  Art. I.—Dr. Carl Ullmann.[43] Dr. Carl Ullmann is perhaps best known in this country and in America as the author of the two apologetic treatises, 'The Sinlessness of Jesus' and 'The Essence of Christianity;' but his name will probably live in the history of theology mainly as the founder, and for many years conductor of the Theologische Studien und Kritiken, that oldest and ablest of all the German theological journals. Though not what his fellow-countrymen term an epoch-making man, either in the scientific or practical sphere, he was unquestionably a representative man—representative of the best elements both of German thought and German character. Both the strength and weakness of German theologians were illustrated in his experience; the former in his successes, the latter in his failures. There are few, if any, German theologians whose works contain so much that applies directly to the theological needs and efforts of the present moment. Dr. Carl Ullmann was born on the 15th of March, 1796, at Epfenbach, a village about half-way between Heidelberg and Mosbach, six miles from the river Neckar, where his father was pastor of the Reformed Church. Several of his forefathers on his mother's side had been pastors at Epfenbach; and his father, who was a native of Heidelberg, took possession of the living, and married the daughter of its previous incumbent at the same time. His father was a harmless, kind-hearted, cheerful, and pious man; his mother had a lively, imaginative, poetical temperament; the son inherited the qualities of both. The only other child, a daughter, died when very young. Carl was of a delicate physical constitution, but eager to learn. Till he reached his ninth year, he went to the village school, the instruction at which was supplemented by his father. Among the first things he read were the poems of Claudius and Hebel; and he learnt by rote so easily, and took such a pleasure in declaiming poetry, that his parents used to say—'We must make a Professor of him.' Happy as he was at home, he began early to feel the lack of other companionship than that supplied by the peasant children with whom he associated, and a desire stirred in him to go out into the world. In the fragment of an autobiography which was found among his papers, he says:—'I remember the very spot—it was in one of the beautiful forests near my birth-place—where I first became conscious of a yearning to leave home. It was as strong as the yearning which one generally feels to return home when one is away. I was then seven years old.' In his ninth year he was accordingly sent to Mosbach, where he lodged with a clerical brother of his mother's, and attended the Latin school. After a year he entered the Gymnasium at Heidelberg, with the distinct idea of becoming a pastor, and perhaps eventually of succeeding his father. The school does not seem to have been all that it ought to have been; but the social influences by which he was surrounded were of an exceptionally stimulating and elevating kind. He rose from class to class in the Gymnasium with such rapidity, that he was prepared to pass the so-called Abiturienten-Examen[44] before reaching About this time his thoughts were almost completely turned aside from the profession he had intended to pursue, by the influence of friends of the family with which he lived. These were the brothers Boisseree, who were enthusiastic lovers of art, and had a fine collection of works of the old German masters. Young Ullmann was often invited by them to study their treasures, and became eventually so infected with their enthusiasm; or rather, perhaps, one ought to say, his own slumbering love of, and susceptibility to, the beautiful in nature and art, was so awakened, that he proposed to his parents to allow him to become a landscape painter. Two young men who were then his friends, and in whose company he used to traverse the charming scenes which abound in the neighbourhood of Heidelberg, afterwards became eminent artists, and he himself produced sketches and drawings full of the brightest promise. His parents, however, were shocked at the idea of their son taking up a profession that brought more honour than bread, especially as they were not in circumstances to sustain him until he should have attained a name and position; they urged on him, therefore, that he might secure leisure enough for the pursuit of art as a country pastor, and promised to let him study in Munich after completing his course at the University. The prospect thus opened up calmed him, and by the time his theological studies were completed, other thoughts filled his mind. To the end of his life, however, Ullmann remained a lover of art, and the Æsthetic turn of his mind manifested itself in occasional poetic effusions, in that grace of style for which he was reputed beyond most of his contemporaries, and in a general refinement of culture. It is scarcely likely, however, that he would have attained the eminence as an artist that he gained as a theologian; and certainly the pursuit of art would not have admitted of his exerting the direct practical influence which he eventually wielded, and which was to him a source of such deep satisfaction. He matriculated at Heidelberg in the autumn of 1812. The University had just lost one or two of its brightest ornaments—the youthful Neander, for example,—but still, notwithstanding its losses, next to the young and rising Berlin, it had the ablest professors, and was inspired by the highest aims. The most eminent member of the theological faculty was Daub; the most notorious was Paulus. The former was a man of remarkable force, energy, simplicity and earnestness, and so devoted to his academic vocation that he once wrote to his then young friend Rozenkranz, now Professor of Philosophy in KÖnigsberg, and one of the few remaining Hegelians of the right wing, 'Holidays, do you say? Does the old man still take no holidays? No, my dear friend, not yet, nor do I want any; my heart's desire is, if possible, to die in my chair, docendo.' His desire was almost literally fulfilled; for the stroke which terminated his life, smote him whilst lecturing on anthropology, November 19th, 1836. He has been termed, rather wittily, but spitefully, the Talleyrand of German Philosophy and Theology, because 'he passed from the Kantian Revolution, through Schelling's Imperialism, to Hegel's Reactionaryism.' Deducting the spite, there is truth in the description, for he began his career as a thorough Kantian, then became a warm disciple of Schelling, and finished up as a Hegelian of the right wing. The changes he underwent were both sign and evidence of the honesty and thoroughness with which he devoted himself to the investigation of truth; there was not a trace in him of the frivolity of the French diplomatist. His best-known work is 'Judas Iscariot; or, Meditations on the Good in its relation to Evil.' Daub was still in his Schelling stage when Ullmann began to study. Paulus was, on the other hand, the most noted representative of the Rationalismus vulgaris, as it has been termed, in the department of exegesis. He was a man of wide reading, great learning, and acuteness, but possessed by so intense an aversion to everything that did not square with his narrow common sense, that he was incapable of understanding Christianity, and therefore made it his business to explain away everything that bore a supernatural or mystical character. Perhaps this was due in part to the fact that his father, who had been removed from his pastorate, ob absurdas phantasmagorica visiones divinas, forced him, whilst still a boy, to take part in the conferences with spirits and demons which he was in the habit of holding in conjunction with others like-minded. Professor Tholuck, of Halle, rarely lets pass an opportunity, in his exegetical lectures, of whetting his humour on some absurdity or other of Paulus. A greater contrast than that between him and Daub could scarcely have existed; and scientifically they may be said to have lived like cat and dog. Beside these two, another eminent name Ullmann's mind seems at this stage to have been in the unreflective state, in which, perhaps, a majority of German theological students are at the outset; naturally so, too, for his vocation was rather the choice of his parents than his own. He says about himself:— 'As I was still young, and my father wished me to have plenty of time for study, I did not at once devote myself exclusively to strictly professional studies, but attended the philosophical and philological lectures of Daub and Creuzer, and those on the "EncyclopÆdia of Theology" and "Church History," by Paulus. During the year that I thus spent at Heidelberg, I cannot say that I either felt any specific interest in science, or evinced any independence of mind. I was an industrious and respectful hearer, but little more. With the idea of setting me on my own feet, and plunging me more into theology, my father wished me to go to another University.' Advised by Daub, Ullmann accordingly resolved to go to TÜbingen. This custom of students pursuing their studies at more than one University is almost universal in Germany; and where the system of instruction is one by lectures, has, unquestionably, many advantages. Some of the direct personal influence and stimulus that a man of eminent vigour may exercise, is perhaps lost; but, on the other hand, the danger of a young man being too much influenced is avoided, and a greater manifoldness of development is favoured. This is one reason why thought in Germany is less stereotyped than among ourselves. Some, however, may, perhaps, deem this no advantage. TÜbingen was at that time considered the safest and soundest of all the German universities. It was the seat of the so-called Supranaturalistic school, and had been the refuge and stronghold of orthodoxy during the prevalency of Rationalism. Students of theology streamed thither from all parts of Germany. The principal theological professors were Scheurer, Flatt the younger, Bengel, and Bahnmeier, whose teachings tended to confirm young Ullmann on the positive Christian belief which had been inculcated on him at home and at school. Still he cannot be said to have been satisfied. The TÜbingen theology, based as it was on philosophical presuppositions that had been to a large extent outgrown, was now becoming antiquated, and his mind was unconsciously reaching out towards the new mode of representing Christian truth, of which Schleiermacher was the harbinger, and which he himself eventually did so much to propagate. Some of his best and highest instincts and capabilities found nourishment and stimulus, however, in the circle of University friends to which he belonged. Among these were Gustav Schwab, the biographer of Schiller, and himself a poet, and above all, Uhland, who had then just published his first poems. The friendship formed with Schwab continued unbroken to the end of life. Such circles, originating in like literary interests and tastes, were then common in Germany. The atmosphere, especially of the universities, was full of what strikes our colder English mind as sentimental enthusiasm, but which then appeared to be glowing love for the highest ideals in State and Church, in science and philosophy, in prose and poetry. It were possibly better for our national and social life if there were a little more capability of enthusiasm for the ideal in the young men of our universities and colleges. We are too hard, muscular, and materialistic. Ullmann retained his susceptibility for the beautiful in literature to the end of life; and occasionally, too, expressed his thoughts and feelings in rhymes, of which, even poets by profession would not have needed to be greatly ashamed. He returned home in the autumn of 1816, and shortly afterwards passed his theological examination at Carlsruhe. The certificate he received was so good that he was at once offered a teachership at the Lyceum in Carlsruhe, but declined it on the ground of health, and resolved, according to the general custom in Baden, to become a 'vikar,' or, as we say in England, a 'curate,' or assistant. He was ordained on the 12th of January, 1817, in the church at Epfenbach, and immediately thereupon entered on a vikariat at Kirchheim, where a friend of his father's was the incumbent. There he remained a year, but his wish to become a country pastor was not to be realized. The manner in which he had passed his examination had excited the attention of the ecclesiastical and university authorities, and as there was at that time a strong wish to see Baden young men selecting the academical career, that is, settling as teachers at the university with a view to becoming professors, the Government called upon him to take this course, and offered to supply him with the means necessary to further study. Ullmann's own inclinations responded to this invitation; but he hesitated at first because he had a wholesome horror of adding another In the autumn of 1817, he accordingly recommenced his university studies. At first he hesitated whether he should go to GÖttingen or remain at Heidelberg; he wisely decided on the latter. For though the former had not a few eminent men, it was bound too much by the traditions of the eighteenth century, whereas Heidelberg was one of the fountains of the new theological and philosophical life that had begun to permeate Germany. Philosophy was the subject to which he first devoted himself; in particular, the philosophy of Hegel, who had then just been appointed professor at Heidelberg. He never properly relished Hegel; indeed, to judge from one of his letters to his friend Schwab, he seems to have been made not a little melancholy by it. Satisfaction it could not well afford him, for his was not a mind to put up with dry bones and logical subtilties; but it proved to be an excellent intellectual gymnastic, and compelled him to an examination of his own theological and philosophical position that was greatly needed, and which would otherwise have been scarcely possible. The À priori constructive method of the Hegelian philosophy did not accord with the native bent of his mind. He shows, too, that he began to be aware of the line he himself would have to take in the following words addressed to one of his examiners who had urged him to turn his special attention to systematic theology:— 'I am not one of those who are able to construct an historical fact like the Christian religion, by starting from a philosophical centre. My way into science is that of historical inquiry; it passes from the particular to the general, not from the general to the particular; or, applied to theology, from exegesis and history to systematic theology and Christian ethics.' He accordingly first took up philological, exegetical, and patristic studies; he did so from a just though instinctive conviction that satisfactory solutions of the great problems of theology and philosophy are only possible on the basis of sound and thorough historical studies. That it cost him no little self-restraint to carry out this method, is evident from the letters he wrote about this time. In one addressed to Schwab occur the words— 'It is my misfortune that at present I have little time to give to the highest questions. I have so many of the merely outward parts of science which are absolutely necessary to fetch up, that I often groan as under a heavy burden. Still, even in the desert of grammatical and critical study, I meet with many a refreshing oasis.' He began also to feel a deeper sympathy with the practical aspects of the vocation on which he was entering. In the same letter from which we have just quoted, he says— 'I am sometimes disposed to envy the men—and there are many of them—who live on an untroubled life, doing the right without difficulty. My life appears, by comparison, one continuous self-torture. But should I not be acting unworthily? Must I not rather confess to myself that I have as yet no solid ground on which I can take my stand? Yes; and therefore, I am resolved to forego all the enjoyments and pleasures of life rather than not attain to certainty—rather than not be able to say, "I know in whom I have believed."' He concluded his studies at Heidelberg by taking the degree of Doctor of Philosophy, and in the spring of 1819 entered on a scientific tour intended to embrace Jena, GÖttingen, Dresden, Leipzig, Berlin, and other centres of German culture. His stay in Berlin was both the longest and the most important. He there made the personal acquaintance of De Wette, Neander, and Schleiermacher, and his intercourse with the last two in particular had a determining influence on the whole of his future course. That for which his own studies had been preparing the way was now accomplished, namely, his emancipation from the old supranaturalistic forms of theological thought which had hitherto hampered him. He did not, however, quit his hold of the substance of the Christian faith; on the contrary, it became more completely a living possession. In the sketch he wrote of the life of his friend Umbreit, he describes his Berlin experiences as follows:— 'In intercourse with De Wette, Neander, and Schleiermacher, I absorbed into myself the elements of the new theology. In opposition to both Rationalism and Supranaturalism, Christianity presented itself to me then as a new vital creation and divine revelation, in the full sense of the term, but, at the same time, as something undergoing an organic development in the history of mankind. I saw accordingly that it was the function of the theologian to seek to effect a reconciliation between the Christian faith and the healthy elements in the culture of the age, that is, to exhibit it in its reasonableness, instead of in the form of authority.' De Wette's influence was more an exegegetical During this tour, Ullmann visited Hamburg, and there formed an acquaintance which was destined to become very intimate, and to have not a little influence on his career as a theologian—it was that of the celebrated publisher, Friedrich Perthes. The circumstances under which the introduction took place were embarrassing enough. Ullmann had ran short of money, and not knowing what else to do, went to Perthes, who at once, on the credit of his honest face, as he said, lent him a sufficient sum of money to enable him to carry out his immediate plans. Perthes subsequently became Ullmann's publisher.[45] In the autumn of 1819, Ullmann commenced lecturing at Heidelberg, taking for subjects Exegesis and Church History. With unusual consideration, the Government gave him, even as Privat-Docent, a small salary, and promised him early promotion to an Extraordinary Professorship, a promise which was fulfilled in 1821. The first published fruits of his studies were a critical treatise on the Second Epistle of Peter, in which he defended the first two chapters as a genuine fragment of the Apostle, but admitted the remainder to be the work of another hand; and an examination of the 'Third Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians,' which had just been translated from the Armenian by Rind, and which he demonstrated to be a forgery. These were the first and last properly critical essays he ever wrote. His next publications, which were 'An ArchÆological Essay on the Christian Festivals,' originally appended to the second edition of Creuzer's 'Symbolik,' and another on the sect of the Hypsistarians, written in Latin, as the programme when he entered on his professorship, inaugurated the labours in the field of Church history where lay his true vocation, and in which he achieved his best successes. The year 1820 brought two events on which he never ceased to look back with the intensest thankfulness—his betrothal with Hulda Moreau, who eventually became his wife, and his friendship with Umbreit, who had become his colleague as Professor of Oriental Languages. The strain in which he refers to the former, when writing to his friend Schwab, was all that the most ardent lover could demand. It will suffice to quote one sentence:—'Never had I either in hopes or dreams represented to myself the happiness of love so beautifully and truly as I have found it to be in reality.' Of Umbreit he spoke in the following terms:—'He is just the friend for whom I have longed; one who takes me and understands me just as I am and live; who loves me faithfully with all his heart, despite my defects, and who has insight into and sympathy with the needs of my soul.' 'Soon,' says he, in his own sketch of Umbreit's life, 'our hearts opened to each other, and ere long our relation to each other was such that it became a necessity to meet daily and exchange thoughts and experiences. We were one as to the basis and goal of life; and yet the individuality and development of each were so different that we supplemented each other, and were thus for each other a perpetual stimulus.' It was due to Ullmann's influence that Umbreit became positively Christian, both in his theology and life. These were the bright aspects of the life of the young professor. It had, however, its shadows. The University numbered at this time only fifty-five students of theology, and they were mainly divided between Daub and Paulus; besides, the ground was so pre-occupied by Rationalism on the one side, and Speculation on the other, that there was no room for a theology that aimed to be at once evangelical and historical. In 1823, Ullmann wrote to Schwab:—'In a scientific respect, our position here is bad. The constellation of theological studies is of such a kind that several, I might say most of the professors, are really useless. To this number I have the honour to belong, along with men like Abegg and Umbreit. I deliver my regular lectures, but I have very few hearers and little hope of an improvement.' In addition to this, his salary was so small that it did not suffice for his own wants, much less could he marry on it. In the following year he published his first large work—a monograph on Gregory Nazianzen, which proved him to be a worthy compeer of Neander, and brought him, in 1826, an invitation to the Theological Seminary at Wittenberg. Had not the Government again increased his salary, and made him in addition Professor in Ordinary, he would probably then have quitted Heidelberg, much as he loved it, and thoroughly loyal and grateful as were his feelings towards his native land. He no longer, however, felt so happy there as he had done in former years. The party spirit under which he had to suffer so severely at a later period, and which has done so much to degrade both theology and the Church in Baden, was just beginning to make itself felt, both in the University and in private circles. The next great event in his life, and an important event in the history of German theology, the founding of the Theologische Studien und Kritiken, shall be narrated in his own words:— 'About this time the thought occurred to us' (referring to Umbreit and himself) 'of establishing a new theological journal, of which we proposed to ourselves to be joint editors. Our idea was, not to increase the already too numerous depositories of mere dry erudition, but to create an organ for the new theology which was either already in existence or in process of growth. After talking the matter over carefully between ourselves, we communicated our idea to our friends—Nitzsch, LÜcke, and Gieseler,[46] all of whom were then in Bonn. As they at once promised their cooperation, we arranged to meet, for the maturing of our plans, at RÜdesheim, in the spring of 1827. Singularly enough, too, the publisher to whom we proposed applying, Friedrich Perthes, had himself also, quite independently, been entertaining a similar plan; and that not merely as a business speculation, but also for the sake of promoting the so-called new theology.' As his and their wishes thus happily met, the scheme was speedily ripened, and the first number made its appearance at Hamburg, in 1828, bearing on its title-page the names of Drs. Ullmann and Umbreit as editors, and of Drs. Gieseler, LÜcke, and Nitzsch as collaborateurs. During the first years of its existence, the Studien und Kritiken had a severe struggle: in a commercial point of view it certainly did not pay; indeed, as such things are now regarded in this country, it never has paid well. The highest circulation it ever attained—unprecedented before, and since, in Germany—was between 900 and 1,000. This was prior to that year of political and social disturbances—1848. What the number of its subscribers at the present moment may be, we do not know; we have been told they do not reach 500. Among its contributors it has had almost all the greatest German theologians of the last forty years; for example, Schleiermacher, De Wette, Rothe, Julius MÜller, Twesten, Hundeshagen, Tholuck, Bleek, Neander, Dorner, Schenkel, Schweitzer, and others too numerous to be specified. At present, it is edited by Drs. Hundeshagen and Riehm. Whilst from the beginning the original design of its founders—that it should be the organ of the theology of which Neander and Nitzsch may be said to have been the best-known representatives—was conscientiously adhered to, its pages were constantly open to opinions diverging very widely from those of the editors. In fact, it was a kind of neutral ground on which men of, one might almost say, opposite theological opinions met for courteous tourney. None were excluded from contributing whose spirit was that of reverential inquiry. It has accordingly been in the best sense a power, not only in Germany but even throughout Christendom. We cannot write these words without blushing with shame that we in Great Britain have never been able adequately to sustain, for any length of time, any purely theological journal at all, much less one that dared to be something more than the mere organ of a little party or sect. It is a disgrace to us. In this matter, we are far behind even America; how much farther behind Germany! and that, too, notwithstanding that a certain interest in theological questions is much more widely diffused among us than in the latter country. The article with which the Studien opened, at once established the character both of the journal and of its principal editor; it was one on the 'Sinlessness of Jesus,'[47] which In 1829, an invitation came to him from Prussia to take the chair of Church History at the University of Halle. Strongly as he was attached to Heidelberg, and patriotically desirous as he was of serving Baden, still this time he felt that it was his duty to go. Such, too, was the opinion of his friends; even the Minister of Education in Baden raised little objection, though he expressed the hope that when the right moment came, Heidelberg would be able to reclaim its own. The change was a very great one—greater than can well be appreciated by any one who is not acquainted with the difference, not only between Halle and Heidelberg, but also between their respective inhabitants. South Germans do not always harmonize well with North Germans. No contrast could be greater than that between the two towns. The praises of Heidelberg—of its river, castle, forests, mountains, and valleys—everybody sings, and sings with justice. Halle is known to comparatively few, and is not likely to be loved by ordinary tourists. And yet those who have lived in Halle for any length of time always think of it with affection. Its streets are narrow and close; its pavements used to be uncivilized in summer, and absolutely barbarous in winter; its atmosphere is tainted by one general smell of the peculiar kind of turf that is burnt, and by numerous particular odours; the older houses and rooms are fusty, and abound in tenants who do not pay, but exact rent from their fellow-lodgers; it is awfully hot in summer and cold in winter; the scenery around, save in one direction, is very dismal—and yet few who have studied there can help saying, 'Dear old Halle!' The secret is the kind, unpretending, truly scientific spirit that prevails among the professors and their families, rendering them very accessible to all, and facilitating close intercourse. Ullmann found in Halle all the diversities of point of view that existed at Heidelberg, and, indeed, at every University. Wegscheider and Gesenius represented Rationalism, but a better and larger spirit possessed the faculties. More frequent opportunities were, moreover, afforded him of meeting the other eminent men of the age. He visited Schleiermacher and Neander in Berlin; Tieck in Dresden; Hase and Baumgarten-Crusius in Jena; went a foot tour with Lachmann, Hossbach, and Schleiermacher in Thuringia; and held a conference with the co-operators and contributors of the Studien in Marburg. But the chief source of satisfaction were the 800 theological students who then frequented Halle; for he now secured auditories double the number of all the theological students of Heidelberg taken together. Naturally, too, his income was more adequate to the necessities of a man of family and learning than it had ever been before. All these circumstances gave his letters to his friends in South Germany a tone of unmistakeable cheerfulness. During the early Halle years, his time and energies were so much absorbed in the preparation of his lectures and the editing of the Studien, which now devolved almost entirely on himself, that extensive literary undertakings were out of the question. He lectured on Church History, History of Doctrine, Symbolics, Introduction to the New Testament, and at last also on Dogmatics. This last subject was taken up by way of counteracting the influence of Wegscheider. In his inaugural discourse on 'The Position of a Church Historian in the Present Day,' afterwards printed in the Studien (1829), Ullmann sounded the key-note of his entire future teachings in words some of which may be quoted here. The entire discourse well deserves studying by ourselves at the present time:— 'Sound reason and pure revelation of God are not at the root diverse, and cannot be opposed to each other, though they may present religious truth in differing forms and compass. A truly divine doctrine will never interfere The years 1831 and 1832 were years of deep sorrow: in the former he lost his eldest daughter; in the latter his beloved wife. Severe as was the test to which his faith was thus put, it stood it well. He was able to say, 'The Lord gave; the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord.' But the blow affected him very severely. He withdrew from the social intercourse in which he had so greatly delighted; his health, too, was so enfeebled that he was compelled to go for a time to Baden on visits to friends. The following extract from a letter to Umbreit, after his return, shows how he thought and felt:— 'I have found it very hard to settle down in Halle after so long an enjoyment of the beauties of my old home. Like an unwilling child, I have only given in by degrees. Nor did I really become contented again till I set thoroughly to work. And now that I am at work, I am again looking forward to the holidays. One always seems to remain a child, and life is an eternal circle, and after all a labour and sorrow, occasionally broken by brighter glimpses of heaven, of the hearts of friends, of one's own soul, and of nature. When one looks seriously at life, one can scarcely help both smiling and weeping; and it would be utterly unintelligible to me without God and eternity. It is not good, however, to think and grub too much about it; one must undertake some work, even though it be not much. Faith and work are the only sources of lasting peace.' In the autumn of 1834 he married again. Until 1833, when his first contribution to the 'History of the Reformers before the Reformation'—'John Wessel and his Times'—appeared, he printed nothing but a few essays and reviews in the Studien. That the time was not a very favourable one for theological authorship would appear from the circumstance that Perthes, the publisher of 'Wessel,' large-minded and sympathetic as he was, did not expect it to pay expenses. It proved, however, a success, and with the portions subsequently issued, is now esteemed one of the best German monographs in the domain of Church history. Early in 1835, Ullmann wrote to a friend: 'In the world of literature we have at present a complete ebb; nor does there seem any prospect of our being stirred out of our quiet jogtrot existence. What a blessing it would be, if some great light were to arise in theology—some second Luther, or Lessing, or Goethe!' He little thought that the stirring up that he desired would so soon come; still less that it would come in the way in which it did come. It was not a new Luther, or Goethe, or Lessing that arose, but Strauss, with his 'Life of Jesus.' As is well known, this work, notwithstanding its containing little that was really new, produced an unexampled sensation in the theological and ecclesiastical circles of Germany. It called forth a perfect flood of replies; and among them, Ullmann's, though small in compass, occupied a very honourable position. He put his finger on the weak spot in Strauss's book, in the following words of a letter written to Schwab, immediately after he had taken a first glance at it:—'All honour to criticism, but in Strauss's case it becomes plainly unhistorical; for on the view with which he starts, the origin of Christianity and the rise of men like the Apostle Paul are alike inexplicable.' His reply consisted of two essays in the Studien of 1836 and 1838, and afterwards published separately, under the title, 'Historisch oder Mythisch.' Next to Neander's 'Life of Jesus,' Ullmann's treatise is said to have had most influence on Strauss. Shortly after his second marriage, Ullmann wrote to a friend that he felt he was becoming every year more and more attached to Halle and North Germany; and yet, when the call came to him, in 1836, to resume his position at Heidelberg, he was unable to resist it. He had previously declined without hesitation to entertain a proposal to remove to Kiel. Many considerations weighed with him; certainly, however, not an increase of income, for he positively lost by the change. The thought of revived intimacy with Umbreit; the being near to his aged father; the beauty of Heidelberg; perhaps, too, the sorrows associated with Halle; but, above all, the prospect held out that his return should be the first step in the renewal of the theological faculty, were the magnets drawing him homeward. Still he found it difficult to decide. The Prussian Government did all in their power to retain him, but he thought duty pointed to a return; and he accordingly left Halle in the autumn of 1836. He could not always congratulate himself on the step thus taken. Indeed, a certain feeling of disappointment almost immediately took possession of him. Death again visited his household, taking this time the only remaining daughter of his first wife, and the only child of his second. In other respects, however, he grew more content as the years advanced; partly because the circle of sympathizing friends gradually increased, and partly because the state of things at the University materially improved. The advent of new colleagues like Rothe, Hundeshagen, Schenkel, and SchÖberlein, was naturally a source of great satisfaction. In 1842, he completed his principal work—'The Reformers before the Reformation.' It was his last great effort. An intention, long entertained, of writing a life of Luther, was never realized. He became too absorbed in the various theoretical and practical questions that successively agitated the political, theological, and ecclesiastical worlds, to find time or energy for extensive literary undertakings; not that he ceased writing, but that what he wrote bore predominant reference to questions of immediate interest, and appeared for the most part in the pages of the Studien und Kritiken. Two of the most notable of the essays written at this period are those on the 'Cultus des Genius' and 'Das Wesen des Christenthums.' The former was directed against Strauss, who, in his 'VergÄngliches und Bleibendes im Christenthum,' having reduced Jesus Christ to the rank of a religious genius, maintained that the cultus of genius is the only form of public and common religion the educated of the present generation can celebrate. The immediate occasion of his 'Sendschreiben,' as he termed it, was an oration delivered by his friend Schwab in connection with the inauguration of a monument to Schiller, at Marburg. It has always been esteemed one of the freshest, completest, and most artistic products of his pen. Of the geniality of the tone in which he approached the subject, the following passage will be sufficient evidence:— 'Our age is an age of distracted spirits. Let us look at the greatest among them, that ideal of all who really are, or affect to be, at discord with themselves and God, the Poet-Lord! A spirit of defiance, of contempt for mankind, of doubt; a cold breath of hopelessness and destructiveness pervades his writings. Terror is his domain; the destruction and misery of mankind are his dwelling place; he knows little of those fundamental elements of piety, hope, humility, and self-sacrifice. And yet who dare deny that he is engaged in a struggle, painful and desperate it is true, after the highest; that he is filled with irrepressible longings after the noblest? Because human life seemed to him so vain and empty, therefore did he despise it; because he would fain have loved men so much more truly than he could, therefore did he hate them; and yet, when at certain moments the primal consciousness of the heavenly and divine welled up from the depths of his soul, what energy and vitality did it evince, and what a mighty influence did it wield!' There is very much in this essay that deserves carefully weighing by all who are mixed up with the intellectual struggles of the present time; and we have noted numerous passages for quotation, but our space forbids. The second one, on the 'Essence of Christianity,' strikes us as a scarcely satisfactory answer to the question discussed, though one's estimate of it naturally depends on one's own point of view. His course of thought is as follows. Christianity, although unchangeably one and the same, has been viewed in different ages in different ways; first as doctrine, then as law, then as a plan of redemption. If we wish to understand its inmost essence, and to account for its workings in their entire compass, we must regard it as a new life, grounded on a complex of divine deeds and manifesting itself in human works. This life necessarily had a creative centre; this centre must have been a living one; and as it is life of the highest kind, the centre must have been a person. The founder of Christianity was the person in whom was effected that which all religions have striven after, the perfect union of God and man. Such being his character, the relation in which he stands to the religion founded by him, is not the outward one which subsists where the religion is advanced as a doctrine, or a law, or an institution; no, he himself embodies in himself the religion he founded, and 'May be reduced to three points, the relation first between the outer and inner rule; secondly, between dogma and love; thirdly, between the person and the work of the Saviour. As to the first point, he appeals solely to the outer rule. Now an outer rule is one that comes to us from without, with the claim to be the norm of our spiritual life. The completest embodiment of the idea of the outer rule is Catholicism. But the Count will say, "The true outer rule is the Bible, not the Church." But how does he decide which of these outer rules is the true one? Each is a form of the same thing; each claims to be the only true form. In discriminating between them, appeal must clearly be made to an inner rule of some kind or other. Do I then mean to deny that the Scriptures are an outer rule? Certainly not! If I am asked, In what sense, then, is the Bible an outer rule?—is it in a sense that excludes all reference to an inner rule, to something higher, deeper, broader than the written word? I reply, No! In such a sense the Bible does not itself claim to be an outer rule. That in it which is outward issued forth from what was originally inward, and has the tendency, and is designed to become inward again. In thus becoming inward, it is not intended to operate as an outward rule, but to bear witness to itself in our inner life, and secure our free assent. Inward and outward thus act and react on each other. If the Scripture be a rule, it is fair to ask whence it came to us? It did not fall from heaven; it was not written immediately by the hand of God; it did not exist prior to Christianity. Christianity, on the contrary, existed first, and the Scripture was the organ through which it presented itself to, and propagated itself among men. That which existed before Scripture was the complex of saving facts, whose centre is Christ and the Christian life. The function of the Scripture, therefore, was to be the medium of making known the person and work of Christ, where the living message could not reach. For this reason its position and worth are not unconditional. Christ it is who conditions Scripture and gives it its worth. It is not the Scripture that gives authority to Christ, but Christ to Scripture. The proper object of faith is Christ, not the Scripture; the latter is merely the guide and educator unto Christ.' The point of view indicated in the above extract is one that needs taking to heart and developing by the Christian thinkers of this country; rightly carried out, it would aid them materially in meeting the difficulties raised by the critics or opponents of the Bible. The exposition of the nature and function of mysticism in this same reply is admirable. In two things, Ullmann had always differed from the majority of German theologians, and resembled the majority of English theologians. He endeavoured to write so as to be intelligible and acceptable to educated laymen, and aimed at exerting direct practical influence. Science, including theology, is too frequently pursued and expounded in Germany in the genuine dry-as-dust style; and theological authors in particular have been in the habit of completely ignoring the fact that they lived to serve the Church, and ought therefore to have an eye to its practical needs in all their enquiries. Hence the astonishing ignorance of theology that prevails in all but distinctively professional circles. A better feeling on this point has been growing up during the last ten years; but any change of practice has been rather forced on the theologians than spontaneously adopted—forced on them by the consideration that the laity of their Church were being utterly robbed of faith by the popular anti-Christian expositions of philosophy, criticism, and natural science that abounded. We in this country have erred for the most part in an opposite direction. Our eye to popularity and practical effect has had a squint in it. But though our theological investigations have lacked depth, they have, at all events, been far more widely appreciated. And that our fault is the less serious of the two is clear from the fact which is The desire felt by Ullmann to exert a direct influence in Church matters grew with his years. He longed to see the ideas he had expounded becoming realities, and thought he could and ought personally to put hand to the work. There was much, too, in the circumstances of the ten years that preceded 1853 to draw his mind in the direction in which it naturally tended. Germany was everywhere in a state of ferment; especially in the domain of ecclesiastical affairs, were new and difficult problems constantly presenting themselves. He was also repeatedly called upon by the authorities of various German States to supply them with Gutachten on difficulties that had arisen; and the opinions he gave carried great weight, because of the sound judgment, thorough conscientiousness, and reverential liberality which characterised them. One movement in particular greatly strengthened the inclination to which we are referring: we mean the secession from the Roman Catholic Church of Germany that took place under Ronge. He was not, however, carried away by it, as were many of his contemporaries, who hailed it as the harbinger of a new era in the history of the Christian Church. Its insignificance was clear to him from the very first. In a letter to his friend Schwab, he says sarcastically:—'The reformers of the nineteenth century have already passed through Heidelberg and Mannheim, doing a notable amount of eating and drinking and halloeing by the way.' An essay on the subject, published originally in the Studien for 1845, and afterwards as a pamphlet, contains much that bears forcibly on efforts that are now being made among ourselves to form churches or religious communities without either historical or doctrinal basis. In 1853, a post was offered to him, which seemed to meet the wish he had cherished, to be able to wield direct practical influence in ecclesiastical affairs. He was called to be PrÄlat of Baden. This office or dignity—to which nothing exactly corresponds in our own country—conferred on its holder a seat in the Upper Chamber of Deputies, as the representative of the Evangelical Church; but, singularly enough, did not necessarily make him a member of the Upper Ecclesiastical Council, so that his direct influence was more personal than official. Ullmann hesitated at first to sacrifice the quiet and independence of his University position, and the opportunities of free action which he largely enjoyed, possessing, as he did, the confidence of the better clergy throughout the country; but at length he yielded. Considerations, such as loyalty to his prince, disgust at the illiberal liberalism that was increasingly gaining the upper hand at Heidelberg, and perhaps, too, an unconscious stirring of ambition, influenced his decision; but the main reason, undoubtedly, was the one to which reference has already been made. Before making this change, he did as he had done when he consented to remove from Halle to Heidelberg, and his experience, as a man of a less idealistic turn of mind might have anticipated, was again the same. He stipulated for many alterations, both in the principles and methods of ecclesiastical procedure. Could the programme which he laid before the Grand Duke have been thoroughly carried out, a great reform would have been the consequence; but the programme was a professor's programme, and the professor was not the man to make it a reality. He soon found that bureaucratic redtapeism, vested interests, indifference, incapacity, not to mention intrigue and open opposition, were as common in the higher ecclesiastical as in the political circles, and as difficult to vanquish. In 1857, he was appointed to the office of Director of the Upper Ecclesiastical Council—a position equivalent, in some respects, to that of the Minister of Cultus in Prussia. The increase of honour brought an increase of care, but the increase of apparent power did not bring a corresponding increase of real power. He was associated with men who, besides being narrow bureaucrats, and having no sympathy with the higher interests of the Church, looked on Ullmann as a sort of interloper; the consequence being perpetual struggles and annoyance, without adequate compensation. Dislike to him personally began also to spread among the clergy, and the laity charged him with being a High Church reactionary. His difficulties culminated in the so-called Agenden-Streit, and in the disputes relating to the new constitution proposed for the Church; the upshot of the whole, being that, in 1860, he retired from office, broken in health, and almost broken in spirit. He was never able to resume independent literary work, though he did again undertake the direction of the Studien und Kritiken, which for several years had mainly devolved The faith that Ullmann had expounded and defended in life, sustained him in the decline of health and in the hour of death. In the autumn of 1863, both bodily and intellectual vigour began seriously to fail; and on the 12th of January, 1865, he died, surrounded by his family, and repeating to himself the closing words of that grand, but almost too moving hymn— 'O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden.' Art. II.—Aerial Voyages. Travels in the Air. By James Glaisher, F.R.S., Camille Flammarion, W. de Fonvielle, and Gaston Tissandier. Edited by James Glaisher, F.R.S. With 125 illustrations. London: Richard Bentley and Son. 1871. A few years ago a Frenchman, apostrophising the Genius of Humanity as none but a Frenchman can do, took the liberty of reproaching that metaphorical being for its extreme backwardness in one department of duty. He called upon it to 'march,' an injunction which his countrymen are so fond of issuing that they sometimes forget to tell you where, or to state the reason why. The present age, he intimated, demanded this movement: the coming generations would be greatly disappointed if it were not accomplished. 'One effort,' said he encouragingly to the Genius, 'and the future is thine (l'avenir t'appartient)!' The crooked places, he promised, should be made straight, and the rough ones delightfully smooth. There should be no more mountains (Pyrenees or otherwise), and the valleys should become as level as the plains! And what does the reader suppose was the duty in respect of which the genius in question was so shamefully in arrear? It was, says M. Farcot, in the matter of aerostation. How is it, asked this individual, somewhat sharply, that man, who is so anxious to conquer everything and everybody (except, we might add, himself), should not have made greater exertions to subdue the sole element which continues in a state of rebellion? How is it that a being who has such magnificent forces at command, and can traverse the ocean with an ease and a rapidity which the fleetest denizens of the deep cannot surpass, should suffer himself to be outstripped in the air by an insignificant fly? M. Farcot could not comprehend it; M. Farcot would not submit to it. He therefore offered his services to mankind as the precursor of a new era, in which the balloon was to become the prominent figure, and entreated the object of his invocation to wake up, and with a single bound to overleap the gulf that lay between it and its greatest triumphs. We are not in a position to state whether the genius in question listened favourably to M. Farcot's fervid appeal; but it is certain that his hopes have not yet been realized. The balloon has always appeared to possess such splendid capabilities that it is no wonder its admirers never weary of predicting a brilliant future for the machine. Considering the prominent part which Frenchmen have played in the history of aerostation, it will be readily understood that the apparatus commenced its career with a dash and Élan which led mankind to anticipate that it would accomplish marvellous things, and become one of the foremost agents in the great work of civilization. Our lively neighbours, ever on the alert for glory until their recent misfortunes, and probably so still, were charmed with the idea of conquering a new region, though it contained nothing but clouds, and were by no means insensible to the vanity of riding in the air, though in most cases they went up, like their famous sovereign, simply to come down again. Many years have elapsed—nearly a century—since PilÂtre de Rozier and the Marquis d'Arlandes made their daring voyage into the atmosphere in the car of a fire-balloon, this being the first excursion ever attempted by living creatures, if we except three anonymous animals, a sheep, a duck, and a cock, which were sent up in the previous month, and returned in safety to the earth. But as yet, though the machine has rendered considerable service to science, and will doubtless assist in the solution of many interesting problems, it is a thing of promise rather than of performance. It is still in a rudimentary state, and should be received, says M. Glaisher, simply 'as the first principle of some aerial instrument which remains to be suggested.' Potentially, it may include the germ of some great invention, just as Hiero's eolipile and Lord Worcester's 'water-commanding' engine contained a prophecy of the most masterly of human machines—the steam giants of Watt. But to apply the well-known metaphor of Franklin, when Within the last twelve months, however, this largest of human toys—the plaything of pleasure seekers, and the cynosure of all eyes at fÊtes and tea-gardens—has been converted into a useful machine, though under the pressure of circumstances which every philanthropist must deeply deplore. Of course, when the balloon was presented to mankind, one of the first thoughts which suggested itself to our combative race was this—'Can we turn it to any account in war? Will it assist us in killing our enemies, or capturing their fortresses?' And when we remember that the machine was reared amongst the most military people in Europe, can we doubt that as Napoleon's great question respecting the Simplon road was, whether it would carry cannon, so the chief point with a Frenchman would be, whether a balloon could be rendered of any service in a battle? Not many years were suffered to elapse before regular experiments were instituted with this view. An aerostatic school was established at Meudon, a company of aeronauts, under the command of Colonel Coutelle, was formed, and a number of balloons constructed by CoutÉ were distributed amongst the divisions of the French army, not even forgetting the troops despatched to Egypt. At the sieges of Maubeuge, Charleroi, Mannheim, and Ehrenbreitstein the invention was found to be of some value for purposes of reconnoitring; and previous to the battle of Fleurus, Coutelle and an officer spent several hours in the air, studying the positions of the Austrians, and this with such effect that their information materially assisted General Jourdan in gaining the victory. The machine was, of course, held captive during the process, but its tether was easily extended by means of a windlass, and thus the occupants were enabled to soar above the enemy's fire. More than once it has been proposed to build huge balloons, and freight them with shells and other missiles, which might be conveniently dropped down upon a hostile corps, or 'plumped' into the midst of a beleaguered town. With a view to the demolition of the fortress of St. Juan de Ulloa, during the war between Mexico and the United States, Mr. Wise suggested the construction of an enormous air-ship, which was to carry up a quantity of bombs and torpedoes, and, whilst securely moored in the atmosphere by means of a cable several miles in length, it would be in a position to rain down death upon the devoted place. To its honour, however, the American Government declined the use of such an aerial battery. Fortunately—we think we may say fortunately—for the interests of mankind, the balloon has not succeeded to any considerable extent as a military machine. Even the Jesuit Lana felt inclined to weep over his abortive project (he did pray over it) when he considered how easy it would be for warlike marauders to set the stoutest walls and ramparts at defiance, and to hurl destruction into any city they might select. Let us hope that the balloon is destined for more pacific purposes. The range of modern guns, and the difficulty of manoeuvring so rudderless an apparatus, seem to cut it off from a career of glory. If employed for purposes of reconnoitring purely, and kept in a captive condition, it may occasionally render service by darting suddenly into the atmosphere, and taking a glimpse of the enemy's position or movements. But, then, a tethered balloon, as M. de Fonvielle intimates, belongs neither to the air nor the earth; it is a creature compelled to serve two masters, and therefore cannot do its duty to either; but, whilst attempting to obey the commands of its rulers below, it is forced to yield to the caprice of the breezes above. If free, asks M. Simonin, and if the wind were everything the aerial heroes could wish; if, moreover, the balloon, charged with the most formidable fulminates, were carried direct to the hostile camp, could they expect to find the enemy massed for a review or a manoeuvre precisely at the spot over which they sailed, and could they time their discharges so beautifully, having due regard to the speed of the machine, that their projectiles should explode at the most fitting moment for damaging their foes? Happily, in neither of the two greatest struggles of recent times—how recent none need say, for the scent of blood is yet on the soil of Virginia, and the bones of Teuton and Gaul still lie blended on the fields of France—has the balloon brought itself into formidable confederacy with Krupp cannon or the murderous mittrailleuse. War, however, the greatest of scourges, is sometimes compelled, in the good providence of God, to yield an incidental harvest of blessings. Liberty has often been entrusted to the keeping of the bayonet, and civilization has more than once depended upon the explosive virtues of charcoal and saltpetre. It is not impossible that the recent investment of Paris may ultimately lead to the development of aerial navigation on a scale which would gladden the heart of M. Farcot, and almost satisfy the expectations of some of the greatest enthusiasts in the art. We allude, of course, to the employment of the balloon for postal purposes. Let us now attempt an imaginary voyage through the air, availing ourselves as much as possible of the experience of the gentlemen whose excursions are chronicled in the work which heads this article. A more attractive volume cannot well be imagined. It is the production of one Englishman and three Frenchmen. Mr. Glaisher is well known, in companionship with Mr. Coxwell, as our greatest authority on the subject. All his visits to the clouds have been for scientific purposes, and if the question, Quis crederet unquam Aerias hominem carpere posse vias? could be put in reference to any man, it might surely be applied to him, for he has had the honour of ascending higher than any other mortal from Icarus to Gay-Lussac. MM. Flammarion, Fonvielle, and Tissandier are all enthusiasts in the matter of ballooning; the second of these gentlemen having expressed his willingness to be shot up into the air in connection with a sky-rocket, provided its projectile force could be duly regulated and a proper parachute were attached. In the narratives of their numerous ascents, there is necessarily some degree of sameness; but the whole are not only thoroughly readable, but thoroughly enjoyable to the last. The illustrations to the book are really superb. As a mere portfolio of sky-sketches, it is well worth the price. Not unreasonably indeed, one of the writers expresses his hope that the work will form a kind of epoch in the history of the subject, 'for it is the first time that artists have gone up in balloons for the purpose of familiarizing the eyes of the public with a series of aerial scenes.' We have charts of triple texture, showing, first, the path of the machine through the air; secondly, the geography of the country over which it passed; and thirdly, the gradations of light and darkness during the expedition, these being so arranged as to answer point for point. We have also pictures in which the balloon is seen in almost every phase of adventure—sweeping through the clouds, plodding through the snow, cruising amongst the stars by night, exploding in the sky, plunging into the sea, dragging on the ground, caught in the trees, stranded amongst the sheepfolds, or tumbling upon the coast and struggling madly to escape the pursuing billows. But we have also some gorgeous views of cloud-land, with its marvellous scenery; now silvered with the pale radiance of the moon or the stars, now drenched in the golden glories of the setting sun—at Before we start, however, the great question is, Dare we start at all? Well might the first aerial navigator, like the anonymous hero qui fragilem, truci commisit pelago ratem primus, shudder at his own audacity as he launched his miserable vessel upon the untraversed deep. When it was first determined to send up some human beings to the clouds in a Montgolfier, it was by no means an unnatural suggestion that the experiment should be tried upon a couple of criminals; but French valour would not permit even French rascality to carry off the honour of the exploit, and PilÂtre de Rozier indignantly protested that vile malefactors ought not to have 'the glory of being the first to rise in the air.' Brave men, however, whose courage could not be impeached even in the fieriest hour of battle, have been known to shrink from a balloon when they would have calmly faced a battery. A gallant field-marshal, says Flammarion, 'who had never hesitated to advance through the discharge of cannon and musketry,' declared more than once that he would not, for a whole empire, ascend even in a captive machine! On the other hand, it is related of an old woman (who had been an inmate of Lambeth workhouse for forty years, and who, on losing her son at the age of seventy-five, exclaimed, 'I felt sure I should never bring up that poor child!') that being asked on her hundredth birthday what treat she would like by way of celebrating the occasion, the ancient female decided upon an excursion in the great balloon then tethered at Chelsea. Her wish was granted, and she enjoyed a ride in the atmosphere at the foot of this huge floating gasometer, which was fettered to the earth by a cable of two thousand feet in length. The fair sex, indeed, have never exhibited much timidity in dealing with balloons. Out of the seven hundred persons carried up in the air at various times by the veteran Green, not less than one hundred and twenty were females. 'If,' hinted he to Fonvielle, 'you wish balloons to become popular in France, begin by taking women in them; men will be sure to follow!' Does not this accord to the letter with George Stephenson's dictum, that feminine influence would draw a man from the other side of the globe when nothing else would move him? Not that we think the advice was specially needed for France, for the first lady who made an ascent was a Frenchwoman, Mme. ThiblÉ; and the first lady who met her death on an aerial excursion was Mme. Blanchard, who belonged to the same nation. First of all, then, we ought to see the balloon before it is inflated. There it lies, a vast expanse of varnished silk, or calico, or india-rubber cloth, enveloped in netting, and covering many a square yard of ground with its flabby, crumpled form. Nothing more lifeless and uninteresting can well be conceived than the huge shape which, in a short time, will lift itself by degrees from the soil, like a giant creeping gradually into consciousness, and then standing erect in all the pride of its newly-discovered powers, will expand into one of the most stately and picturesque machines ever invented by man. It is even possible to sympathise with M. Flammarion in his heroics when he imagines an aeronaut addressing it in language of mingled insult and adulation:— "Inert and formless thing, that I can now trample under my feet, that I can tear with my hands, here stretched dead upon the ground—my perfect slave—I am about to give thee life, that thou mayest become my sovereign! In the height of my generosity I shall make thee even greater than myself! O vile and powerless thing! I shall abandon myself to thy majesty, O creature of my hands, and thou shalt carry my kingdom unto thine own element, which I have created for thee; thou shalt fly off to the regions of storms and tempests, and I shall be forced to follow thee! I shall become thy plaything; thou shalt do what thou wilt with me, and forget that I gave thee life!" For many reasons, carburetted hydrogen, or coal gas, is the agent employed to give levity to the machine. In the earlier days of aerostation, hydrogen presented strong temptations. It is the lightest of the gases, being upwards of fourteen times rarer than atmospheric air, and therefore it was naturally regarded as the element best fitted to do man's bidding, and to drag him nearest to the stars. But hydrogen is an expensive article, and needs an elaborate apparatus for its production, whereas coal gas is burnt in every civilized street, and may be obtained in any quantity by connecting a flexible tube with the nearest tap. In the still darker ages of aeronautic science, it is well known that heated air was the element employed; and, going back into yet more benighted times, we find that Father Lana proposed to give buoyancy to copper globes Let us now enter the car. The huge monster above us is swaying to and fro in the breeze, and struggling for freedom like some giant soul which has done its work on earth and is eager to reach its native skies. The cords which hold us captive are loosed, and, as if by instinct, we grasp the nearest rope, or hold fast to the wicker work, to secure ourselves from the effects of our sudden translation—we might almost say projection—through the air. But the first feeling is one of surprise. We find ourselves perfectly stationary, whilst, strange to say, the earth—the great solid globe on which we recently stood, with all its towers and temples, its gazing crowds and spreading landscapes—is seen shooting downwards in space with frightful velocity! Worse still, glancing upwards, the sky appears to be falling, as if the ceiling of the universe had given way; and yonder big dark cloud, which seemed to be motionless when we took our seat, is now tumbling headlong upon us, and will, infallibly, crush our balloon like a moth. It requires some little consideration to correct this delusion, and satisfy ourselves that here, as in many of the moral and social phenomena of life, the change is in us, and not in the world itself. As we rise, the view below grows more expansive, but, at the same time, it appears to flatten. The hills are planed down, the valleys are filled up, and the rich undulations and inequalities which contribute so much to the picturesque are in a great measure lost to the aerial eye. We seem to be hovering over a huge, variegated ordnance map, tinted for the most part with green; its rivers looking like silver ribbons, its railways like ruled lines, its woods represented by patches of verdure, and its towns exhibiting grooves or gutters for streets, and kitchen areas for squares. This effect is the more striking when we look perpendicularly down upon tall, slender objects like steeples, pillars, or elevated statues. The Monument of London becomes a mere gilded speck on the pavement. The hapless column in the Place VendÔme, now overthrown by the hands of Frenchmen themselves, was described by an aeronaut as a kind of 'pin stuck head downwards in a cushion.' A view of the statue of Napoleon, as seen from on high, is given by M. Flammarion, and presents a ludicrous picture, the figure being crushed into a sort of black amorphous lump, which would be utterly unintelligible were it not that the shadow exhibits something of the human form, and not inaptly suggests some strong reflections respecting the fallen fortunes of the imperial dynasty. In fact, the landscape seems to be flattened as if some great roller had passed over it, and ironed out all the prominences in order to reduce it to one vast plain. This appearance may be qualified by another, which, however, is not visible to every voyager. Without going so far as to imagine that the earth will display any portion of its convexity, we certainly should not expect it to assume a concave aspect to the eye. Yet, for the same reason that the sky above us looks like a great vault, and that the clouds overhead slope down towards the horizon, if sufficiently extended, the landscape beneath us should appear to be similarly hollowed were it surveyed from a corresponding elevation. In some degree, and to some susceptible minds, this curious impression is realized in a balloon. The central parts of the expanse below seem to sink and assume a dish-like form, so that, as M. Flammarion observes, we float between two vast concavities, the blue dome of heaven resting upon the green and shallow but inverted dome of earth. But can we witness all this without a sensation of giddiness? Is not our enjoyment of the scene marred by a strong disposition to vertigo, such as is natural to human heads when raised to perilous altitudes? This tendency, however, is far less prevalent than might be expected in the car of a balloon. Professor Jacobi, who could not look down from a lofty building without dizziness, made his first, perhaps his only ascent without experiencing the least swimming of the brain. The chief feeling of an aeronaut, according to M. Simonin, is one of elation; his sense of individuality becoming so triumphant that he glances down upon the poor wretched globe he has left grovelling in its sins and sorrows, with a species of pity which is probably very much akin to contempt! But this sentiment, according to M. Flammarion, may be combined with another of a much more equivocal description. 'I also felt,' says this gentleman, 'a vague desire to throw myself out of the balloon. Though feeling convinced that it would be certain death, I was under the influence of a mild temptation to allow myself to fall, and my death became, for the moment, a matter of indifference to me.' The lofty air with which this is written, and the supreme nonchalance displayed, are eminently We continue rising. The balloon will, of course, persist in doing so until the weight of the included gas and of the entire apparatus exactly balances an equal bulk of the surrounding air. Starting from the earth with all its buoyant power in hand, it would soon acquire a considerable momentum were it not controlled by the resistance of the atmosphere, which reduces its motion to a steady, uniform ascent. This presumes, however, that nothing transpires to alter its gravity. The addition of a few rain-drops to the machine would infallibly slacken its speed, whilst the fall overboard of one of the passengers would convert it for the time into a runaway balloon. When Mr. Cocking severed his parachute from the great Nassau, the latter, huge as it was, bounded aloft with such swiftness that whilst the poor fellow was descending to death, the two aeronauts seemed to be mounting to destruction, either by the bursting of the balloon or the stifling emission of gas. In another way, also, too rapid a start may lead to dangerous consequences. In 1850, MM. Bixio and Barral took their places in the car of a balloon inflated with pure hydrogen. Their object in using this lightest of all aerial fluids was to climb to an elevation of thirty or forty thousand feet; but not having made due allowance for its buoyancy, the machine, when released, shot through the air like a ball from a gun. The envelope expanded so rapidly that it bulged down upon the aeronauts and shrouded them completely, the car being slung at too slight a distance below. Struggling like men beneath a fallen tent, one of them, in his endeavours to extricate himself, tore a hole in the great bag, from which the gas poured upon them, producing illness and threatening suffocation. Precipitately they began to sink, and it was only by tossing everything overboard that they succeeded in landing safely on the earth. They had traversed a bed of clouds 9,000 feet in thickness, reached a height of 19,000 feet, and then performed the return journey all in the space of little more than three quarters of an hour. Higher and higher we mount. Shall not we knock our sublime heads against the stars, if we continue to ascend in this indefinite way? How rapidly we move, and what curious effects vertical travelling may involve, a single illustration will suggest. Aeronauts may enjoy a spectacle which, at the first mention, might almost recall the retrograde movement of the solar shadow on the dial of Ahaz—namely, that of two sunsets in one day. An early balloonist, M. Charles, was very much impressed by this vision. When he left the earth for an evening excursion, the great luminary had just disappeared, but, said the Frenchman, proudly, 'he rose again for me alone!' 'I had the pleasure of seeing him set twice on the same day.' For was the spectacle such as the dwellers on the soil may command, by permitting the orb to sink behind some elevation, and then mounting it so as to bring him again into view—thus playing at bo-peep with the lord of day. For, continued M. Charles, still more proudly, 'I was the only illuminated object; all the rest of nature being plunged into shadow!' But now, looking aloft, we observe a mass of clouds, towards which we are rapidly speeding. There are mountains of snow and great threatening rocks, against which it seems as if our fragile vessel would inevitably be dashed. The novice in aerial navigation almost instinctively holds his breath as he sees the distance narrowing between his frail skiff and these frowning piles, and awaits the awful collision. But they open as if by magic, and the balloon glides into the midst without a shock, or a tremor in its frame. We are then enveloped for a time in a sort of obscurity, but we have nothing to fear, for the machine might travel blindfold without dread of the slightest obstruction in these pathless expanses. Destitute of every object which could serve as a guide, we proceed until we emerge into sunshine once more, and then, looking down, we see the clouds through which we have entered closing like a trap-door after us, and shutting us out from the dear old world, where we lead such a life of charmed misery. Sometimes, however, it seems impossible to rise above the 'smoke and stir of this dim spot, which men call earth.' In an ascent from Wolverton, in June, 1863, Mr. Glaisher passed through an extraordinary succession of fogs and showers and rain-clouds; and though he soared to a height of 23,000 feet, the balloon was unable to extricate itself from its earthly entanglements. Following a fine rain came a dry fog, which continued for some distance; this traversed, the aeronauts entered a wetting fog, and subsequently a dry one again. When three miles in height, they imagined It is not often, however, that the atmosphere is in this nebulous condition throughout so large a portion of its depth. For days together terrestrials may be enveloped in fog and rain, and in that case must wait patiently until the clouds please to roll off, and drench some other locality; but if at such seasons we were to jump into a balloon, we might soon pass out of the watery zone and soar into the jocund sunshine. Continuing our ascent, therefore, through the dense tract of moisture we first entered, our machine at last lifts its head joyously above the surface, and shaking off the cloudy spray, bounds into a new sphere, where the great giver of light glows with unadulterated ray. We are, in fact, in a new world. We are completely cut off from our native earth by a huge continent of vapour, which appears to have been suddenly petrified into rock. 'Above our heads,' writes Mr. Glaisher, 'rises a noble roof, a vast dome of the deepest blue. In the east may perhaps be seen the tints of a rainbow on the point of vanishing; in the west, the sun silvering the edges of broken clouds. Below these light vapours may rise a chain of mountains, the Alps of the sky, rearing themselves one above the other, mountain above mountain, till the highest peaks are coloured by the setting sun. Some of these compact masses look as if ravaged by avalanches, or rent by the irresistible movement of glaciers. Some clouds seem built up of quartz, or even diamonds: some, like immense cones, boldly rise upwards; others resemble pyramids whose sides are in rough outline. These scenes are so varied and beautiful that we feel we could remain for ever to wander above these boundless plains.' As we ascend, however, a serious question comes into play. To the first adventurer we may suppose that it would present itself with alarming force. Shall we be able to breathe safely in yonder upper regions, where the air is so thin that the lungs must work 'double shift,' as it were, to procure their necessary supply? At the earth's surface, it is well known that the atmosphere presses upon every square inch with a force of from fourteen to fifteen pounds. A column of air forty miles in height resting upon a man's hat, would, of course, crush it flat upon his head in a moment, were it not for an equal resistance within; and, but for the same cause (the equal diffusion of pressure at the same level), we should all go staggering along under our burden of thirty thousand pounds—such is our share of the atmospheric load—or, if laid prostrate, should find ourselves incapable of rising. But of course the pressure grows smaller as we ascend, for the simple reason that the height of the column above us continually decreases. Seeing, moreover, that we are adapted by our organization to existence at the bottom of this aerial ocean, it is natural to expect that at considerable elevations some sensible disturbance of our functions will ensue. At the height of three miles and three-quarters the barometer, which stands at about thirty inches at the level of the sea, has sunk to fifteen inches, exhibiting a pressure of some seven-and-a-half pounds to the square inch, and showing that as much of the atmosphere in weight is below us as there is above. Reaching an elevation of between five and six miles, the mercury would be found to mark ten inches only, representing a pressure of five pounds to the square inch, and proving that two-thirds of the aerial ocean had been surmounted, leaving a thin third alone to be traversed. The following table, as given by Mr. Glaisher, will, however, best express this decline of density:— 'At the height of 1 mile the barometer reading is 24·7 in. One indication of increasing rarity in the air is to be found in the lowering of the point at which water boils. On the surface of the earth ebullition takes place, as is well known, at 212° Fahr.; but at the top of a mountain like Mont Blanc, where the pressure is so much lightened, and the liquid therefore encounters so much less resistance to its vaporous propensities, it will pass into steam at a temperature of about 178°. At still greater elevations this point becomes so ridiculously reduced—if the expression may be employed—that we might plunge our hand into the fluid when in full simmer, or drink it in the form of tea when absolutely boiling. Of course, under such circumstances, it would be impossible to extract Another little circumstance is very significant. In opening a flask of pure water at the earth's surface, we should not expect the cork to fly out with an explosion as if it were a flask of Clicquot's sprightliest champagne; but this is what occurs when we reach an altitude where the external pressure is slight compared with the spring of the imprisoned air. In dealing with a bottle of frisky porter or highly impatient soda-water, it may be well to act cautiously, lest the cork should go like a shot through the envelope of the balloon; and in drinking the contents it will be wise to wait till the effervescence has subsided, lest the same results should arise as those which were experienced by the Siamese king, when, instead of mixing his soda powders in his goblet, he put the acid and the alkali separately into his stomach, and left them to settle their affinities there. Whilst urging his way aloft, therefore, the novice will probably call to mind some of the accounts he has read of poor animals which have been tormented and philosophically murdered in the receiver of an air-pump. He will remember how miserable butterflies and other insects have been unable to use their wings, and, after a few flutterings, have fallen motionless; or how helpless mice, after gasping for a time in hopeless distress, have expired, unwilling martyrs to science. And can he enter such an attenuated atmosphere as the one above him without undergoing some of their agonies, though in a milder and less fatal form? For, on ascending a lofty mountain, the traveller is soon reminded that his lungs are dealing with a much thinner fluid than they inhaled below. Long before he reaches the summit he finds that his drafts upon the atmosphere are increased in consequence of its tenuity, and that the requisite supply can only be obtained with much pulmonary toil. His head begins to ache, a feeling of nausea is frequently induced, and sometimes he experiences the taste of blood in the mouth, or the scent of the same fluid in the nostrils. With throbbing temples and tottering limbs, he drags himself to the peak, and then probably throws himself upon the rock utterly exhausted, his first sentiment being one of relief that the ascent is well over, and his next one of regret that the descent is not already accomplished. But in estimating the results in such a case, we must remember the great physical exertion which has been incurred. Every traveller who plants himself upon the summit of the DÔme du GoutÉ must have lifted as many pounds avoirdupois as he weighs, to say nothing of his baggage and personal accoutrements, to a height of some 15,000 feet in the atmosphere by the sheer force of his own muscles. To carry one's own body about is scarcely regarded as porter's work, but what particularly stout man would ever dream of reaching the Grand Plateau, or even attempt to scale the Great Pyramid, without a troop of attendants to drag him to the top? In a balloon, however, all this expenditure of strength is spared. The aeronaut arrives at an elevation far higher than the tallest peak in Europe without squandering as much force as would be required to grind an ounce of coffee. Here, therefore, the influences of rarefied air may be tested without any of the complications arising from previous fatigue or present muscular exhaustion. Now, the results, as noted by different voyagers, are by no means accordant. In his first ascent, Mr. Glaisher found his pulse throbbing at the rate of a hundred per minute, when he had reached a height of 18,844 feet. At 19,415 feet, his heart began to palpitate audibly. At 19,435, it was beating more vehemently, his pulse had accelerated its pace, his hands and lips were dyed of a dark bluish hue, and it was with great difficulty that he could read his philosophical instruments. At 21,792 feet (upwards of four miles), he seemed to lose the power of making the requisite observations, and a feeling analogous to sea-sickness stole over him, though there was no heaving or rolling in the balloon. Of course, we may well suppose that different individuals will be differently affected. There are some terrestrials who suffer little from sea-sickness, whilst there are others who can scarcely cross the bar of a river without incurring the agonies of that abominable complaint. But Mr. Glaisher seems to be of opinion that the balloon voyager may speedily master the maladie de l'air, and become quite at home at any elevation hitherto attained. It is a matter of simple acclimatization. In his own case, he found that he could breathe without inconvenience at a height of three or four miles, whereas his first sallies into that region, as we have seen, were productive of considerable discomfort; and though he regards an altitude of six or seven miles as the frontier line of natural respiration, with a possible reserve in favour of its extension, he hints that artificial appliances may, perhaps, be devised for freighting the aerostat with There is another enemy, however, to encounter, and it is probably to this more than to the attenuation of the air that the painful effects in question are attributable. We allude to the extreme cold of the upper skies. The atmosphere has its polar regions as well as the earth. There frost builds no solid barriers it is true, but his invisible ramparts are a surer defence against intrusion than bulwarks of granite. Even at a height of three or four miles, explorers are apt to find their extremities benumbed, and their faces turning purple or blue. In a night ascent in 1804, Count Zambeccari, who subsequently met his death in consequence of his balloon taking fire, was so severely handled by the frost that he lost the use of his fingers, and was compelled to have some of them amputated. On one occasion, Mr. Coxwell, having laid hold of the grapnel with his naked hand, cried out in pain that he was scalded, which is precisely the punishment inflicted by metallic objects upon all who grasp them incautiously in arctic latitudes, when the temperature is exceedingly low. Combining, therefore, these two causes, the rarefaction of the upper air, and the crushing influences of frost, we may readily understand why so many bold adventurers have been smitten with asphyxia when pushing their way into such untrodden solitudes. When Andreoli and Brioschi ascended from Padua, in 1808, to a prodigious height, the latter sank into a state of torpor, and shortly afterwards the former found that he had lost the use of his left arm. In the instance already alluded to, when Zambeccari was so mangled by the cold, he and Dr. Grassetti both became insensible, and their companion alone retained the control of his faculties. On one memorable occasion, Mr. Glaisher and Mr. Coxwell rose to a region which had certainly never been visited before, and most probably will not be speedily visited again. The precise elevation they reached could only be guessed, but it could scarcely be less than 35,000 feet, and might possibly extend to 37,000 feet, or seven miles. This famous ascent was made in 1862 from Wolverhampton. When the aeronauts had soared to a height of some 29,000 feet, about five-and-a-half miles, Mr. Glaisher suddenly discovered that one arm was powerless, and when he tried to move the other, it proved to have been as suddenly stripped of its strength. He then endeavoured to shake himself, but, strange to say, he seemed to possess no limbs. His head fell on his left shoulder, and on his struggling to place it erect, it reeled over to the right. Then his body sank backwards against the side of the car, whilst one arm hung helplessly downwards in the air. In a moment more, he found that all the muscular power which remained in his neck and back had deserted him at a stroke. He tried to speak to his companion, but the power of speech had departed as well. Sight still continued, though dimly; but this, too, speedily vanished, and darkness, black as midnight, drowned his vision in an instant. Whether hearing survived, he could not tell, for there was no sound to break the silence of those lofty solitudes. Consciousness certainly remained; but the mind had ceased to control the body, and the reins of power seemed to have slipped for ever from his grasp. Was this the way men died? And did one faculty after another desert the soul in its extremity, as servile courtiers steal away from the presence of royalty when its last hour has arrived? Soon afterwards consciousness itself disappeared. Fortunately, this insensibility was not of long duration. He was roused by Mr. Coxwell, but, at first, could only hear a voice exhorting him to 'try.' Not a word could he speak, not an object could he see, not a limb could he move. In a while, however, sight returned; shortly afterwards he rose from his seat, and then found sufficient tongue to exclaim, 'I have been insensible!' 