ideas of them? Many things, indeed, 
will do so, and most wonderfully, as the Lake, the River, and 
Mount Olivet ; Horeb, Carmel, and the Salt Sea. But it would 
be unreasonable not to expect that much would seem to baffle 
us for the present. It may be relied upon, however, that in the 
general, allowing for what is natural in the additions of cir- 
cumstance, sacred localities will approve themselves more 
universally, even with our profound ignorance touching them, 
than sceptics are inclined to suppose. We believe that in this 
pleasure-seeking, so called utilitarian age, if any of us of the 
Church of England visited the East, not as savans, but as pil- 
grims, great good would result from it. Better, in our judgment, 
to swallow every legend that has been suffered by the pious for- 
bearance of the past to creep in and out amongst these awful wit- 
nesses of the supernatural, than reject all. In the caves of Petra, 
s in the fissures of the rock spring brambles, the bright green 
' caper-plant, and fig-trees with translucent young leaves, and 
' roots and stems which accommodate themselves to the crevices 
' by inconceivable twists. Down the water-drips hang bunches 
f and strings of delicate ferns, and round the smooth curve of 
* some protruding rock lies an ivy garland, pushed forth from 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 87 

' the recess behind, which is curtained with it. The homely 
* mallow, the wild geranium, and red poppy, spring in corners 
' where there is a deposit of earth, and the pale blue forget-me-not 
' lurks in the hollows.' 1 Better take the legendary mass whole as 
it stands, and give two thousand summers to the flowers of a day, 
than miss, in the pride of criticism, the reality that is entire, 
though obscured beneath them. Nevertheless we are no advocates 
for wilful blindness. It is impossible that human reverence 
should not among many hands and ages put forth poetic weeds 
as well as garden flowers ; but it is unreasonable, as well as 
unloving, to bring such charges against the early Church, as 
have been brought against her by British and American Pro- 
testantism. Do let us see the reality of love for that One 
Object for Whose sake pilgrim and critic toiled or suffered, and 
we shall be content. And here another remark suggests itself 
the spirit in which gentlemen and ladies discuss the merits and 
demerits of those to whom they owe more than they think, the 
monastic bodies of the East. 

We had turned to two or three passages in ' Eastern Life ' 
in illustration ; but the writer's remarks extend beyond the 
worshippers who gave such unwitting offence, and they had 
better not be quoted. But it is notorious that the ways of 
travellers are most unloving generally in this respect, as unloving 
as their very hasty impressions are too often false. No doubt 
the Roman and Greek ecclesiastical authorities regret that no 
more than every-day specimens, lower, perhaps, than the average, 
should represent them in these outlying posts, nearly as much 
as we have ourselves to regret the way we are represented, 
socially and religiously, and often morally, by our foreign 
tourists. What can be more unjust and frequently ludicrous 
than the ideas about ourselves generally prevalent on the 
continent? We are oftener amused than surprised by them. 
Still the ( thoughtful traveller' regrets it. On the other hand, 
we believe that the English, as a nation, apprehend much more 
of Continental nations, and their thoughts and habits, than 
vice versa, whether we choose to fall in with them or not; 
for we travel so much more than they do : and this should be 
taken into consideration. But really it is insular pride, and 
something worse, which makes our people show such supercilious 
contempt for the views and feelings of almost all classes in the 
countries they visit, especially too for the monks and friars of 
the East. If they would but be at the pains to throw them- 
selves awhile into the position of their hosts, there would appear 
far more of reason in it, or of reasons for it, than they choose to 

1 Tartii. 



88 Eastern Life, Present and Past. 

suppose. It would be unreasonable to expect intellectual society 
amongst the soldiers of a detached fort in India, or that they 
should understand the rights of political measures they were 
carrying out ; though it would be refreshing, perhaps, to find it. 
But they might do their own duties faithfully nevertheless. 

We wish indeed that some persons would in a religious 
spirit, and with a higher aim than book-making, put forth 
what they know and have seen of religious matters in foreign 
lands : we are tired of repeated charges of 'idolatry,' ' mummery,' 
&c. brought against foreign communions. Till the ecclesias- 
tical ways and thoughts of the accused are entered into with 
a real Catholic intention, we do not know what is in them; 
like Miss Martineau and her South Sea cannibalism, and 
Egyptian idolatry, we shall miss the ideas contained under what 
offends the Protestant eye. In the list of authors on the East, 
Mr. Williams forms a grateful and nearly solitary exception ; 
but we want correct impressionsof the West as well as of the 
East. 

The great mass, however, of our travelling countrymen, fills 
us with sad reflections. Alas I what good do the hundreds and 
thousands who yearly overrun Europe and the Levant ? what 
one end of our being does the mass fulfil in the very wantonness 
of their restless undisciplined idleness ? Travelling has grown 
into a feature in the education of most of the youth of our 
upper classes. What account will be rendered of it at the great 
day ? It is but a fraction that study the arts of Europe, or the 
localities of the East, or any worthy object not one-tenth 
part of them that aim at any religious end. What is it, then, 
they travel for ? Is it anything much beyond amusement, and 
the casting off restraint, or mere unrest ? 

We are not incapable of sympathy with the intoxicating sense 
of freedom in the armed rider who for the while finds himself his 
own defence and guide upon the Syrian mountains, or among the 
plains and defiles of Palestine. His house and his goods are 
with him, and the fountain and the green turf are his home 
wherever he lists to choose them. We can divine what thoughts 
may keep him company when his ( fire-ship ' races the swordfish 
and porpoises of the Dardanelles, or carries him through the 
night watches of the^Egasan, past the shadows of sleeping islands; 
when he watches the lustrous gems that are dashed out of the 
still deep, and the moon which 

1 its silver web is weaving, 
O'er the billows gently heaving, 
Like an infant asleep.' 

Not a spark of the spirit of adventure, courage, and gene- 
rosity, that glows in the youth of England, would we damp no, 



Eastern Life, Present and Past. 89 

not for a moment. With all their pride, thoughtlessness, and 
self-will, we believe that a nobler physique than theirs exists not 
in modern Europe. But we do long to see all this turned in a 
right direction. In former ages travelling was a grave matter, 
taken thoughtfully in hand. Surely it must still have its 
suitable ends and objects, and we shall be quite content if young 
Englishmen will travel with a pure intention to obtain them, 
and consult one of their trustworthy clerical friends upon this 
subject before they start. It is very wrong to consider foreign 
travel as a light or profitless occupation. It is one of the most 
striking facts of the days we live in, and we ought to take it up 
and make the most we can of it. Who can say what blessings 
might not attend the carry ing out of true principles of Christian 
intercourse between separated brethren, in a hard self-seeking 
age, when there is the 'running to and fro, and knowledge is 
increased/ while ' the love of many is waxed cold ?' 



90 



ART. IV. Sermons during the Season from Advent to Whitsun- 
tide. By the Rev. E. B. FUSE Y, D. D. Regius Professor of Hebrew, 
Canon of Christ Church ; late Fellow of Oriel College. Oxford : 
J.H.Parker. 1848. 

TRUTH is approached on one or two sides by straight roads, 
but in most directions the way is very circuitous ; and the tall 
spire, which is our goal, is seen one while on the right, another 
while on our left ; and we hardly know that we are nearing it, 
but by finding, from half- hour to half-hour, that its outline is 
clearer, and its height shows itself in more commanding distinct- 
ness. Thus it is often with those who are gradually drawing 
nearer to Catholic truth, after receiving their education, or their 
first religious impressions, in some region of partial and sectarian 
belief. The first steps of inquiry open a dim and distant view 
of the so-called f deadening doctrine of Baptismal Regeneration,' 
far on the left. The eye turns from it almost with indifference ; 
and it is with some surprise that, after several turns and wind- 
ings, on a little eminence on the road, a wide open field com- 
mences, with no hedge on the right hand ; and somewhat nearer 
on that side is seen the very same doctrine, no longer a pledge 
of quiet security, but a fearful, threatening, overwhelming 
thing, too much for man to endure. 

This is a real advance in knowledge, for truth is, like Him to 
Whom it belongs, terrible to flesh and blood. The former 
notion was that of a dead stupid formalism, which reduced man 
to a walking and talking machine, and worshipped an idol no 
better than the maker of it. The latter is one side, though but 
one side, of a divine and spiritual truth, which would not be 
truth if it were not alarming and overpowering to carnal nature ; 
though, when rightly seen, it is found to have that connected 
with it which can support man through all its terrors, and make 
that which, at first, he dreads, take its place amongst his chiefest 
blessings. ' I have heard of Thee by the hearing of the ear : 
but now mine eye seeth Thee. Wherefore I abhor myself, and 
repent in dust and ashes,' 1 is the prelude to the highest accept- 
ance and favour even in the best of men. What, then, must be 
the first impression on any ordinary mind, in this our age of 
eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, when 
brought, for the first time, into a realising contact with the 
awful Spiritual Presence which overshadows the fonts and 
altars of Catholic Christianity ? Dull and senseless must be that 
soul that would not shrink, at first, from the vision, and ask if 

1 Job. xlii. 5, 6. 



Dr. Puseys recent Sermons. 9 1 

this can be indeed the merciful and hopeful religion of the 
Gospel ? We cannot think fairly what we are, and deem our- 
selves fit for the attendance of angels, the indwelling of the 
Spirit, and the communion of the Body of our Lord : we cannot 
dwell upon these things as real supernatural privileges of the 
Christian, without feeling that to be a Christian is a position no 
less awful than honourable, no less perilous than glorious ; and 
those are far nearer the truth who shrink from the dangers 
implied in the Catholic view, than those who consider that it is 
likely to lead to a careless security. The latter is the error, 
perhaps, of gross superstition, but certainly not of any fair and 
reasonable mind apprehending the Catholic system as taught by 
its most zealous upholders. The former is far, indeed, from 
being a right and perfect apprehension of the truth ; but it is 
the apprehension of one who sees at least something beyond the 
range of sense, and is beginning to hold converse with the objects 
of faith, not merely as the unknown counterparts of familiar 
terms, but as living realities, which must be dealt with as what 
they are, and with respect to which any error of opinion is likely 
to produce a wrong and dangerous practice. There is a kind of 
shyness which is the beginning of reverence, and will develope 
into that habit with a due continuation of intercourse. Such, it 
may be hoped, is the feeling of many an earnest mind which 
draws back from Catholic teaching at first hearing, as something 
too fearful and distressing ; and thinks it can more readily 
approach a merely commemorative altar, in an aggregate body 
merely dedicated to the Almighty, redeemed by the merits of 
the Saviour, and sanctified by the aid of the Holy Spirit, than 
offer itself up in union with the eternal Sacrifice, as a very 
member of the Body which it receives, indwelt from the hour 
of its baptismal birth by the Spirit of the Father and the Son. 
To reject, indeed, the Catholic idea, when once fairly pre- 
sented to the mind in living teaching, is a case of perilous 
obstinacy and unbelief; but it is a far less common one than 
is generally supposed. Most really serious minds receive it, as 
fast as they apprehend what it is ; and are but contending for 
one part of it, while they seem to reject another. For it is 
never to be forgotten that there is a truth in that mysterious 
doctrine of Holy Scripture, that man is created in the image 
of God, which may be strongly though indistinctly apprehended, 
and which implies a stringent prohibition of believing anything 
unworthy of the Almighty. Were any thing propounded to 
us on seemingly good authority, that seemed to imply, with 
respect to Him, what contradicted our moral convictions, we 
could only receive it in such sort, as at the same time to sup- 
pose we did not rightly understand it. That is, we should 



92 Dr. Pusetfs recent Sermons. 

believe the bare statement to be true, on the ground of the 
authority by which it was propounded, but should decline 
attaching to it the meaning which it seemed naturally to bear, 
even though we could not affix to it any other. Such must be 
the case with thousands who believe certain Calvinistic state- 
ments, because they believe them to be contained in certain 
passages of holy writ, traditionally so interpreted by their own 
society. There are those, indeed, who go farther, and carry 
out such views to the annihilation of morality ; but it may be 
hoped that there are more who hold firmly to the law written 
on their hearts, and let these notions abide in the duskiest corner 
of their heads, as unintelligible mysteries. 

Thus, on the other hand, if any one were to state such a pro- 
position as that God ever did, would, or could delegate to any 
man the power of remitting the sins of the impenitent, or re- 
taining those of the truly penitent, every man's moral nature 
would shrink from it as a blasphemy. And it is no wonder 
that those who imagine such a view to be maintained, hold its 
supposed maintainers in abhorrence, though it might perhaps 
be fairly expected of persons who profess a respect for the 
English Church, that they should suspect their own understanding 
of her formularies, so long as the mere repetition of their words 
as true and practical, appears to them to convey any such 
monstrous assertion. Whatever we believe concerning our 
Maker, and His dealings with us, must be interpreted in such 
a manner as not to imply anything unworthy of Him. This is 
a true principle, though it is liable to abuse, and may be per- 
verted to the extent of licensing the denial of fundamental 
articles of faith, by those who are pleased to imagine such 
articles to be contrary to reason. Let this abuse be as great 
and as dangerous as it may, the opposite error is also a serious 
one, and a blind submission to authority is capable of being 
carried out to very hurtful results. It must be checked by the 
principle enunciated above, just as the application of that 
principle must be checked by the belief of a real authority for 
truth. Otherwise, men may believe a dogma which they un- 
derstand in a perverted sense, and corrupt their moral code 
under colour of obedience to an infallible guide. With the 
check of a firm reliance on the moral instincts of nature, en- 
lightened by grace, any such misapprehension would be at least 
modified, where it seemed to involve the duty of imitating Guy 
Fawkes, or Charles IX. 

Indeed it is not too much to say, that these principles demand 
a secondary application in our judgments on the opinions of 
others. We have no right to impute to them any doctrine 
obviously derogatory to the Almighty, contrary to reason, or 



Dr. Pusey's recent Sermons. 93 

subversive of morality, so long as they can be supposed to hold 
in some other sense what seems at first sight to imply such 
error. We may fairly accuse them of holding that which must 
lead to such consequences, if carried out to its results, if we are 
able to make out the deduction ; but we ought not to impute 
the consequences where we have good reason to think they 
would be repudiated. 

Dr. Pusey, in his preface to the volume of sermons lately 
published, has spoken mildly of some who are in the habit 
of using no measured terms towards himself. Indeed, he seems 
even to have alarmed some orthodox friends, lest he should be 
going too far, in making allowance for the imperfect views of a 
different school ; and has been led to vindicate himself from such 
a charge, in an advertisement prefixed to his second edition, which 
may not be too long to quote. 

* A few additional remarks become necessary, since some have under- 
stood the writer as though he thought the unhappy divisions among us 
were altogether in words only ; and so, unintentionally, was encouraging 
indifference as to sacred truth. This, however, is contrary to what he said, 
when he spoke of " good and pious men having difficulties in receiving the 
full truth, as it is in Jesus," p. vi. What he meant to say is what he has 
said these many years : 

' 1. That religious persons, who seem opposed to the truth, and often 
speak very unguardedly, unsoundly, and distressingly, do yet mostly be- 
lieve much more truly than they speak. They believe what they cannot 
draw out in words, or would fear to express. Witness the great devotion at 
Holy Communion and careful preparation for it, among persons who really 
love their Saviour ; and yet it is only on the ground of the awful greatness 
of that Mystery that we need to prepare more for it than for our ordinary 
prayers. Again, people would shrink from any irreverence as to the con- 
secrated elements, who would yet, intellectually, argue in a very rational- 
istic way about them. And again, people speak almost as Antinomians, or as 
if Christians might almost more readily be saved without good works than 
with them, who yet are diligent themselves to keep God's commandments, 
and " to perfect holiness in the fear of God." Or, again, they speak as if the 
commands of the Church were not binding, and yet they themselves obey 
such of them as they are accustomed to ; or they dread "forms," and yet 
use them religiously. 

' 2. Religious persons, holding partial truth, are verv frequently opposed, 
not to the real truth, but to some form of error which they mistake for it ; 
or, again, they are held back by certain consequences which they suppose 
to be involved in it, but which are not. They are held back by an invete- 
rate prejudice, which hinders them from seeing the pure truth, apart from 
the error with which they have been accustomed to associate it. And it 
ought to be a subject of humiliation to those who hold the truth, that we 
cannot present it to their minds in a form in which they would appreciate 
it; or, again, that through some imperfection of ours, they may be repelled 
from it, rather than drawn by its own intrinsic attractiveness. 

' 3. What religious persons among the so-called " Evangelical " portion of 
the Church, hold positively, that is, their faith, is true. They, then, who have 
received the fuller teaching of the primitive and undivided Church, have 
not the call upon them to lay aside any thing which they believe, but to 



94 Dr. Pmeys recent Sermons. 

propose a fuller belief to them. And when that fuller truth is, by the 
grace of God, received, whatever errors now cleave to them will drop off; 
as a substance held in solution is parted with and precipitated, when 
another is poured in to which the substance which holds it has greater 
affinity. 

' The writer has felt, these fifteen years, that there was more suscepti- 
bility for Catholic truth among religious minds, who, in consequence of 
misapprehension, thought themselves, or were, opposed to it, than among 
many who held what in words more nearly approached to it. He always 
anticipated (in common with others), that it would be discarded by some 
who thought that they held it, when they knew what it involved, and would 
be received by very many who opposed it, when they came to see it truly. 
Both these expectations were early verified, whatever else there has been 
against or beyond all his hopes. And so the writer has felt himself called, 
not so much to oppose those who are entangled in partial views or mis- 
conceptions of the truth, as to teach, positively, the truth which they 
oppose, trusting that " they who are of the truth will hear " its " voice." 
In the Preface to this volume, he wished to point out how the full belief 
of the mystery, that faithful Christians are " in Christ," at once comprehends 
all the truths of our relation to our Redeeming Lord, which are held sacred 
by those who have embraced a more partial system, embodies those truths 
in a deeper and more blessed way, and excludes the errors which they 
imagine to attach to Catholic teaching. 

The writer spoke of " good and pious men," because, while the case of 
each individual among us must be left to the Judge, who shall " make mani- 
fest the counsels of the heart," it is plain, upon the very surface, that a 
large, perhaps the larger, portion of so-called religious controversy, is 
hollow, unearnest, irreverent, and irreligious. How should it be other- 
wise, where, amid many words, there is so little self-sacrificing zeal for 
souls, so little devotedness or love? Yet God has his own every where. He 
is calling more and more to follow Him, who is " the Way, the Truth, and 
the Life." As we love Him more who is the Truth, we shall receive, hold, 
set forth the truth, " as it is in Him." As we love Him who is our Head, 
with a more burning, self-devoted love, we must, in Him, love his mem- 
bers. And love understands thoughts of love, although ill expressed, and 
catches at thoughts of truth, though conveyed in broken words and but 
half uttered, and reads the heart with which it sympathises, and can even 
open to it its own undeveloped meaning, or what it should mean, instead of 
being itself repelled by its rude or imperfect speech. As we love our Lord 
more, we shall love more all whom He loves ; and as we love more, we 
shall understand one another better. One grain of love avails more than 
many pounds of controversy. To those, then, whether penitents or child- 
like minds, who seek our One Lord earnestly, and to do His will, the writer, 
such as he is, wished to speak words of peace and love, if so be it might 
help some who love Him, even in this life to love one another more in Him. 



' " < (Brootr sbflepterfc of t!)e sljeep, 

leatr us anlr feeir us, 

anti nothing sfmll fce Wanting 

in tfje place of tfje pasture tofiere Cftou fjast foltrelr us, 

until toe fie fcrougf)t 
to tlje pasture of ISternal tltfe." ' 

He makes as much allowance, certainly, as truth will permit, 
and so much as ought to claim from his detractors, at least, 
reading enough to make their ground sure, before they say more 
against him ; and, it may be fairly added, so much as may claim 



Dr. Pusey's recent Sermons. 95 

from them a candid and charitable construction of his words, 
and an unwillingness to impute error without necessity. He 
has himself indicated the reconciling principle, and, though 
conciliatory, is not compromising. He does not descend from 
the firm and exalted basis of Catholic truth into the quagmires 
of opinion, for he is sure of his own ground, as a man may well 
l)e who lives intellectually in the Holy Scriptures and the 
Fathers of the Church, and morally with God and penitents. 
He is not a bold theorist or dogmatizer, and what people feel to 
be startling assertions from him, will generally be found to be 
mere glimpses of the daylight of S. Cyril or S. Augustine ; 
but he must be excused if he has a firm conviction of the truth 
of his own views, as held in common with the whole early 
Church, and a goodly body of doctors in all ages and Churches, 
including the chiefest of our own. 

The character of his present work is mainly practical, and 
especially in the line which he has so long and perseveringly 
pursued, that of attacking the strongholds of sin, and aiding and 
directing the efforts of penitence. But his manner of pursuing 
it is not quite that which pleases the modern taste for picking 
up knowledge in half a lecture, and stowing it away in one or 
two convenient formula. He is fully aware that his subject is 
one of the most vital importance to every Christian man, and, 
therefore, does not scruple to demand of his hearer or reader the 
attention requisite for really understanding it. Rarely, indeed, 
can truth be brought into a short compass without leaving room 
for mistake or abuse. Our ways of thinking and speaking are 
but a particular notation, and cannot embrace all magnitudes 
and qualities with equal completeness. In decimals we cannot 
express the simple fraction one-third but by an infinite series ; 
and the circumference of the circle, and the base of the natural 
system of logarithms, quantities absolutely fundamental to all 
mathematical calculation, are only to be found in that form. 
The same may be said of our apprehension of some of the main 
truths of religion, and especially in those which relate to God's 
dealing with man, in which we have to comprise, in one state- 
ment, things incommensurable with each other. We cannot 
state the whole case with absolute completeness, nor can we 
give a fair view of it without enumerating a variety of particular 
considerations, some of which may be more important than 
others, but each of which contributes more or less to the forma- 
tion of a correct judgment. And this is more especially the case 
with a mind habituated to consider the whole history of Divine 
Providence and Revelation as given us in Holy Scripture, and 
to endeavour to draw from each event, and as it were, precedent, 
some lesson bearing upon the point under review. A process is 



96 Dr. Pusey's recent Sermons. 

apt to result like that which Gibbon describes with insidious 
profaneness in the council of Florence : ' They weighed the 
' scruples of words and syllables, till the theological balance 
( trembled with a slight preponderance in favour of the Vatican;' l 
only that the object is not to save the honour of a party, or the 
credit of its phraseology, but to guide the mind of the reader in 
perceiving the true direction of the force which produces the 
oscillations, as the position of the perpendicular can be seen by 
the plummet before its vibratory motion has become imper- 
ceptible, because each movement is the effect of that one un- 
erring agency which determines it toward the true and central 
line. Thus it is with an orthodox mind in dealing with the 
definitions of Theology, or the multifarious questions of theo- 
logical morality. The determining idea is fixed, and exact, and 
is felt throughout ; although the statement, in its progress, may 
seem to verge alternately toward one side or another. 

Such has been the case amongst us in the very remarkable 
revival of attention to the great subject of the Remission of Sins. 
The free grant of pardon on entering the Christian Covenant, 
the greater guilt of relapsing into evil after the grace of Baptism, 
the inexhaustible riches of Divine Mercy, and the powers vested 
in Holy Church for the restoration of penitents, the probability 
of chastisement after repentance, and the necessity of great 
seriousness of self-judgment, have alternately become prominent 
in statement and in controversy, though not as being each of 
them a new discovery : for that may require to be stated to- 
day, which was yesterday assumed as known, if one party ignores 
it in the whole view of the case. That may require to be 
brought out prominently and by itself, which was from the first 
contained in a document to which only a general appeal was 
made. In the present controversy, with respect to the remission 
of sin, Dr. Pusey was at first thought by most readers to have 
gone into excess on the side of severity, in spite of his own 
distinct and prominent assertion that he found no fault even 
with ' modern notions ' with respect * either to the possibility 
of repentance, or God's readiness to forgive the penitent.' 2 

' Modern notions,' he says, ( appear to me to confound toge- 
' ther repentance for all sin ; to level those who, after Baptism, 
6 have in the main served God, and those who serve Him not ; 
6 and to represent repentance for grievous sin, too easy, too 
' little painful, too little connected with the outward course of 
4 life, too little influenced by or influencing it, too much a mat- 
{ ter of mere feeling, too readily secured and ascertained, too 
4 transitory, not too certain to obtain pardon, if real.' 

1 Chap. Ixvi. 2 Scriptural Yiews of Holy Baptism. Pref. p. xvi. 



Dr. Puseifs recent Sermons. 97 

Such a statement, however, made less impression than it ought 
to have done, by the side of the strong, and, to many, very start- 
ling assertions of the writer, with respect to the standard of 
obedience required by the Christian Covenant, and the guilt of 
sin after Baptism. And certain it is, that when the soul is 
truly awakened to the sense of guilt, that sense is overpowering 
and engrossing, and apt to overbear even the strongest repre- 
sentations of Mercy freely offered. It seems to the penitent 
that these offers are made to all but himself, for he knows 
against himself what he scarce knows against Balaam or Judas, 
except by the fact of their end. Hence it is well that whoever 
puts forth powerful and effective statements of the terrors of 
God, and the strictness of His Law, should himself also put forth 
the offers of Mercy with strength and clearness, because those 
whose attention he has roused will hardly receive them so effec- 
tually from any other. And in this view we cannot but rejoice 
to see, in the volume before us, several sermons truly over- 
flowing with consolations for the humbled and distressed penitent, 
and showing a depth of sympathy with his sorrows and fears, 
such as could hardly be found in one who had not actually shared 
in the extreme struggles for life and hope which befal some of 
those who once depart from the ' state of salvation' before they 
are again established in firm faith and stedfast obedience, and 
which drive the very wisest spiritual adviser to his wit's end, 
and teach him that, after all he can do, the work must ultimately 
rest in the mysterious workings of Almighty grace, and of the 
human will, free, though not independent. 

The Sermon on 'Our Risen Lord's Love for Penitents' is one 
which ought to be read by those who dream of its author as u 
hard, horrible torturer and terrifier of penitent souls. Some 
injustice is done to its tenderness of feeling, and still more to 
its powerful accumulation of scriptural evidence and illustrative 
facts and sayings, by making extracts, instead of presenting it as 
a whole ; but the following samples will not indispose the reader 
for a full draught from their source: 

' No marvel, then, that a penitent was by the Cross of Christ ; yet it is 
marvellous in what company. His Blessed Mother, the Disciple He loved, 
and one, once like what He became for us, " the very scoxn of men and the 
outcast of the people!" So would He teach us that He died for all, re- 
deemed all ; the Mother of Whom He took His Own Holy Flesh, as much 
as ourselves, with His Own Blood He redeemed and hallowed; the Disci- 
ple whom He Loved, He loved first, that he might love Him. Thus far He 
makes no difference. He redeemed them equally with her who seemed 
among the last of His redeemed. And her whom He had redeemed and 
restored, He placed, the last, among the first, the once impure with the 
pure and holy, that none should glory, none judge, none despair. 

