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Memoirs of James Robert Hope-Scott, Volume 2 by Robert Ornsby

Part 5 out of 5

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drew near to him, and had actual trial of him; especially, as I have said,
when they had to consult him, and had experience of the simplicity,
seriousness, and (I can use no other word) the sweetness of his manner, as
he threw himself at once into their ideas and feelings, listened patiently
to them, and spoke out the clear judgment which he formed of the matters
which they had put before him.

This is the first and the broad view I am led to take of him. He was,
emphatically, a friend in need. And this same considerateness and sympathy
with which he met those who asked the benefit of his opinion in matters of
importance was, I believe, his characteristic in many other ways in his
intercourse with those towards whom he stood in various relations. He was
always prompt, clear, decided, and disinterested. He entered into their
pursuits, though dissimilar to his own; he took an interest in their
objects; he adapted himself to their dispositions and tastes; he brought a
strong and calm good sense to bear upon their present or their future; he
aided and furthered them in their doings by his co-operation. Thus he drew
men around him; and when some grave question or undertaking was in
agitation, and there was, as is wont, a gathering of those interested in
it, then, on his making his appearance among them, all present were seen to
give to him the foremost place, as if he had a claim to it by right; and
he, on his part, was seen gracefully, and without effort, to accept what
was conceded to him, and to take up the subject under consideration;
throwing light upon it, and, as it were, locating it, pointing out what was
of primary importance in it, what was to be aimed at, and what steps were
to be taken in it. I am told that, in like manner, when residing on his
property in France, he was there too made a centre for advice and direction
on the part of his neighbours, who leant upon him and trusted him in their
own concerns, as if he had been one of themselves. It was his
unselfishness, as well as his practical good sense, which won upon them.

Such a man, when, young and ardent, with his advantages of birth and
position, he entered upon the public world, as it displays itself upon its
noblest and most splendid stage at Westminster, might be expected to act a
great part, and to rise to eminence in the profession which he had chosen.
Not for certain; for the refinement of mind, which was one of his most
observable traits, is in some cases fatal to a man's success in public
life. There are those who cannot mix freely with their fellows, especially
not with those who are below their own level in mental cultivation. They
are too sensitive for a struggle with rivals, and shrink from the chances
which it involves. Or they have a shyness, or reserve, or pride, or self-
consciousness, which restrains them from lavishing their powers on a mixed
company, and is a hindrance to their doing their best if they try. Thus
their public exhibition falls short of their private promise. Now, if there
was a man who was the light and the delight of his own intimates, it was he
of whom I am speaking; and he loved as tenderly as he was beloved, so that
he seemed made for domestic life.

Again, there are various departments in his profession, in which the
particular talents which I have been assigning to him might have had full
play, and have led to authority and influence, without any need or any
opportunity for those more brilliant endowments by which popular admiration
and high distinction are attained. It was by the display of talents of an
order distinct from clearness of mind, acuteness, and judgment, that he was
carried forward at once, as an advocate, to that general recognition of his
powers, which was the response that greeted his first great speech,
delivered in a serious cause before an august assembly. I think I am right
in saying that it was in behalf of the Anglican Chapters, threatened by the
reforming spirit of the day, that he then addressed the House of Lords; and
the occasion called for the exercise, not only of the talents which I have
already dwelt upon, but for those which are more directly oratorical. And
these were not wanting. I never heard him speak; but I believe he had, in
addition to that readiness and fluency of language, or eloquence, without
which oratory cannot be, those higher gifts which give to oratory its power
and its persuasiveness. I can well understand, from what I knew of him in
private, what these were in his instance. His mien, his manner, the
expression of his countenance, his youthfulness--I do not mean his youth
merely, but his youthfulness of mind, which he never lost to the last,--his
joyous energy, his reasonings so masterly, yet so prompt, his tact in
disposing of them for his purpose, the light he threw upon obscure, and the
interest with which he invested dull subjects, his humour, his ready
resource of mind in emergencies; gifts such as these, so rare, yet so
popular, were necessary for his success, and he had them at command. On
that occasion of his handselling them to which I have referred, it was the
common talk of Oxford, how the most distinguished lawyer of the day, a
literary man and a critic, on hearing the speech in question, pronounced
his prompt verdict upon him in the words, 'That young man's fortune is
made.' And, indeed, it was plain, to those who were in a position to
forecast the future, that there was no prize, as it is called, of public
life, to which that young man might not have aspired, if only he had had
the will.

2. This, then, is what occurs to me to say in the first place, concerning
the dear friend of whom we are now taking leave. Such as I have described
were the prospects which opened upon him on his start in life. But now,
secondly, by way of contrast, what came of them? He might, as time went on,
almost have put out his hand and taken what he would of the honours and
rewards of the world. Whether in Parliament, or in the Law, or in the
branches of the Executive, he had a right to consider no station, no power,
absolutely beyond his reach. His contemporaries and friends, who fill, or
have filled, the highest offices in the State, are, in the splendour of
their several careers, the illustration of his capabilities and his
promise. But, strange as it may appear at first sight, his indifference to
the prizes of life was as marked as his qualifications for carrying them
off. He was singularly void of ambition. To succeed in life is almost a
universal passion. If it does not often show itself in the high form of
ambition, this is because few men have an encouragement in themselves or in
their circumstances to indulge in dreams of greatness. But that a young man
of bold, large, enterprising mind, of popular talents, of conscious power,
with initial successes, with great opportunities, one who carried with him
the good-will and expectation of bystanders, and was cheered on by them to
a great future, that he should be dead to his own manifest interests, that
he should be unequal to the occasion, that he should be so false to his
destiny, that his ethical nature should be so little in keeping with his
gifts of mind, may easily be represented, not only as strange, but as a
positive defect, or even a fault. Why are talents given at all, it may be
asked, but for use? What are great gifts but the correlatives of great
work? We are not born for ourselves, but for our kind, for our neighbours,
for our country: it is but selfishness, indolence, a perverse
fastidiousness, an unmanliness, and no virtue or praise, to bury our talent
in a napkin, and to return it to the Almighty Giver just as we received it.

This is what may be said, and it is scarcely more than a truism to say it;
for, undoubtedly, who will deny it? Certainly we owe very much to those who
devote themselves to public life, whether in the direct service of the
State or in the prosecution of great national or social undertakings. They
live laborious days, of which we individually reap the benefit;
nevertheless, admitting this fully, surely there are other ways of being
useful to our generation still. It must be recollected, that in public life
a man of elevated mind does not make his own self tell upon others simply
and entirely. He is obliged to move in a groove. He must act with other
men; he cannot select his objects, or pursue them by means unadulterated by
the methods and practices of minds less elevated than his own. He can only
do what he feels to be second-best. He proceeds on the condition of
compromise; and he labours at a venture, prosecuting measures so large or
so complicated that their ultimate issue is uncertain.

Nor of course can I omit here the religious aspect of this question. As
Christians, we cannot forget how Scripture speaks of the world, and all
that appertains to it. Human society, indeed, is an ordinance of God, to
which He gives His sanction and His authority; but from the first an enemy
has been busy in its depravation. Hence it is that, while in its substance
it is divine, in its circumstances, tendencies, and results it has much of
evil. Never do men come together in considerable numbers, but the passion,
self-will, pride, and unbelief, which may be more or less dormant in them
one and one, bursts into a flame, and becomes a constituent of their union.
Even when faith exists in the whole people, even when religious men combine
for religious purposes, still, when they form into a body, they evidence in
no long time the innate debility of human nature, and in their spirit and
conduct, in their avowals and proceedings, they are in grave contrast to
Christian simplicity and straightforwardness. This is what the sacred
writers mean by 'the world,' and why they warn us against it; and their
description of it applies in its degree to all collections and parties of
men, high and low, national and professional, lay and ecclesiastical.

