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IRARY
I
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[■rr. 'S
ESSAYS.
BY
ALEXANDER JAMES BERESFORD HOPE,
M.A. M.P.
OF TRINITY COLLEQBj CAMBRIDGB.
LONDON:
FRANCIS & JOHN RIVINGTON,
ST. Paul's church yard, & watbrluo place.
■0 ".
LONDON :
GILBERT AND RIYINGTON, PRINTERS,
»r»
ST. JOHN S SQUARE.
••• • •
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• • • • ••
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V
CONTENTS.
PAGE
On the Character of the English People, regarded with a
View to Present Difficulties and their Remedy . 1
On the Study of the Latin Tongue .... 69
BrateofTroy 93
Shakespeare and Aristophanes 143 ^y^
On the Nature and Due Extent of Punishment . .161
On the Best Method of Propagating Paganism in a
State 199
On Modem Memoir Writing 209
Bnckingham and Richelieu 229
ON THE CHARACTER
OP
THE ENGLISH PEOPLE.
REGARDED WITH A VIEW TO PRESENT. DIFFICULTIES
AND THEIR REMEDY.
i
ON THE CHARACTER OF
THE ENGLISH PEOPLE,
REGARDED WITH A VIEW TO PRESENT DIFFICULTIES
AND THEIR REMEDY.
I PEEL, I confess, no little awkwardness in
approaching the subject that I have named at
the head of this my first Essay. It is, to begin
with, a topic which, when regarded in its integ-
rity, is one of such vast extent, and, when
dissected, displays so intricate a contexture
of parts, as to render it a fitting theme to
exercise far better disciplined and more logical
powers of mind than any I can direct to its
consideration, be the object but to give a rough
tracing of its importance. And, in the second
place, it is so trite a subject, and one so often
attempted for its very difiiculty, which seems
to have made it popular, as to render it not
at all an easy task to say any thing that shall
B 2
4 ON THE CHARACTER
not be hopelessly commonplace. There is not
a newspaper, morning or evening, daily or
weekly, that does not, season after season, pour
forth its endless stream of inky lucubration, —
now gently flowing on in placid dulness, now
bubbling up in turgid indignation, — upon the
momentous topic, and attempt to persuade its
readers, as perhaps it may already have per-
suaded itself, that the appUcation of its peculiar
remedy is as easy to others as it finds the pre-
scribing of it agreeable to itself. There is,
however, safety (as the proverb goes) in num-
bers ; and I shelter myself among this crowd of
writers, merely claiming to be allowed to pro-
pound some notions to which, as I attach, can-
didly to own it, some importance, so I crave
to be permitted modestly to hope they may be
by others deemed not altogether worthless.
It were easy, under the head of an " Essay
on the Character of the English People," to
spin out, as has oftentimes been done, a showy
and perhaps an amusing sketch, by seizing on
some of the most prominent and the most in-
consistent features of that varied thing ; such,
for instance, as our turbulent national antipa-
OP THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 5
thies continually jostling with a vehement love
for and admiration of foreigners individually,
whenever they come across us; oinr feverish
desire for popular government and political
excitement, joined to a strong aristocratic and
conservative bias, and many such other oppug-
nancies of acting ; and then exhibiting them all
in a strong comic light, garnished with philoso-
phic reflections very plausible, and unfathom-
ably (if I may be permitted the figure of speech)
shallow. This, however, is a mode of treating
the subject which, more than any other, should
be avoided by any one who does not wish to
write for effect, but in order, if he may, to effect
some, be it never so little, practical good.
These pages are written by an Englishman, a
strong Englishman, one who loves his country
much, and wishes well to her, and is desirous of
probing these seeming inconsistencies, and fol-
lies, and wilfulnesses, and seeking under them
for the true ideal of the English character, con-
sistent, as he believes it in reality to be, and
stable, and true, and alive to every good im-
pression ; and having done so, to suggest how,
upon the foundation of this hidden character.
6 ON THE CHARACTER
may be reared a superstructure lasting and
beautiful as the eternal hills. These last words
sound haughty and arrogant^ yet they are
spoken advisedly, as it is trusted the sequel of
these observations will demonstrate; and the
knowing beforehand the imputation that may
be cast upon them, will, I trust, be to the mind
of my readers their vindication ; not indeed that
they are written as hoping that these feeble
efforts of an inexperienced pen will effect what
it desires to accomplish, but as pointing out
what it wishes, that by them its performance
may be measured.
Any man who shall accuse the English peo-
ple, considered as a people, of fickleness, will do
it grievous injustice. Eccentric it is, very ec-
centric, and very inconsistent with itself at
various times ; but this is not the inconsistency
arising from fickleness, nor the eccentricity of
a disordered will. It is rather, strange to say,
the development of a curious and unreflecting
sort of consistency, which, latent in minds di-
verse in many respects, but agreeing in tb^
that they are all equally unaware of its exii
ence in them, and, as might be expected, wor
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 7
ing in such minds illogically, manifests itself in
great and, at first sight, inexphcable diversities
of action.
It is not, however, in mere diversities of ac-
tion and outward manifestations of feeling, that
the peculiar character of any people consists ;
though the mistake may often be made, it is,
in truth, almost as great an error to imagine
this, as it would be to search in our mere words
and outward indications of vitality for the in-
ward life of man, the human soul; in other
words, it is a species of very subtile materialism,
which, from having to deal, not with individuals,
but with species, does not so manifestly appear
in its true light. By character I mean some-
thing infinitely more impalpable, and therefore
more difficult to be ascertained ; and when as-
certained, to be embodied with any clearness of
expression. With this apologetic remark, let
me continue the course of these observations.
It is manifest that the first step in our inves-
tigation will be, as far as we may do so, to seek
the reasons of those diversities of action which,
it is acknowledged, distinguish the good people
of England. One reason, as I have above
8 ON THE CHARACTER
stated^ for its existence, is the want of sufficient
logic in the national mind. This, however, be-
sides being little removed from a truism, is no
peculiarity of the English character, but has
existed in all nations ever since patriarchal fa-
milies first swelled into nations, and in many,
nay, most of them, to a far greater extent than
in England. This faulty logic, then, (for having
touched upon it we may as well state what its
workings are,) is diflferently applied by different
races of men, according to the respective con-
textures of the national mind; and thus the
implicit and impalpable character (the contex-
ture, that is, of the national mind, which is, in
scholastic language, the ^^ causa formalis '* of di-
versities, the " dans esse in aliquo '^ to them,)
becomes explicit and palpable in action, and
forms what is usually termed, by a compound
expression, diversity of character; thus, I re-
peat, from ih^faultinesSy as I say, of the logic
employed by different types of mind, in the
adjustment of sufficient motives for action, ac-
cording to the differences existing in those types.
I have laid an emphasis upon faultiness, for the
diversity of national character is in itself essen-
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. y
tially and of necessity a fault, one of the re-
mains and evident proofs of man's corruption.
Were all men perfect, all men would think alike ;
to them their conscience would be the guide of
life, the arch-logician ; for there is no such per-
fect logic as the dictates of a pure conscience.
The type of all such minds would be the same,
for it would be perfect ; no logic could, there-
fore, move it to action but such as was itself
perfect, the bright manifestation of an heavenly
original. To aU that was faulty and incomplete
there would exist a repugnance immeasurable
and unsurmountable. To analyze, therefore, the
character of the English or any other people,
we must go deeper, and try, if possible, to ascer-
tain what the type of their implicit character is,
taking it, as we must, for granted, that in its
explicit manifestations faulty logic will be em-
ployed, by the operations of which, as by ex-
ternal symptoms physicians ascertain the inward
malady, so may we attain the object of our
research. This is, however, a very di£Scult and
laborious task, and well nigh impossible to per-
form by any satisfactory process of analytical
reasoning ; and so to make the conduct of the
10 ON THE CHARACTER
enquiry shorter, I will first state synthetically
what I hold the English character to be, and
then confirm the assertion by as many uncon-
nected proofs, as I think necessary to establish
its soundness.
The English character I conceive to be, like
our language, distinguished for its complexity
and its scope, and to be composed of elements
many more than in most national characters, —
of, indeed, an infinite number of those germs
which, according to the direction given to them,
sprout up and increase almost imperceptibly,
and develope themselves either into virtues or
into vices. And this being said, short and
unmeaning as the statement may appear, the
character of the English people may be esteemed
to have been given. By granting to the Eng-
lish character complexity and scope, which,
as here employed, are but two expressions for
the same thing, we at once give to it the high-
est praise, both intellectual and moral, that can
be given to the character of any nation. The
possession of these characteristics enables our
people to do great things, and bear great things,
and not to faint or be disabled for want of self-
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 11
resources. It must be remembered, that the
object of these pages was not to ascertain sim-
ply the character of the EngUsh people, but to
examine it with a view to present difficulties
and their remedy; for which examination I
have, I trust, in what I have said, established a
locus standi. Deeper investigations would lead
us into perilous and perhaps forbidden ground,
though it were easy to speculate at almost any
length upon the possibility of outward causes
operating to the production of this complexity.
One reason might be found in the diversity of
races composing the present English nation —
the resolute and obstinate Briton, the sturdy
and enduring Saxon, the impetuous Norman.
Another cause may again be discovered in the
climate and natural temperature of England,
which, neither over-hot nor over-cold, induces
its inhabitants to adopt the habits and modes
of thought of the natives both of warmer and
of more chilly regions. Again, our insularity
might be brought forward. But these specu-
lations are comparatively of little moment, and
cannot lead to much practical good ; their basis
is unsubstantial, and their results, at the best
12 ON THE CHARACTER
unreal, often dangerous, as leading those that
indulge in them to rest satisfied with material
reasons for every thing, and to forget that there
is an overruling Power that fashions all things,
that sways the visible world and the hearts of
men. Let it, then, be sufficient that such is
our national character, — an assertion which I
shall now confirm by instances.
The characteristic of the English mind which
rightly demands priority of consideration, is
that desire, so prominent in it, of dealing with
the spiritual and the supernatural, which, in its
best and purest shape, is true religion ; warped
and distorted, becomes fanaticism. So long as
the English Church was powerful and glorious,
and renowned through Christendom for its
piety and its magnificence, so long were En-
glishmen foremost in the ranks of Churchmen ;
but when the iron arm of secular tyranny had
robbed the Church of its power and its magni-
ficence, cramped its means of doing good, and
in too many instances converted it into an
instrument for executing its own unhallowed
designs, then, as might be supposed, a grievous
change came over the mind of the English peo-
\
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 13
pie. No longer prominent as upholders of the
Church, but still unwearied as ever in their
cravings after the realization of the spiritual,
they fell into the love of every species of heresy
and schism, till the English nation has become
a byword and a never-failing jest throughout
the world for its religious diversities. The evil
was busy at work as early as the harsh reign of
Henry the Fourth, whose selfish policy fostered
the growth of the Lollard superstition. What
the Tudors did need not be told,
'^ Satis jampridem sanguine nostro
Laomedontese luimus perjuria Trojse.*'
Then Brownism sprung up, the spawn of Ge-
nevan heresy, fostered by many a faithless son
of the Church ; and sour Presbyterianism, fed
by martyrs' blood ; and insane Quakerism, and
many monstrous forms of error. At length
Calvinian WilUam landed, and the English
«
Chiurch abandoned her fortress to the unholy
brood, and all seemed hopeless. Then time
rolled on, and horrible spectres of Mormonism
and Socialism have raised their frightful heads,
as if in vengeance for our sins.
14 ON THE CHARACTER
All this is most deplorable^ and it tells^ at
first sight, very bitterly against our national
character ; but upon a calmer consideration, we
may even find much that is hopeful in this
state. England has, from time to time, been
the theatre of frightful convulsions of the
Church: had not, then, the character of the
people been naturally religious, the result of
these convulsions would have been to have
thrown the great majority (as too many persons
have been thrown) into a state of apathetic
unbelief. Such, however, has not been the
case ; but rather a morbid condition of super-
stition and fanaticism has been produced,
which, as being more energetic, more akin to
what is good, is therefore more hopeful.
Another prominent virtue of the old English
character was the patient industry of the peo-
ple : not as other nations — the French and the
Italians, for instance, and, to a still greater de-
gree, our fellow-subjects, the Irish — desirous of
bare subsistence, produced by the least amount
of labour, and giving opportunity for the longest
periods of that lazy dreaminess which they re-
gard as their summum bonum ; but plodding on.
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 15
day after day, at their appointed toil, making it,
as it were, a part of their existence ; not view-
ing each particular task as the particular means
for some desired end, but esteeming work in
the abstract as their duty and their vocation.
I am no believer in that age of gold, renowned
in story, but physically impossible,
** When every rood maintained its man."
One thing, however, I will assert, that the spirit
of English industry is very different from what
it was in the days of small proprietorship and
domestic manufacture ; when in every cottage
was heard the cheerful hum of the wheel, and
the farmer or the yeoman, lord of acres, drove
to market, proud of his warm attire of Kentish
cloth of grey, his dame by his side snugly
wrapped up in her good red cloak. This was a
healthy and a laudable manufacturing system,
and one which spoke much in praise of the
moral condition of the people among whom it
was foimd, spreading, as it did, the vitality of
moderate competency throughout every county
of the land. Then luxury grew, and so did
science ; the mighty and impetuous powers of
16 ON THE CHARACTER
nature were made to do man^s work, as man
had never worked. Then the old industry, that
favourite virtue of our isle, became a vice, and
a blight, and a curse, transformed into a greedy
and restless passion after gain, a burning fever
of competition, a well-spring of tormenting dis-
content. Then we beheld tall, gaunt, black
chimneys, reared by the fair streams of the
loveliest valleys of Northern England, filling
the very spots where once the abbey-spire
would have risen ; and rural villages expanding
into immense and churchless cities, with no
variety in their smoke-stained streets, but pri-
son-like mills, and the wretched, undrained,
unventilated hovels of the labouring class. I
dwell upon outward appearances, because they
afford no untrue index of the inward feelings
generated by that system of manufacture which
has of late years grown up. That the steam-
engine might have been discovered, and power-
looms been introduced, and Manchester and
Bolton and Birmingham might have grown up
to their present extent and opulence, and yet
that the fearful demoralization which has pre-
vailed throughout the land, and owing to them.
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 17
might have been spared^ had the controllers of
the work begun their task in a more generous*
and Christian spirit than^ I regret to say^ has
ever generally existed, or is now to be found,
I do not deny : nay, so far from denying it, I
most emphatically assert the possibility, and
asserting it, exclaim more bitterly against the
bad passions of those who have impeded such
a state of things.
At present, millowners, as a class, are not
content unless they accumulate the trade of the
world — not to England, not to their own town,
but each to his own individual mill ; and every
shiUing that has to be diverted from their dar-
ling object of accumulating gain, is counted so
much lost — as it were a drop of their hearths
blood spilt. In this insane pinrsuit, the health
and the well-being of those whom they fancy
their dependents — while upon them, in truth,
they themselves depend — is set down for
nought ; and, more than this, the general weal
of the body politic. Political changes, the most
reckless and the most unadvised, are to be
greedily pursued, if they hold out any pros-
pect, not of increased gain, but merely of dimi-
c
\
{
18 ON THE CHARACTER
nished outlay. In the meantime, round the
gloomy palaces of these autocrats have grown
up nations, uncared for, untaught, imbaptized,
some ignorant of the very existence of a Deity \
This is a most true picture of the state of
things at present existing in England, and one
which may well be productive of the greatest
apprehension. I have, I trust, succeeded in
showing how completely it is a development
of the English character — a vicious form of
that part of it which, in a more healthy state,
showed, and does still show, itself in the form
of honest and unwearied industry. This is the
most consolatory point of view to regard it in,
as it affords hopes, that if the ^^rash, fierce
blaze of riot^^ may be quenched, it may again
produce good fruit, and be a blessing, and not
a curse, to the land. This is to be effected by
no stringent legislative prohibition of steam-
engines, no violent strokes, no sudden change,
^ This was literally the case, as by the Report of the
Cominittee for Inquiry into the condition of the Collieries has
appeared^ ija. some coal-district^ I think in Staffordshire ; and
a head man^ who was present at the examination^ was asto-
nished at the examiner being surprised at the avowal.
OP THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 19
but by gradual and moral influences^ by pa-
tience and by confidence, and unflinching firm-
ness in pursuing the right, wherever it may be
found. In the latter part of the Essay, I shall
treat more fully upon this point.
Another characteristic of the English mind
is a kind of sturdy independence, which makes
an Englishman think himself better than the
native of any other country, in every conceiv-
able respect. Ask a schoolboy, and he will tell
you that an Englishman is a match for three
Frenchmen. This quality, properly nurtured,
has been the source of many and great national
virtues. By this our Alfred triumphed; by
this our Saxon thanes and peasantry, through
a long course of patient suflering, gained that
moral victory over their ruthless and unprinci-
pled invaders which has left our island Eng-
land, bowed to their feelings the souls of Plan-
tagenet kings, and secured to the mild laws
and institutes of good S. Edward perpetuity,
long after the oppressive and unfair customs of
the Norman baron have been swept away; ill
regulated, it has proved the cause of innumer-
able national disgraces, and of vast distress to
c2
20 ON THE CHARACTER
ourselves as well as others. It is the preva-
lence of this feeling that has helped to make
our colonial government so unpopular in the
colonies, and so unsatisfactory at home. We
have proceeded to our distant possessions, full
of these exalted notions of self, and believing
we only could do any thing. The consequence
is, that all the offices and the honours, of which
the inhabitants— either our own native Saxon
race, descended from us, or our subjects by
right of conquest — should have had their just
share, have been reserved, till very lately, to
the England-born. This, of necessity, consi-
dering that the fountain of emolument bubbled
up in Downing-street, has produced a system
of jobbing and intrigue as different in all out-
ward appearance from the old independence of
the English character, as in very truth it is
cognate with it in fact. The condition of Ire-
land before the Union is a melancholy and
striking exemplification of this state of matters,
of which it would be difficult to say whether
the evils, moral and political, of which it is the
origin, show themselves more strikingly in, and
exercise a worse influence upon, those that gain
I
OP THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 21
I or those that lose, as far as temporal advan-
i tages are concerned, by the system.
^ Many amusing instances of this our con-
4 sistent inconsistency might be found in the
7 history of oiu* literature. To take a recent,
a ready, and a very forcible example : how dif-
ferent is the estimate in which the poetry of
Wordsworth is held in the present day from
the value assigned to it within the memory of
men themselves not old! — and yet this is not
inconsistency. Till his wilfulnesses, (as Cole-
ridge truly calls them,) had become familiar,
and his bold axioms had been tested by the
shrewd scrutiny of the public taste, it was per-
haps almost the proof of good sense not at
once to have admitted his lofty claims, great
poet though he be.
I might enlarge upon these and similar ex-
emplifications of our national character : this,
however, I will not do, as trusting that what I
have brought forward may be sufficient to ex-
onerate the English people, as a people, from
the charge of fickleness. Those fierce outbreaks
of lawless passion which have, from time to
time, disgraced our national annals, might be
22 ON THE CHARACTER
quoted against this favourable estimate of our
character ; yet these may, I believe, in part be
explained according to the principles I am
endeavouring to establish: the rest must be
deemed instances of what Bishop Butler con-
ceived possible, — the lunacy of nations.
Had Aristides been an Englishman, no one
would have condemned him to exile because he
was tired of hearing him called the Just. I
do not say that the English nation might not
have persuaded itself that he was the very per-
sonification of all injustice and unfair dealing,
and as such, against the face of the plainest
reason, condemned him ; but believing him to
be just, it would not have injured him. This
is the distinction between fickleness and eccen-
tric inconsistency : in the one the heart, in the
other the head, is the most to blame; though in
neither case are they both altogether faultless.
This view of our national character, which I
have endeavoured, by these instances, to make
good, seems, I must confess, as I have before
hinted, the most consolatory one that can be
adopted, as proving that our present condition,
though very sick, is any thing but irremedia-
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 23
ble ; that is^ of course, if the right remedies be
judiciously applied. If, as I have laid down,
the English character do contain most of those
germs which, by different fosterings, expand
either into virtues or into vices, there is no
reason that the rank growth of the latter should
not be checked, and the former tenderly che-
rished; that England should not again be
trained to be the glory of the world for her
virtues and high emprise ; that her sons should
not again become
** Renowned for their deeds as far from home,
For Christian service, and true chivaby.
As is the Sepulchre in stubborn Jewry,
Of The World's Ransom, Blessed Mary's Son."
What, then, are the remedies I propose ? No
legislative enactments, no boards of self-suffi-
cient commissioners and well-paid clerks, no
statistical returns and select committees, — sad
waste, as many of them are, of that precious
time which is ever running on towards Dooms-
day ; but the healing balm of moral and re-
ligious cure — remedies arising spontaneously
from the nature of the evils they are meant to
24 ON THE CHARACTER
counteract ; local^ various, incomplete in them-
selves, developing their influence by gradual
and partial benefits, but all forming portions of
one vast and consistent whole, steadily and ir-
resistibly working its grand end, — the regene-
ration of the EngUsh people.
Many of my readers will have anticipated
where I look to for these remedies— from what
one only fountain I hope to draw the healing
waters.
GOD^S HOLY EVERLASTING ChURCH ALONE
CAN SAVE OUR NATION; AND GOD^S HOLY
EVERLASTING ChURCH MUST BE RESTORED
THROUGH England op the saints. And
the Church must be restored by no compul-
sion, no forcing of men^s minds, no legislative
enactments ; but by gradually fostering Church
principles in the hearts of the mass, by gradu-
ally accustoming them to Church practices, by
moulding anew the national character into a
Church-Uke shape, by training up, as of yore,
a Catholic population in our Catholic land, by
endearing them, httle by little, to the Church
of their fathers.
It is a great mistake, the forcing on Church
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 25
principles where neither place nor time ren-
ders them, at least for the present, tolerable,
— in Parliament, for instance, to choose the
strongest example. When any pressing and
immediate evil is to be prevented — the sup-
pression, for example, of some bishopric of
fifteen hundred years* diu'ation — then all that
have a heart to love their Church should la-
boiu* might and main; no compromise should
be permitted, no feelings of expediency allowed
to weigh against that indignation which the
commission of so miserable a spoliation should
excite. On the other hand, if some sure and
certain piece of isolated good were to present
itself to the hands of any who should choose to
pluck it, it would be blindness to overlook it,
cravenness to pass it by. Furthermore, if reli-
gious controversy be brought into Parliament
from other quarters, it would be no prudent
caution, but mere cowardice, not manfully to
stand up and maintain right principles before
an audience even of scoffers ; yet so as not
by an unregulated tongue to give handle to
their scoffs, — a delicate office to fulfil. But let
Churchmen that are in the House of Commons
26 ON THE CHARACTER
beware of taking the initiative overmuch — they
are but laymen ; and it is one of the misfor-
tunes of the day, one of the clearest proofs of
the sickness of the times, that Church matters
have fallen so much into lay hands. That
laymen should boldly and unhesitatingly take
their part in the maintenance of the right, is a
duty; but let them learn what that part is.
Above all, let them feel the awful responsibility
which attaches to them as a body, and still
more so as individuals; to their every word,
and every untimed jest, and half-pondered as-
sertion. The heathen poet says,
" Semel emissum volat irrevocabile verbum ;"
and Holy Writ teaches us as much, with a
most fearful sentence thereto attached. A sin-
gle speech, one unwise or vain protestation,
may be caught up, and echoed, and distorted,
by an unjudging world, and yield a rank harvest
of unthought-of mischief for years and years,
when we are gone to wait our last account.
One short word of explanation, one kind
thought, may be stored in the treasury of
Heaven, to bind together, with its irresistible
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 27
power, the long-festering wounds of the Apos-
toUc Church ; and one silly burst of self-willed
arrogance may suffice to postpone that blessed
day for many a long, dreary season. And let
them not merely care what they say and do
themselves, but what others say and think of
them, so far as to avoid scandal. For example,
let them beware of being esteemed a mere set ;
of causing, by needless singularity, that their
high views and high principles be written down
as nothing more than the manifestation of a
conceited and eccentric disposition ; and, more
than any thing, let them avoid having these
unfavourable opinions of them sealed by their
being paraded to the world under any nick-
name, and, through false humility or untem-
pered love of jest, adopting and rejoicing in it.
A holy man of old said he was "nomine Chris-
tianus, cognomine Catholicus :^^ let these be
the only epithets that they will own, if, that is,
as I am sure is the case, they do really intend
to be both Christians and Catholics; for how
can those whose badge of imagined singularity
is their attachment to the Universal Church,
like to cut themselves off, as it were, from it.
28 ON THE CHARACTER
by the adoption of any sectarian appellation?
But enough of this.
Church principles and Church practices en-
forced by authoritative mandates from a ruling
power, legislative or executive, and these alone,
will do but little and partial good, much certain
and general evil. This was a capital fault of
those great and good men of the English Church,
her Martyrs and Confessors of two centuries ago,
that, in a perverse and rebellious age, strove to
raise her from her humiliation, and again deck
her with her rejected jewels of matchless price.
They cared not enough to make what they un-
dertook, I do not say palatable to, but even
comprehended by, the mass of those for whom
they laboured. Profound and ripe scholars,
holy and self-denying men, deep read them-
selves in old patristic lore, they yet were much
deficient in that poetical temperament which is
a requisite ingredient to form the perfect Ca-
tholic missionary, the reviver of old truths in
a forgetful generation. Their minds too much
resembled that style of architecture which be-
came fashionable in their days, — regular and
classical, and, to a certain extent, beautiful; from
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 29
this very regularity, admitting of much adorn-
ment, and such as not to forbid considerable
stateliness of Catholic ritual; but lacking the
vigour, and the freshness, and the grandeur,
and the unearthly mystery of the Gothic cathe-
dral. There were no overarching vaults of pon-
derous lightness, with tapering pillars, massy
in themselves as mountains, slender in their
details as the rushes by some saint-surnamed
well ; no windows dimly bright with azure and
with red, the history of patriarch or Christian
Martyr; no dizzy spires and feathered but-
tresses, spanning the skies like that fair bow of
promise. These learned men, proud of the
newly-revived knowledge of Greek and of Ro-
man customs, could not enter into the feelings
of a Saxon race ; they knew but little, and they
cared but little for the homely Catholicity of
rustic minds, the traditions, not of learned doc-
tors, but of simple priests and simpler peasants.
The consequence was, that either they expended
themselves on the sole pursuit of learned con-
troversy with foreign polemics, and risked con-
verting the Catholic Faith in England into a
religion of the schools ; or that, when they con-
30 ON THE CHARACTER
descended to their ruder congregations, they
did so awkwardly and fitfully, and so as to gain
no hold upon the public mind. They revived
certain isolated ceremonies, and they promulged
a book of sports, and then hoped they had
restored the Church of S. Augustine and S.
