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JUNE, 1876. 


Life and Speeohea of the Prinoe Consort : Court of Queen Victoria. By EtoneuBis 1 

Religion and Politics in France. By M. Milsand 

Xotes of an Indian Journey, By IL E. Grant Duff, M.P. II. . . . 
The UniTeraities and the Nation. By the Hon. George Brodrick . • 

Mohammed and Mohammedanitm. By the Rev. George Percy Badger, D.C.L. 

The Opera. By Jamos Sully 

Ought we to Obey the Now Court ? By the Rev. Orby Shipley 

Corot and Millet. By J. Comyns Carr 

The Poor Laws. By Lord Lyttelton . 





JULY, 1876. 

Is the Church of Eogland worth Preserving ? By the Right Hon. W. E, Gladstone 193 

The Echo of the Antipodes. By W. R. Greg 221 

A Now Theory of the Homeric Question. By Professor Goddes .... 234 

The Beginning of the Co-operative Trouble. By George Jacob Holyoako . . 2f>9 

Wind Myths. By 0. F. Keaiy ,...., 281 

The Tory Party and the Catholics. By Pope Hennoasy 200 

Notes of an Indian Journey. By M. E, Grant Dufif, M.P. ITT 311 

ReTiew of Objections to " Literature and Dogma." By Matthew Arnold. VL , .320 

On Animal Instinct, in its relation to the Mind of Man; By the Duke of Argyll , 352 

AUGUST, 1876. 

" Supernatural Religion." By Professor Lightfoot. V. Papias of Hierapolis . 377 

The Advance Note. What it is, and Why it ought to be Abolished. By Thomas 

Brassey, M.P 404 

The Roman Catholic Mamage Laws : from a Roman Catholic Point of View. By 

Canon Todd 412 

Saxon Studies. By Julian Hawthorne. VI. Types Civil and Uncivil . . . 430 

The Public Accounts. By F. W. Rowsell 447 

Carlo Cattaneo. By Jessie White Mario 465 

Institutions and their Inmates. By H. L. Synnot 487 

The Liberal Party and the Roman Catholics. By Arthur Arnold .... r>0o 

Notes of an Indian Journey. By M, E. Grant DulT, M.P, JV. . ,. . . 51» 

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The Right Uf3 of a Surplus; or, Remission of Tftxes an Abuse of Revenue. By 

W. R. Gi-eg • . . 545 

Ocean Circulation. By Dr. ^Y. B. Carpenter 505 

Notes of an Indian Journey. By M. E. Grant Du£f, M.P. V 590 

ProfesHor Huidey's Hypothesis that Aniraala are Automata. By Lord Blaohford • C14 

The Poor-Law: a Proposal for ito AboUticm. By the Rev. W, Walter Edwards . CaO 
On the Soientific Basis of Morals : A Discussion— L By Professor Clifford; II. By 

P.C. W.; m. By Frederic Harrison 650 

Review of Objections to " Literature and Dogma.'* By Mattbow Arnold. Conclusion 676 

OCTOBER, 1875. 

Notes en Conti^nipomry Questienri By tlie Ule Bishop Thirlwall. I. Church 
Pai*ties ; II. Ecclesiastical Vestments ; III. Heaven ; IV. Ought we to Obey 
the Now Court ? V. The Encharistic Controversy ; VI, The Ditisions in the 

Church 703 

The Etruscans. By Alexander S. Murray 716 

On Certain Proposed Changes in International Law. By W. E. Hall • . . 785 

West Indian Superstitions. By Charles J. Branch 758 

The Historical View of Miracles. By James Gairdner 775 

Notes of an Indian Journey. By M. E. Grant Duff, M.P. VI 785 

The Italian Answer to the European Church Question. By Alex. Taylor Innes . W^ 
<< Supernatural Religion.*' By Professor Lightfoot. VI. Papias of Hierapolis 

(Continued.) 828 

NOVEMBER, 1876. 

India: PoHtical and Social. By M. E. Grant Duff, M.P. 857 

The Last Attempt to Reform the Chorch of Rome from Within. By the Rev. 

Richard F.LitUedale,D.C.L 887 

Saxon Switzerland. By Julian Hawthorne 908 

Likenesses; or Philosophical Anatomy. By Professor St. George Mivart • . 988 

Modem Ballads. By H. G. Hewlett 958 

Bad Litercturo for the Tovng. By Alexander Strahan 981 

The Religions aad Conservative Aspects of Positivism. By Frederic Harrison. I. 992 

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1. The Ufe 0/ H.IUi. tM$ PritM Consort. By Thbodore 

Martik. With Portraits and Yiew^ Vol. L London. 

2. The Earip Veart cf H,R.H.theFHnee Contort. Compiled 

tinder the direction of her liajeety the Queen, by Lt 
Qen. the Hon. O. Qkmt. London. 1867. 

3. The PHndpal Speethet and Addrtieet qf H.RM. the 

Prince Conaort. With an Introduction. London. 1862. 

THE day, which announced throughout the land the death of 
the Prince Consort, was a day of universal gloom. The heart 
of the nation was touched by the suddenness, with which indis- 
position had assumed the face of danger, and interest had grown 
into alarm ; and there was a prescient observation, at an early stage 
of the illness, that the constitution of the illustrious patient did not 
Beem to oflFer that stout resistance to the advances of disease 
which his favourable age and his tall, manly, well-proportioned 
form would have seemed to insure. The purity of his life, the in- 
tegrity of his character, his varied talents and accomplishments, and 
the active share in public undertakings so often and so judiciously 
assumed, had gradually acquired for him a strong and deep hold 
upon the esteem of the British people. But the depth of that 
sympathy and sorrow, which accompanied the catastrophe, was 
probably a tribute to the sorrow of the Queen in a yet greater 
degree than to the signal merits of her husband. It was f elt^ by a 
just instinct^ that love and loss conjointly had perhaps never, 
amidst all the varieties of life, been raised to so high a pitch : 
that no woman had ever leant more fondly, and no queen had 
ever had so much cause to lean. The weight wa43 doubled ; while 
the strength was halved, and the joy and comfort; gone. Accord- 
ingly, there wa43 a real and genuine desire of the whole people to 
be partners in her great affliction, in no conventional or secondary 
sense, but by truly bearing a portion of it along with her. Nor 

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was this the case only in the highest circles ; on the contrary, the 
sentiment deepened, as it widened, with every step downwards 
from class to class, and to the very base of society. To the same 
mixed feeling, with the same dominant reference to the Sovereign, 
may have been partly due the remarkable multipKcation in all quar- 
ters of the local memorials, which by degrees covered the land. With 
respect to the most conspicuous of these, the gorgeous structure near 
the western extremity of Hyde Park, it may perhaps be said that it« 
extraordinary magnitude of scale, and sumptuousness of execution, 
may in future days be deemed to assert a greater superiority to 
other mortals, on behalf of the Prince Consort, than even his pure 
and lofty reputation can be expected to sustain- In any case, we 
may say of liim Avith truth what the greatest ItaUan poet of this 
century, Giacomo Leopardi, has said of Dante — 

lo so ben 

Che saldi men che cera, e men ch* arena, 
Verso la fama che di te lasciasti, 
Son bronzi e marmL* 

Happily we have sure memorials of his mind, and faithful 
chroniclers of his liistory ; and it may be confidently expected, 
while it must be ardently desired, that not only our own time, but 
future generations also, may continue to prize the recollection of 
a life lifted far above the ordinary level of princely existence, and 
not only meritorious, but even typical for nations and men at 

Before taking notice of the work of Mr. Martin, we must briefly 
refer to' the two other oiFe rings of loyal commemoration, which weix) 
already before the world. 

In 1867, General Grey compiled, under the direction of her 
Majesty, a memoir of "The Early Years of the Prince. Consort," 
from 1819, tlue year, of his birth, to the birth of the Princess Royal, 
in 1840. Originally prepared for private circulation, it was after- 
wards given to the public ; and the intended prosecution of the, 
work was announced in the closing sentence of the volume. But, 
no long time afterwards, the hand of the wjiter was cold in death. 
The work of General. Grey was even more communicative, threw 
even more light upon the personal histories and the domestic 
interior, than the later biogmphy. He had. been chosen to dis- 
charge a labour of love,, implj-ing, on the part of his Sovereign, 
the . highest confidence. Never was that . confidence better 

♦ Rudely and alightly rendered in the following lines : — 
MJatohed with the, lame 
Of thy great name, 
Bronee is but wax, 

And marble sand, 
To baffle Time's attackB 
And stealthy hand. 
From G. Leopardi, Sopratl mpnumento di Dante che sipr^t-ava in Firetze. 

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deeerved. Besides possessing the other qualities needed for liis 
important functions, he was a man loyal with no common loyalty ; 
and iiis long standing at the Couit gave him the power, wliich 
younger men cannot be expected equally to possess, of acting in 
aU points the part of a faithful friend. The "fierce light that 
beats upon a throne " is sometimes, like the heat of that furnace in 
which only Daniel could walk unscathed, too fierce for those whosp 
place it is to stand in its vicinity. The incidents of a Court retain, 
down to our day, their fascination, and we are old-fashioned 
enough to hope it may not soon be lost; yet it. can hardly be 
denied that it is girt about with a relaxing atmosphere, and that a 
manfiil constitution, or adequate refreslim,ent from other sources, 
is required in order to secure a robust health, in mind and 
character, to its favoured resident-s. Had the bodily health of 
General Grey been equal to his mental soundness and manly tnitb- 
fiilness of stamp, he would still havo been among us, with many 
coming years of usefulness to reckon. . 

A more recent, but not less loyal or judicious, relation to thp 
thi-one, was that of Sir Arthur Helps, whose deatli we have been 
called, within the last few months, to mourn. So early as in 1862, 
he had been chosen to edit the Speeches of the Prince ; and he 
had prefixed to them a most able and most discriminating intro- 
duction, only second in interest to the Speeches themselves, wliich 
were eagerly and extensively read by the nation, and which un- 
questionably have that in them which ought not to die. 

It was much that, after the removal by death of these two 
admirable servants of the Crown, her Majesty should be able to 
select, for the definitive execution of a task liitlierto only 
attempted in fragments, a biographer of such high qualifications 
^ Mr. Martin. He has brought to the execution of a task neces- 
sarily arduous the same fine hand and accurate discernment with 
which he had previously rendered the image of some of the best 
Latin poets, in the guise of happy and elegant English transla- 
tions. It is, however, unnecessary for us, writing many months 
after the appearance of the work, to repeat in detail the praises 
wliich havo been justly, and more promptly, awarded to Mr. Martin 
already by authoritative and respected organs of the periodical 
press.* We have only to Avish, that he may continue as he has 
begun. Perhaps we should add the expression of a hope that the 
nature of^his subject matter may not again impose upon him any 
such necessity of entering largely into the detail of foreign poUcy 
as he encountered in the painfiil case of the Spanish marriages. 
Even the valuable documents and the authentic history he has here 
famished want something of the charm of a biography. But the 
interest of the Royal portrait, which it has been Mr. Martin's duty 

Quarterly Remew for JannAT;y, 1857, pp, 108 — 1 10. 


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to draw, is one not to be exhausted with the iTin of a successful 
work. The study and contemplation of the man will remain permap- 
nently fruitful of the most improving lessons to every learner in the 
school of human nature. The whole action of the Prince, in its 
manifold relations both to English society and to the constitution 
of the country, still forms a subject of deep interest to all who are 
interested either in free institutions generally, or in the peculiar 
form of them under which we live. And the amotmt of calamity 
we have suffered by his death has, perhaps, not even yet been 
folly apprehended. 

It is not our intention to enter largely into the narrative of a 
life of which the general features are so well and widely known ; 
especially as we cannot doubt that Mr. Martin's work will in no 
long period obtain access to a wider circle of readers, through 
republication in a popular form, than is permitted by its present 
size and price. But we shall careftilly select our points of refer- 
ence. And there is one anecdote of the Prince's childhood, 
recorded by Count Arthur Mensdorff, which exhibits in very early 
times the base, so to speak, of his character. 

"One day, when we children, Albert, £me8t, Ferdinand, Augustus, 
Alexander, myself, and a few other boys, were playing at the Rosenau, and 
some of us were to storm the old ruined tower on the side of the castle, 
which the others were to defend, one of us suggested that there was a 
place at the back by which we could get in without being seen, and thus 
capture it without difficulty. Albert declared ^that this would be most 
unbecoming in a Saxon knight, who should always attack the enemy in 
front.' And so we fought for the tower, so honestly and vigorously, that 
Albert, by mistake, for I was on his side, gave me a blow upon the nose, 
of which I still bear the mark. I need not say how sorry he was for the 
wound he had given me."* 

The boy was father of the man ; and from the high standard 
which he had thus early, and thus earnestly, presented to himself, 
he never deviated. He was also happy, beyond almost all other 
men, in the aids which he received. His education seems to have 
been conducted with all the care, the steady direction of means to 
an end, the determination to turn all minds and all &culties to 
the very best account, which distingjuishes the Germans beyond 
any people of Europe. It seems as though there were no disturb- 
ing element of waste in their moral and intellectual world ; and 
this extraordinary and noble thrift early became a governing 
principle, and a great power, in the life of the Prince Consort. 

But he had higher advantages even than those of a careful and 
elaborate training, in the constant and affectionate attention of 
two men, each in himself remarkable, and both devoted in an 
extraordinary measure to his welfare, as well 843 to that of the 
Queen, with whom in a long vista of anticipation we are told that 

♦ Mr. Martin, p. 7 ; Genor»l Grey, p. 67. 

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his destiny was almost from the very first conjoined (Martin, p. 14). 
They were men not only of great gifts, but singularly adapted for 
their work of wardenship. 

One of them was King Leopold, of Saxe-Coburg by birth, of 
Belgium by a happy selection and adoption. This Sovereign 
must undoubtedly be reckoned among the great statesmen of the 
nineteenth century. As a monarch, he gave a living example of 
all the lessons which are to be learned from the free institutions of 
the world, and some part of which, at least, he may have originally 
gained from his association with, and residence in, England. 
Called to the throne imder circumstances more menacing than 
those of his neighbour and father-in-law, Louis PhiKppe, he Uved 
in prosperity and died in honour, while the heir of the more 
splendid lot closed his days in obscurity and in exUe ; and it may 
not be an unreasonable opinion that, had France been governed 
from 1830 onwards with the enhghtened frankness of King 
Leopold, the Orleans dynasty might still be on the throne, and 
Alsace and Lonuiae still might bear the inngnia of France ; 

^ Troja que nunc stares, Priamique arx alta maneres." 

The column of the Place Vendome would not be in ruins, nor the 
Hotel de Ville in ashes. 

Married in early life to Princess Charlotte of England, he stood 
in the line of succession to the very same position which his 
nephew, Prince Albert, was afterwards to hold. By the early death 
of that Princess, which was so deeply and, as is now known in 
the Ught of later disclosures, so deservedly lamented, the cup was 
dashed from his lips. But, without doubt, the exact reproduction 
of the same situation for othera so near and dear to him in the next 
generation must have heightened in his mind that interest in their 
well-being, which liis relationship of itself could not but inspire, 
and which the early death of the Duke of Kent (in 1820) gave him 
an appi^opriate opportunity of bringing into action with reference 
to the Princess Victoria. 

One of his great acts of tutelary friendship was to bring upon 
the scene Baron Stockmar, a person who was to contribute as 
directly, and perhaps with a yet larger effect, to the safe and 
happy direction of the Prince's life. Copious memoirs* of the 
Baron were printed three or four yeare back by his son, in German, 
and were translated into English. But, notwithstanding their near 
aasociation with persons and matters so interesting to the nation, 
they did not take any extended hold of the public mind. The* 
almost idolizing ardour of iiHal affection in the author of the 
book, failed to redeem a number of errors in point of tiwte and 

* Memoirs of Baron Stockmar. By his son, Baron E. von Stockmar. Translated 
tea the German by G. A. 1^1. Iiongmans, 1872. 

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propriety. Fortunately the character of the person commemorated 
was so high, as to survive and surmount the injudicious and 
obtnisive commemoration. In the pages of Mr. Martin, Baron 
Stockmar appears in his just place and relation, which of course is 
not that of the Olympian Zeus of modem Europe. Of great and 
cultivated gifts, he was a man absolutely disinterested, not merely 
in the sense of superiority to pecuniary inducement, but in the 
power of casting (as it were) himself out of himself, so as to 
attain a complete identification with those on whose behalf he 
advised or acted, for all the purposes to which the advice or action 
might belong. To a fearless independence he added, as Mr. 
Martin tnily says, a penetrating judgment of men and things 
(p. 15), and an inexhaustible fund of devotion. Eminently cos- 
mopolitan in the framework of his mind, he was free from national 
limitations ; and was able both to appreciate for himself, and to 
instil into another in a remarkable degree, the true character of 
the British Constitution, a product of our insular soil which is not 
only -without a parallel, but in its subtler parts almost without 
analogy elsewhere. It is commonly seen, by even the most in- 
telligent of foreigners, as pictures are seen in gasUght, with a strong 
projection of their more glaring colom-s, and a total, or at best 
very serious, loss of their more delicate, cool, tmnsparent shadows 
and graduating touches. From 1816 to 1831, the Baron had been 
resident in England as the private secretary of Piince Leopold, 
and the comptroller of his household. He had also acted as the 
organ and representative of the Prince in the diflSicult negotiations 
which followed his acceptance of the Belgian crown, and which 
were well quaUfied, as may be seen by the readers of the recent 
" Life of Lord Palmerston," to exercise and develop the capacity 
of any man for statesmansliip. Retiring to Coburg in 1834, he 
obeyed in 1836 a new call of King Leopold for his aid, and became 
a main agent in the happy and wise conspiracy, of which the King 
was probably the first author, for disposing all circumstances 
towards the maniage of the yoimg Prince Albert with the fiiture 
Queen of England, and for fitting him to adorn the exalted 
station. The succession of Princess Victoria had now no impedi- 
ment in its way; and it was time to make preparation for 
smootliing her arduous upward path with the best of all appli- 

The plan in view was bold, but not more bold than wise. It 
^ evidently was to make apreparation ideally perfect, but yet to leave 
choice as entire and free, as if there had been no preparation what- 
ever. A golden halo of romance thus invested the early life of these 
young and illustrious persons. The whole narrative really recalls 
the most graceful fictions of ^vise genii and gentle fairies, besetting 
mortals ^vith blessings, and biassing their fates to bKss. It was as 

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^\iere the highest skill combines with hoimteous soil and benefi- 
cent climate to secure the golden hai-vest. There never can have 
been an instance in which pubhc and domestic aims were more 
thoroughly harmonised ; though there have been so many where 
the human hearts and Hves of Royal persons have been as Ughtly 
gacrificed, as if they were creatures doomed to vivisection in the 
interests of science or of curiosity. 

This comprehensive forethought has not failed to secure even 
» poKtical reward. The palaces of England became shrines of 
domestic happiness ; and the Court exhibited to the nation and 
the world a pattern of personal conduct, in all the points most 
sKppery and dangerous for a wealthy countiy, with a large 
leisured class, in a luxurious age. Idleness was rebuked by the 
unwearied labour^ of the highest persons in the land ; vulgar 
ostentation grew pale in the face of a splendour everywhere 
associated with duty, and measured by its ends ; impurity could 
not live ia so clear an atmosphere ; even thrift had its tribute 
of encouragement, where hospitalities tinily regal and unwearied 
were so organized as not to put disdain upon the homely un- 
attractive duty of Kving within an appointed income. AU these 
personal excellences were seen and appreciated by the public ; 
and they contributed perhaps no less than wise legislation, and 
conduct inflexibly constitutional, to draw close the ties between 
the people and the throne. 

The culminating point of the interest, with which the Kfe of the 
Prince Consort should be regarded, is one at which it is really in- 
separable from the associated life of the Queen. They are ideally the 
obverse and reverse of the same medal ; nay, actually, the several 
moieties of the same whole. . And, thus considered, they supply the 
one normal exhibition of a case in which the woman-i*uler of a 
great empire, herself highly endowed both with character and 
intelligence, has rested as it were on the backgroimd of another 
consummately accompUshed existence, and has enjoyed the benefit 
of all its quahties, and all its energies, as amply as if they bad 
belonged to her own original store. Happy marriages, it may be 
thankixdly acknowledged, are rather the rule among us than the 
exception ; but even among happy marriages this marriage was ex- 
ceptional, so nearly did the union of thought, heai-t, and action both 
fulfil the ideal, and make duality approach to the borders of iden- 
tity. Commonly the wife is to the husband, asthe adjective is to the 
substantive. Undoubtedly the gieat faculties and comprehensive 
accomplishments of Prince Albert fully entitled him to claim the. 
husband's place. But he exactly appreciated the demands of the 
throne upon its occupant, and the consequential demands of his 
wife upon himself. He saw that it was his duty to hve in, for, and 
through her, and he accepted with a marvellous accuracy of intel- 

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lectual apprehension, and with an unswerving devotion of his 
hearty this peculiarly relative element in a splendid existence. 

On one occasion, at least, he was led to describe in words * his 
own life-long function. In the year 1850, nearly at the point of 
bisection of his married life, the Duke of Wellington strongly 
urged upon him that he should assume the office of Commander-in- 
Chief. In this recommendation we see at once one of the many 
instances of the Duke's enthusiastic attachment to the Sovereign, 
and an undoubted indication of faculties tending to decline with 
the lapse of years. The characters of the Queen and of the Prince 
stood so high, that the first announcement of hiq acceptance of such 
an office might have given pleasure. But every man acquainted 
with the spirit of parliamentary government must at once have 
seen it to be indefensible, and in a high degree inconvenient. It 
is, indeed, to be desired that a very close relation of sentiment 
between the Sovereign and the Army should be permanently main- 
tained. But the Army is, after all, a great department of the 
State ; and departments of the State can only be administered in 
this country by persons responsible to Parliament. There are, 
indeed, some features in the office which recommend that its 
contact with Parliament should be mediate, and not direct. The 
discipline of the Army is a subject so grave, so delicate, and 
associated at such a multitude of points with the interests and 
feelings of the governing class, that it should be as little as 
possible exposed to the influence of parliamentary pressure; a 
pressure much more apt to be exercised in the interest of class 
than in that of the public. The responsibility, therefore, of the 
Commander-in-Chief is covered by that of the Secretary of State. 
But this protection is not exemption; and the authority of Parlia- 
ment is entire with respect to the miUtary as well as the official 
head. Now, the responsibility of public officers in these days does 
not usually clothe itself in the hard material forms of impeachments 
and attainders, as it did in other times. It is sufficiently sustained 
and enforced, for the most part, through the immensely quickened 
action of opinion, and an increased susceptibility to its influence. 
The tdtima ratio with us is no longer fraught with peril to life, 
liberty, or estate, but simply means removal from office. This 
power, however, is indispensable ; and the case of the Duke of 
York may serve to show that it is no mere phantom. But it is 
quite plain that no such power could have been exercised, or even 
discussed, in reference to the husband of the Queen, without affect- 
ing the Throne ; to which he was so closely related, that whatever 
injured the one must have brought the other more or less into 
question. Now, in such a matter, there should be no more and 
less. It follows that, whatever might have been the guarantees 

♦ Speeches, p. 76. 

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afforded by his character for ^vise and unimpeachable conduct, 
there was a radical and incurable fault in the Duke's suggestion. 
The Prince could not fulfil the very first among the conditions 
of fitness for the office : he could not be removable. 

Yet, how great was the temptation to an active mind, conscious 
of the capacity, and filled with the desire, to render service to the 
nation, for once at least to seize the opportunity of claiming to 
give that service in a form in which it would bring the valuable 
reward of a daily and palpable appreciation. The recommendation, 
thus attractive in itself, proceeded from a statesman of fourscore, 
and from the man who, of all the land could boast, stood first 
in the public estimation. It might well have been mistaken for 
a safe proposal. We doubt whether a merely intellectual superi- 
ority would have saved the Prince from this serious danger — ^this 
trap, laid in innocence by most friendly hands. But his intellectual 
superiority was backed by a noble power of moral self-denial. 
And so he found his way to the heart and root of the matter. In 
a letter to the Duke, he describes the position of the ^'female 
Sovereign," and proceeds as follows : — 

^This requires that the husband should entirely sink his own individual 
existence in that of his wife ; that he should aim at no power by himself 
or for himself ; should shun all ostentation ; assume no separate responsi- 
bility before the public ; but make his position entirely a part of hers, fill 
up every gap which, as a woman, she would naturally leave in the exercise 
of her regal functions, continuallv and anxiously watch every part of the 
{Niblic business, in order to be able to advise and assist her at auy moment, 
in any of the multifarious and difficult questions or duties brought before 
her, sometimes international, sometimes political, or social, or personal. 
As the natural head of her family, superintendent of her household, 
manager of her private affairs, sole confidential adviser in politics, and 
only assistant in the communications with the officers of the Government; 
he is, besides, the husband of the Queen, the tutor of the royal children, 
the private secretary of the Sovereign, and her permanent Minister." 

In this admirably large description, we seem to find but one 
venial error of a word. It is not in the epithet confidential; for 
though this very phrase, by the usage of the constitution, belongs 
to the successive bodies of her advisers, it is manifestly appKcable 
with perfect propriety to the Prince, in a distinct, and in a 
much higher than the official sense. It is in the word Minister. 
Minister to the Queen he could not be, because his conduct was 
not within the reach and control of Parliament. But, in fact, the 
word is too weak to convey the character of the relation between 
his mind and the mind of the Queen. He was to her, in deed and 
truth, a second self. 

Much more, then, than a personal interest (high as in such 
a case the personal interest is) attaches to this great example. 
On the Queen, as a woman, was laid a maximum of burden. 
The problem was to find for her a corresponding maximum 

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of reKeving aid. The relation of the Piince to the Queen was 
really an experiment in the science and art of politics for the 
civilized world. Its success was complete : if it had failed, not 
England, but the civilized world would have been the loser. For 
the part sustained by the Monarch, in the system of this extended 
empire, still remains a great matter, and not a small one. 

The weighty bueiness of kingship has in modem times been 
undergoing a subtle and silent, yet an almost entire transformation ; 
and, in this countiy at least, the process has reached its maturity. 
Neither the nature nor the extent of this change appear as yet to 
have become familiar to the ordinary run of observers. The 
name of the Queen was still the symbol, and her office the fountain, 
of all lawful powei-6 ; royalty was seen and felt among us, imtil the 
darkening shadow of widowhood fell upon the august herfd, by 
the people of every rank and class, with unusual frequency, and 
in a splendour' never surpassed by the habit of preceding Sove- 
reigns. Many, then, did not advert to the fact that the character 
of the regal office had been altered ; while those, who beUeved in 
the change, for the most part beUeved that this great function 
was now emptied of its force, and teduced to an illusion. Both 
wer6 alike in error ; in an error which it is not easy to correct by 
a summary description. The nearest approach to an account 
combining truth and brevity would perhaps be found in the state- 
ment, that while in extent the change has been, at least inwaxdly, 
nothing less than a transformation, its substance may chiefly be 
perceived in a beneficial substitution of influence for power. 

Not that even power is entirely gone. The whole power of 
the State periodically returns into the Royal hands whenever a 
ministry is changed. This resumption is usually brought about 
by forces distinct from the peraonal action of the Sovereign. The 
day when George IV., in 1829, after a struggle, renewed the 
Charter of the Administration of the day, and thereby submitted 
to the Roman CathoKc Relief Act^ may be held to denote the 
death of British kingship in its older sense, which had in a measure 
survived the Revolution of 1688, and had even gained strength 
during the reign of George III. The endeavour of King Wil- 
liam lY., in 1834, to assert his personal choice in the appointment 
of a ministry without reference to the wiU of Parliament, gave to 
the Consei-vative party a momentaiy tenure of office without 
power. But, in truth, that indiscreet proceeding of an honest and 
well-meaning man produced a strong reaction in favour of the 
Liberals, and greatly prolonged the predominance, which they 
were on the point of losing through the play of natural causes. 
Laying too great a stress on the instrument of Royal will, it tended 
not to strengthen the throne, but to enfeeble it. Such was the 
upshot of an injudicious, though undoubtedly conscientious use of 

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po-wer. The case wa* very different when the pressure, not of 
Royal win, but of Parliamentary diflSculties, brought about the 
first resignation of the Melbourne Government in 1839, and what 
waB called the Bedchamber question arose. It was a question 
whether the ladies of the Court, who had been politically ap- 
pointed, should or should not retire from office. The Queen, not 
yet tw^enty years old, but capable of contracting attachments at 
once quick and durable, resisted the demand. There can be no 
doubt that if Sir Robert Peel had been allowed at that time to 
proceed with his task, the ministry he would then have formed 
would have been possessed of reasonable stabihty. But the power 
of the young Sovereign, appKed with a skilful use of opportunity, 
sufficed to prolong the duration of the Liberal Government until 
the smnmer of 1841, a period of nearly two and a half years. Its. 
exercise produced at the time no revulsion in the public mind. 
The final judgment upon the conduct of the paiiies to the crisis 
has been more favourable to the Minister than to the Monarch. 
Baron Stockmar himself has expressed this opinion. But the 
question involved, the claim of the woman in her early youth, 
was one of which within limits equity would have recom- 
mended the allowance. Possibly it was suspicion, the most obsti- 
nate among the besetting sms of politicians, even in men of upright 
nature, which interfered on the side of rigour. The justice of the 
case has, we think, been expressed in the arrangement which has 
now long prevailed. The Mistress of the Robes, who is not 
periodically resident at the Court, but only an attendant on gi-eat 
occasions, changes with the ministry : the Ladies in Waiting, who 
enjoy much more of personal contact by virtue of their office with 
the Sovereign, are appointed, and continue in their appointments, 
without regard to the political connections of their husbands. 

The record of the transaction, given in Hansard,* rests 
mainly upon two letters, one from the Queen, and the other from 
Sir Robert Peel ; and these two letters differ in their representation 
of the facts. The Queen, in her letter, mentions, and refuses, the 
proposal of Sir Robert Peel "to remove the ladies of her Bed- 
chamber." Sir Robert Pebl, in his answer, speaks only of his 
desire to remove a portion of them; and in the same letter 
declines to prosecute the task of forming a ministry. Hence it 
appears that he abandoned that undertaking to construct a 
Government upon a decision of the Queen's, which is not the 
decision announced by her. She declined to remove them as a 
body ; he resigns his charge, because he is not allowed to remove 
a few among them. It is veiy difficult to understand wliy he did 
Dot dispel, if only for his own sake, the misapprehension imder 
wMch the Queen's letter may have been written. At present the 

* Vol. xlvii. pp. 984, seqq. 

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documentaiy evidence only shows that her Majesty refused an 
unreasonable demand ; and that he retired from his high position 
because he adhered to a demand which, whether necessary or not, 
was not unreasonable. If in truth the matter turned upon her 
Majesty's resistance to this narrower request, it is quite possible 
that it was an error on the one side to press the request to 
extremity, and on the other to refuse it. Had it been upon the 
wider one, all would surely have admitted that there was full 
warrant for the refusal. 

We have dwelt upon the case, because it affords the most recent 
illustration of the successful exercise of Royal power, and, on this 
accoimt, bears a character of historical importance. The thirty-six 
years, which have since elapsed, have been undisturbed even by 
a single shock in the relations between the Sovereign and her 
Government, which has changed its head no less than twelve times 
without the sHghtest jolt or friction in the play of the machineiy. 
But although the admirable arrangements of the Constitution 
have now completely shielded the Sovereign from personal 
responsibility, they have left ample scope for the exercise of a 
direct and pereonal influence in the whole work of government. 
The amount of that influence must vary greatly, according 
to character, to capacity, to experience in a&irs, to tact in 
the application of a pressure which never is to be carried to 
extremes, to patience in keeping up the continuity of a multi- 
tudinous supervision, and, lastly, to close presence at the seat of 
government; for, in many of its necessary operations, time is 
the most essential of all elements, and the most scarce. Subject 
to the range of these variations, the Sovereign, 843 compared with 
her Ministers, ha43, because she is the Sovereign, the advantages 
of long experience, wide survey, elevated position, and entire 
disconnection from the bias of party. Further, personal and 
domestic relations with the ruling families abroad give openings, 
in deUcate cases, for saying more, and saying it at once more 
gently and more efficaciously, than could be ventured in the more 
formal correspondence, and ruder contacts, of Governments. We 
learn from the volume of Mr. Martin, with how much truthfulness 
and decision, and with how much tact an4 deHcacy, the Queen, 
aided by the Prince, took a principal part, on behalf of the nation, 
in the painful question of tlie Spanish marriages. Instances so 
very conspicuous as this may be rare ; but there is not a doubt 
that the aggregate of direct influence normally exercised by the 
Sovereign upon the counsels and proceedings of her Ministers is 
considerable in amount, tends to permanence and solidity of 
action, and confers much benefit on the country, without in the 
smallest degree relieving the advisers of the Grovm from their 
undivided responsibility. 

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But we doubt whether even this very important function of the 
Sovereign in watching, following, and canvassing policy, be not 
Ie88 important than the use which may be made of the vast moral 
and social influence attaching personally to the occupant of the 
throne. This is a power exercised upon the ordinary relations of 
life, and greatly through the ceremonial and hospitaUties of a Court. 

Little are they, who gaze from without upon long trains of 
qplendid equipages rolling towards a palace, conscious of the 
meaning and the force that live in the forms of a Monarchy 
probably the most ancient, and certainly the most soUd and the 
most revered, in all Europe. The acts, the wishes, the example, 
of the Sovereign in this country are a real power. An immense 
reverence, and a tender affection, wait upon the person of the one 
pennanent and ever faithful guardian of the fundamental con- 
ditions of the Constitution. She is the symbol of law; she is by 
law, and setting apart the metaphysics, and the abnormal incidents, 
of revolution, the source of power. Parliaments and ministries 
pass, but she abides in life-long duty ; and she is to them, as the 
oak in the forest is to the annual harvest in the field. When the 
angost fimctions of the Crown are irradiated by intelligence and 
Tirtue, they are transformed into a higher dignity than words can 
fuDy convey, or Acts of ParKament can give; and traditional 
loyalty, with a generous people, acquires the force (as Mr. Burke 
ays) of a passion, and the warmth of personal attachment. But 
by those to whom we are attached we are ready and prone to be, 
nay, we are already, influenced. 

This power, inherited with the place, will ever prove to have 
been husbanded and enlarged in strict proportion to the dis- 
charge of duty, and is independent of all personal contact, 
strictly BO called, between Sovereign and subject. But the 
pereonal contact of the Sovereign with the subject, under favour- 
able circumstances, such as those which the Prince so greatly 
contributed to form, is of very considerable extent. We do not now 
speak of local visits, or special relations to a class such as the 
Amy; or of participation in the amusements of the people, as at 
theatres, or balls, or concerts. And yet these are not to be 
despised ; nay, it may be taken for granted, that the presence and 
interest of the Sovereign in these recreations tend to expel from 
4em vulgarity, to reduce in many points the capricious excess 
of fashion, and generally to make their quality better than it 
would tend to become under other auspices, by giving a distinct 
and high sanction to the efforts of those who are ever striving to 
raise the level (for example) of the musical and dramatic arts. 
But we must likewise take more particularly into view what 13 
more strictly in the nature of personal contact. To come under 
4e roof of the Sovereign, to partake the hospitalities of the 

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Sovereign, to be admitted, even for moments only, to the con- 
verse of the Sovereign, all these in their different degrees con- 
stitute powers, and give scope for influence : for influence, which 
all that is good, as well as something of what is bad, in English 
society tends to enhance. These things make their mark; and 
the mark is usually durable. 

With us, society is passing imder many subtle, yet vital changes. 
It must never be forgotten, that wealth is now in England no 
longer the possession of a few, but rather what is termed "a drug." 
That is to say, it is diffused through a circle so much extended, 
and SO' fast extending, that to be wealthy does not of itself satisfy; 
and the keenness of the unsatisfied desire, aspiring selfishly not to 
superiority, but rather to the marks of superiority, seeks them 
above all in the shape of what we term social distinction. But 
the true test of the highest social distinction in this countiy is 
nearness to the Monarch; and all this avidity for access, for 
notice; for favour, expresses an amount of readiness to conform, to 
follow, to come under influence, which may often be indifferent 
enough in quaUty, but is very large in quantity. 

But^ quite apart from these more questionable elements, it must 
be borne in mind that the society of this country is hierarchically 
constituted. It is not here, as it was in the Court of Louis 
Napoleon ; where there was as much, or more, of splendour and dis- 
play, but where the influence exercised by peraonal contact termi- 
nated in those wha were its immediate objects, because they were 
often the mere members of a chque, and ^vire-pullere of poKtical 
intrigue, never the natuml^ traditional, accepted heads and teachei*s 
of society. At the Court of Queen Victoria, it was otherwise. 
Those who camo within the magic circle were persons, every one 
qi whom was more or less himself a power : the heads of the 
professions, the leadei-s of Parliament, tiie Patiiarchs of letters, 
the chiefs of art, and, as was natural and right, in larger measure 
than any other class, the aiistocracy of the land, themselves 
having, in so many instances, the double title of inherited station and 
high personal distinction. Even in dealing with these distinguished 
orders of men, a principle of selection was not forgotten ; and 
it became evident that, without invidious severances, the Court pre- 
ferred in every class thoae who were the best in that class, and 
leant to passing by those less eligible. Thus the whole force of 
royal example andauthoiity was given to good; and given in the 
most efficacious manner. The preferences of the Com-t silently 
exhorted to right conduct all who were within their re€U3h, and 
strongly discountenanced its opposite. This was their operation 
within the* necessarily limited class, to which alone close personal 
intercourse could by possibility extend. 

But it was a very small part of their whole operation. Of the 

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planets, which wheel roun4 the sun, many are themselves wheeled 
round by other and secondary stars. • The Court touched in the 
strictest sense only the select men of the country; but of these every 
one was himself a centre of influence by example, by exertion, by 
mental activity, it might be by aU combined; and each tmnsmitted 
what he had derived, as one billiard ball carries on the stroke to 
another, or as the circles widen on the water. Many readers may find 
something of paradox in what we are now saying ; but we venture 
to believe that it is because they have not taken occasion to make 
the subject a matter of careful study and observation. Among the 
thmgs least understood and most sa.dly underestimated in the 
woild are the force of example and the silent influences of leader- 
ship. In our social system, so marked by the dove^-taiUng of 
classes, the quality of receptivity for these influences is raised to its 
maximum^ and they pass from the summit even to the base. We do 
not hesitate to express a firm conviction that the Court of Victoria 
was a sensible and important element in the group of foroes^ which, 
for two or three decades of years, raised in so beneficial a manner 
the social and moral tone of the upper classes of this country, 
although the upward movement they received has of late years' 
not been sustained, if, indeed, it has not for some time beeoi 
ebbmg. If this be true, then that Court was a great fact in 
history; if at least history is to be a picture, and not only a 
sign-board.' We may also say that « its imposing exterior, its 
regular and many-sided action, and its accurate and refined 
adjustments, made it a work of art. Of all this the Prince was, 
and could not but be^ the organizing and directing' mind^ .Aanply 
charged with poEtical labour and its moral responsibilities; the* 
Queen was thus provided with an appropriate relief; and in one 
important sphere of action all ijiings moved, for her, automatically. 
The quantity of what is expected from a Sovereign, iu a state of 
society like ours, is double and quadruple of what the working 
force of a single mind and will can readily supply. ' By the Prince's 
close union with the Queen, and by his energy, his method^ and 
his judgment, the motive power was at once doubled, while from 
the close harmony of the two, singleness of impulse and operation 
was fully maintained. 

We have, in these pages, rather endeavoured to btring into view 
what we think to have been the less observed parta of the Prince's 
action, than dw^lt upon such forms of his useful activity as are 
better known. Instinctively remote from ideology, he had an 
energetic tendency towards social improvement in every form, 
and herein especiafly towards those reformatory schemes which 
were calculated to bring into view new modes of coping with social 
mischief; as well as those which tended to raise the level of culture, 
and to refine connnon life by the habits and appliances of art. \\Tien 

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the subjects of his care and attention are brought together, they 
form a whole so formidable in amount, that the mind is struck and 
almost shocked at the lavish expenditure of brain-power which 
they must have required, amidst all the splendour which is readily 
mistaken for ease by the careless beholder ; and wonder becomes 
less, as pain becomes more, at that sapping and exhaustion of vital 
forces which probably made openings for disease, and prepared 
him to succumb to it in the early maturity of his manhood. 

But in truth the form of self-sacrifice practised by the Prince 
seems to be the prime, and perhaps the only, way in which, under 
the circumstances of modem times, the nobleness of the Royal 
character can be sustained. The changes, which have affected the 
position of sovereigns and their families among us, are in many 
respects fraught with moral danger, and with temptation in pecu- 
liar forms, not easily detectedl Of old, the king had all his splen- 
dours and all his enjoyments weighted by the heavy cares, and very 
real and rude responsibilities, of government ; and " uneajsy lay the 
head that wore a crown." It was a truth as old as Troy, where 
other gods and warriors slept, but Zeus alone was wakeful.* Thus 
it was that power, and luxury, and what is far more insidious, 
flattery, were then compensated and kept in check. In the 
British monarchy, the lodgment of the various parts of this great 
whole, making up a king's conditioh, is changed, and their moral 
equilibrium put in jeopardy. There, are still gathered the splen- 
dours, the enjoyments, all the notes of homage, all the eager 
obedience, the anticipation of wishes, the surrender of adverse 
opinions, the true and loyal deference, and the deference which is 
factitious and conventional. To be served by all is dangerous ; to 
be contradicted by none is worse. Taking into view the immense 
increase in the appliances of material ease and luxury, the general 
result is, that in the private and domestic sphere a royal will enjoys 
at this epoch, more nearly than in any past generation, the privi- 
leges of a kind of omnipotence. At the same time, the principal 
burden of care, and all responsibility for acts of administration, and 
for the state of the country, is transferred to the head of others, and 
even the voice of the lightest criticism is rarely heard. In these 
circumstances it is true that the duties of a Court entail in their 
full scope a serious and irksome task, and that there must be 
much self-denial, and much merit, in their due discharge. But it is 
also in other duties, principally remote from the public eye, that the 
largest scope is afforded for the patient and watchful labour in 
public affairs which, balancing effectually mere splendour and en- 
joyment, secures the true nobleness of kingship against the subtle 
inroads of selfishness, and raises to their maximum at once the 
toil, the usefulness, and the influence of the British throne. 

• n. ii. 1, 

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Never, probably, under any circumstances, be ihey favourable as 
they may, can these reach a higher point of elevation than they 
had attained by the joint eflfbrts, and during the married life, of 
the Queen and the Prince. Nor can we well overvalue that addi- 
tion of masculine energy to female tact and truth, which brought 
the working of British Royalty so near the standard of ideas, 

We proceed to some matters more exclusively personal to the 
Prince. A German by birth, he never lost the stamp of Germany ; 
and the foreign mark upon his exterior and manner, together with 
the peipetual presence of a manifest endeavour to turn every man*s 
converBation, every man's particular gift and knowledge, to account 
for his own mental improvement, most laudable as it was, prevented 
his attaining that charm of ease in his intercourse with the world, 
which he is believed to have possessed in the circle of his family ; 
and retarded the growth of his popularity among the wealthy and 
the great, who are, and may, we fear, always remain, one of the 
most censorious among the several classes of society. 

The precocity of the Prince seems to have been not less re- 
markable than his soUdity and his many-sidedness. In this respect, 
indeed, all Royal persons enjoy such advantages, through the 
elaborateness of their training, the devotion of those who sun-ound 
them, and their large opportunities of contact with the choicest 
minds, that almost in all cases they seem to exhibit a number of 
the signs of maturity much earher than do those in lower station. 
What w^as specially noteworthy about the Piince was, that in his 
precocity there was nothing showy, or superficial, or transitory. 
Though he had hardly crossed the threshold of manhood when he 
arrived among us, he gave no signs of crudity, never affected 
knowledge he did not possess, never slackened in, and never con- 
cealed, that anxiety to learn, which seemed to accompany as much 
his social leisure as his working hours. There seemed, again, to be 
no branch of human knowledge, no subject of human interest, oa 
which he did not lay his hand. 

This early and multitudinous development, which received a share 
of assistance from the incidents of Royalty, and which in him nature 
supremely favoured, however daaszling and however real in the 
advantages it supplies, has likewise at least one great drawback. It 
is not favourable to the energetic concentration without which the 
htiman mind can hardly reach to greatness, and of which it is plain 
that he was eminently capable. It is impossible to say what 
growth may have been reserved for the Prince during his later 
yeais; but some of the most remarkable and complete among the 
Speeches — ^which constitute, after all, his very best memorial — 
helong to the earlier portion of the volume ; knd it might be diffi- 
cult to assign to the later moiety of it any marked superiority cvci' 

TOUXXVI. C / c^r^n\o 

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the first. The circumstances of his life may have thwarted the 
bias of nature ; but undoubtedly these Speeches seem to show the 
exercise, in a very remarkable degree, of the three combined 
faculties of terseness in expression, of concentrated attention, and 
of completeness of thought. 

At the age of thirty, in 1850, he delivered a speech, which con- 
tains one of the best descriptions of the mind and character of 
Sir Robert Peel. This description is, among its other features, 
highly sympathetic. It betokens a real intimacy; and there is no 
other of the same stamp. In truth, the character of Peel, in some 
intellectual and many moral quaUties, was not without pointed 
resemblance to his own.* His short speech at the meeting of the 
Corporation of the Sons of the Clergy, in 1854, aflfbrds a remark- 
able example of handling at once succinct and exhaustive.t The 
speech at Birmingham, for the Midland Institute, in 1855,t and the 
speech at Aberdeen, at the meeting of the British Association, are 
excellent. But to our mind the Prince never surpaissed in compre- 
hensiveness, in his fearless truthfulness, and in deUcacy of touch 
and handling, his address at the festival of the Royal Academy, in 
1850, when he was still but thirty. After treating of the character 
of Sir Charles Eastlake^ he proceeds to the general subject : — 

"Gentlemen, the production of aU works in art or poetry requires, in 
their conception and execution, not only an exercise of the intellect, skill, 
and patience, but particularly a concurrent warmth of feeling and a f r6e 
flow of imagmatioB. This renders them most tender plants, which will 
thrive only in an atmosphere calculated to maintain that warmth ; and that 
atmosphere is one of kindness — ^kindness towards the artist personally, as 
well as towards his production. An unkind word of criticism passes like 
a cold blast over their [qy. these] tender shoots, and shrivels them up, 
checkbg the flow of the sap, which was rising to produce, perhaps, multi- 
tudes of flowers and fruit. 

" But still, criticism is absolutely necessary to the development of art, 
and the injudicious praise of an iidPerior work becomes an insult to 
superior ^;enius. 

" In this respect our times are peculiarly unfavourable, when compared 
with those when Madonnas were painted in the seclusion of convents. For 
we have now, on the one hand, the eager competition of a vast array of 
artists of every degree of talent and skill, and on the other, as judge, a 
great public, for the greater part wholly uneducated in art, and thus led by 
professional writers, who often strive to impress the public with a great 
idea of their own artistic knowledge by the merciless manner in which 
they treat works which have cost tnose who produced them the highest 
efforts of mind or feeling. 

" The works of art, by being publicly exhibited and offered for sale, are 
becoming articles of trade, fdlowing, as such, the unreasomng laws of 
markets and fashion; and public and even private patronage is swayed 
by their tyrannical influence."$ 

In these evils he finds the ground for the existence of the 

p. 146-8. 
?. 123. 

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♦ Spoeehes, pp. l5l-4. f Speeches pp. 146-8. 

X Spocches; p. 162. § Speeches, p. 123. 


Academy, which has done much to deserve the pubKc confidence, 
but yet to which he does not hesitate to point out its own besetting 

We pass on to a still higher matter. Where so warm and so wide 
an interest is felt in one departed, there cannot but be much desire 
to know what, in this agitated and expectant age, was his mental 
attitude -with respect to religion. On this great subject there has 
been some degree of reserve, which we should be the last to blame ; 
for at a time of sharp division, and of much fashionable scepticism 
ftB well as bigotry, loving hands, such as those which tend the 
Prince's memory, are Kttle likely to expose a beloved reputation 
to the harshest and most penetrating forms of criticism. For the 
pnbHc, however, the matter has now become one of histoiy. The 
nation knew, during the lifetime of the Prince, all, perhaps, that it 
had a right to know. They knew that he was a religious man. In 
his eariiest youth,* at the period of his confirmation, to which, in 
Gennany, a peculiar character attaches, he declared with energy 
his resolved adoption of the Christian profession. To its public 
duties he paid a regular homage. His life was known to be of a 
pure and severe morality, of an incessant activity in duty, of an 
exemplary tone in the various domestic relations. The confidence 
of the country, won upon these grounds, was sealed by the obvious 
presence of a determined and even far-reaching Protestantism.t 
The Prince was friendly to an equality of civil rights independent 
of religious profession; but with such a frame of opinion for 
himself, and with his marked earnestness of character, a certain 
degree of theological bigotry may have formed an ingredient in 
his views of the religious system of the Latin Church, even when 
considered apart from its latest and most extravagant developments, 
of which he lived to witness some bold beginnings. 

So \b,x as can be gathered incidentally from those who find ad- 
mittance to the inner circles, not much is to be added to the 
OTiiline which met the public eye. Nothing has been learned to 
show that his mind was deeply impressed with the value or the 
particulars of dogmatic orthodoxy. With his refined culture, he 
could not but repel the crude vulgarities, which sometimes 
discharge themselves from the pulpit, and lurk in forms of popular 
religion ; and it is extensively believed that the Church owes to 
flie Prince's influence and suggestion the appointment of the able 
Prelate who fills the see of Worcester, in substitution for a person 
of more popular and showy type, but of far less learning, capacity, 
and governing force. What was more than this was the convic- 
tion, which all intercourse with the Prince conveyed, as to liis own 
''jKng notions of daily conduct. His life was, in truth, one 

• Martin, p. 10. t Sp^echei, p. 10. 

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sustained and perpetual effbii to realize the great law of duty to 
God, and to discharge the heavy debt which he seemed to feel 
was laid upon him by his high station, and by the command of 
the means and sources not less of usefulness than of enjoyment. 
As a watch woimd up obeys its mainspring till it has all run out, 
so he, at all moments, seemed to be answering the call of an 
inward voice, siunmoiung him to learn, to think, to do, to bear. 
In all ranks andfonns of life this is a noble, an edifying spectacle ; 
and it is more noble and edifying, in proportion as the elevation is 
greater, and the object visible from a wider range. 

Some reUgionists will be tempted hereupon to say how sad it 
was that one who came so near to the kingdom of God should not 
have entered in. Some will simply hold the description we 
have given to be that of a dry self-righteousness, which cannot 
stand in the day of account. A third class, whose doubts and 
sciniples would command more of our sympathy, would ask them- 
selves how it was that a man who thus earnestly and faithfully set 
himself to do the divine will, did not accordingly appreciate at 
their fiillest value, those specific revelations of truth, in the form 
of doctrines and institutions, which Christians in general have 
accepted as the ^ most effectual sources of regenerative power, 
both for the individual, as established by personal experience, and 
for society, as written on the long scroll of history during eighteen 
centuries. But this opens a question aUke broad and deep, and 
we can only glance for a moment along the vUta, 

Let us endeavour to sketch a fmme of religious sense and con- 
viction different from that of the Prince. We take a human soul 
profoundly conscious of the taint and power of sin ; one given to 
the contemplation of the character of Christ, and shocked at its own 
immeasurable distance from the glorious image of the Master ; one 
pained, not only with the positive forms of corruption, but with 
the pervading grief of general imperfection and unworthiness, and 
with the sense how the choicest portions of the life strangely run 
to waste, how the best designs are spoiled by faulty actuation, how 
there are teare (in the touching language of Bishop Beveridge) 
that want washing, and repentance that needs to be repented of. 
Such an one feels himself engaged in a double warfare, against evil 
without, and against evil within ; and finds the last even fiercer 
than the first. To deprive one so minded of any fraction of what 
are teimed the doctrines of grace, of such lights as shone upon 
the souls of Saint Paul, Saint Augustine, and Saint Bernard, is to 
drain away the Kfe's blood of the spirit, and lay him helpless at the 
feet of inexorable foes. For a nature such as this, religion is 
not only a portion or department of conduct, but, by a stringent 
necessity, the gi-eat standing, solemn drama or action of life, that 
in which all mental powers and all emotions of the heart are 

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most constantly and intensely exercised ; and the yearnings, efforts, 
and conflicts which belong to the external order, are as nothing 
compared to those which are to God-wards. 

But as in the Father's house there are many mansions, so there 
are vast diversities in the forms of character He is preparing to 
inhabit them. However true it may be that all alike have sinned, 
it is far from true that all have sinned alike. There are persons, 
though they may be rare and highly exceptional, in whom the 
atmosphere of purity has not been dimmed, the forces of temp- 
tation are comparatively weak, and at the same time the sense of 
duty is vigorous and Kvely. Hence the temj)er which trusts God 
and loves Him as a Father, is not thwarted in its exercise by habi- 
tual perversity, nor associated with so crushing a sense of the sin- 
fiJness that debars us from approach to Him, or of the need of a 
Saviour, and a sacrifice, and of the gift and guidance of the Holy- 
Spirit working in us that we may have a good will, and with us 
when we have that good will. Persons such as these, ever active 
in human duty, need not be indifferent about religion ; on the 
contrary they may be strongly religious. They may, as tlie Prince 
did, condemn coldness and commend fervour.* They may " give 
their heart to the Purifier, their will to the Will that governs the 
universe ; " and yet they may but feebly and partially appreciate 
parts of Christian dogma ; nay, they may even, like Charles Lamb, 
the writer of these beautiful and powerful words, hold themselves 
apart from its central propositions. Sd it may come about that 
the comparative purity of a man's nature, the milder form of the 
deterioration he inherits, the fearless cheerfulness with which he 
seems to stand and walk in the Kght of God's presence, may 
impair his estimate of the warmer, more inward, and more 
spiritual parts of Christianity. Further, they may altogether pre- 
vent him from appreciating the Gospel on its severer side. He 
may generously give credit to others for dispositions corresponding 
with his own : and may not fully perceive the necessity, on their 
behalf, of that law which is made, not for the righteous, but for the 
ungodly and the profane, of those threatenings and prohibitions 
wherewith the Gospel seeks to arrest reckless or depraved spirits 
in their headlong course, to constrain them to come in, and to 
rescue them as brands from the burning. He may unduly genera- 
lize the facts of Ids own mental and moral constitution. 

We do not admit that the dissent or only faint or partial 
adhesion of these exceptional human beings to the ancient creed 
of the Christian Church detracts from its just authority ; but we 
should be slow to charge the inadequacy of their doctrinal con- 
ceptions upon moral defect, or to deny the trath, force, and value 

* SpeoeboB, pp. 182, 184. 

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of the heart-eervice which they may and do render, and render 
with affectionate hiunility, to their Father and their God. The 
Christian dogma is the ordained means of generating and sus- 
taining the religious life; but the Almighty is not tied to the 
paths He marks out for His servants, and we are nowhere 
authorised to say there can be no religious life except as the 
direct product of the Christian dogma in its entirety. 

We might, if space permitted, exhibit largely another class of 
cases, where the reception of the Gospel seems to be determined 
to a particular and by no means normal foim of conditions of 
personal character. There is a highly popular kind of Christian 
teaching, which dwells more or less congenially within the 
precincts of various commimions, and of which it is the 
distinguishing characteristic that while it retains and presents, 
with some crudity, the doctrine, of the Fall, the Atonement by 
substitution, the intensity of sin, and the final condemnation of 
the wicked, it reduces the method of delivei-ance to a formula of 
extreme simplicity. A certain reception of Christ, not easy to 
describe psychologically, is held to be the only door to spiritual 
life. It conveys a salvation in itself immediate and complete ; 
and not only entails the obUgation, but suppUes the unfailing 
motive for walking in the way of Christian obedience towards moral 
perfection. Purity of mind and natural balance of character sup- 
plied us, in the case fonnerly presented, with the key to the problem ; 
whereas the doctrinal scheme now before us rather commends itself 
to those who are suddenly awakened to a sense of gross neglect or 
transgi'ession, and who are in this sense at least childlike, that the 
elements of their characters are few and simple, and their minds 
imused to what is profound or complex. A summary presenta- 
.tion and settlement^ so to speak, of the reUgious account between 
God and the soul, is that which most accords with the general 
form of their mental habits. These two distinct modes of appre- 
hending reUgion, so much contrasted, seem to have in common 
the important points that each may be sincere, and for the 
individual efficient, but that neither have the solidity necessary 
for continuous transmission : and the likelihood is, that a great 
share of the efficacy they possess is derived from that general 
atmosphere of Christianity in which we Uve, and much of which 
we may unconsciously and without moral choice (irpooujpco-tc) inhale* 

We proceed to quote from the Speeches a passage addressed 
to a conference on education in 1857, which distinctly testifies 
not only to the earnest piety of the speaker, but to his clear and 
advised convictions : — 

" Our Heavenly Father, in His boundless goodness, has made his crea- 
tures that they should be happy, and His wisdom has fitted His means 
to His ends, giving to all of them different faculties and qualities, in using 

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and developing which they fulfil their destiny, and, running their uniform 
course acc(»tling to the prescription, they find that happiness which He has 
intended for them. Man alone is bom into this world with faculties far 
nobier than the other creatures, reflecting the image of Him who has willed 
that there should be beings on earth to know and worship Him, but 
endowed with the power of self-determination. Having reason given him 
for his guide, he can develop his faculties, place himself in harmony wiA 
his Divine prototype, and attain that happiness which is offered to lum on 
earth, to be completed hereafter in entire union with Him through the 
mercy of Christ. But he can also leave these faculties unimprov^, and 
miss his missicm on earth. He wiU then sink to the level of the lower 
animals, forfeit happiness, and separate from his Gk>d, wh(Hn he did not 
know how to find."* 

There are men who are religions by temperament, though 
Bceptical in their intellect. Such was not the case of the Pi-ince. 
He had been trained in Germany mider influences rather of the 
rationaliBing than the orthodox party, but his religion had a firm 
ground, as must be manifest from this passage, in his mind not 
less than in his heart. 

It will moreover, as we think, be observed with pleasure that as 
years rolled on, though the flower of life was still in full blow, an 
increaauig warmth of tone pervaded the Prince's sentiments in 
this great matter. On an occasion secular enough for such as are 
disposed so to take it, namely, that of presenting colours in 1859 
to a battalion of his regiment, he breaks forth copiously into temoB 
of truly Christian and paternal affection : — 

^^May God's best blessing attend you, shield you frcm danger, support 
you under difficulties, cheer you upder privations, ^ant you moderation in 
BQccess, contentment under disdpline,^humility and gratitude towards Him 
in prosperity."* 

More than thirteen years have now passed, since the Prince waa 
gathered to his fathers ; and his character belongs to history. To 
such a man it is no compliment to treat of him in a strain merely 
courtly and eulogistic. He will shine most in the colours which 
the truth supplies : he would have been the first to reject adula- 
tion, and to disapprove excess. It is but the naked and cold 
truth, that we possessed in him a treasure ; that he raised the 
influence and usefulness of our highest institution to its highest 
point, and that society has suffered heavily from the slackening of 
the beneficial action to which he so powerfully contributed. 

At Windsor, the noblest and most complete of all the abodes of 
European royalty, in the beautiful chapel built by Henry VIE. 
eastward from St. George's, and afterwards given to Wolsey, lies 
the effigy of the Prince, which will probably stand with the public 
and with posterity as in a propter and especial sense his monur- 
ment. The outlay of her Majesty upon the interior of the building, 

* Speeches, p. 191. 

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in the endeavour to bring it up to the standard of her love, must 
have been very large ; and the result is that, witiiout losing 
its solemnity, it has attained exceeding splendour. Roof and 
floor, walls and windows, altar and sedilia, ancestral, royal, sacred 
effigies, marbles sculptured and inlaid in colour, all bear the stamp 
of a more than queenly magnificence; and the criticism which a 
very few poiuts might invite with reference to the details of 
execution may be omitted, lest it should jar with the conspicuous 
and noble harmony of the work as a whole. The pure white 
marble figure of the Prince reposing on his altar-tomb, amidst all 
these glories, vividly presents the image of his stainless character 
and life, persistently exhibited through all the sumptuous fasci- 
nation and array of brilliancy, which lay along his earthly path. 

Over the tomb of such a man many tears might fall, but not 
oue could be a tear of bitterness. These examples of rare intelli- 
gences, yet more rarely cultivated, with their great duties greatly 
done, are not lights kindled for a moment, in order then to be 
quenched in the blackness of darkness. While they pass dse- 
where to attain their consummation, they live on here in their 
good deeds, in their venerated memories, in their fruitfhl 
example. As even a fine figure may be eclipsed by a gorgeous 
costume, so during life the splendid accompaniments of a Prince 
Consort's position may for the common eye throw the quaJtties of 
his mind and character, his true humanity, into shade. These 
hindrances to effectual perception are now removed ; and we can 
see, like the forms of a Greek statue, severely pure in their bath of 
southern light, all his extraordinary gifts and virtues ; his manly 
force tempered with gentleness, playfulness, and love ; his intense 
devotion to duty ; his punsuit of the practical, with an unfailing 
thought of the ideal ; his combined allegiance to beauty and to 
truth ; the elevation of his aims, with his painstaking care and 
thrift, and methodising of life, so as to waste no particle of liis 
means. His exact place in the hierarchy of bygone excellence it 
is hot for us to determine ; but none can doubt that it is a privi- 
lege which, in the revolutions of the years, but rarely returns, to 
find such gpraces and such gifts of mind, heart, character, and 
person united in one and the same individual, and set so steadily 
and fimily, upon a pedestal of such giddy height, for the instmc- 
tion and admimtion of mankind. 


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IT seems to nie that the actual state of Europe, and especiallj of 
the Latin races, is sucli aa to make us distrust the ideas hj 
which, -we hare hitherto been guided. There certainly seems to 
be a necessity for reviewing our theories concerning the moral 
conditions of civil order, and the pftrt which rdigiouB beliefe play^ 
or are destined to play, in the affairs of human society. 

We may ascribe it to the raillery of fortune, but never has ther^ 
been so much discourse as at the present hour about the absolute 
separation of the spiritual and the temporal. And yet it may be 
said that, throughout Europe, we see nothing but secular conflicts 
provoked by differences in religion, religious struggles exasperated 
by political hatreds, and events wliich demonstrate that, ad: the 
present time, it is impossible to defend a form of government 
without having also to take part for or against a Church — ^im- 
poBsiUe, both £or individuals and parties, to take different sides 
on religious questions without being also irreconcilable enemies 
in politics. 

But, in fact, the humour of fortune has nothing to do with these 
matters. If our principles are belied by events, it is because they 
do not rest on an exact perception of the impossible and the 
inevitable. The truth is, that Europe, without being sufficiently 
conscious of the origin and gravity of the schdsm, finds itself 
divided into two entirely different methods of understanding life, 
and tiie best way of using our faculties. There is on the one 

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hand Catholicifion, which knows of no other way of keeping men 
from disorder but Bubmission to an external power charged with 
appointing the rule of life. This rule all are to obey, however 
much it may be opposed, not only to their desires, but to their 
conscience. On the other hand there is secular philosophy, which in 
order to bring man under the guidance of reason, can devise no 
better means than that of leaving him practically without reUgion. 

I do not speak merely of Positivism, which positively declares 
that reason itself consists in abjuring all theology and all meta- 
physics, in giving up the vain search after invisible truth, in order 
to concentrate our faculties on the study of external facts and 
their practical bearings. Between this irreKgious dogmatism 
of the Extreme Left and the authoritative Catholicism of the 
Extreme Right, there exists scarcely anything but a Liberalism 
which has two divisions — ^that of the Bight Centre and that 
of the Left. Certainly, this Liberalism has no wish to suppress 
religious convictions ; but it maintains that in all cases reUgion 
is purely a private matter, and ought to have no influence on 
political questions, either as viewed by individuals of by 
nations. Some, through fear that the State will violate con- 
science, and not favour their doctrines, proclaim the absolute 
incompetency of the State to deal with religious matters. Others, 
fearing ihat the Churches would trouble society by their preten- 
sions, and interefere with the national Uberties,^ proclaim religion 
absolutely incompetent to deal with civil matters. In both cases, 
the same practical conclusion is reached, which is, that secular 
society is to rest on a law that completely- abandons reHgion to 
private choice, accords equally to all beliefs the right of propa- 
gating themselves, . or, rather, gives up to their control pubHc 
education in reUgious matters. By a natural law, what the heart 
wishes the intellect finds. The two Liberal schools have applied 
themselves to the examination of facts to find proof that the co- 
existence of the most opposite beliefs is not prejudicial to social 
order — ^that there is nothing to hinder the members of the same 
nation from being at their pleasure Catholics or Protestants, 
•Atheists or indiflferent, and yet to agree entirely on secular ques- 
tions, and the kind of government most suited to the society in 
which all are to Uve. 

For the last fifty years especially, this Liberal philosophy, or, to 
speak more correctly, this philosophy for the support of Liberalism, 
has been the common bond of Europe. With the exception of 
Catholics, and men devoted to old ideas of government, almost all 
thinkers, both in England and France, have been unanimous in 
regarding reUgious beliefs as opinions essentially speculative, and 
having no necessaiy relation to daily life or politics. They set 
out with the conviction that it is self-interest which guides the 

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world; and that, to establish solid society, we rniist, before all 
things, reckon on the cares which men have in buying and seUing, 
clothing themselves, and increasing their temppral goods. From 
this they infer that the formation of rehgions beliefs is a matter quite 
unimportant, and that it is enough to render them inoffensive. 
They inculcate on the men of every CJhurch to be utilitarian in 
their ideas, and to regard as the best poHcy what is most sub- 
servient to their general interests. 

To-day we are reaping the fruit of this theory. Preoccupied 

•ntirely with poUtical economy, we have not perceived the 

antagonistic tendencies which our official Church and our lay 

philosophy have created among the people. We have not kept 

watch on the influence which these two teachers have exercised 

over men's minds, and their mode of looking at their interests. 

Since the fall of the Empire this latent antagonism has 

become manifest in a political chaos. We have before our 

eyes the clearest evidence that our irreligious philosophy has 

only served to perpetuate irrational religion. Moreover, it has 

been demonstrated, and that by cannon balls, that people do not 

get rid of superstition by means of unbelief. Whilst the educated 

preach and practise theological indifference, the multitude who 

have reUgious wants have no other resource but to turn to the old 

CShurch, which represents the only reKgion of which they have 

any idea. Women have counted their beads; the sick and the 

dying have asked consolation from the cur^ of their parishes ; 

parents, even the unbelieving, who are unwilling to let their 

children be without all beUef, have sent them to learn the 

catechism. In feet, France is Kterally divided into two halves, 

which threaten to destroy each other. While many go in for 

sociaUsm and the Commune, multitudes remain faithful to the 

Church, and other multitudes, who are frightened at the practical 

consequences of unbeliej^ allow themselves to be led to Lourdes 

and Paray-le-Mdnial. This is the army behind the leaders, who, 

with their, assistance, are re-^stabUshing the rule of the two 

divine rights. 

On this matter it is impossible to have two opinions. There 
may be a difference as to the part which religion ought to play, 
and which it will play in the future. We may regard either as 
sad or as beneficial the influence which CathoUcism exercises 
upon the political destinies of France, but we cannot shut our 
eyes to the extent of its influence, or the part which it has played 
in the gravest events of our century. K it has not had the power 
of creating governments, it has certainly had that of destroying 
more than one. We have seen the faU of the Conservative 
BepobUe of M. Thiers, as well as of Orleanism; and no one 
is ignorant of the cause of the wreck of both these, which as 

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moderate solutions, represented the best, perhaps the only chance, 
which France had of escaping Radicalism without falling into 
clerical monarchy. M* Tliiers fell under the coalition of Con- 
servatiTes and tJltramontanes. Orleanism has had the same fate ; 
for if it has been abandoned by the Orleanist Princes, it was first 
abandoned by the country. In other words, the mass of interests, 
frightened by Radicalism, passed over to the side of clerical 

Is it necessary to remark that this collapse of the interme- 
diary parties, which leaves the triumph for the Extreme Right 
or the Extreme Left, can be accounted for only by the par- 
ticular character of our Church and her doctrines ? In England, 
the cause of constitutional government is not subject to defeat 
by any league of Conservatives and the Church, and that 
for this excellent reason, that in England the Church does not 
make religion to consist in the renunciation of individual reason 
and national liberty. However great may be the difference which 
sejMirates Mr. John Bright from Mr. Disraeli or from the Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury, the Archbishop of Canterbury might be- 
come Prime Minister without the English people running the 
risk of losing, as individuals, their moral independence, and, 
as a people, the right of deciding according to their reason 
and their conscience what ought to be the laws of their 

But the influence of the national religion in Fmnce reaches 
much beyond the direct action of the Catholic party itself. 
The more comprehensive the view we take of the forces which 
are constantly reacting upon each otiier, the more clearly we 
shall discover how much our reh'gious past has had to do with 
making France what it is to-day.. It has formed the national 
character such as we see it in our different parties. It has 
created the grand currents in the conflict of which we are 
destined to endless alternations of disorder and despotism, and 
to excessive outbursts of passion and superstition. In the 
midst of these the reason of the country is always certain to be 
with the minority, and always tempted by its own weakness to 
lean to one or other of the popular Radicalisms. 

In reading the judgments which the foreigpi press makes on our 
progress, or the comments of our own journals, I am reminded 
involuntarily of the words of Shakespeare, that " there are more 
thinga in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy." 
Let the question be the fall of M. Thiers, the pilgrimages, or 
lite Radical returns of the Paris and Lyons elections, none of our 
parties will trouble themselves to inquire into the reasons, but will be 
contentwith attributing whateverin them is reprehensible to thefolly 
of their opponents. During this recrimination, foreigners, who know 

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nothing of our sharp encounters in the political arena, attribute 
all simply to the inherent faults of the ilational character. They 
ascribe it to the timidity and apathy of the majority of the French 
people, who allow themselves to be governed in turns by each of 
the two extreme factionis. They set down as the cause the feeble* 
ness of our governments, which have never produced anything 
analogous to the resolution of the Tudors, to the fiiTnness with 
which the Henrys and the Elizabeths subdued, on the right hand 
and on the left, the Papists and the ultra-Protestants. 

I do not deny that there is much truth in these reproaches, I 
even believe that our accusers are perfectly in the ligjit, if they 
mean to say that the French have a character entirely disjointed, 
and put only the half of themselves into their resolutions. Impulse 
takes away reflection, and thus they are condenmed to oscillate 
perpetually between impracticable ideas and irrational practices, 
between asceticism and libertinism, between the fixed idea of living 
without sleep a6d the endeavour to sleep without any more 
thought of living. But that which I cannot admit is the psycho- 
logy, or if it is preferred the poUtical philosophy, which I find at 
the foundation of the different judgments, and which consists in 
seeing things only by pieces and in morsels — ^which supposes 
that social events are the work of a single group, or the immediate 
effect of certain: disppsitlon^ inherent in individuals. Our modem 
fiationalism has accustomed ua to consider ev^y kind of general 
idea which we 'find in a meji as a product of his reason atone* 
We say that if he has an idea of justice^ or of the laws of thi^ 
universe, it is beeaiise he possesses pei^onally a kind of inward eye, 
more or less clear, which permits him to see more or lesd distinctly 
the eternal laws of justice and of the muveree. In ihe same itay 
we set out always with the silent supposition that the caus^- of 
social facts is to be sought in the intention, the intelligence ot 
want of intelligence, of particular individuals or classes. A revp-r 
lution which succeeds, a government tvhich hab a future, appeal's 
to us to be due to the foresight of some statesmati or a company 
of persons who have agreed that it is the very thilig whidb ought 
to be. 

It appears to me that when we come to review the hypothesis 
on which our philosophers rest^ and to ask i^ on. the contrary, there 
are not political and other general ideas of individuals which have 
for their cause the general state of society, our present political and 
social theories wUl be completely overturned; That day will show 
us that the destiny of nations, that all public facts, with the Ideas 
on which they depend, and all collective movements in which 
individuals take a part, are essentially the products of the conflicts 
and the co-operation of the different classes of which sbciety is 
composed. Of course the totality of individual dispositions is 

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always that which makes the sooial condition of nations. But 
what I wish to say is, that these dispositions do not act apart 
from each other, and do not create 'directly. They simply con- 
tribute to determine the nature of parties, which decide, in spite 
of individual wills, what for a community is impossible or in- 

In France, as in other countries, children are bom into a state 
of things already prepared. They learn to speak a common 
language, and, whatever may be their instincts, they can only 
know, love, and hat^ the things which constitute their everj'- 
day world. Granting that in France men are less thoughtful and 
less firm of will than they are elsewhere, yet any one who looks 
beyond mere appearance will see that that is not the secret of our 
disorganization and our incapacity to come out of it. That secret 
is to be found in the spirit which the past has bequeathed to 
us, in the form which the good or bad qualities of individuals or 
classes cannot but take under the pressure of all the permanent 
influences. The misfortune of Fmnce is, that all the social forces 
are there ill associated, ill combined together ; and that, for want 
of a good tradition, the reason of the country can separate them 
from dangerous coalitions only to see them soon after form others 
equally dangerous. 

The origin of our misfortunes is far back. Its date is found in the 
sixteenth century, when France, wearied of the oppressive religion 
of the middle ages, sought consolation by giving itself up to im- 
belief and Pagamsm. What part was she to t€ike at this crisis? 
Was she to remain Catholic, or follow Luther t One of our 
greatest historians answers, she did neither. France would only 
follow her own RabelaiB. That was her choice. Whilst other 
nations reformed their Church, she preferred to let hers stand as 
it was, to turn her back on it, indulging herself in the enjoyment 
of the fine arts and clever diplomacy. It was allowed to 
dispense with theology, to have no great care about what it was 
necessary to believe, and to devote the faculties to the study of 
the most charming mythology, or to what is most useful to be said 
or done to obtain results in accordance with the desires of the 

But it is not so easy to live only for pleasure. There are 
Calvins who are tormented by thoughts of the eternal, and who 
do not suffer any power to prevent their believing that which 
they cannot but believe. There are multitudes who, at every 
political or reUgious crisis, run, with their eyes shut, whither 
their impulses lead them. And whilst the intelligent part of 
France was practising Machiavelism, or writing odes to Venus, the 
Church, in danger of being overturned, was giving the country the 
massacre of St. Bartholomew, the League, the Bull Unigenitus^ 

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the absolute monarchy of Louis XIV., and thei revocation of the 
Edict of Nantes. To speak more correctly, royalty and the 
anstocracy had no choice left to them but abjuring their philo- 
sophy, that vntix the Church they might seal the aUiahce of the 
two absolutisms. The magistracy and the citizens, when they 
found themselves in the midst of the terrible disasters that 
followed the overthrow of established beliefs^ had no other 
resource but to join the Holy League. 'The intelligence of 
Fiance had arrived at nothing higher than the art of making life 
agreeable. There has never been in the country more than one 
philosophy, and that is not concerned with the inquiry as to what 
k to be believed. It seeks even the contrary of duty. Along 
wilh this has been the old Catholic tradition which, as a rule of 
life, recognized only the passive submission of all to a rule imposed 
by a material authority. Obviously this tradition, even when it 
had the support of but a small part of the intelligent, could alone 
give to the coimtry its government and its ideas of government. 
In times of revolution and of civil war, when the intolerable 
moonveniences of anarchy made themselves felt, it was the Church 
only which had a plan of government capable of application. It 
alone could offer a creed capable of furnishing ideas of duty. 

Henceforth morality and reason were divorced, never again to 
be united. We now find ourselves in presence of the two spirits 
that are to be for the future the only real actors in our history. 
The Church, in its imperious attitude towards the consciences of 
all who do not accept its doctrines, took the route at the end of 
which is the Syllabus. It ceased to be the nurse of mind, and to 
teach doctrines to which reasonable men could give their assent. It 
predestined itself to be a purely material government, to rest on 
force and superstition, and to stifle conscience. It concentrated 
religion on the duty of renouncing private judgment. It pro- 
scribed civil liberty, and by making spiritual subjection the only 
means of order and morality, it has driven all intelligence to the 
side of atheism and immorality. 

On the other hand, secular reason, by turning its back on 
theology, and setting out with the idea that, to procure what is 
most agreeable, it is not necessary for us to ask what is true 
and proper for all, is in the path which leads to Positivism and 
lawless Socialism. It will often change its object, or, rather, 
what it supposes to be its most desirable object will change 
with circumstances. After having sought, without any anxiety 
for truth, the pleasures of beautiful Pagan art, it will then pro- 
pose, as the means of happiness, the regeneration of society, or 
by physical science it will urge on a great development of industry 
or perfect the economy of legislation. But as to the g^eat social 
problem, that of putting classes and individuals into the condition 

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df' being able to live together in peace notwithfitalicfiiig diverse 
w&hee, it is destined to sink deeper into error. As to the snper- 
Btiiaous beliefti Which it refiises td modify, it can pwpose nothing 
bnt flie abjuration of theolbgy and metaphyribs. ^To|keep clear of 
deepotifim it will propagate materialism and unbelief among the 
unreasoning masses, which will only lead to the unbridled indul- 
genbe of the appetites. By identifying the cause of rfeaion and 
liberty with that of irreligion and anarchy, it will only further 
the cause of despotism and superstition. 

The part of dupe^ which fiie educated classes played in the 
sixteenth century they Will liave to play again in the future. In 
times of peace they"will be'scej^tical for the dake of pleasure, and 
through hatred of the' throne^ ^e altar, and the aristocracy, they 
will preach Fourierism, SociaBsm, or Atheism, in order to bring to 
their help the passions of the street ; and then, as soon as a revolu- 
tion shows them what unbelief has produced, when it descends 
among those who have neither a position nor a reputation to lose, 
those who think only of their pleasures, they will treinble for what 
they haVe done. Without themselves believing anything, through 
fear. of the Jacobins they will demand the re-estabUshment of 
Catholicism, or through hatred of the (jomiiitme they will rush 
into the arms of the Jesuits and the clerical monarchy. 

Certainly these two radicaliisms which contend for the direction 
of our affairs do not represent, as to numbers, the whole of the 
country. It has been said that France is neither Ultramontane, nor 
Atheist, nor Legitimist, nor Socialist. This is true ; only it has been 
inferred ihat it is Left Centre, and that it was- in favour of a Liberal 
monarchy or a Conservative republic, which is nbt the caiJe. The 
great niajority of French people havfi really no choice between 
the Syllabus and Democracy. ' They no more take part with those 
who practise asceticitoi than witii those who preach cynicism, but 
Kve from day to day practirfn^ that indifference which our Church 
and our philosophy agree in recommending. 

But while the indifferent multitude are occupied with their 
pleasures or their business, only two credos^ two theories, exist in 
France. On the one hand there is' the clerico-monarchical tradi- 
tion, which seeks order by the suppression of individual reason 
and national liberties; on the other hand there is an anarchist 
propaganda which promises pfroteperity and imbounded pleasure 
through the suppression of Churches and g6vemments. Of this 
propaganda the people take no notice, but every time that society 
is disturbed, or whenever France finds itself governed in a way 
that it does not like, these thoughtless masses are forced to side with 
one or other of the two rivals. To speak correctly, they have no 
choice to make. The Conseiyative interests are irresistibly led to 
an alliance with the clerico-legitimist party, and this cannot 

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attempt to govern without causing a counter-alliance of the 
Liberal powers with Socialism, cynicism, and all the other forces of 

Let us observe our history a little more closely. . For two cen- 
turies it presents two regular and parallel movements. At a 
time when France is progressing in knowledge, the mob, which 
is the soul of the militant parties, every day becomes more violent. 
The illusions by which they are guided in the beginning of an 
enterprise lead to disappointment. Then follows a series of con- 
flicts and misunderstandings, by which the antagonistic parties 
come to be convinced that agreement between them is impossible, 
and therefore their only ftlternative is war to death. 

It is well known how the ancient regime provoked the Revolu- 
tion, when the worship of reason took the place of the worship of 
the saints, and solemn proclamation was made of equality, liberty, 
and universal sovereignty. This was the hour of idyls and senti- 
mentalities which so enlarged men's hopes that every one beUeved 
an image of gold was being erected, in which there would be a 
place for the whole of humanity. Rationalism, the child of the 
Renaissance, was as yet in the simple dreams of its infancy. It 
was intoxicated with the hope of having all the happiness or power 
that it desired, and being able to cclebmte as virtues whatever it 
approved, and of sending to the Gemonian stairs, as the carcase of a 
dead enemy, all the restraints against which it had to contend. In 
answer to the philosophy of the Church which had soi^ht to legi- 
timatize despotism by maintaining that men, left to themselves, 
would only fall into error and wrong, it was now said that the 
proper gift of man was to be virtuous-s-that he had no necessity to 
acquire the sentiment of truth or of justice, for such sentiments 
were innate in every man bom into this world. Moreover, vices, 
prejudices, and all suffering, were said to come from governments 
and Churches, from the selfishness of kings, and the hypocrisy of 

Accordingly, there was nothitig to be done but to enthrone 
the universal empire of justice, truth, and goodness, which was to 
overturn all Churches and governments, with whatever was not 
agreeable to human passions^ To this work the party of reason 
and liberty devoted itself, with a firm conviction that nations and 
individuals, once deUvered from all restraint, could not fail to 
govern themselves by the ini^ate faculty whose province was to 
recognize justice and truth. 

But after enthusiasm came reflection, and reaUty succeeded the 
dream. The party of light and Uberty found it easy to abrogate 
^inique privileges, overturn an oppressing royalty, and reject an 
ecclenastical dictatorship. But the natural reason, and the 
dear tendency for virtue, did not make their appearance. In- 


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stead of a kingdom of fraternity, of justice, and happiness, 
France had the law against the suspected, the massacres of 
September, the tribunal of the Revolution, the despotism of the 
Committee of Public Safety, and the guillotine, as well as war with 
the whole of Europe. Sic vos non vobis. With their iiTeligious and 
anarchical Rationalism, the enemies of superstition and absolutism 
had simply opened the gate for thoir own destmction. 

I need not record how, when the Jacobins and the partisans of 
the throne and the empire could do nothing, there arose a soldier, 
who was neither Jacobin nor Legitimist, just because he was for 
himself. Thanks to the feetrs which the exaggerations of the two 
parties created among the masses who have no political convic- 
tions, he got possession of France. The new Caesar has a cart^ 
blanche to govern according to his pleasure. This continues till he 
is overthrown by those whose wills would not be subject to his 

After the fall of the Empire the two hostile tendencies which 
are at work in the country could not at once renew their fight. 
France is invaded, and receives a law from without. Besides the 
two currents of ideas which come from the past, there is an acci- 
dental stream of common feelings, of offended patriotism. There 
is, finally, Bonapartism, which holds in check th^ radical instincts 
as well as clerical tradition. Owing to these circumstances^ owing 
to the discouragement given by some and to the scepticism of 
others, it is a little band of thinkei-s who are at the head of affairs. 
Although the France of 1815 is thrown by the excesses of the Revo- 
lution into the arms of the clerical monarchy, the power at first 
belongs to a moderate party, or rather to an Etat Majors which is 
composed of Protestants and CathoUcs, of Liberals and thoughtful 
royalists, who hope to restore monarchy by concessions to liberty, or 
to establish, imder the royalty of the diviae right, the goverament 
of the country by itself. Vain hope I During the Restoration, as 
at other eras in our histoiy, the small circle of pinident men is 
only a head without a body, a league of clever generals 
without armies. Notwithstanding the good intentions of 
Louis XVin., and the wisdom of the Liberal Conservatives, the 
Radicahsm and clericaKsm dominant in their minds awoke to defy 
them. The party of the Throne and the Altar, which forgets 
nothing, provoked by its pretensions all the latent elements of 
opposition, and united against it the common hatred of the 
Voltaireans and the Bonapai-tists, the Jacobins and the Libemls 
— that poUtical despair which dreams of the despotism of a sabre 
without the sprinkler of the holy water, and all that discontent 
in which is the germ of SociaHsm. That came which will come 
again, should the Coimt de Chambord mount the throne. Royalty 
has before it only those enemies who will not have clerical mon- 

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archj at any price, and the Ultras, who, to bridle these adversaries, 
wish that France should be subjected absolutely to the will of the 
King and the clergy. Hence the July ordinances. A& a government 
cannot exist suspended in the air, that of Charles X. trusted for 
its support to the Ultras, and was carried away with them in a storm. 

Let no one speak of accidents ; there is nothing more regular 
than chance. The imprudent act by which a blunderer perishes, 
or the bad pilot or false stroke of the helm by which a political 
goveniment is upset, belong to the domain of circumstances. 
But when the question is of nations or individuals, there are fixed 
data of chamcter, which determine the impossible or the inevi- 
table, that to which one day or another they cannot fail to come. 
In the overthrow of the Restoration, the moment and the occasion 
alone were accidental. The party which came into power with 
the Bourbons, and the general spiiit of France, were too clearly 
incompatible for them not to come into collision sooner or later, 
in gpite of the cleverness of the clever. 

It was the same with the catastrophe which put an end to the 
monarchy of July. 

In 1830, again, it is a moderate party which decides the fate 
of the nation. During the Restoration, as I have said, political 
Radicalism had been more or less counteracted by Bonapartism. 
Its anti-religious and anti-monarchical tendency had not time to 
draw up its anny, to anunge its programme and its plan of propa- 
gandism. But Louis PhUippe was scarcely on the throne, wl\en the 
most threatening symptoms were manifest. From the top to the 
bottom of society that which is most evident is a common hatred 
of all moderation. The affair of Pritchard, the railleries on 
peace at any price, oji the parsimony of the King, and the agita- 
tion for electoral refoi-m, were only pretexts invoked by an anti- 
pathy which has altogether different causes. The discontent 
which increased, and which was to destroy the constitutional 
monarchy, is purely a matter of temperament. It means that 
there is an absolute incompatibility of temper between the ParUa- 
mentary government which rests on the equihbrium of contraiy 
tendencies and the two exclusive Radicalisms between which 
men's minds are divided. The unreflecting cr )wd8 only make 
jests of the centriers and the juste milieuy which to them are words 
that signify the superlative of the ridiculous. And thinkers put 
forth profound arguments to demonstrate that the notion of a 
balance of power is essentially absurd. They do not understand 
how people can admit two governments at once — ^that is to say, 
to their intelligence, as well as for the instincts of the masses, 
there is no medium between the absolutism of a king and the 
ahaolute will of a democracy. The mind of France declares iis 
inconceivable that which to its temperament is impossible. 

D 2 

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The fact is, that mider the monarchy of July, the liberty wliich 
the country enjoyed had for its principal moral result the develop- 
ment of Fourierism, St. Simonianism, and dogmatic democracy. 
And all these theories are at bottom but so many incarnations of 
one and the same spirit which rages everywhere. They represent 
the different forms which the general tendency to extremes takes at 
different times and places according to the passions of individuals. 
That the character of Louis Philippe contributed to the overthrow 
of the dynasty, and that the fall of the monarchy of July would 
not have taken place in 1848, are things certain. But it is not less 
certain that with the propagandists busy in the country, the for- 
mation of a great constitutional party in France was impossible : 
1848 has demonstrated that there is no longer a place for moderate 
Liberalism, that in our society, such as the fataUty of our education 
has constituted it, there is no chance for the reason of the countiy 
being able to establish a government which shall save the nation 
from despotism or anarchy, and permit it to be governed by 
reason, and not tossed to and fro by the waves of appetite and 
passion. Thus Liberalism died in 1848. After, as before the 
Second Empire, that which now bears the name is in reaKty but 
a branch of Radicalism. The class of moderate thinkers who 
had fofmerly their own plan of government are now converted 
to the programme of impulsive democracy. Through despair 
of vanquishing the coalition of those who are frightened and 
of the clerico-legitimist despotism, it has adopted direct imiversal 

I do not say that this alliance with RadicaUsm is a thing intended 
by the Liberal party in our day, nor even that it is conscious of 
having drifted towards the Extreme Left. The worst is, that its 
hatred for clericaKsm liinders it from understanding what it does. 
But it is not less cei-tain that it advocates just that which has 
become the dogma of democracy, and that it thus proclaims direct 
universal suffrage as the last hope of France, as the sole means of 
escaping absolutism, and even, it adds, revolutions. Now there is 
no question here of the intentions of contemporary Libemlisms. 
The question is not if our present Liberals really beUeve that under 
the sovereignty of the ignomnt masses they can obtain an intelligent 
government, just as the Orleanists persuaded themselves that under 
the clerical and Legitimist royalty of Coimt de Cliambord they could 
obtain a Liberal government. Direct universal suffrage does not 
for all that change its nature, and its real nature is to be a scheme 
which puts legislation, the constitution, and the daily politics of 
the country, at the mercy of the restless and imcertain multitude. 
Direct universal suffrage for a people represents what simple 
licentiousness is for the individual. It is the dominion of the 
instincts erected into a principle and systematically organized. 

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The law which it establishes is really the most efficacious instru- 
ment which it is possible to create to secure to poor France the 
liberty of abandoning itself to its natuml passions, without leaving 
her the chance of being guided and directed by intelligence. 

And this solemn proclamation of the reign of impulse is 
only the conclusion which foUow^s from the piinciple implied in 
sensualism and utilitarianism without beUef. It is the outcome of 
the Renaissance. It does not take any account of public instruction, 
by which contemporary Libemlism seeks to strengthen itself, and 
to justify its alliance with extreme democracy. People began to 
wish for imiversal suffrage, because it was the popular idea of the 
day, and, after deciding without any thought of what was possible 
for it, they thought by this means to obtain a just and moderate 
government. It was then said that the masses must everywhere 
be instructed, to put them in possession of the power wisely to 
exercise their right, and to judge of political questions. When will 
people learn that the desires and intentions which lead them to wish 
a thin^ are not at all that which determines the effects which that 
thing will produce ? The real malady of France — that which to- 
day condenms it to disorder instead of government — ^is just that it 
has received an education which has given it the habit of reckoning 
only on its own desires. If fear does not lead it to submit to the 
commandments of a director, it conceives nothing wiser than to give 
np troubling itself about what it ought to believe. Its first 
business is to employ all its faculties to consider what will give 
most pleasures, and then to calculate what it ought to do to 
procure them. 

France reasons like a man who, with his eyes shut, takes it in 
his head to fly up to the moon because he knows of nothing else 
likely to be more agreeable. He then appeals to science to judge 
if the vials of Cyrane de Bergemc, or the hollow cannon ball of M. 
Jules Vemes, or the extennination of all the adversaries who oppose 
his project, be the means of getting to the moon. Before calcu- 
lating what precautions it must take, and what instractions it is 
necessary to give, so that the sovereignty of the masses may pro- 
duce the best results, both in the way of pi-udence and justice, 
that the best of our moderate Republicans could desire, it will not 
be wrong to examine what is possible or impossible in the matter 
of public instruction : what it is that the masses, \\'ith all our 
efforts, cannot be, and cannot fail to be. Whatever we do, the 
masses will always be, for a large part, composed of young 
people without experience, and, for a larger part still, of working 
people and peasants, absorbed in the material necessities of life. 
Numerical majorities will never attain to legislative wisdom, whioh 
is the highest stage of intellectual development. They will never 
hav6 the speculative thought which can sufficiently free itself from 

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personal feeling, so as to be able duly to weigh the whole of the 
forces and opposing tendencies, and to seek impartially that 
balancing power which can reconcile them. The masses, at the 
most, can only have high intelHgencc such as we find among 
young men. They are governed by their personal feelings, by 
their appetites, and by the hatreds which come from their cir- 
cumstances in life. AU the knowledge which it is possible to 
give them will only turn to a kind of instinctive MachiaveUsm. 
They will only use it to destrby what at the moment is most 
opposed to their desires, or to give the strongest impulse in favour 
of what they like. Educated, or not educated, they "wdll be indiffe- 
rent to the ballot box; and if they come out of their apathy, it will 
be to vote for Barodet or to go to Paray-le-Monial ; to put into 
power the demagogue who will most flatter their desires and their 
hatreds, or the nominee of the cur^, who will lead them by means 
of superatition, or the Bonapartist candidate, who appeals both 
to their distrust of the cure and their fear of the Radical. 

As to the general will, which people pretend to discover 
by univei-sal suffrage, it belongs to the same category as the 
philosopher's stone. Of what will do they speak? To-day, 
the masses wish a mau or a government because they expect 
what is impossible ; and to-morrow, when they see that they have 
not obtained the impossible satisfaction of all their desires, they 
wish the contraiy of what they wished the night before. The 
Empire has made an excellent caricature of direct imiversal 
suffrage, by reducing the role of the sovereign people to merely 
deciding by plebiscite on the ruler who pleases their humour at 
the moment. Under the lying appearance of democracy, we have 
^^g*^l j^igg'i^gj systematic managing of the ignorant by cunning 
or by fanatics, all power constantly put up to auction between the 
extreme champions of democracy and those of the Church, between 
the town clubs and the clerical Batons. In the present state of 
France, the direct vote of the masses tends simply to organize an 
antagonism of the peasants and the working classes ; to exasperate 
the warfare of opposed selfishness, and of the blind leaderships, 
which succeed each other in turns ; to deliver up the country, as 
the case may be, to Le^timacy or Socialism, or let an Emperor 
sidle into power between these two impracticable follies, and 
with official candidatures trick away universal suffrage, as the 
clerical and the democratic leaders, too, have tricked it away 
through the bulletin de liste. 

Such is the system of government which has been adopted by 
the party of reason and liberty in France. It has its origin in 
their despair of being able to maintain the cause of the Radicals 
against the partisans of the two di^4ne rights. At the same time 
that moderate Liberalism was unitins: \n\h Radicalism, the Liberal 

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CouBervatives were coming to terms 'w^th the clerical Legitimists. 
The fusion on the Left, and then on the Eight, is but one drama 
in two acts. Much has been said on the menacing returns of the 
elections in the large towns, and eveiy party has done its best 
to hide their significance from itself as well as from others. 
Monarchists, in their eagerness to turn them into an argument for 
their favourite scheme of a clerical monarchy; have ascribed 
them to M. Tliiers's tergiversations and Imprudent conce«isions to 
Radicalism. Moderate Republicans, with a view to make them 
tell against the opponents of their own Republican scheme, 
have attributed the triumph of the Radical candidates solely to 
the provocations of the Right. But, in my judgment, neither of 
them has fairly looked tnath in the face. This nomination of 
MM- Ranc, Barodet, and Lockroy has simply demonstrated that 
the masses of our large towns have remained what they were on 
the eve of the Commime, that they continue to be carried as much 
as ever to the most violent extremes in their choice. It has caused 
the most thoughtless, who have had no consideration of the 
matter, and the most clever, who were too much occupied with 
their scheming, to feel the tenible danger of the electoml system 
which our Liberals maintain in concert with the Radicals. And 
certainly that which has driven the Conservatives of every kind to 
cast their principles overboard, in order to unite with the Ultra- 
montanes and tne Legitimists, is the want of trust which they 
have long felt in respect to universal suffrage, and which was 
justified by the votes of our great towns. It was the feeling of 
daily restlessness produced among them by the anxious con- 
aciousness of the caprice to which the present sovereign of France 
is subject. 

I am astonished that to foreigners it is difficult to understand 
how our electoral system presents an obstacle to every reasouable 
solution of our social problems. A people cannot exist, if on the 
eve of every election they are uncertain if the next day will not 
see their houses overturned, with aU that belongs to them. As to 
France, its education renders it incapable of any moderate opinion 
in regard to direct universal suffrage. In the press, as well as in 
the Assembly, there is not to be met a single man who tries to 
t*ke a position between the two extreme parties, and to rally the 
unseat portion of the Conservatives and RepubHcans by proposing 
to modify our electoral system vdthout naiTOwing the constituency. 
Some who dislike universal suffrage, dislike it because it signifies 
tt^e government of the country by the opinions of the whole country, 
jMid fliey Bee nothing better to be done than to deUver France 
ffom Usel^ that, in spite of our own judgment, it may be placed 
imd^r ilip direction of a man, or a particular party, by which it 
'Would not allow itself to be governed. Others, who wisli that 

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France could govern itself, wish to keep universal suffrage as it is; 
they would save the country from destruction by leaving it under 
the dominion of ignorant impulses and the transports of chance. 

Notwithstanding the great sei^vices which M, Thiei-s has 
rendered to his country, and notwithstanding the respect which 
he deserves, I beUeve that he himself contributed to his fall 
by a false movement, or at least that he did not make the move- 
ment which would have baved a moderate Republic, and at the 
same time delivered France from the two despotisms that are 
hanging over it. In his place, I imagine a man less an optimist 
and more an innovator would have tried, by the same stroke, to 
lessen the anxiety which was urging the Conservatives towards 
Legitimacy, and to dispel the illusions which made the Liberals 
the advocates of democracy. He could have made a step towards 
the Right Centre by saying to it: "You are right to be dissatisfied, 
but the true danger is not a RepubUc. It is entirely in our 
electoral system, which, under a Monarchy as well as under a 
Republic, alway? produces the same disorders, the same iiTCcon- 
cilable warfare between the revolutionary spirit and the spirit of 
reaction. I am ready with you to seek the means of improving 
this electoral system." He might then have turned to the Left, 
and said : " Take care, you wish to maintain universal suffrage as 
it is. The threatening elections will not on that accoimt cease 
to be threatening, and to give lise to fears that one day or 
another we shall be carried into the opposite extreme, ff you love 
the RepubUc, then help me to make its continuance possible. The 
first object is to prevent France from coming under the dominion 
of a party, and from being deprived of the Ubei-ty to make its 
laws according to reason, and this can only be done by rescuing 
the empire from the sovereignty of the impulsive multitude.'* 

Was it not, for instance, possible to offer a scheme for the 
transformation of direct univei*sal suffrage into a system of 
double election — ^in other words, to have maintained an universal 
franchise, for the appointment of nominees who would choose the 
actual deputies? What we have to fear is hot Radicalism or 
Socialism properly called, but the spirit of \aolence and want of 
foresight — ^that RadicaHsm, or clericaUsm, which is only an unin- 
telligent passion, often merely the wrath which comes from hatred 
and fear. The whole politics of some men consist, I inay say, in 
biting with all their might, forgetting that they who bite often 
find themselves bitten. With a double election, universal suffrage 
would be neither limited nor tampered with, and it would not 
cease to be the expression of all the tendencies of the country, 
Radicalism and Socialism included. Only, instead of expressing 
these tendencies as they are found in the form of hatred and blind 
appetite, it would express them in the form of wishes that have 

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been clearly discerned, and by those most capable of understand- 
ing them. Under such a system of election, the masses of the 
countiy and of the towns could, at least, use their votes to decide 
according to their own feelings the only question which they 
are capable of deciding. They would be able to choose among 
the men who are personally known to* them, and who understand 
better than they do the algebra of politics. The different interests^ 
as wen as instincts, would then be sure of having representatives 
in the bosom of our legislative assembUes ; but these representa- 
tives would be nominated by delegates more enUghtened than the 
masses; by men sufficiently intelligent to undei-stand the pro- 
grammes of the candidates, and perhaps to feel that in the moral, 
as well as in the physical, all exaggerated action provokes a re- 
action. At any rate France might have a chance of being 
governed by the Republicans, who know that, in voting Barodet, 
they kill the Republic, or by the Radicals, who know that, by 
showing themselves too indulgent to the murderers of hostages, 
they prepare pilgrimages to Paray-le-Monial, or by the Orleanists 
and the Liberals, who know that by going to Paray-le-Monial, or 
Frohsdorf, they prepare the veiy contraiy of what the Monarchists 

It is true that a few months ago the great Conservative league 
was apparently dissolved, and that a majority in the Assembly 
decided for a moderate republic. This was ceiiainly an act of 
wiadona and self-control on the part of the extreme Left as well as 
of the Right Centre ; and, as far as the party leaders are concerned, 
it is a most hopeful symptom in them of parliamentary experience. 
They have become conscious of the Bonapartist sword hanging 
over them, and have simk their differences in a coriimon resolve to 

* I know, indeed, another method which seems more simple, and probably more 
efBeaeions ; that would be to restrict the franchise. to men o| forty years at least. The 
got of young men is action, and eonnsel belongs to the aged. " The old man,** says 
Homer, '^coiuiiders the paat and the present, and sees beforehand what will satisfy 
opposite partiea." Violence is the characteristic of yoath. • At forty, a man may retain 
thft lores and hatreds whieh he had at twenty. But he has liyed. He has been com- 
pelled to see that his will is not the only one upon earth. And in the measure that he 
is intelligent, he ceases to believe, as Danton did, that the art of success lies in having 
^ri^, tnd BtiU energy. Ezperienee proves to him that it was indeed Omnipotence who 
■aid uat we must not do to others what we would not like done to ourselves. But such a 
plan is not likely to find favour. It is a striking fact that amidst the numerous electoral 
flcheoMt which were proposed as tiie Commiaaion of the Thirty, no mention ^as made of 
the Rnglish system of hoasehold suffrage, a system so well calculated to put govern- 
ment into the hands of the more sober and experienced portion of the nation. 

No donbt there was more or less peril in any attempt to re-model universal suif ntge ; 
and even in the palmy days of H. Thiers's influence, such a plan as I have described, 
voild not have been sure to succeed. Still it was worth the tiding, were it only to give 
theconnfry breathing time, and allow her to reconsidor her position, and revise her 
>7iteB» <rf poblic education. But probably M. Thiers was afraid of losing more votes on 
^ Lift fBban. he eould have gained on the Right. However this may be, he did nothing 
toi|iilel the feara which were driving the Liberal Conservatives to purchase at tho 
ttpwee of their principles the support of the Legitimists, and he was overthrown by the 
«oilltlm^iillch modesrate Liberalism has provoked by its own alliaoee with the Badieal 
k of direct univcrasl suffrage. 

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be satisfied with the best compromise possible. But, without 
maldng light in the least of the new prospects which are thus 
opened to France, one cannot help anxiously asking if the wisdom 
of the leaders has made, or is likely to make, any serious change 
in the moral state of the^ people. The bulk of peasants and 
operatives may fall back into one of their periodical slumbers ; and 
the more pnidential thinkers may have a new lease of office. 
Nevei-theless, he must be bold who could suppose that the real 
danger is past. The repubUcan party, donnant or awake, still 
bears in its constitution the curse of its birth and education. It 
has been fed on dangerous promises ; and when the staff at it« 
head takes to rational counsels, the rank and file are ever tempted 
to mutter, " Is this a repubUc ? " As to the Consei-vative element, 
the peasants, they are fated, by their intellectual condition, to 
march in the wake of the cur6, or vote for the Napoleonic tra- 
dition, which is the only bit of romance in their life. Worst of . 
all, direct universal suffrage continues to be the law of the land ; 
and with such an instiiunent, the iiTCconcilable tendencies into 
which the national character has been spht are but too likely to 
burst out into practical consequences. 

On the whole, from the Renaissance downwards, French histoiy 
reads like a progressive demonstration of the fact that a nation 
cannot cohere together without a public traditionaiy conception 
of necessity and duty, and. that it cannot progi-ess without suffi- 
cient latitude being left for growing knowledge and . the un- 
satisfied wants to protest against, and ask for a revision of, the 
adopted rules of life. Unfortunately, to-day, as much as ever» 
no traditional conception of luecessity and duty exists in France, 
except under a form which makes it an intolerable obstacle to pro- 
gresR : as much as ever it is Roman Catholicism alone which shapes 
the moral sense of the young, teaching them, as soon as they are 
made conBcious of their liability to err and biing evU upon them- 
selves, that the means of salvation does not consist in refonmng 
ourselves — ^in developing and correcting our own every-day con- 
science, our own sense of man's position and the best rule of life — 
but in being placed under the tutelage of a director. From the 
influence of such a training no one escapes, neither the unbeliever 
noT the believer. And on the two unavoidable questions : bow to 
account for all that man is subject to see and feel in spite of him- 
self, and how best to use his active powers to guard himself from 
what is imbearable, or procure what is indispensable — all the inde- 
pendent thought of France has only issued into the conflicting 
creeds we have seen at work. Everything or nothing — ^wldte or 
black — order through the surrender of reason and liberty, or libei-ty 
through the lawless »way of the impulses j this is tlie dilemma in 
which the national character has been shut up by the dialectics of 

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facts. After three centuries of reflection, trials, and study, the 
two opposite tendencies which began at the Renaissance have 
fiimply erected themselves into dogmatic principles. Moral servi- 
lism has found its scientific formula in the Syllabus, while the art 
of arriving at satisfaction by renouncing all theology has been 
skilfully systematized in Fourierism and PositiAasm. 