'You have,' was the reply; 'and I too, very nearly!' At the time Mr. Glaisher was smitten with paralysis, Mr. Coxwell had climbed up to the ring of the balloon, in order to free the valve-rope, which had become entangled. There, his hands were so frozen that he lost the use of them, and was compelled to drop down into the car. His fingers were not simply blue, but positively black with cold, and it became necessary to pour brandy over them to restore the circulation. Observing on his return that Mr. Glaisher's countenance was devoid of animation, he spoke to him, but, receiving no reply, at once drew the conclusion that his companion was in a state of utter unconsciousness. He endeavoured to approach, but found that he himself was lapsing into the same condition. With wonderful presence of mind, however, he attempted to open the valve of the balloon, in order that they might escape from this We proceed. We are now cruising in the full glare of the sun. The rays of that luminary beat upon us with scorching force; but whilst the head seems to be in the Sahara, the feet may be in Spitzbergen. For here, as on the top of a snow-clad mountain, the temperature of the air is one thing, the direct heat of the sun is quite another. The difference may amount to thirty or forty degrees in an ordinary ascent, and of course, becomes more noticeable the higher the flight. The thin air and scanty vapour of the upper regions furnish us with flimsy clothing; whilst in the nether world we wrap the dense medium round us like a mantle, and keep our caloric within our frames. Is there any law, however, by which the decrease of temperature can be expressed? Seeing that the atmosphere is divided, as it were, into various storeys, these being formed of changing currents, or fugitive strata of clouds, each with its peculiar charge of heat, is it possible that any fixed principle of decline can be detected? Take a few results. On leaving the ground, where the temperature was 50° (in the afternoon of the 31st of March, 1863), the thermometer indicated 33½° at one mile, 26° at two miles, 14° at three miles, 8° at 3¾ miles, where a bed of air heated to 12° was entered, and then at an elevation of 4½ miles, the instrument had fallen to zero. In descending, the temperature rose to 11° at about three miles in height, it sank to 7° in passing a cold layer, afterwards increased to 18½° at two miles, to 25½° at one mile, and finally settled at 42° on the ground. Again, on starting (17th July, 1862), the temperature at the surface was 59°, at 4,000 feet, it was 45°, and at 10,000 feet it had sunk to 26°. For the next 3,000 feet it remained stationary, during which time the aeronauts donned additional clothing, in anticipation of a severe interview with the Frost King; but to their great surprise, the thermometer rose to 31° at 15,500 feet, and to 42° at 19,500 feet, by which time they found it necessary to divest themselves of their winter habiliments. Sometimes, indeed, the changes of temperature experienced are startling and unaccountable. At an elevation of 20,000 feet, Barral and Bixio, whilst enveloped in a cloud, found their thermometer at 15° Fahr. Above this cloud, at a height of 23,127 feet, the instrument had sunk to 38° below zero, making a difference of not less than 54° of heat between the two points. Judging from this observation, might we not expect to find all the moisture at those cheerless altitudes curdled into ice? and if our globe is sheathed in an envelope of frozen particles, is the fact wholly without meaning in reference to the aurora and other meteorological phenomena? From such capricious data, it would seem impossible to extract any definite law; but it has been assumed by many that, taking all things into account, the temperature decreases one degree for every 300 feet of elevation. Putting the matter more exactly, there is, according to Flammarion, a mean abatement of one degree for every 345 feet where the sky is clear, and of one degree for every 354 feet when the heavens are overcast; the decline being quicker when the day is hot than when it is cold, and in the evening than in the morning. Mr. Glaisher, however, feels himself compelled to repudiate this theory of a steady, constant diminution of heat. The results of all his midday experiments amounted to this:— 'The change from the ground to 1,000 feet high was 4° 5´ with a cloudy sky, and 6° 2´ with a clear sky. At 10,000 feet high it was 2° 2´ with a cloudy sky, and 2° with a clear sky. At 20,000 feet high the decline of temperature was 1° 1´ with a cloudy sky, and 1° 2´ with a clear sky. At 30,000 feet the whole decline of temperature was found to be 62°. Within the first 1,000 feet the average space passed through for 1° was 223 feet with a cloudy sky, and 162 feet with a clear sky. At 10,000 feet the space passed through for a like decline was 455 feet for the former, and 417 feet for the latter; and above 20,000 feet high the space with both states of the sky was 1,000 feet nearly for a decline of 1°. As regards the law just indicated, it is far more natural and far more consistent than that of a uniform rate of decrease.' It should be carefully observed that these conclusions refer to ascents by day; and that by night the temperature augments Scarcely less interesting is the question as to the moisture in the atmosphere. Does it decline according to any graduated law? From a large number of observations it has been concluded that the watery vapour increases up to a certain elevation (varying with the season of the year, the hour of the day, and the condition of the sky), and then, having reached this maximum, we find that the air grows continually drier the further we climb. Upon this simple fact much of the physical happiness of our globe depends, for it is the moisture in the lower regions which arrests the efflux of caloric, preserves it for home consumption, and assists the earth in the kindly production of its fruits. Meanwhile, the rays of the sun playing with unchecked fervour upon the balloon, have been heating and expanding the gas. Lightened also by the dissipation of the moisture contracted in the cloudier portion of the ascent, it probably occurs to the voyager, particularly if he is prone to take alarming views of events, that as the machine rises into a rarer atmosphere the envelope may distend until it actually bursts. Nor is this apprehension, however painful to the nerves, wholly without foundation. Looking up at the flimsy globe above his head, he will observe that it is now fully inflated, though purposely left somewhat flaccid when the journey commenced; and, possibly, he may observe signs of the sun's action on its sides, as if it were blistering under the solar beams. Brioschi, the Neapolitan astronomer, wishing to soar higher than Gay-Lussac, who had reached 23,000 feet on his way to the stars, was stopped on his ambitious flight, as Icarus had been before him, by getting too near the sun. He had no wings to melt, it is true, but he had a balloon to rupture, and the swollen tissue accordingly gave way, though, happily, without involving him in the fate of the presumptuous youth. Will it be credited, however, that any aeronaut could deliberately make an ascent with the express intention of bursting his balloon himself? Yet this has been done without pre-engaging a coroner, and without the slightest wish to commit scientific suicide. The individual by whom this perilous experiment was performed was Mr. Wise, the American. He argued that if the explosion were neatly managed, the collapsing envelope would act as a sort of parachute, the lower part retreating into the upper, and forming a concavity which would present sufficient resistance to ensure a safe and steady descent. Nor were his expectations wholly disappointed. Having risen through a thunderstorm to a height of 13,000 feet, he fired his magazine of hydrogen gas. The car rushed down with awful rapidity, supported, however, by the relics, like a torn umbrella, and alighted upon the ground without inflicting any great violence upon the daring navigator. Not many weeks afterwards, he repeated the exploit, if such it may be called, and in exploding the gas tore the silk receptacle from top to bottom; but, with equal good fortune, he arrived at the earth without a broken limb, the machine having taken a spiral course in falling, which enabled him to descend with uniform velocity. Having now reached the highest point to which our aerostat will mount so long as its weight continues unchanged, we surrender ourselves to the guidance of the current in which we are involved. In rising to a moderate elevation, a balloon will sometimes shoot through more than one of these aerial streams. Mr. Foster detected the existence of four distinct currents in one experiment, namely, from the E.N.E., N., S.W., and S.S.E., and on the following day found there were three, namely, from the E.N.E., S.E., and S.S.W. Sometimes an upper and an under current may move in opposite directions. Had it not been for this fact, M. Tissandier's dÉbut in the clouds might have terminated in his death in the ocean. Ascending with M. Duruof from Calais under somewhat rash and defiant circumstances, their balloon was borne out to sea, not towards the English coast, which might, perhaps, have been reached, but right up the North Sea, where they would probably have perished. Fortunately, after proceeding for some distance, they observed a fleet of cumuli steering for Calais at a depth of some 3,000 feet below, and by dropping into this counter stream they were floated back to land. There is no subject of greater moment to aeronauts than the determination of the atmospheric currents. Upon this question in a great measure depends the utility of ballooning as an art. We should certainly consider that ocean navigation was in a despicable condition if the utmost we could do for a vessel was to commit it, preciously freighted with our own persons, to the wind and waves, without a sail to propel it or a rudder to guide it in any particular direction. Yet this is pretty much the state of aerial seamanship, except for purposes of vertical travelling. If it could be ascertained that streams flowed to different quarters at different elevations—river rolling over river—then it might be easy to book our balloon for some special point of the compass. But the atmosphere is comparatively unexplored in this respect, and it will require long study That there is some degree of certainty in air-currents may be indicated by a curious fact mentioned by Flammarion, namely, that the traces of his various voyages are all represented by lines which had a tendency to curve in one and the same general direction. 'Thus,' says he, 'on the 23rd June, 1867, the balloon started with a north wind directly towards the south-south-west, and, after a while, due south-west, when we descended. A similar result was observed in every excursion, and the fact led me to believe that above the soil of France the currents of the atmosphere are constantly deviated circularly, and in a south-west-north-east-south direction.' Still more curious is a fact which Mr. Glaisher may be said to have discovered. We are accustomed to talk much of the Gulf Stream. It is as popular a marine phenomenon as the Great Sea Serpent. For some time it has figured in meteorology as the subtle agent to which all climatic eccentricities, and not a few climatic advantages, are ascribed; but what shall we say to a genuine 'aeria Gulf Stream?' What, to a stream flowing through the atmosphere in kindly correspondence with the beneficent current which sweeps through the Atlantic below? On the 12th January, 1864, Mr. Glaisher left the earth, where a south-east wind was prevailing. At a height of 1,300 feet he was surprised to enter a warm current, 3,000 feet in thickness, which was flowing from the south-west, that is, in the direction of the Gulf Stream itself. At the elevation in question the temperature, according to the usual calculation, should have been 4° or 5° lower than that at the ground, whereas it was 3½° higher. In the region above, cold reigned, for finely-powdered snow was falling into this atmospheric river. Here, therefore, was a stream of heated air previously unsuspected, which, if its course is steady, as it appears to be during winter, constitutes a prodigious accession to our resources, and adds another to the many meteorological blessings the world enjoys. 'The meeting with this south-west current (writes Mr. Glaisher) is of the highest importance, for it goes far to explain why England possesses a winter temperature so much higher than our northern latitudes. Our high winter temperature has hitherto been mostly referred to the influence of the Gulf Stream. Without doubting the influence of this natural agent, it is necessary to add the effect of a parallel atmospheric current to the oceanic current coming from the same regions—a true aerial Gulf Stream. This great energetic current meets with no obstruction in coming to us, or to Norway, but passes over the level Atlantic without interruption from mountains. It cannot, however, reach France without crossing Spain and the lofty range of the Pyrenees, and the effect of these cold mountains in reducing its temperature is so great that the former country derives but little warmth from it.' The velocity of these atmospheric streams must, of course, differ considerably; but, however rapid may be their motion, the balloonist will not fail to notice the feeling of personal immobility which gives such a peculiar character to aerial travelling. We can hardly realize the idea of being transported, say, from London to Dover, without experiencing sundry jars of the muscles or tremors of the nerves, even if we escape, as is by no means certain, the chances of a collision; but M. Flammarion remarks in reference to one of his journies, that the distance accomplished was a hundred and twenty miles, 'during the whole of which time we never felt ourselves in motion at all.' No better illustration of this exemption from the jerks and joltings of terrestrial locomotion could be given than a simple experiment. A tumbler was filled with water till the liquid stood bulging over the brim. The balloon was travelling with the velocity of a railway train, and sometimes rising, sometimes falling, through hundreds of feet at a time, yet not a single drop of the fluid was swung out of the glass! Striking as the fact is, it would be still more surprising if it were otherwise; for, having once entered a current of air, and surrendered our machine to its guidance, we become, as it were, part of the medium in which we are immersed. The balloon has no longer any will of its own, or of its occupants, except for purposes of ascent or descent. It glides along with the stream, and, coming athwart no obstructions, it knows none of the bumpings to which more grovelling vehicles are exposed. Hence results another consequence which will scarcely escape attention, namely, that here, in the very place of winds, we experience no wind whatever. You may sit in the car of a balloon without undergoing much danger from draughts. There are no fierce gales to encounter, and therefore there are no weather-beaten mariners aloft. If we come to a spot where two breezes meet in battle, or, if two currents of differing directions were so sharply defined that the upper part of the machine could emerge into the superior stream whilst the lower part was in the keeping of the inferior, then very unpleasant results might ensue; but these are not events And as all motion seems to have ceased, except what is due to the rotatory action of the balloon, so all sound appears to have expired. On earth we have nothing to compare with the awful stillness of these airy solitudes. Some noise—be it the sighing of the wind, the pattering of the rain, the fall of a crumbling particle of rock—will break the tranquillity of the vale, the loneliest wilderness, the loftiest peak. But here nature appears to be voiceless, and silence, 'the prelude of that which reigns in the interplanetary space,' seems to be a consecrated thing, as if it were destined to remain uninterrupted until the Trumpet of Judgment shall wake the world. But did we say we were in absolute solitude? If so, imagine the startled look of an aeronaut when, on issuing from a cloud, he sees before him, at the distance of some thirty or forty yards, the figure of another balloon! If a feeling of horror creeps over him at the sight, he might well be pardoned, for his first thought would doubtless be that it was some phantom of the air sent to lure him to destruction, as the Flying Dutchman is reported to do with mariners at sea. One remarkable feature, however, instantly attracts his attention. The car of the stranger is placed in the centre of a huge disc, consisting of several concentric circles—the interior one being of yellowish white, the next pale blue, the third yellow, followed by a ring of greyish red, and, finally, by one of light violet. That car, too, is occupied. Its tenants are engaged in returning the scrutiny, and their attitudes express equal surprise. By-and-bye, one of them lifts his hand; but that is just what one of the aeronauts has done. Another motion is made, and this is imitated to the letter. A laugh from the living voyagers follows. They have discovered that the stranger is an optical apparition, for on examination it is found to correspond with their own machine, line for line, rope for rope, and man for man, except that they, the living ones, are not surrounded by a glory as if they were resplendent saints. This beautiful phenomenon is due to the reflection or diffraction of light from the little vesicles of vapour, and must not be confounded with the ordinary shadow of the balloon which, under fitting conditions, and in a more or less elongated form, generally appears to accompany us like some spectral shark in pitiless pursuit of an infected ship. It is now time, however, to commence our homeward voyage. In other words, we must tumble perpendicularly to the earth, but so regulate our fall that no bones shall be broken, and no concussion, if possible, sustained. To do this from an elevation of three or four miles must strike us as a vastly more dangerous problem than the ascent to a similar height. The valve at the top of the balloon affords us the means of diminishing its relative levity by a gradual discharge of the gas. But this process must be cautiously performed, otherwise the machine may start off like a steed which is suddenly inspired with a new life when its face is turned towards its home. Hence the necessity of retaining a proper amount of ballast to control its impatient descent. If it should sink too rapidly, the emptying of a bag or two will check its pace, and even give it an upward turn for the time, so that the aeronauts, in rising again, will sometimes hear a pattering upon the balloon, which proves to be the very shower of sand they have just ejected. So delicately, indeed, does the machine respond to any alteration in its weight, that once, when M. Tissandier threw out the bone of a chicken he had been assisting to consume, his companion gravely reproved him, and, on consulting the barometer, he was compelled to admit that this small act of imprudence had caused them to 'rise from twenty to thirty yards!' Not unfrequently it happens that a balloon has to dive through such heavy clouds, or through such a rainy region, that its weight is considerably increased by the deposited moisture. In passing through a dense stratum, 8,000 feet in thickness, Mr. Coxwell's aerostat, on one occasion, became so loaded that, though he had reserved a large amount of ballast, which was hurled overboard as fast as possible, the machine sped to the earth with a shock which fractured nearly all the instruments. Lunardi, having ascended from Liverpool in July, 1785, found himself without ballast, and in a balloon insufficiently inflated. He was carried out to sea, retaining of course the power of sinking, which, however, he did not wish to exercise, as he was almost without the means of rising. To lighten the machine, he tossed off his hat, and even this insignificant article afforded him some relief. Soon afterwards, he removed his coat, and this enabled him to mount a little higher, and bear away towards the land. To escape a thunder-cloud, he subsequently divested himself of his waistcoat, and finally succeeded in grappling the earth in a cornfield near Liverpool, spite of his improvidence in the matter of ballast. It is under such circumstances, however, that we discover the value of the long rope The GÉant of Nadar, with a weight of 7,000 to 8,000 lbs., in descending on one occasion, after all the ballast had been exhausted, rushed down towards the earth with the speed of an ordinary railway train, and yet, thanks to the guide-rope, no serious accident occurred, though the instruments were all broken, and a few contusions were sustained. This admirable contrivance was introduced by that 'ancient mariner' of the air, Mr. Green. In returning to our native soil, however, one of the most dangerous conditions which can arise is the prevalence of a thick fog, or the necessity for ploughing our way through a dense cloud. Under such circumstances, how do we know where the earth lies? Not that we are likely to miss it—the great fear is that we may hit it too soon, and too forcibly. It is then that the value of the barometer is most fully appreciated. This instrument does for the aeronaut what the compass does for the sailor. But the observer must be prompt and careful in his reading, for if the descent is rapid, the least inattention may result in a fractured collarbone, or a couple of shattered bodies. Presuming, however, that, as we sink through the cloudy trap-door by which we entered the upper sky, we find all clear below, the old familiar earth again bursts upon our view. For a few moments the planet appears to be shooting upwards with considerable velocity. It is like a huge rock which has been aimed at our little balloon, or a star which has shot madly from its sphere, and is hastening to crush us on our return from our sacrilegious voyage. By throwing out a quantity of ballast, however, as if in defiance, we seem to check it in its course, and if it continues to approach, it does so with moderate speed. But we soon discover the deceit, and learn (probably to our chagrin) that it is not the world which is troubling itself to meet us, but we who are doing obeisance in our own puniness to its irresistible will. In one sense, indeed, the appearance of a balloon in the sky is always the signal for a certain amount of commotion. Dogs begin to bark furiously, poultry begin to run to and fro in evident alarm, whilst cattle stand gazing in astonishment or scamper off in terror, as people used to do—so we suppose—when hippogriffs were in the habit of alighting at their doors. One French aeronaut remarks very drily that the best mode of obtaining a correct estimate of the population of any given district is to approach it in a balloon, for then every individual rushes out of doors to look at the visitor, and so 'the people can be counted like marbles.' Another states that in passing over Calais the only figure that did not lift its head to gaze at the travellers was the Duc de Guise, whose bust in the Place d'Armes was incapable, for good reasons, of paying them that act of homage. Other things being duly considered, the chief business of a balloonist in descending is to select an open and unincumbered locality. To plump down upon a cathedral, or impale his car upon the top of a spire; to allow it to alight amongst the clashing trees of a forest, or to attempt to ground it amongst the chimneys and gables of a crowded town, would be pretty much the same as for a sailor to run his vessel amongst the breakers, or to drive it full tilt against the nearest lighthouse. The experienced navigator knows where to throw out his grapnel, and this, digging into the soil or catching in the rocks, or laying hold of any object from a tree to a tombstone, will bring the big airship to anchor, and enable the crew, with a little management, to disembark. But having landed, what kind of a reception shall we encounter? That is a question of some little consequence. There are two ways of dealing with aeronauts: the first is to invite them to dinner and offer them beds for the night; the other is to make an extortionate claim for damages, or carry them before the magistrates as trespassers. The latter practice is much in vogue in rustic regions. You have scarcely leaped out of the car than up there comes an angry farmer, vociferating loudly, gesticulating frantically, and when he sees his fences broken When the first hydrogen balloon fell at Gonesse, near Paris (1783), a most extraordinary scene was witnessed. The inhabitants of the village were struck with terror upon seeing an unknown monster descending from the sky. A genuine dragon could not have excited more consternation. Was it some fabulous animal realized in the flesh, or was it the great fiend in proper (or improper) person? On all sides they fled. Many sought an asylum at the house of the curÉ, who thought that the wisest mode of dealing with the intruder was to subject it to exorcism. Under his guidance they proceeded falteringly to the spot where it lay, heaving with strange contortion. They waited to see what effect the good man's presence would produce, but the creature seemed to be utterly insensible to his fulminations. At length one of the crowd, more intrepid than the rest, took aim with his fowling-piece, and tore it so severely with the shot that it began to collapse rapidly; whereupon the rest, summoning up courage, darted forward and battered it with flails or gashed it with pitchforks. The outrush of gas was so great that they were driven back for the time, but when the dying monster appeared exhausted, the peasants fastened it to the tail of a horse and drove it along until the carcase was utterly dismembered. The rustics who witnessed the first descent in England—Lunardi's, in Hertfordshire—shrank from the aeronaut as a very equivocal personage, because he had arrived on what they called the 'devil's horse.' Nor are these terrors wholly extinct in the present day, for Flammarion gives a description (with the pencil as well as the pen) of a descent in which men appear to be flying, children screaming, and animals scampering, whilst the balloon with its flags and streamers, waving fantastically on each side like long arms or tentaculÆ, is regarded by them as some formidable being coming from the clouds. 'It is the devil himself!' they exclaim. But having anchored, and escaped all the perils due to chimney-tops or infuriated farmers, the first question we put will doubtless be—Where are we? A more unfortunate query could scarcely be propounded. It expresses the greatest of all the infirmities under which the balloon labours—namely, that no mortal can tell us beforehand where we shall alight. Would it not be rather inconvenient if a traveller, on setting out from Derby, were unable to say whether he should land at Liverpool or at Hull, at Brighton or at Berwick-upon-Tweed? For aught we know, we might find ourselves, after ascending from the most central part of England, hovering over the Irish Sea or the English Channel, with simple power to rise into the clouds or plunge into the waves, but with none to choose any horizontal path or enter any particular port. Whilst drifting tranquilly along in a current, we could hardly fail to ask whether no means could be adopted for propelling balloons in the air as is the case with vessels on the water. Put out our oars? Unhappily they would do little to assist our progress, for, however broad their blades, they would meet with small resistance from the thin medium into which they were dipped. Rely upon paddle-wheels? Just as bad! There is no dense fluid like water to grip, and the floats would spin around almost as vainly as if they were worked in the receiver of an air-pump. Besides, the inflated globe with its suspended car does not constitute a rigid and inflexible whole, and if it did, the attempt to drive it against or athwart a current, in its present form, would be like rowing a man-of-war, with all its canvas stretched, right in the teeth of a gale. It would be impossible in an article like this to glance at the innumerable schemes which have been propounded for the guidance and propulsion of balloons. Wonderful ingenuity has been expended upon the subject. In one project, for example, the waste gas, instead of being idly discharged, was to be conveyed into an apparatus from which it would issue with a centrifugal force capable—so it was fondly supposed—of urging the aerostat in any given direction. In another, the balloon itself was to be converted into a kind of screw, so that when turned by means of a small engine, it should advance at each motion through a space proportioned to the distance between the threads of this monster spiral. M. Farcot gives us a description, in a little treatise on Atmospheric Navigation,[48] of a petit navire aÈrien de plaisance, framed like a flying whale, 100 yards in length, with an extensive gallery For all purposes of aerial travelling, however, the painful fact remains, which may, perhaps, be most summarily expressed by saying that there is no Bradshaw for balloons. When the day comes in which it can be announced that 'highflyers' or 'great aerials' will leave Trafalgar-square for Paris or Dublin, weather permitting, at a certain hour; or that balloon trains will regularly ply between Hull and Hamburg, or, better still, that a Cunard or Collins line of atmospheric steamers has been established between London and New York, then the apparatus will be admitted into the noble army of machines which, like the ship, the locomotive, the steam-engine, the spinning jenny, the telescope, the mariner's compass, the electric telegraph, and many others, have rendered such splendid service to mankind. Some dozen years ago, indeed, an aerial ship, intended to traverse the Atlantic, was announced as in course of construction in America, by Mr. Lowe. Weighing from three to four tons in itself, it was to possess an ascending power equal to twenty-two tons. Its capacity was to be five times larger than that of any previous machine. Fifteen miles of cord were to be employed in the network alone. Beneath the car a boat thirty feet in length was to be slung, and this skiff was to be fitted up with masts, sails, and paddle-wheels, in order that the crew might take to the water in case their balloon failed them at sea. Copper condensers were to be attached, in order that additional gas might be driven into the globe, or surplus gas abstracted, as occasion demanded, the object of this contrivance being to enable the navigators to raise or lower themselves without wasting any precious material. The ship was to be directed by an apparatus containing a fan like that of a winnowing machine, and this was to be worked by an Ericsson's caloric engine of four-horse power. Various ingenious appliances, amongst others a sounding line one mile in length to show the course of the atmospheric currents, were to be adopted, and it was confidently hoped that this Great Eastern of the atmosphere, which was to be styled the City of New York, would cross the Atlantic in not less than three days, and possibly in two! We regret to say that it has not yet put into any European port, though its arrival would be hailed with more satisfaction than the first steamship, the Sirius, was in America. Let it not be supposed, however, that the balloon, even in its present rudimentary condition, is available for frivolous or exceptional purposes alone—for the former, when it is used as a brilliant supplement to some display of fireworks; for the latter, when we happen to be locked up in some steel-begirded city. For scientific objects it may be difficult to overrate its value as a 'floating observatory,' and we cannot refrain from sharing in M. Fonvielle's chagrin when he tells us how, on one occasion, after preparing to view an eclipse from a lofty elevation, he So, many homely uses for captive balloons might be imagined. A traveller in Russia gives an account of a church at St. Petersburg with a lofty spire crowned with a large globe, upon which stood an angel supporting a cross. The figure began to bend, and great fears were entertained lest it should come down with a terrible crash. How could it be repaired was the question? To erect a proper scaffold would involve a formidable expense, and yet to reach the object without it seemed utterly impracticable, for the spire was covered with gilded copper, and looked more unscaleable than the Matterhorn. A workman, however, undertook the task. The plates of metal had been attached by nails which were left projecting. Furnished with short pieces of cord, looped at both extremities, he slung one end over a nail, and placing his feet in the other, raised himself a short distance: this enabled him to reach a little higher and fasten another loop over another nail, and so by repeating the process, and mounting from stirrup to stirrup, he crawled up, until by a still more daring manoeuvre he threw a cord over the globe, and then finally clambered to the side of the figure. A ladder of ropes was next drawn up, and the rest of the work became comparatively easy of execution; but with a captive balloon the needful materials might have been sent up, and the angel put in repair, without costing an anxious thought, or jeopardising either life or limb. How far it is possible to employ a balloon for purposes of exploration in quarters which are naturally inaccessible, or at any rate difficult of approach, must be a question dependent in no small degree upon the power of replenishing the machine with gas or heated air. It would, doubtless, be a fine thing if men could thus sail over all the obstructions which fence in the two poles, and pry into the Antarctic continent, or solve the problem of a hidden Arctic sea. Many years ago Mr. Hampton designed, and we believe completed, a big Montgolfier, which was to be employed in the search after Sir John Franklin. The machine was to be inflated by means of hot air produced by the agency of a great stove; but, if the necessity for a supply of the ordinary gas was thus avoided, the demand for fuel in regions where neither timber nor coal could be had (blubber, indeed, might perhaps have been procured), must have proved an insuperable difficulty, and the enterprise would probably have terminated in leaving the aeronauts stranded on some icy waste, without any better means of return than were possessed by the poor lost ones themselves. Let us not part from this subject, however, without informing the reader that if M. Flammarion's views are correct, it is the most important topic under the sun. 'For,' says he, with the look of a prophet and the tone of a poet, 'when the conquest of the air shall have been achieved, universal fraternity will be established upon the earth, everlasting peace will descend to us from heaven, and the last links which divide men and nations will be severed.' Without laying any stress upon the oracular form of this prediction—and the indefinite 'when' may conceal some sly reference to the Greek Kalends—we regret to say that we cannot join in his jubilant conclusion. Our firm persuasion is, that in the present state of affairs, seeing that so large a portion of the world's revenue is squandered upon fighting purposes, one of the first steps which would be taken in case the 'conquest of the air' were perfected to-morrow, would be to fit out a fleet of war-balloons, to raise a standing army of aeronauts, to add a new and afflictive department to our annual estimates, and to encourage the Chancellor of the Exchequer to make another assault Art. III.—Early Sufferings of the Free Church of Scotland. (1.) Illustrations of the Principles of Toleration in Scotland. Edinburgh. 1846. (2.) The Headship of Christ and the Rights of the Christian People. By the late Hugh Miller. Nimmo, Edinburgh. (3.) The Cruise of the Betsy. By Hugh Miller. Nimmo. (4.) Evidence before a Committee of the House of Commons on the Refusal of Sites for Churches in Scotland, 1847. (5.) Statement on the Law of Church Patronage, prepared by a Committee of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, in compliance with a suggestion of the Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone. William Blackwood and Sons. 1870. We were enabled to present our readers last year with what we believe to be the only full sketch in existence, drawn from authentic and official documents, of the rise and progress during a quarter of a century, of the Free Church of Scotland. From the figures there quoted it was made clear that at the very time when the Archbishop of Canterbury was proclaiming that this voluntary church was 'a failure' financially, its yearly income, steadily increasing from £275,000 of its earliest lustrum, had at last reached the highest point of £400,000; and that just when his Grace was asserting that 'whereas for a time it went forth triumphantly, now the ministers in all remote places are utterly destitute,' these remote ministers had, for the first time (although their number was doubled) attained the minimum stipend proposed by Dr. Chalmers of £150 each. The organization and machinery by which such a striking success has been achieved, as well as the principles which gave the original impulse to the body, were worthy of careful statement and study. Yet while devoting exclusive attention to these, we became gradually conscious that we were treading coldly upon the ashes of what history will describe as a marvellous outburst of self-sacrifice. The pathos and the suffering of that sad but noble year of 1843 have never yet been brought before English readers, but there is not so much heroism among us that we can afford to lose from the annals of this easy-going modern time so startling a narrative. 'Ah! that was something like disestablishment,' said a minister of the Free Kirk to us in the spring when the precedents of the Irish Church Bill were being discussed. He had been arguing that besides assuring their life-interests to the Irish clergy, it would be only fair to make a present to them of their glebes and parsonages. 'You should let a working-man take his working tools with him,' said our friend, and he was not sorry when the House of Lords gave a million or so of money to the new body. We were rash enough in reply to ask whether he got any equivalent for a glebe when a quarter of a century ago he and his two boys left the pleasant manse of B—— overlooking the Great Strath. But we had touched too deep a sore. The old man cheerfully turned it off with the words we have quoted above, but we could not forgive ourselves; and the thing led us back to enquire into some extraordinary scenes which took place in Scotland when many of the present generation were too young to observe them. For this chapter of forgotten heroism, in which men of kindred blood and almost of our own generation took part, there are fortunately authentic as well as vividly descriptive materials. The reports presented year by year to the Scotch General Assemblies are the most public of all documents, and are intended to invite challenge and scrutiny. The evidence presented to the House of Commons Committee in 1848 is of great importance and of unquestioned authority. The writings of a man of genius like Hugh Miller will carry part of the truth down to other generations of readers. And yet, while much is known, much must ever remain untold. Scotchmen, who are men of education, and in a sacred office, are precisely the men to cover the sharpest pangs of poverty, and dread of poverty, with an impenetrable covering of reserve; and now that twenty-six years have passed, most of those grave, suffering faces have gone down into a deeper silence. Besides, the Free Kirk has come to be so proud of its extraordinary success in reconstruction, that it has rather attempted (notably in the recent debates in the House of Commons) to throw into the background the anguish of its birth, and to dwell rather on the achievements of the whole than on the sufferings of individuals. Our business is now rather with the latter, and fortunately there is one additional source whence this information can be derived. Dr. Thomas Guthrie, of Edinburgh, is known chiefly by his philanthropic efforts, after the example of Dr. Chalmers, to provide Until we recently came to the knowledge of these documents, we had the feeling that this suffering must have consisted more in apprehension or imagination than in actual privations—that the terrible dread which haunted men who were giving up their whole livings had scarcely any actual realization. And even though this turns out not to be the case, it is plain from Dr. Guthrie's own statements, that all over Scotland the approaching trial struck a chill to the hearts even of those who were determined to face it:— 'I remember,' he says, 'in a certain district of country, a minister said to me, "You think there is no chance of a settlement?" I said, "We are as certain of being out as that the sun shall rise to-morrow." I was struck by something like a groan, which came from the very heart of the mother of the family; they had had many trials in their day: there had been cradles and coffins in their home, and the place was endeared by many associations to the mother; there was not a flower or shrub or a tree but what was dear to her—some of them were planted by the hands of those who were in their graves,—and that woman's heart was like to break. I remember another instance, where there was a venerable mother who had gone to the place when it was a wilderness, but who, with her husband, had turned it into an Eden. Her husband had died there. Her son was now the minister. This venerable woman was above eighty years of age; yes, and I never felt more disposed to give up my work than in that house. I could contemplate the children being driven from their home; but when I looked on that venerable widow and mother, with the snows and sorrows of eighty years upon her head, and saw her anxiety about two things, namely, that Lord Aberdeen should bring in a bill to settle the question, but her anxiety, at the same time, that if Lord Aberdeen did not bring in a satisfactory measure, her son should do his duty,—I could not but feel that it was something like a cruel work to tear out such a venerable tree—to tear her away from the house that was dearest to her on earth.' For, as we formerly said, compared with this blow, the disestablishment of the Irish Church was a fall into the lap of luxury. Every minister in Scotland who adhered to the Church lost his income in one day—Whit-sunday of 1843. On the same day they lost their dwellings. The professors of divinity, with Chalmers at their head; the missionaries, with Dr. Duff at their head; the humble schoolmasters, with no great name to sustain them—were all turned out at the same moment. And the great strain and crisis of conscience must have been in the spring of that year, when those who in 1842 had pledged themselves, with two-thirds of the Assembly, 'to endure resignedly the loss of the temporal blessings of the Establishment,' saw that there was to be no escape from the sacrifice. The dread and depression must often have been extreme; yet it was not unmixed with a sustaining joy, as in the case of the following story, with reference to Dr. Charles Mackintosh (a venerated minister in the North, whose memorials have recently been published), for which we are indebted to a correspondent who is a native of the Highlands:— 'One morning in the spring of 1843, I jumped early out of bed, for my head was full of marbles and peg-tops, and a dozen or so of games before breakfast has its attractions for a schoolboy. To my astonishment, I found my father down before me; nay, he had evidently been there for some time, for the moment I appeared he folded up the newspaper in which he had been so unseasonably engaged, and—with a break in his voice indicating an emotion that was quite unaccountable to me—he asked me to take it at once over to the manse, with his compliments to the minister. I went very readily, for, besides the comfort of fingering the marbles in my pocket, the hedge-rows were full of young birds upon whom legitimate hostilities could be waged in passing. But as I went I reflected on the austere and stately image of the minister—a man everywhere respected, but whose face inspired awe rather than love in the beholder—(Had I not seen the town-boys break and scatter round one corner of the street as soon as he appeared at the other?)—and I resolved that my interview with him should be short. And it was shorter than I expected, for I had scarcely got out of the sunshine into the manse evergreens, when I found him in the porch; and when I offered him the newspaper, he showed me that he had already got the Times, by some unusual express, and as he spoke he patted my head and smiled—but such a smile, so full of radiant kindliness! I was confounded; and as For the crisis followed in May. The disruption itself (as the actual and final wrench given to the Church came to be called) concentrated the anguish of the general sacrifice in a very painful, but, at the same time, a more poetical form. Sir George Harvey, the present President of the Scottish Academy, has painted the 'Leaving of the Manse' with much dignity and power: the grey-haired pastor moving with feeble steps from the well-known door; his wife's quiet tears, as she guides the child whose pet lamb refuses to accompany it in its early exile; the awe-struck respect of the rustics around, while the men take off their caps, and the women throw their aprons over their faces and sob. Yet the words which immediately follow what we have already quoted from Dr. Guthrie, are, perhaps, the most memorable record of the feelings which accompanied the final step:— 'I remember passing a manse on a moonlight night, with the minister who had left it,—for the cause of truth, his brother Scotchman earnestly adds—'No light shone from the house, and no smoke arose. Pointing to it in the moonlight, I said, "Oh, my friend, it was a noble thing to leave that house." "Ah, yes," he replied; "it was a noble thing, but for all that it was a bitter thing. I shall never forget the night I left that house till I am laid in my grave. When I saw my wife and children go forth in the gloaming, when I saw them for the last time leave our own door; and when in the dark I was left alone, with none but my God in the house; and when I had to take water and quench the fire on my own hearth, and put out the candle in my own house, and turn the key against myself, and my wife, and my little ones that night—God in His mercy grant that such a night I may never again see! It was a noble thing to leave the manse, and I bless God for the grace that was given to me; but, for all that, it was a cruel and bitter night to me."' The actual circumstances of departure must have been very various: 'One minister writes to us that he left the manse with his family in a snow-storm, when the mountain was white with snow, and the sky was black with drift; but that he never knew so much of the peace of God as he did that night, when following his wife and children as they were carted over the mountain, without knowing where they were to find a place to dwell in.' And in many places over Scotland, this was the beginning of sorrows. In some parts, and especially in the large towns, the actual hardships were nothing worse than diminution of income and straitened circumstances; while in not a few cases even that was not felt. But in the country, and especially in the Highlands, it was different. It was some years before the manses were built, and homelessness added to poverty pressed heavily on the outed ministers. 'I remember well,' writes the Highland correspondent we have already quoted from, and for whose accuracy and good faith we can vouch, 'how I used to watch one man, the minister of the neighbouring parish of E——, who, like many others, was unable to find a place to dwell in among his own people, and had to come into the neighbouring town. He was a scholarly and cultivated man, who in his early days had attained much academical distinction at a Northern University, but a weak chest and a threatening of heart complaint now bore heavily upon him. Yet week after week, as every Sabbath morning came round, he persisted in driving away for miles through that first inclement winter, to meet his congregation; and I can remember to this day his keen, delicate face set to meet a heavy snow-storm from the north-west, while a hacking cough shook his whole frame as he set out on his journey, four miles of which must pass ere he caught sight of the well-sheltered manse, which the year before he had left for ever.' But those who, like him, found shelter in a town dwelling, however humble, were not worst off. The great difficulty was in the country; even where harbouring the minister was not forbidden (as in some cases, from a desire to crush out the movement, it was) by the great landlords. And of course it was with this that Dr. Guthrie's facts chiefly dealt. 'I have a letter here from a man who has suffered more for gospel truth than any other I know. He says that he has been obliged to pack two nurses and eight children into two beds, in the small house to which they have removed. His wife took a cold in October, which there was some apprehension might end in consumption; and at my own table he told me, what was enough to melt a heart of stone, that when he and his family gather together at the family altar, they have not room to kneel Narrating this to a vast meeting in Glasgow, at the close of which he announced that upwards of £10,000 had been subscribed during that one day for his scheme, Dr. Guthrie added, with Scotch shrewdness, 'I said to my friend, that I was glad he had told me that story, for if that shower of snow did not produce a shower of notes, I would be very much disappointed.' The story of the shower of snow was hearsay; but we must make room for what the speaker testifies to having seen with his own eyes. 'Some of you may have read of the death of Mr. Baird, the minister of Cockburnspath, a man of piety, a man of science, a man of amiable disposition, and of the kindest heart, but a man dealt most unkindly by; although he would not have done a cruel or unjust thing to the meanest of God's creatures. I was asked to go and preach for a collection to his manse, last winter. He left one of the loveliest manses in Scotland. He might have lived in comfort in Dunbar, seven or eight miles away, but what was to become of his people? They were smiting the shepherd, that they might scatter the sheep. No, said Mr. Baird, be the consequences what they may, I shall stand by my own people. I went out last winter, and found him in a mean cottage, consisting of two rooms, a but and a ben, with a cellar-like closet below, and a garret above; and I honestly declare, that the house was so small and so cold that, when sitting by the fire, the one part of the body was almost frozen, while the other was scorched by the heat. Night came, and I asked where I was to sleep. He showed me a closet; there was a fire-place in it, but it was a mockery, for no fire could be put in it; the walls were damp. I looked horrified at the place; but there was no better. Now, said I to Mr. Baird, where are you to sleep? Come, said he, and I will show you. So he climbed a sort of trap stair, and got up to the garret, and there was the minister's study, with a chair, a table, and a flock bed. His health was evidently sinking under his sufferings; and, but that I was not well myself, I never would have permitted him to lie on such a bed. A few inches above were the slates of the roof, without any covering, and as white with hoar frost within, as they were white with snow without. When he came down next morning, after a sleepless night, I asked him how he had been, and he told me that he had never closed an eye, from the cold. His very breath on the blankets was frozen as hard as the ice outside. I say, that man lies in a martyr's grave ... and I would rather, like him this day, be laid in the grave, with a grateful Church to raise my honored monument, than dwell in the proudest palaces of those that sent him there.' We have exscinded from these quotations, not only all polemics, but such not unnatural expressions of indignation as the brethren of the more unfortunate ministers slipped into. There is no injustice in omitting these now, for the time has come when all parties, and in particular most of the members of the Scotch Established Church, are earnest in expressing their admiration of the heroism of those who suffered. But, in order to bring out the story completely, and, in particular, to do justice to the difficulties in the face of which the enormous task of covering the land with voluntary churches and manses and ministers was accomplished, it is necessary to go farther down, and refer to another historical chapter. We allude to the facts which came out in the Committee of the House of Commons on 'Sites for Churches (Scotland),' in 1847. No doubt these hardships have nearly all now passed away, and the great landowners, themselves chiefly members of the Church of England, have, almost in every case, consented to sell to the poorer congregations of the Church ground on which to erect churches. But at first it was perhaps natural that men, most of them imperfectly acquainted with their countrymen, should have conceived it possible to stamp out, or starve out, the new church. And, accordingly, some very strong things were done. The writer happened to be acquainted with one district, where a gentleman of large property, a man, too, of immense energy and public spirit, entertained a passionate opposition to the popular movement, and had been heard to declare, shortly before the disruption, that he would 'give five hundred trees from his woods, to hang the seceding ministers upon.' Those innocent vegetables were, fortunately, not called upon to bear the novos fructus et non sua poma, thus destined for them; but Mr. R—— soon tried another course, which was practically of not much more use. He suddenly issued a notice, that every labourer on his estates, who did not go to the parish church, should cease, after next Monday, to work on his land. Now, in that part of the Highlands, as in most others, the people had gone out 'Armadale, 16th November, 1846. Sir,—I refuse a site for a Free Church for your people. I am, sir, your obedient servant, Macdonald.' But the same minister who was thus addressed as to his church, wrote a very respectful letter to his landlord, as to his house, trusting 'that your Lordship does not really intend to drive me, with my young and helpless family, out of my present dwelling-house.' 'I am willing to give any rents for the same which another will offer; and should your Lordship not choose to give the farm on any terms, I would be satisfied with the house, and grass for two cows and a horse. The building The answer to this letter came through, another factor, to the effect that 'Lord Macdonald instructs me to inform you that he has received your letter, and that it is not his intention either to grant you a site or give you any lands;' adding that the landlord would not give him any compensation for his improvements, and that 'he had brought it all on himself' by persisting in staying with his present congregation. But with the House of Commons Blue-book before us, let us leave cases of individual suffering for a time, and look at the case of whole congregations. Throughout Scotland the Free Church was, with labour and difficulty, erecting places in which to worship God. But in many places the landlords refused a foot of soil on which to do it. The congregations who met in the open air were not much to be pitied at their starting, for it was summer, and a thorough soaking with rain was the worst that befel them. But as the first winter of 1843 darkened down upon them, it was no wonder that men and women gathering weekly under a canvas tent, and in some cases without even that, but in the open air, under the bitter inclemency of the northern sky, began to set up piteous requests to be permitted to meet under some roof, or at least to be allowed land on which to erect a roof to cover them. But in many instances this was refused; and during that winter, in different districts of Scotland whole congregations of not men only, but delicate women and children (after coming, as the Scotch manner is, many miles to worship or to sacrament), remained through each Sunday of December, January, and February, under whatever variety of snow, sleet, slush, frost, rain, and ice, their native sky, rich in such alternations, chose to pour upon them. Another year came round, and though by this time a number of the proprietors had relented, a great many stood firm, and the second winter showed the same kind of suffering as the first. The following circumstances in which one of the ordinary services in a congregation in the South of Scotland, in February of the year 1844, was held, must have had parallels during the same months, especially in Skye, and the Western Isles, and the Highlands of Inverness and other counties. But it is given by the Edinburgh minister who conducted the meeting, and whose evidence on matters of which he was eye-witness we have already found so graphic. In this case the congregation had met for some time in a canvas tent on a piece of moor or waste ground by the permission of the tenant; but the landlord, who had already refused a site, checkmated this evasion of his will by procuring an interdict, or order of Court, and the congregation were driven in the beginning of winter to meet on the public road, and to try to erect their tent there. But the tent could not be erected without digging holes for the poles, and making holes in the public road was an illegal proceeding, which they were afraid to attempt so soon after being driven off a waste moor. Consequently, they met all that winter without shelter, as described in the following private letter, written at the time, but afterwards read publicly to the Committee of the House of Commons:— 'Well wrapped up, I drove out yesterday morning to Canobie, the hills white with snow, the roads covered ankle deep in many places with slush, the wind high and cold, thick rain lashing on, and the Esk by our side all the way, roaring in the snow-flood between bank and brae. We passed Johnnie Armstrong's tower, yet strong even in its ruins, and after a drive of four miles a turn of the road brought me in view of a sight which was overpowering, and would have brought the salt tears into the eyes of any man of common humanity. There, under the naked boughs of some spreading oak trees, at the point where a country road joined the turnpike, stood a tent, around, or rather in front of which was gathered a large group of muffled men and women, with some little children, a few sitting, most of them standing, and some old venerable widows cowering under the shelter of an umbrella. On all sides each road was adding a stream of plaided men and muffled women to the group, till the congregation had increased to between 500 or 600, gathering on the very road, and waiting my forthcoming from a mean inn, where I found shelter till the hour of worship had come. During the psalm-singing and first prayer I was in the tent, but When this letter was produced to the House it was taken advantage of by Sir James Graham, with the view of bringing out that so sad a sight must have had the effect of driving the minister who witnessed it into some bitterness of expression in the pulpit, such as might perhaps justify or excuse the Duke of Buccleuch. Said Sir James— 'May I ask whether your own feeling was not that some oppression had been exercised towards those people? Ans. Certainly; I felt that the people were in most grievous circumstances, being necessitated to meet on the turnpike road; and not only I, but I may mention in addition that the person who drove me in the gig from Langholm to Canobie, when we came in sight of that congregation standing in the open air upon such a day, and in such a place, burst into tears, and asked me, Was there ever a sight seen like that? 'You have mentioned that "oppression makes a wise man mad;" the feelings of the driver might be one thing, but you, a minister of the gospel, would be very considerably excited by seeing what you have described; you thinking it an act of oppression upon the people? Ans. Deep feeling would be excited—if you mean by excitement that I was ready to break forth into unsuitable expressions, I say certainly not; I felt when I saw it as if I could not preach, I was so overpowered by the sight—to see my fellow-creatures, honest, respectable, religious people, worshipping the God of their fathers upon the turnpike road was enough to melt any man's heart.' Sir James was disappointed in the object of his examination, for it turned out that Dr. Guthrie on this occasion had with some deliberation avoided making any reference to the circumstances of the congregation, and had turned all the feeling roused within him into the channel of more fervid preaching of the common gospel. This was in 1844; the following year the ministers, even in the bleakest Highlands, began to have some comfort, for now the manse scheme was set on foot, and was being pressed by Dr. Guthrie; but the position of these unfortunate and exceptional congregations remained the same. A minister in Skye, whom the Highlanders there regarded with boundless veneration, but who was little fitted to face hardships (he saw his family of eleven delicate children melt into the grave before him), used to preach at Uig in the open air, with a covering over himself, but none for the people. 'I have preached,' he says, 'when the snow has been falling so heavily upon them, that when it was over I could scarcely distinguish the congregation from the ground, except by their faces.' Two years more passed on; and even then, in 1847, there were still thirty-one cases in Scotland in which sites were absolutely refused, besides many others in which very inconvenient and humiliating places were alone offered, and in many cases had been accepted. The House of Commons now took up the matter, and perhaps the most curious thing in their investigation was the careful cross-examination of medical men on the question whether it could be proved that the members of the congregation who met winter after winter in the open air had actually suffered, or at least had suffered seriously and fatally from their compulsory exposure. No doubt they were drenched with rain and chilled with sleet, and then they caught cold and died; but were the medical men prepared to prove (so argued the apologists of oppression in the committee)—could the medical men say that their taking cold was the necessary consequence of the drench and chill, or that the fatal result was due to this original cause, and not to subsequent carelessness or blunders in the treatment? For example, when 'Miss Stewart, Grantown, about eighty years of age, but strong for her years, and of sound constitution, after attending public worship of the Free Church in the open air, was attacked by sub-acute rheumatism,' and died exhausted after four months of the disease, no one could certainly say that the old lady might not have taken rheumatism even if she had separated from her neighbours, and gone peaceably back to the Established Church! We shall quote no more, however, from the details of this Blue-book, but it will be But though the site-refusing caused much distress to the people, still the edge even of this fell chiefly upon the ministers. Driven out of their old homes in one day, they were often refused new ones, and in the great Highland counties denied even temporary shelter. Lodging there was hardly to be got, and in many places the tenantry were haunted with fears of what the consequences might be to themselves if they gave house-room where their landlords had already refused a site. 'Many of these ministers' families,' said Dr. Guthrie in 1845, when the facts were recent,—'some of them motherless families—are thirty, and fifty, and sixty, and seventy miles separated from them. I think of the hardship of many of these men going to see their own children; and of children who see their father so seldom that they do not know him when he visits them.' One of the most curious cases thus produced was that of the parish of Small Isles—so called because it consists of four little islands clustered together in the Atlantic. The minister, Mr. Swanson, well known now as the friend from youth of Hugh Miller—famous as a geologist, and much more famous as a Scottish stonemason, gave up his home, 'placed far amid the melancholy main,' and came out with the others in 1843; and a site both for manse and Church being refused on the central island, where the whole congregation adhered to him, he betook himself to what his friend, the gifted editor of the Witness, dubbed the 'Floating Manse.' It was a little yacht, 30 feet by 11 feet, in which he lived when visiting his parish, his family, however, residing in Skye. In 1844, Hugh Miller set out to visit his friend on a geological excursion, the scientific record of which he has preserved in his volume 'The Cruise of the Betsy,' where he also gives a most curious account of the relations of Mr. Swanson, the minister, to the people to whom he so clung. On one Sunday morning the geologist and his host got ashore on their way to a low dingy cottage of turf and stone (just opposite the windows of the deserted manse), which its former occupant had built with his own money as a Gaelic school for the people, and which they were obliged to use as a place of worship—'the minister encased in his ample-skirted storm-jacket of oiled canvas protected atop by a genuine sou'-wester, of which the broad posterior rim sloped half-a-yard down his back; and I closely wrapped up in my grey maud, which proved, however, a rather indifferent protection against the penetrating powers of a true Hebridean drizzle.' When they got in, the minister took off his sou'-wester, and preached on 'God so loved the world,' and the visitor remarks how the attention of his hearers to him who was not only their pastor, but the sole physician, and that without fee or reward, in the island, was increased by his new life of hardship and danger undertaken for their sakes; for they had seen his little vessel driven from her anchorage just as the evening had fallen, and always feared for his safety when stormy nights closed over the sea. Next year Miller had himself an opportunity of judging of this, for while he was on board the Betsy 'the water, pouring in through a hundred opening chinks in her upper works, rose, despite of our exertions, high over plank, and beam, and cabin door, and went dashing against beds and lockers. She was evidently fast filling, and bade fair to terminate all her voyagings by a short trip to the bottom.' They barely saved themselves by the Point of Sleat interposing between them and the roll of the sea. The 'Floating Manse' will not be forgotten while the works of this charming writer survive; but very much later than this, on Loch Sunart, also in the West, a 'floating church' also had to be provided in consequence of the refusal of a site; and the Sheriff of Edinburghshire, himself a naval officer in his youth, testified to the Committee of the House that in the winter of 1846 it answered very well. It was moored about a hundred yards from the shore, and although there was a little difficulty in the people going out in boats, still it was possible to manage it. Many English pedestrians in Sutherland have seen the famous Cave of Smoo, a vast cavern protected by a natural gateway of rock, and with an interior chamber where a black stream flows in perpetual darkness. It was here that the Free Church congregation of Durness met. 'One minister has preached for two years in a deep sea pit, which I saw in Sutherlandshire; God's sea is their protection. No man can say he is ruler of the sea, though he boasts himself possessor of the land. In a deep gully, But we were treating of the hardships rather of the ministers than of the congregations, and Dr. Guthrie's question is pertinent, 'Where does the minister go after having preached in such circumstances? Not in the case I have just mentioned, but in another, the minister, after preaching to his hearers in the winter snow, where there was no barrier or creek sheltering them from the salt sea spray, had to go back, not to a comfortable home, like you and me, but to a miserable dwelling, where he had to climb to a lonely and miserable garret, and in a place where there was little ventilation, and in a room where he could have no fire, the minister had to sit from week's end to week's end, till his health was broken down, and he was obliged to retire from the battle-field, forced away from it to save himself from an early, and, I say, a martyr's grave.' It need not be said that such cases as these were exceptional and extreme; but, on the other hand, it is certain the facts in these cases are accurately given, and are representative of other extreme cases that were never published. Our last quotation from the eloquent divine who laid the foundations of the homes of a whole Church (and to whom we shall not apologize for quoting so many facts which are the inheritance of the Church catholic) is interesting to the writer, because the younger of the two ministers spoken of in it was one of the first men whom he remembers in his childhood to have seen in the pulpit. He gave up no manse in 1843, but belonged to another class, the licentiates or candidates of the Church, who threw in their lot with the body now to be stripped of all its prospects and emoluments. The following visit, narrated by Dr. Guthrie, was to the old minister of Tongue, 'a man of the highest character and the best affections.' His son, whom we remember merely as a gentlemanly young cleric, with a rather plaintive voice, which ranged through endless intonations and cadences, and was provocative of meditation much more than of thought, was at this time his father's assistant, and died of the fever mentioned by Dr. Guthrie. 'The place where Mr. Mackenzie's old manse is situated is near the small village of Tongue, the prettiest place in all that country. He had a sort of ancestral right to it—his family having had possession of it for about a hundred years—and he had spent several hundreds of pounds in improving the property, never dreaming but that his son would inherit it after he was gone. It was told me that his Grace of Sutherland wrote to him, expressing his hope that he would not go out, considering how much he had done for him. Mr. Mackenzie wrote back that he was not forgetful of his Grace's kindness, but that he owed more to the Lord Jesus Christ.... When I went to Tongue, where did I find him? I passed the manse, with its lawns, its trim walks, and its fine trees. I went on till I came to a bleak, heather hill, under the lee of which I found a humble cottage belonging to the parish schoolmaster, where this venerable man and his son had found a shelter, and were accommodated for four shillings a week. There was nothing inviting about the house, though I believe the people were kind enough. Before the door there was an old broken cart, and a black peat stack, and everything was repulsive. I opened the door of the single room, which served for dining-room, drawing-room, parlour, library, study, and bedroom, all and everything in one; and there, beyond the bed, I saw him, nature exhausted. He had never closed his eyes all night, having passed a night of extreme suffering; and there, in exhausted nature, he was sitting half dressed in a chair, in profound slumber, his old grey locks streaming over the back of the chair on which he was sitting—a picture of old age, a picture of disease, a picture of death. I stood for some time before him, and as I looked round the room I thought, Oh! if I had B——, if I had any of the men here who are persecuting our poor Free Church, surely they would be moved by such a sight as this! I pushed open a door, and in a small mean closet I found this venerable man's son—a minister of our Church, and a man who would be an honour to any Church—lying on a fever bed. His children were seventy miles away, for no house could be procured for them in the district. The son had never closed his eyes all night, his own sufferings having been aggravated by his father's. I tried to console him, but I was more fit to weep with him than anything else. I only remember that he said something to this effect: "Ah, Mr. Guthrie, this is bad enough and hard enough, but, blessed be God, I don't lie here a renegade; my own conscience and my father's are in peace." As I came back amid the driving tempest, I confess that I was more like a child than a man, so little was I able to resist what I had seen; and as I came along I saw a little flower, that God in his providence had taught, when the storm came on, to close its leaves; and I thought, if God is so kind to this little flower, he will never see the righteous 'And what I pray this meeting to remember,' concluded the speaker, 'is that there are other men in similar circumstances.' There were others, not a few; but most of them now dwell where they hear not the voice of the oppressor; and though family records all over Scotland might add not a few pages to our chronicle of constancy, these are generally too sacred to draw upon. Enough has been said to recall us to the circumstances of straitening and suffering under which the extraordinary work of church organization and construction which we formerly sketched was carried on; and to remind us that the favourite motto of the Scottish church, Nec tamen consumebatur, has more modern applications than to those days of the Covenant 'Whose echo rings through Scotland to this hour.' But this subject has at present a more than historical interest. The paragraph referring to Scotland and its urgent educational needs in the Queen's Speech at the opening of this Session, followed by the immediate introduction of a bill by the Lord Advocate, which was promptly opposed by his political opponents, on the ground that it confessedly cuts off the parish schools from any connection with the Established Church, reminds us of perhaps the most cruel chapter in the whole history of suffering in 1843. The parish school-masters of Scotland have always been a most meritorious but very ill-remunerated set of men; and it might have been hoped that whatever severities a mistaken sense of duty might have led those in power to exercise towards the ministers and leaders of the Church after 1843, these humbler members not being themselves ecclesiastical officials, might have been allowed to remain in the possession of their hearths and homes. But it was not so. Many of the schoolmasters were elders of the Church. All of them were to a certain extent educated men, and took an interest in the questions raised as to the Church's right to be free from patronage and from civil dictation generally. The consequence was, that not a few of them came out along with the other laymen who followed the ministers in 1843, prepared to take their share of the pecuniary burdens which were thus brought upon the community. But this milder lot was not allowed them. They, too, like the ministers, had their Bartholomew's Day. They would gladly have clung to their humble daily work in the school-house, and more gladly still to the little home built generally at the end of it, during the week, with bare liberty on the Sabbath to join with either congregation in worship; but it was not to be. Throughout Scotland, every schoolmaster who joined with the Church in fulfilling its pledge of 1842, was at once ejected from his small house, and deprived of his smaller income; and the consequences to them and to their families were in many cases misery, approaching almost to starvation. The result to education was not disadvantageous; for the Free Church, having thrown upon it the burden of so many men deprived of bread, for no other crime than their attachment to itself, was in no mood to shrink from the duty. It at once added to the rest of its organization an education scheme. Homes were gradually built for the ousted schoolmasters, and in as many places as possible they continued to teach the same children of the same hamlets where they had previously dwelt. The Free Church has now, or had very recently, 620 schools and 645 teachers, and taught upwards of 60,000 of the youth of Scotland, many of whom were in the most remote and destitute parts; while its normal schools are reported by her Majesty's inspectors as the most efficient in Scotland. Yet for a proper national scheme, such as has for many years been desired in Scotland, the Free Church would at once be ready to give up an organization so interesting in its origin, and so powerful in its results. Some years ago, in the midst of the keenest opposition by the Conservative party and the Established Church, the choice of a teacher of any denomination was allowed to the heritors; and next year, whatever else is done on this most important subject, it is plain that the last strands of exclusive connection will be parted. The remaining matter which may come before Parliament during the next session is one in which the other Voluntary and Presbyterian Churches of Scotland are quite as much interested as that which dates from 1843. It is the proposal to transfer the patronage of the churches from the few existing possessors, partly to the landowners, and partly to the communicants of the Established Church, but excluding other parishioners. A Committee was appointed The desired 'Statement on the Law of Church Patronage' has accordingly now been issued and transmitted to the Government, and will doubtless be laid on the table of the House. It is a very remarkable document, giving the ecclesiastical history of Scotland with great fairness until it comes down to quite recent times, but making it in consequence quite impossible for any Legislature with the least sense of justice to reconstitute church endowments in the way desired. It narrates how patronage was abolished in Scotland at the Revolution settlement; and how its restoration by an Act in 1711 (protested against by the Free Church in 1843 as altering a thing reserved from the jurisdiction of the Union Parliament) was 'one of the acts of a conspiracy for the purpose of bringing back the Stuart dynasty to the throne.' The Assembly of 1735 stated in an address to the King, 'That it was done in resentment against the Church of Scotland.' Bishop Burnet, present at the passing of the Act, says it was intended to 'weaken and undermine' the Church of Scotland. The 'Statement' then goes on to show how it was not merely the Free Church that protested against the outrage: the Assembly of 1812 protested that 'the Act abolishing patronage must be understood to be a part of our Presbyterian constitution secured to us by the Treaty of Union forever;' and for seventy years in succession thereafter the Assembly yearly instructed its Committee to attempt to get redress. Gradually, however, as the cold eighteenth century crept on, a party began to dominate in the Church which took the same view of patronage which was afterwards formulated by Dr. Mearns and Dr. Cook, and by the aid of the civil courts became finally triumphant in 1843. And thus followed the first secession. Ebenezer Erskine, a great name in those northern regions in that dark century, protested publicly that 'those professed Presbyterians who thrust men upon congregations without, and contrary to, the free choice their king had allowed them, were guilty of an attempt to jostle Christ out of his government.' He and three other ministers were thereupon deposed in 1733, and 'appealed unto the first free, faithful, and reforming General Assembly of the Church of Scotland.' The second secession, in 1752, was a still more exact parallel to the third great schism of 1843, for the founders of the Relief Church in 1752 were driven out, like Dr. Chalmers and his friends, because they refused to take a personal part in ordaining those whom the patron had presented, but whom the people refused to receive. These circumstances are very fairly narrated in the Statement, which farther refers to the evidence given before the Select Committee of the House of Commons on the Law of Patronage in 1834, as giving 'the best summary of the historical and legal aspects of the question which we possess.' That Committee, it is stated, came to no definite finding, because the necessity for doing so was superseded by the Act of the previous General Assembly, giving the people a veto against an unacceptable presentee—an Act which was 'not passed without a full assurance from the law officers of the Crown in Scotland that it was quite within the power of the Church.' Within a year thereafter, however, a question arose as to this, and a narrow majority of the Scotch judges, backed by the House of Lords, held that it was not within their power. The Church at once took steps to appeal to the Legislature to correct the anomaly, and concede the power which was questioned; asking only that in the meantime the courts should not force them to take a part in violating with their own hands those rights of the Christian people which they had affirmed. The refusal to allow this brought on the disruption. The 'Statement' winds up with pointing out how 'the non-intrusion controversy thus passed into that of spiritual independence;' and 'it was on a question thence arising in regard to the respective provinces of the ecclesiastical and civil courts that the secession of 1843 actually took place.' They add, however, that though in 1836 the Church refused to condemn patronage altogether, and was satisfied with the supposed security of the Veto Act, in 1842 this as well as other matters came to maturity, and the General Assembly resolved, 'That patronage is a grievance; has been attended with much injury to the cause of true religion in this The candour and fairness of the earlier historical part of this memorial will always give it importance; but the gross inadequacy of the practical measures proposed has subjected it in Scotland to an unfair amount of ridicule. Dr. Cook, as the head of the moderate party, the proper representative of those who stayed in in 1843, at once protested against it, asserting that patronage is essential to the stability of the Church of Scotland. Dr. Tulloch, of St. Andrew's, as representing the broad section of the Church, repudiated it two days after. Mr. Story, the biographer of Dr. Lee, and Dr. Wallace, who is Dr. Lee's successor in Edinburgh, made haste to attack it also. The great difficulty within the Church seems to be the proposed refusal to admit all parishioners to vote for the parish minister. So long as he was appointed by a single laird or nobleman, who might be a stranger altogether, that difficulty was not felt. The people were excluded, but they were excluded equally. It is now proposed, however, that the minister should be paid by the whole country, but should be appointed by the communicants of the Established Church alone, excluding the members of the older and properly anti-patronage bodies, who have all the same creed, but whose principles of Church polity the Established Church, itself a minority of the nation, is only now adopting. It is clearly the vague sense of injustice and wrong thus caused which is at the root of the dissatisfaction everywhere expressed with the proposed measure, even by members and ministers of the Scottish Establishment itself. But another more important result has been the clear recognition that there is no chance of thereby 'conciliating' the older anti-patronage Presbyterians or uniting the Church. Last year we expressed the belief that any fair proposals or endeavours on the part of the Establishment would have the effect of at least producing a pause in the projected union of the voluntary Presbyterians outside. The 'Statement' to be laid before Parliament has had decidedly the effect of consolidating that union, and there is no doubt now that it will go on, though probably in the meantime rather by way of mutual co-operation. A very short time will see the Free Church, the United Presbyterian Church, and the Reformed Presbyterian Church—all the large Presbyterian communities who have protested against patronage, and whose leading principle is the liberation of religion from State control—absolutely united in their work, and partitioning Scotland between them. It need not be said how hopeless is the proposal to choose this time for asking Parliament to reconstitute the endowment of a minority of the Scotch people at the expense of the whole, or how fatal to the Church the success of the scheme would be, even if it could be expected to succeed. The movement is more likely to be in quite another direction. Dr. Wallace, in his paper on 'Church Tendencies in Scotland,' and some other men not belonging to his party in the Kirk, have rather indicated that the Highlands of Scotland, with which a large part of our paper has dealt, should be handed over from their own body to that disestablished church which for the last twenty-five years has with increasing success taken charge of it. In July last, this subject came up in the House of Commons, in the discussion upon Mr. M'Laren's Church Rates Abolition Bill for Scotland, a measure which its able and energetic mover has withdrawn, upon receiving a promise from the Government to introduce one next year upon their own responsibility. On some matters raised by this bill differences of opinion were expressed. Mr. Graham, member for Glasgow, said that he knew from experience that 'a large number of his constituents—the enormous mass of the people of Scotland—bitterly resented these compulsory assessments;' while his colleague, Mr. Anderson, opposed the bill as premature, on the ground that 'if, as is very probable, in the course of a few years the House should think proper to disestablish and disendow that Church, its property will have to be handed over to the State.' But the special matter of the Highlands, a scandal which even the friends of the Establishment are desirous to see wiped out at any expense, was brought forward by Mr. Ellice, who 'agreed with the hon. member for Edinburgh, that in many parts of the country the Church of Scotland was but the caricature of a Church, and that the presence of the Established Church, in places where it was only represented by five or ten persons, was a reproach to the Legislature. He hoped the Lord Advocate, when dealing with the question, would also deal with those useless churches and manses which were a standing reproach to common sense, and ought no longer to be supported.' The Lord Advocate was cautious in his rejoinder to this appeal, restricting his observations to the Highland churches and manses 'provided by Art. IV.