Bede to her old glory, stemmed the torrent
of popular discontent, and built up truth upon
a sure foundation. But the event showed mat-
tiers to be far otherwise : the alterations which
were made were not received as the unanimous
voice of the English Church, or the reflex of
public feeling brought back to a healthy con-
dition, but as the mere single act of Archbishop
Laud and King Charles the First. And so in
truth they were; for these holy men, over-
anxious to enforce compliance with individual
and isolated ceremonies, postponed, in a great
measure to this, the maintenance of general
principles; as, for instance, they were over-
fond, as the readiest means of accomplishment,
to command that by virtue of the royal prero-
gative which should have been enacted by the
authority of the Church ; the result of which
would have been, I fear, that, had they pre-
OP THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 31
vailed, an Erastian spirit would have insidiously
crept into our ecclesiastical polity; not, of
course, that I mean to say that their defeat has
saved us from the same evil. The divines who
maintained the cause of the Church in 1662,
seem to have taken, in many respects, a far
higher line. To be sure, they were not beset
by the temptation to lapse into Erastianism
which the previous generation had to contend
against; the crown was no longer worn by
Charles the First.
So much for the question of awaking our
Church from her trance by the dulcet notes of
Parliament. Another way of so doing offers
itself, which is, to revivify Convocation, in order
to accomplish the same result. This has been
for some time a favourite project of many
churchmen ; but putting aside the absolute
necessity of the Church possessing synodical
government, of which there cannot be among
the faintest-hearted Catholic the shadow of a
doubt, and which is not at all involved in the
present question, I should be very sorry to hear
of the assembly of Convocation ^^ for despatch
of business,^* that is, of Convocation in its pre*
32 ON THE CHARACTER
sent shape. In the first place, to the very con-
stitution of that assembly there is a decided
objection; it is entirely secular, and framed
originally for a most secular object, the taxing
of the clergy ; to effect which, it was assembled
contemporaneously with Parliament. The idea
of its becoming a church-council was an after-
thought, and a most cunning one, of some
Erastian mind that dreaded the stern aspect of
synod and of council. Besides which, there is
even a more important objection, that Convoca-
tion is (to waive its original character) not a
representative assembly of the Church of Eng-
land, but only of the Province of Canterbiuy.
The Convocation of York existed but as a court
of registry to its more favoured sister. Now,
with such a system as this, it would be utterly
impossible to effect any permanent and effectual
good. If the Chiu'ch abiding in these realms
is at once to have her deliberative powers
restored to her, let it be in a free and indepen-
dent Synod of all the Churches of the Anglican
Communion owning the supremacy of the Bri-
tish Crown, not of the Suffragans of Canterbury
merely, not of Canterbury and York, but of
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 33
England and of Ireland, of the Colonies, and of
the Holy Church in Scotland. In this wish I
am supported by the Canons of our Church,
" treated upon by the Bishop of London, Pre-
sident of the Convocation for the Province of
Canterbury, and the rest of the Bishops and
Clergy of the said province;^* which Convocation
was assembled by King James I. to frame "Ca-
nons, Orders, Ordinances, and Constitutions,**
'^to be from time to time observed, performed,
fulfilled, and kept as well by the Archbishop of
Canterbury, the Bishops and their Successors,
and the rest of the whole Clergy of the said
Province of Canterbury, &c.** I have been thus
particular in giving these two quotations, the
first, to recall to the attention of my readers
the fact, that the circumstance of these being the
Canons of a Provincial assembly, gives greater
weight to any testimony they may contain in
favour of a National Synod ; the second, to
show that the Convocation, in its palmiest days,
was not the Representative Church of England,
as it did not possess the power of enforcing even
these ordinances, which were intended to be the
universal law of the English Church, beyond
D
34 ON THE CHARACTER
the bounds of the Southern Province. The
hundred and thirty-ninth of these Canons is
entitled^ ^ A National Synod the Church Repre-
sentative/* and runs thus^ ^^ Whosoever shall
hereafter affirm that the sacred Synod of this
nation^ in the name of Christ and by the King's
authority assembled^ is not the true Church of
England by representation^ let him be excom-
municated^ and not restored^ until he repent and
publicly revoke this his wicked error/* This
Canon seems to me^ so far from being a testi-
mony in favour of the then and still existing
constitution of the Convocation^ to be indeed
the strongest testimony against it. Had the
framers of that Canon intended to protect that
form of Synodical representation from altera-
tion, they would surely have introduced that
legal and technical appellation^ ^^ Convocation/*
into its title or its substance ; instead of which
they, as it were, purposely avoid the word,
making use instead of it, in this and the two
following canons, of the more Catholic and ec-
clesiastical title "Synod.** I do not affirm (indeed
such affirmation would, I believe, subject its
maker to the penalties of the Canon) that they
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 35
meant to say that the two Convocations of Can-
terbury and York did not together constitute a
National Synod. This I believe they did mean
to say^ and this I hold ; but this belief is not in
any way inconsistent with the supposition, that
along with the assertion of their own authority,
they were willing to point to and make ready
for some more satisfactory form of Church re-
presentation. This is further confirmed by the
prominent manner in which ^^ National ^^ is in-
troduced into the title, and ^^ Nation ^^ into the
body of the Canon, as if in contradistinction to
^^ Provincial ^^ and ^^ Province.^^ And as an in-
dication of the mind of the Church upon this
subject, it may be added, that the Convocation
of Ireland is National, and not Provincial.
This being granted, what hopes have we of
such a Synod as we should desire being at pre-
sent assembled? And granting that such could be
called together, what would the results of such an
assemblage be ? Ludicrous, I fear; if they were
not tragic. What pen could describe the diver-
sities of feeling, and of thought, and of learning
turned loose upon each other, to work their
mutual ill! Can any imagine the scene that
D 2
36 ON THE CHARACTER
would ensue, when high CathoHc and bitter
Calvinist should assemble together, both repre-
sentatives of the one same Church, both claim-
ing to be the only true expositors of her real
doctrines ? History informs us of a Parliament
that met in the reign of Henry the Fourth,
from which all lawyers were excluded, and which
gained the appellation of " Parliamentum indoc-
torum/^ This parliament was very mischievous,
and made sad havoc on the Church ; and if a
^^ Parliamentum indoctorum *^ be so very baneful
a thing, what would not be a ^^ Synodus indoc-
torum ? " And such I may, I trust, without
fear of presumption, assert would be a Convoca-
tion, even were it composed of the holiest men
and the most learned divines in England ; for
to give efficiency to such a council, it is not
divines merely that we need, but also canonists.
That our clergy may again be such I confidently
expect. As was natural and right, the study of
the high and holy mysteries of the Catholic
Faith was the first manifestation of the reviving
energies of our Church; but we already see
evident signs that the less awful, yet very im-
portant studies, necessary for the health of the
OP THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 37
Church, are not forgotten. When we have
again canonists in holy orders, then let us call
out for Synods. At present our clergy are not
able so much as to undertake the executive
department of Church jurisprudence ; and lay-
men sit and administer lay judgment in the
courts of Bishop and Archbishop : then how can
they have the temerity to expect that they are
capable of legislative functions ? The time will
come when our Church shall have again her
Synods, but it is not yet.
It now, therefore, remains to be seen what
can, under existing circumstances, be done
without the aid of either Parliament or Convo-
cation. An infinite deal of good may, I ven-
ture so to aflSrm, be effected, if judgment be
employed ; enough of good to smooth down all
difficulties, and pave the way for future glories
to oiu* beloved Church. This leads me back
again to what I may have seemed to have for-
gotten, the character of the English people, the
moulding of whom into a churchlike spirit is,
according to what has been above laid down, the
truest, nay, the only sound project for national
regeneration. From what has been in the pre-
38 ON THE CHARACTER
vious part of this Essay thrown out concerning
the versatile universality of the English cha-
racter, it will be manifest that such national
regeneration is not, considering all things, at-
tempted in a stubborn soil. This view of the
character of our nation must ever be borne in
mind during the course of these remarks, as a
key to their spirit, and a touchstone to be ap-
plied whenever it may be thought worth while
to test their practical soimdness.
The amount of local good that may be done
by merely considering what is yet permitted to
us, and acting up to the letter of it, has yet to
be tried. Some of the features of the Catholic
Church, which for these many years have, in our
branch of it, been so grievously obscured, — the
daily Communion, for instance, the penitential
system, religious communities, — it is in the
power of any Bishop, almost of any parish
priest, to revive. That this sort of revival were
to be considered as any thing else but temporary
and incomplete, I should be sorry to think ; but
the revival must, in the first instance, be made
in this manner. Let them be gradually and
locally re-established, and then our Synod,
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 39
whensoever it shall assemble^ will come forward
with a better grace to confirm and to seal them,
dg airavra 7rX«<TTTj/t>i| XP^^^^f than if they were
to be all at once forced into a premature gene-
rality by any Canon that it should enact. The
want of a Pontifical is one of those deficiencies
which must strike the most casual observer;
but yet at present we lack no Synod to compile
one. Let but a certain number of Bishops
agree as to the ceremonies that they will em-
ploy in the consecration of Churches, and then
for their dioceses we possess for the time being
the benefits which a Pontifical, when enacted,
would secure for ever.
It being established that the true and only
mode of regenerating England is by regenerat-
ing the English Church, and that, from a con-
sideration as well of the character of the Eng-
lish people as of various other points, the only
way in which this regeneration can, in the first
instance, be satisfactorily accomplished, is by
local and particular revivals ; we will now see
what assistance and what encouragements,
things, as they stand at present, will afford us ;
and then proceed very briefly to indicate in
40 ON THE CHARACTER
what various methods the renascent feelmg for
Church truth may be fostered and matured.
The English nation^ as a nation^ I believe to
be still essentially Catholic; and external and
malign influences being removed, I do not think
it would be at all a difEcult task to fix the mass
of the people firm in their allegiance to the
Church. The class in which the unchurchlike
feeling is the strongest, is that of those indi-
viduals suflSciently removed above the lower
orders to be devoid of sympathy with them, and
yet not high enough to gratify their own ambi-
tion; the class greedy after petty distinction
and parochial influence,— speculating farmers
and small shopkeepers. This class it is which
produces those stirring and heroic spirits who,
if they be nominally churchmen, rejoice to at-
tain the honours of churchwardenship, that they
may bully the clergyman, and job the Church,
and strut th,eir hour ; and if, on the other hand,
they swell the ranks of schism, move onward
with peculiar grace to Meeting, sure, from their
wealth and their dignified position, to be in-
vested with all the grandeur of a " deacon,^' if
they be not even called to fill the orator's ros-
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 41
trum, and so acquire the right to ornament their
names with the title of ^^ Reverend/^ whensoever
it shall suit their convenience so to do. This
class it is that has afforded the most determined
and vexatious opposition to the holy war now
waging through the length and breadth of the
land (no slight symptom this, by the way, of
a healthier feeling) against the pue system.
The amount of latent Catholicity existing in
the minds and the habits of the English people,
would, if it were to be summed up, produce an
aggregate which would surprise us from its
amount. Latent, I say, and perhaps little sus-
pected by many a fierce ^^ anti-Puseyite,^^ in
whose breast it may yet be lurking, and in whose
actions a philosophic mind may yet trace its
movements. I shall not here attempt to do any
thing more than to give, in confirmation of my
assertion, a few scattered instances of this Ca-
tholicity, which have, in various ways, presented
themselves to my thoughts.
The reverence for Holy Seasons is one of the
most obvious and prominent features of the
Catholic character. Despising the gloomy
frenzy of the fanatic, that brands this rever-
42 ON THE CHARACTER
ence as superstitious — that so much-abus
word, so portentous ofttimes in its sound,
its sense so empty — ^the Catholic feels that t
observance of sacred seasons brings Heav
down to earth, raising him from low terrestr
thoughts, and, with its tempered and religio
bliss, quahfying him to enjoy the endless ha
piness of another world, he feels that, by 1:
hallowed services,
*' with solemn hand.
The Church withdraws the veil ;
And there we see that other land.
Far in the distance pale.
While good church-bells are ringing
All on the earth below,
And white-robed choirs with angels singing.
Where stately organs blow :
And up and down each holy street.
Faith hears the tread of viewless feet.
Such as in Salem walked when He
Had gotten Himself the victory."
All know the well-nigh universal oblivion ii
which these blessed practices have fallen; j
some few landmarks still remain, at once t
vestiges and harbingers of better things, t^
light and dawn of day at once, illumining t
OP THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 48
dark night of unbelief. Easter is yet honoured,
and Christmas, and Whitsuntide. All know —
though, alas ! the knowledge recals but seciilar
thoughts — of Lady-day and Michaelmas ; and,
to descend to what may seem to some a ludi-
crous example, the pancake still smokes on
every board upon Shrove Tuesday. But, lu-
dicrous as this may seem, it may yet serve to
remind a forgetful generation, that a season of
festivity has passed away, and penitential Lent
begins to show her mourners' weeds. Nor un-
observed is Holy Week, especially that awful
Day on which the sun was darkened.
Many villages in the more northern part of
our land, perhaps also in the south, still cele-
brate their annual Wake, or Feast, as it is
termed; that is, the anniversary of the conse-
oration of their beloved and antique Church,
once one of the gladdest, holiest days in the
year's long course, now too often degenerated
into a season of mere irreUgious debauchery,
but yet containing in itself the seeds of bet-
ter things — the dim memorials of old feeling,
which, if tenderly nursed, may yet spring up
into an abundant harvest of holy thoughts. A
44 ON THE CHARACTER
few summers ago, I was journeying through
Yorkshire, and spent a Sunday at Ripon. A
beautiful day it was, and the sun shone bright
on the grey Minster of that quiet city ; and this
day was the anniversary of the dedication of
that famous church by S. Wilfrid, nigh twelve
centuries ago, still called Wilfrid Sunday, still
observed as a season of universal rejoicing; and
in the walls of that late-made Cathedral-church,
I first heard the praises of that great Saxon
Saint proclaimed by him who then and still
occupies the decanal stall. It cannot but be the
case, that the people of Ripon, thus annually
recalled to the days of our famous Saxon Church,
and of one of her most illustrious champions,
will be more patient of Church truths than
those that never heard S. Wilfrid^s name.
Other events in our Church history they may
learn in the crumbling ruins hard by of Foun-
tains^ fair Cistercian Abbey.
The dedication-feasts of churches have, in
two or three instances, of late been revived;
and, we doubt not, with the happiest effect.
There are few festivals which so much come
home to the personal and local feelings of the
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 45
villager^ as those in which his own familiar
Church is the centre and the object. If the
House of Prayer be of mediaeval date, there is a
mystery about those Uchened walls and strange
massy windows, with, may be, some broken
fragments of old glass, some saintly face,
"beautiful exceedingly,^* amid dirt and devas-
tation, those intricate columns and that oaken
roof, that if, to the popular mind, they be not,
as I fear they are not, immediately suggestive,
must yet be valuable aids, and a strong con-
firmation to the preacher, when he unfolds to
his flock concerning the blessed Communion of
Saints, that they are not men of a day, believers
m some modem faith, but children of one holy
mother, members of one universal, everlasting
body. They see their parish Church, solid and
magnificent, and they are told that, centuries
ago, that Church was built for the use of
their own village; just the same village that
they see it now, save that then it was poorer
and smaller than now it is ; and they must, if
they have any heart, be filled with admiration
for the times of old. If, on the other hand,
(which has, I believe, been the case in all those
46 ON THE CHARACTER
Churches the celebration of whose consecration
has of late been instituted,) the sacred edifice
be of recent structure, then they will have
feelings to attach them to it, other, but not
less real and true. They had themselves beheld
it rising day by day; contributed, it may be,
■
their willing share to the good work ; they feel
a personal interest in its prosperity, and, if the
memory of the first consecration of the Church
be maintained, will transmit these feelings to
their descendants.
The beautiful old custom, still universal, of
decking Church and cottage at Christmas-time
with the green leaves and bright red berries of
the holly-tree, is another relic of Church-Kke
feeling — that feeling which, despising that cold
and shallow philosophy, or false religion, which,
pretending to regard all times as alike holy,
in effect robs all of any sanctity, cherishes
with especial regard those seasons which Holy
Church has pointed out whereon high festival
is to be held, as a foretaste of that eternal fes-
tival which shall hereafter be, when this pre-
sent world shall have passed away, and the
Catholic Church, having endured the red, long-
OP THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 47
burning furnace of tribulation, shall shine forth
happy and pure for evermore. Such are the
Churchman^s hopes, the Churchman's feelings.
We have yet an evidence of the existence
of much latent Church feeling afforded us by
the extremely common occurrence of religious
prints in cottages and in small farm-houses.
The spirit that suggests this must be essentially
Church-like. Puritanism, as we all know, in
its wayward arrogance, despises all such moni-
tions and aids to devotion, and cannot, there-
fore, possibly be the originator of so beautiful a
custom in the mind of the illiterate classes of
the community, to whom it would, of course,
present itself in its most unrefined form.
Against this assertion may be urged the suc-
cess of the ^^ Pilgrim's Progress,'' an allegory,
and one, in its various editions, constantly call-
ing for the aid of pictorial art, and yet the pro-
duct of a Puritan pen. We should probably
reply, that, at the core, John Bunyan was not
so great a Puritan as he would fain have us
believe him to have been; or, at all events,
that, had he been as well as he was ill-educated
and disciplined, he would have belonged to a
48 ON THE CHARACTER
far different school^ — an assertion which will
not, I should think, be controverted. At all
events, his Puritanism, Uke that of Milton, is
a remarkable fact in the history of religious
psychology; and, like it, tends to show how
utterly powerless is a mere aesthetic perception
of beauty, without inward holiness, towards the
maintenance of a sound faith in the soiil. But
these remarks are carrying us away from our
subject. This taste for religious art, so gene«
rally prevalent, might, if judiciously applied, be
made a most valuable auxiliary to the recalling
of England^s bygone Churchmanship.
" Our two ancient and famous Universities,'^
moreover, bear, in their constitution, a noble
and unceasing witness to the existence of the
Catholic Church in England. Is it possible
that any earnest and reflecting man, educated
within their time-honoured walls, subjected to
academic rule, clothed with the old-world attire
of academic station, admitted to academic de-
gree with those solemn words of investiture
which still siurive to these late days — an in-
vestiture, not derived from King or earthly
potentate, but granted by the University as the
OP THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 49
type and the handmaid of the universal Church,
—that such an one, I say, can be other than
more favourably disposed to Church principles
than he who, with the same natural advantages,
has never felt the influence of academic air.
And I trust that the young University planted
m S. Cuthberfs city will, in her measure, bear
good fruit to Holy Church. That academy
cannot surely be a nurse of Puritanism, whose
students worship, day by day, in that Cathedral
glorious for its site, glorious for its architecture,
and yet more glorious for that therein still sleep
S. Cuthbert and S. Bede. The establishing
this seminary, one of the munificent acts of
that noble prelate, the last Lord Palatine of
Durham, was in itself an indication of awaken-
ing life in our Church — an harbinger of future
sunshine, first apparent in those most holy
precincts ; and it is the more remarkable, as it
was the unaided work of Churchmen, unsup-
ported by state influence, and as its foundation
preceded that great burst of renascent Church-
manship which occupies and perplexes Eng-
land, and, sooner or later, will command the
attention of the universal Church. Previous to
E
50 ON THE CHARACTER
the foundation of the University of Durhan
was that of King^s College, London ; which
albeit it is not so complete by far, nor so ec
clesiastical, as its northern sister, is yet by n(
means devoid of such a character, certainly
aiming, as it does, at being collegiate in its
constitutions, and is regarded as a forecast o:
better feelings, highly interesting. The same
as far as the general principle of their institu-
tion is concerned, may be said of the colleges
of S. David and S. Bees. Still more recently
in more than one of our cathedral cities. Col-
leges have been instituted to train up young
men for holy orders, after the expiration of ar
university undergraduateship. The Church-like
spirit of such institutions cannot be mistaken
Their students, exercised in the exclusive studj
of ecclesiastical lore, dwelling in the midst oi
the triumphant emanations of Catholic feeling
and Catholic art, attending, day by day, the
high cathedral-service, — nay, taking part in it
so far as laymen may do so*, — must be in-
^ In the college at Chichester, founded by that excellent mai
and churchman (whom I am glad to be able to call my friend) the
present Dean, the students read the Lessons in the Cathedral
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 51
spired with love for their holy mother, the
Church.
Compare with this state of things — this
quiet, ancient spirit, — the turbulent lawlessness,
the political ferment, and, worse than all, the
irreligious, impious recklessness, of a German
university; and then imagine what the state
of things in England might have been, had
we — as, for our sins, we so well deserved, —
been educated under such a system. Truly,
we have many a debt of gratitude to pay we
Kttle think of.
Nor is it only in those societies, which lapse
of time has converted, in a great measure, into
educational seminaries for persons of riper
years, that the Church-like spirit has survived ;
on the contrary, the ecclesiastical character
pervading our pubUc schools should be to us
a subject of deep congratulation. This cha-
racter has, I do not doubt, been the source of
unconceived good to our land — the averter of
more evils than we are, or can be, aware of.
Had the seminaries, where the thinking and
governing portion of the national mind has,
for the most part, received its training in its
E 2
52 ON THE CHARACTER
earliest and most plastic years, been like th
state-gymnasia of Prussia, their pupils woul
inevitably have been, like the offshoots of thos
institutions, — unsettled, unbelieving theorists
A remarkable, because spontaneous, and, i
isome, doubtlessly, an unwilling witness, hai
within these late years, been borne to the ex
cellence of this our system, by its coUegiat
or ecclesiastical character having, in many in
stances, been imitated, I cannot say very sue
cessfuUy, by the various proprietary school
established throughout the land. Constant!
do we hear of the College of such a place, th
Collegiate Institute of such another, and so on
— and when we visit them, we find them unde
principal and vice-principal ; and the scholars
sons, in the main, of the tradesmen in th
town, arrayed in the pomp of academic dress
To conclude this portion of my subject, I can
not but take this opportunity of expressing m;
joy at the fact, that the parish schoolmaster
of England — a most important class, and oni
which may be of the most essential service o
disservice to the Church, according to the sys
tem of doctrine and of practice in which thei
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 53
have been reared — will hereafter be trained in
a collegiate atmosphere, and under a Church
system, in S. Mark's College, Chelsea, — the
nonnal school of that association whose great
importance to the common weal is well sha-
dowed forth in the abbreviated title, National
Society, by which it is generally designated;
not but that, by being so called, it does not
assume a designation which should belong alone
to that holiest of corporations, the Cathojic
Church. Here are to be found the future
trainers of the rustic minds of England, attend-
ing, day by day, in a chapel sparkling vrith
rich painted glass, and chanting there the cho-
ral service of the Church in the sublime tones
of the great and good S. Gregoiy.
Thus have I endeavoured to collect a few
of the yet remaining germs of Churchmanship
in om* o'er-much puritanized land, and to show
how already they are sprouting forth, and pro-
mising abundant fruit. They are (to run the
. risk of being prolix by repetition) meant to be
but specimens of a larger class ; and my object
in collecting them is, to show that, in the mind
of the people, there is still so much good re-
54 ON THE CHARACTER
maining, that^ by judicious training, they may
gradually, but very effectually, — and by such
gentle steps that the transition shall not be
perceived, — be transformed from what they
now are practically, though not formally, to
what they now are formally, though not prac-
tically, — from a Protestant to a Catholic peo-
ple. On this transformation, I repeat it, I
ground my hopes of England's future welfare.
I must, in the next place, proceed to indicate
briefly, as before, and by way of example
merely, (for to enter into the subject, — I will
not say completely, for that were impossible, —
but with any degree of fulness, would be to
write, not an essay, but a volume,) some of the
methods by which this most desirable end has,
within the few last years, been furthered, and
by the increased cultivation of which it may, at
length, under the Blessing of Providence, be
accomplished.
These methods must, as I have previously
stated, be, in the main, local and particular.
I have likewise expressed want of confidence in
legislation for the Church. I do not, by this,
at all intend to disparage exertions, general and
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 55
united, made by our Church herself, in her
own behalf. On the contrary, I rejoice at
them; I hail them as harbingers of a happier
and a better state of things ; I believe the good
they have already done to be immense. What
I am contending for is, that, from the present
state of things, they do not, by any means,
produce all the benefits they ought to do ; and
that they can only be put into a position of so
doing, by these particular and local means,
which, by gradually reforming the popular
mind, will render it capable of receiving large
and permanent impressions of good. I am
referring particularly to such great demonstra-
tions of Church feeling as the Special Fund
•which the National Society has been collecting
to promote education in the mining and manu-
facturing districts, and the Fund for the en-
dowment of Colonial Bishoprics. I do not at
all pledge myself to perfect acquiescence in the
details or the management of all or any of these
outbreaks of Churchmanship. All I assert is,
that the spirit they show is wonderful. A few
years ago, such things would have been un-
heard of, undreamed of. The evil was not
56 ON THE CHARACTER
acknowledged to be an evil. What mattered
it, whether the Colonies had Bishops or not?
What were Bishops ? If they had not Bishops,
they had Chaplains, who could do as well;
failing Chaplains, there were "our dissenting
brethren f failing them, there were — no man
knew nor ciured. Yew: after year, thousands of
Christian souls, expatriated from their soil,
died without having once heard Church-bells,
once partaken, since they left their own fami-
liar land, in the Blessed Communion of Their
Lord's Body and Blood. They lived the life
of a dog, and were consigned to the dust with
a dog's burial. Thousands of children were
born of these, who were never even admitted
within the pale of the visible Church. But
what cared the government at home for this?
Bishops for the colonies — what a presumption !
America called for Bishops ; we denied her in-
habitants their cry, and a civil war ensued, and
America was lost; and America, independent,
extorted that from us which, when she was our
own, we had denied to her. Who cannot see
the finger of God in this? Blind we were,
pm'blind; for, with this awful example fresh
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 57
before our eyes, it was with considerable diflS-
culty that leave coxild be obtained to permit
the recently-founded Colony of New South
Wales to have a Chaplain, — a thing incredible,
were it not the truth. Thus, in a land pro-
fessedly Christian, whose rulers, every time
they went to public worship, confessed their
belief in the Holy Catholic Church, that gift
was denied to our colonies which the most cor-
rupt nations of Pagan antiquity would have
been horror-struck at not affording to their
departing brethren. They sailed with their
gods, and their priests, and their appointed
ceremonies; we thought one Chaplain over-
much. In this conduct of the state, there was
involved, not merely atrocious cruelty, which
all must perceive, but likewise extreme bad
faith. The state had usurped the Churches
sacred right to appoint her own Bishops, — had
ordered that she should have no voice in nomi-
nating her divinely-given rulers, — had decided
that pomp and worldly grandeur were neces-
sary to constitute a Christian Bishop, — had fet-
tered its Holy Mother, that she no more should
be the converter of the heathen, no longer send
58 ON THE CHARACTER
out blessed men^ like Aidan and Boniface of
old, Bishops with nothing but their apostolic
powers, to bring whole nations within the one
true fold ; and having done all this, it refused
to make good the loss. This state of things
could not, however, always last ; the state was
at length shamed into something like its duty,
and a few Colonial Bishops were appointed, — a
sprinkling, just to show the greatness of our
wants. In the extremity of our distress, we
betook ourselves to the only true haven, — the
Church ; and the state has been compelled to
permit her, in some sort, to apportion out her
own Sees, appoint her own Bishops, — 'unsatis-
factorily enough, but yet this is the first faint
dawn of day. One Bishop in a land which may
need ten is, at least, a semblance of Apostolic
government, a shadowing forth of the Catholic
Church. Let us be thankful for this, and
pray, and labour together with our prayers,
that the other nine may not long be wanting.