This is not veiy cheering. For imtil the Liberal forces have 
renounced their alliance with Radicalism, the Conservative 
interest will coalesce with Ultramontanism ; and with such coali- 
tions, the country runs the risk of ha\ang no alternative but an 
intolerable monarchy or a disorderly repubKc, both of which, 
after a period of anarchy, will bring it back under the booted 
heel of an emperor, a, Bonaparte, or some other. The seed of the 
Caesars is not yet exhausted. 

Is it not possible to arrest that fatality ? To give a positive 
answer would be bold in any one who is not a prophet nor. the son 
of a prophet. This alone seems pretty certain, that it cannot be 
arrested as long as by the side of the clerico-legitimist tradition, 
there is only a Liberalism which decides for indifferentism, and an 
absolute laisser-faire in the matter of religious education. The 
evil is altogether moral, and demands a moral remedy. If France 
indeed is to have a breathing time, let her thinkers turn it to good 
account ; let them look to the baneful direction which the Churd|i 
and lay philosophy of the country are giving to the instincts and 
minds of the people. 


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DEC. 9<7i. — We left Bombay soon after 10 a.m., Mr. Le Mestirier, 
the agent of the Great Indian Peninsula Railway, accom- 
panying us as far as Callian (where a branch goes oflf to Poonah) 
and giving us much valuable information. 

Some of the views before you leave the low ground are en- 
chanting. One of a singularly beautiful mountain, the site of an 
historical fortress, seen over a foreground of water and wide 
levels studded vrith palm trees, dwells especially in my memory. 
The first station at which we stopped beyond the suburbs of 
Bombay was Tanna. 

This is the place alluded to by Sir Bartle Frere, who in his 
book on " Indian Missions" says : — 

"An officer, Colonel Douglas, who in 1808 served on outpost duty at 
Tanna, twenty miles north of Bombay, then the northern frontier of the 
British possessions in Western India, lived to command fifty years later 
as brigadier at Peshawur, a frontier station more than a thousand miles as 
the crow flies, in advance of his quarters as an ensign. Almost the whole 
of the intermediate territory had in the meantime fallen imder the nile, 
more or less dii-ect, of the liiitish crown." 

Beyond CaUian the ascent of the ThuU Gliaut commences, and 
a noble piece of engineering it is. Fine forests of teak border 
the road on each side for some way up. You understand of couree 
that at this season almost every tree has got its leaves, though 
very few are in flower. There is one leafless giant amongst these 

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forests, vdih white and ghostly brauches tipped yv\\\x flower buds, 
whose name I have not yet discovered. 

On our way up I saw one of those jungle fires to which my 
attention was called at dinner last night, as illustrating a 
passage in the History of the Mahrattas : — 

'•The Mahomedans, whilst exhausting themselv^es, were gradually exciting 
that turbulent predatory spirit, which, though for ages smothered, was in- 
herent in the Hindoo natives of Mahai*ashtra ; in this manner the contention 
of their conquerors stirred those latent embers, till, like the parched grass, 
kindled amid the forests of the Syhadree Mountains, they burst forth in 
spreading flame, and men afar off wondered at the conflagration."** 

Arrived at the top we came to a bare upland region which 
was not without certain features of resemblance to my familiar 

Far away, however, o^ either side stretched outliers of the 
Ghauts, long reaches of level ridge, on which, as ou a necklace, 
were strung, at intervals, peaks, or what would have been peaks, 
if some giant had not cut off their points with his sword. Near 
Nassick, where Sir G. Campbell wished, not without having a 
good deal to say for his idea, to place the capital of India, 
there is a remarkable group of these strangely shaped hills. 

Soon after we passed the station for that place, and crossed the 
infant Godavery, it grew dark, and we saw nothing more for 
many hours. When we woke on the morning of the 10th, we 
had left behind Kandeish and Berar, and were in the heart of 
the Central Provinces. We had missed the great junction of 
Bhosawul, whence a Une runs to Nagpore, through the Umrawuttee 
cotton district. We had missed Kundwah, whence a line is being 
constructed to Holkar^s capital of Indore, and were far north of 
the Taptee. 

The operations of washing and dressing were hardly over when 
we reached Sohagpore, the breakfast station, and saw to the south 
the fine range of the Satpoora, and the Mahdeo group, near the 
new Sanitarium of Pachmurree, for more information about which 
Bee Forsyth's " Highlands of Centml India," which is something 
very much better than a mere record of sport. 

We are now in the great Nerbudda valley, upon secondary 
rocks. The country is covered with young wheat, as we saw the 
plain between Abydos and the Nile. I observe, too, some flax just 
coming into flower. Other crops there are, which I have not 
yet made out. The station gardens are perfectly lovely. One of 
the (kmvohulaceoBy which covers all the buildings and is in full 
flower, is a great feature. The country is not unlike what the 
Beauce would be if thinly scattered mangoes and still more thinly * 
scattered palms (Phoenix sylvestris) were substituted for its formal 
Hues of poplars. 

♦ Grant DuflTs ** History of tha Mahrattas/* Vol. i. 

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I have just, by a judiciously planned raid at one of the stations, 
gathered the Mysore thorn {Cossalpinia sepiaria) which grows, in 
great quantities, all along our track, and looks as the laburnum 
would look, if its flowers were in a spike instead of being 

As we advance, we see the Vindhya range to the north, and 
cross the Nerbudda, here a river of moderate size, very milike the 
mighty flood which we left at Broach. 

The country gets more wooded, and several tanks are passed, 
with picturesque buildings on their banks. The Satpoora are stUl 
to the south of us, and quite close there is a small and singularly 
rugged ridge belonging to their system, and marking the site of 
Jubbulpore, which we reach between twelve and one, having 
traversed 614 miles since we left Bombay — a httle more than the 
distance from London to Inverness. 

Railway traveUing in Europe would be a very different thing 
from what it is, if one could sleep as well aa we did last night, and 

wash like civiKzed beings m the morning. R tells me that in 

America these things are much better mana,ged than even here. 

It is delightfully cool— quite a different climate from that below 
the Ghauts. We slept on sofas and our mattresses, in the ordinary 
Cashmere sleeping dress of this region, under a Ught blanket, and 
towards morning the addition of a railway rug was pleasant. 
The dust is our great enemy, and from it it is vain to fly, so we 
pass much of our time on the platform in front of our carnage 
and see the country admirably. When we retreat into our saloon, 
and its blue windows are shut, we see the world as Kenan, in a 
delicious passage, says the author of the " Imitation *' saw it, 
*^revetu d'une teinte d'azur comme dans les miniatures du 
quatorzi^me siecle." 

The houses of the peasantry, on which my eye has fallen, since 
we got into the Central Provinces, are smaller and poorer than 
those I chanced to observe in Guzerat or the Mahratta Coiintry. 
*'May Heaven defend us from the Evil One, and from" hasty 
generahzations I 

. At Jubbulpore begins the East Indian Railway, and the stations, 
for some reason which I cannot yet fathom, become gardenless. 

We have now (3 p.m.), a range of low hills on our right which 
connects the Satpoora with the Rajmahal range, to the south of 
the Ganges. On our left is the prolongation of the Vindhya 
mountains, which is commonly known as the Kymore Hills. 

The streams we cross still run to the Nerbudda, but soon we 
shall come to the water-parting, which separates the basin of that 
river from the basin of the Ganges and its tributary the Sone. 

Gradually the two ranges approached, and we ran on through 
a valley that reminded me of a Highland strath, as the tempera- 

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tare of the December evening did of August in Ross-shire. It was 
dark before we reached Sutna, the station near w^hich General 
Cunningham recently made the remarkable Buddhistic discoveries 
which I mentioned in my address to the Orientalist Congress last 
September. By half-past ten we were at Government House 
in Allahabad, having traversed some 830 miles since we ran 
ont of Bombay — something like the distance from Brindisi to 

Dec, Wth. — The morning was given to visits and conversation, 
after which I went to see the proceedings of the High Coui-t, 
where Special Appeals were being tried. In the afternoon a 
party of us visited the Fort, which stands near the Confluence of 
the Jumna with the Ganges. All Confluences in India are more 
or less sacred, but this one is particularly so, botb rivers being 
hol}% and every morning thousands of persons come to bathe in 
the waters over which we look. 

The simset, as seen from the rampai*ts, was fine, and we had 
something very like the Egyptian after-glow, under the crescent 
moon, from the balcony of one of our companions in the Malwa, 
who resides here. 

Of the various objects of interest in the Foi-t, that which I was 
most glad to see was the pillar dating from the age of Asoka, say 
B.C. 250, one of the oldest architectural monuments in India* 
You will find it figured in " Fergusson's Handbook." Curious, too, 
was the stump of the sacred banian, on which the Chinese pil- 
grim, Hiouen Thsang, looked in the seventh centmy. 

Dec. \2tlu — ^A pretty long walk in the cold, crisp morning took 
me over admimble roads made of kunkur, a material of which we 
have all heard, but which I first bere^aotually see, to the house of 
a resident who kindly shows me his whole establishment. I see the 
^blee, the cattle, the sheep, the fowls, the wheat fields, the 
swimming bath, and whatever else is characteristic of a pros- 
perous Anglo-Indian mSnage in these parts. Last, not lea^t, 
I walk over the garden, on which its owner bestows great 

There I come to know the MhowafjStwm latifolia)^ oneof themost 
important of Indian trees, and see too the tasselled Durcmidy the 
large CSiinese jasmine, the Peacock flower (Poyntziana pulcherrima)^ 
the Quisqualis, another favourite Anglo-India shrub, with much olse. 
I have explained to me the method by which tuif is formed and 
kept alive in this thirsty land, and am taught to disciiminate 
between some of the more important foods of the people — the 
pulse called gram (Cioer Arietinum^ whence the nickname of Cicero), 
the millet (Penicillaria setacea)^ known as Bajra, &c. 

Then the difficulties which attend vine, peach, and English 
^don culture in this climate are explained to me, and I learn by 

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taste the merits of Hibiscm Suhdariffa, a Malvaceous plant, whose 
calyx, strange to say, makes excellent jam. 

After breakfast comes more political talk with the Lieutenant- 
Governor of the most instructive kind — ^while the afternoon is 
given to the native town, where I have, under the most admirable 
auspices, a whole succession of peeps into the life of the people. 
I see tlie small stores of the pawnbrokers, chiefly in silver orna- 
ments. I see a lapidaiy cutting gems with bow and wheel. I 
see cowries use<J as change, forty-eight going to the anna, which 
is equivalent to l^d. I see the sweetmeat shops, and toy shops, 
and guitar shops, and a manufactory of lac bracelets. Lastly, I 
see a curious little scene. A weaver has bought five-shillings' 
worth of gold, and wants it made into a nose-ring. He covenants 
with a working jeweller to make it — ^he paying the jeweller 
about a penny for his labour, which is to last an hour — ^the em- 
ployer sitting by all the while and watching, in the attitude of a 
cat, that none of his gold be purloined — an arrangement by 
which he also gets the benefit of the jeweller's fire for an hour on 
a December afternoon. I first see the gold in the shape of a 
pea, then I see it assiune the shape of a small bar. As we pass 
homeward, it has become a completed nose-ring, for which, having 
made the weaver understand, thi-ough my guide, that the transac- 
tion -will be largely to the advantage of all concerned, I give seven 
shillings and carry it off in triumph. 

Inexorable night came upon us long before my curiosity was 
satisfied, and yet I have been told ten times over that there is 
nothing to see in Allahabad. 

LucKXOW, Dec. IG^i.-— -A journey of 165 miles, much of it per- 
formed by night, took rne to the capital of Oudh, via Cawnpore, 
where I stayed long enough to see what has given the place ite 
dismal celebrity. 

I have been refreshing my recollections of those sad days by 
George Trevelyau's eloquent book, but you would hardly thank 
me for recalling the details of one of the most imrelieved tragedies 
in English history. 

The scenes of some of its most hideous passages are veiled by 
luxuriant gardens, to which wise local regulations have affixed a 
semi-sacred character. 

'* The tower has sunk in the castle moat, 
And the cushat warbles her ene clear note 
In the elms that grow into the brooding sky. 
Where Anstice sat long ago waiting to die.**' 

I spent most of my time at Cawnpore in the house which once 

belonged to our friends the H 's, a roomy, pretty bungalow 

— that is, being interpreted, a villa in which screens and curtains 
largely do the work done by partition walls in temperate cUmates. 

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On either side Ke wide spaces of turf — what was his rose garden 
on this, and hers on that. Both are still kept up, more or less, 
bnt in this climate the plants soon want renewing. 

From the broad verandah behind the drawing-room the eye 
ranges over a vast plain, which, biit for its atmosphere and colour- 
ing, might be any part of the left bank of the Danube below Pesth. 
Between the house, however, and that plain spread the broad 
waters of the Ganges, comparatively scanty at this season, I need 
hardly say, but in the rains thinking nothing of inundating 
twenty square miles on its northern shore. 

Right below the verandah is a backwater, along the margin of 
which had collected in great quantities the flowers of the Tagetes 
mcuimus, a sort of tall marigold, very sacred here. 

These had been offered to the hallowed stream by the devotees 
at a bathing station just above the upper end of the garden, and 
on the backwater. From that bathing station a long wooden 
bridge leads to a low islet of shingle, upon which many Brahmins 
had erected each his own little sacred bathing-«hed. Beyond 
waB another branch of the river, and yet beyond a farther shingle 
bank and the deep water channel of the hour, down which an 
uncouthly shaped boat now and then glided. 

My attention was called to the proceedings of a party on the 
fiirther margin of the deep water channel, and through a telescope 
I saw them making arrangements for burning a body, to which, 
ere long, the slowly curling smoke showed that they had set fire. 

Here, in Lucknow, we have been the guests of the Judicial 
Commissioner, and have seen very fairly, thanks to him, all the 
most important points in this huge place. 

There is Kttle very good in the way of architecture. The best 
bnfldings are two royal tombs, and the Imambarra, a huge edifice 
in the fort, which is now converted into a depot for ordnance. 
Other things, such as the Great Mosque, look imposing at 
a distance, but are seen, when one gets near, to be poor and 

The historic sites connected with the Mutiny are of the highest 
interest, and here, though God knows the tragedy was deep 
enough, it was not the unrelieved tragedy of Cawnpore. 

I wish our fiiend G could have gone with me over the 

Beridency. I think even. he would have admitted that his 
countrymen, although they are not much less apt than their 
iieighbours to get into scrapes, have a marvellous genius for 
getting out of them. 

The ruins have been left, most wisely, just as they were after 

the storm had swept by ; but tablets fixed here and there mark 

the most famous spots — Johannes's House, the Baillie Guard-gate, 

the room where Sir Henry Lawrence died, &c. Here, too, the 


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BcensB of the deatl>Btruggle have been veiled m gardens. A 
model in the Museum (or in the Vernacular, the House of 
Wonders), hard by, is said accurately to represent the ground as 
it was when the conflict commenced. 

I know scarcely any city of the second order which can vie 
with the capital of Oudh in the beauty of its parks. Stocldiolm 
and Copenhagen no doubt suipass it ; but I do not- remember any 
other place of the same size which does. 

To the finest of these parks is attached the name of Sir Charles 
Wingfield, who was Chief Commissioner here, and who sat for 
Gravesend in the Parliament of 1868-74. 

Thither I went one day under the guidance of the Director of the 
Horticultural Gardens, and saw many new trees, amongst the most 
noticeable of wliich were the Bael (^gte Marmelos)^ so important 
medicinally, the fragrant sandal-wood, and Bauhinia purpurea with 
its superb flowers and scimitar-like pods. It is strange that, 
although not one single tree which I saw is English, the general 
effect of the whole, when palms are not in view, should be 
precisely that of a carefully-planted EnglLsh arboretum in which 
pines are not grown. 

Very instructive also was a visit to the Hoi-ticultural Gardens, 
where I became acquainted with the S&l (Shorea robusta), almost as 
important in the north as the teak is in the south of India ; with 
the Asclepias giganteoj producing one of the strongest fibres in the 
world; and with the CoBsalpinia Sappan, which gives us the redwood 
of commerce. Careful and successful experiments are being 
made here in growing delicate plants under houses formed 
of split bamboo, with a view to defend them at once against the 
hot winds of summer and the frosts of winter. They are trying 
also the date-palm from the Persian Gulf, and are doing very well 
with the Cintra omnge. 

We went over much of the native town with the superintendent 
of police, who keeps a population of 270,000 in order with 700 
constables. We saw many of the shops, and lamented the way 
in which the jewellery is being spoiled with a view to meet a 
demand which has aiisen in England for a very uninteresting 
kind of bangle. Some of the plate is good, and pieces of rude 
but very effective enamel can l)e picked up. 

We attended a gathering of pawnbrokers, who sat in conclave 
daily to have articles brought to them for purchase or hypotheca- 
tion. The chief of them showed me a very large diamond, for 
which he asked 20,000 rupees, and it was obvious that hia 
transactions were on a great scale ; yet his income tax, even 
when the rate was 3^ per cent., was only 225 rupees. It was 
amusing to see, as we entered the little courtyard, the family cow 
— ^kept not for use but for luck. 

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Many of tlie Mabbmetans he;ife t^^lpng to, tb^ Shiah sect, ^s did 
the royal family, and that sect has po8ses8i9n of the Great 
Mosque. . I did not bbi^rye any differeacie in its arrangements 
&om tiiose of the Sooneos. 

Wawere met in one of the narrow streets by a most pxctiQ*esque 
Strbg of camels, attended by Afghans, who w.^e bringing down 
dzied fmitB and Persian cats for sale from beyond the passes. 

At Lncknow and Cawnpore conversiation turned a good deal on 
flie events of 1857 ; on the sort of natives who were likely to be 
useful in Government employ ; on the position of the uncovenanted 
senice with reference to. leave rales and pensions;; on the gradual 
disappearance of the professional criminal class in this place, 
which had been abnormally developed in the evil times before 
armsKation ; on the transfer of a considemble' part of the popular 
tion to Hyderabad in the Deccan, and to Calcutta, when a more 
ordered state of things superseded the old. days of anarchy apd 

Dec, nth. — ^We left Lucjknow yesterday in excellent compa^y, 
and, thaahs to the courtesy of iJie Oudh and Bphilcund Railway 
anthoritiest were able to get the greatest advantage from it, going 
on ahead of the ordinary train, and dropping down as from the 
clouds in the midst of an Oudh village, over which we walked, 
observing the shrine under the. Peepul tree, the gathering of 
people in the little marketplace, the extreme cleanliness of even 
the poorest hovels, fnesh plastered at frequeut intervals,, some- 
times even daily, by the women. The vast majority of the hoi^es 
were of mnd, but here, and there was a dwelUng. of rbrickf S]everal 
of these had doors of carved wood, with the fish of the expelled| 
dynasty* upon them, doDiis which may hx^e: onoe omampi^ted 
some stately' mansion at/Luoknow* The headrxoian tc^d .us that 
his fiunily had been here siuce the days of ,the Dejhi epiperors. 
It belongs rto. the writer caste, btit has gradually made money, 
and, having boiight out some of the old proprietors, now holds 
soflipieBt land to give it a local status. 

The converSaficmi as! we hurried on to Cawnpore, turned on the 
question how far these villages appreciated our rule. " True it is," 
said one of our companions, " every man is now secure from the 
old vfofeiide and this old oppression, but I doiibt whether they did 
not like better tbe former state of things — when the king sent a 
regimeht against- a "vifiag^ which did not pay its taxes. The 
village knew when the regiment was coming, and put its possessions 
in safe keeping— theri-fbnght the regiment, perhaps successfully. 
Ifmimiccesrful, it paid up, and was free from interference for some 
yesn^'wldle the troops 'Were coercing • other villages. Now we 
taV^iiiriefis at a time, and in a peaceful way, but the idea of 
reastsDce to us Is ridiculous, and our tax-collectors, although 

E 2 

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their demands are moderate and their methods merciful, are yet 
inexorable as fate.'* 

We crossed a large piece of land covered with low scrub. " What 

is that f I asked. " That," said C "is a Dik jungle {Butea frmi- 

dosa) ; Pullus or Pallas they call it in the south. It has been said that 
this tree gave its name to the battle of Plassey, which was fought 
in a D&k jtmgle." The sight of this, the first piece of jungle I had 
seen in the north, made me imderstand Jacquemont's disappoint- 
ment with his first Indian jimgle. He would not have been dis- 
appointed if he had begun with Matheran. 

On the Oudh and Rohilcund line we returned to the station 
gardens, of which we lost sight at Jubbulpore. In more ways 
than one, indeed, this line has profited by the experience of its pre- 
' decessors, and prides itself upon its accommodation for native 
travellers being particularly good. Amongst other boons to them, 
it has adopted a plan of setting down and taking up passengers at 
convenient places where there are no stations ; a proceeding for 
which its very slow rate of speed gives great faciUties. 

At Cawnpore we again joined the East Indian, and went by a 
very slow train to Ag^a, reaching Sir J. Strachey's camp about 
midnight, where we found our tents pitched, and all comfortably 
arranged. The thermometer at this season falls very low during 
the night in Northern India. As we passed to tiie station at 
Lucknow, we saw them collecting the ice which had formed in 
shallow pans put out for the purpose ; and here, under canvas, it is 
very decidedly cold. 

During the journey from Cawnpore to Agra, I heard a point 
bearing on the endless controversy about Indian public works 
more forcibly stated than hitherto. " It is all very well,'' said one of 
my fellow-travellers, for people at home to say, ' Don't make san- 
guine estimates ; ' but suppose we don't make sanguine estimates, 
what happens t By no possibility can we keep the amount of our 
estimates secret. It gets out, and then every native subordinate 
does his very utmost to take care that he and his work well up to 
om- estimate. Making sanguine estimates is absolutely necessary 
if we mean to keep down actual costs." 

AoRA, Dee. 19th. — This camp life is an admirable institution. As 
soon as weather and the state of business permit, the Indian mag- 
nate of every degree leaves his usual abode, and starts to inspect 
his county, province, or kingdom, as the case may be. Sir J. 
Strachey, for instance, will for the next two or three months be 
moving slowly over his wide dominions, which are about as 
populous as Great Britain. Soon after sunrise, he drives or rides 
out, examines schools, gaols, lunatic asylums, remains of antiquity 
which are in need of repair, and so forth, returning to a late 

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breakfast between ten and eleven. Then come a number of hours 
devoted to seeing a variety of officials, and to carrying on the 
ordinary duties of government, while the evening is given chiefly 
to receiving at dinner the principal local officials, who come into 
camp from all the districts round to see the Lieutenant-Governor, 
and often to settle by a short conversation matters which might 
oflierwise have involved much loss of time in correspondence. 
You will have observed that we have stayed a good deal in the 
large towns with judicial officers. They are the only persons of 
position who at this time of the year are stationary. The executive 
officers are nearly all on the wing. 

The camp is a pretty sight. A broad street of tents leads to 
the pavilion of the Lieutenant-Governor, over which a flag flies, 
and in which his guests assemble. For the rest, everji;hing goes 
on as in a large well-appointed house in Europe. More than thirty 
people sat down the other night to dinner. 

On the 17th there was a formal reception of native noblemen and 
officials, each of whom, from the least to the gpreatest, advanced as 
his name was called, and made his obeisance. Some of the former 
class were remarkable for the antiquity of their family — ^Rajpoots 
of the Rajpoots — but none of much poUtical note. 

The chief objects of interest in and near Agra are the fort, 
Siknndra, the tomb of Itmad-ood-Dowlah, and the Taj* 

Our first view of the fort was a very striking one. We saw it 
in the early morning, ere yet the mist had cleared away, over a 
foreground of waste interspersed with Mahometan tombs. The 
beautiful outUnes of what we afterwards learned to call the Pearl 
Mosque seemed really built up of pearl, and stood out clear and 
distinct, while the two ends of the huge pile over which it rises 
faded away iq the darkness. 

Later, we went carefully over the whole of this Indian Windsor, 
under the best guidance which Agra affords. I was most agree- 
ably surprised — surprised I say, because from a perasal of Fergus- 
son's book, I had been led to suppose that we should see much 
more Vandalism than now meets the eye. Since he was here. 
Government has taken up in good earnest the protection of this 
glorious building ; has spent £10,000 most judiciously, and is de- 
teraiined to spend whatever is necessary to remove all removable 
fflischief, and prevent all preventable decay. 

The fort was the work of Akbar, one of the few really great 
men of native Indian history. It is a mass of dark red sandstone, 
battlemented, and strong enough in its day, though now of little 
nuBtary importance. On this noble foundation Akbar's successors 
reared many lovely buildings, almost all of white marble. Pre- 
emment in beauty is the Pearl Mosque, to which I have already 
aBaded, and of which Fergusson (to whom pray refer for a corn- 

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mentaiy on all I am writing, since I do not attempt to set down 
more than impressions) observes : — 

" By far the most 'elegant mosque of this age — ^perhaps, indeed, of any 
period of Moslem art — is the Mootee Mesjid, or Pearl Mosque, built by Shah 
Jehan, in the palace of Agra. Its dimensions are considerable, being ex- 
ternally 235 feet east and west, by 190 north and south, and the courtyard 
155 feet square. 

^^ Its mass ifi also considerable, as the whole is raised on a terrace of artifi- 
cial construction, by the aid of which it stands well out from the surround- 
ing buildings of the fort. Its beauty resides in its courtyard, which is 
wholly of white marble from the pavement to the summit of its domes. 
The western part, or mosque properly so called, is of white marble inside 
and outi ^uid except an inscription from the Koran, inlaid with black marble 
as a frieze, has no ornament whatever beyond the lines of its own graceful 
architecture. It is, in fact, so far as I Know, less ornamented than any 
other building of the same pretensions, forming a singular contrast with 
the later buSdings of this style in Spain and elsewhere, which depend 
almost wholly for their effect on the rich exuberance of the ornament with 
which they are overlaid." 

I was extremely pleased with the Jasmine Bower, the apartment, 
that is, of the favourite sultana, in which everything has been 
done that grace of form, combined with inlaid aaid polished marble, 
can do for the cage of a pet bird. 

Beautiful, too, are the rooms in which Shah Jehan ended his 
long and disastrous reign. His last sight on earth most have been 
the divine and glorious building, which will keep his otherwise un- 
honoured memory fresh to all time. 

" Der Mensch erf ahrt er soy auch wer er mag 
Ein letztes GlUck und einen letzten Tag." 

As I stood looking towards the Taj from the rooms in which 
Shah Jehan died, there came into my mind those other rooms 

which S will remember, and which struck us both so much ; 

the rooms, I mean, in which Philip II. breathed his last, with his 
eyes on the altar of the dark Escorial Church. The Mogul, though 
a prisoner, had by much the best of it. 

At Sikundra is the tomb of Akbar, built by his son. It stands 
in a stately squariD of gardens, approached by noble though 
partially nlined gateways, and is, Uke the fort, built of red sand- 
stone below, and white marble above. Here, however, the red 
scmdstone is disposed in the most exquisite and intricate architec- 
tural forms, while the white marble coui-t, high in air, wliich sur- 
rounds the cenotaph of the mighty empeix)r, is a worthy sister to 
the Jasmine Bower and the rooms of Shah Jehan. 

The actual tomb is far below, a plain mass. of white marble, just 
in the dame position as that occupied by the dead monarch in the 
tumulus of Alyattes. Here, in fact, we hate the last and glorified 
development of the very same idea which heaped up that mighty 

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mound on the plain of Sardis, and reared the PTramids over the 
valley of the Nile. 

Dec. 2l8t. — The tomb of Itmad-K)od-Dowlah is one of the earliest 
works in the style of those buildings which, lend so much beauty 
to Agra. He was a Peitdan adventurer, piime nainister of 
Jefaangeer, father of the famous Noor Jehan, and gi-andfathet of 
her niece, often carelessly confoimded with her, Moomtaza Mehal, 
the lady who sleeps beneath the Taj- The tomb of Itmad-ood- 
Dowlah stands in a garden, and may well have been a pleasm'e 
place for the living before it became the last home of the dead. 

Here it was that my attention was first drawn to the distinction 
between the tombs of men and women in this part of the world. 
The former have carved upon them a writing-case, the latter a 
date, to indicate their respective relations as active and passive. 

We have now visited the Taj three times, once in the early 
morning and twice in the afternoon, lingering on both these last 
occasions to see it Ut up, fii-st by the sunset and then by the 
moon, just as we used to do in the case of the Parthenon, when 
we were together at Athens. 

One thinks, of courae, of the Parthenon, for it is the one build- 
ing, so far as I know, in all the earth, which is fit to be named in 
the same breath as this. 

Nothing that has been written does the Taj any sort of justice, 
and we may wait another 250 years for a worthy description, 
unless some one can persuade Mr. Ruskin to come hither and ^vrite 
of it as he has written of the Campanile at Florence. Men who 
can really tell of such things as they deserve come only at long 

A grand gateway, that would itself be an object of fii-st-rate 
importance in most great cities, leads into a garden, which is, 
even in December, supremely lovely — ^perhaps a quarter of a mile 
in length by the same in breadth. A long avenue of cypresses, 
separated by a line of fountains, which only play on gi-eat 
occasions, leads the eye to the foot of the building, which lises 
from a vast platform of red sandstone. One passes up along the 
fountains, while the green parrots, perched on the topis of the 
masses of foliage behind the cypresses, scream to each other, and * 
flaah hither and thither in the sun. Arrived at the platform, you 
see that the Jumna is flowing beneath, and that either side of the 
platform is bounded by a most beautiful mosque — the one for use, 
the other, as being improperly placed with reference to Mecca, 
merely to satisfy the eye. On this first platform stands another of 
white marble, with a minaret of the same material at each comer, 
and out of this, moi'e in colom* like a snow-peak than anything 
ehe I ever beheld, but of the most exquisite finish and symmetry, 
springs up the wondrous edifice itself. 

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Its general form is quite familiar to you from photographs or 
drawingp, but I have met with no picture, photograph or drawing 
which at all conveys the impression which words have equally 
failed to render. 

The queen and her husband are buried, as Akbar is, in a vault 
below. It is only their monuments that are above ground. These, 
as well as the screen surrounding them, are, hke everything else 
about the place, in perfect taste, and, like most things about it, in 
admirable preservation. 

The usual adornments of Agra are the adornments here — ^inlaid 
and perforated marbles; and here they reach the highest point of 
perfection which they have reached in India. 

The last time we were at the Taj the interior was illuminated 
by Bengal hghts, so that we could see all the texts from the 
Koran, in the exquisite- Arabic character, which are inlaid over the 

Perhaps, of all the points of view, that from the centre of the 
Western Mosque is the most beautiful, if one goes there just as 
the sunset is flushing the whole of the building, that can be seen 

fi-om thence. 


We spent, the other day, a most instiTictive morning in going, 
with a first-rate settlement officer, over a native village, or joint 
estate, the imit of the coimtry for revenue purposes. Our friend 
had arranged everything beforehand, so that, when we arrived on 
the spot, we were met by nearly all the six head men, or Lumber- 
dars, as they are called, and by most of the sixteen Putteedars, or 
inferior shareholders. There, also, present in the flesh, was a live 
Putwarree, or village accountant, with the map and all the village 
books, so that we could have explained to us the whole system by 
which the Government demand is regulated, and see at a glance 
the statistics of the place in the EngUsh abstract. The village 
which we examined contained 2,157 acres, of which 935 were 
quite uncultivable, and 1,222 were cultivable. 

We walked over a large part of these last with the people, saw 
the various kinds of land, varying from wretchedly poor fields, 
growing Cassia officinalis (the true senna of our youth — ^not the 
same, by the way, as the Alexandiian senna which we saw in the 
'desert near Cairo), to fields covered with splendid crops of young 
com, or old jowarree, worthy of the Nile banks. 

These few hours were worth a great deal of reading, even 
although such reading has to bo done in Maine's " Village C!om- 
munities," which our guide pronomiced to be as accurate as some 
of you know it to be interesting and suggestive. 

Another day we went to the gaol, now, unfortunately, rather 
full — crimes against property always hero, as at home, being in 

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the closest relations to the prosperity or adversity of the country, 
and the Bengal demand having this year raised the prices of pro- 
visioDS. In no country, it was truly said to me the other day, 
is there so much poverty and so Httle destitution as in this, in 
ordinaiy times ; but the margin between a sufficiency and famine 
is so small, the people Uve so much from hand to mouth, that 
abnormal prices at once produce widenspread misery. 

The most interesting thing in the gaol is the carpet nianu- 
factoiy, which is rapidly improving — ^this quick-witted, quick- 
handed people learning to weave with extraordinary facility, and 
the greatest care being now taken to avoid aniline dyes, and to 
Btick to native patterns. 

It is vexatious, though not surprising, to hear that the restric- 
tions of caste prevent any of the hberated prisoners, whose 
ancestors have not been weavers from time immemorial, carrying 
on the trade which they have learnt in prison. 

The rest of my time in Agra has chiefly gone in long talks with 
all manner of people engaged in carrying on the business of the 
country, from the Lieutenant-Governor down to young men who 
have just landed in India — ^a large camp like this affording infinite 
facilities for hearing all kinds of views on all kinds of subjects. 

I am struck by the much greater amount of responsibihty which 
is thrown on juniors in the Secretariat here than is thrown on 
persons of the same age at home. Work is done here by men of 
seven or eight-and-twenty which no clerk in a Secretary of 
State's office would be allowed to touch until he was a grey- 
haired grandsire at the head of his department. 

Dee, 23rd. — ^We started yesterday morning, with Sir John 
Strachey, on a visit to the Maharajah of Bhurtpore, who had 
invited to his capital the Lieutenant-Governor and his guests. 

The journey was accomplished in about an hour, thanks to the 
newly-opened state railway — ^the first railway I have seen on the 
metre gauge, whose battles I used to have to fight. 

Soon after leaving Agra we passed the too famous Salt hedge — 
a Customs line, which runs some 1,800 miles across India, like 
another wall of China. It is formed chiefly of close, all but im- 
penetrable masses of thorny plants, and is as effective a barrier as 
impolicy coidd desire. I heartily hate it, with all that it repre- 
sents, and am very glad that no one ever took to attacking the 
Indian Government on this point, when I had charge of its 
interests in the House of Commons. 

At the frontier of his dominions, some of the Maharajah's officers 
joined the train, to bring their master's respects to the Lieutenant- 
Governor, and we moved on through a country exactly Uke that 
we had quitted, for the Bhurtpore State was, during the minority 
of the present mler, long under British management. Presently 

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we came to a large jungle. "What are thoBe bmehesf * I asked. 
" Pilu," answered one of my companions, " camels eat it, the 
cattle shelter under it, and the berries are good for food. When 
the courtiers at Lahore were exhausted by the dissipations of the 
capital, they used to go off to the neighbomhood of Mooltan to 
drink camel's milk and eat pilu berries as a restorative." 

It was not till I got home and looked at Brandis's book that I 
saw that the pilu, which we laished past, was a plant about which 
I have a great curiosity — ^no other than the Salv<tdora PerdcOj 
which has been identified with the mustard-tree of the Gospels. 

Later in the day, I asked another person about the woodland in 
which the pilu was growing. ** It is," said he, " a preserve of the 
Maharajah's." " Does he shoot ? " I asked. " No," was the reply. 
" He thinks it wrong to take life, and never shoots. When he sees 
cattle overworked on the road, he buys them and puts them in 
there to live happily ever afterwards," holding, apparently, to the 
good maxim of Jehangeer — "that a monarch shoidd care even for 
the beasts of the field, and that the very birds of heaven should 
receive their due at the foot of the throne." 

The place is full of cattle, wild, or run wild, and also of deer. 

Arrived at the station, Sir John Strachey was met by His High- 
ness, and we all proceeded through the town to the Residency. 
I looked with great interest on the old mud wall, one of the very 
few defences in India that ever foiled, even for a time, the terrible 
Feringhee. Lord Lake's failure before Bhrnipore occurred about 
the time my father went to India, and I have often heard him say 
that when, as a boy of twenty, he was returning to camp from the 
not poUticaUy important, but desperately contested capture of 
Mallia, he first realized that he had been in a rather serious affitir, 
when on his saying to an old oflSoer — " I suppose this was nothing 
to Bhurtpore," the latter replied — " Faith, I don't know. Certainly 
not so bad for round shot, but for miping I think this was rather 
the worst of the two." 

I asked, by-the-bye, a week or two ago, a gentleman, who had 
been employed in Kattiawar, about the Mallia people, and was 
amused to find that they had retained their bad character to our 
own times. Quite lately they used to keep horses in their houses, 
which they treated exactly as members of the family. These trusty 
Uttle beasts they would mount in the night and be sixty miles off 
before any one knew they had started, in the true Pindarree 
fashion. Then, after a reasonable amount of robbery, they used 
to dash home again, and go about their ordinary business, with an 
appearance of perfect innocence. 

The Maharajah has on paper an army of 5,000, of which, 
perhaps, 3,000 are efficient troops. The cavalry looked vely good, 
and is, I am assured, very good, but the weApon of the troopers is 

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a sort of eciinitar, which, would only be useful for cutting, not for 
the thrust. 

We soon again left the Residency, to pay our respects at the 
pakee, where we were once more presented to His Highness, while 
all the leading personages of the Court made their obeisance to 
Sir John. The visit concluded with the attar and pawn, of which 
I have spoken ere now, but without the engarlanding. 

Ahnost immediately after we had got back came the return visit 
of the Maharajah^ with of com*se more salutes of heavy guns, and 
more marshaUing of gaily dressed horsemen on very fair horses. 
That sort of thing, as you may imagine, went on all day. It 
always does on such occasions, when certain specified forms of 
courtesy mean a great deal, and must be most rigidly adhered to 
on both sides. 

When the ceremonial was over, I walked up and down the Resi- 
dency garden with S , a distinguished Oxford man, steadily 

rising into importance here. The half wild, half tame peafowl, 
which swarm in this neighbouirhood^ were calling all round the 
country. I could have fancied myself at Hampden. 

The shadows lengthened, and a sound of bells floated up from 
the town. " What is thatf I asked. " Only the priests ringing for 
evening service," repUed my companion. " Dear me," I answered, 
" we might be back again on the slope over Hincksey." 

The sunset &ded, and the jackals began their chorus. I com- 
plained of having seen so few wild animals-— not even an antelope — 
though I have passed through districts where I know they abound. 

" That is pure accident," said S , "you must have been close 

to many. People, however, have exaggerated expectations as 
to the number of wild animals they will see in India* Much of 
the country is far too thickly peopled, and too weU cultivated. 
Have you any curiosity to see a tiger killed ? " " Not 
the least," said I, "for in truth next to being killed by a 
tiger, the thing I should least like would be to kill one, but I 
should very much like to spend a night where I could hear 
the cries of the wild beasts. A friend of mine once enjoyed 
that pleasure to perfection in the Goa tenitory, and I wish 

to be as fortunate as he." "Ah," answered S ^ "this is the 

wrong time of year ; your best chance would be in March or April. 
At present all the wild beasts are off for shelter' to the deepest 
recesses of the forests. Even in the Sewalik Hills, which are fuU 
of tigers, you have hardly a cliance of seeing one." 

'* E ," I said, " whom all men know to be proverbial for his 

accuracy, told me that he knew the case of a tiger in the 
Central Provinces, at whose door was laid the death of no less 

than 336 people." •* That emrprises me,'' replied S , "I Aought 

the elephant which killed fifty people, and frightened away the 

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inhabitants of I know not how many villages, was the most re- 
markable case of the kind on record." " No," I said, " E told 

me that these 336 cases were authenticated. The same tiger may 
liave killed others whose death was never traced to him.** 

Later, we drove to the palace to dine. The whole line of 
streets through which we passed was most eflfectually illuminated 
by very simple means — a framework fastened in front of the 
shops, to which were attached five rows of small earthenware 
pans, with a little oil in each. Great triiunphal arches, at inter- 
vals, were covered in the same way, and were really most bril- 
liant. At length we reached the palace, the whole of which was 
outhned with Kght. I have never seen a more beautiful illumina- 
tion, though some present said they had done so, especially 
at Ulwur, where the lie of the ground is very favourable, 
and at Benares, where the river lends itself admirably to such 

The dinner was in the European manner. Our host, I need 
scarcely say, did not eat with us, but joined us at dessert, when 
some toasts were proposed. 

After dinner there were fireworks — ^very pretty, and not too 
long continued. The blaze of green and red, and blue, contrasted 
admirably with the black masses of people, which covered the 
housetops, and filled the open space in front of the Palace 
garden, the beds in which were all edged with coloured lamps. 

This morning we drove some thirteen miles to Futtehpore 
Sikri — our carriages being drawn sometimes by horses, and some- 
times by camels, good draught cattle on sandy roads. 

Futtehpore Sikri was a creation of Akbar's, and rose round the 
dwelling of a saint who is buried in the centre of the splendid build- 
ings which crown the summit of one of the last Vindhyas, just 
before they sink into the great plain of Rajpootana. On the slopes 
lay the city, surrounded by a great wall, much of which still 
remains. High above towered, and still towers, the gateway, one 
of the grandest in the world, and almost dwarfing the noble 
mosque to which it leads. It is somewhere, I think, on that gate- 
way that an inscription occurs characteristic of the Broad Church 
Mahometanism of the great Emperor: — "Jesus, on whom be 
peace, has said,, the world is merely a bridge ; you are to pass over 
it, and nojb to build your dwellings upon it." 

Everywhere, at Futtehpore Sikri, hardly less in the mosque 
than elsewhere, does one see the infiuence of Hindu art. 

Fergusson says : — 

'^ Akbar's favourite and principal residence was at Futtehpore Sikri, near 
Agra, where he built the ^at mosque, and in its immediate proximity a 
palace, or rather a group of palaces, which, in their way, are more inter- 
ring than any others in Inaia. No general design seems to have been 

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followed in their erection ; but pavilion after pavilion was added as resi- 
dences, either for himself or for his favourite wives. These were built as 
the taste of the moment dictated, some in the Hindu, some in the Moslem 
style. The palace has no pretension to be regarded as one great architec- 
tural object ; but as a picturesque group of elegant buildings it is unrivalled. 
All are built of red sandstone of the hill on which the palace stands ; no* 
marble and no stucco either inside or out, all the ornaments being honestly 
carved in relief on the stone, and the roofs as well as the floors all of the 
same material, and characterised by that singular Hindu-like aversion to 
an arch, which Akbar alone of all the Moslem mcmarchs seems to have 

There are some enchanting little bits of domestic architecture 
at Futtehpore Sikri. The house of Beerbul, the house of the 
Constantinopolitan princess and others, ought to be quite as 
famous as the Ca d'Oro, and will be when their votes eacer 

The short summer of this marvellous place did not outlast the 
reign of Akbar, and it has long been one vast ruin. Let no one 
imagine, however, that it is being maltreated as it was when 
Fergusson saw it. " Nous avons change tout cela*' — thank God. 
The present rulers of India are in matters of taste as much in 
advance of the Marquis of Hastings and Lord William Bentinck 
as our English Church architecture is now in advance of that of 
fortjf years ago. 

From Futtehpore Sikri we drove back to Bhurtpore. Here, as 
at Agra, I see that the Acacia lehbek of Egypt is one of the 
commonest trees. I observe, too, more frequently, I think, than 
further south, the Parkimonta digitata, which we first met with on 
the way to HeUopolis, and note in this my first native state, that 
the intrusive prickly poppy (Argenume Meaicana\ has taken 
possession of all waste plaees as coolly as it does in British 

We met many of the country people — a hardy race, reputed 
to be excellent cultivators. The appearance of the young wheat 
this year is such as is likely, I hope, to reward their toil. They 
are J4ts ; but, unlike many of their blood who have become 
Sikhs, hold to Brahminical orthodoxy. 

It has got much warmer at night. Clouds are collecting, and 
the weather-wise prophesy the speedy coming of the Christmas 
rain. If it comes, say they, the crops in the North-west will be 
splendid ; if it does not come, they will be good. 

I stopped at a silversmith's as we drove through the town and 
hought a silver bracelet, whose pre-eminently barbaric character 
seemed likely to pleaae one of our friends. 

At the station there was more ceremonial — ^more firing of g^ins — 

* Tfaon if a great deal of marble round the tomb of the laint, exquisitely wrought 
but \n tiio eocuiar buildings I saw none. 

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and then we rushed over the thirty-one miles which separated ns 
frotn Agra^ I will admit that when we tmvelled at more than 
twice the normal rate of speed — at thirty-nine instted of fifteen 
or sixteen miles an hour — ^mylate client, the metre gauge railway, 
shook at least as much as was pleasant. 

It is agreeable to have to add that this, the first of the new 
State railways, is turning out well. It cost £6,000 per mile, 
rolling-stock included," and is paying already £14 per mile a week. 
They are now building a still cheaper railway in the North-west, 
from Miittra to the Hatras station of the East Indian Line, which 
will, it is hoped, not cost more than £4,000 per mile. 

I have had a very kind invitation to Dholepore from the 
Resident in charge of that, the other Jat state of Rajpootana, 
a smaller place than Bhurtpore, which covers about 2,000 square 
miles. The present Bana of Dholepore, a nice spirited Uttle boy, 
came to see Sir John on Saturday, and behaved himself with 
infinite aplomb, 

Dsc. 24<A. — ^How little do even the most intelligent people at 
home who have not made a special study of India at all realize 
what an enormous country it is. I have just been reading an 
article, obviously by a man of sense and abiUty, from which it is 
clear that he believes the one great subject in India at this 
moment to be the Bengal famine. I landed twenty-serven days 
ago, yet I have hardly heard it named* 

At Allahabad I saw a gentleman who, with |i considerable sta^ 
had been engaged in collecting transpoiis for the afflicted districts. 
In Agra, I heard the failure of rain in Bengal and in some districts 
of the North-wefit alluded to as having diiven up the grain 
market. Other mention of the Bengal calamity I have heard . 
none, except when I have introduced the subject. Railways, 
irrigation^ drainage, the best forms of settlement, the relation of 
the cultivator and the money-lender, the state of the native anny, 
the merits and demerits of our system of education — ^these are, I 
think, the matters which seem most talked of where I have been 

The modem system of "special correspondence'* is veiy 
disturbing to the jmental fdcus, bringiug some things into midue 
pi*omiaence, and throwing othera far too much into the shade. 

M. E. Grant DtJFF. 

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THE Report of the late Universities CommiaBion, though pub- 
lished last autumn, has attracted less attention than it 
deserves, and the vague assurances given by the Prime Minister, 
at the opening of the Session, have not as yet been redeemed by 
any Parliamentary action. No such action, indeed, could be desired 
in the interest of the Universities or the Nation, unless preceded 
by a free discussion on the question of Academical Endowments. 
Yet no such discussion can be conducted intelligently or profit- 
ably without an adequate consideration of facts equally beyond 
the scope of the Commissioners' inquiry, and the cognizance of the 
general pubUc. So limited is the range of political memory in 
these days, that of the few who have scinitinized the gross totals 
of University and College revenues, now ascertained for the first 
time, not one in ten has studied, or would care to study, the far 
more comprehensive Reports of the Commissions issued by Lord J. 
Rufisell's Government in 1850. Nevertheless, some knowledge of 
the results then obtained, and of the changes since effected at 
Oxford and Cambridge, is absolutely necessary in defining the 
couTBe of future legislation. Before proceeding to regulate the 
distribution of Academical Endowm^its, the country ought to 
r^«Jize distinctly the extent to which the Universities at present 
discharge their responsibilities to learning and education, as well 
«« tii6 advances which they have made during the last twenty- 
fi^e years. It is one thing to force reforms on reactionary, ob- 

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Rtructive, and self-seeking corporations ; it is another thing to aid 
the spontaneous efforts of corporations on the whole liberal, 
pubKc-spirited, and progi-essive. If it should appear that few, if 
any, pubhc institutions in England can exhibit so good an account 
of their stewardship as the Univeraities and Colleges of Oxford 
and Cambridge, it will assuredly be no reason for withholding any 
measures which may enable them to realize a still higher ideal of 
eflSciency ; but it will be an excellent reason for not dissipating, in 
the attempt to utiUze, resources already so well employed. 

In compaiing the present with the past appUcation of Academi- 
cal Endowments, it will be convenient to fix oiu- attention fi5)ecially 
on one University — ^that is, upon Oxford. So far as concerns the 
main features of their internal economy, what is true of Oxford is, 
for the most part, true of Cambridge, and Uttle would be gained 
by dwelling on minute differences of system, which have no 
beaiing on the relation between the Universities and the Nation. 
There are, however, certain broad distinctions between Oxford 
and Cambridge, which it may be well for the non-academical 
reader to bear in mind. Both are essentially collegiate Universities, 
since the constitution of both alike secures valuable privileges to 
Colleges, since the vast majority of their students continue to be 
members of Colleges, and since the aggregate revenues of Colleges 
are in either ca«e nearly tenfold greater than the revenues of the 
University itself. Still, the predominance of collegiate influence 
and the collegiate spirit has always been greater and more ex- 
clusive at Cambridge, owing to a variety of causes, the most 
obvious of which is the great superiority of Trinity and St. John's, 
both in munbers and in prestige, over the smaller Colleges. On 
the other hand, the diq)roportionate encouragement so long given 
to mathematical attainments at Cambridge, and the unique im- 
poi-tance traditionally attached by its College authorities to the 
results of the final University examination, have not failed to 
affect the cliaracter of Cambridge as a place of national education. 
Mathematics are not cultivated at the great public schools with as 
much zeal or success as classical literature and other cognate 
studies, which are more liberally rewarded at Oxford. The con- 
sequence is, that it is no rare occurrence at Cambridge for the 
fii-st place in the Mathematical Tripos, canying with it the 
certainty of a College Fellowship, to be won by a young man of 
hmnble birth from a cheap grammar school in the north of Englcmd, 
who never even held a scholarship or exhibition till he reached the 
University. At Oxford, on the contrary, though competition is 
equally free, and though almost every CoUege throws open its 
Scholarships and Fellowships to members of other Colleges, f^wer 
young men of this class practically succeed in obtaining the 
highest honoure and prizes. Such diversities as these, it is true, 

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are too slight to impair the marked family likeness which distin- 
gaiahes Oxford and Cambridge from Scotch and Continental 
Universities, but they may help to explain some divergent 
tendencies, which might, otherwise, be somewhat perplexing. 

L When the Oxford University Commission of 1850 was ap- 
pointed, the University and Colleges were governed respectively 
by antiquated codes of statutes, which it would have been no less 
disastrous than impossible to enforce, but which, in the opinion of 
eminent authorities, they had no power to alter. Their practical 
management, as it existed but five-and-twenty years ago, would 
hardly be credited by reformers of a younger generation. The sole 
initiative power in University legislation, and by far the largest 
share of University administration, was vested in the Hebdomadal 
Board, consisting solely of Heads of Colleges with the two Proctors, 
and well described by Mr. Goldwin Smith as "an organized torpor." 
There was an assembly of residents, known as the House of 
Congregation, but its business had dwindled to mere formalities, 
such as receiving propositions which it was not permitted to dis- 
cuss, conferring degrees in the name of the University, and 
granting dispensations, as a matter of course. The University 
Convocation included, as now, all full (or "Regent") Masters of 
Arts, and had the right of debating, but this right was virtually 
annulled by the necessity of speaking in Latin, and Convocation 
could only accept or reject without amendment measures proposed 
by the Hebdomadal Board. At this period, no student could be a 
member of the University without belonging to a College, while 
every member of a College was compelled to sleep within its 
walls, imtil after his third year of residence, instead of being 
aDowed, as at Cambridge, to live in lodgings. Persons unable to 
sign the Thirty-nine Articles were absolutely excluded, not merely 
from degrees, but from all access to the Univensity, inasmuch as 
the test of subscription was enforced at matriculation. It is 
needless to add that, being imable to enter the University, they 
could not obtain College Fellowships, which, however, were further 
protected against the intrusion of Dissenters by the declaration of 
Churchmanship required to be made under the Act of Uniformity. 
If Professorial lectures were not at so low an ebb as in the days 
of Gibbon, when the greater part of the Professors had " given up 
even the pretence of teaching," they were lamentably scarce and 
ineffective. The educational fimction of the University had, in 
fact, been almost wholly merged in College tuition, but the 
Scholarships, as well as the Fellowships, of the Colleges were 
fettered by all manner of restrictions, which marred their value 
wbcentives to industry. Some were confined to natives of par- 
ticular countries, others were attached to particular schools, in 
Ww cases " Founder's Kin " had a statutable preference, and, in 

y%. XXVI. p 

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too many, favouritism was checked by no rule of law or practice. 
The great majority of Fellows were bound to take Holy Orders, and 
the whole University was dominated by a clerical spirit which 
directly tended to make it, as it has so long been, a focus of thjeo- 
logical controversy. 

It is to be regretted that many of the wise and liberal alterations 
recommended by the Commission of 1850 were not at once adopted 
by the Legislature. No steps, for instance, were taken for abolishing 
the invidious privileges of Noblemen and Gentlemen Commoners, 
students were not relieved from the obUgation of belonging to a 
College and residing within its walls, no University matriculation- 
examination was established, no order of 8ul>-profes8ors or lecturers 
was instituted, the Long Vacation continued unrefoimed and tha 
University examinations continued to be conducted in Term-time,, 
clerical Fellowships were maintained, though on a reduced scale» 
and the practice of applying College funds to the purchase of 
advowsons for the clerical Fellows was not suppressed. On the 
other hand, no one who knows what Oxford was in 1850 can 
doubt that by the Oxford Reform Act of 1854, and the Colleg© 
Ordinances framed by the Executive Commission under its pro- 
visions, a profound and most beneficial change was wrought in the 
whole spirit and working of the University system. The -Heb- 
domadal Board was replaced by a repi^esentative Council^ and 
Congregation was remodelled into a vigorous deliberative dAsembly^ 
with the right of speaking in English. The monopoly of Colleges 
was broken down, and an opening made for ulterior extension, 
by the revival of Private Halls. The Professoriate was consider- 
ably increased, reorganized, and re-endowed^ by means of contri- 
butions from Colleges. The Colleges were emancipated from their 
mediaeval statutes, were invested with new constitutions, and 
acquired new legislative powers. The Fellowsh^s were almost 
imiversally thrown open to merit, and the eJffect of this revolution 
was not merely to create ample rewards for the highest academical 
attainments, but to place the governing power within Colleges in 
the hands of able men likely to promote further improvements. 
The number and value of Scholarships were largely augmented, 
and many, though not aU, of the restrictions upon them were 
abolished. The great mass of vexatious and obsolete Oaths was 
swept away, and, though candidates for the M.A. degree and 
persons elected to Fellowships were still required to make the old 
subscriptions and declarations, it was enacted that no religious 
test should be imposed at matriculation, or on taking a Bachelor's 
degree. The University itself had anticipated the results of the 
Commission by liberal changes in its curriculum and examinations, 
of which the most important was the assignment of independent 
** schools " to Law and Modem History and to Natural Science 

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respectively, amultaneously with the foundation of a new Museum. 
The permanence of these changes was, however, additionally secured 
by the clause introduced into the College Ordinances, whereby it 
was directed that Fellowships should be appropriated from time to 
time for the encouragement of all the studies recognized by the 

The necessity of providing for vested interests, and other 
difficulties incident to so comprehensive a measure, delayed its 
operation for some years, and its benefits have not even yet been 
My reaped. But the most cursory review of University history 
<lTiring the last twenty years will suffice to disclose a progress far 
greater than had been made during the preceding century, and to 
which it would be difficult to find a parallel. At the end of 1850, 
the whole number of Oxford undergraduates, resident and non- 
resident, was stated at 1,402. It is probable that it was less at 
the end of the Bussian war in 1856 ; whereas it appears, by the 
Univerdly calendar for the present year, that the number of 
undergmdnates is now 2,440, notwithstanding a concurrent in- 
crease at Cambridge. Among these are 187 unattached students, 
admitted tmder an University statute passed in 1868, and placed 
under special regulations for their discipUne. Again, the number 
of those who qualified for the B.A. degree had averaged 287 for 
the ten years ending with 1850 ; in the year 1874 it amounted to 
399. Similar indications of healthy progi-ess meet us in examining 
the class-jists. In 1854, fourteen students obtained first-class 
honours, and seventeen obtained second-class honours, in the 
School of Liter® Humaniores. In 1874, the corresponding niun- 
bers were fifteen and thirty respectively ; but while, in the former 
year, only twenty obtained first-class honours in other Schools, in 
1874 thirty-five obtained such honours, including one classed by 
himself in the new School of Theology. A Professoriate of barely 
forty members represents, it is true, but one-third of the pro- 
fessorial staff maintained at Leipsic, and one-foui-th of that main- 
tained at Berlin, where the Professors are not assisted by a body 
of College Tutors. Still, it is much larger, and infinitely more 
efficient than it was twenty years ago, nor have the Colleges failed 
to supplement it by a system of inter-coUegiate lectures which 
happily combines a proper subdivision of labour in teaching with 
the advantage of personal superintendence — an advantage en- 
tirely lost under a strictly professorial system. One of these 
Collegiate Unions embraces six of the leading Colleges, another 
unbraces eight Colleges ; and the plan has so far succeeded as 
niateiially to reduce the demand for private tuition. Upon the 
"wiolei it is abimdantly certain that, notwithstanding the eager 
proaeoqtioQ of athletic sports, and the disturbing influences of 
theological controversy, the number of reading men in Oxford has 

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greatly multiplied witliiu the last twenty years, that more first- 
class degrees are taken in a much greater variety of subjects, and 
that more students are induced, after taking their degrees, to 
follow up some line of Uterary or scientific research. In short, to 
borrow the impartial testimony of Mr. Goldwin Smith — 

" Both as a place of learning and science, and as a fdace of education, 
the Univei-sity has risen rapidly within the last twenty years. In the 
fonner capacity, she has regained, or is fast regaining, the place in England 
and in Europe which she had almost entirely lost. Not only are there 
illustrious names among the professors, but among the fellows post- 
graduate study is bearing good fruits. The standard, both of acquirement 
and of teaching, is far higher than it was in 1854. The superior studies, 
instead of l)eiug merely clerical (if even clerical studies could have been 
said to exist), are literary and scientific. Oxford science begins to com- 
mand the respect and gratitude of the country. Open fellowships and 
scholarships have visibly stimulated industry, though it is too probable 
that there will always be a mass of incurable idleness in an University to 
which wealth and aristocracy resort. Better men, on the whole, have been 
elected to offices of all kinds, including the headships, though these are 
still fettered by the clerical restrictions, the retention of which was an 
unavoidable sacrifice to the timidity of the time ; and the heads recently 
elected appear to ti*cat their offices, not as places of dignified ease, but as 
spheres of active duty. Wealthy colleges, before mere monasteries less 
the asceticism, with scarcely a tinge of public usefulness, have been 
restored to learning and education. Some progress has been made in 
placing University teaching, which before was merely the temporary 
occupation of fellows waiting for livings, on the footing of a regular pro- 
fession. . . . The estrangement between Oxford and the nation has 
been lessened, at all events, if party will not allow it to be entirely 
annulled ; and there is a visible willingness on the part of the promoters 
of high education everywhere, but especially in the northern cities, to 
accept the aid and guidance of the progressive element in the University. 
Any one who remembers the fossil that we were twenty years ago, must 
be filled with delight at the manifestation on all sides of a comparatively 
exuberant life." 

It may be added that, instead of diying up the bounty of 
foundei-8, as had been confidently predicted, the reforms of 1854 
have apparently caused the stream of benefactions to flow with 
renewed abundance. Not to speak of Scholarships, piizes, and 
building donations, the University has lately been reinforced by 
the accession of Keble College, erected by private subscription, 
and already numbering upwards of one hundred undergraduates, 
as well as by the conversion of Magdalen Hall into Hertford 
College, with a large new endowment. 

But the impulse given to academical education at Oxford by the 
legislation of 1854, and at Cambridge by that of 1856, is not to be 
measured solely by the internal growth of the Universities and 
Colleges. Since that period, three educational movements of 
national importance have been independently set on foot and 
carried out by Oxford and Cambridge, either in concert or in 
friendly ri^-aliy, without the slightest assistance from the Govem- 

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ment or the Legislature. The first of these was the scheme of 
local examinations for pupils of middle-class schools, initiated by a 
statute passed at Oxford in 1857, afterwards adopted by Cam- 
bridge, and now exercising a regulative influeuce on middle-class 
education throughout England. The report of the Oxford dele- 
gacy, appointed to conduct these examinations in 1874, exhibits 
an almost continuous increase in the number of candidates pre- 
sented within the preceding ten years. In 1865, 920 junior 
Ccondidates were examined, and 561 passed ; in 1874, 1,422 were 
examined, and 807 passed. In 1865, 301 senior candidates were 
examined, and 209 passed ; in 1874, 466 were examined, and 320 
paesed. Among the juniors in 1874 there were 184 girls, of whom 
107 passed ; and among the seniors 150 girls, of whom 88 passed, 
one girl being placed in the first division of the general list. The 
Oxford local examinations were held in 1874 at twenty-five centres, 
most of which are situated in the southern and western counties. 
Separate local examinations are conducted, under the superinten- 
dence of a Cambridge board, on somewhat different principles, 
and no less than 4,180 candidates presented themselves, at sixty- 
three centres, for the Cambridge examinations of 1874. The joint 
result of these efforts has been that middle-class schools, how- 
ever backward, are fast ceasing to be the stronghold of educational 
imposture, since the quality of their work is annually checked by the 
impartial judgment of University examiners. 

In the second movement — that for the organization of academi- 
cal lectures and classes in populous centres — ^the lead was taken 
by Cambridge. But two years have elapsed since a Syndicate was 
appointed for this purpose by the University Senate, yet in February 
last this body was able to report that sixteen large towns, including 
Liverpool, Nottingham, Bradford, and Sheffield, had availed them- 
selves of the educational advantages thus offered, and had provided 
the local committees with the necessary funds to cover all expenses. 
Nineteen lecturers were already employed in giving instruction 
on a variety of subjects ; the whole number of pupils attending 
their courses was about 3,500, and the cost of education, apart 
from the hire of rooms and printing, was not found to exceed nine 
BhiUings a head. No similar organization exists at Oxford, but 
Oxford teachers, of high reputation, have lately been engaged by 
local committees to give courses of lectures in several West of 
England towns, and at least two Oxford colleges are known to 
liave voted £300 a year each to aid a local committee at Bristol 
in fomiding an academical institute capable of easy development 
into a local University College affiliated to Oxford. * It is now pro- 
posed to extend the system of "Cambridge lectures " to the metro- 
polis itself, and for so large an enterprise it will be quite ess .ntial 
to obtain the co-operation of the sister University. 

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Tlic last movement cosuDouced m the- atitumn of the eame 
year, 1873, with the appointment ofNan ''Oxford aaid Cambridge 
Schools' Examination Board«^' - Mr; Forstar's prfj^ct of a Statc^ 
inspcctioci of Endowed Sohools must doubtlees be-regarded as the 
origin of the idea; and it might hare been long before head^ 
masters of pubUc schools invited the Universities to undertake the 
duty of' testing the results of sdiool work, had they not been 
possessed with an excessive dread of State intervention. The 
Universities, however, deserve the credit of having at once 
accepted the responsibility thus cast upon them, and for having 
succeeded not merely in devising, but in working out an elaborate 
system of examination to whioh thirty-two schools had actually 
submitted themselves up to August, 1874. It remains to be seen, 
indeed, whether Oxford and Cambridge will be able to furnish 
a sufficient number of examiners capable' of thoroughly inspect* 
ing all the sohook which may apply for this privilege; but 
there can be no difficulty in finding a sufficient number of 
persons competent to examine the higher forms, and to award 
what Vk Germany would be called leaving-certificates. In 
the year' 1874, fifteen schools presented- 259 candidates for 
certificatesj out of whom 155 were successful and 104 failed. 
Tluf eandidates who obtain these cectiiioates gain an exemption, 
under oertain limitations, not merely from matriculation-examina- 
tions and " little-go" at the Univemties, but also from the pre- 
Uminary examination at the College of Surgeons, and from certain 
parts of the examination, for the Army and for Woolwich. They 
may thoi-efore be regarded as supplj'ing a missing Unk between 
socondar}'- and University* eduoation, and as containing the 
i-udixnente of a missing link between secondary and professional 
education. ... 

. InHConsidering^the services renderedby the Universities to tlie 
Nation, since they recovered their Uberty of action, it is impossible 
to pass over the abolition of Univei-sity tests. This great reform 
was notoriously brought about, not so much by the pressure of 
extoHial opinion, either popular or ParUamentary, as by the 
persistent and disinterested ragitAtion earned on by refonners, 
mostly Fellows of Colleges, within the Universities themselves. 
In the year 1862, a petition was presented from seventy-four 
resident Fellows of Colleges i at Cambridge, praying for the repeal 
of the clause applicable to. Fellowships in the Act of Uniformity. 
In tUo year 1863, a, petition was presented from 106 Heads, Pro- 
fessors, Fellows and ex-Fellows, and College Tutors at Oxford, 
praying for the removal of theological restrictions on degrees. 
In the year 1868, a petition against all reUgious tests, except for 
degrees in theolog}% was signed by eighty Heads, Professors, 
Lectui'crs, and resident Fellows at Oxford, while a similar petition 

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was ogned by 123 non-resident Fellows and ex-Fellows. In the 
same jear a petition to the same effect was signed by 227 Heads 
and present or former Office-holders and Fellows of Cambridge, 
Separate petitions, specially directed against the declaration of 
Conformity, were signed by thirty-two out of sixty Fellows of 
Trinity College, Cambridge, and by the Master, and all the Fellows, 
except one of Christ's College, Cambridge. Assm-edly these 
efiforts were ably supported by the Liberal party in Parliament, 
and by the Nonconformist body in the country ; but the motive 
power whidb ultimately proved irresistible came from within, and 
not from without, the Universities. It was Fellows of Colleges, , 
who resolutely insisted on vindicating the national character of 
tiie Universities, and not the nation at large which forced upon 
them an unwelcome obligation. 

The University Tests AboUtion Act was carried in 1871, and In 
the following Oetober Mr. Gladstone addressed a letter to the 
Vice-Chancellors of Oxford and Cambridge, asking whether the 
Government could rely on the co-operation of the Universities 
and Colleges, in the event of a Royal Commission being appointed 
to inquire into academical property and revenues. The reply 
yfdA favourable, and the Commission was issued m January,. 1872. 
Its functions were strictly limited to investigation, and to matters 
<i finance, im» power being entrusted to it either of passing 
judgment on the present application of University and College 
endowments, or of suggesting a redistribution of them— rmuch 
less of entering on general questions of University reform. . Many . 
such questions had inevitably arisen at both Universities in, the 
period of rapid growth succeeding the acts of 1854 .and 1856* 
At Oxford, the anomalies chiefly felt were the defective constitur. 
tion of Congregation, whereby the Professors and working Tutors 
were liable to be swamped by a mixed multitude of chaplains and 
other resident Masters, the want of larger resources for. Pro- 
fessorial teaching as well as for the maintenance of University 
establishments, the reservation of nearly half the Fellowships to 
penaons in or about to enter Holy Orders, and the rule of tenure , 
under wJrich the most useless Fellow of- a College niay retain, his , 
position for life by virtue of celibacy, while the most , useful must 
resign it on marriage,, even tiiough engage^^in College tuition. 
At Cambridge this last grievance was further aggravated in 
several Colleges,' by the preposterous condition that every Fellow 
must take . orders within a certain term of yeai-s, or forfeit his 
Fellowship. Some of the disabilities which pressed most heavily 
on particular Colleges had been paiiially removed . by new 
statutes, with the sanction of the Privy Council, but the Privy 
Council . became reasonably iHiwiUing to legislate piecemeal, at 
the iastance of fluotuatibotg bodies of Fellows, and a demand for a 

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supplementary Refonn Act was gaining strength at both Univer- 
versitieB, when Mr. Gladstone consented to appoint a purely- 
financial Commission, as a preliminary step to further legislation. 
How far this was a politic act, may perhaps be doubted, and it is 
certain that it would never have been taken, had it been foreseen 
that it would rest with a new Administration to propose or to 
resist a redistribution of Academical revenues. However, the 
statistical facts have now been placed before the public, in a 
Fomewhat misleading form it may be, but still with a complete- 
ness never before attained. It is these facts which it now 
remains for us to examine and to interpret. 

II. The grand total of Univeraty and College revenues, for 
Oxford and Cambridge together, is stated on page 29 of the Com- 
missioners' Report at £754,405 — a very large income, though less 
than is stated to have been realized by one nobleman in one year 
from profits on coal and iron. This grand total has sometimes 
been cited as if it constituted the fund on which Parhament 
might operate immediately, if it thought fit, with a prospect of 
having to deal with an additional income of about £120,000, 
likely to accnie at Oxford, and some £40,000 likely to accnie at 
Cambridge, by the year 1890. Let us, then, proceed to consider 
how far the sum of £754,405 represents disposable revenue, in the 
usual sense. And, first, we must eliminate £38,679, received 
under the head of "internal income" by the Universities of 
Oxford and Cambridge, and about £101,000 received under the 
head of '^internal income" by the Colleges and Halls of Oxford 
and Cambridge. " The internal income of the Universities," as 
the Report informs us, *' arises almost wholly from taxation," and, 
as the Synoptical Tables show, it is more than absorbed by 
University charges of the most legitimate character. Speaking in 
round numbers, and combining into one account the returns for 
Oxford and Cambridge, we find that £5,800 is spent on Univeraty 
officers, £9,300 on Professors, £3,600 on Examiners, above £6,000 on 
libraries, £3,500 on scientific institutions, £1,500 on museums and 
lecture rooms, and £3,600 on subscriptions, donations, and grants^ 
besides about £16,000 on the maintenance of University churches, 
servants, police, repairs, building, law charges, printing, and 
minor items, scarcely one of which the most captious auditor 
would be disposed to disallow, or even to dispute. Altogether 
the joint corporate expenditure of the Universities, out of cor- 
porate funds, amounts to nearly £50,000, exceeding their "in- 
temal income " by some £11,000, which is made up out of their 
" external income," mainly derived from landed property. " The 
internal income of the Colleges and Halls arises from rents of 
rooms or chambers occupied by members of the College or Hall ; 
from fees paid on entrance and graduation ; from dues paid by 

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all members, whether resident or non-resident; from profits of 
the establishment, cbieflj in its buttery and kitchen depart* 
ments; and from small casual payments." Now, it will at 
once occur to any one conversant with College economy that 
snch receipts as these are supposed to cover, and no more than 
cover, such current domestic expenses as the annual repairs of 
College buildings, the maintenance of the establishment, the 
salaries of College servants, chapel services, rates, taxes, and 
80 forth. A detailed inspection of the items confirms this in- 
ference, and proves that Colleges expend with one hand on the 
primaiy necessities of internal management considerably more 
than they receive with the other under the name of "internal 
income.'* It does not, therefore, appear very clear why the 
"internal income" of Colleges and Halls should have been 
imported into the account at all. In fact, a glance at the 
returns from Oxford Halls, which are mere boarding-houses 
without any endowment whatever, is sufficient to expose the 
illusory nature of such "internal income." In the £58,883 of 
"internal income" charged against Oxford Colleges and Halls 
IB included £6,846 raised by the Halls in rents, fees, and dues, 
which constitutes the whole fund out of which they have not 
only to pay their Heads, but to keep up their fabrics and staffe 
of servants for the accommodation of some 200 undergraduates. 
Thus, from the sum total of £754,405 must be subtracted nearly 
£140,000 of "internal income" received by the Universities and 
Colleges, jpA^ the subsidies contributed from external income to 
internal expenditure. It is difficult to estimate these with accu- 
racy, especially as the Synoptical Tables have not been compiled 
with perfect imiformity as between different Colleges, but they 
cannot fall short of £30,000 ; so that we have no longer to deal 
with £754,405, but with something less than £585,000. 

It is next to be observed that £88,803 of this £585,000 consists 
of tmst-Ainds. Of course, the power of Parhament is as complete 
over property held in trust as over property held for the corporate 
nse of an University or College ; but, on the other hand, the 
University or College is not equally responsible for its appropria- 
tion, which is prescribed by the trust-deed, tmder the control of 
Chancery, ahd may or may not be for the benefit of Academical 
education. For instance, the annual interest of £10,208, being 
part of the Sheppard fund of Magdalen College, Oxford, is 
BpecificaUy assigned to charities in certain Hampshire parishes, 
and the apparent income of the College is fictitiously swelled 
by £300 a year, which it only receives in the capacity of almoner. 
No doubt, the great bulk of the whole £88,803, and especially of 
the £25,845 received by the Universities as trustees, is subject to 
tresis more or less beneficial to education, and may therefore 

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be properly counted among the edacstional reflonrceB of Oxford 
and Cambridge* Still, it appears that as much as £6,500 is- 
devoted to '' benefices,'' and £13,500 to miscellaneons objects ; 
80 that, even assuming ail the rest to be in the> suture of. 
educational or ^uo^t-educational endowments, we must deduct 
£20,000 from the £585,000 previously obtained, and are left with 
a residue of £565,000. 

Let us now examine somewhat more closely this gross residue . 
of £565,000, with a view to ascertain of what elements it consists, 
and how much of it can be fairly treated as spare income. It will * 
be remembered that we have already accounted for the internal 
income of the UniversitieB, and for £11,000 of the external income, 
in our previous summary of University expenditure. As the whole 
external income of the Universities amounted in the year 1871 to 
£17,114, there remained a surplus of about £6,000, applicable to 
general University purposes, and probably appropriated since that 
year to some of the various improvements or extensions urgently 
needed in University buildings. There also remained an income 
of £25,845 from trust-funds administered by the Universities, fnimi$ 
£2,180, for which allowance has been made. This sum of £23,665 
was devoted, in accordance with the conditions of trust-deeds, to 
public institutions. University Professors and lecturers. Scholarships 
and prizes, only £465 being expended in mtes, taxes, and manage- 
ment, while a surplus of £1,790 was left over for investment. 
Turning now to Colleges, we must bear in mind that we 
, have already set off their internal income, and about £20,000 of 
their external income, against their intei'nal expenditure, but we 
have still to allow for interest on loans (mostly contracted for 
building puiposes), the management of estates, repairs and im<- 
provements on estates, and rates and taxes on estates' — all being 
preliminary outgoings, such as compose the ordinary margin 
between the gross and net income of individual landowneiB. 
These preliminary outgoings amount altogether to above £101,500. . 
Deducting £6,000, £28,665, and £101,500 from the gross residue , 
of £565,000, we obtain a net residue of £433335, belonging 
exclusively to Colleges, but partly derived from external corporate 
income, and partly from trust-funds. The ultimate question is 
whether this residue is employed as well and wisely as it might 
be for the proper ends of University education. * , 

It may be stated roughly that somewhat more than one-mnth 
of this sum (£50,959) is expended in payments to Heads; one* 
eighteenth (£24,600) in payments to College Officers and Tutors in 
aid of tuition-fees ; one-sixth (£69,951) in payments to Soholara 
and !EJxhibitioners ; between two-fifths and one-half (£205,758) in 
payments to Fellows; more than one-twentieth (£25,000) in 
investments ; and the rest in payments for miscellaneous objects, 

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most of 'which are conducive ta edticatioii, such as au^entationa 
of ProfeBflorial salaries, and the maintenance of College libraries* 
An item of £9337, representing allowances itiSKle to resident 
Fellows, may be considered either ba an additional endowment of 
Feilowships, or as an indirect subsidy to College Tutors and Officers 
—a body which embraces nearly all the resident Fellows. Another 
item of nearly £16,000, representing subscriptions and pensions^ 
might perhaps be reduced infinitesimally by a rigid economist, and 
the £14,000 spent in augmentations of benefices is open to ezcep- 
don, in cases where the grant is made to improve the patronage 
of the College, and not for the spiritual benefit of the parishioners* 
Here and there some financial readjustments may be sugg^ated, 
but it is certainly not easy to find much room for saving on the 
aggregate of miscellaneous expenditure. Unless it b^ in respect 
of payments to College Officens, payments to Scholars, payments 
to Heads, or payments to Fellows, the Colleges of Oxford and 
Cambridge must surely be acquitted not merely of extravagance, 
but of indiscretion in the appHoation of their funds. Let us deal 
with these items successively. 

We may dispose very briefly of the payments to College Officers, 
which are, after all, very moderate in amount. Under the general 
name of College Officers are included Tutors and Lecturers, Deans, 
Chaplains, Librarians and Bursars. Th« income of Tutors is, in 
theory^ wholly provided, and, in practice, mainly provided out of 
ttiiti(M>-fee& paid- by the students. These fees, however, seldom 
exceed £21 per year, and the staff of Tutors maintained by the 
better Colleges is so large in proportion to the btimbex of students, 
that it is fotmd necessary to supplement tuitioi^-fees out of* College 
iimds. The subsidies thus gmnted amount to £4,411 at Oxford, 
and to £2,642 at Cambridge, and to this extent the parents of 
students must be regarded as purchasing University education at 
less than cost price. Even with this addition, the produce of 
tuition-fees is not great enough to provide more than about £300 
a year, on the average, for each Tutor and Lecturer. A Tutor's 
salary, it is trae, is earned by six months' work in the year; he is 
usually a Fellow, and there are many advantages incident to his 
position, which make it ndore attractive and remunerative than 
would appear at first sight. Nevertheless, it would be- impossible 
to obtain the services of able men as Tutors unless they were 
allowed to eke out their incomes by holding petty College offices, 
the duties of which are perfectly compatible with tuition, and 
often naturally cozmected with it. Such is the office of dean, 
involving the superintendence of College discipline, that of College 
preacher Or chaplain, and that of librarian. The office of Bursar 
stands on a different footing, and the marvel is that men of 
fiEuffieicnt aptitude for business can be induced to undei'take it at 

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a stipend of £100, £200, or £800 a year. The Commissioners 
justly observe that the charge for management of College estates 
is "remarkably low," amoimting to less than £16,000, and 
averaging only £2 5s. lOd. per cent, on the whole external income. 
One explanation of this fact is, that it does not include the salaries 
of Bursai-s» and it is worth notice that Bursars holding Fellowships 
are content to serve their Colleges on terms which no professional 
land agent would accept. 

The £70,000 paid to Scholars is perhaps the one item of College 
expenditure which no University reformer would desire to reduce. 
It may, of course, be doubted whether too many local and personal 
restrictions on Scholarships were not retained by the Oxford 
Executive Commission, and it is cei-tain that in this respect a more 
liberal policy was adopted by the Cambridge Executive Com- 
mission. It may also be thought desirable that more Scholarships 
or exhibitions should be offered as prizes for success in the local 
examinations. But in the main no one can deny that College 
Scholarships are well bestowed, and form the most important of 
all the steps in the yet imperfect ladder of educational preferment, 
enabling promising boys of humble parentage to complete their 
education, and encouraging schools to cultivate branches of 
knowledge which are not immediately convertible into ready 
'money. We may therefore dispense with any further discussion 
of the scholarship-fund, the disposition of which may doubtless 
be profitably revised, but the aggregate amount of which needs 
increase rather than diminution, and proceed to consider the 
£50,000 consumed in payments to Heads of Colleges. This is not 
the place to compare all the different plans which have been 
proposed for utilizing the Headships. Whether an ideal Head 
shoidd be an ex-officio senior Tutor or ex-officio senior Bursar, or 
general President of the collegiate society, Uke the T)ean in a 
Cathedral chapter ; whether he should hold office for life, or for a 
term of years, or up to a certain age ; these are points which 
must be settled in any future comprehensive reform of the 
Universities, but which scarcely affect the present inquiry. 
The practical questions are whether it is expedient to aboUsh 
Headships, and whether, if they are to be presei-ved, the sum now 
allotted for their maintenance is excessive. Both these questions 
must be answered in the negative by any one who beheves in the 
value, and deprecates the subvei-sion, of the College system. No 
institution can exist without a Head; and of all institutions Colleges 
are the least fitted to conduct the experiment successfully, inas- 
much as their tody coiporate is perpetually renewing itself, and 
the Head is the only element of stability. If a senior Tutor were 
charged with all the duties of a Head in addition to his own, he 
would not only require a very large increase of salary, but would 

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be comparatively inefficient in both capacities. If not appointed 
for life, he would neither feel the same interest in his College, nor 
be regarded by its past and present members as its representative ; 
if appointed for life, he would be a Head in all but name, but with 
the disastrous obligation of continuing to lecture after he had 
ceased to be competent. But it is useless to pile up objections 
from a College point of view against a change which is only 
advocated by those who seek to destroy the integrity and inde- 
pendence of Colleges, transforming them more or less gradually 
into mere Halls of the University. The position of a Head is, in no 
reasonable sense of the word, a sinecure, and his life is by no 
means one of idleness. To say nothing of the purely moral 
obligations incumbent on bim, or of the benefit which learning 
often derives from his comparative leisure, all Heads are statutably 
bound to reside, and to exercise an active superintendence over 
evexy department of College a&irs. This superintendence may have 
become ineffective in the case of one or two who have attained a 
very advanced age, but such instances are tj^uite exceptional ; and 
the great majority of Heads, in addition to College engagements, 
take a very large share in Univeraity business. A reference to the 
Oxford University Calendar will show that all the Heads, except 
Iwo disabled by infirmity, hold University offices, very few of 
which are salaried. Six of them, besides the Vice-Chancellor, 
must needs be membera of the Hebdomadal Council, five are 
CommiBsioners under the Local Government Act, and most of 
them serve on several boards of curators or delegates, which 
engross a great part of their time. It may well be doubted 
whether the work of the University could possibly be carried on 
without their aid by a body of hard-worked Professors and Tutors, 
and it remains to be shown what advantage would be gained by 
getting rid of them. The average income of a Head is £1,400 a 
year with a house. Considering that he must give up all pro- 
fessional emoluments, and that a salutary College tradition 
requires him to maintain a certain dignified hospitality, this 
income cannot be regarded as excessive. A few thousand pounds 
might be saved on the whole £50,000 by amalgamating two or 
three smaller Colleges under one Head ; but so trumpery a result 
would be dearly purchased if it should entail a disruption of 
corporate ties and interests capable of becoming the nucleus of 
more vigorous educational life. 

We now approax^h that which has been denounced, in no 
measured language, as a ruinous waste of academical resources — 
the appropriation of some £205,000 (including a very small 
contribution from trust-property) to College Fellowships. Here, 
if anywhere, we find a large fund on which Parliament may 
draw, if it thinks proper, for purposes of University reform or 

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extenBion. We have seen how very Kttle reduction can be eifected 
elsewhere in University or College expenditure, and even if it 
were possible to realize a large sui'plus by trenchant economy, 
there would be paramount claims upon it for the better endow- 
ment of existing Professorships, and the sustentation of existing 
institutions. It is upon the endowments now applied to Fellow- 
ships that academical reformers of every class rely for the means 
of carrying out their various schemes ; and as the case is often 
argued upon a very imperfect knowledge of the essential facts, 
it may be well to state these in a succinct form. 

There are, in round numbers, 360 Fellowships at Oxford and some- 
what more at Cambridge, so that, allowing for vacancies and 
temporary suspensions, we may probably tak;e 700 as the extreme 
number of existing Fellows, and £300 a year as. the extreme 
average value of a Fellowship. The general mode of election, 
and conditions of tenure, are clearly explained in an able paper 
read before the last Social Science Congress by Mr^ Charles Stuai-t 
Parker, formerly a Fellow and senior Tutor of University College, 
Oxford; ** According to the present practice, the new Fellows are 
elected by the existing Fellows of a College, after open competi- 
tive examination^ in Oxford conducted always by the Coljege, with 
the aid of assessors, if necessary, in special subjects. In Cambridge 
the smaller Colleges elect upon the results of the Univei-sity 
examinations. At Oxford a candidate ijs elected by any other 
CpUege as freely as by his own ; at Cambridge he must be already 
a member of the College electing. With this exception as regards 
Cambridge, the Fellows are supposed tp be, and speaking broadly 
they are, the ablest and most distinguished students, selected with 
great impaitiality soon after taking their Bachelor's degree, in 
general before the age of twenty-five. Once elected, for the 
most pai-t they have no special duties, but are bound in conscience 
to the best of their ability and judgment to pl-ornqte the interests 
of their College and of their University as a place of religion, 
learning, and education. Most Fellowships are tenable for life, 
being vacated only on maniage, or on obtaining a fixed income 
from other sources of £500 or £600 a year." 

It appears, however, from a retmn furnished to a Committee of 
the House of Lords in 1870, that half of all the Fellows at 
Cambridge, and nearly half of those at Oxford were then in Holy 
Orders, or imder the obligation, of proceeding to Holy Orders, 
subject only, in three cases, to an exception in favour of those 
holding College offices. A larger propoition of. clerical than of 
lay Fellows reside, in QoUege and take part in tuition, because 
they have a more or less ren;iote prospect of settling on b. College 
living, and for the same reason the succession of clerical Fellows 
is somewhat more rapid. Mr. Parker calculates the average time 

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for which Fellowships are held at about ten years, from which it 

follows that above thirty are filled up annually at each University. 

It is admitted on all hands that Fellowships are now awarded, 
with the rarest exceptions, upon the strictest considerations of 
academical merit ; and it may be confidently asserted that no other 
pabCc appointments are less tainted — ^if, indeed, there be any so 
little tainted — ^with the suspicion of favouritism. Still, there is a 
vague impression abroad that many of them are carried oflTby 
young men of rich parentage, and that, instead of stimulating 
their possessors to further exertion, they are apt to dSter them 
from embarking on active careers, and to encourage cultured 
indolence. These are impressions which can only be dispelled 
effectually by evidence of a kind which it ia very difficult to pro- 
cure. Some light, however, may be thrown upon the matter by 
the examination of a typical sample ; and a careful analysis of 
a body of forty-nine Fellows belonging to three Colleges, differing 
from each other in size and character, leads to results which are 
not devoid of interest. It appears that no less than sixteen of the 
whole number are sons of clergymen, and two of Dissenting 
loinisteTs, eight of men engaged in trade or commercial business, 
five of solicitors, four of landed proprietors, four of yeomen and 
tenant farmers, three of employ^ in the Civil Service, two of 
medical men, one of a member of Parliament, one of a school- 
master, one of a Scotch factor, one of a military officer, and one 
of a clerk or accountant. In short, all but a trifling percentage 
are drawn from the hard-working professional class ; and it may 
be stated with some confidence that not one is in possession of or 
heir to a considerable fortune. A similar inquiry into the present 
occupation of the same forty-nine Fellows shows that seventeen 
are engaged in College tuition, five hold other College offices, 
three are University professors, two are preparing themselves for 
College tuition, two are masters of schools, two are parochial 
clergymen, four are barristera, four are engaged in literaiy work, 
one is a physician, and one a medical . student, one is in the Civil 
Service, and one is an artist ; while of the six who have no regular 
occupation, one is travelling for his health, and three at least are 
emeriUy having given their best years to the service of their 
Colleges and the University. 

These facts speak for themselves, and the inference which they 
suggest is, in the main, a true one. So far as. can be ascertained, 
My half the Fellows of Oxford Colleges are resident, and nearly 
all the resident Fellows are engaged in pubKc or private tuition. 
Even of the non-resident Fellows, very few fail to attend College 
meetings, many perform useftd work for their Colleges, and the 
vast majority are earnestly and honourably employed, being very 
often indebted to their Fellowships alone for the means of subsis- 

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tence duiing the earKer stages of their professional careers. The 
class of promising graduates converted into dilettanti loungers by 
the enei-vating influence of Fellowships has scarcely any existence, 
except among the delusions of the non-academical mind. Not 
only so, but it is capable of proof that College Fellowships, instead 
of enervating those who obtain them, have produced a larger 
proportion of men eminent in Church and State than most of their 
defenders would venture to claim for them. In order to become 
satisfied of this, we have only to inspect the catalogue of Fellows 
elected duiing the present century at Oriel College, where open 
competition was first estabKshed at Oxford, and at Trinity 
College, which is not only the largest College at Cambridge, but 
virtually the only one which conducts an effective Fellowship 
examination. The list of Oriel Fellows, dating from 1800 down- 
wards, exhibits but ninety-two names ; yet a full tliird of these 
are the names of men who have made Uiemselves known in the 
world, and among them are the names of Davison, Whately, 
Keble, Hampden, Thomas Arnold, Hartley Coleridge, J. H. New- 
man, Pusey, Bishop Fraser, and Matthew Arnold, besides others 
which may yet become famous. The Hst of Trinity Fellows for 
the same period, though four times as long, contains a smaller 
proportion of eminent names, Uke those of Sedgwick, Whewell, 
Thirlwall, Macaulay, and Aiiy, but is still richer in the names of 
men who have vindicated Fellowships against the reproach of 
enfeebling moral or intellectual vigour by rising to high stations 
in various practical callings. It would be easy to multiply similar 
arguments, as, for instance, by citing the present bench of 
English archbishops and bishops, twenty-two of whom were edu- 
cated at Oxford or Cambridge, and fifteen of whom were Fellows 
of Colleges. If it were possible to lay before the pubUc a list of 
Oxford and Cambridge Fellows who have attained leading posi- 
tions in the great educational profession, in the Law, in the 
various Government offices, and even in the commercial world, 
little more would be heard of the notion that Fellowships quench 
ambition, or bar the road to success; and we might, perhaps, 
have to combat the counter-objection that Fellows of Colle'ges 
start with an imfair advantage in the race of life. 

But no plea for the utiUty of collegiate endowments would be 
complete without a reference to one example, at once the most 
illustrious in the history of science, and the most representative in 
the history of the Fellowship system. If ever there was a genuine 
product of that system, it was Sir Isaac Newton. His biogra- 
pher tells us that on matriculating at Cambridge in his nine- 
teenth year, as a subsizar of Trinity, he manifested no presage of 
future greatness, and his transcendent superiority to his Univer- 
sity contemporaries was probably unknown even to himself. 

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^^ No friendly counsel had regoiated his youthful studies, and no work of 
a scientific character had guided him in his course. In yielding to the 
impulse of his mechanical genius his mind obeyed the laws of its own 
natural expansion, and following in the line of least resistance, it was thus 
drawn aside from the precipitous paths which it was fitted to climb, and 
the onbarred strongholds which it was destined to explore. WheQ Newton, 
therefore, entered Trinity College, he brought with him a more slender 
portion of science than at his age falls to the lot of ordinary scholars. . . . 
Cambridge was conseouently the real birthplace of Newton's genius — ^her 
iDi^ta^ons sustained his mightiest efforts, and within her precincts were 
all his discoveries made and perfected." 

He was admitted to a Fellowship at the age of nearly twenty- 
five, an industrious but obscure mathematician, who must other- 
wise have sought a livelihood in some profession or trade. He 
resigned it at the age of fifty-nine, having ennobled his College, his 
University, and his country, by those immortal discoveries which, 
viewed across the interval of two centuries, still rank foremost and 
highest among the achievements of human intellect. To assume 
that Newton would have become the first of natural philosophers 
without the aid of a Trinity Fellowship, is as chimerical as to 
assume that Thomas Aquinas would have become the first of 
mediaeval theologians without having entered a Dominican con- 
vent, or Raffaelle the first of modem painters without having 
resided at Florence and Rome. Yet the contributions of Newton 
alone to science assuredly outweigh in mere pecuniary value all 
that has been spent on Trinity Fellowships from his day to our 

It is true that Newton was a resident Fellow, but it is also true 
that his Fellowship was a pure sinecure, and subject to no con- 
ditions of residence ; and this was the footing upon which the 
Oxford Commissioners of 1830 deliberately recommended that all 
Fellowships should be placed. " We are by no means disposed," 
they say, ** to impair the value of Fellowships as rewards by 

annexing to them the statutable condition of residence 

When the University shall have been put in a condition to oflTer 
sufiScient inducements to enable it to retain the best men in its 
service, it may with safety leave them to follow their inclinations. 
Fellows thus elected may safely be allowed to pursue the career 
which they deem best for themselves. They will serve the 
University in their several professions more effectually than they 
coidd serve it by residence within its walls." If this judgment is 
to be reversed, the reversal should at least be founded on a 
BeriouB consideration of its probable effect on English society. In 
Gennany, we are told. Fellowships are not found necessary ; but in 
Germany the want of Fellowships is partly supplied by a far more 
complete organization of professorial teaching and a far more 
effective recognition of literary merit by the State. In the United 
States that want is keenly felt, and the "waste of resources"' 

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deplored by the mo8t cultivated Amerioans is the waste caused 
by the attraction of money-making on the minds of the ablest 
students, and their premature withdrawal from the University. 
This is precisely the evil to which the English Fellowship system 
provides a counterpoise, and it is not too much to say that Oxford 
and Cambridge endowments operate as incentives to advanced 
study at the Scotch and London Universities. If a return could 
be procured of the Scotchmen holding Fellowships at Oxford, and 
of the graduates of the London University holding Fellowships 
at Cambridge, it would be seen how much these ill-endowed 
Universities owe to their wealthier sisters. Even if the Fellowship 
system were less fruitful in visible results than it can be shown to 
be — even if the modest competence which it oflfers to young men 
of literary and scientific capacity were more frequently thrown 
away— even if it were not one of the few avenues by which 
humble merit can attain promotion — ^its unseen influence in 
raising the standard of culture throughout all the learned pro- 
fessions, in Parliament, in official life, and, above all, in the Press, 
would still remain to be estimated. Perfiaps, upon taking stock 
of these and many other collateral benefits which it derives from 
the Fellowship system, the Nation may arrive at the conclusion that^ 
after all, no other £205,000 of pubUc money is more profitably 
spent, and that, regarded simply as an experiment, that system 
does not compare unfavourably with far more costly experiments 
in gunneiy and naval architecture. 

in. But it does not by any means follow that no improvements 
are possible in the collegiate institutions of Oxford and Cambridge, 
or that what is already bearing good fruit may not, by judicioiia 
pruning, be enabled to bring forth more fruit. On the contrar5% 
University reformers, for the most part, agree in holding that all 
Fellowships, unless attached to College offices or otherwise specially 
reserved, should be terminable within a fixed period, instead of 
being tenable for life or during celibacy. Such a change of tenure, 
especially if coupled with provisions connecting a certain propor- 
tion of Fellowships with the professions of Law and Medicine, would 
appear to secure the maximum of advantage, and the minimum 
of disadvantage, incident to a system of academical pensions, 
awarded by competitive examination. It is one of the changei^ 
recommended in an important memorial presented to Mr. Gladstone 
in 1873 by 142 Heads, Professors, Fellows, Tutors, Lecturers, and 
Office-holders of the University of Cambridge. It is embodied in 
a series of resolutions passed by the Warden and Fellows tf New 
College in the same year, it has been actually adopted in the new- 
statutes of BalUol College now in force, and it forms part of almost 
every scheme hitherto proposed for the reconstitution of Colleges, 
Suf^posing this change to be carried out, it may be reckoned 

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broadly that it would liberate about three-tenths of the income 
now annually received by non-resident Fellows, and perhaps one- 
tenth of that received by resident Fellows — ^that is, about £40,000 
a year. We may safely add a saving of £10,000 a year or more 
on such items as augmentations of benefices, and take credit for 
a present surplus of at least £50,000 a year, to be hereafter in- 
creased as leases fall in. What, then, are the claims upon this 
OTiphis, and in what order should they be satisfied ? 

Most certainly the first and strongest claim is that for the 
development of the highest academical education within the 
UniveiBities themselves. This claim must equally take precedence 
of that for the encouragement of original research, and of that for 
the extension of University lectures to populous towns. It is by 
concentrating, aiyl not by disperaing, the vital energies of the 
Universities, by exalting their educational function rather than by 
reviving the monastic idea of self-culture, that we shall best 
utilize them for the good of the whole Nation. Accordingly, the 
Professoriate ought to be considerably but gradually increased, 
not according to an abstract standard of perfection, nor out of 
all proportion to the practical demand for professorial teaching, 
but somewhat in advance of that demand, and with due regard to 
a proper subdivision of great subjects. In reply to inquiries from 
the Vice-Chancellor, the various Boards of Studies at Oxford made 
requisitions amounting in the aggregate to £30,000 or £40,000 a 
year. Most reformera will, however, be content to dispense for 
the present with separate Professors of Egyptian and Chinese ; a 
little consolidation and modification of GoUege lectureships would 
provide for many of the readerships contemplated, and many 
Professors might be partially endowed by the simple process of 
annexing College Fellowships to their offices. This union of the 
collegiate with the professorial system has already been found to 
work admirably, enlisting the interest of the College in University 
teaching, and giving the Professor the inestimable advantage of 
an academical home. On the whole, an assignment of £15,000 at 
each University would be a Uberal contribution from College funds 
towards the further endowment of Professorships, considering that 
most of the detailed tuition is and will continue to be supplied by 
College lectures. In thus increasing the endowment of Professor- 
ships, we shall already have provided in the best possible manner 
for the advancement of " mature study " and " original research." 
The most original and productive of German Professors are 
notoriously men who delight in communicating their knowledge 
to claases of pupils, and it would be difficult to conceive a life 
more &vourable to independent study than one in which the year 
w equally divided between tenn-time and vacations, and the 
nnmber of lectures required in term-time is very moderate. If 

G 2 

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there be a residue of students capable of advancing science and 
learning, but not installed in Professorships, the case may be met 
by allowing Colleges to elect them as Fellows without examination, 
and by a properly regulated system of grants for special under- 
takings, either literary or scientific. It would be necessary to create 
a common fund applicable to such objects, as well as to the main- 
tenance of libraries, museums, laboratories, and other University 
establishmentB, and we can hardly allot less than £10,000 to each 
University for such puiposes. This £20,000, with the £30,000 to 
be employed in augmenting the Professoriate, would absorb the 
whole present surplus of £50,000, and nothing would be left for 
University teaching in populous towns. 

It does not, however, follow that Oxford and Cambridge must 
turn a deaf ear to appHcations for aid from the promoters of 
provincial University Colleges, or insist too pedantically on the 
sound principle that it is their own business to furnish men, 
and that of the applicants to furnish money. Mr. Goldwin 
Smith truly says that "paying for the education of great 
cities, which are well able to pay for themselves, and, if 
they were in America, would have done it twice over, is not a 
proper use of academical funds, at least till all academical 
purposes have been exhausted ;" nor must it be forgotten that 
Oxford and Cambridge aheady maintain a reservoir of teachers 
who, by virtue of holding Fellowships, are able and willing to 
lecture in great cities on terms far below the market value of 
their services. Nevertheless, "there is that scattereth and yet 
increaseth," and it is quite possible to suggest a mode whereby 
College endowments maybe indirectly made available for University 
teaching in populous towns without being detached from the cor- 
porations to which they belong. Ten years ago an influential 
committee was appointed at Oxford " to frame the details of a 
scheme for the extension of the University by the affiliation of other 
places of Uberal education." The conunittee reported in favour of 
authorizing the University to affiliate Colleges situated in any part 
of England or Wales, and of allowing residence in affiliated Colleges 
to count as residence in the University for a period of two years 
from matriculation, under conditions which they proceeded to 
define. This plan, with one additional feature, appears exactly 
adapted to meet the demands of large provincial conununities, so 
ably stated, on behalf of Bristol, in a pamphlet by the Rev. J. 
Percival, head master of Clifton College, All that is needed to 
supplement it is a provision that actual service in teaching at one 
of the affiUated Colleges shall coimt as service in a College office 
at the University itself, in order that a Fellow thus engaged may 
be able to retain his Fellowship beyond the statutable period. 
This arrangement would be simpler than that proposed by Mr. 

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Percival, and would aflford a guarantee against the lisk of short- 
lived connections between individual Colleges and local iilstitutions 
too immature to be accredited by the University. It would, more- 
over, involve no real encroachment on College funds, inasmuch as 
the number of College Fellowship^ would remain intact, only the 
rate of succession being shghtly retarded, and one or two Fellows 
in each College being diverted from professional avocations to 
more congenial and more useful lalpours in provincial capitals. The 
advantage of establishing relations of this kind between the older 
Universities and the great commercial and manufacturing centres, 
would not only be reciprocal, as Mr. Parker observes, but in the 
highest sense national. It is certain, on the one hand, that more 
and more power is passing, for good or evil, into the hands of 
the mercantile plutocracy. It is certain, on the other hand, that 
the mercantile plutocracy is making little, if any, progress in the 
higher culture, which can alone qualify it for political ascendancy, 
and is even declining in this respect, relatively, to other classes of 
society. Since experience has shown that, notwithstanding the 
abolition of tests and the expansion of the University curriculum, 
yoimg men destined for business seldom avail themselves of 
University education at Oxford or Cambridge, the problem is to 
place University education within their reach, without lowering 
its essential character. This nxay be done by means of affiUated 
Colleges, which shall be virtually local branches of the central 
University, giving instruction of the best kind to all who attend 
their lectures, and attracting some to complete their studies at the 
University itself. 

The main results of our inquiry may be summed up in a very 
few sentences. Though it is possible to alter the present appli- 
cation of Academical Endowments for the better, it would be far 
easier to alter it for the worse ; and a recognition of the great 
services actually rendered by the Universities to the Nation, is the 
only sound basis for a new measure of University reform. The 
leading object of such a measure should be to strengthen the 
Universities, as fountains of educational and intellectual life, by 
increasing the professorial staff; by extending the University 
libraries, museums, galleries, and lecture rooms ; by fostering un- 
remunerative study, as well as scientific training for professions, 
within College walls; by treatingboth Scholarships andFellowships 
as designed to raise up an aristocracy of education ; by relieving 
Colleges of all ecclesiastical trammels ; and by making them living 
parts of the Universities, without destroying their coiporate indi- 
viduality. The secondary object, in order of importance but not 
of time, should be to bring the Universities into organic connection 
^th local "facidties," or rather with collegiate institutions, in g^eat 
cities, by means of affiliation or otherwise. To effect these objects 

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the aid of Parliament will be necessary, inasmuch as eren if it 
were legally possible for the Universities and Colleges to legislate 
on so large a scale, with the approval of the Crown, it wonld be 
morally impossible for so many independent societies to legislate 
in perfect unison with each other. The recent failure of an attempt 
to establish a system of self-taxation among Oxford Colleges was 
not required to prove how vain it is to expect that a complete and 
harmonious scheme for their own reorganization will be initiated 
by the Universities themselves. The official responsibility of 
framing the scheme must be undertaken by a body representing 
either the Crown or the Legislature, but its details will have to 
be wrought out, as its principles have already been thought out, 
by Oxford and Cambridge men of a like spirit with those who 
for twenty-five years have so earnestly and so unselfishly laboured 
to nationalize both the endowments and the culture of the old 
English Univei-sities, 

George C. Brodrick. 

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JJohamnud and Mokamnudaniim : Ltetum 
delivered eU the Royal IndUution qf QreeU 
Britain in Februanf and March, 1874 Bar 
R BoAWORTB Smith, H.A^ AtsistaBt Master 
in Harrow School, late Fellow of Trinity Col- 
lege, Oxford. London : Smith, Elder ft Go. 

THE first English translation of the Eur&n was made from the 
French of Andr^ du Byer by one Alexander Boss, and published 
in London in 1649. It is accompanied by an Introduction, styled "A 
needful Caveat or Admonition," which runs thus : " Good reader, the 
great Arabian impostor, now at last, after a thousand years, is, by the 
way of France, arrived in England, and his Alcoran, or Gallimaufry 
of Errors^ (a Brat as deformed as the Parent, and as full of Heresies 
as his scald head was of scurf), hath learned to speak English." The 
education of two centuries has chastened the style of our national 
literature and added much to our knowledge of Eastern subjects 
generally ; nevertheless, there is good ground for presuming that 
the foregoing description of the Kuran and of its reputed author is. 
in accordance, substantially, with the views still held by the greats 
majority of Englishmen. Numerous writers subsequent to Boss, 
albeit in modified language, have amplified his detractions; few^ 
with the exception of crotchety theorists and recreant eulogists^ 
whose adulations of Muhammad are as exaggerated as the aspersions 
they assail, have attempted or dared to confront them. Mr. Boswortk 
Smith is an apologist of a different stamp. He writes as a Christian, 
and a genuine catholic spirit pervades his lectures, the main object 
of which he boldly avows is, " if possible, to render some measure 
of that justice to Mohammed and to lus religion which lias been 

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all too loDg, and is still all too generally, denied to them.'* He 
brings to the chivalrous task considerable research among the best 
European orientalists, and has executed it throughout with a union 
of candour and reverence befitting a subject of such momentous im- 
portance as the religious creed of a sixth of the human race. Naught 
has been set down by him in malice ; and if, as many perchance may 
be disposed to judge, he has overdrawn the merits and glossed over 
the defects of his clients, the brief which he holds, and the laudable 
motives which induced him to take it up, will be held by all generous 
minds to excuse the undue partiality of the advocate. 