—The Romance of the Rose. (1.) Le Roman de la Rose. Nouvelle Édition. Par Francisque Michel. Paris: Firmin Didot FrÈres. 1864. The study of pre-Renaissance literature belongs especially to the present century. A few ballads had been previously rescued from oblivion; a few names unearthed from the rubbish of centuries; but the great mass of writers who lived and flourished in what men used to call the Dark Ages had been utterly forgotten, names as well as writings, until the labours of AmpÈre, Fauriel, Raynouard, and others in France, as well as those of our own antiquarian scholars in England, brought them again to light within the last fifty years. The literature thus revived has a value of its own quite independent of any literary merit, though this is by no means contemptible. It reveals to us not only the manners and customs of the time, the mediÆval daily life, but, which is more important, the mediÆval conditions and modes of thought, within such limits—too narrow, alas!—as the conventional rules of poetry allowed. But artificial grooves cannot wholly prevent a vigorous mind from running off the beaten track, and in spite of conventionalism, the reader comes sometimes, in the midst of sandy deserts of commonplace morality, monotonous repetitions, and thirsty verbiage, upon oases of such exceeding brightness and splendour, cooled with fountains so sparkling and foliage so luxuriant, that he feels he is repaid for all his trouble. And the country is by no means explored. As in the great goldfields of Australia, the big nuggets have disappeared and been gathered up long since; nevertheless there remain, for those who have patience to dig, plenty of smaller pieces of virgin gold, which may amply serve to reward their toil. But because all have not the time or the opportunity for this work, and because, after all, it lies a good deal out of the beaten track of scholars, it may not be uninteresting to our readers to invite them to come with us and visit, sparing themselves the trouble of looking for them, certain oases which lie scattered about in a vast Sahara of verse called the 'Romance of the Rose.' 'Rien n'est agrÉable et piquant,' says Sainte Beuve, 'comme un guide familier dans les Époques lointaines.' Our sketch of the book will be necessarily incomplete; nor could any ordinary limits of a paper suffice for its thorough examination. Its importance is evidenced by the fact that for two hundred and fifty years it was a sort of Bible to France; the source whence its readers drew their maxims of morality, their philosophy, their science, their history, and even their religion; and which, after having retained its popularity for a length of time almost unparalleled in the history of literature, was revived with success after the Renaissance, the only mediÆval book which enjoyed this distinction. We shall endeavour to show some of the reasons of this long-continued success, and to prove that the book, once the companion of knights and dames, of damoiseaux and damoiselles, has the strongest claims on the student of the Middle Ages; that it is not a congeries of dry and dead bones of antiquity, not a mass of mediÆval fables, but a book full of ideas, information, and suggestion—a book warm with life. France, whence it came, is indeed the mother of modern literature. Thence both Italy and England derived their inspiration. In the countries of Provence and Languedoc lingered longest the remains of the Latin civilization: there the lamp of learning, dwindled down at last to a mere speck, had yet flame enough to light the new taper of English readers principally know this 'Romance of the Rose' through the translation which is attributed to Chaucer. Whether it be really his or not is a matter which does not concern us here, and, to save trouble of explanation, we will refer to it as Chaucer's translation. It is unfortunate, in some respects, that it contains only a portion—viz., the first 5,170 lines, and then, with an omission of 5,544 lines, about 1,300 more. It gives entire the portion contributed by Guillaume de Lorris, and as much of the remainder as fell in most readily with the humour of the translator, the attack on the hypocrisy of monks and friars. But by omitting all the rest, amounting to about two-thirds of the whole, he has failed altogether in giving the spirit of the work; and those who read only Chaucer's version would certainly be at a loss to explain the rapid, extraordinary, and lasting popularity which the book achieved. The reasons of this popularity have, indeed, been the subject of considerable discussion among French critics. Pasquier speaks of its 'noble sentiments,' and considers that its object was moral—viz., to show that love is but a dream. Roquefort can see in it only a long and rather stupid allegory, enlivened by occasional gleams of poetry; Villemain considers it a mere gloze on Ovid's 'Art of Love,' with a mÉlange of abstractions, allegories, and scholastic subtilties. Nisard deduces from its popularity a proof of its entire conformity with the spirit of the age—an almost obvious conclusion. Other writers, Goujet among the number, try to account for its success by the reputation which Jean de Meung enjoyed as an alchemist, and the belief that the great secrets of the science were to be found in the poem: a manifestly inadequate reason, because the proportion of alchemists to the rest of his readers must have been small indeed. Others, among whom were Molinet and Marot—of whom more presently—thought its success was due to a double allegory which they found in it; while Professor Morley and Mr. Thomas Wright, the latest writers who have given any account of the book—both of them meagre, dry, and uninteresting—do not attempt to explain its popularity at all. There are sufficient reasons why the book sprang at once into favour, which we hope presently to explain. The great success which it attained is illustrated by the number and weight of its assailants. Foremost among these was Gerson, the 'most Christian Doctor.' He calls The book is the work of two writers, Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meung. The earlier of these seems to have died about the time that his successor was born. Of his life we know absolutely nothing. He came from the little town of Lorris, where, it is said, the house in which he was born is still shown. Two or three lines in the poem are cited to prove the date of his birth and death. These, however, are by no means to be relied upon. Thus, he tells us in his opening lines— 'Au vingtiesme an de mon aage, Si vi ung songe À mon dormant.' whence most writers have assumed that he died at the age of twenty, considering, we suppose, that it would not take a year to write the 4,670 lines which form his part. This would be, at least, quick writing, while internal evidence seems to us to point most unmistakeably to the bestowal of very careful thought, and therefore much time, upon the work. And the lines which follow shortly after have not received proper attention—indeed, hardly any modern writer on the 'Romance of the Rose' appears to have read the book at all. Here the poet says— 'Avis m'iere qu'il Étoit mains; Il a j'À bien cinc ans au mains.' which would make him five and twenty at least, a much more likely age, considering the work he had done, for his death. At the close of his part of the book we get the following note by the scholiast, if we may call him so:— 'Çi endroit, trespassa Guillaume De Lorris et ne fist plus pseaume; Mais aprÈs plus de quarante ans Maistre Jehan de Meung li romans Parfist, ainsi comme je treuve, Et ici commence son oeuvre.' That is,— 'Here William died; his song was done. When forty years had passed away, Sir John the romance carried on, And here commencing, told the lay.' While Jean de Meung himself says, prophesying after the event— 'Car quant Guillaume cessera Jehan le continuera AprÈs sa mort que je ne mente Anns trespassÉs plus de quarente.' So that if we fix the date of Jean de Meung, we have that of Guillaume de Lorris. Now, there is nothing to help us, except a tradition that Guillaume died in the middle of the thirteenth century, and whatever internal evidence the book itself affords. Most writers, because the order of Knights Templars is mentioned as still existing, have been content to date the book at about 1306, the year before the destruction of the fraternity; but the poet mentions Charles of Anjou as King of Sicily. We have, therefore, a much lower limit, viz., the year 1282. Perhaps on closer examination, a range of years might easily be found in which the book was written. It is, however, sufficient for our purpose to date its authorship about 1280, and that of Guillaume de Lorris at 1240. It is not all certain that the poet was very young when he feigned his dream. The hero of the poem is necessarily a young man. Early manhood is the period of vehement desire and passion. Twenty is the typical age of early manhood; that age may have very well been selected as the one best fitted for dreams of love and the adventures of a lover. We are, however, inclined to believe, on the whole, that the poem was written in quite early manhood. A tradition which only recalls one fact is generally true, and the one fact recorded of the poet is that he died quite young. Internal evidence, too, appears to support this view. His style bears marks which seem, though one may here be very easily mistaken, those of inexperience. His imaginative faculty is abundant, and even luxuriant. His descriptive power, fully employed in his portraits of abstract personifications, is very much above the average. He revels in picturesque accessories Chaucer's translation is exceedingly accurate, giving line for line, and almost word for word, save when he sometimes adds a line to enforce its meaning, or to make it clear. Thus, when translating the famous 'La robe ne faict pas la moyne,' he says— 'Habite ne makyth monk no frere; But clene life and devocioun, Makyth gode men of religioun.' The saying itself (for nothing in the 'Romance of the Rose' appears to be original), may be traced to Neckham, who died at Cirencester in 1217. 'Non tonsura facit monachum, nec horrida vestis, Sed virtus animi, perpetuusque vigor.' The great ease of the translation makes it read almost like an original work, though we cannot agree with those who think that the translator has improved on his model. No literal translation, not even the very best, can be free from a certain stiffness and constraint. The felicity with which difficult passages are occasionally rendered may be judged by the following lines, which contain a touch almost worthy of Shirley. It is, if our own experience be worth anything, excessively hard to translate. We subjoin original and translation, side by side. 'Les yex gros et si envoisiÉs, Qu'il rioient tousjors avant Que la bouchette par couvant.' 'Hir eyen greye and glad also, That laugheden ay in hir semblaunt, First or the mouth by couvenant.' That is, her eyes began to laugh before her lips. We must, as briefly as possible, set forth the action of the poem. It begins, like De Guilleville's 'Pilgrimage of Grace,' Chaucer's 'Court of Love' (borrowed, of course, from this), Alain de l'Isle's 'Complaint of Nature,' and so many other mediÆval works, with a dream. In the month of May,—that season when the earth forgets the poverty of winter, and grows proud of her renewed beauty, clothing herself in a robe of flowers of a hundred colours; when the birds, silent during the long cold months, awake again, and are so joyous that they are fain, per force, to sing,—the youth of twenty summers wanders forth and comes upon the Garden of Delight (DÉduit). We may remark here, how the walled garden, secured from the outer world, is the mediÆval writer's only idea of scenery. Perhaps our modern craving for the picturesque would be greatly modified if we were uncertain, as our ancestors were, about wolves, bears, and brigands, whose admiration for wild scenes induces them to inhabit them. The wall of the garden is painted with figures of all evil passions, such as Envy, Hatred, Avarice, and Hypocrisy (Papelardie), with those of Sorrow, Age, and Poverty. The youth is admitted at a wicket by the Lady Oyseuse (Idlesse), and wanders about, admiring the rows of strange trees, the birds and flowers, the peace and safety of the place. Presently he comes upon DÉduit himself, whom Chaucer calls Myrthe. 'Ful fayre was Myrthe, ful long and high: A fayrer man I never sigh.' With him are all his courtiers, including LÉesce (Joy). 'And wot ye who came with them there? The Lady Gladness, bright and fair.' With the company was the God of Love, accompanied by Doux Regard, bearing two bows: one of them was crooked and misshapen; the other straight, and beautifully wrought. This shows the different impressions of love, or its opposite, produced by the eyes. He had, too, ten arrows (the idea is borrowed from Ovid), five belonging to Love, viz., Beauty, Simplicity, Frankness, Company, and Fair Semblance; and five to Dislike, viz., Pride, Villany, Shame, Despair, and New Thought. Love was followed as well by Beauty, whose attendants were Riches, Largesse, Franchise, and Courtesy, as Dames The garden is square; it contains all sorts of fruit trees, 'brought from the country of the Saracens;' these are set five or six fathoms apart; wells, fountains, and streams, soft grass and turf, and flowers of every kind. Round the stone-work of one fountain he finds written, 'Here died the fair Narcissus,'—an accident which enables the poet to narrate at length the full history of that unfortunate swain. Getting over his digression, the youth discovers a rosebush laden with roses and rosebuds, one of which he desires incontinently to pluck. Here his troubles begin. Love shoots at him with five arrows, and when he is sick and faint with wounds, calls upon him to surrender, and become his vassal. This he does, giving Love as a gage of fealty his heart, and receiving in return a code of rules which have been imitated by many subsequent poets, notably by Chaucer, in the 'Court of Love,' and by Charles of Orleans. He also receives as a mark of especial favour, Hope, Doux Penser, Doux Parler, and Doux Regard—Sweet-Thought, Sweet-Speech, and Sweet-Looks—as companions. He makes a rash and ill-considered attempt upon his Rosebud. But Danger is there with Malebouche, Shame (child of Trespass and Reason), and Chastity, the daughter of Shame. He is driven away, loaded with reproaches. His companions leave him, and while he is sitting dejected and despairing, Reason comes to him and argues on the folly of love. 'Love is but madness! I tell you true; The man who loves can nothing do. He has no profit from the earth: If he is clerk, he forgets his learning: If anything else, whatever his worth, Great is his labour and little his earning. Long and unmeasured and deep the pain: Short is the joy; the fruition vain.' But the pleading of Reason, as generally happens in such cases, is quite useless. The lover 'For still within my heart there glows The breath divine of that sweet Rose,' goes next to a Friend (Ami), from whom he gets small sympathy, but much practical relief. Acting on his counsel, he begs pardon of Danger, who grants it sulkily. Danger in most mediÆval allegories stands for the husband, but there is nothing to show that Guillaume de Lorris meant him to be understood in this sense, and we may without any violence take him to represent the natural guardian of the damsel. Getting Bel Accueil to accompany him, he goes once more to see his Rosebud, which he finds greatly improved. Venus obtains for him the privilege of a kiss. Shame, Jealousy, and Malebouche, are alarmed, and interfere. Danger turns everybody out. Jealousy builds a high tower, in which Bel Accueil is shut up, a prisoner, with Danger and Malebouche to guard him. Outside the tower sits the disconsolate lover, lamenting his misfortunes, and the mutability of love's favours, which he compares to those of Fortune, of whom he says: 'In heart of man, Malice she plants, and labour, and pain; One hour caresses, and smiles, and plays; Then as suddenly changes her face: Laughs one moment, the next she mourns; Round and round her wheel she turns, All at her own caprice and will. The lowest ascends, and is raised, until He who was highest was low on the ground, And the wheel of Fortune has quite turned round.' And at this point the poet died—'trespassa Guillaume de Lorris.' Had he lived to complete his work we should had a complete Ars Amoris, fashioned on the precepts of Ovid, and clothed in an allegory—cold, monotonous, bloodless—though graceful, fanciful, and not devoid of poetic taste. Perhaps we should have had more than this. In its simple, first meaning, it is not difficult for anyone to make out. Idleness or Leisure alone makes Pleasure possible; through Idleness we enter into the garden of Delight, where love wanders. Youth is the season of love, and Spring is an emblem of youth. The escort of Love is the collection of qualities which belong to the time of youth, and make it happy, such as beauty, wealth, and courtesy. What has Reason to do with Love? Who can advise but an experienced friend? The only possession that the vassal can give to Love the suzerain is his own heart; the chief aid to success is Bel Accueil—'fair welcome'—while Envy, Shame (for fear of Malebouche—Calumny), Jealousy, and Chastity protect the maiden. So far all is clear and easy to be read. Was there not, however, under an interpretation as easy as that of Bunyan's Holy War, a second and a deeper meaning? It is a question not easy to answer. Molinet, the dull and laborious Molinet, who published, towards the end of the fifteenth century, an edition of the book in prose, 'Le Roman de la Rose MoralisÉ cler et net TranslatÉ en rime et prose Par votre humble Molinet,' Clement Marot, on the other hand, in his edition, where he turned the language into French of his own day, and thereby utterly spoiled it, finds an interpretation of his own, quite as ingenious and quite as improbable as that of Molinet. The Rose is the state of wisdom, 'bien et justement conforme À la Rose pour les valeurs, doulours, et odours qui en elle sont: la quelle moult est À avoir difficile pour les empeschements interposez.' It was a Papal Rose, made of gold, and scented with musk and balm; of gold, on account of the honour and reverence due to God; scented with musk to symbolize the duties of fidelity and justice to our neighbours; and with balm because we ought to hold our own souls clear and precious above all worldly things. Or, the Rose is the state of Grace, difficult for the sinner to arrive at, and fitly symbolized by the flowers which had sufficient virtue to transform Apuleius from an ass back to his human shape. Or, again, the Rose was the Virgin Mary—the Rose of Jericho, pure and spotless, and not to be touched by human hands. Fourthly: it was the rose which the Queen of Sheba gave to Solomon, which signified eternal happiness. The interpretations of Molinet and Marot are both manifestly absurd, and represent the pedantic trifling of a time when the taste for double allegories had been carried to a ridiculous extent. And as for Jean de Meung's part, there are plenty of touches in it which show that the writer, though no heretic, had little sympathy with church matters; and would certainly not be disposed to spend his time in laboriously concocting a riddle of twenty thousand lines, the answer to which was to be found in the Romish creed. And in Guillaume de Lorris himself, it is difficult to find a word for or against the Church. He was, no doubt, mindful of the stern lesson read to heretics in the crusade of Provence, fresh in all men's recollection. But he had been nurtured and fed on the poetry of the troubadours; the form of his verse and the turn of his thought were ProvenÇal. Was it likely that so young a writer should escape the spirit of the literature while he studied its form? And since in a time of violent religious excitement, he can find no word of sympathy for a church which persecutes, is it not probable that his sympathies are, if not with the Church persecuted, at least with the people? The probability, moreover, of there being a double allegory in the 'Romance of the Rose,' as planned originally by Guillaume de Lorris, appears to us to be strengthened by a further consideration of the ProvenÇal literature and the line of its development. Love, in a time when life had few pleasures and distractions to offer—when these were generally only to be snatched in the intervals of fighting—became not only the symbol of all life's joy, but grew into a kind of religion. It had its own ritual, its ceremonies, its sacraments, its lessons, and its hymns. Aged poets were its bishops, the guardians of its forms; young poets its priests; instead of the images of saints, were living women, and instead of the procession and the chant, were the love song and the dance. It was nothing new to the ProvenÇal to celebrate the religious worship with a dance. He alone, among Christians, preserved a custom handed down from old pagan times, and as late as the sixteenth century, the worthy people of Marseilles welcomed Christmas in this way. The other sex would naturally offer few obstacles to a homage which, though it sometimes destroyed their virtue, always flattered their vanity, and invested them with a power which was beyond that of kings. Princes, indeed, might make men rich, but women alone could make men happy. An accurate knowledge of love's That this was the case with all the troubadours, or even with most of them, we do not affirm; that it was at one time believed to be true of all of them seems tolerably clear. And no doubt many an honest bard, quite simply putting down his thoughts about his mistress's lips, or the tangles of her hair, would have been astonished to hear that he was preaching the glories of the Virgin, or advocating a free and Pope-less Church. On the supposition that Guillaume de Lorris was one of those who had learned from the troubadours the art of double allegory, and that he conveyed religious teaching under this disguise, we should expect to find the key to his poem in the religious difficulties of his time. It is not, at least, difficult to get at these. The people of Provence[51] had always mixed freely with the educated Mahometans of Spain, and the wealthy Jews who lived among them: their own Christianity sat lightly upon them, as a cloak, the fashion of which might at any time be altered; theology was held in universal disesteem, and the priesthood, taken from the lowest strata of society, were objects of pity and contempt: a widespread heresy existed, which does not appear to have had much, if anything to do with modern Protestantism, holding 'erroneous views' on Baptism and the Eucharist, rejecting the Old Testament, denying the authority and necessity of the priesthood, and even repudiating, in some cases, marriage itself. It was growing rapidly not only in Switzerland and Languedoc but also in the Nord, in England, and in Germany, by means of wandering bards, who scattered their new doctrines broadcast wherever they went. By local persecutions and burnings, attempts were made to stop it, but in vain; and Rome saw with consternation a province the most cultivated, the most richly endowed with genius, the most wealthy, that from which the greatest help for the Church was to be expected, As soon as persecution began, or even suspicion of the truth, the poets would see the necessity for veiling their thoughts under carefully-constructed allegories, and while they chanted a monotonous refrain on one of the many rules of love, secretly inculcated a code of doctrines more subversive than any the Church had yet combated. Occasionally we hear a voice which speaks aloud, and plainly enough, to let us know the kind of thing that was whispered. Thus Fauriel gives the following from Pierre Cardinal.[52] He is considering the insoluble problem of suffering and evil, and cries, with a boldness that has more despair than blasphemy in it—'At the Last Day I shall say, myself, to God that He fails in His duty to His children if He thinks to destroy them and plunge them into Hell.... God ought to use gentleness and to keep His souls from trespass.' Voluptuous, loose in morals, satirical, and careless as these poets were, they yet have the merit of boldly using thought, and carrying conviction to its logical and legitimate end. They anticipated the movement of the fifteenth century, without its knowledge and higher light: their penalty was extermination, thorough and complete. The land was destroyed; its cities burned; the people massacred; Pope and kings combined to make a desert, and to call it peace. What could the Church do more? What indeed, could she do less? For the war was a struggle for existence, and the heresies of Provence were only the most formidable in a general movement of free thought which shook the powers of Rome to its very foundations. But one thing the Church could not do. The flame of insubordination and opposition could be handed down in secret. Things that could not be attacked openly, might be attacked secretly. There were secret societies in the Middle Ages, which had a real and definite object, the danger and the terror of the Church.[53] And to this day Rome excommunicates the members of all secret societies, whether the mild and convivial Freemason or the bloodthirsty Fenian. The Society of Jesus is the only secret society to which a Roman Catholic may belong. Guillaume de Lorris belongs to a time when doctrine was secretly assailed; his successor, Jean de Meung, to a time when practice was openly assailed. For men very soon left off attacking their enemies by allegory, and Guillaume de Lorris, if he was indeed one of that school, was one of its last disciples. Whether he was, or was not, can never now be satisfactorily answered. He left his poem unfinished, hardly, perhaps, begun. Whatever has to be said on the subject of its original plan, must be necessarily conjectural. We incline, on the whole, to believe that he did have a religious purpose, which was not understood by Jean de Meung; that one who bears in mind the religious history of Provence as well as the character of its situation, may well construct an interpretation of the work of Guillaume de Lorris far more probable and consistent than that of Molinet or of Marot. Jean de Meung, so-called because he was born at the little town of Meung, in the department of Loiret— 'De Jean de Meung, s'enfle le cours de Loire.' Jean Clopinel, Limping John, because he was lame, finding himself, some forty years later, with his head stuffed full of all the learning of his time, and nearly bursting with sentiments, convictions, and opinions, on religion, politics, social economy, and science, began, one may suppose, to cast about for some means of getting rid of his burden. Lighting on the unfinished and half-forgotten work of Guillaume de Lorris, he conceived the idea of finishing the allegory, and making it the medium of popularizing his own opinions. He could hardly have hit upon a readier plan. It was not yet a time for popular science; there were no treatises in the vernacular on history, theology, and political economy, and the only way of getting at people was by means of rhyme. But Jean de Meung was no allegorist, and no storyteller. He took up the tale, indeed, where his predecessor left it, and carried it on, it is true, but in so languid a manner, with so many digressions, turns and twists, that what little interest was originally in it goes clean out. Nothing can well be more tedious than those brief portions devoted to the conduct of the story. It finishes, somehow. Love calls his barons together, is defeated, sends an embassy to his mother, Venus, who comes to his assistance; the fortress is taken, Bel Accueil is released, and the Rose is plucked. In the course of the poem, Malebouche gets his tongue cut out, DÉduit, Doux Regard, LÉesce, Doux Penser, and others drop out of the allegory altogether; the Garden is forgotten; all the little careful accessories of Guillaume de Lorris, such as the arrows of Between Guillaume de Lorris and his successor there is a great gulf hardly represented by the forty years of interval. Men's thoughts had widely changed. The influence of ProvenÇal poetry was finally and completely gone, and its literature utterly fallen, to be revived after many centuries only by the scholar and the antiquarian. More than this, the thoughts and controversies of men which had turned formerly upon the foundations of the Christian faith, now turned either on special points of doctrine, or on the foundation and principles of society. No writers, so far as we remember, have noticed the entire separation between the two parts of the romance. They are independent works. Even the allegory changes form, and the idea of the trouvÈre, Guillaume, was lost and forgotten when his successor professed to carry it on. In passing from one to the other, the transition is like that from a clear, cold, mountain stream to a turbid river, whose waters are stained with factory refuse, and whose banks are lined with busy towns. The mystic element suddenly disappears. Away from the woodland and the mountains and among the haunts of men, it cannot live. The idea of love becomes gross and vulgar. The fair, clear voice of the poet grows thick and troubled; his gaze drops from the heavens to the earth. It is no longer a trouvÈre bent on developing a hidden meaning, and wrapping mighty secrets of religious truth in a cold and careful allegory; it is a man, eager and impetuous, alive to all the troubles and sorrows of humanity, with a supreme contempt for love, and for woman, the object of love, and a supreme carelessness for the things that occupied the mind of his predecessor. We have said that new characters were introduced. The boundaries of the old allegory were, indeed, too narrow. Jean de Meung had to build, so to speak, the walls of his own museum. It was to be a museum which should contain all knowledge of the time; to hold miscellaneous collections of facts, opinions, legends, and quotations, than which nothing can be more bewildering, nothing more unmethodical, nothing more bizarre. As a poet he is superior, we think, to his predecessor, though Guillaume de Lorris can only be reckoned as a second-rate versifier. He is diffuse, apt to repeat himself, generally monotonous, and sometimes obscure. His imagination is less vivid, and his style less clear, than those of Guillaume de Lorris. Occasionally, however, passages of beauty occur. The following, for example, diffuse as it is, appears to us to possess some of the elements of real poetry. The poet is describing a tempest followed by fair weather. Nature weeps at the wrath of the winds:— 'The air itself, in truth, appears To weep for this in flooded tears. The clouds such tender pity take, Their very clothing they forsake: And for the sorrow that they bear, Put off the ornaments they wear. 'So much they mourn, so much they weep, Their grief and sorrow are so deep, They make the rivers overflow, And war against the meadows low: Then is the season's promise crossed; The bread made dear, the harvest lost, And honest poor who live thereby, Mourn hopes that only rose to die. 'But when the end arrives at last, And fair times come, and bad are passed; When from the sky, displeased and pale, Fair weather robs its rain and hail, And when the clouds perceive once more The thunder gone, the tempest o'er— Then they rejoice, too, as they may, And to be comely, bright, and gay, Put on their glorious robes anew, Varied with every pleasant hue; They hang their fleeces out to dry, Carding and combing as they fly; Then take to spinning, and their thread Abroad through all the heavens spread, With needles white and long, as though Their feathery gauntlets they would sew— Harness their steeds, and mount and fly O'er valleys deep and mountains high.' It is needless, after what has been said, to pursue any further the story of the romance. There is not much lost by this omission, because the work has really little or nothing to do with the allegory, and might simply be called, 'The Opinions of Jean de Meung.' Our object is to show what actually were the opinions of a scholar of liberal views in the thirteenth century. They may be divided into four classes, foremost of which, in his own mind, stands his hatred of monks. In religion he was not an infidel, or even a heretic; he was simply in opposition. He writes, not against sacerdotalism, but against the inversion of recognised His second idea was to make an angry, almost furious protest against the extravagant respect paid to women, and an onslaught on their follies and vices. It is very curious, and shows how little he was trammelled by his allegory, that he fails altogether to see how entirely out of place is such an attack in the 'Romance of the Rose.' He had two other principal ideas: one to communicate in the common tongue as much science as the world could boast; and the other, to circulate certain principles of vague socialism and hesitating republicanism which were then beginning to take the place of those religious speculations which occupied men's minds in the early part of the century. Jean de Meung's was not the only book of the time which aimed at being an encyclopÆdia, but it was by far the best known and the most widely rÉpandu. There were written towards the close of the thirteenth century certain collections called trÉsors, which were designed to contain everything that was to be learned, quicquid scibile, in mathematics, physics, astronomy, alchemy, music, speculative philosophy, and theology. They were generally in verse; one of the best of them being by a monk, called 'Mainfroi,' which professedly contained the Arabic learning, borrowed from the Moors in Spain. Probably Jean de Meung had access to this. Readers of old English literature will also remember that dreariest of dreary books, Gower's 'Confessio Amantis,' into which the hapless student plunges without hope, and emerges without profit, having found nothing but vapid imitation, monotonous repetition, and somnolent platitudes. The 'Confessio' is a trÉsor, and designed to contain all the science of the time. It is adapted, so far as the science goes, from a trÉsor called the Secretum Secretorum. Let us, then, gather some of the opinions of our author, classifying them according to this fourfold division. It may be premised that the division was not thought of by the poet, from whom, indeed, sequence and method are not to be expected. Liberal thought, in the time of Jean de Meung, did not attack the domain of doctrine, partly, perhaps, from an unwillingness to meet the probable consequences of a charge of heresy; indeed, when doctrine came in its way, it seems to have leaned in the direction of orthodoxy. Thus we find Jean de Meung siding with Guillaume de St. Amour in an attack on the 'Eternal Gospel,' that most extraordinary book, ascribed to Joachim, Abbot of Flora,[54] which was intended to have the same relation to Christianity which Christianity bears to Judaism, to be at once its fulfilment and its abolition, which was to inaugurate the third and last, the perfect age, that of the Holy Spirit. The mendicants, an ignorant, credulous body, quite incapable of appreciating cause or consequence of teaching, espoused the cause of the book; Guillaume de St. Amour arraigned them, not only of the ordinary vices attributed to them—vices entirely contrary to their vows—but as preachers of doctrines pernicious, false, and heretical. Probably Jean de Meung was actuated by esprit de corps, Guillaume de St. Amour being a champion of the University of Paris, as well as by hatred to the monks, and, in spite of his hard words, was not moved strongly by any specially inimical feeling towards the book. Following the instincts of his time, however, he flatly ascribes its authorship to the Devil, the alleged author of so many theological books. Partizanship in those days, as in ours, meant, to be effective, a good, sound, honest hatred, and much command of language. In his description of hell, Jean anticipates the realistic horrors of Dante. 'What guerdon,' he asks, 'can the wicked man look for, save the cord which will hang him to the dolorous gibbet of hell? There will he be rivetted with everlasting fetters before the prince of devils; there will he be boiled in cauldrons; roasted before and behind; set to revolve, like Ixion, on cutting wheels turned by the paws of devils; tormented with hunger and thirst, and mocked with fruit and water, like Tantalus, or set to roll stones for ever up hill, like Sysyphus.' One thing seems here worthy of remark. The place of punishment for the wicked man, in the Middle Ages, was the torture-chamber of their own criminal courts, intensified by imagination. Their punishment was through the senses. Of mental agony they had no conception. Yet, strangely enough, their heaven was never a heaven of the senses; and it shows how deeply they were penetrated with the feeling of Christ's holiness that while every temptation seemed set to make the mass believe in a paradise like that of Mahomet, the heaven of Christendom 'There shall ye taste that spring so fair; (Bright are its waters, pure and clear), And never more from death shall shrink, If only of that fount you drink. But ever still, untired, prolong The days with worship, praise, and song.'[55] The poet reserves, however, his chief strength and the main exposition of his views for his character of Faux Semblant—False seeming—the hypocrite. There is a dramatic art of the very highest kind in the way in which Faux Semblant draws and develops his own character, pronounces, as it were, the apology of hypocrisy. His painting of the vices of the mendicant orders cannot approach those of Walter de Mapes, of Erasmus, and of Buchanan, in savage ferocity; but it is more satirical and more subtly venomous than any of those, and has the additional bitterness that it is spoken as from within the body which he attacks. The others, standing outside the monastic orders, point the finger of scorn at them. Jean de Meung makes one of themselves, an unblushing priest, with a candour which almost belongs to an approving conscience, with a chuckling self-complacency and an entire unconsciousness of the contrast between his life and his profession, which rises to the very first order of satirical writing, depict his own life, and take credit for villanies which he takes care to inform us are common to his order. He has been compared with Friar John; but the animalism and lusty vigour of this holy man lead him to a life of jovial sensuality through sheer ignorance; whereas Faux Semblant, his conscience seared with a hot iron, sins against the light. We may compare, too, the attacks made by Jean de Meung's contemporaries and immediate successors. They never even attempt satire.[56] It was an instrument whose use they could not comprehend. Their line is invective, as when Rutebeuf says, in his straightforward way— 'Papelart et Beguin, Ont le siÈcle honi.' or, as Eustache Deschamps attacks the pluralists— 'Prestres et clers qui tenez vos monciaulx De chapelles, vous autres curiaulx, Des povres clers ayez compassion: Repartez leur ces biens ecclesiaulx, Afin que Dieu vous soit propiciaulx: Vous les tenez À vo dampnacion.' Faux Semblant, in his sermon, or address, a small part only of which we consider, begins by telling his hearers that he lives, by preference, in obscurity, and may, therefore, chiefly be found where this is most readily obtained, viz., under a religious habit. With the habit, however, he does not put on the reality of religion. He attaches himself to powerful patrons; he goes about preaching poverty, but living on the best of everything; nothing can be more contrary to his experience than that religion is to be found at all under the robe of a monk; nor does it follow that men and women lead bad lives because they wear a worldly garb; very many, indeed, of the saints have been married, were parents of children, and men and women of the world. He tells how he changes his habit from time to time; how, out of the religious life, he 'takes the grain and leaves the straw;' how he hears confession and grants absolution, as well as any parish priest; but how, unlike the parish priest, he will hear the confessions only of the rich, who can afford to pay; 'let me have the fat sheep, and the pastors shall have the lean.' So with the poor; he will not help any. 'Let dying beggars cry for aid, Naked and cold on dunghill laid: There stands the hospital, with door Wide open to receive the poor. Thither let all who please repair, For help nor money can I spare: No use for me to save their life: What can he give who sucks his knife?' Now, with the rich it is different; and the mendicant, while he takes the alms of those whose sins he has heard, may glow with conscious virtue, reflecting that the rich are much more exposed to temptation, and therefore, as a rule, more grievously weighed down with a sense of guilt than the poor. When relief can be given, surely it should first be bestowed on those who need it most. The mendicants keep up their own power by union; if a man does one of them an injury, they all conspire to effect his ruin: if one hates, all hate: if one is refused, all are refused, and revenge is taken: if any man is conspicuous for good deeds, they claim him as their own disciple, and in order to get the praise of people and inspire confidence, they ask, wherever they go, for letters which may testify to their virtue, and make people believe that all goodness abounds in them. He says that he leaves others to retire into hermitages and caves, preferring to be called the Antichrist of robbers and hypocrites: he proclaims himself a cheat, a rogue, a liar, and a thief: he boasts that his father, Treachery, and himself rule in every realm, and that in the security of a religious disguise, where no one is likely to suspect him, he contrives various means to charm and deceive the world. Set forth in this bold fashion, the discourse of Faux Semblant loses all its dramatic force. It is fair, however, to state that this is chiefly found in detached passages, and that the sermon is entirely spoiled by the many digressions, notably that on the 'Eternal Gospel,' which are found in it. Chaucer's rendering of this portion appears to us to be far less happy than the rest of his work. Another long and very curious dissertation, into which there is no space here to enter, is that on Predestination, where he arrives at the conclusion that the doctrine must be accepted as a dogma in Christian faith, but that it need not affect the Christian life— 'For every man, except a fool, May guide himself by virtue's rule.' A conclusion which seems almost to anticipate the conclusion arrived at in the Article of the Church of England. The sum of Jean de Meung's religious teaching is to be found in the sermon of Genius— 'And, Lords and Ladies, this be sure, That those who live good lives and pure; Nor from their work and duty shrink, Shall of this fountain freely drink.— To honour Nature never rest, By labour is she honoured best; If others goods are in your hands, Restore them all—so God commands. From murder let all men abstain; Spotless keep hands, and mouth keep clean. Be loyal and compassionate, So shall ye pass the heavenly gate.' The one thing insisted on by Jean de Meung is the absolute necessity of a pure life. A profound sense of the beauty of a pure life is, indeed, the key-note to all mediÆval heresies and religious excitements.[57] The uncleanness of the clergy was the most terrible weapon wielded by the heresiarchs. Thus Peter de Brueys compelled monks to marry. Henry the Deacon taught that the Church could exist without priests. Tanchelin of Antwerp held that the validity of the sacraments depended on the holiness of him who administered them. Peter Waldo sent out his disciples two by two, to preach the subversive doctrine that every virtuous man was his own priest; while the Cathari went gladly to the stake in defence of their principle that absolute personal purity was the one thing acceptable to God. The more ignorant the age, the wider is religious speculation; but in the most ignorant ages, there rises up from time to time a figure with a spiritual insight far beyond that of more learned times. Protestantism in its noblest form has found nothing more sublime than this conception of a Church where every good man is a priest; and there is nothing in the history of religious thought more saddening than these efforts of the people, ever hopeless, ever renewed, to protest against dogma, creed, perfunctory and vicarious religion, and to proclaim a religion of personal holiness alone. Let us turn to the second division. We find the book teeming with a misogyny, bitter enough to make us believe that there 'Toutes estes, serez, ou fustes, De faict ou de voulentÉ, putes.' Of course it may be urged that these are the words of jealousy, and not of the poet; but, unfortunately, there are so many indications of the author's entire approval of the sentiment, that the plea is hardly worth much. Take, for instance, the dramatic scene, when the wife worms out her husband's secret; or that of the old woman's lesson to Bel Accueil, where, as in the case of Faux Semblant, he puts woman's condemnation in her own mouth. She teaches him the art of love almost in Ovid's own words; she prefaces her lesson by a lament over the past days of youth and beauty; her regrets are not for a life of sin and deceit, but for the past bad days that can come no more. She is steeped in wickedness and intrigue; she can see no happiness, except in love and luxury. 'My days of gladness are no more; Your joyous time is all before; Hardly can I, through age and pain, With staff and crutch, my knees sustain. Almost a child, you hardly know What thing you have to bear and do. Yet, well I wot, the torch that all Burns soon or late, on you will fall; And in that fount where Venus brings Her maidens, will you drench love's wings. But ere you headlong enter, pause, Listen to one who knows Love's laws. Perilous are its waters clear; He risks his life who plunges here Without a guide. Who follows me Safe and successful shall he be.' She tells of her vanished youth and all the pleasant follies of her young days; how she threw away her affections on a scoundrel, who only robbed and ill-treated her; how she wasted her money and neglected her chances; how she grew old, and her old friends ceased to knock at her door. 'But ah! my child, no one can know Save him who feels the bitter woe, What grief and dolour me befell At losing what I loved so well. The honeyed words, the soft caress, The sweet delight, the sweet embrace; The kisses sweet—so quickly sped, The joyous time so quickly fled. Fled! and I left alone to mourn. Fled! never, never to return.' The whole passage is full of the truest touches of nature, and is written with a verve quite extraordinary. Villon has imitated it in his ballad of the Belle HeaulmiÈre,— 'Avis m'est que j'oy regretter La belle qui fust HeaulmiÈre; Soy jeune fille souhaiter Et parler en ceste maniÈre. Qu'est devenu ce front poly, Ces cheveulx blonds, sourcils voultiz, Grant entr'oeil, le regard joly, Dont prenoye les plus subtils; Ce beau nez ni grand ni petit; Ces petites joinctes oreilles; Menton fourchu, cler vis, traictiz Et ces belles lÈvres vermeilles?' And BÉranger sings in the same key,— 'Combien je regrette Mon bras si dodu, Ma jambe bien faite, Et le temps perdu.' Jean de Meung's old woman is no more reformed than her successors. And she tells Bel Accueil all that Ovid had to impart. It is quite possible that in putting an imitation of the 'Art of Love' into the old woman's mouth, Jean de Meung catered to the lowest tastes of the age, and courted a popularity from this part of his work which he might not have obtained from the rest. The same sort of defence—no defence at all, but another and a worse charge—has been set up in the cases of Rabelais and Swift. All such offenders we are told, deferred to popular opinion, and wrote what they inwardly disapproved. This surely is worse. To be yourself so far depraved as to take delight in things impure is bad; to deliberately lay yourself out to please others with things impure is surely infinitely more wicked. It is possible that Jean de Meung, Rabelais, and Swift, did this; but we do not think it probable. In the case of the poet whom we are now considering, there seems every reason to believe that he had formed the lowest possible ideas of love and women; that from the depths of a corrupted morality, which permitted him the same pleasure in impurity which the common herd of the vulgar and illiterate shared, he had eager yearnings for that purity of life which alone as he felt and preached, could bring one to taste of the heavenly spring. That a man could at the same time grovel so low and look so high, that his gaze upwards was so clear and bright, while his eyes were so often turned earthward, is a singular phenomenon; but it is not a solitary one. Other great men have been as degraded as they were exalted. Perhaps when Christiana The poet feels it necessary to apologize for his severity against the sex. 'If,' he says, 'you see anything here against womankind, blame not the poet.' 'All this was for instruction writ, Here are no words of idle wit. No jealousy inspired the song; No hatred bears the lines along. Bad are their hearts, if such there live, Who villainie to women give. Only, if aught your sense offend, Think that to know yourself is good, And that, with this intent, your friend, I write what else might seem too rude.' He thinks it right, too, to make a sort of apology for the severity of his attack on monks. 'I strung my bow: I bent it well; And though no saint, the truth to tell I let my random arrows fly, In lowly town and cloister high. For what cared I where'er they lit? The folk that Christ called hypocrite, Who here and there are always found, Who keep their Lent the whole year round, But feed on live men's flesh the while With teeth of envy and of guile, These were my mark; no other aim Was mine except to blot their fame.' Let us pass to what is perhaps the most curious part of the book, and the richest for the student of mediÆval ideas, that in which he gives us his views on the growth and principles of society. Here are advanced theories of an audacity and apparent originality which make one curious to know how far they penetrated into the lower strata of France; whether they were the speculations of a dreamer, or the tenets of a school; whether there was any connection—it is more than possible—between this kind of teaching and the frantic revolt of the peasantry; whether, in fact, Jean de Meung was a prophet with a following, or a visionary without disciples. Read, for instance, his account, somewhat abridged, of the Golden Age:— 'Once on a time, in those old years, When lived our grandsires and forbears, (Writers, by whom the tale we know, And ancient legends, tell us so), Love was loyal, and true, and good; The folk was simple; the fare was rude; They gathered the berries in forest and mead: For all their meat and all their bread; They wandered by valley and plain and mountain, By river and forest and woodland fountain, Plucking the chestnuts and sweet wild fruits, Looking for acorns and rustic roots. They rubbed together the ears of wheat; They gathered the clustering grape to eat; Rich fare they made when the forest bees Filled with honey the hollow trees: Water their drink; and the strong red wine Was not yet pressed from the autumn vine. 'When sleep came with the shades of night, They spread no beds of down so light, But stretched in their cabins on piles of hay, Fresh gathered grass and leaves they lay. Or slept without—when the air was mild— And summer winds were hushed and stilled; When birds in the early morning grey Awoke to welcome, each in his way, The dawn that makes all hearts so gay. In that glad time when the royal pair, Flora—Queen of the flowers fair— And Zephyr, her mate, give timely birth To flowers of spring, through all the earth. ... 'such splendour give That you might think the world would strive With Heaven itself for glory—so bright, So fair, so proud, with its flowers bedight. Then in the woods they lay at ease, Over their heads the branching trees— Lovers kissed, who lovers were, And kissed again, and had no fear— Then they chaunted rounds and lays, Joyously led their sports and plays: A simple folk; they had no prayer— No fond ambition—nor other care Then just to live a life of joy— And loyal love without annoy. No king or prince was with them yet To plunder and wrong, to ravish and fret; There were no rich, there were no poor, For no man yet kept his own store: And well the saying old they knew— (Wise it is, and is proven true) Love and Lordship are two—not one: They cannot abide together, nor mate: Who wishes to join them is undone, And who would unite will separate.' Or, as Dryden, who certainly never read the 'Romance of the Rose,' unless perhaps in Marot's edition, says:— 'Love either finds equality, or makes it.' The end of the Golden Age—a thing not generally known—was accelerated by Jason's voyage, the hero bringing home with him treasures from Outremer: people begin to get ideas of property: they amass wealth: they rob and fight for plunder: they go so far as to divide the land. 'La propriÉtÉ,' says Proudhon, 'c'est le vol.' 'Even the ground they parcelled out, And placed the landmarks all about; And over these, whene'er they met, Fierce battle raged. What they could get, They seized and snatched; and everywhere The strongest got the biggest share. So that at length, of plunder tired, Needs must a guardian should be hired. A sturdy peasant chose they then, The mightiest of the sons of men; Strongest in battle or in ring, And him they chose to be their king.' Voltaire has exactly the same idea: 'Le premier roi fut un soldat heureux.' This is the origin of royalty. The growth of feudalism, of armies, taxation, and division into classes is carefully traced from these small beginnings. But he deduces the great law of charity and love for our neighbours. Having this, we have everything; and wanting this, we get wars, tyranny, and all the miseries of the world. What is the nature of true gentility? Lineage, he explains, has nothing to do with it. None are gentle, but those whose virtues make them so. Ancestors may leave their wealth behind them, but not the qualities that made them great. Clerks have an advantage over unlettered persons in knowing what is right. If they are coarse and rude, they sin against greater light, and incur heavier punishment. 'Let him, who gentleman would be, From sloth and idleness keep free; In arms and study be employed, And coarse rusticity avoid. Let him, with humble, courteous grace, Meet every class in every place; Honour all women, wife or maid, So that not too much trust be laid In woman's faith. So may he steer, Of this great danger wholly clear. Know all that gentle blood may bring No benefit, or anything, Except what each man's worth may give. Know, also, none of all that live Can ask for honour, praise, or blame By reason of another's name.' The idea, of course, is not new. It is found frequently enough in the Greek and Latin literature. It occurs, we believe, for the first time in the fragments of Epicharmus,— ??a??? d' ???? ??? ?????? ?a? d?????, e??e??? ?f?. and afterwards it is found in Euripides, Horace, Juvenal—'Stemmata quid faciunt?'—and, lastly, in Seneca. Doubtless, Jean de Meung took it from Seneca. Once started anew, the idea, of course, became popular, and poet after poet repeated it, until it became a mere commonplace. But so far as we have been able to discover, Jean de Meung gave it new life. A few words only, for our limits press, on the natural science taught in the 'Romance of the Rose.' The poet, having got rid of this indignation and wrath that lay at his soul anent the mendicant friars, and the vices of women, wishes now, it seems, to sit down for a quiet and comfortable disquisition on universal knowledge, including alchemy, in which he is a firm believer; indeed, he wants to pass, in a certain ballad of his, for an adept. This part takes the form of a confession of Nature to her chaplain Genius (in which Power afterwards copies him). The confession is long and wearisome, but it is curious as being the earliest and fullest popular account of mediÆval science. He fancies Nature to be perpetually at work, fashioning creatures whom Death continually tries to destroy. 'Nature, who fashions all that holds The sky beneath its ample folds, Within her forge meanwhile was found, And at her work's eternal round,— Struck out new forms of every race, Lest life should fail, and types should cease; She made so many, that Death, who toiled With heavy mace to kill, was foiled. They fly to save themselves, where'er Their fate may lead, or feet may bear; Some to the Church and convent rule, Some to the dance, some to the school; Some to their merchandize are turned, Some to the arts which they have learned. Another, sworn by Holy Writ, Puts on the cloak of hypocrite; And, flying, would his thoughts conceal, Did not his life the truth reveal. So, shunning Death, do all men shape Their diverse ways, his blows to 'scape.' The scientific discourse follows: observe the good sense of many of his remarks:— 'God, having made the world out of nothing, having put all things into their proper places, measured spaces, and allotted courses, handed all over to Nature as his chambriÈre. Whatever man can do—and his power is very great—he cannot equal Nature, the inexhaustible and untiring. By alchemy he can interchange metals; can restore its pristine purity to everything; can turn quicksilver into gold by subtle medicines; but he cannot change or create species. This Nature alone is able to effect, changing the complexions of things, so that they assume new forms and become new substances; as when in thunderstorms, stones fall from the clouds, where no stones ever were. 'The moon is different from the planets in being obscure in some places and clear in others. The reason of this is, that the sun can penetrate through one part of it, as through glass; the dark part, on which is figured a serpent having a tree on his back, reflecting the rays. 'In the centre is the sun, like a king. He it is who makes the stars so bright that they serve as lamps of the night; were we nearer to the sun we should be scorched; were we farther away we should be frozen. 'The comets are not attached to the heavens, but fly about in the air. They do not last long, and it is a mistake to suppose that they portend disaster. For there is no man of worth or power sufficient for the heavens to take notice of him. Nor any prince of so great worth, That signs from heaven should give to earth, Notice of death for him alone: Nor is his body—life once gone— Worth one jot more than simple squire, Or clerk, or one who works for hire. 'Foolish people imagine, too, that stars fall like flying dragons from the skies; and that eclipses are to be taken as portents. Now, no one would be astonished at these things who understood the causes of things. 'Every student ought to acquire a knowledge of optics, which can be learned by the aid of geometry, from the books of Aristotle, Albacen, and Hucayen. Here can be learned the properties of mirrors; how they produce things which appear miracles; make small things seem great—a grain of sand like a mountain; and great things small—a mountain like a grain of sand; how glasses can be used to burn things; how straight lines can be made to look crooked, round things oblong, upright things reversed; the phantoms which do not exist appear to be moving about.' The book from beginning to end is as full of quotations as Burton. The author quotes from Aristotle, Justinian, Horace, Seneca, St. Augustine, Ovid, Cicero, Boethius, Lucan, Claudian, Suetonius, and he has, probably through Cicero, some knowledge of Plato, but all this in the wildest jumble, with no discrimination and no critical power whatever. His range of reading was not by any means contemptible, and though we know of no writer of his time who can compare with him in this respect, it is evident that since one man had command of so many books, other men must have enjoyed the same advantages. There is reason to believe from Jean de Meung alone that acquaintance with Latin literature was much more extended than is generally thought, and that the scholarship of the time was by no means wholly confined to scholastic disputation. Such, roughly sketched, is the work of Jean de Meung, from which we have plucked some of the fruits that come readiest to our hand. If not altogether an original or a profound thinker, he has at least the merit of fearlessness. He taught the folk, in the most popular way possible, great and valuable lessons. He told them that religion is a thing apart from, and independent of, religious profession; that "la robe ne faict pas le moyne;" he says that most of the saints, men and women, were decent married people, that marriage is a laudable and holy custom, that the wealth of monks is a mockery of their profession and a perjury of their vows, that learned persons ought to set an example, and what is sheer ignorance and brutality in others is rank sin with them; he attacks superstition, showing that all phenomena have natural causes, and have nothing to do with earthly events and the fortunes of men, because men are equal in the sight of God; and he teaches in terms as clear as any used by Carlyle, that labor is noble, and in accordance with the conditions of our being—that man's welfare is the end and aim of all earthly provision. All this is what used to be called the Dark Ages. After six hundred years, the same questions exercise us which exercised Jean de Meung. We are still disputing as to whether true nobility is inherited or not; we have not all made up our minds about the holiness of marriage; we still think the clergyman, because he wears a surplice, holier than other men; work has been quite recently and with much solemnity pronounced noble by a prophet who forgot, while he was about it, to call it also respectable; men yet live who look upon scientific men with horror, and quote with fine infelicity, a text of St. Paul's about 'science falsely so called;' while the lesson of personal holiness has to be preached again and again, and is generally forgotten in the war over vestments and creeds. Jean de Meung wished, as it seems to us, to write a book for the people, to answer their questions, to warn them of dangers before them, to instruct their ignorance. On the sapless trunk of a dying and passionless allegory he grafts a living branch which shall bear fruit in the years to come. His poem breathes indeed. Its pulses beat with a warm human life. Its sympathies are with all mankind. The poet has a tear for the poor naked beggars dying on dung-heaps and in the HÔtel-Dieu, and a lash of scorpions for the Levite who goes by on the other side; he teaches the loveliness of And much more than this. It seems to us that his book—absolutely the only cheerful book of the time—afforded hope that things were not permanent: evil times may change; times have not been always evil: there was once a Golden Age: the troubles of the present are due, not to the innate badness of Nature and the universal unfitness of things, but to certain definite and ascertainable causes. Now to discover the cause is to go some way towards curing the disease. In that uneasy time, strange questions and doubts perplexed men's minds—questions of religion and politics, affecting the very foundations of society. They asked themselves why things were so; and looking about in the dim twilight of dawning knowledge they could find as yet no answer. There was no rest in the Church or in the State, and the mind of France—which was the mind of Europe—was gravitating to a social and religious democracy. An hour before the dawn, you may hear the birds of the forest twitter in their sleep: they dream of the day. Europe at the close of the thirteenth century was dreaming of the glorious Renaissance, the dawn of the second great day of civilization. Jean de Meung answered the questions of the times with a clearness and accuracy which satisfied if it did not entirely explain. Five generations passed away before the full burst of light, and he taught them all, with that geniality that is his greatest charm. His book lasted because, confused and without art as it is, it is full of life and cheerfulness and hope. Not one of the poets of his own time had his lightness of heart: despondency and dejection weigh down every one: they alternate between a monotonous song to a mistress or a complaint for France; and to Jean de Meung they are as the wood-pigeon to the nightingale. They all borrowed from him, or studied him. Charles of Orleans, Villon, Clement Marot, Rabelais, La Fontaine, Regnier, MoliÈre, BÉranger, all come down from him in direct line, his literary children and grandchildren. And in Jean de Meung, to make an end, is the first manifestation of the true spirit of French literature—the esprit Gaulois—the legacy, they tell us, of the ancient Gaul. Art. V.—Letters and Letter Writing. Gossip about Letters and Letter Writers. By George Seton, Advocate. Edinburgh. 1870. We all of us know well, and to our cost, that we can make no improvement in the management of our affairs, no change for the better in the arrangements, economical and ethical, of our modes of life and action without some attendant trial, trouble, or loss coming ever like a shadow in its train. It is, therefore, not a cause for wonder that some spirit of evil has cast its shadow in the wake of the introduction of the penny post, and the still later changes in the direction of cheapness in the newspaper press. A feeling of regret arises in our minds that with their introduction the good old-fashioned long and newsy letter of bygone days has been almost crushed out of existence. Letter writing is becoming a lost art, and no correspondence is now carried on as in the olden time; for no one now lives 'a life of letter writing' as Walpole said he did. The reason of this is not far to seek, for the hurry and bustle of life has become too great to allow of anything but the passing thought being committed to paper, and each writer finds it to be useless to tell news to a correspondent who has already learned what has happened from the same source as himself. It is now frequently a shorter operation to call upon your friend and talk with him than to write him a long letter; but it is a happy thing for us of this day that this was not always the case, for the letters of the past which we possess form one of the most charming branches of our lighter literature. The value of communication between persons in distant places was appreciated in very early times; and we find Job exclaiming, 'Now my days are swifter than a post.' In the days of Hezekiah 'the posts went with the letters from the king and his princes throughout all Israel and Judah,' and Ahasuerus sent letters into every province of his empire by 'the posts that rode upon mules and camels,' and were 'hastened and pressed on by the king's commandment,' to inform his subjects that it was his imperial will that every man should bear rule in his own house. Various modes of communication other than writing have at different times been in use, such as numerically marked or notched pieces of wood, and the many-coloured cords, regularly knotted, which were called quipus by the Peruvians. Herodotus tells us of a cruel practice resorted to, in order to convey secret intelligence with safety. The head of a trusty messenger was The establishment of a postal system in England is chiefly due to the sagacity of Richard III., who commanded the expedition against the Scots, in his brother Edward's reign. During this time, as it was necessary for the king and his government to know how the war was carried on, stages of about twenty miles each were established upon the North road. When Richard came to the throne he did not allow this system to fall into abeyance. Henry VIII. instituted the office of 'Master of the Postes,' and from his time to the present the Post Office has increased in importance year by year. Henry Bishop was appointed Postmaster-General at the Restoration, on his entering into a contract to pay to Government the annual sum of £21,500. In Queen Anne's reign the revenue of the Post Office had risen to £60,000; in 1761 it reached £142,000; in 1800 £745,000; in 1813 £1,414,224, and is now between four and five millions sterling. Much of this great increase in the revenue is owing to the various improvements that have been introduced; and most of these have come from without, and have been opposed by the officials. John Palmer had great difficulty in obtaining the adoption of his scheme of mail coaches, and Sir Rowland Hill battled for many years for his penny postage. Thomas Waghorn, the hero of the Overland Route, was originally a pilot in the service of the Hon. East India Company, and came to England with a letter of introduction from the Governor-General to the chairman of the Company. The chairman cared nothing for his scheme, and told him to return to his duties in India, saying that the East India Company were quite satisfied with the postal communication as conducted vi the Cape of Good Hope. Waghorn left the room, disgusted with his reception, and wrote the following laconic note in the hall:— 'To John Harvey Astell, Esq., M.P., Chairman of the Hon. East India Company. 'Sir,—I this day resign my employment as a pilot in the Hon. East India Company's Bengal Marine Service, and have the honour to remain, your obedient servant, 'Thomas Waghorn.' With the ink scarcely dry he rushed into the august presence, and delivering his letter, said, 'There, sir, is my resignation of my position in the Company's service, and I tell you, John Harvey Astell, Esq., member of Parliament, and chairman of the Hon. East India Company, that I will stuff the Overland Route down your throat before you are two years older.'[58] It was very long before the present enlightened views of cheap postage took root in the official mind, and in a tract, entitled 'England's Wants,' reprinted in 'Somers's Tracts' (vol. ix. p. 219), letters are among the objects proposed for taxation. When the cost of postage was high the receiver expected to get his money's worth in a long letter, but various tricks were often resorted to in order to save this cost, and blank letters, with a cipher on the outside, were sometimes sent, and refused by the persons to whom they were directed, because they had learnt from the exterior all that they wanted to know. Another trick discovers an ingenious mode of getting letters free. A shrewd countryman, learning that there was a letter for him at the post office, called for it, but confessing that he could not read, requested the postmaster to open it, and let him know the contents. When he had obtained all the information he required, he politely thanked the official for his kindness, and drily observed, 'When I have some change I will come and take it.' The doctrine of the inviolability of letters is held by all persons of honour, and Cicero asks 'who at all influenced by good habits and feelings has ever allowed himself to resent an affront or injury by exposing to others any letters received from the offending person during their intercourse of friendship?' Nevertheless, all Governments have reserved to themselves the right of opening, in time of emergency, the letters that pass through their hands. The great Falkland would not countenance any such dishonourable doctrine, and Lord Clarendon says of him, 'One thing Lord Falkland could never bring himself to, while Secretary of State, and that was the liberty of opening letters upon suspicion that they might contain matter of dangerous consequence, which he thought such a violation of the law of nature that no qualification of office could justify him in the trespass.' In late years Sir James Graham incurred much public odium, for The history of literature presents us with many specimens of beautiful letters, and of continued correspondence of a high order. The French, more especially, excel in this charming department of the belles lettres, and can claim a De SevignÉ and a Du Deffand; while we too can boast of the possession of Walpole, Gray, and Cowper among the men, and of Lady Russell and Lady Mary Montagu among the ladies. Good letters should be like good conversation, easy and unrestrained, for fine writing is as out of place in the one as fine talk is in the other. Pope did not understand this, and his early letters are showy and unnatural, full of rhetorical flourishes on trivialities. He was in the habit of keeping rough copies of his own letters, and sometimes repeated the same letter to different persons, as in the case of the two lovers killed by lightning, an account of which he sent to the two sisters Martha and Theresa Blount. His letters, therefore, are of little more interest than those of Katherine Phillips, the matchless Orinda, to her grave Poliarchus (Sir Charles Cottrel). Dr. Sprat, in his life of Cowley, makes some judicious remarks upon this subject, but draws the conclusion that familiar letters should not be published to the world. 'There was (he says), one kind of prose wherein Mr. Cowley was excellent; and that is his letters to his private friends. In those he always expressed the native tenderness and innocent gaiety of his mind. I think, sir, you and I have the greatest collection of this sort. But I know you agree with me that nothing of this sort should be published; and herein you have always consented to approve of the modest judgment of our countrymen above the practice of some of our neighbours, and chiefly of the French. I make no manner of question but the English at this time are infinitely improved in this way above the skill of former ages. Yet they have been always judiciously sparing in printing such composures, while some other witty nations have tried all their presses and readers with them. The truth is, the letters that pass between particular friends, if they are written as they ought to be, can scarce ever be fit to see the light. They should not consist of fulsome compliments, or tedious politics, or elaborate elegancies, or general fancies, but they should have a native clearness and shortness, a domestical plainness, and a peculiar kind of familiarity which can only affect the humour of those for whom they were intended. The very same passages which make writings of this nature delightful among friends will lose all manner of taste when they come to be read by those that are indifferent. In such letters the souls of men should appear undressed; and in that negligent habit they may be fit to be seen by one or two in a chamber, but not to go abroad in the street.' The letters of Scott, Byron, Southey, and Burns—all thoroughly different in style—keep up the character of the moderns, and show that they understood the secret of the art. Letter-writing has a special charm for shy, retiring men, because they are able to exhibit upon paper the feelings and emotions about which they could not speak. Some men seem able to think only when a pen is in their hands; though others, in the same situation, seem to lose all their ideas. Johnson said of the industrious Dr. Birch, 'Tom Birch is as brisk as a bee in conversation, but no sooner does he take a pen in his hand than it becomes a torpedo to him and benumbs all his faculties.' Dr. French Lawrence was an instance of the exact reverse, for Fox made him put on paper what he wanted to relate, saying, 'I love to read your writing, but I hate to hear you talk.' Sir James Mackintosh was a great admirer of Madame de SevignÉ, and we find in his works the following admirable remarks on the proper tone for polite conversation and familiar letters. We doubt whether it would be possible to find juster or finer thoughts on this subject, expressed in more elegant language:— 'When a woman of feeling, fancy, and accomplishment has learned to converse with ease and grace, from long intercourse with the most polished society, and when she writes as she speaks, she must write letters as they ought to be written, if she has acquired just as much habitual correctness as is reconcilable with the air of negligence. A moment of enthusiasm, a burst of feeling, a flash of eloquence may be allowed, but the intercourse of society, either in conversation or in letters, allows no more. Though interdicted from the long continued use of elevated language, they are not without a resource. There is a part of language which is disdained by the pedant or the declaimer, and which both if they knew its difficulty would dread; it is formed of the most familiar phrases and turns in daily use by the generality of men, and is full of energy and vivacity, bearing upon it the mark of those keen feelings and strong passions from which it springs. It is the employment of such phrases which produces what may be called colloquial eloquence. Conversation and letters may be thus raised to any degree of animation without departing from their character. Anything may be said, if it be spoken in the tone of society; the highest guests are welcome, if they come in the easy undress of the club; the strongest metaphor appears without violence, if it is familiarly expressed; and we the more easily catch the warmest feeling, if we perceive that it is intentionally lowered in expression out of condescension A French writer has said, 'les marins ecrivent mal;' but the gallant admiral, Lord Collingwood, whose correspondence was published in 1828, was a brilliant exception to this rash assertion. The following letter, addressed to the Honourable Miss Collingwood, is dated July 1809, and shows that its writer, in the midst of his manifold duties as a sailor, found time to direct the education of his children. 