It is, however, time to put an end to a digression
into which I have been led by the mention of
the Colonial Bishoprics' fund. It has not, I trust,
been a useless one ; it has opened a page in our
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 59
history that tells of conduct painful and humi-
liating to the highest degree; but one that
should not be unread by any one who has his
country^s interests at heart. And it is well that,
amid all our brilliant anticipations of the future,
our researches into the remains of good old
things, we should not forget how grievously we
have sinned, how grievously we have failed in
our most obvious duties ; and that, though
brighter days — thanks be to Providence ! — seem
even now dawning upon us, we have yet a heavy
debt to pay, and many sad stains of unrepented
guilt to wash away.
I now turn to the examination of how much
may in each special instance be done by local
and particular means. We will suppose a young
and zealous clergyman to be appointed to a cure
of souls. He has perhaps succeeded some fox-
hunting, port-drinking parson of the old school,
some dandy preacher of the new, full of the
arrogance of that sect which calls itself ^^ evan-
geUcal,^^ the disturber of Church order and
Church ordinances, the companion of the schis-
matic. In either case he will find his parish in
a very imhappy and disorganized state, a state
60 ON THE CHARACTER
which it must be painful to every good church-
man to behold. What is he to do first ? what
last? How is he to temper his conduct, so
as, by neither attempting too much at first to
shock and frighten the uneducated, unreflect-
ing minds of his flock, nor by holding too
timidly back to lose the opportunity of doing
that good, of effecting those reforms, which Pro-
vidence seems to have especially put into his
power ? These are questions which might often
perplex the wisest head in the land, but which
must, in some shape or other, present them-
selves in these unhappy times to the mind of
every clergyman who is desirous of honestly
and truly acting up to his Ordination Vow. His
task, in truth, is one of fearful magnitude, — to
teach a whole community that they have all
their life been in darkness of what it was above
all important they should have known ; and
that as their knowledge increased, so must their
conduct change; that hitherto they had lived
and thought as Lutherans or Calvinists, iso-
lated individuals of a modern sect; that now
they must behave themselves as Uving members
of the Everlasting Spouse of Christ, the Holy
OP THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 61
Catholic Church, as members of Christ Himself.
Wonderful change ! but one which has, during
the last ten years, taken place in full many a
mind throughout the land, and must take place
in many more. It is the duty of every clergy-
man to effect this change in his own parish ;
once he has effected it there, he has done his
share of the good work ; for as soon as every
parish in England is reformed, the whole land
is regenerated.
It is clear that the very first step to be taken
is, to bring home to the feeUngs and the lives of
all, that which they must, when put theoreti-
cally before them, with their intellects acknow-
ledge, — though most men unhappily stop there,
— that rehgion is not a mere Sunday thing ;
that Holy Church has holy days besides her
solemn weekly commemoration of Our Lord^s
Resurrection, which must be observed; and
that not even to them should reUgious assembly
be confined; that daily prayer has been the
heritage and high privilege of the Church from
the beginning. This must be but the prelude
to a far more important change, — the frequent,
much more frequent celebration of those Holy
62 ON THE CHARACTER
Mysteries whereby we are retained in the unity
of the Church. The public baptisms^ pubUc
catechizing, and all other goodly rites must be
restored ; and the charitable and religious so-
cieties existing in the parish incorporated, as
far as may be, into the system of the Church ;
and others formed under her wing; and all
made to draw their life and their authority from
her alone, the mother of all beauty and all hoU-
ness. And while our clergyman is thus labour-
ing to restore a due respect for all the external
rites of religion, he must be watchful, and ener-
getic with his watching, to prevent these, his
very exertions, from producing other and dif-
ferent evils ; from men becoming satisfied with
the orderly performance of these externals, in-
stead of regarding them but as the types of
great internal truths, and means whereby frail
clinging man may attain the sublime heights
of vital inward religion and virtue. He must,
in Church and out of Church, enforce upon his
flock the necessity of leading holy and self^
denying lives; without which it were better
that they had never cast a thought upon the
externals of Churchmanship. This is a wide
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 63
and an interesting subject; so wide, indeed,
and so interesting and important, that feeling
my own incapacity to grapple with it, I must
hurry over it. I have given an outline sketch
of a few of the most needful steps, the rest I
leave to be by abler hands filled up. It has
been my lot, and a very happy one I feel it, to
have been, for a considerable portion of the last
few years, residing in a newly-formed ecclesias-
tical district, with a new Church planted in the
midst of a rural population, which, from their
distance from the parish Church, had well-nigh
altogether lost the idea of Church-going. They
now have the services of the Church performed
by their excellent clergyman, in the spirit of
the Church, amongst them ; and a visible
change has taken place. Things are not per-
fect now, very far from it ; but who could ex-
pect they should be ?
There is, however, one point connected with
this subject which, as it is one on which I have
bestowed some Uttle thought and attention, and
which has been to me a source of great interest
and amusement, I may, in this place, venture
to digress a little upon. I mean the revival of
64 ON THE CHARACTER
ecclesiastical art and architecture, considered in
a ritual, that is, in a religious light. This re-
vival has been so general, so sudden, and so
striking, that all must have seen it ; and I hold
it to be of no little importance, in a religious
point of view, towards bringing England back
to a sounder state of Churchmanship. Sceptics
may sneer and say. What can stones, and wood,
and glass have to do with the religious state of
any people ? But in so doing, they do but show
their ignorance of some of the first principles of
human nature, principles known nearly nineteen
hundred years ago as well as they are now, or
else Horace never would have said that which
has passed into a proverb —
'* Segnius irritant animum demissa per aures
Quam quae sint oculis submissa fidelibus."
These, however, are not the true grounds to
defend this revival upon, it is indicative of
higher and holier feelings than mere utilita-
rianism, though that utilitarianism be a religious
one. It involves the* principle of honouring
God with our choicest offerings; of making
His House, by its costliness and its beauty, as
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 65
far as human hands can make it, worthy of His
Worship and His Holy Presence ; and we may be
sure that such an object, humbly and sincerely
undertaken, will be crowned with a blessing
from The Almighty ; and what better blessing
can we pray for than the restoration of His
Holy Church ? This revival is, however, an in-
stance of the workings of the spirit of obedi-
ence ; inasmuch as it is an attempt to make our
material Churches, in their forms, in their archi-
tecture, and in their spirit, the most convenient
to perform our solemn service in, and to carry
out our ritual laws.
It is true, that holiest Catholic hearts have
prayed and taught in the vilest of modem con-
venticles (for they hardly deserve a better name) ;
but no man will say that the material form of
these Churches has had any influence in making
these persons what they are. On the other
hand, there is something in the very aspect of
a vast Cathedral, or rich and gorgeous Church,
repulsive to the cold doctrines of Calvinian
unbelief^ whensoever they shall be heard in
them; something that would disincline the
66 ON THE CHARACTER
hearer to accept such piteous misrepresentation
of the Faith of ages.
This revival of Ecclesiology, to adopt a mo-
dern but very convenient term, is a branch of
the blessed undertaking in which laymen may
fitly engage, as it requires no veiy abstruse ac-
quaintance with deep points of theology; and
any one who shall attend to it, may rest as-
sured that he has not embarked upon a useless
mission.
Such are the observations which I have to
make, fragmentary and incomplete as I know
them to be, on the character of the English
people, regarded with a view to present difficul-
ties and their remedy. Because upon the diffi-
culties I have not dilated, I beg it may not be
supposed that I have underrated them ; their
extent is appalling, but the mere looking at the
extent of an evil, without at once and without
delay seeking for a proportionate remedy, is, in
my opinion, but a vain philosophy. Let its
magnitude be at once acknowledged, and then
let all our energies be directed to its removal,
not to its description. Let it not be supposed
OF THE ENGLISH PEOPLE. 67
that when I advocate the Catholicizing of Eng-
land^ as the sole effectual and permanent re^
medy, under Providence, for her ills, that I am
advocating any sudden or violent revolution,
any unforeseen shock to the present state of
things. Far from it; the Church, like the older
Temple, must be reared silently and slowly, with
not a grating iron heard to break the holy calm.
I advocate nothing that has not, for the last
several years, been going on around us and
amongst us ; a change that must be wrought
parish by parish and house by house, until at
length th^ whole land shall be leavened. And
happy will that morning be when the glad
Church bells shall tell of each recurring Festival,
and the bond of Church fellowship shall link all
ranks together, and Advent, and Lent, and
Eastertide shall be no longer empty names,
and England shall again be hailed ^^The Isle of
Saints.^^
p 2
ON THE STUDY
OP
THE LATIN TONGUE.
f
ON THE STUDY OF
THE LATIN TONGUE
Towards the end of the eighteenth and the
beginning of the nineteenth centuiy, the atten-
tion of our English scholars was exclusively
devoted to the study of the Greek language,
and that in a spirit which, with all respect to
the talents of those who had devoted them-
selves to its cultivation, cannot but be charac-
terized as unsatisfactory. In the first place, the
range of authors whom they included in their
researches was extremely circumscribed, and
then even more circumscribed were the objects
which they proposed to themselves in those re-
searches; the investigation of the origin and
philosophy of language was neglected ; no his-
torical illustration, no appreciation of poetical
beauty, was allowed a place within their pages.
72 ON THE STUDY
The attention of those scholars was exclusively
devoted to the framing of minute canons of
criticism about this particle and that, and the
enacting precise rules to curb the structure of
the Iambic verse— canons and laws which
older men than they had felt, though they had
never expressed them, and often, like -^schylus
of yore, transgressed their stringencies. A few
years later, the natural resilience of the general
pacification of 1815 brought us more into con-
tact with the Continent than we had ever been
before; and the more daring, bolder, though
perilous flights of German criticism naturally
attracted the attention of those youthful minds
that had so long been feeding on Porson's un-
enlivening technicalities.
The result of these two combined influences
was, as naturally might have been supposed,
that the Latin language was, so to speak,
utterly neglected. Men would not apply them-
selves to it ; and they cloaked their wilfulness
by pretending that Latin, compared with her
elder sister, was hardly worthy the attention
of scholars ; that it was so much inferior in
copiousness and power of expression; in phi-
OF THE LATIN TONGUE. 73
lology 80 easy, so void of nice diflferences, and
of those minuter shades, the dividing of which
makes the great critic, as to render a profound
and laborious study of it a comparative loss of
time. The plain interpretation of which magni-
loquence was, that they did not choose to take
thfi trouble of sounding the depths of the Latin
tongue. They shut their eyes to its yastness
and its grandeur, and termed it poor and bare.
Because, happily for the Latin tongue, no
Porson had sprung up to ticket its turns of
thought, and build up pompous rules on
Virgil's golden flow of song, they said that
Latin syntax was an easy thing. Schoolboys
naturally caught their superiors' tone, and
their superiors trained schoolboys in their own
fashion ; besides which the honours and the
emoluments of classical learning fell to the
Grecian's share. Cambridge, by acceptance of
the Porson prize, secured for the time the un-
social supremacy of Greek, and Oxford soon
followed in her wake ; albeit, by the institution
of the annual Latin scholarship, founded out
of the funds of Hertford College, she showed
74 ON THE STUDY
she felt the error of the neglect, and made
this effort, which though hitherto not very
effectual, may yet, I trust, be of utility towards
preserving the knowledge of the once universal
tongue*
The result of this has been, that, with several
brilliant exceptions, oiu: academic lecture-rooms
have been far too much haunted by what are
called good scholars, from public or from pri-
vate schools ; that is to say, young men who
have read Thucydides and a few other books
with tolerable care, and who are able to hitch
off many a Greek Iambic by the hour, with a
fragment of iEschylus here, and half a line from
Euripides there, and have set forms of words
whereby to Anglicise some of the commoner
idioms of the Greek tongue ; but who have very
little conception how indispensable it is towards
the rightful using of that honourable title to
be possessed of an analogous acquaintance with
the sister tongue, so as to be competent to write
a copy of Latin verses with spirit and elegance,
to translate a page of Livy with grammatical
precision, and to render a piece of easy English
OF THE LATIN TONGUE. 75
into any form of words, that Cicero would not
have felt some awkwardness in not laughing at
for their solecisms.
It is by no means implied in these ob-
servations, that Latin should in our estimation
be given the superiority over Greek. The
harsher tongues of Italy never framed combina-
tions of vowels so sweet and so sonorous as
those the Hellenes have poured forth, — most
sweetly and most sonorously in their first and
greatest poet. It was in that wondrous lan-
guage that the smooth sunny flow of Herodotus,
the grandeur of JEschylus, the gravity of
Thucydides, the versatility of Aristophanes,
the depth of Plato and of the Stagyrite, — the
one the perfection of ornate, the other of un-
adorned i^asoning, — found their adequate ex-
pression. Of Latin, however, I vnll assert,
that it possesses a vitality which never belonged
to Greek. The one is dead, gone long ago,
extinct in the verbose and hyperbolical Chroni-
cles of that most wretched court, the Byzantine
empire ; its only monument as a living tongue is
a corrupt and barbarous dialect, which, strange
to be related, rejects its own appropriate
76 ON THE STUDY
name^ and entitles itself by the appellation
of the rival language ; while Latin lives every
where, and will for ever live, the universal
tongue.
It may not be uninteresting to take a hurried
view of the rise and the mutations of this mar-
vellous language, in order thereby the better to
form an estimate of its capabilities and its
excellencies. There is no need, in so doing, to
extol with pompous praise
Romanos reruin dominos, gentemque togatam.
If his spirit be very much to be deprecated,
and it be matter of regret that he has deprived
us of so many a bright association, yet Nie-
buhr in this at least deserves credit, that he
has provided us with materials towards forming
a juster estimate of the Roman character than
we before possessed ; and herein appears to con-
sist, if it may be permitted me so to say, his
chief merit as an historian, namely, in minute
refutation: when he attempts to reconstruct,
then he fails. I have guardedly said minute refu-
tation ; for I am far from being prepared to hold
with him, that Numa never reigned, nor Servius
OF THE LATIN TONGUE. 11
I fell, nor Troy beheld Rome's origin. The ear*
liest remnant of the Latin tongue now extant
is the Hynm of the Fratres Ambarvales, of the
old days of the monarchy, a rude, uncouth
fragment of a few lines long, discovered on a
stone some sixty or seventy years ago, so dif-
ferent from any thing like the Latin tongue of
other days, that its interpretation has been the
work of scholars. After that, of the language
of centuries we possess nothing but a few laws
and inscriptions, sufficient to furnish food to
philologists, and that is all. At last, we come
to the fiiU burst of the. majestic Latin tongue,
not indeed in the exuberant grandeur of ma-
turity, but rejoicing in healthful youth, vigor-
ous, natural, and boisterous, in the comedies of
Plautus, and in the trumpet-toned verses of
that grand old poet Ennius, of whom few frag-
ments yet remain, — but these sufficient to de-
note, that through his rough uncultivated
lines shone forth a genius, fiery, daring, and
I lofty, — and in the antique and homely saws of
that shrewd farmer and politician Cato. The
cruelty of civil war checked not the Romans in
the maturing of their language, now that re-
78 ON THE STUDY
finement was the order of the day. We soon
come to the golden era of the classical Latin
language, to the rich verse of Lucretius, to the
Thucydidean pithiness of Sallust, to the ele-
gant versatility of Cicero, rising at times almost
to grandeur, to the grave enthusiasm of Livy,
the art of Horace, the studied perfection of
Virgil.
Time ran on, and Rome became still more
than ever the sink of all vice, and that same
language which had bent to Catullus' mea-
sures, sounded in the mouth of Juvenal and
Tacitus the stem severe reprovers of misdeeds.
But the mighty machine of the old Roman
empire moved onward, ever sustaining a gradual
change, and the same language was made the
vehicle of thoughts far diflferent to Ausonius
and Claudian. In the meanwhile, the world's
greatest revolution had taken place, and the
Latin tongue, the tongue of Numa and of Ovid,
in the hands of a Hilary and an Augustine,
became the fit and clear exponent of the deep-
est mysteries of the Catholic Faith, imbibing
into her essence new words, new forms, new
ideas, the same and yet another language. Nor
OP THE LATIN TONGUE. 79
was this change confined to prose ; S. Ambrose
and Prudentius showed that Christian Latin
poetry might exist, and bequeathed an inherit-
ance to the Church of immortal verse, of a
gravity, a terseness, and yet a fervour, that
would, I believe, have been unattainable in
Greek; while Latin, ever versatile, showed in S.
Jerome^s hands, that she might assume a He-
brew dress, and express in her majestic phraseo-
logy the very spirit of inspired men of old.
The Roman empire fell, and all her tradi-
tions ; but her language, thus filled with new
vigour and a new existence, perished not, but
instinct as it were with second youth, displayed,
in the sublime eloquence of S. Gregory the
Great, how vast her power was. Far difierent
was his vocabulary, far difierent his cadences,
from those of Cicero : but why, therefore, is he
to be termed barbarous, as if by a divine char-
ter perfection had been granted but to one
phase of the Latin tongue ? Latin, no longer
the distinctive tongue of any one nation, (the.
few tribes who on the borders of Hungary
and Poland had and still have it in vernacular
use scarcely forming an exception,) became the
80 ON THE STUDY
universal medium of communication to all tfai
nations which had settled in the various region
of Europe ; the great moving cause of which re
markable event was^ without a doubt^ its havin{
been the language of the Western Church
Then the Pandects of Justinian were, if no
discovered, yet brought into notice by the cap
ture of Amalfi ; and the Roman tongue, already
their inhabitant, became together with th<
Roman law the rightful denizen of Gothic
courts. Chroniclers who wrote for posterity
treasured up the memory of past things ir
Roman phrase. Leases were granted, char-
ters drawn up, letters written in Latin. Latin
assuming another of her various forms, became
the appropriate and adequate vehicle for the
deepest researches of the mighty doctors of the
Mediaeval schools. Strange form this was tc
the pedants of the Ciceronian school, but nol
less perfect for their objects than that of Cicerc
for his : while piety and devotion glowed deep
and strong from prayers sublime, and thrilling
antiphons.
It has been the habit, now, I trust, wearing
away, for men to deride the Latin of the Mid-
OP THE LATIN TONGUE. 81
Idle Ages ; and because it was not the Latin of
Augustus's court, to reckon it a mere barba-
rous jargon. It is difficult to say whether
such an opinion is more distinguished for shal-
lowness or for pedantry. This difference in
truth was the high merit of that tongue. A
new state of things, new thoughts, new feel-
ings had grown up; and surely it is great
praise to any language thus entirely to accom-
modate itself to them, — to throw off its old cha-
racter, and be as much at home in its new one,
to mould itself to the wants of every age and
every nation.
Thus time rolled on, and men got fretful,
and controversial, and critical ; and Latin was
found the most appropriate vehicle for their
controversies, and the most convenient medium
of explaining her own difficulties, the language
of scholars and commentators ; while the bound-
less facility of abuse ready at hand to a Scali-
ger to overwhelm an opponent with, showed
how deep he and his race must have dived into
the stream of Suburran vulgarism.
At length the Latin tongue, before so flourish-
ing, fell into a partial eclipse, as far, that is, as
6
82 ON THE STUDY
its being the political language of Europe^ the
language of diplomatic negotiators^ and as such
it was supplanted by its most degenerate off-
shoot^ French. This, that is the adoption of a
modem tongue as the conventional language of
state intercourse, is, as I have somewhere seen
very sensibly stated, a great political mischief,
inasmuch as it must of necessity give that na-
tion whose language shall be adopted an undue
and fictitious consideration. Were English to
be the chosen tongue, the same truth would
hold good, though we might hot be so will-
ing to own it. This, combined with the fact of
French, from its illogical smoothness and its
facility of expressing nothings, (arising from its
incapacity for greater things,) having been
adopted as the , conventional language of sa-
loons, has made it within the last two centuries
almost arrogate to itself the rank of an uni-
versal language, as is manifest from the num-
ber of authors of Italy, Germany, and other
foreign lands, who have chosen it as the safest
vehicle for transmitting their thoughts to pos-
terity. Our national character has, in the
main, kept us more free from this fault than
OF THE LATIN TONGUE. 83
any other nation : and yet the study of Latin
has been^ perhaps^ more neglected in England
than in any other country ; a fact which, how-
ever, is not surprising, when we consider, on
the one hand, the religious reasons which make
the knowledge of it indispensable in many
lands abroad, and, on the other, the dogged
perseverance of the Germans. It was not in-
I deed that hours after hours were not spent on
'i the study of this language, but this was done
in a superficial, unimproying way. In our
public schools, to .which I am referring, the
knowledge of Latin was at length reduced to
imply little more than a facility in Latin verse
composition ; and then, to complete its down-
fall, came the Porsonian era, with the descrip-
tion of which I have commenced this essay.
What we desiderate is the diffusion of an
accurate and sound, and yet sufficiently com-
prehensive study of the philology of the Latin
language, as an integral portion of general
education. This will furnish a discipline for
the mind which can be found neither in the
exclusive cultivation of Latin verse, nor in the
exclusive study of Greek philology, the Scylla
G 2
84 ON THE STUDY
and Charybdis between which our bark of edu-
cational scholarship has long been tossed. The
reason for this superiority is to be sought in the
different nature of the Latin and the Greek lan-
guages. A slight acquaintance with Greek prose^
or the Greek drama^ will be sufficient to point out
how technical^ so to speak, its grammar is ; to
what an extent the sense and the force of dif-
ferent passages depends, not so much upon the
collocation or the choice of words, as upon the
use of qertain particles or certain set phrases.
Now these particles and these phrases are capa-
ble of being learned by rote, and then either
translated into English, when there is a ques-
tion of translation, or applied, when composi-
tion is the order of the day, mechanically.
That this is extensively the case, any one must
admit who has watched of late years our schools
and our universities. Latin, on the other hand,
is not so rich in particles as Greek, nor so
dexterous in their application, for bringing out
minuter shades of meaning, and is consequently
more dependant upon the due collocation of
words : and further, in this due collocation of
its words, a great part of its beauty consists ; so
OF THE LATIN TONGUE. 85
much SO; that Latin grammarians have not
thought it beneath them to draw up rules,
showing what poetical feet should end sen-
tences, of how many syllables it was advisable
that the last word should consist, which Cicero
liked, and which he rejected ; and in this col-
location much of that majesty which is so dis-
tinguishing a characteristic of the Latin tongue
resides. Of course collocation was not of that
vital importance to Latin which it is to modern
languages like our own, where inflections of
case are not denoted by corresponding inflec-
tions of termination ; but still it was of very
great importance. This collocation, it is clear,
cannot be made a matter of rote like the appli-
cation of particles ; and as a necessary conse-
quence it must follow, that Latin prose com-
position, considered educationally, and in the
light of a discipline of the mind, must be a
more useful exercise than Greek. In truth, it
requires some thought and some logical pre-
cision so to adjust and balance one's words, as
to transfer a sentence of English prose into
Latin, as at once to express with tolerable
accuracy the sense of the original, and yet not
86 ON THE STUDY
to do this in rough and solecistic phrase. Ori-
ginal composition of course is easier, as in it
the composer possesses the choice both of word
and of idea. Consequently, though our schools
have produced, of late years, several very re-
spectable writers of original Latin prose, yet
the badness of the general run of translated
exercises is quite proverbial.
Perhaps of all the branches of classical com-
position, the one of the least prominent utility
is that very fashionable one, Greek Iambics.
It is notorious, that what is called composing
them, is, in truth, for the most part, nothing
more than making a cento of remembered and
half-remembered scraps of Greek tragedy, pieced
together so as to represent as accurately as
may be the sense of that portion of English
verse which may have been proposed for trans-
lation, for few examiners have been hardy
enough to entail upon themselves a rifad-
mento of the Poeta Scenici by proposing ori-
ginal Iambics. This, of course, is but a me-
chanical labour, and tends but little towards
fashioning the mind. If we look over the
exercises which at Cambridge, and in our pub-
OF THE LATIN TONGUE. 87
lie schools^ have gained prizes in this branch
of composition^ we shall find that, with a few
Yeiy brilliant exceptions^ they show little more
than a considerable accuracy of reading in
the Greek tragedians, seldom much originality*
The truth is, that Oreek Iambics are about the
easiest sort of classical composition, — a fact of
which people, a few years ago, were not aware.
Fresh from the exclusive study of Latin verse,
the name of Greek frightened them. They are
also, as I have endeavoured to show, the most
useless, upon the whole; — not, indeed, that
they are to be repudiated; they have their ad-
vantages, it is true, though these consist chiefly
in this, that they form a very usefrd praxis
upon Greek tragedy. A much nobler, more
original, and more improving style of composi-
tion to cultivate, would be that of Greek Hexa-
meters, which were once somewhat in vogue in
England, but are now almost entirely forgotten*
From the structure of the verse, and the cha-
racter of the great model we should have to
follow in them, it is impossible to construct
them in the mosaic fashion that we do Iambic
verse. Homer's glorious swell of verse cannot
88 ON THE STUDY '
•
^e cut up^ and dissected, and reconstructed,
with the same facility that we do the more
artificial and prosaic lines of the tragic poets.
Added to which, Oreek Hexameters offer facili-
ties for original composition that are not found
in the newer metre, which, for any other sub-
ject except dialogue and didactics, and what
may be called educational poetry, is nearly in-
applicable, — that is to say, for more than a few
lues.
It is trusted that what has been said at the
beginning of the last paragraph may not be
construed to the disparagement of the study of
Latin verse, — a fault which, by a natural run-
ning into extremes, many persons of considera-
ble judgment have been guilty of, at the break-
ing up of the old system of exclusive study of
verse composition. Latin verse, — at least, the
Hexameter, and, I may add, the Alcaic verse,—
is eminently useful as a means of training the
imagination, without, at the same time, eman-
cipating it too much from the control of the
severer parts of the intellect. The composition,
being in a learned language, of necessity re-
quires some knowledge of grammar, in order to
OF* THE LATIN TONGUE. 89
■
the first undertaking of it; at the same tin*
that the poet should be taught not to rest the
beauty of his production on its thoughts and
its imagery alone^ but to devote considerable
care and attention to the elegance of his idiom^
and the varied and full rhythm of his verse.
The same advantages attach to the study of
Greek Hexameters. I am far more doubtful
about the advantage of devoting much labour
to the cultivation, as heretofore was done, oi*
the Hexameter and Pentameter metre, or as
boys, with happy brevity, style it, ^^ longs and
shorts.^^ The disadvantages of Greek Iambics
may, in a great measure, be predicated of this
verse also; besides that, for a practical ac-
quaintance with its niceties, the only Latin
wet to refer to is Ovid, who, for several rea-
lons, is, though one of the most used, at the
lame time one of the least useful educational
)oets.
This disuse of Latin has paved the way to,
t the same time that it has been fostered and
icreased by, a very slipshod and injurious cus-
Dm, which has of late years prevailed to a con-
iderable extent, — that of editing Greek classics
90 ON THE STUDY
with English notes, and pubUshing Greek lexi-
cons with English explanations, — a habit tracer
able in part to a fatal leniency, and in part t«
indolence, in those engaged as authors and ai
teachers in the work of education. A good
deal, at first sight, might, I own, be said ii
favour of this, from the increased faciUty tc
learners, and the necessity of making the patl
of learning, within proper Umits, as easy af
possible ; but, in practice, it has worked ill — i1
has produced superficial scholars. The liberty
which using their vernacular tongue affords
them, has induced these commentators, these
editors of ** School and College Classics,*^ to be
at once prolix and inaccurate, difiuse and un-
satisfactory. It is true, that these editions a1
first promised to be merely for the use oi
schools, as if precision, and a familiar use oi
Latin as an understandable language, were not.
in the early days of education, when so mucli
of the formation of character takes place, of the
highest importance. In time, however, they
took a higher flight; and as their flight became
more aspiring, so their fault became more glar-
ing. The evil is, however, at last working its
OF THE LATIN TONGUE. 91
own cure; and as a proof that the day of
Yemacularized scholarship is passing away, I
may mention with satisfaction, that the Greek
Grammar which is now obtaining favour in our
greatest schools, is one drawn up, a few years
ago, by a distinguished scholar in the learned
tongue of Christendom.