The first lecture treats of Comparative Religion, in which at the 
outset the author lays down the propositions that all the gieat 
historical religions of the world — he instances Judaism, Buddh- 
ism, and Christianity — "have been in the first instance moral 
rather than theological; have been called into existence to meet 
social and national needs ; have raised man gradually towards God, 
rather than brought down Ood at once to man ; " and, further, that 
'' a new religion is, in order of time, the outcome and not the cause 
'of a general movement towards a higher life, whether moral or 
vnational." These debatable theses are very briefly discussed, and 
it is just as well that it should be so, for their bearing on the theme 
\vl hand is not made so apparent to others as it doubtless was to the 
mind of the lecturer. He is more to the point when he vindicates 
the interest which ought to be felt in Islam, notwithstanding the 
charge brought against it of its want of originality ; and then goes on 
'to show that what it loses on that score it gains in the greater 
fulness of our knowledge of its origin. Mr. Smith candidly^ admits 
-that " a vague and hearsay acquaintance with the Old Testament 
the Talmud, and the New Testament, and the undefined religious 
•<;ravings of a few of his predecessors, or contemporaries, influenced 
Mohammed much, and traces of them at second hand may be found 
in every o1;her page of the Koran ;".... " But what then ? " he 
asks: "Is a religion less true because it recognises itself in other 
garbs, because it incorporates in itself all that is best in the system 
which it expands or supplants % " Not necessarily ; and it may further 
be conceded that " the founder of a religion which is to last must read 
the spiritual needs of a nation correctly," and that doing so "he need 
not care about any originality beyond that which.such insight implies ; 
he will rather do well to avoid it." But is this insight all that Mr. Smith 
claims for Muhammad % The reader is at a loss to answer the query, 
which nevertheless is one of vital importance iti connection with this, 
disquisition. He describes the Kiu'an as " a book absolutely unique 
in its origin, in its preservation, and in the chaos of its contents .... 
There, if in any book, we have a mirror of one of the master-spirits of 
the world ; often inartistic, incoherent, self-contradictory, dull, but 
impregnated with a few grand ideas which stand out from the whole; 

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« miod seething with the inspiration pent up within it, ' intoxicated 
with God/ but full of human weaknesses." And in another place he 
ask^ with implied reference to Muhammad and Islam : "Will any 
one aay that there is no real revelation of Qod in the noble lives of 
Confiicius and Buddha^ and no fragments of Divine tnith in the 
pare morality of the systems which they founded ? " It depends on 
the meaning which the author attaches to the words " inspiration " 
and "revelation" how far the title of the "Apostle of God" is, in 
his estimation, applicable to Muhammad, and to what extent the 
Euran commands belief Apart from and beside the scientific aspect 
of the question, Muslims and Christians generally hold strong opinions 
on the subject of inspiration. According to the former, the Kuran 
was "composed by God," " sent down from the Lord of all creatures," 
"a book of infinite value," a copy from " the original, written in the 
preserved book," or the volume of decrees kept in the seventh heaven, 
and as such they claim for it a verbal, literal, and mechanical inter- 
pretation. Christians, on the other hand, whilst ready, for the most 
part, to admit a human element pervading their sacred books, never- 
theless regard them as containing a directory, superuaturally revealed, 
for human faith and practice, as a code of moral laws with divine 
sanctions of tremendous import attached to their observance and in- 
fraction. In which category does Mr. Smith place the Euran ? He 
certainly leads his readers to infer that he is far from taking the 
Muslim view, and he explicitly avows that the Christian Scriptures 
" stand as a whole on a far higher level than any other sacred books, 
and that the ideal life of Christianity, while it is capable of including 
the highest ideals of other creeds, cannot itself be attained by any 
one of them." His theory, indeed, as regards the Euran, seems to 
be, that what of truth it contains is " inspired," independently of 
originality, and of what is commonly understood by "revelation ; " but 
it would have been more satisfactory had he treated this part of his 
subject with greater precision. 

But however much or little inspired, it isnndeniable that probably one 
hundred and fifty millions of the world's inhabitants regard the Eur&n 
as " an explication of everything necessary both as to faith and practice, 
and a direction, and mercy, and good tidings unto the Muslims," to 
doubt one jot or tittle of which is to incur the guilt and punishment 
of apostacy. Mr. Smith's review of the early conquests of Islam and 
its rapid extension, mainly by the sword, during its infancy, and its 
subsequent propagation by peaceful means, is as accurate as it is 
concise. Equally true it is that, at the outset, Islam effected a vast 
moral and social reformation among the Arabs and other pagan 
nations, leading them to abjure idolatry with many of its attendant 
vices, and that its later progress among the negro luces of Africa 
has^ on the whole, been followed by similar beneficial results: — 
** Squalid filth is replaced by a scrupulous cleanliness ; hospitality 

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becomes a religious duty ; drunkenness, instead of the rule, becomes 
a comparatively rare exception. .... It is idleness henceforw'ard 
that degrades, and industry elevates, instead of the reverse. . . .". 
The Mosque gives an idea of architecture at all events higher than 
any the negro has yet had. A thirst for literature is created, sind 
that for works of science and philosophy as well as for commentaries 
of the Koran.'* 

It is undoubtedly melancholy to contrast this later progress of 
Islam, not only in Africa but in India and Cliina also, with the com- 
paratively small success achieved by devoted missionaries of the 
Cross in those countries. How is this to be accounted for ? The 
lecturer says truly enough that the various and often conflicting ex- 
planations hitherto given by Christian apologists are far from 
satisfactory. The "lax morality of the Koi-an," which is one of the 
staple solutions adduced, is inapplicable in cases where the converts 
are from creeds allowedly much inferior in purity to that of Islam. 
Neither is it probable that the sensual Paradise promised to believers, 
with its delectable gardens, perennial fountains, beauteous damsels, 
and eternal repose on green cushions and splendid carpets, has much 
influence in such conversions. The picture of an immortality such 
as this, described to them in the glowing poetry of their own tongue, 
may have exerted a powerful influence on the Arabs of the desert ; 
but as there is no good ground for believing that this sensual reward 
is prominently held out as an inducement to foreign proselytes — to 
whom for the most paii moreover the language of the Kuran is a 
dead letter — we cannot regard Muhammad's Paradise as affording a 
reasonable solution of the modern successes of Islam. 

Mr. Smith, whilst admitting the diflSculty here presented, evidently 
hesitates to meet it. It is not within a reviewer's province to 
supplement his treatise ; nevertheless, the importance of the subject 
prompts me to do so. In the first place, then, the Muslim formula, 
" There is no god but God, and Muhammad is the Apostle of God," 
has this advantage over the Christian, especially with barbarous or 
half-civilized races, that it is far more simple, is easier to be leai-nt, 
and conveys in one utterance all that is necessary to be believed 
in order to salvation. The New Testament is not wanting in similar 
brief symbols, c. ^r., " This is life eternal that they might know Thee, 
the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom Thou hast sent ; " or Acts 
xviL 31. The exigencies of Christianity, which in Christendom have 
led to metaphysical amplifications of these summary professions of 
faith, have placed a serious diflSculty in the way of missionaries to 
non-Christian peoples, who are incapable at the outset of apprehend- 
ing complex truths, and find it difficult even to retain them in memory, 
to say nothing of other rigorous but salutary conditions attached to 
induction into the Church. A still more potent reason is the fact 
that Christianity inculcates a far higher morality than the Kuran, 

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aod makes heaven the final reward, not of the bare professors of its 
tenets, but of the truly penitent and those who love as well as fear 
God. Qranted that in one sense— not *' in any sense of the word/' 
as Mr. Smith avers — " Mohammed's is not an easy or sensual religion ; *' 
nevertheless, the best that can be said of it is, that it inculcates external 
lectitude only, with the adjuncts of mechanical devotions, the outward 
performance of which is all that is insisted on. How easy these duties 
are compared with the requirements of Christianity, and hen^e> as I 
▼enture to surest, how much more readily accepted by tho6e*^to 
whom both are newly presented, I leave to be inferred from this 
striking contrast by Mr. Smith himself :-«- 

"The religion of Christ contains whole fields of morality and 
whole realms of thought which are all but outside the religion of 
Mohammed. It opens humility, purity of heart, forgiveness of 
injuries, sacrifice of self to man's moral nature ; it gives scope for 
toleration, development, boundless progress to his mind ; its motive 
power is stronger, even as love is higher than obedience. Its realised 
ideals in the various paths of human greatness have been more 
commanding, more many-sided, more holy, as Averroes is below 
Newton, Haroun below Alfred, and Ali below St. Paul Finally, the 
ideal life of all is far more elevating) far noore majestic, far more 
inspiring, even as the life of the founder of Mohammedanism is 
below the life of the founder of Christianity. ..." ** Nor are the 
methods of drawing near to God the same in both rehgions. The 
Mussulman gains a knowledge of God — he can hardly be said to 
approach Him by listening to the lofty message of God's Prophei. The 
Christian believes that he approaches God by a process which, how- 
ever difficult it may be to define, yet has had a real meaning to 
Christ's servants, and has embodied itself in countless types of Chris- 
tian character — that mysterious something which St. Paul calls a 
* anion with Christ.' *Ye are dead, and your life is hid with Christ 

In the second Lecture Mr. Smith, after a concise notice of the 
different religions which existed in Arabia, and adverting to the 
"social and religious upheaving" among the Arabs at that period, 
proceeds to describe the uneventful early career of Muhamm$xi, his 
personal piety, and first entrance upon the office of an apostle : — 

** He was melancholy in temperament, to begin with ; he was also 
sabjeot to epileptic fits, upon which Sprenger has laid great stress and 
described most minutely, and which under the name of the ' sacred 
disease' among the Greeks, or 'possession by the devil* among the 
Jews, has in most countries been looked upon as something specially 
mysterious or supernatural. It is possible that his interviews with 
Nestorian monks, with Zeid, or with his wife's cousin Waraka, may 
hace turned his mimd in the predee direction they took. Dejection 
altemated with excitement — ^these gave place to ecstacy or dreams, 

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and in a dream, or trance, or fit, he saw an angel in human form, 
but flooded with celestial light and displaying a silver roU. ' Bead/ 
said the angeL ' I cannot read/ said Mohammed. The injunction 
and the answer were twice repeated ' Bead/ at last said the angel, 
* in the name of the Lord, who created man out of a clot of blood ; 
read, in the name of the Most High, who taught man the use of the 
pen, who sheds on his soul the ray of knowledge, and teaches him 
what before he knew not/ Upon ^is Mohammed felt the heavenly 
inspiration, wnd read the decrees of Ood, which he afterwards pro- 
mulgated in the Koran. Then came the announcement, ' O, Moham- 
med, of a ti-uth thou art the Prophet of Qod, and I am his angel 
Gabriel' " 

Attention is caUed to the two sentences in the foregoing quotation 
which are not underlined in the original. Taking into consideration 
what is admitted of Muhammad's hysterical temperament, they do 
not militate against his sincerity at this juncture ; nevertheless, the 
first is inconsistent with the idea of immediate inspiration, and the 
second, if true — which it would be impious to suppose, — makes the 
" decrees of Qod " directly responsible for the many anachronisms, 
contradictions, and incongruities contained in the Kur&n. " Fairly 
considered," however, says Mr. Smith, " there is no single trait in his 
[Muhammad's] character up to the time of the H^ira which calumny 
itself could couple with imposition." Admitted ; bat notwithstanding 
the author's elaborate explanations, and solely on his own showing, 
few will be disposed to believe that there was " no gradual sapping of 
moral principle, and no deadening of conscience," in Muhammad's 
subsequent conduct, when, as he says : — 

" The revelations of the Koran are more and more suited to the 
particular circumstances' and caprices of the moment. They are 
often in the nature of political bulletins or of personal apologies, 
rather than of messages direct from God. Now appears for the first 
time the convenient but dangerous doctrine of abrogation, by which 
a subsequent revelation might supersede a previous one." Again : 
''The limitations to the unbounded license of Oriental polygamy, 
which he himself had imposed, he relaxes on his own behalf .... 
The public opinion even of the harem was scandalised by his mar- 
riage with Mary, an Egyptian, a Christian, and a slave. His marriage 
with Zainab, the wife of Zeid his freedman and adopted son, divorced 
as she was by Zeid for the express purpose that Mohammed might 
marry her, was still worse. It was felt an outrage even upon the 
lax morality of an Oriental nation, till all reclamations were bushed 
into silence by a sura of the Koran which rebuked Mohammed, not 
for laxity, but for his undue abstinence I " Further, " the doctrine 
of toleration gradually becomes one of extermination ; persecuted no 
longer he becomes a persecutor himself. He is once or twice untrue 
to the kind and forgiving disposition of his best nature ; and is oaoe 

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or twice imrelenting in the punishmeiit of bis personal enemies, 
especially of the Jews. ... He is even guilty more than onoe of con* 
niving at the assassination of inveterate opponents ; and the mas- 
sacre of the Bani Koreitza, . . . judged by any but an Oriental standard 
of mora&ty, was, in all its accessories, an act of cold-blooded and 
lohuman atrocity." 

This is a tolerably long bill of indictment, not so much against one 
who uniformly confessed that he was full of human weaknesses, but 
against the man who maintained to the end " that the words he spoke 
were the very words of Ood." If such was his sincere conviction he 
was unquestionably self-deceived ; if it was not — which I neither 
aflSrm nor deny — ^he was an impostor. 

" Mohammedanism " is the subject of the third Lecture ; not what 
that creed is at the present day, but as it is revealed in the Kur&n — 
a distinction of the utmost consequence, on which I shall have a few 
words to say anon. Its essence is not merely " the sublime belief in 
the unity of God," but the re-assertion of what had been the life of 
the old Hebrew nation — " that Qod not only lives, but that He is a 
i^hteous and merciful ruler ; and that to His will it is the duty and 
the privilege of all living men to bow." Hence it is styled by 
Muhammad himself " Isl&m," or the resignation of self [to Qod], 
and believers are " Muslimun" {Anglicef Muslims), or those who so 
sarrender themselves [to Qod]. The lecturer, however, proceeds to 
remark that this assertion of the unity of Qod was " no mere pla- 
giarism from an older faith." The Jews of that period, notwith- 
standing their abjuration of idolatry, still clung to their proud 
religious privileges. To them the Most High was ''the Qod of 
the Jews only ;" while *' such Christians as Mohammed had ever 
met had forgotten at once the faith of the Jews, and that higher 
revelation of Qod given to them by Christ, which the Jews re- 
jected. Homoosians and Homoiousians, Monothelites and Mono- 
j^ysites, Jacobites and Eutychians, making hard doctrines of 
things wherein the sacred writera themselves had made no dogma» 
disputing fiercely whether what was mathematically false could 
be metaphysically true, and nicely discriminating the shades of 
truth and falsehood in the view suggested to bridge over the 
abysmal gulf between them ; turning figures into facts, rhetoric 
into logic, and poetry into prose, had forgotten the unity of 
God, while they were disputing about it most loudly with their 

It requires no great knowledge of ecclesiastical history to supple* 
ment Mr. Smith's list of the controversies touching the Divinity and 
Incarnation of Christ, and the doctrine of the Trinity, which dis- 
tracted the Christian Church prior to and at the commencement of 
the seventh century. The candid inquirer, indeed, who recalls the 
fierce disputations which gave rise to the title of '' Thcotokos " wiH 

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cease to wonder that the ALmighty is represented in the Karfto 9^ 
inquiring of Jesus the son of Mary, '' Hast, thou said unto meii» Take 
me and my mother for two Gods, beside Qod % " or that the same 
book classes Chiistians with " Folytheists/! when he remembers that 
the celebrated John Philoponus, who died in 610, taught that Father, 
Son, and Holy Ghost were three distinct Gods. Pictures and images 
too had been introduced into Christian worship, and their adoration 
firmly established before the end of the sixth century. One may 
hesitate to say, in view of the then distractions and corruptions of 
the Church, which have been barely glanced at, how far contempori»y 
Christianity was answerable for the rise and early progress of Isl&m, 
That they gave point to some of Muhammad's denunciations, and, 
considering his ignorance of the New Testament scriptures, go fiar to 
justify his charges against the form of Christianity of which alone 
he had any knowledge, no ingenuous critic will deny. Is it not. 
probable, moreover, that the continual prevalence of divisions and 
conruptions in the Church constitutes a serious drawback to the 
spread of the Gospel amongst Muslims ? 

Mr. Smith admits that there is' no more originality in the other 
articles of the faith of Isld.m — the written revelation of God's will, 
the responsibility of man, the existence of angels and Jinn, the 
future life, the resurrection, and the final judgment — than he had 
claimed for the doctrine of the unity of God, as proclaimed by 
Muhammad ; neither were the four practical duties thereby enjoined 
— prayer, almsgiving, fasting, pilgrimage — more original in their oon- 
oeption. (By the way, I confess myself at a loss to understand the 
lecturer's remark about the Pilgrimage, that " in theory and in reality 
it is alien alike to Mohammedanism and Christianity," considering 
that the Kur&n makes the Hajj an imperative obligation on aU 
Muslima) The germ or the development of all these " revelations " 
and enactments pre-existed in the systems, either of Jews, Zoroas- 
trians, or Christians; but the faith which influenced Muhaqomad 
most was Judaism : — '' the Koran teems with ideas, allusions, and 
even phraseology, drawn not so much from the written»n the 
oral Jewish law, from the traditions that grew round it, and the 
commentaries on it," namely, firom the Talmud. As to the: ]^urAn 
itself, which in his first Lecture he had described as " often iiQ^rtistiQ^ 
incoherent, self-contradictory, dull, but impregnated with a few grand 
ideas which stand out from the whole," he now aptly says t))at "it 
defies analysis," and havinc^ himself read it repeatedly throughout^ — 
in a foreign translation — both in the orthodoi^ and chronological order, 
he irankly admits that even " the importance of the suloject it handles, 
the unique interest attaching to the speaker, and the unaffected 
reverence with which every utterance is still regarded by so laige a 
portion of the world, are insufiBicient to redeem it from this general 
reproach," namely, that of dulness. Of its literary merits — in the 

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original, of conrse, — diametriodly opposite opiBtons have been held 
by the literati of the East as w^ as the West My own opinion, if 
it is worth anything, is — ^that the diction of the Kur&n is faultless ; 
tliat it contains passages of exquisite sublimity, often marred by 
unconsonant refrains apparently introduced mei*ely for the sake of 
rhythm ; that sound rather than substance was the chief aim of the 
author ; and that its literary excellencies have been equalled, if not 
sarpassed, by more than one Arabian poet Although, in one place, 
Mr. Smith says that, '' on its authenticity no one has been able to 
cast a serious doubt/' nevertheless, taking into consideration the 
following accurate account of its composition, outside critics may 
fairly question whether the existing version contains the ipaisavma 
verba of the author : — 

" Dictated from time to time by Mohammed to his disciples, it was 
by them partially treasured in their memories, partly written down 
on shoulder bones of mutton or oyster-shells, on bits of wood or tablets 
of stone, which, being thrown pell-mell into boxes, and jumUed up 
t(^ther, like the leaves of the Cumean Sybil after a gust of wind, 
were not put into any shape at all till after the Prophet's death by 
order of Abu Bakr. The work of the editor consisted simply in 
arranging the Suras in the order of their respective lengths, the 
longest, first, the shortest last ; and though the book once afterwards 
passed through the editor's hands, this is substantially the shape in 
which the Koran has come down to us. Yarious readings, which 
would seem, however, to have been of very slight importance, having 
crept into the different copies, a revising committee was appointed 
by order of the Kaliph Othman, and, an authorized edition having 
thus been prepared ' to prevent the texts differing, like those of the 
Jews and Christians,' all previous copies were collected and burnt ! " 

One could have wished that, in order to give no place to miscon- 
stracdon, the lecturer had stated his views more explicitly on the 
miraculousness claimed by Muhammad himself and his followers for 
the Euran ; and that besides giving, as he has done, some specimens 
of its suUime and vivid descriptions — ^proofs of the " poetic inspu*ar 
tion " of Muhammad — he had not omitted to point out, otherwise 
than in general terms, the numerous fables, discrepancies, contradic- 
tions, anachronisms, and distorted quotations from pre-existing 
history, to be met with throughout its pages. Mr. Smith's remarks 
on " Mohammed's attitude to [other] Miracles," and the doctrine of 
"Fatalism" attributed to him, are judicious and unbiassed. The 
same doctrine of Qod's foreknowledge on the one hand, and of EUs 
actoal intervention of human affairs on the other, "inspired the 
eady Mussulmans, in the new burst of life breathed into them 
by Mohammed, with double energy and double enthusiasm, as in 
thek best days it inspired the Puritans, the Covenanters, and the 
Klgrim Fathers. But to their descendants in their more norma] 

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state — ^the lethargic Soufy, the brooding Sepoy, the insensate Tark, 
and, I wonld add, to those religious people who refase to prevent the 
miseries and the diseases which Nature they think has attached to 
guilt — ^it furnishes with a new excuse for that life of inactivity to 
which they are already too much disposed, since they believe that 
they are acquiescing, as in duty bound, in the immutable decrees of 

The lectm'er labours hard, and with considerable ingenuity, to 
palliate Muhammad's use of the sword, which he frankly admits to be 
''an essential part of Isld^m." The admission stamps it not only as 
inhuman and retrograde, but diametrically opposed to the teaching 
and example of Jesus, which the " revelations " of its author pretend 
at one time to confirm, and at another to supersede. The important 
point to be borne in mind here is not, what is " intelligible and 
natural " in an ordinary mortal, nor the "exigencies"* which may drive 
such an one to unsheathe the sword, but what we are justified in 
expecting from one who claimed to be " the Apostle of God and the 
Seal of the Prophets." Moreover, the necessity for the continued use 
of the sword, in order to the maintenance of the integrity of Islam, 
which Mr. Smith puts with much force in the subjoined quotation, 
may well make humanity shudder at the thought of its possible 
revival :-^ 

'' In the middle ages the vitality and energy of Mohammedanism 
evidenced itself most clearly, not in Arabia, or Persia, or Africa^ where 
its success was most complete, but in the Christian border lands, in 
Spain, in Palestine, in Asia Minor, where the crusading spirit was 
most evoked. Where there was no outlet for an active, and even a 
material warfare, against what was believed to be evil, there corrup- 
tion crept in, and stealthily paralyzed all the energies of Mussulman 
society. ' Corruptio optimi fit pesaima,* Ommiade and Abbaside, 
and Fatimite Kaliphs ; Ghaznevide, and Seljukian, and Ottoman 
Sultans passed through the same dreary stages of luxuiy and decay ; 
and the government that now represents, or mis-represents, the 
Ealiphate, has, in the hands of the Ottoman Turks, ever since their 
faith ceased to be militant, become the most hopeless of despotisms." 

That this picture of the gradual decadence of Isl&m is not over- 
drawn, and that its actual condition, morally and socially, politically 
and industrially, in countries under Mualim rule, is still more abject 
and deplorable, none will venture to deny. That Mr. Smith, there- 
fore, should have stopped short in his review of the earlier wars of 
Islam, and that in a paragraph immediately succeeding the last quo- 
tatidn, is a grave omission. He writes : — 

''But, of the Mohammedan conquests, it would be rather true to 
say that after the firist wave of invasion had swept by, two blades of 
grass were found growing where one had grown before ; like the 
^understorm, they fertilized while they destroyed ; and from one 

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j end of the then known world to the other, with their religion they 

I sowed the seeds of literature, of commerce, and of civilization. As 

these disappeared, in the lapse of years, in one part of the Mussulman 
world, they appeared in another. When they died out, with the 
dying Abbaside Kaliphate, along the banks of the Euphrates and 
Tigris, they revived again on the Guadalquiver and Ouadiana. To 
the splendour and civilization of Damascus succeeded Bagdad; to 
Bagdad, Cairo ; to Cairo, Cordova.'* 

Among the subjects discussed in the fourth Lecture are '' Poly- 
gamy " and " Slavery," the former of which, " next to caste," is de- 
scribed as " the most blighting institution to which a nation can 
become a prey. It pollutes society at the fountain head, for the 
&inily is the source of all political and of all social virtues. Moham- 
med would have doubled the debt of gratitude the Eastern world 
owes to him had he swept it away, but he could not have done so, 
even if he had fully seen its evils. It. is not fair to represent poly- 
gamy as a part of Mohammedanism, any more than it is fair to repre- 
sent slavery &s a part of Christianity.*' 

To afBrm that. Muhammad, who abolished the cherished idolatry of 
the Arabs, could not have abolished polygamy, is a gi*atuitous 
assumption. A more reasonable ground for its continued sanction is 
aflforded by Mr. Smith himself, where he points out how Muhammad 
I'elaxed on his own behalf, to his indelible disgrace, but with the 
alleged express approval of Qod, the limitations to the unbounded 
license of Oriental polygamy which prevailed at that period. And, 
considering the laws laid down in the Euran regulating the number 
of wives whom a Muslim may have at the same time, and the further 
unlimited concession to concubinage, the statement and parallel 
contained in the last sentence of the quotation are, to my mind, 
equally erroneous. Much may justly be said in praise of Muhammad's 
enactments in behalf of bondsmen, whereby their former condition 
was vastly ameliorated. There is no word con*esponding to that of 
" slaves," in the modern sense of that word, to be found in the Kuran, 
which generally designates such as " those whom your right hand has 
acquired," evidently indicating captives taken in war ; and the system 
of the slave trade, which until the commencement of the present 
century was common alike to Christians and Muslims, but now con- 
iined almost entirely to the latter, is utterly devoid of sanction in the 
Muslim scriptures. The orphan, too, and the poor, and dumb animals 
are made the subjects of compassionate precepts, the due obsei*vance 
of which is reckoned among the highest virtues, whilst gambling and 
the use of intoxicating liquors are declared to be '' an abominatien, 
of the work of Satan," and as such to be avoided " that ye may 
prosper." These moral counterparts of Christianity contained in the 
Kar&n,as also the reverence with which it speaks of the Prophets and 
the Kawwdriyyun, or Apostles, and espcciaJly of Jesus, whose super- 


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natural birth, miracles, Mossiahship, and second appearing as '' a sign 
of the approach of the last hour," cannot but be regarded as so much 
common ground between the two religions — as a nearer approach to 
Christianity than is to be met with in any other existing creed. Nor 
does it militate against this view that I cannot endorse Mr. Smith's 
statement that ''Mohammedanism is essentially a-sjnritual religion," 
simply because '' as instituted by Mohammed it had ' no priest and 
no sacrifice,* *' and forbids " the representation of all living things 
alike, whether as objects of use or of admiration, of veneration or of 
worship." As "non^sacerdotal" Islam has an affinity to Christianity 
as contrasted with Judaism, and as " non-objective " in its prescribed 
forms of worship it is undoubtedly " less materialistic" even than our 
own ; nevertheless, these epithets which I have used to designate it 
do not imply " spirituality " in the ordinary acceptation of that word. 

Here, before proceeding further, it is important to bear in mind 
tliat Mr. Smith discusses the Islam of the Kuran^ not those develop- 
ments of it which go by that name at the present day — ^two things so 
widely different that " Mohammed and the Koran " would have been 
a more appropriate title for his Lectures. If Christians may fairly be 
charged with having darkened the divine teaching of the Gospel with 
human philosophy, with having encumbered the primitive form of 
Christian worship with an elaborate materialistic ceremonial, and 
Mith their endless internal disputes and divisions, much more may 
with equal justice be urged against the Muslims on the score of their 
departure from the canon of the Kuran, their endless schisms on the 
subject of the Divine attributes and other dogmas, traditional inno- 
vations, and often puerile ceremonial, the outward observance of 
which is practically regarded as the quintessence of their religion. 
The lecturer hints at these departures from the original Islam, where 
he says : " By studying the Koran, together with the history of 
Mohammedanism, we see with our own eyes the precise steps by 
which a religion naturally and necessarily develops into a mythology;" 
and, again, where he says of the Persians, although the remarks arc 
more or less applicable to the Muslims at large, that they " corrupted 
its simplicity with fables and with miracles, and actually imported 
into it something of saint worship, and something of sacerdotalism." 

Next, " has Islam the power of revival?" Mr. Smith judges that it 
has ; but the late reforms in that direction in Asia Minor, and espe- 
cially among the Abkhasians and exiled Circassians who have taken 
refuge there, which he quotes from Mr. Qifford Palgi-ave, go but a 
very little way indeed towards justifying the inference that the exiles 
are '' forming the nucleus of a new, vigorous, and united Mohammedan 
nation." The phenomenon of Wahh&beeism, which is also adduced, 
is more to the point in a strictly religious sense ; nevertheless, when 
we reflect on the dire antagonism of the creed of 'Abdu-'l-Wahhab 
to all the prevailing forms of Isl&m, whose followers the Arabian 

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reformer classes with Polytheists, there is, humanly speaking, little 
chance of its extensive propagation. It may be fairly questioned, 
indeed, whether the late movement in India, headed by the Sayyid 
Ahmad, and which went by that name, had any real aflSnity with the 
Wahbabeeism of Nejd. And as to the recent visits of Muslim poten- 
tates from the far East to do homage to the supposed representative 
of the Khalifah at Stambul, these may have a certain political signi- 
ficance, but augur nothing in favour of a general Jihdd — " an out- 
burst of stem fanaticism, which, armed with the courage of despair, 
obliterating, as in the Circassian war, even the immemorial schism of 
Sonnee and Sheeah [?] may hurl once more the united strength of 
the Crescent upon the vanguai-d of advancing Christendom." Absit 
omen I 

But, even if possible, is such a revival as is here contemplated^ 
desirable ? Mr. Smith replies : " In the East a revived Islam contains 
more elements of hope for the future than a corrupt Christianity.'* 
This is tantamount to saying that the existing Christians of the East 
are, as a body, inferior to the Muslims — an opinion not unfrequently 
expressed by travellers who know them least, and by others who have 
expected to find virtues, which require liberty for their growth and 
development, among a people who have for ages been subject to a 
withering despotism. Making due allowance for this fact, I do not 
hesitate to aflBrm, having had as extensive and intimate an acquaint- 
ance with Muslims and Christians in the East as most Europeans, 
and still having many valued friends among both, that the statements 
relied upon by the lecturer are a libel upon Oriental Christians, 
whose industry and enterprise, social morality and general acquire- 
ments, despite the drawbacks of their political position, are fully equal 
to, if they do not surpass, the vaunted superiority of their Muslim 
fellow-subjects. Further, on recalling to mind what Mr. Smith had 
before stated respecting the necessity of a continued use of the 
sword in order to the maintenance of Islam in its integrity, and that 
its revival means a return to the obligation to wage war on the 
infidels, I cannot but think that he has said more on this subject 
than he really meant. On the other hand, philanthropists generally 
would prefer to see the development among Muslims of the views 
which the lecturer, notwithstanding the unwisdom of the utterance 
just taken exception to, places before us in a most attractive light iu 
these words : 

" Muslims may yet be brought to see that there is a distinction 
between what Mohammed said himself, and what others said for him ; 
and that there is a still broader difference between what he said as a 
legislator and a conqueror, and what he said as a simple Prophet. 
There are some among them who see now, and there will be more who 
will goon see, that there may be an appeal to the Mohammed of 
Mecca from the Mohammed of Medina; that there maybe an idolatry 


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of a book, as well as of a picture, or a statue, or a shapeless mass of 
stone ; and that the Prophet, who always in other matters asserted 
his fallibility, was never more fallible, though certainly never more 
sincere, than when he claimed an equal infallibility for the whole 
Koran alike. Finally, with the growth of knowledge of the real 
character of our faith, Mohammedans must recognise tliat the Christ 
of the Gospel was something ineffably above the Christ of those 
Christians from whom alone Mohammed drew his notions of Him ; 
that he was a perfect min'or of that one primary attribute of the 
Eternal, of which Mohammed could catch only a far-otf glance, and 
which, had it been shown to him as it really was, must needs have 
taken possession of his soul." 

Should the " sign of yielding " which is here indicated become 
more distinct, and the ulterior results prognosticated be realized, the 
assertion of the lecturer that "Islam is a thing of indestructible 
vitality " will be invalidated, and it will then be seen whether there 
is anything in Christianity to prevent its proving as great a blessing 
to the mingled peoples of Africa and the East as it has proved to the 
"higher races" of the West; whether, in fine, the Gospel, which 
its Divine Author commanded should bo preached throughout the 
world, is not suited to the spiritual wants and aspirations of all man- 
kind. Although at first sight the lecturer's views seem to conflict 
with the idea of such attempts, nevertheless he is by no means 
averse to missionary efforts among Muslims. What he desires with 
devout earnestness is, that missionaries should approach them with 
Christian sympathy, imitating the example of St. Paul, who dropped 
not a word of scorn against the polytheism of the Athenians, quoted 
their great authors with respect, and professed only to declare to 
them more fully, that God whom, unknowingly, they already wor- 
shipped : — 

** If Christian missionaries are ever to win over Mohammedans to 
Christianity, they must change their tactics. It will not be by dis- 
crediting the gieat Arabian Prophet, nor by throwing doubts upon 
his mission, but by paying him that homage which is his due, by 
pointing out, not how Mohammedanism difl'ers from Christianity, but 
how it resembles it ; by dwelling less on the dogmas of Christianity 
and more on its morality ; by showing how perfectly that Christ, 
whom Mohammed with his half-knowledge so reverenced, came up 
to the ideal which prophets and kings desired to see, and had not 
seen, and which Mohammed himself, Prophet and King in one, could 
only half realize. In this way, and this alono, is it likely that 
Christianky can ever act upon Mohammedanism : not by sweeping 
it into oblivion — for what of truth there is in it, and there is very 
much truth, can never die — but by gradually, and perhaps uncon- 
sciously, breathing into its vast and still vigorous frame a newer, a 
purer, a diviner life." 

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One greater than St. Paul revealed the truth to His disciples as 
they were able to bear it, and the course here generally recommended 
to missionaries is in perfect accordance therewith, as it is also with 
Apostolic usage. Hence few will question the wisdom of the advice 
that, in their dealings with Muslims, missionaries should dwell less 
on the dogmas, and more on the morality of Christianity. But in 
pmctice, as all must know who have had any experience in the 
matter, the first objection raised by a Muslim will turn on the dogmas 
of the Divinity of Christ and the Trinity, and that unless some satis- 
factoiy explanation of these is given, all further attempt on the 
part of the missionary to gain a hearing will be in vain. Now, as 
these dogmas are of the very essence of Christianity, what is the 
missionary to do ? Keserve them, or slur them over ? To say 
nothing of the moral cowardice and faithlessness of such a course, 
there is not the least chance of its success. Evasion no less than 
assertion will be confronted with the SArcUvr-'l-IkfUds : " Say, God is 
one ; God the Eternal ; He begetteth not, neither is He begotten ; 
neither is there any one like Him." Mr. Smith observes that among a 
monotheistic people the missionary invariably finds that " the doctrine 
of the Trinity, however explained, involves Tritheism, and their ears 
are at once closed to his teaching." This is almost inevitable from 
the stereotyped formulae in which it has mostly been presented to 
them, without any comment calculated to remove their prejudices or 
to stimulate further inquiiy. The writer of these remarks, on the 
other hand, in friendly discussions with intelligent Muslims, has 
frequently seen the beneficial results of a different course. He has 
begun by admitting the truth of the propositions contained in the 
Surah above quoted ; and has then proceeded to point out that, if 
directed against the orthodox doctrine of the Trinity, Muhammad 
must have written it under a misconception — excusable in him con- 
sidering the heresies which prevailed on that and kindred dogmas 
among the Christians with whom alone he had come in contact — 
inasmuch as the verb xvdlada (peperit, parturivit), used in the 
active and passive form in the Surah referred to, is never in the 
Christian Scriptures applied to God or to the Divinity of Christ ; 
that Jesus is not styled the wdlad (noun from the same root), but 
the Ibn of God, from the etymon bdna, to build (i. j, ben from bdnd 
of the Hebrew), and thence a Son, '* because," as Arabian lexico- 
graphers say, " he is of the father's building, made so by God ;" that 

[ the "Word of God " — a title applied to Jesus by Muhammad as well 

as St. John, was not " bom " in any such sense, but " made flesh ; " 
that the Divine Incarnation implied by that phrase is not so alien to 

I I8l4m as may at first sight appear, since it has been adopted by 

several Muslim sectarians, oflFsprings of the great Shi'aah schism ; 

j and that, considering the previous revelations of the Most High 

I vouchsafed through Moses and the Prophets, t-here is nothing 

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cpntrary to reason, and nothing derogatory to the Majesty of God, 
that He, as the Divine Word, should take the fashion of a man, ia 
order to exhibit to mankind by example as well as by precept the 
perfections of the Godhead, which heretofore they knew only as. 
abstractions, and that, as a man, He should seal His testimony with 
His blood for the redemption of mankind. With regard to the Third 
Person of the Trinity, there is less difficulty, for although the "holy^ 
spirit " mentioned in the Kuran is held by Muslim commentators to» 
indicate the angel Gabriel, nevertheless the true Christian dogma — 
of which Muhammad was undoubtedly ignorant, as he accused 
Christians of believing in three Gods, by which he is generally held 
to have meant God, Jesus, and the Virgin Mary — when rightly 
expounded, never evokes the same antagonism as the Incarnation, 
owing doubtless to the non-ascription of human attributes to the 
Holy Spirit. 

A similar mode of procedure — of which the foregoing is but a 
rough sketch — with regard to other divergencies between the two 
creeds will seldom fail to arrest the attention and secure the respect 
of thoughtful Muslims, especially when prompted by that sympathy^ 
for what is good and true in Isl^m which it is Mr. Smith's object to* 
evoke, and without which bare arguments will be abortive. The 
motive was a generous one, considering its bearings on the moral 
and spiritual improvement of so vast a portion of the human race, 
including many millions of our fellow-subjects in India, and as such 
is highly commendable. I have not hesitated to point out what has- 
appeared to me defective in his statements, and to express dissent, 
from some of his deductions ; none the less, however, do I commend 
these Lectures to the attentive yet careful perusal of the student, the 
politician, and the missionary. 

George Percy Badger. 

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THE field of dramatic music appears, as yet, scarcely to have 
been entered by the searcher after the principles of art. While 
the whole domain of music has had scant attention from the 
esthetic student, the department of stage-music hai5 been well- 
nigh altogether overlooked. In England, at least, the opera han 
not been of a quaUty to attract much thoughtful criticism or 
penetrating research. Not that great and commanding works 
have not been produced, but that the modes of production, deter- 
mined as they have been to a large extent by the demands of 
fashionable society for a not too engrossing after-diimer amuse- 
ment, have been admirably adapted to shut out from view the 
artistic nature of the subject. The most soothing kind of in- 
fluence to a gentle organism under these conditions of post- 
prandial repletion, was found to be afforded by the recurrence of 
familiar melody with dulcet cadences and easy rhytluns, when 
rendered by a well-known favourite. Such a form of entei-tain- 
ment was free from the intellectual claims which mar, from a 
hygienic point of view, even the not excessively intricate con- 
temporary drama. At the same time, it did not presuppose so 
high a* d^gi'ee of purely musical understanding as the conceii. 
Hence, perhaps, the common tendency in England to overlook 
the dramatic side of the opera. Others, it may be, besides th<* 
present writer, are able to recall the unnatural, ludicrous aspect 
which the opera first presented to their minds. The forced 

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awkwardness of the singers* gestures, the unsuggestiveness of 
the long bravura exercises of vocal skill, the utter dissimilarity of 
the whole operation to any events in real life, can hardly fail to 
render our fashionable opera, in the eyes of a novice, as gro- 
tesque and amusing as are the laborious symbolic movements of 
a mysterious ritual to an uninitiated spectator. 

In France and in Germany the opera has not remained, as vnih 
us, a fragile exotic, bom of the Ught moods of elegant dilettanti 
in Italian courts. In both of these coxmtries attempts havv been 
made to construct a national musical drama, employing the lan- 
guage and reflecting the dominant sentiments of its people. And, 
as a natural concomitant of this more serious conception of the 
musical drama, a certain amount of thought has been applied to 
the principles of the subject. In France, it was Gluck who did 
most to give clearness and precision to the idea of the opera.* In 
Germany, the theory of the subject has been very fully elaborated 
by another composer and practical reformer, Richard Wagner. 
The doctrine taught by this writer, and illustrated in his works, 
claims the careful attention of any one who proposes to theorise 
on the nature and function of dramatic music, and a brief review 
of it may serve as a suitable starting-point for the present 

Let it be clearly understood that in examining Herr AVagner's 
thcorj' of the opera, we do not propose to enter into another and 
wholly distinct subject — ^the composer s peculiar conception of music 
and its forms. The chamcteristics of the new order of tone- 
structure, which claim just now so large a representation in our 
concerts, are, for the most part, an extension of the forms of abso- 
lute music, and must be judged of by the principles of pure musical 
structure. Whether the style of chord, of sequence of chord, and 
of modulation — ^not to speak of rhjiihm and orchestral co-ordina- 
tion — which one finds prevailing in Herr Wagner s compositions, 
and to which he has been in part impelled by a series of powerful 
traditions, is a real advance on the temperate regularities of the 
classical writers, is a question wliich will only receive a satisfactory 
solution when our general conceptions of music and of art as a 
whole have become less hazy and unsteady. In so far, however, 
as the pecuUarities of Herr Wagner's musical style obviously result 
from his interpretation of the mutual relations of music and poetry, 
our estimate of them will, of course, be affected by our opinion of 
the theory on which they rest. 

Herr Wagner's disciples in England have taken good care that 
his leading ideas shotdd not suffer the fate of so many German 

* Strictly speaking, Glnck's Bpecolatioos belong to the periocl of his Italian aotivitj. 
They may be reckoned as French, inasmuch as their permanent ixiflnence showed itaelf 
most conspicnoualy in this country. 

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epeculatioiiB, and remain wholly unknown to English rcadera. 
We may presume, therefore, on a certain degree of intelli- 
gence with respect to his theory of the opera, and may content 
ourselves with recapitulating the most important heads of the 

The opera, says Wagnor, is the highest development both of 
the dramatic and the musical art. On the one hand, the spoken 
drama suffers from the defect of appealing too much to the under- 
standing and too little to the emotional nature of the spectator. 
The modern Teutonic drama, from Shakespeare downwards, is, 
in fact, dramatised nanative, and proceeds by explaining a definite 
series of actions by help of all the necessary conditions of time 
and place. The true source of dramatic action is not history, but 
legend. In this, actions are elevated above the Hmits of particular 
circumstances, and are presented as tj^ical. The legend appeals 
immediately to the spectator's sympathetic comprehension by 
upholding a single thread of action detached from the many side- 
threads which serve to hide and comphcate it in real life. This 
simple chain of events is seen to depend on one or tvvo easily 
apprehended emotional quaUties, and the construction of this 
poetic and legendary kind of action is effected by raising these 
motives to an ideal intensity: a process which the writer de- 
scribes as "the poetic miracle." In order that this emotional 
drama may produce its full effect, it must have recourse to music, 
which, by virtue of its deep and powerful affinities with the primi- 
tive emotional qualities of speech, serves to interpret, in an im- 
mediate sensuous impression, the emotional contents of the action. 
On the other hand, just as the drama needs the resources of 
musical art as a medium of expression, so music needs the definite 
matter of expression which the drama supplies. Absolute music — 
that is, music separated from words — ^is vitiated by the radical 
error of mistaking a means of expression for the thing to be 
expressed. This error becomes conscious of itself, so to speak, in 
the works of Beethoven, who, after exhausting every device of 
analysis and re-combination in the treatment of the dance-rhytlmi, 
discovered the impossibility of constmcting an art out of a 
material whose infinite capabilities require to be determined by 
the presence of a definite poetical theme.t 

All previous attempts at opera-construction have suffered, says 
Herr Wagner, from the non-recognition of this dependence of 
music on poetry. The fundamental error of the pre- Wagnerian 

* Tho full account of the author's theory is to be found in his Oper und Drama 
published in 1851. A rinmi of his doctrine is giyen in a brochure entitled ZvkunftS' 
musii; Briffan tinen framOsischen Freund (1861). 

t ** Through his endeavour, unterrified in its boldness, to reach what is artistic«Hy 
necessary in something which is artisticaDy impossible, we have proTen th6 unlimited 
capacity of music for solving every thinkablo problem as soon as it wants to be wholly 
and solely that wLich it actaally is — tho art of expression.** — Oper und Dratna, p. 63. 

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opeiti may be defined by Si^ying " that a means of expression 
(music) was made the end, while the end of expression (the 
drama) was made the means."* The aria, the chorus, and the 
orchestral part alike illustrate this fatal defect. The dominant 
aim of the opera was to glorify the composer and the vocalist 
at the expense of the poet. 

Herr Wagner reviews at some length the history of the opera 
in Italy, France, and Germany, pointing out what he considers 
to be the ruling defects of the several schools of composition. 
He is very hard on the luscious melody and ear-tickling rhythm 
of the Italian style as perfected by Rossini. He appears to attach 
very little value to the refonns aimed at by Gluck. He sympa- 
thises, to a considerable extent, with the endeavours of Weber 
and his followers to return from the artificial aria^form to the 
iialo Volkslied from which it originally sprang. Curiously enough, 
to those who have traced the sources of the critic's own style, his 
fiercest attack is reserved for the historical opera of Meyerbeer, 
which he characterises as decorative music, and a striving after 
a merely external effect. 

Such being Herr Wagner's estimate of the past opera, and such 
his conception of the true function of dramatic music, let us see 
how he proposes to work out his theory, and to wliat form of 
stmcture his proposal has led. 

First of all, then, the proper subject for opera is the legend or 
myth: and this condition has been carefully observed by the 
composer in all but one or two of his earliest works. Secondly, 
the music of the drama must resign the pleasing forms of absolute 
music (aria form, sonata form, and so on), and content itself with 
shaping itself in the closest conformity to the sequences of the 
poetical subject. Thus, the shaip distinctions of recitativf^ and 
aria must be obliterated, and the whole progress of the vocal 
music assimilated to the unbroken flux of the dramatic move- 
ment. The quality of the melody and rhythm must be determined 
by the primitive " word-tone " of language. That is to say, the 
musical accent must coincide with the emotional accent, which, 
in the German language, uniformly falls on the rootnayllable of 
the word.t Thus the composer, instead of adorning the 
dramatic verse with the graceful turns and movements of a 
dance-rhythm, must seek patiently to elicit from the verse the 
meloB which is potentially contained in it.J 

* Introduction, p. 9. 

t In hU IfttOT worka Herr Wagner hOfS made ample nae ol the arobaie doTioes of 
alliteration {Stabrheini), which element of versification corresponds, he thinks, to a law 
of natural expression. 

X It is only fair to add that the author has maintained that "by this procedure 
melody and its form are conducted to a wealth and an inexhaustibility, of wMoh, apart 
from this process, one was wholly unable to frame a cen9eption." — {Zukunftamusik^ p. 40.) 
But I have failed to discover any attempt to prove this rather cr.riouR ass3rt!on. 

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Similarly, the orchestral accompaniment, instead of being an 
independent structure, shaped according to the laws of absolute 
muaie, must dutifully take its impress from the poetic theme. 
The orchestral instinmient possesses a faculty of speech, and its 
fimction is to make known the unutterable {das Unaus- 
ffrechliche.) Hence it should, in the introduction (which Wagner 
would substitute for the elaborately-constnicted overture), stimu- 
late a certain vague foreboding {Ahnung) of the coming action.* 
iSo, again, it should seek to give present reality to the invisible 
thoughts and recollections which underlie the actors' present 
emotions. Once more, as a highly idealised dance-rhythm — ^that 
IS, the concomitant of bodily movement and attitude — ^the instru- 
raental part of dramatic music has to supply an audible gesture 
(Gebdrde)y finer, more various, and more impressive than the 
visible movements of the actors, con-esponding to the depth, 
intensity, and infinite gradation of tlie dramatic sentiment. Thus 
the modem orchestra has the significance of the Greek choinis, 
in 80 far as this served as a supplementary exponent of the emo- 
tional phases of the action. 

To sum up the leading ideas of this thcoiy : the opera is 
simply the perfected drama, and has, as its supreme function, to 
depict an elevated action with its productive emotional forces. 
The music of the opera has at all points to subserve the revelation 
of the di-amatic subject, and to shape itself in perfect obedience 
to the emotional changes of the action. Its unity of foim must 
consequently be derived, not from the laws of absolute music, but 
from the poetic conditions of the dmma itself. 

Finally, it should be added that the writer postulates as a con- 
dition of this perfect self-devotion of music to poetry, in *' womanly 
passivity " and " receptivity," the production both of the dramatic 
poem and of the musical composition by one and the same mind. 
Only when the composer is at the same time the poet, having his 
mind permeated by the ideas of the di*ama, will he be coinpetent 
to elicit from music its fullest capabilities of interpretation. 

Such ia, in brie^ Wagner s conception of the lyrical drama, and 
no impartial reader can fail to recognise its lofty character. It 
betrays, in many of its parts, a fine insight into the real nature 
and capabilities both of the drama and of musical art. The em- 
phatic reiteration of the proposition that the opera is before all 
things drama, and that its musical structure must bear a close 
relation to the dramatic intention, is worthy of all praise, though 
it may be questioned whether at least one earlier \yriter oj^ the. 

* This the composer seoks to accomplish by means of the Leitmotif, or loading motive. 
Yoidi,by4tfl peculiar emotional eolotrrin^ may fwrre to indicate indistinctly the general 
wionuntni featores ofi^ho piece* • Thd iBtro4a«tlon of a dominant phraflo in the over- 
y«» is no invention of Wagner's, while his peculiar use of it in frequent recurrence 
*D toe body of the opera has been very severely criticised. 

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subject, Gluck, did not possess ^n equally clear apprehension of 
this truth. It is probable that Wagner's most important contribu- 
tion to the theory of the lyrical drama is contained in his account 
of the capabilities and function of the orchestra, in the practical 
treatment of which, moreover, he is acknowledged to be a 

On the other hand, this theory appears to me to be quite as one- 
sided and incomplete as those which it aims at controverting. 
As a reformer's protest against the excessive exaltation of the 
musical at the expense of the poetical in the opem, Wagner s 
treatise is admirable. As a philosopher's well-considered doctrine 
of the principles of the opera, it must be pronounced inadequate. 

The radical defect in Wagner's theory of the opera is due to a 
non-recognition of the fact that in the union of poetry and music 
in the opera, the latter helps to determine the former no less cer- 
tainly than the former the latter. If music, when entering the 
service of diumatic poetry, must dutifully observe the require- 
ments of her mistress, it may be added that dramatic poetry, in 
order to reap any advantage from the relation, must accommodate 
her requirements to the capacities of her sei-vant. The author 
fails to recognise this consideration just because he supposes the 
drama and the lyrical drama to be co-extensive — ^that is to say, 
because he conceives the drama in all its highest forms to be not 
only susceptible of a musical treatment, but even in need of it. 
This notion seems to involve a misapprehension both of the real 
nature of the drama and of the fullest powers of modem musical 
art. In order to see whether this is so, we must go back to tho 
piimitive psychological sources of these arts, more especially to 
those of music. 

The nature of the drama may perhaps be looked on as fairly 
determined. It is the representation of a single chain of actions, 
whether grave and impressive, or light and enteiiaining, fitted to 
attract and detain the spectators attention. It appeals to the 
spectator's sympathies as the imitation of a real action — ^that is, of 
a definite series of particular events. In order that the play may 
be effective it must be understood, and the underatanding of it is 
by no means a trivial intellectual operation. The right apprehen- 
sion of the characters, with their complex elements of emotional 
sensibility, habits of thought, and tendencies of will; of the precise 
nature of the surrounding circumstances (including each person's 
social relations) in their operation on these chamcters ; of the 
intricate and prolonged series of results due to any paVticular 
event — ^aU this may be regarded as a very respectable intellectual 
achievement. No doubt, the drama must appeal to the feelings of 
the spectator, but it can only do this (in all but a few cases) by 
appealing just as energetically to his understanding. The drama 

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is not the same thing as the lyrical poem, wliich, with aUits fancies 
and images, becomes intelligible so soon as the reader or hearer 
seizes and entei-s into the central uniting sentiment : it is a group 
of events, external and internal, united not by the artist's poetic 
feeling, but by the laws of actual life. Hence it needs the under- 
standing no less than the emotions as its interpreter. 

On the other hand, music, pure and simple, has no very palpable 
relation to the events of life. It seems to derive its materials 
from no department of natural phenomena, but to shape its new 
tone-elements in perfect artistic freedom, seeking only that beauty 
of order which may best delight the ear. In truth, however, these 
tone &bricB have a deep significance. They form a subtle and 
potent language for himian feelings, describing their most essential 
characters in grateful symbols. Music alone does not disclose any 
definite individual sentiment: it reveals rather the broad relations 
of a feeling, its deepest resemblances and contrasts. Thus the 
addition of music to a definite sentiment, as in \ydc poetry, may 
be regarded botli as a more emphatic utterance of the essential 
qualities of the sentiment, and as an artistic apotheosis of the feeling 
by clothing it in a beautiful artistic vesliture. A passion poured 
ont in the well-ordered cadences of a modern vocal melody ceases 
to resemble a familiar daily event, and becomes partially trans- 
foraied into an utterance from the beautiful unknown world of 
poetic fancy. 

Such being, roughly defined, the characteristics of the drama 
and music, let us inquire what points of contact — or at least of 
mutual approach — ^appear to present themselves to the two arts. 

In the first place, the drama may be regarded as the result of 
the impulse of a powerful feeling to realise in immediate impres- 
sion the objects and events which stimulate and sustain it. When 
powerftilly affected by the thought of a beautiful or imposing 
object, the mind desires to see it. In this way, the lyrical outpour- 
ing of a feehng natui-aUy pa48ses into the dmmatic revival of the 
feeling. We may see this process illustrated in the growth both 
of the Greek and of the modem drama. Greek tragedy arose 
gradually out pf the Bacchic song and dance, as the worshippers 
felt the want of a new perception of the di\dne glories, which 
perception was first given them through a recited naiTative, then 
through a visible imitation of the stirring action. Similarly the 
passion-play of the middle ages, which was the first form of the 
modem drama, seems to have sprung from the desire of pious 
hearts, when chanting the praises of the suffering Son and Mother, 
to seize the reality of the remote events in some immediate objec- 
tive impression. If the drama may thus be viewed as the direct 
creation of sympathetic and lyrical emotion, its relation to music 
is evident. According to this view, the first function of music in 

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it8 union with the drama is to give expression not to the feeKngs 
of the drmnatis permnce^ but to those of the spectators. It aims at 
shadowing forth the dominant sentiment or mood of the drama ; 
the emotional condition of mind which remains as the final and 
least evanescent result of the dramatic impression, such as awe 
before the mysterious, pity at the spectacle of human error and 
woe, or amusement at the sight of men's harmless defects. 

It is obvious, from this definition of the function of di-amatic 
music, that the more intense and distinctly marked the emotional 
effect of a drama, the more easilj' does it lend itself to musical 
treatment. Plays which appeal less to the deeper emotions of 
s}*mpathy, and interest us rather as developments of human 
character, are but little susceptible of this accompaniment.* 
Such dramas are most successful when they dispense with musical 
accompaniment altogether, or content themselves with roughly 
indicating their most prominent emotional aspects in instru- 
mental introduction or entr acte. Sometimes a play may gra- 
dually approach a point at which the deep and potent feelings 
of the spectator seem to ask for the vicarious expression of 
music, and in this case the introduction of musical stiuins has a 
peculiarly fine effect.t On the other hand, when a drama resorts 
to a continuous musical accompaniment, it needs to be of a deeply 
affecting character throughout. 

It will be obvious to the reader that the fimction of dramatic 
music just considered is not its only one. The drama first resorts 
to music as an interpreter of its emotional effect in the spectator s 
mind ; after this, it seeks from music its aid in interpreting the 
emotions of the dramatic peraons. When it does this, music 
passes over from the subjective side of the spectator's mind to 
the objective side of the spectacle itself, and enters as an integral 
element into the work of art. The basis of this further union 
between drama and music is the same as before. Music is an 
artistic form for expressing deep and intense emotions. Hence, 
in so far as the action is emotional, springing directly out of 
powerful pulsations of f(*eling, and iuvohnng but Kttle of the 
quieter intellectual and volitional processes of the mind, it is 
fitted to assume a musical garb. Hero again we may find several 
degrees of susceptibility of musical treatment answering to 
various grades of emotional force in the action and its situations. 
In many cases the courae of the stoiy may pass from a region of 
comparative emotional indifference to one of great emotional 
agitation ; and when this happens, the cold medium of speech 

* It would be easy, probably, to point ont illustratloiiB of this limitation in some rdoent 
operatic productions. 

t The introduction of music at the close of Goethe's Efpnont is ft happy example of thia 

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may fitly be exchanged for that of song.* It is only when there 
are powerful under-cuiTents of feeling mnning thronghotit an 
action, wheh each new development is closely related to half- 
hidden pulsations of emotion which require to be appreciated by 
a quick sympathy, that a drama derives a considerable advantage 
from a complete musical setting. 

Under both these aspects, then, the relation of music to the 
drama is based on the expression of feeUng. Music, when wedded 
f<» the drama, is significant in so far as it helps to give utterance 
either to the feeling' awakened in the spectator's mind, or to the 
emotions represented on the stage. In the main, these two func- 
tions are fulfilled simultaneously, since the spectator's feeUng is 
in most cases a sympathetic echo of some witnessed emotion. 
Hence we need not further consider them apart, but may employ 
the phrase " the emotional character '* of a piece or a situation 
indifferently, either for the feeling displayed in the play, for the 
feeling occasioned in the spectator's mind, or, finally, for both of 

Let us now inquire a little more closely into the nature of the 
dramatic feeUngs which are best fitted to receive musical expres- 

First of all, then, music being a supplementary means of 
(expression added by art to the natural expression of the voice, it 
should be united only to feeUngs of unwonted depth and force. 
Music steps in when language fails, at moments when feeling 
is too large for utterance. Just as in ordinaiy life we cease, 
at moments of the intensest feeling, to employ definite articu- 
late speech, and lapse into interjectional cries, so the dramatist 
<^lls in the aid of music when the emotions he would portray 
flefy expression by the oixiinary instruments. It is the rare 
climax of emotion, the invasion of the spirit by a grief which 
rofiwes to pass outwards by the narrow channels of words, or its 
t-levatioii by a delight which seems too pure and precious to be 
described in everv-day symbols, which makes the accents of 
muHic welcome. Accordingly the opera should seek its poetic 
Mthject in some rare and profoundly impressive manifestation of 
hnman feeling, and not in the famihar emotional phases of 
ordinary human lift?. This condition of rarity in the subject of 
the musical drama, serves, it is evident, to remove this form of 
art from the category of the reaUstic to that of the idealistic. 

»Seeondly, since musical expression is essentially indefinite 
and typical, its addition to dramatic sentiment t^nds to give 
to this sentiment a certain largeness of aspect, freeing it from 

* Esrr Wagner soems to be a little nni'easonably hard against this mixtzire of tho 
"poken and tho anng in the drama. The form of melodrama, or yandeviUe, may not bo 
^^ highast artifttic form, and yot it may havo a relative value as tho mode of structure 
^^ appniprinte to a certain order of plaf . 

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those peculiarities which make up its individual character, and 
tmnsfonuing it into a vaguely circumscribed representative of 
Imman feeling in general, under certain of its aspects. In listen- 
ing to an opera, the hearer is less concerned, than when listening 
to a spoken drama, to apprehend aU the individual aspects and 
conditions of the characters and sentiments represented. The 
range of emotional suggestion which characterises music has the 
effect of transforming the lyrical expression of a definite feehng 
into the symboHc representation of a whole order of emotion. 
The expression of a certain variety of feeling in an opera, whetlier 
it be the fond childish love of Zerlina, the tenacious wifely affection 
of Fideha, or the quick, fierce motherly passion of Norma, is apt 
to present itself as the manifestation of this kind of emotion, 
pure and detached from individual sun^oundings. It is as though 
the emotion had acquired a distinct substantive existence, and pre- 
sented itself in a concrete personification. 

It is not meant by this that music obliterates the characteristic 
differences of the dramatis pei^sonce ; on ihe contrary, by helping to 
render prominent the dominant emotional quaUties of a particular 
character,* it directly subserves dramatic characterization.! Only 
this characterization is of necessity less individual than that of 
the spoken drama. However carefuUy music seeks to reproduce 
the complexity of an individual character, its final image will 
always preserve something of this typical nature. In this way, 
then, the action of the musical di-ama will become still further 
removed from the particular events of every-day Ufe, and will 
assume a yet more ideal character. 

The effects of music on the drama just considered arise from 
the peculiarities of music as a medium of emotional expression. 
We may now consider other effects which are due to the intrinsic 
quahties of the tone-art. 

The first of these consequences flows from the nature of tone- 
stimulation. Music consists of a series of pleasurable sensations 
agreeably combined. Through the large amount of sensuous 
pleasure which it yields, it lifts the mind out of its ordinary 
condition of quiet indifference into one of general excitability. 
Apart from any of its emotional suggestions, music stirs the spirit 
of a Kstener merely as a mode of sensuous dehght. One prin- 
cipal result of this agitation will be the intensified action of the 
imagination. The mind will seek to anticipate the actual order 
of events as known to perception, and to fashion realities for 
itself free from all the Hmitations of actuality. Hence that 

* By ** emotiozutl ** is here meant not only feeling proper, bnt alio the moral aspects of 
thought and Tolition, as calm or turbolent, fitfnl or constant. 

t This resnlt of mnsic is well illastrated in the works of Qlaok. In a ralnable work 
entitled Gbtck ynd die Oper^ Dr. Marx calls attention more than once to Glack's skill 
in hitting off in musical language the characteristic qualities of his characters. 

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readmees to grasp beforehand, in dim foreboding, and to accept, 
when presented, a "poetic miracle" as Wagner styles it — ^that is, the 
construction of a dramatic action in freedom from the strict limits 
of time and place. Mnsic seems to drug the vigilant critical 
powers, and to ronse to unwonted activity imagination and 
fancy. Accordingly the introduction of the fanciful and the 
mythical into the lyrical drama, so far from displeasing, seems 
eminently fitting and sesthetically right.* 

But this is only one part of the influence of musical pleasure. 
The deUght which flows from melody and harmony not only 
excites the fancy, but excites it in a particular manner. DeHght 
begets images of delight ; and the enjoyment of musical beauty 
predisposes the listener to expect new revelations of the beautiful. 
Hence the musical drama is much more restricted than the spoken 
drama in the use of characters and emotions of a repulsive kind, 
and has to employ, as far as possible, those varieties which have 
a certain visible grace and majesty. Although music has a con- 
siderable power of suggesting other and less pleasing aspects of 
human nature, such as the temble and the weird, its quality as a 
mode of sensuous beauty imposes a certain limit to its expression. 
The law of harmony, which is at the basis of all the best art, 
requires that the sentiments and actions which are to be clothed in a 
beautiful sensuous drapery, should themselves be beautiful. Hence 
such disturbing emotions as anger, hatred, and fear, should assume 
a certain majesty, and the throes of pain sink into something Kke 
a chastened grief, before they are admitted to be prominent 
motives of the lyrical dama. One may say that the opera should, 
in the main, seek to represent orderly emotions — that is to say, 
feelings which flow on evenly in a steady and comparatively 
unbroken rhythm. Hence its function diffei*s in a measure from 
that of tragedy (as understood by the modern world), which 
necessarily proceeds by means of emotional conflict.f 

If we try to gather up the separate threads of the foregoing 
argument we shall find that they all conduct to one and the same 
conclusion. Music, it has been said, being an added artistic 
medium of expression, requires for its subject-matter some rare 
manifestation of emotion. Again, since musical expression is in 
its nature typical or generic, it requires in the emotionto beexprossed 

* This principle was actod on by composers bofore Wagner. Weber, Marschnor, and 
Meyerbeer — not to mention Scbomann and Mendelssohn — ^appoar to have iolt tbo special 
nutabOity of the romantic and fantastic for operatic treatment. But, so far as I am 
ftwan, Wagner first supplied an adequate reason for this practice. 

t^One nu^ht cite numerous iUustrations of the violence done to the spectator's 
feeUog by tiie excessive use of tho painful and repulsive in the opera. To give but one 
Ktttance, The fierce and spasmodic outbreak of Ortrud's envy and hate in the second 
^ of Lohengrin seems to the present writer to be a signal example of the -unmusical in 
^nmatb creation. The changes made by Gluck in the treatment of classic story show, 
w Dr. Han obaerTes, a fine fealing for tho differences between the operatic and th^ 
sttqly dmnatie. 


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a certain breadth and universality. Once more, owing to its cha- 
racteristic influence on the imagination, music renders necessary a 
certain degree of fancifuhiess and ideaUty in the actions and feel- 
ings to be illustrnted. Finally, since it is itself a variety of the beau- 
tiful, it demands a corresponding degree of beauty in the poetic 
material. Thus we are led by each route to the conclusion that 
the musical drama is a cei-tain narrow branch of the drama, and 
is distinguished from the larger division of the spoken drama by 
its special degree of ideahty or remoteness from the particular 
events of our daily experience. 

We have thus far been considering the conditions imposed by 
music on the general character of the poetic subject in the 
musical dmma. We may now pass to the inquiry — How &r the 
requirements of music serve to determine the arrangement of 
parts and the artistic form of the drama 1 What, it may be asked, 
are the rights of music, in respect to form and structure, when it 
enters into union with dramatic poetry t 

The art of music pursues aims and conforms to conditions of 
its own. The attempt of Wagner* to deny all independent 
aesthetic value to music, apart from poetry, must be regarded as 
the weakest part of his theory. The very simplest type of melody 
is determined by conditions which lie wholly beyond the province 
of poetry — namely, tlie laws of tone, and its combinations. Herr 
Wagner's idea of eliciting from poetry the primitive melody that 
slimabers in it, is, no doubt, a very pretty fancy, but is, when in- 
terpreted literally, an absurdity. No natural language of the 
emotions, whatever may be its analogies to music ; no primitive 
type of speecli, however poetic, aflFords an adequate basis of 
tonahty — ^which is a condition of the new dramatic melos, no 
less than of all previous varieties of melody. However appro- 
priate musical fonn may be to poetic material, it is in no sense 
the product of this material, but grew up as an independent mode 
of art. What is tnie of the conditions of the simplest musical 
forms, is true of the conditions of the most complex. They are 
imposed by the laws of tone-impression itself considered as an 
element of a discerning and comparing consciousness, and have no 
immediate connection with the requirements of poetic expression. 

Nothing is more curious in Wagner's theory of music than 
his total inabiUty to recognise the laws which determine the 
growth of instrumental music. The conception that the separate 
development of instrumental music was necessary as a temporary 
process, in order that when it had proved its utmost capacities 
in this isolation it might dutifiilly and penitently return to the 

* One is gUd to see that all the compoaer's disciples do not endorse hia views re- 
specting the Talne of instnimontal music. Dr. Hueffer, in his interesting work on 
Richard Wagner, appears to rejoct this article of the composer's croed. 

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service of poetry, seeme to me about as grotesque an idea of art 
development as one can find, even among the writings of German 
^stheticians. Whatever value absolute music has attained, is 
obviously due to the existence of definite musical laws of pleasure. 
The endless combinations of modem music, the sequences of time 
and key, of movement and counter-movement, which compose the 
highest varieties of tone-structure, were not, and could not have 
been, suggested by poetry, but followed from the laws of pleasur- 
able impression in the domain of tone-sensations. It was the 
vague anticipation of this pleasurable effect which first suggested 
the several elements of classical form, and it is the full realisation 
of this effect which secures to these forms their permanent in- 
trinsic value. If it was worth while inventing the forms of abso- 
lute music for their own sake, it is surely worth while retaining 
them for their own sake.*^ 

We may assume, then, that music, when it voluntarily unites 
itself to the drama, has a share in determining the form of the 
whole. Without seeking to fix the precise amount of this effect, 
we may suggest one or two of its principal elements. 

First of all, it may be said that the highest mode of uniting music 
to a drama is, as Herr Wagner maintains, that of uniting it through- 
out ; accordingly, the whole of the dramatic poem should, as far 
as possible, possess a certain elevated emotional character. 
Further, since musical structure always involves a certain degree 
of unity of emotional character, it follows that the drama should 
be characterised by a high degree of unity of sentiment. The 
more complete the harmony of the parts of a dmma in their 
emotional effects on the mind, the better, cceteris paribus^ is the 
drama fitted for musical treatment. Hence we find that the best 
lyrical dramas are always marked by some iniHng sentiment or 
leading emotional idea, which serves as a basis of a double unity 
— poetic and musical. At the same time, musical form requires 
picturesque variety as much as organic unity, and, accordingly, 
the drama, wliich seeks to be lyrical, must present numerous con- 
trasts of situation, such as are fitted to draw out different orders 
of musical capability. Skilfully to combine a few weU-marked 

* It is worth obBerring that WagDer, while attempting to show the inadequacy of 
initriimental mnsio, reaUy concedes to it the value it claims. A striking iUustration 
of this incongproitj is to be found in a passage of the letter already refen^ to, which 
1 cannot refrain from quoting: "Here," (in the opening period of BeethoYen's sym- 
phonies) ^ we see the proper &ioe-melody, dissected into its smallest ingredients, each of 
which, often consisting of only two tones, appears interesting and expressive now 
through its prominent rhythms, now through its prominent harmonic significance. These 
ptfts Adjust themselves again to ever-new groups (^Gliederungen), now collecting in aoon- 
^utont series stream-like, now scattering ^emselves as in a whirlpool, always fascinating 
^7 >o plastic a movement that the listener cannot for a moment withdraw himself from 
^bair mpreasion, but, stimulated to the highest interest, is compelled to attribute to 
4VSI7 humonio tone, and even to every rhythmic pause a melodic meaning. ' The 
^hdly new result of this process was the extension of melody, through the richest 
^J^l^topment of all its motives, to a large lasting piece of music, which was nothing else 
TOi » tingle closely connected melody.**— {^Zuhinftsmusikj p. 43.) 

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dramatic contrasts in a total unity, so as to provide ample scope 
to the composer for pleasing and effective co-ordinations of 
musical phrase and mood, is an art attainable by a few only. 

Passing now to the detailed parts of the musical drama, we 
observe, first of all, that the addition of music to a dramatic 
subject necessitates a number otf definitely lyrical situations, in 
which feeling may express itself freely and exhaustively. Such 
moments must stand in marked contrast to the moments of 
the progressive action. I quite concur with Herr Otto Jahn, who 
maintains, in opposition to Herr Wagner, that the lyrical drama 
must not be a perpetual flux, but must contain points of repose* 
** It is," he says, " according to nature, not only that single 
feelings should be suggested by leaps {sprungweise)^ but also 
that this perpetually renewed partial tension should be followed 
by a complete intensive satisfaction — a pouring out of the 
excited feeling, which must necessarily spread itself out."* It 
is this law of our emotional nature which forms the basis of the 
prolonged aria form, against which Herr Wagner is never weary 
of directing his attack. The aria is a complete and rounded 
vocal form, which offers ample scope for a rich, various, yet 
united melodic structure. It is obvious that there is no room for 
this musical form amid the rapid progressive movements of a 
dramatic action ; but it constitutes a fit and beautiful motdd for a 
pure emotion when raised above a certain intensity, and needing, 
as Herr Jahn remarks, a lengthy and satisfying utterance. It 
may be safely asserted that an opera which is replete with 
beautiful airs, appropriately united to the drama, will always bo 
esteemed superior to one which lacks these elements, t 

A similar line of remark applies to the harmonic forms of the 
chorus. Whether we regard the function of the dramatic chorus 
as that of co-actors who enter into the action itself and preserve 
their individual characters (as Wagner maintains), or as that of 
impartial sympathetic onlookers (as illustrated in the Greek 
chorus), or finally as both one and the other — ^which seems quite 
as reasonable an idea as tlie others — the condition of choral 
song is a sympathetic mass of feeling in a number of minds. 
Hence the action should offer frequent situations which appeal to 
the emotions of masses-^that is, the comparatively simple and 
universal feelings of human nature. It is evident that this con- 

♦ Gtsammelte Avfsalze uber Musik, p. 144. Horr Jfthn's critiques on TannhSuser and 
Lohengrin should be read by oil who are desirous of forming an impartial judgment on 
the merits of the new German opera. 

t It is rather odd that Horr Wagner finds it a positive demerit in an operatic melody 
that the audience are likely to find it singable and so to carry it home with them. It 
does not follow that because there aro many poor airs, which, thanks to a catching 
rhythm, are apt to haunt one's musical memory, no worthy melody is thus retainable. 
There is a pleasurable half-voluntary retention of a melody and a painful involuntary 
survival of it. No composer can afford to ignore the former, though he may bo fully 
justified in avoiding the latter. 

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dition will be satisfied whenever the primary feelings of the 
drama are of the typical character already described. The mani- 
festation in a beantifol form of a broad and elevated human 
sentiment, such as qildet resignation to an inevitable woe, or pure, 
devoted love, will always appeal to sympathetic bystanders. 
•Once more, the claims of music in the lyrical drama are seen in 
the demands of the orchestra for moments and circumstances in 
which it can display its characteristic powers. As a niere support to 
vocal melody the orchestra is limited.* The full beauty of instru- 
mental music calls for undivided attention, and should reveal 
itself when the action is silent. How fine are the opportunities 
afforded to the composer by the moments when bodily movement 
and gesture take the place of speech ! When the mind of the 
actor is cast in on itself in soKtary thought, or eye meets eye 
with an intensity of hope or despair which enthrals speech, the 
orchestra may seek, by means of its rich and varied colouring 
and its subtle imitations of vocal tone, to give a beautiful, if a 
vague, expression to the inaudible movements of the soul. It is 
possible that a much freer use of this function of orchestral 
music might yet be made, and that scope might be afforded not 
only before and between the acts, but in the very midst of a 
scene, for complete orchestral movements in strict relation to a 
series of feelings.t 

One other point in the effect of music on the structure of the 
drama needs to be considered — ^namely, the verbal form which it 
serves to impress. This is obviously a metric form, as being one 
which best harmonises in its dignity and beauty with the musical 
vesture, and at tl^e same time one which most easily lends itself to 
musical treatment. If prose is often the best medium for a 
spoken drama which closely imitates the incidents of real life, 
verse appears to be the medium required by the elevated and 
ideal subject of the lyrical drama. And, further, the regular and 
-symmetrical structure of the verse, clearly supplies the most 
fitting verbal mould into which a well-ordered melody can pour 

This influence of music on the verbal foi-m will show itself, too, 
even in those parts of the drama which are least lyrical. In the 
more rhetorical parts of the dialogue where the musical ac- 
companiment is unobtrusive and restricted — namely, in the recita- 

* The orerlooking of thia limit frequently leads to OTorloading the vocal part with 
orchestral adornment. This excess is the natural result of the rapid progress made 
in the fabrication and use of instruments, and may be found in the works of the best 
"awters of instrumentation. 

t Hitherto the chief occasion for erchestral elaboration has been some pageant which 
"•cmed to require a rich ornate style of music. It is curious that Wagner, who seeks 
*o extinguish Meyerbeer's art by terming it " decorative music," is particularly strong in 
'wii* direction. Wagner's fondness for prolonged scenic effects, such as one finds in the 
JWcwnons and assemblings of TarmhSuser and Lohengrin^ seems to indicate a true instinct 
'or tile di£FerenceB between the operatic and the simply dramatic. 

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live — ^the language should not be destitute of a certain poetic 
beauty, and should be ordered in a pleasing rhythm. The canou 
laid down above, that the lyrical drama should be emotional 
throughout, requires that even the dialogue should possess a 
certain warmth of colouring — should betray, that is, an intensity 
of behef, an earnestness of purpose, which, though not strictly 
speaking emotional, is very closely related to feeling proper. 
And the presence of this attribute, which raises the dialogue of 
the opera above the discourse of common life, justifies a certain 
measure of rhythmic, if not metric, regularity of form. When the 
language is of this form, its investiture by music becomes more 
easy and natural. The fairly regular distribution of the poetic 
accent, and the partial di^HLsion of the discourse into balanced 
measures, allow of the addition of something like a melodic form* 
though of one less perfect than that which answers to a finished 
verse-ptructure. It follows from what has been said above, that 
the more musical every part of the lyrical drama can be made 
(consistently with the preservation of its dramatic force), the 
higher, in an aesthetic point of view, will be the value of the 
whole work.* 

There are other aspects of the influence of music on the 
structure of the drama, which, since- they are of less importance, 
or, on the other hand, are sufficiently obvious to one who accepta 
the general conception of the opera here adopted, do not call for 
special discussion. As examples, I may name the need of a 
certain lyrical type of character — that is, of a nature highly emo- 
tional, and instinctively demonstrative in the utterances of it» 
feelings, the desirabihty of a high measure of picturesqueness in 
scenery, dress, and gesture, so that the visible spectacle may 
harmonise in its beauty with the audible impression. Other 
eflFects of a similar kind may probably suggest tliemselves to the 
thoughtful reader. 

We have dwelt thus at length and in detail on the influence of 
the musical on the poetical side of the drama, rather than on the 
reciprocal influence, because the former seems to have been greatly 
overlooked by writers on the subject, though it is probably quite 
as important as the other. It is necessary^ however, in order to 
give something like an adequate account of the musical drama^ 
to recognise the fact that there is this reciprocal action, and that 
it is of considerable extent. The opera is dramatic before it 
becomes musical. A dramatic action can cflfect a good result 
without the aid of musical accompaniment : a series of musical 
pieces, vocal and instrumental, such as are required by the opera, 

* Tho history of the recitatiTe, from its first meagre forms as reciiativo secco in tho 
hands of the early Italian composers, to its rich deyelopment in the hands of Wagnor, 
illastrates a growing perception of the essentially poetic character of the opera in all 
its parts. 

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becomee unintelligible, apart from the dramatic interpretation. 
This is so obvioTiB, and has been so frequently insisted on by 
writers, from Gluck downwards, that we scarcely need to enforce 
it by lengthy argument. 

We may, perhaps, briefly sum up the influence of the laws of 
the drama on the character of dramatic music in the following 
propositions : — 

(1.) The drama being, even in its most lyrical varieties, the 
manifestation of a human, or quasi-human action, which, inasmuch 
as it consists of nimierous mental processes, and of a complex 
series of results, must always make certain demands on the 
visual perception and the understanding of the spectator, is ex- 
posed to the danger of being hidden by music, as by a veil, instead 
of being interpreted by it as by a new voice. If the composer 
merely seeks to display all the possibilities of music, aU the 
capabilities of the singer and the instrumentalist, without any 
reference to the subject-matter of the drama, the whole effect will 
be discordant and inartistic. Music, while asserting her own in- 
aKenable right to be beautiful, must select that order of beauty 
which best befits the poetic subject. The musical accompaniment 
should be, not a mere adventitious adornment to the drama, but a 
beautifully fitting robe, which, instead of hiding, indirectly reveals 
the form it encloses. That is to say, the composer, wliile seeking 
to give proper heed to the inherent laws of musical form, must 
observe at the same time the emotional and poetic relations of Iris 

(2.) Every drama involves processes and events which are but 
Kttle emotional, comparatively quiet trains of thought, deliberate 
executions of plans, and so on ; and in relation to these parts 
music has to exercise a special amount of self-restraint. A qmet 
passage of a dialogue is simply spoilt by being tmnslated into an 
elaborate melodic expression, and a comparatively ordinary action, 
which may be a necessary link in the development of the plot, 
becomes ridiculous when accompanied by an exquisitely beautiful 
orchestral movement. In other words, a lyrical drama is never 
equally musical throughout, and the composer -must observe the 
moments and situations which call for an unobtrusive musical 

(3.) Even in moments of the most intense and the most elevated 

* This prmcii^e xnanlfeBtly excludes from the opera the more elaborate forms of 
mmic which appeal to the understanding rather than to the emotion of the hearer. 
Ajq adequate perception of the relations of a fugue, for example, is only possible when 
"^ attention is nndiyided. These laws of structure, moreover, have no close connection 
^th tfa« emotional side of music. 

t It is no less obvious that the musical accompaniment must retire from notice when 
^ litaation is one of intricacy which calU for the spectator's concentrated attention, 
^i which cannot ba interpreted by musical language. Yet, as we have observe I, such 
*^taa||)Qs should, as far as possible, be avoided in the lyrical drama. 

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emotional expreseion, music has to observe certain obvious limits. 
The feeling which calls for a full and complete utterance is still 
an element of a dramatic action, and has bounds set to it by this 
circumstance. If we loiter too long in the indulgence of a certain 
train of emotion, and wholly give ourselves up to a dominant mood, 
we are likely to let sUp the dramatic thread, and to lose interest 
ill the evolution of the story. The composer is under peculiar 
temptation to expand unduly these lyrical effusions, since his art 
is never more successful than when it has to interpret a single 
emotional mood. The utterance of a powerful and pent-up feel- 
ing in appropriate melody, though a necessary feature of the 
lyrical drama, must always be characterised by a certain modera- 
tion. It must present itself as a natural and temporary pause in 
the progress of the action — not as an interruption of it. This 
tmth was clearly perceived by Gluck, who sought to shorten the 
aria stinictiu-e, and to banish from the opeiu, once and for all, the 
bravura figures with which the earUer aria was ax^customed to 
adorn itself in the interests of the singer, who was chiefly bent on 
astoxmding his audience by feats of vocaKsation. Gluck's own 
arie are models of the form most appropriate to the dramatico- 
lyrical order of sentiment.* 

From all the foregoing considerations we are led to the con- 
clusion that the relation of music and poetiy in the lyrical drama 
is not, as the Wagnerites say, one of servant and lord, but one of 
fellow-sei-vants to a common lord. The highest aim of the musi- 
cal drama is reahsed when both poetry and music co-opemte in 
producing a large and harmonious whole. In order that it may 
be large, each must have as free a scope as possible for the em- 
ployment of its own peculiar agencies. In order that it may be 
harmonious, each must Hmit itself in mutual concession. That is 
to say, each must seek to observe what the other requires as its 
appropriate function, and learn to regulate its own activity in 
harmonious relation to this function. Poetry niust content itself 
with being musical, and music with being poetic, and in. this 
manner the two will combine to produce something wliich is 
neither poetry nor. music, but a product of both. 

We say that our Une of discussion has led us to this cancbmon^ 
and yet we must confess that this theory has been quite as much 
the assumption as the conclusion of our reasonings. The doc- 
trine that in the opera music is wholly subordinate to the poetic 
subject cannot be refuted by a demonstrative chain of reasoning. 
The highest function of any form of art is tliat which produces 

* It may be worth adding that the bravura flight is not universally bad art, as some 
of the most delicious arie of Mozart suflSciently testify. The temporary lingering on a 
single word, and even on a single syllable, may bo highly natural when the associations 
of the word or the emotional colouring of the syllabic sound gives it a peculiar precious- 
noss to the singer's mind at the time. 

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the largest amount of refined and enduring pleasure to a 
cultivated mind. It is, of course, permissible to say that a drama 
which is wholly free to pursue it own aims, and to employ music 
fdmply as an auxiliary, will yield a purer and larger delight than 
one which has to Hmit itself according to the extraneous require- 
ments of musical art. All that one can urge by way of argument 
against this theory is as follows : — (1.) Music, with its present wealth 
and complexity of structure, requires a certain amount of liberty 
to follow out its own laws ; and to tie down the art to a rigid con- 
formity to the poetic theme, supposing this to be possible, is 
obviously to miss a large part of the effect of musical art. Unless 
ih&full beauty of musical form is compatible with dramatic spec- 
tacle, it seems scarcely worth while to call in the aid of the art 
at all. (2.) The history of the opera sufficiently establishes the 
proposition that a high degree of musical beauty is fully com- 
patible with dramatic force. From these premises it seems to 
follow, at least as a probable inference, that the largest quantum of 
aesthetic pleasure, and consequently the highest aesthetic value, is 
realised by that order of opera which seeks both a dramatic and 
a musical end. 

One other question presents itself in this discussion — What rank 
among the arts must be assigned to the musical drama as it has 
been here conceived ? HeiT Wagner, as is well known, looks on 
the lyrical drama as the highest development of all the arts, 
inasmuch as it employs the principal of them, poetry, music, and 
painting, in one large and harmonious sensuous impression, and 
Kubofdinates them to the production of a homogeneous emotional 

The first thing, perhaps, in this theory which strikes the reader 
as an objection, is its apparent contradiction to the whole pre- 
vious development of art. When the arts were in their infancy, 
combination was their necessarj- law : they were each too 
feeble to walk singly. As they grew and became more complex, 
they were not only able to wallt alone, but were, in a sense, com- 
pelled to do so. Thus painting outgrew the limits of mural 
decoration, and music the* leading of song and dance. That 
process of differentiation which characterises the evolution of art, 
as of all evolution, involved the separation of the individual arts. 
As each art acquired a more distinctly marked province and aim, 
it required greater liberty in the fulfilment of its function, and 
this liberty was only attainable by independence — that is, by 
separation of activity. 

Herr Wagner's doctrine appears to be defective in attaching 
too high a value to mere quantity of assthetic impression, and too 
little to the elements of purity and tranquillity. It strikes one that 
this error displays itself in the composer's works. With all the 

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splendour of effect which such woits as Lohengrin iindoubtedly 
produce, the mind is apt to suffer from a sense of being over- 
laden and satiated. The whole series of effects is too sensuous 
and too emotionaU One longs for moments of comparative 
repose when each sense, no longer distracted by so gorgeous a 
simultaneous impression, might enjoy its own world of beauty in 
perfect purity, and when, too, the quiet play of the understanding 
(that interloper, according to Herr Wagner) might relieve and 
supplement the over-stimulated activities of sense and emotion. 
Herr Wagner seems to think the sole condition of harmony in 
art is the co-ordination of distinct seiies of impressions in the 
closest possible coiTcspondence. He does not recognize that„ 
with the conditions of our modem and highly-developed arts, the 
most perfect harmony of impression is only attainable by a style 
of art which, instead of labouring to invade the soul, so to speak, 
by every avenue of sense, modestly seeks to' find a way to its 
inmost regions by one single avenue. It would seem to be 
obvious that before the whole nature of man can be thus satisfied 
at once by one complex work of art, its several parts must 
become enfeebled and attenuated. 

We would assign to the musical drama a very high place 
among the arts, but certainly not that unique rank claimed by its 
newest representatives. As we have said, the opera is the residt 
of a compromise between two arts which have attained a large 
amount of independence ; accordingly, it cannot exhibit all the 
powers of music, for these have long ago outgrown the function 
of distinct poetic expression ; neither can it exhibit all the powers 
of the drama, since these, through their number and complexity, 
often defy the interpretation of music. The musical drama seeks 
to represent a comparatively simple and highly emotional action, 
having a certain beauty, and so susceptible of musical accom- 
paniment. When thus restricted, it is capable of realising a 
considerable hannony of impression, with a variety which need 
not distract nor confuse ; hence it claims a place among the most 
delightful forms of art, though aesthetic science has as yet no 
data for determining its exact altitude. 

James Sully. 

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* Let our Mtrtitgth be the law of Justice.*' 

Wifl MAM. 

THE Year of Grace nngraeiously yielded by the Nation to the 
Church, ere the relations between the latter and the former 
be changed, has nearly passed away. The twelve months granted 
by Parliament to the Clergy of the Established Religion, to decide 
whether or not they will receive at the hands of the State alone 
decisions upon the doctrine,* ceremonial, and discipUne of Christ's 
Church, has nearly gone. Men have had space for reflection.' 
They have had opportunity of seeing things as they are, not as 
they have been depicted. They have had leisure to reconsider 
their opinions, and te estimate the eflfect of their acts and words. 
Men's hearts have had time to recover the strain to which 
they were subjected by justifiable excitement from within and 
unjustifiable irritation from without. Men's minds have been able 
to weigh more dispassionately and less angrily the real issues at 
stake — ^though formerly they may have failed to reahze them. 
They have been able to study the point in debate, historically 
as well as a matter of policy, legally as well as by the light 
of religious controversy, constitutionally as well as under the 

* ThMt the PabHo Worship Regtdation Act directly affects matters of doetrim Trill 
be prored at length, and is assumed throughout the paper. It is of the chiefest im- 
portance that this fact bo clearly realised. It suffices here to say that, at the first 
Taeancy in the Coort of Arohot, the new Judge becomes ex officio its Official Principal. 
Every cause, therefore, which would have come before the legitimate Dean of Arches will 
now come, either in the first instance or in first appeal, before the new Jud};^o created by 
Act of Parliamont This is true whether a clergyman be prosecuted under the provisions 
of the new Act of 1874, or of the old Churcli Discipline Act ; and is unafTectod by the 
postponement of the Judicature Act, or by the renewed vitality temporarily infused into 
tiw Judicial Committee of the Privy Council 

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influence of undignified panic— though they once failed to see that 
any qnestions of constitution, law, or history were involved. In 
short, a calm has followed the storm. Persons, on both sides, are 
calculating the results — what has been gained ; what may yet be 
lost? what is inevitable ; what may still be remedied ! They are 
asking — ^who actually caused the turmoil ; what has it already 
done ; what will be its efiect in the future f 

At such a moment, it is not imfit to ask : What answer to the 
Nation will the Church return at the close of the year of grace t 
What reply will the Clergy make to Parliament when the twelve 
months' reprieve shall have expired! What will they say to their 
flocks, whom they have taught that Christ's Kingdom is not of 
this world; and to the World, who knows that they have so 
taught? What will they say to their own conscience, which 
believes in the CathoUc Church ; and to God, Who knows they so 
believe f Are they prepared to witness unmoved the personal and 
official abandonment of spiritual authority and power, in one word, 
of Jurisdiction, by their bishops ? Are they prepared to accept 
from the State alone, and in defiance of Church law, a purely 
secular tribunal for purely spiritual causes? Are they willing to 
accept, in any case, from a member of the legal profession 
appointed under the sole authority of Parliament, civil decisions 
on the mysteries of the faith, the details of worship, the lodes of 
Christian duty ; and to obey such decisions, if the truth be thereby 
compromised ? Are they willing to retain office and to exercise 
sacred functions in a Qiurch episcopal (speaking popularly) in 
essence as well as in form, with a fundamental element of epis- 
oopal jurisdiction witiidrawn under one aspect, and with every 
shred of it torn away under another ? Are they content, in a 
word, to become the servants of an Act-of-Parliament Church — ^in 
responsible positions indeed, and highly honoured of the world in 
their servitude ; but yet, in subjection, in all they hold dearest and 
prize most highly and believe most firmly, to the temporary iiiling 
of an uncertain majority in the House of Commons? Will they 
teach or cease from teaching ; will they act or cease from acting; 
will they retain God's worship as the Church of Christ has 
ordered, or mould it after some other fashion, according to the 
decisions of tiie State-made judge ? Will they in morals, in cere- 
monial, above all in doctrine, now consent to be boimd by, where 
hitherto for countless ages they have been free from, the decisions 
of an impalpable thing called the National Will, as expressed by the 
unequivocal votes of a popular assembly largely composed of Jews, 
Nonconformists, and Infidels ? Will they obey man in the place 
of God ? For such, stated in plain language, is the alternative 
placed before the Clergy of the Established Religion. Such is the 
conflict precipitated, prematurely and unwisely, between the 

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Giarck and the World in England. The position here indicated 
muflt be mastered before any sober and well-coneidered answer 
can be given to the question — ^Ought we to obey the New Court in 
Spiritual Causes ? 

It is fully time to ask these questions distinctly and to obtain a 
definite answer to them before July, 1875, comes — a date which 
may be predicted with certainty to be a turning-point in the 
higtoiy of the Church of England. It may possibly prove to be 
the beginning of a new era in the history also of a Nation hitherto 
blessed by the union of Church with State. It is fully time at 
this, the eleventh hour, for two reasons : 

Firstly ; because it is an unhappy fact, in looking backwards on 
the past twelve months, that we can point to no declaration from 
oar presumable leaders to help us, the rank and file of the High 
Church party, to form a judgment on this momentous subject ; to 
no statement of piinciple to instruct us ; to no line of action for 
us to follow. So far as the present writer can gather, not one 
of our great men, whom we respect and to whom we would 
Hgten, has uttered a sound or made a sign to influence those who 
look to them for guidance at this juncture. No doubt reasons 
sufficient to themselves have caused this silence, since the 
Bill became law — for they spoke with no uncertain sound at 
S. James's Hall in 1874. Perhaps it indicates that the time 
for teaching is over, and that the time for passive endurance 
and suffering resistance has begun. But the silence can be 
otherwise interpreted, both by friends and enemies. Perhaps it 
is but the last proof, that the only leaders which the CathoUc 
party acknowledge, and wherein consist its supernatural power 
and unprecedented success, are Catholic Principles. But, under 
any hypothesis, the fact remains. The truths which are imperilled 
and denied have not been enforced afresh upon us, nor defended 
before the world, nor even stated for discussion or considera- 
tion. The course which we ought to adopt as an important 
and advancing party in the Churcli, or as imits of the party, has 
not been indicated. Shall we stand or fall together : and how 
will either alternative be practically possible? Shall we allow 
the weak to be overpowered or the impopidar to be attacked : 
and how will the popular and the powerful amongst us (for such 
there are) assist their brethren! Shall we directly agitate for 
Disestablishment, and as a step to that end move for the relief of 
the bishops from their duties in the House of Lords : or patiently 
await its inevitable, if not quick approach ? Shall we, as a last 
i^GBource and in self-defence, in order to save our conscience, 
'■^tire iuto lay-communion — whatever that term may import for 
^ who are priests : or shall we remain at our posts, individu- 
ally disendowed and disestablished, turned adiift by the power of 

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the State, but yet ministering as priests to all who shall privately- 
come to us, and laying in each parish the foundation of a Free 
Cliurch of England of the future : or shall we, as mere spectators, 
inertly witness the gradual but sure disintegration of the old 
historical Church of England at the pleasure of a non-Christian 
ParUament, whose will in spiritual matters is now, for the first 
time, to be enforced as law ? To some of these questions at least 
we might reasonably have expected a reply from distinguished 
men. It is not improbable that some of the questions -^dll find an 
active solution on the part of many pei-sons, although no verbal 
response has been made by our leaders. 

Secondly ; it is time to ask these questions, because we are face 
to face with the Act of Parliament which necessitates their answer. 
It is no matter of antiquarian research. It is no matter of history, 
legal or constitutional. We know its parentage. We have wit- 
nessed its origin and growth. We are conscious of its develop- 
ment — its changes, contradictions, and vacillations. We can con- 
ceive its effects ; and have been threatened with its ten-ors. 
Moreover, wc are aware of the lines of mere tempomry policy 
upon which the measure was based, and the principles of truth 
ignored by its enactment : of the expediency which will dictate 
its operation, and the rights and powers invaded when it shall bo 

Two facts alone are sufficient to discredit the Act of 1874 with 
all Church people. 1st : It violates the principle of the English 
constitution formulated by Lord Coke, but acted upon from time 
immemorial, that " ecclesiastical laws are to be administered by 
ecclesiastical judges," and it may be added, in Ecclesiastical 
Courts. 2nd: It has destroyed, partially and virtually in one 
case, wholly and absolutely in another, the legal juiisdiction 
of the English episcopate, the spiritual authority and power of 
our bishops. Hence, one may be excused, however feeble the 
effort, for making an attempt to answer the question of obedience 
at this crisis of the Church. 

For it is a crisis in the Church's career in this kingdom of 
England — a crisis of which we of middle age have not seen the 
like, a ciisis of which those who read histoiy and study theology 
have not heard the like. Theology need hardly be called to 
supply evidence of the outrage inflicted upon the first principles of 
the Chiistian Religion, in the mutual relation of the temporal 
and spiritual powers. Any elementary catechism of the faith will 
furnish materials for fonning a right judgment. But history, though 
we have continual evidence in how many ways it may be read, 
can produce no exact parallel to the present ecclesiastical and civil 
paradox. Cases may be quoted, indeed, which offer a partial or 
one-sided resemblance. In the domain of dogmatic truth, the 

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episcopate of a province may have surrendered the deposit of 
faith, as in the wide-«pread defection dnring the Arian heresy. 
Whether or not this may be considered a parallel instance to the 
action of the English bishops in regard to their spiritual jurisdic- 
tion, it may be hoped that the parallel extends to the cure as well 
as to the disease. For, under episcopal desertion, it was the 
priesthood and faithful laity who preserved the sacred trust of 
Catholic truth in the early ages. It may be by the suffering resist- 
ance of the clergy and the passive endurance of the people that, 
in these latter times, the authority and power of the bishops may be 
regained, and the liberties of the Church may be restored. The 
present instance, however, is unique in the annahs of Christianity. 
It may be more respectful to those in authority, and it is not less 
trae to fact, to conceive what the historian of the future will be 
forced to record, rather than to state what contemporary criticism 
may remark. The events which must appear on the page of 
history, when relieved of the technicaKties of the legist or poUti- 
cian, are these : Firstly ; that the entire episcopate, as individual 
bishops, of a National Church, in the nineteenth century of grace, 
voluntarily surrendered to a non-Christian popular assembly its 
own inherent and really inahenable spiritual rights and powers. 
In other words, the Public Worship Regulation Act of 1874, either 
rirtnally or absolutely, destroyed the legal jurisdiction of the 
English bishops and archbishops. Secondly; that, as a conse- 
quence of the parliamentary action of the bishops, again as 
individuals, spiritual causes were heard and spiritual sentences 
were pronounced, on and after July 1st, 1875, by a judge who was 
wjcular, and in a court that was civil, under the sole authority of 
ihe temporal power. In other words, that when the Act in ques- 
tion came into operation, it violated a fundamental principle of the 
Christian Religion, which had from the first been respected in the 
corporate union of Church and State. 

The latter statement of the future historian needs no explanation. 
Every lawyer admits its tiiith. A poUtician of the eminence of 
Mr. Gladstone has repeated the dictum of Lord Coke as appKcable 
to these times. The fonner statement may be annotated, at 
least in its qualifications. The distinctions aimed at are these. 
The Pubhc Worship Regulation Act has virtually destroyed^ the 
legal jurisdiction of the English bishops, because for certain 
causes, namely, those contemplated by the Act, and at the will 
and pleasure of three parishioners, the twenty-eight Diocesan 
Conrts of first instance, which synchronise with Christianity, are. 
legally abolished. The Public Worship Regulation Act has ahao- 
lutdy destroyed the legal jurisdiction of the English archbishops 
because, for every cause, of doctrine, discipline, or ritual, it enacts 
the legal aboKtion of the two Provincial Courts of first appeal at 

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"Ganterbury and York. In the first caee, the Act provides for the 
hearing and decision of the cause by a lay judge appointed under 
the authority of its own enactment. In the second, the Act dis- 
tinctly states, that " all proceedings (including necessarily queer- 
tions of doctrine) thereafter taken before the judge (of its own 
creation). ... within the province of Canterbury, shall bo 
deemed to be taken in the Arches Coui-t." The same law applies 
to the Chancery Court of York. In both provinces " this section 
shall come into operation immediately after the passing of this 
Act," and " whensoever a vacancy shall occur in the " offices in 
question. In view, therefore, of the virtual aboUtion of the twenty- 
eight Diocesan Courts in certain causbs, and of the actual abolition 
of the two Provincial Courts in every cause — ^both at the instance 
of the bishops themselves — ^is it wide of the mark to affirm that 
we are passing through a crisis in the, Church's career ? 

Circumstances have made the writer conscious of a wide-spread 
conviction amongst the clergy of almost every diocese, that the 
authority claimed for the Court and method of procedure estab- 
Kshed under the Public Worship Regulation Act is contrary to the 
first principles of ihe Christian Religion. There is good reason to 
believe that this conviction is shared by even a wider range than 
personal observation has enabled him to take. It is true, that not 
to an equal extent is there agreement as to the course of action 
which such a belief necessitates, or suggests. But conviction 
must precede common action, to be effective; and it is an en- 
couraging fact for the possible future of the Church of England, 
that a large number of her most faithful and zealous clergy 
concm- on the ecclesiastical illegaUty of this measure. They hold 
it to be subversive of the Church's system. It is time, again, 
that the clergy in question do not all agree in the reasons which 
lead to the common consent. Some honestly confess that the 
subject of jurisdiction is one which has not been specially studied 
by them. Some are loyally miwilling to think that the bishops 
themselves were really aware of the legitimate consequences of 
their unadvised action, or that their action will have the fatal 
consequences which seem to be inevitable. Others, with a matter- 
of-fact view of the case, conceive that practically we are not 
much woi-se off than before, in the exercise of ecclesiastical juris- 
diction ; and that it were better to be judged by an impartial 
barrister than by a bishop whose impai-tiaUty might possibly bo 
questioned. And others, again, take a hopeful, not to say a 
sanguine view, that the New Act will become, under possible con- 
tingencies, what many an old law has proved itself to be, a dead 
letter. But all, more or less firmly, hold that- the measure of 
1874 legally deprives the episcopate of spiiitual authority and 
power which it is essential for a Christian bishop freely to enjoy 

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and use. WeD may they thus hold, if it be in any wise true that 
the twenty-eight Diocesan Courts are (for certain causes) virtually 
abolished, and the two Provincial Courts are (for every cause) 
absolutely abolished by Act of ParUament ; and that henceforth, 
in tiie Church of this land, spiritual causes are to be decided by 
a lay judge in a civil court created by the secular power. 

These circumstances have induced the present writer to place 
on record and to offer for consideration the following thoughts on 
the new Court for the trial of ecclesiastical offences. Had the 
question been one of abstract theological ti-uth on deep Chiistian 
verities, which required learning for its discussion, he had not 
attempted to treat it. But the elements of tlie faith alone are 
actually concerned, which lie on the surface of rehgion. Had the 
question been one of intricate State poUcy, or of obscure constitu- 
tional right, which required professional training for its mastery, 
he had not ventured to touch it. But the elements of legal and 
political knowledge only are necessarily involved, which are 
ahnost axiomatic. No doubt hard theological propositions and 
difficult problems of law and politics are, or may be, connected with 
any full treatment of the subject, in its origin or its results. No 
doubt both divines and lawyers can import obscurity into the 
question and display learning in the argument, which will have 
the effect, if it were not the object, to confuse and blind. But 
the plain statement of first principles, and their direct appHcation, 
and the resolute avoidance of collateral details which hide the 
main issue, will enable any one of average mental power, and 
ordinary historical and theological acquirement, to form a judg- 
ment in this matter if not un-erringly right, at least not seriously 

The writer, with a deep sense of the gi'avity of the situation 
and of the responsibiUty which is inseparable from the task, 
ventures to address himself to the subject of this paper with 
confidence : ventures, because many would more effectively plead 
for the faith ; with confidence, because nonfe could be more cer- 
tain of the premisses, nor more assured of the ultimate result. He 
approaches it as both priest and citizen. As priest, he has learnt 
the theological truth which supports Hn^ constitutional principle 
that '' ecclesiastical laws are to be administered by ecclesiastical 
judges," and with regard to recent enactment it may be added, in 
ecclesiastical courts. As citizen, he has seen the reports day by 
day, in the pubUc papers, of the origin, growth and completion of 
a Bill in Parliament which enacts that spiritual causes are to be 
decided by a secular judge and to be decided in a secular Court. 
The old constitutional principle is at one with the first principles of 
the 'Christian BeUgion. The new Parliamentary enactment is 
defitmctive of them. As both citizen and priest, then, the writer 


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feels at liberty to ask his brother clergy and fellow-countrymen — 
Ought we to obey the New Court and method of procedure created 
before our eyes, which legally violate the fundamental principles 
of the faith, and unconstitutionally cancel the contract of our 
ordination vows 1 A counsel of disobedience to any authority is 
at all times a dangemus comise to adopt. To a clergyman it is a 
painful one to advocate. It can only be justified when the con- 
science is absolutely convinced that it has to decide between 
what is due to GOD, and what is claimed by man. Perhaps it 
were better in such a case to supply materials for a reply than 
directly to make answer to the question. 

Materials may easily be supplied. But before they are furnished, 
it may be well to state other and perhaps less important objec- 
tions to the authority claimed for the Court and method of pro- 
cedure established under the Public Worship Regulation Act ; as 
well as to its mode of enactment, and to some of its results. 