'I received your letter, my dearest child, and it made me very happy to find that you and dear Mary are well, and taking pains with your education. The greatest pleasure I have amidst my toils and troubles is in the expectation which I entertain of finding you improved in knowledge, and that the understanding which it has pleased God to give you both has been cultivated with care and assiduity. Your future happiness and respectability in the world depend on the diligence with which you apply to the attainment of knowledge at this period of your life, and I hope that no negligence of our own will be a bar to your progress. When I write to you, my beloved child, so much interested am I that you should be amiable and worthy the esteem of good and wise people, that I cannot forbear to second and enforce the instruction which you receive by admonition of my own, pointing out to you the great advantages that will result from a temperate conduct and sweetness of manner to all people, on all occasions. It does not follow that you are to coincide and agree in opinion with every ill-judging person; but after showing them your reason for dissenting from their opinion, your argument and opposition to it should not be tinctured by anything offensive. Never forget for one moment that you are a gentlewoman, and all your words and all your actions should mark you gentle. I never knew your mother—your dear, your good mother—say a harsh or hasty thing to any person in my life. Endeavour to imitate her. I am quick and hasty in my temper, my sensibility is touched sometimes with a trifle, and my expression of it sudden as gunpowder; but, my darling, it is a misfortune which, not having been sufficiently restrained in my youth, has caused me much pain. It has, indeed, given me more trouble to subdue this natural impetuosity than anything I ever undertook. I believe that you are both mild; but if you ever feel in your little breasts that you inherit a particle of your father's infirmity, restrain it, and quit the subject that has caused it until your serenity be recovered. So much for mind and manners; next for accomplishments. No sportsman ever hits a partridge without aiming at it, and skill is acquired by repeated attempts. It is the same thing in every art; unless you aim at perfection you will never attain it, but frequent attempts will make it easy. Never, therefore, do anything with indifference. Whether it be to mend a rent in your garment or finish the most delicate piece of art, endeavour to do it as perfectly as it is possible. When you write a letter give it to your greatest care, that it may be as perfect in all its parts as you can make it. Let the subject be sense, expressed in the most plain, intelligible, and elegant manner that you are capable of. If in a familiar epistle you should be playful and jocular, guard carefully that your wit be not sharp, so as to give pain to any person; and before you write a sentence examine it, even the words of Having seen from the foregoing extracts the principles that should govern the composition of familiar letters, we shall be better able to judge of the merits or demerits of the specimens that follow; and we will take this opportunity of saying that we have preferred to choose our examples from little known sources, rather than from such well-known volumes as the correspondences of Walpole, Gray, or Cowper. The celebrated Mrs. Elizabeth Carter was much troubled by one of her most intimate and early friends always writing to her in terms of great respect. In order to show her correspondent the absurdity of her conduct, and to obtain an easier kind of intercommunication, she wrote the following letter:— 'Nov. 29, 1742. 'To Miss —— 'It is with the utmost diffidence, dear Miss ——, that I venture to do myself the high honour of writing to you, when I consider my own nothingness and utter incapacity of doing any one thing upon earth. Indeed, I cannot help wondering at my own assurance in daring to expose my unworthy performance to your accurate criticisms, which to be sure I should never have presumed to do if I had not thought it necessary to pay my duty to you, which, with the greatest humility, I beg you to accept. Unless I had as many tongues in my head as there are grains of dust betwixt this place and Canterbury, it is impossible for me to express the millionth part of the obligations I have to you; but people can do no more than they can, and therefore I must content myself with assuring you that I am, with the sublimest veneration, and most profound humility, 'Your most devoted, 'I know you have an extreme good knack at writing respectful letters; but I shall die with envy if you outdo this.' Aaron Hill expresses in elegant words what many have felt when they have received a letter from one who was separated from them by time and space:— 'Letters from absent friends extinguish fear, Unite division, and draw distance near; Their magic force each silent wish conveys, And wafts embodied thought a thousand ways. Could souls to bodies write, death's power were mean, For minds could then meet minds with heaven between.' James Howell, who has left us a most amusing collection of letters, and therefore may be allowed to speak with some authority, says 'familiar letters may be called the 'larum bells of love;' and he puts the same idea into the form of a distich, thus— 'As keys do open chests, So letters open brests.' Unfortunately all the letters in the EpistolÆ Ho-elianÆ are not genuine, but were written when Howell was confined in the Fleet prison, and were made up in order to supply their author with money for his necessities. To Atossa, the daughter of Cyrus, has been given the credit of the invention of letterwriting, but her claim is easily disposed of, as we have specimens of written communications very long before her time. The earliest letter of which we have any record is that written by David to Joab, directing him to place Uriah in the front of the battle. There are several classical stories, that bear a likeness to this, of persons who carried letters, in which their own execution was desired; thus Homer tells the story of Bellerophon, who himself bore the sealed tablets that demanded his death. In later Jewish History we learn from the Bible that Queen Jezebel wrote letters in Ahab's name, and sealed them with his seal, and sent them to the elders and nobles. Cicero was one of the earliest to bring the art to perfection, and his letters exhibit most of the graces of which it is capable. Seneca and the younger Pliny were also amongst It was the practice with the Romans to place the names of both the writer and his correspondent at the commencement of the letter, as 'Paul, an apostle of Jesus Christ, unto Timothy, my own son in the faith;' and the ending usually consisted of the word vale, or ave, or salve. The dates were scrupulously added, and sometimes the very hours were mentioned. This method of the Romans might well be imitated by us, for we often find an old letter rendered of little value by the omission of a date. A bad habit that some writers indulge in is to use the name of the day of the week, instead of the day of the month and year. Amongst ourselves, etiquette once placed her stern hands upon correspondence, and laid down rules of how a letter was to be written. Among persons pretending to any fashion it was considered proper to use fine gilt paper, sealed with a coat of arms. Ladies used tinted paper with borders, and sealed their letters with coloured and perfumed wax. In town it was not the fashion to send letters or notes through the post, nor to put the address upon the envelope, for no one could be supposed to be ignorant of the abode of so distinguished a person as Lady Arabella Smith. The circle of fashionable life, however, has been so much enlarged and encroached upon, that most people now are forced to acknowledge their ignorance on such points. If we imagine that we should groan under these restrictions, what should we think of the etiquette enjoined in the East? There correspondence is carried on with many degrees of refinement. Letters are written by some accomplished scribe, on beautiful paper, and the sender's mark is placed in a particular position, according to the recognised status of his correspondent. The letter is folded by rule, and a florid superscription is added, such as, 'Let this come under the consideration of the benefactor of his friends, the distinguished in the State, the renowned, the lion in battle, on whom be peace from the Most High.' The following are two amusing specimens of the untrue complaisance common in Chinese correspondence:— 'To a Friend who has lately left another. 'Ten days have elapsed since I had the privilege of listening to your able instructions. Ere I was aware, I found my heart filled and choked with noxious weeds. Perhaps I shall have to thank you for favouring me with an epistle, in which I know your words will flow, limpid as the streams of pure water: then shall I instantly see the nature of things, and have my heart opened to understand.' 'To a Friend at a distance. 'I am removed from your splendid virtues. I stand looking towards you with anxious expectation. There is nothing for me, but toiling along a dusty road. To receive your advice, as well as pay my respects, are both out of my power. In sleep my spirit dreams of you; it induces a kind of intoxication. I consider my virtuous brother a happy man, eminent and adorned with all rectitude. You are determined in your good purposes, and rejoice in the path of reason. You are always and increasingly happy. On this account I am rejoiced and consoled more than can be expressed.' We are not now so distant as formerly in the commencement of our letters, and use more friendly openings (such as 'Dear Sir,' 'My dear Sir') than our fathers did. 'Sir,' alone, was once nearly universal, but is now usually considered cold. Even Howell, who was most inventive in his endings, usually commences with Sir, although once he breaks forth with 'Hail! half of my soul.' Such beginnings as 'Right worshipful Father,' 'Good Sir,' 'Honoured Sir,' 'Respected Sir,' are quite out of date, but many writers adopt a variety in their commencements, and do not always follow the beaten track; thus the great Chatham wrote to his wife, 'Be of cheer, noble love.' In modern letters we miss the use of some of the quaint and loving expressions of former days, such a one, for instance, as the good old word 'heart,' for is there not always a charm about an old letter beginning with the words 'Dear Heart?' The ending of a letter requires some taste, and many find it as difficult to close one gracefully as to finish conversation and leave a room with ease. The 'I remain' requires to be led up to, and not to be added to the letter without connection. There is a large 'And now to the subscriptions, the diversities whereof are (as best they may be allotted in sense) to either of these to bee placed, forwarned alwaies unto the unskilfull herein, that, writing to anie person of account, by howe much the more excellent hee is in calling from him in whose behalfe the Letter is framed, by so much the lower shall the subscription thereunto belonging in any wise be placed. 'And if the state of honour of him to whome the Letter shall be directed doe require so much, the verie lowest margent of paper shall do no more but beare it, so bee it the space bee seemelie for the name, and the room faire inough to comprehend it.' We now come to the consideration of directions, and here a certain etiquette still lingers, as many who have no claim to any title are dignified by the addition of the meaningless &c., &c., &c. A friend of the once celebrated agriculturist, Sir John Sinclair, amusingly ridiculed the fancy that some men have for seeing a number of letters of the alphabet after their names, by directing his letter to 'Sir John Sinclair, A.M., F.R.S., T.U.V.W.X.Y.Z.' Besides the name of the person to whom the letter was sent, it was formerly the custom to write on the outside of a letter various directions to its bearer: thus a letter of the Earl of Hertford afterwards the Protector Somerset, to Sir William Paget, upon the death of Henry VIII., was addressed 'Haste, Post Haste, Haste with all diligence, For thy life! For thy life!' As long as letters have been written, the inadvertent misdirecting of them must have been a constant source of trouble and annoyance. In James I.'s reign a lover sent a letter intended for his mistress to an obdurate father, and his letter renouncing her to the lady. When he found out the dreadful mistake he had committed life became insupportable to him, and he threw himself upon his sword. Swift sent a love-letter to a bishop, and the letter intended for the bishop to the lady. The celebrated civilian, Dr. Dale, was fortunate in the success of his expedient of purposely misdirecting his letters. When he was employed on a diplomatic mission to Flanders he was much pressed for money, and in a packet to the Secretary of State he sent two letters, one for Queen Elizabeth and the other for his wife, which he misdirected, so that the letter for his wife was addressed to her most excellent Majesty, and that for the Queen to his dear wife. The Queen was surprised to find her letter beginning 'Sweetheart,' and concluding with a request to her to be very economical, as the writer could send her nothing because he was very short of money, and could not think of trespassing on the bounty of Her Majesty any further. Dale was successful in his stratagem, as an immediate supply of money was sent to him and to his family. There are three peculiarities in letter-writing that ladies indulge in, viz., crossing, postscripts, and the underlining of words. Disraeli makes Henrietta Temple advise her lover to cross his letters, and states her reasons as follows:— 'I shall never find the slightest difficulty in making it out, if your letters were crossed a thousand times. Besides, dear love, to tell the truth, I should rather like to experience a little difficulty in reading your letters, for I read them so often, over and over again, till I get Few men cross their writing, but many of them indulge in the luxury of a postscript, and some even when they have closed their letters think of a last word, and write it on the envelope. It is said that the underlining of words is a confession of weakness in the writer, because if he had used the best possible word he would not need to give it extra force by the mere mechanical contrivance of underscoring it with a pen. Letters written in the third person are a constant snare to some people and usually lead to confusion. This form can only be used with safety in very short letters. Frequently, a short note contains more pith than a longer letter, and Politian's letter to his friend well exemplifies this: 'I was very sorry, and am very glad, because thou wast sick, and that thou art whole. Farewell.' One of the most spirited letters ever written, was that sent by Ann, Countess of Dorset, to Sir Joseph Williamson, Secretary of State in Charles the Second's reign, when he wrote to her to choose a courtier as member for Appleby:— 'I have been bullied by an usurper, I have been ill-treated by a court, but I won't be dictated to by a subject. Your man shall not stand. Ann Dorset, The following note from one Highlander to another is very pointed and witty:— 'My dear Glengary,—As soon as you can prove yourself to be my chief I shall be ready to acknowledge you. In the meantime, 'I am yours, Macdonald.' Charles Lamb being tickled by the oddity of Haydon's address, sent him the following reply to an invitation:— 'My Dear Haydon,—I will come with pleasure to 22, Lisson Grove North, at Rossi's, half-way up, right hand side, if I can find it. 'Yours,C. Lamb. '20, Russel Court, 'Covent Garden East, Ignorant people when they manage to write a letter are usually very proud of their performance, and this is illustrated by a very good story in the Countess Spencer's 'East and West.' A lady proposed to Mrs. Law, a poor woman in St. Peter's Home, Kilburn, that she should write to Lady E., who had been very kind to her. She had some doubts at first, but they passed away, and she dictated a letter which is given, and the narrator adds:— 'Having finished it to her evident pride, I offered to read it to her; but I had hardly got down the first page when she became so deeply affected by her own eloquence, that she began to cry and rock herself backwards and forwards. I persevered, and when I had read the last word, paused, not knowing what to say to this unexpected grief. Mrs. Law put down her handkerchief, and shaking her head very seriously, said, "Well, now, that is a lovely letter! It's a great denial to me that I can't write, or I'd send plenty like it."' It is usually supposed that writing comes natural to all, but we are often led to agree with Sheridan, that 'easy writing is cursed hard reading,' and the highest art is often required to be thoroughly natural. The Irish hodman, however, managed to express in a fine confused way his inner feeling, that he himself was little better than a machine:— 'Dear Pat,—Come over here and earn your money: there is nothing for you to do but to carry the bricks up a ladder, for there is a man at the top who takes them from you and does all the work.' Excuses of hurry, with expressions of fear lest the post should be lost, and such endings as 'yours in haste,' should seldom be indulged in, as they partake somewhat of the character of a slight to the receiver. The letters of ladies are usually more natural and unconstrained than those of men, and these are great merits, for the real man or woman should be seen in the letter. Locke says:— 'The writing of letters enters so much into all the occasions of life, that no gentleman can avoid showing himself in compositions of this kind. Occurrences will daily force him to make use of his pen, which lays open his breeding, his sense, and his abilities to a severer examination than any oral discourse.' The deficiency of ordinary people in the art has long been felt, and complete letter-writers have been compiled to supply the want. Sir Henry Ellis has pointed out that manuals of epistolary composition, both in French and English, of the early part of the fifteenth century, exist in manuscript. The 'English Secretary,' published in 1599, is perhaps the earliest work on the subject in print. The voluminous author, Jervis Markham, brought out in 1618 a guide, with the following title: 'Conceited Letters: or a most excellent Bundle of New Wit, wherein is knit up together all the perfections of the art of Epistoling.' The booksellers, Rivington and Osborne, applied to Samuel Richardson In entering upon the consideration of special classes of letters, we will take love letters first. This is a style of literature of which the outer public have few opportunities of judging, and doubtless it is one that is not fitted for rigid examination. Those love-letters that we read in the reports of breach-of-promise cases are usually beneath contempt: they are often unreal, and make us sick with references to Venus and Cupid, goddesses and nymphs, and many other absurdities. There are, however, existing some interesting letters of the reckless Earl of Rochester to his wife, which exhibit him in a new and pleasing character. The following breathes a tender consideration to which few are able to rise:— 'I kiss my deare wife a thousand times, as farr as imagination and wish will give mee leave. Thinke upon mee as long as it is pleasant and convenient for you to doe soe, and afterwards forget me; for though I would fain make you the author and foundation of my happiness, yet I would not bee the cause of your constraint or disturbance, for I love not myself soe much as I doe you, neither doe I value my owne satisfaction equally as I doe yours. Farewell,Rochester.' As Sterne was making love to women throughout his entire life, we suppose he may be considered as an authority on how a love-letter should be written, and here is a specimen of his style:— 'My dear Kitty,—If this billet catches you in bed, you are a lazy, sleepy slut, and I am a giddy, foolish, unthinking fellow for keeping you so late up—but this Sabbath is a day of rest; at the same time that it is a day of sorrow, for I shall not see my dear creature to-day, unless you meet me at Taylor's, half-an-hour after twelve; but in this do as you like. I have ordered Matthew to turn thief and steal you a quart of honey—what is honey to the sweetness of thee, who art sweeter than all the flowers it comes from! I love you to distraction, Kitty, and will love you on so to eternity. So adieu, and believe, what time will only prove me, that I am, Yours.' Sir Richard Steele had for his second wife a woman who was difficult to please, and the collection of his letters to her give us a curious insight into his domestic life. They are mostly short, but filled with excuses. The following are three of them:— 'Dearest Being on Earth,—Pardon me if you do not see me till eleven o'clock; having met a school-fellow from India, by whom I am to be informed in things this night which immediately concern your obedient husband.' 'My dear dear Wife,—I write to let you know I do not come home to dinner, being obliged to attend some business abroad, of which I shall give you an account (when I see you in the evening), as becomes your dutiful and obedient husband.' 'Dear Prue,—I have partly succeeded in my business to-day, and I inclose two guineas as earnest of more. Dear Prue, I cannot come home to dinner. I languish after your welfare, and will never be a moment careless more. 'Your faithful husband.' These are natural and real; but let us look into 'The Enemy of Idleness,' 1621, and see there what the author thought a lover should write to his mistress:— 'A Lover writeth unto his Lady. 'To expresse unto thee (my deere) the inward griefes, the secret sorrowes, the pinching paines, that my poore oppressed heart pitifully endureth, my pen is altogether unable. For even as thy excellent vertue, beautie, comelines, and curtesie farre surmounteth in my conceipt that of all other humane creatures, so my pitious passions both day and night are no whit inferiour, but farre above all those of any other worldly wight. So excell not thy giftes, but as much exceede my griefes. Therefore (my sweete) vouchsafe of thy soveraigne clemencie to graunt some speedie remedie unto the grievous anguishes of my heavie heart; detract no time, but wey with thy selfe, the sicker that the patient is—the more deadly that his disease is deemed—so much the more speede ought the physitian to make—so much the sooner ought he to provide and minister the medicine, least comming too late his labour be lost. But what painefull patient is hee that sustaineth so troublesome a state as I, poore soule, doe, except thou vouchsafe to pittie me? For the partie patient being discomforted at thy handes can have recourse unto none, but still languishing must looke for a lothsome death. Consider, therefore, my deare, the extremitie of my case, and let not cancred cruelty corrupt so many golden gifts, but as thy beauty and comelinesse of body is, so set thy humanity also and clemency of minde. Draw not (as the proverb saith) a leaden sword out of a golden scabberd. And thus hoping to have some speedy comfort at thy handes, upon that hope I repose mee till further opportunity.' The fair fame of Mrs. Piozzi (Dr. Johnson's Mrs. Thrale) has been injured by an attempt to represent her as in love with a young actor in her old age and some letters 'You have been a luckless wight, my admirable friend, but amends will one day be made to you, even in this world; I know, I feel it will. Dear Piozzi considered himself as cruelly treated, and so he was by his own friends, as the world perversely calls our relations, who shut their door in his face because his love of music led him to face the public eye and ear. He was brought up to the Church; but, 'Ah! Gabriel,' said his uncle, 'thou wilt never get nearer the altar than the organ-loft.' His disinclination to celibacy, however, kept him from the black gown, and their ill-humour drove him to Paris and London, where he was the first tenor singer who had £50 a night for two songs. And Queen Marie Antoinette gave him a hundred louis-d'or with her own fair hand for singing a buffo song over and over again one evening, till she learned it. Her cruel death half broke his tender heart. You will not wait, as he did, for fortune and for fame. We were both of us past thirty-five years old when we first met in society at Dr. Burney's (grandfather to Mrs. Bourdois and her sisters), where I coldly confessed his uncommon beauty and talents; but my heart was not at home. Mr. Thrale's broken health and complicated affairs demanded and possessed all my attention, and vainly did my future husband endeavour to attract my attention. So runs the world away.' Among the letters quoted in the AthenÆum is the following amusing one:— 'While there was so much talk about the town concerning maladministration, some of the Streatham coterie, in a quibbling humour, professed themselves weary of male-administration, as they pronounced it emphatically, and proposing a female one, called on Dr. Johnson to arrange it. "Well then," said he "we will have Carter for Archbishop of Canterbury. "And no place for me, Dr. Johnson?" cried your friend. "No, no; you will get into Parliament by your little silver tongue, and then rise by your own merit." "And what shall I do?" exclaims Fanny Burney. "Oh, we shall send you out for a spy, and perhaps you will get hanged. Ha, ha, ha!" with a loud laugh.' Having thus noted what may be said about love, let us turn to the opposite feeling, and see what may be written under the influence of hate. 'Ungracious offspring of hellish brood, whome heavens permit for a plague, and the earth nourisheth as a peculiar mischiefe, monster of mankinde and devourer of men, what may I tearme thee? With what illsounding titles maie I raise myselfe upon thee? Thou scorne of the world, and not scorne but worldes foule disdaine, and enemie of all humaine condition, shall thy villanies scape for ever unpunished? Will the earth yet support thee, the clouds shadow thee, or the aire breath on thee? What lawes be these, if at leastwise such may be tearmed lawes, whereout so vile a wretch hathe so manie evasions? But shalt thou longer live to become the vexation and griefe of men? No; for I protest, though the lawes doe faile thee, myselfe will not overslip thee. I, I am hee that will plague thee; thou shalt not scape me. I will be revenged of thee. Thinke not thy injuryes are so easie that they are of all to bee supported; for no sooner shall that partched, withered carkasse of thine sende foorth thy hatefull and abhorred lookes into anie publicke shew, but mine eyes shall watch thee and I will not leave thee till I have prosequuted that which I have intended towardes thee, most unworthie as thou art to breath amongst men, which art hated and become lothsome even in the verie bowels and thoughtes of men. Triumph, then, in thy mischiefes, and boast that thou hast undone mee and a number of others, whom with farre lesse despight thou hast forced to bende unto thee; and when by due deserte I shall have payed what I have promised thee, vaunt then (in God's name) of thy winnings. For my part—but I will saie no more, let the end trie all. Live wretchedlie and die villainouslie, as thou hast deserved, whome heavens hencefoorth doe shunne, and the world denieth longer to looke upon.' This is the model that Angel Day, in his 'English Secretary' (1590), thinks suitable for 'a hot enraged spirit' to write to his adversary. Most persons at some time in their lives are called upon to write letters of condolence, but it is usually found to be a difficult task. However well the writer may succeed, he must feel how inadequate words are to give relief to a troubled spirit, and it is only insomuch as he shows his own heart and 'Madame,—I hope you are so well persuaded of my kindness to you as to believe that there can no misfortune happen to you and I not have my share in it. I assure you I am troubled at the loss you have had; and I hope that God will be pleased to put me into such a condition before it be long, as I may let you see the care I intend to have of you and your children, and that you may depend upon my being very truly, madame, 'Your affectionate, Charles R.' Letters of thanks are frequently difficult things to write well, as it is a hard matter to appear grateful for the present of something that we do not want. Talleyrand made a practice of instantly acknowledging the receipt of books sent to him; for he could then express the pleasure he expected to enjoy in reading the volume, but if he delayed he thought it would be necessary to give an opinion, and that might sometimes be embarrassing. A celebrated botanist used to return thanks somewhat in the following form:—'I have received your book, and shall lose no time in reading it.' The unfortunate author might put his own construction on this rather ambiguous language. When Southey published his 'Doctor' anonymously, he gave directions to his publishers to send all letters directed for the author to Theodore Hook, and the following letter from Southey himself was found among Hook's papers:— 'Sir,—I have to thank you for a copy of the "Doctor," &c., bearing my name imprinted in rubrick letters on the reverse of the title-page. That I should be gratified by this flattering and unusual distinction you have rightly supposed; and that the book itself would amuse me by its wit, tickle me by its humour, and afford me gratification of a higher kind in its serious parts, is what you cannot have doubted. Whether my thanks for this curiosity in literature will go to the veteran in literature,[59] who of all living men is the most versed, both in curious and fine letters; whether they will cross the Alps to an old incognito,[60] who has the stores of Italian poetry at command; whether they will find the author in London,[61] surrounded with treasures of ancient and modern art, in an abode as elegant as his own volumes; or wheresoever the roving shaft which is sure to reach its mark may light, the personage, be he friend, acquaintance or stranger, to whose hands it comes is assured that his volumes have been perused with great pleasure by his obliged and obedient servant, 'Robert Southey.' One of the most elegant letters of thanks we have met with is now before us. It was written by Lord Lytton soon after the publication of his 'Zanoni.' 'Dear Sir,—I am extremely pleased and flattered by the attention with which you have read, and the marks of approval with which you have honoured, "Zanoni." Allow me to wish to yourself a similar compliment from some reader as courteous and as accomplished as yourself, you will then judge of the gratification you have afforded to your very truly obliged, E. B. Lytton.' Begging letters are hardly a branch of literature, although great ingenuity is frequently exhibited in their composition; but a sufficient number of them can be seen in the 'Mendicity Society's Reports.' W. F., the author of the 'Enemy of Idlenesse,' 1621, gives the following directions how to ask a favour:— 'As concerning the manner how to demand temporall things, as a booke, a horse, or such like, the letter must be divided into foure partes. First, wee must get the goodwill of him to whome wee write by praising his liberality, and specially of the power and authority that hee hath to grant the thing that hee is demanded. Secondly, wee must declare our demand and request to bee honest and necessary, and without the which wee cannot atchieve our determinate end and purpose. Thirdly, that the request is easie to be granted considering his ability, and that in a most difficult thing his liberality is ordinarily expressed. Fourthly, to promise recompence; as thankes, service, &c.' Some men have very obdurate hearts, and will not be moved by any such language. Jeffrey had a form of refusal which must have been very tantalizing to his correspondents. He managed to bring the sentence 'I have much pleasure in subscribing' to the end of the first page, and then added, on the opposite side, 'myself, yours faithfully, F. Jeffrey.' Charles Lamb wrote upon books that are not books, or those that 'no gentleman's library should be without.' In the same way there are letters that are not letters, and of such are the political letters of Junius, Pascal's 'Provincial Letters,' Swift's 'Drapier's Letters,' and all essays, disquisitions, and satires which are merely thrown into the epistolary form. Some historical letters are in the same category; because, although the letters of such men as Cromwell, Marlborough, Nelson, Franklin, Washington, and Wellington must always interest us, we read 'To my Lady of Somerset. 'My good Gossip,—After my very hearty commendations to you, with like desire to hear of the amendment and increase of your good health, these shall be to put you in remembrance of mine old suit concerning Richard Wood, who was my mother's servant when you were one of her Grace's maids; and as you know by his supplication, hath sustained great loss, almost to his utter undoing, without any recompense for the same hitherto; which forced me to trouble you with this suit before this time, whereof (I thank you) I had a very good answer; desiring you now to renew the same matter to my lord your husband, for I consider that it is in manner impossible for him to remember all such matters, having such a heap of business as he hath. Wherefore, I heartily require you to go forward in this suit till you have brought it to an honest end, for the poor man is not able to lye long in the city. And thus my good Nan, I trouble you both with myself and all mine, thanking you with all my heart for your earnest gentleness towards me in all my suits hitherto, reckoning myself out of doubt of the continuance of the same. Wherefore, once again I must trouble you with my poor George Brickhouse, who was an officer of my brother's wardrobe of the beds, from the time of the king my father's coronation; whose only desire it is to be one of the knights of Windsor if all the rooms be not filled, and if they be, to have the next reversion; in the obtaining whereof, in mine opinion you shall do a charitable deed, as knoweth Almighty God, who send you good health, and us shortly to meet, to his pleasure. From St. John's, this Sunday at afternoon, being the 24th of April. 'Your loving friend during my life, 'Marye.'[62] The duchess to whom the above letter was written was very haughty, and held her head higher than the Queen-dowager, who had married the Protector's brother, Lord Seymour of Sudeley, the Lord High Admiral. Lloyd says, 'Very great were the animosities betwixt their wives, the duchess refusing to bear the queen's train, and in effect justled her for precedence, so that between the train of the queen and long gown of the duchess they raised so much dust at court as at last to put out the eyes of both their husbands.' Men of position and fame must often groan under the affliction of letters and other applications that are constantly besetting them. Sir Walter Scott was frequently victimized in this way, and once he was so unfortunate as to have to pay £5 postage for a large packet from New York, which contained a MS. play, by a young lady, intended for his perusal, and accompanied with a request that he would read and correct it, write a prologue and epilogue for it, procure it a good reception from the manager of Drury Lane, and make Murray or Constable bleed handsomely for the copyright. A fortnight after he received another packet, for which he paid the same amount, which contained a second copy of the 'Cherokee Indians,' with a letter from the authoress stating, that as the winds had been boisterous she feared the first packet had foundered. The managers of theatres are peculiarly troubled with applications that they are unable to accede to, and authors often think that those who do not rate their productions as highly as they do themselves must be actuated by unworthy motives. The following letter from F. Yates exhibits some of a manager's troubles:— 'My Dear Sir,—I this moment have received your letter, which has given me more pain than I can describe to you. I do assure you that, from the little I have known of you, you are the last man in the world whose feelings I would wound. Your note came to me yesterday at rehearsal; I answered it, enclosing two orders, stating that I could not afford more, and explained myself in the following manner about "Love at Home," viz:—That, as there was no chance of our being able to produce such a piece for some time, I thought it better to return it to you, or words to that effect. This note I put in the person's hands who gave me yours; who it was I can't recollect. You know what last rehearsals are to a manager sitting at the prompter's table. This morning, when I was in bed, the servant came with your card, and in answer to your note I could only fancy you wanted your piece, and desired her to wrap it up and give it the messenger. I confess I should have seen to its being properly enveloped, but you can make excuse for a fatigued man, who hears of nothing but manuscripts from morning to night. I am most anxious that you should acquit me, and believe me with truth to be yours, 'With much esteem, 'Fred. Yates.' Managers are not the only persons who are troubled by the application of authors, and the following letter from Liston (dated 1833) shows us how he refused to perform an unpleasant task:— 'Sir,—The repeated annoyances I have been subjected to, by undertaking to read pieces at Besides the trouble of reading new plays, managers have to bear with the offended dignity of the actors. The following irate letter of Elliston (Charles Lamb's Elliston) shows what they have occasionally to put up with:— 'Sir,—Your information respecting the "School for Scandal," which I received last night, is happily imagined to fill up the measure of disrespect which seems to have been studiously offered to me since I have been in the new Drury Lane Theatre. You cannot be ignorant that I have always played the part of "Charles" with the Drury Lane company, and Mr. Arnold, when I met him on Kew Bridge previous to the opening of Drury Lane, and when it was in contemplation to open the new theatre with Mr. Sheridan's brilliant play, distinctly told me in answer to a question I put to him, that I should be expected to play "Charles." Under these circumstances I cannot but conceive the cool mode in which I am asked, without request, to be ready for the eldest brother, to be an insult. To oblige the committee and to serve the interests of the concern, I think I have already sufficiently manifested [my desire] by the acceptance of a very inferior part in the tragedy, and by my suppression of complaint where complaint was almost peremptorily called for; but there are bounds beyond which it would be contemptible for patience to show itself; I enter, therefore, a decided protest against this your last proceeding, and expect that for the future it may constitute a part of yours and Mr. Arnold's management to show me a little more good manners than your natures have hitherto permitted.' Although a great number of letters have been printed, there must be an immense mass of unprinted ones that ought to see the light, and would add much to our information. We should like to see all the known correspondence of the world overhauled, re-arranged, and extracted under heads. By this means we should gain new views of the characters of men, and the high and dry description of action would be supplemented by vivid touches of feeling that would breathe life into the dry bones of history. Some such scheme as this was hinted at by Dr. Maitland, in his work on the 'Dark Ages.' We must now, however, bring our subject to a close, ere we have exhausted the patience of our readers; but we do so with reluctance, for the number of letters that we should like to quote are numberless. We think that there is a peculiar pleasure in being taken into the confidence of the great ones of the earth, of those who are great by birth, by genius, and by worth; and we can imagine few greater literary treats than to turn over a well-arranged collection of autograph letters, which have been selected for the interest of their contents as well as for the celebrity of the writers. We feel suddenly taken out of ourselves and transplanted into a brilliant society, and we rise with the feeling that our list of acquaintances and friends has been enlarged by some of the best and greatest that have walked the earth. We have only left ourselves room to say a few words on Mr. Seton's book, but those words must be in its praise. The author has succeeded in putting together some very interesting and amusing essays on 'Letters and Letter-writers;' but as the subject is a large one, and the illustrations for it are peculiarly rich, we have preferred to make a selection of our own instead of using those that Mr. Seton has collected. In conclusion, we cannot but express the pride we feel in the belief that our countrymen and countrywomen have added so many charming chapters to this branch of the great literature of the world: chapters that will bear comparison with those produced by the writers of any other country. ART. VI.—Wesley and Wesleyanism. (1.) The Life and Times of the Rev. John Wesley, M.A., Founder of the Methodists. By the Rev. L. Tyerman. 3 vols. Hodder and Stoughton. (2.) The Life and Times of the Rev. Samuel Wesley, M.A., Rector of Epworth, and Father of the Rev. John and Charles Wesley. By the Rev. L. Tyerman. Simpkin and Marshall. (3.) John Wesley and the Evangelical Reaction of the Eighteenth Century. By Julia Wedgewood. Macmillan and Co. (4.) The Poetical Works of John and Charles Wesley. Vols. I.—XI. Methodist Book Room. (5.) John Wesley's Place in Church History. Bell and Daldy. (6.) Wesley and Methodism. By Isaac Taylor. Bell and Daldy. (7.) John Wesley: His Life and His Work. By the Rev. M. LeliÈvre. Translated from the French by the Rev. A. J. French, B.A. Wesleyan Conference Office. (8.) John Wesley; or, the Theology of Conscience, By the author of the 'Philosophy of Evangelicism.' Bell and Daldy. Protestantism has never shown any especial pride in its hagiology, it does not treasure very highly the lives of its saints; yet it has an illustrious succession of eminent and noble men—great by endurance and self-denial, by the majesty and multiplicity of their labours, by the fervent enthusiasm of their character, and by their exalted intercourse with divine truths and things. Among the most eminent of these lives, great by its endowments and virtues, transcendent by incessant and immeasurable activity, extraordinary by its protracted period of service, stands that of John Wesley, mild and modest, but conspicuous and renowned, alike in the Old World and the New. Shall we be doing a needless thing if we devote some pages to an attempt at an estimate of the man, his ideas, his work, and his influence? First, the man. Pleasant, it has been said, is the task to trace up to their mountain source the streams which, broadening into great rivers, descend to run among the hills and water the valleys; to drink at the fountain-head, where perhaps all seems bleak and drear, compared with the fertility through which the river wanders below; thus, also, it is pleasant to trace some great benevolent flood of influence and thought back to its obscure fountain, its unlikely, perhaps unsuspected, spring. Thus also it is that in the kitchen of a poorly furnished Lincolnshire parsonage, in its atmosphere of poverty and piety, Methodism really had its origin; the early life of its founder was lightened by its special providences, his sense of wonder was excited by its supernatural voices, his frame was nourished by its hard discipline. Such was the cradle and the early aliment of John Wesley; and the first element in Methodism is the quality and character of the man. Even at this day, Epworth is a quiet old village town, lying on the windy side of a Lincolnshire upland; no railway has, we believe, disturbed its solitary stillness, and the rest of its inhabitants is unbroken by the shrill whistle of the locomotive. We may figure to ourselves its loneliness a hundred and seventy years since, when in its old parsonage John Wesley's eyes first opened to the light. Samuel Wesley, his father, was the rector of the little village; quite a notable man to us, and by no means an obscure man in his day. Epworth, considering those times, was not a poor living, it was worth £200 a year; it is now worth nearly £1,000; but excellent and admirable man as he appears to have been, the old rector was usually in debts and difficulties. Perhaps even Goldsmith's typical clergyman would not have 'passed rich with £40 a year,' if, in addition to that wealth, he had found his quiver filled by nineteen children; although we know wonderful Robert Walker became a rich man, kept out of debt and danger, and accumulated a fortune in his incumbency of Seathwait on an annual income of £10! Few well-authenticated stories are more romantic than that of Epworth parsonage; among old houses it has a distinguished pre-eminence. Both the pastor and his wife were extraordinary people: on both sides their ancestors were remarkable, and they in turn became parents of an offspring, marvellous not merely in number, but in the singular versatility of their genius. The old rector was one of the stupendous scholars, of whom there were so many in the lone and obscure retreats of village life in that age; one of those men who, patiently trimming the midnight lamp, or kindling it before the earliest glow of the summer's sunbeam, thought or wrote with equal facility in Hebrew, Greek, or Latin, and published their works in huge quartos or folios. Of him probably we should now know nothing, but for the work of his remarkable children. Yet he was himself a huge folio of a man, a poet, too, in virtue of a considerable power of conception, fertility of illustration, and melody of expression; those queer old volumes, the 'Athenian Oracle,' which are a choice amusement and recreation for the bookworm, received large contributions, and on the most curious subjects, from his pen: he possessed a nimble wit, and his posthumous work on Job is said to contain—for it has never fallen in our way—a vast wealth of scholarship. Susannah Wesley, his wife, was at once a saint and a scholar, far more equal to the discussion of many knotty matters in divinity than some of the bishops of that day; and she also had an intense concern for the souls of the parishioners round about her. The household of that parsonage vividly reflects that old twilight time. Twice the rectory was consumed by fire: it was supposed to be the work of incendiaries, for the rector was very unpopular, and the story has often been told in prose and in painting, how, on one of these occasions, the infant John nearly perished in the flames, how he was rescued, In due time, John left home for college; he studied at Christ-church, Oxford, after he had fulfilled his earlier course at the Charter House. It was long before he found his way into the work which has made his name so eminent; nor can it be said that in earlier life he gave much promise of that especial excellence to which he attained. He was a hard and industrious student, an exemplary and pious youth and young man. It is not uninteresting to notice that at this time he had rather a close and not unaffectionate correspondence with Mary Granville, then a young widow, which suggests suspicious possibilities. Talented, beautiful, and accomplished, we know her principally as the old lady, Mrs. Delany, the cherished friend of George III., to whom he paid such courtly and beautiful deference in her old age at Windsor. Mr. Tyerman seems to think, and we think too, that Wesley had a 'fair escape;' that he was not at all uninteresting to the fair widow is certain. What would have become of Methodism had the intimacy been closer? He was elected a fellow of Lincoln College, Oxford; but his ideas of Christian truth appear to have been very crude and confused. In his twenty-fifth year he was ordained a priest of the Church of England, and ministered for some time at a wretched little Lincolnshire village called Wroote; the population was under three hundred, 'and the people,' says Mehetabel Wesley, 'were as dull as asses and impervious as stone.' It is true there was at this time a small cluster of Oxford students who had received the denomination of 'Methodists,' and Wesley was one of them; he was called even the 'Curator of the Holy Club,' and a 'crack-brained enthusiast.' His brother Charles regarded him with reverence, and all looked up to him as the worthy leader of the little band. He appears to have led the life of an ascetic, and his charity to the poor was limited only by his very scanty means. An instance shows us something of the character of the man. On one cold winter day, a young girl, whom these earlier Methodists kept at school, called upon him in a state nearly frozen. The young man said to her, 'You seem half-starved; have you nothing to wear but that linen gown?' She said, 'Sir, it is all I have!' Wesley felt in his pocket, but it was almost empty; the walls of his chamber, however, were hung with pictures, and these now seemed to him to become his accusers. 'It struck me,' says he, 'will thy Master say to thee, "Well done, good and faithful steward, thou hast adorned thy walls with the money which might have screened this poor creature from the cold." O justice! O mercy! are not these pictures the blood of this poor maid?' When he had reached the age of seventy-three, the Commissioners of Excise—in all generations a race of monetary ferrets—addressed to him a circular, expressing that beyond a doubt he had neglected to make a proper entry and return of his silver plate. The letter was very curt and peremptory. Wesley evidently thought the application to him was ridiculous, and he replied in a note still more curt. 'Sir, I have two silver spoons at London and two at Bristol; this is all the plate that I have at present, and I shall not buy any more while so many round me want bread. I am, Sir, your most humble servant, John Wesley.' Thus the reflection of the young student realized itself in the active life of the old man. For some time, however, John Wesley appears before us as a kind of eighteenth century Puseyite, or rather such an one as Hurrell Froude; his notions were cast in a mould of High Church idealism, not unmixed The friends were soon widely scattered to their different vicarages and curacies, and John Wesley himself—now in his thirty-second year—accepted a mission to the little American State of Georgia. We need not describe his experience in America further than to remark how, on his way thither, he fell in with Moravians, who imparted to him some new light in theology on its experimental side. The vigorous hymns of the Moravians and their vivid representations of Christian life, put before him a new set of ideas, which, when he separated himself entirely from the organization of that sect and returned to England, bore abundant fruit. His life in Georgia was of short continuance, but characterized by singular circumstances; first and foremost, he took into his ministry a very strange, morose, and cheerless type of Christianity; also in connection with this, we have to notice a very important item in his history—he fell in love. It is quite remarkable that all Wesley's transactions with womankind—on his own account—were unfortunate, even exceedingly unhappy. The lady who first drew forth his affections appears to have accepted his proposal of marriage; but by a rapid transition we find her a week or two after, married to a Mr. Williamson; this overwhelmed the poor priest, and introduced him to other troubles. He refused to admit her to the Lord's table; then we find him arrested and brought before the recorder for defaming the lady; then followed a stream of indictments against him, and, in brief, sick and sore, and as a prisoner at large, we find him hurrying away from the colony. For a life which became so remarkable for the prescience and rigidity of its principles, such a commencement was very singular. A strange undeterminateness appears to rule, or rather to leave him unruled and ungoverned, until his thirty-seventh year. It is singular, for instance, to find an undoubtedly pious, earnest, holy, and self-denying man, such as Wesley was, declaring that until he returned from Georgia he was an unconverted man. He was no doubt in search of that deep faith which is eternal life. It appears that a real change came over him when he heard the preaching of Peter Bohler, the Moravian; in all these earlier years of Wesley's activity he seems to have been greatly indebted to the Moravians. The issue of the influence of Bohler upon his mind, was his confession that before this period he was a servant of God, accepted and safe, but now he knew it, and was happy as well as safe, and in after years and until our own time, the conscious happiness of believers has been a considerable point in Methodist teaching. There is no doubt that Wesley himself attained a cheerful, quiet, restful consciousness he had never known before, and his life hereafter, while constant in its course of self-denial, was lifted above the morose asceticism of his earlier years. But as to the principle itself, it is surely as dangerous as a rule of Christian experience, as it is doubtful in all human philosophy. For some time he was materially influenced by Moravian principles and practices, and, indeed, it is easy to see that God who destined for his distinguished servant a very long life, was teaching him in various schools those principles, which upon an eminently large scale he was to apply. He went to Germany to visit the Moravian settlement of Hernhutt, he came to know that eminent and extraordinary man, Christian David, he heard him preach and received from his own lips his singular story. He professed himself to have received remarkable spiritual intelligence from Moravian teachings; and some of the finest hymns in the Wesleyan Hymn Book are translations made at this time by John Wesley from those of Count Zinzendorf. But it is very remarkable that he signalized the period of his conversion by a quarrel with William Law; he charged him most ungraciously with having deceived him in having given to him a mystical, notional, and intellectual faith; and Law replied to him in language, which assuredly in every way leaves that devout and eminent Christian philosopher in possession of the field. It is, however, the last ground of serious exception we can take to the life of Wesley. At this point, his life seems to collect itself into eminent purpose and consistency. He was soon compelled to disentangle himself from the Moravians, whose notions at that time were beset by the most mystical and mischievous fancies, and ridiculous and even indecent allusions. He was forbidden their pulpit on account of his clearly expressed dissent from their doctrines, and almost immediately, and apparently without any distinctly marked design on his own part, he commenced that course The social condition of England, when Wesley appeared presents no attractive picture to the student; in some measure it relieves and lightens our despondency concerning England at present, to remember what the country was then. It is true the population was small, almost insignificant, as compared with our present overcrowded masses—it was not more than about six millions—but with abundant wealth and means of happiness, the people fell far short of what we should now consider comfort. This was, however, a slight shade in the picture; there were cruelty and injustice in the administration of English law, life and liberty were held very cheap, deism or atheism in religion and a wild licentiousness and rude brutality of manners, pervaded all classes, from the court to the meanest hamlet of the land. For the most part the Church of England had shamefully forgotten and neglected her duty, while the Nonconformists had sunk generally into so cold an indifferentism in devotion, and so hard and sceptical a frame of thought in theology, that almost every interest of the land was given over to profligacy or recklessness, and in thoughtful minds to despair. Those who called themselves Christians were for the most part spiritually dead. The literature of England suffered a temporary eclipse, and such as it was, it was shamefully perverted from all high purposes, and was very generally adverse to all purity and moral dignity. The gaols, indeed, were crammed with culprits, but that did not prevent the heaths from swarming with highwaymen, and the cities with burglars; in the remote regions of England, such as Cornwall in the West, and Yorkshire and Northumberland in the North, and especially Midland Staffordshire, the manners were wild and savage beyond all description or conception. The reader must conceive a state of society divested of all the educational, philanthropic and benevolent activities of modern times. There were no Sunday-schools and few day-schools; here and there a solitary chapel sequestered in some lane, either in the metropolis or the country town, or more probably far away from a town, stood in some confluence of roads a monument of old intolerance; but religion was, as we have said, in fact dead or lying in a trance. To few men has it been given, commencing a career at the age of thirty-seven, to have reserved for them yet, upwards of half-a-century of health, strength, and mental vigour, to carry out and give effect to all their plans. Wesley rose to break up this monotony, and to alarm this depravity of social life; his strong, clear voice sounded over the land; the amount of hatred, hostility and persecution which he roused, evidently showed the living feeling he had created; it is a more favourable circumstance that a man should hate religion than be wholly indifferent to it; on the other hand, the love was more fervid and intense than the hate, hate roared and hissed, and threw about its mischievous display of foolish fireworks in the shape of pamphlets and satires; but there would appear to have been such a degree of genuine sympathy, that men and women, united by certain principles of faith, statedly met together, regardless of peril or cost, and thus there gradually extended over the whole of England a circle of religious societies bearing Wesley's name. The Church of England very soon set itself against the new movement; Whitefield, much younger than Wesley, an ardent, flaming, seraphic man, had been compelled to betake himself to the fields. Like Wesley he was an ordained minister of the Church, but he had been threatened with suspension and expulsion, and he was the first who could collect thousands—sometimes not less than twenty thousand—to hear the gospel. It was with great fear and trembling that Wesley imitated him, and he says, referring to his first preaching in the open air near Bristol, 'I could scarcely reconcile myself at first to this strange way of preaching in the fields; having been all my life, till very lately, so tenacious of every point relating to decency and order, that I would have thought the saving of souls almost a sin if it had not been done in church.' 'Such,' says Mr. Tyerman, 'were the prejudices and feelings of the man who for between fifty or sixty years proved It does not seem very easy to settle the precise etymology of the term Methodist, whether derived, as some have said, from an allusion in Juvenal to a celebrated quack physician, or whether, as Mr. Tyerman seems to think, first used in a pamphlet attacking Whitefield in the earlier years of his ministry, in which the author fetches up an old sentence from the pages of Chrysostom, who says, 'To be a Methodist is to be beguiled.' We ourselves happened once, in a parish church in Huntingdonshire, to be listening to a clergyman notorious alike by his private character and vehement intolerance, who was entertaining his audience on a week evening by a discourse from the text in Ephesians iv. 14. 'Whereby they lie in wait to deceive.' He said to his people, 'Now you do not know Greek; I know Greek, and I am going to tell you what this text really says; it says, "they lie in wait to make you Methodists;" the word used here is methodeian, that is really the word that is used, and that is really what Paul said, "they lie in wait to make you Methodists." A Methodist means a deceiver, one who deludes, cheats and beguiles.' The Grecian scholar was a little at fault in his next allusion, for he proceeded to quote that other passage of the apostle, 'We are not ignorant of his devices,' and seemed to be under the impression that 'device' was the same word as that on which he had expended his criticism. 'Now,' said he, 'you may be ignorant because you do not know Greek, but "we are not ignorant of his devices," that is, of his methods, his deceivers, that is his Methodists.' It was a piece of the richest criticism we ever remember to have heard in any pulpit. In such empty wit and ignorant punning, it is very likely, however, that the term had its origin; be that as it may, 'Methodist' soon became the designation of a really large body of social and spiritual reformers, and assuredly no term has obtained greater renown and importance since 'the disciples were first called Christians at Antioch;' but in fact the word is to be found in several places in our obsolete English. Wesley was not the greatest outdoor preacher that ever lived, but we can forgive Mr. Tyerman for thinking so in his high feeling of admiration for his illustrious hero. He became a power in the country. Earl Stanhope in his very interesting 'History of England from 1713–1783,' devotes a lengthy chapter to Wesley and the rise of Methodism, and says, 'with less immediate importance than war or political changes, it endures long after, not only the result, but the memory of these has passed away, and thousands who never heard of Fontenoy or Walpole continue to hold the precepts and venerate the name of John Wesley.' Thus this venerable name is a distinguished landmark or milestone in the history of the mind of England. By his labours he gave the noblest freedom to thousands of enslaved minds, and marshalled their wild natures under the principles of order and obedience. Wesley achieved his greatest victories in the open air; he probably inherited from his father a tolerably sharp power of satiric reproof, which often served him well in such encounters as he would be sure to have in the broad streets or the fields, and was well illustrated in his victory over Beau Nash. The accomplished rake and dandy king of Bath, master of the ceremonies in that then famous watering-place, appeared swaggering in his enormous white hat, and asked, 'By what authority he dared to do what he was doing now?' 'By the authority of Jesus Christ, conveyed to me by him who is now Archbishop of Canterbury, when he laid his hands upon me and said, "Take thou authority to preach the Gospel."' Cried the man of Bath, 'Your preaching frightens people out of their wits.' 'Sir,' said Wesley 'did you ever hear me preach?' 'No!' 'How then can you judge of what you have never heard?' 'I judge, he answered, 'from common report.' 'Common report,' replied Wesley, 'is not enough; give me leave to ask, Sir, is not your name Nash?' 'It is,' he said. 'Sir,' replied Wesley, 'I dare not judge of you by common report.' Even the unblushing master of ceremonies was abashed and worsted; he was slinking away, when, to complete his discomfiture, an old woman lifted up her voice, and begged Wesley to allow her to question and to answer him; this made the scene ludicrous, and in the midst of such a singular and disgraceful defeat, the mighty dandy left the preacher to continue and to close his sermon. The most romantic lives of the saints of the Roman Catholic calendar do not present a more startling succession of incidents than those which meet us in the life and labours of Wesley and his PrÆtorian band, and these are all the more marvellous and romantic because they lay no tax upon credulity and never appeal to miracle as their foundation. Wesley never, like blessed St. Raymond of Pennafort, spread his cloak upon the sea to transport him across the water, sailing one hundred and sixty miles in six hours, and entering his convent through closed doors; nor do we ever find him, like the dear and judicious Xavier, spending three whole days in two different places at the A succession of persecutions attended him and his followers on their way, and yet very little could be alleged to their discredit. In Cornwall, Edward Greenfield, a tanner, with a wife and seven children, was arrested under a warrant signed by Dr. Borlase, the eminent antiquarian, who was a bitter foe to Methodism. Wesley appeared to vindicate his friend, and he first inquired what objection there was to the peaceable, inoffensive man. The answer was, 'The man is well enough in other things, but the gentlemen cannot bear his impudence; why, Sir, he says that he knows his sins are forgiven!' When Bernardine of Sienna preached at Bologna, the people brought out their dice-tables and burnt them in the streets; when Antony of Padua preached at Pavia, he saw impure books and pictures committed to immense flames; and even more remarkable, when Savonarola preached in Florence, the woman left off painting their faces, and decorating their hair. The results of Wesley's preaching were scarcely less remarkable. The story is well known how in one place a whole waggon-load of Methodists had been taken before a magistrate, but when he asked what they had done, a deep silence fell over the court, for no one was very well prepared with any charge against them; at length some one exclaimed that 'they pretended to be better than other people, and prayed from morning till night;' and another said, 'They have convarted my wife; till she went among them she had such a tongue, but now she's as quiet as a lamb.' 'Take them back, take them back,' said the sensible magistrate, 'and let them convert all the scolds in the town.' We are amazed when we attempt to realize all the causeless conflicts through which many of these holy enthusiasts passed, certainly the world in all its force was against them; no wild anti-popery riots were more unreasonable and brutal than the turbulent mobs which tore down houses and insolently assaulted women and men for their attachment to the new movement. Attempts were often made on Wesley's life in Cornwall; wild cries rose So astonishing were the results of these very simple and Christ-like ministrations, that there was surely something of the supernatural in the man Wesley. It is part of the very nature of Christianity to believe that from time to time the Church is invigorated by extraordinary impulses of divine life find grace, and singular effusions of the Holy Spirit: and to those who are able to reach at all the idea of supernatural causes in the Christian life, it is not difficult to apprehend the reality of such impulses. There was surely much that was remarkable in Wesley; it is unquestionable that strange influences seemed to attend him. His words, it has been remarked, seemed to possess a mesmeric power; his proximity to the supernatural has often been made the subject of criticism. Extraordinary circumstances which Southey, Richard Watson, Isaac Taylor, and other eminent writers have found to be perfectly inexplicable upon principles of natural reasoning marked his ministry; we read of innumerable instances of individual convulsions, and of multitudes falling prostrate to the ground before his words; cold and imperturbable natures were suddenly overwhelmed. Wesley was quite a believer in the visible and oral manifestation of the 'powers of the world to come;' such instances were especially prominent in the earlier part of his singular course. We have no remarks to make upon these phenomena, nor shall we inquire whether they may or may not be accounted for on merely natural principles; the facts remain unquestioned. One thing is certain, as when Peter preached, so at the preaching of Wesley, innumerable thousands were 'pricked to the heart, and exclaimed, "What shall we do?"' The power of Wesley's teaching may probably be traced to the fact that it dealt with sin as sin, and with souls as souls; but then the whole doctrine was suffused in the fulness, the sufficiency, and the sweetness of Jesus, and it was a mighty reaction against the indifference and injustice of the age. The party formed against Wesley represented the higher classes, bishops and men whose minds and hearts it would seem were incapable of sympathy for the suffering and the poor, and for those who were out of the way; coarse ribalds like Lavington, the Bishop of Exeter, or dilettanti gentlemen like Horace Walpole, buffoons and time servers like Foote, or even hard theologians like Toplady, their doctrines tinctured with the harsh and morbid severity of the times, when, as we have seen, reckless disregard for life, a claim over it for the most insignificant offences, must have tended to give a rigour and narrowness to many religious ideas. Wesley's audiences were chiefly composed of the poor. The early Methodist was a very simple, perhaps usually an ignorant, man, but he had that light which 'lighteth every man that cometh into the world.' The Methodist was not such an one as the Puritan of other days, who was a sort of Knight of the Iron Hand, a Nonconformist crusader, whose theology had trained him to the battle-field, nerved him to frown defiance upon kings, and to treat as worthy only of contempt the unsanctified nobles of the earth. The Methodist was not such an one; he was as loyal as he was lowly, he had been forgotten or passed by, by priests and Levites, but suddenly he found himself raised to the rank of a living soul—a voice had reached him assuring him that he, too, was in possession of a soul. Over the country the ground, on the whole, was easy to Wesley to win; there was no education, there were no conflicts of opinion, there were no popular books, the people had no objects to claim their attention, the towns were far apart, and connected only by the mail or stagecoach, or that heavy and much more romantic-looking than agreeable conveyance, the market-cart; there was little popular excitement, there were only coarse amusements. It is unquestionable that the people had far fewer religious interests than in the old days of popery, the entire services of the Church were bald and uninteresting, there was no music, unless of such a description as to move the passions by shattering the nerves,—there All truly holy souls, even those the most opposed in their pews or their studies, meet and melt and mingle in song; holy song is the solvent of the most divergent creeds. Perhaps the greater number of the early Methodists were not pressed by physical want; concern for the soul was the grand business, in many instances possibly it was a wild and even diseased feeling. There was no art, no splendid form of worship or ritual; early Methodism was as free from all this as Clairvaux, in the valley of Wormwood, when Bernard ministered there with all his monks around him, or as Cluny, when Bernard de Morlaix chanted his 'Jerusalem the Golden.' Methodism, like all the great religious movements which have shaken men's souls, was purely spiritual, or, if it had a sensuous expression, it was not artificial; loud 'Amens!' resounded as Wesley preached, spoke, or prayed, and then the hearty gushes of, perhaps, not melodious song united all hearts in some Wesleyan Litany or Te Deum. It was so throughout the whole land; such cyclones of spiritual power mysteriously visit our world from age to age, but this surely was one in which there was infinitely more to bless and benefit, and far less to which good taste or good sense could take any exception, than in perhaps any of the great preceding waves of spiritual power which had rolled over Europe. It was the ascetic type set forth by Wesley in an age of animal and sensual indulgence. It was principally by fighting The strength of a great and popular leader is especially shown in his power to infuse his own spirit into the minds of other men, thus constituting an organized band of kindred helpers; never surely was there a man who more remarkably abides this test than Wesley, and he became the general of a remarkable order. Protestantism may well, with Wesley to adduce, challenge Rome to produce any superior illustration of spiritual power. Archbishop Manning has spoken of St. Benedict, St. Francis, St. Dominic, and St. Ignatius, chiefs of the orders they created, as the four rivers of the water of life; it is a singular illustration and not creditable to the archbishop's piety or good taste; but if Wesley be compared with these great fathers of the Romish Church, he shines brilliantly in the comparison. Mr. Tyerman enthusiastically inquires, 'Is it not true that Methodism is the greatest fact in the history of the Church of Christ?' We may reply we do not think so, and may yet be prepared to render almost equal homage with Mr. Tyerman to this stupendous spiritual organization. John Wesley very soon poured his animating spirit into other men, and the history of Jesuitism—that marvellous story of the conquest of the human mind—does not exhibit anything like so striking an array of heroic and glorious achievements. Rome would make much of such a history, had she to recite it of herself. The names of those who surround Wesley as his fellow-labourers and helpers are, indeed, all of them humble men; no courtly or episcopal favour smiled upon him or them as they passed along. He had absolutely nothing but the pure Gospel, by the proclamation of which he sought to awaken human interest and to command attention; but soon there came a host, of whom it might be said, 'There went with him a band of men whose hearts God had touched.' The mind of England seemed to be waiting for that which Wesley brought to it. Spiritually dead as the Church of England was, many clergymen, responsive to his call, shook off their lethargy, and several, like William Grimshaw, of Haworth, laboured heartily with the apostle of Methodism. The right material was constantly at hand so soon as it was needed, in men who have almost passed away from memory, but whose 'record is on high.' We have no space for the review of that long gallery of interesting portraits of marked and remarkable men; only we notice there seemed to be a hand for every kind of work that had to be accomplished; one to lead on the polemic work of the disputant, and another, or others, to pour forth hymns; some to sway, by rugged but splendid powers of persuasion, immense masses of people; others to minister in localities and gather up the lost sheep into folds; and others to visit in prison, or in those scenes where the tender voice and the ministering hand were needed, while all bowed before the omnific mind of Wesley. Few lives are more startling than that of John Nelson; few types of saintly holiness are higher than Thomas Walsh; Thomas Maxfield has generally been supposed to be the first of the long line of lay preachers to whose exertions Methodism owes so much; while John and Thomas Oliver, John Haine, George Story, and Sampson Staniforth, and a number of other goodly names, represent lives of such intense earnestness, holiness, and activity, as would certainly win them a place in a Catholic calendar of saints, and are so full of glowing adventure, that the story of many of them would keep a boy's eyes from winking even late in the night. Simultaneously with Wesley came the singular apparition of Whitefield, who fell into no groove of Church routine or life, although undoubtedly standing on the Calvinistic side of Methodist opinion. It is interesting to compare these two men together. Whitefield sprang upon the world ready armed as a youth of twenty, and finished his career in the prime of life; he seems almost to realize, if it can be realized, the idea of an abstract soul. We read his words, and they are nothing; but those words uttered by him broke down, overwhelmed, and dissolved all prejudices. What must he have been to whom such strong men, such courtly, artificial, yet highly cultured men, such sceptical and inaccessible men as Bolingbroke, and Chesterfield, and David Hume, and Garrick, and Benjamin Franklin, 'were as tow,' while he was as 'a spark' to kindle all into consuming flame. Not immediately connected with Wesley's organization, this mysterious and marvellous man, an entire soul of all-embracing love and compassion, greatly aided the movement;—equally at home in preaching in the select saloons of the Countess of Huntingdon, to Dukes and Duchesses and arrays of Peers, or in the wildest and most furious and murderous mobs. Whitefield is a mystery to us; he only seems to burn with an incandescent heat, so that words shrivel, and evaporate in the flame of that pure, ingenuous, generous, and wholly But Wesley's success! Wesley, as an orator, seems still more inconceivable. By all accounts Whitefield was seraphic. Wesley seldom rose beyond penetrating good sense, and nothing appears to have transported him out of his invariable calm. Yet the effects of his oratory were even still more wonderful; there was something of magnetism in it. Henry Moore, his great friend, says, 'At this moment, I well remember my first thought after hearing him preach nearly fifty years ago; spiritual things are natural things to that man;' In innumerable instances we find audiences shaken as by a mighty wind, hurled down, agonizing, screaming aloud; there was much more of all this in Wesley's preaching than in Whitefield's, yet in Whitefield's we should expect it more. Wesley, in the style of his oratory, seems to have been judicial, and our readers are not unaware of the remarkable power that quiet statement is able to exercise. Who so passionless apparently as Jonathan Edwards, a man who would have disdained every approach to sensationalism, whose entire mode of pulpit delivery was obnoxious to all ideas of pulpit oratory, and whose whole scheme of thought and expression were as calm and clear as logical metaphysics could make them? yet what scenes he witnessed when he preached? Thus it was eminently with Wesley; crowds thronged around him intent to listen wherever he appeared; if the face was beautiful, the height of the body was so far beneath the average standard that it seems almost contemptible for the holding of such powers as he wielded; and then the voice, not less than the manner, appears to have been unfitted to carry tempests of passion—nor did he desire that it should; we suppose that it must have been singularly clear and penetrating, and that every sentence was sharply cut and elaborated, not by preparation and the pen, but by convictions deep and indelible. Such sentences carried upon a clear penetrating voice—and in oratory the voice is all but everything—will achieve more than more plausible means. It is fervour which fires, but fervour often burns more effectually in the still, white, soundless heat, than in what seems to be the most raging flame. There must have been considerable natural dignity in the man. 