On the whole, I hope and I trust that the
ill state of things, which I have in this Essay
lamented, is one now already passing away. If
my feeble protest shall have, in any degree,
conduced to hasten its departure, I shall be
most sincerely happy. One thing, however, is
certain, that the study of Latin must hereafter
be a generous and a comprehensive one, if it be
meant that, once restored, it should maintain
its ground ; that it must be treated, not as a
dead, but as a living tongue; that men must
not confine themselves to the dialect of one
period of time, but grasp the language of all
ages and every country.
BRUTE OF TROY.
BRUTE OF TROY.
" Noble Britons spronge of Trojans bolde,
And Troynovant was built of old Troy's ashes colde."
So thought the English nation for many a glo-
rious century of Faith. No doubt then crossed
their minds that Brute of Troy had landed oh
our *^ white-cliffed shore/* and founded in this
far bright island of the west a noble kingdom.
It was a happy belief^ and sure a harmless one^
that Britain's power first showed itself in the
hands of Ilian kings ; that her primeval forests
first fell beneath the axe of those whose ances-
tors had, for twice five years, withstood the
chivalry of Greece, the bold defenders of Troy
(town —
HpiaiiOQ Ktti Xabg IvfifiiXua Upidfioio,
Then, over the bright fires of castle and of
96 BRUTE OP TROY.
humbler grange, wild legends were sung of
Britain's long captivity ; of his fierce conflicts
with gigantic Gogmagog ; of his son Locrine's
misdeeds, and poor Sabrina's death ; of Lear
and Bladud, and Kudhudibras, and Lud who
first built Ludgate, and Brennus, and Belinus^
** Who gave to sovereign Rome such dread alarms."
All at once this gorgeous inheritance of old
glory, this famous history, is gone,
'^ Gone like a morning dream, or like a pile
Of clouds, that in cerulean ether blazed."
No man, not one remembers it any more ; or if
recalled, it is but to provoke a sneer at the
blindness, and the ignorance, and the supersti-
tion of our ancestors, that could have framed so
ridiculous a fable : no heart, no sympathy with
the treasured belief of many a long age. Bri-
tain, till the fierce Roman civilized it, was but
a howling forest, full of wild beasts, and yet
more savage men, — a very wilderness.
This abandonment of all belief in and all re-
gard for the old Trojan legend, was one of the •
most gratuitous pieces, I will not say of gene- I
BRUTE OP TROY. 97
Tosity, for no man was benefited thereby, but
of stolidity, that any nation was ever guilty of;
it was at once to resign a precious deposit of
beautiful old imagery, a rich store of poetry, of
historical association, of long-treasured enthu-
siasm ; and to get what in return ? nothing but
the fancied consciousness of the greater acute-
ness of our own noble selves, compared with the
men of other days, — a coin more worthless and
more unsubstantial than fairy money. What
if the details of this history could not be proved
with the mathematical acciu*acy that attends the
demonstration of the pons asinorum in Euclid ;
are they therefore altogether to be rejected as
Utterly baseless? Is no historical fact ever
admitted to be even possible, which has not
been scanned in all its dimensions ? What if
this long-despised Trojan tale should after all
turn out to be one which, like other disputed
points in the old world^s history, admits of
arguments for its truth as well as assertions
against its possibility ? if, after all, the fa-
shionable notions, at least, of the utter savage-
ness of the British race should prove untrue
and impossible ? This I shall leave to be con-
I
98 BRUTE OP TROY.
fessed or denied by the readers of this Essay^
according to the opinion they may form of the .
arguments^ which I shall bring forward.
Some few years ago appeared a book^ certainly ,
very remarkable in its object, and displaying -
considerable talent and research in its execution,
entitled ^^ Caesar and the Britons/' by the Rev.
H. Barry, a late Fellow of Queen's College,
Oxford. Its object is to prove that our ances- ^
tors were much maligned by Caesar ; that as he -
had failed in his attempts on our island, so, like ^
the fox in the fable, he returned, crying " Sour ^
grapes ! '' and making out a case against us as
utterly barbarous, and unworthy of the attention
of being conquered ; when the truth was, that Bri- -
tain was, in point of fact, enjoying a considerable ^
degree of civilization, and possessed of su£Scient
military tactic to baffle mighty Julius. This
leads him to treat of the civilization of the whole
Celtic race, which, by a fortiori arguments, he
applies to the British division of it. In the \^
course of the work he gives eiprScis of the his- ^
tory of the Trojan kings, which he is inclined L
to admit. The whole work is very ingenious; ^
and I shall, in the course of this dissertation, L
BRUTE OF TROY. 99
make considerable use of its arguments. Be-
fore, however, going any further, I must pre-
mise, that to much ingenuity there is joined in
the work in question a good deal of what is
fantastical and untenable, which I must at the
outset protest against, lest any one who should
read it should assiune that I had embraced its
opinions in toto. Such, for instance, is Mr.
Barry^s dream about the origin of Gothic ar-
chitecture, that, in reality, it was Phoenician
iirchitecture, the architecture of the Britons
before the arrival of the Romans.
The great source from which subsequent his-
torians and poets drew their materials for the
Ante-Caesarian history of England, is, as is well
known, the work of Geoffrey, Archdeacon of
Monmouth, in the twelfth century, who wrote
a History of Britain in seven books, professing
to have derived it from ancient British sources.
The originals from which he drew his accounts
have never been found; and it has therefore
been supposed that this was but a plausible
introduction to a bold and impudent forgery ;
and, accordingly, Geoffrey's name has for many
years been held up to nothing but opprobrium
h2
100 BRUTE OP TROY.
and disgrace ; as if, forsooth, manuscripts, per-
haps in his days old, must after centuries be
forthcoming, to gratify the cavils of antiquarian
critics ; as if, in so troubled a country as Wales,
parchment must be everlasting. But then they
will tell us that it is strange that, even so early
as the twelfth century, one or two records only
of so famous a history should exist; if these
events be at all true, then assuredly many would
have been the records of them. Let these ob-
jectors remember the Pandects of Justinian, a
work of much more general and practical in-
terest, and recall how many copies of them ex-
isted in Italy at that time. In truth, the case
of Abyssinian Bruce, who, because he had
recounted nothing very marvellous, but sim-
ply a custom not half so brutal and disgust-
ing as those already known to exist in savage
nations, was for many years reckoned an impu-
dent impostor, should be a warning against
forming rash judgments of modern or of medi-
aeval writers. I have myself read the earher
part of Geoffrey's History; and whether it may
have been that I went to it with prejudiced
eyes, and determined to see all things therein
BRUTE OP TROY. 101
contained at the best colouring possible^ I cer-
tainly thought that there was an au* of truth
and faithfulness about his descriptions^ an art-
lessness^ and that untutored interUning of little
incidents, which distinguishes true history from
fable.
But perhaps it will be best to let the good
Archdeacon tell his own story. He thus simply,
and, as it seems to me, with an appearance of
truth, commences his narration: *^When, as
" oftentimes by myself I turned over in my mind
^^many things, and concerning many persons, I
"used to fall upon the history of the Kings of
"Britain, I esteemed it a marvellous thing,
" that amid the commemoration, which of those
"things Gildas and Bede had made in eloquent
"style, I had discovered nothing of the Kings
" who had inhabited Britain before the Incama-
" tion of Christ, nor nothing either of Arthur and
" of very many others who have succeeded after
" the Incarnation, when both their deeds were
" worthy of the praise of eternity, and are as if
" inscribed with pleasure, and with remembrance
"proclaimed by many races of men (^a multis
"^populis quasi inscripta jocunde et memoriter
102 BRUTE OF TROY.
^^praedicentur^). To me, oftentimes thinking
^^ such things, and of such like matters, did Wal-
" ter. Archdeacon of Oxford, a man learned in
*^ the art of oratory and in foreign histories, pre-
^^ sent a certain most ancient book, in the British
" tongue, which, in very beautiful discourse, set
^^ forth continuously and in order the acts of all,
" from Brutus the first King of the Britons, up to
^^ Cadwalader, son of Cadwalon. And so^ induced
"by his request, albeit I have culled no high^
" crested words in other men's gardens, yet con-
" tent with rustic style and my own reeds, I have
" taken pains to translate that manuscript into
" the Latin tongue. For had I bedaubed my page
**with learned forms of diction, I should have
" amassed weariness for my readers, while they
" were compelled to spend more time in explain-
" ing my words than in comprehending the his-
" tory. Wherefore,ORobert,Dukeof Gloucester,
'^ook favourably upon my work, that so with
" thee as my guide, with thee as my monitor, it
^^ may be corrected; so that it may not be deemed
" to have taken its rise from the small fountain
" of Geoffrey of Monmouth, but as seasoned with
" the salt of thy wisdom ; that it may be deemed
BRUTE OF TROY. 103
"his work whose father is Henry, the illustrious
" King of the English, whom philosophy hath
"instructed in liberal arts, whom his innate
"goodness in military affairs hath placed at the
"head of soldiers ; whence Britain, with internal
"aflfection, congratulates thee now in our times,
"as having obtained another Henry .^^
Let us consider this passage attentively, and
bit by bit ; but first let us see what the accusa«
tion against Geoffirey is. He is denounced as
having, in the mint of his own fertile brain,
corned a long history of many centuries, con-
taining the feats of many a famous King, and
publishing it as a piece of the ancient annals of
his own land ; which, after having for many a
year lain hid, was at length discovered, and by
him made known to the world, — which history,
on the faith of his assertion, became "hencefor-
ward^ and for a long time, matter of general
beUef. Now, to such a theory, this prologue
does, I maintain, give no confirmation : nay, so
fer from giving any confirmation, it afibrds
strong presumptive evidence against its possi-
bility, as will, in the course of the examination,
be made clear. A forger would probably have
104 BRUTE OF TROY,
begun with some burst of self-laudatory or
mock-modest exclamation at his felicity in hav-
ing been the discoverer of long-lost truth, the
re-opener of the " marvellous current of for-
gotten things ;^^ perhaps entered into a psycho-
logical enumeration of his own feelings, — his
surprise, his delight at the discovery. Geoffrey
does no such thing ; he says that he had often
deemed it a marvellous thing, that of these
early Kings, no mention should have been made
by S. Gildas and S. Bede, ^^ Oftentimes deemed
it a marvellous thing,'^ — Would a forger have
dared to have been so impudent, as to pretend^
to have been for a long time surprised at not
having discovered any mention of these facts in
the standard historians of the country ? Such
a swagger would infalUbly have at once drawn
down discovery and ridicule upon the maker of
it. But perhaps the memory of these events
was so obscure already, confined to so few per-
sons, and the facilities of intercourse, literary
and otherwise,, so scanty, as to have made the
bravado safe to an historian of the twelfth
century. This I deny, considering the great
literary intercourse existing between different
BRUTE OP TROY. 105
religious houses ; but, for the purpose of argu-
ment, conceding the objection, what does Geof-
frey go on to say? He ventures roundly, and
with assurance, to assert, that his surprise was
mcreased from these events being "with plea-
sure, and with remembrance, proclaimed by
many races of men, as if inscribed,^^ (a multis
populis quasi inscripta jocunde et memoriter
praedicentur). Here, then, is an assertion ten
times more bold than the former — one which
no author not anonymous, few anonymous, and
none certainly holding the high station which
Geoffrey held, would have dared, (however much
they might wish it,) to make, had it not been
true — to pretend that many tribes of our own
land held an ancient and wide-spread belief of
many a famous deed, and many a famous man,
which deeds and men no man had ever heard
of. Psalmanazar's Formosan forgery is not a
case in point ; — ^he was a penniless adventurer,
and wrote of a far distant and little known
land; Geoffrey, a dignitary of the Church,
told of his own country ; — and yet how soon
were the impostures of Psalmanazar made evi-
dent. But from whom was it that Geoffrey
106 BRUTE OP TROY,
professed to have derived his ancient manuscript,
which gave him some clearer insight than he
before possessed into these old days ? A forger
would have conjured up some unknown donor
for his imexisting book, some obscure Ubrary;
Geoffery received his from Walter, Archdea-
con of Oxford, a man famous for his orato-
rical and historical acquirements. Would a
forger have been bold enough either to have
compromised a name so respectable from sta-
tion and from learning; or, at all events, to
have drawn down upon himself from Walter or
his friends the shame of a discovery? The
truth seems to be this, that Geofirey had al-
ready made himself conspicuous for his devo-
tion to, perhaps his enthusiasm for, the ancient
British history, which was but imperfectly
known ; and that, accordingly, when Archdea-
con Walter had discovered a book which con-
tained more ample infbrmation on the matter,
aware of its value, he handed it over to one
whom he knew was the best qualified to make
a profitable use of it, with injunctions to make
the events therein recorded of public property,
by recording them in Latin. What I have
BRUTE OF TROY. 107
said does not immediately tell one way or the
other in regard to the truth of the facts re-
corded in the history in question, {mediately,
of course it does ; as, on the one supposition,
they are traditional, and, therefore, may be
true, — on the other, they are a pure invention ;)
but it does tell vitally as to the character of the
Archdeacon of Monmouth, if, instead of his
having been a romancer, it should be proved
that he but recorded the ancient belief of his
countrymen. Of the existence of this belief
we shall find traces, as I shall soon prove, in
the accidental mention which Nennius makes of
Brute. To prove such belief, it is not neces-
sary that long, elaborate annals should be
produced ; a few words like those of Nennius,
coupled with the internal evidence of Geoffrey^s
prologue, would be sufficient to establish it.
The silence of S. Bede, which he marvels at,
might easily be explained, considering that the
subject of his History was the Saxon Church,
•
and that the multifarious studies of that great
and holy man seem not to have led to the
investigation of British Antiquities; and that
the Saxon Church had as little cause to be
-i^i
-••5SS— -
--C
rr^
BRUTE OF TROY. 109
was written, the British manuscript had, proba-
bly, in the eyes of his contemporaries, lost its
value, and no care, therefore, would be taken
to multiply copies of it; besides which, the
dreadfiil havoc made upon the ancient litera-
ture of our land, at the dissolution of monaste-
ries, must be taken into account. It is possible
that some persons may try to take a middle
course, by confessing to the existence of the
Trojan traditions in Britain, and yet alleging that
the discovery of the manuscript in question was
but an invention to cover an ingenious romance
founded upon them. In the first place, however,
such an hypothesis is purely gratuitous ; and,
secondly, the concurrent facts tell against it ; —
for, as I have before said, had the manuscript
existed but in nubilms, a man of the character
which Walter seems to have had, and of the
station which he certainly held, would not have
been selected as the individual from whom
Geoflfrey professed to have received the work ;
besides which, there seems to be in the history
itself internal marks of truthfulness and strokes
of nature which would render such a theory
improbable.
110 BRUTE OP TROY.
But, in truth, the opinion, that Geoffir(
Monmouth was the inventor of the behef ii
Trojan colony, is one of such swa^ering i
ranee and impudent assertion, as to rend
matter of marvel that such could so long
passed unnoticed. There is a curious chroi
written in Latin, by some individual of
British race, generally supposed, upon the c:
of a prologue prefixed to some manuscript
have been a person named Nennius, who ]
in the middle of the ninth century, of w
we know nothing but this. But, however
fact may be, (and it is doubted by the
editor of the work, Mr. Stevenson,) this c
nicle was assuredly written before the
1000, and after having been for some
known to our archaeologists, was, in the
1691, published. Nennius, then, (for so I
for convenience, call him,) says of Brute,
of Ascanius, after stating some particu]
^^ And after these things, he came to that isl
which, fi*om his name, received its name, —
is Britannia ; and he filled it with his race,
dwelt there. But from that day Britannia
inhabited, even to the present day.^^ This
BRUTE OP TROY. Ill
lief, then, existed long before the days of Geof-
frey, and was, probably, in the times of Nen-
nius, an ancient one. This does not prove its
truth ; but it does, to a great extent, vindicate
the character of the historian, and does give us
very diflFerent ground to go upon to what we
should have been possessed of, had the first
traces of it been found in the pages of the
Archdeacon.
That Venerable Bede is silent on the subject
matter of Geoffrey's history, is, as I have before
shown, no argument one way or the other ; his
History was the History of the Saxon Church,
and he only introduced the fortunes of the
earlier British Church as a sort of prelude.
With Pagan Britain he had absolutely nothing
to do. Indeed, so little is he concerned with
Britain at all, that he does not so much as
allude to King Arthur, nor make any mention
of York and London having been, in the days
of the Britons, Archbishoprics. They, there-
fore, that employ his silence as an argument
against the Trojan tale, must likewise disbe-
lieve in Arthur's existence, which several, in-
deed, of late years, have done.
112 BRUTE OF TROY.
So much with respect to the preliminary
difficulties of our case. The next step is to
examine the history itself. I shall adopt a dif-
ferent arrangement from Mr. Barry, taking the
question of Caesar, and the civilization of Bri-
tain in his time, last, as being the easier part of
the subject, and beginning earlier than he does
with the likelihood of a great and civiUzed
empire being, so soon as the date assigned to
Brutus, planted in so distant and savage a land
as Britain.
The brief epitome of the history narrated by
Geoffi'ey is this. Brutus, grandson of iEneas,
having had the misfortune to kill his father by
accident in hunting, is compelled to take refuge
in Epirus, where he finds the descendants of
those Trojans who had been settled there, under
the rule of Helenus, in slavery to Pandrasus,
King of the country. After a time, putting
himself at their head, he defeats Pandrasus in
battle, compels him to give him his daughter
Ignogen (of whom more anon) in marriage,
and leads his countrymen away to seek new
cUmes and another realm. After the perils of
a sea-voyage, he lands in Gaul, where he meets
BRUTE OF TROY. 113
with Corineus, another chieftain of Trojan
descent, of the race of those who had fled with
Antenor. This prince joins Brutus ; and after
several wars engaged in with different Gallic
tribes, they find means of embarking on ship-
board, and making for Albion, where they land
at that spot which is now called Totness. They
find the land inhabited by a race of gigantic
stature, whose chieft;ain is called, by Geoffrey,
Goemagot, and, by other authors, Gogmagog.
This fierce antagonist being precipitated over a
rock into the sea, Brutus is made master of
Albion, and builds a city on the banks of the
Thames, which, in memory of his ancient fa-
therland, he calls Troynovant, or New Troy.
Brutus, dying, left his crown to his three sons,
Locrinus, Albanactus, and Kamber. Of these,
the eldest, Locrinus, was put to death by his
wife, Guendolen, Corineus's daughter, in re-
venge for his infidelity to her; and his natural
daughter, Sabren, drowned in the river which
ever since has borne her name. We need not
go on much ftirther with so particular a narra-
tion of the early British history. To Locrinus
succeeded a long line of Kings, of whom the
114 BRUTE OF TROY.
most famous were Bladud, and Leir and his
daughter Cordeilla^ and Dunwallo Molmutius,
the wise legislator of Britain ; and Brennus and
Belinus, who burnt Rome^ and durst attempt
to scale the Capitol ; and the brothers Elidure
and Archigallo.
Then, after a long series of Kings comes Lud^
who surrounded Troynovant with a wall, whence
it assumed his name, which, in the altered form
of " London,^^ it has ever since retained. Lud
was succeeded by his brother, Cassivelaunus^
who, as Geoffrey and Julius Caesar both inform
us, commanded the armies opposed to the lat-
ter when he attempted the conquest of the isle.
Cassivelaunus was succeeded by Tenantius, and
he by Cymbelin, or Cynobelin, renowned in
Shakespeare, some of whose coins still exist.
Here, at the Christian era, we will stop. Such
are, then, some of the outlines of that famous
History of Brute of Troy, which, it will I hope
be owned, does not present greater improbabili*
ties or difficulties than many another series of
events in ancient times. The colonization of
Carthage, for instance, from Tyre ; and of Gy-
rene from Thera ; of Gades and Tartesus ; and
BRUTE OP TROY. 115
the founding of Massilia by the ex3es from
Phocaea ; and the colonization of Greenland by
_j Northmen. This is all I now wish to con-
id for, — the admission of the Trojan history
Britain into things which may have been,
le discoveries of modem times have opened
us more wonderful things, in the ruins of
ghty cities in the deep forests of central
nerica, which must have been founded at
me long-distant period, by roamers of the
a, whose very memory has quite passed away,
d whose descendants, if descendants the In-
ms be, are now uncivilized. The empire of
exico, too, that wonderful work of unknown
ligrants, which passed away almost as rapidly
it rose, may be adduced as a very strong
rroboration of the possibility of exiles — such
as Brutus and his followers are represented as
having been — ^having founded such an empire
as that of Britain. And, after all, the particulars
are not so very marvellous. They state that
Dunwallo Molmutius was the first of those
kings who wore a crown of gold ; and, as Mr.
Barry very well observes, a forger would have
been more prodigal of gold. There is, more-
I 2
116 BRUTE OP TROY.
over, nothing in these events directly repugnant
to Roman history. Brennus and Belinus are re-
presented as having been Britons. Livy repre-
sents them as having been Gauls; but under
the name of Gauls the Britons might have very
well been included. We are told, again, that
Bladud went to Athens. A marvellous voyage,
certainly ; but Herodotus is our informant for
the annual visit of Hyperborean virgins ta
Delos. The forms of the names of Kings and
chieftains might by some persons be brought
forward as an objection; that they were not,
for instance, classical; and that giving such
names to Trojan emigrants proved the falsity
of the history. I trust, however, that a little
examination of the philological structure of
several of the names in question, will, if any
thing, rather tend to give probability to the
tradition, than the contrary. It will at first
sight be clear, that such names as Brutus, and
Corineus, and Locrinus, and Albanactus, are of
a very different character from Rudhudibras^
and Bladud, and Gorburdoc, and others which
occur at a later period of the history. Now the
former are the names of the two first Trojan
\
BRUTE OP TROY. 117
I settlers^ and of two sons of one of them. There
seems to me in this a sort of vraisemblance
w which a forger of the twelfth century, little if
all conversant in Greek, would hardly have
it upon. Look at the structure of one of
ese names, Albanactus ; it seems compounded
^^Alba^^ and the Greek avaS, and to have
■ oeen a sort of memorial of or claim to his rights
► the throne of Alba Longa, put forth by
k Drutus. And yet Geoflfrey does not mention
* this. Had he invented the name he most pro-
ibly would have given the reason for the in-
ntion ; whereas in his history he mentions it
a matter-of-fact way, as if, which he may
■ very probably have been, (supposing he did not
low the signification of ava^,) unconscious of
its import. The objection of its being but a
coincidence, is just worth what that particular
objection may be valued at. Again, let us con-
sider the name of Brutus's wife, Ignogen, which
other authors have softened down to that beau-
tiful form famiUar as the name of another British
Queen, Imogen. This word seems a harsh and
an uncouth designation for a Grecian princess to
bear ; but change it a little, and we find it none
118 BRUTE OF TROY.
other than Inogeneia, a right true Hellenic
name. Now this is a stroke of truthfuhiess
that could hardly have been premeditated. Had
Geof&ey^ as if at hazard^ made a name, he would
hardly have struck out one that was so like a
genuine Greek word ; if he had made it pre-
meditatedly he would have made it quite Greek.
The little corruption existing in the word, (not
greater, by the way, than the difference between
Ignogen and Imogen,) seems to be a stamp of
genuineness. Locrinus, too, her's and Brutus's
eldest son, bears a name quite classical, caUing
our thoughts to Locris ; whereas his concubine,
a northern princess, is called Estrild, a com-
pletely imhellenic word, and she is taken in the
camp of a northern chief, Humber,whom Geof-
frey calls King of the Huns. Pandrasus, on the
other hand, Locrinus^s grandfather, king of
Epirus, and father of *^ Inogeneia,'' bears a Gre-
cian appellation. All these, I assert, are mi-
nutiae which would not, in all probability, have
occurred to an Archdeacon of Monmouth in
the twelfth century, nor to any Welsh forger
whatsoever. The giant-king whom Brutus is
said to have overthrown on his first landing,
BRUTE OF TROY. 119
has, if we should adopt the form usually given,
a Scriptural name, Gt)gmagog. This clearly
must have been assigned to the adversary or
Iversaries of Brutus typified in him after the
bristian era; and yet Geof&ey does not call
m by this name, but Goemagot. Perhaps,
ten, British ballads may have sung of one
hose name not being altogether unlike one in
tiie Holy Scriptures, was altered into that.
The form, however, Gogmagog, can, I should
say, have no place in Albion. There is another
3incidence of names which, as it is undesigned,
deserves being mentioned, as showing, at least,
lat this history had a British origin. One of
the kings of Britain, Bladud's father, is called
Rudhudibras. There was a British prince,
whom Caesar mentions as having accompanied
him on his expedition to Britain, called Man-
dubratius. Now no one can fail perceiving the
similarity of these two names, Rudhudibras and
Mandubratius ; indeed, considering that we pos-
sess the latter of them in a Latinised form, and
the other probablyin nearly its original state,it is
not at all improbable that the latter part of the
two names is, in point of fact, identical, or at
120 BRUTE OP TROY.
all events extremely similar. This is again a
coincidence which we should not have been
likely to have foimd in the writings of a forger.
Again^ we find in Caesar that the name of the
tribe inhabiting the region where London now
stands^ was Trinobantes ; and that city itself is,
in the days of the Roman dominion^ known
sometimes as Londinium, and at others as
Augusta Trinobantium — the town of Lud and
Troynovant. It is probable that a forger would
contrive to make his forgery tally as much as
possible with what is found in other authors
whose genuineness is unsuspected. But he
cannot always find things that agree so well as
Trinobantes and Troynovant, coupled with the
derivation assigned to the latter ; nor is it pro-
bable that this coincidence should have given
rise to the forgery. I must in candour confess,
that another derivation has by moderns been
given to Troynovant; it is asserted that it is
compounded of tre^ "town/' (a Uving word,
and one which occurs very frequently in the
names of Welsh and Cornish places,) and ruivantj
"new.'' I therefore merely bring it forward as
one of many instances in which the internal
BRUTE OP TROY. 121
"'ddence of the names found in Geoffrey's
pages tends^ more than otherwise, to the con-
firmation of the genuineness of his history,
^erfect correctness of ancient nomenclature in
history derived from British sources, would
5 utterly hopeless to expect. I have, I trust,
said enough to vindicate the long-blackened
character of Geoffrey of Monmouth. Other
ai^uments, drawn from the apparent truthful-
ness of several incidents recorded in his his-
tory, may be found in Mr. Barry's book.