It would be hard, then, if men of great talent and of special opportunities
were bound to devote themselves to an ambitious life, whether they would or
not, at the hazard of being accused of loving their own ease, when their
reluctance to do so may possibly arise from a refinement and unworldliness
of moral character. Surely they may prefer more direct ways of serving God
and man; they may aim at doing good of a nature more distinctly religious,
at works, safely and surely and beyond all mistake meritorious; at offices
of kindness, benevolence, and considerateness, personal and particular; at
labours of love and self-denying exertions, in which their right hand knows
nothing that is done by their left. As to our dear friend, I have already
spoken of the influence which he exercised on all around him, on friends or
strangers with whom he was connected in any way. Here was a large field for
his active goodness, on which he did not neglect to exert himself. He gave
others without grudging his thoughts, time, and trouble. He was their
support and stay. When wealth came to him, he was free in his use of it. He
was one of those rare men who do not merely give a tithe of their increase
to their God; he was a fount of generosity ever flowing; it poured out on
every side; in religious offerings, in presents, in donations, in works
upon his estates, in care of his people, in almsdeeds. I have been told of
his extraordinary care of families left in distress, of his aid in
educating them and putting them out in the world, of his acts of kindness
to poor converts, to single women, and to sick priests; and I can well
understand the solicitous and persevering tenderness with which he followed
up such benevolences towards them from what I have seen in him myself. He
had a very retentive memory for their troubles and their needs. It was his
largeness of mind which made him thus open-hearted. As all his plans were
on a large scale, so were his private charities. And when an object was
public and required the support of many, then he led the way by a
munificent contribution himself. He built one church on his property at
Lochshiel; and another at Galashiels, which he had intended to be the
centre of a group of smaller ones round about; and he succeeded in actually
planting one of these at Selkirk. Nor did he confine himself to money
gifts: it is often more difficult to surrender what we have made our own
personally, than what has never come actually into our tangible possession.
He bought books freely, theological, historical, and of general literature;
but his love of giving was greater than his love of collecting. He could
not keep them; he gave them away again; he may be said to have given away
whole libraries. Little means has any one of determining the limits of his
generosity. I have heard of his giving or offering for great objects sums
so surprising, that I am afraid to name them. He alone knows the full
measure of his bounties, who inspired, and will reward it. I do not think
he knew it himself. I am led to think he did not keep a strict account of
what he gave away. Certainly I know one case in which he had given to a
friend many hundreds, and yet seemed to have forgotten it, and was obliged
to ask him when it was that he had done so.

I should trust that, in what I am saying, I have not given any one the
impression that he was inconsiderate and indiscriminate in giving. To have
done this would have been to contradict my experience of him and my
intention. As far as my opportunities of observing him extended, large as
were his bounties and charities, as remarkable was the conscientious care
with which he inquired into the nature and circumstances of the cases for
which his aid was solicited. He felt he was but the steward of Him who had
given him what he gave away.

He gave away as the steward of One to whom he must give account. There are
at this time many philanthropic and benevolent men who think of man only,
not of God, in their acts of liberality. I have already said enough to show
that he was not one of these. I have implied the presence in him of that
sense of religion, or religiousness, which was in fact his intimate and
true life. And, indeed, liberality such as his, so incessant and minute, so
well ordered, and directed too towards religious objects, almost of itself
evidences its supernatural origin. But I insist on it, not only for its own
sake, but also because it has a bearing upon that absence of ambition
which, in a man so energetic, so influential, is a very remarkable point of
character. Viewed in itself, it might be, even though not an Epicurean
selfishness, still a natural temper, the temper of a magnanimous mind, such
as might be found in ancient Greece or Rome, as well as in modern times.
But, in truth, in him it was much more than a gift of nature; it was a
fruit and token of that religious sensitiveness which had been bestowed on
him from above. If it really was the fact that his mind and heart were
fixed upon divine objects, this at once accounts for what was so strange,
so paradoxical in him in the world's judgment, his distaste for the honours
and the pageants of earth; and fixed, assuredly they were, upon the
invisible and eternal. It was a lesson to all who witnessed it, in contrast
with the appearance of the outward man, so keen and self-possessed amid the
heat and dust of the world, to see his real inner secret self from time to
time gleam forth from beneath the working-day dress in which his secular
occupations enveloped him.

I cannot do justice by my words to the impression which in this respect he
made on me. He had a tender conscience, but I mean something more than
that--I mean the emotion of a heart always alive and awake at the thought
of God. When a religious question came up suddenly in conversation, he had
no longer the manner and the voice of a man of the world. There was a
simplicity, earnestness, gravity in his look and in his words, which one
could not forget. It seemed to me to speak of a loving desire to please
God, a single-minded preference for His service over every service of man,
a resolve to approach Him by the ways which He had appointed. It was no
taking for granted that to follow one's own best opinion was all one with
obeying His will; no easy persuasion that a vague, obscure sincerity in our
conclusions about Him and our worship of Him was all that was required of
us, whether those conclusions belonged to this school of doctrine or that.
That is, he had deep within him that gift which St. Paul and St. John speak
of, when they enlarge upon the characteristics of faith. It was the gift of
faith, of a living, loving faith, such as 'overcomes the world' by seeking
'a better country, that is, a heavenly.' This it was that kept him so
'unspotted from the world' in the midst of worldly engagements and

No wonder, then, that a man thus minded should gradually have been led on
into the Catholic Church. Judging as we do from the event, we thankfully
recognise in him an elect soul, for whom, in the decrees of Omnipotent
Love, a seat in heaven has been prepared from all eternity--whose name is
engraven on the palms of those Hands which were graciously pierced for his
salvation. Such eager, reverential thoughts of God as his, prior to his
recognising the Mother of Saints, are surely but the first tokens of a
predestination which terminates in heaven. That straightforward, clear,
good sense which he showed in secular matters did not fail him in religious
inquiry. There are those who are practical and sensible in all things save
in religion; but he was consistent; he instinctively turned from bye-ways
and cross-paths, into which the inquiry might be diverted, and took a
broad, intelligible view of its issues. And, after he had been brought
within the Fold, I do not think I can exaggerate the solicitude which he
all along showed, the reasonable and prudent solicitude, to conform himself
in all things to the enunciations and the decisions of Holy Church; nor,
again, the undoubted conviction he has had of her superhuman authority, the
comfort he has found in her sacraments, and the satisfaction and trust with
which he betook himself to the intercession of the Blessed Virgin, to the
glorious St. Michael, to St. Margaret, and all saints.

3. I will make one remark more. I have spoken, first, of his high natural
gifts, of his various advantages for starting in life, and of his secular
prospects. Next, in contrast with this first view of him, I have insisted
on his singular freedom from ambition, and have traced it to that
religiousness of mind which was so specially his; to his intimate sense of
the vanity of all secular distinction, and his supreme devotion to Him who
alone is 'Faithful and True.' And now, when I am brought to the third
special feature of his life, as it presents itself to me, I find myself
close to a sacred subject, which I cannot even touch upon without great
reverence and something of fear.

We might have been led to think that a man already severed in spirit,
resolve, and acts from the world in which he lived, would have been granted
by his Lord and Saviour to go forward in his course freely, without any
unusual trials, such as are necessary in the case of common men for their
perseverance in the narrow way of life. But those, for whom God has a love
more than ordinary, He watches over with no ordinary jealousy; and if the
world smiles on them, He sends them crosses and penances so much the more.
He is not content that they should be by any common title His; and, because
they are so dear and near to Him, He provides for them afflictions to bring
them nearer still. I hope it is not presumptuous thus to speak of the
inscrutable providences of God. I know that He has His own wise and special
dealings with every one of us, and that what He determines for one is no
rule for another. I am contemplating, and, if so be, interpreting, His
loving ways and purposes only towards the very man before us.