* Great was this token of His love for sinners. Her gaze, which once 
wandered after vanities, He fixed on Himself; unbound her arms from the 

NO. LXI.~ N. S. H 



98 Dr. Puseifs recent Sermons. 

grasp of sinful pleasures, and wound them round His Cross : deadened her 
senses to man's praise, which they had once drunk in, or to the scoffs of 
blasphemers around, and quickened them to see in Him her Redeemer 
Alone ; held her near to Himself, not like the robber on an unwilling cross, 
but by "bands of Love." Great was the Love Which thus severed her 
from all to whom she had been like, and joined her to them to whom she 
was unlike. What so unlike, as His Own Virgin Mother, and an adulte- 
ress? she upon Whom " the Holy Ghost came," and " the Power of The 
Highest overshadowed," "with" whom " the Lord" was, and she in whom 
" seven devils" dwelt ; an universe, as it were, of sin, seven spirits of evil, 
opposed to the Seven-fold Gifts of the Good Spirit of God ; the Temple of 
God, through whom God "tabernacled" among men, and the temple of 
Belial ; she who was " highly favoured," and she who was " rottenness in 
the bones ; " she, " blessed among women," and she who was of those of 
whom Scripture says, " The woman shall be a curse among her people ; " 
she, of whom He was born Who should now " save His people from their 
sins," and she "whose house inclineth unto death, and her paths unto the 
dead ?" Yet these stood together by the Cross of Jesus, united by It ; both 
through It alone pure; both in It accepted; both through It to be glorified; 
both through It for ever to behold His Face, the Son and the Redeemer, 
and both, as they each could contain, to be* for ever filled with the Love of 
Him, their Creator. 

' Such was the acceptance of penitence by the Cross ; but, if possible, 
more marvellous yet at the Resurrection. At the Cross, the outcast and 
penitent was equalled to the holy and the pure ; at the Resurrection, even 
preferred. Holy Scripture tells us not, how or when The Redeemer healed 
her sorrows, " whose very soul the sword had pierced" at His Crucifixion; 
it does say of the penitent, to her Jesus appeared first. He Who had passed 
by all the Angel-hosts, and " took not their nature" but ours, the last of 
His fallen creatures, passed by her (so Scripture says) through whom He 
took that nature, to comfort her who had most degraded it. " He appeared 
first unto Mary Magdalene, out of whom He had cast seven devils." " He 
was seen of Cephas, then of all the Apostles ;" seen first of all the Apostles, 
by him, who having denied Him, had " wept bitterly." Yet even before 
him who w r as first in confession of faith in Him, and now grieving over his 
fall; before John who loved Him and whom above all He loved; before 
Andrew who brought his brother to Him; or Nathanael, to whom He of 
Whom it is said, "neither was guile found in His Mouth," bare witness 
that he was conformed unto Himself, "In him is no guile;" or Thomas, 
who said, " Let us also go with Him that we may die with Him;" or Philip, 
to whom He revealed, "I am in the Father, and the Father in Me;" or 
James, the chosen witness of His Miracles, of the Glories of His Transfigu- 
ration and His Agony, before all the eleven who had "been with Him in 
His Temptation," and who were to sit on His Throne of Glory ; He shew- 
eth Himself to a penitent. Not zeal, nor hearts of fire, nor a guileless 
spirit, nor burning faith, nor devotion unto death, nor love which lay on 
His Bosom, nor on whose Bosom He Who " upholdeth all things by the 
Word of His Power," had vouchsafed in Infancy to be borne, not Apostolic 
love, or a Mother's tears, win from Him His First Look, but the tears of a 
penitent. His Mother doubtless He comforted 1 by His Spirit ; the penitent 
He comforts by His Very Presence, and His Words. Oh mighty power of 
penitence, which before Apostles, joined the robber, but lately a blasphe- 
mer, to The Redeemer's Side in Paradise, cleansed from the blood of man 

1 This seems a surer and safer conclusion from what we know, than that which 
-has been imagined by some, namely, that there must have been an unrecorded 
appearance to the Blessed Virgin before any one else was thus favoured. 



Dr. Pusey's recent Sermons. 99 

by the Blood of God, the first fruits of the Redemption to fill up Angelic 
Hosts ! Oh wondrous condescension of Redeeming Love, Who rose early 
in the Morning, to seek her who, late though she had loved Him, then 
" sought Him early," and, as an earnest of His Yearning Tenderness for 
penitents, first revealed His Risen Glories to a penitent, made her an apostle 
to Apostles, a comforter to His brethren, first by her mouth announced to 
them the condescending title " My brethren," yea, communicated to them, 
as far as could be, His Own Sonship, " go to My brethren, and say unto 
them, I ascend unto My Father," by Nature and Eternal Birth, " and your 
Father," by your adoption in Myself, " to My God" in My Human Nature, 
"and your God," as being by Me reconciled to Him!' Pp. 256 259. 

* Thou needest not then sit down in weariness and hopelessness, what- 
ever of earlier years thou hast lost, whatever Grace thou hast forfeited, 
though thou hast been in a far country, far away in affections from Him 
Who loved thee, and wasting on His creatures, nay sacrificing on idol 
altars with strange fire, the Gifts which God gave thee, that thou mightest 
be precious in His Own Sight. He, Who called Magdalene, in her calleth 
thee. He, Who by His Sweetness in her soul, drew her to cast away all 
this world's deadly sweetness, will speak to thine, if thou wilt hearken. 
Wert thou bound and a slave to all the deadly sins, thy state were not 
more hopeless than her's seemed, when seven devils held her bound, and 
indwelt her. He Who, as at this time, appeared to her, as she might bear 
to gaze upon Him, will appear unto thee. Be thy soul to thee as an empty 
tomb, where Christ's Lifeless Body once was buried by thy sins, and now 
is not ; be it that thou see nothing but darkness, feel nothing but the chill- 
ness and damp of the tomb, catch no ray of light, look again and again, and 
discover no trace of Him ; yea, worse still, though thou see there " the 
linen clothes," the tokens that He once was there, and now is gone from 
thee ; and now all religion seems to thee but a lifeless form, a mere outside 
with no inward substance, "the napkin about His Head," but in thee "the 
Son of Man hath not where to lay His Head," though thou call and none 
seemeth to answer, thou ask where they have laid Him, that thou rnayest 
again seek Him, and do Him what honour thou mayest, and none telleth 
thee, despair not. Only seek on, and thou shalt find. Mourn His 'absence, 
desire His Presence. The very desire is His Presence. Thou couldest not 
desire Him, but for His Presence in thy soul ; thou couldest not mourn His 
absence, unless He taught thee to mourn, that thou mightest be hereafter 
comforted. He will appear unto thee by some comfort in prayer ; some 
joy in a deed of self-denial to chasten thyself, or for His poor ; some secret 
stillness of the soul, or ray of light though but for an instant ; or by some 
thrill of joy on one steadfast purpose, henceforth to have no other Object 
but " to win Christ," to love all thou lovest in Him and for Him, to know 
nothing " save Jesus Christ, and Him Crucified/' 

' Follow on, and He Who loved her so as to forgive 'her, and having for- 
given her, Scripture says, He "loved" her, and loving her shewed Himself 
unto her, hath He not promised the same to thee ? " He that hath My 
Commandments and keepeth them, he it is that loveth Me : and He that 
loveth Me shall be loved of My Father, and I will love him, and will mani- 
fest Myself to him." " If a man love Me, he will keep My Words; and 
My Father will love him, and We will come unto him, and make Our Abode 
with him." And what Jesus hath again made the Dwelling-Place of the 
Trinity, how should it be wanting in any Grace? He Who cast out the 
seven devils will replace them by the Seven Chief Gifts of the Holy Spirit. 
For sloth He will give thee fervid, active love ; for carnal appetite, hunger 
after Him, Who Alone satisfieth ; for pride, His Lowliness ; for envy, His 
Charity; for anger, His Meekness; for degrading pleasures, love of Him 
Alone; for covetousness, His Bountifulness, that so thou mayest gain Him, 
the True Riches. 

H 2 



100 Dr. Ptiseys recent Sermons. 

' Follow on, and where is the bound of the love wherewith thou mayest 
love Him Who loved thee, since thy love is His Love in thee? Bow thyself 
down in lowliness to His Tomb, seek nothing but Jesus, turn aside from 
all which would detain thee from Jesus ; and He Who by His Inward Voice 
called Thee, by His Passion will fence thee, by His Blood will cleanse thee, 
by His Resurrection will appear to thee in Glory, and in Himself will glo- 
rify thee. He desireth to restore to thee thy lost Graces, more than thou 
canst long for them. He (to speak reverently) longeth that thou shouldest 
Love Him more than thou canst. For He knoweth what a Treasure His 
Love is unto thee ; and what hath He not done for love of thee and to win 
thy love ? Thy Graces are His Glory, the Travail of His Soul, the Fruits 
of His Sufferings. If thou deservest them not, who hast wasted them, He 
hath deserved them for thee, Who as Man " received Gifts for men, yea, 
even for the rebellious, that the Lord God might dwell in them." Only 
desire to empty thy soul of all which is not He; and He, as and when He 
seeth best for thee, will dwell in thee richly, and will give thee not thy lost 
Graces only, nor abundance of peace, nor riches of consolation ; not only 
what " eye hath seen, or ear heard, or hath entered into the heart of man," 
nor aught which in the brightest moment of love thou ever imaginedst ; 
not only what St. Paul heard in Paradise, in words which he could not 
utter, or Daniel or St. John saw, but were bidden to seal up, (for this hath 
" entered into the heart of man,") but w r hat " eye hath not seen, nor ear 
heard, neither hath entered into the heart of man," The Infinite Love of 
God ; yea, Himself Who is Love. 

' " Blessed is the man whom Thou choosest and receivest unto Thee : he 
shall dwell in Thy Courts, and shall be satisfied with the Pleasures of Thy 
House, even of Thy Holy Temple. O Lord God of Hosts, blessed is the 
man that putteth his trust in Thee ! for Thou, Lord, hast never failed them 
that seek Thee." 'Pp. 264267. 

But, perhaps, it is not less useful to the penitent to place the 
harder side of his lot fairly before him ; for, after all, facts must 
be dealt with as facts, and though chastised in mercy, men are 
often very severely chastised long after they have repented. 
Declaring the fact does not make it ; there it is, and must be 
met as best we may meet it. And certainly it is even a con- 
solation to one who suffers any prolonged chastisement, to be 
assured that it is nothing beyond the common lot of penitents, 
or if, from its severity, so much cannot be said, at least that it is 
no sign of a hopeless fall, but rather a merciful provision for 
more complete recovery in the end. The Sermon on * Irre- 
versible Chastisements' may seem to give a gloomy view of 
human life, but that view is no more than what the experience 
of thousands attests to be true, and is there accompanied with 
the only right and sufficient remedy. Perfect submission to 
this part of our discipline is a most wholesome exercise, but it 
is not likely to be attained without a distinct acknowledgment 
that such is the ordinary law of God's kingdom : 

' We need not, then, to be dismayed, though reft of all, and for our sin. 
Since a man is nothing " profited, if he gain the whole world and lose his 
own soul," so neither is his loss hopless, though he have lost all, except 
his soul. Rather, he may gather hope from the very severity of God's 



Dr. Puseys recent Sermons. 101 

punishment. Sorely must he have needed them, so to be chastised ; and 
therefore needing them so sorely, how great the loving-kindness of God, 
which past him not by unchastened ! 

* Yet although judgments in this world are not final, and the sinner may 
yet, in some new way, listen to Wisdom, whose Voice he neglected, yet is 
it an aweful thing to have been an image of God's irrevocable judgment, to 
have cried where one most dreaded, and, through sin, not to have been 
heard. It is an aweful thing to be alive as it were from the dead, to look 
back on the past as a dead life, from which a person has been severed, in a 
way, by God's strong Hand, yet belonging to him still; to bear about with 
him the memory of this living death ; to be haunted by its phantoms ; to 
have had all around him burnt up by the flames of God's displeasure, and 
himself awakened from his death-sleep, by the scorching of the fire which 
consumed him, himself as " a brand snatched out of the burning." It is a 
life, to be preserved only by continual watchfulness, as again ready to be 
extinct. And yet it may be that, among the redeemed around the Throne 
of the Lamb, some who shall wear the brightest crowns, will be from 
among those who passed their years in penitence and joyous sorrow, wit- 
nesses to the Heavenly Hosts of God's overflowing Love, and to what 
height of life the penitent humble love of Christ may raise from what ex- 
ceeding depth of death. 

' And this may, in a degree, be a comfort to us all. For almost all may 
too well know of themselves how they, in former seasons, neglected Wis- 
dom's Voice, and have since gathered the bitter fruits. If not outwardly 
chastened, they have been inwardly. It is one law, fulfilled in different 
degrees, "whoso obeyeth not God's Call, shall call and not be heard." We 
all bear about us not only the corrupt tendencies which we by nature had, 
but these, strengthened upon and against us by our own misdeeds. We 
were warned, as it may be, within and without, against inattention in the 
house of God and indevotion, against deeds and words of vanity, slothful- 
ness, selfishness, anger, wilfulness, self-indulgence, love of this world's 
praise ; we were called, within and without, to fear God only, and not man, 
to love Him with a whole heart, serve Him wholly, strive against some en- 
snaring sin ; our young hearts yearned for something better than this 
unsatisfying, unprofitable world. In whatever degree we obeyed not these 
calls, we suffer. As any of us would serve God more earnestly, they found 
themselves held back by the chain of their former sins. They had given 
to the enemy of their souls arms, wherewith to oppose their way. They 
"cried" to God, and were so far "not heard," that the trial they had 
brought upon themselves was not at once, perhaps not through many 
years, removed. They had to struggle on under the burthen they had 
brought upon themselves, oftentimes discouraged, disheartened, ready to 
sink or give up under the dreariness, but that God, Who seemed not to 
hear them, heard them from behind the cloud wherein they saw Him not, 
and strengthened them, though they scarce ventured to hope it. 

' Hearken we then to Wisdom's Voice, in whatever stage we are, while 
yet we may; the sooner the happier. God is ever calling us. Yet now, if 
we would hear, He calleth more distinctly and more manifoldly, to live, not 
to the world but to Him. All nature and Grace is His One varied Voice, 
calling us to return to Him. He called us, ere we, like Samuel, could dis- 
cern His Voice, and set His Seal upon us, that we, made members of 
Christ, might, as sons through that mysterious Oneness with The Ever- 
Blessed Son, know our Father's Voice, and hear His Call, and joy to hear 
It. He has called us ever since, Himself stirring our inmost souls, and 
kindling our secret longings ; by the thought of His aweful Seal upon us, 
and the constraining might of His Sacraments; by rites, ordinances, 
worship, holy Days and Seasons, the remembrance of His Cross and 



102 Dr. Pusetfs recent Sermons. 

Passion, the Power of His Resurrection. He has called by peace amid 
sorrow, or restlessness in joy; by remorse for past sin, or by the glowing 
thrill of some self-sacrificing conquest ; by voices of terror or love ; by 
fear and by hope ; by glimpses of Heaven or by dread of Hell; by thoughts 
of everlasting burnings, or by sight of His Outstretched Arms once nailed 
on the Cross, to embrace the whole world, and still extended to protect 
and to receive us. He is now again calling us by the thickening tokens 
of His Coming, whether that Coming be, as heretofore, in partial Judg- 
ments, or whether He be preparing the last closing strife. He is calling us 
by the examples of others whom He has called, or by His fearful abandon- 
ment of those who neglect His Calls, to take His side. He shews more 
clearly that we must choose our side, with Him, or with the world. He is 
calling us to a more resolute, generous, self-devoted, service, to take Him 
Alone for our " Portion " and " exceeding great Reward." ' Pp. 182 185. 

The author has indicated in his Preface, as has been already 
observed, what is the main principle by means of which we may 
hope for reconciliation amongst Christians. The ' Life of God 
in the Soul of Man,' the ' Indwelling of Christ by the Holy 
Spirit,' is acknowledged by all in words, but thoughtfully con- 
templated and realized by very few. It is by the study of this 
truth, and the application of it to life, that the truly religious, 
who now differ most in opinion, may approach one another. 
However, even on this ground, misrepresentations and harsh 
criticism may find place. Dr. Hampden discovered in some 
publications of his late- colleague what he supposed to be 
grounds for a charge of Pantheism!! as though himself, or any 
other writer he could name, were more clear and earnest in 
insisting upon the eternal distinctness of the created and the 
Uncreated, the individual responsibility and free-will of man, the 
real hatefulness of evil to God, or any other point that can be 
named as characterizing pure Christianity in opposition to Pan- 
theism. The charge is noticed in the Preface to this volume, 
and rebutted, as it deserves to be, with severity, though the author 
is above the petty carping which forms so marked a feature in 
the notes to the Sermon in which he, or rather the theology of 
his quotations, was attacked : 

' Ard this is the more threatening, now that Pantheism is abroad, both 
in Germany and America, and will probably be the permanent antagonist 
of the Gospel, as, however at variance with the voice and constitution of 
human nature, it is the only consistent form of unbelief. It can hardly be 
said, perhaps, how far the Eutychianism of Luther in his theory as to the 
Holy Eucharist, may have contributed to it, (for Eutychianism is Panthe- 
istic in its characteristic heresy,) but, at least, Pantheism has its origin in 
Lutheran Germany. It has found entrance among the Congregationalists 
and Unitarians of America. 

' It is then very serious, when the doctrine of " the participation of the 
Divine Nature" (2 Pet. i. 4) is represented as Pantheistic; 1 it is directly to 

1 ( Dr. Hampden first brought the charge against S. Thomas Aquinas, who says 
less than Holy Scripture itself. For, whereas Holy Scripture says that, "there are 
given to us exceeding great and precious promises, that by these we might be par- 



Dr. Pusetfs recent Sermons. 103 

prepare the way for error, to represent the truth as involving it. The 
Christian doctrine that we are " partakers of the Divine Nature," so far 
from being consistent with Pantheism, contradicts it, for it implies personal 
existence ; Pantheism assumes, that " God is whatever thou seest." Such 
union alone with God would be Pantheistic, according to which it should 
be assumed that " the soul ceases to be in that being which it before had 
after its own kind, and is converted or transformed and absorbed into the 
Divine Being and Essence," as the Eutychians affirmed of the Human Soul 
of Our Lord, and Almaric and other fanatics have affirmed of the soul of 
man. Yet so does the soul of man long for union with God, that, if the 
truth is withheld from it, it will seek, by way of imagination or of heresy, 
Him Whom ignorantly (St. Paul tells us) and blindly, human nature "feels 
after, though He be not far from every one of us," (Acts xvii. 27.) Panthe- 

takers of the Divine Nature," (2 Pet. i. 4) Aquinas only says, " the gift of Grace 
exceedeth every faculty of created nature, since it is nothing else than a certain 
(qucedam) participation of the Divine Nature, which exceedeth all other nature ; 
and therefore it is impossible that any creature should cause Grace. For thus it 
is of necessity that God Alone should deify, (see below, p. 233, not. m.) by commu- 
nicating a sharing (consortium) of the Divine Nature, by a sort of participation of 
likeness ; as, it is impossible that any thing should kindle fire, save fire alone." 
(2. 1. q. 112. art. 1.) On this Dr. Hampden stated, that "the Pantheistic notion 
of 'a participation of Deity,' or an actual deification of our nature, is the funda- 
mental idea of the operation of Grace according to the schoolmen." (Bampton 
Lectures, iv. p. 197.) 

' Dr. Hampden subsequently brought the same charge against S. Bonaventura, 
involving an attack on the writer. The passage of S. Bonaventura is " Then truly 
is the whole man changed into Christ, when detached from himself, and rising above 
all creatures, he is so wholly transformed into His Suffering Lord as to see nothing 
and to feel nothing but Christ Crucified, mocked, railed at, and suffering for us.' 

' Dr. Hampden proceeds, " Such a view of the Atonement, (Pantheistic as it is) 
is nothing strange in a mystic writer of the Church of Home. The strange thing 
is, that a minister of the Church of England should adopt such a sentiment as his 
own, and recommend it to others." 

' S. Bonaventura is not Pantheistic, unless S. Paul is, (1 Cor. vi. 17 ; 2 Cor. iii. 
1 8.) Nor is he speaking of the Atonement at all, but of the union with Christ 
through His Spirit. But again to refer to the work of Gerson, written in warning 
against unauthorised mystical language, there is not even the colour of any such 
shocking imputation to S. Bonaventura. " There are many words of Christ," 
(says Gerson,) " praying the Father that the faithful may be one (unum), as the 
Father and the Son are One (Unum). But of old the holy Fathers with certainty 
expound these sayings so that the unity is not essential, nor by any precise like- 
ness, but only assimilation and participation is there meant, as Luke saith, (Acts 
iv. 32) that ' the multitude of believers had one heart and one soul,' and the same 
is commonly said of two friends ; as also a kindled coal and air filled with light, 
are said to be one with their fire and light. In this way Boetius proves that the 
good man is God, according to that of Ps. Ixxxii. ' I said, ye are gods,' not indeed 
through the truth and unity of the Divine Essence, and properly speaking, but by 
way of participation and likeness, of imitation and title ; and if this author [liuys- 
brock] answered that he understood his own words of the uniting (uniftcatione) 
of the spirit with God, I do not contend nor contradict his meaning ; but I doubt 
not that it is other, else he would be saying nothing special of the contemplative, 
beyond all who are the children of God by the Grace of adoption." (1. c. p. 61.) 

' It is indeed almost too obvious to dwell upon, save that Pantheism is happily 
as yet little known among us, that no words expressive of the union of the soul 
with God can be Pantheistic, unless they implied that the soul ceased to be, and 
became essentially one with God ; in Professor Lee's words, " that unity and same- 
ness of Essence with the Deity, which is implied by the Nicene term Homoousion" 
(sad as it is that he should have imputed this to a writer in the same Church. 
Remarks on the Sermon of Dr. Pusey, p. 68, note).' 



104 Dr. Puseys recent Sermons. 

ism has been the food of the most religious minds of Mohammedanism ; in 
the form of Manicheism it long chained the mind of him who became S. 
Augustine ; and a certain fervour, (however lacking in humility,) of Soufic 
poetry shews that it has more semblance of love than Rationalism or 
Socinianism. All unbelief and heresy will probably sooner or later be 
resolved into it, and it will be the deadliest antagonist of the Church, as the 
full Catholic teaching is the antidote against it.' Pp. xix xxii. 

It is true, there is such a thing as a culpable mysticism, which 
approaches at least to the external characteristics, and some- 
times to the moral character, of Pantheism, from its want of 
reverence, and from its investing human feelings and imagina- 
tions with a divinity which does not belong to them. When a 
self-conceited enthusiast falls into this line, he will often give 
the reins to his imagination, and run a wild course through 
things sacred and profane, confounding their essential distinc- 
tions, glorying in what he ought to suppress, sneering at what 
he ought to regard with awe, and making doctrine of what 
should but have served, or should not even have served, for 
illustration. But the errors of such men do not shut out the 
wise and thoughtful divine from the whole field of mystical 
Theology. At least, if they do, they shut him out from a great 
part of Holy Scripture, which must be marked with many a 
' caute legendumj as containing what cannot be studied without 
a dangerous tendency to enthusiasm, if our thoughts may not 
be allowed to follow up its hints, and to range in the fields it 
opens to our view. 

But, surely, while we condemn the wild flights of the imagi- 
nation,, we must allow scope to the sober, thoughtful, loving 
apprehension of Divine mysteries ; and even to the eager and 
aspiring pursuit of them. And while the fault of mankind in 
general is a cold neglect of the objects of faith, it cannot be 
without some tendency to profit that holy men are moved at 
times to give utterance even to rapturous, and even half-para- 
doxical, thoughts, whether in their desire to communicate to 
their brethren some impression that can scarce be comprehended 
in words, or but to relieve a heart overflowing with spiritual 
delights. And if a writer has perchance quoted a few such 
expressions where they might happen to fall under the cogni- 
zance of cold intellect, and to be represented as bearing a sense 
quite alien to what those who wrote or who use them ever in- 
tended, he is not to be classed at once with those idle perverters 
of truth, who talk mysticism in order to seem devout, or 
that they may appear to understand what is as much beyond 
them as others. There may be cases in which it is necessary 
to judge of such language with strictness, but no one has 
a right to judge who has not the heart to sympathize. 

These remarks scarcely apply to the present volume, consist- 



Dr. Puseys recent Sermons. 105 

ing as it does of sermons addressed to mixed audiences, and 
therefore being more guarded on all sides than what is offered 
to the quiet study of the devout and thoughtful, who may be 
supposed able to discern a little for themselves. Indeed, it is 
hardly possible to imagine an intelligent reader, however pre- 
judiced, rising from the perusal of some of the sermons which 
bear upon the divine and supernatural character of Christian 
life, without having gained something toward an insight into 
the truths they propound, and a sympathy with those who hold 
them. God with us,' a sermon on the Nativity ; ( The Christ- 
' ian's Life hid in Christ ; ' ( Heaven the Christian's Home ; ' 
' The Christian the Temple of God ; ' f Christ Risen our Justi- 
'fication;' and especially 'The Christian's Life in Christ,' 
ser. xvi., are all to this point, and of great value to those who 
wish to enter more and more thoroughly into the truth so long 
revealed, yet so hidden in its own brightness, of God manifest 
in the flesh. Never indeed will the unsanctified intellect of 
man be able to comprehend that mighty doctrine. What man 
is become, in that God is become Man, surpasses the imagina- 
tion of the sons of Adam, and is a thought upon which the very 
sons of God by the Spirit must reflect with awe, and in which 
they must rejoice with trembling, rather than fancy themselves 
to have fully realised its import, or to be able to declare its 
consequences. The progress of science, and the accumulated 
observations of ages, may enable man, though imprisoned within 
our few miles of atmosphere, to detect the presence of unseen 
worlds in the remote fields of space, through their influences on 
those which his unaided eye can scarce discover among the hosts 
of heaven. He may learn, perchance, to thread the whole 
maze of solar and planetary motions, and to refer the whole 
order of those glorious lights more wonderful to him who looks 
on them with understanding, than to the uninstructed gaze 
of him who sees but with the eye to one central impulse 
and gravitation. He may learn, haply, all the elements of 
material action and combination that circulate in the life of 
this organic system, in which he rules and is ruled by turns. 
But the utmost he can learn of matter and its operations leaves 
him no nearer than he was before to a knowledge of the God 
of spirits. Let the greatest of natural philosophers learn but 
the Doctrine of the Incarnation, and it will still be a knowledge 
with which he must begin life again, and be as a little child. It 
is a knowledge that bears upon his own inward being, in a way 
that no truth of physical science, be it never so deep, never so 
extensive, can pretend to do. It makes all things new, as much 
as the presence of life would alter a sculptured form, or the 
presence of reason a mere animated human figure. 