'Be silent, or begone,' he said on one occasion to some who were molesting him in preaching, and the intruders were silenced. The traditions of Methodism are rich in the recollection of such scenes;—the scenes of Gwennap Pit for instance. This is a natural excavation, three miles from Redruth, an amphitheatre, formed by nature, whose walls are from seven to eight hundred feet in height, and which is capable of holding from twenty-five to thirty thousand persons. This was one of Wesley's most famous churches. Year after year this most spacious and magnificent cathedral amongst the wild moors of Cornwall was crowded by vast and hushed assemblies. Until Wesley's day, all that immense population might have said, 'No man cared for our souls.' Wild, rugged miners and fishermen of whom it was true that they never breathed a prayer except for the special providence of a shipwreck—men whose wicked barbarity in kindling delusive lights along the coast to allure unfortunate ships to the cruel cliffs of those dangerous shores, had won for their region the name of 'West Barbary.' Now, as if some power had passed over them, clothed anew and in their right minds, they assembled to greet and gladden their venerable father in that wild glen, creating a strange and not unbeautiful life in the stillness of that desolate and romantic spot, 'Suffice that for the season past, Hell's horrid language filled our tongues, We all thy words behind us cast, And loudly sang the drunkard's songs. But, oh! the power of grace divine, In hymns we now our voices raise, Loudly in strange hosannas join, And blasphemies are turned to praise.' Twenty-five thousand persons! and it is said he was able to make everyone hear his words; wonderful, whether we think of the acoustical properties of the church itself, the attentiveness the preacher could command, or the marvellous strength, the clearness and fulness of his voice. Of all the helpers from whom Wesley derived assistance essential to the carrying on his work, his brother Charles was the most providential. He was a narrow ecclesiastic, and often troublesome, but he did good service. Much as Wesley loved the service of the Church of England, it was utterly impossible to employ it in the work he set himself to perform; but it has been felt again and again, whether it has been expressed or not, that a religious service without liturgies is impossible. People may disclaim and disown the word liturgy, and substitute for it psalms and hymns, the fact remains the same; psalms and hymns are liturgies in rhyme—liturgies sung instead of said. Congregations need to be held together; the voice of a solitary soul is not enough for religious purposes, and especially for the pressure of overwrought emotions; multitudes require something more than a mere monologue. Wesley arose at a time when that popular and united form of worship, the hymn, had but just ceased to be regarded as an innovation. There were Churches in London—Maze Pond, for instance—which had divided upon the question of singing, and the unmusical members went off, and formed a community of their own, undistracted by notes of song. Watts had only just published some of his psalms and hymns, when Wesley came down among the people and began to move to and fro amongst his congregations. The want of simple forms of prayer and praise was soon felt. No doubt his recent acquaintance with the Moravians had given him invaluable suggestions, of which he was prepared to avail himself. Amidst much which was worse than foolish, the Moravians had, as he knew, many inspiring psalms, and a far greater variety of metre than English devotional verse had heretofore employed. Some of the most magnificent hymns in the Wesleyan collection are Wesley's translations from Zinzendorf and other German psalmists; but the fulness and splendour of Wesleyan psalmody was developed by Charles Wesley. His hymns have been the liturgies of Methodism, the creeds of that Church have been embodied in them, they have formed its collects, and enshrined its loftiest bursts of devotional ardour. What sentiment of Christian experience is there which does not find an utterance in them? What phase of Methodist faith is there which is not translated into some of these verses? In preparing the hymn-book, indeed, a great number of Watts's hymns were included, and included not only without any acknowledgment, but the preface, from the pen of John, claims for the Wesleys all the hymns in the volume. In this condition the hymn-book remains to this day, and we have often conversed with Methodists who have stoutly maintained that certain hymns in the volume legitimately belong to it, although published by Watts years before its compilation. This, however, in no way interferes with the estimate we have to form of these sacred lyrics; of course, the Methodist estimate of them is that they are the highest achievements of sacred song. That which we are constantly using, and which touches our affections becomes supremely precious and dear to us. They are all eminently experimental; they seem to have been constructed for the class-meeting and band-meeting; they are especially conjubilant, hymns well calculated to excite and stir, and carry aloft the feelings of the people; and they have become—they very soon became—the voices of the Church. Wesley, in his reformation, soon commenced the work of reforming the singing. Throughout his life and labours he often remarks upon the questionable psalmody by which he was greeted; thus at Warrington, he says:— 'I put a stop to a bad custom which was creeping in here; a few men, who had fine voices, sang a psalm which no one knew, in a tune fit for an opera, wherein three, four, or five persons sung different words at the same time; what an insult to common sense! what a burlesque upon public worship! no custom can excuse such a mixture of profanity and absurdity.' Elsewhere he says,— 'Beware of formality in singing, or it will creep upon us unawares; is it not creeping in already by those complex tunes which it is In harmony with the Hymns, he introduced tunes, which appropriately rendered the words, and were soon used throughout the whole communion; from one end of the country to the other these have echoed and rolled; few are the circumstances in which they have not awakened or sustained some thrilling emotion. They hailed the bridal party as it returned from the church singing,— 'We kindly help each other, Till all shall wear the starry crown.' they followed the bier to the grave chanting— 'There all the ship's company meet, Who sail'd with their Saviour beneath; With shouting, each other they greet, And triumph o'er sorrow and death.' And few separations took place without that consolotary song,— 'Blest be that dear uniting love, That will not let us part.' While some hymns speedily became like national airs to the Methodist heart: amongst the chief,— 'Jesus, the name high over all In hell or earth or sky.' They sob, they swell, they meet the spirit in its most hushed and plaintive mood; they roll and bear it aloft in its most inspired and prophetic moods, as on the surge of more than a mighty organ's swell. Among the mines, and quarries, and wild moors of Cornwall, among the factories of Lancashire and Yorkshire, in the chambers of death, in the most joyful assemblages of the household, they have relieved the hard lot, and sweetened the pleasant one; in other lands, soldiers, and slaves, and prisoners have recited with what joy those words have entered into their life. So early as 1748, when a sad cluster of convicts, horse-stealers, highway robbers, burglars, smugglers, and thieves, were led forth to execution, the turnkey said he had never seen such people before. When the bellman came, as usual, to say to them, 'Remember, you are to die to-day;' they exclaimed, 'Welcome news! welcome news!' The Methodists had been in their prison, and their visits had produced these marvellous effects; and on their way to Tyburn, the convicts sang that beautiful sacramental hymn of Charles Wesley:— 'Lamb of God, whose bleeding lore We still recall to mind; Send the answer from above, And let us mercy find. Think on us who think on Thee, And every struggling soul release; Oh, remember Calvary, And let us go in peace.' These hymns supplied battle-cries for all the scenes of open-air aggression and warfare. When Charles Wesley himself was preaching at Bengeworth, he was beset by a mob. He says, 'Their tongues were set on fire by hell!' One in the crowd proposed to take him away and duck him; he broke out into singing with Thomas Maxfield, and allowed them to carry him whither they would. At the bridge end of the street they relented and left him; there, instead of retreating, he took his stand, and, with an immense congregation about him, sang,— 'Angel of God, whate'er betide, Thy summons I obey; Jesus, I take Thee for my guide, And walk in Thee, my way.' Innumerable anecdotes might be accumulated touching the glories and triumphs of Methodist song. With all our higher love and admiration for Isaac Watts, and our feeling that, as a sacred poet, he had a more lofty and gorgeous wing, even a far more, tender and touching expression, and that in some of his hymns he speaks in a manner of strength altogether far more wonderful, nevertheless it is true that to Charles Wesley must be given the merit of, perhaps, the most perfect of all hymns, as the expression of Christian experience,— 'Jesus, lover of my soul.' It is necessary to have some apprehension of the Theology of Methodism, for the spirit of Methodism was in its theology, even as the soul of that theology was in its hymns. It met the heart at that point of experience at which it felt its need of God, a living God: consciousness pervaded it everywhere. This was the central teaching of the great evangelical reaction. How well does it compare and contrast with the contemplations and exercises of Loyola in the solitude of the Manreza; and also with the 'De Imitatione' of À Kempis, against which, large as has been the regard for it, a certain instinct of the Church has always testified. The theology of Methodism was, in one word, Christ for the conscience. Those, happily, were not the days of scientific theology; as a scientific 'Inspire the living faith, Which whosoe'er receives, The witness in himself he hath, And consciously believes.' The strife ran very high upon matters where the disputants were not substantially divided; the doctrine of personal election and reprobation, Wesley, indeed, denounced in some of his most vehement words; and it seemed that the imputed righteousness of Christ, and in consequence, the doctrine of the substitution of Christ for the sinner, paled and became ineffective in his teaching. This was especially manifested in his controversy with the beloved and amiable rector of Weston Favell, James Hervey, on the publication of his 'Theron and Aspasio.' Hervey says, 'The righteousness wrought out by Jesus Christ is wrought out for all His people,' &c. Wesley replies, with truth and force, but with needless vehemence, 'What becomes of all other people? They must inevitably perish for ever. The die was cast ere ever they were in being. The doctrine to pass them by has consigned their unborn souls to hell, and damned them from their mother's womb. I could sooner be a Turk, a deist, yea, an atheist, than I could believe this. It is less absurd to deny the very being of God, than to make Him an Almighty tyrant.' It was Wesley's great and favourite faith that 'in every nation he that feareth God and worketh righteousness is accepted of Him.' In some hymns he expresses, however, very unreservedly the doctrine of substitution for instance— 'Join earth and heaven to bless The Lord our righteousness; The mystery of redemption this, This the Saviour's strange design; Man's offence was counted His, Ours His righteousness divine.' Wesley dealt always with those great truths which, because of the depths of his own moral consciousness, man cannot hear announced without awe. It is possible to receive Christian doctrine as only a science, or a judicial exposition; the Calvinistic theology has too often been merely this, but the core of Wesley's creed was personal perception and appropriation of the work of Christ—in a word, Consciousness. And usually his ideas were presented in a clear and transparent style, the chief of them being salvation by faith; salvation by faith rather than justification by faith. No doubt Wesley clearly and distinctly held and preached the latter, but those who have made this the principal theme of their religious teaching have been usually led into a region of thought higher than was suitable to the practical purposes of the great Methodist apostle. The designation of his doctrine, 'Evangelical Arminianism,' has often been charged with involving a contradiction in terms. The discussion of the principles of the Divine government, and the Divine decrees, the relations of fore-knowledge and predetermination in the Infinite mind, impressions concerning the freedom of the will and the nature of evil—such questions, it must be admitted, are more curious and speculative than useful, or sometimes even pious. Wesley was no metaphysician, he had little taste for such studies; and his life was passed in a round of useful activities unfavourable to their prosecution. Into the department of thought which implies the relation of logic to theology, he never entered. Alike in the frame-work of his popular creed, as we shall see in the frame-work of his Church organization, he struck out a broad basis; breadth rather than depth was the characteristic of his mind and work; he cared little for the nice distinctions of philosophical refinement; his theology turned chiefly on the responsibilities of man; his aim was to make man feel, rather than to make him think. The Calvinistic side of theology produces the exactly opposite effect. Wesley, naturally, insisted strongly on the personal sanctification of the soul, this follows, of course, that other chief and much-belaboured item of Wesleyan faith, the doctrine of perfection. 'This,' says Alexander Knox, 'was the perpetual bone of contention between Wesley and the whole phalanx of Calvinist religionists.' And assuredly, that whole phalanx showed itself to be imperfect enough in the controversy. In the story of the strifes of good men this That Wesley should be defamed and denounced by ungodly scoffers or worldly bishops is not surprising, but that he should become the object of the ribaldry and scorn and contumely of men who were undoubtedly the children of God, is amazing. He had for long years been scourged and lampooned in newspapers, magazines, tracts, and pamphlets; Samuel Foote, the buffoon, had ridiculed him; and Lavington, the merry-andrew-bishop of Exeter, had poured out upon him volumes of ribaldry. And well says Mr. Tyerman, 'In turn Mr. Wesley had encountered mobs, and men of letters, drunken, parsons, furious papists, honest infidels, and others; but of all his enemies his last were his bitterest and worst, Calvinistic Christians.' It is a mystery to us now—and that it is so seems to prove that we have made some advances beyond our forefathers in good sense, good taste, and good manners, to say nothing of the higher attainments of Christian moderation and temper—that Christian men could ever have indulged in such envenomed speech, and that the pure air of metaphysical theology should ever have been burdened with such exhalations and such thunders. It is to the honour of Mr. Wesley that he never condescended to stoop from his work to personal recrimination, and scarcely, indeed, to personal explanation. His theology was wanting in those more noble excursions of intelligence and experience which supply strength to the spirit in seasons when a black night of doubt spreads out over the soul. Concerning the ways and means of faith, of revelation, and providence, he never attempted any solution. His mind, in all departments of it, was characterized by a quick apprehension; this was not accompanied by a power of lofty and sustained reflection; the business of his life was to train as many persons as he possibly could to habitual and orderly devotion. He taught the doctrine of the witness of the Spirit, and personal assurance of salvation, with a persistency which surely ought to have satisfied Toplady; but then his teaching had this serious difference, he conditioned assurance in the personal consciousness of the believer, while the school of Toplady fell back more securely upon the purposes, character, and promises of God. This makes the technical difference between the salvation by faith, taught by the one school, and justification by faith, taught by the other. To a profoundly experienced nature we suppose the former is included in the latter, and furnishes sources of satisfaction altogether wanting to the more narrow, plausible, and popular scheme. Hence, so much was made of the happiness arising from states of feeling, and from the witness of the Spirit; this was to be the aim and object of the life and heart, and was the proof of that growth in the life of perfection which seems to reduce—as Coleridge has well shown in a very able note to Southey—the Christian life to a sensation: sensational assurance became the counterpart of the doctrine of sinless perfection in this life; the one is quite absolutely related to the other. It is not too much to say that Wesley quite misconceived the term 'perfect' (t??e???) as it was used by Paul; hence it was, no doubt, that Wesley entangled himself in contradictions, and founded the religious life very much upon certain ascetic and sumptuary laws: 'Powder was antichristian; a ribbon became the sign of a carnal nature, and snuff-boxes and tobacco were the very emanations of the bottomless pit; and very innocent things became really Babylonish.' The life prescribed by Wesley was as severe as a monastic rule: his disciples were met every hour by something of which they were to deny themselves, which was to be a contradiction to them, and which they were to overcome. He insisted in the spirit of a monastic legislator, that his preachers should always preach at four or five o'clock in the morning. 'I exhort all those who desire me to watch over their souls, to wear no gold, no pearls or precious stones; use no curling of hair, or costly apparel.' 'Be serious,' was one of his favourite injunctions; 'avoid all lightness as you would hell-fire, and trifling as you would cursing and swearing; touch no woman, be as loving as you will, but the custom of the country is nothing to us.' Sometimes Wesley uses wiser words, but generally he appears to teach that deliverance from sin implies deliverance from human infirmities, and that it is almost inconsistent with temptation; and this arises apparently from an unnatural interpretation of the word 'perfect,' as we have it in the language of our Lord and in the writings of the apostles. What shall we say of the Ecclesiastical Polity framed by Wesley? This, first of all, that he never intended that his discipline should be regarded as an ecclesiastical polity. Like so many of the fathers of the Church, he founded an order; he formed a society, not a Church. He cautions his ministers against calling the society either the Church or a Church. He created a broad organization, but not the broadest. He always remembered that he was a minister and an ordained priest of the Church of England; and it was with great reluctance that he permitted himself to yield to those innovations which the polity of the Church of England would have opposed; he always desired to regard his entire fellowship as in communion with the Establishment; his arrangements for his services were, as far as possible, for times and seasons when no services were proceeding in the parish churches of the neighbourhood, and for a long time he attempted to harmonise his method of worship to the liturgic forms and devotions of the Church. Lord King's essay on the Primitive Church made him, theoretically, an Independent; yet, there can be little doubt that had there been a broader, wiser, and more tolerant rÉgime in the Establishment, the whole movement might have been included in the corporation of the National Church; it was surely of God that it was not so. But the Church of Rome would have known how to avail itself of such a sudden burst of energy, as in the cases of St. Francis, of Loyola, and others; the great leader and his disciples would for some time have been kept in a state of ecclesiastical quarantine, but in the course of a few years they would have been received, to pour into the mother Church the fulness of their newly-acquired life. It was a great evangelistic movement that Wesley originated and sustained; he perpetually attempted to limit and curtail the ministerial powers of his preachers; many of them, indeed, became sufficiently restive even beneath his authority, and were quite unable or unwilling to perceive the reason of the ecclesiastical refinements he taught and maintained. Isaac Taylor has urged against Wesley that he founded an irresponsible hierarchy; he says: 'On the one side stand all Protestant Churches, Episcopal and non-Episcopal, Wesleyanism excepted; on the other side stand the Church of Rome, and the Wesleyan Conference. This position maintained alone by a Protestant body must be regarded as false in principle, and in an extreme degree ominous.' The position is not fairly stated. The polity of Rome is absolutely intolerant; she not merely has laws for conserving her own rights, which she claims as divine, but she treats with perfect contempt and scorn all reference to, or respect for, the rights of others. Even Frederick Faber, in his essay on Philip Neri, in a passage of The Wesleyans constitute the largest denomination in the United States, in the form of the Methodist Episcopal Church founded by the venerable Asbury, the friend and early disciple of John Wesley, and a man baptized into a like spirit of indomitable endurance, and ardent, untiring energy. But it may be questioned whether this should be regarded as a development of Wesleyanism, or a departure from Wesley's idea of Church government. Certainly much depends upon what we find implied in the designation of bishop. The Wesleyan bishop in England is called a 'superintendent;' from a Methodist's point of view the terms are almost convertible and synonymous, and we have little doubt that superintendent is the realization of the Scriptural idea of the bishop—a pastor, shepherd, or overseer. More than this Wesley did not desire his ministers to be. Had he great prescience? Was it a far-sighted sagacity which characterized his mind? Acutely he saw the present want, and met it. Probably he never realized the wholly independent attitude his followers would assume in the future; and, like the constitution of England, so the constitution of his society grew beneath his eye; he scarcely, therefore, made provisions to meet the demands of an independent Church, or community. He was perpetually engaged Yet the entire polity of Wesley was popular, and few religions communities have so successfully cultivated the spirit infused into it; it was intended to meet the religious instincts of the uncared for multitudes. Certain words of Wesley illustrate this;—a new chapel was in the course of erection at Blackburn; Wesley was taken to see it. 'I have a favour to ask,' he said; 'let there be no pews in the body of this chapel, except one for the leading singers; be sure to make accommodation for the poor, they are God's building materials in the erection of His Church; the rich make good scaffolding, but bad materials.' 'Observe,' he said again to his preachers, 'it is not your business to preach so many times, and to take care of this or that society, but to save as many souls as you can, to bring as many sinners as you possibly can to repentance, and, with all your power, to build them up in that holiness, without which they cannot see the Lord.' He knew that preaching needs to be succeeded by personal intercourse; hence he says in visiting Colchester;—'By repeated experiments we learn that though a man preach like an angel, he will neither collect, nor preserve a society which is collected, without visiting them from house to house.' And this is the key to that comprehensive and all-permeating spirit which constitutes the idea of Methodism, at once its danger as well as its defence; to become a Methodist of Wesley's order was to be, and is to be, looked up, and looked after, and overlooked. It must be admitted that the system which is so vigorously and watchfully organized, does not leave much opportunity for the mind and soul to grow: the tutoring and training hearts and minds to walk alone is a profound study. Nothing of this is contemplated in the Wesleyan system; freedom of thought has not usually fared well in the society; minds are too closely interlocked and riveted, frequently not only with other, but with inferior minds. It is therefore a community for the poor and the uneducated, or it is nothing; and if it is not like the Romish system, dangerous by the possession of an audacious hierarchy, it must be admitted that it may become so in virtue of a system of spiritual espionage scarcely less effective than the confessional. Did John Wesley know human nature? Judging from the effects which have followed his marvellous course, it would seem so; and if severe in discipline, and intolerant to human infirmities by his system, he was most tender and merciful, even to the aberrations and stumblings of believers themselves. He 'I shall never forget,' says Miss Wesley, the daughter of Charles, 'the manner in which my father accosted my mother on his return home. "My brother," said he, "is, indeed, an extraordinary man; I placed before him the importance of the character of a minister, and the evil consequences which might result from his indifference to it, and urged him by every relative and public motive to answer for himself and stop the publication. His reply was, Brother, when I devoted to God my ease, my time, my life, did I except my reputation? No, tell Sally (Charles's wife) I will take her to Canterbury to-morrow."' Glorious John had to live down many worse persecutions than this. Ordinarily, his calm was imperturbable; and yet, divine as this often seems, it often, too, seems related to a side of character which almost indicates a defect in human nature. It has been alleged against him that he was thoroughly ignorant of the nature of children, 'Break their wills betimes,' he says; 'begin this work before they can run alone, before they can speak plain, perhaps before they can speak at all.' The method he adopted at Kingswood school was an illustration of this entire ignorance of the child's nature. It was not so much a school as a monastery, its rules were more stringent and hard than those of a workhouse. It is no wonder that it did not succeed, and that the whole system of the school had to undergo an entire modification. That Wesley's design and idea in founding the Kingswood school was benevolent, wise, and prescient, there can be no doubt, as also that the diet was sufficient and good; nor can exception be taken to the rule that the children should go to bed at eight, and sleep on hard mattresses; but to rise at four in the morning! and spend their time until five in reading, singing, meditation and prayer! no play-day and no play-hour permitted, on the ground that 'he who plays when he is a child, will play when he becomes a man!' When we read of such an arrangement made for children, the question recurs, did Wesley know human nature? Or if such a constitution might be suitable to the human nature of monks and ascetic saints, what knowledge does it exhibit of the child's heart? We like better to read an anecdote told of him when at the age of seventy-three—about the period when the letters alluded to were published. At Midsomer Norton, when preaching in the parish church he was staying at the house of a Mr. Bush, who kept a boarding-school. While he was there, two of the boys quarrelled, cuffed and kicked each other vigorously. Mrs. Bush brought the pugilists to Wesley. He talked to them and repeated the lines— 'Birds in their little nests agree, And 'tis a shameful sight, When children of one family Fall out, and chide, and fight.' 'You must be reconciled,' said he; 'go and shake hands with each other,' and they did so. He continued, 'Put your arms around each other's neck, and kiss each other;' and this was also done. 'Now,' he said, 'come to me,' and taking two pieces of bread and butter he folded them together, and desired each to take a part. 'Now,' he said, 'you have broken bread together.' Then he put his hands upon their heads and blessed them. The two tigers were turned into loving lambs. They never forgot the old man's blessing, and one of them, who became a magistrate in Berkshire, related the beautiful incident in long afterdays. We love to note those pleasant little incidents in the man's life, and there are many such. A thousand anecdotes are told of his benevolence and goodness, and if his life should ever be adequately written, they will form a more entertaining regalia of majesty, than we know in the life of any one of the fathers of the Church. We are not writing a life of Wesley; we leave unnoticed, therefore, his more secret and sacred history. We have no space to devote to the romance of Grace Murray. She was the light of the prophet's eyes; he proposed to her in marriage, and was gratefully accepted. We read the story from a very different point of view to Mr. Tyerman, The lady who became the wife of Wesley was the roughest of termagants, the plague and pest of her husband's existence; and she takes her place in the foremost rank of the bad wives of eminent men, worthy to be classed with the wedded companions of Socrates, of Albert Durer, of George Herbert, or Richard Hooker; she was the most vicious vixen of them all. It may be imagined, without doing any injustice to him, that when his letters were stolen, interpolated, and forged by his wife, for the purpose of injuring his character, the grieving spirit of the old prophet may sometimes have said, 'Grace Murray would not have done this.' Wesley's mind was eminently administrative. It has often been said that he had in him much that combined the genius of Richelieu and Loyola—the calm, iron will and the acute eye of the one, the inventive genius and habitual devotion of the other. He would compare better with Washington, or the illustrious member of the Wesley family of our own age, Wellington. His mind was eminently healthy, and may be said to have been always awake, ceaseless in activity, sleepless in vigilance. He intermeddled with all knowledge in many languages, and he compiled and published libraries. He appears to have been almost wholly indifferent to food; in sleep he was sparing; his frame was very small, and if this appeared to be a reason against his popular impressiveness as a preacher, it was a means of his amazing agility. Look at the remarkable likeness of the man prefixed to the work of Isaac Taylor; it has been likened to a shrivelled monk of the order of La Trappe, a face in which sharpness and serenity strive for the dominion of the features, the dark hawk-eyed intelligence with the bland smile. The principles which illustrate Wesley's character, and testify, not merely his greatness, but how it happened that he achieved so much, may be well presented in some of those brief axioms which do in fact, as we read the multitudinous events of his long career, exhibit the pivots upon which his life turned. 'I dare no more fret than curse or swear.' 'I reverence the young because they may be useful when I am dead.' 'You have no need to be in a hurry,' said a friend. 'Hurry?' he replied; 'I have no time to be in a hurry.' 'The soul and the body,' he writes, in a characteristic letter insisting on the observance of discipline in his society—'The soul and the body make a man; the spirit and the discipline make a Christian.' 'Let us work now, we shall rest by and by.' Such sentences exhibit the secret of his ubiquitous activity and his power; and such characters are usually cheerful. A glow of quiet, kindly humour often lightened his speech, sometimes sharpening into quiet satire. Many anecdotes illustrate both these attributes. As is usual in most religious orders, Popish or Protestant, his spirit has survived in his society, and the shadow of Wesley falls wide and far. He lived through amazing changes of opinion with reference to himself, and before he died, from being one of the most abused and execrated of men, he certainly was one of the most revered. No foe had been more rancorous and unjust than Lavington, Bishop of Exeter; Wesley lived to unite with him in the ordinance of the Lord's Supper in his own cathedral. He writes, with no bitterness of the man who had with such bitter ribaldry abused him, 'I was well pleased to partake of the Lord's Supper, with my old opponent, Bishop Lavington. Oh! may we sit together in the kingdom of our Father.' At Lewisham he dined with the eminent Dr. Lowth, Bishop of London. On proceeding to dinner the Bishop refused to sit above Wesley at the table, saying, 'Mr. Wesley, may I be found at your feet in another world.' Wesley objected to take the seat of precedence; but the learned prelate obviated the difficulty by requesting as a favour that Wesley would sit above him because his hearing was defective, and he desired not to lose a sentence of Wesley's conversation. It is known that the king had a great respect for him; and it is to this most probably Wesley refers, when writing to one of his preachers, advising him to stand his ground against the vehement opposition of the Bishop of the Isle of Man, he says, 'I know pretty well the mind of Lord Mansfield, and of one that is greater than he.' In his latter days his movements to and fro in the country became ovations; not merely did thousands gather to hear him preach, the streets of towns were lined to look upon him, and the windows were thronged as he passed along. While in Yorkshire, we read of cavalcades of horses and carriages formed to receive and escort him on the way. At Redruth, as he preached in the market place, the congregation not only filled the windows, but sat on the tops of the houses. Assuredly, as often as he had been 'persecuted, he was not forsaken;' he did not die of Crucifixion, but he felt no elation of spirit, and we see him still the same man that he had been in the widely different circumstances of cruel and unjust misrepresentation. It is wonderful to think that at nearly ninety years of age he could continue to make any effort to preach, but he did so, and he continued as a tower of strength to the companies he had formed and called together. But he outlived most of his early contemporaries, friends and foes. He stood in the pulpit of St. Giles's, in London; he had preached there fifty years before, prior to his departure for America. 'Are they not passed as a watch in the night?' he writes. Old families that used to entertain him had passed away. 'Their houses,' says he, 'know neither me nor them any more.' His later letters show that fervid sentiment for woman known only to loftiest minds and hearts; this again is entwined with beautiful simple regards for children. When he ascended the pulpit of Raithby Church, where he was often allowed to preach, a child sat in his way on the stairs, he took it in his arms and kissed it, and placed it tenderly on the same spot. Crabb Robinson heard him at Colchester, he was then eighty-seven, on each 'Oft am I by women told, Poor Anacreon, thou grow'st old; See, thine hairs are falling all, Poor Anacreon, how they fall. Whether I grow old or no, By these signs I do not know, By this I need not to be told, "Tis time to live if I grow old."' In 1790 he gave up keeping his accounts; his last entry—exceedingly difficult to decipher—is characteristic: 'For upwards of eighty-six years (meaning, of course, rather, sixty-eight, i. e., since he came to have money of his own) I have kept my accounts exactly. I will not attempt it any longer, being satisfied with the continual conviction that I save all I can, and give all I can; that is, all I have. July 16, 1790.' His benevolence indeed was excessive; and Samuel Bradburn says, 'He never relieved poor people in the street but he either took off or removed his hat to them when they thanked him.' The story of the old man's approach towards the gates of the celestial city is very beautiful, and has often been told. His last sermons are certainly among his best; the last sermon he printed, on 'Faith the evidence of things not seen,' was the last he ever wrote, and was finished only six weeks before his death. It shows how his mind sustained the altitude of highest power when bordering upon ninety years of age; it shows also how the dear old man was preening his wings for a speedy flight. We suppose the last letter he wrote was to William Wilberforce, on the abolition of slavery—short, but full of strength—giving to the apostle of freedom his benediction. 'If God be for you,' he writes, 'who can be against, you? O! be not weary in well doing! Go on, in the name of God, and in the power of His might!' It was in the City-road that exhausted nature gave way, unable to bear any more. And what a death it was! He was, indeed, several days in dying, but there was no pain, only exhaustion; in his wanderings he was preaching or attending classes, and singing snatches from some of his brother's, and from Watts's hymns; but he was half in heaven before he left the earth. His last strain of song was— 'To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, Who sweetly all agree;' but his voice failed, and gasping for breath he said, 'Now we have done, let us go!' Friends crowded round his bed, and amidst their words of comfort and love he was passing away. There was no conflict; only once he rose, and in a tone almost supernatural, exclaimed, 'The best of all is God is with us!' His brother's widow tenderly ministered to him; he tried to kiss her, saying, 'He giveth his servants rest!' Then he repeated his thanksgiving, 'We thank thee, O God, for these and all Thy mercies; bless the Church and King, and grant us truth and peace, through Jesus Christ our Lord, for ever and ever.' He paused a little; then he cried, 'The clouds drop fatness!' Then another pause, 'The Lord of Hosts is with us, the God of Jacob is our refuge!' Eleven persons were standing round his bed as he said 'Farewell,' his last word, at ten o'clock, Wednesday, March 2nd, 1791. 'Children,' said John Wesley's mother, 'as soon as I am dead, sing a song of praise!' As soon as Wesley died, his friends round his dead body raised their voices in a hymn, then knelt down and prayed. He was buried behind the chapel in the City-road, on the 9th of March. So great was the excitement created by his death, that he was buried at five o'clock in the morning; before this he had been laid in a kind of state. Thus Samuel Rogers, the poet, saw him. He says, 'As I was walking home one day from my father's bank, I observed a great crowd of people streaming into a chapel in the City-road. I followed them; and saw laid out upon a table the dead body of a clergyman in full canonicals, his grey hair partly shading his face on both sides, and his flesh resembling wax. It was the corpse of John Wesley, and the crowd moved slowly and silently round and round the table, to take a last look at that most venerable man.' John Wesley appears to have been one of the most faultless of mortals: some of his followers claim for him a rank little short of perfection; and certainly few for whom such a claim is made, could sustain it so well. He nevertheless commands high admiration rather than passionate affection. The sapling he planted has struck its roots far and wide, still true to the spirit of its illustrious As time advances, the point of view changes from whence a great man may be most distinctly seen; as the trees are removed which interfered with the prospect, so prejudices which prevented due appreciation are modified. If the subsequent ages do not substantially alter their verdict, yet so much is added to, or subtracted from impressions, either by a larger catholicity of judgment or by the accumulation of additional facts, that new portraits and fresh and more accurate appreciations are demanded. Ours has been called especially the age of resurrections: beyond all former times it is the age in which men have industriously 'garnished the sepulchres of the prophets,' and Wesley's tomb has not been suffered to fall into ruin; many a loving Old Mortality re-cuts his name on the stone; and recently, especially, many able hands have set themselves to the task of faithful and admiring delineation of the features of the man and his work. Miss Wedgewood's interesting little volume, if founded upon no additional information, shows the growing disposition in members of other Churches to do him substantial Art. VII.—Mr. Darwin on the Origin of Man. (1.) The Descent of Man and Selection in relation to Sex. By Charles Darwin, M.A., F.R.S., &c. 2 vols. John Murray. (2.) On the Genesis of Species. By St. George Mivart, F.R.S. Macmillan. The mode of the origin of man is a question of such momentous interest to intelligent men that it is not easy to handle it with calm philosophical indifference, or to discuss it dispassionately. It is true, we have been informed that the conclusions concerning man's evolution which have been lately taught far and wide are not opposed to religion, but we have not been favoured with the tenets of that religion to which an evolutionist may, without inconsistency, subscribe. We have even been assured that evolution presents us with a most noble view of the Great Creator, who endowed living matter with the capacity of change, and subjected it to natural laws; that it admits the necessity of a directing, intelligent will, and refers all the phenomena of the universe to God. But those who have recorded this remarkable discovery have not been careful to make known to us the attributes of that Deity in whom they trust; and they express themselves in a manner that is rather vague concerning the limits imposed upon His power, His will, and His government by what they call natural law. The hypothesis of evolution, it has been said, does not touch the question of the origin of life, for evolution is supposed to begin to operate only after that mysterious, if not miraculous phenomenon has been completed. Our readers should, however, remember that quite recently Sir W. Thomson has relegated to a sphere long since shattered, the birth of the first living spark which peopled this earth, and thus we are released from the difficulty of framing an hypothesis to account for the first particle that lived. But a third class of evolutionists professes to be able to trace the actual origin of the living from non-living matter, and even maintains that a series of insensible gradations has been established between the inanimate and the living. These are some of the considerations which are agitating men's minds in the days in which we live; and Mr. Darwin, in his last work, has clearly defined the conclusions concerning man's origin which, as he maintains, we are compelled by the facts of nature to accept, though he does not indicate, and indeed seems supremely unconscious of the tremendous nature of the issues raised by his philosophic teaching. 'I am aware,' says Mr. Darwin, 'that the conclusions arrived at in this work will be denounced by some as highly irreligious;' but he himself has failed to discover anything irreligious in the view he has taken. It is, however, very difficult to form a correct estimate of this opinion in the absence of any explanation of the meaning which Mr. Darwin attaches to the terms, religion and irreligion. The religious views of those who regard man as a being distinct and altogether apart from brute animals must needs be different from the religious views of those who look upon him as a mere animal, though it is possible that the latter conclusion may not conflict with religious beliefs of some kind or other. We should not have ventured to offer these remarks upon the religious aspect of That man began to be in a very remote past is now freely admitted by all; but this is perhaps the only one of the many propositions advanced in connection with man's origin that will be accepted by different authorities who have considered the question from different points of view. Not a few persons still accept the ancient tradition, and up to this very time maintain, that the idea that man sprang as man direct from the hands of his God remains unshaken, and that the evidence advanced in favour of more recent interferences is not only incomplete, but vague, fragmentary, uncertain, and unconvincing. But while it must be admitted that the majority of scientific men who have studied the subject are agreed in the conclusion, that science can point to no fact at all conclusive in favour of the idea of the direct creation of man from the dust of the ground, it is by no means so certain that the scientific evidence advanced in favour of very different inferences is more convincing, or as worthy of acceptance as their enthusiastic advocates would have us believe. It cannot be too often clearly stated that the whole spirit of science demands that scientific conclusions should rest upon the evidence of facts, and upon facts alone. Evidence advanced by the scientific observer must be evidence which can be adduced over and over again; evidence which will bear to be examined and re-examined in its minutest particulars and with the utmost care. Nothing is to be taken on trust by the man who would advance real knowledge, and he who endeavours to convince an audience of the truth of some new scientific conjecture, by telling it that no other explanation can be advanced than the particular one that he offers, is true neither to science nor to himself. It is his business to produce evidence, not to try to force his own conviction on other minds, and he should most scrupulously avoid phrases which partake more of the character of threats than arguments. 'Accept this view, or I shall regard you as unreasonable, and consider you a savage,' is the language of a member of an intellectual prize-ring rather than that of a calm, dispassionate investigator of nature, searching after the truth for truth's sake. Into recent discussions concerning the origin of man, much extraneous matter has been imported, and in many articles acrimonious remarks have unfortunately been introduced for which little excuse can be offered; but it appears to us impossible to deny that the conclusion we arrive at concerning the origin of man may, and probably must seriously affect our views concerning the nature of our relation to Deity, and our belief in a future state; but it is surely premature to allow our convictions to be greatly disturbed by such considerations, for it is doubtful whether we are yet in possession of sufficient knowledge to enable us to deduce any definite conclusion upon this most difficult question. Men who call themselves philosophical and scientific may laugh at what they call the legends concerning man's origin, which are received as truths by the unscientific; but much will have to be added to the evidence already existing in favour of the arboreal habits of our ancestors, before the notion will be generally accepted as worthy of serious belief, or as entirely free from ludicrousness. The reader of science in these days must be careful not to mistake conjectural propositions, however ingeniously expressed, for established scientific demonstrations. Our acceptance or rejection of Mr. Darwin's views regarding the descent of man will be mainly determined by the conclusions we have been led to adopt concerning his doctrine of the formation of different species of animals by natural selection. The writer of this article, disagreeing, as he does, entirely, with the views adopted by Mr. Darwin's opponents, would be quite ready to concede the doctrine of the descent of man from a lower form if he felt convinced that the evidence adduced was sufficient to prove that even a few of the lower animals and plants had resulted by development from lower forms. He is well aware that, both here and on the Continent, many scientific authorities accept the doctrine of natural selection as applied to plants and animals, but hold that as regards man the evidence, is altogether inconclusive. Mr. Darwin evidently wishes his readers to accept upon faith the dictum that it has really been positively demonstrated that all species of the inferior animals have been evolved from some lower beings, for he uses this as an inferential argument in favour of the doctrine that man, 'like every other species,' has descended from pre-existing forms. We shall not therefore argue, as has often been done, that although natural selection may be true as applied to animals, it is not correct as regards man, but shall concede this point, and admit that, if it could be proved that dissimilar animals had descended from a common progenitor, we might believe that man's body has been formed in the same way. But we dispute the evidence A great array of facts are marshalled before the reader, in order to produce the impression that the foregone conclusion really rests upon a very firm foundation; but it is remarkable how frequently hypothetical inferences are made to do duty for inductive arguments. Thus Mr. Darwin assumes that because man, like the lower animals, is subject to malconformations, arrested development, or reduplication of parts, his origin must have been like theirs. It is, however, obvious that such an argument begs the question at issue. It is clearly possible that man's body might agree with the bodies of the lower animals in these and many other points, and yet be formed upon altogether different principles; while man and animals might be alike in these points, without either having been derived as Mr. Darwin supposes. Again, it seemed scarcely necessary to repeat the affirmation that there was much in common between the bodily structure of man and animals, because everyone who has studied the matter ever so carelessly freely admits that there is, and every child would acknowledge the fact from his own observation. What Mr. Darwin desires us to believe is, that this similarity in structure is due to community of origin; but this is a very different thing. The fact must be accepted, but the proposed explanation of the fact is, after all, only an assertion. It has been audaciously said that Mr. Darwin's explanation ought to be accepted as true if no more probable explanation be advanced; but surely this is to mistake altogether the object of scientific inquiry; for it by no means follows that an improbable hypothesis ought to be accepted and taught as true, because its opponents are unable or unwilling to propose a new hypothesis several degrees less improbable. The question for us to determine, is simply how far the arguments advanced by Mr. Darwin justify the conclusion at which he has arrived; and it is not good reasoning to argue that, because the bodily structure of man resembles that of animals, and the bodily structures of animals resemble one another, therefore all have community of origin; for it is clear that there may be some very different explanation of these facts which cannot be discovered, nor will be until we possess more knowledge of them. We may accept as a fact the well known general resemblance between the tissues of different animals and the tissues of man and animals, but we may deny that this resemblance is sufficiently close to ground upon it the doctrine that all tissues have been derived from a common ancestral tissue-forming substance. We quite agree with Mr. Darwin, that 'man is constructed on the same general type or model with other mammals,' but we fail to see in this an argument for the doctrine that he and they have a common origin. If, however, the tissues, blood, and secretions of man were like those of animals, that is, if they could not be distinguished from the latter in ultimate structure and chemical composition and properties, we should be quite ready to accept Mr. Darwin's conclusion; and not a few of Mr. Darwin's readers will imagine that such is really the case, for the language employed almost implies that a very exact likeness has been proved to exist. Mr. Darwin has, however, been careful so to express himself as to lead his readers to adopt the inference he desires, without laying himself open to the charge of undue persuasion, while professing only to be laying facts before their unbiassed judgment. In truth, such enthusiasm has been stirred up in favour of Mr. Darwin's doctrines that the task of criticism has become unpleasant, and it requires some courage even to offer a hint that after all they may not turn out to be true. And yet it is not possible for anyone who has studied anatomical structure to assent to many of the statements in the very first chapter of Mr. Darwin's book. As regards bodily structure and chemical composition, and also minute structure of tissues, there are points of difference between man and animals more striking and remarkable than the points in which resemblance may be traced. So, too, with reference to embryonic development, resemblance increases the further we go back, and much more may be proved than Mr. Darwin requires for the support of his hypothesis. An embryo man is not more like an embryo ape than either is like an embryo fish. The mode of origin and the development of every tissue in nature are indeed alike in many particulars, but this fact, so far from being an argument in favour of the common parentage of any or all, seems to indicate that all are formed according to some general law, which nevertheless permits the most remarkable variations, not solely dependent upon either external conditions or internal powers. It has been shown that certain structural characteristics observable to the unaided eye are common to man and the lower animals, and this fact has been urged in favour of the conclusion adopted by Mr. Darwin. As is well known, there are certain diseases which may be communicated from man to the lower animals, or from the lower animals to man, and Mr. Darwin tells us that the fact 'proves (!) the close similarity of their tissues and blood, both in minute structure and composition.' Here, again, in what he regards as his proof, Mr. Darwin begs the question. Such premises afford no justification whatever for the conclusion arrived at, while the force of the remark depends entirely upon the meaning attached to the phrase 'close similarity.' We may assert with truth that there is a very close similarity between the blood of a rat and the blood of a Guinea pig, and also that the blood of the rat differs widely from that of the Guinea pig. In the first assertion, 'close similarity' is used in a sense which does not imply that 'widely different' is not equally true of the statement to which it relates. The argument adopted by Mr. Darwin is not an argument in favour of his conclusion. He might urge with equal force that since bacteria grow and multiply in many different fluids and solids, these fluids and solids exhibit a close similarity in structure and composition; or, conversely, it might be held, that because certain poisons produce very different effects upon the nerve-tissues of different animals, therefore the nerve-tissues of these animals must differ widely in minute structure and chemical composition. As regards the statements that man and animals alike die of apoplexy, suffer from fever, are subject to cataract, take tea, are fond of tobacco, and the like, it is simply astounding that Mr. Darwin should have advanced them with the view of strengthening his case. The circumstance almost leads us to infer that he was not altogether unconscious of the weakness of his own cause. He has been over-sanguine regarding his powers of convincing his readers of the truth of any proposition he might think fit to advance. It would have been more to the purpose to have maintained that, since all mammals have blood and blood-vessels, brains, and nerves, it is certain that all mammals must have had a common origin, since it is not possible to account for the close similarity between these tissues in any other way. Nor is it easy to understand how the community-of-origin hypothesis is assisted by the fact that man and animals are infested by parasites, seeing that the parasites are as different from one another as are the species which they infest, and, like the latter, are incapable of interbreeding, and exhibit specific distinctions of the most striking kind. That reproduction and gestation are carried out upon the same general plan in all mammals is universally known, but it is straining argument with a vengeance to advance this in favour of their community of origin, considering the marvellous variations in detail which are observed in respect of these processes in different and even in very closely allied mammals. The fact that man arrives at maturity more slowly than other animals is met by Mr. Darwin with the cautious observation that 'the orang is believed not to be adult till the age of from ten to fifteen years.' This is by no means a solitary example of the very vague observations which Mr. Darwin admits as data upon which to ground his conclusions. For want of more demonstrative evidence, he is constrained to accept the loose statement to which we have alluded; and it must be admitted that he has displayed considerable ingenuity in making the most of the utterly Mr. Darwin adduces another argument in his favor from embryonic development, and proceeds to show that at a certain period the human embryo is very like that of the dog. He quotes with approval the remark of Mr. Huxley, that as regards development man is 'far nearer to apes than the apes are to the dog;' but if we suppose the resemblance to be far greater than is really the case, it is difficult to see how the fact would strengthen the hypothesis in favour of which it is advanced. Because the embryo of a dog resembles that of a man, therefore both were derived from a common progenitor, seems a very curious specimen of reasoning, and implies the acceptance of a number of other propositions which have been and will continue to be disputed. We are assured that no other explanation than the one advanced by Mr. Darwin 'has ever been given of the marvellous fact that the embryos of a man, dog, seal, bat, reptile, &c., cannot at first be distinguished from each other;' but as needs scarcely be said, this circumstance adds no weight to the particular explanation in question, and does not increase the probability of its being proved to be true at some future day. According to Mr. Darwin, we ought frankly to admit the force of every argument he thinks fit to advance; but surely, before doing so, there is no harm in examining the facts a little more closely. And, first, it would have been desirable to inquire whether the resemblance was really as great as a superficial examination by the unaided eye seemed to indicate; next, it should have been ascertained whether the differences between the animal and the human embryo were not also very considerable; in which case it would have been necessary to inquire further concerning the bearing of the differences demonstrated, upon the hypothesis of the community of origin of the several embryos, grounded upon the likeness. But Mr. Darwin does not tell us why he selected one particular period of development for demonstrating the resemblance between the human embryo and that of the dog. The likeness was in truth much greater at a period still earlier than the one selected. Nay, the fact must be known to Mr. Darwin, that at a very early stage in development we fail to discover, after the most careful scrutiny, any difference between the matter which, under certain conditions, will become man, and that which, under certain other conditions, will become dog, or cat, or bird, or frog, or jelly-fish, or plant; yet it would be monstrous to assert that apparent likeness was real identity. It is only during the later stages of development, as Mr. Huxley affirms, and as has been well known for fifty years or more, that 'the young human being presents marked differences from the young ape.' But why is the reader not told that at a very early period of development these embryos are not only like one another, but could not by any means at our disposal be distinguished from each other or from any other form of embryo matter in nature? The results of the act of living in the two cases are very different, but the living matter itself seems to be nearly identical. The material out of which man is evolved is perhaps exactly like that from which every other vertebrate living being proceeds, and it does not differ in any ascertained points from that from which the most destructive morbid growths may be developed. Here, then, is an argument for the community of origin of everything in nature. Not only is man's brain developed like the dog's brain, but the matter in which every one of his organs originates is like that from which every other tissue in nature is evolved. But when we come to examine more minutely the tissues of the embryo man and the embryo dog at about the period of development selected by Mr. Darwin for comparison, we find very remarkable points of difference in their minute structure. If we examine particular tissues by the aid of high microscopic powers, we shall discover points of difference as well as points in which they agree, and this at every stage of growth subsequent to the time when the tissues have acquired their special characters. If, then, from the fact of general resemblance we are to argue in favour of a common origin, what explanation have we to offer of the peculiar and constant, though definite differences between the corresponding tissues of different animals at corresponding periods of development? Mr. Darwin's explanation may account for the resemblance between the different embryos at a particular period of development, but it does not help us in the least to understand why there should be differences in the ultimate structure It is difficult to understand how 'natural selection' can work, unless we admit that the matter of the germ possesses the property of undergoing modification. But if modifying power determines the changes, this must itself be referred to something inherent in the matter of the germ itself—a primary power of the organism transmitted from pre-existing organisms. Such a power is, however, inadmissible in any evolutional hypothesis, and so far from being explained by natural selection, explains the facts grouped under that head. It is true that Mr. Darwin does admit the operation of 'unknown agencies' influencing the nature and constitution of the organism, but he adduces no reason for supposing that these unknown agencies will be discovered at some future time, or that they are in any way dependent on natural selection. If we require 'unknown agencies' at all, we may surely dispense with natural selection altogether, and attribute the formation of species to these unknown agencies directly, instead of attributing it to natural selection and referring natural selection to the unknown agencies. It certainly would be an argument of the very highest importance, and indeed most convincing, if it could be shown that, in their minute structure, the corresponding tissues of man and animals very closely agreed. Mr. Darwin affirms that this is indeed the case, and says that the correspondence in minute structure is so close, especially in the case of man and the anthropomorphous apes, that it is impossible to exaggerate it. But strange to say, he adduces no evidence whatever in support of the assertion, although he does not hesitate to make use of the assumed close correspondence as if it had been demonstrated in the most unequivocal manner. Mr. Darwin is unquestionably correct in attaching the very highest importance to this part of the evidence. As the question of correspondence in the minute structure of tissues between man and animals has scarcely been touched upon in any of the numerous critiques which have been written upon Mr. Darwin's hypothesis, we propose to direct the reader's attention to a few details of considerable interest, affecting not only the validity of views concerning, the descent of man, but affecting also the hypothesis of evolution. It has been already stated that we are ready to admit the full force of the fact of the close correspondence if this can be proved; but, on the other hand, if constant differential characters can be distinctly demonstrated, especially in corresponding tissues of closely allied species, it must be conceded that the circumstance will be very damaging to the hypothesis of evolution; for it is very doubtful if even the very great ingenuity displayed by Mr. Darwin and his followers would enable them to offer an explanation which would be considered plausible. It is somewhat significant that the subject of minute structure, in spite of its great importance having been freely admitted, has been very lightly touched upon. So far, evolutionists have fought rather shy of the evidence to be obtained by a very minute and careful examination of the tissues; though strongly advocating careful investigations of a general character, they have been very reticent on the question of microscopic investigation, and in not a few instances there are indications of an indisposition to study minute details, as if they feared observation might be pushed too far, or too much into detail to serve their purpose. Attention is constantly directed to the general points in which different species resemble each other, and the reader becomes fully impressed with the great importance of the argument resting upon the fact of the strong similarity between man and apes, but no direct comparison in minute structure between any human and simian tissue is instituted, nor are any results of such comparisons anywhere referred to. But if, for example, it could be shown that in their minute anatomy the tissues of an ape so closely resembled those of a dog on the one hand, and of a man on the other, as that they could not be distinguished by the microscope, the fact would be of the highest importance, and would add enormously to the evidence already adduced to Mr. Darwin who lays much stress upon the close correspondence between the tissues of man and animals in minute structure, but never tells us that such comparison has been actually made by himself or by others. It is certainly remarkable that a fact which Mr. Darwin evidently considers of vast importance, and which is capable of being easily put to the test of observation, should be stated without the results of a single observation being recorded. Surely an appeal to actual experiment should have been made in at least a few instances, which would illustrate not only the close correspondence, but the absence of differences between corresponding tissues in different species. This having been done, it should then have been clearly stated in what manner As this supposed correspondence in minute structure has never, so far as we are aware, been called in question, we shall occupy some portion of the space allotted to us in adverting to certain facts of interest, and shall supplement our observations by some remarks upon the supposed correspondence, or divergence, in chemical composition between representative solids and fluids in allied but distinct species. We must admit, with many other scientific writers, that if but a very moderate proportion of the arguments advanced by Mr. Darwin in favour of his conclusions rested upon a really firm basis of fact, the formation of species by natural selection would be established; but we have found that in many cases the arguments advanced do not bear the test of careful analysis, and some assertions crumble into dust as soon as they are exposed to investigation. We shall find reason to doubt the validity of Mr. Darwin's inferences concerning chemical composition, as well as concerning minute structure. Although undoubtedly, we do discern a general correspondence, the exceptions are so remarkable, and so far inexplicable upon Mr. Darwin's view, that we are disposed to think that the argument from it must be rejected altogether. If we study carefully the minute structure of corresponding tissues, we shall find that in many instances we are confronted with the most striking and peculiar differences, which tend to establish the idea of individuality and distinctness of origin, rather than that of the community of origin of creatures closely allied in zoological characters. The differences in minute details in the case of creatures much alike are often very remarkable, and well worthy of attentive consideration. It may be possible to explain some of them by natural selection, but the way in which this can be done has to be pointed out. Nor is it easy to see why many individual peculiarities, that could easily be specified, should exist at all. They are certainly not required by their possessors, they do not seem either of advantage or disadvantage, and it is at least conceivable that in minute structure the tissues of all closely allied animals might exactly resemble one another. But is it not remarkable that, for instance, almost every tissue of the newt, frog, toad, and green tree-frog, has individual characteristics of its own, which could be distinguished by one who was thoroughly familiar with the microscopic characters of the textures? In many cases the differences are so wide that they could not be passed over.[64] In the newt, as would be anticipated, the elementary parts of the tissues are formed altogether upon a much larger scale than, in the other animals, and there are individual differences which are most interesting. The disciples of evolution might gain some facts in support of their theory by comparing in minute structure the tissues of the newt and proteus, in which latter animal everything is on a larger and coarser (?) scale than in the newt. But would the evolutional hypothesis gain by the application of such a test? The nerve-fibres in every part of the body of the newt differ in many minute particulars from those of the frog, and the muscular fibres of either animal could be recognised if they were successfully prepared in precisely the same manner, so that a comparison might be instituted with fairness. But in these animals not only do corresponding tissues, exhibit peculiarities, but entire organs are totally different. The kidney of the frog diverges in so many points of structure from that of the newt, that the two organs could not be mistaken the one for the other, even if examined in the most cursory manner. Each individual tube of the newt's kidney is lined by ciliated epithelium from one end to the other, while that of the frog is so lined only at the neck. The Malpighian bodies of the two animals are different, and we believe that corresponding tissues taken from these organs could be distinguished from one another. It may be answered, 'This very instance is in favour of evolution, for the kidney tube gradually loses its ciliated lining, as we pass from the lower towards the higher batrachian form. In the latter, only the neck of the tube is ciliated, while in animals higher in the scale than the batrachia, the uriniferous tube is perfectly destitute of cilia.' Will the evolutionist be satisfied with this explanation, or will he suggest some other? Again, if we take the skin of the four If close correspondence in minute structure is to be accepted as an argument in Mr. Darwin's favour, he will surely hardly venture to assert that differences in minute structure point to a similar conclusion, though both sets of facts might be ingeniously used in support of this eminently elastic hypothesis. If the supposed correspondence was established, the evolutionist would of course point to the fact in proof of a common parentage; but if, on the other hand, the supposed correspondence should be proved to be a fiction, he might retort triumphantly, 'Only see in what infinitely minute structural particulars the law of variation by natural selection manifests its operation!' How are we to explain the varying form and size of the red blood-corpuscles in different animals which have been so carefully examined and measured by Mr. Gulliver? The corpuscles do not vary according to the size of the animal, nor, unless our views of classification are utterly erroneous, can any constant relation be demonstrated between the size and form of the blood-disks of the creature and its position in the zoological scale. Again, in some cases, the colourless corpuscles are much larger than the coloured ones, while in others the very reverse obtains. Moreover, in many important characters, the blood-corpuscles of animals of the same class differ remarkably. The writer of this article could multiply such facts to a great extent from the observations he has been led to make incidentally, without reference to any hypothesis whatever; but he feels almost sure that, if a series of observations were made, the distinctive characters of corresponding textures taken from closely allied animals would be enormously multiplied. Such minute anatomical investigation will doubtless be instituted, but at present the leaders of scientific thought in this country seem to consider that general observations extending over a wide range of knowledge are preferable. Mr. Darwin even supposes, or, at any rate, leads his readers to infer that he supposes, that the investigation of the structural character of man and animals has been completed, or is nearly completed. It is evident he would have us believe such to be the case, for he says that to take any view of man's origin different from his own is to admit that our own structural characteristic and those of animals are a mere snare laid to entrap our judgment—as if all our tissues and organs had been thoroughly and Mr. Darwin admits in many instances the existence of certain facts which he cannot explain by his hypothesis, and in this difficulty he appeals to our 'belief in the general principle of evolution,' and suggests that, 'unless we wilfully close our eyes,' we must assent to a doctrine which he confesses is not proved by the evidence he has adduced in its support. It is, however, only by wilfully closing our eyes, and very tightly indeed, and for a long period of time, that we can hope to force the understanding to accept a belief in the 'general principles in question.' The differences observed in the minute structure of corresponding tissues in closely allied species ought to have more closely engaged the attention of Mr. Darwin, but he is evidently quite unaware of either their extent or their number. Had he been alive to these, he would scarcely have committed himself so fully, or have left so exposed to attack his argument based on the supposition of close correspondence in structure. Structural variations in detail are indeed infinite, and it is extraordinary that Mr. Darwin's assertion of close correspondence should so long have remained unchallenged. Whatever may ultimately be accepted as the true explanation of the fact, it must be admitted that it does not support Mr. Darwin's hypothesis in its present form. Structural difference in the tissues and organs of allied species are not, however, limited to microscopic characters. There are many broad anatomical distinctions which have never been explained, such as the absence of a part or organ in an animal very closely related to numerous other species, in every one of which not only does it exist, but is largely developed. Such cases may be regarded by the evolutionist as exceptional, and he may invent some new hypothesis to account for them. Such facts may be treated as anomalies, and referred to laws yet to be discovered, upon which correlation of growth depends. By this old method of overcoming a difficulty, facts which really tell against the favourite conclusion are made to appear to tell in its favour; but in science the exception does not prove the rule. It is clear that very much is thought of the argument from agreement in general structure between more recent forms and the ancestral forms from which they are supposed to have descended, for it has been very pointedly referred to by those who support the hypothesis of natural selection. If, however, it is proved on more minute and careful examination that, although there are some points of resemblance between species, which would render plausible the idea of a common parentage, there are also striking differences, which increase in number and importance the more they are sought for, it will be admitted that the force of this argument is much weakened; and although, after making allowance for exaggerated expression, we may admit with Mr. Huxley 'that in every single visible character man differs less from the higher apes than these do from the lower members of the same order of primates,' we are nevertheless compelled by the facts to maintain that there are so very many points in which man differs from every ape, that the argument in favour of close relationship based upon correspondence in structure completely breaks down. In fact, the differences that cannot be accounted for upon the hypothesis are more important and more numerous than the resemblances which it is advanced to explain. Of what worth is an argument resting on the fact of hundreds of representative muscles, tendons, bones, and eminences on bones, in closely allied species, if the very muscles, tendons, and bones themselves exhibit minute and constant structural differences? And if, besides these anatomical differences, we meet with differences as regards the rate of development—differences in the order of development of certain tissues and organs—differences in the structural changes going on after development is complete, what shall we infer? It is all very well to explain the presence of muscular variations in man by the tendency to reversion to an earlier condition of existence, but it is of the utmost importance in the first place to be sure that our evidence justifies us in concluding that particular and exceptional muscles in man representing muscles highly developed in some of the For many years past, naturalists, in their desire to discover the relationship between the many divergent forms of living things, appear to have closed their eyes to the remarkable differences which establish distinct characteristics between very closely allied forms, and which tend to show that the latter are not so closely related as the hypothesis of Darwin concludes. What, for instance, is the explanation of the fact that in no two animals or men are the branches of the arteries or nerves given off from the larger trunks at precisely the same points or in precisely the same manner, and why are variations in the muscles to be detected in each individual subject?—we cannot call them accidental. Will descent account for the hundreds of variations we meet with, as well as for those particular kinds which have been minutely described by Mr. Wood and others, and of which the evolutionists have made so much? Here, as in many other instances, we find inferences based on a very one-sided, if not a very imperfect statement of the facts. In order to account for all the anatomical varieties, it will be necessary again to call in the help of that 'unknown law' which the advocates of natural selection invoke when they find themselves in a difficulty. But we come now to consider whether Mr. Darwin is more correct in his assertion concerning the close correspondence in the chemical composition of the tissues and fluids of the different species, than he is upon the question of minute structure. How is it that we find specific characters in the blood, bile, milk, saliva, gastric juice, urine, and other fluids and secretions of nearly related animals? The blood of the Guinea pig differs in important characteristics from that of the rat, mouse, rabbit, and squirrel. The most important constituent of the blood undergoes crystallization, and the form of the blood crystal is very different in the several members of the rodent class. By some undiscovered law of correlation of growth, perhaps, may be explained the curious fact that the blood-corpuscles of the tailless Guinea pig crystallize very readily in beautiful tetrahedra, while those of another rodent in which the tail is remarkably developed take the form of six-sided plates, and in yet another which possesses only a faint apology for a caudal appendage, we find blood crystals taking the form of the most beautiful rhomboids. The blood of one species will not efficiently nourish the tissues of another; and in cases in which life is temporarily supported by alien blood artificially introduced into the vessels, it is probable that the foreign fluid is gradually destroyed and eliminated, and at last, entirely replaced by blood which is slowly formed anew in the animal's own vessels. Not only does the blood of man differ from that of the lower animals, but the blood of every species of animal differs from that of every other species. But if we submit any of the other fluids mentioned above to careful chemical and physical analysis, we shall find each endowed with special characteristic properties, and distinguished from the rest by well-marked and constant characters; and we have reason to believe that the more minutely such investigation is carried out, the larger will be the number of divergent characters and properties established. Mr. Sorby has lately been examining, by the aid of the spectroscope, many of the colouring matters of the leaves and petals of flowers and plants, and has demonstrated the presence of a large number of new substances which can be most positively distinguished from one another by spectrum analysis. Substances belonging to different plants which appear to the eye of nearly the same tint, often exhibit very different characters when submitted to spectroscopic examination.[65] There seems to be, in fact, no limit to divergence in essential particulars in cases in which the correspondence is only to be found in most general and superficial characters. We will recur for a moment to the question of minute structure as illustrated by plants. If the reader will be at the trouble of placing under his microscope, one after another, the petals of any half-dozen flowers of a red or blue colour, he will soon be able to discover anatomical differences by which each of them could be recognised independently of its colour. Moreover, if he studies the subject with sufficient care, he will find that new structural peculiarities will be demonstrated, of the existence of which he had no idea when the investigation was commenced. Series of facts like those adduced above Although of late much attention has been given to variation, the inheritance of variability, and progressive hereditary changes in the structure of the body, the advocates of evolution have only advanced statements of the most general kind. They have not entered into details; they have not suggested at what particular period in the life of the individual the change in structure occurs. They are silent as to the precise nature of the change, and the several steps by which it is brought about; and they say nothing concerning the characters and properties of the matter, which is the actual seat of the change. It is not sufficient to show us the bone or muscle, the structure of which is modified, and to assure us that the modification in question is due to the law of variability; for the hypothesis deals with the change itself, and we should be informed concerning the phenomenon which are antecedent to the change, and the exact circumstances which determine any particular modification advanced in illustration of the working of the supposed law. Further, it should be definitely determined what degree of change suffices to affect the fully-formed bone and muscle, and whether structural changes occurring at or after the period of full development of the body are inherited or not. The reader is probably aware that Mr. Darwin has invented an hypothesis specially to meet this part of the question—the hypothesis of Pangenesis. But he has recently remarked that it has not yet received its 'death-blow'—an observation which excites a doubt whether its author is not ready to abandon it. This hypothesis was only advanced tentatively from the first. It is incompatible with a number of facts, and appears more and more improbable as the phenomena it comprises are carefully investigated. Many observers well qualified to form a correct judgment felt almost certain from the very first that Pangenesis could not be maintained. Seeing that, at every period of life, matter exists in every part of the body in at least two very different states, in each of which different classes of phenomena occur, Mr. Darwin should have informed us in what particular matter of the body in his opinion the metabolic property probably resided, and he should have explained at what period of life the change which was to result in the production of a new variety or species occurred. He does not, of course, suppose that fully-formed bone, or muscle, or nerve, changes its characters; nor would he maintain that in old age, or indeed long after adult life had been attained, any great alteration of structural form was possible. If, then, it is only in the plastic state during the early period of development that the changes surmised to take place can occur, the author of the hypothesis should either have given more information upon the details, or he should at the least have shown that microscopical observation had yielded no facts adverse to his doctrine; and something surely should have been suggested concerning the nature and origin of the inherent metabolic property, or tendency, or capacity, which is assumed by the terms of the hypothesis. It should, however, be stated here that many evolutionists repudiate entirely the idea of any peculiar property under any circumstances influencing matter in the living state which does not influence it in the non-living condition, for the acceptance of the idea of such property would involve an answer to the inquiry as to the nature and origin of the property assumed, and it would have to be shown when and under what circumstances it was acquired by the matter. The evolutionist believes only in the properties which belong to matter as matter, and which are coexistent with the matter itself. The admission of an inherent property peculiar to the living state of matter, almost amounts to the admission of a vital power; but such an hypothesis, it need scarcely be said, would be incompatible with the doctrine of evolution. But physical evolutionists who persist in attributing all the phenomena of living beings to physical agencies only, ignore the most important changes occurring in every form of living matter. Again and again, they repeat the statement that the changes in living matter are molecular; but this is merely a word which is perfectly meaningless as applied to the changes in question, since the 'molecule' is undefined, has not been described, and is quite unknown. The very same authorities acknowledge that conclusions not based upon evidence cannot advance science, or be looked upon as scientific, and yet, with an inconsistency that is extraordinary, they state with confidence that they understand the nature of these changes. But they have not been able to learn anything of them whatever by experiment, nor can they discover any means of imitating them in matter in the laboratory. The changes in question are quite peculiar to living matter; they occur in all living matter, but in living matter only. These changes Variation itself is quite peculiar, and as far removed from any physical change as is possible to conceive. The extent of variation, and of variations inherited from ancestors, is perfectly marvellous. Such variations are carried out during that plastic period of life when the body consists almost entirely of living matter, and occur in every individual of every species of animal and plant that is known. Each is like its predecessors, but not one is in any part exactly like the corresponding part of any predecessor. No two individuals were ever formed exactly alike in all particulars. Nay, it is doubtful if any two vital actions that have taken place in nature have been perfectly alike in all points. That variation occurs in the plastic matter of the organism, while the formative process is taking place, is a truism, for no two noses or fingers, or other parts, have been seen so much alike as not to be distinguishable from one another; nay, it is not supposable that any two should be found precisely similar. Perfect identity in structures of such complexity is indeed hardly conceivable, unless many facts known in connection with tissue formation are utterly ignored. But, on the other hand, it is equally inconceivable that capacity for variability should be manifested in such a manner and to such an extent as to lead to the production of a proboscis in place of a nose, or of a talon in lieu of a finger. Hence, therefore, we must admit that this capacity works within certain, though at this time not to be accurately defined, limits. When, therefore, Mr. Darwin maintains that similarity of pattern between the flipper of the seal, the wing of the bat, the hand of the man, &c., is due to divergence in structure during gradual descent from a common progenitor, does he not beg the question at issue, and by implication assume an extent of variation far exceeding that which is possible within the period of time which he is disposed to think may have elapsed during which the hundreds or thousands of transitional forms have been slowly progressing towards perfection of type? Undoubtedly, if he could show one or two gradations between the paw of the bear and the flipper of the seal, or between the foot of the mole and the wing of the bat, he would have a powerful argument indeed. But the mind fails to realize the possibility of the transitional forms whose existence is assumed by the hypothesis. A thing half bear and half seal, or half mole and half bat, would be an incongruity which we have no right to assume ever existed in the flesh, if indeed it is not absurd to suppose it possible. If such a creature were born, it would die, and the very law of natural selection supposed to operate in favour of its development would render certain its destruction without offspring. Variation in the living world seems to be indeed infinite, but nevertheless, so to say, restrained within limits. When we come to study variation in any particular species, we marvel at the extraordinary extent of change to be observed without any approach being recognized towards the nearest allied species. The human face may vary, we may say, infinitely, but without in the slightest degree approximating the face of a monkey or any other animal. The animal face and features may vary infinitely within the animal limits without manifesting the slightest approach to the human countenance, or even to that of any other species of animal. Any species of monkey might become modified in many different directions without making any approach to the human form. The ass might change for ages, and yet be something very different from a horse, and so on in other cases. The most degraded savage exhibits no approach to the ape, any more than the most highly developed species of monkey exhibits any nearer approach to man than the very lowest member of its class. There are human variations, monkey variations, ass variations, &c., without end, but there is no evidence of any variations occurring in one species which tend to show that it possesses any intimate relationship with any different species. The facts hitherto discovered, and considered by Mr. Darwin to support the view that we have descended or ascended from monkeys appear to us, therefore, to be very inconclusive and unsatisfactory. We are quite ready to consider patiently every argument that evolutionists can adduce, and if we think the case proved, we are fully prepared to admit it, but when told that we must accept the doctrine, we distrust our would-be teachers. In the suggestion of the alternative, 'accept this hypothesis After all that can be said against evolution has been uttered, there remains the defence that the hypothesis rests upon a vast array of facts—anatomical, physiological, geological—and 'it is scarcely fair,' it may be urged, 'to expect that a generalization which explains so much, should fully account for every slight divergence of structure that can be rendered evident by exquisitely minute and careful investigation.' But surely a view of such wide general application as this is held to be by its supporters ought not to fail when tested by particular facts of general observation. Unfortunately, Mr. Darwin's hypothesis is not adequately supported by the very facts upon which he relies for proof; for out of the multitudes of living beings now existing upon the earth, he cannot select any two species whose differences and resemblances can be fully accounted for by the hypothesis which he holds to be universally applicable, and to account for the origin of every species from the monad to man. What must be the ultimate verdict passed upon a doctrine aspiring to universal application, which seems satisfactory only when vaguely applied, and which utterly fails when tested by the individual particulars that are comprised in the generalities? We may be like the savage, as Mr. Darwin suggests, but we are by no means convinced by the arguments adduced by him that man is the co-descendant, with other mammals, of a common progenitor, nor can we admit that certain structural peculiarities of man's bodily frame are to be looked upon as 'the indelible stamp of his lowly origin.' All naturalists will agree in believing that there is some truth in the doctrine which Mr. Darwin has so thoroughly espoused, but there will be the greatest difference of opinion concerning the acceptance of many of his propositions; while it must be confessed that the more minutely and carefully we analyze the data upon which some of his conclusions rest, the less satisfied are we that they should be relied upon. Indeed, there is reason to think that at least one of his subordinate hypotheses, Pangenesis, will certainly have to be abandoned as untenable. As we have before remarked in this article, neither Mr. Darwin nor those who think with him appear to realize the illimitable possible additions to scientific knowledge, and consequently the continued change in scientific opinion, the abandonment of old hypotheses, and the development of new ones. Never in the history of science have such startling hypotheses been successively advanced as during the last twenty years. Few have stood the test of one quinquennial period, and not one has been retained in its original form. The sentiment, as expressed by Mr. Darwin, 'We are not concerned with hopes or fears, only with the truth,' is a favourite one with scientific men, but the truth has not yet been arrived at. Is scientific truth ever to be reached? The nearer we seem to get to actual scientific truth, the more quickly does it recede from us; and it has happened but too often that when we thought to have grasped it, we find it far away, and that what in youth we thought to be scientific truth, afterwards, but long before we have reached old age, is proved to be scientific error. In conclusion, therefore, we must remark, that while the hypothesis fails in individual cases to which it has been applied, it is incompetent to explain numerous facts known in connection with every particular plant or animal in existence. But, further, the general facts ascertained by careful and more minute investigation into the anatomy and physiology of any two closely allied species, such, for example, as the hare and the rabbit, the rat and the squirrel, the Guinea pig, or the hyla and common frog, are inexplicable upon the doctrine of natural selection, even if the time were extended far beyond the limits which upon other grounds it is not permissible to suppose it to stretch. Nay, the series of changes believed to occur during the formation of species by natural selection cannot be conceived by the imagination, unless multitudes of facts which have been demonstrated and can be confirmed by anyone who will take the trouble to do so are completely ignored. That man is like an ape, bone for bone, muscle for muscle, &c., is only a flourish of rhetoric unworthy of anyone who professes himself to be an observer of nature. The remarks which have been made in respect to animals apply with marvellously greater force to man himself, for no matter Art. VIII.