Now, so it was, there was just one aspect of this lower world which he
might innocently love; just one in which life had charms for a heart as
affectionate as it was religious. I mean that assemblage of objects which
are included under the dear name of Home. If there was rest and solace to
be found on earth, he found it there. Is it not remarkable, then, that in
this, his sole earthly sanctuary, He who loved him with so infinite a love
met him, visited him, not once or twice, but again and again, with a stern
rod of chastisement? Stroke after stroke, blow after blow, stab after stab,
was dealt against his very heart. 'Great and wonderful are Thy works, O
Lord God Almighty; just and true are Thy ways, O King of ages. Who shall
not fear Thee, O Lord, and magnify Thy name? for Thou only art holy.' I may
speak with more vivid knowledge of him here than in other respects, for I
was one of the confidants of his extreme suffering under the succession of
terrible inflictions which left wounds never to be healed. They ended only
with his life; for the complaint, which eventually mastered him, was
brought into activity by his final bereavement. Nay, I must not consider
even that great bereavement his final one; his call to go hence was itself
the final agony of that tender, loving heart. He who had in time past been
left desolate by others, was now to leave others desolate. He was to be
torn away, as if before his time, from those who, to speak humanly, needed
him so exceedingly. He was called upon to surrender them in faith to Him
who had given them. It was about two hours before his death, with this
great sacrifice, as we may suppose, this solemn summons of his Supreme Lord
confronting him, that he said, with a loud voice, 'Thy will be done;'
adding his favourite prayer, so well known to us all: 'Fiat, laudetur,
atque in aeternum superexaltetur, sanctissima, altissima, amabilissima
voluntas Dei in omnibus.' They were almost his last words.

We too must say, after him, 'Thy will be done.' Let us be sure that those
whom God loves He takes away, each of them, one by one, at the very time
best for their eternal interests. What can we, in sober earnest, wish, save
that very will of God? Is He not wiser and more loving than we are? Could
we wish him back whom we have lost? Who is there of us who loves him most
but would feel the cruelty of recalling to this tumultuous life, with its
spiritual perils and its dark future, a soul who is already rejoicing in
the end and issue of his trial, in salvation secured, and heaven begun in
him? Rather, who would not wish to have lived his life, and to have died
his death? How well for him that he lived, not for man only, but for God!
What are all the interests, pleasures, successes, glories of this world,
when we come to die? What can irreligious virtue, what can innocent family
affection do for us, when we are going before the Judge, whom to know and
love is life eternal, whom not to know and not to love is eternal death?

O happy soul, who hast loved neither the world nor the things of the world
apart from God! Happy soul, who, amid the world's toil, hast chosen the one
thing needful, that better part which can never be taken away! Happy soul,
who, being the counsellor and guide, the stay, the light and joy, the
benefactor of so many, yet hast ever depended simply, as a little child, on
the grace of God and the merits and strength of thy Redeemer! Happy soul,
who hast so thrown thyself into the views and interests of other men, so
prosecuted their ends, and associated thyself in their labours, as never to
forget, there is one Holy Catholic Roman Church, one Fold of Christ and Ark
of salvation, and never to neglect her ordinances or to trifle with her
word! Happy soul, who, as we believe, by thy continual almsdeeds,
offerings, and bounties, hast blotted out such remains of daily recurring
sin and infirmity as the sacraments have not reached! Happy soul, who by
thy assiduous preparation for death, and the long penance of sickness,
weariness, and delay, hast, as we trust, discharged the debt that lay
against thee, and art already passing from penal purification to the light
and liberty of heaven above!

And so farewell, but not farewell for ever, dear James Robert Hope-Scott!
He is gone from us, but only gone before us. We then must look forward, not
backward. We shall meet him again, if we are worthy, in 'Mount Sion, and
the heavenly Jerusalem,' in 'the company of many thousands of angels, the
Church of the firstborn who are written in the heavens,' with 'God, the
Judge of all, and the spirits of the just made perfect, and Jesus, the
Mediator of the New Testament, and the blood which speaketh better things
than that of Abel.'

J. H. N.


_Words spoken in the Chapel of the Ursulines of Jesus, St. Margaret's
Convent, Edinburgh, on the 7th day of May, 1873, at the Funeral of James
Robert Hope-Scott, Q.C. By the Rev. William J. Amherst, S.J._

My Dear Brethren,--In complying with the request which has been made to me,
to say a few words on this solemn occasion about one who was so
immeasurably my superior in everything, I feel as a child would when
suddenly asked to give an opinion on some abstruse question which it could
not comprehend. But when asked to address you, however sensible I might
have been of my own inferiority, I could not, even in thought, entertain a
reluctance; I could not show the slightest hesitation to speak the praises
of one whom I admired so much, to ask your prayers for one whom I so much

Scotland is blessed in giving a resting-place to one of her noblest sons;
and this religious community is doubly blessed in providing the holy spot
where his body shall repose. I need not enter into all the particulars of
his life. Those which I should naturally think of to-day are sufficiently
known to you all. But if I do not enter into any details, it is not that
they are without a very strong interest. They might well be recorded as the
history of a great and noble character, as an example to the young men of
our own day, and as possessing, from his family connections, more than
ordinary value for every one. But I must speak of his character in general,
and single out those points which I consider deserving of especial praise.
We must praise the dear deceased. It is our duty to do so. What are our
desires now? What is our great wish?

That God may have mercy on his soul. God will hear us when we appeal to Him
by the good works which His servant has done. We should all praise him,
that we may be so many witnesses before God of the things which we know
must entitle him to mercy from his Father who is in heaven.

When I first heard that he was dead--especially when I was asked to speak
about him--I began to think of his character in a more careful manner than
I had ever done before. Besides my own thoughts about him, I have heard
what they say of him who were most closely allied to him. I have listened
to those who, though not related to him, were his most intimate friends and
acquaintance. I know what is thought of him by those who knew him well. I
have seen letters written since his death from many different persons; from
those who knew him in early days, those who knew him in middle life, and
again, those who knew him in later days. I have read letters from some who
knew him during the whole of his and their lives. There is a unanimity in
the thoughts of all about him which is most striking. The thoughts and
words of every one seem to form one beautiful melody, one harmonious song.
They all testify to the same great intellectual qualities, the same
goodness of heart, the same excellence of demeanour. They speak of him as
being one who was more fit for the foremost places in the State than some
who have actually attained them. They speak of him in such terms as these,
'the loveable,' 'the amiable, 'the beautiful.' Besides having talents of
the highest order, the dear deceased possessed a nature peculiarly
susceptible of good impressions. And he seems to have opened his whole
heart to receive the dew of heaven; and the grace of God produced a
hundredfold in his soul. To have known a man such as he was, who possessed
such power of mind combined with such high attainments, such soundness of
principle with such rectitude in practice, such independence of thought,
and such submission to conscience and lawful authority; to have known him--
to have been, I may say, on terms of friendship and intimacy with him--will
be amongst the most pleasing and the saddest recollections of my life. I
have said his submission to conscience. It seems almost like presumption in
me, standing as I do in the midst of those who knew him so much better than
myself, to single out any one distinguishing characteristic; but it always
struck me that a great conscientiousness was that which showed itself the
most, and shone most brilliantly to those who had the happiness of knowing
him. The voice of conscience seemed to have a magic effect upon him. The
call was no sooner heard than it was obeyed, and without any apparent
hesitation of the will. It was this delicacy of conscience, and his good-
will to act upon it, combined with his most perfect demeanour, which gave
him that authority over others which was so beautifully spoken of by his
venerable friend on Monday last, when I and many of you, my dear brethren,
had the happiness of being present. For it was this conscientiousness which
purified, consolidated, and gave direction to all the great qualities of
his soul. To this influence which he had over others I am myself a willing
witness. I felt the force of it myself. And in saying this, my dear
brethren, I speak most sincerely what I believe to be true. I should deem
it an irreverence on an occasion like this to say a word which I did not
believe. Though by no means a young man myself when I first had the
happiness of making acquaintance with the dear deceased, during the few
years that I knew him he exercised an influence over me, for the effects of
which I now thank God, and hope that I shall thank Him for all eternity.