106 Dr. Puseys recent Sermons. 

True it is that the pride of reason must be humbled, while 
we see not the Word Incarnate as He is. True it is that we 
must wait, ay, and groan amidst the travail-pangs of creation, 
for the manifestation of our ' Life hidden in Christ,' our full 
redemption, the perfect, glorified estate of the sons of God. 
But we are not therefore to put by the doctrine, and not only 
live as though it were not told us, but pretend to think and 
reason as though we had no intimations of it ; and only check 
and criticise those whose hearts will not rest in anything short 
of it, and who long, with the angels of God, to look into the 
mysteries of Divine wisdom, half manifested, half hidden, in 
the present heavenly dispensation upon earth. It is to little 
purpose, happily, that the over-reasonable world would try to 
restrain these eager souls from prying into that which they 
know they cannot understand, but which they so love that they 
are more content to apprehend a little of it, than to be knowing 
in what is of less worth. Holy Scripture bears them out, and 
authorizes their endeavour to fix their hearts upon an unseen life, 
and to exercise their minds and their affections in devout medi- 
tation upon so much as is revealed of that which eye hath not 
seen nor ear heard. And those who despise them must, to be 
consistent, charge S. John with tedious doting, and S. Paul 
with needless hyperbole, and overstrained, loquacious, visionary 
enthusiasm. David, Solomon, and the prophets, must be shelved 
under the general denomination of ( Hebrew poetry ! ' 

But, indeed it is not well to give even a hearing to those who 
would have us ignore the fact that we are ' created anew,' and 
that in the knowledge of the Son of God, God with us, God- 
Man ; and that this truth is not barely announced to us, but 
drawn out and reasoned upon in the records of revelation, and 
connected with our justification, our sanctification, our future 
resurrection. We believe, and we cannot but think of it. May 
God grant us first to believe it heartily and to act upon it 
faithfully, and, secondly, to avoid any erroneous, presumptuous, 
or futile speculation with respect to it ! 

. This truth is now the inheritance of ages. It was not, indeed, 
with ease that men's eyes were opened to receive it. Holy 
Scripture bears abundant witness to its very gradual dawning 
upon the Apostles themselves, as well as upon the early converts 
to the Christian faith; but we have it in the Gospels and 
Apostolic Epistles registered once for all, and from those very 
times firmly established as the faith of the universal Church, 
victorious over Arianism, and all other opposing heresies. It is 
now a tradition that we take in with our mother's milk, and its 
records are engraven all around us in numberless forms ; truths 
more or less connected with it are become the inheritance, as it 



Dr. Puseys recent Sermons. 107 

were, of the human race ; nay, even have gone forth into the 
world so as to become adapted to the purposes of evil, and to 
be made the pretexts of rebellion, the groundwork of false 
systems, the starting-points of ambitious intellect, the stolen 
decorations of error. Perhaps it is owing to this very general 
promulgation, that we have not the same advantages for the 
clear apprehension of Divine, as of physical truth, and that the 
species does not seem to make the same progress in the former 
as it does in the latter ; for the result is that the young and 
half-formed mind is beset not only with imperfect statements, 
as is the case even with physical science, but with perversions, 
contradictions, exaggerations, falsehoods innumerable, hard to 
correct even for those who are supported by the clear dogmatic 
statements of the Church, but inextricably confusing to those 
who are taught to regard their own reason as the measure of 
all things. 

Sound catechetical instruction in the Church's documents; 
patient and devout waiting upon her services; prayer, medi- 
tation, watchfulness ; unwearied, clinging study of Holy 
Scripture, must be the means whereby we are to improve our 
insight into these sacred truths, and to correct our mis- 
apprehensions of them. But we may be aided not a little by 
those who have themselves used these means, and are ready to 
impart to us the results of their meditations. And, perchance, 
we have yet to see the effect upon mankind of the accumulated 
thought and experience of the saints in threescore generations, 
when it shall please God again to turn the hearts of the children 
to the fathers, and of the fathers to the children. Be this as it 
may, words like the following will not be altogether without 
their effect. 

' Can there be more than this ? There can. The text unfolds to us a 
yet deeper Mystery, that all this is to us "in Christ," " In Christ shall all 
be made alive." The Endless Life, which they shall live who are counted 
worthy of it, shall then not be a life such as men seem to live here where 
our true life is unseen, as if we were so many creatures of God's Hand, 
each having his existence wholly separate from his fellows, upheld in being 
by God, yet, as it seems, apart from God, having his own wills, affections, 
tastes, pursuits, passions, love, hatred, interests, joys, sufferings. Our life 
then shall not be, as it seems here, and as it truly is in the ungodly, sepa- 
rate from God, and in the good indistinctly and imperfectly united with 
Him. It shall be a life " in God." " In Christ shall all be made alive." 
We shall live then, not only as having our souls restored to our bodies, and 
souls and bodies living on in the Presence of Almighty God. Great and 
unutterable as were this Blessedness, there is a higher yet in store, to live 
on " in Christ." For this implies Christ's living on in us. These two are 
spoken of together in Holy Scripture. " He that dwelleth in love, dwelleth 
in God, and God in Him," and " he that keepeth His commandments 
dwelleth in Him, and He in him ;" and in the service for the Holy Com- 
munion, we pray that " we may so eat the Flesh of Christ and drink His 



108 Dr. Pusetfs recent Sermons. 

Blood, that we may evermore dwell in Him, and He in us." For we can 
only dwell in God by His Dwelling in us. To dwell in God is not to dwell 
on God only. It is not mere lifting up of our affections to Him, no being 
enwrapt in the contemplation of Him, no going forth of ourselves to cleave 
to Him. All this is our seeking Him, not His taking us up ; our stretching 
after Him, not our attaining him ; our knocking, not His Opening. To 
dwell in God must be by His Dwelling in us. He takes us out of our state 
of nature, in which we were, fallen, estranged, in a far country, out of and 
away from Him, arid takes us up into Himself. He cometh to us, and if 
we will receive Him, He dwelleth in us, and maketh His Abode in us. He 
enlargeth our hearts by His Sanctifying Spirit which He giveth us, by the 
obedience which He enables us to yield, by the acts of Faith and Love 
which He strengthens us to do, and then dwelleth in those who are His 
more largely. By dwelling in us, He makes us parts of Himself, so that 
in the Ancient Church they could boldly say, " He Deifieth Me;" that is, 
He makes me part of Him, of His Body, Who is God. 

' This is the great difference between us and the brute creation. They 
are not capable of the Presence of God. He made them ; He extendeth 
His Providence over them. " His Mercy," Scripture saith, " is over all 
His Works," encompasseth, enfoldeth them all. " He feedeth the young 
ravens which call upon Him ;" " not a sparrow falleth to the ground with- 
out your Father." Yet their spirit goeth downwards to the earth, not 
upwards to God Who gave it. He careth for them as His creatures, and 
may have something in store for them. He giveth the horse strength ; the 
hawk flies by His Wisdom; He saveth "man and beast." He teacheth 
the ox to "know his owner, and the ass his master's crib." He teacheth 
the stork to "know her appointed times, and the turtle and the crane and 
the swallow to observe the time of their coming," so that we marvel at 
their wisdom, and often learn of their skill. But He hath not made them 
such to dwell in them, 

* Still more. With man himself, made in His Image, His " Spirit will 
not always strive;" He will not ever dwell in him. This is the difference, 
from which all others flow, between true Christians and all besides, hea- 
thens, or even the ancient people of God, that Christians, if they remain 
such, or are restored to be such, are "in Christ.'' This was the special 
Gift which Patriarchs and Prophets saw afar off. For the sake of this, 
Abraham rejoiced to see the Day of Christ. They saw it, " but not nigh." 
They had the knowledge of His Laws ; God dwelt with them as He dwelt 
with no other nation. " What nation was there so great, who had God so 
nigh unto them ? " But although " nigh unto them, in all things they called 
upon Him for," He dwelt not in them. Among them He appeared visibly 
in the Pillar of Fire, the Burning Bush, as the Angel of the Covenant, the 
Captain of the Lord's Hosts, in the Glory which filled the Temple ; but 
still without them because visibly, and visibly because without them. 
They had a visible Theocracy ; God was visibly their King ; and so of them 
it was not said, '' the Kingdom of God is within you." 

' This is the great present fruit of the great Mystery of Godliness, " God 
manifest in the Flesh," that He, by sanctifying our flesh, might fit for His 
Indwelling all who would receive Him ; might come secretly to us, to be 
hereafter in us manifested for ever. It was a commencement, a practising, 
as it were, of what was to be for ever. God the Word dwelt in that Holy 
Human Nature which He took, that thenceforward He might, by a real 
Indwelling, (a real Spiritual Union, although not a personal union like that 
with the Man Christ Jesus), sanctify our nature, and knit it on, in Himself, 
to God for ever. Holy as they were, He dwelt not in him whom He called 
His " Friend," " the father of the faithful," or in Moses, "faithful in all his 
house," as He dwelleth in the faithful Christian. For so He held it fitting, 



Dr. Pusetfs recent Sermons. 109 

that God the Holy Ghost should first dwell in His Own Sinless Human 
Nature, and so ever dwell in man ; restoring to him, through Himself, what 
he had lost, through the fall.' Pp. 232236. 

' Closer is the nearness of Almighty God, to those who will receive Him, 
than when He walked with Adam in Paradise, or seemed to sit with Abra- 
ham, or to speak to Moses Face to face, or when the Angel in Whom His 
Presence was, wrestled with Jacob, or when One, in the Form of the Son 
of God, was with the Three Children in the fire ; yea, nearer yet, than 
when, in the Flesh, His disciples did eat and drink with Him, and went in 
and out with Him, or Mary sat at His Feet, or His Mother carried Him in 
her arms, or St. John lay in His Bosom, or St. Thomas thrust his hand 
into His Side. For all this sacred, blessed, nearness was still outward only. 
Such nearness had Judas also who kissed Him. Such nearness shall they 
plead, to whom He shall say, " I never knew you ; depart from Me, ye that 
work iniquity." The Christian's nearness He hath told ; " We will come 
unto him, and make Our Abode with him," in Holiness, Purity, Peace, 
Bliss, cleansing Love. 

' It is not a Presence to be touched, handled, seen, heard, felt by our 
bodily senses ; yet nearer still, because it is where the bodily senses fail, 
where the outward eye cannot reach, the outward ear cannot hearken ; but 
when the outward senses fail, then the inward eye sees a light, brighter 
than all earthly joy ; the inward ear hears His Voice ; the inmost soul feels 
the Thrill of His Touch; the "heart of hearts" tastes a sweetness, 
" sweeter than honey and the honeycomb," the sweetness of the love of the 
Presence of its Lord and its God. 

' But whether or no He giveth to the faithful soul, to feel its own bless- 
edness, or in whatever degree He maketh the soul to hunger after Him, 
and so satisfieth the hungry soul with His Own Richness, the inward, 
unseen, Presence of God in the soul is the gift of the Gospel. This is its 
great, its one all-containing promise. 

' The Everlasting Son, for our Redemption, took our flesh, to be one of 
us; He came in our flesh; He cometh by His Spirit, really and truly, to 
dwell in us. He dwelleth not as He doth in the material Heavens, nor as 
He sanctifieth this House of God, nor as He did in the Tabernacle, but 
united with the soul, and, in Substance, dwelling in her, as He did Per- 
sonally in the Man Christ Jesus. In Him dwelt " all the Fulness of the 
Godhead bodily." In Him the Incarnate Word dwelt, becoming One with 
His Holy Manhood, " by Unity of Person," by taking It into Himself. In 
His Saints He dwelleth partially, by the Gift of His Spirit, in different 
degrees, according to their measure; but still His Union with them is a 
shadow of that ineffable Union of the Ever- Blessed Trinity, of the mode in 
which He dwelt in our Ever-Blessed Redeemer. For so our Lord Himself 
prayeth for them, " as Thou, Father, art in Me, and I in Thee, that they 
also may be one in Us." And this He bestoweth upon them by, Himself, 
dwelling in them. Thus, again, is He the Mediator between God and Man, 
receiving of The Father to impart to us. The Father dwelleth in The Son, 
and The Son in The Father; and so, Both The Father and the Son dwell 
in whom The Son dwelleth, as He saith, " I in them, and Thou in Me, that 
they may be made perfect in One ; " and this through Him, in Whom The 
Father and The Son are One, The Holy Spirit. For so saith Holy Scripture 
again, " Hereby know we that we dwell in Him, and He in us, because He 
hath given us of His Spirit." And both through the great Mystery of the 
Incarnation. The Son, as Man, received into Himself the Life of The 
Father, that He might, with Himself, impart it to us, " As the Living 
Father hath sent Me, and I live by The Father : so, he that eateth Me, 
even he shall live by Me." 

' This then, as it is the special Mystery of the Gospel, so it is of the 



110 Dr. Pusey^s recent Sermons. 

Resurrection, to be " in Christ." This is the greatness of God's Gift in 
Holy Baptism, that we are thereby " in Christ." This is the new Work- 
manship of God, that we, having been created, and having marred the 
Divine Image in us, are "created" anew "in Christ Jesus" a creation, 
though but commenced in Baptism, and to be perfected afterwards, yet far 
greater than the first, and having, like our natural birth, in very infancy, 
wrapt up in it, the whole, the full-grown being. This is our Justification, 
that we are in Him ; this our Sanctitication, to be in Him ; this our Re- 
demption, in Him ; this our calling to the Eternal Glory of God, " in Christ 
Jesus;" this our hope for those who are departed before us, that they are 
" fallen asleep in Him ;" are dead, but in Him, "the dead in Christ;" this 
our hope in the Day of Judgment, that we "may be found in Him ;" this 
our perfecting, that we may be " presented perfect in Christ Jesus," this 
our endless life, that "in Christ we shall all be made alive ;" this the con- 
summation of all things, that the blessed Angels who needed not redemp- 
tion and ourselves the redeemed, as we are in some unknown way one 
Church now, so shall we visibly be One Body then, when He shall " gather 
together in one all things in Christ, both which are in Heaven, and which 
are on earth," and the whole family in Heaven and earth shall be named of 
Him, and God be All and in all, restoring the harmony which was broken 
by our fall, and making all one for ever, in endless peace and rest, by 
dwelling in all, Himself the Life, the Joy, the Will, of all whom He hath 
made one by taking them into Himself.' Pp. 238 245. 

And the magnificent passage from S. Cyril of Alexandria, 
quoted as a note to the last. 

' S. John xvii. 21. "The Union with God cannot belong to any, except 
through the Participation of the Holy Spirit, inserting into us the Sanctifi- 
cation of His Very Own Special Nature, (rfjs i&ias idtorTjroy,) and re-form- 
ing to His Own Life the nature which fell under corruption, and so bring- 
ing back to God, and His Form, that which was deprived of this Glory. 
For the Son is the Perfect Image of the Father, and His Spirit is the 
Natural Likeness of the Son. Wherefore, transforming, as it were, the 
souls of men into Himself, He impresses upon them the Divine Form, and 
engraves on them the Image of the Supreme Substance of All. Our Lord 
Jesus Christ then prayeth, not for the Twelve Disciples only, but rather, 
for all who, in each time, should yield to, and believe their words. . . . 

" But what then is the Nature of His Prayer ? This, ' that they all may 
be one ; as Thou, Father, art in Me, and I in Thee, that they also may be 
one in Us.' He prays then for the bond of Love, and One-mindedness, and 
Peace, bringing believers to Spiritual Unity, so that the concurrence in 
unity, through the universal consent and undissevered harmony of soul, 
should imitate the Characters of that Natural and Essential Unity in The 
Father and the Son. Not that the bond of Love and the power of Oneness 
of mind in us, could have such force, that we should be united as the 
Father and the Son, expressing by Unity of Essence, the Manner of Their 
Unity; for Their Unity is of Nature, and Real, and in the very Mode of 
Being, but this is a sort of form of the True Unity. For how can antitypes 
exactly correspond to Archetypes ? For' the imitation of the Truth is not 
the same as the Truth Itself, and though the visible form be the same, yet 
the difference will be considerable. . . . 

' " Christ taketh the Essential Unity which the Father hath with Him, 
and He again with the Father", as the picture and type of inseverable 
friendship, and oneness of mind, and unity which is in harmony of soul, 
wishing that we also should be in a manner commingled with one another, 
by ike-Power, namely, of the Holy and Consubstantial Trinity, so that the 



Dr. Pusetfs recent Sermons. Ill 

whole Body of the Church should be conceived as one, by the union and 
coming together of the two people to the condition of one perfect man in 
Christ, as Paul saith, (Eph. ii. 1417.) ' For He is our Peace, Who hath 
made both one, and hath broken down the middle wall of partition between 
us ; having abolished in His Flesh the enmity, even the law of command- 
ments contained in ordinances ; for to make in Himself of twain One New 
Man, so making peace : and that He might reconcile both unto God in One 
Body, by the Cross, having slain the enmity thereby ; and came and 
preached peace to you which were afar off, and to them that were nigh/) 
which was fulfilled when they who believed in Christ were one-souled with 
one another, and received, as it were, one heart, through their entire like- 
ness in holiness and obedience in the Faith, and love of Virtue. . . . 

' " We have said above that the unity, through the harmony and oneness 
of mind and soul of believers, ought to imitate the Manner of the Divine 
Unity, and the Essential Sameness of The Holy Trinity, and Their perfect 
Interfusion, (at/a7rXoKj)i/). But now we have to show a natural unity also, 
according to which w r e are bound up with one another, and all with God, 
not lacking, perchance, the unity in body also, I mean with one another, 
although we differ from one another in our several bodies, each of us being 
circumscribed by his own separate person, for Paul could not be, or be said 
to be, Peter, nor Peter Paul, although, by the mode of union through Christ, 
both are accounted one thing (li/). 

' " Wherefore, it being confessed that the Unity of The Father, and Son, 
and Holy Spirit is of Nature, (for, in the Holy Trinity One Godhead is be- 
lieved and glorified,) let us consider in what way we ourselves also, both 
with one another and with God, are found to be one thing (Ii/), both bodily 
and spiritually. The Only Begotten Son then, shining upon us from the 
Very Essence of God The Father, and having, in His Own Nature, the 
Whole of Him W r ho begat Him, became Flesh, according to the Scriptures, 
mingling Himself, as it were, with our nature, through that Inconceivable 
Conjunction and Union with this body which is of the earth ; and thus He 
Who is by Nature God, was called and really became a Heavenly Man, not 
bearing God, (6eo(f)6po$), according to some who do not accurately under- 
stand the depth of the Mystery, but being, in One, God and Man ; in order 
that, having Co-United, as it w r ere, in Himself, things very different by 
nature or likeness, with one another, He might make man partaker and 
sharer of the Divine Nature. 

* " For the sharing and Abiding of The Spirit hath passed through to us 
also, having received Its commencement through Christ, and in Christ, first, 
conceived as one of us, that is, Man, and Anointed and Hallowed; whereas, 
as He appeared from The Father, He is, by Nature, God ; Himself, by His 
Own Spirit, hallowing His Own Temple, and the whole creation which was 
made by Him, which admits of being sanctified. 

' " Wherefore the Mystery in Christ was a sort of beginning and way for 
us also, to share The Holy Spirit and Union with God. For we are all 
hallowed in Him, as I have said. In order then that w r e, although different 
individually, in souls and bodies, each according to his own several pecu- 
liarity, might C3me together and be commingled in unity with God and one 
another, The Only Begotten contrived a certain way, devised through the 
Wisdom fitting to Himself, and the Counsel of The Father. For by One 
Body, that is, His Own, blessing those who believe in Him, through the 
Mystical Participation, He maketh us con-corporate with Himself and with 
one another. For who will part asunder and sever from natural union 
with one another those who are, By One Holy Body, bound together into 
Unity with Christ ? For if we all partake of that One Bread, we are all made 
One Body. For Christ cannot be divided. Wherefore, also, the Church is 
called the Body of Christ, and we too, severally, His members, according 



112 Dr. Pusetfs recent Sermons. 

to the meaning of Paul. For we all, being united with the One Christ 
through His Holy Body, as having received, in our own bodies, Him, the 
One and Indivisible, owe our own members to Him rather than to ourselves. 
But that the Saviour being set as the Head, His Church is called the Body, 
as being composed of the several members, Paul will show, (Eph. iv. 14 16) 
' That we henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried 
about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning 
craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive ; But speaking the truth in 
love, may grow up into Him in all things, which is the Head, even Christ : 
From Whom the whole body fitly joined together, and compacted by that 
which every joint supplieth, according to the effectual working in the 
measure of every part, maketh increase of the Body, unto the edifying of 
itself in love.') And that we, who partake of His Holy Flesh, obtain an 
union in body also with Christ, Paul will bear witness, saying of < the 
Mystery of Godliness, (which, in other ages, was not made known to the 
sons of men as it is now revealed unto the Holy Apostles and Prophets, by 
The Spirit), that the Gentiles should be co-heirs q,nd con-corporate (o-Jo-o-eo/xa), 
and co-partakers of His Promise in Christ.' But if we are all con-corporate 
with one another in Christ, and not only with one another, but also with 
Himself, Who is in us through His Own Flesh, how are we not clearly all 
One Thing, (li>), both in one another and in Christ? For Christ is the 
Bond of Unity, being in Himself God and Man in One. 

' " But concerning the Unity in Spirit, pursuing the same course of con- 
templation, we would say again, that we all, having received One and the 
Same Holy Spirit, are, in a manner, mingled together with each other and 
with God. For if in us, although being many, Christ inserteth severally 
in each The Spirit of The Father and His Own, and He is One and Indi- 
visible, we say that He holdeth together in Oneness, through Himself, the 
spirits, severed as far as they exist in each individually, and making us all, 
(TOVS Travras), as it were, one thing (cos ev ri) in Himself. For as the Power 
of the Holy Flesh maketh those in whom it is con-corporate, in the same 
way the One Indivisible Spirit of God, dwelling in all, bringeth all together 
into a Spiritual Unity. Wherefore, again, the Divine Paul addresseth us, 
(Eph. iv. 2 6.) 'Forbearing one another in love; endeavouring to keep 
the Unity of the Spirit, in the bond of peace. There is one body and One 
Spirit, even as ye are called in one hope of your calling ; One Lord, One 
Faith, One Baptism, One God and Father of all, Who is above all, and 
through all, and in you all.' For One Spirit Indwelling in us, there will 
be One God, The Father of all, in us, through The Son, holding together, 
into Unity with one another and Himself, what partake of The Spirit. For 
that we are co-united with The Holy Spirit, by participation, will be plain 
thus also. For if, forsaking the carnal life, we once for all give full 
dominion to the Laws of The Spirit, how is it not indisputable to any one, 
that having denied, as it were, our own life, and having received the Super- 
natural Conforming of the Holy Spirit, commingled with us, we are all but 
removed, as it were, into Another Nature, being not men only, but sons of 
God also, and Heavenly men, because we have been made partakers of the 
Divine Nature? We are, then, all one thing, (li/) in The Father, Son, and 
Holy Spirit, one in the Sameness of Temper, and in the Conformation 
according to Godliness, and the Communion of the Holy Flesh of Christ, 
and the Communion of One Holy Spirit." S. Cyril in S. Job. pp. 995 1000.' 
Note, pp. 241243. 

No doubt these passages contain the real elements of recon- 
ciliation for those who ( love the Lord Jesus Christ in sincerity.* 
No doubt it is the impossibility of comprehending in one view 



Dr. Puseys recent Sermons. 113 

the consequences which follow from union with Him that makes 
it so difficult for those who begin on different sides of the same 
truth to understand one another. And when it is considered 
that many not only begin with a very partial view, but at once 
throw a large proportion of their thoughts and opinions into 
the form of simple negation, we need not wonder that differences 
and confusions apparently irreconcileable and inextricable are 
the result. How much we may hope from increased communi- 
cation, increased endeavours after unity, increased Christian 
love, and continued prayer, as well as from a generation educated, 
in part at least, in the participation of deeper thoughts, and in 
the use of more frequent public prayer and more frequent com- 
munion, it is hard to say. But the direction in which hope lies 
may be confidently pointed out. 

One more point must be briefly noticed the practical conse- 
quences of belief in the union of God with man. With these, as 
might be expected, the sermons are very mainly occupied, and 
here, as always, the author reminds us of the words of the Hymn 

' That Thou with them may'st cut down sin ; 
As it were with a sword.' 

There is a strong pervading sense of the sanctity of that Pre- 
sence that dwells in us ; a bold, unsparing, irresistible inculcation 
of the maxim, ( Let him that nameth the name of Christ depart 
from iniquity ;' such as can come only from one deeply pene- 
trated with the Christian view of what our nature is become in 
Christ, and resolute to enforce the truth against the world, the 
flesh, and the devil. 

The sermon c Barabbas or Jesus ' is one of those deep 
trenchant strokes which can only be dealt with the true sword 
of the Word. 

' But His Godhead was still veiled in the flesh. His Glory was not yet 
revealed, " the Spirit was not yet given." More deadly the choice became, 
when the weakness of His Human Nature was taken up in the Glory of 
His Divine, and He was " declared to be the Son of God with power, 
according to the Spirit of Holiness, by the Resurrection from the dead." 