The next part of my subject is one compara-
tively easy, namely, to establish that the Bri-
tons, instead of being the naked barbarians,
inhabiting the hollow trunks of trees, that they
are generally supposed to have been, did, at the
period of Caesar's landing, enjoy considerable
civilization. On this point Mr. Barry has dis-
coursed largely ; and I shall first give an ab-
stract of several of his arguments, and then
adduce one or two facts in corroboration, which
he has omitted to make mention of. Indeed,
so conclusive does the evidence on this branch
of my subject appear, that I only wonder how
any author could have embraced the contrary
122 BRUTE OP TROY.
belief. His argument is partly of the species
termed a fortiori, and is concerned first to
prove^ that all the Celtic nations were^ to a con*
siderable extent^ civilized; and secondly, this
being established, that there is proof, that of all
the Celtic nations, the Britons were the farthest
removed from barbarism. Our great authori-
ties for the condition of the Celtic nations, must
necessarily be their old opponents the Romans;
and in their writings he imagines he can find
many unwilling admissions of the ^eatness oi
the Celtic kingdom, Rome had extended hei
conquests over the far east, had subjugated
Syria and Asia Minor, the mighty kingdoms oi
Alexander's successors, and held old Egypt en-
thralled under the yoke of a nominal independ-
ence; while yet, except a small tract on the
sea-coast, called emphatically " The Province,''
she did not possess a foot of land in Transal-
pine Gaul, a country adjacent to Italy, and oni
which, for various causes, would have been i
most desirable acquisition. So far from thu
being the case, a Gallic war was an object o
especial dread and horror. It was not callec
by the usual designation ** bellum,'' a word dea
BRUTE OF TROY. 123
' » tbe Roman ear^ but by a new and most ex-
pressive phrase, "tumultus;^^ and in making
^he levies for such a strife, all the usual exemp-
ons of age were disregarded. Not many years
efore the time of Caesar a Celtic nation, the
Cimbri, well nigh overturned the Roman state,
requiring the genius of Marius to oppose them;
and at a later age, the loss of Varus and his
legions in a Germanic campaign, made Augustus
tremble on his civic throne. This argument
may indeed be made to prove the direct con-
trary of what I am 'endeavouring to establish,
and be adduced to confirm the notion of the
utter lawlessness and brutal barbarity of the
Celtic nations, that had, like wild beasts, to be
opposed by old men and boys, with sticks and
stones, and every weapon that first came to
hand. But this assertion will not stand the
test of other facts, which more or less strongly
indicate the civilization and the power of the
Celtic tribes ; and so, as the great dread which
a Gallic war always caused at Rome must have
arisen either firom the power or the savage bar-
barity of their opponents, we must assume the
former as the reason. Let us see on what
124 BRUTE OF TROY.
grounds we are called upon to admit this. One
of the first indications of civilization is the use
of decent, at all times, and on occasions, of
magnificent, dress; and such the Gauls were
distinguished for. It is curious that the cha-
racteristic feature of their dress, which distin-
guished them from the natives of Italy and
Greece, was just that which distinguishes mo-
dem from ancient nations. The Gauls were
" braccati.'' Again, their magnificence is shown
in the use of gold jewellery as an ornamental
article of dress, and, at all events, as a mark of
distinction to their chiefs. Manlius, one of the
famous old Roman champions, was surnamed
Torquatus, because he had won in single combat,
from a Gallic chief, the golden necklace which
he wore. And sure the wearer of a golden neck-
lace could never have been a naked barbarian.
Again, the political relation of the Gauls to
the Romans was that of one civilized nation
towards another, in that they had at Rome their
" patroni,'' that is, ministers or consuls ; and
some of them seem to have filled the same posts
towards the Romans in their own states. But
in Caesar we find proof positive of the high
BRUTE OF TROY. 125
degree of civilization which one tribe, at least,
of the Gauls had attained to, in his account of
the gigantic ships composing the navy of the
I Veneti, a tribe inhabiting the coasts of the
itish Channel, of a size that the Roman tri-
mes could not compare with. Were those
rbarians that built such ships ? Again we
id that one of the Galhc towns was so beau-
Pal, that the nation would not burn it, although
" the saving of it was very bad military policy.
Could this have been a collection of huts in a
wood ? Such are a few out of the many proofs
that the continental Gauls must have been a
very civilized race, and indeed a nation formid-
able even to mighty Rome.
This admission is now to be applied to the
case of Britain. It might be supposed that,
granting the civilization of Gaul, that remote
and isolated land, Britain, might yet be in a
state of barbarism, either positive or compara-
tive. But this does not at all follow. Supposing
the civilization of Britain to have come, at least
in part, by sea, from Phoenicia, for instance,
the coasts of Britain would not have been, in
any serious degree, more remote than those of
126 BRUTE OF TROY.
the Veneti, that great maritime power of Nor-
thern Gaul. And we know that the Phoenicians
had settlements on the Cornish coast, and drove
with our island a tin trade of great importance ;
and we can but suppose that they must have
left traces of their civilization behind them. But
the strongest fact of all which I shall adduce, is
one which proves the greater learning of the
British Druids, firom which it is hardly too
much to infer, that the general mass of the
people had attained a higher degree of culture
than on the Continent ; — ^it is that, as we are
informed, the Gallic Druids used to come over
into Britain to finish their education, from the
superior learning of the British Druids. But
superior learning on the part of the sacerdotal
class must be accompanied with greater general
refinement; for, firom what we can learn, the
lore of the Druids does not seem to have all
been of a Gnostic description. Diodorus, in
his history, gives magnificent legends of a rich
and luxurious island in the west, containing a
circular temple dedicated to the sun. Now,
will it be thought extravagant to conjecture
that this island may have been Britain ; and in
BRUTE OF TROY. 127
Britain we still have circular temples of the
olden time^ Stonehenge and Avebury. With this
tradition of Diodorus may be considered the re-
markable fact that Herodotus vouches for, that
virgins came yearly, from some far distant region
of the north, which he terms the Hyperborean
land, to Delos, the island sacred to the Sun God\
But to return to Caesar. Mr. Barry gives a
long examination of his account of his expedi-
tion to Britain, which I shall not attempt to
follow, in which he professes to trace^ as also in
the history of the Gaulic wars, several proofs of
^ This was Milton's opinion, as we learn from the following
beautiful passage in his Mansus : —
*' Sed neque nos genus incultum, nee inutile Phcebo,
Qnse plaga septeno mundi sulcata Trione
Brumalem patitur longa sub nocte Booten.
Nos etiam colimus Phcebum, nos munera Phcebo,
Flaventes spicas, et lutea mala canistris,
Halantemque crocum, perhibet nisi vana vetustas,
Misiraus, et lectas Druidum de gente choreas.
Gens Druides autiqua, sacris operata Deorum,
Heroum laudes, imitandaque gesta canebant ;
Hinc quoties festo cingunt altaria cantu,
Delo in herbos4, Graise de more puellee,
Carminibus leetis memorant Corineida loxo,
Fatidicamque Upin, cum flavicomd Hecaerge,
Nuda Caledonio variatas pectora fuco."
128 BRUTE OF TROY.
wUful perversions of the truth, to serve his own
self-glorification, — convenient storms raised to t
sinkships^that the enemies had taken, — doubtful :
stipulations of peace, — the river Thames crossed :
with difficulty, and yet no account given of how
it was recrossed, and other incidents of a like
nature. All these facts tend, he thinks, to prove
that Britain was a much more formidable ad-
versary to Rome and her great general than
Caesar was himself willing to have supposed.
He adduces the great preparations which were
thought necessary to make against the island,
and the large numbers of the armies which the
Gauls contributed towards its subjugation. It
is rather curious that Henry, in his History of
England, takes, as far as Caesar is concerned, the
same line as Mr. Barry, pointing out several in-
consistencies in his narration of the British cam-
paign, and giving it as his opinion, that they
had attained a higher degree of cultivation than
was generally supposed, and that the Roman
was not so successful as he made himself out
to have been. The flippant infidel, Hume, on
the other hand, does not take the trouble to
adopt any but the ordinary notions of the utter
BRUTE OF TROY. 129
barbarity of the ancient' Britons, passing over
their existence before the days of Caesar almost
without a notice, and adopting his statements
merely. Mr. Barry insists especiaUy on the
British chariots of war, — which are described as
being, not like the war-chariots of the Homeric
heroes, mere vehicles of transport, but destruc-
tive and formidable military engines, capable of
spreading havoc and confusion through the
phalanx of the Roman legion in its palmiest
days, — and then puts it to his readers, whether
they can believe that savages were possessed of
the mechanical skill to make, and the miUtary
talent to manoeuvre, such formidable instru-
ments. It is a significant fact, that, for so
many years after Caesar had left the island, no
further attempts were made to reduce it. It
was thought a mighty thing by the madman
Caligula to plan an expedition hither.
Mr. Barry, moreover, adduces the description
that Tacitus gives of the little trouble which,
according to him, Agricola found in civilizing
the Britons, as a proof that they could not pre-
viously have been so very barbarous. That his-
torian, in the twenty-first chapter of the life of
130 BRUTE OF TROY.
his father-in-law, says, ^^The following winter/^
(a.d. 77) ^was passed in the execution of most
"wise counsels; for that the natives, dispersed
" and rude,and on thatveryaccount easilyroused
" to war, might be accustomed to quiet and indo-
" leqce by pleasures, he began to exhort them, in
" private and in public, to assist them to build
"up temples, fora, houses, by praising those
" that were prompt in the work, and chastising
" the lazy.'' A pretty employment indeed for
barbarians to be building themselves temples^
fora, houses ! Within these very few years we
have become acquainted with a race of men
which, considering their uncultured habits, have
shown a predisposition to embrace the arts of
European civilization which is perfectly won-
derful, I mean the New Zealanders ; they, how-
ever, have not undertaken the building of pub-
lic squares (fora) for themselves ; their civiliza-
tion at present extends to learning to wear
clothes and cultivate gardens. And if AgricoWs
instructions to the Britons had been of that
nature, we might have supposed them to have
been in the uncultivated state they are ordina-
rily represented as having up to this period con-
BRUTE OF TROY. 131
tinued in ; whilst, on the contrary, the works that
he employed them upon are such as to demon-
strate that they must already have been far re-
moved from barbarism. This same historian,
in his Annals, brings against the Britons the
grave charge of offering human victims^ which
shows that he was not unduly favourable in his
view of British gentleness. Whether this be
but a calumny acceptable in the hostile saloons
of Rome or not, I will not pretend to say ; but
from the early Mexican history it is evident, that
the occasional recourse to this horrid rite is com-
patible with a high degree of civilization, and
even with a generally just and lenient polity.
It is not a little curious, that so near the pas-
sage containing the charge in question, as, in
my edition, to be only two lines distant from it,
though in another chapter, he talks of a British
King as '' long& opulenti^ clarus,'^ — a savage re-
nowned for his vast opulence ! It must not be
forgotten, that he is here talking of the year 62,
a period anterior to Agricola^s government. A
little further on, and he says of " Londinium,'^
that "it is not indeed distinguished by the
^* appellation of colony, but an extremely well
k2
132 BRUTE OF TROY.
" known place of resort (maxime celebre), from
^the abundance of its merchants and of its mer-
" chandize/' Not a colony ; this flourishing mer-
cantile city was therefore old British Troyno-
vant ; and yet we must believe, on the authority
of Hume and such like authors, that its in-
habitants were utterly uncivilized.
I have thus endeavoured, without strictly
confining myself to the order of the original, to
give an idea of the well-argued and powerful
dissertation of Mr. Barry, in vindication of the
civilization of the British island, concerning
which it is only to be regretted, that he had at
times permitted wild conjectures to weaken the
force of his reasonings and his illustrations. I
shall now bring forward a few facts which he
has omitted to take notice of, in confirmation
of the civilized state of Britain about the time
of the Christian era.
Every one must know how scrupulous the
Roman aristocracy was in preserving the race
of the Quirites unmixed with foreign blood ; so
much so, that the proud Queen of Egypt was
esteemed to be but the concubine of Mark
Antony ; and yet not many years after this pe-
BRUTE OF TROY. 133
nod, we find Roman senators married to British
ladies. Clearly these could not have been the
barbarian offspring of savage chieflains, but
persons who, by their education, were thought
worthy to rank amid the haughty daughters of
Romulus. One of these ladies, Claudia, is,
fix)m a passage in Tacitus, supposed to be the
Claudia who, in Holy Writ, sends greetings, by
the hand of S. Paul, to S. Timothy.
But there is also internal proof of the state
of the Britons at this period. At the time of
Our Lord's Birth, more than seventy years
before Agricola's government, a King was reign-
ing in Britain, mentioned by Geoffrey, and
familiar to all as Cymbeline, but who entitled
himself Cunobelin. Of this King there are still
coins extant, with his head and name upon the
obverse, and, on the reverse, a device, with
the legend " Tascio/' which has much puzzled
archaeologists. Other British coins, too, are
found. Now, here is a fact that stands incon-
trovertible ; and if the Britons of that day were
naked savages, as Hume quietly assumes, these
naked savages coined money, and circulated
it Geoflfrey states that "Kymbelinus^Vwas a
134 BRUTE OF TROY.
friend of Augustus^ and gave him, as a present,
the money that Csesar had paid the British «8
tribute; whence it has been conjectured by
some, that Tascio might mean tribute, which, of
course, it mighL This fact, of the friendship of
Augustus and CunobeUn, whether true or not,
would tally well with intermarriage between
Britons and the Roman aristocracy, which took
place at a later period. We are also informed,
that the wicker-work of Britain was highly
prized at Rome. This is a proof of taste in
our manufacture, though it be an argument I
shall not much insist upon, as, of all elegant
arts, wicker-work is perhaps the one in which a
rude nation has the least difficulty in attaining
excellence.
Are we, then, with Hume and the sceptics of
the last two centuries, to believe that the old
glories of this our beloved isle are things
** Which never were, nor no man ever saw ?"
or shall we, with the child-like, confident belief
of many a glorious year, and many a noble and
subtile mind, accept the time-renowned annals of
Britain's ancient kings, and her old civilization ?
BRUTE OF TROY. 135
Whoever reads Geoffrey of Monmouth's His-
tory must^ whatever opinion he may form of
the facts therein related^ rise with a strong
feeling of how marvellous a place was Troy ; —
not in Greece merely, nor in Italy, nor in the
nations of the ancient world, but throughout
every age almost, and every nation, of the civil-
ized world, this wonderful city has spread its
influence. The ten years' siege of a not large
Asiatic town, nigh three thousand years ago,
has been ever since the subject of the noblest
soarings of himian genius. The poetry of
Greece opens with the boundless ocean of the
Homeric song; the theme of that song ever
rings through the long-rolling centuries that
followed. The Greek mind ever turned to
Troy, that city of the enemy, to furnish mate-
rials for its choicest efforts; sophists, when
they declaimed, chose Trojan themes. Troy
every where used, on all occasions. At length,
two thousand years after Homer's day, when
Latin Christians were fighting for the Holy
Land, the last expiring flame of Grecian poetry
is extinct in John Tzetzes' hexameters, the
subject of these hexameters the War of Troy.
136 BRUTE OF TROY.
In Italy^ the same. What so precious inheritance
to the Roman as his Trojan ancestry? What
theme did the greatest poet of Latium choose hut
this old undying Trojan tale ? The old Roman
empire has passed away, and Mediaeval Europe
rises before us in all its solemn grandeur;
and the long-lost city of the Hellespont^ royal
Ilium, is not forgotten. Geoflfirey, Archdeacon
of Monmouth, writes the History of Britain^s
Trojan Kings ; and in the same century, Joseph
of Exeter, the poet of the Middle Ages, who,
of all before Petrarch, most nearly resembled
those of Roman days, chose for his subject the
destruction of Troy. All over Europe, what
romances were more popular than those which,
under the names of Dares Phrygius and Dictys
Cretensis, professed to narrate the events of
that famous siege ? Printing is invented, and
introduced into England ; and one of the first
books Caxton produces is the Siege of Troy.
Then the world changed again, and the cinque
cento age came, and Troy was not obliterated.
Mightiest Shakespeare chose for one of his plays
a Trojan theme. When, a century and a half
ago, a French Archbishop wanted to teach his
BRUTE OF TROY. 137
royal pupil a moi*al lesson, he drew it from the
adventures of a son of one of Troy's captors.
Then came, almost in our time, the horrors of
the French Revolution ; yet French and Eng-
lish meet upon a common ground, that ground
the Plain of Troy, where, in 1788, the enthusi-
astic Frenchman, Le Chevalier, found the very
ruins of Pergamus yet undestroyed, and many
an Englishman followed him. So lasting is the
interest the world has ever taken in the city of
Dardanus.
Remembering this, the loss of the memory of
Brute and of his race has been, putting aside
any question as to the historical weight to be
assigned to the narration, a most serious detri-
ment to the literature, and, through the Utera-
ture, to the people of England; as assuredly
these, the earliest alleged records of our isle,
were a true and a beautiful source of poetical
matter, a legitimate machinery, — one which
showed its own power, and the fertility of its
resources, so long as men were willing to make
use of it, and still remains to accuse a later age
of its empiric unbelief. Nor is such a loss
merely a fancied one; for i^ as I believe.
138 BRUTE OF TROY.
poetry be a great means of doing good^ a strong
controller of the human hearty implanted in us
from above for high and holy purposes, then^
assuredly, to every nation must the desuetude
of its old poetical traditions, — its home-bom,
home-speaking reminiscences of old times and
old exploits of their father- land, be a substantial
detriment. And our own Trojan tradition is
one of more than usual beauty, and has Air-
nished matter for the most noble efforts of the
human mind. It consists not in isolated tales
of obscure chieftains, who but for this would
never have been known, like the early history
of many another nation, but on one side mount-
ing up to Cretan Dardanus and sacred Ilium,
and all the heroes of Homer's song, —
*Avdpwv ^pwutv 9eXov yivoQ, oi KaXeovrot
*Rfii9B0if 9rporlpy yivsy, Kar antipova ycuav,
Kai ToiiQ fikv irdXtfidQ re KaKbg Kai ^vXottcc cdvtj,
ToitQ fikv kij>' itrrairvXiit OriPy KadfititSi vaiy
'Q^<re fiapvaiikvovg firiXinv ^vbk Otdmodao'
ToiiQ Sk Kai kv vqiaai vvkp fiiya XaXrfia OaXdaatiQ
'Eg Tpoiriv Aydyutv, *EXsvriQ 'ivtK ijtiico/ioto,
then leads us on to Alba Longa,
genus unde Latinum,
Albanique patres, atque altae moenia Romse,
BRUTE OF TROY. 139
and so through a long series of British Kings
and British deeds, to the days of Roman do-
minion, and the devotion, celebrated even at
Rome, of Caractacus. Here doubts are at an
end, and we then learn how S. Lucius, first
of aU the governors of the West, embraced the
Christian Faith, and how the British Church
led Alban to his Protomartyr's block ; and, last,
this glorious chronicle tells of the name of that
world-famous monarch, the Champion of the
Faith, Arthur, son of Pendragon, who fought
twelve battles against the Pagan Saxons, and
now sleeps at Glastonbury Abbey. Such is
the history that we are wiUing to abandon.
The admiration shown in this Essay for this
Trojan tale is not a new and sudden fancy;
it has long exercised considerable influence
upon the imagination of the writer of these
pages ; and, apprehended in the comprehensive
way in which it has just now been stated, has
been a leading note, feebly and imperfectly
struck, as he is aware, of several poems, in a
small volume, which he was rash enough, a
little while ago, to publish. This remark may
not, it is trusted, be considered as egotistical.
140 BRUTE OF TROY.
But^ to give tangible proof of the assertions
above made^ let us examine whether, in the
hands of our older poets. Brute of Troy and
his descendants have proved a ductile matter.
First, let Michael Drayton answer, who, in his
magnificent, but very prolix, and therefore much
neglected, poem, the Polyolbion, our true na-
tional epopee, (for epopee it is, though cast in a
topographical form,) sung many a glorious lay
of Brutus and his race. Next, Shakespeare
comes, who wrote King Lear, and Lear was of
Ascanius' family; and Cymbeline, too, was an
old British monarch; — and among the seven
doubtful plays is one upon the fortunes of
Locrine. And Spenser, too, recurs to Trojan
days. John Milton, in his better days, invoked^
to furnish a fit conclusion to his sweet mask of
Comus, a British princess, Sabrina,
*' Virgin, daughter of Locrine,
Sprung of old Anchises' line ;"
and as, in his Latin poems, he informs us, he
once intended celebrating, in heroic verse, the
deeds of Arthur. Would that he had persisted
in this intention! The Great Rebellion, and
BRUTE OF TROY. 141
the reign of Charles 11.^ and the Batavian
domination^ obliterated^ as might have been
expected^ the old remembrance; but in the
last century^ an heroic poem was planned to be
written upon the history of Brutus^ and, of all
men, by Alexander Pope. An extraordinary
production it would have been, had it been
completed, as, from its argument, which still
exists, we may ascertain. It was, of course, to
be in twelve books ; and Brutus was the hero,
— a sort of Frenchified pious JBneas, a philoso-
pher and a gentleman, and, as a general, fully
equal to Prince Eugene, who built cities where
he listed, and, when his followers were alarmed
at a volcano, graciously explained to them the
causes of such phenomena. From that time,
"the wondrous Chronicle of Brute'^ remained
neglected, till he of Rydal Mount exploring it,
found therein a tale as yet unnoticed, and burst
forth into his noble ballad of Artegal and Eli-
dure. May its ponderous and antique clasps
never again be permitted, as heretofore, to rust
unopened !
SHAKESPEAKE
AND
ARISTOPHANES.
^
SHAKESPEARE
AND
AHISTOPHANES.
Shakespeare, for many years^ was slighted
V a prosaic and enervated people ; then^ for
Mother term^ admired in a strange manner, as
one who violated, mdeed, in his writings, every
principle of good taste, every rule of criticism,
l)ut yet, from his talents and his genius, was
deserving, if not of pardon, at least of indul-
gence. But then a different era came, and
now the Stratford man is, by England's uni-
versal voice, proclaimed the first of poets, — as
one too great to criticise, whose beauties must
be felt and not expressed,-as one reigning,
without a rival, on the throne of verse. From
this estimate of his excellences I have no wish
to derogate ; I desire not to drag, from his pre-
146 SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES.
eminence^ " the thousand-minded man/^ as, by
a most felicitous application, Coleridge styled
him, in that between Shakespeare and Aristo-
phanes I institute some comparison. The de-
gree of intellect possessed by each being, as it
may very well be, put out of the question, it
may be demonstrated, that of all the great
poets of antiquity, — or, indeed, of any age,—
Aristophanes is the one whose genius most
resembled, in character and in development,
that of Shakespeare; and this being proved,
our task will next be, to show wherein they
resembled most, wherein most differed.
Poets, like all other authors, and most other
men, of every class and every profession, are,
in a great measure, creatures of circumstance.
They may have high and lofty views, and deep
streams of thought rolling through their mind,
too clear, and yet too rapid and too impetuous,
for ordinary beings to bear up against; they
may have some fixed unity of purpose, for good
sometimes, and sometimes for evil, — some great
end, of which they are conscious, or perhaps
half conscious only, ruling them, and swaying
every action of their life, — a guide they cannot
SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES. 147
and they will not disobey ; but yet, for all this,
they are men, — there are fashions, and conven-
tionalities, and weaknesses, which they cannot
divest themselves of, will not overcome. The
subjects of their verse are produced by the cir-
cumstances of the time and country in which
they live, — by the fear of some political evil,
by the hope of some political advancement.
Augustus made the JBneid ; and in the mazes
of Italian politics, in the deep themes of the
mediaeval schools, we search for the productive
causes of La Divina Commedia. In short, to
recapitulate this somewhat lengthy dictum in a
word, poets, though poets, are men. There is
but one study in which we can hope at all
to divest ourselves of the world, and that is
Theology, the highest and the sublimest of all
studies ; and yet even in Theology, the deepest
and the purest minds, the boldest defenders of
the Universal Faith, are not, indeed, fashioned
in diflFerent moulds, but yet are guided, in the
expression of their feelings, and in the choice
of subjects to make that expression by, accord-
ing to many various conditions of time and
place. To this universal rule Shakespeare and
T 9,
148 SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES.
Aristophanes were subject. The one lived at a
Tudor court, the other was a member of the
Athenian Demus. Strange difference of con-
dition, and enough to account for almost any
diversity. And yet, as I have said before, in
their respective genius there was very much
alike ; as I shall demonstrate, by giving a cha-
racter, which my readers may peruse, first as
that of the one, and then as that of the other^
without, I trust, either in the one case or the
other, finding it very inconsistent with the
truth, or, which is necessary to the full esta-
blishment of the assertion, being able to men-
tion any third poet to whom it be equally
applicable.
" He was a poet, the greatness of whose
" genius showed itself, as by other indications,
*^ so first by his wonderful versatility, — a versa-
*UiUty that did not merely consist in the art of
"treating different subjects, at different times,
*^ equally well, but in that of separating the
" unity of the same production, so as to present
^' it in different aspects, each in itself whole and
*^ perfect, and, at the same time, to preserve the
" essential oneness of the general body. This
SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES. 149
" versatiKty will be further explained^ as I go on
"to detail the remaining excellences of his poeti-
" cal character. His knowledge of human nature
"was extreme and surprising; he was perfectly
"well acquainted with the sources of human
"action, — the pFejudices, the weaknesses, the
"customs, that, for the most part, guide and*
"diversify the course of a man's life; and, pos-
" sessed of this knowledge, he displayed an appa-
"rently intuitive acquaintance with what, under
"given circumstances, any man would sa)r or
"do. Possessed as he was of this talent, it^s
"hardly needful to observe, that his wit, and his
"humour, and his drollery, were brilUant and
"profuse. And now here comes the proof of
"versatility, that, with the business-Uke part of
"poetry, so to speak, developed to that extreme
"degree, yet, in the more imaginative and aerial
"branches of it, his supremacy stood equally
"confessed; from the shrewdest dialogue, or
"most broad comic extravagance, he bursts out
"at once into the highest flights of imagination ;
"and, after revelling at will in the expanse of
"highest fancy, dismounts at once from his Pe-
"gasus, and re-appears on earth ; — and, may be.
150 SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES.
I
*^ solaces himself, by exerting his own irresistible
" drollery on his own sublimer strains ; and
"yet so dexterously, so cautiously, with such a
" nice perception of beauty running through the
" whole, that, by his farce, he noways diminishes
*^the desired eflFect of his serious and more |
" elevated strains. And, to conclude, amid his I
" wildest freaks, his most blameable compliance
" with the false taste and faulty morals of his |
" age, there yet is apparent in him a love for «
^* moral truth and beauty, a sense of the responsi- g
" bility of the poet's art, which makes him direct
" his eflForts to the cause of truth and justice,
" and old high feeling/*
Such is the character which may, I think, be *
given both of Shakespeare and of Aristophanes ;
and for two poets, in such diflFerent ages and ^
countries, to agree in so many points, argues
no slight simiUtude in the respective character I
of their genius. I shall now proceed to make a
few observations on each separately, and then
again proceed, on some few points, to examine
them conjointly. And first of Shakespeare.