In addition to the two chief objections already urged, namely, 
I. the legal suppression, whether virtual or absolute, of the spiritual 
jurisdiction of the bishops and archbishops ; and II. the imcon- 
stitutional infringement of the principle that ecclesiastioal laws 
are to be administered by ecclesiastical judges,'the following may 
with confidence be affirmed : There e.nsts no Act of Parliament on 
the Statute Book, in relation to Hie Churoh, comparable to the Act of 
1874. This is beyond controversy, whether the Act be viewed 
in regard to its subject matter ; or to the mode, objects, and re- 
sults of its operation ; or to the authority which either alone 
created it, or was deliberately ignored by it. Let us define these 
points of comparison in order. 1. The subject matter of the Act 
(so far as the present argument is concerned) is the spiritual juris- 
diction of the episcopate, in questions of the doctiine, discipline, 
and ceremonial of the Church. 2. The mode of it« operation 
(under the Hke limitation) is the unprecedented way, in either 
Church or State, in which the lay judge of the new civil Court for 
the trial of ecclesiastical offences is appointed, together with his 
method of procedure. Its objects, expressed in brief, are the pix>- 
nouncement of spiritual sentences in a secular Court by a civil 
judge. Its results, amongst others that may be named, are con- 
fusion and intrusion, as well as the abolition of episcopal juris- 
diction, in the same or different dioceses and Diocesan Courts, 3. 
The authority (again with the same conditions) which was ignored, 
it may be ahnost said which was defied, was the co-ordinate 
authority of Convocation ; and the sole authority which enacted 
it was that of Parliament. 

There is no widi to deny that one, or more of these elements 
may be separately predicated of other legislative Acts affecting 
the Church. But this admission gives additional force to the 

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assertion, that all of tliem combined can be affinned of no other 
measure. For instance: 

Convocation may not have been consulted in relation to Acts of 
Parliament which bear upon the temporal side of ecclesiastical 
questions : but, in relation to their spiritual side, legislation similar 
to that of 1874 has never yet been forced upon the Church in defi- 
ance of Convocation. The method of procedure in ecclesiastical 
causes has no doubt been dealt with by Parliament. But it has 
only been so dealt with of late years, and since the suppression 
of Convocation ; never to the present extent, nor in the present 
manner. And om* complaint is this, that the new legislation affects 
much more than mere methods of procedure. The subject matter 
of the.Act has before been the object of legislation : but not before 
has episcopal jurisdiction been tampered with, much less has it 
been abolished, either in part or wholly. The last feather turns 
the scale. It is the cumulating wrong of the Public Worship 
Regulation Act which makes it intolerable. In the eyes of 
Churchmen, its sin is cumulative, both, in kind and degree. And 
in its composite wrongfulness consists the force of the question — 
Ought we to obey the New Court which it has created ? 

Let us note these points more in detail : 

I. We may at once put aside all Acts of Parliament which con 
cem merely testamentary and matiimonial matters, questions of 
time and money, forms of procedure and punishment, subdivisions 
of sees or union of parishes, and the creation of suffragan bishops, 
as clearly without the range of the present enquiiy. We may 
also, of course, disregard aU Acts which merely gave legislative 
sanction to measures which possessed the authority of Convocar 
tion, whether directly or indirectly; and those wliich merely 
aflh:ed legal penalties to the breach of that which Convocation 
had already condemned as wrongful. These Acts of Parliament, 
and there are a large number of them, are essentially different, are 
diiFerent in principle as well as in detail, from the Act of 1874. 
Their omission from consideration relieves us from a ^dde field of 
investigation. Beyond such hmits, it has been conclusively proved 
upon documentary evidence, that " from the Reformation down- 
wards" to the year which -witnessed the creation of the Final 
Court of Appeal, now declared by the voice of the nation to be 
moribund, there is no legislative action comparable to the Public 
Worship Regulation Act. The only measure wliich in any degree 
resembles the Act of 1874, (after the creation of the Com*t of 
Delegates, which Avill be considered below) was the Act which per- 
niitted judges of Ecclesiastical Courts to be married men, or being 
laymen to exercise, under spiritual authority, legal jurisdiction. 
But such relaxation from ancient rule did not affect the two points 
on which our grievance against the New Act is based. It jjid not 

K 2 . 

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violate the constitutional principle, before mentioned. It did not 
infiinge the legal jurisdiction of the bishops, before named. 

Hence, the legislation by ParUament alone on the subject 
matter of the Act of 1874 vitally affects the question — ^whether or 
not we ought to obey the Court and Judge to which the Act gave 

II. Again : The mode, objects, and results of its operations are, 
as an Act of the civil power, without parallel in the history of 
the Church. Thus : 

i. Viewed legally, how is the new judge appointed, to whom 
we are expected to yield obedience in spiritual matters? Of 
course, solely under the authority of an Act of Parliament. But, 
beyond tliis — by what instrumentality? Before a reply be given, 
it may be said, by an agency absolutely anomalous in either Church 
or State. Not by the Archbishops alone ; for the civil power 
must be a consenting element in the appointment. Not by the 
civil power absolutely; for the Archbishops, under conditions^ 
may nominate, and can in some sort be said to appoint. By 
what agency then ? The Act is clear and decided on this point : 
By that of the Crown, by Letters Patent in the last resort : at 
any stage, subject to the approval of the Crown : under certain 
conditions only, and still with the sanction of the Sign Manual, 
by the joint action of the two primates. A chain possesses the 
strength only of the weakest Hnk. The Act of 1874 has only 
the power of its feeblest clause. Speaking ecclesiastically, the 
weakest clause is the one which enacts that " her Majesty may 
appoint," " the Official Principal of the Arches Court." Such is 
the Statute law of England of to-day. The two Archbishops, if 
they concur in their choice, if they concur within a period of six 
months, may nominate to the vacant office — ^to be held " during 
good behaviour" by — "a person," "qualified" as we shall see 

It need not be said, bow irreconcileable is this matter of nomi- 
nation and appointment, even legally, with the constitutional 
mode adopted from time immemorial in the Clmrch of England. 
Observe, the constitutional method, by which the Archbishop 
alone appointed his own Official Piincipal, was the mode recognized 
by the State, legislatively, judicially, and executively. The Arch- 
bishop's Official Piincipal became one of the aclcnowledged judges 
of the land. But now, beaiing in mind theological differences in 
high places, and the Hmited number of persons really competent 
to act as an ecclesiastical judge, it is not improbable that the twa 
primates might disagree in their choice, or might fail to agree 
within six months. . Even supposing agreement within the allotted 
period to be possible, the Act still violates fundamental principles 
on the appointment of an ecclesiastical judge. The judge repre- 

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scnteJ the niind of the bishop who appointed him. The bishop 
appointed the judge on his own sole and individual authority. 
These, heretofore, were common-places in Canon Law. They 
are now both contravened by Act of Parhament. In no case, in 
the future, will the judge of the Provincial Coui-t be appointed 
by the sole authority of the Archbishop. Under favourable 
ciremnstances, the new judge will essay, in the north and south 
rvfipectively, to reflect the opinions of two co-ordinate archie- 
piscopal nominees. Under hostile, but not improbable circum- 
stances, the new judge wnll reflect the policy of the leader for 
the moment of the dominant faction in a popular and non- 
Qiristian* assembly. 

ii. Viewed spiritually, what are some of the objects of the New 
Court which we are supposed to obey ? The objects are at least 
two-fold. Firstly, to pronounce decisions in spiritual causes. 
Secondly, to enforce such decisions by spiritual sentences. On the 
first, it might be enough to say — ^if we take the weakest link of 
the chain by which to test its strength — that " a person" appointed 
as we shall see by Letters Patent from the Crown as " a judge of 
the Provincial Courts," does not strikingly fulfil Lord Coke's canon 
of constitutional law, nor the requirements of the law ecclesiastical. 
On the second, it might suffice to note the scandal, which appears 
to be imminent, of purely spiritual sentences being pronounced on 
purely spiritual persons in Courts of law, with an ecclesiastical 
title indeed, but as to origin, authority, "rules and orders," judge, 
mode of procedure and sentence, purely secular and civil. 

But something more has to be said on a spiritual view of the 

First: What are the quahfications of the "person" nominated, 
whether by the sole will of the premier, or by a compromise 
between the two primates, to the office of " a judge of the Pro- 
vincial Courts t " Here again, the chain must be tested at its 
weakest part. The Act itself may reply — " A ban-ister-at-law 
who has been in actual practice for ten years." To a Christ^ 
ian man, not to say a priest ; to one who holds the article of the 
Creed, " I believe in the Holy Catholic Church," not to say a High 
Churchman, such an answer is startling. It would have been 
appalling, could the reply have been made apart from the lowering 
influences which are inseparable from the agitation connected with 
8uch a measure as the Public Worship Regulation Act. Has it 
then come to this, that the old traditional and historic Church of 
England is content to see placed as " a judge " in her metropolitan 
Court of appeal in spiritual causes, " a person " who has practised 
ten years as an advocate at the common bar ? Is the Clmrch of 
England prepared to submit to the decision of a secular lawyer of 
ten years* standing all causes, moral, ceremonial, and doctrinal, 

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which of right may be brought before her ancient and spiritual 
Provincial Couiis? Are her sons so fatally demomHzed as to 
recognise the judgments of a youthful barrister-at-law on questions 
which need the mature ^\dsdom of divines even to entertain, or 
which may actually have divided Christendom into antagonistic 
schools? God grant that neither the Church, nor her loyal sons may 
be capable of such treachery. 

Second : What is the subject matter of the decisions of the new 
judge of the Provincial Courts ? The gravity of this question can 
hardly be exaggerated. It has been supposed amongst the 
clergj" who may be made the first victims of the new legislation, 
and it has been widely disseminated, that together with other and 
even less dignified matters, of the " fabric, ornaments, and furni- 
ture " of the Church, questions of "mere ceremonial alone" \^dll be 
decided in the newly created Court. Passing by the studied affront 
to Di\ine Worsliip which is intended by such a phrase, an affront 
which is offered to all who believe with the Creed of S. Athanasius 
that "the Catholic Faith is tliis, that we worship One God 
in Trinity" — it may suffice to say that such a statement falls 
short of the tnith. Ceremonial, indeed, will be adjudicated upon 
in the New Court; but not ceremonial alone. Every question 
wliich might have formerly come in appeal before the old legiti- 
mate Provincial Court, may now be taken in the firat instance 
before the newly-made judge. The section which provides for the 
appointment of the "person" to be " a judge of the Pro\Tncial 
Courts " oame " into operation immediately after the passing of 
the Act." Hence, on the first vacancy which occurs in the office 
of the Dean of the Arches, any barrister of ten yeai*s' standing may 
be called to decide on the highest verities and deepest mj'steries of 
the Cathohc Faith. Tliis point has not received the attention 
which is due to its supreme impoi-tance. It must not be for- 
gotten that, in its mode of operation, the PubKc Worsliip Regula- 
tion Act directly affects not only the discipline and worship, but 
also the doctrine of the Church of Christ. 

iii. Viewed ecclesiastically, what may be the aspect which 
the newly-created Court and the newly-made judge take, when 
ob6dience to them in the matter of jurisdiction is claimed at our 
hands? Without straining overmuch the ancient theory of the 
episcopate, it may be asserted with little danger of contradiction 
as an abstract principle, that the integiity of a bishop's office 
demands two conditions. Fii*stly, a bishop must have both 
authority and power to pronoimce spiritual sentences within the 
limits of his own diocese. Secondly, his diocese must be free from 
the like sentences being pronounced by any other bishop. 

The first condition, it is obvious from a glance at the Act of 
1874, is openly disregarded. If it be urged, it is only on questions 

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of which Divine Worship is the most important, that the bishop's 
jurisdiction is withdrawn : we reply, Canon Law has ever included 

the Worship of God amongst those questions which are within the 
province of a bishop to decide. " I speak of canonical judg- 
ment" (says De Marca, quoted by Dr. Pusey), "wherein the question 
was of faith, eeremoniesy discipline of the clergy, or any canonical 
question." This is the answer of a Churchman. But there is 
another answer which a politician will respect. The Act of 1874, 
in withdrawing the legal jurisdiction of the bishop and placing it 
in the hands of one appointed by the authority of the State, 
commits the constitutional blunder of dividing the legislative and 
judicial powers. It would seem that our legislators, whilst in some 
instances boastfully ignorant of Church law, were equally forgetful 
of their own principles in Stated-craft. What civil government 
could exist for a day, if the authority for its legislative and judicial 
powers were divorced 1 Yet, this is the strange anomaly which 
the State attempts to force upon the Church. An authority 
which has no power to make law assumes power to interpret 
law. In other words, the State, which is powerless to legislate 
for the Qiurch, has usurped power to adjudicate for the Church, 
in spiritual matters. 

The second condition needs no professional knowledge to enforce. 
Its import is self-evident in relation to any well-ordered civil 
community, and much more to the Divinely organized society of 
the Church. But into what ecclesiastioal confusion does the Public 
Worehip Regulation Act precipitate the Church of England, in 
both its provinces and in aU its dioceses? Into a disorder which 
is chaotic. Not onlyy for the purposes contemplated by the 
Act, is the ancient ecclesiastical authority and power of the 
twenty-eight comprovincial bishops legally abolished, but the 
modem Parliamentary jurisdiction of the two primatial aeea 
becomes confused in regard to themselves, becomes intruded 
in regard to others. For, upon what principle, civil or spiritual, 
it may be aaked, does Canterbuiy combine with York in the 
appointment (subject to the approval of the Crown) of a per- 
ambulating judge to serve in two incongruous capacities ? The 
idea is foreign to every principle of Canon Law. The reality is 
tmknown to the history of Christianity. From time immemorial in 
^Church and Kingdom there have existed of ecclesiastical right 
and national sanction, either with or without the official titles, the 
judge of the Provincial Court of Canterbury, and M« judge of the 
Provincial Court of York. In the nineteenth century an Act of 
Parliament has created a new thing in national law which it seeks 
to graft upon Church law — ^^ a judge of the Provincial Courts of 
Canterbury and York " united. Such an abortion in legislation is 
inconceivable to ecclesiastical procedure. It is a worthy product 

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of a popular assembly widely including Jews, Nonconfonnists, 
and Infidels, whicli aspires to rule the Church of CHRIST by the 
promptings of a National conscience ; of a popular assembly 
whose action on reUgious topics an admixture of Greek, Latin, 
and English Catholicity is insufficient to confine within the 
limits of even National Christianity, Jurisdiction, then, may be 
assumed to be confused. It is also intruded. For, even if we 
can admit the right, as the Act has given power to the two 
primates to exercise a confused jurisdiction in the appointment of 
a judge for their own Courts of appeal, two questions may fairly 
be asked by any of their suffragans. Durham in the north and 
London in the south may claim to know why the confused juris- 
diction of Canterbury and York combined is intruded upon them ? 
Chester and Chichester may seek to learn, upon what principle of 
Canon Law such intruded jurisdiction is enforced in cases of first 
instance by means, be it observed in passing, of a Court of first 
appeal ? It may be left to the authors of the ecclesiastical chaos 
to answer both questions. 

Hence, again, the legislation by Parliament alone on the mode, 
objects and results of the PubKc Worship Regulation Act, viewed 
in certain aspects only from a legal or spiritual or ecclesiastical 
position, materially affects our reply to the question, whether or not 
we ought to obey the New Court and judge which the Act created ? 

III. Once more :• By the passing of the Act of 1874, the 
* authority of Convocation was not only deUberately ignored ; it 
was over-ruled, and even to a certain extent defied. In this fact 
is contained another element in any answer to the question of 
obedience which may be made by a priest, whose ordination vows 
pledge him, and only pledge him to **the discipline of CHRIST, as 
this Church and Bealm hath received the same." Whatever may be 
the value of the declaration, (of course it lacked the sanction of the 
Upper House) the Lower House of the Convocation of Canterbury 
decidedly pronoimced against the Bill then under debate. A 
Committee had been appointed to consider the Bill. After pro- 
posing a large number of amendments, extending over four closely 
printed pages, their Report concluded as follows: "The Com- 
mittee after having . . . carefully considered the provisions of the 
Bill • • • deeply regret that, even with the amendments suggested, 
they are unable to recommend legislation in the manner proposed 
in the Bill." They also add a statesman-like corollary in favour of 
the Church Discipline Act being repealed, and the existing Con- 
sistory Courts being reformed, as suggested in their Report, and 
as the only legitimate way to meet existing difficulties. It is 
needless to say that the advice of Convocation was not accepted. 
It was not even avowedly entertained. The Lower House of the 
York Convocation indirectly arrived at a like conclusion. 

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At this stage of the argument it is enough to point out a 
dilemma in which the temporal power has placed itself. The PubUc 
Worship Regulation Act does one of two things. It is a legislative 
Act which either only regulates ecclesiastical procedure, or effects 
more than the regulation of procedure. If it does more than 
regulate procedure, as we hold that it does, from the history both 
of the Church and Nation of England, it is clear that Convocation 
as a whole ought not, upon constitutional principles, to have been 
ignored, nor in one chamber at least to have been defied. If it 
does less than legislate upon first principles, as some of its defenders 
assume, ue. if it only regulates procedure, the following facts, 
brought to light by the research and learning of the Rev. E. S. 
Grindle, in a recent pamphlet entitled "Canon or Statute," 
(Hayes) published in the form of a Correspondence with Lord 
Selbome, have to be met and dealt with. He shows, from docu- 
mentary evidence : 

Ist. That (with the exceptions above mentioned) "from the 
Reformation downwards" to the year 1717 "the discipline of the 
Church and the constitution of the Ecclesiastical Courts were re- 
garded as within the province of Convocation." This Mr. Grindle 
proves, not only from the acts and records of Convocation itself and 
"the claims which that body made on its own behalf, but also by 
the actfi and admissions of the Crown and its responsible advisers." 
It need only be added, that the State officially recognized such 
dealing with ecclesiastical procedure by Convocation, by endorsing 
and acting upon it. 

2nd. That " during the period in which legislative enactments 
affecting the (procedure of the) Ecclesiastical Courts were made 
l)y Convocation, the Statute Book is absolutely barren of any 
such enactments made by Parliament." It is only seventy years 
after the forcible suppression of Convocation that " we find legis- 
lative enactments, directly affecting the internal constitution of 
the Ecclesiastical Courts, made by Parliament without the assent of 
the Church." Mr; Grindle well adds : " The system thus begun in 
1787 has brought the Church to a state bordering on disruption. 
It is incompatible with the profession of the Church of England 
that she is reformed on the model of the Primitive Church." 

How will the authors of the Pubhc Worship Regulation Act 
escape from this dilemma? On the lowest view of the case 
(one that a Churchman cannot accept) the recognized authority 
which, in the history of Church and State, had hitherto decided 
matters of procedure ought not, on constitutional principles, 
to have been ignored, much less defied. On the highest view, in 
regard to the exercise of spiritual jurisdiction, which has been 
sappressed, the case is even stronger. 

The last point to be noted in this place is the fact that the Act 

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of 1874 was passed by the sole authority of Parliament. It would 
be sufficient to leave this statement to speak for itself, were it not 
that the ingenuity of some whose minds are ill at ease may seek 
to elude the force of this plain position. They may be fain to 
apply a salve to their conscience. The supposititious reasons 
alleged for obedience to the New Court and judge may b© hypo- 
thetically combated. For example : Men may say that the 
Church came to the State and asked for legislation ; and that 
Parliament having legislated at the request of the bishops, the 
clergy are bound to obedience. Men may say that the fact of 
the bishops having assisted to pass the Act of 1874, and having 
secured a veto upon its operation, either positively or nega- 
tively supplies a wanting spiritual element in the gross : and 
that the new judge working in harmony with the bishop of a 
diocese, or the bishop confirming the decisions of the new judge, 
suppKes the element of spirituaHty in any given case. Men may 
say that the old Court of Arches and the old Judicial Committee 
possessed no real element of spiritual authority, according to 
ancient precedent ; that the new Court of Arches and the new 
Supreme Court possess none ; and hence that if obedience were 
paid to the one, it is due to the other. Men may say that obe- 
dience may be rendered under protest. 

Take these reasons in order : 

(1.) The weakest of all the stimulants, as the salve really becomes 
on application, is the last — the argiunent in favour of protest. To 
act against conscience, under protest, is a weak device of a feeble 
mind« But supposing a protest offered — ^in what terms would it 
be made? to whom would it be given I who would receive it 1 
where would it be deposited? what would be the effect of it? 
whom would it benefit in the future ? whom would it defend at 
the fjteseut? (2.) The argument against the spiritual authority 
alike of aU the Courts is more difficult to answer. Somewhat will 
be said on this hereafter. But the true answer is this : Under ex- 
isting circumstances we cannot wait till perfection be found in the 
matter of obedience. We must have some source of authority to 
which to defer. The Arches Court possessed an element of autho- 
rity. Two wrongs do not make one right. It is bad poUcy to 
destroy one authority which some acknowledged by creating 
another authority which none will acknowledge. (8.) The argu- 
ment that the bishop, either before or after the decision by a civil 
officer in a secular Court, can supply an element of spirituahty is 
difficult to grasp. Take the latter case : How can the bishop 
confirm, or otherwise influence for good or ill, the secular decision ? 
This Itrgument pre-supposes that the bishop's jurisdiction is legally 
destroyed. In what Court then could the sentence be legally con- 
firmed I K there be no such Court, would a paiish priest feel 

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bound to accept the mere individual expression of liis diocesan's 
private opinion ? If the sentence be not binding in conscience 
before, it conld not be binding after, such expression of episcopal 

The negative argument (4.) in favour of submission to the judge, 
from the fact that the bishops hold in their hands the practical 
working of tlie Act, and by their veto, in any given case, can sus- 
pend its operation, cuts two ways -and proves too much. K credit 
be claimed for any individual prelate for the absolute suspension 
of the Act in his diocese, or against any particular priest ; what 
sentence must attach to any other prelate who allows of its being 
enforced ? If credit be claimed for the episcopal body which suc- 
ceeded in securing the right of veto ; what verdict must be passed 
upon the order itself which made such concession possible, by firat 
voluntarily surrendeiing to the will and pleasure of ParUament 
their legal jurisdiction ? (5.) The positive argument in favour of 
obedience to the Court, from the fact that the bishops assisted to 
obtain the enactment of the Bill, and from the statement that the. 
Church asked the State to legislate upon a spiritual question, is 
foxmded partly in truth and partly in fiction. The bishops, as 
spiritual peers, undoubtedly co-operated in legalizing the New 
Court. But neither the Church, nor any who represented the 
Church, sought from the temporal power spiritual authority. Two 
facts tend to prove this assertion. 1st. In their corporate capa^ 
city, as an episcopal college, the bishops took no action whatever 
in the passing of the Act. To the minds of many, such absence 
of corporate action is an evidence of providential interference 
by the Divine Head of the Church. The Bill was not introduced 
mto the Upper House of Convocation. It is clear, then, that 
the personal concurrence of individual members of a corporate 
society cannot compromise, or in any way commit^ the body as 
an integral whole. 2nd. The idea which has occm-red to some 
nunds, of a council of bishops petitioning ParUament to pass 
the Act, is imreal. Nothing comparable to a coimcil was held. 
Nothing comparable to a council, xmder existing ecclesiastical 
law could be held outside Convocation, as binding on the Church. 
Whatever abstract opinion may be entertained on the relations of 
the two bodies, or upon the privileges and powers of one of them, 
there actively exist at the present moment, and there have, in fact, 
existed time out of mind two chambers in the sacred Synod of the 
Anghcan Church, with co-ordinate powers. The voice of the 
English Church is to be heard in the combined utterance of both 
Houses of Convocation, not in the separate resolution of either. 
This is the law of prescriptive right in the Church of England, and 
is part and parcel of the English constitution. It is not needful 
to defend the position from a theoretic standpoint. It is enough 

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to say that in the Anglican Communion the priesthood possesses, 
and has ever possessed, in the matter of legislation, co-ordinate 
powers with the episcopate. Even if it could be affirmed that the 
Upper House of Convocation had petitioned Parliament to the 
end in view, the Church would not have been compromised. But 
it cannot be so affirmed. In truth, there was nothing comparable 
to a council of the bishops taking action in the matter. There 
was, it may be admitted, something very hke a cabal. 

Hence, the enactment by the authority of ParUment alone, and 
the defiance of the rights and priA^leges of Convocation in the 
passing, without its concurrence, of the Public Worship Regula- 
tion Act, further and most seriously affects our answer to the 
question — AVhether or not in conscience we ought to obey the 
Court and judge which owe their existence solely to the New 
Act of 1874 ? 

Materials may now be offered for making a reasonable and 
consistent reply to the question of this paper. The main position 
in the argument is now reached, and the two points of leading 
importance may fitly be discussed under one head. The conten- 
tion is this : The bishops have been deprived by the authority of 
Parl^amejit, not only without the consent but against the will of 
the Church, of the legal jurisdiction which is essential to the due 
and full performance of their episcopal office. Such jurisdiction 
involves doctrine, and discipline, and ceremonial. The Church 
has thereby suffered grievous spiritual wrong. The two grave 
issues above stated are only the cause and effect respectively of 
this central position : and both effect and cause are subsidiary to 
it. The virtual or absolute suppression of the Spiritual Courts 
is the cause. That ecclesiastical laws are not administered by 
ecclesiastical judges is the consequence. The clergy are intimately, 
though by no means exclusively, affected by both. It is a matter, 
spiritually, of far more importance to them than the suspension of 
habeas corpus, or any other constitutional principle affecting the 
laity. They have been deprived of a prescriptive ri'ght which lias 
been enjoyed by the Church, and has been used legally with the 
support and consent of the State, from time immemorial. The 
right is one which ParUament did not, in any sense, give ; and 
could not really take away. It is one which existed inherently in 
the episcopal office before ParKament assigned to it legal sanction. 
It is one wMch may still be employed, had we bishops equal to 
the occasion of choosing betw^n Cajsar and Christ, even after 
Parliament has withdrawn from it the sanction of the law. But 
the State, though it cannot touch the principle in question, is 
all-powerful to suppress its legal exercise. And this power it has 
exerted to the full. The State has withdrawn from the bishops of 

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the Churcli legal jurisdiction whicli the episcopate has from the 
first both enjoyed and used. This suppression of legal right, 
consummated without the consent and against the will of the 
Church, is nothing shoi-t of a revolution. 

The deprivation of spiritual right was, if the paradox be 
allowed, parhamentary in form and unconstitutional in essence. 
It has forced the clerg}' into an anomalous position whence they 
can only escape by means which, in consequence of legislative ille- 
gality, may appear to be, but are not, lawless. It has left the clergy 
m a position wliich has no parallel in the history of English 
Constitutional piinciples, in at least three distinct aspects. Even 
from a poUtical standpomt these aspects are worthy of note. 

Firetly: The clergy have suffered deprivation of right by a 
popular assembly into which they alone, as a class, of all English- 
men are disqualified from enteiing. As an order entirely without 
representation in the House of Commons, ParUament has forcibly 
withdrawn from them the prescriptive right of centuries. 

Secondly: The clergy have been thus in a sense outlawed, 
whilst the legislative Chamber in wliich they both can sit and are 
represented has been ignored by ParUament in the conduct of the 
measure by which they have suffered. As a matter of historj'-, 
that Chamber had regulated the major part of the procedure 
now, together with the right, swept away. But in 1874, though 
the course was urged, Convocation was not constitutionally sum- 
moned to initiate, concur in, and confirm the measure of sup- 
pression : nor has it had official opportunity to oppose or condemn 
the Act synodically. 

Thirdly : From the opemtion of these causes, the clergy are 
placed in a position which they never occupied in the times of 
Tudor tyranny, which they have not occupied since the days of the 
great Rebellion. As an imrepresented class and disqualified order, 
they have been subjected to the jurisdiction of a judge whose 
creation and tenure of office is based upon one. authority, whilst 
the law that he administers is based, and almost wholly reared, 
upon another and different authority. This has been effected not 
only without their consent, but, it may be fairly added in view of 
the Report of Convocation, against their will. The clergy will 
now execute their sacred functions under the jurisdiction of a 
secular judge who interprets spiritual law by the sole authority of 
the temporal power. With an imperial government, the autho- 
rity of the legislative and judicial powers have been separated. 
Can a confusion more perfect, poUtical and ecclesiastical, severally 
and jointly, into which professional statesmanship has fallen, be 
conceived] It is one result of the enactment of the Public 
^Vorehip Regidation Bill. 

These anomalies affect, in the first instance and to the largest 

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degi'ee, the cl^gy. But they do not afffect the clergy only. In 
a body politic, as in a body spiritual, if one member suffer, all the 
members suffer with it. It is impossible thus to deal with a class, 
and much more with an order, of men of education, position, and 
influence, unequalled as a whole in these characteristics, who are 
located in every parish and collected in every town of the king- 
dom, and to imagine that the evil will not find you out. In one 
way at least the sin will come home to the political conscience — 
perhaps sooner than is expected. It requires neither a prophetic 
mind to predict, nor a legal mind to perceive, endless and perhaps 
insuperable difficulties in the mere practical working of a measure 
avowedly at issue with Canon Law and not in hannony with even 
Parliamentary legislation for the Church. The New Act was con- 
ceived in too secular a spirit, it was too unskilfully drawn, it was 
too often revised and amended, it was passed too hastily — ^not to 
dwell on faults of greater moment — ^to permit of a smooth course 
in the future. Anyway, the anomalies created by the State alone 
essaying to rule the Church are not matters of opinion, but matters 
of fact. It is a fact, that the bishops have been deprived of their 
spiritual jurisdiction solely by the will of the temporal power, and 
against the will of the Church. It is a fact, that the clergy are 
now forced to accept decisions in spiritual matters at the bar of 
a State-made tribunal of a State-made judge. It 'is a fact, after 
every theological subtlety has been urged, after every legal 
quibble has been exhausted. How ought the Oiurch to meet this 
last attack of the World? By active disobedience; by passive 
resistance ; or by submission ? 

The materials at disposal for making answer to this question 
may conveniently be divided in accordance with the subject matter 
of them. There are at least two ways in which the whole subject 
may be considered with a view of obtaining a right reply. 
Answer may be made in relation to practical action, and in regard 
to theoretic principle. It is possible that the answer may not be 
the same in both cases. It is conceivable that a system theoreti- 
cally vicious may work well ; or being indefensible in practice, may 
yet be sound in principle. And in the various relations between 
the temporal and spiritual powers, the obscurity of their origin 
and the difficulties of their adjustment, neither alternative is 
improbably false in the matter of recent secular legislation on 
ecclesiastical topics. In eithei: case, any answer which we can 
give to the question — Ought we to obey the New Court ? must 
be weighted with conditions. But, if neither alternative may be 
affirmed of the PubUc Worship Regulation Act, the reply to be 
returned must be unconditioned. If it cannot be said, tliat the 
practice is good though the principle is bad, nor that the theory 
is good though its action is bad — ^but rather that action and 

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principle are both hopelessly wrong and vicious — ^then, the evi- 
dence against the Act of 1874 is cumulative, and the verdict to 
be pronotmced will be unanimous and decided. We should have 
been fortified in such a verdict had we been enabled to con- 
sider the evidence for arriving at it from both these standpoints, 
the practical and theoretic. Both are of impoi-tance : and ^ch 
without the other is, in a measure, imperfect. The limitations of 
space, however, prevent the discussion of both ; and a choice 
must be made. The evidence against the New Act from a practical 
fiide is shorter, more intelligible, less unattractive, and equally 
decisive. It need not be said in regard to difficulties in history, 
theology, law, and constitutional politics, that the practical view 
Is not the harder. But the argument from principle can be sus- 
tained, and would be stated, did circumstances permit. Perhaps at 
another time, if not in another place, the present writer may havfe 
an opportunity of facing these difficulties. Indeed some will be 
incidentally met and answered in the following pages. But in the 
main, the practical argument only will be discussed ; dnd even 
npon its merits alone may be confidently demanded, a decision 
hostile to the claims of the PubKc Worship Regulation Act. 

In order to estimate accurately the extent and gravity of the 
practical change effected in the position of the Church by the 
passing of the Public Worefcip Regulation Act, it is necessary to 
remember definitely what position ecclesiastical jurisdiction 
T)ccupLed prior to its enactment. This mfty be done, as far as 
possible, historically, without pledging the present vniter t6 
approve of all that he records — specially on three points, 1. It 
18 beside the mark for him to express an opinion upon the 
ecclesiastical validity of the Arches Court, or its legitimate 
continuity as a spiritual power from ancient times. When 
opinions are so much divided on this involved topic, it would be 
presumptuous to dogmatize. He may add, however, that enthu- 
Biasm for the spiritual vaKdity of the Court has been cooled, since 
the Dean of the Arches has so far acknowledged the jurisdiction 
of the lay Final Court as to decline to hear questions re-argued 
before himself which had been ruled by the Judicial Comimittee : 
and that, not on principle, but from expediency; not on questions 
decided after full, but after ex parte arguments. 2. It is need- 
less for him to point out all the blots in the principle or 
details of the Church Discipline Act, or in the working- of, of 
more truly in the absence of work in, the Consistory Courts 
of the bishops. Convocation itself, in the Report above quoted, 
leaving advocated the repeal of the first and the reform of the 
last, the shortcomings of both need be disguised by no Church- 
^^. Least of all are we committed to the Church Discipline 
Aet which became law dining the time when Convocation was 

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Bileiiced. 3. It would be a work of Bupererogation for any one to 
attempt to undervalue in ecclesiastical matters the constitution, 
mode of procedure,' or judgments of the Judicial Committee of 
the Privy Council. The positive ignorance which its judgments 
display in questions affecting the Church ; the mift-statement of 
facts, perversion of history, confusion of dates, tampering with 
formularies of which it has been guilty ; and, more than all, the 
self-contradictions of its pronotmcements, and the wide-spread 
feeling against their absolute impartiality in unpopular cases, 
have at length produced a re-action. Discredited even with 
the author of its existence, Parliament has decreed its un- 
honoured fall and unregretted extinction. In all three instances 
the writer would fain be free from being supposed to approve 
because he fails to condemn. But unless ecclesiastical dis- 
cord be complete in the Church of England, some point of 
departure must be found or made for our investigation : and the 
existing order of ecclesiastical jurisdiction supplies tiae needful 
basis. Unless we have passed ecclesiastically from one abyss of 
absolute chaos to another, there must be the possibihty of making 
comparisons between what we were, and what we have become. 
And without thinking that the foimer system of ecclesiastical 
jurisdiction was faultless in practice, it may be shown that the 
present system is infinitely worse. That, at least, was bearable. 
This is felt to be intolerable. 

It is now, as it always ought to have been, an accepted prin- 
ciple with the High Church party, that the decision of a lay 
Court of Final Appeal cannot itself compromise the Church which 
does not formally accept its decisions. However ecclesiastically 
inconvenient, it is possible for a Church to subsist in default of the 
existence of a Spiritual Court of Appeal higher than that of the 
Archbishop. In view of the marvellous revival in the Church of 
England during the past half-century, it might be said that a 
Church which lacked such authority could rise from a very de- 
based condition. We have reason to know that this was a charac- 
teristic of the EngUsh mediaeval system of appeals — the decision 
of the Archbishop's Court was, as a iiile, final. With ourselves, 
in any given case, where a Spiiitual Court superior to the Arch- 
bishop's does not exist, a priest may well be content to suffer 
wrong for the truth's sake vnthout himself appealing to a lay 
Court : or being himself taken before the Secular Final Court, to 
suffer wrong upon the appeal of others. He may elect to be 
governed by the decision of the highest Spiritual Court of Appeal 
to which he has access : and observe, without such a Court, a 
Church is deficient in an essential element of spiritual jurisdiction. 
This is the true answer to all taunts levelled against those who 
were content to abide under the legal jurisdiction in ecclesiastical 

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causes of a lay Court of Final Appeal. It would have been a 
sufficient answer in regard to the new Supreme Court of Appeal 
for spiritual causes, had the Act of 1874 not been passed. But it 
is not now. In the former case the clergy had a Bishop's Court 
in which to appear. They had an Archbishop's Court to which 
to appeal. If more was denied them, they suffered spiritual loss 
indeed, but not spiritual death. And this principle \va;R appUcable 
to the old Court of Delegates, is applicable to the more modem 
Judicial Committee, and would have been applicable to the new 
Supreme Court, all of which Courts of Final Appeal stand on the 
same footing, and none of which are spiritual. But the prin- 
dple can go no further than the present. It cannot be apphed in 
the future, in consequence of the enactment of the Pubhc Worship 
Regulation BiU of 1874. 

At the date at which, by a legislative blunder, the Judicial 
Committee was, or was supposed to be, entrasted by Parhament 
with final decisions on appeal in spiritual causes, Convocation was 
forcibly silenced by the State. This is important to be remem- 
bered. Convocation was silenced also when the Church Discipline 
Act became law — ^the Act winch regulated ecclesiastical procedure 
until it reached its final stage. In regard to these Acts of Parlia- 
ment, the priesthood of the Church of faigland of that day^ 
between five-and-thihty and five-and-forty years ago, could not 
be credited with much poUtical foresight. They were regardless of 
the results which might flow from the action of legislation on the 
Church : and the results which actually flowed were wholly un- 
expected by them. Those clergy who were ordained before tbe 
BiUs passed the legislature, had no representative Chamber of their 
own to which to appeal. They were then the only class of 
English citizens, Jews alone excepted — and they remain so still 
without that exception — who were excluded from the assembly 
which they were expected to obey. And those who were ordained 
after the Acts came into operation, were unconscious of the power 
which would be claimed by the State over the Church ; how such 
power would be made to bear on themselves ; how such power 
would be made a fulcrum for the exercise of fresh encroachments. 
In short. Convocation was in abeyance, and ecclesiastical matters 
did not then attract the keen interest from without, nor the jealous 
scrutiny from within, that they secure at present. The clergy 
nunistered as of old, or were newly ordained, in simple faith that 
they were at hberty. to minister *ithe doctrine and sacraments 
and the discipline of Christ, as the Lord hath commanded, and 
as this Church and Realm hath received the same." 

But it is otherwise now. Convocation is no longer gagged. 
It has been revivified. It is in active operation, though it is far 
from being re-organized. The clergy have caught the spirit of 


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the age. In their measure they have become critically aUve to 
their privileges as an order, to their rights as citizens, and to 
their influence as a force in the State. Men cannot enter the 
priesthood unconscious of, or remain in it tmaffected by, the 
fact that, in spite of the remonstrance of on§ Chamber of the 
spiritualty, and that the representative Chamber, the unconsti- 
tutional disregard of both Houses of Convocation has resulted in 
this catastrophe — ^that the State alone has legislated for the 
Church " as this Church and Realm hath not received the same." 
What answer will the Church make to the World upon tiais count! 
Will it passively accept the legislation, or actively oppose it? One 
consideration ought to have weight. Qui" decision will affect the 
Church of the future, whether we are true or false to our prin- 
ciples at this crisis. 

There is a further difference between recent ecclesiastical legis- 
lation and the legislation to which we, as clergy, have given our 
assent by entering the priesthood of the Established Church. This 
difference is obvious over and above the fact that Convocation 
was in abeyance at an earlier date ; and remains after we have 
been pronounced credulous, un-critical, short-sighted, or stupid. 
It is obscured or minimized by those who, ungenerously not less 
than ineffectively, would elevate our silent concurrence with the 
past into a precedent for inaction now, or oompKance in the 
future. But there is a point of endurance at which a worm will 
turn. Speaking in general terms, though definite language might 
be employed, modem legislation in ecclesiastical causes has pro- 
duced two results. First ; leaving untouched the ancient mode of 
procedure and appeal, in Courts of first instance and first appeal, 
Parliament legislated on and altered the Court of Final Appeal. 
This change was made in the years 1832 and 1833. Second ; 
taking the Court of Final Appeal of its own creation as the 
standard of ecclesiastical procedure, Parliament re-organized ftora 
below a system of procedure and appeal, on the summit of which 
the Court now condemned was placed. This change was made in 
the year 1840. Now mark the difference. In both cases, although 
the last stage in the appeal for spiritual causes was of temporal 
authority only, the Archbishop's Court of Finst Appeal (the Arches 
or Chancery Court) escaped secular handling. It was esteemed 
too venerable, if not too sacred, to be lightly deprived of its pre- 
rogative and power. In both cases, again, the Episcopal Courts 
of first instance (the Diocesan Courts) were maintained in their 
relative position, either in complete or partial integrity. It was 
felt by legislators even thirty years ago that Couits which had 
prescriptive legal rights of many centuries, and in essence were 
coeval with Christianity itself, ought not to be tampered with, 
much less suppressed at the will of the House of Commons alone. 

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In other words, in spite of a lay Cotirt of Final Appeal (which we 
have seen to be a mirfortime, not a crime ; to involve spiritual loss, 
but not death), the Church still retained, under indirect Parlia- 
mentaiy confirmation, her Consistory Courts and her own Court 
of Appeal from 1832 to 1840. In spite of secular interference 
with mere modes of procedure, which practically re-confirmed 
legislatively all that it did not alter; in spite- of Parliamentary 
legislation on the course and limit of appeals, the Church of 
England still possessed Courts Christian presided over by her 
prelates, and Courts of appeal presided over by her primates, in 
every diocese and in both provinces, from 1840 to 1874, Can the 
like be said now? It cannot, with truth. For certain oauees 
spiritual the Bishops* Courts have been virtually abolished. For 
every cause spiritual the Archbishops Courts have been absolutely 
abolished. Both have been suppressed by the sole authority and 
power of Parliament alone. Both have been suppressed without 
the consent and against the will of the Church. Is it too much 
to affirm of the TQeasure which produced these results, that it has 
effected a revolution t The PubKc Worship Regulation Act lays 
a firm and broad foundation for the future Disestablishment of the 
Church of England. 

In 1874 came the change which materially affects our position 
as clergy of a Church established by law, who are also priests in 
the Church of GoD. The change is one which certainly has 
altered the legal status of the Church in this country in regard to 
itself, and must alter its corporate relations with the State. Per- 
haps no agitation from without, on the part of the Liberation 
Society, has caused such a shock both to those relations and to 
that status as the convulsion from within, at the will of ParKament. 
It is no exaggeration to say, that many a staunch and respectable 
ecclesiastic, not to speak of a large following of the faithful laity, 
has been converted to opinions which others have been maligned 
for advocating j^ little too early in the day. By the change which 
has ensued from this act of legislation, from a beHef in the union of 
Church and State, they now perceive the absolute necessity of 
a severance between Church and State. For, to speak again in 
general terms, the change was this : WhiLsrt; adhering to a final 
appeal to the Crown in Council — ^though in what form the Act is 
ominously silent — ^the legislation of 1874 produced two results, 
both of which are subversive of the first principles of the faith. 

Firstly : For certain spiritual causes it swept away every vestige 
of episcopal jurisdiction which had time-honoured sanction from 
the law. It enacted (the reader must forgive the repetition) that, 
itt such cases, the jurisdiction of each of the twenty-eight prelates 
in his own diocese to try spiritual causes in the first instance 
should virtually cease. This, of course, involved the correlative 

L 2 

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enactment that the clergy were to the like extent removed from 
the spiritual jurisdiction of their legitimate superiors in the Church. 
Moreover it ruled that, in the place of the spiritualty deciding 
spiritual suits, a secular ^'peraon" should adjudicate upon the 
things of God. 

Secondly : In every spiritual cause Parliament swept away the 
right of appeal to the ancient and legitimate Provincial Court 
of the Archbishop. It enacted that the individual and personal 
jurisdiction of the two primates in their own provinces, to hear 
spiritual appeals from the Courts of their suffragans, should abso- 
lutely cease. Moreover it ruled that, instead of ecclesiaBtical laws 
being administered by ecclesiastical judges, " the judge " under the 
authority alone of the temporal power — any barrister of ten years' 
standing at the least, and appointed in the last resort by the Crown 
— should preside over both Courts of appeaL In the place, there- 
fore, of the old system of jmisdiction which, with more or less 
exactness, has obtained in England from the introduction of 
Christianity, and was preserved throughout the altemtions effected 
from 1832 to 1840, a system novel in itself, without precedent, 
without example, equally imknown to canon and civil law, equally 
foreign to all recognized jurisprudence in Christendom — ^has been 
forced upon the spiritualty by the will and pleasure of the teni- 
poralty alone; 

This is the revolution in Clmrch and State which has been 
effected by the PubKc Worship Regulation Act. 

At the expense even of repetition, it is needful on behalf of the 
cause pleaded for to state these points with all possible clearness. 
It is necessary for two reasons. 1. Because, both m and out of 
Parliament, members of the legislature have allowed themselves to 
say, that the New Act merely simplifies procedure in ecclesiastical 
matters; whereas, in truth, it is legally destructive of spiritual 
jurisdiction. 2. Because, even amongst our friends son\e are 
sufficiently credulous towards a transparent inaccuracy to accept 
this lame excuse for tampeiing with divine things; whereas, 
to judge of the offence by the position of the offendeA a humble 
apology is due, with immediate satisfaction, to an outraged 
Church. If any point has been proved in the above pages, it is 
this, that the exercise of lawful spiritual jurisdiction has been sup- 
pressed in the Church of Christ by the temporal power alone. To 
a Churchman, nay to a Chiistian who has any belief in the super- 
natural and its revelation to men, this suppression involves a vioUtr 
turn of first principles in the Catholic Faith. To him, and even to 
unprejudiced men outside the Church, the withdrawal of jurisdic- 
tion is more than a simplifiGotion of procedure. Indeed such language 
in the ears of either sounds like a deUberate misapplication of 
terms. Tho reqmrements of place and power may necessitate 

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verbal sophistry, But we need not dispute over language. It is 
no question of logomachy. Facts, not words, are what we de- 
nounce. It is the fact of the abolition of legal jurisdiction of 
which we complain, not the language employed to convey this 
fact. If forced to use, in a non-natural sense, which one at least 
of those who press this argument has in formei days condemned, 
the technical jargon of the Coui-ts, we will say that the so-called 
"simplification of procedure" in spiritual matters by the secular 
power alone involves a " violation of firet principles." And we 
ask, with confidence in the answer of all true Churchmen, and of 
all consistent Nonconformists — Ought we to obey the New Court 
which by Act of Parliament " simplifies " away the *' principles " of 
the Catholic Faith? 

For instance : 1. It is said by those accounted as friends of the 
Cliurch — ^Yes : It is true, that the New Act creates a new Court, 
with a new judge and a new method of procedure ; and that the 
authority of all — ^procedure, judge. Court, and Act — are based 
upon the authority of the House of Commons. But still, it is yet 
possible that the cause may be conducted under the directions of 
the old procedure. It is possible to appear before the old judge, 
and to be convicted or acquitted by the old Court : in other 
words, to be prosecuted under the Church Discipline Act instead 
of under the Act of 1874. To this argument the rejoinder is 
obrious. If the apologist for the suppression or abolition of the 
Church Courts by the State affirms that the victim of persecution 
can exercise a choice, tmder which form of procedure liis enemy 
shall attack him, then, the plea may be admitted. But, if the 
choice rests, as it practically does rest, not with the defendant, but 
^th the prosecutor, then, the plea is fallacious. 

2. It will be more respectful to the office of the one, and more 
modest in regard to the position of the other, if the present writer 
<luote8 without remark the words of two persons of exalted rank 
who, in this matter, can hardly be accounted our friends. The 
opinions of both are concisely stated in the pithy language of the 
Bishop (Fraser) of Manchester, in a speech before the Diocesan 
Synod, November 26th, 1874, " that by this Act, the law of the 
Church of England, whatever that was, had not been touched in 
one jot or tittle.*' This exhaustive statement is a short and easy 
method of settling the argument. The Archbishop (Tait) of 
Canterbury and an ex-Lord Chancellor (Selbome) have also pro- 
nounced upon the point. In his speech at the Diocesan Con- 
ference at Maidstone, held early in the present year, an account of 
which appears in the Gvardian of February 3rd, the Archbishop is 
reported to have said : " The bunkum which was talked about a 
veiy harmless measure, which he had the honour of proposing in 
the Upper House of Parliament, produced tbe idea that there was 

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a greater dislike of obeying the law than really existed. His sole 
object in proposing that measure was to obtain a quiet and expe- 
ditious and inexpensive way of having the existing law obeyed." 
The Archbishop adds, in words which^ if not misreported, contain 
a nazve admission of truth : *' It was thought, and not unnaturally, 
that there was moi o in the Bill than this." Lord Selbome writes 
thus, in a letter which was published in the Times : •* The Bill 
will,^if it passes, 1 e merely a measure for shoilening and simplify- 
ing to a certain extent the legal procedure in a certain class of 
cases now cognizable under the present cumbrous procedure of 
the Ecclesiastical Courts." Lord Selbome adds : " All such enact- 
ments as to procedure in ecclesiastical causes have, from the 
Reformation downwards, been made by Parliament." Competent 
Authorities have pronounced that Mr. Grindle's historical de- 
molition of this statement, in the pamphlet above quoted, is 
complete. If answerable, it has been unanswered. Pending any 
reply, one would be tempted to inquire of either of these eminent 
men in Church and State : If the effect of the New Act constitutes 
a change of procedure only, what would constitute a change of 
principle t 

We shall be able, perhaps, better to realize what changes have 
been wrought in our system of ecclesiastical jurisdiction, if we call 
to mind how suits were conducted under the Church Discipline 
Act of 1840. The record of them will more clearly show whether 
we suflfer now from a simplification of procedure, or from a viola- 
tion of principle. The line of conduct which the Act prescribed 
was somewhat involved, and it is not easy to give an accoimt 
of its action at once lucid and full. This confusion arises from 
the discretionary power vested in the bishop and the alternative 
course which may be adopted, by either complainant or prose- 
cutor, at different stages of the suit. It will tend to persjncuitj', 
if the discretionary powers on the one hand, and the alternative 
course on the other, be overlooked; and an average case be 
described. A beneficed clergyman commits an offence ecclesias- 
tical within the range contemplated by the Church Discipline Act. 
A complaint is lodged against him before the bishop of the 
diocese. The bishop consents to investigate the complaint 
judicially and issues a Commission of Inquiry. The commission 
sits as a Court, hears coimsel, and reports to the bishop that there 
ifi groimd for fuiiher proceedings. Neither party — and this is 
hardly hypothetical — consents to abide by the decision of the 
bishop ; and the case proceeds judicially. The bishop then hears 
the cause, the evidence being given upon oath, in liis own Con- 
sistory Court, with the assistance of three assessowj — one of whom 
*• shall have practised not less than five yoars in the Court of the 
ArchbiHhop," to secure o:i the bench one member at least with a j 

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knowledge of ecclesiastical law. In due course, sentence is pro- 
nounced by the bishop (the Act is careful to add), " according to 
the ecclesiastical law." So far as the diocese is concerned, the 
canae is finished. An appeal in the first instance Ues to the Arch- 
bishop in the Arches Court, and from thence in the last resort to 
tiie (>own in Council, and shall be heard (the Act is again careful 
to add) before the Judicial Committee of the Privy Coxmcil. 

The present writer simply describes the order of procedure as it 
existed. He offers no opinion on the ecclesiastical aspect of the 
working of the Church Discipline Act. A Uberal inteii)retation of 
tiie wording of one clause in the Act suiEces to bring its pro- 
cedure into harmony with ancient ecclesiastical precedent. The 
twenty-third clause enacts that " no proceeding against a clerk in 
Holy Orders . . . shall be instituted in any Ecclesiastical Court 
otherwise than is hereinbefore provided." This clause at least is 
patient of, if it does not necessitate, a meaning which would make 
the hearing of the cause before the bishop to take place in the old 
Consistoiy Court of the diocese. The cause may indeed be heard 
to some extent differently in detail, but still it is to be heard in 
the same Ecclesiastical Court. In other words, the procedure is 
changed, but the principle remains unaltered. On the other 
hand, the New Act, before it is enabled to legislate according to 
the requirements of its promoters, is forced to anticipate a pre- 
liminary objection. It rules, by clause four, that " proceedings 
taken under this Act shall not be deemed to be such proceedings 
as are mentioned" in the above-named clause in the Church Dis- 
cipline Act. This disavowal seems to point to more than a 
change only of procedure. The Public Worship Regulation Act 
absolutely sweeps away the identical spiritual Courts which the 
Church Discipline Act specially confirmed. If this be a simplifica- 
tion of procedure, it is one which cannot be distinguished from a 
violation of piinciple. Two points, however, are beyond dispute 
in the working of the Church Discipline Act. In the first place, 
nnder its provisions, it was possible for a priest to be tried and to 
defend himself in the Diocesan Court of his own bishop. And in 
the second place, it was competent for him to appeal, and to abide 
by the appeal, to the Provincial Court of his archbishop. 

Thus, so far as a clergyman was concerned, justice might bo 
had m one Ecclesiastical Com-t and an appeal lay to another. Be- 
yond this point a priest need not proceed : and resting there he 
enjoyed the like privileges in trial and appeal that the English 
clergy of the middle-age Church enjoyed, neither more or less, from 
the twelfth to the sixteenth century. Neither Comt, indeed, as a 
fact, exactly corresponded with the ancient Courts Chiistian. In 
natters of detail and procedure, or in legitimate descent, or in 
question of appeal, the existing Courts were not identically at one 

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with their predecessors. But so far as they did represent the 
Courts whose name they bore — and that was sufficient to satisfy 
many holy and learned men, and is infinitely more than the new 
Court and judge can pretend to — ^the clergy and laity alike were 
free to use them, were free to be tried by them, M^ere free to appeal 
to them and from them. 

But for certain causes this freedom of priest and people in the 
first instance has been virtually suppressed, and in the case of 
appeal has been absolutely aboUshed. The faithful laity can no 
longer bring to justice the unfaithful clergy before their common 
ecclesiastical superior. The priesthood can no longer defend 
themselves from the interested attaclos of a Society, of doubtful 
legality and undoubted powers for mischief, in the Court of their 
bishop ; can no longer appeal to the Court of their archbishop. In 
behalf of this enforced powerlessness, it is insufficient to say that 
practically the Diocesan Courts were unused, and the Arches 
Court had become a Court of firat instance. At the most, this only 
meets h&lf the difficulty ; it does not touch the aboHtion of the 
Provincial Courts of appeal. At the least, in regard to the Dioce- 
san Courts, the Report of Convocation furnishes one reply to the 
argument from practical inaction : let the Consistory Courts be re- 
formed, not suspended. To aboHsh the Bishops' Courts because they 
are in abeyance, is to endorse the maladministration of ecclesias- 
tical law which ought to be amended. To consent to the deposi- 
tion of the bishop from his own spiritual Court in favour of lay 
usui-pation, is to abandon the first principles of Christian juris- 
prudence on the grounds of expediency only. The question is 
not whether of the two, the layman or the cleric, ^^oll judge most 
impartially : it is whether of the two is the right judge ** as this 
Church and Realm hath received the same." In short, the prin- 
ciple, at once constitutional and Christian, enunciated by Lord 
Coke, which, ^vith whatever partial obscuration, could be deci- 
phered in the lines of the Church Discipline Act, has been entirely 
obliterated by the Public Worship Regulation Act. 

How does this New Act practically work 1 It works in two wajis : 
first, in regard to the Court which takes the place of the twenty- 
eight Diocesan Courts of first instance : and secondly, in regard to 
the judge who fills the office (on a vacancy) held by the two pro- 
vincial judges of first appeal; The earher mode of action is the 
only one which need be described at length. The later method 
may be dismissed in a single period. Every cause wliich formerly 
came before the Court of Arches and the York Chancery Court 
will henceforth (at the first vacancy) be decided in the new Court, 
by the new judge : every cause — including questions of doctrine. 
Taking the same average case as we ta-aced in the Church 
DiFcipline Act ; and avoiding as before both discretionarr poorer 

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and alternative courses, in what position are the clergy placed in 
regard to the exercise of ecclesiastical jurisdiction at the present 
day \ A beneficed clergyman commits an oflTence, or commits no 
offence as the case may be, within the range contemplated by the 
Pnblic Worship Regulation Act. A complaint is lodged against 
him by three parishioners (who for the purposes of prosecution 
are termed members of the Church of England) before the bishop of 
the diocese. The bishop within one-and-twenty days sends a copy 
of the complaint to the priest complained of. Within a further 
period of one-and-twenty days the clergyman — and this, again, is 
hardly hypothetical— declines "to submit to the directions of the 
bishop touclring the matter of the said representation." Of if the 
priest consents, the promoter of the suit declines. The reasons 
wliich may induce either promoter or defendant to declare himself 
unA\Tlling to submit, are not hard to imagine. Apart from all 
{Secondary and personal reasons the following are vaHd : because 
the bishop is not authorized to hear the cause and to give judg- 
ment upon it in his o%vn Diocesan Court, according to ecclesiastical 
usage, but is empowered only to arbitrate privately upon the 
case; because the judgment he gives is practically a private 
expression of individual opinion, without any spiritual autho- 
rity whatever, without appeal in the cause in question, and 
^thout influence in any other ; because, in opposition to the pro- 
cedure of the Church Discipline Act, which oiFers more chance 
both of equity and legaUty, the cause may be heard by the bishop 
alone, without the advice of a preKminary commission, without the 
actual co-operation of assessors learned in Church law, without 
the arguments of counsel, without the evidence of witnesses ; 
because the procedure under this clause of the Act is utterly lax 
and slovenly, the bishop being empowered '* to hear the matter 
... in such manner as he shall see fit," perhaps in the epis- 
copal dining room, and to " issue such monition as he may think 
proper," possibly the opposite of " good and effectual in law," and 
not '< according to ecclesiastical law." 

The prosecutor, or the prosecuted, or both, having declined the 
Jnere arbitration of the bishop, the mysterious personage called 
** the judge" appears on the scene. The mode of his appearance 
^8 as irregular, according to judicial usage whether civil or 
t-cclesiastical, as many other provisions of this eccentric Act 
tjf Parliament. The* non-legal mind would have supposed that, 
rfthe arbitration of the bishop were declined, the bishop would be 
the proper State official to call to his aid the superior powers of 
the secular judge.. Here we meet with what seems to be another 
instance of the carelessness with which the Bill was drafted, or the 
JiaBte in which it was amended, or the inconsideration with which 
It was conceived — ^inexcusable in any case — ^for the bishop, whoso 

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Diocesan Court haa been nsuiped, is not the legal official to 
summon the secular judge, who is intmded into his sacred office. 
Red-tapeism requires a medium between the episcopal victim and 
the lay pretender. Whether or not this may be an effort to 
secure ecclesiastical centralization, the result is the same. The 
bishop moves the archbishop : and the archbishop moves the 
judge : and the judge hears the matter ♦* in any place," within 
certain Uraits, most convenient to himself. In company vdth the 
judge appears the not less mysterious sphere of his labours, 
termed in the Act, " open Court," A " Provincial'Courts' " judge, 
apparently on the authority of the Act of Parhament, even though 
there be no vacancy in the office of the judge of either the Pro- 
vincial Courts of Canterbury or York, the judge must be called. 
But even so august an authority fails to create a name for the 
" open Court" in which *' the judge*' sits. Speaking ecclesiastically, 
it clearly is not the Canterbury Court of Arches, for causes from 
the Archdiocese of York may be taken before it. It is not the 
Chancery Court of York, for the Archbishop of Canterbury may 
join in the appointment of the judge. Still less is it a Diocesan 
Court, even though the cause taken before it is strictly diocesan ; 
for no appeal Hes to the archbishop, and the bishop of the diocese, 
the victim of lay judicial intrusion, is an official who is powerless 
even to demand the aid of the judge who has usui-ped episcopal 
jurisdiction. As the learned editor of the " Handy-book of the 
Pubhc Woi-ship Regulation Act " tersely expresses it, the reform 
effected by the measure " sweeps away the unsatisfactory and 
dilatory processes of the Diocesan Courts." But whatever title 
may hereafter be assigned to the nameless Court, the issues of the 
cause now rest in the hands of the judge with unprecedented title 
who presides in it. In due time the spiritual cause is heard by the 
lay judge, and a secular judgment is pronounced on a spiritual 
matter. An appeal from the judgment Ues to the Crown in 
Council, though in what form the Act is discreetly silent. This is 
a sketch of the way in which the New Act of 1874 wiU work in 
ecclesiastical causes. 

These changes in our system of ecclesiastical jurisdiction, it is 
submitted with confidence, are changes in piinciple and not only 
in procedure. So far as our argument is concerned, the variations 
effected by the Act of 1874 are variations in both procedure and 
principle from civil law which gave statutable* authority to canon 
law. They directly clash with the provisions of the Act of 1840. 
They are at issue with the Acts of 1832-33. They are hostile to 
the spuit and letter of far earUer confirmations of ecclesiastical 
process by the secular power. As this paper deals with the prac- 
tical aspect alone of recent legislation, it may be enough to say, 
that the Pubhc Woi-ship Regulation Act violates the system 

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which has obtained in the English Realm and Church from time 
immemoriaL It violates the system handed down, even in a par- 
tially mutilated form yet so far confirmed, by the Act which created 
the Judicial Committee. It violates the system handed down, even 
if unwarrantably extended, yet so far confirmed, by the Act 
which created the Court of Delegates. It violates the system 
accepted by Church and State as the exponent of both principle 
and practice of Canon Law in even earUer ages by Magna Charta 
and the ConstitutionB of Clarendon, which were confirmed again 
and again in the reigns of successive sovereigns. In a centuiy 
impatient of the claims of antiquity, it is needless to trace the 
course of ecclesiastical jurisdiction above the date of 1164. The 
earhest existing charter of the Church's rights, however, was not 
legislative in character, but declarative of a system which was 
then time-honoured and respected by the civil power. By the 
Eighth of the Constitutions of Clarendon, to quote a Uving authority 
(Mr. Joyce, in his '* Civil Power in its relations to the Church ") 
" we see that as now (the final resort excepted) the first step was 
from the archdeacon to the bishop ; the second, from the bishop 
to the archbishop; and thirdly, for lack of justice before the 
archbishop, recourse might be had to the king, by whose orders 
the controversy was to be finally settled in the Archbishop's Court ; 
and neither party might move for any further remedy without 
leave from the Crown, t.e. neither might appeal to Borne from the 
Archbishop's Court without Royal pez-mission." 

This is the system which has practically been the law of the 
Church, sanctioned by the State, for countless generations. It 
is true that, in the reign of Heniy VIII., the Court of Dele- 
gates was established which is supposed to have regulated the 
course of final appeal to a lay Court of Parliamentary crear- 
tion. It is true, also, that in the reign of WilUam IV. the Court 
of the Judicial Committee was estabhthed, which inherited all the 
powers statutably conferred on the Couii of Delegates. But 
it is arguable — and if it may be permitted to refer to the 
writer^s own words, it has been shown in a pamphlet entitled 
"Secular Judgments in Spiritual Matters" (Masters) — that it is 
legally doubtful if the Court of Delegates was intended, or possessed 
statutable power, to decide spiritual cases in the last appeal. It 
is an historical fact that during a career of three centuries, for 
the first 156 years of its existence, no purely spiritual cause was 
brought before it, and for the last 142 years none was decided by 
it. In short, the Act of Henry, if not intentionally of a provisional 
character, was, Kke the Act of Victoria, a legislative miscarriage, 
a political blunder. If this be more than arguable, the Judicial 
Committee, which only inherits the statutable powers of the Court 
of Delegates, can lawfully decide in the last resort on questions 

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only which are ecclesiastical in character, and not spiritual. But, 
whether or not this may be proved, the earlier course of appellate 
jui-isdiction from the bishop to the archbishop which has remained 
intact, as statute law of England for upwards of seven centuries, 
and which then had a prescriptive right of at least five centuries 
more, has now been arbitrarily altered ^athout the consent and 
against the ^t11 of the Church, by the sole authority of the temporal 
power. In such a case as this, the question once more forces itself 
upon conscientious and loyal Churchmen, and specially upon the 
clergy who beHeve in the spiritual jurisdiction of the Church of 
Christ — Ought we to obey the New Court in Spiritual Causes? 

This question must now be answered. The reader will remem- 
ber that one Kne of argument, the practical, has alone been 
followed in the present paper. If only a portion of what has 
been urged against the New Act can be maintained, there can be 
no doubt of the reply which must be given. As no vaUd objec- 
tion can be raised against the argument in its main features, any 
diflFerence of opinion on minor points may be ignored. On this 
broad basis the writer takes his stand, whether as Churchman or as 
citizen. In the latter position he sees that the State has practically 
abolished the legal jurisdiction of the Enghsh Episcopate which 
the bishops have enjoyed, with the consent of the law, from time 
immemorial. In the fonner, he believes that the Church has there- 
by been practically deprived of rights, the exercise of which are 
essential to a fuU adherence to the first principles of the Christian 
Faith. Both positions are combined in the case of a clergyman 
of the Established Church. He is forced, as a matter of conscience, 
fo form an opinion and to come to a decision. As the question 
ultimately resolves itself into one of obedience to God or man, 
the writer can only, with much diffidence, yet with all earnestness, 
make answer that, We cannot recognise the new judge, we ought 
not to obey the New Court, created by the authority of the Public 
Worship Regulation Act. 

Orby Shipley. 

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THEOPHILE SILVESTRE, in his " Studies of Living Painters," 
published in 1856, reports a remark uttered by Corot in the 
presence of a picture by Delacroix. " C'est un aigle," said the 
landscape painter " et je ne suis qu'une alouette, je pousse de 
petites chansons dans mes nuages gris." The sentence contains a 
suggestive truth concerning the nature of Corot's gifts in art. 
'* Mes nuages gris " is recognizable as a rough but fit description 
of the painter s domain in nature, and the qualification of his 
painting as a lyric note sent forth from this domain has a precise 
and real significance. No criticism of Corot's work can be com- 
plete, or even vital, which does not take accoimt of these two 
quahties — ^the one essential, the other belonging to his chosen 
system of artistic expression. For at sight of a picture by Corot, 
the dominion of the clouds is the first thing noticeable. He him- 
self, it is said, began each picture with the painting of the sky ; 
and it is certain that from this point the spectator is compelled to 
begin his survey. To the sky and its influence all common facts 
of landscape are made subject. If there is a pool of water, its first 
fonction is to image the fleeting forms and uncertain colours of 
the heavens. The gjrass at our feet loses its hues of \-ivid green, 
and becomes pale to whiteness in obedience to the fleecy clouds 
that whiten the sky. The forms of trees and the outlines of 
distant hills are held imprisoned in a mystery of delicate Ught and 
floating mist, and even the remote blue of the sky beyond the 

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clouds loses its intensity, and becomes faint and pale as it passes 
under the control of " mes nuages gris." And having recognized 
this constant aspect of Corot's painting, we are left to seek its 
motive. Of what service to the painter are these forms that ad- 
vance and recede, now penetrating the substantial air so far as to 
become half-distinct and tangible shapes of nature, and again 
retreating till they are no more than mere vague symbols in a 
world of shifting lights and shadows? For what purpose does he 
thus summon these shapes into momentary existence, leaving all 
else concealed ? and of what beauty are the songs of which these 
are the few stray notes ? 

Dealing for the moment only with the method of the painter, 
and considering his work as the latest phase of landscape art, it is 
remarkable how strong is the contrast of this with all earlier 
ideals. In the landscape painting of the early Italian painters 
nothing is willingly left imtold, for the painter's aim is a precise 
and faultless definition of all that comes within his reach. The 
sky is clear, and against it the leaves of the trees and the forms of 
the hills weave an ordered pattern. There is selection but no sup- 
pression of truth. The harmony of colour is made up of a number 
of positive tints, each faithful to nature, and all in beautiful agree- 
ment. Here it is not only the scene that fascinates and attracts 
but all the materials that compose the scene. We know by the 
faidtless imagery that the painter has loved and known the beauty 
of separate flowers, the individual growth of each single tree, the 
tracery and network of leaves that preserve their native intensity 
of green. The light serves to reveal all these things, and there- 
fore it is beautiful : wind and storm only disfigure the exquisite 
pattern of the landscape, and hence are to be avoided by the 
painter. The influence of the clouds, if it were admitted, would 
destroy the natural brightness of grass and leaves and flowers ; 
in mist the firm lines would lose their sharpness, the whole 
scheme of the design be lost. And thus for the earlier painter the 
even sunlight of noonday, when the landscape is still and sharply 
seen, is the best season for his art. Next come the lights of 
evening or early dawn, but never the seeusons of conflicting cloud 
and changing Ught. This is altered a Httle, but only a Uttle, in 
the landscapes of Titian. The interpretation of scenery is moved 
one point further from abstract beauty. Titian's spirit is the 
spirit of portraiture, and his treatment of nature, as his treat- 
ment of men and women, was based on the desire of faithful 
portraiture. With Lionardo and Raphael, men in whom imagina- 
tion still guided and controlled execution, landscape retained its 
abstract and unchanging character. But Titian, as he refined 
less upon the type of the human model before him, so ialso he 
refined less upon the types of natural scenery. In his most 

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poetical compoeitious he is something of a realist, and we are 
at leisurfe to turn from the beauty of the design to own the 
magio truth of his flesh tints. And the spirit of realistic por- 
traiture he carried into the treatment of landscape as well as of 
human form. The flowers of the foreground are stiD represented 
with the feeling of a master of design, but the general aspect 
of the landscape suggests not only the likeness of a single scene, 
but also of a single hour of the day. The earlier design, with 
all its exactness and precision, did not so forcibly impress us with 
flie conviction that the scene before us is one chosen out of 
many : it was more abstract, for all its minute detail, than these 
less certain visions of blue hill and sunlit water that make up the 
distances of Titian's pictures. 

In the work of Titian the modem ideal takes its birth. The 
study of realistic landscape has begun, and already the painter 
perceives the dramatic movement of nature audits infinite variety 
of changing appearances. Just as a face changes from passion to 
melancholy, and from laughter to tears, so the enduring character 
of a scene may be merged in its different moods as it passes 
nnder the influence of cloud and sunshine and wind and storm. 
The bright green of the grass may take a sinister hue as a rain- 
cloud darkens the sun ; the even grace of the forms of trees 
may grow tumultuous in the presence of a powerful breeze. 
These rapid alternations in the aspect of natural scenety are the 
opportunities of the modem painter. From Titian to Turner the 
distance may be measured. There are all shades of increasing 
fidelity to this particular kind of tmth, but the difference between 
one painter and another is only of degi-ee. I say from Titian to 
Turner, but it must be remembered that it is only on one side of 
Tumer^B art that he belongs to the modem school of landscape : 
on another he is still seeking to realize the abstract beauty of 
nature. Where he fai's, it is from the conflict of the two ideals. 
A more complete exponent of the modem spirit may be found in 
Constable, and from Constable the transition to the landscape 
painters of France is easy and natuml. 

But although the French landscape painters acknowledge the 
power of Constable's work, and even admit its guidance, the dis- 
tinction between men like Constable and Corot is important. The 
art of the English painter, though it employs all the moods of 
nature, employs them in a way that is essentially dramatic. We 
do not receive from any of his pictures the impression of a distinct 
pereonal sentiment in the mind of the painten All the powers of 
tiie air are admitted to set the landscape in motion, but the ai*tist's 
observation is still fresh and unprejudiced in its sympathy, and the 
particular moment chosen for artistic expression is hke a moment 

Aoseu from a drama where the passion, though strong and encr- 

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getic, is not tlie paseion of the author. Every picture from Lis 
hand records sdme sudden concord in the things of outward nature 
— some moment when bright blue sky and drifting cloud, Ihe hues 
of nmning water artd the restless branches of blown trees, meet to 
register a phase of fleeting beauty. And as a result of this impar- 
tial selection from the moods of landscape, the first and most 
impressive quality of Constable's work is the fidelity of the portrai- 
ture. True to a land where fair and foul weather come in rapid 
succession, his landscape is neither over-bright nor over-gloomy. 
If we carry away from his pictures the remembrance of heavy 
clouds and advancing shadows, we may also recall the sharp 
gi*een of leaves dancing in sunshine, and spaces of sky of bright 
and laughing blue. The brightness is no longer the bright- 
ness of the earUer painters because it belongs to a single moment 
and is not of the enduiiug character of the Bcene. And iu 
this truth of the moment, in the impression of movement and 
progress, as of drama, lies the strength of Constable's art. The 
facts of scenery merely as such are neglected or suppressed. No 
one would seek from the painter of the " Cornfield" or the "Leap- 
ing Horse " an exact imitation of separate flowers, or a precise 
outline of the leaVed that seem to rustle in each passing breeze. 
It is no longer the scene itself, but the appearance of the scene as 
it yields to passing influences of weather, that the painter strives 
to inteipret ; and it is his perception of the appropriate colour of 
each changing aspect^ whether of gloom or gladness, that gives 
to his work its unapproached merit. 

But the later school of landscape, as represented with so much 
fascination by Corot, goes further than this. To imderstand the 
distinctive quaUty of his work, we must recall his own phrase : — 
" Je ne suis qu'une alouette ; je pousse de petites chatisons dans mes 
nuages gris." The art is no longer dramatic, it no longer registers 
with impartiality the changing moods of weather, taking the 
grave and the gay as they alternate in the actual world. If these 
men were poets instead of paintei-s, we should denote the distinction 
by saying that it was an exchange of the dramatic for the lyrical 
faculty ; and even in painting these words will serve for a symbol 
of what we mean. Using this symbol, then, as Corot liimself used 
it, the fitness of his own description of his art becomes very evi- 
dent. His pictures are in reality songs sent forth from the gi*ey 
clouds that overspread the world of his art. For, to turn to the 
first appearance of Corot's pictures, what is it that most distinguishes 
them ? As compared with Constable's painting there is every- 
where a failure of local colour. The harmony of colour, not less 
perfect, is reduced to narrower dimensions ; the separate incidents 
of each scene, grass and flowers, trees, and the sky itself, sacrifice 
more of their individual character, and take a tone more uniform. 

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and even penonal. As compared with early representations of 
landscape, these pictures may be roughly said to have the qualities 
that belong also to Constable; there is in both the record of 
weather as a principal agent in controUing the appearance of the 
scene, and in both the consequent neglect of precise form and 
minute details of colour. But in comparison with Constable 
himself^ new features are revealed in Corot's art We detect at once 
the source and the expression of the French painter's originality, 
we recognize the freshness and distinction of his attitude towards 
nature. Still keeping to the criticism of his technical method, it 
may be observed how marked is the increased importance given to 
the use of tone. At the first sight, Corot's works scarcely suggest 
the presence of colour; all tints are so far subdued that we 
recognize scarcely more than their agreement on some neutral 
ground of grey. On the side of form a similar tendency is mani* 
fest. Constable's drawing of a tree is precision itself, compared 
with what serves for drawing in Corot ; his definition of a scene 
is full and exact by the side of the French painter's timid and 
tremulous outlines, that lose themselves in a pale uncertain sky. 
And when these appearances in Corot's painting are taken in con- 
nection with the effect they are intended to produce, it is seen at 
once that they are deliberately given, and are not the results of 
carelessness or imperfect resource. Outward nature to him is a 
means of expressing himself. Constable perceived and interpreted 
the drama of wind and clouds, of sun and shadow. But to Corot 
these changing aspects of the earth are serviceable only as inter- 
preters of different phases of personal emotion. The artist 
employs the moods of nature as a musician employs the notes of 
mnsic, and invests the facts of scenery with particular sentiments, 
charging them with the colour of his own thoughts. It is 
because this purpose is the controlling element in his art that his 
pictures of scenery, merely as pictures, are permitted to be impen- 
feet .From a single scene he selects only a few of the features 
important to his design — ^the rest are left half-concealed or wholly 
hidden. And with this desire to select a few things out of many, 
to smnmon here and there as he wills the shapes and colours of 
the earth, the presence of atmosphere, and the constant control of 
mist and cloud, are valuable assistants. Behind these clouds the 
landscape rests under the dominion of the painter. What he 
needs for the thought he would express may be brought into 
view — all else may be suppressed without loss of natural truth ; 
for the changes of atmosphere afford all degrees of distinctness, 
^d the painter familiar with all may choose what he will. 

From the final impression given by Corot's painting we may 
^^^niifor a moment to the actual facts of his career. Even in the 
case of artists endowed with the strongest originality, the product 

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beara tisu^es ofearlj bminihg as well as of* individual impnbey and 
with req>ect to Corot there are ceiftain: things. that c&n CDoly be 
explained by: a reference to the inflileiiGee bj "which he w«^ ter- 
rounded in his youth. Bom in Parie on the 29th of July, 17d6, 
Jean-Baptiste*<}ainille Corot came of an humble faioclLi His father 
was a shopman, his mother a milliner, and the aitist faunself wias 
at first apptehticed to a woollen-<lraper in the Bae St; Honor^. 
But the higher talent quickly asserted itself; Corot stmlied his art 
firat in secret, afterwards openly, and finally he was placed in the 
studio of AGchallon, a painter wi&out great giffcs, and thoroughly 
infected with the principles of the historical school of landsci^pe 
painting. M. Paul Mantz has admirably and humdroufidy. ex- 
pressed the 'traditions of this school, and its attitude towards the 
things of rustio life. Speaking erf the accepted typt^ of peasaat 
at the time, he says, " It is a performer from the Op^ra Gdmique* 
who approaches with liis hands full of flowers to warble sotne 
dehcate romahcevof, if Grreuze is to be believed, it is a sentimeii'^' 
talist who has had disagreements with his &mily, who ihas read 
Diderot, and; who makes grandiose and emphatic' gestures.'' 
MichaUoh died, and Corot was transferred to the. studio' of 
Be'rtin, another professor of the grand style, whose syisbem 'w>as 
supposed to be founded on classic models. > It is^ assletted^ and 
probably >with truth, that this early (training under' the olaadciat 
Bertin, left lasting tmces upon Corofs oxi. Certainly it ^oidd be 
difficult in any other way to accotmt for the constant Tecurrence 
to classic themes, and the fondness of the painte£:^far intraduoing 
into a landscape beset 'with northern mists the figures of 'Grecian 
nymphs. K we suppose that he ax^quired this lore of oiassic them^es 
from his master, it may be very well understood howthcBeixtinieaQt 
was retained. Corot, with all his originality, was not a strong 
revolutionist in art. His perception, though trae and de^oate, was 
not cufficiently profound to penetrate to the heart of his subject, 
and his imagination was scarcely of the kind to remodel the- whole 
material of his art. To the end of his days he kepi looA fondness 
for historical themes, and he retained his Qreciaa nymphs. as he 
had inherited them &om Bertin; and to the. things which he thus 
possessed by accident he added his own discoveries in tbereahn of 
nature. But^ although the. infiuence of early training must have 
been considerable, Corot himself was not very sensible of it» " I 
had passed," he says, in speaking of* his sojourn in Italy, "two 
winters with M. Bertin, learning so little that on arriving at 
Bome I could not complete the smallest sketch. Two men 
would stop to gossip together. I would attempt to draw 
them in detail, beginning, say, with their heads ; they 
separate, and I am left with only two morsels on my 
paper. Two children would be seated on the steps of a 

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chnrch. I make a begiiming^ fhe mother summons liiem^ and 
my sketch-books wotild be thtus left full of the ends of noses and 
tresBes of hair. I resolrefl not to return home without something 
complete, and I tried for the first time to design rapidly and in 
masses, the only possible method, and which, moreover, is to-day 
one of the chief gifts of our modem artists. I set myself, their, 
to circumscribe at a glance the first group that presented itself. If 
it only remained for a moment in position, I had at' least seized 
the general character; if it continued, I could complete the details.** 
Here we find the natural bent of Corot's genius gradually asserting 
itself. Whether he had learned Uttle or much in the studio of 
Bertin, it would be of small service to him for the accomplishment 
of his particular aims in art ; the study of classic models would 
help very little towards the rapid seizure of momentary effects of 
Kght and shade, which was, after all, what Corot most desired: 
M. Bertin could give him the nymphs, but the rest he had nb 
power to give; and it is therefore from this point, when the 
painter began to feel the need of this gift of rapid interpreta- 
tion of nature; that we may regard Corot as having undertaken 
the cultivation of his own talent. 

M. Jean Rousseau, writing in IJArtj has endeavoured to claini 
for Corot the spirit of Greek art, and has boldly defended his 
position by pointing oilt, in Corot's landscape, these very nymphs 
that we have supposed the painter to have inherited. But the 
hypothesis is overstrained, and wiH not bear consideration. From 
whatsoever source acquired, these classical figures scarcely belong 
by any profound tie to the scenes they inhabit. They are not of 
the essence of the picture ; and if they show anything, it is in the 
way of limitation to the genius that has invented them. If Corot's 
vision of nature had been more passionate and intense, it would 
not have tolerated the presence of these unreal images of an 
antique world; if his sympathy with the spirit of Greek beauty 
had been powerful^ it would have" created an appropriate scene in 
which to enshrine them. But Corot's penetration into the love- 
liness of nature was guided rather by sentiment than passion, and 
such tender sentiment as he sought was not disturbed or hindered 
in its expression by these signs of harmless artifice. The truth 
is, that Corof s claims do not rest upon these more ambitious 
efforts. The landscapes, with historical titles, are not those by 
which he will be best remembered, or that best express the 
delicate poetry of his art. It is in his smaller and slighter sketches 
—and, for the purpose, none is too small or too slight — ^that we 
get into contact with the artist's personality, and it is the person- 
ality of the artist that his art was specially designed to reveal. 

Accepting the lyrical or personal quality of Corot's painting as 
its most noliceable feature, it is worth considering in* how fer the 


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general tendency of French art has assisted its successfol ex- 
pression. For some time past the sacrifice of colour to tone has 
been the recognized role of French painters. Not only in land- 
scape, but in figure subjects, in the treatment of the most ideal as 
well as the most realistic themes, this tendency has been remark- 
able. The artist, brought more and more into contact with the 
subjects of common life, and having to deal with the coarse and 
imselected colours of modem costume, has been compelled to 
devise some means to keep his work artistic if not beautiful. And 
so far the endeavour has been successful. There probably has 
never been at any time a school producing work, in certain respects, 
more artistic than the work of the modem French school. Its 
professors have successfully dealt with material that would at first 
sight seem impossible for art, as it certainly is barren of beauty, 
and this success has been almost entirely dependent upon technical 
dexterity in handling conflicting elements of colour. There is no 
longer, imder this system, any need for the harmonious arrange- 
ment of pure and positive tints ; by the potent use of tone any 
tints may be brought into possible companionship. There is no 
contrast so hideous but that it may acquire in this way a certain 
artistic fitness ; but at the same time it must be remembered that 
the system, although it thus avoids vulgarity in appearance, 
destroys all hope of noble and splendid colouring. The painter 
who has constantly accustomed himself to reduce all colour to 
the point at which it becomes harmless, is incapable on a sudden 
of restoring their purity to bright and beautiful tints. And thus 
it happens that in all subjects of ideal art, the absence of noble 
colour is the one constant and invincible defect of French 
artists. They can force inharmonious tints into agreement, but 
they cannot, save in a few isolated instances, give to arrangements 
harmonious in themselves the strength and purity needed for per- 
fect beauty. But although destmctive to ideal beauty in colour, 
this cultivation of the quaUties of tone has greatly assisted the 
progress of realistic art. Specially has it been serviceable in the 
department of landscape, for here the changing moods of weather 
by their dominion over the colours of the scene suggest the 
employment of the painter's device to secure harmony. Such 
suppression of local colour as Corot indulged, was only the extreme 
exercise of a control possessed by nature herself. The painter has 
caught and perfected the device of the storm and the clouds, and 
although he subdues the facts of scenery to his own purposes, the 
system he employs is brought into play whenever a cloud passes 
over the sun. 

And thus it is that, although Corot used the moods of nature for 
the expression of an almost personal sentiment, his pictures are still 
tme to nature. No one has bo delicately or so faithfully inter- 

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preted certain elements of landscape, and in certain effects of light 
and air he has been the first to attempt and perfect pictorial ex- 
presmon. In looking at one of these landscapes where the colours 
of the earth and sky ourionsly unite, the white fleecy clouds above 
blanching the green of leaves and grass, 'and turning the pools of 
water to their own likeness, we feel as if the face of nature were 
as sensible to passing emotions as the human face. So refined and 
unobtrusive la the portraiture, that the momentary aspect of the 
scene seems to have been unconsciously arrested. The painter has 
caught, in the sudden agreement of changing Ughts and flitting 
shadows, a beauty that Avas almost too delicate for portraiture, and 
has also given the sense of impending movement and the impres- 
sion of a shifting and changing world. The swaying, restless trees 
take an uncertain outline against the white sky, the movement of 
the leaves blurs their image on the canvas ; so ^at we feel not only 
that the artist has seized a beautiful moment, but that it is only a 
moment, and that the scene will pass in the next into some new 
hamiony, wrought by the all-powerful rule of the weather. In 
admiring these pictorial visions of Corot, and in admitting their 
fidelity, it is not necessary to estimate the relative value of the truth 
they reveal. But as affecting the painter's place in the record of 
contemporary art, it should be said that his is not the only ideal of 
landscape possible to a modern painter. Since the growth of what 
was called the Pre-Raphaelite movement, there has existed in 
England a small school of colourists who have sought to revive 
the earlier aims of landscape art. A renewal of the taste for de- 
corative beauty in painting has assisted the movement, and it has 
been found that brilliant arrangements of colour and precision in 
design can only be gained in the case of landscape by abandoning 
the attempt to realize the kind of effect that gives their chief charm 
to so many of Corot's pictures. 

But it is not only amongst our own painters that the feeling for 

design has lately renewed itself. Millet, whose name stands 

deservedly beside that of Corot, and whose loss is certainly not a 

less loss to art, possessed gifts of design of a very noble order. 

His greatest merit was to have brought to the interpretation of 

mstic themes the profoundest system of artistic expression, and 

to have translated the rough energy and simple movement of 

Passant life into the calm and enduring language of art. This 

Und of serious consideration had never been granted to the par- 

ticukr class of subject with which Millet wholly occupied himself. 

Peasants had been treated from the purely picturesque or the 

purely artificial point of view: they had been painted by 

wiUde, or by Boucher or Greuze, but no school of painters until 

<)^ recently had attempted a complete and serious study of 

^ fects of their existence. The suggestive beauty of their 

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ddily life — suggestive, that is to say, in the invtotiOn of grand 
and energetic attitude, of vigorous and sincere eloquence in form — 
bad escaped notice, and this chiefly because most of the painters 
who had devoted themselves to the subject were equally ignorant 
of the principle of great design and of the deepest truths of rustic 
life. They came, prepared to snatch the peasant from his mean 
existence, and to grant him the rosy cheeks and the sylvan 
garment fit, as M. Mantz has said for the Op^ra Comiqve or for a 
Bat Masqu^, or they were willing to embody him in their landscape 
in the same way as they would the moss-grown trunk of a tree> 
but for all other or deeper interpretation their resources were 
wholly inadequate. It is the special merit of Millet that he was 
equidly pr^ared in both directions. He possessed both the 
ipetinct for style and an intimate knowledge of the peasants 
eidstence, and hence his art has revealed to us new secrets of 
beauty in s^ field already well trodden. 

Jean Frfin9ois Millet was bom on the 9th October, 1815, in the 
little, village of Greville, near Cherbourg. Brought up amid the 
simple occupationiB of the coimtry, he was from the beginning a 
peasant in spirit, and his sympathy with the hardships and toil of 
the peasants' lot gave a permanent colour to his work in art. 
Proceeding to Paris, h$ entered the studio of Paul Delaroche, and 
here he foui^d himself in .natural opposition to the aims and 
system of his master. We hear of him that he used to be laughed 
at by his fellow pupils for talking much and often of lllichael 
Angelo; but for. us now the fact. that a student of the Romantic 
school could appreciate the excellences of style is important. It 
prpves that Millet had in his genius something better than mere 
rebellion : he had the instinct to reconstruct the new materials, as 
\yell as to shatter the earlier edifice ; to give form to the new 
vision of nature. In 1840 he exhibited a portrait in the Salon^ 
but immediately afterwards he retired from Paiis, dwelUng some- 
times at his native place, and sometimes in the towns round 
about. About this time he made a long stay at Havre, where he 
epiployed himself in painting the portraits of the sea captains for 
very small remuneration ; but in 1843 he was again in Paris, and 
we find him then aissociated with Diaz in pu^hing forward the 
new gospels of romantic art. The artist, however, had not yet 
perfected his individuality. In the Salon of 1847 was exhibited 
'' (Edipe d^tach^ do larbre," a picture bearing the marks rather of 
rupture with the laws of others than of obedience to his own. 
The theme is more orthodox, and the treatment more ag^eesive 
ihan at a later period, showing that the painter was still without 
the power of selecting his own subjeot, or of treating it with con- 
fidence and calm. The first chacactetristic work was "LeVanneur/* 
^hibited in 1848, and it is said that Millet's rapid cultivation 

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of his talent at this time was partly due to the friendship and 
influence of Theodore Rousseau, a painter ftdl of a genuine love 
and reverence for nature. Each work now bore the stamp of a 
firm originality, and from the year 1851, when " Le Semeur" was 
exhibited, his career has been only a succession of artistic 

We may take this picture of **Lfe Semeur** as representative of 
the noblest qualities of Millet's art. No one who has seen it can 
have missed its grandeur or its simplicity, its grace or its trtith. 
As we gaze at the darkened figure broadly scattering the grain, 
we perceive at once how close and accurate has been the painter's 
knowledge of the facts of tustic life. There is here neither igno^ 
ranee nor shirking of common truth ; the peasant is not unfit for his 
place on the hiUnside, and his gesture is strictly appropriate to the 
simple and worid-wom duty he has to perform. But althbugh- 
this is a true peasant presented with unerring ' fideKty, by one 
who knows the reality of peasant life, it is also something -more. 
Looking at the plan of the picture, the sloping line of the dark 
hiD-fiide, the space of waning light, and the stress and energy of 
the sower, we note that the peasant has become a gmnd figure 
in a grand design. The movetoient of his outstretched arm, the 
ahnost fierce energy of his progress across the barren landscape, 
seem to take a new significance. All sense of the individual 
labourer, all thought of his occupation, are lost in the contempla- 
tion of a splendid and majestic picture in which these things serve 
only as material. We pass with the painter from the obvious 
appearance of the scene to its deeper beauty. We perceive how 
out of this ample physical duty, performed again and again, he has 
drawn new discoveries of the dignity of human foim. The vciy 
monotony of the employment helps the impressiveness of the 
picture ; the figure of the sower, that by the painter's art is kept 
for ever in this one attitude of grace, seems to present in grand 
epic fashion an abstract of all human labour. There is a 
Badness in his persistent progress, a hopelessness that has been 
strangely imported into the aspect of this single fig^ife, and which 
belongs rather to the vision of the painter than to his subject, the 
expression of a wider truth thrust into individual form. And Avhen 
the fall significance of this profounder motive has been realized 
we may again return to a simple view of the actual scene to note 
once more how' all this has been expressed without disturbance 
of the obvious simplicity and direct truth of the view of rustic 
life. The sense of style and the familiarity with the employments 
of the coimtry have united without conflict for a single and 
hannonious effect. 

It has already been remarked how Corot retained to the last the 
^ee of the artificial system that influenced his youth. His 

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ixoagiaation was not BufGciently serious or intense to urge him to 
reform altogether the mateiial of his art. He was satisfied to 
leave the unreal nymphs, although he transported them to a real 
landscape. But with Millet all suoh compromise w€is impossible. 
As the exponent of peasant life. Millet was too completely in 
earnest to admit any of these fairies of the opera ; and, moreover, 
he had other figures more fit to people his stem landscapes. The 
intense sympathy of the painter with the fortunes of the class to 
which he devoted himself is a fact never to be forgotten in con- 
sidering the qualities of his ai-t. Sometimes, even in the figures 
themselves, it is almost fiercely expressed, and it always exercises 
a distinct influence over his treatment of natural beauty. In the 
lot of the peasant. Millet perceived what most other painters have 
neglected — ^its hardships and its hopeless imeventful toiL He was 
never tired of giving emphasis to this side of his subject, 
and occasionally the influence of this feeUng seems to have 
placed a limitation upon his power of interpreting beauty ia 
nature. Less gifted painters than Millet have avoided altogether 
all but the appearance of jocund health that the country is sup- 
posed to grant to its inhabitants. The French painter, however, 
took a truer and, therefore, a more tragic view of his subject, 
and rendered his rustics faithful to life by displaying the sad 
endurance of their existence. And the qualities that he found in 
the people he transferred to the scenery. A more impartial vision 
might have presented as true a picture of toil and hardship in the 
midst of, and in contrast with, a world of bright flowers and 
sunny days, but Millet united the two rather harmoniously, and 
chose for the background of his serious compositions landscapes 
of sombre and even of savage character. As a master of design, 
endowed with a feeling for decorative beauty, he seldom made 
use of the atmospheric effects employed by Corot, but his scenes 
are nevertheless infected with a deeper sadness of spirit. Some- 
times the threatening sky and the traces of bitter wind seem too 
much Uke constant accompaniments of field labour, and we are 
inclined to demand a ^-ision of a brighter world. But the painter 
kept steadily to the moods of weather most in sympathy with his 
own ; and as his purpose in art was to interpret the more serious 
side of peasant life he selected the aspects of nature that would 
best justify and support this purpose. 


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SIR F. EDEN has said* that the class of Poor, as a separate 
one, dates from the diminution of villeinage and the growth 
of mnnicipalities and communities not directly connected with 
the land ; the villeins, under the feudal system, having been main- 
tained at the charge of their landlords. This, however, is not 
quite correct. Even before the formation of parishes, when the 
whole of the tithes of a diocese was paid to the Bishop, a part is 
said to have been reserved for the Poor ; the same obligation was 
continued on the parsons of parishes, and there are specific statutes 
of King Edgar and King Alfred, foi-mally enjoining almsgiving 
to the Poor, But it seems true that from Alfred to Richard IL the 
care of the Poor was generally left to the landowners, and to the 
customary hospitaUty of religious houses; the first Statute cited 
after the Conquest being in the third year of Edward I.t 

It can hardly be doubted that from the suddenness with which 
the monasteries were suppressed by Henry VIII. some immediate 
preesure on the Poor must have followed. But it is very question- 
able whether it had any very serious effect even then, and still 
1^88 at the end of the century, the period of the great Statutes of 
Elizabeth for the Relief of the Poor. Bishop Copleston, in an able 
Tract which I am obUged to quote from memory, says, what I take 
to be indisputable, that the maintenance of people in idleness, 

• State of the Poor, i. 39. f Burn's History of the Poor Laws, 2, 8, 4. 

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which that by monasteries chiefly was,* can never really promote 
their comfort and well-being; and he attributes the increased 
importunity of Pauperism at the end of the sixteenth, and again at 
the end of the eighteenth, centuries, to a much more profound 
cause, the rapid rise of prices and fall in the value of money — 
which dX first tells hardly on the labouring class — ^produced, in the 
first instance, by the working of the gold and silver mines of 
America; in the latter, by the extension of the paper currency 
and banking systems in England. 

The legislation of this coimtry as to the reUef of destitution may 
be regarded in three periods : that previous to the 43rd of Eliza- 
beth; that intervening between that Statute and the New Poor 
Law of 1834 ; and that fronr 1884 onrwards. - There are, however, 
other epochs, to some of which I may allude, though somewhat 
less marked, as in the time of Cliarles II., of George I., and 
George III. 

The contemplation of the doings of Parliament in this matter 
before Elizabeth's time, cannot be veiy gratifying to those wlio 
love to dwell on the wisdom, or the amiableness, of our ancestors. 
As is stated by the Commissioners of Poor Law Inquiry (1834),t 
the main object of those cases seems to have been the restraint of 
Vagrancy. But it was so, because the worthy legislators seem to 
have thought it enough to' tell people that they mt«f work ; that 
they must n^ot be idle, nor wander about ; and if they did, they 
rfiould b© dealt, with in s^ manner, of which Hie excessive severity 
in substance was ftiUy matdied by the coarse and naked brutality 
of the languaga in* which it was conveyed. The onuJB thrown on 
BOme one or other to find work for all who' ought to work, is of a 
later date. Edward III. tells his poor subjects that they must^ 
each of them, serve, at the accustomed wages, ''him. which' diall 
so him require." It may a little enliven the subject to quote some 
of the more whimsical of those early provifiioiv3» In the- Statute 
now alluded to, it is referred to the Bidiops to co|nmand the Curates 
to "compel their parishioners to labour V' and als(% appa3:ently 
in the same clause, to compel their "stipendiary Priests" to do 
their duty, "which do now excessively take, and will not serve 
for a competent salary ."J 

Again, he tells them to do the same, and adds that no one shall 
serve in summer, except at harvest time, in any place other than 
where he served in winter.§ 

' Again, that aU handicraftsmen shall work, and shall never change 
their work, or " mystery:"!] 

Again, all almsgiving is simply prohibited' "to thope which may 

♦ So Sir F. Eden, I 94, 96. 

t P. 4. I quote from the original Pailiamentary Paper, printed Feb. 21, 1834. 

X Bnm, 7, S. $ Bum, 9. || Bom, 11. 

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labour;" the inference being that they will then, of course, get a 
living by work.* 

Richard II. prohibited all begging, except by " people of religion 
and eremites," who were to have teetimoniafefroiQ their Ordinaries; 
pilgi^ with a Royal tefltixnonial given them by " seven good men 
of the Hmidred ; " Scholars of the Univereiti^s, with testimonials 
from the Qianoellor ; aad foreigners, under conditions hardly 

Henry V. commands that <* all Irish clerks, and beggai^ called 
chamberdekins (?) shall be voided out of the realm.*' 

Heniy VII., Heniy VUL, and Edward VI. have Statutes against 
Vagrants, constantly increasing in ferocity — ^the woJ^ in all re- 
Fpects being under that gentle youth and flower of the Refonna- 
lion, Edward VI. In his firfit yeai-J he' enacts that every. idle 
person shall be deemed a vagabond ; shall, after thre^ days, be 
brought by any person before Justices and (apparently ^thout 
option to the Justices) branded with a hot irOn; aid, ae if. the 
said person bringing him would be only too glad to keep him, he 
shidl be his slave for a year, and fed on '^ bread and water, small 
drink, and refuse of meat :" on a first running away, he was ti> be 
alave for life ; on a second, put to death as a felon. 

I do not find that Queen Mary- added to her evil repute by 
enacting similar laws. Queen Elizabeth did ; but before her time 
was the. dawn of the present system of State Relief, to which I 
shall now turn, only reminding you of what is notorious, that 
all these savage Statutes failed, as is indeed shown by their con- 
stant succession — -just as much as those other Statutes, not savage, 
but irrational, failed, which professed to fix the rate of wages and 
the price of provisions. 

The first of the Acts which, while still penal against Vagrants, 
beggars, and refusers of work, provide, or profess to provide, 
that work or alms shall be foimd for them, was in 1536'(&7th 
Heniy VIIL, c. 25).§ All thesfs acts, down to the end of the 
century, have a ludicrous mixture — ^as in some other, cases of 
ecclesiastical or semi-ecclesiastical leg^islation — of appeals to 
Christian motives and spiritual influence, with unmistakeal^ in- 
dications of the secular law in the background. ThuJeh— "."The 
head officers of every parish sliall keep the poor people, by way 
of zolmUary and charitable alms ; shall compel them to be kept 
to labour, on pain that the pariah shall pay 20s. a month ; . every 
preacher, at all times, id to move every one to be libeval in 
relieving the impotent and setting sturdy vagabonds to work." 
Edward VI. orders every Curate, every Sunday, to exhort the 
people to " remember the duty of Christian charity towards " — 

* Burn, 22 f Burn, 23. X Burn, 32. 

§ Report of ComxniBaioners of Inquiry, p. 4. 

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whom ? — " them which be their brethren in Christ, horn in the same 
parisli^' — a Umitation which I do not find in the Gospels, and a 
new gloss upon the " household of faith." Again, the yoimg King 
appoints in every parish two CoUectore, who are '^gently to ask 
every man and woman what of their charity they will give a week 
to the Poor :" this is to be written in a book : " and if any one 
able do obstinately and frowardly refuse to give, or discourage 
others, the Minister and Churchwardens are to gently exhort him ;" 
and if he still holds out, the Bishop is to come on the scene. 
Nothing is said of his gentleness, but it is still by " charitable 
ways and means*' that he is to proceed, till ultimately he is 
to "take order, according to his discretion, for the reformation 

Greatly would Archbishop Laud, and the High Commission 
Court, and the officers of the Inquisition, and othera who have 
handed over spiritual offenders to the tender mercies of the secular 
arm, have admired this provision. 

But these makeshifts could not continue long. An Act of the 
»5th EHzabetht appears to be the first that has recourse to the 
obvious and only effectual means of a legal tax. The stmgy 
parishioner is still conducted through various vestibules to the 
awful presence of the Bishop ; but there, if he still recalcitrates, 
the discretionary engine of reformation entrusted to that dignitary 
takes the very tangible form of "weekly sess, tax, and limit," to 
be procured by him for the next Sessions ; and, finally, in default 
of payment, he is sent to prison. 

In the 14th Elizabeth another Act was passed,^ taking the 
farther step of directing cei-tain authorities to " place and settle 
to work" (how, it is not said) the rogues and vagabonds — 
thus, for the first time, departing from the earlier stupidity of 
simply telling people that they must work, without means of 
knowing where work was to be had. How little, indeed, of real 
improvement there was in this additional device, we shall see 

Other Statutes followed in the reign of the Queen, which need 
not be recited. The last of them, the famous 43rd of Elizabeth 
(and which is most famous simply as being the last), as is well 
known, does little more than re-enact the one of the 39th year ; 
and none of them do more than apply in detail the principles 
previously laid down.§ 

Here, then, are the two pillars on which the law of England 
on this subject has now rested for not far from three centuries; 
reUef to the impotent without work, rehef to the able in return for 

♦ Burn, 62—71. t Burn, 72. 

X Burn, 77. . Report of Commitisionors of Inquire, C. 7. 

§ Bum, 70— 93. 

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work. With the help of many subsequent Statutes, and of an 
indefinite mass of judge-made law, we haye rubbed on hi^erto, 
and dial], probably, continue to do so, on these principles. The 
theoiyofthe Acts of Elizabeth has never been in the slightest 
degree varied ; for the one great reform of the New Poor Law of 
1834 was only the constitution of a vigorous and responsible 
Central Executive, with large and elastic powers of inquiry, in- 
fection, control, prohibition, direction ; but still in giving eflFect 
to that theory and no other. 

I am not yet come to the question, what ought to be done. 
I am still looking at the history ; and, in considering what has 
passed since the time of Elizabetii, let us first ask what has 
been done in respect of that which is obviously much the more 
difficult of the above two branches of administration — ^the pro- 
viding work, by a legal authority outside the natural course of 
trade, for those who are able to work, but are, or profess to be, 
unable to get work. Has it ever been done, with anything like 
completeness, and as a national system t 

To give at all a full answer would require much more research 
than I have been able to bestow: though it is probable that 
taming over the leaves of the second and third Volumes of 
Sir F. Eden's ** State of the Poor," which contain mainly what he 
calls " Parochial Reports," might furnish a good measure of infor- 
mation up to the close of last century. But I will refer to a 
few bits of evidence, chiefly taken from the Appendix to Bum's 

Lord Hale,* writing, perhaps, about 1650, says, as what every 
oneknowSjt that there is "no provision" for the employment of 
the Poor. ** It is rare to see any provision of a stock " (which is 
the means indicated in the Statute) " in any parish for the relief of 
the Poor." J 

Sir Josiah Child, in Charles II.'s time, says,§ " We do not, nor 
ever did, comfortably employ our Poor." 

A Mr. John Gary, in 1700, says, "We encourage our in- 
habitants in idleness. . . . Our laws to set the Poor at work 
are short and defective, and do not answer their ends." || 

Mr. Hay, in 1735,ir proposed a new law to " provide stock to set 
the Poor on work." 

Sir W. Blackstone, about the middle of last century, said ** that 
the laws for setting the Poor to work were shamefully neglected 
in this country. 

Fielding, the novelist, who was also a London Magistrate, says, 
in 1753,tt that the Poor Laws " have not answered their purpose, 

• Burn, 135, seqq, t Burn, 187. J Burn, 145. § Bum, 162. 

I Burn, 175, 17(1 ^ Bum, 184. ** Comment, i. 860, 861 : Ed. 1825. 

tt Bum, 197. 

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and the tax is absurdly applied ; " and describes the state of the 
Poor in characteristically forcible language. 