—The Session. The wearisome assertion that the last session of Parliament has been a 'barren' one, has become a sort of political axiom among a large section of the community. Writers and speakers innumerable assume it as a self-evident fact, which no sane person would dream of disputing. It is, nevertheless, our serious intention to dispute it, and, moreover, to prove that the session, so far from being utterly barren, has produced a legislative harvest of more than average fruitfulness. Putting aside the last two sessions, and that which witnessed the triumph of free trade, we have no hesitation in saying that no session since the first Reform Bill has produced so many measures of equal importance as the last session. It would not be difficult to point to session after session during that period which, for any good the country has derived from their labours, might as well have never been. But no one can say that with truth of the session that has just gone by. On the contrary, we believe that it will be regarded a few years hence as one of the most important sessions of this century. To those who choose to echo an unreasoning cry, rather than take the trouble to think for themselves, this will, no doubt, appear a wild assertion. But what are the facts? The present Parliament was elected chiefly for the purpose of settling the Irish question, and the sessions of 1869–1870 were devoted almost exclusively to the affairs of Ireland. The Irish Church Bill and the Land Bill, however, having been settled, there seemed to be a kind of general understanding that the session of 1871 should be given up to the consideration of English, or at least imperial interests. Ireland accordingly hardly occupied any place in the programme of the session. And yet, in the very region where it was expected, as a matter of course, to be peculiarly barren, the session of 1871 has borne a crop of goodly fruit. Let us glance at a few of the Irish measures of the session. 'It is the very ancient privilege of the people of England,' says Edmund Burke, 'that they shall be tried, except in the known exceptions, not by the judges appointed by the Crown, but by their own fellow-subjects.' Trial by jury has probably exercised more influence than any other institution in moulding our national character, and in impressing on it especially that inborn reverence for law which has become proverbial. But with that singular perverseness which has characterized all our dealings with Ireland for centuries, we not only imposed our own institutions on that unhappy country, but we imposed them shorn of all that which made them precious to Englishmen. This is true in an aggravated sense of trial by jury. The very essence of trial by jury is, as Burke has observed, that the accused 'shall be tried, not by the judges appointed by the Crown, but by his own fellow-subjects.' But how did we carry out this principle in Ireland, in the case of political prisoners in particular? By simply ignoring it. We retained the name and the forms of trial by jury, but we so perverted its intention and spirit, that what Englishmen regard as the palladium of their liberty became in Ireland the symbol of every species of injustice and wrong. When it was an object with the authorities of Dublin Castle to secure the conviction of a prisoner, they never hesitated to pack the jury that tried him. Names which ought to have been on the panel were systematically and arbitrarily excluded, and the jury-box was filled with men of whom it might have been predicted with tolerable certainty beforehand that they would bring in a verdict of guilty. Let us illustrate our argument by a typical example. In 1844, the Government of the day succeeded in getting a verdict of guilty against Mr. O'Connell, a man of whom Macaulay has declared 'And then came the striking. You struck out all the Roman Catholic names; and you give us your reasons for striking out these names, reasons which I do not think it worth while to examine. The real question which you should have considered was this: Can a great issue between two hostile religions—for such the issue was—be tried in a manner above all suspicion by a jury composed exclusively of men of one of those religions? I know that in striking out the Roman Catholics you did nothing that was not according to technical rules. But my great charge against you is that you have looked on this whole case in a technical point of view, that you have been attorneys when you should have been statesmen. The letter of the law was doubtless with you; but not the noble spirit of the law. The jury de medietate linguÆ is of immemorial antiquity among us. Suppose that a Dutch sailor at Wapping is accused of stabbing an Englishman in a brawl. The fate of the culprit is decided by a mixed body of six Englishmen and six Dutchmen. Such were the securities which the wisdom and justice of our ancestors gave to aliens. You are ready enough to call Mr. O'Connell an alien, when it serves your purposes to do so. You are ready enough to inflict on the Irish Roman Catholics all the evils of alienage, but the one privilege, the one advantage of alienage, you deny him. In a case which of all cases most required a jury de medietate, in a case which sprang out of the mutual hostility of races and sects, you pack a jury all of one race and all of one sect.... Yes, you have obtained a verdict of Guilty; but you have obtained that verdict from twelve men brought together by illegal means, and selected in such a manner that their decision can inspire no confidence.'—(Macaulay's Speeches, p. 314.) Now let it be observed that this system, which treated the Roman Catholics of Ireland as aliens in their own country, and at the same time denied them the rights and privileges of aliens, has been in force up to this year. And yet many on this side of the Channel are innocently surprised that the Irish people have no great reverence for English law, and no great love for British institutions; and so they rashly conclude that the only way to govern such a lawless race is by the strong arm of power. But the simple fact is, that the Irish from time immemorial have been remarkable for their love of justice. To this fact their bitterest enemies bear witness. In that category may certainly be reckoned Sir John Davys, Irish Attorney-General under James I.; yet this is the testimony which he bears:—'There is no nation of people under the sun that doth love equal and indifferent justice better than the Irish, or will rest better satisfied with the execution thereof, although it be against themselves, so as they may have the benefit and protection of the law when upon just cause they do desire it.' 'The truth is,' he adds, 'that in time of peace the Irish are more fearful to offend the law than the English, or any other nation whatsoever.' That simple expression, 'in time of peace,' explains the whole matter. English law has unfortunately too often presented itself to the people of Ireland as a cruel enemy, against which it was a duty and a necessity to wage a chronic warfare; and it is no great marvel if they take some time to learn that their enemy of yesterday has suddenly become their friend. We have no faith in sudden political conversions, especially in the case of nations; and we do not despair of Mr. Gladstone's legislation for Ireland, because we find that its healing properties are percolating but slowly through the crust of inevitable prejudice which it had to encounter. We must persevere in the good work, and Mr. Gladstone has shown his earnestness in the ungrateful task of conciliating Ireland by passing last session several measures of great importance to the welfare of that country. Chief and foremost among them is the Juries (Ireland) Bill. It is an elaborate piece of remedial legislation, though it passed through Parliament without exciting attention, and it cannot fail to produce an excellent effect in Ireland, as its character becomes gradually known. It will no longer be possible for the most violent partisan to pack a jury in Ireland, and we may reasonably trust that in process of time Irishmen will learn to appeal to English justice with a confidence to which they have been so long strangers. Another Irish measure of great importance which received the sanction of the Legislature So much for the work of the Government in the field of Irish legislation. Let us now turn to its tale of successful measures in matters of English and imperial policy. The Army Bill demands, of course, the first and chief place in our review; and we must remark, in limine, on the singular ill-luck which overtook the Government in introducing it. During the autumn and winter of last year, the country very generally, and even passionately, demanded a large scheme of army reorganization. Radicals and Conservatives differed, no doubt, in their views of what was desirable in a good scheme of army reform. The latter wished merely to supplement and improve the existing system, which they considered as near perfection as could reasonably be expected. The former were not quite agreed among themselves. Some had a hankering after the Prussian system, and some preferred the Swiss. But Conservatives, Whigs, and Liberals were all agreed on one point, namely, that Mr. Cardwell's scheme ought to be a large and comprehensive one, and that a large and comprehensive scheme involved expense. The Conservatives wished that expense to go towards the enlargement and perfecting of the old system. On the other hand, the Liberals, as a body, demanded the abolition of the purchase system, and the development of a new system in its place. But all admitted the necessity of a considerable expenditure, and there was a general acquiescence throughout the country in the prospect of an increased income-tax. Meanwhile Bourbaki made his fatal march to the frontier, Chanzy's army was defeated and scattered, and Paris was obliged to capitulate. The preliminaries of peace were agreed upon soon afterwards, and the Eastern question, which Prince Gortschakoff had reopened in so insolent a manner, was in a fair way to a pacific solution. The return of calm after so violent a storm in the political firmament soon began to tell on English nerves; the panic which prompted, during the bewildering achievements of the German armies, the cry for an efficient scheme of army reform subsided by degrees as the danger of war receded from our shores, and even 'The Battle of Dorking' failed to impress the British taxpayer with any fear of an imminent invasion. The consequence was, that by the time Mr. Cardwell laid his scheme before Parliament, the enthusiasm for army reorganization had cooled down to the temperate, and among some philosophical Radicals, even to the frigid zone. The Such are the circumstances under which the Government introduced their Army Bill. But it is impossible to appreciate the importance of that bill, or to understand the virulence of the opposition which it encountered, without glancing at the evil which it sought to remedy. When the Government resolved to ask the assent of Parliament to a large scheme of army reform, they found themselves hampered and fettered on all sides by the purchase system. The army was enclosed in a network of vested interests which it was found impossible to break through for the purpose of effecting even so slight a reform as the abolition of the ranks of ensign and cornet. It had, in fact, ceased to be the property of the nation, and was no longer under the control of the sovereign. It had become mortgaged to the officers, and it was absolutely necessary to get it out of pawn before it could be effectually dealt with. In short, the purchase system must cease to exist, or all ideas of army reorganization must be abandoned. Does anyone think this too strong a statement of the case? Let him consider the history of the purchase system, and he will think so no longer. We have been told ad nauseam that the purchase system has been the mainstay of the British army. The bravery of our officers, their well-bred manners, their discipline, even their patriotism and loyalty, have all been ascribed to the magic of the purchase system, and so has the esprit de corps of the men. Now it seems to us that there is a hitch in this style of reasoning, inasmuch as it implies that the things which happen to exist together are necessarily related to each other as cause and effect. The officers of the British army may be all that their admirers declare them to be,—on that point we shall have something to say presently—but it by no means follows that the purchase system is the cause of their excellence. Nearly all the merits which are claimed for the purchase system were conspicuous in the German army in the last war; yet the purchase system is unknown in the German army, and, in fact, in every army in the civilized world, England alone excepted. Nor, indeed, does it embrace the whole of the English army. The navy and the marines, the artillery and the engineers know it not. Its advocates are therefore forced to this dilemma: they must deny to the navy and to the non-purchase corps of the army all those qualities which they claim as resulting from the purchase system, or they are bound to admit that those qualities are independent 'His Majesty has, by the advice of his board of general officers, been further pleased to declare his determination that any officer who shall be found to have given, or to have stipulated, or promised, directly or indirectly, to give anything beyond the regulated price, in disobedience to these his Majesty's orders, or by any subterfuge or equivocation to have evaded the same, and to have thereby shamefully forfeited his honour as an officer and a gentleman, shall be dismissed from his Majesty's service.' Still the evil went on. Officers found means of evading the law and escaping punishment, apparently without any prejudice to their honour as officers and gentlemen in the eyes of the profession. Three years later, therefore, that is, in 1786, another attempt was made to compel British officers to keep their solemn and plighted word of honour; for it came to that. A circular letter was addressed by the Secretary of War to colonels of regiments, forbidding officers about to retire to make any stipulation as to their successors, and insisting that they should sell out or exchange 'in favour of such persons as his Majesty should think fit In 1804, two circulars were issued by the Commander-in-Chief, one addressed to army agents against the secret traffic in respect to commissions, carried on with officers of the army; the other to commanding officers of regiments, giving them precise directions, which were to be strictly observed, in the purchase and sale of all commissions. This paper states that 'his Majesty's regulations in regard to the sums to be given and received for commissions in the army,' had 'in various instances been disregarded.' The previous orders on the subject are therefore repeated, and then 'the Commander-in-Chief thinks proper to declare that any officer who shall be found to have given, directly or indirectly, anything beyond the regulated prices, in disobedience to his Majesty's orders, or to have attempted to evade the regulations in any manner whatever, will be reported by the Commander-in-Chief to his Majesty, in order that he may be removed from the service.' Up to this time, and for three years more, the prohibition of payments in excess of the regulation price rested entirely on royal warrants and regulations. In 1807, however, a clause was inserted in the Mutiny Act, making it a misdemeanor for any agents to traffic in the sale of commissions, since 'great inconvenience had arisen to his Majesty's service,' from the fact that 'much larger sums than are allowed by his Majesty's regulations are often given and received for commissions, and great frauds committed.' This is the first Parliamentary condemnation of over-regulation prices, and it will be observed that the enactment applies to army agents only; officers are not included. But in the year 1809, an Act was passed for the 'Further Prevention of the Sale and Brokerage of Offices,' and in that Act Parliamentary sanction is given for the first time to the various prohibitions of over-regulation prices by royal warrant. Not only was an officer to be immediately cashiered who paid, received, or connived at the payment of over-regulation prices, but further, 'as an encouragement for the detection of such practices, such commission so forfeited shall be sold, and half the regulated value (not exceeding £500) shall be paid to the informer.' It is not necessary to follow the various alterations which the Mutiny Act underwent in 1815–1829, for they are of no great importance. But it is time that we should take stock of our inquiry thus far, and endeavour to gauge the influence of the purchase system on the character of the officers affected by it, as attested by competent witnesses. It is obvious that up to the period at which we have now arrived, that is, up to the year 1829, the payment of over-regulation prices was found to be practically inseparable from the purchase system. Nothing could have been done to stop it which was not done, except the detection and condign punishment of the offenders. The Sovereign, the Commander-in-Chief, the War Secretary, and Parliament, all set their faces against the illegal traffic, and fulminated threats and penal enactments against it; but all their efforts proved unavailing, because there was an evident conspiracy among the general body of officers to defeat the law, and, it is sad to add, to dishonour their own word. For let it be remembered that the officer who sold, and the officer who bought, and the commanding officer of the regiment in which the transaction took place, were all required 'solemnly to declare,' and did 'solemnly declare on the word and honour of an officer and a gentleman,' that, 'neither directly nor indirectly,' had anything been paid or stipulated for beyond the regulated price. And yet it was notorious that officers were constantly in the habit of evading all their engagements 'by subterfuge or equivocation,' and were thereby habitually violating their plighted word, or, to quote again the language of the royal warrant, 'had thereby shamefully forfeited their honour as officers and gentlemen.' Now, we should be inclined to say, À priori, that a system which encouraged and enabled officers in the army to 'shamefully forfeit their honour as officers and gentlemen,' could not fail to have a vicious and demoralizing influence, not only on their professional character as officers, but on their whole ???? as men. The Duke of Wellington has often been quoted in recent debates as having said that he had an army 'which could go anywhere and do anything.' No doubt the Duke of Wellington succeeded, by dint of hard fighting, and the rare qualities which he possessed as a commander, to manufacture such an army out of the materials that came to his hand; but that was by no means the kind of army which the purchase system gave him. On the contrary, he was continually complaining, up to Waterloo, of the ignorance, the stupidity, the insubordination, and, in short, the general inefficiency of his officers. He could trust them in nothing, he said; for they either could not understand and execute his commands, or they deliberately disobeyed them. And in some cases he found them shirking their duties, and asking permission to return 'I certainly feel every day more and more the difficulty of the situation in which I am placed. I am obliged to be everywhere, and if absent from any operation something goes wrong. It is to be hoped that the general and other officers of the army will at last acquire that experience which will teach them that success can be attained only by attention to the most minute details, and by tracing every part of every operation from its origin to its conclusion, point by point, and ascertaining that the whole is understood by those who are to execute it.' In another letter to the Earl of Liverpool, dated July 20, 1811, he recommends 'the adoption of the rule which I have made in respect to staff appointments attached to the British army, viz., that those who hold them shall receive no emolument on account of them if absent from their duty on account of their health for a greater length of time than two months, unless their absence should have been occasioned by wounds.' He thinks that this rule will probably be considered harsh, but he insists on it as necessary, on account of 'the abuse of sick certificates.' In a letter dated 29th September, 1811, and also addressed to the Earl of Liverpool, he uses the following strong language:— 'I must also observe that British officers require to be kept in order, as well as the soldiers under their command, particularly in a foreign service. The experience which I have had of their conduct in the Portuguese service has shown me that there must be an authority, and that a strong one, to keep them within due bounds; otherwise they would only disgust the soldiers over whom they should be placed, the officers whom they should be destined to assist, and the country in whose service they should be employed.' Again:— 'The ignorance of their duty of the officers of the army who are every day arriving in this country, and the general inattention and disobedience to orders by many of those who have been long here, increase the details of the duty to such an extent as to render it almost impracticable to carry it on; and owing to this disobedience and neglect, I can depend upon nothing, however well regulated and ordered.'—Letter to Lieut.-General Hill, Oct. 13, 1811. At Freneda, on the 19th of February, 1813, he issued the following general order:— 'The commander of the forces is concerned to be obliged to notice such repeated disobedience to orders on every subject. It might have been expected that in a case in which the convenience of the officers themselves was the object of the orders issued, they would have been obeyed; but the general officers and commanding officers of regiments may depend upon it that until they enforce obedience to every order, and see that the officers under them understand and recollect what is ordered, those subjects of complaint must exist.' The following letter shows what the Duke meant when he said that he had an army that would 'go anywhere and do anything.' In the rank and file he had splendid material, but here is his description of the kind of officers which the purchase system gave him:— 'I have received your letter of the 5th, and I am sorry that I cannot recommend —— for promotion, because I have had him in arrest since the battle for disobeying an order given to him by me verbally. The fact is, that if discipline means habits of obedience to orders, as well as military instruction, we have but little of it in the army. Nobody ever thinks of obeying an order; and all the regulations of the Horse Guards, as well as of the War Office, and all the orders of the army applicable to this peculiar service, are so much waste paper. It is, however, an unrivalled army for fighting, if the soldiers can only be kept in their ranks during the battle; but it wants some of those qualities which are indispensable to enable a general to bring them into the field in the order in which an army ought to be to meet an enemy, or to take all the advantage to be derived from a victory; and the cause of these defects is the want of habits of obedience and attention to orders by the inferior officers; and indeed, I might add, by all. They never attend to an order with an intention to obey it, or sufficiently to understand it, be it ever so clear, and therefore never obey it when obedience becomes troublesome, or difficult, or important.'—Letter to Colonel Torrens, dated July 18, 1813. Two more extracts from the Duke of Wellington's correspondence must suffice for this part of our survey:— 'I really believe that, with the exception of my old Spanish infantry, I have got not only the worst troops, but the worst equipped army, with the worst staff, that was ever brought together.'—Letter to Earl Bathurst, dated June 25, 1815. In the same letter he goes on to complain of an officer who 'knows no more of his business than a child, and I am obliged to do it for him; and, after all, I cannot get him to do what I order him.' 'Our officer is a gentleman.... Indeed, we carry this principle of the gentleman, and the objection of intercourse with those under his command, so far, as that, in my opinion, the duty of a subaltern officer, as done in a foreign army, is not done at all in the cavalry or the British infantry of the line. It is done in the Guards by the sergeants. Then our gentleman-officer, however admirable his conduct in the field, however honourable to himself, however glorious and advantageous to his country, is but a poor creature in disciplining his company, in camp, quarters or cantonments.'—Letter of Duke of Wellington, dated April 22, 1829. Our inquiry has now led us to this result. The purchase system and the abuse of over-regulation prices have been found to be so bound up together that all efforts to destroy the one while retaining the other have always ended in the most signal failure; and the demoralizing influence of the whole system was such that the officers of the British army were in the habit of 'shamefully forfeiting their honour as officers and gentlemen,' and were utterly incompetent, the Duke of Wellington being witness, to fill the most ordinary duties of their profession. In none of the extracts, however, which we have quoted from the Duke of Wellington's published despatches does he directly attribute the evils of which he complains to the purchase system, with its inseparable concomitant, the payment of over-regulation prices. His mind was too much occupied with the daily labour of correcting the faults of his officers to find time to analyze the causes of which those faults were the natural offspring. Here and there, however, we find indications that the inefficiency of his officers and the system of purchase were in his mind intimately connected. This, at all events, is the sense in which we read the following extract from a letter to the Commissary-in-Chief, dated November 6, 1810:— 'I may be wrong, but I have objections to all those rules which prevent the promotion of officers of merit. It is the abuse of the unlimited power of promotion which ought to be prevented; but the power itself ought not to be taken, by regulation, from the Crown, or from those who do the business of the Crown. By these regulations we are undermining as fast as possible the efficiency of the Government. There is no power anywhere of rewarding extraordinary services or extraordinary merit; and, under circumstances which require unwearied attention in every branch and department of our military system, we appear to be framing regulations to prevent ourselves from commanding it by the only stimulus—the honourable reward of merit.' It is plain that this criticism strikes at the very root and essence of the purchase system; nor is it the only criticism of the kind that the Duke of Wellington has left on record. In March, 1824, the Commander-in-Chief, the Duke of York, submitted to the Duke of Wellington, then Master of the Ordnance, three plans of military reform which he had in contemplation. Those plans, unfortunately, are not given, but we gather from the correspondence between the Duke and Major-General Sir Herbert Taylor, that it was proposed, among other things, 'to stop all regimental promotion by purchase, and on the retirement of an officer the successor to be selected by the Commander-in-Chief from the general mass.' It is impossible, without having the whole correspondence before us, clearly to make out what the Duke's views were on this point; but it is obvious that this part of the scheme is in the fullest accord with the opinions expressed by him in the passage last quoted; and we may therefore presume that, if he could have seen his way to any fair and practicable plan for abolishing purchase, he would have given it his support. But, however that may be, one thing is beyond all doubt—the Duke of Wellington condemned absolutely and peremptorily the payment of over-regulation prices. Witness the following passage in his letter to Sir Herbert Taylor, dated 'London, 17th March, 1824:'— 'I would forbid any brokers to interfere, and would declare the determination of the Commander-in-Chief to recommend to his Majesty to cancel the grant of any commission granted in consequence of any negotiation with them. I would likewise recommend to his Royal Highness to declare to the army his determination to recommend to his Majesty to cancel any commission granted for which it shall appear that the officer appointed to it has paid more than the regulated price, and to dismiss from his Majesty's service any colonel or commanding officer of a regiment who may appear to have forwarded or recommended such appointment, knowing that more than the regulated price had been, or was to be, paid for it.' 'I am afraid,' he adds despondingly, 'that much of what I above proposed is difficult to carry into execution, and, as I have above stated, it may be impossible to prevent the evil altogether.' In his reply, Sir Herbert Taylor reminded the Duke that the payment of over-regulation prices was already forbidden by Act of Parliament, and that the prohibition was sanctioned by the imposition of penalties which were, in fact, severer than those suggested by the Duke. 'But in We have now arrived at the year 1824. Up to that time the regulation was still in force which obliged every officer who was in any way concerned in any step of regimental promotion to declare on his solemn word of honour as an officer and a gentleman that he was not, directly or indirectly, privy to any payment made or stipulated for beyond the regulation price. But this pledge was deliberately and systematically violated. 'Upon this point,' says the Duke of Wellington, in the letter to Sir Herbert Taylor already quoted, 'I believe we are all agreed, as likewise that the certificate upon honour is useless; that it is commonly signed whether the contents are known to be true or known to be otherwise, and that on this ground alone it ought to be discontinued.' Now let the reader just pause for a moment, and consider what this implies. It means that the officer who retired, the officer who succeeded him, and the commanding officer of the regiment in which the transaction took place, all pledged their word and honour as officers and gentlemen to a declaration which they knew to be a lie. Nor were they a small minority who so acted—a minority looked down upon by the general body of their brother officers as men who had disgraced themselves. On the contrary, this practice of dishonouring their plighted word was all but universal wherever the system of purchase prevailed. At the very time when the Duke of Wellington was bringing this serious indictment against the truthfulness and honour of British officers, there was a debate going on in the House of Commons on the Mutiny Act; and it was proposed to abolish the certificate upon honour, on the ground that there was 'scarcely one case in ten in which officers received their commissions at the regulated price.' 'Scarcely one case in ten' in which British officers did not violate their word of honour and subscribe their names to a lie! And to perpetuate a system which produced this result, some two hundred gentlemen in the House of Commons and a majority in the House of Lords had recourse this session to tactics which, but for the resolution of the Premier, would have wasted the best part of the session, and brought an amount of discredit on Parliament from which it might have found it hard to recover. But more of that anon. In pity to the frail virtue of the British officer, the certificate upon honour was abolished in April, 1824, and has not since been revived. But the illegality of over-regulation prices was at the same time reaffirmed, and the same penalties, which had proved so unavailing, were reiterated. This is briefly, but substantially, the history of the question up to this year. 'The result of our inquiry,' says the Royal Commission of 1870, 'is that the payment and the receipt by officers of the army of any sum in excess of the regulated price for the purchase, sale, or exchange of commissions is expressly prohibited by the Act of 49 Geo. III. c. 126.' Indeed, it was impossible that the commissioners could have come to any other conclusion. The facts are too plain to admit of more than one interpretation; and, moreover, the courts of justice had already ruled the point. In a case that came before him in 1855, the Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer decided that an undertaking by an officer to give up his commission in a regiment in consideration of a sum of money promised him beyond the regulated price, was an illegal transaction, and brought the parties concerned within the provisions and penalties of the Act of 49 Geo. III. c. 126. This construction of the Act was confirmed, in 1862, by the Court of Common Pleas. Yet this illegal practice has lived and thrived up to this very year, in spite of all the attempts made at various times to put it down. 'We have no reason to doubt,' says the Report of the Royal Commission of 1870, 'that it prevailed from the time when the prices of commissions were first fixed in the year 1719–20;' and 'experience has shown that the most explicit prohibitions and the most stringent regulations have utterly failed to prevent or even check the practice.' Is there need of further evidence to prove that it was impossible to destroy the illegal and degrading practice of over-regulation prices without the entire abolition of the purchase system? We have seen how completely the officers reared under the purchase system failed in all the requirements of their profession during the Peninsular War. Is there any reason to believe that the same class of officers would come scathless out of a similar ordeal now? Doubtless, the officers of the British army have participated in the general advancement of society in knowledge and in other respects during the last fifty years. But has their improvement been in anything like the same ratio as that visible in other professions? We seriously doubt 'These mistakes (which he had just mentioned) consist in officers giving the wrong words of command, and being unable to execute necessary, and often the simplest movements. Some officers of long standing, and even commanding officers, are ignorant of the simple but important detail, the difference between a change of front and a change of position.... Movements are learnt by rote for the occasion.... Hence, at my inspections, in India as well as in Ireland, of regiments, when I have asked officers the object of evolutions in the book, or called on them to perform simple strategical movements adapted to them, I have found that they are ignorant of their use or the advantage to be derived from them in operations.... As officers are uninstructed in the first principles of practical or field operations and movements, they are equally in the dark as to those of a higher order, or which are connected with ground.... The whole course of my evidence goes to prove that, owing to a mistaken system of education and training, and want of reward for merit, the absence of proper qualifications, of course with exceptions, exists in all grades, including that of commanding officers.' These opinions do not greatly differ from those which the Duke of Wellington expressed in Spain sixty years ago, and we believe that they would be confirmed by every competent authority; indeed, they are abundantly confirmed in the voluminous Blue Book from which we have extracted them. Now, this professional ignorance is a much more serious matter in our time than it was when the Duke of Wellington was fighting against the armies of Napoleon; for in the scientific mastery of his profession the British officer of that day was probably not far behind the officers against whom he was pitted. On both sides the art of war was learnt, for the most part, in the field, and under the tuition of the two great captains of the age. There is very little doubt that, but for the genius of Wellington, the Peninsular campaign would have ended, as far as the British army was concerned, in disaster and ignominy. But the conditions of warfare have been greatly changed since then. Arms of precision, and other improvements in the mechanics of war, have an increasing tendency to diminish the value of individual dash and pluck, and to exalt in a relative proportion the importance of professional skill. The most admirable combinations on the part of a general may now, much more easily than heretofore, be defeated by the bungling of a subordinate. The intelligence and precision with which superior orders were executed by the youngest subalterns in the German army during the late war was a theme of general admiration; and is it not clear that an army equal to the German in all other respects, but inferior to it in this all-important point, must have been inevitably worsted? But subalterns are the raw material out of which generals are made, and it stands to reason, taking human nature as it is, that when you take from men the ordinary incentives to exertion, they are not likely to arrive at any high degree of excellence in their calling. A system which promotes the indolent rich dullard over the industrious poor man of brains, is sure to damp the energies of both: of the one because his money enables him to obtain without labour what he covets; of the other, because he knows that, without money, industry and brains are of no avail. The Duke of Cambridge, in his evidence before the Royal Commission of 1870, stated, as the result of his experience, that rich young men, having fewer motives for exertion than others, would not take the trouble to excel in their profession. But rich young men are precisely the class of officers who are cherished by the purchase system—men who join the army for a few years as a fashionable pastime, but who have never had any serious intention to make the profession of arms the business of their life. It is notorious, on the other hand, that the purchase system keeps in subordinate ranks many men who have genius to command armies. Now and then they come to the surface in the general sifting which real war occasions, but only after much mischief has meanwhile been done by the incapacity of those whom the accident of having a heavier purse had placed over their heads. The Indian Mutiny discovered the talents of Sir Henry Havelock, who had been purchased over so often that he was constrained to speak thus of himself in his fifty-sixth year:—'The honour of an old soldier on the point of having his juniors put over him is so sensitive that, if I had no family to support, and the right of choice in my own hands, I would not serve one hour longer.' Lord Clyde, in his evidence before the Commission of 1856, says:—'I have known very many estimable men, having higher qualities Where, indeed, can we find a stronger argument against the purchase system than in the Crimean war itself? The gallantry and endurance of men and officers alike were beyond all praise. But when that admission has been made, what else can be said with truth in praise of that campaign? Was it not, all through, one dreary series of military blunders and general mismanagement unrelieved by one single ray of military genius engendered by the purchase system? A French General is said to have characterized the British troops at Inkerman as 'an army of lions led by asses.' Whether the epigram was really uttered by the General in question, or was one of the inventions of the British camp, it certainly expressed a very general feeling both at home and in the Crimean army. Another objection to the purchase system is, that it sets a premium on cowardice. According to a return furnished by Messrs. Cox and Co., who are agents for twenty-one regiments of cavalry, and one hundred and twelve battalions of infantry, exclusive of the household cavalry and brigade of Guards, the following is a correct statement of the regulation prices and over-regulation prices of commissions in the cavalry regiments for which they are agents:—
It appears from this statement that the average over-regulation price paid in the cavalry is more than double the present regulation price. In the infantry of the line the over-regulation price is not so high as this, but it is nevertheless considerable; and the upshot of the whole matter is that, according to the estimate furnished from Messrs. Cox's office, the sum of £3,577,325 is at this moment invested by officers in their commissions over and above the regulation price. In other words, the army, as we have already observed, is mortgaged to the officers by a long-established system of illegal traffic; and no reform was possible till that system was destroyed root and branch. But our immediate object is to show that the system really puts a premium on cowardice, or, at least, on a dereliction of patriotism. Let us take the case of the colonel who has paid upwards of £10,000 for his commission, and let us suppose him to have a family, but to have no private fortune. A war breaks out, and he is ordered on foreign service. He dies from one of the numerous causes—other than wounds which are incident to a soldier's life in a campaign—and the consequence is that his investment of £10,475 is lost for ever to his family. The only exception to this hard fate is the case of an officer killed in action, or dying within six months of wounds received in the face of the enemy. And even in that case the hardship is only mitigated, not redressed; for the families of such officers are not allowed to receive more than the value of the regulation price of the commission. We thus see that at the very moment when the officer's mind ought to be most free from all disturbing influences, it is, in reality, likely to be distracted between two conflicting duties: the duty of making provision for his family on the one hand, and the duty of sacrificing his life, if need be, for his Queen and country on the other. Nor is death in the fulfilment of his duty the only event which involves the forfeiture of the money paid by an officer in excess of the over-regulation price. He may be dismissed from the service or may receive a hint to retire quietly on condition of being permitted to sell his commission. In either case he loses the value of his over-regulation investment. The same thing happens in the case of an officer promoted to the rank of a major-general on the fixed establishment. He cannot recover any portion of what he has paid for his commissions. Other illustrations might be given, such as the case of officers placed on temporary half-pay in consequence of a reduction in the establishment; but enough has surely been said to show the utterly indefensible character of the purchase system, and to prove that no efficient scheme of army reorganization was possible till the system was swept clean away. Our main purpose, however, has not been to demonstrate the irretrievable badness of the purchase system, but to draw the attention of our readers to the astounding fact that, for the sake of perpetuating this rotten system, an organized attempt, almost unparalleled in the annals of Parliament, was made by an Opposition in a hopeless minority, But by-and-bye Mr. Lowe produced his unpopular and unstatesmanlike budget, and Mr. Disraeli saw his opportunity. In the middle of March he ventured to ridicule the purchase system as 'Very much belonging to the same class of questions as a marriage with a deceased wife's sister. Each side is convinced that their solution is the only one absolutely necessary for the welfare of society; while calmer minds, who do not take so extreme an interest in the subject, are of opinion that, whatever way it may be decided, it is possible that affairs may go on much the same.' Two or three weeks later, when Mr. Disraeli wanted to rally the colonels around him in his attack on the Government, he suddenly turned round and defended purchase with the zeal of a fanatic. And then began, under the sanction of the Opposition leader, that series of Fabian tactics which wasted so much of the session, and which, if not opposed to the letter of parliamentary usage, were certainly at variance with its spirit. It has hitherto been understood that the principle of a bill is affirmed on its second reading. Now the cardinal principle of Mr. Cardwell's bill was the abolition of purchase in the army, and it was affirmed by the House of Commons without a division. Yet the question of purchase was fought again, fiercely, over every clause, almost over every word of the bill in its passage through committee. When one amendment was disposed of, it suddenly appeared again in another shape by some ingenious abuse of the forms of the House. At last, however, the Bill left the House of Commons, and was presented to the House of Lords in the middle of July. There it was met, on the part of the Opposition, by the following amendment:— 'That this House is unwilling to assent to a second reading of this bill until it has laid before it, either by her Majesty's Government, or through the medium of an inquiry and report of a Royal Commission, a complete and comprehensive scheme for the first appointment, promotion, and retirement of officers; for the amalgamation of the regular and auxiliary land forces; and for securing the other changes necessary to place the military system of the country on a sound and efficient basis.'[67] Either the amendment was insincere on the face of it, or it betrayed the most culpable ignorance. Lord Northbrook had, in fact, anticipated it in a speech of remarkable ability, in which he showed that the Duke of Richmond's amendment was simply inept. For the scheme of the Government fulfilled all the conditions required by the amendment, except in the matter of retirement; and that was one of those details which could not have been put into a bill beforehand, but must be dealt with in the light and under the guidance of experience. The bill was supposed to have been so mutilated in its passage through the House of Commons, that nothing remained of it except the naked proposal to abolish purchase. But the plain fact was, as Lord Northbrook pointed out, that the provisions which had been dropped did not affect the bill vitally, or even materially. One was an extension of the Enlistment Act—a matter of no importance; another related to the ballot for the militia—also of no immediate importance; and the third of the abandoned provisions was that which empowered counties to raise money for supplying militia barracks. In all other respects the bill reached the House of Lords in the shape in which it had been introduced in the House of Commons, and the proposal to postpone the consideration of it till more information was furnished was obviously nothing more than a device for saving the purchase system, with all its evil and all its scandal, for at least another year. The amendment was carried, however, by a majority of twenty-five. The Government was thus placed in a most awkward dilemma. They had the choice, on the one hand, of accepting the But, whether just or not, the plain truth is that the House of Commons would not have sanctioned a second time the payment of over-regulation prices. In the interest of the officers themselves, therefore, in the interest of the House of Lords also, but, most of all, in the interest of the army and of the nation, the Government was bound to avail itself of any legal means which might enable it to prevent the mischief that could not fail to follow from the rash vote of the House of Lords. Ministers accordingly advised the Queen to abolish purchase by royal warrant, which was at once done. This has been called a coup d'État, and a display of 'high-handed despotism.' But no one whose opinion is worth anything has ventured to question the legality of the act. Sir Roundell Palmer, whose absence from the House of Commons at the time was supposed to indicate his disapproval, has given the high sanction of his authority, not only to the legality, but to the advisability, under the circumstances, of what the Ministry had done. But though the legality of the act has not been disputed, a chorus of voices in and out of Parliament have pronounced it 'unconstitutional.' It is not easy to see the distinction. An unconstitutional act we take to mean an act perpetrated in violation of the constitution. But what part of the constitution has been infringed, either in letter or in spirit, by the exercise of the royal warrant in the abolition of purchase in the army? The purchase system was created by royal warrant, nor has it ever rested on any other sanction. Constitutionally and legally, therefore, all that was required for its abolition was merely the withdrawal of the warrant which gave it existence; and that is precisely what has been done. Constitutional or legal objection there is none that can bear a moment's examination, and the whole matter resolves itself into a question of expediency. Those who consider the purchase system the mainstay of the British army will, of course, be of opinion that it was highly inexpedient to abolish it. Others, however, who prefer to look at the question in the light of facts rather than of theory and sentiment, will say that it was expedient to abolish at the earliest moment in which it could legally be done, a system whose history is such as we have described, and the continuance of which for another year, after all that had taken place, would have been fraught with evil to public morality, and have effectually prevented in the interval all possibility of reorganizing the army. But the sting of the royal warrant abolishing purchase in the army lay doubtless in the fact that it was only exercised after the The limits of our space forbid us to do more than notice very cursorily the remaining Ministerial achievements of the session. We do not know what others may think, but our own opinion is that the University Tests Bill is at least as important a measure as the Divorce Bill, which was about the sole legislative triumph of the session of 1857. To the readers of the British Quarterly, at all events, that session will not appear a barren one which has thrown open to Nonconformists the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge. Nor will the working classes quarrel seriously with a session which has given them the Trades' Unions Bill. The repeal of the Ecclesiastical Titles Bill may be considered a small matter. But the passage of it through Parliament consumed the best part of a session, and disturbed the peace of the three kingdoms. It was, moreover, a stride backward in civilization, for it was one of those attempts, against which Nonconformists have always protested, to defend the truth by the carnal weapons of penal legislation. It was also the commencement of a retrograde policy towards Ireland. When the Queen visited that country, and on several other occasions, the territorial titles of the Irish Roman Catholic bishops were freely recognised in official documents. The Ecclesiastical Titles Bill made them penal, and the result was what men of sense predicted at the the time. The bill became a dead letter; for it was systematically violated, because it was too absurd and too antagonistic to the principles of religious liberty to be enforced. There was a moral fitness in its repeal, under the Premiership of Mr. Gladstone, for his The Ballot Bill can hardly be reckoned among the achievements of the session, since it has failed to become law; but it is certainly one of the achievements of the Government. It was carried through the House of Commons by overwhelming majorities, and it is not the fault of the Government that it is not now on the statute book. The Ministry was blamed for pressing it on, knowing that the Lords would reject it; but the Ministry had no such knowledge. On the contrary, there was some reason to believe that the Peers would have been satisfied with thwarting one of the capital measures of the session. But even if the Government had felt morally certain that the Lords would reject the Ballot Bill, we still insist that they were bound to go on with it. Nothing did so much to damage the prestige of Parliamentary Government, and to exasperate the working classes against the old Parliament as the dolce far niente policy of the Palmerstonian rÉgime. Lord Palmerston's adroitness consisted mainly in combining the maximum of liberal promises with the minimum of liberal fulfilment. He took up measures to conciliate the more Liberal of the electors, and dropped them to conciliate the majority of the House of Commons. More valuable, therefore, even than the passage of the Ballot Bill into law, is the assurance which the conduct of the Government has given that it was thoroughly in earnest. But it was contended in influential quarters that the sincerity of the Government was sufficiently evinced by the second reading of the bill, and ministers were accordingly advised to suspend all further progress of the bill, and resume it again at that stage next session. Besides other objections to that proposal, it is enough to say of it that it is founded on a misconception of the powers of the Government. It is the simple fact that the Government had no power to do what it was so persistently advised to do. A proposal was made in 1861 that some power of that kind should be given by statute to either House of Parliament. But the House of Commons rejected the proposal on account of 'the grave and numerous objections' to it, and particularly because 'this suspending power in either House of Parliament, if exercised at its own discretion, would be at variance with the prerogative of the Crown.' Mr. Bruce's Licensing Bill has been considered one of the chief failures of the session; and we do not wish to conceal our opinion that there were some tactical blunders in the management of it; but they were blunders which are in a great degree excusable by the peculiar circumstances of the session. It was, in our humble judgment, a blunder to introduce such a bill without a determination to deliver a decisive battle upon it; for the introduction of the bill roused the opposition of a powerful and thoroughly organized class interest, while the withdrawal of it alienated those to whom the Government looked for support. Mr. Bruce's excuse, and it is so far valid, is that the unexpected tactics of the Opposition in respect to the Army Bill wasted so much of the session that there was no opportunity to fight the battle of the Licensing Bill as he had intended to have fought it. The bill itself appears to us to be a fair compromise, and we have no doubt that it was calculated to do much good. The brewers and publicans have gained a victory for the moment, and they have the satisfaction of having beaten the Government candidate in East Surrey; but their victory is likely to prove a Pyrrhic one. It has opened the eyes of the public to the ruin which the excessive indulgence in intoxicating drinks is causing, and the more the question is discussed, the less reason will the publicans have for rejoicing over the defeat of Mr. Bruce's bill. The yearly sum spent on intoxicating liquors in the United Kingdom has now reached the enormous and portentous figure of £110,000,000, and the annual committals for drunkenness amounted in the year 1869 to 122,310. These are frightful facts; and if the interests of the publicans stand in the way of a thorough remedy, so much the worse for the interests of the publicans. Let the Government take away the licensing power from the magistrates, and commit the question to the management of local boards elected by the ratepayers, and we will undertake to say that the publicans will be checkmated politically in the first place, and that we shall witness, in the second place, a rapid decrease in their unholy traffic. Before dismissing the subject, however, it is right to remind our readers that Mr. Bruce's bill did not perish utterly. A portion, and a very valuable portion, of it is now law, and will effectually check the increase of public houses, and at the same time help to diminish the number of those already existing. We have now glanced through the principal measures of the session, and we confidently ask whether it is not true that both in respect to the quantity and the quality of the work done it will bear a favourable comparison with the large majority of Parliamentary sessions during the last forty years. And yet it cannot be denied that the Government has incurred a certain amount of On the whole, then, we believe that the unpopularity which has overtaken the Government this session, is for the most part, undeserved; and we believe in the next place that the unpopularity is mainly confined to certain political cliques and class interests, which the Government, in the prosecution of its plain duty, has unavoidably offended. Through a combination of these causes, a general election at this moment might lose the Government a score of seats all over the country; but it would not seriously shake its position. The nation has not lost its confidence in Mr. Gladstone, and it will think twice before it makes up its mind to exchange him for Mr. Disraeli. The journal 'written by gentlemen for gentlemen' has recently told us in one of its oracular manifestoes, that 'the whole London press has become thoroughly suspicious of Mr. Gladstone's strength and fitness for the place which, for the want of any tolerable competitor, he holds at his own discretion.' We have heard and read this sort of language before. 'The whole London press,' or rather that portion of it which is fortunate enough to receive the imprimatur of the Pall-Mall Gazette, pronounced the same verdict on Mr. Gladstone five years ago. And the result was, that those confiding politicians who trusted in the sagacity of 'the whole London press' either lost their seats in Parliament, or had to sit on the stool of repentance and vow eternal allegiance to Mr. Gladstone. Let those, therefore, who mayhap are contemplating a repetition of the same experiment meditate on the history of the Adullamites, and be wise in time. The country has its eye on that knot of atrabilious Liberals whose voice is that of Jacob, but whose hands are the hands of Esau. They may declare, ore rotundo, that they have no confidence in Mr. Gladstone. Let them have a care lest the next general election prove that the country has no confidence in them. To sum up, then, the claims of the Government during the past year on the continued confidence of the nation. It succeeded in limiting the area of the war between France and Germany, and, while upholding the dignity of the country, preserved to us the blessings of peace. By the treaty of Washington it has laid the foundation of a cordial understanding and a lasting friendship with the great American Republic. It has passed several measures for the benefit of Ireland which will surely help, as they become thoroughly understood, to lay the demon of disaffection in that impulsive, but not ungenerous people. Then what shall we say of the Army Bill? Its importance is gauged by the unparalleled resistance which it encountered in Parliament, and in times less exacting than the present its success would have made the fortune of an ordinary administration. On the other hand, the Trades' Unions Bill, the University Tests Bill, the Repeal of the Ecclesiastical Titles Act, and the Local Government Board Bill, (a most valuable piece of legislation) are the quality of bills which ordinarily constitute the work of a session. And, in addition to these outward and visible signs of ministerial toil, the separate departments of the Government have, each in its place, done an immense amount of that kind of work which makes no appeal to public notice, but which is none the less valuable because it works in silence. The Poor-law Board, the Admiralty, and Mr. Cardwell's department have all laboured incessantly, and the fruit of their labour is already becoming visible in the better management of our workhouses, and in the increased efficiency of our army and navy. Nor must we forget the excellent reforms which Mr. Monsell has already made in the Post Office, and which entitle him at no distant day to a seat in the Cabinet. We maintain, therefore, that the Government may, without any remorse, sit down with a good conscience to frame the programme of the coming session. The only serious danger which they have ahead of them is the question of Irish education; and that is a question which can well wait awhile. But if it must be tackled next session, we see no reason why the genius which solved the church and land questions should not be equal to solving that of education also. The danger of the Government lies in the inconsistent conduct of the Opposition, who advocate the application to Ireland of principles which are totally opposed to those for which they contend in the case of England. Still, it does not appear to us that the question of Irish education presents any insurmountable difficulty, provided the same statesmanlike principles are brought to bear upon it which have already solved the vexed problems of land tenure and religious equality. In short, a good budget and a moderate programme will enable the Government to make the Contemporary Literature. HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, AND TRAVELS. Short Studies on Great Subjects. By James Anthony Froude. Second Series. Longmans, Green, and Co. Many of these papers, those especially which have appeared in the magazine which Mr. Froude has recently edited, and those delivered as addresses, will be fresh in the recollection of general readers, and they will be glad to possess them in a permanent form. Like Mr. Kingsley, Mr. Froude is not so much a constructor as an expositor of opinion; but he has some rare qualities for exposition, and his emotional and moral fervour especially give a great charm to his advocacy. His defects, moreover, like Mr. Kingsley's, are those of a rhetorician, and severe historical students gravely impugn his accuracy in details, while dispassionate judges seriously condemn his somewhat vehement special pleadings. The papers are some of them political—'England and her Colonies;' 'Reciprocal Duties of State and Subject;' 'The Colonies once More,' 'England's War,' 'The Eastern Question;'—some social—'Education;' 'A Fortnight in Kerry,' in two parts—singularly separated in the volume by half a dozen other papers; 'On Progress,' a striking paper, which appeared in a recent number of Frazer, and attracted much attention;—and some ecclesiastical and theological—'Calvinism,' 'A Bishop of the Twelfth Century'—an interesting account of brave hearted Bishop Hugo, Bishop of Lincoln, and builder of the Cathedral; 'Father Newman on the Grammar of Assent;' 'Conditions and Prospects of Protestantism.' That Mr. Froude has strong partialities and prejudices, sometimes betraying him into an untenable advocacy, if not into historical paradox, his greatest admirers must admit. The first volumes of his history read like an eloquent counsel's brief—we are oftener charmed than convinced. The later volumes are more judicial, although both the partisans of Elizabeth and of Mary Queen of Scots have fair cause of demur to both the coloring of his portraiture and to some of its details. With rhetorical historians we never feel quite safe. The advocate is always more fascinating than the judge—they appeal to wholly different faculties. Macaulay, Froude, Kingsley, all lack, only in different degrees, the severe historical spirit which Hallam and Freeman so ably exemplify. One of Mr. Froude's critics has subjected his account of Bishop Hugo, derived from Mr. Dimock's 'Magna Vita,' to a minute, and we must say damaging historical criticism, which produces an uneasy feeling about Mr. Froude's historical writing generally—especially when we have not at hand means of verification. Mr. Froude's habit of mind tempts him to round unqualified assertions, and to hasty generalizations, especially when he is justifying a foregone conclusion. Another dangerous tendency of his mind is to themes which either through imperfect knowledge or sectarian habit he is but little qualified for treating. Few readers of the 'Nemesis of Faith,' one of Mr. Froude's earliest publications, would feel much confidence in his dispassionate treatment of any theological question; and yet theology is the fatal basilisk to which he seems irresistibly attracted. It was with a startled feeling—half amusement, half annoyance—that we saw announced the theme which his perverse genius characteristically fixed upon for his Rectoral Address at St. Andrew's. No man can possibly give a satisfactory account of Calvinism who is not sympathetically a theologian; and Mr. Froude is not only not this, but theology in any form excites him as a red rag excites a bull. Calvinism, above all theological creeds, might be supposed antipathetic to him. We naturally, therefore, anticipated a Quixotic assault upon the Scottish windmill, and imagined the sensations of the professors and alumni of St. Andrew's on the announcement of his subject; for Mr. Froude to undertake to discuss Calvinism in its very metropolis was a chivalry that could be redeemed from its foolhardiness only by its success. Mr. Froude has not succeeded. He boldly avows himself a quasi champion of something which he calls Calvinism, but which really has very little to do with the system of theology which is known by that designation. We tremble at the bold generalization of his eulogy, and wonder to see men and systems having so little in common brought within their range. It is the exordium of a rhetorician, not of an historical critic. Notwithstanding, therefore, his great literary merits, a fine historical vein, and broad illustrative generalization of a very masterly character, the result is not very satisfactory. Mr. Froude clearly sees that in Calvinism, or its philosophical equivalents—for he finds the latter where the former is unknown, as, for instance, in Parsecism and Judaism, Stoicism and Mahommedanism—there is something very strong and noble; only we suspect that he has confounded what he calls Calvinism with the moral sense or conscience. What this is, he essays to show by historic illustrations gathered from the six or eight great religious movements of history; but he hardly succeeds. The facts are indubitable, but Mr. Froude does not furnish their philosophy. Of course he knows that Calvinism is a great deal more than mere history; he would, no doubt, admit that it is a very pronounced and uncompromising metaphysical theology. If it is not this, it is nothing; but of this he does not attempt to give any account. On the contrary, he formally eschews it, and he certainly has no very great sympathy with it. His historic conscience is forced to admit the strength, persistence, and nobility which the ideas of Calvinism have in all ages inspired. They have uniformly produced the noblest morality, the most heroic The National and Domestic History of England. By W. H. S. Aubrey. Vol. I. J. Hagger. Of the historian, as of the poet, it is emphatically true nascitur non fit. A rare combination of qualities is essential to a historian of the first-class—patience to accumulate information, learning to appreciate it, philosophy to interpret it, and imaginative eloquence to incarnate it. Great histories are more rare than great poems. Histories are of two classes—those which are written directly from original sources, and which are historical authorities; and those which are intended for popular uses, and avail themselves of the results of original investigation, as historical authorities have determined them. Mr. Aubrey's work belongs to the latter class; and is entitled to rank very high in it. In the commendation which we think it just to bestow upon him, we are not to be understood as comparing him with Grote, or Hallam, or Freeman, or Froude, or Masson; but, as gathering into a pleasantly-written and skilfully-constructed work, the results of modern historical investigation, his history of England is by far the best we possess. To indomitable painstaking, he adds the careful judgment of a well-informed student, and of strong common sense. His work is the fruit of many years' assiduous labour. Mr. Aubrey, as might be expected, belongs to the school of historians which holds that the history of a nation is a great deal more than the history of its monarchs, court intrigues, and wars; and he endeavours to put his readers in possession of the springs and characteristics of the social life of the people, of which the most ample knowledge of the former class may leave us in utter ignorance. The influence of monarchs, statesmen, politics, and wars, upon the social life of a people, is necessarily great, and formerly was much greater than it is now; but probably at no time was it so exclusive as the impressions derived from ordinary histories would lead us to suppose. The government of a country, and the policy of a court, except under conditions of republican freedom, are a very imperfect index of the condition and character of the people. Mr. Aubrey pays a just compliment to Sir. Charles Knight's 'Pictorial History of England,' as being the first considerable and systematic attempt to present the social history of the English people. But the conclusions of history have been almost revolutionized since the 'Pictorial History of England' was written. The calendaring of State papers, and the opening of State collections at Simancas, Venice, and elsewhere, have thrown floods of light upon imperfectly understood events. Mr. Aubrey, too, has greatly improved upon the literary style, as well as upon the artistic illustrations of Mr. Knight's great work. His style is quiet and lucid; it never rises to eloquence, or is inspired by passion; no masterly historical groups or biographical portraits are presented by him; but he tells his story with a simple, even excellence of pleasant narration. If he does not greatly excite his readers, he never wearies them. The first volume brings down the history to the time of Richard II. Instead of references in the margin, Mr. Aubrey gives us a general list of the authorities which he has consulted; it is formidable enough, occupying a dozen pages, and comprising between 600 and 700 works. Some of the omissions from it, however, are notable; Mr. Longman's 'Edward III.' for instance, and Professor Creasy's 'History of England.' The salient points in this period are the characters of Edward the Confessor, and Earl Godwin, Harold, and William of Normandy, Becket, and Edward III. Mr. Aubrey forms, on the whole, a just estimate of these men. The plan of his history precludes disquisition, but the positions he assumes are warranted by the most recent criticism; he justly remarks that neither men nor View of the State of Europe during the Middle Ages. By Henry Hallam, LL.D. Incorporating in the text the Author's latest Researches, with Additions from recent Writers, and adapted to the use of Students. By William Smith, D.C.L., LL.D. John Murray. Dr. Smith has done a great service by including in his series of students' manuals this admirable edition of Hallam's first great work. Originally published in 1818—not in 1816, as Dr. Smith says—it rapidly passed through successive editions; the eleventh and last of which was published in 1855. During these years the author not only accumulated many corrections, but also a body of supplementary notes equal in bulk to one-third of the original work. 'Reluctant to make such alterations as would leave to the purchasers of former editions a right to complain,' and having thoroughly revised the third edition, six subsequent editions appeared without alteration. After the ninth edition, the supplementary notes were published separately in 1848. In the tenth edition (1853) they were included. The copyright of the original edition has recently expired, and has been reprinted in a cheap form, but without either the revision or the supplementary notes of the author's later editions. Comparatively, therefore, it is of little worth. Dr. Smith has not only reproduced Hallam's latest edition, he has incorporated all of the notes that could be incorporated, inserting at the end of each chapter such information as could not conveniently be interwoven with the text. For this students' edition some of the less important remarks have been abbreviated, and the references to authorities omitted. Valuable additions, moreover, have been made by the editor, for which the student will thank him. Among those are the Statutes of William the Conqueror, the Charter of the Liberties of Henry I. and Magna Charta, together with genealogical and other tables, and certain items of information from books which have appeared since Hallam wrote. A good reference index is also added. More than this concerning so well-known a work we need not say; too much we scarcely could say. Cameos from English History: the Wars in France. By the Author of the 'Heir of Redclyffe.' Second Series. Macmillan & Co. The very skilful way in which Miss Yonge selects the chief incidents of her episodes, and groups around them such subordinate matters as may be necessary for a complete historic picture, has given to the first series of her 'Cameos' a popularity which the second will not fall short of. Miss Yonge is executing a gallery of historic compositions that have individual completeness enough to make them interesting, and connection enough to make them instructive. Without any affectation of originality in the sources or methods of her narrative, she skilfully uses the materials and conclusions of the best historical authorities, and thus provides for young people and for general readers a historical manual, the ability and interest of which will convey a vast amount of information to readers whom more pretentious works would fail to attract. This second series is almost entirely occupied with the French wars. Beginning in 1330 with the romantic conquests of Edward III. and the Black Prince, it narrates the strange solecism of English rule in France, and ends in 1435 with the still more romantic mission of the Maid of Orleans, and the Congress of Arras, and the extinction of the English cause in France. We cannot speak too highly of the care, good sense, and literary skill with which these historic cameos are cut. The most romantic incidents—battles such as those of Crecy and Poitiers, achievements such as those of Joan of Arc—lose nothing in the artistic setting of the author, while the least interesting are made attractive by it. A more fascinating and instructive book, as we can testify from our own well-thumbed copy of the first series, and from the eagerness with which the second has been seized, could not be put into the hands of young people. Life of William Cunningham, D.D., Principal and Professor of Theology and Church History, New College, Edinburgh. By Robert Rainy, D.D., and the late Rev. James Mackenzie. 8vo. Nelson and Sons. 1871. As long as the disruption of the Church of Scotland in 1843 is remembered, the name of Dr. Cunningham will be indissolubly associated with it. The Free Church party, to which he belonged, was rich in eminent men at the great crisis. Chalmers, of course, towered The volume is the work of two successive biographers. Rather more than one-third of it had been prepared by the late Rev. James Mackenzie, when, his untimely death interrupted his labours; the rest of the book is written by Dr. Rainy, who, once a pupil of Cunningham's, was afterwards his pastor and most intimate friend, and is now his successor in the Chair of Historical Theology. Mr. Mackenzie's portion is picturesque and lively. The story of the disruption conflict, which it embraces, has already been told, by Dr. Hanna in his life of Chalmers, in a way that can hardly be equalled, but the version here given is at once elaborate and fresh. Dr. Rainy, who continues the life from 1843 till its close in 1861, has executed his task with judgment and loving fidelity, and with so entire a mastery of all the bearings of his subject that his chapters will have a permanent value for the members of the Free Church as a contribution to her history. The outward incidents of Cunningham's life are soon told. Born at Hamilton in 1805, he lost his father in early childhood, and was brought up by an admirable mother. At the age of fifteen he entered the university of Edinburgh, where he remained eight years. At twenty-five he was ordained to one of the largest churches in Greenock. Thence, four years afterwards, in 1834, he was translated to Trinity College Church, in Edinburgh. Quitting the Establishment in 1843, he visited America on a public mission, and on his return was appointed to the Chair of Apologetical Theology in the Free Church College. In 1845, he succeeded Dr. Welsh as Professor of Church History, and on the death of Dr. Chalmers, in 1847, he became Principal of the College, retaining, however, his Professorship. From his very boyhood, Cunningham was wont 'to scorn delights and live laborious days.' In one long vacation, before he was seventeen, he read eighty volumes, among them the whole of the Iliad in Greek, Barrow on the 'Pope's Supremacy,' Taylor's 'Ductor Dubitantium,' and the like. Such studious habits adhered to him through life. 