It was, my dear brethren, to this great gift of conscientiousness, aided by
the grace of God, that he who has left us owed the greatest blessing of his
life--his submission to the one holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. The
obstacles which stood in the way of his entering the Church must have been
great. The old French saying does not stand good when one who is not a
Catholic is thinking of entering the Church. It is not the first step
towards the Church which, in this country at least, costs the sacrifice.
The first step costs little; it most frequently costs nothing. It is
generally a pleasant step to take. Many have taken that step; but few have
persevered in their onward march. The step which costs the sacrifice is
that which crosses the threshold when the door has been arrived at. For on
one side stands that powerful tempter, human respect, whose baneful
influence has sent back hundreds, perhaps thousands, into the dreary waste.
On the other side stands ambition, with noble and captivating mien. I need
not speculate here as to what ambition may say to others; but I will
imagine what ambition may have said to our departed friend. It may have
addressed him in some such words as these: 'You are conscious, innocently
conscious, of possessing great talents. You cannot have associated as you
have done with men of great intellect, with the first men of the day,
without having in some degree measured yourself with them, without knowing
something of your own great power. You are, perhaps, desirous yourself of
advancing in the highest paths. You may have a praiseworthy ambition of
using the gifts you have received for the good of others, and to make a
return to God for all that He has bestowed upon you. You cannot but know
that, from your family connections, and the position you hold in society,
you have as fine an opening as was ever presented to a young man. Enter the
Catholic Church, and all such knowledge will be useless; all such thoughts
may be cast aside.' There is no use, my dear brethren, in blinding
ourselves to the truth in this matter. We know it, and it is well that we
should recognise it. In this country, which boasts so much of its religious
liberty, the influence--the persecution I must call it--of public opinion
is such, that when a man enters the Church, he deprives himself of all
chance of progress in the high walks of life. It may be said that in the
line in which he had hitherto walked, he succeeded as well after he entered
the Church as he had done before. It is true that he reached the highest
point of eminence as an advocate, and his religion was no obstacle in the
way; but if it was so, it was because it was the interest of suitors to
make use of his power. But if he ever entertained any idea of attaining to
the highest offices in the State--and he may well have done so--the fact of
his having entered the Catholic Church would, in all probability, have
proved a bar to his advance. He resisted the tempters; he despised human
respect, and he thrust aside ambition. Having walked up to the open door of
the Church, he did what conscience told him he ought to do, and passing the
threshold, he went in. My dear brethren, there can be no doubt that the
life which he led before this time had prepared him for the step which he
took. He had a great devotion to the will of God. His favourite prayer was
those well-known words: 'May the most just, the most high, and the most
amiable will of God be done, praised, and eternally exalted in all things!'
And though before he became a Catholic his thoughts may not have been put
into that particular formula, yet no doubt the substance of those words had
been his prayer through life. As the will of God had been his guiding star,
so, and as a consequence, he always had a great love for Jesus Christ our
Redeemer. I cannot, indeed, state this as a positive fact on my own
personal knowledge, but it could not have been otherwise; and you, my dear
brethren, who knew him so much better than I did, will, I think, agree with
me in this respect. When he became a Catholic, Jesus Christ was the object
of his continually increasing love. By the means which God provided for him
in the Church, his faith in his Redeemer, his hope in his Redeemer, and his
love for his Redeemer, grew stronger, and went on increasing to his dying
day. [Footnote: The last words which he heard on earth whilst the crucifix
was pressed to his lips, and they were spoken by those lips which here he
loved the most, were these: 'You know that you have loved Jesus all your
life.'] As he loved Jesus all his life, pray, my dear brethren, that his
merciful Lord may show mercy to him now.

Some amongst you, my dear brethren, have already heard from the lips of one
as much my superior as the subject of my discourse was, that a
distinguishing feature of the departed was the intensity of his domestic
affection. And the venerable preacher observed that the great trial of him
who has left us was to receive a succession of terrible wounds in the
tenderest part of his noble nature. You will remember his words. He said
that God had repeatedly struck him; that He had stabbed him. It was so,
indeed; and yet, my dear brethren, at the same time that a merciful God so
severely tried His servant, it was through those same domestic affections
that He gave to him the greatest comfort, next to a good conscience, that a
man can have on his death-bed. For to him who had always been so kind and
gentle with others, and anticipated all their wants, was given during the
many long months of his illness all that help and comfort which the most
tender, filial, and sisterly love could give. As God blessed him in making
him the object of such strong and persevering affection, so He has blessed
those also who were the willing instruments of His mercy.

Pray, my dear brethren, that he may rest in peace. We all owe a great deal
to him, more than we can ever repay during life. Generosity was a
remarkable feature in the dear deceased. His generosity was of a noble
kind. It was not confined to generosity with his worldly means. He was
generous in his sympathies. He sympathised with all who had any relations
with him. No one was ever with him who did not feel this. He was generous
with his worldly means; he was generous with his counsel and advice. He was
ready and willing to help any one in any way he could. I feel that I owe
him much myself. I have already alluded to the obligations which I am under
to him. And who is there amongst you, my dear brethren, who does not, in
some respect, owe him much? As he was generous to others, let us be
generous to him. Let us pray, and continually pray, to God for him. If any
of you may be inclined to relax in your prayers for his soul, because you
think that his good works were such that we have reason to hope that he is
even now enjoying the sight of God, I do not quarrel with you for so
thinking--I may think so myself; but still I urge you to pray. Pray as if
you thought it were not so. Do not let your hope lessen the effect of your
love. Pray for him as you would wish him and others to pray for you if you
were dead.

And here, my dear brethren, I might finish my discourse. But who is there
who knew the dear departed, who does not feel an irresistible impulse to
turn from the dead to the living? This influence may have been felt on
other occasions by others. For my part, I have never so deeply felt how
impossible it is to separate the one who has gone from those whom he has
left behind. Pray for the father; and pray also for the children. Pray for
those whose future must be a matter of interest to you all. And you may
pray with a firm hope of being heard. For it would seem that there is a
special providence over them, for already those children have found a home
--homes, I may say--which a guardian angel might have chosen for them. Pray
that God would ratify and confirm all those blessings which that fond
parent had bestowed upon his own, especially those blessings which, with
increased earnestness, he must have desired when he saw that, at a critical
moment in life, the hand which had guided was to make sign no more. Pray,
my dear brethren, that those two honoured names which he bore, and which
for so many years have been allied to all that is best and of sterling
worth, to all that is great and noble, may long continue the ornament and
the pride of Scotland. Once more, let me turn from the living to the dead;
and I will conclude with the prayer of the Church--'Eternal rest give to
him, O Lord; and may a perpetual light shine upon him! May he rest in


_The Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, M.P., to Miss Hope-Scott [now the Hon.
Mrs. Maxwell Scott_].

Hawarden: Sept. 13, 1873.

My Dear Miss Hope-Scott,--I found awaiting me, through your kindness, on my
return from Scotland, Dr. Newman's Address on your much-loved father's
death. I need not say that one of my first acts was to read it. It does not
discourage me from attempting to put on paper my recollections of him, as
my free intervals of time may permit. It is well that a character of such
extraordinary grace as his should have been portrayed by one who could
scarcely, I think, even if he tried, compose a sentence that would not be
'a thing of beauty.' His means and materials for undertaking that labour of
love were as superior to mine as his power of performing it. I will only
say that I countersign, with full assent, to the best of my knowledge, the
several traits which Dr. Newman has given. He must have much more to say. I
shall at once lay before you all my little store of knowledge, in addition
to that worthier tribute of your father's own letters, to which you are not
less welcome. Lights upon his mental history my memory may, I hope, serve
here and there to throw; but those will be principally for the period
antecedent to what he himself described as 'the great change of his life.'