Dr. Bum himself says* (1764), that " ahnoi^t every proposalfor 
the reformation of the Poor Laws hath been tried in former ages 
and pro ved ineffectual : *' and lastly, Sir F. Edeil/in 1797, 8ay8,t 
" I had almost said in every parish in Englaiid, persons are found 
preferring a parish pension and a life of idleness to hard work and 
good wages." 

The epoch of the gi*eat relaxation in the administration of the 
law T^as about the end of last century ; and the history of work 
being found for thosef to whom it did hot come naturally, or the 
pretence of work, ojilminated in the state of things described by the 
Commissioners of Inquiry in 1834 : the ** roundsman** system,? 
by which the parish "paid the occupiers of property to employ 
appKcants for relief at a rate of wages, JLred bp the parish^ and de- 
pending, not on the services, but on the wants of the appKcants, 
the employer being repaid out of the Poor-Rate all that he 
advanced in wages beyond a certain sum;'* the employment 
wholly by the paririi, when "in far tlie greater number of the bases 
in which work was professedly required, in fact no work was 
done"§ — (often if there was work it was such as wheeling stones 
out a mile and back again, digging holes and filling them up 
again, &c.) — ^the **labom-*rate*' system, II by which the employer 
agreed to employ men, not according to any f eal demand, but on 
fiome scale of rent, acreage, and the like. 

And now, before leaving the historical retrospect, let* uis ask 
what is, apart from all questions of classification, ihachinery,* pro- 
cedure, and the like, the one simple provision, the direct provision 
I meAn, of the EngKsh Poor Law ? Since the Kew Poor Law at 
least there is no question about it. It has been authoritatively 
stated countless times : it is this, and this only, that no oire in 
the country can by law remain destitute of the actual neces- 
saries of life. I must say that no less than this appeart to iae id 
be the fair meaning of the ancient Statutes. But I knoMr it has 
been held on- good authority that they arcnot quite so* universal 
in their scope. I beheve this positive right to maintenance is held 
to date, strictly speaking, from a Judgment of Lord Chief Justice 
EUenborough, in 1803,T or rather from his dictum in it. The 
question arose as to a destitute foreigner. It was attempted to be 
argued that because such a man could, of course, have no statutory 
settlement, he could not be a pauper with a legal* claim. Lord 
EUenborough put aside that point as immaterial, not even hearing 
it argued out, and said that " the law of humanity,'* to which no 
doubt he assumed that the English Common Law must conform, 

♦ P. 106. t I. 449. t p. 18. § p. 21. II p. 24. 

Y 4 EasVs Reports, 103. 

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and which he caUs "anterior to aH pomtiTe lawa," " obtigeji tife td 
aflford relief," even to aliens, and therefore^ of course^, a f&rtifyn to 
our own people, ** to save them from- rtavving." He sai4 that 
a reported saying of Loid Holt to the opposi^ effect, as to 
foreigners, must be disbelieved from respect to iris mefigiory. 

He quotes no authority, but the law now is undoubtedly what 
he stated; and in that broad and simple form I think it> can 
hardly be denied that the opposite would be inconsistent, iiot 
merely with the dictates of revealed and even of natural rehgion; 
bat those of universal instinct, at lecust among tolerably civiiiiSed 
people. It is well, known that t^e denial* or aj^arent denial of 
it by Malthus, in the first Edition: of his famous work^ w^s can-* 
celled by himself in ."the bter one$. • • That the mere admission and 
statement of the principle but little Jielps us to Uie practical con* 
stroction of the law which is to give it effect, is plain enough, as 
will soon appear/ 

For I may i^ow — but now, too,, not * without r^fejrefto^ to the 
history, the history of (pinion, on th^i^ubject — state .^e. principle, 
the inculcation of which is my main object; the mo^ iniportant 
practical principle, as I conceive, in dealing with Pauperism. 
I shall have %o advert to; some particulars hereafter :•. at preseij^t 
I will only * state the principle itself. It is this : that Pern- 
peiiam, in its mo^ general 'sense,' independent of all particular 
fonns of it,' or of relief to be given to it — Pauperism, meaning & 
state of dependence, not upon charity, that isj voluntary benevo- 
lence of any kind; but on a coi)apulsory ta^^, on which all may* 
(haw to a practically unlimited amouat, if they are without any 
of the fiictual necessaries of life — is a condition which ought to be 
made disagi^able to, a^d dreaded by, the working, class. This id, no 
doubt, well enough known afi the " deterrent principle ;" and it 
may be said that it has been abundantly maintained' and enforced 
of late years^ May be so ; but, in the first place, as far as I. am able 
to find out, it tf of late yeare^ aiad of lat^ years only ; and in the' 
next place, thepi^noiple, though often enongh apjdied* to certain 
fonns or provitKJes of Belief, is by no means always sc^ in the 
breadth in which I JM^e put it. 

The fiist statement^ dating the enunciation of the prinoipie from> 
a late period — ^in fact, from that of the Commission of 18^4 — is at 
least of some historical interest. I can' find no trace of it in any of 
the earlier records. Some few, worried ;by the sight of the evils 
around them, proposed to prohibit almsgivingVfi totally differeiit 
tlung, to which I shall^bjiefly .allude by-^fi-by; but of which it is 
enough to sajy here that it is aifiiply ipftpOssible. ' And so far on 
the wrong scent, according to our notions, were these very 
persons, that they advocated, this abolition of almsgiving on the 
very ground that its place was to be taken by a grand and im- 

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limited fiystem of State employment of the working class, of 
which they commonly spoke with the utmost hopefulness. There 
is, in almost all, and in all the best, of the earlier authorities which 
I have quoted, the strongest contrast between the force and the 
clearness with which the evil is set forth, and the futility, feeble- 
ness, or unsoundness of the remedies which they proposed, even 
the ablest of them, among whom I may mention Lord Hale, 
Sir. W. Blackstone, and Dr. Bum himself.* All of these seem 
to see a perfect Utopia in the prospect of an indefinite amount of 
public employment to be set up, in pursuance, forsooth, of the Act 
of fJlizabeth, in eveiy paiish in the cotrntry. John Locke advo- 
cated the "roundsman" system.f 

Two notable variations may be mentioned. Defoe, in a most 
remarkable pamphlet,t after dwelling on the abuses existing, and 
the sad state of the Poor, with the vigour to be expected of Kim, 
distinctly decUnes to make any suggestion, which, he says, is for 
others rather than for him; and Sir. F. Eden, after the most 
exhaustive investigation of the whole subject, says,§ *'I have, 
purposely, almost wholly abstained from drawing conclusions from 
the facts." 

Li 1817 appeared one of the most brilliant productions, con- 
sidering the uninviting character of the subject, which I believe 
has ever been written, though I fear but little read now : " Con- 
siderations on the Poor Laws," by Mr. Davison, the well-known 
Author on Prophecy. Here I will only refer to one passage in it, as 
illustrating what I have said, that the principle of deterrence, 
though not unknown then, was far indeed from being recognized. 
Mr. Davison alludes to it|| as a sort of peculiar opinion or fancy 
(in its partictdar application to what we now so well know as the 
"workhouse test," but on groimds clearly predicable of the 
general principle). He says, " Many persons consider the tensor 
of the workhouse to be a salutary check upon the Poor. . . . 
The degradation of the asylum is to deter the approach to it. 
The hardship of it is to be the security they would keep in hand 
against importunate claims." But after stating the principle so 
well, he goes on to treat it and discuss it very lightly, and evi- 
dently has no idea of the important part it was soon to be called 
upon to play. 

Even in Mr. Fawcett's late very able work on Pauperism, 
though the principle, in its full breadth, no doubt lies under his 
whole argument, I do not find it expKcitly stated. 

Mr. Henry Longley, who, in his recent capacity as Poor Law 
Inspector, has discussed nearly the whole subject of Relief with 

* Ban), 215, seqq. f Eden, 244, seqq, % See Extracts in Eden, i. 261, stqq. 

§ L zzYiii. |] RemainB, pp. 544, 545. 

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great abiKty,* has not, I think, aotuaDy enunciated the principle, 
thongh he probably assumed it. 

The Commissioners of Inquiry, in at least one passage,! do 
fally state the rule : " The paupers condition shall not be, really 
or apparently, so eligible as that of the independent labourer of 
the lowest clasB." But the opening sentence in this very Chapter 
points attention to the particular case of the able-bodied, or of 
the labourer assumed to be labouring; and I think a general 
consideration of the Report, and especially of its practical sugges- 
tions, will show that the complete application of the principle so 
stated was not distinctly in their view. 

I may now dwell a little on the principle itself, and then pass 
on to consider the means — I believe there is only one means — of 
giving it effect. To argue much on the former or abstract ques- 
tion, the principle itself, is hardly needed. Indeed, the Commis- 
sioners say* that they foimd it "universally admitted." This 
certainly shows a great advance above last century, and was no 
doubt due to the monstrous growth of evil that arose in the first 
thirty years of the present century ; and since 1834 the principle 
may be found often asserted. Not universally. From whatever 
reason, the famous Report I have so often quoted, and the Act 
founded on it, excited a storm of opposition from the Jimea^ the 
Standardly Mr. Cobbett, and many other writers, the effects of 
which have been greatly felt up to this day. But the tide has 
been turning perceptibly now for some years, aided, no doubt, by 
the great prosperity of the working class generally ; and my 
object is to help 'it on a bit, if I coidd. 

Again, then : Pauperism^ is dependence for necessaries, whether 
m return for real work, for sham work, or for no work, not on a 
natural demand for work, nor yet on voluntary alms, but on a 
compulsory tax levied with no positive object at all, but with the 
sole object of preventing destitution. Pauperism is an evil, and 
ought to be felt by all to be one. 

Long since 1834 this has been occasionally denied. I remember 
an article in the Standard upholding " liberal parish employment " 
in the true spirit of last century; and another in the Tlmes^ 
scouting the idea that among the Poor themselves the receipt of 
oiU^door relief should ever be held a stigma or a disadvantage. 

Still, as I said, the abstract question is well worn, and I will 
only notice a few topics, and dwell a Uttle on one or two which I 
niay have especially noticed in my own long connexion with the 
administTation of the law. 

Pauperism poisons the first springs of industry, and reverses the 

* 3rd Rep. Local Gcrenunent Board, 136—207. 
t P. 127. : Ubisup. 


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primeval law, saying, " In the sweat, not of tliy face, but that of 
others, thou shalt have bread to eat." 

It removes a veiy large proportion of the motives which act 
through wholesome fear — dread of consequences — ^from the mind of 
the labourer. 

• Of the contrast^-to my mind a broad and deep one — ^between 
Charity and Pauperism, I shall say a little more hereafter. Here 
I wiU only say that Paupei-ism is not Charity, except on the 
intangible ground of the personality of the State. Charity is 
individual, and its essence is individual, personal, tangible willing^ 
ness and self-offering. Of the dispensation of a Rate, hear the 
weighty words of Mr. Davison : * "The invisible Corporation of the 
parish buys its pensioner's ill-will, or his sullen and thankless con- 
tentment, with its weekly oflFerings, which have neither the merit 
of being free wages nor a pure gift of kindness." And Sir F. 
Eden has well adaptedf the famous profligate couplet against 
marriage, to compulsory Charity, to which it really does apply. 
" Charity," he says, 

**Free as air, at sight of human ties, 
Spreads its light wings, and in a moment flies.'* 

It not only discourages forethought, thrift, and self-denial, but 
sharply marks them out as folly. According to it, in at least a 
good measure, "he that provideth not for his own " may, indeed, 
be " worse than an infidel," but is not very unwise in liis gene- 

But I need not go on. Those who may wish to see these 
general considerations set forth with a picturesqueness and force 
hardly inferior to Burke or Macaulay, may read a few paragraphs 
in Mr. Davison's Essay .J 

The two points which, in my own experience, perhaps, strike 
me the most, are these : — 

1. In every possible case the Pauper class must inevitably 
contain a large element of the very woi-st and most noxious 
members of the lowest portion of the people. Short of actual 
crime and criminals there is and can be notliing below it; 
we touch the very bottom of things. It is therefore self-evident 
that it must bring the virtuous who yield to Paupeiism into con- 
tact, fellowship, and contamination with this poisonous matter; 
by actual necessity they must touch the pitch, and be defiled 

2. That which, I am very sure, is far the worst plague-spot 
of Pauperism, in the purely moral and social view^ — that which, 
after not very far from forty years' experience, fills me with 
fresh indignation at each fresh instance — and not a day 

* r. 65\ t Eden, l *69. J Pp. r57— 5G7. 

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passes at any Board of Guardians without fresli instances — that 
which the tender-hearted and sentimental ought peculiarly to 
feel — is the inversion, the oblivion, the annihilation, caused, or 
tending to be caused, by a Poor Law, of the family affections, and 
the sense of family obUgations. What would the grave old 
Prophet, who closes the Old Testament* with the solemn warning 
that this earth should be smitten with a curse unless the hearts 
of fathers and children were turned to each other — ^what would he 
have felt, if after more than 2,000 years — after more than 1,800 of 
the Gospel which he heralded— he had been called to revisit the 
said earth, been made a Poor Law Inspector, and seen what is 
described in the following fearful passage! — 

^ It is as difficult to convey to the mind of the reader a true and faithful 
impression of the intensity and malignancy of the evil, as it is by any 
description, however vivid, to give an adequate idea of the horror of a 
shipwreck or a pestilence. A person must converse with paupers, most 
enter workhouses and examine the inmates, must attend at the parish pay- 
table, before he can form any idea of the moral debasement which is the 
offspring of the present system. He must hear the pauper threaten to 
abandon his wife and family unless more money is allowed him — threaten 
to abandon an aged bedridden mother, to turn her out of his house and lay 
herdown at the overseer's door, unless he is paid for giving her shelter ; he 
most hear parents threaten to follow the same course with regard to their 
sick children ; he must see mothers coming to receive the reward of their 
daughters' ignominy, and witness women in cottages quietly pointing out, 
without even the question being asked, which are their chiloren by their 
husband, and which by other men previous to marriage ; and when he finds 
that he can scarcely step into a town or parish in any county without 
meeting with some instance or other of this character, he will no longer 
consider the pecimiary pressure on the ratepayers as the first in the class 
of evils which the Poor Laws have entailed on the conmiunity." 

1 believe these words have been often quoted. They are those of 
^Ir. Cowell, Assistant Commissioner in the Commission of Inquiry .f 
They may no longer be literally applicable anywhere. But will 
any of us, familiar with the working of the law, say that the 
difference is in kind, and not only in degree ? 

Well, then, if the calamitous character of Pauperism is admitted, 
simply as such, and imder whatever conditions, is not the corollary 
clear? Is not the evil serious? and is it not manifestly capable of 
constant and indefinite increase ? Without any rigid theory 
about Population, can any one deny that if the whole working 
class are told that in no practically conceivable event shall they, 
and as many children as they may happen to have, be in want of 
the necessaries of life, there can be, so far, no security that they 
may not ultimately fall as low as the Irish once were, and the 
Chinese are now — ^notto go further? But, then, can we expect to 
prevent this unless we enlist the working class themselves on our 

* HaL It. 6. f Report of Commissioners of Inquiry, p. 54. 

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Bide, and on that of the law and its aims ? And how can we do so 
unless we bring to bear on them some of the ordinary motives of 
human action ? We appeal to all the other classes : to legislators, 
Clergy, philanthropists, Ratepayers, Guardians — to their sense of 
duty, of interest, of safety. How do we appeal to the actual 
subjects with whom we are directly and properly concerned ? 

It is idle to speak of the mere sense of shame and degradation. 
This is a very interesting part of the subject ; but here I \viD 
only suggest for careful consideration this question : What is 
the foundation of this sense ? As a fact, I apprehend that this 
motive does work, powerfully and incessantly, on all classes, 
beginning immediately above that of the unskilled labourer, and, 
indeed, with rapidly increasing momentum, till, very little above 
the said unskilled in the scale, it is perhaps suiSeient. But no one 
who is at all acquainted with the history of the subject will 
say that for the mass of labourers this safeguard alone will 

Before passing on to the specific practical conclusion, from the 
principle stated in the administration of the law, I must appeal to 
the ascertained facts of the case, at least as regards this country, 
in further vindication of the reasonableness of feeling satisfied 
to some extent when our immediate object is attained, and Pauper- 
ism is diminished. Mr. Carlyle,* for example, wholly scouts this 
simple statement. He says, in his peculiar language, that, no 
doubt, paupers can be dealt with like vermin — ^ ground down,'* 
" abraded," " aboUshed ; " only, as he says, " arsenic " would be 
better and simpler still. That means, I presume, to put it 
definitely, that if, in a given population, there are 500 paupers, 
and if, by a more stringent administration, that number is 
diminished, it probably only shows that some of them have died 
of starvation, and the rest are there still, only more miserable 
than before, and terrified into comparative silence and quiet. 
Such ideas can only be met by full investigation, on which 
I cannot enter. But I believe the facts are all against this in- 
imitable ^vriter; and that, wherever Pauperism has diminished, tht- 
condition of the Poor, including the bulk of those who were paupers 
themselves, has indisputably improved. One existing case, familiar 
to those who have taken interest in these matters, I will allude to : 
the case of the Atcham Union, in Shropshire. Under the able 
and enlightened — no doubt what is commonly called stem and 
stringent — superintendence of the late Sir Baldwyn Leighton, 
things in that Union were brought to this : in all England the ratio 
of paupers to the population in 1872 was 4*2 per cent. ; in Atcham, 
1*6 : in England, the cost per head for relief was 6s. lid. ; in 

• " Chartiflm,- p. 17. 

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Atcham, it was 48 5jd. : in England, the rate in the potmd was 
Is. 5id, ; in Atcliam, 3d. : in England, the proportion of out-door 
paupers to in-door was 5 to 1 ; in Atcham, 1^ to 1.* And these 
being the statistics of Pauperism, it will be foimd, on inquiry, that 
the labouring population in that Union — I do not say in conse- 
quence of the administration of the Poor Law, but certainly con- 
currently with it, and not hindered but aided by it — are excep- 
tionally well-to-do in all respects. 

Once more : in comparing our administmtion, as it is or has 
been, with what it might be, I will not avail myself of that par- 
ticular period, the opprobrium, the drunken Helot, of our legal 
system of Poor Relief, the time between 1796 and 1834: the time 
when, in the pi-actice (perhaps, indeed, in the intention) of the 
law, the old landmark of Queen Elizabeth, the broad dyke between 
the able-bodied and the impotent, was wholly destroyed. But the 
history of this time is so marvellous, that a sUght reference to 
some of its salient features ^vill be interesting and even amusing. 

At the end of last centuiy, it seems that, no doubt from the 
well-founded anticipation that for years to come there would be 
an intense and incessant demand in the countiy for all its strength 
in the French war, there was an impression among our poUticians 
that it was their business to stimulate population to the utmost in 
all ways. I believe this was expressly stated by Mr. Pitt : at all 
events, with reference to our present subject, it is memorable that 
no less a man than he, after being Prime Minister for thirteen 
years, deUberately proposed to Parliament, not only that a pauper 
might possess freehold land, but should be supplied, at the cost of 
the parish, with a cow.t This was not done ; but Sir W. Yoimg's 
Act, which was passed, (36 Geo. III., c. 23), was to this effect : — It 
recites,} as a basis of legislation, the very opposite principle to 
that we have dwelt on — ^viz., that the " comfort and domestic 
happiness " of the paupers should be specially studied ; and its 
enacting part gives pmctically unUmited power to the Justices of 
the Peace to give rehef to any one at their discretion. I say, this 
was its effect : whether this was the right legal constiTiction of 
the Act is extremely doubtful.§ 

Magistrates are called the Great Unpaid; and I, as a Lord- 
Lieutenant, am one of the Greatest and Most Unpaid. And, as such, 
it would ill become me, nor do I the least wish, to disparage that 
ancient order, or to question that, on the whole, it has worked very 
well. But it remains true that at their door lies the blame of a 
state of things, which those who cannot look back fifty years 
cannot possibly realize to themselves. 

• 2iid Report of Local Government Board, 1878 ; pp. ix., xiii., 61, 68, 69. 
t Beport of Commissioners of Inquiry, p. 72. 
X Ibid. p. 71. § Ibid. pp. 82, 83, 

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Sydney Smith said,* " We have been calling on the population 
to beget more children — furnished them with food, clothes, and 
houses — ^taught them to lay up nothing for matrimony, nothing 
for children, nothing for age — and to depend upon Justices of the 
Peace for the supply of every human want." 

The results of this system may be read in profusion in the 
Report of 1834, and in countless other publications. I will only 
notice three specimens. 

The first is the case, once notorious, of Cholesbury, a small village 
in Buckinghamshire. Theret "the expense of maintaining the 
poor swallowed up the whole value of the land: the landlords 
gave up their rents, the fanners their tenancies, the clergyman 
his glebe and his tithes ; the parish officers threw up their books ; 
the poor assembled in a body at the clergyman's door, while he 
was in bed, asking for advice and food :" the extreme remedy of 
a rate-in-aid from other parishes was actually used for two years; 
and the Rector recommended that the whole of the land should be 
simply abandoned, and divided among the able-bodied paupers. 

Mr. Benett, Police-Magistrate of Worship Street (he, no doubt, 
was not an "unpaid**), used to sit on a Saturday evening, from 
seven to ten or eleven, when " masses of paupers," sometimes 
more than 100, were brought before him, who knew nothing of 
them, nominally under the charge of an overeeer, who knew little 
more, and they were pretty nearly all given money by way of 

And lastly, I regret to say, in my own county of Worcester, § 
the Senior Magistrate of the Pershore division (I could find out 
who he was, but I had rather not know), gave relief to able- 
bodied persons without work. The Assistant-Commissioner asked 
him how that could be legal. "He informed. me that he thought 
every labourer entitled to claim a certain sum per week for eveiy 
child after the third ; that he thought every man who had four 
children might fairly be held, in the sense of the Act of Elizabeth, 
to be 'impotent;' and, in short, that he considered it impossible 
for any labouring man to support four children." 

Tnily that well-to-do and long-enduring gentleman, Mr. John 
Bull, can bear anything, as he could stand this system for so 
many years. 

The conclusion to which I am tending has probably been 
guessed ; but before stating it, I will slightly advert to the histoiy 
of the English Workhouse system. It is a curious history, and I 
believe far from having been fully told. 

There is useful information on this matter in an able Report to 
the Poor Law Commissioners, by the late Mr. Twisleton, on Local 

• WorkB, Ed. 1840, ir. 200. f Report of Coxnmissionors of Inquiry, p. 37. 

X Ibid. 70—82. § Ibid. 75. 

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Acts for Poor Relief, in 1843.* (Incidentally let me observe how 
^rong a case is made against the soundness and efficiency of 
t2te general law, by the mere existence of these many Local 
Acte, including the great permissive Local Act so well known as 
Gilbert's Act. Whenever there is a matter which is to be found 
alike in all parts of the country, to be dealt with by a general 
law, and Local Acts are obtained to supplement or supersede the 
said general law, it shows how uncomfortable and inadequate that 
law is, and that the people are trying to ease the burden by a 
privilegium of this sort.) 

Mr. Twisleton points out that the Act of Elizabeth gave no power 
to provide Workhouses ; and I suppose this is so, strictly speaking, 
tiough I confess it seems to me rather a narrow construction. 
But, undoubtedly, before the 9th of Geo. I. (1722) there was no 
express statutory enactment authorizing such provision. That 
Act, known as Sir E. Knatchbull's Act, did give absolute power to 
the parish authorities, not only to procure Workhouses, but to 
confine aU relief within them. It was, in several details, a very 
feeble enactment, as Mr. Twisleton has shown ; one only point I 
will notice, that it gave power only to buy or hire, not to build. 
Workhouses. But even so I conceive that if it was really expected 
and intended to have general and lasting operation, it was a mea- 
sure in advance of its age ; and so powerful was the principle, 
even when so loosely applied as it was, that for a time at least it 
seems to have had no small effect. Mr. Twisleton, perhaps with 
some professional readiness to believe well of the rule which his 
superiors were doing so much to revive and enforce, says that the 
Workhouses in those days were a real and effective test of need. 
He produces a goodly list of places where the rate fell from 25 
to 65 per cent. ; and I have noticed a bit of evidence in Sir 
F. Eden,t which he calls a "letter from Oxford," in 1726, four 
years after this Act, which describes the effect of the Workhouse 
system exactly as we should do — " Some who received alms of the 
parish strive to work, to keep out of confinement." 

Mr. Twisleton tells us that it has often been believed that on 
the whole the Act of 1722 was fairly operative, down to its 
virtual repeal in 1795, in keeping down Pauperism; and the Com- 
niissioners of Inquiryf say, what comes to much the same, that 
in that period '* parochiid reUef appears to have been given chiefly 
through the Workhouses, and not to have extended to any 
besides the impotent." I cannot but suspect that both Mr. 
Twisleton and the Commissioners somewhat overstate the case. 
It seems to me difficult to reconcile, in their view, with the series 
of complaints to which I have above referred, extending through 

• Appendix to 9th Report of Poor Law Conmiissioners, 1843, p. 66, segq. 
t L 283. X P. 72. 

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the whole oeiitury ; and'Mrl Twifileton himself (wha has noticed 
one or two additional cries of distreas of this kind) evidently 
doubts whether his own statement can be apj4iedio more than a 
short time. ■ " 

It Diay^howeN^er, be supported to some extent by what has always 
seemed tome a very curioHS and significant bit of traditionary evi- 
dence. How comes it that it ife an expreesion in miivefsal and 
immiemorial iifle about a poor man in danger of destitution — "He 
has no prospect before hitn but the Workhouse ? " A hundred and 
sixty years ago there were no Workhouses 5 and, for a long time 
before the-memoi-y of any of us theexptessito was utterly inaccurate, 
and perfectly well known to be. The poor man knows perfectly 
Avell that of the destitute relieved, whether from idleness, old age, 01: 
anything else, not above one in four, or eight, or ten, or even some 
smaller proportion, is reliered in the Worldiotise. "My suspicion is, 
that it is a tradition drawn from the time I have been speaking, 
the greater part of the eighteenth century, and that it does indi- 
cate a tolerably stringent execution of the law ; though no doubt 
even the discretionary power, which always has existed (except in 
so far as the Magistrates interfered with it under Sir W. Young's 
Act), to- oowfine relief to the Workhouse, would alone have a per- 
ceptible effect on the working class. 

I will now at length state the practical conclusion at which I have 
arrived; viz., that all Poor Relief should be confined by law to the 
AVorkhouse. As in the case of the piiuciple o*n which this rule 
rests^ I doubt whether it will be found expressly recommended in 
its full breadth, by any direct and superior authority, though I 
have no doubt with some research it may be found scattered 
through the writings of the last forty years, and it is occasionally to 
be noticed, put incidentally and obitery in the Reports of Assistant- 
Commissiohers.* It is often said to be in the Report of 1834, 
but I do not tliink it is, except as above mentioned. Mr. Longley t 
limits himself to hoping that Indoor ReUef may become the role, 
and Outdoor the exception — the converse of the actual state of 
things. Mr* Fawcett$ speaks of the "ultimate aboUtion of out- 
door relief." 

My belief is that the i-ule might be made absolute — I do not say 
immediate. Mr. George Chve, who was Assistant- Poor Law 
Commissioner just after the worst days, tells me that in those daj's 
so ingrained did the evil appear, that he used to think no real 
refonn could take full effect for thirty or forty years. I beUeve 
that now much less would suffice, and that with due notice to all 
concerned, an interval of about five yeara would be enough. 

♦ E.g, Mr. CuUey, 3rd Report of Local Govomment Board, 1874, p. 73. 
t ViA 9up. p. 142. X P. 60. 

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It must be remembered that no law cau attempt ±o do what 
is physically impossible ; and again that^ as long as ihe full 
ri^tto relief exists, there mnst be occasionally enormous sndden 
emergencies, such as great inundations, or fires, or {aunines, which 
break down all rules. For an instance of the first: »man breaks 
his leg in his own house, is destitute, and cannot be moved ; of 
couise he must be relieyed where he is. Of the second class, I 
need not remind you of many recent instances. But, firsts I would 
distinctly limit the variations to these specific cases ; and in the 
next, I believe much might be done at such times by a diligent 
s^plication and extension of the method, well known to the law, 
of relief by way of loan. 

Specially do I differ here, and here perhaps only, from Mr. 
Longley, who* would allow out-door relief to be given as " an 
indulgence to deserving cases." So sound and complete do his 
views on the Poor Law seem to me to be, that I suspect these 
passages in his Beport to be intei*polations, and that an enemy 
hath done it ; if not, they are to me as from the pen of a fallen 
angel. I conceive it to be absolutely fatal to right principle to 
introduce questions of merit into the bare relief of destitution, 
which, it must be over and over again said, is theone and sole object 
of the law. To say no more, it is plain that when you admit ques- 
tions of character, you do j>ro tanto^ and very powerfully, infringe 
on your cardinal principle, viz., to lead the working class to look 
away from the Poor Law, and not to it. Certainly it is a some- 
what humaixized application of the text, but it is quite true, that 
this law sends its benefits, such as they are, '' on the just and on 
the unjust." 

I believe much illustration may be drawn to this subject, and 
ospedally to what I have just mentioned, temporary relaxation in 
impracticable emergencies, from a most interesting inquiry which 
might be made, but which I have not been able to attempt, and 
which would need and well repay a separate and careful effort, 
that into the Scotch and Irish Poor Laws, compared with the 
English, The framers of the Irish law, warned by lolig experience, 
based it, among other things, on two most efficient principles : the 
absence of the fettering and imnatural system of parochial or local 
Settlement, and the absence of Out-door ReUef. The potato famine, 
and I believe other circimistances, have occasionally compelled, 
and still sometimes and here and there compel, some relaxation ; 
but still the main principle is carefully upheld as a inile. In 
Scotland, an equally recent Poor Law has been established, on a 
<liffeTent, and, I believe, wholly untenable basis. The right to 
i^lief was denied entirely to the able-bodied — ^a view which has 

* P. 207, and elsewhere. 

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been advocated by Mr. Davison* and others, and which has a 
supei-ficial plausibility, but which is surely absurd. If the law 
stands on the simple ground of humanity, that no one shall starve 
or die of cold, how can it admit of any exceptions whatever ? 
For the rest, partial out-door reUef is the rule and not the 
exception. And though I am not able to quote any recent 
statement, I find, on good authority, that in 1860 the operation of 
the two systems had led to the following results : — In Scotland, the 
pauper growth of a few years was about equal in its proportions 
to the inveterate Pauperism of centuries in England, four per cent. 
on the population. In Ireland it was one and a half per cent. In 
England, the cost per head was 5s. 7|d. on the population ; in 
Scotland, 4s. 2d. ; in Ireland, 2s. 2|d.t 

A Scotch Poor Law was inevitable ; as Mr. Carlyle said, " Scot- 
land, too, must have its Poor Law." From whatever cause, desti- 
tution there had reached a pitch which disgraced humanity; it was 
said that an old woman there was sometimes foun'd living on 6d. 
a week. But it was not the Scotch poor who called for the law ; 
their strong and resolute character made them suffer in silence. 
" They had better starve^^ said the late Lord Campbell to me of 
some Highland famine, " than rush on the relief fund as the Irish 
do." And most suggestive, most ominous, are the two following' 
passages ; the one from Evidence given by Mr. Briscoe, Superin- 
tendent imder the Scotch Poor Law: "Out-door relief in the 
Highlands has deteriorated truth, industry, moraUty, self-respect, 
self-reUance, the natuml affections, independence of character ; it 
appears as if the whole of the humbler clfiwses had completely 
changed their character. There is no shame whatever in demand- 
ing reUef, even among some of higher station. The state of things 
in the Highlands is perfectly deplorable, and every person admits 
it."J And this, after a few years of any Poor Law at all ! It 
may almost remind one of the lines in the " Cliristian Year "§ — 

" Twas but one little drop of sin 
We saw this morning ent^r in, 
And lo! at eventide the >kot\A is drowned.'* 

The other is from the recent Report of the Friendly Societies 
Commission : II "There is a gi-owing class in Scotland who feel 
that they need not insure in any friendly society, as the Poor 
Law provides them with a certainty of sick pay." 

I say then the Workhouse ; and, I must add, the Workhouse on 

• P. 601. 

t Mr. Chadwick: ''Comparative Results of Poor Law Administration in England^ 
Ireland, and Scotland," (1864), pp. 7, 8, 13. This is snfficient authority for the early 
working of the new laws, and that is enongh for my purpose. But I believe that, since 
&e date of the pamphlet, matters in Ireland have got worse, and in Scotland I hope they 
have improved. 

X Chadwick, p. IS. § Sexagesima. |] P. cxcv. 

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the same general principle to all its inmates. I have often been 
astoDiahed to hear intelligent advocates of sound principle in the 
Poor Law say that the Workhouse should be an engine of a 
mongrel character — nay, of two opposite characters — deterrent to 
the able, inviting and encouraging to the ojd and infirm. I hold, 
without disguise, that it should be repellent to all. The Pauperism 
of the able has no doubt its peculiar malignancy ; but to every 
one whatever most of its evils, as above detailed, apply equally, and, 
indeed, some more peculiarly to the old and infirm — ^the discourage- 
ment of industry and forethought, the extortion of what one needs 
from others often nearly as poor as oneself — ^above all, the destruc- 
tion of the sense of duty among kindred.* 

Now, I wish to keep as near as may be to my main staple, 
and I must not be tempted to dwell on many important advantages 
of the Workhouse system : the extreme simpKfication of adminis- 
tration — ^and, no doubt, those who have to administer the law 
must guard themselves against being too much biassed by this, by 
the prospect of relief at a blow from the endless perplexities and 
puzzles of the present state of things ; the immediate and total 
elimination of many difficult, indeed, almost insoluble questiouK, 
such as how to deal with cases of voluntary pensions to wliich the 
recipient has no claim at all, but which he is certain always to 
receive, the question of paupers' membership of Benefit Societies, 
and many others. One only I will more particularly notice, chiefly 
to draw attention to the very able treatment of it in Mr. Longley's 
Report.! In a well-ordered Workhouse alone are you sure of 
^ving exclusive relief, and exclusive reUef is the only relief which 
you can be sure is neither inadequate nor excessive. There the 
work is all in your own hand, and under your own eye ; you can 
tell exactly what each inmate should have, and you can be sure 
that he gets it, and that he gets no more than it. In out-door 
relief, you order rehef to A ; in itself, it is almost certain to be 
unequal as between him and B, C, D, &c. ; you cannot tell how 
far it is supplemented by alms, or by secret hoarding ; it is nearly 
sure to be too much or too little ; and lastly, as we well know 
in practice, there is too much reason to fear that the relief given 
is not always enjoyed, but is abstracted from the supposed 
recipient by others, generally membere of his own family. 

But to return. I conceive that it is plain in itself, and long ago 
demonstrated by experience, that the Workhouse alone enables us 
to comply with the full requirements of the law, while attaining 
the object that Pauperism shall be distastefiil to the pauper. As 
for those who cannot work, surely this is self-evident ; you must 

See Report of Poor Law CommisBionors, 1839 ; qnoted by Mr. Longloy, p. 187 
Pp. 168, 169, and elsewhere. 

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giv^e enough to support life and health, and, in unconditional 
relief, what means have you of combining that with the deterrent 
principle? For those who can work, of course there is the 
plausible-looking expedient of finding work by the public. To 
this large chapter in the history of the subject I have already 
referred. I will barely allude to the well-known objections to the 
attempt, such as that long ago indicated by Defoe :* " For every 
skein of worsted spun" (by paupere) " a skein the less is spun by 
8ome poor person that spun it before." 

Perhaps the most respectable-looking of these plans for an arti- 
ficial supply of work is that known as tlie "Labour-Rate" system ; 
and it shows how false notions had become inveterate on these sub- 
jects, that the Commissioners of Inquiry thought it necessary, 
through nearly twenty foUo pages, to oppose argmnents in favour of 
Labour-Rates which seem to us mere fallacies, by arguments which 
Hecm to us mere truisms-t But I must just point out that the 
labour-test, as it is called, simply in itself, and not combined with 
the Workhouse, plainly cannot fulfil the indispensable condition of 
relative distastefulness compared with ordinary labour: not in 
(quality, for many fully adequate forms of Uvelihood are already as 
impleasant as possible ; not in amount of pay, for if the parish 
pay were put materially below the market rate, it would obviously 
not be enough to Kve upon. 

Objections to the Workhouse on the groimd of hardship, such as 
were incessant in and out of Parliament thirty years ago, I can 
but shghtly notice. But I may point out how absolutely neces- 
sary it is; if the law is to give eflfect to the piinciple I have been 
maintaining, that there should be such objections. The law is to 
provide the physical necessaries of life. Now, what are they ? 
Only three — food, lodging, clothing. The law does, in fact, pro- 
vide much more than these physical things : but take these alone. 
Is it not manifest and inevitable that in all these respects, apart 
from other circumstances^ the pauper in the Workhouse shall be 
better, and not worse, off, than the avemge of independent 
labourers outside ? If, then, that were all, our principle would 
simply break doT\Ti. It follows therefore that the adjuncts of 
these mere necessaries must be that in wliich the repellent 
element sh&ll be foimd. And we -must clearly recognize the fact 
that it is so, and that it is well that it is. If ever, accord- 
ing to the insane wish we sometimes hear expressed, the Work- 
house were to be made, as a legal tender of rehef, attractive, or 
not unattractive, to the unskilled labourer, I know not to what we 
could have recourse. 

It is unattractive ; and we know how it is so. The mere fact of 

♦ Quoted by Sir F, Eden, i. 2G1. f Pp. 108^126. 

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cenfinement, the common rules of diBcipline and good order, the 
prescribed regularity, ay, the compulsoiy cleanliness, are dis- 
tagfceful to the population from which paupei*8 are drawn. More 
serious hardship may be found in such special points as used to 
be 80 continually dwelt upon — the breaking-up of homes, and, 
above all, the separation of families. But before dwelling a Uttle 
on these, let me recall what used to be a most hackneyed saying, 
What ! do you treat poverty as a crime ? 

I believe the saying is a most fallacious one. For the moment 
setting aside the vital diflference between Poverty and Pauperism, 
I conceive the accurate statement to be this — and we must bear 
in mind that we are only speaking of what the law does — not that 
we treat poverty as a crime, but that we find it a ndafartune^ and 
leave it so.* By poverty I do not mean anything relative, but 
actual distress. Now, no doubt, poverty, in aU its forms, has its 
promise of special blessing under conditions. But that is equally 
true of all suffering whatever ; and it has never been inferred from 
that that sufferings are not evils, or that we do not well to avert 
them as far as we can. We fi,re thus brought back to where we 
were, and say that we are going against the order of Providence 
if we guarantee by law, to those who are pecuKarly liable to 
distress, that it shall not be distress, and exempt them from all 
stimulus to keep themselves from it. 

And, of course, all this is only strengthened when we apply it 
to Pauperism, which is not simply the extreme form of poverty, 
but poverty charged with the peculiar mischiefs which we have 
described — ^mischiefs artificially impressed upon it by express 
enactment, inherent in all forms of the legal claim to relief and 

To revert, then, to such privations as separation of husbands 
and wives, I admit that there are some such which are beyond 
the region of merely salutary discipline, and, sub permanent arrange- 
ments, we could not look on them as admissible. But we must 
remember that the law does not require that separation in the case 
of the aged ; and that its whole intent is that such a state of things 
shall not be permanent, but only temporary. I do not think the 
law can do more ; and if still puch hardships should remain, or any 
other incidental to a severe administration of the Poor Law, I 
believe we must have recourse to that other, non-legal, provision, 
iipon which I must still detain the reader for a short time before 
ooncluding this Paper. 

For, long as it has been, I am sure any one would be surprised if 
I left the subject here. I certainly do not suppose that the time will 

* Sbc6 writing this I bave found in a forthcoming Memoir of Lord Althorp, that 
o» used the same expreuion in introducing to Parliament the Poor Ijaw of 1884. 

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ever come when our Poor will be in two clasBes only, the inde- 
pendent, and the inmates of WorkhonseB. I believe there will 
always be a large number between these classes ; and I look — ^I 
should expect that all would look — for needful aid to these, to 
voluntaiy benevolence. The Commissioners of Inquiry have 
sometimes been imjustly accused of meaning to prohibit alms- 
giving. They and others have spoken of preventing mendicancy 
— quite another thing. The operation of Charity, as concurrent 
and, indeed, co-operating, with the Poor Law, has been expressly 
recognized by them and by their best foUowei's.* 

But it is true that almsgiving has been denounced, in almost 
unquahfied terms. Mr. Fawcett does not go this length, while 
ably showingt the danger there would be in leaving the whole 
care of distress to voluntary effoit, without any legal provision. 
But Mr. Greg,$ for instance, denounces almsgiving with hardly any 
qualification. I say ^* hardly any," for, Uke so many writers of his 
school, it is not always easy to pin him to a perfectly consistent 
statement. Almsgiving means simple giving, ** hoping for nothing 
in return;" and Mr. Greg says, "Almsgiving is a mischief and a 
sin;" "almsgiving is bad;" Scripture "distinctly prohibits alms- 
giving." But elsewhere he hedges, thus — " The more literally the 
precept * give' is obeyed, the more harm it does;" '^nearly all 
charity, popularly so called, is noxious;" ^^ charitable endotvments 
diSvkse pauperism;" ^^indiscriminate and systematic charity" are 

Here is a considerable diflFerence. But, however, we have in 
this to meet the obvious answer, when we speak of consigning a 
large region of relief to private charity, What have you gained ? 
How is that better than out-door reKef t 

Now I have not left myself time to go very fiilly into this, nor 
does it seem necessary in the view of this Paper. I desire to 
recognize a considerable amount of truth in such statements and 
arguments as Mr. Greg's. If we look at his more guarded words, 
*^ indiscriminate'^ almsgiving — indeed, indiscriminate almost any- 
thing — iH self-condemned ex vi termini. But I fully admit the 
special hazard that exists in systematic charity simply for the 
reUef of poverty. One paiiicular form of it I have been called 
on to be very conversant with for some years — ^permanent en- 
dowments for simple relief — ^Avhat are often called "Dole Charities." 
I cannot but hope that public opinion will more and more be 
in favour of varying the appUcation of these, as the law now 
specially allows us to do, to some more enhghtened and really 
useftd purpose for the lower classes. 

I also admit that there is much of what Mr. Greg terms " stupid 

* Report of CommisBionera of Inquiry, 147. Mr. Lon|;l«3r, 144-6, 185^ 200. 
t Pp. 50— 5G. X " Creed of Chrifltondom,*' 3rd Ed. L Ui—lxvl 

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literalism " in our way of dealing with some well-known texts. It 
\& quite trae that if a man could give up time, labour, money, to 
Charity of any kind, of which the effect would be to elevate the 
condition of the Poor in any real way, though he gave nothing at 
all m direct alms, he would be obeying the Gospel precepts in 
their spirit. 

But the truth is, that all this, pushed to any great length, 
is veiy unmeaning and unreal. Mr, Greg will never persuade 
Christendom to give up almsgiving, any more than he will get 
them to accept the riddled and sifted residuum of the Gospel 
which he calls the pure essence of Christianity, and of which it 
seems that he and a few others have tlie exclusive possession.* 
Nor, I fear, as long as men are men — still more, as long as women 
are women — shall we ever get rid of a good deal of misdirected 
and mischievous almsgiving. 

All we can really do is to regulate^ as well as we can, voluntary 
relief, as we have done and are doing with compulsory reUef. 
But I say regulate as a very general term. In some respects the 
principles of the two are not only different, but opposite. And it 
is no paradox to say that, in some important senses, strict regula- 
tion is the object in legal reUef, the absence of it in individual 
and voluntary relief. 

The more any fonds, and the system of administeiing them, 
for simple charitable reUef, approach to being hardened and 
stiffened into a formal and legal system like that of a Poor Law, 
the worse. The more the Poor are allowed to believe that there 
is somewhere at hand a fund on which they can ultimately be 
nrtually sure^ each one of them, to be able to draw for the supply 
of what it is their own primary duty to provide for themselves, 
the worse. Neceenty is the basis of a Poor Law ; discretion to 
give or to withhold, with the uninviting prospect of the bare 
legal provision in the background, ought to be one vital principle 
of voluntary charity. 

In short, though it may not be all we could wish, we may 
be content as long as we bear in mind this broad fact as the 
ground of the whole distinction, and constituting the need that 
such distinction should be maintained, between a Poor Law and 
all other systems of Relief, that under the one there is an abso- 
lute, legal, universal, claim of right to maintenance, in the other 
there is not. 

^ * I must take this opportunity of saying that baring lately, in this Rbtiew, spoken 
in imqnalified admiration of Mr. Greg's tone of writing, and having since become 
•eqnainted with bis book called the "• Creed of Christendom,** I must, not indeed with- 
draw, bnt modify that expression. See, for instance, i. cyii., where he caUs the doctrine 
<rf the Deity of Christ an " nnworthy pnerility " (!). It would, indeed, matter little what 
tbat doctrine was caUed, if, as Mr. Greg suspects (ii. 169, note^, no one belieTed it. These 
we Bpecunens of the gentle " assurance " which often occurs in the book. 

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If a new sjBtem, as I have suggested, were annoiinced as to 
come in force after five years, I should folly expect that that 
interval would give lise to much further orgp^nization, and prepa- 
ration for the development, of private charity. I could only hope 
that such organization would follow the hues of such as the 
Charity Organization Society and the Parochial Mission Women 
Pund ; and that the great mass of individual and imorganized 
benevolence that would exist besides might more and more be 
guided by care, judgment, and intelHgence. 

The principle of compulsory reUef is negative, of voluntary is 
positive ; of the one to avert evil, of the other to produce good ; 
the one is corporate, the other personal ; the one is and ought to 
be, in its essence, hard, inflexible, grudging and of necessity, 
with but Uttle to evoke the better and tenderer feelings on either 
side ; the other can bless both him who gives and him who 
receives, calls forth the giutitude which the other deadens, is of 
gentle and loving aspect ; the one deters, the other atti-acts ; the 
one is human, the other Christian. 


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Jk vitd et nmffuine cerUmt.'^ 

JSh. xn. 76SI 

APAPEB contributed to the Contbmporabt Review for 
October, 1874, under the title of ** Ritual and Ritualiam," 
elicited, together with many expressions of interest and approval, 
many also of disappointment. There seemed to have been an 
expectation that the essay might imtie, or cut, the knot of the 
questions which had been so warmly, if not fiercely, agitated 
during the preceding session of Parliament. But it had no such 
ambitious aim. Its object was, within the limited sphere of my 
means, simply to dispose men towards reflection, to substitute for 
the temper of the battle-field, good as in its place that may 
be, the temper of the chamber, where we commune with our 
own hearts, and are stilL And this was done for two reasons : 
the first, because all true meditation is dispaasionate, and a dis- 
passionate mood is the first indispensable condition for the reso- 
lution of controversies ; the second, because there seemed to me 
to be real dangers connected, in the present day, with the merely 
fashionable accumulation of ritual, more subtle and very much 
more widely spread than the pronounced manifestations which 
had recently been so much debated. 

The season is now tranquil ; the furnace, no longer fed by the 
fael of Parliamentary contentions among the highest authorities, 
has grown cool, and may be approached with safety, or, at leaat, 
with diminished risk. Those who opposed the Ecclesiastical Titles 
Bill, in 1851, in some cases had for tiieir reward (as I have reason 


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io know) partfgxepks in •'' refigious '' new/q^ofpers, ataling <2|re^'« 
4tiix]^tmQy/tbii liad join^ the Church of Itome. Thofle who! 

^Qdtioisied.the Public WcMship Act» in 1S749 '^^^ more mildly, 
l^t«8i9tLmmarfIyrpim^ in being .set down 68 Bitaalisto* In 
%e heat of the period, it would have been mere folly to dispute 
the justice of the "ticketing,** or classification. Perhaps it may 
now be allowed me to say, that I do not approach this question 
as a partisan. Were the question one between historical Christi- 
anity and systems opposed to or divergent from it, I could not 
honestly profess that I did not take a side. But as regards ritual, 
by which I understand the exterior forms of Divine worship, I 
have never, at any time of my Efe, been employed in promoting 
its extension; never engaged in any either of its general or its 
local controversies. In the question of attendance at this church 
or that, I have never been governed by the abundance or the 
.scantiness of its ritual, which I regard purely as an instrument, 
aiming at an end; as one of many instruments, and not as the 
first among them. To uphold the integrity of the Christian 
dogma, to trace its working, and to exhibit its adaptation to 
human thought and human welfare, in all the varying experience 
of the ages, is, in my view, perhaps the noblest of all tasks which 
it is given to the human mind to pursue. This is the guardian- 
(idnp of the great fountain of human hope, happiness, and virtae. 
But with respect to the clothing, which the Gospel may taker to 
iteelf) my mind has a large margin of indulgence, if .not of laxity, 
both ways, lluch is to be allowed, I can hardly say how much, 
to-* national, sectional, and personal diveiigences, and to me it is 
indeed grievous to think that any range of liberty which was re* 
spected in the storm of the sixteenth century should be denounced 
and threatened in the comparative calm of the nineteentL Beve*- 
renoe, indeed, is a thing indii^ensable and invaluable ; butreverence 
is one tiling, and ritual another ; and while reverence is preserved, I 
would never, according to my own inclination individually, quarrel 
with my brother about ritual. Nothing, therefore, would be easier 
than for me, after the manner of those who affect impartiality, to 
censure sharply the faults which, from our elevated point of view, 
we detect on both sides. Nothing easier, but few things more 
mischievous; for what is impartiality between the two, is often gross 
partiality and one-sidedness in the judgment of each, by reason of 
its ruthlessly shutting out of view those kernels of truth which 
are probably on both sides to be found under the respective husks 
of warring prejudice. 

Without, however, any assumption of the tone of the critic or 
the pedagogue, there is one recommendation which may be 
addressed to both parties in the controversy of ritualism. They 
should surely be exhorted to cease altogether, or at least to reduce 

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to its minimum^ the practice of impbrting into ^uestiohs concerning 
the externals of reKgiori the element of devotional' significance; 
The phrase is borrowed from a pamphlet by' Dr. Trevor/*' which 
bears the stamp, h(it only of ability, biit of an independent mindl 
The topic is, in. my belief, of deep moment. It cannot, perhaps, bo 
more effectively illustrated than by a reference to the particular 
^article of ritual which has been, more than any other, the subject of 
recent contest — ^namely, the question whether, dunng the prayer 
of consecration in the Office of. Communion, the priest shall stand 
with his face towards the east, or towards the south. 

By some mental process, which it seems difficult for an un- 
hiassed understanding to comprehend, a controversy, which may 
dmost be called furious, has been raised on this matter. It of 
course transcends — ^indeed, it almost scoms-^the bounds of the 
narrower question, whether the one or the other posture is agree- 
able, or, as may perhaps better be said, is more agreeable, to the 
legal prescriptions of the rtibriqs. For it is held, and held on 
hoth mdes by persons not inconsiderable either in weight or 
number, that, if the priest looks eastwards at this point of the 
service, he thereby affirms the doctrines of the Real Presence and 
the Eucharistic Sacrifice, but that, if on the contrary he takes his 
place at the north end of the altar or table, he thereby puts a 
negative on those doctrines. K the truth of this contention be ad- 
mitted, without doubt the most formidable consequences may then 
be apprehended from any possible issue of the debate. It is idle 
to hope that even judges can preserve the balance of their minds 
when the air comes to be so thickly charged with storm. We may 
say almost with certainty that there are many now reckoned as 
members of the Church of England, whom, on the one side, the affir- 
mation of those principles would (Mstract and might displace, while, 
on the other, their negation would precipitate a schism of an enduring 
character. But if this be even partially true, does it not elevate 
into an imperioUs duty, for all right-minded men, that which is 
in itself a rule of reason — ^namely, that we should steadily resolvo 
not to annex to any particular acts of external usage a special 
dogmatic interpretation, so long as they will naturally and un- ' 
constrainedly bear some sense not entailing that consequence 1 

Now, it seetaas quite evident that,' in the present instance, the 
contentions of each of the two parties are perfectly capable of 
being explained and supported upon grounds having no reference 
to the doctrines, with which they have been somewhat wilfiilly 
placed hi a connection as stringent as that of the folds of the boa- 
'^onsiricior. Take, for example, the case in favour of what we may 
be allowed to call orientation. The bishops at the Savoy Con- 

• " TreTOr's Disputed Rubrics " (Parker), pp. 13 aud seqq. 

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ference laid down the principle, as one founded in general pro- 
priety and reason, that when the minister addresses the people he 
should turn himself towards them, as, for example, in preaching 
or in reading the lessons from Holy Scripture ; but that when, for 
and with them, he addresses himself to God, there is solecism and 
incongruity in his being placed as if he were addressing them. 
The natural course, then, they held to be, that congregation euid 
minister, engaged in a common act, should, unless conformity 
between the inward and the outward i^ to be entirely expelled 
from the regulation of human demeanour, look together in a 
common direction. When this is done by a clergyman reading 
the Litany at a faldstool, he commonly turns his back on part of 
the congregation, and part of the congregation . on him. When 
the same rule is followed in the prayer of consecration, the back 
of the clergyman is turned towards the entire congregation only 
from the circumstance that he officiates at the extreme east end of 
the church. The proper idea of the position is, not that he turns 
his back on the congregation, but that, placed at the head of the 
congregation, and acting for as well as with them in the capacity 
of the pubhc organ of the assembled flock, he and they all turn in 
the same direction, and his back is towards the whole only as the 
back of the first line of worshippers behind him is towards all 
their fellow-worshippers. He simply does that, which every one 
does in sitting or standing at the head of a column or body of 
men. And if he be a beUever in the Real Presence and the 
Euchaiistic Sacrifice, woe be to him in that capacity, unless he 
has some other and firmer defence for these doctrines than the 
assumed symbolism of an attitude that he shares with so many 
Protestant clergymen of Continental Europe, who are known to be 
bound but little to the first, and are generally adverse to the second 
of these doctrines. Thus, then, we have, in a particular view of the 
mere proprieties of the case, a perfectly adequate explanation of 
the desire to assume the eastward position, without any reference 
whatever to any given doctrinal significance, be it cherished or 
be it obnoxious. ' Let us now turn to the other side of the ques- 
tion, and see whether similar reasoning will not hold good. 

It does not follow, upon the expulsion of this transcendental 
element from the discussion, that the objector to the plan of facing 
eastwards is left without a case, which again is one of simple 
pohcy and expediency, from his own point of view. He may, like 
many of his countrymen, be so wanting in the rudiments of the 
aesthetic sense, as to think that the most advantageous position 
for a Christian pastor towards the people is that in which he 
speaks all the prayers straight into theii- faces, and* the best 
arrangement for the flock that of the double pews, in which they 
are set to look at one another through the service, in order to 

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correct, by mntual contemplation, any excessive tendency to rapt 
and collected devotion. But it is not necessary to impute to him 
this irrational frame of mind. He may admit that in the act of 
prayer, as a rule, minister and people may advantageously look in 
the same direction. He may renounce the imputation upon his 
adversaries that, by facing eastwards, they express adhesion to 
certain doctrines. And he may still point out that there is more 
to be said. The prayer of consecration is a prayer not of petition 
only, but of action too. In the course of it, by no less than five 
parenthetical rubrics, the priest is directed to perform as many 
manual acts ; and, quite apart from the legal argument that the 
reference in the principal rubric to breaking the bread before the 
people requires the action to be performed in their view, he may 
contend, if he thinks fit, that for the better comprehension of the 
service, it is well that they should have the power of seeing all 
that ii reqidred of the prieist respecting the handling of the sacred 
elements, and that this cannot be seen, or cannot so well be seen, 
if he faces eastwards, as if, standing at the north end of the holy 
table, he fiices towards the south. I do not enter into the question 
whether this argument be conclusive, either as to the legal 
interpretation of the rubric, with which at present we have 
nothing to do, or as to tiie advantage of actual view and thef 
comparative facilities for allowing it. It is enough to show that 
argnments may be made in perfect good foith, and free from any- 
thing irrational, against as well as for the eastward position, 
without embracing the embittering element of doctrinal signifi-* 
cance ; that both from the one side and the other the question 
may be reasonably debated on general groimds of religious 
expediency. For if this be so, it becomes in a high degree impo-^ 
fitic, and injurious to the interests of religion, to fasten upon 
these questions of position, whether in the sense of approval or of 
repudiation, significations which they do not require, and which 
they will only so far bear that, by prejudice or association, we 
can continually give to words and things a colour they do not of 
themselves possess. There are surely enough real occasions for 
contention in the world to satisfy the most greedy appetite, with- 
out adding to them those which are conventional — ^that is to say, 
those where the contention is not upon the things themselves, but 
Tipon the constmctionB which prejudice or passion may attach to 
them. Surely if a Zuinglian could persuade himself that the 
English Communion Office was founded upon the basis of Zuin- 
glian ideas, he would act weakly and inconsistently should he re* 
noonce the ministry of the Church because he was ordered to face 
eastwards during the prayer of consecration; and at ibast as 
sorely would one, believing in the Catholio and primitive character 
of the office, be open to similar blame if he in like manner repu- 

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diated hiB function lis a priest upon being required totakehisplaee 
only on the north. Preferences for. the one or the other pomtion it 
is easy to conceive. To varying ideas of" worship— f and in these 
later times the idea of worship doed materially vary-^the <»ie or 
the other may seem, or may ev«a be, more thoroughly oo&fonnaUe j 
but strange indeed, in niy view, must be ttie composition of the 
mind which can deliberately judge that the position at the nortb 
end is in itself irreveretlt, Or that facing towards the east is id 
itself superstitious. Both cannot be right in a dispute, but both 
may be wrong ; and bne of the many w&ys in which this cemes 
about is when the thing c(mtended for is, by a' common Oonsent 
in error, heedlessly lifted out of the region' oi tilings ind]ffei>eQt 
into that of things essential, and a distinction, founded originally 
on the phantasy of man, bebonles liie oHumlua sUuUia out caderiiia 
eaneordiof. « - , . . 

It sometimes seems as though, even in' the tumult of the BeCor* 
mation, when the fountains of the great deep welre broken up, 
the general mind must yet have been more BoUd and steadieif— 
perhaps even more charitable — ^than now; though the edge -of 
controversies at that epoch Was physical as well a6moml,*aikd 
involved, at every sweep bf the Weapon; natiokial defence and the 
safety or peril of life and limb. • Members of the CSiurcb of 
England, even now somewhat irrOverent as a body with reference 
to kneeling in ordinary Worship, are nevertheless all content to 
kneel in the act of receiving the Holy Communion ; It most 
becoming, most soothing^ most frateMal usage. General censure 
would descend upon the man who should attempt to' disturb it by 
alleging that this humble attitude of obeisftnce' too much favoured 
the idea of paying worship to the consOciAted elements. No less 
certainly, and even more sharj^y; Would he be Oondemned who, 
himself believing in the Rtel PredenOe^ should endeavour to force 
it home on others as the' only key to the meaning of the usagew 
But who can fail to 6be that fOr minds, I Will not say jaundioedt 
but preoccupied with the disposition to attiich extreme con** 
structions to outward acts in the direction in which they seem to 
lean, nothing is more easy thai^ to dnnex to the kneeling attitude 
of the receiver in the Holy Eucharist the colour and idea of 
adoration of the consecrated elementB t So^ also, nothing would 
be more difficult than, when once euch a colour has been so 
annexed, again to detach it effectually, oud thus to bring the 
•practice to an equitable judgment. Tet the Church of Eng^d, 
•which has unitedly settled down upon the question of kUeeling 
at reception, has resolutely thrust asidie the extreme oon- 
-atruction through which a baleful ooncujrrence of opposing 
partisans, might have rendered it intolerable. And this she did, 
canying this practice without shock or hesitation through all 

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the finctiiations of her Liturgy, dtuing times when theological 
contioversj was exasperated bj every mtmdane passion which 
either Hie tise of force, or its anticipation, can arouse. It will 
indeed be strange — shotdd we not rather say it will indeed b& 
fihameful-^ify after co(ndncting the desperate straggles of i^he 
Reformation to their issue, and when we have realized its moral 
and social fruits for three centuries and a half^ we prove to b' 
much less wise and less forbearing than our less civilized and 
refined forefatiiers, that we are to be led, by an aggravated misuse 
of this practice of gr9.tuitous construction, to create a breach upoQ 
a question so much less difficult, so much less calling for o^* 
wananting extreme issues, than that which they proved them- 
selves able to accommodate ? . . . 

It may indeed be said, and not untnily» that in a certain sense 
both the friends and the adversaries of the practice I have been 
considering are agreed in attaching tq it the me^^ning I presume tq 
deprecate. Where both patties to a suit are agreed, it is idle, we 
Hiay bo told, to dispute what they conqiir in. Now the very 
point I desire to bring into clear view, is tibat this is not a suit 
witii two parties to it, but that many, perhaps inost, of those who 
are entitled to be heard, are not before the court ; many — aye, 
multitudes — ^who think either this question should b^ let alone, or 
that if it is not let alone, it should be decided upon dry and cold 
considerstioHs of law, history, and science, so far as they are 
found to inhere in it; not judged by patches of glaring colour, 
the symbols of party, whi(^ are fiaustented upon it from without. 
If this be a just view, the concurrence of the two parties.named 
above in their construction of the eastward position is no better a 
reason for the acquiescence of the dispassionate community, than 
flie agreement of two boys at a public school to fight, in order to 
ascertain who is the strongest, is a reason against the interference 
of bystanders to stop them if they can. 

Theve is in political life a practice analogous, seems* to me, 
to the practice of importing doctrinal significance into discussions 
upon ceremoniaL It is indeed a very common fashion to urge that 
something, in itself good and allowable, has become bad and inad- 
missible on account of motives imputed to those who ask it. The 
Beforms proposed in 1831 and 1866 were not conceded, because 
they would be nsed as. levers for ulterior extensions of the fran- 
chise. The Irish Church was not to be disestablished, because the 
change would serve as an argument for disestablishing the Church 
of England. Iridi pnblic-houses mnst closed on Sunday 
'where the people desire it, for fear the measure should bring about 
a omilar dosmg in England, where pubUc opinion is not ripe for 
it. But then^ in the secular world, this very practice is taken as 
the indicatioa of an illiberal mind, and a shortrsighted policy. 

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The truly liberal maxim has ever been that by gcauting just 
claims you disarm undue demands : that things should be judged 
as they are in themselves, and not in the extraneous considerations, 
and remote eventuaUties, which sanguine friends and bitter foes 
oftentimes agree in annexing to them. It is» therefore, with un- 
feigned surprise^ that I read in the work of no mean writer on this 
rubrical controversy, that in May last he "prayed** that the priest 
might be allowed to face eastwards, but that he would now refuse 
it, because "this eastward position is claimed for distinctively 
doctrinal purposes/' I am reluctant to cite a respected name, 
but it is necessary to give the means of verifying my statement 
by a reference to Dr. Swainson's " Bubdcal Question of 1874,"* 
y^. 1, 5. I might, I believe, add other instances of the same un- 
fortunate line of thought, but it is needless. 

What, then, is the upshot of this extraordinary preference of 
the worse over the better, the more arbitrary over the direct and 
inherent construction? It is this, that it heats the blood and 
quickens the zeal of sympathizing partisans. But then it h|ts exactly 
the same effect upon the partisans of the two opposite opinions. 
So that it widens breaches, feeds the spirit of mutual defiance, 
and affords, Uke abundant alcohol, an intoxicating satisfactioa, to 
be followed by the remorse of the morrow when the mischief has 
been done. It enhances the difficulties of the judge's task, and 
makes hearty acquiescence in his decisions almost hopeless. 

Wherever this importation of doctrinal significance, I care not 
from which side, has been effected, it powerfully tends to persuade 
the worsted party that the law has been strained against him on 
grounds extraneous to the argument, and to drive him either upon 
direct disobedience, or upon circuitous modes of counteracting 
the operation of the judgment. Those against whom the letter 
vof the law seems to be turned invidiously, are apt to think they 
may freely and justly avail themselves of it wherever it is in their 
favour. Supposing, for example, that, by a judgment appearing 
to rest on considerations of policy and not of law, the eastward 
position were to be condemned, who does not see that those who 
thought themselves wronged might discover ample means of com- 
pensation ? Some have contended that the clergy, sustained by 
Jfcheir flocks, might retrench the services of the parish church; 
imd, offering within its walls a minimum both of ritual and of the 
lOpportunities of worship, might elsewhere institute and attend ser- 
vices which, under a recent Statute (18 & 19 Vict c. 86), many 
beUeve they might carry on without being subject to the restraints 
of the Act of Uniformity. 

Or again, in the churches themselves, where the clergyman was 

* But, At p. 70, Dr. Swaixuon, with great candour, states that, if the law be declared 
MlTersely to his yiew, he will at onoo renooiwe this imputatioD of doctrinal signifloaiiM. 

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forbidden to adopt apositioii conBtn;ied as' implTing qjjl excessive 
reverence, not he only, but, with certain immunity from cons&* 
quences, his congregation might, and probably would, resort to other 
external acts, at least as* effectual for the samepuxpose, much more 
cloeely related to doctrinal signijBlcanoe, much more conspicuous in 
themaelves, and, perhaps, muoh more offensiye tofellow-worshippeiSy 
than the position which had been prohibited. What, upon either 
of these suppositions, would have been gained by the most signal 
victory in the courts^ either for truth or for peace, or even for the 
feelings and objects of those who would be called the .winners 1 - 
I have dwelt at leqgtdx on this particular subject, not because I 
imagine the foregoing remaiics to offer a solujaon of a difficulty, 
but in order to point out and to avert, if possible, what would 
make a solution hnpossible. The very first condition of healthy 
thought and .action is an effort at self-mastery, and the expulsiony 
from the controversies concerning certaim rubrics, of considerations 
which aggravate those controversies into hopelessness,- and which 
seem to dwell in them, as demons dwelt in the bodies of the .pos- 
sessed, till they were expelled by the beneficent Saviour, and left 
the sufferers at length restored to their right mind* If we cannot 
fulfil this first condition of sanity, it is, I fear, hopeless to expect 
that the day of doom for the Chinch of En^nd can be long 
postponed. It is bad enough in my opinion that we should have 
to adjust these difficidties by the necessarily rude and coarse 
machinery of courts, I do not disguise my belief foimded on veiy 
long and rather anxious observation, that the series of penal pro«> 
ceedings in the English Church during the last forty years, which 
commenced with the action of the University of Oxford against 
Bishop Hampden, have as a whole been mischievous. . I make no 
accnsation, in speaking thus, against those ivho have promoted 
them. I will not say that they have been without provocation, that 
they could easily have been avoided^ that they have been dia- 
honourably instM^ted, or vindictively pursued. I do not inquire 
whether, when they have been strictly judicial, they have or have 
not generally added to the fame of our British Judicature for power 
or for learning. Unhappily they came upon a country little con^ 
versant with theological, historical, or ecclesiastical science, and a 
country which had not been used for three hundred years, witlpL 
the rarest exceptions, to raise these questions before the tribunals. 
The only one of them, in which I have taken a part, was the 
^omrnary proceeding of the Council of King's College against Mr. 
Hauiice. I made an ineffectual endeavour, with the support of Judge 
Patteson and Sir B. Brodie, and the approval of Bishop Blomfield, 
to check what seemed to me the unwise and ruthless vehemence 
of the majority which dismissed that gentleman from his office. It 
^J be that, in this or that particular case, a balance of good over 

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eril may have refitdted. It could not bttt b^ that in partieukr 
infitan'ces fiome who would not have w&hed them to be indtitnted, 
cotild not wirfi them to faiL But I have very long been convinced 
that, afi a' whoH <hey have exaspemted strife and not compiofied it * 
have tempted men to employ a sabstitute, at once violent and in-^ 
efficient, for moral and mental force ; ' have aggravated perite -which 
ittiey were honeetly intended to avert ; have impaired confidence^ 
and shaken the fabric of the Church to its foundations. 

The Experience of half a century ago may; in part, serve to 
illustrate an opinion i^hich may have startled many of my readers, 
but which long ago I entertained and made hnown in quarters of 
great influence. Nothing could be sharper tiian was at that time 
the animosity of C9iurchmen in genend against wrhat are termed 
iJvangelical opinioniei. There was language used about thtai and 
their proposers in works of authority— such, for instance, as certain 
tracts of the Sodiety fot Promcrfing Christian Knowledge— which 
was not only insolent, but almost libellous: But it seems that Ihe 
Church took to heart the wise counsel, which Athene offered to 
Achilles, that he should abuse AgamemnoU^but not touch him. *<Fa& 
foul of him with words, as much as you have a mind: but keep 
your sword within the scabbard.'' * The sword at that period was 
never drawn ; and the controversy settled itself in an advantageous 
way. Are we driven to admit that there was, among the rulers and 
the rdled of those days, more of patience, or of faith in moral 
force, or both ; more of the temper of Gamaliel, and less of the 
temper of Saul T 

' At a laiter date, it is true that Bishop Philpotts broke the tradi- 
tion of tills pacific poUcy in the case of Mr. Gotham. But all who 
knew that remarkable prelate are aware that he was a man of sole 
action, rather than of counsel and concert ; and it was an indi- 
vidual, not a body, which was responsible for leltriking theblow, of 
which the recoil so seriously strained the Church of England. 

While franldy* avowing the estimate I form of the results which 
have flowed from these penal proceedings in matter which is df 
law undoubtedly, but of conscience as well as law, I am for from 
believing that the pubUo fully shares my views. I must'suppose, 
especially after the legislative proceedings of last year, that my 
coimtrymen are well satisfied with the general or average results, 
•and have detected in them what my eyeedght has not perceived — 
a tendency to comipose the troubles, and consolidate the fitbric, of 
the Church. My ambition does not, then, soar so high as to ask for 
a renunciation of the comforts and advantages of religious litigation. 
All that I am noW contending for is that thefts which may be 
raided ought not to be embittered by the opening of sources of 

♦ n. 1 210. 

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exaspemtioii thaft do not properly belong to tb^m; that contribute 
atwolntelj notbiog to the legal argument on eSiher side for Qk$ 
ehioidfttion of the^rabrios ; and that^ on the contrary, by inflaming 
pasrion, and miggesting prejudice, darken and weaken, while they 
excite, the intellect of all concerned* 

• I^- as I biope» I may have carried. with me some degree of cont 
cmrdnce in the main proposition I have thus far urged, let us now 
torn to surv^ a wider proBpect. Let. us look for a while at ihe 
condition of tibe English Church — its fears and dangers on the one 
hand, its powers and oapacitied on the Other; and let us then ^k 
onnelves whether duty binds and prudence recommends us to 
iokt it in piec^esi or to hold it together* 

It is necessarj^ first to free the inquiry from a source of verbal 
misQnd^fstaaiding. In one and the same body, we see two aspects^ 
two characters, perfectly distinct. That body declares herself, and 
iflsopposed by the law of the coxintry to be, this ancieniand CathoUe 
Church of the counti^, while it is also the national establishment 
of Religion. In the fi^t capacity, it derives its lineage and 
eoDmiiflsion from our Saviour and the Apostles ; in the second, 
it is officered and controlled by the State. We may speak of 
holding the Church together, or of holding the Church and the 
State together. I am &r from placing the two duties on the saane 
ground, or assigning to them a common elevation. Yet the suhh 
jeots are, in a certain form, cloiiely connected ; and the form is 
this. It may be that the continuing union of the Church within 
herself will not secure without limit the continuing union of the 
Chmrch witii the State. But it is certain, nevertheless^ that the 
spKttilig of the Chtirch will destroy its union with the State. Not 
only as a Church, but as an endowed establishm^it, it is, without 
doobt^ still very strong. Sir Bobert Peel said, over a quarter of a 
oentniy ago, in discussing the emancipaticm of the Jews^ that the 
only daiigers of the Church, consisted in its internal divisions. 
Within that quarter of a century the dangers have increased, but 
^nth them has probd>ly increased also the strength to bear them. 
Heaiace and peril from without, against the Chujtch as an Estab- 
lifihment, have mdde ground, but are still within measure ; still 
lepresent a minor, not a major, social force; though they are 
fleoonded by a general movement of the time, very visible in 
other countries, and apparently pervading Christendom at large, 
yet with a current certainly slow, perhaps, indefinitely slow. But 
thongh^the Church may be possessed of a sufficient fund of strength, 
^re is no r^dund&ncy that can be safely parted with. Any 
seceegion, if of-sensible amount^ constituting itself into a separate 
Wly, would operate on the Nati(mal Church, with reference to its 
nationality, like a rent in a wall, which is mainly important, not by 
fta weight of material it detaches, but by the discontinuity it leaves. 

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It 18 not, indeed, only the geremnco of the CSiuroH into two 
bodiefi which might precipitate di^eatabUfthment. Obfitinaby and 
Bxaeperation of internal strife might operate yet more effectively 
towards the same end. The renewal of' scenes and ocourrefnces 
like those of the session of 1874 would be felt, even more heavily 
than on that first occasion, to involve not only pain, but degrada- 
tion. The disposition of some to deny to the memberrs of the 
National Chiurch the oommotoest privileged belonging to a religious 
communion, the determination to cancel' her birthright for a mess 
of pottage, the natural i^^rinking of the better and more refined 
minds from indecent conflict, the occasional exhibition of cynicism, 
presumption, ignorance, and contumely, were, indeed, relieved by 
tnuch gonial good sense and good feeling, found, perhaps, not least 
conspicuously among those who were by religious profeiasion most 
widely severed from the National Church! But tiie mnschief of 
one can inflict wounds on a tejigious body, which the abstinence 
and silent disapproval of a hundred cannot heal ; and^ unless an 
Englidi spirit has departed wholly from the precincts of the 
English C%[urch; she will, when the outrage to feeling grows un- 
endurable, .at least in the persons of the most high-minded among 
her children, absolutely decline the degrading relation to which 
not a fbw seem to think her born. I pass these to coneider 
whether it 4)e a duty or not to keep thd Church united, with 
the negative' assuxnption implied in these remarks, that without 
such nnion there cannot be a reasonable hope of saving the 

But it may be said, what is this internal tmion of the Church, 
which is professed to be of such value ? We hare within it men 
who build, or suppose themselves to build, thfeir reKgion'only upon 
their private judgment, unequally yoked with those who acknow- 
ledge the guiding value of Christian faistOTy and witness ; men who 
believe in a visible Church, and men who do not ; men who desire 
a farther Reformation, and men who tliink the Reformation we 
have had already went too far ; men who think a Church exists 
for the custody and teaching of the truth, and men who view it 
as a magazine for the collection and parade of all sorts of 
opinions for all sorts of customers. Nay, besides all this, are 
there not those who, with such concealment only as prudence may 
require, question the authority of Holy Scripture, and doubt, or 
dissolve into misty figure, even the cardinal facts of our redemption 
etiahrined in the Aposties' Creed ? What union, compatible with 
the avowed or unavowed existence of these divemities, can deserve 
the name, or can be worth paying a price to maintain t 

Now, before we examine the value or no valuiB of this union, 
<&e first question is— ^oes it exist; and how and where does it exist, 
as a fact.t Tt does ; and it is to be found in the common law. 

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common action, common worship,- and probably, above all; the 
common Manual of worship, in the Church. . Though, it is accom-* 
panied with many divergences of dogmatic leaning, and though 
these differences are often prosecuted with a lamentable bitterness^ 
yet in the law, the worship, and the Manual* they have a common 
centre, to which, upon the. whole, all,, or. nearly all, the members of 
the body are really and strongly, though it may be not uniformly 
nor altogether consistently, attadied, and which is at once dis- 
tinctive, and in its xneasure efficient* Nay, more, it has - been 
stated in public, and I incline to beHeve with truth, that the 
rubrics of the Church are at this moment more accurately followed 
than at any period of ,her history since the ^^formation. , Twelve 
months ago I scandalized the tender consciences of some by 
pointing out that in a law which x)ombined the three conspicuous 
features of being extremely minute, very ancient, and in its essencQ 
not prohibitive but directory, absolute and uniform obedience was 
har^y to be expected, perhaps, in the istrict n^eaning of the terms, 
hardly even to be desired. I admit thesoandals of division, and 
the greater scandals of dissension ; but there are, as I believe, 
fifteen millions of people in this country who have not throwU;Off 
their allegiance to its Church, and these people, when they speak 
of it, to a great extent mean the same thing, and,, when they 
resort to it, willingly concur in the same acts ; willingly, on the 
whole, though the different portions of them each abate something 
from their individual preferences to meet on common ground, ^ 
Tories, Whigs, and Badicals do the like, to meet on the conunon 
ground of our living and working constitution. This tmion, then, 
I hold to be a fact, and I contend that it is a fact worth preserving. 
I do not beg that question : I only aver that it is the question 
really at issue; and I ask that it may be dispassionately con- 
sidered, for many questions of conduct depend upon it. 

The duty of promotiag union in religion is elevated by special 

causes at the present day into a peculiar solemnity ; while these 

causes also envelop it in an extraordinary intricacy. The religion 

of Christ as a whole» nay, even the pallid scheme of Theism, is 

assailed with a sweep and vehemence of hostility greater probably 

than at any former period. AYhile the war thus rages without the 

wall, none can say that the reciprocal antagonism of Christian 

bodies is perceptibly mitigated mthin it, or that the demarcating 

spaces between them are narrower than they were. Most singular 

of all, the greatest of the Christian communions, to say nothing 

of the smaller, are agitated singly and severally by the presence 

or proximity of internal schism. The Papal Church has gone to 

'^r with portions of its adherents in Armenia, in Germany, in 

Italy, in Switzerland ; besides being in conflict with the greater 

nmnber of Christian States, especially of those where the Roman 

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religion is ptbfeMed; The' relations of the Chtircfa of England 
beyohd St. George's Ghanriel, howerver euphemistically treated in 
Mdme quarters, lire dark, and darkening still. Even the immovable 
East is shaken. The SclaTonib, and the Hellenic, or non-^Sclavonic, 
elements are at present, though without doctrinal variance, 
yet in sharp ecclesiastical contention ; and a fotmidfitble schism 
in Bulgaria, not discountenanced by Russian inftnences, disturbs 
at its own doors the ancient and venerable See of Constantinople 
and its sister Patriarchates. This is a rude and dight, but I 
beHeve an acetirate outline. I do not say it carries us beyond, 
but it certainly carries up to this point : that now, more than ever, 
our steps shatdd be wary and our heads cool, and that, if we 
should not disguise the true significance of controversies, neither 
iShould we ri^ggravate them by pouring Cayenne pepper into every 
dpened wound. 

I do ndt say that, in circtnnstances like these, it becomes the 
duty of ekcH man to tecrifice eveiTthing for ttxe internal muty of 
his own' communion. When that communion, by Wanton innova- 
tion, bitfays its dtity, and aggravates the controversies of 
Christendom, the very best friend to its eventual unity may be 
he who at all hazards, and to all lengths, resists the revoltitionaiy 
change. But it would seem that, in all cases Where the religioud 
body to which we belong has not set up the p^a sctxndcdi; the 
pfesumiJtfve duty of the individual who remains in its comnrunion, 
to eitudy its peace, is enhanced. Nowhere, in my view, does; this 
proposition apply with suci force as to the case of the English 
Church. ■ This Church and nation, by an' use of theit reforming 
powers, upon the whole wonderfully temj)eirate, found for them- 
selves, Amidst the tempests of the sixteenth and seventeenth 
Centaries, a haven of comparative tranquillity, from which, for more 
than two centuries, they have not been dislodged. Within this 
haven it has, especially of late years, been amply proved that 
every good work of the Divine Kingdom may be prosecuted 
with effe6t, and every quality that enlarges and ennobles human 
character may be abundantly reared. I do not now speak of our 
NTonconformists, for whom I entertain a very cordial respect : I 
confine myself to what is still the National Church; and I 
earnestly urge it upon all her members that the more they study 
her place and function in Christendom, the more they will find 
that her unity, qualified but real, is worth preserving. 

I wiU dwell but very lightly on the arguments which sustain 
this conclusion. They refer first to the national office of this 
great institution. It can hardly be described better than ia a 
few words which I extract from a recent article in the Edinburgh 
RiVMw i'^^ 

^* The crown and flower of such a movement was the Elizabethan Church 

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of fiigltfid. There the ^atcbword, was neyer (^ealfup^ofi^ or ifaK>yation< 
tbere a simple, Soiptural, Catbolic, an<l objective teaching;, has preseryM 
OS from supBiistifioas and dogmatic v&garied oil' the 'o^ hand^ and ftbrit 
the subjective weakness of many trfthe Phytesfcaat- sects on- .the otheiu 
To the formation of such a Cbnrcb the natwrn gave its strength and its 
intelligence, viz., that o( the idea of More(?), of Shakespeare, and of 
Bacon; and what Is more, the whole nation contributed its godd seni^; 
its sobriety, its steadfastness, and its appredation di a manly and regulated 
freedom."— iSefifi4«r^A i2«a'«iT, April, 1875,.p. 574, 

There are those who think that bold ctanges in the law and 
constitution of th^ Church, in the direction of developed Protes- 
tantism, would bring within its borders a larger proportion of the 
people. My own opinion is tbe reverse of this. I look upon any 
changes whatever^ if serious in amount and contentious in 
character, as synonymous with the destruction of the National 
Establishment, But the matter is one of opinion only, and I fiilly 
admit the title of the nation to make any such changes, if they 
think fit, with such a. purpose in view. 

But, besides her national office and capabilities, the Church of 
England, in her higher character as a form , of the Christiian 
refigion, has a position at once most perilous and most precious 
(I here borrow the well-known expression of De Maistre) vrith refer- 
ence to Christendom at large. She alone, jof all Churches, has 
points of contact, of access, of sympathy, with all the important 
sections of the Christian community. Liable, more than ai^y other 
communion^ to see her less stable or more fastidious' members 
drop off from her now in this direction and now in that, she' is^ 
nevertheless, in a partial but not an unreal sense, a link of union 
betweeu the severaffractions of the Christian body. At every point 
of her frontier, she is in close competition with, the great Latin 
communion, and with the varied, active, and in no way other 
than respectable, forms of Nonconformity, Nor does this repre- 
sent the whole of the danger which, as to her sectional interests, 
she daily suffers in detail. She inhabits a sphere of greater social 
activity than is found in any other country of Europe ; she is in 
closer neighbourhood, throughout her structure, than any other 
Church, with the spirit of inquiry (I do not say of research), and 
^ proportionably more liable to defections in the direction of 
unbelief, or, if that word be invidious, of non-belief or negation. 
But this great amount of actual peril and besetting weakness is, 
hi at least a corresponding degree, potential force and usefulness, 
for others as well as for herself; and no philosophic observer, 
whatever be his leanings, can exclude her from a prominent place 
^ his survey of Christendom. 

These things, it seems to me, are not enough considered among 
^« If they were enough considered, we should be less passionate 

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in our intemal controvei-siefi. We shotild recollect that we hold 
what all admit to be a middle place ; that the Btraia, as in a wheel, is 
•greatestat'tiie centre, the teudencyto dislocation theremost difficult 
to subdue. So we should more contientedly accept the burdens 
of the position, for the sake of the high, dirinteredted, and.bene- 
fioetit mission with which they seem to be allied. Even if I am 
wrong in the persuasion that much ought to be borne rather than 
bring about a rupture, I can hardly be wrong in claiming the 
assent of all ta the propodtion that we had better not prosecute 
our controversies wildly and at haphazard, but that we should 
carefully examine, before each step is taken, what other steps it 
will brmg after it, and what conseq^uences the series may as a 
whole involve. 

. I am quite aware of the answer which will spring to the lips of 
some- " The object of the long. series of prosecutions, and of the 
Act of 1874, is to cut out a gangrene from the Church of En^ 
land ; to defeat a conspiracy which aims at reversing the move- 
ment of the Reformation, and at remodelling her tenets, her 
worship, and her discipline, on the basis of the Papal Church : 
ayC) even with all the aggravations of her earlier system, which 
that Church has in the later times adopted," But the answer to 
this answer is again perfectly ready.. If there be within the 
Chm'ch of England * a section of clergy or of laity, which is 
engaged in such a conspiracy, it is one extremely, almost infini- 
tesimally small. I do not now deal with the very different char^ 
against doctrines and practices which are said to tend towards the 
Church of Rome. This charge was made against Laud by the 
Puritans, and is made against the Prayer-Book at large by our 
Noncotxforming friends, or by very many of them.* My point is 
that those, who aim at Romanizing the Church, are at worst a hand- 
ful. If, then, the puipose be to put them down, attack them (as 
you think it worth while) in the points they distinctively profess 
and practise. But is this the course actually taken ? Are ihese 

* These allegations did not commence with the revivals of our time. See for example 
the following extract (Vom ^ The Catholic Question : addrened to the Freeholdera of the 
County of York;" on the General Eleqtipn of 1826: ^. 24:— 

*' AU these things, however, are visible in the Church of BIngland : go to a cathednly 
hear and see all the magnificent things done there ; behold the regiments of wax titters, 
the ^hite-robed priests, the maoe-bearera; the chaunters, the picture over the altar, tlio 
wax-lights and the burnished gold plates and cups on the altar ; then listen to tiie prayers 
jtipeated In chaunt, the anthems, the innsieal responses, the thundering of the organ and 
the echoes of the interminable roof ; and then say, is not this idolatry ? it is all the 
idolatry that the Catholics admit ; it is the natural inclination that we have to those weak 
ittid beggarly eliamentB, pomp and pHde; and which both Catholies and the High Ghnroh 
party think so important in religion. I boldly assert that there is more idolatry in the 
Church of England than amongst the English Catholics ; and for this simple reason, 
because the Church of England can better afiford it. Two-thirds of the Church serrice 
is pomp and grandeur ; it is as Charles IL used to say, ' the service of gentlemen.* It is 
for ^how, and for a striking impression : the cathedral service t« nothing more or has than 
a mass, lor it is all chaunted from beginning to end, and the people cannot understand 
a word of it.** 

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points the subjects of the recent pTosecuticms, of the present 
threats, of the crowd of pamphlets and volumes upon ritual con- 
troversy, which daily issue from the press? On the contrary, 
these prosecutions, these menaces, these voluminous productions, 
have always for their main, and often for their exclusive, subject 
the two points of Qiurch law which relate to the position of the 
consecrator, and to the rubric on ecclesiastical vestments. But 
now we arrive at a formidable dilemma. Upon the construction 
of the law on these two points, the prosecuting parties are at 
variance, not with a handful, but with a very large number, with 
thousands and tens of thousands, both of the clergy and the 
laity of the Church of England, whose averments I imderstand 
to be these : first, that the law of 1662, fairly interpreted, enjoins 
the vestments of the First Prayer Book of Edward VI., and the 
eastward position of the consecrating priest; secondly, that it 
would be inequitable and unwise to enforce these laws, and that 
the prevailing liberty should continue; thirdly, that it would 
be inequitable and unwise to alter them. Are these propositions 
conclusive evidence of a conspiracy to assimilate the Reformed 
religion of England to the Papal C3iurch ? If they are not, why 
is the war to be conducted mainly, and thus hotly, in the region 
they define? If they are, then our position is one of great 
danger, because it is well known that a very large and very 
weighty portion of the clergy, with no inconsiderable number of 
the laity, proceeding upon various grounds — love of ritual, love 
of liberty, dread of rupture — are arrayed on the side of toleration 
against the prosecuting party. It is said to have been declared by 
peiBons in high authority, that a large portion of both clergy and 
laity do entertain the desire to Bomanize the Church. I am con- 
vinced it is not so ; but if it be so, our condition is indeed formid- 
able, and we are preparing to " shoot Niagara." For I hold it to 
be beyond dispute that, whether minor operations of the knife be 
or be not safe for us, large excisions, large amputations, are what 
the constitution of the patient will not bear. Under them the 
Establishment will part into shreds ; and even the Church may 
nndergo sharp and searching consequences, which as yet it would 
be hardly possible to forecast. 

For the avoidance of these dangers, my long cherished convic- 
tion stiU subsists that the best and most effectual remedy is to be 
fonnd in forbearing to raise contentious issues, and to aim at 
ruKng consciences by courts. I say this -is the most effectual 
remedy. For the next best, which is that the parties shall, after 
foil and decisive exposition of the law, submit to the sentence of 
fto tribunals, is majaifestly incomplete. The prosecuting party, in 
the two matters of the Rubric on Vestments and the position of 
the consecrating minister, will doubtless submit to an adverse 


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judgment ; but will as certainly, and not without reason from its 
own point of view, transfer to the legislative arena the agitations 
of the judicial forum. The Dean of Bristol, who has argued these 
questions with his usual force and directness, wishes that no altera- 
tions should be made in the rubrics, if what is called the Purchas 
judgment be maintained ; but, with his acute eye, he has perhaps 
shrewd suspicions on that subject ; and accordingly he says, if that 
judgment be not maintained, he is ''for such wide agitation, such 
strong and determined measures, as shall compel [sic] the Legisla- 
ture to give back to the Church its old and happy character of 
purity."* A pleasant prospect for our old age I But the Dean 
has this advantage over me. He does not object to the voies de 
faitj and if only the judgment goes his way will be quite happy. 
I am one of those who have the misfortune of being like Falkland 
in the war of King and Parliament: I shall deplore all dis- 
turbing judgments, wholly irrespective of my own sympathies or 
antipathies. K (which I own I find it very difficult to anticipate) 
the prosecutoi-8 are defeated, who are strongly (to use a barbarous 
word) establishmentarian, we shall have agitation for a change in. 
the law, too likely to end in rupture. If they succeed, we shall 
have exaggerated but unassailable manifestations of the feeling 
it has been sought to put down ; and, while this is the employment 
of the interimy the party hit, who are by no means so closely tied 
to the aUiance of the Church with the State, will, despairing of 
any other settlement, seek peace through its dissolution. 

It may now perhaps in some degree appear why I have pressed 
so earnestly the severance of these rubrical suits from " doctrinal 
significance." Could we but expel that noxious element from 
the debate, could we but see that the two conflicting views of 
the position and the vestments are just as capable, to say the least, 
of a large and innocuous as of a specific and contentious inter- 
pretation, then we might hope to see a frame of mind among the 
Utigators, capable of acquiescence in any judgment which they 
believe to be upright, and to be given after full consideration of 
the case. Soreness there might be, and murmuring ; but good 
sense might prevail, and the mischief would be limited within 
narrow bounds. But imhappily men of no small account an- 
nounce that they care not for the sign, they must deal with the 
thing signified. They desire the negation by authority of the 
doctrine of the Real Presence of our Lord and Saviour Christ, 
and of the Euchaiistic Sacrifice; negations which, again, are 
synonymous with the disruption of the English Church. 

When prudent men, or men made prudent by responsibility, are 
associated together for given purposes, whether in a cabinet, or 

• Letter to Ber. Mr. Walkor, pp. 23—26. 

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a synod, or a committee, or a board, and they find their union 
menaced by diiFerences of opinion, they are wont firet to test the 
minds of one another by argument and perauasion ; and, failing 
these instruments, both the instinct of self-preservation and the 
laws of duty combine in prompting them to put off the evil day, 
and thus to take the benefit of enlarged information, of fresh ex- 
perience, of the softening influences of association, and of what- 
ever other &cilitie8 of solution the unrevealed future may embrace. 
^VTiy can we not carry a little of this forbearance, founded upon 
common sense, into religion, and at least fetch our controversies 
out of the toi-rid into the temperate zone ? 

The time may, and I hope will, arrive, when a spirit of more 
diffusive charity, a wider acquaintance with the language and 
history of Christian dogma, and a less jealous temper of self- 
asseition, will enable us to perceive how much of what divides us 
in the Euchaiistic controversy is no better and no worae than 
logomachy, and how capable men, ridding themselves of the 
subtleties of the schools and of heated reactions, may solve what 
passion and faction have declared insoluble. 

But that time has not yet arrived ; and, if the doctrine of the 
Eucharist must really be recast, there are no altcraatives before 
us except on the one hand disruption, on the other postponement 
of the issue until we can approach it under happier auspices. The 
auspices are not happy now. There are even those in the English 
Church who urge with sincerity, and with impunity, the duty of 
preaching the "Real Absence,"* and, though these be few, yet 
many who shrink from the word may be nearly with them in the 
thing. On the other side, wholly apart from the energy of parti- 
sanship, from a Romanizing disposition, and from a desire for the 
exaltation of an order, there are multitudes of men who believe 
that the lowering of the sacramental doctrine of the Englisli 
Church, in any of its parts, will involve, together with a real 
routilation of Scriptural and Catholic tnith, a loss of her Chris- 
tian dignity, and a forfeiture of all the hopes associated with her 
special position in Chiistendom. Of all sacramental doctrine, 
none is so tender in this respect as that which relates to the 
Eucharist. The gross abuses of practice, and the fanciful ex- 
cesses of theological speculation in the Western Church before 
the Reformation, compelled the Anglican Reformers to retrench 
their statements to a minimum, which can bear no reduction 
^'heiher in the shape of altered formulae or of binding constrac- 
tions. If, in these times of heat, we abandon the wise self- 
restraint which in the main has up to a recent time prevailed, it is 
too probable that wanton tongues, prompted by ill-trained minds, 

• Rov. Mr. Wolfe on the " Eastward Position," p. 4. 

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may reciprocally launch the reproaches of superstition and 
idolatry on the one hand, of heresy and unbelief on the other. 
Surely prudence would dictate that in these circumstances all 
existing latitude of law or well-established practice, should as a 
rule be respected ; that no conscience be pressed by new theological 
tests, either of word or action ; and that we should prefer the hope 
of a peaceful understanding, in some even distant future, to the 
certainty of a ruinous discord as the fruit of precipitancy and 
violent courses. One of the strangest freaks of human inconsis- 
tency I have ever witnessed is certainly this. We are much (and 
justly) reminded, with reference to those beyond our pale, to 
think Kttle of our diflferences and much of our agreements ; but at 
the same time, and often from the same quarters, we are taught and 
tempted by example if not by precept, within our own immediate 
" household of faith," to think incessantly of our differences, and 
not at all of our much more substantial and weighty agreements. 
The proposition, then, on which I desire to dwell as the capital 
and cardinal point of the case is, that heavy will be the blame to 
those, be they who they may, who may at this juncture endeavour, 
whether by legislation or by judicial action, and whether by 
alteration of phrases or by needlessly attaching doctrinal signifi- 
cance to the injunction or prohibition of ceremonial acts, to shift 
the balance of doctrinal expression in the Church of England. 
The several sections of Christendom are teeming with lessons of 
all kinds. Let us, at least in this cardinal matter of doctrinal 
expression, wait and learn. We have received from the Almighty 
within the last half-century, such gifts as perhaps were hardly 
ever bestowed within the same time on a religious community. We 
see a transformed clergy, a laity less cold and neglectful, education 
vigorously pushed, hiunan want and sorrow zealously cared for, 
sin less feebly rebuked, worship restored from frequent scandal 
and prevailing apathy to uniform decency and frequent reverence, 
preaching restored to an EvangeUcal tone and standard, the 
organization of the Church extended throughout the empire, ajid 
this by the agency, in many cases that might be named, of men 
who have succeeded the Apostles not less in character than in 
commission. K we are to fall to. pieces in the face of such 
^[periences, it will be hard to award the palm between our infatua- 
tion and our ingratitude ; and our just reward will be ridicule from 
without our borders, and remorse from within our hearts. 

This highly-coloured description I desire to apply within the 
limits only of the definite statement with which it was introduced. 
But I am far from complaining of those who think the evils of liti- 
gation ought to be encountered, rather than permit even a handful 
of men to introduce into our services evidences of a design to 
'Romanize the religion of the country ; and I have always thought 

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that effective proyiflion should be made to check sudden and 
atbitrary innovation as such, even when it does not present 
features of intrinsic mischief. To me this still appeiirs a wiser and 
safer basis of proceeding than an attempt to establish a cast-ircm 
role of tmiform obedience to a vast mtdtitade of provisions some- 
times obscnre, sometimes obsolete, and very variously understood, 
interpreted, and applied. But this preference is not expressed in 
the interest of any particular party, least of all of what is termed 
the High Church party. For the rubrics, which the PubUc Worship 
Act is to enforce, may, with truth, be generally described as High 
Church rubrics ; and the mere party man, who takes to himself 
that designation, has reas<m to be grateful to the opposing party 
for having so zealously promoted the passing of the Act. For my 
own part, I disclaim all satisfaction in such a compulsory enforce- 
ment of rubrics which I approve ; and I would far rather trust to 
the growth of a willing obedience among those who are called Low 
Churchmen, where it is still deficient. I am far, however, from 
afisertmg that all enforcement of the law, beyond what I have 
above described, mtist of necessity produce acute and fatal 
mifichiefe. Much folly both of "reges" and "Achivi" has been 
borne, and may yet be borne, while Judgments are such as to 
cany on their front the note of impartiality, and as long a-s we 
avoid the rock of doctrinal significance, and maintain the integ^ty 
of the Prayer-Book. 

But I must endeavour, before closing these remarks, to bring 
into view further reasons against free and large resort to penal 
proceedings in regard to the ceremonial of the Church. The 
remarks I have to offer are critical in their nature, for they aim at 
exhibiting the necessary imperfections even of the best tribunal ; 
but they do not require the sinister aid either of bitterness or of 

The first of these remarks is that the extinction of the separate 
profession of the civilian, now merged in the general study and 
practice of the bar, and the consolidation of the Courts of Probate 
and Admiralty with those of B^quity and Conmion Law, have 
materially impcured the chances, which have hitherto existed, of our 
finding in our judges of ecclesiastical causes the form of fitness 
growing out of special study. Any. reader of the learned Judg- 
ments of the Dean of Arches may perceive the great advantages 
they derive firom this source. It may be thought, with some 
leaaon, that episcopal assessors will, in doctrinal cases, help to 
«apply the defect ; but it would not be easy to arrange that the 
most learned bishops should be chosen as assessors; and the 
8«neral standard of learning on ihe bench cannot, under the 
l»id conditions of modem times, be kept very high. The number 
of individuals must at all times be small who unite anything like 

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deep or varied learning with the administrative and pastoral 
qualities, and the great powers of business and active work, which 
are now more than ever necessary in a bishop. But in questions 
of ceremonial, the difficulties are greater still. 

Let any one turn, for example, to the decision on appeal in the 
Purchas case, as it is the most recent, and seems to be the 
most contested, of the rubrical decisions. He will find, perhaps 
with sui-prise, that it does not rest mainly on considerations 
of law, but much more upon the resulte of historical and 
antiquarian study. Though rightly termed a legal judgment, and 
though it of course has plenary authority as to the immediate 
question it decides, it is in truth, and could not but be, as to the 
determining and main portion of it, neither more nor less than 
a purely literary labour. Now, the authority of literaiy inquiries 
depends on care, comprehensiveness, and precision, in collecting 
facts, and on great caution in concluding from them. There is 
no democracy so levelling as the RepubUc of Letters. Liberty 
and equality here are absolute, though fraternity may be some- 
times absent on a holiday. And a literary labour, be it critical, 
be it technical, be it archa&ological, when it has done its immediate 
duty in disposing of a cause, cannot afterwards pass muster by 
being wrapped in the folds of the judicial ermine. It must come 
out into the light, and be turned round and roimd, just as freely 
(though under more stringent obUgations of respect) as Professor 
Max Muller^s doctrine of solar myths, or Professor Sylvester's fourth 
dimension in space, or Dr. Schliemann's promising theory that 
HissarUk is Troy. It is, I beUeve, customary, and perhaps wise, that 
a prior judgment of the highest court of appeal should govern a 
later one. It is alleged, nor is it for me to rebut the allegation, 
that the Purchas judgment contradicts the judgment in the case of 
Liddell v. Westerton ; but, if so, this is accidental, and does not touch 
the principle, which seems to be generally acknowledged. Now, 
however well this may stand with respect to interpretation of law, 
yet with respect to historical and antiquarian researches, and to 
judgments which tmn on them, it would evidently be untenable, 
and even ludicrous. And then comes the question, what right 
have we to expect from our judges, amidst the hurry and pressure 
of their days, and often at a time of life when energy must begin 
tp flag, either the mental habits, or the acquisitions, of the archceo- 
legist, the critic, or above all of the historian ? Why should we 
expect of the bishop, because he may be assumed to have a fair 
store of theology, or of the judge, because he has spent his life 
in pleading and hearing causes, that they should be adepts in 
historical research, or that they should be imbued with that which 
is so rare in this country, thehtstoric sense and spirit, abundant, in 
this our day, nowhere but in Germany? 

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It may be said that judges can and "mH avail themselves of the 
bboms of others ; but they are unhappily not in the ordinary 
condition of courts of first instance, who can collect evidence of 
all kindB at will. They are confined to published labours, when 
they go beyond the ea parte statements with which counsel may 
supply them. Still they are sure to do their best, and they may 
get on well enough, if the subject happens to be one of those 
which have been thoroughly eicamined, and where positive 
conclusions have been sufficiently established. But what if, on the 
contrary, it has been one neglected for many generations f if the 
authorities, so far as they go, are in serious if not hopeless conflict? 
if the study of the matter has but recently begun, and that only 
amidBt the din and heat, and for the purposes, of the actual 
controversy t What is the condition of a judge who has to inter- 
pret the law by means of dote, which only the historian and the 
antiquarian can supply and digest respectively, when they have 
not digested or supplied them ? For example, what if he have to 
investigate the question how a surplice is related to an alb, how 
&r the use of either accompanies or excludes the cope or the 
chasuble (as a coat excludes a lady's gown), or in what degree the 
altarwise position of the Holy Table had been established at the 
time when the Commissioners at the Savoy were engaged in the re- 
vision of the Liturgy? In this country a barrister cannot be his 
own attorney; yet a judge may not only have to digest his own legal 
apparatus, but may also be required to dive, at a moment's notice, 
into the tohurbohu of inquiries which have never yet emerged from 
the stage of chaos; and the decision of matters of great pith and 
moment for Christian worship and the peace of the Church comes 
to depend upon what is at best, by no fault of his, random and frag- 
mentaiy knowledge. 

Any reader of the Purchas Judgment on Appeal will perceive 
how truly I have said that it rests mainly, not on judicial inter- 
pretations, but on the results of literary research. In such inter- 
pretations, indeed, it is not wanting ; but they are portions only 
of the fabric, and are joined together by what seems plainly to be 
Kteraiy wid antiquarian inquiry. The Judicial Committee decide, 
for example, with regard to sacerdotal vestments, that the Ad- 
vertisements of 1564 have the authority of law ; and to this decision 
the mere layman must respectfully bow.* But they also rule that 
the Advertisements in prescribing the use of the surplice for parish 
churches, proscribe the use of the cope or the chasuble, and that 
the canons of 1603-4 repeat the prohibition.t Now, this is a 

* Brooke's Reports, p. 171, 176. 

t i&tdL, pL 178. ^ If the miniater is ordered to wear a surpliee at aU times of his 
nuBistratton, he cannot wear an alb and tanide when assisting at the HoW Oommn- 
nion £ ifkeiM to celebrate the Holy Communion in a chambky he cannot celelnrate in a 

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proposition purely antiqiiarian. It depends upon a precise know- 
ledge of the usages of what is sometinies termed '* ecclesiastical 
millinery." Can judges, or even bishops,* be expected to possess 
this very special kind of knowledge, or be held blameable for not 
possessing it ? I think not. But when even judges of great emi- 
nence, of the highest station, and of the loftiest character, holding 
themselves compelled to decide, aye or no, on the best evidence 
they can get as to every question brought before them,' that the 
use of the-Buiplice excludes the use of the chasuble, this is after 
all a strictly literary conclusion, aiid is open to be confirmed, im- 
paired, or overthrown, by new* or wider evidence which further 
literary labour may accumulate. And^ indeed, it appears rather 
difficult to sustain the proposition that tiie surplice when used 
excludes all the mote elaborate vestments, since we find it 
actually prescribed in one of the rubrics at the end of the 
Communion Office in the Prayer-Book of 1549, that the officiating 
minister is ordered to ^^put upon him a plain alb or narpliee with 
a cope" 

Again, the Judicial Committee, in construing the rubrics as to 
the position of the minister, states that before the revision of 1662, 
'^ the custom of placing the table along the east wall was becoming 
general, and it may fairly be said that the revisers must have had 
this in view." This, of course, is a pure matter of history. Before 
and since the judgment was given, it has been examined by a 
variety of competent writers; and I gather firom their produc- 
tions, that had these been before the tribunal in 1871, it must 
have anived, on this point, at an opposite opinion. The oonclu- 
sion of Mr. Scudamore indeed is that the present position of the 
altars is the work of the eighteenth century. 