Shakespeare, the truant son of the petty
shopkeeper of Stratford-upon-Avon, the penni-
SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES. 151
less and friendless adventurer in London^ by
dint of his own vast intellect^ became the
cheriBhed poet of the formal and artificial court
of that vain, imperious woman — the clever,
masculine, cold-hearted Elizabeth, — ^which fa-
vour he retained during the days of her cal-
culating, ^^cannie,^^ pedantic successor. He
was the observed of observers, the caressed of
haughty nobles. Clearly he must have ac-
commodated himself somewhat to the tastes of
his days, — an acknowledgment which does not,
in the least degree, derogate from our assigning
to him the highest place in poetical and in-
tellectual greatness. These tastes were cold,
formal, and pedantic. The English nation,
considered intellectually, had, thanks to its
German friends, cut itself off from much com-
munity of feeling with past ages, or other
countries of Christendom ; and they, too, were
much involved in the same error; — so that,
lacking their company and association, it fell
back upon classical antiquity, without, at the
same time, possessing that knowledge which
enabled them correctly to seize upon its spirit.
%
152 SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES.
Consequently, men became pedantic, and for-
mal, and fantastical, — a state of things not a
little promoted by the Tudor sovereign — one
who fain would be, not the most beautiful
merely, but the most learned of her sex. In
such an atmosphere alone could Sidney^s
genius have framed an Arcadian romance ; L
potent must have been the spell that could
have made Spenser pour forth his endless flood
of noblest verse, to glorify the last of the Tu-
dors. So much had this pedantry become the
recognized staple of fashionable conversation,
that a man of some note in his days, and still
so now among a certain class of literati, named
Lilly, systematized it under the name of Euphu-
ism, in a book entitled Euphues. Euphuism
then was the order of the day ; and Euphuise
must Shakespeare, if he purposed at all to keep
his ground; and the only marvel is, how much
he contrived to avoid the fault. This is the
clue to many of his conceits, which we are not
called upon to defend, because an unpoetical
and stupid age, full of the pride of its supposed
talents, deep read in Dacier, and fancying him
SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES. 153
Aristotle^ has laid hold upon them to inculpate
the mighty bard^ and to convict him a gross^
illiterate boor.
Aristophanes^ on the other hand,— though, as
it is supposed, he was a person of independent
birth and fortune, — was bom a servant to one
of the rudest taskmasters, the most capricious
tyrants the world ever beheld; — in a word, he
was a member of the Athenian Demus, — him-
self, indeed, possessed of a fraction of that fear-
fill sovereignty, and yet liable himself to all its
waywardness. So situated, he was compelled
to flatter its tastes, to condescend to its vices.
A tragic poet might, indeed, if he willed, en-
trench himself in the dignity of his art, and
refuse compliance with his audience. For this
he might, to be sure, lose, as JBschylus and
Sophocles had done, the prize ; but supposing
he cared not, as we may suppose these two
mighty spirits did not care, for the temporary
decision of the Theatre of Bacchus, but, waiv-
ing this, he had whereon to support himself.
To the comic poet, however, we may be tolera-
bly certain no such liberty would have been
permitted. He was there to make the sove-
154 SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES.
reign Demus laugh ; and laugh he must make
them^ in the way they liked the best. It was
holiday-time when the comedies were exhibited
— the festival of jovial Bacchus ; and they chose
to give their own interpretation to the meaning
of holiday. I do not make these observations
in palliation^ for such were very wicked, of the
indecencies which so often pollute the pages
of Aristophanes, but to explain how, in old
Greece, that most sensual coimtry, even the
better class of minds were obliged to stoop
to the level of the lowest and the worst.
We that are Christians, with the supernatural
helps to goodness which our Holy Religion af-
fords, cannot at all adequately judge of the
state of mind and feelings in a pagan land.
Perhaps if we were possessed of the writings of
Aristophanes^ competitors, — of Eupolis and
Cratinus, and other obscurer names,— we might
find that, compared with them, his plays were
even pure. One thing is certain, that the mind
of Aristophanes was not one whose natural sus-
tenance was garbage. It is noticeable, that the
same school of critics who had banished Shake-
speare into savage wilds, waged war likewise
SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES. 155
upon the Attic comedian. His plays were set
down as mere smut and scurrility. His judi-
cious and noble defence of iGschylus was es-
teemed but the outbreak of malicious feeling
against Euripides. His determined opposition
to the Sophists, embodied unfortunately in the
person of Socrates, was believed to be hatred
to that wonderful man ; and to crown the ab-
siu'dity, the poet was usually reckoned to have
been the agent of persons who never prosecuted
the sage till twenty years after the Clouds had
been exhibited. This is the more remarkable, as
that school piqued itself upon its admiration
for every thing it thought classical; this is
proved by trying authors, old and new, upon
the Procrustian bed of those famous unities
which it had fancied in Aristotle, dreamed of in
the tragedians, and found in Dacier. Aristo-
phanes could not be bent so as to suit their
requisites ; and so the Athenian was a bungler
at Attic comedy. Thus are the Euphuism of
Shakespeare and the indecency of Aristophanes
correlative, and furnish new grounds of com-
parison.
There is an objection which might be urged
156 SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES.
against the comparison of these two poets^ — by
no one^ indeed, I should think, who is at all
acquainted with the spirit of Greek literature, —
but still, as it has some prima facie plausibility
about it, one that it may be worth while very
briefly to notice. It is this, that Shakespeare is
both a tragic and a comic poet, Aristophanes ex-
clusively the latter; and that, on this account, till
we should have discovered among his works any
thing which could bear to be put alongside of
the horror of Macbeth, the philosophic stateli-
ness of Troilus and Cressida, the deep pathos
of Romeo and Juliet, the solemn grandeur of
Hamlet, it would be doing an injustice to our
native poet to compare the Athenian to him.
The reason of this defect is at once to be found
in the constitution of Greek society, and the
immemorial laws which bound their usages.
The Greek mind had a strange undercurrent
of technicality running through it, which its
strange religion not a little fostered. The poet
was not merely a poet writing for the amuse-
ment of the people, he was invested with a kind
of sacred character ; he was a species of priest
of Bacchus, performing his appointed duty, —
SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES. 157
the tragic poet in the production of tragedies, to
grace the festival ; the comedian, of comedies.
Therefore for the tragedian to write comedies,
or the comedian tragedies, would have been
esteemed a gross breach of etiquette, where such
breaches would be least permitted, a sort of lese
majeste against the fitting performance of the
wine-god^s solemnities. Both tragedian and
comedian seem sometimes to have winced under
the yoke ; and it is certain that, in later days,
some of the new school showed a very rebelli-
ous spirit, as may be witnessed in some of the
tragedies of Euripides, which trenched not a
little upon the province of the comic muse.
From what we can learn, too, of the productions
of his contemporary, Agatho, it has been con-
jectured that, in them, the dignity of the buskin
was not very sedulously maintained. The tragic
poets, indeed, had, by old prescriptive right,
the duty of writing plays, which, though not so
called, were, in very fact, comedies, viz. the
Satyric dramas, which completed the tetralogy.
These, however, from the constitution of their
chorus, could only include a limited range of
subject. The comedians, on the other hand^
158 SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES.
if, which in all probabiUty was more usually the
case, they had less desire to invade the preroga-
tives of the tragic poet, so had less opportunity
of so doing. That Aristophanes might, had he
chosen, been eminent as a tragedian, and that
this reputation would not have been to him dis-
tasteful, may, I think, be inferred from the
many beautiful, many subUme passages and
choruses interspersed through his plays, of
which I shall mention but one, — the Cosmogony
in the Birds. That his taste in tragedy, (no
certain proof, however, that the critic would
make a good ironrrrigy) was noble and true, he
demonstrates in that magnificent specimen of
judicial poetry, the Frogs.
Both Shakespeare and Aristophanes have
ever, as I have read, in their wildest flights,
shown themselves not unmindful of the high
end that poetry was designed to serve, — the high
responsibility of the poet. This feeling mani-
fests itself in the bursts of deepest moralizing,
and the long reflections on man and man^s in-
most constitution, the earnest and thoughtful
wisdom, that Shakespeare makes the most in-
congruous characters give utterance to, almost
SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES. 159
his only deviation from strict nature ; and the
profound political truths^ the cautious and
virtuous maxims, that at times is heard from
out of the most grotesque mask of Aristo-
phanes. This is no vulgar inconsistency in
either, no common foisting in of moralizing,
brought in without object, meaning, or lead-
ing subject, Uke the morals so assiduously
presented in ^sop's fables, so uniformly
overlooked, as I fear, by the youthful reader.
To be characterized by this habit would be
no peculiarity in either poet; there is hardly
one great dramatic writer who does not, more
or less, &11 into the fault, and few more than
Euripides; while among inferior playwrights,
fiill many a character stalks the stage like an
animated dictionary of proverbs. With Shake-
speare, on the other hand, one does not feel the
incongruity ; it seems to be the great poet him-
self speaking in disguise ; each character seems
to possess a double personality, the one his
own distinctive nature, the other the reflex of
the poet^s mind, and each equally appropriate.
To quote an instance from Aristophanes, to
whom this merit will not be probably so easily
160 SHAKESPEARE AND ARISTOPHANES.
granted as to Shakespeare : in the Knights
sausage-seller is introduced as the very p
sonification of every thing that is base, bla
guardly, and brutal, and well does he act u{
his character through the greater part of
play; when all at once a change takes pis
and he, the offscouring of the city gates, coi
forth the high-minded and patriotic minis
the restorer of the days of Aristides and Mi
ades, the friend and counsellor of Demus, r
restored to youth, and vigour, and sense, in t
magnificent burst of anapaests, when the Pro
laea are thrown open to behold Athens,
famous, the wondrous, the famed in song, i
Demus, with his golden grasshoppers. Kin;
the city of the violet crown, bright in his anci
dress.
Here I will close the remarks I purpo
making on the resemblance between Sha
speare and Aristophanes, believing, I trusi
have said enough to make out a case.
ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
OP
PUNISHMENT.
M
ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
OF
PUNISHMENT.
t^HE nature and the due extent of punishment
11^ matters^ which it is of the highest import-
ance for the common weal of every state, as far
L8 may be, to define ; and the discussion of them
^as accordingly occupied no little of the time
rfthe writers on political science in various ages.
Many has been the hour of hard thought that
:hey have occupied,many the brilliant theory and
::he absurd imagining that they have given rise
bo ; and the question is yet debated hotly. It is
ao discussion of the schools, no curious object
[)f antiquarian research, no high, sublime, but
incorporeal vision ; but a question on the due
idjustment of which, in no slight degree, de-
pends, not the accidents merely, but the sub-
stance of human society, whether considered
M 2
^
164 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
merely in its human shape, or as the type of
higher and unearthly things ; a question in the
solution of which the comfort of all and the
existence of many is engaged ; and it has been
treated accordingly. Not in the schools merely,
nor in grave conclaves of philosophers, have the
first principles of punishment been canvassed;
but in legislative assemblies, in a Roman senate
and a British parliament, in the Pnyx at Athens
and in the Capitol at Washington. Nor has
public opinion suffered the determination even
of such dignified referees to be unquestioned,
but has in various, and not a few of them very
strange, ways, pronounced its own opinion upon
the all'important matter. Such being the case^
it may seem an arrogant undertaking, with the
limited erudition I possess upon the subject
and the limited time I have devoted to the con-
sideration of it, to move again the "vexed''
question; but yet I dare to do it, feeling mj
best confidence to be in this, that although the
views which I shall advocate with an imperfect
utterance be to this age strange and novel, yel
that, in point of fact, they are by no means so
but, on the contrary, those that have on then:
f
OP PUNISHMENT, 165
the stamp of ancient and universal acceptation ;
and it is a satisfaction to reflect, that the matter
of this Essay has been already crowned with
the public approbation of my much-loved Uni-
ver8ity\
I shall pass over the many famous names of
old who have left behind their discussions and
judgments on the nature and the due extent of
punishment, and make mention of two authors
only who have handled the subject during the
last (Jentury, the one in Italy and the other in
England. In the former country the Marquis
of Beccaria, a Milanese, published in the year
1764 a treatise " Dei Delitti e delle Pene,"
a work which, as it is said, has passed through
fifty editions and translations. Some years afl^r
him the well-known Archdeacon Paley, in that
treatise of his which is facetiously denominated
^^ Moral Philosophy,'^ treats at length on the
subject, adopting the same side of the contro-
versy as the Lombard nobleman. The age
they lived in was a sensual and an unbelieving
^ This Essay is founded upon a shorter one, in Latin,
which gained the second Members' prize for Bachelors of
Arts at Cambridge, in 1841.
1 66 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
one ; Faith and high feeling had well nigh passed
away, and cold rationalistic views on all subjects
largely prevailing, paved the way to that fearful
storm in which, throughout the continent, the
ancient state of things was to be submei^.
Consequently the writings and the opinions
of these two persons partook most largely
of the prevailing spirit, in the systematizing of
which they had doubtless a considerable share.
Their theory of punishment was utterly utilita*
rian, inasmuch as both denied that therein
was contained any thing of a retributive cha-
racter, asserting that punishments were assigned
with the sole view of effecting the suppression
of crime by means of terror, that efficacious in-
strument of control, and thereby maintaining
the body politic in a healthful condition. This
hypothesis, so well adapted to the feelings of a
faithless age, and supported, doubtless, with
considerable ingenuity, quickly found nume-
rous supporters, and is still the belief, in all
probability, of the majority of the thinking
world, at least in this land. A better spirit has,
however, arisen, and the prestige of the vain-
glorious philosophers of the last century is
OF PUNISHMENT. 167
rapidly passing away to the land of forgotten
things^ never more to cast a shade upon the
earth. The bold assertion that punishment is
of a retributive character, may again be made,
and not be clamoured down; but clamoured
down or not, it is the truth. That the pre-
vention of crime, by the example of crime
being made to suffer, is a very important con-
sideration in the adjustment of punishment, is
most true ; but it is no less true that it is not
the only consideration, nor the most important
one. Indeed, the admission of such a principle
seems to me to involve the 'virtual denying of
all moral government in the world. But to
waive this consideration, it is no slight testi-
mony in favour of the ancient theory, that
albeit it be repugnant to the tastes of mo-
dem theorists and system-mongers, yet it is
innate in the very souls of the whole human
race, being, in point of fact, a development of
that moral perception known as the feeUng of
justice. And to this case of moral truth we
may be permitted to apply the golden rule of
S. Vincent of Lerins, or rather of the Universal
Church, respecting theological truth, ^^ Magno-
u
\
168 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT \
pere credendum est^ quod ubique^quod sein|
" quod ab omnibus creditum est/' To seek |
illustration from ancient times, how symbolif|
is it, that at Athens, before the ancient, the
mous, the hallowed court of Areopagus, wi
placed the temple of the Eumenides, the god|
desses of retributive justice. Indeed the whol||
mythological history of these dread sisters iau
the embodying of the principle of retributive!
justice, exercised, I must confess, for the most \
part, by superhuman agents ; but not altogether
so : for if we refer to fable for the origin of that
very temple to which I have just alluded, we
shall find it was built in consequence of the
Areopagus, a court of human judicature, having
decided that the Eumenides — that is, retributive
punishment — ^had sufficiently afflicted the son
of Agamemnon,
But, to argue the matter more closely, I shall
now refer the case to that high, unerring, irre-
fragable tribunal, to whose decrees all human
theories must bow — the Holy Scriptures. I
do not approve of bandying many texts, or
dwelling on some one text, from any fancied
exposition it may contain of one's favourite
k
!
OF PUNISHMENT. 169
doctrine, — as heretics, throughout all ages, have
done, and as, before their day, before the Chris-
tian Church was formed, the great enemy of
mankind himself was permitted to do to his
Creator; but yet some texts there are, not
referring to the more mysterious doctrines of
the Faith, which may be adduced, without sup-
port from others, without fear of falling there-
by into dangerous error: to take an extreme
case, there can be but one interpretation of
the law forbidding to commit murder. Some
men, wise in their own belief, have, from this
very perverse use of the Sacred Writings to
which I have just alluded, formed an opinion,
that human societies possessed no right of
administering retributive justice, grounding
their belief on the text, ^^ Vengeance is Mine,
I will repay, saith The Lord/^ This, however,
is a notable misapplication of words, as the
passage merely prohibits the private exercise of
vindictive feeUngs, and, so far from discounte-
nancing the opinion advocated in these pages,
does, as I shall hereafter demonstrate, rather
tend to confirm it. The determination of the na-
ture of punishment is, in truth, but the portion
170 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
of a much larger question^ on the adjustment of ^
which it entirely depends, and to the conside-
ration of which I shall, therefore, in the first
instance, direct my attention, — the origin, that
is, and the nature of civil government, and the
source to which we are to look for the delega-
tion of that authority which we see our rulers
exercise over us. I shall not insist upon the
especial divinity that hedges round a Eang as the
Anointed of The Lord : not that I am desirous
that my silence should be interpreted as pro-
nouncing a judgment one way or the other ; but
because the consideration of this matter is foreign
to my immediate purpose. One thing, however,
I do most broadly affirm, and upon the affirma-
tion shall ground my argument, that govern-
ment is from above, and not from below ; that
in civil rulers we are not to reverence the mere
man, or the mere idea of our own personal
comfort and security contained in the fact of
a well-regulated government, (the theory of
Hobbes, and Locke, and Paley, and the like,)
but persons with powers not their own, dele-
gates of The Almighty to feed His people.
How the contrary opinion ever could have
OF PUNISHMENT. 171
obtained weight with any but scoflfers and infi-
dels, is marvellous to conceive; how persons
who truly believed in Providential government,
"'ho did not doubt the words of Our Lord
[imself, when He tells us that not a sparrow
in fall to the ground without His cognizance,
►uld have brought themselves to think, that
^er the weightier matters of states and em-
pires, over the government of the nations of the
irth, there should not be an especial Provi-
dence, is one of those inconsistencies which
teach us how weak the noblest intellects are,
when they attempt to stand by themselves,
— ^how dark, and dreary, and perilous is our
way, when we attempt to guide our own paths,
in contempt of the light of Revelation, dis-
pensed to us through the Holy Church. But
there is one text in Holy Scripture so explicit
on this point, that it has called forth all the
ingenuity of heretical intellect in the attempt
to deprave its sense ; and a text, too, that de-
fines the more immediate object of my inquiry,
the natiire of punishment. It is, as my readers
will probably have anticipated me in conjec-
turing, in the thirteenth chapter of S. PauPs
172 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
Epistle to the Romans^ that the memorable
passage is to be founds where the Apostle says,
*^Let every soul be subject unto the higher
"powers. For there is no power but of God:
" the powers that be are ordained of God. Who-
^' soever therefore resisteth the power^ resisteth
"the ordinance of God: and they that resist
"shall receive to themselves damnation. For
" rulers are not a terror to good works but to
"the ^vil. Wilt thou then not be afraid of the
"power? do that which is good^ and thou shalt
*^ have praise of the same : for he is the minister
" of God to thee for good. But if thou do that
" which is evil, be afraid ; for he beareth not the
" sword in vain : For he is the minister of God,
^^a revenger to execute wrath upon him that
" doeth evil. Wherefore ye must needs be sub-
" ject, not only for wrath, but also for conscience'
" sake.^' What more clear, undoubted revelation
of the nature of government can the most diffi-
cult inquirer, provided with his difficulty he be
honest, require? And, as I said before, this
passage is most explicit upon the nature of
punishment ; for what other interpretation can
we affix to the expression of "rulers bearing
^
OP PUNISHMENT. 173
the sword^^ but one, that they are possessed of
the right of administering retributive justice,
which is still further strengthened by the fol-
lowing sentence, wherein it is declared, that a
ruler '* is a revenger to execute wrath upon him
that doeth evil ?^^ Therefore, upon the authority
of this one text, — though, as I shall soon proceed
to show, other passages of Holy Writ confirm the
doctrine, — we may safely believe that the govern-
ing powers in states exercise an authority dele-
gated to them from Heaven, and, in virtue of this
authority, have a right to administer, in vindi-
cation of wrongs done, retributive punishments,
—not eternal, indeed, and unerring, like those of
The Almighty Himself, — not supernatural, like
those of men who bear the Keys of the Kingdom
of Heaven, — but terrene and transitory, like the
commission of those who administer them. A
common and thrice-shallow objection has oflen-
times been lu'ged, with vast assurance, against
the opinion of the Divine authority of govern-
ments, and the idea, that the above-quoted
passage from the Epistle to the Romans gives
any colour to it, by the evolving a theory, that
the words of S. Paul are not to be taken to
174 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
mean what they seem; but that^ in reality,
when he says "no power/^ he means "no vir-
tuous power ;*^ that, in short, these impressive
words, and their impressive denunciation, only
prescribe obedience, where obedience is, by the
nature of things, comfortable, and leave the ques-
tion, where any difficulty was likely to occur,—
that is, in the case of evil rulers, — ^undecided,
or, rather, decided in the negative, pronounciDg
that resistance to such was lavdul and merito-
rious. Not to dwell on the fearful consequences
which must result from the admission of such
a lax and reckless explaining away of the most
weighty words of Holy Scripture — a method
which, if consistently followed out, would inevi-
tably lead us to the Socinian unbelief — a me-
mentos consideration of the time and place of this
Epistle will show the inanity of this objection.
This is an Epistle to the inhabitants of Rome ;
and at the time this Epistle was written, the
monarch of Rome — the emperor, whose coutt
was held in that very city whose indwellers are
addressed — ^was no vdse and beneficent lord, no
prince whose virtues have been the admiration
and the example of all after years, no nursing-
OP PUNISHMENT. 175
father of God^s Holy Church, a Theodosius or a
Charlemagne; but that being, whose name is
an execration and a byword, the very personifi-
cation of all things impure, and cruel, and
utterly wicked, — Nero. If ever resistance had
been lawful, it would have been lawful for the
inhabitants of Rome,- while Nero was their
' '^"iperor; and yet to the inhabitants of Rome
iring the reign of Nero, does the Holy Apos-
f tie S. Paul address a severe injunction, prohi-
ting them, under pam of Divine vengeance,
resist. But a few lines before the passage
liich I have given, though, from the division
itween the twelfth and the thirteenth chapters
having been drawn just before it, the connexion
of the two is not, by ordinary readers, imme-
diately perceived, S. Paul quotes the text, ^'Ven-
geance is mine ; I will repay, saith the Lord,*'
80 little does he by this intend to forbid the
public administration of retributive justice.
What indeed can be a stronger proof that a
certain meaning is not the meaning of a pas-
sage, when its appHcation to that passage being
at best doubtful, it is immediately followed by
one which, on the very face of it, bears a con-
176 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
trary signification^ both passages occurring in a
book which^ being inspired, must of necessity
be consistent and unerring. Indeed the two
texts are in antithesis to each other, and may
thus be abridged, ^^ Dearly beloved, avenge not
"yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath;
" for it is written. Vengeance is mine, saith The
" Lord. . . . Let every soul be subject to the
'^higher powers; for there is no power but of
" God. . . , He is the minister of God to
" thee for good. But if thou do that which is
" evil, be afraid ; for he beareth not the sword in
^^ vain : for he is the minister of God, a revenger
^^ to execute wrath upon him that doeth eviL^'
I have, I believe, not omitted any part which
can garble the signification of what I have re-
tained. So manifestly is the antithesis drawn,
not between man, whether in a corporate or an
individual condition, and the Deity, but between
man in an individual nature and the Deity,
whether acting immediately or mediately
through means of those whom, though of human
birth. He has appointed His ministers on earth.
Another text there is which I shall refer to in
another part of this discussion, " Whoso shed-
OP PUNISHMENT. 177
" deth man^s blood, by man shall his blood be
" shed ;^^ which clearly indicates the retributive
character of human punishment.
It is a memorable fact, and to those who shall
look upon the subject at a day when the mis-
chief these two authors have caused to the
moral world shall have passed away, it will be
an amusing one, that the two great coryphaei of
what I crave excuse for calling the imbeheving
side of the question, although perfectly agreeing
among themselves as to the opinion they hold
concerning the object of punishment, yet as
decidedly differ in the theory they have formed
of the origin of governments and the nature of
its authority, and therefore, of course, of the
nature and the authority of punishment itself;
a discrepancy which must, in no slight degree,
tend to throw a doubt on the stabiUty of a
superstructure the nature of whose foundations
is so very uncertain. Beccaria holds that civil
government is grounded upon what has been
termed by its excogitators, '^the social com-
pact.^^ Paley treats the social compact, — ^that
March-madness of Locke's school, — with the
contempt that it deserves, and argues, that man«
N
178 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
kind invented civil government for itself^ upon
consideration and experience of its comfort and
its utility^ the comfort and the utility of man-
kind being the will of The Almighty, and the
standard of right and wrong.
I shall not attempt to meddle with the social
compact ; it was a wild theory of a perverse and
rebellious spirit, who was not satisfied with
seeing William of Nassau upon the Stuarf s
throne, without trying to find a reason why he
should be, as well as was, there. The babe of
clouts played its part for a few days, and then
fell to pieces. If, however, there be any who
still believe in its existence, I advise them to
exercise their wit in the discovering at what
precise period of the world's history this com-
pact was first struck. With regard to Paley's
theory, I believe that the necessity of punish-
ments being retributive, may be proved even
upon the low and sensual principles advocated
in his book. Paley's leading idea, in his own
words, is as follows : ^^ It necessarily comes to
" pass, that what promotes the public happiness,
" or happiness on the whole, is agreeable to the
^^ fitness of things, to natiire, to reason, and to
OP PUNISHMENT. 179
"truth; and such (as will appear by and by) is
" the Divine character ; that which promotes the
** general happiness is required by the will of
^^ God ; and what has all the above properties
"must needs be rights for right means no more
"than conformity to the rule we go by, whatever
"that rule be/' I must alter the form of his
proposition slightly, and then it will stand thus :
"The promotion of the pubHc happiness is an
" attribute of the Divine character ; but we know
" by revelation that the administration of just and
" retributive punishment is a characteristic of the
" Divine character ; therefore the administration
" of just retributive punishment promotes public
"happiness; and therefore civil governments
"ought to administer just retributive punish-
"ments ; and therefore as they ought, that is, it
" is expedient, to do so, they should do so. Upon
" Paleyan principles, punishments must be re-
" tributive.^' Here we may be met with the argu-
ment, that the Divine punishments are unerring;
human fallible, and therefore liable to be unjust ;
and that, therefore, one of the two requisites —
the justice and the retributiveness — not being
fulfilled, the argument must fall to the ground.
N 2
180 ON THE NATURE AND DUB EXTENT
To this it will be sufficient to reply, that, assum-
ing this objection to be valid, we should never
inflict any punishment at all, for fear of its
being an unjust one ; which certainly would not
'^ promote the public happiness/^ This objec-
tion of the fallibility of human judgment will be
further treated of below, when I am not clogged
with the chains of Paley^s theory.
It is no small testimony to the truth of our
theory, or, to speak more reverently, our theory
is incontestably proved by the fact, that the
Jewish law, the law of The Lord Himself, given
to Moses by The Almighty with the awful so-
lemnity, the convulsion of elements on Mount
Sinai, was a law in which the punishments
were of a retributive character, inasmuch as
therein, an eye was commanded to be given for
an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. Here, however,
it will be urged, that the Jewish law, being the
law of The Lord Himself, was an infallible law ;
and that therefore it was right its punishments
should be retributive, it being certain that they
were at the same time just ; that as, however, this
does not hold good in the fallible condition of
other states, organized by weak and prejudiced
I
OF PUNISHMENT. 181
men, the same argument proves that in them
punishments should not be retributive, as afford-
ing no guarantee of justice. However, although
the Jewish law was itself Divine and infallible,
yet the administration of it was left to human and
fallible agents; and it is in the administration,
more than in the framing of laws, that abuses
and injustice creep in. And yet these men had
a retributive system to wield ; so that the ob-
jection is converted into an argument in con-
firmation of our theory. Besides which, the
objection does not meet the nature of the diffi-
culty at all, unless it be conceded that error,
and injustice, and cruelty, is a less evil in a
constitution where the punishment is meant to
be coercive and exemplary alone, than where it
is meant to be retributive.