' What, then, must it be now, when, for so many centuries, God has 
borne witness to the blessedness of choosing Him as our Portion for ever ; 
when we are " compassed with so great a cloud of witnesses ;" when, not 
Patriarchs only and Prophets, but Apostles, Evangelists, Martyrs, Teachers, 
Saints, all, of every age, and tongue, and people, and nation who have been 
perfected, young and aged, boys and virgins, the early-perfected and grey- 
haired holiness, the poor and they who have made themselves poor for the 
Kingdom of Heaven, call us by their faithful lives and peaceful deaths, 
beckon us, as it were, from Paradise, and tell us " We know Whom we 
have believed; Whom we sought, (yea, Who sought us), we have found; 
Whom we chose we have ; ' one thing we asked of the Lord, this we have 
desired, to behold the fair Beauty of the Lord and to visit His Temple.' 
And now we dwell in His Courts, and behold His Face, and are filled with 
His Love, Whom, not seeing, we believed and loved." 

NO. LXI. N. S. I 



114 Dr. Puset/s recent Sermons. 

1 Yet the same choice continues still. All, throughout the whole world, 
is one choice between God and Satan, Christ and Barabbas. We know not 
indeed what we do ; and so, again and again, our Blessed Lord intercedes 
for those who deliver Him to His foes. But whenever a choice is given, if 
w r e have but any fear that we are choosing amiss, if we do what we suspect 
to be wrong or worse, if we say wilfully what we think better unsaid, what 
do any, in fact, but choose Barabbas? Hence the deep, deadly wound of 
the fir^t marked childish sin, which lives so long in the memory, and haunts 
it. It was its first marked choice of evil, and, if so, though unknowingly, 
of the evil one. Hence the evil of some subtle sin, which it perhaps knows 
not to be sin, only it knows that, were its parents by, it would not do it. 
It has made an evil choice ; and that choice cleaves to it, perhaps, through 
years of helpless strife and misery. The first evil choice is the parent of 
all which follows. It has chosen Satan instead of God; and now, before it 
can again choose aright, it must undo that first choice, and will that had 
been all unchosen which it ever chose out of God. 

' We never can make any real progress in holiness, we can hardly take 
the very first step, we shall be constantly slipping backwards, until, by 
God's Mercy, we have this stamped upon our souls, that we are ever anew 
making, that we must in all things make, this choice. There is, in every 
thing, a better and worse, a good and an evil to us. If we choose good, 
we choose God, Who Alone is Good, and is in all things good; if we choose 
evil, we do in fact choose the Evil one. There are degrees of choice ; as 
there were degrees and steps in the rejection of our Lord. Yet each led 
on to the next. Each hardens for the next. " No one ever became at 
once wholly vile," is even a Heathen proverb. But there is no safety against 
making the very worst choice, except in the fixed, conscious, purpose, in all 
things to make the best. The last acts are mostly not in a person's own 
power. They "who compass themselves about with sparks," cannot 
themselves quench the burning. They who make the first bad choice, are 
often hurried on, whether they will or no. Each choice, so far, involves 
the whole character. The one question of life or death before us, is, 
" whom we will obey," God or Satan. " His servants ye are whom ye 
obey, whether of sin unto death, or of obedience unto righteousness." 
The one choice is manifoldly repeated. The roads part asunder slightly ; yet, 
unmarked, the distance between them is ever widening, until they end in 
Heaven or in Hell. Each act of choice is a step toward either. Either we 
are striking more into the narrow way, or parting from it; we are, by God's 
Grace, unbinding the cords by which we are held, or we are binding them 
tighter. The character deepens unconsciously ; and at last, in man's sight, 
and but for some mighty interposition of God, it becomes fixed; because 
it has all along been secretly following or resisting grace, and so choosing 
God, or rejecting Him. And who knows how much countless, deadly ill, 
there may not be in these repeated acts of choice? Who, when he looks 
back on any portion of a past misdirected life, can imagine the amount of 
sin, through which it became what it was? It seems, and is, well-nigh all 
sin, because it has not been choosing God for His own sake, and has been 
choosing self and evil. Who can imagine the intensity of malice which 
may lie in, again and again, slighting what seem little calls, when each 
such act is a setting at nought the Grace of God ? Deeply wounded as 
many of us may be, we can often scarcely feel the real malignity of those, 
to us, slighter sores. Rather should we look at lesser sins by the light of 
the greater. All have the one bitter root of evil in them. It is but en- 
larged, that we may see it more thoroughly. The glass which enlarges to 
our sight what before seemed a smooth surface, and shews it to us so 
coarse, or the intricacy of its texture, changes not its structure, but enables 
us to see it. So murder or adultery shew us only more vividly what, in 



Dr. Puseys recent Sermons. 115 

its root, all hatred or love, out of God is ; all hatred of any but the evil 
one, or any love or desire to be beloved out of God. 

' It is, indeed, a mournful sight, brethren. It is a bitter memory to 
think that we have so often chosen out of God. But we can never amend 
our choice, unless, in bitterness of soul, we own that it has been amiss. 
We can never come to true penitence, unless we learn the intense evil of the 
manifold wrongness of our choice. God seems sometimes to allow some 
who, in his Mercy, finally are saved, to fall into gross sin, which shocks 
even them, that it may cast back its light on all the misery which prepared 
for it, but which they felt not till then. In one act, persons see a whole 
life. One deep act of selfishness may awaken a person to see that self has 
ever been his one real end ; one lie may shew him whither all his idle 
excuses or smoothing of faults were verging ; one unfeeling deed, how he 
has been deadening his own affections ; one sore fall through vanity, how 
he has ever been seeking, all through life, a wrong reward, the praise of 
men instead of the praise of God. 

' Hard is it to own this, that all has to be undone and begun anew, that 
the whole choice is to be reformed ; and therefore it is hard, truly to turn 
to God, and be saved. We would readily own imperfections, single faults, 
infirmities, falls. But that all life should have been in a wrong direction, 
that we should have been really tending towards Hell, while we hoped we 
were aiming Heavenwards, it must be some very humbling blow or great 
Grace of God which can teach us this. And yet, in whatever degree, we 
must with truth say, that praise of man, or human affection and sympathy, 
or getting on in life, or any satisfaction from this earth, or to pass smoothly 
through life, has been our main aim and spring of action, how can we say 
that Christ was indeed our choice ? And if not, who must have been ? 
Yet more, if, while our character was fair, and men spake well of us, and 
we gave no scandal, nor fell into grosser sin, still, whenever our besetting 
temptation came, we yielded to it, what else is this than, so often as the 
choice is given us, to listen to the suggestions of evil spirits or of evil 
men, stirring us up, that we should ask for Barabbas and destroy 
Jesus?' Pp. 207211. 

When such a sermon is delivered with that plain solemn 
earnestness and evident intensity of purpose which charac- 
terize its author, the attention is riveted almost unavoidably, 
and the hearer is held fast under the blow. He must depart 
making his choice, and conscious that he is making it, unless it 
has been already decisively made. There may not be the acute 
analysis of feeling and thought which engage the intellect in 
the compositions of a Newman or a Manning, in the present 
writer, but there is an edge of keen moral and spiritual per- 
ception, and a strength of moral purpose to drive it home, such 
as will and does prevail to sever the links of inveterate cor- 
ruption, and to shred away the disguises of life-long self-deceit. 
There is the weight of scriptural authorities, well chosen, well 
studied, and well applied ; there is the steadiness of one who 
knows where he is and what he is doing; there is the cer- 
tainty of both personal and participated experience; there is 
the freedom of one who lives above the world. 

Whatever view future ages may take of his controversial 
position, one thing at least Dr. Pusey will have accomplished, 

i 2 



116 Dr. Pusetfs recent Sermons. 

and will be acknowledged to have accomplished the stirring up 
of numbers to a higher view of their Christian calling, and a 
determination not to rest till they could be well assured of 
being at peace with God. This is the true secret of his 
strength, which he need not be afraid to betray to the Philis- 
tine, for the Philistine cannot take advantage of the knowledge. 
He effects much, because his aim is single, because he cares for 
nothing but his Master's work. He holds forth the remedies 
and supplies of the Gospel to the miseries and cravings of 
humanity, and that not because he wishes to have followers, but 
because he sees men wretched and sinful; and his spirit is 
stirred within him, and his compassion moved toward them, not 
only because they are his fellow-creatures, but 'because they are 
the purchase of the blood of his Saviour. It has ever been and 
ever will be, in spite of himself, that he is identified with party, 
though he cannot but be on the side of strictness against 
laxity, self-denial against self-indulgence, plainness against 
luxury, charity against evil speaking, ancient truth against 
modern inventions. If there are any in the Church who main- 
tain such views of justification as would preclude his thorough- 
going system of warfare against sin, or such views of the sacra- 
ments, and sacramental ordinances, as would cut off what he 
believes to be the great helps and crowning perfections of 
Christian holiness, to them he is so far opposed ; yet still, as 
his present preface testifies, in charity, and in the hope that 
more light will be granted them if they will but a little open 
their minds to larger thoughts, and work on humbly, each in 
the field assigned him by Providence. For himself his con- 
fidence is evidently not in his own judgment or his own powers, 
but is grounded in the absorbing thought of objects above and 
beyond himself, which he daily sees in the mirror of the Holy 
Scriptures, and in the spiritual phases of human life ; and of the 
reality of which he can no more doubt than of the presence of 
the sun in clear noon-day. If there is any place for error or 
misapprehension, it is secondary ; of the main truth, and of 
his own practical calling and duty, he is well assured ; and in 
practice he does indeed make sure of it, and drives on his 
work with an untiring energy, and an absolute simplicity of 
purpose, which any man will do well to imitate who desires 
that whatever is good and true in his own system, may win its 
way and prevail. No doubt it is easier to do this when the 
system is, in the main, that of Catholic truth, than when it is 
some narrow scheme of man's own devising. But the test is 
a fair one, and no man ought to shun it, unless he does what no 
man ought to do set up a sect for himself. Work on mainly 
for what is above controversy; and for your own particular 
views, let Providence decide their fate. 



117 






ART. V. Niccolb de* Lapi, ovvero I Palleschi ed i Piagnoni, di 
Massimo D'Azeglio. Parigi: Baudry, Libraria Europea. 
1841. 

WE are surprised that more of the recent Italian novels have 
not been translated. Independent of their intrinsic merit as 
works of fiction, they are interesting as a development of the 
Italian mind, in its political as well as its literary character. 
They all, more or less, belong to the movement : the work 
which is at the head of our article peculiarly so ; but all have 
the same political bearing. There runs through all the same 
bitter hatred of irresponsible authority, the same keen and in- 
dignant perception of the misery and injustice of exclusive 
privileges, the same scorn and loathing of the mingled profligacy 
and meanness of a heartless and unprincipled aristocracy. It is 
true that the picture is occasionally brightened by dazzling 
gleams of chivalrous and heroic virtue; and that real excellence 
' in high places ' is brought out now and then with a strength 
of relief which redeems it from the charge of palpable unfair- 
ness. Still the abiding interest, the staple, so to speak, of the 
great and good qualities portrayed, rests with the people ; not a 
base and ferocious mob, who, having nothing to lose, have 
nothing to respect ; but the people, that thoughtful, earnest, and 
well-disciplined class, with whom, perhaps, in all communities, 
the largest proportion of right feeling and conscientious action 
is to be found. 

But, while these interesting works are clearly the productions 
of men who desire, and would effect, such a change in political 
institutions, as might bestow on all classes of the community 
the blessing of equal laws, and call to the counsels of govern- 
ment the wise and intellectual of a class kept hitherto in the 
background, there is nothing in them of the godless spirit 
which has wofully distinguished the works of most reformers, 
both at home and abroad. Instead of openly attacking, or 
secretly undermining, revelation, they hold it up to our view 
boldly and unflinchingly. And, with the writers in question, 
religion is not the poetical abstraction of modern times, made 
to round a period or deepen the pathos of a scene of distress, 
but a positive system of belief, resting on Divine Revelation 
and authoritative teaching, and exhibited in conscientious ac- 
tion, the source of all true dignity and all successful self- 
discipline. By minds thus constituted, the abuses of religion 
are never identified with religion itself. Alexander VI. may 



1 18 D'Azeglids Nlccolo df Lapi. 

wear the tiara, and Ccesar Borgia may be a bishop; but the 
religion of Christ crucified goes calmly and majestically on, 
triumphs in its genuine servants over the powers of darkness, 
and sheds a mild and steady light upon the dungeon and the 
stake, the chamber of torture and the bed of death. This 
characteristic of deep reverence, and in the line of the Church, 
with whose acknowledged dogmata (i.e. teaching) it is in the 
strictest accordance, is a singular feature in the present day. 
It would appear to identify the spirit of the works in question 
with that of the Sovereign Pontiff who now sits in the chair of 
S. Peter, and aims at uniting in his own person the character 
of a bold modern reformer, with that of the uncompromising head 
of the Church. 

And yet of these compositions, in spite of their apparent 
adaptation to recent events and existing feelings, two only have 
been put within the reach of the English reader : ( The 
Betrothed,' and * Marco Visconti.' Of these two works, 
' The Betrothed,' which has been long translated, needs no 
notice or eulogy from us. Few books have been more generally 
read, or are better known. The deeply reverential spirit which 
breathes throughout, together with its touching pictures of 
human tenderness, will stamp it for ever in the memory of all 
who think and feel. It came upon us at first with surprise. 
From among the brilliant and sparkling literature of Italy, we 
did not expect to find a gem of darker hue, but of more sterling 
worth, which should reflect the depths of human thought and 
passion, and combine with the lighter graces of fancy the sterner 
qualities of truth. We were compelled to own that Scott was 
mastered in his proper domain by a writer who superadded, to 
his development of character and power of description, a more 
earnest purpose, and a more beneficial effect. Perhaps, in spite 
of Manzoni's well-known liberalism, there is less of the spirit of 
the movement in the f Promessi Sposi' than in the other his- 
torical romances to which we refer. This may be accounted for 
by the earlier period at which it was written, when the spirit 
which is now abroad in Italy was comparatively new, and the 
fire was mouldering, rather than kindled into a blaze. 

Though ' The Betrothed ' reminds us of Walter Scott, there 
is nothing in it which necessarily implies that Manzoni must 
have read the Waverley Novels. Not so ( Marco Visconti.' 
It is a very amusing production, in parts even powerful ; but it 
cannot be exempted from the charge of plagiarism. Some of 
the most prominent characters and most striking scenes derive 
their origin from ' The Antiquary.' The Count and Bice are 
clearly duplicates of Sir Arthur and Miss Ward our ; the storm 
on the lake, by which the father and daughter of the Italian 



D'Azeglio's Niccolb de Lapi. 119 

novel are in jeopardy, is a palpable imitation of the advancing 
tide, by which those of the English novel are suddenly sur- 
rounded. Even the escape is closely copied ; while the death of 
Arigazzo, and the scenes which follow, bring us back to Steenie 
Mucklebacket and his bereaved father with a resemblance all 
but identical. Still the work is well worth translation, and we 
are glad that it has been placed within the reach of the mere 
English reader. We do, however, wonder that it should have 
been selected in preference to either of the romances of 
D'Azeglio, which, within these few years, have found their way 
into this country. It contains an interesting story, full of 
stirring events and hair-breadth escapes, but it has neither the 
deep pathos of ( Ettore Fieramosca,' nor the moral grandeur of 
' Mccolo de' Lapi.' We speak, of course, only by comparison. 
In ( Marco Yisconti,' as in all the Italian novels, there is a high 
and healthful tone of Christian principle. The true destiny of 
man is never forgotten. Worldly success is never made the 
criterion of human conduct, or the reward of moral excellence. 
What is called f poetical justice ' is nobly disregarded. ' The 
wish,' says Grossi in the conclusion of his work, 'to see every 
one rewarded in this world, according to what we consider his 
merits, is impatience, folly, and worse than presumption. It is 
as if we supposed ourselves to have more discernment than He 
who gave us our reason : it is as if we forgot that the debts are 
contracted in this world, but that they are settled in another.' 
We have said that the Italian novels belong to the movement, 
and ( Niccolo de' Lapi' in particular. D'Azeglio himself, like 
his father-in-law Manzoni, is a reformer. He is a politician as 
well as an author. Himself a noble, brother of the benevolent 
Marchese D'Azeglio, Avho devotes himself at Turin with such 
exemplary kindness to its infant schools, the Marchese Massimo, 
though undistinguished in outward circumstances from the crowd 
of titled persons who in Lucca wear away their lives in idleness 
and obscurity, has marked out for himself a path both of useful- 
ness and distinction. He is found in the ranks of patriotism, and 
is active in schemes of benevolence ; and, while he seeks in lite- 
rature the development of his intellectual powers, he cultivates, 
it may be for his subsistence, one of those fine arts of which, as 
a richer man, he might have been the munificent patron. He 
paints with much assiduity and no inconsiderable success. This 
is probably his profession. From his literary productions, how- 
ever popular and widely circulated, he cannot have derived much 
pecuniary advantage. Owing to the defective laws of copyright, 
authors in Italy have hitherto received no adequate remunera- 
tion for their labours. Manzoni was paid but a small sum for 
his < Promessi Sposi,' and that only as an unexpected compliment. 



120 D'Azeglio s Niccolb dj Lapi. 

He does not appear to have made any stipulation. But one 
feels that Massimo D'Azeglio writes and publishes from a higher 
and nobler motive than that of emolument. The thirst for civil 
and religious liberty, which burns in every Italian bosom in the 
present day, is kindled in his own. Either as a political 
pamphleteer, or an historical novelist, one can conceive his object 
to be, not to get money, but to do good to communicate to others 
a portion of the noble enthusiasm which thrills within him. He 
writes liberare animam suam. And D'Azeglio must not be 
classed with such men as Mazzini or Guerrazzi. He does not 
* write a book from sheer impossibility of fighting a battle.' He 
belongs to that class of men in Italy who trust to the ascendancy 
of moral force. He is the apostle of those who disclaim all 
violence of opposition, and pledge themselves to moderation and 
forbearance. These views are detailed in his pamphlet entitled 
( The present Movement in Italy,' a translation of which was* 
published in 1847 by Fortunato Prandi. 

In order to make our readers acquainted with D'Azeglio as a 
novelist, we choose ' Niccolo de' Lapi,' in preference to ' Ettore 
Fierainosca,' because there is a moral sublimity in the character 
of the hero, which fills us with admiration at the grandeur of 
the conception. 'Ettore Fieramosca' is, perhaps, altogether the 
more interesting romance. It reminds us, though without the 
slightest approach to plagiarism, of ' Kenilworth.' There is the 
same external display of festal pomp and chivalric magnificence, 
with the same deep under-current of guilt and suffering. Never, 
perhaps, was the visible and ostensible of human life more 
strikingly contrasted with the hidden and unseen. The march 
of political events goes majestically on, battles are fought and 
victories gained, the tournament is thronged with its eager 
combatants, and the banquet crowded with its glittering guests, 
while feelings are crushed and hearts are breaking. The style 
of composition is of the very first order. ' The story is 
written in very choice Italian.' Nothing can be finer than 
some of the descriptions of natural scenery. They seem bathed 
in the clear light of an Italian sky, as it shines on the romantic 
shores of the blue Mediterranean. The characters, whether 
historical or fictitious, are drawn with a masterly hand. The 
magnificent Gonzalvo, the noble Vittoria Colonna, the bold and 
reckless Fanfulla, the high-minded and chivalrous Ettore, stand 
out in striking contrast to the cruel and unshrinking 'Duke' 
and his base agent, the unscrupulous Michele. The sweet and 
touching portrait of the heroine, in particular, is painted with 
the finest perception of grace and beauty. The story is, 
perhaps, too harrowing. The fate of the hapless Ginevra, once 
so nearly escaped, and then so awfully consummated, is even 



D'Azeglio s Niccolb de Lapi. 121 

revolting. The villany of Caesar Borgia should not have been 
all successful. Genevra should have died unstained even by 
violence. But her death is the triumph of the spiritual and the 
heavenly over the earthly and carnal. It is a noble display of 
Christian eloquence. D'Azeglio has lavished upon it all that is 
pure and tender in human feeling, and all that is holy and self- 
denying in religious principle. One almost shrinks from the 
severity of his aim. Few writers of fiction, even of the severer 
class, would have suffered Genevra to die in ignorance of her 
lover's constancy, though to give her the sublime merit of 
resigning him to her supposed rival. There are some slight 
defects in the conduct of the story. Characters which excite 
both interest and curiosity are sometimes strangely introduced, 
as if for the express purpose of disappointing both; as, for 
instance, the mysterious female, who is the companion of 
Genevra. But altogether the effect of the work is most 
powerful. The wonderful spirit with which the celebrated 
combat, so nattering to Italian recollections, ( the challenge of 
Barletta,' is described, as well as the touching scenes which 
immediately precede and follow it, will bear a comparison with 
anything that can be found either in history or fiction ; and, on 
the whole, the impression left on the mind is not only salutary but 
soothing. As far as this world is concerned all indeed is gloom ; 
we mourn over blasted hopes and bruised affections, and see, 
amidst the triumph of atrocious guilt, that the doom of the 
gentle and the good is to suffer and to die. But there is a 
different aspect of things, and it is given by a few bold and 
graphic touches. The secrets of the prison-house are laid 
open, and the punishment of successful guilt revealed. ' Then 
understood I the end of these things.' He who would know 
whether it is worth while to be wicked, might have his doubts 
resolved by a glance at the secret horrors of Caesar Borgia. 

( Niccolo de' Lapi; or, The Palleschi and the Piagnoni,' 
treats of that epoch so honourable to the Italian name, but so 
terrible to the city of Florence, during which the republic 
defended itself alone against the arms of Clement VII. and 
Charles V. D'Azeglio is not the first who has written, and 
with great success, upon this most interesting subject. Not to 
mention the historian Varchi, who lived at the time, and was an 
actor in the scenes which he describes, and who has written the 
whole account of the siege with minuteness and regularity, the 
' Assedio di Firenze,' by Guerrazzi, had already attained a high 
degree of popularity. But D'Azeglio did not shrink from the 
competition. His object, in fact, was rather to portray the 
passions which agitated the people than to detail the events of 
the time. In this he differs from Guerrazzi. With D'Azeglio 



122 HAzeglids Niccolo de* Lapi. 

the romantic element predominates over the historical. He does 
not, like the writer who preceded him, consider private vicissi- 
tudes as a mere episode, and public interests the subject matter. 
His object is the inner rather than the outer life. He paints in 
glowing colours, not only the valour, the constancy, the fortitude, 
the daring of those devoted men, who rallied round the banner 
of freedom, but the social qualities which ennobled while they 
softened the sternness of their iron nature. He shows us the 
citizens of Florence in the capacity of fathers, husbands, sons, 
and brothers, as they returned in the evening of a tempestuous 
day to the shelter of the domestic roof; when, having laid aside 
the implements of war, they sought a momentary rest from the 
cares and labours which pressed upon them from without, and 
in the familiar intercourse of the family gained strength to 
plunge into new dangers and encounter fresh fatigues. 

The family of Niccolo de' Lapi are intended to embody the 
author's conceptions of those brave men who died for the liberty 
of Florence. Niccolo himself, the hero of the tale, is an opulent 
silk manufacturer. He had been the intimate friend of Savo- 
narola, whose severe opinions he adopted, whose memory he 
reverenced, and to whose ashes he paid that modified worship 
offered by Rome to the relics of the sainted dead. Besides his 
surviving sons, the rough Averardo, the joyous Vieri, and the 
gentle but spirited Biudo, he has two daughters : the noble and 
saint-like Laudomia, ( the Angel of the Lapi? and the generous 
and open-hearted, but wilful and petted, Lisa. Upon the fortunes 
of these daughters much of the interest of the story turns. A 
certain Lamberto forms part of the family, whose father, in the 
attack made by the enemies of Fra Girolamo on the church and 
convent of San Marco, had saved the life of Niccolo by the 
sacrifice of his own. He discharges his debt of gratitude by 
watching over the fortunes of his son, who is brought up from 
infancy with his own children, and, in spite of his humble origin, 
encouraged to aspire to the hand of one of his daughters. The 
character of Lamberto is finely conceived and admirably sus- 
tained. He is emphatically a Christian hero. He is in fact the 
counterpart of Laudomia, by whom he is secretly beloved, while 
he contemplates at humble distance her surpassing excellence, 
and fixes his affections on her lighter and more worldly sister. 
The vanity of Lisa rather than her heart is touched by his 
passion. 6 The idea cannot enter into her head of marrying a 
6 man who passes his life in measuring brocades.' The conse- 
quence is easily foreseen. Lamberto longs to distinguish himself 
in arms, and after some secret misgivings, which owe their 
origin to his deep affection for his simple but highminded 
mother, he determines to seek distinction as a soldier of fortune. 



D'Azeglio's Niccolb de' LapL 123 

We extract the description of his departure, told in the original 
with a sweetness of which our translation will, we fear, give a 
very inadequate idea. 

' While preparations were secretly made of clothes, arms, and other 
things of which he stood in need, partly at his own expense, and partly at 
that of his mother, who on such an occasion bestowed on him willingly the 
savings of many years, a word, which dropped from the lips of Lisa, 
strengthened his'resolution, and carried it into immediate effect. He heard 
her say one day, \vhen talking to her brothers of a relation who was study- 
ing the law, " For my part, no one looks to me really a man except on horseback 
with a cuirass on his breast." These words sounded in the ears of Lamberto 
as if she had said : " Now, if you ivish to have me, you know what to do." 

6 Two days after this, at early dawn, the young man, clad in complete 
armour, knocked at Nunziata's (his mother's) door to embrace her and ask 
her blessing. The reader will easily imagine the words and actions of both 
without our undertaking to describe them minutely. At the moment of 
separation, the poor old woman laid her thin and trembling hands on her 
son's head as he knelt before her, kissed his forehead, blessed him, and said, 
as she put a crucifix of brass round his neck, " Never part with this, my 
son, it will bring you good fortune " and Lamberto was gone. 

' But before setting forward to the gate of San Gallo, through which his 
road lay, he turned his horse, and stopped at the great door of the house 
inhabited by the Lapi. He had never summoned resolution to speak to 
Lisa plainly and openly ; but now the moment of departure, and the deter- 
mination which he had made, emboldened him. The very armour which he 
wore seemed to have changed him into another man. Perhaps (he was so 
young!) he was delighted to appear before Lisa glittering all over with 
steel; and thought, " When I am far away, and she thinks of me in my 
absence, it will be with sword and shield, not with that cursed yard and 
those vile brocades." 

' He dismounted, and resolutely ascended the steps till he reached the 
gallery of the upper story. Lisa had just risen, and had come out to water 
her flowers before sunrise. 

' Brief and hurried were the words which passed between them. 