The literary conclusion with respect to the surplice appears to 
be the foundation-stone of the Purchas judgment with reference 
to vestments. But it seems to be also collaterally sustained by 
three other propositions : one, that the articles of visitation, and 
the proceedings of commissions, in and after the reign of Elizabeth, 
prescribe the destruction of vestments, albs, tunicles, and other 
articles, as monuments of superstition and idolatry ; the second, 
that the requisitions of bishops in these parochial articles are 
limited to the surplice ; the third, that there is no evidence of the 
use of vestments during the period. All these are matters, not of 
law, but of historical criticism. 

The critics of the Judgment are numerous, and few of them, 
perhaps, make due allowance for the difficulties under which it was 
framed. Their argfuments are manifold, and far beyond my power 
fully to cite. Among other points, they admit the second of these 
three propositions, and consider that the attempts of the ruling 
authorities were limited, a^ regards enforcement, to the surplice ; 

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bnt hold that in those tunes what the law preBcribed was one 
thing— what it enforced^ or attempted to enforce, was another. 
Mr. HacCoU* cites a iremarkable example; namely, that vrbSle the 
rubric reqnired the priest to read daily four chapters of Holy 
Scrq^tm'e, the Advertisements aimed at enforcing only two. 
The orders of destniction raise a point of great importance, 
which demands foil nlqpiiry. As far as I have noticed, they 
seem imiformly to indude'^ crosses" as ^'monnm^ts of supersti- 
tion and idolatiy;^ yettiie Judicial Committee in Westerton 
V. liddell, and in: Hebert i^. Ptcrchas, decide that crosses 
for decoration of the building are lawful. As regards the 
actual use of vestments, Mr. MacColl (while presuming that in ^ 
penal case it is evidence of disuse, not of use, that is demanded) 
snppKes what he thinks ample proof ;t and it is noticed that in 
the judgment itself there is evidence, viz., that of Dering (1593), 
and Johnson (1573), sufficient to impede an universal assertion. 
But into these matters I do not enter. I confine myself to urging 
the necessity of farther historical and archseological inquiries, as 
absolutely necessary in order to warrant any judgments restric- 
tive, in whatever sense, of the apparent liberality of our laws and 
practice ; emd I rejoice to see that for this end so many persons of 
ability, beside those I have named, are bringing in their respective 

I suppose it to be beyond doubt that in our times the acts of the 
ofiScers of the law may be taken as evidence of what the law is, 
or is reported to be. The burning of printed editions of English 
books by the Customs would prove that the importation of such 
works was prohibited. But history seems to show that this appa- 
rently obvious rule cannot be apiplied to times like those of tiie Re- 
fonnation without much baution and reserve. For example : The 
Purchas judgment states that the law required the use pf copes 
in cathedral and collegiate churcheis, and generally treats author- 
ized destruction as evidence of illegality 5 but it appear8§ that the 
Queen's Conmiissioners at Oxford, in 1573 (when the anti-papal 
tide was running very high), ordered in the College Chapel of All 
Sonls that all copes should be defaced and rendered unfit for use. 

There are three cautionary remarks, with which I shall 

The first is that, unless I am mistaken, the word evidence is 
aometiines used, in judgments on ceremonial, in a mode which 
inTolTes a dangerous fallacy. It seems to be used in a judicial 
^^nse, whereas it is really used in a literary sense. As respects the 

* ^lAwlesaness, Sacerdotalifim, and RituaUsm," p. 76. 
t Jid:,pp.69— 70. 

X s<ft example, Mr. Beresford Hope and Mr. Morton Shaw. Mr. Droop has prodiused 
■^ iiMful UlnrtralionB. 
I Droop on Sdmmlian Veatments, p. 26. 

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testiinony given in a case, the judge deals judicially, and with his 
full authority as a judge ; but the illustrative matter he collects in 
these suits from books or pamphlets, laborious as he may be, and 
useful as it may be, is not evidence except in the sense in which 
Dr, Schliemann thinks he has plenty of evidence as to the site of 
Troy ; it is historical inquiry, or literary or learned speculation. 

The second is that, if I am right in laying down aa the grand 
requisite for arriving at truth in these cases the historian's attain- 
ments and frame of mind, the judge, and the lawyer, labour in 
these cases under some peculiar difficulties. It is almost a 
necessity for the judge, as it is absolutely for the advocate, that 
every catuse be resolved categorically by an Aye or a No. But 
the historical inquirer is not conversant with Aye and No alone : 
he is familiar with a thousand shades of colour and of Ught 
between them. The very first requisite of the historic mind is 
suspense of judgment.^ Judicial business requires, as a rule, a 
decision between two — ^it is the judgment of Solomon ; but the 
historian may have to miace the subject into many fragments, 
according to the probabilities of the case ; he deals habitually 
with conjectures and likelihoods, as well as positive assertions. 
The judge has to give all where he gives anything, and his mental 
habit forms itself accordingly ; but the " I doubt" which was so 
much criticized in Lord Eldon, is among the most prominent 
characteristics of the philosophic and truth-loving historian. 

Lastly ; after the famous judgment Mr. Burke has passed upon 
the inunense merits, and besetting dangers, of the legal mind, with 
direct relation to the character of Mr. Grenville, that great master 
. proceeds to state that "Mr. Grenville thought better of the wisdom 
. and power of human legislation than in truth it deserves.*** Most 
eminently does this seem to me to be true, in observing the 
manner after which our judges sometimes deal with ancient laws. 
. Such as the character and efficacy of law is now, such they are 
apt to assume it always must have been. It has not been their 
business to consider the enormous changes in the structure of 
society, on its toilsome way through the roUing ages, from a low to 
a high organization. The present efficiency of law presumes the 
full previous inquiry and consultation of the deliberative power, 
and the perfect strength of the executive. But that strength de- 
pends on the magistracy, the police, the judiciary, the standing 
army, upon the interoommtuaication of men and tidings by easy loco- 
motion, upon a crowd of arrangements for the most part practically 
unknown to the loosely compacted structures of mediaeval societies. 
The moral force, which abode in them, had Kttle aid, for the pur- 
poses of the supreme power, except on the most pressing emer- 

* speech on American Taxation. Worki, toL it. p. 689. 

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gencies, from material force; partial approximations were then 
only possible, in ca^es whfere the modem provisions for obedience 
are nearly complete. The law of to-day is the expression of a 
8Qpreme will, which has, before decidiag on its utterance, had 
ample means to consult, to scrutinize the matter, to adapt itself to 
practical possibilities ; and it is justly construed as an instrument 
which is meant to take, and takes, immediate and uniform effect. 
But the laws of earlier times were to a great extent merely in the 
nature of authoritative assertions of principle, and tentative efforts 
towards giving it effect; and were frequently, not to say habitu- 
ally, according to the expediencies of the hour, tramipled under foot, 
even by those who were supposed to carry them into execution. 
Take the great case of Magna Charta, in which the community 
had so vast an interest. It was incessantly broken, to be inces- 
santly, not renewed, but simply r6-affirmed. And law was thus 
broken by authority, as authority found it convenient : from the 
age when Henry III. ** passed his life in a series of perjuries," 
as is said by Mr. Hallam,* to the date when Charles II. plundered 
the bankers, Magna Charta was re-asserted, we are told, thirty- 
two times, without ever having been repealed. But we do not 
therefore, from discovering either occasional or even wholesale 
disobedience, find it necessaiy to read it otherwise than in its 
natural sense. The reign of Elizabeth bisects the period between 
Magna Charta and ourselves. But very Uttle progress had been 
made in her times towards improving the material order of 
society ; and, from religious convulsion, they were in truth semi- 
revolutionary times. Acceding to the throne, she had to struggle 
with an intense dualism of feeling, which it was her arduous task 
to mould into an unity. The clergy, except a handful, sympa- 
thized largely with the old order, and continued very much in the 
old groove throughout the rural and less advanced districts. To 
facilitate her operations on this side, she wisely brought in the 
Rubric of Ornaments. But there had also sprung up in the king- 
dom, after the sad experience of Mary's reign, a determined 
Puritanism, lodged principally at the main centres of population, 
and sustained by the credit of the returning exiles (several of 
them bishops), and by the natural sympathies of the Continental 
Reformation. Where this spirit was dominant, the work of 
destraction did not wait for authority, and far outran it. In 
truth, the powers of the Queen and the law were narrowly 
hedged in, on this side as well as on the other. What could be 
more congenial to her mind and to her necessities, than that, for 
all this second section of her people, she shotdd wink hard at 
neglect in a sore point like that of vestments, and that in pro- 

* Middlo Ages, ii. 451-3. 

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ceeding to the Advertisements of 1564, though obliged to apply 
a stronger hand, she should confine herself to expressing what 
she thought absolute decency required, namely, the surplice, and 
leave the rubric and the older forms to be held or modified 
according to the progressive action of opinion t Considering the 
violent divergences with which she had to deal, would it not 
have been the ruin of her work if she had endeavoured to push to 
the extremes now sometimes supposed the idea of a present and 
immediate uniformity throughout the land? This I admit is 
speculation, on a subject not yet fully elucidated ; but it is specu- 
lation which is not in conflict with the facts thus far known, 
and which requires no strain to be put upon the language of the 

*' England expects every man to do his duty;'' and this is an 
attempt at doing mine, not without a full measure of respect for 
those, who are charged with a task now more than ever arduous 
in the declaration and enforcement of the law. To lessen the 
chances of misapprehension I sum up, in the following proposi- 
tions, a paper which, though lengthened, must, I know, be 
dependent to a large extent upon liberal interpretation. 

I. The Church of this great nation is worth preserving ; and for 
that end much may well be borne. 

II. In the existing state of minds, and of circumstances, pre- 
served it cannot be, if we shift its balance of doctrinal expression, 
be it by an alteration of the Prayer Book (either way) in con- 
tested points, or be it by treating rubrical interpretations of the 
matters heretofore most sharply contested on the basis of " doc- 
trinal significance.^' 

III. The more we trust to moral forces, and the less to 
penal proceedings (which are to a considerable extent exclusive 
one of the other), tiie better for the Establishment, and even for 
the Church. 

IV. K litigation is to be continued, and to remain within the 
bounds of safety, it is highly requisite that it should be confined 
to the repression of such proceedings as really imply unfaithful- 
ness to the national religion. 

V. In order that judicial decisions on ceremonial may habi- 
tually enjoy the large measure of authority, finality, and respect, 
which attaches in general to the sentences of our courts, it 
is re<iuisite that they should have tmiform regard to the rules and 
results of full historical investigation, and should, if possible, 
allow to stand over for the future matters insufflciently cleared, 
rather than decide them upon partial and fragmentary evidence. 

W. E. Gladstone. 

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FAS est et ab haste doceri. Still more permisBible and appro- 
priate mtist it be to profit by the experience of our chilckeny 
because Btill closer must be the analogy between the characters 
and the circumstances of those so nearly allied by blood, and 
probably identical in so many of their antecedents. I cannot but 
beHeve, therefore, that mnch interest will attach to the following 
contribntion to some of our most imminent political and social 
problems, which reached me a few days ago, from one of a group 
of colonies which, no doubt, is destined to a future of great pros- 
perity and power. The writer holds a position of eminence and 
wealth in New South Wales, has made his home in that colony, 
intends to live and die there, is a man of influence among 
bis feDow-citizens, and much concerned with commercial and 
industrial undertakings, and, consequently, well qualified to give 
^ reliable information on the subject in question. 

"Sydney, New South Wales, 
lOth March, 1875. 
"Dbae Sib, — If I venture to intrude myself upon you in this letter, it 
is 4at, having perused with great interest your latest work, " Rocks 
Abeal" I considered that it mi^t be gratifying to you to hear "A Voice 
^rom the Antipodes " echo by an example the truth of your vaticinations. 
We have in STew South Wales an Ai^o^Saxon conmiunity, with all its 
^JJogy and doggedness, with all its virtues and its prejudices ; and, as far 
a8 we can judge from its wealth, its population, and its influence upon the 
°^^^ifatB of the worid, one that, though still a colony, has placed its foot 
^pon the first round of the ladder of nationality; and it is a worthy study 

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for the philosopher to see how that nationality is shaping its future. In 
the year 1853 a constitution was granted to the colony, creating two 
Houses of Pailiament — ^the Senate, or Upper House, nominated by the 
Crown, and an Assembly elected by the peoi)le. As the result of continual 
amendment, the qualification for election to the Assembly, being only a six 
months' residence in the electorate, becomes almost imiversal suffrage — 
more particularly as the franchise attaches to lodgers as well as house- 
holders. Inasmuch as the proposal that the University should return a 
member has been always rejected, it is fair to assume that the numerical 
majority have no desii-e that education (simply as education) should' have 
a voice in their councils. The members of the Assembly are not chosen on 
account of their pre-eminent talent, or commanding wealth, or individual 
worth, but entirely from personal influence, or their expressed accordance 
with the popular ciy of the day. But it would be vain for any one, how- 
ever talented, influential, or wealthy, to seek to obtain a seat in the 
Assembly, imless he bowed down before the Juggernaut of the sovereign 
people, and avowed his sympathy with the "working man;" and yet, 
properly so called, the working man does not exist in New South Wales. 
The hours of labour are but eight, and wages vary according to the skill 
employed, from Is. to 28. (occasionally 2s. 6d.) per hour. These extreme 
rates, in a country where bread is plentiful and cheap, meat only 
4d. per lb., and clothing not dearer than in Europe, are maintained 
by the efforts of powerful trades-unions, with the knowledge that Par- 
liament dare not propose any scheme of immigration, the effect of which 
would be to bring competition to the colony and reduce the rate of 
labour. It must not be imagined that the climate will not permit of 
more than eight hours' daily labour, for most men work on their own 
account after hours, and will occasionally deign to do so for their em- 
plc)yer8, under the temptation of "extra pay. Land in the suburbs being 
cheap, a very large proportion of the labouring classes are their own land- 
lords, and many, by the aid of building societies, have erected neat and 
pretty cottages, surrounded by well-cultivated gardens. Of course a large 
proportion of the amount received for wages is handed over to the union, 
and I will venture to quote a few example^^ as indicative of the despotic 
power these associations exercise : — The owner of one of our -coasting 
steamers will not employ men who are members of the union, and very 
recently when the steamer arrived into port she commenced dischargmg 
cargo at a wharf where union men were employed ; very shortly after, the 
secretary of the union went to the wharf, and forbade the men on shore to 
iieceive cargo from the vessel. Again, the steamer liaptde bein^ under 
repairs, the captain observed that one of the men employed was an habitual 
idler, and one day on finishing his work desired him not to return : the 
following morning all the rest of the men were absent, and intimated their 
intention of not returning until their fellow-unionist was taken on again. 
In the iron trade, the men, after compelling the eight hours' concession upon 
their employers (without diminution in the rate of wages), determined that 
the eight hours should be broken, one for breakfast and one for dinner, in- 
stead of having only one break as formerly. The masters were aware that 
the continual blowing off furnaces would entail a certain loss, declined to 
concede, and all the works were closed ; the strike lasted about three 
months, and was friendly arranged by an agreement that, during sue 
months in the year the men should have only one break in the day, and 
two breaks in the day during the other six months. Some time sfuce the 
coal miners struck work, and the strike, it was arranged by the delegates 
of the union, should be terminated by aJl the collieries in the country (ine- 
spective of the greater or less facilities of any one colliery) agreeing to 
charge the public an uniform price of 148. per ton for screen^ coal, of 
which 5s. per ton should be paid to the coal-getter, his wages rising or 

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falling 3<L per ton as the price of coal to the public varied by a shilling a 
ton. I might multiply instances innumerable to show that in the capital, 
where the unions exist in greatest force, all real power is in their hands, and 
at the last general election they returned one of their body to parliament, 
and who sits as 4heir paid delegate. It is not then extraordinary that in 
constituencies thus constituted, the educated classes should as a rule 
(though there are many worthy exceptions) hold themselves aloof from the 
political arena. The result is exactly what you have predicted, that there 
is no party but merely a struggle between the Ins and Outs as to who shall 
enjoy power, and the parliamentary loaves and fishes, both sides rivals in 
personal abuse, but both following exactly the same policy. The State is 
certainly doing its utmost to place within the reach of all the advantages of 
education, but in consequence of religious dissensions that education is of a 
very elementary character, for the study of history and all cognate subjects 
apon which difference of opinion exist are prohibited. It is quite absurd, 
therefore, to consider that the colony is educating the rising generation up 
to the extent of its political power, for it is left in the most complete 
ignorance of all economic questions, which are not even attended to in the 
addresses of the candidates for legislative honours, for the best of all 
reasons, that but few understand them. As might be expected, the Assembly 
are exceedingly impatient at the control of the Upper House as a co- 
ordinate branch of the legislature ; and when a measure has been rejected 
by the voice of the Senate, often resort to popular clamour to compel the 
Upper House to give way ; but the innate vigour in the life of the young 
cciony is such that it continues to advance and prosper, not aided by, but 
in spite of its despotic democracy. All contractors and heads of depart- 
ments acknowledge that there is ample work at the present moment for at 
least eight thousand able-bodied men, which means an immigration of 
about tMrty thousand souls ; but notwithstanding the urgent requirements 
of the colony, not one member of the Assembly can be found to raise his 
voice in favour of immigration. The colony exports over a million tons of 
coal, the supply of which, appears to be absolutely inexhaustible, the best 
hematite iron ore, lime and clay are found in close proximity to some of 
the pits ; copper and tin ores abound, capital is abundant, but the 
capitalist is afraid of investing in manufacturing industries, as he would 
be completely at the mercy of the men in his employ. To give an example : 
a shipbuilder has now a vessel on the stocks, and was offered a very 
handsome price for it if he would engage to complete it by a fixed date. 
The shipbuilder knew that the work could and would be done by the date 
required, but dared not make the contract, feeling sure that if it came by 
any chance to the ears of the union they would take advantage of the cir- 
cTiinstance to raise the rate of wages upon him. I believe that what I 
bave written will be quite sufficient, without further occupying your valu- 
able time, to show that you have certainly not exaggerated yoiu' prognosti- 
cations of England's future." 

The above conimunication needs no commentary, but I may 
perhaps be allowed to supplement it by a reference to one or two 
events which have occurred since the publication of the fiirst 
edition of "Rocks Ahead," which, if I am not mistaken, are gradu- 
ally leading thoughtful minds to believe that there may be more 
sober truth and less flighty faYicy in the gloomy prognostics of 
that volume than most of its readers were originally inclined to 

In a note at p, 80, 1 ventured to predict that " the year 1874 
bade fair to be a year of conflict and of strikes, which would waste 

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a vast amount of capital and of earnings, teach us many lessons, 
and clinch many of the arguments of this paper." Whether it has 
taught us many lessons may be questioned, but assuredly it has 
done everything else that was anticipated from it. • It has been 
pre-eminently a year of strikes, and of hopeless, gigantic, and 
wasteful ones, in this country; and in others also, so differently 
situated as, one might have fancied, to have been exempted from 
our troubles. The Sydney letter just quoted shows us the operation 
of trades unions — just as selfish, just a^ cruel, just as anti-social, 
short-sighted, and suicidal, in a new country lacking labonr, 
cramped and kept back for want of labour, and where labour in 
consequence can, in a great measure, command its own terms — as 
in an old country like England, where labour is, or is alleged to 
be, redundant, and therefore the soirdisant "slave of capital.*' 
America has been suffering from strikes so menacing and so pro- 
longed that the troops, even in that land of democracy, have been 
called out to repress disturbances. The Philadelphia correspondent 
of one of the New York journals writes z* — 

" Scarcely any other topic has been prevalent in business circles during 
the past week than the all-absorbing one of the coal strike, the situation at 
the mines, the departure of troops from this and other points to the scene 
of trouble, and the conflicting rumours constantly received by wire as to the 
actual condition of affairs. Probably at no period since the war has there 
been so gravely serious a position of affairs in our country as that now 
existing between the various labour unions and the industries with which 
they are connected. Here we have the largest manufacturing dty in the 
world, with positively no jnore than three weeks' supply of coal on hand, 
even for household uses. From the interior the most reliable infonnation 
exists that few if any of the furnaces and other ironworks have any fuel, 
even for present uses, while their previous production has been seriously 
interfered with. It is estimated that not less than one hundred thousand 
persons, and even five hundred millians of capital^ in this commonwealth 
alone, are to-day producing nothing. At the ^ordinaiv price of skilled 
labour, 2 dollars per day, this number of persons unemployed represents a 
daily loss of 200,000 dollars, a loss which no communitv can stand. The 
additional loss to capital by injury and deterioration of i<Ue machinery, and 
loss of interest, will swell the aggregate damage to one of frightful propor- 
tions, and one which must soon be sensibly felt by the general public 
The settlement of the labour troubles of the country is now the subject 
which should and must engage the earnest attention of aU classes of 
citizens, or we are inevitably drifting into a condition of anarchy and law- 
lessness, which will be followed by a more serious financial panic than that 
from which we had hoped we were recovering. There are grave wrongs 
on both sides to be settled, and nothing seems more likely to secure any 
permanent relief than a well'digested plan of arbitration in all labour dis- 
putes, which shall be compulsoiy on both parties. The latest reports as to 
the coal strike indicate a possibility of a settlement, but in other branches 
— among ironworkers, weavers, glass-blowers, and the very numerous 
tradesmen on strike — there seems no greater prospect of improvement than 

* Other papers add the caleilatioB that the yalne of the capital lying idle inj^eniuyl- 
▼ania is about fire hundred millions of dollars, and the loss of interest not less than 
"^ajOOO dollars per day. _ 

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ampnth sinoe,! To ii^e capitalist and manufacturer the situation is, there* 
fore, one of exfreme concern, and through them reflected on the entire busi- 
ness community/' 

Lastly (to pass over several struggles of a similar character, 
but of sligkter dimensions, wWch have taken place in Belgium, 
Germany, and France), the great South Wales conflict in the irou 
and coal trade, which has absorbed so much pubUo attention this 
spring, has presented fecrtures unusually dishearteninff. We have 
no desire to enter upon any points which might excite or renew 
controversy or painful feeling, or to express opinions on subjects 
on whicli, perhaps, only those on the spot, and who have followed 
the subject in all its details and antecedents, are qualified to pro- 
nounce. The lock-out may have been an injudicious and possibly 
an imwarrantable step ; more patience might have been shown at 
the outset, and fuller information might have been vouchsafed 
even to unreasonable men ; the conduct of the union leaders may 
have been less condemnable than appears; But three or four fea- 
tures stand out, and have stood out, undisputed from the outset. 
It was obvious to all qualified outside observers from the first that 
the men had no case and no chance of success ; the essential facts 
were patent to the whole world ; it is difficult to beUeve that the 
colliers or their leaders really disbelieved the statements of the 
masters as to prices and profits ; the subject was one ou which (if. * 
on any) the working men were especially qualified to judge ; not 
a single organ of the independent press failed to point out the 
mistake of the colliers, and to prove that they were hopelessly in 
the wrong. Yet all this was of no avail. The struggle was one 
of singular obstinacy. Numbera wished to return to work on the 
offered terms ; but whenever a meeting was held to pass a resolu- 
tion and to open negotiations to this effect, the windy oratory 
of some voluble speaker re-fanned the flame> re-awakened the 
flagging passiona, and overpowered the awakening good sense of 
the auditors, and the meeting ended by determining to return to 
another period of distress and idleness. This went on week after 
week, in spite of the efforts of Lord Aberdare, Mr. Bi-assey, and 
other tried friends of the colliers, to guide them to a wiser sense 
of their own interests, and a ttuer.view of facts — every week 
aacrificing £90,000 to the workers, and incalculable sums to their 
employers, plunging the labourers deeper and deeper into suffer- 
ing and debt ; and it was not till the retail traders could no longer 
give credit ; till the masters had been forced to announce that 
any return to work must be at 15 per cent., and not at 10 
per cent, reduction, that the conflict was given up, and then only 

gradually, slowly, and partially. From the first there was no 
aid (or none worth speaking of) from union funds, given or pro- 

^^ttised; from the first there was no hope of victory; from 

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the first the workmen could quote no facts or calculations to afford 
even a colourable justification of their proceedings ; from the first 
there was the experience of two years ago to warn and to instruct 
them ; yet from first to last did every pubKc meeting held allow 
itself to be turned aside from the obviously wise and inevitable 
course, by exhortations addressed solely to the feelings. The 
millions wasted constitute the least sad feature of ihis sad history;* 
the only bright feature is the singularly orderly and peaceful 
behaviour of the workmen out of employ — ^behaviour so different 
from what it has often been elsewliere, and from what it used to 
be in similar circumstances in fonner years. But for those who 
hoped that the labouring and weU-paid poor — ^the masses of the 
new constituencies — ^would prove in real emergencies their fitness 
to exercise the franchise, to recognize their true friends, to mani- 
fest the courage of individuahty, and to withstand the misrepre- 
sentations of fluent declaimers — ^the lessons of the conflict just 
ended have been dispiriting indeed. 

We see nothing in all this wherewith to reproach the Welsh 
miners, no reasonable matter for surprise. Reproach should be 
reserved for the stump orators and union leaders who so success- 
fully excited and misled them ; surprise, and perhaps some specific 
condemnation, for the politicians, of whatever party, who, in 1867 

* The conflict lasted nearly twenty-two weeks, and the number of minora, Ae^ 
directly out of work was upwards of 66,000, besides many more, probably 12,000, 
employed in subsidiary labour — in all 70,000. We have now lying before us more 
than one careful calculation of the loss of earning^ to the men, and of interest on capital 
to the masters resulting from this disastrous contest. The following, from the AfertA^ 
Express^ includes all collateral losses, and may perhaps be regarded as extreme if not 
eztraTagant : — 

Coalowners in sale of coal £2,100,000 

Ironmasters in iron and steel «. 2,150,000 

Railway companies 264,000 

Waggon hire 100,000 

Royalties 150,000 

Dock dues 100,000 

Maintenance of pits, plant, horses, &c 250,000 

Local trade 1,000,000 

Workmen's wages, direct 8,000,000 

Relief administered by Guardians ,. - .. .. 25,000 

Total £9,189,000'* 

Lord Aberdare, in a letter to the Smth Wales Daily News, shows that the of loss 
wages to the men must have reached £8,000,000. The loss to capitalists is, he says, 

The ordinary estimate to all parties is £5,000,000, and this will probably be foimd not 
far from the truth. 

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and afterwards, so resolutely maintained that working men every- 
where were now far too sober-minded and enlightened to be 
excited by stump oratory, or led astray by fallacious misrepresenta- 
tions, and were capable of standing firm to their own knowledge 
and judgment against the swaying sympathy of surrounding and 
shouting numbers. Partisans now are heard to express surprise 
and dismay at the results of the late elections at Stoke, Stafford, 
Merthyr, Stroud, and other boroughs, who were among the fore- 
most to insist a very few years ago upon quadrupling or sextupKng 
their constituencies. Blind guides ! to affect amazement at the 
first fruits of their own work ! In what country, I would ask, 
would an uneducated and unprepared class, thus suddenly invested 
with potentially supreme power, have acted with so much dis- 
cretion, or wrought so little mischief? Let us look a Httle in 
detail at what was done by the Act of 1867. In nearly every one 
of the boroughs whose elections have caused disappointment and 
anxiety to the nation the constituency was not enlargedy but wholly 
changed. The former electors included (to speak broadly) the 
whole of the educated classes: — the great mass of the new electors, 
must therefore have consisted of the whoUy or comparatively im- 
educated classes. Yet the new ones are four or Jive to one of the old. That 
is, the electoral supremacy was virtually wrested from the men of 
trained political intelhgence, and given over, by a vast preponder- 
ance, into the hands (to express the fact as guardedly as possible) 
of men who had not had any such intelligent training. To say 
that the borough electore of England and Wales were suddenly 
raised from 514,000 in 1866 to 1,452,000 in 1875 (or nearly 200 per 
cent.), is only a most inadequate and disguising statement of the 
case, for that only says that every elector had two fresh ones 
placed on the register to countervail his vote. We must look at 
individual instances, where the working classes are strongest and 
most concentrated ; and here often the new out-number, ecKpse, 
and neutralize the old in the proportion of fivey six, sometimes eight 
ond nine to one. We append a table giving the proportions in 
which the electors have been multiplied by what my readers will, I 
think, now admit I had a right to caU " the revolution " of 1867. 



50 and 

100 and 

300 and 






per cent. 

per cent. 

100 per cent. 

300 per cent. 

500 per cent. 

and above 
















To those who look at the matter from a purely party point of 


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view, it may be a sufficient sedative with alannist temperaments 
to reply, that, of two Parliaments elected under household fxanchise, 
one returned a large Liberal and the next a large Conservative 
majority. To others, whose uneasiness lies in the direction of 
diminished reverence for property, it k enough to remark that 
probably no Parliament ever contained so many plutocrats as that 
of 1875. But we may explain our meaning without personality 
(except, perhaps, one which will be with most people its own 
excuse) by reference to a few special returns. The constituency 
of MeiiJiyrTydvil sprung up from 1387 to 15,866, or about twelv€- 
foldy and Merthyr returned Mr. Richards, an eminently respectable 
Nonconformist minister, in the place of Mr. Bruce, an eminent and 
experienced statesman and Cabinet niinister. Morpeth increased its 
constituency from 485 to 5,559 or upwards of eUven-fold^ and has 
exchanged another Home Secretary, veteran and popular, for a 
working-men's candidate, thoroughly respectable and trustworthy, 
we beUeve, but as yet untrained. Wolverhampiony indeed, has 
quintupled its number of electors, but retains its old representatives, 
and so in the main has Wigan, But poor Stroud^ with more than a 
four-fold augmentation of the electorate, is so disorganized, th^t, 
since the lamented Mr. Winterbotham's death, it has never been 
able to get a representative at all. While, to crown the list. Stoke- 
upon-Trenty on the retirement of Mr. Melly (a member of sufficiently 
advanced political opinions), has replaced him by Dr. Kenealy, who 
was certainly not elected on account of any political opinions at 
all. But then the Stoke which Mr. Melly represented had 3,500 
electors, while the Stoke which is contented to be represented by 
Dr. Kenealy has 19,500 — and^ therefore, in no rational sense can 
the two electorates be said to be the same. It may veiy well be 
that the whole of the 6,110 who voted for Kenealy may have 
been made by Mr. DisraeFs Reform Act. 

Now, what does Dr. Kenealy's return indicate and prove? 
Cijrcumstances in this case happily enable us to speak with perfect 
plainness, and at the same time ivithout offence. Ettheb the 
electors of Stoke (by no means a peculiarly imeducated or unin- 
telligent set; perhaps rather, the reverse) really believed the 
Claimant to be Tichbome, and his advocate the gallant defender 
of an oppressed man— that ift, they were convinced of the truth of 
a position which two Courts of Justice, after investigations of 
imequalled searcMngness and duration, had pronounced to be 
imquestionably false — a pronouncement whiclx tl^^ House of Com- 
mons confirmed with a unanimity quite imparalleled, for the only 
dissentients were Dr. Kenealy and nis secondej- — a conclusion 
which, after the sunaming up of the Lord Chief J^ustice, it seems 
impossible for rational minds to withstand. In this case it is not 
too much to assmna that m^n who believe such a position are not 

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unlikely to beKere anything in spite of any evidence and any 
arguments; their intelligence and fitness for the fmnchise must be 
far below the level which their friends have hitherto maintained. 
Or, as no doubt was the case with many, they supposed, with the 
rest of US, that' the Claimant was Orton ; but his defender was 
popular just because his cause was bad — ^because, in fact, here 
^vas a daring lawyer who had stood up against the world for a 
butcher against a baronet — in short, Dr. Kenealy's election was 
the result of a class feeling of the very worst' sorti Or; the real 
pervading impression assigned by Punch to the mass was the 
correct one, however dim and self-contradictory : — ** I don't care 
whether he was Tichbome, or Castro, or Orton, or who he was ; 
but I don't Kke to see a poor man kept out of his rights." Or, 
finally, and with too inaay, the motive impulse for their vote was 
simply l^at they had found a man (not himself of too spotless 
antecedents) with audacity and pluck to assail, on behalf of one 
of their own order, judges, juries, gentlemen, nobles, hostile 
witnesses, an outvoting Parliament — any one, in short, however 
bigh in reverence and station — ^in a foul-mouthed fashion, which 
almost sanctioned or threw into the shade their own too cus- 
tomary language. In a word, the popularity and success of 
Dr. Kenealy at Stoke, whether regarded as the product of 
deficient intelligence or distorted sentiment, are almost equally of 
evil omen ; for there is not the faintest reason for supposing the 
Stoke constituency to be an exceptional one, or that any large 
borough might not do as Stoke has done ; — and if we are right in 
this assumption, then we have no security whatever that on any 
question — class, personal, religious, international, or other — ^the 
vast majority of the constituency may not, swayed by a coarse 
species of oratory, arrive at deciaons utterly at variance with 
evidence, sound sense, wise policy, and the national interest, or 
even .safety. There is no reason in the world why half a dozen 
topics (more naturally stimulating than the Tichbome case) 
might not, under the management of a skilftil declaimer (and 
there are scores far abler than Dr. Kenealy), get extraordinary 
hold upon the popular mind, be selected as the crucial question at 
elections, sweep over the length and breadth of the land, and 
throw all others into the background. Nor, obviously, if we are to 
judge by Stoke, is there any reason why, on each one of these, 
the great body of the working classes — ^the new electorate — should 
not be misled into a decision as absurd 849 the one just sent us as a 
warning. Nor, in the last place, is there the slightest doubt that 
if they should be so misled, they will be ^ble to place the repre- 
sentative of their delusion at the head of the poU. 

It appears to me that not one of these positions can be gainsaid 
or weakened, and that, as a whole, they are full of evil omen. 

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In 1867 you placed in the hands of the uneducated massefi the 
power of returning whatever membere of ParUament they please : 
in 1875 they showed you that, under excitement, not of the 
fiercest or grandest order even, they may exercise that power in 
a fashion that seemed incredible to aU men of intelligence—- 
may endorse enthusiastically a monstrous delusion which no 
subsequent delusion can surpass or even match. It will be said, 
'* This was a purely accidental and abnormal phrenzy : the artisans 
are not as a rule given to such aberrations ; look how few can- 
didates of their own class they returned*" True, I reply, they do 
not and will not usually go so far astray, and they have not very 
great trust in their own leaders; but grant that a man arises 
among them with character to gain their confidence, and 
eloquence to command their allegiance and sway their minds — 
and the supposition is possible enough — and where will be your 
antidote to the supremacy which you have given them at the 
poll? "You are conjuring up imaginary dangers," others will 
allege ; ^' the mass of the householders admitted by the Act of 
1867 are far shrewder than those at Stoke ; and, after all, where 
are the questions on which they will listen to the nonsense of 
damaged and extravagant orators?" Again I answer: Do you 
not in your heart believe that if by any legal flaw the Claimant 
had escaped his doom and been set free, he might have been 
returned to Parliament by fifty constituencies at least — ^more than 
Lamartine in 1848, or Thiers in 1872, across the Channel ? And as 
to questions regarding which the majority of borough electors 
might on occasions be aroused to an excitement at once discredit* 
able, ignorant, irrational, sweeping, and pernicious, what do you 
think of No Popery, the Contagious Diseases Act, Masters and 
Servants Act, the Conspiracy Act, and the like T What would be 
the prospect of a general election, if the country were adequately 
harangued by itinerant declaimers, when a second Trent affitir 
was the uppermost topic in the public mind 1 And, to conclude, 
who can be blind to the &ct that a vfitst majority of our popula- 
tion are far less well off than they fancy they have a claim to be, 
and than they are satisfied that certain social, legal, or political 
changes, or hazardous anti-economical experiments might make 
them, — ^that they are dangerously prone to listen to eloquence of 
the shallowest sort on these topics, and that skilful and plausible 
orators might easily, in periods of distress, combine all this floating 
feeling into a focus, and perhaps even drive it into united action? 
** Struggles where the very framework of modem society is 
threatened are as ominous for ourselves as for our neighbours. The 
history of trade unionism, for example, is the history of a gradually 
spreading organization wliich tends to unite the working classes 
^f the country against the capitalists. The ideal at which it aims 

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would be one in which the Iabom*er8 of all coimlries shonld be 
united in one vast alliance. The workmen who begin to see the 
danger of foreign competition answer, not by abandoning their 
own combinationB, but by endeavouring to bring foreign work- 
men into harmony with themselves. The attempts made in that 
direction have hitherto been feeble ; but they have a tendency to 
extend. However much we may laugh at the nonsense talked at 
Geneva conferences, they indicate the spread of a discontented 
feeling beyond the limits of any one country, and a disposition in 
the working classes throughout the world to regard themselves 
as natural allies in a struggle with their employers. Questions, 
sach as we have been recently discussing, *about extension of the 
franchise and the disestablishment of the Church, may amuse work- 
men for a time ; but they natuially feel that they could use the power 
of which they are becoming conscious for purposes much more 
closely affecting their own interests. The beUef that a man can get 
better food and lodging as the reward of a successful agitation is 
much more exciting than any prospect of purely political clianges." 

Dangers^ that are comparatively insignificant when single, 
magnify enormously in dimensions when two or three come upon 
ns simultaneously or in combination. Given two bad harvests in 
succession, a dull or failing trade in many branches, a couple of 
leaders moderately fluent and skilled in organization, and unions 
with treasury chests tolerably full, and we may then begin to see 
with some amazement what we did when we gave over the 
electoral supremacy of England to a majority of householders, of 
whom the 6,110 who voted for Kenealy are not tmfair samples. 

Our parochial and municipal representative bodies are not 
usually regarded as models of enlarged or enlightened wisdom. 
Yet if only we voted for tho empire on as safe and sagacious a 
principle as that which we foUow in voting for a parish ! — ^if only 
we elected our House of Commons as rationally as we elect our 
vestries I — we might escape some grave perils and some startling 
anomalies. I never like giving arguments in my own words when 
I can avail myself of better and weightier words by others. I 
will therefore crave permission here to quote (largely abridged) a 
letter which appeared several weeks ago in the Pall Mall Gazette^ and 
which seems to me to need no addition, and to admit of no refutation. 

"SiK,— To study my countrymen, I often go to that assembly which 
Sir Heiuy Maine teUs us is far older than either Parliament or Monarchy — 
the parish vestry. I there can become acquainted with the lowest class 
of voters, and see what sort of men our future masters are likelv to prove. 
Scarcely less instructive, perhaps, are those elections to the local boards of 
heakh which from one end of tne country to the other have just been held, 
hi tiiese great weight is given to wealth and to wisdom, for, in spite of all 
the rich fools and poor saints that can be brought forward to refute me, 
^^is^ is, I maintain, tibe companion of wealth, and not of poverty. For 

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th^ ihost part, the man who has sav«d a pound is wiser than the man who 
has not saved a penny ; the man who has a good coat on his badk is wiser 
than the man who is in rags ; the man who has a good roof above his head 
is wiser than the man who lives in a hovel. We may carry it. further, and 
say that there is more wisdom to be found in a house of eight rooms than 
in a house of four ; and that he who can afford to pay a rent of £60 is 
likely to be a wiser man than, he who can only afford topay a rent of £30. 
In a local board of health election, then, it would be reasonable to expect 
that the more intelligent classes would, without much trouble, carry the 
day ; for while in the parliamentary election a man of wealth has but one 
vote, in a board of health election he may have no fiewer than twelve. It 
so happens that I have myself just taken an active part in one of these 
elections, and though we fought under the most favourable circiunstances, 
and though there was a singular agreement amongthe larger householders, 
yet our victory was but a narrow one. Had we voted for men to provide 
us with pure water and weli-ventilated sewers on the'same plan as that on 
which we vote for men to provide us with those trifling matters an «rmy, 
a navy, or laws, we should have been hopelessly defeated! 

"M growing villages and towns are, I hold, in one of three states. 
They have either had a visitatioti of typhoid fever, or tl^ey are havittg it, 
OP they are g(jing to have it. We, happily, have had our visitation* The 
lesson was a very sharp one, but it has left us — those o£ us who are left, 
that is to say — ^better citizens, and far more alive to the duties which 
attach to us as members of a community. A few years ago it was with us 
a reproach to a man to take part in parish matters. It is now an honour. 
For years the elections to the board of health- had eacited no interest 
Their proceedings, indeed, from time to time amused us, as we read in our 
local paper that one member had threatened to punch another's head or 
poll hia nose. Meanwhile, this ignorant board was quietly turning all the 
streams into open sewera, and, to meet the needs of the ri^dly growing 
population, had half poisoned the pure supply of water which we got froui 
the chalk by mixing with it the landspring water drawn from beneath a- 
large market-garden highly dressed with London manure. If London half 
poisoned us, we, in our turn, did our best to poison London. An ingenious 
market-gardener was idlowed to tap the drain that came from our hospital 
— ^a hospital in which our fever cases are nursed — and to turn the sewage 
on to his watercress beds. But I need not go into further details. The 
death-rate steadily rose, rents as steadily fell, houses stood empty, the 
cemeteiy was enkrged, the underts^ers looked ch^rf Hi; we taU^ of 
mysterious dispensations, but for a time yr^ blamed the board but little, 
our^lves not at all. We had, indeed, at last begvm to make a stir, and 
had done something, when there came upon us an outbreak of typhoid 
fever. In a few w^s over 300 persons were struck down with it^ and in 
that year fevers carried off between forty and fifty* The Local Gfovemment 
Board sent down one of their medical inspectors. He did notconfine his 
attention to our fotil ditches, our unventilated sewers, our impure water 
supply. Bad though these were, he was bold enough to show us that we 
owselvee were almost worse. We had neglected onr pkinest duties by so* 
long leaving to the ignorant the care of the health of the whole community^ 
He gave us some lessons in sanitary matters as admirable as they were 
sim{^ and urged us to form a sanitary association. This we at onoe did. 
We instructed ourselvQs, and by means of pamphlets and broad-sheets we 
did all we ^ould to instruct our neighbours. When the nest election came 
round, we Carried in two of the best members of our association. ' 

^ The opposition that had been organized now for the first time looked 

formidable, and the publicans, with one bright exception, were to a man 

against u& If I am not mistaken in my numbers, we had ato embattled 

-"{ialanx of no fewer than fifty-one pubticttos to fi^it. Each side woiked 

hardest. The enemy took to prophesying, and we took to facts. The 

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pansh was canvassed from house to hooae as it had never been canvassed 
before. In the course of the canvassing I happened to come across a 
French refugee who lives in tlie parish. He flatly refused to vote at all, 
as the voting was not by universal suffrage. In vain I pointed out that as 
the occupier of a house he was surely entitled to secure for his house a 
good supply of pure water. He did not recognize, he loftily replied, 
houses or property. He knew of nothing but men. As he did not vote as 
as a man, he would not vote at all. Well, sir, to cut a long story short, 
we carried three out of four seats, but we carried them by very hard work 
and by small majorities. Had we been voting not for members of a local 
board, but for members of the great council of the empire^ we sJiould have been 
hopelessly beaten. We fought with success in a great measure because we 
fought with confidence, and we fought with confidence because we knew 
that intelligence would not be swamped by mere numbers. We had left, 
indeed, nothing undone to win the votes of the smallest voters, and not a 
few we did secune. We p«t a plain statement of facts before them, hut 
we found that the printing-press was no fair match for the pot-house. 

'^Now, sir, if the scene of this contest had been at Stoke, and if Dr. 
Kenealy had chosen to put himself forward as a candidate for the board of 
health of that town, I have no doubt that neither his resemblance to 
Cromwell and Milton nor his own impudence would have saved him from 
utter defeat. The men of property, the men of character, the men of 
sense, the men who had shown strength of mind to overcome the tempta- 
tions of the present, and to lay up for the future, the men who had not 
eaten or drunk up to their earnings, but had begun with small savings, and 
had seen these small savings grow into large savings, would have aU gone 
eageriy and heartily into a contest where Sieir worth and their knowledge 
would not be swamped bv the ignorance of a «nob. The day may come 
when some monstrous delusion, some lie gross as a. mountain, open, pal- 
pable, may throughout England seize on the lowest and largest body of 
voters as a claiss, as it has lately seized on the new voters of Stoke. 
Should such a storm of passionate prejudice sweep over the land, the men 
of common sense, the men who have made EnguEmd what it is, would, if 
they tried to stem it, find themselves clean swept away. Parish politics 
have often been a byword among us. I, for my part, in my search after 
political wisdom, would rather watch the peopte voting in their parishes 
than study all the works of all the philosoiAers who have begun by 
studying, not men, but Man. — I am Sir, your obedient servant, 

** April 20ih." "A Parish PoLiticiAN. 

For dangers «nch as those to which I have for the second time 
ventured, CaBsandrarlike, to call the attention of my oountrymen, 
there are obviously but two saf^guardi^ the spread of education' 
and of property extensively among the labouring classes. But 
are those safeguards adequate ? Are ihjef eonling ? and ^mll they 
come in time? Is the education we are giving <tf the^ right sort^ 
and, given to the people who need it ? And i6 the aceumulatidn 
of property becoming the Qhara<H;eri8ti<^ of our well-paid drtizans ? 
For my part I can scarcely rely on the timeliness or efficacy of a 
BQ^ciixe giogerly adnunistered in 1875, ahd not fevfen ek]^ected 
to .operate till 1890; and how far have tihe extrttotdinary wages 
paid for thfe last'few years gone to tujjnronr mechanics. aAd opera- 
tives into capil^liats? What {jroportiott of the millions dis- 
tdbnted has gone vith the savings banks,' and what to the 
pnbHcan and sinner ? W. R. Greg. 

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THE Homeric controversy has engaged the energies of many 
and powerful combatants for nearly a century, with Ya,Tjmg 
success, and, though the issues have seemed from time to time so 
complicated as to be inextricable, the interest of scholars, instead 
of diminishing, deepens with every new phase of the contest. Ever 
since the great assault on the unity of either poem, by Fr. A. Wolf 
("Prolegomena," 1795), the fortune of the field has wavered; for 
while certain hostile positions have been made good by both parties 
respectively, the entrenchments of each remain imcaptured ; and 
so the struggle over Homer has been like one of his own battles — 

TuXXa 8* op* hSa, k<u tvff Ztfvcrc ftaxi? Trc&oio. 

On its first appearance, the Wolfian theoiy carried everything 
before it in Germany, and the startUng doctrine which the great 
critic promulgated, that the Homeric poems were a congeries of 
originally independent lays, gathered together and moulded into 
a unity in the time of Pisistratus (about B.C. 560), was received 
with favour not only among scholare, such as Heyne and Niebuhr, 
but also in the general circles of litemture, where Herder hailed it 
as opening up new and important aspects of popular poetry, and 
the Schlegels followed in the same vein. The easy and rapid 
acceptance of the theory seems to us, even in these changeful 
days, difficult to understand. A number of predisposing causes, 
however, contributed to this result — ^partly the spirit of the century 
itself, which gloried in paradox, partly the remarkable evidence. 

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which had been appearing everywhere with more or less con-" 
clusiveness, as to the extraordinary vitaKty of popular poetry, 
even under its most anonymous and uncertified character, and 
that, too, as if to exemplify the Wolfian theory, without the aid of 
Kterary appliances to preserve it. The Ossianic controversy, in 
particular, had opened up large vistas of vague possibility in this 
direction, and, in a fortunate hour, by a most dexterous handling of 
the evidence and a masterly marshalling of the phenomena, Wolf 
was able to forge the thunderbolt that shattered, in the view 
of Germany, the unity of the Homeric poems. 

The war, so grandly begun by Wolf, was continued by God- 
frey Hermann, and William Mtiller, who carried on a vigorous 
polemic, more especially against the unity of the Iliad. The 
former, it is true, attempted to take up separate ground of his 
own, in his doctrine of an **Ur-Ilias" and an "Ur-Odyssee" — an 
original nucleus to each poem, around which the congeries of lays 
had been accumulated. Substantially, however, he stands on the 
Wolfian basis. Next to him in importance among the later 
Wolfians, and, in the opinion of many, the greatest of the Wolfian 
school after Wolf himself, stands Lachmann, who (in his ^* Betrach- 
tangen," 1843) gave a new direction, as weU as a new impetus, to 
the controversy, and from him the modem Wolfians are often 
styled " die Ijachmannianer." His work was especially an attempt 
to exhibit the actual sutures between the supposed originally com- 
ponent lays; and the dissection of the "Iliad" was carried forward 
by him with much minuteness, in the same way as the compara- 
tively vile corpus of the " Nibelimgen Lied" had been operated upon 
m hiB earUer days by his apprentice-hand. The result was that 
the Iliad was resolved into a group of eighteen lays, and the 
Lachmann view is known as the " Klein-Ueder-Theorie." 

A reaction, however, arose, and a school of critics sprang up of 
a more conservative character, who were able, by a more thorough 
survey of the historical conditions of the case, to reconquer many 
of the apparently lost positions. Among these may be named 
especially Ottfried Muller, Welcker, and Gregor W. Nitzsch,* the 
last of whom, by his voluminous and weighty works, has dealt 
very powerful blows at the Wolfians, so that he may well be 
caUed « Malleus Wolfianorum." 

The great authority of Goethe — on a question as to organic 
Qiiity of immense weight — ^was on the whole in the anti-Wolfian 
scale. In a letter to Schiller, immediately after the appearance of 
the "Prolegomena," he characterized the theory as arbitrary and 
subjective, and he seemed to resent the intrusion of this wild boar 

• Dnntaer (AbbandL, 1872, p. 409), although himseli a Wolfian, pnts a high raluo on 
Nttaeh*a labours in a acientiBo point of yiew, and adds, regarding him, Si Pergama dextra 
^fi^po%$tnty etiam hac defeiua fm'ssent. 

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into what he called the " fairest gardens of the aesthetic world.'' 
The most interesting ntterance which he has given upon the 
point is the view expressed in his Uttle sketch, "Homer noch 
einmal," which represents his matured opinion, when, at the 
period of the reaction, he was -able to realize a "Homer once 
more," after "the sundering and dissecting process of the 
eighteenth century" was over, and the harmonizing spirit, as he 
calls it, of the nineteenth had begun. 

Of late yeai«, however, notwithstanding the powerful reaction a 
generation ago, Germany has again gone over largely to the 
Wolfian camp. The stream of opinion is flowing, according to 
Nutzhom,* strongly in that direction, and there is a whole school 
of " Lachmannianer" (among whom is included the distinguished 
name of Georg Curtius, a Wolfian on philologic grounds), who, in 
divers ways, not always very accordant with either of their great 
masters or themselves^ paitjel out the primary lays of the " IKad," 
and even of the " Odyssey," with the most confident precision. 
Foremost atnong these may be named Arminius Kochly, who m 
usually looked on as the most pronounced exponent of the domi- 
nant Wolfian theory. In particular he ha«^ with more of valour 
than discretion, put in type a text of the " Iliad" upon Wolfian 
principles, in which, by the ejection of the line containing the 
Ato9 fioukri of the Exordium, and by other similar operations, 
the "Hiad" falls asunder into sixteen independent lays.t The 
influence of this school, however, cannot in the nature of things 
be permanent. It might have been otherwise if the Kochly 
doctrine had been confirmatory of the Laehmann, so as to exhibit 
exactly the same cleavage of strata as prevailing in the structure 
of the poems ; but when each leading champion exhibits sections 
of his own, and there is no approach to unanimity in their own 
camp (witness the extensive and very effective polemic of the 
Wolfian Diintsser against both Lachinann and Kochly), it is not 
likely that the school will be in the end victorious. 

It is evident, however, from the immense hold which the 
Wolfian view has obtained of the patient and honest and per- 
severing mind of Germany, that there must be a considetable 
amount, at all events, of prima facie evidence in its favour; J and. 
in point of fact, the difficulties involved in the Homeric question 

* '* Zwar habon Nitssoh and Bawnlaib anch ihn Anliatager, abor der Strom geht doch 
immer in der Ton Iiacliniann angeg^ben^n RichtT^lg." Kntzhorn, p. 143. (IHe EnUto- 
himgsweiie der Homernchen Gedlchte, 1889.) 

t " UiadiB Oannina XVL" " Restituta edidit ArminiuB Koobly, TniicensU." 
Tenbner, 1861. 

X Nttsieh has left a remarkable oonfearion of hit eaqiarieiieea In the whirlpool of 
Homeric controTemy (<* Sagen-poesie," p. 298). After haying composed a laborious work, 
which had for its object to establish the separate authorship— a view which commends 
itself as tending to lighten the difionlty of aoooonting for two Epics of snch magnitude^ 
he at a later period wrote a refutation of hksself, and pronounced in faTonr of the joist 
anthorship of both poems. 

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are greater than is, in our country, commonly supposed. Thefe is 
not only the question as to the orgamc unity of either poem taken 
separately; but there is the further question of the re^tion of the 
one poeih to the other,' whether they are of the same age, and can 
be pronounced to be of the same authocship; and both of these ques- 
tions have U> be determined solely from the poeatis themselves, 
which arid on all hands admitted to contaih the only sufficient 
and final evidence available upon the. question. Unfortunately, 
they are all but dumb as to themselves. They- are so piirely oljeo- 
tire that they seem projected, as it were, into this visible diurnal 
sphere with hardly a subjective. trace adhering to them, and are 
silent as the stars concerning their own genesis and mutiial relation. 

Such is a brief history, on German soil, of the celebrated theoiy 
which, when applied to the twin stars of the Homeric poems, by 
a reverse operation from tibat of the astronomers who resolve 
nebttlee into stars, Y\bb converted stars into nebulas. How has it 
fared in other countries, and spedaliy in our own? 

The Wblfian theory has not moved, so powerfully as it has in Ger- 
many, the learned world either in England' or in France. In the 
latter country, the chief fndt of any scienti^ value which can be 
tmeed to it i& theingeniotls liiough n<i>t satisfactory essay of M.Bur- 
m^yinik^RevutdelktwMdndes^ 1866^ in whidh lt"choriaontic" or 
Bepai^tist position is adopted, and kn attempt is made to differentiate 
the "Ilidd" from the "Odyssey," by classing the former with the 
choMOfn de gestes of medieval French literatui^, atid the latter with 
the roman (Taventures, The analogy is interesting a^d impod^nt, but 
it IB tfot sufficient to justify the separation* fr<yin ^dbh <)ther, under 
different genera, of two poems so cognate in tatfe^ and fi^ructure,* 
when the differences that Bxist can be satirfactoi-ily eUicounted for 
on a different hypotheJEOS.' ' . 

In our own country opinion has not departed much or far from 
the old tniditional belief, not obly that each poem is a unity, 
but that both have come hcan one. author. The most important 
expoM^ti in its defence has' been iiiat of Colonel Mure, who has 
endeavoured^ not .unsueoessfully, to meet the Wolfian positions 
poiot by poisat, and whose exaniination of the question is of 
importance, asrit produoed ia cofwermn wihiB own opinions from 
an early belief in the Wolfian theory* ♦ ; Mr* Gladstone, who has 
done much for the study of Homer, 'and who, in spite of* the 
inaiiiuations c^ DUntzer, has added not a little to our sdefitifie 
knowledge of the* Homeric poems, with a lofty indifference to 
snch questions of criticism, seems seldom or never to be moved 

* Wolf may be claimed as a witness in faroiir of the nnity of tone a^id coloaring, 
**&ti]iioeaiiigmunt' in lis o&mla fermein idem lngenium,in eosdem mores, in eandem for* 
oralim sentiendi et loquendL" ('' Prolegomena,'' p. ccIit.) E[e elaewl^re (tpeaks of this 
•• » "Wf(/fe«* concentus," thotigli he endeavours to conVert it into an argument for 
his theory of an artificial unity. 

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by^a single, just or unjust^ Wolfian scruple. Perhaps he is right. 
It is better to enjoy the fuU Uoom and aroma of the Eden of Greek 
song, asking no questions, and accepting in implicit faith where we 
have not the means or power to prove. Professor Blackie, on the 
other hand, has discussed the question largely, and he even pro- 
nounces the discussion of it essential to a right understanding of 
the nature of the Homeric poems as the flower of early popular 
poetry. With strong Wolfian leanings, and an inunense appre- 
ciation of WoK's work and genius, he yet substantially sums up 
against his doctrine of a congeries of lays. 

The greatest name among our English scholars that can be 
quoted on the Wolfian side is that of Grote.* Not that he is a 
Wolfian— on the contrary, no one has shown more clearly and 
powerfully the difficulties inherent in the extreme. Wolfian position; 
but he has also shown, in the fairest and most judicial of state- 
ments, th^ difficulties of the traditional view, in so far as the ** Iliad" 
is concerned. The case which he has made out against the books 
from the second to the seventh inclusive, as not belonging to the 
original poem, is remarkably complete; and he errs chiefly in this, 
that he performs excision on some of the most splendid portions of 
the poem, and assigns these loose gems to no author in particular. 
He has, however, pointed out the path in which the solution of 
the question seems to lie, and he has, in particular, familiarized 
the English mind with the notion of an "Achilleid," as distinct from 
the " Iliad " — ^a view to which the whole evidence seems more and 
more to converge. 

While rejecting the Wolfian principle in its most pronounced form, 
partially regarding the ** Iliads" entirely regarding the ** Odyssey," 
Mr. Grote accepts, though somewhat doubtfully, the chorizontic 
view of the separate authorship, and to this view the English "Left," 
if we may so call it, has generally inclined. As early as 1820, 
Richard Payne Knight, though strong against the Wolfian doctrine, 
pronounced in favour of the chorizontic view, and the arguments 
which he used produced a certain effect on English opinion. They 
moved Henry Nelson Coleridge, in his work on Homer, to adopt 
that position, and the usual chorizontic arguments have been 
recenUy presented again in a new and expanded fonn, in an article 
in the Edinburgh Revieux (April, 1871). It purports to be a review 
of the treatise of Thiersch, who, though a ^ chorizon," held the 
poems to be of the same age, but the reviewer attempts to make a 
great gulf of time between the " Ihad" and the " Odyssey," and, 
against all the probabiHties of the case, assigns only the ^'Ihad" to 
Homer. That is to say, the. poem, which is considered not only 
anterior, but, in the view of many, much more ancient than the 

* Diintzer (Abhandl. pp. 46, 492) claims to haye antioipatad Grote in his tiow w to 
Books it.— Til of the "Diad.'^ 

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other, whose struoture has been the subject of the most serious 
disputation, is the one about which we are supposed to know most; 
whereas the other, which is nearer to us, and comes closer to the 
dawn of history, is the one about which we know least — ^being 
thus attributed to an unknown rhapsodist, at a time when much 
less renuurkable poems of a kindred order, known as the cyclic 
poems, were confidently assigned each to a separate author, 
historically determinable. This form of the chorizontic doctiine 
involves the reduction of the " Odyssey " to the rank of a cyclic 
poem, and, what is more, a cycUc poem at the extremity of the 
series of the cyolus, when the Sagas were fading away in the 
approaching dawn of history, and yet the only cyclic of the Trojan 
series that does not come before us with a fairly accredited design 
nation of authorship. The presumption is entirely the other way, 
that the name of Homer is more likely to belong specially to the 
poem which has passed through fewest changes, is artistically 
more perfect in its structure, and constitutes a unity, than to the 
poem which is on good grounds considered more remote, has 
paased through greater changes, bears marks of a less harmonious 
structure, and contains the complex elements — ^if complex elements 
are to be assumed as existing in either poem — ^in th» most pro- 
nomiced and extensive form. 

We may xemark further, as tending to show the weakness of 
this chorizontic notion, in so far as it assigned the '< Iliad " to 
"Homer" and left the "Odyssey" without an author, that although 
the ancients had their chorizontes, as we now know from the 
Venetian SchoHa, these produced no real impression on ancient 
thought. In the long array of ancient authorities in Clinton's 
''Fasti Hellenici" as to the date of Homer, it is curious to note 
that among all the investigators (and they include such names as 
Aiistotie and Eratosthenes), there is not one that ventures on a 
double date, which, however, ought to be a necessity if the "Iliad" 
and " Odyssey " are to be separated, as is done in the elaborate 
article to which we have referred, by a period of two or even 
three generations. 

In this rapid review of the leading phases of English opinion, 
it would be unfair to omit notice of the peculiar position occupied 
hy one of our greatest living scholara upon the question. 
Frederick A. Paley has accumulated a considerable amount of 
argument, of no ineffective kind, to show the precarious condition 
of the Homeric text philologicaUy ; and the view he has found 
l^iinself compelled to adopt goes to affirm that the Homer that 
^e now have is a comparatively late production,* that it can be 

* Donildion, in his " Cratylns ^ (p. 71), tuiea similar language, without stating his 
i^m, implying that "th« <niad*and 'Odyssey,* as W6 have them, are little more 
than a rf/bceimaUo of the original works." 

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disOemecl as existing only from about the time of Qeroddtns, that 
the Homer of Pindar was a different Homer from otnis, with o&er 
and more varied legends, and that the poems as we now have 
them- mnst have been put into their present shape in oir about the 
Periclean time* The scieptioisib of Wolf did not proceed to this 
extremity. He allowed to the Homeric poems a duration iniheir 
present shape of at least a century longer ; from the time, namely, 
of Pisistratus. Mr. Paley, however, considers the poems to have 
been in a molluscous condition down to the period when the 
Athqniaxi drama had already reached its culmination.* Linguisti- 
cally he hm a considerable amount of evidence to show, and 
great concessions might be made as to the state of the text under 
such changes as the lOss of the Digamma and other metamorphic 
influences during the process of adaptation to the new alphfllbet 
of B.C. 403. As for the bone and sinew of the poems considered 
aS an orgaui($ structure, a higher antiquity^ in respect not only of 
the subject matter, but of the form, must be assigned than 
Mr. Paley has allowed.! 

After thus iilcUcating in outline the leading phases of opinion 
on this question, the writer proceeds to state the conclusion to 
which long and careful study of the 'subject lias brought him as 
to the authorahip and mutual relation of the Homeiib poems. It 
is one that appears to him to throw, an important light on their 
QtrilOtute, and to supply a hope of co-ordinating tiiiB various pfie- 
nomena^ explaming the most 'foiTuidable^ discrepaadLea, which the 
Wolflan/doiQitrin&.undoubtedly does, and >e3:plainin^ mkity-as.weil, 
which the Wolfian doctrine fails to do. It is^ in briefi &at Homer 
TiC^as the author of the "Odyssey," but that he was hot In the same 
sense the author of the "Iliad ;" that he found a previoiisly existiug 

• Yet, in spite of th© accfdenta of time, and after passing tlirpugji the cyucijblD of 
Athaniaa tdltlog and Alexahdrian recension, ii thflr^ any text of- an Maty Ballad poet 
that is i9 a better state than Homer's? After three thonaand yeara Jt atafida, in the 
mafti; as cleilt-'and firm as the other after as many hundreds. ' Hi is'sfngular, hut it is 
tmfi« -tlwV the toxt of Euripidei, and ^btpa of SopfaDdaa, is:in li beMer state tfaan 
Shakspeare^s at this hour; When the Triposes of the future turn ppon the ballad poetry 
of England fndtead of fiomer, and Shak«pedre instead df 'Enripidea, we can fancy some 
future Mr. Lowe raising the wail of woe over the sea of versioAS inl ^'Qdl Motice " and 
'* Chevy Chase," and the heaps of ** shot rubbish " calling itself Shi^kmerian criticisni. 

t llie famouft expression of ^schylus, a« to his "dramas fcleing ^'fri^inetits ** 0t9fiiX'n\ 
ftoia the great banquet af Homer, would losa mnoh of ita sig^oigiea if B]»9ier ireie 
considered to'be in his time in the nebulous condition supposed. Ajso, the ** sour grape " 
style in which Fsricles, in hie great oraiion (l^ue. ii.41), pro^Ms to despise and 
dispense with any 'reflected glories from Homer, ahowa coneldsitely Chat tl^ fxwiDt 
were .long ere then a rounded ^* orb of song,** beyond, the power of any one to tamper 
with aa to theit* integrity. The Atheniana ef the faisterio time felt soi-e at the poor 
figure which 'they made in the Homeric poems, and if the office perftemed by Solon- and 
Pifiistratus in the work of setting right the poems had been the architectonic one 
supposed by Wolf, tiie Athenian rhetoricians and sophists would have made much more 
of that serrioe than the j: have done ; for ;ther probability is, we should neyer, in the 
period of the De<5adence at all OTonts, have heard tiie end of it. Again, if the poems 
had been still under process of evolution, such as Mr. Paley's theory supposes possible, 
it is difficult to< imderstand hew tiie profession of tile Rhapsode had sunk into such 
contempt in the Sooratic times (of. Xen* Mem. iv. 2. 10) if a certain halo of genius, or 
at least extensive discretionary powers, had so lately aj^rtained to him. 

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" Achilleid '* which he has expanded, enlarged, and partly worked 
over, so that it has been transformed into an ^' Iliad." 

In proceeding to state the grounds on which this conclusion 
rests, I start from the following preliminary propositions, which 
may be taken b& scientifically proved, inasmuch as the evidence in 
support of them is, both in amount and kind, completely satisfac- 
toiy. They are — 

1. The unity and homogeneous structure of the Odyssey.* 

2. The complexity and heterogeneous structure of the *'Iliad." 

3. The anteriority of the "IKad" to the "Odyssey" in execution. 

4. The European origin of 'the mytliology on which the poems 

5. The Asiatic origin of the poems, at the most distant period 
when we can detect historically their existence. 

A glance at the leading points in connection with these positions 
will show the evidence on which they rest. Taking them in 
the reverse order, we hold it to be satisfactoiily established that the 
first appearance of the poems must be assigned to the eastern 
shore of the Egean, either to the islands or to the mainland on the 
Asiatic shore. Without laying any weight on the traditional 
traces of the poet's personalia, it is yet remarkably significant that 
they connect themselves entirely with iEolis and Ionia; that 
Pindar and Simonides, who are among our oldest and best testi- 
monies, associate the poet with that region ; and that Lycurgus 
was believed, according to Plutarch, to have brought from the same 
quarter to European Greece the poems of Homer. Further, when 
we take into account (1) the close filiation of the elegiac poetry 
(which is of Ionian growth) to the epic poetry of Homer ; (2) the 
historical fact of a set of men called "Homerids" having existed 
at Chios, who, on grounds more or less valid, claimed actual de- 
scent, or, according to others, genuine poetical succession from a 
poet of the name of Homer ; and especially (3) the internal evi- 
dence furnished by the dialect — Clonic with a mixture of ^olian 
forms — ^we find the conclusion irresistible that it was among the 
islands or shores of Ionia or the borderland of iEoHs that the 
Homeric poems took permanent shape and form. With regard to 
the "Odyssey" in particular, it is only among the maritime conunu- 
nities of the Ionian and JEoH&n coast that w^ can discover, during 
the early days of the Greek people, those social conditions of life 
in the oryopa and life on the ocean wave, which were necessary to 

fonn the nidus for a romance dealing so largely with maritime 

The objections to this view are not many no'r are they v/eighty. 

* This does not ezclade the posaibility of accretions having become attached to or 
ioMrtsd in it, such as the doubtful portions of the Nekyia, in Book xi. and the after-part 
Bubsequsnt to the tUnauement, Tiz., Book xxiy. and a part of Book xxiii. 

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They concdst chiefly in the apparently special familiarity which the 
author of the " Odyssey*' shows with the Pelopoimesua — ^not greater 
ceiiainly than the author of the second ^ Iliad;" in the interest 
which he shows in Sparta* and the mountains of the Peloponnesus 
(Od. vi. 103) ; and in the circumstance that the sun is made to rise in 
the sea (Od.iii. 1), which is certainly favourable to an insular origin, 
though not necessarily to a Peloponnesian. These and other ar- 
guments used by Thiersch in his work on " The Age and Father- 
land of Homer," and apparently accepted a« conclusive by Mr. 
Gladstone, have been effectually disposed of by Thirlwall (Hist, 
i. p. 276) with this remark, that— 

^^ This is not a case where we have to balance two argaments of a 
similar kind against one another, but where we have on the one side a 
mass of positive testimony ; on the other some facts which, through oar 
very imperfect knowledge of the poet's life and times, we are miable to 
account for. Where this is so, there can be little doubt which way tiie 
principles of sound criticism require us to decide." 

But here we are met by the undoubted fact that, while the 
Homeric poems took shape and form on the Asiatic coast of the 
Egean, the incunabula of Greek mythology was not Asiatic but 
European. The localization of the legends as to the gods and 
heroes is entirely European, and there is evidence to show that 
the author or authors of the Homeric poems " served themselves 
heirs" to the traditions, and availed themselves of the imaginative 
creations, of poets who had appeared previously on European soil. 
The position of Olympus as the recognized abode of the gods, even 
when their activities are described as concentrated around the 
plain of Troy, proves convincingly that the Homeric poetiy had 
its roots in Europe ; for there can be no question that the Olympus 
of the Homeric poems, wherever it can be identified as a mountotn, 
is the mountain of that name in the land of Thessaly. So much 
is this the case, that even Trojans or Asiatics are represented as 
sharing the beHef in Olympus as the seat of the gods ; and Chryses, 
the priest of Apollo, in the first "Iliad," and Hector in the twenty- 
second, are represented as conforming to the Greek tmdition. To 
prove this point at length, and to show that the Olympus of the 
**IKad" is the European mountain, and not any Asiatic mountain — 
not even the " Olympus high and hoar " which Byron speaks of as a 
noble object from Constantinople and the Golden Horn — ^would, 
however, lead us far beyond our present limits, and to Homeric 
scholars is entirely superfluous. Further, any indications of prior 
poets found in the Homeric poems connect themselves with Euro- 
pean locaUties, and all the traces of the ^ioi&l (leaving out of view 

* Beigk, in his ** History of Greek Literature,'* aocoimts for some of these fefttnres by 
apposing the ^ Odyssey ** to hsTe nndergone retouching for a Spartan audience. 

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thacase of DemodoctiB ad depending on the doubtful localization 
of Phaeacia) belong to the western side of the Egean. Phemius in 
Ithaoa, sJso the unnamed minsti-el who had the guardianship of 
Clytemnestra, and Thamyris* are clear instances to this effect. The 
hat, in fact is conclusive, inasmuch as the notice concerning him 
Beems to be decidedly realistic, and to embody a nucleus of actual 
personal history of a pathetic kind. Moreover, his locale is not only 
European, but TheseaUan, the CEehalia with which his name is 
associated being certainly in Thesealy, The conclusion to which 
wetMre conducted by these facts is confirmed by the following 
conffderations derived fi^om the poems themselves. These assume 
a previous acquaintance with the heroes they portray. The 
opening line of the "Iliad," for example, implies that Peleus was a 
familiar hero ; Patroolus is first introduced to us by his patronymic; 
and Achilles is described by a series of epithets which must have 
been traditional, being no longer intelligible from existing lays. 
The various epithets designating him as the " swift-footed " pre- 
suppose a substratum of Thessalian tradition and poetic lore re- 
garding the Thessalian hero, and probably refer to some early 
Pienan lay as to the youthful feats of the hero under the training 
of CSiiron among the wilds of PeUon. It may therefore be assumed 
aa BcientificaUy certain, that while the poems had their rise on the 
diore of Asia Minor, they had their roots in the mythology and 
poetic lore of Thessaly. 

The third proposition, as to the anteriority of the "Diad" in point 
of execution, is all but self-evident. The portion of the "Iliad" 
which has excited most suspicion as of more recent origin than 
the rest is the "Doloneia '' or tenth book, but there is iH3a8on to 
beheve that even it was executed before the greater part of the 
"Odyssey." The investigations of Duntzer ("Abhandlungen," pp. 
465—470) have served to render this highly probable. Moreover, 
certain formula common to the " Iliad " and the " Odyssey " have been 
showm by him to have been shaped primarily for the "Ihad," before 
they were adapted to the ** Odyssey." Thus,the precept to Penelope 
in Book i. 85ft-9 and in Book xxi. 344 is couched in the same 
terms as the precept to Andromache in "Iliad," Book vi. 490, but 
the expression cts oIkov iowra is most appropriate in the latter, 
Andromache being then on the pubKc way. This serves to mark 
the passage in the "Iliad" as the original location. 

Regarding the remaining two propositions, it may be necessary 

to enter more into detail. And first, in regard to the younger 


* The name of Thamyris is conneoted yrith Bofjijk by Weloker. If so, ha preaents an 
ualogj io^ Oftiipos himself, as derived from 6fAov, and is at oxuSe sublimed, in the crem«r 
tioQ-fornace of some critics, into an ajapellativum or gymbol indicative of aggregatitm. 
It it not nnimportant to not^, th%t in uie Life of Homer attributed to Herodotus^ in 
«Uell imdonbtedly old traditions are preseryed, Thessaly is made the cradle of his 
x&eettry ; for Ifolanopns, of Magnesia, in Theesaly, is the coIoniBt of Cvmoi from ^hom 
Hoiur was traditionally sprung. 

R 2 

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poem : that the "Odyssey** is in its structure one and indivisible; 
that it IB fairly uniform in tone, with remarkable continuily of 
subject and sustained consistency of conception; that it has come 
from the mind of its author "moulded at one projection,"* are fiwts 
that only extreme scepticism can deny. Even Wolf admitted 
that the framework of the " Odyssey," with its elaborate adjustment 
of parts and exquisite preparation for the dinoueinen^ was most 
skilful, and he speaks in high praise of the architectonic skill which 
it displays, as *' the most splendid monument of Greek genius."t 
This perfection of structure he endeavours to turn into an argu- 
ment in his &vour» by representing it as an artificial imity super- 
induced in cultivated times, such as those of Pisistratus. The 
fact remains, that, if the "Odyssey" had come down to us alone, the 
question of unity could not have arisen, and the Wolfian theory 
would have had no room for existence.^: The marvellous mar- 
shalling of gathered circumstance to bring round the great result 
— ^the hero's restoration to home and kingdom ; the skilful arrange- 
ment by which the double stream of action, carried on by fiather 
and by son, converges to the point of junction, when they meet 
at the hut of Eumaeus ; the absurdity of supposing that any large 
part of it (such as the books where Telemachus is the main 
<;haracter) had any independent existence except as a part, it 
might even be, an after-part, of a great whole, Telemachus being 
only a nebenrpersofiy not a central figure, and always implying 
either the expectation of the presence or the actual presence of a 
greater — ^aU unite to render the "Odyssey" impregnable against 
disruptive assaults, as they conspire to render it the most perfect 
and finished story ever told in verse through all the ages of the 

But is there no per contra ? Is th^ " Odyssey" such a perfect chry- 
solite that no flaw can be found in its structure and proportions i 
None that will avail to affect materially the evidences of unity. 
The chronological difficulty, as to how the reckoning of days in 
the case of the one hero can be made to square with the reckoning 
in the case of the other, is, at first sight, startling (twenty-eight 
days unaccounted for, according to Colonel Mure, in the case of 
Telemachus), but it disappears, or at least diminishes greatiy, on 
second considerations. It does appear that, through oversight, or 
more probably because of the infancy of arithmetical calculation 

* The aboTO is Mr. Gfrote*8 expression regarding the " Odyssey.** Airrox6wvoSf like the 
06\os in the games, expresses) not unhappily, the idea. 

t ^ Odysses admirabilis summa et compages pro prsBclarissimo monnmento ingenii 
Onsei habenda est.** HTolf, Proleg. p. cxviil) In like manner, Mr. Grote, in his chapter 
on the Qreek Drama, declares the ** Odyssey " to be equal to the most symmetrical of 
the plays of Sophocles in architectonic skill 

X Grote, HiBt. ii. p. 221. ** If it had happened that the < Odyssey * bad been presented 
to us alone, ivlthout the * Biad,' I think the dispute respecting Homeric unity wonid 
MOTer hare been raised." 

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(a point on which several illustrations* might be given), the poet 
hasaDowed a discrepancy to creep in, which nine-tenths even of his 
present readers never perceive, and probably none of his auditors 
in his own time ever observed. In point of fact, it is no paradox 
to say that the oversight referred to is, in some respects, a proof 
of the genuineness and antiquity of the "Odyssey," as belonging to 
a time when the lynx eye of science had not begun to suggest 
awkward questions as to numbers, as it certainly would have done 
if the poems had received shape in the colder and more critical 
times of Pericles, when the sophists were abroad, or even in the 
times of Pisistratus, when prose literature was beginning to 
appear. The diaskeuastce^ or ridacteurs^ employed by the latter, 
1/ their functions had extended to the formation of an organic 
mrity, would have been certain to make the numbers right, but 
they would have made much else wrong, for we should have 
looked in vain for the delightful simplicity and fresh redolence of 
nature breathing from every part of this pre-eminently 

"• Speciosa locis moratoque recte fabnla." 

K we turn to the "Iliad," do we find the same unity discernible I 
Not in the same sense as the imity of the " Odyssey," The repeated 
invocations of the muse at different stages suggest, if they do not 
imply, complex origin. Of these there are at least six of a more 
or less formal kind; the ^^Odyssey^^ hiows but one. We also find large 
cantos of the poem easily separable, without leaving a gap in the 
plan, and not provided for, to all appearance, in the proem of the 
poem. Instead of organic unity as in the " Odyssey," we meet in the 
*' Iliad" with juxtaposition. The extensive section, from Book iL 
to the end of Book vii., seems to be not so much a continuation 
as an engrafting on the primaiy stem. The Greeks seem to be 
nowise depressed for want of Achilles, and the Trojans, by 
Antenor's confession (in vii. 350), are inclined to yield. Moreover, 
one of the Greek heroes is represented as so far supplying the 
absence of Achille&i that he performs feat« such as Achilles himself 
cannot boast of performing in the climax of his glory. A special 
supplication to the gods is decreed by the Trojan leaders to ward 
ofiFthe tremendous Diomed, "who has put them in greater terror even 
than Achilles " (II. vi. 99), and Hector expresses doubts whether he 
shall ever again see his home (vi. 367), since the Greeks press him 
sore. It is, to say the least, strange that one who is not the chief hero 
should be thus surrounded with such splendour before the time ; and 
though some explanations have been given — such as the retarda- 
tion theory of Nitzsch, ttat the action is prolonged and the real 

* It is worth noting that the notion of number in the ahstract is familiar only in the 
'' Odyaaey," and in one of the hooks of the '' Uiad *' which we consider to be of the same 
^e sad anthorship. ipiB/iSs, ipiOft^w, ivapiBfuoSj are limited to the "Odyssey" and to 
Book it (B) of the "Iliad." 

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business of the epic delayed, until the patriotism of the poet has 
meted out measures of glory to the various Greek chiefia besides 
Achilles, or the view that it was contrived to vary the episodes of 
the war and to complete the full gallery of war pictures — ^yet there 
is none that fully meets the difficulty how, if it was all the work 
of one poet, the measure of glory riiould have been heaped so 
high for Diomed in the fifth book that he is the vanquisher of 
gods, whereas the crowning exploit of Achilles in the crisis of the 
poem is that he was the vanquisher of a man. The sort of anti- 
cUmax thus produced is at least explained, though it is not justified, 
by the supposition that the books referred to were of after-origin, 
that they are pervaded by a special feeKng toward Ulysses, and 
that the glwy given to Diomed arose from the desire of the poet, 
which he has somewhat largely indulged, to magnify the com- 
panion-in-arms of Ulysses. 

It is not necessary to enlarge further on the proofs, which have 
been well handled by Grote, showing that the original ground- 
plan of the "Iliad" has been in some fonn interfered with and 
enlarged, either by the original poet himself or by another poet- 
proofs that embrace the case of the ninth and tenth books, which 
are also extiinsic to the main action. The latter or **Doloneia," 
though expressly said by the ancient critics to be composed "by 
Homer," was yet confidently pronoimced to have been a s^arate 
composition and an after-addition (see Venetian Scholia, Book 
X 1); and the former book, or the " Embassy," is saved by Colonel 
Mure, chiefly by the excision of three lines of a subsequent book 
(xvi. 84 — 86), which he admits to be inconsistent with the trans- 
actions of Book ix., and he therefore summarily pronounces them 
an interpolation. The embassy of the chiefs and the laboured 
suppKcation to the hero to return, form a most impressive scene, 
but it is somewhat strange that the action and speech of AchiUes for 
ten books after it imply that no offer of satisfeetion has been made. 

The case regarding Books xxiii. and xxiv. is of another kind. 
They form a most natural sequel, and can hardly be said to 
distm-b the original ground-plan, as presented in the Exordium, 
though they develop and expand it. They, nevertheless, lie out- 
side the plan of the Exordium, and they differ in many important 
respects in tone and language from the books immediately pre- 
ceding them, and their special vocabulary will be found to have 
much in conunon with that of the Books ii. — ^vii., ix., x., that is to 
riay, with the books whose structure appears not to belong to the 
primary nucleus of the poem. 

On the whole, therefore, it appears that we may assume the two 
propositions formerly laid down, that the two poems stand to 
each other in a distinct contrast as to unity of plan. Long be- 
fore Wolf appeared, a dim sense of this fact had begun to show 

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itself in the estimates of the " Hiad" given by less lynx-eyed 
critics. Blair, in his Lectures on Rhetoric, gave expression, in a 
mild, vague way, to the peculiarity, if not deficiency, of the " lUad," 
in respect of unity. Accordingly Colonel Mure, notwithstanding 
the bravery of his defence, is constrained to admit that the "Hiad" 
is unlike other epics, inasmuch as there is no great event within 
the poem towards which the whole progression moves,* The fall 
of Troy would np doubt fonn a catastrophe worthy of being the 
subject of an epic poem, but it is an event that lies outside and 
beyond the range of the horizon, however near it may be felt to 
be, when Hector, the bulwark of the city, falls. Hence he has to 
devise a special theory for the " Iliad," which we give as follows 
in his own words : — 

^^In the ^Odyssey' the restoration of Ulysses to his home and royal 
authority, in the 'JBneid' the establishment of the Trojan dominion in 
Latium, in the 'Jerusalem' the reconquest of the Holy Sepulchre, in the 
* Paradise Lost' the fall of our first parents, offer each a distinct historical 
object on which the action is from the first steadily advancing, by how- 
ever tortuous a course. In the ^ Iliad' no such object can be discovered. 
Although the limits of the action are as clearly marked out as in any of 
the above cases, yet its progress cannot be said to have in view, nor does 
its conclusion involve any distinct historical consummation. The fall of 
Troy, the grand catastrophe of the whole train of events celebrated in the 
poem, is extraneous to its own narrative. As little does the reconciliation 
of the chiefs, or the death of Hector, form its definitive scope. The selection, 
therefore, of this particular series of events was owing obviously to its 
moral ratJier than its historical importance ; to the opportunities it afforded 
for portraying the great qualities of one extraordinaiy character, with the 
conception of which the poet's mind was teeming. The genius of tiie 
'Iliad,' consequently, is superior to that by which those other heroic 
poems are animated, in so far as the mind of man, in all the depth and 
variety of its passions and affections, is a more interesting object of 
study than the vicissitudes of human destiny or worldly adventure." — Mure^ 
H.of Gr. Lit.,!, p. 2d3. 

In order to obtain a satisfactory theory of the " Hiad," we have, 
therefore, a strategic movement backward towards high ethical 
ground, or rather the question has been carried up into the 
legion of the invisible; and so (as with Hecatseus, Herod. ii. 23), 
there can be no elenchus — ^no possibility of either proof or disproof. 
Colonel Mure has, however, virtually left the " IKad" without an 
adequate d^ouement, and we are now prepared to understand, when 
it is thus disboned, how all manner of paradoxical theories as to the 
purpose of the "Iliad'* could be put forth with a show of 
probability, such as that of Schubarth's ("Ideen liber Homer," 
Brealau, 1821), that it is not Achilles but Hector that is the hero 
(just as some have thought that Satan, and not Adam, was the 
hero of "Paradise Lost"), and, as a corollary, that Homer was a 

* Jettt Paul ezpraaaed a inah for a twenty-fifth canto of the '< Uiad,'' as far at least as 
to ihs death ol AchUles. A simUar feeling has produced a thirteenth ^neid, and Goethe 
^^ghi there was room and material for another epic hefore the death of AchiUes ; and 
*»«»e his Torso of the " Achmeis." 

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court poet at the court of the descendants of -Sneas, and was 
consequently a Trojan 1 

It is worthy of remark that Aristotle, in his " Poetics," chap, 
viii., when dealing with this point of unity, although he mentions 
the " Iliad," as a matter of form, in the background of his survey, 
yet draws his actual illustrations from the " Odyssey." This he 
evidently considered the model epic, inasmuch as it was concen- 
trated around a single person, and moved onward with full sweep 
of complicated and gathered circumstance to a single great and 
imposing action. In like manner the fine instinct of Horace, 
not less true than the sagacious intellect of Aristotle, when he is 
bestowing on Homer the encomium of Qut nil moKtur inepte^ seeks 
its illustration not from the "Iliad" but from the "Odyssey." 
The compactness and symmetry of the " Odyssey" are, in fact, 
indicated in the title of the poem, no matter whether we consider 
that title as old as the poem itself, or to be of no earUer origin 
than the days of Herodotus, in whose chapters, like the sister name 
of "Hiad" also, it first emerges into view. It marks at all events 
the conscious feeling, in the minds of the Greek race, that here 
there was a poem with a single hero, according to its opening line — 

'* Sing to xno, Muse, the Man ;" 

and that with no appendage of V arms" or any other fulcrum or 
pedestal whatsoever. What is more notable is the circumstance 
that he is not named in his own Exordium, as if he were " the 
man" pre-eminent, not needing to be named. 

On the other hand the " Iliad," as we have it, consists of a 
series of pictures from a certain limited period of the war of Diuni, 
and the unity which it possesses is rather like that of a rich and 
brilliant historical play of Shakspeare, with many centres of 
interest, a Ceesar, a Brutus, and an Antony, or a Henry, a Hotspur, 
a Glendower, as contrasted with the imity of his "Hamlet" or "Kmg 
Lear," where there is but one protagonist. 

The name .'IXtas is, in fact, an indefinite appellation (as it is 
in form simply a collective noun) for what was felt to be a less well- 
defined aggregate, and hence the poem in honour of Achilles has 
to share its lofty honours with the cyclic poem of Lesches, which 
told of the end and fall of Ilium, and was known as the "Little 
Iliad." Eustathius,* it is true, in the opening sentence of his 
elephantine commentary, speaks of the " lUad" in different terms, 

* His prodecessora, the ancient critics, had a more ]a«t perception of the state of the 
case, for we find in the Venetian Scholia (H. A, 1. 1) that it was a question raised and dis- 
cnssed in the schools, why it was that, if the one poem was called an Odysseta^ the other 
was not called an Achilleia, The Knswer commonly given was one flattering to the Greek 
race, that Greece was so rich in heroes with splendid indiyidnality, that no single ono 
could he allowed to fill the canTas, and Achilles was only prirmu inter fmres. It wonM 
thus appear as if the great war poem were premonitory of the fortunes of the Greek race 
itself, where each hranch was to hare its turn of ascendency, hut no enduring p^^- 

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as throughout a trwyM. cvapfiwrrov^ " a well-organized body," which is 
true, but only relatively, and is not true when compared with the 
"Odyssey." Without going so far as to accept Mr. Pale/s com- 
parison (** Iliad," vol. ii, p. xxiv.), that the "Iliad" produces the 
impression of a stained glass window that has had a long history, 
fifled up with materials of different ages, some old, some new, and 
all dovetailed into a kind of unity of design, we are compelled to 
pronounce the "Iliad" a formation, in respect of imity, of a different 
kind from the sister poem. 

From the above considerations it will not seem a startling or 
absurd proposition, that it is worth inquiring regarding those 
cantos of the " Iliad " that are less firmly attached to the original 
framework of the " Wrath of Achilles," whether any link of connec- 
tion can be discerned, attaching them to each other. We have 
therefore singled out those books which bear this extrinsic 
character, and which, by their Greek designations (henceforth used 
for convenience), are the following : — 


Otherwise, Books ii. iii. iv. v. vi. vii. ix. x. xxiii. xxiv. 

The result of our investigation is to show that there is a large 
amount of evidence, of considerable force and variety, to prove 
that there is a close connection subsisting between these books ; 
and fiirther, that they are also nearly related to the *' Odyssey," 
and belong to the same age — ^in all probabiKty, to the same 

Of the remaining fourteen books, which contain the original 
nucleus of the " Achilleid," certain episodes seem, by the linguistic 
as well as other evidence, to belong to the same source. In 
particular may be mentioned, as probable instances, the scene in 
" Olympus," at the end of the first book, where Zeus and Here 
have their altercation appeased by the mirth-making of Hephsestus ; 
the long discourse of Nestor in the eleventh book ; and the 
episode of the " Shield," the scenes of which suggest, in language 
and tone, the stiller life and aiiistic calm of the " Odyssey." 

The books of the " Iliad " enumerated above are those which 
have always attracted attention — ^we may say, excited suspicion — 
as having little direct adherence organically to the main structure. 
They are, in fact, the quany from which the weapons of the 
Wolfians have been mainly drawn; in them the Mantes com- 
nduurce and the juncturce parum callidce ai;e chiefly to be found. 
The reason we believe to be that the author of the " Odyssey " 
has engrafted on the primary stock of an " Achilleid " splendid 
and vigorous saplings of his own ; but the junction is not abso- 
lutely complete : the slitures are still visible. 

In indicating the lines on which the proof of such a proposition 

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must move, we first appeal to certain broad characteiistics of the 
'* Odyssey," and these we venture to say are predicable in mnch 
the same measure and degree of the books of the " lUad*' referred 
to, <md of no other books in Hie " Iliad ;" and these we shall therefore 
speak oi^ provisionally, for the sake of brevity, as the XJlyssean 
portion of " Diad/' These characteristics are — 

1. A large outlook to and acquaintance with the outside 

world, and a considerable famiharity with the shores of the 
Eastern Mediterranean, including Egypt and Phoenicia. 

2. Pathos and humour in large measure — the humour in the 

case of the gods falling occasionally into the burlesque. 

3. High appreciation of conjugal honour and aflfection. 

4. Lofty estimate of inteUigence, and of Ulysses as its highest 


I. The author of the "Odyssey" has obtained a tolerably 
accurate and extensive knowledge of the Eastern Mediterranean. 
Within the Greek domain he knows of Delphi and Delos, as well 
as the older oracle of the Greek race, Dodona. The two former 
are, as it were, only emerging above the horizon, for Delos is 
named only once, and Delphi still bears its primitive name of 
" Pytho." The Dorians are named as an element in the popu- 
lation in connection with Crete. Outside the Greek domain he 
knows of the Solymi, who must be placed near Lycia, in the 
south of the Asiatic foreland j* he makes familiar mention of* 
Phoenicia knd Egypt. The mother city of the former, Sidon, 
the then capital of the latter, Thebes, are both well known. The 
products of the one country, in textile and metallic fabrics, pass 
current, and the " Zeus-descended river " of the other, with " its 
very fair fields" (Od. xiv. 263), is spoken of in a way that 
implies some knowledge, more or less direct, of the peculiar 
agriculture of ancient Egyptian civilization. The Pharos-island 
is vaguely spoken of, with much the same measure of accuracy 
as an orcMnary British ship-captain might use in describing, on the 
impression of a single visit, the entrance to Nagasaki or Tahiti. 
A man of the name of " the Egyptian " (Aiyinrrto?) is a speaker in 
the agora at Ithaca (Od. ii. 15). Further, the author of the 
"Odyssey" has some knowledge of the west and south ; he tells us 
of th6 Sikels in the west, and, although Niebuhr would find a place 
for them in Epirus, the most natural interpretation is that they 
belong to Italy or Sicily. 

He knows also of Libya, which he twice names, and has heard of 

* It is generally assumed by Thiersch and other modem chorizontes, that the anthor of 
the "Odyssey" is not so well acquainted with Asia Minor as the author of the << Uiad." 
The locale of the action in the one poem being Asiatic, while that of tlw other is mainly 
European, is a faot sufficient to account for any difference in this respect, but the singer 
of the third <' Odyssey" (see lines 169—172) is not behind the author of the ** Iliad " in 
familiarity with the Asiatic coast. 

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a deKcions country, which must be placed in its neighbourhood, 
where life is under easy conditions, and men can live on " flowery 
food "" in the land of the Lotus-eaters. Finally, along with his 
knowledge of these oruter lands, he has acquired a vague sense of 
the variety of the human race, of the complexity of human speech, 
and a dii^oflition to criticize or estimate its quality, according cus 
it was pleasing or otherwise. 

Precisely the same- extent and kind of knowledge may be 
predicated of the author or authors of those books of the " Iliad " 
which we have, on other grounds, set apart for examination. 
The mental horizon on every side is at every point (with the 
exception of the Sicilian area, which lies outside the scope of the 
'' Iliad ") in both cases concentric, and measures the same circum- 
ference. Delphi appears only under its ancient name of " Rocky 
Pytho," and it is in Books B and i where it is found, just as often 
as it is mentioned in the " Odyssey." Delos happens not to be men- 
tioned ia the "Iliad," and a certain priority may be given to the 
*'Iliad" on this ground ; but the interval is not capable of measure- 
ment in the face of other considerations. Though the Dorians are 
not named, the name " Dorium " (in B 594) seems .to indicate that 
they had began to make their mark in Greece ; and, if the " Dorian 
imiption " was known to him, he maintains an obstinate silence 
regarding it, just afi does the siager of the '^ Odysaey,'' and aid we 
should expect an Ionian singer would, who would probably 
ignore a chapter in the history of his race for which he had no 
favour.* As to the circumference, point after point revolves and 
comes into view in exactly the same way. The Solymi appear 
in Z. Libya, though not named, is implied in F, where the cranes 
are described as winging their way from the showery lands to the 
''land of the Pygmies,*' which recent researches tend to show can 
be no otber than the heart of Africa.t As for Phoenicia and 
Egypt, tibe former is familiar from the products of Sidonian skill 
in forge and loom, the evidence appearing in the Ulysseaa books 
Z and 4" ; and the latter is known (in Book i, also Ulyssean), as 
possessing the most splendid and brilliant civilization, and stores 
of accumtdated wealth in its then capital of Thebes. 

At this point it is interesting to note, what has been recently 
remarked on by high authority in this Beview, that the references 

* Shakspeare's silence as to the Norman Conquest, as Mr. Gladstone has remarked, is 
in wme respite paralleL A onrsorj reader of his plays wonld h«tlly imagine that 
France, or rathetr a proTiuce of Franoe, had once conquered England. — The supposed 
aUonon to ^e Heraelide conquest in the mouth of Hei%, in A 53, is too vague to found 
upon, aod it is rather oontradieted by Ihe impression oonreyed by the '^ Sceptre " passage 
of B| emeially when the Sceptre of Pelops is elsewhere spoken of (B 186) as <* im* 
peridiame eTer,** which is an awkward compliment, if the poet had fully in his yiew the 
Hecaelida or Dorian ascendency, which obliterated the rule of the Pelopida. 

t The late Italian faiyeller Miani is believed to have found a race of dwarfs in ^e 
heart of Africa, which goes far to yield an historical nucleus for the story of the ** small 
iolnitrf warred on by cranes." 

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to Egypt and Phoenicia ai-e determinable as lying witlun a certain 
chronological area, and mark a period which must be considered 
recent in the history of the one coimtiy, ancient on the scale of 
the history of the other. The " Odyssey" and the cognate books of 
the "IKad" maybe said to be locked chronologically into a period 
antecedent to the ascendency of Tyre in the one country, and 
subsequent to that of Memphis in the other. Thebes has 
obliterated the earher glory of Memphis ; but in Phoenicia, Sidou 
holds the precedence, as it does also in the books of the Pentateuch. 
The hegemony of Sidon, according to Movers (Phoen. Alterth. 
vol. iii. p. 21) extends from B.C. 1600 — 1100 ; and without assuming 
that the Homeric poems can bear so high a date, inasmuch as 
poetical fame and the halo of antiquity might preserve the name 
Sidoman in currency for a considerable period subsequent to 
1100 B.C. (just as the name Median for Persian survived famiharly 
in Greece down to the days of Aristophanes, long after the true 
relations between Modes and Persians had become known to the 
Greek people), yet the absence of all mention of the rival city 
Tyre is in favour of an early date to even the youngest of the 
Homeric poems. 

Along with the mention of Stdonians may be coupled, as indicat- 
ing Oriental influence, that of Cadmeans and Cadmits, The most 
feasible explanation of the name Cadmus that has yet been given 
is that which connects it with the Hebrew Kedem^ " the East;" in 
which case Cadmus would be a Grecized form meaning simply the 
"Easterling," or " man from the East." It is remarkable that these 
Cadmeans and Cadmus should be found coming up solely in the 
" Odyssey " and in those books of the " Iliad " which we consider 
Ulyssean (A 385, E 804, K 288, * 680). 

And here it naturally falls to be remarked that the only passage 
in 'either poem which can with any fairness be interpreted to 
indicate a knowledge of the art of writing, occurs in a section of 
the «* Iliad" where the mention of Cadmeans and Stdonians is more 
than usually rife. In Book Z,. where the Stdonians are mentioned 
for their cunning works (Z 290), and which cannot be separated 
in authorship from Books A and J3 (where Cadmeans appear), 
occurs the much-debated passage concerning the "baleful signs" 
(irrjfwra Xvypa, 1. 168), described as a means of communication be- 
tween persons at a distance. What were these "signs?" On the one 
hand, there is the silence elsewhere as to the art of writing, through- 
out both " Iliad'* and "Odyssey ;" there is the silence also of Hesiod, 
but as the Boeotian poet represents a more primitive, though not 
necessarily a more ancient, condition of things, than the author of 
the " Odyssey," who knows of more advanced appliances than are 
within the knowledge of the Boeotian farmer, such as the manuring 
(Od. xvii. 299) of fields and the use of the mill for grinding com 

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instead of the mortar and pestUf the silence of Hesiod is lees 
significant and important than the reticence, if it is so, of the singer 
or singers of the ** Ihad " and " Odyssey." What renders the 
reticence still more remarkable is the fact that there is no allusion to 
writing, or any cognate memorial, in circumstances that might seem 
to call for it, such as in the erection of pillars or monuments to mark 
the resting-places of the dead. Further, the term afterwards em- 
ployed in the hterary period of the tongue to denote the art of writ- 
ing (ypa<^) is famiUar in this ancient time, but it belongs not to the 
Muse but to Mars, and signifies, in the peaceful "Odyssey" (cf.x 280), 
just as much as in the warlike " Ihad," to scratch or gra^e. This is 
one of Wolfs strongholds from which, in feet, he has never been 
dislodged, and it was from this, as a sallying point, that he 
directed his assaults against the fabric of the poems, which 
therefore, he concluded, must have been not only preserved for a 
long period without the aid of writing, but must have been also — 
a more formidable difficulty — ^memorially composed. Of course, 
we are not permitted to introduce any extraneous considerations, 
such as the familiar ascription of the art of writing to the heroic 
ages by the Attic tragedians, nor even, what has better right to 
count as an argument, the apparently ancient cycUc story of the 
death of Palamedes being commimicated to his friends by 
'* scratchings " on oars which were tossed overboard to drift ashore 
(see Aristoph. Thesmoph. 770). The Wolfians may fairly claim to 
have the question decided on the ground of their own choosing — 
the Homeric poems alone— and, therefore, the view limits itself to 
the passage of the "baleful signs." These "signs" purport to 
have been " scratched on a folded tablet," and are afterwards to 
be shown in order to "get the bearer killed." They are carried 
from a country on one side of the Egean to a country on the 
other ; and after being exhibited in the new country to the person 
to whom they were sent, they produce this eflfect, that though at 
first the bearer was welcomed and feasted, immediately on their ex- 
hibition he is put in the way of " being killed." They were thus 
mtended as a message or sentence of death ; and the conclusion 
seems irresistible that here was a communication made at a 
distance between two parties by what is tantamount to the art of 
writing. The more candid Wolfians give up the point, and say 
the episode to which it belongs is an interpolation of a later date. 
On Wolfian principles, it is difficult to understand what is an 
"uiterpolation," if the whole is a mere congeries; but it is unfortunate 
that this so-called interpolation should be one of the most finished 
portions of the poem. Those Wolfians, however, who perceive 
that, among documents of presumably equal antiquity, they are 
not entitled, on their own principles, to presume upon interpola- 
tions, explain it as some kind of picture-writing, like the Mexican, 

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or as the exhibition of some kind of tessera Itospitalis (one half of 
an aorpayoAos or the like, according to the account of Scholiast in 
Eur. Med. 613), by which, as by a species of freemasonry, a friend 
oonld be introduced and treated accordingly. Neither of these 
suggested analogies will suit the conditions of the case. What is 
wanted is a species of freemason sign that will indicate, not a friend, 
but a foe ; or rather that will suddenly convert one received at first 
as a friend into an object of aversion. There is not only information 
to be conveyed, which is all that either of the abovensuggested 
explanations will cover ; but there is a message to do this or that, 
which neither the picture writing nor the freemason or other con- 
ventional sign -is capable of conveying. The whole description 
of the affair is mysterious,* precisely as we might expect the first 
mention of alphabetic writing to appear to an unlettered people. 
Dr. Hayman has ingeniously suggested, as showing the peculiar 
mysteriousness, that the tablet was conceived to work upon the 
mind of its receiver as a spell, and that the "mgns" were supposed 
to possess some occult talismanic property similar to poison. The 
question further recurs, why is the tablet said to have been folded f 
Is not the reasonable explanation simply this, that it was to 
prevent the bearer from looking irito it, and getting a notion of 
the contents, that is, reading it, and that it was therefore a message 
conveyed by writing^ whether in the early and rudimentary stage 
of hieroglyphics, after the manner of Egypt, or in the more 
advanced form of alphabetical writing, after the fashion of 
Phoenicia ? 

On the whole, therefore, this the natural interpretation,! suits 
all the circumstances of the case, a view that becomes irresistible 
when we take into account the position of the Greek race, accord- 
ing to the evidence of both poems, alongside of the two nations of 
Phoenicia and Egypt. It is easy, and even necessary, to admit, 
from the timid wAy, for instance, in which a single initial letter (a 
Koppa on early Corinthian coins or * on Phocseans) was edged in 
upon the Greek coinage, that the art of writing was practically un- 
known, at all events for common literary purposes, for a consider- 
able period after the Homeric poenis had been composed ; but it i& 
hardly possible to admit that, in the extensive intercourse carried on 
with Phoenicia and Egypt, the inquisitive and penetrating Greeks 
should have caught no glimpse of the alphabetic writing of the one 

* Mr. OUdstone C* JuTOUtoa Mimdi," p. 180), sngRests th^ft the art of writing may htTo 
been an occult possession of a few Phcenician families settled in Greece. The ajBSnities 
of ProBtns, who sends the mysterioas tahkt in the " Uiad,'* seem accordingly to be 
liiastei99* He hm married a princeaa from Lycia, and, if we may rely on the tradltSonal 
though post-Homeric genealogie/i, be is himself connected witb Egypt by his descent 
from DananSf.who is brother of iBgyptns. 

. vt. C^onel Mvtt (|L of Gr. lii. i. p. 512) goea beyond the probaUlitfes o^ the dtte, trben 
his attributes to Homer not only a knowledge of writing, but acquaintance with ^ 
Pbosnician, that is, the Hebrew, tongue ! ' 

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conntiy* or the hieroglyphics of the other.* The mariners who 
brought from Egypt the drug of "Nepenthe'' (Od. iv. 220), who 
handled ropes made of the papyms (Od. xxL 891), and who were 
able to report of the river of Egypt and its " very fitir fields," must 
haVe obtained some notion of the art of writing in viewing the 
monuments on its banks, and may have described: the same with 
a vague sense of wonder, much as some descendant of Hiawatha 
would describe the doings of the electric wire. 