'He reads Greek and Latin,' says his biographer, 'in immense quantities, and French in great abundance.' It was only a strong judgment and a wonderful memory that prevented his enormous reading from overloading his powers of mental digestion. At first, metaphysics attracted him, but soon theology became his favourite field. Up to the age of eighteen his sympathies were with the 'moderate' or high-and-dry party in the Scottish Church; but about that time his mind underwent a great and blessed spiritual change, which, as it was brought about by the influence of evangelical truth, naturally led him to join the evangelical party. As a preacher, he was decidedly successful during the four years of his ministry at Greenock. In Edinburgh his gifts were buried in an almost inaccessible and gloomy church, and his sermons became dry. The ten years' conflict, however, called forth all his powers. The annual general assemblies of those days furnished an arena for high debate unequalled in the history of Scotland. Judges of the supreme courts, eminent lawyers, physicians, merchants, and landowners, sat on their benches as elders, along with the flower of the Scottish clergy. The audience was only limited by the breadth to which galleries could be carried. The questions at issue, first, the spiritual rights of the people in the formation of the pastoral tie, and, growing out of that, the spiritual independence of the Church itself, affected all classes of society, and interested Dissenters as well as members of the Establishment. Amidst these scenes Cunningham proved himself— 'No carpet knight so trim, But in close fights a champion grim, In camps a leader, sage.' Both his biographers labour to describe his power as a debater, but in truth there must have been something indescribable about it. 'As you heard him,' says Dr. Rainy, 'you were yourself working at the question, not with your own faculties, but with Cunningham's, and were possessed with the same intense moral perceptions.... This effect was due to the personality of the man put into his speech, to his intensity, and his vehemence.... The absence of all rhetoric, except that which sparkled red-hot from the forge at which the workman was labouring contributed to the same effect. To the same result conduced, and that very powerfully, his manifest scorn of foul play, and the manliness and fairness of his battle.' The testimony also is adduced of Mr. Murray Dunlop, late member for Greenock, who, after long experience both of the General Assembly and of Parliament, said, 'There is no man in the House of Commons that approaches to Cunningham.' The disruption, to Cunningham and his associates, was a political defeat, but it was even more than a moral victory. It seems destined to secure the triumph of their principles in Scotland as it has powerfully helped to introduce them into Ireland. Now that a generation has passed away, we see the strange spectacle of the Scottish Establishment agitating for the abolition of patronage, and we hear her divines boasting of spiritual independence as if a satisfactory concordat on the matter had already been concluded with the State. Dread of another disruption is manifestly the only concordat that exists. It was in the Chair of Historical Theology that Cunningham found his true sphere of continuous labour. As a lecturer, an examiner, a director of young men's studies, and a critic of their productions, he was unsurpassed in his Yet with all his gentleness of nature, Cunningham was a born controversialist. He was quite conscious of this himself. When a student of divinity, he said to a friend. 'If my life is spared, it will be spent in controversy, I believe;' and the event went far to justify the prediction. With true Christian magnanimity, he would at once apologise, and that in public, for unwarrantable expressions dropped in the heat of debate; and in one of his later tractates he says, 'We have some apprehension that the controversial spirit is rising and swelling in our breast, and therefore we abstain,' &c., as if he were applying the curb; but the temperament remained. Part of the last decade of his life was embittered by a controversy within the Free Church itself, which separated him for a time from some of his oldest and dearest friends, and made him the object of unwarrantable attacks on the part of others. His spirit was chastened and purified by the ordeal. In the beautiful record given by Dr. Rainy of his last days on earth, we read that two hours before his death he said, 'I am done with all controversies and all fightings now; I am at rest for ever.' Then raising his hand, he very emphatically said twice, 'From the rage of theologians, good Lord, deliver us.' Thus adopting one of the dying sayings of the gentle Melancthon. After his death, Dr. Cunningham's literary executors published two large volumes of his lectures on 'Historical Theology,' and two additional volumes of his 'Essays and Reviews'—the one on the 'Reformers and their Doctrines,' the other on 'Church Principles.' These works are no unworthy monument of his vast learning, of his logical power, and of the depth of his own convictions. Dr. Rainy, in the volume before us, has very ably explained and defended Cunningham's method of teaching theology and the history of dogma, but we wish he had descended more into particulars, showing the growth of Cunningham's own mind as a theologian, and the comparative importance assigned by him to certain truths and views of truth at an earlier and a later period of his life. It is somewhat unsatisfactory to be told that on visiting Oxford in his later years Cunningham said musingly to a friend, 'I am more of a bigot and more of a latitudinarian than I used to be.' Journals kept in France and Italy from 1848–1852; with a Sketch of the Revolution of 1848. By the late Nassau William Senior. Edited by his Daughter, M. C. M. Simpson. 2 vols. Henry S. King and Co. Mr. Senior's journals suggest some curious speculations concerning the writer, and the order of literati to which he belongs; and they are a contemporary record of some facts which may be regarded as a contribution to history, and of some speculations which, after twenty years, it is interesting to test by events. Mr. Senior apparently aspired to a distinguished place in the class of writers more prominent in French literature than in English, who contribute, for the use of the historian and for the gratification of the gossip, mÉmoires pour servir. With considerable literary ability, he contributed essays to the Edinburgh and other reviews, two or three series of which have been published. He wrote a treatise on political economy, which evinced considerable power of philosophical thinking, and considerable knowledge of economical science, but which fell just short of classical authority. He was a Master in Chancery, and a well-informed man of the world. He had an extensive acquaintance with literati and politicians, which he sedulously cultivated. Probably, had he chosen to concentrate his intellectual powers and to subordinate his general knowledge, he might have produced works which would have taken an honourable and permanent place in literature. But the difficulty we feel in saying in what department of thought he would have succeeded the best, indicates the versatility which made him a clever man, and hindered him from becoming a profound one. He belonged to the literary class of which, perhaps, Southey may be regarded as facile princeps. Probably a man does best when he follows spontaneously his own literary instinct; and Mr. Senior, in becoming a very able chronicler and critic of the opinions of others, has avoided the fate of a second-rate publicist. It is difficult to find an exact type that may represent his special function and quality. His work is the work of a Boswell, only generally applied, and done with far more intellectual power, but at the cost of that exactness of record which is Boswell's great charm. All Mr. Senior's reports of the opinions and conversations of others are reproduced in his own mould of thought. Although he had apparently that peculiar kind of very bad memory which forgets nothing, yet clearly he does not reproduce the ipsissima verba of the interlocutors: while their sentiments are exactly conveyed, it is a version 'according to Mr. Senior.' One thinks again of Crabbe Robinson. What he was in a more literary and limited sphere, Mr. Senior was in his wider sphere of statesmen, diplomatists, and politicians. Mr. Senior's methods remind us of the 'interviewing' of American reporters. A highly gifted, well-informed, agreeable, and brilliant man, he was a welcome addition to every society. Princes, statesmen, and political leaders found pleasure in his conversation, and in the information concerning English opinion and feeling that he was able to impart. He assiduously Nevertheless, the journals are remarkably rich in both incident and opinions, which, as communicated by political leaders themselves, may be implicitly accepted as authentic. Perhaps the thing that will chiefly strike the reader is the singular lack of political prevision which characterizes the forecasts of even the ablest statesmen. The surprise and violence of revolutionary incident probably disorder the faculty of the political philosopher, as well as disarrange the ordinary sequence of things. Whatever the cause, save in things palpable to ordinary thoughtfulness, few of the anticipations of statesmen here recorded have been verified. We have noted some dozens of instances of political sagacity utterly at fault, which justify this general remark, but our space forbids us to cite them. Mr. Senior's journals in France begin about three months after the abdication of Louis Philippe; but he gathers up a tolerably complete account of the circumstances attending it, and of the opinions formed concerning it. A letter of General Bergeaud gives a military account of the overthrow of the constitutional throne, and attributes it to defective military preparations, and to vacillating purposes:—'If I had had the command a fortnight before, things might have passed differently.' True! but would that have secured respect for the time-serving king, or have given high-mindedness and dignity to the shuffling policy of his time-serving minister? Of what advantage would it have been to avert the revolution of February, if its provocatives had been left to gather afresh? This policy of expedients has been the ruin of the French nation; as De Beaumont justly said to Mr. Senior—'In France we are not good balancers of inconveniences. Nous sommes trop logiques. As soon as we see the faults of an institution, nous la brisons. In England you calculate, we act upon impulse.' Mr. Senior throws much interesting light upon the conduct and motives of Lamartine in his brilliant and meteoric career, equally sudden in its kindling and its extinction;—possible, surely, only in France. De Beaumont seems to us to do more justice to Lamartine than Mr. Senior himself does. 'He thinks that Lamartine has managed foreign affairs honestly and ably, with an earnest wish for peace, but that the rest of his conduct has been vain, selfish, and timid. Ten days ago he would have been elected President by acclamation, now he would be chosen only to keep out somebody worse.' Whatever Lamartine's vanity and weakness, he must, we think, have credit for patriotic purpose. A mere selfish man would surely have pressed his enormous advantage very differently. Much interesting light is also thrown upon the singular and incongruous character of Louis Napoleon. Certainly our estimate of him is not enhanced; his narrow, intriguing selfishness, his puerile fanaticism, and the diabolical unscrupulousness of his coup d'État of December 2nd, seem to justify all that his worst enemies have said about him. A singular incident is recorded. The colonel of one of the regiments to be employed on December 2nd was absent on the previous night a few miles from Paris. An aide-de-camp of St Arnaud was sent to summon him. He owed his success in life to Changarnier. As he passed Changarnier's door he thought that this mysterious summons must have something to do with the coup d'État which everybody was expecting. He got off his horse, and rang the bell. The porter, probably in bed, did not answer. Second thoughts suggested to the aide-de-camp that to tell Changarnier would be a breach of duty. He rode off without ringing again. Had Changarnier been warned, the coup d'État might have been prevented, and the subsequent history of France might have been different. Read in the light of the history of France during the last twelve months, Mr. Senior's volumes Sumner told Mr. Senior, on the authority of the Minister of War, that 'Persigny was going to Berlin and Vienna to ask for Belgium and the Rhine and Egypt, giving Hanover to Prussia, Wallachia and Moldavia and the legations to Austria, Constantinople to Russia, and Piedmont to the Prince of Leuchtenberg.' This was confirmed by Beaumont, who said that when he was French Minister at Vienna, in 1849, Schwartzenberg showed him pretty nearly the same propositions made by Persigny. What hope can there be for a people so flippant, so superficial, so unscrupulous! One is almost thankful for the destruction of a power whose only law is that of selfishness and opportunity. Mr. Senior's journals in Italy are scarcely less interesting; only they seem to belong to bygone centuries. The King of Naples and the Duke of Tuscany were in power, the Pope was recoiling into a despot, Charles Albert was staking and losing his crown at Novara, and Louis Napoleon was occupying Rome. Mr. Senior's journals are choke full of interest—a social comment on public history which future generations will peruse with greater eagerness than ourselves. Life and Letters of William Bewick (Artist). Edited by Thomas Landseer, A.R.A. Hurst and Blackett. Mr. Landseer is not so careful as he should be to tell us that his hero is not the Bewick whose engravings are amongst the glories of the English school. True, William is not Thomas, and Mr. Landseer somewhat ambiguously suggests the distinction by appending in a parenthesis the word 'Artist' to his name; but Art knows only one Bewick, and the lustre of his surname may well make careless readers oblivious of his Christian name. Mr. Landseer does not tell us whether there was any relationship between the two northern men, less remote, that is, than the ancestry of whom Scott reminded William. The absence of affirmation leads to the conclusion that there was not; as, doubtless, William would have been proud of a family connection with Thomas. William Bewick, then, of whose existence we frankly confess we were ignorant until we made our acquaintance with him in Mr. Landseer's book, was, notwithstanding, a man and an artist of respectable ability, whose memoir and letters are interesting chiefly for their anecdotes and characterizations of people more illustrious than himself. His father was an upholsterer in Darlington, sorely disquieted by the artistic tendencies of his son, who bravely struggled against the genius of upholstery, and dared the paternal prognostications of beggary, and the stern refusal to give him any help in his artistic aspirations. He went to London almost penniless, pleased Haydon, who saw him drawing at Burlington House, and became his pupil, as were also George Lance, William Harvey, Sir Edwin Landseer, and the brothers Charles and Thomas Landseer. He struggled hard for existence, became a pupil at the Academy, so far won the approbation of Sir Thomas Lawrence as to be commissioned by him to copy some of Michael Angelo's figures in the Sistine Chapel; and greatly delighted him by his execution of the 'Sybil,' somewhat less by that of the 'Jeremiah.' The President intended to present these copies to the Royal Academy for the benefit of future students, but died when only four of them were completed. These were sold with his effects, and, with other copies made by Mr. Bewick, are hidden in some collection, or scattered among many. The difficulties of procuring them were very great; and we agree with Mr. Landseer in his regret that they are not secured for public inspection and use. Mr. Bewick seems to have had peculiar skill as a copyist. Goethe gave him a commission to execute copies of some of the figures in the Elgin marbles. A head painted by him was mistaken for a Hence he became acquainted with a large number of persons celebrated in literature and art. These he carefully Boswellized, drawing their portraits with the pen as well as with the pencil, and telling interesting anecdotes concerning them. Hence these volumes, consisting chiefly of his journals and letters, are a rich repertory of reminiscences of notable men, which, like Senior's journals in other circles of life, will have a permanent interest and value as the records of an intelligent contemporary observer. Mr. Bewick's literary style is somewhat inflated, and his story-telling is somewhat prolix; it is not therefore easy, within our limits, to pick out any of the plums of the really dainty feast that he has set before us. With Haydon and Hazlitt, Bewick was on terms of personal friendship, and of both he presents lengthened and interesting sketches. While, of course, fully conscious of Haydon's faults, he was bravely faithful to him. Haydon was very kind to Bewick. The latter was moneyless, and Haydon had only £5. 'However,' says he, 'I'll let you have five shillings, that will help a little.' He likewise offered to guarantee a quarter's living at an eating-house. Haydon took no fees from his pupils, but repaid himself in a characteristic way. He induced his pupils to put their names to accommodation bills, and Bewick was so implicated that when the smash came he 'found it impossible to deliver himself from the difficulties which beset him in consequence of the desperate state of Haydon's affairs.' Bewick sat as model for the head of Haydon's 'Lazarus,' he being at the time opportunely ill. Wilkie, otherwise a clumsy figure, had very fine hands. Taking hold of them, Haydon said one day, 'Look here, Bewick, these are what I painted my "Christ's" hands from. Wilkie's hands are the only parts of his person that are like his pictures. They are made for fine execution; my hands are very good, but they are not so tremulously nervous,—so delicate or refined. These will never paint large works with power, nor will mine ever paint small pictures with sufficient delicacy and refinement. You would never suppose that these hands would have such a miserable mess upon the palette as you see there (looking down at Wilkie's dirty palette). Wilkie's hands were copied for the real mother in my picture of "Solomon," and it has been said that they are the most tender and expressive part of the whole picture.' Wilkie's hands were artistically close as well as symmetrical. Haydon, hard up, as usual, went to Kensington to ask his friend for the loan of £5. 'I was struck with his blank expression of face; if I had given him a blow he could not have been more staggered. I knew he had received some hundreds for his last work, and I ought to have done the same. Wilkie put his hand to his mouth, and pressed his under lip between his finger and thumb, like one of the figures in his "Rent-Day," and drawled out in cold Scotch that he "raaly couldn't" let me have it. I said, "You can't, eh?" He replied, "No, indeed he could not." I was silent—numbed; my young heart, warm then in the feelings and sentiments of friendship, had received a shock. I felt my cheek hot with the blush of wounded pride and disappointment, and could only say, "I am sorry for it;" and, wishing him a good morning, left him to himself and his hundreds.' Haydon was an awkward leech; but considering their friendship, this was a little too bad of Wilkie. On his way home, an eating-house keeper was more generous. To eat was a necessity. Haydon, who had dined at the place often, went in therefore, and after his dinner 'my hand went into my empty pocket in make-belief, and I said, "Oh, I've forgot my money to-day, I will pay, you to-morrow!" Just as I put foot upon the step of the outer door, a gentle tap on my shoulder stayed my progress, and I was very civilly invited by the keeper of the eating-house to walk into his room, as he wished to speak to me. I returned with him. He then shut the door, and after apologising for the liberty he was taking, said he had read in the papers how badly I had been used with regard to my picture ("Macbeth," which Sir G. Beaumont had returned because Haydon had increased its size), and that if dining there, or living entirely at his house, would be any convenience to me, he should be quite delighted, and I might pay him when I was able. I agreed to dine there for the future, with many thanks for this noble, disinterested kindness.' It is pleasant to add that when, shortly afterwards, 'Solomon' sold for eight hundred guineas, Haydon paid all his creditors, the generous eating-housekeeper included; and, still more, that his friendship for Wilkie still continued. 'I did not let trifles of this kind come between us to mar our mutual satisfaction in the pursuit of our beloved art.' We regret that we cannot extract Bewick's interesting descriptions of Hazlitt, nor his exciting account of an evening with Ugo Foscolo and Wordsworth—the best picture in the book—when the passionate Italian declaimed his poetry before the philosophic Lakeist; and in Haydon's small parlour, greatly to the peril of Wordsworth's nose, especially when, in the extraordinary discussion which followed, Foscolo clenched his fist in the poet's face. Amusing anecdotes of Wilkie, especially one of his visit to Castle Howard, and of Lord Life and Adventures of Count Beugnot, Minister of State under Napoleon I. Edited from the French by Charlotte M. Yonge. Two vols. Hurst and Blackett. Jean Claude Count Beugnot lived through the entire period of the French Revolution. He was born early enough (in July, 1761) to have attained to maturity at its actual outbreak, and to have some intelligent recollection of its immediate antecedents. He lived long enough (until June, 1835) to see its course and issue, and to judge its effects under three succeeding monarchs—Louis XVIII., Charles X., and Louis Philippe. No life could have been more exactly timed for a complete experience of it, and perhaps no life could have been better circumstanced for an intelligent and just appreciation of it. As a minister and a courtier, he was eminent enough to stand within the circle of confidential knowledge, but not so eminent as to be a leader of parties, so as to be blinded by their passions, or to share their fate; as a politician, he was clever enough to fill offices, and to be employed in affairs of importance, but not so clever as to be the victim of great and blinding ambitions. He was, moreover, flexible enough to serve under Louis XVI.—at any rate, as a loyalist member of the States General of 1789, and of the Legislative Assembly of 1791, and to suffer imprisonment during the Reign of Terror; to be Prefect of La Seine InfÉrieure, and Administrator of the Grand Duchy of Berg under Napoleon; to be Minister of the Home Department under the Provisional Government; and to serve under Louis XVIII. in various important offices—first, as one of the three commissioners selected by the King in the commission for the preparation of the Charter of 1814, next as Director-General of Police, next as Minister of Marine Affairs, next as Postmaster-General. In 1819, a Royal ordinance summoned him to the Chamber of Peers, but before it could be countersigned the ministry resigned, and he did not take his seat until 1830, a few months before the revolution which placed Louis Philippe on the throne. The retrospect of such a man must have been something like that of Noah and his sons. He was a good administrator, a fair Parliamentary orator, an admirable drawer-up of State papers, a cautious, respectable, able coadjutor; ranking, relatively with men in English political history, like Sir J. Graham or Lord Halifax. His literary ability was considerable, as these memoirs prove, but it was not so great as to cause his ambition for original authorship to disqualify his talent for reporting or recording what he heard and saw. He was of the literary type of Mr. Nassau Senior, only with far better opportunities of knowing; and instead of merely reporting the sayings and doings and opinions of others, he aspired to quasi-historical memoir writing, which throws the information that he had such rare opportunities of possessing into an independent narrative form, which is to all intents and purposes history, only with the episodical freedom of journal writing. Perhaps no man, unless it were Talleyrand himself, could have told us so much of the secret history of his times, and Talleyrand could not help writing fiction instead of history. Count Beugnot, as portrayed by himself, produces a feeling of high respect and esteem. He was sincere, honest, and faithful; he was a consistent Liberal, who had respect for authority, and felt it right, in the interests of liberty, to accept whatever Government was in power; he was, moreover, bold and faithful, sometimes in circumstances of great personal peril. We do not feel towards him as towards Mirabeau, or Talleyrand, or Lamartine, or Guizot. He was not positive enough or brilliant enough to excite either high admiration or great antagonism. He was a safe politician, an honourable man, and a literary mediocrity of the very highest class, but no more. It is impossible to exaggerate the rich materials of these volumes. They lack the aristocratic gossip of the memoirs of St. Simon; they have not the melodramatic excitement or literary brilliancy of the historical romances of Lamartine; they are destitute of the doctrinaire philosophising which characterizes Guizot; but they are most interesting and sober recitals of what may be called the social history of the Revolution, in many of its byways, as well as at its centre. Almost every page is a romance, revealing—sometimes pitiably and ignominiously—the secret springs of great transactions, the littleness of great men, the selfishness of patriots, the intrigues of politics, the little wisdom with which the world is governed. Count Beugnot, moreover, possesses the rare qualities of truthfulness and fairness. He manifestly tries to tell us the truth, and with great shrewdness and justice he endeavours to present both the defects and excellencies of the monarchs under whom he served. He has generous words for Napoleon, does full justice to his superb genius, while he exhibits his hard coarseness and selfish, unscrupulousness, and clearly discerns the fatal defects which led to his fall. He respects Louis XVIII., his refinement and his wit, while in a very quiet way he exhibits his intense heartlessness and selfishness. He penetrates A characteristic story of the hauteur of the old French aristocracy is told of Madame de Brionne, who, at the time of the first insurrection of Paris, was advised by the Bishop of Autun to go and spend some time in a little provincial town, where she would not be known. 'A little provincial town!' she replied, 'Oh, M. de Perigord, I can be a peasant if you please, but never a bourgeoise!' Louis XV. blamed the Archbishop of Narbonne for his inordinate love of hunting. 'My Lord Archbishop, you are a great hunter; I know something about it. How can you forbid your priests from hunting if you spend your life in setting them an example of it?' 'Sire,' he replied, 'for my priests, hunting is their own vice; in my case, it is the vice of my ancestors.' 'My Lord Archbishop,' said the King on another occasion, 'they say that you are in debt, and, very deeply.' 'Sire,' was the reply, 'I will ask my steward about it, and have the honour of informing your Majesty.' In October, 1793, M. de Beugnot was imprisoned in the Conciergerie, where, and at La Force, he remained until the fall of Robespierre, in daily danger of death, but, strangely, escaping it. Of the interior of prison life during this period he gives vivid sketches; describes his fellow-prisoners—many of them illustrious for rank, talents, or virtues—and the incidents connected with the daily death delivery of one or more of them. It is a vivid and powerful sketch of a notable interior. This section of the work is a series of carefully executed sketches of notable persons, especially of the leading Girondists, including a full-length portrait of Madame Roland. He says, 'I more than once made this reflection, that death on the scaffold only causes horror to the generality of men, because they compare it with a state of peace, of enjoyment, and perhaps of happiness they are experiencing; but death considered from the depths of a dungeon, or what is more, death when the whole existence is changed into torture, is no longer the height of evils, but their remedy.' Here we must leave M. de Beugnot. The subsequent portions of his book are even more important and interesting, as the author himself rose to eminence, and came into closer contact with the great movements of history. Every page teems with interest, not only to the historical student, but to the general reader. Miss Yonge has done good service in translating this important work, especially at this juncture, when the spiral cycle of French destiny has again brought its revolutionary tragedy. It is needless to say that she has executed her task well, although she might, in one or two places, have still further exercised her power of excision. The Coolie: His Rights and Wrongs. Notes of a Journey to British Guiana, with a review of the System and of the recent Commission of Inquiry. By the Author of 'Ginx's Baby.' Strahan and Co. The conditions of coolie emigration from the East Indies to the West, although attracting but little attention from the general public, have been regarded anxiously by politicians and philanthropists, who know how easily enormous oppression and cruel wrong may shelter Although Mr. Jenkins thinks that Mr. Des Voeux's statement, made under fear, as he says, of a coolie rising, are exaggerated, and that his examination before the commissioners 'proved to be of a very unsatisfactory character,' that he had written 'a very long and serious letter, with the honestest of intentions but with the least business-like of performance,' he thinks that there was a necessity for the inquiry, and that 'the severe animadversions on Mr. Des Voeux's conduct, in the report of the commissioners, was beyond the proper sphere of their duty;' also that, 'on one or two points, absolute justice does not seem to have been done him in the report.' Mr. Jenkins describes his voyage out, several farms which he visited, the proceedings before the commissioner, the organization for emigration in India and in British Guiana, with the management of the emigration office, indentures, registers, &c., women and marriages, emigration laws, remedies against employers, wages, medical inspection, &c., illustrating each by facts, anecdotes which may not be always facts, and various details. He also traces the growth of the coolie system from the time of the abolition of slavery, and discusses the apprenticeship and other provisions for its regulation. The home Government has refused to subsidize the emigration; hence it has been in a state of chronic feud with the colony. The details given by Mr. Jenkins in his appendix, under the head 'Review of Emigration,' are of a very grave and ominous character. First he tells us that 'every importation of African blood, whether aboriginal or West Indian, has from the first regularly disappointed its promoters; the causes 'lie partly in the character of the negro, partly in the incapacity of the old labour system for adaptation to a state of things in which the labourers had become free.' In 1839, a society was formed to procure emigrants without the aid of the State; 2,900 labourers were obtained from Barbadoes, and thirty from the United States. The emigrants were speedily absorbed into the mass of village population. In 1841, bounty was paid on 8,098 emigrants, chiefly Portuguese, from Madeira and Brazil; the mortality was appalling, and under an act of disallowance in October of the same year, public emigration came to an end. In 1844, Acts were passed providing for Chinese and coolie emigration, and the next year 563 emigrants came from Calcutta, and 225 from Madras. In the following year nearly 6,000 Portuguese emigrants arrived, together with 1,373 from Calcutta, and 2,455 from Madras. They were 'ravaged by disease, and literally decimated year by year in the process of acclimatization.' Between 1845 and 1851, 18,707 Madeirans had been imported. The census of 1851 showed that only 7,928 were in the colony; some, however, had returned to their native country. The quinquennial increase in the number of Indian emigrants arriving during each of the four periods 1851–1855, 1856–1861, 1861–1865, 1806–1870, is Westward by Rail; a Journey to San Francisco and Back, and a Visit to the Mormons. By W. T. Rae. Longmans, Green, and Co. In a new introductory chapter to this second and cheaper edition of his book, concerning which, on its first appearance, we spake with strong and merited commendation, Mr. Rae gives additional information concerning the Mormons, and the effect produced upon Mormonism by the new railway, by the Mormon revolt under Mr. Godbe and the sons of Joseph Smith, and by the vigorous policy of the United States Government. Mr. Rae does not think that it has sustained much damage by either. Brigham Young said that he did not 'care anything for a religion which could not stand a railroad.' Mr. Godbe's reform is brought under suspicion by its commercial motive, and was checkmated by Brigham Young giving the electoral franchise to women. The chief perils to Mormonism are the successful assertion of the control of the Mormon militia by Governor Schaffer, and some decisions of Chief Justice McKean securing absolute impartiality between Mormon and Gentile in the law courts, refusing to naturalize any aliens who are polygamists, and refusing to legalize certain donations of public land made by the Mormon Legislative Assembly. The recent census gives a population in Salt Lake City of 17,246 persons, in the territory of Utah of 86,786, both much below the calculation of the Mormons themselves. Mr. Rae also gives the latest information concerning gold and silver mining in the States of California and Nevada, and the territory of Utah, and concerning the development of traffic on the Great Pacific Railway. Canoe Travelling: Log of a Cruise in the Baltic, and Practical Hints in Building and Fitting Canoes. By Warington Baden-Powell. With Twenty-four Illustrations and a Map. Smith, Elder, and Co. The canoe achievements of Mr. McGregor—and perhaps even more the graphic way in which they have been described—have provoked much emulation, and bid fair to raise canoeing into one of our characteristic national recreations, like yachting and Alpine climbing. Mr. Baden-Powell records a remarkable achievement of 400 miles of canoeing in the Baltic. Starting from Gothenburg in the Cattegat, on the western coast of Sweden, he and his companion took their two canoes up the river Gotha, and across the large inland lake Wevern, 100 miles long, which they crossed in a steamer; then through the West Gotha Canal, and across the Lakes Wicken and Wettern, Boven, Roxen, and Elen, with their connecting canals, to the Baltic; then along the north coast of the Baltic, with its innumerable islets, and up the Oxlo Sound to Stockholm. From Stockholm they went by steamer to Gothland, Carlsharm, and Malmo, from which place they crossed in the canoes to Copenhagen, thence by railway and steamer to Ketson, Kiel, and Hamburg, where, after some short river canoe excursions, they took steamer to England. The account of the voyage is little more than a log of sailing experiences, with slight touches of description of people and places; but it will be read with interest by all who are fond of boating, and by many who are not. The second part of the book is purely technical, and furnishes data for the construction of canoes. POETRY, FICTION, AND BELLES LETTRES. Balaustion's Adventure: including a Transcript from Euripides. By Robert Browning. Smith, Elder, and Co. Mr. Browning's pastimes are characteristic enough. This new poem he calls a May-month amusement, in the very graceful dedication in which he explains its origin; but still we have the personal qualities as predominant as elsewhere. The Countess Cowper, it appears, urged him to give a version of a play of Euripides, 'of that strangest, sweetest song of his, Alkestis;' and Mr. Browning gallantly set himself to the task. But well may he say, in a slightly different sense from what he meant it, though truly in no disparagement of his own originality, 'Euripides might fear little; out I, also, have an interest in the performance; and what wonder if I beg you to suffer that it make, in another and far easier sense, its nearest possible approach to those Greek qualities of goodness and beauty, by laying itself gratefully at your feet?' Had it not been for the skill with which Mr. Browning invents dramatic expedients to aid him in relieving and toning down the contrast which would inevitably have been felt between the direct and sunny simplicity of the Greek, and his own wayward, imperative The girlish simplicity of Balaustion, the Rhodian maiden who recites the play, and her capacity for pure unalloyed devotion—for she twice saves her friends by her patriotism and love of poetry—justify, in part at least, what appear to be inconsistencies in Mr. Browning's rendering; such, for example, as the lofty idealisation of the character of Admetos. It is just such as a fresh enthusiastic girl would, out of her own maidenly conception, impose on a hero of her own, thrown into such tragic circumstances of those of Alkestis. Thus, even where we are most induced to criticise, the figure of the teller comes in to warn us; but after all, the modern poet, by virtue of his dramatic medium, has reached a truer conception than that of Euripides, or has illumined his conception by letting full upon it the freer lights of earlier time. But clearly, the transcript from Euripides, in the hands of Mr. Browning, undergoes a strange transformation. It is not alone that lines here and there vary very much from the original, and that expressions are amplified or departed from; it is that on the old Greek thought a wholly modern conception of love, and of life and death, is superimposed, and a dim doctrine of spiritual compensation interwoven with it, which is quite alien to Greek feeling. Something, however, may be said for the fact that we have here really a reminiscence of a former telling, in which, naturally, much of the halo that rests on the past, simply because it has 'orbed into the perfect star,' would unconsciously well up round the recollection, and colour the incident. All this, of course, shows Mr. Browning's supreme art in dramatic expedient; but some of the expressions of Herakles and not a few utterances of Admetos, are almost too distinctly spiritualistic to pass muster in the connection in which we find them. For example, this:— 'Since death divides the pair, 'Tis well that I depart and thou remain Who wast to me as spirit is to flesh: Let the flesh perish, be perceived no more, So thou, the spirit that informed the flesh, Read yet awhile, a very flame above The rift I drop into the darkness by,— And bid remember, flesh and spirit once Worked in the world, one body, for man's sake. Never be that abominable show Of passive death without a quickening life, Admetos only, no Alkestis now!' Mr. Browning, in quoting the verse from Mrs. Browning, sufficiently indicates the spirit in which he would read the Alkestis; but clear it is that he might have chosen from the earlier poets passages far less likely to give rise to the contradiction which we have spoken of, and which cannot but be more or less felt in this instance. In Euripides, we see the first fatal symptoms of the skepticism and materialism which finally overtook the Greek stage. There is a good deal of casuistry in his expedients, which often the stage-play (of which Mr. Browning has decisively got rid) helped him to conceal. The old honest belief in the myths was beginning to fade and weaken, and had already become pretty much a thing for the theatre. Mr. Browning has aimed at idealising Euripides—at elevating him, as it were, to the point at which Greek myth will reflect the rising lights of modern ideas. But it is inevitable that scholars should feel that there is a lack of solid foundation for the rendering. To those who choose to receive Mr. Browning's Alkestis implicitly, it can only be a thing of beauty and of noblest meaning. So far as it is Greek, it gives the earlier rather than the later conception; but it has wrapped the Greek ideal in a new atmosphere of spiritual truth. If Mr. Browning had chosen the Alkestis of Euripides for the sole purpose of proving his wonderful dramatic capability, and his power of involving himself in a theme and so transforming it, he could not have found a better, that is to say, a more difficult, subject. In Greece the husband existed for the State, the wife for the husband, and the conjugal relation was little relieved by sentiment. Euripides celebrates the mere triumph of this Greek wifely duty—no more; but how exquisitely does Mr. Browning make Balaustion play chorus, so as occasionally to give opportunity for the infusion of his own transcendentalism. Sometimes, however, Mr. Browning shows fine capacity for catching the Greek grace and unconscious sensuousness of conception. Nothing could be more faithful than this:— 'For thee, Alkestis, Queen! Many a time those haunters of the Muse Shall sing thee to the seven-stringed mountain shell, And glorify in hymns that need no harp, At Sparta when the cycle comes about, And that Karneian month wherein the moon Rises and never sets the whole night through: So too at splendid and magnificent Athenai. Such the spread of thy renown, And such the lay that, dying, thou hast left, Singer and sayer.' We take it for granted that our readers, either directly or indirectly, have got some notion of what we may call the machinery of the poem. When the Rhodians revolt because of the disastrous failure of the Nikian expedition against Syracuse, Balaustion urges her friends not to throw off their allegiance, but— 'Rather go die at Athens, lie outstretched For feet to trample on, before the gate Of Diomedes or the Hippadai, Before the temples and among the tombs, Than tolerate the grim felicity Of harsh Lakonia.' She urges them to go to Athens, and they set sail. When they are blown out of their course she encourages them to new effort by singing poems; and when they are cast on the Syracusan coast, she wins the suffrages even of the Syracusans by her recitations. She tells her friends, just when she is about to be happily wedded, of this her early adventure, and recites the 'whole main of a play from first to last,' which was associated in her mind with such strange, glad memories. And this is Mr. Browning's way of reproducing Euripides to us. Nothing could be more characteristic than this performance. It is full of dramatic subtleties; yet ever and anon the pure naturalness and simplicity of Greek life break through upon us with subduing force from the strange relief of contrast. One of our poets, in a very clever jeu d'esprit, spoke of Mr. Browning as 'thinking in Greek.' This poem proves, in a certain respect, how true was the characterization. But if Mr. Browning thinks in Greek, then it is most often to the low, sad undertone of modern doubt, question, and perplexity. The sunshine that is cast over this whole adventure is what most entitles it to be called Greek, though there is far too much suggestion of shadow, in the shape of perilous speculation, in the background. Faust; a Tragedy. By John Wolfgang Von Goethe. Translated in the original metres by Bayard Taylor. Strahan and Co. All translators of first-class poetry have a difficult series of problems to solve; but we are disposed to think a version of 'Faust' in the original metres is about the most arduous task a man could set himself. We would almost rather attempt 'The Birds' of Aristophanes. Mr. Taylor, hitherto known as one of the choicest writers of that variety of English prose which has developed itself across the Atlantic—a variety which is what gardeners call a 'sport'—is not quite up to the great work he has undertaken. He is not a sufficiently subtle metrist to echo the delicate melodies which lurk in Goethe's simplest forms of rhythm; nor does he always faithfully reflect Goethe's ideas—which, though twisted into recondite form, are usually simple reproductions of archaic axioms. It is the highest compliment you can pay Goethe, to say that there is nothing new in him. He iterated ancient truths in forms that suited his own era. He was like a mighty tree, bearing fresh foliage every year, but always the same old oak that cast cool shadows on the lawns of Eden. Nothing can be more certain than that absolutely new ideas must be false ideas; but it is equally certain that a man of great genius does infinite good by thinking out old ideas afresh, and presenting them in a form that suits his generation. There is not much in 'Faust' that there is not in 'Job' (which some authorities deem the oldest poem in existence), and there is much in 'Job' which there is not in 'Faust.' But 'Faust' was a necessity of the age, for all that. And even Bailey's 'Festus,' a very crude and washed-out variation of the theme, did good in its time. The deficiencies we have indicated in Mr. Taylor's work are more visible in the second part of 'Faust' than in the first. In both they are painfully observable. Take Gretchen's song, 'The King in Thule:' we select the first, second, and fifth stanzas:— 'There was a king in Thule Was faithful till the grave, To whom his mistress dying A golden goblet gave. 'Nought was to him more precious; He drained it at every bout; His eyes with tears ran over As oft as he drank out. 'Then stood the old carouser, And drank the last life-glow, And hurled the hallowed goblet Into the tide below.' Herewith we venture to compare the same stanzas, in a boyish translation of our own, made when we had a vision of translating 'Faust':— 'There was a king in Thule, the ancient sea beside; His love a goblet gave him upon the day she died. 'At festival and banquet he loved that cup of gold, For many a dream it brought him of the sweet days of old. 'The aged king arises; a mighty draught drinks he, Then hurls the golden-goblet away into the sea.' Some of Mr. Taylor's expressions in the few lines we have cited are unpoetic, and some are unintelligible; for example, what is to be understood by the old king's drinking 'his last Now let us take the first four lines of 'The Prologue in Heaven'—the song of Raphael, the Archangel. Thus Mr. Taylor:— 'The sun-orb sings in emulation, 'Mid brother spheres, his ancient round— His path predestined through creation, He ends with step of thunder-sound.' This is awkward and unpoetic. The sun 'singing a round' makes one think of 'Three blind mice— See how they run!' Here is Dr. Anster's version of the same lines:— 'The sun, as in the ancient days, 'Mong sister stars in rival song, His destined path preserves, obeys. And still in thunder rolls along.' Shelley writes:— 'The sun makes music as of old Amid the rival spheres of Heaven, On its predestined circle rolled With thunder speed.' Again, let us place in parallel the final lines of Raphael's song. Taylor:— 'The lofty works, uncomprehended, Are bright as on the earliest day.' Anster:— 'Mysterious all—yet all is good, All fair as at the birth of light.' Shelley:— 'The world's unwithered countenance Is bright as at the birth of day.' Mr. Taylor's liability to mistake Goethe's meaning—a liability shared by most translators, because the poet is really simple, when they fancy him only an utterer of enigmas—is curiously shown by his rendering of a famous line:— 'Es irrt der Mensch, so lang er strebt.' Goethe meant simply this, 'Man errs when he strives'—calm is both power and joy—leave the great movement of the world do to its work, and be passive in the hands of the Creator. His faith was in repose. Well, Mr. Taylor gives us the renderings of nine translators, none of whom have approached the simplicity, and only one or two the meaning of the original. Ex. gr.:— 'Hayward.—Man is liable to error, while his struggle lasts. Anster.—Man's hour on earth is weakness, error, strife. Brooks.—Man errs and staggers from his birth. Swanwick.—Man, while he striveth, is prone to err. Blackie.—Man must still err, so long as he strives. Martin.—Man, while his struggle lasts, is prone to stray. Beresford.—Man errs as long as lasts his life. Birch.—Man's prone to err in acquisition. Blaze.—L'Homme s'Égare, tant qu'il cherche son but.' To which let us add:— Bayard Taylor.—'While man's desires and aspirations stir, He cannot choose but err.' One would like to know what becomes of the original metres, when a line of eight monosyllables is transmuted into two claudicant lines that run to sixteen syllables. By the way, we must remember one other rendering:— Shelly.— ... 'Man But even Shelley has not quite caught Goethe's meaning. This is excusable, as we know that Shelley's German was imperfect. Our ultimate judgment on Mr. Bayard Taylor's effort is simply this: it is a worthy piece of work, but it does not, and cannot stand as representative of 'Faust,' for the two reasons already assigned. Mr. Taylor cannot fathom Goethe's meaning, and cannot catch his music. The Breitmann Ballads. By Charles G. Leland. Complete Edition. TrÜbner and Co. Mr. Leland has found it necessary to protest against spurious Breitmanns, and to say that his only authentic ballads are contained in this volume—a testimony at once to both the popularity of the ballads and the value of this edition. The various parts of the volume are very unequal in merit, but 'Hans Breitmann in Italy' is equal to the best work of the author, and attests his varied attainments. We have already done justice to the ballads, and need only quote his advice to the Pope:— '"Tonitrus et cespes!" dixit Johanes Breitmann. "Si veritatem cupies, tunc ego sum der right man; Percute semper ferrum dum caldum est et malleable, Nunc est tuum tempus te facere infallible. '"In nostra America quum PrÆses decet abire, Die ultimo fecit omne quodposset imaginire. Appointet ambasciatores et post-magistros, Consules et alios, per dextros et sinistros. '"Quum Rex Bomba ista Neapolit—anus, Compulsus fuit to shin it—ut dixit Africanus— Fecit ultimo die ducos et countos, vanus. (Inter alios McCloskey, tuus Hibernicus chamberlanus.) '"Et quia tu es; ut credo; ultimus Poporum, Facis bene devenire, quod dicitur High Cockalorum— Et Eritus sicut Deus, nemine contradicente! '"Unus error solus, Sancte Pater commisisti. Quia primus infallible non te proclamavisti, Nam nemo audet dicere: Papa fecit quod non est bonus. Decet semper jactare super alios probandi onus. '"Conceptio Immaculata, hoc modo fixisti, Et nemo audet dicere unum verbum, de isti: Non vides si infallibilis es, et vultis es exdare, Non alius sed tu solus hanc debet proclamare." '"Figlio mio," dixit Papa; "tu es homo mirabilis, Tua verba sunt mi dulcior quam ostriche cum Chablis, In tutta Roma, de Alemania gente, Non ho visto uno con si grande mente. Ver obenedetto es—eris benedictus, '"Tibi mitterem photographiam in qua sum depictus, Tu comprendes situatio—il punto et gravamen. Sunt pauci clerici ut te. Nunc dico tibi.—Amen."' The Member for Paris: a Tale of the Second Empire. By Trois-Etoiles. Three vols. Smith, Elder, and Co. The purpose of this very clever book is to give a picture of the political and social state of France during the early period of the Second Empire, the period immediately subsequent to the coup d'État—the period of the Crimean War, and of the CrÉdit Mobilier. Anything more shrewd in observation, more competent in knowledge, more healthy in judgment, more caustic in refined sarcasm, more sparkling in style, it is difficult to imagine. The thread of story upon which these sketches are strung is of the slenderest. Raoul AimÉ was Duke of Hautbourg, on the Loire, whose head shared the fate of those of so many of the old aristocracy in 1793, and whose estate was sold for a mere song to an attorney. Raoul AimÉ's son went into exile, married the wealthy daughter of an English slave-owner, with whose money he bought back the estate, returned to France with Louis XVIII., and died a Minister of State. His son was accidentally killed in the streets the day after the coup d'État of 1851, his nephew, Manuel Gerald, being heir to his title and property. A sturdy, and noble-hearted Republican, Gerald cannot take possession of estates purchased with the money of a slaveholder, or live in France under the rÉgime of Napoleon III. He lives, therefore, in comparative poverty in Brussels, and distributes the large revenue of his estates in charities. His two sons, Horace and Emile, enthusiastically ratify their father's repudiations, and study law in Paris in order to practise as barristers. The father, however, wisely refuses to accept the verdict of his sons as final, puts into their hands a deed conveying the estate to them, and puts them upon a probation of five years, at the end of which their decision is to be given. The two young men enter at the bar, take modest lodgings in the house of a haberdasher, and become the heroes of the story. Their characters are finely discriminated. Horace, the elder, is full of fine generous impulses and virtues, but has certain social weaknesses that render him incapable of the austere, not to say Quixotic virtues of his father. Emile, who is subordinate in the narrative, is less brilliant than Horace, but studious, solid, modest, and Spartan; both brothers, moreover, are affectionate and filial. The interest centres on Horace, who makes a brilliant dÉbut in defence of a press prosecution, and becomes famous; is returned deputy for Paris, becomes acquainted with M. Macrobe, the great financier, the founder and chairman of the CrÉdit Parisien; is so far entangled by him as to marry his daughter Angelique, notwithstanding a deeper passion for Georgette, the haberdasher's daughter; writes brilliant articles, makes effective speeches, passes through various phases of Parisian life, and ultimately, after his father's death, determines to claim the dukedom. Almost every class and aspect of the venal life of Paris during this humiliating period is made to pass before us, the chief personages being portraits from life, easily cognizable by anyone moderately acquainted with history: indeed, the names of some are but very thinly disguised. Thus, Jules Favre is Claude Febre, M. Thiers is M. TirÉ, M. ArsÈne Houssaye is ArsÈne Gousset, Mr. Worth is Mr. Girth, Blanqui is Albi. Journalist, Republican, Legitimist, and Imperial, notably the renowned correspondent of the Daily Telegraph, who is everywhere and knows everything; politicians, lawyers, novel writers, financiers, aristocrats, bourgeoisie, Parisians, and villagers, are presented in careful portraiture—evidently from life—the whole being done with very great literary skill and brilliancy. The story, slight as it is, and notwithstanding the somewhat melodramatic incidents of the struggle between Horace and Albi at his father's grave, and the death of the former and his wife on the day they take possession of the estate, indicates great powers of novel writing, if the writer be so minded. Nothing can be more skilful, discriminating, or beautiful than the delicate contrasts in character between the two brothers, Horace and Emile, the two girls Georgette and Angelique, the two patriots Horace Gerald and Nestor Roche; or more masterly than the way in which the working of Imperial institutions is exhibited. The marvel is that any despot, in such a position of moral isolation, and with such unscrupulous and reckless methods of tyranny and corruption could, for eighteen years, have maintained himself upon the throne of France. The fact speaks volumes for the condition to which unscrupulous rulers and blind revolutions may reduce a great people. The writer's intimate acquaintance with the interior Behind the Veil. By the Author of 'Six Months Hence.' Smith, Elder, and Co. It is an undoubted weakness in a writer of fiction when the interest of the story is made to depend upon a succession of exciting situations and tragic catastrophes. There was in this writer's former work a weird interest in the strange psychological problem which he set himself to work out, and which was done with a considerable degree of power and promise. In the present story sensational incident abounds, and is not earned off by morbid psychology. Here, as in the former work, the interest centres upon a murder—surely human life is varied enough for a fresh source of interest. The story opens with a railway accident, in which the hero is well-nigh killed, and, in his delirium, awakens certain suspicions about his antecedents, the pendant picture of which is a scene of murder in the Australian bush. After his marriage is broken off he nearly dies of typhus fever, in the delirium of which he removes the suspicions which had gathered round him; and Jessie, his betrothed, nearly dies of a ruptured blood-vessel. Twice he is found by Beresford in a remote part of Wales—the chances of finding him there being a hundred thousand to one, while the plot is carried on by a dozen most improbable coincidences. Then James his brother, who in fleeing from justice has slept in a railway truck, apparently rides to his death in a furnace, into which, by automatic action, it is likely to deliver him; but by a refinement of feeling, resembling that of a cat with a mouse, he is made to jump off and over a precipice, only to die a few hours after in the custody of the police, who are in pursuit of him for murder—having confessed himself guilty, first of the murder, then of the crime of blocking the railway, to cause the death of his brother. In addition to all this, Jessie's brother dies of consumption, and a seaside acquaintance is half killed by cardiac asthma. Now we have no objection to a reasonable amount of the tragic, but thus to fill a novel with it is simply repulsive, and is defective art. A good plot should be constructed like a Chinese puzzle, and, like a Chinese puzzle, taken to pieces. The Author of 'Behind the Veil' simply breaks the puzzle after cleverly putting it together. There can be but little good, and a very inferior land of interest in such melodramatic stories; we get too impatient even to be amused, and we cannot rank very highly the writer who chiefly depends upon them. The best parts of 'Behind the Veil' are its dialogues and letters—especially those of Jessie and Flo—which are very spirited and clever; as is also the schoolboy slang of Conrad. If the writer would trust himself to a novel of character he would, judging from these, succeed well. The characters themselves, too, are well conceived and discriminated, especially those of the mother and the two sisters. Noel Arlington is too galvanic to be natural or interesting. Beresford is better, and has two amusing foils in Smith, the pianoforte tuner, and Pinthorne, the curate—both of which are very clever caricatures. The literary power evinced is considerable; the love-making is well-nigh perfect, although we do not quite like a man of thirty-five and upwards marrying a girl of fifteen. The writer ought to do good work; and will, if he will only emancipate himself from a vicious school, depend less upon blue lights, and more upon natural human developments. His book is one in which, while the defects hinder perfect sympathy, the excellences are too distinctive to permit us to lay it aside. Fernyhurst Court; an Every-day Story. By the Author of 'Stone Edge.' Strahan and Co. If the author of 'Behind the Veil' has gone to the one extreme, the author of 'Fernyhurst Court' has gone to the other. Although her work belongs to the higher and more thoughtful school of character, and although it is written with the delicacy, beauty, and power that challenged attention and excited expectation in 'Stone Edge,' it has not movement enough to sustain its characters. The artistic structure is loose, although upon the artistic finish much careful pains is bestowed. More of the evolution of a story would have prevented the tendency to run into inordinate descriptions and to desultoriness which has sometimes wearied us. The book is a thoroughly good one—it could not be otherwise from the pen of its author—but like 'Benoni Blake,' upon which we have offered some criticisms in another place, it might have been better. Whatever the skill of touch and the effects of colour, the first great requisite of a picture is composition; so the first great work of a novel writer is a story—and story there is none in 'Fernyhurst Court.' Its studies are chiefly of women, and are apparently intended to exhibit the causes of wifely unfitness and motherly failure, in little defects of temper and unselfishness. Some half-dozen thoroughly disagreeable women are delineated—none of them wicked, but all unloveable through little naggings, or little Her Title of Honour. By Holme Lee. Henry S. King. This charming biographical fiction is constructed upon the outline of Henry Martyn's history, which it clothes with imaginative flesh and blood, incident, conversation, and motive; so far, that is, as the actual history does not supply these. The authoress has been very faithful to biographical fact; her religious sympathies, moreover, have enabled her to enter with great appreciation into the purposes and motives, the hopes and fears, the fluctuations and resolves of that heroic life. The result is an imaginative story that is probably more true to actual life than the ordinary biographies of Henry Martyn are; for imaginative genius—faithful, as here, to ascertained facts, even the minutest—can represent men and women much more truly and vividly than a mere common-place biographer who is restricted to literal fact. The conception of Eleanor's character, generous and loving, and yet falling short of needful heroism, is not only very fine, but is, perhaps, the true explanation of the great disappointment in Martyn's career. Personal and local names are changed so as to give greater freedom of treatment to the artist, but they are easily identified—Truro with Pengarvon, Salisbury with Craxon, Eleanor Trevelyan with Lydia Grenfell. We scarcely need say of a book of Holme Lee's writing that it is carefully finished, and redolent of a refined and beautiful soul. We have no more accomplished or conscientious literary artist. The fine touches of characterization of which the book is full, give it a great charm to cultivated minds. The broken-off purposes of Henry Martyn's life give novelty to the course and issue of the story, and significance to the moral which wise preachers often proclaim, that tangible achievement is not the greatest end or influence of a life. Henry Martyn may have applied great scholarship and refined intellectual powers to work, which ordinary literati would have done even better, but the consecration of ordinary powers would not have filled the Church and the world with such an influence. Benoni Blake, M.D., Surgeon at Glenaldie. By the Author of 'Peasant Life in the North.' Strahan and Co. 'Peasant Life in the North' won for its author a respectful attention to whatever else he might publish. Few sketches, of contemporaneous writers, surpass or equal the racy characterizations and subtle human tenderness of 'Muckle Jock,' the mild Rhadamanthus doom of 'The Dainty Drainer,' or the perfect admixture of refined passion and rustic roughness of 'The Mason's Daughter.' 'Benoni Blake,' therefore, excited expectations which it will both gratify and disappoint. Let us have done with the grumbling first. Of course the subjective characteristics of this author were to be anticipated. No one could have looked for a novel in the style of Charles Lever or Wilkie Collins from him. Subtle analysis, quiet description, and a certain vein of sentimental and philosophical reflection and comment were to be expected. We will not say that in these rather than in crowded incident and dramatic representations the chief genius of fiction lies. Every man in his own order. 'Charles O'Malley' is, in its way, as good as 'The Transformations;' but we may say that the greatest achievement of genius is a just equilibrium between the two, and this the author of 'Benoni Blake' has not maintained. His work is a photograph rather than a story, a photograph of the kind that presents the same face in four aspects of it. The effect is like looking through an album containing only different photographs of the same person. The art is very beautiful, and the effect for a little while very charming, but one gets tired before the second volume, and wishes that 'Benoni Blake' would do something, or that somebody would do something to him. We get as tired of his simple inertia as he of the simple facile sweetness of Bessie's kisses. There is, moreover, a little too much about kissing; the sweetness of kisses is better suggested than described. The author has made the mistake of expanding a sketch, such as might have found a place in 'Peasant Life,' into a book—story it scarcely is—and he has done this by repetitions and reiterations of substantially the same situation and sentiments. This probably is an unconscious revolt against mere sensationalism, for the writer is clearly capable of spirited dialogue and of inventive construction. We are not, however, quite sure of the limit of this power. Neither the peasant dialogues nor the conversations of educated persons have much variety; the latter, indeed, if we except the brief episodes at Fanflare Lodge and of the flirtation with Miss Shawe, are almost wholly substituted by descriptions. We are told what the characters are—they do not unfold or exhibit themselves. The author has, however, a minute acquaintance with the provincial thought and speech of the Scottish peasantry; their racy humour, pawky shrewdness, and quaint prejudices, are admirably described. John, the minister's man, and Nannie, his female counterpart, are genuine types;—John's leal affection comes out very nobly in the proffer of his hoarded savings. So, in a somewhat higher grade, are Mr. Bowie, the 'paper minister,' and Miss Robison. The conversation between Mr. Bowie and John, as the latter drives home the former, is the raciest bit in the book; but all this runs in a very narrow groove. There are, too, certain mannerisms, which recall unpleasantly reminiscences of the way in which Thackeray buttonholes his readers It is easier, however, to speak of defects than of excellences, and the manifold and great excellences of 'Benoni Blake' alone justify us in saying so much about its defects. The former are a minute knowledge and love of nature, a keen insight into the fluctuations and inconsistencies of human nature, a sympathetic tenderness for its sorrows and loves and pure joys, hearty enjoyment of its humour and pathos, and a quiet realism, exquisitely flavoured with sentiment, which portrays life as an accomplished artist paints a portrait, with just that idealism which adorns character without falsifying it. The character of Benoni, gentle and good but not heroic, drifting into virtue rather than fighting for it; that of Bessie, tender, yet resolute; lowly yet great in self-sacrificing power; trustful as worship, yet sensitive and very refined in feeling, and capable of being helped, as her friend Miss Robison helps her—are both admirably done: so is the contrast between the two ministers, Mr. Blake and Mr. Bowie. There is, however, something unnatural and improbable in the relative feeling of father and son, and we are sorry that Miss Robison should fall into the arms of a selfish and vulgar fellow like Bowie. The Fanfare family are also well portrayed. Altogether there is great power and greater promise in 'Benoni Blake.' It exhibits the fine elements of Scottish life in its lowlier walks, with a degree of ability that equals that of the author of 'Robin Grey.' It is full of beautiful lights and shades, tender touches, and racy humour, great truthfulness, and delicate discrimination. It does not fulfil the promise of 'Peasant Life in the North,' but had not that appeared first, it would be the promise of much better things to come. A Harmony of the Essays, &c., of Francis Bacon. Arranged by Edward Arber. English Reprints. London: 5, Queen-square, Bloomsbury. Mr. Arber has here furnished us with one of the most curious and interesting books even of his rich series. His ample bibliography leaves no point necessary for elucidation untouched. It includes Dr. Rowley's 'Life of Lord Bacon,' Ben Jonson's testimony, Aubrey's gossip, 'A Prologue on Varieties of Species in Literature, with special reference to the Essay and its Natural History;' a general introduction concerning Bacon's literary character in connection with his personal history; a bibliographical catalogue and tabular return of the various editions of the essays, with an account of translations, &c. Nothing, indeed, seems to have escaped the industry of this prince of modern bibliographers. But the chief interest of the volume is its harmony of different texts. The texts selected are—I. The Editio Princeps, published 1597. II. Second edition, 1598; these two editions being almost identical. III. A volume preserved among the Harleian Manuscripts, containing interlineations and corrections in Bacon's own hand. IV. Second revised text, published 1612. V. Final English edition, 1625; usually regarded as the standard edition, but nevertheless varied and corrected by Bacon. These texts are printed by Mr. Arber in four parallel columns, Nos. I. and II. being identical in the first column, and Bacon's final corrections of No. V. being appended in foot-notes. The different works included in Mr. Arber's volume are:—I. A Harmony of the first group of ten Essays. II. 'Meditationes SacrÆ,' Latin text with English translation. III. 'On the Colours of Good and Evil.' IV. A Harmony of the second group of twenty-four Essays. V. A Harmony of the third group of six Essays. VI. A Harmony of the fourth group of eighteen Essays. VII. The Fragment of an Essay on Fame. We scarcely need point out the great literary curiosity which this harmony of the essays constitutes, nor the means which it affords of studying Bacon's painstaking 'file,' and its illustration of his own saying, 'I alter ever when I add, so that nothing is finished till all be finished;' the significant comment of the great master on 'easy' writing. The perfection of Bacon's essays is the result of nearly forty years' continuous labour. Publications of the Early English Text Society. TrÜbner and Co. 1871. 46. Legends of the Holy Rood; Symbols of the Passion and Cross Poems. Edited by Richard Morris, LL.D. 47. Sir David Lyndesay's Works. Part V. The Minor Poems of Lyndesay. Edited by J. A. H. Murray, Esq. 48. The Time's Whistle: or a Newe Daunce of Seven Satires, and other Poems. Compiled by R. C., Gent. Edited by J. M. Cowper, Esq. Extra Series. XIV. On Early English Pronunciation, with especial reference to Shakspeare and Chaucer. By Alexander J. Ellis, F.R.S., F.S.A., &c., &c. Part III. The present issue will more than satisfy the members of this valuable Society, and we can scarcely doubt that the publications of which it consists will attract to it more subscribers. Dr. Morris's collection of 'Legends of the Holy Rood' will be welcomed both for the examples which it furnishes of the English language, as written in the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries, and still more for its exhibition of one of the most interesting of the Christian legends, in several of the forms in which our forefathers were accustomed to hear it. The learned editor has prefixed to the collection a summary of the incidents of the legend in its various forms, and many who do Nearly half of the volume containing the minor poems of Lyndesay is occupied by a preface by Professor Nichol, giving a sketch of Scottish poetry up to the time of Sir David Lyndesay, with an outline of his works. Some of the poems are amusing. That entitled 'The Justyng betuix James Watsoun and Jhone Barbour,' has a ring of humour, reminding us of Burns; but, on the whole, these pieces do not give a very high impression of the poet's power. The expression is better than the matter. The author of 'The Time's Whistle' is unknown, but his present editor, Mr. Cowper, appears to be inclined to identify him with Richard Corbet, successively Bishop of Oxford, and of Norwich. Whoever he was, he hated well Papistry and Puritanism, as well as the grosser vices of his day, which seem to have been those of most days. The blows of his satire do not lack force, though they may delicacy of epithet, and his judgments on others are made from the firm ground of a supreme self-satisfaction. It is noteworthy how, just after the golden days of Queen Bess, the age appeared to its censors as evil as that of Queen Victoria does to ours. The attitude of High and Dry Churchmen towards Papist and Dissenter also appears in these verses just as we are familiar with it, and the vices castigated are those of all times. There is, however, one exception, in the description given of the ignorant frequenter of bookstalls, who sought to make himself appear a man of learning by poring over and seeming to read authors whose language he did not know. The description of him is very amusing. In some of the smaller poems the writer shows poetic feeling, especially in reference to the beauties of nature, expressed in graceful verse. The third part of Mr. Ellis's valuable work on 'English Pronunciation' is a vast mine of information and suggestion concerning the great subject he is attempting to treat. This part contains, besides Mr. Ellis's own writing, and the passages from authors which he prints for the purposes of his arguments, reprints of several early tracts on pronunciation and phonetic writing, and a pronouncing vocabulary of the sixteenth century, compiled from several authors of that age. We venture, however, to think that Mr. Ellis will need an interpreter to make the fruit of his labours available to any but those who can wholly devote themselves to the study of his subject. His 'Glossic, or New System of Spelling,' and 'Key to Universal Glossic,' by means of which he seeks to express the many sounds of human language, are, to say the least, very hard to be understood. The problem is, doubtless, a most difficult one, and Mr. Ellis's signal qualifications to deal with it are so well known that we can do no more here than acknowledge gratefully this further contribution of his learned labour in a field of unknown fertility, little cultivated, and painful to till: while we at the same time point out the hindrance we find in deriving all the benefit from his work which we believe it is capable of affording. THEOLOGY, PHILOSOPHY, AND PHILOLOGY. History of Protestant Theology, particularly in Germany, viewed according to its fundamental Movement, and in connection with the Religious, Moral, and Intellectual Life. By Dr. J. A. Dorner, Oberconsistorialrath and Professor of Theology at Berlin. Translated by the Rev. George Robson, M.A., Inverness, and Sophia Taylor. 2 vols. Edinburgh: T. and T. Clark. 