' " If I return," said Lamberto, keeping two steps off from the young 
girl, and clasping his hands in the attitude of supplication, " if I return I 
shall be worthy of you ; if I do not . . . . you will know that your Lamberto 
has lost his life in striving to deserve you. Should this happen, will you 
remember me ? Should God reserve me for better fortune, will you be con- 
tent to wait for me?" 

' Lisa leaned for support against the wall of the gallery, for the young 
man's sudden appearance, the armour he wore, and his words at once so 
grave and so tender, caused such a commotion in her heart that her knees 
trembled under her. 

' She felt her eyes dimmed with tears, and, turning her head another way, 
replied in a low voice, 

' " Yes, poor Lamberto ! " 

' Then, stretching out her hand to a vase of fullblown roses, she plucked 
one offj and giving it to Lamberto fled to her own apartments. 

' In another moment Lamberto was in the street ; as he leaped into the 
saddle, the motion stripped the rose, and a light wind which had just 
sprung up scattered the petals. 

' Lamberto in consternation saw them float with a tremulous motion in 
the air, and then fall dispersed around him. 

' He placed in his bosom with a sigh all that remained, the stalk and the 



124 D'Azeglios Niccolb de' Lapi. 

green leaves, and spurred forward on his way with an oppressed heart, 
thinking for how short a time the rose had lasted. 

1 Let us not smile at him, poor youth ! when the heart is at this pass, a 
mere nothing can either afflict or console it.' 

Lamberto is soon forgotten. A young noble of the party of 
the Palleschi, Troilo degli Ardinghelli, in whose atrocious cha- 
racter, redeemed by few conscientious misgivings, D'Azeglio 
has concentrated all his burning indignation against baseness 
and profligacy, gains the affections of Lisa and betrays her into 
a false marriage. His passion soon cools, and the banishment 
of the Medici and their adherents from Florence, separates him 
not unwillingly from the mistress for whom he had ceased to 
care. A child in the meantime is born, and concealed with the 
help of Laudomia, made acquainted with her sister's imprudence 
when it was too late to be remedied, in the upper apartments of 
the extensive mansion of the Lapi. All goes on well till 
Niccolo is secretly apprised of his daughter's marriage with a 
Pallesco, and the birth of her infant son in his family. The 
discovery is told with much picturesque effect. It occurs after 
a meeting of the chiefs of the Piagnoni in Niccolo's apartments, 
in which, prompted by the Christian feeling called forth by the 
excellent Laudomia, they had been praying for their enemies. 

' The events of this evening had shed a little balm upon Lisa's heart. 
Accustomed to hear the Palleschi spoken of as wild beasts, her ears con- 
stantly ringing with the sanguinary words uttered on all sides against them, 
the sound of that prayer seemed to refresh her heart like dew from heaven. 
Without being able to define exactly the hope which she might gather from 
it, she felt as if it were the first dawn of a less miserable future. She went 
up to her own room with Laudomia, shut herself in, and when she was 
quite certain that she could not be surprised, ran into the chamber adjoin- 
ing, where her infant was sleeping peacefully in the cradle. In tossing 
about, as babies are wont to do, he had tumbled his little bed. One tiny 
leg, round and white, with a little rosy foot, lay exposed upon the coverlet ; 
the two arms were thrown one here, one there, with two little fat hands ; 
while the full round bosom shone as w hite and smooth as satin, tempting 
everybody who saw it to steal a kiss. 

' The poor mother threw r herself down by the cradle, taking care, however, 
not to wake him ; and, giving way to a thousand feelings, which she had 
been obliged to shut up in her heart all the evening, began to weep without 
restraint. 

' Becoming gradually more composed, she began to talk to her child, who 
was now awake and had opened his eyes, his little hands playing with one 
of his tiny feet or patting his mother's chin as she bent over him. 

' " Poor Arriguccio, my little bird, darling of thy mother . . . yes . . . they 
prayed even for thee at last, prayed even for thy father !" Then, turning 
to Laudomia, " Would you believe it? I was just on the point of telling all. 
When Fra Zaccaria said, We pray for our enemies the Palleschi, I was within 
a hair's breadth of saying We pray, then, for my husband " 

' " God sometimes," replied Laudomia, "puts into our heart what would 
be for our advantage." 

' " Come," said Lisa resolutely, " I will follow His guidance. Your words 
and the prayers of Fra Zaccaria will not have passed from my father's mind 



IfAzeglws Niccolb dj Lapi. 125 

to-morrow morning. He will not refuse me that pardon which he im- 
plored for his enemies only a few hours before ; he will not renounce me as 
his daughter, he will not banish me from his house, because a Pallesco has 
become his son-in-law. We will throw ourselves at his feet with Arriguccio; 
we will pray to him as we pray to God. God does not refuse pardon, will 
he be able to refuse it?" 

' Hope is a disease easily caught, if it may be called a disease even when 
it deceives us. Laudomia herself was at length persuaded that things might 
be quietly settled when the first burst of anger was over. Lisa sat down 
by the cradle, and taking her little one in her lap, said as she gave him 
suck, " There, my little angel, and God grant that when thou art grown 
up, these cursed factions may be over !" 

' As the baby was sucking with all his might, Lisa said with a smile, 
" Thou must leave me a little strength for to-morrow j but God will give it 
me." 

' By degrees the child closed his eyes ; and his mother, as she rocked her 
chair, sang a little ballad in a low voice till he fell fast asleep. Laudomia 
in the meantime stood behind her sister, busied in arranging her hair, which 
she put up at length in a knot for the night. Mova Fede (the old female 
domestic) scuffled about in her slippers, preparing the beds of the two 
young women, and placing Arriguccio's cradle by that of Lisa. She had 
listened attentively to the discussion between the sisters, but the final con- 
clusion went against the grain ... so that, when they were silent, with 
many sighs and shakes of the head, going on notwithstanding in her 
arrangements for the night, she began to mutter : " Hum ! God grant it 
may turn out well ! . . . Tell everything ! that is soon said . . but then, sup- 
pose everything should be turned topsy turvy, and some worse devilry 
should come after ! ... As we are, we contrive to get on with some 
management : it is true we are on our ps and qs, but no great harm has 
come of it yet, and one day or other we shall find some way of scrambling 
out of the bush . . . mind what you are about, that's all." 

' "Fede, let me alone: I am resolved, and you know I don't easily 
change." 

' ' I know it well enough rather too well. . . I have done : God grant 
that we may find out what is best ! but ever since the lions fought 1 and the 
lioness died, one thing with another, nothing has gone right either for 
Florence or for this house I have always heard old people say that there 
is not a worse omen for this city . . . and last night, when the air was still, 
we could hear as far as this the roaring of the great lion, which came with 

the giraffe, when the sultan sent a present to Signor Lorenzo in 88 The 

poor animal knows very well why he cries out after that fashion." 

1 " And so do I," replied Lisa; " and I will tell you directly why it is 
so. He cries out because he is hungry : now that asses' flesh sells for a 
carlino a pound, he fares but badly." 

' " Listen, listen, if he is not roaring even now !".... 

' The three women put a stop directly to their chit-chat : Lisa ceased 
rocking, Fede even held her breath, and each one listened attentively for 
the sound. Owing to the lateness of the hour, the deep repose in which 
the city was hushed, the elevated situation of the chamber in which they 
stood, and its vicinity to the Palagio de' Signori, behind which the lions' 
were, there reached them from time to time the deep hoarse roar of these 
wild beasts, who (as Lisa had rightly guessed) were suffering from hunger 
in the scarcity occasioned by the siege. 

1 In Florence, during the Commonwealth, lions were kept at the expense of the 
Government, and great care was taken of them, in honour of ' Marzocco,' (a stone 
lion on one side of the Palagio,) one of the city devices. The common people had 
many superstitious fancies about lions. 



126 D'Azeglws Niccold de* Lapi. 

1 But while these poor women were standing, all ear, listening to this 
distant roaring, another sound burst forth, near and terrible. It was the 
voice of Niccolo, who, knocking furiously at the entrance, cried, 

' " Open the door, wicked woman !" ' 

The scene which follows is very painful. Lisa is dragged 
down stairs by her exasperated father, turned, with her child, 
into the streets of Florence on a wet and tempestuous night, 
and left to find refuge where she can. In spite of our admira- 
tion of Niccolo, there is a harshness in the earlier features of 
his character with which we cannot harmonize. The Puritanical 
element rather disagreeably predominates. The stern Floren- 
tine Reformer differs from the old Covenanter only in not being 
a schismatic. His hard and inflexible nature is developed in 
the Church, not out of it. This, indeed, is a great distinction, 
but it is the only one. Niccolo has the same disposition to strip 
life of all its elegance, and discard those forms of grace and 
beauty, without which, externally at least, it is a barren waste. 
This, in fact, was the characteristic of his party, or rather, that 
of Savonarola. It was, perhaps, the natural reaction produced 
by the profligate excesses of the Papal court, and the gorgeous 
magnificence of its expenditure. In the meantime, it is the 
greatest proof of D'Azeglio's power, that he has contrived com- 
pletely to obliterate the harsh features of Niccolo's character 
in its deep feeling and majesty. Lisa is discovered by the 
patrole on that dreadful night sitting on the ground close to a 
wall. ( To defend herself from the wet, she had drawn some 
of her clothes over her head ; and, from the degree in which 
she was soaked with rain and bespattered with mud, it was 
evident that she had been there for some time. In her lap 
she held her child, carefully wrapped in a woollen covering ; 
it was sleeping peacefully, and its round and chubby cheeks 
had all the appearance of those of a healthy sucking child. 
Its mother had contrived to make a penthouse for it with her 
arms and head, so as to shelter it from the rain and cold.' 
The captain of the patrole is Fanfulla. He had appeared already 
in c Ettore Fieramosca' as a gay and thoughtless stripling, full of 
frolic and mischief. Years have now passed over his head, and 
he has become a rough and honest soldier, full of the milk of 
human kindness, and ready to make any sacrifice of personal 
comfort or interest for the welfare of his fellow creatures. 
Engaged in the sack of Rome under the Due de Bourbon, the 
scenes of devastation and cruelty which he there witnessed (and 
which are painted by D'Azeglio with fearful truth) struck him 
with such horror and compunction that he became a monk. 
For this he had clearly no true vocation; and as the clouds 
thicken around the devoted city, with the acquiescence of his 
superior, he doffs the cowl, and again resumes the helmet. This 



D^Azegllos Niccolb de Lapi. 127 

character is admirably conceived. The whimsical union of the 
monk and soldier, often laughable, but always reverential, is 
one of the most amusing traits in the book. His protection of 
Lisa resembles that which Captain Cuttle extends to the de- 
serted Florence. Indeed, Fanfulla and the Captain are kindred 
spirits. We have not space to describe minutely the sacrifices 
made by this poor fellow, (especially that of his old horse, at 
which one scarcely knows whether to laugh or cry,) or the 
gradual steps by which, in spite of all, Lisa and her child are 
pining away with famine; but we must extract the scene in 
which she at length begs for bread at the door of her unrelent- 
ing father. 

' In a few minutes Lisa stood before the great door of the Lapi, which 
she now saw again for the first time. She wept at the sight. But, drying 
her tears, she set her foot upon the first of the two steps which led to the 
threshold, when her courage failed, and she could not stretch out her hand 
to the knocker. 

' She saw a light in the windows of Niccolo's apartment on the ground- 
floor, and getting on the marble bench which ran along the front, con- 
trived, by clinging to the iron-work, to raise herself sufficiently to take a 
view of the interior. 

' There was no one in the room but Niccolo and Laudomia ; he in his 
large arm-chair in the chimney corner, she at her work-table. Both were 
silent and motionless. Both bore traces on their countenance, which, by 
one ignorant of their misfortunes, might be attributed either to recent 
calamity or recent illness. Lisa knew the first to be true, and suspected 
the second ; nor was she deceived 

' Lisa looked attentively, now at her father, now at her sister. The 
paleness and sadness of both, their stillness, their silence, pierced her heart 
like so many daggers. " See what thou hast done!" she said to herself . . . . 
" see to what thou hast brought that poor old man, thy father .... that 
spotless angel, thy sister .... and canst thou hope that God will not do as 
much to thee ? . . . . that He will leave thee the comfort of thy boy ?" .... 
And then the thought, that the Divine vengeance might reach her through 
the death of her baby taking her by surprise, she could no longer 
suppress her feelings, but burst forth in a sob so loud as to be heard both 
by Laudomia and Niccolo. 

' " Who is crying there?" said the old man, rising; and going to the 
window, he threw it open. Lisa, seeing her father move, overcome by 
terror, got down from the bench on which she had been standing, and 
falling prostrate on the pavement of the street, cried out, 

' " Oh, father ! I do not ask anything for myself .... I do not deserve 
it .... but my unfortunate baby ! How is he to blame for the unworthi- 
ness of his miserable mother? .... And if his . . . ." (poor Lisa hud just 
sense enough left not to name Troilo at such a moment.) " Oh, father ! 
my poor unhappy baby lives upon my milk ; and I have no longer any to 

give him I have no longer any strength, any breath, any life ! .... 

hunger, father ! . . . . hunger ! . . . . Oh, God ! if you ever felt hunger ! . . . . 
to see a baby die of hunger ! " 

' As she finished these words, Lisa raised her trembling head. She 
thought it impossible that Niccolo could be so cruel as not to feel com- 
passion. She figured to herself her father standing in a benignant posture 
at the window instead of this, the window was closed, the light had dis- 



128 D'Azeglios Niccolo de Lapi. 

appeared. In the desperation of the moment, the wretched woman was 
tempted to dash her brains out against the stones. 

' Niccolo had no sooner perceived his daughter, than he drew back, but 
he lost not a single word. Laudomia had approached him without uttering 
a syllable, and wept quietly as she embraced his knees ; but the old man 
forced her to rise, and pointing with his finger to the door, said, in a tone 
which he meant to be menacing and severe, though he could not quite 
succeed, 

' " Laudomia, I am unchanged : go, go to your own room ; I e#z//ha\>e it 
so; it is my command." 

* Seeing that she did not immediately obey, he repeated the order; and 
it was this time in a tone which no one in that house ever attempted to 
resist. Poor Laudomia went away, covering her face with her hands. The 
old man stopped a little to listen ; and when he no longer heard the sound 
of her footsteps as she slowly ascended the stairs, went quickly to the 
store-room, wrapped up in a table-cloth as much bread as it would hold, 
and then, opening the door, left the provision on the threshold, closed the 
door again, and bolted it. Poor Lisa, hearing the door open, had raised 
herself quickly from the place where she lay, and, with all the haste which 
her small remains of strength allowed, all the anxiety which may well be 
imagined, had moved forward, hoping to be received into the house ; but 
she came up just in time to hear the bolt shot into the rings, and saw the 
table-cloth with the bread lying on the ground. So many sufferings and 
humiliations had completely worn her down, and she had no strength 
either to weep or to complan. She sat down upon the threshold, took up 
a loaf, and began (for she was faint with hunger) to eat with greediness. 
All sense of her mental sufferings lost, or at least suspended, she only 
thought with a sigh of longing, 

' " What a refreshment, what a comfort, benumbed and weak as I am, a 
good fire and a little wine would have been !" 

< Laudomia, in the meantime, had scarcely got to her room before she 
came down again, without a light, and barefooted, that she might make no 
noise, hoping to escape her father's vigilance and get to Lisa. Looking 
down from above, she had observed Niccolo 's movements, had seen him stop 
after he had closed the door, remain with his head bent down for some 
minutes, which seemed to her an age, dry his eyes with the back of his 
hand, and then re-enter his apartments. Laudomia flew to the bolt, drew 
it very softly, and went out into the street: it was dark and deserted: 
she walked on a few steps, and called in a low, but distinct voice, " Lisa ! 
my Lisa!" No one answered. " And yet," she thought, "she cannot be 
so far off but she must hear me : oh, if I knew which way she is gone ! To 
know she is perhaps close to me, and not be able to find her! And if I lose 
this opportunity, I may never have another ! Come what may, I will cry 
louder." And the good Laudomia called her sister twice in a shrill voice. 

' A voice, not that of a woman, but strong and manly, answered near : 

" Who calls Lisa in the street at this hour?" 

' And immediately a man-at-arms on horseback drew in his bridle close 
to her, while the terrified young woman took refuge within the door of the 
house. She entered, but without closing the door, and turned back doubtful 
and perplexed, for, as her first alarm passed away, the voice seemed to her 
not quite new r . 

' The horseman approached, and said, as he dismounted : 

' " Laudomia! are you searching for Lisa in the street at this hour?" 

< "Oh! Lamberto!'" 

The story then carries us back to what had happened to 
Lamberto from the day that he quitted the family of the Lapi. 



alvh Nirco/o de Lapi. 129 

Giovanni de' Medici, Captain of those famous bands which after 
his death were called Bande Nere, (the black bands,) was the 
most renowned soldier then in Italy, and Lambert o resolved to 
place himself under his tuition. He contrives to reach the camp 
of this chieftain in such a manner as to give proof of his courage 
under his own eyes. On the banks of the Adda, beyond which 
he sees floating in the air the banner of Signer Giovanni, the 
' balls ' of the Medici, he is attacked by three archers and two 
men-at-arms, while on the opposite side of the river a number 
of soldiers, among whom are two on horseback of noble and 
commanding presence, seem attentively observing the issue of 
the rencounter. The five adversaries are soon reduced to three, 
when Lamberto, ' seizing his opportunity, plunged into the 
' river, leaving two of them upon the bank ; but the third, more 
' quick in his movements, jumped in behind him nearly at the 
' same moment, the two horses being soon up to their breasts in 
' water, and that of Lamberto having the head of his enemy's 
' horse upon the crupper.' The struggle is short, but decisive ; 
Lamberto disables his adversary, and having saved him from 
drowning, drags him to shore. We give the conclusion of the 
scene : 

' He was welcomed very cordially by the soldiers who had witnessed this 
noble exploit, many of whom plunged into the stream themselves to assist 
him to rise, and relieve him from the burden of the half-dead man, whom 
they laid head downwards upon the bank, cracking jokes at the same time 
upon the fine sturgeon, as they called it, which he had caught. 

' At this moment came up, on horseback, a young man of lofty aspect 
and great personal strength, dressed in a leathern jerkin, and bearing on his 
left arm a shield, with the impress of the six " balls " in a field or. All gave 
way respectfully, while he, stopping close to Lamberto, who, dripping with 
water (that which flowed from his shoulders stained with olood), had dis- 
mounted, said in a somewhat abrupt, but kind and smiling manner: 

' " Who are you that fight one to five in the name of Giovanni?" 

' " My own name is too humble and obscure not to be entirely unknown 
to your Excellency," replied Lamberto, happy beyond all belief at having 
been seen on this occasion by the very captain himself: ' but I have a letter 
here from Messer," (naming the writer,) " if the water has not entirely de- 
stroyed it, which will give your Excellency an account of my condition, 
and testify the eagerness of my desire to be instructed in the first and most 
admirable school of Italian warfare." 

* As he said these words, he unclasped one side of his iron breast-plate, 
and drew from his bosom a paper which the water had, in a great measure, 
spared; Giovanni took it, saying: 

' " As to instruction, you seem to have little need of it ; however, let us 
see." 

' While Giovanni de' Medici was reading the letter, Lamberto, satisfied 
at his leisure the strong desire, which he had long felt, to know, by sight, a 
gentleman so valiant and renowned. He admired his lofty presence, his 
bold, yet easy style of riding, and looked at him with the passionate vene- 
ration felt by every noble soul, that is yet thirsting for glory, at the sight 
of one who has made himself illustrious by great and honourable enter- 

NO. LXI. N. S. K 



ISO jyAztgli()& Niccolo de Lapi. 

prises. He had never dared to hope that fortune would befriend him as it 
had done in this rencounter : and when he found himself, not only held in 
honour by his new companions, but well received and praised in their pre- 
sence by so great a man, it stirred up within him a sense of such happiness 
as seemed nothing but a dream. With a throbbing heart, eyes glistening 
with joy, and a countenance bright with a trepidation, which looked beau- 
tiful in one who had just given proof of so much daring, he waited immove- 
able till Giovanni had read the letter. 

* " You were with Messer Niccolo?" said the captain, at length, raising 
his eyes to Lamberto's face ; then, knitting his eyebrows, he added, striking 
the shield at the same time with his right-hand : " with the greatest enemy 
of this escutcheon?" 

' Lamberto was so fascinated by Giovanni's presence, that he was on the 
point of turning traitor to the popular party and Niccolo himself. But he 
was one of those whose souls cannot descend to any act which has in it even 
the shadow of baseness : after remaining, therefore, a moment in suspense, 
he answered in a tone of equal modesty and boldness : 

" Niccolo, your Excellency, is the people's friend; he loves the liberty 
of Florence; he is the enemy of those only who are the enemies of his 
country." 

' " And therefore he cannot be a Pallesco ? Well, Lamberto, thus speaks 
a brave man like yourself." And then, bursting out into a laugh, he added: 
" Even I am now no longer a Pallesco : Pope Clement would be at me if he 
could, and I at him . . . Come, it is well . . . you have made such good proof 
of what you are, that this letter might as well have gone down the Adda. 
Captain Puccino, you will enrol this honest young fellow in the company, 
and bring him this evening to sup with me at the castle." 

' Having said these words, he turned his horse, and cantered towards 
Rivolta.' 

We have not space to describe the banquet, but we must 
make our readers acquainted with one of the guests, who plays 
afterwards a conspicuous part in the narrative. s At the bottom 
' of the table was seated a woman. Dressed like a man, and 
' nearly in the same manner as the rest, she did not at first 
6 strike the eye ; but as Lamberto observed her more minutely, 
' a tress or two of black hair, partially visible under a rose- 
' coloured cap slashed at the border, which she wore like a 

* swaggerer over one ear, and the full bosom, ill concealed by a 

* black doublet striped with rose-colour, clearly revealed her 
6 sex. The countenance alone might not have betrayed the 
( secret, for it would have well suited a handsome young man 
6 of eighteen. Indeed, the quick and forward glance of the 
( eye, the unrestrained laughter, and a certain impudent bold- 
' ness in every gesture, betokened anything rather than feminine 
' modesty. But the countenance, when considered attentively, 
( seemed to settle by degrees. The look fell sad and languid 

* upon the by-standers, the swelling and ruddy lips closed, and 
' as they hid from sight two rows of teeth of surpassing bright- 
' ness, now pale and thin, they seemed to express feelings of a 
' quite different kind, and much more profound than at first, 

* contempt, disdain, irony, anger, and sometimes grief. And 



D'Aztylios Niccolo dv Lapi. 131 

c then, when you least expected it, a mad and reckless joy would 
s again flash over the countenance, as if two different souls in- 
' habited her body by turns.' 

This is Selvaggia, 'the courtesan of the Bande Nere.' Lam- 
berto's principles, no less than his love for Lisa, steel him against 
her attractions ; but he does not, like the rest, treat her with 
insulting levity. He repels with undaunted resolution, but 
with perfect good humour, the ridicule which assails him on 
every side ; and, having gained the esteem of his comrades by 
his moral courage, retires, Not many days after, the brave and 
unfortunate Giovanni de' Medici receives his death-wound H is 
bands are not dispersed, but Lamberto is determined to seek 
his fortune elsewhere by a strange rencounter with Selvaggia, 
which we shall give entire, as we think it is described in 
D'Azeglio's best manner : 

' One evening, having wandered a stone's throw from his quarters, and 
seated himself on the sandy margin of the Po, he turned his eyes towards 
the setting sun, as it disappeared behind a long thick line of poplars 
with which the opposite bank was clothed. He gazed upon the current of 
the river, as it flowed peacefully and majestically on, reflecting on its 
tremulous surface the trees and the ruddy brightness of the west. 

' He recalled to his recollection the fine summer evenings on the banks 
of the Arno, when passing through the wicket-gate, he strolled along its 
margin, and saw the sun set behind the gentle hills of Artimino. He 
remembered how, from that spot, as he cast a glance back towards the 
East, he had often thought how beautiful and august Florence appeared, as 
the sun's last rays fell upon its dark and battlemented palaces, its 
innumerable towers, its bridges and its churches. He saw in imagination 
the grand cupola of Santa Maria del Fiore, and the golden ball, which, 
w r hen the sun strikes it from thence, looks in the distance like a star fixed 
on its summit ; he saw the steeple of mosaic work by Giotto, the highest 
tower of the Palazzo, and on the top the lion-rampant of the republic 
turning with the wind ; and he thought, " Thou hast bent, it is true, to 
many tempests, but there thou art still!" 

' Poor Lamberto ! he knew not that the boast and the device were 
destined soon to fall together. 

1 This fine but inanimate picture became instinct with life and feeling by 
the images of Lisa, Laudomia, Niccolo, his sons, the companions of his 
childhood ; by the memory of words said or heard, looks, signs, things 
apparently not noticed at the time, but kept afterwards in the heart for 
ever : by the thought, bitter yet dear to the soul, of his poor old mother, 
who at their last parting had carried her maternal love so far as to hide 
under a smile of hope the resigned persuasion which she felt that she 
should never see her son again except in heaven. He had read this 
mournful thought in her last look, and, with a heart pierced by the same 
misgiving, he had himself feigned the hope which he felt but little. These 
recollections now came upon him with a feeling like remorse, and he said 
in the bitterness of his self-reproach, " And yet I could leave her ! What 
if I should never see her again!" And he covered his face with his hands 
and wept. 

' The vault of the firmament in the meantime was gradually peopled 
with stars, while the last ray of twilight was but just visible in the west, 

K 2 



132 TPAzeglids Niccolb de Lapi. 

where a faint tinge of orange still lingered, upon which the tops of the 
poplars were dimly defined as they waved gently in the night-breeze. 

* At that moment he heard a footstep approach stealthily upon the sand. 
He raised his head, and saw a dark figure wrapped in a mantle, which 
gradually drew near. "Troublesome fellow !" was Lamberto's secret excla- 
mation, provoked at this interruption of his dearest thoughts ; and he was 
on the point of moving away to avoid him, when the figure seated itself at 
the distance of two arms' length, and after a moment's silence said in a low 
and humble voice 

' " Tell me, young man, have you not left in your own country a woman 
who loves you ? one whom you love better than any thing else in the 
world ? Were you not thinking of her just now ? Answer me ; and, so 
may God help you! answer me truly." 

* Jt was the voice of a woman. " It is Selvaggia," said Lamberto to 
himself; and the idea that a courtesan should thus mix herself up with the 
pure and august thoughts of his country, his mother, his Lisa, gave him the 
shudder which one feels, when, in the midst of pure and sweet-smelling 
flowers, one sees a foul and disgusting reptile squatted. 