The only o&er points which we advance under this head con- 
cern the poet's attitude to the outer nations and to the Hellenic 
race. We have already said a vague feeling of the complexity of 
human speechpossesses the author of the '^Odyssey," when he speaks 
of mingling hr oXAotfpoovg Mpwrais. His statement as to the variety 
of tongues spoken in Crete (Od. t 175) is paralleled by sfanilar 
statements in the '^ Iliad," but, as . we might expect, the parts are 
Ulyasean (B 804, A 438, K 420). Also, if the author of the 
Trojan catalogue in ** Hiad " B is offended by the quality of the 
speech of the Carians, who are to him PapPapwfuavoi, the author of 
the " Odyssey," is repelled by the Sintians, whom he styles dypio^oi. 
This brings us to the evidence of the latent feeling of nationality. 
Thucydides, it is true, tells us that in Homer's time the line is not 
yet formally drawn between Greeks and Barbarians. There is, 
however, a preparation for it in the appearance of such aggrega- 
tions as naycXXipc9 and Ilavaxcuoi. The former occursin ** lUad" B 530, 
a line to which we shall immediately refer. The latter appears 
about eleven times in ^' Iliad" and *^ Odyssey," and with one doubtful 
exception they are all Ulyssean.t 

Conformably with this view, we may expect a change to be 
pasamg over the name ^^ Hellas," so that it should show symptoms 
of being restricted no longer to its original area — a comer of 
Thessaly — but be seen to be widening its domain. Accordingly, 
most critics, including Bergk, Ebeling, and Gladstone, hold that 
'EXAiis in the '' Odyssey " has obtained this more extended appUca- 
tion, and that it there embraces Northern Greece as far as to the 
Gulf of Corinth. The range of fame is ^oken of as extending 

*The word o^/ia itself is worthy of mentioD in this qaestion. There appears to be as 
7«t no Aryan etymon for it, and neither Bopp nor Cartiiu ineludes it in hfai Qlossarinm; 
It would be strange if it were to tarn out to be itself Oriental, and to hare some affinity 
with the Hebrew Shem (= a name), or, more probably the Egyptian Sem «= « la figure, 
la forme " (Bragsch, *' Orammaire Hieroglyphique," p. 14). The chief diMenlty that I 
feel in accepting this etymon is the very considerable development in secwdary senses, 
which ^muivm has already attained in the Homeric poems. The early intercourse 
between Greece and ^e East must, howeyer, have been greater than is commonly supposed. 
The sojourn of Antimenidas, the brother of AIcsbus, in the valley of the Euphrates, in the 
begianittg of tiie aizth eentivy (about 689 b.c.), as shown by the fine fragment of Alc»us, 
ii an interesting fact in connection with questions that have been raised — ^he being a 
neisbsr ol * mosieal fttBily-*«S' t^ the Greek mosloal Instruments in the Book of 

t Tte oeeumneeB are-^IL B 484; H 78, 159, 801, 827 ; R 1. |T 198 ;] Y 386. Od. 
«M) |86e.[«nd m 83]. That in T belongs to a part of the poem which has beetf 
KsneraDy the subject of dubitation. It happens to be in^ a speech addressed to Ulysses. 

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Koff 'EXXoSa Kai iUitw" hpyfja (OcL a 344, and o 80), equivalent to 
saying " in Northern Greece cuid in the Peloponnesus ; " that is, 
" famous on either side of the gulf," as we say, " on either side of 
the Tweed." Is there anything parallel in the ** Iliad t" There 
is, in Ulyssean parts, viz. IL I (ix.) 447, where ** Hellas *' is spoken 
of as outside the dominions of Peleus, and therefore not con- 
terminous with the primitive " Hellas." Also, in the catalogue in 
B 530) we find as a imiversalising expression, nayeXXi/vas koI *A.xaum, 
for which reason the line was doubted in ancient times. Fasi, how- 
ever, remarks justly that here we have a distribution of people 
parallel to the territorial one, in the " Odyssey," of Koff "EAAkSa kcI 
fiarov 'A/9yo9, and both Fasi and La Roche retain the line unbrack- 
eted, notwithstanding the scruples of the ancient Alexandrians. 

Thus there is a remarkable convergence on various lines of evi- 
dence to show an identity of mental horizon between the author 
of the "Odyssey "and the authorof those booksof the "Iliad" which, 
for shortness, we style Ulyssean. It would be in vain to prove from 
the books of the " Achilleid" any such width of vision for their author. 
We turn to the other points, which we can review only very 

n. The next point for consideration was the presence of the 
allied elements of pathos and humour. If the " Odyssey" is dis- 
tinguished by an infusion of these elements, we may expect the 
cognate books of the " Hiad," if they are cognate, to show a certain 
influence of the same kind. This we find to be actually the case, 
with this di£ference, that the pathos culminates in the Ulyssean part 
of the " lUad," the humour in the " Odyssey " itself. Under the head 
of pathos, we naturally turn to Book Z, to the parting of Hector and 
Andromache, and, as a kindred scene, the supplication of Priam for 
the dead body of his son, in Book O. It is difficult in the face of 
the internal evidence to separate the authorship of these two books. 
One of them, however — ^viz., O, from the linguistic evidence, must 
belong to the same author as the " Odyssey," and therefore, if Book 
O is Ulyssean, Book Z must be so also: In the " Odyssey," it is 
true, there is no pathetic scene on such a scale as in these books, 
but, in its own limited range, the picture of the death-scene of the 
*dog Argus, in its tender tone and its touches of glorious power, 
reveals to the full the master's hand.* 

In dealing with the pathetic element in Book Z, it falls to be 
remarked how in this way, upon what we may call a IJlyssean theory, 
we obtain a clue to the explanation of the somewhat diflScult and 
inconsistent character of Hector. That hero awakens sometimes 

* Colonel More (K. of 6r. Lit. i.p.858) has remarked on the funeral lamentation in Book 
n (1- 723 eeq.) by the three dames of Troy as worthy of being classed with the debate in the 
tent of Achilles for the felicity with which different Toins of oratory are adapted to 
different speakers. Book n would thus come into close connection with Book Z for pfttboit 
and Book 1 for oratorical power. 

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the strongest sympathy, and at other times a feeling of repulsion 
akin to aversion. He is now boastful even to arrogance, and 
again, as conscious that he is fighting under a cloud of doom, 
tender and melancholy. It tends to explain the duality in the 
character of Hector — arrogant, in Book N (1. 823 seq.), pensive, 
even to melancholy, in Book Z— when we discover that the 
tender and faint-hearted Hector belongs to the Ulyssean, the 
boastful and loud-tongued Hector to the Achillean, portion of the 

In like manner, the gentle plaintiveness with which the bloom 
and evanescence of the generations of man are touched, in the same 
Book Z, with no inferior power — a plaintiveness which drew forth 
the admiration of the greatest master of pathos in the ancient 
world, Simonides — ^harmonizes with the tones of the " Odyssey," 
where symptoms appear of the rise of that melancholy view of life 
which culminated afterwards in the doctrine of the ^wo? tfcw, the 
** envy of the gods." The lament over the vanity of human life is 
put appropriately into the mouth of Glaucus, who inherits a touch of 
the melancholy of his ancestor, Bellerophon, the man on whom the 
blight fell, so that he was looked on as ^' hated by all the gods."* 

Tet, alongside of this plaintiveness there also occurs a touch of 
4e never very distant quality of humour, humour and pathos being 
twin aspects of the same emotional faculty. The same poet who puts 
into the mouth of Glaucus the lament over the fading existence 
of man winds up the description of his adventure with an account 
of the bad bargain he made in the exchange of arms, as if with a 
knowing smile of satisfaction that the cunning Greek had got the 
better of the lordly Asiatic. In point of fact, this gleam of quiet 
humour at the close of the episode is one of the features that has 
drawn against it the arrows of certain Wolfians, and, along with 
the arnMora \vypd and the reference to the cultus of Dionysus, 
elsewhere almost unknown to either poem, has caused that exqui- 
ate episode to be pronounced by many an interpolation. It is a 
magnificent bit of painting, however, mainly in honour of Ulysses' 
brother-chief, Diomed, and will be found, on examination, to 
contain in small compass the pathos, somewhat of the humour, 
tnd much of the spirit of adventure distinguishing the epos 
consecrated to Ulysses. 

Under the head of humour proper, the two examples that most 
readily occur to the mind from the Homeric poems are, of course, 
the companion pictures of the scene with Thersites in B of the 
"Iliad," and that with Irus in the eighteenth of the " Odyssey." 

* TbA ooeureiice in the ""OdysMy '* of (jiX^ifiowts (Od. c 118), and iydiretyro (Od. ^ 
tllXvHh reference to the gods in tJieir dispensations, favours the idea that the doctrine 
«f lae ff^Mf fffiir, which appears as early as the story of Bellerophon, was at work 

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Ulysses is the protagonist in both, and, -with 'the exception that 
there is somewhat of a severer tone in the handling of the Thersites* 
scene — as befits the general surroundings where it is placed-— ^the 
same powerful pencil may be detected at work in both pictures. 
Once, in the " Odyssey," the humour overflows into'the burlesque, 
in the case of the scene in the eighth book of the' ^* Amour of 
Ares and Aphrodite." Stronger exception has been taken to this 
scene on ethical grounds than to almost any other in either poem, 
from the freedom with which the gods seem to be treated, and the 
levity that appears to prevaiL It is to be observed, however, that 
it has a certain relevancy to the whole poem, where it appears as 
the obverse side of the picture of conjugal faithfulness, which is a 
main subject of the song. The most important point, hbwev«r, for 
observation is the fact that it is the same two deities figuring 
disreputably here, that are subjected to disgrace from the spear ot 
Diomed in the Ulyssean book ( E ) of the " Iliad." 

Other two portions of the "Iliad" may be mentioned as 
characterized by a strong infusion of humour. The one is the 
scene in Olympus, at the end of the first book, where HephsBstus 
makes mirth as the limping cupbearer. This occurs, no doubt, on 
the borders of a Ulyssean book ; yet, as the first book is one that 
must be pronounced in the main Achillean, we are not entitled to 
claim it as an illustration, although the treatment of the gods 
suggests the fi*ee handling to which they are subjected in the 
eighth book of the " Odyssey." The other is the misadventure 
of Ajax the Less when, in the contest of the foot-race (and Ulysses, 
be it noted, is his fellow-competitor), he stumbles and meets with 
mishap among " cow*dung," and the crowd " laughs merrily o'er 
him." This occurs, significantiy, in a canto which is included 
among the Ulyssean (viz., ^ 777).t 

We have thus shown a considerable amount of congruity in tbe 
allied elements of pathos and humour between the *^ Odyssey" and 
those books of the '^ Iliad " which are external to thd nojaiii structiire 
of the " AchiQeid." The « Achilleid " itself presents no anaflogous 
features ; and we think there is a justification in this respect for 
establishing a difference between the two divisions of the " Iliid." 

in. The third point of reference will not detain us long, and 

* The tradition that Thenites, who was chastisod by Ulysses, was a VhiSTniui of Diomed, 
has no warrant in the Homeric poems. The Scholiast (B L. in Venetian ^holia.on IL 
B 212) says, «' If he had been in fact a kinsmaq of Diomed, Ulysses tvonld not have 
stmck him," a remark that shows his sense of the relation subsisting between U^yBses 
and Diomed. 

t In support of this view it is important to note that the attitude oi ttie crowd in tbit 
case of Ajax is described in the same phrase as in that of Thersitea : h^ abr^ i^ 
y4\affa'w. The phrase TtXor 4wl rm occurs six times in the Homeric poems— in B 270, 
Y 784 and 840, and Od. v 868, 874, and ^ 876, and tbenfore aU Ulyssean. laiaeti tlw 
peculiar vocabulary of " Humour " seems confined to the ** Odyssey " and the UlyasesD 
area, as an examination of TtXetios, y§XoiJimt 9ai(m, and, to a certain extent, ictqfX^^ 
will show. 

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though of minor moment, it is still of value. It concerns an impor- 
tant feature of the " Odyssey/' and one of so great prominence that 
its appearance may be looked for in any cognate poems — ^the appre- 
ciation of conjugal honour and aflFection, The " Odyssey" might be 
styled the romance of wedded love, in markedand emphatic contrast 
to the modem romance of pre-nuptial love. In modem time^ th^ 
"feverish tie** has usurped to itfeelf the whole, or almost the 
whole, arena of imagination, to the exclusion of other emotions 
and affections. It is otherwise with Homer, who has .bent the 
whole force of his genius to portray the constancy and patience, 
the endurance and the triumph of a queenly lady faithful to her 
lord It is no doubt a one-sided picture, inasmuch as the poet, 
who is so careful of the honour of Penelope, is not equally careful 
of the fealty of Ulysses towards her. On this matter we do not 
touch, but fiimply note in passing that modern mpraUty has. no 
right to reproach ancient morality on the score of a looser rule of 
honour for the one sex compared with that exacted of the other* 
It is enough for our purpose to be able to appeal to the " Odyssey " 
as presenting a noble ideal of the female character, and to present 
such an ideal we may presume to have been a ruling motive in 
the mind of its author.* 

Now, we may look in vain in the *^Ihad " for any parallel por- 
trait of female tenderness and devotedness, imless it be in one of 
those cantos which we have found, on other grounds, cognate in 
character to the " Odyssey," and there we are met by the picture 
of Andromache. It is with good reason that Colonel Mure (H. of 
Lit., i. p. 432) dwells on this sinrilariity as an anti-Wolfian argu- 
ment; and he calls attention to the fact that the mild rebuke 
administered to them both, to mind their own. domestic matters, 
and not meddle with the affairs that belong to men^ is couched in 
almost identical temis for both piincesses in both poems. There 
is, therefore, a certain amount of evidence for the affirmation that, 
if the hand of Walter Scott might be traced hj the frequency 
with which he has sketched the group of a father with an only 
daughter. Homer might be known similarly by his double picture 
of the wife and mother with an only son, . Andromache a»d 
Astyanax being a companion pair to Penelope and Tel^ttoachus. 

IV. The fourth point remains, vi;?., the attitude towards Ulysses 
as the impersonation of intelligence, . A full discussion of ji would 
carry us very far : we may, however, briefly indicate the leadic^ 
features which lead us to beHeve that a special vein of admiration 
for Ulysses runs through those books of th^ "IliM " l^rhich we have 
ventured to call Ulyssean, strongly suggestive of die more pro* 

'Mr. GOftdiitone (Jixt: Mnndi, p. 4D6), in one of hit- maaaj Iteppy SUoatntijDtit, irUch 
<rft0B Umiw more light thui the moit Uibonred disaertetiokia^ requu^ that the bkw of 
^^Bglaad OKtftomec re-marriage after a shorter period of absence tfalm that assigned t6 


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notmced admiration that has poured itself forth in that most 
splendid of poems ever consecrated to a single name — the Odyssey. 

In the roll of Ulyssean cantos, we shall proceed backwards, 
because the prominence of Ulysses seems rather to diminish as we 
approach, and to increase as we retire from, the neighbourhood of 
the "Odyssey." In Book O we do not find any homage or reference 
to him, and the proofs whereby that book appears to be Ulyssean, 
though we beliere sufficient, are mainly linguistic. It is as if the 
poet felt that there was no need to decorate one who was so near 
the horizon as the rising sun. Going backward among these 
cantos, we find, however, a change. In ^, the canto of the 
games, Ulysses is represented as entering the fooi-race (that he is 
not in the chariot-race, competing with the grander kings, is in 
accordance with his humble position in the camp, without an 
equipage), and he wins the prize. This may not mean much, but 
when we consider that it is through the special favour of Athene, 
who is the only deity that interposes in these games, and that she 
limits her favour to Ulysses and Diomed, we are disposed to argue 
that this is a forecasting of the scene in the eighth canto of the 
"Odyssey," when Ulysses astonishes the minds of the Phaeakians 
in their games, through the help of the same goddess. 

Passing to Cantos ix. and x., or I and K of the roll, we find 
Ulysses coming into greater prominence.* He is selected to be 
the spokesman of the Greek chiefs in the Embassy to Achilles, 
and is therefore in a position for the time second only to that of 
Achilles — ^the hero of the " Odyssey'* addresses the hero of the 
"Iliad." This position, it may be said, is nowise peculiar: he 
owed it to the reputation he enjoyed in epic tradition as an 
adroit speiaker ; and it does not mean much, though it is in favour of 
our argument ; but it will be difficult to explain, on any other 
theory than that which we are unfolding, the peculiar honour 
bestowed on him in K, or Book x., especially when it is remem- 
bered that thi3 canto was regarded in ancient times as being ex- 
ternal to the nucleus of the poem. The special care with which 
Ulysses is drawn in that book (for we consider Mr. Gladstone 
right in accounting it the true dpurT€ia of Ulysses, that is, the 
canto celebrating his prowess), the mode in which the real direc- 
tion of the night adventure is bestowed on the sharp-eyed Ulysses, 
the manner in which the poet invests him with interest by the 
long history of the casque,t which he dons for the occasion, com- 

* F&fli, in the opening of Book x., takes it m one of the difficulties attaching to the 
position of these cantos (iz. and z.) In the poem, that Ulysses has in them the Haupt' 
roUe, or chief r^/ 

t The aeoonat ef the descent of the « Helmet " (K 260—271) is a characteristic piece 
of minute description, paiaUeled in the Homeric poems only by the descent of the Sceptre 
in ** niad " B, and the bow of Enrytoa in the " Odyssey." The moment chosen for 
the minnte word-painting descriptiTe of these instrumenta, is when Ufysses handles Ihem^ 

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bine to render him the hero of the hour. Moreover, the re- 
maikahle relation in which he stands to Diomed in this book is 
important when we take into account the very different relation 
m which he stands in a neighbouring but not Ulyssean canto 
(viz. 6), a point to which we shall afterwards refer. 

Proceeding now to the mass of continuous cantos which 
e3ctend from Book ii. to vii. inclusive, and which are generally 
confiidered, even by those inclined to the Wolfian view, to be a 
fairly uniform sequence, we inquire what the position of Ulysses 
is in these ; and on the assumption of a unity between them, it 
follows that if the author of any one of these cantos can be 
shown to have intended special homage to Ulysses, the whole 
may be fairly pronounced Ulyssean. Here, again, the prominence 
seems to increase as we ascend toward the earlier cantos. In the 
last of these, or H, there is no special mention, except that he is 
one of the nine worthies that start forth ready to accept Hector^s 
challenge. That he is a marked personage is indicated by the 
mode in which his name is introduced, namely, at the close of the 
Ust, so that he is not, as it were, lumped in with the rest, but, since 
he could not be named first, or take precedence of Agamemnon, 
the next place of note is assigned to him, that his name comes 
last, and is therefore the climax (H 168). That this interpreta- 
tion is the correct one, rather than another which might explain 
Ulysses as coming last on prudential principles, is shown by the 
manner in which he elsewhere resents the imputation of '* coming 
last" (in A 354). The slowness he seems to show in <* Biad" B 
(L 170) is altogether of a different kind, and the circumstances 
there are entirely different, so that no fair argument can be thence 
drawn against our view of the incident in Book H (168). 

In Cantos r, A, £, Z, he appears in a position of prominence second 
only to his companion Diomed, with whom we have found him 
associated so closely in Book K ; and the same association is appa- 
rent in E (cf. L 519 and 669 — 676), where he shares with Diomed 
the special favour of Athene, and slays seven Lycian warriors, 
in lines that seem intended to parallel the similar exploit of Achilles 
over the seven PsBonians (^ 211). This guardianship of Athene, 
which runs through the whole of the ^* Odyssey," is an especial 
accompaniment of Ulysses in several of die Ulyssean books of 
the ''lUad," particularly in B, £, K, and 4^. In A 500 he is represented 
as performing the exploit that turns the fortune of the day, and it 
rouses Apollo's indignation, so that the god addresses reproaches 
to his bi^ed Trojans. That he was a fiivourite hero of the poet 
of these books appears still more clearly from the evidence of the 

iod we em sbnost trace the Mune keen and loTing eye in the deaeriptiou as that wKh 
wUcb OUT searesl compeer to Homer in modem times, Walter Scott, wonld fasten on and 
kindk oTer some piece of ancient armoor that had passed through many a hand and 
^aowB many a field. 

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Eirtirft»Xi7(ri9 inBook A, where he is placed alongside of Menestheus,the 
Athenian leader, and is the mouthpiece of the Athenians, as well as 
of his own insular troot)8, in repljdng to the taunts of Agamemnon. 
The Ionian poet, if we are justified in assuming an Ionian poet as the 
author of this part of the "Hiad " — a point which is clear from many 
considerations — has thus brought Uljsses into close connection with 
the Athenians, the ancestors of the Ionian race, and has made him, 
in fact, the representative and spokesman of the great sea-people of 
the historic time. Contrast the position of the Athenians in this 
book, tmder the wing of Ulysses, with the position which they hold 
in Book one of the Achillean books, where they are mere " food 
for powder," and we discern the difference between the Ionian and 
the Thessalian, or, in other words, the Ulyssean and Achillean 
portions of the " Hiad." It has always been found to be a diffi- 
culty how Athens should have so great apparent prominence in 
the catalogue in B, and why Menestheus, their commander, should 
be praised as a good tactician, and at the head of troops who are 
called ** inspirers of flight," whereas there is not only no exploit 
of any note ascribed to the Athenians, but in more than one place 
they are represented as inferior warriors. Mr. Gladstone has 
stated this difficulty in the following terms : — 

' ^' These lonians were, as it should seem, the ruling class of the Athenians, 
the 'AAtvouuv irpoXcXc7/t6^i, or, it may be, their picked men. The praise 
awarded to Menestheus in the catalogue, even if the passage be genuine, is 
only that of being good, to use a modem phrase, at putting bis men into line. 
(B 554.) The Athenian soldiers, indeed, are declared in II. iv. 828 to be 
valiant, /i.^cniMpc9 iShrfi ; but the character of the commander is worse 
than negative. Though of kingly parentage, he nowhere appears among 

the governing spirits of the army and on the only occasion when 

we find him amid the clash of arms — ^namely, when the brave Lycians are 
threatening the part of the rampart committed to his charge, he shudders 
and looks about him for aid (xii. 831). The inferiority extends to the other 
Athenian chief 8 — Pheidas, Stichios, Bias, and lasos (xiii. 691,fxv. 337, &c.); 
of whom all are undistinguished, and two— Stichios and lasos — are ' food 
for powder,' slain by Hector and ^Eneas respectively. Here, then, there 
seeins to have been bravery without qualities for command ; and all this 
tends to exhibit the Athenians as in a marked degree Pelasgian at this 
epoch, stout but passive, without any of the ardour or the ku(v% of the 
Hellenic character." — Juventus MuncU^ pp. 81, 82. 

' The difficulty ^ however, entirely removed, not by referring it 
io any slippery distinotion between a Hellenic and a Pelasgian 
element^ whiob Mr. Gladstone seems to prefer, but by referring it 
to the iafluenoe of Ionian partiality in the case of the Ionian bard, 
who has embroidered the lay of the "Achilleid" with ornaments in 
honour of his own nationality, not native originally to ihe poem. 
In this point of view the connection of Ulysses with Menestheus 
in Book A comes appropriately to clinch the argument. The 
position of Athene as the patron goddess of Athens is another 

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point which gives Mr. OladBtone trouble, and he is at a loss to 
reconcile this faict with the absence of any special protection to 
an Athenian hero. The passages in which this special relation is 
iadicated between Athene and Athens are, however, Ulyssean — 
viz., D. B 547 — 551, Od. c 81 andX 332, and the first of these is easily 
explained as part of the embroidery which the Ionian poet has 
worked in, upon a texture of an originally different character. 

In regard to the Book r, there are several notable circumstances 
to adduce — (1) that Ulysses is singled out as standing alongside 
of Agamennon in the scene of the Oaths (1. 269) ; (2) that he is 
conjoined with Hector in measuring the lists, as if acting as 
Uetimcmt to the king of men ; and (3) that we have the full- 
drawn portrait of him as the man of eloquence presented to us 
(1. 216 — 224) in the beautiful scene where Helen appears on the 
Trojan wall. Two things are to be noted here : that he is by 
far the most prominent person in this portrait-gallery of the 
Teichoskopy ; for, while Ajax, Idomeneus, and even Agamemnon, 
are dismissed with a few lines, Ulysses is introduced second after 
Agamemnon, and, though expressly said to be smaller in stature 
and king of only a barren rock, he yet fills the field of vision so fully 
that out of seventy lines appropriated to the description of the Greek 
chiefs, the little Ithacan occupies thirty-four, or about half the space. 
The second point is, that in the description of his eloquence 
the palmi is bestowed in so marked a manner that it seems to 
clash with or endanger the pre-eminence in this respect of Achilles 
himself. Here, again, we think we can trace the unconscious 
partiality of the Ionian bard for the insular hero in whom the 
genius of the Ionian race is more or less consciously prefigured. 

K the position of Ulysses is thus notable in Books r and A, it is 
perhaps still more notable in Book B, in which several facts 
of importance combine to place him in a focus of splendour. 
The old Saga had represented him as the last of the chiefs who 
found his way home, and accdrdingly the Nooros, or Return, 
80 much desired, was cared for by him only in the event of its 
being obtained with duty and honour. He is accordingly the 
opponent of any dishonourable Nooros, and in the area of the 
Achillean poem (H 82, &c.), a scene is now found in which he has 
to rebuke Agamenmon for faint-heartedness and for the proposal 
of an inglorious return. What relation this has to the scene in 
Book B, we do not now inquire ; the one scene is, however, pro- 
bably the origin or suggesting cause of the other ; it is at all events 
pretty clear that Ulysses was known as the determined opponent 
<rf a diahonaurable return. It is therefore to him that the 
piime role is assigned of opposing the proposal for such a 
NwoB in B, although that proposal comes from the mouth 
of Agamemnon, and seems, at all events tentatively, to have 

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his sanction. Through the greater part of this book, Ulysses is 
the most prominent person in the camp, and is invested with 
special insignia as the bearer of the "Sceptre," which he receives 
from the hand of Agamemnon, and which is de6cribed with such 
state and splendour of surroundings. 

And wherefore should the task of staying the Ndcrros, and 
repressing the seditious movements in the assembly, be entrusted 
to Ulysses ? Not merely because of his character for eloquence 
and wisdom, or because of the possible reflection from the scene 
in B 82, above referred to, where he opposes the notion of a 
Nocrrw, but because he was pre-eminently the chosen hero who 
has to vindicate the cause of order in his own country on his 
return. In no mouth, therefore, does the Homeric maxim of 
order— ovK &yaB6v TroXvKotpaa^Crj — ^find itself placed with more appro- 
priateness ; and the swift and sharp stroke rebuking the inso- 
lence of Thersites is dealt by the same hand that administers just 
vengeance to the crew of the suitora. If anything were needed to 
^crown the argument as to the eminent position assigned to 
Ulysses, it would be the circumstance that he has the honour 
of being conjoined with Achilles in the hatred of Thersites— 
€xOurroi 8' ^AxtXSji fiaXurr ^f i/S* 'OSvorQl — a line that marks out the 
two heroes as standing apart and alone, yet together^ and the full 
import of it can only be understood if we appreciate the hand of 
the author of the " Odyssey" as at work in this portion of the " Iliad." 
A similar argument might be drawn from the epithet ^ Backer of 
cities," wToXiwop^os, assigned him in this same connection (B 278), 
a title which, among the various heroes present at Troy, he alone 
shares with Achilles. The same epithet recurs in a more advanced 
portion of the "Iliad" — ^viz., K 363, also Ulyssean— «o that these 
two occunences are premonitory of its coming bestowal, as a not 
unfrequent epithet, in the " Odyssey."* 

A fact still more striking yet remains. Without attaching much 
importance f o the premonition of the " Odyssey," where Ulysses 
(B 292) alludes to the hardships of separation from home and 
spouse, or the occasional cropping up of the mainly Ulyssean word 
vooTOf and vccortfai in the passage (155 and 251) — as it does also 
in I and K — ^we cannot but claim importance to the singular 
title by which in this book (B) the hero chooses to designate 
himself, and which is premonitory of the " Odyssey." It is a title 
that marks a pecuhar relation in respect of those home affections 
which the " Odyssey " is intended to celebrate, and on which. the 
whole dhionemtnt of it turns. While other heroes have their 

* A similar fact attaches to the localization of another striking epithet, 0<ios. UlyMes, 
as remarked by Mr. Gladstone, is the only livivg hero that receives it, except Achilles, 
who receives it four times, all Achillean. It is assigned to Ulysses upwards of twenty 
times in the <* Odyssey," and in the " niad ** four times. They are B S85, 1 218, K 243, 
A 806, and are all, including the kst, certainly Ulyssean. 

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titleB drawn from their paternal ancestors, nearer or more remote, 
and while there are some traces in the heroic time of designation 
after a ffto^^ma/ ancestor, such as Ai^rotSi^s in Hesiod, and, in the 
''I]iad,"the problematical case of the MoAtovc, Ulysses chooses as 
the title by which he wotdd be designated an appellation, neither 
patronymic nor matronymic, but, if we may so style it, a 
p«donymic, from his souy viz. (1. 260), *'the father of Tele- 
machus." The same designation is assumed by him in II. A 354, 
one of the minor links binding these two cantos together, and 
bmding both to the framework of the " Odyssey." 

It is singular that the hero who, more than any other, prefigures 
the future character of the Greek race, and especially of the 
Athenian, should thus be represented as the only one not gazing 
backward upon the past, but, as it were, looking down the vista 
of the future ; and we cannot help thinking that, whatever might 
be the poet's view over the distant future, his vision comprehended 
the inunediate future, and already gave note of the important role 
to be played by Telemachus in the coming drama of the 

To attempt further proof would be in all probability only a 
weakening of the case, but there is one consideration that must 
be added which seems to convert the ajgument into a demonstra- 
tion, viz., the position of Ulysses in the books which cannot be 
claimed to be otherwise than mainly Achillean. In the Achillean 
or primary " Hiad,'' the treatment of Ulysses, while generally 
respectful, is by no means noble, and in more than one instance 
it is difficult to reconcile it with the just honour of the hero of the 
"Odyssey." That hero is represented more than once as being 
worsted, and in the eleventh book (1. 404) he is not only wounded, 
as Diomed also is, but he comes before us — ^in an appalling moment, 
no doubt — as having difficulty in screwing his courage up, and he 
lets fall an « fu)t ^y^ n irotfui, which is not rendered with any 
&]se fwance when it is translated, ^* 0, woe is me, what is to become 
of me!" This, in the midst of a battle, has a very awkward 
sound, compared with the same utterance when he is cast 
famishing and naked on the unknown shore (in Od. c 465), where 
the words are both natural and honourable, arid imply no shade or 
dur on his courage. Passing from this, however, whichinay be 
at least a doubtful case, we can come to only one conclusion as to 
the figure Ulysses makes in the eighth boo^ In the thick of the 
battle there has been a portent from Zeus which scares the Greek 
chiefe; and, among other misadventures, old Nestor is in danger, 
his equipage having got entcmgled. Diomed observes and calls out 
to Ulysses by name to come and rescue Nestor. In spite of his 
loud appeals to stop, and not turn his back like a coward, but stay 
to shield the old man's head, Ulysses is represented as "rushing 

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away past," and "pays no heed" to the appeal (viiL 1. 97).* 
Other heroes, such as the Ajaxes, are, it is true, represented as 
giving way also, but they do so without being appealed to by 
Diomed. Nor does Ulysses emerge from his retreat for a long 
period, for he is not mentioned among the heroes who sally forth 
a little later in the same book, to restore the fortune of the day 
(1. 261*6), whereas all the others who are spoken of as haTing 
retreated before are mentioned as returning, except Ulysses. The 
strangest thing remains — strange indeed, if all these cantos are 
from the same author, and " at one projection " — ^namely, that on 
the next occasion when there is anything of dangerous duty 
ahead, viz., in Book x. (or K), this same Diomed has not only no 
recollection of the awkward incident in the case of Ulysses related 
two books before, but without any apology on the part of Ulysses for 
his behaviour, or any explanation on the part of the poet, bestowB 
unnecessarily lavish praise on him as the most trusty of comrades 
(K 240-7), and selects him as his companion-in-arms out of the 
whole company of the chiefs. The whole matter becomes plain, and 
order is at once restored into these complicated relations, when we 
remember that while Book K is decidedly Ulyssean, the part of 
Book viii. ( ) describing the quser conduct of Ulysses, belongs 
to the " Achilleid," which, in his i:ecasting of the^ poem, the 
Ulyssean singer has left untouched. 

Such is a prima facie view of the case in favour of a Ulyssean 
origin to nearly one-half of the "Diad," leaving an **Achilleid" 
over, whose origin is more remote, and therefore more obscure. 
This pala30zoio portion can still be determined with tolerable 
accuracy, though occasionally at the points of jimction the lines 
of demarcation may be difficult to determine. The evidence 
adducible in favour of this conclusion from the mythology, ethical 
views, and especially from the linguistic features which still 
survive after all the processes that have passed over the original 
lay of the ** Wrath of Achilles," is very remarkable, but our limits, 
and the nature of this paper, forbid entrance on this part of the 
subject, or any allusion to possible objections and difficulties, none 
of which, however, will be found very formidable in the face of 
the large mass of cotrntervailing evidence. 

One thing remains. An objection will occur in limine^ that our 
theory involves a hyatenon proteron in dealing with the Homeric 

* "Das ist kein mhmvoUdt Moment,* says Nutzhom, (p. 211), in dealing with this 
incident, and he addi that the words voX^Xoi Vios 'OSvo-d-c^s, of U. viii 97, flound in 
this connection almost like a parody — a remarkable admission from a defender of the 
nnity. Making all allowanoe for <* the fears of the brave, and the follies of the wise," it 
is difficult to reconcile the Ulysses of the eighth *< Iliad'' with the Ulysses of the 
"Odyssey,** impossible to reconcile him with the Ulysses of the tenth "Hiad." We 
accept, of course, Aristarehns's interpretation of odS* do'dnov^^, vis., *^ gave no heed,** in 
preference to the untenable one, which seeks to save his honour, that, perhaps owing to 
the throng, " he did not hear^ 

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poems, inafimnch as it gives the critical precedence to what is 
Hflsamed ta be the secondary' and inferior poem. A few remarks 
are therefore due regarding the relative importance and eignifi^ 
cance of the two poems, with a view to putting the matter in a 
light more accordant with the facts than the common opinion 
impfies. I am aware that Mr. Gladstone has expressed himself in 
fiivoar of the '^ Biad" as the poem of vaster scope and profounder 
genius ; but there are not a few considerations that move me to 
call for a different verdict, if aisent to that proposition involves a 
belief that the ^^Hiad" is the greater poem. It may be freely 
admitted that the "' Biad" has unrivalled pasMges, and the theory 
propounded in this paper supplies a clue to understand the 
genesis of many of the most notable of them; yet it remains true 
that the " Odyssey" is the greater poem^ as being (1.) the more 
finiahed work of art, and (2.) the poem of the Greek race^jEMir exalr 
lence, in its bebt and most typical characteristics. If we inquire what 
it is that distinguishes Greece in the annals of the world, the reply 
will embrace two things — ^that she is the mother of that inquiring 
intelligence which has given the world Science ; and that she is, 
further, the foimtain of Art. Looked at from this point of vie w across 
the ages of history, which of the two poems possesses most signifi- 
cance? We can hardly doubt that the verdict would be in 
favour of the " Odyssey," whose hero is the incarnation of that 
spirit of eager inquiry that Greece awakened on the earth, and 
which in its structure — so sharp and clear of outline, and yet so 
broad and grand — ^is itself a prefiguration of that art whose glory 
was bestowed on the people of Greece. For, however great may 
be the character of Achilles — ^and we cannot be blind to the glory 
with which he is invested as gaining the victory, not only over 
foes and friends, over Greeks and Trojans, but finally over himself 
and his own impetuous passion — ^it yet remains true that Achilles 
is not the representative of the Greek race; Achilles is not 
ToXvTfKwros as was the Greek people, along with their typical hero 
Ulysses ; and to accept him in that character would involve our 
looking to Sparta instead of Athens as the glory of Greece, and 
installing Alexander over Pericles in the temple of Greek fame. 
That would be an entire inversion of the justice of the case, and 
would involve a hysteran proteron from which the historical con- 
science must recoil.* 

* Fkto touched on this point in the Symposinm, obsexring that, with aU his 
teeompliBhments, AchiUes was not woK^powos. The most brilliant of these, his lore of 
rnnnc and his eloqnenoe, it may be remarked, depends on one of the Ulyssean cantos 
(I or the ninth); and, indeed, the softening touches in his portraiture are mainly 
tlywean. Ulysses, again, is pre-eminently iroXvrpoiros, and a curious enumera- 
tioa of his accomplishments (to the number of sixteen), is found in the Venetian 
Scholia on U. yiii 98. The enumeration is almost as interesthig in what it omits as 
ni what it inserts. There is no reference to wjuettrian powers, . To enter on this, how- 
•▼sr, touches on a pofait that goes deep into the structure and mutual relations of the 
** Adalhsid " and the " Odyssey. " 

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Other, and not less powerful, considerations might be adduced 
in the same direction, as to the ethical import contained in, and 
the immense influence flowing from, the " Odyssey,'' but space 
forbids the inquiry at present. 

Our theory, therefore, is that the only Homer we know, or, 
indeed, can know, is the author of the " Odyssey;" that, although 
his personality is, by the nature of his poetry, more veiled from ta 
than that of Hesiod, yet, as no one doubts the personal existence 
of Hesiod, or disbelieves that we have in the " Works and Days" 
genuine utterances of an actual historic man, so we have in the 
solitary imjol of 5f8po /uk>( &vc3rc in the " Odyssey " a trustworthy 
trace of Homer as a single great personality.* 

Our oldest and best authority as to the Homeric poems unites 
together the names of Ulysses and Homer in a way that shows 
that hey unlike the chorizontes of ancient or of modem times, 
believed the " Odyssey" to have a special right to be considered 
the work of Homer : — 

^/u) Si wkiov IXtrofuu 
Xoycv 'OSuoo*^ ^ irotfcv &a tot aSv€inj yo^Mt ^O/xi^poy, 
circl ^cuSco-i 01 iroravf tc iJ^rf^vq. 
a'€fjLv6v €jr€crrC Ti.-^ 'Pindar^ Nem. vii. 21. 

^^ For my part, I deem Ulysses' fame exceeds his toils, all because of the 
sweet-voiced Homer, for in his fictions and aery chariot of song there 
dwells a majestic spell." 

William D. Geddes. 

* It IB somewhat cnrions to find that the traditional traces of the personalia of Homer, 
supposed to be imbedded in his poetry, such as the links of connection i?ith Phemm, 
TvckiuA, Mentor, &c., fall within the area of the '* Odyesev " or the Ulysaean part of the 
*' Uiad.'' The Pierian or Thessalian poet, to whom is dne m idl probability the lay of the 
*' Wrath,*' retires further back into inyisibility, for he giyea in the ezordiinn of bis 
poem not even a /m»« to fasten on. 

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COOPERATION is one of the troubles of the time. It 
cannot be said to be a disturbing influence, since it seeks 
unity, and has always been pacific ; but society has been disturbed 
concerning it for fifty years. The first revolt of the grocers 
against it took place before the days of the first Reform Bill. 
At present it is a greater trouble than ever to tradesmen. Poli- 
ticians are perturbed about it. When Mr. BaKol Brett, now Mr. 
Justice Brett, went down to Rochdale to wrest Mr. Cobden's seat 
from him, his great charge against Mr. Cobden was that he was 
&iendly to Co-operators. At the last election, candidates were 
very rfiy of showing any sympathy with these views. To two 
candidates, who had held seats in the previous Parliament, the 
knowledge that they had stood up for fair play for Co-operation 
proved fatal to their claims. Co-operation has been the perplexity 
of two Governments. Chancellors of the Exchequer have a terror of 
deputations praying to have it put down. The last Government 
carefully abstained from saying anything in its favour, and this 
Government carefully abstaihs from doing anything against it. 
The general opinion is that Co-operation is absurd and impossible ; 
and if not impossible, impracticable. Nevertheless it exists, and 
it becomes a question of some interest — ^how did this Co-operative 
trouble begin I It can do no harm, and may be information to 
many persons, to explain it. The originator of that Co-operation 
which attracts so large a idiare of perturbed attention, and which 

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already requireB a History to be written of it, was undoubtedly 
one Robert Owen, who was bom so far back as in 1771, a year 
before Fourier. Nature waei in one of her adventorotis moods at 
that period. In the four years from 1769 to 1772 there appeared 
Napoleon, Wellington, Goethe, Owen, and Fourier — all historic 
men in their separate lines ; bane and antidote, war and art, world- 
destroyers and world-makers, Robert Owen, who was bom in 
Newtown, Montgomeryshire, was afterwards known as Owen of 
New Lanark. It is not alluring to tell the reader this, as many 
will consider that he is not a proper kind of person to be brought 
forward in legitimate history, and that it was a want of taste in 
him to intrude improvements upon the world which would necessi- 
tate his being accorded some kind of acknowledgment. But 
history is an unceremonious and brutal thing. Its natural food is 
facts, and when it gets them it has no choice, no scruples, and no 
remorse. The truth is that, in Mr. Owen's days, " proper persons " 
had no faculty of improvement in them of the kind the world 
most wanted, and therefore an astute Welshman took it into his 
benevolent and fertile head to do what he could. And thus it 
came about that Co-operation was really a Welsh invention. In 
no literature before the active days of this social devisor does any 
trace of this new industrial shibboleth appear. 

In these happy and latitudinarian times, anybody may im- 
prove society who can, and society is very glad when anybody 
gives signs of the capacity of doing it. His services are ac- 
cepted, and no questions are asked. But in Co-operative times 
no one was allowed to attempt any good, unless he commanded 
prelatical concurrence. The "pastors and mastere'' of the 
period held then the exclusive patent for improving the people, 
and though they made poor use of it, they took good care that 
nobody infringed it. Improvement, hke the sale of com, was a 
monopoly then; but we have free trade even in humaniiy now — 
though the business done is not very great yet, 

Mr. Owen was an unusual man. ffis career has been fotmd one 
of instmction and interest to many who had no thought of 
imitating it. By patience, industry, sagacity, and kindness, he 
raised himself to eminence and opulence. His life illustrates 
how much knowledge a man of observatioii may acquire without 
books. He attained distinction by two things — the observance of 
trath in conduct and erf experience in practice. He was known 
from the first as a man of veracity and reflection. From being a 
draper^s assistant, he became a manager of cotton mills at 
Manchester. He afterwards entered into the employ of Mr. 
David Dale, a cotton spinner of Glasgow, who had mills at New 
Lanark. In due course, after the manner of other clever heroes 
of romance and real • life, he married his master^s daughter, 

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became a partner in the business, and ultimately owner of it in 
conjunction with others. Previously, Mr, Owen had a large 
population of the working class under his direction in Manchester 
from 1791 to 1799, and a still larger number for many years 
afterwards at New Lanark, where, in 1810, he planned an institu- 
tion unheard of before his time, but at which statesmen and 
prelates are hammering now, an ^^ Institution for th^ Fonnation of 
Character.'' He built in it commodious school-rooms (one of 
them 90 feet by 40) for the separate instruction of persons from 
the time when as infants they were able to walk alone until they 
were intelligent. What School Board now, half-aH^entury later, 
with a town rate to aid it, would venture upon such spacious 
provision for Kttle children ? These proceedings being too far in 
advance for his money-wishing partners, they differed with Mr. 
Owen about it, and the building was suspended when the walls 
were half up. In 1814, he separated from these school-fearing col- 
leagues, and made arrangements for new partners, and purchased 
the whole establishment. Assent to his measures for the im- 
provement of the population, and the finishing of the institution, 
were the conditions on which he accepted his new aUies into 
partneiship. The new institution was completed, fitted up, and 
furnished in the yeaw 1815. On the first day of the following 
year, namely on January 1, 1816, the "Institution" was formally 
opened, amidst an assemblage of all the adult villagers with 
their children, exceeding two thousand in number. There were 
pTesent also the principal nobiHty and gentry in the neighbour- 
hood, with some of the clergy of various denominations. The 
pafents present were astonished at being called upon to send their 
children to school the very next day. This was the first infant 
school ever established- Lord Brougham (then Henry Brougham) 
visited it twice. It was by Mr. Owen's aid in supplying to them 
teachers that Mr. Brougham, Mr. James Mill, and others, were abte 
to open the first infant school set up in England in Brewer s 
Green, Westminster. The first little scholars met there in Feb- 
ruaiy, 1819. 

It was in these kindly and skilfully devised and long-continued 
C!a-operative arrangements, for uniting intelligence with industry, 
and iadustry with workingK^lass competence, that Co-operation, as 
a practical scheme, was first generated. Of course, it was not at 
the outset a very definite contrivance, nor was it self-acting, as 
it subsequently became. It was at first an administration by the 
thoughtful manufacturer who -planned it. It was partly a bene- 
volent, but mainly a well-considered economic device. The 
originator wanted to see in his work-people more skill, better 
conduct, and improved condition. To attain these ends, he knew 
there must be diffused among them intelligence, and the cost of 

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impai-ting this intelligence ho believed would bo refunded by 
commercial results. He acted on the principle that intelligence 
would prove a good investment. It did prove so, and thus it 
came to pass that education of members has always been deemed a 
part of the Co-operative scheme, among those who understood it. 

Though Mr. Owen earned an honourable name for benevolence, 
he was not a man who played at philanthropy. The working 
people among whom he found himself were in ignorance — 
(viciousness begot of distrust, precariousness, and discomfort) — a 
sorry set. Their great employer's object was to show them how 
much could be done by mutual arrangement to improve their 
condition and prospects. If, like all ignorant persons, they did 
not care for knowledge for themselves, they would see it was 
good for their children, and would care for it for them; and Mr. 
Owen provided it ; and the atti-actions of the school-room in the 
appliances for teaching, and in the extent and quality of what 
was taught, have not been exceeded by the provisions made for 
popular education in the most generous State in America, and have 
never yet entered into the imagination of any English minister to 
offer, or of any work-people to ask in Great Britain. The weavers 
and their wives at New Lanark, who witnessed this more than 
princely concern for their children's welfare, know that he who 
showed it meant them well, as was manifest also in a thousand 
acts of thonghtfulness and respectful treatment towards them, 
the like of wluch had never been seen before — ^nor since in any 
manufacturer's establishment. Had Mr. Owen lived in happier 
and more appreciative days, such as our own, he would have been 
offered a baronetcy. However, grateful work-people offered him 
what he was prouder of — ^their confidence and co-operation, and 
their will and their skill were new elements of profit in the concern. 
Their goodwill, bom of their regai-d for their employer, and their 
skill and honesty in their work, arising from increased intelligence 
and pride, meant money. These were new elements of gain to 
the company, and thus labour and capital worked together as it 
had never worked before ; and thus the foundations of Co-opera- 
tion were laid by Mr. Owen and his associated capitalists sharing 
with the labourers and their families an equitable portion of the 
common gain, of which the portion falling to their employers 
was made gi*eater, and greater than it otherwise could have been, 
by their confidence and co-operation. 

These facts were detailed by Mr. Owen in his letter to the Timen 
newspaper, in 1834. In the same letter, addressing his early 
friend, who had then become Lord Chancellor Brougham, he 
said: — 

" It is, I believe, known to your loidship, that in every point of view no 
experiment was ever so successful as the one I conducted at New Lanark, 

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ulthoogh it was commenoed and continaed in opposition to all the oldest 
and strongest prejudices of mankind. For twenty-nine years we did with-^ 
oat tlie necessity for magistrates or lawyers, without a single legal punish- 
ment, withoat any known poor's rate, without intemperance or religious 
tfiimosities. We reduced the hours of labour, well educated all the chil- 
dren from infancy, greatly improved the condition of the adults, diminished 
their daily hours of labour, paid interest of capital, and cleared upwards 
of £300,000 of profit." 

Lord Brougham, in reply, stated in the Times what he naany 
years afterwards repeated in the House of Lords — ^that Mr. Owen 
was the originator of infant schools in England. Lord Brougham 
said: — 

"I have not the least hesitation in stating that the infant school 
system never would, in all probability, have been established but for Mr. 
Owen's Lanark schools. I most distinctly recollect Mr. Mill (the father 
of John Stuart MBll), Sir C, Grey (afterwards Chief Justice of Calcutta), 
and myself, discussing for some weeks what name we should give these 
new schools, and . . . after rejecting various names, we fixed upon that of 
infant schools. The thing, as well as the name, was equally unknown tUl 
then in England." 

Mr. Owen added» in a further letter to the same journal, that in 
1799 he purchased the New Lanark Mills for £60,000, and entered 
upon the premises on the 15th of August of that year; that he 
published a very full and detailed account of the new institution, 
which included the infant schools, in the third Essay on the For- 
mation of Oharacter ; and that a mntual friend of his and Lord 
Brougham's corrected fhe press for him. It was equally candid 
of Mr. Owen to make this acknowledgment of the assistance of 
Mr. Mill. The reader is conscious of a vigour and directness of 
statement in those Essays never attained in any other work of 
Mr. Owen's. 

Oo^peratioB, in its earlier and inchoate forms, |;raversed a wide 
area, and conmianded respectable countenance. Its fertile and 
energetic founder caused it to be tried in various forms. It was 
at his mstigation that Fellenberg commenced an infant school at 
Hofwyl, which subsequently, uniting industry with education, 
became celebrated. Mr. Owen had the sagacily to make, and the 
influ^ce to get carried out,' nun^erOus schemes of social and co- 
operative reform. The self-supporting pauper colonies of Hol- 
land were owing to /his suggestion. - He originated the short-time 
agitation, on behalf of children in factories ; he assisted Fulton 
with money to try his inventions in steam navigation. He pur- 
chased the first bale of Sea' Island cotton imported into England, 
foreseeing atbnce the future importance to the spinning trade of 
Gnglaud of encouraging the foreign supply of raw material. 
The great " Utopian " (as persons call him who, following the 
bent of their own faculties, beheve nothing which is not common- 
place) was* a practical man, and knew how to make money as 


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well as to agitate great projects. His son has related instances 
of the splendid recognition accorded to him in his day. 

He had. Dale Owen states, "been received reerpectfully, and 
sometimes with distinction, bj those highest in position ;. by Lord» 
Liverpool, Sidmouth, Castlereagh, and by Mr. Canning ; by the 
Koyal Dukes of York, Cumberland, Sussex, Cambridge, and 
especially by the Duke of Kent, her Majesty's fieither ; by the 
Archbishop of Canterbury (Sutton), and by the Bishops of 
London, St. David's, Durham, Peterborough, and Norwich;, 
besides Bentham, his partner, he was more or less intimate with 
Godwin, Bicardo, Malthus, Bowring, Francis Place, Joseph 
Hume, James Mill, O'Connell; with Boscoe, Clarkson, Cobbett, Sir 
Francis Burdett, the Edgeworths, the statistician Colquhoun, 
Wilberforce, Maoaulay (father of the historian), and Nathan 
Rothschild (the founder of the house). He had received as 
guests, at his own house at Braxfield, Princes John and Majdr 
milian of Russia, ihe Duke of Holstein Oldenburg, Baron Goldsmid, 
Baron Just, the Saxon ambassador, Cuvier, Brougham, Sir James 
Mackbtosh, and Lord Stowell (father-in-law to Lord Sidnaouth). 
When he visited Paiis, he took letters from the Duke of Kent to 
the Duke of Orleans (Louis PhilHppe), and from the French ambas- 
sador to the French minister ; and he was invited to the Visitor^s 
Qiair by the French Academy. Li Europe, he made the ac- 
quaintance of La Place, Humboldt, La Bochefoucault, Camille 
Jourdain, Pastor Oberlin, Pestalozzi, Madame de Stael, and many 
other eminent persons.''* 

All these illustrious intimacies show that Robert Owen carried 
Co-operation into good company, and that in a far more radical 
and ambitious form than this generation knows. It was known 
and considered by persons of great influence in Europe, for the 
knowledge or discussion of this subject was the sole reason why 
they sought Mr. Owen, or he sought them. 

The gains and economies of the Lanark Mills had taught them 
that the working class could, if they had sense to unite in it, 
make something by shop-keeping. His practical schemes of 
life were always recommended on the ground of their saving 
arrangements. One oven, he pointed out, might suffice to bake 
for one hundred famiEes with little more cost and trouble of 
attendance than a single -household cook, and set free a hundred 
fires and a hundred domestic cooks. One commodious wash* 
house and laundry would save one hundred disagreeable, scream- 
ing, steaming, toiling washing-days in common houses. It was 
not far to go, to infer that one good, well-stocked shop would, 
properly served, supply the wants of one hundred families, and 

* Robert Dfde Owen, AtlatUic Monthly, Juhe, 1878, pp. 78\ 786. 

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supersede twenty smaller shops, and save to the customers all the 
cost of the twen^ shopmen and twenty shop . rents and rates, in 
addition to the economy in prices and advantage in quality of 
bnjing wholesale in a way small shops could not compass. 

When the grandeur of Mr. Owen's plans for the reconstruction 
of socieiy first dazzled the imaginations of men who suffered and 
men who thought, hope begat belief that the day of great change 
was nigh. Many middle-class men and gentlemen, as well as f^e 
poor, had a sense that society was a mass of confusion and cruelty as 
far as competition went, and were excited at the new scheme of lif i^ 
Princes, prelates^ even monarchs, had lent heeding ears to the 
inspired Welshman's story of what might be done for the formar- 
tion of the character of mankind if those who wielded national 
influences would use them to this end. The novelty of the droffmai 
is over now. Science has taught men that the improvement of 
mankind is an affair of a million influences and unknown time. 
None now, save the survivors of that period, can tell the fascina- 
tion of that vision of improvement, in which progress was con- 
sidered to be reduced to a simple problem of State mechanism, of 
which all the conditions had been discovered. 

This tireless Newtown Utopian instituted a magnificent publi9ity 
of his Co-operative projects. He made speeches, held meetings^ 
published pamphlets and books, bought innumerable copies of all 
newspapers and periodicals which gave any account of his pro- 
ceedkigs, and distributed them broadcast over the world.* The 
veiy day on which he opened his celebrated schools at New 
Lanark for the formation of character, he despatched to Lord 
Sidmouth the manuscript copy he had made of aU he said ; so 
that the Government might have the earliest and most authentic 
knowledge of what was going forward. Where a great Co- 
operative Society now spends shillings in diffusing a knowledge of 
its principles, Mr. Owen spent thousands and thousands of pounds. 
It was this wise, costly, and generous publicity that led the public 
to attach value to the new social ideas. Mr. Owen may be said to 
have impressed mankind with them; for he travelled aU over 
Europe, and made repeated visits to America, to personally spread 
the information of the new system of society which he con- 
templated establishing. Simultaneously with his efforts in Europe, 
he spent a fortune in America, in endeavours to found conununities 
there. But up to 1820, no periodical was started to advocate those 

To the comprehensive plan of recopstructing society many 
naturally objected, as involving a great interruption to business. 
But the ardent remodeUer of all things thought very little of the 

* He pftid the fnU price for aU newspi^n he bought, and the price was considerable 
then ; and he posted copies to every clergyman in the kingdom. 


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difficulty. Things were bo bad that few. eaw au^ hope of ameud- 
iag thenh The co^clusioji of j3piO)S|t yho thougjhVupoA the subject 
was that of the. link boy who, wlieq. Pori^, ^tumbling,, cried oui 
" God mend me," answered, " I think, sir, Grpd,^^, bpttey make a 
jaew one." Political refonnerB of1\ ^peated tin? ireply, and said it 
iwas better to make the, stumbling world ^ver again, if it coul(J 
possibly be done, Mr, Owen had made uphi^ p^d to it, and m 
the Eccf^omist of that day, th^ first of th« napae, which contains 
the most, animated writing widqh, .ey^r Qam;e,|rQm his p.en, he tlins 
aimouAQed the resolution to ,win9h he,l3i^ad, ooxne.;T- • 

. ^TAoBgli far fraxrentertainml^ a -^eiy eocahed • cpinloii of my own 
powers, yet, from the mere conviction t^at tba dpty ought to het performed 
by some one, however hmnble> I- h%ye: had the boldness to take upon my 
shoulders^ burden of examining Jheivfiole affairs and circumstances of man- 
kind. The ponderous load is grater than 1 could sustam, bnt that I feel 
a> strength beyond my own, wjuofa Aall enletble ine to biaac it iixnitobsoiiri^ 
i^tp jthe fi;U light of day, where, the. effulgent bLa^.of..ti7itti,.^arted from 
millions of ^uick and inquiring , eyes, shdl '^aUy |)eQetrate and pervade 
every portion of the mass. I summon to my aid' all the friends to 
-humanity. Wotid that I pos^sii^ the pOWei^ to ^ctii around me on the 
jbsjtoit the choicest spbats of tb^.eai^h.aii^tlit^iaiprrtii^t wiA a m^ipo 
touch I could at once dissolve the delusicms of erppr and o^Fpr^dioe, 
and^ awing to obedience the genii, of the lamp and the ripg, transport 
maiddnd, lU a moment, into that' n^ World 6f delights which is opening 
apon my enraptured sight. c.. . ' '•. 

.>\But I must be oop^nt to tQil^^y wa^1|iro\ig}^ t)farintii^acies of a 
laixirious, though pleasurable wpr^b;^ the, ordinary, etertipn of human 
Ta^ulties. My lamp serves but w) reininfl me^ of that fee1)le ray of reason 
and of knowledge which has phjj^ed %potl my rnthd. My being is the 
iraiToW, dadsUng circle which bomidij uidjconfiiies.mji^/pomr^ Yet, if 
ibat feeble ra^y be a ray of tmtb^it^sJbiaU^go, fort)i.}qcre(^[^ing:in etemai 
splendour. If this little circle l?e drawn from^ the immovaple centre of 
justice and of wisdom, it shall be extended, until it enconipass'the whole 
«e(rth. If my feeble voice be at fir^ > scarcely tecM <^4 the^ noisy con* 
teutima of the world, yet^ if it be'Joined l^ tbefuU clvmui pf this sons of 
truth, swelling into tiie clarion shouts cd countless multitu^ef^^ and caught 
with joyous acdaim from nation to nation, the harmonizing strain shall 
resound through the globe. ,' * . . 

^^Bot I am bdulging in anticipation pf - ioy,.befor0 the battle is won. 
,Th^ song of triumph must be reserved for p^ houi' pf yiqbOi^. The lyre 
must be relinquished for Ithuriel's speac We lay down the pencil for the 
pickaxe and the spade. The region of fancy, with all its gay and ^litter- 
ing fascmations, must be abandoned for the- sombre j^loom of^ the cloistered 
grave. We descend into the cavemed mysteries of '.nature for the inesti* 
maUegemsof which we are in sewx^h. We have joot to run the career of 
genius, but to dig the quarries of knowledge knd of exj)erience. The 
fervour of imagination must yield to the rigour of phfloso'phic research ; 
and the flashy coruscations of wit must be extinguished, till, in the dark- 
ness which surrounds us, we steadily discern the first dawn of the mild and 
sober light of reason and of truth. , 

"We must strip, then, for our work. We go down into our mines, 
where, if my readers wiH accompany me, and will assist to penetrate the 
strata which have hitherto concealed our treasures, and to^remo^ethe 
rubbish^the accumulations of ages — ^in the unskilful excavations of 
former workmen, we shall find the bright reward of our fondest hopes." 

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The enchanted philosopher came in the end, as a phflosopher 
fihoxJd, to the dreary reaUties of the "vraj which leads to a new 
order of pi-ogreas. But common people caught the enchantment 
and not the insight of the great dreamer. 

Was it possible that men poor and ardent could decide upon a 
policy as m«i may who are at once opulent and cool 1 A new 
world of hope and effort was opening to many eyes which hitherto 
had found no outlook beyond the poor-house. Yet those who were 
able to think found that each must come to some conclusion as to 
what he would attempt. No Englishman can go on dreaming all 
his days. The new social innovator felt that he must do some-* 
thing. The British public, in business, believe only according to 
results ; and the social propagandist soon felt that he must clear 
his mind of confusion, and get some definite idea of the course 
before him. Should he clear the world, or take it as it is ? Should 
he create new conditions for mankind, or accept what he finds, 
and work from them to the higher thing he aims at? Many men 
had never thought at aU in a systematic manner on any subject, 
and were prepared to put their trust in anything new, because 
they were well-nigh sick of the world as it was. Others were dis* 
contented with all things — ^were never to be reconciled either to 
the old or the new, and would die in a state of protest. Those 
who had resolved on action had an alarming leader to follow. Mr. 
Owen, Kke his French prototypes, was a world-clearer, though his 
methods were milder. He would make a clean sweep of all exist* 
ing institutions. There was a prospect^ indeed, of full emplojrment 
for disciples of this thorough^going school ; and a Broom party of 
ReformeiB was actually formed, who undertook to sweep Error up 
and cart it away ; and an enterprising and disastrous party they 
proved to be, standing for a generation in the way of all those not 
less resolute, but more practical, men who intended to build where 
they could, and with the scant and poor materials which alone 
were at hand. The day at length came when the most ardent 
paused. The world admired, but did not subscribe ; and it was 
left to cheque-less enthusiasts to find ftmds to diffuse a knowledge 
of the new views. It was then that some practical-minded persons 
advised the formation of Co-operative Stores, where money might 
be made without subscribing it, and proposed that shareholders' 
should give their profits to a fund for propagandism. 

It was in 1821 that the first journal appeared in the interests of 
Co-operation. It bore the name of the EconamUt. It was thought,' 
in 1868, an act of judgment, and beheved to be an original design 
nation, to take the name of Social Economist as the title which 
would best recommend to public sentiment a Oo-operative' 
pericdieal, economy being that commercial feature in which 
society is most readily interested, and which is most easily 

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proved as an advantage of Co-operation. The title was the 
same as the one subsequently adopted by Mr. James Wilson, the 
founder of the Ecovomiat newspaper, who was likely to have seen 
Mr. Owen's publication ; for there was much eaiiy knowledge of 
Co-operation in the house in Essex Street, where might be seen 
piles reaching to the ceiling of Mr. Wilson's ujosold EcanomUts^ 
before it became the organ of the commercial classes; and Mr. 
Wilson had ample leisure left him to wonder whether they would 
ever make up their minds to buy it. The first number of Mr. 
Owen's Economist appeared in January, 1821. It was preceded by 
a prospectufi^ after Mr. Owen's znanner, as elaborate as an essay, 
and as long as a pamphlet. The title-page of the vobime declared 
that the Economist wss ^* a periodical paper, explanatory of the ne^ 
system of society^and a plan of association for improving the condi- 
tion of theworkbg classes during their continuance at their present 
employment." The time was clearly foreseen whe^ an entirely 
new order of things would take the place of that then existing; 
but in the meantime temporary improvemeoit was to be attempted 
in the condition of the ^'working classes.'^ '^Working people'* 
was the better phrase Francis Place used in his addresses to them. 
In the very first number of tlijs Economist mention was made of a 
^'Co-operative and Economical Society," which is the earUest 
record of a name now so fiuniliar to the public ear. There was 
no want of emphasis in annoimcing the discovery of Co-operation 
when the idea had taken a definite form in the minds of its 
originator and his friends. For some time the public had been 
told, in abounding phrases, that human affairs were henceforth to 
be based on some new principle, to which no definite name 
was given. It does not appear whether anybody had asked what 
it was, but there was a general expectation that the improvers of 
.the spcial state would soon hear of something to their advantage. 
At length, one day in the autumn of 1821, the editor of the 
Economist broke in upon his readers with an air of importance 
omd small capitals, and said to them, ^' The Sbcrst xs Out : it is 
unrestrained Co^OFElUTiON on the part of All the members for 
Every purpose of social life."* Undoubtedly this was big 
intelligence. There was no want of comprehensiveness in it. 
Co-operation of this desciiption looked a long way forward, and 
spread very far around. Clearly it meant communism, and 
whoever expressed it in the words quoted knew very well what 
he meant^ and said it in weU-chosen terms, never used subse^ 
quently, and never in those days improved upon. It was a veiy 
small, eager, active, manifold thing, which issued in the name of 
Co-operation, then for the fiurst time distinctly announced, bat 
during the next ten years it qpread wondrously over the land. 
* Eeommiaf, Aiignat 27. 18:>L 

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It was some journeymen printers in the Strand, of whom Henry 
Hetherington was one, who commenced the first Co-operative 
Society in 1821. They took a motto from Milton of singular fitness 
for their modest and adventnrons purpose — 

" Onr grestneas will appear 

Then most eonapiouoiu, irhen great things of email, 
Ueaf ul of hurtful, prosperous of adverse. 
We can create.** 

The term Co-operation was at first, and for several years, 
used in the sense of communism, as denoting a general an*ange- 
ment of sodcty for the mutual benefit of all concerned in sustaining 
it. Later, the term Co-operation came to be restricted to the 
humbler operations of buying and selling provisions. From 
implying concert of life in community, it sank into meaning 
concert in shop-keeping. It seems now, as it seemed then, a 
ridiculous thing that the commencement of the reformation of 
the world should consist in opening a cheese and butter shop. 
It was a great descent from the imperial altitude of world-making 
to stoop to selling long sixteen candles and retailing treacle. 
Doubtless, if we only knew it, the beginning of civilized society 
was not less absurd. There were, in all probability, dreamers 
who stood on the verge of savage life, and contemplated with 
poetic exultation the splendid future of civilization, when men 
should abandon their reckless and murderous habits, and master 
methods of thrift and peace. And when that new order of life 
began, which is now described as the dawn of civilization, there 
must have been persons with a fine sense of contempt, and words 
of sharp ridicule for those petty hoards and miserable transactions 
of barter, out of which capital and commerce grew, which have 
finally covered the earth with palaces, and raised private indi- 
viduals to an opulence surpassing that of monarchs. Had there 
been, in those days, leading articles and reviews, parliaments, 
and reporters, and political econonusts, who see nothing iu 
human destiny save supply and demand, how these Utopians, who 
brought about modem society, woidd have been held up to 
derision, and have been glad to hide their confused and abashed 
heads I 

In a way that the originator of Co-operation never foresaw, a 
practical part of his views was destined to obtain a strange 
ascendency. Who would have dreamed that flannel weavers and 
tinkers, shoemakers, and cotton-spinnera of Rochdale, noisome 
with wax, and carbon, and oil, who recommenced their petty and 
absmd stores in 1844, were founding a movement, the voice of 
which would pass like a cry of deliverance into the camps of 
industry throughout what Sir Charles Dilke calls all " English- 
speaking peoples ! " Who dreamed that these obscure mechanics 

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Lioogle - 


who had no means but pence, and no sense but common sense^ 
would, in 18 72, cause eveiy diop*keeper, in every high street of 
every town and city of the BrLtish empire, to scream with an 
imknown dread, and cty to Members of ParUament, and crowd 
the offices of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, praying to he- 
delivered from the deluge of Co-operation which they suppose- 
threatens to submerge them? This new power of industry,, 
which has grown up in this generation, Mr. Owen no more- 
constructed than George Stephenson did that railway system 
which a thousand unforeseen exigencies had suggested, and a 
thousand brains matured. But as Stephenson the elder made 
railway locomotion possible, so Owen set men's minds on the track 
of Co-operation ; and time and need, failure and gain, faith and 
thought, and the good sense and devotion of multitudes, have 
made it what it is. 

George Jacob Holyoaxs. 

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^ITB. MAX MULLER has made us all tolerably familiar with 
lU. the expression ^'sim myth*" In throwing out his brilliant 
hints towards a reconsideration of many questions touohing the 
origin of mythology, he was led to. dwell almost exclusively on 
those myths which arise from the daily course of the sun throu^ 
heaven* This was a confinement of view, though perhaps, under 
the circumstances, a necessary one, and has caused many people 
to whom the study of comparative mythology was a novelty, to 
suppose that this series of mjrths began cuid ended the whole 
subject. We thus find many people speaking of the *' sun-myth 
theory," or even of the " dawn-myiii llieory," as if these expres- 
sions were synonymous with the science of ComparativeMythology* 
It is rather to be regretted that, when Mr. Cox came to treat the 
subject in a more complete, or, at any rate, in a more lengthy 
manner, he should have followed too closely in the steps of hii 

In India and Greece the most important of all natural phe- 
nomena is the sun, and the most interesting event of the day 
his course through heaven ; if, then, Mr. Max Mtiller has laid such 
special stress on the myths arising from this phenomenon, it 
Was doubtless with the object of giving emphasis to the true 
understanding of the nature of a myth. And this true nature 
niay be best expressed by saying what a myth is not. It is not, in 
the first place, the story of the adventures of a fabled being, to 

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whom has been given (as in some Cabinet Cotmcil of Olympus) 
the portfolio of -the Bun, of the wind, or of the sea ; stfll less is it 
an allegory, in which the workings of nature are told under the 
guise of a pretty tale ; but it is a record of the observed phe- 
nomena of nature — ^that is, of facets which are as true now as they 
were then, but with that added personality which it must have 
been as impossible for our ancestors to separate from these appear- 
ances in their thoughts as we know it was in their language.* 

We thus see that myths may arise out of any of the appear- 
ances of nature which are strong enough to take fast hold of the 
imaguiation. If the sim plays by far the largest part in the mythic 
dramas of India and Greece, in northern countries his importance 
is rivalled by that of the wind. Sitting, through the long nights, 
imder the boughs of their primeval forests, or by the shores of 
their stormy seas, it was natural that the sound of the wind should 
be a strong spur to the fancy of our northern ancestors, and should 
have given rise to many curious myths. 

Odinn himself, the chief god of the northern pantheon, bears 
most of the attributes of a wind god. His name comes from the 
verb vad%a,t " to go," or, like the Latin vadere, especially " to go 
quickly, to rush." One of Odinn's favourite by-names is Gangleri, 
'' the Ganger ;" and this, too, is his character, that he is always 
wandering over the world, and having adventures with men. Wi 
three possessions are his sword, his mantle, and his horse, Sleipnir. 
With the firet we have here nothing to do. The second, which cor- 
responds to the tarn kappe (cap of concealment, from temen) of the 
Nibelungen Not, and the wisking^uxt of the later folk-tales, as weD 
as to the helmet of Hades and the petasos of Hermes, is donbtless 
the darkness — ^what Macbeth calls the •* blanket of the dark." It 
belongs to a larger part of Odinn's nature than as a mere wind 
god, to that part in which he approaches the character of Zeus, 
as the heavens, or the all-containing atmosphere. Saxo, in his 
*' Historia Danica" — wherein the mythological beings of the Eddas 
reappear as seen through medieval glasses, in a quasi-historical 
guise — ^tells us how, when a certain Hadding, a favourite of 
Odinn's, was wounded in battle, Odinn came to his help, wrapped 
him in his mantle, and carried him home through the air ; and one 
of Saxo's commentators discusses whether Odinn did this by the 
help of the Devil, or whether Odinn was himself the Prince of 

* ThiB is, I think, the definition of a mytii, which is always implioitly adopted by 
those patriarchs of comparatiye mythology, Grimm and Welcker. Mr. Max M&Iler has 
giyen it a new force by the light which a completer study of the Aryan languages has 
heen able to sh«d. He sometimes, it must be confessed, rather obscures his subject by 
speaking of language too much as if it had an independent growth, apart from the 
thoughts of those who employed it 

t The same comes directly from the pret. t)odh or ocfh. Is not this to ekpTMSTeiy 
rapid motion, in the same way as we find in Greek such an expression as 4 t' tx'"^ 

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Darkness. We know how that riding through the air was one of 
the peculiar powers of witches, and we shall see, when we come 
to discuss the myth of the Valkyrinr, Odinn's " shield maidens,'* 
that these Yalkyriur were the ancestresses of medieval witches. 
In popular tales this mantle reappears as the ^ wishing-cloth," or 
the " magic cloth " so &miliar to all readers of fairy-stories, which 
has originally the power of transporting the possessor toherwer 
he wishes, and afterwards of giving him whateoer he wishes. Of 
this we have an interesting example in one of AhjSmsen and Moe's 
Norse Folk-tales.* Here the hero goes to the North Wind to 
get back some meal which the wind had stolen. 

^ So off he went, but the way was long, and he walked and walked ; but 
at last he came to the North mnd's house. . 

^^Oood-day 1 ' said the lad, ^and thank you for coming to see us.' 

^ ^ Good-day,' answered the North Wind, for his voice was loud and 
gruff, ' and thanks for coming to see me. What do you want ? ' 

^ ^ Oh,' answered the lad, ^ I only wished to ask you to be so good as to 
let me have back that meal you took from me on the safe steps, for we 
haven't much to live on ; and if you're to go on snapping up the morsel we 
have, there'll be nothing for it but to starve.' 

^^ I haven't got yom* ntoal,' answered the North Wind ; ^ but if you are 
in such need, I'll give you a doth which will get you everythmg you want 
if you only say, ^ doth, spread yoorself, and serve up all kinds of good 

This present is unfortunately stolen from him by the landlord at 
the inn where he sleeps on his way home, and a like fate befaUs 
the North Wind's second present, a ram which could coin golden 
ducats ; but they are both recovered by means of a stick which, 
"when you say, * Stick, stick, lay on,' lays on till you say, * Stick, 
stick, now stop,' " with which tiie hero beats the landlord tUl he 
has restored cloth and ram. 

The especial interest of this story lies in the fact that the part 
of Odinn is here played by the North Wind. We shall afterwards 
see other instances of the way in which a nature-myth may lie for 
a long time, as it seems^ dormant and hidden, and then spring into 
life again, or, so to say, step back again into a state of nature when 
a character is found to suit it. 

Odinn's ei^t-legged horse Sleipnir, << the best of all horses," is 

the wind purely and mmply^ which, it is to be remembered, Odinn 

18 not. The story of his birth is thus told in the younger 


^Qoce upon a time, when the town of the gods was a-building, when 
the gods had set Midgard and made Yalhall, there came a certain smith, 
sad bid to make them a burg in three half-years so good that it shoald be 
tme and safe against the Rimegiants and Hillogres, thoagh they shoald 

• ''Nonke Folko-eTentyr." Tnuwlated by Dr. Daaent, with tha title of "Popular 
TalMfram the None." 
t I^Mttt'i tmulatbii. 

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come in by MidgarcL Bat he asked for his hire that he should have 
Freyja^ for lamr own, ! (md (beedde) he wodd have the Son and the 
Mpon.^' . . 

Thid the ^ds aitor obncmltation grant. 

'^ Bat if aaght of the barg was ondone, then his bargam shoold be off, 
and (beside) he shoold get help of no man towards the work. And when 
they had told him these terms, then prayed he that he might have help of 
his horse who SvathUf^ (i.e.5 ^ Snowbrijiger ') higfat ; and by Loki's rede 
that was also granted t/o him. He set to wo]^ the first day of winter to 
make the barg, bat by night he went to draw stone for it with his horse ; 
but it seemed a great wonder to the Asa how great stones that horse drew, 
and the horse did one^'haU more of the toilsome -work than the smith ; bat 
to their bargain (ihere was strong witness and much swearing, for that it 
seemed not ^e to the giant to be among the Asa traceless if Thorr came 
home ;.bat then he was faring eastward to fight TroUs.** 

And so the gods threaten Loki with death nnless he invent some 
way to stop the building. 

^ And the same evening, when tiie smith dityve oat alter stone witii the 
horse Svathilf on, there lun oat of a wood a mare to the horse, and mghed 
at him : but when the steed knew what kind of horse that was, then he 
grew mad and borst asunder the rope, and ran to the mare, and she away 
into the wood; and the smith after them, and will catch his horse ; but 
these hones ran all night, and the smith tarried there the night, and 
afterwimls at dawn so much was not smithied us had been wont before. 
An4 when the smithy sees that it will not be ended with the work, then falls 
hei into the giant-inood. ' But when the Asa saw surely that it was a hiU- 
ogre that had come in tiaith^, they spared not for their oaths but called on 
l^orr ; aod quick as thought came he (and) uext of all lifted the hammer 
Moilnir aloft, and so paid the smith's hire, and not with the Son and 
Moon ; but forbad him even to. dwell in Jolimheim ; and that was easily 
done by the first blow, that broke his skull into small Ints, and sent him 
beneaith under Niflbel. But Lc^ had run audi a race with Svathilfoii 
that some time after he bare a foal ; it was grey and had eight feet, 
and that is. the best horse with gods and men.'* 

This ifi a- diUinct aild curious toind myihy ixi which wb easily 
recognise Svathilfoii aa the ndxih windt who with ihe help of the 
giant wiuterv calt pile up an insuxmountable barrier of ice and 
snow. Loki has g^erally been considered in. this myth to be the 
warm wind of the soutLf His name meuis fire {logtj-i and why 
fire' should be bhang^d into a wind one dbes not quite see* Sup- 
posing 1?ind to be intended by the horsendatUre, Loki's ^ssaming 
this form niust - mean heat entering into the wind, far-fetched 
though the idea seems. When we come to examine another iHnd 
myth, that of Idun, we shall again see Loki as the warm wind, 
bringing the return of spring. 

This myth of Syathilfori is no doubt the origin of the many 
stories of »* mast^F^builderB/' or " the devil as builder,'* of which 

"^ The goddiMB of tpxing an<l of loye. Bat no doubt, originally, simply the eerth, and 
the tune ae Frigg. 
t Bimrook, *^ HendhQch der Denteehen Mythologie/* 8rd ed. p. 54. 

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WIND MYTHS. _ 285 

th^ Cologne Cathedral legend is the best-known example. Th^e 
tale9 are^ indeed, so common t)iat tl^ore is 8c$,rQdj a cathedral oj^ 
old church in German^ which has not its peculiar legend* The 
best connecting link between such stories and the myth we have 
just been relating is found in the legend of the building of Dron- 
theim CathedraL St. Olaf had vowed to build to God the largest 
cathedral in the worlds and while he was pondering how the work 
should be set a-going, there came to him a certain builder who 
promised to build him such a church if he might have as his 
reward the sun and the moon, or else the person of the king, unless 
Okf can discover the name of the builder. As the work is almost 
completed, Olaf is wandering disconsolate among the hills, when 
inside one of them he hears a mother quieting her child, with the 
words, "Hush, hush, to-morrow comes back fetther Wind-andr 
Weather, and brings with him the sun and moon, or. pise King 
Olaf himself.** Then Olaf returns to the church, and finding it 
just completed, he calls out to the giant, " Vind och Veder 1 du 
liar satt spiran sneder " (Wind-and- Weather, you've set the steeple 
4MTry), or otherwise, "Blaster, Blaster, satt spiran vaster" (Blast, 
Uast^ set the spire west), and thereat the troll falls down and 
btate. Here the master-biulder, as Odinn in the tale of*** The 
Lad who went to the North Wind,** reappears in a pure nature garb. 

There is a modem Greek folk-tale of the lady Aphrodite, who 
» wooed by two neighbpuring kings. She dire not give a refusal 
\h either, but she imposes tasks upon them. To the one she likes 
Ac oi'ders to find her ^ water on the Acrocorinth, where she is 
tmil(£ng a* caistle ; and to the other one to build her a castle on 
tm steej) eminence, But, alas for her cunning I the building 
prdceeda rapidly whilb her lover is imable to find water anywhere. 
Already "the palace is almost finished ; still Aphrodite is not 
wanting to herself. She calls to the builder, ** Coime, sit with nie 
awhile ; is not your task fenished t are you not sure' of your 
reward f* The foolish knight allows himself to be beguiled from 
iiis work, and in his intpxicatipn forgets that it is not already 
finished. Meanwhile, his rival redoubles his efforts ; at length the 
rock is pierced, and the disappointed builder finds 'out too late 
the trick which has been played upon him. ' ' Here we see the 
character of winter, stopping the streams as well as piling up the 
ice and snow. Aphrodite is of course Freyja, whom she much 
resembles, and the favoured knight is the summer. M. Georges 
Perrot, who relates the story in the Bevue Archiologique for 
I860, professes himself unable to explain its origin. We shall be 
inclined to attribute to it a northern birth. 

Mounted on Sleipnir,and equipped with sword and javelin, Odinn 
might often be heard on those northern shores riding to the chase 
or to the battle-field, and accompanied as he always was by his 

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Valkyrinr,* who, like Mphammad'B houris, choose out from the 
filain those who are worthy to live with them in Valhall, the abode 
of heroes. The description of these maidei^ . in one Eddaic t 
poem leaves little donbt of their origin : 

** Three troops of maideUB, 
Though one maid foremost rode, 
Their horses shook themselyes. 
And from their mines there fell 
Dew in the deep dsles, 
And on the high trees hsiL" 

From which we may conclnde that these Yalkyriur were the 
clouds moimted upon their steeds^ the winds. 

It is worth while to pause a moment over these ''cloud 
maidens," for they belong not to the northern mythology alone, 
but to every Aryan mythnsystem, and even to some which are not 
Aryan. Besides being ''shield maidens^" they are also ^'swan 
maidens" — ^that is, they have the power of changing themselves 
into swans. If these Yalkyriur were the only mythological beings 
to whom this power was given, we should have no great difficulty 
in ascribing to this particular feature of the myth a very simple 
origin. We might suppose that the voices of wild swans^ or of 
any wild sea-birds — ^for swan must originally have meant any bird 
that could 9wim — ^in giving intensity to the soimd of the wind had 
given rise to the myth of the 9voan maideM. But this cannot be 
so, for the same notion runs through the whole Aryan mythic 
lore, and often without any connection with the wind. One of 
the earliest instances of this idea occurs in the story of Urvasi and 
Pururavas in the Yagur Yeda. This story, without doubt the 
parent of Apuleius' well-known story of *' Oupid and Psyche," as 
well as of the still more familiar ^' Beauty and the Beast," relates 
how an immortal woman falls in love with a mortal man, but 
makes it a condition of their union that he shall never see her 
against her will, or without her royal garments on. This condi- 
tion he breaks, as Peyche disobeys Cupid, and he is thus for a 
long time separated from his bride. One day he chances to be 
wandering by a lake on which Urvasi and her companions are 
playing in the shape of birds. 

" And Urvasi said, ' This is the man with whom I dwelt so long/ 
Then her friends said, 'Let us appear to him.' She agreed, and 
they appeared before him ;"t and Urvasi and Pururavas are at 
length again united. 

Mr. Max Mliller gives us the best reasons for believing this to 
be a " dawn myth," wherein is poi-trayed the separation of the 

• " The choosers of the elect," from vol (Germ. WoM) " choice," from which we get 
voir ^ a hero" ^the same word which occurs in Valhall), aad kjoaa " te choose." 
t " Helgakvidha Hjoryardssonar," ver. 28. 
i Max Mtillor: "Chips from a Gorman Workshop," vol il " Comparatiye MythologT.'* 

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twilight of dawn from the sun (which is feminine hei^), and 
their reunion at the end of day. I think, then, that by the birds 
npon the lake are meant the clouds at sunset, which often conceal 
the face of the sun. 

Now, one of the Eddaic poems relates how a certain Yolund, a 
mighty smith (the origin of our Wayland Smith), and his brothers 
find diree Valkyriur bathing by a lake, who have left theit 
swans' plumage on the shore. Yolund and his brothers seize 
these swans' dresses, and by so doing compel the Valkyriur to 
become their wives. After a while, however, the swan maidens 
resome their birds' plumage and fly away, never to be seen 

This stoiy is reproduced in a modem Swedish popular tale,* in 
which the hero is set to watch at a certain spot, and, just before 
sunrise, three doves descend, and presently change into three 
beautiM maidens. In the story of the Six Swans in " Grimm," it 
win be-remembered that their transformation takes place at «tm- 
ut; so that both these stories retain a recollection of the old 

It is unnecessary to multiply stories in which the same idea 
appears, especially as the subject of swan maidens has already 
been treated, botii by Mr. Baring Gould and Dr. Dasent. Two 
instances, however, are worth mention. One, an Irish legend, in 
which, instead of birds, we have mermaids transformed into seals, 
shows how the character of a tale gets more or less altered as the 
people to whom it belongs sooner or later left their old Aryan 
home ; and the second, a Persian folk-tale,! wherein a merchant 
constrains a Peri by seizing her clothes while she is bathing, 
sufficiently shows the wide area over which this class of stories 
has spread. 

As this myth is transformed in Christian times, Odinn appears 
as the Wild Huntsman, who is either a fiend or a damned human 
soul, or as the Wandering Jew, and the Valkyriur are turned into 
witches. In Saxo Grammaticus' account of Baldur and Hother 
(or Hodur) some wood maidens appear, who, though they partake 
most of tiie Valkyriur nature, are evidently in a transition state. 
There is one scene especially, where Holiier meets them in a 
forest-cave, and they advise him how he may kill Baldur, if he 
obtain the food made from the spittle of serpents, which reminds 
us strangely of the witches' caldron in " Macbeth." It is curious 
to reflect on the metamorphosis which has changed beautiful 
warrior-maidens, who scatter from their horses' manes '' dew in 
the deep dales, and on the high trees hail," into old hags riding 
to the Witches' Sabbath on broomsticks. It is not unlike that 

* Tborpe'fl Ynletide Stodea : ** The palace east of the sun, and north of the earth.*' 
t Babar-Daxioosh of Ynayet-AUah, ch. xx. Translated by Scott. 

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which has created the hideotus Ogre of onr nuisery tales out of the 
metaphor of rapax Orcus^ such as we find it m Horace's lines :— 

** Ntilla tamen certior 
Rapacifl Orci fine destinata , 
AiUa divitem manet, ■ 

When a bird occurs in the Eddas the wind is generally meant 
■.The northerns imagined the wind to be caused by a giant called 
Hraesvelgr* (corpse-devourer), who sits at heaven's tod in eagle 
plumage. We may compare with this notion the likeness between 
the words ojiii'/a and aquilo, " the north wind." f The name of the 
giant shows the sad experience these searfaring people had of the 
effects of |]ie.wind, and the Sirens may, I tibink, be jnaQst reasonably 
interpreteoin the same way; so that their enticing musia is. the 
soft sighing of the wind, so often the prelude to a storm. 

This Hraesvelgr seems to reappear under another tiame in the 
mytt of Tdunlind Thiassi. Thiassi (whose name cannot he satifi- 
feotorily cleared up) carries off Idun by the hdp of Loki* Then 
Loki is threatened by the gods with death unless be bring her 
back again. So he borrows Freyja's falcon-plumage, and flies to 
Thiymheim (thimder-home) Thiassi's abode.. He finds Thiassi 
away and Idun at home. Then he changes Idun into the form 
of a nut, and flies back with her, closely pursued by TbiassL As» 
however, the giant comes close to Asgard, the gods kindle a great 
fire, into which he falls and is burnt. Jdun, whose name comes 
from the root id, '' again," with a feminine termination, means the re- 
turn of the year or of the spring. Thiassi is the winter, or perhaps 
especially the autumn wind, aj^ this is the most thunderous ; and 
Loki mnst be the warm south wind which is at first in league with 
autumn to dry up the grass, but afterwards brings back thoigreen 
again in spring. 

These are the principal wind myths in the northern system ; 
and if I have dwelt on them at -some leug^h, it was both because 
many of them may be unfamiliar to the reader, and because the 
north is the peculiar home of this kind of myth. In the other 
great Aryan mythnsystem, the Greek, they fill a less conspicuous 
place, and require less attention. An article on wind mytl^ wonld, 
however, be incomplete without some consideratioa ^ of the 
character of Hermes, Hermes has often been called an earth god; 
but I do not know any good reason for this supposition. The 
etymological signification of his name is similar to that of Ddiiui's,! 
and I think a great p^rt of his nature may be explainea on the 

♦ VafthradailsinM, 87. "^ ./ 

t The common root oc(of. Geek »K^),.is surely not a Boffieient explanation o! tfaU 

X Hermes from ipfAJm, " to move ** (violently); Odinn from vcuiha (prek vodk or «A)» 

««to go" (rapidly). ^^ ^ 

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theoij that he is a wind god. His stealing the cattle of Apollo^ 
which are of course the clouds, and his invention of the lyre, are 
the strongest instances, and have already received their proper 
explanation at the hands of mythologists. His title of Argeiphontes, 
a word which, as Welcker * reminds us, means not only the slayer 
of Argos (the night), but also " the bright shining one," of course 
pomts him out as the bringer-on of day. But this is quite con- 
sistent with his being a wind or air god, as the close connection 
between ^ and arffxa and between aurora and aura, abundantly 
testifies. He is, in fact, the breeze which ushers in the day, and, 
by an extension of ideas, he may also be the breeze which accom- 
panies the sunset-t This gives him his first relationship with the 
under or outer world, the abode of spirits, a relationship which is 
strengthened by the connection which our ancestors fancied 
between the soul and the breath, and to which all languages bear 

These considerations may help us to understand his three pos- 
sessions, which have their exact counterparts with Odinn. For 
Odinn and his representatives in the folk-tales often travel with a 
stafi* having magic powers, such as are possessed by the staff of 
Hermes ; the hat or petasos belongs, as has been said, to the same 
class as the mantle of Odinn ; while the ankle-wings or sandals of 
the Greek god correspond to the horse Sleipnir, but of course 
more closely to the seven-leagued boots of the folk-tales. All are 
the' proper attributes of a god who is the wind not only in its con- 
crete sense, that is, not only as some particular wind, but also in 
sometinng of an abstmct sense as of air in motion, and thus shows 
some of the characteristics of a pantheist's god. 

C. F. Keary. 

* "Griechiache Gotterlehre," vol. i. p. 836. 

t The windfl whioh blow over the Mgean are remArkablo for their regalarity. Every 
morning a breeze arUes from the coasts of Thraoo, and blows all day aoathward* At 
OTenlng it goes down, and for a while the sea is calm; then almost imperceptibly a 
gmtle wind springs up from tha south. Vide Cartius " Griech. Geschiohte," ad t'nit, 

X Mr. Herbert Spencer saes in this connection of ideas ono origin of the belief in a 
sooL This is a metaphysical question whioh would require a very full discussion. I 
woald suggest, however, that language never keeps pace with thought, but always 
attaches itself to the thought's material side. For instanoe, we need not suppose that 
our ancestors wore entirely d 3 void of tdeaSf because they very likoly called thorn — a,s 
we still do—" things saen." 


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THE political opinions of most public men are modified more 
or less by their views on religion. No doubt some appear 
to be very indifferent to such an influence, whilst others are con- 
stantly under its control. There are times, too, in our history, 
when the aggregate eflTect of this influence is hardly noticed, and 
other times when it is general and active. In Mr. Disraeli's last 
published writing — the Preface to his Collected Works — ^he says : — 

" It cannot be denied that the aspect of the world and this countiy, 
to those who have faith in the spiritual nature of man, is at this time dark 
and distressful. They listen to doubts, and even denials, of an active 
Providence ; what is styled materialism is in the ascendant. To those who 
believe that an atheistical society, though it may be polished and amiable, 
involves the seeds of anarchy, the prospect is full of gloom. 

" This disturbance in the mind of nations has been occasioned by two 
causes : first, by the powerful assault on the Divinity of the Semitic 
literature by the Germans ; and, secondly, by recent discoveries of science, 
which are hastily supposed to be inconsistent with our long-received con- 
victions as to the relations between the Creator and the created." 

He has also annoimced his conviction that a great contest is 
impending between ecclesiastical influences on the one hand, and 
hard secularism on the other, and that theological poUtics vnl\ 
occupy a prominent place in the immediate future. 

From Mr. Gladstone's recent writings, and especially from the 
prefatory letter in which he introduced to the British public a few 
days ago M. Emile de Lavelaye's elaborate denunciation of the 

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Catholics and covert attack on the AngKcan Church, it is clear 
that he concurs in the latter statement of the Prime Minister, 
and a glance abroad shows that there is nothing very exceptional 
in English politicians thinking so. The present time therefore 
may not be inopportime for attempting to note some facts 
bearing on the relations of one of the religious bodies of the 
empire — the Catholics — ^to the two great political parties — the 
Liberals and the Conservatives. 

In addition to any abstract speculations on this subject of a 
mere student of history, there are some practical considerations 
involved in it. England is governed by party. The strength and 
security of the nation may possibly turn on the safety with which 
the foremost statesmen at either side may be able to truly estimate 
the relative force of political parties. It might be a national 
calamity if, at some great crisis, a miscalculation occurred which, 
by embarrassing the leaders of the country, interfered with a 
prompt and firm decision. 

Anotber practical consideration, of more immediate interest, is 
that the question seems to throw some light upon the causes that 
determine the rise and fall of religious animosity in Ireland. Any 
attempt to expose the source of that long^xisting evil, and to 
check it, may be excused — even though the effort be made by 
one who is not now mixed up in the struggles of party, and who 
has no longer the slightest pretensions to speak with the authority 
of a politician. 

The history of the Catholics, in relation to the two great parties 
m this country, is but little known. Indeed, the ignorance of 
those more immediately concerned in the question is remarkable, 
and has led to many misconceptions. 

The origin of our political parties has been traced to the Great 
Rebellion. That the Catholics should have fought for Charles I., 
and supported the Church of England against the Puritans, is not 
surprising. The faith that is associated vn\h loyalty to the crown, 
and an aversion to Puritanical tenets, compelled them to do so. 
But it was not merely a theoretical question. 

"At that period," says the highest living authority on political 
parties, " there was a Parliament in Dublin, called by a Protestant King, 
presided over by a Protestant Viceroy, and at that moment there was a 
Protestant Established Church in Ireland; yet the majority of the members 
of that Parliament were Roman Catholics. The government was at that 
time carried on by a Council of State, presided over by a Protestant 
Deputy; yet many of the members of that Council were Roman Catholics. 
The municipalities were then full of Roman Catholics. Several of the 
sheriffs also were Roman Catholics, and a very considerable number of 
magistrates were Roman Catholics. . . .- . The King of England, 
through Glamorgan, entered into a treaty for the settlement of Ireland 
^th the Convention of Kilkenny, in the secret articles of which were laid 
down the principles upon which the pacification of Ireland was then to 


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take place. The secret articles of that treaty were merely that the Roman 
Catholics should enjoy the same civil and political equality which they 
had done previously to the breaking out of the Civil War, viz., that they 
should not be called to take the oaths of su{M«macy ; and, with refertooe 
to the Protestant Church, that there should be a recognized equality 
between the two Churches. These were the articles which Charles I., by 
his word of honour, ratified."* 

When Cromwell had upset the throne, and disendowed and 
disestablished the Church of England, the Royal standard was 
still kept flying by the Irish CathoKcs. Even after the scenes of 
Drogheda and Wexford, and the Catholic army of the King had 
been scattered, there were still numerous bands of loyal men, who 
never submitted to the rule of the Puritan Government, and who 
maintained a gueiilla warfare till the Restoration. In the wood 
and mountain fastnesses of the south and west, these loyalists still 
fought to the Irish cry of " Tor Re," " Up for the King." 

Dr. Lingard says : — 

^^ It was during the reign of Charles IL, that the appellations of Whig 
and Tory became permanently affixed to the two great political parties. 
The first had long been ^ven to the Covenanters in the west of Scotland^ 
and was supposed to convey a charge of seditious and antimoaarchical 
principles. The second originally designated those natives of Ireland 
who had been deprived of their estates, and was employed to intimate a 
secret leaning towards Popery and despotism." 

He adds that in a short time each party willingly adopted its 
respective appellation. 

That most interesting contemporary record. Grey's Reports of 
Debates in the House of Commons during the reign of Charles IL, 
shows that the Puritan Parliament was constantly quaiTelling 
^vith the King on account of his attempt to protect the Catholics. 
Indeed, no period of English history has been so misrepresented 
as the reign of Charles II. : even Catholic writers have blindly 
copied the Whig calumnies against the King. A reference, 
however, to the authentic and original documents of his reign, 
estabUshes beyond doubt that he is not open to the cliarge of 
poUtical ingratitude. He, and the Tory party of the day, in their 
attempts to serve the Cathc^cs, had to. encounter a zealous 
Puritan majority in the House of Commons. 

When, in the following reign, the Whigs succeeded in substi- 
tuting a foreign sovereign for an English king, the ancient Royal 
standard again sought refuge in Ireland, and under it Sarsfield 
defeated the Whig usurper at Limerick, and exacted highly 
favourable terms for liis country and religion. 

To the credit of the Tories it is to be 6aid that, though almost 
destroyed as a pohtical party, they protested against the deliberate 
violation by the triumphant Whigs of the Treaty of Limerick. In 

* Mr. Disraeli*8 speeches, specially corrected by himself, p. 31. 

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the reign of Anne, Bolingbroke and Oxford were friendly to the 
Catholics, and were abused by the Whig pamphleteers for their 
tolerant policy. One of the Catholic writers on this period and 
that of the early Georges says : — 

"Of the two parties the Whigs were the most implacable enemies of the 
Catholics ; the enmity of the Irish Whigs proceeded from a conscious- 
ness of injustice and a dread of retaliation ; that of the English was the 
result of a spirit of freedom and ill-judged patriotism. They cherished 
liberty as the first of blessings. They abhorred Popery as the parent of 
serrile and passive obedience, and viewed Ireland as the rival and com- 
petitor of England To extirpate the one and keep down the other became 
a principal object cf the policy of the Whig administration imder George I. 
The annals of this reign are stained by frequent persecutions of the Catholic 
gentry and clergy, by disgraceful additions to the code, by iniquitous de- 
cisions of the courts of law, by unconstitutional encroadmients on the 
charter of Irish independence, and by the frequent recurrence of famine." * 

Year after year, during the long tenure of power by the Whigs, 
laws were passed " for the farther suppression of the growth of 
Popeiy.'* The Act of 1709, which publishes a scale of rewards for 
the detection of Popish bishops, priests, or schoolmasters, and 
made it unlawful for a Catholic to sit on a jury, was passed at the 
instance of the YiHiig Lord-Lieutenant, the Earl of Wharton, a 
man whom Swift describes as " a Presbyterian in politics and an 
atheist in religion." 

In the next generation the free-thinking Lord Chesterfield, so 
often lauded as a Liberal poUtician, insensible to prejudices, and 
described, even in our day, as a model Whig Lord-Lieutenant, in 
his speech to the Irish Parliament, urged an extension of the 
Wharton Acts, and suggested, " whether nothing further can be 
done, either by new laws, or the more effectual execution of those 
in being, to secure the nation against the great number of Papists, 
whose speculative errors would only deserve pity, if their per- 
nicious influence on civil society did not both require and autho- 
rize restraint." 

Speculative errors unworthy of notice if their pernicious in- 
fluence on civil society did not authorize retaliation from the 
State I Lord Chesterfield is certainly not the last Liberal states- 
man who has said this. 

How strange it is that the words of the insincere freethinker of 
the last century should find so faithfiil an echo in the utterances 
of one of the most sincere and religiously-minded statesmen of 
to-day ! But beyond the fact that both were leading Liberals, it 
is diiBBcult to see anything in common between the author of the 
femous " Letters to his Son," and the author of the " Expostula- 

It must give sincere satisfaction to every Catholic student of 

• O'Conor'e «* History of the Iriih Catholics," p. ISS. 

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history to note that the intolerant advice of the Liberal Governor 
of Ireland was rejected, owing to the arguments and votes of the 
Bishops of the Anglican Church. * Dr. Smiles says : — 

"The Earl of Limerick, in 1746, adopted Lord Chesterfield's idea of 
keeping down the Catholic religion, and he brought in a Bill which struck 
at its very root. The introduction of this Bill caused a general consterna- 
tion throughout Ireland. The bench of Bishops, however, strongly 
resisted it ; the Primate opposed it on the third reading in an eloquent 
speech ; three Archbishops and nine Bishops voted against the measure, 
and it was rejected by a majority of two ! 

Nor was this the only instance in which the Christian spirit of 
the Irish Protestant Bishops tended to defeat or mitigate the 
Penal Code. The journals of the Irish House of Lords show that, 
over and over again, the Prelates of the Anglican Church inter- 
posed between their oppressed countiymen and the Whig philo- 
sophy that kept forging fresh chains for the CathoUcs. Those 
who, a few years ago, drove their successors from the Hojise of 
Lords, did not choose to remember these facts. On the contrary, 
indeed, groundless historical calunmies were used to compass the 
needless insult. 

Soon after the accession of George III., says Mr. Charles 
Butler, began the first indication of a tolerant ox friendly feeling 
in high quarters for the CathoUcs. Lord Bute and his colleagues 
had many private friends amongst the Catholic gentry. They lost 
no opportunity of discouraging the vexatious application of the 
Penal Laws. Macaulay thus refers to Lord Bute's administra- 
tion : — 

" A new system of Government came into full operation. For the first 
time since the accession of the House of Hanover, the Tory party was in 
the ascendant. The Prime Minister was a Tory. Lord Egremont, w ho 
had succeeded Pitt as Secretary of State, was a Tory and the son of a 
Tory. Sir Francis Dashwood was a Tory, and had been a Jacobite. The 
Royal household was filled with men, whose favourite toast a few years 
before had been ' The King over the water.' " 

The Conservative administrations that succeeded Lord Bute's 
Inaintained, without much public notice, the same satisfactory 
relations with the Catholics, until at length a parliamentary 
incident of great moment occurred which aroused the keenest 
party spirit on a Catholic question. Though it was the real 
prelude to emancipation, it has almost escaped attention, and is 
little known except to those who choose to study for themselves 
the parliamentary history of the country. A century ago a Tory 
minister succeeded in passing through Parliament a measure for 
securing tithes to the Roman Catholic clergy in Canada, and, m 
fact, for establishing by law the Roman CathoUc religion in that 
part of the British Empire. This measure was vigorously opposed 
by Mr. Fox, Mr. Thomas Townsend, Colonel Barre, Mr. Serjeant 

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Glynn, and the other leading Liberals of the day. The Liberal 
arguments that were then used against Lord North's Bill appear 
to be based on the same principle that animates the recent 
"Expostulation;" and even the violent language of the Liberals of 
1774 is now reproduced occasionally by the Liberal member for 
Peterborough. Mr. Fox strenuously " objected to the provision 
for securing tithes to the Romish clergy." Throughout the debates 
he always spoke of " the Romish clergy." . Mr. Thomas Townsend, 
who has been described as a model Libeml and a rising hope of 
the Liberal party of that day, said : — 

" He could not but allow that the noble lord had an amazing foresight 
in ordering, above aU days in the year, the 10th of June for the finishing 
of a Bill to establish Popery. He said the day was truly characteristic to 
the business, and he made no doubt but the noble lord and his party would 
come to the House with white roses* in their breasts." 

Colonel Barr6 said : — 

" ' By this Act you establish the Roman Catholic religion where it never 
was established before, and you only permit the practice of your own.' He 
said the Bill had originated with the Lords, who were the Romish priests 
that would give his Majesty absolution for breaJking his promise. He was 
certam, by the noble lord (Lord North) and his dependents' proceedings, 
that after their death people might say, as they did after the death of 
KiDg Charles : ' that by papers found in their closets, they appeared to 
have died in the Roman Catholic belief.' " 

Seqeant Glynn wound up a long attack on the Bill and its Tory 
promoters by saying : — 

" The 10th of June, 1774, would be handed down to posterity as a day 
when the members of a British House of Commons preferred Popery and 
French laws to the established religion and the laws of their own 

The Bill, however, passed the House of Commons by a majority 
of 76. The division was a strictly party dne, none but Tories 
voting for the CathoUcs, and none but Liberals against them, the 
tellers for the Liberals being Mr. Fox and Mr. Thomas Townsend. 
In the other House of Parliament, the great Whig, Lord C!hatham» 
was as decided in his opposition to the Bill as his lieutenants 

* The present Lord Halifax, when in the House of Commons, about twelve years ago, 
aaked a Tory Catholic, on the 10th of Juno, why he wore, on that particular day only, a 
^hite rose in his button-hole \ adding, " My gardener in the North of England always 
speaks of bringing out the white roses for the lOth of Juno. What is there peculiar about 
the date? ** The Tory MJ*. explained that it was the birthday of King James HL ; and 
he reminded the Cabinet minister of Lord Chesterfield's oft-quoted impromptu to the 
Gstholic lady who attended the Drawing Room at the Castle in 1745, wi^ an orange lily 
hypoeritically displayed on her bosom : — 

" Say, lovely Tory, where*s the jest 
Of wearing orange on thy breast, 
When that breast upheaving shows 
The whiteness of the rebel rose ? " 

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in the Lower House. His concluding sentences, as reported 
in the Parliamentary history of the time, are as follows : — 

" Hie exposed the train of fatal miscliiefs attending the establishment 
of Popeiy and arbitraiy power in that vast and fertile region now annexed 
to Quebec. He deduced the whole series of laws from the supremacy first 
revindicated under Henry VIII, down to this day as fundamentals cchi- 
stituting a clear compact that all establishments by law are to be Protestant 
He further maintained that the dangerous innovations of this Bill were at 
variance with all the safeguards and barriers against the return of Popery 
and of Popish influence so wiselv provided against by all the oaths of office 
and of trust from the constable up to the members of both Houses, and 
even to the Sovereign in his coronation oath. He pathetically expressed 
his fears that it might shake the affections and confidence of his Majesty's 
Protestant subjects in England and Ireland, and finally lose the hearts of 
all his Majesty's American subjects." 

A member of the Tory Administration, Lord Lyttelton^ in 
replying to the great Whig, argued (as he might tonday against 
the "Expostulation"), "To oblige Catholics to deny the supremacy 
of the Pope, was to compel them forcibly to abjure their religion." 
The conti-ast between the Liberals and the Tories was not confined 
to their arguments and votes. Their very language was charao- 
teiifitic. Mr. Fox, Colonel Barr^, Mr. Dunning, Mr. Townsend, and 
the other Liberals, spoke of " Romish clergy," ** Romanists," and 
"Popery ;'* Lord North, Lprd Lyttelton, and the Tories, spoke of 
" Catholics " or of " Roman Catholics," The good eflfect of those de- 
bates andof the Canada Act, was soon seen both abroad and at home. 