Few men, perhaps, have had a wider contact with their generation, or a more
varied experience of personal friendships, than myself. Among the large
numbers of estimable and remarkable people whom I have known, and who have
now passed away, there is in my memory an inner circle, and within it are
the forms of those who were marked off from the comparative crowd even of
the estimable and the remarkable by the peculiarity and privilege of their
type. Of these very few, some four or five I think only, your father was
one: and with regard to them it always seemed to me as if the type in each
case was that of the individual exclusively, and as if there could be but
one such person in our world at a time. After the early death of Arthur
Hallam, I used to regard your father distinctly as at the head of all his
contemporaries in the brightness and beauty of his gifts.

We were at Eton at the same time, but he was considerably my junior, so
that we were not in the way of being drawn together. At Christ Church we
were again contemporaries, but acquaintances only, scarcely friends. I find
he did not belong to the 'Oxford Essay Club,' in which I took an active
part, and which included not only several of his friends, but one with
whom, unless my memory deceives me, he was most intimate--I mean Mr.
Leader. And yet I have to record our partnership on two occasions in a
proceeding which in Oxford was at that time, and perhaps would have been at
any time, singular enough. At the hazard of severe notice, and perhaps
punishment, we went together to the Baptist chapel of the place, once to
hear Dr. Chalmers, and the other time to hear Mr. Rowland Hill. I had
myself been brought up in what may be termed an atmosphere of Low Church;
and, though I cannot positively say why, I believe this to have been the
case with him; and questions of communion or conformity at that date
presented themselves to us not unnaturally as questions of academic
discipline, so that we did not, I imagine, enter upon any inquiry whether
we in any degree compromised our religious position by the act, or by any
intention with which it was done.

After Oxford (which I quitted in December 1831) the next occasion on which
I remember to have seen him was in his sitting-room at Chelsea Hospital.
There must, however, have been some shortly preceding contact, or I should
not have gone there to visit him. I found him among folios and books of
grave appearance. It must have been about the year 1836. He opened a
conversation on the controversies which were then agitated in the Church of
England, and which had Oxford for their centre. I do not think I had paid
them much attention; but I was an ardent student of Dante, and likewise of
Saint Augustine; both of them had acted powerfully upon my mind; and this
was in truth the best preparation I had for anything like mental communion
with a person of his elevation. He then told me that he had been seriously
studying the controversy, and that in his opinion the Oxford authors were
right. He spoke not only with seriousness, but with solemnity, as if this
was for him a great epoch; not merely the adoption of a speculative
opinion, but the reception of a profound and powerful religious impulse.
Very strongly do I feel the force of Dr. Newman's statements as to the
religious character of his mind. It is difficult in retrospect to conceive
of this, except as growing up with him from infancy. But it appeared to me
as if at this period, in some very special manner, his attention had been
seized, his intellect exercised and enlarged in a new field; and as if the
idea of the Church of Christ had then once for all dawned upon him as the
power which, under whatever form, was from thenceforward to be the central
object of his affections, in subordination only to Christ Himself, and as
His continuing representative.

From that time I only knew of his career as one of unwearied religious
activity, pursued with an entire abnegation of self, with a deep
enthusiasm, under a calm exterior, and with a grace and gentleness of
manner, which, joined to the force of his inward motives, made him, I
think, without doubt the most winning person of his day. It was for about
fifteen years, from that time onwards, that he and I lived in close, though
latterly rarer intercourse. Yet this was due, on my side, not to any
faculty of attraction, but to the circumstance that my seat in Parliament,
and my rather close attention to business, put me in the way of dealing
with many questions relating to the Church and the universities and
colleges, on which he desired freely to expand his energies and his time.

I will here insert two notices which illustrate the opposite sides of his
character. It was in or about 1837 that I came to know well his sister-in-
law, Lady F. Hope, then already a widow. I remember very clearly her
speaking to me about the manner in which he had ministered to her sorrow.
It was not merely kindness, or merely assiduity, or any particular act of
which she spoke. She seemed to speak of him as endowed with some special
gift, as if he had, like one of old, been 'surnamed Barnabas, which is,
being interpreted, the Son of Consolation.'

I now pass to the other pole of his mind, his relish for all fun, humour,
and originality of character. In one of his tranquil years he told me with
immense amusement an anecdote he had brought from Oxford. He was in company
with two men, Mr. Palmer, commonly called Deacon Palmer, and Arthur
Kinnaird, of whom the one was not more certain to supply the material of
paradox, than the other to draw it out. The deacon had been enlarging in
lofty strain on the power and position of the clergy. 'Then I suppose,'
said Kinnaird, 'you would hold that the most depraved and irreligious
priest has a much higher standing in the sight of God than any layman?' 'Of
course,' was the immediate reply. [Footnote: Of course, Mr. Palmer, who was
clear-headed, knew what he was saying, and meant that, in comparing an
irreligious priest with a religious layman, the priest, _as such_,
belongs to a higher spiritual order than the layman _as such_, just as
it is a mere truism to say that a fallen angel, as regards his degree in
the order of creation, is superior to a saint.--ED.]

His correspondence with me, beginning in February 1837, truly exhibits the
character of our friendship, as one founded in common interests, of a kind
that gradually commanded more and more of the public attention, but that
with him were absolutely paramount. The moving power was principally on his
side. The main subjects on which it turned, and which also formed the basis
of our general intercourse, were as follows: First, a missionary
organisation for the province of Upper Canada. Then the question of the
Relations of Church and State, forced into prominence at that time by a
variety of causes, and among them not least by a series of lectures, which
Dr. Chalmers delivered in the Hanover Square Rooms, to distinguished
audiences, with a profuse eloquence, and with a noble and almost
irresistible fervour. Those lectures drove me upon the hazardous enterprise
of handling the same subject upon what I thought a sounder basis. Your
father warmly entered into this design; and bestowed upon a careful and
prolonged examination of this work in MS., and upon a searching yet most
tender criticism of its details, an amount of thought and labour which it
would, I am persuaded, have been intolerable to any man to supply, except
for one for whom each and every day as it arose was a new and an entire
sacrifice to duty. As in the year 1838, when the manuscript was ready, I
had to go abroad on account mainly of some overstrain upon the eyes, he
undertook the whole labour of carrying the work through the press; and he
even commended me, as you will see from the letters, because I did not show
an ungovernable impatience of his aid. [Footnote: J. R. Hope to Mr.
Gladstone, August 29, 1838, in ch. ix. vol. i. p. 164.]

The general frame of his mind at this time, in October 1838, will be pretty
clearly gathered from a letter of that month, No. 24 in the series, written
when he had completed that portion of his labours. [Footnote: Ibid.,
October 11, 1838, ch. ix. vol. i. p. 165.] He had full, unbroken faith in
the Church of England, as a true portion of the Catholic Church; to her he
had vowed the service of his life; all his desire was to uphold the
framework of her institutions, and to renovate their vitality. He pushed
her claims, you may find from the letters, further than I did; but the
difference of opinion between us was not such as to prevent our cordial co-
operation then and for years afterwards; though in using such a term I seem
to myself guilty of conceit and irreverence to the dead, for I well know
that he served her from an immeasurably higher level.

If I have not yet referred to his main occupation, it is because I desire
to speak specially of what I know specially. It was, however, without
doubt, in his Fellowship at Merton that he found at this period the
peculiar work of his life. A wonderful combination of fertility with
solidity always struck me as one of his most marked mental characteristics.
Only by that facility could he have accumulated and digested the learning
which he acquired in relation to Church, and especially to College History
and College Law. In mastering these systems how deeply he had drunk of the
essential spirit of the times which built them up, may be seen from a very
striking letter (No. 9) respecting Walter de Merton. [Footnote: J. R. Hope
to Mr. Gladstone, dated 'Rochester: Sunday, July 29, 1838,' in ch. viii.
vol. i. p. 147.] He gave the world some idea of the extent and fruitfulness
of these labours in connection with the next subject on which we had much
communication together, the subject of what was termed in 1840 Cathedral
Reform. My part was superficial, and was performed in the House of Commons.
His was of a very different character.