' To this was added the suspicion, that her sudden appearance, at such 
an hour and in this solitary place, was but a trap. 

< " Why do you meddle with my affairs ?" replied Lamberto sternly and 
abruptly." 

' " Oh ! I do not meddle with them ; I know I am not worthy 

Do I ask as much ? I see I have offended you God knows I 

did not mean it but I knew not how to begin and I must speak 

to you in naming her who is blest with your love, I hoped 

hoped you would forget for a moment that I am Selvaggia, and listen to me 
without anger. Oh, young man ! God does not deny the air and the sun 
to the snakes that glide through the reeds of the marshy fen, and will you 
spurn with your foot a creature who grovels before you with her face in 
the mire, and only craves two words of consolation ?" 

' And as she said this, Selvaggia's forehead fell in effect upon the sand, 
now moistened by the dews of night. 

1 " I have nothing to do with you, Signora, either for good or evil," 
replied Lamberto, strengthened in his opinion that these warm expressions, 
this suppliant attitude, and plaintive tone, were all a mere piece of acting, 
" and if you want anything of me, be pleased to tell it in three words .... 
but not a syllable about any other woman .... you understand me .... 
I am not the man to bear it." 

1 " I confess it ; I am not worthy even to name her. Are you satisfied ? 
Is there a word of contempt in your mind which you have not addressed to 
me? Come, speak out, give yourself free vent .... trample upon her who 
came to implore you in trembling humility, as the vilest worm would have 
done, if it had speech and understanding to turn to the Creator of the 
universe. Oh ! exult in your prowess, in your virtue .... and when you 
address yourself to God, say to Him * / thank Thee that I am not like her.' 

1 In spite of the intimate persuasion which Lamberto felt with respect 
to the woman before him, these humble words, and the manner and tone of 
voice in which they were uttered, went to his heart, and awoke there 
a doubt, a feeling as it were of compassion. With a countenance, therefore, 
of less severity, and words of less harshness, he said, 

1 " As God is true, Signora, you astonish me ! Despise you ! trample 
upon you ! Why do you say this? If you know the opinion which I must 
have of you and your way of life, why, if you dislike to hear it, force me to 
tell the truth ? If you do not suspect that opinion, and are not conscious of 
deserving it, why care for it at all?" 

' " It is because I know it, know what misfortunes have led me to 



D'Azfylio's Niccolb de LapL 133 

deserve it, that I care for it. Therefore have I thrown myself into your 
.... at your feet .... For the first time after so many years, I have seen 
the face of a man, not of a brute, a wild beast. Wretch that I am, what do 
I say ? It was the countenance, the voice of an angel, stooping down even 
to the mire in which I lay, and stretching out a hand to raise me ! Oh, if 
I had but met you when I was but fifteen ! But instead ! .... an infernal 
spirit, I believe, entered a human body to make me his prey! Oh, young 
man! Hod alone has the right to despise and punish, because He knows 
all ; and therefore do I believe that He has at length taken pity upon my 
sufferings by permitting me to meet you ! But you do not know the dreadful 
series of my wrongs and miseries ; if you did you would weep with me and 
for me. Oh, do not refuse to hear ! I need not weary you .... a few 
words will suffice .... after so many years you are the first man to whom 
I have attempted to speak of repentance, without fearing new scorn, new 
outrage." 

* " This is one of their old stories," thought Lamberto, but having no 
excuse for refusing what was asked with so much eagerness, he said, 

' " If all you say is truth, Signora, speak, and I will listen." 

* " If it is truth!" and the poor unhappy woman, striking her forehead 
with the palm of her hand, remained for a moment speechless, then shaking 
her head went on in a voice scarcely audible : 

* " Are courtesans believed?" Then, turning to Lamberto, "You are 
right ! I deserve this reproach : But you will soon see if I tell you the truth. 
That your contempt weighs hard upon me you must have seen, and of that 
you cannot doubt. Well, there are things which you do not know, and 
which I might hide from you, things which will make me, if possible, more 
vile, more abject in your eyes .... but you shall know even these .... 
I am not a Christian ! .... A Hungarian Jew was my father. My father! 
must I give him that name? Rather my most atrocious enemy ! It is 
through him that I am where I am ; through him that I have lost country, 
relations, friends. . . . Has a courtesan relations, friends, or country?" 
Here she stopped a moment as in thought, and then added in a more 
mournful voice, " and yet, did T not come out pure from my mother's 
womb ? Did I not receive from God, as w r ell as other creatures, a heart 
capable of love, capable of virtue? Who took from me this treasure? Who 
brutified these Divine gifts which were mine the portion of good and of 
happiness assigned to me by the Omnipotent ? Who ?" 

' Here she was silent for a moment, looking at Lamberto with eyes that 
flashed lightning; then, seizing his arm, with trembling voice and lips she 
pursued, 

1 " Believe me, young man, if you dare believe me, I was alone that 
night .... alone in my chamber .... my mother was no longer in this 
world .... Oh, if she had been alive ! . . . . She would have defended me! 
.... They knocked at my door .... I heard the voice of my father .... 
I opened it. A man was with him, a prince, by his rich dress, his proud 
bearing. I looked at him doubtful, terrified. . . . My father disappeared 
.... the door was closed again. ... He had sold his own flesh and blood." 

' " Need I tell you the sequel of my fortunes? Virtuous, noble, generous 
as you are, can you comprehend how one may live on after such horrors ? 
How by degrees one may grow callous to shame, to guilt ? How at last 
a woman may trample under foot all modesty, have no soul but for 
pleasure, love it, seek it, be drunk with it? I shock you .... I see it .... 
but be you my judge. . . . Where was my defence? .... my help? .... 
How was it possible to resist, conquer, escape? First betrayed, then 
despised, cast off at length like a vile thing, trampled upon by all, if I raise 
my voice to call for pity, if I stretch out my hand in the hope that some 
friendly hand may move forward to help me, I meet with nothing but insult, 



134 D'Aztylio's Niccolb de Lapi. 

I hear nothing but mockery ; every one thrusts me back into the mire ; my 
misery, my tears, are the sport of whoever deigns for a moment to attend 
to me . . . . O God of Heaven ! what had I done to be brought into the 
world to suffer misery like this ?" 

' " Oh young man ! you, who have no crimes to weigh upon your mind, 
who are handsome, brave, virtuous ; who in the midst of danger and fatigue, 
can repose in the thought of those who are dear to you ; if you knew what 
it is to be born with a heart thirsting for love, and never to have been 
loved! never! not even by a father! .... if you knew this horrible 
suffering .... you would wonder that I have preserved in my aspect, 
perhaps even in my heart, anything that is human ! . . . . you would wonder 
that 1 have not rushed like a wild beast upon every one that I met of the 
wicked and cruel race who have betrayed me, who have driven me down to 
this abyss of misery, and then deny me every consolation ! If I could be 
told that there is still a heart in the world which would receive me and 
dry my tears .... if it could be said to me ' There is still a creature upon 
the earth who will love thee if thou wilt deserve to be loved.' .... God of 
mercy and goodness ! my happiness would be too great ! I should not be 
able to bear such joy ! .... I should run through the whole world to seek 
that creature ! .... If I saw him at the other end of a sea of fire, I should 
plunge in to join him .... I should embrace his knees .... What should I 
offer him in return for such blessedness ? what should I do to render myself 
worthy of it ? .... O young man ! if you knew how little would content 
me ! Your heart, I see, is placed where it deserves to be; but you love your 
battle-horse, nor do you think it wrong to .... to .... to any one .... 
You love your greyhound .... Oh ! after your horse, after your grey- 
hound, disdain me not when I ask you to give one thought to me, when I 
implore you to cast one look upon poor Selvaggia .... which may seem to 
say ' Poor forlorn one, I pity thee !'.... 

'"OGod!" cried the wretched woman, "he does not even answer 
me !" and she burst into a flood of tears. 

' But if Lamberto was slow to answer, it was from a very different cause 
than Selvaggia supposed. 

' Her words seemed to force belief, and had awakened in his heart a feel- 
ing of profound pity ; still, some lingering suspicion, which he could not 
entirely silence, made him stand upon his guard, and not show all the com- 
passion which he felt. Making an effort, therefore, to preserve a firm voice 
and tranquil countenance, he said, 

' " You desire compassion, Signora ? Who could refuse it to misfortunes 
so sad, so terrible as yours ? But you lower yourself too much ; a creature, 
formed after the likeness of God, should not be placed on a level with 
brutes." 

' " Lower myself too much ? How can you say this, even when you deny 
me the small boon I ask ? Would it cost you too much to say to me, sim- 
ply and plainly, Poor Selvaggia* I accept thee as my slave? to give me a 
moment's happiness, a moment's comfort, by one word gushing directly 
from the heart! Instead of this, you come out with, You lower yourself ! 
Oh, virtue may be noble and excellent, but it is proud and cruel !".... 

* " No, Selvaggia, I have no virtue to boast of in myself; still less am I 
proud and cruel to you. I feel your misfortunes to my very soul, and if it 
rested with me, you would have little more to suffer. But, though my 
strength fails, God's will be all sufficient, if you will only return to Him. 
I have not answered you as you desire, because I cannot : seek no farther, 
Selvaggia. Believe that a strong mind may always rise above its destiny 
.... that virtue never leaves the heart of man entirely, but by his own 
express determination, and that by the same means it may always return. 
You may rise again ; nay, hope even on earth for esteem and affection; all 



D'Azeglio's Niccolb de y Lapi. 135 

will depend upon your own free will. I have listened to you, and all that I 
could say in return, I have said. . . . Now we must part. . . . God grant 
you that happiness, that peace, which I ask for you at His hands. Adieu." 

' Lamberto drew back some paces ; it was quite time : this conversation 
had disturbed, bewildered him; and he perceived that his safest course was 
to fly. The beauty of this woman, her misfortunes, her errors, her very 
remorse, rendered her interesting, made her a new and singular being .... 
in short, it was best to fly ; and in a few minutes Lamberto had returned 
to his quarters. 

' Selvaggia followed him with her eyes as long as the glimmering light 
of the stars enabled her to discern him. When she could see him no longer, 
a feeling of utter desolation came upon her heart .... she seemed alone 
upon the earth. . . . "The wicked," she thought, " deride me, if I let fall 
a word of the hell within. . . . This virtuous man sees me dying in despera- 
tion at his feet .... bids me turn to God / . . . . and abandons me. O 
God ! Thou who alone knowest my anguish, Thou who alone nearest my 
cry, why hast Thou forgotten me ? Wretch that I am ! must I indeed die 
without having felt the happiness of being beloved?" .... And furious, or 
rather frantic, at this thought, she ran along the bank of the river like a 
maniac. 

' All at once, as if struck by a new idea, she stopped : 

' "Am I sure that he believed me?" .... And, reflecting a moment 
longer, her whole countenance changed by the unexpected hope, she cried : 
.... "No, no ! he did not believe me .... he thought that I was deceiving 
him. ... Oh ! if he could have been sure that I was telling the truth .... 
he would not have answered, he would not have left me thus. ... I know 
him ; he is generous ! .... he is good ! . . . . then there is still hope ! . . . . 
God of goodness and mercy ! I thank Thee !" and she fell upon her knees, 
with eyes and hands uplifted towards heaven, " I thank Thee for having 
listened so readily to my prayer, for having given back to my heart the 
treasure, the immense treasure of hope. Yes, the day will come when he 
will believe me, when he will see that I did not deceive him ! . . . . the day 
will come when he will say to me, Poor Selvaggia, at last I believe you 
you are dear to me ! .... It will not be love .... no .... never could 
I dream of obtaining that, vile, miserable, abject creature that I am ! .... 
the love of such an angel ! what woman on earth is worthy of it ? .... Ah, 
yes, there must be one! .... Well, I will love that one; I will be her 
servant, since she is dear to my master. . . . Perhaps they will suffer my 
presence .... perhaps they will not drive me from them .... perhaps at 
my last hour when they say, Poor Selvaggia is departing ! . . . . who 
knows ? perhaps he will come to my bed-side. Then, if I have voice 
enough left to speak to him I will beg him to call me his before I breathe 
my last ! . . . . Then he will lay his hand on my cold forehead, and say to 
me, My Selvaggia / . . . . then I shall no longer feel anything .... I shall 
be dead!" .... 

' Absorbed by these thoughts, the poor young creature entirely lost her 
recollection. . . . God knows how long she remained in this state, but 
when the faculty of thought and reflection returned, the dawn was break- 
ing in the east ; she recognized the banks of the Po, and the tents where the 
soldiers were quartered, and looking around in confusion and perplexity, 
asked, " What am I doing here ! Where am I ? What am I ?".... A 
voice at a little distance (they were soldiers who came to water their horses 
in the river) replied, with a burst of laughter, 

' " You are the courtesan of the Bande Nere, that is what you are !" 

' The poor girl uttered a shriek, and fled.' 

This character is boldly, but we think truly drawn, and 



136 D'Aztglio's Niccolb de Lap't. 

there is something very beautiful in the basis of intense humi- 
lity which she preserves amidst all her excesses. Lamberto 
joins the fleet of Filippino D'Oria, followed by Selvaggia, 
in the disguise of a man-at-arms. She fights by his side in 
an engagement with the Spanish admiral, Don (Jgo di Mon- 
cada, and is pushed headlong over the side of the vessel into 
the sea. This sea-fight is magnificently described, but we must 
not be tempted to extract any part of it. We must pro- 
ceed at once to Florence, whither, the siege having begun, 
Lamberto hastens, and contrives, though with some difficulty, 
to penetrate into the city on the evening when he encountered 
Laudomia at Niccolo's door. Then comes the painful detail of 
what had happened since his departure from Florence, above 
all, the infidelity of Lisa, and the death of his mother. For 
the moment he is overwhelmed with affliction, but he is gra 
dually comforted by the magnanimous counsels of Niccolo, and 
by a noble letter left behind by Nunziata, in which she tells 
him that Laudomia, not Lisa, (whom she ' always understood') 
was 'his match.' The tempest by which he had been agitated, 
now subsides, and a peace, sad indeed, but resigned, and even 
hopeful, is shed abroad in his heart. One feeling only is alive 
and active, that of following the counsel of his mother in all 
things, and giving himself up to virtue, his country, and 
Laudomia. 

Lisa has been saved from famine, but her child has fallen ill, 
and she has no one, in the dead of the night, to send for relief. 
At length, in the midst of her distraction, she sees a man in 
complete armour, kneeling in the street before an image of the 
Madonna, and implores his help. He procures medicine for 
her baby, but his hand trembles as he gives it. She hopes it 
may be Troilo. * Yes ! you are Troilo ! you have remembered 
f your Lisa .... I knew it .... I never doubted your faith 
( . . . . speak, speak, for your silence kills me.' ' God grant,' 
said the soldier, slowly raising his vizor, and discovering to her 
a pale countenance which she did not immediately recognise, 
( thai Troilo's faith may never fail you ! He is, however, in 
4 the camp, fighting against his country. He who has helped 
* you now, is Lamberto.' .... When she could speak, she was 
f alone.' 

Lisa takes the desperate resolution of seeking Troilo in the 
enemy's camp, and prevails on Fanfulla to accompany herself 
and her child thither. They succeed with difficulty, after some 
hair-breadth escapes. They arrive at the moment when Bindo, 
the youthful son of Niccolo, who had been taken prisoner in a 
skirmish, is about to ascend the gallows. In order to under- 
stand what follows, it is necessary to know that Malatesta, the 



IfAzegUo's Niccolb de Lapi. 137 

captain-general of the Florentines, is a concealed traitor. In 
conjunction with Benedetto de' Nobili, and Baccio Valori, the 
Pope's commissary, with whom he has private communication, 
he persuades Troilo to return to Florence, introduce himself 
into Niccolo's house, and secretly frustrate all the measures of 
the Piagnoni. The only difficulty rests with Niccolo. This, 
however, is at length obviated by Bindo's restoration, apparently 
at the instance of Troilo, the professed repentance of the 
Pallesco, and his eager offer to tight for the liberty which it 
had been his aim to destroy. By consummate art, and espe- 
cially by assisting the Florentines to repel a sudden attempt to 
storm the city, he deceives every one but Maurice, Lamberto's 
faithful servant, the Grerman whom he had disabled, and after- 
wards saved from drowning, in the passage of the Adda. 

A short respite now succeeds, full of domestic interest. A fter 
some rather over-refined scruples, of which D'Azeglio is, per- 
haps, a little too fond, scruples connected both with Lisa and 
Selvaggia, Lamberto is satisfied of his true and devoted attach- 
ment to Laudomia, while she is peacefully assured of his affec- 
tion, and their love takes the usual course. Troilo, in the 
mean time, disgusted with his wife and child, and the whole 
family of the Lapi, amuses his leisure by forming atrocious 
designs against the remaining daughter. We have not space 
for more than one of the scenes connected with this part of the 
story, and in preference to all the rest, we select the declara- 
tion : 

' Lamberto ran up to his room, and disarmed himself in haste. It 
seemed to him a century before he could find Laudomia, to whom, in his 
trustful security, he now burned to open his heart, and repay himself for 
his long silence, and the painful uncertainty which he had endured. He 
proceeded to the story beneath, not, however, without bestowing more care 
than usual upon his dress, and seeing that his hair and beard were arranged 
as well as possible. As he left his chamber, (for at certain times we are 
all alike,) he even cast a flying glance upon the mirror which hung against 
the wall ; but as he did so, conscious of the womanish feeling, he smiled, 
and passed on. 

' He found the door of Laudomia's room half open, and, knocking very 
softly, called her by name, his heart beating violently, as he stood in sus- 
pense. As no one answered, he pushed open the door and entered; but 
the room was empty. Though he had been there often, he seemed as if he 
had never entered it before. A light shiver, never felt till then, ran through 
his veins, as he cast his eyes for a moment round the walls, and glanced at 
the polished furniture, all in that exact order which sufficiently betokened 
the gentle hand to which the arrangement was owing. The air of the 
apartment was perfumed with the odour of the flowers which adorned the 
image of the Virgin, mixed Avith the fragrance of the snow-white linen 
which covered the bed. The day-light, for it was now verging towards the 
dusk of evening, fell faintly upon the pavement beneath the windows ; and 
its azure tint was fading, in the ruddy brightness shed by a lamp which 
burned over the Prie-Dieu. 



138 D'AzegliJs Niccolb dd Lapi. 

' Lamberto drawing near, fixed his eyes upon that Madonna, who never 
before appeared to him so divinely beautiful. He observed minutely this 
sanctuary, for it well deserved the name, of his Laudomia's most secret 
thoughts the flowers, the books of devotion, the cushions, still bearing, 
where she was wont to lean, the impression of her form. All these things, 
mute and lifeless to any other, had for him at this moment a voice and sense, 
at once sweet and powerful, which penetrated to the inmost recesses of his 
heart. 

' Absorbed in his empassioned thoughts, almost without being aware of 
it, Lamberto knelt before the image, one arm resting upon the cushion, 
while his head reclined on his hand. By degrees, the strong and hurried 
pulsation of his heart became more tranquil, and was lost in a placid and 
indefinable quiescence of the intellect, when a hand gently rested upon his 
shoulder, and the soft voice of Laudomia whispered in his ear, 

1 " You here, Lamberto ! For whom are you praying?" 

' The young man raised his head and turned round ; but what he felt at 
that moment, as he met the look of those humid eyes so kindly bent upon 
him, may be imagined, but cannot be expressed. Without changing his 
posture, he took Laudomia's hand between both his, and trembling all over 
as he pressed it to his lips, replied, 

' f< I came to pray for you ; what the prayer is, and with what feeling it 
is offered, Laudomia, you well know !" 

* "Yes," she replied, "I know it;" but her eyes gave a fuller and 
sweeter answer. Without another word, she knelt down by Lamberto 's 
side, who still held her hand, and fixing her eyes on the countenance of 
our Lady, said, after a short silence, 

' " O Maria ! if I am ever to lose Lamberto's heart, let me die before 
the day comes!" 

' Here both remained silent, for at that moment, speech was impossible ; 
but it was unnecessary for two hearts transfused at once into each other, 
with the rapidity of two flames brought into contact. 

' When, after a long pause, they had recovered the faculty of speech and 
discernment, Laudomia, unable to support herself any longer in a kneeling 
posture, sank down upon a seat near. Her looks, veiled with a chaste but 
empassioned languor, fell slowly and tenderly upon him who was so dear 
to her, as he still knelt at her feet, and told him of her happiness with the 
trusting and ingenuous security of innocent love. It seemed to both as if 
they were born to a new life as if they had found themselves in another 
world, I had almost said, as if their very nature and essence were changed. 
There was neither memory of the past, nor fear for the future. There was 
a mutual understanding without the medium of speech, and yet a need of 
speech a need of saying to each other from time to time, " Is it not all a 
dream? Can it really be true?" And, meanwhile, the white hand of 
Laudomia, shrinking from the young man's ardent kisses, was placed upon 
his forehead, making feeble and ineffectual efforts to keep him at a distance. 

' Then, as by little and little they arranged their ideas, and connected 
the thoughts and events of their past lives with their present happiness, 
they recalled many of the follies of childhood, the first thoughts and emo- 
tions of early youth ; they asked and gave mutual explanations of words 
that had hitherto remained obscure, looks and signs, and a hundred such 
minutiae that had taken place many years back, but still lived, and were 
present in the memory of the heart. In a discourse of such deep interest, 
Lamberto mingled every phrase with the sweetest names of love, addressed 
in different ways to Laudomia ; names which we must not repeat, profaned 
as they have been, and made ridiculous, by pastoral poets and fools, but 
which are not on that account less needful, less a relief to the mind, when 
it feels more than can be expressed in customary words. 



D'Azeglids Niccolb de Lapi. 139 

1 " O my Laudomia !" said the young man, " my sweetest and only 
thought ! now I understand my former mistake. ... I fancied I had felt 
what love was .... Oh, I never thought that it could be like this. . . . 
Only an hour ago, I was troubled when I thought that I could ever turn 
my mind to Lisa ... It seemed as if I had done grievous wrong to my 
love for you .... which I now see was the first, the only one I ever felt, 
worthy of the name. Now I know that it was only fancy, when I thought 

that I loved another It was not true ! . . . . How that idea comforts 

me ! .... It was not true !....! never loved any one but you, never with 
that love which you alone merit, which is yours alone, which has always 
been in the depths of my heart, and will be there as long as I live. . . . Can 
you not understand how this idea gives me new life ? . . . . To think that I 
am not guilty of an offence which must have made me unworthy of your 
love ! . . . . That the celestial look of my Laudomia may fall serenely upon 
me, her thoughts rest upon my heart, without sinking too low !" 

' During this secret colloquy it had become dark night, and the chamber, 
lighted only by the feeble glimmer of the lamp, was in such a state of 
comparative obscurity as would have reminded the young people at any 
other time to provide themselves with more light, but they did not think 
of it then ; and Lamberto went on. 

' " Dearest ! you do not know how I have been troubled by these fan- 
cies ! . . . . And now I will tell you all .... for there is nothing that 
concerns me which you ought not to know." 

' And here he told her of Selvaggia, the recollection which he still 
retained of her, and the pity which he still felt ; and, as he spoke, he 
watched with anxious attention the effect produced by his words upon 
Laudomia's countenance. When he had no more to add, he said, 

' " Now you know all, my love. Was I right in thinking myself unworthy 
of your heavenly affection ? Do I still seem to you to deserve a thought 
of yours? O my Laudomia! answer me quickly." 

' And he waited with the anxiety of a criminal who is expecting the 
sentence of life or death. 

' A slight shade was at first visible upon the countenance of Laudohiia, 
but it soon passed away, and sighing gently (perhaps from the thought that 
Lamberto's heart had not always been hers alone), she answered, 

' " Tell me, dearest, if that woman had not been so debased, and you 
could have loved her without shame, would you have loved her better than 
your Laudomia ? " 

' Lamberto tore his hair ; he had no words to express his horror at such 
a doubt ; but that action and his countenance together said enough, and 
Laudomia resumed : 

' " God accepts the heart which was not his at first ! He is satisfied to 
succeed to another love ! And ought not I, weak and feeble creature as I 
am, to be contented with it? Ought I to raise my pretensions higher? Ah, 
no Lamberto ! My pride does not reach to such an extent of folly. . . . 
I do not complain of the past; I have even no cause to do so. ... But if 
I had, I should think no more about it. ... But the future ! O Lam- 
berto ! the future ! " 

' And here, clasping her hands in the attitude of humble prayer, she 
added : 

' " You see, Lamberto, I am a weak, timid creature, trusting entirely in 
your love ; with and for that, I shall have strength and courage for all the 
chances of the painful life we must lead in these times of contention and 
bloodshed. No danger, no misfortune will ever bring me to such a pass 
that you will have to blush for me. ... I have promised thus much to 
God and to my father .... and I shall be able to keep my promise .... 
for I feel that I am a Christian, one born among a free people, and the 



140 D'AzegUo's Niccolb dd Lapi. 

daughter of Niccolo. . . . But, Lamberto, one thing I beg of you. . . . 
Never love any one else ! . . . I feel that I have strength to stand 
against any other misfortune .... but against that ! . . . Oh, no ! I could 
not! The life of us women is all in the heart. . . . For us love is not a 
pastime .... a relief from greater cares! The heart which you have 
given me is now my only treasure, my only thought : do not take it from 
me, Lamberto, as long as I live." 

' What the young man felt at these most tender words, he could express 
only by imprinting a thousand kisses on that hand, which avoided him no 
longer, but was given up to him without reserve. After a little time, raising 
his head suddenly, he felt in his bosom, took out his mother's letter, which 
he always carried about him, and having given it to Laudomia to read, who 
bathed it with tears of tenderness, said, as he took it ag-ain, 

' "You see the affection which my poor mother had for you: you see how 
she blessed me in her last hours : now, then, hear what I say. If I 
could ever be such a wretch as to wrong you, even in thought, may that 
blessing be turned . . . ." 

' But he could not finish the sentence, for Laudomia's hand was upon his 
lips, forbidding him to utter another word. 

' " O Lamberto ! do not say such words as these ; they are displeasing 
to God. ... It is enough that I read your heart. . . . Yes ! I read there 
that our love will never cease, even in heaven. We shall love each other 
alwa\ s, immersed in the holy love of Him who formed us for everlasting 
happiness." 