" Protestant bigotry," says an American writer in 1872, " pro- 
bably lost us Canada, by the anti-Cathohc manifesto issued by 
the colonial Congress of 1774." This is, however, a very limited 
view of the subject. Perhaps the anti-Catholic altitude of the 
Republicans may have indirectly assisted in strengthemng the 
fideUty of the Canadians, but it was undoubtedly to the natural 
alliance between the Tory principles of Lord North's Government 
and the Conservative politics of the Catholics, whom he wisely 
befriended, that the result was really due. The principles of 
loyalty and religious reverence associated with the ancient faith 
saved Canada, and prevented any further disruption of our colonial 
empire a century ago. 

But the preservation of what is to this day he finest province 
of the Queen's colonial empire, was not the only result of Lord 
North's wise legislation and conciliatory language. It was the 
prelude to the first legislative relaxation of the Penal Laws. In 
four years after th& memorable debates of 1774, an Act was 
passed enabling CathoKcs to hold land. The only whisper of 
opposition came from a " Liberal" quarter. Other relaxations of 
the Whig code followed, and year by year the Catholics obtained 
relief till the termination of the Tory Government. 

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The short Liberal regime that followed, when the Whig patriota 
held office, wajs not fortunate for the Catholics either in England 
or Ireland. 

Lord Charlemont and Mr. Flood re-echoed the language of the 
Liberals in England : the Roman Catholics were unfit for political 
power because of their arbitrary tenets, their principles of divine 
right, and their submission to ecclesiastical influence in civil 
society; a body that tamely yielded to such influences required 
and authorized restraint. The language of the Liberal patriots iu 
1782 was a repetition of the Liberal Lord-Lieutenant's speech of a 
preceding generation, and a curious foretaste of the language 
heard by the present generation from the Liberals of Germany 
and of England. A popular historian* thus describes the policy 
of the Liberal party during their temporary triumph ninety-three 
jeaiB ago : — 

" The Whig Lord Charlemont was throughout the vehement opponent 
of the Catholic daims^ The patriots saw not beyond themsdives and their 
own interests. They were content still to keep tibe Catholics a slave class, 
holding them to be unfit for the enjoyment of freedom. All attempts to 
extend to them the exercise of the elective fi*anchise were treated with 
coDtomely and scorn. The patriots still persevered in maintaining a dis- 
graceful penal code, which imposed civil and political disabilities on the 
great mass of the peofde. Surely this was a narrow-minded and one-sided 

Lord Stanhope, in his Life of Pitt, also says : — 

"The Convention of the volunteers at Dublin had two contending 
leaders : first, the £arl of Charlemont, and, secondly, the Earl of Bristol, 
who was also Bishop of Deny. This prelate was son of the famous Lord 
Hervey, in the days of George II., and a singular character, recalling the 
feudal bishops of the Middle Ages. He proposed to the volunteers that in 
the new Eeform Bill which they were seeking to frame, the franchise 
shoold be granted to Roman Catholics. To this proposal Lord Charlemont 
gave his decided opposition, and by far the ^ater number of delegates 
sided with Lord Charlemont. Accordingly Flood, as their spokesman, 
brought forward, in the Irish House of Conunons, a measure of reform for 
the tenefit of Protestants only." 

With the return of the Tories to office in 1783, the hopes of the 
Catholics again revived. The contrast between Lord Chatham 
and his son, between the great Whig and the great Tory, is one 
of the favourite themes of modem historians. No part of that 
Btiiking contrast is more remarkable than their respective attitude 
to flie Catholics. 

Those 8t^4ents 6£*histoiy who follow the growth of Mr. Pitt's 
aentimeiits respecting the Catholiosj from his own account of his 
interviews witih the Abb^ de Lageard, in the palace of the Archr 
bishop of Rheims, iu 1783, to the indirect support (for they had no 

♦ Dr. Snule*' ** Hirtoiy of Ireland,*' p. 869. 

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votes themselves then) the Catholic leaders gave him in the 
decisive elections of 1784, and to the time when he applied to the 
Universities on the Continent for those authoritative expositions 
of CathoUc principles with which he showed that his clients were 
the best friends of order and of a Conservative monarchy, cannot 
fail to see that it was no mere temporary expediency, but the 
sympathy of a natural alliance, that created and fostered his 
Catholic poUcy. When, in 1791, he carried that which Mr. Lecky 
truly describes as a far more important Emancipation Act than the 
one of 1827 — ^the Act which gave the parliamentary franchise to the 
English CathoUcs — and when, in 1792, he intimated his intention 
of passing a similar Reform Bill for Ireland, which in the following . 
year he accomplished, in spite of the Whig cry that " the minister 
was destroying the ascendency established in 1688," at that time 
ample justice was done to his high motives by the Catholics both 
of England and Ireland, who had direct conferences with him, and 
who witnessed his successful labours on their behalf. It was left 
to the following generation to find CathoUcs who could attempt 
to underrate and misrepresent his poKcy. 

" Mr. Pitt," says Mr. Charles Butler, the secretary of the Catholic Asso- 
ciation of the last century, " watched over the Catholic Belief Bill of 1791, 
during its passage through the House, with the greatest assiduity : some- 
times by energy, sometimes by conciliation, he removed the obstades 
which opposed it; and he imfeignedly participated in the joy of the 
Catholics at its ultimate success. For this they were indebted to none 
more than to him." 

The language of O'Connell, written half a century after the 
event, and when the CathoKcs were in alliance with Whigs and 
Liberals, is different : — 

" It should be recollected that these concessions were made more in fear 
than in friendship. The revolutionary war was about to commence, the flames 
of republicanism had spread far and near. It was eagerly caught up 
amongst the Protestant, and especially among the Presbyterian, population 
of the North of Ireland. Belfast was its warmest focus ; it was the deep 
interest of the British Government to detach the wealth and intelligence 
of the Catholics of Ireland from the republican party. This policy was 
adopted. The Catholics were conciliated. The Catholic nobility, gentry, 
mercantile, and other educated classes, almost to a man, separatcnd from 
the republican party." • 

That it was not fear that actuated Pitt in making the conces- 
sions which O'Connell says conciliated the CathoUcs, and separated 
them from the repubUcans, is evident from the fact that at the 
very time he was maturing and carrying his plans of emancipa- 
tion, he was refusing to repeal the Test Act that pressed only on 
the Protestant Dissenters. The latter constituted a formidable 
body. Yet in 1790 he opposed Fox's Bill for their relief; and 

• O'Coniijirfl "Memoir of Ireland," p. 24. 

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in his successfal opposition to it, he was supported by Burke and 
Wilberforee. When he was able to give the elective franchise 
to the Catholics' by an overwhelming majority, he was able to 
defeat the repeal of the Test Act by a majority of three to one. 
He repeated in substance the argument he had used in 1787 : — 

*^ There are some Protestant Dissenters who declare that ^ the Church of 
England is a relic of Popery ; ' others that ^ all Church establishments are 
improper.' This may not be the opinion of the present body of Dissenters, 
but no means can be devised of admitting the moderate part and excluding 
the violent : the bulwark must be kept up against all." 

He treated with indiflTerence the taunt that he was pushing the 
Catholics ahead of the Protestant Dissenters. Thirtynaix years 
afterwards a similar debate, with almost identical language, oc- 
curred. The successor of Mr. Fox, Lord John Russell, moved, 
and this time successfully, to repeal the Test Act. He carefully 
explained that his Bill relieved only the Protestant Dissenters, and 
did nothing for the Roman Catholics; whereupon two leading 
Conservatives, Mr. Huskisson and Lord Palmerston (the latter did 
not join the Whigs till five years subsequently) declared their 
opposition to Lord John Russell's scheme, on the ground that he 
was " unfairly running the Dissenters ahead of the Catholics in 
the race for toleration." Nor is it quite accurate to say that Pitt's 
emancipation measures separated the Catholics from the re- 
publican party. They had never joined that party. Pitt knew 
the truth of Montesquieu's aphorism, " The Catholic religion is 
best suited to a monarchy." 

That Pitt was really moved by his genuine friendship for a body 
with whom he had an intense community of political sentiment, 
can be seen by his own letters and his speeches, as well as by the 
letters of contemporary CathoUcs. A striking proof of this is 
likewise to be foimd in the ascendency tone of the patriots who 
opposed his Catholic Relief Bill. 

The Liberals of Dublin who, under Flood and Charlemont, nuie 
years before had raised the cry of *• Protestant ascendency in 
danger ! " addressed their Liberal representatives, Henry Grattan 
and Lord Henry Fitzgerald, against the contemplated extension 
to Ireland of Pitt's Act for giving votes to the Catholics. They 
said : — 

"We entreat of you, our representatives, that you will oppose with all 
your influence and great abilities any alteration that may tend to shake 
the security of property in this kingdom, or subvert the Protestant as- 
cendency in our happy constitution." 

To that address of the turbulent and intolerant ^' patriots " of 
Dublin Grattan replied : — 

"Mt Lobd Mayor and Gentlemen, — ^Whatever attack has been made 
on your ascendency has proceeded from your ministers. 

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*'*' The Roman Catholics, whom I love, and the Protestants, whom I 
prefer, are both, I hope, too enlightened to renew religious animosity. 

" I do not hesitate to say I love the Roman. Catholic — 1 am a friend 
to his liberty — ^but it is only inasmuch as his liberty is entirely con- 
sistent with your ascendency, and an addition to the strength of the 
Protestant community. 

"These being my principles, and the Protestant interest my first 
object, you may judge that I shall never assent to any measure tending 
to shake the security of property in this kingdom, or to subvert the 
Protestant ascendency. 

"(Signed) Henrt Grattan." 

Looking back upon the past, Catholics can readily pardon 
the Floods and Charlemonts, and the convention of Patriot- 
Liberals who struggled in vain against the emancipation policy of 
Pitt. They acted honestly, and in accordance with their bfle-long 
piinciples and the true piinoiplea of their party. But it is 
difficult for an Irishman to forgive the intolerant Liberals who 
induced Qenry Grattan to leave upon hia reputation the stain of 
sig^ning that answer to the address of 1792. Li using such language, 
Lucas, Flood, and Charlemont in Ireland, and the Revolution Libe- 
rals in England, were perfectly sincere. But was Grattan sincere ? 
He was right when he said that the only attack that had come upon 
religious ascendency had been made by the King's minister. Did 
he not in his heart approve of that attack ? In fact, he separated 
from the "Liberal Patriots" on the subject, and supported Pitt's 
scheme; and in a few years the most scathing sentences that 
were heard in Parliament fell from his lips as he denounced 
" religious ascendency." 

The first general election in Ireland after Pitt's Emancipation 
Act of 1793 showed that a vast poHtioal power had been recalled 
to life* Face to face with the strength of Catholic votes^ the 
anti-Catholic tone of the Whigs began to alter. 

Pitt's subsequent plan of the Union, accompanied . by the 
admission of Ca4;holic8 to Parliament, and the restoration of a 
portion of Church property to the Catholic clergy, has been 
described by Lord Macaulay as the most beneficent scheme that 
any Engli£^ minister ever devised for Ii^land^- The Premier, who 
seemed to care for nothing in* this world except political power, 
and the honourable fame that follows the faithful discharge of 
official duty, broke up his Cabinet and resigned when the King 
refused to allow hini to complete emancipation and estabUsh 
concarrent endowment. Forced, after a few yeaars, to retom to 
office by the grave disasters that seemed to threaten England, he 
died before the brief tenure of his seobnd admimstrntion enabled 
him to influence the King. 

The most successful paarty organizer that the Conservatives of 
England have ever known has pointed out that the mediocrities 

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who succeeded Pitt had no claim to be called Tories. Between 
the triumphant Tory parly of our day and the Tories of the 
beginning of the century, there is a long interval, filled partly 
with an administratipn of incapables, and partly with a mgn of 
active and distinguished Liberals. For a brief interval, when 
Canning (an.aUy of the Catholics) came upon the scene, there was 
a return to Tory principles. This year Mr. Disraeli has republished 
the remarkable Preface he wrote in 1870 to his Collected Works. 
He therein annoimces that •* Coningsby " contains the true pro- 
gramme of Toryism, and that it sets forth the real origin and 
condition of political parties. 

The sentences in which the present Premier deals with these 
topics are amongst the most remarkable and instructive that he 
has ever written : — 

'* If we survey the tenor of the policy of the Liverpool Cabinet during 
the latter moiety of its continuance, we shall find it« characteristic to be 
a partial recurrence to those frank principles of government which Mr. 
Pitt had revived during the latter part of tne last century from precedents 
that had been set us, either in practice or in dOgma, during its earlier period, 
by statesmen who then not only bore the title, but professed the opinions 
of Tories, Exclusive principles in the constitution, and restrictive princi- 
ples in commerce, have grown up together ; and have really nothing in 
common with the ancient character of our political settlement, or the 
maofiers and customs of the English people. Confidence in t^e loyalty of 
the nation t testified by munificent grants of rights and franchises, and 
favour, to, an expansive system of traffic, were distinctive qualities of the 
En^ish rt>vereignty, untu the House of Commons usurped the better portion 
of Its prerogatives. A widening of our electonal $cheme^ great facilities 
tocommeroevand the rescue of oUr Rofnan Catholic feUow-subjeetb from 
the Puritanic yoke, from fetters which have been fastened on them bv 
English Parliaments in spite of the protests and exeiiions of English 
sovereigns ; these were the three great elements and fundamental truths 
of the real Pitt system, asystem foimded on the traditions of our monarchy, 
and caught from the writings, the speecheSj the counsels of those who, 
for the sake of these and analogous benefits, had ever been anxious that 
the sovereign of England should never be degraded into the^ position of a 
Venetian Doge. 

" It. is in the plunder of the Church that we must seek for the primary 
cause of our ' political exclusion^ and our commercial restraint. That 
tmhallowed booty created a factitious aristocracy, ever fearful that they 
might be called upon to regorge their sacrflegious spoil. \ To' prevent this 
they todc refdgs^ia' political religionism, and, paltering^ with the disturbed 
cenadences or'the pious fantasies of a poiticm of the peof^e, they organized 
them into religious sects. These became the unconscious Praetorians of 
their ill-gotten domains. At the head of these religionists, they have con- 
tinued ever since to govern, or powerfully to influence this country. They 
have in that time palled down thrones and churches, changed dynasties, 
abrogated and remodelled pariiaments ; they have dishanchised Scotland, 
and confiscated Ireland. One may admire the vigour and consistency of 
the Whig party, and recognize in their career that unity of purpose that 
can only spring from a great principle ; but the Whigs introduced 
sectarian religion, sectarian religion led to pditical. exclusion, and political 
exdonon was soon accompanied by commercial restraint." 

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It is not surprising that under the administration of such pseudo- 
Tories as Percival and Peel, the CathoKcs of the United Kingdom 
should have separated from the Conservative party ; though it is 
difficult to tmderstand how at any time they could have com- 
mitted the foUy of guiding their conduct by the most pronounce*! 
principles of Liberalism. As long as the Tory party was broken 
up or disorganized, there was an obvious excuse for many of the 
errors of Catholic poKticians. But giving them the benefit of every 
excuse, it is still evident that the temporary and unnatural alliance 
between the Liberal party and the CathoUc party has compromised 
the principles of the one, and the reUgious interests of the other. 
How different it has been in other countries ! 

In the United States of America, the poUtical party that seems 
to be most influenced by Conservative principles receives the sup- 
port of the CathoUcs. So it is on the Continent of Europe. In 
France, in Germany, in Belgium, in Holland, in Italy, wherever 
Liberals and Conservatives are foimd, the CathoHc party as such 
works with the latter. Not many months ago one of the leading 
RepubKcans of the United States said : — 

" Of course the Roman Catholic party supports the Democratic or Con- 
servative party because they both favoiu* religious education, and cherish 
in common certain old-world notions which we Liberals have repudiated." 

The recent triumph of the Democratic party was to a great 
extent secured by the cordial union, for such objects, of the Epis- 
copal Protestants and the Catholics from Boston to New Orleans. 

More than thirty years ago the Catholic party in France and in 
Belgium gave religious education the foremost place in the 
political programme. They worked side by side with M. Guizot 
and the orthodox Protestants of France, and with the Con- 
servative Protestants of Belgium. They have not failed* The 
Conservative reaction in Western Europe, that the Liberals so 
much deplore, is taking a practical shape in the steady growth of 
rehgious education. The Liberals of Belgium are in despair at 
their failure to permanently estabUsh secular seminaries. Mr. 
Gladstone's literary proteg^, M. de Lavelaye, in his sweeping 
Atack on the Conservative reaction of his own coimtry and of 
France, shuts his eyes to the fact that it is a reaction coincident 
with the greatest commercial and material prosperity. Belgium 
never was so prosperous. The rapid recovery of France alarms the 
Liberals of Germany. The Bishop of Orleans is justified in saying 
that the Bill for the Liberty of Superior Teaching, wluch has now 
passed its third reading in the French Chamber, is the most truly 
Conservative measure of his time. M. Laboulaye congratulates 
the Church that in future the consciences of her children cannot 
be threatened by irreligious education. 

The Conservative reaction that is doing so much for religious 

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edncation is not confined to the United States or to the Continent 
of Europe. It has saved the remnant of rehgious edncation that 
was left in Great Britain. The powerful party of the Church of 
England, and the small but compact party of CathoHcs in England, 
made an open aUiance on the 8th of April, 1870, in St. James's 
Hall, when the Duke of Norfolk and the Marquis of Salisbury, the 
Dnke of Northiunberland and the Chairman of the CathoUc 
School Committee, Lord Sandon, Mr. Beresford Hope, and a 
crowded meeting of the leaders of both Churches, assembled in 
support of religious education. They voted together at the 
ParKamentary elections in 1874, and they can now be seen every 
week assisting each other most cordially at the School Boards. 
Hence they have checked the secular poUcy of the Liberals, But 
if the Catholic prelates of the United States, of France, of Bel- 
gium, of England, have some cause to be satisfied with the present 
state of future prospects of the education question, what is to be 
said of the CathoHc prelates of Ireland 1 

For a quarter of a century and more, the Irish CathoUc prelates 
have actually wielded political power. During all that time they 
never ceased to dwell, either in pastorals to their flocks or in 
petitions to Parliament, on the one great necessity that the 
Cathohcs of Ireland required — ^Rehgious Education. 

They described the paramount object to be achieved in terms 
identical with those used years ago by Cardinal Wiseman and 
Father Newman, and so often employed by the American, French, 
and Belgian bishops. But though they professed to have the 
same object, they endeavoured to accomplish it by entirely oppo- 
ate means. With one or two exceptions, the CathoUc bishops of 
Ireland united themselves openly with the great Liberal party. 
The invaluable services of the Tory Father Newman were dispensed 
with by the Episcopal Board of the CathoUc University. Cardinal 
Wiseman's published letters, in support of the Conservative party, 
at a general election, were denounced as an undue interference 
with the Liberal poUcy of the Irish prelates. 

When the Rev. Justin McCarthy, the parish priest of Mallow, 
proposed Mr. Longfield, a Protestant Conservative, and succeeded 
in securing for him the representation of that borough in 1859, he 
was likewise taunted with opposing the Liberal poUcy of Dr. 
Cullen and the majority of the Irish bishops, whereupon the 
parish priest observed : — 

" I am proud, however, to be able to reply that the course I have struck 
oat for myself has the sanction of the highest and most venerated autho- 
rity in the Catholic Church." 

But neither the authority of the Pope, nor the intellectual 
supremacy of a Wiseman or a Newman, nor the respectful remon- 

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fitrances of fnany independent parish' priests, cotdd induce the 
majority of the Irish prelates to break with the Liberal party. In 
such matters they preferred their own authority and their own 
wisdom. With what result ? With the result of keeping the 
Liberate in office for many years, and, at the same time, of utterly 
failing to accomplish one single iota of their own religious educa- 
tion programme. No wonder that a Catholic prelate should have 
recently said : — 

^* We began our alliance with the Liberals before the Queen's Colleges 
were established, with their unanimous support and that of the Peelites ; 
when the alliance was at its height, the model schools were established by 
them } and now that the Liberals have broken with us, we find ourselves 
worse off than when the partnership commenced. In short, we have done 
everything for them, but they have done nothing for us ! " 

Though Catholic prelates, whose political influence has been 
persistently expended in promoting the cause of Liberalism, pro-, 
gress, and modem civilization, may have some reason to betiloan 
the reauH of their, labours, there are in Ireland many C»thoUc 
LiberaUr who are at heart content with everything that has hap- 
pened, except the change of Government last year. These are 
honest, intelligent gentlemen, whose religion exercises little or no 
influence on their political views, and who, by sincere conviction 
and sympathy, are members pf the great Liberal party. They are 
not very numerous in tte rural districts, but in the centres 
.of influence, such as Dublin and Cork, they constitute a powerful 
section of what are called the educated Catholics. As politicians, 
they regard the organization of the Catholic Cliurch very much as 
they do the organization of the Anglican Church. They object 
to ecclesiastical influences in State affairs. In the Stephen's 
Green Chib of Dublin some of these gentlemen may be heard 
enforcing Mr. Gladstone's attack on Vaticanism. Indeed, Mr. 
Gladstone has received from such quarters much more sympathy 
than is generally supposed. 

But it is sympathy not announced to the public. The CathoKc 
party, as such, are indignant with Mr. Gladstone. They began 
by openly charging him with inconsistency and ingmtitude. A 
little reflebtion, and the good example of the gentle words, but 
vigorous arguments, that have fallen from the Oratory at Bir- 
mingham, have done much to modify the angry tone. They have 
begun to discover that the charge of inconsistency rests rather on 
themselves than on Mr. Gladstone. They have recollected that 
he never lost an opportunity for the last twenty years of de- 
notmcing Vaticanism; and that his recent attacks upon the 
Syllabus and Encyclical were but somewhat more elaborate 
repetitions of his public utterances in 1868. They now remember 
that in October, 1868, when he was'a candidate for their support, 

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he boldly proclaimed his views and policy about the Encyclical 
and Syllabus. It has also oozed out that, in 1870, when he was 
Prime Minister, he gave the Catholic prelates fair notice that it 
might be the duty of Liberal statesmen to adopt retaliatory 
measures if the dogma then under the consideration of the Church 
were adopted. 

On the other hand, Mr. Gladstone and the Liberal party can 
truly say to the Catholics, *' Why should you charge us with in- 
gratitude ? No doubt you kept us in office for many years, but 
did we not give you fair notice that nothing would induce us to 
yield to your religious education programme? We gave you 
plenty of places, more perhaps than you were entitled to, but 
did we not gratify you by secularizing Church property, and 
depriving the famous University of Dublin of its religious 

In fact, the more each side discusses the past, the more clearly 
apermaaent divergence is seen between the Liberals and the 
real Catholic party. But it may be fairly questioned whether the 
numerical loss the Liberals may thus sustain will not be compen- 
sated for in another way. Since the disestablishment of the 
Church, Presbyterianism has become more powerful in Ireland. 
The future policy of the Liberal party, in endeavouring to secu- 
larize education in England and to destroy the English Church, 
meets with great favour from the Irish Presbyterians, and from 
that not inconsiderable section of the disestablished Church that 
is moving in the Presbyterian direction. In addition to these 
new recruits, the Liberal Catholics who remain with their party 
will always be men of inteUigence and active political zeal. 

But it must not be forgotten that there are economic conside- 
rations also affecting the relation of the two great parties to the 
Catholic population of Ireland. Of late years, the Liberal party 
have found themselves in a difficulty with their Irish contingent, 
on such questions as mail-packet subsidies, and grants for 
material improvements. The people of Ireland have taken very 
much to heart an instructive incident which occurred nearly 
thirty years ago. 

The brilliant and accomplished Irish Protestant lawyer who 
now leads with genial tact the Irish Catholic party in the House 
of Commons has at least one historical claim on the gratitude of 
an agricultural population. Nearly thirty years ago he foretold 
that Manchester principles would be found to be inconsistent 
with the agricultural interests of Ireland. He earnestly supported 
Lord George Bentinck, Mr. Disraeli, and Lord John Manners in 
pointing out that Free Trade, unaccompanied by large and just 
compensations to the agricultural classes, meant the destruction 
of the Irish people. He quoted the grave admission of Sir Robert 


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Peel that, " if there were to be any part of the United Kingdom 
which was to Buflfer by the withdrawal of Protection, it would be 
Ireland ;" and, as an Irishman, he bore testimony to the accuracy 
of Lord George Bentinck's famous prophecy : " K you pass these 
Free Trade measures, you deliberately ruin five hundred thousand 
small farmers in Ireland." No one denies it now. The five 
hundred thousand, with their families and their labourers, are 
gone. Free Trade, unrestricted and uncompensated for, was 
carried, and the tourist can see to-day in every country town, 
and by the road-sides, the evidences of Lord George Bentinck's 
prescience —broken gables, silent villages, half-a-million of moss- 
grown hearth-stones I He can contemplate the evidences of 
what is a thousand times worse than absentee landlords — an 
absentee tenantry I Mr. Butt can honourably boast that though 
the Liberal Irish members assisted in bringing this destruc- 
tion to their coimtry, he was not one of them. He was then a 
Conservative. The Catholics, to a man, voted against the agricul- 
tural interest. Every Liberal representative of Catholic electors 
went into the lobby with the Free Trade party, and assisted 
in sealing the fate of Ireland. Catholic electors influenced at 
that time far more than fifty votJbs in the House of Commons. 
That number could have turned the scale and saved the Irish 
farmers. If even the CathoKo vote had been divided between the 
Manchester school and the agricultural party, the Free Traders 
would have been compelled to make a compromise by which 
certain reasonable compensations might have accompanied the 
measure — such compensations as would havis mitigated, if not 
entirely prevented, the blow that fell upon the only real industry 
of Ireland* 

When Mr. Butt, and other Conservatives of that day, urged the 
Catholic members to break with the Manchester school, at least on 
a question so vital to Ireland, they answered, "No, we are 
members of the Liberal party. At all hazards we shall stand by 
our party." 

Not many months passed, and again Lord George Bentinck and 
Mr. Disraeli gave the Catholic members an opportunity of saving 
the Irish people. At the last supreme moment, when the famine 
was closing upon the land, the Conservative party proposed a vote 
of £16,000,000, to be spent on reproductive work in Ireland; a 
vote which would have enabled the people to purchase the food 
which, day by day, was being shipped from Ii'eland to England. It 
was the last chance of the poor. " I am a Protectionist," said 
Lord George Bentinck, "and I believe my first duty is to protect 
the lives of the people ;" but he was answered, by tixe Liberal 
administration of the day, " Our piinciples are opposed to such 
schemes; we must act according to the iniles of political economy; 

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we can make no exception in favour of Ireland." Again Irish 
Catholic members said ; — "We are members of the Liberal party: 
at all risks we must keep the Liberals in office : we would not be 
sorry to see this money sent to Ireland, but Lord John Russell 
eavB the question is so serious that it amounts to a vote of confi- 
dence, and that he will resign if Lord George Bentinck's plan is 
carried ; therefore we, as Liberals, must vote against the plan." 

A generation has passed since the Irish Catholic leadei-s thus 
showed their devotion to the Liberal party. They have expended 
a good deal of energy in the intervening years, in agitating for 
denominational education for the lower classes, and a chartered 
Cathohc University for the upper classes. How utterly trivial, from 
a National point of view, is all their agitation of later years, and 
their failures, compared with their conduct in 1846 and 1847! 

Those who remember that period admit that the poor farmers 
themselves distrusted the Free Trade cry, and that it taxed all 
the energy of their lay and clerical leaders to get them to take 
the fatal step of supporting the Free Tmde candidates at the 
elections. The Liberal agitators said to the Catholic fanners — 
" Your interests have nothing in common with the interests of the 
gentry. The landlords may be injured by Free Trade, but you 
will not be harmed. Vote against your landlords." The evil 
counsels of Liberalism prevailed — though not without some fore- 
bodings. The tradition is still preserved of how the farmers, in 
many county contests, went up in sullen silence to the poll to vote 
their own annihilation. 

It is an instructive fact that some of the veiy men who were 
flriven from Ireland across the Atlantic by Free Trade are to be 
found in the ranks of the successful Protectionists in the United 
States, and in Canada. In Australia, too, the Iiish emigrants 
are active members of the Protectionist party. The president of 
the conference of Australian colonists, that repudiated a few 
years ago the economic theories of the Manchester school, was 
an Irishman. The remarkable aud well-argued despatch, in which 
the conference announced to Lord Kimberley their resolve to main- 
tain Protection, was from the pen of Sir Gavan Duffy. 

But whatever lesson the histoiy of the past may teach, as to the 
possible gain or loss of political parties, from Hie altered relations 
of the Catholics and Liberals, a far more important result than 
any mere party one can already be observed. It is a feet that 
religious animosity in Ireland has always been most bitter when 
the Catholics were ranged exclusively on one side. In 1859 there 
was a remarkable improvement in this respect. 

At the general election of 1859 the Tories had a net gain of 
thirty seats, or sixty votes on a di\4sion. • Sir James Graham, and 
other astute politicians of the time, attributed this entirely to the 

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effect of CathoKc votes. The Ttmea^ in commenting on the result 
of one of the English contests, said : — " There is a further cause 
for the result, and in this instance a very potent one, the influence 
which the Roman CathoKc clergy have throughout the whole of 
this election thrown into the scale of the Tories." When the 
party division took place on the vote of want of confidence in 
the Government, moved by the present leader of the Liberals, 
out of the himdred and one Irish members who voted, sixty- 
three went into the lobby with Mr. DisraeK and thirty-eight with 
Lord Hartington. But the mere party result of the Ii-ish elections 
of 1859 is of little interest or importance compared to the social 
and national consequences of the good feeling that sprang up at 
the time between Protestants and Catholics. More than a dozen 
ultra-Catholic constituencies returned local Protestant Conserva- 
tives. The letter which the Bishop of Elphin published in the 
County of Roscommon, was a type of the sort of Catholic influ- 
ence that assisted the Tory reaction. The contest for the second 
seat was between Mr. Goff, a Protestant Tory landlord, and Mr. 
Tenison, a Liberal landlord. The bishop said : — 

" 1. The clergy and I approve of the opinions and promises set forth in 
Mr. GrofiTs address. 

" 2. We think, however, that electors may vote either for him ot Mr. 
Tenison consistently with the political and religious interests of the 

^^ 3. But where their landlord is decidedly against one of the two, we 
think the tenants should not oppose their landlord." 

Mr. Goff was returned, and for some years there remained, as the 
T^sult of a cohtest so conducted, a sympathy, and almost friendly 
tmion, between the Catholic tenants and the Protestant gentry. 
In another county a Catholic Tory was placed at the head of the 
poll by a combination which he thus described : — 

" He pointed to his supporters. Instead of dividing, he had united 
parties. The memory of the oldest politician there could not carry him 
back to a day like the present, when the parish priest and the parson, the 
landlord and the tenant, fought side by side for the same candidate. He 
/regarded this circumstance as the happiest in the contest." 

For some years in that coimty, also, the social effect was felt, of 
a fair proportion of the Catholic priests and tenants having worked 
side by side in politics with the Protestant landlords. 

No doubt the Tory Catholic party that was formed in 1859 was 
very inadequately represented in the House of Conamons. Never- 
theless, the support which its solitary representative gave to the 
Church of England against the attacks of the Dissenters and of 
some of his Liberal co-religionists — ^his votes on Church Rates, the 
Oxford University Bill, the Burials Bill, the Endowed Schools Bill^ 
and the other measures in which the Liberals assailed ecclesi- 

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astical authority, attracted some attention, and may, perhaps, be 
said to mark a turning-point in the recent history of the CathoUc 
party. But, however feebly the Conservative CathoKcs may have 
been represented in the House of Commons, they commanded 
high authority out of the House. Cardinal Wiseman was not only 
imbued with the Conservative principles of his Church, but he did 
not shrink, when necessary, from the arena of active politics. He 
openly exerted his electoral influence whenever it could be useful 
in favour of the Tories. In pubUc and in private he expressed 
his sympathy with Mr. John Edward Wallis, the conductor of 
what was then a Catholic-Conservative journal, the Tablet. The 
great Oratorian taught then, what he has recently printed, that 
"Toryism — that is, loyalty to persons — springs immortal in the 
human breast ;** and that it is possible to " iinite what is free in 
the new structure of society with what is authoritative in the old, 
without any base compromise with Progress and Libeittlism.''* 
Cardinal Wiseman's example, and Father Newman's teachings, are 
not lost on the rising generation of Catholics. The premier Duke 
and hereditary Earl-Marshal of England is no longer in the 
ranks of the Liberals. From the highest to the lowest the change 
can be observed. Perhaps, in an attempt like the present to 
connect together a few historical incidents, it may not be out of 
place to note a significant fact : that three Prime Ministers of 
England since the Revolution of 1688, are at this moment repre- 
sented by Catholic Tories. Sir Robert Walpole, the great Whig, 
who framed so many penal laws, is now represented by the Tory 
Catholic, LordOrford. The present Lord Bute is a Tory Catholic ; 
and so is the heir apparent to the title of Lord North. 

As long as Cathohcs did not range themselves exclusively on 
one side or the other, religious bitterness appeared to be declining 
in Ireland. 

In a few years, however, a great party cry was raised, and the 
Liberals managed to drag over the whole of the Irish Catholic 
body again to their side. Religious animosity became the order 
of the day. The present paper does not propose to deal with 
current controversies, but one cannot help remarking that the 
history of the agitation of 1868-69 is in itself an exposi of the 
strange hallucinations about Vaticanism, of which so much is 
heard now. The Catholics were arrayed in bitter hostility 
against the Protestants. This was done not for a Catholic object. 
It was not done in accordance with any suggestion from the 
Vatican; on the contrary, it was done in opposition to the 
principles of the Catholic Church and the declared wishes of the 
Vatican. Mr. Gladstone himself, with characteristic honesty and 

' Dr. Newman*B Letter to the Duke of Norfolk on Mr. Oladstono's "Expostulation/* p. 72. 

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courage, did not conceal this then. In one of his speeches, 
previous to the general election at that time, he quoted from the 
authoritative Papal organ published in Rome the disapproval of 
his projected Church Disendowment in Ireland. Even pome of 
his Liberal Catholic supportei-s openly boasted that on this subject 
they were acting in direct antagonism to the expressed sentiments 
of Rome. But the leading Catholic prelates in England and 
Ireland resolved, nevertheless, on. tiie' grave step of zealously 
supporting Mr. Gladstone and the Liberals in seoulaiizing Church 
property. After his public announcement that Rome disapproved 
of his Ixish Church scheme, and after his denunciation of the 
Encyclical and Syllabus, in 1868, these prelates still urged CathoUc 
voters to support him as a " great Liberal statesman." 

The event is too close on the present day for a student of 
history to venture to touch on the political consequences of that 
anti-Catholic policy. One result — that of intense religious bitter- 
ness — ^became at once evident. But, unhappily, reKgious animo- 
sity in Ireland means the antagonism of the two classes on whose 
cordial co-operation the real prosperity and, indeed, the whole 
National future of the country depends. As a rule the landlords 
belong to the Anglican Church, and the tenants to the Catholic 
Church. It is idle to talk of Irish prosperity or of National 
aspirations as long as those two classes are in hostile camps ; and 
hence it is that reUgious animosity, which -is an. evil everywhere, 
is peculiarly destructive to Ireland. 

Of late a change for the better has been noticed; and this 
change, a^s in 1859, is coincident with the breaking off qf one set 
of CathoKcs from the ranks of the Liberal party, and at the same 
time with an open concmTence of opinion between some of the 
prelates jof both Churches in reprobation of the leading features 
of the Liberal progi-amme. The "powerful assault on the 
divinity of the Bible by the Germans," and the spirit of 
materialism,. which seems to be guiding the Liberal party every- 
where, have been encountered in almost identical arguments by 
AngKcan and by Catholic bishops. But whatever may be the 
cause that brings them together — whether it be partly their 
resustftnce to the attack upon a common Christianity, or partly m 
consequence of the inevitable break-up of CathoKo Liberalism— 
in any event, the result should not be regretted if it tends to 
establish a better feeling between Protestants and Catholics in 
Ireland. Such a result is infinitely more important than any 
mere question of gain or loss to the Conservative or Liberal 

Pope Hennessy. 

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UMBALLA, Dec. 25tJi. — Christmas day. A long journey of 
some sixteen hours brought us, about 3 a.m., to this place, 
whither we had been bidden by the Commander-in-Chief, and 
where we found the most delightful tents ready to receive us. 
We passed Allygurh, and at Ghazeeabad left the East Indian 
system for that of the Scinde, Lahore, and Punjab line. Night 
fell there, and we continued our journey past Meerut, -with its 
sinister memories of 1857, Mozuffenmgger, and Sahaninpore. 

The country, as long as the light lasted, was of the same 
character as that through which we travelled from Cawnpore to 
Agra. Often we observed the good effects of irrigation ; some- 
times we saw land on which had fallen, as far as I could judge, 
the same calamity as that we had observed in Oudh — a Reh efflo- 
rescence on the surface of the soil, indicating the presence of 
chemical substances fatal to vegetation. 

The most conspicuous plant of cultivation was the tall Urrah 
(Cajanus Indicus), now covered with its yellow leguminous flower, 
always a precarious crop so far north, as it cannot stand much 
frost, but very valuable when it does succeed. 

Up very early to see the Himalayas ; which, however, ob- 
stinately remained in the mist, and the only faint glimpse of them 
which I obtained was much later in the day, on the way to church. 
The church is handsome, very handsome if judged by an Indian 
standard, and filled with a large, chiefly military, congregation. 

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Dec. 26rt. — ^Rode with the Commander-in-Chief romid the can- 
tonment, which he himself laid out some thirty years ago, and 
admirably laid out it is. These cities of villas, inhabited by 
Europeans, outside and often far away from the native cities of 
the same name, each villa standing in its park, or compound, as it 
is called, from, I believe, a Poi-tuguese word having the same root 
as coupon, are one of the most curious features of India, and utterly 
unlike anything at home. This one is purely military, the small civil 
station being some miles off. We saw the general arrangement 
of the place, and stopped to go through as well a native hospital 
as the hospiteJ of the rifle brigade. The latter seemed to be what 
it should, but I cannot say quite as much for the former ; the rule 
that the native soldier should receive so much pay, and find him- 
self in all things, producing rather questionable results when 
it is applied to hospital management. The subject, however, 
thanks to the peculiarities of native habits, is surrounded with 

During our ride, and later in the day, I had an opportunity of 
hearing Lord Napier's views on all the points in connection with 
the native army which we have heard most talked of in the last 
four weeks, and highly reassuring these views were, formed as 
they had been from a far wider survey of the whole subject than 
any to which we had listened. 

Some interesting types presented themselves amongst the 
Commander-in-Chief's visitors to-day, as for instance, sons of Dost 
Mahonuned; a Sikh landed proprietor; two Afghans who had 
sided with us in the war, and had done excellent service in the 
mutiny, &c., &c. 

Lahore, Dec 31«/. — We have been moving about so rapidly 
that I have had no time to write. 

Firet I must tell you of Pattiala, whither we were invited 
by the Maharajah, who sent his carnages for us. On the 
way I caught a glimpse of the Indian jay, by far the most 
beautiful bird I have ever seen in a wild state. Then came, 
as we hurried at racing pace along the excellent road, the 
grand Serais built by the Moguls for the reception of travellers. 
One of these, that of Rajpoora, " firm as a fortress, with its fence 
of stone," stands close to the humble posting bungalow, and the 
still humbler railway station. 

How curiously, I thought, would a voyager from another planet 
be apt to mistake the relative power of the people who raised 
these edifices I 

At Rajpoora and other places we found officers of His Highness 
and bodies of horsemen, some of whom galloped on to convey the 
news of our coming from post to post. 

About two miles from the capital the Maharajah met us, where- 

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upon we immediately left the carriage in which we were, and 
joined him. After some 300 yards we all got down again and 
entered the state carriage, in which we remained till we reached^_ . 
a point of the road at which some fifty elephants were drawn up 
on one side of the way, and a large number of led horses on the 
other. The elephants had gilded or silver-plated howdahs, and 
the led horses^ beantiful animals, thoroughly conscious of their 
own beauty, were splendidly caparisoned. 

Leaving the state carriage, I followed the Maharajah up a ladder 
into the howdah of his elephant, while my two companions ascended 
another, and the procession moved forwards. First came the 
standard of Pattiala, borne on a great elephant attended by two 
smaller ones ; then followed a body of cavalry; next came the 
state carriage; then a company of musicians playing, and playing 
excellently well, Scotch airs on the bagpipe. 

After these went men on foot in scarlet dresses and armed with 
silver spears, while the line was closed by the elephants in double 

As we entered the town a salute was fired, and we passed 
on through streets and under housetops crowded with spec- 

As soon as we had got beyond the further gate, we came on 
two long lines of extremely smart-looking troops, horse and foot. 
These lined the way till we reached the gate of the "Pearl 
Garden,'' where, under a second salute, we descended from the 
"hnge, earth-shaking beast," who did not particularly like the 
firing, though he behaved with great dignity. A man then 
advanced and presented us with bouquets of a very fragrant 
nareiasus, near the jonquil, the Maharajah meantime taking my 
hand, and leading me along a row of fountains, and under the 
shade of oranges and loquats, to the door of the lovely little garden- 
house which he put at our disposal. 

There, after a few moments, we were left toinstal ourselves and 
to dine« As soon as dinner was over, we set forth to visit our 
entertainer at his great palace in the town. Stopping at the foot 
of a long flight of stairs, we ascended them into a wide open 
space, while the band played " God Save the Queen ; " and the 
Maharajah, advancing to the door, led me into a magnificent hall, 
bkzing with innumerable Ughts, and filled with people in gorgeous 
dresses. It was exactly the kind of thing a child imagines when 
it first hears of kings and courts. Sitting there in the centre of 
the durbar, we assisted at our first nautch, an entertainment with 
which, in the days of Runjeet Singh, even the greatest affairs of 
state used to be mingled. Only one of the performera was pretty ; 
and as for propriety, the ceremony was grave enough to have 
been a religious service at the funeral of a bishop. 

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That oveiv there were fireworks with, of course, many admirable 
little bits of Rembrandt amidst the crowd. 

This, however, was not all of Pattiala. Workshops, with steam 
machinery ; an admirably managed gaol ; a school, where I made 
the boys read Napier's account of the battle of Albuera, which 
they did veiy well ; the state jewels ; a court jester ; a wrestling 
tournament, in which the knights who contended were elephants ; 
and a long visit to the palace, which contains at least one room 
which might be the boudoir of the queen of the fairies — a room 
which is the ne plus tiUra of all that exquisite artistic feeling can 
do with colour and gold — ^were only some of the other occupations 
and amusements which our thoughtful host had provided for his 
visitors from the West, who were only able to stay a few hours 
instead of the days for which his hospitable kindness would fain 
have detained them. 

From Pattiala we transferred ourselves to Deyrah, between the 
Sewalik range and the outer Himalaya, having on the way back 
to Umballa much pleasant talk of Eastern Europe and Western 

Asia with Colonel M ^ our companion in the Pattiala visit, who 

knew India as well as the Levant, and the Levant as well as India. 

If you look to the north from any piece of open ground in 
Deyrah, you see what seems to be a little snow close to the top of 
the outer Himalaya. When you have looked a moment, you find 
out that it is not snow but white houses dotted about. Those 
houses are the sanitaria of Landour and Mussoorie. 

We were bound for the first, and I was soon on the back of 
a charming Uttle Arab, whose arm-chair caiiter was highly favour- 
able to botanizing, and under the guidance of Dr. Brandis, the 
Inspector-General of Indian forests. Within the first four miles of 
ourride, he brushed away a fearful heresy which I cherished about 
the Neem; having four weeks ago — ^will you believe it ? — ^been led 
by some corrupter of the true faith to confound Melia Azadirachta 
with Melia Azedarach. Then he confirmed my orthodox but 
hesitating opinions about the Sissoo, showed me Cedrda Toona^ with 
its AUanthuS'looking leaf, and the soapnut Segnndus emarffinatuSf 
now yellow, like so many of our own trees in autumn. Then 
came Bomhax ceibci, the silk-cotton tree, covered with its scarlet 
flowers, and BotUera tinctorioy which furnishes an important dye, 
with much else. 

As we drew near the base of the hills, our friend cried, "Now 
look to the left, and you will see your first S41 forest. The young 
S&l always takes that cylindrical shape." I looked, and saw what 
might have been to my bad eyes a Thuringian pinewood, so 
closely does the huge-leaved Sftl ape in its early stage the growth 
of needle-leaved trees. Soon we were on the Himalayan slope, 
and I had then to change my Arab for a mountfiun pony. Ere 

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long we heard a familiar sound which had not reached my ear 
since I heard, at Carolside, the Lauder " singing down to the vale 
of Tweed," It -was a mountain brook making its way to the 
Ganges. Soon came another familiar sight, a toll-bar ; but close 
to it another, less familiar one, the flower-adorned shrine of a 
Hindu ascetic. On we went with fine views of the plains — ^the 
kind of views one has from the Apennine looking to the west — 
and gradually rose from one belt of vegetation to another. On 
the lower slope Euphorbia JRoyliana was everywhere, a huge plant, 
of thoroughly tropical appearance. Then came Bauhinia Betusay 
JusUcea AdJiatoduy and HamiUonia Suaveolens. 

At leng^ our guide, plucking something, said — " You know 
this." It was a maple — Acer oblangua. We had reached the region 
where European genera become pretty numerous, and soon saw 
Alnua Nepcdensis, Pyrua variolosa, Bex dtpt/rena, Quercua incanuy 
Andnnfi^ ovaUfolia, &c. The two trees, however, which interested 
me mo|^ were the Deodara and Rhododendron, neither of which 
were veiy numerous. Still, there they were, in their own home. 
At about 7,500 feet I gathered Sonchus oleraoeu$, a familiar British 
species, which is, however, I beUeve, to be found in the plainte, 
and a Euphorbia, which was either the Amygdaloidea of our spiing 
woodlands, or something quite close to it. Other plants which I 
was particularly glad to see x)n this excursion were Mahonia 
Xepalensisy Cupressus torulosa, Benihamia fraffiferOf and Leycesteria 
formosa, dear to the British pheasant. 

We had clambered a long time over the pathways of Landour, 
when a glimpse told us that the great view we had come so far to 
see would not be denied us, and we were soon on the top of 
Lallteeba, the Red Hill, and in presence of the grandest mountain 
chain in the whole world. Our friend, with that care and 
exactitude which took his countrymen to Paris, had provided 
himself with a compass and the most accurate maps, so that 
he could check his local knowledge in the best way. 

Well, then, look with me due north. You will see a range of snow 
mountains about sixty-eight miles ofl^ and 17,000 feet high. Behind 
them flows the Sutlej, making its way down to the plains. Then, 
as the eye moves eastward, it is shut out from a view of the snow 
by the Snakes' Hill, Nagteeba, an eminence of about 9,000 feet. 
Still further round towards the east the snow begins again, and is 
continuous. First comes a mighty mass some fifty miles off, and 
20,000 feet high, which rises behind .the sacred Jumnootri ; then 
the still lugher mass of Banderpanch and a. horn Hke the Pic du 
Midi, south of Pan ; then a mass of about 22,000 feet beyond the 
line of the Bagaruttee, which feeds the Ganges, The highest -point 
of this mass is Mount Moira. Still further to the east, and sixty 
niilea ofi^ ia the mighty Eidemath, 22,832 feet in height^ quite a 

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Kttle hill compared to Everest or Kinchinjiinga, but higher than 
any mountain out of the Himalayas, looking down on Chimborazo 
and Kilimanjaro, and equal to Mont Blanc "with Skiddaw and 
Snowdon on the top of it. Still further east, near the head- 
waters of the Alaknanda, another feeder of the Ganges, the chain 
sinks, and one sees no more snow. Somewhere between the eye 
and the Mount Moira range lies Gangootri. It is the fact of 
Jumnootri and Gangootri both lying between the eye and these 
mountains which has made people erroneously apply to some of 
their dizzy heights the names of these two sacred spots. 

Now turp to the south. R;ght in front you will see the valley 
of the Doon, one of the prettiest bits of country in India or any- 
where else. SKghtly to the west you will remark a stream making 
its way to the Jumna, and a good deal to the east another making 
its way to the Ganges ; while beyond the Doon, and shutting out 
from it the hot winds of smnmer, as the Himalayas shut out the 
cold winds of winter, is the Sewalik range. Away to the west of 
it, but out of &ight, is another hallowed place, Hurdwar, where the 
Ganges issues from the hills. I thought of the fine sentence (I 
think, Bishop Thirlwall's) which lingers somewhat imperfectly 
in my mind — 

^^ The fulness of the stream is the glory of the fountain, and it is because 
the Ganges is not lost amidst its parent hills, but deepens and widens till 
it reaches the sea, that so many pilgrimages are made to its springs.'* 

And again of the words in Mackintosh's paper on Lord Com- 
wallis — 

^^ His remains are interred on the spot where he died, on the banks of that 
famous river which waters no country not either blessed by his government 
or visited by his renown, and in the heart of that province, so long the 
chosen seat of religion and learning in India, which under the influence of 
his beneficent system, and under the administration of good men whom he 
had chosen, had risen from a state of decline and confusion to one of pros- 
perity probably unrivalled in the happiest times of its ancient princes. 
^ His body is buried in peace, and his name liveth for evermore.' " 

We started betimes on the 30th, and rode rapidly towards the 
Eastern Doon, through lanes full of the large sweet-scented Jas- 
minum hirsutumy which was covered with a heavy dew. In the 
immediate neighbourhood of Deyrah the Pinus longifolia and the 
larger bamboo, plants of very different climates, meet and flourish. 
Except at Jubbulpore, I had never seen the latter in anything 
like its natural state, and very beautiful it is in that state. Yester- 
day I observed several other bamboos, amongst them a small 
species occurring at a high elevation. 

We dismounted at the bottom of a hill, and proceeded slowly 
across an orchard of mangoes to the edge of the S&l forest. As 
we advanced, I saw that the branches of the mangoes were 

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covered by two species of orchids — ^both, I beKeve, Cattleyas, but 
I epeak with some hesitation. 

And what was the S41 forest like T Well, at the point where we- 
entered it, and passed the Government pillars marking off the 
reserved from the village woodland, it was very like the broken 
groond between the Missenden road and the great avenue at 
Hampden. When we had entered it, however, the totally dif- 
ferent look of the soil struck the eye at once. Here, there was 
neither the grass of an English park, nor the bed of dry leaves 
which you find in a close teechwood. The surfece, swept by 
frequent fires, was as hard as stone, and dotted only with plants 
which had grown up since the last of these had passed that way. 
Conspicuous amongst such plants were a dwarf palm {Phoenix 
acaulis) and an asparagus, said to have lovely white flowers at the 
proper season. Aniongst the trees, I was most interested by the 
Sil itself, by the Eugenia JamboUmOy by the Lagerstroemia parvifloTOj 
a near relation of that lovely Lagerstroemia which so much de- 
lighted us at Venice, recalling, as it did, in autumn the spring 
glories of the lilac. I had no idea to what an extent the creepers 
of these regions are the enemies of the forester, audit went to my 
heart to see the heavy Nepaulese knife applied to the Butea s^uperboy 
the Derris scandenSy the Loranthus UmgifoUa a handsome cousin of 
our common mistletoe, and other plants of an equally attractive 
appearance and equally encroaching disposition. 

From the Eastern we hurried to the Western Doon, at a pace 
which would hardly have permitted the grass to grow under our 
feet, and were soon among the plantations of the Deyrah Tea 
Company, where unhappily we were only able to stay a very short 
time, during which, however, thanks to the courtesy and in- 
telligence of the superintendent, I learned more about tea than I 
had ever known before. First, I saw the plant in flower. You 
know, or don't know, that it is a camellia, and very like a miniature 
copy of the well-known ornament of our winter conservatories. 

Then I was told the distinction between the Chinese plant and 
its taller relative, which is wild in Assam. It is not grown in the 
Deyrah plantation, but a hybrid between it and the Chinese 
plant is. 

Then I learned the difference between black tea and green. 
Both come from the same plant, but the former is fermented and 
the latter is unfermented. 

I asked about the half-fabulous teas one has heard of, which 
never come into the market, " tea of the Wells of the Dragon," for 
instance. Such things, I was told, if ever made, would be the 
yonng unexpanded leaf plucked and prepared separately. 

Then I asked about Flowery Pekoe, which, in my ignorance, I 
8a^[KN96d to contain portions of the flower. Flowery Pekoe, I was 

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told, is the very finest kind of "black tea, and has its name from the 
soft down of the young nnexpanded leaf which may te perceived 
npon it, A little of it is sometimes prepared separately. Orange 
Pekoe, which is much the same, has its name from the colour of the 
unexpanded leaf when dried. Its orange colour enables it to 
be easily distinguished and picked out. You must understand 
that save and except the half mythological teas I have alluded 
to, all black tea, from Orange Pekoe down through Pekoe and 
Souchong to Bohea, which last is made of the largest and oldest 
le^ives, and all green tea from Young Hyson down to Hyson- 
skin, are plucked and prepared together. The sorting is an after 
process, done partly by sieve, partly by hand. We saw the initia- 
tory process; and it will please you to know that the curled and 
shrivelled fonn in which afl tea appears is entirely due to its being 
first heated, and then most carefully rolled between the hands of 
the operator and a kind of rough matting. Further we could not 
follow it, for we had to hurry away, and I am at the end of my 
Latin as far as teamanufhcture is concerned, except that I saw the 
sorting process going on, and would be, I tliink, qualified to pick 
out the Orange Pekoe. 

I had to leave Deyrah without seeing the estabUshment of the 
Great Trigonometrical Survey, for which I was very sorry, and I 
had to leave Saharunpore without seeing the Botanical Garden, 
but one cannot put the work of thirty-six horn's into twenty-four. 

The first part of our way from Deyrah to Sahanmpore, where we 
joined the railway, was through the pretty Bewalik HUls, to ex- 
plore which I would most willingly have given some days. At one 
of the places where we changed horses, I got down to gather some 
leaves of Sal. This had the good effect of betraying me to one 
of the young forest officers, whom you may remember seeing at 
Nancy when I went to have a look at our Indian students there in 
1872. He came with us to the point where the cultivated land 
meets the forest, and named for me Coluted Nepalemis, a superb 
fifater of the Bladder Senna, said to be hardy in England, and a 
great ornament to the Sewalik at this season. 

In Saharunpore, I had much conversation with Dr. Jameson, the 
honoured founder of the tea industiy in North-Westem India, at 
biB housfe in or close to the Botanical Garden, wliich was tantaliz- 
ihg to a degree, but it was, alas I in the middle of the m'ght. 

When we awoke this morning, we were at Kurtarpore, on the 
farther side of the Sritlej, in thb Jullunder Doabi Soon we crossed 
th6 huge bed of the Beas, and mn on to Umritsur — f.^., Amrita 
Salas, the' fountain of Immortality, which is the great emporium of 
this part of India and the sacred city of the Sikhs. 
• We soon started, uriderthe atu^pices of General tteyn^U Taylor, 
ta see the Golden Temple, which stands in the middle of a great 

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tank, and is connected with the land by a marble causeway. It 
is called golden because the upper part of it is gilt all over, like 
the dome of the Isaac's Church in Petersburg. We put on 
slippers, as one does at St. Sophia, a ceremony rarely insisted on 
in the mosques of India, and followed our guide along the edge 
of the tank, which is set with a few trees, amongst which I ob- 
served the Jujube, and so across the causeway to the graceful 
little temple. Several men were busy decking out tho small 
baldacchino under which the sacred book of the Sikhs, the Adee 
Granth, is kept. Three others were playing on musical instru- 
ments, and singing rather noisily. There is a gi-eat deal of 
mosaic work on the ma,rble of the temple, and nothing can be 
prettier than the gilding of the interior, which is more hke what 
people in England associate with the Alhambra than anything 
else which occurs to me. It is very small, little more than a chapel. 
The Capella paUuina at Palermo comes into one's mind, but the 
feeling of the Golden Temple is quite diflferent, veiy riaiit instead 
of being very gloomy. We returned across the causeway, anc^ 
went to another bmlding where the initiatory rites of the Sikh 
religion are performed, and where we found one of the officiating 
priests reading the Granth. He sat under a marble canopy, with 
groups of the faithful standing on either side — exquisite architec- 
ture behind and above. We stood in. a court-yard slightly below. 
I have seen, nothing in India which would have made such an 
historical picture. Form, colour, everythiug was there. Paul 
Veronese never painted anything, I dare venture to say, that 

would have delighted his eye so much. 

♦ # ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ 

Umritsur is a busy, well-ordered, and extremely picturesque 
place. Here and there stand up from ,amidst the green of its gar- 
dens the towers of the old nobles, making one think .of Florence, 
but most of the houses are only of two stories. I was glad to 
see many quite recently built, of great arclntQctural merit, and 
charmingly adorned with wood carving. 

Before we left, we did some business with the shawl mer- 
chants. By the way, I never knew till, the other day,. that the 
Bampore eJiawls took their name, not. from the Rampore with 
whose name one is famiUar, but from Rampore, the capital of the 
mountain st^te of Bussahir, high up the Sutlej. They, are now, 
however, chiefly made in the plains. 

We paid a visit to the Fort of Govindghur, over which I walked 
with the very i^telhgent conmaanding officex, whom I put 
many questions as. to what he would dp under such and such 
circumstances, and was pleased to find that tie had .thought of 
all coi^lingencies. . . , . 

It was at Govindghur that, as I heard, not on this, but on 

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another occasion, a very edgnificant conversation took place, some 
years ago. 

Sikh nobleman : "Why is that mortar inclined in that direction, 
which does not seem the natural one ?" 

British Artillerist : ** Sii-, it is pointed at your Holy of Holies. 
The distance is yards. The proper charge is of gun- 
powder. It will drop a shell within twenty feet." 

Happily our relations with the Sikhs have long been as friendly 
as possible, and there is, please God, as Kttle likelihood of a shell 
from Govindghur ever finding its way to the Golden Temple aa 
there is of its finding its way to St. Paul's. 

My conversation at this place, and several others which I have 
had lately, have been so far useful, that ihey have called my 
attention to certain aspects of our military position in India, 
which had not come much to my notice when at the India 

Jan. laty 1875. — ^Indian stations — ^the European quarters, that 
is, of Indian towns — ^are built in contempt of the saying, " What 
a pity it is that life is so short when everything else is so 
long!" but of all Indian stations Lahore must, I think, be the one 
in which that true saying is held in least honour. The distances 
are quite awful. 

Early, however, this morning we set forth imder the care of the 
Senior Judge of the Chief Court and the Conunissioner to visit 
the native city — an object which waa effected partly in carriages, 
partly on foot, and partly on the " huge earthnshaking beast," who 
is most useful in narrow and crowded streets, as it never enters 
into his head to tread on or hurt any one. 

The things most worth seeing were the Great Mosque, the Fort, 
the Tomb of Runjeet Singh, that of Gooroo Govind, the Mosque 
of Wazir Ali, the Gardens, and the Tomb of Jehangeer. 

The Great Mosque was built by Aurungzebe out of the confis- 
cated estates of his brother Dara, whose feite, in spite of his great 
and many failings, excited a good deal of compassion. Hence it 
has never been popular, and even to this day the faithful prefer 
other buildings of very inferior pretensions. 

It is a stately pile, whether seen from near or far, but not of 
first-rate merit. In its noble quadrangle I observed far the largest 
Banian I have yet seen — ^the first, indeed, which gives me any 
conception of what that tree is when it begins to get on in 

The Fort is of little military importance, and has been much 
injured both by the Sikhs and ourselves, but it contains many 
beautiful bits, and commands an admirable view as well of .the 
city as of the dusty wilderness which spreads around it. At one 

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time the Bavee ran close under its walls when it must have 
presented an appearance not unlike its brethren in Agra and 

Much of the exterior is ornamented with a coating of what one 
can only call porcelain plaster — a style of decoration I have never 
seen before, and the art of which is said to be lost. Kashi is the 
technical term for it. The effect produced is exactly that of the 
most brilliant Spanish azuUjos^ or blue encaustic tiles, but it must 
have been very much cheaper, and it is extremely to be wished 
that the process should be rediscovered. The decorations on the 
outside of the Fort belong to the age of Jehangeer, and bear 
witness to his well-known eclecticisim. Numerous figures of 
animals abhorrent to true Mussulman feeling, are very visible. 
Mithraic emblems are said to occur, and there are some figures 
which are socfpiciously like the European devil — ^the occurrence of 
which is referred by some authorities to the teaching of the Jesuits, 
who are known to have had some influence at Jehangeer's court. 

The tomb of the old Uon has not much architectural merit, and, 
like that of Gooroo Govind, the tenth supreme pontiff of the 
Sikhs, who gave a poUtical turn to their religion, is chiefly impor- 
tant historically. Some of Bunjeet's wives, who burnt themselves 
on his funeral pyre, he round him, and bear testimony to a 
curiously different state of society from that which now exists at 
Lahore, after the lapse of Httle more than a generation. 

Speaking of a similar practice, that of Johar or self-devotion, 
the author of a remarkable pamphlet on the '^ Antiquities of 
Lahore" observes — 

^ The suicide of Calanus, the Indian, at Pasargadse, and that of Zar- 
maoochegas at Athens (Strabo, lib. xv., chapter 1), are other instances of 
the performance of this rite. But we need not go back to antiquity for 
examples ; only the other day a peasant of the Kangra district, a leper, 
deliberatelv burnt himself to death. According to the official report, ^ one 
of his brothers handed him a light and went away, a second brother watched 
the burning, and a third thought it a matter of such small interest that he 
went about his usual avocations. ' " 

We looked through a small but rather interesting armoury in 
the Fort. One of my companions showed me a strangelynBhaped 
bow. "How long is it since they have used that in actual 
warfare?" said I. "Not so long," replied he. " I myself had an 
arrow fired at me during the siege of Mooltan." 

The Mosque of Wazir AH is chiefly interesting as being the 
best specimen, or one of the best, of the Kashi work, to which I 
have already alluded, while the tomb and garden of Jehangeer 
are more or less in the style of those of the Taj. They are 
situated far to the west of the city, beyond the Ravee, and must 
have been very striking indeed before later rujers took to 
plundering them for their own constructions. The tomb of the 


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great Noor Jehan, who sleeps hard by, has suffered very mnch 
more than that of her htisband. Now the authorities are devoting 
a veiy Uttle money to keeping the antiquities of Lahore in some- 
thing Kke order, but there is still mnch to be done. 

On our way back from the tomb of Jehangeer we saw a polo 
match, which was being played between the yonng Nawab of 
Bhawulpoor 8 people and some English officers. The boy rode 
extremely well, and the whole scene, backed as it was by the 
buildings of the city, was striking and characteristic. 

Jan, 2nd. — ^A true Punjab day — ^the whole air full of dust; the 
sun represented by a pale disc, like the moon seen through clouds. 
This, with the thermometer at 90° Fahr. in the coolest room, and 
anything you please ont of doors — ^no uncormnon occurrence in 
the hot weather — ^must be delectable. At present it is chilly. The 
glass has been down at 21° or 22° Fahr. in the night latety : but, 
not being in tents, we feel the cold less than we did at Agra. 

We drove in the afternoon to the Great Shalimar Gardens. 
The fountains played ; but there AVtts no great head of water on, 
and the weather was most unpropitious. 

We adjourned to a grove of Sissoo, under which the boys from 
six neighbonring village schools had been collected — Sikhs, 
Hindoos, and Mahometans. Som6 of them were very intelligent. 
I asked one youth of about fourteen which was the most powerful 
coimtry in Europe after England. " Germany," he replied. " And 
the next to Gemoiany ? " " Russia," he said. I demurred, and 
asked him what he thought of France. " Oh, France," he said, 
" was once very powerful ; but her disasters in the late war were 
so great that she is no longer so." Then I asked him what was 
the ecclesiastical capital of his religion. He was a Hindoo. 
" Benares," he answered. " And what is the ecclesiastical capital 
of the most numerous body of Christians ? " I inquired. ** Rome," 
he replied. ** Do you know what is going on in that country t " I 
said, pointing to Spain. *' A war between the peojple who want a 
republic and those who want a monarchy," was the answer. 

Having seen a village in the North-west, we wished to see one 
in the Punjab under the guidance of the Deputy Commissioner ; 
80 the accountant of the one in which Shalimar is situated attended 
with his maps and books. 

This village, unKke the one I have described near Agra, belongs 
almost wholly to one family and there is only a single Lumberdar, 
the head of that family. He is absent on a pilgrimage to Mecca; 
but his son came, and we had a long conversation with him and 
others as to the amoimt of the Government demand, the rent paid 
by the cultivators, the nature of their occupancy rights, and so 
forth. There was present also the Tehsildar, a most important 
officer in the Punjab — this one, for instance, having 863 villages 

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under him — the Oanoongoe, or superintendent of acconntants in 
the Tehflil, and, as I have said, the accoimtant, or Putwarree, him- 
self besides numerous villagers. 

With these we went off to visit the village ; saw its mosque, built 
near the tomb of a holy man, with the hereditary guardian of 
the tomb ; went into a house, due notice having been given to 
the women of our approach; noticed the stable or cow-house 
below, the sleeping and sitting room above with a little goat 
tied up in them — the cooting-apparatus — ^the household vessels, 
chiefly earth^i^i^are, not as in apparently wealthier houses, which 
I had seen at Ahmedabad, of brightly polidied brass or copped-. 
Then we tasted the parched Indian com, which was admirably 
good, and the ohupattee (or ordinary br^ad), exactly like the 
flcone of Nbrllieaii Scotland, which you remembes finding also 
in the Trbad* We saw, too, the village weighman, an imEpoitant 
peiBonage,* who numages, mter aliOy the public entertaininent of 
strangeift by the village, and levies a rate for that and otiief 
puiposes, Twth which Government never interferes. 

We stopped at a drapei^s shop, and examined the goods. Most 
were English ; some, however, were native cottons, but of no 
great merit. Lastly, we had the village bard produced, who sang 
hideously, to a sort of lyre. We had been led specially to desire 
to see hiTTi from having examined a village pedigree (an admirable 
institution, recently, if I mistake not, made an official village 
record), to which was prefixed a short account of the foundation 
of the village by its common ancestor. The one we saw, which 
was not that of the village I have been describing, went back for 
fonr hundred jeeus, and rested, to some extent, on the authority 
of the village bard, whose business it is to know all about 
genealogies. It was an elaborate document, I know not how 
many feet in length, but long enough, as it seemed to me, to 
have recorded even the history of that great French house which 
is said to have on its pedigree a representation of the Due of that 
day going, hat in hand, to congratulate the Blessed Virgin on 
the birth of her Son, and being addressed by her with the words : 
" Couvrez-vous, mon cousin ? " 

There was a large tree in the village which I did not recognize, 
and of which I asked the name. It was my friend the Pilu (see 
my note on Bhurtpore), whose acquaintance I then succeeded in 

The old moat which we found round Runjeet Singh's Lahore 
has been turned into gardens, and the whole of the adjoining 
county, which — except so far as a few very ancient trees formed 
an exceptions-was a howling wilderness, is now swathed in wood. 
I observe in some abundance a familiar form, which I came upon 
for the first time in these: lands as I. passed through Mussoorie — 

y 2 

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the weeping willow. It seems odd to see a tree which I always 
associate with Stratford-on-Avon — ^the most English spot in Eng- 
land — amidst such un-English sceneiy. I note, by-the-bye, that 
the last accredited guess as to the tree of the 187th Psalm 
connects it, not with the Salix BabyloniccLj but with the Popuhu 

Mrs. has shown me a large number of flower-paintings. 

She first obtains an exact outline of the living plant by a very 
simple process of nature-printing, and then colours the oufline 
carefully. The results are minutely accurate and very beautifuL 
One portfolio illustrated a journey through Cadunere, and made 
one long for a summer there. 

As I drove yesterday with y I asked him if he knew the 

scientific name of the tall grass which I heard called tigei^gprass 
at Ahmedabad, and which is very abundant here. I think it is a 
Saccharunij but am not quite sure. '' No/' he said, ** but the people 
in this neighbourhood call it Sikunder's grass, as they still call the 
main branch of a river Sikunder's Channel. Strange — is it not?—- 
how that great individuaUty looms through history — 

** On parlera de sa gloire, 

SottB le dumne bien longtemps 
L'humble toit daiui cinquante ans 
Ke connaitra pas d autre histoire/'* 

You remember ^'s maintaining, half seriously, that the 

villagers in the plain between Hampden an^l Oxford, when they 
speak of the Prince, still mean Prince Rupert. 

How long impressions remain, and how quickly details 'fade 
away 1 " It is a thousand pities," said a resident here to me 
jesterday, " that no one wrote down the table-talk of Runjeet 
Singh, who was always saying noteworthy things. A few years 
ago there were men alive who coxdd have done it, but now it is 
too late." 

I still see very few animals — a pair of hoopooes, and the mun- 
goose, the hereditary enemy of the cobra, at this place; the 
lammageyr at Landour ; several birds of the hawk kind, including 
a large ugly kite, which acts as a scavenger ; a fine tiger in con- 
finement at Pattiala ; another just caught, and vincla recusans very 
much indeed, poor beast ; a little lynx also, there, nearly as pretty, 
and somewhat more amiable than the one who used to live in that 
house in the Zoological Gardens, of which the keeper observed 
when asked him if the Suricate bit, " Bites, sir! every- 
thing bites here !" 

Will you have a wild beast story, of which you may believe as 
much as you please? 

A tigress who lived in captivity at Lahore made her escape one 

• M Cinquante «u" la France U 2fiOO here. 

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day, and not minatarally startled the station pretty considerably. 
At lengih the gardener in whose domain her cage was situated 
went to the proper authority, and begged to be ordered to take 
the runaway back. " Order you to take it back I" was the reply — 
" m give you no such order — ^it would be ordering you to be killed." 
"Not at aJl, sir," said the man. " Only give me the order, and I 
wiD take the tigress back." " 111 give you no such order, but you 
may do as you please," was the rejoinder. Hereupon the man, 
taking off his turban, walked up to the creature, which was lying 
in a shrubbery which it had probably mistaken for a jimgle, and 
after a courteous salutation, said to her, ^^In the name of the 
powerful British Government, I request you to go back to your 
cage." At the same time he put his unfolded turban round her 
neck and led her back. 

The poor fellow lost his life not long afterwards^ while tiying 
the same experiment on a bear, whose political principles were 
not equally good. 

M. E. Grant Dupp. 

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TO any fair judge of evidence, the external evidence is in 
favour of the belief that the Fourth Gospel had its source 
in the Apostle John. But what is reUed on, as above all fatal to 
this belief, is the internal evidence. The internal evidence is sup- 
posed to lead us with overpowering force to the conclusion that 
the Fourth Gospel is a fancy-piece by a Gnostically disposed 
Greek Christian, a consummate hterary artist, seeking to develop 
the Logos-idea, to cry up Greek Christianity and to decrj- 
Jewish, and taking for the governing idea of his composition the 
antithesis between light and darkness. Everything in the Fourth 
Gospel, we are told, is profoundly calculated in this sense. So 
. many miracles, and in such a gradation, as were proper to bring 
out fully the contrast between hght and darkness, life and death, 
Greek willingness to believe, and Jewish hardness of heart, so many 
miracles, and no more, does the Fourth Gospel assign to Jesus. 
The whole history of the last supper and of the cruciiSxion is 
subtly manipulated to serve the author's design. Admirable as is 
his art, however, hebetrayshimself by his Christ, whose imlikeness 
to the Christ of the Synoptics is too glaring. His Christ " is a mere 
doctor; moraUty has disappeared, and dogma has taken its place ; 
for the sublime and pregnant discourses of the Sea of Galilee 
and the Mount of Olives, we have the arid mysticism of the 
Alexandrian schools." So that the art of our Greek Gnostic is, 
after all, not art of the highest character, because it does not 

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manage to conceal itself. It allows the Tubingen critics to find 
it out, and by finding it out to pull the whole of the Fourth 
Gospel to pieces, and to ruin utterly its historical chamcter. 

Now here, again, in what these critics say of the internal evi- 
dence ofiered by the Fourth Gospel, the external evidence in some 
respects makes it hard for a plain man to follow them. The Gnostic 
author, they say, governed by his idea of the antithesis between 
Kght and darkness, assigns to Jesus no more miracles than just 
what are required to bring out this antithesis. Therefore the last 
two verses of the twentieth chapter, which speak of the " many 
other signs which are not wiitten in this book," are spurious. Like 
the whole twenty-first chapter which follows, they are a later addi- 
tion by some one ignorant of the artist's true design. Well, 
but in the seventh chapter we find the Jewish people asking :* 
"When the Christ comes, will he do more miracles than this man 
does ? " and in the sixth chapter it is impliedf that the miracles of 
Jesus were, as the Synoptics represent them, numerous. Did the 
artist forget himself in these places ; or is it the Tubingen critics 
who have forgotten to tell us that in these places too the text is 
spurious ? In the eleventh chapter we have a Kke oversight on 
the part of somebody, either the artist or (which is hardly likely) 
his German interpreters. The chief priests and Phaiisees are, by 
some mistake, allowed to say : " This man doeth many miracles."t 
In the twelfth chapter matters are even worse ; it is there said§ that 
the Jews would not beheve in Jesus "though he had done so many 
miracles before them." No doubt this is spurious, and in omitting 
to tell us so the critics fail a little in vigour and rigour. But, on 
the whole, what admiration must we feel for the vigour and 
rigour which, in spite of these external difficulties can see so far 
into a millstone, and find such treasures of internal evidence there, 
as to be able to produce d theory of the Fourth Gospel Uke Baur'st 

The internal evidence, then, is what the rejectors of the Fourth 
Gospel confidently rely on. But to us the internal evidence 
seems to point by no means to a speculative genius, a consunmiate 
artist, giving to Christianity a new form of his own, adopting a 
certain number of sayings and doings of the real Jesus from 
the Synoptics, but inventing for Jesus whatever he did not thus 
adopt. Much more it seems to us to point to a sincere Christian, 
a man of Uterary talent certainly and a Greek, but not a consum- 
mate artist; having traditions from John, having, above all, logia 
from John, sayings of the Lord, and combining and presenting 
materials in the way natural to him. The Evangelist's Hterary pro 
cedure is that of a Greek of abihty, well versed in the philo 
sophical speculation of his time, and having the resources of 

♦ Verae 8L f Veree 2. J Vorse 47. 

§ Venie 37. 

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Greek style and compoBition at his command. But when one 
hears of a consummate artist, an idealizing inventor, when one 
hears of a gifted writer arranging his hero's life for effect, freely 
making discourses for him, one thinks of Plato ; and the writer of 
the Fourth Gospel is no Plato. The redaction and composition of 
this Gospel show Uterary skill, and indicate a trained Greek as 
their author, not a fisherman of Galilee. But it may be said with 
certainty that a literary artist, capable of inventing the most striking 
of the sayings of Jesus to Nicodemus or to the woman of Samaria, 
would have also made his composition, as a whole, more flawless, 
more artistically perfect, than the Fourth Gospel actually is. Judged 
from an artist's point of view, it has blots and awkwardnesses 
which a master of imaginative invention would never have suf- 
fered his work to exhibit. Let us illustrate this by examples, 
taking, as our rule is, no case which is not clear, and where the 
plain reader may not be expected, if he will only take the trouble 
to look carefully for himself at the passages we quote, to follow us 
without doubt or diflSculty. 

Our Evangelist has, we say, to place and plant records of Jesus 
supplied to him by John. He has to place them without a personal 
recollection of the speakers and scenes, and without a Jew's in- 
stinct for what with such speeches and scenes was possible and 
probable. He combines and connects, but his connection is often 
only exterior and apparent, not real. No artist of Plato's quality 
would have been satisfied with the connection in the discourse of 
Jesus reported at the end of the fourth chapter, from the thirty-fifth 
verse to the thirty-eighth : "Say not ye, There are yet four months, 
and then cometh harvest ? behold, I say unto you, Lift up your eyes 
and look on the fields, that they are white already to harvest ; 
and he that reapeth receiveth wages, and gathereth fruit unto life 
eternal, that he that soweth and he that reapeth may rejoice 
together. For herein is that saying trt^ One soweth and another reapeth, 
I sent you to nap tliat whereon ye have bestowed no labour; other men 
have laboured, and ye are entered into their labours.^ Surely there 
are here two parts, of which that one which we have given in 
italics has a motive quite different from the motive of the other 
which precedes it. The motive of the first is the ripeness of the 
harvest and the guerdon of the reapers ; the motive of the second 
IB the admission of the disciples to reap what they had not sown. 
Both have all the character of genuine sayings of Jesus, but 
there is no real connection between them, only they coincide in 
pairing a sower with a reaper. Jesus did not make long, continuous 
speeches, jointed and articulated after the Greek fashion; he 
uttered pregnant sentences, gnomic sayings ; an<J two sets of such 
sayings, quite distinct from each other, which were among the 
Greek editor's store of logia^ we have here. But to this editor the 

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contmuoBB and jointed form of Greek discourse seemed the natural 
one; and therefore, caught by the verbal coincidence, he blends 
the two sayings into one, and claps a for in between them to 
establish a connection. It is a matter of no great importance; the 
two hgia of Jesus are safely there, and the real relation between 
them was sure to be brought out by time and scrutiny. It is only 
of importance as a gauge of the Evangelist's artistic faculty. A 
consommate artist, inventing for Jesus, could not have been 
satisfied with such a merely seeming and verbal connection. 

More striking is the artistic fietilure at the beginning of the 
tenth chapter. We will remark that on any supposition of a 
consummate artist and of perfect motiving, the mode of intro- 
ducing all the lovely group of sayings, about '^the good shepherd'' 
and "the door" is quite imaccountable. But let that pass, and let 
ns look at the sayings themselves. Who can doubt that here 
again we have two separate sets of logia of Jesus, one set which 
have I am the good sliepAerd for their centre, and another set 
which have for their centre / am the door; and that our Evange* 
Kst has thrown the two together and confused them ? Beautiful 
as are the sayings, even when thus mixed up together, they 
are far more beautiful when disentangled. But the Evange- 
list had a doorkeeper and a door and sheep in his first parable ; 
and he had another parable, in which was "a door of the sheep." 
Catching again at an apparent connection, he could not resist 
joining the two parables together, and making one serve as the 
explanation of the other. To explain the first parable, and to go 
on all fours with it, the second ought to run as follows : " I am 
the door of the sheep. All that cUmb vp some other xoay are thieves 
and robbers ; but the sheep do not hear them. I am llie door; by 
me if any man enter, he is the shepherd of the sheep ^ The words in 
italics must be substituted for the words now in the text of our 
Gospel ;* and Jesus must stand, not as the door of salvation in 
general, but as the door by which to enter is the sign of the true 
teacher. There can be no doubt, however, that the words now 
in the text are right, and that what is wrong is the connection 
imposed on them. The seventh and ninth verses are a logion 
quite distinct from what precedes and follows them, and ought 
to be entirely separated from it. " I am the door of the sheep. 
I am the door; by me if a man enter he shall be saved, and shall 
go in and out and find pasture." The eighth verse belongs to 
the first parable, the parable of the shepherd ; not to the parable 
of the door. It should follow the fifth verse, and be followed by 
the tenth. Jesus says of the sheep : '^ A stranger will they not 

* Sae John x. 8, 9. Instead of i)A9or rp^ iiwv w^ must read hfofialrovciw kXKax^w$ 
inttead of 1iit9»€raif ire mnst read iueoiovtrty^ and troifi^r i<mw rww irpo/3^r«r instead of 
««i#ik*rai. Mat tl^tXff^tfvrai /col i^§K§6ffmUf jcol roftk^ «6p4a'c<* 

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follow, but will flee from him, for they know hot the voice of 
straDgers. All that ever came before me are thieves and robbeTs, 
but the sheep did not hear th^n. The thief cometh not but to 
steal and to kill and to destroy ; I am come that they might have 
life, and that they might have it more abundantly. I am the 
good shepherd.'^ Piecing his loyia together, seeldng always a 
connection between them, the Evangelist did not see that he was 
here injuring bis treasures by mixing them. But what are we to 
think, of a consummate artist, inventing freely, and capable of 
producing, by free invention, such things as the most admirable 
of .the sayings attributed to Jesus in the Fourth Goepel; — ^what 
are we to think of such an artist combining in cold blood his 
sayings of Jesus so ill that any one with eyes in his head can 
detect a better combination for them? 

The reader, probably, will follow us without much difficulty 
here ; but certainly he will have no difficulty in following us if we 
take the last words of the fourteenth chapter. Arise, let vs go 
hence, and assert that no consummate artist, no Plato, would ever 
have given us that. Beyond all manner of doubt, Jesus never 
said in one connection : ** As the Fadier gave me conunandment, 
even so I do. Arise, let us go hence* I am the true vine, and my 
Father is the husbandman," and so on, without the least sign of 
rising or going away, but witii the discourse continuing through- 
out thi^e more chapters. How the Evangelist could have come 
to make him say it^ is the question. Probably, with the commence- 
ment of the fifteenth chapter, the writer passed to a fresh set of 
notes, containing another set of sayings of Jesus ; and he marked 
the transition by inserting between the end of one set and the 
beginning of the next the words : ** Arise, let us go hence." They 
were traditional words of Jesusy as we see from the " Rise, let us 
be going,'' of St. Matthew; and the composer of the Fourth 
Goepel may have thought they would come in serviceably at this 
point. What he thought, we can only conjecture ; but that no 
man freely inventing, not arranging and combining, and above all 
that no consummate artist, would ever have dreamed of pladng 
those words at that point, we may affirm with the utmost confi- 
dence. Certainly there needed an imaginative intellect not less 
fine than Plato's to invent for Jesus such a saying as : " The hour 
cometii and now is, when the true worshippers shall worship the 
Father in spirit and in truth.'^ But conceive a Plato ordering the 
march of his composition thus : ^ Arise, let us go hence. I am the 
true vine, and my Father is the husbandman !" 

To the same category of defects of composition, inexplicable on 
the theory of a consummate artist freely inventing, but quite in- 
telligible if we suppose a Uterary arranger sometimes embarrassed 
in dealing with his materials, for which he has the profoundest 

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veneration, belong those cnrioxis jolts in the narrative which are 
occasioned, as we believe, by the author having John's very 
words in his memory, and beuig determined to preserve them. 
Such a jolt occurs in introducing the dialogue with the woman of 
Samaria. " Jesus, tired with his journey, sat thus* by the welL'' 
Thus ? howt There has not been a word to tell us, and the ex- 
pression as it stands is an incongraity. * But the writer had in his 
mind John's own words : '^ Jesus, tired with his journey, sat, as I 
have been telling ycuy by the well ;" and he could not forbear using 
them. The same formula appears in two other places, and in both 
it probably is a relic of John's own narrative. " He, lying as lam 
uHingyou on Jesus' breast, saith unto him: Lord, who is it?"t 
And again : *' After these things, Jesus manifested himself again 
to his disciples at the sea of Tiberias ; and he manifested himself 
0$ lam going to teU youJ^\ In these two cases to preserve John's 
words does not create any awkwardness, but the writer still pre- 
serves them even when it does. He preserves them, again, with- 
out duly adjusting the context to them, in the forty-fourth veiBe of 
the fourth chapter. '^ After the two days he departed thence into 
Galilee. For Jems himself testified that a prophet hath no honour in his 
own country J^ That was a reason for stajring away from Galilee, not 
tor going there. But the writer has John's words about the testi- 
mony of Jesus in his mind, and hastens to give them without prepar- 
ing tiieir way by saying : " And this he did, notwithstanding his own 
testimony." The embarrassed sentences about tiie return to Gaper- 
naum,inthesixth chapter, owe their embarrassment, not improbably, 
to the same cause : to John's words sticking in the writer's me- 
mory, and not being properly fused by him with his own narrative. 
In like manner, who can read without a shock of surprise, 
in the relation of the feedhig of the five thousand among the 
bills beyond the Sea of Galilee, that abrupt and motiveless 
sentence : ** Now the passover, the feast of the Jews, was nigh t " § 
The most fanciful and far-fetched explanations are offered; 
but who would not prefer the ample and natural explanation 
that the words are a relic of John's original narrative, which 
had been brought in by him to date his story, that they 
were fast lodged in our Evangelist's memory, and that he was 
loath to lose them? They ftre a little touch of detail, just 
like: ** These things he said in the treasury as he taught in the 
temple;" or like: "It was then the feast of dedication at Jeru- 
salem ; it was winter, and Jesus walked in the temple in Solomon's 
porch."|l They are exactly the expressions which a man telling a 
story would be likely to use, but our author preserves them in his 
regular composition, whether they suit the context or no. And a 

* othms, John it. 6. f John ziii. 25. t John zxi 1. 

§ John tL 4. g John tuS. 20 ; x. 22. 

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consummate artist, freely following his invention, does not com- 
pose thus negligently. 

These are grounds for the improbabiUty of Baur's theory which 
suggest themselves from a defectiveness of artistic constructioD 
in the Fourth Gospel. Other grounds of improbability are 
suggested by defects of philosophical grasp. It is alleged that 
our Evangelist improves on the Jesus of the Synoptics, invents 
his profoimdest things for him. But it:c4n be made as clear ae 
light, to any unbiassed and attentive reader, that this wonderful 
inventor does not always himself fully understand the very things 
he is supposed to be inventing, obscures them by unintelligent 
comment on them. One instance of this we have given in 
'^ Literature and Dogma." Jesus says: " K any man thirst, let him 
6ome unto me and drink/'* Then, with a reminiscence of a passage 
in the Second Isaiah he adds : '* He that believeth in me, as the Scrip- 
ture saith, there shall flow out of his belly rivers of living water." 
Who can doubt that Jesua here meant to say that the believers 
faith — ^the faith of the follower of Qirist — should be an eternal 
source of refreshment ? But the Evangelist proceeds to comment 
on the saying of Jesus, and to give what is, in his view, the 
proper explanation of it ; and the explanation he gives is as 
follows: — *'But this spake he of the Spirit {PMumd) which they 
that believe on him should receive : for the Holy Spirit was not 
yet given, because Jesus was not yet glorified." Nothing can be 
more natural than that a Christian of the first or second centoiy 
should wish to date all comforts of the Spirit from after the 
famous effusion of Pneuma subsequent to Christ's death. But 
surely the sense of this saying of Jesus is clear ; and it is clear, 
too, that it is a narrowing and marring of his words to put this 
mechanical construction upon them. The reporter who put it 
fails to grasp the words fully, deals with them unintelligently. 
And how incredible that a writer should fail to seize rightly the 
clear sense of a saying invented by himself I 

Again, take a like case from the eighteenth chapter. Jesus had 
said of his disciples : *< None of them is lost but the son of per- 
dition."! Then comes the arrest,^ and the speech of Jesus to the 
band which arrested him: '^I have told you that I am he; if 
therefore ye seek me, let these go their way." He gives up himself, 
but puts his disciples out of danger. His q>eech is just what we 
might have expected ; but instantly our Evangelist adds that he 
made it '^tn order that t/ie saying might be fulfilled which he epahty Of 
them wltam Tluw hast given me have I lost none" Can anything be 
more clear than that the two sayings have nothing at all to do 
with one another, and that it is a mechanical and narrowing 

• John vii. 37—89. f John xvii. 12. J John xviil 5—9. 

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application of the first which makes it lead up to the second t In 
the first, eternal salyation is the theme ; in the second, safety from 
a passing danger. And conld the free and profoiind inventor of 
the fiist hare been so caught by the surfaces of things as to make 
it the mere prophecy of the second f 

Jesus over the heads of all his reporters ! — ^this idea is for us our 
constant guide in reading the Gospels ; and it is, we are convinced, 
the only safe one. But the Tiibingen professors reverse the idea, 
and say that in the Fourth Gospel it is the reporter who is over 
the head of Jesus. In the concluding chapters of this Gospel the 
philosophical author, they say, so frames the discourse of Jesus 
dmt his resurrection is presented ^'as an internal phenomenon 
continually being accomplished in the believer^s conscience." No 
doubt this view of the resurrection is indicated in the Fourth 
Gospel, as it is indicated also by St. Paul ; but the question is, 
does it come from Jesus himself, or was it invented by the more 
spiritoal among hSs followers to give a profounder sense to the 
physical miracle of his resurrection t We confine ourselves at 
present to the Fourth Gospel, and we say : True, the resurrection 
of Christ is there suggested as a phenomenon accomplishing itself 
in tiie believer's conscience. ^' The idea is a profound one ; it 
needed a great spirit to conceive it. If the author of the Fourth 
Gospel conceived it, we may allow that he carries the significance 
of the resurrection higher tiban the Synoptics carry it ; higher 
than the Jesus of the Synoptics carries it. But if he is the author 
of this idea, he will present it firmly and clearly ; if he presents it 
confusedly, then he probably got Ihe idea from Jesus, and did not 
qnite understand it." How, in fact, does he present it t 

AU through the discourses of Jesus in -the Fourth Goi^el, the 
attentive reader may perceive that there are certain fundamental 
themes which serve as nuclei or centres, appearing repeatedly and 
m several connections, with a form sometimes shorter, sometimes 
more expanded. It is of great importance to a right under- 
standing of the Fourth Gospel that we should discover in such 
cases the primitive theme, the original hgion of Jesus ; and this, or 
at least the nearest approach to it, will in general be given by the 
theme in its shorter and less expanded form. Very likely Jesus 
may himself have used a theme on several occasions, and himself 
have sometimes given to it a more expanded form ; still, from the 
theme in its simplest and shortest form, we probably get our best 
due to what was said by Jesus. 

Two such primitive themes in the long discourse of Jesus 
before his arrest are these : I go to the FaJCker^ and, I go away, and 

* Mfp» «^s T^i' vor^po, John xtI. 17. This is probftUy the primitirs theme ; we 
hATe alao : ^iyw vp^f fiv v^W^orra pjt (xvi. 5), itphi rhp Toeripa jiov (nriyw (xtL 10), 
^(i|^ T^r it6fffwp Kid iropt^ofjMt xpbs riy noeripa (xtL 28). 

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come again to you* Let Us add 16 thefie' A third : A Uule wkUe and 
ye see me not ; and again a little while^ and ye ehdU eee meJf These 
three sayings appear abd reappear, they obvab ia differtot conneo 
tions, they take forpas somewhat vaalyuig. But they are primitive 
themes ; they give us probably, the nearest approach possible to 
the words actually iitbered by Jesus. 

ThiS) then, is whiit l^e hat^e : I go to the Father^ Igo^ and earn 
again to ycu. A little while and ye eee tne noty and again a little wkik 
and ye ehaU eee me. Now, it is alleged^ abd truly, that the Fomtii 
Gospel suggests a view of the testirreotioxL of Jesus as an- internal 
I^enottienon aGCompUshing itself in the believer's conscience. 
The basis on which, this .alle^fttion nmst rest is supplied by the 
ihtee logia which We have ^uc^ed* 

. Bjut the thieee logia lei^dthenuielves eithet ±6 the axmoimcement 
of a physical resurr^ctioDL or to tiie danouncetnent of a spiritual 
resurrection. Everytiiitig depen^ds on their context and conned- 
tion* And by pieoing thingis together, by putting thesei logia: \n 
the frolQLt^ by connecting them ixrimediately vHth otber- %ls given 
by our EvangeUst^rby dropping but things he inserts between, we 
'0an jget at a resurreotikm annbunced' by Jesus which id cleaily 
spiritual. ''I go to my Father; I go, and come again to you. 
A little v?iule and ye 8ei9 tae ndt> ahd again a Utile while and ye 
shaU S€^ nxe. I will not teave you desolate^ I will come to yon. 
Yet a Uttl^ while M^d the world seeH^ me lio more; but ye see 
mei, becatuse I live and y.e dilUl livei" A disciple aa^ how it is 
that they shall see him iaad that the world idiall notj J&sub 
answetcs': ''If a mai^ love me^ he will keiep my word; and my 
Father vrill love him^ &nd 'w.e Will ' come to himandmake onr 
abode wii^ him. Let not your heart be troubled, neitiuer 1^ it be 
afraid; I go away and come again to you^^X And thiA resurrection 
of JeiUs is connected by him with the coming of the Paraclete, 
the Spirit of truth, the new light, who should bring out in the 
he^iirta of the disciples the real significance of Jesns and of what 

Thus placed and connected, i^ie primitive Hpxoiuu^ ihe I cam 
again of Jesus, gives us, no doubt, the resurreotion of Christ as 
^'an internal phenomenon dooomplifihing itself in the bdiever's 
conscionsnese." It gives it us as being this in Jesus Chrust'i own 
view ,and prediction df it The same idea is preserved' for us by 
the First Epistle of St. John, to epistle whidi cannot well have 
been written by our Evangelist, its style is so unlike his. But 
the Epiatle deals with m(tny of the ideas dealt with by our Gospel, 

* inrJp/90 Kot tpx^y^ ^P^f ^ftof. John xIt. 21 

t /ujK^, Kd oO 9§mp€7r4 ftn^ytmi irMur lUKpiv^ i{$^ $^9Bi /m. Jehu XTU 17. 

% John xTi. 10; x!t. 28; x^i. 16; xiv. 18, 19, 2^ 27, 28. 

§ John xiT. 23^26. 

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and it presents the abiding in Jesus and in his Father, as the 
accompUshment of the promise of eternal life made by Jesns to his 
followers.* The idea is so fruitfiil aad ptofonnd an one, that if our 
Evangelist had ever fairly grasped it, still more if he had conceived 
and invented it, he could hardly have so dealt with it that he left 
us in doubt whether he himself eatertained it or not. He conld. 
no more do this than Paul could leave us in doubt whether he 
himself enteitained his great idea, of the neoro8i9—o{ the dying 
and resurrection of Jesus accomplishing themselves in this lifd in. 
the believer's conscience. The mind whidi^ while fully accepting' 
the physical miracle of the xesuriection, could, yet discern thai 
the phenomenon to be made fhiitfui; must have a spiritual signifiU 
cance given to it — such a nund wo<ald certainly have been ihin 
pressed deeply by such an idea^ and have had it distinot and firm;, 
Bnt.our Evangelist so arranges his materials as to make ih^ 
reference of ipxpfwi aikd o^cofc / to a s|>iritiiaL sesurrection very 
dubious^ to overlay it with otiier. things^ and to obscure it ; while 
their reference to a physical resun^^ctioB lA bron^ht/out duitinetly. 
''In my Father's house are mafuy m^nsiohfl; if it were not ao, I 
would have told you.i For I go to prepaare a place for you, and if 
I gO) I will preparef a place for yotL Icoide again, and will take 
you unto myself, that where I am ye may be al8o."t There can 
be no doubt that the primitive theme of fyxpf*^ ^n^ vfiaf,. i 
come again unto you, is here so used, and connected as to make it 
point decisively to a physical resurrection. And this key for the 
whole strain being once given, the impression left by the other 
primitive theme, fiiKpoy KoiSifriu^i ji^f a little lohik and ye shall Me 
me, is in the main an impression to the same effect* '' A little 
while and ye see me not, and again a littie while and ye shall see 
me. Ye shall weep and lament, but the world shall rejoice ; ye 
duiU be sorrowful, but your sorrow shall be turned into joy. Ye 
have sorrow now ; but I wiH see you again, and your heart shall re^ 
joice, and yoxur joy no man shall take from you."f The ye shaU^ee 
me of the primitive theme here finishes by becoming IwUl eeeyou; 
aad the whole wording and connection are such that it seems clear 
the commentators have rigphtly interpreted the mind of the Evan-^ 
gelist, when they make this passage and the iheme fwcpotr noI S^mrOi 
lu, a prophecy of the approaching physical resurrection of Jesus. 

Must, we tiien suppose that to a spiritual resurrection such 
sayings as the three piimitive themes we have quoted do XK>t 
really refer, but may be made to signify it only as a secondary 
ttnd after jbeaning, brought in for purposes of edification, and 
originally hidden in them, perhaps, for tihese purposes? This^ no 


t John xiT. 2, 3. The text followed is that of the Vftticftn mannscript. 

X John XTi. 19, 20, 22. 

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doubt, will be the character assigned to the words by official 
theology, and by popular religion. To us, however, it seems 
certain that to a spiritual resurrection the words primarily and 
really point, and that our ETangelist has obscured their true 
scope. For him, as for Christendom long after him, Christ's 
physical resurrection stood, and could not but stand, a pheno- 
menon fixed, immense, overpowering, a central sun attracting 
everything to it. But experience slowly and inevitably reveals 
that phenomena gf this kind do not actually happen. Romulus 
does not mount into heaven, Epimenides does not awake, Arthur 
does not return ; tiieir adoring followers think they do, think 
they have promised it, — but they do not, have not. We have 
then to account for the firm belief of the first Christians 
in the physical resurrection of Jesus, when this resurrection 
did not actually happen. We can only account for it from 
things really said by Jesus, which led them to expect it 
That Jesus was a fanatic, expecting and foretelling his own 
physical resurrection, deceived like his followers, but so filling 
them with his own belief that it prevailed and triumphed with 
them when he died, is an explanation which the whole account 
we have of Jesus, read seriously, shows to be idle. His disciples 
were misled therefore, by something Jesus said, which had not 
really the sense that he should physically rise from the dead, but 
which was capable of lending itself to this sense, and which his 
disciples misunderstood and imagined to convey it. 

And, indeed, they themselves tell us that this is what actually 
happened ; only that which was in truth nUmiiderstanding they call 
understanding. They themselves tell us that they unconsciouslj 
exercised a creative pressure, loiig after the time when they were 
going about with Jesus and hearing him, on sayings and doings 
of their Master. " When he was risen from the dead," they tell 
us, after recording one of his prophetic speeches, " his disciples 
remembered Hiat he had said this*'* Even if one had not known 
beforehand that, from the nature of the case, it was impossible for 
the records of Jesus in our Go^els to have been notes taken 
down day by day, as by a Saint-Simon or a Boswell, here is an 
Evangelist himself telling us in so many words that they were 
not. " These things understood not his disciples at the fost," he 
teUs us again, after relating an incident which afforded a remark- 
able fulfilment of prophecy, *^ but when Jesus was glorified then 
remembered tliey that these things were written of him, and thai 
they had done these things unto him.^^ They recorded, then, the 
sayings of Jesus about his resurrection long after they had been 
uttered, and when the beUef in his physical resurrection was 

• John ii 22. t John xii. IC. 

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finnly fixed in their znindB.* But even after his death, ^' as yet/' 
thej tell us of themselves, '< they. knew not the Scripture that he 
must lise again from the dead."* This affords the most irre- 
fragable proof that the sayings of Jesus about his resurrection 
cannot originally have been just what our Gospels report ; the 
sayings, as they now come to us, must have been somewhat 
monlded and accentuated by the belief in the resurrection. If 
Jeens had said to the Twelve the very words our Gospels report 
him to have said, the Twelve could have been in no ignorance at 
all of ''the Soripture that he must rise again from the dead," and 
in no doubt at aU that they were to count on his rising. " He took 
unto him the Twelve, and said unto them : Behold, we go up to 
Jerusalem, and all things that are written by the prophets concern- 
ing the Son of Man shall be accomplished. For he shall be deUvered 
unto the Gentiles, and shall be mocked and spitefully entreated, 
and spitted on; and they shall scourge him, and put him to 
death ; and the third day he shall rise again«"t It is in vain that 
the Evangelist adds : '' And they understood none of these things, 
and this saying was hid from them, neither knew they the things 
which were spoken." t If Jesus had spoken exactly as he is 
reported, if he had really thus laid down in black and white, as 
the phrase is, what was going to happen, the disciples could not 
have helped understanding him. It would have been quite impos- 
sible for them to make that astounding declaration, which yet is 
evidently the simple truth, that even up to the days which fol- 
lowed bis death, '^ as yet they knew not the Scripture that be 
must rise again from the dead." Something was no doubt said by 
Jesus not unlike what the Evangelist reports, something which 
easfly adapted itself to the character of a Uteral prophecy of the 
resarrection, when that event had, as was believed, taken place ; 
but the precise speech put into the mouth of Jesus he cannot 
have uttered. 

The Third Gospel, which reports the speech just quoted, is the 
Gospel which guides us to the discovery of what Jesus can have 
originally and actually said about his rising again on the third 
day. He was told that if he did not leave Jerusalem Herod would 
put him to death. He made answer : " Go ye and tell that fox, 
Behold I cast out devils and I do cures to-day and to-morrow, 
oni the third day I shall be perfected'''^ Having for ever before his 
mind the humble and suffering Servant of our fifty-third chapter 
of Isaiah, and labouring for ever to substitute this in his disciples' 
mnds as the Messias-ideal, instead of the brilliant and triumphing 
Conqueror of popular Jewish religion, Jesus here, beyond aU doubt, 

* Jthn xz. 9. t Luke xtIIL 81—88. t Lnke xriii. 84. 

I T$ Tflrp ^lU^ TtXttoviuu. Luko xiii. ii'J. The text of the Vatican manuscript is 


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following the prophet,* spoke of his violent and ignominioxifl end 
as his perfection and victory. That violent end he, as wajs 
natural, could plainly foresee and often predicted. Here he pre- 
dicts it in this wise : ** On the third day I shall be perfected." 
What made him say : On the third day f We know how he loved 
to possess himself of locutions of the prophets and to use them ; 
as, for instance, in that well known saying, ** Take my yoke upon 
you, and learn of me that I am mild and lowly in heart, and ye 
shall find rest unto your souls," the concluding phrase. Ye skdl 
find rest unto your souls, is a locution of Jeremiah.f And in like 
manner his phrase. On the third day I shall be perfected^ is a remi- 
niscence of the prophet Hosea. Amid the ruin of Israel, in the 
eighth century before Christ, Hosea had said : " Come and let us 
return unto the Eternal ; for he hath torn and he will heal us ; 
after two days will he revive us, on the third day he will raise us Mp."t 
" We shall be re&toreA presently,'^ Hosea means; arid, "I shall be 
"perfected presently,*^ is what Jesus means. 

Here we lay one nnger almost certainly upon the central logion, 
serving as foundation for the belief that Jesus had himself an- 
nounced he would rise from the dead on the third day. Let us 
combine the scattered logia, transposed some of them to the time 
afler his death, which in some degree enable us, through the 
cloud of his disciples' inadequate apprehension, and of legend and 
marvel, to follow the line of light of the Divine Master. The root 
of everything -with him is, as we just now said, the effort, the 
eternal effort, to substitute, as the Messias-ideal in the mind of 
his followers, the Servant, mild and stricken, for the regal and 
vengeance-working Root of David. And he knew, that the 
victory of the right Mesftias-ideal his own death, and that only, 
could found. " fools and slow of heart at taking in all that the 
prophets have spoken ! must not the Messiah suffer these things, 
and enter into his glory ? Behold, we go up to Jerusalem, and 
the Son of Man shall be betrayed unto the chief priests and 
scribes, and they shall deliver him to the Gentiles to crucify; 
nevertheless, I do cures to-day and to-morrow ; we must work 
the works of him that sent me while it is day, the night cometh 
when no man can work ; I muSt walk to-day and to-morrow and 
the day following, and the third day I shall be perfected. As 
Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, so shall the Son of 

• See Isaiali liii. 10, 11. *' It pleased the Eternal to bruise him, he hath put him to 
grief. When he hath made hia soul an offering for Bin, he shaU see his seed, he shall pro- 
long his days, and the pleasure of the Eternal shaU prosper in his hand ; ho shaU see of 
the travail of his soul and be satisfied.*' 

t Jer. Ti 16. 

X Hoe. Ti 1, 2. In the Greek Bible of the Seventy the words are— ^k if ^/tdp^ tJ 
rplrf kyairTritr6fu$aj on the third dat/ wt $hali rise agatiu Compare this witii the words 
in Luke, t$ rpir\f iifi^fxf rfXf loG/AOi. 

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Man be lifted np ; and I, if I be lifted tip from the earth, will draw 
all men unto me."* 

YeSy thus it bdioved Christ to sufery and to rise from the dead the 
Hard doey.^ Inevitably the disciples materialized it all, wrested it 
all into a prophesying of bodily reappearance and miracle. So 
they did also with the words : *^ I go away and come again to 
70U ; a little while and ye see me not,