But even the laws of our land bear loud wit-
ness to the dogma, that punishments are retri-
butive ; otherwise among those legal maxims on
which the spirit of our legislation is formed, and
which have hardly less force than they would
have did they carry with them the force of le-
gislative enactment, this one never would have
been found, — that it is better that ten guilty
182 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
persons should escape^ than that one inno-
cent should suffer. Were punishments merely
coercive^ and meant for example^ this maxim
would not be true; for what worse example
could there be^ than that ten villains should live
beyond the reach of the law ? (I am here per-
plexed for an expression which does not imply
the notion of retribution, so much does our very
language witness to the truth.) And, on the
other hand, the punishment even of an innocent
man, for a supposed offence, is eminently coer-
cive, and calculated to repress crime by the
terror of example. And indeed Paley, with
the cold-heartedness of his school, does deny
the truth of this traditionary judgment, a suf-
ficient proof of what I shall hereafter enlarge
upon, namely, that the retributive system, con-
trary to general opinion, is more likely to be
merciful than a coercive one. Those who do
not think with him can see the nobleness of
this maxim ; for what can be more terrible than
for the sword of retributive justice to fall upon
the innocent head ? while, on the other hand,
the escape of a criminal, though it be a thing to
be lamented, yet contains in itself nothing so
• OF PUNISHMENT. 183
revolting to the innate sense of justice and
humanity.
I now come to the consideration of the po-
pular objection which has been made to the
doctrine^ on the ground of the faUibihty of hu-
man judgment. This^ however, has been already
done to a great degree, in the observations I
have made on the testimony borne to it by the
Jewish dispensation ; and I shall merely remark
here, that if we are to admit this argument as
of any weight in the determination of the ques-
tion, we shall find that it, like many other as-
sertions, would go to prove much more than its
advocates either contemplate or desire. For if
we are, to any degree, to admit its validity, we
shall find no safeguard, no conservative prin-
ciple involved in the philosophy of which it is
the type, nothing to prevent the turbulent and
the lawless from pushing it to its extreme
length, and claiming for themselves immunity
fi*om any laws whatever, fi'om obedience to any
form of government at all, arguing the while,
that human judgment is too fallible, to render it
safe for any one man to exercise any sort of
control over another ; advocating, in short, those
1
184 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
very principles which, in this unquiet age,
have obtained stamp and currency, and de-
luded many an unhappy soul to its ruin,
under the seductive but satanic form of So-
cialism.
Had the object of punishment been merely
coercion, and not in the least retribution, it
stands to reason that the more common a crime
was, and the more easy of perpetration, so much
the more severe would have been its punish-
ment, in proportion to the greater difficulty
of deterring men from the committing it;
whilst, on the other hand, such crimes as were
difficult to perpetrate and of rare occurrence,
would be restrained by a proportionately mode-
rate punishment. For example, dreadful would
have been the penalty attaching to drunkenness
or falsehood, as being offences to which men
are most prone, and which, from the facility of
their perpetration, are of the extremest diffi-
culty to keep under ; whilst, on the other hand,
parricide, a crime of so horrible a complexion
that few are found to make themselves guilty of
it, would be slightly passed over, there being
little ground of apprehension that the preva-
OP PUNISHMENT. 185
lence of that offence would ever endanger the
healthy condition of the body politic. It may
be hastily answered to this, that the great need
of repressing such a crime balances the infre-
quency of its recurrence ; that, on the one hand,
the feelings of natural humanity would revolt
from the law being armed with all its terrors
against a man for being once found intoxicated ;
and, on the other, they would equally call
out against a villain who has imbued his hands
in a parent's blood being permitted to range
the earth unscathed. But what is this but to
confess, in almost as many words, that there is
the idea of retribution implied in punishment ;
that men must follow certain immutable rules
of right and wrong. In short, this is a plain
abandonment of the unbelieving theory, and
a confession that the principle of retribu-
tion is the only tenable groimd for defend-
ing punishments at all. The opposite opin-
ion, followed out never so little way, involves
its advocates in an endless maze of discre-
pancy; and I defy its advocates to bring
forward any answer to the assertion, that ac-
cording to their theory, the severity of pun-
186 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
ishment should be in the inverse ratio to
the frequency of the crime, which shall not,
either explicitly or impUcitly, admit the prin-
ciple of retributive justice. Various nations
have at different times forgotten this golden
rule, and pitched the scale of punishment with
a view rather to coercion than retribution, and
the result has been legal atrocities and judicial
murders. For instance, in our own land, sheep-
stealing was, till lately, a capital offence; so
frightfully disproportionate and severe a pun-
ishment can only have been adjudged to the
offence with a view of preventing, by the terror
it must necessarily inspire, the recurrence df
the offence. So little foundation is there for a
belief which I beUeve we should find not rarely
existing, that a system of punishment, based
upon retributive principles, is necessarily harsh
and unforgiving, and one whose only scope
is coercion and prevention, mild, gentle, and
equable; whereas, from the very nature of
things, the contrary must be the case.
These remarks have gradually led me on to
the second part of my inquiry, and I must now
briefly consider the due extent of the punish-
OF PUNISHMENT. 187
ment to be assigned to different offences* This
is a more difficult consideration than the for-
mer one^ because it is less determinate; not
resting, as that does, on certain short and ab-
stract propositions, but on inference, and pro-
bability, and questions of greater and of less.
I do not pretend to draw out a graduated
scale of crime and punishment, — that would be
an Utopian scheme, in truth, for a young au-
thor, — ^but merely to throw out a few hints as to
the principles upon which a good, honest legis-
lator, one who has faith in the Catholic Church,
and who believes in the retributive character
of the punishments of God-appointed rulers,
should be guided. It is manifest that the frailty
of human judgment will prevent the scale of
crime and retribution being adjusted with a
mathematical accuracy ; and, therefore, in cases
where they find this difficulty great, lawgivers
may certainly attach weight to the consideration
of example,— a consideration I have never said
should be omitted, but only have a secondary
importance given to it. In this case, however,
considerable care is requisite to prevent the
faults of the faulty system becoming apparent,
188 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
and resulting in the infliction of a punishmeDt
either over-lenient or over- severe. So much for
a statement of preliminary difficulties.
The first step requisite for our legislator to
make out his systematic award of punishment,
is clearly to ascertain, not the scale of crimes,
but that of punishments, as being a more tan-
gible and an easier task. First, let him fix
what shall be the severest infliction the consti-
tution of his state shall acknowledge; then,
taking that as his standard, make a list of
punishments, diminishing in severity ; and then
to these apply the respective degree of guilt.
This is an artificial course, and one not very
likely to be practically appiUed ; but it may be
useful to assume it, by the way of systema-
tizing our own ideas on the subject. So fiir
as this, the work will be laborious, at least
at the onset, but not very perplexed, provided
that the legislators have a fluency of punish-
ment. In the adjustment of crimes, many
difficulties will probably occur, all of them,
however, more or less matters of detail, not
involving the consideration of general princi-
ples, — that is, the retributive nature of human
or PUNISHMENT. 189
justice being steadily kept in mind. I have
said that the adjustment of punishment may be
perplexed at the onset ; this I meant to app]y
to the consideration^ which must first of all
occur, Shall capital punishment be or not be
our maximum infliction of retribution ? a ques-
tion which only of late years has appeared to
be of any diflSculty, and to which I should
unhesitatingly answer in the affirmative.
In the first place, it has the direct sanction
of the Divine Writings. The judicial inflic-
tion of death for murder is expressly enjoined
in the earliest dispensation recorded in the Holy
Scriptures, by a text which I have previously
quoted; and capital punishment for many of-
fences is a feature of the Law of Moses. It
may be objected to this, that, under the new
dispensation of Christianity, we might reason-
ably suppose such severe enactments abrogated.
This objection is, however, at once met, by
referring to that passage from S. Paul's Epistle
to the Romans which I have already quoted,
wherein the Apostle says of the civil ruler, that
^^he beareth not the sword in vain.*' What
can bearing the sword imply, but possessing
190 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
the right of inflicting capital punishment ? Had
this right been abrogated by the new dispensa-
tion, we may be pennitted to suppose that the
sword would not have been chosen as the type
of civil authority. The caviller, though con-
vinced by this of the lawfulness of this ex-
tremest infliction of human justice, may yet
not be convinced of its expediency. Now,
doubting the expediency of what Almighty
Wisdom has prescribed, must betoken either
great irreverence or great thoughtlessness ; and,
therefore, to the irreverent and the thoughtless
alone must the answer be directed, which is
borrowed from Paley, and breathes the spirit ol
his philosophy, namely, that we had better not
abolish capital punishment till we have found
out some other sort of infliction which shall be
equally efficacious to the prevention of crime,—
a thing that has not yet been done.
But we have not yet finished this part of oui
inquiry. Death is not a simple punishment^
but may be infinitely varied, according to the
mode of inflicting it which we may choose:
and it behoves us, therefore, now to say a fe\i
words on the mode of death which our legis-
OF PUNISHMENT. 191
lators should adopt. This is briefly done^ as I
shall not enter more deeply into this abstruse
question than to state^ that I think that, as
justice should ever be tempered with mercy,
so, above all things, is it requisite that such
should be the case in the exercise of the ex-
tremest and most awful privilege delegated
from above to civil rulers, as the risk of faUing
into undue severity is necessarily there the
greatest; and that, therefore, some easy mode
of inflicting the supreme penalty should be
adopted. The choice of the mode is a surgical
rather than a poUtical question.
The same caution must be used in the selec-*
tion of crimes to be adjudged capital, and yet
not to an over-great degree, — a fault to which^
of late, our legislators have shown themselves
prone. Their predecessors erred fearfully in
the opposite extreme; as, among other in-
stances, may be proved by their having sullied
our statute-book with such fearful enactments
as that the stealer of a sheep should for that be
sent into another world, while many another
crime, of a blacker cast, received far gentler pim-
ishment. Such an act of legislative cruelty could.
192 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
as I have previously stated, only have pro-
ceeded from an obUvion of the true nature of
punishment as retributive, and is a proof that
the most truthful is also the most merciful
system. Our legislators may learn a useful
lesson from that magnificent and most sym-
bolic ceremony of the Holy Church, the Coro-
nation of our Kings, that precious bequest to
us of the wisdom of the Middle Ages. There,
before Anointed Majesty, is borne the Sword
of Justice, sharp and terrible, and Heaven-
given ; but by its side is seen another sword,
with blunted point : this is Curtana, the Sword
of Mercy.
When once it shall have been decided what
crimes are to be visited by capital punishment,
it will be found, though, perhaps, rather a
laborious office, yet one in which the difficul-
ties are of a subordinate and a particular cha-
racter, to assign to the difierent punishments
in our scale the crimes which should respec-
tively call for their infliction, provided that, in
so doing, we never at all lose sight of the natu-
ral consistency of things. For, as may be
imagined, with those writers I am utterly at
OF PUNISHMENT. 193
variance who assert that we have no moral
sense implanted in us^ no supernatural grace
added at Baptism. We have a moral sense^
we have a conscience, who sits enthroned
in our minds, clothed with severe authority,
(albeit many times we rebel against her ordi-
nances,) armed with goads and scourges, to
punish our evil thoughts ; bearing crowns and
richest presents,— peace, happiness, and inward
tranquillity, —to reward our good deeds, done in
faith and self-denial. She inspires thoughts
just and holy, she banishes mischief; she pro-
vides for the future, and she punishes the past.
If we shall humbly obey her warnings, we shall
find all things easy and smooth ; for conscience
teaches us what is the true, unchangeable order
of things. If, on the other hand, trusting to
the delusive aid of a shallow philosophy, we
shall set up mere expediency as our rule of life,
we shall have much cause to fear lest, whilst
laboriously striving to accommodate the incon-
sistencies of disputing theories, and illuminate
the dark recesses of baseless doubt, we shall all
at once find ourselves involved in the intricate
mazes of the dark and dreary labyrinth of
o
194 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
scepticism. These observations bear a general
aspect^ but they are also applicable^ with great
exactness^ to that particular case of theoretic
politics, in the behalf of which we have brought
them forward.
In estimating the respective weight of guilt,
and consequent severity of punishment, consi-
deration must be had, not merely to the bare
crime itself, but also to the manner in which
that crime was perpetrated ; as, for example, in
any case,— say of murder,— whether the crimi-
nal perpetrated it by himself, or as one of a con- Ig
spiracy, — which latter fact would increase the d
guilt, as unlawful conspiracy is of itself a crime ; ^
— whether, again, he perpetrated his offence in ^
a moment of ungovernable passion, or from n
malice prepense, and with a deliberate intention ti
of offending against the laws of his country,— a h
circumstance which must aggravate his offence, t
as such deliberate evil intention is of itself i
very wicked. i
It has been a fertile source of political <
argument, whether the criminal enactments of
a country should be of a lenient character
and rigorously administered, or of a more
1
OF PUNISHMENT. 195
severe cast^ with a considerable latitude allowed
to their administrators of mitigating^ according
to circumstances^ the stringency of their enact-
ments* Our own criminal jurisprudence was,
till lately, of the latter class, — indeed, too much
80 : recent alterations have given it more of the
former character. My own opinions lead me
to prefer the latter system ; for the same crime
may have so many shades of guilt, and be so
much aggravated by external circumstances, or
— which, however, must be comparatively of
rarer occurrence — lightened by them, as to be
in name only the same offence in one person
that it is in another ; so that if the penalty
attached to it be of a rigid and unalterable cha-
racter, it must of necessity follow, that, often-
times, the very guilty shall escape with an
inadequate award of retributive justice, while
those comparatively innocent shall be mulcted
in a degree fearfully disproportionate to their
offence. This discretionary power will, of
course, increase the responsibility of the execu-
tive power, which, in itself, is an advantage,
as for the whole responsibility to rest on the
original legisktors,and to render those appointed
o2
196 ON THE NATURE AND DUE EXTENT
to cany their enactments into effect but instru
ments; as, on the one hand^ it renders tb
weight of responsibility attached almost to<
great for it to be right for men to charge them
selves with, so, on the other, by diminishing
the due share of it which should belong U
persons who, from their position, must needs
be esteemed worthy of it, incurs the danger o
diminishing their self-respect, and so rendering
them less Ukely to discharge satisfactorily evei
that share of duty which, in such an arrange-
ment, would fall to them. If it be alleged
that we hereby run the risk of giving the exe-
cutive power a responsibility too great for it tc
be safe for the commonwealth for fallible men
to possess, I answer, that this responsibilily is
not so great as that possessed by the legislative
part of the body politic ; and that, in propor-
tion as the executive is humbled, so is the
legislative aggrandized.
Another question which has been raised, is
that concerning making our pimishments pub-
he, for the sake of the example, the propriety
of which some have denied. Now, at first
sight, taking the purely retributive view of the
OF PUNISHMENT. 197
question, it might be supposed that this denial
should be supported: I have, however, never
put out of the question the advantage of ex-
ample, though I have maintained it to be
but of secondary importance. Nor, indeed,
need the question be argued on the grounds of
example at all; but it may be so put, — shall
exposure, or shall it not, form a part of punish-
ment? Those that deny this, say that the
punishment should be secret, lest its publicity
should be of detriment to the criminal; and
are, therefore, for instance, unwilling that cri-
minals should be employed on public works, —
a practice which, though (probably from some
such reason as this) it has never prevailed in
England, has yet been acted upon, not only in
other countries of Europe, but also in oiu: owti
penal settlements, such employment causing, of
necessity, much exposure. I cannot, however,
see the soundness of this unwillingness. The
advantages of such exposure, as far as example
goes, are too obvious to require being at all en-
larged upon ; but, even in the retributive point
of view, why should we deprive ourselves of the
power of dealing out the retributive award of
198 ON PUNISHMENT.
infamy in cases where that of mere personal
suffering or pecuniary loss might either be in-
applicable or inexpedient? Besides^ that mani-
festing such excessive care for the delicate feel-
ings of persons who, from the very nature of
things, must be supposed to be comparatively
unendowed with them, does seem rather hyper-
legislation. Whether, therefore, we regard pun-
ishment merely in the light of a state-engine,
to deter men from crime, or as the reflex of the
Divine Government upon earth, as an august
and sacred manifestation of retributive govern-
ment, let the criminal be taught that, for his
misdeeds, he must expect, not merely pain or
loss, but infamy. Many is the man that would
face both pain and loss, who yet would shrink
back from infamy; and, therefore, in the case
of such men, the more severe in this respect
the laws of his country are, the more lenient
may he esteem them 5 — ^for, to conclude, not in
the indulgence of criminahy but in the extirpation
ofcrimey consists true leniency.
ON THE BEST METHOD
OF PBOPAOATINO
PAGANISM IN A STATE.
f//
ON THE BEST METHOD
OF PROPAGATING
PAGANISM IN A STATE.
What the best method of propagating Pagan-
ism in a state may be^ is a question^ the obvious
and practical utility of which must strike every
reflecting mind. It is my intention^ on the
present occasion^ to oflFer, not dictatorially,
or with an overweening confidence in my own
opinion^ but as a young author should do^ in a
tone of humble and modest suggestion^ a few
remarks on this momentous question.
A state may be regarded either aggregately
or corporately — as composed of a number of
individuals^ or as one uniform whole : in both
lights let us, then, consider it with a view to
the interests of Paganism.
First, as to individuals. It is obvious that
202 ON THE BEST METHOD OF
the best method of training them up in Pagan-
ism^ as well as in any other thing, would be to
make that the subject of early and important
instruction; to suckle them, as it were, in its
belief; to accustom their youthful imaginations,
yet limited in their scope, to have nought but
Pagan food to feed upon. For this purpose, I
confess it would seem to me the best and the
most obvious method, if, after a course of in-
struction, either at home or in more private
seminaries, the ingenuous youth of a kingdom
were to be sent to certain larger and more pub-
lic academies, where Pagan literature. Pagan
history, and, above all. Pagan mythology,
should form the staple of instruction, the staple
of learning, the staple object whereon to exer-
cise that spirit of emulation, which, if judi-
ciously fostered, to the exclusion of milder
qualities, will, I feel assured, not a little con-
duce to the ample development of a very per-
fect Paganism.
So far we have considered the youth of a
country as in a state of pupilage ; but boys will
grow up to be men, and will, at one time or
other, claim to act and to think for them-
PROPAGATING PAGANISM IN A STATE. 203
selves. The question^ therefore, now arises,
what, at this stage of life, is the best course to
be adopted in order, without coercion, to win
them to a happy state of Paganism ? Many
schemes might be proposed ; the one, however,
which I should humbly imagine might in the
end be found the most efficacious, would be
then to offer to our pupils a religious system,
the characteristic of which should be, the repu-
diation of system, a form of doctrine the basis
of which should be the right of private judg-
ment in matters of Faith. If this were to be
acted upon, I could safely venture to say, that,
considering their early bias towards Paganism,
it must only be external and adverse influences
that could prevent the great majority, at least,
of our pupils exercising this right of private
judgment, in the adoption of some system of
Paganism either explicit or implicit. At the
very worst, there is a great likelihood of their
having many hankerings after it ; but—
^ Segnius irritant animos demissa per aures,
Quam quae sunt oculis submissa fidelibus."
It is of the first importance that every thing
204 ON THE BEST METHOD OF
presented to the spectator's eye should hi
Pagan complexion. Let all buUdings, 1
public and private, be reared in Pagan st;
let the rules of Pagan architecture be qu(
be referred to, be believed in, as the only
canons of correct taste. Let the edifices {
other spirit — the Christian, we may suppo
has raised, be despised and reviled as barbai
and gloomy, and unworthy of an enlight
age. Let ApoUos and Mercuries frisk on
summits, and the Muses crowd into their ]
ments. Let students be sent to draw Pan!
naic processions and Egyptian idols, while
less enlightened public read their newspape
Athenaea, and smoke their cigars in Erechi
We might suggest another device for adop
were we not afraid that its boldness (amoui
to what an adversary would almost call ii
dence) would deter even the most detem
from trying the experiment, — that of b
carrying the war into the opposite cam]
spiking the adverse cannon. Why shoul(
we fill the places of worship of another <
with Pagan monuments, Pagan trophies, P
emblems. Pagan deities? make Cupids
PROPAGATING PAGANISM IN A STATE. 205
and Mars storm in a Christian Church ? Nay,
more, surrender to the deities of Paganism the
building themselves, and proudly display to
the eyes of the passers by in some crowded
street, a Church adorned with bulls' heads and
sacrificial chaplets? As I said before, I fear
the boldness of this plan would prevent its
adoption ; but let it but once be tried, and I
shrink not from affirming the success would be
prodigious.
But, secondly, as to the State in its corporate
character.
All these plans, however, and well-devised
schemes, might be utterly frustrated, if that
polity to which these individuals belonged were
to bear upon its front any marks of being
Christian ; if it recognized any overruling Pro-
vidence in the designs of man ; if it showed any
zeal or any liberality for the propagation of any
system adverse to Paganism. Such must, there-
fore, be utterly repudiated, and held up to con-
tempt; the one as betokening fanaticism, the
other as incurring a great and a needless ex-
pense. For instance, supposing the ecclesias-
tical polity of the country to be the same as
206 ON THE BEST METHOD OF
when the population was a tenth of what in those
days it should have grown to, the idea of increas-
ing the number of the ecclesiastical rulers nm8t
be pertinaciously impeded or avoided, or else the
spirit of Paganism would suffer a grievous over-
throw. This,however,i8 but passive countenance,
and therefore but a small thing ; a well-regulated
country should, whenever it has an opportunity,
give an active support to Paganism ; whenever,
that is to say, there is no risk of thereby incur-
ring any popular odium. For instance, let us
suppose that State to have conquered distant
and mighty empires, far larger and more popu-
lous than itself, and all devoted to Paganism ;
a child^s comprehension would be sufficient to
perceive, that, in order to maintain this state of
Paganism, the conquering country must care-
fully and watchfully avoid all opportunities of
doing any thing tangible towards the conversion
of its subjects; that it must never send out
missions on a large and really practical scale,
never give to such any encouragement. The
triumph, however, of diplomacy and State in-
genuity would be this, that while the conquer-
ing country should openly profess to be of
PROPAGATING PAGANISM IN A STATE. 207
another faith^ (the Christian^ for instance^) and
glory, too, in this profession, it should yet, in
these distant and Pagan tributaries, not give
countenance merely, but open and active sup-
port to Paganism, encouraging, and rewarding,
and protecting its professors, its ministers, and
its temples ; seeking all excuse to put down any
of its rites, however strange to the uninitiated ;
the suicide of widows, for instance, to suppose
an extreme case from ancient history ; and yet
never all the while, even in those lands, desert
its profession of an adverse faith.
May we ever hope to see so splendid an
imagination reaUzed ! If so, it may not be too
much to anticipate, that in the mother-country
itself, there shall be millions and millions of
inhabitants who shall never run the risk of
receiving any religious instruction which may
at all damage the cause of Paganism ; nay, some
of whom may be ignorant of the very existence
of a Deity.
Such are a few hints I venture to throw out
on this subject, scanty, I fear, and incomplete,
yet such as, I trust, may not be without their
use to some future legislator, who shall be de-
208 ON THE BEST METHOD^ &C.
sirous of making a great and a glorious nation,
a nation which shall build its hopes and its
happiness on its wealth and its power^ its
irresistible armies and awful fleets^ its mone-
tary system and manufacturing prosperity, its
crowded towns and scattered colonies^ on which
the sun never sets.
j
f
\
ON
MODERN MEMOIR WRITING.
1
ON
MODERN MEMOIR WRITING '.
-iMONG the many symptoms of a restless and
strange spirit which has in our day spread its
influence over the mind of man^ not the least
remarkable, nor the least dangerous, is an insa^-
tiable and unhealthy inquisitiveness, a desire of
knowing everything in season or out of season ;
manifesting itself as well in other shapes, as in
a general craving after posthumous and secret
Biography. Scarce a day passes without adding
to the number of works of this class, as various in
their kind as they are, for the most part, insigni-
^ This Essay was written in consequence of my getting the
first Declamation prize at Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1840.
The prizeman writes an Oration on a subject chosen by him-
self, which is delivered in the College Chapel on the Com-
memoration Day in the month of December. I have here
reprinted my Oration without much alteration.
p2
Li
3
212 ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING.
ficant in their subject-matter. The press teems I
with Memoirs, Diaries, Conversations, Letters, I ^
Reminiscences ; and these not merely of per-
sons who have filled any conspicuous character,
whether for good or for evil, on the world's
stage, — the publication of which, if not ex-
cusable, would at least be comprehensiblej—
but of the most obscure and contemptible men,
of men who, after a whole life's course, are not
able to point to one great, one worthy deed, and
say, " This I have done, on this I rely for the
affectionate remembrance of posterity f^ of men
whose very names, may be, are only heard of
from some slight and fortuitous connexion with
persons only less insignificant than themselves;
not even that, in many instances. On the same
shelf we shall find the Memoirs of Sir Walter
Scott and of Grimaldi the clown. t
Such instances of popular extravagance call
for other feelings than those of mere ridicule.
Persons of serious and contemplative mind will
not be so much amused at their absurdity, as
alarmed at the morbid spirit manifested in them.
They will regard them as the type of something
deeper and more pernicious, as the external
ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING. 213
symptom of some inward and radical disease.
It is not, I trust, too unkind an inference to
draw from these facts to assert, that they go far
to prove that our age has lost that acute taste,
that feeling of the decorous and the beautiful,
which characterized other and earlier times,
before the march of (so called) intellect was
heard, while the mist-wreaths of faith still re-
flected the glorious beams of the rising sun, and
added new and less earthly beauties to the fresh
landscape. They of former days loved to col-
lect the precious bones of the departed great,
and enclosing them in a golden casket, reared
some fair temple where they might for ever lie,
the object of affectionate remembrance to all
men. We seize on them, and wire them, and
ticket them, and hang them up in some museum,
to be handled and descanted on by the anato-
mist and the phrenologist. They loved to hide
the petty faults and the weaknesses of those to
whom they owed so deep a debt of gratitude ;
we strive to render them conspicuous. . ^^ De
Mortuis nil nisi bonum,'^ was the old and the
true principle ; " De Mortuis omne,^' the modem
and the false. Some one will object to me in
214 ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING.
the outset of my argument, that Xenophon's
Memorabilia of Socrates, the oldest and not the
least delightful Biography the world possesses,
is written m the modem spirit. At first sight
I own such does seem to be the case, but a
little consideration will show the fallacy of the
objection. Socrates was a man who lived, and
loved to live, in the open air, in and for the
public. Instead of now stooping to the com-
prehension of the many, now retiring within
his school, and giving formal lectures to the
fiivoured few, he ever strove to make his instruc-
tion familiar and acceptable to all men ; so that
those passages which the unreflecting reader
might be tempted to blame for impertinent in-
trusions on the privacy of confidential inter-
course, are, in point of fact, the accurate report
of public lectures. To take an instance fi'om
the rival state : when that prudent Roman, Cor-
nelius Tacitus, wrote the life of his father-in-
law, Agricola, did he make full and complete
revelations ? Far otherwise. Complete though
brief, dignified though not reserved, is his life
of Agricola; the labour of love of a kindred
mind, furnishing to the admirers of that hero
ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING. 215
sufficient ground of admiration ; to his detrac-
tors, none of detraction. To take yet another
example, from better and more familiar times :
when Walton, that wise and meek old mau,
strong in the affections of his pure heart, girded
himself up to leave to aU times the portraiture
of holy men, with whom he had lived in friend-
ship, such as none but the good can know, did
he think it necessary to rifle all their secrets,
and expose them to the rude gaze of a captious
world ? Without telling one thing in his Lives
that their subjects could have desired untold,
(save what praises these saintlike men from
deep modesty might have wished spared,) he
has left a fuller, and a better, and a more lively
picture, than can in these days be drawn from
the ^' indigesta moles " of even the most bab-
bling of Secret Memoirs.