< And her eyes were raised towards heaven with that look of Paradise, 
which has grown sometimes under the fine touch of Guido Reni. 

' After they had remained a moment thus, the thought of Selvaggia rose 
again in Laudomia's heart. Her remorse, her misery had touched her ; she 
longed to know her misfortunes more fully, and said at length, almost with 
a feeling of consternation, 

' " Oh, poor young creature ! . . . . W r hat wretches there are in the 
world ! . . . . What horrible things take place in it ! ... What must she 
have suffered, what must she have to suffer still ! Oh, yes ! .... To love 
you, dearest ! without a shadow of hope ! .... it must be horrible ! . . . 
But at least we may find her out, we may trace her, carry her comfort 
.... make her feel for once the happiness of friendship and affection, if 
not of love !".... 

' " Where she is now, God only knows. ... (I would not say so to any 
one else, but I can say anything to you, Laudomia). ... It runs in my 
mind that she will not lose the trace of me. . . . If I did not meet her love, 
I at least spoke to her with kindness, showed her compassion ; and, accus- 
tomed as she was to be treated either with scorn or insult, she seemed 
for the first time to have met with one who had the countenance and feelings 
of a man." 

' " Oh, how glad I should be to find her ! . . . . This, you see, is my 
temper. ... I cannot bear that my happiness should make a poor creature 
so miserable. ... It oppresses my heart. . . I feel as if I wanted her to 
forgive me .... as if I longed to make her some amends. . . . Let us 
find her out, Lamberto ! I will be her friend ! She shall not have it to 
say any longer that nobody in the world has ever wished her v^ll." 

"There is not such an angel as you in Paradise ! " said Lamberto, quite 
beside himself, and on the forehead of Laudomia, soft and pure as the 
breast of a dove, the young man impressed the first kiss of love.' 

We judge of this scene with the magic of D'Azeglio's style 
full upon us, and may therefore seem to exaggerate its merit, 



UAzeglio's Niccolb de" Lapi. 141 

but we look upon it as one of the sweetest pictures of pure 
though fervent love which fancy has ever embodied. 

Selvaggia, though thrown overboard in the sea-fight, was 
saved from drowning. No sooner is she put ashore, than she 
makes her way to Florence in search of Lamberto. She hears 
on her arrival that the Captain- General of the Florentines is 
Malatesta Baglione, the infamous patron of her more infamous 
father, Master Barlaam. With the latter she has a most striking 
interview. She learns the intended marriage of the man she 
loves, and the plan formed by Troilo to break, or at least sus- 
pend, the alliance, and wanting courage to see him in the arms 
of her rival, suffers the plan to proceed. The marriage-articles 
are signed that same day, in the Church of San Marco, and the 
betrothment takes place. In the evening, as they are about 
to sit down to supper, a knocking is heard at the door, and a 
man appears, armed from head to foot, who had been observed 
in the church during the ceremony, where his ill-repressed 
agitation had excited no little surprise. This is Selvaggia, 
who brings a sealed paper on the part of the Captain-General. 
Lamberto is to arm himself on the instant, mount his horse, 
follow the man who brought him the order, and join the com- 
pany then mustering on the piazza of the Santo Spirito, to go 
where the service of the city required. The scene which ensues 
is unspeakably fine. The calm dignity of Niccolo, softened by 
the deep sympathy which he feels for virtuous sorrow, the noble 
resolution of Lamberto, the repressed agony of Laudomia, the 
honest effort of Fanfulla to be, what Troilo speciously offers, 
Lamberto's substitute, the secret struggle of the generous Sel- 
vaggia, who is once on the point of coming forward to discover 
every thing, form altogether a picture which is beyond all 
praise. But we must leave it to the reader's imagination, and 
pass on ; merely adding that Fanfulla, in default of being Lam- 
berto's substitute, resolves to be his companion, and having 
been provided with a new war-horse by JSTiccolo, joins the 
departing troop. 

Selvaggia discovers herself to Lamberto on the march ; and 
here we have one of those strange conceptions in which, not- 
withstanding his general good taste, D'Azeglio sometimes 
indulges, and which one might call practical concetti. To cure 
Selvaggia of her pertinacious attachment, Lamberto makes up 
his mind to imult her. f Let her find me hard-hearted, proud, 
' incredulous of her suffering : the remedy will be bitter, pain- 
' ful to her, and quite as much to me ; but, when the first 
' moment is past, esteem will perhaps be changed into contempt, 
( love into hatred, and after some days she will think no more 
6 about me.' We object to this altogether. To say nothing of 



142 UAzegUJs Niccolb de Lapi. 

its extreme painfulness, it is morally wrong ; it is doing evil 
that good may come. Selvaggia, as may be imagined, leaves 
the object of her former idolatry in a paroxysm of indignation 
and oifended pride, but not till she has thrown out dark hints 
of the future fate of Laudomia, whom f neither God nor devil 
' will be able to save.' 

We cannot follow the fortunes of Ferruccio without the walls 
of Florence, nor describe the atrocities connected with his fall. 
In fact, the fate of the commonwealth, though it gives weight 
and dignity to the tale before us, affects us chiefly in its bearing 
upon the individual characters. The romance, as we have said, 
supersedes the history. It is upon Niccolo, and his little band 
of friends and adherents, that fancy lingers. After the defeat 
of Ferruccio, and the slaughter of his army, Lamberto and 
Fanfulla, safe, though not unhurt, find their way back to 
Florence. There the final struggle draws near. 

' The night was full of disquietude, anxiety, and preparation, for the 
Florentines, in expectation of the heavy events which they foresaw for the 
next day. Even at those hours when sleep, especially during the great 
heats, is wont to overcome every care, and the memory of every trouble, 
Florence was awake. You met no person in the streets ; but the light 
which shone here and there through the windows, the voices and other 
sounds that were heard in the interior of the houses, showed sufficiently 
that this unhappy people felt the last scene of their long and bloody tra- 
gedy to be approaching. . . . 

' They were preparing themselves during the hours of night to come 
frankly next morning to the last proof of arms, hoping for victory, but 
resigned to purchase it with the lives of many. 

1 It would have been an august and beautiful sight, if one could have 
penetrated into the secret recesses of those poor houses inhabited by the 
people, to witness the preparations for that great sacrifice .... to see those 
men quietly making ready to die for their country ! And on what con- 
ditions ? with what hopes ! Did they believe that by conquering they 
should change their lot, and be rich ? No : they knew that their state 
could not change. Poverty and labour were the lot that would fall to them 
afterwards, as it had done before. But such calculations never entered their 
thoughts. They loved their country as men love their mother, because they 
did. It had been the first thought of their infancy, and would be the last 
of their old age. They gave their life for it, with the same feeling which 
leads a lover to sacrifice himself for the woman he loves, seeking no other 
reward but the joy of dying to save her. . . . 

' Thus passed the night. At length the morning, desired by some, feared 
by others, but waited for assuredly by all, rose clear and bright beyond 
the hills of Incontro and Vallumbrosa. When its rays began to penetrate 
within the houses, and were visible in spite of the red glare of the lamps, 
there took place in every family what might be called a last parting. Then 
came tears, embraces, the hurried affectionate adieus of wives and sisters, the 
benedictions of old men and fathers ; then by little and little a murmur spread 
through the city, a deep sound of voices, footsteps, doors opening and 
shutting furiously ; while the citizens, as they came out armed to join their 
several standards, exchanged the last farewell, the last glance, with their 
wives and children, whom they left weeping at the door. . . . 



JfAzeglio's Niccolo de Lapi. 143 

' Among the gonfaloni of the several divisions, which floated in the wind 
at wide distances round the piazza, was noted the golden lion of San 
Giovanni, and among the first was Niccolo with his young men. Deaf to 
the prayers and tears of his daughters, and the dissuasion of his friends, the 
resolute old man had determined to be present with the rest on this day, 
when the final destiny of Florence was to be decided. He judged rightly 
that, if he could not aid with his arm, he might with his example : for what 
foot could draw back, what heart waver, in the firm and venerable presence 
of such a man ? 

' Having laid aside the Lucco, 1 he was dressed in a shining coat of mail, 
with a sword at his side, and in his hand a pike. Instead of the capuche 
he wore an iron skull-cap, beneath which his respected gray hair came out 
and covered his neck, while his beard, equally white and thick, flowed 
down upon his breast. His body, no longer bent by years, stood erect 
upon his loins ; and he was set firmly upon his legs, which, though some- 
what thin, were strong and of fine proportions. His eye flashed with the 
fire of youth, and an unwonted flush coloured his cheeks. In spite of the 
tumult, and the various thoughts which occupied the minds of all, many 
eyes were fixed upon him. They pointed him out to one another with 
words of affection, wonder, and veneration, while he, unmoved, cast a proud 
and assured glance around, in which was read indomitable resolution. In 
the meantime, the flitting shadow of the gonfalone, which floated over his 
head, now covered him, and extinguished the glitter of his armour, now 
gliding off to a distance, left it sparkling again in the rays of the sun.' 

We cannot resist the temptation of extracting one more 



' Even when the sun began to decline to the west, and when at length 
it had sunk under the horizon, and the stars began to appear, Niccolo 
would not leave the place, in spite of the entreaties of his friends, who 
could not bear that he should have to endure so much hardship and 
fatigue; and many of the citizens also, led by his example, passed the 
hours of sleep in the piazza. It is easy to imagine how mournfully those 
hours passed with all, how full of anxiety and terror, in expectation of the 
extremity of distress which awaited them on the morrow, especially when, 
after midnight, a deep silence had succeeded to so much tumult, and nothing 
was heard in the piazza but the measured tread of the sentinels, the hooting 
of the owls, roosted on the summit of the tower, and from time to time the 
striking of the clock, which told the hour. At length, yielding to fatigue, 
Niccolo began to rest his forehead upon a bed composed of his sons' cloaks, 
and fell asleep with his head resting on the base of the lion, while they 
watched, silent and thoughtful, by his side. Two hours before day, the 
moon, which was on the wane, fell, by degrees, faint and pale, on the 
buildings towards the East, and illuminated, with an alabaster light, the 
countenance of the sleeping old man. Lamberto had gently taken off his 
iron skull-cap, and, to guard him from the cold moisture of the night, had 
drawn the border of one of the cloaks over his head. The august and 
placid serenity spread over Niccolo's features, and his long deep breathing, 
showed that on the bare ground, and in the extremity of danger, a brave 
and irreproachable man may find sleep and repose.' 

These demonstrations are rendered vain by the machinations 
of the Palleschi, and the fate of Florence is in their hands. 
Niccolo, determined to make one more effort, gathers the 

1 A kind of gown. 



144 ffAzeglws Niccolo de Lapi. 

Piagnoni together at a nocturnal conference, in the convent of 
San Marco. The leaders are firm, but the people waver. 
Niccolo's own workmen alone offer to die with him, but he feels 
the sacrifice to be useless, and dismisses them with his blessing. 
At this moment, the infamous Troilo, in order to ruin more 
completely the party of the Piagnoni, comes forward, and pro- 
poses to join the Italian army without the walls, already on bad 
terms with the Spaniards, and stir them up to insurrection. 
The proposition is received by Niccolo with a feeling of mingled 
joy and admiration. By the connivance of the Palleschi, the 
party pass over to the camp, Troilo contriving to be left behind 
at the gates, that he may not be compromised in the issue. A 
skirmish takes place, in which, by the baseness of Malatesta, 
the Italians are overpowered, while two of the three surviving 
sons of Niccolo, Averardo and Vieri, fall. 

Nothing now remains but to seek refuge at a distance from 
Florence, and the family prepare for their departure. The last 
evening which they spend in that house, which Niccolo feels that 
he, at least, must never see again, is described with great truth 
and pathos, but we must not be tempted to make any extracts. 
They depart without molestation. Niccolo is too popular to 
venture to arrest him in Florence, and a plan is accordingly 
formed to seize upon the whole party in the Montagna. In the 
meantime, to disarm all suspicion, Troilo accompanies the 
family. They arrive, about midnight, at the country house 
which Niccolo had ceded to Lamberto by way of dowry, where 
they have arranged to pass the night. Here they learn, that 
under the eaves, at one side of the church, ( the great Ferruccio' 
lies in an obscure and unhonoured grave, and notwithstanding 
the lateness of the hour, they determine to visit it. They are 
accompanied by the old steward, who undertakes to point out 
the spot: 

' Matteo at length stopped close to the side of the ancient church, and 
placing the lantern on the ground, said, 

* " Here this brave gentleman was laid." 

'Upon the surface of the soil, a space was marked out, of the length and 
breadth of a human body of tall stature. The earth appeared newly turned 
up, and, from the marks which it still retained of the soles of shoes and 
naked feet, it was plain that it had been diligently trodden down. When 
Niccolo saw under his very eyes the earth still soaked with the blood of his 
friend, the man who was to him the sublime ideal of all that is great and 
virtuous in the world, he fell on his knees upon the grave. Seized with an 
universal trembling, he bent down his head and kissed the humid soil, then 
rested his forehead upon it, and remained motionless, while all his com- 
panions did the same. The poor old man was heard to sigh and groan, and 
at last seen to burst into tears ; then, becoming a little more composed, he 
raised his face and his hands towards heaven, and said, 

' " Oh ! if from the holy and blessed place, where his great soul is now 
in glory, he deigns to cast a look upon this dark world, he perhaps sees my 



D'Azeglio's Niccolo de Lapl. 145 

tears .... sees that from the city, for which he shed the last drop of his blood, 
\ve exiles, at least, have come to do him this last honour, the only one that 
we can do in our present misery .... Ferruccio ! Ferruccio ! this, then, is 
your burying-place ! And the Medici, the destroyers of their country, will 
have one full of honour in San Lorenzo ! Will they not be ashamed to leave 
you here? Will they not at least place a cross over your bones ? a stone to 
tell, Here lies Ferruccio? ". , . . Then,asifhe suddenly regretted having formed 
such a desire, he corrected himself and said, " But what am I saying? 
Have I lost my senses ? As if you had need of such honours as these ! . . . . 
Let them keep them for their own guilty ashes. Even under their marble 
monuments the vengeance of God will at last find them out. And do you, 
in the meantime, brave spirit, if you can hear us, accept this humble 
homage, a homage which will never be offered to the tombs of your enemies 
and ours ! .... As long as the world lasts, the earth of this humble grave 
will be more honoured by the generous and the good than the insolent rich- 
ness of their sepulchres !".... 

' While, with a vehemence of passion which made him seem like one 
inspired, Niccolo was uttering these words, to which his family listened 
with reverence, as they knelt by his side, their whole attention fixed upon 
him alone, six men-at-arms, with drawn swords, came upon them from 
beneath the portico of the church, followed by about fifty countrymen, 
armed with pikes, scythes, or staves ; and before the party, thus taken 
unawares, could perceive the attack, they found themselves on the ground, 
under a heap of men, the points of whose swords or pikes were close to 
their face, or directed against their throat and breast, caught and held fast 
by a hundred hands, kept down under the knees and feet of multitudes, 
while a voice cried out from the midst of the assailants, 

' " Whoever moves, is a dead man. You are the prisoners of the pope! " 

1 With that august and venerable aspect, at once firm and elevated, which 
he always wore, Niccolo replied, 

' " I know what M/ being prisoner of the pope means ". . . audabitter and 
disdainful smile curled his lip, as if to say, " He can take but little from me 
now ! " Then turning to his sons, and pointing to the grave where Ferruccio 
was buried, he added, " I have learnt from him how to die .... though, 
perhaps, I did not need it." 

' The old man knew well that it was his own death, not that of his sons, 
or of any one else, that was wanted; but at that moment he remembered 
Troilo, and the price set, as he fancied, upon his head ; and the thought 
that he was utterly undone, afflicted him beyond measure. Looking round, 
he sought him with a troubled and anxious eye, and said, 

1 " I am grieved for you, son Troilo." 

' As there was no light except the lantern carried by Matteo, objects were 
indistinctly discerned ; and it was some time before he could retrace him. 
At length,' however, he perceived him at a distance, standing upright and 
motionless, his hands folded on his breast, and his head bent down ; and 
perceived, also, that he was neither tied, nor guarded by any of the soldiers, 
careful as they were to prevent the rest from making their escape. 

4 The young man's countenance, beautiful as it was by nature, had become 
at that moment debased and horrible, like his crime. Like Cain, Judas, 
and other enormous sinners, his torment had already begun : that greatest 
of all torments, remorse, severed entirely from all thought of hope or 
repentance. 

' Niccolo read his sin, written on his forehead, and noted on the 
countenances of the soldiers a smile of scorn, which seemed to say, ' You 
need not trouble yourself about him.' The veil, which had so long hid the 
truth, was torn asunder, and he saw it revealed in all its tremendous 
nakedness. He stretched out his hands and arms, tied as they were at the 

NO. LXI. N. 8. L 



146 D^Azeglids Niccolb de Lapi. 

wrists with a rough cord, and with a voice, which even went to the heart 
of the scoundrels who surrounded him, said, looking at Troilo, 

' " And he was a traitor, after all! " 

' In the tone of voice in which the"se few words were spoken, in the mode 
of pronouncing them, in the attitude of the miserable old man, there was 
such a mournful outpouring of the truth, that, I repeat it, there arose even 
in the hearts of those rough and ferocious bullies a feeling of compassion. 

' But Lisa, poor Lisa ! As if a fiery dart had entered into her flesh, she 
tore herself from the hands of those who held her, with the nervous and 
convulsive effort of desperate passion, and, rushing towards her father, 
cried, 

' " Why is he a traitor? How? .... Who can call my Troilo a traitor? 
What has he done?" 

' And, unable to run in search of him, for she was soon seized again and 
held by those from whom she had got away, she threw herself forward, and 
stretching out her head, looked about everywhere for her husband, while 
she continued to repeat, 

' " Traitor, indeed ! . . . . My Troilo a traitor ! Oh, father ! how can you 
say such horrible things? .... and at such a time as this ! " 

* But at last she, too, saw him, still in the same place, in the same attitude, 
with the same countenance, and the same impression which Niccolo had 
received ; the same thought, the same certainty, seized upon Lisa, who felt a 
shudder like that of death, at the sight of that disfigured countenance. She 
was obliged to turn away her head, and cover her face with her hands ; but 
soon overcoming that first feeling, and once more beginning to hope, she 
said to him, weeping, without, however, looking at him, except now and 
then, by stealth, 

* " Troilo ! . . . . Speak ! speak ! .... Do you not hear ? . . . . Did you not 
know what they said? .... Why do you still stand there? .... What 
mystery is there in all this? . . . /Troilo ! Troilo ! . . . . Cannot your miser- 
able Lisa get a word ?" 

' And at length, with a burst of unspeakable rage, she exclaimed, 

< " Wretch ! tell me at least that it is true ! . . . . that you are a traitor 
.... It will at least end this uncertainty !" 

' Troilo made no answer, but shrugged his shoulders, retreated, and was 
soon lost in the shades of night. 

' Lisa grew white, and cold as a marble statue ; her arms dropped list- 
lessly down ; and she too said to herself, 

' " He was a traitor!" 

' Then sinking down at Niccolo's feet as if she were dead, with her fore- 
head resting upon the earth, she said in a spent voice, 

' " And I, wretch that I am, was the cause of all ! " 

' The old man replied ; " It is too true ! " and the soldiers, who now felt 
it too painful to witness such a scene, moved off, conducting their prisoners 
to the house which they had left a little before. 

Niccolo is led back to Florence, with Lisa and the maid- 
servant, the former being lodged in prison, the latter sent to 
their own house. Lamberto and Laudomia, accompanied by 
Maurice, Bindo, and Fanfulla, are taken by the escort of Troilo 
and 8elvaggia to a retired castle among the Appennines. The 
men are bound hand and foot in a subterraneous dungeon, 
Lamberto a little apart. Laudomia is conducted to a solitary 
chamber. The soldiers are then dismissed ; even the bailiff of 
the castle departs; and the two who remain behind draw the 



D'Azeglios Niccolb de Lapi. 147 

bar across the entrance. The prisoners are left to the mercy of 
Troilo and Selvaggia. We transcribe the scene which follows : 

' " If we are not safe here," said Troilo, as they stood looking at one 
another, " we should be safe no where. Here we are, then, Selvaggia, let 
us look to ourselves, and each manage his own concerns." 

' He then proceeded to Laudomia's chamber, while she descended to the 
dungeon, with the key in one hand, and the bailiff's lantern in the other. 
.... She went straight on where Lamberto was seated on the ground 
in mute despair, thinking of Laudomia, and praying God to help and pro- 
tect her, since he could not in any way help and protect her himself. 
Stopping directly opposite, Selvaggia lifted the lantern so as to shine full 
upon her countenance, and said, 

' " It is I ! .... do you know me, Lamberto ?" 

' He did know her, and his heart sank within him. When he remembered 
the nature of the woman, and the terms on which they last parted, he lost 
all hope. Filled with anguish, he thought within himself, 

' " O my God ! my God ! Laudomia is at the mercy of this mad woman !" 

' He did not dare to speak, for he did not know what to say, and he 
feared to make things worse; but he looked at her with eyes of inexpressible 
anxiety. Selvaggia placed the lantern on the ground, folded her arms 
across her breast as if to keep down its throbbing, which appeared in spite 
of the cuirass, and said with a voice w r hich pierced to his very marrow, 

' " Do you remember, young man, how Selvaggia has loved you from 
the day that she first knew you ? . . . . that night on the banks of the Po, 
do you remember with what prayers .... humble prayers, Lamberto ! . . . . 
she asked, not love, for she thought herself unworthy of it, but a little com- 
passion ! .... do you remember it? .... did you grant the request? No, 
you denied it .... was Selvaggia indignant ? did she curse you ? She blessed 
you, and departed, she troubled you no more ; for she thought, ' I am not, 
perhaps, worthy even of this. But poor Selvaggia was not entirely 
hopeless. Without your knowing it, she inquired after you, found out 
where you went, followed you, but never came near you again till the day 
of that battle, when she saw a pike thrust against your heart .... when, 
as you know, there ws no escape for you ! .... In my breast did I receive 
the weapon, and the cold steel which pierced my entrails seemed to me a 
delight .... you were saved, and I had ceased to suffer so I then believed 
.... Wretched creature ! my sufferings had not even begun ! Tumbled into 
the sea, dying in the hold of a galley, in the stench of a hospital, in the 
mud of a public street, dragging myself on, mile after mile, in weakness 
and sickness, in rain, wind, and cold, in hunger, in destitution, and yet 
always on, on, hoping from you .... not love ; I repeat it, for I am not as 
mad as you think me .... not love, but pity, a word, a look of compas- 
sion. Arrived at Florence, I interested myself a thousand ways in your 
behalf .... suffered, waited. At length I found you, you know how ; I 
dreaded to speak, I felt as if in the presence of a god .... I made myself 
little, humbled myself, lay down under your feet .... And yet you had the 
heart .... were you not ashamed to outrage me thus ? How is it that 
you did not die with shame?" 

* And here the poor creature, stretching out her hands to Lamberto, 
remained for a few moments silent and motionless. 

' " You might have killed me, and I would have thanked and blessed you, 
but you treated me with scorn and contempt ; then I longed to show you 
that Selvaggia may be hated, killed, but not despised. I thirsted for ven- 
geance, and I have sought it, I have passed days and nights in labouring to 
obtain it ; and at length I have succeeded .... Laudomia is here .... you are 
here .... you are all in the power of Selvaggia, the courtesan, the offscouring 

L 2 



148 If Azeglirf s Niccolb de LapL 

of the world, whom all tread under foot, all hate, who has never met with 
love or affection .... not even in a father." 

1 Here she drew her poniard from its sheath, which Lamherto believed 
she was about to strike to his heart, and overcome by her passionate emo- 
tions, burst into a flood of bitter tears. 

' " And not even now shall I meet with it ! ''.... and, as she spoke, she 
cut the cords with which Lamberto was bound : Cl not even now, when I give 
you life and liberty, and save the Laudomia whom you love, shall I obtain 
my first petition that you would hold me as dear as your hound or your 
war-horse!" 

1 As she finished these words, with a voice no longer severe, but humble 
and supplicating, Lamberto, loosed from the cords, fell prostrate at her 
feet, and as he embraced her knees with a mingled feeling of pity, admira- 
tion and gratitude, exclaimed in broken accents 

1 " My guardian angel!" 

' Selvaggia raised her hands to heaven, trembling with joy, while upon 
her countenance appeared a quite new expression, that of pure serenity, as 
she said, 

' " God of mercy ! At length I too can bless Thee .... I too can thank 
Thee for having created me!" 

' Then, after remaining motionless for a few seconds as if in extacy, she 
let her arms fall, and added, as if speaking to herself, 

' I had suffered so much !" ' 

They cut the cords of the rest, and all rush together to e the 
6 yellow chamber,' where Troilo, having lost all hope of accom- 
plishing his purpose by other means, is about to proceed to 
violence. Lamberto dashes him to the ground under his feet. 

' For some moments no one uttered a word ; the traitor, terrified, panting, 
pale as death, and with staring eyes, was kept down and held tight by 
Fanfulla and Bindo. Lamberto had left him to run to Laudomia, who, 
white as a waxen image, had sunk upon her knees, and was raising her 
eyes to heaven in thanksgiving, feeling that gratitude in her heart which 
the poor creature was unable to express with her lios. 

' Lamberto knelt down by her side, and she remained for a moment with 
her head resting upon his shoulder, scarcely able to keep herself from 
fainting. Selvaggia, perceiving this, brought some wine from the table, a 
draught of which Laudomia drank, and after a little time the colour returned 
to her cheeks. 

'"You are safe, my love!" said Lamberto, every muscle of his face 
quivering with the fulness of his joy. 

' " Oh, for the love of God ! let us go !" said Laudomia in a faint voice, 
for the sight of the place and of Troilo filled her with horror ; and rising, 
though with difficulty, assisted by Lamberto, and supported also by 
Selvaggia, she left the chamber. Having dragged herself along with 
tottering steps into the next room, she sank quite spent into an arm-chair, 
and laying her hands upon the shoulders of Lamberto, who was at her feet, 
regarded him with a look of unspeakable affection. Poor Selvaggia, who 
was a little behind, drew back, and with what feelings the reader may 
imagine. 

f '' Do you know," said Lamberto, " who set me at liberty, who has 
saved your life and honour ? There she stands, she of whom I have so 
often spoken to you, she whose happiness you had so much at heart .... 
Selvaggia." 