As a hearer, and a rapt hearer, I can say that Dr. Newman (p. 10) has not
exaggerated the description of the speech which he delivered, as counsel
for the Chapters (I think) before the House of Lords in 1840.[Footnote: See
ch. xi. vol. i. p. 198.] I need not say that, during the last forty years,
I have heard many speeches, and many, too, in which I had reason to take
interest, and yet never one which, by its solid as well as by its winning
qualities, more powerfully impressed me. At this period he had (I think
never or) rarely spoken in public, and he had not touched thirty years of

I cannot now say who was the prime mover in the next matter of interest
which we pursued in common. It was the foundation of Trinity College,
Glenalmond. We drew into our partnership the deceased Dean Ramsay, one of
the very few men known to me who might, perhaps, compete even with your
father in attracting affection, though very different in powers of mind.
The Dean worked with us usefully and loyally, although, as was to a certain
extent his nature, sometimes in fear and trembling.

The early prosecution of this enterprise was left for a time mainly to me,
while your father paid his visit to Italy in 1840, in company with Mr,
Rogers, now Lord Blachford, from whom I hope you may obtain memorials of it
far better worth your having than any which I could supply, even had I been
his companion. I remember that I wrote for him in bad Italian a letter of
introduction to Manzoni, of whom, and of whose religious standing-ground,
he gives (No. 32 [Footnote: See ch. xiii. vol. i. p. 244, Mr. Hope to Mr.
Gladstone (Milan: November 18,1840).]) a remarkable account. I wish I could
recover now that letter, on account of the person for whom, and the person
to whom, it was written.

I think it was shortly before or shortly after this tour, that your father
one day spoke to me--I well remember the spot where he stood--about his
state and course of life. He had taken a resolution, with a view to the
increase of his means, to apply some part of his time to the ordinary
duties of his profession; whether he then said that it would be at the
Parliamentary Bar or not, I am not able to say. He, on this occasion, told
me that he did not intend to marry; that, giving a part of his time in the
direction I have just mentioned, he meant to reserve all the rest for the
Church and its institutions; and of these two several employments he said,
'I regard the first as my kitchen-garden, but the second as my flower-
garden.' [Footnote: Compare letter of J. R. Hope to Mr. Gladstone, quoted
in ch. xxii vol. ii. p. 94.] And so it was that, almost without a rival in
social attractions, and in the springtide of his youth and promise, he laid
with a cheerful heart the offering of his life upon the altar of his God.

It was, I think, the undertaking to found Trinity College which gave rise
to another friendship, that it gave me the greatest pleasure to witness--
between him and my father. In 1840 my father was moving on towards
fourscore years, but 'his eye was not dim, nor his natural force abated;'
he was full of bodily and mental vigour; 'whatsoever his hand found to do,
he did it with his might;' he could not understand or tolerate those who,
perceiving an object to be good, did not at once and actively pursue it;
and with all this energy he joined a corresponding warmth and, so to speak,
eagerness of affection, a keen appreciation of humour, in which he found a
rest, and an indescribable frankness and simplicity of character, which,
crowning his other qualities, made him, I think (and I strive to think
impartially), nearly or quite the most interesting old man I have ever
known. Nearly half a century of years separated the two; but your father, I
think, appreciated mine more than I could have supposed possible, and
always appeared to be lifted to a higher level of life and spirits by the
contact. On one occasion we three set out on a posting expedition, to
examine several sites in the midland counties of Scotland, which had been
proposed for the new college. As we rolled along, wedged into one of the
post-chaises of those days, through various kinds of country, and
especially through the mountains between Dunkeld and Crieff, it was a
perpetual play, I might almost say roar, of fun and laughter. The result of
this tour, after the consideration of various sites near Perth, Dunkeld,
and Dunblane, was the selection of the spot on which the college now
stands. I am ashamed to recollect that we were, I do not say assisted in
reaching this conclusion, but cheered up in fastening on it, by a luncheon,
which Mr. Patton, the proprietor, gave us, of grouse newly killed, roasted
by an apparatus for the purpose on the moment, and bedewed with what I
think is called partridge-eye champagne.

Your father's influence operated materially in procuring a preference for
this beautiful but somewhat isolated site on the banks of the Almond. The
general plan of the buildings was, I think, conceived by Mr. Dyce--another
rare specimen of the human being--a master of Art and Thought in every
form, and one whose mind was stocked to repletion with images of Beauty. I
need not tell you what was your father's estimate of him. As to the site,
the introduction of railways, which did not then exist for Scotland, has
essentially altered the scale for relative advantage for all situations, in
proportion as they are near to or removed from these channels of
communication, and has caused us, in estimating remoteness from centres, to
think of a mile as much as we should formerly have thought of ten. But I
ought to record that, in all questions relating to the college, your
father's mind instinctively leaned to what may be called the ecclesiastical
side; and though the idea of a great school was incorporated in the plan,
his desire was that even this should not be too near any considerable town.
I remember also his saying to me, with reference to Glenalmond, and the
opportunities which the college chapel would afford, 'You know it will
plant the Church in a new district.'

He laboured much for the college; and had, if my memory serves, a great
hand in framing the Constitution, with respect to which his academic
learning gave him a just authority. He laboured for it at first in love and
enthusiasm, afterwards in duty, at last perhaps in honour: but after a few
years it necessarily vanished from his thoughts, and he became unable to
share in facing the difficulties through which it had to pass. Events were
now impending which profoundly agitated, not only what is termed the
religious world, but the general mind of the country. I need not here refer
to the unwise proceedings of great and ardent Churchmen, which darkened the
skies over their heads, and brought their cause from calm and peaceful
progress to storm, and in some senses to shipwreck. I do not think that,
with his solid judgment, he was a party to any of those proceedings. They
seem to have gradually brought about an opinion on the part of the ruling
authorities of the English Church that some effort should be made to
counteract the excesses of the party, and to confront the tendencies, or
supposed tendencies, now first disclosed, towards the Church of Rome, by
presenting to the public mind a telling idea of Catholicity under some
other form. I am now construing events, not relating them; but they are
events which it will be a prime duty of the future historian to study, for
they have (I think) sensibly affected in its religious aspects the history
of this country, nay, even the history of Western Christendom.

About this time Baron Bunsen became the representative of Prussia at the
British Court. I remember that your father used to strike me by his
suspicions and apprehensions of particular persons; and Bunsen, if I
recollect right, was among them. That distinguished person felt an intense
interest in England; he was of a pious and an enthusiastic mind, a mind of
almost preternatural activity, vivacity, and rapidity, a bright
imagination, and a wide rather than a deep range of knowledge. He was in
the strongest sympathy, both personal and ecclesiastical, with the then
reigning King of Prussia, who visited England in the autumn, I think, of
1841. Sir Robert Peel, however loyal to the _entente_ with France, had
a strong desire for close relations of friendship with Germany; and the
marriage of the Queen, then recent, told in the same sense. All these
circumstances opened the way for the singular project of the Anglican
Bishopric of Jerusalem, which I believe to have been the child of Bunsen's
fertile and energetic brain, and which received at that particular juncture
a welcome due, I think, to special circumstances such as those which I have