Suppose the world to be suddenly informed
that an ancient and noble family had banished
its Vandykes and its Lelys to the lumber-room,
and had called in the happy genius of some
modeller in wax to supply their place with
figures of their ancestors, habited, as they
boasted, and in all respects appearing, just as
216 ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING.
they were in life ; great would be the storm of
indignation bursting from all quarters^ con-
cerned or not with the affairs of that family.
The columns of the public press would overflow
with letters, with remonstrances, with lamenta-
tions, with indignant appeals from Crit<^, Bri-
tannicus,Archaeus, Philo-Graphus ; "barbarous
outrage,^' " Vandal spoliation,*' " sacrilege,*'
would be the civiilest language used. In vain
would the unfortunate victims of this pitiless
storm of popular indignation expostulate, that
the new wax-works were much more like their
family than the old pictures ; that their object,
like that of the persons who hung the pictures
up, was to leave resemblances behind ; that the
progress of art had found out a means of pro-
curing resemblances much more accurate than
the people of those times had any idea of; that
they had a right to avail themselves of it. All
this, as it stands, is very plausible ; no person
could answer a word of it, for, in fact, every
word of it is strictly true. But still the world
would be unconvinced ; it would feel there was
a want of taste, a want of good feeling, a want
of propriety, almost a want of moral principle.
ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING. 217
in the whole proceeding. All the while the
public would be perfectly unaware that it was
censuring conduct precisely similar to what it is
itself guilty of, or Memoirs bear to Biography
the same relation wax- works do to pictures ;
and thanks to the popular taste of the day, all
our grand old biographies are being driven out
of our recollection, while, in their place, are
springing up hosts of mushroom-lived memoirs,
(TKioeiSia (fivX afievriva. Let us not, then, live
on in dangerous self-security, but arm ourselves
to meet the evil, being well assured that if once,
in any one point, the principles of good taste
and good order are weakened, no man can tell
in what fantastical excesses the newly-awakened
spirit of misrule may not display itself.
So far I have treated the subject as a ques-
tion of feeling alone, and shown that, on the
grounds of feeling and good taste, the modem
practice of indiscriminate Memoir-writing is to
be strongly reprobated. I will now take a more
practical, and therefore, in some men's minds,
a stronger ground, and show the dangers of the
system from its inexpediency ; that on the most
utilitarian, or, to translate that word into Eng-
218 ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING.
lish, ^' selfish^' principles possible^ each man
ought, as much as in him Ues, to strive against
the practice, and, if he may, stifle it in its
growth. It is, I assert, nothing better than a
system of espionage ^ of the most harassing, the
most tmjustifiable, and the most suspicious
character.
The evil effects of this morbid inquisitiveness
are twofold. First, in all those persons who, by
rank, talent, or neither quality, stand at all out
from the great mass of mankind, it will destroy
all frankness and sincerity, all simplicity and
heartiness. Every gesture will be studied, for
they know every gesture is noted down, and
bears its price in the market ; free, unreserved
conversation will be at an end, for in every word
they speak they will dread something may be
found to record against them. On the other
hand, among the more stirring and unprinci-
pled of those who compose the great bulk of
the world, it will breed petulance, insolence,
and censoriousness, for they will feel their
^ I am, though loth, obliged to borrow this word from
the French, there being no expression in English equivalent
to it.
ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING. 219
power of doing harm. Each, with his note-
book in his hand, will extort the protection of
those he feels he can injure ; or do his little all
to malign those persons whose independent and
chivalrous natures prompt them rather to defy
their malice than purchase their forbearance.
And when one of these individuals, by some
well-timed piece of scandal, has earned himself
a place in the class of the more conspicuous, he
will, to the faults the new system engenders in
that body, add those of the body he has just
left ; and so matters will go on, from worse to
worse, till we shall live in a state of society
more resembling that of old Rome than Eng-
land, in the power of a moody pubhc, at once
Nero and Tigellinus —
*' Lives there no man this world her grievous crimes dare
tell!
Where be those noble spirits for ancient things that
stood M"
Let me take an instance of the evils of the
espionage system, which, though not strictly in
point, is so analogous as to warrant its applica-
* Drayton.
220 ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING.
tion. If there be one being who, above all
others, should surely be, from every considera-
tion of good feeling and of duty, kept free from
the rude gaze of vulgar curiosity, whose every
action should be held sacred, it is our Lady
the Queen ; and yet who is so persecuted as
she is ? Do not the public papers teem, day
after day, with anecdotes and sayings of her?
the indiscriminate publication of which, touch-
ing any woman, would be very indelicate, —
when that woman is our Sovereign, is hardly
less than sacrilege.
There is a book of which I do not know what
to say ; I ought in strictness to include it under
my censure, and yet I am loth to do so, it is so
delightful. Its name will probably have been
anticipated, when I mention Boswell's Johnson.
Perhaps the best thing to say for it wiU be at
once to confess, that the principle on which it
is written is as radically bad, and therefore as
much to be deprecated, as that of any other
work of the same class ; but that in this one
instance the bad effects of the system have been
neutralized by the transcendant goodness of
him that was its subject; that nothing could be
ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING. 221
amassed, even by a Boswell, about Dr. Johnson,
which was not good. We may, though, with
great fairness, set up the same defence for it as
that which I have already brought forward for
Xenophon's MemorabiUa, namely, that Dr.
Johnson considered himself and acted as a
public teacher of morality, even in his most
familiar moments, and that therefore his con-
versations had not that sacred privacy about
them which belonged to those of other men,
but that he himself would desire their publi-
cation.
^^ But/^ says the public to all this, " we have
a right to know the truth.'* Undoubtedly —
but not the whole truth. The public has a
right to demand, that what may be dispensed
to it shall not be falsehood, and nothing more.
To be consistent, they ought to put in their
claim to know every thing of every man in his
lifetime they may please to be curious about ;
the state of his fortune, the ratio it bears to his
expenditure — every thing, in short. Now no
man will be mad enough to assert that such a
right as this is inherent in the public : then on
222 ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING.
what possible ground of argument do they as-
sert its existence in the ease of the same per-
son, now that he is dead? now that he cannot
defend himself from the attacks of bad and
calumnious men ? To me I confess it seems an
a fortiori conclusion, that if the public have no
right to know that of any man which may be
detrimental to his character, he still being in
possession of the means of active defence;
when these are removed, there is still less
reason to claim, touching his affairs, privilege
of omniscience.
In truth, this is but one of the many indica-
tions of the frightful spirit of the age, which
teaches us to regard those around us, not as
separate beings, as Christian Souls having an
existence now and for ever, but as mere units
in the mass of animated matter, as of no indi-
vidual importance, but to be regarded merely
in so far as they conduce to the sum of human
happiness — that is, to give things their true
names, in so far as each man finds every other
human being capable of ministering to his sel-
fishness — as teeth on the world^s wheel, ugly
ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING. 223
and useless in themselves, but, when combined
together, and with the wheel, necessary to keep
the body composite in motion.
These considerations lead me to regard the
evils attending the reckless publication of secret
Memoirs in another and a higher point of view,
— namely, as treason against the repose and the
privileges of the Christian Dead. Have we not
just been reminded, in the Solemn Commemo-
ration of the Founders and Benefactors of this
our Noble College, that ^^The Souls of the
Righteous are in the Hand of God"' — ^that,
when death takes place, they are but removed
to some other place in the universe, of higher
dignity than what they now inhabit? Then
how can we treat them as if they existed not —
as if, by their separation from their temporary
abode, the body, they had lost all privileges,
all claims to our respect and our consideration ?
One would rather think that these feelings
would be heightened by the greater mystery
that hangs around them; — where they are we
know not — ^perhaps close to us. Then how can
^ Wisdom iii. I.
224 ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING.
we treat their wishes and their feelings as if
they were annihilated from existence^ and had
neither sense nor perception ? They cannot, it
is true^ hold that unreserved communication
with us they could before ; greater the reason,
therefore, that we should show deference to
what we learned to be their desire while yet
they were with us. Numberless are the pas-
sages in Holy Writ that inculcate this feehng;
nor are human institutions wanting to give
their witness to the doctrine. To take one in-
stance out of many. For what other reason is
it that a man is allowed to entail and tie up his
property for years after his deaths than this,
that his rights terminate not with that event?
It is a marvellous sights to behold some vast
property, from year to year, working its end, as
a thing endowed with life and instinct,, while
those, whose it is called, sit by with folded
arms, watching its movements, unable to stop
or to control them. What else could produce
such a state of things as this, but the Christian
feeling, that he who willed them so to be, still
lived, still watched over them, still felt interest
in the fulfilment of his desires ? The abroga-
ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING. 225
tion of this privilege was one of the first enact*
ments whereby Revolutionary France signal-
ized the triumph of infidelity; and it still
remains in force^ at once the memorial and the
punishment of her wickedness. Thus do the
institutions of man^ thus does the written Word
of God, bear witness to the grand Catholic
Truth, that the Dead live and enjoy high privi-
lege; and shall we, to gratify, a low, an un-
healthy, a wicked curiosity, show them such
contempt ?
There are one or two points connected with
my subject, which I shall now briefly allude to.
The first is, that what I have said can touch
ia a very slight, if any degree, the publication
of state papers, and the correspondence of those
engaged in state affairs, so far as it is concerned
about political matters: such documents are
not private property, but that of the govern-
ment to which their authors belong; therefore
it, or persons acting under its authority, can of
course use their full discretion, touching their
pubhcation; — ^their surreptitious promulgation
by unauthorised persons is to be treated on the
same principles as any other unauthorised act
Q
226 ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING.
of the same sort Neither do they at all touch
the publication of secrets^ however discreditable
or disagreeable^ when it is clear it is done with
the permission of the parties concerned: for
man is the keeper of his own secrets^ as much
as to divulge them^ as to store them up, — only
care must be taken that no other person is
compromised by the proceeding; for to what-
ever degree thi^ is the case, to that degree is
the publication obnoxious to the blame that has
been passed upon the system. The expediency
of such revelations*, except under pecuhar cir-
cumstances, is another point altogether. On
the other hand, the unreserved record of the
thoughts and the feelings of great and good
men, when made public by their own desire, is
a high incentive to worthy deeds to those who
come after, a noble monument of the glories
of times past.
Such are the remarks I have to offer on a
custom, whose evils all must acknowledge who
consider the matter dispassionately. Having
by ancient usage been called upon to address
^ Such, for instance, is Rousseau's Confessions.
ON MODERN MEMOIR WRITING. 227
this day^ I thought I could not do it more
fully than by lifting up my voice — weakly I
5 uselessly I fear — against a great and a
wing mischief. If I may seem to have
ken too decidedly^ and ex cathedrdy let this
my excuse, that I have spoken sincerely,
it I have not occupied your time fruitlessly,
are say, if the cause I have been advocating
a good cause.
q2
JCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU.
BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU'.
The earlier part of the Seventeenth Century
was, compared with the cold era which suc-
ceeded it, a bright and a wonderful period. It
was an age of genius, and learning, and of
many a valiant deed. In it flourished poets,
statesmen, warriors, not inferior to the greatest
names of ancient times. Its very vices were
cast in a gigantic mould. Of its picturesque-
ness we, placed at this distance of time, can
form but an inadequate conception ; — all things
around us have sunk into a tame uniformity.
^ This is, with some slight alterations, the declamation to
which the prize was assigned at Trinity College, Cambridge.
The declamations are carried on after the fashion of scholas-
tic disputation, two persons taking opposite sides of the same
question (having reference to English history). Consequently
these productions bear the impress of pleading rather than of
judging, — a fault which (as I am well aware) is very con-
spicuous in the following pages, and should therefore be ho-
neatly confessed.
9
232 BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU.
Expediency, profit, are the mainsprings of hu-
man actions, and society risks being swallowed
up in the dark, still pool of selfishness ; but in
those times, the breath of antique Chivalry
still moved, albeit in fitful gusts, along the sur-
face of the deep waters, curling their bright
expanse into a thousand fantastic shapes of
beauty. The ablest general still aimed at being
the bravest in the field ; the wisest statesman,
the most brilliant in the court; — a king mode-
rated in the schools, and judges led the revels.
And when, during this momentous time, each
separate state of Europe was shaken and con-
vulsed with war and commotion, mutual or
internal, these were not the mere feuds of men,
but the conflicts of mighty principles, now for
the first time ranked against each other on the
tented field, and assaying their influence over
the human mind by the arbitration of the
sword.
At this period the destinies of England and
France were swayed by two statesmen, in cha-
racter most dissimilar, but each the object of
marvel and admiration to his contemporaries,
of interest and discussion to posterity — ^Villiers,
BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU. 233
Duke of Buckingham^ and the Cardinal de
Richelieu.
It will be my purpose, on the present occa-
sion, after a due investigation of the character
of these eminent men, to decide, as far as in
me lies, which of the two ministers was more
deserving of the title of Great.
Before proceeding any further in the research,
I must premise that, from all I have read, my
prepossessions are considerably in favour of the
Duke of Buckingham. ,
Arinand Du Plessis, Cardinal Duke of Riche-
lieu, was bom the younger son of a noble fa-
mily. Destined fey his parents for the solitude
of a cloister, he early showed such an aversion
to this quiet and unambitious life, that they
were induced to change his destination, and
confer upon him the family Bishopric of Lu9on.
To this, after a few years spent in assiduous
study, he was consecrated, and shortly after
plunged into the troubled waters of political
contention. By attaching himself, in the first
instance, to the party of Mary de Medicis,
Queen Mother of France, he early acquired
such an influence over her, and such a share of
234 BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU.
popularity, as to render himself formidable to
the weak mind of King Louis the Thirteenth,
and the creatures who then composed his mi*
nistry. Profiting by this, he suflfered himself
to be, in appearance, hurried along by the
engine whose motions he, in fact, controlled,
always ready to play the sufferer, and to fall a
seeming victim to the faction he was preparing
to crush, — till at length his plots are ripe, and
the Queen Mother is driven into exile. Be-
trayed, insulted, scorned by the proud minister
she herself had fostered and raised to eminence,
she at length falls low enough to become the
suitor of him her former servant for the poor
favour of returning to that country she had
ruled with sovereign authority. From that
hour the King was the slave of his insolent
counsellor, and the Cardinal continued intrigu-
ing, cajoling, threatening, plotting, acting, till
death freed that monarch from thraldom who
could not live without a master, and that na-
tion from tyranny which could not enjoy free-
dom. In his career we find much ingenuity,
much and unwearied industry, an intimate
knowledge of the springs of human actions.
{
BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU. 235
and the manifold influences of state-corruption.
We find also great talents for official business
md diplomatic negociation ; great firmness and
onwardness of purpose, unless where perhaps
his vanity might interfere, or wounded self-love
prompt him to mar some preconceived design,
and thereby change the destinies of provinces,
compelling perhaps the ancient monarchies of
Europe to give satisfaction for the insults,
real or imagined, of Parisian cdteries. In vain,
however, do we look for any real greatness, for
any high or fixed principles of duty, for any
manly or straightforward line of policy. His
highest object — his own aggrandisement; his
tools — courtiers and mistresses — the weakest of
kings, and the most foolish of women.
On the other hand, the Duke of Buckingham
had far different men, and a far different state
of things, to deal with. The Cardinal was the
dictator of one hypochondriac Monarch, who,
had he not been fortunate enough to have been
Richelieu^s tool, would have continued to the
end of time that of Luines's and Concini^s.
Buckingham having conciliated the favour of
the wary, unfeeling James the First, preserved
236 BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU.
that of his noble-hearted, chivahic son, — no
small proof of genius or aoeomplishments. A
person of inferior abilities may have ingratiated
himself into favour with the one or the other ;
but he that, having won the esteem of James,
could have preserved that of Charles, must
truly have been, if not a great, at all events an
able man.
And by what arts did he accomplish this?
— by flattery and courtly fawning? Undoubt-
edly not. So little has Buckingham ever been
suspected of that, that he has be^n blamed
by some writers for too insolent a carriage
towards his royal master. His very faults
bear the aspect of virtues exaggerated. His
frankness, his munificence, his friendship, not
unfrequently hurried him into what was hasty
and impolitic To borrow his character from
Lord Clarendon : — *^ This great man was a
^^ person of a noble nature and generous dispo-
^^ sition, and of such other endowments as made
" him very capable of being a great favourite to
^^ a great king. He understood the arts of a
^^ court, and all the learning that is professed
" there, exactly well. By long practice in busi-
BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU. 237
^^ ness under a master that discoursed excel-
^Mently, and surely knew all things wonder-
" fully, and took much delight in indoctrinating
" his young, inexperienced favourite, who, he
" knew, would be always looked upon as the
^^ workmanship of his own hands, he had ob-
" tained a quick conception and apprehension
^^ of business, and had the habit of speaking
" very gracefiilly and pertinently. He was of
^^ a most flowing courtesy and afiability to all
^^ men who made any address to him ; and so
^^ desirous to obUge them, that he did not
" enough consider the value of the obligation,
" or the merit of the person he chose to oblige,
" — from which much of his misfortune re-
'^ suited. He was of a courage not to be
" daunted, which was manifested in all his
^^ actions His kindness and affection to
" his friends was so vehement, that they were
" as so many marriages, for better and for
" worse, and so many leagues, offensive and
" defensive ; as if he thought himself obliged
" to love all his friends, and to make war upon
" all they were angry with, be the cause what
" it would. And it cannot be denied that he
238 BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU.
^^ was an enemy in the same excess^ and prose-
'^ cuted those he looked upon as his enemies
^'with the utmost rigour and animosity^ and
was not easily induced to reconciliation. And
yet there were some examples of his receding
in that particular. And when he was in the
highest passion, he was so far from stooping
to any dissimulation, whereby his displeasure
^^ might be concealed and covered till he had
^^ attained his revenge (the low method of
" courts), that he never endeavoured to do any
" man an ill office before he told him what he
^^ was to expect from him, and reproached him
^' with the injuries he had done, with so much
" generosity, that the person found it in his
" power to receive further satisfaction in the
^* way he would choose for himself.**
How different a man is this from the cold,
selfish Richelieu ! How infinitely more manly,
more truly great ! The one, indeed, never did
commit a political blunder — the other, often;
but why was this? Because the cunning Ri-
chelieu never dared to be great; the great
Buckingham never condescended to be cun-
ning.
BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU. 239
Richelieu^ during the whole of his career,
had but to contend against the petty intrigues
of a luxurious court, the low cunning of a
IKAncre and a Luines, the gasconades of a
Duke of Anjou, the womanish schemes of a
Mary de Medicis. Buckingham, in order to
maintain his power, had to stem the moody
passions of a House of Commons, the licen-
tiousness of a secret press, the turbulence of a
mob, the eloquence of a Sir John Eliot. And
yet, with these superior advantages, Richelieu
could not sustain his power without the prac-
tice of cruelties, whose parallel we seek in vain
in the career of Buckingham. The noblest
blood of France — that of a Marilliac, a Mont-
morenci, a Cinq Mars — was spilled to maintain
our Cardinal in that pre-eminence he had in
the first instance won by the low arts of in-
trigue and dissimulation.
What arguments may be brought forward on
the other side I know not, but for my part, I
will give up the cause, and own myself defeated,
if my opponent can produce one instance of any
true friendship ever formed by Richelieu. By
friendship I do not mean that influence over
240 BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU.
the mind of another which renders it the reflex
of our own ; but the linking of two pure and
noble natures in the bonds of affection and fel-
low-feeling. I had almost said, if he could
prove Richelieu possessed of anyone of the softer
feelings of humanity, from which friendship is
wont to spring, I would leave him master of
the field. Flatterers the Cardinal had in abund-
ance, tools in abundance — beings who, having,
like the contemptible Father Joseph, bound
themselves body and soul to the tyrant, seemed
almost to have lost their separate existence, as
they toiled and toiled to fulfil the dark designs
of the proud Cardinal, trusted but with scraps
and beggarly doles of confidence, sacrificed as
soon as they were no longer necessary to feed
his ambition or his selfishness — but not one
friend. Whereas Buckingham loved to join
himself in affectionate confiding friendship with
the noblest spirits of his day. Innumerable
were the odes, sonnets, epic poems, in all lan-
guages, metres, styles, and degree of merit, ad-
dressed to the Cardinal during his reign; but
he died, and the muse was silent, not one poet
found to drop a tear upon the grave of him they
BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU. 241
had bespattered with most fulsome adulation
while yet he retained the power of doing them
harm. But hardly do we find great Bucking-
ham fallen by an assassin^s knife^ when a
kindred spirit laments his fate in words like
these —
'^ Reader, when these dumb stones have told
In borrowed speech what guest they hold.
Thou shalt confess the vam pursuit
Of human glory yields no fruit,
But an untimely grave. If Fate
Could constant happiness create,
Her ministers — Fortune and Worth —
Had here that miracle brought forth ;
They fixed this child of honour where
No room was left for hope or fear
Of more or less ; so high, so great
His growth was, yet so safe his seat ;
Safe in the circle of his friends ;
Safe in his loyal heart and ends ;
Safe in his native valiant spirit ;
By favour safe, and safe by merit ;
Safe by the stamp of nature, which
Did strength with shape and grace enrich ;
Safe in the cheerful courtesies
Of flowing gestures, speech, and eyes ;
Safe in his bounties, which were more
Proportioned to his mind than store ;
Yet though for virtue he becomes
Involved himself in borrowed sums,
R
242 BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU.
Safe in his care, he leaves betrayed
No friend engaged, no debt unpaid.
But though the stars above conspire to shower
Upon one head the united power
Of all their graces, if their dire
Aspects must other breasts inspire
With vicious thoughts, a murderer's knife
May cut, as here, their darling's life.
Who can be happy, then, if nature must.
To make one happy man, make all men just 1
In
>))
Can the subject of these words have been
any but a great man ? These few lines of Ca-
rew do more than outweigh the heaps of flat-
tery oflTered up to the Cardinal Duke during his
tide of power.
Many persons have been accustomed to re-
gard Buckingham merely as a brilliant profli-
gate ; as one who, to great fertility of talent
and fascination of manner, united a total want
of moral principle. We must not, however,
forget that Buckingham was the enemy of the
Puritans ; this consideration solves the mystery.
In other cases, too, Puritan misrepresentation
has distorted the fairest forms that wonderful
age produced ; and to them it is we owe our
unfavourable impressions of Villiers^ character.
BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU. 243
Does Clarendon give any ground for such a
supposition? Assuredly no such thing; and
on the plain face of matters^ is it likely that the
confidential minister of King Charles the First,
the friend of Laud, could have been such a
being as some writers strive to make out Buck-
ingham? However persons may differ as to
the tendency of Archbishop Laud's theological
opinions, yet all must agree in admiring his
•
sincerity, his nobleness of heart, his spotless
purity of life. Would such a man have deigned
to accept the friendship of an abandoned pro-
fligate ? Would such a profligate have tendered
any but an insincere and hollow friendship to a
holy and a religious man? and of insincerity
not even his bitterest enemies ever accused
Buckingham. That prelate who, to his latest,
saddest years, observed that day with deep
humiliation and bitter self-reproach on which,
in early life, over-persuaded by a powerful pa-
tron *, he had united him to the divorced wife
of another; that prelate who, when himself
^ f^l of Devon.
244 BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU.
powerful, scrupled not to make that power serve
the cause of virtue rather than that of interest^
by censuring incontinence in the proudest dames
of the land, in Buckingham's own sister ', would
surely not have chosen a shameless adulterer as
his bosom friend. In a word, what faith can
be put in the relation of persons who, while
slandering the moral character of the Martyr-
King, deified the assassin Felton, and revered
John Bradshaw as a patriot? At all events,
even were these accusations true, which I do
not at all admit, yet the private character of
Richelieu is far from stainless; so that even in
this case the Duke would but be on a level
with the Cardinal; on the other supposition,
infinitely superior to him.
To turn to another point, in which Villiers
has been made the subject of a vast deal of
undeserved reprehension. The Spanish expe-
dition of Prince Charles and the Duke has
oftentimes been held to be a wild and foolish
scheme of Buckingham, and such as would of
* Countess of Purbeck.
BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU. 245
itself be sufficient to exclude his name from the
roll of greatness; whereas, on the contrary, it
may be esteemed a most wise and ingenious
measure, nay, a profound stroke of skilful diplo-
macy. There were at that time two problems
to be solved by the English government, —
whether Spain was in reality favourably dis-
posed towards this country in the matter of the
Palatinate, and whether an alliance with the
daughter of Spain would be pleasing to the
Prince or advantageous to the nation; and to
solve these Buckingham devised his much-
famed Spanish expedition. In these days such
a proceeding would be deemed, and would truly
be. Quixotic and absurd. But then the bright
spirit of chivalry still reigned in European
courts, it was not altogether supplanted by dull,
dry diplomacy; still the youth trod forth in
his slashed doublet, with his feather in his hat,
and his good Toledo by his side, ready for any
adventure that might betide him by flood or
field, battle or tournament. In this spirit
Buckingham proposed the Spanish expedition,
and it succeeded; it was proved without a
246 BUCKINGHAM AN0 RICHELIEU.
doubt, that the intentions of Spain were not
sincere, and that the match would please nei-
ther the Prince nor the people; and all more
quickly, more truly, and more easily, than if
recourse had been had to the endless routine of
congress and of protocol. And sure it was a
more graceful sight to behold a young and gal-
lant Prince throwing himself at the feet of the
Princess of Castile, than to find him wooing by
proxy, and wedding by ambassador.
Hitherto we have viewed the favourable side
of Richelieu^s character ; but when we investi-
gate his private life, and bring to light the
many littlenesses concealed beneath the glitter
of his public administration ; when we see the
proud Lord Cardinal spending his night in
gathering together and piecing up the frag-
ments of that his Tragedy he had torn up from
vexation that the Academy, in ignorance of its
authorship, had not pronounced it superior to
Comeille ; when we hear of him depriving a
learned Professor * of his pension, because, in
1 Borbonius.
BUCKINGHAM AND RICHELIEU. 247
equal ignorance^ he had dared censure the
Latinity of an inscription written by the haughty
Prelate; when, I say, we behold these and a
thousand other examples of the like sort, can
we for a moment hesitate in deciding that, pre-
eminent as were Richelieu's abilities, the palm
of greatness is more justly due to Villiers, Duke
of Buckingham ?
LAUS DEO.
Gilbert & Rivington, Printers, St. John's Square, London.
J - V
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