' " Oh ! ' said Laudomia, starting, ' is that Selvaggia? ' 

' And all of a sudden the whole of her wretched story recurred to her 



D'Azlglio's Niccolb de Lapl. 149 

mind ; and, thinking of the anguish which she must feel at seeing her thus 
\vith Lamberto, she withdrew her arms, with an instantaneous and delicate 
impulse, and, joining her hands in the attitude of prayer, said, as she 
turned to the poor creature, with a countenance which seemed to deplore 
her pardon, 

' " Oh, Selvaggia ! I did not, I could not know it ! ' 

' "Yes, it is I,' she replied, advancing; and her voice, her countenance, 
her gesture, shewed the terrible suffering which oppressed her heart. ' It 
is I,' she continued, ' who long cherished a dreadful desire of vengeance 
against Lamberto . . . against you ! But at last I said to myself, ' What 
have you been searching for, unhappy creature, so many years ? To find 
one who would not hate you . . . would not hold you in contempt ... to find a 
heartwhich could loveyou . . . to find, if not love, at least aifection ... to taste 
for once, only once before you come to die, ... a word, a look of kindness ; 
and do you hope to obtain it thus ? Obtain it by vengeance ? ' This has 
been my vengeance ! . . . Tell me, will you, at least, hold the unhappy crea- 
ture before you dear? . . . May I hope it this once ? " 

" Laudomia would have risen and rushed into her arms, but her strength 
failed, and she fell back again into her seat ; but she stretched out her 
hands to Selvaggia, who threw herself into them with a cry of joy, and the 
two young women long remained clasped in a warm embrace. ' ' 

Though it is not D'Azeglio's wont to distribute what is 
called poetical justice, he has done it in the instance of Troilo, 
and it is almost too satisfactory. In the chamber, where the 
infamous Pallesco is left bound, is an aperture in the wall, 
within which there is a trap-door, covering a deep well. ' Above 
* was a pulley, from which a cord was suspended, let down 
' deeply into the shaff, from whence there arose the cold moist 
' air which often comes up from cellars, with a dank smell of 
' mouldy earth.' Maurice, who had lingered behind while the 
rest were preparing for their departure, is suddenly struck with 
a new idea. ' He went straight to the opening, shook the rope, 
s and discovered the depth of the shaft. He laid his hand upon 
' the cord, and began to draw it up. Up, and up it came ; but 
( it seemed as if the end of it would never appear. Troilo, in 
' the meantime, seized with an universal trembling, an inde- 
( scribable horror at what was thus preparing for him, had begur 
' to pray, conjure, promise ; he had thrown himself upon his 
' knees as far as the rope which bound him permitted, and, quite 
f beside himself with terror, had uttered horrible things, dis- 
f jointed words, in which there was neither sense nor meaning ; 
' howled, roared, bellowed ; and still Maurice went on pulling 
( the rope, and all that he said was : 

' " Messer Troilo, make an act of contrition. . . . You deserve to die in the 
water.' 

' At length the bottom of the cord came out, to which was tied a rusty 
hook, foul with mould. Troilo, quite overcome, fell prostrate ; but though 
his strength failed, his senses unhappily did not. 

' Maurice tied the rope underneath his arms as expeditiously as pos- 
sible, (for he wished the business over, and so do we), cut the cord which 



] 50 tfAzlglirfs Niccolb dd Lapi. 

tied him to the bed-post, and, taking him up in his arms, thrust him into 
the shaft, which was just large enough to admit him. 

" The unhappy wretch struggled in vain to get free ; and hanging to the 
rope, which ran swiftly through Maurice's hand, was let down into that 
fearful depth. In a minute's time the cord was at its full length, when 
Maurice disengaged it from the pulley, threw it down into the shaft, with 
Troilo's cap, which was still lying on the ground, closed the trap-door, 
and . . . falling on his knees, said, with as much devotion as he could, a 
miserere for Troilo's soul. Probably, however, the scoundrel did not meet 
with so speedy a death, but he had time to make many reflections, which 
we may leave the reader to imagine.' " 

Worn out with illness and suffering, Latidomia is now con- 
veyed by her friends to the priest's house for quiet and repose, 
and the scene shifts to Florence and Niccolo. We must give 
copious extracts from this part of the book, for it is in the closing 
scenes of his life that the sublime character of the noblest of 
the Piagnoni shines so grandly forth ; all that had been harsh 
and repulsive in it then disappears, lost in the golden light which 
surrounds him like a halo of glory. 

His first entrance to the prison is thus described : 

' He ascended with a firm though weary step ; his countenance, though 
grave, was tranquil and serene. Having reached the upper landing-place, 
he was led through a long passage to a low and narrow door, which when 
the jailor half opened, he was obliged to stoop low to enter in. Jt was a 
dungeon about eight paces in length and breadth, where, through a hole 
above, a few rays of light were seen between the bars of a thick iron grate. 
A miserable bed, consisting of a sack full of chopped straw, still preserved 
the form of the prisoner who had slept there last; on the floor stood a 
pitcher. 

' " See if there is any water," said the jailor to one of his men, who 
having looked, answered, 

'"It is full. Carduccio could not have been thirsty; for he has not 
even touched it." 

Niccolo started at that name, and asked, anxiously, 
" Was he, then, here ? " 
"He was." 

" And where have they put him now?" 
" Where lie will be found at the day of judgment." 
Here the turnkeys departed, shutting the door of the dungeon with a 
great noise of keys and bolts, and left the old man in darkness. Standing, 
as he was in the middle of the cell, he raised his arms in the attitude of 
prayer, and said, 

' " O Francesco ! thou hast fulfilled thy sacrifice. May thy brave soul 
rest in peace ! " 

' Then, groping his way to the bed, he sate down, took the pitcher, and 
drank a few mouthfuls of water, determined to seek sleep and repose if it 
were possible, and recover, as much as in him lay, a little strength. 

1 "Let not this body of mine, this worn out instrument, shame me in the 
hour of trial. Help me, O God ! to bear what is preparing for me ! Thou 
knowest my soul, but Thou knowest also the state to which my poor 
limbs are reduced ; infuse strength enough into them to bear up, without 
any act of cowardice, during the few steps which now separate them from 
the tomb ! " 

'He stretched himself at full length upon the pallet, and, composing 



l?A~ erjlid's Niccolo d& Lap i. 151 

himself to sleep, lay quite still in order to court it ; but how could a mind 
filled to overflowing with a thousand thoughts, and a heart agitated by a 
thousand emotions, be lulled to rest ? The tranquillity of an unsullied con- 
science cannot ensure this, nor is sleeplessness confined to remorse alone. 
How was it possible that, finding himself now at the end of a long and har- 
rassed life, full of such stormy events, consumed as he was by one ardent 
thought, that of his country, there should not pass before him, in thick and 
long array, all the events of those many years, the baffled designs, the im- 
prudent counsels, the cross accidents in short, through which, after so 
many efforts, so much agitation and bloodshed, Florence had fallen again 
under the gripe of the Medici ? And to what was he brought himself? To 
the last, fruitless sacrifice of the few hours of life that remained ! And all 
that long suffering, all those sacrifices, all those misfortunes, had obtained 
from eternal justice only this! . . . 

' These mournful thoughts revolving in Niccolo's mind, who, in spite of 
his iron temperament, could not fail to be overcome by fatigue, watching, 
and mental agitation, were leading him imperceptibly to a chain of ideas still 
more dark and disconsolate, before which his vital strength was giving way. 

' His faith in the justice and goodness of God, his faith in the prophe- 
cies of Fra Girolamo, which, like a ray of celestial light, had been for so 
many years his guide and comfort, seemed on the point of growing dark, 
and disappearing in a thick mist, full of doubt and terror. " Suppose all 
that I have hoped, all that I have believed, for ninety years, should be only 
a deception ! " 

'A groan of agony burst from Niccolo's breast, when, in spite of his 
efforts to close the door of his heart against despairing thoughts, he felt 
them rush in with terrible force, as the enemy pour into a fortress long de- 
fended, but now resisting in vain. For the first time in ninety years he 
knew what terror was. The hopes of a whole life, both for this world and 
the next, seemed to shake and totter. He sought in vain, either in the 
present or the future, a sensation which was not pain, a thought which was 
not darkness and uncertainty. Sitting up in the bed, and raising his 
hands to Heaven, he cried, " Deus meus, quare deliqidtfi me ? " 

' Niccolo was destined to serve as an example of the pitch to which, in 
this life, misfortune may come, and the strength with which even then man 
may obtain the victory. With that desperate effort of the will which had 
always been his characteristic virtue, he willed to drive away those ideas ; 
and he did. He willed to have others of a totally different kind ; and he 
had them. He restrained his unbridled thoughts, and said to himself, 
" Who am I, to judge the Being that made me and all men who made 
heaven and earth, and the universe ? What impious madness, to say that 
He cannot, or will not, care for the least of His creatures, because he cannot 
descend so low! Is not this to limit His power, and bring Him down to 
our own measure? Are not all creatures equally atoms? Are they not as 
nothing, in the presence of His immensity ? Does it cost Him more to roll 
the sun and stars through the firmament than to give form and motion to 
the minutest insect ? Since, then, thou hast created me, do Thou care, 
great God, even for me. Aid the immortal soul which is about to return 
to the place from whence it came ! Pardon the doubts of the understand- 
ing which Thou hast formed! Thou hast not made it able to comprehend 
Thee ; but, as a compensation for all the evil that has fallen upon me, Thou 
hast placed in my heart, I feel it, the power of hoping in Thee, and in Thy 
mercy! Yes, my God, I hope ... 1 trust in Thy goodness ... I throw myself 
into Thy arms, on Thy paternal bosom, where I shall perhaps one day 
know why 1 have had so much to suffer here ! " 

* Hope, that celestial friend of the afflicted, descended thus into the heart 
of the poor old man, and shed abroad there a charm not felt before, a tran- 



152 D'Azeglids Niccolo dd Lapi. 

quil serenity which gave him both strength and comfort. He seemed t 
be transported to a higher region, far from the miseries of this lower world, 
to be freed from its cares and passions, and lost in the contemplations of a 
better life.' " 

We have not room for the trial, and we shrink from the tor- 
ture, and shall proceed at once to the closing scene, which, in 
spite of its length, we shall give entire, premising that his friend 
the Prior of San Marco, a timid but holy man, is permitted to 
attend Niccolo in his last moments. 

'The jailor and turnkeys, giving him their assistance, because it was 
with difficulty that he could either walk or stand upon his feet, led him 
slowly to the chapel. 

' Ever since the year 1260 it had undergone no change, and was kept up 
in its devout and venerable antiquity. It formed a rectangle, its vaulted 
roof, bold and lofty, cut into four parts by ribs of considerable elevation, 
which rose from the capitals of the same number of slender pillars placed 
at the four corners, and met at the top, where the Florentine shield of the 
Guelf party formed the key-stone. The ribs were painted in cross-bars of 
alternate red and white ; the ground was blue, sprinkled with gold stars, 
but was now blackened by time, and the smoke of the tapers. Opposite 
the entrance was the altar, with a crucifix of black wood as large as life, 
covered to the middle of the leg with a vest or tunic of a dark colour, em- 
broidered with silver, resembling the Volto Santo at Lucca. On each side 

were two lighted candles The gleam reflected by the setting sun, whose 

rays could not penetrate directly into the interior, enlivened the painted 
glass of two large windows, and shed a doubtful and mysterious tint upon 
the chapel, in which the altar lights alone shone out distinctly. 

' Near the altar the Company of Mercy had already assembled, four 
brethren, and one who acted as their superior, wrapped in black cloaks, 
with the cowl drawn down over the face, the eyes only being visible through 
two round holes cut in the cloth. Against the wall, in one corner, was 
placed their large, though portable, crucifix, on the upper limb of which a 
small bow was inserted, supporting a black flag v marked with two white 
crosses. 

' When Niccolo entered, supported by the turnkeys, the brethren were 
reciting, in a low voice, the evening Psalms. No sooner did they see him 
than they approached to meet him ; and as they took him out of the hands 
of those rascals, who retreated quickly to the door to keep guard, said, 

' " God preserve you, Niccolo ! Since He calls you to Himself, out of 
the miseries of this mortal life, we are come to assist you, and offer you 
all the service that we can, as our duty is, and our holy rule demands." 

' And in so saying, they led him towards a bed, placed opposite the altar, 
where those who were condemned to death w r ere wont to repose, if weari- 
ness, infirmity, or age required it. When Niccolo was seated, he answered, 

1 " I thank you, brethren; God reward your charity!" 

' The brethren then went to a corner of the chapel, where a little table 
had been prepared, and carried it to the old man, spread it neatly with a 
clean cloth, placed on it plates, forks, spoons, everything, in short, which 
was w r anted for supper, except knives, which were not allow r ed to the con- 
demned, and asked him when he would like to sup, and what food he 
d esired. 

4 " I will not load myself with food, my sons ; during the few hours that 
remain to me, I should think of the spirit, and not of the body : however, 
not to weaken my strength too much, I will accept a little broth and a cup 
of wine ; and again I thank you for all your kindness." 



D'Azeglio's Niccolo de' Lapi. 153 

' Botli appeared without delay ; and Niccold, who had looked very languid 
and worn-out when he first arrived, having taken this little refreshment, 
\vas visibly strengthened. They who w^ere serving him, seeing that he now 
sat more upright, and that his eyes had no longer the feeble and exhausted 
expression which they had worn before, seemed to be conferring among 
themselves, and whispering a few words into each other's ear. At 
length four of them went towards the door, and stationed themselves 
between it and Niccold, while the fifth sat down by him, as if to converse, 
which the brethren are w r ont to do with persons in his situation, and, putting 
his mouth close to his ear, said softly, 

' " Messer, I have something to disclose to you . . . but be sure to make 
no sign, for fear these rascals of the guard should perceive it." 

1 Niccolo, a little astonished, said he would do as directed. 

' " You must know, then," replied the other, " that I am Bozza" (one of 
Niccolo's faithful workmen), " and the others are your Messer Bindo, Messer 
Lamberto, he they call Fanfulla, and a servant of theirs. Last night, just 
before break of day, they came to call me, and we agreed to take the turn 
of the brethren whose duty it was to assist you, and we are come in their 
stead. Under these blessed cloaks we are well armed, and we are resolved 
either to free you or die with you; and so, what Bozza promised you in San 
Marco he now keeps . . . and you shall hear how it is all to be done from 
Messer Lamberto, whom I will send to you ; and so, a little to one and a 
little to another, you may talk to us all, without anything being known, 
for so the brethren are wont to do with the condemned." 

' Before Niccolo could answer, Bozza arose, and soon after Bindo and 
Lamberto came and seated themselves by the old man's side; and each 
taking a hand by stealth, and kissing it warmly under the cowl, Lamberto 
said, 

' " Our only fear was that you would not be able to support yourself and 
w r alk; but since, thank God ! you cap, we will manage the rest . . . we will 
fall upon those turnkeys ; and if we can contrive to get rid of them at once, 
without their making a noise, we have a cloak of the Brethren of Mercy here, 
which we will throw over you, and we may get off clear. Other brethren 
will come . . . and it will seem that they are relieving us ... I hope we shall 
succeed ... In fact, no other hope remains . . . Many of the people are drawn 
up without, waiting for us, and they will help us.". . . 

' " Lamberto, Bindo, my sons !" said Niccolo, interrupting him, " I thank 
God that He has vouchsafed me a consolation which I could never have 
hoped for, and did not deserve . . . that of seeing you once more. I thank 
you . . . and, knowing you as T do, I knew that you would do more than you 
say ; but I cannot accept of your brave offer, and I beg you, nay, as a 
father, command you, to dismiss such thoughts entirely from your minds. 
I would not leave this place, even if I could leave it without risk or danger 
to any one. Judge if I would do so, when I must risk the lives of so 
many your lives, which will perhaps be spent some day for the advantage 
of the city ! . . . And then, do you think that I find "it a painful thing 
to die ? Can anything appear hard to me after having lived ninety-one 
years in this world, after having encountered so many hardships that this 
poor country might be blessed with honour and happiness, and then seen 
it fallen into the depths of misery, without being able to offer any opposition, 
or find any remedy ? . . . Can /fear death ? . . . I long for it, my sons ! ... It is 
the only quiet and soothing thought which remains amidst the sorrows that 
oppress me : and would you take it from me ? would you rob these worn- 
out and afflicted limbs of that repose which God at length grants, because 
He sees that they have suffered enough?" 

' At these words the young men could not restrain their tears, and pressed 
him with eager entreaties to change his purpose ; but assuming that aspect 



154 IfAzeglids Niccolo de Lapl. 

of authority which no individual of his family had ever thought of resisting, 
Niccolo said, 

' " I fancied that, both by precept and example, I had taught you the 
virtues which belong to a good citizen ; and . . . that you would prefer the 
benefit of your country to every thing else. . . . Would you have me now 
go to death with the grievous thought that I have not accomplished even 
this ? Of what importance is it to the welfare of Florence that an old man 
of ninety-one should live a few days more or less ? . . . Think of Florence, 
and not of me. . . . Think how you can leave this place in safety, you who 
are young, and can make the most of life. . . . Think how you may get 
together again the outlawed friends of the people . . . and return some day 
strong enough to free that country which we have not been able to preserve 
from traitors. . . . Think of this, if you are Niccolo's sons and care for his 
blessing. . . . Did I not see your brothers die ? Did I weep or lament, or 
try to hinder them from doing their duty ? And do you think that I loved 
them less than you love me ! But I will not say another word, for such a 
contest is disgraceful both to you and me. Farewell, my sons ! now let us 
part. We shall meet again in happiness, in that land which is won by the 
brave, not by cowards; in that kingdom, of which Christ Himself has said, 
vim patitur it molenti rapiunt illud." 

' The wonderful and indomitable constancy of the brave old man was 
communicated like a fiame.to the hearts of his two sons, who felt transported 
by his example to a higher region, where human affections and human 
sorrows remained beneath their feet. . . . 

* " We shall overcome our grief," said Lamberto, " for your virtue will 
be our support . . . you shall not blush for your sons . . . and as long as 
life lasts, we swear to you that your will, your intentions, shall be ours." 

* " And God will bless you," replied Niccolo, perfectly tranquillized ; 
" and my blessing will always accompany you ; and from heaven, w^here, 
by God's goodness, I hope to have a place, my prayers will aid you ! . . . 
But now, two other words about things here below, and then I have done 
with earth. Lamberto, not long ago I recommended my house to you . . . 
It is now comprised in this boy. Remember that you are brothers; love 
one another, help one another. . . . And you, Bindo . . . since it is God's 
will that you should be an orphan . . . listen to Lamberto, and form your 
life after his counsels. ... I need not recommend Laudomia to you; Lam- 
berto, she is your wife ; and I know you. But Lisa ! Oh ! when she was 
born, who could have thought? But the will of God be done ! . . . Poor, 
unhappy creature, she has more need than ever of help and comfort! For 
you must know " . ; . 

' And here he told his sons all that he had heard of Troilo's villany to Lisa. 

' The two young men were mute at that recital, so great was their indig- 
nation against the traitor, and their wonder at an event so contrary to 
their expectation ; then, having first given vent to their feelings, they 
related to the old roan, in few words, all that had happened since they 
parted . . . how they had left poor Laudomia under the care of the priest 
and Selvaggia, too sick and exhausted to be removed ; and how she had in- 
sisted upon their hastening, at all events, to Florence, to try all means of 
saving her father; and then Niccolo had to wonder, in his turn, that human 
wickedness could reach to such a pitch, and that he could ever have trusted 
so implicitly such a scoundrel as Troilo. 

' " It was God's will to chastise us, and we were blinded ... He took 
away our understanding . . . quos vult perdere dementat . . . even in this, fiat 
volnntas tua!" 

1 " Now carry to my daughters ... to Laudomia, the angel of my house, 
my blessing ... to Lisa, my pardon. ... So may God forget what she has 
done ! . . . Take care of this poor, forsaken one . . . and let it comfort us 



D^Azeglio^s Niccolb de Lapi. 155 

that the trick by which she was deceived dishonours the author of it, and 
not the victim." . . . 

' At this moment there w r as a slight noise at the door. The young men 
turned round, as did Niccolo, leaving the sentence unfinished, and saw 
Bozza approach, who had been speaking a few words to some one without, 
and now said, 

' " Fra Benedetto of San Marco is here, and has brought M. Lisa with him." 

* " God of heaven ! " said Niccolo, filled with the liveliest joy, " how have 
I deserved so great a consolation?" 

' And it was the greatest he could experience. 

' " Keep a little apart, my sons," he added ; " it is better that even they 
should not recognize you." 

' The friar came forward, followed by Lisa, who was weeping, with her 
face held down, and trembling from head to foot. 

' " Oh, Fra Benedetto ! you have put yourself to all this trouble, perhaps 
exposed yourself to danger, only to come and comfort me ! " And the two 
old men embraced each other, remaining a considerable time in that po- 
sition, while their white and venerable locks mingled in the close embrace. 
When they let go their hold, Niccolo saw the wretched Lisa at his feet, her 
forehead touching the ground. The sight of her father in that dreadful 
place, the terrible preparations for his death, the horrible thought that all this 
was her doing, struck her with such horrors, filjed her with such desolate 
despair, that she could have wished to die, to be swallowed up and covered 
by that marble pavement on which her forehead rested, to be annihilated 
on the instant, if she might only escape a torment a thousand times greater 
than she had ever imagined. Her limbs shook with a convulsive tremor, 
and, covered with a cotd perspiration, she uttered from time to time, in a 
faint voice, " Pardon pardon ! " . . . 

* An enemy would have pitied her ; imagine the feelings of a father ! He 
would have raised her from the earth, but Fra Benedetto did not give him 
time. He raised her himself; and soothing her with words of affection, in 
which Niccolo joined, encouraged her at length to look up. When she 
raised her face, and fixed her glassy and unmeaning eyes immovably on 
her father, the same idea struck him which before had struck Fra Benedetto, 
and raising his own eyes to heaven, he cried, 

' " Unhappy creature ! the last and worst misfortune has come upon her ! " 

' Then, taking her hand, he drew her to him, placed his other hand upon 
her forehead, which felt as cold as marble ; and, trying to soften his voice 
and looks as much as possible, said, as he laid the head of his daughter 
upon his bosom, 

'" Here ... poor, forlorn one ! . . . rest here . . . rest thy poor head, and 
warm it, on the heart of the father who has pardoned thee, and who mourns 
with thee. . . . How cold thou art, my poor girl ! . . . God of mercy, blot 
out from Thy remembrance what, in my anger, escaped my lips against this 
unhappy creature. . . . Remember only my pardon and her repentance ! . . . 
Poor girl ! she has suffered much, she has been punished enough ! . . . Lisa, 
my child ! . . . Take courage; listen to me ! ... It is thy father, who loves 
thee, and is trying to speak to thee of comfort," 

1 Lisa, who till now had never ceased trembling, and who had given no 
sign whether she heard the old man's consolatory words or not, seemed to 
revive a little, and answered, 

' " I hear you, father. . . . God reward you for condescending to use me 
thus kindly . . . wretch that I am! " 

1 " Poor thing ! Come . . , come . . . take courage . . . you see we must 
part . . . give me the comfort of seeing you a little more like yourself, Lisa ; 
a little more tranquil. ... I have pardoned you, I repeat it, and I give you 
my blessing. It was not your fault, poor thing ! . . . You were led into error ! 



156 D*Azeglws Niccolb dJ Lapi. 

. . . and what an error ! . . . Even we fell into it. ... But you have been too 
cruelly betrayed. . . . Now . . . listen ... I have something to tell you. . . . 
It will grieve you at first, and greatly surprise you . . . but it releases you 
from a great tie ... frees you from a great misfortune. . . . Are you calm 
enough to hear it? " 

' " I am calm, father . . . you see I am." 

1 Niccolo observed the heaving of her bosom, the paleness of her counte- 
nance, and above all, that look, and was not quite re-assured; but hoping, 
and in fact believing, that the discovery would do her more good than harm, 
he said, 

' " Listen to me, then, my Lisa. You know that you have been be- 
trayed . . . but you do not know the extent of the treachery. . . . Now, 
bear in mind, before I say any more, that the shame rests with the deceiver, 
and not with the deceived . . . therefore do not think of yourself as you 
never were and never could be ... you have never been anything but a 
modest woman . . . know then . . . and I could almost bid you rejoice at it 
. . . you are not Troilo's wife . . . you never were." . . . 

' Lisa started. 

' " Hush! poor thing ! listen to me . . . you will see . . . God is perhaps 
opening a way for you . . . Attend to me ... No, you are not his wife, he 
only pretended to marry you ; he whom you fancied a priest, was one of his 
grooms. And then, not content with this, the traitor laid snares for the 
honour of your sister, and if a merciful God had not come to her assist- 
ance, she could not have escaped him." 

' And then he told her in a few words how it all happened. 

1 " Poor thing ! . . . I know that this must seem horrible to you, so it did 
to me at first , . . but reflect that it is no fault of yours, since your will had 
nothing to do with it ... There cannot even be shame ... It was a misfor- 
tune, a terrible misfortune, and nothing else . . . But would it not be a greater 
misfortune to be bound to such a man for ever as his wife ? . . . Instead of 
this, you are now your own mistress . . . You may ... I will not say hate 
him . . . pardon him, my daughter, and may God pardon him also ! But you 
may fly from him you will not be tied to a traitor. You may live, if not 
happy, at least tranquil and honoured live with your brothers, with Lau- 
domia. Go where they go, and perhaps ... I, you see, am old . . . and 
know that there is nothing durable here: happiness is not, neither is 
grief. Perhaps the time may come when the wounds of your poor heart 
will be healed." 

' While Niccolo was speaking, Lisa kept her eyes fixed on his countenance, 
and appeared to listen ; then, suddenly clapping her hands, and pressing them 
firmly together, she said, with that voice which issues from a broken heart, 

' ""Then he never loved me, never ! not even then ! What he said to me 
was never true not even once . . . And yet, what a countenance ! what 
angelic beauty ! Oh, Troilo, how beautiful you were!" 

' At this moment, Niccolo, who, full of a fatal presentiment, had kept his 
looks fixed upon his daughter, saw, not only the pupils of her eyes, but her 
whole countenance suddenly change; it was as if a quite new face had been 
formed, the first totally disappearing as though a mask had been taken off. 

' The light of reason, which had been wavering before, was extinguished 
by this last blow. The brain of the xinhappy creature was turned she 
was a maniac ! 

* She remained long immoveable ; then stretching out her arms, as one 
does in sleep or listlessness, s