Wide as was the range of Bunsen's subsequent changes, he at this time
represented the opinions of the Evangelical German Church, with the strong
leaning of an _amateur_ towards the Episcopate as a form of
Government, not as the vehicle of the continuous, corporate, and visible
life of the Christian Church. He had, beyond all men I ever knew, the
faculty of persuading himself that he had reconciled opposites; and this
persuasion he entertained with such fervour that it became contagious. From
some of these letters (in accordance with my recollections) it would appear
that in the early stages of this really fantastic plan (see No. 48)
[Footnote: See ch. xvi. (vol. i. p. 313), J. R. Hope to Mr. Gladstone,
November 19, 1841.] your father's aid had been enlisted. I must not conceal
that my own was somewhat longer continued. The accompanying correspondence
amply shows his speedy and strong dissatisfaction and even disgust. I do
not know whether the one personal influence, which alone, I think, ever
seriously affected his career, was brought to bear upon him at this time.
But the movement of his mind, from this juncture onwards, was traceably
parallel to, though at a certain distance from, that of Dr. Newman. My
opinion is (I put it no higher) that the Jerusalem Bishopric snapped the
link which bound Dr. Newman to the English Church. I have a conviction that
it cut away the ground on which your father had hitherto most firmly and
undoubtingly stood. Assuredly, from 1841 or 1842 onwards, his most fond,
most faithful, most ideal love progressively decayed, and doubt nestled and
gnawed in his soul. He was, however, of a nature in which levity could find
no place. Without question, he estimated highly, as it deserves to be
estimated, the tremendous nature of a change of religious profession, as
between the Church of England and the Church of Rome; a change dividing
asunder bone and marrow. Nearly ten years passed, I think, from 1841,
during which he never wrote or spoke to me a positive word indicating the
possibility of this great transition. Long he harboured his misgivings in
silence, and ruminated upon them. They even, it seemed to me, weighed
heavily upon his bodily health. I remember that in 1843 I wrote an article
in a review (mentioned in the correspondence) which referred to the
remarkable words of Archbishop Laud respecting the Church of Rome as it
was; and applied to the case those other remarkable words of Lord Chatham
respecting America, 'Never, never, never.' He said to me, half playfully
(for the article took some hold upon his sympathies), 'What, Gladstone,
never, never, never?'

It must have been about this time that I had another conversation with him
about religion, of which, again, I exactly recollect the spot. Regarding
(forgive me) the adoption of the Roman religion by members of the Church of
England as nearly the greatest calamity that could befall Christian faith
in this country, I rapidly became alarmed when these changes began; and
very long before the great luminary, Dr. Newman, drew after him, it may
well be said, 'the third part of the stars of heaven.' This alarm I
naturally and freely expressed to the man upon whom I most relied, your
father. On the occasion to which I refer he replied to me with some
admission that they were calamitous; 'but,' he said, 'pray remember an
important compensation, in the influence which the English mind will bring
to bear upon the Church of Rome itself. Should there be in this country any
considerable amount of secession to that Church, it cannot fail to operate
sensibly in mitigating whatever gives most offence in its practices or
temper.' I do not pretend to give the exact words, but their spirit and
effect I never can forget. I then thought there was great force in them.

When I learned that he was to be married, my opinion was that he had only
allowed his thoughts to turn in the direction of the bright and pure
attachment he had formed, because the object to which they had first been
pledged had vanished or been hidden from his view. I think that his
feelings underwent a rally, rather, perhaps, than his understanding, when I
was first put forward as a candidate for the University of Oxford in 1847.
At least, I recollect his speaking with a real zest and interest at that
time of my wife, as a skilful canvasser, hard to resist.

I have just spoken of your father as the man on whom I most relied; and so
it was. I relied on one other, also a remarkable man, who took the same
course, at nearly the same time; but on him most, from my opinion of his
sagacity. From the correspondence of 1838 you might suppose that he relied
upon me, that he had almost given himself to me. But whatever expressions
his warm feelings combined with his humility may have prompted, it really
was not so; nor ought it to have been so, for I always felt and knew my own
position beside him to be one of mental as well as moral inferiority. I
cannot remember any occasion on which I exercised an influence over him. I
remember many on which I tried; and especially when I saw his mind shaken,
and, so to speak, on the slide. But these attempts (of which you may
possibly have some written record) completely failed, and drove him into
reserve. Never, on any one occasion, would he enter freely into the
question with me. I think the fault lay much on my side. My touch was not
fine enough for his delicate spirit. But I do not conceal from you that I
think there was a certain amount of fault on his side also. Notwithstanding
what I have said of his humility, notwithstanding what Dr. Newman has most
truly said of his self-renouncing turn, and total freedom from ambition,
there was in him, I think, a subtle form of self-will, which led him, where
he had a foregone conclusion or a latent tendency, to indulge it, and to
refuse to throw his mind into free partnership with others upon questions
of doubt and difficulty. Yet I must after all admit his right to be silent,
unless where he thought he was to receive real aid; and of this he alone
could be the judge.

Indeed, his own intellectual calibre was too large to allow him to be other
than fastidious in his judgment of the capacities of other men. He had a
great opinion of the solidity and tact of Denison, Bishop of Salisbury. He
thought also very highly of Lord Blachford. When Archbishop (then
Archdeacon) Manning produced his work on the 'Unity of the Church,' he
must, I think, have seen it before the world saw it; for I remember his
saying to me, 'That is going to be a great book,' or what would have been
not less emphatic, 'That is going to be a book.' Again, he was struck with
Mr. W. Palmer's work on the Church, to which also testimony has been borne
by Dr. Newman in his 'Apologia.' But I do not recollect that he had an
unreserved admiration at once of character and intellect in any case except
one--that of Dr. Newman himself.

Whatever may have been the precise causes of the reticence to which I have
referred (and it is possible that physical weakness was among them), the
character of our friendship had during these later years completely
changed. It was originally formed in common and very absorbing interests.
He was not of those shallow souls which think, or persuade themselves they
think, that such a relation can continue in vigour and in fruitfulness when
its daily bread has been taken away. The feeling of it indeed remained on
both sides, as you will see. On my side, I may say that it became more
intense; but only according to that perversity, or infirmity, of human
nature, according to which we seem to love truly only when we lose. My
affection for him, during those later years before his change, was, I may
almost say, intense; and there was hardly anything, I think, which he could
have asked me to do, and which I would not have done. But as I saw more and
more through the dim light what was to happen, it became more and more like
the affection which is felt for one departed.

As far as narrative is concerned, I am now at the close. In 1850 came the
discussions and alarms connected with the Gorham judgment; and came also
the last flickering of the flame of his attachment to the Church of
England. Thereafter I never found myself able to turn to account as an
opening any word he spoke or wrote to me. The year had been, for my wife
and me, one of sorrow and anxiety, and I was obliged to spend the winter in
Italy. In the spring of 1851 I dined at his brother's and met him. He spoke
a few words indicative of his state of mind, but fell back immediately into
silence. I was engaged at the time in opposing with great zeal the
Ecclesiastical Titles Bill, but not even this circumstance led him to give
me his confidence. The crisis had come. I am bound to say that relief soon
became visible in its effect upon his bodily health. His road and mine were
now definitively parted. After the change had taken place, it happened to
me to be once, and once only, brought into contact with him in the course
of his ordinary professional employment. I had been giving evidence in a
committee-room on behalf of a railway. He was the opposing counsel, and had
to put some questions to me in cross-examination. His manner in performing
this usually harsh office was as engaging as in ordinary social
intercourse; and though I have no doubt he did his duty by his clients, I
thought he seemed to handle me with a peculiar tenderness.

On June 18, 1851, he wrote to me the beautiful letter, No. 95. [Footnote:
See ch. xxi. (vol. ii. p. 87), where this letter is given.] It was the
epitaph of our friendship, which continued to live, but only, or almost
only, as it lives between those who inhabit separate worlds. On no day
since that date, I think, was he absent, however, from my thoughts; and now
I can scarcely tear myself from the fascination of writing about him.