1871. Dr. Dorner is already well known in this country by the translation, published by Messrs. Clark, in their Foreign Theological Library, of his admirable and exhaustive work on the 'Person of Christ,' as a theologian who unites profound and extensive learning with spiritual insight, rare intellectual acumen, and earnest piety. The translation of his 'History of Protestant Theology,' now published, will be hailed as a welcome boon by all thoughtful students of Christian doctrine. It cannot fail to increase and extend the high estimation in which the author is held, and must lead to what is peculiarly needed at the present time, the formation of deeper and sounder views of the great principles involved in the religious and intellectual movement of the Reformation. The original work came out about five years ago, as one of a series of Histories of the Sciences, undertaken by the Historical Commission of the Royal Academy of Science at Munich, under the auspices of the King of Bavaria. It took at once a high position in the recent theological literature of Germany. The companion work of the series, 'a History of Catholic Theology,' by Dr. Werner, is admitted, even by Roman Catholic reviewers, to be decidedly inferior to it in scientific depth and thoroughness. Unquestionably a history like this, so intimately pervaded by the true spirit of a living Protestantism, which enables one clearly to understand the course of evolution pursued by the doctrinal systems included under that name, deserves to be regarded as 'a classic, both in respect of matter and form.' We cannot, however, add in respect of style; for it must be admitted that Dr. Dorner, like most of his countrymen, is very little solicitous to recommend his thoughts by arranging them in an attractive dress. His sentences are too The distinctive excellencies of Dr. Dorner's history appear to us to be the following:—First of all, as might be expected, it is marked by depth and thoroughness of learning. The investigation is carried out over the whole field, embracing all the sections and national branches of Protestantism, with their subdivisions, from the time of Luther onwards to our own day. So far from confining his review to the Lutheran communities of Germany, ample space is assigned to the leading representatives of opinion in the Reformed or Calvinistic churches of France and Switzerland, Great Britain, and North America. These are all taken up in due order, analyzed, and classified according to their respective tendencies. The schools of Germany, no doubt, receive the largest measure of attention, but there is a good reason for this in the fact which the author says will be owned by all, 'that the strength of scientific Protestantism, both in exegetical, historical, and systematic theology, rests in Germany.' He follows up this claim, however, with an ingenuous confession of the weakness and shortcomings of the German Churches, in comparison with those of other countries, in the practical and moral application of Protestant principles. The accounts given of the different systems, their origin, method of inquiry, and influence, are very complete and faithful. They show a wonderful capacity to grasp the contents and scope of widely different forms of thought and speculation, together with admirable skill in the exposition of them, so as to make even their abstruse portions intelligible. There is none of the dryness and heaviness that is often complained of as attaching to the discussion of the dogmas of a bygone age; but the vivid force of a subtle and active mind runs through and enlivens the whole. Some writers on those subjects remind one of a spiritless cicerone leading you through avenues of ruins, pointing out each object with the wearisome and formal minuteness of a catalogue; but our author is like one who resuscitates the spirit of the past, and who can throw a human interest around the fallen columns and deserted halls, awakening sympathy with the men who reared them and made them their home. In this respect he reminds us of the great Church historian, Neander. The gift is certainly one of rarer occurrence among theological writers than in the class of general historians. This feeling of interest which is breathed into the discussions and controversies of the past, is closely associated with what we conceive to be the cardinal excellence of this history, stamping it with real scientific worth. We refer to the instinctive skill and fidelity displayed in tracing out the inner and formative principles of each movement, defining the limits and relations of each, and with keen and well-practised judgment determining the degrees of validity that should be assigned to them. This process is carried out by the author, not under the influence of some philosophic assumptions—which have too frequently been set up as a regulation standard in this kind of criticism—but in a spirit of Christian enlightenment and evangelical experience. Everywhere we mark the union of reverence for divine authority with the manly assertion of spiritual freedom in an honest search after truth. Hence his mode of judging those theories of religion which are most divergent from his own views, and antagonistic (as we should say) to Scriptural orthodoxy, is free from all narrowness, prejudice, and bitterness. He does not pronounce upon them according to their deviation from certain human formularies, but seeks to indicate the relation which they hold to ascertained laws of intellectual and spiritual progress. He shows how, in several instances, erroneous as they were, they formed a natural and partly justifiable revolt from the injurious impositions and restrictions of a barren orthodoxy, and led many to a healthier and more fruitful cultivation of the intellect and of the spiritual faculty. We have never read a delineation of the deep-seated causes which occasioned the birth and growth of Rationalism, so instructive and admonitory—we might add so impressive—from its candour and tenderness, as that which is given in the second volume of this work. Hagenbach's valuable history of the same phenomena is indeed composed with great fairness and ability, and is presented in a more popular method and style; but from that very cause it deals more with the superficial and obvious aspects of the case, and lacks the spiritual depth and completeness of Dorner's diagnosis. The study of both histories, however, should be combined; for each supplies what is wanting in the other. We require to conjoin with the scientific analysis of principles and tendencies which we have here, the striking pictures of men, society, and events, which enliven the pages of the more popular writer. In Dorner's view, the aberrations of Rationalism formed a needful stage, though an unhappy one, in the purification and elevation of Protestant theology, which has come forth from it enlarged and liberalized in its scope, better adapted to the wants of humanity, and more directly based on just and firm foundations. Accordingly we find that, while he does not look upon error with cool philosophic indifference, he can expose it without severity, or any approach to denunciation. He detects the elements of forgotten truths, which are often mixed up with it; perceives the openings by which it liberated and brought into play those faculties of our nature which had been unwisely fettered and suppressed; and shows how, by the fermentation which it stirred in the inert mass, it contributed to an ultimate reform both of theology and religion. In short, in this history we are not only guided to the sources of the stream The work is in two volumes, and is divided into three books, the first of which occupies the whole of the former volume, embracing three divisions. The first presents a most interesting account of the preparatory forces, intellectual and spiritual, which were at work in the Protestant Reformation period. This sketch is necessarily rapid, yet it is remarkably complete and accurate. The Papal Church of the Middle Ages departed from the true idea of Christianity 'in not subordinating herself to the spiritual renovation of the nations, but setting up the principle of [Church] authority, and lordship, of its own end and highest good,' which led to all the spiritual blessings and ordinances of the Church being 'transferred into instruments of ecclesiastical power and hierarchical rule.' Thus, religion was changed in its very essence. Its blessings ceased to consist in personal fellowship with God, and assumed a materialistic and impersonal character. Mysterious influences and powers belonging to the Church and the clergy were made to constitute the riches of Christianity; and so piety, robbed of its personal end, attached itself to the visible altar, and to other sensible things. An ethical personal holiness was exchanged for a material relation, dependent on ceremonies. This is the radical error of all sacramentalism. The more sincere, who were anxious about their personal salvation, could not rest satisfied in such a system. Dr. Dorner—after discussing the relations of the MediÆval Church to the questions of man's salvation, to truth, and to the sphere of the civil power, which it strove to subjugate; and having traced the influence of Anselm, Aquinas, and the Schoolmen upon doctrine—treats briefly of the Latin and German mystics, showing how they sought direct communion with God, by contemplation and self abnegation. Their defects and excellencies are ably analyzed. Among the pioneers of the Reformation a high place is assigned to John Wessel, because of the prominence he gives to evangelical faith in the Mediator. When the representatives of the Biblical principle, in this preparatory stage, are introduced, it is shown how Wycliffe advanced it in alliance with the scientific and moral factors; but some injustice is done to him in respect of his doctrinal views, which the translator, Mr. Robson, has carefully corrected in one of the valuable notes with which he has enriched this volume. The treatises of Wycliffe, edited by Dr. Vaughan, in 1845, prove beyond question that the cardinal doctrines of grace were clearly apprehended and taught by the English Reformer. In the second division, the Reformation itself is handled, as it appeared in Germany and in Switzerland, together with the various phases and relations it assumed up to the time of the Wittenberg Concord in 1536. A leading place is, of course, given to the character and experience of Luther, and the strongest light is thrown upon the fact that the movement in his case, and in Calvin's as well, had its origin in a great spiritual conflict and personal change. It was in seeking for and in obtaining the assurance of pardon, and in the experience of a power renovating the heart and life, bringing the whole man into communion with God through Christ, that Luther rose to the conception of faith as a divine principle uniting the soul to the Saviour, and freeing the believer, not only from the terrors of conscience and the moral impotency of the will, but from all subjection to human authority in divine things. This is justly exalted by Dr. Dorner as the material principle, and the moving force of the Reformation; this is at once its life and its law. It is by the harmonious working of this element, in a normal conjunction with the formal principle which sprung out of it, and which derives from it a solid application—viz.: The recognition of the divine authority and inspiration of the Scriptures,—that the life of the Reformation is fully and healthily developed. Both the evangelical systems of doctrine, the Lutheran and the Calvinistic, owe their characteristic excellencies to the interaction of these two principles which gave them birth. Their improvement, and the prosecution of the truths they contain, must spring from the same source. It is only by the renewed mind and heart of the believer, enlightened and guided by the Spirit speaking through the Word, that the doctrines of Christianity can be apprehended and embraced. Christianity is the salvation of God, and can be understood by none but those who personally appropriate its blessings through the Spirit by a living faith in the Redeemer. Throughout his history, Dr. Dorner never allows us to lose sight of that fact. The controversies, the declensions, the errors, the revivals, which he follows out in long array through the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, are so many instructive, admonitory, or cheering illustrations of this fundamental law of Protestantism. There is no security for the material principle when separated from the formal, while the formal is emptied of life and fruitfulness if divorced from the material principle, the new life of faith in the soul. A divine, child-like faith in the heart, owning and yielding to divine authority in the Word, is the secret of safety and progress. That will give us at once Scriptural orthodoxy, and true freedom. Space fails us, or we would fain have touched Both translators deserve high commendation for the manner in which they have executed their laborious task. Mr. Robson's part is marked by great exactness, which at times becomes too closely literal; Miss Taylor's performance is more smooth and flowing, but in some of the metaphysical portions a doubt occurs as to whether the author's thought has been precisely seized. Yet, in many a paragraph we have admired the facility with which the lady has worked her way through rather abstruse speculations and involved periods. We tender both our most hearty thanks for the service they have rendered the theological public, and would beg most strongly to commend the work to all scientific students of our common Protestantism. The Witness of History to Christ. Five Sermons preached before the University of Cambridge; being the Hulsean Lecture for the year 1870. By the Rev. F. W. Farrar, M.A. Macmillan and Co. Mr. Farrar's object in his Hulsean Lecture is to examine the moral and intellectual causes of modern unbelief. This he does in five lectures—the first demonstrating 'the Antecedent Credibility of the Miraculous;' the second affirming 'the Adequacy (for reasonable conviction) of the Gospel Records;' the third setting forth, from the facts of its history, 'The Victories of Christianity;' the fourth and fifth on 'Christianity and the Individual' and 'Christianity and the Race,' demonstrating the transcendent and transforming moral power of the religion of Jesus Christ, as a presumptive argument for its truthfulness—the whole being a cumulative argument, demonstrating that Christianity is the Divine and supernatural truth of God, which it professes to be. Mr. Farrar is necessarily restricted in these several lines of argument, by the limits of a spoken discourse devoted to each, to a few salient points, and to an indicative mode of argument; and we, of course, can follow even him but a very little way. The first, and fundamental question in the controversy between sceptical science and religious faith is the credibility of the supernatural. We do not think that Mr. Farrar has carried the intellectual argument further than it has hitherto been carried, or than perhaps it can be carried. Whatever theologians may say, it revolves in a circle. Science refuses to be represented by men like Strauss, who begin all argument by the petitio principii that the supernatural is antecedently incredible and absolutely impossible—for a more thoroughly unscientific position cannot be conceived. Nothing is antecedently impossible to true science; by the very conditions of it, it is restricted to the demonstration and interpretation of actual facts. Concerning the possible discovery of unknown facts it can say absolutely nothing. The question really is, Have the alleged supernatural facts of Scripture been demonstrated? Nor is it enough that science can urge nothing in disproof—the onus probandi lies with those who affirm. What then is the scientific value of the testimony to the alleged miracles of Scripture? First, it has to be admitted that the testimony is furnished solely by Scripture—that is, by the book which the miraculous is adduced to authenticate. Next, it can scarcely be denied that the chief strength of the Scriptural evidence lies in the transcendent moral qualities of Scripture. It is not the miraculous that authenticates the holy doctrine; it is the holy doctrine that authenticates the miraculous. The miraculous is affirmed by Prophets, Evangelists, and by Christ; and it is a moral impossibility that these should affirm falsely. We, therefore, who did not see the miracle, but only receive it on testimony, accept the testimony because the witnesses are unimpeachable. The actual beholders did not; to them the miracle was the credential of the teacher; but to us the teacher is the credential of the miracle. From which it follows that science will never accept the evidence of the miracle until it has accepted the unimpeachableness of the witnesses—that is, it must accept the truth and holiness of Jesus Christ before it will believe His miraculous works. Mr. Farrar, therefore, is perfectly justified in affirming that 'modern scepticism has not advanced one step further than the blank assertion, as regards the inadequacy of testimony to establish a miracle;' but, on the other hand, he must admit Modern Scepticism. A Course of Lectures delivered at the request of the Christian Evidence Society. With an Explanatory Paper by the Right Rev. J. Ellicott, D.D., Lord Bishop of Gloucester and Bristol. Hodder and Stoughton. 1871. The present volume is an interesting sign of the times. Those who love our common Christianity more than they love the ecclesiastical systems which have so often interfered with their co-operation in Christian work, here stand side by side to advocate positions common to them all. The general diffusion of an atmosphere of sceptical speculation which has not only crept over the outworks but has invaded the very citadel of the Christian faith, has received great augmentation from the mutual antagonism of some Christians, and from the unhappy concessions of others. If nothing more had been gained for the cause of Christian truth than the juxtaposition of these essays in one volume, with the assurance thus given to the world that the most distinguished dignitaries of the Church of England hold common ground with learned Congregationalists and Wesleyan divines on the fundamental bases of religious faith, the Christian Evidence Society might be fairly congratulated on the success of its enterprise. There is an intrinsic value in the re-assertion of the deep convictions of cultured men and genuine Christians, touching the very foundation of religious thought. When a volume of 500 pages professes to cover the controversies that have been stirred during the last half century on the very nature of evidence, on the presence of design in nature, on the pantheistic and positivistic interpretation of the facts of the universe, on the relations of science and revelation, on the nature of miracles, on the gradual development of revelation, on the historical difficulties of the entire Bible, on the mythical theories of Christianity, on the credential value of the Pauline Epistles, on the character of the Lord Jesus, and on the totality and adequacy of Christian evidences; it is obvious that these topics must many of them be touched, rather than discussed; approached, rather than developed. The reader of these discourses is not supposed to be a convert to the doctrines of either Mr. Darwin or Auguste Comte, of Professor Tyndall or M. RÉnan. Those who have plunged into the rapid current of materialistic philosophy, or have mastered the details of positivism, or become thoroughly familiar with the 'higher criticism' of Germany, will not be diverted from their opinions by these popular and interesting addresses. But there is a large class of educated young men and cultivated women who are at the present moment staggered by second-hand rechauffÉs of various scepticisms, who are fascinated by the audacity of modern doubt, and relieved from ugly fears by the confident assertions of triumphant students of history and science, who relish the boisterous breeze of these cloudy uplands of speculation, and take greedily any assurance which wars with old prejudices and threatens to uproot old systems or institutions. There are, moreover, multitudes of busy men who have no time to study these various forms of scepticism, but who are made miserable whenever they have time to think, by the thickly flying shafts of the enemies of Christianity. To these classes we conceive the volume before us may be of great service. Everywhere we discover honesty of purpose, sympathy with the doubter, an endeavour on the part of thoughtful and learned Christian teachers to put themselves into the position of the inquirer. There is comparatively little dogmatism, there is very considerable beauty of illustration, and there breathes throughout the Freedom in the Church of England. Six Sermons Suggested by the Voysey Judgment, Preached in St. James's Chapel, York-street. By the Rev. Stopford A. Brook. London: Henry S. King. This little volume contains many things—Doctrinal, Ecclesiastical, and Social—put with much freshness and power, albeit with some rashness, upon which much detailed criticism might be bestowed. The doctrinal sermons on the Atonement and Original Sin would necessarily demand for their adequate criticism a space equal to that which they themselves occupy. They lay down positions that must be tested—first by Scripture, next by general principles of moral philosophy, and lastly, by the doctrinal standards of the Episcopal Church. We do not of course attempt to test them. Gladly recognising in them much that is eternally true, much that is profoundly philosophical, and much that commands our admiration for its intellectual acuteness and vigour, we make only one or two remarks concerning them. First, scarcely any attempt is made to show the harmony of the views propounded with the doctrinal statements of Scripture; they are evolved out of the depths of the author's own moral consciousness, which is perfectly legitimate; only his anxiety to justify them to the standards of the Episcopal Church rather than to the statements of the Christian apostles, is not so legitimate and satisfactory for a simple inquirer after truth, however necessary for a Churchman. The two great factors of all true doctrine are surely the Divine revelation and man's moral consciousness. It is the misery of doctrinal Church standards that they necessarily rule so much of a man's thinking. We, outside the Episcopal Church care but very subordinately about the harmony of a clergyman's views with his Church Articles; we care very much about the harmony of his teachings concerning atonement and original sin with Divine revelation and the eternal truth of things. As the result of the whole argumentation, we can say, only, that if Mr. Brook's conclusions respecting the congruity of his teaching with the standards of his Church be satisfactory to himself, the acute and fearless author of the arguments themselves is a mystery to us. To us it is a painful illustration of the influence of an embarrassing position upon freedom and coherence of thought. Mr. Brook seems to us to contradict categorically the explicit teaching of his Church, both about original sin and the Atonement. Concerning his views on original sin we have to say (1) that with the ninth article before us, it is to us utterly incredible that the men, most of whom, Mr. Brook admits, held the same doctrine which he 'rejects with dismay and horror,' purposely left their statement so undefined as to admit of views so opposed to theirs as Mr. Brook's. If they did, all the worse for them and their article. (2) Mr. Brook altogether fails, in our judgment, to justify, by his attenuated exposition of the 'fault and corruption of our nature,' the strong expression of the article 'it deserveth God's wrath and damnation.' (3) Mr. Brook's answer to the question 'Why should God have made us with this wrong twist?' is simply 'Because God wanted humanity,' and not 'a new angelic nature in which there should be no effort, no contest, no dramatic possibilities.' The only conclusion that he leaves open to us is, that whatever original sin is, it is a created part or condition of our nature—that is, God creates us in a condition that 'deserveth God's wrath and damnation.' Mr. Brook's view of original sin may be the true one, but this is the result to which he brings us by applying to it the test of the ninth article. Concerning the Atonement, Mr. Brook's theory is, that Christ was the ideal man, in whom union with God was gradually developed—being from 'the moment of his birth potentially His, as the whole growth of the oak is in the acorn.' That the merit of His suffering consisted in His perfectly identifying himself with the sorrow of mankind; 'losing the consciousness of Himself and of His own pain, through the intensity of His sympathy with us,' He threw himself 'into the whole sense of this vast human suffering, and so realizing it as His own, offered it up to the pity and love of God.' 'In this way He took unto himself our suffering, and suffered for it; in this way He represented in that hour unto the Father, by means of the perfect self-forgetfulness of love, all the spiritual pain of the world's absence from God.' 'God sees in Christ the ideal of humanity, the whole race as sinless, as one with himself;' 'the innocent suffered, through love, the pain which comes of sin.' 'He passed from feeling as a man, to feeling as a representative man.' 'He lost all thought of self in awful realization of the sin of the whole' world.' 'God saw, in the absolute self-sacrifice which enabled Christ to lose himself in love of man, and to bear the burden of the sin of man in passionate sympathy with the awfulness Concerning this theory, we remark, that while very much that is said by Mr. Brook about the sufferings of Christ is beautifully true, yet, as a theory of the Atonement, it is (1) to our conception, utterly at variance with the doctrine of the Prayer Book, and with the theories of its compilers. It is for lawyers to say whether under such standards such a divergent theory is legally tenable—we can only say that we should not like to shelter a moral contradiction like this under a legal possibility. (2) Whatever may be the merits of the 'forensic theory' which, says Mr. Brook, 'I utterly deny and repudiate,' 'it outrages our idea of God; it makes him satisfied with a fiction;' this martyr theory of an ideal humanity suffering in Christ, infinitely surpasses it in unreality. If the forensic theory involves a legal fiction, this involves a moral fiction—which is not only unthinkable in the domain of moral realities, but which, so far as we can think, contradicts our deepest moral instincts. If there is to be a fiction at all, which we think there need not be, we infinitely prefer the legal fiction of Aquinas. No! whatever the true theory of Atonement, this is not it. We can understand a federal headship of humanity, which obtains for it fresh probation and fresh privileges, but we cannot understand a federal headship which gives a quasi spiritual character, and which induces in God an unreal moral estimate. In passing from this doctrinal part of the book, we may ask why Mr. Brook represents David as being from early morning until noon in ascending the Mount of Olives, the summit of which may be easily reached from St. Stephen's Gate in half an hour? The first sermon here printed, however, although the last preached, naturally challenges our chief attention. It discusses the question of 'Freedom in the [Established] Church' apropos of the bearing upon it of the judgment in Mr. Voysey's case. We note one or two points in it only. First Mr. Brook says 'that the restrictions upon liberty of thought, which he deprecates, would soon make the Church into a narrow and bigoted sect.' The phrase, omitting the adjectives, has become a kind of formula with Churchmen of Mr. Brook's school. We have frequently tried to apprehend this attempted distinction between a Church and a sect, but we are unable to do so; and we should unaffectedly feel that Mr. Brook had laid us under a great obligation if he had given us a distinct and intelligible definition. What is a Church, and what is a sect? and wherein lies the differentia of the two? In what sense is the Episcopal communion a Church and not a sect, that is not equally true of the Presbyterian and Congregational communions? Will Mr. Brook accept the definition of a Church given in the 19th Article? 'The visible Church of Christ is a congregation of faithful men, in the which the pure Word of God is preached, and the Sacraments be duly ministered,' &c.? If so, then he can deny the designation 'Church' to every congregational ecclesia—only by impugning its 'faithful' character, its preaching or its sacraments. Is it the criterion of a Church to be without formulated dogmas—or to have doctrinal standards from which her clergy have indefinite liberty to dissent? In the former case the Episcopal communion is not a Church—in the latter, Congregationalists or Presbyterians might easily become a Church, by according liberty of dissent from their standards. The only thing that hinders among them the laxity of subscription and interpretation which Mr. Brook claims for his own Church is that they really believe in their beliefs, and make fidelity to them a matter of conscience. We should be glad to know the exact variation of the theological compass that converts a sect into a Church. Or does Mr. Brook regard a National Establishment as the criterion of a Church? Then he unchurches the Church of Rome in England, the Episcopal Church in Ireland and Scotland, and prepares for the unchurching of Episcopacy in England ere long. If universality be the criterion, then Episcopacy cannot claim it. If to be the largest religious body in a country be the criterion, then what is Episcopacy in Scotland, Ireland, or Wales? If the criterion be catholicity of spirit towards those who differ from us, we fear that neither historically nor actually could his own Church make out a very unequivocal claim. We have really looked at this rhetorical distinction on all sides, and are unable to apprehend it; and yet it is perpetually flung at our poor Nonconformist heads as a missile that is as potent as David's sling and stone. Is it worthy of intelligent and candid men, Mr. Brook propounds once more the old crippled fallacy, 'By right every Englishman is a member of the National Church. It is of his own free choice that he rejects that right.' But what if he conscientiously disbelieves in that Church—and holds that in establishing it and requiring national assent to it, both Church and State have gone beyond the domain of the things that are CÆsar's into that of the things that are God's? This, the real gist of the whole matter, is carefully avoided. The Jews used the same argument against the Christians; the Inquisition of the Romish Church against Protestants. The essential injustice lies in maintaining any established Church in a divided nation; and in the attempt to control a man's religious conscience by any civil law or institution whatsoever. Is it not simply childish to affirm, with England as it is, that the parochial clergy 'feel as representatives of a National Church, that all within the range of their several districts—no matter what and who those are—dissenters, non-church-goers, infidels, are their responsibility, and are given into their spiritual care by the nation.' No doubt they do; but does anybody else feel it? is not this the impertinence which one half the nation so resents? Mr. Brook is too candid not to see that all this is the theory of a by-gone state of things, and that the very mention of it now excites ridicule. Accordingly the word 'ought,' and its equivalents do yeoman's service throughout this sermon. It is indeed a discourse upon what a National Church ought to be, rather than upon what the National Church actually is. So far as we understand Mr. Brook, there ought to be almost every conceivable diversity of religious belief in the community, and the National Church ought to be so vague in its dogmas, or so flexible in their interpretation, as that its clergy ought to represent them all. And to this the argument must come. With very many of Mr. Brook's subordinate remarks we cordially agree. He is thoughtful and catholic-hearted, and has a keen perception of much that is beautiful in Christian doctrine and life. But the task that he has set himself is simply an impossible one. He wishes contradictories, perfect freedom, and distinctive dogmas; a definite Church character, and an indiscriminate inclusiveness; the prerogatives of a supreme Church, while only the fragment of a nation; which itself again is only a small part of Christendom. There is in Mr. Brook's direction no possible way out of the embarrassments, unrealities, and self-contradictions of the English Episcopal Church. Human Power in the Divine Life; or the Active Powers of the Mind in Relation to Religion. By Rev. Nicholas Bishop, M.A. Hodder and Stoughton. The author of this book has attempted a difficult task, viz., to exhibit in philosophical language the synthesis of the divine and human in the new life. With profound reverence for God's revelation and with great insight into the life of God in the soul, he has discussed the function of the human will in Repentance, Faith, Conversion, Sanctification, Christian Perfection and its Limits, in Preaching and Prayer, and in relation to Divine Providence. The range of thought is very wide, the mode of treatment very stimulating and fresh. It would be difficult in a brief notice to convey an adequate idea of the book. Some of the most difficult problems are broached, and much light is thrown upon them. There are gems of thought scattered through the discussion which nevertheless form a distinct and integral part of the argument. Thus 'God's plan of instructing man seems to be from the lower to the higher forms of thought. The nearer the instruction can accommodate itself to the sense or to the simpler acts of the intelligence the more likely it is to succeed. It must begin with the concrete and rise by slow degrees, to abstract truth. Christ, as revealed in His gospel, is the nearest possible approach to this. Ten Great Religions; an Essay in Comparative Theology. By James Freeman Clarke. TrÜbner and Co. Mr. Clarke has made an interesting and earnest endeavour to establish some of the principles of a science which is likely before long to occupy a high place in human thought. He has, moreover, shown decided skill and considerable learning in his view of the salient features of Brahmanism and Buddhism, in his summary of Confucianism and TÆpingism, in his sketch of Persic, Scandinavian, Egyptian, and GrÆco-Roman religions, and in his estimate of Judaism and Mahometanism. The materials were ready to his hand in rich abundance, and he has set forth the leading ideas of each of these great forms of faith with commendable modesty and fine critical tact. The strong point he makes, and in which we entirely agree with him, is—that Christ and Christianity recognise the age-long witness to certain great truths embodied in these ethnic faiths, that Christ is the fulfilment of the prophetic visions which the founders of these varied religions beheld;—that Christianity is the answer to the problem of Brahmanism, the pleroma of the faith of Sakya-muni, and the complement to all the speculations of Egypt, Athens, and Scandinavia;—that Christianity contains all that is living, all that is true to God and nature and man, in any or all of these religious systems, and a great deal more;—that it has absorbed many of them, and will eventually solve the continuity, and embrace the devotees of them all in its catholic fulness. He claims to find the highest evidence for the truth of Christianity in this,—that while all other forms of faith have been more or less one-sided, ethnic in their range, and local in their influence, Christianity meets the need of every kind of race and generation of mankind. The 'symphony of religions' is to him the pledge of the eternal excellency, the indisputable supremacy, and the absolute truth of Christianity. He will not admit that other religions are 'natural' and that this alone is 'supernatural;' that other religions are excogitated by the human intelligence, this alone 'revealed' from heaven; others the work of lying impostors, this alone preserved from human frailty; others 'human religions,' and this alone a 'divine' religion. All truth is divine with him, and all such truth as has been intuitively perceived by great ethnic religious teachers has been 'revealed' to them by God, the one God. But he maintains the great position that all other religions are limited in their range of thought, and in their adaptability to man; while Christianity includes within itself the sum of all religious truth, the nexus of all justifiable religious tendencies, the correction of all extravagances, the answer and solvent to all human inquiry. As we have said, Mr. Clarke holds here positions with which we sympathize and which we have often advocated. But while we admit with him, the significance of the ethnic religions, the truth uttered by Sakya-muni and found in the Vedas, there is to our ear an exceeding bitter cry for help and teaching and deliverance, coming out of the very constitution of the heathen culture, and revealing itself in the religious rites and in the literature of the East, to which he seems comparatively indifferent. He is afraid of compromising the dignity and majesty of human nature, or of saying anything offensive to its unaided and unregenerated powers. To our view, human nature is in a much more diseased and miserable condition than he admits; and we hold that there was a specialty in the vision and faculty given to Hebrew prophets, and possessed by the Great Master, which make them differ in kind from those of the sages of India, Persia, or Greece. Though he furnishes the facts with great fairness and skill, he seems strangely unwilling to admit the grand difference between Hebraism and Ethnicism, viz.: that in the one case, God is represented as seeking and finding his people, pleading with their unwillingness and disloyalty, unveiling to them his own glorious name, and in the other cases men are 'feeling after God if haply they might find him, though he is not far from any one of them.' The argument of Mr. Clarke, moreover, is in our opinion, truncated and paralyzed by the extremely low view that he entertains of the person of our Lord, and of the essence of that very monotheism which has won the victories to which he points with Christian exultation. There is no disrespect cast upon the faith of nineteen-twentieths of Christendom, it is simply ignored; and his Christianity is, after all, little more than 'the morality touched by emotion,' of which we have heard a good deal lately. We believe that a sounder and larger view of Christianity itself would supply wards to the key here used by Mr. Clarke, which would enable him to unlock many more of the mysteries of human life. We thank him for the work he has done, so far as it goes, and can agree with him that the philosophy of missions will lie very much in the direction of comparative theology. Sermons for my Curates. By the late Rev. Thomas T. Lynch, Minister of Mornington Church, London. Edited by Samuel Cox. Strahan and Co. Twelve months ago, in calling the attention of our readers to one of the latest volumes of Mr. Lynch's sermons, we ventured to predict that The Ecclesiastical Polity of the New Testament: A Study for the Present Crisis in the Church of England. By the Rev. G. A. Jacob, D.D., late Head Master of Christ's Hospital. Strahan and Co. Churches and their Creeds. By the Rev. Sir Philip Perring, Bart. Longmans, Green, and Co. Few things in modern controversy are more astounding, and cause more scandal to Nonconformists than the unwarrantable assumptions and unscholarly arguments of their Anglican opponents. We scarcely hesitate to say that such a work as Mr. Blunt's 'Ecclesiastical Dictionary—while evincing most patient research and abundant knowledge—contains more arbitrary assumptions and illogical conclusions than all the works on ecclesiastical controversy which Nonconformists have published during the present century. Had a Nonconformist been guilty of a tithe of such, every ecclesiastical newspaper in the land would have poured out upon him its jubilant ridicule. In any other science than theology such a treatment of facts would be simply impossible. We are sadly forced to the conclusion, that in the judgment of certain Churchmen, Sacramentarianism, and even an Episcopal Establishment, are religious truths so vital, that the very investigation of evidence is presumption of a reprobate mind, and no testimony of history or conclusion of reason is valid against them. It seems, at any rate, as if it were the first of religious duties so to manipulate facts and reconstruct history as to compel testimony in their support. For ourselves, we sorrowfully affirm that, speaking generally, we have lost all confidence in the conclusions of Anglican scholarship, and feel it imperative to test every citation and every assertion before we can attach the slightest argumentative value to it. It is refreshing, therefore, to meet with the work of an Episcopalian clergyman equally conspicuous for its learning and for its fearless honesty. Dr. Jacob's work is one of those productions, rare, alas! which impress the reader from the beginning that he is in the hands of a man whose supreme solicitude is to ascertain truth—who permits no ecclesiastical prepossessions or interests to influence his conclusions; who however much he may love Plato, loves truth more. Dr. Jacob is an Episcopalian by conviction and preference—he does not utter a word that either questions the one or impugns the other; and yet he has written a book which is a patient, scholarly, and dispassionate investigation into the Ecclesiastical Polity of the New Testament, from the conclusions of which only men who contend for the divine right of Presbyterianism or Congregationalism, and possibly of Episcopalianism, will dissent. Since Archbishop Whately's 'Kingdom of Christ,' no such thorough treatment, and candid an examination of Church questions has appeared. To the fearless candour and acuteness of Whately, Dr. Jacob adds a habit of minute and patient scholarly investigation, which supplies the evidence upon which his important conclusions are reached. Had all ecclesiastical controversy been conducted in his spirit there would still be—as there ever will be—Episcopalians, Presbyterians, and Congregationalists; but these would have regarded their Church differences as preferential modes rather than as divine rights; and Christendom would have presented an aspect of harmonious diversity instead of one of sectarian assumptions and animosity. For ourselves, we most heartily thank him for his book, which, if there were any hope at all from the fanatical sectarianism of what is known as Anglicanism, would be the best eirenicon of these latter days. We cannot do better than try briefly to indicate a few of Dr. Jacob's conclusions, the more especially as our general accord with 'The Episcopate, in the modern acceptation of the term, and as a distinct clerical order, does not appear in the New Testament, but was gradually introduced and extended throughout the Church at a later period.' 'Timothy at Ephesus, and Titus in Crete, are never called "bishops," or any other name which might indicate a special order or ecclesiastical office; their commission was evidently an exceptional and temporary charge, to meet some peculiar wants in those places during the necessary absence of St. Paul.' 'There is evidence of the most satisfactory kind, because unintentional, to the effect that Episcopacy was established in different churches after the decease of the apostles who founded them, and at different times.' 'The custom of the Church, rather than any ordinance of the Lord, made bishops greater than the rest.' Dr. Jacob attributes the idea of a priesthood in the Christian Church to the combined leaven of Jewish and of Pagan influences; and in this he differs from Professor Lightfoot, who attributes it exclusively to Pagan influence. 'Tertullian is the first Christian author by whom the Church ministry is directly asserted to be a priesthood.' Dr. Jacob undertakes to prove the proposition—'That, according to Scripture truth, the Christian ministry is not a priesthood, and Christian ministers are not priests, are not invested with any sacerdotal powers, and have no sacerdotal functions to perform.' The proof is wrought out in detail, with great amplitude of evidence, acuteness of argument, and to an irresistible conclusion. We should deal unfairly with it were we to attempt either citation or summary. The points of the argument are: 1. That the Christian Church was moulded upon the form of the synagogue, which had no altar; and not upon that of the temple, which had no pulpit. 2. The equality of privilege or standing-ground in Christ which Christians of all orders or degrees possessed. 3. The position and argument of the Epistle to the Hebrews. 4. The remarkable omissions concerning a priesthood of the New Testament, which Dr. Jacob contends is 'an insuperable bar to all sacerdotal assumptions, inasmuch as a positive and express appointment of divine authority is imperative.' A further argument is derived from the nature of New Testament ordination, which is fully discussed, and shown to confer, not power, but authority quoad hoc. 'Authority it gives according to the order and constitution of each church, but no other power than was possessed before, or afterwards, by whatever means obtained.' 'Those, therefore, amongst ourselves who contend that spiritual power is given by the act of ordaining, if they are not merely misunderstanding the word and using it in a sense which does not belong to it, are brought to the assumption, that it is not a power producing effects which are seen and felt in the hearts and lives of men, but one much more secret and unappreciable in its working;—the power, as it is alleged, of conferring divine grace through the sacraments, thus making the effect of the sacraments to depend upon something in the administrator, instead of the ordinance of Christ.' 'The authority to appoint Church officers was inherent in every duly constituted church, as the natural right of a lawful and well organized society.' Hence presbyters were competent to ordain, which Hooker also admits ('Eccl. Pol.,' vii. 14). 'The government and ordinations of Presbyterian churches are just as valid, Scriptural, and apostolic, as our own.' 'A priest, indeed, whose office is to stand between God and man must be specially called by God; but a pastor and teacher and administrator of sacred things in a congregation of Christian men who have access to God through the priesthood of Jesus Christ, whatever inward call he may require, needs no other outward appointment to his office than the authority of the church in which he ministers.' 'Neither apostle nor presbyter in the primitive church, so far as we know, pronounced absolution upon those who had confessed their sins for the purpose of conveying to them a grace from God, which otherwise they would not have had; nor is there anything in the New Testament to show that the declaration of God's forgiveness has any greater efficacy from the mouth of an ordained presbyter, than from that of any ordinary Christian.' 'The clergy, not being a priestly caste, or a mediating, sacrificing, absolving order, but Church officers appointed for the maintenance of due religious solemnity, the devout exercise of Christian worship, the instruction of the people in Divine truth, and their general edification in righteous living, are the acting representatives of the church to which they belong, and derive their ministerial authority from it.' 'The Christian ministry was requisite, not on account of any spiritual functions which could not otherwise have been lawfully discharged; but for the sake of the solemnity and regularity which are essential in a religious and permanent society. There was no spiritual act which in itself was of such The conclusions which Dr. Jacob has reached are those which every severe and impartial historical student must come to—which any legal testing of evidence must necessarily compel. They have our hearty concurrence. Dr. Jacob, as we have said, is, by conviction and preference, an Episcopalian; our convictions and preferences induce us to reject Episcopacy as having been almost uniformily and inevitably inimical to the freedom and spirituality of the Church. On some minor points, moreover, which are not important enough for remark here, we differ from his conclusions; but as a vade mecum of the Ecclesiastical Polity of the New Testament we are well contented to accept his book—we know of none, indeed, comparable with it; and we cordially commend it, not only to the Anglicans, Evangelicals, and Broad Churchmen of his own ecclesiastical body, with a strong desire to know what replies they will give to it, but we recommend it to all Congregational and Presbyterian ministers, as equally full of learned fidelity to truth, of just recognitions of the liberty wherewith Christ has made us free, and of broad, loving charities, which alone can secure, and which are sufficient to secure, the unity of the Church of God. Sir Philip Perring's book is of a very different character—loose, garrulous, and impetuous; but yet it contains many good things. It is the production of one of those men of restless ingenuity—not unfrequently found in all Churches—whose impulses are good, whose intentions are true, whose utterance is fearless, but who yet want the closeness, self-control, and exact logic which give opinions their just influence. The book is a hotchpotch, made up of papers on miscellaneous subjects—an 'Address to Conformists and to Nonconformists,' on their respective faults and differences; 'A Hint to Bishops,' urging them to call a council, and agree with their Nonconformist brethren; 'Regulations of Public Worship,' advocating liberty for Congregational gifts; 'Expenses of Public Worship,' condemning pew rents and the offertory alike, and advocating occasional collections; 'Episcopal Ordination;' 'Non-Episcopal Ordination,' condemning the dogma of apostolical succession; 'The Baptismal Service,' 'Everlasting Damnation,' 'Biblical Revision,' 'Passages in the Gospels revised,' 'Gospel accounts of the Resurrection harmonized,' 'Silver Filings,'—a Collection of Aphorisms and Sentences. Nonconformists have but little reason to complain of Sir Philip's volume; his chief adjurations are directed against his own Church, and he denounces in it assumptions, Ante-Nicene Christian Library:— Translations of the Writings of the Fathers down to a.d. 325. Edited by Rev. Alexander Roberts, D.D., and James Donaldson, D.D. Vol. XIX. The Seven Books of Arnobius adversus Gentes. Translated by A. H. Bryce, LL.D., D.C.L., and Hugh Campbell, M.A. Vol. XX. The Works of Gregory Thaumaturgus, Dionysius of Alexandria, and Archelaus. Translated by Rev. S. D. F. Salmond, M.A. And Syriac Documents, attributed to the First Three Centuries. Translated by Rev. B. P. Pratten, B.A. Edinburgh: T. and T. Clark. The editors of this valuable series of translations are resolved to furnish the English reader with nearly all the Christian literature of the first three centuries. The volumes before us are singularly important. The celebrated books of Arnobius adversus Gentes reflect the intense antagonism which the monstra horrendaque of heathenism had excited in pure-minded and thoughtful men. There is exceedingly little of the peculiar form of Ante-Nicene Christianity to be gleaned from this apologia; there is hardly a reference either to the Old Testament or the New, or to any distinctively Christian doctrine, but there is the most elaborate impeachment of the popular faith. The incredible obscenity of the mythology of Greece and Rome is drawn out in revolting detail, and is the sufficient reply to the maddened hostility of heathen persecutors of Christians. Arnobius repudiated the allegorical interpretation which had been put by philosophers upon popular legend as a flimsy expedient to condone intolerable impurity, and he drags out the sensuous earthworm, slime and all, into the light. The same spirit of uncompromising detestation of the impurities of heathenism that is conspicuous in the 'Apology' of Tertullian and the 'Octavius' of Minucius Felix pervades this treatise, which yet, by its philosophical arrangement and fulness of detail, has gained for Arnobius the reputation of being the Christian Varro. The translations of the genuine and spurious works of Gregory Thaumaturgus are executed with great care, and contain the panegyric on Origen, as well as the metaphrase of Ecclesiastes. One of the most interesting things in the volume is the 'Disputation between Bishop Archelaus and Manes,' which, for its picturesque surroundings, and for the insight it gives into the activity and intensity of the ManichÆan faith, and the mode in which this great heresiarch was met by the early Christians, is of immense value. The translations of the Syriac documents, though acknowledged to have been done with Dr. Cureton's translations open before the editor, are claimed by him as an independent translation. The extent of these obligations are differently estimated by Mr. Pratten and some of his critics; at all events, they are a valuable addition to the series of the 'Ante-Nicene Library.' The Story of Hare Court. Being the History of an Independent Church. By John B. Marsh; with an introduction by the Rev. A. Raleigh, D.D. Strahan and Co. This is an admirable specimen of a class of books that we should like to see greatly multiplied. The history of many a Nonconforming Church would be the best defence of its existence, and the best evidence of its vitality. The Hare Court Church dates from the Commonwealth, some of the illustrious names of which were connected with it, and with its first pastor, George Cokayne, notably Sir Bulstrode Whitelocke, Lord Mayor Tichborne, ancestor of the family just now attracting so much notoriety—who also signed the death-warrant of Charles I., and Lord Mayor Ireton, brother of Cromwell's famous Colonel. The Communion plate now in use by the Church at Canonbury was presented by Sir Bulstrode Whitelocke and Sir The Moabite Stone; a fac-simile of the Original Inscription, with an English Translation, and an Historical and Critical Commentary. Second Edition, Revised and Enlarged, with a Map of the Land of Moab. By Christian D. Ginsburg, LL.D. Reeves and Turner. The discovery and interpretation of the Moabite stone equal, and in some respects surpass in importance and interest, those of the celebrated Rosetta stone; these thirty-four lines, which have been exposed to the chances of Bedouin ignorance and way-side accident for nearly as many centuries, throw unexpected light upon both the history and language of the Old Testament. The relations of Moab and Israel were very intimate, and the Biblical records of these are very perplexing. Thus we find David, who was of Moabite descent, and whose parents had been sheltered by the king of Moab, for some inscrutable reason, waging a bloody war against this hospitable monarch, and slaughtering two-thirds of his subjects. It has been assumed that for nearly a century the Moabites were tributory to the Israelites, but the Moabite inscription implies that they had during this period thrown off the yoke, and were conquered again by Omri. Dr. Ginsburg thinks that Solomon granted their liberty, as there are several indications of his friendly feeling. The inscription is a record of the successful attempt of Mesha, king of Moab, circa B.C. 936, to reconquer the territory and rebuild the cities anciently subjugated by the Israelites, 2 Kings iii.; these they retained for upwards of a century and a half, until in the time of Ahaz the 'burden of Moab' was pronounced by Isaiah. (Isaiah xv., xvi.) Mesha, this triumphal tablet tells us, made Dijon his fortified capital, and erected this memorial in it. He took from Nebo 'the vessels of Jehovah' and dedicated them to Chemosh, giving the important and entirely novel information that the Jews had a house for the worship of Jehovah in Nebo, beyond Jordan. The mention of the name of Jehovah on this tablet is remarkable, implying that at that time it was commonly pronounced by the Israelites—that is, the sacred Tetragrammaton had not then ceased to be used. This superstition, Dr. Ginsburg thinks, was introduced by the Alexandrine Jews. The linguistical interest of the stone consists in the fact that it is the only pre-Maccabean original written in a language almost identical with the Biblical Hebrew. It is older than two-thirds of the Old Testament. Its bearings on the Masoretic text, therefore, are profoundly important and interesting; these Dr. Ginsburg discusses. The important fact emerges that the Hebrew words were divided by points, and the verses by vertical strokes. A system of original punctuation is thus virtually demonstrated, confirming the Masoretic division. The palÆographical importance of the Moabite stone is equally great. It is, by a century and a half, the oldest alphabet of its character that we possess; it is three centuries older than our most ancient inscription, the sarcophagus of Eshmunazar. The characters are the so-called Phoenician, from which the Greek, Roman, and other European alphabets are derived. We have thus 'the veritable prototype of modern writings,' for all the twenty-two letters are here. All these points Dr. Ginsburg evolves and elucidates with great scholarship and ingenuity. He narrates fully the history of the discovery of this remarkable monument by the Rev. F. Klein; of the foolish and fussy, and, as it proved, disastrous jealousy and selfishness of the French Consul, M. Clermont-Gonneau, and of its destruction by the Bedouins. The volume is one of almost romantic interest. Dr. Ginsburg has wisely written for the comprehension of even unlearned readers. His volume supplies not only a fac-simile of the stone, the various translations of it already made, but a full exposition of its manifold significance. It is a wonderful corroboration of Old Testament authority. Palestine: its Holy Sites and Sacred Story. By John Tillotson. Ward, Lock, and Tyler. 1871. The history of the Jews, in the form in which we have it in the Old St. Clair Testament, is a medley. The absence of chronological arrangement in the books, the positive inversion of the order of events within the limits of the same book—sometimes the brief account of some reigns, the interruption of the story by long episodes, the want of any means of correlating the prophets with the monarchs in whose reigns they prophesy, combine to confuse the reader; and in addition to this, the history is absent altogether for the 400 years immediately before Christ. As a consequence, the Bible history is but little studied by young people, and for a hundred lads who can readily run through the list of sovereigns from Egbert to Victoria, or Clovis to Napoleon, there is hardly one who can distinctly enumerate the succession of the kings of Israel and Judah. The Bible history seems far off and shadowy, and needs to be made near and real; it is passed over for lighter literature, and needs to be invested with the charms of a story; Palestine geography is neglected, while its relations with the sacred story are close and living, and a graphic description of the physical features of the country should always accompany an account of the events which occurred in it. In those parts where the Biblical narrative is detailed and connected through a few chapters—as in the history of the patriarchs, or that of David and Solomon, of Elijah and Elisha—it is read with interest by the young; so that if we give continuity to the entire account, we may expect to create interest in the entire book. We are therefore indebted to those who reduce the elements to order, and present us with a connected history of Palestine, like the history 'Fast as the fatal symbol flies, In arms the huts and hamlets rise; From winding glen, from upland brown, Then poured each hardy tenant down: Nor slacked the messenger his pace— He showed the sign, he named the place; And pressing forward like the wind, Left clamour and surprise behind.' (P. 110.) We trust that the author will succeed in his object of awakening a deeper interest in the holy sites and sacred story of Palestine, and in quickening a desire to know more about both. On a fresh Revision of the English New Testament. By J. D. Lightfoot, D.D., Canon of St. Paul's, and Hulsean Professor of Divinity, Cambridge. Macmillan and Co. 1871. The substance of this work was read by Dr. Lightfoot to a clerical meeting before the Revision Committee had held its first session. The publication of the volume will do good service. The author introduces his discussion by a clear rÉsumÉ of the circumstances which led to Jerome's revision of the Latin Bible, and he then recounts the difficulties and suspicions that were engendered by the proposals which issued in the production of the authorized English version. It is curious to find that the criticisms and fears which disturb good people in the end of the nineteenth century are almost identical with those which greeted the translators of the seventeenth century. Dr. Lightfoot vindicates 'the necessity for a fresh revision of the authorized version.' Though he here traverses ground which has often been canvassed, the argument has never been more strongly or more adequately presented. It consists of a careful and condensed exposition, first of the textual defects and 'false readings' of the English version; it goes on to enumerate the 'artificial distinctions created' by an arbitrary variety of translation of the same Greek words, and the 'real distinctions obliterated' by the reverse process of using the same English word as the representative of several different Greek words. Our author accumulates further proof of the fact that many of the niceties of Greek grammar were not known to our translators, that they were foggy in the extreme as to the use of the definite article and the aorist tense, as well as to the fundamental modifications effected in the meaning of verbs by the 'voice' in which they are used. He is particularly happy in showing the inconsistency, SERMONS. The Religion of the Present and the Future. Sermons preached chiefly at Yale College, by Theodore D. Woolsey. (New York: Charles Scribner and Co.) The name of the venerable and honoured President of Yale College is well known on this side the Atlantic. His authority as a jurist has been often cited in our international disputes with the United States. His articles on the Alabama question have probably done as much as anything to convince his countrymen that there were two sides to it, and to induce the temper which has happily led to the recent convention. In the United States he is universally regarded as facile princeps on all questions of international law. Connected with Yale College for forty years, its President for twenty-five, he has just retired from the latter office into private life, carrying with him a degree of public respect and of personal affection such as few men are permitted to win. This volume is a record of his more pastoral relations to the professors and alumni of Yale. None of his predecessors, not even Dr. Dwight, have won more religious respect and affection. His dignified and yet gentle wisdom, his high purity and deep spirituality, and especially the affectionate sympathy called forth by his unusual domestic sorrows—for, like Archbishop Tait, his children have been taken from him more than one at once; his last bereavement was two daughters, who died last December, in Jerusalem, within two days of each other—these have gathered round his name and his home a peculiar reverence, love, and influence on the part not only of many hundreds of young men who have been under his care, but of many thousands of his countrymen besides. This volume is a memorial of his College-chapel preaching, compiled at the request of members of his classes. It consists of twenty-five sermons on ordinary but diversified Christian themes; all, however, indirectly having respect to a collegiate audience. The circumstances of the publication place the volume beyond our criticism, and were there anything in it to find fault with, we should simply refrain from commendation. As it is, we do not hesitate to say that its qualities of thoughtful, earnest, catholic, practical religiousness, combined with finished scholarship, high-toned simplicity, and cultured grace, are of a very high character—every word is pure gold. We trust that it will find its way into the hands of English readers. We cannot forbear transcribing the elegant, touching, and characteristic dedication—'To those who have now and then heard my voice in the pulpit of Yale College, and especially to the graduates who have gone forth from these halls, leaving me here until now, when my time of graduation is nearly come, I affectionately inscribe these discourses as an acknowledgment of the respect and love which they have shown me.'—The Training of the Twelve; or, Passages out of the Gospels, exhibiting the twelve Disciples of Jesus under discipline for the Apostleship. By the Rev. Alexander B. Bruce, Broughty Ferry. (Edinburgh: T. and T. Clark.) Mr. Bruce has hit upon a good idea, and has wrought it out in a stronger manner than his preface, which is somewhat fussy and egotistical, gives promise of. He selects for elucidation the passages in the Gospels which set forth our Lord's relations with the Twelve, and examines them in the light of his great purpose to teach and train these selected men as the founders of his Church and the Apostles of his religion. Mr. Bruce's treatment is homiletical rather than scientific, most of his chapters having evidently done duty in the pulpit. He is, however, an intellectual and well-read expositor. If there be nothing in his discoursing that is very penetrating; neither is there anything inane. His predominant characteristic is sound, practical common sense. He belongs to the school of Dr. John Brown. His book is too big. An octavo volume of 550 pages is a great undertaking for a reader, unless redeemed by originality, or power of vivid presentation. Mr. Bruce is thoroughly orthodox, even according to Scottish standards. But he is not blind. He has clearly thought for himself, and he puts the result with intelligence and independence. It must, however, have been a difficult task to speak of our Lord's doctrine of Sabbath-keeping, and to refrain from a rebuke of the Sabbatarianism into which some of his own countrymen have fallen, which is surely as superstitious and burdensome as that which our Lord rebuked; but Mr. Bruce has achieved this. His remarks on liturgies, which, he thinks, are for private rather than public use, are moderate and wise. Indeed, Mr. Bruce holds the balance in most things very fairly. As we have said, a more profound, scientific treatment of his subject is conceivable. At the hands of a man like Neander, for instance, it would have received it; but as a practical exposition, conducted Body and Mind; being the Gulstonian Lectures for 1870. By Dr. Maudsley. Macmillan and Co. In reading the volume before us we have been forcibly reminded of the truth of the statement made by Lecky, in his 'History of Rationalism,' that 'the discoveries of physical science form a habit of mind which is carried far beyond the limits of physics;' for Dr. Maudsley, while professing to confine himself within the domain of physiology, is constantly pronouncing on psychological matters, and that, too, with a dogmatism which is quite as genuine as that against which he repeatedly protests. We admit that, from his general intelligence and culture, he is eminently qualified to judge of psychological subjects, but not as a professed physiologist. As long as he keeps to his own science, we are prepared to listen to his statements, and to bow to his authority; and when discoursing on these topics he is always clear, interesting, and instructive; but whenever he meddles with mental facts, those qualities seem Dr. Maudsley lays great emphasis on the close connection between the mind and body; this is, in fact, the foundation-stone of the whole of his fabric. We fully admit their intimate union, and their mutual action and reaction on each other. Nay, more, we can conceive of mental operations only in conjunction with some corporeal form; but we nevertheless refuse to be shut up to the alternative that all mental phenomena are strictly and absolutely dependent on physical conditions, and to set aside all questions respecting the nature of the mind as wholly futile and transcendental. Is it not much nearer the truth to regard the mind as the formative principle, pervading and adapting the body as its instrument, to its own nature and requirements? Again, we fully admit that the author does not attach too much weight to the statement that the abnormal phenomena of mind, omitted by the earlier philosophers, as well as the normal, should be included in a complete system of mental analysis, and that both should form a part of the same inquiry. But this has been done (and successfully we think), even by psychologists. Does Dr. Maudsley ignore, or is he unacquainted with, the labours of Herbart, Beneke, and J. H. Fichte, which do ample justice to this department of mind? Would it not be well for him to take them into his counsel? We come now to that which is in some respects the most important part of the work, viz., where it treats of the well-known phenomena of reflex action. In dealing with this subject, Dr. Maudsley's method is to proceed from the lower nerve-centres to the higher, and to explain the latter as developments of the former; to show that in the highest nervous centres, the hemispherical ganglia, the organic properties, and the various processes are essentially the same as in the lowest, and that in all the different centres of action there is a simple and necessary change in response to the external impulses. He sets out with an examination of the 'purposive' movements of a decapitated frog, from which he deduces the conclusion, 'that actions bearing the semblance of design may be unconscious and automatic.' After remarking that faculties are not innate in the case of man to the same degree and extent as in the lower animals, and have therefore to be acquired by education, but that when acquired they become as purely automatic as the primitive reflex actions of the frog, he adds another conclusion, 'that acts consciously designed at first, may, by repetition become unconscious and automatic, the faculties of them being organized in the constitution of the nerve-centres, and they being then performed as reflex effects of an external stimulus.' Here we expected to meet with a careful distinction drawn between automatic, voluntary, and volitional movements, and a cautious handling of the explanations and teachings of these facts; but we are disappointed. Many explanations of them have been given. According to some, the second conclusion is an explanation of the first; the education of the 'sensory and motor nuclei,' in conjunction with the law of inherited qualities, may make it conceivable that the various 'purposive movements' of the decapitated These confusions and contradictions establish the one-sidedness of the method of investigation. The author has expended all his efforts on the search for some single force which would afford adequate explanation of all known phenomena. He has attempted to account for the product of two factors by means of one, and the least important of them. Physiology tells us that there is a contrivance for the transmission of impressions from the tips of the fingers to the brain, and that certain physical changes ensue, but here physiology comes to a standstill. Further than this physiological investigations cannot carry us. There is an impassable gulf between it and the facts beyond—the facts of consciousness. Consciousness knows nothing of the action of the brain and of the motor nerves. Dr. Maudsley has tried to bridge the chasm by physiology alone; in that he has attempted the impossible. Professor Tyndall, in the Report of the British Association, says: 'The passage from the physics of the brain to the corresponding facts of consciousness is unthinkable. Granted that a definite thought and the definite molecular action in the brain occur simultaneously, we do not possess the intellectual organ, nor apparently any rudiment of the organ, which would enable us to pass by a process of reasoning from the one phenomena to the other. They The Public School Latin Grammar. Longmans, Green and Co. 1871. The very appearance of this book is decidedly unattractive, and we fear that much of its contents cannot fail to intensify one's first impressions. It consists of 540 duodecimo pages, crammed with matter enough to fill two volumes of the same dimensions. It bears all the marks of an attempt to put the greatest amount of information into the smallest possible compass, and, as a natural consequence, its pages are over-crowded, and its contents much more dull and unreadable than even a Latin grammar need be. From the same cause, we presume, we have frequently an appalling number of facts strung together, without the enunciation of any well-defined connecting principles to guide and assist the student in retaining and applying them; and that, too, while professedly aiming, by systematic arrangement and philosophical definitions, to bring into active exercise the reflective faculties. It thus becomes chargeable with the faults of most of the older grammars, which burdened the memory without quickening the intellect. In addition to these general features of the work, we have noticed that almost every subject is broken up into divisions, and subdivisions, which are endless in number and far from definite in character. They are enough to frighten the most courageous student at the outset, and to bewilder him in his studies. Examples of this are furnished on almost every page. Take, e.g., pp. 55–6, the gender of consonant-nouns and clipt I-nouns, which are divided into three classes, denoted by A, B, and C. A is again divided into (1), (2), and (3), and (1) is again subdivided into (a) a, , and (b) a, . B and C also undergo a similar dissection. Again, the pronouns are divided into six classes, the sixth being universalia: the universalia are again subdivided into five, called—relativa, libitiva, distributiva, inclusiva, and exclusiva. The adverbs are, first of all, divided into nine classes; and the ninth, consisting 'of various logical adverbs used to modify discourse,' is further divided into six kinds—the significative, the concessive, the dubitative, the corrective, the affirmative, the negative; a division which, if logically tested, will be found as faulty as the much-criticised categories of Aristotle. In fact, if there be as many principles as there are divisions in this book, the student may justly conclude that Latin grammar is as boundless as the ocean. For the same feature in syntax see the division of simple sentences on p. 252. Our readers, if they have had the patience to follow us thus far, will have observed the occurrence of many new grammatical terms in the quotations we have given; which is another characteristic of this volume. They can be counted by the dozen, of which the following will serve as specimens:—Phonology, or sound-lore; and morphology, which the author renders word-lore; trajective adjectives, quotientive adverbs, factitive and static verbs, annexive relativa, oblique complement, circumstantive entheses, synesis, &c. The author has aimed at a revolution rather than a reform. Novelty, however, should constitute no objection to a terminology, provided it justifies its own existence by its superiority over the old. The advantage of the new terms should be such as to compensate for the trouble of learning what they mean. We do not hesitate to say that in the 'Public School Grammar' novelty has been carried to excess. Once more we have observed great irregularity in the amount of explanation given in different subjects; disappointing us both by its abundance and deficiency; e.g., we have the origin and history of cases explained by the ordinary diagram, as well as additional explanation; but there is no explanation of mood, tense, and conjugation. We are also informed in a foot-note that the names given by grammarians to the cases are ill-chosen, but the meaning of the terms—e.g., of genitive and accusative, is not interpreted. We turn, accidentally, to the verbs, and we are told that possum is from pote-sum, and that pote is from pati, lord, whence Greek p?s?? p?t??a (lord, lady); that fero is from bhar, Gr. fe?; but of volo, which comes between, we have no such explanation. Of this verb the author only says that vis is for vol-i-s, and vult for vol-i-t, but he omits to add that vellem and velle are for vellerem and vellere. The above we consider to be some of the main defects of this work. A grammar brought out under such auspices as the one before us, cannot fail to have many excellences. No doubt it meets one of the great wants of the times—viz., a manual of convenient size, and easy of reference, presenting a fuller account of the structure of the language than the ordinary class-room grammars, and containing, in a condensed form, the best results of the linguistic discoveries of modern philologists. The syntax is copious, and carefully arranged, and every important rule is illustrated by a profusion of well-selected examples, in which the idiomatic characteristics of Latin are clearly exhibited. One of the greatest merits of the work is the vast amount of classical Latinity embodied in FOOTNOTES[1] 'Lectures on Modern History.' [2] A native of Barcelona, who was made head of the French police in 1759, and retired in 1780. [3] Vol. iii., p. 196. We borrow the translation of a living author. [4] Details are necessarily omitted, for want of space, in this extract, as well as in the last, the loss of which weakens its force. [5] See Salvian 'De Gubernatione Dei.' [6] See a curious collection of passages in the notes to M. de Champagny's chapter on Slavery. ('Les CÉsars,' vol. iii.) [7] See Champagny's 'CÆsars,' vol. iii. p. 122. [8] Thus Livy: 'Ad illa mihi pro se quisque intendat animum, quÆ vita qui mores fuerint; per quos viros, quibusque artibus, domi militiÆque, et partum et auctum imperium sit. Labente deinde paullatim disciplinÂ, velut desidentes primo mores sequatur animo, deinde ut magis magisque lapsi sint; tum ire coeperint prÆcipites; donec ad hÆc tempora, quibus nec vitia nostra nec remedia pati possumus perventum est;' and yet he is so far from considering this an evil peculiar to Rome, that he adds, 'Nulla unquam respublica nec major nec sanctior nec bonis exemplis ditior fuit; nec in quam civitatem tam serÆ avaritia luxuriaque immigraverint, nec ubi tantus et tam diu paupertati ac parsimoniÆ honos fuerit.'—(PrÆfatio.) [9] 'Roman History,' vol. ii. chap. xxvi. [10] See Champagny, Appendix, 'Les CÉsars,' vol. i. [11] The terms À priori and À posteriori are misleading. Arguments called À priori are usually mixed, and involve elements strictly À posteriori: experiential facts are inlaid within them. And the proof À posteriori ascends (if it ascends high enough) by the aid of À priori principles. In its rise to the supersensible, it makes use of the noetic principle of the reason. [12] For other contributions we are indebted to the historians of philosophy (see especially Buhle) and of Christian doctrine, such as Neander and Hagenbach, and to one of the cleverest of French thinkers, RÉmusat, who, in his 'Philosophie Religieuse,' has acutely criticised some of the developments of opinion since the rise of modern philosophy, and more especially some of the latest phenomena of British and Continental thought. [13] And a possible explanation is of no use. It must be the only possible one, or it has no theistic value. It merely brings the hypothesis of deity within the limits of the conceivable. [14] 'I would rather call it,' says John Smith in his 'Select Discourses,' (1660), alluding to this intuition, 'were I to speak precisely, I would rather call it ???? p??? t?? Te??, than, with Plutarch, Te?? ???s??.' [15] There are sundry elements in every intuition on which we do not here enlarge, as they are necessary features rather than criteria, characteristics rather than tests. Two of them may be merely stated—1. Every intuition is ultimate, and carries its own evidence within itself: it cannot appeal to any higher witness beyond itself; and 2. The fact or facts which it proclaims, while irreducible by analysis, must be incapable of any other explanation. [16] Similarly with the action of the infinite and absolute cause. The creative energy of that cause is not inconsistent with its changelessness. To say so, is to introduce a quantitative notion into a sphere when quality is alone to be considered. A cause in action is the force which determines the changes which occur in time. But the primum mobile, the first cause, need not be itself changed by the forthputting of its causal power. [17] 'I take the notion of a cause,' said Dr. Thomas Reid, in a letter to Dr. Gregory, 'to be derived from the power I feel in myself to produce certain effects. In this sense we say that the Deity is the cause of the universe.'—(Works, Hamilton's Edition, p. 77). [18] As one who sustains a fatherly relation is at the same time son, brother, citizen, member of a commonwealth, and member of a profession; or, as we describe a being of compound nature, such as man, who is both body and soul, by the higher term of the two. [19] We use this word according to its ancient meaning, as descriptive of the way in which the inspired soul of a prophet or a poet 'became possessed of his truths,' in distinction from his other function as an 'utterer of truths.' And we refer only to those poets who, as 'utterers of truth,' have spoken of the spiritual presences of nature, amongst whom, Wordsworth is chief. [20] De l'Existence de Dieu. Part II. ch. i. s. 29. [21] Theism, pp. 13, 14. [22] 'Quiet reigned at home; the public offices kept their old titles;... Tiberius initiated all his measures under the mask of the consuls, as if it was the old republic.... Yet at Rome there was a race for servitude; consuls, senators, and knights alike.' [23] See 'Merivale,' vol. iii. p. 464. [24] Roscoe's 'Life of Lorenzo de Medici,' p. 6. [25] 'Macaulay's Speeches,' p. 36. [26] 'Civil Correspondence of the Duke of Wellington' (Ireland), pp. 28 and 627. [27] 'Shooting Niagara,' p. 12. [28] 'De Tocqueville,' vol. i. [29] Rudd's 'Aristophanes,' 'The Knights.' [30] Ecclesiastes ii. 18, 19. [31] Dryden. [32] Creasy 'On the Constitution.' Hallam's 'Middle Ages,' vol. ii., p. 319. [33] Stephen's 'Blackstone,' vol. ii., p. 361. [34] 'All's Well that ends Well.' [35] 'Essays,' p. 45. [36] Wordsworth's 'Excursion.' [37] He must not be confounded with Thomas Goodwin, also an Independent, who was a member of the Assembly. [38] This was not, so to speak, Robinson's private word. It was the tradition of the Separatists. Greenwood writes from his prison to the same effect in Elizabeth's days. [39] The action of Nonconformity in reviving religious life, as in the Free Church of the Canton de Vaud, is a very instructive chapter of modern Continental ecclesiastical history. [40] Remembering the bitter vituperation of which the Liberation Society has been the subject, the following passage from Sir Roundell Palmer's speech, while creditable to the speaker, is amusing also:—'When we see considerable bodies connected—I won't call them with agitations, for that is a word that might not be acceptable—but with movements out of doors for the purpose of influencing public opinion on this subject.... I cannot pretend to deny that the question should be brought under our attention.' This is substituting rose-water for vitriol! [41] The University Tests Abolition Bill received the royal assent on the 16th of June. [42] London: J. and C. Mozley, and Masters and Son, 1870. [43] For the materials of this paper, we are largely indebted to a biographical sketch by Dr. W. Beyschlag, Professor of Theology in Halle. [44] This is the examination which every gymnasiast, or scholar of a Gymnasium, who intends going to a University must pass ere quitting school. Papers certifying that this examination has been passed have to be laid before the University authorities prior to matriculation. [45] F. A. Perthes, of Gotha, son of F. Perthes, has recently published a collected and cheaper edition of the works of Ullmann. [46] Dr. Gieseler, author of one of the most valuable Church histories Germany has produced; Dr. LÜcke, best known by his exhaustive commentary on the writings of St. John; and Dr. Nitzsch, equally celebrated as a theologian and practical ecclesiastic. [47] A translation has been published by the Messrs. Clark, of Edinburgh. The line of argument pursued by Ullmann has an important bearing on controversies that are now arising in our midst, especially on that relating to the Incarnation, as opened by such writers as Mr. Hutton, in his 'Essays,' and Mr. Baring-Gould, in his work on 'The Origin and Development of Religious Beliefs.' It is not a little remarkable that the latter, in his discussion of the evidence for the incarnation, should never allude to the sinlessness of our Lord—a point on which great stress has justly been laid by some of the most eminent of the recent apologists for Christianity. If it be true that Christ was sinless; if it be further true that moral perfection is impossible, save on the condition of complete fellowship and harmony with God; if it be further true that the creature, the more intimate its fellowship with God, the more completely it will recognise, in word and deed, the distinction between itself and God, then, as it seems to us, the sinlessness of Jesus, taken in connection with the claims he advanced for himself, involves his standing in a relation to God such as is meant by the word incarnation. Either that, or his own very assertion of sinlessness, is one of the strongest evidences of his sinfulness. Mr. Baring-Gould's arguments for the incarnation, in another form, may be utilized by such as hold the old position; in his hands, they seem to us a piece of caprice. [48] 'La Navigation AtmosphÉrique.' Par M. Farcot, Ingenieur-MÉcanicien, Membre de la SociÉtÉ AÉrostatique et MÉtÉorologique de France. Paris, 1859. 'Les Anglais, nation trop fiÈre, S'arrogent l'empire des mers; Les FranÇais, nation lÉgÈre, S'emparent de celui des airs.' [50] The famine of 1846, to relieve which the Free Church sent £15,000 to the Highlands. [51] Milman's Hist. of Latin Christianity, vol. iv. p. 407 [52] He died about 1308, at the age of one hundred. A selection from his satires is to be found in Raynouard's collection of ProvenÇal literature. [53] Among these, the most formidable, at one time, was the great order of Knights Templars—Ecclesia super Ecclesiam. [54] See RÉvue des Deux Mondes, 1866, vol. 64. [55] Cf. also Richard of Hampole— 'Ther is lyf withoute ony deth, Ae yatte the most sovereign joye of alle Is the sight of Goddes bright face, In whom resteth all manere grace.' [56] It may be objected that 'La Bible Guyot' was a satire on the times. But this curious book is, so far as it deals with the Church, a querulous complaint of certain indignities and privations suffered by the author, chiefly in the way of eating and drinking. 'The Abbot,' he says, 'gets the meat and the clear wine; the monks get beans and muddy wine. And they are obliged to be "roaring and bellowing" all night long, so that they can get no sleep.' A monk, whose chief complaint is the frequency of church services and the rigorous mortification of the flesh, can hardly be called a satirist. [57] It was, among others, the cause of that most singular movement, the Crusade of Children. Friar Nicholas preached that by reason of the rapacity and lust of the soldiers, the Holy Land would never be conquered, but that, were the children to invade it, the arms of the infidels would drop powerless from their hands. Acting on this belief, hundreds of children started from Germany and France, in the belief that the Mediterranean would be dried up for them to pass. Seven shiploads were kidnapped and sold for slaves in Alexandria, several thousands perished; only a few found their way back. The story is told by M. Capefigue in a note to Michault's 'Histoire des Crusades.' [58] 'Mark Boyd's Reminiscences of Fifty Years.' [59] Disraeli. [60] Mathias. [61] Rogers. [62] Tytler's 'England under Edward VI. and Mary,' 1839, vol. i., p. 48. [63] 'But the time will, before long, come when it will be thought wonderful that naturalists, who were well acquainted with the comparative structure and development of man and other mammals, should have believed that each was the work of a separate act of creation.'—Vol. i. page 33. [64] An evolutionist who reads these lines may, perhaps, exclaim, 'What, then, do you maintain that the frog, toad, newt, and green tree-frog, were each the work of a separate creative act?' To which question we reply, 'By no means; but, nevertheless, the minute structure of the tissues does not permit the inference that these creatures have community of descent.' It is very curious that Mr. Darwin and many of his supporters seem to think that all men who do not support evolution must believe in separate creations. [65] 'Proceedings of the Royal Society,' vol. xv., p. 433 (Philosophical Magazine, vol. xxxiv., 1867, p. 144); Quarterly Journal of Microscopical Science, vol. ix., 1869, pp. 43 and 358; Monthly Microscopical Journal, vol. iii., 1870, p. 299; Quarterly Journal of Science, new ser., vol. i., 1870, p. 64. [66] Let the reader notice, in passing, the passage which we have italicised. We shall consider the exercise of the royal warrant by the Government hereafter; but it may be observed in the meanwhile how completely the above passage justifies (what, indeed, was not seriously denied by any competent authority) the legality of Mr. Gladstone's measure. The purchase system is there made absolutely dependent on the continued permission of the royal will. The moment that permission is withdrawn, the purchase system ceases to be. The Queen simply withdrew the royal warrant which authorized it, and there was an end of the matter legally and constitutionally. [67] The Duke of Argyll questioned the constitutional character of this amendment, and not without reason, as trenching on the royal prerogative, acting through the responsible ministers of the Crown. 'Parliament has a right to call for full information in regard to military matters, for the purpose of enabling it to vote with discretion and intelligence. But this right must not be held to justify an unreasonable interference in respect to the details of military administration.'—Todd's Parliamentary Government in England. Vol. i. p. 328. [68] Mr. GÖschen is certainly much to be pitied. If a first class man-of-war is driven at midday on a well-known rock he is held responsible for the disaster, and if he inflicts condign punishment on the culpable officers, he is accused of unjust and arbitrary conduct. Indeed, some of our Conservative friends have not hesitated to say that Mr. GÖschen exceeded his power in superseding the peccant admirals in the Mediterranean. Such an opinion is in the teeth of legal authorities. Let us quote one of the latest and best known:—'It is essential to the constitution of a military body,' says Mr. Todd ('Parliamentary Government in England,' vol. i. p. 326) 'that the Crown should have the power of reducing to a lower grade, or of altogether dismissing, any of its officers from service in the army or navy at its own discretion, and, if need be, without assigning any reason; such power being always exercised through a responsible minister, who is answerable for the same, if it should appear to have been exercised unwarrantably and upon an insufficient ground.' So well established is this rule that it was decided by the Court of Queen's Bench, in the case of Dickson v. Viscount Combermere, that the discretionary power of the Crown to remove officers is so absolute that even if an officer had been tried by a court of inquiry and acquitted, the Crown was justified in removing him from office upon the advice of a minister responsible to Parliament. [69] See his work on 'The Intuitions of the Mind,' pp. 228 and 229, and compare his criticism of Maurice in the same work, p. 496. |
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