And so, too, you will feel the fascination of reading about him; and it
will serve to relieve the weariness with which otherwise you would have
toiled through so long a letter. I hope it is really about him, and that
egotism has not slily crept into the space which was meant to be devoted to
him. It notices slighter as well as graver matters; for the slight touches
make their contribution to the exhibition of every finely shaded character.
If anything which it contains has hurt you, recollect the chasm which
separates our points of view; recollect that what came to him as light and
blessing and emancipation, had never offered itself to me otherwise than as
a temptation and a sin; recollect that when he found what he held his
'pearl of great price,' his discovery was to me beyond what I could
describe, not only a shock and a grief, but a danger too. I having given
you my engagement, you having accepted it, I have felt that I must above
all things be true, and that I could only be true by telling you
everything. If I have traversed some of the ground in sadness, I now turn
to the brighter thought of his present light and peace and progress; may
they be his more and more abundantly, in that world where the shadows that
our sins and follies cast no longer darken the aspect and glory of the
truth; and may God ever bless you, the daughter of my friend!

Believe me always and warmly yours,


Miss Hope-Scott.




New Year's Day returns again,
Does it bring us joy or pain?
Does it teach us to rely
On the world, or pass it by?
Will it be like seasons gone,
Or undo what they have done?
Shall we trust the future more
Than the time we've spent before?
Is it hope, or is it fear
That attends our new-born year?

Childhood, busy with its toys,
Answers, it expects new joys;
Youth, untaught by pleasures past,
Thinks to find some that will last;
Manhood counts its honours o'er,
And resolves to gather more;
While old age sits idly by,
Only hoping not to die.

Thus the world--now, Christian, say
What for me means New Year's Day.

New Year's Day is but a name,
While our hearts remain the same;
All our years are old and few,
Christ alone can make them new.
Around Him our seasons move,
Each made fruitful by His love.
Summer's heat and winter's snow
May unheeded come and go;
What He suffered, what He taught,
Makes the year of Christian thought.

Then to know thy gain or loss,
From the cradle towards the Cross
Follow Him, and on the way
Thou wilt find His New Year's Day.
Advent, summoning thy heart
In His coming to take part,
Warned thee of its double kind,
Mercy first, but wrath behind;
Bade thee hope the Incarnate Word,
Bade thee fear the avenging Lord.

Christmas next, with cheerful voice,
Called upon thee to rejoice;
But, while yet the Blessed Child
Sweetly on thy homage smiled,
Lo! beside His peaceful bed
Stephen laid a martyr's head.

Next a day of joy was won
For thee by our dear Saint John;
But its sun had scarcely set
When the earth with blood was wet:
Rachel, weeping for her slain,
Would not raise her heart again;
And St. Thomas, bowing down,
Grasped in death his jewelled crown.

Thus the old year taught thee: say,
Thinkest thou that New Year's Day
Will these lessons sweep away?
Foolish thought! the opening year
Claims a sacrifice more dear
Than the martyrdom of saints,
Or the blood of innocents.

Christ Himself doth now begin,
Sinless, to atone for sin;
Welcomes suffering for our good,
Takes His Saviour's name in blood,
And by Circumcision's pain
Makes the old year new again.

Then, with Him to keep the Feast,
Bring thy dearest and thy best;
Common gifts will not suffice
To attend His sacrifice.
Jesus chose His mother's part,
And she brought a pierced heart.
But what Christ for many chose,
Doth His utmost love disclose;
Bid her not unkind to be,
But to share that choice with thee.
Ask her sufferings, ask yet more,
Ask for those thy Saviour bore;
Upon earth hath never been
Sorrow like His sorrow seen;
He exhausted man's distress,
Pain, and shame, and loneliness.
Ask to feel His thorny crown,
Ask to make His wounds thine own;
With His mother claim to be
Partner in His agony.
This obtain, and thou wilt care
Little what thy New Years are;
There can thee no grief befall
Which the Cross did not forestall;
Joy in this world there is none
Like that which the Cross hath won.
Grasp it, and the year begin
With no fear, except of sin;
Love it, and, in turning o'er
All the gifts in hope's bright store,
Choose but one--to love it more.


Ye dark wild sands, o'er which th' impatient eye
Travels in haste to watch the evening sky,
When last I gazed, how nobly heaved your breast,
In purple waves and scattered sunbeams drest!
Then o'er you shouted many a gallant crew,
And in gay bands the sea-fowl circling flew;
In your embrace you held the restless tide,
And shared awhile great Ocean's power and pride.
But now how sad, how dreary is the scene
In which so much of life hath lately been!
Your barren wastes untraversed by a sail,
Your only voice the curlew's distant wail;
With rocky limbs and furrowed brow you lie
Like some lone corpse by living things passed by;
Till Night in mercy spreads her clouded pall,
And rising winds mourn at your funeral.
Yes, you are changed, but not more changed than he
Who lately stood beside that smiling sea;
For whom each bark which hastened to the shore
Some welcome freight of love or honour bore;
Who saw reflected in the peaceful flood
His home made happy by the bright and good.
Gladly he looked upon you; now, apart,
He veils his brow and hides his desolate heart;
From him life's joys have quickly ebbed away,
Leaving the rocks, the sands, and the declining day.
To-morrow's tide again the shore will lave,
To-morrow's sun will gild the crested wave;
New ships will launch and speed across the main,
And the wild sea-fowl ply their sport again;
But for the broken-hearted there is none
To gather back the spoils which Death hath won.
None, did I say? O foolish, impious thought,
In one whom God hath made, and Christ hath bought!
Thou who dost hold the ocean in Thy hand,
And the sun's courses guide by Thy command,
Hast Thou no morrow for the darkened soul,
No tide returning o'er its sands to roll?
Must its deep bays, once emptied of their sea,
For ever waste, for ever silent be?
Not such Thy counsels--not for this the Cross
Stretched its wide arms, and saved a world from loss!
When life's great waters are by sorrow dried,
Then gush new fountains from Christ's wounded side;
The Ark is there to gather in our love,
The Spirit, dove-like, o'er the stream to move.
Then look again, and mirrored in thy breast
Behold the home in which thy dear ones rest;
See forms which lately vanished from thy sight,
Shine back with crowns, and palms, and robes of light!
See richer freights than ever ocean bore
Guided by angel pilots to the shore!
In faith, in penitence, in hope shall be
Thy traffic on that bright and changeless sea.


Mourner, arise! this busy fretful life
Calls thee again to share its toils and strife;
The pause conceded to thy grief is o'er,
And the world's march can stay for thee no more.
Then dry thy tears, and with a steadfast mien
Resume thy station in the troubled scene;
Sad, but resolved, thy wonted vigour prove,
Nor let men deem thee weak from sorrowing love.
The wakeful bed, the sudden sharp distress,
The still recurring void of loneliness;
The urgent prayer, the hope, the humble fear,
Which seek beyond the grave that soul so dear,--
These yet are thine, but thine to tell no more.
Hide, then, from careless hearts thy sad but precious store,
And if life's struggle should thy thoughts beguile,
Quicken the pulse, and tempt the cheerful smile,
Should worldly shadows cross that form unseen,
And duty claim a place where grief hath been,
Spurn not the balm by toil o'er suffering shed,
Nor fear to be disloyal to the dead.

'Twas nature bade thee grieve, and for thy grief
The Lord of nature now ordains relief.
Like iron molten by the founder's art,
To fierce affliction yields the stubborn heart.
The fiery blast its ancient form destroys,
And bids it flow released from base alloys;
But the kind God, who doth the flames control,
Wills to re-cast, not to consume, the soul:
Hence tempering breezes, hence the lessened pain,
That the vexed heart may rest and form again.
Then be it so--but, ere that heart grows cold,
See that its later be its nobler mould.
See that, by pain made new, and purged from dross,
It bear, in sharp relief, the image of the Cross.

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